Chapter 69- Astrid Clearwater

"Now, stick to your cards, and you can't go wrong!"

"Don't worry, I will," I say irritatedly. I've had enough of her constant poking and prodding and telling me what to do. She's here to get us to the districts on time, and I wish she would leave me alone when I'm not in front of the cameras. What I would really like to do is hit her to make her shut up, but I can't. Career victors don't attack; they just smile and revel in their victory, so that's how I have to act, no matter who's watching. Even just myself.

"Now, don't forget she was your ally," Delia adds. Does she really think I would forget that Tilling was my ally? That's all I've been thinking about on the train ride here; I can't forget her when I see her every night. "So, you can add a few personal remarks to the speech. It's good taste, you know." Delia finishes fiddling with my jacket and steps back, beaming.

"You do remember that I left her to die, don't you?" I snap, letting my Career act drop for a moment. "I left her to drown so that I could win." And her district is going to find that inexcusable. I don't know why I care. I'll never see them again, so why do I care?

Delia dismissively waves her hand at me, still beaming. "Oh that's just the Games. It doesn't really matter! All part of the fun."

All part of the fun? I'd like to drop her in that arena with a bunch of other Capitolites and see who comes out alive. If I was Beetee and theorized on the tributes' odds, I would say none of them would be a victor. None of them should be.

"Get ready!" Delia says, abruptly grabbing my shoulders and pulling me roughly into position in front of the heavy looking wooden doors; one side has the Capitol seal burned into it, the right has District 9's.

Don't touch me, Delia. Never. I don't say that, though; instead I stare directly at the two seals, one with the eagle and laurels that pretend to be better than any of us, when they're worse than all the districts put together, and at the seal with a bouquet of grain in its center.

Of course, District 9, the grain district. I saw the fields when we were nearing the train station; even though it's winter, the weather here is warm, so the plants are still growing. The tall and golden grain plants stretched out for miles, until I couldn't see them anymore, just an endless land of golden grain and farming equipment. In between, I saw a few people working around the stalks, and here and there I saw a Peacekeeper standing by. Just another reminder that the Capitol has a hold on us no matter where we are, no matter what we're doing.

If they're always there, where were they that one night?

"Get ready now, Astrid," Delia says, still fluttering around me, patting my hair into place, adjusting my jacket again. I don't even bother to answer her this time; she won't listen no matter what I say. Beetee's off to one side, but I make sure that I avoid looking at him. Maybe I could read him, see what he thinks of this Tour, but in the end, I don't want to know what he's thinking. I don't.

In front of me, the doors open with a heavy thud; Delia pushes me from behind towards an applauding crowd and a stage that looks exactly like all the others I've been on during this Tour. Three others to be exact.

And every welcome in the other three districts has been the same.

"You won't be meeting any victors here," Delia said, wringing her hands until I thought she might wring them all the way off.

"Obviously," I said. "District 12 doesn't have any victors."

"Yes, pity, pity. Well, out you go anyway! And have lots of fun; it's your Tour after all!"

I gave Delia a smile that might have been more of a grimace. Yes, it is my Tour, which is a reward from the Capitol for killing children in their arena. If that's their reward, I would hate to see their punishment.

The doors opened, the wooden doors with the eagle on one side, pick axes on the right, and Delia pushed me through, even though I was perfectly capable of walking by myself. I'm not unsteady on my feet anymore. As soon as I was through those doors I smiled as brightly as I could, acknowledging the crowd as the proud victor I am. A victor who has no regrets about what she did in the arena. None, because regrets are weaknesses.

"Thank you for having me, District 12," I said, beginning the speech that Delia had me rehearse last night. None of them were my words, but I didn't know what I would say if I had the chance to speak my mind. I didn't know either of the tributes; dark haired Celosia who had several children standing under her banner, and Fissure, who had only his parents holding hands under his.

"These are our districts, our Capitol, our Panem," I finished, and stepped back, smiling as wide as I could as the mayor took the microphone from me. While the crowd applauded for me, a young girl came over to me from the side of the stage, and held out a bouquet of flowers.

"Thank you." Victors are gracious, they thank everyone. I had to be the victor who assumed everyone liked them, because that's the only way to act. I'll lie and lie and lie until I believe it myself, because that's what I need for the weeks in front of me. Once the cameras are gone, I can go back to bed and stay there, but until then, I have to keep thinking two steps ahead.

