The next time I see Rye, it's on a screen. Our television is small and quite crackly, but I can get a clear enough picture. It is the tribute parade. This is the first year that I've really ever paid attention to the tributes. Although it is mandated by the Capitol that every home has a screen in it to watch the Games, most people in my neighbourhood don't really watch. We keep the television on, (just in case a Peacekeeper happens to walk by) but normally concern ourselves with other things. Cooking dinner, carving fish...anything that keeps us busy.
This year however, I make a small meal for myself and Fyne, and sit down on the ground in front of the television just as the program is about to start. My hands are nervously fidgeting with the rope that I am knotting into a net. Usually, knotting is a relaxing activity for me, but when I look down at my hands today, they are white with exertion.
The Capitol logo booms onto the screen. I hear it echoed around the neighbourhood as our neighbours click on their own television sets. A man-the host or something, speaks for a few minutes before the tribute carriages start rolling out. I don't have to wait for very long to see Rye. As his carriage bursts out into the sunlight, the crowd goes wild.
And I can see why.
Poor little Daisy looks incredibly uncomfortable. Her hair has been dyed bright red, and she is hardly wearing a stitch. A seashell top to preserve her modesty, and a tail of a fish covers her legs. I think she is meant to be a mermaid, but she looks absolutely terrified. Rye on the other hand, looks fearless. It is easy to see by his costume what look the stylists are going for. Girls swoon and faint in the audience as he rolls past, holding a trident in one hand, and a winning smile on his face. He is wearing some sort of kilt, with a knotted net draped over his chest like a sash. My heart aches in my chest, seeing him on the screen. Had he only been gone for 24 hours? Now, he is a world away. I miss him. I really do. I see through the charming smile that he puts on and the winks that he is throwing towards the audience, and see that he is still unsure. He is still afraid. Of course he is. Anybody that isn't afraid at this point is just plain stupid.
Then the picture cuts to the District Five tributes, and Rye is gone.
...........
A few days later, he is back: this time on being interviewed by the host, Regis Shane, on stage. His thick blonde hair is perfectly tousled, as he swaggers onto the stage. He looks good. Surprisingly well actually. It is strange to see my quiet, generally reserved brother so....confident. Maybe that's not quite the right way to phrase it. Arrogant? Flirty? Whatever. If arrogance is what will get him sponsors, then arrogant he will be.
"Rye Fields...our tribute from District Four!" Regis bellows, his deep voice booming around the stadium. The screams of thousands of people ring out so loudly, it hurts my ears just hearing it through the television. Rye smirks and waves as he relaxes against the chair, his open collared shirt gently swaying in what must be a breeze. Regis and Rye banter for a while, playfully poking fun as the crowd laughs alongside them.
"Now Rye.....you had a wonderful training score of 10! But you're not the only one to get that score. What makes you so sure that you're going to win?" Regis asks. For the first time in the interview, I see a flicker of uncertainty in Rye's eyes. He runs his hand through his hair, mussing up the carefully styled mess.
"Loosing these Games is not an option. I'm not just fighting for myself you know." He answers clearly, and for a moment, I see my brothers real personality shine through.
"Besides," he adds cockily, "I've got something that everybody else doesn't." He adds. When Regis asks him to expand on that answer, Rye leans in close, and whispers "Talent."
As the buzzer sounds, Rye stands up and shakes Regis's hand, and turns to smirk at the group of women at the front of the crowd, cocking one eyebrow and grinning. Wincing, I turn off the television. Nobody needed to see that.
..........
The next time I see him, it's only for a second. The camera's pan over him during the bloodbath, before focussing on the centre of the action. During that second, I see his face-visibly torn as he surveys the scene in front of him. The camera violently rips away from him, and all I can do is clutch Fyne tightly and pray that he made it out.
All day, my mind is spinning in circles. Why would he just stand there!? Why didn't he move? I wonder how long he stood there for. Long enough, perhaps, for somebody to shoot an arrow at him? Or worse?
But when the anthem plays in the sky, they do not show Rye's picture. They do, however, show the pictures of 12 other tributes....12 kids that woke up this morning, are now dead. I feel a pain of regret....not for them, but for their families. I can too easily imagine what they are going through, and would not wish it upon anybody.
"Aris?" Fyne suddenly chirps. I involuntarily jump. Fyne is supposed to be asleep.
"What's up kiddo?" I respond, working hard to keep my voice light and airy. Fyne doesn't need to worry about anything else at the moment.
"How's he doing?" He asks casually, stifling a yawn. It suddenly strikes me that Fyne is truly growing up. He is up to my shoulders, and his baby face is starting to give way to the features of a man. Maybe he can handle more then I give him credit for. I'm torn between wanting to protect the little baby I used to haul around in my arms, and a sense of pride that my little brother isn't so little anymore.
