After the uprising, the town of Sunfair had fallen into disarray, its once bustling square and winding cobblestones a graveyard of abandoned hovels and crass graffiti. Many of its former citizens had abandoned it. They had fled to Tyne, with its fertile earth and muddy banks by the Longriver, or migrated to Stoneslate, accessible to the plentiful work opportunities and the centralization of Panem's military.
It was a ghost town now, its shops sacked and looted, the coopers and butchers and brewers hollowed out and hastily converted into brothels, black markets and derelict militia outposts. Beneath the village lay a warren of unused and narrow tunnels that zigged and zagged for miles and miles, their many pathways long forgotten.
In the absence of her first families, employment and housing in Sunfair had deteriorated. The criminals that had outlasted the uprising – battle-ravaged militia members, middlemen for the drug cartels in District 6, semi-retired hit men – found themselves drawn there. They gathered together in the rotting belly of the countryside hamlet and added a new trick to their grotesque repertoire – slavery and human trafficking.
It would, in hindsight, be remembered as a dark point in the district's history. The purchases began as covert and underground deals, battered briefcases of denares exchanged in alleyways, behind taverns, in disused quarries and construction sites. Word spread quickly across certain, malevolent channels, and the scheme evolved drastically. It was always the most vulnerable of the community – war orphans, children that had aged out of their foster homes, young people separated from their loved ones by the total shutdown of inter-district travel – that became ensnared in its inhumane coils, tempted by sweet, empty words.
In the winter that ended the first year of peacetime, an auction took place.
Knowledge of the event had circulated within specific social groups; avox recruiters, local politicians, the wealthiest and oldest of the Capitol ruling class whose generous donations had assisted the war effort during the Dark Days.
In the two nights that preceded the sales, the options had to be brought in from around the district. The well-off pinched their noses and set themselves up in dingy inns and mayor's guest rooms. They weren't far from the site. A canyon, perfect to conceal their illicit activities, was carved into the district landscape roughly three miles outside Sunfair. As they waited, the buyers stared out their windows at the shattered towns and shook their heads at what a country could do to itself.
Eventually, the day of the auction came. The slave owners had not discriminated in their selections of youth; children of rebels and loyalists alike had been chained inside a large, makeshift shed and brought to and from the main display block. The spectators eyed them, examined with less consideration than a broodmare.
Most of the children had been lured in by promises of a new home, gainful employment. A hot dinner or a clean bath. Some were of reaping age, but almost half of them could barely remember a time before the Dark Days, so young they were. The salesman considered this an enticing quality to the buyers. Start them young, they would say. Just give them time to adapt to being in your service.
Those present looked down at the scores of slave children and demanded they be transparent about their background, abilities and the politics of their descendants. It was a grueling, cruel process. The luckiest of them would go to work in a manse as servants, the less fortunate prepped and trained to be concubines and avoxes.
At the bottom of the Canyon, a small valley was enclosed by the rising sandstone walls around it. A mass of hand-bound and barefoot slaves descended its slope and into the auctioneer's blockade, and they brought the stench of neglect with them. Beneath the floral and sage perfumes of the chattering socialites and the odor of whiskey, it was there.
A large canvas tent had been set up to facilitate the bidding, a wooden crate serving as a podium. The children were led to it, their number, and details (age, weight, height, recommended service – pleasure, labor, hospitality) announced aloud to those assembled. A small girl was led away, her dirtied face streaked with tears. She was replaced by a little boy, who tried to keep his eyes hard while his lower lip trembled. It went on like this for some time. It was an endless parade of terrified, penned lambs being sold to ravenous wolves.
One of them was not like the others.
At least, not openly so; Shale had classic masonic features: sallow skin, dark hair, an aquiline nose, and a large, bushy brow. His eyes, however, were a deep blue, uncommon to the district and indicative of an ancient ancestor that hailed from the luxury or energy districts. Now, they surveyed the room, an icy fire of rage and frustration, but beneath all of that… a panic, almost animalistic in nature. He actively searched for an escape route, a target to lash out at.
