The poem of little wolves.

by Cassentia

Summary:

"I wanna die fighting. I wanna die knowing there was nothing else I could've done to survive."

Telemachus Laertiades. District 7s male tribute for the 74th hunger games.
Son of the infamous Odysseus.

Against Telemachus is 23 other tributes. All wanting the same thing, to make it out alive.

But only one can win.

or

a hunger games au

Chapter 1: Reaping day

Telemachus’ hand falls out of his mothers grip. She squeezed it tight, before letting go at the last possible moment, Telemachus being brought away from her in the flurry of the crowd.

 

He lets the current take him, moving with it rather than against it, stepping between shoulders, ducking beneath an elbow as the peacekeepers bark orders. The square is already packed, the stage looking at the front, its wooden panels freshly scrubbed but still dark with years of use.

 

He moves with practiced care, careful not to crease his shirt. His mother had pressed it the night before, smoothing out every wrinkle with steady hands. He wouldn't ruin her work. Besides, later tonight after the Reaping, his father will take them out— just as he always does. They’ll dine at the nicest restaurant in town, share what will be their last meal together for the next few months, and then his parents will go dancing while Telemachus has the house to himself.

 

And then, of course, morning will come. His father will leave with the chosen tributes, and by the time he returns, there will be that same distant look in his eyes accompanied by two new caskets.

 

As people find their spots with their age group, the square dies down. Most of the sound comes from the peacekeepers yelling at the little 12 and 13 year olds where to go, they’re still getting used to lining up to be reaped. He doesn’t think they’re actually confused, they’re scared. He remembers the feeling.

 

Telemachus finds his designated section with ease, sliding into place among the other 15 year old boys. The murmurs around him are low, subdued— no one wants to speak too loudly, as if their words might summon fate’s attention. He exhales through his nose, gaze flickering over the other boys. Some stand stiff as cut trees, others fidget, their fingers tapping silent rhythms against their thighs. A few try to look bored, unaffected, but the tension is thick enough to choke on.

 

The anthem plays, sweeping over the silent square, and Telemachus lifts his chin, keeping his expression smooth. He has done this before, will do it again next year, and the year after that, and after that. Then he and the rest of his family will be free and safe, until his cousins start having their children of course. But for now it is just another Reaping Day.

 

Telemachus keeps his shoulders square, hands clasped neatly in front of him, eyes trained ahead. The stage is set as it always is: the microphone gleaming under the sun, the glass bowls on their pedestals filled with neat slips of paper. And standing at the side of the stage, half in shadow, is one of District 7’s victors.

 

Odysseus.

 

To most, he is a symbol of survival— one of the few who made it out of the arena breathing. His name carries weight, spoken with quiet respect in the district’s mills and logging camps. The man who came home scarred but victorious. The man who returns to the Capitol every year, leading two children to their deaths. Some say he tries his best to help the two unlucky children, others say he doesn’t care what happens to them as long as he gets to return to his own.

 

But to Telemachus, he is simply his father.

 

And right now, he is searching.

 

His father’s gaze moves across the rows of children, scanning, looking for something, for someone.

 

Telemachus does not move, does not make a show of catching his attention. He simply watches, waiting.

 

And then— their eyes meet. For a second, his father’s expression does not change. Then something shifts, so subtly that no one else would notice.

 

The tightness in his jaw eases. His shoulders drop a fraction. A ghost of a smile— something barely there, something meant only for Telemachus— flickers across his face before vanishing like mist.

 

It’s the same look he gives when he returns from the Capitol and sets a wooden carving on Telemachus’ shelf without a word. The same look he had the first time he taught Telemachus how to swing an axe properly, hands steady as he corrected his grip. The same look he gets every year since Telemachus turned 12.

 

And then just as quickly his face flatterns again. Back to his neutral expression.

 

His father looks away first. It is not hesitation, nor is it indifference. It is a decision, as firm and practiced as the swing of an axe. His gaze shifts past Telemachus, sweeping across the crowd as if their brief moment of recognition had never happened.

 

Inside their home, his father has steady hands and quiet care, a man who admires his wifes weaving as if it is the most gorgeous thing made, who hums old songs under his breath when he thinks no one is listening, listens to Telemachus recite poetry and sing songs even on days when all he can see is blood.

 

But out here, beneath the cameras, before the Capitol’s ever-watchful eye, Odysseus is something else entirely. A victor. A mentor. A man whose heart belongs to nothing and no one.

 

It is better this way. If the Capitol believes Odysseus has nothing to lose, then they will not take anything from him. Or at least that is what his father told him.

 

And so Telemachus does not react. He does not hold his father’s gaze, does not reach for that flickering warmth beneath the surface. He remains as he always is— another boy in the crowd, another name in the bowl, another piece in the Capitol’s game.

 

Instead he reaches up to his neck, tracing his hand over the necklace he wears.

 

The necklace is old, older than most things Telemachus owns. It was given to him when he was a small child, small enough then that his father could still lift him with ease. Small enough to not yet understand why his father leaves for so long on a train, taking two children with him and returning alone. But old enough to question.

 

The token is a gorgon’s face, carved from bone, smooth in some places, rough in others, with lines so fine they could only have been cut by the sharpest blade. The gorgon’s eyes are wide, unblinking, its mouth curled in something between a snarl and a grin. His father made it himself.

 

Telemachus remembers watching, remembers the way his father held the small piece of bone steady in one hand while carving it with the other. His fingers were sure and deft, even when the knife slipped and nicked his skin. He had laughed when Telemachus gasped, as if a cut was nothing, as if he had suffered far worse. “A little blood for the old deities,” he had said, dabbing the wound against his shirt. “It’ll make the charm stronger.”

 

His mother had not laughed when she saw the token, nor when she saw the blood on Odysseus’ hands. “Was there no wood available in the forest surrounding our district?” she had muttered, but she had taken the carving all the same, running her fingers over the gorgon’s features, inspecting every detail.

 

It was she who had woven the chain, fingers moving quickly, weaving thread upon thread until the cord was thick enough to hold. It was made from scraps of old yarn, dyed in many shades of greens and brown, earthy colors— but the few odd blues, reds and even purple threads had sneaked their way into it. Colors of home, of his district's forests.. Her hands had been warm when she tied it around his neck, securing it with a knot she claimed would never loosen.

 

“The gorgon will watch over you,” his father had told him, pulling the token so it rested against Telemachus’ heart, he was leaving on the train that day, this time he was taking no children with him but he cried just the same, still refusing to allow either members of his family to see him off, just in case. “It will turn away evil, keep you safe. Even the Capitol can’t break a thing that’s properly made.”

 

The mayor steps forward, clearing his throat before launching into the same speech as every year.

 

The words roll over Telemachus like water against stone. The history of the Dark Days. The Treaty of Treason. The price of rebellion. He listens without really hearing, his eyes steady on the stage, but his mind drifts. He knows this story too well. Knows how it ends.

 

At the mayor’s side, the escort waits with a patient smile, their powdered face stretched in something too polished to be real. When the speech finally concludes, they step forward with a flourish, the bright fabric of their outfit rippling like leaves in the wind.

 

“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for!” they chirp, voice carrying across the hushed square. The glass bowls gleam beside them, filled with neat slips of paper. So small. So fragile. “Ladies first,” the escort declares.

 

Their gloved fingers dip into the bowl, stirring the names. The crowd holds its breath. They pluck one out, unfold it with delicate precision.

 

A name rings through the air. A girl moves forward, her steps controlled, though her hands are shaking. She's eighteen, her last year at the reaping. He feels sorry for her, but the bigger part of him is glad, his cousin has escaped her final reaping. His whole family is safe. almost.

 

The girl's lips part, a cry comes out of her lips, quickly followed by the cries of her family.

 

No one volunteers. She climbs the stage. Telemachus exhales slowly through his nose.

 

The escort gives the girl a dazzling smile, one that does not belong here, not in this moment. “Wonderful,” they say, though it is not. “And now, for the gentlemen.”

 

The square is silent, thick with dread.

 

But Telemachus does not feel it.

 

Around him, the boys shift on their feet, some squeezing their eyes shut, others mouthing silent prayers. He knows that many of them have their names in the bowl far more times than he does. Knows that their families cling to the hope that they will make it to eighteen untouched.

 

But Telemachus? He stands still, arms at his sides, and watches. The escort's gloved hand dips into the glass bowl, fingers brushing over the slips of paper. A hush settles over the square, stretching thin. He knows his name is in there. Knows it is written on four of those small, fragile slips.

 

But he also knows that it will not be called. His father would not allow it. His father has done everything to ensure it does not.

 

His father does not speak of the Capitol often, but Telemachus has learned to read between the lines, to listen to what is not said. Odysseus has been careful. Has played the game well. Has built the right relationships, given the right favors, worn the right mask. It is a dangerous thing, to have something to lose. But it is even more dangerous to let the Capitol see what you will do to protect it. And so his father does not beg or plead. Does not make his attachments known. He plays it quietly, subtly.

 

And because of that, Telemachus has never truly been afraid of Reaping Day. His heart does not pound. His hands do not tremble. His breath is slow and even as the escort finally pinches their fingers around a single slip of paper, drawing it up into the light. His name is in the bowl four times, and the capitol has no reason to believe having Telemachus, the son of Odysseus would make for a good game. They would not choose him.

 

The escort unfolds the slip of paper with the same theatrical flair as always, drawing out the moment, letting the silence stretch just a little too long. The tension around Telemachus is thick, suffocating. He can feel the boy beside him shivering, his breath uneven.

 

He does not shiver. He does not hold his breath. Instead, he watches, detached, as the escort tilts their head, scanning the name with that same dazzling Capitol smile.

 

And then—

 

"Telemachus Laertiades."

 

His name rings out across the square.

 

For the first time in his life, he feels the cold bite of fear. For a second, he is convinced he has misheard.

 

The sound of his name does not belong here, not in this moment, not in this place. But then he feels the eyes turning toward him, the boys around him recoiling like he carries a sickness, and he knows.

 

His name was called. His name. His father had promised.

 

Telemachus’ mouth is dry, his limbs strangely light. The escort repeats the name, beaming out over the crowd, waiting for movement. Waiting for him.

 

A strange pressure builds in his chest, but he forces it down. He cannot falter. Not here. Not in front of the cameras.

 

So he moves. One step forward. Another.

 

His body feels distant, disconnected from his mind, but he keeps walking, weaving through the rows of boys, the path parting easily for him. He does not stumble. He forces himself to exhale as he climbs the steps to the stage, feeling the weight of the district pressing against his back. Every gaze locked onto him, burning. He keeps his chin high.

 

The stage is silent— silent in the way that only shock can be. Telemachus feels the weight of a thousand eyes on him, but the only pair he searches for is his father’s.

 

And then he finds them. His father is staring at him, but not in the way he had before, not with the careful, measured control of a man who knows how to play the game. His father’s chest rises and falls too sharply. His hands, the same hands that ruffled Telemachus hair and tucked him into bed are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. The silence stretches, suffocating, brittle as ice.

 

For a man who has spent years perfecting the art of performance, Odysseus shatters too quickly. Too completely.

 

“No,” he snarls, ragged, torn from his throat like an open wound. “No, no, no, you will not take him!”

 

The crowd is silent. The cameras are rolling. The peacekeepers shift where they stand, their hands tightening around their guns, but Odysseus does not care. He is already moving.

 

"You rigged it," Odysseus spits. His hands curl into fists, and for a second it looks as if he might strike the escort, Capitol be damned. "You think I don’t know how this works? You think I don’t know what you did?" His voice cracks on the last word, breaks apart at the edges. "He was never supposed to be in there!"

 

Telemachus’ stomach twists. Because that is not true. His name was in the bowl. Four times. He knows that. He has always known that. His father knew it too. Knew it and let it happen because he believed— because Telemachus believed —that it would not matter. That it would not be drawn. But it was. Of course it was.

 

His line was unlucky. That's what everyone said. A rebel grandfather publicly hung. A father in the hunger games. And now a son following in his footsteps.

 

The Capitol has always taken what people love most. Odysseus should have known better. And now he is breaking.

 

The mayor steps forward, face drawn tight with poorly concealed horror. "Victor Laertiades—"

 

Odysseus does not hear him. Or he does and does not care. His breathing is wild, uncontrolled, his body taut as a bowstring, wound too tight and moments from snapping.

 

"Take me instead," he says. "Do you hear me?" His voice is raw now, fraying at the edges, but it is still powerful. It is still Odysseus. "You want a good show? You want blood?" He spreads his arms, wide and open, daring. "Take mine."

 

The escort recovers enough to give a strained laugh, forced and brittle. "Now, now, we all know that's not how the Games work—"

 

Odysseus lunges at them.

 

The Peacekeepers intercept. It happens too fast for Telemachus to process. One second, his father is on the stage, fury pouring from every inch of him, and the next, there is a sickening crack as a rifle slams into his stomach. Odysseus doubles over with a sharp, guttural sound that does not belong in his throat, hands flying to his middle as if he can hold in the pain.

 

Another blow strikes him across the face, hard enough to send him to his knees. The crowd is silent. Frozen. Horrified.

 

Telemachus is moving before he knows what he is doing. "Stop—!" He barely gets the word out before he, too, is grabbed, hands locking around his arms in a vice grip, keeping him in place.

 

Odysseus is on the ground.

 

His father is on the ground. The man who spent years bending the world to his will, who walked away from the arena unbroken, unbent—he is on the ground. Blood is dripping from his mouth, staining his teeth red, but his eyes are still blazing. Still furious. Still desperate. He tries to rise. A Peacekeeper kicks him down.

 

"Stop!" Telemachus fights against the hands holding him, but the grip is iron-clad. He thrashes, but it is useless. "Leave him alone!"

 

"Take me," Odysseus gasps, hands braced against the stage. His voice is weaker now, but the fight is still in him, trembling, barely held together by force of will alone. "Take me, you fucking cowards!" The escort smooths down their coat, regaining their composure with a small, thin-lipped smile.

 

"As touching as this display is," they say, voice clipped, "it is against the rules."

 

"Fuck your rules!" Odysseus roars, but it comes out choked. His face is crumpling, wild and raw and devastated. "Please," he breathes, and it is the please that cuts the deepest. The Capitol has taken everything from him before, and now it is taking this. Now it is taking him. "Please, not my son."

 

The word ‘please’ is not something Telemachus has ever heard from his father before. Not like this. Not torn from him like something vital, something raw and bloody. It is worse than the blows. Worse than the blood. Worse than anything the Capitol could do to them both. Its awful watching his father sob and beg on the floor. This is what the Capitol wants. They want to see his father break. They want to remind him that no matter how well he plays their game, they will always win.

 

The escort coughs, straightening with a shaky, performative laugh. Their voice wobbles, but they recover, smoothing a hand over their ruffled clothes. “Well,” they say, breathless but forcing brightness, “that was unexpected!” They brush at their sleeves, glance at the cameras, then at the mayor, who is pale as a sheet. “How dramatic our victors can be!”

 

Telemachus does not move. His father is still reaching for him. Still looking at him like he is a boy who needs to be saved. But it is too late. The Capitol has spoken. His name has been called. There is no undoing it.

 

The escort takes his wrist, their grip is cold.

 

The escort lifts Telemachus’ wrist high, his arm stiff in their grip. Beside him, the girl— his district partner, his fellow tribute, his fellow body— stands frozen.

 

The escort's grip is firm as they turn to their audience, flashing a carefully practiced smile, ignoring the raw, unfiltered agony hanging thick in the air, ignoring his father who is still screaming and crying despite the peacekeepers attempts to shut him up. "District Seven, your tributes for the 74th hunger games!"

Notes:

WOAH
OKAY
FINALLY OUT!
YIPPEEE
This fic is sososo important to me and i'm so glad its out. I have the next 3 chapters pre written that i'll most likely release weekly as future chapters are written. I have plans for the major points but some of the inbetween moments still need less vague planning :>

Thank you to the wonderful, beautiful, incredible @Purplely (Ao3)/ @sporadicallyanenthusiast on tumblr for reading over this chapter and the next 2! As well as for dealing with my excited yapping about this fic and random extra content that is not relevant in the slightest. Love you <33

My tumblr is @Cassentia if you would like to follow me for update on this fic/other fics or if you just wanna say hi :> i'm very friendly, i do bite but only in an affectionate and loving way

Chapter 2: Train to the capitol

Notes:

Now, you may be seeing this and going 'cassie cassie cassie. Wasn't this uploaded yesterday?'
To that i say, yes. BUT my internet kept glitching out and wouldn't let me do italics and centre text as well as just being annoying. So i took it down and decided to upload it today instead :>

“Oh Telemachus.” his mother cries as she enters the room. Her voice is soft, breaking, and for a moment, Telemachus feels like a child again— small and helpless, coming into her room crying after waking from some half-forgotten nightmare. But there is no waking from this. No arms to shield him from the horror ahead.

 

She moves quickly, closing the distance between them. Her hands— warm, trembling —cup his face, as if trying to memorize him. As if trying to hold him here, in this moment, before the Capitol can take him away. “My heart.” The words shudder out of her, thick with grief. “My sweet boy.”

 

“I’m not dead yet.” he chokes out as she brings his head to her chest, holding him close.

 

She shushes him gently, running her fingers through his hair like she did when he was little, when the world was smaller, kinder—before he knew what it meant to belong to the Capitol.

 

“Hush, now,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “Don’t say that.”

 

But what else is there to say? He is already dead to them. The moment his name left the escort’s lips, he was marked. They all know it. Even now, there is a part of him that wonders if she is holding onto a ghost, if he is already slipping away.

 

“You are strong,” she whispers, voice shaking. “Stronger than you know.”

 

Telemachus cannot bring himself to answer. Because shes wrong. Telemachus is scrawny and tiny, even in District 7 where most are malnourished, their bones still tell the story of someone who could be strong. Telemachus is well fed and still looks quite pathetic.

 

He wasn’t forced to work in the fields all day chopping down wood for miniscule pay. Instead he would spend his free time playing in the forest near victors village, climbing trees and trying not to spook the animals nearby.

 

The door creaks open again, and he does not need to turn to know who it is. Heavy footsteps. The scent of pine and steel.

 

His father.

 

His mother tenses, but she does not step away. Instead, she lifts her head, just enough to look at her husband. He stands at the threshold, his face shadowed, unreadable. But his hands are clenched at his sides, and when his gaze meets Telemachus’, it is raw. There is no mask now. No performance for the Capitol’s cameras. Only grief. Only rage. Only a father who has spent years outplaying the Capitol, only to realize— too late— that he has lost the only game that ever mattered.