As the mayor started to speak about the Capitol and its graciousness, I clutched my flowers and looked out over the black dusted people of District 12. Everything about them told me that the Capitol has beaten them down until they have no fight left in them. Emaciated, eyes too large for their heads, or in contrast the healthier looking people with blonde hair.

The crowd looked up at me as I looked at them; while their bodies were broken and mistreated, their eyes weren't dead. I could read them, could read them all, and I saw the same loathing that District 3 had for me in every pair of eyes I saw. I waved, I smiled, I never let them know that I knew that they hated me. I ignored what I saw until the train took off in the night, and the thoughts started circling around and around my head, too many times for me to stop them.

I knew there were a lot of reasons why they weren't happy to see me. I wasn't a District 12 victor; I was a District 3 victor, and my standing on their stage meant that neither of their tributes went home alive. Neither of them lived, but I did; I lived and now I'm paying the price for it.

It's Circuit too; I killed Circuit, my district partner, and killing your partner in any district is unthinkable. Never done unless you're in the final two, and even then, it's not liked. I've seen a few others throughout the years who had to do it, and the welcomes that I saw on their Tours were cool at best.

If he had killed me, would they all hate him instead?

"Hello, girl."

I stared at the woman in front of me, vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her until Delia introduced her to me as Seeder Howell, the victor of the Thirty-third Hunger Games. Then I knew who she was; she won when I was a child.

"Pleasure to meet you," I said, shaking her hand, but I was surprised when she pulled me into an embrace I didn't want.

Why do people insist on touching me when it's the last thing I could ever want?

"And Harvest Maycorn, victor of the Thirty-seventh," Delia continued; Seeder broke away to pull a nervous looking boy up beside her. I remembered him of course; he only won a few years ago.

"Was it alright? Your speech?" Seeder asked, and I nodded.

"It all went just as I expected it to." And it did; the people of District 11 showed the same hatred that I thought they would have, matching District 12's. Only the scenery was different; fields of trees and plants and glass houses that had something to do with agriculture. Tall, barbed wire wrapped fences surrounding the district that gave me an uncomfortable feeling of being trapped.

And every few yards a Peacekeeper stood by, their guns at the ready.

I didn't show them any weakness. I was an elated victor who believed what she said about the Capitol, and who didn't feel sorry for the dead children in the arena. I was the best, so why mourn them?

But I remembered their tributes from Training and from in the arena; Nell was the loud troublemaker who yelled at the President, who ended up right next to our camp that night by the pond. Who died when Circuit wrapped his wire around her throat. Her family stood for her, but all I could read in their eyes was grief.

I didn't kill her; they could blame both my district partner and her ally for that. But they weren't there, so they had to hate me instead, because I was alive and Nell and her partner, Lotem weren't. I never killed them or even spoke to them in the arena, but it didn't matter. They're dead, I'm not.

And I'll never let them see me mourn Circuit. I don't; I don't care that he's dead, only that he can't hurt me or try to kill me again.

I still don't know how I feel about killing him, though.

District 10 reminded me of District 12, with their downtrodden people, although in 10 they appeared in clothing I'd never seen before; colorful skirts and ribboned hair, and with thick accents from all the officials that spoke after my speech. A couple of children, a boy and a girl in embroidered white clothes, gave me some useless plaque that I didn't get to read before Delia took it away from me backstage.

I didn't stay on the stage long, just with enough time to speak the Capitol's words again. I really didn't have much of a connection to District 10; their tributes Byron and Brierre never made a huge impact on me, except to notice in passing that they were both thin and bloodbath material. I was right; neither of them lasted a day in the arena.

I didn't murder either of them, but in their families' eyes, I good as killed them, because I stood on their stage reading an insincere speech that nobody cared about.

It's not my fault that I was reaped. It's not my fault I managed to win.

The only victor of District 10 was nice, though quiet; Isaac Morris. He was allowed to take me on a tour of his district, showing me the fields full of cattle, barns where sheep were kept, flocks of geese and chickens. For a moment I thought that living there would be preferable to home, because I could wander out into the fields and just be forgotten.

Panem could forget me, and I could forget the Games and all the hatred that followed them.

