A.N.: I really do think Gale gets a rather raw deal out of Hunger Games. It's all from Katniss' perspective, of course, so we don't get to see Gale's personal growth; but I'd like to see him have some conversations with someone that don't revolve around the Girl on Fire. Like Gale's perspectives on the Capitol, the Games and the rebellion; he is the true rebel. How Katniss refers to Gale's 'anger and hatred' is rather unfair; she's rude and disdainful toward the Capitol, rather than openly hostile.
So, I'm giving Gale his own 'dandelion' as it were. Something to stoke his flames in a good way!
And I've sort of rearranged some of the Districts, because I want my characters to come from somewhere brutally cold, snowed in six months of the year…somewhere like Alaska. Ice and fur and fish, lots of elk and babies! Also, I've watched too much Lord of the Rings, King Arthur, Call the Midwife and Snow White & the Huntsman, all of which heavily influenced this story.
This story is probably a little darker even than Hunger Games canon – there are some elements that, if written in more detail rather than referenced, would make this an 'M' rating.
Oh, and given Snow's granddaughter is portrayed as a twelve-year-old in Catching Fire, I've decided to give her a little more presence in this story – and she's quite important because her 10th birthday affects the 72nd Hunger Games.
Snow Queen
Reaped
The term 'reaping' has two definitions: 'to get as a return, recompense, or result'.
Or 'to cut with a sickle or other implement or a machine, as in harvest'.
The premature Reaping for the 72nd Hunger Games set things in motion for a spectacular show.
President Snow's granddaughter was approaching her tenth birthday: as a gift, her grandfather had promised to dedicate the 72nd Hunger Games in her honour.
And she had requests: "the little ones die too quickly," she had told Caesar Flickerman on national television. She was dark-haired, and pleasingly normal-looking beside the bizarre host with his emerald-green hair, eyebrows and lipstick. She was a doe-eyed, pretty little thing with a guileless smile, and it saddened Eirwen to see such warped innocence, giddily anticipating the brutal deaths of twenty-four children.
Eirwen didn't know whether the little girl even realised it was wrong; or that she had been taught that this was normal, the Hunger Games were merely a television-show to entertain the people of the Capitol. It made her stomach turn either way.
The Hunger Games were an atrocity – they rooted for their favourites, crying when they got killed. And when the Victor was named, they were eaten up with jealousy that the Victor's district received foodstuffs the rest only ever dreamed of. Corn-syrup, tinned fruits, eggs and flour! Every family, in the entire district, for a year.
Their district was tiny – it made the impoverished coalminers' community of District 12 look like a sprawling metropolis. And they were largely ignored; fewer than four-thousand people lived in their community, tucked far in the most treacherous glaciers of the north, a mountainous sound sided by the ocean, unapproachable, barely liveable. But it was theirs: and because the Peacekeepers couldn't take a word of advice, their district was famous not for fishing, or textiles, masonry or coal.
They were notorious for…losing their officials.
They contributed so little to Panem in general, just elk-meat, the odd fur from a pure white bear, highly prized and expensive, salmon and halibut, and above all ice, that it seemed staggering they had been remembered at all after the rebellion, when they had done what they always did in conflict – hid, kept their heads down, and kept going.
Yet every year, Dorabella Blithe arrived looking utterly atrocious in her Capitol fashions, taking two of their children away to the Capitol, to dress them up and stuff them full of unimaginable treats before they were slaughtered.
District 9 had its Victors, yes: and they were some of the fiercest and most awe-inspiring people in Panem. The small community of District 9 were renowned as some of the hardest people in Panem. The conditions in which they lived were worse than any faced by the other districts, even before taking into account the Peacekeepers. A month-long summer, five hours' daylight during the dead of winter, everything covered in a blanket of snow at least six foot high, a true subarctic climate. But there was one thing they were good at: and that was surviving.
And they were taught how to survive from the time they could walk. Hunting, fishing, starting fires, surviving in a blizzard, farming humble little allotments, canning, preserving meat, sewing, treating furs, baking, skating, carving and how to utilise herbs as medicines. They were hunters and healers. Survivalists.
