Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.
* Chapter One *
It's the sense of freedom, I think.
Tantalising and unreachable. The illusion makes me feel strong, and beautiful. In control. It makes me feel like I have the power to choose who I am, what I do with my life and where I go. It's hard not to feel that way when it seems like you're on the top of the world.
Orange seeps through pale grey, bleeding into the dawn and cutting through the light mist that shrouds the tops of the trees. Shafts of light filter through the leaves, down to the forest floor that is carpeted in a thick layer of aromatic pine needles. Wind whispers through the branches, sending a pinecone tumbling down to the shadowed depths and making my hair stir from my shoulders.
When it's hit by the rays of the rising sun, it almost looks auburn instead of dark, dark brown. The light plays similar tricks on my skin and for a moment it looks closer to the golden brown tan shared by most of my district. A district that is slowly starting to come to life.
Even on reaping day, nobody can sleep for too long after sun-up. The birds make too much ruckus and with so much to do, only the privileged can afford to waste daylight hours. On a normal day, I would have had to leave my spot in the big, old pine closest to our house, much sooner. It would be by the first rays of light that I climbed back down to reality. On Reaping Day however, I crave the quiet, peaceful tranquility more than ever. I'm mesmerised by the ethereal beauty of weak sunlight breaking apart the mist that cloaks the trees below in the valley, by the river that rushes through the basin and by the distinct colour of dawn. A blue so pale it's a grey. I close my eyes and inhale the sharp, clear scents of cool breeze, pine needles and rich, moist earth. Listening to the sounds of the birds, the faint roar of the river, the trees settling in the wind and the faint chirp of crickets.
It's with reluctance that I slip down from my haven. Clambering, nimbly back to the ground and immediately feeling smaller and more insignificant as I look up at the towering trees. I'd love to stay there forever, watching the sun climb higher in the sky and then sink back down again. Seeing the rise of the moon and gazing up at the stars, wondering if there's anybody else also looking up and wondering what lay beyond the world we were enclosed in. But, it's Reaping Day and there are things that must be done.
I move quickly and quietly through the trees, my hand checking that the coins still remain in my pocket, until I emerge in the town square. It's not much of one. This isn't the main square of our district. It's an outlying post, for lumberjacks like my family and the shops and tradesmen that always sprung up around us. It'll be an hour by barge down the river and then at least another hour's walk, or a shorter cart ride to the main square. It's Reaping Day though, so we should be able to get a cart. The Capitol doesn't give room for excuses as to why people aren't present for the ceremony. They're generally very good about providing transport.
I snort quietly in contempt and am treated to the sight of the baker's ditzy daughter almost leaping out of her skin in fright. She's switching the sign from 'closed' to 'open' and she hadn't seen me coming. Now she does though and her bright expression falters as she recognises me. Disgust mixes with fear and she hurriedly re-enters her family shop. I hold my head high and push the door open too. The bell above the door rings jauntily, but the baker's daughter hurries into the back, leaving me for her mother to deal with.
"Good Morning, Rosilda," the baker's wife greets me.
She's a kind woman, with honey brown hair and and a round happy face. I often wonder why her daughter puts so much stock in gossip when her mother barely seems to notice it.
"Happy Hunger Games Mrs Burgen," I reply, my voice even, but a small sardonic smile flitting across my lips at the phrase.
Her bright smile falters momentarily, but it's back in place almost at once,
"The same to you Dear. The usual, I presume?"
The brown paper packet she produces before I've even nodded shows she knows the answer better than I do. I take it with a murmur of thanks, feeling the warmth of the newly baked loaf through the wrapping. I go to hand her the money - another routine - but she breaks tradition, by giving me the price.
I falter, looking up at her in confusion,
"I'm sorry, don't you-"
She repeats the price gayly. As if it's not a third cheaper than the usual fare, and squeezes my hand when I wordlessly hand the money over to her, slipping the extra coins back into my pocket and pondering what I shall spend them on.
"Thank you Mrs Burgen," I say firmly, as I reach for the door handle.
"Don't mention it Dear. Good luck today. It's your last year, is it not?"
I nod and manage a weak smile. We both know that the sweetness of almost being free is overshadowed by the fact that at eighteen, you have the most names you could ever have. For me, with four older siblings and two younger, as well as my parents, that's seventy two slips of paper with my name on them. Still, four of my siblings escaped the reaping, unscathed, with the same number. My name has yet to be called, why should now be the year?
