She is eight and he is nine when they first meet.
She is the newest recruit, along with a boy (who is two years older than she) with shocking black hair and hazel eyes that never seem to blink. Her own hair is a dark brown—almost black—with calculating eyes the same color. They stand together, quietly watching the other recruits, unnoticed.
Sur, the trainer, starts when she sees them. "Stop!"
The sounds of children's grunts and blade against blade cease as they take in the fresh meat. The boy physically recoils, but Clove holds her head up high.
Sur grins widely, teeth almost sharp enough to be literal fangs, and says, "You must be the Kentwells."
"That's right." Clove smirks. "Clove and Brod."
Sur tilts her head. "Your parents were excellent recruits. A shame that neither was picked as volunteers. Let's hope you're just as good."
"We'll be better." The confidence in her voice rings clear. She heads over to the knives, Cato's eyes following her every step.
It's obvious the second she picks up the knife—made of silver with an intricate handle—that she is well trained. Her grip on the knife is practiced, and when she lets it fly, the blade embeds itself in the heart of a dummy ten feet away. Perfection.
Her brother is less sure of himself, but walks over to sword section nonetheless. Cato and his combat partner, Ash, drop their weapons as they watch Brod choose the heaviest sword and pick it up without difficulty. Ash's jaw drops when Brod throws the sword itself to behead a dummy right next to Clove's—twenty feet away.
It only takes five minutes to pair Brod with a light-haired girl named Pauline; they start sparring instantly. Clove is paired with a small boy named Bredon, whose bright gray eyes hide behind thick black glasses.
Ten minutes later, Bredon is pinned to the ground underneath Clove, her eyes on a blond-haired boy a few steps away as he spears a dummy in the chest.
The day after his tenth birthday, Sur pits them against each other in a wrestling match.
They eye each other from their positions three feet away. His fists are clenched; her knees bent.
When Sur blows the whistle, Cato lunges, swinging his right arm back. Clove quickly ducks underneath his arm, anticipating the blow, and outstretches her leg, tripping him. In one swift movement, she has him pinned to the ground, her thin but strong legs effectively holding him down.
"One, two—"
Cato rolls just before the point is given to Clove. He is roughly ten pounds heavier than she, so despite her squirming she is unable to release his hold on her.
"One—"
Sur is interrupted again by a loud curse as Cato jumps up, Clove following after him with a grin. "She—she bit me!" he exclaims, grasping his hand.
Clove shrugs. "There are no rules against biting in the Games," she says innocently.
Cato sputters indignantly, and in that moment, Clove barrels into him and he falls over.
"—three!"
Time and time again, Cato's brute force fails against Clove's intense drive to win. He gives up after the eighth loss. Cato walks over to Sur, grumbling, a request in mind.
The next day, they're paired together.
They spend every waking moment together. Training. Eating. Doing schoolwork. Before long, they know each other better than they know themselves.
"Cato," Clove mumbles the day he turns twelve, both of them resting on the mats in the Training Centre. "You could get Reaped this year."
"So?"
"So... what if you do? What'll happen then?"
He glances at her. Sometimes her intensity in training makes him forget that she's still so young and innocent, because despite her bloodlust and knife skills, she's still a ten—almost eleven—year old girl.
"If I get Reaped..." Cato's voice trails off. "If I get Reaped, then I'll win. For District Two, for my family, for—"
He stops abruptly.
"For?" Clove's dark eyebrows are knitted together in confusion.
"For Ash," he grumbles turning away from her. "Come on, let's keep sparring."
She frowns, then stands, already clutching a knife in each hand.
Brod is Reaped a few years later. He's sixteen and not supposed to be in the Games for another year, but the boy who's supposed to volunteer doesn't because Brod's one of the best candidates and if he doesn't win, who will?
Their parents come to say goodbye: "You'd better win, Brodric."
Pauline arrives shortly after: "You can do it. I know you can."
Sur bids farewell: "Don't embarrass me or your family. Win for District Two. Your sister, if nothing else."
Clove comes last. The pain in her is intense; the fact that District Two trains their tributes beforehand doesn't guarantee a win. They say nothing at first; he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into him. This show of emotions isn't normally allowed, but no one can see and this will be the last time they see each other in person—unless he wins. "Don't die, okay?"
