A bellowing laughter erupted through the entire room. Its sound bounced from one wall to the next, filling everything it passed with a strange joy. Little did the reasoning for the laugh matter, bringing about a need to join or—at least—calling for attention.
Virgilia did both. Something akin to a smile lifted the corners of her lips as the figure jumped up on stage, held the microphone to their lips and welcomed the newest guest. Her view had moved upward, away from the rosewood and to a portable screen that flared up in bright colours.
Rose petals had seemed too obvious in her attempt, hence she had settled for red carnation. They had been pressed between the edges of a book now open on the desk and lay there, long dried, and no longer as smooth as the moment she had plucked them. Some of them were too small. Others were distorted in colour. The imperfect flower was remembered beyond its times in the gardens.
A broad shadow blocked the lights and stepped forward, the audience drowned in applause. Waves upon waves bawled into the speakers as the host jumped toward—and the guest gracefully approached—two seats.
Virgilia flattened the letter. Its ink had dried before the show's theme song finished. Her fingers hung onto his name, moved along each letter as if her feelings for him were summarised in each swing of her pen, conveyed through the touch and could bring about a similar tug at hearts when he received the letter.
Dear—
"Plutarch Heavensbee, welcome—welcome!" the host roared, his audience followed, and Virgilia raised her gaze.
Plutarch smiled in the way that his cheeks rounded, leaned back in the seat and held his hands on his lap. Both of them rested flatly on his Gamemaker trousers.
"It's good to be here, Caesar," he said. His voice lacked the usual depth as if the audio did not portray him correctly.
"It's great to have you here, my friend!" Caesar spoke enthusiastically. She had seen him a few times—it seemed impossible to avoid him if that was anyone's plan in the Capitol, albeit he was a rather charming host—and anyone who visited Caesar was their friend. But something swung along in his voice, a genuine tone lacking its heightened keynotes that she was inclined to believe him. Just this once.
While she folded the letter, pressed the flower against it and tied a ribbon around and above, Caesar and Plutarch bantered on stage. They moved between Caesar's jokeful attempts at gaining any insight on the arena's terrain to the purple colour of the Head Gamemaker attire as next year's plans for a new hair colour.
The public didn't know, she realised, her mind wandering back to the map, the blue shimmer, and the friction between their hands just as Caesar asked a question about Plutarch's design choices as the leading figure in the upcoming Games.
"A well-balanced arena is meant to aid every skill-set. Every tribute can play to their advantages, it's about creating a level playing field between all Districts," he explained.
"Yes, yes. Every tribute deserves a chance," Caesar nodded along, paused, and continued "What would you say you have learned from your previous year?"
Her fingertips touched the envelope and she slid along the fold, imagining his own hands opening the letter. Would he even receive any letters now? Or was he too busy, preparing for the Games and not leaving until the victor had been declared? The letter, one of many, opened in a few weeks when the touch of hers had begun to fade, its thoughts and feelings tied to the paper but withered with the height of the summer. Or, maybe, someone had delivered it to him, placed delicately on the desk, one of very few, and his attention drifted away from the windows to the paper delivering her message like a warm touch.
Caesar's laughter pierced into her mind, distorted the image of freckled hands brushing above her writing. Nose crunched, Caesar held onto the sides of his chair. Even Plutarch laughed, fainter, somewhere from the depths of his belly that was itself brought into light motion. Virgilia watched as they joked about, grinning and laughing and putting on a show for the audience. It was Caesar who pulled the strings, at times in a literal manner when they switched seats, including the exchange of their coats.
The show ended when, both having switched back to their original spots, Caesar squeezed a hint from Plutarch, one about the uncertainty of the weather, that the audience applauded, they said their goodbyes and the screen turned to another show in an endless offer of entertainment.
The letter was placed aside, elbows moved forward, stuck to the desk, and fingers pushed into the back of her neck. Pressing downward to her shoulders, her view moved away from the screen toward the open living area. A few books sprawled out on the couch and her blanket hung loosely over the furniture's back. Messy, by the definitions of the mansion.
