GARED

The odds were not in his favour. He'd cleaned the blood off his clothes 2 days ago, but he hadn't been able to clean the wound he had received. Gared doubted he would never knew who struck him, slicing behind his knee. He had grabbed his attacker, stabbing wildly, punching through skin on his third thrust. He let go, unable tell if he had slain his attacker, because the snowstorm had blinded his vision. He'd heard the cannon shots later, 2 single shots, echoing dimly through the snowy landscape. And when night fell the snowstorm raged for so long that Gared could not see the faces of the slain. He'd slept under the snow that night, and woke under the ice, the clumsy hole he'd made frozen stiff. He woke that day, more relieved than he had ever thought he would be in a Hunger Game. He'd survived the first night... but why wouldn't he have? He was from District 1, his father had survived why couldn't he? But he hadn't heard or seen Ruby, or any of the District 2s or 3s he had made an alliance with. Had they all left him? That's what he had thought in those first few days, but then it had dawned on him; he had left, he had scurried off with the preserves he had won, limping away from his allies. He had cried himself to sleep that night, distraught. But when he woke the next morning, he figured they probably would have killed once they were the only ones left. That moment he decided to get up and survive, to win this game and kill his enemies and once-allies. But that was before he had tried to stand up. Fallen on his tail-bone, his leg screaming in pain, Gared had discovered the black pus oozing from the festered wound. He had withered in pain, and cursed his luck for what may have been hours before the parcel had fallen on the outside of his cave. The snowstorm had subsided the previous night, and Gared had spilled out the contents of his hard-won supplies; he had enough food to last him two, maybe three, more days – he had eaten too much those first few nights - a flash-light and a jagged dagger (He had left his old one in the gut of his attacker). But he had no means to light a fire, he hadn't looked for timber the first night or the one after that, and by the third night the wood was to wet to light. He needed proper kindling and flint-stones to start a proper fire, instead he had wet twigs and jagged rocks. So when the parcel had fallen he crawled towards it, dreaming of warmth and cooked meat. But when he opened the parcel to find a little bottle with ointment in it, he had thrown it across the room in a childish tantrum and crawled back to his little alcove to cry. Only hours later did he realise the use of the ointment. He had crawled back to the shattered bottle and spoiled medicine. He recovered a small gob of the ointment, all that was not soiled and applied it all on his wound. Almost immediately, the infernal pain had calmed and Gared slowly got to his food and walked around, limping slightly. But soon the novelty of the medicine left him and he wondered what to do. Then he made the worst decision so far. He had packed up his food, slung his dagger and flash-light on his belt and walked out into the storm. Maybe he had hoped to find some more supplies, scattered by the storm, or find some kindling, or find his allies. Only 6 cannons had been fired since that first night, so they couldn't have died yet. But it was the thought of finding Ruby again, the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, that drove him out to his certain death. After what seemed like hours, he thought he heard voices and ran towards the sound until he collapsed into the snow cursing his idiocy. It wasn't Ruby, only the winds treacherous whispers. It was then when he realised he had lost his food. He had cried and curled up in a ball like he had that first night, hoping that the cold would claim him whilst he slept.

Gared woke up to faint voices on the wind. No, you will not fool me again. Gared got to his feet, the snowstorm picking up again. His leg throbbed, more painful then when he had set out. Its wearing off... In a couple of hours the pain will have returned and he would freeze to death, in pain, stuck in this never-ending hill of snow and ice and death. Gared drew his jagged dagger and wavered in front of his flat belly. He had done it before, why couldn't he do it to himself. His pain would be over soon, his warm blood warming him in his last moments. But he couldn't. He was a coward. He couldn't do it. He was afraid of the pain, of the blood, afraid of death. So Gared slung his dagger back on his belt, cursing his cowardice.

Then he heard the voices again. But this time he heard two voices, a boy's and a girl's. Ruby. Gared forced himself up the last part of the hill, for survival, for Ruby. And when he arrived at the top, the sight filled him with delight. A small cave had been built at the base of the hill, protected from the storm. An orange glow illuminated the entrance to the cave. A fire. And Ruby. Slowly, Gared made his way down the side of the hill, the pain in his leg lessening as the air around him got warmer. He was going to live. He was going to survive, like his father before him.

Gared arrived at the entrance, and slowly walked into the cave. A boy on a log opposite Gared got up, a spear in his hands. But the girl opposite the boy didn't stand up. Her red hair looked beautiful in the orange fire dim. Ruby. I'm back. But when the girl turned around to look at Gared, her face was wrong, longer, with a pug-nose, and her eyes were a cold, haunting blue. Now that Gared looked at her, this girl's hair was more orange than Ruby's red. "You're not Ruby." Gared said, as if saying it would change the girl into the love of his life. But a spike of pain blossomed in his neck and his world turned black, the orange fire dimming, the warmth becoming eerily cold. Not-Ruby got to her feet, surprise in her eyes, and when he tried to talk, blood filled his mouth and spurted down his lips. Then Gared fell to the floor, an axe buried in the nape of his neck.