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chapter four
A DAY IN THE LIFE
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tw: mention of violence, forced prostitution, animal birth and character death
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While stated to be illegal, The Academy hardly makes any attempt to hide. In fact, it's one of the most respected places at the heart of a bustling District Two, children from all over the District journeying there in an attempt for glory. It stands tall with its marble columns and carvings of warriors in battle decorating the arches, the steps to the entryway inscribed with these words:
επιστρέψτε με την ασπίδα σας ή πάνω της
Come back with your shield — or on it.
Something like a prayer to the citizens of District Two, Ptolemus is quite familiar with the quote, tirelessly climbing these stairs since the moment he could walk. He sighs once he reaches the top, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. Inside, the familiar stench of sweat and iron waft into his noise. Between grunts, there's some banter, various students beginning to stretch and warm-up for the day ahead.
Not even ten steps into the place, and Ptolemus feels a hand he knows very well clamp down on his shoulder. His father keeps his voice in a low hush as the two stalk further into The Academy. "You're late."
An eyeroll he doesn't bother to conceal. "By two minutes."
Before his father can give him one of his squeezes of warning, Ptolemus shrugs his shoulder out of his grasp. He doesn't have to look behind him to know Nero is struggling to keep his cheeks from flushing scarlet in irritation, likely glancing for watching eyes. That's all he cares about, really. Not that Ptolemus is late because he could've gotten into an accident or fallen ill, but because him being late looks bad on the family.
On the Legacy.
Ptolemus makes his way to the other Victors and coaches, some of them still stretching, others just observing the crop of students with those steely glares. His gym bag lands with an echoing thud. Enobaria barely moves her toe out of the way, her lips twisting into a snarl as she flashes those signature fangs. He just ignores her as he begins some loose stretching.
Another familiar figure slides beside him. Unlike his father, he doesn't necessarily incite total rage and fear into Ptolemus's body at his very presence. Brutus doesn't say anything, just gives his usual curt nod in greeting, dark eyes settling across the crowd. In the younger boy's Games, he was saved from having his father as his mentor, it being Brutus's year to coach the male tribute from Two. While the man certainly lived up to his name, his teaching and wrath was nothing like Nero's. Brutal, but strictly business. No silly mind games that family tends to play.
There's a harsh and loud CLAP! that snaps through the air. The booming voice of Corbel Guerrero follows immediately. "HA-OOH!"
His army answers in a startling unison as they stand. "HA-OOH!"
You could hear a pin drop. Everyone stands straight and tall like the statues they hope to have built in their memory one day, eyes set steadily on District Two's oldest living Victor and Mentor. The other Victors stand beside him like his own group of supporting officers. Even though he's seventy-two with blood pressure problems, Corbel shows no signs of appearing frail or weak. His gaze scours the crowd of students ranging from twelve to eighteen waiting for him to tell them just how high they need to jump today.
"As you may know, we are less than four months away from the Seventy-Third Hunger Games." The man folds his hands neatly behind his back. "Today marks the day that we select our top three male and top three female students to continue and intensify their training. One month before the Games, we will select our final boy and girl to volunteer at the Reaping and represent our great District."
"That means, for most of you, this is your last day to prove yourselves. You will have your choice of stations to participate in for the majority of your time here. The last two hours will be dedicated to our sixteens through eighteens being paired to one on one combat. The loser won't even be considered."
Ptolemus gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he watches for several reactions. Most of the students maintain their steely gaze. For some, it cracks just for a fraction of the moment, immediately being recovered. Ptolemus doesn't miss standing where they are in that crowd of bloodthirsty pupils. He also doesn't particularly relish where his feet are planted in this moment either.
Corbel raises his chin. "Come back with your shield."
"OR ON IT!"
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Green Grove is the smallest town in the Dairy Sector, made up of various self-owned farms that range from fifty cows to two hundred. Even then, the number of cattle still outnumbers the population of people. Which also means fewer Peacekeepers to scour the grounds, one white suit per farm venturing at the end of each day to report the numbers. A luxury compared to the other towns of District Ten, heavily commercialized with cows packed as tight as they can, employees ranging from five to their deathbeds squeezing themselves beneath the animal's belly for milk. The meat plants in the Beef Sector are even worse.
The train drops Sage off the next town over, Falling Springs, easily a twenty minute ride on horseback from her hometown. As she staggers down the platform, a Peacekeeper waits. She hands him her backpack to inspect. He rummages inside, shaking the contents and unzipping all the zippers. Eventually, he hands it back to her, resuming his position. She begrudgingly zips all the zippers again before slipping her shoulders beneath the straps. She gets about ten paces before she spots a familiar figure down the street.
Coretta's eyes lock onto Sage's, a big smile tugging at her lips as she waves. Beside her, a smaller yet identical figure mirrors her mother. Sage doesn't even bother trying to hide her grin, running toward her niece and sister-in-law.
"Auntie Sage!" Erabelle cries, reaching her small palms up to the sky.
Sage scoops up her young niece into a hug she knows she's desperately needed herself. The little girl giggles when her aunt spins them around. Within a moment, she's gently placed her back down beside her mother. She carefully places her palm on the top of her dark head of hair, floating her hand to where the girl stands against her mid-thigh. She playfully gasps at the measurement.
"Jeez, Erabelle. You're getting taller by the second!"
The four year old smiles, mimicking her aunt with her small hand. According to her aim, she stands closer to Sage's hip. "I'm almost taller than you," she beams, showing the gap between her two front teeth.
"How was the ride down?" Coretta asks.
