A/N: So this is my first FanFiction, but I've got others in progress at the moment… hopefully you will be able to read them in the future. Yeah, the title's pretty cliché, but tough nuts.
Evander (Eve) Amerius; has been a long time character of mine, she wasn't always the same character; she's had her twists and turns, but always stayed the same inside. More cliché bullshit.
Hope you enjoy it, read and review? They mean a whole lot to me! Please and thank you?
If you're struggling to get a visual picture of Eve, the story photo is what I envisioned Eve to portray.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Hunger Games *sigh*, only my ideas. All rights towards the Hunger Games go to the amazing and gifted Suzanne Collins. :c
Hope you like it, computer hug!
A, xxx (If you're a HUMUNGUS fan of PLL like me, you would know the feeling to have a name starting with A.)
Chapter One
Reaping Day
GO BACK AND READ THE AUTHORS NOTE
I'm running. Running through the woods of the place I call home, branches scrapping across my tan face and long brunette braid swaying in the wind. I'm going as fast as my feet can take me, laughing; enjoying the feeling of the cold breeze against my body and muscles working after a restless night.
Where I come to a halt is a dusty circular patch of earth, surrounded by battered looking tall oaks that would tower over any Capitol building.
Taking my leather satchel off, I swing it to the side it to the side, causing a cloud of dust to surface from the ground. Unlike any other District, District 7 is allowed to roam the woods and forests and do as we please. But there are added concerns such as venomous snakes, bears and wild dogs; and I've had my fair share of those. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knows how to survive, and he taught me many of his ways. I like to think of a wise old man, with a scruffy beard and pudge in all the right places; a tell-tale lumberjack. He is kind and loving towards everyone he meets and a household name around District 7.
In my left hand I hold 3 throwing knives; in my right I hold two. Scanning the area, I am in my stance position; waiting to strike. In a split second I'm now facing the opposite tree, with a knife sticking out from where the bulls-eye should be.
Pulling out the second knife I threw, I examine the oak. Oak is a definite strong and sturdy wood, yet I have managed to completely pulverize it over a long period of time. There is an exceeding dent in where the bulls-eye point should be from my many days out in the sun throwing and beating until every bone in my body screamed for me to stop. Scratches from my sharp blade an deep chips scar the bark from my kicks and punches.
Satisfied with my work, and now aching bones, I make my path to the neighboring river and I swing up my satchel on to my shoulder on the way.
The river flows with clean fresh water throughout the woods, providing for the lumberjacks; It's clean water, the small creatures g swimming inside, and the edible plants attached to the bottom, a reliable source for the scorching long hours.
Waiting beside the stream is my best friend since I was 8. Eden. A smile creeps its way onto my face at the sight of him. Eden and I were definitely not dating, purely platonic. We could date if we wanted too, hell; the whole of district 7 thought we would eventually get married one day. The same brunette hair, tan skin, full lips, arched brows, and the occasional freckle dotting the smooth skin that covers both our button noses. The only difference between us was our eyes; his being a raging ember while mine are a bright emerald green bordered by a thin line of jet black.
I wasn't your average scrawny 17 year old girl, and I have as much muscle as the next, because hauling wood and throwing knives since the age of 4 was where it got you. Mother wasn't necessarily smiles and cheers for the idea, learning how to create snares, define plants and beat a tree trunk to a pulp wasn't exactly the ideal childhood that she pictured for her little girl.
"Hey Eve," says Eden with no particular emotion in his eyes. There is usually the occasional tint of cheekiness or shade of rage, but today? Completely lifeless.
"Hey." I reply flatly sitting beside him.
We sit in comfortable silence for about ten minutes for about 10 minutes according to the sun, and then Eden stands up dusting the dirt off his trousers, holding out s limp hand to me.
We walk down the familiar dusty path lined with tall fallow pines in silence before he speaks up.
"You know you're not going to get chosen," to I reply with a mere nod and he frowns at me. "You're great with a knife and axe, you can make snares, you know how to-"
"Eden let it go," I cut him off as we go our separate ways at the clearing of the woods. I can see him standing where I left him frowning, before he walks into the fog of the opposite direction. What he said was true, and that's probably why our District endures less when it comes to the Hunger Games.
We throw knives and axes, we learn about foraging, how to survive the wilderness from an extreme young age. We are definitely not like District 1, 2, or 4; the 'Career' Districts… who train their whole lives for the off chance of participating in the Games. Originally, it is illegal to train, but the Capitol usually turns the blind eye towards the Career Districts since they are the Capitol's personal lap dogs.
Unlike, the Career Districts, we don't train for victory, success or the thirst for unshed blood, but for a sense of survival, a second nature. Not everyone was born with a silver spoon in their mouth.
After my little mental rant, I break into a steady jog to clear my mind, enjoying the wing in my hair once again. I run past the dark oak and timber houses, with carved engravings in each door specifying what line of blood and family origin you come from; ours being the longest in the neighborhood.
