When the metal platform lifted him up and into the arena, Fen had to thank the gods.
They've brought me home, he thought, as the pedestal locked into place with a sharp click.
The thunderous roar of the Capitol crowd was soft and distant beneath the canopy of long, thick pine trees. The forest floor was a mangled mess of undergrowth – wet moss and enormous ferns, rotted logs, and wicked thistle bushes. Beyond the branches, the audience hunched and craned their necks, desperate to get a proper eye on the quivering tributes. The twenty-four children encircled the generously gifted array of weapons that Games enthusiasts had nicknamed the Cornucopia. Only the more perceptive players noticed the hint of sand, the stray pebble and mortar, that indicated that the arena had simply gotten a makeover.
Fen's familiarity and comfort in his surroundings did not last long. The forest was an illusion. He had been fooled, for a moment, by the cool, open air. A cricket's musical chirp. The flash of a mockingjay's wing. But then, upon closer inspection, it struck him. He saw it in the low-lying fog that crept slowly across the woods, as a lynx would stalk an unsuspecting fawn. He heard it in the howls that called back and forth, hungry and furious and from every direction.
He felt like a fox, curled up in its hiding hole, right before the hunters smoked him out.
And not for the first time.
Prior to the invasion, the landmass of District 7 was made up of what were once the North American states of Washington and Oregon. The floods, quakes and hurricanes of the Catastrophes had whittled the populous and forced them inland, where they set up their small, tribal communities. For a time, they co-existed in peace and looked after one another.
And then, from the east, they came.
The conquerors. They poured out of the mountain face like beetles made of metal and fire. Their appetite for control and domination was insatiable, and ruin followed them. The tree-hamlets burned, the moats were razed, the farmland scorched. Despite their best efforts, the tribal kings and queens could not resist the relentless onslaught. And so, they were slain and executed, their allies and kin made into slaves, the old ways discarded and replaced.
But not forgotten.
Fen was descended from those men, the tree-kings, that had founded a land named in their own tongue, but which the colonizers called District 7. He was raised to take pride in his lineage, to pay homage to it, and practise the old speech – but in private, always in private, where no malevolent ears could hear. At night, as his mother cooed him to sleep, Fen would dream of how things used to be, and he would pray for the day that his ancestor's land would be restored to him.
When the war broke out, Fen's father, a deeply political man, ensured that Fen and his brother understood their stance. They would not slink away into the woods, claiming pacifism in place of fear, as the cowardly goddess-cult had done. The Kavanaghs would support the resistance. However, at the end, they did not want a republic. A claim to one-thirteenth of Panem? No, they wanted their country back, nothing more. Nothing less.
"This is our land," he had told them. "Ours. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different.
Always remember."
Of course, none of it had mattered. District 13 was decimated, and the Capitol had won.
The Kavanaghs paid the price of betting on the wrong side.
Fen's mother was executed for harbouring, feeding and healing rebel soldiers under her roof. His father became an exterminator, a pawn sent out to hunt, locate and dispose of surplus muttations that had made a comfy home for themselves in the abundant woods and forests of the district.
During a misty morning in January, he brushed up against a low-lying tracker-jacker nest. He survived, somehow, by fleeing into a nearby lake, but he was unrecognizable in both body and mind, reduced to a vegetative state and a mere ghost of his former self.
After that, Fen's eldest brother Rowan was taken and sent in to replace their father.
He didn't come back.
Fen kept his father alive for six months after that, spoon-feeding him crushed berries, grubs and rainwater that he collected in an old, stained bucket. It was hard work, foraging and digging in the dirt for a semblance of a meal, but not as hard as forcing his father's jaw open in order to coax a pitiful dinner down his throat. Despite his wounded pride, he didn't resist.
Until, one sunny summer morning, during breakfast, he batted away Fen's hand with a limp wrist and gentle hand. Fen stared fixedly into his father's eyes, which were alight with desperation. Mr. Kavanagh's mouth opened, and a gurgling noise emerged from his throat. As his cracked and trembling lips formed the words, he mustered up the lucidity to speak.
