Hi hi hi. I'm back with some more lovely Games for you. I don't own the Hunger Games, and can we assume that's true for each chapter, because I don't want to have to keep writing it. Please enjoy this third chapter.
The Peacekeepers escorted Gravis into a simple but lovely room in the Justice building. They told him that his visitors would be here shortly. Gravis hadn't thought anyone would think to visit him - it was a mildly pleasant surprise. He sat on the squashy purple couch, keeping a dignified silence. He never was a man of many words. During school, beck when Gravis had bothered attending, his teacher had once tried to teach the class about poetry. Most of the class had complied, maybe a few even enjoyed it, but Gravis had refused to even look at the paper - silly, he'd thought, a waste of time and effort, unnecessary, useless.
Then the teacher had read one of the poems aloud, her voice spilling the lyrical phrases through the air where Gravis couldn't get away from them. In an attempt to breach Gravis's personal dislike of the poetry, she'd read out a love poem first. Gravis had been quite tempted simply get up and leave, but he hadn't wanted to make trouble for himself. So Gravis had sat and endured the hated poetry, until the teacher had reached the third stanza, and her voice had taken on a new, misty quality, as though she were speaking from a great distance.
here is the secret that nobody knows
here is the root of the root
and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky
of a tree called Life, which grows;
higher than any soul can hope
higher than any mind can hide
and this is the wonder
keeping the stars apart
The words had wrapped around Gravis, tucking themselves inside his shirt and over his shoulder and above his ear so that when he left the classroom that day, feeling profoundly different, they would whisper in his ear when his mind was quiet and shout when his mind was full. They wouldn't leave him alone. That night, as Gravis had lain on the couch, he fought sleep to ponder those words, and their elusive meaning.
As dawn unfolded, Gravis still lay awake, and the moment the first ray of sunlight pierced through the sky, Gravis decided that life was meaningless. True happiness could be found in death, and only in death. And from then on, Gravis could not be emotionally harmed, because he had faith in death and his life leading up to that moment was a mere distraction, and nothing could do his spirit harm.
In the meantime, though, Gravis sat on the couch and stared at the wall and waited.
Eventually, one of the trainers from the Academy came in and sat. The two young men were silent until the trainer wished Gravis luck, reminded him to keep his wits about him, and left.
Gravis stared at the wall and waited.
The Peacekeepers escorted a coolly collected Saturday and a madly grinning Fletcher into the Justice Building for goodbyes. Fletcher ignored Saturday as she calmly made her way into her private room. One Peackeeper gestured him into a second room and closed the door. Fletcher's dad entered the room.
"Fletch, my boy," exclaimed Mr Davis. "Come here, son." He pulled Fletcher into a hug, which Fletcher eagerly returned, crushing his father's portly figure with the muscles he'd worked so hard to build.
"Dad," was all he said.
"When you get into that arena, mind you don't forget yourself," Mr Davis reminded his son.
"I won't." Fletcher was not going to waste the time he'd spent training, but neither was he cruel. He'd kill the others as fast as possible and bring pride to his mother's memory, but he wouldn't endear the moments. He would balance on the gap between weak and bloodthirsty. And when he returned from the Games, he'd finally be able to move on, to let go. Finally he could be his own person.
Father and son sat together for the rest of Fletcher's hour for goodbyes, and then his father was removed from the room by a Peacekeeper and Fletcher was ushered into a gleaming car and driven expertly to the train station.
District Two's escort, Jebediah Von Gician, beckoned Fletcher into the train with a beaming smile.
"You'll absolutely adore it, look, the walls are this marvelous shade of cerulean..." Fletcher tuned out his escort and took in the train.
The walls certainly were a vivacious shade of blue, along with the table cloths and curtains. Fletcher rarely saw trains, as he didn't work in the district industry, but he knew most cargo trains didn't have tablecloths or curtains. They probably didn't have tables.
The doors opened and Saturday came in, taking in her surroundings in a calm and collected manner. As soon as the doors closed, though, she strode over to the table and began to examine its contents. Seconds later, the train lurched and they began to move. Fletcher's heart jumped with the train - soon, so soon. His moment was coming.
The door barely managed to close between Dove and the white-clad Peackeeper before it burst open again, and her mum barreled in determinedly. She clamped her arms around her daughter. Dove peered over her mother's shoulder and watched her brothers come in. Henry was obviously upset, but Gabe was putting on a brave face. He pried Dove out of their mother's arms and wrapped her in a softer hug instead. Mr Brightly trailed in behind his family, weeping miserably, and closed the door behind him.
