What's the Magic Word?

by Absolutely_Corrupted

Summary:

Being a moderately sensible young woman, I'm a little concerned to find myself in a fictional universe. Is this a dream? Or am I the victim of some sort of elaborate prank?

Or even worse... Is this real?

Notes:

I'm all about self-inserts, but this one is especially fun. I first read Eragon when I was in third grade (shortly after it came out) and it's held a special place in my heart ever since. It may not be the most well-written series, or the most original, but I can't deny enjoying it.

I've long since grown out of it, but that's part of what makes this self-insert so fun! I hope you enjoy this nostalgic journey with me:)

Chapter 1

 I was twisting – FALLING – through a swirl of colors and sounds, all of them indistinguishable due to the sheer speed at which they went by, when I felt the sudden and uncomfortable sensation of being forcefully submerged.

“Wake up!”

I woke with a gasp, unable to draw in enough oxygen to ease the burning in my lungs. I didn’t know where I was or what had happened. All I knew was that I needed to breathe. Am I choking? Somehow, this desperate thought comforted me and I forced down my mounting panic. Inhale gently, steadily. Calm your heart rate and conserve energy.

I did as my thoughts bid me, feeling the panicked haze lift further with each passing moment. Not choking then, I realized with no small degree of relief.

Now that I was able to breathe, I was calm enough to take stock of my surroundings. The first thing I noted was that it was hot, almost unbearably so. The second thing was that I was on the ground and curled in upon myself. But before I could even consider sitting up, my body made its less-than-stellar condition known to me.

“Ow,” I groaned aloud once before cutting off abruptly. My throat felt positively raw. What happened? I wondered.

No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t recall what I had been doing before I awoke. In fact, I was having trouble recalling anything beyond a disjointed mix of perfectly ordinary days. I knew a substantial amount of time had passed since then – but I was utterly incapable of discerning how much or what had actually occurred in that time frame.

First things first, I decided. I need to figure out what’s happening now.

I opened my eyes to a shimmering haze, one so thick it nearly obscured the swirling mix of lavender and amber that was the sky above me. I squinted, still looking up as the haze lifted in small increments. I could see tree tops surrounding whatever clearing I was in, all of them tall and coniferous, some of them bare and smoldering. Startled by the unfamiliar sight, I moved to sit up.

…What in the world?

Resting on my abdomen was a vibrantly blue stone. Startled, because I hadn’t even noticed it’s weight, I lifted it up to examine it. It was unnaturally smooth, with trailing vines of silvery-white interrupting the deep blue of its surface.

My perusal of the strange stone was interrupted by a boy’s voice, though I couldn’t make out the individual words. I turned to find the source and was surprised to see a teenager is furs and leathers standing at the edge of clearing I’d found myself in.

He approached cautiously, his bow and arrow pointed in front of him and down. I suspected he wouldn’t hesitate to raise it and shoot should I make any sudden movements. He spoke again as he neared and this time I recognized his speech for what it was, foreign.

Somehow, despite this, I understood what he was asking. The boy wanted to know who or what I was.

I tried to speak aloud, ask him if he knew English, but nothing came out when I tried. Apparently, my throat was more damaged than I’d originally thought. Since speaking wasn’t an option, I settled for resting a hand over my neck in the hopes of conveying I’d lost my voice.

Though still cautious, he nodded to show he’d understood and shuffled closer. When I made no move to do anything at all, he relaxed and offered me a hand. I took it gratefully.

I stumbled a little as he pulled me upright, leaning into him as my legs failed to support my full weight. The boy, for his part, simply shifted support me, though he did seem somewhat embarrassed by our closeness.

Teenagers, I thought with an eye-roll.

Fortunately, his flush faded quickly in favor of curiosity. “What are you doing out here? How did you get here?”

As I couldn’t answer verbally even if I wanted to, let alone in whatever language he was speaking, I simply shook my head with a frown, gesturing to my temple. His guess was as good as mine.

He looked dubious at that. Still, he let it be, instead directing his attention to the stone in my free arm.

“Is that yours?” He asked.

I shook my head and offered it to him, leaning farther into his shoulder for support while he cautiously took it in both hands. “It’s… beautiful,” he eventually settled on. “Is it magical?” I shrugged, a little surprised that he would ask such an embarrassing question. Though, to be honest, my current situation was strange enough that I wasn’t ruling anything out.

“I’ve never see something so smooth, nor so blue.” He glanced upwards. “If it’s not yours, how did you come to possess it?”

Yet again, I had to shake my head.

I waited as the boy looked his fill before offering it back to me. I refused, less than eager to carry more weight when I could hardly support my own. He could leave it on the ground, for all I cared. He glanced between me and the stone thoughtfully before putting it away in his pack.

“I’ll take you to Gertrude,” he decided. “She’s a healer.” Apparently he’d come to the conclusion that I needed help more than he needed answers. He wrapped an arm around my upper back and led me from the clearing.

We walked for at least an hour, covering what I thought might be three miles. It wasn’t very far, but we were hindered by my stiff left leg.

Eventually, we came across a fallen tree. “I’m going to set up camp for the night,” he announced. “It’s about to be too dark to travel safely,” he explained at my questioning look. “We’ll leave for Carvahall at dawn. Once we arrive, Gertrude will look you over and deal with any injuries.”

I nodded tiredly, feeling as though I were a spectator within my own body.

The teen helped me settle with my back against a tree, offering me his outermost jacket. “Here, try to warm up. I’ll get a fire started.”

I took the jacket, only then noticing how very cold I was. I looked down to see why that was. Strange. Despite the fact that it felt like it was late fall or early winter, I was wearing a maxi dress I often wore during the summer.

It was one of my favorite pieces of clothing, but not one suited for colder weather. It must still be summer or I wouldn’t wear it, I thought with growing unease. But that begs the question: What happened between putting it on and waking up here?

I couldn’t remember a thing, but it was possible I’d been drugged, kidnapped, and then left to die in another location, or something equally horrible and strange. I thought hard about what the boy’s language had sounded like, but couldn’t place it. He looked mostly Caucasian, though there was some ethnic ambiguity that hinted at what I suspected was distant Asian ancestry. Maybe I was in some eastern European country? They were far enough north for it to be cold this time of year… right?

A flare of light amidst the rapidly darkening forest alerted me to the fact that my companion was done building the fire. He stoked it a few times before smiling slightly. “Alright, now that that’s done we should get settled in for the night.” His smile faded and suddenly he looked nervous. “I, uh, I don’t actually have enough blankets for us to sleep separately – we’ll have to share.”

I shrugged indifferently. I probably should have been afraid or at the very least more cautious, but I couldn’t bring myself to distrust the boy. I was tired, disoriented, and my surroundings seemed hazy and dream-like.

It probably is a dream, I realized. Of course… How could I have missed it? How else would I understand what he’s saying? I’m good at reading body language, but not THAT good.

As I let the relief of my realization wash over me, the teen walked over and helped me to my feet, leading me to the little bed he’d made beneath the roots of the fallen tree. Stiffly, he helped me get positioned before crawling in next to me. I could tell that he tried to leave space between us, but the bedroll was small enough that our shoulders were still pressed tightly together. I didn’t mind, falling ‘asleep’ between one breath and the next.

.

.

.

Eragon woke unusually slowly the next morning; feeling warmer and more comfortable than usual in spite of the obvious firmness of the ground beneath him. He only realized why that was when the body in his arms shifted, burrowing closer in an attempt to stay warm.

