And here is chapter 3! I'm not really convinced about it but tell me what you think anyway. There's gonna be two more chapters after this one: one for training and one for the interviews. And then: let the Hunger Games begin! Thanks a lot to Dragonnetic and er… Guest for their reviews. Happy Xmas to anyone who is reading this!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The opening ceremonies

"No," growled Eragon.

Terril, a man whose every lock of hair was dyed a different colour and straightened into a point so that his head ressembled a multicoloured explosion, sighed.

"Eragon," he said in a tone that people normally employ to talk to a recalcitrant three-year old. "You must take off your trousers. It is not possible to properly prepare you for the opening ceremonies otherwise."

The other two members of Eragon's prep team nodded fervently and he felt his irritation for the three idiots mount. So far, they'd had him remove his shirt so that they could shave, polish, and do many other, often painful, things to his upper body. He'd had to fight to keep his pointed ears and had had to explain that his gedwëy ignasia was a scar that he'd had since birth, but now they wanted him to take off his trousers, and that was not going to happen. It was already bad enough that they were sending him off to a fight to the death with twenty-three other children… Eragon clenched his teeth.

"What if I don't give a damn about the opening ceremonies?" he burst out angrily.

Aphrodite, a woman who had rows of tiny sparkling gems embedded in her skin over her eyebrows, along her jawline, down her forearms and across her collarbone, shrugged and said dejectedly to Terril, "Forget it, Terril. Let's go get Portia." His stylist. The three members of the prep team trudged forlornly out of the room and Eragon heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn't thought he'd be able to get rid of them.

He twisted his upper body around, trying to see what the prep team had done to him. They'd rubbed some kind of oil into his skin to make him extra shiny, and had camouflaged his gedwëy ignasia with a layer of makeup. They had also, he noticed, hidden his healing wounds by the means of carefully applied skin-coloured plasters. And they'd shaved his face.

He touched the injury in his side with the tips of his fingers. If only his half-brother Murtagh could be here now, with him… If only to share his pain. His homesickness. His loss…

His thoughts were disrupted as a slim woman with dark skin and short brown hair entered. Eragon, who hadn't known that Portia was a woman, was suddenly extremely glad that he'd kept his trousers on.

"So," she said. "You must be Eragon."

"Yes, that's me," he replied, loading his voice with as much sarcasm as he could.

She walked around him, examining him as she might an animal, inspecting him from head to toe. Then she looked back up at him.

"The prep team told me you made a scene."

"I don't know whether you can qualify refusing to get undressed in front of three complete strangers as making a scene," replied Eragon, in the same tone he'd employed before.

Portia laughed slightly, which annoyed him, then said, "It doesn't matter. The outfit Cinna and I have prepared will cover nearly your entire body. Let's go and have lunch, and then you can try it on."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Eragon might have disliked the Capitol and it's inhabitants, but he wasn't at all displeased with the suit he was currently wearing. A matt black unitard, covering his entire body to the top of his neck; a pair of shiny leather boots that came to the middle of his calves; a cape of red, orange, and yellow streamers that Portia planned to set alight with a synthetic fire – Eragon wasn't really sure how fire, Brisingr, could be synthetic, but didn't say anything – before his and Katniss's chariot left for the tour of the city, and its matching headpiece. It was supposed to reflect the "theme" of District Twelve – coal. Eragon, having already been down a mine and covered with the stuff, was fairly sure that coal was neither as romantic nor as spectacular as the stylists made it out to be, but he wasn't about to complain. He liked the suit.

Eragon's hair had been darkened so that it was nearly black and swept back from his forehead in a glossy, spiky arc. His face had been powdered by Portia's skillful hands, so that it was paler than usual, and was relatively clear of other makeup, save a few smudges of some dark substance on his eyelids and along his cheekbones. He looked powerful. Ruthless. Deadly.

But then, he reflected, that was the desired effect.

Katniss looked just as good as him, with minimal makeup on her face, just a few highlights here and there. They nodded to each other then climbed into their chariot, drawn by four jet-black horses. Eragon felt a hard ball of nerves form in the pit of his stomach and was reminded of when he and Saphira first arrived at Tronjheim, to parade through crowds of men and dwarves.

Saphira…

Where was she now?

He shook his head and just like that, the chariot was moving.

"Remember!" shouted Cinna, Katniss's stylist. "Heads high! Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Then he gestured something. Katniss frowned and turned to Eragon.

"What was that?"

"Er," said Eragon, embarrassed. "I think he wants us to hold hands."

Katniss shrugged and held out her hand to Eragon, who felt her fingers close around his.

The anthem was blasting through the streets as the chariot rolled slowly through the streets. Eragon winced; the music was way too loud for his sensitive hearing. Soon, though, the pain stabbing through his temples was replaced with exhilaraton as he and Katniss rode through the masses of people, too many to count, all chanting their names.

"Eragon!" they were yelling. "Katniss!"

Despite his best efforts at maintaining a cold, steely exterior, Eragon felt a grin slip onto his face as he caught sight of himself on one of the vast television screens dotted at regular intervals around the city. His face, shadowy and angled, glittered exotically in the light of the shimmery, flickering flames draped over his shoulders. He stood tall and powerful, his dark eyes gleaming, his back arrow-straight, his feet planted firmly apart on the chariot floor, every inch the Dragon Rider. He was magnificent. He was formidable. And above all, he was merciless.

Eragon felt a surge of elation in his chest and decided, what the hell, he could at least give a good show. He raised his free hand and waved to the crowd, provoking screams of excitement and a shower of flowers that rained down upon the chariot. He saw Katniss catch a red rose, sniff it, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the person who had thrown it.

The chariot rolled on, the black horses tossing their heads and snorting. The sky was growing dark as the twenty-four tributes gathered in the City Circle in front of the president's mansion, and Eragon saw that as night fell, his and Katniss's costumes only grew brighter and more beautiful. They filled every television screen in Panem.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Well," said Eragon to Katniss, "That wasn't too bad." They were in the corridor that led to their individual chambers in the Training Center, where they would stay until the Games began.

"Not bad?" exclaimed Katniss, hand on her door handle. "It was amazing. We outshone everyone!"

"I suppose so," laughed Eragon, amused by her enthusiasm. "It was actually more fun than what I was expecting."

"Yeah, I agree," replied Katniss. "I got kind of carried away, I think."

"No, you did fine," Eragon reassured her.

They stood in silence for a few moments, then Katniss yawned and opened the door. "I'm going to bed. Big day tomorrow. Training."

"Yes, you're right," he nodded, moving away. "Goodnight, Katniss."

"Goodnight, Eragon."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

That was quite a short chapter but don't worry, the next one will be bigger and better! So, I might not update for a few days. But I will this week, don't worry! Ciao amigos! Don't forget to review on the way out.