Instead of Arya, I prefer her mom (Eragon)

It was strange, growing up in the same village as the protagonist from a fantasy novel. Names like the Spine, Palancar Valley or… the township of Carvahall were familiar to Cedric—his given name in this new world.

After how things, well… ended for him, there didn't seem to be any reason to end up here, of all places. Whether it was divine intervention or some grand cosmic accident, he had no way of telling, and therefore didn't dwell on it.

Things could've been much worse, that was for sure. Unless this was some type of dark alternate reality, the big bad would be defeated without him having to lift a finger… but there was the catch, wasn't it? This was an alternate reality—his presence proved as much.

Perhaps if he was born somewhere else, a different township somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere, the train would keep chugging along the tracks of 'canon'. Unfortunately, his presence had already – if not thrown a wrench into the metaphorical gears – caused an insignificant, but not nonexistent disturbance.

Cedric would be lying if he said the realization didn't bug him. While adventuring in a fantasy world sounded fun, he knew better than anyone he didn't have the makings of a hero. Judging himself incapable, but being – in truth – just unwilling to save the world, he did his best to lay low.

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Of course, he wasn't without ambition. He had his own desires, an idea of a life he wanted to live that simply wasn't possible on earth. Among these, learning magic was his primary goal.

It was the key to his future. There wasn't really even a need to elaborate further—bending, or just plain ignoring the laws of reality spoke for itself. 

He set about learning it as soon as possible. However, he had little to go on—dredging up memories yielded only a single word: Brisingr. It was the incantation for fire in the old tongue, not exactly his first choice when it came to magic.

While a fireball-tossing mage sounded cool in theory, there were more creative ways to perform magic. Unfortunately, it was all he had, so he poured nearly every spare moment into conjuring up flame.

Yet, even something so simple nearly proved beyond him. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into years without Cedric creating so much as a tiny spark. If he didn't know it was possible, he would've given up.

Since his second birthday, shortly after regaining awareness, he was as magically impotent as a block of wood. Repeated failure sapped him of excitement, eventually clinging to his efforts out of stubbornness.

After three years' frustration, trying everything he could think of to turn the mumbled brisingr into flame, something finally happened. One day, a small spark was suddenly produced.

It was insignificant to the point of being doubtful, like a handful of embers tossed into the air, quickly extinguished by the cold.

Cedric drifted off absentmindedly, not really paying attention to what he was doing. However, that strange state of mind proved to be exactly what he needed.

He was immediately shocked and hopeful, but dreading it was only an illusion. After all, he'd tried for so long without anything happening. Why should today be any different?

Yet, the cold seeping into his limbs, sudden tiredness and faint headache told him it was real. That was the rule of magic, after all. Without an external power source, a spell would draw its energy from the user's body.

His hard work over the course of three years finally bore fruit—who wouldn't be ecstatic? Though his magic barely qualified to be called a party trick, he knew it was only the beginning. He'd already gotten a feel for it, now it was only a matter of practicing and innovating.

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Cedric was the grandson of the village grain merchant, a man named Fitch. When he was only a year old, his parents suddenly packed up and left. It was as strange as it sounded—they didn't give a reason, nor was there any extenuating circumstances. One day, they were living normally, working in the family shop alongside old man Fitch. The next, they were just… gone.

Cedric wasn't that surprised. Back on Earth, it was expected for parents to love their children unconditionally. Here, well… let's just say people tended to be a lot more honest about that sort of thing. It wasn't strange for unwanted kids to be foisted onto grandparents, aunts, uncles or kind strangers.

In light of that, he did his best not to burden the old man. Most of the chores were handled by Cedric, and he also worked long hours in Fitch's shop. Fortunately, Gramps was a true bachelor, having lost his wife long ago to an unknown illness. Well, that was hardly fortunate—rather, Cedric meant he was a minimalist, owning little and living a simple life.

It made things convenient for him, along with Fitch's opinion that children should neither be seen nor heard. Cedric spent his free time unbothered and unhindered on Carvahall's outskirts, immersed in whatever experiments came to mind. After that first spark, it was like a dam-wall cracked somewhere inside him. Every subsequent magical feat came more easily than the one before until he hardly needed to think about it.

Of course, he wasn't spending all his time lighting wicks of straw on fire. He'd only done that for about a year, forcing himself to take things slow. After that, he faced a conundrum. He didn't know any words besides brisingr, meaning if he wanted to expand his capabilities… he had two choices.

The first was approaching Brom, being honest about his talent and asking the hidden old dragon-rider to teach him. However, even if he did manage to approach him without appearing suspicious – by, say, 'accidentally' revealing his magic where Brom could see – that didn't mean the geezer would teach him what he wanted to know.

Not only the dragon-riders, but also the elves they learned magic from, were very conservative when it came to its use. A good example was the life-draining technique, allowing the user to take life force from other living beings to fuel their spell-casting.

Certainly, using it on humans or animals was rather unethical, but to the elves, even using it on plants and insects was too much. Cedric didn't think of himself as the evil wizard type, willing to do anything for power, but seriously…?

No, he wouldn't have someone breathing over his shoulder, telling him what he could and couldn't do. However, that only left one option—he had to teach himself. And if he wanted to conjure anything but fire, he'd need to perform wild magic.

It was difficult, even harder than creating that first spark. The old tongue certainly wasn't a mundane language. Somehow, it indeed seemed inexplicably bound to magic. Cedric could imagine how the old ones did it, but one thing was certain—making do without it wasn't going to be easy.

It took him two years to cast his first wordless spell, achieving a breakthrough when he was eight years old. He could only describe it as looking for a needle in a haystack, except it wasn't a haystack but vast fields of wheat, and he didn't know what he was looking for in the first place.

After realizing exactly how difficult this was going to be, Cedric stopped trying to metaphorically break down the next wall by smashing his head against it. Instead, he tried inducing that same 'half-awake-half-asleep' state.

It didn't work.

As time passed, the snot-nosed village brats started sprouting like weeds after the rain, including the protagonist and his older brother, Roran.

Cedric started getting desperate. Not because the novel's advent drew closer. No, he'd already resolved himself to not get involved. Whether he was strong or weak, it didn't matter if he wouldn't be fighting.

However… he didn't want to believe he was inferior to Eragon, Galbatorix, Durza, Murtagh and the elves and dragons to whom magic was second nature. Wasn't he extraordinary in his own way? Didn't he have his own talents, knowledge and secrets?

Cedric came up with an idea he thought was clever, but anyone else would judge as being extraordinarily stupid. It was the 'half-awake-half-asleep' state, as he called it in his head, taken to the next level.

The 'half-alive-half-dead' state.

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