Beware: I am not exactly what one would call an Eragon fan. This is pure crackfic with far too many references. As most of it is written whilst I am in a state of extreme tiredness often coupled with an extreme sugar high (generally to the point where I will stay up late talking to myself), it isn't the best of writing. In fact, it's rather awful writing, but I felt like posting something, so here you go. Enjoy. Or not. Most likely you will do the latter. Flames will be unsurprising.

Once, in the time of legends, there was a man. He was a great king - he stood like a king and everything - he was so great that he was not even a man. Well, he was. Just an obscenely old man. But he looked like a moderately old man. He was with a beautiful woman who was also old, but she looked young. So it looked like pedophilia, but really, she was the one who was going to make it to five hundred. His name was...

But that man has nothing to do with the topic at hand. Nothing. At all. We aren't even going to tell you his name, that's how unimportant he was. No, you shall not know his name. Nor anything at all about the place he lived in. Except that there were Orcs. Don't ask what they looked like.

Anyway...

Once there was a young lad named Aragorn Eragon. He was fifteen, but he looked like he was about five. This is because the people of... oh wait, wrong man. Okay, Eragon was fifteen, and he looked fifteen, thank you very much. He only acted like he was five. Unlike that other one... nevermind.

Anyway, Eragon was trying to shoot a deer. He was a very good hunter, and the deer was about five feet away, but then guess what? Some hooligans started shooting off fireworks! The deer ran away before Eragon could catch up.

"Húta!" Eragon said, cursing in fluent Tolkien's Elvish the Ancient Language. Oh, wait, he doesn't know it... nevermind, that was a misquote.

"FUCK LIFE!" Eragon said, cursing in fluent Language Which Boring Humans Speak. Then he turned around and saw a rock.

"Oooooooooooh, a rock!" Eragon said. "Well, I had better take this eighty-pound rock back with me. You never know when you need an eighty-pound rock, especially when you're on a mountain and you have to hike back!" So saying, he hefted up the eighty-pound rock and stuffed it in his backpack. Maybe he could wrap it up and trick his uncle and cousin into thinking it was meat.

Eragon got back to Pail-and-Car Valley several months later. The valley was named for looking like a bucket, and the word 'car' was one from the Ancient Language. It was said that it meant 'wagon.' Most people didn't go into the dangerous mountains called A Mountain, but Eragon braved the woods to bring meat back to his starving family. Or, in some cases, eighty-pound rocks.

But have we mentioned that this is a very pretty rock? Well, it was blue and covered in white lines, which makes for much beauty. It was also very hard - Eragon dropped it on his toe on several occasions, as well as on his skull, and it never broke. His skull cracked first. He tested it.

Eragon reached Pail-and-Car Valley by nightfall. It was cold, and he shivered all the way home. He tried to sell his pretty rock to the butcher, but he was afraid the bitter, hobbit-like old man would try to cut apart his poor rock! He had to take it back, even as the butcher offered him an entire hog for it.

"Aragorn," said Eragon's uncle, Amycus Carrow. "Glad you've come home."

"It's Eragon," Eragon said, not keen to put up with his stupid old uncle tonight. Oh, if only his beautiful, responsible, wise and diligent mother hadn't left him here with this man. Eragon's mother was named Alecto, and that was all he knew. Amycus told him that his mother frequented taverns, especially at night, even though she was a lady. She came here one day, very pregnant, then gave birth. Sobbing, she insisted Amycus take the child. "I must," was all she said. Amycus supposed she didn't want a bastard son in her household - Eragon's conception was a mistake, anyway. She didn't even send support checks. Eragon believed his mother had left him to go on some noble and dangerous deed which involved saving the world.

"Oh... alright, then. That name sucks... R's make all the difference... and A's rather than E's..."

"There is an R," Eragon said sharply. "ERRRRRRRRRRRRagon, remember?"

"I know, you're not bloody Eowyn! Although doubtless the chick you turn down in the future will be... anyway, you need two R's."

"I don't care."

"I know you don't. If you did, you would have grown a penis by now."

Tears sprung to Eragon's eyes. "How dare you exploit my weaknesses like that!" he shouted.

"If you can't take it from your own uncle, you sure as hell aren't going to do too well when you get recruited for war."

