Chapter Two | In cloudless blue, the roughness of a gale;

"And we mean well in going to this masque,

But 'tis no wit to go."

1.4, 48-49 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare

Two months pass in a haze. Elara goes to the Capitol several more times, but unfortunately her schedule doesn't coincide with Gloss's, and she's left to deal with her demons alone. Sometimes it feels like Snow is dangling bait in front of her whenever he requests her presence in his city. A part of him must be at least somewhat aware of what the two Victors get up to in their spare time. It's impossible to hide something of this caliber from the man who sees all and knows all. When he arranges for Gloss to be in the Capitol at the same time as her, it feels like he does so on purpose, as if their meetings amuse him. She wouldn't put it past him, not that they ever make it obvious how deeply their affections truly run. Pretending that their relationship is little more than a mutual form of comfort-through-sex is far safer for them and their families. Whether they have fully convinced President Snow of this is questionable at best, though. Snow has a terrifying tendency of seeing through even the best laid plans, and the firmest convictions.

In any case, by the time the Seventy Forth Reaping comes, she hasn't seen Gloss in about three months, and the nightmares have found their way back to her without him by her side.

On the morning of the Reaping, Elara wakes up with a lurch. She nearly tumbles out of her bed, haunted by the faces of those she's killed and the bloody sights she had witnessed during her Games. She sits up in bed for a long moment, running her fingers through her hair in a pathetic reenactment of Gloss's comforting touch, and sighs.

The annual Hunger Games is a blessing and a curse for her. On the one hand, she must watch more children die. She must watch her tributes fall to those who are stronger and more cunning. Her nightmares always get worse this time of year. The sight of the arena, in whatever form it comes in, is a constant harassment to her already fragile spirit. And yet –

On the other hand, she gets to be around Gloss for several weeks straight. She gets to hold him and touch him and kiss him and feel him in all the ways she's been utterly craving during their long absence. She gets to pretend that, in the wake of the recent deaths that this Games will bring, her life can be somewhat normal. As normal as it possibly can be, at least.

She both loves and hates herself for the thin excitement that she feels coursing through her veins. To be excited about returning to the Capitol to witness yet another Hunger Games is wretched in every way she can imagine, but she misses him so badly that sometimes, it hurts even to breathe.

Can a middle ground exist, between this cadence of love and hate? In Gloss, she thinks it can.

"Are you up yet?" Amelia shouts through her door, giving it a good knock just for the hell of it.

Elara groans and pulls herself out of bed, scowling at the door with an aggravated, "Yes!"

The response she gets is a muffled, "Just making sure!"

With a sigh, Elara throws on her robe and leaves the room, following her sister down the stairs to make something to eat. Amelia's put on a pot of coffee, so she goes ahead and fills a mug before going to the fridge to browse the contents of it.

Leaning against the door, she raises an eyebrow and drawls, "Amelia, what happened to all the food I bought the other day?"

The shelves are practically barren. Besides the half empty bag of lettuce and the leftovers from the night before, there's not much else. Elara glances behind her shoulder at her sister, who looks up and shrugs.

"We ate it?" she asks, looking both unsure as well as utterly uncaring. Elara purses her mouth at her.

The Reaping doesn't start until noon, and it's only nine o'clock. That gives Elara three hours to make sure the house is livable for the next few weeks while she'll be in the Capitol mentoring the tributes. In the meantime, Amelia will be here in District 5. Though she's eighteen and can take care of herself, she has a terrible tendency of forgetting about doing simple things, like going grocery shopping or checking the mailbox or cleaning. That last one, especially, gets on Elara's nerves.

"I'll go shopping before the Reaping," she tells Amelia, and sighs again. Her relationship with her younger sister has never been difficult, per se. The only challenging aspect between them is that they are so alike that they sometimes get on each other's nerves more than not. Amelia hates when Elara worries about her and treats her like a daughter, which Elara can understand. It wasn't supposed to be like this, after all. Their relationship should have been guided by their parents. Their mother should have been the one to raise Amelia from the ten year old girl she had been before to the young woman she is now.

