Chapter Text
The smell of pine and sap, ever clinging, lingers even after the bath. It mixes with the heavily perfumed soaps that Mama almost never uses, creating such a strong scent that never fails to make me nauseous. “It’s a special occasion,” she whispers in a way that I’m sure was meant to bring me comfort. “You have to look presentable,” as she brushes through my stubborn curls. She never says it outright, though I wish she would. Reaping Day wasn’t some sort of secret after all. It wasn’t like plucking two kids from each district to drag to their inevitable death was worth it enough to burn everyone else’s noses with the stench of artificiality. I try not to think about it too hard— otherwise I’m certain I’ll hurl up my breakfast. The hard wheat muffins, dark and chewy, never seemed to settle right in my stomach anyways. Today’s breakfast was the last of our Capitol rations from the month prior. I’ll either have to take on more carving commissions, or take out another Tesserae for the month… Even with Ma’s side work, she can’t afford what it takes to feed the three of us this month. Wages had been cut at the mill, and her customers just can’t pay what they used to anymore.
She’s always been that way though. For as long as I can remember, my Mama wouldn’t speak a word on the subject, even as she wrangled my hair into a bun and tried so desperately to smooth out the wrinkles of a dress that hasn’t fit me properly since last year. We hadn’t been able to afford the material for her to sew a new one. It’s pretty, though… pale pink, with fancy trim and a high collar that makes me feel like some sort of doll. As I step back from her, worn flats creaking against the floorboard, she clasps her hands in front of her waist and smiles at me. It doesn’t reach the corners of her eyes like it usually does when I’ve said something funny, or when my younger brother has done something foolish again.
“Perfect.”
It doesn’t feel like it. My stomach twists again. The smell of myself is unbearable, and the spins are only worsened when I hear another voice call out from the bedroom. “Ma! Come’n help me with this button, it popped off!”
Nedian’s heavy footsteps make the floor in the doorframe squeak with protest. My brother has never been one for… delicate work, otherwise he wouldn't have asked for her help at all. For as much as he confides in me that he wished he’d been assigned to carpentry instead, his great height and lean build made him the unfortunately perfect candidate to become a logger. His hands, rough and stained with sap and cuts, are holding fast on the collar of his shirt. It’s the same fabric that my dress had been made from; and it seems that his growth spurt had been even greater than mine. His arms look about ready to pop the stitching, and I feel my lips curl into a small smile at the sight of him. His eyes track mine when I shift to observe myself in the mirror.
“Lookit you…” He says quietly, in a sort of awed way. I hum, blinking at my reflection. My hands, stained and scarred the same as his, smooth down the front of my dress for lack of a better thing to occupy them with. My skin has been scrubbed clean of any sweat, stain or mark that I usually have any other day. I don’t quite recognize myself, and so my eyes turn away. I catch him looking at me with that same sad look he gets this time of year. He doesn’t say anything else. Mama frets over his button and sews it back on before just as quickly smoothing down his hair. None of us say anything, and the silence feels suffocating.
“I’ll wait outside,” I mumble. Maybe some fresh air would do me good. The bell on the door handle chimes delicately, signalling my departure.
The air outside is humid and sweltering; heavy clouds hang in the air far past the mountain peaks, and I wonder if a storm will come this way. How nice would it be if it rained… the winter had been unusually mild, and the older men at the mill have been chatting more and more about the wildfire season. Some rain would be good… even if I’ll still have to work out in it. Mama says that rain is a good omen. I can only hope she's right.
The toe of my flat finds a stray pinecone to launch off into the dusty dirt road, and I watch it tumble onto the other side– toward our neighbor’s house. The Yarrow Family. No doubt they’re inside, fussing over Wilemina’s only clean blouse before escorting her to the town square. She’s hardly turned twelve… I find myself feeling sick all over again. The air is thick. This dress is too damn tight, and I swear that there’s no worse feeling than having all of my hair pulled back into a bun. My skull is aching already.
