Next chapter! I don't know whether you're enjoying reading this fanfic, but I'm enjoying writing it. (I suppose nobody really cares about me, though…) Anyway, if you want this EXCELLENT story to carry on, you have. To. Review. Reviews are, to put it simply, my life blood. (And you wouldn't want to have murder on your conscience, now would you?)

On that cheery note, enjoy!

(DISCLAIMER: I own neither the Inheritance Cycle or/nor The Hunger Games.)

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A Strange New World

Eragon opened his eyes slowly and painfully. His vision blurred and swam and a stabbing headache lanced through his head like needles of fire. He was lying on loose, leaf-strewn soil and his face was pressed into the earth. He gathered his wobbly, scattered mind together and managed a groggy thought: What happened? Then, as memories came flooding in, he shot to his feet, fell straight back down onto his rump, and called out with both mind and body, "Saphira?"

No answer, save the rustle of wind in the trees.

"Saphira!"he yelled, projecting his thoughts in a wide sphere around him, but encountering only the primitive consciousnesses of the denizens of the forest. Dove, squirrel, vole, fox, past all these beings his mind swept, searching for but not finding a blue dragon, his partner of heart and soul. Saphira! Where was she? Where was Arya? Where was Elva? And Murtagh and Thorn and… and…

"Galbatorix!"he snarled, clenching his hand into a fist and bringing it up in front of his eyes. Galbatorix! That tick-infested, yellow-bellied mangy son of a motherless bitch… What had he done this time? Teleported Eragon somewhere far, far away with his final breath? Broken the bond between he and Saphira by the use of a dark, forgotten magic? No, that wasn't possible, he reassured himself. But he had done something… Looking around, Eragon realized that his first guess had seemed to hit the situation spot-on, because he most definitely was not in the citadel of Urû'baen anymore. Nor was he even in Urû'baen.

Around him were tall, leafy, deciduous trees casting long shadows upon the ground, and when he glanced up Eragon guessed that it was around late afternoon, at least judging by what he could see of the sun that filtered through the canopy. This was all very strange. If only, at least, he had Saphira…

He pressed his hands against his head and took deep breaths to steady himself. He still had Brisingr. He still had the Ancient Language. And he still had his wits. He would find a way out of this, and he would find Saphira.

He got shakily to his feet and bit back a curse as the injuries inflicted upon him by Murtagh throbbed and stang. He had forgotten about them. Eragon quickly removed his helm, gauntelets and bracers, belt, battered hauberk and bloodstained tunic, and examined the wound in his side. A long red gash ripped across his flank and part of his back and was slowly ooozing blood, but it was already partly covered by the congealing liquid. It was a fairly serious wound but as far as Eragon could tell no vital organ had been touched and besides, he had taken far worse before. Still, it hurt and presented a chance of infection, and he decided it would be better to heal it. He placed his right hand over the injury and murmured the words: "Waise heill". Be healed. He waited for the familiar sight of flesh knitting itself back together, of skin filming over the cut, but nothing happened.

Confused, Eragon repeated the spell but to no avail. The wound would not close, and he did not feel the drop in his energy that came with the use of magic. He tried again on a smaller lesion, the nick over his right knee, and arrived at the same conclusion, that he could no longer use the Ancient Language.

Eragon fought down a sick swirl of panic as all the implications of the loss of his powers crashed down upon him in a black wave of despair. Already, not being able to heal himself was a grievous blow. Then there was the problem of building a fire to warm himself, having to accomplish by hand arduous physical tasks… the list was endless. Eragon was no weakling and he'd grown up in a harsh rural environnement where he'd often had to fend for himself, but he'd grown used to the comforting weight of the Ancient Language at the back of his mind and it was a staggering shock to no longer be able to rely upon it. He stumbled to a tree and leant against it, breathing hard and gulping down the dread that once again threatened to overwhelm him. After all, he still had the power of thought and that could be used as a weapon.

Eragon spied a squirrel perched on a branch a few feet away and despite his elven-bred reluctance to kill a living creature, reached out mentally to crush the little animal's consciousness. He needed a handhold, a reassurance. He concentrated, searching for the squirrel's mental location, but sensed only a faint whisper.

He felt it disappearing, slipping away from him as if he were trying to catch smoke with his hands, as if he were trying to catch something that could not be caught. Then, in a faint breath, a final mocking hiss from Galbatorix, it was gone.

The squirrel scampered away up a branch, unaware of the despair it had just caused.

