A/N: I dedicate this to the amazing Karina (Cloud-Lover23). Title and lyrics borrowed from "Month of May" by Arcade Fire, which reflects, in my opinion, the terror of the reaping and the Games. Arcade Fire should be credited for writing my fics — seriously. A continuation of my genderswap AU one-shot series "Of Arrows and Burnt Bread". Reaping through the end of the Games.
Month of May, it's a violent thing
In the city their hearts start to sing
Well, some people singing sounds like screaming
Used to doubt it but now I believe it
Month of May, everybody sing love
In the city, watch it from above
And just when I knew what I wanted to say
The violent wind blew the wires away
–
When you play the game (of thrones), you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.
George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
Month of May
"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute," a strangled voice screams, and Effie Trinket pauses, staring at the girl that mounted the steps to the stage in disbelief.
Robin Everdeen stands, frozen, in his place — one foot hovering above the ground, face a stiff mask of determination. He was trying to save his sister from the ghastly lady that had called out her name. When the strangled cry blared through the square, he was half-expecting to see his best friend, Gayle Hawthorne, trudging toward Effie Trinket.
Instead, he sees Halle Mellark.
His legs urge him to move forward, to encircle his little sister inside them and remove her from the horror or the reaping. But another part of him — his persisting memory, or perhaps the guilt that gnaws his insides — tells him to run to the blue-eyed girl and haul her back from her untimely death.
He doesn't. Instead, his voice a raspy whisper, he says, "Good luck."
"A — A volunteer?" she gasps in utter surprise. "Your name, deary?"
"Halle Mellark."
"Mellark? Aren't you the little girl's sister?"
"No," Halle allows.
Meanwhile, Robin runs to his little sister. Prim buries her face on the crook of his neck, and her warm tears stain the collar of his pale blue shirt.
Mrs. Everdeen, thrashing through the crowd, dashes to them. Robin gently pushes Prim forward, to the already open arms of their mother, and trudges back to his spot.
Effie is done congratulating Halle.
She half-walks, half-hops to the bowl with the boys' names. She fishes out a piece of paper — the piece of paper that will condemn yet another boy to death.
She unfolds it and opens her mouth to reveal the male tribute of District 12 —
"I volunteer!"
–
Rain, relentless rain falls from the dull grey above, onto the muddy ground.
Robin Everdeen, eleven, trudges behind the merchants' stores, a pile of sopping, frayed dresses that once belonged to his little sister, Prim, until she outgrew them. He had meant to sell them this morning at the market, but no one wanted them. Maybe it was their condition. Most likely, it was their seller.
Nobody would want to buy anything from a Seam kid.
Desperation, cold and steely, burgeons inside his chest.
Robin Everdeen's family is starving. After the mining accident that killed his father, his mother had "tuned out". She was there, but... wasn't.
The pile of clothes slips from his hands into the mud below. He doesn't bother to pick them up — no one wants them anyway.
He finally collapses outside the baker's.
The smell of bread being baked — fresh bread he could never afford — burns his nostrils. His gaze falls on the tin trashcan by the door. His tired legs bring him to it. He lifts the lid, hopeless resignation already nestled inside him, and peers into it.
Nothing.
It's empty.
The bakery door is suddenly swung open, a bright orange light surging out, carrying the scent of dough and warm bread.
A voice barks at him — he barely pays attention to it. He lowers the lid and walks to a tree by the pig pen, where he slumps onto the ground.
The door opens again.
This time, a girl walks out, and she is neither hostile nor angry. She is holding two loaves of bread. Without casting a single glance at his face, she throws them toward Robin. He stares at them in disbelief — like they are a hallucination. Like they will disappear if he reaches out and tucks them under his father's hunting jacket.
They don't.
He snatches them in one swift movement.
The girl is gone before he can thank her.
He clings to the worn leather of the jacket and runs.
–
The desperate cry that echoes through the square belongs to Robin Everdeen.
"Another volunteer?" gushes Effie Trinket in her ridiculous Capitol accent. "Well, bravo!"
Indeed, the chaperone of the District Twelve tributes is quite excited today. Excited, because this year's tributes aren't a couple of weeping weaklings. Instead, they are volunteers. Volunteering is rather common in the more privileged districts — One and Two, usually, and, occasionally, Four — but Twelve? It hasn't seen a volunteer in decades. And now two? It must be her lucky day.
