"I wish the games would last forever," Meg sighs, shivering as the freezing tunnel air sinks into her bones. There is a stunned silence, a shift of weight as her companion clutches her tighter. A nervous smile cracks his lips. He presses his cheek to hers.
"Have you lost your mind, Meg?" His voice, though kind, is worried.
She basks in his arms and wishes the moment to hold for eternity. "No," she whispers. "Not yet."
There is no ceiling here. She hums happily, twisting the strand of already tightly-curled hair around her finger. The ceiling made her scream, so he told the men to take it away. The only issue, a faded, muddled necessity, is the lack of a door. She remembers that once, long ago, she came and went of her own free will. But that time has long past.
Besides, there are plenty of ways to occupy herself. There is a large bookshelf along one wall, and a King-size bed, and a thick carpet on the floor if the bed becomes too soft. She doesn't read, and sleeping is just another way to revisit unwanted places. Instead, she draws. By the end of forever, she will have filled each book on the shelf with sketches. Every day, she lies down on the carpet and, blurring her eyes so as not to read the words, she draws pictures of the sky.
Meg lies beside him, her clothing soaked through and plastered against her skin. Her chest heaves as her body begs her to suck in air, but all she can hear is hisbreathing, loud and harmonious in her ears.
"We made it," he gasps, sitting up slowly. Too weakened to do anything else, she nods. Behind them, black water spreads to the cavern ceiling as far as the eye can see.
His dark hair is flattened against his skull, and the dim light casts shadows under his high cheekbones. Meg smiles to see his face.
Fear paralyzes her.
"There's only one winner in the Hunger Games," she chokes.
He strokes away the tears as they pour down her face, until they come to fast for his fingers to catch. Then he kisses her forehead gently, and holds her as she sobs.
Sometimes it rains. He doesn't like to let her stay in her room when it rains, but she refuses to go when he comes for her. The rain reminds her of everything the world has washed away.
Her pencil tears the damp paper uselessly, so she throws it aside. The book in front of her is heavy, thick with words she will not read.
Ink is bleeding from the pages, blackening her hands. The letters stream into garbled insanity as the rain kisses her face.
This is mourning.
An explosion echoes down the dark tunnel. Meg's eyes open. She rises, watching for his reaction. His whole frame is taut and drawn. Meg knows he has kept track of the cannon blasts, though she has lost count.
"Three," he mutters bitterly. "There's three of us left."
Meg sinks to the floor again, wordless. Only one thing can be done, but for know she must distract herself from the inevitable.
"It was probably Carnation," he mutters."She was wounded, the last time I saw her."
"I'm sorry," Meg says. He shakes his head angrily, tears filling his eyes.
"I didn't even know her. I had never seen her until our names were drawn in District 10." He puts his face in his hands. "Her lungs were weak. It's a miracle she survived so long." Though he hides, Meg knows he's crying.
"It's okay to cry," she tells him. His tear-stained face turns toward her. "We're only human."
Food appears in her room about three times a day. Unless she can't stand for dizziness, she leaves it untouched. He thinks she should eat more. She smiles distantly, tears a page from a book, and hands it to him. She whispers his name as he studies her sky. His voice becomes rough with suppressed tears, and he leaves her alone.
She's glad. Looking at him hurts.
Meg hands him his pack. Inside are half of their supplies. He takes it with mumbled thanks, but he can't look her in the eye.
"It can't come down to us two," she repeats weakly, her voice carrying the hollow reasoning for the awkwardness hovering between them.
"No," he agrees for the thousandth time as he tucks his knife into his pack. After a moment's hesitation, he continues. "If it comes down to Brian, Meg… Don't let him win." She pictures the emotionless District 7 tribute, his head shaven bare and his skin black as ink. She shivers.
The time has come. She shoulders her pack. They assess each other, trying to affix each detail in their minds. In all probability, this is the last time they will see each other.
Finally, he breaks the silence, stepping forward and seizing her thin body in his arms. Elation mixed with agony fills them as their lips meet.
Then it's over.
They turn away from each other. Each tunnel leads in a different direction. They walk away.
Sometimes the water from the tap in her room is too sweet. Those are the days when she wakes, shrieking in fear, from her dreams every night. He comes to her, tracing the black circles under her eyes. When the water is sweet, she fills her wooden cup and simply watches the liquid until her thirst becomes unbearable. The water makes her head go foggy, and within minutes she has collapsed into fitful sleep.
The nightmares come. She cannot wake.
Meg walks alone. Her only weapon is the long knife she took off Clara's body. Fear has tightened her every aching muscle. Though she knows their separation was for the best, she misses him.
She creeps along the tunnel quietly, wary and listening for movement. Brian is here, somewhere. Meg hesitates to kill every time, even when her victim is suffering, but Brian has long since eradicated himself of emotion. All that is left is his shell, his calculating fighter's brain and his toned, muscular body.
Barely breathing, Meg steps around another sharp bend in the cavern. She relaxes slightly. There's nothing-
She staggers backward. Pain mutes her as she stares in horror at the hatchet in her gut. Meg looks up, and there he is. His blank face looms out of the darkness like a nightmare. Shock fills her. She had been so careful… so careful…
Brian pulls his hatchet out of her body. His strong, lumbermen's arm pulls it back, and then, with uncanny silence, he looks her in the eyes and sends his weapon back into her stomach.
