Willow Rise
Mentor, District Seven
Victor of the 17th Hunger Games
Poplar trees line the square, standing guard. Long, and slender, they stand tall in a cloudless sky. I think elsewhere, they're used to line roads, or paths; poplar trees usually lead places. In Seven, they squeeze us in close together, shadowed from the rest of the district – from the people no longer eligible for The Reaping. A big screen is mounted on each side of the square from the outside, and it's here the families of the twelve to eighteens wait. It makes interference more troublesome, as peacekeepers stand shoulder to shoulder in the gaps between tree trunks. Each is part of a pair; one stands with a rifle facing out, and one stands with a rifle facing in.
Just in case.
I'm used to the claustrophobia; I'm comfortable enough with enclosed spaces that I can just focus on the protection the trees give from the sun. In spite of the creams and lotions The Capitol ships in each month, my skin isn't too resilient outdoors. I wear a big floppy sunhat and some violet sunglasses on the long walk into town, but they're soon confiscated and held hostage by Xenia, who slides a purple-feathered headband into my long braided hair, and pats me on the shoulder lightly with a single pea green hand.
"Head up, child" she says, not altogether unkindly.
Xenia was my escort, but we've never been close; she was always more fond of Maple. The District was fonder of Maple. The Capitol was fonder of Maple. The Tributes from Nine and Ten that allied with Maple were certainly fonder of him than they ever were of me. They decided on a group alliance, and although Maple half-heartedly offered to talk to them on my behalf, I declined. Carrying out my plan surrounded by other Tributes who were fond of Maple would have been near impossible. Best-case scenario, I could have hoped to get away with a few non-life threatening injuries. Worst-case scenario, I wouldn't have gotten away at all.
I sigh, and smooth out my already perfectly smooth silver skirt. Tucked into it is a matching silver shirt that ripples round my neck and back, creating a nice little cushion for my braid, lost somewhere in the waves. I climb the stairs with care, one foot at a time. My heels are violet, like the contact lenses I was advised to wear today, and they're a little too high for my liking. I don't risk a look either side. I know what's stuck standing there staring at me: every single eligible child in District Seven. Somewhere among them, the two tributes I'll be forced to mentor this year. Neither will be glad I'm all they've got, and I wish I could help the fact that I'm all they have. I never meant to win; I just wanted justice for Finch.
Maple begged when I found him hanging upside down in a trap I'd set up before sunset on the very first day. He gasped when his eyes opened to find my pink ones a few feet from his; he didn't even hear me coming. He didn't crane his head or strain to see the rest of me – pink eyes meant Willow, and Willow meant a way out. Maple cried as he asked me to cut him free – to save him. He was so relieved to see me, he cried. He didn't notice the falchion grasped tight in my left hand. He didn't see the knuckles turned white, like the rest of our arena.
My chest feels tight as I find my seat on the stage, and look out into a sea of pinched, hungry faces. We're not as well off as the Career Districts, but we're certainly not skin and bones like some of the Tributes I've seen come out of Twelve. We could afford a volunteer. We could train the stronger boys to step in and replace boys younger than fifteen if they were reaped; we should.
But manners only stretch so far. No one here will listen to anything I've got to say. After all, I killed Maple in cold blood. At fifteen, I wasn't strong enough to decapitate a fully-grown boy; I doubt I could manage it now. I wrapped two freezing hands around a hilt intended for one, and hacked. I hacked, and hacked till his head lay in a pile of snow stained by blood squirting out of the place his head should be.
I cleaned my short sword in the snow, and only stopped to turn around and call him a coward before the hovercraft came to collect the two separate parts that Maple will forever be.
"Attention, attention!"
Maple was sixteen when his brother was reaped for the 15th Hunger Games.
"Citizens of District Seven, I welcome you in honour of The Capitol to the 23rd Annual Hunger Games!"
I reach up for the tail of my braid, and un-tuck it from a particularly rippled sheet of silver fabric by my left shoulder. I grip it tight, and lift my head to glare at the Mayor as he delivers the opening speech.
Finch was only twelve.
It should have been Maple.
"Let me introduce our escort Xenia Frost, now in her tenth year of mentoring District Seven Tributes, and of course, our Victor Willow Rise, Champion of the 17th Hunger Games!"
The response as always is subdued, but as instructed, my chin stays up.
Maple didn't die in the 15th Hunger Games, but I got him all the same two years later.
"Are we ready?" shouts the mayor.