They had as good a chance as any Career at winning; and in comparison to Districts 1 and 2, who most often won the Games, District 9 had a higher ratio of Victors to population. But their population was barely 4,000 – there were fewer than five-hundred children between the ages of twelve and eighteen present every year at the reaping – and they felt the loss of those two children taken from them every year.
Almost every one of them had been delivered by Griet: she was the oldest-surviving Victor in the history of the Hunger Games. Well into her nineties, she was a sprightly, enigmatic woman with a wide, pale face and glowing eyes, and mesmerising long-fingered hands that fluttered like spiders. Griet was a calm, conscientious objector to the Games. During their summer month, District 9 saw the greatest percentage of that year's births; as the sole experienced midwife, she was in great demand, and it wasn't uncommon for the Peacekeepers to grumble that the "madwoman" refused to leave the side of a woman in labour to watch the Reaping.
There were only two midwives in their District; Griet, a nonagenarian with a fading memory and a tendency for naughtiness and cake-stealing, and her teenaged apprentice. Eirwen.
The only baby, in all Griet's years, to ever have been abandoned.
Since she was fourteen, Eirwen had helped deliver 195 babies. Hunting, she was excellent at, she had been taught by the best; every child in the District was. She could sew, knit, make medicine from plants, fish and ice-skate…but delivering babies, healing people; she was no doctor, there were none in 9, but she had experience, and people trusted her. And she took pride in her ability to help others.
When the President had stood outside his palace in the heart of the Capitol and announced, live to all of Panem, his intention to dedicate the 72nd Hunger Games to his granddaughter in honour of her tenth birthday, Eirwen had been attending a difficult birth – twins, the second born breech, the mother exhausted from eight previous pregnancies and complicated births. The ancient television had projected above the crib in which three babies already slept snugly, and as Eirwen had counted time between contractions, they had talked quietly about how atrocious it was, President Snow gifting his ten-year-old granddaughter with the slaughter of children for her amusement.
They had watched Caesar Flickerman do a special broadcast, interviewing Miss Snow on the elaborate plans for her birthday – detailing the parties, the cakes, the clothes and jewellery she was to wear, the preliminary guest-lists of school friends, fashion designers and lusted-after Victors – and the specifics she had given "Grandpa" to make these Hunger Games special.
As Eirwen had carefully unhooked the baby's legs, letting it hang for a moment, a towel draped gently on the body, gravity doing its job to reposition the baby's shoulders, allowing easier passage of the head to prevent suffocation, then coaxed the mother to gently push, all she could think was, when this child reached ten years old, she would be lucky to receive a ribbon. And a further two years, she would have her name put into the reaping bowl. What a lovely gift.
But the twins had been born, healthy and safe, despite the complications of the second, and the district spent the next few weeks chuntering and whispering about the ridiculous opulence of the Capitol, the sheer wrongness of granting a child the birthday-present of a massacre in her honour. They talked about the gossip Caesar Flickerman circulated on his television-show, both about the little girl's birthday celebrations, and the amendments to the year's Hunger Games to make sure they were spectacular.
"It all adds to the flavour," Caesar Flickerman had said, chuckling when Miss Snow had dimpled, teasing that she couldn't give Caesar even a hint of "what Grandpa has promised; he's been sitting with Seneca".
Seneca Crane. This was his first Hunger Games as Head Gamemaker. Historically, every new Head Gamemaker's first Hunger Games were their best.
And if he was supposed to create Games to honour the President's doted granddaughter, well, they had better be spectacular.
No more blighted desert arenas, no single weapon the tributes had to bludgeon each other to death with. Nothing dull. Nothing they had ever seen before.
Or it was Crane's head.
The tributes for the 72nd Hunger Games were to be invited to the Capitol a month early, so they could be included in the birthday celebrations. Before they were sent into the arena.
With barely four hours' darkness during the summer months, daylight had already spread across their land when Eirwen meandered down to the sound on reaping day, the water churning with salmon – and off the shore, the recognisable black dorsal fins of the killer-whale. It was a tradition, in their district, amongst her friends, to congregate at the beach the morning of the reaping. The girls in their prettiest dresses, the boys turned out handsomely, and they caught salmon, roasting them over an open flame, while they flirted in the surf. With the sun baking the stones twenty hours a day during the brief summer, a luxury in their district was walking around barefoot, as they did all summer; the boys laughed amongst each other, whispering and grinning, before trying to splash the girls' flimsy cotton skirts.
