Hello and welcome all to my seventh story, "I'll Stand By You"! Before we start yet another writing adventure, let me give you a few references so you won't be confused: sections that are italicized are flashbacks and dreams and bold parts are characters talking with their minds. The title of this fanfic was inspired by the song "I'll Stand By You" by The Pretenders. Sadly, I don't know what my updating schedule will be after next month when I start college, but, anyway, I hope you enjoy!

A Simple Life

A six-year-old girl with shoulder-length dark hair ran through the great halls of her father's gigantic home with tears streaming down her face. This small child in a fine dress and soft shoes wasn't normally the type to cry, since emotion was a bad thing…at least, that's what she gathered from her father's ranting whenever she did actually shed a tear in his presence. Her hard-hearted sire had made sure to drill that into her. She was too young to understand why he didn't want her to cry or laugh or sing or play (at least when he was looking); she just knew not to do when he was around.

Her mother, on the other hand, defied her father in that regard. She encouraged the little one to run in the garden and sneak out with the other children in the town to race and play games in the street. She frequently had to coax her daughter to stop bottling up her feelings around her. It almost came naturally now – hiding what she felt. It scared her to death, and her mother saw it. She hated watching her child suffer even a little and she hated not being able to do anything about it even more. Her husband was a powerful man, even compared to her.

Wordlessly, the girl burst into the large bedroom without knocking. Within was a tall, beautiful woman with angled but soft features, full black hair down her waist, and shining green eyes. There were rumors that she had royal blood running through her veins, for she had the poise, the loveliness, and the grace of a queen. This lady suddenly looked from painting a portrait of the sunset on her balcony to catch the sobbing child in her arms, giving the comforting touch only capable of a mother.

"What's wrong, darling? Please tell me."

The girl continued to cry, though with somewhat less violence. How could she say that her greedy father had just discovered something that would separate her from the other children forever, both figuratively and literally? Now that it had started, no one would understand her. The children would be too frightened to risk playing with their friend and her father would be stricter than ever in allowing her outside.

Hesitantly, scared of herself even, she lifted her hand, stuttering,

"Ri... Rïsa."

Slowly, the paintbrush sitting on a bench nearby began a wobbly ascent until it was at eye level with the queenly woman.

After staring at the occurrence with speechless shock, whether from the magic itself or the timing of it, she gently took the brush out of the air and kissed her daughter's forehead. A strange fire seemed to appear in her eyes.

"I'll protect you."

The fifteen-year-old walking contentedly by himself was quite an eye catcher. He was about average height with intense dark brown eyes and somewhat unruly brown hair. Eragon, the son of Selena and an unknown father, the nephew of Garrow the farmer, and a farmer himself, stepped onto the road in and out of Carvahall, the nearest town, from the path that led to his home, where he lived with his uncle and cousin Roran. Instead of following the road to the village, the boy walked only a quarter of a mile down the drive before following another path on the other side.

The property he had just entered was perhaps one square mile in size and was the second farthest of the outlying homes from Carvahall. Almost clear at the other end of the place was a small, three room cabin with an adjacent stable that slept a gorgeous white mare. It happened to belong to a woman name Tricia Ramonasdaughter, who had lived there by herself since she had arrived as a mysterious refugee from unknown parts nearly two years previously.

Knowing that the lady wouldn't be at the house, but rather a short walk over a small hill where her mansion-sized chicken house stood, Eragon made the little trip to where Tricia's hens and roosters were foraging in the sparse treeline. He ended up staying in the shadow of the henhouse, however, when, instead of holding one of her birds or throwing dried corn or singing to them as she patched a dress, the owner was facing off with a shepherd who lived several miles closer to Carvahall. Even Eragon wondered what the man was doing there until a distinct 'baaing' emerged from the patch of trees, followed by the appearance of several woolly sheep

"This is my property! Your sheep eat what they like and trample what's left. My chickens are shriveling before my eyes and I can't afford to sustain them with grain. Get off my land! Or do I have to take this up with Horst? Or, better yet, Gertrude? I bet she could concoct a tea that would have you pursing your lips for a month straight. Do you really want to raise the whole town over this? We both know who would win, Silas."