Dove hugged her brothers and her father, struggling with tears herself. She was only fifteen. What had she done, that she needed to be sacrificed on live television for sport? She wasn't meat. She was a human girl with a life to live, friends who would mourn her, family who would miss her. Dove had done nothing. And dying for nothing was a terrible thing. She didn't want to go. She wouldn't go.
And yet, hadn't she always wanted an adventure? Most of her fifteen years had been spent in school, in the restaurant or asleep. She'd often wondered what life would be like if she hadn't been so sheltered (not that she was a particularly rough-and-tumble kind of girl, just one with a very active imagination). Often she'd pondered how much fuller her life could be if it was filled with excitement, fraught with danger. She pictured it as a very romantic life.
She wondered vaguely how much longer she'd live if her brothers had ever taught her how to fight.
But, Dove thought half-heartedly, she surely had some skills that could come in handy. She could probably make the Capitol people like her. With a bit of tweaking, she wouldn't look half bad. And she was fairly clever.
Such skills were useful. But they were nowhere near as vital as the ability to fight. And it remained that Dove's life was drawing to an end.
Her family didn't say much, they just cried, Dove along with them. As the door opened and a Peacekeeper beckoned them out, Dove had a final round of hugs and waved forlornly as her family trailed out.
Dove sat numbly and waited alone. The door to her room opened again and she looked up, rubbing at her face, as the school principal walked in stiffly.
"Ms Brightly," acknowledged Mr Meehan as she stood. "Allow me to be the first to offer my condolences."
"Thank you," Dove said cautiously. Why would Mr Meehan come and visit her?
Mr Meehan clasped his hands behind his back. "Ms Brightly," he began again, "I speak for the whole staff body and the rest of the school, I'm sure., when I wish you well and offer the said condolences. In fact, this is what I wish to speak to you about."
"I'm not sure I understand, sir." Dove told him.
"To be frank, you are one of our brighter pupils. Upon your graduation to senior school at the end of this year, you were considered for the prize of Middle School Dux. Litterarum I shall inform your parents of this detail through your brother when the opportunity arises." Dove blinked. She went to one of the more prestigious schools in District 6, and to be Dux (even of the middle school) was a great honour - not to mention the prize money. It was true she got very good grades - but good enough to be dux?
"Thank you, sir," she said again.
Mr Meehan's overly professional manner slipped for a moment. "Use your brain in the Games, Brightly," he told her. "If you come back, we'd welcome you back into our school." He turned away and strode out the door. Dove reseated herself, mind reeling.
She, Dove, nominated for Dux Litterarum. Dove, who'd been confined to working in a restaurant while the other students studied and ran shifts at the factory and talked to their friends. Dove Brightly, the blonde girl with her round face and slightly protruding stomach, who barely managed to scrape a B in gym class ... the smartest in the grade?
Surely not.
Dove felt a swell of pride for a moment. Then it was overwhelmed by reality - she wouldn't live to see which of her classmates would be chosen as Dux, see if her brothers would be considered for the same role. She'd never know if the restaurant ever closed. She wouldn't know when her brothers grew up, never be an aunty, or a mother, or anything except dead.
For that is the nature of such foul Games.
Mr and Mrs Goldhaven held their daughter and cried. Mr Goldhaven tried to relay instructions through his tears. He attempted to remind her that it was okay to hurt others in the Games, but the mental images of Promise causing others pain just couldn't be relayed in words. Eventually, her parents had to leave a trembling Promise, and she was escorted to the waiting train.
She didn't cry.
The boy who had become her district partner, Jordan, had been crying, though. His eyes were red and his cheeks were puffy. He looked brave and strong to Promise, though. She wondered if dying would hurt.
She wondered who would kill her.
/
Jordan looked down at the little girl by his side. Promise Goldhaven. The name was almost ridiculous - at least it didn't involve flowers. That would have been too girly for him to handle. But as it was, the name suited the petite child. She must be barely twelve.
Jordan's mother and father had held his hands and told him to do his best and struggled not to cry. Nobody brought up Meg, and certainly nobody brought up Poppy. His parents had told him not to lose himself in the arena - Jordan would not become a killing machine. The Capitol might murder, but Jordan refused to be so cruel. For that, though, he knew he would never come back.
But he didn't want to die. Images of Poppy came to mind unbidden - her trying to run, turning to look back and earning a spear through her torso for the trouble. A pulse of fear spiked through Jordan. First Meg, then Poppy. Now him. I don't want to die. His parents had told him to do his best - but the longer he lasted, the more he would suffer. Maybe it was easiest to jump off his platform before the gong, die on his own terms, before a Career could beat him to it.
The poem used in this chapter was a section of e. e. cumming's I Carry Your Heart. I thought its mysteriousness would have touched Gravis and made him think about life, and being Gravis, he would have made his own decision.
Thank you.
