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Part One | The Mentors
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I'm a fisher.
Officially the title is Aquatic Organism Huntsman, a title given by the Capitol to attempt to sophisticate the leading career within District Four, but nobody ever calls it that. The vocabulary was much too complicated, causing you to stumble upon the words, so that it was much simpler to call it by what it was. A fisher.
Fishers were common within District Four, where there was more water than land; it tended to be where we got our resources from. Food, materials, medicines. The majority of our education was preparing us for a life at sea; how to fish, how to make nets, how to repair sinking boats. And we took immense pride in our fishing industry, preferring to eat only the fish from our shores, constantly designing and creating ships that were much grander than those of the other districts.
District Four took pride in many things, other than its fishing industry, including for its success within the Hunger Games. The Hunger Games was an annual event, televised to be viewed by citizens of the districts and Capitol alike, where twenty-four tributes fought within a randomized arena, for their lives. District Four had a reputation for winning and was supported by the majority of the citizens of the Capitol, as it was a Career District, and trained its youth for the games.
I'm a Career.
A path that many parents brought their children to, in hope for glory and fame within the districts and Capitol, including my own. I had been enrolled at the Training Academy since I was strong enough to wield a sword and had been training ever since. The conditions were tough, with the academy training you in fighting, hunting, shelter-building, plants, swimming. There were several assessments you had to complete each year, building your way up the ranks until you were eventually viable to volunteer as tributes for the Hunger Games.
Technically, trainees under the age of the eighteen weren't able to qualify for the Final Assessment, where you were selected to be that year's tribute, however I had been pushed forward by my mentor to attempt the assessment, after it was decided that District Four wanted to have younger tributes to gain more separation from District One and District Two and gain sympathy from the Capitol's citizens, after the success of fourteen year old Finnick Odair. I had completed the assessment successfully and had been pushed forward to volunteer as the female tribute for the next reaping.
Which was today.
The morning dew had settled upon the grass, the undersides of my feet becoming damp as I crept across our front lawn, fishing rod carried upon my shoulder. I preferred mornings like these, when the sun was barely creeping over the horizon and our neighbors had yet to awaken. Birds sang from the trees, announcing a new day, and everything was so still, so calm.
The shoreline was visible from the front garden of our quaint coastal home and was a mere two minutes' walk away. The ocean reflected the sublime, soft glow that sky emitted, as the sun rose above the horizon, and several small fishing boats could be spotted by the docks, which were unusually empty. Typically, the docks weren't visible, hidden by the multitude of people preparing their nets and bait before setting off into the ocean.
However, today was the day of the reaping, the only official holiday that the citizens of the districts got to enjoy, contrasting against the Capitol, which received perhaps more holidays than workdays. The districts simply couldn't afford this pleasure, having to work to both support themselves and the citizens of the Capitol, and were even apprehensive at first to allowing themselves to take the day of the reaping off. Ultimately, they allowed it, after realizing the emotional impact the day itself could have.
I was lucky, I supposed. District Four saw the reaping as more of a celebration, as an honor at being able to send your children to compete against the other districts, rather than a day of dread, as it was in the poorer districts. To return home as victor in District Four meant bringing pride for your district, rather than bringing back the shame of murdering fellow children. I had woken that morning, my stomach aching with anticipation, rather than cramps from distress.
My shoulders reacted, rising slightly, as a warm weight rested upon them, an instinct that I had been trained to have since I was young, protecting a vulnerable part of my body. The instinctive reactions would be beneficial within the arena, but for now they did nothing but be vexatious.
I turned my head upwards, the corners of my lips upturning as I recognized the figure that stood behind me. My father, an aging man, wrinkles caused by too much smiling. He was fairly tall, and broad, so that he resembled a bear, although not the type of bear that you would fear. He was an eminent fisherman, known by everybody who had encountered the docks for being a pleasant man that would always offer to help. My heart swelled with pride whenever I announced that he was my father.
"Hey kiddo," he said gently, his voice deep and gruff. He removed his calloused hand, moving forward so that I would no longer have to strain my neck towards him. "It's finally the day."
My father was the reason I had trained as a Career. He had trained himself during his adolescence, worked harder than any of the other children in his division, spending any and all hours of his day perfecting his survival skills. He had been selected to be a Careers tribute, despite being one of the youngest in his division, but less than a fortnight before the reaping, he got caught in a fishing accident, losing his leg. He had been unable to compete that year.
