District Two.
7:14 AM,
May 19th
Bells pealed out over the courtyard, long and mournful, sultry as a widow's wail. The sky was bleak, thin wisps of grey and white, an expanse of emptiness, as people scurried past underneath, going about preparations.
In one of the tall houses that bordered the courtyard, the type of house grandeur seemed to spill out of like ink, a maid was rapidly carrying a silver platter, delicately laced paper covering it, as if the shining metal alone was enough to offend a person's eyes. On that platter, and the paper, sat a small, pastel pink pot of steaming rosebud tea, an equally pink cup and saucer, and a small spoon, with the initials CS engraved to the highest precision on the handle.
"Miss Shadow? I have your tea here, same as every morning."
She knocked on a fine wooden door, highly polished with only a hint of tasteful grain, glancing around fearfully. All that met her searching eyes was rich red carpet and fine honey wood walls, but her breathing did not slow until the golden doorknob to the room was twisted open, and the entryway was pulled back.
"Come in, Gliespe."
The woman, aged and with a face that showed her problems, scooted in, the door being flung shut behind her. Placing the platter on a polished dark wood chest of drawers, she straightened her crisp white apron, pulling the dark cuffs of her plain black dress down from where they had ridden up her forearm.
"Rosebud, how are you doing? I brought your special tea."
She placed a soft and wrinkled hand on the shoulder of the teenaged girl in front of her, who smiled the kind of smile that spoke her lack of happiness in the everyday.
"Good morning Gliespe. How are you today? How's the family? Baby Fisper still giving your daughter trouble with the colic?"
"They are all fine, Clove dear, but they are not who I am concerned for, not yet. It is Reaping Day, rosebud."
Clove just responded with a simple nod, dark curls shaking.
Clove Wren Shadow, or "Rosebud" to her dear childhood maid, Gliespe, was fifteen years old, and had been so since last December, and today was the day she was planning on asking to go to the place where she was probably going to meet her death.
A victorian beauty, she had skin the colour of the liquid inside the milk bottles that had recently been swept in from her front doorstep, unmarked bar a smattering of light freckles on her defined-but not too sharp-cheekbones. Her hair was a river of dark brown ringlets that tumbled down past her shoulders to stop by the end of her ribcage. She had a full fringe, that hung to her eyebrows, that lay above her enchanting eyes. They were rimmed with thick, full black lashes, and had irises that were the colour of pine needles, dark forest green with spectrum interludes of lighter, more grass like colours and a hint of thin, vein purple. She had soft, plump lips, dark crimson naturally, as if they were constantly stained with blood. She was a rare porcelain beauty, but she nor her parents saw it that way.
"Don't you worry, Rosebud, we will make you look perfect. Now sit down at the dresser, have some tea."
Clove did as she was told and poured herself some of the whisper green tea, bringing the cup up to her lips, legs crossed at the ankles and back straight, like her etiquette teacher had taught her.
The dresser was perfectly antique and vintage. With four curved legs leading to a solid rectangle with three drawers (all accessed by ornate sliver handles), which led up to a wooden framed, large, oval mirror, that was polished daily by the Shadows' army of maids until it shone. It was relatively free of clutter, only a small white vase containing a sugar coloured rose and a crystal cut bottle of perfume took up the wooden surface.
Opening one of the drawers, Gliespe gently took out a pristine silver hairbrush, perfectly preserved from the olden days. It had soft bristles and glimmered, although dark and rusted in some places, with it's engraved roses. Gliespe began to softly run it through Clove's ringlets, to take out the bed frizz, not damaging the curls. She pulled it through her fringe, straightening it out, before reaching into another drawer and pulling out a small cranberry coloured velvet bow, on a hidden gold clip. She pinned it gently above the right side of Clove's fringe, before patting her head gently.
"You go sit on the bed dear, while i go find that dress."
Curling up softly on the embroidered silver sheets of her princess bed, her dizzying eyes glanced around the room, hating it, hating it all, because of the reminders of her parents. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She just wished she would feel something, some recognition, some vanity, hell, even some self-loathing, just SOMETHING. So she knew she was still alive, still a breathing person, not just a blank slate.
She wanted to volunteer so she could FEEL something. If it was pain, if it was loss, if it was death, so be it. She was a ghost wandering around in skin, a hollow shell that looked upon things emptily. When she heard herself speak, it was as if she was listening from afar; like it wasn't her, it was just a meaningless voice that floated around in her head like a curse.
Her instructors told her she was ready. Those sorts of people; the ones who feel like they don't feel; they were the sorts of people that were excellent recruits. They were the ones who would win. Those sorts would push themselves to the very limit, the very boundaries of the humane, to experience some sensation of an emotion. They were the ones who would come out alive, return from the arena because they had killed to try and restore some sort of guilt or psychopathic happiness.
