Chapter 1:
My name is Sylvia Nightrose, and now... I'm running. I am surrounded by dark pines, and I'm speeding through this forest. I don't know where I'm running; all I know is that I'm running from something – but I don't know what that is, either. I'm unequipped and defenseless as I tear through the trees; my speed is my only hope now. An arrow whizzes past my ear, and, instinctively, I duck. My foot catches on a fallen log, and I stumble; at that very moment, excruciating pain explodes in my right shoulder. There is no doubt that my pursuer's arrow has found its mark.
Without pausing for breath, I twist and tear the arrow from my shoulder, flinging it to the ground. I hardly stop running to inspect the deep wound that releases warm blood over my jacket. My hair is let down, and whips in front of my face, but I hold it in front, my feet pounding against the cold forest floor. The sound of footsteps grows fainter and fainter as I run along.
Finally, I stop in my tracks, and turn around to judge my pursuer's distance from me. My eyes scan the area for as far as I can see, but there is no sign of any person near the trees that I can see. And that is when an arrow pierces my neck.
I stagger back, and fall to my knees. The arrow is lodged in the base of my throat, and a sound that is half-cry and half-moan escapes my open jaws. Blood stains my jacket collar. My hands fly up to touch the wound, but this only causes a slight sting in the area. For a few long moments, I don't feel anything but shock. And then, the pain strikes, and I cry out again, this time because of the agony caused by the wound in my neck.
I wake up, sweating. My long, brown hair is a tangled mess beneath me, and my bright blue eyes are blinking in shock. My shoulder and neck still ache a little, but it's the kind of pain that will go away soon. It's the morning before the reaping, and... I've been having nightmares of the Hunger Games since three nights ago.
It's not just any reaping. It's the first reaping where my name has been entered. I turned twelve less than a month ago, so this will be my first time. My cold hands clamp together, and I shiver slightly. What if I'm chosen for the Games? What'll happen then? I don't know how to fight too well, and I'm completely unprepared. I probably would meet my end before the first day is over; I don't really stand a chance if I'm reaped.
There are only a few things that might serve as advantages to me, if I am actually reaped. I can shoot with deadly accuracy, but I never used the bow that most archers use. The bow I used was harder to string, and it had several indents that worked to my advantage. Besides, I haven't handled a bow and arrow in years. I practiced archery when I was around seven, but I stopped after my father died. Maybe it might all come back to me sometime, but I'd rather resort to other things in the Games.
I have decent experience with edible and herbal plants, as well, so that might do me some good – in fact, inside District 11, I'm probably the one who knows best about healing. Our district is that of agriculture; thus, there are always workers falling off ladders or being exposed to some poisonous plant. They usually come to our home, trusting that I will be able to heal them. Which means, that if I'm reaped, then no one can come to me for help to heal a person.
And, most importantly, I can run; I'm nimble and fast for my young age of twelve. I can also climb trees very well; running and hiding go well together. If I am chosen for the Games, I'll probably end up seeking refuge in the depths of some ancient tree. And if I'm attacked, I'll easily outpace my opponent.
I still hope I'm not chosen for the twenty-eighth Hunger Games. I don't want to die very soon, especially not at the hands of another tribute who's being forced to fight twenty-three others to the death in order to survive. It's brutal, and unnecessary. President Snow, the head of Panem, just sits in his seat in the Capitol, watching in pleasure as all but one tribute dies every year. Two years ago, a blind girl from District 7 was reaped, and she barely survived two days. It wasn't fair to her, but the Capitol did absolutely nothing to stop the innocent girl's death.
It's harsh, and unfair. There's no need for twenty-four people to fight to the death in an arena, is there? Then why do we do it? What does our misery mean to President Snow and the Capitol?
My knuckles are almost white with cold fear as I perceive myself falling to my death in the Games. I almost fail to notice the warm, gentle hand that slips in behind me and rests on my back. I turn, slightly startled by the gesture, to see that it is my mother, Maya Nightrose. Her soft green eyes meet my worried blue ones, and her lips curve up gently in a smile as her hand runs through my dark hair. "Are you all right, Sylvia?"
"I... I'm worried, Mother," I blurt, looking up into her warm stare.
"Don't be." Her words are so simple, yet somehow they make me a little calmer. "It's your first time in the reaping, and there are many, many other candidates. You probably won't be reaped." My ears pick up the way she slightly lingers on the word probably.
"But what if I am reaped?"
My mother removes her hand from my head. "Every child who is eligible asks the same question. It probably won't happen. There's only one girl and one boy from each district, and there are plenty of other girls who have an equal or higher chance of being reaped." She sighs, motioning for me to stand. Come on; we have to get you ready for the reaping today. Even if you're not chosen, I want you to look your best."
