XLVI: The Games - Day Seven, Mid-day.
Ilan Azar, 17
Tribute of District Seven
Of course Ilan knows what love is.
He has enough of it. Not an overabundance nor an absence—an amount that seems simply appropriate. His parents. His brother, even if some days it doesn't feel like it. Vitali, of course.
Ilan doesn't need anything else when things could be so much worse. This world he's created and been a part of has done enough. But it's that love, such a specific sum of it, that allows him to know he feels the same way about Sanne.
She's in pain, still. He sees it in the way her face tenses when she shifts in sleep, as if it's radiating up her arm and all the way through her body. The first night had been the worst for him, too. Every movement sent the broken bones in his arm screaming in agony; it's not a feeling he likes to remember. Ilan has nothing better to do than recall the memory and stare at her, though.
Amani has been in and out most of the morning, picking apart the nearby rooms. He reappears long enough to check on them and reassure Ilan that he's coming back at all. He spends the time between keeping an eye on his watch and wondering what he would do if the time went on for too long. He couldn't leave Sanne alone, defenseless and sleeping, but it would be wrong not to look for Amani.
The last thing he wanted to do was wake her, but if it came down to that… the choice wasn't all that complicated.
She looks to be waking on her own soon, anyhow. Her movement is too often and sporadic to be lost deep in sleep—no doubt the pain meds have fully run their course, and she needs to eat. Something to fill the silence will be nice too.
It's selfish to wish for her to be awake, but Ilan takes her hand and squeezes it tight as she shifts once again, anchoring her in place as she levels several long, slow blinks at him. Her smile is a soft one, still tainted by sleep as she yawns, punctuated with a wince. It doesn't take her long to glance around, eyebrows knitting together as she comes to terms with each empty corner of the room, finding them all empty except the one they've claimed.
"I don't think he's far," Ilan explains. "He's been clearing out rooms. Collecting supplies."
"You didn't go with him?"
"Well, someone has to look out for you."
"My hero," she says cheekily. "And me, the damsel in distress."
"Not much better," he reminds her, gesturing towards his ever-thumping head. The headache that lingers is so intense it causes Ilan to flinch every now and then, and the fact that his vision isn't all the way steady certainly isn't helping.
It's not a thing he would necessarily admit before. Hurt means a chance of pace, definitely a change of scenery, and that only brings more hurt in the head. It did for him.
Didn't it?
Sanne begins the long, ugly process of sitting up, which Ilan knows well. Her hand remains tethered in his, and he locks himself in place as she hauls herself into a sitting position beside him, eyes squinted. She releases a deep breath as she allows the crown of her head to rest back against the wall, eyes fixated on the door.
"He'll be back soon," Ilan assures her. "It's been pretty… periodic. Him checking on us."
"That's good," she murmurs, but a slight shake of her head has him second-guessing the words. She's still nervous.
"Look at the two of us," he says. "How the hell did we ever survive a day in Seven on our own?"
That, finally, earns him a true smile. "Shut up."
"It's true. We're a mess."
Sanne laughs. "We're trying, okay? That counts for something."
"Even if it's not going very well?"
"Even then."
It's worked, at least. Some of the tension leeches away from her shoulders, and her death grip on his hand—something Ilan had hardly noticed in the first place—loosens. It's a familiar scene for the two of them. If Ilan could close his eyes and imagine, really imagine, they'd be back in their apartment in the Capitol, safe for the time being, waiting for a phone call from home.
"How are you feeling?" Sanne asks.
"Fine."
"Right. And next you'll tell me that all along Vitali actually pushed you out of the treehouse and that's how you met in the first place."
He hates how his lips quirk up—Vitali's name alone is enough to wash away the ugliness of the actual memory. "He would never."
"I know. From what you've told me, at least. I know he wouldn't."