In short, there was still much to do before the reaping ceremonies were replayed for the Capitol and commented on in the late hours of the day before the tributes were to dress up the next morning. She knew the parade much better than the tribute-picking events in all twelve districts, having to be present for the former and knowing she had to be scrubbed and plugged and dressed for the next morning.
This year, the event would have more context knowing the reaping. She could at least attempt to recognise the tribute's names and faces that would inevitably be mentioned throughout the upcoming weeks. It had often seemed useless remembering anything of the children who would inevitably fade away as the victor was crowned. The news circle continued, as it always did, pointed to more recent news, never focusing on those left behind. The victor was who mattered, that much she knew about the Games, and the arena was to become a story of overcoming great odds. Virgilia had begun to wonder what happened to the dead bodies—would their families be able to bury them?
The news blasted into her ears and made thinking hard. She pressed the button twice before it quieted down, eventually fully turned off and left her alone. Whatever thoughts had been there, the jingle had permeated her mind. Yet, it did not last. For the first time in this hour, Virgilia could hear the birds chirping outside.
The air was cold the next day. Even as the sun hung in the sky, warming the ground uninterrupted by any clouds, the cold penetrated through a dark coat. The white rose had been fixed to her chest, same as her husband's, and they awaited the view, as with every year, on the balcony. Black carriages to ride down the plaza, tributes waving and the public applauding. If only it wasn't that cold, Virgilia thought to herself, tying the coat closer around her waist and waiting.
It was not the same as the evening prior, where she had watched the reaping alone, the wind howling against the windows and prickling the mansion's façade with rain. Where warmth had surrounded her, buried deep inside a book while the reapings were evaluated by two commentators discussing potential, interview expectations, and fighting types.
Instead, cool wind stuck to her face. Neither did it help that he was there, too.
She knew Plutarch was bound to arrive before the purple garment stuck out from the other Gamemakers, but gravity had seemed to shift when he finally was there. Her gaze lingered, however briefly she could muster, and interrupted by the fanfare played for the parade.
He was there. Several people stood between them, gladly their hands could not touch, and yet, he was there. The first chariots of tributes rolled down the plaza, music played, the audience reacted, but he was there. Neatly tucked into the back of her mind, his presence warmed her from the inside out, when the winds felt warmer and the sun warmed not only the ground, but her hands and face, too.
The first two Districts had been dressed in the most beautiful of clothes, and had—according to the commentators yesterday—great potential for a victory. All four of them were older, stronger, more determined, and all of them had volunteered.
The last career district was rather odd, this year around, a short girl quivering next to a boy who seemed too young, but waved at the crowd and gathered applause in return.
They went by too fast and not fast at all; outfits in varying quality, some faces that shivered from the cold weather while others stoically waved along. Some were too skinny for their outfits while others wore the utmost stunning designs, fashioning wood and leaves together, or incorporating fruits into the clothes.
Her mind was a fleeting matter, turning her head when District Eight arrived at the entrance.
Many Gamemakers had tight skin, wrapping around bones and edges of jawlines or noses, leaving valleys of cheeks behind. Some had plump lips but most lacked any creases around their eyes or wrinkles on their forehead. Virgilia looked at each, intensely, moving ever so much closer to him with every head that her view passed.
The drums counted for her.
One, Two. The next Gamemaker had dark skin and strong eyebrows. Three, Four. She stood tall among the many men around her. Five, Six. Her hands folded behind her back. Seven, Eight. She had lips painted in orange. Nine, Ten. She had not a single wrinkle.
Looking at Plutarch would grant her the same amount of time. She had not expected him to return her gaze, however, one thick brow of his raised, mouth ajar and eyes fixated on her. The drums counted, but his gaze asked questions, too many, too curious, and there was no time to decipher them.
They made it to eight before Virgilia moved her head back to the plaza, mind stumbling in comprehending what the commentators were saying, what District had entered and what seemed so special about them this year around. She had grown dizzy as if returned to the open gardens at her parent's home, the way the grass had felt underneath her naked feet, the aching of her lungs for having rushed from one side to the other and back, the way her heart had burst twirling in the lush green after having read about the princess falling in love.
But it was cold and her dizziness did not come from daisies in her hair.
She squeezed Coriolanus' hand.