"Please, Fen."
He knew. Fen took a pillow from the bed, lifted it over his father's face, and pressed down.
There was a slight struggle, a reflexive jerk, and then a stillness – one that Fen never forgot.
He buried his father by himself, in an unmarked grave in the forest behind their cottage.
A year passed, and Fen grew older. As his world changed, and he grew more independent, he began to settle into his features. His growth spurt lent itself to his knobbly knees and lanky arms. He had youthful, elvish features, sparkling green eyes and a mess of curly brown locks. His muscles had developed from lugging heavy bags of firewood after him and climbing trees – he wasn't District 2 muscle, or an agriculture giant from 11, but he was strong in his way.
One evening, Fen had begun to light a fire in the scorched and ashy hearth, when there was a knock at the door. That in itself was curious. He had never had visitors – the Peacekeepers hadn't even been around, although the census time was at the end of the year. Fen was dreading it, as he didn't know how he was going to explain his situation to the authorities.
When he went to answer the visitor, he found a group of older, sterner men facing him.
There was a brief pause, where Fen waited for them to speak.
"Can I help you?" he asked, realising the onus was on him.
"Hello, son. Does a Fen Kavanagh live here?"
Fen leaned against the doorframe, trying to look tough. "You're speaking to him."
There was an awkward silence, and several of the men exchanged confused glances.
"He's too young," piped up a burly-looking man from the back.
Fen rolled his eyes. "Fen was my Da's name, too, if that's any help?"
A man at the front, who must have been their leader, smiled. "Greetings, Fen. My name is Connifer. Is your father around?"
"He's dead."
For the second time, the group looked bewildered. Connifer raised an eyebrow.
"Dead?"
"As a doornail."
"How?"
Fen scowled. "Does it matter?"
"I suppose not," Connifer muttered to himself.
Fen stood up straight. "What did you want to speak to him about?"
"It's grown men talk."
"I'm grown," huffed Fen. "Kept everything alright here for a year with no help."
Connifer smiled again. "Right you are. In that case, maybe we can interest you?"
"With what?"
"May we come in?" Connifer asked. "Trust me, we'll explain everything."
They did.
As the country rebuilt, industrialisation had exploded. Across the nation, quotas soared, and District 7 slid back into poverty and hunger. The paper mills and lumber factories thrummed and roared with the sound of production, facing the brunt of the ruthless demands of a nation that needed to rise from the ashes of conflict.
President Thorn's Ten-Year Plan put enormous pressure on the heavy industry districts – masonry, lumber, transportation, coalmining – in order to form the skeleton of the new Panem. It was, as predicted, a success for the Capitol. They applauded and praised their President for his economic ingenuity, as the districts' earth and stone were tilled and stained with blood, their Justice Buildings and Tesserae Halls erected on the emaciated, rotting corpses of labourers.
Many districts did not kindle flames of resistance, already beaten into a sorry submission.
District 7, on the other hand… well, in the lumber district, fire catches quickly.
For Thorn, a problem had arisen – since the beginning of the new order, District 7 had found comfort in their faith. Many worshipped an ancient earth goddess; from whose loins the universe had sprung forth. Danu, the First Mother, watched over them. It was a laughable concept to most of the materialistic and worldly Capitol, but it gave District 7 a source of hope. From hope came ideas, and from ideas came action. Action led to war.
Thorn's first attempt at a solution was to issue a blanket ban on nature worship. This backfired badly. He had underestimated the deep-rooted nature of the Danuist's faith, which had kept the natives neutral during the war. In contrast, the Godsmen had risen up during the rebellion, but a swift demonstration on the consequences of sedition meant that they now proved no threat, and the less-than-zealous traditionalists evaded the law with no penalties.
As a result, tensions begin to arise between the two parties and sectarian conflict was slowly on the rise. The Danuists viewed the Godsmen as brutes that received special treatment from the state, and the Godsmen viewed the Danuists as cowards who abandoned their country.
The government's attempt to oppress the Danuists had set off a butterfly effect in District 7.
