The Birds They Put In Cages

Chapter 7 –


'She came and substituted the peace and quiet,

For acrobatic blood flow concertina,

Cheating heartbeat, rapid fire...'

Arctic Monkeys


Author's note: To everyone concerned with the length of time that Belle's Hunger Games actually last – this is where my muse took me, and I hope you still enjoy this particular part of the ride, even if it's a little short. Thank you, again, for all your continued support!


The passageways carved into the rock are dark, even with the night vision spectacles on, and the skyward-reaching, spiky pillars of stone around Belle are damp and cool – slippery to the touch – presumably from their time beneath the mud, before their sudden emergence.

Though she has slowed somewhat from her earlier frantic pace across the mud-plains, she's still giving chase. She can hear Grand somewhere ahead of her, screaming for Avalon to show herself.

If, Belle thinks, the little girl is as smart as she seems – judging by her kills – then Avalon will get to higher ground and try to escape over the perilous ledges and chasms the upper rocks seem to boast. Avalon could outmanoeuvre Grand, with her speed and stature, but Belle knows that he is fast and deadly and powerful, not to mention insane.

Thick, dark moss laces the damp, crumbling walls around her, and as she makes the twists and turns required, she feels its pungent scent make her dizzy. She's hungry, and tired, and still in the aftermath of killing someone, but the Games must be finished.

There must be a victor.

Ahead of her, a scream is issued, and it is not Grand's.

The high-pitched tone pierces Belle's ears until she thinks they might bleed. Her feet slip against the rock in her sudden disorientation, and she lands on her outstretched hands as she falls, grazing her palms.

Another scream. She looks up.

Just past another short corridor of moss and slime and disintegrating stone, she can see a plinth-like formation, rising up high towards the bright sky.

On it is Avalon, spread across the large, flat stone like a sacrifice beneath Grand's sword. He turns his head and spits, sending saliva sailing towards Belle, letting it splatter against a rock wall ahead of her before turning back to his trapped tribute. He can't see Belle.

Glancing over her glasses, she sees how dark it really is, as black as pitch in her hiding place and only a little better up ahead. There is no moon, just starlight.

Avalon chokes beneath Grand's hard grip around her throat, her wide eyes bulging as he squeezes.

"You just couldn't let us win," he snarls, eyes alight and crazed. "The one thing I could do to honour my district and the Capitol and you just couldn't let me do it. Are you fucking happy?"

He lets go of her red and raw-looking throat enough for her to scream again, before pressing the tip of his sword to her flat and heaving chest and wrapping his hand around her neck again.

Belle knows that Avalon needs to die for her to survive. There is only one who can win, and as Grand seems to be doing better than the little girl, it is up to Belle to take care of the monster.

She needs the high-ground. Grand is too tall to take him on with her axe, and she doesn't think that, with all the adrenaline in his body, he'll go down fast enough if she uses the knife.

Belle circles the dais, slipping down partitions in the rock so she can try and tackle the plinth. With the right angle, it will be possible. She just has to find it.

Grand continues with his guttural snarling. "You need to die, and I'll be the one to do it. F-for honour, for glory, and when I'm finished with you, I'll go and find that rose and I'll fuck her. And then I'll kill her, too. And then I will win."

Belle's heart hammers relentlessly in her chest, her blood pounding in her ears at his words, his disgusting plan, and the grandiose nature of his speech. Grand has been put up to personally take Avalon out – that much is obvious to Belle – but by who, she doesn't know.

She can guess, though.

Suddenly, Belle finds it, the perfect spot – a small incline straight up to the dais, opposite Grand. She crouches, turning the axe in her hands, which is still stained and sticky from Paige's beheading. She resists the urge to vomit again.

"One more. Just one more," she tells herself, barely a whisper.

Just Grand, and then she's free, she's a Victor.

She can't imagine the things they're seeing in the Capitol, can't imagine how wild the citizens are in the face of the fastest Hunger Games in the history of the barbaric sport. She can't imagine Gold, his hope and terror for the outcome – will he pray for her? Well, Belle's praying for herself in any case.

Grand's voice lowers to a slow murmur, soft and dark and terrifying, and Belle can just about hear his words. "Night-night."

Avalon squeals beneath Grand's choking grasp as he plunges his sword into her to the hilt, his jaw clenched and his face coloured with gory victory. The girl flails and arches against the larger tribute, struggling and choking for endless moments, before her limbs give out and she falls, lax, to the flat, dark stone. A cough, and her blood pools and runs over the edge of the altar-like plinth, dripping crimson, trailing its way downhill towards Belle.