"Auction sixty-four!" a gruff voice shouted, shoving the young man beneath a dim lamp suspended above the crate. It cast a dark shadow across his face. "Male, twelve years old, four-ten, eighty pounds. In good condition and ideal for both business and pleasure!"
The bids began. Shale was underweight, but strong for his age, and more importantly he was handsome. He proved to be immensely popular among the haughty old women that dripped in furs and pearls. He was eyed up by the paunchy middle-aged men that had more chins than fingers. The young, toned upstarts raised their eyebrows in curiosity. All demographics seemed to have an interest.
They hoisted their paddles aloft and belted out their interest, voices overlapping in their increasing bids of incomprehensibly enormous amounts of denares. The excitement in the room reached a roaring climax, as Shale prayed for sweet release with the only orison that he knew off by heart.
Gem of Panem, mighty city, through the ages you shine anew…
A settlement had been reached. His new master ruffled through documentation, signing in looped, cursive handwriting. They didn't seem to be pleased about the extensive paper trail. Evidently, capitalizing on slavery required a hefty amount of legal protection. He considered making a run for it, but his eyes fell on the edgy men by the door, their firearms a thinly veiled threat; if you step out of line, we will fill you with bullets, and it will hurt.
We humbly kneel, to your ideal, and pledge our love to you…
The anthem had been played three times a day in their small hut near the mountain path. Once at dawn, again at noon, and dusk. His elder sister had an old, battered fiddle that had been passed down to her in a dead uncle's will. She scrunched up her face in concentration and played the proud, straight, warbling tune. The entire family sang along, and it was so beautiful it made his eyes well up with tears. When the war broke out, Shale couldn't understand why the rebels and dissidents wanted to take that away from him.
Gem of Panem, marble justice, wisdom crowns your marble brow.
He wasn't just a number. He would not be a slab of meat for the brothels, a mute to wait on lesser men. Shale was a patriot, a descendant of the men of the mountains, a fractured and dying breed before the Capitol had helped them. The men and women descended from the city in the sky and, in their infinite generosity and goodness, bestowed land and resources upon their district brethren. In turn, the clansmen had offered them their undisputed loyalty.
You give us light, you reunite, to you we make our vow.
Shale had been separated from his family in the Sunfair evacuation. It was a treacherous and winding journey to scale the mountain pass by foot, but the Capitol had promised protection and haven on the other side. It was a safer option than staying put. In the end, it hadn't mattered. The rebels had tried to contain the outpouring of refugees through tear gas and rubber bullets, and in the chaos, Shale had been torn from his family permanently.
Gem of Panem, seat of power, strength in peacetime, shield in strife.
The deal was made. Shale was forcibly removed from the podium, grabbed by the scruff of the neck, and dragged towards the 'sold' pen. He dug his bare feet into the dirt, twisted and thrashed as best he could, but to no avail. His new master grinned and made a snide comment about getting him broken in, but Shale didn't listen.
Instead, he quietly pleaded for intervention.
Protect our land, with armored hand, our Capitol, our life.
And, against all odds, it came.
The first tremor was short and violent, its sudden intensity thrusting spectators from their chairs and sprawling onto the earthy floor. At first, there was silence.
It was followed by a wave of laughter that arose to break the tension. Several people scrambled to their feet, grumbling and red-faced. They wiped the detritus from their satin blouses and silk shirts and made to retake their seats quickly.
The second tremor struck. This time, it was accompanied by the sound of a cracked whip that tore through the air like lightning, and a chorus of screams leapt up.
The metal rods that held the tent up splintered and split apart as the roof collapsed in on itself. The gathered audience fled. They trampled and shoved and stepped upon one another in their haste to escape. The earth gave another tremendous shudder and a series of chasms opened in the dry soil, sending the confused swarm reeling backward and tumbling into the crevasses. It was madness. Pandemonium.
