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Placeholder Title (Eragon SI, Chapter 2)
🕑 Added 2023-09-01 12:28:07 +0000 UTCIn retrospect, Cedric realized just how much of a tool he was. It was so embarrassing, just recalling the details of his ‘genius’ plan was enough to make him feel physically ill. Painting with a broad brush, it involved ice cold water, asphyxiation and two days of not eating to get his blood pressure down.
In a waist-deep winter stream outside Carvahall, having snuck out of town and without a soul in sight, when things started going south, he was helpless. It was inevitable really, that the whole thing would result in a cock-up. Of course, he wasn’t so brainless as to have no safety measures, but that’s the thing about plans going awry—it wasn’t planned.
All it took was a small stumble, his feet slipping on the glassy, smooth river stones, hitting his head and hopelessly tangling the rope in his hands. In a single second, the situation went from him trying to mimic the brain-state of someone experiencing death to actually dying.
It was extremely shocking, not only how fast things could go south, but the fragility of the human body. With his head underwater, scrambling for something, anything to grab onto, to hoist himself above water, Cedric recalled an eerily similar experience from his past life—almost like foreshadowing.
As a little boy, he’d fished the rocks with his dad. It was a clear day, and the tide wasn’t moving, but a sudden freak wave came out of nowhere, crashing over him and sending him into the ocean below. Gasping in shock, water went down his throat and up his nose, and the current pulled him in like a whirlpool. All the kicking and flailing in the world couldn’t and didn’t change a thing, and his swimming experience was useless.
Fortunately, someone was there to save him, but not this time.
The three-or-so seconds it took for the grogginess from his head-collision to dissipate was more than enough time for him to involuntarily swallow a few mouthfuls of water. Already, the rushing stream pulled him under, its currents swelled from the melting snow.
Blood streamed from the crown of Cedric’s head, his fingertips scraping against the sharp pebbles and half-frozen, slushy riverbed. He felt lightheaded and woozy, and he couldn’t get his legs under him. Whether it was the concussion or his feet being numbed by the cold, he didn’t know.
Colorful spots danced in his vision, his struggles drawing oxygen from his blood. His lungs burned and a mouthful of water caught in his throat, wanting to be coughed out. By sheer luck, he managed to grab what felt like a root. Unfortunately, as soon as he did, the sudden jerk-stop flung his body sideways, his forehead smashing dead-on against a jutting stone.
Already on the brink, it was more than enough to send his consciousness over the edge.
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Even in this strange in-between land, unable to make sense of anything, or even who he was, Cedric was keenly aware of his impending death. It was a crushing sensation, like something pressing on his chest, similar to sleep paralysis. He wanted to move, to break free, but his body was inert as an old log.
His blood felt thick and his veins clogged. His heart was like a drum, a hammer thumping in his head. He was afraid and almost claustrophobic, cramped inside a black space, unable to budge an inch no matter how he struggled.
It was in that moment of desperation, like when he’d first broke through the magical ‘wall’, that he felt something happen. It was an extremely strange sensation, like a derailing train. There was ‘something’ inside him, channeled and guided like blood pumping in veins. That liquid suddenly sublimated, its rigid structure falling away, misting through the thin capillary membrane.
It was as if he was previously only capable of walking in the four cardinal directions—north, south, east and west, restricted to one dimensional plane. Yet, the scales had fallen from his eyes. From two dimensions to three, four, one axis added after another… he felt a sense of unprecedented freedom.
It was a shame he didn’t actually get to explore those new directions, use his newly-gained power. Whatever molecules of oxygen or units of ATP powering his mind until now suddenly ran out. It was anticlimactic really, but there was nothing to be done. Cedric was only human, after all.
Shortly after his mind-altering revelation, he knew only blackness.
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When Cedric came to, he was on his knees, palms against the ground. He was hacking and coughing, vomiting water-weeds and stomach fluids onto the earth. A hand awkwardly twisted his soaked, red hair, simultaneously holding the hem of his shirt. Another vigorously slapped him on the back. Even a bit too vigorously. He felt like a white bedsheet being beaten by an over-enthusiastic housewife.
“By the forgotten kings, Cid, what are you doing out here by yourself? Who doesn’t know the current’s strong this time of year? If I hadn’t been trapping hares out here and seen your leg briefly break the water’s surface, your bloated corpse would’ve shown up on the riverbank a few days from now!”
It was an uncomfortably familiar voice, though Cedric’s addled mind and burning, teary eyes couldn’t make out the speaker. He flapped around awkwardly, trying to wave away his attendant, feeling unreasonably irritable.