Sage shrugs, adjusting her backpack over her shoulders. "Same old. I'm glad to be home. Well, home home."
Her sister-in-law nods with a polite grin. "Everyone else feels the same way." She then ruffles her daughter's hair beside her. "Especially this one."
At that, there's an impatient stomp of a hoof behind them. A tiny cloud of dust swirls at the impact. Sage's warm gaze falls upon the ebony mare standing behind Coretta and Erabelle, her saddle perched carefully along the horse's back.
"Sunshine!" She side-steps past her family members, reaching until she feels the soothing and familiar sensation of her long-time, four-legged companion. The horse nudges her nose right into Sage's palm, blowing a soft breath of air through her nostrils. "I missed you," the Victor murmurs as she strokes her shiny, black coat.
"She missed you too," Coretta pipes up. She gently latches onto Erabelle's hand, pulling her around the reunited pair to Almanzo's old Chestnut, Copper. While Sage took the more ironic route naming her horse, her eldest brother tended to be less creative with his. "She kept trying to race in front of us our way over here, tugging poor Old Copper around."
Sage chuckles softly, untying Sunshine's reins from the post. She grips them carefully, slipping her shoe into the stirrup. In one smooth motion, she's hoisted herself up onto the saddle. Already, the Victor feels at home, and she's still just twenty minutes away from the land that raised her. Coretta scoops Erabelle up onto the saddle, perching her daughter carefully in front of Sage.
The Victor tilts her head into the little girl's view with a coy smile. "You gonna help me, little miss?"
Erabelle smiles and nods with enthusiasm, and Coretta mounts her horse with an eyeroll. "Oh, she'll help you alright."
Based on the pointed look her sister-in-law gives her, she can tell that Erabelle had no problem holding onto the reins at all on the way here. Sage mentally braces herself for the ride home. She waits for Coretta to turn Copper in the direction of their small town, Green Grove, signaling for Sunshine to do the same. Obediently, the black mare follows, hooves clicking rhythmically.
Coretta glances over her shoulder until Sage guides Sunshine to sidle up beside her. Their horses' hooves click and clack in tune against the hard dirt. The dry heat from the sun is sweltering mid-afternoon, ripples wiggling in the horizon. Cerulean casts itself from one corner of the world to the other, not a single cloud in the sky. Guess it's safe to say they won't be expecting any rain today.
"You should know, they are excited to have you home. Even if you were a little later than expected."
Something about her sister-in-law's tone causes Sage to frown, dark brows creasing together curiously. It hangs in the air like a question with no answer. She glances over, squinting in the raw sunlight. "...But?"
"They're not mad," Coretta insists, sympathy flickering in her eyes. Being married into the large and sometimes chaotic Navarro family, she knows exactly what it's like to be loved by them. Deep as the canyons and as tall as the sky. When the Navarro's love you, they love hard, their care and devotion showing no bounds. It's a magical thing. But certainly, it can be overwhelming at times. She licks her dry lips as she shrugs. "They're just nervous."
Sage knows exactly what she's referring to, the phone call from almost a week ago replaying in her mind. The chaos of her overprotective brothers shouting into the speaker, each utilizing different approaches of concern. Shiloh the awkwardly suspicious, Colt the annoyingly obnoxious, and Almanzo the refreshingly calm voice of reason.
Either way, she still plays dumb. "Nervous about what, exactly?"
Coretta shoots her a deadpan stare, and Sage smirks lightly, a corner of her lips daring to tug upward. Although just sisters by marriage, as the only two young women in the family for years, the two have grown closer and closer.
Erabelle whips her head around suddenly, skull smacking right into one of the Victor's ribcages. She hardly seems fazed as she offers a cheeky grin. "Do you have a boyfriend, Auntie Sage?"
The Victor side-glances her sister-in-law, then wrinkles her nose playfully. "A boyfriend? Ick." She adjusts her grip on the reins as she casts her stare toward the approaching horizon. She can still feel her little niece observing curiously. "Boys are icky."
"And stupid!" Erabelle adds.
Coretta gasps, almost drawing poor Copper to a sudden halt. "ERABELLE MAY!"
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Training The Academy's students this close to the Games doesn't have much room for surprise. By now, it's clear who are the skilled and who are the weaker links. Most of the Victors and coaches already know who it is they really want for the top three, typically choosing someone at least sixteen or older. However, on rare occasions, there can be a raw, natural talent found even younger, their sheer determination surpassing their peers.
Sweat clings to Ptolemus's forehead as he tosses his sword down, using the hem of his shirt to wipe at his face. He stalks toward one of the water fountains, standing in line behind a student by the name of Wythe. Even with Ptolemus's instruction over the last few months, he's clumsy with a sword, his best chance being with one of the archery coaches. Perhaps next year.
Behind him, the Sixteens through Eighteens begin to pair off with their assigned opponents for the upcoming matches. One or two promising Fifteens manage to slip in based on recommendation. Corbel and Nero prepare the ring. They ensure that each student is evenly matched with their competition. After Ptolemus finishes gulping the cool water from the fountain, he wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, turning to the sound of a familiar voice.
Walking from the sword fighting section, Ptolemus observes his mother speaking with a student that resembles a rabid beast more than a sixteen year old. He's already standing at a towering height for his age, and it seems he's likely not finished growing. Ptolemus knows the boy well, particularly because his favorite station seems to be his and his mother's. The boy's talented, sure. Wicked with a sword and already possessing promising strength. But there's one thing that seems to hold him back. His immature and arrogant temper. At sixteen, he has two more years to outgrow it before he loses any chance to participate in the Games.