It was his biggest regret, he said.
So he passed his goals to his children, in the hope of living out his dream through us. My elder brother, Dorian, had never been ecstatic about the training, instead fooling around with the other boys his age by the docks, training himself to become a fisherman, much like our father. He would age out of the system this year. My younger sister, Cove, was not yet eligible to be reaped. She was petrified of the Hunger Games, hiding within my chest whenever our family would sit down to watch the annual televised footage. My father had accepted that she would never be Career material and had allowed her to resign from the Academy shortly after enrolling. He was content with having only one of his children being a tribute.
We began our descent towards the docks in mostly silence, each buried within our thoughts as we watched the sunrise, listening to the seagulls and the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks. It had become a tradition, once I had become of age to be reaped, for the two of us to spend the morning before the reaping fishing, a tradition that was meant to bring luck for the upcoming event. My heart sank at the thought that was perhaps the last time I would be able to spend the morning with my father, fishing rod in hand.
My father's boat wasn't difficult to find, having been docked closer to our house than the other fishing boats. It wasn't a particularly grand boat, not like the Capitol ships that were docked closer to the wealthier section of District Four. It was fairly small, with barely enough room for five people, and had once been painted a sky blue, although now it was covered in dapples of the color, having been worn down throughout the years.
We were soon seated within the dinky boat, my father beginning to row us away from the dock and further into the vast ocean, while I fiddled with the lines of our fishing rods, detangling them and ensuring all our bait was safely contained within buckets. Eventually we arrived at our fishing location, the anchor was secured over the side of the boat, and our fishing rods positioned to reel fish in.
The gentle breeze brushed against my hair, a refreshing cold against the blazing heat of the sun that would for sure be attacking us at midday, when the reaping would commence. I briefly wondered about the temperatures of the Capitol, whether they would be manageable, or scorching like the climate of District Four. My questions would be answered by tomorrow's nightfall.
We remained in silence, until eventually it was shattered by my father. "I was considering not taking you on this trip," he said, grunting slightly as he readjusted his fishing line. "I was scared you would get into an accident, like me. But I didn't want to miss this little tradition of ours, especially not just before your reaping."
"Nothing will happen, Father," I responded, casting a glance over the sea. "There's nobody out there, the waves are calm. We're safe." I glanced quickly at my father's leg, spotting the timber stump that was used as a replacement for what was once a living limb. He had been unable to afford Capitol treatment after the incident, especially after being shamed for being unable to volunteer as tribute for the district.
He nodded, leaning forward to ruffle my head gently. I grinned, as I was a person who thrived off of physical affection, often clinging onto the limbs of those I cared for. "I'm going to miss you when you're gone, kiddo," he said softly, retracting his hand much to my disappointment. "Promise to mention your old man during your interview?"
A significant factor in my father's aspiration to become a Career was the fame that came with being a tribute and victor. He was a born performer, and loved being in front of the cameras, doing anything to catch the attention of the media. I had not inherited this trait, being extremely self-conscious, but had been trained within the Academy to manage to fake a performance. Even so, the interview portion of the preparation was what I was most worried about.
"Promise," I whispered, grasping my father's wrists, while he grasped my own wrist, and we shook. It was much like a secret handshake that we created during a quiet winter night when I was much younger, before the Academy or Careers training. It was a sign of a promise that couldn't be broken, not between the two of us. "Sebastian said to talk about our home lives, to make us appear more relatable to the audience, more likable."
"Ay, that would work," my father commented, releasing his gasp. "Separate you from the other Careers too. Districts One and Two usually only focus on appearing like a threat during the interviews. It works on the other tributes but doesn't necessarily get them many fans when they do eventually win."
I smiled, returning my gaze to the ocean. The sun had fully arrived from its hiding place beneath the horizon. Many citizens of District Four would soon be awake, and preparing themselves for the reaping, managing to breath easily knowing two children had already been selected. The same couldn't be said for the other districts.
"Do you ever get sad about Dorian? Or Cove?" I pipe up, raising my voice slightly. "How they never will become tributes?" The topic had never been discussed within our household before, a rather sensitive one as both Dorian and Cove believed they had become disappointments to our father. It wasn't a very hard observation to make – I was the one chosen to go fishing with him on the day of reaping, not them. And now was my last chance to ask.
