This might be a really confusing fanfic. It's one of my first, and it's got quite a complex plot; let's just say it's basically NOTHING like Fable, it's just got the characters, okay? 
And yes, I am aware that in this story, Logan is younger than the princess. And yes, this is after Fable 3, WAY after, but yes, Logan and Arianne and Sparrow are still alive. *clapclap* And yes, Logan's nice. And YEEESSS... the characters in this are not royal. They're normal people, but the Fable 3 Characters. I did say this was confusing. Bear with me? And if you're wondering what the "choosing" is, you'll see soon PLLLEEAAAASSSEEE don't fill the forum with your feedback, as I will be posting the other chapters here, so I don't want them to get lost in the comments! If you would like to give a simple message of feedback, answer the poll, and if you have any constructive critisicm, comments or feedback you desperately want to share with me, please message me
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When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, but finding nothing but the rough canvas cover of the mattress. Logan must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother, who we all call Sparrow. Of course he did. This is the day of the choosing.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little brother, Logan, curled up on his side. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. She was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Logan's knees, guarding him, is his dog. A black and white Border Collie, Logan named him Rayne, insisting that his muddy coat reminded him of a dirty rain-puddle. Rayne 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 Logan brought him home. Scrawny puppy, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Logan begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out OK. Sparrow got rid of the vermin and he's a born treasure-hunter. Even finds the occasional dig-spot. At least he's stopped growling at me.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my mercenary boots. Supple leather that has moulded to my feet. I pull on my practical trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a hat, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to shield it from hungry dogs (Rayne stole our last loaf of bread), sits a perfect little goat's cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Logan's gift to me on choosing day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.
Our part of Bowerstone is usually crawling with people. Men and women with hunched shoulders, trying to keep from starving. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat grey houses are closed. The Choosing isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the end of the street. I only need to walk a few miles to reach the meadow. Seperating the meadow from Silverpines Woods, in fact enclosing all of Bowerstone, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day with Will magic as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods - packs of Balverines, lone mercenaries, Hollow Men - that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the steady hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I use Force Push to create a small hole in the fence, flatten out on my stomach, and slide through.
As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a rifle and sword from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the creatures out of Bowerstone. Inside Silverpines they roam freely, and there are added concerns like Hobbes and wolves, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know where to find it. My father knew and he taught me some ways before he died.
Even though Silverpines is dangerous, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My sword is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, like the rifle slung over my back. My father could have made good Gold selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Guards turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anyone is. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming Bowerstone would never have been allowed.
In the autumn, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of Bowerstone if trouble arises.
"Bowerstone. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared Sparrow to death, the things I would blurt out about Bowerstone, about the people who rule Albion. Eventually I understood that 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 Bowerstone Market. Discuss little more than trades there, where I make most of my money. Even at home, when I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the Choosing, or food shortages, or The Hunger Games. Logan may begin to repeat my words, and then where would we be?
In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Elliot. 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 valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Elliot says I never smile except in the woods.
"Hey, Ari," says Elliot. My real name is Arianna, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it, so all he heard was "Ari". It soon became his official nickname for me.
"Look what I caught." Elliot holds up a loaf of bread with a knife stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the knife, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth water. 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?"
"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Elliot. "Even wished me luck."
"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. "Logan left us some cheese." I pull it out.
His expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Logan. We'll have a real feast." Suddenly he falls into an Auroran accent as he mimics Kalin, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the Choosing. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds-" he tosses a berry in a high arc towards me.
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. "-be EVER in your favour!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Auroran accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.
I watch as Elliot pulls out his knife again and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight brown hair, olive skin; we even have the same brown eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families resemble one another this way.
That's why Sparrow and Logan, with their dark hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. Sparrow's grandparents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Guards and the occasional customer. They ran a stall in the nicer part of Bowerstone.
Elliot spreads the bread slices with the soft goat's cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. 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 Elliot, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in Bowerstone Market at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.
