Rowan's POV

Thwack.

My axe slams into the trunk of a nearby tree, sinking the metal blade several inches into the flesh of the wood. I allow myself a brief smile of satisfaction before removing my blindfold and walking over to the tree to inspect my throw. Not bad, I think as I wrench the axe from the tree, my aim and power are definitely improving, which will come in handy if—I shake my head, clearing it of the dark and ominous thoughts that have been trying to crawl into my consciousness all morning. I refuse to even acknowledge the possibility. I return to the center of the clearing and replacing my blindfold, thinking only of my next throw. My arm is poised to strike when suddenly a sharp blow comes to the side of my head, knocking me to the ground. I whip off my blindfold and hold my axe high, ready to face my attacker, but am met with nothing but an empty clearing. I stand up shakily, rubbing my sore temple and trying to put the pieces together when another blow from my invisible assailant hits my stomach, the impact of which knocks the wind out of me and leaves me gasping on the ground. I stagger to my feet, my mind frantically searching for an answer. Suddenly, understanding hits me with icy clarity. Alder, I think with horror, no. Fire scorches through my veins and panic begins creeping through my chest, its tendrils constricting my lungs and causing my breathing to become shallow and labored. Before I can even consider the possibilities, I'm running towards the town square, the ground flying by beneath me. Images flood my mind of Alder lying broken and bloody while surrounding peacekeepers grin with malicious glee. A sharp pain to both of my shins threatens to topple me over yet again, but somehow I manage to retain my balance, pushing my feet to run even faster.

I fly past the outskirts of the district, barely registering the surprised and questioning looks I receive from befuddled passersby. I must look like a maniac, I think, red faced, running like a bat out of hell, giant axe in hand. I smile slightly to myself at this thought, a gesture which I'm sure does little to abet the raving lunatic impression I must be giving off. All traces of humor, however, are wiped from my mind when I round the corner into the square and lay eyes on the crumpled heap that I immediately recognize as my brother.

"Alder!" I scream, but for some reason it only comes out as a whisper. I sprint to his side and fall down to my knees. I roll him onto his back and begin to assess the damage. He's unconscious and is bleeding from his left temple. He appears to be bruised in several places but there are no obviously broken bones. I'm about to call out for help when Alder's eyelids begin to flutter. I inhale sharply, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for him to break through the fogginess of unconsciousness.

"Rowan?" he murmurs groggily, his eyes still closed.

"Yes Alder, it's me," I say, my voice flooding with relief, "You're ok now, they're gone." I lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. Alder sighs deeply, and all of the muscles in his body relax. Slowly, he manages to open his eyes, raising a hand to shield them from the brightness of the sun.

"I'm going to take you home now, ok? Can you stand?" He nods, his bright green eyes locking with mine. Just be easy on me, he thinks and I nod in response. With my help, I manage to get him upright, albeit with my shoulder supporting most of his weight. We wind our way back to the house stopping every now and then for Alder to rest and catch his breath. I finally get him inside and into bed, bandaging his head wound before collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table. I throw my axe onto the floor and rest my head in my hands, shaking with adrenaline.

"Is Alder gonna be ok?" squeaks a small voice from the doorway. I turn around to see my little sister, Holly walking towards me, her gray eyes filled with concern.

"Yes, he'll be fine," I say, trying to sound convincing but managing to sound only vaguely optimistic. Holly eyes me skeptically and comes over to sit in the chair beside me.

"Was it the peacekeepers again?" she asks sagely, burdened with a wisdom no five-year-old should have to bear.

"Yes," I sigh. "You know how tense they get before the reaping. Beating on Alder is just a way for them to relieve stress."

"But why do they pick on him?"

"Because he's an easy target."

"But he's strong," she states indignantly, "and fast."

"Yes, but he doesn't speak well. Words are difficult for him and they come slowly if at all. You and I are used to it, but other people see it as a sign of mental weakness."

"It's not true though!" she says, clearly enraged.

"I know that," I say gently, "but other people don't. And Alder is no match for a bunch of weapon-toting peacekeepers, no matter how strong he is." Holly seems to mull this over for a moment, twirling a strand of blond hair in her finger and biting on her lower lip.

"I don't understand why people are so mean," she says quietly.

"Me neither," I say, my eyes filling with tears. She nods solemnly and climbs into my lap, resting her head on my chest as I stroke her hair. We sit like that for a long time in silence, and the room fills with unspoken grievances.