Well, here's chapter 2… I'm quite pleased with it, but you can tell me what you think about it by the means of a review. Oh yeah, and in this fanfic/crossover thing, I decided to change the tributes AND the arena cos I thought that would be more fun plus it gives me loads more freedom with the story. So, R&R folks, read and review! (DISCLAIMER: I own neither the Inheritance Cycle or/nor The Hunger Games.)

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Tribute

Eragon had given up trying to wipe the black coal dust from his face and clothes long ago.

It had been two weeks since he'd arrived in District Twelve. Katniss had done what she'd promised to do, finding him a house and a job as a miner. He hated it. The endless hours spent underground in a cramped, pitch-black tunnel, inhaling clouds of soot each time he drew breath, were enough to drive him crazy. Still, he'd gained in popularity with the other miners because of his heightened senses – he mined twice as fast as them and could go twice as long without needing a break, and three times already he'd smelled the deadly, supposedly odourless gas methane before it became dangerousely concentrated, allowing the miners to evacuate and saving many lives, including his own. The pay was meager but it was enough to survive if he used it sparingly, and what he couldn't buy he found in the forest beyond the fence he'd scaled the first day. Apples, berries, nuts and roots all filled his stomach. Katniss had taken him hunting several times with her and her friend Gale Hawthorn – he and Eragon had rapidly developped a mutual respect for each other – but what she shot he couldn't eat, being a vegetarian. There were times when he regretted the love for living beings the elves had instilled in him, particularly when he saw all the meat on display at the market. He did have to admit that Katniss was astonishingly good with a bow for a human, though.

Eragon felt that he was doing well, but he was annoyed that he hadn't understood the situation yet, aside from knowing that Galbatorix had teleported him during the final battle. He didn't know how; the amount of energy required, even if the king had absorbed the life force of every living being in the room, wouldn't have been enough. It was a feat unprecedented in the history of magic.

Eragon sighed, pushing his potato around his plate with his fork. He knew all about this place now.

Twelve districts, one Capitol that controlled everything: food, supplies, the inhabitants of Panem. And of course, there were the Hunger Games. Eragon simply could not comprehend the barbarism of it. Twenty-four children, his age or younger, forced to kill or be killed to satisfy a bloodthirsty audience of – murderers, he could think of no other word to describe them. Murderers, every damned one of them. It wasn't that Eragon was not used to violence; he had seen many cruel, brutal things in his life. He had seen a pile of bodies – men, women and babies – heaped upon one another in a grisly mound that stood over twenty feet high, he had seen both friend and foe burned and beheaded and battered to death. He had seen men mutilating themselves deliberately, cutting off "unnecessary limbs" to become living stumps and free themselves of the "physical world". He had seen soldiers laughing while they were mangled and maimed until they passed the point when they normally should have died.

But the Hunger Games… well, that was something else entirely.

Eragon sighed again and pushed back his chair, getting to his feet. He left his plate on the table. He would not be returning to this house. The reaping was today, and Eragon had already decided that he would volunteer himself as the male tribute, for the simple and unique reason that he was far more likely to win than the poor, helpless boy who would be chosen. The only thing that held him back was having to kill other teenagers… and children. A taste of bile coated his tongue every time he thought of it.

By the time he reached the main square it was packed with people of the district, whose voices mingled in a soft buzz. A podium had been erected, and on it Eragon saw a freakish woman wearing way too much makeup and extremely odd clothes, the mayor – Mayor Undersee – and the only still living victor of District Twelve, Haymitch Abernathy, who by the look of it, was very, very drunk.

Eragon made his way to where the boys waited in a penned-off section of the square, near to the girls. Like lambs to the slaughter, he thought bitterly. Even though he knew that only two tributes would come out of this cluster of bloodless faces and red-rimmed eyes, and one of those two tributes would be him. It was all that he could do.

He slipped into the tense crush of boys and teenagers beside a tall, dark-haired young man that he recognized as Gale. It was Gale's shirt and trousers Eragon was wearing now. He nudged the hunter on the shoulder and said, "Good afternoon." Gale turned, and laughed.

"What's good about it?"

"Oh, I don't know," grinned Eragon. "The fact that one of us is about to be sent to his death in an arena to fulfill the entertainement cravings of a group of psychopaths? The fact that it's likely to be you or me? Really, there are so many things to be happy about."

