DISTRICT 1 MALE - DANELIUX LEON

   The blood is still on his hands. Allium's blood lingers on them, refusing to completely disappear. The stains may not be physically seen, but all Danelieux sees are shades of crimson, tainting his fingers. He tries to calm himself, telling himself that he has killed before. But those kills were from a distance. He had swung at her neck, beheading her instantly as the blood sprayed his face and covered his blade. The blood is still on his hands.

"I can't stand it," Corradhin finally snaps, "I'm going to take a walk, try to distract myself a bit. I'd understand if you guys aren't here when I return." And with that, he just stands up and walks away. Danelieux isn't leaving, at least not yet, but a goodbye may have been nice; just in case Corra doesn't return.

His eyebrows furrow inwards when the other boy leaves, but they almost sink down when the girl stands up. "I'll be back," Amani states. "I just need to make sure nothing happens to him. You know? He didn't even take his machete. We'll be back, I promise."

"Yeah, I understand," the crack in his voice surprises him. He tries to regain his usual tone, "Go after him. I'll go hunting or something, try to distract myself too."

A single lie escapes his lips. He doesn't understand at all. No, not that Corra wants a break and that Amani is to follow. No, not that. He doesn't comprehend their situation, his situation. There are only a few people left – eight possibly, maybe nine. In all honesty, from the deepest curve of his heart, Danelieux doesn't want to leave Amani and Corradhin, not the pair from Four that have helped him so much.

He doesn't care for the others, he views them as obstacles only. And like challenges, they vary. Some have been distinct threats from the start, the highest hurdles to jump. Others are just plain good competition, knots on rope to be untied.

But he does care for them. Not in the sense that he'll cry if they perish, reminiscing over distant memories. He cares for them in a low level of platonic cherishing. They are competition, but people. They are people, but they are his competition.

"I'm going bloody crazy," he mutters to himself. "I'm still talking to myself. So not stable."

But he does stick to his promise; he tries to distract himself. He ties his tomahawks to his belt, swinging one in his left hand when he finishes. Taking Corradhin's machete, he drags his arm in the soft mud, tracing uneven lines like snake trails.

"What do draw, what to draw?" At times, he has to clean the point of the machete. He enjoys the sound of the swipe of the blade on his shirt. It sounds crisp, it even echoes off the trunks of trees.

Reality slaps him in the face as he realizes that he hasn't exercised his voice in such a long time. He hasn't sung any melody, he hasn't voiced a harmony. He hasn't had the chance to do so; he's been attacked constantly by plants and people, he's been surrounded by a boy with a loud mouth and girl withquick remarks. He's been surrounded by the loud crash of waves against the cove, of insects buzzing in his ears. He's heard all the annoying sounds that compose nature, but he hasn't heard a single tune that gets composed because of the arena., because of nature.

And he breaks another promise, one he made before coming in, but after his interview. He promised he wouldn't sing, but only to honor his mother's unrepayable death. But that defeats the purpose of singing. Vocalizing is made for those with rich voices, voices full of passion, and love, and benevolence. That's everything that he had; now he has corruption.

Maybe he won't ever get the chance to kill Wisteria, wanting vengeance over his mother's body. But singing for his mother, for her memory, for her honor, that may kill Wisteria. If that woman can feel, guilt will buzz at her heart, it will crash in her mind, it will be a loud and quick remark, and it will attackher choice. A choice that will never be undone.

So he sings as he walks. He starts off slow and monotonous, his voice scathed from not being used.

And the birds are chirping,

Singing for their sky.

And the humans speak,

Talking for you and I.

The woods disappear, leading him to hollow logs full of vines. The vines look beautiful, with green moss around their width, and sprouting flowers on them.

And the sky continues

To be uncontained.

And you and I

Continue to feign.

The lyrics surprisingly hit him. The sky, the real world, is uncontained on the outside. But here in the arena, they are all contained. The birds, the sky, the humans, and I.

"Continue to feign," Danelieux has been pretending. He pretends that Corradhin's comments don't ever hurt him.

"And Danelieux, why don't you get out of your own shadow?"

He has pretended that it doesn't hurt when Amani doesn't consider him. Not romantically, but in a friendly way. Amani doesn't think of him, she only thinks of how a plan will benefit her, and Corra. Never Danelieux.

And the fields are growing,

Sprouting for their lives.

And the humans stare,

Still staring at the sky.

And doesn't the sky look so beautiful? Shades of blue, so artificial. Fluffy clouds, so synthetic. All of it is fake.

And the fields continue

To be alive.

And you and I

Continue to lie.

Lying: he's never been fond of it. But here he is lying to himself; constantly trying to keep control. He's the Danelieux de Leon. The boy from One that seems to be both brain and brawn. The boy that is in control of all his actions and thoughts and words.

He sits on the vines, the little flowers tickling him for a moment, but then the hollow log breaks under him because of his weight. He doesn't move, allowing the rest of it to crack. He lays down, stroking the white fluffs. They don't smell like anything, but they feel like comfort. Like freshly washed and dried blankets on a December night. Like little snowflakes falling on skin, but melting instantly. They feel like a reminder that not everything can be in control of what it does, why it does it, and how it does it. A flower will only be a flower to the naked eye, and to the Capitol Danelieux will be a mere tribute.

He doesn't want to be in control anymore, so he decides to do three things. His action, to lay down. His thoughts, to get rid of them. His words, to drown them.

~

Danelieux is in his room, on his bed with his brother. Januzime is sleeping with his face down. His bare back is exposed, light hair glistening. The window is open, the chilly December air seeping into the room. Danel tries to keep reading some book on how to tuck and roll. He's been practicing in training, but his heart hasn't been in it. And the annoying wind isn't helping him concentrate on the strategies. The fragile pages flutter with the air.

He finally puts the book down by his brother's side. He slides his reading glasses up, trying to readjust to his normal vision. The glasses only make the words bigger, not clearer. He doesn't have a vision problem, he just likes focusing on what he's reading directly.

He blinks a few times, the moisture returning to his eyes. The window crackles, the wind so strong it makes things shake. A tiny crevice allows the air waft in, and it hits Januzime's bare skin. Instead of leaving his brother there, to be chilled to his bones, he stands up and goes to their closet. He still doesn't get why his brother didn't sleep on his own bed, but he's not complaining. He gets the blanket – his favorite one, the fluffy black one with the texture of fur – and covers his brother's body. Like the domino effect, Danel notices that his brother relaxes his muscles and sinks further into the mattress.

I wonder what you dream about...probably girls. A light chuckle escapes his lips. His brother, no matter how good, can never settle down. Danel doesn't understand why not – all the girls he has brought home so far have been delightful. All of them, every single one! But they never show up after a couple of months.

Danelieux knows it's not because he scared them off. He was polite, and still continues to be so when he sees them in the Academy. It wasn't their mother, she was all to open to treating them like the daughters she never had. Although, in his father's eyes, Danel is the girl of the family; whatever that means. And it clicks: it must have been his father that scared the girls away.

"Danny?" His mother's voice rings from the middle of the staircase, she must either be coming up or going down.

"Yeah, Ma?"

Her head peeps through the door, "Wake your brother and come down. Supper is ready and remember, we have to get to your school for announcements."

He smiles at his mother, "Give me a sec, we'll be down." The moment she closes the door, he yanks the comforter off of his brother and runs to windowsill, allowing the cold air to stream into the room. His brother leaps from his skin, hands searching in his pocket. He whips a knife out, aiming it at a laughing Danelieux.