She screams.
He tries to wake her from the demons in her head. He pulls her thrashing body into his arms, and gently rocks her. Nothing works. He finally puts his face painfully near to hers and whispers in her ear. He apologizes. Pleads. Tells her unconscious mind stories of her love.
She wakes, calf-brown eyes staring up at his weak smile. He watches warily as her eyes soak in his face. She remembers.
Her face contorts with fear, and her bony hands come up, raking her nails down his face. He yells, rolling her off him. She begins to sob, and tries to scratch him again. This time he's reading, catching her wrists before she can complete the motion.
As he berates her, she looks away. Looking at him is bad. She feels memories surging behind her frail barriers. "Eri…" she moans. "Eri…"
Sympathy fills his face, twisting it into bitterness. He looks away.
"MEG!" he bellows, and she can hear his heavy footfalls as he races to her aid. She wants to tell him not to come, but her tongue won't move, and the blood pounding in her ears is painfully loud.
Brian's head cocks as he listens to the other's approach. This was all a trap, she realizes as blood pours from her wounds.
He sprints around the curve in the tunnel, and skids to a halt when he sees Brian standing over Meg's bleeding body. He draws his knife.
"No…" she coughs, but he doesn't listen. Brian hefts his hatchet.
They circle each other carefully. His eyes flicker from Meg, dying on the dirt, to Brian, the warrior, the one mountain he knows he can't climb.
Brian steps forward, using the inertia to pour force into his hatchet, swinging down towards his opponent's head. Just in time, the young man brings up his knife, and the two blades collide.
Meg screams as his knife blade shatters. The pieces glint traitorously as they fall to the ground. Brian's face turns toward his enemy again, and the hatchet comes up and down as quickly as a lightning strike.
When the arm comes up to defend him from the lethal hatchet, it is cut to the bone. He roars with rage, weaponless but still leaping for Brian, his wounded arm trailing uselessly. "Get away, Meg! Get away from here!"
Calmly, deftly, the hatchet strikes again. Blood flows rapidly from his throat, and with a low moan he slides off Brian to the ground.
"ERI!" Meg shrieks.
I knock on the large double doors, nerves coiling in my gut. Haymitch stands next to me, silent. He won't tell me why we're here, in District 10, when we could be rescuing Peeta from the Capital.
"This has to be your motivation, Katniss," he says again. It's all he's said for the last few hours, even when I berated him with questions. "You need to see what I'm about to show you, and realize that the Capitol must be stopped at any cost."
The door opens, revealing a young man a few years older than I. He has a head of thick, dark hair and a fine face. He's very strong in the shoulders, and, though he lives in a mansion, I can tell he has worked for some time in District 10's industry, livestock.
"Follow me," he tells us. Obviously Haymitch has notified him of our presence, because he knows exactly what to do.
Haymitch nods, and we enter, marveling at the grandeur of the house. But instead of taking us to a conference room or other such place, he leads us to the back door. I begin to wonder if this has anything to do with the rebellion, despite what Haymitch has said.
Without hesitation, he opens the back door. In the middle of the yard is a guest room of some sort, though why there wouldn't be enough room in the house I don't know. And why anyone would stay in a room with no roof, I couldn't guess. Briskly, he strides across the grass and to the door to the room, which is hidden on one side of the building.
"Before we go in," he says quietly, "I want to warn you not to frighten her."
"Of course," says Haymitch, and there's an unusual tone of understanding in his voice. The man opens the door.
"Eri…" Meg whispers, crawling to him. Brian has walked off. Both of them will die soon, he has rationalized. Meg knows he's just waiting for the cannon, and then he'll be free from the games.
There's blood on his mouth. Meg presses hers to it anyway, desperately hoping for the glow in his eyes to stay lit. His throat is mangled. He chokes, drowning in his own blood. Though pain is running through her own body, Meg manages to pull Eri into her lap, her tears mixing with the blood on his face.
"No, no, no…" she hisses. "Eri, stay with me. Please, please…" His eyes find hers, and she hushes. Eri gazes at her face. The seconds seem to last forever. He shivers. Slowly, the light in his eyes fade.
His blood pours over her, mixing with hers. Pain tears into her. He's gone. He's gone. The cannon goes off. She shrieks, staggering to her feet. One of her arms is clutching her stomach, feebly trying to stem the blood gushing from her injuries. Her heart pounds in her ears, and something breaks inside her.
The pain disappears, flushed from her body by blind, senseless fury. Brian is still alive. There can only be one winner of the Hunger Games.
Meg picks up the pieces of Eri's shattered blade, feeling the sharp edges cut into her hands. She feels black determination fill her, and she stumbles down the tunnel after Brian. The pain she feels is a dark reminder of what she must do.
He turns as he hears her. Though he doesn't show it, she knows he must be surprised. Bitter humor washes her blood-deprived brain. She has been mortally wounded, after all.