The two are engaged in deep conversation as she escorts him toward the crowd of students that circle around the ring. Ptolemus's mother gives him a firm pat on the back, before leaving him to stand in line. Alone. No fighting partner assigned to him yet.
Cato must feel Ptolemus staring. The brutish boy with his cropped blonde hair and chilling blue eyes side-glances the Victor, a daring spark flashing in his gaze. When he expects him to look away as Ptolemus makes his way toward his place around the ring, he doesn't. Instead, the arrogant boy continues his predatory glare. Ptolemus simply ignores him.
The matches tend to be organized from the least to most promising. Usually, if you're stuck with going first, that means there's little faith in you to have what it takes. Ptolemus stands beside a stoic Lyme behind the glass as they watch the first pairing take their stances in the ring, selecting their weapons of choice. The blades of the swords, knives, and points of the spears and arrows are dull and harmless, a laser attached to the end to indicate if the target has been hit. Regardless, once in the ring, you're still given a vest for protection of the important stuff, like your heart, lungs, and other major arteries. Everyone else stands behind the bulletproof glass.
Brutus blows his whistle, and Petra hits the six minute clock. If neither of the students rise as winner within that time frame, they're both disqualified from being selected. According to The Academy, taking down your opponent should be done in seconds, regardless of their standing. That's the standard they shoot for.
His gaze combs the line of eager students. Towards the end, there's the coaches' favorite, Marcellus, standing at a towering height like Goliath. He's a machine. Any weapon at his fingertips, it doesn't matter, his blows are enough to reel his opponent into the Earth's core. What's particularly fascinating is his sheer discipline. Instead of foaming at the mouth for bloodshed, he remains perfectly composed, almost businesslike.
The line continues to move throughout the day. Corbel remains difficult to read like he always does as he oversees the ring, coarse arms folded across his chest and dark eyes like a hawk. Whatever process he has in his mind, he sees things others don't, calculating the odds before the winner is even presented.
There's a few upsets. A promising seventeen year old girl by the name of Silla is embarrassingly beaten within the first minute by a sixteen named Kleo. Two male students spar for the whole six minute block, neither showing any signs of victory, causing Corbel to dismiss them with disgust. Another boy by the name of Cullen seems to be the clear winner, preparing to administer the "death blow," when his opponent shocks everyone, knocking his feet out from under him and pointing the sword's laser right to his throat.
Ptolemus doesn't notice Cato is next until he steps into the ring. Their blue eyes lock, and the younger boy smirks, peering up at an unamused Corbel.
"Where is your partner?"
"I didn't think anyone was good enough to go up against," Cato shrugs. Taut uneasiness blankets the room, resembling a rubber band being pulled and waiting to snap. Ptolemus side-glances his mother, who seems to have an unreadable glint in her eye. "I want to challenge a Victor."
Corbel's upper lip twitches like a pitbull. "Who?"
Cato smirks brighter. Their glacial glares find one another again, and Ptolemus cocks his head to the side in bitter amusement.
"Ptolemus Pierce."
Now everyone's eyes appear to bore in his direction. Some are nervous and uneasy, others are intrigued. Corbel just sweeps his eyes across both boys before giving a curt nod. "Very well then."
Part of Ptolemus is irritated. Another part of him is excited to send the arrogant boy reeling on his ass. It's torture enough that he ends up working with him frequently, his weapon of choice being a sword like him. He doesn't take constructive criticism well, relying on his strength, passion and bloodthirst for triumph.
Either way, the Victor rounds the glass and ducks his head beneath the rope, hopping up toward the ring. Brutus offers him one of the vests. He shakes his head. "I won't need it."
Cato is already in an eager stance, his vest wrapped neatly around his body and sword bound in his grip. A corner of his lips tugs upward as his glare gleams. Everything about him is predatory— and juvenile, like a lion cub just learning to hunt its prey. Ptolemus catches the sword that Brutus tosses him with ease. He feels a pair of icy blue eyes boring down at him. Always calculating. He ignores his mother's stare as he eyes her newest protégé.
"Ready to see if you're washed up?" Cato sneers.
The whistle blows. Instead of answering, Ptolemus just waits.
Cato lunges forward, sword crashing downward with an unnerving brutality. Ptolemus merely blocks his strike. The Academy student continues to attack, his blows coming from every direction that he can imagine. Ptolemus knows where he's going to strike before he does it just by the angle of his toes and torso, dodging another sweep of his opponent's sword by his ankles. Cato barely brings his blade back up in time to protect his bobbing throat.
"Was wondering when you'd give up the defense, huh?" he pants.
Again, Ptolemus remains silent.
"C'mon." Cato anxiously bounces up and down on his toes as he adjusts his grip. Sweat shines through his cropped hair. "I'm right here."
Ptolemus takes his dare with stride, aiming at the boy's torso. He bats it away with a raspy chuckle. He notices the Victor's half a breath of hesitation, and bolts with it, lunging forward with a refreshed animosity. His attacks are strong and lethal. Ptolemus has no choice but to block them as he's slowly backed into one of the corners.
Everyone watches with their hearts frozen in their chests.
Is he going to lose?
Cato beams when he goes for the death blow. Metal clinks together when the two swords meet, only for Ptolemus's to slacken. In one smooth motion, he whirls out of Cato's lunging path, the shift of weight startling his stance as he stumbles. Within a moment, Ptolemus's blade is poking right into his heaving back, his lungs quivering at the looming threat. Cato is pinned to the ropes of the ring as Brutus blows the whistle and signals the end of the match.