Completely awake now, Eragon felt his face burn in mortification. Still, he ignored his discomfort in favor of taking the chance to study her features. The girl’s skin was smooth and clear (if he discounted the smudge of soot across her brow), and her hair was tawny in color.

He reached out and was unsurprised to find that it felt unusually soft beneath his fingers. He brushed it lightly aside and had to bite back a gasp at the unexpected piercings the action revealed. Why would she mutilate herself? He knew that some of the performers who traveled with the merchant caravans had them, but they were hardly the norm and she didn’t seem like the type to traipse about dancing.

The only other instance he could recall was even less relevant: some farming families used piercings rather than brands to indicate ownership of livestock.

The jewelry in her ears was nothing like either of those examples.

For one, he was pretty sure that none of the performers he’d seen had ever worn anything more expensive than wooden beads bound by metal. For another, he very much doubted anyone was running around piercing human ears to denote ownership.

Still, as strange as it was, he couldn’t deny the clear crystals and gold cuff were pretty.

She shifted slightly and Eragon redirected his gaze to her face, afraid she was waking. Fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. He watched her breathe in and out, marveling at the glimpse of her unusually white teeth. Altogether, he thought she looked rather like the dolls the village girls bought from the traders – maybe she used magic?

That last thought reminded him of her potential ability to cast spells and what that would mean for him if she caught him looking.

Slowly, so as not to wake her, he shifted out from under her weight, stopping each time she so much as twitched. After nearly five minutes of struggling, he was finally free.

Standing to stretch, he noted that the morning had dawned brisk and cold, with frost where there had been dew the day before. The fire from last night had almost died out, so he kicked dirt over it until the flame was completely smothered. He then moved off to relieve himself, planning on waking the mysterious girl when he returned.

Instead, he came back to find her already sitting up and rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Good morning,” he ventured, feeling pleased when she smiled hesitantly in return. “As soon as I pack everything up we’ll leave for Carvahall. Do you feel well enough to walk on your own?” The girl stretched experimentally before nodding. “Good. That should make the trip a bit quicker.”

Eragon shared his meager supply of bread and cheese with her before collecting his things and starting their hike. About ten minutes in, he found himself incapable of staying silent any longer.

“Who are you?” He asked.

The girl, who he still suspected might be some sort of sorceress, frowned and reached for her throat.

“Please, just your name.”

She nodded reluctantly and sucked in a shallow breath. “Marcella.” Her voice was raw and strained to his ears, and she immediately broke into a coughing fit after speaking, but the name itself was discernable.

“Nice to meet you, Marcella.” He thought it suited her, as pretty and exotic as she was. “I’m Eragon.” She paused a moment, mouthing his name, before a smile broke across her face. She reached out and he watched bemusedly as she clasped their hands like men, pumping up and then down.

They settled once more into silence.

Eragon tried to be patient, but eventually the quiet unnerved him. “You don’t have to speak, just nod or shake your head.” Marcella looked up curiously. “Did you arrive in the Spine by magic?”

She frowned and shrugged. Then, to make her point clearer, she tapped her temple and shook her head.

“You don’t know?” She nodded, sticking to what she’d tried to tell him the night before. Eragon pondered that for a long moment before asking: “Are you some sort of sorceress?”

Marcella shook her head ‘no,’ looking amused.

Eragon felt a bit of disappointment at that, but he soldiered on. The fact that he’d met a victim of an enchantment was almost as exciting as meeting a sorceress would have been. …And probably safer. “Are you from Therinsford?” It was the next closest town to the Spine.

She shook her head again, waving her arm oddly. It took Eragon a moment to discern her meaning. “You’re from someplace farther away?”

She nodded this time.

Eragon pounced on this piece of information, listing every single city he’d ever heard of. She shook her head at all of them, but he wasn’t too surprised. After all, there were probably hundreds more he didn’t know about.

“Do you have a family?” She nodded again. “A mother? A father? A brother?” She nodded at the first two, then held up three fingers at the third. “Three brothers?” A nod again. He wondered what that must be like. “Any sisters?” Marcella denied it. Then, she pointed at him.

“Me?” She dipped her head in affirmation. “I have an uncle and a cousin – though my cousin is more like a brother. I used to have an aunt too, but she passed a few years ago.”

Marcella reached out to touch his arm, looking sad. “Thank you,” was all he managed before he had to avert his eyes out of discomfort. Pity had never sat well with him.

His companion seemed to understand, as she simply patted his arm gently before encouraging him to begin walking again, this time sticking closer to his side.

To distract himself from any lingering feelings of embarrassment, Eragon studied Marcella askance, curious about her backstory.

A quick look at her hands confirmed they were as soft and untouched by callouses as they’d felt. Much too soft to belong to someone who worked as the women in Carvahall did. Some sort of noble then? Or maybe a successful merchant’s daughter?

He continued on like this for the rest of their hike back to town, making observations and asking the odd question in an attempt to figure out what sort of person Marcella was.

To his consternation, by the time they reached Carvahall, he was left with more questions than answers.

“There it is,” Eragon announced, somewhat unnecessarily. He turned to find his companion staring at the cluster of buildings in the valley below them with a thoughtful frown, though the expression was replaced by a smile when he asked if she was alright. “Let’s go.” He turned and started down the easiest path. “If we hurry, we’ll make it to Gertrude’s before nightfall.”

.

.

.

I pulled my borrowed jacket tighter and tried not to limp as I followed Eragon farther into town, marveling at the sheer number of details my mind had conjured all for the sake of a dream. And it had to be a dream. No matter how real it felt today. What else would explain the presence of a fictional character? Two, if I counted Saphira.

When I’d woken that morning, I’d begun to fear that I’d landed in the past, thanks to the primitive nature of my savior’s clothing and the fact that the dream-like haze had lifted. His name, however, convinced me otherwise.

Aside from the cold and the blisters on my feet – damn gladiator sandals – the dream was relatively pleasant. I liked hiking, especially when surrounded by such vividly beautiful scenery. Still, after a night and a day of walking on too-sore legs, I was beginning to wonder how much longer it would last.

Just as the sun began to set in earnest, Eragon and I reached our destination.

Carvahall was as quaint as it had looked from the top of the falls. Men and women congregated in clusters on wooden porches while children ran up and down the dirt roads, laughing. Most of their clothing strongly resembled my idea of late 19^th century dress, though some of the dresses I saw wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Middle Ages.

“Eragon!” A man in his late fifties was the first to notice our approach. He and the three men he’d been talking to ambled over curiously. “Who’s that you’ve got with you?”

“This is Marcella,” he said, sparing me a hesitant glance. When I made no move to stop him, he explained the bare basics: he’d found me in the Spine and had learned, through charades, that I was injured and far from home, with no idea how I’d gotten there.

I noticed that he left out the explosion that heralded mine and Safira’s arrival, but that was to be expected. The men looked skeptical enough when Eragon claimed that I ‘appeared out of nowhere.’

Luckily, the men didn’t seem very suspicious of me. This was perhaps due to the fact that I was under five and a half feet tall and built like a distance runner. I wasn’t going to be physically overpowering anyone anytime soon.

A brunette with crooked teeth clasped Eragon’s shoulder and nodded at me. “You’d better get her to Gertrude’s soon. She looks dead on her feet.” Eragon had already told them that I’d lost my voice and could hardly communicate, so I wasn’t offended when the man spoke over my head.

My young companion nodded. “You’re right, we’d better get going. Do you mind asking around to see if anyone has any extra clothes for Marcella? She’s not exactly dressed for the weather.”

