The oldest fears were the most powerful. If there were gods, he thought for sure that the first and greatest — and evilest — would be the god of dark… - Christopher Paolini

He’s visitin’ an old friend,” supplied Eragon, dropping his voice into a thick accent. “I’m along t’ make sure he don’t get lost, if y’ get m’meaning. He ain’t as young as he used to be — had a bit too much sun when he was young’r. Touch o’ the brain fever, y’ know.” Brom bobbed his head pleasantly. “Right. Go on through,” said the guard, waving his hand and dropping the pike. “Just make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.” “Oh, he won’t,” promised Eragon. He urged Cadoc forward, and they rode into Teirm. The cobblestone street clacked under the horses’ hooves. Once they were away from the guards, Brom sat up and growled, “Touch of brain fever, eh?” “I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” teased Eragon. Brom harrumphed and looked away.

He closed his eyes and sank into the warm dusk that separates consciosness and sleep, where reality bends and sways to the wind of thought, and where creativity blossoms in its freedom from boundaries and all things are possible.

- Świadomość tego, co cię spotyka, sprawi mi ból niezależnie od tego, gdzie będę. (…) Wiesz, że gdybym mogła, poprosiłabym, aby bat spadł raczej na moje ciało.
- A ty wiesz – ucałował ją w oba policzki – że nie pozwoliłbym ci zająć mego miejsca.