Gold Pembrook was afraid of death.
The biological aspect of it didn't bother him – he didn't fear a corpse or wrinkle his nose at the smell of expiration. He wasn't squeamish or hyper-sensitive. He held his composure at funerals.
No, the truth was, Gold hated death because of its… finality. Inevitability. The loss of control. The things left undone, the people that it left behind. He was also keenly aware of the fact that nobody had a single clue as to what lay… well, beyond. If there was anything there at all.
For years, Gold had not thought about it anymore than he had to.
Now, as he dug out the brittle roots of his dead roses from the dry earth, he knew it would always be a part of him.
Gold felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, lad. We'll just re-plant them."
His grandfather's words did little to soothe him. Gold sighed and looked out across the plot. "I used to be good at this."
"You still are," said Grandfather sharply. "You're just… out of practice."
Lately, people had developed a habit of softening hard truths for him.
Gold tensed. "I wasn't gone that long."
"It felt like you were," said Grandfather. A pause. "We missed you."
Gold hesitated. What had he really wanted to say?
"I missed you too," he lied.
No. It wasn't a lie. Gold wasn't being completely dishonest.
From the moment that the Capitol representative had trilled out his name at the Reaping, the only emotion that Gold could comprehend was fear – pure, unadulterated terror.
It was constant. He hadn't had the chance to feel anything else.
Gold removed his cotton gloves and placed them in his trouser pocket.
"Do you think I could help out at the shop today?" he asked hopefully.
Grandfather looked uncertain.
Gold's family ran a retail florist on the High Street, as they had for decades. Since the ban on inter-district travel, their options had been, admittedly, more limited. However, if Gold could brag, they were the best of the best. And he was their finest salesman by far.
His talent lay in his natural eye for arrangement and his impeccable customer service.
Gold understood that making a sale wasn't about the product, it was about the person.
When the daughter of the mayor announced her engagement; a romantic mass of myrtle, roses and red salvia did the trick.
A state visit from the Minister of Justice called for a sickly-optimistic spread of daffodils, sunflowers and forget-me-nots.
The Victory Tour. He had solemnly placed wreaths of gladioli and purple hyacinths on the tombstone of his district partner, a bony and hard girl from the lower city.
His talkative escort commented on the striking colors and refined presentation, but only Gold knew what they stood for. He had laid them on all the tribute graves. As a sign of respect.
Strength of character. Honor and conviction. Regret and sorrow.
He had meant all of it.
The carefree Gold that had existed before the arena, that had splashed about in fountains and skipped down cobbled streets, lay dormant beneath a shell of anxiety and repressed anger.
In hindsight, his fear of death felt short-sighted, almost comical in its simplicity.
He had spent those final hours before the guards had led him into the arena a blubbering, inconsolable mess.
Gold had sobbed into his tunic for two days, pleading to the gods to let him live.
And they had.
In comparison to the barbaric victor from the preceding year, who had sliced his competitors open from groin to sternum, Gold had relied on timing and the element of surprise. The only bounty he had grabbed from the pile of supplies had been a round, metal shield. The audience had laughed and jeered as he ran and skirted around the main battle, deflecting his opponents until they moved on to easier, more vulnerable targets. The spectators had grown bored with him, favoring the heated confrontations and the agonized cries of the slowly dying children.
In the end, he had outlasted them all, dealing an unexpected blow to his final opponent.
Gold had knelt over the crushed head of the girl from District 4 with bile in his throat.
He could not forget the shocked silence, broken only by the sounding of the trumpets.
"I didn't want to," he had cried, as a Capitol official lifted his hand into the air.
On the train back to District 1, throughout his tour, as he stared at the ceiling from his four-poster bed, he had tried to convince himself that he was not a cold-blooded monster.
When he was by himself, Gold repeated it aloud.
I am a good person. I am a good person. I am a good person.
It became a ritual.
Unlike the first Games, that had selectively chosen the children with connections to rebels, sympathizers and neutralists, the Reaping this year had been at random, unbiased. It was a clear message from the Capitol – even the most staunch and devoted district loyalists would face the brunt of the rebel's choice to wage war on their Capitol protectorate.
Gold and his family had stood by the Capitol, served faithfully and done their duty.
It still hadn't saved him.
"You're not a killer," his father had wept during their goodbyes in the Justice Building.
His mother took his face in her hands. "My poor boy." She was shaking. "I love you."
Gold was stunned.
They had given him up for dead already.
Of course, he couldn't blame them. Gold did not delight in violence – his response to conflict was to retreat to his garden and get his hands dirty in other, more pragmatic ways. He couldn't help but smile whenever he saw a seed unfurl itself, poke through the flat soil and reach its leaves towards the sun. He had done something special. He had brought it to life.
So, it would be fair to say that his disposition did not meet the requirements of a victor.
Still, his parents' presumption had stung, and Gold couldn't help but feel demoralized.
Now he realized, that when the gong had rung out, what had spurred him on through the carnage and noise of the bloodbath was not sentiment. Not love or ambition. He hadn't thought of his family waiting back home for him, the loud and hormone-ridden boys he called his friends, or the pretty girl from the Pavilion that he had always had a soft spot for.
It was the fear that drove him.
Gold's body had reacted to the acute stress instantaneously. His pupils had dilated, he had felt his heart hammering against his ribs, and the entire arena turned into a tunnel as he became hyper-aware of his environment. There was no getting out without having to go through.
His instincts did the rest.
Gold had escaped death and it cost him his life.