"Not funny, you piece of – "

Danelieux manages to breath, "Yeah, yeah. Put a shirt on, supper's ready. And we better eat fast because it's monthly announcements at school." Next to the closet, Danel reaches in for a random button down, rolls it into a ball, and throws it to his brother. His brother dives to get it and dresses himself.

The boys slip into their shoes and race each other into the hall. Sliding on the railing, Danel pretends to push his brother down, but Januzime's speed is so fast that he reaches the bottom as Danel pushes the empty space. This causes him to stumble and he manages to trip on the last step, falling on his side.

The two siblings laugh and bump into each other, but immediately stop and stand up straight when their father clears his throat, "Boys. This is not the time to roughhouse, you have to eat quickly and get your coats. Announcements are today and I'm the elected reader for this month."

Danelieux stifles a groan. He knows how his father will present himself. "Hello, all. My name is Galle de Leon, and I have the honor to read the monthly announcements for December." He'll probably stand straighter if Januzime or Danel are briefly mentioned. The moment he sees "de Leon" he'll look directly into the crowd, begging them to make the connection.

The brothers settle down at the table. The beef stew, like always, tastes great, but Danelieux doesn't get to savor it. He merely gets broth to sip because when they return they are to eat the actual meal. He drinks the broth in a couple of gulps, eager to get to the school. He's waiting for one announcement only, the one that will hopefully change his father's views. He rushes upstairs into the bathroom and brushes his teeth. He quickly fixes his hair, letting a bit of it stick out. Unconsciously, he checks himself out, making sure he looks good enough. Just in case that something does happen to him.

He runs back down the stairs and gets his coat, following his father and mother. Januzime strolls beside him, shivering in the cold. The two boys walk in silence, mimicking their father's example of how a young man should act. Living closer to the city square, they reach the school in minutes. It always seems like seconds because Danel is so familiar with his town.

Inside, they go towards and reach the front rows, a perk if your head of family is an announcer. His father strides up the stage just as Danelieux's two best friends sit beside him. Corradhin and Amani, two people that have known Danel his entire life and vice versa. The pair is so different from everyone; they have dark flowing hair and eyes the shade of oceanic water. They smile at him as the bell rings, officially announcing the beginning of the meeting.

Like predicted, his father is somber in tone. "Hello, citizens of One. My name is Galle de Leon. This month's meeting appears to be a short one. For Panem news, there are a couple differences in our partnering Districts. The pre-picked tributes from Two and Four have been labeled as distinct threats. They are said to have been training for ten years, the same amount as we train our kids. So they may be threats to the outliers, but they should be easy for us. Right, kids?" A hoop of laughter explodes from various places, people planning to volunteer. The adults clap for the brave children from One.

"For District news, there is nothing new. Here in District One, we all know how to communicate with each other. This communication leads to superiority. Am I right or am I right?!" This time more cheering form the audience. Danel halfheartedly claps along, but only because Amani keeps elbowing him in the ribs.

"The school wants me to announce a couple of things. First, the Academy and school will not split. They have come to the conclusion that training is more important than the basic lessons of English and math, of science and history. Training will come first, and the school will be opening the gym for those who want to practice more before Academy time." This doesn't interest Danelieux. He was neutral on the splitting, or lack thereof.

"Secondly, the Academy will open up for older people. As you know, the last Quarter Quell required the tributes to be older than eighteen. Our reaped people were out of shape. And if that Quell were to happen again, we need our adults to be fit like our kids, and to ultimately bring home a victory," his father finally stops to take a breath. This time, Danelieux claps for real. He doesn't understand why the older people, only in their forties, were so out of shape. Training is a life style for the Career districts.

"And finally, the music director has chosen his five priority roles for the concert in January. They are Adaline Berar, and Anissa Berar, Cassidy Droves, Levana Krause and Danelieux de Leon," his father doesn't look into the crowd, begging them to make the connection. He looks down at the first row of people, eyes boring into his son's. "That is all, have a good night." He steps down as people stand up to leave.

Happiness floods Danelieux's veins and soul. He got in, he is in! He will finally be singing in the Winter Concert, one of the hardest chorus concerts to make it into. This is his chance to prove to everyone that he can be good at something else other than training. And in a way, he already has just by getting accepted after his audition.

This is it, this is it! Bliss, that is what Danelieux feels.

Amani and Corradhin, his best friends, tackle him in hugs. Corradhin ruffles his hair and Amani hangs her arm over his shoulders, squeezing them. His brother just slaps him on the back and gives him a single tight hug. He too ruffles his hair.

His father, the last person he wants to see, just walks up to him. Challenging him silently, Danelieux stands up straighter, he makes eye contact. His father says absolutely nothing, not a "Congratulations! I know singing is your passion and I'm so glad you got in!" or "You pathetic boy! If you are to be pre-picked for the Games, this will be a mark against you. You'll be labeled as weak."

Danelieux wants one of them, and at this point of silence, any of them. His father continues to be silent. With a final glare, he walks away. His wife, however, walks up to their son.

His mother, his favorite person in the world. Far more beloved than his father, than Januzime, than Amani and Corradhin. Far more loved by him than he loves himself. She runs at Danelieux, kissing his forehead and cheeks. "Mom, stop, you're embarrassing me." And it is true; Corra and Januzime are laughing and Amani just scolds them.

"My beautiful boy! You're so amazing and I cannot believe you get to sing in front of the District," she squeezes his cheeks. "Actually, I can believe it. You're that good! And I'm not just saying it because you're my son." Another flutter of kisses land on his forehead.

"Okay, mom. I love you too. I get it, please stop." His mother doesn't hear him. She's too proud of her son, her performer.

He closes his eyes tightly, his mother's hair pricking him everywhere. "Mom, seriously stop." His mother's kisses are now becoming excessive. They're on his cheeks, but they're becoming sloppy. Her lips feel chapped and rough. Something wet, spit, dribbles down to his neck.

~

He wakes before he captures that final image of his mother.

"Mom?" He opens his eyes. His mother was fake, a dream. The kisses, however, are not.

It isn't his mother that kisses him. It isn't another girl or another tribute. It's not a human. A little cub, no bigger than a throw pillow, has its paws on his chest, its tongue on his face, cleaning him up.

"What in the world!?" He jumps up, pushing the creature and making it stumble off of him. He grips his tomahawk in his left hand and Corradhin's machete in his right. It's a mutt, it has to be. There is nothing cute and fuzzy in the arena.

But the creature looks so innocent. If it were a mutt, it would have torn a sleeping Danelieux to shreds. Yet here he is, alive with saliva all over his face. Like a kitten, the tiger cub rubs itself on Danel's legs, purring. Sounds more like vibrating than purring. Tentatively, he bends down. Treating the cub like a dog, he places his hand in front of its nuzzle. The cub licks it without smelling it, and lightly bites Danel. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't even puncture him.

He sits in front of the cub, and the little creature tackles him, its paws on his chest once more. The darkest shade of brown bores into Danelieux's green eyes. Its eyes remind him of the sky without the stars, of the darkest night.

"You're not leaving me alone, are you?" Obviously, the cub doesn't reply back. It would have been bizarre if it did. "Well, hello, Night. My name is Danelieux, and I won't control you. I won't make you do something, or alter your natural instincts, or make you say something. I'm not your owner, but I'm guessing you're mine." Again, the cub says nothing.

"Night, it's time for us to go back and see if Corra and Amani are back. You're going to love them, and remember you can turn back whenever you want."

Danelieux remembers what he thought earlier, how there are only a handful of people left. Amani and Corradhin, they can turn back. Danel will be full of morose, but he can't control them. Night can turn back. Danel will be down, but he can't control him either. He chooses to think of something he can control, even if he doesn't want to. His actions, his thoughts, his words.

