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A blanket of stars covers the sky, glimmering and dancing, unfailing in their joy. The moon stands near, watching, shining a guiding light across the land. Clouds of space dust hang in the sky, illuminated by the galaxy that shines through. It’s a stunning sight, one would think. And it is. Yet it seems all too inappropriate, for such a beautiful sight to be forced to behold the carnage and bloodshed that spreads across the clearing.
The night is still, silent but for distant hoots, and the harsh breathing of a boy, staring up at the sky, red staining his clothes. There is no one else. He knows this. And as the sky is disrupted by bright lights, as the chopping of a hovercar draws closer, as the cheering of uncaring crowds fill the clearing, he realises what this means.
Wings made of glittering fabric, now torn and dirty hang at his back, flutter feebly in the wind as the hovercar comes down, and he is ushered inside. The sky disappears, and along with it, his mind.
He wakes to a sterile ceiling. His wings, draped over the chair, were flawless. Unable to bear the sight of the wings he had once loved so much, he turned away, biting back tears. He thought back to only a few days ago, when those wings had been the only good thing in his life, the only solace in his miserable existence.
Now, they are a stark reminder of what he's done.
----
They make him wear the wings.
Of course they do, its what he was known for in the arena. Swooping down out of nowhere, leaping off cliffs without fear. The flash of grey, the purple ripple seen through the trees, struck fear into the heart of the tributes, and joy into that of the Capitol citizens.
Now as he stands on the stage of District 1, the first stop on a long journey, the wings no longer make him feel free. Now, the wings are a dead weight on his shoulders, as stark reminder of what he lost.
In District 2, they push him down, his shoulders curling inwards, forcing him to bow his head.
District 3 look him in the eyes, and he knows his wings could never compare to what they could make.
The salt breeze of District 4 makes them flutter, flying out behind him as the sea wind whips through the crowd.
The dam echoes behind him in District 5, and he wonders what they would think if he jumped off, flew once more. Would they even care?
The blank faces of District 6 avoid his eyes, the crowd focussing just behind him. They make him feels so small.
He watches the birds flying in District 7, wishing desperately to be them, desperate for more.
The factories spew smoke in District 8, it clings to his wings, and they become heavier each second. But that might just be his imagination.
He stutters over his words in District 10, wings shuddering with each word.
He sees the fire in the eyes of those in District 11, and remembers the moment his fire went out.
The soot covered faces of District 12 hold a mixed message, one of hatred, pity, jealousy and resignment. He can't help but flinch.
District 9 is the hardest.
When he looks out into the crowd he finds his parents, eyes tearing up when they catch his. He finds his friends, stoic among the crowd. He sees them trembling however, sees the shudders they are trying so hard to supress.
As soon as they let him go, he runs, wings still fluttering behind him. The arms of his parents envelop him, and for the first time in weeks he feels tears run down his face. His eyes flutter closed as he sobs into his parents arms, mourning with them. When he opens them again, he sees Will and their friends, he can't help but smile. Despite everything, he's still here, he can still spend these final moments with them. His parents finally let go. His friends crowd round him and as they do, he becomes hyper-aware of the wings decorating his back.
Will touches them, and the moment he does, both flinch. The wings are a harsh reminder of why they lost him. Why three children don't get to return home. He remembers watching over them in the training hall, holding them close to him that first night. Their families are nearby, still wanting to welcome home someone.
When he first steps foot in his house, he nearly starts crying again. The warm atmosphere, the gentle scent of his mum's bread wafting though the house. He goes up to his room, Will trailing behind him, and stops in his tracks. It's as clean as the day he left it, organised and free of mess, except for a bag of clothes packed neatly and set on his bed, and an old book set next to a jar.
On closer inspection, he realises the book is his mothers cookbook, filled with notes from her and her parents and their parents. He's always seen it in his mums hands, on the side in the kitchen, pages brown with age and ripped at the edges. Now she's telling him to take it with him to the Capitol.
