Chapter 56: Connor Murphy

The night before the reaping, Connor Murphy did what every eighteen-year-old man in District 7 does before they stand in the square for the last time. He went to the Tav, got roaring drunk, and picked out the prettiest girl in town – or at least the prettiest one who'd go home with him.

'Home' was a bit of a stretch. Big Con still lived with his parents and younger sister, he wasn't eligible for his own housing until he passed his final reaping. So he took the girl into the woodshed where he laid down a couple blankets on the softest patch of dirt he could find. He even lit a couple candles, girls liked that, or so his mates had told him as they boasted about their own conquests in the Tav after the work shifts. The girl was a couple years older than him. Big Con was no stranger to sex but it was never quite like this, with an eager, squirming, talented partner underneath him, the summer air perfuming the woodshed, and the reaping looming over his head. After they finished they lay together on the blankets, sweating and gasping for breath, Big Con Murphy had never felt more like a man.

Now as the train pulls out of the station on its way towards the Fifty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games and the forests of District 7 fly past the windows, Connor is hardly more than a kid who just wants his Ma's arms around him again.

They called his name.

They called his name.

Tutti Marble had pranced up to the reaping bowl and pulled out a slip and said his name and it was only sheer force of will and the eyes of his brothers and dad that kept him from losing control of his bowels on the stage. He's little better now. His hands shake no matter how much he tries to control it. His stomach is lined with lead, his feet are numb, and the same words pound through his head over and over and over again.

I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die.

Tutti Marble had escorted him into the lounge car and chirped that he should help himself to anything, anything at all, everything was at his disposal. But Con can't even look at the delicate pastries, the chocolate covered fruits, the rows of top-shelf booze without wanting to vomit all over the velvet upholstery. He tried one swig of something that turned out to be bourbon and it sent his head spinning.

He's going to die at the Cornucopia, beheaded by a massive Career, and the crowds are going to cheer as his head bounces across a soft lawn. Or maybe he'll get away and live for a few days until the Gamemakers send a pack of mutts against him and chunks of half-digested flesh will be sent back in a pine box to his family. Or he'll get lucky and make it to the top eight before the inner district pack hunts him down and splits his ribs open and hold his heart up to the cameras as his blood runs out of-

Stop it, he tells himself as he starts to hyperventilate. Stop it.

He should have said more to his family. To his dad. Murphy men run big, and Big Con is the biggest of them all, but he had never felt more like a little boy as Dad held him in the Justice Building during the allotted hour and Mom fiddled with his hair. The Murphys have the pride of good hardworking people, but in the privacy of the smoking room they said their good-byes with open tears. His brothers came, Wade and Ash, Jay and Scotty, with hard thumps on the back and declarations of hope and gripped forearms. And little Brooke, bravely holding back her tears, put her work bandanna in his hand and made him promise to carry it into the arena for her.

"I'll…ah…I'll watch out for that lass for ya," said his dad gruffly. "The one you, ah, saw last night. If she needs looking after."

Big Con had shrugged. "She didn't tell me her name," he muttered and his dad worked hard to keep the disappointment out of his eyes.

But the worst moment had come when Tutti had come to retrieve him and took him down the marble corridors and they turned the corner and there was Connell, his brother and his best mate, the brother who taught him how to spit and fight and fuck and everything there was about being a Murphy man. On his knees. Tears streaming down his face. Begging. At the feet of that…that…tree-elf.

The train turns a bend and District 7 disappears forever. The door to the compartment opens and his mentor walks in like some devil called up from the Dark Forest. Blight Gavin, the Tree-Elf of District 7 and Victor of the Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games.

Connor watches him. Blight is barely twenty and looks like he just stepped out of the arena yesterday. Connor has a head of height and fifty pounds on the man, but Blight strides into the car like he owns it. He fills a crystal glass with ice and pours himself some orange juice before flopping onto the couch opposite Connor.