He walks to camp, thinking of the people that need to die in order for him to return home, and talks to his cub. "Amani has these beautiful eyes. They're so bright but contain all this sadness. Corradhin has these dark eyes, as dark as yours. They're so vast and hold the hardness of a loss..."

~

DISTRICT 4 MALE - CORRADHIN COLE

Grass is something that should tickle and brush the ankles of a traveler, not cut them. Trees should offer the relief of shade, not bring someone afraid of the dark to the verge of dropping in the fetal position. Bushes, those were meant to hold bountiful fruits, juices that satisfy and delight, not play tricks meant to lure animals into sinking their teeth into sacks of poison. The sun? At that, Corradhin said "hah," for even that had abandoned him. He felt as though he could relate to the dimming sky. Their lights were burning out - but, like everyday, it'd be back full swing by morning.

All I can do is hope my face doesn't swing up there, too. The anthem would be playing soon, and when it did, Corradhin considered screaming again. It was more relieving than he thought it'd end up being. He was just curious if it'd have the same effect this time, seeing since the day before it was an "unplanned" event.

Then again, hallucinations of a long lost friend hadn't been scheduled, either. None of it was real. I didn't kill him. Cadelon just wanted to throw me off guard, that's all...so I'd leave that Allium girl alone. A knot twisted in his chest and he clutched at his shirt, which stuck to his skin with a thick layer of sweat. Whenever he thought of stabbing the girl's eyes out, Beckett always managed to wiggle back into the picture. Except, that wasn't him. I know my Beck, and that wasn't him. Corradhin just wished his most recent memory of him hadn't been associated with such an event.

The boy was manipulated into something he was not. And that's all Corradhin needed to force his legs to move a few extra steps, further from the body of a mutilated Allium. Sure, maybe it hadn't been the best idea to go all bat-shit crazy on her corpse after the hallucinations left him alone, but hey, better he go off on something dead than something alive, right?

His stomach curled in on itself, and Corradhin was forced to stop. That henbane remedy is not doing good things to me right now. A palm found his stomach. Off came sweat along with it, unsurprising. It's been like walking through an oven since I got here. "Mind cranking down the heat?" He directed it at the sky, in hopes someone would have mercy on him.

He swore the temperature went up ten degrees.

"Yeah, okay, I'll quit complaining," he said. My circumstances are so desirable, how dare a lowly peasant such as I whine about the heat? A scowl meant to cross his face, but instead it became a wince, pain spiking in his gut. Expectations of vomit had been toying with him all day, and it was frustrating him to no end. Earlier, he'd attempted to purge up whatever was left of the remedy in his system, to no avail. It was rooted inside, clutching to the walls of his stomach with its teeth, and that's where it would stay until the acid broke it away and sent it through his digestive tract. Sounds lovely.

A sudden sense of restlessness washed over him, and he picked up his pace, ripping the grass from its place at times in order to get to the top of the hill he'd been climbing as soon as possible. He needed to move, or he'd be sick. And I know just how gross it is to watch a tribute throw up. Those ones usually die pretty soon afterwards. Let's not be one of 'em.

It was when the most pleasurable scent he'd ever experienced hinted beneath his nose that he forced himself to pause.

He took a moment just to drink it in, breathing deeply. Although it was obviously far off, it was strong, and begged him to come closer. He nearly did, before the small voice in the back of his head reappeared, logic held tightly in its little fingers. Don't go, it whispered, it's a trap. Don't fall for such wondrous things. Look around! Where are you?

The trees were growing more widespread, and the sky was clearly visible, painted sloppily with oranges and purples. A few more minutes, and it'd be pitch black outside. A sense of previous claustrophobia had been lifted. Corradhin was wide awake, and saw everything in a calm light. "I'm in the arena, obviously. But I'm safe for the time." His words were certain.

The voice was screaming at him as he resumed his trek up the hill, desperate. It said he'd regret this, that something so pleasing to the senses couldn't possibly be real. Well, Beckett's voice existed, so I call bullshit.

When he finally made it to the top of the hill he closed his eyes, sucking in as much of the aroma as possible while he let his aching muscles relax. His hands didn't split open when they touched the grass; it was soft, soothing. It was bliss.

Only when he stood and opened his eyes did he see the true nature of the fragrance.

Clumps of small plants sat near one another, wind blowing them against each other, as if the deadly things showed affection for those like them. And at the top of their skinny stems were leaves, fanning out sharply like the wings of a demon. The face of each of them was a crème colored bunch of petals, while a pool of color in the center sent lines crisscrossing along the surface - purple veins against glowing skin. Now that Corradhin saw them up close, in full bloom, he saw just how similar he'd looked to the plant during his interview.

This flower was notorious for being deadly, just like Corradhin far before the gong went off to start this game. And with that in mind, he knew the small voice had been right. I need to get away. These things will kill me.

Just as he took his first step back, a beeping filled the air, and his gaze shot to the sky, a brow raised. Why the hell are they sending me shit? The parachute rippled under a gust of wind, and the package came crashing to the earth. Just before it made it into Corradhin's ready hand, another breeze pushed it away, throwing it back into the air and letting it hover over the field of henbane.

Corradhin shot an accusatory finger in its direction. "Don't you dare stop there."

He could almost hear the Gamemakers laughing as any wind faded into almost nothing and the package landed comfortably in the center of the bushes. A scornful look crossed his face, and he dropped his fists to his side, internally fuming. Of course. Of course they'd do that. Because they are all just a bunch of prissy assholes.

His eyes flicked from the package, to the darkening sky. In hopes of just being an annoyance, he crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not going in there. I'd take hot coals over henbane." His frown tightened. "They call it the witch's herb. I'd rather not be turned into a frog, thank you very much."

Despite his words, he knew that whatever was in that package was something he desperately needed. I'm not desperate right now, though. I can wait. He'd eaten plenty vegetation, drank sufficient water, had no fatal wounds. He was sitting pretty.

The sudden spike of pain in his stomach sent ache barreling through his veins, and he felt the bile rising. But that henbane is in my system. The longer it's in there the more chance it has at getting serious and killing me. He swallowed the vomit down, breathing heavily once the pain faded out. Maybe they sent me something to remove it.

He could've been entirely wrong, but there was a chance he was right. Just the idea of the juices of such a repulsive plant being in him was enough to drive him mad. His eyes narrowed, arms spread from his chest in defeat. Fuck it. Every second I stand here is a risk, what's one more?

Hesitation nipped at his heels, only to be disappointed. He never looked back, not even when he stepped past the barrier. It was like a wall had been thrown up behind him once he brushed against the first plant. He knew it was nonsense, but the smell was overwhelmingly strong at this point, like every ounce of it had been locked in this area to suffocate him.I'll go out smelling like a real Capitol freak, won't I? Just throw some caviar and a wig at me and I'm the spitting image of them.

A giggle broke free, not forced like earlier, but uncontrollable. More laughter boiled in his chest. He envisioned a pot of water on a stove, bubbles popping into steam left and right. A few scalding dots sprung up on his arm when he let it rest next to a flower for more than ten seconds, like he'd plopped a spoon in the water carelessly and let the heat barrage him. I'm such a clumsy fool. Another laugh escaped, and for a moment he thought maybe the scent contained laughing gas. When he thought of nothing, his mirth stopped. No, not gas. But, there had to be something in the air. Otherwise, why would he see three packages instead of one?

They eventually merged into one, and he was able to make out what he'd been sent. It wasn't in a metal tin, but instead it was kept open to the air, a metal band wrapping around a bundle of blue material. His hands shot to it immediately, and he relished the softness of it against his scarred fingers. They curled around the fabric, which he soon discovered was a sleeping bag, and pulled it out of the band, letting it unravel on its own. He knit his brows together. Why would they send me this? It's damn useless...and this remedy I drank...

