Chapter six already! Probably the last one in a while. Sorry about that. But anyway, I'm quite pleased with this one, even though it's short by my standards (only about 2 100 words long, not counting the author's notes). Disclaimer: I own neither Eragon, nor Katniss, nor their respective attributes, nor the idea for the story, that is I own the idea of Eragon falling into Panem but not of the Hunger Games… OK, basically, I OWN NOTHING.
Seeing as I haven't got much else to say, enjoy!
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The Games begin
That night, Eragon couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to get comfortable. Finally he kicked the duvet into a tangle at his feet and lay there gazing up at the ceiling, imagining stars and sky where there was only pale white plaster. He found it hard to think that this time tomorrow he would be fighting for his life. Maybe he would have already killed a tribute. Two, even. Three. He just had to lie there, and breathe, and dawn would find him, bringing with it the promise of fear and blood and death.
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He must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing he knew he was awake, the windows were still dark, and there was someone knocking at his door. He sat up quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and went to open it.
It was Katniss standing there, fully clothed, fully awake, for all the world as if she'd been up and about for hours. Eragon stared at her blearily for a few seconds, then his sleep-muddled brain processed her and he said, "Katniss?"
"Good morning," she replied. "Sorry to bother you. Only I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about the arena, and the other tributes, and whether this time tomorrow I'll still be alive…"
Eragon blinked. "Um," he said. "Thanks for that. Now I really feel like I'll be able to sleep well, too. Katniss, what time is it, exactly?" She shrugged, and said dismissively, "Don't know. Don't really care. All I want is for morning to come so I don't have to think about all this any more. Just do what I have to do, some action, you know? I just want to be in the arena, for all this to be over, one way or another."
"Well, one way for that to happen is for you to go back to bed and try to sleep. It's not that I don't want to talk to you," explained Eragon, "but I'm fairly sure that it's better to be rested before being dumped into an arena with twenty-two other people who want to kill you. Trust me, you'll want that extra sleep tomorrow."
"Twenty-two other people," repeated Katniss, then looked up at him. "You don't want to kill me?"
"Of course I don't want to kill you," snapped Eragon, unable to believe how ridiculous she was being. "I wouldn't be standing here talking to you if I did. It's not like we're exactly enemies, is it?"
"No," she snapped back, "but we're not exactly friends, either. I mean, this time tomorrow, I'll be supposed to kill you, won't I? And you'll be supposed to kill me. And as you said, there will be twenty-two other tributes in the mix who won't be picky about who they want to kill, so excuse me for not thinking that a healthy relationship can develop on that."
"Look, Katniss," Eragon growled, close to losing his last scraps of patience, "You might want to kill me, but I don't want to kill you. I hope that's clear now, because I can't explain it any better. Now I'm going to go and sleep, because I want to be able to defend myself tomorrow when you come at me with a bow and arrow and the intention of shooting me in the stomach or chest or somewhere else that will leave me dead or dying, OK?" He slammed the door shut but she stuck her foot through and held it ajar.
"Eragon," she said through the crack. "I don't want to kill you. I never have wanted to kill you. All I meant is that there is no way we can become true friends when we are forced to be enemies. That's really all I meant. I'm sorry if you thought otherwise. Now goodnight. And, since I guess this is the last time we'll see each other as friends, good luck." Then she withdrew her foot, the door closed, and Eragon was left wishing that he had been able to wish her good luck, too.
But she was gone.
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The next morning, Eragon was woken by Portia, who gave him a simple pair of cotton trousers and a shirt of the same material to wear. "Is this all there is?" said Eragon sarcastically, feeling grouchy after his late-night conversation – or rather argument – with Katniss. "No flames? No gold? No glitter? Well, I'm disappointed."
Then Portia took him up onto the roof of the Training Center, where an enormous machine emerged from the sky, silently ominous. Eragon didn't know how it could fly, as it wasn't alive and had no wings, but he'd long since learned not to question the ways of this strange world. And it got stranger, as a long gleaming ladder emerged from the monster's belly that Portia told him to hang onto. Eragon found, as his hands touched the metal, that he couldn't move as the ladder lifted him up into the machine itself. He tried not to panic when a woman walked over to him, holding a long needle.
"This is your tracker, Eragon," she said in a calm, soothing voice. "Keep still so I can place it without hurting you." She stabbed the needle into his arm, pressed hard on the plunger of the syringe. Eragon felt a flash of sharp pain as she withdrew the needle, now red and slippery with his blood. Then a dark-haired young man led him and Portia to a room where a meal was laid out. Eragon wasn't at all hungry, but forced himself to eat the food, not tasting it but knowing that he would be grateful for the energy in the arena. After perhaps half an hour, the windows blacked out, and Eragon fought down a rush of panic. He was a Shadeslayer, barzûl! A fighter! A Rider! He'd slain some of the most dangerous inhabitants of Alagaësia: the Ra'zak, the Shade Durza, Galbatorix himself. The other tributes had no chance at all.
So why was he worried?
He didn't know.
But he was.