"Okay," he whispers, and Clove blinks back tears—and hates herself for them. He can do it, she knows he can. She's looked up to him her whole life, despite the confidence she shows and he doesn't.
He's going to come home.
Clove watches the chariot rides and interviews go by. Brod wears simple gray armor for the former and looks particularly handsome in a gold suit for the latter. Her father boasts to his friends; her mother holds parties through each step of the Games. Clove smiles and acts accordingly, but fear bubbles inside of her. She pushes it down each time it comes up, but she can't help but think what if, what if, what if?
School isn't an escape. Her parents might not be there, but his friends are and they're constantly talking about Brod, Brod, Brod. Clove loves him so, as a sister should, but after a week all she feels is annoyance and terror and it's all threatening to explode.
Training comes everyday, after school on weekdays and for nine hours on Saturdays and Sundays. She channels all her emotions into her knife throwing and sprinting and wrestling. By the time the actual Games start, Clove has gained three pounds of pure muscle.
Brod leads the Career Pack of the 73rd Hunger Games, something everyone saw forthcoming. They hunt, fight, kill, right up until there are only six people left and five of them are Careers.
And then everything goes wrong.
They are hunting the final tribute not part of their pack—a girl from District 5—when she jumps out from under a tree and slashes two Careers with her knife before another takes her down.
A cannon booms, but not for the girl—she's still breathing (just barely), blood gushing from the wound inflicted by the spear the girl from District 1 threw.
There's momentary mayhem, trying to discover who died, when the camera zooms in on a familiar face.
Brod.
Clove gasps feebly as she takes in the bloody tear in his chest, right where his heart is. It's he who took the worst of the knife attack, whilst the boy from District Four simply pulls off his shirt and wraps it around his abdomen, the cut small but bloody.
Clove shuts her eyes, covering her face with her hands as she thinks of her brother's arms around her. She dreads the moment his body will be delivered and she'll truly have to say goodbye.
She's throwing knives angrily when someone puts their hand on her shoulder. She whirls around, pressing the gold knife in her hand to the person's neck.
"Woah." Cato holds his hands up in surrender, eyebrows knitted together. "It's just me."
Clove steps back, pivoting her body and letting go of the knife. It lands in the spot where the dummy's eye would be, the force of her anger embedding the knife up to its hilt.
Cato says nothing—he knows how easily she would attack him with that knife if he made any move to comfort her—and hands her a new knife, made of shiny black metal. She scowls when she turns back around, angrily swiping the knife from his grasp.
It goes on for twenty minutes, up until Cato turns to give her a new knife and catches her wiping her teary eyes.
"Clove?" he mumbles. Any other time and he would've made fun of her, but Brod was her brother and he deserved to win. Even Cato is feeling teary.
"I'm fine, Cato." She brushes him off, walking away, and all he can do is stare at her retreating figure.
"Copra Sang," Adichie, the escort of District 2 calls out the following year.
The red-haired girl steps up, head held high. Her auburn hair sweeps her sharp shoulders and her green eyes flash triumphantly. Cato recognizes her from a few of his classes and occasionally in the Training Centre. He eyes Debra, the volunteer of this year.
"Do we have any volunteers?"
Debra opens her mouth. "I volunteer as tribute!" Cato furrows his brows; that wasn't Debra's voice—
No!
Clove steps up to the stage, her posture defiant, eyes flashing. Cato snaps his head to glare at Debra. She's only fifteen, he wants to scream. Take her place! Debra is frozen, and the moment passes.
"Onto the boys!"
Cato's thoughts are jumbled. He can't let her go in there by herself. He can't, he can't, he can't—
"Ash Goldstem!" Cato's jaw drops. "Are there any—"
"I volunteer as tribute!" he roars, lunging forward in front of his best friend. "I volunteer!"
If the escort is surprised, she doesn't show it. Clove whips her head to stare at Cato, and he manages a smile despite his fear; for her, for him, for the punishments they will receive if either of them win.
What has he done?