Grinning widely for the first time in days, I ruffle his hair with my hand. He ducks under my arm and tackles me around the knees. I tumble to the ground, dragging him down with me We both end up with our backs against the floor, and our small giggles give way to full fledged laughter.
Lying there on our dusty floor, I am filled with the knowledge that the two of us will be ok. Even if Rye doesn't come home to us, we'll be just fine in the end. We'll survive.
.......
Over the next week and a half, I see my brother in a completely new light. He is obviously one of the Capitol favourites, and more often then not, he is the occupant of our television screens. He is a bit of a phenomenon; refusing to go with the career pack and instead, teaming up with the female from District Seven. The two of them are quick and witty: stealing food from other tributes, and creating quite a fortress for themselves in a culvert in the attic of an old building. It soon becomes clear that they are the power duo to beat. The narrow space that they set up camp is quite ingenious really-nearly impossible to see with the naked eye.
I watch as Rye and the girl become closer, cuddling up to each other during the nights, and exchanging whispered confidences during the daylight. I watch as he falls asleep in her lap, his face peaceful and serene. As the days go on, the number of tributes left dwindle. The two only come out of their hole in search of food. As far as I can tell, neither one of them had even seen another tribute, much less killed anybody.
When there is five tributes left, all hell breaks loose.
A wild, purple cloud of fog descends upon the arena, killing everything and everyone in its path. As the cloud reaches a tree, I watch as the tree shrivels and dies. I can't imagine what it would do to human flesh. One tribute doesn't escape in time. You can hardly hear the 'boom!' of the cannon over the crackling of the electricity inside the cloud.
Rye and his friend abandon their safe haven and pelt away from the fog. The camera cuts to the other tributes, each doing the same.
I know what they're doing. I'm pretty sure all of Panem knows the Gamemakers plan. Things have been a little too quiet these last few days. The Gamemakers are driving the last remaining tributes together.
So this is it. This is where Rye either lives, or dies.
"Fyne, go outside." I order, my voice taking on a sharp, harsh hue. Fyne's hands fly to his hips as he screams protest at me. But I don't budge. Fyne is not going to watch this. I don't care how old he is. He is not going to watch his hero kill, or be killed.
Our neighbours hear Fyne's shouts, and barge into our house, quickly dragging Fyne out the door and into the pasture. The whole neighbourhood-no, the whole district is watching with bated breath. Will Rye win? Poor Daisy was killed long ago: they already held her funeral back here a couple of days ago. We need Rye to win. While District Four isn't one of the classically poor districts, we still need a year's worth of food as badly as anybody else. For any number of reasons, each person in this district needs Rye to win almost as much as I need him to win.
Rye and the girl make it to the Cornucopia, hacking their lungs out. Rye collapses-the girl pulls him up. The other two tributes arrive, and the battle quickly commences.
I watch as my brother throws a knife at one tribute and catches her along the arm.
I watch as the other male tribute sends an axe hurtling at Rye's ally, and I see her narrowly avoiding it.
I watch as Rye is pinned to the ground by the other tribute, her hammer high above his head. The ally drags the opposing girl off of him, and the breath that I didn't realize I was holding releases from my chest. Rye's friend stabs the other girl in the throat with her sword, and hear the cannon blast in the arena. One more down.
I see the last male tribute lunge at Rye with his sword arm out. A scream rips through the arena, there is a flurry of bodies, and then there is silence. A cannon sounds.
Nobody moves. I can't see Rye....can't see anybody. The country holds it's collective breathes.
Who will be our victor?
Then, like a sun bursting through a stormy clouds, I see my brother, standing. He is covered in blood, and holding his left side awkwardly.
But he is alive. I notice the sword he carries in his left hand, and I see the point covered in thick, dark blood. Blood that belongs to somebody else.
Rye suddenly drops the sword, and hobbles towards the other bodies. I want to scream at him to stop; to pick up the sword and finish the job. He is so close to winning! He just needs to pick up the sword!
I watch as Rye falls to the ground....scrabbling at the dust. He reaches a body; the body of his friend. Maybe the body of his lover. She is still alive, although not for long.
I watch as my brother scoops the girl into his arms and cradles her lovingly. He is yelling something unintelligible.
I watch as the girl rests her hand against his cheek tenderly.
I watch as the life drains out of her, and vaguely hear the cannon sound one last time.
I watch my brother, the victor of the 69th Hunger Games, fold his body over hers, resting his head against her own.
Even from here, I can feel his pain.
And for the first time since he left home, I cry.