One last feast, one last flirt – because it could very well be any of them going to their deaths later that afternoon.
"Happy Hunger Games," Russ crowed, raising a flake of salmon, his smile lethal and sardonic: in a chorus, the rest laughed, putting on the Capitol affectation they mocked Dorabella Blithe for, "and may the odds be ever in your favour".
"Come on, don't tease," Astrid grinned, her eyes sparkling as she reached out to swat his backside. "Just because we're almost out of the pool."
"There's just today, sweet," Russ sighed, his features softening as he gazed down at Astrid; he was tall as an evergreen, his hair flaming red, a handsome boy known to take point when he and his brothers went whale-hunting. A single whale could feed hundreds of them through the winter. There was no waste in their community. And they were a community; each person helped the other. And when Russ and Astrid married on midsummer's eve, they would move into the cabin he and his brothers and friends had been building for them. It was tradition. Eirwen's stomach hurt sometimes, seeing how in love Russ and Astrid were. She was the only person who could make Russ' features go tender like that: and he was the only one who drew shy Astrid out of her shell. They complemented each other so perfectly, and their joy in each other's company was infectious.
Eirwen didn't have a boyfriend; she had kissed boys – quite a few of them! And she enjoyed keeping warm with them in the winter, as one of Russ' brothers could attest to – but she had never been in love.
Of all the women in the district, she had a career of sorts; she was the midwife. And day or night, sun or blizzard, she had to be there to help deliver babies. Especially because Griet was now incapable of doing so. Eirwen spent the least amount of time at school, because she had to be there to tend to the women who had just given birth, had to be there for the births, ran the weekly clinic for check-ups, examined the pregnant women and gave an educated guess of their due-dates, helped prepare first-time mothers for what to expect, inspected their homes for home-delivery… She was a busy girl.
She didn't have time for a boy.
But that didn't mean she didn't yearn for one. For love.
"Who d'you think it'll be this year?" Max asked. The same question they asked quietly every year, a hint of dread creeping into their voices, their expressions darkening. Last year had been awful; two twelve-year-olds, slaughtered within minutes of the cannon firing the start the Games.
The little girl's father had decided to pick a fight with a polar-bear this winter. As for the little boy – Eirwen had delivered what would have been his baby-sister only three months ago. Her mother had sunk into a deep depression since then, leaving an elder daughter to care for the baby and two other children.
"Best not think about it too much," Isidore sighed, her brow drawing in a faint line. "We'll only upset ourselves."
"We've still got an hour or so before the hovercraft arrive," Luc said, eyeing the sun. "Let's not let them spoil the entire day." Schools were closed and all businesses were shut on reaping day; every citizen, unless bedbound, had to be present. And while the adults tended to have a lie-in before getting their children ready, the teenagers knew this was the one day when the rules of conduct were waived.
Reaping day was also the one day of the year when social rules grew lax about their teenaged children. Usually the girls were so closely guarded by their fathers and brothers, a few Peacekeepers had even gone inexplicably missing when they had made an attempt at some of the pretty older girls. And while nudity was completely commonplace, due to the communal bathhouses, everyone was unclothed and therefore it wasn't thought about, sex was taboo. Lewd jokes were unheard of, and while bums were pinched cheekily in the schoolyard during break, a hand brushed against a soft breast during the spring dances, conspicuous couples disappeared in the meadows and got caught out by the woodpiles in winter going for a grope, to become pregnant whilst unmarried was seen as the height of stupidity in their district, a disappointment to their parents. There had never been a child born out of wedlock.
Except for Eirwen, though nobody ever said it aloud: They all believed Eirwen's mother, whoever she had been, had been a teenager concealing her pregnancy out of fear. Griet had known every mother in the district, tended to every birth but Eirwen's. She had been a tiny newborn abandoned in midwinter on Griet's doorstep, perhaps her mother had hoped she would freeze to death before Griet found her. But find her Griet had; she had named her, raised her, and Eirwen hadn't just survived. She had thrived.
Sometimes, Eirwen did wonder about who her parents were. Whether they saw her every day and felt a stab in their heart from guilt – that they had been careless enough to bring her into the world, and abandoned her for something she had had no say in. Nobody had asked her to be born unwanted.
