The Girl With the Bread

The Reaping

Sokka reaches out, his fingers curling into thin air. He opens his eyes, but the covers on his bed have been thrown off on one side, a Katara-sized hole in the sheets and blankets. He sighs. She's gone to sleep with their father again, most likely because her dreams had been plagued by nightmares. Who can blame her? Today is reaping day.

He props himself up on his elbow, narrowing his eyes to see in the darkened room. There. In another corner of the bedroom of their tiny hut is another cot, occupied by a large lump and a medium one. His father and his sister.

In the dark his father looks younger, less worn and beaten down. He had been very handsome once. Or so he's been told. Katara's sleeping face is like that of the waters she loved so much - peaceful and calm. But he knows better. Once the sun rises the water will be splashed and her face will twist into worry, anger and confusion. He knows that face well. He sees it every time he looks in a mirror.

Deciding he can no longer delay the inevitable, he swings his feet down onto the bare floor, ignoring the chills that creep up his spine. He's used to them by now - no matter how hot the day grows, the morning will always be frosted over. That's how it is in District 12, or at least in the Seam. But once he gets dressed he will be free of the cold.

His hunting boots have molded to fit his feet over the years, so he needs only to slip them into the supple leather for them to adjust. He grabs a shirt, trousers, and his foraging bag before leaving the room, pausing only to give his sister a feather-light kiss on the forehead.

Once he leaves, taking care to shut the door behind him, he quickens his pace. Time is a tool, and although it can be helpful sometimes, it's not his friend today. In fact, it hardly ever is. The reaping is at two o'clock, so he only has a few precious hours to spare. No, not to spare. To live.

Most of the people who live in the Seam are still asleep, their coal-encrusted shutters drawn tight and their blackened front steps empty. Usually the coal miners would be crawling at this hour, but today is reaping day. Might as well sleep in. If you can.

Quickly Sokka makes the familiar trek to the fence enclosing District 12 from the woods. The woods. He closes his eyes, allowing himself a small moment to anticipate the sweet smelling grass and the sound of creatures actually living, not just surviving. Goodness knew he's learned there is a difference.

He opens his eyes. No more dawdling, though he usually pauses here for a second each day, just to appreciate what he's doing. Something his mother taught him to do, before she was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing to even bury. Five years later, Katara still wakes up screaming for her to run and it's up to him to calm her down.

After crawling under a hole in the fence, which is supposed to be charged with electricity but hardly ever is, he retrieves his bow and arrows from a hollow in an old log. Another gift from his mother, and a useful one at that. There are plenty of dangerous things in the woods, venemous snakes and poisonous mushrooms and rabid animals, but there is also food if you know how to find it. His mother had known.

His bow is a rarity, crafted by his father before he'd turned in on himself and used by his mother before she'd died. It's something of a miracle that he's learned to use it so effectively, because his family would be dead if he hadn't.

"District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," he mutters, but hushed in tone and he risks a glance over his shoulder. You have to be careful what you say, even hidden away in the woods, even at home, where he could speak freely, though he chose his words carefully around his sister. She might start to repeat his words and then where will they be? Sent into the mines years early to be blown to bits like their mother? He can't allow that, so he only risks a sentence here in his seclusion.