Reborn as a Dragon in Alagaësia

The midmorning sun cast long, dappled shadows over Carvahall as Brom guided his horse into the village. His cloak, worn and dusted from travel, swayed as he passed the familiar cottages and winding paths. Despite the quiet charm of the village, his heart was heavy with the task ahead. The dragon—majestic, solitary, and shrouded in mystery—dominated his thoughts.

His first stop was clear: Horst's forge. The blacksmith's towering frame soon appeared as Brom tied his horse to a post outside the workshop. The sound of ringing metal mixed with the tang of burning coal as Horst emerged, wiping his hands on a sooty rag.

"Brom!" Horst greeted warmly, his eyes lighting up. "You're back. It's been what, two, three months? How was the trip?"

Brom shook his hand, a faint smile softening his weathered features. "Enlightening, though tiring. And I owe you thanks for looking after my home while I was away."

Horst waved a hand dismissively. "No trouble at all. You've done more for this village than most ever know. Least I could do is keep the mice out of your cupboards."

"Well, I'm grateful," Brom said. "Though, if there's anything I can do in return…"

Horst gave him a knowing look. "Fix that roof of yours before winter comes. That's all I ask."

"I'll see to it," Brom chuckled. "How fares the village?"

"Quiet," Horst replied, glancing toward the square. "Everyone's busy preparing for winter. Eragon and Roran have been helping Garrow with the barn. Those boys are tireless."

Brom nodded, inwardly reassured by the mention of Eragon. But he had more pressing concerns. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, he made his way home. The small, modest cottage on the village's edge was just as he'd left it—except for the faint scent of fresh wood smoke, a sign Horst had indeed kept the place in order.

Inside, Brom unpacked, took a moment to rest, then set out again. His search for the dragon—his search for answers—had to begin.

In the Spine

Bahamut lounged near the entrance of his cave, his tail flicking absently as his amethyst eyes scanned the forest below. The dragon's mind churned with unease, for he felt it again: the presence of the storyteller. Brom had returned.

He sensed the man's probing mind, like a distant ripple disturbing still water. Though Bahamut had kept to the deeper reaches of the Spine, far from Carvahall's outskirts, he knew Brom was searching for him.

Why does he persist? Bahamut thought, his irritation tinged with curiosity. The man's determination was commendable—if somewhat intrusive.

Bahamut considered his options. He had remained hidden for over a year, avoiding contact and observing from afar. But if Brom was so intent on finding him, perhaps it was time to meet the man face-to-face. The thought brought a flicker of amusement. He would enjoy seeing how Brom handled a surprise encounter.

With a deep breath, Bahamut unfurled his massive wings. Sunlight caught his scales, casting shimmering reflections of deep purple across the clearing. With a powerful leap, he took to the skies, flying toward the forest where Brom's presence resonated like a beacon.

Brom's Search

Brom stood in a small clearing by a stream, his staff resting against a nearby tree. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the forest. His search had been long and fruitless. Though he scoured the forest floor for tracks and signs of movement, the dragon was elusive, leaving no trace.

Kneeling by the stream, Brom cupped his hands and drank the cool water. He sighed, frustration creeping into his thoughts. Perhaps I was wrong to assume he's still in the Spine. A creature as intelligent as this dragon wouldn't linger in one place for so long.

Suddenly, a shadow passed over him. A gust of wind stirred the trees, and the sound of powerful wingbeats filled the air. Brom froze, his heart pounding as he looked up. The ground trembled beneath him as a massive dragon landed in the clearing.

The dragon was even more magnificent than Brom remembered. His scales shimmered like polished amethyst, and his piercing eyes seemed to glow with intelligence. The creature regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and authority, his massive wings folding neatly against his back.

Before Brom could find his voice, a deep, resonant voice filled his mind. "Eka fricai," the dragon said in the Ancient Language. "I am a friend."

The words carried a weight and truth that pierced through Brom's wariness, soothing the tension in his chest. He relaxed slightly, his grip on his staff loosening.

The dragon tilted his head, his piercing gaze never leaving Brom. "Why are you looking for me, storyteller?" he asked, his mental voice rich and commanding.

Brom opened his mouth, but no words came. He was so startled by the dragon's sudden appearance that he took a step back—and promptly slipped into the stream. The icy water soaked his cloak and boots, and he splashed gracelessly as he scrambled to his feet.

A deep, rumbling laugh echoed in Brom's mind. Bahamut's eyes gleamed with amusement, and his mouth curled in a toothy grin. "You're clumsier than I expected, Brom."

The dragon's laughter was infectious, despite Brom's mortification. Pulling himself from the stream, Brom wrung out his cloak with as much dignity as he could muster. "I didn't expect you to drop out of the sky," he said dryly. "You could have warned me."

"And miss such an entertaining moment? I think not," the dragon replied, his mental tone still laced with amusement.

Brom shook his head, stepping onto dry ground. "Since you're here, perhaps we can finally talk. What should I call you?"

The dragon's amusement faded, replaced by a quiet intensity. "Names are powerful things, storyteller," he said, his tone measured. "Why do you wish to know mine?"

Brom met his gaze steadily. "Because I want to understand you. Because if we're to have any sort of... trust between us, I need to know who you are."

For a moment, the dragon said nothing. Then, with a note of pride in his voice, he spoke. "I am Bahamut."

The name resonated in Brom's mind, rich with meaning and weight. "Bahamut," he repeated aloud, tasting the syllables. "A powerful name. Who gave it to you?"

The dragon's eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. "I named myself."

Brom raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You named yourself?"

"Yes," Bahamut said, his tone firm. "A dragon's name is their own to choose. It is a reflection of their being, their essence. No one else has the right to name me."

Brom nodded slowly. "It suits you. Bahamut… a name of strength and wisdom."

The dragon tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "You flatter me, Brom. But flattery alone will not answer my question. Why are you searching for me?"

Brom took a deep breath. "I want to help you. You're alone, Bahamut, without a Rider. I've seen the toll that solitude takes on dragons. You shouldn't have to endure it."

Bahamut's wings shifted slightly, his tail curling around his feet. "You assume much, storyteller."

"Perhaps," Brom admitted. "But I've felt your presence near Carvahall. You've been watching over Eragon, haven't you?"

The dragon's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "You speak of things you do not understand."

"Then help me understand," Brom urged. "You don't have to face the world alone. There are others who would welcome you, others who would stand by your side. Ellesméra—"

"Enough," Bahamut interrupted, his voice resonating through Brom's mind. He stared at the man for a long moment, then spoke again, more softly. "I will consider your words, but I make no promises. For now, our conversation ends here."

With a powerful leap, Bahamut launched himself into the sky, his wings beating strongly as he disappeared into the horizon. Brom watched him go, a mix of hope and uncertainty filling his chest.

The encounter had been brief, but it was a step forward. Perhaps, in time, Bahamut would choose to trust him. For now, Brom could only wait—and hope.