~Chapter Seven: Hope~


Del

POV, Azalea

She is beginning to think that Rowan is right.

There is something in the air: something faint, but wildly alive, tense and flickering and real. It writhes and thrashes, screeching a song that crashed of torment and eternity.

"How do they not hear it?" she murmurs, eyeing the few Deltorans passing by beneath the cloud-dampened sun. And, more importantly, how do they not feel it?

The air screams, distant. And yet not so distant.

"Are you hearing this too?" Azalea asks darkly.

"Always," replies Rowan, his eyes narrowed. "Maybe they're used to it."

Azalea eases to a stop on the empty harbor walkway, folding her arms more tightly around herself. Her eyes are somewhere distant.

Something flashes beneath the sky and vanishes, brief and far away. Her eyes widen and her breath halts.

"Look," she breathes.

Rowan turns.

And there, glittering in the heaving sea, a silver serpent slips through the waves, the only signs of its passing the flashes of scale and fans of webbed spikes spreading from its back. The Capitolites watch, silent, as the serpent writhes, its sinewy form piercing through and retreating beneath the roiling water over and over and over.

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it disappears back into the ocean's depths.

Azalea's mind spins.

Imagine, she thinks, Imagine if those were placed in the arena! Monsters, even better than muttations, genuine creatures from nightmares that have no need to be created and produced in a laboratory! These monsters, at least, already exist . . .

She smiles. The air's song of pain thunders against her ears, but for the moment, it's bearable.

"I think," Azalea says, "we should head over to the tributes, and have a bit of a meet-and-greet. How about it?" She tilts her face to the side, and in that moment she is Trivia, the ruthless mask she wears for Panem.

She smiles, and it flashes like the serpent.

Rowan returns it with a grand sweep of his arm towards the Del castle.

"Excellent idea, Head Gamemaker."


"This reminds me of District 1," Azalea mutters.

She's right: the halls of the Del palace brim with dusty luxury, golden times from ages long past. And the dragons—faded as they are, they soar on walls, perch above windows, loom over doors.

All of it screams of extravagance and pride.

"Where are they?" Azalea says absentmindedly, her gaze raking over doorways. "This place is a maze." And then she laughs under her breath. "Hah. A maze. Me, Trivia, lost in a maze. Irony at its best. . . . Rowan?"

"What?"

"Did they tell you where the tributes are being held?"

Rowan tears his eyes from a hazy painting of rainbow dragons warring on the wall and shrugs. "Not exactly. Last time Nova and I were here, they told me they'd move the tributes every day or so, to be safe."

"So they're being cautious," Azalea says quietly, smirking. "That means they think the tributes might be dangerous. Interesting." So they do fear them. . . . Just like back at home. "But you have absolutely no clue to their whereabouts? Any of them?"

Rowan slides his hands into his pockets. "Well, we could try—"

"Madam?"

They freeze.

Azalea glances at Rowan. His gun and dagger are both drawn.

Quickly she turns around, her own hand on the hilt of her knife, every part of her ready to uncoil.

When she sees who it is, her breath escapes in a loud sigh.

"Grey Guard," Azalea says wearily. "I was wondering when we'd run into one of you." She nudges Rowan, nodding. "Turn around and say hello to our hosts, Rowan." She turns back to the Guard, smiling slightly. "I am Trivia, the Head Gamemaster of this year's Hunger Games. From Panem. This is my secretary and assistant, Rowan Shire."

The Guard nods. "I am Tarn 4. You wanted to meet with the tributes?"

"If they're still around," Azalea says amiably. "How are they doing?"

Tarn 4 chuckles darkly. "I wouldn't know. We leave them alone, for the most part."

"Alone?" Azalea asks sharply. "With nothing to entertain themselves?"

"Well . . ." Tarn 4 shrugs. "Those were the orders."

Azalea sighs. Orders. Of course.

So I'll go to the top dog.

Mentally she gathers herself, then lifts her head and looks the Grey Guard square in the eye.

"I would like to speak to the Shadow Lord, then," she says.

Rowan snags her jacket sleeve. "Are you—"

"Please ignore my secretary," Azalea says calmly over Rowan's protest. "My request stands."

Tarn 4 fidgets, ever so slightly. Aha. "The Master isn't present at the moment—the Plains tribe is holding their reaping right now."

"Is that so?" Azalea says absently. "Tragedy. In any case, who's in charge here?"

"In charge?" Tarn 4 repeats. "That would be the Ol."

Azalea raises her eyebrows. "The . . . shape-shifting creation that your Shadow Lord conjured?"

"Correct."

I will never get used to this place, Azalea thinks with a shudder. "Then please tell the Ol that there are rather important delegates from Panem here, and that they would like to meet their tributes."


