Sequel to Ignite so read that first.
What victory?
Being back on the tribute train triggers unpleasant memories. At dinner, I slouch at the carved mahogany table with my mentors and team, pretending to listen as my escort outlines the next three weeks. I already know what's in store for me; every year I have been forced to watch the Victory Tour, along with every other citizen of Panem. I don't seem to have any appetite which is a shame because the food is incredible.
When I am finally allowed to leave, I go back to my quarters and take a long shower before pulling on a pair of soft cotton pajamas made out of a shimmering sliver material. There are tiny embroidered stars and moons up one arm and leg of the outfit which seems a little bit overkill as it is simply designed for sleeping in. I lie diagonally across the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Sleep is impossible and although I know it'll make me homesick, I allow myself to think back to the goodbyes of the morning. At any rate, it's easier than remembering my previous journeys on this train which is the other topic that my brain insists on focusing on.
Originally I didn't want my sister and little Rosie to accompany me to the station because I knew that the goodbyes would be even harder with an audience. I know that this is simply the Victory Tour and that I will be home in just over a fortnight but the whole situation reminded me horribly of the goodbyes I endured in the Justice building before Sheb and I left for the Games. Even so, it turned out that I didn't have a choice and I was forced into an emotional farewell scene, not only with what remains of my own family, but also with Rue and her family. I suppose that I'm lucky in a way; when three members of my extended family were executed nearly a year ago, many of our family friends and my personal friends, decided not to continue our friendship. Also thanks to the Capitol I have no family left save my sister, father and Rosie. So, in the end, very few people whom I actually care about were at the station to wave me off.
Sheb. My eyes tear up in the way that they are inclined to do when I think about my brother. Over the last six months, I have learned to live with the crushing grief but although I can now function day to day, I know that I will always carry it with me. It is locked in my chest in a pocket of black grief, just below my heart, and sometimes, even now, I find myself doubled over and physically unable to stand up straight. When I first returned from the Capitol, I was a mess for weeks; terrified by the nightmares, I slept only when my sheer exhaustion won over my desire to stay awake. I barely ate. My sister waited patiently, cajoling me into eating, crying with me when the grief and guilt became too much for me to bear alone, sitting with me all night so that I wouldn't have to face the dreams alone. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the depression and the blame lessened to a dull ache and I was able to work around the ragged hole in my chest.
I sit up and swing my legs off the bed; there's no point in lying here if sleep won't come. There's a strange feeling in my stomach, although I can't work out if it's anxiety or hunger. It's probably a mixture of both since I have eaten next to nothing today. I was too wound up for breakfast and then came the lengthy task of making me look 'presentable', the drive to the station and the painful goodbyes. None of which gave me an appetite for the delectable meal I was served once I was on the train.
I cross over to the door and pad out into the corridor. I pause by the window, my attention fixated on the huge, blood moon that has risen on this side of the train. It's breathtakingly beautiful but it also carries an ominous hunger that has me shivering and pulling down on the blind so that I don't have to look at it any more. Blood moons are considered to be bad luck back at home.
I order warm milk and biscuits from one of the Capitol attendants and then I go and sit in the second lounge. This is smaller than the main lounge and has several deep purple armchairs ringed around a fake fireplace with imitation coals that glow red and orange and send up showers of no-heat sparks at regular intervals. The room lights up automatically as I step into it, but I override the controls until I am sitting in the half light. Then I stare at the fire, wondering how they managed to create something that looks more like the real thing than an actual fire.
My milk arrives and with it a plate of crumbly oat biscuits that turn out to be exactly what my unsettled stomach feels like eating. I take my time with the food, nibbling around each biscuit and sipping and blowing on the milk as I try to keep my mind occupied but despite my intentions it isn't enough and my mind fast forwards again. The Victory Tour. I have stopped myself from thinking about it because the idea of celebrating winning the Hunger Games is repulsive. I don't feel like a winner. If ever there was a bitter-sweet ending then this is it. But tomorrow I will arrive in District Twelve and the Tour will start for real and I will have to face a District that is grieving for its tributes whether I am ready or not. I try to remember the two of them but I can't picture their faces. I can only remember how they stood on their chariot, naked and covered with black coal dust, looking cold and miserable. And how, even under the dust, I could count each and every rib.
The sun has risen before I make my way back to my sleeping compartment and I finally fall into a fitful sleep just as the enticing scents of cooked breakfast start to waft through the train. It feels like seconds later when Aelia comes knocking at my door, telling me to get out of bed and reminding me that I have a 'big big day ahead of me'. When I finally arrive at the breakfast table, she purses her lips at the sight of my tired eyes and messy hair, before going back to her notes. I see a reflection of myself in the silver coffee jug and actually agree with her for the first time ever; I look terrible even by my low standards.
