The Crone

AN: Sorry it's a short one. Also, I have no idea how Yoda's sister turned up here.


"Goddamnit, Klerkov!"

I've never broken glass before. In District 6, it's a precious commodity. Our house has just one window, and a small one at that, a garbled mixture of green and blue bottle ends my father fixed up for my mother after the last of my four sisters died to let the sun into our gloomy lives. The Victor's Village is full of it, of course, because the Capitol can foot the heating bill.

For the rest of us, the wood is rationed.

But the tinkering sound is musical, if unfamiliar. I pick up another heavy object and hurl it into one of the few mirrors Avitus' rampage left unbroken. It too shatters into sharp, splintery shards. My chest rises and falls in a satisfied sigh.

Xavier Malcovitch cowers behind the Avox girls. "Petra-" Tasha Pushkina begins, but Cinna Raelius waves her off.

"Feel better?" He asks.

I glare at him. "Damn straight. I prefer my mirrors broken, anyway." If I have to die, at least now I don't have to go with a reminder of my awful face. Baba Yaga Anglovna, the boys called me as a child, Angelovna the hag. Some of them still do.

…did. The drunks in the taverns as well. Victor Ivan Klerkov was hardly the first to try to fondle me. He was, however, the least affronting.

"Your Mentor's cutting it fairly close," he continues, gesturing to his gold pocketwatch.

"We hadn't noticed, Raelius." Tasha states drily. "If you're just going to stand around antagonizing my Tributes, at least make yourself useful."

"What, design something?" He snorts. "Pushkina, I'm flattered. But I'm only an Apprentice."

"You're also an asshole," I say, just loud enough so he can hear me.

His green and gold-flecked eyes hold mine, bemused. "You have an insult for everyone, don't you? Even those who might help you."

"Yeah, so?" I snarl.

"It's fascinating," Cinna continues boredly. "Petra Angelovna, you couldn't hold your tongue to save your life."

"I'll do more than hold your tongue if you don't shut up," I growl, pacing the glass-strewn floor in those lambskin slippers. "So shove it."

"And here I thought you District women were all oppressed and trained to be sweet, silent little ladies," he continues. "Clearly I'm behind the times."

"Do I look like a lady to you?" I glower.

"No," he returns sharply. "You look like a man."

But far from stinging, it only goads me further. "That makes one of us."

"Oh for Games' sake just stop it!" Tasha Pushkina shrieks, painted on eyebrows rising to dangerous heights. "Both of you! You're bickering like children!"

There's a moment of shocked silence as her voice echoes through the chamber. The green and gold-flecked eyes of Marcus—Cinna, I mentally kick myself—Raelius find mine again. "Do you want to tell her to butt out, or should I?" He asks with a sly grin.

"Don't you dare," I bristle. "My Escort. My Games. My rules." Anyone who sees otherwise can just go and fuck themselves.


There's a solemn click as the lock on those great doors begins to turn. Instantly we stand, all eyes riveted to that engrossing entry-way, waiting for our first glimpse of Klerkov's mysterious Stylist. Even Cry-baby seems intrigued. For a moment we stare, speechless, as his great frame fills those doors. He's alone.

…Oh, fuck.

But something's off. My eyes are wrong. There's a slow, steady tapping sound growing closer and closer, and Klerkov stands aside, deferring to the darkness behind him. Now I know why it's taken him so long to return.

She's tiny, frail, child-like next to his enormous bulk of muscle, armor, and the fat of 25 years of drunkenness. Unbelievably old, impossibly ancient, cat-like hands gnarled beyond recognition grasping her bone-handled cane. But Tiberia—it must be her, Tasha Pushkina is crying silently—Tiberia is not weak by any means. She stands on her two feet unaided, her spine straight and stiff. Her whiskered face is sagged and faded, but the now-silvered fur of tiger-stripes still remains. Green, slitted eyes glint fiercely beneath those thinning brows. She sniffs the air hungrily.

We're speechless. Even Cinna Raelius has nothing to say in her presence. Avitus demanded attention and respect with his pompous antics, Tiberia's silence simply commands it so. She takes us all in, feline eyes roaming over each of us in turn, resting finally on Xavier Malcovitch. He stares back, unafraid.

"She has the spirit?" Her voice is grating, throaty, and harsh.

"Yes, yes, babushka," Klerkov rushes, beckoning me frantically as the spell is seemingly broken. "Here is your champion."

"Come, girl." Tiberia commands with an inpatient tap of her cane, stretching out those withered hands. "Let me see you."

It's only when she places those leathery palms and claws against the flesh of my face that I realize the awful truth: my Stylist is blind.


Tiberia senses our doubt. "I am old, not inept," she addresses Tasha. "The eyes are weak. The eyes are deceptive, they cannot be trusted. It is with our eyes we see shadows and believe things advance in the dark. I was once blind, as you are. Now I see."

"It is not the sight," she croaks. "it is the feel. Not the outfit that makes the Tribute, not the Games that make the Victor, but the heart that fuels the champion." She says to Cinna. "Do you understand, boy?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Then know so. Become so, else you are nothing. You work is nothing. The outfit does not matter. It cannot matter. What matters is the heart. If that heart is weak, the most skilled hands cannot save it. We do not dress, we undress. Do not create, but reveal."

To me she is direct. "Are you a champion, girl?"

Do or do not, there is no try. Here there is only win or die. Klerkov's words. I can't afford to be anything less. "Yes."

"Then it is enough," her harsh voice approves. "Tiberia will reveal you. Go, rest. I have no need for you here now."

"It's not enough," I place my hands on my hips. "Who did you bring for Malcovitch?" I demand of Klerkov.

"Even the most foolish can confound the wise, perhaps they are the only who can. It is from the mouth of babes and children that even the greatest of empires will meet their fall. He is dressed," Tiberia states with solemn finality, laying those weathered paws in Cry-baby's curls. "He is dressed."

She's either a prophet or a certifiable nutcase. Or perhaps, Petra, she's just senile. Out of the mouth of babes, indeed, Tiberia. Xavier Malcovitch doesn't speak.


"I'm not an idiot, Klerkov," I insist once we're well out of earshot.

My Mentor shrugs. "I agree."

"You called her babushka," I press. "Grandmother."

He turns to me, face unreadable. "Yes."

"Why?"

He is silent, but I would have him answer."Tasha Pushkina said her grandson was in the Arena with you."

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad and low, even more so than when we discussed Xavier Malcovitch on the train. "Tasha Pushkina says many things."

I swallow nervously. "Did…did you kill him?"

"I killed many," he states unashamedly.

"But did you kill him?" I press.

Klerkov sighs, and stares me directly in the eyes. "This is a conversation we will not have-"

"Goddamnit, Klerkov!" I nearly shout. "Your job is to be my Mentor! To tell me about your Games!"

"My job, Petra Angelovna, is to train you to win yours," he returns.

I run in front of him and bar his way. I cross my arms. "Don't you dare treat me like a child."

"Then perhaps you should stop interrupting like one," he chides, but not unkindly. "Then you would hear all that Victor Ivan Klerkov means to say. I did not say "will not have ever", moya Petr'enka. But it is a conversation for a Mentor and a Victor, not a Tribute."

"I'm your champion," I scowl. "What difference does it make?"

"Between a Victor and a Tribute?" He asks, surprised. "Nothing," he shrugs. Then his bearded face saddens. "Everything."