But I can't be weak. Wanting to leave District 3 is weak, because it means I'm not able to fight what they're giving me at home. I'm going to be better than them all, and I'm going to make sure they know it.

I don't have a choice.

"Smile!" Delia whispers; she doesn't have to remind me. As I step out onto the stage, I beam at the people of District 9, waving like there's nowhere else in the world I would rather be. The mayor gestures me forward, towards the tall, silver microphone they've put in the exact middle of the stage. I know where it is; this is my fourth district in four days, and every stage is the same.

Peacekeepers stand on either side of the doors, and I can't tell if they're there as decorations or if they could kill me or the people in the crowd at a moment's notice. I won't think about it; I have to just focus on the mayor who stands on one side of the stage, and the people of District 9 in who stand front of me. My hands are shaking again, but I will never let them see. I'm not nervous, I'm not scared, I just don't want to face Tilling's family and tell them that I didn't care if she lived or died.

That's what I told Marcus, and I can't change my words now. It's what a Career victor would say, and anything else is a weakness I can't afford to have. I can't have any weakness.

"Thank you, District 9, for being so gracious as to have me here today. What we have seen this past year is a truly united Panem, who so bravely offered their tributes up as a reminder that our past sins must never be repeated. And, as always, it was an opportunity to thank the Capitol for all it does for our nation."

I hate what the Capitol is making me say. Delia said that I could put in a few personal remarks, but for once I have no idea what to say. I left Tilling to die; it's not something that I can apologize for and move on. And apologizing might be seen as weak, I don't know, I don't know.

I have to say something.

"Tilling was my ally, and I was the one who chose her for our alliance," I say, starting slowly. "She was a nice girl, but I'm glad she went out the way she did; peacefully instead of brutally. And I am truly sorry for your loss."

As I step back from the microphone, I catch the eye of a black-haired woman, her braid hanging over her shoulder as she looks at me fiercely. A stabbing pain shoots through my head, reminding me that my concussion isn't completely gone. But I know the woman; I know her.

I know her because she's an older version of Tilling, and I see my ally in my dreams almost every night. It's not likely I'll ever forget her face if she keeps dragging me down to drown. No weakness. Never, never. But I can't forget Tilling's words that night we looked at the stars, and my mind instantly brings me back to that hilltop, when I still had allies, when they were both alive.

"My mother says it to me a lot: the stars will always guide us home."

Her mother raises her chin, but doesn't take her eyes off me. I know she won't ever forgive me for leaving Tilling behind, but for once I can't blame her for despising me. If I was in her place, I don't think I would forgive me either.

No weakness, Astrid. You never cared for Tilling while she was alive; you can't care about her now she's dead.

Before the mayor can take over, I lean into the microphone again, almost like how Nell did at her reaping. But I don't joke; instead I say, "Tilling thought the stars would bring her home. I hope they have. Thank you, District 9."

"Thank you, Astrid Clearwater!" the mayor says, grabbing the microphone from my grasp as the people of District 9 applaud, but I barely hear them. I've met the gaze of Tilling's mother again; her eyes are boring into my head with a startling ferocity. Her chin is still raised as she looks at me, then she nods once. Just once, but she keeps her eyes on me. Her face has softened, and in that simple gesture I know that she's forgiven me for the death of her daughter. Maybe she's the only one in Panem who has.

Tilling's mother has forgiven me, and my own district won't.

"Here you are, miss!" I come back out of my head to see a young boy around Axel's age, holding up a large bouquet of flowers to me. All of the flowers I've been given on this Tour so far are foreign to me; District 3 doesn't have anything green growing in it, and if there is, it dies before it even blooms.

"Thank you," I say, and smile, because I'm the gracious victor, and I have to act like one no matter what. Beetee said I was arrogant; I'm not. I'm still proud that I won, and it's going to be that pride that's going to carry me through this Tour, until I can go back into my house in Victor's Village and properly forget everything until the next Games.

Frankly, it might be a good idea anyway to leave District 3 once a year, no matter the reason.

