Roran rose just shy of dawn, feeling groggy and somehow even more exhausted than when he had gone to bed the night before.
Blessedly, his headache was light, having not drunk enough for more than a slight buzz the night before. He hadn't touched his mug after that Reaper fellow used his party tricks to catch it with a polished boot.
He rolled out of the tavern's bed with a groan, wincing at the fiery sting from his fingers as he flexed them testingly.
The cream from the night before had brought the pain down to a low, deep-set burning sensation, but any movement of his stiff fingers felt like dunking his hands in scorching water. Even the air moving by his hands as he swung them lightly sent pricks of pain up his arm. As he'd speculated the night before, he saw the beginnings of several blisters forming on his reddened palms.
He struggled blearily with his boots in the dark room, grimacing as he forced his feet into the worn, too-small footwear. He would have to trade for a new pair soon, though with what he had no idea. Most of his material possessions, besides those brought with him when traveling to Therinsford, had burned to char alongside his house.
Thinking of his past home brought forth a flood of bad memories, including the letter his cousin had left him, listing ridiculous excuses for him running away. The bastard hadn't even bothered to attend Garrow's funeral.
'When I see you again, Eragon... I swear to the gods you will pay for what you've put me through.'
He shook his head bitterly to clear his thoughts, finally rising from his kneel and stomping his foot lightly to force the rest of it into the boot. After some thought, he gently slung Reaper's bow over his shoulder and pocketed the cream in his trousers.
He awkwardly twisted the knob open with his wrists, cringing at the loud scraping sound as it scratched along the floor in the half-moon arc that was engraved into the wood..
After bearing the pain and swiftly grabbing the knob as lightly as he could to close it, struggling with the key to lock it, he crept down the hall, trying to make as little noise as possible next to the doors on either side of him that were the other residents.
Morn's Tavern was always somewhat full; it was the only place for outsiders to stay in Carvahall unless you had relatives willing to lend a room, and was also the only bar in town, so dozens of people swung around regularly at least every day.
Those that roomed here were generally familiar and recurring customers; farmers here to trade goods with the farmers of Carvahall, village men sleeping away from angry wives, and drunkards that otherwise would've passed out in an alleyway.
Now, not a single room on the lower floor was empty, each one he passed full of people who'd been eager to escape the storm, which had died down completely sometime in the night or early morning.
Loud and obnoxious snoring leaked from the thin walls and too-wide cracks under the doors, and many sounded like they had doubled up or even piled in with each other for the night, to split the cost of rooming. That or they had wandered in at some point and fallen asleep atop each other.
Roran was thankful for his foresight in locking his own door; he wouldn't have been happy with some ale-stinking fool trying to share his bed while he slept.
As he left the narrow lodging hall and entered the bar, he was met with a very drunk Morn and a very irritated Tara.
Morn was grumbling into his bartop, sitting on the stool Roran had used the night before, thumping his head rhythmically on his folded arms in what was probably an attempt to stave away a pounding headache.
Tara's lined face was displeased, and she rubbed his back a little aggressively as she soothed him, hand circling with practiced motion
Her expression softened somewhat when she saw Roran, and she waved him over.
Roran looked from her to Morn carefully, raising an eyebrow, but walked over, eyeing the state of the bar.
The tavern was messy, the wooden floor and tables covered in crumbs of bread, half eaten lumps of cheese, empty bowls of soup, and at least a dozen mugs of ale at varying degrees of fullness.
Roran felt slightly guilty as he walked past it all, approaching Tara on the other side of the bar. He'd normally offer to help, but he couldn't hold a broom or handle a rag in this state. She looked him up and down, eyeing the bags under his tired grey eyes.
"Didn't sleep well?"
She asked, continuing to rub her husbands back.
Roran shrugged.
"Not really."
She nodded knowingly, flicking a bread crumb off of the bartop with her unoccupied fingers.
"I wouldn't either. Sounded like a lumberjacking festival after you went to your room, what with all the snoring. We haven't been this full in ages; Everyone wanted out of that storm. I don't know whether to call it a blessing or a curse."
Roran's gaze wandered once more around the dirty bar, which Tara noticed. She pointed a finger at him almost accusatorily.
"Don't even think about it. I know you would help out if you were able, whether you owed me and my husband or not. I'll threaten the drunks into helping me clean, don't you worry. It's their own mess anyway."
Roran's shoulders loosened in relief. At least she wouldn't be doing it by herself.
"...Alright. Here you go."
He handed her the small can of cream and the room key, which she received with an outstretched palm.
"Thank you dear. I hope they helped. Oh, that's right,"
She paused rubbing her husbands back, causing a moan of discomfort that she ignored, leaning down under the bar to pull out Roran's coat.
"I set this out next to the fire last night, so it should be nice and dry. I'll trade you."
She handed Roran the coat, who fumbled awkwardly with it with dead hands for several moments before finally managing to slip his arms through it, tossing it over his shoulders.
"Nice and warm."
He noted. He looked up at Tara and offered her a genuine grin.
"Thank you."
Tara nodded, smiling back at him, eyes crinkling in the corners.
"You head on out now. Gertrude'll be up soon, if she isn't already. Go get those hands of yours checked out."
Suddenly, Morn groaned loudly, and he turned his head, looking up at his wife blearily.
Roran ducked down behind the bar and began inching towards the door.
"Who are ya' talking to, honey?"
His words were slurred and drunken, and he winced and clutched his head with his good hand as she responded.
Suddenly, Tara's voice was stern and dictating.
"No one. You're drunk, you old fool. Where exactly did you go last night? Did you know how worried I was? You left me to handle all the orders here, you know. You better have a good excuse besides 'clearing your head', you old codger..."