His mind whirred with possibilities, but one stuck out against the crowd. Maybe I'm supposed to cover my nose with it or something. To keep the smell out. Corradhin, suddenly aware of his situation again, brought the bag to his nose, pressing it tight to keep the fragrance of trickery out.

In exchange, a new scent overpowered all of his senses, and the blood in his body turned to ice. He knew this smell. He'd familiarized himself with it for years. To an outsider, they'd say he was crazy to put this smell above the perfumed sweetness enclosing him. But to him, this was more than he could've asked for. It smells just like him. Like Beckett.

His brain grew foggy, and he let himself drop to his knees, content to just smell a blanket. Any other priorities could be held off until later. Somehow he managed to spread the bag out in front of him, in a small clump of grass where no henbane grew, and crawled inside. He felt like an ant compared to the plants growing all around him. Why the hell did it have to be this flower they torment me with? Why not tulips, or daisies? I'm sure I wouldn't be at risk for death if I ate a tulip.

Still, he reached out with a trembling finger - he wasn't scared, nor cold, but he could've sworn he saw his finger twitching back and forth on its own - and stroked the petal of one of the flowers. His skin met the purple veins, and his own blood began to pump, throbbing in his ears. Eyes grew heavy, limbs became lead. His arm fell to his side. I'm so fuckingtired... Even the sky was blurring, now a dark blue.

The anthem was faint as he faded out, but the smell of Beckett was strong, and that's the smell he fell asleep to, his own sweet nectar.

***

When he awoke, his hands were shoved in a sink full of scalding water, and he thought nothing of it.

A light tinkle rang through the home, the doorbell going off, and Corradhin sighed, ignoring it. Whoever it is can rightly fuck off. It's- He craned his head to see the clock. It's eleven at night. He was perfectly content to scrub away at the dishes, until another tinkle sounded. Slamming the sponge into the sink, he called out, "Coming, give me a sec!" and grabbed a nearby towel.

He turned to the brightly lit corridor leading to the entrance, drying his hands lazily. The walls were narrow, too narrow, and he felt his claustrophobia kicking in. Desperate to avoid such a feeling, he sped up, walking straight until he came to the front door. The blur of a figure was visible through the glass, but he had no way to tell who it was. Annoyance sparked within him like a firecracker. Whoever they are, they're getting a mouthful for showing up this late. If Nigel was sleeping and they woke him up-

Corradhin self-consciously opened the door, exposing who stood on his doorstep, slumped against a post. But when he saw who exactly it was, his breath caught in his throat. Anything he'd been doing before left his mind, replaced with images, images thick with rage and hatred. And then, regret. He hates me. He shouldn't be here. Hoping his eyes were playing tricks on him, he squinted into the darkness, flicking on the porch light.

What he saw sent shards of glass shoving themselves into Corradhin's insides. The boy's cheeks were hollow, his eyes dim, hair a tangled mess. What really jolted Corradhin, however, were the small scratches spread near and far along the boy's skin, and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone. Everything moved in slow motion, lethargic, as Beckett whispered around chapped lips. "I did a bad thing, Corr."

Alcohol came along with the boy's breath.

Any previous grudges vanished, and Corradhin found himself standing stiff in the doorway, eyes wide with indiscernible worry. "Holy shit," he breathed. "What the hell did you do?" His veins were already pumping with adrenaline, throbbing against his skin, a person trying to push their way free of his body. "Who did this? Who did this to you?" He took a step forward, taking Beckett by the shoulders. "Tell me who did this to you." The boy shook his head, mumbling something incoherent. Corradhin's newfound rage was clear in his tone."Now, Beckett!"

When he still received no answer, he growled, lugging Beckett by his arms into the house, slamming the door to a close behind him. The boy made it a couple steps before falling against a wall, using it as support. His eyes were wild, darting around the room, but his body said he was exhausted.

Corradhin crossed his arms over his chest, biting into his lip. Confusion struck him like a freight train, and he was left to bare the scars. He's supposed to hate me. It all came out without warning, questions shooting forth like bullets from his mouth. "Why did you come here? Why do you look like you just fell off a cliff? And why-" He leaned closer, taking a dramatic sniff at the boy. "Why do you smell like you've been drinking?"

Beckett snickered, dropping his head against his chest. His words were slurred, his mannerisms tired. "I did it myself. Like a pretty little picture." He stifled a chuckle.

Corradhin was unamused. His tone was accusatory. "Really? You walk into fists all the time?" He gestured to his face, and Beckett felt his cheek, confused. He winced when his fingers brushed the bruise. He's drunk. I've never seen him drunk. Corradhin swallowed back another round of accusations. Damn, it's scary to see him like this.

A clarity seemed to fall over Beckett's face, and he sighed. "Right." He shook his head, curling his face into a grimace. "Some guys got ahold of me, all right? They roughed me up a bit, I'm still breathing." The way his lips turned down in disgust for a moment, just a few short seconds, said everything.

Corradhin was ready to kick some ass. "What guys got you? Why did they come after you like this?" I swear to fuck, if he doesn't tell me who the hell did this to him, I'm going to scour the whole goddamn district. He didn't even notice how quickly he was huffing until Beckett raised a concerned brow his direction. Hell, steam was probably coming out of his ears. They felt hot enough for it. If he was looking for specifics as to why, though, he wouldn't have been able to pick one reason out.

Beckett stared on for a while, each second stretching into minutes. Then, he shook his head. "Look, they're the usual guys that run around screaming about politics, authority, all that. The people that bet when the games start, okay? They came after me for a stupid reason, did what they did, and now they're going to leave me alone." Beckett gnawed on his lower lip, flicking his eyes to the windows and back at Corradhin. "Don't make it worse. I'd rather walk home tonight without them trying to actually kill me."

Corradhin ran a hand through his hair and released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. There's a bunch of those gambling shits, though... I'll pick 'em out of the group eventually. At least it's something to work off of. Then Beckett's last words processed, and Corradhin was shaking his head vehemently, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it. "You can't walk out there this late, like that," he said, nearly breathless from disbelief, "You must be crazier than I thought you were."

"Says the guy that murdered a man in cold blood." Beckett's face was stony, and he looked away only when Corradhin's lip twitched - only he would know the little signs that showed he'd struck a chord of hurt in the latter.

Refusing to admit the other was right, Corradhin looked down, fiddling with the towel in his hands. Of course he'd catch that. "You don't have to stay. I was just trying to help you out. Y'know, seeing how I've already fucked things up to unimaginable proportions."

The two stood there, standing, staring at one another, waiting to see what the other would do. Corradhin's heart thudded wildly in his chest: he could mess things up more, he could finally start to mend things, he was furious, he was calm, he was...he didn't know what he was, really. Only when Beckett nodded did he feel a sliver of a weight being cut from his shoulders. And then, before he could make sense of what he was doing, he'd approached Beckett, placed a hand on his shoulder, and leaned in close. The smell of alcohol wasn't as strong as he thought it'd been before, but it was still there.

In fact, the more surprised of the two was the one dabbing away at the marks lining the other's face, shocked that the other was seemingly unfazed by the closeness. This was their first real encounter in months, nearly a year, since the day Corradhin stabbed a man. It was self defense, he always told himself it was self defense - but the way Beckett had looked at him that day, it told him he could've settled things another way. And because of that, he expected the boy to be more wary, more cautious, as if Corradhin was an untamable being, unpredictable. His current actions certainly shined light on the "unpredictable" bit. What has my life summed up to at this point?

