Cashmere had always been told the first year of being a mentor was the hardest. Coming straight off your high of victory just to be left sitting ringside. Helpless for the first time without the weapon being in your own hands. No longer a champion outside of the arena. They were trained for the games, not what came after. No one prepared them for life after their victory.
She knew this year would be hard, however, she never expected to be breaking down as if someone she had known her whole life had died when she lost her first tribute. A girl of eighteen who was not but a few months younger than she was. A year ago the girl would have been her peer, but today she held part of the responsibility for the girl's demise. Watching it on that screen she was utterly helpless, there was nothing she could do to save her. All she could do was watch as the girl took her final breath, struggling for air and clutching the fatal wound across her chest. Cashmere wanted to look away but she couldn't. The other victors had looked away moments ago but her gaze was stuck on the fading tribute.
Going into it she knew she wouldn't be able to save them all but she had a feeling the first time would be a win. Gloss received a victor his first time as a mentor. He saved her. Her first year should have been a win. Her pulse was racing. This wasn't right.
The game makers seemed to want to replay the death of the golden-haired girl on the screen over and over again. The first career tribute had fallen. It was the first death that affected the expected outcome of the game. After the death of a career, odds shifted greatly, and betting was rapid. This would be a death that people talked about, unlike the quick snippets of violence that accompanied the bloodbath. In the eyes of the elite, this death actually meant something.
More so it was as if the gamemakers were trying to prove to the first-time mentor that while she was one of the strong, she was utterly powerless against them. As much as she tried, she couldn't save her tribute. Or maybe she was just a grief-stricken girl who let things that shouldn't bother her do just such. The replay was likely just a dramatic effect to allow people to cheer a little longer as their favorite tribute became closer to victory.
What little she had eaten that morning was threatening to come back up. Bile rose in her throat, the acidity burning as it made its way up, only to be swallowed back down. She failed. She was drawing blood on the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. The metallic taste meets her tongue, reminding her to stay focused. The tears would come as soon as she was alone. When she no longer had to keep up appearances. For now, she was a heartless victor who had lost a faulty piece that was unable to do what it took to win. There was nothing for her to mourn, except perhaps a lost opportunity. The tribute didn't matter anymore, or at least shouldn't have. Winners were the only ones who needed to be remembered.
When they went back home she'd still see the girl's family at times. Never wanting to fully make eye contact with them again. She could hide in the confines of victor village but that could only last for so long. Eventually, she'd have to face her failures head-on. She had to be ready when the cameras flashed for the victory tour and the families were put on podiums as this year's victor was shown off in every district. It would be a stark reminder of her shortcomings. A family whose child she couldn't bring home, and a victor she couldn't produce. It was months away but she was dreading it already.
She knew she'd fail at one point but she never expected that failure would come so early. The second year of mentoring should have been her first taste of defeat. When she was already established and knew she had what it took to succeed on that side of the games. Not just as an extension of a weapon where the games were a simple game of life and death. Instead, she was left to wonder if her tribute might have survived with a more experienced victor. She couldn't help but think that it would have made a difference. With better guidance, her tribute might still have been alive. She failed them.
It was easier to blame herself than to realize how helpless she really was. To find shortcomings than to realize futility. Hurt was better than helpless, or so she believed. She could still hope to become a better mentor, there was no hope regarding being a pawn of the Capitol. They owned her and the other victors, and that would never change. So she blamed herself instead of her situation.
She excused herself from the viewing room, she no longer had a reason to watch the games this year. Gloss didn't need her assistance, and frankly, she wasn't in a position to give it. She was one harsh word from losing her demeanor. Her heels clicked on the tile floor as she made her way to the elevator. Her name was called a few times on her trip back to her room, by Capitol citizens who wanted a picture or something more from her. She smiled and told an excuse, they'd be her problem again soon enough. As the previous year's victor she was still a novelty. The Capitol's darling.
They were right when they said the first loss was the hardest. She barely made it back to the room before she broke down. Crumbling as the rest of the Capitol was intent on finding a victor. The week would be hard, but she would learn a valuable lesson. To never become that attached again. She had allowed herself to feel and hope too much to have a tribute that made it out alive. It was a line that she would never cross again.
The victory went to a bronze-haired boy of only fourteen from district four. Looking at him she knew she'd be seeing him on the worst days. Another pretty thing added to the collection. It was the first time she realized that victor was the wrong word to describe what they really were. They were merely survivors.