The other three academies were hesitant when it came to people like that. It was risky; dangerous, they were too unstable. They were too afraid, too frightened to tamper in the creation of a real monster.
Sure, there had been winners from the others; Serpent, Scorpion and Shark, but everyone knew where most victors had come from, the victors with the amazing and terrible feats performed trailing behind them as a blessing as a curse. Everyone knew that that camp, the dark one in the forest, was the place to go to win. Only the real fighters, the real assassins with the cold hearts and the steely minds who were prepared to do anything were accepted.
It was a breeding ground for death.
"Here you are, dear."
Clove turned away from the looking glass to face Gliespe who held her reaping dress. It was a dark, all encompassing black, with sleeves down to just past the crook of her elbow, and it hung to just above her knees. Nipped in in the waist, it came down in a sweet petticoat. It had a simple white ribbon around the centre, nothing too fancy or diamond-studded like some of those ridiculous ensembles from District One. But what marked it out was the flock of blood curdlingly crimson ravens that swarmed up from the ribbon to the place where her heart was meant to be. She wore simple black pumps as shoes, and black tights.
"Put it on then, dear! I want to see you in it." Slipping it on over her underwear, she turned around for Gliespe to tug up the zip before pulling on the tights.
"Oh, Clove." Gliespe whispered once she had turned around to face her. Putting her fingers up to her lips, tears began to swell in her eyes, before she pulled something out of her pocket.
"This is for you, rosebud. Alexander- he gave it to me. He knew this day would one day come."
Motioning for Clove to put out her arm, she uncurled Clove's fingers from her palm before placing something softly on it.
Looking down, Clove saw it was a silver locket. It had a dainty front, and was engraved with a single, perfect rose, the petals drooping with carved dew. Slowly flicking the clasp, she felt her breath catch in her throat, even if only for a second. In it was a small picture of a smiling brother and sister, opposite a piece of paper inked with a small message in her brother's unruly scrawl.
Stay strong.
You can do this.
Pushing her curls over her shoulders, onto her chest, she gave Gliespe the locket to fasten around her neck. Once the task was done, she turned back to face the full length mirror beside her bathroom
There, on her left arm, from the crook of her elbow to her wrist, was a depiction of a flock of perfect, malicious black ravens, wings pushed back as they scaled upwards to her veins, marking her, tying her to where she belonged.
The fourth academy.
The Ravens.
District 12
12:36 PM,
May 19th
His reaping morning had been quite different.
When the sky broke upwards in a silent prayer to morning, when thin slithers of snow white nonsense clashed with rose and apricot arcs of dawn, he had risen. The air was musty, thick as a slice of doorstop bread as he busied himself around the ramshackle kitchen, pulling on his scarred jacket and supple boots, downing a quick glass of sharp, rusty water. His mother, Hazelle, was up, filling the tarnished old bathtub up with heated water from the kettle on the spitting fire in the grate. He had bathed after his emergency shift in coal mine yesterday, so he bade her a quick goodbye with a promise to be back in an hour or so. Her hand had lingered a little longer on his shoulder than usual.
He had checked on his snares and traded a squirrel for bread with the baker. He gave Gale a pat on the arm and wished him luck, eyes full of barely suppressed fear for his own two sons, the third too old to possibly be drawn in the Reaping. Then he had completed his ritual of slipping under the fence, to meet her in the forest.
Katniss Everdeen.
The girl who looked like his sister, with the umber hair and the olive skin and the charcoal grey eyes. She smiled and they talked, but even though there was that little spark inside of him when her hand brushed over his bicep, it wasn't magical. It left him feeling sort of... hollow. Sure, he thought she was pretty, and they got on well, but he detested that COLDNESS inside of her. There was no passion, just disinterest and contempt. She was so guarded, and he never found any passion in her, just a blank, soulless stare. Her distrust and wild temper, aswell as the atmosphere her general being gave off did not make her ideal for love. The only time he had ever seen any warmth; any heat of love in those eyes, it was when she looked at that Mellark kid. He didn't know why, but she would smile (a rarity with Katniss) whenever she looked at Mellark, smile like bliss itself had touched her. When they went to trade with the baker, she would always balance precariously on her tiptoes when she thought Gale wasn't looking, scanning the bakery for his warm face. And Mellark obviously felt the same way, if the blush that lit up his face when Katniss was near was any indication.
But, enough about Gale's morning. What matters is what is occurring now, in the crowded square, packed full of children and their loved ones, as Effie Trinket totters back onto the stage after that dishonest film of hers. What matters is her over-manicured hand reaching into that big glass bowl.