The roof swamped Shale's slight form, and he struggled against it, his breathing ragged and panicked, until the dread overwhelmed him. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The dry soil had begun to fracture, thin veins in the flesh of the valley floor. It was eerily beautiful, Shale thought, as if the canyon were transforming before him. He wished he could have looked longer at it.
The darkness rose to meet him, consume him, and Shale gave it his permission.
He lay there for hours, left to waste away beneath the winter sun.
District 2 did not have emergency services or paramedics. Their doctors were field physicians and herbalists that had survived the war. When the earthquake subsided, they spread out across the harshly affected western part of the district, their supplies and attention spread thinly. The other casualties were left to themselves.
Luckily for Shale, the gods were in the Canyon with him.
There was a commotion and a distinctive, commanding voice delivering orders. A hand rummaged across Shale's body, through the collapsed canopy, as if it was trying to determine if the form beneath was human. There was a gasp of surprise.
Within seconds, the blackness was peeled back and replaced with harsh, blinding sunlight. Shale squinted into it, unable to identify or make out the features of the three mysterious shadows that stood before him. What was this? Was he alive?
The tallest of them nodded at his two accomplices, who promptly helped Shale to his feet. They offered him water, which he gulped down greedily and without a moment's thought. It ran down his chin and onto his grubby tunic, emphasizing the state of its unforgivable filth.
Shale coughed and spluttered, his chest heaving as it filled up with air for the first time in hours. From the corner of his eye, he saw corpses strewn across the valley.
"Who are you?" he panted.
The shadow's dark eyes burned like coal.
"My name is Crixus. I am here to help you."
Slowly, Shale's sight adjusted, and the silhouette sharpened and was realized.
Crixus was a tall, hale man with a serious aura about him. He had a square face with a pointed chin, a bulbous nose, and thin lips. His eyes were pit-black but shimmered as the bottom of a well did. Tufts of short, red hair sprouted from a receding hairline hidden beneath a tattered cap. He nodded at his two helpers.
"Put him with the others. We're heading back."
It was a quarter-day's journey on foot to Marbletown from Sunfair. Luckily, Shale and his captors sped down the district paths in an armored vehicle. It kicked up waves of dust and pebbles as they tore along the ancient highways.
Shale pressed his nose up against the cool, stained window, and admired the sprawling landscape of mountains. The engine revved joyfully, as if it knew.
A wrought black iron gate guarded the entrance to the barracks near the Fort. On either side of the barrier, a limestone sculpture of Panem's eagle had been erected.
They stood proud and resolute, enormous wings spread aloft. Shale looked up at them with adoring eyes. As a child, he dreamed that he could fly. Just like they could.
The car stopped. Shale was escorted out by a short, muscled woman. Her broken-toothed smile was not reassuring, but it was the first hint of comfort that Shale had been privy to in a long time, and so he did not turn from it immediately.
She walked heavy-footed, he noticed, and thus he began to mimic her large, solid strides. This was not lost on the rest of the party, who began sniggering. Shale blushed and stopped. Their laughter only made him withdraw into himself again.
As they went further into the blockade, Shale noticed the wary, distrustful eyes of the budding Peacekeepers. Half of them could not have been much older than him.
The other, older half looked world-weary; their baggy eyes wrought with hunger. Drunk veteran soldiers with missing limbs called out at him with slurred words.
"Get a body bag ready, lads!"
"He's a pretty one!"
"You the new whore, boy?"
Shale let their words turn to dust and float on the wind, as his father had taught.
Inside Crixus' quarters, Shale felt his breath taken from him. He examined the busts and artwork that adorned the walls and ebony cabinets. The pillars, tables and stairs were hewed from obsidian, breccia, and gabbro. He lovingly gazed upon the masterful portraits of district heroes. They inspired Shale, and made him proud.