Gale laughed again, but his laughter had a hollow ring to it, as if he were laughing just to indulge Eragon. They both turned back to the podium where the scary-looking woman was just proclaiming in loud, high-pitched tones: "Ladies first!" She plunged her hand into one of two large glass urns and her long pink nails snagged a slip of paper which pulled out and held before her face.

Silence fell in the square. Not a breath, not a whisper was heard.

"Katniss Everdeen!"she shrieked as if this were the greatest thing humankind had ever known. Eragon saw Katniss standing stiff and pale, jaw clenched. Katniss. Katniss Everdeen.

He remembered her words: 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.

How fate had a cruel sense of humour.

"No, Katniss! You can't go!" a little blonde girl was screaming, her eyes round and red-rimmed. Eragon recognized her as Primrose Everdeen, Katniss's little sister. "You can't!" She tried following her older sister up to the podium, but Gale held her back.

"Up you go, Catnip," he whispered to Katniss in a voice so low that Eragon was the only one who heard. The shrieks of the little girl were giving way to sobs, loud and helpless, accompanied by hot tears streaming down her round, rosy cheeks. Eragon felt sick to the very core of his being. This shouldn't be happening. It was wrong.

"Boys next!"gushed the woman, plunging her hand – that fateful hand – into the other urn. Every muscle in Eragon's body tensed itself, like a wildcat about to spring upon its prey. He had to be sure that this was what he wanted for what he was about to do now was irreversible. But one look at Prim convinced him. No other inhabitant of District Twelve would have to suffer like that this year.

He would volunteer as tribute.

"Gale Hawthorn!"

Before Gale even had time to register his name, Eragon stuck his hand in the air and yelled: "I volunteer!" There. He'd done it. He felt strangely relieved. He'd done his part to make the world a better place, and what happened now was up to fate. Up to the gods to decide.

If there even are any gods in this wretched place, he thought to himself as he climbed up the steps of the podium to stand beside Katniss, shoulders thrown back, hands clenched into fists. What god could let a species kill its young for entertainement?

Below, Gale was staring up at him with wordless thanks in his eyes. Eragon nodded to him, acknowledging his thanks, then turned his attention back to the peculiar woman who was prattling on about how "wonderful" it was to finally have a volunteer and how these were going to be "the best Hunger Games ever!"

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Eragon sat stiff-backed on a velvet couch. He was inside the Justice Building, where people had an hour to come and visit him before he left for the Capitol. He only knew the vague procedures of the Hunger Games, and wasn't much looking forward to being swept from one place to another without knowing what was going on. He sighed, then smiled as a touch of black humour sprang into his mind.

"At least," he muttered under his breath, "once I am in the arena things will get much easier."

The first and only people who came to visit him were Gale and his mother. Hazelle, Eragon remembered vaguely. He had seen her a couple of times before.

"I want to thank you," said Gale firmly. "For saving my life. I mean it. Thank you, Eragon. Really."

"You didn't have to do it, but you did," added his mother. "You sacrificed yourself to save Gale. I can't thank you enough, Eragon. I really can't." She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. It was cool and dry. "You saved my son,"she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.

Eragon smiled. "Thank you for your gratitude," he said gently. "Because of it, I don't regret my decision. But you know, I really think I can win in there. I don't want to have to kill Katniss, though." Gale and his mother both suddenly became serious and Eragon felt stupid. How insensitive am I? he thought bitterly to himself. They both obviously hold Katniss very dear. And I talk about killing her? Well done, Eragon, that was a blunder of heroic proportions.

"And I won't, of course," he added hastily. "I won't. I won't kill her." Gale just shrugged and Hazelle nodded half-heartedly, then the hour was up and Eragon was whisked away with Katniss. The woman from the reaping came along too, as well as Haymitch, who – Katniss explained to him – was to be their mentor in the Games. Apparently a mentor gave tributes advice and once they were in the actual arena, could send in useful gear, like food or medicine, using the money donated by sponsors. Eragon didn't understand everything and didn't particularly care. He didn't need a mentor to win the Hunger Games.

He needed his moral sense taken away and a good dose of inhumanity on the side, and perhaps then he would stand a chance.