It wasn't long before the hovercraft emerged on the horizon – they always got a good amount of warning-time, the horizon so clear from such a great height. And as ever, they tried to achieve joy while the Capitol representatives brought the equipment, the Peacekeepers, the temporary stage, the cameras for the televised reaping.
Eirwen never knew what instrument they used to create the sound that called the children to the square. She couldn't describe it, but they all knew that sound. It meant dread; it meant certain death. It meant the might of the Capitol could steal children from their beds and force them to fight to the death for sport.
The fun of the morning was over: the fire was doused, they washed their hands and faces in the cool water, and before they turned toward the small Justice Building, they stopped. And embraced. They held onto each other, longer than they ever would usually hug. Because this could be goodbye. Faces sombre, the merriment of the morning doused as completely as their beachside fire, they linked hands and made their way to the square.
There were a half-dozen shops, built from wood with elevated verandas covered with wide porches, the easier to access them in winter when the snow piled up to the windows of the second-storey of the Justice Building. It was one of the only stone buildings in the district – the only others were the fine houses of the Victors' Village – imposing and ugly. It served as the barracks for the Peacekeepers, who resented spending half the year snowed inside it, cut off from the Capitol due to the intense storms of early-winter that buried communication lines for months. And all the while, the people of 9 lived on as they ever did, largely ignoring all but the most decent Peacekeepers – and getting rid of the atrocious ones no other District commander would tolerate.
The square was already set up for the Capitol broadcasts; the cameras were ready, Peacekeepers in spotless white uniforms stood at attention, the Justice Building had been given a hose-down and a small stage had been erected before it, two enormous glass bowls dominating it. So far, they were empty: when the Peacekeepers had taken their high-tech blood roll-call, they would fill with as many white slips of paper as computers calculated were due each child.
In other districts, children could apply for tesserae, an extra ration of oil and grain, for each person in their family. It was never enough – but in 9, they were so isolated, left so much to their own devices, that they never asked for extra food. They made do with what they had, as they had always done.
The alarm had called forth every eligible child in the district; fewer than five-hundred were waiting to have their fingers pricked, to give their sample of blood so the Capitol could keep track of the population, and as each one was cleared by a Peacekeeper at a neat desk, they were segregated by gender in front of the Justice Building. Unless you were on your death-bed, or about to deliver your child, every adult was forced to attend the reaping. Eirwen knew Griet was attending the delivery of Mrs Forsythe, who'd been kept in bed for months due to preeclampsia.
People gave way to the adults who had children in the pool, the better to keep an eye on them; mothers stood white-knuckled, clutching each other's hands for support. And the fathers, they stood stoic and tall, trying not to let their emotions show.
He hated the reaping. There was nothing right about it. Not the ridiculous opulence of Dorabella Blithe's jewelled velvet heels, or the perfumed powder on her hair, the painted talons at the tips of her fingers, or the honestly quite terrifying cosmetics caked over her features: not the children lined up in their best clothes, freshly bathed and turned out so prettily, each face miserable, tear-stained, stricken with heart-stopping panic: or the parents, sombre and helpless, praying on every star they knew, calling to every ancestor, every tribute sent as sacrifice for protection, to not let it be their child…
Dorabella Blithe, teetering on her heelless platform shoes as her lavender wig trembled in the breeze, appeared on the temporary stage, cooed "Welcome, welcome, to the 72nd annual Hunger Games. And – may the odds be ever in your favour." The obligatory film was screened for all to see – they were all word-perfect on President Snow's lecture now – and Dorabella sighed, clapping her hands and giving a little giggle, before straightening her shoulders and smiling.
"The fairest first," she simpered, her obscure turquoise eyelashes flickering in the breeze.
How had it ever come about that this woman was considered the height of attractiveness in the Capitol? How had this become the ideal of beauty? In 9, they were either very dark, with beautiful curling hair and long lashes, or extremely fair, with blonde hair and fawn-coloured freckles. Or, like his oldest friend Mattias' ever-expanding brood of twenty-five children, tall and strong as evergreens with flame-red hair, handsome and good-natured. In 9, the older man was considered desirable – age and scars begat strength and experience, which meant survival. They could care for their wife and a family that inevitably followed.