 

“I should have stopped it,” Odysseus says, voice low, rough. “I should have—”

 

His mother turns to him, eyes flashing. “Don’t.”

 

He has been cleaned up since the stage, the blood wiped away, but Telemachus can still see where it dried at the corner of his mouth, where the skin at his cheekbone is already bruising.

 

“Don’t do this,” she whispers, as if the words alone could stop him from unraveling. “Not now.”

 

“I should have seen it coming,” he grits out. His voice is shaking now, cracking apart at the edges. “I should have done more.”

 

His mothers expression is one of anger with something like desperation. “And what would you have done, Odysseus?” she demands, her voice rising. “Tell me. What would you have done?”

 

“Please don’t fight.” Telemachus croaks out, “Not now.”

 

The last time he sees his mother does not want to be her angry at his father. He wants to remember his mother by how much she loved him. Besides, he always feels guilty when they fight, they have never truly fought about anything unless it regards him.

 

His mother exhales sharply, as if trying to steady herself. Her grip tightens on Telemachus, fingers pressing into his arms, grounding herself as much as him.

 

“You will win and you will come back to me.” She said,

 

“Mum,” he starts, but she shakes her head.

 

“No.” Her voice cracks. “You will come back.”

 

He doesn’t answer. Because what is he supposed to say? That he won’t? That she will likely never see him again, except on a screen— bloodied and broken, just another dead tribute the Capitol will parade before her?

 

I’ll try,” Telemachus says at last.

 

His mother makes a wounded sound, pulling him against her once more, burying her face in his shoulder. “You won’t just try,” she whispers. “You will survive. You have to. I still need you.”

 

The door creaks open again. A Peacekeeper steps inside, eyes cold and distant beneath the polished white helmet.

 

“Time’s up.”

 

A sob catches in his mother’s throat.

 

His mother moves before the Peacekeeper can step closer, her hands reaching for him, cupping his face with a desperation that shakes through her entire body. “Don’t let them take your soul,” she whispers, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, as if she can press the words into his skin, into his bones, make them a part of him. “Don’t let them take my heart.”

 

Telemachus’ breath shudders out of him. His chest is so tight it feels like he might break apart, like the weight of this moment is too much for him to bear. He doesn’t know how to do what she’s asking. How can he hold on to himself in a place meant to strip him down to nothing? How can he stay whole when the Hunger Games exists to shatter him?

 

He has watched his father fall apart and his mother be forced to put him back together. Him crying and sobbing in the middle of the night because faces of death still haunt him. How can he escape these games when even his father is affected? How is he meant to keep the games out of his soul if it becomes so deeply entrenched and attached that he can’t even tell where he starts and the games end.

 

Those are the last words his mother says to him before the Peacekeeper grabs her arm and pulls her away. She stumbles back, but she doesn’t fight. She only stares at him, her lips parted, her face frozen in anguish, as if she wants to say something else but doesn’t know how.

 

Then the door slams shut behind her. For a long moment, there is silence.

 

Telemachus stares at the door, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He feels like he has just lost something vital, something he will never get back. His mother is gone. His home is gone. And now, he belongs to the Capitol.

 

When he turns, Odysseus is still there. The Peacekeeper lingers in the corner, but says nothing. Telemachus realizes, distantly, that his father will be allowed to stay a little longer. Because, out of everyone, Odysseus is the only one who will be with him until the end. His mentor, his lifeline in the arena.

 

His father’s face is unreadable again. He looks older than he did this morning. Like something inside him has caved in.

 

Telemachus swallows hard. “How do I survive?”

 

Odysseus exhales sharply, as if the question alone hurts him. He steps forward, gripping Telemachus by the shoulders. Not gently, but not roughly either. Just enough to hold him there, to make him listen. "You listen to me now," Odysseus says, his voice low, urgent. “You don’t trust anyone. You don’t hesitate. You don’t let them see you weak.” His fingers tighten, his gaze burning into Telemachus’. “You are my son. Thats already an advantage. And you are clever, so clever. You can outthink them. You will outthink them.” Telemachus shudders, nodding. "You make them love you," Odysseus continues, his voice turning sharp. "Sponsors are everything. If they see you as a scared little boy, they will let you die. But if they see you as something else— something they can root for—then you have a chance."

 

A chance. Not a guarantee. Not safe. Just a chance.

 

"And in the arena?" Telemachus asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do I stay alive?"

 

Odysseus lets out a slow breath, his expression dark. “We’ll figure that our once you guarantee sponsors.”

 

— — — — — — — —

 

Nausicaa Phaeacian. The female tribute from district seven picked to fight in the hunger games. The daughter of a carpenter. Although she's been working at the paper mill alongside Telemachus’ cousin.

 

He felt bad for her, at 18 years old in a few months she was to age out of the reaping. Except now there was a high chance she would never age again.

 

Telemachus doesn’t know her well. He’s seen her around the district, heard her name in passing from his cousin, but they’ve never spoken much. She was always older, nothing but a random face he would see when he would accompany his mother to buy some furniture or he would cross in the hallways at school. Now, she is the only person in the world who is currently going through the same thing as him.

 

The thought unsettles him. That of all the people in District 7, she is the one bound to him now—not by choice, not by friendship, but by sheer, merciless fate.

 

“Aeolus.” His father sighed, head in hand against the dining table between them, “If you don’t shut up, I will take my knife and shove it so far up your-” he started. He paused, sheepish when he glanced at his son, immediately lowering the knife in his hand to send a small smile to his son.

 

“Oh.” Aeolus, the district 7 escort sounded, wearing a massive cloud-like outfit, white fluff emerging from just under their neck like a weird looking necklace. For the past few minutes as the food was slowly put on the table, Aeolus had been humming and singing some upbeat tune over and over again.

 

The threat would be far scarier if his father wasn’t holding a butter knife.

 

Aeolus blinked. Then, they laughed. A light, airy sound, completely unaffected, drawing his fathers attention away from him and back to them. "Oh, Odysseus, I do love your sense of humor."

 

Odysseus did not laugh.

 

Telemachus wasn’t sure he had ever seen his father look so thoroughly done with another human being. He sat hunched forward, elbow braced on the table, rubbing slow circles against his temple with his free hand.

 

Aeolus, either oblivious or purposefully ignorant, continued on. "Now, now, let’s not be completely miserable, shall we?" They gestured around the lavish dining car, where golden platters and crystal goblets gleamed beneath soft candlelight. "We have a fine meal before us, and you two—" they turned to Telemachus and Nausicaa with an expectant glimmer in their eyes, "should eat. You’ll need your strength."

 

Telemachus' stomach twisted. The food smelled rich, overwhelming, but the thought of swallowing anything made his throat close up.

 

He swallowed against the nausea creeping up his throat. He could feel Nausicaa beside him, stiff and silent, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn’t touched her plate either.

 

Aeolus sighed theatrically. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to be those kinds of tributes— the antisocial, boring type? It’s dreadfully dull.” They waved a hand, rings glinting in the candlelight. “We must have some spirit! Some conversation!”

 

Odysseus let out a long, slow breath through his nose, like he was summoning every last shred of patience he had left. “What do you want them to talk about? The best way to gut a man?”

 

Aeolus clapped their hands together, delighted. “Yes! Now that is the sort of enthusiasm we need! Strategy! Planning! That’s the mindset of a victor.” They leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “You know, I heard District Two’s tributes this year are particularly vicious. Strong, trained since they could walk! Telemachus, right?” They said actually addressing him, “One of the district 2 victors is a victor's son, just like you! What I would give to watch you two fight in the are-”

 

Odysseus pushed his chair back suddenly. The legs scraped against the floor, sharp and grating. “I need a drink.” He announced, cutting of Aeolus. “Tele, try and eat something, please.” He said, lowering his voice, and raking his fingers through Telemachus' hair as he walked past, leaving the train.

 

Aeolus huffed, setting their goblet down with an indignant clink. “Honestly, what is his problem?” They stood in a dramatic swirl of fabric, rolling their eyes. “The man has the temperament of a wounded bear.”

 

Neither Telemachus nor Nausicaa responded.

 

Aeolus sighed, pressing a hand to their forehead like they were suffering the greatest burden known to humankind. “Well, someone has to keep him from drinking himself into an early grave. Excuse me, dears.” They spun on their heels and swept out of the dining car, the door hissing shut behind them.

 

Silence settled between Telemachus and Nausicaa. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the train against the tracks filled the empty space between them, the gentle clinking of glass and silverware as the train staff moved about the car, clearing plates no one had touched.

 

Then, Nausicaa exhaled, a long, slow breath. Then, without looking at him, she spoke.

 

"Do I even have a chance?"

 

Telemachus turned his head toward her. She was still staring at the untouched plate before her, jaw tight, fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric of her dress.

 

It was the first words she had spoken to him since they got reaped. It may even be the first words she’s said to him ever.

 

​​Telemachus frowned, glancing at her. “What?”

 

Nausicaa’s fingers curled against the linen of the tablecloth. “Your father,” she said flatly. “Is he going to help me? Or am I just here to die while he throws everything he has at making sure you survive?”

 

Telemachus swallowed. His mouth was dry. “I don’t know.”

 

He stared down at the glistening food before him, the golden crusts and glistening meats, the bowls of fruits so vibrant and full that they seemed unreal. It was a mockery of everything they had back home, where hunger gnawed at families like a relentless beast. Even for Telemachus, when food was more common and regular than it was for most in the district, there were still days he went hungry and was forced to venture into the forest at the edge of victor's village to look for any plants he and his mother could shove into their mouth.

 

And now, here they were, fed like livestock before the slaughter.

 

Nausicaa pushed her plate away and leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. "You know," she murmured, "I used to dream about leaving District 7. Getting on a train and never looking back. This isn’t quite what I had in mind."

 

"No, I suppose not."

 

She finally turned to look at him, eyes sharp and assessing. "Do you think you can win?"

 

“I don’t know.”

 

That ended the conversation. Nausicaa pushing herself away just as Odysseus and Aeolus both had, making her way to her own carriage.

 

Telemachus was alone in the dining carriage.

 

— — — — — — — —

 

Telemachus' was full, the rich food of the capitol sitting like a stone in his stomach. He does not know how the capital people eat it on a daily basis. He almost missed the rough coarse loaves back home.

 

His fingers traced slow patterns against the glass, leaving behind faint smudges. He had moved to the couch as soon as he had finished all he could stomach of the meal. He had barely even made a dent in the meal.

 

Outside, the trees blurred into streaks of green and brown, a smear of forest that looked less like home with each passing mile. The sun had climbed higher since they boarded, casting long, shifting shadows across the floor of the train car. Telemachus leaned his forehead against the glass. It was cool, grounding.

 

They had left District 7 hours ago, but the landscape around them still consisted of trees. Every now and then, the forest would break— revealing stretches of open land, distant farmhouses, or the looming steel skeletons of old power stations long since abandoned.

 

But always, the trees returned, relentless and familiar in a way that made his chest tighten. It was strange. He’d spent most of his life resenting the trees. They were labor, danger, splinters under his fingernails and the ache in his back after a long day. But now, watching them vanish behind the train, he felt something like longing. Not for the work— but for the known. For something solid, rooted.

 

The Capitol was a myth, a story told in whispers and warnings. A place where everything gleamed and sparkled and devoured. He had imagined it as a world entirely separate from theirs—loud, colorful, impossible. And now he was hurtling toward it, unable to stop.

 

The forest eventually fell away entirely as the train was swallowed by a mountain. The window darkened until it reflected only himself—pale against the cushion, eyes rimmed with fatigue, lips pressed tight. Behind him, the compartment was lit by soft, steady ceiling lights, but the world beyond the glass was gone.

 

He remembers being a child, sitting in class as the teacher explained the tunnel into the capitol. How the tunnel and mountain had assisted the capitol in winning the war. How the tunnel was the only safe passage through the mountain range. How the Capitol had become untouchable.

 

The light returned all at once. Not gradually, not gently but like a curtain had been yanked open. Telemachus flinched, blinking fast as the darkness of the tunnel gave way to color, motion, noise.

 

Buildings loomed on either side of the tracks, each one taller than the last, a chaotic patchwork of glass and steel and impossible architecture. Some spiraled upward like coiled ribbon; others curved with no visible support, glittering under the late afternoon sun. Colors he didn’t know the names for bled across screens and signs. People in gowns the size of tents and suits made of mirrors drifted down the platforms, accompanied by dogs with dyed fur and children with glowing tattoos.

 

The sky looked different here. Too big. Too blue.

 

Telemachus stared. Everything about it looked off. Like someone had taken the world he knew and stretched it, twisted it, painted over it in lacquer and glitter.

 

A fountain erupted at the center of the plaza, sending arcs of water a dozen feet into the air. The water wasn’t clear, but gold. Not real gold, he hoped— but this was the Capitol. Who could tell?

 

A ripple passed through the crowd near the fountain— heads turned, fingers pointed upward. He followed their gaze and realized they were pointing at him, at the train windows. His stomach twisted.

 

There were so many of them. Hundreds, maybe more, clustered along the barricades that ran parallel to the tracks, dressed in silks and sequins and things that shimmered like beetle shells. Cameras hovered in the air, zooming close, blinking red.

 

He didn’t know where to look. Some of them waved. Some blew kisses. One woman with a crown of peacock feathers pressed her hand dramatically to her chest, as if overcome with emotion.

 

They were excited. Giddy. Like this was a festival. Like he was the parade. And well, he guesses later he will be.

 

Telemachus swallowed hard, pulse thudding in his ears. His fingers tightened against the window. Then, slowly, awkwardly he lifted one hand and gave a small, uncertain wave.

 

The reaction was immediate.

 

A cheer went up from the crowd, sharp and shrill and completely out of place with the heaviness in his chest. Someone tossed glitter into the air. A man with silver-painted skin leapt up and down, pointing at him like he’d spotted a celebrity.

 

Telemachus let his hand fall. The train shuddered slightly as it began to slow, he crowd began to vanish behind steel and glass as the train pulled into the station proper, the edge of the platform now blocking the people from view. Their voices dulled to a muffled roar. All the color and noise dimmed in a grey quiet.

 

And just like that, they were gone. Telemachus remained at the window for a long moment, staring at the empty pane of concrete outside.

 

A hand touched his shoulder— light, steady. Not jarring, but firm enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. Telemachus blinked and turned.

 

His father stood behind him, not in one of his moods, not brimming with strategy or quiet tension, but calm. Watchful. His eyes, so often sharp and calculating, had softened. He looked at Telemachus the way he might look at a wound. Not with pity, but with a kind of quiet acknowledgment that it would scar. “We’re here,” his father said, voice low.

 

Telemachus nodded, though he hadn’t needed to be told. The station had swallowed the train, enclosing them in a space of polished marble and humming lights. Everything smelled of ozone and artificial sweetness.

 

Telemachus looked back out the window once more, even though there was nothing to see now but concrete pillars and steel beams. His reflection stared back at him. “I didn’t think there’d be so many people,” he muttered.

 

His father gave a short breath— almost a laugh, almost not. “They always come for blood and beauty. You happen to be both right now.”

 

Telemachus grimaced. He didn’t want to be either. He rose from the couch slowly, his limbs reluctant to move.

 

“You ready?” His father asked, and it was more than a question of standing or walking.

 

Telemachus shook his head. “No.”

 

Odysseus gripped his shoulder a little tighter. “Good. Means you’re still sane.”

Notes:

Penelope my beloved.

I was between a few people for the escort. I was between Hermes, Athena and Aeolus. I decided on Aeolus becausde I decided they both fitted other roles better.

Chapter 3: Trees and Trinkets

“Oh we got a pretty one this year!” One of the girls on his prep team clapped, her bangles jangling like wind chimes in a storm. She had hair the color of tangerines and lashes so thick they cast shadows on her cheeks, like little moths fluttering every time she blinked. She had introduced herself as Erato.

 

He had been shoved into the bath before he could even say hi to his team— encouraged, if it could be called that, to strip with the same cheery insistence one might use to herd a cat into a carrier. Clothes gone, pride gone with them, he’d been dunked into a tub that smelled faintly of mint and something more artificial— like expensive lemons that had never seen a tree.

 

The water had been hot. Too hot. Like they were boiling the District off him.

 

He sat there, bare and blinking, as hands darted in with scrubbers, foaming concoctions that frothed at his collarbone and stung faintly in the scratches on his arms. He hadn't spoken, partly because he didn't know what to say, and partly because he was still a little stunned by how fast everything was happening.

 

“Look at these cuticles.” said a different one of the girls, this one was bald but wearing a massive headpiece that gave the illusion of hair. She had giggled at him when she first saw him, before introducing herself as Thalia. She was now inspecting him like he was a particularly shapely piece of fruit. She lifted his hand up to the other two girls “I haven’t seen trauma like this since the Victor from Nine with the hay bale incident.”

 

“I think it’s charming,” cooed the third, a soft-eyed woman with skin like moonlight and hands like butterflies, fluttering across his skin. Melpomene was her name, and she had fake tears in the shape of jewels embedded into her skin, as if she was always crying.. “All those little nicks and scars— it’s very real. Gritty. He looks like a true tragedy.”

 

Telemachus, still submerged to the ribs in rapidly cooling bubbles, tilted his head slightly toward the mirror across the room. The boy in it didn’t look tragic. Just... hot. And vaguely alarmed.

 

“Do you think we can keep his hair?” Melpomene murmured, circling around him like he might sprout wings if they stared hard enough. “It’s very... feral poet.”

 

“I say yes,” said Erato with a decisive nod, “but only if we do something about these ends. They’re tragic in the wrong way.”

 

“You would think Odysseus would know how to take care of him.” Thalia tuttered.

 

“He probably thought river water counted as conditioner,” Erato lamented, snipping at a split end with tiny silver scissors she seemed to have conjured from thin air.

 

“Men,” said Melpomene, with theatrical despair. “Even the legendary ones are useless when it comes to grooming.”

 

Thalia sets down a tray of various oils and masks with a clatter. “We’ll need the deep tissue treatment. And a nail soak. And something for these calluses— what is this?” She ran a finger across his palm like she was reading braille. “Axe work?”

 

Telemachus nodded, not trusting his voice. It came out anyway, hoarse and unsure. “Firewood.”