"We could do it, you know," Elliot says quietly.
"What?" I ask.
"Leave Bowerstone. Run off. Live in Silverpines. You and I, we could make it," says Elliot.
I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.
"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.
They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Elliot's two little brothers and a sister. Logan. And you might as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? 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.
"I never want to have kids," I say.
"I might. If I didn't live here," says Elliot.
"But you do," I say, irritated.
"Forget it," he snaps back.
The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Logan, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Elliot is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did... even if we did... where did this stuff about having kids come from? There's never been anything romantic between Elliot and me, even though we were "childhood sweethearts".
Besides, if he wants kids, Elliot won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous, but not in the way people think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish or gather.
"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight," he says.
Tonight. After the Choosing, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.
We do well. The predators ignore us when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a large quantity of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, but Elliot had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.
On the way home, we swing by Bowerstone Market. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, two more for salt. Sae, the old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Sae. She's the only one who can be consistently counted on to buy wolf. We don't hunt them deliberately, but if you're attacked and you take out a wolf, well, meat is meat.
"Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Sae says with a wink. No one in Bowerstone would turn up their nose at a good leg of wolf, but the Guards to come to Bowerstone Market can afford to be a little choosier.
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back entrance to the castle to sell half the strawberries, knowing the King has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. The Princess, Maya, opens the door. Being the Princess, you'd expect her to be a bit of a snob, but she's all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friend, we seem to end up together a lot at Bowerstone Academy. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.
Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive blue and white dress, and her brown hair is done up with a blue ribbon. Choosing clothes.
"Beautiful dress," Elliot says.
Maya shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It IS a beautiful dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up in the Hunger Games, I want to look nice, don't I?"
Now it's Elliot's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? I'm guessing the second.
"You won't be in the Hunger Games," says Elliot coolly. "What can you have, five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."
"That's not her fault," I say.
"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Elliot.
Maya's face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries in my hand. "Good luck, Arianne."
"You, too," I say, and the door closes.
We walk towards Bowerstone in silence. I don't like that Elliot took a dig at Maya, but he's right, of course. The Choosing system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the Choosing the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times. That's true for every citizen in Bowerstone.
But here's the catch. Say you are poor and starving, as we were. You can opt to add your name more time in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meagre year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once because I had to, and three time for tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Logan and Sparrow. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Elliot, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.
You can see why someone like Maya, who has never been at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in Bowerstone. Not impossible, but slim. But even though the rules are clear, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tessera.
Elliot knows his anger at Maya is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in Bowerstone. A way to plant hatred between the starving civilians of Bowerstone and those who can generally count on supper; and thereby ensure we will never trust one another.
"It's to their advantage to have us divided amongst ourselves," he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't Choosing Day.
As we walk, I glance over at Elliot's face, still furious underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about it in the middle of the wood? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell, though. Better he does it in the woods than in Bowerstone.
Elliot and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens a few handfuls of strawberries, salt, paraffin and a bit of money for each of us.
"See you at Bowerstone Market," I say.
"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.
At home, I find Sparrow and Logan are ready to go. Sparrow wears a fine dress from her wealthy days. Logan is in his first Choosing outfit, an armoured shirt and purple leggings. It's a bit big on him, but Sparrow has made it stay with pins. Even so, he's having trouble keeping the shirt tucked in at the back.
A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub of the dirt from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, Sparrow 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.
"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up onto my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.
"You look pretty," twelve-year-old Logan pipes up.
"And nothing like myself," I say. I hug him, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for him. His first Choosing. He's about as safe as you can get since he's only entered once. I wouldn't let him take out any tesserae. But he's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.
I protect Logan in every way I can, but I'm powerless against The Choosing. 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 his leggings in the back again and force myself to stay calm.
"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the shirt back in place.
Logan laughs and gives me a small "Quack".
"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Logan can draw out of me. "Come on, let's eat," I say and give him another quick hug.