Her moment has arrived.

Belle feels the cool press of her rose pin against her neck, and she knows who she has to be in this moment. Not Belle, not Clara, not the Fireweed – just The Rose.

Her muscles tense. She bolts.

Sprinting up the slope, it only takes a moment for her to reach the plinth and launch herself upon it from a small outcropping. Grand's head snaps up just as Belle raises her axe and brings it down with a solid and final thwack.

She knows she will never forget the way the sharp, shining metal embeds itself into Grand's skull, or the way his cranium cracks in two and spurts blood, opening his head enough for her to see his fleshy, pale brain.

She's too tense, too shaken, too numb to not watch, as he staggers, falling forwards and backwards, axe pulling from his head, before crumpling in a bronzed heap. The glasses afford her the unnecessary sight of his eyes, still bright and rolling around in their sockets, trying to find her.

Ever so slowly, he slips down from the very precarious top of the mountainous hill, and over the edge, somewhere she can't see.

Beneath Belle, Avalon's body slips too – now without Grand's considerable bulk pinning her down – bringing her off of the plinth, following with a sickening smack of her face hitting the jagged stones beneath.

There's a hush, as if Belle can hear the quiet that must certainly be pervading the Capitol at this very moment, and then, before she can come to terms with the fact that she's won, Claudius Templesmith's voice rings out, loud and clear.

District 8's badge glitters in the sky. The needle and cotton reel shine brightly against the blue.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present Clarabelle Rosebay, Victor of the Seventy-second Hunger Games – Tribute of District Eight!"


Belle sits behind a glass partition like an animal, but, she supposes, that's what she is to them, the people on the hovercraft taking her back to the Capitol, not to mention the people in the districts.

She is the bloodstained victor responsible for killing a son, perhaps a brother, and removing the head from someone else's daughter or sister. In becoming Victor, she has become something other.

There is justice in all the districts, and killers always receive a death sentence. Victors are killers, but lawful ones, ones to be revered by some and avoided by others. She knows now why her father told her stories about Gold, why he told her to stay away and that he wasn't to be trusted, because Gold is a contradiction to their laws and morals. He has killed and he lives, and Belle understands that fear of him now, because he is a beast, created by the Capitol, to remind the districts of its power. The Capitol will keep everyone safe, the monsters at bay, except for one, every year, a wolf among the sheep, something to fear and hate.

Now there are two beasts in District 8.

Belle ignores the blood shining on her leathers, the dry vomit staining the toe of her boot, and instead clutches her rose pin in her hand, squeezing it so hard it makes her grazed palms bleed anew.

She reminds herself that she has won, that she's alive, and that she has Gold waiting for her. She just needs to be The Rose a little longer, before she can hide with Gold in the Village and discover the intricate threads of this tangle between them. She thinks of how far they've come, pressured by time and fate, but now they have all the time in the world.

Belle almost jumps when the partition is removed and she is instructed to stand to be cleansed. The small, mousy-haired woman in a white coat smiles, flashing all-silver teeth, and tells her that they will be landing soon and congratulations.

Belle has never received this sentiment from someone before. Ever.

The woman undresses her, directs her into a shower cubicle and has her wash, and Belle realises that the reason they kept her behind the glass was because they wanted to see if she was safe. To see if she was sane.

She's more resigned than anything, and she's yearning to see Gold, that flash of his gilded tooth when he smiles and that softness in his eyes when they're alone.

Even now, the woman with the silver smile looks at her with a thin sliver of wariness, obvious in her watchful gaze. It makes Belle's skin crawl, longing for a time when she won't have to do these things in front of an audience.

She's fed and watered, and half-watched when she makes use of the toilet with a gratefulness she has never known for a simple comfort in all her life. She is redressed in a flattering, navy frock, her injuries tended to until nothing but smooth skin remains, and her cosmetics reapplied. She is made fresh-looking, and polished, and beautiful, as if she hasn't just stepped over dead bodies to take her ride back to the capital city of their country.

A few people in white coats, running hither and thither, look at her and whisper and smile to each other, and some offer her food and wine. Wine, like she has the stomach for anything stronger than water at the moment. But she can understand. She understands why some victors accept the offer, and how easy it is to lift a glass and drown all sorrows.

