In Aeternum Vale
The Forever Goodbye
Noor Andel, District 2F, 18
Reaping Day, July 4, 115 ADD
Things worked like clockwork in District Two; Noor had been told the schedule in advance when the Academy had arranged a list of those who would see her. She, like the tributes before her and the ones after her, knew who was coming to visit her, in what order and for how long. It made things easier - allowed her to anticipate who might say what. Keepers knew she didn't need some whack confession before she left.
She chose to sit on the plush, ornate chair in the corner. Certainly not the intended choice, but one Noor preferred. There was never much use for the sofa, not in District Two. Goodbyes were curt and to the point.
At the sound of the doors opening, Noor stood up, arms taking their place behind her back as the room's door opened to her father alone.
Noor's eyebrows furrowed quizzically, mouth stretching into a cautious scowl. This wasn't on the schedule...
Her father must've sensed her uncertainty for the hug he gave was light and non-committal. "Last minute change," He said, posture mirroring his daughter's. "Your mother and I have different things to say - different lessons to give you. We thought it'd be better this way."
The young Andel hummed in dissatisfaction.
There was likely some merit to be had in her father's words. He, after all, had trained most of Two's recent victors. If anybody knew about giving some final pieces of advice, it'd be him. Not that Noor cared. Her father was only doing his duty to her as a swordsman trainer to a swordswoman trainee (tribute, now). It was fake, detached from whatever goodbye he could give as her father.
Not that I know any different.
Her father spent the rest of his time trying to boost her confidence using all of the same lines she had heard him use at the Academy. None of it meant anything - all he had to do was replace the names with whoever he was taking to. His advice fell on deaf ears but, as she always did, Noor smiled with grace and thanked him all the same.
She wondered if it was wrong that she felt little as he walked out of the room.
One parent was replaced with the other, however, not allowing her much time to dwell on it.
Saff Andel's face was contorted with worry in a way that Noor hadn't ever seen before.
"I trust your father has given you the pep talk," she said, wasting little time in coming and sitting beside Noor on the sofa. (Her father had eventually guided her there, much to her dissatisfaction.)
Noor nodded. "He has - you gonna give me one too?"
Her mother exhaled with a smile, shaking her head. "I know you're capable enough to not need two pep talks. Never tell him I said that. Regardless, Ellara speaks highly of you."
A terse smile spread on Noor's lips, glad at knowing she needn't be tired out by her exhausting mother just before boarding her train to the Capitol. Keepers knew that'd be a headache she'd have trouble nursing. There was satisfaction in knowing the Victor sung her good graces and, in turn, it felt good hearing her mother acknowledge it. A lot of time had passed since the last time Noor had actively tried to chase her parents' approval instead of knowing she'd always be second to their students.
("It's because we know you can do it," Her mother had said all those years ago when Noor, mistakenly, had confided in her when training had gotten tough. Her mother's voice was soft but disapproval at the weakness dripped at every syllable. "You are the ideal, Noor. The standard. This doubt, on the other hand? That is something that must be corrected."
Noor soon stopped showing her worries after that.)
Noor's mother waited for her daughter to speak and, when she didn't, she sighed, eyes closing for a second.
"I know you'll come home, Noor. I do -"
Noor raised an eyebrow. There's a but.
"- But if you don't, I know Ellara'd think wrongly of me if I didn't say this."
The tribute could feel her face frown at the thought of something her mother would only say to her at the thought of being held in the wrong light by someone else. Not because it was something that needed to be said to her daughter of all people.
"Go on."
Her mother almost looked shocked at how Career-like her daughter sounded, as if it wasn't the only thing she let Noor be around her. She recomposed quickly, however.
"I haven't been the nicest mother in the world, Noor, I know that," her mother said, a thoughtful glance shot in Noor's direction. "But it was vital to your training. Your father and I... we couldn't have - I couldn't have - you attached to people so it could be exploited."
She reached over, placing a hand on Noor's arm.
"You understand, right?"
Noor didn't think she did.