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 for this evening's meal, to make it special, we say. Instead we drink milk and eat the rough bread made from the tessera grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.
At one o'clock, we head for Bowerstone Market. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, Guards 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 Choosing in Bowerstone Market - one of the few places in Bowerstone that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by stalls, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness.
People file in silently and sign in. The Choosing is a good opportunity for them to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- to eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Logan, towards the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, if they will break down and weep, if they'll be strong in the Games or not. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.
Anyway, Elliot and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.
The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic, as people arrive. Bowerstone Market's quite large, but not enough to hold Bowerstone's large population. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event from a distance.
I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens. We all exchange terse nods, then focus our attention on the temperory stage that is set up in front of the pub. It holds three chairs, a podium and a large glass ball. I stare at the paper slips in the ball. Twenty of them have Arianna Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.
Two of the three chairs fill with the King, who's a tall, balding man, and Kalin, fresh from Aurora. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.
Just as the town clock strikes two, the King steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Albion.
The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. Each of the twelve districts in Albion must provide two youths called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four 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.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch - this is their way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we could stand of surviving a rebellion. Whatever words they use. the real message is clear.
"Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy you. Just as we did in Brightwall."
To make it humiliating as well as torturous, they require us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive recieves a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, they 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 King. Then he reads the list of past Bowerstone victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Reaver, an industrialist who never seems to age, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligable, staggers on to the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with it's token applause, but he's confused and tried to give Kalin a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.
The King looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now Bowerstone is the laughing stock of Albion, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the Choosing by introducing Kalin.
Serious as ever, Kalin makes her way to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be EVER in your favour!" She goes on a bit about what an honour it is to be here, although everyone knows she's dreading condemning another two youths to a near-death match.
Throught the crowd, I spot Elliot looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As Choosings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Elliot and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favour. Not compared to a lot of the boys. 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.
It's time for the drawing. Kalin crosses reluctantly and slowly over to the glass ball. 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.
Kalin crosses back to the podium, smooths the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear, sad, serious voice. And it's not me.
It's Logan.
And yes, I am aware that in this story, Logan is younger than the princess. And yes, this is after Fable 3, WAY after, but yes, Logan and Arianne and Sparrow are still alive. *clapclap*
And yes, Logan's nice. And YEEESSS... the characters in this are not royal. They're normal people, but the Fable 3 Characters. I did say this was confusing. Bear with me? And if you're wondering what the "choosing" is, you'll see soon PLLLEEAAAASSSEEE don't fill the forum with your feedback, as I will be posting the other chapters here, so I don't want them to get lost in the comments! If you would like to give a simple message of feedback, answer the poll, and if you have any constructive critisicm, comments or feedback you desperately want to share with me, please message me --
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, but finding nothing but the rough canvas cover of the mattress. Logan must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother, who we all call Sparrow. Of course he did. This is the day of the choosing.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little brother, Logan, curled up on his side. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. She was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Logan's knees, guarding him, is his dog. A black and white Border Collie, Logan named him Rayne, insisting that his muddy coat reminded him of a dirty rain-puddle. Rayne 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 Logan brought him home. Scrawny puppy, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Logan begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out OK. Sparrow got rid of the vermin and he's a born treasure-hunter. Even finds the occasional dig-spot. At least he's stopped growling at me.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my mercenary boots. Supple leather that has moulded to my feet. I pull on my practical trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a hat, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to shield it from hungry dogs (Rayne stole our last loaf of bread), sits a perfect little goat's cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Logan's gift to me on choosing day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.
Our part of Bowerstone is usually crawling with people. Men and women with hunched shoulders, trying to keep from starving. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat grey houses are closed. The Choosing isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the end of the street. I only need to walk a few miles to reach the meadow. Seperating the meadow from Silverpines Woods, in fact enclosing all of Bowerstone, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day with Will magic as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods - packs of Balverines, lone mercenaries, Hollow Men - that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the steady hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I use Force Push to create a small hole in the fence, flatten out on my stomach, and slide through.
