Hi! I am VERY sorry for not updating sooner, but as well as school starting I got an enormous bout of writer's block which, um, temporarily incapacitated me… (I bet you can all see through my rubbish excuses). Anyway this chapter isn't very long but the next one will have more action in it. Thanks to my new followers and favoriters for, well, following and favoriting this fic… So here it is! (Oh yes, and don't forget to review! I'd like to reach a total of ten before February, which only requires one more. C'mon! Give me that little extra push! What only takes YOU a few seconds gives ME a whole day, if not week, of joy! So, please?)
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. It's a lot simpler to say that, I've found out.
Enjoy!
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Fight or Flight
Eragon sprinted through the snow, lifting his feet high so as to maximize his speed. He was aware of the other tributes lurching to life and sped up, arms pumping, legs pounding, and skidded to a stop in the mouth of the Cornucopia. He looked around frantically for the pile of weapons, saw it, dived towards it, his fingers closing instinctively around the wire-wrapped hilt of the sword that most matched Brisingr in size and shape. He stuffed the sheath into his belt and drew the blade, getting ready to fight for his life.
He felt, rather than heard, the heavy fist swinging towards his head from behind. In a single fluid movement, he ducked, swirled around, and planted his boot in the chest of his attacker, a large tribute who Eragon didn't recognize because of the hood, muffler, and goggles concealing their features. He felt several ribs crack like wet wood beneath his boot and the tribute flew for five meters before landing on their back in the snow. But now Eragon was distracted, and felt a sharp pain rake down his right shoulderblade. Roaring, he span round to see the female tribute from District One – he knew it was her because of the long white-blonde hair hanging out of her hood – clutching a knife already slick with his blood. He slashed at her with his sword, tearing open the front of her coat and ripping through her flesh, and she cried out, clutching at the wound. He didn't finish her off, instead whirled round yet again to confront Blaze – only he was that huge – who was barrelling towards him, arms outstretched. He leapt out of the way and attempted to stab him with the sword, but once more he was under attack, this time from a girl; he saw dark brown hair swirling round her face and recognized her as the one from Two.
It was chaos. Blood stained the white snow red and everywhere were grappling tributes, some armed, most unarmed, all fighting for survival. Eragon realized all of a sudden that skill had only a small part to play in this battle. It was luck, really, that decided who lived and who died. Wyrda.
He felt that would be dangerous to stay any longer at the Cornucopia; after all, he had what he wanted – a sword – and he'd already received an injury, so he bent down, snagged a sizeable rucksack off the ground and slung it over his uninjured shoulder. Then he glanced around to see if he was in any immediate danger, decided that he wasn't, and ran off, his feet leaving a trail of footprints behind him, towards the forest.
Eragon soon reached the cover of the trees but didn't stop. He pushed through the bushes and foliage, sometimes using his sword to hack through the vegetation. After about a half-hour of progress, he found a small clearing and halted. He deserved some rest, he thought, and there were things he needed to do, such as examine his wound and the contents of the backpack he'd picked up. So he dropped it onto the ground and zipped it open. At the top was a rolled up blanket made of wool, Eragon noted appreciatively as he held it up. Perhaps some artificial Capitol-made fabric would have been warmer, but wool reminded him of Alagaësia. He laid it to the side and continued his exploration.
Next was a packet of biscuits, about fifteen of them, he saw when he rattled the box. Then a small waterbottle which he filled with snow and wrapped in the blanket, and a tinderbox containing flint, steel, and of course tinder. That was probably the most important item he found in the backpack.
Finally, there was a coil of rope, which Eragon didn't really know how it was going to be useful to him. He stashed everything back in the pack which he zipped up, then decided to check his injury. He twisted round to look at his shoulder. He couldn't see much, but what he did see didn't look very bad. It was barely a scratch.
Eragon looked up at the midday sky and pondered his options. He could stay in this clearing and make camp, but didn't much relish the thought of waiting in the cold for a fight to come his way. He wasn't hungry, so he didn't see the point of hunting. He could always go and track the other tributes, but he didn't particularly want to kill them. He definitely didn't want to kill Katniss… Katniss. Was she even still alive? Eragon hadn't seen her fall at the Cornucopia, so most likely she was. That caused mixed feelings in him. It wasn't that he wanted her to die, but he knew that only one victor could come out of the arena. It would be better if she was killed by another tribute, really, because it would save him for having to fight her later on. That was a situation he refused to consider.
He came to the conclusion that he should move. If he was going to set up camp, he could find a better place to do so than here. And walking would warm him up.
Eragon shouldered the rucksack, pulled up his hood, and set off through the trees. They were widely spaced compared to earlier, and he barely had to use his sword. Which he wasn't at all displeased with; it was almost of the same quality as a finely crafted Alagaësian one. Of course it didn't compare to Brisingr, but that was normal, and he felt thet he was lucky to have got a weapon of such high calibre. It hung, long and sharp and silvery-grey, at his waist, and on a whim he named it Blödhslytha. Bloodsleep. It had to be called something, and Bloodsleep seemed a fitting name for a sword.
