Willow Merrick from District 7
Victor of the Thirteenth Annual Hunger Games
Rowan Dobson, the victor of the second annual Hunger Games, was an unhappy man. Surviving a government-instituted fight to the death just wasn't his cup of tea. And being given a front-row view of every subsequent year of the games? A recipe for some awful depression.
More than anything, he hated the endlessness of the whole process. Every single year, he watched two kids from his own district taken to the Capitol, dressed as trees, given scores in the four-to-seven range, and then killed. It was the same every single time; a torturously unchanging process.
A few times, the realization struck him that this would literally never end. What a horrifying thought.
As Rowan sat down on his old couch in the Victor's Village, his stomach churned with dread. Time to do this again. He braced himself and then turned the television on. The reaping.
He recognized the cluttered factory streets of District 6; he must have missed the first five reapings. Part of him wished he'd missed his own district's reaping too, just so he wouldn't have to relive the moment. But now that he'd turned on the TV, he couldn't look away.
The girl from 6 was nothing special. Just an older girl named Fascea who looked like she needed a loaf of bread. The boy, Credd, was a bit more promising but still nothing to write home about.
Rowan noticed that the tributes of District 6 looked significantly more optimistic this year than in years past. The last year, their male tribute had made it to the final two. That had clearly lifted everybody's spirits.
The scene faded, and his own District 7 appeared. He immediately recognized the Justice Building, the square, and the forested terrain as belonging to his home district. The escort was the same lady had that chosen Rowan eleven years earlier. Some things never change, he thought fondly.
"Aveline Rook!" she shouted.
A girl stumbled out of the crowd, whipping her head back and forth as though silently begging someone to save her. But nobody did. Of course, nobody did.
A sweeping camera shot showed the entire stage, where Rowan was sitting, staring blankly at the girl who had been chosen to die. He hated seeing himself on camera, because he felt like a stranger to the person other people saw him. That wasn't a fun feeling.
"And now for the boys!" the lady shouted, zipping over to the other reaping ball. "Willow Merrick!"
The cameras showed a dark-haired boy in the audience. His lips were moving soundlessly, as though he were sputtering something nonsensical under his breath. But wait, this wasn't nonsense…
The whispering boy, Willow, spoke louder and louder, until his voice was booming across the square.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Swing your hatchet, swing it quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
Rowan's eyes were transfixed on the screen. Because he recognized that poem, though he hadn't heard it in over a decade. Everyone in District 7 knew it. It was an old poem, recited occasionally by children and hummed absentmindedly by adults doing lumber work.
Soon, other boys in the square had joined it. The sound of their voices boomed around the square like a choir. Rowan shivered, imagining the blizzard described in the poem.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Grab your jacket, grab it quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
Rowan joined into the poem. Murmuring it quietly to himself. The entire population of District 7 was chanting now. The escort, who must have been confused beyond belief, wrinkled her eyebrows and repeated Willow's name. Demanding that he come to the stage.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Snow is falling, falling quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
"Willow Merrick!" the escort shouted. "I am not impressed!"
"Oh, alright," Willow said, sprinting to the stage. He shared a look with Avelina that made it look like he knew her.
"Now that that's over…" the harassed-looking woman muttered.
"Wait for the whistle," Willow interjected.
Of course. The poem wasn't over until the person who started it gave a loud, clear whistle. The poem had dozens of stanzas, each of them different only by their third line. Everybody knew all of them. It was part of life in District 7.
Willow let out a loud whistle. The audience fell dead silent, letting the sound reverberate for as long as possible. The acoustics of the square were surprisingly good.
The escort blinked hard. "You district people and your… primitive…"
Willow's lips curled into a cocky grin. "With all due respect, miss Capitol lady, we're not the ones making people kill each other. So…"
She stared at him blankly.
"So, who are you calling primitive?"
Rowan grinned. The dreary feeling in his gut had vanished almost completely. He saw himself on the stage, trying to suppress a smile. It wasn't easy.
He watched the rest of the reapings half-heartedly. As soon as District 8 came on screen, things stopped being interesting. The only seemingly strong contender was the male tribute from District 10, a kid named Bullen who was built like an ox and looked like he wasn't opposed to breaking a few necks to reach victory.