My father shook his head, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But it's my dream, not theirs. Neither could've ever got to the point you have, because neither found a reason to care enough. Besides, I've got my own little victor right here." He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer so that I was leaning against his side, like a small cocoon. Completely safe.
I would miss him.
We remained like that for multiple minutes. I wouldn't be held like that, at least not till after the Games. There would be nobody to pull me in just before the Game, when the anticipation is causing waves of nausea, no reassuring words when the Games get tough, and I start having to act upon my training. He knew that. My father had never had such a close connection to his other two kids, with Dorian now being too old and Cove being closer to our mother, that he would most likely spend the next few weeks, sitting in his ragged armchair, waiting for me to return home.
We both knew it wasn't probable for me to return home. I had been trained since early childhood, but so had the other five Careers. And it was possible for the children of the other districts to return home, minimizing my odds greatly. Yet, I couldn't imagine dying in the Hunger Games. We're taught that, at some point, all tributes believe they may have a chance to win, their brain trying to convince them to keep fighting, and that includes me. I just hoped I was right.
We pulled away, as my father got an indication that his bait had trapped something. He unraveled his line, unhooking a gray-scaled fish, placing it carefully within a bucket we had prepared specifically for our catch. That would later be used for our evening meal, using the fish, fruit, and the other luxurious food my family had collected from the market over the past few weeks for the annual reaping meal, although I wouldn't be at the dining table for once. I would be eating like a king.
My eyes wandered towards the shore, the familiar shades of blues and greens blending into one another from the distance. Our cottage was clearly visible, our neighbors too, dotting the landscape like droplets of paint upon a canvas. The streets were empty, shutters closed as people prepared for the reaping. Victor's Village could be spotted from the ocean, overlooking the entirety of District Four, buried behind foliage and vegetation.
I had never seen the inside of the isolated community, although I knew the houses were much more picturesque than the compact cottages that decorated District Four's shores. I had also heard the rumors spread by the direct neighbors of the sector, rumors of ear-splitting screams being produced within the early mornings of the hours, only silenced when the peacekeepers stormed within the area.
Some part of me was convinced that the Games wouldn't affect me. Why should they? I knew exactly what I was getting into, I had been trained to be a weapon since I was a helpless child, I had killed countless birds and wildlife through my training. But I had never killed a person. Never considered it, really, as I had been convinced that tributes were nothing more than the animals I hunted. I wasn't like the other victors; I was more prepared than them for the horrors I would face.
I was going to be fine, I thought.
Others had changed. I had memories of Finnick Odair, the most recent District Four victor, before his tribute debut. He had always been considered attractive, fawned by the girls in the market, but he had also gained a reputation as a kind, charming young man who could be relied on for tasks and chores. He had occasionally helped my father with his business, cleaning the boat or sweeping the decks, and the two of us had shared short conversations about nets and whatnot.
After returning from the Games, the crowned boy no longer adorned a smile along his lips. He could no longer be seen at the market, rarely leaving Victors Village other than to take the next train to the Capitol. He stopped greeting people on the street or pausing in his activities to help those in need. He had become hollow.
I blinked, removing my gaze from Victor's Village, focusing upon my father, who was staring thoughtfully at the gentle waves. I wouldn't change. Because of him. I couldn't let him down; he needed his fishing buddy. And I needed my father.
"What you thinking kiddo?"
We made eye contact, which I forcefully removed after several seconds, gulping uncomfortably. I hadn't realized that he was so aware.
"Not much," I responded, shrugging my shoulders, and readjusting my grip on my pole. "It's going to be weird not going to the market everyday for the next few weeks. Has Dorian or Cove offered to help you with the fishing?" My father was getting old, suffering from arthritis, and found it difficult to maintain the business without support.
"Dorian will," he responded, hauling up another fish with his hook. "Don't worry, kiddo. I'll be fine without you." He paused, gnawing his lip, before beginning to speak again. "Your mother's worried, you know. About you."
I nodded. My mother had never fully agreed with the Careers training program, although she allowed her kids to enroll because of the joy it brought my father. I had never seen my parents fight until the day I was announced as a tribute.
They had waited until the moon shone brightly in the sky, its beam blending in with the choppy waves of the ocean that could be seen from my window, when they presumed their children were asleep. Then the shouting began, my mother screaming profanities at my father, begging him to finally start caring for his children like a true father, choking on her tears, while he argued about teaching us about honoring the family and our district. Cove had climbed into my chest that night, buried within my shirt, while Dorian sat protectively at my side.