"Our legacy as a country is supported by the Hunger Games; without them we would not be united; without them we would be alone in this world with no connection. The Capitol connects us, and offers everything in return for our tributes. It is a fair trade, for the sacrifices of your children are lesser than the sacrifices the Capitol must make for us all. They are our caring and benevolent caretakers, in the past, the present, and the future. May the Dark Days never return, and may the Capitol be everlasting," the mayor says into the microphone, his words echoing around the square as I stand frozen behind him, holding my bouquet of flowers tight with a smile plastered on my face.

The Capitol isn't any of those things. It just takes and takes and takes, and gives us nothing but grain and dead children in return. We all know he's lying; he must know he's lying. But the Capitol doesn't; they're too stupid to realize that we hate them all. They called me there to die, and killed twenty-three other children instead.

I can't hate them any more than I already do.

The crowd applauds and I wave again with the hand that isn't holding the flowers. I don't see Tilling's mother again, but I do see Reaper's family briefly before I'm led back through the wooden doors and into the main hallway of the District 9 Justice Hall; the doors shut behind me with that same heavy thud that I heard when they first opened.

"Beautifully done!" Delia says, taking my flowers from me before I can say no. "They loved you, I know they did!"

I chance a look towards Beetee, and I know he knows that my welcome in District 9 wasn't as warm as Delia thinks it was. I have no desire to read into my mentor's thoughts and soul, so I look away to see two people approaching from another corridor off to the side.

The man is tall and broad; a giant that looks fierce, but when he speaks, he's gentle. "A pleasure to meet you, Astrid," he says, shaking my hand.

"Ripple Grainlow," Delia says by way of introduction, and I recognize the name; like Seeder and Harvest and Isaac, these are the victors of District 9, all two of them. District 3 is tying with them now; we'll see who breaks the record next year.

The woman standing next to Ripple looks worse for wear; barely standing. I can smell the alcohol fumes coming off her; it's just like what Saul used to smell like when he came home from the pub. Her dark hair that's streaked with grey is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, and I can tell by the creases in her face that she's abused herself to the point of disrepair over the years.

"So what're you here for? You killed our girl, that's it then?" she slurs at me, tipping over until Ripple holds her upright.

"Arla, don't you dare start," he growls, shaking her. Then, he transforms from a fierce victor back into a gentle man. "I'm sorry for my partner. She hasn't been sober in thirty years."

"And this is Arla Reaper," Delia says, almost nervously, gesturing to the barely standing woman.

"You get a lot of Reapers in your Games," I say, smiling like I think my own jokes are funny.

"Comes with the district," Ripple says with a shrug. "You'll be attending the dinner tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it," I say, still smiling. Delia wouldn't let me miss it even if I wanted to.

"Astrid, we must go upstairs; Sparkle has your evening dress all ready, and we have to change your makeup!"

"No tour here?" I ask, just for something to say. See, I'm fine. I can say normal things and sound intelligent. My mind isn't weak or confused, and I'm showing Beetee that I'm fine too. So there.

"Oh, there's just the grain fields, and you don't want to see that!" Delia says, seizing my arm and pulling me towards the stairs off to the left. When I look back briefly, Ripple and Beetee are starting a conversation; Arla Reaper has fallen over and is sitting on the floor. I fight down a laugh, then I almost trip as Delia pulls me too fast up the steps.

Let go of me, or I'll kill you. I swear I can, and I will.

"This building has been here even before the Dark Days!" Delia says, "Can you imagine it? The first tributes were in this Hall. Astrid, you're standing in history!"

More like standing in a hall of ghosts. Forty-one years of tributes, and two came back, which means thirty-nine of the tributes who stood where I'm standing are dead. One of them was Tilling.

"Right in here, right in here!" Delia says, shoving me into a brightly lit room; I can see Sparkle and my prep team standing around, apparently waiting for me. "Enjoy!" As soon as I'm through the doorway, she shuts the door behind me with a click, and leaves me to my prep team.

"We are going to make you so pretty for tonight!" Spila says, guiding me over to a chair by a window. The only glimpse I get at it before Spila pushes me down into it is that it's green cushioned with wooden armrests.

Very uncomfortable.

"You don't even look terrible now that we're finally taking care of you!" Lara trills, then the torture starts; hair and makeup and clothes, and touching, touching, touching.

One day they'll leave me alone to forget.

"Now, you'll give Beetee a fifteen-step lead before you start down," Delia says, patting the dark purple satin into place. Not that it's wrinkled; Sparkle has put me in a dress that's so tight that I think I might break in half. "And smile!"