As Rowan went to bed that night, remembering the reaping he'd experienced in person and on television, the poem played in his head, looping endlessly.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Snow is falling, falling quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Fire's catching, catching quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
The victors of the Hunger Games were unhappy people. In some way or another, they'd all lost their old selves. That, Rowan thought, was the one thing they all had in common – yearning for a version of themselves that they'd lost. The versions of themselves the games had taken from them forever.
"Morning, team," Bluebell intoned as she sauntered into the room. She could always be counted on breaking the ice, even when her muses were far from insightful. "Ready to do this again?"
Everyone could feel the sarcasm dripping from that statement. Jaguar nodded softly, taking a drink of coffee. He'd forgotten his journal today. That meant he was feeling very nervous today. And who could blame him? The victors were all terrified.
"Does anyone have gum?" Mags asked. She'd been gnawing at her fingernails all morning.
"I have some," Georgio responded, producing a pack of little mint cubes from his pocket. Instantly, he was swarmed by the other victors.
Rowan reached for a piece, and just for a split second, a spark leapt in his stomach. Because that – that split second of reaching for a piece of gum – had given him a tiny window to the life he could never reclaim. A life where his biggest problems involved the school's chewing gum black market.
It was a pathetic thing to bring him happiness, but Rowan could not exactly afford to be picky about the things he allowed himself to take pride in.
The gum was pretty stiff, pretty flavorless, but it didn't matter. At least it gave him something to chew on. Something to occupy himself.
A peacekeeper barged into the room and turned on the television. The tribute parade would be starting any second now.
"Heeeelo, and welcome to the chariot ride of the thirteenth annual Hunger Games!" Caius Flickerman exclaimed, swiveling around in his wheelie chair. "Tonight, we'll be getting our first official look at each of the new tributes. As usual, they'll emerge on chariots in pairs of two, dressed in outfits courtesy of our brilliant stylists. A round of applause for them, please!"
The audience cheered, and District 1's tributes entered. The boy, Fleck, was dressed in a big fur coat that looked like it weighed a million pounds. He was sweating up an ocean but maintaining a convincing smile nonetheless. The girl, Clarity, looked a lot more comfortable, dressed in a sparkly white dress that flattered her curvy form.
"What were they talking about?" Luxor blurted about. "About wanting us to… befriend them?"
Everyone knew what he was talking about. This year, it seemed, the Capitol was trying to encourage the past victors to bond with the tributes from their district. They'd already met on the train, sure, but this year the Capitol would be providing the victors more time to interact with the new tributes.
"I wonder what they'll do with the districts without any victors," said Canary from 12.
"Probably just leave them to die," Luxor said.
Citrine blinked hard. "Luxor…"
"What? They're not past it."
By the time this little discourse was over, District 2's tributes had entered. The second half of the career pack, Lysander and Metria were significantly more intimidating than their counterparts from District 1.
"They're completely gone," Tyrell lamented, looking at the tributes he'd met on the train. "Both of them. They think the games are amazing. They can't wait to start killing. It's awful."
The pair from 3 entered, and Lumen made a little comment about how they had what it takes to survive. And, coming from Lumen, that was really saying something.
District 4's chariot made an entrance. Mags said nothing. She just sat back and stared away into the misty dreamland she always drifted away to when she saw something that upset her.
Districts 5 and 6 came next, accompanied by half-hearted commentary by Electra and Jaguar. Their voices sounded pretty hopeless as they tried to defend their tributes.
"I was blown away by that boy, Credd," Jaguar intoned. "He was so nice to everyone."
When District 7's chariot rolled onto the screen, Rowan involuntarily swallowed his gum. This year, they weren't dressed as trees. Aveline wore an oddly beautiful green dress that looked just like moss. Willow was garbled in an outfit of sweeping vines and blossoms. The audience was chanting something. It seemed like more than just a few of them had bothered to learn the poem.
It sounded strange with their funny accents, and the words would be hard to discern to anyone but a District 7 citizen, but to Rowan they were unmistakable.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Swing your hatchet, swing it quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
Like these people had ever felt a blizzard in their lives. Like they'd ever swung a hatchet.