Amelia glances over at Elara and slowly says, "You don't have to. I can go later. It'll give me something to do."

She looks over at Amelia and frowns. Amelia frowns back in perfect imitation, which amuses Elara more than she can admit. She's glad to have her sister in her life, and despite their tendency of annoying each other as only sisters can do, Elara will protect her with everything that she is.

"Your stylists will be coming soon," Amelia reasons, when Elara opens her mouth to argue. "If you're gone when they arrive, they'll go batshit crazy. You know how they get."

With a sigh, Elara supposes she's right. Every year, as per custom, her stylists come to the districts of their Victors and help prepare them for being in the limelight of the Reaping. They'll be up on stage in front of cameras, which means they can't just go the Reaping dressed in their casual clothes. As with everything, the Capitol must ensure that its Victors always look the part. The only Victor who doesn't bother with this treatment is probably Haymitch Abernathy from 12, though Elara suspects its only because he's scared his stylists away with his drunken behavior.

"Alright," she agrees, but adds, "Don't buy any of that sugary crap though."

"Yeah, okay mom," Amelia drawls with a roll of her eyes. She gets up with a huff and says, "Stop worrying about me so much. Honestly. I'm eighteen already. I can go grocery shopping by myself, thanks."

Elara scowls at her, but she doesn't have time to respond before the doorbell is ringing and suddenly, the living room is filling with the squalor of Capitol stylists. Amelia shoots her sister a look and scurries away before she can be roped into trying on any dresses. Fashion is not Amelia's forte. It isn't Elara's, either, but unfortunately, she can't ignore her stylists when they appear in the kitchen doorway.

"Elara dear!" Fariya cries upon seeing her. Excitement crowds the lines of the familiar face. Elara paints on a careful smile as they all rush forward and descend upon her.

And then –

"Oh my goodness, what have you been doing with your hair?" Ignatius exclaims, looking utterly horrified. He reaches forward to tug on a strand of her auburn hair, which is currently unbrushed, and gasps, "When did you wash it last? Girls, go get a bath ready pronto. Pronto!"

Elara sighs as she watches the others scuttle out of the room. The sound of their footsteps on the stairs is like listening to a herd of wild bulls stampeding up a hill.

"Ignatius," Elara greets. There's a sardonic twist in her voice that goes unnoticed, because her head stylist is too busy eyeing the rest of her figure with a look of rumpled disdain.

"Have you been waxing?" he demands, and jerks her robe to the side to peer down at her bare legs. Elara lets him, though the sudden movement makes her twitch in surprise.

It's only been a few weeks since her last visit to the Capitol, so apparently the state of her legs isn't his primary concern. His expression crumples into relief, but soon turns nervous again when he catches sight of her hands.

"Oh dear," he says immediately, scooping up her free hand with a selective eye. He peers at the dirt beneath her fingernails with a look of outrage, as if the very sight of dirt makes him feel sick to his stomach. If that's the case, he really shouldn't have come to District 5.

She rolls her eyes at him and snatches back her hand with a tight, "Oh relax. It's nothing you can't fix. Stop being so dramatic."

Her lilt of annoyed sarcasm makes him frown at her. Apparently, he's not in the mood for it. The Reaping is in two and a half hours and he's already going into his stylist mode, which means that she's better off just keeping quiet until it's passed. She's been through enough of these sessions to know how he gets.

With a clap of his hands, Ignatius cries, "Upstairs, now! Honestly, I don't know why I requested to work with District 5! I thought it would be better than working with the outer districts but sometimes I wonder!"

Elara doesn't respond. She just puts her coffee mug down with a mournful glance and lets him shepherd her upstairs to the tub, which her other stylists are filling with scented perfumes and skin-enhancing serums.

It's a grueling two hours, but Elara puts up with them because she knows she's better off letting them do what they need to do. By the time Ignatius is zipping up the gown he'd designed for her, she looks nothing like she had when she'd stumbled out of bed that morning, sweaty and gasping from another nightmare. No, now she looks like Elara Winston, Victor and Capitol celebrity.