Ashby Calk
Female Tribute, District Seven
Rift is burning a hole in my brain, even here, fenced in by the stupid guard trees. His golden hair is no less gold in the half-light of the square; I can see him talking to Shear, and my tummy does a flip I didn't give it permission for. Cherry elbows me in the ribs and gives me a knowing look. Caught by Cherry is an all time low. I love her, sure, but she's not super aware of her surroundings. I must be painfully obvious today.
I make a great show of turning my head away from the eighteens, and focus my eyes on the patch of chestnut hair belonging to the girl in front of me. I'm not tall enough to see above her, and the seventeens are packed so densely I don't stand much of a chance of wiggling around either side to catch a glimpse of our mayor, or escort, or victor in the flesh. They've got a better view outside, on one of the massive screens suspended halfway up the poplar fence.
A ripple of nervous fidgeting makes its way through the crowd, starting at the front. By my reasoning, that means Xenia is making her way to the mayor to take his microphone, and begin The Reaping proper. My stomach swoops, and my heart speeds up, but none of it is Rift's fault. Not right now.
My name is in there twelve times. It should be in there only six, but I had to take tesserae for Shear, when she was sick and couldn't work. Twelve slips is not so bad; I definitely have plenty of friends with names in more times than that. But today, reasoning is some sort of alien bird perched high in a tree out of reach. Today, twelve slips feels like more than enough for one to find its way into Xenia's light green hands.
"Ladies first, shall we?"
I stretch up on my tiptoes to see one of those light green hands dip down into the light green bowl holding all the names for eligible girls in Seven. Without a conscious thought, or command, I find myself flat-footed against the hard brown soil a moment later. The last thing I see before I'm back stuck staring at the head of the girl in front of me, is a light green hand swiping a single slip from the side of the bowl, and dragging it up to the lip to pull it free.
"Our female Tribute, Ashby Calk!"
The name, my name rings out across the square, and is cut short by the wall of trees all around us. Ashby Calk. I'm Ashby Calk. That's me.
Cherry's hands are on me, squeezing, almost tearing at the fabric of my thin cotton smock.
Then everything goes dark around me.
Leyland Folly
Male Tribute, District Seven
A silver streak is making its way through the crowd to the poor girl that just passed out in the seventeens. The pocket of uncomfortable girls that opens up around her gives a better view of the girl, and of Willow swooping down to check on her. She talks briefly with the only girl lingering on the fringe of the circle, probably a friend, and they work quietly for what feels like sixty years. Really, it's probably just shy of sixty seconds.
I'm not sure what happens there on the ground, but by the time peacekeepers are clearing a path to the stage, Willow has Ashby up and walking slowly but independently to the front of the crowd. The pocket of space around the feinting girl closes back up; her friend is somewhere in there now without her.
Willow won five years ago when I was ten. I wasn't allowed to watch all of The Games then; mom used to shield me from the bloodier bits by wedging my head between a sofa seat, and a handheld cushion. But Blade and I had been running rooftops since we were eight, and had found an almost comfy one with nice sturdy shingles on top of the butcher's business in town. It was shielded by the breeze, and had an uninterrupted view of the screen on the north-facing side of the poplar square. We went there to split up our stash of fruit and vegetables we'd swiped from the markets in town, we went there to copy each other's homework before class the next day, and we went there to talk when his father beat him, and sometimes his mother too.
The District was not so quietly optimistic about our chances that year. Both of our Tributes made it out of the bloodbath, and the one we were all pinning our hopes on was part of a bigger alliance – all but the girl from Nine made it out and away in one piece. So that night, Blade and I snuck out to meet at our secret spot after bedtime. When the head of Maple's alliance ordered they all take a task for the night, Maple got watch; choosing one tribute instead of a pair was proven a major mistake.
Blade wasn't too worried; Maple was huge, Maple was eighteen, and Maple was carrying an axe he knew how to use.
"He's going to die", I'd said.
Blade, confused, turned his head to argue with me.
That's when Willow's snare found Maple's ankle, and hoisted him up into the sky, away from the axe he knew how to use.
Xenia turns to check we're good to continue when Willow seats herself, keeping a watchful eye on Ashby, who to her credit, is still standing when Xenia makes her way to the other light green bowl on the other side of the stage.
A familiar feeling unfolds in my stomach, and runs like cold water down my arms and legs, pooling like ice in my fingers and toes.
'I'm going to die', I think.
"Blade Sycamore!"
'Ok – he's going to die', I think.
Blade is exactly five foot tall.
Blade doesn't pay attention to his surroundings.
Blade is the only thing his mother's got.
"I volunteer!" I shout.
Well, I guess I'm going to die after all.
