Telemachus opened his eyes.
It was as if his world were smothered in pitch, bar the playful lines of yellow-white light peeking through the cracked ceiling. They were his sole concept of time. He had counted two suns and a moon since he had been brought here.
He had fallen asleep in the same position as a new-born babe, curled up as small as he could make himself – his long, muscular frame did not allow for small enclosures such as these. His chin and knees were tucked into his chest, the edges of his feet tracing the soft stone floor.
His muscles and back ached painfully, but he did not dare raise an objection to the guards that stood without. Though their faces were hidden and their attire the familiar white of the Peacekeepers, their forms were different. One was lanky and high-pitched, the other stout and with a rumbling voice.
Telemachus had heard a woman complain to them one night in a high, shrill voice. One of the guards had seen to her.
After that, Telemachus decided it was in his best interests to not interfere with their fun.
He pushed himself up from the floor and looked around.
Nothing had changed since the arena. Though his sight was limited, he had felt his way around his miserable accommodation upon arrival using nothing but his touch. It was a matchbox cell, hewn from stone and straw and dirt. Taller than it was long, it enforced on its occupant total discomfort, and Telemachus often found himself sitting straight-backed against the wall, peering out into nothing and saying less than he saw.
The roof was damp and dripping, to a point where it frayed the nerves. The occasional vermin nibbled at his skin, day and night. If the guards hadn't kept Telemachus provisioned with water and bread, he would gladly have eaten the rats. There was little he could do with the earthworms.
Upon waking, the first thing that always struck him was the smell – urine and feces, vomit and sweat, all mingled together into a hideously pervasive stench. It attacked his nostrils and Telemachus instinctively let out a retch of disgust.
He crawled towards the wall, hands fumbling for the small slit he knew was in the roughly cut concrete behind him. It was a feeble excuse for a window, but it would do.
Telemachus pressed his face to the cool plaster, trying desperately to breathe in a sliver of fresh air.
Next came the sounds.
It was a gross, pathetic motley of whimpering and weeping, pleading and prayers. Each of them all had their own methods of keeping the madness at bay here – from salacious words spoken through dry, cracked lips to tear-stained faces covered in grime.
He felt that he should pity them, console them even, but he felt even more strongly that they all had earned their place in this kennel.
They were being punished, turncoats and rebel-spawn and neutralists alike.
The whispers of sedition had existed for as long as Telemachus could remember.
The hateful, gaunt faces of the quarriers and masons and builders, with their broken backs and missing limbs. The hundreds of families that lost their sons and daughters to the building of another extravagant pet project funded by the Capitol. The regime that turned a blind eye to the raids and rapes committed in the small mountain villages, the disappearance of civilians who expressed criticism of their totalitarian government.
The people were being pushed around by a Capitol that had once cared for them so very much.
Until District 13 pushed back.
It didn't take long for the rest of the country to rise up, bear arms and commit countless atrocities in the name of reformation.
In District 4, rebel submarines demolished unassuming Capitol cruise boats.
The crops were set ablaze in District 11 and the district burned red and orange for weeks, the smoking fields visible from miles and miles away.
Entire buildings in District 8 were razed to the ground, crushing civilians, Peacekeepers and soldiers alike.
Hovercraft engineers and pilots of District 6 led air bombings on the Capitol, hijacking trains to sneak vanguards of soldiers beyond the district's perimeter.
And thus, the war had begun.
District 2 had been the most loyal, the most supportive, the most dedicated to maintaining the Capitol's hold on power. The Folami family – mother, father, little Telemachus and his elder brother – had been advocates for the Capitol yet remained confident that a compromise could be reached.
However, the Capitol did not believe in negotiating with terrorists, and the rebels had come too far to turn back now.
Marbletown, the district's largest commune, was half-city and half barracks and the hub of all military action. It was also home to the district's impenetrable Mountain Fortress, or the Fort as the locals called her – she was the pride of the district and nigh impossible to breach externally.