Her teeth bit into her bottom lip as her mind whirred to make sense of her mother's words. The knowledge - the admission - that the way she had been brought up in had been intentional stung. Noor had pondered the thought a lot as she grew up, often trying to find the good in her parents and ignore how little they seemed to care; ignore how they were more invested in the trainees from their classes than her. It was hard and she barely managed but she often busied herself with her own training when things got too tough. She had coped only guessing; it was easier that way.
To know it was all true...
Noor sucked her teeth and shrugged. "I guess."
"When you come back, as victor, we can try again. I'd like that."
I'm not sure I would.
When the Peacekeepers came to take her mother away, Noor ignored the sad smile she wore. It was performative, Noor knew that. Her parents had only decided to care about her now their reputation was in jeopardy if they didn't pass on 'sentiments' they apparently had. She huffed, storming to the window and looking out at the train. She knew she shouldn't care (and she didn't, or at least she thought) but, deep down, that small child that yearned for her parents' love was reluctant to let go. Victors often mentioned how the goodbyes were often where inner children were healed, especially for a district like the Careers. It always sounded so cathartic and wistful; worth the wait.
Noor's inner child was confused, unsure on how to react. Unwilling to let go of either the confirmation of neglect or validation of skills, it was unable to make a judgement.
It hurt Noor's head, that much she knew.
Trust them to fuck me over one last time before going to the arena.
Kenzo Lee-Anders, District 13M, 15
Reaping Day, July 4, 115 ADD
District Thirteen's escort didn't allow for much small talk between the two tributes which was fine by Kenzo. There were lots of things he wanted to say to Ishtar - snide remarks about how her mother, like he his father, would lose someone close to her - but he knew better than that. His mother had taught him to be polite no matter what and his uncle reminded him every time they met about secrecy and its power. Instead, a glare and scowl were unmovable from his face. Intended for her but easily passed off as anger about being reaped.
Not that it mattered much; Ishtar kept her eyes trained to the floor.
The waiting room was one of the nicest in the Justice Building. The son of a district official, he had seen many of the rooms for various reasons and none compared to the plush look of where tributes said their goodbyes. It was fucked, really, but Kenzo imagined it was a weird, shitty gesture of getting kids to fight for home.
Take pride in what we've put in your district. Some bullshit like that.
Sitting squarely on the sofa, he picked at his fingernails. Thirteen's only victor, Waverly, often lamented at how fussy the stylists were about nails. Naturally, Kenzo took pleasure in making them all the harder to work on. What could the stylists do? Put him in a bad outfit? People wouldn't care what he wore at the chariots in the arena.
Waiting was... harder than Kenzo had thought. He could make a list in his head of people who'd visit - his mom, uncle and maybe a few people from school - but the more time passed, the more it was just the sound of the clock and his breathing in the room, the more unnerving it was. The Peacekeeper standing at the door didn't offer anything other than the small hum of their helmet, radio static coming through every once in a while.
Kenzo bit back anger at the site of the white uniform. The last he had seen it this close was at his father's hearing.
(He was so close to the aisle that he could almost touch the Peacekeepers as they dragged his father to face 'justice.' The colour of their uniforms had struck Kenzo as unnatural - too pristine for District Thirteen. The Capitol-inclined of Thirteen murmured and stared scornfully - the others quiet, respectful in their silence. There was something haunting about the way they manhandled his father so effortlessly, throwing him around as if he was nothing.
He was everything. Father, son, brother, husband. Rebel. Traitor. Dissenter.
The white gloves held the shackles around his father's neck and wrists, chaining him like a dog - one they were eager to put down. They were rougher after the judge had sentenced him to death.)
He glanced away, gritting his teeth. Anger wouldn't get him far, not at the moment at least. He was a tribute now and he had to think somewhat logically.
He was glad the Peacekeeper's presence only lasted as long as he was alone in the room, disappearing behind the door as his mother was corralled in.
Kenzo hadn't ever heard his mother wail. She had always been the one to hold their little unit together through her grace and determination. Even when his father was sentenced, the most she gave the outside world were damp eyes, a straightened back and her head held high.
Her son's reaping, however, shattered her image.