His shock only grew at the contents of the jar. A vinegary smell seeps out as he stares at the pinky-grey substance. He smiled weakly. Of course his mother would make sure he would never be without her sourdough. A jar of her sourdough starter, older than the games themselves. It was an act of silent rebellion, even if the Capitol took her son from her, they would not take her son from his past.
He had no time to dwell on thoughts about the gifts. Knowing his time was almost up, he gathered his most prized possessions, adding them to the bag of clothes, gently setting the book and tucking the jar into his pocket, before closing it and turning to leave. He paused in the doorway, Will waiting for him, not wanting to miss out on a second with him. A single tear rolls down his cheek before he leaves for the final time, the room in the little cottage by the fields left open and waiting for a child who would never come home.
Its in his final moments, at the train station before he leaves, that Will makes a promise. He stands in front of him, Alex, George and James behind him, silently supporting him, and declares that one day, he'd be so big on YouTube, and on Twitch, that the Capitol would have no choice but to let him go to Twitchcon. That one day he would find him again, on a different stage, in a different world.
And as the doors closed on the train, taking him away from the only home he'd ever known, he knew that one day, his family would see him again; he smiled, hand tightening on the jar hidden deep in his pocket.
----
The train ride back to the capital is filled with stony silence, the peacekeepers stationed by the doors unmoving, as if they were living statues. His mentor makes no effort to talk to him, knowing nothing could comfort him in this time, and if he tried, he might break the boy that sat, so still, so fragile in the plush seat, hand stuffed in his pocket. The train flew through the fields, districts passing in the hours it took to get the Capitol.
The sun was setting when the train pulled into the station at the Capitol, a parade of peacekeepers lined up to welcome him. Not the nicest welcome, he thought. As they drew closer to him, he amended his statement. Not a welcome, an escort. A parade of pure white uniforms leading a boy with blood-stained wings to his glorified prison. The door swang shut behind him, slamming with an echoing click. To him, it sounded all to much like the click of a lock, the key turning to keep him in the gilded cage.
The lift shudders as it rises, up and up for what seems an eternity. Finally, the doors pry open, and he steps out, into the wide atrium. He hears the doors close behind him, and as the gears of the lift begin to whir, he knows he is alone.
The room is wide, and white, with a single window which the evening light filters through. Silence permeates the air and he, for the first time, truly feels the hopelessness contained within these walls. It takes him a few minutes before he moves, and as he wanders further in the floor, he notices how sterile it feels. There's no life, no story to these rooms, and it makes him feel, small. Growing up he had always been told the history of his home, the generations of people who had lived within its walls, its story dating back to long before the Hunger Games, long before Panem was even founded. To him the stark contrast of his home, so full of warmth and joy, to the Tower, whose story was built of the suffering of children, was immense and overwhelming. It was only when he wandered into a lounge area, which he supposed was a common room, that the feeling started to subside. It was no longer the harsh winter winds, buffeting at his defences, catching on his wings and sending him of course, it was an autumn breeze, cold and persistent, but quiet and able to be ignored if one had the will.
If one had the will.
He did not.
He could feel the breeze whipping round his head, stirring up the wings still attached to his back. Leaving the common room, and claiming the newest room as his own, he wrested the wings off, throwing them across the room with all his might.
With the weight lifted from his back, he began to float away. Vaguely aware of the too-soft mattress and sheets beneath him, he let himself slip quietly into blissful darkness, praying for a dreamless night.