Our mother hated confrontation. She never raised her voice, merely reminding us gently when we did something wrong. She barely argued against her children being enrolled at the Training Academy, even though it was obvious by her facial expressions as she handed us over to the coaches.
That was the first time I had doubted my father's intentions. But my doubts were solved the next morning when I had been congratulated numerous times at the market. Surely being reaped was a good thing if people spoke so highly of you.
"She's scared to lose you," my father continued when I made no response. "Make sure you survive the arena, alright? You're her eldest daughter, and she loves you. It would kill her to lose you."
I gulped, lowering my head, guilt overwhelming me, tightening my chest, and constricting my ability to breath. "Do you and Mother still love each other?"
"What?"
"We heard. Me, Dorian, and Cove. When you and Mother fought after I was selected as tribute," I explained, stumbling over my words. Perhaps I wasn't supposed to say anything, perhaps we were never supposed to know. Could this cause the decline in their relationship? Would I be the cause? "It sounded- ugly."
My father shook his head. "Of course we love each other. Relationships like your mother and mine's only stay strong with some bumps in the road," he responded, his eyes never leaving his lap. "I love her. Very deeply." He looked up once again, eyes focusing on the bucket of fish at his feet. "I think that's just enough, since we're only feeding our family tonight. Minus one." His eyes danced with excitement, as he retrieved his fishing rod from the depths of the ocean, and I followed. He hauled the anchor onto the deck, as we began our journey back to shore.
The once peaceful morning had evaporated, words and laughter carrying through the light morning breeze, people emerging from their houses, decorated in elegant gowns and smart suits. It was expected of the district citizens to dress in their nicest outfits for the reaping, as it was one of the only opportunities the Capitol got to view the lower districts. My mother had been sewing my reaping outfit for several weeks, after she grudgingly accepted that I would be competing for the Hunger Games, as it would be the outfit I was going to be presented to my potential sponsors in.
Several faces turned upon my appearance, smiling and laughing and waving as they spotted the girl that would save their children and friends from death. I smiled and laughed and waved in return, basking within the joy that I had created.
I aided my father with docking the boat, my fingers busying themselves with tightening an already stable knot, a nervous habit I had picked up from years at the docks. My fingers ran between the familiar ridges, the rough cord brushing against the palm of my hands, before it was repositioned to continue the complicated knot, as my tongue slotted between my teeth, concentration evident upon my face, mirroring my father's own expression.
The cord slid into place, and I tightened the completed knot, taking a step backwards to admire my work, eventually turning on the ball of my foot as my father called my name. The breeze felt refreshing to my skin, pushing into my face as we made our way up the rocky path, our feet catching on the small obstacles. The scent of salt dispersed, fading as we located further from the ocean, the familiar scent of home polluting the scent of the sea.
"I'mma go visit Ophelia before returning home," I announced, coming to a sudden stop, dust soaring up from beneath the soles of my shoes.
"As long as you get back with time to get changed," my father responded, barely slowing as he resumed ascending up the path. "And no, Ophelia can't return with you home. God, I hate that girl." I merely scoffed at the last sentence. It was no secret that my father hated everything to do with Ophelia, her family, her clothing, her status.
Ophelia lived in the wealthier areas of District Four, directly adjacent to the Victor's Village, that overlooked the Capitol ships that were often docked. Many people that lived in that area often made their lives by creating nets and fishing equipment, rarely ever stepping foot on the docks or within a boat. Most probably never held a fishing rod for its intended purpose.
Ophelia's family had originated from the Capitol, throughout the Dark Days and had most likely been present for the early Hunger Games, although the Games hadn't been considered 'entertaining enough' at that point. It wasn't exactly known why they had been banished to District Four, as the family refused to ever explain, and anytime I brought it up Ophelia would just talk about how she was going to return to the Capitol when she was an adult, and that they would accept her with open arms. I never could quite understand her thinking.
The uneven, rocky paths turned smooth, decorated with carefully positioned flowers and bushes, unlike the weeds that sprouted along the sides of the pathway that lead to my own home. My feet were familiar with the journey, as I often visited Ophelia after training, occasionally with leftovers from my prior meal for a picnic.
The houses were identical along this side of the cliff, with pristine front yards and magnificent gardens. The majority of the curtains were shut, shielding the public from people preparing for the reaping. The people would amble with dignity out of their homes as the sun slowly crept closer to midday, without fear that it could be their child to be reaped this year.