Hina Lee's breaths were choked, grip tight, as she held onto Kenzo. Though it was hard to breathe, Kenzo melted into the hug all the same. It was comforting - needed. They stayed like that for a few minutes in silence, cherishing each other in ways they never thought they'd have to do. Not so soon, at least.
Kenzo felt the anger bubble inside of him again. Instead of his mom's post-reaping pancakes she always made, he'd instead be hurtling towards the Capitol. Instead of her being safe from even more pain, she would be forced to watch him in the Capitol - in the arena. It wasn't fair. It was never, ever fair.
"Come back to me Kenzo," his mother said, pulling away to cup Kenzo's head in her hands, eyes scanning every detail of his face. "As soon as you can."
Kenzo nodded without a second thought, pulling his mother close again. His shoulder dampened where she buried her face, tears and sobs muffling against his fabric.
"One minute left!" The Peacekeeper's shout was as gruff as the day Kenzo heard them say his father's name. Less venom, though without any emotion still.
A new wave of panic and worry washed over Hina's face as she pulled away a second time. Their time was passing too quick for either of them. There wasn't enough time for everything to be said, Kenzo could tell as much.
"You can do this," she managed, though with each syllable her voice got more strangled. "Y-You're your father's son. I know you can do this."
Kenzo's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He hadn't heard his mother speak positively about his father in years, not since he was sentenced to death for treason, all to disappear days before. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. It wouldn't feel right to ruin what could be their last moments together.
His mother bit her lips, knowing all too well what Kenzo wanted to say. "Your father was a stupid, stupid man." She faltered, eyes flickering to the ceiling in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing. "But he was a great one." Her gaze towards him steeled quickly, determination and desperation funnelling every atom of her being. "A great one who could've done anything and, in a way, he fought for what is right..." Her voice trailed off for a second. "You have his drive. Use it to win."
Kenzo blinked. The words were real, painfully ripped from the heart. He nodded. "Okay. I will Mom, promise."
All she could do before the Peacekeepers dragged her away was plant a kiss to his forehead and repeat 'I love you' as much as she could.
"I'll come back!" He had vowed as the door slammed, unsure if his mother heard him.
Kenzo picked at his nails again, no longer out of sardonic thoughts of inconveniencing the stylists who had probably seen worse, but rather the thought of his mother losing the only other person she had.
Alaric Averhart, District 12M, 18
Reaping Day, July 4, 115 ADD
The Justice Building was nothing like he, Dusty and Connie had theorised it be. That was what struck Alaric the most. Often they had joked it was where the lizard people of the Capitol slept at night, hiding away to scheme more ways to punish the people of Panem. In reality it was much fancier than he could've ever imagined.
His father had tried to tell them otherwise but only ever relented when the band teasingly doubted him. Alaric never thought his father minded, based on the small smile he'd often nurse.
("And to think, District Twelve's Justice Building really is the worst of the lot!" Cartenxia had mused as she fluttered down the hall, carting each of them into a separate room. First Connie, then Dusty, then Alannis and, finally, him. "Just wait until you see the tribute carriages!"
That hadn't felt good, knowing that even a Capitol carriage was nicer than the best thing in Twelve. Great metaphor for a song, though.)
"You're a fool Alaric!"
Alaric had been so wrapped up in a potential song for when - if - they (one of them, it couldn't be they, not that it hit him yet) ever got back to Twelve, that he didn't notice the door had opened.
His father looked haggard and beat down, even worse than his tired, worn face after a long shift in the mines. The mines weren't kind to Baylor - a hearty cough and soot ingrained into his premature wrinkles attested to that. "A mighty fool."
The hug he pulled Alaric into teemed with emotion. It was hard, for both of them. Alaric and his father hadn't hugged much in his life, exceptions only cropping up here and there. Most of them were after concerts held at the Seam; Alaric would never admit that a congratulatory hug from his Dad after dazzling the crowd made him feel warm inside but it always did. Perhaps it was the pride that swelled in him. Some of their hugs, however, were raw and charged with things left unspoken. Those were rarer and the last time was when his father had come home to find him playing his mother's fiddle.