It was there, on the rocky slopes of the Fort, that the rebels fought and shot and screamed and bled and died. Unable to breach the district – and in turn the Capitol – their corpses littered the mountainside, carrion for the crows and lions that flew and skulked through the skies and caves.
Their attempt to infiltrate the Mountain Fortress had failed and their people had paid the price.
Some rebels ran, with most of them caught and put to death. A handful chose to brave the barren hills and risk the unbearable thirst, razor-sharp rocks and rock-path tribes than own up to what they had done, scourge their dishonor and face the noose with their conscience cleansed.
District 2 was not cruel, they understood that even a traitor was permitted their rites, and for those who confessed their treason, an unmarked grave was the best one could hope for.
The Capitol had been less forgiving. The rebel leaders had been publicly humiliated, flogged and hanged, their bloated bodies tied up around the districts, pockets of flies gathering on the white-blue skin, purple lips parted in death.
Once Telemachus had no more home to go to and nothing to fight for, he made his way to the square in Marbletown for the reaping. He refused to be dragged there as if he were a child. He had stumbled past these bodies, half a corpse himself, unable to tear his gaze away from all the death.
The road was lined with the remains of those who had died fleeing or accessing the city. They had died of infection, dehydration, untreated wounds. They had been his friendly neighbors, boisterous classmates, encouraging teachers.
He saw his father's peers, his mother's confidantes, round-cheeked girls, ruffled-haired boys.
But that had been another time – they had all of them proven to be traitors, their flames of rebellion extinguished at long last.
District 13 was destroyed, obliterated into nothing more than a smoking husk.
The war was over, and the Capitol had won.
This sense of victory did not extend to the districts. The new regime had come for them all, its hammer of justice swift with retribution as it built the foundations of the new Panem.
In the darkness of Telemachus' cell, the memories began to flood back.
"Hello, little one," the man purred.
His face was heavily scarred with a stained eye patch and a mouth full of yellow teeth. The only visible eye was black as coal and as jarring as his scars. "Come out now. Don't be scared. We're here to recruit you."
Telemachus had been cowering under his bed in the cottage he'd called home, his knees shaking, his bottom lip quivering. He could feel his heartbeat like thunder in his ears, his ragged breathing a storm. The stranger had dragged him out from his hiding place by his hair, kicking and screaming and biting, until a swift punch to the face silenced him.
"He's old enough. Put him with the other trainees," the scarred man said.
He was thrown into a wooden cart that smelled of dung and sheep, next to three boys who stared blankly ahead of them, their eyes red, their rags – clothes – covered in filth.
Telemachus' last memories of his home were his mother screaming his name to the whoops and grunts and wolf whistles of a handful of strange men. Her cries echoed in the valley around her, bouncing back each time with a sickening clarity as Telemachus' small cottage home disappeared, the sound of pillage faded, and the summer night fell still.
A deep, gravelly voice dragged Telemachus from his thoughts.
"Oi, you. On your feet."
Telemachus stared out at the short, robust human shape in front of him. It was faceless, anonymous – a shadow, and nothing more.
But the shadow had given him a command… and a good soldier obeyed.
He rocked back, then forth, and on to his knees. He tried to stand, but his legs collapsed from beneath him instantly as the blood came rushing back into his legs. It was a queer feeling, as if he were being pricked by sharp pins across his affected flesh.
The voice grunted. "I said stand up, properly, or you'll end up not needing those legs after all."
He needn't have threatened him. Telemachus had risen, forced to stop and arch his back in order to fit within the confines of his cell. He looked up at the shadow through hooded eyes, awaiting his next order.
Another, higher voice squeaked out from further down.
"Put on your torch. I wanna get a good look at him. You know, before."
There was the sound of helmets being removed and a burst of brightness. Telemachus squinted at the sudden light, raising his hand to block it out.
The men's gaze lingered on Telemachus. The Peacekeepers' eyes raked across him, beginning at his feet and running all the way to his face, where the curiosity ended and gave way to judgement – and something else, something Telemachus couldn't put his finger on.
