I feel like I need to come up with a way to get over writer's block. It took me like ten tries to finally get this chapter right.

Hestia Hepburn, District Six Female

Perhaps the woods shouldn't have been so familiar to her. But they were, and Hestia loved them anyway; the smell of the pine, the gentle breeze, the sunlight that shone through the cracks. Woods were hard to find in Six—maybe that was why Hestia found sanctuary there.

The place should have brought bad memories, but Hestia had always forced herself to look past her... incident. Even so, she found herself looking down at the stump where her hand should have been, though she immediately looked away.

Looking at what used to be her hand brought back memories of Atlas. She didn't want to think about him.

The Reaping bells sounded, and Hestia, careful not to ruin her brand-new blue dress, hurried towards the square, hoping that her parents hadn't noticed her disappearance. Surely, her father, under alcohol's influence, would be furious with her.

It took her no longer than ten minutes to arrive in the square, panting and out of breath. She straightened her back, plastered a grin on her face, and stood in line like a girl of her status should.

"Hestia Hepburn," she chirped upon reaching the front of the line, hastily flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder to get it out of her eyes. She looked like a wreck, but she couldn't show the world that it bothered her. She smiled as the Peacekeeper grabbed her finger and took her blood, and as she skipped over to the thirteen-year-old section.

Atlantis was the escort for District Six that year, an abnormally slim man with cerulean hair and a similarly-colored mustache. "Hello, District Six!" he bellowed, a gigantic (and clearly fake) grin plastered across his heavily altered face. "We have a special video presentation for you, and then we'll get to the Reaping, hm?"

They changed the visuals of the video every year. Sure, the 'war, terrible war' part was always the same, but Hestia always found herself carefully watching the screen to see which Tributes from previous years would haunt her nightmares. And recently, she always looked to make sure that her dead brother wasn't up there.

But there he was. Atlas Hepburn, Tribute in the 102nd Annual Hunger Games. Hestia found her eyes glued to the screen as he drove a sword through a girl's stomach. The look in his eyes was so similar to the look that day, when she happened upon him in the woods.

She had come to tell him to hurry home for dinner. In return, he had thrown his knife, and it had sliced through Hestia's hand. She remembered thinking that it surely had to be an accident, for her brother would never do such a thing to her.

Then she saw the look in his eyes, a look filled with malice and venom.

"Well, then!" Atlantis bellowed as the video ended, snapping Hestia back into reality. "Shall we begin? Let's shake it up and start with the boys."

He sauntered over to the boys' Reaping Bowl, carefully choosing a slip from the very bottom. "Farren Windio!"

A boy emerged from the fifteen-year-old section, with black hair and blue eyes. Hestia was surprised to find that the look on his face resembled acceptance.

Did he know? Did he expect it?

Farren walked onstage with surprising confidence, hands clenched in fists and eyes steely with determination. Hestia felt a sudden surge of admiration for the boy; how brave he was! He took his place onstage without a moment of hesitation. No sadness, no fear.

In an odd way, he reminded her of Atlas. Perhaps it was his fearlessness. Only with Atlas had Hestia seen such blatant courage.

"And now, for the ladies!" Atlantis said as he pulled a name from the girls' Bowl. Hestia knew there was nothing to worry about; her name was in the bowl just twice. She would be okay, she would be okay, she would be—

"Hestia Hepburn!"

No.

This isn't happening, she thought. It's a dream. I know it's a dream. I'm going to be okay.

"Hestia? Is there a Hestia Hepburn here?"

She felt herself take one, two, three steps until she was in the aisle leading to the stage. Exposed. Vulnerable. Hestia knew how unlike her brother she was. She was not brave, or strong.

As she walked towards the stage, the square seemed to grow darker, and darker, until everything finally went black.

"Hestia, go home," her brother had said, glaring at her as he threw his blade at a tree in the woods, the blade sticking to the already-scratched wood. "I'm in the middle of something.

"B-but, Atlas," she'd replied, "Papa needs you to come home. It's almost dinnertime."

"Does it look like I give a shit?" Eleven years old at the time, Hestia had been taken aback by her big brother's words. "This is important. Dinner can wait."

"Papa needs you home now," she'd insisted, stepping in front of Atlas. The look in his eyes had worried her; it wasn't too far off from madness.

She didn't like madness.

He threw his knife. It had chopped her hand clean off, gushing crimson blood. Some part of her registered a scream, though she didn't know if it was hers or her brother's. He'd apologized a thousand times over, rushing her back home to their family.

The entire time, he didn't shed one single tear. His seemingly worried expression was halfhearted and fake.

"Hestia. Wake up."

Hestia bolted upright, sitting up on the plush couches in the goodbye room. Blue eyes wide, breathing heavy. "W-what?"

"You were reaped, dearie," Atlantis said, staring at her worriedly. Farren stood behind him, frowning. "You passed out."

She wiped away a tear she didn't know she'd shed. "It's okay. I'm okay."

Chin up. That's what her mother always said. So that was what she did. She kept her head held high and her smile wide.

Not even the Reapings could bring her down.

I gotta say, I really love writing for this character. I don't know why, but something about her just sticks with me, and it's not the missing hand. It was a lot of fun writing out Hestia's multiple chapter attempts, and I hope you like the way this turned out as much as I do.