With Themselves At War

First off, my apologies for the delay in this chapter. I've been working on my nanowrimo story (the first draft of which is now completed) and have one more project I'm hoping to have finished before Christmas. My thanks for your patience with me.

Secondly: Thank you to SpeedyBryant both for Marune and for yelling at me to write faster and to IndigoStarling for Ridge.

Thirdly: I still don't own the Hunger Games.

Elva Inelton – District 11 Escort

Esthelrir Grey – District 11 Mentor

Grey earth, grey sky, grey stones. In contrast to all of the fruitful trees and orchards in District 11, the place where Esthelrir Grey stood dead, exactly as it should. The graveyard saw no color today, no flowers for the recently deceased, no flowers for those who had passed under his tutelage the year before in the Hunger Games, or the year before that, or the seventeen years previous for which he had been the mentor. It puzzled him. Did these people regard the dead with so little thought that they didn't even place flowers on their graves from time to time? There wasn't a single flower, a single thought, in the graveyard. He had walked around the entirety of the place, found all of their names.

He knelt beside the last one even as the bell tolled summoning everyone to the square in front of the justice building. In the year that her name had been there, Bo Sky's tombstone had been covered in dirt, his name even now barely visible. Of all the past tributes, Bo's grave had been the most difficult to find, despite having been the most recent death. Estherlrir bent down and, in his last moments before he would be needed elsewhere, tended to his final resting place, polishing the dust off his name with his index finger, remembering. He remembered his spirit, his determination, his dark eyes fierce and defiant to everyone else, but intent upon his every word. He had nearly made it, he recalled. Bo and his two younger allies had been in the final eight much to everyone else's disbelief, but what had remained of the career pack had at last taken them down. Bo had been quicker than his two allies who the Careers made quick work of, but he hadn't been able to hold her own against Khalani's skill with a bow and arrow.

"I remember," he whispered quietly, just as he had to every single one of the others, just as he whispered to those he had lost in the war every night before he fell asleep. It wasn't their deaths that he remembered, but the essence of who they were, the moments he had shared with them, their conversations, their hopes, and their dreams of might have happened to them if it weren't for the war. He hoped that he was not alone in remembering, despite appearances, that someone with a better mind than this old man would cherish the words and deeds of those who had once been held dear. Surveying the graveyard one last time he left for the Justice Building.

"Where have you been?" Elva Ingelton demanded, her green hair flying in the wind. She made such a fuss, but he made such excellent time that he arrived before most of the population. She was, of course, primped and pampered on stage already. "You could have at least done your hair like I asked you to. I don't understand why you like it grey!"

"It's a reminder," Esthelrir repeated, as he had surely told her thousands of times. She had only been an escort for two years, but already they knew each other quite well and Esthelrir was pretty sure she was itching to be transferred to another district. She couldn't understand why he wasn't. If she had looked at the people now pouring in, though, truly looked at them, she would have understood. If Elva had the ability that Esthelrir did she would have seen their desperation, their need to cling hold on to something, their need to believe that there was still hope even in the darkness.

"Hey," One of the Peacekeepers yelled, coming back from behind the stage where he had been chatting. "Put that down." He rushed over to the twelve year old section, straight to a child with a yellow bird perched on her hand. "No animals allowed in the courtyard." He insisted sternly.

"But. . ." the child protested, clearly terrified. It seemed as though she would burst into tears even before the Reaping began.

"Arcus, leave her be," Esthelrir ordered, addressing the Peacekeeper by name. He was surprised the bird hadn't taken flight yet, and dared to hope that it would stay to comfort the child. The Peacekeeper hesitated, but after a tense moment returned to his place beside the stage. The yellow canary remained perched on the girl's finger, chirping once or twice before the Mayor intoned the treaty of treason, and then falling silent during the film from the Capitol.

The war. The words the Capitol gave to it, the history now remembered, were of course "correct". Esthelrir remembered, though, a different story, a story of pain on both sides, pain continued in the Hunger Games themselves, pain of a country ripped apart, a country continuing to be torn to shreds by starvation and the Games, a country that never really gave itself a chance to heal.

They were still at war, Esthelrir reflected, but were rather at war with themselves. On the surface, everything was healed, and the Hunger Games were the only reminder of the pain, serving as a promise to never allow this to happen again. But Esthelrir's trained eyes knew better, knew the darker side. But there had to be hope, there had to be color. Even this darkness had to end eventually.

For now, though, he reminded himself as the anthem came to an end again, he couldn't think like that. There weren't enough voices that would join him in confronting the need for healing and he would need strength in numbers if he were to ever be successful. But he was trained. He could be patient and bide his time.

"It is time for us to learn the names of the two tributes that are destined for greatness in the Capitol," Elva called out and Esthelrir smiled beside her, smiling for the crowd's sake, for the sake of those whose names were called. Glaring at him, as though smiling were absolutely not permitted at this pompous occasion, Elva crossed to the bowl and drew a name for the girls.

"Marune Xantone". The sixteen year old section parted for a dark haired girl who strode steadily to the stage, keeping her head down. Her dark hair masked her face until she took her place beside Elva, and when she looked up crocodile tears were streaming down her face. Her blue eyes pierced the crowd and Esthelrir felt the desire to put a hand of comfort on her shoulder until he saw her smile. Despite her tears, her mouth was drawn into a smile that made it seem as though she almost desired this. He drew his hand back, comfortably linking it with his other behind his back and awaiting Elva's calling of the boy's name.

"For the boys Ridge Therne" The fifteen year old boys made room for a slow moving boy with a head full of curls to move towards the front. He stared ahead, his dark eyes completely blank, almost catatonic. No tears fell, but he said nothing, even when Elva prompted him for any words he might have, apparently this boy was well known by the audience's reaction. There was no one to volunteer for him, but Esthelrir could see the anger on people's faces. One girl in the seventeen year old section was holding back tears. They were related, he could see it in their faces.

