september yorgos - d5m ♘ fin

i. 'sven'

"Sven." mum's hard whisper could be barely heard through the racing of my veins. She shoved the basket of bread, sweets and blankets into my arms. "Take this to the barn. Don't say anything. Don't ask anything. You nod and go back up into the loft with Argos." As the young colt to the mare, I did. I didn't ask any questions. You never did. I never knew the answers to why we helped them. I never knew why we didn't help the others.

I never knew. Never.

Mum and Dad never went through the hassle of explaining to us who the men and women in those shredded, thin pieces cloths were. They didn't care to. They didn't want us to run out and join them- we were the supporters. The providers. We had a routine whenever they would come; bruised eyes and scarred legs. Tired eyes. They were so, so tired. We were too. Whenever the rebels would stumble into our corral we would flicker the floor lights. Three times. I would then be in charge of stumbling out of the barn to the house to pick up the care package Mum had premade for almost every crew that resided in our haybales. Once they left - whenever they left, we turned the floor light off.

My name wasn't actually Sven. Argos wasn't actually Argos. That was our safety name because we didn't want to get caught supporting the rebels. So, in the barn, we were Argos and Sven. My sisters were Octavia and Nova. Our actual names were August, September, October, November. The months of the harvest.

ii. light

Towards the end of the war, there was one specific group of rebels to enter the barn. At this point we had grown tired of the "no-see-no-speak" rule that the parents placed over us, so we grew accustomed to talking to the rebels. How their lives were back at home. What they knew life was before this. There was someone that I grew close to in that last group. I specifically remember their name. Appa. Like the horse, Appaloosa. They looked like an appaloosa, too. Appaloosa's are typically known for their spotted coats. Appa had spots all over him. Scars. Burns. Dust. Dirt. They had all of it. They were the closest damn thing to a horse other than being an actual horse. I always remembered them for that. We spoke every night because they couldn't sleep. We'd look at the light and they were always so grateful that we had that light. Appa would thank me every night. Thank us for providing that light.

Appa couldn't sleep anymore at night because they were afraid of the dark. The dark, to Appa, was death. They couldn't handle closing their eyes to a dark night because they could never tell if that darkness meant death or not.

Once the war ended, Appa's family landed right back into District 5. They say that they're always thankful for our homage to them. We just say that we were trying to provide to the people doing the right thing. Mum does, at least. I never really thought much about it; shouldn't it be human nature to provide for the lost?

Appa and I continued talking. Especially with the horse ranch coming back into business. Raising horses didn't typically provide much money to us because people didn't exactly search out to eat horse. So, Appa helped on the side. Appa's family ran a butcher shop. Probably because they've been so immune to the sight of blood and guts that killing an animal was like jumping rope to a child. Appa still has nightmares from the dark, so whenever Appa brings us fresh meat I take the fat from the animal and make a candle from it. Whenever I finish one I go to his windowsill over the night and I'd place it on the side with something for Appa to light it with. Appa was my light during the war just as I was theirs, so it feels like it's our symbol. As long as my candle flickers on Appa's windowsill, our lives are ablaze.

The war was the spark to my life, but the blaze to my heart.