❦

𝑁𝐼𝑁𝐸
ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀ

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A splutter and the sound of vomiting filled the hallways. Cillian swallowed and held his breath. Any louder and they would all wake.

He wiped the sleeve of his dressing-gown across his face, dabbing off the layer of sweat. The shower was only a few feet away and still, he couldn't drag himself to it. It must have only been no more than seven in the morning. Only now, was he beginning to hear the rattle of the plates down by the dining table as the Avoxes set to work before the mentors and tributes would arrive.

Cillian placed one hand on the sink and paused, then placed his other beside it until he could pull himself upwards to lean in front of the mirror. He refused to look up. The reflection would not be what he- nor others- wanted to see. So with his head hung low, he stumbled to the shower, hitting his hand against the largest, silver button.

Half an hour later, Cillian emerged from the bathroom feeling as fresh as he could- far fresher than one would expect having been ill less than an hour ago. The tributes and the district escort sat around the table as they had any other time, food layer out before them in a feast. Johanna sat begrudgingly at the head, hand curled around her fork which had not moved from where it was stabbed into a piece of bacon.

"Oh, Cillian, finally you join us," Eirlys said as he sat opposite. "We were just talking about the training day yesterday."

Cillian poured himself a glass of thickened wine and watched them.

"And I was telling her that we were there watching. There was no need for the recount of the whole story," the second part of her speech was directed to Eirlys with a glower.

"Oh, never mind that. Isn't it nice to talk about and congratulate our young mentors on their superb show? I hear one of the youngest children got so excited that he fainted!" She was laughing again, a grin set upon her made-up face.

How did Eirlys do it year after year? Was her heart truly made from that hard a stone that not even the murder of the children she escorted and talked with could chip away cracks?

He stared between the two tributes and their smiles and wondered how long it could last. The sounds of laughter would be gone in the morning. They would regret the friendliness they showed to one another. Otis may have been too arrogant for his own good and Freyja too observant, but under no circumstances did they deserve to die- to be forced to murder other children as equally undeserving. Nor did Cillian and Johanna deserve the relentlessness of training them for their death for the pleasure of the people in the Capitol, who still abused him too.

Better dead than a Victor.

But what right did he have to say such a thing to them? Surely the hope of life was better than the dooming threat of death, even if that life was tainted by the chains of the Capitol?

"We better get going, if we want to have a private training space," he said, placing down his glass and pushing himself from the table."

"Private space?"

He nodded. "You and I will be practising with the axe," he said before looking to the other tribute. "Freyja will learn knife throwing with Johanna, as requested."

❦

The private training spaces were little more than a scaled-down version of the main room. There was a single weapons rack, a survival station and a whole row of targets that stood opposite to the strength and agility test run that Freyja had surprised them all with the day previous. There were only two of such rooms, causing many fights between tributes and mentors, fights which were often swept under the rug and never spoken about. Yet on the second training day of three, the rooms were mostly unwanted, and so the mentors of District Seven chose to use them to their advantage.

Otis went straight for the axe that hung in the centre.

"Do you know the weaknesses of an axe?" Cillian asked, and Otis did not reply. "There's little defence. Go against an opponent who's quicker or more agile than you and you'll be stabbed below your ribs before you can even finish a swing."

The information seemed to dishearten the boy, but only for a moment. He glanced down at the sharpened, gleaning blade and saw something encouraging. The handle was tossed between two hands twice before it settled in his palm and he wielded the axe upwards, bringing it down against the smoothened floor in one large arc.

"Hit them with this blade and I won't need to worry about defence."

"Thinking like that means you count on hitting them."

Cillian took one of the handheld targets by the tip of the wooden handle and held it upwards between them.

"Hit the red circle," he instructed.

Otis took one moment to look between his mentor and the target in his hands. Then his left shoulder twitched upwards, and in the same moment that he brought the axe hurtling down toward the wooden circle, Cillian swiftly pulled his hand away, letting the weapon fall down into the space he'd once stood in. Held under the force of his own weight, Otis toppled forward after the axe, letting the blade lodge in the floor, where he left it.

"Try again," Cillian ordered.

Undaunted, the tribute wrapped two hands around the hilt of the axe and tugged it from the ground, letting the blunt ring of the sharpened blade carry through the air. He readied himself, the muscles beneath the skin-tight suit flexing and tensing. His left shoulder jerked and his attack came curving down again, missing the target by a whole few seconds.

"An axe makes you slow, no matter your strength," Cillian said, and Otis let out a groan.