----
He doesn't remember what happened that night. He woke, cold sweat coating his skin, to a forceful knock on his door. Trying to calm his racing heart, any memory of any terrors that plagued his sleep chased away by the clamouring outside his door. By the time he's able to drag himself out of bed, the door slams open to reveal his stylist, who bustles into the room followed by what seems to be an army of assistants, carrying boxes upon boxes containing solstices know what. Ushered into a side room, the crowd of assistants descend on him like a flock of vultures on a carrion. He begins to lose himself in the tugging and brushing of the hands surrounding him, mind floating away as his stylist blabbers on about something he doesn't catch. For once his body feels light and free, like its floating on a gentle breeze. He basks in it, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness, freedom from his physical cage. In the edge of his mind he is vaguely aware of cloth being draped over him, of delicate folds being pinned into place. He feels something brush across his face and his eyes flutter open, bright light burning pinpricks into his eyes, creating colourful clouds when he closes them again.
Its not until a weight drapes over his shoulders that he's brought back to his body, the sudden gravity feeling all to much like his waking probably not even two hours earlier. He is brought back the moment he first donned the wings, the panic he'd felt when not even minutes later he found himself in freefall, heart dropping in his chest as he watched the clouds get further and further away. He knows that moment, the mere seconds of falling before his wings flew out to catch him would haunt him forever, the fear that they wouldn’t open, that they were merely dead weights, useless. It seems the kind of cruel trick the Capitol would play. Give a child a pair of wings and watch gleefully as he throws himself to his doom, laugh at the fear on his face and cheer as a cannon fires in the distance.
Its that feeling that follows him as he's pushed though the corridors the atrium, coming face to face with the lift once more. The doors pull open with a chime and he steps in, heart beating at 100 miles an hour, realisation dawning on him that he would have to come face to face with all the previous victors, not just his mentor. The lift shudders downwards, his heart and spirits dropping with it, but as it creaks open of the other side, he plasters a smile on his face, straightens his shoulders, ignoring the way the fabric rustles as he does so, and steps out as he is led to the ballroom.
The ballroom is large, high ceilings and vast white walls adorned with gilded edges and green fabric spilling down from the ceilings. It's an ostentatious display, all silver, gold and finely crafted, decorated with jewels the like of which he's never seen before. Everyone's wearing silk and sheer, translucent fabric that seem wasteful and alien to him. He feels the eyes bore into him, judging him, the way he walks, the way he talks, the way he holds himself.
And as he steps through the hall, he sees the previous victors waiting on stage for him. All 10 of them, from SMii7y to CaptainSparklez, standing on the stage, seemingly relaxed expressions on their faces, but he can read the grief hidden beneath their carefully crafted façades. He sits in the all too plush chair and stares up at the victors who have enchanted the Capitol for the last 10 years. He knew what they were doing in their speeches. To the Capitol it was a passing of the torch, them relinquishing their hold to the next decade; to him it was a warning, a lesson, the life of a victor is hard, and the start of the decade meant that he had no one.
The speeches pass in a blur. He sees his mentors sad smile, and the relief on CaptainSparklez face when his speech was over. It's his turn now. He has to stand in front of the whole of Panem and lie about how excited he was for the years to come. It's a daunting prospect. And so he comes to stand, legs shaking imperceptibly, wings fluttering slightly with the shake of his shoulders. The stairs to the stage seem both too long and not long enough, and soon enough he finds himself on stage, staring down at the crowd assembled.
He thinks back to mere weeks ago, when he was at home, safe, without fear. He remembers the day he was chosen, the scream that was ripped from his mums mouth. He remembers when he stepped into the arena, knowing any minute could be his last. He remembers when he found his wings, the fear and freefall, the enchanting freedom it gave him. He remembers the last minutes of the games, the pure adrenaline that overcame him. He remembers the victory tour, all the bitter faces and mourning families. He remembers his last minutes at home, the jar of starter still safely in his pocket on his floor, the recipe book tucked away. He remembers the advice his mentor gave him, the knowledge passed down from victor to victor. How to survive this unforgiving existence. Most will say his fight for survival has passed but he knows it's only just begun.
The announcer's voice rings out across the stage.
"And now, please welcome your victor for the second quarter quell, the victor of the 50th Hunger Games, Philza!"