Media reports about the tributes whizzed by in a matter of days. At first only their presence at the reaping and the parade, but speculation eventually extended to their scores and interviews. Caesar had hopped on stage once more and brought about new information on the tributes. Their strategies, their lives in the Districts, their hopes for the future.
She had watched live, quietly, surrounded by chatter herself, as her chest fell and rose with a terrible weight bound to it. The air smelled of excitement, of fear, and of anticipation, least to Caesar, who seemed far too small from further away, and bounced about as if he could take up the entire stage by his sheer energy.
Was it not almost pointless or cruel to offer those children a chance to talk, have the nation feel for their hopes and dreams only for them to wither away and return to the soil they once walked? Leaning closer to the cold metal railing, the stage entirely in her view, the charming District Four boy walked off stage. He had been among those raising the most speculation. A wonderful score for his age, they said, not that Virgilia knew how other tributes usually compared.
His bronze hair bounced along onto the stage and he smiled and waved as the crowd cheered on. The boy from Four did not need an interview, his sheer charm oozed into the audience within his first few steps. Caesar and him played their own music, singing like two birds in a melody that they had been born to perform. The boy was asked about home, about his strategy, about his life once he won. And it was the boy who carried the tunes with the same ease as the master of ceremonies; performing a melody of waves and beaches, of quickness and wit, and of fortune and family.
Whatever it was, the boy from Four seemed prepared. A victor, Virgilia thought, pressing her hands into the cold metal and feeling a deep curiosity surely forever to remain unanswered; what was Coriolanus thinking of such a tribute? How was Caesar feeling about such a strong interview partner? Did Plutarch see any chance for the boy to win?
"Too young," a minister to her left spoke, as the conversation behind her barely limped along to bets-to-be-made, chances of winning, and the interviews of One and Two. The words exchanged were no new insight, no knowledge passed along, it trickled along as waves in the ocean, all blurred together becoming one. Wherever she looked these days, the speculations were all but the same, the thoughts all but imitated and spread from one to the other.
It was easier, that way, she could pick up the words and string them along once more, similar thoughts, similar insights, repeated and repeated, and never needed to think for herself. It was easy. Easy to blabber along and agree that District Two had the best chances, bet on them and lean back. Not that she was allowed to bet.
They boy was charismatic with his bronze hair and sealike eyes, but he had no chance of being victorious. They said, all of them said, all of them repeated and repeated.
"He might win," Virgilia responded. The words left her in passing, a blink of an eye, a thoughtful moment and they were gone, quietly left her mind and carried into its hostile environment.
"That kid? Nonsense."
The night carried on. It repeated itself. By the next morning, a careful excitement for the boy from District Four had passed from lip to lip, chumming out a singular sentiment—hers.
The Games began in a rush. Like every year, its anthem played, she sat in an empty living room, the screen faded from black to nature, and her husband stayed nearby.
It was awfully quiet, as every year, seated on opposite ends of the couch, as the music and speculation drifted apart to give way to images of an arena that was rather familiar.
Lush greenery. The trees that grew so tall they offered shade to the cornucopia area. It left speckles of light on the tributes—those who looked about, perhaps spotting something behind the lines of the trees and finding the hiding places or long paths throughout the arena that she had noticed on the map from above.
The mechanical countdown began.
Her husband cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Virgilia's gaze tore from the trembling tribute of District Eight to her husband. His lips were freckled in red spots, blood that had torn from the skin of his lips and burst open until it had sealed off and left mere hardness behind. Today, the edges of his lips thinned out much closer than usual, pursed as if he was in thought.
No conversation, no laughter, no banter. The countdown finished, the tributes raced to and away from the cornucopia. The voices within the room came from the television as the hosts attempted to follow the events on screen.
They ran for their lives or for the hunt. Death was painted in each of their faces. Whether the light in their eyes extinguished or arose in the flow of blood through veins and across skin, bodys piled up on the grass, colouring its surrounding dirty in brown and red. They fell onto the ground, several of them, with knives or axes or arrows in chests, in throats, in bellies. Cameras moved from one to the next, fingers twitched until all life had left its muscles.
She sucked at the air and moved in her seat.
