A/N: If you like Hunger Games fanfictions, check out JamieOdair's fanfiction!
I start slowly, testing the needle in my hands. The cold steel feels right in my hands, there's no other way to describe it. And as I study the design, I see the needed pieces in front of me. A small smile breaks onto my face.
I can do this.
After the parts of the dress are cut out of the silk, I select a matching pink thread, and lace it through the eye of the needle. It takes me a few tries, but in the end I do it. After, I neatly tie off the ends like I saw Rosemary and the other women of our district do. And to this point, I feel pretty confident in my rudimentary skills until I realize I have no idea what to start with. Tentatively, I pick up the two pieces that will make the body of the dress and begin.
The next three hours pass, and my speed gets faster and faster. It is like my hands learned how to sew long ago, and as time goes on, they remember more. But, the funny thing is, the longer I go, the more I realize that I actually enjoy this. That I actually like it.
It is nearly dawn when my dress is complete. My hands are cramped, my eyes are red and raw, yet I am pleased. I am pleased because I accomplished something. I am pleased because now I finally have something to give to Caspia, something that will bring a smile to her tired face.
I get up, and start a fire in the hearth. Soon, it will be breakfast time. And in a few hours, a boy and a girl will be sentenced to an almost certain death. And there is a chance that it could be Caspia. I shake that idea from my mind.
Picking the finished dress up, I hold it back and admire my handiwork. It is not perfect, but it is not sloppy, nor dilapidated. And I know that if Rosemary were here, she would give me one of her lovely smiles in reward for my work. This is the first thing that I have done in a while that gave me a challenge and yet was fun is a sense. I begin to realize why Rosemary liked to design clothes.
When the fire is cracking merrily, I put some oats and water in a pot and set it over the flames. The breakfast is dismal, as usual, but we have nothing more.
"Good morning."
I hear Caspia's voice behind me. She is at the table, studying the dress. "What's this for?"
"It's for you," I respond with a small smile. She looks up in surprise at me, and then smiles widely too. For the first time in months, I see delight on her face. And it reminds me that sometimes the simplest things can bring the most joy.
"For me?" she asks wonderingly, feeling the fabric between her fingers. I think she does not recognize the silk, which is a bit of relief.
"For you. And it has a matching hair piece," I say, picking up the pink band. It is a strip of leather, with the silk sewed on top of it. I thought it was a pretty clever design, seeing as I made it up as I went.
"I have never had one before," she breathes, picking it up and running her fingers over it, too. "Who made this?"
"I did."
She gasps and says disbelievingly, "You?"
"Yes, last night when you were sleeping."
And what she does next surprises me. Caspia runs over and throws her arms around me, complementing my work profusely.
"Oh, thank you so much," she murmurs, her voice muffled in my shirt. I hold her awkwardly, patting her back. The last time I remember her hugging me was right before her mother died. And the feeling is comforting.
"Shh," I say, letting her go. "You have to get ready. Today is a reaping day."
The smile slides right off Caspia's face as she remembers the date. There is a moment of tension, and then Caspia says stiffly, "I'll finish breakfast."
I let her, and instead sit at the table. All joy I felt earlier melts away.
It is the reaping. And my Caspia could be snatched away from me. Just like Rosemary.
I try and brush the thought away, but it doesn't leave. I see Caspia, in the arena, alone and injured. I see Caspia, limp and lifeless. I see Caspia, gone like her mother. Just the idea of losing her makes me cringe, and for a moment, I let myself wonder.
What would I do?
Caspia sets a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of me, and then sprinkles some sugar and cinnamon on top. I stare at it.
"Where did you get this?" I ask, feeling a little apprehensive.
"I… traded it," she says, but I know she is lying.
"She wouldn't want that," I say quietly. But Caspia understands what I mean. Rosemary wouldn't want her precious little flower throwing her life away for something as silly as cinnamon.
"The odds are in my favor," she muses after a bit. "Today, I mean. My name is only in there twice."
And it's true. I refused to let her get any tesserae. There are kids her age who have six or seven entries already. I promised myself that would never happen, and work my hardest to keep food on the table.
"They are," I agree. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."
"But what if I won't?" she asks quietly. I don't answer the question because the same thing is on my mind. There have been children that have been reaped with just one entry.
"Last year it wasn't bad," I say, trying to change the subject.