He glances over at Katniss, biting her lip with absolute fear in her eyes. She catches his look and returns one, before snapping her head back to Effie, who taps the microphone, smiling falsely at the crowd.
"And this year's District 12 female tribute is..." He can almost hear the heartbeats of everyone around him, beads of sweat trickling down spines and limbs shifting in uncomfortable clothes, hoping, praying your name is not the one Effie is about to call out. "LEAH CERULEAN!" She shouts out, teeth filed down to look sharp, dangerous.
A simultaneous ripple of whispers and shuffling surfs through shaking-with-relief or highly strung bodies, as the crowd parts to reveal a girl.
She looks to be thirteen, nothing special. Her skin is peach, hair long and nutmeg orientated; streaks of ginger mixed in with soft brown. It's straight, one side pushed back behind her ear, as she looks around, shell shocked. Her eyelashes are black and dewy and ripe with little tremors of unshed tears. Her eyes are paintstripper blue; faded and interspersed with blue jean navy among aquamarine stripes. Her dress matches those irises, blue like her last name, soft and pretty, faded and patched but still better than most here.
She must be from the merchant side of town, he decides. She bows her head, and her hair swishes and tumbles, strands interlocking over strands as she shuffles forward, climbing the stairs, like she's already resigned to her fate. No-one volunteers, as usual, so she stands, disheartened and disillusioned.
Gale always tells himself not to look as the tribute makes her/his way up to the stage, but he does anyway. They always have something that ties them to his memory; some significant feature that etches them into his mind. There was Rosaina, with the long, dark curls, from three years ago, Kartian with the snub nose from last year; Heather with the freckles from five years ago. The thing that would connect this girls picture to his mind would be those eyes; inhumanly, electrically blue.
Effie's hand reaches back down into the hundreds of slips of paper, and unlike almost everyone else, he isn't praying that it won't be him that is picked. Instead, he treats it with cool indifference; there's nothing tying him here, but there's nothing pulling him to the Capitol. He is stuck in limbo, not really caring where he goes.
"Peeta Mellark!" Effie calls, and the crowd parts to reveal his frightened face. And what Gale does next is unexpected for everyone, even himself.
He looks at Katniss, her eyes swollen with unshed tears and the way her hand flutters like a widows fingers on her chest.
He looks at Peeta, who's eyes have worriedly found Katniss as he memorises every inch of her face like the words of a song as he makes his ascent to the stage.
He thinks about his lack of anything-anything that keeps him here, no love, no child, no sweetheart, nothing.
And he does the unthinkable.
Without so much as a deep breath to calm his nerves, he steps forward. His hands don't shake, eyes don't water.
He looks back at Katniss and the loss and love in her eyes for Mellark.
"I volunteer." He states, calmly, simply.
Katniss' mouth widens and her eyes go wide, though not holding the forlorn look that they held for Peeta, but saddened just the same.
Mellark's eyes dance from Katniss to Gale and back. His mouth is slack and he doesn't know whether to keep his pride and say that he'll go in, thank Gale or let out a shout of hallelujah, so he settles for silence, along with the rest of the square, apart from Effie.
"O-okay!" She squawks, trying to hide her confusion. "District Twelve's first ever volunteer! Mr Mellark, you may go back down to the crowd, if you please." Peeta jolts into normalcy and give Gale a look that says are you sure? With a curt nod from Gale, he strides off with a happiness in his eyes. Gale climbs up the stairs over to a hyperactive Effie, who is almost faint with excitement at the volunteer. Gale doesn't give her any sign or any of the drama, just stands stoic, still and icy, taking a leaf out of Katniss' book. It is an effect, so quiet and shadow-like, that intimidation radiates from him like spilt ink.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Gale Hawthorne." He states, nothing more, nothing less.
Effie, is a bit shocked at his cold demeanour, but she shakes it off and continues.
"Shake hands." Leah and Gale comply, and she stares into his grey irises with fear and respect. He half-smiles at her, breaking his attitude to give her reassurance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for District 12, Gale Hawthorne and Leah Cerulean!"
District 2
12:37,
May 19th
The reaping square was silent as she made her way up to the stage. This bird of a girl, thin but no less menacing. She was terrifying, like a shadow, climbing the stage all in black. Her skin was luminous in the demon-like sky, and her eyes, so green, were glazed over with hardening power. So different from her vulnerability with Gliespe earlier, she commanded such an amazing sense of authority, presided over the crowd with such a fiery temper, strong and intense.
"What is you-" The dim witted escort with the sea green curly hair didn't even get to finish her sentence.