Robin steels himself and climbs the steps.
"Your name is, darling?"
"Robin Everdeen."
"My, my, my... You are the brother of that little girl —"
"Prim," he interrupts, chagrined. Effie Trinket had the ease to condemn his sister to death, yet she didn't even care to remember her name.
"Ah, Primrose Everdeen. Oh my! What a day, don't you agree? District Twelve is on a roll today. Come on, people, round of applause, please, for our tributes: Robin Everdeen and Halle Mellark!"
No one claps.
Instead, one by one, the people of District Twelve bring the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to Robin and Halle.
An old but rare gesture. A gesture that means thanks, admiration. A gesture that means goodbye to someone you love.
Mayor Undersee proceeds to read the Treaty of Treason, but neither of them listen. Their gazes fall on each other and stay there, saying things words cannot describe.
Robin Everdeen casts an inspecting glance at the girl sitting mere feet away.
The tears that just a while ago were gushing miserably down her cheeks are gone, and, if it weren't for her bloodshot eyes, you wouldn't even guess she was crying.
So, it must have been a strategy. The crying, the apparent vulnerability.
Halle Mellark didn't live in the roughest part of District Twelve — and Panem itself — but she was no softie. She grew up with two older brothers, she worked at her family's baker from a young age, and she was quite strong — impressively so for a girl of her physique. However, it would make sense for her to play up the image of the sensitive tribute who volunteered to save a twelve year-old. Many tributes have used this tactic in the past, some with positive result. Johanna Mason is a notable example; she deceived everyone into thinking she was a weakling. In the end, it turned out she was more "effective" than a well-trained Career.
But Robin knew Halle, and that didn't count the few times he had traded with her.
Across from her sits Haymitch Abernathy — their mentor and drinker extraordinaire. She and Robin met him yesterday, when he reeked of cheap liquor and vomit.
"... providing you are alive," Haymitch remarks casually, spreading butter on a slice of toasted bread.
"What are you two talking about?" Robin asks as he settles onto a plush armchair, next to Halle.
"Finding shelter inside the arena."
"Since when are you so helpful, Haymitch?"
His sot of a mentor pulls a steel flask from his robe and pours a clear liquor into his cup. "Gimme a break, handsome," he mumbles drunkenly. "I'll come around."
Some mentor, Haymitch is. This is why tributes from Twelve usually end up dead before the Cornucopia bloodbath draws in. Because he would rather drink like a fish.
Robin jams the bread knife between Haymitch's thumb and index finger.
A gasp of shock escapes Effie Trinket's mouth. The usually composed and curt chaperone barks, "That is mahogany!"
"So, Halle... Is there a special lad back home?" asks Caesar Flickerman.
Halle Mellark, clad in a shimmering orange dress — the subtle orange of sunrise, her favorite color; a living candlelight — lowers her head and peeks from behind her eyelashes. "No," she says, though her voice doesn't sound believable at all.
Caesar flashes a brilliant, pearly white grin. "I don't believe that for a second."
Halle hesitates. "Well..." Cheering from the crowd. "... there is this one boy. I've known him since forever, and I've kind of had a crush on him ever since." Her cheeks turn a deep crimson.
"He have a girlfriend?"
"No — I mean, I don't think so. A lot of girls like him." She sighs. "It doesn't really matter, though. I doubt he cares much for me." There's a murmur of understanding in the crowd — unrequited love they can relate to. Robin Everdeen raises his face, his interest piqued.
"I'll tell you what to do." Caesar motions for her to approach, as if he's telling her a secret — a secret for the whole of Panem to hear. Halle leans forward. "You win this thing, alright? Then he'll have no choice but to pay attention. Right, folks?"
A big round of applause from the audience.
Halle slumps her shoulders and drops her gaze to the floor. "Winning... won't help my case," she laments.
Caesar tilts his head in confusion. "And why is that?" he breathes, genuine interest lacing the tone of his voice.
"You see... he came here with me."
Stunned silence.
Robin sits, motionless. Some of the tributes snicker snidely.
