Chapter Text
The calluses on her fingers have yet to return in their full glory. To become rough against the handle of the knife she carries, smooth and retractable. Although she’s been home awhile now, Clove still carries something sharp, cutting when she leaves home. Or even when she stays.
She walks outside, watching as the sun dips against the mountains, the oranges melting into the rocks, making them one wall ahead of the dark clouds closing in. More snow was on the way, and the cold bites at her skin with little pin pricks. There’s already ice that had formed on the concrete roads and buildings from a recent storm, a sheet of it on the ground she steadies.
At the end of her path, Victory Village sits, lights on for a whole street worth of small mansions. Its gate is large, made of metal, and the overhead sign curved. Bricks make a wall that surrounds the property in all different desaturated colors of rock. Where she and Cato now live.
Her walk to and back from Karst took only a short while, her new home located near the most northern border, a bit away from the city. Climb over the mountains around, survive the wildlife of mountain lions, snakes, or black bears and electric fences that hum loudly would greet the climber. Along with a Peacekeeper base that ensures no escapees.
In her other hand, a gray bag sways, cotton she uses when going to buy anything in town. Simple bread this time, a loaf, and a box of crackers, nothing else, something for the morning before she leaves tomorrow. Her pocket was full of change, silver coins worth much more than tradable goods and she wished she had bought more from the poor woman selling what she baked at the local trade.
Talking with her parents first was draining, refusing the endless requests for them to move in. Clove wanted less to do with them. They raised her to be apathetic. If she was heartless for her choice, so be it. Though she did buy them a more accommodating house and does pay for all their medical bills, hospital or apothecary visits, and hundreds of dollars worth of monthly medicine included.
Transactions were all they knew and some of the things she said on camera only worsened the tension. She gave them little time to talk about her Hunger Games and the money she gives them, whether they deserve the space or not. Her mother a whining ball that complains about not getting her comeuppance and her father just nodding along or supporting such an idea. Once she’d had enough, she went on to the rest of her day. To things of bigger importance, such as arriving back to Cato.
Being gifted the same mansion, she sees him every day and night. For joint victors, it was fitting, as if they were one unit made for each other. Pre-built structures were running out for new winners in the Games to come. Construction was about to begin for the future ones this summer as with the track record for District 2, more victors were certainly on the way soon.
With the house’s size, their families could easily have shared the space. Her and Cato both kept it to themselves, with his mother wanting to stay in Ashlar for her other sons. They were already doing fine for themselves regardless, with family inheritance from owning a stone quarry.
He’s always lived comfortably from what he has told her. Not like or close to the people in the Capitol, but he’d never missed a meal in his youth from poverty. She wasn’t so fortunate in her upbringing, parents too negligent on occasion to buy her dinner. Focused more on work or her mother unable in her sickness to cook, an autoimmune disorder that causes complications in the joints, skin, and organs. If she placed terribly against her peers, she would be denied their provisions. So adjusting to everything hasn’t all been smooth sailing.
When Opal Hadley and her other sons visit, she is affectionate, a mother for the ages to Cato. Her presence is healthy, almost one a kid in a lower district might have where the culture isn’t all rough and tough. Clove always feels as though she does not fit in, distancing herself from such compassion. Perhaps she is simply not fit for this style of living and attention.
The life of a victor was to be honor, riches, comfortable living, adoring fans, and parties. So far for Clove it’s been toss and turning in bed, flinching at the slightest unexpected sound, inability to be without a knife at all times. When it’s particularly difficult, she will abandon everything in favor of rotting away in bed like her mother has a habit of doing.
Sometimes, Clove will eat like a bird or won’t eat more than once a day, lacking the drive for the slightest of things. Adjusting to anything is tumultuous enough, such as the simplest things. She hates preparing meals too, so Cato makes them or they rely on diners in the city. Specially the ones from a sweet, old woman named Ambrosia Galloway who works as a chef in Karst. A little diner that has become something of a comfort space.
Around this time of day, Cato would be home from the closest training area, or getting back from a run. The boy thinks he can help save the aspiring tributes by teaching them. Giving them morale or encouragement for a system, they can not escape. She thinks he just needs the distraction. He does spend hours in their makeshift gym, punching bags, and tiring out his muscles.
These recent weeks have been more difficult than they were promised. But it’s easy to sneak into bed with him when she wakes in brutally cold sweats from plagued sleep. Or to lay with him as his rarer growing phantom pains burn at his limbs.
What tears she’d been letting down have frozen over her cheeks, burning her freckles. Her fingers are stiff, reddened, and her nose has been seeping from the frigidness. She shivers without control even in her layered clothing as she makes it to the metal.
A fingerprint scan is done at the gate, meager security that opens it with the sound of careening steel and iron. And behind her, she hears the crunch of boots, turning her away from the intricate design. Arriving was Lyme, another former tribute like Clove.
Tall, blonde, middle-aged woman who is still rather muscular. A memorable, angular face from a more forgettable year of the Games. The fifty-sixth where the area was all marsh wetlands, tall grass all that kept someone hidden. Tributes perished quickly from the lack of places to camp without being spotted. And Lyme killed half the competitors within the span of a week.
She’s a likable victor for the country, charming and collected in a way but not full of herself. Her voice is sophisticated, well-spoken, and reasonable anytime she speaks. Such as now, retuning from wherever she’s been.
“Welcome home, Clove.”
At that, Clove scoffs. “You’re two months late.”
“I never got the chance to give my congratulations.”