"Delia, I always smile," I say, my patience wearing thin. This is day four of having her obsess about my looks and how I act, and I'm very tempted to start acting like I did on that first train to the Capitol, grabbing food with both hands.

She pats me on the cheek and I have to fight back the urge to bite her. "Of course, dear, I know you do. Smiles, everyone!"

Somewhere down below, music starts playing. I'm standing in another wing of the Justice Hall, where there's another set of stairs leading down to what Delia called a special events room. It's probably only used during Victory Tours, since I can't imagine District 9 having any special events otherwise.

My hands are shaking again, but I press them against my dress to keep them still. Beetee is a few steps in front of me, and my thoughts are so divided about him. He essentially left me to die so that he could prove a theory, but at the same time I feel like he might be the only person on this tour that's solidly on my side. And I desperately need an ally.

I don't know what to think about him, or Circuit, or anyone that I've known that wasn't Capitol. My prep team and Delia are easy to read, because there's nothing going on in their heads. Beetee is so much harder, and I don't know how much I want to try to understand him. Him and his indispensable work.

I watch Lara and Spila enter the room first, followed by Delia, still in that fascinating blue wig. Sparkle enters next to a faint applause, and then Beetee finally starts the descent down. I want this night to be over; I didn't like any of the other dinners at the other three districts. Just another event to bear.

I count the steps like Delia said to do, until Beetee reaches fifteen, then I start down after him, playing the brilliant and exuberant victor, who killed without mercy and is gracious in her victory. Who has never been anything but strong since she was reaped, who was so strong that she ran on a broken leg to win. Who has never been weak in her whole life, overcoming all the obstacles to be in District 9 tonight.

Nobody is ever going to think I'm weak, if I can help it.

I enter the room to applause, then the people that I suppose are officials in District 9 come to shake my hand; musicians that look very district are playing in the corner with fiddles and accordions and who knows what else. We don't play music in District 3, except for my scratchy violin.

I ought to take the dratted thing into the street and play tune after tune just to torture them all.

The supper is simple, but it settles in both my mind and stomach better than the Capitol fare, which always seems determined to impress. This seems to be the best that District 9 has to offer, and I appreciate it more than anything in the Capitol. I've been seated next to Ripple on one side, and a round cheeked official on the other, whose face turns redder and redder the more he drinks. He has a tendency to slap the table every time he thinks something is funny, and it rattles my cutlery.

Across the table I meet Delia's eyes, and I can see a flicker go across them that I think might be a prayer that I use the cutlery the whole meal. It's almost enough for me to grab the last of my food with my fingers, but my plate is taken away before I can even try.

The fiddlers start up a lively song, and almost all the officials, most of whom are several glasses into their wine, get up and start to do jigs across the floor, hands on their hips. It's taking everything I have to not burst out laughing at them.

Ripple turns to me, and he smiles. "Want to join them?"

"I haven't drunk enough, and I don't think this dress is made for dancing," I say, genuinely laughing this time.

"Let them dance, then."

"You don't get many events like this very often, do you?"

Ripple shakes his head. "Just at the year's end, and again during the Victory Tours."

"It's a nice district."

"How would you describe it?"

I don't even have to think about it. "Grainy." Ripple laughs.

"I would have been surprised if we weren't."

"Come on, Astrid, you must mingle!" Delia says, and before I can stop her she's pulled me up out of my chair. For a woman who has never done any hard labor in her life, she's surprisingly strong.

"Don't touch me, Delia," I hiss, but she doesn't hear me; she just goes back to her conversation with a woman who seems to be less tipsy than the rest of them. Delia won't let me not mingle, so that's what I do. I talk with the mayor, and with the mayor's wife. Behind the conversations is the fiddle music that never seems to stop, playing the same songs over and over, until I want to bash their violins over their heads.

To everyone who sees me, I'm the perfect victor. If my thoughts were still shiny and slippery, I'd never make it through this Tour. I'd be lost, but now I can think my way through, just like before. Without my head I couldn't do this, but I'm smart, I'm smarter than the rest of them, which means I can outthink them too.