The Games were a necessity, it's what they always said, its viewing mandatory, they reminded every citizen.
The obligation didn't make it any easier.
"How do you… how do you like the arena?" Virgilia asked. The cameras had begun to pan out, granting hints to the wider area, and she wiped at her reddened cheeks.
His head jolted at the new source of sound. The white jawline clenched underneath its beard, head tilted but gaze remained steady on the scenery ahead.
Another tribute had run further away. Her shoulders squeezed between a larger tree, chest heavily raising and falling as her red cheeks pushed for air. Trembling fingers clasped a bottle of water close as another tribute approached.
The scream was her end.
"I … I heard rumours that—that it's an island," Virgilia added "Speculation… mostly."
With a visible sound, much quieter than the noises on the television yet ringing louder in her ears, his hand slid over the fabric of the dark rose-patterned coat.
When the ice blue eventually moved to face her, penetrating her very skin, her bones, as if he could read her deepest thoughts and see right through her rush of worry, she regretted the attempts.
His voice was slick, filled with so much allure that it almost sounded nice, but she knew better. He spoke, and Virgilia rather he did not. "I never took you for someone who cared for the Games."
Her lips pulled into a thin line. She hastened her pace and stumbled over a quick "I'm sorry."
For the first time that year, the cannons sounded off.
The first tribute to reach the beaches had been the fiery boy from District 10. The wind ruffled through his brown hair, blowing salt into his face and tainting the sand red no twenty four hours later. The cannon sounded during midday when Virgila had returned upstairs, the television on her desk still on, and a basket of flowers was cut to fit into a vase.
According to the hosts, the career alliance fell apart faster than anticipated. The first career, a burly girl from District One, fell a mere four days after the start of the Games when she slipped into one of the caves and the tribute she had hunted rushed to safety before the system flooded. Virgilia had returned from her book to the golden items on her desk and continued with the earrings she had dedicated herself to while the Games lasted.
He did not immediately come to her mind. The horror of the Games had to be separate from the man whose fingers she had touched. Those very same that announced the death of the children. He had been soft to touch. But, as far too often, he returned to her.
She had slipped her gloves on, felt the inside of the dark fabric, and thought back to the face painted both in its own freckles and the blue lights from the map. The boy from Four was still alive and Virgilia wanted, no, needed to know his thoughts on the odds. They had to be good, if only she wanted them to be.
—
The floods through underground caverns had begun to affect the nighttimes most staggeringly. Tributes waking up with their clothes soaked, rushing to escape only to drown in the cave or wander aimlessly through the night without any possessions to be surprised by any nocturnal enemies.
The cannon had sounded a twelfth time within a week as the sun set outside of Virgilia's window and inside the arena. Only that her feet were dry, perched onto the couch in her living quarters and wrapped into a blanket.
The shocking death, scary down to her bones, had been masked through the cameras, the stories the hosts told themselves, the necessity for the victorious party. Not unlike her books, plots were followed through of brave children and the necessary evil, of homecomings and the grief it meant for others, of feasts and gifts and friendships and betrayal.
They lingered, those stories, in the crowds that Virgilia and her husband had passed in the Capitol, eyes stuck to the screen rather than the presidential family. Their stories, each tribute, were worth telling, even if only to remember them beyond their death. Unnecessary killings for an unnecessary evil. If not for the sake of the people, then for the sake of the children whose deaths were otherwise forgotten, were they not? Or were those stories of victories alone, the names of the dead buried underneath a triumphant smile?
The screen changed to the small girl from District 10, by sheer luck survived until this day, clasped her blanket closer around her chin, fear written into her face.
How could her story be forgotten, unwritten? Virgilia tugged at her own blanket, hoping her death would be quick and painless.
A thud.
Not on screen.
The squeak was accidental; covering her mouth and pushing her legs to her chest was not.
"Virgilia—?" it sounded through the entrance, door handle pushing down and light flooding the darkened room. With the exception of a few smaller lights, Virgilia had been dipped in darkness, curled onto the couch and watching the horror unfold on screen. Moonlight from the other side shyly reached across, but did not sustain against the warm hallway and the large shadow.