Caesar winces. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck."
"That's quite an understatement."
He pats Halle's shoulder. "My poor, poor Halle... Is this why you volunteered to save his sister?" She nods bleakly. "I'm sorry, but this is all the time we have. I wish you the best of luck, Halle, Girl on Fire."
The interview ends — the audience roars as she sits down beside him, focusing straight ahead, fidgeting in her seat.
It is Robin's turn now. He takes slow, careful steps across the stage. Caesar Flickerman shakes his hand cordially and sits down.
"And now, the Boy on Fire. Hello, hello." He flashes another of his signature smiles — it is almost as if a Gamemaker is managing his facial expressions from backstage, each time picking a different one from the giant screens abaft. "So, Robin," he begins. "The Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?"
He stares at him blankly. His stylist, Cinna, told him to be honest.
Just imagine you're talking to me.
His eyes flick to the audience, searching for his familiar face. When they find him, he nods back reassuringly.
"The lamb stew," he replies honestly.
Caesar laughs delightedly, and the audience begins to join in. "The one with the dried plums?" he asks. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." His face turns serious now. "You have been the surprise underdog this year, Robin. An eleven in training — e-l-e-v-e-n. The opening ceremonies costumes. Your unexpected volunteering at the reaping. But I think the crowd over here is interested in the more recent developments, aren't you now?" The audience fervently agrees, and Caesar continues, "Your fellow tribute just proclaimed her love for you in front of the entire country."
Robin feels his cheeks burn. "I, uh —" He casts a glance at Halle. "— am speechless."
"It must really be a shock," Caesar comments.
"But incredibly happy, as well," Robin interrupts. Confusion is imprinted on Caesar's face. "I have something to say, too." Caesar moves forward, intrigued. "I volunteered... for her." The crowd draws a collective breath. "To protect her in the arena."
"So you're saying her feelings aren't unrequited."
Robin shakes his head.
The truth is, they aren't. Because Robin is entirely certain there are no feelings to be returned or ignored.
Halle's confession was part of her strategy, but this is a game two can play.
"You know what they say: love blooms when you don't expect it. The Girl and Boy on Fire, the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve...," he mourns. "Now, what about your little sister? What did you tell her, after the reaping?"
"I told her that I would win. For her."
"Of course you did. Unfortunately, our time is up, folks. Robin Everdeen, I wish you the best of luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Thundering, deafening clapping erupts, muffling Caesar's voice.
Oh, they are certainly unforgettable.
The camera is trained on Robin and Halle's faces throughout the anthem, separated by mere inches — inches that can never be bridged.
"I told you, I know what I'm doing," a girl's voice stresses.
"You'd better."
"Come on."
It is Halle Mellark's voice that instructs the pack of Career tributes to follow a "trail" on the ground, a trail that leads wherever the thing they are looking for is.
Who they are looking for, to be precise.
And that 'who' is Robin.
Robin Everdeen, strapped on a pine tree fork, thirty feet up in the air.
"Let's kill her now, Cato — we're only wasting time."
"After we find him."
Robin is certain of it — Halle's proclamation of love was a canard. But betrayal stings. What was she trying to achieve, anyway? Was she trying to make people warm up to her, perhaps even gain more sponsors? How is she achieving that by teaming up with the Careers?
–
Halle has never been to the Hob before. If it weren't for her idiot brother, Finn, she wouldn't be here today.
But she is, loaves of bread in hand, walking briskly through the crowd of salesmen and coal miners. Her blond hair and blue eyes looks so out of place here — some people shoot her strange, hostile looks, but she stares straight ahead.
Today she is trading with Ripper, the one-armed woman who sells white liquor. Damn Finn, and damn lost bets.
"Three," someone haggles.
Halle turns to the general direction of the voice. It belongs to Robin Everdeen — a squirrel hangs from his belt, and his arms are crossed over his chest.
The middle-aged man who sells bread at the Hob cringes. "This is my final offer, Everdeen. If you don't like it, not my problem." The loaves on his counter are flat and dense — Robin's squirrel is definitely superior to the entire lot.
"I can give you three," Halle stammers out.
Robin stares at the loaves of bread in Halle's armful. "These — These are fresh," he croaks in disbelief.