Above Crixus' desk and nameplate, Shale assessed an acrylic painting of a young man and woman, arm in arm, thrusting a flag into the dirt as they roared at a blood-red sky. There was no formal identification of either the artist or their subjects.
He reached out to touch it, heart racing, his fingers just about to graze the canvass.
A deep voice rose from behind him.
"Do you know who they are?"
He spun around. Crixus loomed above him, his eyebrows raised in questioning.
Shale's mouth opened and closed a half-dozen times. He pressed his lips together, blushed furiously, and shook his head. The older man nodded sagely, as if he had expected this, and approached the artwork himself. His harsh exterior melted away.
"Their names were Colman and Danica Florent. War prodigies. Natural combatants and brilliant tacticians wasted on a fruitless, treasonous cause." Crixus' eyes shone as he recounted this. "The Florents were among the first in the district to secede from the Capitol."
"They were rebels," Shale said slowly.
"Correct."
Shale felt his neck flush with heat. "And you're honoring them?"
"It is important to note the fine line between honor and remembrance," said Crixus pointedly. "The Florents led their merry band of traitorous allies to an almost-certain death. They fought, grossly outnumbered, as a part of the Last Defense at the Mountain Fortress. It was the final war campaign. We knew. It would be the deciding battle of the Dark Days."
"You were there?"
"I was. The entire District 2 Peacekeeper force was there. It was the day that the rebels were cast down and the glory and honor of the nation prevailed. For the district, it was the end of a dozen formerly renowned bloodlines. Abbott. Cresterfell. Florent, of course. Do you know where they are now?"
Shale knew. The entire district did. "Gone."
"Gone. Their entire offspring and extended family executed by firing squad."
Crixus looked at Shale, as if weighing him up.
"And that is why I have their portrait here, above my desk. As a reminder of the war that nearly wiped humanity from the annals of history. A reminder that, even with all the gifts the gods can bestow, we must choose the right path. It will not be laid out before our feet."
"I understand."
"Sir."
"I understand, sir."
Crixus stared at him fixedly. "If you're going to last here, lying will not serve."
"I'm not a liar," Shale said, his cheeks burning. "You saved all of us. That quake, it wasn't an accident. The mountains sent it for me. It was fate, and that's the truth."
Crixus considered him for a long moment. "You know of the mountain spirits?"
"Of course," he replied. "My ancestors worshiped them."
Shale was not sure how much he wanted to talk about them. He didn't want to have to delve too deeply into the tribes' history, which had been bloody and sad.
The desperate measures to which the mountain tribes had resorted – incest and abduction and forced marriages – to maintain their skewed sense of blood purity had been drastic. The Capitol saved them and Shale's family had bred their women with district men. There was no shame in it. The only alternative was far worse.
"What is your family name?" Crixus asked him, taking a seat.
"Cotter."
"That is a quarry name, not a clan one."
Crixus' tone was dismissive, reductive, and its sharpness almost made Shale recoil.
"My lineage is through my mother's side," he explained. "My father is – was – from Sunfair. He wasn't much, but he was a good man, and a patriot. Everything he did, he did for us."
To his complete and utter surprise, Crixus did not question him. Instead, he smiled.
"Have a seat, boy."
"I'm not boy. My name is Shale."
Crixus laughed. "You think you've earned the right to a name? You're not even a half minute out the slave pits and you want to run the country." He leaned in towards Shale, who got a nasty smell of raw onions from his breath. "Let me tell you something, recruit. I've been running the Peacekeeper training camp for over ten years. You aren't above us. Every man here is a part of a cohesive because we are born to serve. 'Individuality is the death of duty'. Do you know that means, little boy?" asked Crixus.
"I don't know, sir."
"Have a guess."
Shale considered the phrase for a moment. "That we can't let our personality rule us."
Crixus observed him over his thick, fat fingers. "And why not?"