Eragon huffed and stomped upstairs. He saw his cousin, Ronan the centaur, although right now Ronan had stuffed his legs in a wheelchair. Can't let the mortals know you're not human, now, can we? Ronan was currently trying to go down the stairs in his magical wheelchair. Eragon chuckled, shaking his head, and walked into his room.

Eragon's room was plain and bare, like the average starving farmer's. However, he had a shitton of interesting crap, which he had spent his entire life collecting. He placed the shiny rock on the center of his collection (which covered his entire floor), then jumped over a moldy log with a mewling litter of kittens inside to land on his bed. Eragon pulled the covers over his head and shivered. Home sweet home.

Eragon was very excited two months later. The Pima County Fair traders were coming to Pail-and-Car Valley later that day. They were very late, because the winter was lasting longer than it usually did. This seasonal opening in a regular village with a single father in a fantasy novel is very common, we promise you. Yeah. Even the great Robert Jordan used it . . . he was the only one . . . but nevermind that, that is completely unrelated.

"We're going to sell your kittens," Amycus announced as he strode into the kitchen where Eragon and Ronan were fighting over a burnt, shriveled and dry crust of bread for breakfast. It was common to have luxuries on the day the traders arrived. Ronan was currently fending Eragon off with his horse hooves.

"Ow! God, that is just not fair-" Eragon began to complain as Ronan kicked him in the face.

"You held the crust of bread over my head when we were in public and I had to sit in that magical wheelchair," Ronan protested. "So ha!"

"Ronan, stop it, or I am going to have you shoed," Amycus said.

"Why can't he just always wear shoes like the rest of us civilized beings?" Eragon complained.

"Why can't you just nail your metal shoes into your feet like the rest of those civilized being, Ery?" Ronan asked.

"Calm down, you assholes," Amycus said.

"I am not an asshole!" Eragon snarled.

"Yes, you are," Ronan said. "And you are much more of an asshole than me, because your asshole takes up a bigger percentage of your body than mine does."

Eragon did not know what a percentage was, so he did not respond except to stick out his tongue.

"True as that may be," said Amycus, "You have a huge asshole, Ronan."

"But my shit isn't as stinky as yours, Father," Ronan retorted.

"Yes it is!"

"No, it's not, you use it for manure. Literally, you make me go outside and shit in the compost bin."

"Whatever," said Amycus. He tossed each of the people living in his house an eighth of a penny. Money was worth more back in the days, remember, children. "And Eragon, we are selling those kittens, and the moldy log they live in."

"You cannot!" Eragon protested. "That is my moldy log, not yours! I bought it with my own money!"

"Yep..."

"I did! I told you I just didn't catch anything, but actually I traded the handsome stag I brutally killed with a walnut for that moldy log. Old Cenn Buie - ah, I mean, that old guy who likes to complain - was happy to sell it to me."

"Really?" asked Ronan. "You asshole, Eragon! Your namesake would never have done that!"

"Who is my namesake?"

"I don't know, but he can't have been as much of an asshole as you."

"Stop bickering, you two!" Amycus ordered.

"He started-"

"No, he-"

"I could not give less of a fuck. Get out of the house before I send you both off to get ovalicular pieces of metal nailed to the soles of your feet."

The cousins needed no further prodding. Eragon jumped onto Ronan's back ("Bane is going to kill me for this," Ronan muttered), and the two of them sped off down the hundred mile road to the village.

They reached the traders' campsite several weeks later. Ronan ran off to his exclusive clique of perfectly human friends. Eragon mournfully wandered about the stalls, knowing he had absolutely nothing to spend and giving puppy eyes to the vendors. They chased him away with brooms, thrown stones, and thrown bottles of acid; they shot arrows, shot burning arrows, and shot acid-covered burning arrows at him. Eragon walked away in a huff. No one liked him.

Eragon huffed around until he came to Broom, the hermitlike, bearded, obese old perv who lived in a dirty hut at the edge of town. He had earned his name through his fetishaffinity for broomstick handles.

"Arag - Eragon!" Broom huffed. "Let's go have a drink, why don't we? It's on me," he added, as Eragon opened his mouth to suggest Broom bought him lunch as well.