Grumbling profanities, the disagreeable sheepherder slowly retreated, coaxing his animals along with the occasional tap of his staff. The landowner didn't relax until the trespasser was long out of sight; soon, she was back to stroking the neck of her favorite chicken and only non-production bird, a tiny bantam hen with tan, gray, and white speckles.

The rest of the thirty birds, while all considered pets and companions, were primarily for eggs to sell in town. It was a modest income at best, but between that, her self-supporting garden, and the mysterious money she had arrived with in the first place, she was able to live in minimal but sufficient comfort. While stories were scattered around about her origins, she was on good terms with most townsfolk and was good friends with the blacksmith Horst and his family, the healer Gertrude, and Eragon's own family.

Finally comfortable enough, the young man casually walked away from hiding and approached the woman. As usual, without even looking, she sensed his presence and spoke with a slightly gravelly voice even as she turned.

"Hello, Eragon."

Tricia was no spring chicken. Rather, she was a woman well over forty with mid-back-length wavy black hair, bright green eyes, sharp features, a thin waist, and a fair share creases on her face; but, just as with many older women, there was a certain wisdom and kindness about her that attracted Eragon to befriend the strange settler. She had a well-full of knowledge about plants, healing, animals, and farm work…but that was only the surface. Occasionally, the boy would catch her slipping words about missing noblewomen, wars, and great epic romances, but he never got past that. In some ways, she was just as bad as Brom, the town storyteller.

"What did Silas want?" the young man queried, pretending to not have heard Tricia's final rant.

"That idiot. I spent months trying to tell him that, if he didn't section his property with fences and rotate his stock's grazing, he wouldn't have any grass left besides the hay he stocked up for winter. Now, he thinks that he can just move those filthy animals wherever he wants. Fool." As always, when she didn't get enough sleep, she could rant till the sun was down and gone. Her sparkling eyes finally focused on Eragon with a certain restlessness in them. She was certainly a strange one. Setting Pearl the hen down on the ground to recommence its scrounging, Tricia straightened her simple soft yellow dress and thick black shawl. "My apologies. How can I help you, my lad?"

The boy smiled and shook his head.

"I'm going hunting in Spine sometime within the next week or so, depending on how the crops are doing. If I by chance caught something extra…"

"Eragon," Tricia interrupted, as she always did when he offered to do some hunting for her, "in these hard times, nothing is extra, only necessary. You know very well that I can take care of myself without some upstart farm boy starting a charity drive for me." Proud as ever. Strangely, it was true. When Tricia first arrived in Carvahall, he had seen her slipping into the Spine, only to come out less than a day later dragging a prize-worthy buck, dress and all. "But, I appreciate the thought, Eragon. You have a kind heart that will take you far. Now, I suppose you're going to see that ol' Brom's storytelling again, are you?"

"Yes, actually. But I also needed to pick up a few things for my hunting trip."

"Would you mind escorting an old hag? I need to acquire a few supplies myself. And I need to tell Gertrude that her supposedly infallible tea is not helping me sleep a wink."

"Certainly; however, you're not an old hag, Tricia. Maybe you should visit Brom as well."

She scoffed.

"The day I start socializing with that hermit is the day I flirt with an Urgal."

Eragon simply shook his head before agreeing to wait for Tricia to fetch her sack, staff, and other necessities for the trip. The fact was: she and Brom, other than both being practically hermits, were more similar than two of those big dumb red chickens she owned. He never quite understood why she refused to interact much with the old man and, probably, neither did she.

"Brom, please tell your story about the lost princess," a wide-eyed boy of twelve begged as a group of the villagers sat around the town center on benches and leaned against buildings in the firelight as men smoked their pipes, women darned socks, and children sat on a giant grass mat provided by one of the town matrons, all bundled up for another bone-chilling tale.

As the old, hawk-nosed man was collecting his thoughts, settling himself in a half-sitting position against the town well, his gaze caught sight of two newcomers to the gathering: Gertrude the town healer and Tricia the local egg-seller coming from a probably in-depth conversation about herbs and their healing properties, or perhaps simply chatting about the idiocy of men in general. Needless to say, the two women slunk onto the scene to stand on Brom's left against an empty piece of wall for a final story.

Still staring at the strange mistress of chickens, the former Dragon Rider's voice finally broke through the quiet chattering.

