This is not only my first fanfic, but also my first piece of long-term writing and my first piece of writing outside of school (other than poems.)

Eragon couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu as he allowed his mind to meld with his surroundings. Sure, he'd done this often enough since Orimis' death, but never had he needed to try so hard. It wasn't just because of the insanely complex spell he was attempting to cast, or because he had to cut his mind off from Saphira for longer than he'd ever had to, or because the future of everyone depended on his focus. No, it wasn't just any of those reasons. It was all of them. To make matters worse, Arya was next to him, tugging at his attention. If his mind wandered, or even quivered, everyone present would know. If he stuttered the spell would most likely kill him, but the only thing he could do now was take a huge gulp of sweet air. For some strange reason, it felt like it would be his last.

In unison, the twenty-two elves and Rider took a deep breath before starting the first verses of the enchantment, expanding outwards to meld with each other into a pulsing blob of magic. The lull of the spell dragged them into a entranced state of mind, where their minds seemed blank, yet was acutely aware of everything around them. For several fragile hours, they stood chanting.

As if he was struggling to come out of a dream, Eragon resurfaced. His mouth, seemingly of its own accord, was still reciting the last verse of the spell he'd had painstakingly memorized. The link with the elves showed that they, too, were popping back up as individuals, and not as the mass of energy they had become. Blodgharm's sharp yellow eyes were open, trained on something off in the distance no-one else seemed to be able to see. Islanzadi was still immersed in the magic, oblivious to the world. The young elf twins, faces more iridescent than ever before, seemed alert, and if Eragon hadn't known better, seemed to be playing a hand game with each other. And Arya, ah Arya, back straight, face smooth, eyes half open. Eragon felt his concentration slipping, but didn't care. If this spell worked, then he had the right to drink in as much of Arya's beauty as he could. Arya's eyelids finally fluttered open, and she gave Eragon a soft smile. Then, all too soon, everything seemed to whirl away into nothingness.

He was surrounded by the emptiness. Suffocating in it. It wasn't white, nor black. Not even clear. There was no sound, yet it wasn't quiet. This would drive him mad.

Him? Who was he?

Eragon… and Saphira.

Presenting itself, the answer seemed to had been floating in the air, waiting for the right answer to pull it out. This nothingness suddenly seemed to fill with opportunity. But, how could he be both Eragon and Saphira?

No answer appeared.

Who was Saphira!? Frustration overwhelmed him.

Your dragon.

His dragon? Yes. He was Eragon Shadeslayer. He was the first Rider in this generation. And he was supposed to be in the future, looking for new ways to kill Galabatorix.

As his memory returned to him, so did his senses. First the sounds; the loud burble of millions of voices. Obviously, he was somewhere crowded. And warmth. A strange, bodily warmth that seeped in through his clothes. Was someone on top of him? And what was that cold pressed against his head? He forced his reluctant eyelids open, only to shut them again, forced by the sharp, blinding light all around him.

"Do not move!" a tense woman's voice hissed into his ear.

"Huh?" Eragon groaned and tried to sit up to see his mysterious captor through his blurry eyes.

"I said DO NOT MOVE!"Now, the woman seemed almost frightened. Almost. "Tell me who you are! Why are you here?"

Eragon sat up (to the woman's great displeasure) and was surprised to see that she was only dressed in clothing that barely covered the areas that really should be kept covered, she had no dagger or sword on her, only a metal block that had a hole in it and something about her, nothing definite, but something about her was unmistakably like Arya. And she had been sitting on him, pinning him to the floor. A warm blush rose up his cheeks.

"Hey, what is that?" he quickly asked, hoping to distract this Arya-like woman from his blush. After a quick struggle, he was holding the metal block in his hands. "What does this thing do? Is it a weapon? Looks pretty useless." The woman glared at Eragon, but no longer seemed frightened. Just confused, tired, and very, very angry.

"Give it back," she growled menacingly. Then, without waiting for his response, she tried to snatch it away. Eragon kept his firm elf-strength-grip on the metal block though and continued to examine it. She sighed, turned around, and began putting on her clothes (thank goodness there were more) and picking up others that had strange cards on them. Eragon had to resist the urge to reach his mind out and find out everything she knew about this interesting, bright world.

Ziva couldn't believe it. Nobody, not even Gibbs could sneak up on her like that. And certainly not in the dressing room at a mall! And yet this strangely dressed, dirty young man had without even seeming to know what he had done! Not only that, he hadn't been afraid of her gun and had managed to simply take it from her. She shook her frizzy head and pulled her sweater on over her turtle neck.

When Ziva turned around, the dirty guy was peering into the hole of her gun, his fingers dangerously close to the trigger. Judging by his body posture, he really didn't know what this could do. All of his clothes was simple and exotic, but soiled. His skin had a thin layer of grime, and a heavy stench hung over him. And, unless her eyes were deceiving her, he had a sword strapped around his waist and a bow across his back. Who was this guy?

After the woman had finally finished dressing, she turned around, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Eragon had been peering into the hole of the metal block to see if he could see anything inside. It was too dark to tell, despite the blinding lights.

"Be careful with that!", the woman's voice betrayed a slight bit of laughter, and again, Eragon blushed. She made him feel so stupid!

"Why? What does it do?" he tried to sound intelligent and curious, but was evidently unsuccessful.

"You tell me who you are, and I will tell you what this is," she replied, wittily managing to gain the upper hand.

"I'm Eragon Bromsson, the first Rider of the new generation," Eragon responded proudly, especially after the woman's eyes widened in recognition.

Strange as he'd already been, the dirty young man, Eragon, had just made himself stranger still. His name had struck a bell (or rung a bell) that she didn't know she had. And what the heck was a "Rider"? But, true to her word, she would have to answer his question on guns. Who knew what he might do to her if she didn't. Something about that made her uncomfortable though.

"Eragon? That is an interesting name. I do not seem to recognize it from any language. Well, my name is Ziva. It is a pleasure to have met you. This thing is called a gun. If you come with me I will show you what it does," Ziva hoped that this would satisfy Eragon for the moment. She would wait until she was surrounded by Gibbs and Tony before handing the gun over to Eragon again.

Please review, because I KNOW I need to improve my writing a LOT, and at the moment, I really don't know where it's bad, just that it's bad. TELL ME!