In the light of his torch, Telemachus could get a closer look at his captors, the shadows that had now taken physical form.
The first, Stout, had beetle-black eyes and a poor attempt at facial hair, with the result being a patchy fuzz that covered his paunchy face and both of his chins. His frown lines were etched with dust, with crow's feet and dimples, but he looked older far older than Telemachus had initially suspected.
Squeak, the second Peacekeeper, seemed to be Telemachus' age with a long neck, sharp nose and teeth too big for his mouth. His skin was red, blotchy and dotted with pimples and whiteheads. There was a desperation in his manner, an urgency, that suggested he was eager to please and impress those around him.
Telemachus continued to glare through the bars of his cell at the guards.
"Does he talk?" asked Stout, striding over to the cage and folding his arms.
Squeak shook his head. "No. Nothing since the Games."
"Maybe he's in shock."
Stout reached into his pocket and removed from it a square of chocolate.
Telemachus stared at it.
Even before, chocolate had been an untouchable delicacy. It existed only behind the colorful, illustrated windows of the district confectionery in the market-town of Sunfair. The only patrons it had were those who could afford to spend money on caramels and lollipops – this meant their business relied on visiting Capitol holidaymakers.
It was now just another mound of rubble, blown to pieces in the name of Panem.
"You know what this is?" Stout asked, scoffing as he tossed the chocolate into his mouth and chewed on it noisily.
He swallowed, shut his eyes in pleasure, then opened them again to leer down at Telemachus.
"Stand up straight."
Telemachus tried, but as he did, the strain on his back and neck proved too much and he winced in pain.
Stout's face twisted. "Are you deaf? Get up!"
"I said, get up!"
A man with a scraggly black beard swung at Telemachus, landing a blow to his right cheek.
"I – I can't." The little boy stared at the metal blade in front of him.
A wild dog laying beneath him whined piteously, its left foreleg made a bloody mess by the hidden trap it had strayed unwittingly into.
It was afraid, impossibly afraid. Telemachus understood it. He pitied it.
The older man knelt to meet him.
"You use that sword, or I'll give it to someone else to wipe your ass with."
Telemachus nodded. He dug his feet into the earth, locked his knees and lifted the steel as high as he could, his arms quivering as he held it tightly by the hilt.
The metal was heavy and unfamiliar in his twelve-year-old hands.
"Now, soldier."
He closed his eyes and brought the knife down.
As reality took him, Telemachus was met with the whooping guffaws and thunderstorm laughter of the guards.
It went on and on and on, and Telemachus desperately wanted it to stop. It was loud, far too loud, and he wanted the uninterrupted silence of his cell back to himself.
He lowered his head, trying to push the noise out as far as he could.
Then, came the sound of more footsteps, many more, and a third voice. It was older, more dignified.
"What are you doing?"
Telemachus peered out into the darkness. The two guards had fallen silent, one with his head bowed in embarrassment and the other stiff and twitching nervously.
The origin of the third voice remained a mystery, but it had an air of authority and assurance about it. It was a voice that demanded respect and did not suffer fools or incompetence.
Telemachus liked that. His father had been that way.
"You. The keys."
There was a fumbling of padded gloves and the rattling of keys. The high-pitched voice muttered numerous apologies. After a dull metal 'clunk', the padlock to the cell's door detached with a sharp, satisfying click. The cage swung open invitingly, teasingly.
Telemachus didn't move a muscle.
With a sigh, a middle-aged man stepped into the light of the guard's torch.
He had a shaved head, crooked nose and round, icy-blue eyes. His brow was heavy, and his lower jaw sagged, reminiscent of the hounds that the police force used to scent-track drugs and explosives. A tattoo of a serpent began under his right eye, its tail winding across his cheek and down the back of his neck. He wore his Peacekeeper white, though his uniform was adorned with badges in an array of colours – plum, navy, dark green, crimson and many more.
He was a commander. Telemachus' respect for the man rose instantly.