As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a rifle and sword from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the creatures out of Bowerstone. Inside Silverpines they roam freely, and there are added concerns like Hobbes and wolves, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know where to find it. My father knew and he taught me some ways before he died.
Even though Silverpines is dangerous, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My sword is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, like the rifle slung over my back. My father could have made good Gold selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Guards turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anyone is. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming Bowerstone would never have been allowed.
In the autumn, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of Bowerstone if trouble arises.
"Bowerstone. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared Sparrow to death, the things I would blurt out about Bowerstone, about the people who rule Albion. Eventually I understood that 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 Bowerstone Market. Discuss little more than trades there, where I make most of my money. Even at home, when I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the Choosing, or food shortages, or The Hunger Games. Logan may begin to repeat my words, and then where would we be?
In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Elliot. 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 valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Elliot says I never smile except in the woods.
"Hey, Ari," says Elliot. My real name is Arianna, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it, so all he heard was "Ari". It soon became his official nickname for me.
"Look what I caught." Elliot holds up a loaf of bread with a knife stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the knife, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth water. 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?"
"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Elliot. "Even wished me luck."
"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. "Logan left us some cheese." I pull it out.
His expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Logan. We'll have a real feast." Suddenly he falls into an Auroran accent as he mimics Kalin, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the Choosing. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds-" he tosses a berry in a high arc towards me.
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. "-be EVER in your favour!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Auroran accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.
I watch as Elliot pulls out his knife again and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight brown hair, olive skin; we even have the same brown eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families resemble one another this way.
That's why Sparrow and Logan, with their dark hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. Sparrow's grandparents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Guards and the occasional customer. They ran a stall in the nicer part of Bowerstone.
Elliot spreads the bread slices with the soft goat's cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. 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 Elliot, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in Bowerstone Market at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.
"We could do it, you know," Elliot says quietly.
"What?" I ask.
"Leave Bowerstone. Run off. Live in Silverpines. You and I, we could make it," says Elliot.
I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.
"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.
They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Elliot's two little brothers and a sister. Logan. And you might as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? 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.
"I never want to have kids," I say.
"I might. If I didn't live here," says Elliot.
"But you do," I say, irritated.
"Forget it," he snaps back.
The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Logan, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Elliot is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did... even if we did... where did this stuff about having kids come from? There's never been anything romantic between Elliot and me, even though we were "childhood sweethearts".
Besides, if he wants kids, Elliot won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous, but not in the way people think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish or gather.
"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight," he says.
Tonight. After the Choosing, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.
We do well. The predators ignore us when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a large quantity of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, but Elliot had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.
On the way home, we swing by Bowerstone Market. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, two more for salt. Sae, the old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Sae. She's the only one who can be consistently counted on to buy wolf. We don't hunt them deliberately, but if you're attacked and you take out a wolf, well, meat is meat.
"Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Sae says with a wink. No one in Bowerstone would turn up their nose at a good leg of wolf, but the Guards to come to Bowerstone Market can afford to be a little choosier.
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back entrance to the castle to sell half the strawberries, knowing the King has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. The Princess, Maya, opens the door. Being the Princess, you'd expect her to be a bit of a snob, but she's all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friend, we seem to end up together a lot at Bowerstone Academy. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.
Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive blue and white dress, and her brown hair is done up with a blue ribbon. Choosing clothes.
"Beautiful dress," Elliot says.
Maya shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It IS a beautiful dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up in the Hunger Games, I want to look nice, don't I?"
Now it's Elliot's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? I'm guessing the second.
"You won't be in the Hunger Games," says Elliot coolly. "What can you have, five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."
"That's not her fault," I say.
"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Elliot.
Maya's face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries in my hand. "Good luck, Arianne."
"You, too," I say, and the door closes.