Reluctantly, I stand, and follow my mother into the main room of the house. Well, our small "cottage" really has only one room, but we have divided it into different corners: one for sleeping, one for eating, one for bathing, one for storage, and one main area.
"It's still really early," I complain, looking to see that the sun was barely up in the sky. "The reaping doesn't begin until an hour, or so. I don't need to get ready now. I can wait for a little, can't I, Mother?"
My mother looks at me, seeming slightly puzzled, and shrugs. "I suppose so. Is there anything specific you want to do?"
"No," I say, shaking my head, "I'll just go outside and see if I can be useful to anyone." Without waiting for her reply, I slowly walk out of the door – which was no more than an open entrance – and stop in the center of the open area, at the base of the podium where the reaping takes place. My chin is slightly tilted upwards as I gaze at the area where the selected tributes are usually made to stand.
On the screens in our district, I've watched the full story of the Hunger Games only twice; before that, my mother thought it would be too harsh and covered my eyes from time to time, when the fighting was brutal.
I lower my gaze to a small puddle at my feet. I won't be reaped, I tell myself. I won't be. There are many other girls in District 11 who could. I won't be reaped. I won't be reaped. I won't be...
At that moment, a new face appeared in the puddle, beside mine, and a hand touched my shoulder. From the reflection, I can tell that it's my close friend Brooke. This will be her first reaping, too, where she can be eligible. While we are very close friends, the two of us look nothing alike. I have long brown hair that falls to just above my waist, and bright blue eyes. You rarely see people like that in District 11, as most people look more like Brooke. My friend has darker, short, curly brown hair that doesn't even reach her shoulders, and warm brown eyes.
I turn as she speaks to me. "Hi, Sylvia. I called out to you from our home, but I guess you didn't hear."
"Sorry... I'm nervous." My voice shakes as I speak, emphasizing my words.
Brooke's hand brushes my shoulder again, and I study her slender form. She isn't as thin as I am, but neither of us have much to eat – all because we live in District 11. "I know, Sylvia. So am I. Mother says that every child feels the same way, even the eighteen-year-olds... why are you looking like that?"
"Because my mother said the same thing to me," I say quietly.
Brooke smiles at me. "They all think the same way." I nod, and the two of us remain in silence for a few long minutes, staring at the podium ahead of us. Two people, one boy and one girl, would be standing up there in less than two hours, torn away from their families, and about to head to their deaths.
Finally, I break the silence. "Is Goldie feeling better?" Marigold, known to most of the district as Goldie, was Brooke's five-year-old sister, who had eaten some strange plant that appeared to me to be poisonous. I had given Goldie an herb – I don't know it's name – that I knew would make her sick, and would cause her to throw up from time to time for the next few days. And in the process, the poison would have left her body.
"She's definitely better than before, yes," Brooke says, "but she's not quite back to normal. I suppose it'll take a few more days for her to recover, though. Whatever you gave her should do it."
"I hope so," I say blankly, my mind not really on Goldie.
Brooke's comforting touch drains out of my body as she pulls her hand away to face me. "You're still thinking about the Games, aren't you?" she asks, rather accusingly, and I nod sheepishly. "Well... there are hundreds of other slips, you know. It probably won't be one of us."
"You're probably right, Brooke," I reply, with a soft sigh. "Neither of us is going to be reaped."
There is a long pause, and the two of us hold gazes for what seems like minutes. Brooke speaks again, finally, and I blink my bright blue eyes as she takes a step back. "I should go now. Goldie... needs me. And we have to get ready for the reaping. Mother will never let me attend it without looking my best."
"I should go, too," I say, hearing my mother call for me to come inside. "Mother's calling me." But Brooke hadn't stopped to listen to me finish speaking; she had already gone. I watch as she pauses in front of her home, waves farewell to me, and disappears inside.
I jump as something lands at my feet. It is a loaf of dry bread, more than enough for my mother and me. "May the odds be in your favor!" The voice comes from the bread's owner: Azalea, an elderly lady who is one of the wealthier people in District 11.
"Thank you," I reply quietly, picking it up. The aroma fills my nostrils; it has been two or three days since I last ate. Sighing, I turn and walk back to my home, and my mother greets me with a smile.
"Come on; we need to get you ready for the reaping."
A Question for You: What do you think of Sylvia? And how do you feel about Brooke?
I've been thinking of writing this fanfiction for quite a while, now, but I never got around to doing it. I'll try to update as often as I can. The more reviews I get, the sooner I'll update this. So... I hope you enjoy. Please review!
~ The Tiger's Flame