A.N.: So, we have the first glimpse of the tributes.

The Snow Queen

04

"Win the Crowd and you will Win the Games"

Given how massive the populations of 1, 2 and 4 were, Eirwen was certain there were numerous eighteen-year-olds who never got their shot at volunteering. She wondered what system the academies had in place to pick the tributes who volunteered each year.

After the first two were Reaped, District 1 offered up six extra tributes. The first girl, named Lavish, stuck out particularly in Eirwen's mind as the most stunning girl she had ever seen, with a voluptuous body and shimmering rose-gold hair billowing in waves around her slim shoulders.

"The Capitol will adore her," Dorabella sighed dreamily; beside the tribute Lavish, Eirwen caught a glimpse of Cashmere, the female Victor from 1 Eirwen had grown up watching reruns of. Cashmere's brother, Gloss, had won when Eirwen was two; Cashmere had won the next year. Looking the way she did, with Cashmere as her mentor, Lavish would probably have to fend off sponsors, rather than scrabble to obtain them.

After three other girls stepped forward – a delicate blonde named Ermine, an ebony-skinned Amazon named Mallory with close-cropped hair, and an exotic, copper-skinned, green-eyed, well-built girl named Jewel – the first boy's name was pulled from the Reaping Ball.

As she watched the proceedings, Eirwen frowned. The Hunger Games were weapon of the Capitol. Everyone had to play by the rules, even as they were slaughtered. The parents in the Districts had to watch, helpless, as their children were taken away and murdered in cold blood. The children in the arena had to kill or be killed – the more brutal, the better; the Capitol loved a gruesome show. The Victors had to relive it, year after year, watching children they were supposed to mentor be led into the slaughter. They had to sit by and watch. Witness them plucked, painted and trussed up for the Capitol. Sit helpless while their young protégés whimpered to a bloody end.

The only constants in the Games were the chaperones, the favourite Victors, the stylists, Caesar Flickerman. The tributes were ever-changing. Quickly forgotten.

Glancing at Wulf as dread settled like lead in her stomach, watching the first male tribute from 1 – his name was Otto, a muscular boy with close-cropped hair and a quiet demeanour not unlike Dagonet, and easily six times Wulf's weight – take his place onstage by the cool, classically-beautiful Gloss, she swallowed the lump in her throat. Careers were always the biggest; and next to Dagonet, anyone looked tiny – but how would Wulf stand any chance against Careers like the stocky Jewel, or Otto, or the other voluntary tributes, amber-eyed Anton, and mahogany-skinned William with his incredible cheekbones and waist-length black hair in a ponytail?

"Did they screen the tributes for attractiveness first?" Eirwen asked quietly, watching Cashmere and Gloss make a brief statement as the District 1 chaperone applauded, giddy with anticipation at having such a crop of excruciatingly good-looking tributes to show off to Aspasia Snow. Dagonet made a quiet noise of amusement.

"I like Jewel," Wulf said, but his voice was incredibly sorrowful. His eyes already looked wounded; Eirwen hated that.

He had turned to her and declared, "I have decided…to enjoy myself." For such a tiny person, he had immense conviction. And if Wulf, who looked tinier and more vulnerable when the District 1 tributes had gathered together onstage, holding hands and milking it for the crowd and cameras, could declare he was going to enjoy his death-sentence, then Eirwen…

She didn't know, she just…hated the Games. Always had. She hated the Capitol, always had. She hated the senselessness of the Games, the Capitol for being so blind about the President. She hated the President for not being forward-thinking. She hated the willingness of such stunning children like Lavish, Jewel, Otto and William, to go boldly into the face of certain death, for no other reason than entertainment and the thinly-veiled threat of fame and riches. She hated that Dagonet had confirmed President Snow prostituted Cashmere and Finnick Odair. Hated that the Districts had to work like slaves to keep the Capitol in the lap of luxury; hated that the Capitol had no idea what the Districts suffered, that they had been trained by television and propaganda and the Games to be indifferent toward and amused by massacres, rather than realising it was wrong, that they should be asking questions. She hated that the Districts had to go along with the Treaty of the Treason. If indeed it had been treason.

But if the Games were only the device created by the winning side to punish the Districts after the rebellion…how grievous had the Capitol's offences against the Districts been, to risk it at all?