"Why are you sitting in all that darkness?" Gratia asked and flipped the switch.
The ceiling lights turned on and the thoughts were gone with them.
"Isn't … I thought this was how one is supposed to watch those," Virgilia said and rubbed at her eyes.
"I don't think so." Gratia's steps alternated between hitting the loud wooden floor and the muffled carpet. She turned a smaller light on before flipping the switch once more. Her eyebrows raised. "Many go to watch parties."
Virgilia continued before Gratia could. "Security risk."
"... which is a securi—yes."
Her palace agent sat at the edge of the two-seater couch. Her usual crease, right where the edge of a smile sat, came and left. The hint of sympathy. There were few who understood the golden cage with its elaborate gardens, wonderful meals, and large space to move within. But freedom stretched thin when one tested its boundaries.
"Why—why did you knock?"
"Uhh—" Entirely dressed in black, the pieces of paper which contained a folded together schedule, stuck out like a sore thumb "-mostly to remind you of the security change next week."
"Oh," Virgilia replied and pretended to look interested.
"How about … I will keep it here and you can look at it some other time?" Gratia said, flatly, and likely equally as thrilled, Virgilia liked to imagine. She didn't let it on, but who could truly be excited about administrative details at and around the mansion?
She nodded, and saw her agent back onto her feet, slipping away from her. Like many good ideas, this one was equally as spontaneous: "Maybe… If you would like to… you could stay? Two is a watch party, is—is it not?"
The sleek hair turned back around. She didn't like to imagine pity in her expression, and rather decided to believe that Gratia knew her better than to feel that pity. No, it seemed friendlier than that, like the blooming florals in spring, popping from underneath the surface and realising they weren't alone in their pursuit.
"You will have to give me a recap on the past days."
For the first time in her life, the rundown of the Hunger Games seemed as familiar as her morning tea. At first the tragic death of the District 9 and 11 children who had teamed up, then the separation of the Career girl from 1, the recent floodings that had almost drowned several tributes, and the District 3 boy who had survived at the beaches by trapping the crabs.
The cannon blared through the speakers.
District 10. The girl.
Blood streamed across her face and dripped onto the cold grass floor as her eyes stared on. It was a fuzzy feeling, the gut-wrenching loss of someone she didn't know—someone who had been certain to die from the start according to the commentators. The two eyes, freckled with green and brown, only appeared for a mere moment, but as if all light came from there, they stuck in her vision, a shadow wherever Virgilia looked.
It sounded hollow. The cannons counted each time, the many dead. It seemed almost too gruesome to excitedly count down, and yet—
"Ladies and Gentleman, our next tribute has fallen. We are at Eleven now with the last departure being—"
They had moved to the hovercraft that flew into the dark night sky, interrupted briefly by the electric buzz from the arena's borders. Did they close her freckled eyes?
The gruesome darkness and its lingering presence, haunting to its core, had disappeared with the table lamp. The light had transported her back into reality, bringing back the distance between her and the television, almost as if it all had been staged. Its tension was not real, its events were a hoax. If Virgilia didn't know any better, the Games could easily fit into the rest of the entertainment program. As if, somehow, it compared to talent shows.
"Who is your favourite?" Virgilia asked, gladly tearing her eyes off of the screen.
"I don't think I've seen enough to know." Gratia leaned forward and reached for an empty glass. "What about you?"
The boy from Four, she almost answered. But she knew his chances. The commentators repeated often enough that no one that young had won the Games before. His death was expected, surely turning into a media spectacle, and he was forgotten about by everyone except his family in District Four. They buried them, that much she learned. Yet, despite all those around her insisting that the tributes would feel honoured, Virgilia could not imagine the same being true for the parents. How many tears were spilled in District 10 just now?
If anyone could understand the chances, it surely would be Gratia. "I—I know it's… he's not going to win, but the boy from Four. Wouldn't it be nice if he… becomes victorious?"
"Who's that again?"
"Youngest of the group… tall for his—his age… he's got a sword," Virgilia said.
"Vee…" Gratia began with a sigh. Her hands tightened enough for her knuckles to poke through. She sighed in the way that someone would in telling her about a cancelled event or a deceased minister. As if to shield her from any shape of disappointment or loss.