(His father's face had first been one of shock, paled with his eyebrows furrowed. The door opening with a bang had startled Alaric, the sound of the bow jittering from the fiddle's strings made his ears hurt. It didn't take long - though for Alaric it had felt like forever - for his father's eyes to wet as he ran over and scooped his son in a hug, tight and full of pride. There were things in that hug that meant far more than Alaric playing the fiddle, he knew that. The way his father looked as if he had seen a ghost gave it all away.
Alaric had realised that day that hugs from his father were comforting and helped the older Averhart perhaps more than the younger.)
When the two pulled away, Alaric remembered how nice that hug had been. This one was different.
"Why'd you volunteer?" Baylor asked, voice gruff. "Alaric... that's The Hunger Games you've just signed yourself up for."
"Connie and Dusty..." he replied, face slowly looking down. He was never good at getting his thoughts out, even less so with his father's panicked gaze washing over him. "They need me."
I need them.
"They only need you in that damn arena until you're no good to them anymore." His father's voice escaped his mouth before he could stop it, his eyes widening as soon as he realised what he had said. Baylor looked down in shame as Alaric stood there, shocked. He had always thought his father liked (or at the very least tolerated) his friends. "They won't, I'm sure... I- I just want you to be careful in there. The arena changes people Alaric. Turns them into monsters."
"I know." They all knew, every single person in Panem. "But they wouldn't do that - not to me. I promise."
The smile his father wore was supposed to be one of agreement but Alaric couldn't help but wonder just how much his father believed him.
His father spent the next few minutes stumbling through and choking out exasperations that he had volunteered, cursing him for being so reckless and apologies that were sprinkled in about his comment but, even then, Alaric had half a mind that his father was weary now the band were tributes together. (Looking out for him, perhaps? Alaric was still unsure.) He also reminded him of the fate of Twelve's last volunteer. Alaric had shuddered at that. Many of Twelve's folk songs berated the girl and he didn't want to end up like her in any sense of her fate.
It hurt, hearing his father speak with tinges of disappointment. Although always so far apart even when they were together, Alaric had only ever wanted to make his father proud. To make his mother proud too, if she was watching. Both of them were strangers to him - Keepers, Dusty and Ricky were the family he had forged through song - but they had hoped through him once, just like he hoped through his melodies. He supposed, deep down, he owed it to them to make them proud of him, even as he and his father sat on opposite ends of the sofa in silence.
Time in the waiting room passed in a way that wasn't too dissimilar to the concerts. Slow and agonising at points but all too quick and fleeting at others. A brief flash of time nonetheless, indiscriminate in its passing.
"One more minute!"
His father stood up abruptly, Alaric following to stand opposite him. Baylor opened his mouth to speak, closed it before pinching at the space in between his eyebrows. Alaric watched, not knowing what to do or what to say. What can I say? Sorry for volunteering because my friends are my everything?
"Alaric," he whispered quietly, barely making eye contact with him.
"Dad?"
"I... I hope this isn't goodbye. For good." It looked like it hurt him to say that - Alaric could tell by the way his eyes glossed over.
"I don't want it to be." He meant it, unknowing in what his words truly meant.
His father nodded, holding Alaric at his shoulders. "I'm so proud of you, son," he managed after a second of silence, a smile morphing onto his lips. "So, so proud. I know I haven't said it enough - you deserve to have heard it more - I just..."
His voice trailed away, prompted only by Alaric's quiet, "Dad?"
Baylor Averhart sniffed back some tears, a man too dignified to cry in front of his son. That would be for later, when he was locked in the small shack they called home and he was surrounded by Alaric and his memories, cradling the fiddle just like he had done eighteen years ago.
"You are the best thing to have happened to me, Alaric." His father's voice was firm as he squeezed Alaric's shoulders. "The greatest song your mother could've written me. Come home, please."
Alaric promised he would (he ignored again what that promise meant, unsure if he could keep it) and tightly hugged his father. As they were pulled apart by the Peacekeepers, Alaric decided he hated the look of the back of his father's head more than he realised.
You need me too.