We walk towards Bowerstone in silence. I don't like that Elliot took a dig at Maya, but he's right, of course. The Choosing system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the Choosing the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times. That's true for every citizen in Bowerstone.
But here's the catch. Say you are poor and starving, as we were. You can opt to add your name more time in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meagre year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once because I had to, and three time for tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Logan and Sparrow. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Elliot, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.
You can see why someone like Maya, who has never been at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in Bowerstone. Not impossible, but slim. But even though the rules are clear, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tessera.
Elliot knows his anger at Maya is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in Bowerstone. A way to plant hatred between the starving civilians of Bowerstone and those who can generally count on supper; and thereby ensure we will never trust one another.
"It's to their advantage to have us divided amongst ourselves," he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't Choosing Day.
As we walk, I glance over at Elliot's face, still furious underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about it in the middle of the wood? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell, though. Better he does it in the woods than in Bowerstone.
Elliot and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens a few handfuls of strawberries, salt, paraffin and a bit of money for each of us.
"See you at Bowerstone Market," I say.
"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.
At home, I find Sparrow and Logan are ready to go. Sparrow wears a fine dress from her wealthy days. Logan is in his first Choosing outfit, an armoured shirt and purple leggings. It's a bit big on him, but Sparrow has made it stay with pins. Even so, he's having trouble keeping the shirt tucked in at the back.
A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub of the dirt from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, Sparrow 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.
"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up onto my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.
"You look pretty," twelve-year-old Logan pipes up.
"And nothing like myself," I say. I hug him, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for him. His first Choosing. He's about as safe as you can get since he's only entered once. I wouldn't let him take out any tesserae. But he's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.
I protect Logan in every way I can, but I'm powerless against The Choosing. 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 his leggings in the back again and force myself to stay calm.
"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the shirt back in place.
Logan laughs and gives me a small "Quack".
"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Logan can draw out of me. "Come on, let's eat," I say and give him another quick hug.
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 for this evening's meal, to make it special, we say. Instead we drink milk and eat the rough bread made from the tessera grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.
At one o'clock, we head for Bowerstone Market. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, Guards 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 Choosing in Bowerstone Market - one of the few places in Bowerstone that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by stalls, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness.
People file in silently and sign in. The Choosing is a good opportunity for them to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- to eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Logan, towards the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, if they will break down and weep, if they'll be strong in the Games or not. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.
Anyway, Elliot and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.
The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic, as people arrive. Bowerstone Market's quite large, but not enough to hold Bowerstone's large population. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event from a distance.
I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens. We all exchange terse nods, then focus our attention on the temperory stage that is set up in front of the pub. It holds three chairs, a podium and a large glass ball. I stare at the paper slips in the ball. Twenty of them have Arianna Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.
Two of the three chairs fill with the King, who's a tall, balding man, and Kalin, fresh from Aurora. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.
Just as the town clock strikes two, the King steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Albion.
The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. Each of the twelve districts in Albion must provide two youths called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four 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.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch - this is their way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we could stand of surviving a rebellion. Whatever words they use. the real message is clear.
"Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy you. Just as we did in Brightwall."
To make it humiliating as well as torturous, they require us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive recieves a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, they 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 King. Then he reads the list of past Bowerstone victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Reaver, an industrialist who never seems to age, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligable, staggers on to the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with it's token applause, but he's confused and tried to give Kalin a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.
The King looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now Bowerstone is the laughing stock of Albion, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the Choosing by introducing Kalin.
Serious as ever, Kalin makes her way to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be EVER in your favour!" She goes on a bit about what an honour it is to be here, although everyone knows she's dreading condemning another two youths to a near-death match.
Throught the crowd, I spot Elliot looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As Choosings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Elliot and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favour. Not compared to a lot of the boys. 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.
It's time for the drawing. Kalin crosses reluctantly and slowly over to the glass ball. 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.
Kalin crosses back to the podium, smooths the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear, sad, serious voice. And it's not me.
It's Logan.