And if Eirwen was going to die…did she have to play by their rules? By the rules of the Capitol, to make a show of it, by the rules of the Careers, to make it gruesome and sadistic?

Her body was now in the custody of the Capitol. Her soul was still her own. Her disdain of the Capitol was her weapon, a silent protest against the Games…being an orphan meant she had no vulnerabilities; but rather than shove the Capitol's face in it…she had to be clever. Far cleverer than she believed she was. To maintain her sense of self while she was in the arena, she had to play the Games…by no-one's rules but her own.

She would kill, of course. When it was warranted. To keep Wulf alive. That was her plan. But she wouldn't preen and simper for the Capitol. Wouldn't smile and tease with Caesar Flickerman. Disdainful and aloof. Untouchable. Cold. That was how she had to be.

All of this flickered through her mind as the last of the volunteers stepped up onstage; the boy named Lance, smug as anything, a hulking brute, reminded her so much of the Peacekeeper she had refused at fifteen, she detested him instantly. Wulf crinkled his nose at the screen, and Dagonet looked very surly; cruelty seemed to roll off this boy in waves – the other male tributes both gave him wary, annoyed looks as he waved to the crowd screaming their applause at his brave sacrifice.

District 2, the district known for masonry – and training the nation's Peacekeepers, Cicero had told her – offered up eight tributes, just as 1 had done. The names drawn from the Reaping Balls were Atalanta, a fearsome-looking girl Eirwen didn't think had ever smiled, her features were so harsh, like…like a stone sculpture. And Jolyon, whose smile, for some reason, made the fine hair on her arms rise. After Atalanta, three girls named Meta, Brenda and Selma volunteered. They were followed by three boys, Flint, Aldo and Gellert. Obscure enough names in themselves to remember, and Eirwen found herself wanting to remember them – she borrowed a scrap of notepaper from Dorabella, and a spare silver pen, and started writing their names and memorable bits about their appearances for future reference. The pen felt odd, alien in her hands, too sleek and cold.

They would be training together soon enough: Eirwen knew tributes all trained together before going into the arena. And more often as not, Career packs were decided upon before anyone even set foot in the arenas.

She glanced over at Dagonet, wondering when they could sit privately and discuss strategies. To keep Wulf alive, she needed allies. Strong ones, skilled with weapons – whom she'd be able to kill when the time came. Perhaps she would have an advantage, playing up her profession as midwife. No weapons-training involved in that. But she could hunt, build fires from nothing, knew how to survive in the wild – she would make an excellent ally, if only she could convince a few Careers to abandon their fellow district tributes and join her. Careers relied too badly upon the Gamemakers for weapons and food: she was self-reliant. She had an edge they could use to their advantage, too.

"Why are you making notes?" Wulf asked curiously. Eirwen licked her lips. They were all going to die… That didn't mean she wanted to start thinking of these teenagers as snow-footed hares or elk she had to shoot down for sustenance. Even if she didn't survive – and it was looking less and less likely she would, with the volunteer tributes – she wanted to be able to look up in the sky when they projected the day's dead, and remember something about each child the Capitol killed off.

She remembered the names and details of every child she had ever delivered.

"I don't know, perhaps…perhaps familiarity might help," she said quietly, glancing at Wulf, before looking over at Dagonet. "Something to…break the ice." Dorabella, gazing over at her, made a tiny little noise of inspiration, and her lips twitched into a smile as she noted something down. Eirwen swallowed, and glanced back at Wulf. "If we have something to say to each of the other tributes, we needn't be wary about approaching them. Maybe we can make some friends."

"Friends?" Dorabella looked baffled.

"With all those extra Careers, we'll need allies," she said sadly. Allies they would have to turn around and kill. She just hoped they at least put up a good fight – and had the decency not to stab her in the back. That was something she refused to do.

"Most Career packs are formed before they enter the arena," Dagonet said, giving her a solemn nod.

"With so many of them, it'll be interesting to see how the dynamics shift," Dorabella said thoughtfully, and Dagonet glanced over at her, eyebrows raised in his first display of surprise.

"How so?"

"Usually the tributes from 1 and 2 team up together – sometimes with 4 instead… They may decide during training that they want to ally with each other…"

"Like how Mattias and Bertie are closer with Ruffio, and Thom, Grayson and Rigel are best-friends, and how Kelly, Diana and Agnes always stick together when Giulia and Analiese start an argument?" Wulf said, glancing at Eirwen, who understood the references because she knew who belonged to those names. All his siblings. And there were strong bonds and subtle alliances within the Rutherford family, siblings closer to some rather than others.

