When I awoke, Sweetie was in my mothers bed. She probably had a bad dream. Of course. It is the Reaping today. Sitting up, I can see them. Sweetie's muzzle is nuzzled into my mother's mane.
And sitting next to them is the world's strangest and ugliest cat. Mashed in nose, strange colored eyes, mangled and dirty fur. Its name is Opal, because Sweetie said that her dull muddy white coat matches the rainbow coloring of the gem. She hates me. When Sweetie had brought her home, she was a disgustingly ugly kitten swarming with disease. I didn't want to have another mouth to feed. But Sweetie begged, cried, so I let her stay. However, I tried to drown her. She survived. But Sweetie got rid of the disease and he mouses. Sometimes catches a rat. When I clean a kill, I usually feed Opal the entrails. She does not hiss at me anymore. Entrails. No hissing. This is probably the closet we will come to love.
I jump off the bed and put on my saddle bags; old, worn out leather bags help together with a leather strap. I use my horn to put my hair into a braid, then I go to the table and see a little piece of cheese wrapped in basil leaves. A gift from Prim on the Reaping day. I put the cheese in my saddle bag and head outside. Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with miner ponies heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Mares and stallions with hunched shoulders, swollen hooves, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust off of their broken hooves, the lines on their sunken faces. But today the dirty cobblestone streets are empty. The shutters on the squat, dull gray stables are shut. Most ponies are trying to sleep in. If they can. The Reaping isn't until two.
Our stable is near the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few stables to get to a scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, or rather enclosing District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire loops. In theory its supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day to protect us from the packs of wild dogs, manticores, and Ursa Minors that used to threaten our streets. But since we are lucky to even get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, its usually safe to touch. Despite the fact, I always take a moment to listen for the hum that means the fence is on. Right now, it is as silent as stone. Concealed by some bushes, I slip under a hole in the fence that has been loose for years. There are many holes in the fence, but this one is the closest to home so I almost always enter the woods here. As soon as I'm in the trees, I grab a bow and sheath of arrows. Electrified or not, the fence has done a good job of keeping wild animals out of District 12. Inside the woods, they run free, and there are more dangers such as venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths. But there's plenty of food if you know how to find it. My father knew how and he taught me before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There wasn't even anything to bury. I was eleven. Five years later, I still awake screaming for him to run.
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the worst of penalties, more people would take the risk if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to carry just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others I keep hidden in the woods, wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have made plenty money selling them, but if the officials found out, he would be publicly executed for starting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the little of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they are some of our best customers. But the idea someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.
In the fall, a few brave souls, such as my friend Applejack, sneak into the forest to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run to safety in District 12 if trouble arises. “District Twelve. Where you can starve in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance over my shoulder. Even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you. When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would say about District 12, about the people who rule Equistria, 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 turn my face into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my though. Work quietly at school. Make only small talk in the public market. Mostly talk about trades in the Hob, the black market where I sell most of my kills. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing the Reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might start to repeat my words and then where would we be?
In the woods waits the only pony with whom I can be myself. Flam. 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 bunch of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Flam says I never smile except in the woods. “Hey, Twig Snap.” He says, smiling. My real name is Twilight Sparkle, but I had only whispered the name, so he though I said Twig Snap. Then this squirrel kept sitting on me and chattering loudly, so the name stuck. I had to kill the squirrel eventually. Too bad. He was good company. I got a good price for the squirrel, though.
"Look what I shot," Flam says, using his horn to pick up a loaf of bread with an arrow shot through it. I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flavorless kind we make from our grain rations. I take it with my horn and pull out the arrow. I bring my muzzle to the hole in the bread, and inhale. The smell makes my mouth water. Fine bread like this calls for special occasions.
"Mm, still warm." I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to get this. "What did it cost you?"
"Just a squirrel. I think the pony was feeling sentimental." He says. "Even wished me luck."
“Well, we all feel closer today, don't we?” I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes.
“Sweetie gave us cheese.” I pull it out. Flam's expression brightens at the treat.
“Thank you, Sweetie. We'll have a feast!” Suddenly he falls into a Canterlot accent as he mimics Pinkie Pie, the manically upbeat pony who arrives each year to read out the names at the Reaping.
“I almost forgot! Happy Pony Games!” He says, plucking a few blackberries from the bushes around us.
“And may the odds-” He tosses a berry to me in a high arc. I catch it in my mouth and bite into the berry, the sweet tartness making a smile appear on my face.