"You should eat something," he says in that half-mocking tone that made him famous throughout the country.

Big Con scowls. "Not hungry," he mumbles and truer words have never been spoken.

"I don't care. You're big enough, sure, but that's a lot of muscle. You need to build up a few pounds of fat reserves in case we can't get you enough fodder, and if your appetite is anything like your brother's that will be likely."

Connor gives him the filthiest glare he can. Blight doesn't flinch. His eyes rove over his tribute and Connor is suddenly acutely aware of the chest hair showing over his shirt, the tightness of his trousers over his crotch, and he wants to retrieve the silk dressing robe from his room and cover himself from head to toe.

"What are you looking at?" he snarls.

"You," says Blight as he takes a drink of juice. "I'm trying to decide what to do with you."

Con spits. "Get your kicks now, elf. I know what you're thinking about."

Blight's eyes narrow. "In case you weren't aware, I'm spoken for, and he's currently two cars down." His face darkens for a moment. "I'm not going to be able to give me much help if my preferences in my personal life are going to be an issue."

"Aye? And what is this help going to cost me? Gonna crawl into my bed one night and give me a little personal training, freak? That what you're going to 'do with me,' huh?"

Blight laughs. Actually laughs, cold and nasty. "I won't lie that I have a soft spot for big, grumpy lumberjacks but other than that you're not my type, Big Con. No, my help comes free. I'll even try to keep my legendary wit in check, though Starbucks knows that will be an ordeal in and of itself."

Connor shoots him a rude gesture. "Go give your help and your wit to the other one. The girl, whatever her name was. At least you won't be perving on her for a week. I don't need it, you hear?"

Blight takes a moment to respond. "Lacey is currently in her quarters, sobbing into her pillows as Acacia tries to coax her into drinking some hot chocolate. She doesn't believe she can win, and so she isn't going to win. If I could save her, you can bet your arse I'd be trying, but I can only save one at most each year and this year it's going to be you. You are my tribute and that is why I am here."

"Except I'm a Murphy," says Connor, his voice lined with hatred. Hatred taught to him young, hatred of the dark little elf who was sold into the Games and came out to the cheers of the Capitol with his hands stained with the blood of the boy from 1. "I'm a Murphy and you're Blight Gavin, and you know and I know that you're looking forward to it. Aren't you? Say it. Say it, fuck you, say it!"

Blight gets up and sets the crystal goblet aside. "Stand up, Murphy."

Big Con eyes him suspiciously, but then stands, because if Gavin wants to do this now and here he'll do it now and here. He raises his fists, takes a defensive stance just like his brothers taught him, but before he can even take a breath Blight has moved. His fingers wrap around Con's wrist and find a pressure point and Con has never felt pain like this before and he gasps and then Blight is moving again and sweeping Con's feet out from under him. Big Con goes down with a big crash, his breath knocked out of him, on his stomach with his arms held behind his back. He tries to struggle but pain shoots down into his back as Blight kneels on top of him and holds him down with a grip of iron.

"Don't struggle and it won't hurt so much," says Blight in a tone usually reserved for remarking on the weather. "I learned this grip from Chaff Silo. You know, the big bloke from Eleven who cauterized his own wrist in the airport arena a decade back? Aye, you're not breaking out of this. Don't try."

The door opens and Jason Mellark sticks his head in. "Blight? Is everything alright? I heard a-" His eyes widen as he sees his lover straddling and restraining Connor. "Um. Should I be jealous?"

"I'll be doing the same to you and more soon enough," says Blight with dark humor in his voice. "Run along, you big lug. Connor and I are just getting a jump start on some tactical training."

Jason raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask questions, disappearing into the next car. Con's cheeks are burning with humiliation.

"You think I don't know what this is like?" whispers Blight. "By the time I got on the train I had already imagined half a hundred ways I was going to die. Helped along by my brothers and their…friends. I'm guessing you're already there."

Connor feels the panic attack coming. He can't breathe. The murderous little elf is going to kill him right here.