Halle inspects the squirrel. "Clean shot through the eye. You've improved," she notes.
"Thanks."
And, like that, Halle Mellark earns a clout on the back of the neck from her older brother, and, for the first time in months, Robin Everdeen has warm, fine bread for lunch.
–
The rustling sound of leaves being stomped on fades away, and Robin climbs down from the tree.
This is a game, he reminds himself, and two can play it.
He is wrong, of course.
For Halle, this is anything but a game.
Robin said that he volunteered to protect her, and he did that on live television. Instead, he ran — he ran when she begged him not to. ("Listen to me — to hell with Haymitch's advice. Wait for me," she said. "We can do this if we try — together.") She banded together with the Careers on instinct — it was her last resort. District Twelve would hate her now, that was for sure, but they don't mean much at this point.
This is a life or death match.
You win, or you die.
When they find him, she's with them.
"Oh, let him. He will have to come down, eventually. And when he does, we get him."
Halle doesn't sleep that night.
The hum from the tracker jacker nest gives Robin an idea.
Chaos ensues.
But she saves him.
He doesn't know why, but she does.
In the fog of the tracker jacker venom, he sees her, thrashing through the trees, screaming for him to run. He can't be entirely sure it isn't in fact a hallucination.
He wakes, eventually, in a foreign part of the forest.
It takes a few hours of trial and error, and he finally finds herbs for the tracker jacker stings. He hunts — he has a bow and arrow now, took it from Glimmer — and he thinks he could have a chance.
He hears the blood-curdling scream while looking for game.
He hasn't heard it before, but it sounds so familiar. His heart plummets to his stomach — it sounds like Prim.
He dashes through the foliage, toward Rue, but he can't stop One from hurling the spear to her.
The boy is dead before he sets his foot on the ground.
It doesn't take a healer to know that he can't save her. He stays with her, anyway.
"Hey," he whispers into the ear of the dying girl. "You — You're going to be alright, I promise."
"No, I won't." The girl's lips curl up in a bitter smile. "You should win," she rasps, bestirring to make herself audible.
"Why is that?"
"You're good." A beat. "Can you sing?"
Robin Everdeen doesn't sing. He stopped when his father died. As he grew up, he grew out of it, as well. Like the toys he used to play with as a child. He can't be bothered with such petty occupations as singing.
He nods, and he sings, anyway.
"Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
"Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
"Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.
"Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
The last line is muffled by the rustling of leaves and the mellow gust of the wind.
"Find Halle," whispers Rue.
He waits for it.
He waits for the blow of the cannon and her face in the sky.
She is not his ally, certainly not his friend. But he doesn't want the last time he sees her to be on a fading photograph in the dim light of the night. He doesn't want the last time he has spoken to her to be on the roof of the Training Center, reducing her to another tribute he's never known and would never care about.
It never appears.
He doesn't know whether he ought to be relieved or chagrined. Part of him — an overwhelming part, if he's being completely honest — doesn't want her to die.
But he doesn't want to be the one to kill her, should the time come.
–
She's there the next day.
Walking about at school, chatting casually with her friends — merchants' kids, of course. At some point, he is certain she's looking at him, but when he focuses his gaze on her, she's giggling at a friend's joke.
He ought to thank her, he thinks. It should be easier.
He walks into her family's baker on Sunday morning, game in burlap sack — first time hunting on his own. It's not his father's usual clean shot through the eye, but it's the only rabbit he shot today, so it will have to suffice.
Mr. Mellark is behind the counter, arranging different kinds of bread on the inclined wooden racks set on the wall. A young Halle is sitting on a stool, her legs swinging back and forth, tapping against the stilts.
"Hello, Mr. Mellark. I have game for trade," Robin says politely.
The baker inspects the rabbit. "I can give you two," he offers finally.
"T — Two?" Robin gasps. He knows his rabbit isn't worth as much — in fact, he'd be perfectly happy with a stale loaf of bread. He's eaten far worse, anyway.
"Take it or leave it," Mr. Mellark confirms with a smile.
Robin hastily murmurs his thanks as the generous baker shoves two freshly baked loaves inside a paper bag.
He never looks at the blue-eyed girl on the stool, her legs swinging back and forth, tapping against the stilts.