"You realize you will have to wait until the Shadow Lord returns."

Until he returns! some part of Azalea's mind shrills. Let's just turn around and head back to the ship, why don't we? Isn't that an excellent idea

"I can wait," she says calmly. And then, on a sudden thought, she meets the Ol's gaze and asks, "Actually . . . Is there a way I might view the reaping?"

The Ol blinks, slightly startled. "I . . . believe so. I can contact the Master, and—" It hesitates, then gathers itself again and nods slowly. "Yes, I do believe you might. One moment."

His scarlet robes vanish behind a door, and Azalea and Rowan are alone with Tarn 4.

This is our chance.

Rowan glances at her. Azalea nods, just barely.

"So," he says, clearing his throat. "Tarn 4, right?"

The Grey Guard shifts. "Yes."

Rowan leans back in the ancient wood chair and slips into camera mode, flashing a blinding smile and folding his arms. "Tarn 4. What do you think of these Hunger Games? Any—thoughts, comments, questions? Anything to say?"

"I don't think anything of the Games," Tarn 4 replies tersely. "Our Master speaks all our thoughts for us."

"Ah. I see," Rowan says mildly, in a way that is both thoughtful and disappointed. Azalea catches his weary glance.

"How about the country?" Azalea asks abruptly. "Not ours, but yours. What are your thoughts on Deltora?"

"Thoughts?" asks Tarn 4, laughing harshly. "I have no thoughts." The Guard turns away. "No more questions. And know your place, Panemians. Watch where you step, or sooner than later you will fall to your own foolishness."

Silence spreads over the room, frosting the walls and sparse furniture with an ice unseen but strongly felt.

Azalea glances at Rowan. He nods, just barely.

The door on the far side of the room opens, and the Ol strides through, expressionless. "The Shadow Lord has agreed to accommodate your request. It should be available in a— Ah, there it is."

Azalea watches in horrified stillness as a hole yawns itself into existence above the door. It gleams and writhes, a hungry mouth in the air with a mind of its own, stretching wider and wider until she's sure she could throw a Gamemaster's control screen through it without trouble.

This is wrong, her mind screams. This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong!

No, she realizes. This isn't just wrong—this isn't supposed to be real.

Her stomach twists, and she braces herself, gritting her teeth, steeling her eyes to hide behind them as the hole hangs there in the air, still gleaming, still writhing.

But what disturbs her most is what appears within.

And for the first time in over twenty years, Azalea begins to wonder if she's in the right after all.


Hira

Jasmine

He needs this.

He needs to see their weary helplessness. He needs to see their darkened eyes, their tired steps, their limp and worn expressions.

But he also needs to see that the weariness disguises a blaze of something unshakable. It sears her when they lift their heads to meet her eyes, when they flash smiles at her, ducking away from the view of the Guards. It leaves her in awe and confusion and astonishment, that a people so defeated, so often trod into the dirt, so helpless can still somehow stand with hope in their eyes. Disguised hope, perhaps. Faltering hope, perhaps. But hope nonetheless.

It was true that he needed to see the Mere's iron fire too. But theirs was an inferno uncontrolled, a bright furious thing that openly glared with power and certainty. The people of the Plains have fire, but it is a broken, desperate thing, flickering and dying.

He needs to see that he alone can breathe this flame back to life.

Somewhere along the way as they are led through the City of the Rats, they see Tira, and her defiant smile brings tears to Jasmine's eyes.

Lief notices, and he spares a glance towards the tall dark shape at the head of their group that is the Shadow Lord before reaching out and gently taking her hand in his.

The town center is the stage. It stands, cold and empty, waiting for its people to gather around it.

Another silent watcher.

Sharn's face crumbles into a weak laugh when she sees it.

"Irony," she explains when both Jasmine and Lief turn to look at her, concerned. "If history has been recorded correctly, then it was here that the past leaders of Hira would meet. They . . . eventually brought about its downfall."

"Indeed," the Shadow Lord says, appearing next to Sharn with a gleaming smile and icy breath. His eyes glint. Jasmine glares back and Lief squeezes her hand, keeping her at bay. "History also only repeats itself. Especially a history of failure and weakness—am I correct?"

And before any of them can say anything, the Shadow Lord laughs and glides away.

Jasmine winces, knowing the truth behind his words. She glances at Lief, wondering if the words pain him as much as they do her. But to Jasmine's surprise he is smiling slightly, his eyes more alive than she has seen them since they left for Jaliad, his face turned towards the soaring marble arches of Hira.

"What is it?" she asks him quietly, tugging at his hand.

"It is . . . Memories." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye without turning his upturned head, that crooked smile and that light still bright in his eyes. "We defeated Reeah here, and won the opal." He pauses, blinking. "The symbol of—hope."