A harshly anti-religious regime was met with an unanticipated level of resistance. In the province of Greenspear, a radical outlaw group emerged. They called themselves the Seven Sons. The brotherhood comprised of banished sons of different faiths. The reason behind their excommunication varied from man to man and differed in extremity, from petty theft to criminal violence. The motives and morality of the Brothers were debatable. To protect the disenfranchised. To steal from the rich and give to the poor. To be a particularly troublesome pebble in the Capitol's shoe. Each of those reasons was right, and each of them were wrong.
Beyond anything, the Seven Sons had one true goal – to unite District 7 under one banner, regardless of faith, as it had been in the days of old before the Capitol had colonized them.
And while their success in that matter was not close to completion, it could not be denied that the people of the district highly valued their protection during times of religious persecution.
While it was true that the Peacekeepers had more firepower, they couldn't shoot what they couldn't find, and the Seven Sons were masters of stealth and adept at guerrilla warfare. They operated only at night, stealing into the homes of wealthy landlords and robbing them for the rich, nutritious food that the poor, starving peasants had been deprived of for so long. The brotherhood kept the people of Greenspear fed through their refusal to be intimidated.
Within the confines of his decadent mansion, Thorn watched it all unfold with baleful eyes.
District 7 had them at a stalemate. The Treaty of Treason's dull, convoluted rules made a military bombardment impossible. Thorn longed to revise it and edit it accordingly. Alas, it was a sensitive point for the current government, who tried to intercept him at every turn. He had led the country in, through and out of a war. He had eliminated the last rebel factions in Hodharbour, established a competent tesserae scheme. Thorn should've earned his peer's respect.
Now, their egos could lead Panem into a district civil war. For as long as District 7 felt oppressed by the Capitol, the lumberjacks would not secede true defeat. They were a proud bunch, and their loyalty to their gods (or she-god) was still strong. No matter how hard you hit them, if they had faith and unity, they would regroup and get back on their feet. However, the district's unshakeable spirituality was also the chink in their armour. The mutual tension that existed among the two religious factions had not relaxed and Thorn wouldn't waste it.
The President used their hatred as an incendiary, ensuring that District 7 stayed divided.
Connifer let out a deep, tired sigh. "We had them at the start, when they didn't expect us, but now… they're way ahead of the game."
"Ahead? How?"
"Thorn's men – his imposters – are feigning collusion with the Sons. They pretend to be members, offer people help, then arrest or execute those that accept. Nobody trusts us. Or, at least, they won't have us as an ally anymore. It's not worth the risk. Not in this climate."
"So, what? You're giving up?" Fen asked, somewhat angrily.
"No," retorted Connifer, his eyes sharp and alert. "We're recruiting. That's why we're here. Your father. We heard, through our old sources, that he was sympathetic to the cause."
Fen shook his head. "If he was, he didn't tell us."
"I see." He adjusted his cloak fastener. His nails were filthy and chipped. "Say, how old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"You climb trees?"
"Better than anyone I know," Fen admitted, though he did not know many people.
"And how's your axe arm?"
Fen shrugged. "Not bad. I used to help my Da and brother, and I cut my own firewood. Why?"
"You fancy joining us? We can always do with scouts. Might even have a hatchet for you."
Outside, it had begun to rain. A light, trickling shower, perfect for a warm summer's day. Fen stared at this man, and his henchmen, with their thick beards and long, unkempt hair. He listened to them grumbling and swearing under their breath, impatient and temperamental. He looked at their shabby, stolen, dishevelled clothes, splashed with mud and covered in detritus.
Then, he found himself glancing towards the back of the house, past its walls, at the grave that lay beyond.
Fen had his answer. "I'm sorry. I can't."
For a moment, Connifer didn't respond. Then, he let out a laugh. "Alright then. Sorry for bothering you, kid." He put a hand on Fen's shoulder. "I hope you get dealt a better hand than your Da."
The older man barked an order at his underlings, and they began to disperse, complaining.