"Just think, in a few hours, it'll all be over."
"I hope so," I say, forcing a smile and not pointing out that for twenty-four children, the nightmare will only just be starting.
"Rise and shine Laurel!"
My fourteen year old sister groans loudly and rolls onto her stomach, hiding her face in her arms,
"If I'm going to die within the week," comes her muffled voice, "Can you at least let me sleep-in first?"
I roll my eyes,
"Guess Robin and Fletcher will be able to eat all the strawberries I found… did I mention I bought honey to go with our bread?"
Laurel groans again, but still doesn't move to get up,
"I'll be there in a minute. Don't let them eat all of it!"
"We'll have to leave in about an hour, Laurel!" Robin calls from the kitchen, his voice filled with amusement, "And you still have to get dressed and stuff too!"
"Don't you want to look pretty for the cameras!" Fletcher jokes.
I sigh quietly as my little sister immediately bolts upright. While I care very little about appearances, and often wonder if things would be different - better different - if I was less physically attractive, Laurel's fluctuating self confidence means she always puts a lot of effort into looking good.
"Come and eat first," I say firmly, wincing as she crashes to the floor, from trying to stand up with her feet tangled in the blankets.
I offer her a hand up and squeeze it, not letting go until she stops her frantic looking around the room and focuses on me,
"We'll get ready together," I offer softly.
Her worried expression loosens and an excited smile spreads across her face,
"Really? Does that mean you'll let me do your hair and things?"
Unable to disappoint her, I just nod and smile faintly as she lets out a little squeal and throws her arms around my waist. Almost immediately she starts to pull back, guilt and worry flooding her face as she scans my expression,
"I'm sorry Rose-"
"No," I murmur, consciously loosening my tense shoulders and pulling her back, "I'm fine."
She resists for a moment longer, then sighs happily and squeezes me tightly. A wide smile spreads across my face and with difficulty - a great deal more of it than I would have liked - I manage to rest my chin on top of my baby sister's head.
When did she get so tall?
"Rose!" Robin's whine from the next room makes me remember that I forbade the boys from touching the food until our parents and older sister were awake and Laurel and I were ready, "We're all waiting!"
"Shut up Rob!" Laurel growls, pulling away from me and straightening her old pyjamas, before leading the way out of the room, "Waiting a few extra minutes won't kill you!"
He sticks his tongue out at his twin sister, a childish gesture that she doesn't hesitate to reply to in kind as she slumps down on the seat beside him. I slip into the one between my mother and older brother, glancing around the table. Of my six siblings, there's only four still living at home. Though that number is set to decrease soon. I smile across the table at Tillia. She's older than me by four years and is engaged to be married soon. As always, there's a crease of worry between her brows and a tired smile on her lips. Even though it's Reaping Day and she's been working longer and longer hours to save as much money as possible, she can't keep the smile at bay. It makes me glad to see her so happy, though I'll miss her when she moves out.
Just like the eldest of us, she'll move into an 'assigned' house with her husband. In reality, the reason Tillia is working so hard is to support her fiancé as he rushes to finish building their new home. That's life when you live in a part of the district that's only really cropped up in the last three decades. Our own parents came here when they were married because there was both a need for a seamstress and plenty of work for a typical logging lumberjack. Still is.
"Honey?" Tillia frowns slightly, glancing at me curiously, "How'd we afford that?"
"Honey!" Fletcher moans, smearing a large amount onto his slice of bread, "You know what Rose? I don't think I tell you how much I love you often enough."
I smile as Laurel and Robin take turns to greedily spread it on their own bread, their own eyes lit up with happiness,
"Mrs Burgen charged me far less than normal today," I explain for my more money conscious sister and parents' benefit. I pull out the remaining coins and push them towards my father, "I've even still got change."
My parents exchange a long glance and Fletcher pauses in his devouring to lift an eyebrow curiously,
"Reaping Day," I shrug, "She wished me luck too."
I wish I can take back the words the moment I see the effect they have. Laurel knocks her knife to the ground with a clatter, Rob's face goes extremely pale and my Mother grips the edge of the table so hard her knuckles go white. Fletcher and my father exchange tense looks and Tillia's smile vanishes.
"It's your last year Rose," Robin murmurs, still deathly pale, he injects a positive tone into his voice and manages a small smile, "You'll be out of the reaping for good!"