But hey, Rowan thought as Willow and Aveline reached the end of the avenue. There was no bad publicity. Really, this whole thing was just a television show. Be the most memorable character and you're set for victory. So far, his tributes were on the right track.
Georgio, Bluebell, and Canary leaned into the television as their tributes entered. Canary's tributes were a pair of kids who looked like they'd never felt full a day of their lives. Compared to Luxor, Citrine, Tyrell, and Rowan, she didn't have much to be optimistic about.
"We're supposed to talk to these people?" Rowan gasped.
"Only if you want your tributes to have a shot at surviving," Bluebell answered.
Now that training was in progress, it was time for gathering sponsors. Rowan couldn't control what Aveline and Willow did during training – he could only give them advice and hope they would take it to heart. What he could control was attracting sponsors. That, he decided, was his duty for the next three days.
As Rowan wandered through the crowds gathered outside the training, praising the tributes from District 7, he was once again struck by the thickness of these Capitol people. All they cared about was makeup and fashion.
"I don't think they need our help," said one woman when Rowan tried to talk her into sponsoring Willow.
"Yeah," her friend agreed. "This is their punishment for starting the war. Why should we be helping them?"
Rowan wasn't sure what to say to that. Fury boiled in his chest, and he skirted away before he said anything that would bring consequences; Rowan could be rash, but he was not stupid.
The screens mounted on the exterior walls of the training center showed what was happening inside. The careers were doing a pretty good job scaring the other tributes away. The tributes from 1, Fleck and Clarity, were practicing javelin-throwing together. He tried to find the tributes from 2, but they were nowhere to be seen. That, Rowan realized, was because the cameras were only showing the weapon stations. They were doing the challenging obstacle courses. Of course they were.
As the camera shot panned over the training center, Rowan caught a glimpse of Aveline and Willow sitting together at one of the survival stations. His heart jumped, and he leaned forward, watching intently for the split-second the pair from 7 was visible.
In his mind, he played back the advice he'd given them. They weren't really listening to it. He hadn't been expecting them to.
For the first day, stay away from the stations you're really good at, Rowan had said. Don't paint a target on your back right away.
With all due respect, we're not exactly the strongest people here, Willow had responded.
But you're the most popular. I promise you are. Don't let those careers get too jealous.
Rowan was startled out of the memory when something heavy slammed into his right side. An elaborately-dressed Capitol guy wearing too much cologne.
That tiny disturbance was the ultimate proof that Rowan was out of place here. He would be better off attracting sponsors somewhere else. For now, he was wasting his time.
The day dragged past painfully slowly. Rowan alternated between watching his tributes on the screens and weaving through the crowds, searching for possible sponsors.
Two days later, when Willow stumbled out of his final day of training, Rowan couldn't wait to speak to him. There was something he'd been itching to tell him ever since the reaping, and time was slipping away.
But now wasn't the right time. He had to wait until they were alone. Somewhere they could know for sure the Capitol wasn't overhearing them. That would be difficult; in the Capitol, it was nearly impossible to tell if you were truly alone. The walls had ears in this city.
"Listen," Rowan muttered as he, Willow, and Aveline sat on the caged balcony outside their hotel suite. Out here, the wind would hopefully be high enough to cover the sound of their voices.
"We're listening," Aveline said.
Rowan swallowed hard. He wasn't sure how to word this.
"Don't get carried away with your… singing thing."
"Singing? That was poetry, we weren't singing."
"It doesn't matter what it was. Don't let yourselves get…" He was about to say the r-word. "Rebellious."
Willow laughed, the kind of laugh he used in the face of anything he thought was foolish. "It's not a rebel anthem. It's just an old poem from District 7. You've heard it before, haven't you?"
In the Capitol, a big group of people singing or speaking in perfect unison always aroused suspicion. During the war, rebels always chanted the same songs and poems as they headed into battle. It had been years, of course, but the connotations were still there.
"I'm just looking out for you," Rowan said. "If you do anything rebellious in the games, you may as well just kill yourself."
Aveline was looking at her lap, thinking deeply about something. "Is it rebellious to be proud of our home?"
"No," Rowan said.