Fen watched them go. When they had left, he was by himself in the house, with only the now-smouldering embers and the tippity-tap of falling rain to keep him company. And it was there, as the four walls closed around him, that Fen realized the truth: he was all alone in the world, but more than that – he was very, very lonely.
A minute later, he was sprinting down the forest path, a hastily packed bindle in his hand.
Connifer and his men were waiting to greet him at the end of the road, smiling expectantly.
For four years, Fen adopted the position of scout. It was up to him to blend in amongst the peasantry and noblemen. He infiltrated the logtowns and houses of worship, always with a different name and a different story. He made connections. He sought information – but its extraction had to be subtle, careful. If the laymen grew suspicious, they would not hesitate to act out. And so, he blended in, assimilating amongst the rabble, listening and waiting for the right opportunity. When it arose, he scrambled on back to Connifer, relaying what he'd heard and learned, and they would use their findings to mostly steal food and money from rich folk.
After some time, Fen was trusted in the organisation of reconnaissance missions. He was a nimble, sturdy fellow, quick on his feet and even quicker at thinking on the spot. Before long, Fen was a natural liar, and could spin a story to get himself out of any sticky situation. He grew quite attached to his strange comrades – Aster the Archer, whose proficiency with a bow meant that he needed no surname. There was Jon of Kettlelake, a strong, rambling man that spoke in poems and riddles. The Nurse, whose bitter herbal restoratives left you reeling. And most interestingly, Bryony Blackwood, the only woman. A witch, she perceived coming events in animal intestines and claimed to have unusual, prophetic dreams about the future.
One night, as they sang around a roaring campfire and gorged themselves on wild rabbit, Bryony leaned toward Fen and brought her lips to his ear, all broken teeth and flying spittle.
"You are marked for death, sapling," she croaked. "Your sentence will be your saviour."
Fen, a sworn realist and firm disbeliever in any form of magic, ignored her. The false witch was only there for two reasons: to massage Connifer's superstitious nature and to massage the other mens' inherent nature during the longest and coldest of the dark, cruel winter nights.
If he had not been a bull-headed, narrow-minded young man, overly secure in his abilities and emboldened by the group of men that enabled his worst impulses, Fen might've taken it more seriously.
But, alas, he did not. At least, not until later.
As the others slept, Fen was on guard duty, nestled sleepily into the small nook of a tree. He curled into it, lovingly, as if it were his mother's embrace. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed sternly in slumber – or, at least, he appeared to be resting. His breath came in smooth, gentle waves that filled up his chest and belly.
But, if one looked closely, they could see it. The same tell-tale signs that always gave him away in this particular performance. The slight flicker of an eyelid, the fox-like perk of his ears.
In the distance, a twig snapped.
Fen slid down the tree with an effortless ease and hit the ground with a soft thud.
Heshook his peers awake and peered out into the darkness.
"Hello?"
There was no response.
As if sensing danger, Connifer sat up immediately. "All of you, move out."
Nobody needed telling twice. The others swept away and disappeared into the dusk.
Fen, however, didn't budge. "I'm not leaving."
"Don't be a fool. I told you to go," snapped Connifer.
"No. If there's something there, I can fight."
"I said –"
"Connifer!"
There was a whistle, a flash, and before Fen could run, a thick, yellow fog had risen around him. His eyes drooped, his limbs sagged, and his mind began to numb under the sedative.
It's a sleeping agent, he thought, as he drifted far, far away. They don't want us dead.
When he awoke, Fen tasted blood.
He had a pounding headache, and his hands were bound. He was in a cell.
As it happened, this particular cell belonged to a shoddy and poorly constructed gaol, purposely built in the most crime-rampant and poverty-stricken parts of Greenspear. There was a great number of these here, and by no mere accident – it was the Peacekeepers themselves who needed a reason to patrol in the parts of town where the seediest brothels and noisiest taverns were located. District 7 was a place of fierce faith, but you cannot have piety without the proximity of sin, and Greenspear had that in spades… and then some.