I turned up a pathway, arriving at a red, wooden door, raising my fist to knock at the door.
Immediately shuffling could be heard from the inside, and the door swung open, revealing a slim, tall man, wearing a suit. He was clearing balding, but what was left of his gray hair had been combed neatly to the side. Cebren Leek, the father of my best friend. He had never seemed to like me, much like my own father had never seemed to like Ophelia, assuming I was one of the Career kids that would immediately get killed in the Games from my own stupidity.
He instantly frowned upon registering my presence, but backed away anyway. He couldn't deny his daughter of her only friend. "Ophelia's having a bath," he explained, nodding upstairs. "You can wait in her room - she'll be out in a few minutes."
I nodded my head, not bothering to say a word to him as I brushed past the old man, and began immediately ascending the stairs, ignoring Ophelia's bedroom door and heading to the bathroom. It wouldn't be the first time I had encountered Ophelia naked, and neither of us minded, although I knew her parents would throw a fit if they knew.
I swung the bathroom door open, not bothering to knock, my eyes casting to the figure within the bathtub. Ophelia was laying within the soapy water, blonde hair darkened with the water, her previously closed eyelids opening as she searched for the intruder, features immediately relaxing as she noticed me.
"Hey Bay," she sang, relaxing further into the bubble bath. "I thought you were going fishing with your father this morning."
I moved across the room, not bothering to answer her statement directly, halting once I reached the window, the exposed glass burning my fingertips as I forced it open. Instantly, the steamy temperature of the bathroom decreased, the warmth being driven into the humid air of the outside.
"Why do you always keep the windows closed?" I asked, resting upon the counter. Ophelia had resumed her previous position, eyelids resting as she mimicked the position of a person that was asleep. "This room always gets really stuffy."
"Since I rarely get to have warm baths," she responded. It wasn't common for the citizens of District Four to have baths, rather using buckets and sponges to keep themselves clean. When we were younger, Dorian and I would be forced into the front yard by our mother, and have water chucked onto us until we were deemed clean. Warm water and bubbles were even rarer, I couldn't imagine how much effort Ophelia's parents would've had to have gone to collect warm water for her bath. A metal tub full of used water was awaiting me at home, having been used by Dorian and Cove while I was at the docks.
I nodded. "I can't stay long," I explained, brushing the tips of my fingers against the water, enjoying the warmth that was emitted from the bath. "I still need to get ready for the reaping. Only just got back from fishing."
Ophelia peeked an eye open. "Oh thank God you're not heading out in that," she stated. I consciously glanced down on my outfit, which involved waterproof trousers and a simple black shirt. It was the typical outfit for fishers down at the docks, where practically was put above fashion. "What are you wearing for the reaping? Perhaps I could go back to your house with you to help you choose?"
I shook my head, a grimace reaching my mouth. "My father already said you weren't allowed to come home with me," I responded. "My mother's made me a reaping dress so I'll probably end up wearing that." I had yet to actually see the dress, but I was sure it was going to look beautiful. My mother was hand making it.
"Oh! That's not- I'm sure handmade things are coming back into season," Ophelia said, and I instantly felt my smile falter. The cameras were going to be focusing on me at the reaping, it was my first chance to win the hearts of the Capitol citizens and gain some sponsors. What if they felt I was weak, or a mother's girl, if I turned up in a handmade dress?
"You don't think they'll like it?" I respond, leaning forward. Ophelia had a large fascination and interest in fashion and everything Capitol related, proven by the amount of Capitol posters that decorated her bedroom walls. "What do you recommend wearing to the reaping?"
Ophelia opened her eyes, her gaze moving along my body. "Hmm. Well you're a Career, so you want to come off as strong," she began. "But also beautiful, because the men will love that and be able to convince their wives to sponsor you. Sad but true. And something that also screams District Four so they don't forget where you came from and are still able to sponsor you, since nobody ever remembers the names of the tributes. And with your body type- I think I have the perfect dress in my wardrobe, if you'd like to borrow it."
I smiled. "Thanks," I said. "Although- you'll probably never get it back. I don't know where they take your outfit after the reaping - the Capitol probably burns it."
Ophelia shrugged, closing her eyes once again to resume her relaxed state. "It doesn't matter - I was never going to wear it again, anyways," she replied. It was times like these that I really noticed our differences, I had been taught as a child to always wear an outfit until it was outgrown or it was falling to pieces to avoid waste, while Ophelia had probably worn the dress once and never again. "Let me finish bathing and I'll show you which one it is."
