Each step sang the sorrowful song of resignation. While all, feeling the spur of instinct, leapt from their platforms and ran to the forest or Cornucopia, he tiptoed off, his rational mind long gone. Raivis was never known for his bravery; why he should fake confidence now, he could not fathom. Such was the purity of youth, tainted by an utter despair that was quite unbecoming. No child heart should have such a burden to bear. He thought now with clarity of such a simple thing as the trees. The Gamemakers outdid themselves this year, it seemed, for it was so beautiful. Some leaves were painted spring against the blue horizon, adding a compliment to their golding counterparts and a better contrast still to those of fiery red, though few and far between they may have been. It was as though a scene from his book of fables at home had come true in these moments. The grass upon this meadow was short and the closer he got to the Cornucopia, the more torn patches of soil he encountered, due to these savage animals that were estranged from childhood. He again looked to the wooded backdrop. In a faraway branch, safe from those that caused the clamor but close enough to see, was a daring breed of Mockingjay. Raivis had never actually seen one himself; but he thought this one particularly beauteous, what with its blue eyes and strange black feather that peaked just on its crown. Mournfully as the gray morn itself, when he caught the faraway free bird's eye, he saluted it in the manner most fitting, with three fingers to his lips, then a motion to the horizon, where a sigh of wind flew gently. The bird seemed to misinterpret the symbol. It rode the wind through the fray and came to land on Raivis' shoulder. The boy, of a mere fifteen years, stroked tenderly its head. It shuddered in reply, then with curiosity and perhaps even imagined worry, it sang a questioning note. The boy stopped not his forlorn trek. With its claws, it tugged at his sleeve. Raivis, now mere inches from the wild battle, comforted it with the bitter taste of reality.
"You can't be my hero." And in a gust of startled black and white feathers, now illustrated with crimson in compliment to the forest, he fell.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed. For whoever asked, the implication is that Latvia/Raivis is dead and was one of the first victors to have died while Katniss and Peeta lived on. Woops! Sorry, Raivis!