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קוצרים
kotz⬩reem
reapers
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There are very few trees in District Nine.
The soil is more than fertile enough to sustain them. Careful crop rotation practices, even in the district with the least biodiversity, keep the grains growing heartily, and the farmers take care of the ground and its harvest diligently and intentionally. If there were space for trees in Nine, they'd certainly flourish – but that is the job of District Eleven, not District Nine.
Even so, here and there, small pockets of nature are allowed to poke through the industrial waves of grain. These small meadows, though overlooked by many, are treasured greatly by those who take refuge in their unkempt glory. In a select few, a tree even manages to flourish, some as great as the tallest oaks in District Seven.
It is under one of these great trees that the paths of two children in District Nine would cross.
One, a girl, was the daughter of one of District Nine's most influential families. But the burden her parents had placed on her was too great to bear; she found solace in the tree, the one place she could exist as just herself, without worrying about the choice she would someday have to make…
• 𓇣 𓇣 𓇣 •
Iris's eyes are just about to flutter shut when she hears a knock at the door. Groggily, she flips over, blinking the heaviness of her eyelids away as the bright red numbers on her bedside table slowly come into view. She registers what they read just as she hears the sound of the door creaking open.
Her brow furrows. Her parents are usually gone by now, and it's two hours before the earliest Iris has seen them return.
How strange.
It's another moment before her brain clicks on. She saw, out of the corner of her eye as she went upstairs, the baggie that her mother slipped out of her pocket and handed to her father.
If they started that early, there is absolutely no way they remembered to lock the door on the way out.
Iris slips out of bed, frantically looking around the room for anything she can use to defend herself. Woefully bereft of anything heavy, she snatches a metal clothes hanger that dangles pitifully in her closet and untwists it, hopeful that its two sharp edges might cause an assailant enough pain that they'll somehow leave her alone.
Her hand is on the doorknob, her body ready to charge out at the enemy, before Iris realizes she has another way out of her house: through her window, which is conveniently next to her bed. Iris briefly considers her options, quickly coming to the intelligent conclusion that it is a bad idea to charge at an intruder who may or may not be armed. Instead, she pulls her blanket off of her bed and ties it to the post of her bedframe. Then, she opens the window, lowers down the blanket, and carefully climbs down her makeshift rope until her body is safe on the ground.
It takes a moment for Iris to get her bearings. She's never left her house this way before, after all; how is she supposed to instinctively know which way to turn to get to the street, especially in the dark? Should she even go towards the street, where the intruders may have left a guard? But if she doesn't go towards the street, which way can she go? Thoughts and questions spiral in Iris's head, until a single voice pierces through the storm.
Her father's voice.
Her brow furrows. Her parents never knock on the door when they come home; most of the time, they don't even remember to lock it on their way out.
How strange.
Curiosity gets the best of Iris. She creeps in the direction of the noise – which, as it turns out, is the direction of the street – keeping her body as close as she can to the side of the house. When she reaches the end of the wall, Iris peeks around the corner, now with a perfect view of her front stoop.
And whatever she was expecting to see, it certainly wasn't this.
In front of the door stands a boy who can't be much older than Iris herself. His clothing is dirty and tattered, and even in the dark, Iris can tell just how worn and holey his boots are. On his back, though, is a brand-new backpack, with a zipper that glints even in the dull moonlight.
The boy's arms gesture subtly yet emphatically as he talks to someone on the other side of the door, someone whose shadow looks all too familiar to Iris. She recognizes the way it sways back and forth, the way it allows its arms to fly in all directions as it speaks. Without even seeing the figure's face, she is sure that it is under the influence of god knows what, just as it always is.
But who is this boy, and why does he need to talk to her father now?
Iris knows that the safest thing for her to do would be to go back the way she came, around the house and up the rope and back to bed as if she never saw a thing. But something keeps her frozen in place. Perhaps it's her curiosity, perhaps her inexplicable desire to protect her parents… or perhaps just primal fear.
She watches her father's arms grow wilder and wilder; his shadow starts swaying back and forth as he grows more and more worked up. She watches the boy inch further and further back; Iris can imagine the look on his face without seeing any of the boy's features.