Beckett seemed to grow conscious of Corradhin being there, and a goofy smile painted his lips. "I knew you wouldn't be able to keep away from me for so long."

Corradhin swallowed, narrowing his eyes at a certain scratch that was letting more blood loose than the rest. He's been drinking, he doesn't know what he's saying. "Well, I might as well patch you up before you go. Can't have you dying of blood loss on your way back home." His towel found the scratch, sopped up what it could, made his skin devoid of the smears of red. Ugh, I hate seeing him like this. So battered. Still, the boy would tough through it.

"Can't patch up a bruise." Beckett's grin was smug.

Corradhin couldn't help but chuckle at the dumb expression. "Yeah, okay, but I can ice it." The speed at which Beckett's smile fell was priceless, and they seemed to switch roles, one smiling, the other caught in concentration. Joking around, smiling...Does this mean I'm fixing things?

"But I'm cold." Beckett wrapped his hands around his arms, warming his chilled skin.

"I'll get some blankets, then. You'll live." Internally, Corradhin was laughing his ass off, but his face only held a slight perk of the lips. It wasn't even all that funny, it was just all the faces Beckett was making. And just the fact that Beckett was making him laugh again...it warmed him. Maybe the guy wasn't meaning to be so open to Corradhin, but it was still happening, and, although it was farfetched, maybe the two could speak on normal terms. Finishing up with the towel, he pulled away, slinging it over his shoulder. "Well, off to get some ice - and blankets, because you're so cold." Off down the corridor he went, in search of ice to cool the purples flowering a certain-someone's cheekbone.

But before he could get far, a set of frozen fingers wrapped about his wrist and pulled him back, and when those fingers left, arms found their way about his waist, squeezing the life out of him. It was as if all the air had ejected itself from his lungs in that small act, and he was left to suck it all back in, except, he himself couldn't breathe. It didn't help when Beckett's face nuzzled against his shoulder, nor did the tickle of his mumbles improve the situation. "Who needs blankets when you're so warm?"

Corradhin was left a garbling mess. In that moment, he knew the exact turn this had taken, and he was adamant against letting anyone in, in such a way. No. No, you cannot just barge in here and do this to me again. I completely pushed you out after everything happened. "I...I...um..."

Beckett's amber eyes were aglow with humour as they stared up at him from his shoulder. "I know you pushed me out. But that doesn't mean you can't let me back in. Right?"

A breath hitched in the taller boy's throat, and he nearly choked to death on air. Okay, there is no way I said that out loud. I made sure...

A set of fingers entwined with his own; nimble and cold connected with calloused and sweaty. Beckett lifted their hands up so that Corradhin could see every detail of them. So he could see how they fit together like moldings. Hand in hand, Beck and Corr. He felt his face heating up, knew it would soon be a bright shade of red if he didn't get away soon.Don't let him in. You'll regret it. Their hands detached from one another, only for one to meet Corradhin's jaw, trailing it as if it were a route on a map. There was no way he could've possibly been able to press himself further against the wall in attempts to shrink away into nothingness. Don't let yourself in. I'll regret it.

Still, there was something overly calming about the panic Beckett was giving him. Has he just created a good panic? I think so. At this point, Beck was running his thumb along Corradhin's cheek, and the latter let his eyes flutter to a close, his heart pounding. Would it really be so bad to let him in again? It seemed like a really bad idea from a distance - an extremely bad idea, an idea that threatened to ruin everything again, for the worse. But up close it was different. Up close, it was just them. Up close, time had rewound itself. Up close, they were together again. Forget personal space.

Beckett's voice was a slurred whisper, but every word sounded like a war drum banging in his ears. "Can I kiss you?"

There was nothing but the pounding of blood in Corradhin's ears and a lack of oxygen. Breathe, Corr, breathe! But instead of satiating his lungs, he did what he thought was a better use of his time.

He gave his answer by pressing his lips to Beckett's, and converted everything he wanted him to know into that one action, that one moment.

And it was in that moment that everything came crashing back down.

He was drowning.

It was Beckett's name he heard being announced through a microphone, his name that paralyzed his senses. The world around him bustled around him, it sped along like life was on fast-forward. All the while, Corradhin stood in the square of Four. He never left. There was not a day that he left that square while Beckett was on those screens. He worried as Beck worried, he fumed as Beck fumed, he felt everything that boy felt. He felt the pain Beck would experience whenever he spoke, he cringed when Beck cringed at his own welts and cuts. His mind was blank when Beck killed the Wendigo, his heart was on fire when Anastasia's and Bellona's faces appeared in the sky.

Corradhin felt that his very world ceased to exist when Beckett did, when he'd tied the noose around his neck. Heart, wild. Eyes, blurry. Legs, shaking. Veins, pulsing."Why have you kept my sins a secret all these years?" His own handwriting flashed across the screen, then Beckett's face, glaring at some point in the distance. Don't answer it, he'd been thinking, don't you dare answer it. When that question were to be answered, there would be no use for Beckett in those games. He'd have satisfied the audience, and could then be disposed of. Please, don't fucking answer it.

A simple three words were offered in exchange, a foot stepped off a stump. And then Corradhin was screaming. He was screaming with a rage, a fury, a frustration, a plea. The crowd dispersed around him as the chords in his neck stuck out freely. He didn't care. He was in that arena, next to Beckett, screaming at him and not being able to do anything to help.

He was breaking, and no one really knew it, because his screams were silent. He was hyperventilating, but he didn't breathe. It made no sense, but really, what did make sense anymore? Not this. Beckett thrashing in mid-air did not make sense, and it should've never had to. Corradhin was burning, every inch of him burned. It felt as though his veins were finally breaking free. His arteries exposed themselves to the air, left his body and mixed with the air in a cloud of red which hid everything from him.

And then, it was over. Just like that. It had ended and Corradhin was transported back to his sleeping bag in the field of henbane.

But he wasn't alone.

There, scrunched up next to his body in the small amount of space the sleeping bag provided, was Beckett, smirking lazily at him with his head propped up on his hand. No alcohol radiated off his breath, but instead the smell which lathered the sleeping bag to begin with. Corradhin was a bed of ice that the boy who might break was glad to shatter. And when that was down, he allowed himself to breathe. He allowed himself to listen. And Beckett sure had a whole lot to say. "You're not done with this game just yet, Corr." He offered a wink, and Corradhin breathed out, his hands finding Beck's waist.

"I wasn't planning on being done." He pondered over himself before continuing. "And if I have to shed blood to do it, I'll do it."

At this Beckett frowned and placed his fingers over Corradhin's lips. His gaze was hard, serious, while his tone was lighthearted. This was his Beck. The Beck he knew. "Corr, you're not the boy who sheds blood. You never have been."

A brow, raised; a mind, confused. "Then what am I, Beckett? Because I surely don't have a fucking clue." Ever since I volunteered I've never really known what was me. Please, have an answer.

And Beckett had an answer laid out. With a knowing look, he found Corradhin's arm, lifted it between them, and placed two of his fingers against his wrist, just below his palm. Each pump of blood offered a second of anticipation, and with each second of anticipation the rate at which his heart beat rose. "Now," Beck said, taking Corradhin's free hand and pressing it to his own wrist, "tell me. What is that?"

"A pulse."

"Yes, that's a pulse. And that's what you are. You're a pulse." Satisfied, Beckett leaned back, letting the leaves of henbane tickle his face. "'The boy with a pulse.' I like the sound of that, so promise me you won't let your pulse stop...well, pulsating."

An old code between the two, Corradhin only had to whistle a short note. I promise. Beckett offered a word of approval, and then words weren't needed between them, for just knowing one was beside the other was enough to sustain them.