 

The prep team let out a collective, sympathetic gasp, as if he’d confessed to surviving a war. Or maybe they were gasping because it was the first time he’d spoken since they shoved him into the bath.

 

“Oh, honey.” Melpomene lamented

 

“We’ll exfoliate it out of you,” Erato promised, scooping a glittering pink scrub from a jar shaped like a swan. “Don’t worry. The Capitol forgives.”

 

“I’m not sure I do,” Thalia muttered, already massaging something pungent and slick into his arms. “These pores are a crime scene.”

 

Telemachus, who hadn’t known his pores could be accused of anything, tried to shrink into the bubbles like they might rise up and spare him. They did not. They fizzled around his ribs with indifference, smelling more and more like sugared chemicals the longer he sat in them.

 

Thalia smeared a second mask across his forearms, this one thick and green and smelling like crushed herbs “Honestly,” she said, to no one in particular, “they send these children to us like this and then expect miracles. I need hazard pay.”

 

“Don’t even get me started!” Melpomene whined, “Y’know last year, the tribute tried to bite me!”

 

Telemachus remembered the tributes from the year before. A small fierce girl from the other side of town. And a boy only a few years older. He really hopes it was the girl to try and bite.

 

Erato was now massaging glitter into his scalp. “Darling, don’t flinch. This is therapeutic-grade. It detoxifies.”

 

“It itches,” he muttered.

 

“That’s the trauma leaving your follicles,” she said brightly.

 

Melpomene, meanwhile, had taken to braiding a strand of his hair around her finger as if testing its tensile strength. “You know,” she mused, “with a little bronzer and some strategic lip tint, you could really sell the whole ‘beautiful mourning’ look. People love that.”

 

“I’m not in mourning,” Telemachus said.

 

“Oh.” Melpomene blinked at him, momentarily thrown. “Well, you will be. Statistically.”

 

That made him go still. The kind of stillness that settles into your bones and makes a home there. But no one seemed to notice, or if they did, they mistook it for grace.

 

Melpomene clapped her hands once, decisively. “Up you get. Robe time!”

 

Telemachus stood, water trailing off him in rivulets, his skin red and gleaming like a peeled fruit. Erato draped a robe over his shoulders. It was absurdly soft— something between velvet and a cloud —and dyed a Capitol shade of opulence, the color of pomegranates.

 

The fabric clung to his damp skin, rich and heavy.

 

“There we are,” Erato said, fluffing his collar. “You look beautiful ”

 

Melpomene cupped his cheek briefly, her jeweled tears glinting under the lights. “Chin up, darling. A little sorrow makes the eyes sparkle.”

 

Then they were gone in a flurry of perfume and rustling sleeves, their chatter trailing down the hall like glitter spilled in their wake. The door clicked shut behind them.

 

Silence.

 

For the first time since arriving, the room was finally silent.

 

The steam from the bath curled around him like a ghost with nowhere to go, fading slowly into nothing. Somewhere in the walls, the Capitol's endless mechanisms hummed— climate control or cameras or maybe just the sound of money breathing.

 

Telemachus looked at himself in the mirror across the room. This version of him was polished. His hair, though still messy, now had intentionality to it. Artful chaos. His skin glowed, scrubbed raw of dirt and District and dignity.

 

He looked like a boy who had barely seen labour, although the scars along his body told the truth. Small nicks from where he hit his axe, scapes from his arms climbing trees.

 

The robe shifted as he moved closer to the mirror.

 

He looked… fine.

 

He looked pretty even.

 

He looked like bait.

 

Outside, there were voices. Laughter. The sound of wheels rolling— someone bringing his stylist, no doubt, the one who would turn him into whatever myth the Capitol wanted next.

 

He sat down heavily on the edge of the chair by the mirror and let the robe fall open a little, exposing one leg and a constellation of scars he had gotten while playing with his father.

 

His hands curled around the fabric like it might shield him, but all it really did was remind him he was clean now. Too clean. Like they’d wiped him down to the bone and found nothing worth hiding.

 

He’d once watched his father skin a rabbit. Quick, neat. The way he’d peeled it back to reveal the raw muscle underneath. That’s what this felt like.

 

A soft knock on the door interrupted the quiet. Then it was pushed open.

 

A figure stepped in— short, angular, draped in silk the color of dawn, hues of blues, pinks and yellows. Their hair was a swirl of gold interwoven into their long brown hair and their cheekbones could cut glass. He honestly expected someone older to be taking him, someone who was desperately trying to erase any symptom of a life worth living from their face. Instead he was met with a youthful glow. If the woman said she was recently 18, he would believe her.

 

Telemachus, still seated and still slightly steaming, blinked once, twice, unsure if this was the stylist or an apparition.

 

“Hello Telemachus,” the figure said, “I’m Hebe. I’ll be your stylist.” Hebe stepped closer, moving gracefully and fluidly, it reminded him of honey. “Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing to his robe with a flick of delicate fingers.

 

Telemachus shook his head. What was one more gaze? One more pair of eyes to catalog the meat of him? He let the pomegranate robe pool at his feet as she circled him, her heels clicking on the ground as she took a few steps.

 

She tilted her head. “You’ve got a good frame.” Hebe crouched, examining one of the pale scars across his shin. “This one?”

 

He hesitated. “Climbed a tree. Fell trying to catch a squirrel.”

 

She smiled faintly. “Charming.” Hebe straightened, her silk robes whispering around her like gossip. “Well, I’ve seen worse,” she said, voice airy. “Your symmetry is working hard to save you, which is fortunate, because I’m not in the business of miracles.”

 

He feels as though he should take it as an insult. But the tone she's saying it in is as if she's making fun of an old friend. And for some reason, he almost likes the thought of being her friend.

 

And then she turned from him, walking just out of the room, grabbing something. Grabbing what he assumed was his costume for the opening ceremonies.

 

It's weird being a part of it after seeing the opening ceremony so many times from his couch. He remembers every year sitting curled up next to his mother as the chariots rolled out, introducing the districts and the tribute pairs. Making fun of the costumes by the stylists who clearly didn’t try, and gasping at the ones who did. And every single time district 7 rolls by —usually in a hideous looking brown tree costume of some kind—, they would watch closely to see if a reaction shot of Odysseus would show up. Usually it did.

 

She came in, her heels making the same annoying clicking sound as she did, but this time she was carrying something, something overwhelmingly green.

 

Before he could even get a proper look at it, he was being pushed into the outfit.

 

The fabric was heavier than it looked— dense with moss and bark-like scales that flexed as he moved.

 

Telemachus stumbled a little as Hebe guided him into it with practiced, impersonal grace, like a sculptor assembling the final pieces of a statue. The undershirt was fitted first: a long-sleeved garment woven from something warm and rough. The undershirt consisted of small, sharp scales jutted out in overlapping rows, mimicking pinecones. They shifted as he bent his elbows, catching the light in uneven flashes. The collar rose in a tight, triangular weave up his throat, making him look like he might be growing bark of his own.

 

Then came the overlayer— something between a coat and armor. Hebe pulled it across his shoulders, smoothing it down with brisk, efficient hands. It draped long down his back and split at the front, cut with sharp, asymmetrical lines that made it feel feral. Clumps of green moss were sewn in thick patches.

 

When he finally stood, Hebe stepped back and folded her arms, surveying him.

 

“You’ll want to breathe carefully,” Hebe said. “It looks best when you’re holding your breath.”

 

Telemachus did not, in fact, hold his breath. He exhaled sharply through his nose, arms stiff at his sides. The whole thing felt like it might sprout roots and anchor him to the marble floor.

 

She circled him again. A slow orbit, like gravity meant nothing to her. With each pass, she adjusted something— tugged a seam, fluffed a frond, tucked in a curl of moss that had started to wilt. She worked like she was building a forest from memory.

 

“This—” she tugged gently at the collar “—makes your neck look longer. Elegant. Not too swan, more… predator bird.”

 

“Charming.”

 

Hebe didn’t stop moving. “Yes, well you’ll need to be to get sponsors.”

 

“I figured I already had people lining up.”

 

His fathers reputation got him far in district 7 when the hunger games were mentioned. Most would ignore him the entire year, until reaping day approached when everyone would suck up to him. Just in case. Then as soon as it was over, everything was back to normal with his only friend being his dog once again. Except the few whos loved whens went into the games who figured if they said just the right kind words, Telemachus would put in a good word with his father and they would have the child returned to them unharmed. Of course, that wasn’t how it worked, and when Odysseus came back empty handed, it just grew their resentment.

 

He assumed his reputation as Odysseus’s son would follow him here too—though with any luck, it would wear a kinder face. The Capitol adored his father. Idolized him. It was why Odysseus spent more months among them than he ever did at home.

 

Hebe went on, adjusting a fern-like strip along his hip. “The people love Odysseus. The sponsors love Odysseus.” She paused, fingers still. “They don’t love you.” She stepped back as if to admire her work, “It's my job to give them something to love before you even open your mouth.”

 

— — — — — — — —

 

It wasn’t until hours later that Telemachus stood side by side with Nausicaa.

 

The chariot they’d been assigned creaked beneath them, its wheels carved from dark wood and lined with faintly glowing sap, a Capitol touch that tried to make nature feel expensive. Telemachus gripped the rail tighter than he meant to. His fingers itched beneath the pine-scale gloves, the fabric flexing like it could feel his nerves. Beside him, Nausicaa looked entirely unbothered. She wore a version of his outfit that had been transformed—less bark, more bloom. Her moss was lusher, the green of spring instead of the damp of the forest floor. Vines twisted up her arms like they’d chosen her on purpose, and a crown of silvered twigs arched above her brow like antlers. When she turned to him, her eyes were calm and unreadable.

 

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” she said,

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re all… green.”

 

Of course he was green. Look at his outfit. “Thanks.”

 

He swallowed and turned back toward the tunnel. The light at the end was beginning to brighten— music swelling with it, that same haunting anthem that felt like a funeral march dressed in victory. A pair of handlers fluttered around them, tugging at last-minute details, one smoothing the moss at Telemachus’s shoulder, the other spritzing something floral and glowing onto Nausicaa’s wrists.

 

His breath stayed shallow, like Hebe had commanded, not because he cared how the outfit looked, but because something in his ribs wouldn’t let him breathe deeper. The anthem was a slow, climbing thing—violin strings and drums pounding like warhorses.

 

“I’m going to throw up,” he muttered.

 

Nausicaa didn’t look at him, but her lip quirked. “Try to angle it away from the moss.”

 

The chariot jolted forward with a wooden groan, and suddenly they were moving— emerging from the tunnel like offerings laid bare at the altar. Light exploded around them. Not sunlight— Capitol light. Harsher, brighter, layered in holographs and glittering projections. Cameras swerved in like vultures catching scent, and the crowd shrieked.

 

Then, hesitantly, awkwardly, he raised a hand. It was a weird wave. Not confident. Not charming. More like the wave of someone trying to remember how waving worked. His palm hovered in the air for a second too long before falling back to the rail.

 

He knows every single capitol citizen is looking at him and thinking of Odysseus. Thinking of the way Odysseus commands the screen, even years later.

 

How Odysseus still haunted the Capitol’s memories— smiling too wide, too sharp, like he knew something no one else did.

 

Telemachus had never seen his fathers Games. That was the rule. No footage. No clips. Not even stills.

 

He had tried convincing his mother to let him once when his father was on a trip to the capitol commanded by their president.

 

She’d said no before he could finish the sentence. Her hands, always so steady, had trembled as she set down the tea she was brewing.

 

“There’s nothing in them for you,” Penelope had said. And then, quieter: “There’s nothing of him in them either.”

 

Which was a lie. Telemachus had known it even then, even at nine, when lies still came wrapped in good intentions and parental love. There was everything of Odysseus in those Games. Whatever turned him from a man into a myth. Whatever let him win. And whatever hollowed him out, too.

 

The chariot curved into the main stretch of the Avenue. Now it wasn’t just lights— there were faces. Thousands. Capitol citizens with glowing lips and genetically-altered eyes, who tossed petals from floating platforms and screamed like this parade wasn’t a prologue to slaughter.

 

Screens floated above them, projecting his face in magnified, unforgiving detail. Nausicaa leaned slightly forward, angling herself for the camera with casual ease. The vines on her arms glittered faintly now, metallic threads winking through the green.

 

“You should smile,” she said under her breath, not looking at him.

 

“I am smiling,” he muttered back.

 

“You’re grimacing like your moss is too tight.”

 

“It is too tight.”

 

“Well, suffer with grace. That’s what they like.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, just… resigned.

 

He ignored her, he didn’t care if he was smiling and charming the capitol. He wanted his father.

 

He scanned the crowd, too fast, too desperate. The petals made it hard to see—blizzards of pink and gold and blood-red, drifting like confetti through the air. People waved and shouted his name, though most probably didn’t even know it.

 

He leaned forward slightly, under the pretense of acknowledging a wave, but really he was narrowing his eyes, trying to pierce the Capitol gloss.

 

Where are you?

 

The crowd stretched impossibly far in every direction, tiers upon tiers of opulence. Faces blurred by cosmetic sheen and projected filters. Everyone looked more like a painting than a person.

 

His father was supposed to be here. This was the kind of moment he never missed— the showy Capitol spectacle, the branding of a legacy. Wasn’t that the whole point? His father had never missed the opening ceremony, no matter what, his face was shown on the screen, a treat to the capitol who were obsessed with him

 

Telemachus, son of a Victor. They were all watching him through that lens. Waiting for him to crack open and reveal some piece of Odysseus inside.

 

His throat burned.

 

And then just as quickly as it started, it was over.

 

The chariot rolled past the last screaming section of the crowd, the sound dimming behind them. The light thinned, the shimmer of projections fading to cool white as the tunnel swallowed them again. A handler darted forward the second the wheels stopped moving, ushering them down with frantic precision, like they might break if they weren’t guided step by step.

 

Telemachus’s boots hit the ground too hard. The moss shifted oddly around his calves, like the outfit had decided it hated him back.

 

Nausicaa stepped down beside him, still composed, still glowing like something grown in a Capitol garden. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t need to. “Well. That’s done.”

 

Telemachus didn’t answer. His ears were still ringing.

 

“You didn’t puke. That’s something,” she added mildly.

 

He looked at her then, his mouth twisted halfway between a thank-you and shut up. “Don’t jinx it. There’s still dinner.”

 

She gave a little snort.

 

They were ushered down a corridor slick with Capitol sheen, floors polished enough to show their distorted reflections. The moss across Telemachus’s chest was beginning to itch now, either from nerves or the heat or maybe just from being worn too long. He wanted to rip the whole outfit off and run until the glitter couldn’t reach him.

 

He quickly slipped off the massive cloak of moss, leaving him in a simple undershirt and placing it in the chariot before joining the crowd. Better. The simple clothes felt more like him. And with this he could reach up and touch the gorgon necklace. Usually when he's anxious he’ll put the necklace in his mouth, chewing slightly on the bone but he is in public, and he does not do that in public. His mother says it makes him look feral. Their family already has enough whispers of them being crazy and cruel, she tells him not to add to the rumours.

 

The other tributes were moving too, all quickly reuniting with their stylists.

 

Stylists and handlers swarmed like bees released from their hives, buzzing toward their tributes with arms full of fabric and foam cups of something fizzy. Voices overlapped— sharp, giddy, exhausted. Someone was crying, loudly and without shame. Someone else was laughing like they’d survived a war.

 

The air reeked of adrenaline and the artificial smell he was coming to associate with the capitol. Tributes were moving around fast trying to avoid banging into the massive chariots and horses— awkward, gleaming islands of bark and silk and bone-white tulle.

 

A boy from District 1 with golden cuffs like shackles still clung to the arm of his stylist, eyes glazed but smiling. A girl from 3 with circuits braided into her hair was already halfway out of her boots, hissing about a blister. The little boy from district 10, a tiny boy, looking even younger than 12 although he couldn’t be, was trying his hardest not to fall over onto one of horses.

 

A girl from District 6 tripped on the hem of her smoke-colored gown, muttering curses as two handlers rushed to catch her. Somewhere to the left, a shrill voice was demanding to know where their tribute’s backup lashes had gone. The horses were restless, tossing their manes and snorting at the scent of too many humans packed into too small a space. The white of their coats was almost blinding under the tunnel lights.

 

Telemachus ducked as someone’s feathered headdress swooped too close to his head. His shoulder clipped a chariot wheel.

 

He muttered a curse under his breath, rubbing the spot as he moved sideways, trying to wedge his way out of the congestion. Stylists barked orders. Tributes staggered.

 

Someone caught his arm, looping it into their own.

 

It was Hebe. Of course it was.

 

“Where is your outfit?” she said at once, her voice both scandalized and exhausted, eyes flicking down to his undershirt like it had personally insulted her bloodline. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor as she turned him slightly, inspecting him as if he were a bruised apple. “The moss was custom grown, Telemachus. You don’t shed art.”

 

He blinked at her. “It was trying to kill me.”

 

“You mean it had texture.” She said, already pulling him back into the current of handlers and tributes. “Gods, you can’t go to dinner like this. We’ll stop by the suite first. Erato will scream, but that’s her default state.”

 

He laughed at that. She grinned back, as if making him laugh was a small personal victory. She looped her arm more tightly around his, half-guiding, half-dragging him toward the exit tunnel.

 

The Capitol had engineered everything to shimmer— floors, walls, even the air felt like it held a faint, sparkling charge. Telemachus could still hear the crowd, like a roar being slowly sealed behind glass.

 

Hebe was still talking, listing things they needed to do before dinner, stuff that made no sense considering dinner was only between him, Nausicaa, his father, Aeolus and the prep team but apparently his hair needed detangling, they needed to rub something illuminating into his cheekbones, maybe even “light contouring,” whatever that meant.

 

Hebe was mid-sentence, something about exfoliating mists and ‘just a hint of shoulder glitter’, when Telemachus paused.

 

Something small had hit the floor, a sharp sound, metal, it fell out of someone's pocket. A flicker in his peripheral vision. He turned his head, just in time to see it skitter underfoot, almost trampled by a passing handler’s boot.

 

He tugged his arm free from Hebe’s, ignoring her startled "Telemachus!" as he twisted back through the crowd.

 

“Just one second,” he muttered, already ducking past a trio of stylists fluffing someone’s fur-trimmed collar.

 

The small metal thing had landed near the rear wheel of one of the chariots. He crouched, careful not to get kicked, and picked it up. A token. Smooth stone, not Capitol-shiny but lovingly worn, carved with what seemed to be a helmet and a spear.