Ptolemus tilts his head to the side, gleaming silver of the sword like an extension of his arm. "Boom."
The mocking of the renowned cannon's blow causes Cato's panicked gaze to dart around the room.
Corbel doesn't even look in Cato's direction as he delivers his fate. "Disqualified."
Ptolemus peers up at his mother who stands beside the clock that reads 00:45 s. He can't tell if she's enraged or satisfied. Either outcome wouldn't have pleased her, and he knows it. Her protégé loses? A fault of her training. Her son loses? A fault of her Legacy.
Always the mind games with her. When does it end?
Nevertheless, a ghost of a smile creeps across his lips when he shrugs past a seething Cato. "Better luck next year."
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When she was growing up, Sage hated doing the chores around the farm. Cleaning out stalls, closing and opening various gates that lead out to different pastures, milking cow after cow while her spine ached and her knuckles trembled. She loves working with animals. But she'd rather just get to do what the cows do all day. Roam the pasture, bathe in sunlight, and graze every other hour. Except she would prefer her mother's homemade recipes over weeds and grasses.
But now, she doesn't mind them one bit. They make her feel normal, more like herself. Sometimes, she can trick herself into believing her Games never happened, time travelling to a simpler era with far less trauma. Visiting her family's Dairy Farm grants her the peace and haven she desperately needs these days. The routine calms her nerves.
She stalks through the free stalls, mud building along the toes of her old worn boots. More and more cows begin to pile in as her brothers and father corral them back in from the pastures. When she looks up at the old hole on the roof, a ghost of a smile creeps onto her lips, the burning orange sky peering down at her. Sage keeps moving until she reaches the maternity pens, a few dull moo's chorusing together.
In the first one, there's a mama cow with her calf, the two nestled together comfortably in the hay. Coretta helped with the birth, Sage on her Victory Tour by the time she had begun labor. The next houses another that's got at least another month and a half before she comes to term. Perhaps Sage will make it in time for that one. Finally, in the corner, there's the familiar sight of one of the first cows Sage ever helped birth all on her own, her mother not even needing to step in. Even though the tag on her ear says "174," Sage calls her Minnie, because ironically, she's always been anything but petite. Especially not now, her belly round and swollen, the calf growing inside her due any day now.
Sage crouches down as she eyes Minnie, her ears flicking over and over while she lays in the mud and hay. Beneath, the concrete is nice and cool. She tentatively reaches out to pet her head, and Minnie lets her, almost seeming to sigh against her touch. "Hey you." Her hand gently falls to the mother's round belly as she feels it rise and fall, counting the seconds between each breath. "You ready to be a mama soon?"
Her big brown eyes just stare back at the Victor, blinking with long lashes silently and tiredly. Something about the way she looks at her almost makes her sad. She swears she can remember the time when Minnie used to follow her own mother, frolicking around on those wobbly and clumsy legs. Now here she is, pregnant, bloated and uncomfortable.
"She doesn't look it, but she's been wandering a bit more lately," a familiar voice pipes up behind her.
Sage turns and stands to lock gazes with her father. He leans against the edge of the stable, amusement and admiration twinkling in his eyes as he stares at Minnie. Her eyelids droop tiredly and her head starts to hang. "Just last week she ran off on Colt, somehow got herself all the way to the West Pasture."
"Well, it's not too hard to run off on Colt. He couldn't find a chair even if he was sitting on it."
"Hey!" A loud and obnoxious voice booms from a couple stalls down. "I heard that!"
Sage and her father exchange smirks, the latter offering a faint chuckle. He beckons for his daughter with a light jerk of his head. "Your Mama started a campfire. Sounds like we're roasting our dinner tonight."
"Sounds wonderful."
With that, the two maneuver their way through the barn and back toward the entryway. The sun slowly dies in the west, navy staining the eastern part of the sky. If you maintain your stare long enough, you can see some glimmers of stars emerging. Between the farmhouse and the barn, fire snaps and crackles over the homemade stone pit, Coretta and Mama adding more twigs and chopped wood. Embers spark and rise into the evening.
Shiloh and Almanzo emerge from the pastures on their horses, a few of the family's Heelers trotting behind with their pink tongues hanging out. The former hops off his horse, closing up the metal gate with a slow Creak. Almanzo cups his hands around his mouth. "We'll be right there, Ma!" The two take their horses toward their assigned stalls.
"Santiago," Sage's mother calls. Her father perks up at his name.
"Yes, my love?"
"The food is still in the kitchen. Would you bring out the trays?"
"Of course."
Sage quirks a brow. "Do you want help?"
A pair of footsteps pads out from the Free-Stalls and in their direction. "Kiss ass," Colt taunts, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. When Sage glances over her shoulder, her brother is smirking, a devious glint in his eyes. He saunters past the two of them and toward the fire as he rubs his dirty palms along his stained shirt.
"Leave your sister be," her father calls. He waves his hand and shakes his head when he glances to Sage, signaling he'll manage. When he hears Colt snicker something else, he turns, brows quirked dangerously. "Hey. Did you fix that fence like I asked you to?"
Colt flops into one of the wooden chairs, snorting at a seemingly silly question. "Pa, I did that like... days ago. Good as new!"
Their father simply just narrows his eyes at his youngest son silently. Then he huffs and shakes his head, starting toward the farmhouse. Sage walks in the direction of the hose. A bar of soap waits by their old, make-shift sink. She offered to have a new one put in for her family, but of course, they declined. She turns the faucet, the water warm at first from lingering in the hose, before it eventually turns an icy cold the longer it's on. She rubs the bar of soap between her palms and glances over to Colt.
