The room where Clarke sat was decorated with a patterned wallpaper and plush, velvet furniture; luxuries that could not be afforded in most houses in the district. She picked at a thread on a cushion by her side, smiling slightly as it unravelled. If she could, she would destroy the whole room, tear apart the ugly, maroon furnishings and scrape the walls with her nails until the paper hung off in curls. The table in front her looked as if it could use a good cleave too.
It was ridiculous, she knew her District was one of the wealthiest, she wasn't stupid. And yet no one she knew ever had as much money as people seemed to think they had. Clarke had always eaten well and her home was comfortable, the same as her friends and neighbours, but their homes were plain and the food tasteless. She was lucky to be born into District One, she knew, she wasn't starving, or homeless, or impoverished. But to call it wealthy was a gross exaggeration.
There were parts of One where people starved the same as in the poor Districts, but they never showed those parts on television. And the idea that they might get to keep the luxury items they worked on was preposterous. A boy at Clarke's school had been shot for stealing once. It became less common after that.
She drummed her fingers against the table in agitation when pulling threads had lost its excitement and Clarke remembered painfully why she was in the lavish room. To say her goodbyes.
Soon after Wells had been named the male tribute for District One and the audience had given the customary applause, he and Clarke had been marched off stage and inside the city hall where they were each placed in a room to wait for their loved ones. Clarke was certain she would only have the one visitor; her mother. Her father had died when she was very young, and she was an only child, so her mother was the only family she had. Clarke hoped her mother would be alright when she was...gone. Hoped that she would carry on and eventually live out her days happily. Perhaps she would get remarried, to Wells's father, Clarke was no fool, she had seen them exchanging looks over the years. At least then they would both have someone to share the burden of their grief with.
Clarke frowned to the empty room at her pessimism. She wanted to believe that she could make it out of the games alive, she wanted it badly. And she wanted Wells to live even more, but it was a fool's hope. The winner was nearly always from District Two; their tributes received special training since they were children and volunteered at eighteen when they stood the best chance. There were people in One who treated the games the same way as Two, treated them as a matter of honour rather than slaughter, but Clarke was not one of those people.
She was short and small, and although well-fed, her frame was curved, not muscular. She had no skill with a weapon, nor in hand to hand combat, and she wasn't even particularly fast. She might be able to outrun some of the other tributes, but none who were specifically good runners.
Her only real skill was her knowledge of medicine. She supposed that at least would come in handy, it may even keep her alive. Clarke's mother ran the apothecary in their town and had been training Clarke as an apprentice healer since Clarke was eight years old. Now, at seventeen, Clarke was almost good enough to take over her mother's work. She knew how to treat all sorts of wounds; burns, cuts and bruises; she knew how to soothe a fever or ease a virus; and she had been changing bandages since she was a girl. Some of the healing was done with medicine from the capitol, but much of it was still done with herbs and plants. Those skills would help her, she knew, but it didn't ease the churning in her stomach. If only she had some form of medicine for that, but nothing could remove her fear.
She spared a thought for Wells in his room down the hall. She hated him for his stupidity, for his need to be chivalrous and offer himself up to protect her. It was a valiant act they couldn't afford and it may well cost him his life. She hated him for bringing a new pressure to the games, for doubling her fear. And she hated him for making her feel so guilty. But she loved him, and a selfish part of her was glad that he would be with her. She didn't think she could do it on her own.
Clarke and Wells had been friends since they could toddle and he was the only friend she had ever cared to need. He was a good man, a kind man, and he was fiercely over-protective of Clarke. Often it had irritated her and they ended up having numerous spats, where Clarke wouldn't talk to him for days and Wells would apologise profusely until eventually, she gave in. She knew his feelings for her extended beyond friendship, they had even shared a kiss or two on occasion; Clarke loved him, but she wasn't in love. She didn't want him for a lover and she didn't want his death on her hands. Why did you have to volunteer, Wells? Why, why?
Clarke dropped her head into her hands, pressing her palms into her eye sockets until she could see blinks of light popping in the darkness. She wanted him there, she wanted the security of his hand in hers, or his warmth at night, but it was stupid. He was going to die. They were both going to die. A sob escaped her and she clenched down hard on her lip to contain it as the door slammed open.
"Clarke!" Her mother burst through the door with a wild look in her eyes. She had tear tracks on her cheeks and Clarke knew it was bad, her mother never cried.
"Mum!" She stood up to meet her embrace, clutching her tightly when they fell into one another's arms. Her mother smelt safe and familiar, the scents of herbs and antiseptic reached Clarke's nose as they wafted from her mother's hair and clothes. She felt warm in Clarke's arms, but the woman's tears wet the shoulder of Clarke's shirt.
After a moment's embrace, she pulled back sharply to look her daughter in the eye. Abbey Griffin was a strong woman and the tears that reddened her skin had dried up around her eyes as she gripped Clarke by the shoulders. Clarke felt her face contort in pain and fear as Abbey clutched her and looked over her sternly.
"You can do this, Clarke, you can win. I know you can," Clarke began to shake her head but Abbey cut her off. "You're smart, and brave, and you know all about healing. You've spent your whole life watching the games; you know that healing injuries properly can be the difference between life and death."
"Some injuries can't be healed. I'm not good enough to fight them, Mum," Clarke wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
"You are, I know you are. You'll have a chance to train, learn how to use a weapon, you already know your plants," she looked over her daughter with large brown eyes. The two women didn't look alike; Abbey always said that Clarke looked like her father with her golden hair and blue eyes, whereas Abbey's eyes and hair were dark. They were of a similar mind though, both women were strong and stubborn; Clarke hoped that might help her in the arena. Once she had set her mind to something, she made damn sure she got it; she'd just have to set her mind on living. She tried to ignore what that meant for Wells or else she'd drown in guilt.
"You really think I could win?" She bit her lip as she looked at her mother and their eyes locked, dark and light.
"I know it," Abbey said firmly before she pulled her daughter in for another hug. The door banged open once more as a peacekeeper barged in to tell Clarke that her allotted goodbye time was up.
"I love you Mum, I love you so much," Clarke cried out frantically as she grabbed at her mother's shirt, as if that would keep her there.
"I love you more, Clarke, don't forget! I love you baby, my sweet little girl," She pressed a kiss to Clarke's tear stained cheek and then the guards were pulling her away and the rest of her goodbyes were lost as she was dragged back into the hall. Clarke was alone again.
She slapped her cheeks hastily and rubbed at her eyes, she couldn't cry anymore. Not now. People would be waiting at the train station to see what she was made of; they wanted a brave young woman, not a scared little girl. Clarke took a deep breath and combed her hair through with her fingers, trying to figure out which one of those she was.