"And you and Laurel will be one year closer to being safe too," Dad says and I see him reach under the table to squeeze my mother's hand.
Nobody says a word about what might happen if we get picked. Fletcher jokes about me being an adult, putting into words the unspoken assent that being safe from the reaping makes you no longer a child. Tillia says we should celebrate tonight and Dad notes there's a bottle of elderberry wine and apple cider in the cupboard that we've been saving for a special occasion. He winks at me as he says it, knowing my partiality towards the cider.
"We can invite Glen and Felicity," Robin notes in the same forced positive tone.
"And Laina," Tillia agrees happily.
I perk up, at the thought of spending some time with my brother and his pregnant wife, and my eldest sister. If Laina's coming, that means she'll have to bring Willow. My niece is four years old and absolutely adorable. She inherited her father's slightly unusual shade of auburn hair and Laina's big hazel eyes, and I swear the little girl has every person in her life wrapped around her finger. She reminds me of Laurel at the same age. I glance at my sister and see that she's systematically shredding her chunk of bread into little pieces. Her face has taken on a grey pallor and her wide eyes are fixed on her glass of milk, glazed over, but still filled with apprehension. Her shoulders are hunched and her mouth pressed together tightly. From the anxious glances Robin keeps shooting her, it's easy to see that his forced joviality is for her sake.
It's Fletcher poking fun at Tillia for being hesitant to ask if her fiancé can come that finally makes Laurel ease up. At fourteen, she might have been through two reaping already, but that doesn't lessen her fear. I don't remember ever being as terrified of the Hunger Games as my baby sister is, but then again, my fourteen year old self would have probably embraced the possibility of imminent death. That was about the time my world was completely shattered after all.
"I'll see you two after this is all over, alright?" I say to the twins, touching a hand to each of their shoulders and looking steadily at Robin until he nods, before turning my gaze to Laurel.
We've just signed in and are now supposed to be taking our places in the overcrowded age-group pens. Being eighteen myself, I'm at the back. Which is a relief because it means I don't have to try and fight my way through the hordes of people to get to where I'm supposed to be. Unfortunately for Laurel and Robin, they do have to try and squeeze through to the fourteen year old section. I'd be happier about leaving them if they could go together. Robin might be oblivious and some-what tactless most of the time, but it couldn't truthfully be said that he didn't care about his twin sister more than anything else in his life. It worked both ways too, I'm not sure anyone would be able to ease Laurel's terror more than Rob. Unfortunately, the boys and girls are separated by the aisle, so we'll all be going our separate ways.
Laurel's eyes are glassy from tears that have been suppressed for the last hour and wide with pure fear. I don't want to leave her like this, but we don't really have much choice. I take a deep breath and step closer to her to give her a tight hug, smoothing her hair as I step back to eye her steadily,
"Don't let them have the satisfaction of seeing how scared you are," I say softly, too quietly for any but my siblings to hear over the noise of the crowd, "You're going to be okay."
I can say it with certainty, because I already know what will happen if her name is called. She'll be fine because I will volunteer if she's reaped. Laurel deserves to grow up. To have her chance at happiness. Her life is worth more than mine. It's as simple as that.
I wait until she gives a me quivering nod and takes a long, deep breath, tightening her jaw and standing up straight, then touch her shoulder once and look to Robin. He grimaces back, but doesn't hesitate to slip his hand into Laurel's and pull her slowly away. They both turn to look back at me, but I give them a nod and encouraging smile, before turning and slipping through the crowd. While it hurts my pride to admit it, my four years younger brother is a significant amount taller than me now. It's a recent development, and I haven't quite adjusted to having to look up at him, but it will help him navigate the crowds. He'll be able to get Laurel to her area and back to his before the clock hits eleven thirty. As for me, I have a different thing going for me in terms of being able to get through the almost solid mass of people. I might not have the view or stockiness of my brother, but I do have my speed and nimbleness. Not to mention the people who recognise me part like the red sea, as if I'm diseased and infectious.
I dance and wriggle my way through the mass of people in record time, ducking under the boundary rope for the eighteen year old section and firmly planting myself there. I refuse to allow myself to be caged in by the other girls of my age group. I can think of little worse than spending the next forty minutes unable to move due to the crushing number of people packed in close proximity to me. I go as far as to grip the rope between my fingers and plant a glare on my face. The girls still arriving leave me be - save for the odd irritated look - though most seem to be anxious to find friends and willingly push deeper into the mass of people. I pass the time waiting for eleven thirty vacantly watching the other children of my district. We're one of the largest districts in population and the square is packed with children alone. Everybody over the age of eighteen will be crammed into side streets, contenting themselves with speakers and big screens that will show the live Capitol broadcast.
