INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

A BOY AND HIS VILLAGE

Eragon wiped a sweaty forehead with his arm as the sun beat down on his bare back. To his annoyed humor, he found that his arm was also wet with sweat, causing him to smear shaggy dark brown hair across his brow, bangs sticking to his skin.

He sighed, laughing to himself, as he resumed full grip of the sickle he was carrying, and continued cutting the wheat that grew on his uncle's small farm.

Carvahall. It was a simple town, meager yet earnest. It was filled with hard working people who didn't care for politics or war, but cared only that they were protected from the cold of winter and the sharp blade of bandits.

The population was small.

Barely  five hundred people called this patch of Alagaesia home, but the fields were hearty and the climate, for the most part, was mild. From Eragon's position ontop of his uncle's hilly field, he could see almost the entire town- the beer hall, the merchant tents, and various wooden homes littered the small clearing. He could see tiny armed patrols circling the settlement, the red flag of Galbatorix so bright it could be seen miles away.

Eragon smiled slightly. The flag always reminded him that he was safe and secure. And ever since Roran joined the Imperial Army, it reminded him of his brother. Eragon and Roran were both very close, Roran being just one year older than Eragon. They both lived with their uncle, Garrow, who was a widower but none the less a happy and hardworking man.

For the past seventeen years they lived, just the three of them, away from the troubles of the realm. Eragon whistled happily and put his sickle in the loop of his loose deer-hide pants. He gathered up the rest of the wheat in his sculpted arms, struggling as he carried the load over to an already full wheel barrow, and then pushed the field's bounty to the relatively large home behind him. Garrow was one of the most well off people in Carvahall, with fertile ground he was able to cultivate enough food to be able to eat healthily and sell.

But he was not a proud man- He thanked the one God for what he earned, and taught Eragon and Roran that everything could be lost in one moment, telling them that to be too proud of one's achievements was an act of folly.

Eragon flexed as he pushed the wheel barrow forward, climbing over grassy field and rock. A number of times the wheel barrow got stuck, forcing Eragon to stop his labor completely and move whatever was blocking it out of the way. Despite this, he was happy to work- it allowed his mind to think freely out in the open air.

The best part of it was that he had done his chores early- he had the rest of the day to himself. He could almost imagine the firmness of the bowstring between his fingers, the thrill and rush when he releases the arrow-

He smiled to himself as the joy of hunting urged him forward, the shed where they kept all of their supplies only a few feet away from him. With a grunt of effort, he trudged onward, sliding the wheel barrow into the shed and dropping the handles quickly, his muscles pulsating from strain. He left the wheel barrow within, for it was Roran's duty to put it all of the wheat away in the storehouse. With a content grin written over his face Eragon raced to his front door, where his hunting tools were located. Bow in hand and quiver over his shoulders, Eragon ran into the dark forest behind his home, not realizing that his life was about to change forever.

  He crossed large fields that wavered contentedly in the midday breeze. Imperial soldiers patrolled the far perimeter of Garrow's lands, greeting Eragon happily as he jogged past. The forest lay ahead, darkened and mysterious. Thick trees bustling with leaves and a chorus of birds met him, and the boy slowly drew his bow. Roran had told Eragon that a few hunters spoke of deer that had taken a liking to the secluded eastern marches of the wood, and that's where Eragon headed.