"Then why chose it as a weapon?" Otis snapped, the words almost coming out like a bark.

"Because you can teach yourself to not need speed."

Otis paused for a moment, his jaw set angrily.

"How?"

Cillian only tossed the target to the side and moved to stand behind him. Otis' eyes followed him, head and shoulders twisting, but he directed him to look forward again.

"That is why we're here," he said and angled his own ankle further outwards. "To get rid of mistakes. Twist your heel like this."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

Otis was due credit. He listen to each word Cillian spoke and followed as if it was sacred golden knowledge. It helped that he told it with strength. With the specific words he chose and the deep, authoritative tone he took, it was clear he knew what he was talking about- that his words would someday lead to life or death, depending on how well they were received. Otis received them with violent delight.

He was as physically strong with an axe as Johanna had predicted, though his technique was slow, thanks to the lack of combat skill needed in chopping wood. But it didn't hinder him. As their session drew on, the targets were sliced and cut almost out of existence, the axe feeling too natural in his hands. Otis smiled as he worked, as he fought, as if he knew too, that he had a chance.

There were things other than his own abilities at play in the arena, however. It was called the Hunger Games for a reason. It was as much about luck and favouritism as it was about capabilities. There would be other tributes in that arena, whatever it may be, that could wield a unique weapon with mediocracy. Some would have prior training and numerous sponsors.

The arena itself was working against them too. Something with trees would have been beneficial to the District Seven tributes, but something so simple, so forgiving would be too easy. A difficult arena could have the potential to kill them as easy, if not easier, than any other tribute. In the past, there had been many variations. A desert, where more than a half of the tributes had died from dehydration and the delirium it caused. Cillian's own had been a vast, icy plain where water had been as abundant as avalanches and death from hypothermia and exposure.

Now, as the Games drew ever closer, Otis listened to his mentor's advice hungrily.

"Don't underestimate four," Cillian said as he swiftly slid out the way of an attack to his right.

"Rafe?"

His eyebrows shot up. "You call by name?"

"He sought me out," Otis said as he shrugged, spinning the axe in his hand.

But Cillian didn't give him a break as they spoke.

"Ah," he said, bringing his own axe swinging sideways, making him deflect it. "Don't place so much emphasis on your forward set. Place too much weight and you won't be able to rebound so easily."

Otis nodded and went to attack and rebound again.

"So, a potential ally?"

"Maybe," Otis said with another dismissive shrug.

"Or a potential threat," Cillian said quickly. "District Four will have many sponsors, even if the boy seems weaker than other years."

"Because of Finnick Odair, right?" Otis said, a smile painting his lips. "I hear he's favoured in the Capitol because-"

"It's wise not to speculate," Cillian hissed, throwing the blade of his axe into the floor. Otis flinched. "You may know the workings of a Victor soon enough."

He had to win first, of course. Though Otis had as much of a chance of victory as many of the other tributes had. He could wield his axe well enough, block with equal vigour, and his self-confidence had as great a chance of being an advantage as it did a weakness.

"That's enough," Cillian said, letting Otis lower his weapon. "You need rest as much as practice, if not more."

With a nod and a wipe of his brow, Otis turned, breathing heaving, and walked toward the door, not waiting on the other side before he made his way down the corridor which was lined by peacekeepers and their boxy, white armour. Cillian shook his head as he turned from the retreating figure and unbound his hands from the cloth that was wrapped around his knuckles for better grip.

"You work well as a mentor."

Cillian didn't lift his head from where they watched his hands, as a voice entered the room, followed by no swinging doors or sound of footsteps. He didn't need to look to know that Finnick Odair stood behind him, no doubt with the confident smile that Cillian could already somehow recognise in his thoughts.

"I may need to pick up my game," Finnick said, his humour sounding mocking.

"There isn't much we can do from here," Cillian said. He strode toward the middle of the training area and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his axe, pulling the blade cleanly from the floor so he could return it from the beaten stand. "Once they step on the stage at the interviews, it's all out of our hands. You should know that."

It was only then, as he turned toward the doorway, that he saw Finnick. He stood with his shoulders straightened, his hands held together by his stomach, chin raised so his eyes could be sleek in observation. With that look on his face and the slow movement of his eyes, Cillian felt as if he could see straight through him.

"There are more important games to be playing," he grumbled, walking past him, eyes not connecting.

But a hand on his arm stopped him from going any further.

"Cillian," Finnick said softly, deep eyes dropping along with his voice. "Remember who the real enemy is."

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