"Oh, but it is," Willow countered. "District loyalty makes them angry. They want us to kiss their asses, not our own."
Rowan laughed. He was right. "You're not bad, Willow."
"Don't forget about me," Aveline said.
It felt like Rowan had been punched in the gut. No matter how much he loved both of his tributes, he could only strive to get one of them out of the games alive. Since the reaping, whether he knew it or not, his choice had always been Willow.
No, it wasn't fair. But the games weren't fair. This life wasn't fair.
"I won't forget about you, Aveline," he finally said. "Now, let's go to bed. You'll need your rest for interview day."
As they entered the lavish hotel suite, padding over the glossy wooden floor, the three of them began to chant the poem together,
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Trees are falling, falling quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
That night, Rowan had a terrifying dream of Willow and Aveline as trees. A faceless career tribute appeared out of nowhere and cut them down with an axe. They fell, bloody, while dirt and leaves flew in all directions.
"Mr. Dobson!" a voice shouted. A peacekeeper was knocking on his door; the morning had come all too soon.
He woke with a start, glaring wildly at the ceiling, expecting a career tribute to hop down from an invisible branch and kill him. He wondered what kinds of scars Willow would be left with after the games. That was, if he even survived.
As Rowan dressed, he thought of forests and pedestals. The next few weeks would be rough for everybody. He may as well get in his daydreaming now.
Rowan wiped a sweat off of his forehead. None of the victors were speaking; only staring intensely at the giant screen where the pre-games festivities were being displayed.
The program showed fractured clips from the reapings, tribute parade, training center, and interview night. Caius Flickerman provided his usual electrifying commentary. Finally, the screen cut to black. Then Panem saw the arena of the thirteenth Hunger Games for the first time.
At first, the cameras just showed the cornucopia, the steel horn-shaped structure where the tributes were stationed in the standard pedestal ring. The shot gradually zoomed outward, and the landscape came into view: an incredibly overgrown field of dark earth.
Eventually, the land began to curve upward, and it became obvious that the tributes were stationed in some kind of pit: a caldera, Caius explained, the fertile area of land left by a volcano.
"Do you think there might be some kind of eruption?" Citrine asked. Her own arena had featured lava in several forms.
"I'd say so," Luxor answered. "Too obvious not to pass up."
The countdown began, and through the fractured camera shots Rowan found Willow. He was at the very end of the pedestal right, meaning he was enclosed by other tributes on only one side.
What a great streak of luck! Rowan breathed easy for a split second.
Still, there was Aveline to worry about. Her position wasn't nearly as lucky. She was so far away from Willow that they would be hard-pressed to find each other during the bloodbath. Not to mention the bloodthirsty career, Lysander, stationed directly to her left.
The horn sounded, and all hell broke loose. Fleck and Clarity from District 1, the fastest runners, fought their way through the undergrowth more quickly than any other the other tributes. They grabbed spears and started throwing.
The boy from 8 was the first to fall, dying with one of Clarity's spears through his neck. On the couch, Georgio let out a gasp. Jaguar put an arm around his neck, trying to console him.
Willow, Willow. Rowan fervently repeated the name as he searched for him on the screens. At first, he thought he saw a flash of his dark hair, but it was only a cloud of airy black soil, kicked up by Burbage from 12 in his mad dash to escape the bloodbath.
Georgio winced as the girl from 8 died, cut to ribbons with a sword by Metria from 2. Georgio started to tremble, evidently holding back tears. Now both of his tributes were gone.
By this point, many more of the victors had lost tributes: Lumen's boy, Mags' girl, Bluebell's boy.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Jaguar," Tyrell said as the male tribute from 2, Lysander, killed the boy from 6. He felt responsible to apologize for "his" tribute killing "Jaguar's" tribute. But really, what did that mean? The tributes didn't belong to the victors. The victors weren't held accountable for their behavior. So why did Tyrell feel that way?
Rowan was increasingly caught up in the bloodbath as the number of surviving tributes started to thin. He watched Willow slip away with some weapons that looked small but dangerous. He also had a backpack and some wooden apparatus lodged into his pocket.
Rowan breathed a sigh of relief. He tried not to make eye contact with the other victors: the ones whose tributes were already dead or screaming as they bled out.