By the time Nedian and Mama come outside, I’ve already resorted to picking at my scabs to stave off the boredom and anxiety. She smacks my hands the moment she hustles herself down the porch. It's a bad habit, I know, but her fussing only extends as far as thinking of my public image. “Rosie! Quit that– you know you can’t be bleedin’ while you’re out there!” Otherwise, she wouldn't bother me about it at all.
Nedian and I exchange a look over her head as she presses a handkerchief against my cuticles. His expression morphs in such a way that I’m forced to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “Right. Sorry, Mama. Just… nervous, I guess,” I murmur as apologetically as I can. It wasn’t like it was a lie. I am nervous. Every year, with every tesserae taken out in my name… it felt inevitable, at this point. They both know that, and offer me simpering looks– the way they always do when I state the reality of any given situation. For as much as I love them… both Mama and my brother like to pretend that life wasn’t actually the way it was. I understood the sentiment, I suppose. However… sentiments won’t pay the bills. Sentiment won’t put food on the table. Reality is cruel like that. There is no more discussion of it, as the three of us turn and begin our trek into town.
Sweat beads along my forehead and beneath the stuffy collar of the dress. Nedian has already rolled his sleeves up and begun patting his brow with his own handkerchief. He lingers a few steps behind our mother, who is so frantic about being on time that she hardly notices us falling back.
“... You look nice,” I say softly to him with a cursory once over. “That shirt’s ‘boutta fly off you, though.” And, even though there’s a pit in my stomach, I manage a smile at him.
He too smiles at me, thin and wiry. “Feels like it. Ma’s gotta get us new clothes soon, I’m worried I’ll have’ta start walkin’ around here naked.” His voice, crackling and uneven with youth, grows hushed as he chuckles and leans down towards me. I laugh a little, knowing that my eyes crinkle in the corners the same way as his. “Heaven forbid. No offense, Nedi, but I’m pretty sure no one wants to see that.” He snorts and shoves at my shoulder.
We walk for a while longer with the sun beating down overhead. Despite living in the most densely forested area in Panem, the streets of the town are barren and dusty. The forest line is too far away to offer any shade. I’m half-expecting to finish our walk in silence when Nedian startles me from my wandering and dangerous thoughts.
“I’m sorry, y’know. For… Ma. I’m nervous too. Always am,” he whispers. Without having to think twice, my hand finds his. Our eyes remain ahead. We’ve never… been good at this sort of thing. Talking about the hard stuff. Sometimes, I wish I could pretend as much as they do. It would certainly be easier. “You’ll age out by next year though,” he tries to offer reassuringly. It does little to help.
If I make it to next year. As it was, my birthday was the week following the Reaping— a sick and cruel joke, waving my adulthood just out of reach.
This, of course, is not the kind of sour thing that I would ever burden him with. My smile feels just as forced and as uncomfortable as his does. “Yeah. That’s true. But, hey, at least there’s one year that ya get to stand with little old me,” I point out. His sixteenth birthday had been two months ago, which now permitted him to stand with the older children during the ceremony. The younger children, from ages 12 to 15, stand on one side of the walkway while all of the other children gather on the other side. I always figured that it would be easier to corral all of the older kids together if a riot broke out— and I’m sure it was no mistake that there always seemed to be more armed guards on that side, too.
He squeezes my hand, one last time, with a nod before slipping away to catch up with our Mama.
I watch their backs, picking out my mother’s auburn hair and my brother’s light brown curls even as people begin to filter into the streets. It was almost time. I take a deep breath and stare out over the treeline in an attempt to ground myself. When it doesn’t work, I soldier on, my pink dress standing out like a sore thumb amid a sea of grey, brown, beige and tan. The entire square had been turned over in a single day: Gone was the wide, open space where we usually held festivals, replaced by roped barriers and a large pop-up stage fashioned with Capitol banners and the flag of Panem. It's crowded. The air feels even thicker as the humidity bakes my skin and forces a few, errant curls to stick to my forehead.
Nedian steps into the line before I can. Behind me, little Wilemina sniffles and kicks up dust with the anxious scuffing of her boots. When I glance back, she is crying soft tears. My heart aches for her.