"Exactly," she said softly. "The tributes from 1 and 2 may get to the training centre and decide they want to ally with someone else, because of their particular skills. Or they just don't like the people from their district."

"Well, you can hunt, and I can throw my hatchets, and start fires," Wulf mused. "I don't think they should count us out."

"They would be fools to," Dagonet said quietly, but Eirwen heard him, glanced over, saw his serious frown as he gazed at Wulf.

"Ah, here's District 3," Dorabella said, directing their attention back to the screen. Veronica and Caius were not particularly stunning to look at or evidently powerful. They looked…like teenagers Eirwen might have had lessons with at school. Normal children, as opposed to trained powerhouses like Mallory from 1, and the giant Flint from 2. Eirwen noted their names, made a point of asking Caius who the little boys were clustered by his side at the Reaping…if they were brothers, cousins, she may have the chance of convincing him into an alliance to protect Wulf.

District 4 was another Career district. They weren't despised nearly as much as 1 and 2, but they were a wealthier District, petted by the Capitol, and in the last few years, Finnick Odair had been responsible for showering his tributes with gifts inside the arena. Again, there were eight tributes from 4. The girls were all lovely, between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, well-built, their skin tanned healthily, hair shining, eyes glowing – they didn't look like they'd missed a meal. None of the Careers ever knew how to be truly hungry. Coral, Ariel, Daria and Pearl; their names were lovely. And Eirwen liked the look of smaller, shy Pearl, while the girl named Daria strutted and smirked and made love to the cameras. There was a lethal edge to her smile.

When the name of the male tribute was plucked from the Reaping Ball, Eirwen found herself mesmerised, drawn to the edge of her seat, her lips parting, her stomach evaporating with a giddy tingling that spread from her toes and the tips of her fingers inwards, lighting everything it touched with an intoxicating fire she knew only one thing could quench. Red-hot lust made her belly turn molten, awareness prickling her skin.

This boy already had a severe disadvantage over her, without even wielding a weapon.

Those vivid sapphire-blue eyes would slay her.

His name was Cadeon.

And instead of milking the crowd, when he strode up to the stage, slim with lean muscle like a wild-cat and broad, toned shoulders she wanted to nibble, he didn't strut and preen the way Finnick Odair had in greeting. His shoulders were thrown back defiantly, yes, but…he looked sorrowful. It was very difficult to control one's bearing, especially under duress – Eirwen was no expert on body-language, but she believed that this was a young-man who truly had not wanted to represent his District in a glorious pageant of blood and honour.

She jotted the other boys' names down disinterestedly – Adrian, Caspian, Kai – and wondered how on earth the Gamemakers could allow someone with such a blatant advantage as those killing blue eyes into the arena with the rest of the mere mortals.

Eirwen wondered for a moment whether the Capitol patrons would pay for a two-for-one. A Finnick-and-Cadeon sandwich…

Now that was a thought that would keep her smiling in the days to come.

A twinge pained her chest as Cicero's face flickered through her mind, but, well…he had all but released her as she waited in the Justice Building. Acknowledged she would never have waited for him, no matter if she loved him. And, well…she only lived once. Probably.

And they were a long time dead.

District 5, Power, offered up a kind-faced girl, Morgan, and Simeon, a well-built boy with a scar down one side of his face. She recognised the scar as the kind left when skin started to heal from a whipping.

District 6 gave up Zamora, with a wild mane of rambunctious, tightly-wound curls and almond-shaped eyes, and Filius, a sickly-looking boy who winced as he walked, and required the use of a rope to pull himself up the steps of the Justice Building. The midwife and nurse in her took in his appearance, the sallow skin, the sunken eyes, the complete lack of hair not just on his head but his eyebrows, his eyelashes, and recognized the symptoms of a child dying of leukaemia.

In the Capitol, there was apparently an injection one could have to cure you of this crippling, slow-acting disease.

Those in the Districts had no hope, except to obtain a few doses of sleep-syrup to handle the worst of the pain in the last days. There was something like…relief in Filius' eyes as he stood onstage beside his chaperone. Wulf glanced at Eirwen, his eyes sombre, and Eirwen realised she had been leaning forward, elbow on her knee, hand curled over her mouth, frowning in concern at the screen.