"The tale of the lost princess is an incredibly conflicted one. In fact, the story only gained its title with 'princess' because no one really knew who the poor damsel was; but, regardless, it is worth repeated telling. The first time I heard of it was from a trader from Teirm.

"Years ago – whether it be fifteen or fifty, I don't know – a lovely girl was born to an elegant lady of unknown origins and a cruel man with an iron fist. The child spent her first years under the strict ruling of her father and the quiet love of her mother, and, soon, she developed the ability to control magic. But then her mother mysteriously died and she was left at the mercy of the man of the household, knowing only the education of a lady and a warrior and the affectionate touch of punishment when she did not do well enough. Despite her hardship and her unique gifts as a magic-user, this lady quickly became an inspiration to all who knew her and hated her father.

"Unfortunately, though her mother was gone, the father lived on, driving her to the brink of self-destruction until she finally ran away from home and disappeared from the eyes and ears of all the world. Now, the townspeople continue to wait for her return, hoping that she will come with fiery wrath on her heels and magic on her side to kill her father and free them from tyranny."

While the adults had continued their respective smoking and darning, having heard this story a few times before, the young ones were captivated and, as always, disappointed by the short tale and the sudden ending. It was like having the most delicious piece of candy or the brightest of trinkets shown to you before having it snatched away before you could tell the flavor or details. They wanted to know where the sad maiden was and if she would ever suddenly appear somewhere to shower her anger upon the unknown dad.

"But, Brom, who was she? Was she just a nobleman's daughter or even the daughter of Galbatorix?" Several adults sucked air in at that. The assumption was their fault, of course. They sometimes remembered the fairytale when their offspring refused to go to bed and threatened that the raging father of the 'princess' would fall upon them within the hour to snatch them away in an insane fever of searching for his runaway child if they weren't hidden in bed. "Where will she come back?"

Suddenly troubled with his own curiosity and other things he would not mention even to himself, the bard sighed.

"As I said, it is but a legend – a tale that may or may not be true. But I doubt that you have to worry about her coming back too soon…as long as you obey your parents when they tell you to go to bed."

A few matrons chuckled at that and Tricia, knowing that the story was over, walked by the standing Eragon, whacked him over the head as a signal to move out, and began to meander away; however, both departing people were halted by an extra query from a small girl of about seven.

"Sir…isn't there more?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you say that she had a tragic life and is out for revenge against her evil father and everything…but isn't there more to it? What was she really like when she wasn't fuming about that over-controlling troll? Did she have an epic romance or grand getaway like some of the other people in your stories? Isn't there more to it?"

During the spare moment of silence, Brom stared at Eragon and Ramonasdaughter, a distinct haunting in the back of his mind.

"There is always more."

Brooding over the questions of the previous night, Brom the storyteller, as he had been known for over a decade, slowly hiked along the path towards the chicken farmer's cabin. Normally, he didn't involve himself with the peculiar dark lady (though he wasn't one to talk, as he was considered rather odd himself), but last night's telling had seemed to spark something recognizable in Tricia's eyes – just a slight flicker of the same haunted look that Brom knew he frequently sported. It was high time he found out why he wasn't the only one seeking refuge in the small northern village.

The bard was what someone would normally expect in a teller of tales: he was old, had shaggy silver hair, he was shifty, mysterious, and somewhat wiry, though he had been through more than any common yapper ever could. And he was experienced in life; he knew when something was…off.

Of course, Brom knocked on the old wooden door that belonged to the little stone house, but, when there was no answer, he admitted himself, never being one for great ceremony. The room he had entered was fairly small, but comfortable and spacious enough to fit several home-making items. These included a little two-chaired table, a large crackling hearth with a boiling kettle and pot, a pile of soft furs that served as a couch near the fireplace, and a shelf on the far side of the room next to the hearth with several ancient books, weapons, carvings, stones, and other random articles – all within a not-too-cramped distance from each other. Also, to his left, was a small door in the floor probably leading to a small cellar.

There were additionally two adjacent rooms. On the far left side corner of the main area was an apparent washroom with a tub, water pump, rack for a few dishes, washboard, laundry line, and various scented oils and soaps in a basket.