"Because… Panem doesn't belong to me. Or you. We have to think of everyone."
"Exactly," said Crixus. "Do you think you can speak for Panem, boy?"
Shale thought about it. He knew his beliefs. His own values. The conviction that he had in the Capitol. The hatred in his heart was black and barbed and toxic, but it was reserved for a largely extinct part of today's society. Besides that, he didn't want to take responsibility for the rest of the district. Or any of the others.
"No," he whispered.
Crixus put a hand on his shoulder. "You're only just beginning to learn. Don't be hard on yourself. Your time to serve, and how you serve, will reveal itself."
He stood up and motioned for Shale to leave.
"In the meantime, keep your head down and don't ask questions."
Shale nodded. His body ached with fatigue, but he did not dare ask for rest.
Luckily, Crixus seemed to read his mind.
"Go get some sleep, recruit. Your training starts tomorrow."
And it did – in earnest.
Shale shared a bunk room with a handful of other boys that Crixus had rescued from across the district. They made up a squad, albeit a dysfunctional one. In lieu of their birth names, they each received a 'barrack title'. There was Bullseye, so named for his impeccable aim and long-range firearm record. The only girl, Mantis, lured you in with her pouty lips and prominent bust and then slipped you into a choke hold so tight that you begged for release. And then, there was Biter. He was – well, it went without saying. They kept away from him.
The early Peacekeeper boot camp, before the Snow regime interfered, was not comfortable. As a matter of fact, it was a harsh, ruthless existence – too harsh for some, who scuttled back to the hells they'd come from, never to be heard from or sought after again. The choice was always theirs to make, but abject poverty seemed a regression, a slip back into chaos, and so few chose it over a full belly with extra bruises. You got what you fought for and nothing less. Shale learned to steal, fight, and lie for his supper. It was better than a hollow belly.
If Crixus knew what they were doing, he didn't discourage it.
At the start, Shale considered slipping out in the middle of the night. But where would he go? Sunfair was a grim prospect, unevolved from the grim underbelly of its once glorious status. The fear of a lonely, unacknowledged death in the wilderness prevented any true plan from formulating. Instead, he spent his nights peering out at the distant mountain pass. Shale wondered what lay beyond it.
He didn't get time to think. Training was rigorous. Crixus pulled some strings, drew in contacts from his time as a soldier and somehow got the district's victor in to teach, too. Lessons consisted of two main disciplines: physical and academic. Most of the students excelled at one or the other; the robust, hard, aggressive recruits that could wipe you out with a single blow. The bookish, quiet boys destined for the Capitol, that ate up information as if it were real, tangible food.
Not one of them could compete with Shale in either category.
He was good at everything. The instructors' favorite. Crixus' golden child. He grew to be courteous and obedient, with gumption and guile and an impressive record in the classroom. But besides that, he was wholly dedicated to his craft. Shale was the first up at the crack of dawn, meditating and warming up before the others had even pulled on their socks. He was fast, surpassing his peers in the track sprint and edging them out in the yearly obstacle course.
Crixus was grooming him to be his protege. The next in a great line of Peacekeepers, as dear to him as his own sons. In some ways, even more so.
This didn't make Shale popular. It earned him dirty looks and made him the target of pranks and smear campaigns.
Like dust in the wind, Shale would tell himself. You are stronger than this.
And he was strong. By gods, he was strong. His frail frame from his days in slavery had swollen into bulging biceps and a beautifully toned body. There were few girls accepted into the barracks at the start – the interspersed succession of femme fatale victors during the second decade of the Games changed minds in that regard. But whenever Shale and the others were granted permission to hit up the taverns, he was lavished with ogling and flirting and undivided attention from ladies and girls (and not a few men). Shale entertained them. He wasn't cruel, he just didn't want to humiliate them by expressing his unequivocal disinterest.
