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("A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night," Legolas said.)
(Okay so yes! There is a Santa-Day's present, and it is that I will try to publish three chapters today! (today-US-time not today-EU-time)
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Rose is a good actress.
Rose, seconds after heeving over the bin, is fixing her hair in the mirror and riding her eyes of tears. She picks up the pieces that had fallen out of their place: the anxiety that squeezes her throat; heart; chest and rearranges them so convincingly that minutes later, when she comes out of the bathroom, she has assured even herself that everything is on its place.
"As you know, the reaping is today. This concludes a part of our sessions." Gaul announces just half an hour earlier in a festive atmosphere that seems closer to Christmas than a start of deadly games. No one minds. "I think it's about time I give you the specifics of the next task."
Eleven pair of eyes are fixed on her. The twelfth, belonging to a redhead, are plastered on a table in an unfitting manner, watching her fingers going bum, bum, bum, on the table, lustrating them for a sign of tremors. It is a calming sort of task, its repetitiveness soothing the girl's thoughts. Bum, bum, bum, she repeats.
"I suggest you listen closely, Rose."
The eyes are averted; they pick themselves up, slowly, yet in their lack of haste: frantic. Once they meet the blue and the black, tilting upwards, the dark circles underneath are revealed.
Rose hasn't slept today.
Bum, bum, the fingers hit the table. She tries to listen.
At that, Gaul looks pleased enough.
"The last year's hunger games, most of you have played mentors. We've learned plenty from this little experiment. Most good things, but, not good enough. You see, mentor is a reward for a tribute: a true chance to win, a friend, even, outside the arena," she looks at Coriolanus here, a line of communication he'd rather not establish, "That is not as desirable. Not if we can't counteract it. That will be your job."
And, before Arachne Crane can chime in with a stupid question: what do you mean that everyone knows is coming, the woman continues.
"This year, each one of you will get a district, not a person. Less personal, less prompt to mistakes." She says, and once again, her eyes land on Coriolanus. A fact missed by all but one: Rose, however, is not fit to debate the worth of this information. A rhythm plays in her head. "A favour to you all."
"But the Academy students were supposed to be mentors this year-"
"They still are. Arachne, for your own sake, I suggest you listen before talking. Maybe then you will start to grasp anything. Think of it as a competition between you and the mentors. They want their tribute to leave and you want just the opposite."