Ilan loves his parents, of course. He loves them without measure, in the way a child should, and yet it's the biggest crime of all that the other two people he loves most in the world will never come face-to-face. He would give anything for it, even his own life, and yet the idea of it is so fleeting in his own head that Ilan knows it can never be true.
"You'd be really good friends, I think," he says softly. "He'd like you a lot."
"I think he'd like anyone that looks out for you," she teases, so confidently that she knows she's right. Vitali's just an easy person; you never have to put up a fight, never have to struggle. Or, at least, they shouldn't have. Ilan is quite possibly the only person in the world that could have fucked it up to such a degree.
What could Ilan want more—for the people he loves to be together, or to be there himself, even if it was just for a last glance?
Sanne's fingers tighten around his. Ilan isn't able to recognize why until the handle against the door turns, but the sight has become so familiar that he can't even raise alarm at the sight. Amani slips in almost soundlessly, the door shutting behind him just as quietly.
"All good?" he asks. Ilan nods, coming to regret it as his head spins terribly, vision warping to the degree that he can hardly tell which way is up. He's good at hiding it, though. Always has been.
"I think I've figured out these directions well enough," Amani explains, setting down the map before him to point at one of the dozens of rooms, so small it's barely legible. "This here might be an infirmary… something similar, at least."
"It's on the opposite side," Sanne realizes.
"Right. I think you should rest a while longer. As long as nothing else happens, we can afford to stay the night. But in the morning—"
"You don't have to say anything else," Sanne says. "We'll go."
They need it, of course. She does. Ilan has survived worse and will no doubt continue to until he has no other choice. Besides, there's an amount of clarity in Amani's eyes that had vanished until this moment—Clementine had cracked that part of him open once again, making him so uncertain about who he was and where he stood. Finally, again, he has a true purpose.
Even if that purpose is just getting them there to see them better, Ilan can't find fault in it. Sanne deserves it. Maybe he does, too.
Ilan would rather be moving, no matter the hardships it costs him. It's better than wallowing in memories; Vitali, the treehouse, Hudson. Everything that came with it.
The next morning can't come soon enough.
Casia Braddock, 13
Tribute of District Nine
She's never been the boldest person in the room—that's a given.
Casia can't remember how old she was—eight or nine, perhaps. Maybe even younger. One of her teachers, a woman nearing the age of an elder with a name that half the class couldn't pronounce, had left her behind. Forgot about her. She was so quiet, so slight of frame, that when the teacher ushered the rest of the class outside she had stepped in front of Casia like she was invisible and walked on ahead.
You see, it never bothered her. That was the way Casia liked it. It got her in trouble, of course. Sometimes you needed to be bolder and brighter and all-around better.
She's beginning to wonder if being bolder would save her some trouble. Definitely the fear. Yes, she's still scared, alright? At the end of the day she's still a kid just like the rest of them, even if she's more trouble to understand, and being frightened has always kept her on her toes.
Sloane and Robbie's morbid curiosity will be the death of her, if something else doesn't sooner intervene. Here she was running away from the sound of the collapse and her allies bone-headed ideas were leading her right back to it. There's no harm in checking it out, Sloane had insisted. There definitely was. We might as well, Robbie agreed, though he looked sullen about it. They might as well go the opposite way, too, but she wasn't going to say that.
In the end, it was easier not to speak up. Casia kept her mouth shut and offered no arguments because it was what she was best at. Nobody bothered you that way.
Even now, staring down the grand hall at the vast emptiness, gray sky and stormy clouds where a tower had once stood, she didn't let her face show how desperately she wanted to run. Another thing she was good at. Reliable, too.
Sloane lets out a low whistle as they approach. Most of the tower has collapsed outwards, a great mountain of unsteady rubble piled over the churning moat and into the grass beyond. The left-most wall clings desperately onto its home, creating a treacherous scramble that stretches so high Casia has to crane her neck back to follow it. If you made it far enough, you might just be able to stretch forth for the battlements, if you didn't slip to your death rather than haul yourself up onto the narrow walkway.