"Shake hands," Elva prompted as her two tributes could barely look at each other. Then they took each other's hands, the girl shaking the boy's with enough force to make him flinch. At least that prompted a reaction from him, Esthelrir thought, as the two of them disappeared into their respective rooms, he would need it.

Marune Xantone Age 16

"I don't want to see them," Marune told the Peacekeeper at the door. She could see her parents' outlines, their shadows falling on the floor just outside the room. The Peacekeeper seemed conflicted, his eyes darting back and forth from the parents to the girl, a wall separating the two of them. Marune stared him down, her light blue eyes like daggers. She would get her way.

Sure enough, the Peacekeeper turned.

"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Xantone. She's insisting she doesn't want to see you."

"She's sixteen. She doesn't get to make that decision!" Her mother's voice rose angrily, but Marune didn't care. She hadn't been planning on seeing them again. In a couple more days she would have been gone, never to see them again, anyway. If she had her way, which she always did, she would have successfully run away, been out from under their roof. Instead she was going to the Hunger Games, to the Capitol. She was looking forward to returning and living far from her mother in the Victor's Village, where she could forget her wretched upbringing, her parents forcing her to work in the fields, her mother's beatings, their meager existence. All of this would be a thing of the past.

"Let me in!" her mother's shrill voice insisted again, but the Peacekeeper stood in the doorway. Seeing her mother fighting to get closer, Marune turned her back. She had no desire to see them. She had already said her goodbyes. They had seen her tears as she had stood onstage. What more did they want as a farewell?

"Please," her father's voice soothed. "She's our daughter." He was tired, always tired of fighting, always looking for an excuse to give in.

"Marune?" The Peacekeeper questioned one last time.

"No." She answered simply. With a sigh, both of her parents were turned away and she was left in peace, in peace to prepare to bring herself to Victory. She smiled that same smile as she was left to concoct her plan. It would soon begin, her ultimate rise to power. She had never dreamed of being in the games, of pleasing the Capitol so well, but now that she was here she could play the part, move all of the pieces to her will, just as she had finally moved her parents, at last exerting her superiority in one last move. No, this would not be her end, but rather her beginning. Even as she stared at the lonely corner wall, she saw not the wall, but the future, her rise to power, the fall of the other tributes, her servants before her, until she was the only one standing. This was her destiny; she knew it now. She waited, this vision spreading before her eyes as the Peacekeepers opened the door for her at last.

Ridge Therne – Age 15

Ridge heard the sound of bullets again, heard the screams, felt the rush of fire against his face, just as he had that day, the day he had become an orphan. He could see their faces once again before his, dark, cringing in pain, bleeding to death from the bullets they had taken from the Peacekeepers' raid. The sound of weeping was like a roaring ocean in his ears, threatening to drown out all thought, to wash away all the humor, all the joy he had ever felt.

No. Ridge opened his eyes, realizing the tears were real, finally feeling his sister's arms around him, her frame shaking. Eden's frame was frailer than it had been months ago, strained from the loss and the difficulty of caring for him as a mother when she was only two years older herself. What would she do with him gone?

"Snap out of it, boy," he heard Susannah's voice whisper at him, forcing him to breath, forcing him to continue to live. "Girl, get ahold of yourself," she seemed equally frustrated with both of them, but beneath the surface was only caring. Since they had met at work all of those years ago she had been especially fond of these two children, acting almost as a grandmother to them. Ridge knew he had to listen to her now, that time was quickly fleeing. He put his hands on his sister's shoulders and pried himself free of her grip for the time being.

"Now listen. You're fast and you're smart. Ridge, you're coming back to us. When you get to training, use your personality to your advantage. Make good allies, find people, anyone to care for you, but make sure you can hold your own. I know you can, boy." Susannah stroked over his curly hair, fighting to keep it in place as she always did whenever he jumped from the trees at the end of the day. "Stick to the trees if you can. Not many of the other tributes will know how to climb." She smiled fondly at him and, at last he found the strength to respond.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking. He shook his head, his curls going everywhere and he managed a smile.

"With all that you've been through, your luck will be changing. Just hold onto that hope," Susannah took his chin fondly in her palm, looking down at him. "I know you can take care of yourself."

"I won't be on my own. I've got Esthelrir," he said, the confidence in his voice building. "That's got to count for something." It was true, the old war veteran may not seem like much, having brought back no tributes at all in his seventeen years as a mentor, but he was the only person he could really count on in the arena.

Ridge began tapping his foot anxiously. He had been trying to think of something that would lift the mood, anything to bring a smile to Eden's still troubled face, but he didn't have the words now. He felt robbed; at the exact moment that she most needed his comfort for once he didn't have it. If this was to be the last time she saw him he didn't want her final memories to be only soaked in tears; goodness knew that both of them had enough of that.

Instead it was Eden who gave him something. Her hands still trembling, she placed a single copper coin in his hand.

"Take it as your token," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"You'll need this to pay for food," he protested, touched by the gesture, but his sister was waning as it was. She would need all of the support she could get. That's why they had taken tesserae, why they had struggled so hard, so that they could both survive.

"Take it. I'll take care of her," Susannah protested, placing one hand firmly on each of their shoulder.

"I'll pop one of those awful careers in the eyes with this," Ridge promised, just as the Peacemakers opened the door. Eden tearfully threw her arms around her brother, trembling furiously again. "It's okay," he promised, his voice finally returning to him. "Watch for me on the screen," he called as Susannah took her hand, hugging him one last time before they both turned to go. Then he was alone. But now he was ready, his thoughts turning from darkness to hope. A hope he would fight to hold onto.

"Poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men."