"Hello, Telemachus. My name is Mascazel. I am here to be your escort, by order of President Tigellinus Thorn."
At the mention of the president's name, Telemachus looked at Mascazel, curious.
Tigellinus Thorn was a name know throughout Panem and it belonged to a man of semi-iconic status in District 2.
Before the Dark Days, he had been the head of the Capitol's military, a lieutenant and a war hero. His tactics had kept the rebel forces at bay within the inner districts and his decision to reinforce and pour his defensive strategy into the Fort led to the eventual quell of the revolution. A born orator, he had succeeded his predecessor after a landslide vote among the heads of the loyalist movement in each district – or so Telemachus had heard.
Mascazel pulled his lips together in a piteous expression. "Please, Mr. Folami. Do not harbour under the illusion that this is a request."
He extended his hand and Telemachus saw that it was splashed in burns, the skin red and leathery, more than one fingernail missing.
He looked back up into the man's eyes. They were cold and unempathetic, but they were honest and hid no lies.
Telemachus had been given his orders.
Slowly, he began to move. The sensation of needles in his legs had dissipated, but they now felt like slabs of cement, separate from his own body – he saw them go, one foot in front of the other, but he could not associate them as belonging to him.
Once Telemachus emerged from the cell, the older man lowered his torch and briskly stepped aside to the left.
Squeak and Stout stood to his right, their fingers brushing up against the thick, clunky handguns secured tightly to their belts.
They are frightened of me, Telemachus realized suddenly.
He looked at them, one after the other. The iron and threats that had once been used to restrain him had gone and now their faces were contorted with fear, their bodies half-frozen in a sudden rush of adrenaline.
Their terror passed across the room, from them into Telemachus.
Something stirred within him, a sleeping beast, ravenous and angry.
It was not unfamiliar.
"Follow me, Telemachus," ordered Mascazel, turning on his heel.
Telemachus bowed his head and obeyed.
"Follow me," grunted the regiment commander, motioning his men forward with a wave of his hand.
Telemachus felt the surge of movement around him, detaching himself from the blood-curdling keening of the wounded rebels and the thick, black smoke that slithered through the street as if it were an enormous, hungry serpent.
He could feel himself sweating profusely, hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his breath coming short and fast through the heat of his helmet. His squad, Capital-208, were charged with removing the latest influx of rebel factions within the district's largest city.
Telemachus hastily located the magazine of his assault rifle and refilled it with cartridges, his gloved fingers making the action far clumsier than it ought to have been.
"Keep moving, eyes open and stay together!"
The regiment moved inward into Marbletown, weaving through the intricate alleyways and side-streets that had made the city's design so widely renowned throughout all Panem.
Telemachus ducked under low-sweeping shopfronts, stumbled over and sidled around titanic chunks of debris, pulled himself free from the grasp of wailing women and children, and focused on his commander's voice, the sole source of rationale in the midst of the chaos.
Before long, they swept out into an open clearing near the perimeter of the city's second level. There was neither sight nor sound of another soul among them in the open marble courtyard, unlike the hellish landscape of the city's outer ring through which they had just traveled.
As his fellow men rushed forward, Telemachus' found himself hesitating, and he fell back.
His commander turned around and raised his gruff, authoritative voice to a shout.
"Folami! What are you –"
There was a flare of red and white, a wave of sound and Telemachus felt himself flying.
The blinding light of Telemachus' past was swiftly replaced by the murky darkness of his present – the Capitol's catacombs.
The long, winding damp corridors had been built long ago, before the metropolis had grown bloated and congested, its people ridiculed by their district brethren for their silly, airy accents.
The first builders had begun with the halls and cells near the surface where Telemachus had resided, but future generations had dug deeper, for reasons unknown.
There were some who insisted that the catacombs led out of the Capitol and into the districts. A few claimed they had been made for the looting of buried treasure. Others argue that it was a practical solution to a growing problem – there was always more room required for prisoners. The more eccentric characters would insist that a great, cavernous city had been constructed beneath their own metropolis and a man-eating army was being built beneath their feet, one that would one day come back to scour them all and reclaim their own land for themselves.