Dagonet had no wife, no children. He remained tucked in his small cabin, surrounded by the giant malamutes he bred, eschewing the luxuries of the Capitol his position as Victor had granted him… He had given away his house in the Victors' Village, where four sprawling families lived comfortably, and spent his blood-money on medical supplies and morphling for Griet, whose mind was wavering – though whether she was just being naughty was undecided. He and the foundling Griet had raised had to keep her out of trouble with new Peacekeepers, who didn't understand the mesmerising, ancient woman's habits, her fetish for cake, her magpie-like tendencies down at the black-market in the old fishing depot, or her habit of spouting ancient poetry, astrology and fairy-stories, sticking her tongue out when she was given a telling-off.
He knew Griet and her foundling had delivered every child in 9 into the world: it was he, as mentor, who rode the glittering train with them to the Capitol, heard them crying themselves to sleep every night after training, watched them being pampered and plucked by the stylists and paraded around in costume shortly before they were brutally cut down without mercy. He accompanied the plain wooden boxes back to 9.
Every year, he had to do this.
Sixty-two children. There hadn't been a Victor from 9 since Dagonet himself had survived his own Games. That was thirty years ago. He had been crowned Victor of the 41st Hunger Games. Thirty-one years…it seemed like an eternity had passed.
He stayed out of town, tucked in his cabin in the wilderness with his dogs, because to see these children, to know them, had always made it so much worse. In the beginning, he had tried. Over time, he had discovered it was better to keep his distance. Last year had been one of the worst, though there were a dozen more Games he would like to forget, details he remembered only too well about the children slaughtered during them.
Some had done well, survived into the final eight; he had done what he could for them. But he was neither popular with the Capitol nor good at much besides training his dogs. This community was where he was at his most useful, using his wealth to help rebuild when disaster struck – the mudslide eighteen months ago that had killed two-hundred in a single hour; the Capitol had watched on from their plush sofas and done nothing – in the Capitol, he stuck out like the scarred backwoodsman they all knew he was.
He hadn't won his Games because he was cleverer than the other tributes, more handsome or charismatic, drawing the sponsors. He had won through sheer size and brutality alone. And he had done it for them – his district. Because he knew the wealth Victors gained throughout their lifetimes would make an exceptional difference to the quality of the lives of those in his community. He had sold his soul for his district, though they didn't know it. Would never burden them with that guilt, that he had murdered innocent children for them.
He had given up the house in the Victors' Village, used his blood-money to buy medical supplies, bread and fabric, fruit and vegetables for preserving to keep the district going through the winter…nothing extravagant. Nothing for himself. He hunted or fished every day, helped build cabins for newlyweds, escorted Griet's little foundling on his malamute-drawn sled when she was called to deliver babies during the worst of the winter storms, and when he was called to the Capitol every year, he scared the ridiculous Caesar Flickerman shitless bringing his favourite dog onstage.
Simple pleasures.
He was almost too distracted by Dorabella Blithe's violent metallic orange lipstick to hear the name she announced over the microphone. Astrid Darby.
A gasp shuddered on the silent air, and a heavy thud announced Mattias' son Russ had fallen to his knees, already sobbing in grief, head in his hands. Dagonet knew all Mattias' children – all twenty-five of them – had helped build the two-storey cabin for Russ and his fiancée Astrid to live in when they married on midsummer's eve… He knew, because he had been sitting with Griet in the parlour, that Eirwen, Griet's little foundling, had done a preliminary examination of Astrid in the kitchen to confirm her gleeful suspicions that she was carrying a child.
With the end in sight – this was their last reaping, Russ and Astrid, so popular in their community – and their wedding fast approaching, why wouldn't they have consummated their love?
What are the odds…? he mused sorrowfully. Russ' sobs were those of a man whose soul was being ripped apart – Dagonet heard them each year when they buried the two little sacrifices.
Pregnant. A wedding… Russ. There was Astrid, pretty and in shock. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, wide and terrified. Her last year, her last reaping…she was to be married in June. She had a vicelike grip on the hand of her friend… Eirwen.