“Hey,” I greet quietly– all too aware of the Peacekeeper’s surrounding us. The visors make each and every one indistinguishable from the other, and I try not to think about how they watch us. She looks up at me, her brown eyes watery and nose running. The handkerchief tucked into the thin belt around my waist is by no means sparkly clean, but it does the job in drying her tears and cleaning her upper lip. She clings close to my side as the line shuffles forward. “It’s alright, there’s nothin’ to be scared of,” I whisper to her. When I rub her shoulder, I can feel the tremble in her frame. “Yer Ma and Pa are just over there. They’re gonna be there the whole time, and after we’re done, you can go right back to ‘em.”
She nods, her eyes shifting to where I’m pointing. When we shuffle forward again, Nedian signs in with a bitten back curse and grunt. Wilemina stares in horror. “It’s just a little prick of blood, you hardly feel it after. I’ll go first, it’s not that bad, he's just a big baby,” as I step up to the Peacekeeper at the folding table. Her touch is clinical and swift; like she either didn't have the time to be kind, or that she couldn't stand touching us at all. My fingertips are so numb that I do, in fact, hardly feel it. I’m ushered out of the way after she confirms the blood sample and stamps my index into her large ledger, but linger long enough to direct a still-sniffling Wilemina to where she needs to wait with her other friends. I find Nedian in the crowd. It’s quiet, for the most part. The surrounding chatter is low and mostly somber when I tune into conversations around me. The heat is even more unbearable than it had been last year– the Capitol clearly has no concern for any of their possible prospects dying of heatstroke even before the announcer draws their names from the lottery. I fan myself with my hand, throat dry, and I watch from the corner of my eye as Nedian wipes his forehead with his own handkerchief before ringing it out. Mama likes to keep us prepared.
“Can’t believe I’m missin’ on my wages for this shit…” He mutters with a line between his thick brows.
I roll my eyes, continuing to fan myself. The sweat, at the very least, seems to mask the hideous floral stench our mother has drenched us in. “Don’t whine. You c’n always pick up more hours helpin’ Ma with her mending, or something.”
This makes him chortle– pale green eyes shifting over to find mine. They are perfectly seafoam. It’s the kind of color I’ve only ever seen in the ocean on the brightest, sunniest days. “Ha. Ha,” he says sarcastically. I just grin at him before looking towards the stage, trying to gauge how much longer this will take.
Just when I’m sure I’m about to collapse from heatstroke (or perhaps some other ridiculous emotional ailment) the speaker crosses the stage to reach the microphone. As it had happened last year, and the years before, he looks positively ridiculous among the sea of children and armed Peacekeepers. His black hair is styled tall, his undereyes painted teal, and his teeth are… way too bright. His three piece turquoise suit must be trapping heat like crazy; but, strangely, there doesn’t seem to be even a single bead of sweat on his forehead. I’m hardly able to hear him introduce himself and the reason for us gathering above the sound of roaring blood in my ears. The national anthem blares over the tinny speakers, and the sheer volume makes my teeth rattle in my skull.
There were rumors from the Capitol that the games would be different this year. No stadium, after it’d been bombed in that attack. Better accommodations. Sponsors. Rewards. Money. The whole damn world revolved around the stuff, didn’t it? The games from last year drew up a huge current of change— actions that must have been inspired from the Victor. A District twelve girl… Lucy Gray. God. I try not to think about those awful snakes, or the fact that our district had watched one of our own beg for her life after having killed most of the other tributes. A hush falls over the crowd as the announcer (not that I cared enough to catch his name) walks towards the lottery ball for the boys side. My heart catches in my throat as I prepare to hear familiar syllables– praying to a God I’ve never believed in that it would not be any I particularly cared for.
“And the male tribute for the 11th annual Hunger Games is…” He pauses for dramatic effect, and I have the sudden urge to hurl a rock at him. “Karlisle Maze!”