"Wash your hands, güey!"
Just when it seems like her brother might say something smart in Spanish, the glare he receives from their mother stops him right in his tracks. He glances between her and Sage uneasily before standing stiffly. He mumbles beneath his breath as he stalks toward the hose. Sage hands him the soap while she washes the suds from her palms and fingers.
"Dirt builds character." Colt begrudgingly scrubs beneath his fingernails.
"And infection, disease—"
"Trees!" He pushes Sage's hands out from under the rushing water, earning him a glare that he ignores. "Dirt also grows trees. What's so wrong with that?"
"Oh, and do you plan to grow a tree out of your stomach?"
Colt narrows his eyes at her, twisting his features into a face she recognizes from childhood brawls. His hand holding the hose jerks. "Maybe."
Icy cold water sprays her face in one short burst, and he breaks into laughter that reminds her of a cackling coyote. Annoyance ripples down her spine as she wipes at her damp features. She huffs, glancing to the pool of water beneath them that's created a mud puddle. With one firm shove of her arm into his chest, Colt is sent sprawling backward, his giggles turning into a yelp. Water sprays against the side of the barn as he writhes in the mud. Sage smirks.
"Colt!" Their mother hollers from the fire. "Quit playing in the mud! What do you think you're doing?"
"She pushed me!" he gapes, pointing toward where Sage was once standing. When she isn't there, he blinks dumbly, gaze searching. Her quick strides have brought her to the chair Colt once claimed, sinking into it with amusement.
When it seems like her mother might chastise her daughter as well, she's interrupted by Santiago Navarro approaching with the trays of food. Beside him, Erabelle struggles to balance a smaller one stuffed with oiled and seasoned vegetables. Coretta swoops in to help, one of her hands hovering below to catch the tray should it fall. Shiloh and Almanzo return from the horse's stables, washing their hands by the hose again.
"Hey!" Almanzo calls. "Who left the hose on?"
Colt huffs as he sits down in the chair beside Sage, shooting her a glare. "How about everyone leave me alone, huh?"
The Victor raises her hands in surrender. "Not a problem." A corner of her lips twitches upward when he slumps in his chair and pouts, arms folded across his chest and brown eyes burning into the fire. Just when she might poke his foot with hers, sweeping behind his ankle to get him going again, her father and mother place the food onto the grill.
Immediately, the familiar scent of Mama's frequent seasonings cause her mouth to water. Nostalgia creates deja vu, this night added to the collection of memories from other ones just like it. She hums softly in her throat. "I missed your cooking, Mama."
Her mother smiles a small smile, but from the sheepish yet proud glint in her eye, you can tell she's withholding one that truly gleams. "Thank you, Mija."
Along the grill, the Navarro family has been fortunate enough to upgrade from chicken livers to thighs and pork shoulders. They're seasoned to perfection, vegetables like fresh corn, peppers, and onions accompanying the meat. Everyone makes themselves comfortable around the campfire in their chairs, with the exception of Erabelle, who sits on her father Almanzo's lap.
Nights at home are Sage's favorite nights. She enjoyed them before she was Reaped, the smoky smell of a campfire beneath the stars while her mother told old fables and her father told his silly, corny jokes. But now, she truly appreciates and savors them. Even though she would much rather be here, living in their tiny and crowded farmhouse, she knows she can't stay forever. Instead, she has to show her gratitude to The Capitol, to President Snow, who granted mercy and let her live.
She has to live in her empty house in a town far from hers, her only neighbors other Victors that can barely leave their homes. Her family can't live with her, not with the farm to be taken care of. And in all honesty, even though her house is dark, hollow, eerily quiet and doesn't smell like Mama's cooking, she's not sure she'd want them to live with her anyway. If they lived with her, there'd be nowhere for her to escape to. Besides. This is the Navarro's home. It'd break their hearts to give it up.
Throughout the night, Sage glides in and out of friendly, family conversation like putting on a favorite pair of worn boots. Shiloh talks about the latest planet they should be able to see beneath a telescope soon. Venus, maybe? Almanzo and her father fall into the same boring conversation that they never grow tired of, friendly debate sparking about the best grasses for cattle. Erabelle and Colt just play with the family's Heelers as they pick off pieces of meat to give the hardworking dogs.
It's later in the evening when Erabelle has been put to bed, Coretta waits for Almanzo to join them, and Mama and Papa retire to their own sleeping quarters that the peace of home is disturbed.
Colt continues to play with the dying fire, poking at the embers with an iron stick. Shiloh draws pictures in the dirt with a nearby jagged rock. Almanzo is off checking up on the livestock one last time before he joins his wife and daughter in sleep. Sage just peers up at the constellations in the sky, tracing their familiar outlines as her neck begins to ache.
"So." Bitterness twinges in her brother's tone, and she stifles a groan. Colt pokes at the fire again, sparks fluttering up into the inky night. "Are you gonna see that douchebag again?"
A short huff, and she adjusts her position in the chair, refusing to remove her stare from the stars. "How do you know he's a douchebag?"
Colt scoffs. "How do you not?"
"He was actually quite a gentleman. Maybe he can give you some tips."
"God, you're gullible."
Shiloh has stopped drawing the solar system in the dirt as his curious gaze bores into the two.
