Disclaimer - Checks reflection. Nope, still a guy, so I can't be Suzanne Collins.
'To the Victor Belong the Spoils'
by Witherwings
Chapter Two
"Would you stop doing that." The voice of my mentor, Sabine Jaeger, winner of the 17th Hunger Games, pulls me from my thoughts with a jolt, her firm reprimand carrying with it a hint of humor and a trace of something else, barely detectable, which I can not place.
"Sorry," I mutter, forcing my hand to stop worrying at fabric of the charcoal suit my stylist has me wearing this evening, or, more accurately, the new flesh hidden beneath my clothes that the Capitol's doctors grafted onto my stomach to prevent my intestines from spilling out onto the highly polished marble floor. Objectively I understand that the medical staff have fixed me up as good as new - better than new in fact - but deep down I have a nagging feeling that I have lost something in the arena. Something that can never be replaced.
Not that you would know it to look at me. Thanks to something my prep team called a full body polish, not a mark or blemish remains on my skin. The new skin matches exactly the olive tones so common back home in the Seam, with not a stitch mark or visible join anywhere - not even the small birthmark on the back of my right ankle survived their attention.
Physical appearance alone then, anyone living under a rock this past month would have no reason to believe that I had triumphed in the bloodiest Hunger Games ever seen. However, even the borderline magical abilities of Panem's most gifted doctor's have their limitations; some scars are invisible and run so deep that they can never been repaired. These scars, I am sure, will be with me for the rest of my days.
Sabine, one of the few people in the world who can understand that pain, draws level with my shoulder. She is lean and tall, with shoulder length, almost white hair that I know from watching old videos was once blonde. For a few moments she joins me in silence, gazing at the glittering city circle through one of the large floor to ceiling windows of the President's mansion.
"Sorry to startle you, Haymitch," she says after indeterminate period of time, the twinkling lights of Panem's first city reflecting in her blue eyes. By way of response I offer my mentor a shrug. Having spent nearly three weeks fighting tooth an nail to stay alive, I haven't quite managed to readjust to a normal life where unexpected sounds do not automatically spell instant death. "But they're about to notice the star of the party is missing," she adds with a nod towards the ongoing victory party at our backs, the sounds of a string quartet filtering back into my awareness as if I had managed to block out the esthesis of the party during my few moments of solitude.
The melody is somehow familiar, although I can't place it. Beautiful harmonies, whilst festive enough and certainly befitting the celebratory nature of the party, speak to me, not of victory and celebrations, but of great loss and sadness instead. We lapse back into a companionable silence for a few moments, each lost to our own thoughts.
On the streets below, a sea of humanity fills the pavements, and although noise of the crowd is lost behind, what I presume to be, sound proof glass, it is evident that they are celebrating the climax of the Games. I find myself wondering whether the people back in District 12 are celebrating tonight. Three families, I am sure, will not be.
"Home." The single word, spoken almost reverently, slips past Sabine's lips like a breath of wind.
"What?"
"You were thinking of home," she replies placing a hand on my shoulder. I am gratified to note, that for the first time since leaving the arena, I do not flinch at the touch of another human being.
Behind us, the cadence of the ever present drone of conversation has changed slightly. Even without turning around it is not hard for me to picture the dignitaries and VIPs invited to the Presidential mansion searching for their star attraction. Understanding it would not take the party goers long to find us, I search my feelings and realise that my mentor is correct; my most recent mental images centring on my those of my mother, younger younger brother, Rhyl, and my girlfriend, Heidii. But how did she known? I ask as much aloud.
A warm smile graces Sabine's face. It is the first time I can ever recall the expression truly reaching her eyes, and the change sheds years from her face. She, I know, was seventeen when she was crowned victor, meaning she was now entering her sixth decade of life - widely considered to be old age for someone who lives in the harsh environment of District 12 - but when she smiles, I can easily envision that I am speaking with someone my mother's age, rather than someone from a generation older still.
"I saw you looking at the city," she answers. "So wasn't that what you were thinking about? Home? Family? A girl perhaps?"
I feel a slight blush creeping into my cheeks. "Yes," I admit. "But how did you know that was what I was thinking about?"
Sabine's expression falters, her lips pressing together into a firm line. It is a look I recognise from our training sessions prior to the Games and I know she isn't going to answer my question. Instead she asks one of her own. "What do you think the reaction to your little stunt with the forcefield has been in the Capitol?"
Slightly thrown by her abrupt change of subject, my brows pinch together into a frown of confusion. "I - I don't know," I stammer, frustration causing my fists to ball at my side – I only ever stammer around the often strict mentor and it drives me to distraction. "Everyone seems to think it was quite spectacular," I say at length, recalling Caesar Flickerman's comments from my television appearance just a few hours beforehand.
"Don't be stupid, Haymitch," she snaps in reply, her obvious ire allowing cracks to appear in her usually stoic mien. It is those cracks that permit me a glimpse of the woman behind the façade, and for the first time since I was introduced to her, I detect a trace of ... concern? No, fear – the same emotion I had been unable to decipher in her voice earlier. "Not those vapid Capitol drones who live for the Games, who bet on the lives of the tributes. The Capitol." She gestures the vast ball room with both her arms. "President Snow."
"Oh," I say, still not quite following the distinction. "He seemed OK on the stage for the crowning."