"I imagine the idea of a quick death must be something he never dared dream of," Dagonet said quietly, and Eirwen nodded. Hadn't she just thought the same thing? To die was awful, yes. Particularly before one had even lived. To die over months, years, in agonising, unendurable pain without hope… That was another thing entirely. Eirwen just hoped Filius died instantly.

Last year's Victor, Johanna Mason, stood scowling, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as the District 7 chaperone announced a girl named Willow as the female tribute, and a boy named Ephraim as the male. Eirwen didn't like the look of Willow, there was something mean to her. But Ephraim, his tanned face featured pale crinkles at the edges of his eyes that spoke not only of a lot of time spent in the sun, but that he had been grinning as he did so.

District 8 gave the Games a girl named Ginny, barely fourteen, wearing a simply-made dress made beautiful by the colours and floral pattern and of the fabric, and Luther, whose rolled-up sleeves showed a scar from thumb to elbow, and he held this arm in such a way as made Eirwen believe it might be next to useless. By the sheer size and placement of the puckered pink scar, she thought he had probably got his hand caught in the textile machinery they used in 8. Lucky he hadn't lost the arm entirely, as amputation may have been simpler than repairing the damage. Still, she imagined the other tributes, particularly the Careers from 1 and 2, were at this moment watching the Recap on their own trains, plotting how best to kill this obviously weakened adversary.

She imagined Filius and the scarred boy named Luther, perhaps the younger girl from 8, would be at the top of their list. Careers always banded together to pick off the weaker ones first, then went after those in closest competition.

"Oh!" Dorabella gave an exclamation that may have been of delight or excitement, perhaps a little of both, and she clapped her hands. "This is us! My tributes!" And Eirwen sat, perplexed, something sinking inside her, like swallowing a hot stone, something that made her wince, as she watched. Watched Dorabella call Astrid's name – saw Mattias drop to his knees, so visible with his red hair and height – saw the flicker of anger cross her own face before her features smoothed entirely, she threw her shoulders back, and swept into the aisle between the congregations. She didn't raise her voice as she volunteered, and they had kept the moment when Dorabella had visibly recoiled at the look of scorching disdain on Eirwen's face as she had mounted the steps of the temporary stage.

What struck Eirwen about her volunteering was that no-one could guess who Astrid was, just from her volunteering. People might just think Astrid was the sister of the boy who had fallen to his knees.

Wulf's name was called, he stomped on the stage, looking thoroughly unimpressed – threw his arms around Eirwen's waist and tucked his face into her stomach, and that was when it really hit her.

Wulf was the youngest tribute so far.

None had been younger than fourteen, and all, even slight Ginny from 8, had been easily twice his size.

"Well, I will say you made quite the impression," Dorabella said, smiling brightly at Eirwen. "I should have remarked on your carriage before, dear; you look quite…regal. Ramrod-straight, shoulders back. And imposing – we'll conference with your stylist about how we can make sure your fashions mesh with your angle, so to speak."

"My angle?"

"Yes. I'll have it worked out with Dagonet, he says he knows you a little to know what we have to work with," Dorabella said, making a few notes. "All the other tributes were smiles and provocative arrogance, or trembling – but you, you were cold as ice, until Wulf came onstage. It seemed you practically melted in his embrace." Wulf gave Eirwen a warm smile. "And none of the other tributes acknowledged each other at all, did you notice? Well, it's not uncommon. There's only one winner, after all. Better to not get attached. But, you see, Caesar Flickerman even commented on Wulf giving you the hug. And he called you by name, which he didn't do for any of the other tributes during his commentary." Eirwen glanced at Dorabella; she had noticed things like that?

Now that the Reaping from 9 had been televised in the recap, Dorabella satisfied with the presentation of Eirwen's volunteering, Wulf giving her that hug, even Eirwen's evident disdain and coldness, Dorabella didn't seem much interested in the rest of the Recap. While she pressed little buttons, and had an attendant bring a small, silvery metal book she called a 'laptop' into the room so she could sit tapping away at little squares on the lower half (how she managed this, with her two-inch painted talons, Eirwen had no idea) Eirwen continued to watch the Recap.