For once, Corradhin was not frustrated. He was not angry, he was not sad. Everything was bittersweet. And, if he dare say it, he may have even felt loved. Whether he'd return it would come with time, as he was still beyond confused. All he knew for certain was that Beck was by his side, and nothing would remove him from his place so long as he had anything to do with it.

From now on, he'd led his veins dictate what he did. As Beckett said, he was the boy with a pulse, and he had no intentions of letting it fade out so soon, unlike his wakefulness.

He felt the smile on his lips just as he lost all connection with reality. 

~

DISTRICT 7 MALE - REED QUILLAROY 

Reed found it awfully strange how he found a rose in full bloom underground, and out of a crack in the wall no less. Even stranger, the sweetest of aromas was wafting from the petals, the thorns, and he couldn't help but be distracted from his search for Steve. The older boy had been gone an awfully long time and, growing bored of staring at a wall and wiping away the blood from his arrows, he'd gone out to find him. And he'd better show up soon, because this flower looks far more promising in terms of company than the spider monkey.

Skipping along his way, he pushed the sweetness tickling his nose out of his mind, setting his focus aside solely to finding Steve. He wasn't worried, for the man could take care of himself just fine. If he was worried about anything, it would be for himself. Loneliness was boring, and when Reed was bored, he discovered that he ended up doing reckless things. For example, going out in a cave of mazes armed with only a bow and a few arrows, completely on his own, in search of Steve's lighthearted jokes and their warming conversations.

Reed had never known such a person that would take the time out of their day just to speak to him. No commands, no orders. Just talking.

For once, he wasn't a burdensome king, if even a king at all. Kings pushed people out, had guards cut the heads of potential friends off, sent lambs to the slaughter. Now, as Reed thought about it, ruling wasn't as glorious as it was all cracked out to be. Y'know, maybe there don't have to be peasants. I've been thinking that a democracy would be a better choice. Everyone gets a say, no one is shoved out. Getting shoved out royally sucks. He kicked at a few pebbles, smiling as they skidded along the rough ground. We're all the same. We're all stuck here - anyone can be king at this point. Filled with a sudden sense of excitement, he bounced on his heels, squealing lightly and taking off. I have to find Steve and tell him he's been promoted!

His shoes squeaked and landed in puddles, wetting the fringe of his pants. He cared not, too filled with adrenaline and expectation to care. He's going to love it. He'll have a couple awesome jokes, too, and it'll be like he never left.

His chest was alight with a rush, his mind too dead-set on what he would say and how he would say it to notice the flowers peeking from the cracks. Two roses appeared for each one he passed, and soon he was forced to give the walls a passing glance. Vines crawled towards him, thorns keeping them caught to the wall, creating a trellis of their own. Eventually the wall wasn't even visible anymore, covered entirely in the crimson petals. He furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched his nose. Spider monkey, what did you do?

There came a point where he wished to remove his gaze from the wall, but it was like his eyes were glued to the image, and nothing he could do could break the hold it had on him. The smell coming free of the flowers had wrapped its fingers around him and squeezed. His lungs felt crushed inside of him, his veins felt as though the circulation was being cut off. But there was nothing he could do about it except let it do what it had to do until this was all over. And it had to be over eventually - no one could just kill him off with a flower.That'd be pretty pathetic. What warrior dies at the hand of a flower?

However, he had to admit there was something soothing about the smell. His eyes fell, his head drooped, and he snapped it back up, trying desperately to keep awake. No, I need to find Steve... But, his small body couldn't take it, and soon he was slumped against the wall, breathing slowly, his eyes closed tight as he quickly fell into a deep sleep.

***

The explosion of trumpet's in his ear is what awoke him, and he found that the jagged rock walls had been smoothed over into brick, and the corridor in which he fell asleep had expanded to a room the size of ten stages. Reed swung his arms out, prepared to punch and bite at whoever was threatening him in such a way. "C'mon, come at me, I'll chew your nose off! I almost did it once, and I'll do it again!" Already, he was bouncing at the prospect of battle, at the idea of having something to show off to Steve once he found him. The spider monkey will be proud!

The face of his attacker flashed by, offering a yelp and eventually falling backwards on their rear, scrambling away. He wore a skintight suit of purple and black, and the hat atop his head was adorned with bells which rattled Reed's ears every time the guy moved. His face was the definition of fear as he sat there, hunched over with his trumpet. Reed leaned away from the elegance of the chair he sat in, raising his rear slightly off the plushness he'd fallen asleep on, squinting at the jester's face. No way... And then, he was giggling. "Corrosion Cole? That you?"

"I-It's Corradhin, your m-majesty..." The jester's lip quivered, and he rose the lip of the trumpet to his mouth, biting down to stop such a scene of weakness.

The laughter bubbling in Reed's chest overflowed, and he was left there, keeled over in giggles, clutching at his stomach in desperation. "Oh my gosh, this is too much, this is too great. It hurts." A gentle wheeze followed before he slammed his bottom back onto the chair, wiggling into the cushions. His arms rested on ornately carved gold. And then it clicked. A throne...a jester...
"your majesty"...am I a, um, a king? Immediately his laughs seized, and he took closer inspection of this room. Stretching out before him was a length of red carpet, and floating high was a chandelier, glistening with the finest jewels. Doors dotted the walls, and above each door sat a flag, all of the same pattern of red.

Reed, his hands trembling, reached up to his head. His fingers brushed something cold, metallic, rough with carvings. A crown. His breaths grew rapid, and then he was gripping it tightly, the points digging into his skin, tearing his palms apart. He felt the blood leave his body and drip over the gold, as if the crown itself were melting under him. I don't want this. I don't want to be king.

He tugged, but the crown wouldn't come off. He tried again, still nothing. It wouldn't budge, and then he was frantically ripping away at it, at his hair, tearing at his skin with every movement. "Get it off!" he screamed. He kicked at the seat, rose and dropped to one knee, pulling with every ounce of strength he still possessed. "Don't just stand there, Carrot-den, and help me!" Another groan as he tugged it, pulling his scalp along with it. "Please!"

Corradhin was dumbstruck as he watched on. "But, your highness, that is your crown. It mustn't come off."

"I am in no way a highness, and this is not my crown! I don't want this, I don't! Get your pantyhose over here and help me, please, Coral-dan, please." He was begging at this point. His panic was the ruler of his kingdom, and nothing he could do would free him of his position, his standing. Kings are mean. They send nice people to the guillotine. I don't want to do that, I just want Steve.

He moaned at the pain shooting through his hands, wrinkled his nose in disgust at the blood running down his arms. But he didn't stop pulling, didn't stop yanking at the trap regally set upon his head. Corradhin, finally breaking free of some spell that told him to just sit there for eternity, took a step towards Reed, moving his hands away and trying his luck at the crown. Reed was breathing rapidly, near hyperventilating, and the panther's presence certainly wasn't helping. Get it off, get it off, get it off. Please work, c'mon, please work.

It didn't work.

Defeated, Corradhin stepped back, and Reed slumped over his knees, hiding his head in his hands. "Can't I just quit my job or something? Resign from office?" If the president can do it, why can't I? He's pretty much a king, he sends people to the guillotine all the time.

"I'm afraid not, King Quillearoy." This voice was new, feminine, and Reed looked up from his bleeding palms, looking for the source. A woman stood beside Corradhin, a hand resting on his shoulder. Her dress flowed down perfectly to the ground, complimenting her purple locks. She offered a sad smile, reaching out a hand, which Reed regarded with wariness. He made no move to return her gestures. That wench pushed me into a pool of electric eels. Maybe I can chop her head off, only hers, because she's a big 'ole bully.