“-be ever in your favor!” I finish in the same accent. We have to have our jokes because the alternative is to be scared half to death. Besides, the Canterlot accent is to affected, anything is funny when you talk in it. I watch Flam as he takes a knife and cuts the bread. We could be related. Straight hair, deep voice. Most of the miner families resemble one another in this way. That's why my mother and Sweetie, with their curly hair and white coats, look out of place. They are. My mother's parent were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran a medicine shop in the nicer part of District 12. Since no one can afford doctors, medicine ponies are our healers. My father met my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to my mother to be made into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her nice home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can see is the pony who just sat there, while her fillies starved. I try to forgive her, but honestly, I'm not the forgiving type. Gale spreads the cheese on the bread, carefully placing basil leaves on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We sit 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, plants to gather, roots to fig, fish shining in the sun. The day is glorious, with a bright blue sky and a soft breeze. The food's wonderful, with the cheese filling in all the crannies of the bread, and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this was an actual holiday, if all the day meant was roaming the mountains with Flam, hunting for dinner. But instead we have to stand in the square at two waiting for the names to be called.
“We could do it.” Flam says quietly.
“What?” I ask.
“Leave. Live in the woods. We could make it.” Says Flam. I'm quiet. The idea is insane.
“If we didn't have so many foals,” He adds. They aren't ours, of course. But they seem like it. Flam's little brothers and his sister. Sweetie. Any our mothers count, because how would they live without us? Who would feed them? With both of us hunting daily, there are still days when we go to sleep hungry.
“I never want any foals,” I say.
“I might. If I didn't live here.” Flam says.
“But you do,” I say, irritated.
“Never mind,” He snaps. The conversation is all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Sweetie, who is the only person I'm certain I love in this world? And Flam loves his family. We can't leave, so why talk about it? And even if we did...where did all this stuff about having foals come from? We have no romantic interests. When we met, I was a skinny twelve year old, and he was fourteen. It took a long time for us to even become friends. And if he wants kids, Flam won't have any trouble getting married. He's handsome, strong, and can hunt. You can tell by the way the ponies whisper about him when he walks by they want him. It makes me jealous, but not in a romantic way. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“Let's fish. Then we can leaves our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for dinner.” He says. Dinner. After the Reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. But at least two families will pull the shutters, lock the doors, and figure out how they will survive. We get our fish well. The carnivores ignore us. By noon, we have lots of fish, two bags of greens, and lots of strawberries. On the way home, we stop by the Hob, the black market that is in the old bakery. When the family living there moved into a newer place, the Hob took over. It's very large. Most businesses are closed by this time, but the Hob is still fairly busy. We trade six of the fish for bread, and the others for salt. Greasy, the bony old pony who sells soup. We trade half of the greens for chunks of paraffin. We might do better elsewhere, but Greasy is the only one who buys wild dog on a regular basis. “Once it's in the soup, I call it beef.” Greasy says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers can be pickier.
When we finish our business, we go to the mayor's back door to sell him some strawberries. He loves them, and can afford them. The mayor's daughter, Rarity, opens the door. She's my age. Being the mayor's daughter, you'd expect her to be snobby. But she keeps to herself, and we often sit together at school. Today she is wearing a white saddle, and her hair is done up in a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes. “Nice saddle,” Flam says. Rarity glares at him, trying to see if it's genuine or ironic. “I want to look nice if I go to the Capitol, don't I?”
“You won't go to the Capitol.” Gale says coolly. Rarity gives me the money for the berries. “Good luck, Twilight.” She says.
“You too,” I say, and the door closes.
Me and Flam walk towards the Seam, and split our spoils. “See you in the square,” I say.
“Wear something pretty.” He says.
At home, my mother and Sweetie are ready to go. My mother is wearing a fine saddle. Sweetie is wearing a blouse and skirt. My first Reaping outfit.
I take a bath, then look at what I will wear. To my surprise, my mother laid out a blue saddle with matching hoof-covers. Her saddles are precious to her. “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Of course. Let's do your mane.” She says. She towel-dries it, then styles it.
After that, we eat a stew. And then at one, we leave for the square. People silently file in and sign in. Twelve- through eighteen year olds are herded to roped off areas. Three chairs are on a makeshift stage. Two are filled with the Mayor, and Pinkie Pie, District 12's escort. They murmur, looking with worry at the empty third seat. When the clock strikes two the mayor stands up and tells the history of Equistria. Then he lists the previous victors for the Hunger Games. We have had two. Only one is still alive. Then Big Macintosh, a middle-aged horse who staggers on stage and sits in the third chair. He's, of course, drunk. Very. Big Mac gets confused and gives Pinkie a big nuzzle. Pinkie can barely fend him off. Her hair gets even more messed up as Pinkie trotted up to the podium. She says, “Happy Pony Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!” Pinkie crosses the stage. “Ladies first!” She reaches in the glass ball that holds the girls names while I'm praying, not me, not me, not me. When she pulls out the name and reads it, its not me.
It's Sweetie Belle.