Fen waited for days, and days, and days, until he began to demand the guards for information whenever they brought him his dry, mouldy bread and tepid water. They gave him nothing, as he suspected, and so as his energy began to wane, Fen brought his knees up to his chest and, as he often did, he began to speak to his loved ones. Ma. Da. Rowan. Con. What do I do?
This time, their voices were silent, and the only sound was the rattling of the guard's keys.
Fen looked up hopefully, and his captor snorted with laughter.
"Don't look so optimistic, tree-rat." The jailor's voice was a crisp District 2 accent. A bunch of them had been sent into District 7 during the war, Fen remembered. "You're only getting out for today on account of the reaping. Capitol is being extra strict on it this year, since some kids just don't seem to be showing up. You'll be back, though. And after that… well..."
He made a single, slicing motion across his neck. Fen fixed him with a hateful glare.
"I'd rather be dead than be you, sell-out," he spat. "Where's the man they brought in with me?"
The guard's cruel smile widened. "Oh, you mean your buddy? Tall, long hair?"
Fen said nothing, fearing the worst.
"Hanged him yesterday."
The air seemed to leave Fen's lungs. "You're lying."
"I got nothing to lie about, traitor." He leaned in. "Rumour has it, the executioner botched it. A long, painful death. Want my opinion?" He bared his teeth. "I wish it had lasted longer."
Fen, incensed, swung his cuffed hands at the Peacekeeper, who side-stepped him and returned the attempted blow with a strike from the painfully blunt end of his own baton.
"Now get out of here," he snarled. "I'll make sure I deliver you to the gallows tomorrow myself."
As fate would have it, he never got the chance.
A mere six hours later, with a toss of her long lavender locks, Io Pennyworth plucked her intricately tattooed hand from a large, transparent bowl, unfurled the piece of paper and squinted at the small, formal font printed upon it. She cleared her throat and read the name aloud, choosing to ignore the waves of hatred rolling from the scrawny girl next to her.
As Fen stepped up to the stage, he thought of Connifer, swaying from a rope in the breeze. He thought of his father, half-submerged in lake water as the last of the tracker-jackers drowned around him. He ignored his district partner's tears of fury and his escort's thinly veiled disgust and the crowd's undisguised pity and sheer relief that it wasn't them this time.
Bryony Blackwood's words came flooding back to him, a haunting voice from the past.
Your sentence will be your saviour.
She was right.
It would be.
Suddenly, the announcer's voice, high-pitched and thunderous, blared out from around them. He rambled on, officiating the ceremonies and rattling off a long list of special guests and benefactors. At some point, President Thorn began to speak. He didn't need a microphone. The crowd stood in utter reverence of him, utterly silent and in awe of his booming voice.
Fen turned back to the game at hand. He couldn't be distracted. Not now. He had to focus.
Get it together Kavanagh, he told himself. Look around you. What are you working with?
Trees, trees and more trees. He could climb them, and hide, but would the Capitol even let him? Tributes had run and hidden before, but it was boring, and nobody wanted them to win.
As he was contemplating doing a runner, he saw it, glinting in the distance.
Not far from him, perhaps five metres or so, a dane axe was strewn on the grass. Fen recognized it. It was light, it was sharp, and it suited him perfectly. He just had to get to it – if he was fast enough. He believed he could make it, that he was faster than the others, but how could he know? The training centre had only let them display their raw power, of which only the lad from District 2 had shown a surprising – and suspicious – amount of natural ability.
As their host had begun the countdown, a handful of the tributes became visibly shaken. Without warning, there was a loud, wet retching noise as the waif of a girl from District 5 sprayed the ground with her breakfast. Her district partner, his eyes bulging and his skin clammy, began to twitch. He looked left, then right, and fled his pedestal without permission.
The crowd began to boo.
The boy from the power district made a dash for it. He darted across the arena, high on flighty adrenaline, his momentum driving him to the barrier that separated the tributes from the spectators. The watchers at the front screeched as the frothing, panting, weed of a child approached them, intent on leaping into the stands and escaping the arena on foot, no doubt.
He didn't make it far.
A minute later, his corpse was riddled with bullets, slumped and defeated in the grass.