Brian doesn't see her weapon. He raises the hatchet to cut her down, cut her like he cut Eri, but she ducks under the blade and presses herself against his iron hard chest. He looks down at her, wondering what to expect. With a howl, she takes a single shard of Eri's knife and slams it into his chest.
Brian staggers away, dropping his hatchet. Nothing shows on his face. Anger brings Meg strength, though the world is spinning around her. "Don't you care about anything?" she screams hysterically. "Can you even feel pain?" She stabs another knife shard into his chest, and now he's bleeding. She's shaking, and she can barely stand. Blood is everywhere. On her face, on Brian, seeping from her stomach…
Meg throws herself at him. "Can you feel this?" she whispers, and plunges the last piece of the knife into his throat. He drops like a stone. Meg follows quickly, collapsing in a pool of her own blood.
As she fades to black, she hears the echo of cannon fire. 'I'm sorry, Eri,' she thinks with her last grain of energy. 'I've failed.'
Then it doesn't matter anymore.
When the young man takes us into the room, worry fills his face. There's a girl on the bed, his age, and she's screaming in her sleep. Ignoring Haymitch and I, he rushes to her side and shakes her awake. Haymitch gestures toward the two, and we make our way up to the bed. The room is barren but for a bookshelf against one wall.
"Shhh, shhhh," he is saying, desperately trying to comfort the girl. She wakes from her nightmare, and sits up. She looks at his face, her features twisted into a childlike pose of concentration.
"Eri," she babbles happily. I feel dread ball up inside me. She reminds me of Finnick's Annie. As I study her, I feel a trace of remembrance; I have seen this girl before. A long time ago, before my name was drawn.
"She was the tribute from District 8 in the 73rd Hunger Games," Haymitch says. That's all it takes. I remember her now. I remember not being able to watch those Games often for sheer pity of the contestants. The Games had been set deep underground that year, in a vast network of tunnels and caves. Several tributes had gone completely insane before their deaths from sheer claustrophobia and choking panic, screeching and begging to see the sky one last time.
Something else catches my attention. That year, there was a love story similar to mine and Peeta's. Two tributes from different Districts forged an alliance, and ended up in love with each other. Of course, things ended badly, as does everything in the Hunger Games.
"There's only one winner," I whisper. Haymitch nods. This is why he brought me here.
"Until you came along," he says.
"Eri," laughs the girl, gently touching the young man's face. Though he does bear remarkable resemblance to her former lover, I know he's not. That man died in the Games, just like the other twenty-three tributes.
"No, Meg," he whispers, and the smile runs away from her face. "I'm Asher. Eri's brother." I remember seeing pictures of Asher and Eri, the twins torn apart by the games. The winner, Meg, had gone to live with Eri's family when the Games had ended, due to the fact that she had no other family in the first place.
"Eri?" She's confused. She can't understand that he's dead. Asher shakes his head, tears rolling slowly down his cheeks. "It's okay to cry," she echoes. "We're only human."
I now know why there was no victory tour the year of the 73rd games. The winner was simply too unstable. I remember the tragic end to the Games, and wonder how it must have felt to wake up knowing you had nothing to live for.
Meg sees me, standing awkwardly behind Asher with Haymitch's hand on my shoulder. She scrambles off the bed and runs to the bookshelf, pulling off books and throwing them to the ground until she finds the right one. She flips through it wildly, finally finding a certain page. Cradling the book in her arms, she comes back to us, and shows me the picture in the book.
It's the night sky, a sketch done in light pencil lines and shades, worked carefully over the printed words in the book. Tiny stars wink up from the paper. Meg's tracing something with her finger, a shape in the sky. I squint until I see him. Eri. He's smiling.
Meg tears out the page and gives it to me. "Eri," she says.
"We'll avenge him," I reply as I realize that we will.
"Good," she says, beaming.
"My family supports your cause," Asher states firmly. "If you need anything, we'll try to help."
"Thank you," I say.
"Thank you for showing Katniss," Haymitch tells Asher. "I know it's hard on you."
"That's alright," Asher shrugs. "I think it was good for her. Meg, I mean."
I look over my shoulder as we leave. Meg is sketching in one of the books, drawing lightly over the words. She barely seems to sense us exiting. There's no knob in the inside of the door, I realize, just a keyhole. She can't get out of here.
"Asher," I call as Haymitch and I are about to depart for District 13. He looks up. "I'll be back to see her."
He nods, smiling thankfully. "In another world, she could have been you!" The thought frightens me. I imagine myself like Meg and shudder. As soon as I get Peeta back, everything will be alright.
"He's right, you know," Haymitch says. "Can you imagine?"
He comes to her again, soon after the others leave. He takes her hand gently, and she traces the lines of his throat. She can't remember why she has to check, every time, to make sure his throat is unmarked. But it always makes her feel a little better to see him healthy.
He brushes the curly hair away from her face, and opens the door. The door she never knew was there. Cool air blows on her face, and she shivers with ecstasy. He leads her outside, her bare feet marveling in the slightly damp brushing of the grass under them. The sun coats everything in soft, yellow light when not framed by four white walls.
He laughs to see her joy, surprised at it himself. She takes him in for the first time.
"Asher," she says.
Fin