"Well, let's start with the Cornucopia," Blight continues. "Whether or not you make the run depends on a few things. If it's a desolate wasteland, a desert, another tundra, make the run. Better a quick death from the Careers than long thirst or starvation, and you always have a chance of getting through. If they don't give you anything but weapons don't make the run unless there's a knife right in front of you because I can get you something sharp and shiny. If they put you next to two Careers or even one of the tributes from Two, don't make the run. If you have any instinct that you can't make it halfway to the Cornucopia and back with some decent supplies, don't make the run. I will get you whatever you need. Remember, deaths at the Cornucopia are quick and easy. Surviving means you need to put on a show. We're going to give them that show."

Connor has been slowly relaxing his body, trying to give the impression of submission and surrender, and now he tries to throw his mentor off him again. Blight is ready.

"Getting real tired of your shit, Murphy. I do have more enjoyable engagements in my own quarters, believe me."

"Why…are you…doing this?" Big Con grunts as he chokes into the dust of the carpet.

"Because I'm going to get you out of that damn arena alive, and if I need to physically restrain you before you'll listen to me, so be it. And don't think figuring your way out of this one will help. Indigo Weaver taught me something I can do with two fingers that will leave you on the ground whimpering, and not in the way Jason likes. And Gemma Royce knows more ways to keep a man down than a groosling has feathers, and those I won't use unless I have to, but if you make me I won't hesitate. I am going to mentor you and you are going to listen. One way or another. Are we clear?"

Connor grunts.

"Does that mean I can get off you now?"

Another grunt.

Blight lets go and gets off. Con struggles to his feet, rubbing his sore arms as Blight pours two more glasses of orange juice and hands one to Connor.

"I won my Games because I can read people, Connor. That, and I was clever enough to use what I was given to my advantage. But I can read you like an open book right now. This isn't about me being your mentor, and it's not about my preferences. What's the real problem? I'll hold you down if I have to, but I'd rather hear it from you. Freely."

Connor takes a tentative sip of juice. "Why'd you have to do it, Gavin? Why'd you make him do it?"

Blight raises his eyebrow. "You're going to have to be a little more specific."

"I saw you and Connell. I saw him-" Connor chokes up. "I saw him begging you."

Blight stares out the window. The forests haven't started to thin yet. "He came to me, Connor."

"Bull. Connell would never…he would never…you're lying…if you'd hear what he…"

"Says about me?" asks Blight. "I have. For my entire life, remember? Everything your family, everything your brothers, everything Connell has every said about Burgen Gavin's little Blight, I've heard. Your brother helped my own family sell me into the Hunger Games. They bet on me. On how I would die. For some reason, Connell thought this might affect how I would treat you. That I may be inclined to return the favor, so to speak. So he begged. He begged for your life."

There are long moments of silence and Connor wishes with all his heart that he was back in the woods with his axe and his mates with a pint of beer waiting at home.

"Are you…inclined? To, um. Return the favor?"

Blight meets his eyes. Really meets his eyes this time. "I can't lie to you, Murphy. I was sorely tempted. I was. Until your brother came to me in the Justice Building."

Big Con Murphy is not going to cry in front of Blight Gavin. He is not.

"Dinner is in an hour," says Blight as he finishes his glass of juice. "The reaping reviews are after. Don't be late. I know this might sound odd, but the first dinner is really the best part. It was for me. But I'll leave you to yourself until then. You can ask anyone to find me if you need me."

He leaves.

Connor finally lets himself cry.

And then he goes to the nearest tray of pastries and begins to eat.

Connor's stylist, an older, embittered woman named Messalina, leers at Connor when he's brought into remake. In no time she has him stripped down, washed and waxed, and then dresses him up in a loincloth of leaves and bark greaves and gauntlets that barely leave anything to the imagination.