Shale had never thought of himself as… well, he wasn't sure what the textbook definition was. He'd heard other words, of course. Queer. Sword-stabber. Fairy. They were always said snidely, cruelly, and always in a context of subjugation and anger. He was confused, because he didn't take a liking to girls – but he didn't warm to boys, either. It was only ever in the company of one man that his skin flushed hot and an elaborate knot tied itself in his stomach.
Across the six years of his education, Shale's romantic intent took on a new form in the shape of Telemachus Folami. As a frequent mentor and inspirational figure to future Peacekeepers, it seemed he was always at the barracks. And, in his defense, Shale didn't love the man straight away. Gods, no. That was silly and awful.
It began with admiration.
An all-encompassing appreciation for a man that had swept into the ruins of Shale's broken life and made it seem salvageable. Telemachus' background had been similarly complex. He had fought and earned the respect he had. Shale wanted that. He needed - no, he had to - believe in it. For his own good.
Before long, his feelings began to spiral out of control, resulting in a new sensation that resembled attraction, worship and not a touch of obsession. If Telemachus noticed, he did not make it obvious. This drove Shale wild. He desired the victor's approval and feared his rebuke in equal measure.
Crixus noticed. The victor's sudden interest in the boy's skill. Their 'solo sessions'. Clandestine whispers at break times.
They were planning something.
He knew that Telemachus was not so inclined, but the boy's alternative preferences posed a problem. Yes, to a degree, in its more explicit terms. Crixus didn't like it. It wasn't... natural. And a danger to the rest of the camp. And on top of that, it was Shale's desperate, naive emulation of the victor. He couldn't act like it didn't worry him. What if Folami provided him with a greater power than Crixus could? What if they, gods forbid, replaced him? The paranoia buzzed in his mind as if it were a hive of wasps.
Until, one night, Crixus' suspicions were confirmed. Shale came to his office and slide a thick bundle of paperwork in his direction.
"And what's this?" Crixus had asked.
Shale didn't falter. "My discharge papers. I'm leaving at the end of the summer."
"And where will you go, exactly?"
"I'm going to work with Mr. Folami," Shale said. A hint of pink tinged his cheeks. "To do an apprenticeship under him. I think it's the right thing to do.
Crixus was incensed. The boy's lack of gratitude and loyalty made him furious. Crixus tried to maintain his composure. "I picked your sorry behind out of that valley, not Telemachus Folami. Or do you not remember?"
Shale shook his head. "I'm sorry, Captain. This is what I want to do."
And with that, he left, leaving an enraged Crixus by himself.
In his office, alone, he desperately tried to think of a way to separate them.
Shale was a Peacekeeper, first and foremost. Crixus' very best.
He was going to enforce the law one day. He was a boy, no, a man, meant to be a leader. Not run around playing teacher and student like a besotted schoolgirl.
And yet the more Crixus thought about it, within the solitary confines of his quarters, a strange, deadly thought crept into the crevasses of his mind.
It would float from the abyss and flicker for a time, weaving a spider's web of plots until he had to put his endless stack of paperwork aside.
No, it's not right, Crixus thought. We must not put ourselves above he law.
As he got up to leave his quarters and head to bed for the night, Crixus turned to the portrait of the Florents. The bloodied sky seemed to light up as their cries of revolution tore across the evening air.
Without a sound, he stepped over to his phone and dialled a number.
After a moment, there was an answer.
"Mr. Mayor? This is Crixus Thread. I apologise for the late call. May I have a moment?"
A year later, the square in Marbletown was smothered in a grim silence, organized into a sad collection of young people and their guardians – like as not, many of their parents were dead. An overcast day looked down on gaunt and bruised children shuffling aimlessly into their segregated pens, the demoralized adults dragging themselves to the side lines with tight lips and red eyes. The Hunger Games had not played favorites. Only one of theirs had ever come back.