Casia shivers despite herself, her thin shirt doing nothing against the howling wind that echoes down the hall. Each torch has been snuffed out, and with the sun hidden away it seems darker than ever.
"Bet you could see a hell of a lot up there," Robbie says slowly.
"Be my guest," Sloane offers, waving a hand up at the wall. Robbie scoffs.
"You think any of that is going to hold me? I'm not risking my life. If anything she should—"
Casia knows what he's about to say, so she doesn't bother listening. A waste of time, when she needs to be focusing on where to go, each handhold and proper place to rest her feet. Nothing is going to happen to her if she heads up there, but something might if she refuses.
Some risk have to be worth taking over others.
Sloane is speaking, now. Casia allows the words to filter it. "—you don't have to, kid, I mean you could break your neck or both your legs and—"
Casia waves her off, silent, and skirts around the pair of them, hands reaching for the rubble. "Just like that?" Sloane asks. "Alright then."
She begins pulling herself up, hand after careful hand. Casia refuses to move even an inch before testing each piece of the stone she's holding onto, the larger pieces beneath her feet as she clambers higher and higher up the incline. The wind is even more frigid the higher she climbs, and Casia sets her teeth together, refusing to let them chatter. Of all things, the wind is not going to take her down. She won't let it.
Robbie was right, of course. There's no better view than here. Casia truly has nothing to compare it to—her entire life she's known nothing but the flat plains of Nine that seem to stretch into oblivion. When she was younger, before she began to properly understand, she believed that might just be the entire world.
But she's over halfway up, now, and she knows that isn't the truth. The gray-black water looming beneath her laps up against the shore, muddied and disturbed. As far as the eye can see the gardens are withering all around them, taken by frost and trampled by feet. There's nothing left out there to survive in, and now even the castle itself is giving away. Soon there will be nowhere left to run at all.
There's no more a dreadful thought than that.
It would almost be easy, she thinks, to pull herself up the rest of the way to the battlements and take off. Neither Sloane or Robbie would be able to follow, she doesn't think, at least not quick enough to catch her. She would be gone before they knew where to look.
Casia looks down at their miniscule little figures below, side-by-side, Robbie's arms crossed over his chest and Sloane's hand against her brow, shielding her eyes from the sudden glare in order to get a better look.
It's easy to see what's happening out here. It's just like she said—everything is being narrowed down. Tributes. Places to go. It's all happening for a reason.
People, though… people are harder. Casia can't look down on them with any amount of certainty and tell herself she knows what's going to happen. They've always been the one thing her perception has failed her in.
She can't make herself climb any higher though. Tempting as it is to run, it's exhausting as well. Hasn't she been doing it long enough?
At least she makes the decision for herself, rather than letting the cold chase her back in. Casia begins to lower her feet back down, the progress even slower than before, but at least it's safe. Bits of stone crumble loose with every movement she makes, the pile threatening to shift in such a way that it will throw her to her death.
That's not how she's meant to go. Casia finally allows herself to turn as she approaches the bottom once again. Robbie looks unimpressed despite the idea being his own, as if he had hoped the entire time that she wouldn't return. The playful smirk on Sloane's face says the opposite. She almost looks proud.
Casia still doesn't know what it means, though. Not from either of them. She doesn't truly know what they're thinking, if it's all one elaborate act or if what they're feeling is exactly what she sees, plain as day.
Enough is obvious to her now, if not that. Something is about to break. If the tower was their warning, Casia has heard it loud and clear. She may never be able to say for certain what anyone is thinking but this, at least, she is confident in.
They won't all be here for much longer.
Ravi Fusain, 17
Tribute of District Twelve
There's not much he can do, but Ravi will be damned if he doesn't try.
He's not sure Zoya had even meant to tell him—between the awkward admission that he had seen part of the castle collapse without so much as saying a word to him and how exhausted he had looked, the words had simply slipped out. A half-stuttered mention of birthday, maybe shoved into a convoluted story about why, exactly, he hadn't bothered waking Ravi up.