Footsteps immediately behind us tell me our conversation is no longer private, several unidentifiable voices chiding Sabine for monopolising my time. "I beg your indulgence," she says, sliding her palm down to the small of my back. "Just one more moment and then you may have your victor back." Without waiting for sounds of ascent she uses her hold on me to guide me towards another window a few paces away from the growing crowd.
Her voice now an urgent whisper, Sabine continues. "I thought you were intelligent, boy. Think!" She taps her temple for effect. "That was for the cameras. How do you think it reflected on the Capitol, on him, that you were able to use the very tool the Gamemakers designed to keep you within the boundaries of the arena as a weapon?"
My eyes widen in understanding. "Not best pleased I imagine."
"Precisely. Word is he's furious with you."
Subconsciously I can feel the crush of the party goers edging up behind us once more. They won't be denied their victor much longer.
"But, Flickerman - " I stutter, remembering a line the host had fed me during the interview. " - Flickerman made it sound as if it was all some sort of delusional act carried out by someone on the brink of death."
"And that's exactly the line you need to stick to," says Sabine, her lips now all but pressed against my lips to ward against eavesdroppers. "President snow is a dangerous ... "
"Mr Abernathy." The overpowering smell of roses reaches my nose at almost the same instant the new voice registers in my mind, the speaker elongating the four syllables of my family name in a manner that makes it sound like something dirty you might find on the bottom of your shoe. "I want to congratulate you on your victory. Your solution was as unexpected as it was ingenious."
Mindful of my mentor's advice, I turn, and find myself face to face with President Snow. "Thank you," I say noting that Sabine, along with the crowd, have melted into the background. No one dares interrupt the President it seems. "But I'm not sure I completely follow you, Mr President. My solution?"
"Come now," replies Snow, his lips breaking into a tight smile which I feel could more accurately be described as a grimace. "You don't expect me to believe that your triumph was...accidental?"
He knows! I think. Somehow he knows! The three hour highlight show hadn't shown my first visit to the edge of the arena with Maysilee, nor the stone I kicked off the precipice only to have it rebound back to it's original position, but perhaps the President had seen the un-edited footage - he would certainly be privy to it.
"What can I say," I say, trying, and I fear failing, to keep my voice even and composed. "I'd lost a lot of blood. I was barely conscious. I didn't really know what I was doing. I just saw the axe coming straight for me and dodged it. Next thing I know it rebounded and buried itself in her head."
For a moment, the President says nothing, his eyes boring into me as if seeing me in a whole new light. Had my story truly been convincing enough that he now believed me, or was his scrutiny motivated by something else?
Apparently satisfied with his findings, he rearranges his face into what I have already termed his politician's face, his over plump lips stretching into a smile once more. "Either way," he says. "It has certainly provided us with a worthy victor. How about a toast to celebrate your success?" He snaps his long fingers, a drink appearing there, as if by magic.
An instant later, a flute containing a near colorless, carbonated liquid is pressed into my hand by a heretofore unnoticed female Avox. "No thank you," I say declining the offer. "I don't drink." But whether I'm motivated by my dislike of alcoholic drinks, or something more sinister, I can not say.
"Suit yourself," says Snow, draining the bubbling drink in a single gulp. Smacking his lips together in appreciation, he places the empty glass atop a decorative column. "Your loss. It really is a fabulous vintage."
I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust as a new smell, one I have grown intimately familiar with over the last few weeks, assaults my nose over the still powerful smell of rose petals - blood. I eye the crystal glass wearily, wondering what on earth it could contain to produce such an awful odor and set it down on the same column, the Avox girl immediately placing both my full, and Snow's empty glass on her tray.
"Well I must say our little chat has been most ... enlightening, Mr Abernathy," says Snow. I know I am being dismissed and I fight the urge to exhale loudly in relief feeling I might have just done enough to convince him of my story. "But I mustn't keep you from your adorning public. You will pass on my good wishes to your mother, and little Rhyl of course. I promise we'll reunite you very soon."
Without another word, the President turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd which immediately descends on me. Hands reach out on all sides of me, shaking my hand or slapping my shoulder. Congratulation overlap one another until the individual words are lost in the cacophony of noise, but I am barely aware of them, a feeling of unease settling over me as I watch the retreating back of President Snow. Are the Games finally at an end, or are they just beginning?
Author Musings
Well I didn't expect that to go the page as easily (or quickly) as it did, but there we are. Hope you liked it folks but I can't promise that future updates will be so prompt.
As always, there are a couple of things I want to pick up on.
First up, I wanted to portray the 16 year old Haymitch as a little more naïve, requiring Sabine to spell it out fot him (btw, I'd love any thoughts on Sabine).Yes, even back then, he's smart, but he's also still just a kid and perhaps wouldn't immediately assume that his actions in the arena would have any negative consequences. I'm pretty sure that if he had, he wouldn't have pulled off his little stunt with the forcefield.
Second. Yes, Snow just tried to poison Haymitch. I wanted to allude to the fact that, as this is 24 years in the past, the smell of blood only filled the air in the immediate aftermath of him downing the drink. Haymitch could have no idea what that signified at the time, but over the following quarter century, the President pulled the same trick so often that eventually the sores in his mouth never healed.