One of the men, shorter and younger than the other two, spoke up. “Jaina’s got plenty of clothes from before her first pregnancy. I’m sure she can spare a few.”

Eragon thanked him, and I mouthed the unfamiliar phrase as well, earning a smile from the man.

We took our leave and a few minutes later my companion was knocking heavily on the wooden door of a tiny little home. After a moment, an aging woman answered it. I listened tiredly as he explained the situation to her; he’d found me in the Spine, I was lost and probably the victim of some enchantment, my voice was gone…

The woman, Gertrude, took all this in stride, ushering me in and leading me to a little cot. She lifted a candle to my face and examined my eyes, nose and ears before moving on to my throat. When the candle proved too dim for a proper look at the inside of my throat, she reached in with a finger!

“The skin is definitely inflamed.” Gertrude turned to Eragon. “Is there anything else wrong with her?”

He shrugged. “She was having trouble walking when I found her last night, but she was able to make it back to Carvahall with me today so I assumed she was better.”

The healer mumbled something rude under her breath about idiotic children before turning to me. “Strip down on the other side of the partition – I’ll have the boy wait in the other room.”

I felt my face heat up. Dream or no, this wasn’t exactly- “Hurry it up, girl!” I fled behind the partition. Admittedly, taking off my shoes was a relief. They were comfortable for an average day, but not exactly hiking material. The dress went next. I was left standing in my bralette and panties. I peeked out from around the side of the divider.

Eragon was gone and Gertrude gestured impatiently for me to come all the way out. Slowly, I did so.

She turned me around, ‘tsk’ing at some bruises I hadn’t noticed along my side, as well as the blisters on my feet. “Not much I can do about those, other than give you some salve and wait for it to heal.” I nodded my understanding. I’d be fine once I woke up anyway.

She then had me move around in various ways, only stopping when we got to my left knee and ankle. “It looks like you took a nasty fall, judging by the bruising,” she told me. “But the real problem is how swollen these joints are from the initial impact. That’ll take longer to heal, especially thanks to all the walking you’ve done.”

She had me change back into my dress, but not my shoes, and invited Eragon back into the room. “She’ll be okay, but I’ll need a couple of days to make sure everything is healing correctly. In the meantime, it’s too late for you to make it back to the farm. You’ll have to ask Horst to take you in for the night.”

“Garrow will worry,” he protested.

“Let him, it’s only for the night.”

With an apologetic glance my way, Eragon bid us both good night, leaving me alone with the grumpy healer.

What followed was an awkward, one-sided conversation in which I tried to explain that ‘no, I had not been assaulted by a man (or Eragon!)’ with only hand gestures and facial expressions. Finally, after studying the patterns of bruising on my body more thoroughly, she seemed to believe me.

“Alright then, that means we don’t have to worry about any internal problems.” I winced and nearly missed the small jar she tossed to me. “Rub that over your knee and ankle before you go to sleep – I’ll be in the other room if you need me.” She trotted off.

I was left to stare at the green gunk with disgust. “Look on the bright side Marcy,” I mumbled under my breath, using the faintest of whispers so as not to aggravate my throat. “At least it doesn’t smell as bad as it looks.”

Thank goodness for small mercies.

.

.

.

The next day I was roused from a pleasant but unremarkable dream when a spindly hand shook my shoulder. “Wake up, girl. Eragon’s here to say goodbye.” The unfamiliar voice had me jerking upright with a painful gasp.

What the-? The events of the last day and half came back to me. “Ger-” The harsh sound of my own voice had me cringing even before the coughing fit started. I felt tears spring to my eyes as cough after cough absolutely wrecked my throat. When it finally ended, I slumped against the wall beside the cot and allowed Gertrude to press a warm cup into my hands.

“Drink up,” she ordered. “It’ll help.”

I didn’t protest – too eager for some measure of relief. I sipped the steaming liquid and watched curiously as the old woman laid out what appeared to be an outfit for me. She had me finish the tea before dressing, then helped me outside when my knee proved too stiff for walking.

“Marcella!” Eragon’s voice was startlingly loud, but I smiled anyway at his exuberance. He was dressed in the same outfit he’d worn when I met him, minus the jacket he’d loaned me.

Very aware that it was even colder today than it had been yesterday, I played a quick game of charades with Gertrude in an attempt to figure out where his jacket was so I could return it. She caught on quickly, disappearing inside to fetch it.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Eragon said, reaching into his pack. “I know you said it wasn’t yours, but since I found it with you – you should keep it.” He pulled out Saphira’s egg and tried to pass it over.

For a moment I just gaped, unable to believe what was happening. Then I realized what he was trying to do. Horrified, I shook my head frantically, pushing the stone into his chest and urging him with frantic hand gestures to tuck it back into his pack.

Startled, he did so. “What’s the matter Marcella? Why don’t you want it?” I pointed to his pack and then to his chest, cursing my inability to speak. Still, he got my meaning easily enough. “You think I should keep it?” he asked incredulously.

I nodded.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said, suspicion clear on his face. “It was clearly meant for you!”

The door to Gertrude’s hut swung open with a creak, preventing me from explaining further. All I could do was press my finger to my lips in an attempt to convey the importance of keeping the stone a secret.

Though I still believed I was dreaming, the time I’d spent here and the sheer number of details I could see had planted the first seeds of doubt. On the off chance I had been transported to a fictional universe… Well, better safe than sorry; the last thing I wanted was for the Ra’zac to do what they had in the books.

Suddenly, I remembered what would have occurred had I not been present. Eragon, in desperate need of meat for his family, had tried to sell the egg to Sloan – the man who eventually ratted him out to the Ra’zac. Maybe if he had something else to sell, he’d be more inclined to keep the stone a secret…?

The jewelry I was wearing suddenly felt warm. I tugged off my thin gold bracelet just as Gertrude reached us with the jacket. Eragon took it from her with a grateful smile and pulled it on. As soon as he’d done so, I pressed the accessory into his hand.

“What are you-” He spluttered a bit as I wrapped his fingers around it.

“Thank you, Eragon,” I mouthed silently, using the words I’d heard him use to express thanks. I wasn’t particularly gifted with languages, but being able to assign meaning to whatever I heard made picking up simple phrases a whole lot easier.

“I can’t accept this,” He told me seriously. “It’s too much!”

I shook my head and smiled, refusing to take the bracelet back. He spent a few minutes trying to argue, but eventually Gertrude cut him off. “Just accept it, Eragon. She clearly feels the need to thank you for saving her life.”

“But I didn’t-”

“Good grief boy!” she interrupted, waving an arm in my direction. “Does she really seem like the sort capable of surviving in the wilderness? Let alone one as unforgiving as the Spine?”

He turned to look at me, his objections dying on his lips. I fought the urge to protest at the implication, grudgingly admitting that she had a point. However athletic and capable I considered myself, I knew next to nothing about hunting, foraging, or building shelters. I’d have been dead without Eragon there to guide me out.

Sighing, he pocketed the bracelet. “Thank you. This is more helpful than you know.” I smiled again, fairly certain that he was talking about selling the bracelet for much-needed supplies. He looked at the brightening sky and nodded to us both. “I have to get going, I’ve got a stop to make before heading home. Bye Marcella, bye Gertrude.”

With a final wave, he scampered off, leaving me alone with the gruff healer.

“Well, come on girl,” she said, turning back to her little hut. “You need more tea to help with the swelling in your throat.”

I followed hesitantly, unsure why the dream hadn’t ended with Eragon’s disappearance. Surely my subconscious had better things to dream about than an unimportant side-character?