Regardless of the reason behind their creation, the catacombs were a spider's web below what remained of the central Capitol, notoriously complex with numerous cross overs and false ends.
Indeed, it would not be incorrect to describe them as a labyrinth more so than catacombs, for much of it was unexplored. To issue a search team would cost more money, induce more labor and take more time than any government had considered worthy.
The upper levels continued to be used for the housing and containment of high-priority prisoners – malcontents, progressives, suspected rebels, outspoken personalities, any citizen who had expressed disagreement with the regime had found themselves here, with very few returning.
Telemachus thought that most of them deserved it.
Mascazel's heavy breathing and grinding voice stirred Telemachus from his thoughts as he attempted to fill up the silence between them.
"Your family must be proud of you."
Telemachus thought of them.
His parents – his mother, shy and matronly, the soothing influence in a houseful of passionate men – his father, tall, quiet and imposing, who ran his house firmly and with an iron fist.
Telemachus could almost see them, their faces swimming before his eyes - his mother's doe-like eyes and gentle expression. His father's strong jaw and tight-lipped smile. It was an apparition, an illusion, but Telemachus would have reached out his hand and touched them, if he could.
Yet despite his instinct, he had no strength, and in the space of a moment, they were gone, leaving Telemachus alone with Mascazel in the stairwell.
They continued to climb, and Telemachus continued to think.
He tried not to concern himself with it, of the weakness that ran through his blood, but the more furiously he sought to suppress his anger and resentment the more excruciating it became to bear.
It had all begun with his elder brother, the first-born Folami – Telegonus. He had been a brooding, careless child whose rough-and-tumble nature led him to scraps with his male peers.
Telemachus would clutch his mother's apron and watch in admiration as his father berated a bruised, beat-up Telegonus who looked thoroughly pleased with himself. Afterwards, he would steal Telemachus into a corner and tell him the full details of the match.
Despite their wildly conflicting dispositions, Telemachus and Telegonus had one another's backs through thick and thin. If one fell short, the other pulled his weight to over-compensate. Had there been a lie told, the other would fabricate accordingly. They played wing-man for one another's romantic interests (though this seemed to largely be for the elder of the two, who was in the throes of adolescence). It seemed that, for the longest time, the brothers had been the best of friends and nothing had tested their resolve. It had been a perfect picture of what a good district family was meant to be.
Until, Telegonus – in his brash, altruistic form – began to look around him and see how things could be better. It began with his father – he was older, less spritely, and could not work the same hours with the same enthusiasm as he once did, but lived in constant fear of the Capitol's reaction if he and his men did not meet their quotas.
As he ventured outside his home, he learned of the injustice, the sickness, the poverty, the violence that accumulated in the city by the Peacekeeper's brute force and random searches. He discovered the secret hangings and gang rapes in the Bare Forests, the arrests and illegalities in the inns of Sunfair.
Telemachus' brother had begun to feel, for the first time, that the Capitol could be wrong.
This did not bode well with the upstanding Folami tradition of faultless, unshakable patriotism.
After a blaring argument and physical fall-out, he was banished from the home, his name forbidden to be spoken, and Telemachus found himself resenting – no, detesting – his brother's decision to support the newly founded District 2 rebellion in favor of his family.
As the other districts took up arms, all able-bodied boys and men aged twelve and above were required to join the Capitol-2 military forces. Any person who resisted would be committing treason and face imprisonment, awaiting execution.
Telemachus desperately wanted to join the war effort, prove that they still had a son that was loyal to them, and sneaked out one morning to sign up, but at a scrawny eight years old and not considered fit for battle, he was turned away.
Furious, he returned home, intent on seeking out another form of service, only to find his weeping mother there to tell him that his father had left that morning to find Telemachus and had not returned since.
If Telegonus had never left, Telemachus would not have tried so desperately to prove himself, and his father would not have sought him out, only to disappear for good.
It was all his fault.