"Stupid!" Sur lashes out, glaring at Clove. "I don't know if this is rebellion for Brodric's death, Clove, but this is this is not the way to do it. His death was horrible and unexpected, yes, but there are other ways—"
"I don't care." Clove's tone is steely and cold. "I will avenge him, Sur. You can't stop me."
Sur opens her mouth, but the doors slam open. "Time's up."
Sur shakes her head, standing up and squaring her shoulders. "You are not ready," she hisses. "You'll be lucky if you survive a week."
With that, she walks off.
The train ride to the Capitol is awkward, to say the least. Adichie attempts conversation, but her charges ignore her.
"I'm going to bed," she finally says after a few hours, exhaustion and annoyance lacing her voice. "Call me if you need me."
Cato watches the woman stride off, her platinum blonde curls bouncing with each step. Once she's out of view, he turns to Clove. "Why would you volunteer?"
"Why would you?" she retorts, leaning back and popping a chocolate-covered strawberry in her mouth, then promptly spitting it out in the trash bin next to her. "Too sweet," she says with a shudder.
Cato cocks an eyebrow. "I had a better chance than Ash did," he says simply. "What about you, shorty?"
Clove wrinkles her nose at the nickname. "No reason."
Cato snorts. "No reason, my ass. Is it—"
"You know why, Cato. Don't act like you don't. It's annoying."
Cato laughs shortly. "Fine. Would you pass me some of those strawberries?"
"I hate this getup," Clove mutters through gritted teeth, and Cato laughs.
"You look adorable, shorty," he says, a grin playing on his lips. She growls at him in response. The dress really is adorable, he thinks as he takes it in. It's a shade of deep red that reminds Cato of blood, but that really is the only gruesome part of the dress. It's short, ending at her knees, and covered in cutesy bows and glitter.
It really doesn't suit her personality.
Her shoes do, perhaps: blood red stilettos sharp enough to fatally stab someone. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun, and her lips are coated in lipstick the same color as her dress and shoes. Looking down at his own simple black suit, Cato feels underdressed.
There is no more time for discussion as the cameras start rolling. Still, Cato can't help but steal glances at his best friend. She would look better without the dress, he thinks, then mentally slaps himself. She's fifteen!
He spends the rest of the night imagining dirty, dirty things.
The rest of the preparations go by in a blur, much like Brod's Games.
It makes Clove sick.
District Twelve's mesmerizing chariot ride had her ranting to Cato for hours, and although he stayed quiet, his set jaw and hard eyes revealed she was not alone in her annoyance.
She vows to be the one to kill at least one of them.
How ironic that in attempting to kill the girl from Twelve, it is Clove that is dying instead.
She lays feebly in his arms, the dent in her head more painful to Cato than any other injury on his own body. Pleas spill from his mouth, even though he has long since realized he can do nothing to save her.
"Clove, please."
The smallest of smiles rests on her lips. "Why do you care so much, Cato? Now you can win."
A sound of disbelief escapes him. "I don't care about winning Clove—I only volunteered so I could keep you safe."
She freezes. "What?" She opens her mouth to say more, but instead of words blood trickles down her cheek.
Cato gasps. "Clove—"
"I—I can't—"
"Clove, please."
"Cato." Her eyes are wide open, shining with unshed tears. "I—I'm glad—"
"Please, Clove, I can't let you die—"
"I love—"
The cannon sounds before she can finish her sentence.
Cato stays at her side for a long time, barely breathing. A hundred—no, a thousand—images of Clove runs from behind his eyelids, in no particular order. Clove on her eleventh birthday, grinning at him. Clove pressing a kiss to his cheek for his sixteenth birthday. Clove training hard after Brod's death. Clove's brown ponytail swishing as she leaps over an obstacle. Clove, Clove, Clove.
He leans over, pressing a kiss to her dry lips. And then he lets her go.
His last thought is of her.
Even as the mutts tear him to shreds, all he can do is stare at the small, dark mutt at his chest; the only one not touching him. He watches the way it barks at any mutt coming close to his chest—even in death, protecting his heart.
Oh, how he wishes he could die and be with her.
The first thing Clove does when he dies is punch him in the chest.
I don't love how this turned out; were they too out of character? Regardless, please R&R for more ;P