It takes a few hours, and a round of dessert, before Delia starts to round us all up to go. Sparkle and my prep team are definitely drunk, and it's taking everything Delia has to drag them towards the stairs. Ripple laughs, pulling Beetee along with him towards me. My mentor doesn't seem like he's drunk anything at all; he's just plain, simple, solemn Beetee. I doubt he'd ever want anything to cloud his mind either, just like I haven't drunk anything stronger than water and juice tonight.

The exact opposite of Arla Reaper, who's been passed out drunk on the table for the last two hours. It's almost amusing how nobody's even tried to make sure she's still alive, but I can't help but feel a small amount of pity for the woman. Pity is weak, though, so I chase it back down and don't let it come back up.

"Thank you for having us," I say, turning to the mayor who's appeared at my elbow abruptly.

"Oh, it was our pleasure!" he says, his eyes watery; not from tears, but from drinking too much. He shakes my hand again, then totters off, probably to find somewhere to sit down. He looks very, very drunk, but not to the extent that Arla is.

"See you again, Beetee," Ripple says, shaking my mentor's hand. "Perhaps we will have another alliance next year."

Beetee smiles that Beetee smile that has so much more playing behind it. "Perhaps we will." He turns to walk away, and so does Ripple, but I catch Ripple's hand.

"I'm sorry. For your tribute," I say, low. Apologizing is another weakness I can't have, but I need to find some relief from my guilt over Tilling. Even though I keep telling myself I shouldn't be guilty; that it was Elowyn who made me leave her, I know I made my decision in the end, and that decision was to let Tilling Bluekind die.

Ripple looks at me with eyes that seem tired all of a sudden. "It's how you play the Game, isn't it?"

Maybe he doesn't fault me, or maybe he does. I don't know. But the fact that he hasn't out and out blamed me for her death is better than nothing. "July," he says, and I nod.

"July." Because I'm going to be forced to go back to the Capitol every year from this year on out, until I die. Whenever that happens. With the tension in District 3, I could die the moment I get off at the station.

"Astrid, we have a train to catch!" Delia scolds; I move towards the stairs before she can grab me and haul me towards them herself. Ripple shouldn't blame me; the other victors shouldn't blame me either; we've all done terrible things in our arenas, haven't we? We all killed to be here, so they shouldn't judge me for the things I had to do in the Games.

I don't care either way. They can hate me; they can like me; it doesn't matter. At the end of the day, I'm still the victor of District 3.

The car ride back to the train station doesn't make my head spin like the one we rode in in the Capitol, on the way to the President's Mansion. I'm going to have to go back there in a few days, once the tour of the districts is done. I'll be sent back into the world of feathers and colors and strange people that don't seem real, but this time, I won't be lost in my own head. Maybe I'll enjoy it. I don't know.

My last glimpse of District 9 is the fence around it, shining in the lights from the train, before we're whipped around a corner and I lose sight of it completely. Unless I get a victor of my own, I'll never see it again. That's alright. I don't need to see the grain fields again. But deep inside, I envy their ability to see the sky, because District 3 doesn't give me anything like that.

There are no stars in District 3.

It doesn't matter what I can see or can't see back home; it doesn't matter what they think either. They'll learn to like me, and none of them will attack me again. I'll be stronger than they expect, and I'll fight back if they try. I killed Circuit and Dominicus; I could kill any of them. I could.

But I don't have any fight in me tonight. The satin dress is heaped on the floor, my shoes kicked off, and I'm wearing a pair of soft pajamas I found in the closet instead. They feel just like the pair I have at home, the pair that my mother handed me the night of the attack, the night she told me-

I can't think about it.

My hair falls over my face as I rest my forehead on my knees, squeezing myself so tight with my hands looped around my legs that I feel as though I might break. Victor, victor, victor. I'm the victor and nobody else. Just Astrid Clearwater, the victor. She isn't weak. She doesn't care about the tributes, about who she killed and who she saw die. She isn't scared, ever.

That fire is still burning, and nothing is putting it out yet. I thought that winning would, but it hasn't. The coals that were lit when I was reaped have burst into a full bonfire now, and it's threatening to consume me; no amount of rain in District 3 will put it out. Maybe I can suffocate it with blankets and violin music when I get home, put it out forever. But somehow, I feel that there's always going to be fire licking, burning me until I can't burn anymore.

There's no relief, but I won't let myself cry.

Victors don't cry.