The other attachment on the other end of the house was a bedroom of sorts, though the bare rawhide cot was obviously rarely used in comparison to the fireside couch. Hanging from a makeshift rack on one side of the room was an array of drying plants and herbs – things you would expect in the home of a witch – but a witch's house had a different…feel. These findings were apparently for medical and culinary usage. There was also a bowl on a short stool in the middle of the room beside the cot, filled with water, and, on top of the cot, a leather bag probably from the travel the night previously.

Opposite from the plants was an open closet of sorts with several ratty dresses and one for nice occasions, along with a few things uncommon to a lady's wardrobe: there were a pair of rawhide knee-high traveling boots, two pairs of slim black trousers, a few tunics, a small assortment of fine-looking feminine shirts, and several vests of different styles. Clearly, Brom wasn't the only one keeping secrets.

At the scuffing of a lady's clog on the rug-covered floor, the man wheeled around to find Tricia standing behind him with a load of firewood in her arms.

"I see you already gave yourself a tour, Brom, so I doubt that I need to offer one; although, I don't expect that you looked for the outhouse – it's out back. Are you interested in supper? It's rabbit stew…and I found a few herbs that should make it taste like it's from the king's table."

All this was said with careless abandonment, as though a man who had barely talked to her for the past two years hadn't just trespassed on her land and broken into her house. Brom decided to play along with it, though, and casually took a seat at the single table as Tricia dumped her logs into a box near the stone fireplace.

"Eragon, Horst, Gertrude, and quite a few others seem to trust you, so I won't put too much weight on what I have just seen. So…I trust you won't mind my asking… Who are you and where did you come from? Is your real name even 'Tricia Ramonasdaughter'?"

The woman smirked.

"I got away with practically two years of limited-to-no questioning of what I am and why I'm here. I suppose I avoided you because I somehow knew that you were smart enough to guess that I'm not just another farm girl."

"Actually, quite a few rumors spread that you were a farmer's daughter who ran away from home to avoid a forced marriage or a noblewoman facing execution or a wanted criminal in hiding. None of those are true, are they?"

Obviously, he just asked the question to prod a general explanation. Brom was used to getting answers and solving mysteries.

For a moment, Tricia ignored him, serving up two bowls of delicious-smelling, steaming soup and sitting across from him with elbows on the table, fingers interlocked, and chin rested against her hands.

"You were right last night. There is always more. I think you and I have something in common, Brom. We are both hiding from a monster that can see through anything. And it's only a matter of time before its eyes pierce as far as this little town. As of two days ago, I have decided that I am leaving before the owners of those eyes find me and smoke me out."

"Who are the owners of the eyes of your seekers?"

Impressively, the middle-aged woman's eyes didn't falter in meeting the soul-seeing eyes of Brom.

"They belong to no one and everyone. I have not only been hiding, but waiting. The reason I have to leave now isn't the reason I wanted to leave, but it's as good a time as any; I have a friend in Surda who needs my help. I want you to take care of everything after I leave. Give at least some of the chickens to Gertrude (especially Pearl) and, if you have to, just let that cranky old shepherd have the property. I would love to see him ruin yet another good piece of land."

"Why leave this to me, Tricia? Despite living near the same village, you hardly know me, my origins, or my intentions."

"Other than the fact that you happened to break into my house just as I was trying to figure out what to do with the place? Well, honestly…you have a sincere face. You…understand more than most of these villagers can fathom. I really don't know why – I just suddenly feel as though I can trust you."

They ate in silence, but Brom had many questions to ask about the water-filled bowl, the books, the weapons, and the clothes.

Before insisting that he sleep on the fur couch for the night, Tricia reached under the fabric and pulled out a narrow sort of broadsword with a black scabbard. Her only excuse for it before retreating into the bedroom was that is was just for protection. He had a hard time believing that.

The night was mostly uneventful…except that he suspiciously peeked into the room an hour after she retired only to find her in a white nightgown, sitting on the edge of her then fur-covered cot, staring into the water-filled bowl with a look of pure frustration.

Sadly, she would soon be gone, it was unlikely that he would ever see her again, and all of his questions would have to go unanswered. Still, it was an interesting miniature adventure while it lasted.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this first part. I have already pretty much finished the next chapter, so, hopefully, I can update pretty soon.