There, too, was Aveline to think about. Rowan reminded himself not to feel to guilty if he forgot about her. It wasn't his fault he could only bring one tribute out of the arena. And really, what would guilt bring him? Just more suffering than he was already condemned to.
They hadn't shown much of Aveline during the bloodbath, but when Caius Flickerman listed the names of the dead tributes, she was not among them. That meant both of Rowan's tributes were still alive. So far, so good.
"Eleven tributes down so far!" Caius informed the viewers. "That's right, folks, there are thirteen tributes left!"
The deaths were shown in rapid succession. The boy from 3. The girl from 4. The boy from 5. All the tributes from 6, 8, and 9. The boy from 11. The girl from 12.
"He really was a good kid. Such a good kid," Jaguar lamented, mourning the death of the boy from his district, Credd.
Georgio was still trembling. Both of his tributes were dead. Bluebell's face contracted with disgust when they showed the still-bleeding corpse of the girl from 11. Canary hadn't reacted strongly to the death of her girl. It was only a matter of time.
As the cameras focused on the career pack, the victors from Districts 1 and 2 (Luxor, Citrine, and Tyrell) watched the screen with laser-sharp focus. Metria was guarding the horn while the other three careers hunted. They were moving slowly but steadily through the overgrown caldera.
The girl from 3, Hack, was treading over the dark soil at around noon when another tribute burst out of nowhere. Hack stumbled backward, terrified, but the other girl raised her hands, proclaiming her good intentions. It was the girl from 5, Circe, and she wanted to ally.
Electra anxiously bit her nails as she watched her girl run away with Hack. Lumen reassured her that Hack was trustworthy, at least for the time being. By that time, the cameras had begun to show Dorsal from 4, a boy with enough throwing knives to arm an entire career pack. Mags just watched Dorsal move across the screen with wide eyes.
"Willow should be next," Rowan muttered to himself. As if on cue, the boy from District 7 appeared. He was running from something, something dangerous; he kept glancing over his shoulder and jumping with alarm at every slight sound. The cameras showed a swarm of deadly spider mutts behind him. Not as big as the giant insects from Canary's games, but close.
After a few minutes, Rowan managed to escape the spider mutts. He sat down in a concealed area near the outskirts of the caldera and laid out his supplies.
Hatchets! For the first time, Rowan got a good look at the little weapons Willow had taken from the horn. His pack contained sunscreen and iodine pellets, but not much food. After that, Willow examined the little wooden apparatus he'd stuffed into his pocket during the bloodbath.
"It's a spile," Mags said. She hadn't said a single word since the games began. "A little nozzle for collecting water from trees," she added when Citrine shot her a look of confusion.
They saw only a few more moments of Willow, moving quietly through the plants and up the steep edge of the caldera. After that, the cameras rapidly cut to a different tribute, and Rowan almost screamed.
It was Aveline. But not like he'd ever seen her before. She was bloodied, bruised, and beaten; bandages haphazardly wrapped around her arms, clutching her chest to staunch the flow of blood from a massive gash in her flesh.
"Whoops. Looks like Aveline isn't doing too great. Let's find out why she was injured," Caius Flickerman said.
The cameras showed a clip from the bloodbath, with Aveline narrowly dodging one of Lysander's attacks. Rowan watched the moment her chest was cut open. She barely managed to escape with her life. The rest of her wounds must have been from moving inefficiently through the prickly shrubs and grass.
Soon afterward, sponsor money started pouring in. The career victors got most of it, and they used the money to supply their tributes with water and food. Rowan brought in some cash as well. He started by delivering a canteen of water and some dinner rolls into Willow's lap. Every time Aveline's bloody body came on screen, he cringed with guilt.
She was beyond saving. Everyone knew that. Trying to help her would just be pointless.
As the days progressed, Bullen from 10 established himself as a threat. Hack and Circe (the allied girls from 3 and 5) were relaxing about halfway through the third day when Bullen burst out of nowhere, armed with two wicked-looking daggers. Lumen and Electra leaned in toward the screen, each of them sweating like mad as they watched the fight transpire.