A girl named Ashleigh and a boy called Beau were District 10's offers to the Capitol. The girl looked sturdy, and Eirwen remembered 10 was the cattle district. Cowgirls. Give them a rope and a knife, they could do a lot of damage – the last Victor from 10 was a woman now in her mid-twenties, and her Games had been memorable for her style of killing.

A pretty girl named Peaches, with rounded cheeks and vibrant green eyes, unusual for a girl with skin the colour of blackened copper, and a frankly terrifying young-man named Culler were reaped from 11. Culler was rippling muscle, skin black as tar, tall as a mountain, but she found herself captivated by his beautiful lips.

Finally, bubbly chaperone Effie Trinket made her way onstage in front of District 12's Justice Building, wig quivering perilously in a sooty breeze, and called the name "Holly Brazier" from the girls' Reaping Ball. Holly was a very skinny girl with the traditional deep-olive skin of the area of District 12 referenced during Games as 'the Seam'. The miners, rather than the merchants. She had straight black hair cut short in a boyish fashion that suited her beautifully, and lovely warm-grey eyes. The boy, Guy, was about fifteen, also olive-skinned and dark-haired, and it was unfortunate he had bad acne.

"Well, that's that," Dorabella sighed, smiling happily. "The bets will have begun, I expect. I must make a phone-call to the Capitol; Dagonet, would you mind coming with me – we can conference with Lucrezia, I'm sure she will have her own ideas, hopefully we can all get on the same wavelength before we get to the Capitol, it saves so much time and frustration and tears if we're not battling for creative dominance. Now – you two, I think it's best you go wash up, perhaps change for dinner. We will be dining at seven o'clock, and I expect Dagonet will want to sit with each of you afterwards. While you're talking to him, the other will sit with me, and we'll discuss elocution, etiquette and, Eirwen, I must have you properly trained in high-heels before we arrive. Best to start now while you have so little to do but wait for the excitement to begin!"

Excitement. Yes.

Dorabella showed Eirwen and Wulf to their private compartments, which were divided between a bedchamber, a bathing suite featuring a marble bathtub and something called a shower that had a panel of touch-sensitive buttons to programme different features – massage, exfoliation, perfumes, moisturisers, hot-oil treatments that sounded rather dangerous, conditioners – and a dressing-room, polished drawers filled with hundreds of outfits. Eirwen wondered briefly how whoever had stocked the drawers knew what size the garments needed to be.

Deciding a bath would give her too much time to sit and wallow, Eirwen frowned and spent fifteen minutes programming her shower. Well, if Wulf was dead set on enjoying himself…she might as well follow suit. She couldn't destroy his optimism. Destroy that, she'd destroy his hope, and if he didn't have that, they'd have next to no chance getting him home back to 9. She tugged on a shower-cap, something water-repelling with a ribbon-trimmed frill and a bow, and stepped into the open cubicle.

It was glorious.

First the warm water, a coating of thick brown-sugar exfoliator she had to scrub off with a 'loofa' that left her skin tingling and refreshed, then warm and hot jets on a massage setting that kneaded and pummelled her skin and made her knees weak and made her brace herself with a palm against the wall, until a naughty thought tickled at her, and she grinned to herself, turning her body just slightly so the jet hit her in just the right spot, wondering what Cicero would think of her – oh!

It worked. Blindingly well.

She would remember that setting for later.

Knees trembling, she was given a hot-oil treatment scented with violets, before the scent was further enhanced by a buffing polish, before even that was gently rinsed away, and she was dried off with warm air scented with more violets, a touch of tuberose and freesia, the perfumed steam leaving her skin with a slight shimmer whenever she moved past one of the little wall-sconces.

She whipped the shower-cap off, left it to dry on the doorknob, and ensconced herself in a thick, wool-lined velvet robe and fluffy slippers, before curling up on the embroidered bedspread in the bedchamber. Post-shower, post-orgasm, she was feeling better than she had all day.

Griet had always taught her there were few pleasures beyond a hot bath and a savoury meal. That Griet had a fiendish sweet-tooth had never been lost on Eirwen, but Griet was a great believer in hearty stews being better for illness than any medicine, as they did such wonders for the soul.