It didn't matter, really. He was awake now, which was what counted.
A few issues lead up to what he's calling the moment. They're slowly but steadily running out of food—a given, considering they haven't exactly made the time to look for any, but concerning given Ravi can't remember the last time he actually got Kai to eat a single thing.
He's not going to eat this either, and Ravi won't blame him. It's truly a mishmash of all the bits they have left, and judging by Zoya's dubious, if not tired stare, it's not a very pleasing one to look at.
Ravi balances the precarious collection in his hand; segments of a dried orange fruit too sweet for him to stand much of, the lone cracker left in its packaging, a handful of almonds tucked into the side. It's the oddest thing he's ever concocted by far, but even Zoya doesn't stop him as he strikes one of their matches to life and wedges it where it won't be moved.
He knows Kai is awake, dozing fitfully for the past hour or so, but Ravi still hesitates in his approach. Disturbing him feels like the most evil thing he can do right now. Still, there's no point to this if he doesn't.
Kai only looks his way when he sits gently down at the edge of the cot. For a long moment he stares blankly at the ominously leaning, very small tower in Ravi's hand, and then he lets out something between a snort and a true laugh.
"What the hell is that?"
"Couldn't do much else. Happy Birthday."
Kai sits up, slowly, each movement more excruciating than the last. His fingers scramble for the wall along his right side, shaking with exertion as he comes to rest against it.
"You're supposed to make a wish," Zoya says. For all his annoyance at the little plan they put together, he looks less perturbed by it now.
Kai nods, still trembling. Even that little amount of movement was enough to render him breathless—it's a long minute before he regains enough to let out a breath over the leaning match, extinguishing the flame.
"Thanks," he manages, before allowing his eyes to flick up to Zoya. "What did you get me?"
"A kick in the ass, if you're not careful—"
"Do you want any of this?" Ravi asks carefully. He knows the answer already, of course, but he doesn't let the disappointment, nor the dread, come to his face when Kai shakes his head.
For later, then. There will always be another time, though Ravi can't be certain for how much longer. Between the malnutrition and the disease, nearly anything could knock Kai flat at this point, and that's only if something else doesn't get him first. Ravi can't let that happen. He's suffered enough in life, certainly he shouldn't have to suffer that much in death.
"Seriously, thanks," Kai says again, leaning back against the wall. His eyes slip shut, but Ravi feels peace knowing that he's resting rather than succumbing to something worse.
"Of course," he says. Ravi stands, quickly depositing the small collection of food back where it belongs. It doesn't feel wrong for them to celebrate even in a time like this, no matter how small it was. If anything, it reminds him of Dulia. She was always the one to remind them, the loudest one to celebrate. Her and Aldon would always get him something when no one else would—his mother, of course, was always too intently focused on something else, and Ravi never felt the need to bring it up.
There was one time, though, three or four years ago. He's ashamed to say he can't remember. Dulia had scrounged together every coin she said, enough to purchase a small cake from one of the most popular merch bakeries, and the three of them had sat up half the night eating it until their stomachs ached and Ravi vowed to never ingest that much sugar again.
Maybe it wasn't special to anyone else, but it was to him. All he has are his memories now. Of her. Of Aldon. The good and the bad all rolled into one.
He can't focus on them now, though. Today can't be about that. He's given Kai something good—he hopes so, at least. There's enough warmth in him at the thought to keep them going. No matter how bad it gets, he'll always think of something.
"That was touching and all, but can we please get the fuck out of here now?" Zoya cuts in, shaking Ravi from his brief trance. "Y'know, before this tower collapses as well, this time on our heads."
Kai's eyes snap open at an alarming rate. "Before this tower does what?"
He gestures out the window, where Kai follows the motion all the way into the distance where the remnants of the other tower are only just visible. "Huh," he says flatly. "That's… something. We should leave?"