And for a moment, Dagonet's attention was drawn entirely to that young woman. Eirwen had been apprenticed to Griet since childhood, a companion to the mad old woman all her life, the only child in the district ever to be abandoned; and though she was quiet, there was always a lot more going on inside her head. Dagonet had never seen her so much as glance at one of Griet's books, but she could recite an entire Shakespeare play from memory. She could measure just by feel and sight how many weeks along a woman was, how much the baby would weigh to the ounce, could diagnose illnesses by sight and smell alone. And she was an excellent hunter: one of his few indulgences was spending time with Griet's little foundling. He had taught her to hunt, to fish, he had taught her all of the knowledge his father had instilled in him. She knew how to survive; and there had been many a scare when the worst winter blizzards had arrived and women needed a midwife – and she had gone out into the snow with her kit and her own dog. To help. Because that was what she had been raised to do; to deliver babies and sew up wounds. No-one would have blamed her for not braving the white-outs; but she couldn't when she knew there was someone out there who needed her help.
For a moment, Dagonet saw disbelief, agony and sorrow flicker across Eirwen's face; then her stunning features smoothed out, became cool, indifferent – fearsome. She physically had to detach Astrid's fingers from her own, straightened her shoulders, her back ramrod straight as Griet had taught her to stand, her chin up, and when she moved, it was with a lethal grace mixed with purpose that looked almost predatory…and regal.
Eirwen was, and it was no secret, the most stunning girl in 9. Above average height, she had a willowy, supple figure with high, lovely breasts and a narrow waist. But her height, not even her waistline were mesmerising about her: it was her features. She had learned young to school her features, never letting anxiety or squeamishness show or risk losing her patients' trust in her abilities. That mask left nothing to distract from the sheer perfection of her features: exquisite cheekbones that could cut glass, succulent lips beautifully shaped and plump, a dainty nose, and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots in frost, pale, almost invisible eyebrows, fine lashes and her hair... Griet had named her prophetically; 'Eirwen' was an ancient name that meant 'snow', and her hair was the palest blonde.
Dagonet had never seen her wear her hair in any way but parted at the centre, the long locks plaited into thick coils looped behind her ears, shining like a halo in the sun. As a child, Griet had plaited flowers and colourful ribbons into those plaits during the mayday festival and midsummer dances. Now they were left plain, and looked even more beautiful for their simplicity, smoothed back from her face, combed neatly, shining and clean.
She was and had always been endearingly unconscious of her own beauty, and the gentle, sultry voice she used so effectively. There were many ways to describe Eirwen: self-possessed, unfailingly kind, and composed even in the most devastating circumstances. Unruffled.
There was always more going on beneath her flawless physical appearance than she ever let on. And in that moment when agony and sorrow were displace by indifference and a formidable calmness, Dagonet watched something happen. The young, self-sacrificing midwife who risked her life to help anyone who needed her shone through; she looked as she always did when Dagonet dropped her at a patient's house in the dead of winter on his dog-drawn sled.
Serene, fearless.
With her head held high, back ramrod straight and her features schooled into an expression of utmost…disdain, as if all of this were simply beneath her, she walked up the aisle between the segregated children, leaving Astrid frozen behind after physically breaking the hold Astrid had on her hand. The local Peacekeepers gave startled frowns, knowing this girl was not Astrid: chin up, expression cool, she looked up at Dorabella Blithe from the aisle and said, without bothering to raise her voice, "I volunteer as sacrifice."
Dorabella's queer turquoise eyelashes fluttered in astonishment. A ripple ran through the crowd; Russ' tearstained face appeared from behind his hands, aghast, not believing what he had heard, and he staggered off the ground, friends clapping hands on his back, though they were all pale-faced as they watched Eirwen pass.
"Well, I'll be!" Dorabella tittered. "There's never such excitement here in this desolate place! A volunteer – I'd wager District 9's first ever, too! Well, for many years, anyway – wouldn't you say, Dagonet? You're the only one to remember – besides Griet, and she never graces us with her presence anymore."
Dagonet's insides had disappeared. Not her.
Usually a selected tribute had to be escorted up onstage. But nearly every Peacekeeper here – there were so few, barely a dozen – had been treated by Eirwen at least once. And to know her was to admire and love her. They seemed rooted to the spot like the children and adults Dagonet believed had all stopped breathing. Eirwen had volunteered.