Five minutes later, Bullen dealt a lethal blow to Circe from 5. Circe collapsed, screaming as blood spurted from her chest. Electra shrank back on the couch. Bluebell embraced her tightly, trying to console her as Electra cried out in despair.
Bluebell's own girl, a 17-year-old girl named Cinth, had teamed up with Elora from 10. But they weren't doing well. They struggled to find water, and without enough sponsors, there was nothing Bluebell could do but watch with horror as the two girls died of thirst at the end of the fourth day.
Boom! Boom! Ten tributes left.
It wasn't until Day 5 that Aveline finally bled out. She'd been slowly dying ever since the bloodbath, but the girl was still fighting, trying desperately to cover her wounds and keep herself breathing. But infection had already sprung up, and there was ultimately nothing she could do but wait for her death to come.
Rowan felt a sick sense of relief when Aveline finally died. Now he could stop feeling guilty for channeling all of his sponsor money toward Willow.
"Those careers are going to be in trouble soon," Tyrell predicted. "They're grating against each other. Just look."
He was right. The tributes from 2, Lysander and Metria, were in the midst of a pretty heated fight about weapons or guard shifts or something. It wasn't important what they were talking about, only what was happening. The District 1 tributes took sides, with Fleck remaining loyal to Lysander while Clarity sided with Metria.
"You can fuck off, both of you!" Lysander shouted as Clarity passed over to Metria's side. "If it's your mission to ruin the pack, why don't you just leave?"
"We're ruining the pack? We are?" Clarity roared. She could be surprisingly intimidating despite her shiny appearance. By the time the brawl was over, two career tributes were dead: Clarity and Metria, having each been killed by their male district partners.
"That was revolting," Tyrell deadpanned. "I hate everything about what I just saw."
"Join the club," another victor, Jaguar, added.
Rowan wasn't feeling so dreary. The cameras showed that Willow was alive and thriving, moving quickly around the outskirts of the arena with his hatchets and foodstuffs. He'd found a thin stream that was nonetheless safe for consumption, and was reverse-following its strangely-curved path uphill.
"There's going to be an eruption," Citrine said ominously as night began to fall. "I can just sense it. There's lava hidden under that ground."
The only victor who responded was Luxor, who said "ay" in the most forbidding tone of voice imaginable.
And, sure enough, that was exactly what happened. On Day 7, lava began spurting out of the ground, showering the arena in lava and ash. Burbage from 12 was killed before he even knew what had hit him. He'd been snoozing lightly on the lip of the caldera when the hellish eruption occurred, incinerating him instantaneously.
"At least it was quick," Canary muttered.
The same could not be said about Hack, whose hand was engulfed in lava before she managed to escape. Her knees buckled in pain, and she went careening down the slope, screaming her head off as the lava ate away at her hand. By the time she reached a battered stop, her entire arm had been burnt into a stump. Cauterized too. Hack was injured, yes, but alive.
Willow looked like an ant because the cameras showed him from so far away. Despite running as fast as he could, he was moving at a snail's pace in comparison to the lava.
Faster, faster, faster, Rowan screamed internally, as though trying to telepathically communicate with him.
The lava flow stopped more than an hour after it had begun. Two more tributes were dead: Fleck from 1 and Bullen from 10. Bullen, the only boy from the lower districts who seemed to have a chance at victory. Reduced to ash and sizzling blood. He had no victor to mourn for him.
Willow. Lysander. Dorsal.
Three tributes left.
The victors from their districts (Rowan, Tyrell, and Mags respectively) moved to the center of the couch and sat so close they were practically touching. The other victors thought it was important they get a dead-center view of what was happening on screen.
"Listen," Tyrell said, breaking the silence that stretched on endlessly as they watched the final three tributes maneuver through the scorched crater. "I know we all talk about these tributes like our own. But I need you to know something. If… if…"
He trailed off, his face contracting with frustration.
"Take your time, Tyrell," Mags said.
"If Lysander kills Dorsal and Willow, don't get the idea that I've done you some kind of personal wrong."
Rowan let out a gasp he never knew he'd been holding back. "We understand," he said quietly. That was the only thing to say.
Near the edge of the couch, Georgio let out a gasp.