When he first returned to the district, he ignored the throng of supporters at the train station. He didn't recognize most of them. By that point, he just wanted his mother's home-made lavender tea and the comfort of his soft, goose-feather pillows. Not reporters thrusting cameras and microphones in his face, screaming orders at him to pose and smile and flex. He brushed off the sycophantic figureheads talking nonsense and inviting him around for brunch.
As his parents loomed into view, Gold burst into his first real smile since the reaping. He ran up to them and noticed the visible change in their demeanor. They looked exhausted and much, much older.
His mother had given him a stiff kiss on the cheek. His father shook his hand.
He didn't know what he expected, but this was not it.
Gold didn't sleep that night.
Honestly, it had been a struggle to reconnect with his family. It was as if an invisible partition existed between them now. His sister looked at him strangely when she thought he couldn't see her. His parents spoke to him from across the room, exchanging short conversation and one-word answers to any of his questions. On the good days, if they were able to conjure up a smile or a laugh, it felt measured and forced, as if they were being supervised.
For Gold, the constant tension and painful small talk became too much to bear, and when he finally left the house for good, he felt their eyes burning into the back of his head.
Only his Grandfather had treated him the same. It would be folly for him to pass judgement.
His and his daughter's generation had, after all, began the war that led them here.
Gold brought himself back to the present. He didn't want to walk on eggshells any longer.
"They hate me, don't they?" he asked.
Grandfather raised his eyebrows. "Could you be more specific?"
"You know exactly who I mean."
Grandfather shook his head. "Your family don't hate you, Gold. They just… can't understand you."
"What is there to understand?" Gold replied, aghast. "I'm still the same person, aren't I?"
There was a long pause before Grandfather said: "No, you're not."
Gold gaped at him. He felt as if he'd been slapped across the face.
"You think I'm a murderer. You all do."
Grandfather hobbled over to a blooming white rosebush and deeply breathed in its scent.
He turned back to Gold.
"Listen to me. I want to you to think of who you were before you went into that arena. What you thought you couldn't – or wouldn't – do in order to escape. To be free of it." His stare intensified as his coal black eyes met Gold's acid green ones. "I want you to think back, to when the gong sounded. In that moment, right before you picked up that shield, did any of it really matter in the end?"
Gold bit his lip but didn't answer. He didn't want to say it out loud.
That meant acknowledging it.
His grandfather sighed. "You want absolution, but I'm telling you, you'll be waiting a long, long time for it. It might never come." He said his next words carefully. "You won't want to hear this, but I think it's important that you do. You're a killer, Gold. You've taken a life. That doesn't mean that you're a bad person. It's time for you to accept that."
Silent tears began to roll down Gold's face and he wiped them away hastily.
"I don't want to be this. I don't want to be a victor, if that's what people will think of me."
Grandfather handed Gold a silk handkerchief. "For as long as mankind exists, we will always seek to find the faults in ourselves. We are a race that thrives on doing what's worst for us." He smiled wryly. "Don't take it personally, Gold. Try to focus on the good."
As they talked, the sun had started to settle behind the sweeping, rising hills of District 1, casting its orange-pink hue across the cloudless azure sky. The entire garden looked as if it had been painted in watercolor on a large, life-size canvass. It was indescribably beautiful.
The older man looked at it with a sense of awe. His younger companion remained distracted.
"I can't stop thinking about her, Grandfather."
Grandfather turned to him. "About who?"
"The girl. District 4. She had a family. People that wanted her to come home. I took that away from her. From them. When I…"
He trailed off, not wanting to finish. Grandfather decided to fill in the blanks.
"Yes, she did. All twenty-four of you did. And only one could come back. One. You have a family too, Gold. One worth fighting for, even when things are complicated." He gave Gold a moment to consider this, and the boy seemed to listen to him. "Tell me, what would you do if you saw a dying flower?"
Gold eyed the old man warily, unsure of where this was going. He decided to humor him.
"We repot it," he told him. "Trim the leaves, so the roots won't have to work as hard. Move it about, if there's too much sun that's drying it out." He counted each step on his fingers. "Hydration is key, so the right amount of water. Fertilize it appropriately. And rub it down to keep the bugs away." He finished and cocked his head. "Why do you ask?"
Grandfather caressed the funnel-shaped leaves of a nearby foxglove. "You see, a relationship is like a flower. When it's going through a rough patch, you have two options of treatment. You can leave it alone and watch it slowly wither, or nurture it until it starts to grow again."
The pair of men looked at one another. Almost sixty years of experience separated them, but in that moment a mutual understanding passed between them. It didn't need commenting on.
"Thank you," Gold said.
Grandfather checked his brass pocket watch.
"Now, enough talking. Look at the time! Tea should be almost ready. I'd best be off before your mother sends out a search party," he said jokingly.
He began to limp away, gripping tight to his cane. It left imprints in the lush, dewy grass.
After a few steps, he swiveled around to address Gold once more.
"You are welcome to join us, you know."
Gold ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair. "Yes. I know. I mean, I want to. I just… I think that I'm going to spend a little more time here. If that's alright."
"I won't stop you," said Grandfather with a shrug.
Gold watched him make his way across the garden, around the red-brick wall that made up its perimeter, down the pavement and out of sight. It was a short walk to their villa. He would be fine on his own.
After a moment, Gold turned back to the flowerbed with its torn stems and shredded petals. All dead.
They were past saving. But not everything was.
Gold thought about everything his grandfather had just told him.
He took a deep breath, put his gloves back on and got back to work.