 

Not pretty enough to be some Capital-approved merch.

 

His fingers curled around it instinctively, like it would bruise if he held it too hard. He rose, scanning the mass of bodies ahead. The one who dropped it was already moving away— tall, stocky, dressed in dark red armor that hugged their shoulders like a second skin. Not the garish Capitol kind, but real plating. Tactical. District 2, had to be.

 

The tribute moved like someone used to wearing gear, not posing in it. Telemachus wove through the chaos, dodging elbows and flowing silk, trying not to step on anyone’s train.

 

“Hey,” he called, but his voice got swallowed in the crowd. “Hey! Wait!”

 

The tribute didn’t hear. Telemachus picked up speed, elbowing past a girl with powdered wings on her back— she hissed at him like a cat. He ignored her.

 

He reached the armored figure just before they slipped into a side corridor. “Hey!” he tried again, this time closer, and touched their elbow. The tribute turned sharply, one hand half-reaching for something at their belt but their was nothing there, because this was a costume. Instinct.

 

A boy— probably seventeen. His hair was flaming red, long down his back and full of curls. The boy’s eyes were a sharp green, a venomous shade like new leaves soaked in acid rain.

 

“You dropped this,” Telemachus said, and held out the token.

 

The boy looked down at it and stilled. For a second he didn’t take it. Then, slowly, he did. His hand brushed Telemachus’s, warm and calloused.

 

“I figured you’d want it in the arena.”

 

He assumes it's the boy's token from home. Just as his bone necklace is his own. A thing to remember home boy, the only thing they can take into the arena, aside from the clothes on their back of course.

 

The boy nodded once, so slight it could’ve been a trick of the light. His fingers closed around the token like it might vanish otherwise Then he turned, and walked away.

 

Telemachus touched the gorgon charm at his throat without thinking. The bone was cool against his skin.

 

He looked at the spot where the red-haired boy had been. The space already filled itself in, like water poured into a mold. It didn’t matter. He would see the boy again. In training, or the interviews. Or the arena.

 

Especially the arena.

 

Maybe the boy will even kill him.

Notes:

Uploading today because I skipped doing something i really should've done because i felt tired when it started. I have now spent 2 hours regretting not going. So uploading + more writing to try and take my mind off of it.

ANYWAYS

Why Hebe as the stylist? I"M SO GLAD YOU ASKED!!! Hebe is the greek goddess of youth, she is depicted as eternally young... most of the tributes are eternally young....
ALSO
Melpomene - muse of tragedy
Erato - muse of lyric and love poetry
Thalia - muse of comedy

Erato for the love between Telemachus and Neo
Melphomede for representing the districts who see the games as a tragedy
Thalia as the capitol who see that games as a show.

Chapter 4: Training

“Don’t go to the axe station.” Odysseus said around a mouthful of food. “You already know how to use axes, everyone knows this. Don’t bother training it.”

 

Telemachus, still groggy from sleep, blinked slowly at his father. The breakfast table was scattered with Capitol fruits that shimmered unnaturally under the chandelier light, and meats that smelled both delicious and faintly disturbing.

 

“You should do some basic survival skills you’ll need in the arena,” Odysseus went on, gesturing vaguely with his fork before stabbing a piece of what looked like golden sausage. “Snaring, fire-making, knots. The boring stuff. But it keeps you alive.”

 

Telemachus gave a quiet nod, trying not to wince as the sausage oozed something orange across his father’s plate. He hadn’t touched his own food yet. Everything smelled too sweet, too spiced, too wrong.

 

Nausicaa, who had been quietly chewing a slice of something blue and fruit-like, finally spoke up, her voice edged with irritation. “That’s stupid.” Odysseus just raised a brow and popped the rest of the sausage into his mouth like she hadn’t spoken at all. “Sorry,” Nausicaa said, setting her fork down with more force than necessary. “But it is. No one wins the Games just by knowing how to make a fire or tie a knot. That’s not how this works. You know that. You won your Games because you fought.”

 

Odysseus wiped his mouth with a napkin, slow and deliberate. “I won because I was able to survive long enough to be able to fight.”

 

“But you fought,” Nausicaa said. “You had to. Everyone does. So why shouldn’t we be training with weapons?”

 

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t train with weapons, just keep your priorities straight. And don’t train with whatever weapons they have. Train with knives after you’ve done basic survival skills. They're the most common weapon. They’re light. Easy to hide.”

 

Telemachus finally reached for a piece of bread, if only to have something neutral in his hands. Beside the bread at least looked somewhat normal, there were many different rolls, some were small squares, one was shaped like the moon, and one was even tinted a green colour. Although one of them looked familiar, just like the ones he eats at home.

 

He couldn’t say the butter was the same. The Capitol butter was pink and whipped, like something out of a dream or a nightmare.

 

Odysseus leaned back in his chair, clearly satisfied. “And don’t show off,” he added. “Don’t be the strongest. Don’t be the fastest. Be invisible.”

 

Nausicaa scoffed. “That’s a great way to get ignored by sponsors.”

 

“Well its training, so sponsors can’t see you yet. Its the training score that matters.”

 

Nausicaa narrowed her eyes, clearly itching for another argument, but she bit down on it, settling back in her seat with a huff. The blue fruit on her plate had bled into her eggs, turning them a sickly violet. She stared at them like they’d personally offended her. Telemachus chewed slowly, methodically. The bread was sweet, almost like cake. He didn’t like it, but he kept eating.

 

Nausicaa narrowed her eyes, clearly itching for another argument, but she bit down on it, settling back in her seat with a huff. The blue fruit on her plate had bled into her eggs, turning them a sickly violet. She stared at them like they’d personally offended her.

 

— — — — — — — —

 

The elevator ride to the training center was silent, except for the low hum of the machinery and the occasional flicker of Capitol lights blinking along the walls. Telemachus stood with his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead, trying not to think too hard. Nausicaa stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

 

They had been shoved into the elevator by Aeolus as soon breakfast was over. His father barely had time to give his head a kiss before the elevator swallowed them whole.

 

When the doors slid open, the training center bloomed before them like a strange, violent garden. Weapons lined the far walls—spears, swords, clubs, tridents—neatly arranged by size and type. Other stations were stranger: obstacle courses, camouflage pits, knot-tying displays. There were dummies for fighting, some humanoid and some animal-shaped. A few other tributes had already arrived and were poking around. Some looked terrified. Others looked thrilled. All of them looked too young.

 

For a moment they both stood just beyond the elevator doors, taking it all in— the glittering steel of the weapons, the smell of oil and sweat already clinging to the air.

 

Nausicaa stepped out first, her chin lifting slightly as if daring anyone to challenge her. Telemachus followed a pace behind, shoulders hunched slightly inward, hands still shoved deep in his pockets.

 

She was making her way towards the spears. A stupid idea. Had she not listened to a word
his father said?

 

Before she could reach them, Telemachus caught her wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop her. Her skin was warm under his fingers, tense.

 

“Do you wanna do snares first?” he suggested.

 

Nausicaa twisted to look at him, her expression flashing between annoyance and surprise. For a second, Telemachus thought she might just yank herself free and march off anyway. But instead she just stared at him, her mouth tightening. “Fine.”

 

The snaring station was tucked in the quieter part of the room, almost hidden between a survival tent demo and a display of edible plants. No one else was there yet. Good.

 

The trainer, a short man with thick arms and an easy smile, greeted them without much interest. “Ever tied a snare before?”

 

Telemachus shook his head. He had done it a few times when he was younger with his father, but he had never cared much for it. Running off to spend time with his mother whenever his father insisted on tying some.

 

The trainer grunted and waved them off. “Doesn’t matter. Easy enough to learn.” He gave a perfunctory demonstration — quick, practiced movements looping and tying the rope into a simple noose

 

Telemachus knelt on the mat, awkwardly imitating the trainer’s movements. His first knot slipped free almost immediately, the rope pooling in his hands like water. Beside him, Nausicaa wasn’t doing much better — her fingers moved fast but without much precision, tightening the wrong loops, leaving the snare too loose to catch anything bigger than a particularly slow-witted squirrel.

 

She cursed under her breath, yanking the rope apart with a sharp tug. Telemachus glanced sideways at her, then back at his own mess. He tried again, slower this time, feeling out the tension, the way the rope wanted to pull. The mat scratched against his knees, but he ignored it, brow furrowed. Loop, tuck, tighten. He made a small adjustment, pulling one strand a little tighter and suddenly the snare held. Not perfect, but it kept its shape when he gave it a tentative tug.

 

"Here," he said quietly, pushing the rope toward Nausicaa without looking directly at her. "You can copy mine."

 

She scowled at him but after a second she snatched the snare from his hands and bent over it, studying the knots with narrowed eyes. The next snare she tied was better. Still rough, but it didn’t immediately collapse into a useless mess. She yanked it hard enough that it tightened like a noose.

 

The trainer, who had been half-watching from his stool, gave a grunt of approval. "Good enough. Practice a few more, then move on."

 

Nausicaa tossed the rope back onto the mat with a huff. "Whatever," she muttered. "Let’s go do something else."

 

Telemachus was already tying another snare. “Yeah? Like what?”

 

Nausicaa jerked her chin across the room. "Climbing."

 

He blinked, "Climbing?"

 

He followed her gaze to the towering fake cliff on the far wall, speckled with colorful handholds and footholds. A few tributes were already scrambling up and down it, their harnesses clicking faintly against the rock. He stared at her. "We already know how to climb.”

 

Their entire district was around a forest, Telemachus spent half of his childhood up in the trees around victor's village.

 

“Not all of us had a childhood as easy as you Telemachus.” She spat, “Some of us had to work to keep our families fed.”

 

Shame filled his stomach as she stood up and walked off towards the climbing station.

 

His father’s victories had shielded him, tucked him behind thick walls and full pantries and afternoons spent in the trees. While he had been swinging from branches, Nausicaa had been stacking lumber as a child. Carrying water. Chopping wood until her arms ached and her fingers blistered.

 

He stayed back on the mat and picked up the rope again. His fingers worked in slow, steady movements, the pattern already sinking deeper into his skin. Loop, tuck, tighten. The rope whispered against itself as he pulled the knots taut.

 

He was good at climbing — he knew that. He didn’t need to prove it by scrambling up some fake wall with the others. Besides, the climbing area seemed more popular. Tributes from district 8, 11 and now 7, were all over there climbing up.

 

Many of the weapons stations were crowded, with the more survival boring stations being emptier.

 

At the climbing wall, the District 8 boy— stocky and broad-shouldered —hauled himself up with brute strength. His foot slipped once, but he caught himself by sheer force. It was weird to see a strong person from district 8, usually 8 were out on the first day due to not knowing anything about surviving due to spending all day in fabric factories. Or atleast thats the reasoning his mother always gave him, and she grew up in 8 so he felt more inclined to believe her.

 

Nearby, a girl from District 3 fiddled with the harness straps instead of climbing, her eyes flicking constantly to the wall, calculating. Smart. Dangerous in a different way. It wasn’t uncommon for district 3 to have winners due to sheer brains alone.

 

But Telemachus was smart too.

 

At the knives station, the male tribute from 2, the one with the long curly orange hair, hurled blades at the target with smooth, practiced throws. They landed in quick succession, a tight cluster around the center. His hair was tied up tightly in a bun, but the curls still spilt out, unable to be tamed. Telemachus was certain the boy had been training since birth, the way he carried himself and his muscles screamed warrior. If Telemachus was a capital child, he would be betting on his win.

 

Further back, a small girl from District 10 sat alone at the fire-starting station, striking flint with tight, careful movements. Sparks jumped and died on the dry tinder. Her lips were pressed into a hard line, stubborn.

 

At the spear station, a tribute from District 4 twirled a long spear effortlessly, his movements flashy and exaggerated, he was probably used to spearfishing, if Telemachus had to guess. Quick hands, quicker reflexes. He was laughing, talking too loud to the boy from 1 who seemed to be hanging on to his every word. Stupid show off.

 

All around him, the tributes were showing who they were without even realizing it. Telemachus sat cross-legged on the mat, invisible in plain sight, tying snare after snare.

 

Watching. Learning.

 

Loop, tuck, tighten. The rope slid against his fingers like a living thing, the knots sinking into muscle memory.

 

— — — — — — — —

 

“Amphinomus suggested we be allies.” Nausicaa said to him on the fourth day of training.

 

Telemachus was at the plant station, identifying the different plants. He could easily get the healing related ones, due to his mothers background in medicine, and ones he recognised from district 7 were easy. But many he had never seen before.

 

He glanced up from the leaf he was studying — large, waxy, and edged with red — and caught Nausicaa watching him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

 

“Why?”

 

Amphinomous was the boy from district 8. Nausicaa had been spending a large chunk of her training beside him since that first day when she left him.

 

Nausicaa shrugged, but the motion was too sharp to be careless. “Well, he asked me to ally with him, I refused to do it without you.”

 

Telemachus blinked at her, the leaf drooping in his hand. “You— why?” he asked again, more stupidly this time.

 

Nausicaa looked skyward, as if searching for patience among the Capitol’s glittering ceilings. “Because you’re useful, idiot.”

 

“High praise.”

 

“You’re smart Telemachus. I trust you more than I trust anyone else here. That’s it.” She said snapped, “and your dad would be pretty happy with me if I helped you.”

 

“Ah, the true reason.”

 

“Shut up.” she said, a smile actually crossing her face.

 

“What about him?” he asked after a beat, nodding toward where Amphinomus was at the weight training station. He had muscles, Telemachus would give him that. Not as many as the curly haired boy though. “Do you trust him?”

 

Nausicaa followed his gaze, her mouth twitching into something not quite a frown, but close. “I trust that he wants to live.”

 

“That’s a low bar.”

 

“It’s the only bar that matters right now.” Her voice was soft, but steady, like the creak of a tree bending in a storm but not snapping.

 

Telemachus wiped his palms against his trousers. He hated how wet they felt. How easily fear found its way out of him. “You think he’ll stay loyal?”

 

“No.” She didn’t even hesitate. “I think he’ll stay loyal until it stops being useful.”

 

Telemachus let out a breath through his nose, something more scoff than sigh. “That’s comforting.”

 

Nausicaa smiled again — a smaller, sadder thing this time, like the last sliver of moon before it vanished from the sky. “It’s not about comfort. It’s about numbers. About staying alive long enough to be worth betraying. Besides, if he kills you, i’ll kill him. Promise.”

 

A shiver traced Telemachus’s spine. If Amphinomous killed him, how would he do it? He could easily strangle him, hold him down until the air left his lungs while he screamed and cried.

 

He nodded anyway. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll be allies. For now.”

 

“For now,” Nausicaa agreed.

 

She stuck out her hand, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he shook it. Her grip was stronger than he expected. When he pulled his hand back, he caught her glancing down at the plant he'd been studying — the waxy red-edged leaf.

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Poisonous?”

 

Telemachus grinned, “Deadly,” he said, tapping the label with a fingernail. “That one’s good for pain,” he said, pointing at a tough little plant with jagged yellow leaves, it was grown in the forest around victors village, but he decided not to mention that. His mother would send Telemachus to the forest to collect it along with some other plants whenever his dads flashbacks got bad. “This one’ll give you fever if you’re not careful,” he added, nodding at a delicate cluster of white flowers.

 

Nausicaa watched him with narrowed eyes, like she was committing it all to memory. “Useful,”

 

Telemachus was about to show her another plant— something sharp-smelling that his mother swore could stave off infection —when a sharp, ugly shout cracked through the training center.

 

Both he and Nausicaa snapped their heads toward the source. At the axe-throwing station, the curly-haired boy from District 2 was doubled over, clutching his forearm. Blood poured through his fingers, dark and fast. The axe he'd been throwing was half-buried in the floor, the blade slick with red.

 

For a second, everyone just stared. Then the boy gave a hoarse, furious yell, and the spell broke. A Capitol trainer shouted for a medic, and a couple of peacekeepers started moving, sluggish and annoyed.

 

Without thinking, Telemachus grabbed a fistful of the yellow-leafed plant and sprinted across the room.

 

The boy from 2 was busy watching the blood from his arm seep through his fingertips, not noticing Telemachus.

 

“Eat this,” he said sharply, thrusting the crushed leaves at the man. “Now. It'll kill some of the pain.”

 

The boy blinked at him, dazed and furious, his mouth clenching stubbornly like he was about to argue.

 

"Eat it," Telemachus snapped. "Or you'll black out before the medics get here."

 

The boy cursed under his breath but shoved the leaves into his mouth. His face twisted in disgust, but he chewed, gagging slightly.

 

Good.

 

Telemachus yanked off his jacket, balling it up tight. Without hesitation, he pressed it hard against the worst of the bleeding, right near where the axe had clipped deep into muscle.

 

The boy hissed through his teeth, trying to pull away, but Telemachus leaned his weight into it. “You want to keep the arm?” Telemachus growled under his breath. “Then hold still.”

 

The man stayed still after that. Telemachus could feel the blood soaking through the fabric almost immediately, hot and slick against his hands, but he didn't loosen the pressure. “This happens a lot where I’m from,” Telemachus said. “District 7, lots of axes, some of the worst injuries we get. One wrong swing, one bad tree fall, and that’s it.” He tightened the makeshift bandage, gritting his teeth. “First thing my mom taught me, stop the bleeding. Even if you can’t save the limb, you might save the life.”

 

The boy from 2 wasn’t looking at him anymore, his head drooping toward his chest, but he was still breathing, still conscious. That was enough.

 

It reminded Telemachus, uncomfortably, of the nights when someone from the poorer parts of town would show up at their door, carrying a screaming kid or dragging themselves in bleeding. His mother would roll up her sleeves without a word, and Telemachus —tiny, scared, but determined— would help however he could. Holding a lamp steady. Fetching herbs. Pressing cloth to wounds just like this. The worst thing about those nights was the screaming and crying. His mother would eventually send him away from the scene. He would run to his parents’ room and throw himself into his father’s arms — his father, who always said he hated the sight of injuries, claiming it dragged up memories from his own time in the Games. They would talk through the night, or until telemachus fell asleep in his fathers arms. sometimes the people would be okay, sometimes they wouldn’t. But his mother always tried.

 

He wasn’t his mother. Not even close. But he could pretend for now.

 

Footsteps pounded toward them — finally — and a Capitol medic in a blinding white uniform skidded to a stop at Telemachus's side, a heavy black case clutched in her manicured hands.