"Surely you're clean enough," I responded, my gaze returning to the outside, where the ascension of the sun showed that it wasn't long until the reaping would commence. With the rate Ophelia was bathing, I wouldn't be able to prepare for the reaping and would have to turn up in my fishing outfit, stinking of fish.
"I only get a warm bath once a year, leave me alone," Ophelia argued, sinking further within the water.
"And I've never had one in my life," I retorted, straightening up as I ambled towards the bathtub. "Come on, you don't want to walk to the reaping looking like a prune, do you? Cause your skins going to look that way if you don't get out soon."
Ophelia let out a heavy sigh. "Alright," she grumbled, her pale knees appearing out of the soapy water. "You can wait in my room for me. I know we're close, but we're not that close." I bid her goodbye, snapping the window shut and shuffling out of the door, closing it firmly behind me.
I had always been jealous of Ophelia's bedroom. It was twice the size of mine, even though I shared mine with my younger sister, and was decorated in all sorts of Capitol merchandise, from propaganda to advertisements for the Hunger Games. Her window overlooked the docks and horizon, an immense Capitol ship visible. It was able to capture the gorgeous sunsets, the colors painted across her room like a canvas as the lights traversed through the glass.
I perched upon a stool, afraid to touch anything in fear of breaking or damaging it, as Ophelia entered her room, a towel wrapped tightly around her torso and upper legs. "God, it's cold in here," she muttered, visible bumps appearing along her arms as her body adjusted to the temperature, before heading towards her wardrobe, flinging the door open to reveal her multitude of outfits, filled with inappropriate dresses to suit pants.
She stepped back as I hesitantly peered within. Ophelia was extremely protective of her outfits, and it was a privilege to even observe her wardrobe, moreso to borrow something. "I was thinking something like this," she explained, hand gripping onto one of the longer dresses, meaning it reached your knee. The dress was made of a soft material, and was of a color that mimicked that of the sea.
I clung onto the dress, rubbing my hands against the material. It certainly wasn't going to be uncomfortable to wear. "You sure I can wear this?" I ask hesitantly. "You're being very generous."
"Yup!" Ophelia responded happily, shutting her wardrobe doors with care. "I don't think I've ever worn it. Not really my style, but it's really going to suit you. Don't you think?"
I nodded, because I didn't know anything about fashion in the slightest. I could dress in a net with rotting fish hanging off my waist, but if Ophelia told me it looked good, I would probably end up agreeing. She was the one who spent years studying fashion in order to plan her outfits, watching clips from the Capitol on repeat to learn how they coordinated their outfits, and repeating the process once the style trend changed along with the seasons.
I opened my mouth to respond, when the bedroom door was flung open, revealing the miserable, aging face of Cebren Leek, a clear scowl on his face, that transformed to horror at noticing the state that Ophelia was in, before melting back into its original form.
"Ophelia? Why aren't you dressed yet? What have you two been doing?" he demanded, leaning forward, his spectacles falling upon his hooked nose.
Ophelia merely looked annoyed, turning away from her parental figure. "Nothing, Pa," she grumbled, readjusting her towel. "I was just giving Bay a dress that she could wear for the reaping. Y'know, being a good friend."
Cebren Leek huffed, stepping further into the room. "We're going to have a talk after this, young lady," he warned, before his deadly gaze landed upon me. "Bay, your idiotic brother and whiny sister are waiting outside. They say you need to go home 'immediately' to get ready." His hand grazed onto the door handle as he began to grumble under his breath. "Why don't we just invite the entire Bellthorne family to live here at this rate."
I offered a thankful smile to Ophelia, winding the dress around my arm to easily transport it. "Thanks for the dress, Ophelia," I said, gesturing to the dress wound in my arm. "See you at the reaping?" At her nod, my smile widened and I began to leave her room, padding past Cebren Leek. "And thanks for allowing me in your house, Mr Leek," I added to the elderly man. "I'll remember your forever kind and friendly greetings when I'm in the Capitol tomorrow night." And with that I was gone.
There was going to be a lot of things within District Four which would cause unforgiving rounds of homesickness once I reached the Capitol and was being prepared for the Games, but Ophelia's father was definitely not going to be within that list. Perhaps if I win, he might be more hesitant in rejecting me from his home. Or constantly invite himself over so he had a reason to visit the Victor's Village.