Alora Young, District 7F, 15
Reaping Day, July 4, 115 ADD
Being on stage was less of a spotlight on her than the Justice Building. Everywhere she looked, Alora was met with Peacekeepers and Capitolites alike staring at her and exchanging whispers with one another, acting as if she had either already been killed or crowned the newest victor. She was a spectacle more than a Career and she hated that.
It really should've been no surprise that Macy had stormed in fuming - she always loved the attention more.
"Why did you look so smug standing there? You know I'd be a better volunteer than you!"
Macy's ability to find something to complain about was the only thing inspiring about her, in Alora's opinion. Even when she should be happy for her sister for making history (everyone else was), Macy had a scowl permanently fixed to her face. Alora knew it was jealousy that nothing Macy did in the months leading to the reaping had been able to distract from the attention she got as volunteer.
"Am I supposed to look miserable up there?" Alora asked, already feeling the headache coming on. "I'm the volunteer, after all."
Her sister rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and leant on one leg. "That's not the point."
"What is the point then?"
"The point is," Macy said, gritting her teeth. "You shouldn't look so smug when I'm going to beat your record next year! If everyone thinks fifteen is so cool or whatever, wait until they see fourteen!"
The whole thing was ridiculous and, if Alora was honest, a waste of her time. Though there were few she'd actually want to see as she willingly plunged herself into the arena, she was positive that she'd rather have anyone else in the room with her instead of Macy. Where her body had been able to bite back a laugh, the sardonic roll of her eyes had not been so successfully stopped.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Even if Alora had wanted to entertain her sister's idiotic claim as she spoke incredulously, she hadn't been able to as the younger Young huffed and laughed. "You'll see, Alora. Or maybe you won't. You're a shit Career and I'm sure you'll be picked off first!"
Alora widened her eyes, shocked that Macy had stooped so low; so... Career-like. Never had the two to got along, but neither of them had ever resorted as low as predicting death on the other during the Games when they argued and fought. It didn't hurt like Alora was sure it was supposed to but it was a shock nonetheless, the words echoing silently around the room. They lingered like a ghost.
Macy sensed it too because her face dropped for a second before she hmphed and turned on her heel.
If I do come back, she's not living in the village with me. That's for sure...
Alora had reclined back on the sofa by the time her parents had come in, beaming smiles a far cry from the frown Macy had championed.
"Our darling Alora!" Her mother cooed, swooping in for a hug as soon as Alora stood up, kissing her on the forehead (her mother had done that a lot as the reaping approached). "Oh you were a real icon up there! A real titan in Seven's history!"
She smiled as she wrapped her hands around her mother, only because her father was standing at the door, looking on with pride. "And when I make history again coming home?"
"You'll be a hero for the ages, my darling."
Her mother pulled away and tucked some of Alora's hair behind her ear. "And even if you weren't to make it out," she said, fingers running along Alora's jaw, tilting her head upwards slightly. "You've made history."
Alora pursed her lips and nodded, still forcing a smile. She hadn't been naïve enough to expect her mother to change her attitude at the goodbye room. Long ago had Alora resigned herself to the fact that, whether dead or alive, she had provided her family with another feather in their cap of history. Just like her grandfather being in Seven's history books and her mother's parents being some of the only Seven-born tycoons of lumber, her being the youngest volunteer from Seven in history could only elevate the Young power.
Irrespective of what happened to her, she had served her purpose.
Keepers, she wasn't even sure if she could win.
I have to, just to show them all I can.
Her mother, satisfied with what little talk the two of them shared, beamed. "Well, I don't want us to intrude on your strategizing any longer. I'm sure we can expect to see you soon, Miss History?"
Alora furrowed her eyebrows, trying to make sense of her mother's words. They were leaving? So soon? They had just gotten there.
"I -uh." She blinked, swallowing hard. "Y-Yeah. I'll be home before you know it, Mom. We'll have another thing to celebrate."
Her mother clapped her hands and held them under her chin. "Oh my darling success story! You'll dazzle them, I know it. Don't forget the tips I gave you, they'll come in handy!"
"I won't, Mom."
Like that, as quick as they had arrived, her parents left. Her mother seeing her as nothing less than the vessel of historic champion she needed for her ego and, as always, her father silent.