I sat down on the cot and tried to work things out as Gertrude brewed tea.

The fact that I was dreaming should have been undeniable. Should have been, but for a few oddities.

For one, it was longer than any dream I’d ever experienced. More than that, it was too linear. Never in my life had I had a dream where events seemed so simple and straightforward, passing one after another in clear order.

For another, I could feel things – pain, cold, and Gertrude’s jabbing fingers, just to name a few.

What if this was real?

Chapter 2

The dream didn’t end. I waited. And waited. And waited. But almost a week had passed and there was nothing to indicate I’d be waking up any time soon. Tentatively, and a little incredulously, I started to consider the possibility that I wouldn't wake up.

My mind shied away from the implications.

Instead, I focused on my more immediate concerns. My leg wasn’t as injured as Gertrude had originally thought, thankfully, but I was at a loss. What does one do when they land in a fictional universe?

Gertrude had me helping her with salves and teas while I healed up, but that was hardly enough to keep me busy all day long. Case in point, I’d already finished grinding up the gigantic pile of leaves the elderly healer had asked me to deal with while she visited an expectant mother.

Now, I was stuck braiding and re-braiding my hair while I waited for her to return and give me another task.

I was just about to undo what was surely a magnificent set of Dutch braids when the door to the cottage slammed open. A boy no more than ten skidded to a stop and frantically whipped his head around. “Where’s Gertrude?!” he shouted.

I shook my head and gestured beyond him. I still couldn’t speak, not that I even had the vocabulary to express her exact location.

“My brother’s hurt!” Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks. “He needs help!”

Frowning heavily, I stood and grabbed Gertrude’s version of a first aid kid – a satchel filled with bandages. The boy didn’t waste any time questioning me, more than eager for an adult to take over. He took off at a run and I followed him halfway across town, to a home with a crowd already gathering out front. There were frantic whispers and more than one ghastly pale face. I wove through the onlookers until I reached the small group huddled on the front porch.

Gently tapping shoulders and hoisting Gertrude’s bag so they would know I was there to help, I finally ended up kneeling in a recently vacated spot beside the unconscious boy’s head.

He was probably only a year or two younger than his brother, with light blonde hair that was matted-down with blood. A man was holding a wet rag to a spot somewhere behind his left ear, while the other villages surrounding him cradled various body parts and murmured quietly, presumably praying.

I carefully pried the man’s fingers away, keeping my expression as calm as I could manage while taking in the damage.

It looked bad.

A ragged gash ran from just above the boy’s ear to the back of his head, bleeding profusely enough that it’s depth wasn’t readily apparent. Pressing the man’s fingers once more to the wound, I reached into Gertrude’s bag for bandages.

I doubted they were completely sterile, but the boiled cloth would be better than the rag currently in use. I folded one end of the long rectangular strip into a small square – to use as an absorbent pad of sorts – then pulled the man’s hand away again so I could quickly replace the soiled rag.

I pressed firmly, resulting in a small moan from the child, before using my free hand to wrap the remainder of the cloth several times around his head. I hurriedly tied it off and then shifted the boy onto his side with one leg bent and his arm beneath his head. Now, if he started vomiting, he wouldn’t choke on it.

He was still visibly breathing, but I placed two fingers just below his jawline to check his pulse anyway. It’s steady, I noted with no small degree of relief. A little fast, maybe, but that was better than the alternative.

“Will he be okay?” It was the man who asked it, though the way everyone else quieted in anticipation was telling.

The word ‘maybe’ hadn’t come up yet – or it had and I just didn’t remember – so I took a moment to try and recall the question posed to me by most of the villagers I’d met in the past few days. “…his name?” I inquired, mostly mouthing the words.

“Marlow.”

“I will help Marlow.” I was lucky future tense was so simple in this language. I just needed to add the prefix ‘icks’ in front of whatever verb I was using.

Though it didn’t answer the original question, my statement was enough to ease some of the tension. “Whatever you need, just say the word and I’ll get it for you.” The man, who I suspected might be the boy’s father, looked pale and resolute.

“Good,” was my only response. That said, I refocused on the injured Marlow. He was in recovery position, but now that blood loss was no longer an issue I thought it best to get him somewhere warm. Besides, if he woke up and saw everyone leaning over him and crying, he might panic. It was best to get him settled and away from prying eyes before that.

It only took me standing up and reaching under the boy’s arms to clue the others in to what I was doing. The father and another man quickly stepped up to help. Together, we hoisted the boy up and took him inside to a small pallet that must have been his bed.

Once more shifting the boy to his side, I set about wrapping him in blankets. I wasn’t an expert by any means, but I knew that keeping the victim warm was important when blood loss was a factor.

I tried to prioritize from there.

Keeping the wound from bleeding was more important than cleaning it. Infection was a concern, but not one that mattered if he died from hypovolemic shock.

My next biggest concern was the boy’s head. Depending on how the blow came to be, we could be dealing with any number of problems. Concussion, fractured skull, swelling of the brain…

There wasn’t much to be done if his brain started to swell. I doubted there were any powerful anti-inflammatories for him to take. Did these people even conceive of such things?

And what about pain? I’d been given tea for my throat, but if it was really willow bark tea – like I suspected – then was it safe to give to a child? One with a head injury, at that? I’d babysat a lot as a teenager, but I’d never given the kids I watched anything other than medicine specifically meant for children.

Were the benefits of something like salicylic acid worth the risk?

I pushed those worries from my mind and focused on what I could. I gathered snow from outside and played charades with the father so that he would boil it for me. I kept a close eye on Marlow’s breathing and pulse. I sent for Gertrude by miming a pregnant stomach. And I mouthed my own prayers over the boy, just in case it helped.

Time passed.

Some of the boiled water was allowed to cool so we could start getting fluids into the boy, while the rest was used to sterilize some spare cloth that I used to quickly clean the area around the wound before re-wrapping it. I made sure everyone kept their voices down, not that they seemed particularly inclined to be loud, but it couldn’t hurt.

Finally, Gertrude arrived.

Her skirts were covered in blood and her hair was in disarray, but she took charge masterfully. She quickly sent a young woman back to her home for supplies (including the tea she’d been force-feeding me) and started a thorough examination of Marlow’s pulse, breathing, and pupil response. It was heartening to see her moving so confidently. I didn’t know the full extent of her knowledge, but at the very least she wasn’t going to pray and leave it up to the local gods, like I’d half expected.

“Girl,” she turned her dark eyes on me, “I need an extra pair of hands. Can you help me?”

I nodded hastily.

“Good. Go prepare the tea. Make it half as strong as the batch you drank this morning.” Well, at least she wasn’t going to give a child the same dosage as an adult. However primitive this world was, they clearly had some sense.

I left her with Marlow and moved to the bag of supplies the woman – possibly Marlow’s aunt – had gone to fetch. The bark was easy to find. I portioned out half the amount Gertrude had taught me to use and hurried to the corner that served as this home’s kitchen.

Just like in Gertrude’s little home, there was a metal contraption which seemed to work as both a heater and a stove. The closest thing I could compare it to was a boiler, but that wasn’t exactly right.

Putting aside that irrelevant thought for later, I took the pot from earlier and brought the leftover water back to a boil over the open flame.

“I’ll get more wood so it boils faster.” Marlow’s dad practically leapt to his feet, clearly eager for something to do. He left through the front and I caught a glimpse of the crowd outside as the door swung shut behind him.

They were a small sea of pale faces and clasped hands. In spite of the circumstances, it was heartening to see a community pull together like this. I’ve never been particularly religious, but even I can’t deny there’s something almost magical about human belief.