Lyme steps to her, unintentionally towering over with her hands in the pockets of her grey winter coat. The lines on her face say she’s frowned more than she’s smiled, despite what footage of her shows. Known for her talents with a mace, she carries around heaviness easily.
There isn’t a comment on Clove’s tears or the knife still in her palm. The woman is unphased by it, not a speck of judgment to be found. Unbothered by the raising of it as she clicks the switch to retract the blade, slipping it into her pocket.
“I don’t need them anymore, but thanks.” Clove steps onto the pathway, more concrete that leads to all the long rows of houses on each side.
“Are you going to the Victor get-together this evening?” Lyme follows. “Didn’t see you there last time, unlike Cato.”
“He’s a little social bird, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Fit right in.”
Clove strolls along. “I told him I’d go.”
“Good. Our fellow victors have been wanting to truly meet you.”
That’s only being said because she’s shaken hands with practically them all at the various celebrations, including a victors banquet that District 2 holds for all its success stories. Clove only really talked with a few, many other people taking up her time like Mayor Gaius. Speeches and dances also kept her away from true conversation. Nothing with just the victors themselves. With the tour starting tomorrow, the constant mingling will only get worse. She already misses the days it was easier to hide away from the world.
“When most people get to know me, they regret it.”
“Doesn’t stop you from being the talk of the town.”
“Until the next victor rolls in.”
“Not enjoying your glory?”
Clove stops her movements, irked at such a question. “I’m happy with my winnings. I’m just stating the obvious truth.”
“The truth isn’t always what you should say.” Lyme goes forward, a set of keys in her hand. “It’d be prudent to remember that for the tour.”
Yes, the Victory Tour, where she will be propped up in each district to keep the Games fresh in everyone’s mind. Forcing everyone to praise and extol the person who killed one of their own. Rubbing it in, directly to the faces of the parents who lost their children. District 2 views it as yet another honor, a reminder that they remain stronger and worthy. Clove used to be excited at the idea, all the attention. Now, it’s just more pressure she did not expect to have after winning. There’s no honor she’s finding. Or fun.
“I’ll try.” Clove says.
A nod is all Lyme gives, entering her home with nothing else. Anything left over that she has to say, she’ll surely speak it later. Likely things already known as common sense.
Towards the end of the street, Clove reaches her mansion with its immaculate, sleek brickwork and block shaped perimeter that matches every other house plan in the village. In comparison to the ones in the Capitol, it’s a speck of dust. But simultaneously, so much larger than where she lived before; a scant, dirty house with a crumbling roof.
A dark, fancy car is parked in the driveway, snow forming on its black paint. It’s impossible to tell if anyone is in it, the windows darkened. Also strange to see such a car when most vehicles are that of Peacekeeper trucks or public transportation. Some victors have one but most don’t even know how to drive, including her. The roads here weren’t made for personally owned ones, a permit for such was virtually impossible. Government officials have their own paid for by taxes but they never drive themselves, always having a chauffeur.
At her front door, the handle turns on its own before she can even reach it. Cato is there in the frame with his stocky build and blue eyes, face paled by something. Different than when he's in pain which is the usual cause of such pallidness. This was worrisome, like he’d been witness to another horror outside of the arena where they are supposed to be safe.
And his birthday was only four days ago, he should still be riding high from all the presents from victors, family, and fans alike. They ate a big roast at a party in a town hall down in Ashlar, danced until she could barely walk in her heels, then went home where they shared his bed again. He deserved all the attention and she can expect the same treatment for her own birthday late next month. Surely, she’s undeserving of it.
Carefully, he pulled her into their kitchen, her shoes trailing the snow that had begun to stick and bringing water onto the laminated floor. She spots a group of well-dressed men in the living room, ones she’s never seen anywhere. Government officials? They certainly look it. Yet they are too stylish to be the ones from here with their clean-cut hair and suits, completely off.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Cato says, putting his hands on her in the way he does when he wants to protect her. Or feel protected. Firm but not rough, and anywhere on her body, but here just her waist.
“What’s going on?”
He takes her bag, setting it on the wooden table. “We have visitors.”
“I can see that.”
Cato shakes his head, all his smugness and usual bravado drained. “This is serious.” A warning blaring to her with no damage done in her ears.
“Is it just more instructions for the tour?” Wishful thinking on her part.
There’s been plenty they’ve already been given. Itineraries and schedules printed on fancy papers, hand delivered as well. All kinds of protocols of which will be observed and respected in each district. Things that have tired her out.
He shakes his head. "You could say that.”
“What are they here for?”
Cato wants to tell her she gathers by his face. His voice is hushed as he starts only to be cut off by one of those men stepping in to order and usher her into the hallway of her own home. It makes her heart drop into her stomach and churned with anxiety.
Despite the cordial air, Clove feels like a criminal, being taken to the gallows where she’ll hang for some petty crime. A gun isn’t pointed at her back, loaded and the barrel close to her spine. She’s just obeying orders. Makes her qaulmish and sweat at her forehead all the same.
Or she is a hostage all of a sudden, being held captive in walls supposed to keep her safe. Where it was her space to be secure, free of harm. That was the deal; the trade for her part in the Games. Especially as a volunteer.
She’s brought to the study, a room with shelves meant for books but instead full of the gifts and trinkets given to her, even her golden crown. The smell of roses hit her, strong like when she was surrounded by them during her last interview. Underneath it is a rustic scent, familiar but conflicting. Blood?
At the desk, a white haired man stands with his back to her. A vaguely antiquated figure, one she fully recognizes when he turns around. Her heart rises back up and into her throat with the taste of stomach acid.
President Snow stands before her.