 

"Move," she barked, already yanking out gauze and sterile pads. Telemachus shifted back, letting her take over. The medic barked sharp, clipped orders to a second, younger assistant who had just arrived, and together they began wrapping the boy’s arm in tight, practiced motions.

 

Blood still dripped steadily onto the floor, staining the immaculate tiles an ugly, glistening red. Telemachus stepped away, flexing his aching fingers, feeling the stickiness of blood dry against his skin.

 

The boy from 2 was already being hoisted to his feet, his face grey with pain but his jaw locked tight, refusing to show weakness. Two peacekeepers moved in to escort him out — one on each side — their grips rough, their faces bored. Along with what seemed like a gamemaker.

 

She was strange, the gamemaker. Not in the grotesque way most Capitol people were, but strange like a still forest, the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. Small and slight, her dark hair braided back in a sleek, severe knot. Her gown was simple compared to the others, draping around her like feathers, grey and muted, as if she’d been plucked straight out of a misty wood. Her eyes — grey, sharp, unblinking— studied him like a bird of prey sizing up a mouse.

 

She didn't smile. Didn't say anything. Just drifted a little closer as she walked out, exsuring that she brushed past him.

 

When she did, catching her feathers upon his side, except at his fingers, there was a slight pressure against his fingers. Telemachus didn't react. Couldn't react. His heart thudded harder as she moved on without looking back, blending into the Capitol crowd so effortlessly it was like she’d never been there at all. Only when he shifted his hand did he feel the tiny slip of paper tucked between his fingers, no bigger than a matchbook.

 

His fingers curled around it, keeping it hidden as he slowly backed towards the wall.

 

With his back to the room, he tilted his hand just enough to unfurl the tiny paper. It crackled between his fingers, dry and thin like old leaves.

 

At midnight, the security cameras and alarms will be turned off for 10 minutes. Go to the roof. I will be waiting.

Notes:

Biggest thanks to @Purplely (Ao3)/ @sporadicallyanenthusiast on tumblr for coming up with the Neo injury and having Tele help him. You are my saviour and i worship the gruond you walk on mwah mwah

Chapter 5: The Owl

Telemachus watched as the clock ticked down. He moved back into the lounge area near the elevator as soon as everyone turned in for bed. It was just him. Watching the clock.

 

The clock above the elevator doors ticked down in heavy, deliberate seconds.

 

11:57

 

11:58

 

The quiet buzz of the Capitol air, the faint antiseptic smell of polished floors and synthetic luxury, wrapped around him. Thick. Suffocating.

 

Everyone else had gone to their rooms hours ago, eager for sleep.

 

Now it was just him. Watching the clock. Waiting for the night to turn over.

 

11:59

 

The numbers flickered. Midnight.

 

Telemachus held his breath for a beat longer, half-expecting alarms, or cameras to swivel toward him, or some Capitol voice to boom out, catching him in the act of...what, exactly? Sitting? Waiting?

 

Nothing happened, except a small quiet sound made from the corner of the room.

 

He forced himself to stand. Forced his legs to move.

 

The elevator, gleaming like a silver coffin, slid open with a hiss of air.

 

Empty. Waiting.

 

Telemachus wiped his palms against his soft silk shorts and stepped inside. The doors closed behind him with a soft sound.

 

For a moment, he just stood there, surrounded by mirrored walls that reflected his pale, tense face back at him over and over.

 

He stared at the panel of gleaming buttons. His reflection stared back. The rooftop wasn't labeled. Not openly. But he noticed a small, worn keyhole above the highest numbered floor — and just beneath it, a discreet button with a faded emblem: a circle split down the middle, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

 

He hesitated. Then, because there was no other choice, he reached out and pressed it. The elevator shuddered, almost imperceptibly, and began to rise. Telemachus watched the numbers blink upward.

 

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

 

The higher he went, the more the air seemed to thin, the colder the metal around him felt. Finally, the elevator slowed. A low, muted chime sounded. The doors slid open into darkness.

 

He stepped out, cautious, his boots scuffing against rough concrete. The rooftop was vast and mostly empty, except for a low wall at the edges and a scattering of antennae and ventilation systems. The night stretched wide and endless above him, stars blotted out by the soft neon glow of the Capitol.

 

The rooftop was colder than he expected, the wind sharper. He crossed his arms over his chest instinctively, trying to hold in the thin warmth of his silk pajamas clothes. The concrete stretched out in strange shapes —hulking vents, blinking antennae, a spindly communications tower creaking softly in the breeze. And then— movement.

 

A figure stood by the low wall, half-shrouded in darkness. As Telemachus stepped closer, the shadows peeled back just enough for him to see her.

 

She was wrapped in layers of gray and white cloth, stitched with silver thread, her coat and shawl fluttering and snapping around her in the rooftop winds. It gave the eerie illusion of wings— like she might lift off at any moment and vanish into the night sky.

 

Her hood was pulled low, casting her face into shadow, but when she tilted her head to look at him, the glint of her eyes caught the light —bright, sharp, and unblinking. She looked like an owl made human: small, lean, watchful.

 

Every movement was deliberate, every shift of fabric soft and soundless, as if she weighed nothing at all. Telemachus stopped a few steps away, heart hammering, unsure if he was meant to speak first. The Gamemaker’s head tilted again, that same owl-like, unsettling motion. Studying him. Weighing him. Calculating.

 

She didn’t speak. Not right away.

 

The wind whipped at her shawl, setting it fluttering like feathers caught in a current. Telemachus opened his mouth, then shut it. The moment felt like it belonged to her.

 

Finally, she said, “You look just like your father.”

 

Telemachus blinked. He wasn’t expecting to talk about his father. Well honestly, he doesn’t know what he thought was going to happen but he guesses it should be expected. The capitol loves his father.

 

To the capitol, he is their darling. To district 7, he is a traitor.

 

“I would hope so. We are related.”

 

The gamemakers mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You’re sharper than he was at your age. Less sure of your place, maybe. But that’s not a bad thing.”

 

Telemachus raised his chin slightly. “Did you bring me up here to reminisce?”

 

“No,” she said. “I brought you up here because it’s the only place in this building without a live audio feed.”

 

Telemachus stared at her. “That sounds like a security flaw you’re responsible for.”

 

“It is,” she said. “I built it.” She turned away from him and began walking toward the edge of the roof again, her boots nearly silent on the wind-scoured concrete. “I’ve been carving holes in the system for fifteen years. Quiet ones. Nothing that draws attention. Enough to test where the edges are.”

 

Telemachus followed slowly. “Why?”

 

She stopped, turning slightly. Her face remained mostly hidden in the shadow of her hood, but he could feel her eyes on him again—sharp, fierce.

 

“Because I want it to break,” she said. Her voice was low, but it didn’t waver. “All of it. The arena. The Games. The Capitol’s grip on every square inch of this country. I want to find the exact place where the whole machine buckles and snap it clean in two.”

 

Telemachus stared at her. The words hung in the cold air, impossible and enormous. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I want you to do it.” she said,

 

He shook his head, arms tightening over his chest. “No. No, I don’t know anything. I—I don’t know what you’re even asking. You want me to do what, exactly? Make some grand speech on camera? Trip and fall on the President? Do something dumb and rebellious.”

 

“I want you to blow it up.” He stared at her. “I want you to take the arena down from the inside,” she said plainly. “There’s a point in every arena’s design— somewhere central, somewhere buried. A structural seam, something that connects it all. A fail safe just in case something goes wrong. It's beneath the arena and can be used to destroy it. And you’ll use it.”

 

“That’s suicide,” he said.

 

He knows what happens to rebels. Everyone knows what happens to rebels, rebels are the reason they have the hunger games in the first place. Its told in the speech every year. And then there are the failures of newer smaller rebel groups.

 

He doesn’t know much about his grandfather, but he knows he was kind, brave and a rebel hung in the town square when his father was only 14.

 

“No it's not.” She said, “I wouldn’t do that to your father. It’ll destroy the barrier, we’ll have time to get you out before it destroys itself.”

 

“What about the other tributes?” he demanded. And he doesn’t know why he demands it. They are his enemy, he should want them dead. But his mother always did say he was too kind, “Will you get them out too?”

 

The gamemaker didn’t answer right away.

 

The wind pulled at her shawl again, tugging it like it wanted to drag her into the sky. She turned back toward the edge, staring out over the city, as if the answer might be written in the blinking lights below.

 

Finally, she said, “It depends. How many tributes are left alive? What's their location? We can try to get them out, we will try.”

 

“You try,” he said again, quieter this time. Because what if worst happens, and something goes wrong. What if they can’t get him out, and he ends up dying for nothing. “You’re asking me to risk everything on a maybe.”

 

“I’m asking you to decide what kind of world you want to live in,” she said without turning around. “And what you’re willing to do to get it.”

 

It sounded so simple when she said it. So clean. So easy. But the knot twisting in his chest told him otherwise. “I’m not a soldier,” he said.

 

“No,” she agreed. “But you’re smart, you’re quick, you’re agile.”

 

“I’m not that good.”

 

She sighed, low and tired, like someone who'd said this before and would keep saying it until someone finally listened. Then she turned back to him fully, letting the wind pull her hood just enough to show her face—sharp-boned, pale, and older than he’d realised. Not old in years. Old in grief. Her grey eyes scared him.

 

“Don’t you want to help the world, Telemachus?”

 

“I don’t want to die,” he said, “I don't want to hurt my family.”

 

He remembers his father once explaining how his grandfather’s rebellion had ruined everything for their family. They were forced to watch as he was tortured and hanged. After that, their last name was changed so no one would forget who they were descended from. The community turned its back on them. His grandmother could barely find work, scraping together whatever she could to feed two hungry mouths that never stopped asking for more.

 

He had even heard his father quietly speculating out in the forest when no one could hear them, that maybe, just maybe he was reaped for the rebellion his father had tried to start. He had been reaped a few years after his fathers death, reaped in the year the tributes had doubled. Telemachus had even heard his father whisper that the children of his fathers allies had joined him in the arena.

 

What if he fails and his parents are tortured? What if his cousins are killed? What if his grandma, so weak in her age, was shunned, forced to relive what her husband put her through?

 

He doesn’t think he could forgive himself for that.

 

But he wouldn’t be able to live with himself either if more children died when he got the chance to prevent it. Their blood would stain his hands.

 

He remembers in the middle of the night, his fathers sobs racking through the entire house, or his screaming being heard even from Telemachus’ bedroom. It was a regular thing, sometimes the house would feel empty without his screaming when he left for the capitol. He had explained one day that it was because of the blood that stained his hands. Would that be Telemachus if he didn’t do this? Or would it be him if he did? Is he doomed either way?

 

“You shouldn’t want to,” the Gamemaker replied. “And if we do this right, you won’t.” She stepped toward him again, her voice low and steady. “You’re not the only one involved in this. I have allies in the design teams, in communications, even in the transport bay. All of them believe the same thing: that the system can break. We just need someone inside. Someone good. Someone smart.” she paused, looking him right in the eye “You could save the world Telemachus. Stopping the games would be the start, but this would lead to overthrowing the whole system, creating a good world where everyone can live well. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to help people?”

 

Telemachus didn’t answer right away. He could feel the pulse of the city beneath his feet, see the way the Capitol’s towers pierced the sky like needles, silver and cold and sharp enough to bleed the world dry. Somewhere down there, people were laughing. Drinking. Betting on which child would die first. He thought of the boy from Ten again. The girl from Nine. The hollowness in his stomach curdled.

 

If this worked, then more people could get out alive. He could watch as all the children are saved and reunited, make it so another child never has to face the terrible fate greeting him in a few days. And it would mean he could once again be safe in his parents arms without the smell of death haunting him.

 

Maybe, just maybe his life could mean something.

 

Finally, he whispered, “Okay.” The Gamemaker nodded, solemn and unflinching. No congratulations. No reassurance. Just the grim acceptance of a new piece moving into place.

 

“Then you need to listen to me, and you need to start now. In training, you keep your head down. Keep doing what you’ve been doing. And in the private session, don’t do much. You don’t need a high score, you need to be so unmemorable that the gamemakers won’t view as anything, not a possible threat or even a possible victor. And don’t tell your father any of it, he’ll start freaking out more than he already is, and start trying to intervene, and in doing that he will get us found out and guarantee your death as soon as you get into that arena.”

 

“What about the interviews?” he asked, arms tightening around his chest again. He tried to ignore the comment about Odysseus, his father cared about him so much that sometimes he became blindsighted, that is what his mother would say. “If I come off too boring, everyone will forget about me, and I'm already not a fan favourite. No sponsors, no attention. They’ll forget I exist. What if I die before I even get the chance to blow it up?”

 

“You already have sponsors, your father has one woman always sponsoring his tributes, and from the rumours i’ve heard, another woman your father knows quite well has taken a… particular interest in you.” She said, “in the interview you should downplay everything, you should be weak and worthless to them. If they don’t remember you, no one will be paying attention when you start breaking the Cornucopia and it’ll be too late to send out a specific mutt to hurt you.”

 

He didn’t really like her strategy. But she was a gamemaker and Telemachus was still scared she would shoot him dead if he refused.

 

“Once you’re in the arena, there’s a panel under the Cornucopia,” she continued, voice tight. “It’s shielded— reinforced with a false floor. But if you can pry it open— use a blade, a crowbar, anything —you’ll find a console about two meters down. It’s old tech. Buried beneath the glamour. Its a failsafe, in case the arena collapsed or needed to be purged in an emergency. Gives us full control, just in case.”

 

“Purged?” Telemachus said, throat dry.

 

She nodded. “Self-destruct. If you activate it, there’s a five-minute delay before full ignition. That’s your window. After that, nothing survives inside.”

 

His stomach twisted. “That’s insane. That’s—” He stopped. Because maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was the only thing left that made sense. Maybe, just maybe it could work and everyone could finally be free. “You said you’d get me out,” he whispered.

 

“I will,” she said. “I have people waiting on the edge of the arena ready to retrieve you as soon as the timer is set off. You trigger the console and you stay at the cornucopia. If everything goes right, we pull you out before the blast can ignite.”

 

He swallowed, hard. “What happens if I don’t make it?”

 

The Gamemaker’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then we try again. With someone else. But not for another year. And that’s a year of more names, more blood.” A pause. And then, more gently, “But I think you will make it.”

 

He didn’t believe her. Not really. But he wanted to.

 

He stayed silent for a while. He was following in his grandfather's footsteps, maybe he can say he's doing it in the name of Laertes, in the name of his rebel group, the argonauts whose vicious beating and hanging still gets talked about in hushed whispers around the school yard. He wonders if his grandfather would be proud. His dad always told him grandpa would adore him.

 

“I guess you’re pretty lucky my name was reaped.” He tried to joke.

 

“Telemachus, your name was the only one in the bowl.”

 

— — — — — — — —

 

“Telemachus.” his father sighed in relief. “There you are.”

 

The elevator had just closed behind him. Telemachus startled at the sound of his name, his fingers twitching at his sides. If he had been a moment earlier, he would’ve seen Telemachus coming back into the district 7 apartment.

 

“Hey Dad. What are you doing awake?” The whole house had turned in exhausted hours ago, why was his dad awake? Did he hear him leave? Did he somehow know what the gamemaker had said to him?

 

“Just wanted to check on you.” His voice was soft, the way it got when he didn’t want to spook something fragile. “Make sure you were alright.”

 

“Sorry, I couldn't sleep.” Telemachus lies.

 

His father’s arms opened without a word, instinctive and sure, and Telemachus stepped into them like he always had— like the space had been carved just for him. He pressed his head against his father’s chest, settling into the spot that was meant just for him. The steady rhythm of his fathers heart was stronger and louder than the capital could ever be.

 

His father held him tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head the way he used to when Telemachus was small and feverish, or frightened after a storm. A quiet warmth and a solid chest rising and falling in rhythm beneath his cheek.

 

They stood there in the hush of the apartment, the world reduced to breath and heartbeat. Telemachus didn’t realise how tightly he was holding on until his father shifted slightly, his voice low above him. “Why don’t you sleep in my room tonight?”

 

Telemachus didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes closed, listening. He was too old for it, maybe. Too tall to curl against his father's side like he used to. But tonight, with the weight of the Capitol coiled in his chest and the Gamemaker’s voice echoing in his skull, the offer didn’t feel childish. It felt safe.

 

“Okay,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Notes:

LAERTES MENTION!!!! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!!! I have so much info about him and his little rebel group, hoping i can drop some of it, but sadly, Telemachus would know barely any of it so we'll see i guess.

Thank you to Purplely AGAIN for reading through this chapter and confirming that it made sense when I was nervous it didn't

I'm so excited!!! I feel like writing a story thats hunger games without the rebellion stuff takes away from the story so I decided to add it. Telemachus orginising and trying to break the arena is ofc inspired by sunrise on the reaping (THE CASTING??? SO EXCITED!) but I'm also doing something entirely different.

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THE CHAPTER

Chapter 6: Climb

Telemachus had no idea what he was going to do in his private session. Probably swing a few axes, maybe do some climbing.

 

The axe swinging will look pathetic compared to Nausicaa though. Every child in District 7 was expected to work Saturday mornings in the woods, but most put in far more than that. Leaving school early, some fully dropping out, working themselves to the bones for a few extra coins. Children have to earn their keep, being young isn’t an excuse for not contributing. Their district is lucky to have such an easy way to do so.

 

Telemachus, though, had been the exception. Maybe the only kid in the whole district whose parents made enough to keep him out of the woods most days.

 

Those few hours every Saturday had no way to compare to Nausicaa’s years of training. The previous day he had watched as she threw an axe into the centre of a target. Going against what his father said, but showing her strength to the tributes.

 

The only thing he was actually good at was climbing, the only true advantage he has isn’t being able to wield a weapon, but his ability to escape. Like a scared little bird soaring away.

 

He sat on the cold bench outside the training room, fingers twisting absently in the hem of his sleeve. The silence in the hall was heavier than he expected, too sterile and too still, like the Capitol had even bleached the air of sound. He had been sitting outside as each tribute disappeared into the room then came back out, some looking proud, others looking embarrassed or scared. He had a feeling he would be the latter.

 

He bounced his knee. Stopped. Crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. Waiting had never felt this long.

 

He can almost picture Nausicaa in there, swinging her axe, showing off and earning a high score that would have Capitol citizens excited.

 

Some of the other tributes were chatting, walking around. Most weren’t though, most understood that they shouldn’t form friendships with people they have to kill.