The Capitol is unanimous in their lust, of the girl from 1 and the boys from 4 and 5 and especially the tall, broad lumberjack with the oiled pecs and abs and arms and Connor feels their eyes undressing him, wanting him, taking him in.

He climbs off the chariot at the end and Blight is already there with a woolen dressing gown that he pulls over Connor's shoulders and ties and when Messalina shrieks about the press getting more shots he suggests they do something anatomically impossible with their cameras.

"Thanks," says Connor. It's the first thing he's said to his mentor since their one conversation on the train.

"They're harpies, all of them, but they're harpies with money," Blight says in a low voice. "Now, it's time to work."

Connor gets a nine in training, right up there with the Careers, and old Rowan has volunteered to take the sponsor calls and he stays on the line until well into the morning. In the meantime, Blight takes Connor out onto the balcony away from the cooing of Tutti Marble and the double-entendres of Messalina.

"Remember, no allies," says Blight. "Edison from Five has been trying to rope us in, but I've never trusted him in the best of times and his tribute will knife you as soon as the sponsor money starts to go dry. That's not your game. You're the maverick. The underdog."

"I know," says Connor through gritted teeth.

"Remember what I said about the fires. And the vandalism. Keep them on their toes."

"I know," he says again.

Blight sighs. "I know you know. The mentor is supposed to be the one who knows everything, but we're in this together, and you deserve to know that I'm nervous. You can do this. I really believe you're going to come back. That's why I'm going to make you repeat everything until you want rearrange my astoundingly gorgeous face into something slightly less gorgeous."

This startles a laugh out of Con. "Maverick. Loner. Fires. Vandalism. Got it."

Blight grins, then pulls out a bottle. It's District 7 scotch, aged eighteen years, the best there is. Blight pours a glass for himself even though his abstinence of alcohol is legendary and then another glass for Connor.

"You earned it," he says. "Consider this a promise."

They drink.

Forty-eight hours later, the interviews are done. Connor shone. Caesar laughed gleefully. The crowds cheered. Doesn't matter now.

Connor is curled up on the couch, his face buried in Blight's shirt.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to die," he sobs.

Blight's arms are around him. His hand lays on the back of Connor's head. He holds him tight.

"You are not going to die," he says. His eyes are dry. "I won't let you. I will do everything to bring you back to your brothers. Everything. I swear."

Connor's shoulders are shaking now.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Please. I don't want to die."

The arena is astounding. Tall peaks plummet down into a crystal fjord. Waterfalls pour down from hundreds of meters. Tall pine sentinels stretch for miles. The woods are packed with game and roots and life. The sky is a clear, crystal blue and the air has the sharp bite of northern summer.

The Cornucopia is on a jut of stone sticking out into the fjord. Waterfalls pour behind them, sending mist dancing around the twenty-four tributes. It's almost magical.

The gong sounds.

The Careers take control of the Cornucopia easily, cutting down the tributes who make the run. They're a bloodthirsty bunch this year, and sure it's mostly for the cameras and the sponsors, but there's something about cutting through the cannon fodder, something about the spraying blood and gurgles and screams and adrenaline that brings out the beasts and the slaughter becomes uncontained.

The girl from 7 loses her head completely and makes the run to the Cornucopia and the handsome boy from 4 catches her by the hair. He grins as she screams in terror, calming her with soft words and promises before he slits her throat.

He turns to his allies to call back that he's up to three and tied for the lead when a stone the size of a badger comes flying through the air and smashes his head like a grapefruit. Only the girl from 1 sees and she gives a scream of rage, but the massive lumberjack is already well away and heading up the slope. He hears her and turns, letting the packs he's carrying fall so that he can give her a very obscene gesture he learned from his mentor before disappearing into the trees.

The girl from 2 finds the girl from 3 five days into the Games. She draws her death out, making a show of it. Her victim lasts an hour before she makes an end of it. She knows not to go overboard. This isn't the Fifty-Second. The sponsors send her a rack of elk ribs, dripping in barbeque sauce.