Walking up to the stage, Eirwen looked…almost regal. Composed, serene, her chin high, even though she was barefoot; her snow-white dress of tissue-thin cotton sewn with tiny white forget-me-nots glowed in the sunshine, her hair vibrant like a halo, her beautiful face clear of emotion and chillingly perfect because of it, and as Dorabella tittered and reached to hustle Eirwen onstage, Eirwen gave her a look of such scorching disdain, Dorabella withdrew her hand as if she had upset a bear-trap.
Dorabella cleared her throat, giving a nervous giggle, and cooed into the microphone, "Now, what's your name, dear?"
"Eirwen Hardy," she said softly.
"Well, how marvellous we finally have something exciting here in District 9. Was that your sister, a cousin?"
"No." Dorabella's smile dipped a little. Dagonet knew what she was thinking; a Career? There was nothing spectacular about Career tributes. Districts 1, 2 and 4 were notorious for training their children in elite academies before they volunteered at eighteen. Those Districts usually won. Unless their food-source was destroyed.
Dagonet stared across the temporary pavilion, uneasiness creeping over his skin like a swarming lava. Not her…
"Well, let's get along to the young gentlemen, shall we?" Dorabella trilled. Someone snorted in the audience. Gentlemen? She tottered over to the second bowl full of little white slips, paused for dramatic effect, then her talon-tipped hand shot straight out, plucking one piece of paper from the lot.
"Wulf Rutherford," Dorabella called. And he closed his eyes. Russ' fiancée Astrid may have escaped the reaping – but his comedic acrobat brother had just been sentenced to the arena.
Twelve-year-old Wulf scowled as he trudged up the aisle, huffed as he mounted the stage, and ignoring Dorabella's request for them to shake hands, he had given her a withering eye-roll, frowned up at Eirwen as if he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing, before throwing his arms around her waist, hugging her tight, face hidden in her stomach. For a moment, Eirwen blinked, startled, before her features softened, and she appeared to melt, tenderly hugging Wulf to her, a slender-fingered hand splaying on his back, a thumb stroking the back of his neck as she murmured something inaudible before kissing his vibrant red hair.
"Let's have a round of applause for our two tributes – Eirwen Hardy and Wulf Rutherford!" Dorabella trilled, clapping her glittery-gloved hands. To their credit, not a single person applauded. But the shock had broken: the two names had been called; and Russ stood with Astrid wrapped in his arms, both of them in silent tears. Dagonet could see Russ' face turned to the stage, eyes on his younger-brother. The audience were starting to filter off, parents claiming their children, safe for another year. The Peacekeepers were helping to dismantle everything; and Mattias and his wife – clutching her newborn – were making their way toward the Justice Building. Trailed by their children, the babies held by the children already out of the reaping pool. All of them pale-faced.
Families and friends were given an hour to say goodbye before the train took the two tributes to the Capitol. Dorabella would be fixing her hair, spritzing more cloying perfume and reapplying her unsightly lipstick. Dagonet, sitting in his room with his head in his hands, trying to pull himself together long enough to sit in front of two children and tell them that hope wasn't lost.
As Eirwen's white dress flickered out of sight, being led into the Justice Building by Dorabella, Dagonet wondered, where was Griet?
A.N.: Hi everyone! So I should probably explain – I'm writing the 72nd Hunger Games: it will be OCxOC to begin with, and it has to be, because without that, Eirwen wouldn't be the kind of girl I want for Gale. She has to be strong as steel, decisive, intuitive and level-headed, unfailingly kind and smarter and more skilled than she ever lets on, because that's where the true advantage is, in being "unexpected" – which is another way of saying 'underestimated'.
And she has to look at Gale and say, He's the one I want. No indecisiveness, no ifs and buts and maybe I could be betters: she wants him, and she dares to let him know it.
I've been realising how self-absorbed and flighty Katniss can be. In Mockingjay, it's all about her – and she's constantly going between Gale and Peeta, whenever the situation shifts in the other's favour. I think she was awful about Peeta's circumstances in Mockingjay. So I'm changing that.
Everyone who's ever read any of my other stories, you know how much I like to 'fix' things!