She's too adamant in her refusal. The whispers gain an edge around her, and she wonders if someone is preparing a syringe or a club of some sort, should she turn feral.

Belle takes a breath and merely sits, waiting, listening to the bustle around her and clutching her badge. The ride feels shorter than it had going into the arena, and as she is escorted off, down the ladder, she is thrown into internal tumult.

She stands on the top of the Training Centre again, looking out over the Capitol at night, the air cool and the buildings bright. There is singing in the streets, and a man waiting for her at the closed elevator doors across the roof.

For a moment, as the hovercraft takes off behind her, she thinks he's a mirage. His long, black coat flaps noisily in the wind, and his eyes – those dark, whisky-brown orbs – are so soft as he watches her from a distance.

She notices his red tie is loose, his black shirt is creased, and his wavy hair is ruffled. His eyes are ringed and she can see stubble across his jaw. His mouth parts, but no words escape.

Belle's fist clenches around the rose badge, despising its presence at this moment, feeling it in her palm like some lead weight she must now carry with her, always a part of her.

And then he speaks. "Belle..."

Her feet carry her towards him, unimpeded, hitching and tripping a little in her sudden haste. She stops just before him, her breath coming heavily, and can't help but just reaching out to touch. A fingertip, nothing more, just the pad of her index finger to the gold clip on his tie.

A sob escapes her.

There's a flurry of movement between them. Gold throws down his cane carelessly, the gold top hitting the hard stone with a crack that makes her flinch, and throws his arms about her. His coat envelops her, encasing her in warmth atop the chilly roof, and her hands snake beneath his outer-shell, finding silken material and warm flesh. So real.

He buries his face in her neck, his lips a warm flame against her pulse, mouthing something against her skin. Belle inhales thickly, warding off her tears, finding comfort in the one person that, not so long ago, she never would have expected to.

His hands touch her face, her back, her hair, tangling in her fresh curls, and she soaks in his attention, his affection, and his scent. Belle grips the back of his shirt, fisting it underneath his coat, pulling him closer, her lips at the cool lobe of his ear.

"Gold–"

"Call me Rum."

His interruption is soft, whispered, and he pulls back to look her in the eye when she stays quiet. Her confusion is evident. His face softens.

"It's my first name, sweetheart. Short for Rumford."

It's so lovely to be given something so simple, something that she can see from his face no one else has the right to, and she's so overwhelmed. She pulls him close, whispers his name in his ear, lets him shudder against her and hold her more tightly, and it's true bliss.

"I don't know how some of us stay in there for weeks," she murmurs finally, and Gold kisses her ear.

"I know, Belle. I know."

They remain there for a while, embracing, ignoring the city with all its lights and all its noise, and just...being.

"I don't know how to make this work," Belle confesses, and Gold echoes her sentiment.

"Neither do I, but I know I want to." His lilting brogue deepens. "We'll go one step at a time, Fireweed. We'll take the slow train out of here, and then I'll ask your father for his blessing."

This truly surprises her, and, pulling back from their embrace to stare at him, she raises her eyebrows at him. "My father?"

"Of course." Gold pushes a wayward curl behind her ear, his bare hands warm and his touch tender. "But we don't have to make it official, if you don't want to."

Belle gazes at him for a moment, this older man who she feels so much for and who she knows feels so much for her in return, and she wonders how her father would react. But then, thinking of her father, Maurice, and of his absence, his pre-emptive mourning and no goodbye for her, his only daughter, Belle realises that she'd rather leave him be.

Gold's gentle touch to her cheek brings her out of her fog. "Belle?"

She bites her lip, delaying her response, before giving into his tender touch. "He never said goodbye, Rum. He never said I could do it, never told me to be brave, and I don't think he's going to even want to look at me after this. If you want someone's blessing, ask Red – she cares about me more than anyone."

His brow is pained for a moment. "Whatever you want, sweetheart. Like I said, one step at a time."

Belle smiles, slow and sly, her father forgotten, the only man on her mind being the one in her arms.

"How can I want you so much?" She murmurs, eyes chasing about his face, from his darkened eyes to his tongue darting across his lips. "It's so...unlikely."

"The Rose and the Monster?" He mutters – a tease – lips moving to brush hers in a sweet, soft sweep.

"Monster?"

"That's what they call me at home, dear," he tells her. "The Monster. The Babe-Stealer. The Spinner of Words. The Dealer."

Belle's lips twitch, curling in a grin. "What else will they call me?"