She winked at Roran as he opened the door, still berating her husband even as he slipped out into the early morning sunrise.
The air was clean and crisp, full of that beloved smell of freshly fallen rain. To Roran, it smelled of good luck and promising harvests. He closed his eyes, raking in a deep breath of the delicious morning air.
The sky shifted from deep purple to soft lavender with a hint of orange as he quickly made his way through the village, easily spotting Horst's house towering above the surrounding structures.
The building was large and stout, of fine make, with a tall roof that fell steeply on either side, made to ward off snow buildup during the winter. It had a beautiful carved door with intricate designs, and several carved stone beasts with snarling faces sat atop the eaves at regular intervals. Two iron-caged lanterns hung on either side of the door, dim but still glowing with soft light. Horst was one of the few in the village well off enough to afford oil lamps all the way through the night.
Attached to the right of the house was Horst's smithy.
Horst had built the house as a gift for his soon-to-be wife, Elaine, who was probably the kindest woman Roran knew.
Besides Katrina, of course.
Roran pushed open the unlocked door cautiously, and was met with a wave of delectable smells. He relaxed slightly. Elaine must be making breakfast. Meat pies, from the savory aroma that wafted through the open door.
As he stepped in, careful to shake off any mud from his boots before crossing the threshold, he spotted Elaine in the kitchen. She was, indeed, baking a dozen small pies, cycling them through the stout oven that also served as the home's hearth. The house was warm and comfortable, with an atmosphere that made Roran relax instinctively. Elaine was humming a sweet, catchy tune, one he recognized from a children's story from when he was very young. She looked over at the sound of the door closing and saw him, hovering only slightly awkwardly in the doorway. Her kind, maternal eyes brightened and she smiled, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron.
"Roran!"
She exclaimed warmly as she hurried over, pulling him into a motherly embrace. She released him but then grabbed him by the shoulders gently.
"Dear, you made us worried! We were concerned you got caught up in that awful storm."
He smiled back at her, only a little forced. It was hard to be moody around Elaine.
"Sorry, I must have lost track of time. By the time I was on the last of Loring's deliveries, the storm had already set in pretty bad. I settled down in Morn's Tavern for the night, which was coincidentally my last delivery anyways."
Elaine's delicate brows furrowed in concern.
"I hope you didn't have to sleep at one of those tables for the night. That wouldn't be good on your back, dear."
Roran shook his head, thick brown hair jostling a little too much for his liking. He'd have to ask Katrina to cut it for him, later.
"Tara was kind enough to sneak a room for me, despite the rest of them being crowded."
Elaine beamed.
"Oh, good! She really is such a kind woman. I've always looked up to her."
Roran nodded.
"Oh, did you see Albriech and Baldor? They said they were going to the bar to celebrate their earnings, but the storm kept them past dinner, too. Are they well?"
Despite her casual tone, Roran didn't miss the hint of tenseness. He gave her a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry. They'll have some foul hangovers, but they enjoyed themselves a good deal to pay for it. They watched out for each other well enough."
Elaine smiled, looking slightly relieved.
"I'm glad."
Suddenly, Roran winced as his right hand brushed against his trouser. Elaine's eyes dropped to his hands, and then widened. Roran hurriedly hid his hands behind his back, but she had already seen everything. He interrupted her before she could say anything.
"Don't worry about it. I'm heading over to Gertrude's now; I just wanted to drop by and say hello, let you know where I am. They'll be right as rain once she takes a look at them."
Elaine swallowed her worries with visible effort.
"...Okay, Roran. You go do that. Say hello to her for me, okay?"
Her voice was a little strained. Roran nodded, pretending not to notice.
"I'll be here for lunch, if that's alright."
Elaine nodded a bit too quickly.
"Alright then. Stay out of trouble."
She said weakly.
"Say hi to Horst for me."
Roran called behind his back as he left. He waved as he stepped back into the cool morning air, closing Elaine's beautiful door with a click.
His face darkened immediately, and he sighed tiredly. He would have slapped himself if his hands wouldn't have made the experience dozens of times worse.
"I shouldn't have let her see them."
He muttered grimly, shaking his head. The last thing he wanted was for Elaine to be overly concerned for his sake.
He set off for his next destination at a brisk pace.
Gertrude's home was small, even in comparison to the already modest homes most villagers lived in, and especially so when you came from Horst's house. The yellow sun began to peek above the mountains when he reached it, knocking as softly as he could with his stiff fingers.
"Come in."
The voice was endlessly familiar. From scraped knees gone bad as a child to accidents with farm tools as a young lad, from wintertime colds to summer fevers, it was Gertrude he had gone to see, who Garrow had taken him to. Everyone went to Gertrude if they needed healing.
He opened the door with respect.
"Garrowson. What can I do for you?"
She was sitting in an ancient rocking chair, crocheting a multi-colored scarf of some sort with an eternity of practiced movements. Her voice was calm, years of service having introduced a practiced ease into her words that could make her sound in control in any situation. Roran had never heard her talk without it.
"Could you make me a salve for my hands?"
Gertrude looked at his outstretched palms from across the room.
Her mouth grew flat as she saw them, and she sighed as she set aside her needles on a nearby table.
"Sit down."
Roran left Gertrude's house with hands wrapped in bandages to a seemingly excessive degree, with strict orders not to use them for anything for at least the next few days if he wanted them to heal.
If he did that and was lucky, there wouldn't even be any lasting marks from the incident.
He had been forced to tell her how exactly he had gotten his hands in such a state in the first place, which caused her to also order him off work in general. When asking how he was supposed to eat, she simply said to, "have someone feed you."
Roran decided he wasn't looking forward to lunch after all.