The cameras clicked on. They were perched atop the buildings like vultures, giant mechanic bats that swung mechanically to and fro. Some of them rolled along the tarmacadam for close ups, others were attached to drones that buzzed overhead like mosquitoes. They perfectly caught the people's fear. After all, it was their job.
The district's upper class – the mayor, Capitol ambassadors, construction investors – were seated upon the reaping stage. They exchanged pleasantries, shook hands, commented on the weather. It's not been a good run for us, said the snotty wife of one engineer or another, with as much competitive spirit as she could muster. Those with children patted nervously at their sweaty foreheads – they knew as well as anyone that even without tesserae, their little ones were more at risk of being targets of a 'thorn in the side', a statement reaping or consequence.
Their designated escort, Domitia Sparrow, provided a welcome distraction. Her hair was a glittering silver, her eye makeup dark and bold. A shiny, cement-like contour glistened on her cheekbones and she wore a metallic jumpsuit with large shoulder pads. Atop her head was a bulky, jewel-encrusted hard hat. It was an utterly bizarre look and did little to comfort the female tribute, a greasy-haired and scowling crafter's daughter, who just looked stricken.
"Let's all give a big round of applause to your female representative this year, Tyla Stone!"
There was a scattering of limp, half-hearted applause. Domitia's spirits seemed to deflate, too.
"Are there any volunteers?"
It was a mandatory question and a predictable silence followed. Tyla began to weep.
Domitia tried to move past the general lack of enthusiasm and slid on over to the boy's bowl.
"Now, to find out who will join her! How exhilarating. The male tribute for District 2 is…"
She thrust her hand into the container. In the crowd, Crixus avoided the Mayor's eye line.
"Shale Cotter!"
A ripple went through the crowd. The students of the barracks exchanged confused looks.
"Where are you, dear?"
Shale ascended the stage, fit and formal in his cotton shirt and brown slacks, his dark hair ruffled in the summer breeze. Domitia gently groped him, squeezing his bicep and grabbing his shoulders. Shale's mouth tensed, a vein in his temple twitching. His hands curled into fists, although his annoyance seemed to ebb away as he comforted the little girl onstage with him. He whispered something into her ear, and she gave a little hiccup of amusement.
Behind him, though Shale did not know it, the district's only victor had begun to think.
After his return from the arena five summers ago, Telemachus was a figure shrouded in mystery. He silently wandered the district at the start of spring, his expensive car shuttling him from the shantytowns at the foot of the Fort to the half-empty quarries and the tree houses within the Bare Forests. He visited orphanages and foster homes, brothels, and pubs. Each time, without fail, he left empty-handed but appearing rather content. Nobody knew what his mission was, but it was clear that he had emerged from the arena with more than a crown.
It was with the same sense of purpose that he swept into the Justice Building.
On his way, he met Crixus.
The man stood outside the entrance to the farewell room, looking crestfallen and uncertain. Telemachus had seen people kill – he knew guilt when he saw it.
"Telemachus –"
"I don't want to hear anything from you, Thread. You think I don't have contacts near the mayor? Near you? A victor's wallet goes very, very deep." His eyes burned, the intensity striking Crixus into silence. "I don't know how you got away with fixing a reaping, but I tell you now, it's treason. And you know the penalty."
Crixus was horrified. "I didn't –"
"Luckily for you," said Telemachus. "I need something from you. In return, I won't leave you to the authorities… unpleasantness."
"What is it?" whispered Crixus.
"I want your recruits."
"But –"
"All of them. As of the Victory Tour, you will send any child of reaping age to me. They are mine, do not forget, and I will come to collect my due. Mark my words."
Crixus was at a checkmate. He knew the power that Telemachus wielded.
"Yes, sir."
"Now go, and do not bother us," Telemachus ordered.
Several moments later, Shale stood up as Telemachus entered the room.
His heart was hammering against his ribs. If he had not been in shock, he might have admired his mentor's passionate gaze, his chiseled jaw, as he usually did.
Instead, he held out his hand.
