an:/ Well this hit me. I don't know why, or how but I decided to write a CS Hunger Games fic. No it doesn't make sense and I kind of like that. Anyways, this first chapter will stick to the first of the Hunger Games almost verbatim in some parts, but the rest of the chapters shall not. Pinky promise. :) I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any of the characters created by OUAT. Thank you.


When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,

The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

-Robert Frost

.

.

.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Henry's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

He must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother.

Of course he did.

This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little brother, Henry, curled up on his side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together.

In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Henry's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as strong as the man for which he was named.

My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Laying at Henry's knees, guarding him, is the world's ugliest dog.

Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. (A real charmer if you ask me).

Henry named him Gold, insisting that his coat was the color as the precious metal which was a difficulty to come by these days.

He hates me. Or at least distrusts me.

Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Henry brought him home.

Scrawny puppy, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas and ticks.

The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Henry begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. (I couldn't deny Henry much of anything, really.)

It turned out okay.

Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Gold the entrails. He has stopped growling at me.

Entrails. No growling.

This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots.

Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on riding trousers, a shirt, tuck my long honeyed blonde braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag.

On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goats cheese wrapped in basil leaves.

Henry, I think warmly.

I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of Kingdom 12, or K12, nicknamed the Mines, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour.

Dwarves, with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces and beards.

But today the black cinder streets are empty.

Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in.

If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Mine.

I only have to pass a few gates to reach the heavily overgrown denseness that is the place called the Burning Grove.

The Burning Grove was given a proper name.

The ground always rose with smoke, as it was situated just over the mines.

The earth smelled charred, stale, of fresh fire.

Separating the Burning Grove from the Enchanted Forest, in fact enclosing all of K12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be run by a Magic-Keeper, twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods—packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets.

But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of magic at night, enough to light the streets home, and to allow proper heating on the cold winter nights, it's normally safe to touch.

Magically charged or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of K12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow.

Just in case, I listen for the steady thrum and the slight glow of gold, indicating magic.

It's as quiet as a stone.

Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log.

If you were unarmed, and if you didn't know what you were doing.

My mother had taught me the trade of shooting arrows and bows.

My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers.

My father could have made good money selling them, but if the Queen's-Men found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion.

My bow, however, was how I managed to feed our small family, if that's what you wanted to call it.

The Enchanted Forest was my home.

It was my place of residency.

I had never stepped foot in water, but my feet touched the forest floor almost twice a day.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and hunting carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons.

And luckily for me, they didn't.

Most of the Queens-Men turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.

Simply put, there just wasn't enough food in K12 to feed everyone properly.

In walking the streets most people were heavily emaciated, gaunt looking skeletons that could spook even the bravest of souls.

In the fall, a few brave souls would wander into the Burning Field and just to the edge of the Enchanted Forest, to harvest apples.

But always in sight of the Field. Always close enough to run back to the safety of K12 if trouble arises.

When I was younger, I scared my parents to death, the things I would blurt out about K12, about the people who rule our Kingdom, The Enchanted Forest, from the far-off city called the Capitol.

Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble.

So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts.

Do my work quietly in school.

Make only polite small talk in the public market.

Discuss little more than trades in the Yard, which is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reap, or food shortages, or the Fairie Games.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Graham.

I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a small valley.

A thicket of gorse bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Graham says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hello, Swan." Graham's slightly accented voice breaks through.

Swan, Graham's official nickname for me, when in reality my name was Emma.

Quickly after our meeting a swan started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me.

I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt and the meat was good too.

Graham pulls a loaf of bread from his bag.

Real bread, not our poor excuse for grain rationed bread.

"Wow, where'd you get this from?" I ask, sitting next to him on the rock.

He grins, showing his boyish charm.

"Bakery, of course," He says, handing it to me.

I hold it in my hand, like treasure and inhale.

The fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"

"A small fox. Just a baby really," He offers.

"Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Graham.

I raise an eyebrow and give him a questioning look.

"Even wished me luck,"

"Wow, impressive," I say with a small smile.

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I ask, rolling my eyes in a manner that causes him to grin.

"Henry left us some cheese," I say pulling out the wrapped food.

His expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Henry. We'll have a real feast."

Graham pulls out a small carving knife and roughly drags it through the soft, white bread.

The aroma hits my nose and I have to remind myself to be patient. This was a treat.

Savor it, Emma.

I stare over the great expanse of the forest, letting the calming sounds of the mockingbirds fill my ears with their sweet music.

I can hear the stream, which lies just over five miles away.

I can hear the mountain lions, just rising from their homes in the neighboring and surrounding mountains.

The forest was my home, my true home.

I never really wanted to leave it.

"We could do it, you know," Graham says quietly. "What?" I ask.

"Leave the kingdom. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Graham.

I sigh.

We had our families to think about, our 'children'. That's what they were really.

Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Henry, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Graham is devoted to his family.

I sigh as Graham turns to look and appreciate the views I had just looked over.

"Forget it," He mutters.

The idea itself was preposterous.

How could we leave?

We couldn't.

A small, very selfish voice in my head told me we could very well leave.

We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight.

The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze.

The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths.

Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Graham, hunting for tonight's supper.

But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.

"Let's hunt, alright?" He asks, his voice surprisingly soft as he offers me his hand to help me up.

I take it.

I never felt weak around Graham, it was natural. Calm, and soothing.