Unfortunately, this abrupt and violent event sent the tributes into an unprecedented panic.
Most ran to arm themselves and began to mindlessly hack and slash at their nearest target, desperate to end the Games before the Peacekeepers could get another shot at them.
Others ran into the woods, where rows of sharp teeth and curved talons awaited them.
Interestingly, for the first time, a pair of unlikely cohorts formed a mutual agreement. As one dispatched an enemy, the other kept an eye on their back, ensuring nobody sneaked up on them. It was a sound and clever strategy, and within the hour, they began to count corpses.
"Someone is missing," said Four.
"Who?"
"District 7. The one that looks like a grasshopper."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I counted."
After a few moments' arguing, they wandered the grove, hunting the penultimate tribute.
The blond, slender boy from the fishing district hated the grove. His rogue, boyish beauty was diminished as he picked out shards of bone from his hair. His chest was splashed with fresh, glossy blood and despite a cool persona, he fought back tears. He had grown up surrounded by beaches and bonfires, so the dingy woodland was strange and foreign to him.
His ally, a quarrier's son, was a grunt and a bully, who made up for dim wits with big muscles. He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, and wanted to end things quickly.
They moved through the dark as the audience watched them with bated breath.
"Where is he?" growled District 2.
District 4 shook his head. "I don't remember seeing him since the pedestals locked."
"Don't remember, or weren't looking?"
"Shut up."
"Who you telling to –"
"I mean it, be quiet. Do you hear that?"
"What?"
From a nearby tree, an owl mutt hooted.
Without hesitation, a figure in a large oak tree sprang to life, just as he had when his name was called at the reaping. A gap of about fifty feet separated him from the ground, but if it fazed him, he didn't show it. He slid down the tree trunk, quick as a squirrel yet quiet as a mouse. His smaller hands and feet were perfect for this; they scurried from branch to branch with dazzling ease, instinctively finding the appropriate knots and holds to help his descent.
District 2 heard a displacement of air, a slight ruffle of leaves, and with a scream, he stabbed blindly at the dark with the sword he held aloft in his large, coarse, violently shaking hands.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, as if from out of nowhere, a dirty, elvish face appeared in front of them.
The boy was hanging onto the lowest branch by his knees, just beyond their reach.
In his hand, he held an axe.
"You," gasped Two.
Fen smiled.
"Yeah. Me."
Fen returned home, his execution postponed indefinitely, and his former crimes pardoned.
He didn't dare try to find the Seven Sons - he knew he was being watched, the President had told him as much. His status as a victor had not erased his past.
Unbeknownst to him, this was in part due to Thorn's worsening paranoia, the same paranoia that would lead to the beginning of the end for him.
And so, Fen did the only thing he could do - he settled into the Victor's Village, spared his kindness when he could, and tried not to think about the nightmares.
His sense of humour, reliable nature and proclivity for solid advice made him the go-to person for incoming victors and tributes. In a way, Fen became the father figure that he had sought after since the death of. As a matter of fact, Fen often found himself in a dive bar in the Capitol's boho district, shushing and comforting a reluctant survivor on their inability to keep other, less fortuitous children alive for awfully long. He originated the 'Casket Cocktail', as it was later coined, the drink that a victor had when they lost their first tribute. Indeed, within the victor's circle, Fen was one of the few outlier victors who maintained a sense of normality through his newfound freedom (or, at least, the illusion of it).
Of course, in Thorn's Panem, that freedom bore a hefty fee, and Fen was used to paying it.
He paid it when he was summoned to identify his old brotherhood in a kangaroo court.
He paid it for each son and daughter of District 7 that he couldn't promise to bring home.
He paid it when he rejected the Careers. It was a fair proposal, promising even, but Fen refused to teach his people how to be murderers.
And yet, each time he was forced to pay an unthinkable price, his father's words reminded him of what was important.
This is our land. Ours. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different. Always remember.
Fen hadn't forgotten. He would never forget.
And one day soon, even if they didn't know it yet… the Capitol would remember, too.