They were soon at the station, and despite Katniss's explanations, Eragon still boggled at the strange objects everywhere – the shiny, beetle-like boxes people called "cameras", the horseless carriages known as "cars", and of course the sleek silver snake – the "train" – that would take them to the Capitol. There were a myriad of other curious things people seemed to take for granted, and Eragon felt that he would never get used to this place.

He suddenly felt very small, and very far from home.

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Eragon's chambers were very luxurious, with a bedroom, private bathroom, and dressing area. The freaky woman who had carried out the reaping – he knew now that her name was Effie Trinket – told him to do as he pleased, just to be at supper in an hour. He decided to spend that hour working out how all the bizarre contraptions that filled his rooms worked – he really didn't want to ask somebody, even Katniss, and look like an idiot – and so was soon grinning blissfully as hot, steamy water pounded down on his shoulders and frothed at his feet. Alagaësia really needs one of these, he thought. Perhaps, once I get back – if I get back – I could try using magic to make one… I wonder what Saphira would –

He stopped himself there. He couldn't think about Saphira without feeling a wrenching, jagged pain in his chest, a pain that he knew was caused by no physical entity and so could not be healed that way. Several times already, in Alagaësia, he'd been seperated from her, but he'd always, deep in his core, known that he would see her again. But now, in this strange world, he didn't know that. And that was what, each time he thought about his beautiful blue dragon, his Saphira, caused his whole body to hurt.

Eragon flicked tears from his eyes, turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, leaving a foamy mass of bubbly froth to gurgle down the drain. Like his own hopes of returning to Alagaësia one day, disappearing, vanishing down the crevasse that had formed in his heart.

Supper was very good, delicious in fact, and it tasted even better than it should have done because Eragon was used to the meager and tasteless fare of District Twelve. But he could only manage a few bites before he laid his fork aside and stared miserably at the crisp green salad and steaming mashed potatoes heaped on his plate.

"What's wrong?" asked Effie Trinket in that infuriatingly cheerful and high-pitched voice of hers. "Pre-games stress?" She piled more salad onto her plate, stirred it around, then folded a leaf in two with her knife and fork before placing it delicately in her mouth.

"Something like that," replied Eragon, making abstract shapes in his mashed potato that had Effie frown. But the Hunger Games had nothing to do with his despondent mood. He still had Saphira in a corner of his mind, and even though he was trying not to think of her, memories kept bursting forth unbidden and unwanted into his mind's eye. When they'd swum together in the cool, turquoise waters of Leona Lake… When they'd merged consciousnesses and flown together as a single being… When they had realized in unison that the sky was hollow and the earth was round.

Eragon had to rub his eyes to keep his tears back. Episodes of depression like this had been common for the last two weeks, but never as bad as this one. He knew that sleep would not come easily tonight.

"I don't know how you can resist eating this food!" Katniss exclaimed, shovelling another five lamb chops into her mouth. "I know I couldn't. Particularly after District Twelve! Ugh, the meals there…"

Eragon had to smile at her efforts to cheer him up. She must have guessed that he was feeling homesick, even though that wasn't exactly it. Still, he wondered if there wasn't a part of truth in her words. She was onto her fourth helping of the third course and those lamb chops weren't exactly small.

"At least, you two have decent manners,"said Effie primly. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." Eragon saw Katniss frown then proceed to eat the rest of the meal with her fingers. He joined her. He'd seen enough examples of poverty the two weeks he'd lived in District Twelve to be annoyed by Effie's comment too.

After supper, they went into another compartement to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. Eragon hadn't been looking forward to seeing his opponents – he'd been picturing frightened young children and toddlers, even though he knew they weren't going to be like that – and so was a little surprised at the muscle-bound giant shoving through the crowd to volunteer from District One. Katniss registered his surprise and said in a disgusted voice, "Career tributes. They've been preparing for this moment since they were little kids. It's always one of them who wins."

"I can see why," replied Eragon, raising an eyebrow. "Did the people of District One accidentally let one of their oxen loose?" Katniss laughed.

"Good joke," she said. "But One does luxury items for the Capitol. They don't need oxen for that. Otherwise I'd think you were right."

The reapings went on. Eragon's adversaries all varied in size and shape. There was a loping, wiry boy from District Two. A short girl from Three, whose hair shone black in the sunlight and whose eyes glinted with a menacing gleam. A slim, blonde-haired, dangerous-looking boy from District Four. The girl from District Five was muscular and had the same dark skin as Ajihad or Nasuada. The one from Six was smaller and a volunteer. The boy from District Seven was big and solid-looking, with broad shoulders and curly brown hair.