 

He half expected Amphinomus to come over and make conversation with him, but he hadn’t. The pair hadn’t spoken unless Nausicaa was between them. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed by that.

 

A bell chimed overhead. A thin, artificial sound, like wind through a metal pipe. A moment later a peacekeeper steps out.

 

“Telemachus Laertiades.” They call out, looking bored and uninterested.

 

Telemachus stood before his legs could second-guess him. The name sounded strange in the Peacekeeper’s mouth— flattened, foreign. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore, like the Capitol had already taken it and polished it into something ornamental. A tribute name. A name to gamble on.

 

He smoothed his sleeve, more out of habit than nerves, and walked forward. The Peacekeeper didn’t meet his eyes as he stepped past them into the training room.

 

It was colder inside. Not just from the air, which hummed out of hidden vents in bursts of stale chill, but from the emptiness of it. The room was vast and echoing, filled with racks of weapons, targets, rope courses, and a climbing rig that reached almost to the ceiling. But none of it felt real. It was too clean, too curated. Like a display for people who had never held a blade and never would.

 

High above, the Gamemakers watched. They were chatting and laughing, indulging in food and wine.

 

A speaker crackled overhead. “Begin when ready.”

 

He recognised the voice, the owl-like Gamesmaker. He nodded at her, although he had no true idea of what to do .

 

Telemachus moved toward the axe rack, the cool, heavy handles lined up like obedient soldiers. He picked one— not too large, not too small. It fit in his hand awkwardly, not like the ones back home he would use in the early morning on saturdays.

 

Still, he lined himself up with the target. Took a breath. Lifted his arm, swung. The axe spun through the air and hit the edge of the outer ring with a dull thunk.

 

Not a total failure. But not good, either.

 

He tried again. Another clumsy throw, this time off-centre and low.

 

A few of the Gamemakers shifted. He could hear them, he could hear their disinterestt. One of them— an older man with slicked-back hair and a green velvet jacket— leaned back and took a sip from his wine glass, already turning his attention elsewhere.

 

He tried again. This time it hit the target at least, a little closer to the centre, but still wrong. Still weak.

 

They didn’t care. He risked a glance up at the glass. Some weren’t even looking. One woman was whispering something in her neighbour’s ear. Another was spooning something from a bowl of bright Capitol food and laughing. A few watched, but idly, like they were waiting for him to hurry up and leave so they could go back to their stupid parties.

 

His blood went hot.

 

He tightened his grip on the axe.

 

The smooth Capitol-forged handle bit into his palm, too perfect, too polished, like it had never tasted real bark or callused skin. His knuckles went white.

 

They had taken him from his home, stripped him of everything— his family, his routines, his mothers quiet smiles over dinner— and now they couldn’t even bother to watch?

 

He’d been paraded through their streets like a prize animal. Painted up, fed too well, expected to smile. Expected to die. And they wouldn’t even look at him in training unless he made it entertaining?

 

His throat burned. He tried to swallow it down, but it didn’t move.

 

He gripped the axe harder. Maybe they didn’t want to see him win. Maybe they just wanted him to flail and fail and die with some flavor. They didn’t care if he bled or starved or begged—they just wanted to enjoy it.

 

And right now he was boring, the biggest sin he could commit.

 

He didn’t drop the axe. He held onto it as he stalked across the floor, boots echoing sharply in the too-quiet room.

 

He didn’t look at the weapons or the targets this time— he didn’t need to. He walked straight to the climbing section. Ropes. Peg walls. Handholds bolted into Capitol-plated steel, made to look like rock. A structure meant to test strength and agility, or at least simulate it.

 

He looked up at the towering wall, the ceiling vanishing into shadow above it. There were no nets at the top. No harnesses. But he didn’t care. He could’ve done this half-asleep, after hauling wood all morning, before breakfast, with a twisted ankle.

 

He sheathed the axe into a loop on his belt— just in case. Then he grabbed the first hold and pulled himself up. Hand over hand, foot over foot, he scaled the wall with a practiced rhythm. His breath came steady.

 

The wall barely challenged him; it was like climbing the trees back home, except less alive. Plastic instead of bark. Smooth instead of rough.

 

He didn’t look down. Didn’t look up at the Gamemakers, either. He reached the top quickly, in less than a minute.

 

No one had noticed. A few of them had glanced over when he started, but by the time he reached the summit, they were back to sipping from jewel-colored glasses and poking at plates of food dyed neon.

 

He paused, crouched on the final ledge. His heart was beating harder now, not from exertion, but from fury. They still weren’t watching. Not even now. Something inside him snapped.

 

He looked up at the thin metal rigging above the climbing wall, just below the domed roof of the training center. It was maintenance scaffolding, meant for lights or cameras, maybe cleaning crews. It hadn’t been designed to hold a tribute. But it would.

 

He grabbed one of the steel bars above him and swung himself up like a monkey in the treetops. His limbs remembered. His instincts took over. He clambered onto the beams, moving fast and silent, the axe bouncing slightly at his hip.

 

Still no alarm. No shouting. They hadn’t noticed.

 

He moved fast, his body low and coiled, weaving through the overhead beams like he was twelve again, evading chores by escaping into the canopy.

 

From his perch on the rigging, he could see the whole spread now. Long banquet tables lined with shimmering platters. Cushioned chairs, gold-trimmed. Gamemakers leaned back in comfort, some with their shoes off, others lazily sipping their drinks.

 

Telemachus adjusted his grip. Took a breath. Then he leapt. He dropped clean off the rigging and landed in a crouch on the edge of their mezzanine with a heavy thud.

 

A pause.

 

Then shrieks.

 

One Gamemaker let out a high, broken gasp like he’d seen a wild animal spring from the trees.

 

It was a bit funny if he could ignore that sinking feeling in his gut that he’d done the worst thing he could.

 

Boots thundered behind him. In a blink, they were on him.

 

Two Peacekeepers tackled him from behind with the full weight of their plated armor. The first drove a knee into the back of his thigh, sending him down hard. His chin hit the edge of a velvet-lined chair and split. The second caught his arms and yanked them behind his back, wrenching one shoulder in the socket with a crunch.

 

“Down! Get him down!” Another Peacekeeper grabbed his belt, ripped the axe free, and flung it across the room. It skidded under a table, scattering grapes and glittering utensils. He tried to breathe, but a forearm was already across his neck.

 

“I’m not—” he began, but the weight pressed harder.

 

“Shut it!” someone hissed. “You’re done!”

 

“Fuckin’ animals,” spat one of the Gamemakers. “Where were the guards before he got up here? That’s what I want to know.”

 

They dragged him up. One of them grabbed him by the hair when he resisted, forcing his head back until the lights blurred above. He could taste blood in his mouth. Another slammed his wrist into a metal cuff so tight his fingers went numb instantly.

 

He twisted, trying to look back at the banquet table. Owl-Eyes was still standing. Still staring. Not horrified. Not furious. Intrigued. But she said nothing.

 

They marched him out the way they came in, past the training floor where the other tributes had stopped what they were doing.

 

Some stared. Some didn’t dare to. A few just kept practicing— because what else could they do? He didn’t say a word as they shoved him through the side doors, the cuffs biting into his skin, his ribs aching from knees and boots. But inside, the fire still burned.

 

They shoved him into a small holding room just off the main corridor— cold metal walls, a flickering light, and a bench too narrow to sit comfortably on. One of the Peacekeepers kicked the back of his knees until he collapsed onto it. “Stay,” the Peacekeeper muttered, as if he were a dog. The cuffs stayed on. They didn’t bother to check his shoulder, which throbbed in a way that told him it was definitely out of place. Blood dripped steadily from his chin, a quiet pat pat pat against the floor.

 

Minutes passed. Or maybe longer. His breath evened out, but the fury didn’t fade— it sharpened. He let his head fall back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, the familiar numbness crawling up from the pit of his stomach like frost. The peacekeeper was still keeping ahold of him, making sure he stays down, stays beneath them.

 

They’d noticed him now. At least there was that.

 

The door burst open. Footsteps. Fast, furious, echoing. The kind he’d only heard a few times in his life— usually when something was about to get broken.

 

“What the hell did you do to my son?”

 

His dad.

 

Telemachus didn’t lift his head, but the ache in his chest cracked wide open anyway. “Sir, he breached the mezzanine,” one of the Peacekeepers began, too stiff and defensive for someone unshaken.

 

“You tackled a kid, my kid like he was a mutt off its leash,” Odysseus snapped. “Look at his shoulder! And his mouth!. He’s bleeding. And you left him cuffed like a threat?”

 

“He is a threat,” someone muttered from farther down the hall. Telemachus didn’t see who. It didn’t matter.

 

He heard the shuffle of his father’s boots— then hands on him, gentle but quick. “Easy, Tele,” Odysseus murmured. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

 

Fingers worked the cuffs loose.

 

Telemachus hissed when they fell away— his wrists were raw, bright red and slick with sweat.

 

His father’s hands were shaking. “Alright. Okay.” Odysseus crouched in front of him. “Let’s get that shoulder fixed.” Telemachus stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tight, blood still dripping from his chin.

 

They walked in silence through the underbelly of the training center, past pipes and metal grates, the hum of Capitol tech in the walls.

 

They reached the elevator, the doors closed around them with a soft hiss.

 

Telemachus braced a hand against the wall. His shoulder ached, his mouth tasted like metal, and his wrists throbbed with every heartbeat. He expected the yelling to start any moment now.

 

But his father just exhaled and said, “You scared the shit out of me.”

 

“I didn’t mean to—” Telemachus started.

 

“I know,” Odysseus cut in, not unkindly. “But you did. Do you know how terrifying it is to hear that you threatened the gamemakers and are now in holding?”

 

“I didn’t threaten them.”

 

“Close enough.” he sighed, “I’m about to see you go into the games, don’t cause me more pain beforehand.”

 

“Sorry.” he lied.

 

“No you’re not.”

 

“Fine. I’m not. They were ignoring me, dad. What did you expect me to do?” He pleaded.

 

His dad just sighed as the doors slid open, he gestured Telemachus over onto the couch.

 

Telemachus sat gingerly, shoulders tense, eyes down.

 

His dad crouched beside him again. “Let me see your back.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Sure,” his dad said, before peeling off part of the shirt and touching his shoulder. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but hes sure it was something. “It’s not dislocated, thank the gods. Just bruised.” Odysseus stood, ran a hand through his graying curls. “Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll Talk to someone. I’ll fix it.”

 

“It was stupid. I’m sorry.” he doesn’t really know why he did. Telemachus was smart, sensible, but sometimes he’d just get so angry and do something stupid, this was one of those times.

 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to a friend. One of the Gamemakers.”

 

Telemachus blinked. All of a sudden that angry feeling was rising into his throat again, “You have friends who are Gamemakers?”

 

Odysseus gave him a look. “Not friends. One friend. Kind of.”

 

“That’s still one more than I thought.”

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose.

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose. “She was a university student during my Games. Interned on the Capitol team. Escort-adjacent, I guess. It was meant to get her used to the way the games worked, decide what role she wanted to play in their creation.”

 

Telemachus stared at him. “And you got close?”

 

Odysseus nodded, almost sheepish. “Yeah. She was smart— too smart, honestly. Always asking questions no one liked answering. She didn’t belong there, not really, but… she stayed. Got pulled deeper in over the years.”

 

“She’s a Gamemaker now.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You like a Gamemaker?”

 

“It’s complicated.” Odysseus’ smile fell. “I hate what she is. Hate what it means.But I like her. Shes not a bad person, just slightly misguided.”

 

Telemachus leaned back against the couch, wincing as the cushions hit a tender spot along his ribs. “Misguided?” he echoed, eyebrows lifting. “She makes murder into a game.”

 

Odysseus didn’t flinch. “I didn’t say she was right. I said it was complicated.”

 

Telemachus shook his head. “You always say that when you don’t want to admit something’s rotten.” Complicated was his fathers way of brushing off questions he didn’t want to answer. Usually whenever Telemachus asked him about his games.

 

Odysseus gave a huff of laughter, low and tired. “Yeah, well. It was either admit the world was rotten or try to survive it.”

 

“And she helped you survive?”

 

A pause. “Yeah.”

 

The room was quiet for a long moment, filled only by the hum of the vents and the dull throb in Telemachus’ shoulder. His fingers tapped once against his knee. “What’s her name?” he asked finally.

 

There was a hesitation— brief, like a held breath. “Athena. Shes the tall one with the grey eyes.”

 

As soon as those words were spoken, Telemachus knew who he was talking about.

 

“You look just like your father.”

 

Of course, the eye owled gamemaker, Athena. Maybe she expected Telemachus to be just like his father, if she did, she would soon realise how mistaken she was. Telemachus was convinced he had inherited the worst aspects from both his parents. He suddenly felt much more weary of this plan.

 

Telemachus swallowed hard, the taste of blood still metallic on his tongue.

 

— — — — — — — —

 

Watching the training scores was more terrifying for Telemachus than for anyone else. Now that the adrenaline had bled out of his system, and the silence in the room grew heavier with every passing second, he realized just how bad his decision had been.

 

Climbing into the Gamemakers' box with an axe in hand?

 

Gods, how stupid was he?

 

Athena was probably regretting choosing him. He wouldn’t blame her.

 

He swallowed hard.

 

The television screen flickered. Somewhere, far away and behind glass, a Capitol announcer spoke in a honeyed drawl about form and strategy, making saccharine jokes as the scores began to appear, one by one.

 

“District 2, male.” The presenter said, a small on his face, a cheeky one as if he was letting the audience watching in on a secret. “10.” the screen was enveloped with the number, showing it alongside a photo of the long haired ginger.

 

“Guess bloodthirst still plays well.”

 

Career tributes, the ones from 1,2 and 4 always scored well, scored high. They were usually the few that would actually manage to get the highest score of 11, everyone now and then someone from a lower district would get 11, but it was never a good thing for them, just put a target on their back. A score lower than 8 for a career was seen as an embarrassment.

 

Telemachus didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to the screen, his fists clenched tight in his lap. The Capitol presenter’s voice droned on, syrupy and smug as the next tribute’s face appeared.

 

“District 4, male. 10.” The most striking thing about this mans photo was his face. He was clearly 18, but he looked far more stronger than Nausicaa who shared the age. A jagged scar was cut across his eye and the way he smiled in a way that scared Telemachus, he felt the sudden urge to run away and hide before the man could catch him and rip out his throat.

 

He didn’t want to think about sharing an arena with him.

 

“District 7. Female.” A photo of Nausicaa filled the screen and the entire room stopped, waiting. Nausicaa straightened beside him, an intense look across her face, determined. “7.” the announcer purred.

 

“Not bad,” Odysseus muttered, “Could’ve been higher.”

 

Nausicaa looked like she was going to explode at the comment, but she was calmed by Aeolus who clapped their hands together in excitement

 

“Don’t be so negative Ody, a seven is an incredible score! Its better than a 6.” they then started giggling and laughing like they actually made a funny joke.

 

“District 7, male.”

 

His own face appeared on the screen.

 

The pause dragged.

 

“11.”

 

The room didn’t breathe.

 

Even Aeolus, who was halfway through another joke, froze mid-word. Their hands dropped. Nausicaa’s head snapped toward him so fast her braid whipped across the air.

 

An eleven. Eleven.

 

Telemachus blinked once. Twice. As if maybe if he looked again, the number would turn into something reasonable. A seven. A six. Something that wouldn’t paint a target between his eyes like blood on snow.

 

But the number stayed. That glowing, impossible number— bright, cruel, intentional.

 

Nausicaa looked furious. Her dark eyes scanned his face like she was seeing him for the first time. Telemachus shifted under her gaze, as if she might find some secret in him that even he didn’t know. “Telemachus,” she said quietly. “What did you do in there?”

 

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

 

He remembered the blood singing in his ears as he stalked across the training floor. The way the Gamemakers hadn’t flinched when he climbed into their box, axe in hand, daring them to watch him like they watched the others. Not like a rabbit trembling in the grass. Not like something dying. Like a wolf, stalking his pray.

 

They wanted a show. He’d given them one.

 

But eleven? No one got an eleven. Only the strongest of careers got that, or people from other districts that the capitol clearly wanted dead.

 

And the Capitol wanted him to die spectacularly.

 

“It’s a trap,” Odysseus said, sinking back into his chair. “They’re setting you up. Marking him as a threat so the Careers tear him apart first thing.”

 

“Or maybe they just liked the drama,” Aeolus offered, half-heartedly. They didn’t sound convinced.

 

Nausicaa didn’t say anything. She just sat there, still and unreadable. Her jaw clenched. He didn’t understand why she looked so pissed off, he was the one fucked over.

 

The Capitol presenter’s voice prattled on, announcing scores for the remaining tributes, but

 

Telemachus barely heard them. His heart was pounding in his throat. An eleven. It would be all anyone talked about. The sponsors. The betters. The bloodthirsty Capitol viewers.

 

He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a symbol. A spark the Gamesmakers could toss into the arena to light the fire they craved.

 

And everyone would be watching to see how brightly he burned.

Notes:

I was so between having Tele get a 1 or a 11, but decided on 11 because I think the Capitol want Telemachus hurt and hunted by the other tributes rather than hurt by the capitol. I think they believe that would hurt Odysseus more :>

Telemachus, you loveable idiot, why did you think that would go well?

I really wanted Telemachus to do something rebellious to the gamemakers while also establishing his incredible climbing skills, so I decided he climbs into the gamemakers area. What a stupid little boy :D was blowing up the arena not terrible enough?? Hes giving his father (and mother, who is back home and has no idea what Telemachus has done) a heartattack

Chapter 7: Foxes and Rabbits

“Stand up straight, Telemachus!” Aeolus barked, circling him like a hawk that smelled weakness. “You’re not some peasant child cutting wood. You’re the Capitol’s newest darling. Act like it.”

 

Telemachus stiffened, shoulders snapping back, chin lifting on instinct. It was the hundredth time Aeolus had corrected his posture in the last hour, and each time it felt like a jab to the ribs. The silk suit they’d tailored him into was stiff at the collar and glittered with green and gold 7— colors that meant nothing to him in this moment except that they itched.

 

“Again,” Aeolus snapped, gesturing toward the mirror. “Smile. Slowly. No teeth, remember. Sweet but tragic. You’re beautiful, please act like it.”