For the first time in my life, I take a large cup of coffee. The black liquid is so bitter that it makes me shudder but it banishes sleep like magic. After I've managed to force down two cups of the liquid my stomach feels full, almost sloshy, and I look at the rest of the spread without much interest. Seeder comes to sit next to me and she helps herself to a large plateful of stew before she speaks.
'Did you sleep at all, Maya?' I shrug in reply and Aelia clicks her tongue in a concerned way.
'I can give you some sleeping tablets if you'd like Maya,' she says. I am shaking my head before she's finished; I remember the fuzzy state of my brain the last time I accepted a sleeping tablet the night before the start of the Games. I don't want a repeat of that if I can avoid it.
'How are you feeling about the victory rally in Twelve?' Seeder asks. Her golden eyes seem to be scanning me, as if she is trying to read what's going on inside my head.
'Nervous I suppose,' I shrug again and reach for a plain white roll, hoping that it will settle my stomach because it seems to have accepted the coffee rather ungraciously.
'You won't have to say anything apart from the scripted reply, not if you don't want to.' Aelia hands me a copy of the script and I flick my eyes over it quickly. It says something about being grateful and humbled. My stomach clenches and I push my roll away.
Do I want to say something more? I mull over the question as my prep team prepares me for the day ahead. It isn't expected; tributes traditionally only add personal comments for allies or District partners. And I didn't have any of them apart from Sheb. My eyes tear up again and I blink rapidly, annoying Hero who is trying to put make up on my face. But at least I don't have to deal with the guilt and the blame associated with being personally responsible for these tributes' deaths. Not here in District Twelve at any rate.
I still haven't decided when Clio arrives, holding my outfit over one arm. When she holds it up for inspection, I'm surprised to see a long sleeved dress made out of soft white wool and matching tights. There are pearls sewn all over the bodice of the dress and up one leg of the tights. My surprise must register on my face because Clio crosses over to the window and pulls up the blind. Bright white light assaults my eyes and we are all blinded for a few seconds, which gives Clio time to explain.
'It's midwinter in District Twelve. Apparently its freezing cold and they've had to slow the train because there's ice on the line.'
I look out of the window and see that the train is running between high snow drifts that come at least halfway up the train. Beyond them I can see a vast beech forest. The bare branches of the trees are so heavy with snow that some of them have bent almost to the ground. Now that it's been pointed out, I notice the change in motion; we are going slightly slower.
The soft garment slides down over my naked body. I help to pull on the tights; I've never quite got used to the idea of being dressed although I suppose that I should be used to it by now. Finally my feet are covered with a pair of white slippers made of supple leather and lined inside with soft lambskin. They look ridiculously delicate considering the conditions I am about to subject them to and Clio seems to notice my scepticism because she tells me that they are waterproof, thermally insulated and have ice-grip soles. Of course they do…
When the train finally slows my heart seems to jump into my throat, constricting my airways and I have to remind myself to breathe slowly and regularly because I know from past experience that hyperventilating will only result in a panic attack and I will end up feeling even worse. The train doors finally slide open and we disembark onto a swept platform where the mayor of District Twelve himself greets us. I try to smile in response but the muscles in my cheeks seem to be frozen and not because of the weather. I suppose that it's lucky that Aelia can step in with her over-enthusiasm because it lets me slack somewhat and not appear rude.
Outside the station the ground has not been cleared of snow and it crunches underfoot. It's a strange sensation that I have never experienced before; the delicate resistance and then finally the give as you sink down into the ground. Then, just when you aren't expecting it, the crunch as the ice crystals bind together. I am so preoccupied that I don't notice that I am being introduced to the mayor's wife and daughter. Aelia clicks her tongue impatiently at my apparent rudeness but the two of them don't seem to mind: The mayor's wife is barely present, her eyes are slightly out of focus and she winces at each noise as if it causes her great pain. His daughter is a quiet, pretty girl and she smiles shyly at me as she shakes my hand but she doesn't speak. I forget their names almost as soon as I am introduced to them.
We drive through the streets in a Peacekeeper truck because normal cars would be unable to navigate the snowy roads. The windows are darkened which is a shame because I would like to see some of the District and it's unlikely that I'll ever come here again. Another District Eleven tribute will have to win the Games before I return here. I cringe inwardly; it is my responsibility to mentor the tributes from Eleven now. How many kids will I be forced to drill and direct into the Games. Will I ever bring any of them home?