It amuses me to see the way the other girls of my age act. They all put on a brave face, acting unfazed. None of them have been reaped yet, they're on their home stretch, desperately trying to believe that if they haven't been chosen yet, they won't be chosen now. Many are chattering with their neighbours, laughing and eyeing the area of boys across the aisle. It's an excuse to dress up and look pretty and all around me have risen to the occasion. New dresses, fine shoes, make-up and pretty hairstyles. It's ironic that for the first time ever, I feel similarly made up. Laurel made good on her excitement and I'm wearing the bride's-maid's dress I'm to wear to Tillia's wedding. A risk that is significantly lessened by the fact my mother and eldest sister are a wiz with all forms of material. They can get stains out of anything, mend any tear… which is just as well considering the scrapes I get myself into.
Laurel's also braided the front parts of my hair back so it's held off my face and coaxed my often tangled long dark hair into loose ringlets. She'd even got Tillia in to colour my lips and darken my lashes. Of course, Tillia had to go above and beyond and outline my eyes in black too. Which according to both them and my mother - who said it later as we bordered the barge - made my eyes bigger and brighter. I can see similar effort in the other girls' appearances too. Unlike me however, there is real fear in their eyes, that they can't quite hide beneath light-hearted smiles and airy giggles. I recognise nothing in their faces. Most of them will be older than me - my eighteenth birthday having been a mere two weeks ago - and are a year above me in school. They'll all be coming to the end of their last year. I still have another to go. It's not just that either. I go to school much closer to home than the main Town Square outside the District 7 Justice Building. The children there are from my village and from two other logging outposts close by. It's a twenty minute cart ride or a half hour walk to school, but that's much better than the hours by barge and cart to get to the main village. Not to mention the way back. You can't catch a barge upstream.
I rouse myself when the squeal of a microphone cuts through the noise of the crowd. The mayor clears his throat gruffly and says a few mumbled words that are rendered illegible by static. I'm pleased by this, having no desire to hear the slimy arse of a man speak. I know the proceedings. The welcome words, the introduction of Seven's Victors - all four of them - and the announcement of who will be mentoring these Games. Nobody with half a brain will be surprised by Johanna Mason being named as a mentor. She's our most recent victor, having won the seventy-first Games only three years earlier. She's young, attractive and fierce, everything the Capitol wants in a victor. The fact that she broke an almost two decade long losing streak with all the other mentors being middle-aged makes her a given.
Not that I mind that. Johanna Mason is intimidating as hell, but she's also my sort of person. She's smart, strong-willed and knows how to play to her strengths. Being somewhat skilled at deception myself - I'd consider myself to be a veteran at pretending to be something you're not, in fact - I caught onto her plot quickly. I didn't know her at all before she was Reaped, but nobody with eyes as accusing as hers was a complete push-over. Johanna Mason knew hardship before she was reaped. She knew exactly what winning would require, what it would cost her, and she was willing to pay it. That's why she won. That's why I knew she would win.
The other mentor is a man named Hillier. This does surprise me because Hillier is the eldest of our victors. He won the twenty-somethingth game at sixteen and must be about seventy by now. I'm not sure I can remember the last time he was called up for mentoring. My eyes track over the final two victors on the stage. There must be a reason. I realise at once what that reason is.
Blight and Cynthia are both what I would call a little unstable. They always have been. Blight drinks heavily and Cynthia has always set me on edge. There's something decidedly unhinged about the maniacal gleam in her eyes. She's always been bone-thin and looked a little unkept, though with the winnings the Capitol provides, she should be living in luxury, I've always frowned at her weight. Now, her hair's so limp and brittle and she's so gaunt, frail and grey faced, that she resembles a corpse… or maybe a morphing addict. I suppose she could be either, who knows what the Capitol's technology is capable of these days.
Blight on the other hand is on the heavier side. He's lolled back in his seat and could quite possibly be asleep. He's got a scraggly beard, questionable stains on his shirt and looks almost as old as Hillier, though he can't be older than fifty.
Seems to me like Johanna and Hillier really are the best choices.