Then, Telemachus was taken, and in the end, he never discovered what became of his father, mother, or brother.
Telemachus looked up. The thin, claustrophobic staircases began to widen. Mascazel led them here and there, left and right, up and down, through archways and passages.
Telemachus did not recognize this path. He had not been brought to his previous cell this way. The walls, once devoid of naught but torches, began to sport glass-stained windows through which radiant beams of colourful light burst. Telemachus squinted and growled in response to the sudden change in environment.
Mascazel chuckled derisively as he pulled up short in front of a large set of oaken doors that bore the seal of Panem, embedded into their wooden panels.
Telemachus bowed his head, pressed his forefinger and thumb together, touched them to his lips, and made a circular motion across his forehead, mouth and heart. The foreman's cross, it was called. It was a sign to express that he was devoted to his country in his thoughts, his words and his soul. It had been a custom, begun long ago, for the district to demonstrate respect.
Though its significance had been subdued and its use waned across the decades, the founding families of District 2 – Folami, Slade, Flint, Mason – had insisted on its continuance.
Mascazel moved to open the door, paused, and turned to Telemachus.
"Are you ready?"
"Are you ready?"
The soft, tired voice came from a girl, her dark hair matted with filth and lice, the lines of her face exacerbated with grime and sweat.
Telemachus could see that she had traditional District 2 features – dark hair and eyes, sallow skin, a heavy brow. She clung to the rusted bars of her cell, her lips chapped, her knuckles white.
She was the grandniece of a known district rebel and had not stopped attempting to engage with Telemachus since the Reaping.
He lifted his head. "Ready for what?"
The girl licked her lips. "For tomorrow. You're going to fight, aren't you?"
Telemachus said nothing, and the girl's tone grew more urgent.
"We could work together, you know. You and me. Make sure the winner is from Two."
A burst of hoarse, dry laughter escaped Telemachus. He leaned in the direction of the girl.
"I don't work with traitors," he told her, the anger in his voice palpable.
Telemachus nodded, and Mascazel pushed open the doors.
It was nothing like Telemachus had ever seen before – an airy, grand, lavish entrance hall, flooded with light and adorned with a plethora of interior decorations. A crystal candelabra swung from the ceiling, fine works of art adorned the printed walls, and a sweeping imperial staircase led to the upper floor.
Beyond that, it sported ceramic vases of colourful, exotic plants, transparent bowls of ripe, luscious fruit, busts and gold-inlaid quotes of presidents past. It was incredible that – wherever they were – had survived the worst of the wartime destruction.
The entire room was aesthetically exceptional. Telemachus felt immediately out of place.
"Where are we?"
It was the first time he had spoken in days. Mascazel shot him a sharp look of surprise.
"You are in the manse of President Thorn." He cleared his throat. "Follow me. You have an appointment."
Mascazel took Telemachus up the winding left-hand stair, and he ran his hand along the smooth, cold maple bannister. The wood had originated in the lumber district, no doubt, but District 2 had its own sugar maple trees that produced a watery, sweet sap that could be turned into syrup once boiled. Telemachus had tried it once, long ago, and the memory led to an acute stinging feeling in the pit of his stomach. He banished the thought from his mind.
Instead, Telemachus began to wonder what President Thorn could possibly want with him.
He had done all that he could for his homeland, district and nation. Was the point of this meeting to thank him for his service? If that was the case, why him? There had been thousands of soldiers, throughout Panem – including Telemachus – who had laid their lives and souls on the line to protect everything that Thorn and his administration stood for.
Or, if not for reasons of gratitude, was he to be further punished for the treachery of his brother's acts? He had had nothing to do with Telegonus' decision. He, his father, his mother, each generation of the Folami clan had been unflinchingly devoted to a united Panem.
Still, the blood of a traitor ran in his veins, and if left unchecked could be disastrous. No son or daughter of Telemachus would replicate his brother's path, but the lingering fear of a dissident, extremist Folami on a distant branch of their family tree petrified Telemachus.