We finally roll to a stop in front of a tall building made of a type of white stone that I've never seen before. I climb awkwardly out of the back seat and I get about three seconds to take in my situation before I am hurried inside. As we walk a single snowflake lands on my bare hand. It sits there just long enough for me to take in the delicate six-pointed star and then it melts, leaving a damp, cold, patch on my skin. I look up at the sky and although the clouds look full and ominous there doesn't seem to be any more snow falling at the moment. Then the doors swing shut behind me and I find myself in a narrow, dingy corridor with a mouldy and threadbare carpet and bare, peeling walls. The corridor is lit by several naked bulbs that hang from the ceiling at regular intervals and that give of a sickly yellow light that makes us all appear pale and ill.
I am told that we are in the District Twelve's Justice Building and for a moment I am slightly confused because I'm sure that I remember a more imposing building from the televised reapings. I soon realise that we've simply been led in through the back entrance to avoid the crowds that have already started to gather in the square. Apparently they are awaiting the ceremony with avid anticipation although I take this comment with a pinch of salt. To be honest I don't know why they are even pretending because it's no secret that the citizens of each District are forced to attend and to appear welcoming to the new victor.
The set of rooms that we are allocated is at the back of the Justice building. They are musty with disuse, probably because they are only ever used once a year. Mine smells violently of cleaning fluid but it doesn't quite cover up the smells of damp and neglect and my nose starts tickling almost immediately. Clio applies a couple of finishing touches to my face and hair and then we are whisked through a maze of dusty corridors to the front of the building.
Someone clips a microphone to the front of my dress and as the last strains of the anthem echo into silence, the doors are flung open and someone gives me a small push. Caught by surprise, I stagger and the mayor is forced to grab my arm to steady me or I'd probably end up falling off the stage.
My first impression is that the square looks a lot bigger in real life than it does on the television. Even so, one quick glance tells me that it is far smaller than ours back at home and it's also in much better condition. The buildings that surround me actually have glass in the windows and each shop front has been painted a different colour.
Nearly the entire population of the District stands in front of me. They shiver in their tattered clothing that seems to be barely adequate for the freezing conditions and their white, pinched faces stare up at me, huge hungry eyes devouring me. Worst of all is the grief on the faces of the two families standing on the platform constructed at the bottom of the stage; the families of the two dead tributes. Troy and Ash. For the first time ever, I can remember their names although I don't remember ever being told them. There's a swell of muttering that quickly dwindles to an ominous silence as the mayor steps forward to the microphone set in the centre of the stage. I suddenly realise that I am terrified.
'Welcome Maya Stone, winner of the seventy third annual Hunger Games!' The ceremony begins and the mayor gives the scripted greetings and congratulations. I open my mouth to give the scripted reply but nothing comes out except an unintelligible high pitched squeaking. The mayor pauses, obviously slightly wrong footed but after it becomes obvious that he isn't going to get any more out of me he goes on with the ceremony. At some point, I am handed a small black shield. I glance at it and see my name and the words:
Winner of the Seventy-third Hunger Games
Congratulations from District Twelve
For some reason, this has me tearing up. Maybe it's the blatant lie; none of District Twelve are happy that I have won the Games. They are grieving over their own tributes and yet they are forced to stand there and pretend to celebrate my victory when nothing will ever bring the two of them back and fill the bottomless hole that they left behind them when they were ripped from their home. Or maybe it's the fact that I don't feel like a winner. I never have and I never will. I bend slightly to set the thing down on the stage because I can't bear to touch it with my bare skin any longer. Then I step forwards to the front of the stage.
My time for speaking has come and gone and although I haven't prepared anything, the words come to me as if I have practised them many times before. My voice shakes and the words come out haltingly but the microphone on my chest picks up my voice and sends it spinning into the remotest corners of the square.
'I… I just wanted to say how…' I swallow down the emotion and wipe an impatient hand across my leaking eyes. Then I try again and my voice has dropped to a whisper. 'I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm sorry that my victory meant that neither of your tributes could come home.' The crowd mutters; it's rare for a victor to say anything about a tribute that they never even had contact with but its innovative that a victor apologises for winning the Games.
'I didn't know Troy and Ash but I wish that I had. I know that many of you knew them personally and grieve for them every day. It's the same for my family. I may have won the Games but I also lost a brother in that arena and I miss him every day. I don't feel like a winner.' My voice cracks but the crowd is silent now and they pressing forwards in anticipation of my words.
'They were all too young to die and I'm sorry… I'm sorry that you had to die this way.' I look up at the sky as I say these last words. Then I turn and march back through the double doors, leaving my shield on the stage by the mayor's feet.
Hope you enjoy and Merry Christmas! As always, please let me know what you think.