Well wishes and prayers may not physically heal anybody, but there’s a reason doctors encourage friends and families to say them anyway. If the patient hears them, subconsciously or otherwise, they’re more likely to pull through.

It’s backed by scientific evidence, even if we don’t yet understand how it works. Keeping that in mind, I thought positive thoughts in Marlow’s direction. It gave me something to focus on while I waited for the water to boil.

“Here.” Marlow’s dad reappeared with a bundle of thin, dry branches and shoved them into the tiny compartment at the bottom of the boiler-thing.

Barely sixty seconds after that the water started to bubble. I dropped the bark inside and counted out a very long five minutes.

(Thank god the denominations of time seemed to be the same. Another language was one thing, but I wasn’t about to learn a system that used something other than seconds, minutes, and hours.)

As soon as the tea was ready I brought it to Gertrude. She had Marlow’s dad hoist the boy up while I held it to his mouth and she massaged his throat to get him to swallow. When the liquid was gone, we tucked him back beneath the blankets.

“There. Now the only thing left to do is wait for him to wake up.”

Marlow’s dad looked painfully hopeful. “He’ll be okay?”

Gertrude shook her head, frowning slightly. “There’s no way to know for sure until he wakes up. Head wounds are… tricky.”

She turned to me next. “You did well, but I can handle it from here.” She narrowed her eyes. “You should have mentioned sooner that you had experience in the healing arts – I would’ve had you doing more than grinding leaves.”

I shook my head and brought my thumb and index fingers close together, trying to convey that my knowledge was minimal.

“Still, you helped. Would you feel up to dealing with minor issues over the next few days? Just while I watch over Marlow and make sure he’s healing like he should.”

Not seeing another option, I whispered a quiet ‘yes’.

“Thank you. You head back to my house. I’ll stay here.” She waved over the boy in the corner, the one who had come looking for Gertrude at the start. “Rufus, walk her back and then go and let everyone know they’ll need to go to her if anything small happens in the next few days.”

Little Rufus nodded seriously.

“Come on.” He led me out of the house and past the onlookers, calling out, “Gertrude says you’ll have to go to Marcella if you need healing. She’s going to be our temporary healer while Gertrude is busy with my brother.”

He didn’t wait for them to question this statement, practically jogging across town so he could return to his family as soon as possible. I could only follow after him, eager to escape the stares.

.

.

.

There weren’t any major incidents over the next few days, just a few villagers who stopped by regarding general aches and pains. Eager to help (and to ease my boredom), I dispensed Gertrude’s teas and salves with a generous hand. In addition, I showed them a few stretches to both strengthen and loosen whichever muscles were bothering them.

As someone who did at least four triathlons a year, I knew quite a few.

“Thank you, Marcella.” Kenna, a middle-aged woman who had pulled a muscle in her shoulder while lifting up one of her children, dipped her head politely. “I feel much better already.”

“You’re welcome.” I mouthed the words and waved genially as she left. I could have spoken – my voice was hoarse, but no longer completely out of my reach – but that would have revealed the fact that I didn’t speak the local language. I picked up more and more every day – perhaps thanks to the fact that I inexplicably understood the meaning of everything said to me – but I was a long way off from fluent.

Luckily, Gertrude had spread the word that I shouldn’t speak unless I absolutely needed to – lest I hinder my healing in any way.

I sat down in the rocking chair in the corner once the door shut behind Kenna. With any luck, the grumpy healer would return soon. I didn’t mind helping the villagers, but I wasn’t looking forward to eating any more of her nasty beef jerky. Unfortunately, that was all that was available to me. I had no clue where Gertrude kept things like fruit and vegetables, let alone meat that wasn't salted and dried. What I wouldn’t give for some lasagna, or even a salad…

A sharp knock interrupted my daydreams about elaborate, seven-course meals.

“Excuse me?” A vaguely familiar young woman opened the front door and peered inside. “Marcella?”

“Yes?” I rasped, easing to my feet.

“We’re having a-” the next word was a proper noun, so I only got the vaguest impression of meaning. Something between a town meeting, a bonfire, and a prayer circle? “-at the crossway tonight. My uncle Berrin and his family would like to see you there, if you’re amenable.”

“Of course,” I said, falling back on one of the many variations of ‘yes’ that I’d picked up. I was pretty sure Berrin was Rufus and Marlow’s father. I opened my mouth to ask when it was, exactly, but shut it again when I realized I wasn’t sure how to use the article ‘it’ in that instance. After the verb maybe? I couldn’t remember, so I coughed awkwardly like my throat had pained me.

“Oh, sorry! Gertrude said you shouldn’t talk much. Were you going to ask something?” She tilted her head and a chestnut curl escaped her updo.

I nodded and tapped my wrist to convey time. Unfortunately, this only served to confuse her. Right, wristwatches aren’t a thing here. Recalling that numbers were a thing, as were analogue clocks, I held up six fingers, then seven, then-

“You… want to know how many people will be there?”

I shook my head and gave up, mouthing the word ‘when’ and furrowing my brow.

“You want to know when it is!” She beamed when I nodded. “It’s actually just about to start. Shall we head off?”

Well, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. I dusted some imaginary dirt from my skirt and murmured another quiet, “Yes.”

“I’m Sirra, by the way.” My new companion said this as she linked elbows with me, utterly oblivious to my genuine startlement at the action. It was something I had seen the other woman around town doing, but this was the first time anyone had attempted it with me.

In all honesty, she was lucky I hadn’t squeaked in surprise. Growing up my family had been loving, but not particularly touchy-feely. Even years after I’d moved out, I hadn’t lost the tendency to avoid unnecessary contact.

“-heard so much about you from the others. Is it true you saved Marlow’s life?”

Woah. How was outlandish gossip even possible in a town this small? “No,” I said quietly. “I did only-” Cutting myself off before I resorted to English, I pinched my fingers together.

Sirra continued on like I’d responded normally. “Well, that’s not what I heard. Gertrude has been telling everyone that you did exactly what she would have done in your place.”

…That was less of a compliment for me and more of an indication of how rudimentary medicine was in this remote village. Honestly, I was beginning to grow curious as to what they did in cases that required more than first aid or simple pain relief. Did they travel to another town or village with more “healers”?

“Anyway,” she started to tug me along a little faster as we approached the intersection of the two biggest dirt roads in Carvahall. “Little Marlow’s doing much better, so we may even see him tonight!”

I nodded absently, more concerned with the unexpected crowd which suddenly loomed before us. There had to be nearly two hundred people milling about, ambling about between small fires and makeshift benches. And that wasn’t all; I could see dogs, cats, horses, and even a pig!

Gertrude’s home wasn’t that far away – how had I not noticed the noise? “Come on.” Realizing I had slowed to almost a complete stop, I started moving again at Sirra’s urging. “Uncle Berrin’s this way.”

.

.

.

Obscured in the shadow of Horst’s smithy, Brom watched the stranger as she made her way through the crowd. Cautiously, he tracked her with his eyes, looking for any sort of familiarity in feature or gesture.

Well, it’s no one I’ve met before, he decided a moment later, watching her laugh as a puppy tripped over itself in its haste to sniff her. It wasn’t too surprising. She was young. Too young to have been anything more than a child when he faked his death and retired to Carvahall.

…But that didn’t mean she wasn’t an agent of the Empire.

She had the look. Mildly pretty, but aside from her startlingly white teeth, her features weren’t particularly noteworthy. At least, not in any way he could reliably describe. Something about her eyes was… more pronounced, maybe?