However, his savior didn’t let him go, grabbing him like a wrestler before shoving his fists under Cedric’s diaphragm. A few rhythmic squeezes later and the last few lungfuls of water were out, his airways (mostly) restored, allowing regular breathing.
After ensuring Cedric’s survival, the person retreated, letting him catch his bearings.
“Feeling better? You’re still soaked, though. If you don’t want to freeze to death, I recommend you follow me back. Can’t start a fire out here, not with everything wet from the melting snow.”
Cedric didn’t reply immediately. He was beyond embarrassed, almost wishing he’d just been left to die.
When he remained silent, the boyish voice spoke concernedly.
“Come on, I’ll help you. Give me your arm.”
Unable and secretly unwilling to resist, Cedric let his arm be shouldered. Able to think clearly, he’d already registered his rescuer’s identity.
Glancing at the other boy’s youthful face, brown hair and eyes, Cedric sighed.
“*Cough*, you really saved my butt, Eragon.”
Indeed, his savior was none other than the novel’s protagonist, in all his twelve-year-old, baby-faced glory. Strange as that coincidence might seem, it wasn’t too unusual for the kid to be out here. He was a hunter, after all, yet not of the age where he ventured far from town.
Eragon sighed, shaking his head.
“You really scared me. When I fished you out, you weren’t breathing. I thought you were dead! Forget it, our house’s closer. It’s best we go there first, not go all the way back. Your heart’ll stop from the cold before we make it to town.”
Cedric forced down his shame, letting himself be led off toward Garrow’s homestead.
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Carvahall being as small as it was, everyone basically knew each other. The same went for Cedric and the rest of the village kids. He didn’t exactly relish his interactions with the juvenile lot, despite their age justifying their behavior.
Yet, being too distant with everyone would make him stand out more than just going with the flow, so that’s what he did. The novelty of interacting with ‘famous’ people soon wore off, his interactions with them long ago losing any awkwardness.
At this point in time, everyone but Brom really were just a bunch of backwards villagers, living out in the boonies. The only interactions they had with magic, elves and dragons were from troubadours’ stories. To Cedric, their ‘backwardness’ was normal and familiar, even endearing.
They were a simple people, living simple lives. Mostly, they were content with their lot, wishing for little aside from fair weather and for their tyrannical rulers to leave them be.
‘Cid’, nicknamed such by Baldor, the blacksmith Horst’s youngest son when the lad still couldn’t speak properly, contemplated all this while sitting with a rough linen cloth draped over his head.
The reason for his discomfort at Eragon’s rescue wasn’t simply because of pride. Rather, he didn’t want to start accruing debts and leaving attachments. It would make it all the harder for him to up and leave when everything went south.
As previously stated, he didn’t think he had it in him to be an unscrupulous villain, yet he wasn’t exactly the most compassionate person either. He could and would leave Carvahall to its doom.
So what if he knew a little bit of magic? The Ra’zac were resistant anyways, and he really only knew a little bit. If ex-dragon rider, trained magician, swordsman and combat veteran Brom couldn’t save the village, what chance did he, Cedric Merlinson have?
(Yes, his father’s name was indeed Merlin, though from Cedric’s early-childhood observations, he was no wizard of any sort, and not even a particularly intelligent person.)
“Feeling better, lad? Here, have something to eat. I doubt it’s enough for a growing boy like yourself - heavens know those two are eating me out of the house - but game’s been scarce these days. Fish too, what with all the people falling into the river lately, scaring them off.”
A middle-aged man, tall and thin with piercing gray eyes entered the room. After tossing a few branches into the fire, where Cedric sat, stooped with his palms extended, he put something in the boy’s lap.
After that, he fixed Cedric with a glare, his expression one of fatherly scolding.
Looking appropriately chastised, the youth lowered his head, palming the piece of salt-meat.
“I really am sorry, uncle Garrow. I know I worried you all, but I’m fine now. Thank you for your hospitality, and Eragon for saving me, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Gramps. He’s not well as it is.”
The farmer huffed, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He didn’t reply immediately, staring Cedric down like he didn’t appreciate the request.
“If I were old Fitch, no matter my condition, I’d want to know if my last blood almost lost his life from his own carelessness.”
Cedric smiled wanly, unable to refute. With his father disowned for suddenly pissing off, leaving his responsibilities behind, he was indeed Fitch’s last remaining relative.
“Really, uncle Garrow, it wasn’t that bad. I just slipped and fell. There’s no need to make a mountain out of a molehill…”
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