She does have to give Ignatius credit. He's very good at what he does. His designs are sometimes a bit outrageous for her, as he draws much of his inspiration from Capitol fashion, but this time around he's managed to maintain a subtler effect. The dress is a steel blue color, and it makes her hair look redder and her eyes a lighter shade of blue. It's a wrapped design that hugs her body and flares out at her knees with a burst of peplum that shoots down to the middle of her shins. Her stylists have twisted her hair into a classy updo that's finished with studded blue gemstones. The twinkling blue matches her shoes.

"Finally," Ignatius heaves, walking around her with his arms crossed and studying every detail of the look. Elara just stands there, watching her stylists twitter at each other happily on the other side of the room. They're spewing the latest gossip as if its oxygen to inhale, but with a single look from Ignatius, they settle down.

"Let's go! The Reaping starts in thirty minutes and we've got to get to that stage," he chimes impatiently, hooking an arm around Elara's to drag her from the room.

Amelia is nowhere to be seen as they exit the house. She's probably at the Reaping already. It's her last year, though technically she has immunity since Elara became Victor. It's probably one of the only good things to come out of her winning the Hunger Games. Amelia has never known the fear of standing in that crowd of children and desperately hoping that her name is not called.

As they make their way out of the Victor's Village and into the dirty streets of District 5, Ignatius waves a hand in front of his face and disdainfully spouts, "Aren't there any street sweepers in this district? It's so dusty. Last year, I had to have my clothes dry cleaned three times after the Reaping, my suit had so much grime on it."

Elara doesn't respond, though her other three stylists twitter in garish agreement, complaining about how dirty their shoes already are. The stylists won't be sticking around for much longer, though. They usually tend to board the train immediately when the Reaping starts, preferring to keep their own company while the district conducts its business.

At least she won't have to listen to them complaining. It is true, though. The only part of District 5 that isn't grimy is the Grid, a large and expansive neighborhood where the wealthier citizens live. It's spanned out around the Coriolanus 9 and the other power plants, making their commute to work easy. Mostly scientists and engineers live there, and the streets are far cleaner. The rest of the district is less appealing.

Outside of the Grid, the houses are rundown and dirty. The streets are gray and dismal and the pride and joy of District 5 – the surplus of electricity – often flickers or goes out entirely. A lot of residents in the outlying neighborhoods go without commodities like heat in the winter, and are often forced to turn to more primitive methods of warming themselves to stay alive. Bonfires are common in the city circle, when the Peacekeepers are feeling generous.

Elara and her family used to live on the outskirts of the Grid, as both her parents were renowned hydroelectric scientists within the district. Growing up, they'd been relatively lucky, and rarely had to collect tesserae more than a few times. It had just been a stroke of bad luck that she had been chosen as a tribute, back during the 66th Reaping.

In any case, the Victor's Village in District 5 is on the other end of the town, far away from the bustle of the power plants. It's nice, because the constant buzzing of the plants doesn't reach the village as strongly as their old house in the Grid. It's bad, because they have to walk through the slums of town in order to get to the Justice Building. Not that Elara has ever minded. She's more than capable of taking care of herself, and a little dirt doesn't frighten her.

Her stylists have a weaker constitution. By the time they reach the Justice Building, they hurry off to the train with flimsy goodbyes and waves of their hands, leaving Elara to mount the steps of the platform by herself.

Her district partner, a man in his fifties named Harley Balstrod, is already there. When he sees her, he just gives her a short nod. Elara merely nods back as she takes her place beside him. Though they've been neighbors for eight years now, they hardly ever talk to each other. Harley rarely leaves his house, and Elara spends half her time in the Capitol. Conversation between the two have always been stilted, at best, awkward at worst, and after a while, Elara just gave up. She likes to think that they have a mutual understanding of each other, which is good enough for her.

After ten minutes, the town square is filled with the residents of District 5. The escort, a woman named Olive, seems to have embraced her name as never before, because she comes out on stage dressed in olive green, from her shoes to her stockings to the hat that sits on top of her hair. It's frankly cringeworthy, and Elara makes a face at her the moment her back is turned.