On screen, Willow was standing over Lysander's thrashing form. The boy from 2 was already off his guard after the volcanic eruption, and with so many small injuries he was not nearly as powerful as he had once been. Willow's face shriveled up with horror as he brought down his weapon, cleaving halfway through Lysander's neck in one fell swoop. His cannon fired, and Willow stumbled backward, his eyes wild with guilt and horror.
"I'm sorry," Rowan whispered.
"We just talked about this. It's not your fault," Tyrell said.
Rowan growled under his breath. Tyrell's grouchiness was helping nobody. Not that they could blame him. "Doesn't mean I won't feel guilty about it."
That left Dorsal and Willow to vie for victory. The gamemakers sent small spurts of lava after the two remaining tributes. Not to hurt them, just to scare them toward one another. They spotted each other from fifty meters apart, at the exact spot where Hack and Circe had allied all the way back at the start of the games.
It wasn't a fair fight. Willow had weapons galore, while Dorsal had lost all of his knives during the first volcanic eruption. Now all he had was a little dagger and a slingshot, neither of which proved very helpful against Willow's killer advances.
Two minutes after the fight began, Dorsal was lying on the ground, bleeding out from the gaping wound in his stomach.
"I'm sorry," Willow cried out. "I'm so, so, so sorry."
Dorsal closed his eyes softly. "I learned the words to your poem."
"Oh, it's not mine," Willow said. "It's old folklore from District 7."
Dorsal's cannon fired, and the trumpets sounded in declaration of Willow's victory. As the hovercraft lifted him into the fame that would soon envelop his life, Willow stammered out the words everyone in Panem knew.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Swing your hatchet, swing it quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
Feel the blizzard, hear the thunder,
'Round about the fire go,
Death is coming, coming quickly,
Feel the blizzard blow.
Rowan cracked a smile. Through it all, his boy had kept fighting. And now he was a victor. The newest member of the dreariest lineup imaginable. He would be paraded around Panem for the rest of his life, revered and hated and celebrated like killing people was the most heroic thing he'd ever done.
"I want to greet him," Rowan said simply. "When the medics are done with him. I want to talk to him."
"They'll let you do anything," Electra said. "Go for it."
Rowan Dobson, the victor of the second annual Hunger Games, was an unhappy man. Surviving a government-instituted fight to the death just wasn't his cup of tea. And being given a front-row view of every subsequent year of the games? A recipe for some awful depression.
But Rowan had a good feeling about this Willow kid. Now that District 7 had another victor, maybe – just maybe – he wouldn't have to be so alone.
There was another recap, a quick slideshow of every death in order. Georgio flinched when his boy died first, killed by Clarity while he tried to run.
Between the deaths, the cameras showed brief clips of everything that had happened in the games: formations and breakings-up of alliances, volcanic eruptions, and everything else. Finally, they showed Willow being lifted out of the arena, still clutching his hatchets for dear life.
"We're all happy for you," Bluebell said before leaving, having been approached by a peacekeeper with some other business.
"Really?"
Nobody said anything. But he didn't press the matter any further. None of them were proud of the things they saw in the arena.
Rowan had been waiting at the train station for nearly half an hour when the train pulled in. Immediately, the door slid open, and Willow exited. They'd tidied him up beyond belief, but it was definitely him. That dark hair was unmistakable.
"Your boy just won the Hunger Games," Willow said, letting out a weak laugh.
Rowan felt his lips curl into a little smile.
List of Victors
District 1 (2 Victors): Luxor Dodge (1st), Citrine Whitacre (9th)
District 2 (2 Victors): Tyrell Crowley (3rd), Lancaster Percy (6th)
District 3 (1 Victor): Lumen Orlaith (12th)
District 4 (1 Victor): Mags Flanagan (11th)
District 5 (1 Victor): Electra Wilty (4th)
District 6 (1 Victor): Jaguar Stratton (7th)
District 7 (2 Victors): Rowan Dobson (2nd), Willow Merrick (13th)
District 8 (1 Victor): Georgio Bronte (8th)
District 9 (0 Victors):
District 10 (0 Victors):
District 11 (1 Victor): Bluebell Singer (5th)
District 12 (1 Victor): Canary Roselock (10th)