INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

THE HATCHLING

A high midday sun stealthily broke through the shield of leaves that covered Eragon as he huddled over his bounty. It was exactly where he had left it, covered by the unintentional care of the forest, unmolested.

His heart beat rose as he watched the egg, large, about the size of a grinding stone, with a bright blue coloring. He had no doubt that it was in-fact an egg- but there was something different about this one. It wasn't hard in the way a chicken egg would be, but softer, giving way to his delicate touch. However, the leathery membrane itself was strong, despite it being mailable to touch. It was cool, and the feeling of it caused him to feel shivers that ran from his arms right to the base of his neck.

What should I do with it? He asked himself as he was mesmerized by the beauty of the egg. Could he take it back home? What would Garrow and Roran think of it? The thought of Roran suddenly brought to the front of his mind the desperate searching of Galbatorix's soldiers. Eragon looked at the egg again, grasping it with both hands and lifting it from the dirt of the earth.

He wondered what the Empire wanted with the egg- Was it some old heirloom, passed down generation to generation? Or was it some magical item- granting the owner power beyond his wildest dreams. The thought caused a smile to catch on Eragon's face. Magic was a subject never spoken of in Carvahall. The townspeople believed in only one thing- Death and the harvest. Eragon remembered when an entertainer had rode his way to isolated Carvahall- claiming to perform tricks of magic lost to age and war thousands of years ago.

The residents, interested but critical, watched his performances, Eragon and Roran chuckling as the townsmen Hale and Garrow among them, took turns catching the magic man using sleight of hand, trick mirrors, and smoke. The man was so infuriated he stormed off of the stage and rode from the town in a huff, leaving most of his supplies party to the children.

Eragon sighed, shifting his position from squatting to sitting, his legs resting on the soft ground of the forest floor. He placed his egg in his lap, resting both hands on either side of it. A beam of sunlight broke through from the forest's shield, landing on the crown of the egg. Eragon watched the light as it warmed his precious cargo until the egg grew hotter, the thin membrane growing hard and brittle as it lost its elasticity. Eragon jumped to awareness, attempting to remove his hands from the egg. He stood, but his hands would not relinquish the object, his palms stuck to the sides of it as they burned. He whimpered weakly as the heat intensified, reaching a glowing climax until his right hand felt as if it was engulfed in fire- Eragon screamed then, but at that moment, the egg dropped.

And melted.

Eragon fell to the face of the forest, his face blasted by a mist of pale gas that was freed when the egg evaporated. His right hand still burned, and as his fingers searched through the smoke, he noticed that the palm of his right hand glowed.

It was then he felt it.

A small, soft creature touched upon the front of his fingertips, and as the smoke cleared, Eragon's eyes fell on the tiny being.

Limp wings, similar to a bat's, folded down the sides of the creature's back. A long tail whipped behind it, and four legs strained themselves against Eragon's skin as they tried to support the reptilian body they served. A miniature head lifted and two eyes, naive yet intellectual, met Eragon's. Eragon felt rather than heard the creature speak to him. It said only one word, and the voice he felt inside his mind was young, similar to a toddler's, but somehow foreign, familiar yet not human. The word it said was Eragon. And as he cradled the small animal in the folds of his tunic, it kept repeating his name.

Eragon. Eragon. Eragon.

He walked back to his home, alert to anyone who could be coming past. His mind was blank, nearly disbelieving, as if he was awake during a dream.

In his arms, Eragon held a newly hatched dragon.