Shooting my arrows with my bow felt natural as breathing to me now.

It was a comfort to feel the smooth wood gliding beneath my fingers shooting somewhere, far, far away.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds.

By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries.

I found the patch a few years ago, but Graham had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

"Ready huntsman?" I ask, looking to Graham, who carries the bag of fish on his shoulder.

We walk in silence back, creeping underneath the fence.

We go to the Yard, where we trade our food for money and other valuable things.

Graham and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

"See you in the square," I say.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

The irony of that statement isn't lost on me.

.

At home, I find my mother and brother are ready to go.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

Things from the past, are very special to her.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says.

I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

Henry wears one of my father's old shirts, which looks much too big on him, and even pinned up he is having trouble keeping the tail in.

He wears slacks probably received from a neighbor whose son had just gotten too tall.

I hug him, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for him.

His first reaping. He's about as safe as you can get, since he's only entered once.

There's an odd system of entering.

You see, you enter your name in for something called stamps. Food stamps.

Everyone gets rations, but if you want a little more you get entered more times for more food.

You could die without it and die with it.

The kingdom's sick way of exerting their power and flexing it.

I hadn't let Henry enter, but I had entered four times a year since I was twelve, the official age of the Games.

I didn't do the math to make myself sick. (I'm entered twenty four times, Graham just touching forty)

I protect Henry in every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping.

The anguish I always feel when he's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.

I notice his shirt has pulled out of her slacks in the back again and force myself to stay calm.

"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the shirt back in place.

I acted more as a mother to Henry than my own mother did.

"Quack," He jokingly says grinning up at me.

I laugh quietly, something only Henry can elicit out of me.

"Come on, let's eat," I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of his head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread, Graham had given me some of his, for this evening's meal, to make it special we say.

Instead we drink milk from Henry's goat, Archie, and eat the rough bread made from the Stamp grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square.

Attendance is mandatory unless you are dying or severely ill, and they know if you are.

This evening, Queen's-Men will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in K12 that can be pleasant.

The town square is covered in a fine layer of sweet smelling grass, one of the only non-charred areas of the district.

Shops and people normally litter the streets as happily as you can get in K12.

Today, although there are bright banners and colorful balloons, there's a grimness that only comes on the day of the Reap.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold K12's booming population.

That always infuriated me: why bare children into this hell?

Was this the life you would want for your child? I understand times weren't always this way—but it doesn't make it right, nor is it ok.

Queen's-Men, who are always dressed in a black, glassish sort of armor, direct us by age and location into our sections: Oldest to Youngest, Mine to Town.

The Eighteen Year old's around me, from the Mine's nod once, our way of saying: good luck.

The Square gets more crowded as people begin to file in.

Everyone wears the same look on their face: slight annoyance and a bitter outlook.

We focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Magicinial Building.

It holds three chairs, a podium, and one large glass ball, one for the boys and girls' names. Twenty of them have Emma Nolan written on them in careful handwriting.

I take a deep breath before I see the Official's start to get on the stage.

First, there is Mayor Jiminy Cricket, who runs the town fairly. He's rather small, and has small tufts of orange hair sticking out from every which way on his head.

Next, there is Governor Grumpy, leader of the Mine community. Grumpy, a sour dwarf has been alive for hundreds of years. He was alive when Tabor was started, and he'll be alive long after it falls. So is the way of the dwarves.

Next, next is our Kingdom Representer: A bright woman, with black pixie cut hair, who reminds me of a cheerier version of my mother: Her name is Mary-Margaret.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read.

It's the same story every year.

He tells of the history of Tabor, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called The Enchanted Forest.

He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained.

He speaks of the Ogre wars, the dragons, the plague, anything really to make us feel grateful for our leaders. (It does anything but.)
The result was Tabor, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen Kingdoms, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens.

Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the kingdoms against the Queen.

Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Fairie Games.

The rules of the Fairie Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve kingdoms must provide one child, called a tribute, to participate.

The Twelve tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Queen requires us to treat the Fairie Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.

All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

"God Save the Queen," Our crowd monotonously repeats.

No one means it.

The Mayor calls Mary Margaret to the chair.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Mary Margaret trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Fairie Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

She's met with silence.

It doesn't stop her, she still smiles.

"Let us congratulate our previous victors," She says.

In the sixty-nine years the Fairie Games have been around, we've won two of them.

The victors act as mentors to the tribute each year. It doesn't make sense, but its the way of the games, I suppose.

The first, by man named Albus Dumbles, a man who died long ago, or so rumor has it.

The second, by a man named Jefferson.

He's drunk and as mad as a hatter.

Once, a creator for the Red Queen of wonderland, now reduced to a bumbling, incoherent drunk.

What a great mentor to our tribute.

Mary Margaret goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, who win games.

She's just too cheery for a district that is buried in darkness.

Through the crowd, I spot Graham looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reaping's go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor.

But suddenly I am thinking of Graham and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the kids. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.

"Thank you, Thank you," She finishes, her odd capitol accent coming out. She raises her hand, and the crowd almost leans forward in anticipation. It's killing us.

She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Mary Margaret crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.

It's Henry Nolan.


an:/ Well that's the first chapter folks. PLEASE REVIEW TO TELL ME IF I SHOULD CONTINUE. THERE WILL BE CS NEXT CHAPTER OR SOON. I PROMISE. PLEASE REVIEW

THANK YOU!