I breathe out with relief so palpable that Nedian bumps his shoulder against mine. The crowd around us shifts and sways like leaves in the wind as Karlisle straightens himself proudly and makes his way out, heading toward the stage. I don’t know him well. He’s a year younger than me; too young for any of my classes at school, and too old to be Nedian’s classmate. Plus, he works at the paper mill across town— I never go that way. The only worthwhile building to visit that far out of my way is the underground distillery… and even then, it's rare I return home sober enough to remember every face I’d seen. Tonight, I will likely make the annoyingly long trek twice over.
My eyes scan the crowd, nausea twisting as I try and fail to spot his parents. They swing back to the stage when the announcer ushers Karlisle to stand to the side before going to the girls lottery ball. My heart pounds so loud in my ears that I genuinely fear I might faint. I must look pale, too, because Nedian wraps a sweaty arm around my shoulders. He stinks. I do too. But… he smells like himself, and not too much like the perfumed soap. It’s comforting, kind of. I never thought I’d prefer the horrid smell of his body odor, but here I am.
The announcer takes his time selecting a name– meticulous and infuriatingly anticipatory. “And, the female tribute for the 11th annual Hunger Games…” It doesn’t even occur to me to pray that I don’t hear any familiar syllables, and perhaps that’s the reason why he selects the scrap of paper that he does.
“Ambrosia Sylva!”
Instantly, I feel my knees weaken, and Nedian is supporting my weight– his arm, so sweaty and confined within his old shirt– wraps tight around me. Much too tight, really, but it’s the only thing keeping me upright as I swallow hard against the dryness in my throat. Each ragged inhale feels like sandpaper– like all the years of timber, silt and woodchips have finally caught up with me.
“Ambrosia? Are you out there? Come up to the front, dear, no need to be shy!”
My entire body feels numb as I force myself upright. The boys and girls around us part like a river cutting past a rock. I am aware, distantly, of the sun's harsh overhead rays— my vision blurs as I squint. I am aware of Nedian’s hands on my shoulders, however brief, as we hug. Of his words as he rushes to assure me that he loves me, that he’ll take care of everything, that he has faith in me. I am outside of my body as my feet drag me out of the crowd. My hands are numb as I smooth down the front of my dress, trying to stand as tall as Karlisle managed to.
Peacekeepers flank me, and as I march closer and closer to the stage, I briefly consider the possibility of fighting against one just to be put out of my misery. There was no point. There was no doubt that Nedian would throw himself into the scuffle just to try and help me. He would be hung for treason, if not flogged against the outpost. There was no help for me now. What was it that Mama had said, so long ago? Before she seemed to swear off giving me any helpful advice at all?
Ah. Yes. That was it.
“And just look at that pretty smile! Come on up here!”
(“You’ll have to smile. You want to make them like you, Rosie… that’s who you are. If you get chosen, promise me you’ll smile?”)
I wish I had never made that stupid ass promise in the first place. Karlisle already looks like he wants to gut me, as the announcer forces us to shake hands. I smile anyway. He’s quite tall, even more so than Nedian, and there’s an intense sort of look on his sun tanned face. His hand, when it clasps mine, is just as rugged and callous as his features. He is a laborer, same as me. He is a child with parents and siblings who are surely crying in the crowd, just the same as mine. He is the other tribute from District Seven, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom why that seems to make him so angry. I can feel his glowing ire directed at my back as I turn to walk off and follow a Peacekeeper. Of course… just following directions seems to piss him off too.
He pulls me in close by the arm, leaning down to whisper in my ear– just out of sight of the crowd once we step onto solid, real ground again.
“I’m gettin’ that money.” His voice is hard. As deep and as rough as the scars on his hands.
Despite myself, the corners of my eyes crinkle. Greed never stopped at just the Capitol, or the upper districts. It infected everything, everyone, until there was nothing left but the insatiable hunger for more.
“Good luck, Karlisle,” I whisper back.
I don’t blame him for it, because I know exactly how he feels. I know how it feels to be so starved that you would do just about anything to make the pain in your gut stop. I know what it’s like to be the main provider for the household. He could surely try to win, but if he thinks that I’ll be easy pickings, well…
I wasn't keen on putting too much hope in an alliance, anyway.