Ravi nods. Zoya is bouncing on the balls of his feet, raring to go. "We should."
"Alright then. Let's get the hell out of here."
Tova Revelis, 18
Tribute of District One
She can't make herself move any closer to the fire.
There wouldn't be a need for it if Aranza would just come inside, but Tova knows why she won't. Oh, she knows damn well.
Why would she, when she's got the perfect view?
There's something luxurious about it all, the lavishly furnished bedroom and the huge doors that lead to the balcony beyond. She wants nothing more than to slam said doors shut, but Aranza wouldn't take kindly to being locked out. For once in her life, Tova isn't searching for a fight. All she wants do is close her eyes and forget.
In fact, she hasn't slept a wink. Not since seeing Mads' face in the sky.
You'd think she'd be better equipped for the sight of a dead body, but the juxtaposition between her partner's easy, slight smile and the slackening of her jaw as her head rolled across the cobblestone sticks like a thorn in her brain. Everything had burned at the sight of it—Aranza's hand over her own, Aranza's lips insistent against hers.
And she had responded. Tova knows that. It had felt almost automatic. She had done it again later, too, when Aranza had pulled her in here and kissed her again, so deeply Tova felt as if her lips ought to be bruised. Aranza no doubt felt the same. For a moment, locked in this room together, Tova could forget about the sound the blade made as it came crashing down, vanquishing Maderia's frantic pleas from her mind.
Until Aranza had discovered the balcony, Tova was almost content to live in that little corner of the universe. Then from above she had seen Maderia's body all over again, the silhouette of her shoulders in the dark, limp in the courtyard. Her head was gone. There were no sign of the mutts, but her head was fucking gone.
She was still down there, and Aranza was at her perch admiring her handiwork—their handiwork. Tova had done it just as much. Isn't that why Maderia had been pleading with her so? Tova, please don't. Tova. Tova. Tova. Tova. Tova. Tova.
"Tova?"
She flinches. Some of the remaining fire sputters as Aranza cracks the door open a hair further, her face awash in gold. "You should come sit with me."
"I'm fine in here."
Aranza is not the type of girl to be so easily dissuaded. "Are you sure?"
She cannot confront the sight that lies below them yet again. That means having to work out an explanation for why she feels flayed open, each nerve ending electrified and ready to explode. Is she angry? Upset? How does something inside her feel sick at the thought that Maderia is still down there, that no one is going to come for her…
She deserved it. For Ives and for everything after and for screwing with Tova's head from the day they first spoke.
Tova just has to convince herself of that fact.
"Tova."
"What?" she snaps, whirling around. Tall as Aranza may be, there's nothing imposing about her, each of her limbs as thin as a reed. Tova could take apart every single piece of her without a sweat, break her bones all the way through her skin until she no longer resembled the girl she once was.
Anyone else would have stepped back, refusing to face Tova's vitriol. And does Aranza even truly deserve it? Tova was just as much of a participant, letting pleas fall on two sets of deaf ears.
She has no right to this behavior, and yet it will continue anyway. Tova knows it.
Aranza, though… Aranza reaches forward, nimble fingers brushing a curl away from her forehead. "I said,'' she repeats, giving evidence to the fact that she's spoken a question numerous times only for Tova to be unaware. "Where should we head next?"
To be out of this room would be a relief. To breathe again without feeling her chest ache. An encroaching sense of panic is beginning to infiltrate her brain at this lack of understanding. She's not right. Nothing really is.
She doesn't care where they go. It doesn't matter anymore.
As long as it's anywhere but here.
So much for that 'shorter chapters will hopefully allow me to write faster' ideology I had going on.
I fully anticipated getting a chapter up towards the end of July, and then again before I had surgery on the 1st, but sometimes it be like that. Or don't be like that. Whatever works. Regardless, it's better late than never and being on mostly-bed rest has allowed me to do at least this, and hopefully you'll get to see another next week!
Until next time.