The mayor rambles on about what I assume to be the Dark Days and for half the speech, it is blissfully impossible to understand a word of what he is saying. Then with a long, high-pitched squeal, the sound quality vastly improves and his voice booms out thunderously. I wince and some girls around me clap their hands over their ears. The mayor lowers his voice, but it's more a problem with the audio system rather than with him. Nobody fixes it, probably thinking too-loud is better than impossible to comprehend, but the result is a volume of speech that is impossible to tune out.
Finally, the mayor introduces our Capitol escort. There's a stirring of interest, because it's not the same Capitol man that's been at every Reaping I can remember. The mayor introduces the woman as Anariel Lovelace. She's young, that's the first thing that strikes me. The second is her beauty, it's beauty that I can appreciate too, because it's not completely unnatural. She's got auburn hair that is perhaps a tad too deep and shiny to be completely natural, and instead of being piled up in some ridiculous tower, it's loose around her face. Her dress is a green and brown combination that compliments our district, alien in it's design and revealing cut, but simple and probably conservative by Capitol standards. The only thing about her that distinctly marks her as being from the Capitol are the tattoos that swirl around her forearms. The distance renders them smudges of colour, but the big screens show them to be vines. The leaves curl around her arm, bright purple flowers blooming alongside. They're beautiful adornments and I've never seen anything more striking or so unique.
She has a quiet voice. The Capitol accent not quite so harsh on my ears in her soft tones. It's easy to tell that's she's extremely nervous, because she stumbles a few times in her speech. The second time she does so, a boy in the eighteen year old section wolf whistles loudly. I scowl in his direction and Anariel goes bright red, looking extremely flustered.
It's not any of this that really makes me accept her though. It's the fact that she doesn't blab on about the Games. She says she's honoured to be here, but she talks about our district. Says she's always dreamed of seeing the beauty of our forest and the roaring river. The only mention she makes of the Games is hoping that any of us who see her home will find it's beauty equally as curiously captivating.
Next comes the video. The propaganda piece about how Panem rose up from the ashes and the districts bit at the hand that fed them. Cue the Hunger Games as punishment for our sins.
It makes me angry and I can quote it almost word for word so I allow my attention to drift. I focus instead on something I've been considering doing in the weeks since my birthday. Eighteen is technically the year you come of age. Being no longer eligible for the Hunger Games is also considered to make you an adult. Ergo, I'm an adult. As an adult, it is my opinion that I should have more freedom.
Not to say my parents are needlessly strict. They're not. In actuality, most restrictions I have put on myself. No alcohol except with my family. Always home before ten o'clock. Never go anywhere at night without telling multiple people where. Don't break agreements of where and when to meet. They're precautions, restraints I gave myself to give me the allusion of control. A saftey-net.
I think I'm finally ready to relax those constraints. It's been four years. I'm older, wiser, stronger. I now know not to accept drinks from other people, to never put my cup down, to give specific times that I'll be home, to leave when the people I know and will care if I disappear do. Lessons I learnt the hard way and am punished for everyday. It's been four years. I'm an adult. I've lost my rose-tinted glasses, I can protect myself and I'm not scared anymore. I haven't been for some time now. The problem is convincing my parents and my siblings of this. The 'technically I'm an adult' argument should work. It's with dull surprise that I realise Anariel is moving over to the Reaping bowls. I take deep breath and close my eyes calmly. There are seventy-two pieces of paper in there with my name on them. There's twelve with Laurel's.
I don't waste time praying. Nothing I can do will change what paper the Capitol woman pulls out. Instead I remind myself my name has been in that damn bowl for six years and hasn't been pulled out. The name Aspen has been in there for fifteen consecutive reapings. Hundreds of slips of paper, starting with my eldest sister Laina when she was twelve, through Glen and Tillia and Fletcher. They escaped the Reapings untouched. After today, so will I and in four more years, Rob and Laurel will be free too. Twenty consecutive years with over a hundred slips bearing our family name doesn't seem like good odds to me, but I don't really think about that. I watch with detachment as Anariel reaches into the bowl and grabs a name. She doesn't pause dramatically, but crosses back to the microphone, fumbling to unfold the paper for a moment.
It won't be me. There's hundreds of thousands of pieces of paper in that bowl. It won't be Laurel either. It just won't be.
"The f-female tribute is, R-rosilda Aspen."
And just like that, my self-assured certainty slaps me across the face.