She watches her father lunge through the door, seize the boy, and drag him around the other side of the house.
Ear-piercing screams break Iris out of her trance, her brain once again flying at a mile a minute; she needs to move and she needs to move now. But the noise in her brain makes it nearly impossible to decide what to do, until one instinct pierces through the cacophony: self-preservation.
She can't go around to the other side of the house to stand as a witness; if she does, her father's fury might kill her too. She can't go back to her window and climb up her bedspread because she has no clue how much weight it'll hold – or how much time it'll take. Her best choice is to dash to the open front door and rush up the stairs to her room before anyone realizes she was even here.
But as she crosses through the doorframe, she's stopped dead in her tracks as she collides with her mother.
It's as if the room around her fades out of Iris's vision. Even the screams die down to the point that Iris can barely hear them. She can only sense two things: her heart pounding in her chest, and her mother's eyes burning into Iris's own.
Whatever is happening right now – whether it was supposed to happen or not – is something Iris was never meant to see.
Her mother grabs Iris's collar and pulls her into the house, slamming the door behind them. "What are you doing awake?" she hisses. "And how did you get outside?"
Iris feels her eyes flicking back and forth between the window and the woman in front of her. "I was… I didn't think you'd be home. And I was worried someone was…"
"Oh, honey," coos Selene, agitation melting away. She pulls Iris in close, placing Iris's head on her chest, eyes pointedly directed away from the window. With a soft hand, she gently strokes the girl's hair. "Don't worry. You're safe now."
Iris does not believe her mother in the slightest. In fact, she's never wanted to be this close to a person less. Not once in her life has her mother ever pretended that Iris's safety was even remotely a priority for her.
(Some kind of mother Selene is.)
(Some kind of father…)
Her instincts take over once more; Iris writhes, every ounce of her strength committed to regaining control over her own body. Finally, just when she thinks there's no way out of her mother's iron grip, Iris breaks free-
And crashes directly into her father.
Her eyes dart around - first to her mother's worried face, then her father's feral one, then the splotches of red that stain the front of Iris's pajamas.
This was precisely what her mother was trying to protect her from.
(Precisely what her mother was trying to ensure that Iris avoided.)
(And Iris realizes that she can hide from her parents no more.)
• 𓇣 𓇣 𓇣 •
The other, a boy, had never known his parents. He chose instead to pursue a life alongside his best friend, free from the shackles of the orphanage in which he grew up. He, too, finds solace in the tree, in the only place where the pain of his open wound of loss is dulled…
• 𓇣 𓇣 𓇣 •
From his favorite spot beneath his favorite tree, Rio watches the sunset grace District Nine with its presence. His fingers absently stroke the strings of the guitar that rests idly on the boy's lap. The delicate motion is still enough for a few soft notes to emerge; they settle on the wind, floating around Rio like the leaves that flutter down from the tree under which he sits.
If Rio had a pen and paper, the scene in front of him would make a perfect song. The tree behind his back casts its perfect silhouette on the ground in front of him; the beige waves of grain that extend as far as his eye can see glow with the amber of a thousand halos, swaying softly in the warm autumn breeze.
Nine is not a pretty place to live. Not ugly, sure, but there's no beauty to be found in the redundancy of barley and wheat. And yet, at this hour, Rio cannot imagine a place more gorgeous.
In the distance, he notices a ripple slowly spreading across the fields, steadily creeping towards him. To an untrained eye, it might seem like the wind's strength has picked up, but Rio notices the way the wave originates from the base of the wheat stalks, the way the amber sea parts to reveal small dark patches in the field below.
It's just the right time for the shift he used to work when he was still living in the community home. As soon as school was out, he and his peers were expected to be in the fields, gleaning whatever they could from the wheat that the adult harvesters dropped during the day.
He wonders how late the matron will make them stay out tonight. He wonders if she'll even tell them it's time to come in.
That was the last straw for Rio, back when most only feared the new matron because she was new. The old matron knew that her wards had a limit, that it was less important for the whole field to be canvassed than it was that her charges retained all their fingers. But on the first true fall night of the old witch's reign, when nobody in Nine should be out long past dusk, the children weren't retrieved from the field until the moon had already reached its apex.
