A/N: My first tribute. Won't be my last, though. Feel free to make suggestions on who I should write next. And review, please!
I do not own the Hunger Games or its characters
Glimmer Orrick
My cousin, Dagda, volunteered when I was fourteen. He was handsome and strong, the perfect image of a Victor. My father patted him fondly on the back and my grandmother winked knowingly at the cameras that have always loved her. She is a legend, the first of several Orricks to move to the Victor's Village.
When the dam broke and the mad girl won, my family turned off our television and closed the blinds. They mourned, not for him, but for lost opportunities. My mother gave a bitter laugh when I cried. On a humid summer morning, Dagda was buried without ceremony or honor. I was given the only remaining vestige of him: a small gemstone that came back with his body.
I turned eighteen two weeks before my last Reaping. My parents never hid their impatience; they had been waiting on me for more than three years. This was my last chance to bring respect back to the Orricks. Redemption. They didn't know, couldn't know, that I was relieved this was my final year before I moved behind the rope, that every time I watch the Games, I am reminded of Dagda, of the disgraceful way he was forgotten; no one ever remembers a drowned boy.
When my name is called, no one volunteers. I am an Orrick, after all. The only thing I can take with me is my surname. And a spike dipped in pokewood juice, hidden in Dagda's gemstone. I will not be forgotten. I will be eternal.