The day slowly began to wane, with the watery sun scraping its way across the misty sky. According to his estimations, Eragon was travelling to the north-east, towards the edge of the arena. He was still surrounded by forest that sometimes thickened or thinned or became studded with rocks, but was always around him. Occasionally he glimpsed a hare or a squirrel, or the bright auburn flash of a fox's fur, but of the other tributes there was neither sight nor sound. He hoped it would stay that way.
After four, maybe five hours after his arrival into the arena, the first painful tugs of hunger began dragging at his stomach. Eragon looked around for some source of food – as if a deer would walk up to him and bare its throat to be slit! – and realized that he was a fool. He should have taken the bow, or even the crossbow, at the Cornucopia, for a long-distance weapon was necessary to properly hunt, whereas he did not need a sword to kill a human. His hands sufficed. And now here he was, standing in the snow, wondering what he was going to eat. Well, he had his biscuits, at least, and there were always roots, and berries and mushrooms… The problem was, he didn't know which were poisonous and which were not. This wasn't his world, after all.
Eragon sighed and pressed on.
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He found an ideal place to set up camp a short while after the first stars appeared in the darkling sky. A small clearing set against a rocky outcrop about thirty feet high, with a clear patch of ground in front of a small cave. It was barely a scoop in the stone, but it was enough. Eragon ducked his head and entered, dropping his rucksack onto the ground and sitting down himself. He dearly wanted a fire – his clothes kept him warm enough to not risk dying of cold in the night, but they did not provide the primeval comfort that flames did – but the risk of being spotted, even in the cave, even through the trees, was too great.
He broke a biscuit out of the box to nibble on (it was dry and hard and didn't make any difference to his screaming appetite whatsoever) and was just sipping the ice-cold water of his bottle to wash it down when the anthem boomed outside. Surprised, Eragon jolted, splashing water down his front and choking on his mouthful. He ended up hacking into his fist in a rather undignified manner while the anthem continued. When he'd recovered, he crawled out of the cave and stared up at the sky in surprise. The symbol of the Capitol was suspended there, glowing in an unearthly way, bright against the white stars. Then another picture appeared; the face of the girl from District One. Eragon recoiled in shock at this monstrous apparition huge in the sky. Then it was replaced by another; the boy from Three, followed by the one from Six and his female counterpart. Then the boy from Seven. By now Eragon had realized that these were the tributes that had been killed and was surprised when little Fay's picture didn't appear.
Nine tributes were dead in all: the girl from One, the boy from Three, the girl from Five, the two tributes from Six, the girl from District Nine, the boy from Ten and finally the two tributes from District Eleven. Then the music ended with a flourish, the symbol of the Capitol appeared again for a few seconds before vanishing, leaving the night silent and dark. The moon and stars appeared very dull now, compared to the shining images that had been displayed against them.
Eragon re-entered his cave and sat down, wrapping himself in his blanket. All he could think about was Katniss.
She wasn't dead.
He was surprised at the overwhelming relief he felt, crashing down on him like a wave onto the shore. She wasn't dead, and he knew that he might end up fighting her, but she wasn't dead, and that was all that mattered.
"She's not dead," he murmured to himself. "She's not dead and I'll not be the one that kills her."
He knew that now as a fact, as sure as he knew that the sky was hollow and the earth was round, as sure as he knew that the seasons turned and as sure as he knew that however long and however cold the night, the sun would always rise.
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He stood in a wood. Around him were tall slender trees, lit by a strange but not frightening bluey-violet light. Beside him was Saphira.
He wasn't surprised to see her. He knew that she was there, he knew that she knew that he was there and that was enough for him. They were walking, silently and slowly, through the forest. His feet and her claws made no sound upon the thick, soft carpet of moss. The trees seemed to bend aside to let them pass.
It will be alright in the end, said Saphira. Her voice was neither in his mind nor spoken out loud. He knew it and that was all.
Will it? Eragon asked. Will it really?
Here she touched him on the brow with the tip of her diamond-hard nose. Little one, she replied almost chidingly. It will be alright. It always is. However long and however cold the night…
The sun will always rise, he finished. I believe you, Saphira. I do. At least, I want to believe you…
You will be fine, she said, rustling her wings against his arms. You will find peace. You will see the sun rise at the end of the night.
A feeling of intense gratitude rose like an eagle in his heart. He threw his arms around her and felt the heat from her body pulse into his, sustaining him, filling him with hope and banishing the last scraps of his fear and sadness. Thank you, he whispered. In reply she hummed against his neck.
Then they were seperated, wrenched away from one another. The trees started to fade, blurring into a grey haze. Seized by a sudden desperation, he reached towards her but already could not see her anymore.
Saphira! he cried. I love you, Saphira!
Her outline was faint and indistinct but her voice, when he heard it, was as strong and clear as the tolling of a bell.
I love you too, little one.
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When he awoke there were tears on his cheeks.
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And that's chapter seven finished. Sorry if that was short. I just wanted to present the arena and the situation a bit. Anyway don't count on me to update the next chapter quickly, sorry again, but school takes priority. So… See you in a week? Two weeks? Three weeks? Maybe not that long, but as I said before don't get your hopes up. By the way, may you find peace (what Saphira said to Eragon) is "Sé mor'ranr ono finna" in the Ancient Language. Just so you know.
Thank you all for reading this far and don't forget to REVIEW!