But, to me, it was. I still remember the acute sense of panic that made my insides tighten in fear. I remember a name being called, a name that wasn't my daughter's. And I remember the deep breath of relief. But now that same apprehension is mounting.
"The oatmeal is good." I try again, as I dig my spoon into my breakfast, which has just cooled down enough where I could eat it.
"I guess," responds Caspia, poking around hers. She doesn't eat it though. And I don't make her.
Instead pursuing a forced conversation, we sit in silence and watch as the sun mounts higher and higher. It must be nearly nine o'clock.
"Let's get you ready," I say. Caspia sighs, but doesn't object, and fetches the wash bin from outside. I begin to heat some water over the fire for her bath.
"The water feels good," says Caspia, emerging from the makeshift bath curtain, a towel wrapped around her, about fifteen minutes later. Caspia's hair falls in curly little ringlets to her shoulders, and her golden-brown skin is glowing.
"You get dressed, and I will dump the water out back," I say, picking up the heavy tub. The dirty water sloshes over the sides and all over the floor, nearly getting on the pink dress.
"No!" Caspia yelps, snatching it off the table, and out of harm's way.
"Good save," I manage to gasp out, and Caspia gives a weak little giggle.
When the water is dumped, and I come back in, Caspia is dressed. She is looking down at the soft folds of silk in amazement. I lean against the door frame, out if her sight, and cross my arms, watching her.
"It's perfect," she says to herself, and then she spins. The airy material billows around her, and she laughs. But her face is almost immediately solemn again.
"Want me to do your hair?" I ask walking into sight and Caspia nods, handing me a brush. I comb through her curly hair, and arrange it into two braids. Then, using a few pins, I wrap them around each other to form an elegant bun. As a finishing touch, I add the headband and turn her around.
Caspia looks beautiful, just like her mother. I smile weakly at her, as her fingers gently probe her hairstyle.
"How does it look?" she asks, tilting her head.
"Perfect," I say, and I honestly mean it.
Outside, we can hear the sounds of other families waking getting ready. There are the cries of children, and the anguished pleads of adults. Because it is nearly noon. Nearly time for the reaping.
"Let's start walking," I say, my hands shaking. Anxiousness has set in full force now, and I can't contain it. Caspia just nods at my suggestion, and I know she is feeling just as nervous.
Together, we walk outside, hand-in-hand, and join the crowd making its way down the dusty streets. All the people around us look gray, and washed out. Stress is written on the parent's faces, and terror on the children's. But now we all walk silently, not one person talks the whole half-hour walk to the city center.
As we approach the packed square, I kiss Caspia's forehead, and squeeze her hands. I notice that her body is racked with tremors and that there are tears on her cheeks. I quickly wipe them away with my thumb.
"Caspia," I say firmly, looking her in the eyes. "You'll be fine, I'm sure of it."
The crowd is pressing against us, pulling us apart. With I final squeeze, I let her hand go. Caspia's form disappears among the other hundreds of kids lining up to be checked in, and I have to take a moment to control myself before joining the other parents at the little roped-off waiting area manned by Peacekeepers. In years past, parents have tried to fight the Peacekeepers. Now, they are fully armed and have the right to fire at any objective parents.
On the stage, there are the two big glass reaping balls. There has to be over eight thousand entries in each, which comforts me. The odds are truly in Caspia's favor.
When the reaping finally begins, we start with the traditional video, which explains the necessity of the Hunger Games. Some parents behind me shake their heads in anger, and I can't help but agree. The Capitol is sick.
Out emerges Hedrida, our district escort for the tributes. She has a pale, pointed face, loaded with white powder, and a hideous orange wig. The things they wear in the Capitol.
Next comes the two mentors, Chaff and Seeder, both looking glum and hunched over. I have never seen them smile, but I guess the job of mentoring each year's tribute and watching them die is taking its toll. Lastly emerges the mayor, a strict man with cold brown eyes. No one here likes the man, because of his cruel way of running our district.
"Welcome to the 71st annual Hunger Games!" says Hedrida, in a fake cheery voice. Under all that makeup, you can tell she is exhausted.
"We shall start with the ladies first, and as always, may the odds be ever in your favor."
She puts a manicured hand into the left ball, and plucks up a little white piece of paper. At this point, I can hear my heart thudding in my chest, and feel my breaths coming in short bursts. It seems like an eternity, but she finally reads off the paper.
For a minute, the name doesn't register. And then I know.
Caspia Ayersion.