Unless…
At the top of the staircase, the two men passed an ornate hanging mirror.
From out of the corner of his eye, Telemachus caught sight of his reflection.
He was covered in blood.
There was blood everywhere.
In his mouth and eyes, on his skin, between his fingers. It drenched his plain brown tunic.
Corpses of district children littered the amphitheatre, wide-eyed and gaping and rotting.
Telemachus couldn't hear himself think over the deafening roar of the Capitol spectators.
In the distance, trumpets blared, loud and shrill. A voice rang out across the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, your victor – Telemachus Folami!"
Telemachus' grip loosened on the hilt of his long-sword and he collapsed to his knees.
A Peacekeeper pulled him to his feet, and led him from the battle ground, half-dazed, as the crowd cheered his name, waving their hands and stamping their feet.
He was filthy, caked in dirt and sweat and gods knew what else.
The blood on his skin and clothes had dried, some of it beginning to crust and peel, darker on the fabric and splattered in almost artistic patterns, as if with a paintbrush.
Who had it belonged to? The faces had blurred together, the names unfamiliar and lost to the past.
Mascazel took him down one last hall to a single, white door with a brass handle.
"President Thorn is waiting for you," he said flatly.
Telemachus took a moment before he pushed the door open gently and stepped inside.
The President's showroom was not what he had expected. It had an intimate, earthier ambiance than the rest of the pristine, porcelain-like mansion. The colours ranged from deep, scorched reds to rich, woody browns, even to the roaring fire that burned on a log-fuelled hearth beneath a black mantle that seemed to be shimmering in the dancing flames.
Next to the fireplace lay a pair of leather wing-back armchairs, one of which was empty.
In the other, sat the President of Panem, Tigellinus Thorn.
For some reason, Telemachus had expected an older, moodier man. Yet despite his grey-speckled beard, forehead wrinkles and walrus moustache, Thorn had a young man's face with laugh lines and sparkling brown eyes.
It surprised Telemachus to see a war veteran so full of gusto, as Thorn proved to be spritely and animated, bursting into a wide smile as Telemachus approached him, blind-sided by his enthusiasm and burst of energy.
Thorn took Telemachus' hand in his, his grip firm and solid.
"Telemachus! It's a pleasure to meet you at last, although I daresay we've both looked better." Thorn let out a hearty laugh at his own wit. "Please, take a seat."
He motioned to the spare seat with his free hand, and Telemachus sat down promptly.
The President leaned back in his own chair, surveying the younger man with a degree of interest.
"Before we begin, I want to congratulate you on a truly spectacular victory."
Telemachus cleared his throat. "I can't – I don't remember much of it."
Thorn raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? Why is that?"
"I don't know. I suppose I just… got it over with."
There was a tense silence.
Thorn shifted in his seat, cocking his head and looking at Telemachus curiously.
"You must have so many questions."
Telemachus moved to speak, hesitated, and then found his voice.
"Are you going to punish me?"
Thorn looked positively quizzical, then amused, and shook his head with great vigour.
"Punish you? Gods, no. What gave you that impression? Has Commander Mascazel been forceful?"
Telemachus gulped. "I had to be taken into custody after the arena."
"For your own protection," said Thorn swiftly. "I am afraid that a small portion of the Capitol citizenry does not support rewarding the districts in any way, shape or form after everything that has happened. This, unfortunately, extends to The Hunger Games, and the duties of the position that you have recently assumed."
"My… position?"
"As victor," said Thorn.
"Victor." The word felt strange on his lips. "And what are my duties, exactly?"
Telemachus felt childish as soon as he had said it.
Thorn sighed, stood up and moved to the mantle, his back to Telemachus.
"That's a substantial question, one to which I fear I cannot give you a definitive answer.
I often ask myself just that – what does it mean to have influence, to be a leader? Is it the ability to defeat all your enemies until there is none left to threaten everything you hold dear? To stare fear and death in the eye so that your people don't have to? Or does it lie in the simplicity in refusing to give up, even when the odds are not in your favor?"