"Clove Shadow." She hissed, staring down the escort with fury and cold distance.
"Oh, okay." The escort shook her head, trying to get rid of the curious sensation that her soul had been looked into. Clove's stare tended to give people that sensation.
Soon enough, the boy's name had been plucked out of the glass bowls.
"Arios Snarcrack." She whistled out, much quieter now that this Shadow girl had volunteered.
"I volunteer." Came the voice, hard, cold and intimidatingly cruel. He said it with the same finality as the girl, the same daunting mannerism, as if daring anyone to come close. He climbed the stairs, his mouth in a straight line. He was wearing black trousers, a black shirt, a black jacket; everything black. The only splash of colour was the red raven on his lapel.
"Cato Manor." He stated, before flashing a quick charming smile to Clove, who returned it. Cato was like her brother; they had known each other so long. She only really felt alive with him.
His blonde hair glinted and blue eyes glistened in a tan face; the type of face the Capitol would go insane over. The flibbertigibbet escort stared at him, seemingly lost for words. The sleeves of his jacket and shirt were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the flock of black ravens tattooed on his right forearm, exactly the same as Clove's own.
"Shake hands, tributes!"
But, they did not shake hands. Linking their fingers instead, they raised their forearms upwards, showing off the raven tattoos to the crowd. But they made no smiles or laughs about the matter, just stood there silent and powerful, a metaphor for all time and pain and loss suffered ever. Just them, hands linked, like Norse gods, frozen and terrifying. And although the crowd guessed they were Ravens, when they saw the ravens, that flock tattooed upon their delicate skin of their wrists, their insides froze with fear. They knew the dark hearts that that place bred.
And with their arms raised, over the hill where the dead black trees grew old and crooked, a colony of evil black ravens swarmed and flew up, just shadows in the sky.
District 12 Justice Centre,
3:28,
May 19th
"Why? Why did you save me?"
He had expected Katniss and his family to visit him, which they had. But what he hadn't expected was Mellark to actually come and thank him.
"Hello? Gale? Why did you save me? Not that I'm not thankful, which I really truly am. But that place is a certain death trap!"
"Listen, Peeta," Gale crossed the room towards the confused boy, till they were that close he could hear Peeta's breath quicken. He had never seen a room like this, velvet and brocade, jewel studded cushions and warm oak, but it was not the time to think of such trivial things. Gale's charcoal eyes were glazed over with hardness and a determined air radiated from him. "I have nothing here. But you-you have Katniss. And don't deny it; she has eyes that shine when you are near. But, now that I'm going there, you have to take that chance and talk to her. Let her know how you feel. Don't waste this chance, okay , Mellark? Promise me."
Peeta nodded and thanked him once more.
"Please, Peeta. Stop thanking me!" Gale let's down a mirthless chuckle, which Peeta smiles at, before the peacekeeper escorts him out the door. Sinking back onto a sapphire blue chair, he sighs, eyes flickering around a room that he knows will be the last memory of his district.
Halfway between District One and the Capitol,
4:02
May 19th
Who was that boy?
The boy with the brown hair and slate grey eyes the colour of the rain when it poured. The colour of the dreary waves of the lake by the sand that her and Cato sometimes retired to after training, to discuss a new weapon or technique or sometimes just to think and skim stones.
Something stirred inside her when he stood, stoic and magnificently terrifying, like a Raven volunteer, cold and icy, a frozen statue on the stage.
She felt... SOMETHING.
It was like a fire, licking at her ribcage, until sparks began to burn her heart in a relentless but beautifully painful flame, like sparking, burning embers that tore at her torso.
She, Clove Shadow, the raven, the girl who couldn't feel, FELT SOMETHING.
Just passing District 4,
4:23,
May 18th
She was like a porcelain doll. That was his first thought as the girl from District Two called out her volunteering status. Tiny and lily white, she was perfect, sweet and shy.
But then, when he saw her stand on the stage, her unnerving glare so fearsome and commanding, something changed. Sure he was attracted to her at first- WAY, WAY attracted-but when he saw that fiery temper and that predatory stance, his head felt ready to burst with curiosity.
And they (The girl and the boy, according the commentator named Clove and Cato) were bloodcurdling. They were fear, embodied.
Unlike the tributes last year, with the blue serpent tattoos and who wore the shimmery aqua outfits, they looked like people who would win. Those tributes looked rather silly, but she-they looked intimidating, dressed in black and red with those dark ravens etched on their wrists. They looked like killers.
Frighteningly murderous.
And even though she could most likely cut his heart out, neatly, and make him eat it, he wanted to find out more about this girl.
Even if it got him killed.