purple.
She had a purple cloak, a child's plaything that was tucked away and forgotten in a corner of her room. It used to be her mother's scarf, a lovely silken length now tattered and frayed with time. It was her favourite, once upon a time. Back in the days when she was not yet seven, back in the days where battles were still make-believe.
Her favourite game was "Knights and Princesses", a thrilling pretend adventure filled with all the best things from fairy-tales. She was always the knight, of course, riding along on her invisible steed with her rich cloak flying out behind her. There was something about princesses that screamed 'weak' and 'irritating' to her, even at that tender age of five. Perhaps it was the resemblance between them and the town girls, both beautiful and vain and obnoxiously arrogant. Perhaps it was the disapproving looks that her parents gave to the mayor's daughter, a classic blonde bombshell with the survival skill and intelligence of an amoeba. She prided herself on being better than that. She had to be, to be worthy of bearing her father's name and her mother's looks.
The others did not like her much. Not the children or the adults. There was something about her military manner that marked her as cold and emotionless, but really those characteristics were the hallmark of success. Her parents proved as much, with their proud pointed chins and the ways their eyes glint when others salute to them. They had this way with people, a certain manner that bought them authority the moment they spoke. She desperately wanted to be the same too. She wanted to prove that she inherited more than just a name and a halo of dark hair.
But it's hard, trying and trying and never being good enough. It's hard bearing that expectation, that image, that burden.
It's hard being the Peacekeepers' daughter.
She never knew how to cry. It was a forbidden subject at home, a kind of weakness that was not even part of the family's vocabulary. She screamed and she yelled, sure, but that was rage. Crying was sadness. Crying was weakness. That, like many other lessons, had been drilled into her mind from the moment she was conscious. It was simply her parents' way of making sure she'll survive in the world, but sometimes she felt like a dam about to break lose. Or perhaps a volcano. Volcanos were more violent, and violence can be channelled into determination.
She used to bite her lips when she was a child in order to quench her tears, but as she grew older she discovered that digging her nails into the flesh of her palms was more effective. It sounded strange, inflicting more pain on herself when she was already in enough pain. But Clove worked on reverse logic. The pain she caused she could control, and as long as she had control on something then she could deal with it. It was all about the state of mind. Or something like that. Her mother had taught that lesson so long ago that she was beginning to forget.
Her mother's words have been with her all her days, reminding her through every single moment of the correct way to live her life. There was something comforting about that, about the fact that her mother's with her every single step of the way. But sometimes she just wanted to block out that voice and run away into total oblivion. It's constricting and suffocating, having those guidelines whispered over her shoulders with every move she made.
Perhaps that was the price of being the Peacekeepers' daughter.
And not just any Peacekeepers, Head Peacekeepers at that. So she couldn't be just any daughter, she had to be extraordinary. That was Lesson Number Seven: Stand out, or fall down.
She was not the best during her first year at training, surprising as that might sound. She had struggled to keep up, her small frame making it harder to partake in the more physical combat styles. Scrawny and underdeveloped, that's what those trainers called her when they thought she wasn't listening. She even caught them telling her parents that she was hopeless one afternoon, when she had failed to last even a minute in an impromptu hand-to-hand fight. Not the nicest words to describe a seven-year-old. And definitely not the right words to describe the Peacekeepers' daughter.
I'll prove them wrong, she had promised to herself, her lips set into a thin determined line, I'll prove them wrong one day.
Her father walked in on her late one night, when she was alternating between sit ups and push ups, trying desperately to strengthen herself. She was meant to be sleeping hours ago, but the lure of 'just five more minutes' had her staying up past midnight. Her arms and legs were aching and her stomach muscles were painfully strained, but there was strange satisfaction about that pain that kept her going. She didn't even notice her father until he sat down on the edge of her bed, his slippers in line with her tired eyes.
"Sleep would do you more good than that now," he had told her, his hand gesturing her to stop and sit up, "You're wearing yourself thin, Clovey."
"I..." she had a hard time catching her breath, but she sat up nevertheless, "I need to win."
She didn't need to say what; he understood her perfectly. The annual Training tournament was the most prized competition for the young potential Hunger Games tributes, and even though it was nearly half a year away, she knew she could never be too prepared. That was Lesson Number Five: It's never too early to start.
"I know, Clove, I know," her father had said, "But you've got to keep a balance. The strengthening comes after. That's the way thing work, trust me. And plus, I think you'd be much better off practicing other combat methods rather than trying to bulk yourself up for unarmed combat."