Sage clenches her jaw as she glowers over at Colt. "Me? I'm the gullible one?" She clicks her tongue to the roof her mouth. "You're the one who believed a senile Concho when he said his dog was abducted by aliens and came back with the ability to tell him to fuck off."
"I was twelve!"
"Eighteen, actually," Shiloh pipes up. Then he shrugs. "So last year."
"Okay, whose side are you on?" Colt shakes his head. "You don't like the prick either."
Sage huffs as she folds her arms across her chest. "I'm not doing this conversation again with you. Ptolemus and I kissed and they got a picture of it. There's nothing I can do about it."
"You can never see him again," Colt suggests quickly. "Maybe take Shiloh up on that date with Talon."
At the mention of his name, her other brother nods. "He's been interested in you for a while."
Sage ignores that comment. "Even if I didn't want to see him again, I don't know if I have a choice."
"Even if you— so wait, you want to see him again?"
"Maybe." She shrugs. "It's worth giving someone a chance, right?"
"Oh, yeah, sure. If he's not a glorified murderer."
Sage winces when he pokes at a wound he forgets she has. Her brown eyes narrow, amber sparking from the flames in front of her and the ones burning inside. "What am I then?"
Shiloh shakes his head as he interjects. "Sage, you know that's different."
"Is it? How would you know?"
"Because you're our sister, and we know you."
Colt's usually light-hearted tone forging into a colder one startles her. She glares between him and Shiloh, who now avoids her gaze, resuming his drawings in the dirt. Everything about this conversation is frustrating. But what Colt has just said is inexplicably infuriating. A proclamation of understanding, of knowing his sister better than anyone just because she's his sister. It feels invalidating. Because as much as she'd like her family to believe that she hasn't changed, they stopped knowing every part of her the moment her name was called at the Reaping.
They'll never understand.
Colt leans forward, gripping the cool end of the poker with tight knuckles. His eyes practically bore into Sage's soul.
"A boy from Two? Do you have any idea what he would've been had he not volunteered for the Games? One of those Peacekeepers who whips children in the Square for cracking an egg from the hens or beats the elderly if they don't meet their quotas because their hands can't milk anymore!"
"Enough."
"Don't you remember Zo's friend Rumen? He spilled a bucket of cream once and they scarred his back for it."
Sage winces, the cries of the older boy echoing in her memory. She remembers hiding her face in her father's leg, trying to blur out the wet slapping sounds of the whip as it cracked against his bony back. Then there was the faint glimpse she got of the boy's blood pooling in the Square. She huffs as she glares at her brother with wide eyes.
"I remember, Colt. Okay, I get it."
His lips part as if he's about to say more when there's the thundering sound of footsteps approaching hastily. All three of them peer up to see Almanzo rushing out from the cattle barn. His eyes are wide, and as he nears, the flames cast shadows across his distressed features. Almanzo glances between his siblings before his glare hardens upon one. He points an accusatory finger in Colt's direction. In this moment, he looks exactly like their father Santiago.
"Did you check all the gates in the barn?"
Colt just stares for a moment, jaw falling slack from his tone. Then he straightens in his chair as he nods. "Yeah. I checked them all."
"You sure about that?"
"Uh— pretty sure."
Almanzo's nostrils flare as he huffs. "What about that fence you were supposed to fix? Hm?"
Colt's shoulders slump, a muscle in his cheek twitching below his left eye. "I—"
Sage stands from her seat, ignoring the ache in her spine. "What's wrong, Zo?"
"Amos and Walker are gone," Shiloh frowns, tossing his rock off to the side as he searches the night for the Heelers.
"Yeah. Probably because they're chasing our latest runaway." Almanzo shoots another glare toward a sheepish Colt, before his gaze settles upon Sage. Sympathy replaces his rage, and she feels her stomach twist at that look. "Minnie's gone again."
"She— she couldn't have gotten far..." Colt tries poorly.
It splinters through the air like a knife. Like a dreaded choir, they chorus together, echoing their haunting lullaby between the corners of the sky. It causes the hairs on the back of Sage's neck to stand like needles. Every livestock owner's worst fear.
"Coyotes."
━━━━
Growing up, Ptolemus only knew what his hands could destroy. He'd been taught all the ways they could maim, shatter, beat and bruise anything or anyone that might have the misfortune to cross their path. When the crown was finally placed upon his head and he was proclaimed as a Victor, fulfilling the prophecy of his family name, he was no longer satisfied with the skills that'd be engrained in him since he was born. He was tired of destruction.
He wanted to create.
All the Victors are expected to pick up a talent after their victory, something to give back to the world and show they're truly exhausting their second chance at life. For the public, Ptolemus Pierce's talent was his strength and swordsmanship, serving as a coach to the Academy and completing numerous training videos.
But for himself, he chose something that forced his hands to break the pattern of their cruelty passed down from his mother and father. It's one of the few things he can lose himself in and find peace, not war.
The wheel whirs and hums quietly as Ptolemus gently presses the pedal. His hands are slick with wet clay, dry splatters scattered across his wrists, forearms, all the up his elbows and dirty smock. His spine is hunched over his work, a crease in his forehead forming and his brows furrowed in concentration. He follows the rhythm of the wheel steadily, digging his finger softly about three quarters up what he hopes to be a vase for an elegant indentation. His other fingers pinch inside. He slows the wheel ever so slightly as he grabs a damp sponge, smoothing out the edges with the same precision he uses to slice his sword through the air.