Eirwen hadn't eaten much at afternoon-tea, too alarmed by the daintiness of the treats, questioning the wisdom of gorging herself in the face of a scheduled famine, but she anticipated dinner, the one meal she always made an effort to indulge in, when she could. She had been known to go days without eating; as long as she had a fairly constant supply of liquorice tea, she was happy. There was a little screen she could touch to activate, and whispering an order to it, the food or drink she desired would be brought within minutes to her compartment by a Capitol attendant. She ordered a cup of liquorice tea, and smiled when the server appeared, bearing the bone-china teacup and teapot on a silver tray, with a small plate of delicate morsels, sweet and savoury, that perhaps it had been noted she had picked at during afternoon-tea.

She largely ignored the food, though she couldn't help feeling both warmed that someone had noticed what she seemed to like, and slightly perturbed that someone had been watching her that closely. Were there cameras in the bedchamber? In the shower? Oh, well, she wasn't embarrassed. Nudity didn't faze her; and though she locked herself up tight against intimacy of most kinds, Cicero had helped unleash something she hadn't realised resided within her.

At home, as part of her daily duties, when she wasn't dropping off birthing packs, weighing newborns, inflicting inoculation injections, running the check-up in town, Eirwen sat going over her notes of each of the women and babies in her care. She usually sat at the kitchen-table, sipping her liquorice tea. This afternoon, she sat at the opulent mirrored dressing-table, sipping her tea and reviewing the notes she had made on the other tributes.

All forty of them, not including Wulf.

There was a soft knock on the door, and the boy in question appeared. He too had showered, wrapping himself in a deep garnet-coloured robe made of luxurious velvet, pinstripe trousers, fine leather shoes and a black shirt that shimmered deepest blood-red in different lighting.

"Did you play with the shower too?" he asked, his eyes bright with delight, and Eirwen nodded, smiling. He bounded over to the drawers full of clothes that Eirwen hadn't given a second glance. "One of the Capitol attendants calls this a smoking jacket. Isn't it fabulous?" Eirwen chuckled.

"Your family would barely recognise you," she said honestly. His dark-red hair was neatly combed, shining, curls gathered at the forehead and over his ears. Wulf's eyes flickered sadly.

"There's enough clothes in my room to keep my family for years," he said quietly. Eirwen eyed the drawers he was going through, feeling the fabrics, eyeing the cut and design of garments.

"Perhaps we could ask Dagonet to send some of them back to 9," she said, giving a delicate shrug. She highly doubted the Capitol would allow any such thing.

"Dagonet always brings fabrics home from the Capitol for Mother to turn into dresses," Wulf said, his eyes brightening a little. "I don't suppose I'd be able to go with him to pick some out – there's a fabric Dorabella calls gossamer that'd look beautiful for a wedding dress for Astrid."

"Astrid will look stunning no matter what she wears," Eirwen said quietly.

"Shame we won't be there," Wulf sighed, his shoulders dipping, but he didn't look put-out for long. He gave a shrug. "More cake for the others." Eirwen glanced over at him. Self-sacrificing Wulf. It could have been anyone but him, she thought, wincing at some internal agony that was affecting the general region of her heart.

"Well, if we're not to have wedding-cake, we'd best stuff ourselves with dessert and afternoon-tea," she said, giving Wulf a sweet smile.

"Dorabella asked me if you had a weak-stomach, as you didn't eat much," he said, gazing earnestly at her. "I said I didn't think so, you're just sensible." Eirwen chuckled softly. "So why didn't you scoff down all those chocolates? I think Griet would have."

"I know she would have," Eirwen smiled, though it was a wounded look. "She'd have had a bite out of every single cake before we'd even sat to tea."

"I must say, I think afternoon-tea is rather civilised," Wulf said grandly, with a sigh of contentment. He sat down on the end of the bed, and Eirwen stood up, crossing over to him, noting the way his fingertip was absently tracing the embroidery on the bedspread. She sat next to him, close enough that their thighs touched. She gave him a gentle nudge, and he glanced up.

"What's on your mind?" she asked quietly. Wulf sighed heavily.

"Those Careers were big."

"And slow, probably," she said, though she didn't believe it. They would have been trained extensively for endurance as well as weapons training – there was always a fair amount of running and hiding involved in any Games. "I'll bet, too, that they're not used to being hungry. Not the way we are."

"Should we destroy the food first?" Wulf asked, glancing up at Eirwen, who blinked.

"Why do you ask that?"

"When the Careers lose their food supply, that's when the other Districts usually win," Wulf said, sighing. Eirwen knew this, of course.