–
Then something totally unexpected happens.
There has been a rule change, and now two tributes instead of one can win. Here's the catch: they both need to be from the same district.
This is all the motivation Robin needs to dart through the forest, in search of the blue-eyed girl.
This time, he has to look better.
When he finds her, skin burning up and breath that resemble moans barely escaping through her gritted teeth chapped lips, he breathes a sigh of redemptive relief.
"You here to finish me off, handsome?" she rasps, using Haymitch's pejorative nickname.
It takes a while to gain her trust — if Robin is honest with himself, he thinks she should never have given it to him, in the first place. After all, she saved his life once. She saved his sister's life.
"Why did you volunteer?" she croaks in the haze of the fever. The answer, just out of grasp, hangs on the tip of his tongue. "You didn't do it to save me."
He contemplates this for a moment. "No," he finally allows. "I did it for the bread."
–
He snatches them in one swift movement. The girl is gone before he can thank her.
He clings to the worn leather of the jacket and runs.
–
The amusement in her voice doesn't sound forced when she asks, "The bread? Robin, that was an eternity ago."
"I know. But I still haven't thanked you."
"You are now. You're saving my life — or, at least, you are trying." She laughs bitterly. "Dying isn't worth it," she says after a while.
"What do you mean?"
"Suicide won't repay whatever you think you owe me."
He can't think of what to say, so, instead, he presses his cold lips on her burning with fever ones.
"I was waiting for you to do that, you know," she murmurs when he pulls away.
Only one can live.
He was sure of it — part of himself knew already when they announced the "rule change".
Halle clasps the knife.
–
"The only thing they want is a good show, Robin," Gayle says desperately. Her hands rest on his cheeks, barely grazing his hair. "It's all they want. And you gotta give it to them."
"They have it already. Twenty-three of us will die for their entertainment. Isn't that enough?"
Gayle looks at him bleakly. "You're going to win, I know it. You can hunt — you can kill."
"Animals —"
"How different can that be, really?"
–
Robin aims the arrow, pulls the string.
"Shoot me," she implores as she tosses the knife into the lake. "Shoot me and go home." Tears threaten to gush down her cheeks. "Become a victor. Shoot me."
His weapons fall to the ground with a thud. Steely determination blossoms inside his heart, and it doesn't falter.
"No. I won't be their victor."
"They need to have a victor —"
"No, they don't. Why should they?"
The Capitol doesn't deserve a victor.
He pulls the nightlock from his leather pouch.
"Was it?"
His response is silence.
"Was it?"
"I don — I don't know."
"Well, let me know when you do."
He watches her walk back to the train, blond tresses waving behind her back.
–
"I don't want to be another piece in their games."
"What do you mean?"
Halle bites her lip. "I don't want them to —" She struggles to find the right words. "I don't want them to own me."
Robin can't afford to think this way. Sure, there is something admirable — honorable, even, noble — in the way she defies the Capitol, refuses its control. But it's too easy to be moral before the instinct for survival kicks in.
"Do you mean you won't kill?" he asks finally.
"Honestly? I probably will — survival instinct. Anyone would," she admits. "But I don't want them to change me. I want to still be me. When I die, I want to still be me." A beat. "Listen to me — to hell with Haymitch's advice. Wait for me," she says. "We can do this if we try — together." She tentatively leans forward, as if to place a kiss on his lips.
Robin raises his gaze to meet hers. "This is a TV show, Halle," he says. "We're not allies, we're certainly not friends. Let's not pretend we are anything more than adversaries." He stands up. "And I don't want to be the one to kill you."
–
The Girl on Fire — the girl with the bread, this is what he calls her — is drifting away. Not for long — they will have to keep the star-crossed lovers façade for a little longer, until the cameras go away.
But he will have to let go, eventually, and there is nothing he dreads more than that.
Next: A Nation of Slaves
Side Note: Hooray for movie references! You know what? I actually really like this. I really intended this story to be light and fun, but the events of the Games simply cannot. As per usual, date for next update is up in the air as I'm currently working on a Twilight multi-chapter fic *hides in shame from the fandom* and have school obligations. Seriously, folks. I used to be top of my class, but fic writing is taking its toll on me.