Eragon slumped to the ground and put his head in his hands. This was the end, then. No other hope remained. He couldn't be in Alagaësia, for not even Galbatorix had the power to strip a Dragon Rider of their abilities, and if he wasn't in Alagaësia and could no longer use the Ancient Language, then how would he ever get home? And where, oh where, was Saphira?

Eragon was tempted to just curl up in a ball on the ground and give up, and for a moment he considered doing just that, but even though he'd lost the power to use magic, even though he'd lost his dragon and his home, he still had his determination. And he still had courage. And he knew that he hadn't come as far as he had by chance. It was because he hadn't admitted defeat. Because he hadn't given in. And he was damned if he was going to give in now.

Inspired by his little mental speech, Eragon got to his feet, wincing as the cut above his knee burned. It really was a bloody nuisance, this inability to heal himself. He unbuckled his greaves and rolled up his leggings which he had to peel away from his skin; they were stuck to his legs with dried blood. A significant amount of hair came off with them. Eragon cursed from between gritted teeth at the pain and tore a strip off his tunic with which he bound the wound, frustrated about not being able to do more. He also bandaged the wound in his side and a nick on his right calf. The rest of his injuries were just bruises and scratches.

He pressed his hands against the small of his back to relieve stiff muscles and took stock. His only possessions were Brisingr, his clothes and his armour. He didn't know where he was, apart from that he was no longer in Alagaësia. He had no food or water. He had lost the Ancient Language. And he was injured.

In short, he was in the shit.

Eragon sighed as he pulled his dented greaves back on. He decided to discard his tunic as it was torn and stained, and so he dropped his damaged hauberk over his head, screwing up his face as the cold chainmail met his skin. Over his hauberk he buckled his belt from which Brisingr still hung like a blue icicle, then put on his gauntelets and bracers and finally lifted his helm onto his head.

He took a deep breath.

Then the Dragon Rider set off through the forest.

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Eragon stopped.

He'd been trekking through the woods for a couple of hours at least and behind him the sky was starting to smudge with the purple and gold of sunset. He'd been losing any hope he had of finding human civilization and was starting to think that maybye he was going to have to live in these woods for the rest of his life when he saw the fence. Eragon squinted hopefully through its wire links - after all, a fence meant people, and perhaps a clue as to where he was – and saw a shabby little meadow, then crumbly, dilapidated buildings, all coated in a layer of black dust and built in a fashion that was alien and yet somehow reminded him of home. He shook his head to dispel the distracting thought and concentrated on the fence itself. It was a good ten feet tall and very strange, being constructed only from loops of wire connecting thicker metal posts topped with coils of spiky wire. It wasn't at all a good fortification; an army could bring it down in less than a minute, which led him to think that it was perhaps less to keep intruders out, and more to keep people in.

Eragon stepped back and thought. He had two basic options. One was to stay in the forest and wait. Yes, but for what? For Arya and Saphira to come and rescue him? No, he preferred option two, which was to climb over the fence and find someone on the other side who could explain everything, like where he was, what this village was, and why the heck he couldn't use magic.

Eragon grinned at his ability to be stupid even in the most dire of situations, then leapt lightly into the air and landed against the fence, halfway up. Making use of his elven agility, he slithered swiftly to the top and leapt athletically over, tucking his knees up against his chest to avoid being pricked by the barbed wire. He landed soundlessly on the other side, a fall that would have injured a normal man. Then Eragon started off through the field, keeping a wary hand on Brisingr's hilt. After all, he didn't know that the inhabitants of this village were necessarily friendly, or even necessarily human.

He soon reached a narrow, dirty street, draped in shadows from the dusk. He saw a few people going about their respective businesses, but mostly the streets were deserted and the windows of the houses lit with flat, uniform glares. Eragon didn't think it was candlelight, and tried peering in, but could see no visible source of light. He shrugged to himself. Who knew what this place was?

He spotted a nearby young woman facing away from him and tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he said. The woman whirled round, her dark braid flying out behind her head, to reveal large wary eyes and a sharp face filled with alertness. Eragon backed away automatically beneath her fierce gaze. She took one look at his battered armour and bruised face then reached out, grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip and dragged him into a gloomy alleyway.

"All right," she whispered. "You have just won first prize for being a total idiot. Wandering through the streets in – well, OK, not in broad daylight, but still when you are so obviously from another district is insane. Are you suicidal or what?"