When the huge machine had touched down, Portia took Eragon back to the ladder and they climbed down into an underground warren of tunnels and rooms, a bleak echoey place, cool and dry, with luminous panels set in the perfectly chiselled rock that hurt Eragon's eyes to look directly at. Once they were in his chamber, the chamber from which he would rise into the arena, he showered quickly, brushed his teeth, and then Portia handed him a packet containing the clothes he would wear in the arena. "I'll help you dress," she said, then raised a hand to cut off Eragon's protests. "You won't know how to put them on," she added impatiently. "They're designed for a certain environment. There's an order you have to put them on in."
So Eragon let her dress him, albeit reluctantly. First were a pair of heat-trapping longjohns and a similar vest. Then an all-in-one fleece suit, and a pair of thick socks that Eragon's feet felt already uncomfortably warm in only minutes after putting them on. Over that went a bulky sweatshirt and a heavy pair of mottled grey-white trousers. Finally, another pair of socks, thinner than the first ones but just as warm, and a sturdy coat of the same colour as the trousers with a zip at the front and whose hood was lined and edged with dense, soft, light brown fur. Over that went a wide, tight belt.
For Eragon's hands, there were a pair of thin insulating gloves beneath a thicker pair that reached to the middle of his forearms, and for his feet there were two bulky boots, dark grey in colour, with short blunt spikes on the bottom and that laced up tightly. Then, at last, Portia pulled a lightweight muffler around the lower half of his face and strapped a pair of heavy tinted goggles onto his forehead, not lowering them immediately.
"The goggles are to prevent snow blindness," she explained, making some last adjustments to his outfit. "You can expect snow. Lots of snow. Never take off the goggles when you're in a wide open area. Only do so when you are surrounded by other objects, like trees or rocks for example. But I'm not saying that there will be any of those in the arena." She stood up and faced him. Eragon felt rather stupid, standing with his arms dangling by his sides, bundled up like a snowman.
"Good luck," she said. "Lower the goggles when you get into the tube that will lift you into the arena. And remember, wait for the gong to sound before you step off your plate. Otherwise you'll be blown to bits and we wouldn't want that, would we?" Eragon did a slight double-take. He hadn't known about that, and felt a bit sick, imagining what would have happened if Portia hadn't uttered that sentence.
About a half-hour passed before the time came for Eragon to enter the arena. He literally was boiling in his outfit and didn't so much care about the other tributes and the danger that awaited him than the snow that Portia had promised. He stood up from where he had been sitting on a stool and lowered his goggles, creating a murky haze in front of him, and raised his hood.
Silently he went and stood on the disk of metal that would rise up a tube into the arena. Portia stood a few feet away from him. She met his eyes and nodded to him. Then the plate was rising, up, up, up, for about fifteen seconds, until Eragon stood in the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said a booming voice that echoed all around him, "let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"
Quickly Eragon scanned the area. The twenty-four tributes were arranged in a circle around the Cornucopia, the twisting golden horn in the center of the arena. In its mouth Eragon glimpsed the necessities for survival in this harsh environment: backpacks, blankets, sleeping bags… And weapons. A pile of them, gleaming silver in the weak sunlight. He spotted three swords, a bow and quiver, two knives and a crossbow with its quiver of bolts.
Switching his attention away from them, Eragon examined the arena itself. It was clearly arctic-themed, with snow and ice lying in drifts about the place. There was no grass to be seen. Around the Cornucopia was a circular plain, then to the north – the direction Eragon was facing – was a range of rugged, icy mountains, lacerating the pale sky. East was a sweeping expanse of white, touching the horizon, a bleak, desolate, uninviting place. West, he saw, was a forest, which comforted him somewhat, for whatever reason he did not know. It contained mainly evergreen trees, such as fir or pine or spruce, with a few bushes and dense thickets of brambles and scrubs. And finally south, he noted when he turned around, was a shifting, dangerous-looking expanse of ice floes on a stormy, jagged sea or lake. If it was a lake, though, it was far too large for Eragon to be able to see the far side. It looked utterly treacherous and only a foolhardy or desperate person would venture there, for Eragon knew that once you had fallen into that water you would have no chance of getting back onto dry land. Even if you did, you would freeze to death in a matter of minutes. In this arena, contact with water was fatal.
He turned back around to face the Cornucopia and quickly tried to decide upon a strategy. The previous night, Haymitch had told him and Katniss that they would have no chance of surviving the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. But Haymitch didn't know Eragon's abilities. He could be at the horn before any of the other tributes had even left their plates. And he needed those weapons; he needed them badly. Even if he did end up in a skirmish, which was unlikely, it was more the other tributes who would need to be careful of him. In addition to his superhuman abilities, he was a master of the blade and the bow, which made him completely ruthless and deadly in battle.
It was decided. He would run towards the Cornucopia, not away from it.
He spotted Katniss a few plates to his left and waved to her. In return, she gave him a tense nod. He hoped that she would be OK. But he had to look after himself now.
He took a deep breath.
The gong rang out.
He ran.
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Well, that's the end of this chapter! I'm sincerely sorry to leave the story on such a cliffhanger, but, well, school is school. Never mind. Hopefully the next chapter will be here soon.
As usual, please please please R&R!
(That stands for read and review, remember?)