There was a tiny albino girl from District Eight, probably only four foot five and no older than twelve years old; her image remained imprinted on Eragon's retina.

As the boy from District Nine was reaped, Eragon started feeling drowsy. The room was warm and his stomach was full… Well, no, not exactly full but he really was very comfortable… And tired too…

He only realized he'd drifted off on Katniss's shoulder when she shook him awake as the anthem blared on the television at the end of the reaping.

"Catching up on your beauty sleep, I see?" she smiled, not entirely unmockingly. Eragon shot to his feet, embarrassement painting his cheeks in red. "Uh… yes," he blurted. "I'm going to bed." He bolted down the corridor to the safety of his chambers, his face burning.

Katniss had the same scent of crushed pine needles as Arya.

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The next morning, Eragon dragged himself from the warm tangle of his duvet to the shower, where he washed himself with a strange liquid soap he found on the shelf in the cubicle. It smelt rather cloying, like there was a rose shoved up his nose. After the shower, he searched for some shaving things in the bathroom, but found nothing. It had been several weeks since he'd last shaved and now he couldn't even rely on the spell he'd devised to rid his face of stubble. A beard was starting to form and Eragon didn't like it, but he couldn't do anything about it now. Sighing, he dressed in a blue shirt, flannel jacket and black trousers, and made his way into the dining car.

He avoided eye contact with Katniss as he drew a chair and sat down, still embarrassed at what had happened the night before. Apart from her, he saw only Haymitch. Effie must have already eaten, he thought, as he picked up his knife and fork and tucked into the food piled in heaps before him. Eggs, ham, fruit, rolls, fried potatoes, orange juice… In any case, it tasted excellent. He gorged himself, filling his stomach where it had been left practically empty the night before.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," said Katniss to Haymitch who sat at the end of the table, slugging back glass after glass of wine that he kept thinning with spirits. Eragon paused, half a roll in his hand, then resumed eating. He didn't really care whether Haymitch mentored them or not. He just wanted to find a way out of this hellish place (the shower was nice, though).

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," laughed Haymitch, reaching for his bottle. In a split-second, Katniss drove her knife between his hand and the bottle, and Eragon lunged out of his chair, grabbed Haymitch by the collar with one hand and slammed him up against the window of the train so hard that the glass shook.

"How about you change that to: 'of course, I'll give you some great advice,' before I toss you out of this train," snarled Eragon, shocked by the extent of his own anger. He felt Katniss's hand on his shoulder and dropped Haymitch to the ground, wiping the hand that had been in contact with him on his jacket. He didn't know why he had reacted so violently. Hadn't he just been thinking that he didn't need his mentor?

No, he realized, he didn't care whether Haymitch mentored him or not. But Katniss was… well, she was just a girl, really. She was strong and fast and an amazing archer, but she had neither the extraordinary speed or strenght the spirit dragon had bestowed upon him at the Agaeti Blödhren. And all the tributes from earlier years, lost, dead, all of them, because of their drunkard of a mentor.

Haymitch calmly dusted himself down, emptied his glass and said, "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

He turned to Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" She considered this, shrugged, ripped the knife out of the tabletop and hurled it at the wall. It wedged in the seam between two panels and Eragon raised an eyebrow in admiration. She wasn't bad at all.

"Stand over here," said Haymitch. "Both of you." They obeyed and he circled them, examining their faces and prodding their muscles, then declared: "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

"Wha-" Eragon started to say, then sucked in a sharp breath as Katniss stomped discreetly on his foot, making his eyes water with pain. If Haymitch noticed the exchange he said nothing.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you," said their mentor. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

Eragon didn't much like the would-be deal, but he nodded reluctantly along with Katniss, who broke in, "So help us. When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone –"

"One thing at a time," snapped Haymitch. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

Eragon winced inwardly. He definitely didn't like the sound of that.

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Well well well, "Katniss had the same scent of crushed pine needles as Arya" you can guess what's gonna happen now can't you? That is, you can if you've read The Inheritance Cycle. It kind of makes sense for Katniss to smell of pine needles, though, with all that time she spends in the woods… At least that's what I thought. Anyway ciao now, don't forget to R&R!