Eragon hadn't understood a word of what she had just said. What was a district? And why was it suicidal to walk in the street if you were from a different one? And why the hell was she insulting him?

"Huh?" he managed.

"Don't act dumb," the woman said in exasperated tones."You know, I won't give you away if you just tell me where you're from. Perhaps I can help you. You certainly need it – you don't seem to have an ounce of common sense."

Eragon considered the situation. He really didn't know what she was talking about, or what he was supposed to reply. Which left telling the truth. But could he trust her? He remembered Glaedr's lesson – to observe others, determining their strenghts and weaknesses – and quickly registered the way the woman's shoulders curled forwards as if she were protecting something deep inside her, the way her dark eyes held, behind all the fierceness and fire, a glint of sadness and weariness. She was like him; at least, the him of all those months ago, the him whose farm had just been burned to the ground, the him who had just left his home to slay his uncle's killers with his newly hatched dragon – with Saphira. He swallowed hard and forced the thought from his mind. She was like him: determined, a little frightened, wary of anything and anyone. He could trust her.

"I'm not from here," he said softly, trying to put as much meaning into his words as he could.

"Oh, believe me, you do not know how evident that is,"she laughed.

"No, I… I'm not from here," he replied, not knowing how quite to explain the fact that he was from another world. "I'm from a land… a land very far away. At least, I think I am…" He paused, searching for the words that would make it clear in her mind. "I'm not in Alagaësia here, am I?"

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. "Er, no, this is Panem, and I don't think any part of it is called Alergayjuh."

"Alagaësia," he automatically corrected her.

She sighed. "Really, whatever. I think you must have bumped your head or something. Come along with me, I'll take you to my house, my mother's a healer…"

Eragon swallowed and took a deep breath. "I… I have proof," he said. "Proof that I'm not from here. That I'm not from Panem. That I'm from Alagaësia." He reached up and slowly removed his helm.

What had been hidden or dulled by the metal was now clear. A Dragon Rider now stood before the young woman, a Rider whose large, luminous eyes gleamed catlike in the dusk, a Rider whose sharp angled cheekbones and strong jawline glinted shadowy in the half-light of the falling sun, a Rider whose skin gleamed silvery with a soft sheen of cold magic. But most of all, it was the Rider's lobeless, upswept ears that were the object of the woman's gaze and the hallmark of his inheritance.

He stood there, waiting, while she stared dumbfounded at his face. Then he replaced the helm and the vision vanished. He raised an eyebrow. "Still think I'm from here?"

There was fear and awe in her voice when she whispered: "Who… What are you?"

Eragon hesitated. He was many things. A kingkiller, a Dragon Rider, a man-elf hybrid. A Shadeslayer. The Silver Palm. Foster brother to the dwarf Orik and son of Brom, Rider before him. He was bonded to the dragon Saphira and wielder of the blue sword Brisingr. He opened and closed his mouth several times as he considered and discarded all these possibilities, then said simply, "I am Eragon."

The woman nodded, but Eragon could tell she wasn't satisfied by his answer. "I'm Katniss," she said. "Katniss Everdeen."

Eragon dipped his head, then asked,"You believe me know, do you not?" When she was silent, he continued. "I'm not from here. I have no idea what a district is. I have a feeling that if I do not learn more about this place, and quickly, I will be putting myself in danger. Can… can you help me?"

Katniss looked hesitant. Then she nodded, sharply. "I have a friend," she said. "Madge. She's the daughter of the mayor. I'm sure, if I mention her to you, she'll be able to get you a place in the district as if you've always lived here. I don't have time to explain it now, but people who do not have a district… Well, let's leave it at the fact that it's not a good thing."

"Okay," said Eragon. "I'd like it if you could do that. I'd find a way to repay you."

Katniss chewed on her lip. "You don't have to repay me," she said. "But there's something you should know before you ask this of me."

"What?"

"There is a… a tradition in Panem,"she said slowly. "The Hunger Games. Happens every year. The leading district here, the Capitol, picks one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each other district – there are twelve in total, not counting the Capitol – in a ceremony known as the reaping, which will happen in exactly two weeks' time, and carts them off for a fight to the death in which there can only be one victor." Katniss looked Eragon straight in the eye and he saw a rage of burning emotions in her fiery stare. But he could identify none.

"If you ask me to do this for you," she said slowly and deliberately, so that he could and would not miss a single word of what she was telling him, "then there is a chance – a small one, but it is there nonetheless – that you will be reaped, and sent off to die in the Hunger Games."

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