"I'm not bulking myself up," she exploded, annoyed that he was even suggesting an alternative, as though she was too weak for that style of fighting, "For your information, I'm ranked third at unarmed combat in my class."
"Third from the bottom, Clovey," he reminded her, somewhat bluntly, "Look, I'm not saying that you can't do it. But you're ten, Clove, and you're small for your age. Play to the advantages instead of trying to fill bigger shoes."
She huffed, clearly annoyed that he found out about her ranking. It was shameful, to say the least. Having her father acknowledging her failure made it a million times worse. He didn't say it, but she could hear the disappointment in his voice. At least that's what she thought she heard.
"Well, if you're finished with the preaching, I think I'm going to bed now," she told him, standing up and making a show of shooing him from her bed.
She didn't need to say it twice; he was standing and at the door in seconds. He stood there in silence as she pulled the thin blanket over her chest. Finally as she turned the bedside lamp out, he pulled the door slowly shut behind him.
"Play to your advantages, Clove," he repeated once more before the door clicked shut, "You've got your knives, you've got agility, and you've got a brain. Don't try and play the cards you haven't got. If you deal out those that you do have in the right way, the game is yours."
She fell asleep with his words replaying in her mind, accompanied by the soundtrack of her mother's endless lessons. Lesson Number Two: Impossible is two letters too long.
And the Peacekeepers' daughter never gave up.
She won the match by the skin of her teeth, her body almost as battered as that of her opponent. Raising her hand in a sign of victory, she picked herself up, independent and alone, her chin tilted high so no one can see the way her eyes misted momentarily. It hurt more than she would ever dare to admit, and she suspected that a couple of bones may even be broken. But she dragged herself up to the podium to accept her medal, her gritted teeth parting slightly to point a triumphant grin at her flabbergasted trainer. Are you going to underestimate me? she dared him as the mayor slipped the blue ribbon over her head.
The other girls in her division have gone down to the changing room to find themselves packs of ice and a jacket to hide their wounds and bruises, but the first thing she did was to look for her parents. They were there, seated in the third row. Her mother even tugged the corners of her lips up slightly as Clove ran up to them, the tiniest hint of a proud smile. They patted her on the back and smoothed back her damp hair, telling her she did well and that they hoped she would keep it up.
It was all a little disappointing, really. She had dreamed of her parents embracing her and telling her that she made them the proudest parents in the world, but that was merely a dream. Perhaps a mere Training tournament win was not enough. Perhaps it would take the Hunger Games for her to really bring them pride. Her heart fell, feeling as heavy and dead as the gold medallion around her neck.
She managed a smile at them and turned away, feeling every inch the scrawny and hopeless little girl that her trainer had labelled her with all those years ago. She was thirteen, nearly double her age from when she overheard those words, yet she hadn't been able to forget them for a single second. The long slash on her left arm stung as she head down to the changing room.
Cool hands caught her around the shoulders as she rounded the corner, just a dozen or so steps away from that roomful of girls she had defeated. Long fingers spun her around to face their owner, their grip holding her tight. Her mother let her go as their eyes met, the younger brown ones against the older grey.
"Mother?" she said, dumbly, not knowing what else to say.
Her mother didn't reply, merely taking her gaze away from her daughter's and looking at Clove closely for the first time in years. Her calloused fingers took up her daughter's arm as her eyes travelled back to the girl's face, her hands gently pushing back the long sleeve of her daughter's shirt.
"Mother?" the girl said again, "What are you doing?"
"Wear these with pride, girl," her mother spoke, her fingers running over the flowering bruises on her daughter's arm, fresher yellow imposing over the old marks of blooming purple, "Your father and I, we're... We couldn't have asked for better. They said the royals of the times before ours wore purple as their mark of pride, of power and of wealth. So now that you've got your own coat of purple, wear it with pride, Clovey. Wear it with pride."
With the she tugged the shirtsleeve back down, offering her child a small smile and turning away to head back to her husband. Clove stood rooted to the spot for another minute or so, looking at her mother's retreating back and trying to calm her heart. She pulled up her sleeve again and stared at the shades of purple on her skin, markers of battles won and battles that will be won. Rolling up her other sleeve, she turned around to walk the final steps into the changing room.
Eyes turned on her as the door swung open. She lifted her chin and copied her mother's little smile, her arms bare for all to see. The purple marks bloomed on her fair skin like strange violets, a badge of honour that she would not be taking off any time soon.
She wanted the whole world to know that she was brave, that she was strong, that she made them proud and honoured.
She wanted the whole world to know that she was the Peacekeepers' daughter.