He thought about reaching for her mind, but ultimately decided against it. If she was an agent of the Empire, it would blow his cover. If she wasn’t, there were other ways he could ascertain her motivations.

 

Chapter 3

Summary:

*IMPORTANT* Changed the end of chapter 2 and replaced chapter 3!

Twenty minutes after Sirra’s intrusion found me sitting in a large circle with a small dog at my feet and what I thought might be mead in my cup. Around me, Berrin’s family and a few others were gathered round chatting and trading embarrassing anecdotes. I was content to sip my drink and listen in.

Unfortunately, a lull in conversation had a few of the others turning my way. I quickly put my cup to my lips so I wouldn’t be expected to speak. “So, Marcella,” Darrin – Sirra’s father and Berrin’s older brother – gestured towards my neck with his mug. “How’s your voice coming along?”

So much for my plan. Stifling a grimace, I swallowed the sweet alcohol in my mouth and cleared my throat. “My voice is…” I played up the rasp as I searched for a word.

Once again my limited knowledge of the local language stymied my efforts to communicate. I settled for wobbling my right hand in what I hoped was a universal gesture for neither here nor there. Then I started over, “It is healing well.” That was a phrase I had learned from my first few days with Gertrude. “But slow-ly.”

The last word sat awkwardly on my tongue, though luckily no one else seemed to notice.

“That’s good news!” said Sirra, leaning forward with a drunken sway. She handled alcohol about as well as you could expect from a nineteen-year-old girl. (That is to say, not well at all.) “I can’t wait to hear about how you ended up in the Spine.”

Her mother, whose name I’d already forgotten, nudged her harshly with an elbow. “Hush. Don’t be tactless.” She turned to me. “Forgive my daughter. She’s enamored with the idea of life outside our village.” I had to hide my smile when she gave Sirra the mother of all side-eyes. “I’m half afraid she’s going to run off with some merchant boy just so she can see the world.”

Sirra protested dramatically, but I noticed that the rest of the adults grew solemn at the mention of the traders.

“Speaking of,” a man with a long blonde beard looked around the circle. “Does anyone here have extra salt? My wife and I would be willing to buy it off you.” He rubbed his neck sheepishly. “We ran out a few days ago.”

“I do,” said an old woman. “I’d be willing to part with it in exchange for new boots for myself and my daughter in law.”

The man nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll have them ready in a few days.” The relief was plain on his features, though it faded when he turned to Horst – a character I vaguely remembered from the books. “Do you think they’re coming at all this year?” As soon as the question was voiced, nearly everyone turned expectant eyes on the pair.

Horst rubbed his beard thoughtfully before replying, “They’re late, but that’s not necessarily reason to worry. They’ve been late before.”

“That’s true.” The others seemed somewhat reassured by this, but the general mood was still somber.

This lasted all of ten seconds before a dark haired man approached our circle with a wheelbarrow. “Say, would anyone like some more wine?” And just like that the dark mood vanished.

.

.

.

Once everyone had their chance to eat and drink, Horst, who seemed to be the closest thing Carvahall had to a leader, got up to lead everyone in a prayer for Marlow’s continued improvement.

It was interesting to watch, because it didn’t appear as though Carvahall had any sort of organized religion – let alone any sort of agreed upon beliefs. Some closed their eyes, some clasped hands, some murmured, some invoked names of deceased loved ones… But it appeared to me that religion in this valley was a very personal, uncertain sort of thing.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say the vast majority seemed to be agnostic. No one I knew back home had ever prefaced a prayer with, “If you do exist…” or, “To whichever gods may be listening…”

This prayer session lasted maybe twenty minutes before Horst once more cleared his throat to speak. He then announced that he and a few others would be willing to trade whatever they had in excess. That is, if the worst came to pass and the merchants didn’t arrive at all.

At this news, everyone cheered and clapped, clearly moved by the generous offer.

…Unnecessary, sure, but still generous.

I may not have read the books in years, but I did vaguely remember a scene where a merchant whacked Saphira’s egg to produce a ringing sound. Unless this was an alternate universe, the traders were coming.

Still, it wasn’t like anyone else knew that. It was a real concern for the people around me. While they seemed mostly self-sufficient, they needed to buy and trade for things like salt, fruit, and (in Gertrude’s case) medicinal plants native to the southern half of the continent.

I knew about the last one thanks to one of the healer’s brief visits to check in on me and collect fresh bandages. She had opinions about the difficulty growing them here in the north.

I was just contemplating whether Gertrude’s burn salve was actually made from aloe vera when a sudden shout nearly gave me a heart attack.

“Marcella! There you are!” Sirra appeared out of thin air to drag me away from the bonfire I’d been hovering beside. “My friends want to know about where you’re from.”

“Fuck.”

“What was that?”

"...Nothing."

Chapter 4

“Fuck.”

“What was that?”

"Nothing." Wide-eyed at my own idiocy, I shook my head and faked a cough. I’m way too drunk for this shit.

As a former bartender, I usually handled alcohol quite well. Unfortunately, I’d never had mead before, so I’d already gotten through two cups by the time I realized how strong it was. It was not the beer equivalent I’d imagined it to be – at least, not the way they made it in Carvahall.

Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it back to Gertrude’s on my own. My best bet was to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise I ran the risk of revealing a bit too much.

“Here she is!” Sirra stumbled and the two of us practically fell onto the chopped log serving as a makeshift bench. There were ten or so teenagers around us, all of them looking my way. “Go on Marcella – tell us about your home!”

God damn it, Sirra. "Well..."

.

.

.

 

“Yoo-ess? Yuis?” The crowd in front of me was no longer just teenagers. Quite a few adults had joined in as well. Now, they were all trying to say ‘U.S.’ with varying degrees of success.

In my defense, it wasn’t like any of the information I was sharing was going to be particularly meaningful to anyone here. At least, not beyond the novelty of hearing about a land outside of Alagaesia – far from Galbatorix’s control.

…On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?

“Does everyone from Yu’ess talk like you?”

My heart stopped in my chest. “Pardon?”

“You know,” said Sirra. “The weird way you pronounce things. It’s almost like you’re singing!”

Huh. Now that she mentioned it, the vowels in this language were a bit clipped. Add to that the strangely slow and incongruent way the words were connected and even a language like English would sound musical in comparison.

Now, how to respond…? It wasn’t like I could keep up this charade indefinitely. “Yes. Everyone is like me. We speak English.” I hesitated for a long moment before adding, “You know, this whole situation would be a lot less stressful if you all spoke English like Paolini led me to believe.”

A chorus of exclamations broke out at my revelation, with dozens of questions being thrown my way before I could even blink. Fortunately for me, no one seemed angry or suspicious – just surprised at the fact that I spoke another language.

I resigned myself to a long night.

.

.

.

"So how did you get here?"

Brom hovered at the back of the crowd, attention firmly on the girl even as he pretended to contemplate his drink.

She winced a little. "I don't know." Her response was clear and well-enunciated, with the vowels only slightly elongated. "The Spine is... strange." When no one made any move to respond a bit of panic showed on her face. "I-" She stopped and coughed awkwardly. "Eragon, he helped me. Carvahall is... kind."

This prompted a toast and attention shifted away from the girl, much to her obvious relief.

Nothing she'd said was wrong, or even badly mispronounced, but Brom got the sense that she was less comfortable with the language than she was letting on. Her speech was slow and deliberate - very much like someone afraid to make a mistake.