Jasmine blinks, then scowls halfheartedly at him. "We had defeated the Gellick and won the emerald in Dread Mountain," she retorts. "I did not see you so spirited when we were there."

Almost immediately she regrets her own words, cursing her loose tongue and spiteful mind. She opens her mouth to apologize, but Lief's smothered laugh cuts her off. "No, it is true," he says, still smiling. He squeezes her hand, and Jasmine realizes with a shock that she wishes he would never stop smiling, never stop hoping, never again sink into the dark despair that had pulled him to the ground and away from her only days before.

Never again, she thinks, meeting his eyes with a grin of her own. Never againnot if I can help it.

Abruptly Lief turns, facing her, and softly places his other hand on her shoulder. "Thank you," he says, quietly.

Jasmine blinks, confused. "Whatever for?"

"For joining me and Barda on our quest," he says, his voice still lowered. At Barda's name Jasmine's gaze falters, pain flaring behind her eyes. "For all the times you saved our lives, for letting go of your own to help us, for placing yours behind ours. For . . . everything I suppose." A lopsided grin returns to his face, if only for a moment. "And also for saving me from losing hope. I thought I knew despair, but . . . it was different, this time. It . . ." His voice trails off, and his eyes are distant again.

Jasmine looks at him calmly. "It was personal," she says.

Lief nods and meets her gaze. Something cuts through her when she sees how faraway his eyes are, how tired and how jaded, and how different from how they used to be: eager, determined, foolish perhaps—but what did that matter next to the strength behind it, really? What did it matter next to his endless hope?

"He made it as if it were my fault, and my fault alone," Lief says, slowly. "I thought . . . that I was no better than any of my ancestors, that I may as well have died, having failed Deltora like every other that came before me. I felt like I put you and Barda through everything, only for us to gain nothing." He laughs, bitterly. "I thought that . . . I may as well be dead."

Jasmine's breath stops.

"I thought about it a few times," Lief admits. "But then you made me realize that, like everything the Shadow Lord says, that was a half truth. It was my fault, perhaps, but not mine alone. And there were still Deltorans who were trusting us to . . . perhaps not save them, but at least to be something they could hope for. I could give them that, at least." A grin returns to his face and he pulls her into an embrace. "So thank you. For that."

Jasmine's eyes widen and she stiffens, surprised by the sudden contact. Slowly she relaxes, resting her head against his shoulder.

"You know," he says, quietly, "That is not the last thing the Shadow Lord has told us that is a half truth."

"Of course not."

"He said that history repeats itself," Lief goes on. "That is true. He spoke of a history of failure and weakness. That is also true."

Jasmine pulls back to meet his eyes, defiance burning on her face. "Lief—"

"He forgets," he says, smiling, "that the same history he so insulted is also one of triumph, over the Shadow Lord himself."

Relief sweeps through Jasmine and her face breaks into a grin to match his. "Yes," she agrees. "And it is also one of strength."

Lief nods. "And also . . ." His eyes are alight again.

"It is one of hope."


I AM BACK!

. . . Ish.

Alas, high school / "real" life has taken over what little free time I had remaining. I'm slightly concerned, as it's only sophomore year, but yeah. Life. You know.

This chapter, hopefully, made up in some part for the ridiculous wait! I actually started working on it the moment I posted the previous chapter, and it sat in my docs for about half a year before I found time to touch it again. And then it sat some more. And then I worked on it a little more. And so on and so forth, which wasn't my plan but seems to have turned out pretty well anyway. (Rather proud of this chappie, but I do hesitate to compliment its timeliness.)

HUGE (like, Panem-sized) SHOUT OUT TO DoomedToBeACrazyFanGirlForever AND Reading nerd FOR BEING AMAZING PEOPLE AS ALWAYS! You guys were literally the foremost reason I kicked myself in the backside and got down to finishing this chapter. Praise you both, and thank you millions. This chapter probably wouldn't have been uploaded this year if it hadn't been for you guys and your support! 8D

ANOTHER HUGE (but not quite as huge . . . maybe Deltora-sized?) SHOUT OUT TO ANYONE WHO'S READING THIS, REGARDLESS OF WHO YOU ARE! All a writer ever wants is for his/her/their words to be shared and read and, above all, seen and understood. If you're this far, praise you, and thank you millions. It may not be evident in the ages it takes for me to upload, but you guys are there in my mind, and you too contribute to the hammering out of this story!

But you know what makes a writer even happier than readers? Reviews!

Thanks again everyone! Here's to hoping for more updates! (Distant sobbing) MERRY/HAPPY CHRISTMAS/KWANZA/HANUKKAH/HOLIDAYS / WINTER BREAK / ET CETERA!