The streets are empty; not surprising. Families are trying to spend as much more time with their children before the Reaping… and I'm late.
All too quick, I'm through the front door. Walking up to the island bench, I kiss my mother on the cheek. She doesn't look up from the carrots she is cutting in front of her when she speaks.
"You're late again Evander, how can you always manage to slip away from home so early and come home such a mess? Go clean yourself up." She practically whispers, I can't blame her for being upset… it's Reaping Day and two of her children have a chance of not coming home to her embrace tonight.
"I'm sorry mother, I don't mean to be." I reply, she lifts her gaze to meet mine and smiles weakly, the crinkle on her forehead making an appearance.
My mother, Thalia Amerius, is a beautiful and cunning woman. In some ways she is and older version of myself; long curly brunette hair, same facial features, emerald eyes, and even the way the corners of our mouths quirk up before a smile.
Our house wasn't the most lavish of the lot, making the narrow hallways a pain to navigate. On my venture down, I peer in to my younger brother's room, Wesley Amerius.
"Wes, it's me." I whisper through the door. I smile to myself when he engulfs me in a hug… and as we separate I look him right in the eye. He was a spitting image of my father and older brother Ether. My brother was named after my father because of some ancient tradition, being the first born male to be named after the father, blah, blah, and blah; almost every time the story was brought up, I would end up completely zoned out of the conversation. Both brothers' shared the same qualities as the rest of the family, brunette curls, tan skin and emerald green eyes.
Thinking about it, my whole family consists of the exact looks; father, mother, Ether, myself and Wesley.
In District 7, every member lives in the same house with the rest of their family until marriage, and it is their own turn. Air-go the door engraved with your family marking and signs, symbolizing who you are, heritage and tradition. I never really understood our own, a mixture of swirls and patterns, all joining up to reveal a majestic eagles head. But I guess it made sense, seeing that the eagle represents the sun; the whole of District Sevens livelihood.
Looking into the smudged mirror of my cramped room, I don't take my eyes of my reflection.
"Mother!" I exclaim, soon enough her head peers through the door frame raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Would you mind doing my hair for me?" I asked sweetly, she doesn't answer; just gently slides the hair band out of my long brunette curls, in her own silent response. This has become some tradition my mother and I have; she would always comb away the knots and get me ready for the Reaping every year, a sense of closure for the both of us to share in comfortable silence.
"You know Eve, you should be able to do your own hair by the age of 17," she muttered to herself, tweaking the finishing touches in my hair. It was now hanging to one side of my head past my ribs in a fish tail braid; accompanied by a slim forest green ribbon at covering the elastic band.
"Thank you mother," with those words, she was out of the room in a single stride.
Together we head back the way I just ran, joining other families like ours, walking slowly and largely silently through the sunshine.
It sickens me to the stomach even thinking about the dreadful event. On this torturous day, 24 children will be chosen to partake in a televised battle to the death. And only one comes out. As if starving and undermining the majority of Panem's citizens in every way imaginable wasn't enough, we have to watch children kill each other. Not even aware of the pain and loss they have created.
I separate from my parents at the huge clearing of the towns square, heading towards the seventeen year-old registration tables. The soft prick of the blood sampler is enough to wake me up from the daydream, and my legs start to move almost robotically towards the roped off area for my age group.
Looking back one more time, the rest of my family are secured behind the withered leather ropes, safe.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome," a high pitched voice booms suddenly across the crowd, tearing from my daze. The way she drawls out the words one by one brings shivers down my spine, like she enjoys seeing the lifeless faces before her flinch at her every word.
Our Districts escort; Cotton Deco stands before the entire District, vibrating from the enthusiasm bubbling inside of her, itching to claw itself out. Her outfit is ridiculously absurd once again, consisting of an awful shade of neon orange covering her from head to toe. She seems to just stand there, silently sizing us all up with her beady orange eyes before continuing.
"Happy Hunger Games, and, May the odds be ever in your favour!"
As the tradition ceremony begins, I begin to zone out. Shutting my eyes, concentrating on the soft breeze that flows across my face and in my hair for what seems like the millionth time today.
Until finally Cotton's shrill voice breaks me out of my haze, "Now, the time has come, for us to select, one courageous young man and women, for the honour, of representing District Seven in the 74th annual Hunger Games, as usual?" She gushes, "Ladies first." She states this firmly, which in the complete opposite compared to her habitual enthusiastic charm.
Cotton then begins to hobble across the stage in her bizarre 9 inch heels, stopping in front of the two massive glass bowls ahead of her.
Slipping off her glove, her perfectly manicured nails clink against the cold glass, and her pale fingers linger over the small envelopes almost menacingly, up until she dives her hand in, until slipping out a singular envelope; displaying the piece of paper in the air in anticipation.
Her next words will tear my world apart and build it back together to the extent I wasn't yet aware of.
"Evander Amerius!"