The villagers wouldn't recognize it, isolated as they were, but Brom had plenty of experience with foreign languages. He could tell that each individual word was chosen carefully, only spoken aloud when she was absolutely sure of the appropriate sentence structure.

It would have been more damning if the language she'd spoken natively weren't entirely unfamiliar.

In his extraordinarily long life Brom had traveled far and wide, witness to a wide variety of dialects and languages.

From desert tribes to island nations as insular as the one he'd originated from, Brom had come into contact with dozens of strange and not-so-strange tongues.

As such, he was particularly well versed in how they varied from region to region.

...And how they didn't.

Over the years, he'd found that most languages shared sounds and sometimes even words with the common tongue.

It was only with great distance that those similarities begin to wane.

If her strange language was any indication, this Marcella was very far from home.

.

.

.

I woke up the next morning to a snow storm and a pounding headache.

Gertrude had returned sometime in the night, apparently satisfied with Marlow's progress. We shared a red soup for breakfast before settling in to wait out the storm.

...It lasted three excruciating days.

On the fourth morning I was relieved to escape the confines of Gertrude's cramped hut. If it had lasted any longer I might have risked my chances with the snow rather than sit through another lesson.

On the bright side, I knew a great deal more about local plants and their properties. It also gave me an excuse to go out exploring in the name of topping up Gertrude's stores.

And so that's what I did for the next week. Though, it wasn't all I did.

"Marcella! Take a break and come play with us!" My outings provided the perfect opportunity to socialize with the local kids and practice their language without fear of judgement.

"Okay, okay." I ruffled Rufus' hair and set my basket aside.  "What are we playing today?"

A little girl growled in lieu of answering. 

"Ah, I see." I took a dramatic fall when she tackled me, making sure to 'die' noisily and with a great deal of flailing. Oh, and a few declarations such as, "She's just eaten my foot." And, "Not the right arm! It's my favorite!"

The kids were beside themselves. Clearly, adults didn't often make time for their silly games, making my contributions all the more exciting.

"Look!" I paused mid-death, turning with the others just in time to see a blob appear in the distance.

"It's the traders!" 

Finally. Though I knew it was coming, a part of me had worried about the village all the same. What if my very existence had altered things?

Luckily, that didn't seem to be the case.

"Sorry, Lena." I hoisted the little girl off and staggered to my feet. "I'd better get back to Gertrude. She'll want her plants before they arrive."

Lena and the others waved me off cheerfully enough, more than familiar with the concept of duty before fun. They really were marvelous little people.

I hurried back to Gertrude's, eager to finish any assigned tasks as quickly as possible.

With any luck, I would be free in time to intercept Eragon before he tried to sell Saphira's egg.

Chapter 5

The bracelet Marcella had given him was a small, delicate, and clearly worth more than Eragon and his uncle had imagined.

At least, it was if Merlock's reaction was any indication.

"This is an incredible piece." The trader was an effervescent man by nature, but the greedy glint in his eyes was genuine. He hadn't once looked away since Garrow had taken it out. "Where in the world did you get it?"

Eragon opened his mouth to explain, but shut it obediently when a bony hand came down on his shoulder. "From a girl Eragon found in the Spine, as thanks for saving her from certain death." The pride in Garrow's voice was unmistakeable.

"Well, she must be somebody important," said Merlock, peering through his magnifying glass thoughtfully. "Because this bracelet is probably worth more than all my current stock combined."

The hand on Eragon's shoulder tightened. "...Is that so?"

The nonchalance in Garrow's voice was obviously feigned, but Eragon couldn't blame him. Nor could he keep his mouth shut any longer. "What's so special about it?"

Merlock beckoned him closer.

"See these?" He pointed to the clear gems decorating the top half. "They're not just pretty stones, boy, they're diamonds." Eragon's jaw slackened. "And the band they've been set into?" He tapped it lightly with a gloved finger. "It's a higher concentration of gold than what I usually deal with. You can tell by the color."

Eragon swallowed thickly.

"On its own those factors would be enough to make it practically priceless," he went on. "But combined with the craftsmanship?" He shook his head in wonder. "I'm going to have to look outside my usual contacts to find a wealthy enough buyer.

"So you'll buy it?"

"Of course!" Merlock insisted. "We'll need to draw up a contract though, because I can't afford to buy it outright."

Eragon looked between the two men curiously. "A contract?"

The trader nodded. "Yes, I'll make a down payment to your uncle in return for possession of the bracelet. Once it's sold, I'll pay a previously agreed upon percentage of the sale to your uncle to settle the remaining debt."

"How much do you think you can get for it?" Garrow asked.

The grin on Merlock's face was contagious. "Enough to make us all filthy rich."

The disscusion that followed was heated.

By the time they'd both signed the carefully drawn up contract (who knew Garrow could read?), Eragon was more than ready to leave his uncle behind and find Marcella.

He'd made it maybe five steps from Garrow before the sound of somebody calling his name stopped him in his tracks. Startled, he turned just in time to catch sight of her dark eyes as she crashed into his side. "Finally! I've been looking for you."

Eragon blinked in surprise. "You can talk!" Then his brain caught up with his mouth. "Of course you can talk," he backtracked hastily. "What I mean to say is that I'm glad you're feeling better."

She smiled at his obvious discomfort, showcasing her eerily straight teeth. "Thank you, Eragon." Then her expression sobered. "We need to-"

"Is this her then?" Her mouth clicked shut at Garrow's gruff interruption.

"Yes, Uncle." Eragon stepped back to introduce them. "This is Marcella, daughter of..."

"Loretta," she provided helpfully.

It was yet another strange name, but Eragon took it in stride. At this point, he doubted anything could faze him.

"...daughter of Loretta," said Eragon. He gestured to his uncle. "Marcella, this is my uncle Garrow, son of Cadoc."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she said, drawing out the words in a strange manner.

Garrow narrowed his eyes even as he returned the formal pleasantry.

.

.

.

Damn it. I recognized the look on their faces. I'd clearly mispronounced the words despite my best efforts.

"Forgive me," I said, smiling sheepishly. "I've been told my speech is... strange. This language is very different from my mother tongue."

Eragon shared a look with his uncle. "Your mother tongue?"

I nodded. "It's called English." Everyone else in the village was already aware of my status as a foreigner, so keeping it to myself was pointless. If anything, the truth was a boon.

My status as a (wealthy) young woman stranded in a faraway land with no way to return home... Well, it made me out to be a very sympathetic figure.

"Ehn-glesh?"

Eh, close enough. I nodded. "It's the language of my people," I explained. "I come from a land far outside Alagaësia."

Eragon's eyes were practically shining with curiosity. "Outside Alagaësia? What's is like?"

I hesitated. It wasn't that I didn't have the words – without the added stress of an emergency situation or drunkenness, my retention of what I'd heard so far was preternatural. Truth was, I'd talked so much about my home to the other villagers that I was quite sick of it by this point.

More importantly, I had questions of my own. "There's so much to tell," I hedged.

Garrow clasped Eragon's shoulder. "I'll have to hear about it some other time," he said. "I have things to do before day's end." He pressed a few coins into his nephew's hand. "Feel free to enjoy yourself."

I tried not to look too pleased with the news as I bid him farewell. At least one thing was going my way, I needed a win after my failure to intercept them before they visited the trader.

While Eragon was busy gaping at the money in his palm, I took advantage of his distraction to pull him down a side street.

"Marcella?"