Rio still remembers watching the youngest ones huddled together in their beds, desperate to stave off the frigid cold that had settled into their bones. But when the bravest of the older kids confronted her, all she had to say for herself was that she lost track of time. And that the kids should be grateful she remembered to bring them in at all.
Rio had already been tired of playing by the matron's rules. But if she could not even do the bare minimum for him – pretend that she was interested in keeping him safe – he had no reason to do the bare minimum for her.
He packed his things and left that very night.
A hand gently lands on Rio's shoulder, easing him out of his memory and back into reality. He glances behind him, eyes softening as they take in the smiling face of his best bud, Bud. "You made it."
"I did. Just barely enough time before I gotta head out."
"Where to?"
Bud shrugs. "Gig," he replies simply, easing himself down to the ground. "They want me there later than I expected."
Rio can't help but notice the care with which Bud positions himself, ensuring that no part of his knapsack touches the ground. In fact, the more he looks at the bag…
"Is that a new backpack?" Rio asks.
"Yeah. They gave it to me for the gig tonight."
"On top of the pay?"
"Mhm."
"They're treating you well."
"I guess."
There's a lot Bud doesn't tell Rio. It's been that way for a long time; Rio manages the pair's finances, sure, but it's Bud who makes the money that keeps them both alive. There are times Rio has wondered how exactly Bud makes all their money, wondered what keeps Bud away for so much of the night. But Rio doesn't push. He never does. Instead, he shifts over, ensuring there's room for both boys beneath the tree.
It's the least he can do for the only person in his life who's ever stayed by his side.
They sit together in silence as sunset turns to dusk, then dusk to evening. Only once the last rays of sun have dissipated from the horizon does Bud clamber to his feet.
"I think it's time I head out."
"Already?" Rio whispers, hoping Bud doesn't sense the hint of wistfulness that colors his tone. "It feels like you just got here."
(No amount of time would ever feel long enough for Rio.)
"I know. But I've got to go pretty far, and I can't be late. I'm already pushing it a little bit."
Rio nods. "Just… stay safe, ok, Bud?"
"I will. And you'll be here when I get back?"
"It's a warm night. There's nowhere better to be." And nowhere else I can go.
"Good." Bud hoists his backpack onto his back and tightens its straps. "I'll see you then."
"See you."
Rio watches as Bud turns, slowly picking up his pace as he heads down the hill. For a brief moment, Rio considers calling out after him to say just one more thing, but he stops himself before even a sound can come out of his mouth.
(He's thought about it a lot recently. But for a boy known for the words that dance out of his mouth, Rio can never seem to say this one thing, even though it's been dancing on his lips for years.
He insists to himself, time and time again, that he'll have the chance someday. that the right moment will present itself more than obviously to Rio. That there won't be any doubt in his mind when the day comes that Rio can tell Bud how he really feels.)
(They say that man's biggest regrets lie in the words left unsaid.)
• 𓇣 𓇣 𓇣 •
They could not have come from more different backgrounds: she was the daughter of one of Nine's wealthiest families, while he was the son of no family at all. Though they both lived in the largest of Nine's sporadic cities and towns, neither would ever have had a reason to speak to each other, nor even a reason to meet each other.
Yet somehow, day in and day out, whether they planned to or not, the two always found their way to the same spots against the tree trunk, her facing east and him facing west.
And who could ever say whether coincidence or fate kept drawing the two together.
By the end of April it is! Big thank yous to Nautics for Rio and VeneratedArt for Iris! I very much envision these two intros as sort of one big intro, so once you read it once, maybe take another read! See if you notice things in one POV that you didn't notice before now that you've read the other.
As always, a small plug for the SYOT Verses Discord server! SYOT Verses is the current hub for SYOT authors and submitters, as well as for those who are writing fics with their own THG OCs. It's my baby and I am always so happy to welcome new members in! You can check it out through this link, just delete the spaces: discord . gg / mUXHvTzxq6
I think I'm getting pretty consistent at the whole chapter thing. And I'm very much hoping that I'll manage to continue it as I am off from work this week! Fingers very much crossed because there's a big Jewish holiday in between, but if I can do it, I want to do it. I'll see you all very soon for D8!
xoxo, xxxi