The Weight of the Crown

Shadows of the Past

A guard knocked on the door of Auren's cabin, his dry voice cutting through the wood:

"Up. We're arriving."

Auren opened her eyes, still numb from a dreamless sleep. She dressed quickly, pulling on loose, warm clothes without paying attention to her appearance. Her black hair, now shorter and cut with bangs, framed her olive-toned face.

The train slowed, then came to a stop. The doors opened onto the Capitol, bursting with color and sound. A jubilant crowd awaited them, cheering for Auren and Chaff with an almost surreal fervor. As much as she was despised in her district, here she was adored. Her beauty, her once flamboyant outfits, and her reputation as a manipulator had left their mark.

They were led to their quarters. Auren leaned on the glass railing of her balcony, her gaze lost in the bright emptiness of the Capitol. From up there, everything looked unreal. The pearlescent towers, the streets smooth as mirrors, the silent cars sliding by like shadows of light. It was beautiful. And fake. Like a smile too perfect to trust.

A soft wind lifted her short hair, still damp from the shower. She wore an oversized rust-colored sweater and dark wool pants. Nothing that screamed Capitol. Nothing that shouted look at me. Just what she was now, a faded shape in a gaudy world.

Then, a noise.

A sharp click, and the door opened without her moving.

"Do you make a habit of entering without knocking? she said without turning around."

"Survivor's habit, came a low, drawling voice, a little rough. The ones who knock around here don't usually get to come in. Saves time."

She sighed.

"Haymitch."

He approached, hands in his pockets, slightly hunched. He had the worn-out face of someone who had seen too much, drunk too much, held on too long. His coat smelled of alcohol and leather. He looked at her for a few seconds, silent.

"Nice view" he finally said.

"It lies well, too."

Silence.

"You're not planning to stand there all day, are you? They're not going to wait for you."

"Who's "they"?" she asked, finally turning around.

Haymitch shrugged, as if the answer was obvious.

"Your potential allies."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't ask for allies."

"No one ever does. But sometimes you take them anyway. Or they take you."

She crossed her arms. Her gaze hardened. The circles under her eyes looked like they'd been carved out by memories.

"You mean... Katniss and Peeta."

"Quick as ever."

She gave a joyless laugh.

"And you, just as predictable. Do you really think we're going to play happy little alliance between victors? You think I'll hold their hands all the way to the arena?"

"I think you want to live. So do they. Sometimes, that's enough to make a deal."

"I'm already dead, Haymitch."

He stepped closer, unkindly.

"You think you're the only one who feels that way? Think they're any different? Katniss sleeps with a knife under her pillow. Peeta stares at the walls like they might explode. And me? I drink to forget your faces, one after the other."