He turned back to Telemachus. His speech was measured, posture upright, expression serious.
For the first time, Telemachus saw the man who had led the Capitol forces forward.
"I want to put that question back to you. What does Telemachus think it means?"
The speed of his answer surprised them both.
"It means making the tough choices," he said. "Having to do the right thing, no matter what."
It was what his father would have said, Telemachus knew.
President Thorn's lips curved upward into a satisfied smile.
"Yes, Telemachus. I think so too."
He left the mantle and sidled over to the windowsill, surveying what was beyond.
"I will be short with you," he said, and the mood of the room changed instantly.
"Panem is on the brink of self-destruction. District 13 has been obliterated – nothing remains but a graveyard of rubble and toxic fumes. We are starting again from the ground up and a single tremor in our resolve can undo whatever progress we make. The wounds of war are still fresh in the public's mind – you couldn't possibly know this, but there are a lot of angry people out there."
Telemachus furrowed his brow in confusion. "But the rebels were defeated. People aren't happy with that?"
"For the most part, yes, they are. However, the next decade – goodness, decades – will be most telling. We cannot do nothing and act surprised if the districts slide back into dissent."
"That can't happen," said Telemachus instantly.
He sidled over to Telemachus, retaking his seat and rubbing his temple as if it pained him.
"No, it can't. The Hunger Games are essential in this regard. Do you know why?"
Telemachus said nothing, not wishing to provide an incorrect answer.
"Don't fret – politics is complex and layered at the best of times. You see, Telemachus, the Games provide a medium to soothe the public's outrage, while simultaneously providing minimal bloodshed... and a sense of hope."
"But sir, forgive me, I can vouch for District 2, but the other districts… won't this anger them further?"
Thorn shook his head. "I – that is to say, we – don't think so. To win The Hunger Games allows a prospect of opportunity for upstanding, talented district children such as yourself to prove their worth to the nation."
Although Telemachus did not consider himself to be a child, he knew his place and did not contradict the president.
"You cannot imagine the bounties, the recognition. The kind that is now yours, Telemachus. Glories and riches eternal. Food and prosperity to a victor's district throughout the duration of their reign. It will boost morale, drive work productivity. This is a good thing."
Telemachus felt an elation in his chest.
Thorn moved in closer.
"Believe me, Telemachus, when I tell you that we do not want to unleash an endless barrage of hatred and pain upon the districts. I am not a cruel man. As a nation, we can move forward in understanding and forgiveness, enriching the lives of those who once wronged us while remembering a past never to be repeated. The Hunger Games will aid us in achieving that.
We just want to make a better world, Telemachus. A better Panem.
Do we have your support in this?" He smiled. "We could do with a victor on our side."
Telemachus didn't hesitate.
"Of course, sir. You can trust me."
Thorn placed his hand on Telemachus' shoulder. "I don't doubt it, soldier."
In that moment, Telemachus felt a rush of belonging and, at last, he understood his purpose.
He had been born to be the champion to a cause that he knew he would never lose faith in; himself, his country and his people.
Telemachus had not passed under blood and bullets and fire for naught.
He would raze a district to the ground if it meant protecting his kin, and the more that he thought about it, the fiercer his intent to provide a district to be proud of became.
In his eighteen years, Telemachus had been many things.
A son, a brother, a soldier.
He had been a defender of District 2.
A protector of Panem.
But now, as President Thorn led him to the window and slid back the velvet red drapes, Telemachus understood with a jolt that he was far more than that.
As his face came into view, the congregation of thousands of people outside of the President's Mansion erupted into an outburst of cheering and raucous applause.
"These people are all here for you," said Thorn.
Telemachus slowly raised his hand in acknowledgement, and the crowd went wild.
To them, he realized, he was the personification of an era of Panem that meant peace and resolution.
It seemed that things had finally changed for good.
And, deep down, Telemachus understood – he was not a child anymore.
In fact, he was more than a man.
Telemachus was a victor.