She hummed in return and pretended to be awfully unaware of the similarities in vocal tone.
Gratia's nose had scrunched. "Those aren't great chances exactly."
"I know," Virgilia said and nodded along. They weren't, but she decided not to tell Gratia about the sponsors behind the boy. Maybe it hadn't been her doing at all.
Instead, the Games continued without a moment of mourning, continuing the spectacle as if the girl's passing had been temporary, never to be seen again but safely returned to her District.
Virgilia pulled at the blanket, tugged herself in deeper and looked past the television.
"When… When did they last win?" She asked and hastily added "District Four, I mean."
There was silence, but not one of discomfort. It did not press onto her chest, drilled her lungs and mind to produce something. No thoughts half-finished had to disturb the quiet. No, Gratia thought to herself. Her lips had pursed in a way that her chin scrunched. Her view had lifted upward as if the ceiling revealed information that they both lacked.
When her gaze came down, her eyes were clouded as if she wasn't all there. And she was not, Gratia smiled to herself as her voice grew lighter. She spoke with a smile around her lips: "I don't remember exactly. More than ten years. I think I was still in training back then."
"What? Before—Before you knew me?" Virgilia asked. Her legs moved away from facing the television as she curled into the side of the couch.
The chuckle was harsh, shaking away the clouds and firmly returning her to what was. Gratia shook her head. "People usually know you, Vee. It's hard to miss out on Presidential news."
"Then when—You know what I mean."
"Oh, I know. It was before we met. Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of making sure you don't run into trouble," Gratia said. Her breath pushed from her lungs, through her nose, and into a snorted laugh. A smile perched at the edges of her lips. "Or trouble runs into you."
"What was it like, actually?"
Virgilia perched up, the blanket moving along, and turned her legs enough to face her friend. Head leaned into the sofa, as she stared upward, awaiting a good story and a wonderful adventure, not unlike the stories her nanny used to tell her. Except, Gratia was not going to tug her in at night—probably not.
However, confusion painted its waves on Gratia's forehead. She shaped her lips in a question, but Virgilia was faster than that.
"The training, that is," Virgilia added.
There was the quietness again. Interrupted only through the occasional noise on television. A host's laugh, a tribute's conversation, an arena's buzz.
"It teaches you a lot. Good and bad," Gratia paused, her lips tight together. She hesitated before speaking again, moving her lips several times in a means of beginning to speak, but stopping shortly after. "It's a lot about discipline and following commands. Many snobby Capitol children who got into debt. Very few—like me—who wanted to join freely. In the end, I could choose and I didn't want to go there. I couldn't imagine myself there. So I stayed."
"And became a palace agent?" Virgilia followed up, quickly, her upper body moving forward and a grin plastered on her face.
"No, that came later. I was a city guard first, those that—"
"That's quite the parachute!" The host howled.
They cheered along as the parachute made its way downward and landed by the side of a tribute. His bronze hair was painted in a night's blue, but Virgilia knew who he was alright. Finnick Odair moved close to the parachute and began to open its metal enclosure.
"Is this—a trident?!" One of the commentators said, but their voice was not one of mere disbelief. They seemed to hold their breath, a tense chest looking between the camera and something behind. "Ladies… Ladies and Gentleman. This might be, yes, I am hearing this correctly through my earpiece just now, this will go into Hunger Games history. It's among the most expensive sponsor gifts a tribute has ever received!" They paused and eyes stared past the camera. "Do we know who is the sponsor? — No? Well… ahem… certainly, Finnick Odair from District Four is more than thankful for that gift. The Games just turned around in his favour!"
As if he knew what was being said, Finnick raised the trident up high and grinned toward a camera.
Lowering the trident, the District Four boy looked between his new weapon and the group he had been with. A mischievous gleam was written on his cheeks.
"Isn't he your favourite?" Gratia asked.
"Yes," Virgilia replied.
"Maybe you were right about him."
A/N: Just a brief info for readers who have been here a while. I did indeed change Grace's name to Gratia. She's a borrowed original character from a friend from an entirely different fandom and I always had the want to HG-ify her name. So I finally did the step :) Just a FYI!