Eventually, Ptolemus allows the wheel to come to a slow halt, gently releasing his foot from the pedal. He studies his work meticulously, calculating gaze searching for the slightest imperfection. The vase stands about a foot tall, round at the base until it fans out at the very top. A corner of his lips tugs upward at his craftsmanship. Then he glances to the framed photograph of his sister Alessandra on a nearby shelf, right next to the very first pot he ever created.
"What do you think?"
"You're quite talented, Mr. Pierce."
His bones jolt at that old, dry tone, clay-ridden fingers twitching. He's used to hearing it through the speakers of his television, sometimes even at Capitol parties or events his family is invited to. The white head of hair and icy blue eyes that match the voice emerge through the doorway of his dimly-lit studio. The pungent stench of roses forms a tickle down Ptolemus's throat, and he barely withholds a gag.
President Snow peers at the various pottery pieces displayed along the shelves in the studio, some glazed and finished, others waiting for another round in the kiln. He picks up one of his more abstract pieces that's painted an obnoxious neon green, inspecting it with an unreadable and narrowed stare. He places it down gently before folding his gloved hands neatly in front of him. The neat smile that pulls at his swollen lips reminds Ptolemus of an old snake who's bitten too many times.
"Did you make all these yourself?"
Several more men loom in the doorway of his studio, adorned in black and resembling eerie shadows. Ptolemus straightens and nods, reaching for a rag to wipe at his dirty hands. "I did. I'm glad you like them, President Snow." He stands from his seat as he rubs away the clay. "Had I known you were coming I would've made sure I met you somewhere cleaner than my studio."
"No need. I'm only stopping by for a quick chat."
"Certainly." Ptolemus almost shifts his weight at the silence that follows, but instead maintains a frozen stance. He tries to keep his tone light. It's not often President Snow journeys to his turf, especially without his parents' company present. "About what... Mr. President?"
The elderly man smiles softly to himself. There's a daring gleam in his blue eyes that's unnerving. "You've always been well-liked, Ptolemus, what with where you come from and who your parents are. But I've noticed the past week or so, you've risen in popularity with The Capitol people. And you've brought someone up with you."
Ptolemus isn't sure where this is going. Could Snow be furious with him for publicly kissing Sage at a Gala where she likely was to be initiated in his sexual exploitation? Is that why he's here? To threaten him, maim him... maybe even have him killed for what he's done? But how could that happen? Ptolemus has captivated The Capitol since he was growing in his mother's belly. Snow can't just make him disappear and there's no questions asked...
Right?
"She's quite beautiful, isn't she?" President Snow cocks his head to the side like a cat. His glacial glare bores into a stoic Ptolemus patiently. When the Victor withholds his tongue, he continues. "Sage Navarro is a lovely girl. I understand why you couldn't seem to resist."
Ptolemus nods carefully. "She surprised me, most definitely. I think I surprised myself."
"You surprised me that night," President Snow chirps in a tight tone. "I didn't know you as one to... fall out of line."
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
For once, he seems to scramble for his steely reserve, feeling it melt right off his features. Like clay crumpling beneath his grasp over and over again, he attempts to remold it. Just when his lips part, voice cracking in his throat, President Snow smiles again.
"The Capitol is taken with your potential romance like they once were with your mother and father's. Another love story brought together through the power of The Games." Something's shifted in his tone, and Ptolemus can't tell if he's furious or delighted. Maybe he's just mad. Either way, the President remains painfully unpredictable. He quirks his bushy white brows. "There's even curiosity and interest in a few Districts, particularly yours and hers."
"An excellent idea— for now." President Snow straightens. "Tell me, Mr. Pierce. Have you asked the young lady on a proper date?"
━━━━
Sunshine's hooves pound like thunder against the hard dirt of the pasture, soaring through the night like a wicked shadow. Inside her own chest, Sage feels her heart falling into the same relentless and breathless rhythm, her dark eyes searching frantically through the night. Another one of the family's Heelers, Indigo, races alongside as they follow the echoes of the coyotes' ominous lullaby. Her brothers have peeled off to pursue different pastures in search for the pregnant cow.
How could she get this far? She's due to pop any day now. Did she begin roaming while the family was eating dinner, giving her at least three hours to make some headway?
Sage was hoping her hunch to where she might've snuck off to would be wrong. Mainly because it's all the way at the edge of the family's property. The stress of journeying there is enough to push her into full labor if she isn't already dilating. Not to mention, what tends to linger in the shadows of their land likely have their predatory eyes right on her.
Amos and Walker are with Minnie, wherever she is. Part of that is comforting, part of that is not. While the dogs might be able to hold off a pack from getting too close, it means if they're not here, that means Minnie is impossible to herd because she's in labor.
The howling of the coyotes suddenly becomes piercing in Sage's ear as she nears her suspected spot. Accompanying their eerie melody is the familiar barks and growls of Amos and Walker. The closer she gets, she can spot the outline of that old Spanish Oak's branches wavering in the wind, various shadows whirling around. One large one remains motionless on the ground.
"HEY!"
Sage leaps off Sunshine, her ankles wobbling and knees almost buckling. She nearly drops her hatchet and the dimly lit lantern. Indigo doesn't even hesitate as she launches forward, snarling and leaping right into the circular path Amos and Walker already create around the pregnant cow. They act as a barrier to the yipping and cackling coyotes that linger. Their golden eyes tick unnervingly.
In one hand, Sage clutches her hatchet, knuckles turning white from the grip. The coyotes begin to mirror the Heelers, growling lowly in their throats and circling Minnie and the Victor. The dogs only snarl louder as they bear their teeth. When she counts the shadows, she realizes it's a pack of six. The most she's seen around here in years.