"I don't know. It depends upon the arena. If it's a desolate wasteland, the food provided at the Cornucopia may be all there is. Though there are always trees, nowadays."

"Watching people freeze to death is boring," Wulf said flatly. He glanced at Eirwen, his eyes flickering with guilt. In 9, it wasn't uncommon to find bodies when the winter started to thaw. To be caught out in whiteouts meant almost certain death. Freezing to death was also one of the most common causes of death for infants in 9. Due to this, children slept many to a bed, and newborns were usually swaddled and tucked to their mother's breast in slings.

Eirwen hated winter deaths: with a dozen feet of snow barring the ground, they couldn't bury their dead. Over centuries, their people had developed an intricate funeral ceremony of fire. Their dead were never buried; not ever. They were burned. And names were carved into small stone tablets, buried in the spring with the urn of ashes and a handful of wildflower seeds. To look at the gravesites, littered with those stones, one had to see through the forest of wildflowers. In winter, those graves were forgotten, unseen, buried beneath the snow.

"I wonder what our arena will resemble," Eirwen said quietly, gazing down at the carpet, which was richly-woven, luxurious and soft beneath her bare toes when she plucked her slippers off.

"They won't have another desert," Wulf said, frowning thoughtfully. "They did that last year. And the year before, they only had those maces. Very bloody, but it wasn't…exciting. At least, I didn't think so."

"Bloodshed is entertainment, Wulf, no matter its form," Eirwen said heavily.

"That's not true, or they wouldn't have promoted Seneca Crane," Wulf said, eyes wide. Eirwen had forgotten, seeing how tiny he was besides the other tributes, how clever Wulf was. True, Seneca Crane looked young enough on Caesar Flickerman's show to be too young, really, to have stood a shot at such a promotion unless the old Head had been…removed. "Eirwen?"

"Yes?"

Wulf sighed deeply, his tiny form crumpling beside her. When he looked up at her, he looked tragically young. "How are we going to kill them?"

Eirwen sighed, feeling her own shoulders slump. But not out of a quietly-simmering despair Wulf seemed bent on hiding. It was out of a determination to do what was necessary. No matter how despicable the act. "We let the Careers do all the bloody work."

Wulf glanced at her, saying morosely, "They're built for it anyway."

"Exactly. Let them hack at each other. You and I, we'll try and forge some alliances, if not…we know how to survive the wild," she said quietly, tucking an arm around Wulf's slim shoulders. He rested his cheek against her collarbone, sighing gently, and curled into her. Eirwen wasn't used to touch like this, physical closeness, but she yearned for it. Adored intimacy with Cicero, just allowing him to hold her afterwards, lived for cuddling tiny babies to her chest, bouncing them to keep them smiling…but she didn't have the sprawling family Wulf did, where at least four slept to a bed. It was a rare treat when Mrs Rutherford had a delayed labour; never leaving the mother's side, there had been times when Eirwen had been coaxed by Mrs Rutherford to go and sleep with her children. She would wake Eirwen when the time came. She always did – and Eirwen would sleep with little warm bodies cuddled up around and sometimes on her.

She mused, "On second thought, perhaps I should just unleash you in the arena. You can charm them all to death before they know what's hit them."

A.N.: Please review. I'm having fun thinking up new characters from the Capitol – those involved in the complex underground network of rebels, which Gale referenced during Mockingjay.

I'd like to think that not all Careers are awful; I'd like to explore some of them being part of the rebel network. Something small, like choosing amongst the tributes which of them will survive, and forging alliances to try and steer things that way, without the Gamemakers realising.

If you think about it, if the tributes chose which of them would win, that is a hugely rebellious move against the Capitol. They're all supposed to be out for themselves in the arena, but if a majority chose which of them they wanted to be Victor, a representative of their Games commemorated throughout history…they'd die with a tiny bit of satisfaction that they weren't entirely powerless against the Capitol as they died – and that's supposed to be the point, that the tributes and the Districts are powerless against the Capitol.

There will be subtle hints of rebellion within this story, before Katniss even volunteers. Look for gold, again, and tokens, and people like Plutarch, Haymitch, Cinna, the Capitol people I'll be creating – Lucrezia, Niccolo, a pop-singer I'm modelling after the likes of Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus (hate her, love 'Wrecking Ball'!) Demi Lovato. Because, let's face it, Lady Gaga wouldn't exactly be out of place in the Capitol! I do need names for her, though.