"Welcome to the Seventy Forth Reaping!" Olive demurely greets, tapping the microphone first to ensure that it's on. Her voice carries out over the masses, which are deathly silent as they stand there and await the events.

Elara thinks that this is probably the worst part of the Hunger Games, having to stand here on this stage and look out at all these young faces, wondering which one will be called. She knows from experience how fast their hearts must be racing. It's awful to watch them stumble to the stage, pale and frightened, knowing that they will most likely die. District 5 rarely ever wins the Hunger Games.

The short movie that they always watch before the Reaping begins to play out. Olive, who has been the escort here in District 5 for as long as Elara can remember, watches it silently until it's over, and then turns back to the microphone to call the names.

"Girls first," she announces, and reaches into the bowl where dozens upon dozens of names are waiting. She plucks one out of the middle, unfolds it, and carefully reads, "Matilde Paynor."

Utter silence falls upon the crowd. Elara looks out to see which girl owns the name, until she catches sight of the thin girl leaving the sixteen year old pen. Her face is pale as she walks almost robotically to the stage. Coupled with her bright orange hair, her pale skin makes her look ghostly.

"Congratulations, dear," Olive says warmly, pulling the girl over to her. Then without further ado, she reaches into the other bowl and calls, "Now for the boys, Graham Tweed."

Again, Elara skims the crowd, only to have her heart drop in her chest when she realizes that the male tribute this year is only a thirteen year old boy. He leaves his pen with watery eyes, looking as if he's mere seconds away from balling his eyes out. Elara purses her mouth as she watches him, silently praying that he doesn't give into his desire. He's already at a disadvantage for being so young, but if he starts crying, the target on his back will get much larger.

Luckily Olive seems to notice this too, for she wastes very little time with wrapping everything up and ushering the tributes into the Justice Building. The whole affair lasts little more than twenty minutes. That's how long it takes for two families to be ripped apart forever. Elara glances over at Harley, who looks grim, and they follow the peacekeepers into the building silently.

She sees Amelia waiting by the train to say goodbye, and the first moment she can, Elara wraps her arms around her in a rare hug.

"Be good while I'm gone," she whispers, holding her tightly. Amelia hugs her back too, just as tight. There's no telling how long they'll be separated. Sometimes, the Games take more time than normal to finish, but that's only if the Gamemakers are in a particular mood.

Elara draws back and firmly says, "Don't go making trouble, Amelia. No sneaking out after dark. You know there's a curfew, and I won't be here to save you from the Peacekeepers' wrath."

Amelia uncharacteristically nods, without arguing. She seems to realize that this isn't the time. The atmosphere is dismal and far too serious for that.

Well, almost.

With a sly smile, Amelia leans in and whispers against Elara's ear, "Say hello to you boyfriend for me."

Elara jerks back, sends her a glower, and mutters, "Seriously, Amelia?"

Amelia just smirks widely. The smile fades quickly though. Elara would be blind not to notice the sadness lingering in her sister's eyes.

"Hey," she says quickly, grasping her shoulders firmly, "I'll be back before you know it, and then we'll be sitting down to a dinner of pancakes as if this never happened."

They both know that's a stretch, though. After the Games, Elara always gets worse. Her nightmares return with full force, and she spends her hours staring out the window like a ghost. The combination of the horrors of the Games, coupled with having to say goodbye to Gloss again, makes Elara so depressed that she goes days without sleeping or eating or even talking.

It worries Amelia, but she knows better than to mention it now. Instead, she just nods and says, "Yeah, okay. I'll see you soon."

Elara squeezes her shoulders and boards the train, following her tributes onto the car and watching the doors of it soundlessly shut. She doesn't stop to linger at the windows, and Amelia doesn't wait until the train has pulled out of the station. The two sisters go their separate ways, yet again, as the whims of the Capitol pull them apart.

And, as Elara takes a seat in one of the plush velvet chairs and smooths out her dress, each mile that descends upon her quietly erases the Elara Winston that District 5 knows, and replaces her with the celebrity image that has been borne from weeks upon weeks of time spent in the Capitol.