 

Telemachus forced the expression.“Better,” Aeolus muttered, adjusting the angle of his jaw with gloved fingers. “But don’t tilt your head like that. It makes you look unsure.”

 

“I am unsure,” Telemachus muttered.

 

Aeolus rolled their eyes. “Well don’t look it. No one donates to a tribute who doesn’t believe he can win. They’ll call you sad, then let you starve.” They moved to the side, snapping their fingers for the avox to bring in the shoes— dark leather, polished to a mirror shine, absurd in their elegance.

 

“These were imported from District 1. Don’t scuff them. And gods help you if you trip on stage.”

 

Telemachus sat down reluctantly, letting the avox buckle them over his feet like he was some Capitol doll. The leather felt too tight. Everything was too tight. Worst of all, he had to stare into the sad pitiful eyes of the avox boy who had no tongue, probably for committing some small offense against the capitol. He supposes this is the kind of person hes blowing up this arena to hope to save.

 

Aeolus crouched, adjusting the hem of his trousers with surgical precision. “You’re lucky, you know. There are kids who’d kill to have what you do. A face they can work with. A tragic backstory. A pretty teammate. This could work.”

 

“I would argue most of those kids want to kill me regardless.”

 

Aeolus didn’t even flinch. “Exactly. Which is why you need to make the Capitol love you more than they do. If you play this right, they’ll protect you. They'll bet on you. And people don’t like losing their bets.” They paused for a moment, “and between you and me, no ones going to be betting on you unless you give them something to work with. I wouldn’t even be betting on you.”

 

Telemachus let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Nice to know you believe in me.”

 

“I’m just being honest.” They shrugged.

 

Before Aeolus could launch into another tirade about Telemachus’ facial expressions, the prep room door slid open with a smooth hiss, letting in a gust of sterilized Capitol air. Telemachus straightened instinctively, then relaxed just as quickly when he saw who it was.

 

Odysseus stepped in first, wearing a shift marked by a bright, mismatched patch. The shirt had been one Telemachus had ripped while doing the washing and his mother had insisted on fixing it up with whatever fabric she could find. He smiled at the memory. His hair was tousled like he’d just run a hand through it too many times.

 

Behind him came Nausicaa, already looking annoyed, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She wasn’t in anything flashy either—just training sweats and a worn District jacket, a similar thing to what telemachus had been wearing before Aeolus had forced him to change. Her braids were slightly undone. She didn’t bother smoothing them.

 

Aeolus sighed— loudly, theatrically —before anyone could say a word.

 

“Time to switch,” Odysseus said briskly, scanning Telemachus up and down with a gaze that missed nothing. “He needs to practice his answers before they drag him out there like a lost little lamb.”

 

Aeolus stepped between them like they could physically block the shift. “Wait—what? No, no, no, we’re not done. I’ve barely had any time with him! I still haven’t even worked on his walk! His walk is bad, Odysseus. Like a scarecrow with shin splints.”

 

Odysseus gave them a look. “He needs to know what to say more than how to glide in imported shoes.”

 

Aeolus gasped. “Glide? He’s stomping like a District 10 bull!”

 

“Better a bull than a corpse,” Odysseus said flatly, stepping forward. “He survives this by being remembered. Not for how pretty he walks, but for what he says when they hand him the mic.”

 

“Oh, please,” Aeolus groaned, flinging their arms into the air with performative agony. “What he says won’t matter if they’ve already decided he’s a bore with a bad slouch! You think anyone sponsors a stump with cheekbones?” they said, fuming, “But fine. Take him! I’ll help Nausicaa, she's already miles above of your son!”

 

His father was already walking him out of the room as Aeolus finished their little outburst.

 

You alright?” His father asked him as they walked into a different room,

 

“No,” Telemachus said, honest and tired. “I hate these outfits, they’re uncomfortable.”

 

“Don’t worry, you’re not wearing that for the interview, just beg Hebe for something comfortable.” he paused for a moment, patting his sons back slightly, “Go change and then we’ll start going over what you should say in the interview.”

 

Telemachus nodded and slipped into the adjoining room, unfastening the tight collar.

 

He pulled the jacket off first, then the too-stiff shirt, tossing them onto the bench like they were soaked in acid. The shoes came next— he had to fight with the buckles —and when they were finally off, he stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, breathing easier for the first time in hours. He liked being alone, he liked the quiet.

 

He quickly pulled on a shirt and some long loose pants. Again, nicer clothing than he had ever gotten back home. If he survives he might ask Hebe if he can keep some of the more casual clothes he's burrowing at the moment, he really likes them.

 

He emerged a few minutes later, his dad smiled at him. Then Odysseus nodded toward the chair by the far wall. “Sit.”

 

Telemachus did, curling one leg underneath him. His father sat across from him with his arms crossed, watching him like a chessboard he was still deciding how to open.

 

“We need to figure out your angle,” Odysseus said at last, dragging a chair over and flipping it around to sit on it backwards, arms resting on the backrest. “What they’ll remember. What they’ll want to remember.”

 

“I don’t want to be fake,” Telemachus said, already defensive.

 

“I’m not asking you to be fake,” Odysseus replied. “I’m asking you to be strategic. There’s a difference.”

 

Telemachus scowled. “Feels the same.”

 

“It’s not. Being fake is pretending to be someone else. Being strategic is knowing which part of you to show, and when. You think I was my full self when I did my interview?”

 

“I don't know. You refuse to tell me about your games.”

 

Odysseus’s expression shuttered. For a flicker of a second, something old and raw passed behind his eyes— then it was gone, replaced with the usual hard-edged focus he wore like armor.

 

“There’s nothing in my Games that would help you,” he said shortly, looking down at the notepad in his hand.

 

Telemachus watched him, trying to puzzle it out. He had pressed that button before— what happened in your Games? What did you do? —but every time he asked, Odysseus avoided it. Changed the subject. Gave a version so clean it barely counted as truth.

 

Telemachus didn’t push further. He could feel it— how his father had folded something shut inside himself, like a door barred from the inside. He wouldn’t get through it now. Maybe not ever. So he sat back, letting the silence cool.

 

Odysseus cleared his throat after a beat and tapped the pen against the pad again, like that brief lapse had never happened.

 

“Alright,” he said, voice brisk again. “You’ve got two major hurdles.”

 

Telemachus raised an eyebrow. “Only two?”

 

Odysseus allowed a flicker of a smile. “Two that matter for the Capitol. One: most people already think they know you. And two: they don’t like what they think they know.”

 

Telemachus folded his arms. “Because of you.”

 

“I know,” Odysseus said simply. No defensiveness, no excuse— just the flat weight of truth.

 

Telemachus remembers being 6 years old and having his classmates tell him his father hates him. His father had been at the capitol at the time, doing his usual run of parties and interviews that made the capitol love him.

 

“He said it on TV,” one of them whispered, half gleeful, half unsure. “He said he doesn’t care about you.”

 

At first, Telemachus thought it was a lie. A dumb, pointless jab, like the way they teased him for being small or for the way his voice squeaked when he got excited. But the words burrowed in deep, sharper than the usual playground jabs.

 

He remembered going home that day and asking his mother—quietly, like it might not count if he whispered—“Does Dad hate me?”

 

Penelope had gone very still, as if he had just figured out some dark secret. Then knelt in front of him and held his face in both hands. “No,” she’d said, firm as stone. “No, Telemachus. Your father loves you more than anything. Why would you even think that?”

 

“But he said on the tv—”

 

She sighed “He said it so no one would want to take you from him,” she’d interrupted, voice sharp with something that was not quite anger, “He said it so the Capitol wouldn’t see you as something they could use.”

 

Telemachus didn’t understand all of it then. He only understood that his father had said something terrible about them in front of cameras and lights and smiling, Capitol faces. And that, for months after, other children had repeated it like gospel.

 

His father would do this constantly, everytime he would go to the capitol, he would only ever mention his family to tell the capitol he hated them and that they held him back. If the capitol didn’t think he liked them, he couldn’t use them against him. The capitol would have no reason to want Telemachus in the games if they hated him. No tragic reunion. No heartstrings to pull. Just a kid nobody wanted. That was the plan. Lot of good it did them.

 

Now, sitting across from his father with a notepad between them and strategy in the air like smoke, Telemachus could still feel that old sting at the back of his throat. The weight of being unloved in the eyes of strangers.

 

Telemachus tilted his head, unimpressed. “So now I have to convince them I’m worth liking after you spent the last decade convincing them I wasn’t?”

 

A flicker of guilt passed through Odysseus’s eyes, “Exactly.”

 

Telemachus huffed, leaning further back into the chair. “Great.”

 

Odysseus tapped the pen once more, then set it down. He leaned in, elbows braced on his knees, and gave his son a look Telemachus had only ever seen him use in moments that mattered— when a storm was coming in, or when they were playing chess and Odysseus was about to trap him three moves ahead. “This is where we flip it,” he said. “They think you’re bitter, guarded, unloved? Fine. Let them. Then surprise them. Be funny. Be bright. Make them laugh when they don’t expect it. Be clever without being cruel.”

 

“So you want me to charm them.”

 

“I want you to be so charming they forget they ever thought they hated you,” Odysseus said, voice low. “Make them wonder how anyone could not love you.”

 

Telemachus blinked at that. “So what? You want me to smile and wink and make jokes and flirt like you did?”

 

Odysseus shrugged.

 

“It worked.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not you.”

 

“Good, I don't ask you to be.” His father said softly. “They’ve already seen me.”

 

— — — — — — — —

 

“You know, I have to say it—because everyone at home is thinking it. Your father. Achilles. Youngest Victor in history. A legend in his own right.”

 

The audience’s reaction was immediate—gasps, soft applause, a few Capitol citizens dabbing their eyes for effect. The camera pulled in tighter on Neoptolemus’ —the boy from district 2s— face.

 

Telemachus watched it all from behind the velvet curtain, ninth in the lineup of remaining tributes. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the girl from District Six, whose leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, meanwhile he couldn’t stop fidgeting with his necklace.

 

“Yeah.” The red haired boy looked uncomfortable as he answered as if he wasn’t expecting questions on his father. If he wasn’t, he was an idiot. Achilles was one of the most famous victors, both for the way he won and the odd way he acted for years after until he decided to end it.

 

“Big name to carry.” Hermes said, a large smile crossing his face.

 

Telemachus knew that smile.

 

Everyone in Olympia did.

 

Hermes had been the Capitol’s favorite interviewer for over a decade— flamboyant, sharp-tongued, impossibly well-dressed. His suits were a weekly guessing game of fabric and function; tonight’s was silver mesh threaded with shimmering blue, designed to catch and scatter the light like he was standing underwater. He had the uncanny ability to make tributes laugh even as he led them toward questions shaped like traps, and he rarely needed to raise his voice to hold an audience in the palm of his hand. Hermes could pivot between charm and cruelty in a breath and smile the whole way through. He was, in short, exactly the kind of person the Capitol adored: someone who could watch a slow death and call it art.

 

On stage, Neoptolemus didn’t smile back.

 

“It’s just a name. He earned it. I’m earning mine.”

 

“Well, if the Games are anything like this interview, I’d say you’re well on your way. Tell me—what should we expect from you in the arena?”

 

“You should expect me to win.”

 

“Well said,” Hermes purred, rising smoothly from his seat as Neoptolemus stood. “We’ll be watching.” He grabbed the mans hand and raised it, “District 2, your tribute!”

 

The cameras followed the District 2 tribute as he made his exit, posture perfect, shoulders squared. Telemachus watched him go, jaw tight. He was wearing long sleeves, Telemachus wonders if there was a bandage wrapped around his arm under it.

 

Beside him, the girl from District Six muttered something under her breath and reached for a handful of calming pills as tributes went into the lion's den one after one.

 

Telemachus didn’t look away from the stage, even as the velvet curtain twitched, even as the line of tributes inched forward. The lights blazed hotter with every name that got called, every tribute who stepped out into the glow of Hermes' smile and the Capitol’s hungry gaze.

 

The girl from District Six beside him swallowed her pills dry and leaned her head back against the curtain wall, breathing through her nose. Her fingers trembled as they fell back into her lap. She didn’t speak again.

 

One more tribute stepped forward— then it was Telemachus’ turn.

 

And then the world split open.

 

Telemachus stepped out onto the stage, heart jackhammering in his chest, but he held his posture like Odysseus had taught him— chin up, shoulders relaxed, eyes steady. Don’t let them see you sweat. Don’t let them see anything you don’t want them to.

 

The applause didn’t erupt like it had for the previous tributes, like it had for the careers. It came in scattered claps, polite and unsure. Curious, not adoring. The Capitol didn’t know what to make of him yet. The ones who thought they knew him didn’t like him.

 

Hermes smiled wide, already standing, arms open like he was greeting an old flame. “Ah, here he is! District Seven’s own. Son of a Victor, bearer of the Eleven.”

 

That got a small cheer out of the crowd, but he doubted it was one of love. Telemachus gave Hermes a half-smile as he approached. He stepped into the light like it didn’t burn, even as the heat prickled the back of his neck and sweat gathered under his collar.

 

Hermes extended a hand, rings catching the spotlight like stars. Telemachus took it, gave a single, firm shake.

 

“Telemachus,” Hermes purred, drawing out the syllables like a cat playing with a string. “You’ve been the subject of much speculation.”

 

“So I’ve heard,” Telemachus said smoothly, settling into the chair provided, one leg crossed neatly over the other.

 

Hermes let the pause stretch. He was good at that—good at silence, at shaping it into something tense and theatrical. The Capitol leaned into those beats, mistaking them for intimacy. It made people listen harder, as if they might miss something scandalous whispered between the lines.

 

“So,” Hermes said at last, his voice honeyed, “how does it feel, stepping into the spotlight after a lifetime in the shadows?”

 

He smiled just enough. “Bright,” he said. “Warmer than I expected.”

 

A few polite laughs from the audience. “Is that so?” Hermes’ eyes sparkled. “Because from where I’m sitting, it seems like you’ve had plenty of light—whether you wanted it or not. The son of Odysseus, the Boy with the Eleven.”

 

Hermes’ smile didn’t falter— if anything, it sharpened, like a knife being honed to gleam in the light. He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees, that sharklike posture of someone about to strike beneath a velvet curtain of charm.

 

“The Boy with the Eleven,” he repeated, voice soft as silk. “I have to ask— how does it feel to wear a legacy so heavy? Not just your father’s victories, but his choices, too.” Another pause. “The Capitol remembers them well.”

 

Telemachus kept his smile measured. “I’m sure they do.”

 

shit

 

Hermes tilted his head. “He came to us often, didn’t he? Banquets, benefits, the late-night interviews—”

 

“He did,” Telemachus interrupted, his palms were starting to sweat. He kept them resting lightly on the arms of the chair, fingers relaxed, like this didn’t matter. Think fast. Don’t get defensive. Don’t get dragged. lie lie lie

 

“He always said he preferred Capital wine.” Scattered laughter. Hermes’ mouth curved. “And yet, he rarely spoke of you.”

 

There it was. The real question, coiled behind the polite ones. Why did his father hate his son so much? Why did he feel the need to drag him every time he spoke of him?

 

Telemachus didn’t flinch. “He didn’t need to.” He let a note of humor thread into his voice. “Capitol already talked about me enough for the both of us.” And that they did.

 

His aunt always wanted his father to bring her back the magazines from the capital, she wanted to look at the outfits and keep updates on the gossip happening over there. It wasn’t uncommon for Telemachus to find a section gossiping about how poor Odysseus had such a hard life with a family he hated. He always ripped out the pages when he saw them, before anyone else could read it.

 

Hermes gave a delighted little hum, as though Telemachus had played right into his hands. “Now that’s interesting. Because when he did mention you, it was often… less than flattering.”

 

Telemachus didn’t blink. His heart beat like a war drum beneath his ribs. “Right,” he said, light, flippant. “That one time he called me a deadweight? Or when he said he hoped I wouldn’t inherit his stubbornness?”

 

“Or when he said— on camera, mind you —that fatherhood was ‘a shackle he never asked for.’” Hermes’ voice was velvet-wrapped steel now, low and intimate. “That he never wanted a son.”

 

The audience made a collective sound— some gasps, some soft sighs. The kind of noise the Capitol loved. Pain, dressed in pearls.

 

Telemachus’ mouth curved into a slow smile, and for a terrifying second, it looked like Odysseus’. But it wasn’t— he didn’t come with calculation. He came for survival. “I was nine when he said that,” he replied. “And I remember because that’s also the year he taught me how to shoot.”

 

Hermes blinked, just once. The crowd tittered again, unsure if it was a joke. “He taught you how to shoot?” Hermes echoed.

 

“Yep. animals, mostly. Took me to do it every week, when he was home of course. Gave me this whole speech about how important it was to be prepared. How important it was not to miss the first shot.”

 

Telemachus had never even held a bow. He didn’t know how to shoot. They owned a bow but it was off limits for Telemachus to touch, just in case he injured himself. He couldn’t string one even if he wanted to.

 

But he has an 11. He's the son of Odysseus, famous for his shooting massacre. He should at least pretend he's a little scary. Even if Athena told him to do the exact opposite, but he wasn’t really following her advice. He's not sure if that's a bad idea or not.

 

The audience laughed nervously. Telemachus smiled like it was all very funny.

 

Hermes laughed with them, warm and indulgent. “Well, sounds like he taught you more than Capitol wine preferences.”

 

Telemachus spread his hands, palms up. “What can I say? I’m a quick learner.”

 

A ripple of laughter again, a little more confident this time. Telemachus could feel it, the subtle shift in the room’s temperature— he was warming them. Not winning, not yet, but catching the edge of their interest like a hook slipping into the water. Good. Let them lean in. Let them think they were pulling the strings.

 

Hermes tilted his head, considering. “And what do you want, Telemachus? Out of all this?” He gestured loosely to the audience, to the lights, to the shadow of the arena looming just behind the Capitol’s curated glamour. “Glory? Revenge? A legacy to match your father’s?”

 

The air tightened around that last word. Father. As if it were still up for debate who that man had been to him.

 

Telemachus took a breath, deliberate and slow. “I want to go home,” he said simply. “Not in a box. Not as a ghost. I just want to be with my family again.”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t quite stunned, but it was quiet— more attentive than anything so far. Even Hermes didn’t fill it right away. A pause hung between them, heavy and golden.

 

“Beautifully said,” Hermes murmured, softer now. “And when you do go home— if you do— what should they say about you?”