I shook my head. "Not yet." I led him well beyond the traders' tents before coming to a stop.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Glancing around suspiciously failed to turn up any eavesdroppers, so I asked my most pressing question: "How many know about the stone?" The trader was a risk I'd hoped to avoid, but not nearly so great a risk as Sloane. So long as he really hadn't told the butcher, there was a still a chance to avoid his uncle's death.

"Nobody!"

What.

"Nobody?" I repeated dumbly.

His brow furrowed. "Should I have?" He asked. "That night at Gertrude's, you made it seem like I should keep it a secret."

I stared blankly for a moment before realization dawned. I can't believe that worked!

I mean, that was what I'd been hoping for. But I hadn't actually expected him to listen. Hell, I hadn't even been sure that pressing a finger to one's lips meant the same thing in this world!

"No," I said finally, regathering my wits with great effort. "You did perfectly."

I was relieved, but also worried. This would change things. Hopefully for the better. Though I'd need to be more careful in the future, considering how drastically my actions had already effected things.

I fixed Eragon with my sternest look. "It is very important that you continue to keep it secret." I hadn't known the word for 'secret' until he'd so helpfully provided it, so the word was drawn out carefully. With any luck, it would only emphasize my point. "It's dangerous if anyone else finds out."

"Why? What is it?"

I sucked a breath through my teeth.

Should I? It's not like he wouldn't find out soon enough. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. "...It's an egg."

Hopefully, they used the same word for bird eggs and dragon eggs alike.

"An egg? What kind of egg?"

Good. It was the right word. Unfortunately, now I had a new problem. "I don't know the word for –dragon– in your language," I admitted.

We both frowned, at a loss.

"...Could you describe it?"

I shook my head. "I don't know those words either." The adjectives I needed weren't exactly common in everyday situations. At least, not in any of the situations I'd come across so far. I wracked my brain for an idea.

"Oh!" I caught my fist in my palm. "I can show you," I realized. "I need a stick."

Obligingly, Eragon ran off to fetch one. When he returned, we knelt down side by side in the dirt.

...and done!

"A dragon?!" he exclaimed. The meaning that popped into my head was more along the lines of giant-firebreathing-lizard, but I assumed that meant we were on the same page.

"Yes." I nodded. "It is the egg of a dragon."

He sat back on his heels, expression slack. "I didn't think they existed anymore..."

"They-" I cut myself off at the sound of approaching footsteps. We scrambled to our feet and I discretely stepped on my drawing, digging into the dirt with my boots to ruin it.

"Brom!"

Shit.

 

Chapter 6

Brom looked nothing like I'd expected. For one thing, he was older than I'd imagined him to be. For another, he was incredibly ill-kempt.

I knew the first was my own fault. A preconception based off of the fact that, however much I'd disliked the movie, its actor had merged with my mental image of the character. The second, however...

Does he not own a hairbrush?

"You must be the girl from the Spine," he said gruffly.

I nodded, wondering why his speech seemed off even as I focused on suppressing any suspicious reactions. "And you are?"

"I'm Brom, the–" the next word didn't translate. And not in the same way the I'd experienced previously, where I understood the gist if not the culturally appropriate nuances.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

He did, and it made no more sense to me the second time than it had the first. Hell, none of what he'd said so far had translated. The only reason I hadn't noticed right away was thanks to my familiarity with the other words.

This is bad. Why now?!

I laughed nervously and tried not to let my agitation show. "Ah, I'm afraid I don't know that word."

I wasn't sure how successful I was at sounding nonchalant. I'd picked up a lot of the local language so far, but suddenly losing my magical comprehension threw me for a fucking loop. Especially considering who I was talking to.

Seriously –why now?!

"A storyteller is someone who recounts histories and legends," said Eragon helpfully.

The magical comprehension was back. Thank god.

"I see. That is very interesting." 

Brom smiled. "Actually, I was hoping to learn more about your home." The comprehension was gone again. Damn it. "It's the-" the next word wasn't one I'd heard before, "-of a storyteller to continuously seek out new information."

"Ah, well..." I looked to Eragon for help.

"It's okay," he said, giving me what I assumed was his best attempt at a meaningful look. "Go with him, we can meet up later."

Damn it! What was with these children and their tendency to throw me under the bus?

"Alright." I tried not to let my agitation show as Eragon scampered off. "What is it you want to know?"

"First off, where is this Yu'ess located...?"

We talked, or well, I rambled and Brom occasionally asked questions, but eventually he said something I couldn't hope to understand through context alone.

He repeated himself, but no matter how hard I focused, my mind wouldn’t translate his words. In fact, halfway through repeating himself for the third time he cut himself off and I felt a piercing pain erupt in the center of my forehead.

“Ah!” I winced and stumbled back a step.

The man was speaking again, but his tone had shifted from distant and polite and straight into accusatory. I paid him no mind, too concerned with my sudden headache. Was this an aneurysm? Was I dying in the real world? Had this all been some sort of hallucination brought on by a medical emergency?

Suddenly, the pain was gone.

I looked around and found myself on my knees in front of Brom. He had a small blade out and pointed at my face. “Who are you?” I only recognized the hissed question because it was the same one Eragon had asked me in the clearing all those days ago.

“Marcella,” I whispered. “My name is Marcella. Please, I don’t understand – why are you doing this?” I’d reverted to English, despite knowing it would do no good. I just didn’t have the capabilities to beg for my life in any other language but my own.

He narrowed his eyes and I felt strangely as though he was looking right through me. Then the itching sensation started. It was like someone had reached into my skull and trailed eerie, feathery fingers all over my brain.

It stopped almost as soon as it had begun.

Through my tears, I watched as his eyes widened and the knife disappeared from my sight. I barely had time to slump in relief before he grabbed my wrist and barked a question.

“I don’t understand. No, wait, I know this one- I don’t understand.” My accent was shit, but I could tell he got the last bit.

“I know.”

I blinked in surprise. “I understood that!”

“And I understood that,” he said, pulling on my wrist so I would stand. “I’m sorry. I didn't realize you were trying to communicate.”

.

.

.

Brom hauled the girl to her feet, a little surprised when she made no move to flinch away or reject his touch. "I'm sorry," he repeated, still tentatively projecting his meaning like she had. "I thought you were launching a mental attack."

Of course, he still wasn't convinced that wasn't what she'd done, but she'd professed her lack of understanding in such a way that she shouldn't be able to lie. After all, despite the language barrier, she'd all but shoved her intentions at him. 'Either she's a dab hand at manipulating her own mind, or she truly doesn't see her actions as provocative.'

"A mental attack?"   There it was again. Both the strange language and the flashes of images and emotions. This time he'd caught a two-dimensional representation of a human head and then a man with a spear leaping out at another man. The only emotion accompanying the images was confusion.

"What else was I supposed to think?" he asked. "It isn't generally seen as polite to intrude upon a man's private thoughts."

"I didn't know that was what I was doing," she told him, projecting disbelief that matched her wide-eyed expression. The emotion faded to be replaced by something like dawning comprehension. "Though I suppose it makes sense. How else could I understand everyone...?" The question was more to herself than him, so it took more focus for him to ascertain her meaning. It seemed that only what she intended to communicate was projected beyond her natural barriers.

A shame, considering his lack of success delving deeper into her mind. At the very least, he knew she wasn't lying about speaking another language. No one could alter their own mind so thoroughly. She thought mostly in words and sounds that he couldn't translate. And outside of the symbols she intentionally sent him, the few images that he'd caught had been strangely alien. 

As to whether she was a threat or not... Well, he wasn't ruling anything out. Brom had dozens of spells on the tip of his tongue and one hand still gripping his concealed knife, ready to lash out at the first sign of ill-intention.