Minnie moos and groans painfully beneath the tree, still laying on her side. Within moments, Sage is kneeling next to her swollen belly. She glances down toward Minnie's behind, two rear legs slowly beginning to show. A good sign. Sage almost expels a breath of relief.
"Oh, c'mon girl. You can do it, sweetheart."
The cow seems to huff at that. Sage looks to a nervous Sunshine, who continues to stomp her feet anxiously as the coyotes circle. Surely, the stress isn't helping Minnie one bit. Quickly, Sage stalks toward the saddle, latching onto the calving rope. A coyote growls and starts toward her.
"HEY!" Sage screams, raising her hatchet threateningly. It's enough to make the coyote back off for now, still continuing its circular pattern with its pack, gray tendrils raised like needles in the air.
She doesn't want to have to strike first. Once someone strikes first, whether her and her Heelers or the coyotes themselves, that means there will be bloodshed. Not to mention, no one to help Minnie. Within a breath, she's kneeling behind the mother cow, carefully but quickly tying the rope to the calves exposed legs. Minnie groans.
"You gotta push, sweet girl." Sage feels her fingers trembling, but she does the best she can to ignore it. There's a loud and vicious snarl from Amos that makes her jump. She doesn't dare to look as she adjusts her grip along the rope. "You push, I pull. Okay?"
Minnie just pants in response, and all Sage can do is wait readily. Her nervous gaze ticks across the chaotically dancing shadows circling all around her. Her hatchet is next to her right knee if she needs to use it. Hopefully, her brothers should be her any second to back her up once they've finished their pastures and seen she's not back to meet them. That's the hope, anyway.
It's all a matter of when Minnie is ready and when she's not. She huffs and puffs, muscles contracting as she pushes her baby with what she can muster. At each of her cues, Sage pulls gently. The calf slowly but surely emerges more and more from her mother and into the world.
Agonizing minutes pass. She can tell from the heavy pants of the Heelers, Amos and Walker in particular, they're exhausted. Who knows how long they've been doing this before Sage and Indigo showed up? The shoulders have finally breached when the sound of pounding hooves in the distance slowly creeps into the atmosphere.
"C'mon, Minnie, you're almost there." The cow's belly heaves as she croaks out a low and pained moan. The coyotes cackle louder.
Her muscles lock up again for another push. The hooves of her brothers' horses grow closer and closer. She calls out to them absent-mindedly as her brows pinch together, tugging at the calf once more in hopes of embracing her completely into the world. There's an eerie cackle lunging toward Sage's turned back.
For half a second, the hatchet is locked tightly into Sage's iron grip. Then it's gone, a shadow hurled into the obsidian night with a sudden twist of her body. There's a high-pitched yelp and an unsettling crack of bone crunching beneath her twirling blade. She can tell by the particular shape of the slumped shadow, her victim won't be getting up again. Thunder roars in her ears as she scrambles dumbly.
"GET OUT OF HERE!" Almanzo bellows, swiping down at the coyotes from his horse with a hatchet of his own.
Colt and Shiloh curse and yell similarly on the opposing side, their horses almost stomping their hooves onto one of the coyote's heads. The scavengers yelp and bark, immediately peeling off when they realize how outnumbered they are. Their shadows dart into the night and disappear into the hill. The Heelers have stopped circling and snapping, but they still manage to utter a few more menacing barks of warning.
Sage turns back to Minnie with wide eyes. She expects to still see her struggling, her calf partially breached as blood and other birth fluids pool beneath her. Instead, she's pleasantly surprised.
Minnie carefully and happily licks at her baby. The terrified part of Sage still struggles to ease off the rushing adrenaline, her chest heaving and sweat caking her entire body. She forces her trembling hands onto her knees as she tries to tuck her racing breath back into her lungs. Something shifts in the corner of her eye, and she looks up to Shiloh offering her her bloodied hatchet with a worried gaze. She decides not to glance at the gray and crimson body behind him.
"You okay?" Almanzo asks, hopping down from Copper with a thud. His brown eyes sweep across Sage and the two cows meticulously.
"I'm fine." She sucks in another breath, rubbing Minnie's coat gently. "So is Mama over here."
"How the hell did she get herself all the way out here?" Colt wonders, shaking his head.
Almanzo crouches down beside his sister, inspecting the baby calf with his eyes as much as Minnie will let him. The Heelers pant loudly. "You'd be amazed at what a mother can do."
There's a small but proud smile that creeps onto Sage's lips. With the coyotes chased off into the hills and everyone around her safe and sound, she slowly feels the nerves shaking away. Her dark eyes glance past Almanzo's shoulder and toward the old Spanish Oak all the way out here on its lonesome. Her voice is barely above a whisper as she flattens her palm, softly caressing the earth that holds one of her greatest secrets. When she looks to Minnie's calf, she notices a familiar marking right above her right eye.
Just like Petunia.
"She was feeling nostalgic."
━━━━
»»————- ♡ ————-««
thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! feel free to comment, i love hearing from you :)
whew whew whew this took me a while to write and i'm still not sure how i feel about it.
i really wanted to write about the characters independently and what their home life is like and their routines. i also wanted to make it as least boring as possible. i know we're all excited for the love story, i definitely am too, but don't forget they are their own characters.
don't worry tho, sage and ptolemus will be face to face next chapter though ;)
feel free to comment thoughts, predictions, etc. thank you for your kindness and support!
also, feel free to check out my other hunger games books, i have a bunch!
Word Count: 8877