He didn't have to return her gesture, as she wasn't asking for a handshake, but was actually handing him a note. Reed raised a brow at her, snatching the note up before she could grab his wrist and throw him into a volcano next time or something. Maybe it's from Steve. He fumbled with it as he pulled the folds away, eager to see if it was from his friend.

"Quillearoy,
Our enemies have encroached on your land, and they are approaching at an unimaginable pace. They have demolished every village they have come across thus far and claimed it as their own. As you are not a king of violence, we are asking you to do what you see fit. We have sent out ten divisions, along with our weaker ones, such as Division Young and Division Haze. We do, however, strongly insist that you break your code of nonviolence in sake of the safety of your citizens."

Reed's eyes flicked across the paper, his heart thumping. "So what I've got from this is...we're under attack." He looked up at Corradhin and Neri, the word Young still engraved in his vision. "We're at war, and Steve is out there."

His last sentence was ignored, and the two near adults gave each other a nervous glance. "And what will be your course of action, my king?" Neri asked. Reed shot her a glare. If that wench calls me king again I'll shove her out a window. See how she likes it.

Their words made something snap within him. He straightened his posture, held his head high - hating the crown all the while - and brushed past them, moving as quickly as his little legs could carry him. I'll fight. I'll find Steve, and we'll be soldiers. Pride flourished within him at the thought.

When he flung open the doors to his castle and let the light of day shine in on him, all he saw was chaos. Houses in the distance were ablaze; people screamed and moaned in agonizing pain, crawling along the ground in hopes that they'd find the foot of a medic or someone willing to help. Women fought tooth and nail as their children were ripped from their grasps - nothing would deter them from saving their daughters and sons from the enemies aimed to take them for their own personal use.

Reed saw his face in those children's faces. He saw the fear in them as his own, he saw the knowledge of what would happen in their eyes as the knowledge in his own. Those mothers were nothing like his own, though: they were concerned, they were desperate to keep their child, they were mad in the brain about it so much as to risk their lives in order to get them back.

The flare of heat coming from his left was enough to jolt him from his place, and he ran in the opposing direction - the direction of the battle. He needed to find Division Young. That was his best bet on where Steve was.

Down the hill he went, blending into the crowd with his already smudged face and frantic movements. And his shortness, but it was mostly the pace at which he moved, the jerk of his legs as he dodged horses, bodies, and soon, the clash of swords.

The sky had blocked out the sun at this point, the sky a deep gray, the ground painted crimson, corpses tethered to the ground with intestines and other internal juices. He smelt copper in the air, tasted it on his tongue. The clang of metal against metal made him cringe, and the slam of steel into flesh made him want to throw up. Oh god. What the actual heck have I, a senseless poison dart frog, gotten myself into?

It was in that moment, when the sun sent a single ray shooting down from the clouds, that he found Steve.

And his heart shattered into a million pieces. He found himself unable to breathe as he carried himself over to him faster than he'd ever ran before. No, I just saw you a few hours ago all nice and dandy, this isn't real... "No, no, no..." he muttered. He repeated this single word for seemingly hours, each time coming out more harsh, more pleading, more pained, until he was practically screaming it, crouched by Steve's head on the ground. There was a steady rise and fall of his chest, but in that chest was an expanding dot of red.

Steve was going to die. I can fix it, no, I can fix it. I can make everything better, I can fix it. Reed pressed his hands to the wound, trying to shove the blood back in, but the scream of pain that came forth from Steve's mouth scared him away, nearly into another corpse.

The battle was gone, and the scene changed. Reed couldn't swim, and he was in water.

He was drowning, and there was no way out.

~

DISTRICT 12 MALE - KALE EMRYS

Freedom. Kale sat on the stony ground, his knees brought up and his arms wrapped around his legs. He had been sitting like that for more than two hours. Just sitting there and thinking. Is it not being imprisoned? If so, Kale was not free. He was imprisoned the in the cruelest jail. The area of the Hunger Games.

The boy closed his eyes for a moment before uncurling and standing to his feet. He winced as his bones cracked loudly. He stretched and tried to get the dampness and coldness out of his system. Kale started to pace, ridding his body of stiffness. Or is it the ability to say whatever you want when you want. Then Kale wouldn't be free. Although he had said many things in this arena which were against the Capital. It didn't really count because he could die any second anyway.

Kale smiled softly and turned to look around the large cavern where he had spent most of his time in the Hunger Games. It had been here he had just recently killed Allium, the imposter. He marveled at how she had worked for the Capital. How could she have done it? Was it the promise of gold and fame? Or the threat of death and destruction? He remembered the rage which had swept over him at the sight of her. Kale knew it wasn't his own anger, but the wrath of the Capital directed against the unfortunate girl. The blood had coated his hands and body, dripped down his arms slowly as he realized what he had done. Realized he had literally torn her limb from limb as the fury swept over him. The tears which streaked his face as he gathered her in his eyes threaten to return as he recalled the look of sadness in her eyes.

Sadness filled with something else Kale could not understand. She had smiled, right before she died, she had smiled. How could she have smiled? The tribute ran his fingers through his hair. Was it because she was now free? Kale wished for a moment that he could be free.

What is freedom? He looked around the carven with its high ceiling and rocky walls. Is it the ability to go wherever you may please? To just go and walk or run without fearing the tall, electrified fence which ran around the Districts.

Kale walked until he came to the spot where the boy from District Eleven had died. There too Kale had held a dead body in his arms and had offered a prayer up for the boy's soul. Is there freedom in death? The final conquer who took king and slave alike into its cold and dark bosom. Is death freedom? If it were, Kale was not free.

His thoughts were broken when he saw a single flower lying in the furthest corner of the room. It was small, placed on a folded coat of a muddy brown colour. Kale walked over to it and picked the flower up. It was delicate and he recognized it as his flower. The Queen of the Night Tulip. It's gentle petals sloping upwards into a cup shape. He turned it over and over in his hands, careful of the fragility of the beautiful flower.

Is there freedom in nature? In the soft call of a mocking jay or the rustle of the branches as the breeze floats through the air? Or in the silence of the night, where the earth sleeps. Could there be freedom in an earthbound by rules of nature and the laws of physics? Kale picked up the coat and shrugged it on. No, there in no freedom in nature. Peacefulness yes, but not freedom for mankind.

Kale slid down the wall and once again sat on the stony ground of the cavern. He was thankful for the coat. A coldness swept over the arena in an icy wave as night approached. Kale suddenly shivered. The boy looked at the flower again and touched its silky petals softly.

It's called the Queen of the Night Tulip. It symbolizes power and strength, mystery and elegance. Kale smiled as he raised it to his lips. He kissed the flower softly and felt the velvet petals caress him back. Choose a flower which best represents you. He had been told. He had chosen this flower. He had wondered why, but he had begun to see. Power and strength are not just physical strength, neither mystery or elegance physicals qualities. Power can be the strength of the mind or Spirit. While Mystery is easily the mystery of life. Everyone has a fragment of mystery in them. Kale grinned. The only thing I'm not sure about is the whole elegance thing. Kale was not elegant.

A symbol of farewell. The smile faded as Kale thought about the last meaning of the flower. A symbol for sadness and goodbyes. Kale bit his lip. He had said goodbye so many times the last few days.

Goodbye to his family, to life as I knew it. Goodbye to Author. Kale paused in his thoughts. Has he truly said goodbye to Arthur? Or was he holding into ghost and shadows of the past? It was true; Arthur had affected Kale so much in the few days he had known him. Kale didn't know if he was ready to say goodbye another time. To someone I love. He wondered for a moment if there was any freedom on goodbyes. Kale blinked back tears. There is no freedom in goodbye

His thoughts turned to home and soon his eyelids drifted shut as a sweet, gentle perfume gently arose and caused the air around the boy to smell fresh and pure.