I headed out to their front yard where, as Cebren Leek had reported, Dorian and Cove were waiting, each dressed in their reaping outfits. Dorian had a fairly lanky figure, hidden beneath the baggy suit he was wearing, with messy blonde hair that threatened to conceal his bright eyes. People had always commented on our resemblance, with similar facial structures and hair, and I had always pulled away with embarrassment, wishing to be independent. I could only feel sympathy for Dorian now, knowing that his face would only serve as semblance for mine.
Cove had only recently turned six, and still clung onto the early years of her youth with large blue eyes and chubby cheeks that were so easy to squish. She had been blessed with curly, golden hair that made her resemble more of a doll than a little girl, which was accentuated with the pink dress our mother had placed her in for the reaping.
"How much time do I have left?"
"Barely an hour," Dorian responded, gripping my palm as to make sure I'm there. Much like our mother, he disliked the idea of me volunteering for the Games, and had spent the last few weeks attempting to spend as much time with me as possible. It was his way of grieving, I suppose.
Cove was similar, constantly asking me to put her to sleep, or complete another chore only our mother usually took up. I hadn't minded, she was incredibly cute and her famous puppy-dog eyes had yet to fail. Her fear of the Hunger Games had been birthed from Dorian, who, afraid of losing another sister to the Academy, had begun to feed her horror stories of the Games to her from a young age, implanting a seed of fear directly within Cove's heart. She often woke up with screams, screams of peacekeepers dragging her away from District Four and into the heart of the Capitol, screams of being thrust into the Games and found to murder her own siblings and friends in order to survive. Dorian had done his duty in saving his sister, but only by causing irreversible damage.
We began to tread down the path that led to our area within District Four, Cove resting her head on my shoulder as she demanded I carry her all the way home. Fortunately, hours of weight-lifting at the Training Academy had trained my arms to do so without complaint. Dorian kept slightly ahead, silent as he brooded over something. Presumably losing a sister.
"Mama was getting new water for you when we went out to get you," Cove was explaining into my ear, shuffling slightly, causing me to readjust my grip. "She wanted you to have a good bath before you had to go to the big city. You're lucky. I had to use Dorian's smelly water. I'm more dirty now."
"Yeah, Dorian does stink, doesn't he," I chuckled, attempting to get Dorian to add to the conversation, just so I knew he was alright. There was no response. "Y'know, maybe you could ask Mother for a bath once I return from the Games. A special one that's warm and has bubbles."
"If you return home."
And Dorian had decided to add himself at that moment.
"You could still say no, y'know," Dorian added, slowing his pace so he was walking beside me. His face was grim, corners of his lips permanently downturned, brows furrowed. "You technically don't have to volunteer. I know a bunch of girls that would volunteer in a heartbeat if you decide to step down."
I bit my lip, contemplating his argument. "Don't you remember what happened to Father," I argued. "He got called names in the street. Absolutely torn apart by any kid his age, and even adults too. Basically secluded from society until people forgot his name. And it wasn't even his fault."
I had spent many evenings of my childhood perched upon my father's knee, while Dorian occupied his other knee, the two of us listening to the tales of his childhood; of training at the Academy, the accident, his life afterwards, when all hope seemed lost. Our mother would often enter the room and disapprove of his stories, asking him to tell us happier stories, but he never listened. And Dorian and I were thrilled.
"Better secluded than dead."
I pulled a face, holding Cove slightly tighter within my arms, pulling her closer. Dorian was doing a terrible job at keeping Cove comforted during a difficult day for her. "I've wanted to do this since I was younger than Cove," I retorted. "Can't you just be happy for me, Dorian?"
He only grumbled, quickening his pace so that he no longer had to argue against me. I didn't want this to happen. I wanted my last day with my siblings to be filled with laughter and joy, rather than arguments and anger. I didn't want them to remember me bitterly.
"I don't want you to leave," Cove sniffled, her tiny fingers clenching onto my shirt, staring directly at me with the eyes that could move mountains. "Why do you want to die?"
My smile completely fell, my hands holding Cove closer. I didn't want to die, the Hunger Games wasn't simply about surviving. It was about bringing pride to your district, or at least that's what Father used to tell us, back when the Academy was only a distant dream, and what was forced into our minds repeatedly by our trainers. Cove was too young to realize that.