"You're the Bloody Rose of the Wastelands, sweetheart, or didn't you know?"

Her laughter eases her spirits, lifting them high, letting them free for a shining moment, here, with him. Only him.

"The Rose and the Monster," she mimics, pulling him close. "Definitely unlikely."

Her voice, so soft, is carried off on the wind as his eyes bore into hers and his lips seek her out, gentle and teasing. But there is no room for games, not now, not tonight, because there is only space for his hand in her curls, his other cinched about her waist, as she clutches at him, her mouth suddenly desperate and so hungry.

They become nothing more than heated breath and grasping hands, his tongue touching hers, drawing her out, making her arch into his touch and against his solid form, a tickle of heat blossoming deep in her cold belly.

They part for a deep breath each, foreheads pressed together, and Gold gives her a breathtaking smile. He says nothing more, just holds her face in his palm and breathes, like this is the be all and end all of everything in his life.

"How long before I'm crowned?" Belle asks, and Gold closes his eyes, pulling her closer.

"It's tonight. You've got time for something to eat, and then we have to go to a little shindig Sapphire's organised."

Belle shakes her head. "I'm not hungry. Let's stay here for a little longer."

He draws her deep into his hold, beneath his coat, and just embraces her, his cheek pressed to her temple. They stay there for a long time, but long will never be long enough.

Eventually, they part, calling for the elevator and stepping into it when it arrives and the doors open. He holds her hand until they reach their floor, amidst cheers and calls at Belle's arrival from people she has never known and others she does, like Saph.

The woman is jubilant and sober – a strange combination for the escort.

Saph curls Belle into a long, drawn-out embrace, fussing over her like a mother hen before telling her thank you.

Belle ponders over this as she is introduced to past victors, wealthy citizens, sponsors that never had the chance to spend their money on her, and men who most definitely are paying to get into bed with her. It's at this realisation – that this strange and overwhelming party-like gathering has a much seedier undertone – that Belle realises Saph's meaning.

Thank you. Thank you for winning, for selling herself, and for bringing Saph her desired cash. It makes Belle sick.

Gold is across the room, cane in hand, chatting and idly swirling some dark liquor around in a crystal glass. The man he's speaking to is tall, dark about the eyes and covered in golden tattoos, drinking bright blue liquid from a thin fluted glass. His eyes stray to Belle, and she knows that this man is also bidding.

She can see it in his heavy gaze, his quirked lip, and the way his eyes roll over her, head to foot. Gold draws the man's attention back to him, looking to be speaking more seriously, and the man nods.

Belle wonders how, with no sponsors spending any money on her in the arena, they can still bid, but she knows that there is much more behind it than that. Saph and Gold had spoken of Snow and his favour, and Belle can only hope that the president will not enter his own bid.

She'd rather have the tattooed man than that, but, then again, it's not up to her. If it was, she'd be giving herself to Gold, and only him.

She feels so small and young in this room, between these people, and not like a victor at all. She just wants peace, but knows that it must be bought. Everything has its price.

All too soon, Saph leads her out and away, taking her down to the staging area for the Victor's celebrations, including the crowning, the Banquet, and the final interview.

They must rise through the stage, first Saph and the team, then Gold, and then herself. Saph waits with her while the final preparations are made.

Belle voices her thoughts. "I thought I'd be wearing a ball gown."

"Well, yes." Saph's smile is wicked. "But we thought it would be better to have you look...fresh."

Belle turns her face away to mask her shame and anger. Fresh, as in virginal, as in profitable.

"Do you know who it is yet?" Belle asks, making her voice as strong as possible.

Saph flicks her head to and fro, watching stage hands going by as if one of them will tell her when she must make her entrance. She fluffs her blonde locks, smoothes down her dress, and gives Belle a cursory glance.

"Not yet, but it'll be tonight, so I suggest you either stay alert or keep your glass full. It's never pretty."

It's as if Saph has no use for her now it's all been decided. The escort's joy had been fleeting, and now she will be paid there is no hand-holding, no sugared words, just the bitter truth.

Her head spins with blood and wine and Gold, and...not three hours ago, she was killing someone! She can't make sense of anything, so perhaps it would be best to just...not try to.

"Isn't there anything I can...take?"

Saph raises an eyebrow. "Of course, but that's a trifle dangerous considering some of the men knocking down the door to get to you. Wine will be your friend tonight, so make use of it, hmm? Let it just...loosen you up."

Saph leaves with a flutter, before Belle can tell her to go.