So they headed to the village tavern which was there all year, definitely the height of the attractions. Broom sat on a stool, which crumbled under his weight. Cursing in many languages Eragon didn't understand, Broom stood, brought three stools together, and leapt atop them with the nimbleness of an elf. A very old, arthritic, drunk elf.

"Bartender! I want *whatever that drink is that people use to get others drunk so they can have sex* and a shot of vodka," Broom demanded, banging his fists on the countertop.

"And for the boy?"

"The first is for the boy."

"I'm not a boy!" Eragon protested. "I'm a full grown man!" To prove his point, he stood as tall as he could, stomping his foot for extra measure. Broom, the bartender, and anyone else who happened to see fell to the ground in their laughter. One of the five year old girls in the bar patted Eragon on the head comfortingly. Another suggested he get his next pair of boots with at least an inch of heel. Eragon pouted; he already had an inch of heel, and he couldn't walk on two. He'd tried, but eventually gave up and gave that pair of boots to Ronan. For whatever reason, his cousin found that offensive and instead masturbated into the boots.

Just as Eragon was about to drink his *whatever the hell it is*, however, Amycus strode into the bar and promptly ordered "the damn strongest stuff you've got."

"DON'T DRINK THAT! IT'S POISON!" he screamed, knocking the bottle out of his nephew's hand. He then promptly turned to Broom. "You have to pay me first."

"Aw, Amy . . ." Broom protested. "I wuz just gonna have some fun wiv him . . ."

"No pay, no gay . . . sex. Shit, that didn't even rhyme, did it?"

"I'm between welfare checks, okay?" Broom said.

"You heard me." Amycus replied. He was unable to press his point farther, however, as the bartender appeared with his drink. Without a moment's hesitation, Amycus began to drown his sorrows, hitting the floor and merrily singing "The Mossy Mountains." Eragon shook his head and left the bar to avoid further embarrassment.

Eragon found his beautiful blue rock stashed outside the tavern. Now, how did that get there? he wondered. He picked it up and decided to go and sell it. Maybe he could spend the money on that vibrator he so wanted . . .

Upon entering a random merchant's tent, Eragon was . . . well, he was promptly chased out, with a lump of mud dripping down his already filthy hair as a reminder not to return.

Several hours later, though, Eragon found a slightly deranged trader who took his rock, banged it with several of his 'shinies' (including but not limited to: swiped keys, nails which sparkled, all sorts of jewelry which could be sold for a hefty amount of gold if it wasn't covered in sticky white stuff, tinsel, something called a 'battery', and sparkly fabric. That produced the most charming tinkle of all when beat against the blue rock), and decided that it was not of any value due to many dents which had mysteriously appeared all over its surface.

Grumbling but secretly grateful, Eragon took the rock back home. On his way, however, he saw a pretty girl called Katrina doing the downward dog in an alleyway, stark naked. Ronan had his front hooves placed on the wall in front of her, and they were having some bizarre form of horse-human sex. "Harder! Harder! Harder! Harder or I'll have you chopped up into horse meat!" she screamed. As Eragon watched, they separated and began making out passionately. He hoped they would not begin to have oral sex; Katrina might choke.

Eragon returned home to find Amycus passed out on the dining room table, a nearly empty bottle of beer clutched in one hand. Chugging the rest of the beer, Eragon ran to his room, hid the blue rock underneath his five year old Scream mask, grabbed his makeup and Sharpies, and returned to the dining room, where he proceeded to give Amycus lipstick, blush, eyeshadow, a unibrow, a mustache, a penis coming out of his mouth, and a Harry Potter scar before hurriedly returning to his room.

ERAGON IS FANFICTION ERAGON IS FANFICTION ERAGON IS FANFICTION

Most people reading this will disagree - or most people who read the top AN do. You probably haven't put up with this story all the way to the bottom. And as you most likely disagree, I urge you to contemplate Eragon and Arya's names (as well as Paolini's understanding of vowel sounds concerning the latter). Once you have made a thorough contemplation of this, contemplate Aragorn and Arwen. And then review. Reviews are good.

This will be a multi-chapter fic, although it is highly unlikely anyone will be much inclined to read the next chapter. Especially after that lovely author's note. Still . . .

Reviews?