"I'm not going to die," I responded cautiously, not wanting to upset Cove further. Dorian having yet to turn his head, remaining absent from the conversation. "I've been trained for this all my life. I'm doing this for my family - I'm doing this for you." I bent my head, kissing her softly upon the forehead. "I'll survive. I promise."
Cove seemed unconvinced, but remained silent, resting her head upon my shoulder, allowing herself to be rocked steadily with the rhythm of my steps. Dorian turned his head, eyes landing upon my arms, eyes narrowing slightly.
"What's that?" he grunted.
I followed his gaze, landing upon the pool of fabric that was draped over my arm. "Ophelia gave it to me," I replied, holding it out to him. He held it up, examining the fabric carefully. "It's a dress for the reaping. She thinks it suits me."
"I thought Mother was making you a dress," Dorian said, handing me the dress in return, slinging it over my arm once again. Cove reached towards the dress, running her fingers against the material. The dress was extremely soft, made with the intention of both comfort and fashion. "She's spent ages on it, Bay. You can't just decide to wear another one at the last second."
I hummed. "I'm thinking about my survival, Dorian," I explained. "Ophelia knows all about fashion. She thinks this will get me the most sponsors. Mother doesn't know anything about fashion."
Dorian huffed. "She only wanted to help, Bay," he argued. "You know she's struggling right now. She doesn't want you to leave. Do you really want her last memory of you to be you not wanting to wear the dress she worked so hard on?"
"It won't be her last memory of me. I'll survive."
"Or will you?"
Dorian rolled his eyes, reaching his arms out, constant disappointment evident upon his expression. "Mother's already heading to the Market Square. I'll take Cove and we'll go make sure she's doing alright," he instructed, hiding Cove within his chest much like she was a prized jewel. "Head back to the house and get ready. And please - choose the right dress."
And they were gone.
Left with only thoughts and regrets, I began to saunter up the hillside, following the familiar rocky paths that led to my own home. As I ascended the hill, the view of the sea grew, the world expanding upon my eyesight. I always wondered whether there was something out there, another land where the Capitol didn't rule and the people were free. Where the Hunger Games didn't have their fists tightly wrapped around everything.
Dorian didn't anger easily. His outburst was unexpected, but I didn't know if I preferred it to him breaking down, sobbing, as I knew he did, my reaction would mirror his. I didn't want my neighbors to see me like this. I was supposed to be the girl that brought glory to our district once again, not the one questioning whether or not she should enter the arena. I raised my chin, and continued my journey, the quaint cottage that was my childhood home coming into view.
Waves of emotions crashed into me as the realization hit me that I would no longer be returning to my childhood home after that morning, tears threatening to spill, but I held strong. The majority of my childhood had been spent running barefoot into the house, being scolded by my mother for tracking mud into the cottage, or for bringing weapons indoors. She had kept a strict policy that no weapons from training were to be brought into the house, in an attempt to keep our family as normal as possible. Training and scuffles were to be kept in the front yard.
A slanted swing was loosely attached to the gnarly tree that was planted into our front lawn, and I could only gaze at it fondly, memories returning of countless afternoons spent with Dorian, clutching tightly to the ropes connecting the plank of wood to the tree as the possibility of falling became apparent, or clutching tightly to our stomachs as the laughter became difficult to contain.
The cottage hadn't changed much over the years, other than the vines creeping up the sides or the paint peeling off the front door. The toys constantly littering the front yard had been collected and replaced with red spider lilies lining the front of the house, having been carefully coaxed to life by my mother. They truly were beautiful, and I crouched beside them, delicately fondling their petals.
"They're your mother's favorites."
Lifting my head, I noticed my father had appeared at our front door, leaning against the doorframe, a sentimental expression resting upon his face. "They refused to sprout, but she worked hard. Glad they're here to stay," he explained. "C'mon, kiddo. You need to get ready before the reaping. All eyes are going to be on you."
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[7472 words]
so i didn't realise this first chapter would be so long. im not sure if i should shorten it and then post the full version to AO3, although not im not sure how i would do that. i dunno, tell me if u think it would be better, cause this might be too long for wattpad standards
also, updates will be SLOW, especially since i usually go through multiple versions of chapters until im happy to post (this chapter thankfully only had two versions but chapter two already has two versions). i also have important exams this year so i should be revising rather than writing, although i might not do that. who needs school anyway, and this is technically english revision
ALSO im super grateful to anybody that reads this. literally it makes my world when i see another person has read my fic.