The boy from 10 goes down after a furious battle with the Ones. He clawed their faces, kicked and struggled and bit and finally lies on a tall peak, exhausted and defeated. The boy from 1 gets a thin sword covered in gold and emeralds that he uses to skewer the Anasazi boy before shoving the body off the cliffs.

The girl from 6 is seized by a gigantic eagle mutt and carried into a nest bigger than the room where she slept back home. She grabs a stick from the nest, splits it, and shoves the jagged edge through the eagle's beak into its brain. She receives a loaf of bread, real warm bakery bread, and she bites into it eagerly.

Connor Murphy gets nothing for days. He lurks at the edge of the water, watching the Career camp. Waiting.

Finally the silver parachute falls with a tiny box of matches.

The Careers take a night to feast and wrestle and grope each other for the benefit of the cameras. They're half drunk on good food and dangerous living when the first fires start.

They find Connor two weeks into the Games, and they're determined to give the audience a show they'll remember, but the idiot boy from the luxury district shoves him over a cliff when Connor tries to pin him down. Connor breaks his leg in two places but he survives to crawl away with a little help from a Gamemaker's fog.

The boy from 2 is alone two days later, tracking a deer because the food is running out and they're all feeling the stress. He's nearly got it cornered when he sees Connor struggling up the face of a cliff besides a towering waterfall, his leg in a crude splint, his shirt torn to shreds and his body cut and bruised.

The deer is instantly forgotten.

He corners the stubborn lumberjack, the maverick who doesn't know when to lay down and die, at the top of the falls. Connor has a rock and a half-determined, half-deranged look on his face.

"Nowhere to run, Seven," the Career grins as he pulls himself over the last ledge.

The parachute falls out of nowhere into Connor's hands. By the time the boy from 2 is on his feet, Connor is waiting for him with a massive double-headed axe in his hands.

Hundreds of miles away, Blight lets the hot water pour over him, trying to erase the memory of the hands, the perfumed kisses, and the overwhelming guilt. He got Connor the axe. That's all that matters. Jason will wait. He will have to wait. Connor is going to get his axe.

"I'm going to put you down like a dog, you filthy little tree-elf," the boy from 2 snarls.

Connor grins. "Haven't you heard the story? Tree-elves have teeth."

They lunge.

Indigo Weaver can do something with two fingers that will leave a man on the ground whimpering. She taught Blight Gavin. Blight Gavin taught Connor Murphy. No one ever taught it to the boy from District 1, which is why when the trumpets sound, they aren't for him.

The medics work their wonders and Big Con Murphy doesn't have a mark on him when he waits to be lifted onto the stage for the Victory Ceremony. His mentor stands by him in a tailored black suit. Connor reaches over and grips his hand.

"Blight?"

"Mmmmm?"

"I'm sorry."

Blight gives him the look. The one he gives on every photoshoot for Games Gossip magazine. "More specific, Connor, we've been over this."

"For what I said on the train. All of it."

Blight waves his hand. "You don't need to apologize for that. I've heard worse. But you know that.

"Yeah. I do. And…ah…"

Connor throws his arms around his startled mentor. "I'm sorry. For everything. You saved me. You saved me." He buries his face in Blight's suit. "And I love you, brother."

Something constricts in Blights throat. He tugs the hem of his shirt.

"Well…ah…well. That's…ah. Really."

Connor stares at his mentor. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

"Nothing. Ah. Dusty."

"You're crying."

"I am not."

"You are totally making this a thing."

"I said I am not."

"If you're crying on the stage, I will pretend not to know you."

Blight smiles. A full, pure smile, one that he previously reserved for only one man. "I think we'll get along fine, Murphy. But you're taking the house four doors down. I do not need to see my new brother sneaking in girls. I have a delicate disposition."

Connor roars with laughter, and the platform lifts mentor and Victor together up to the cheering crowds.

A/N: Again, credit here goes to The Victors' Project.