Alora chewed the inside of her cheek, praying to whatever was out there that Macy would be wrong.
Paxton Yukawa, District 3M, 12
Reaping Day, July 4, 115 ADD
Paxton fiddled with his fingers as he stared at the ground. Nothing made sense - not a single thing. His name had only been in the bowl once compared to those who stood around him, in front of him, whose names were in there so many more times. His mind flickered back to what Daeta had said at the car meet last night and cursed himself for not taking it as a warning.
It was - still is - statistically improbable. I'm just... I'm just the exception...
He didn't know what to feel, how to feel. He was void of anything as if his brain couldn't identify a single emotion to focus on. Everyone else in the district had felt pity, it was written all over their faces as he ascended the stairs to the stage. Even Lenora, the bright bubbly girl who tried to find the best in the situation they had been put in, had a sad look on her face as she shook his hand.
Paxton wasn't like the other twelve-year-olds, he knew that. He was smarter, more logical and knew his brain could triumph the biggest of brawn.
Then the reaping happened and his name, the name that shouldn't've been called, had been selected. Paxton couldn't help but worry if he had gotten too complacent in the statistics. Improbabilities were always bound to occur.
As soon as the door started opened, Paxton rose to his feet. It was harder than he thought it'd be; his head spun with all the thoughts he tried to process - all the reasons why this was some sick dream.
It is a dream, right? A nightmare...
Nothing was said as his parents wrapped their arms around him, sandwiching him in a warm, tight hug. A safe hug, one meant to calm him down.
"Oh Paxton..." His father managed after a few seconds, voice trembling. Paxton looked up and saw the tracks of tears down his cheeks. When he looked at his mother, he found the same marks mirrored on her.
A pit in his stomach formed, exasperated by the thought that his parents were sad and, likely, mourning him prematurely. He knew they'd never admit to it but, logically, there was little that a twelve-year-old could do to win against the likes of Careers. Everyone spoke about it so matter-of-factly that it was all but guaranteed, it seemed.
(He ignored all the times he had spoken to Valtra Ducati, his academic rival, about how anyone could outsmart the Careers. It didn't seem possible in that moment.
In fact, Paxton felt like all his knowledge, intelligence and rationale fizzled away at the sight of his parents' tears. He leant into the hug a bit more after that.)
"We love you so much Paxton," his mother said, pulling away and crouching down, his father following suit. She forced a smile, though it was obvious it was hurting her. "Our racer..."
Paxton glanced between both of his parents as they stammered out memories they had, things he needed to remember in the arena and how proud they were of him. He had nodded along, hummed and promised he'd remember. It was hard to find the words - no words could express how he felt. He had always struggled but this was something else entirely.
He felt his throat choke at the minute reminder. Though no tears would fall down his cheeks, his parents were not as lucky.
"There's not a lot of time left but you need to listen to us, okay?" His father said, taking in all of Paxton's features.
Paxton nodded, feeling heavier by the second.
"We love you so much," he continued. "So very much. We're sorry we couldn't protect you."
"N-No-one can predict exceptions," Paxton managed, lip trembling for the first time. (It felt more real, too real, to hear his parents resign him to his own means, his own handle on his fate, unable to shelter him.)
"No, they can't," his mother interjected, holding his hands. "But you can predict what they might do in there. Be smart and stay safe."
"No matter the decisions you need to make, we'll be behind you one-hundred percent."
"Statistically twelve-year-olds don't make it pass the bloodbath -"
"Be another exception, Paxton." His father looked at him intensely, squeezing his shoulders as his mother squeezed his hands. "Do whatever you need to do to prove them how wrong their statistics are, you understand?"
Paxton nodded, forcing himself to remember his father's words as his parents hugged him tight one last time and Paxton let himself feel safe.
another one, thank you!
honestly these goodbyes were so much fun to write, mostly because all of the tributes have something unexpected to them happen. fun fact, these povs were decided pretty much as soon as i read their individual forms! next up is the train rides, so no doubt we'll have some fun seeing how the tributes interact with one another!
as always, reviews make me happy!
~ oli