"Mr. Folami, sir. It's an honour to be your mentee."
"Sit down," said Telemachus. "I need to figure out what I'm going to do with you."
A bit taken aback by his lack of warmth; Shale resumed a place on the couch.
"I know how to fight –"
"Yes, I'm aware. We all saw what you could do at the barracks."
An airy, light feeling swelled inside Shale's chest. He held back a smile. "You did?"
"Of course. You're good."
"Thank you, sir."
"Be honest. Do you think you can win?"
The frankness and uncertainty behind the question took Shale by surprise. He was the best recruit in his age unit, after all.
"Yes, I think so," he said, a tremor of doubt clinging to his voice. Telemachus heard it.
"It takes more to be a victor than it does a Peacekeeper, as dear old Crixus knows."
Shale was frustrated and slightly hurt at the insinuation of his inadequacy, as if his years of preparation and training had all been for naught.
"How can I win, then? Teach me."
Telemachus sighed. "It's not that simple. You have it in you or you don't."
"So, how can I be ready?" he asked.
"You can't. You're as prepared as you can be. The Games will reveal the rest."
"Reveal what?"
"Whether you're a victor or not."
Shale felt as if he'd been sentenced to death for a crime he didn't commit.
"Am I going to die?" he asked.
"The only certain death is the one you believe to be imminent," said Telemachus.
"Please," Shale begged. "Tell me what to do."
Telemachus looked out across the district from the sill. "Ever since my victory, I have sought to remove the corruption within District 2. To illustrate how the actions of a few malcontents would not reduce us to a debased, instinctual form of what was once the best of humanity.
I have plans, Shale. Important plans. To convert children of dishonourable blood from their parents' ideals. To lead them down the right road. Not just those trapped by their parents' foolishness, but those who remained loyal and still lost everything, as I did. Until the Capitol saved me, of course. As hard as it was, I had to look past my own bias to achieve this realisation. If you are successful, as I think you can be, we will provide the district a new generation of youth. One that will not let their country down."
He turned to Shale; his eyes were as passionate as he'd ever seen them.
"I will ask of you what I have asked all my tributes. Are you willing to help me make that future a reality?"
A shiver ran through Shale's body. Whether it was love or fear, or both, he couldn't tell.
"Yes, sir."
Telemachus smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."
He began to lead Shale out of the room, before stopping abruptly.
"Oh, before we continue, I am implored to say this: for the duration of the Games, you must put your personal feelings for me aside. As well as being inappropriate, they are a distraction."
Shale went a deep red. "I don't –"
"Please. I don't have time for silly protestations. What you do with the sword in your pants matters less to me than how you use a knife in the arena. I want a victor, not a lover. Understand?"
Shale blinked back tears.
"Yes, sir."
As they departed for the city, the high-speed train sped them past and over the mountain ranges from Shale's childhood. Up close, they were less beautiful. Ugly and blemished and covered in crags and cracks, lumps and bumps. Shale frowned. How could he have ever thought them to be so glorious? They were disappointing.
From that day on, everything was disappointing.
By the time they got to the Capitol, and for a long time after, Shale's heartbreak manifested itself in other ways.
It was the half-mad way in which he killed the boy from District 8 with his bare hands.
It was his cold reaction to the news of Crixus Thread's resignation. And later, his suicide.
It was in how he always treated his former mentor with the utmost respect and diplomacy.
His consorts, boyfriends, whores... they all bore a similarity to a certain victor. It only fuelled the vicious rumours and salacious gossip, to which Shale paid no heed.
He lived the rest of his life as a teacher, mentor, and – famously – a bachelor.
Upon his death, Shale's peers and friends lamented; he had been wealthy and handsome. Men and women lined up at his feet. He could've had his pick of the litter, so inexhaustible were his romantic options. What had stopped him from settling down?
But, as Shale knew, and as history had proven time and time again...
There is nothing more powerful than hope.