When he opened his eyes, it was to feel the silky sheets of a bed and soft feeling of a mattress. He sat upright in shock and looked around him. Where the hell am I? His mind raced and he hoped this wasn't another cruel trick of the Capital. He looked around the room and realized what it must be. A dream. Surely it was a dream? He watched as the flames crackled in the fireplace and hoped that the Games had been a dream instead.

"Kale?" A voice rough with sleep caused him to look beside him. He looked down to see the familiar blonde hair of the man he loved. He knew then this was a dream. He shut his eyes.

"I know this is a dream," He whispered. The silence around him was his only reply and it just confirmed what he was thinking. Suddenly Arthur was kneeling in front of him, tilting his head up. Kale looked and wondered for a moment if freedom was in blue eyes.

"What would you do, if you were free for one day?" Arthur whispered "With the power to do whatever you wanted?" Kale blinked back the tears which had appeared in his eyes.

He thought of all the things he would do and say. How he could change the world in one day of utter freedom. He could abolish the Capital and the Hunger Games. Tear down the walls which separated the Districts. How he would gather his family and just hold them.

Kale looked at Arthur and saw love shining back. He whispered. "I would choose love." The boy looked confused and Kale explained. "Love can change everything, it could stop everything we see in this world of hatred. If I could give everyone love, all this would stop."

He got out of the bed and helped Arthur to his feet. "I would tell my mother I loved her, I would tell my father I forgave him. I would tell you I love you and I would tear down the walls of hatred everyone in this world has built up in their hearts."

Arthur smiled softly and nodded. He took Kale's hand and led him out the door. For a moment, Kale was afraid that when he opened the door he would see the cavern again. Instead, he saw a sight which made a single tear trickle down his face.

Arthur whispered softly "This is the world you would create then Kale Emrys."

The room before him was large and full of light. Colorful decorations were scatted around the room and in the corner of the room stood a large green tree. He saw his mother, now with grey hair work in the kitchen with a smile on her face. Her cheeks were no longer hollow and her body no longer lean. He looked at the abundance of food and grinned widely.

"Papa!" He spun around at the sound of a child's cry. He watched with wide eyes as a small girl of three ran towards the two of them.

"Lucy!" Arthur swung her up into his arms and kissed her. They turned to Kale and Lucy held out her arms "Daddy?" She asked and Kale's eyes widened further. He met Arthur's eyes and the man nodded. Kale noticed suddenly how old everyone was. He would be at least thirty and Arthur would be the same age.

"Hello Lucy" He whispered as he took the girl into his arms. She flung her arms around his neck and Kale hugged her tightly, tears clogging his throat. He kissed her all over her face and the child laughed.

"Don't smother her Kale!" He turned to see a familiar face. Long grey hair, laced with black. Shinning grey eyes and a tall build.

"F-father?" Kale choked out and the man nodded.

"Hello, son. You've done well." And Kale knew that his father somehow had seen everything in the Games. His eyes grew misty and as Arthur softly took Lucy away, Kale launched forward and hugged his father.

Is freedom family? The warmth of a mother love and the proud gaze of the father. The soft child's laugh and the loud chuckle of a grandfather. Kale wondered for a moment. It could be. But is family forever?

"How are you, Kale?" A voice broke the silence and Kale turned to see his mother once more. This time, a sob tore out of his throat and he reached forward trying to hug her also. She came willingly and Kale hugged both his parents.

"I love you, I love you, I love you!" He murmured and they whispered it back.

"Why are you crying?" The voice broke their embrace. Kale pulled back to see a small boy of about five. He was an exact replica of Arthur. He blinked once or twice, ridding his eyes of the tears. He crouched down with a smile.

"Because I'm happy Jack." He wondered for a moment why he knew the child's name but didn't dwell on it. Jack grinned and gave Kale a quick hug before trotting off.

Kale rose to his feet and looked around. He met Arthur's eyes and smiled. Arthur beckoned and Kale followed him toward the door. He paused before it and looked with fearful eyes towards the man. Arthur just smiled and Kale's hand reached for the door handle.

When he opened it, it was too see a winter wonderland. Snowflakes fell gently and kissed the already covered ground.

"It's beautiful." He whispered.

It truly was. Gone were the dingy, tiny streets and dirty houses. Replaced by wide, open and well lit streets and uncontaminated homes. He watched as the well fed children ran on the streets, unfearful. The mother and father walking around in warm clothing and smiles of their faces.

Kale found himself walking down the street, Arthur trailing behind. He watched with joy as a group of children walked together down the street, arm in arm. They were singing of peace and good will toward all men. The boy wondered. Could this be a world of freedom? Could freedom be found in a child, in innocence? If it were, Kale would never have freedom.

They walked on until the city faded away and countryside replaced it. Rolling hills covered white with snow, dotted with bare trees. The beauty of it took Kale's breath away and he stood there, frozen in awe. Could this be a world of freedom? Wh-

"Kale?"

Kale turned to Arthur only to find the man looking sadly at him.

"Look at the horizon."

Dull orange and red beams where peeking out over the hills and trees The day had dawned and Kale dreaded what that meant. Kale once again felt tears prick his eyes. He felt Arthur's hand on the small of his back and together they walked back inside the house.

His mother and father were waiting and Kale hugged them for one last time. Once again saying I love you to both of them. He saw the tears in his mother's eyes and shook his head.

"Please don't cry. I'll come back." He knew he shouldn't promise that but somehow he knew he would be seeing them again. In this life, or the next.

"Daddy?" He turned to find the wise eyes of Jack staring at him. "Good luck Daddy, I love you." And with that Jack had run out of the room. Arthur handed Lucy over to him once again and Kale held the toddler tightly.

"I love you little one, I'll see you soon okay?" He whispered. The girl hugged him.

"Wuv you Daddy!" She lisped and Kale buried his face into her neck and hid for a moment. He gently put her down and turned to face Arthur.

Suddenly they were in the room where Kale had woken up. The fire was dead and Kale wondered how long he had been dreaming for.

"Kale." Arthur's voice was soft and the boy dreaded what he was going to say next. "You have to leave now."

Kale shook his head. He couldn't leave, he wanted to stay here. I feel free!

Arthur's voice was still soft. "You have too." And Kale hated that he was right. He stepped forward and felt Arthur's strong arms wrap around him. He felt like he was breaking apart, sobs were being torn from his body and he couldn't speak for the tears.

"Kale, I want you to listen to me."

Kale nodded his head to show he was. Arthur kissed the top of his head.

"You need to say goodbye." Kale looked up at the man to find tears in Arthur's eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"You need to let me go." Kale shook his head and buried his face in the man's chest.

"I don't want to go back there, Arthur. I'm scared, I'm so scared." He whispered, "Let me stay here. I feel free here." Arthur just held him for a moment longer before stepping back and looking him in the eye.

"You are free." And Kale knew he was right.

Kale looked up through blurry eyes as Arthur lent down and kissed him softly. Kale shut his eyes and just felt.

They broke away, tears trickling down both the men's cheeks.

"Goodbye Arthur" Kale whispered, "I love you." The last thing he saw was Arthur's smiling face. I love you.

Kale woke up with tears streaking his face. For the first time those salty drops were not made out of his sorrow, but his joy. He now knew what Freedom is. Freedom is love. Man can take away your ability to go wherever you want, take away your freedom of speech. Men may imprison your fast in a tomb of rock. And you could still be free, Because no one, male or female, could take away love.

The Boy from 12 was free.