 

“That I didn’t waste my shot.” He looked straight into the camera. Not at Hermes, not at the Capitol crowd behind the glass. Right into the lens. Like a dare. Like a boy with nothing to lose. A single beat of silence— then applause. Louder this time. A few people even stood.

 

Hermes smiled, wide and wolfish, and rose to take Telemachus’ hand. “District Seven, your tribute!”

 

The lights flared. Telemachus stood. Let Hermes raise his hand like a prize. Let the crowd clap and whistle and whisper to each other with freshly kindled curiosity.

 

He kept his smile polite, almost shy. Not too slick. Not too sharp. Just a little ragged at the edges— like someone trying, despite everything. They liked that. They loved that.

 

As he turned to walk offstage, he didn’t look at Hermes. He didn’t need to. He could already feel the game shifting under his feet. Part of him was angry that all his questions were about his father, the other part was glad. Talking about his father was easy and what the capitol wanted out of him.

 

As soon as he stepped off stage, the persona changed.

 

The lights faded off his skin, leaving him blinking against the sudden cool dimness. His chest rose and fell like it still hadn't caught up with him. He couldn’t tell if he was shaking or if the adrenaline just hadn’t let go yet. His hands were still a little clammy. His mouth was dry.

 

And then Nausicaa was there. She looked luminous, even in the harsher lighting of backstage. Capitol stylists had woven silver threads into her braids, and they caught every flicker of movement, every stray glint. Her dress was green and sharp and elegant— District Seven’s woods reborn in silk. For a moment she looked angry, furious even, but then she saw him and the expression faded.

 

She stepped toward him with only a slight hesitation and pulled him into a hug, a very tight hug, as if she was trying to squeeze the life out of him.

 

“You were amazing,” she murmured, voice soft against his ear. Her arms were firm around him, grounding.

 

He blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

 

“Really,” she said, pulling back just enough to look him in the face, hands still lightly on his shoulders. “Gods, Telemachus.” She gave a little shake of her head like she couldn’t believe it. “They ate it up. You're going to have sponsors dripping off you by morning.”

 

He gave a breathless little laugh, the kind that barely escaped his chest. “I don’t know. Felt like I was going to throw up the whole time.”

 

“That’s how you know it worked,” Nausicaa said gently, with the knowing ease of someone older, someone who’d had to get good at pretending. She brushed an invisible speck of lint off his collar, just a small, practiced gesture. “You looked calm. Like you meant every word.”

 

Nausicaa made it easy to believe they were allies. That they could be more than just strangers clinging to the same wreckage.

 

“Thank you,” he said. Quiet, but sincere.

 

Her smile softened. She stepped back, smoothed down her dress, and glanced at the stage. The applause was still settling, the lights cycling into the new cue. Hermes’ voice rang out again, calling her name with the same theatrical flourish. Nausicaa exhaled slowly, the way someone might before stepping into cold water. “Showtime, ish me luck.” she said. She glanced at him one more time. “Get some water. Breathe. You did great, Telemachus. Really.”

 

Then she turned and walked toward the stage, shoulders back, hips steady, her walk all grace and steel.

Notes:

Chapter not on a saturday? Who would've guessed.

Anyways, I asked if you guys wanted a chapter today or saturday (might still upload on sat, depends) on tumblr and uploading today won. so chapter yay

Chapter title - Hermes represent the fox. Sly and manipulative
The tributes are the rabbits - the foxes victims

Also i've had a few hints in previous chapters of what Odysseus did to try and protect telemachus. And it was pretend he didn't care about him. If he didn't care for Telemachus the capitol wouldn't see putting him in arena as a way to punish Ody, unfortuenly this did not work. Obviously.

SOME INCREDIBLE ART DRAWN BY THE WONDERFUL @pixlezz ON TUMBLR!!! GO YELL AT THEM HOW GREAT IT IS!!!
https://www.tumblr.com/pixlezz/784936532844937216/ive-been-obsessed-with-cassentia-s-hunger-games

Chapter 8: The arena

Telemachus is terrified.

 

He doesn’t want to die. Hes too young to die. Hes barely done anything in his life.

 

He’s never fallen in love. Not properly. Not the kind of love that splits you open and remakes you in its image. He’s never seen the sea outside of books. Never gone more than five miles past the edge of District Seven. Never learned how to string a bow, or swing an axe, or tell when someone’s lying by the way they hold their breath. He doesn’t know if he snores. Or if he talks in his sleep. Or what kind of person he might’ve become if he had more time.

 

The arena will open today. And theres a high chance it’ll be the last thing he ever sees.

 

Right now, he’s sitting in his father’s arms. Curled against him like he used to when he was very small, when nightmares were still about wolves in the forest and not Capitol-engineered death traps. His father holds him close, one hand rubbing slow circles into Telemachus’ back, the other wrapping protectively around him, as if he could hold him so tight that no one would come to take him away.

 

His father doesn’t say anything for a long time.

 

His breath is steady, his chest rising and falling beneath Telemachus’ cheek. His hands are warm, rough with years of work and war, but careful in how they touch him. Like Telemachus is something precious.

 

Telemachus closes his eyes. He’s trying to memorize the rhythm of it all— the sound of his father’s breathing, the exact way it feels to be held like this. The scrape of stubble against his temple. The faint smell of sawdust and pine sap on his skin that even the capitol can’t wash away, he's still a district boy through and through.

 

Because the second that glass tube rises around him in the launch room, he knows the Capitol will start taking pieces of him.

 

This is one they can’t have.

 

“I’m scared,” Telemachus whispers, barely audible. His throat is tight. The words come out like splinters.

 

“I know,” his father whispers into his hair. “I know.”

 

Telemachus curls closer, as if he could climb inside his father’s chest and stay there, safe and hidden. As if this moment could stretch out forever and protect him from what’s coming.

 

“I would trade places with you a thousand times,” Odysseus whispers. “I would go into that arena myself if I thought it would keep you safe. I would tear the whole Capitol down with my bare hands—”

 

Telemachus turns his face into his father’s shoulder and lets out a sound halfway between a breath and a sob. Why him? What did his parents do to deserve this? What did he do?

 

“Stop,” he says again, broken and pleading. “Just— stop. I know. I know.”

 

They sit there in silence for a long time after that. Long enough that Telemachus’ breathing evens out again. Long enough that his father presses kisses to his hair and just keeps holding him. He wishes he could stay in this exact moment. That time would freeze here, just long enough to keep him from what comes next.

 

But eventually, the knock comes.

 

Three quiet taps. The signal. Time’s up.

 

His father pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. His hands cradle Telemachus’ face. He looks like he’s memorizing him too.

 

His fathers hands are trembling now. Only a little. But Telemachus feels it— where his father’s thumb presses into his jaw, where his palm cups the side of his face like it’s something sacred. His eyes are red, rimmed with exhaustion and grief, but blazing with something else too. Something fierce. Unbreakable.

 

“Listen to me,” He says, and his voice is low, steady, urgent. “You do whatever you need to do to survive in there. Do you understand me?”

 

Telemachus opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His father leans in, forehead resting against his, eyes closed for a moment like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. “There is no right or wrong in that place,” Odysseus says, voice hoarse. “There’s you, and there’s making it back to us. That’s it. That’s all.”

 

Telemachus blinks fast. He doesn’t want to cry again. He’s already cried so much he feels hollow. But his father’s words keep hitting him in the chest like stones.

 

“You are not a monster,” Odysseus continues. “Not for fighting. Not for surviving. Not for doing things you never thought you could. The Capitol wants to make you believe that. They want to twist you into something small and ashamed. Don’t let them.” He swallows, and his hands tighten just slightly around Telemachus’ face. “You hold on to whatever you have to. But don’t hold on to guilt. Don’t hold on to shame. You live. You get through this. Because your mother and I—” His voice breaks for the first time. A sharp, sudden crack. He breathes in through his nose. Tries again. “Your mother and I... we need you. We won't survive this if you don’t come home. We still need you.”

 

“I’m not ready,” he says, voice paper-thin.

 

“You don’t have to be,” Odysseus says. “As soon as you get in there, you run. Run as far from the cornucopia as you can, don’t even think about grabbing a bag because you’ll die, I know you will. You run, you find water first. Then food and shelter. You just have to outlast everyone else. You just have to survive.”

 

There’s another knock. Louder, this time. More urgent. They don’t have long.

 

Odysseus pulls him close one last time, arms wrapped tight, as if by sheer force he could shield him from everything that’s coming. “I love you,” he murmurs into his son’s hair. “You are the best thing thats ever happened to me.”

 

And then he lets go. Not because he wants to. Not because he’s ready. But because he has to. Because the world outside this room is cruel and merciless and waiting. And Telemachus is going to have to face it alone.

 

The door opens with a quiet hiss. Telemachus doesn’t move right away. He stares at the floor, then at the open threshold, as if it’s a second reaping. As if maybe, if he doesn’t stand, they’ll take it all back.

 

But it doesn’t. This is happening and there's nothing he can do to change it.

 

He doesn’t look back. Can’t. He knows if he does, he’ll fall apart.

 

He steps through the door. Hebe is waiting for him.

 

She’s dressed in Capitol black, sharp and clean, every hair in place, her face an unreadable mask. But her eyes soften a little when they land on him. She doesn’t reach out, doesn’t crowd him— just offers a small, quiet nod. Respectful. Like she knows what it costs him to keep walking.

 

He wants to say something, something funny and smart. But he can’t speak. The words are lodged somewhere deep inside him, tangled up with everything else he hasn’t had time to process. Grief, fear, love. All of it crushed into a single, breathless silence. Hebe doesn’t push. She walks quietly beside him down the long hallway, heels echoing faintly on the polished floors.

 

The Peacekeepers posted along the walls don’t look at him. They stand rigid and silent in their white armor, like statues.

 

He wonders if any of them have kids.

 

The hallway narrows, then turns, and suddenly he’s in a new room— bright, sterile, metallic. And when the doors shut behind him he knows he is in the prep chamber before launch.

 

His platform waits in the center of the room. A glass tube, lit from beneath. Waiting to swallow him whole.

 

Telemachus doesn’t move at first. He just stares at the tube. It rises from the ground like something sacred or sacrificial—glowing faintly with that sickly Capitol light. A coffin standing upright. A monument to how small and powerless he really is.

 

Hebe moves ahead of him, typing something into a screen embedded in the wall. The platform hums softly, like it’s waking up. Like it’s hungry. She turns to him at last. “This is it,” she says gently. “Once you’re inside, they’ll count you down. You’ll rise with the others. And then… the Games begin.”

 

Telemachus nods, barely. His hands are clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles are bloodless.

 

“You’ve done everything right,” Hebe says, softer now. “You’ve trained hard. You’ve listened. You’ve shown them exactly what you needed to show. You’re not weak.”

 

He almost laughs at that. A raw, hollow sound that doesn’t quite make it past his throat. If she could feel what was happening inside him— how everything is breaking apart at the seams— she wouldn’t be so sure.

 

But Hebe steps forward anyway. Carefully. Slowly. “I know it’s not fair,” she says, so softly hes sure no one else could hear them. “I know you shouldn’t be here. None of you should. But you are. And since you are— you have to treat this like war.”

 

He looks at her then. For the first time, really looks. And something flickers in her expression that startles him. Defiance.“Do you know how many tributes I’ve prepared?” she asks. Her voice is barely above a whisper now, it's quiet enough that cameras wouldn’t be able to hear them. “10. I haven’t seen one come home.” Telemachus’s stomach flips. “I remember every single one,” she says. “The ones who looked like you— who were terrified and too soft and too human to be doing this.” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re not the first boy I’ve watched step onto that platform. But gods help me, I want you to be the last.” He doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s nothing really to say.

 

For a moment, Telemachus can’t breathe. Hebe’s words hang in the air like incense— sharp and holy, clinging to him. He wants to reach for them. I Want to believe them. That he could be different. That he could be the last. That it matters whether he steps into this with his heart still intact. He wants nothing more than to succeed and save everyone, save the world. But hes so terrified hes going to fail. Or that he's going to have to choose between saving the world or saving himself. If he chooses the world, than his parents' world will break anyways.

 

And then the voice crackles through the speaker above them, cool and mechanical: “Tribute, step onto the platform.”

 

Time’s up.

 

He steps toward the platform. His legs are shaking. Every part of him is screaming to run, to turn back, to beg for more time— just a little more time. But there is no more time. There is only forward. There is only the arena.

 

He climbs onto the platform, his boots echoing faintly on the metal. He watches as Hebe finishes inputting the final commands. The sound makes his skin crawl. It’s too much like the sound of a trap closing. Like he is the prey his father sometimes catches in his traps.

 

Hebe is watching him. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest like she’s holding herself together. Like if she doesn’t, she might fall apart. She gives him a single, sharp nod. A goodbye. A prayer.

 

The tube begins to close.

 

Panic flares in him again, sharp and visceral. Let me out, some part of him screams. I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not—

 

The glass seals shut. And suddenly, the world goes quiet. He can see nothing beyond the tube now. Just his own reflection staring back at him— pale and scared and too young.

 

He doesn’t look like a killer. He doesn’t look like a victor. He looks like a boy who hasn’t lived long enough to understand what dying means. And maybe he doesn’t quite understand.

 

There’s a mechanical whir beneath his feet. The platform shudders slightly, and begins to rise.

 

The world lifts beneath him. Telemachus grips the sides of the platform, though there’s nothing to hold on to—just smooth, unyielding glass. Telemachus’ breath fogs against the glass, his heartbeat pounding loud in his ears— so loud it drowns out the grinding sound of the lift.

 

Light begins to bloom overhead, faint and golden, filtering in from above like some half-remembered sunrise. But it’s not the open sky waiting for him. Not fresh air or sun-dappled trees.

 

The glass begins to fall around him, stale air rushes in, leaving him open and exposed to the arena.

 

The arena. A cave.

 

The arena yawns open before him— vast, dark, and echoing. The ceiling stretches high above, jagged and uneven, and somewhere near its peak, a natural shaft lets in a shaft of light— thin and silvery, spotlighting the central area of the cavern floor.

 

But it's not one massive cave. This part is large but looking into the darkness that the light doesn’t hit is what looks like tunnels.

 

And at the center of it all is the Cornucopia.

 

It’s the usual scatter of bags and crates, crude weapons and supplies, arranged in a wide circle on the cavern floor. Jagged rocks jut up around the edges, making it feel like a pit. The tunnels branch out in all directions from the central chamber, black mouths yawning like they might swallow him whole.

 

And chained in the middle of the Cornucopia is a monster.

 

A mutt.

 

At first, he can’t make sense of what he’s seeing. It’s too massive. Too wrong.

 

It stands at least eight feet tall, broad as a bull, with thick, matted fur the color of dried blood. Its arms are too long, its hands curled into fists the size of Telemachus’ head, ending in claws like knives. Its chest heaves with every breath, thick ropes of muscle shifting beneath scarred skin. Its face— if you could call it that —is a nightmare blend of beast and man. A snout twisted like a wild boar’s. Its eyes are black and expressionless, gleaming in the low light. And its head— its head is unmistakably that of a bull.

 

It bellows, a sound so loud it shakes the ground beneath Telemachus’ feet. The chains groan as it lunges, testing its bounds. They're thick—metal and bolted into the stone floor—but the mutt pulls at them hard enough that they spark. Foam clings to its mouth. Blood crusts its fur.

 

Telemachus doesn’t breathe. He feels as though he can’t.

 

The bull-mutt thrashes again, jerking at its chains with such force that dust falls from the cavern ceiling. Every part of him is screaming to run, to bolt into the dark and not stop until the beast is a memory. But his legs won’t move, not yet. The countdown hasn’t finished— he knows it hasn’t, because everything is still too still, too tense. The other tributes stand like statues in their tubes, scattered in a wide circle around the Cornucopia, their faces unreadable from this distance.

 

And then he sees it.

 

Near the outer rim of the supplies, close— so close —to his position. A small bag. Canvas, dark green, with a red patch stitched on the side. It’s not flashy. Not obviously valuable. But it’s near.

 

He could reach, if he moved fast enough.

 

His father's voice echoes in his head. "Run. Don’t grab a bag. You’ll die, I know you will." And for a moment, he almost listens. He almost turns away, ready to bolt into one of the tunnels like a shadow.

 

But something stops him. That bag might be the difference between dying in the dark and surviving just one more day. Water. Rope. A knife. Anything could be in it. And it’s right there.

 

His pulse hammers. The monster roars again, drool flinging from its maw, and the chains rattle like bones. But they hold.

 

Telemachus locks his knees. Forces himself to breathe. I can get it. I’m fast. Faster than they think.

 

A distant voice, disembodied and serene, begins to count down from ten.

 

Ten.

 

He exhales shakily. His fingers flex. His eyes lock on the bag.

 

Nine. Eight. Seven.

 

He glances once to his left. A girl from District two. Stocky. Sharp-eyed. She’s eyeing a spear closer to the center, but she hasn’t moved yet.

 

Six. Five.

 

He lowers into a crouch, heart battering against his ribs. He doesn’t dare look at the mutt again. If he does, he might freeze.

 

Four. Three. Two.

 

His breath catches in his throat.

 

One.

 

The horn sounds. Telemachus runs. Boots pounding on stone, he surges forward like something shot from a bow. The echo of his steps cracks across the cavern floor. He hears the thunder of others launching from their platforms too— scattered footfalls, a scream, someone grunting with the effort of swinging something heavy —but he keeps his eyes on the prize. The bag.

 

Telemachus snatches the bag in a rough, desperate motion, the coarse canvas stinging his fingers as he yanks it from the stone. The weight of it hits him hard— he doesn’t even know what’s inside, just that it’s heavier than he expected.

 

He turns to sprint for the nearest tunnel. But he doesn’t make it two steps. The girl from District 2 is already on him.

 

She slams into him from the side like a wrecking ball, all muscle and momentum, and he goes down hard. His back hits the stone floor with a brutal crack that knocks the wind from his lungs.

 

The bag skitters from his grip, bouncing away with a clatter. His head snaps to the side. The arena lights blur for a moment. Then she’s on top of him. Her knee digs into his chest, crushing. Her fist rears back, already swinging before he can raise his hands. The punch lands squarely against his jaw.

 

He tastes blood. He flails, panic surging. Tries to shove her off. But she’s heavier, stronger, trained. She was raised for this. He wasn’t. His limbs scramble, slipping against the stone, but she doesn’t move. She’s not even breathing hard.

 

Another punch. His nose erupts in pain. Warm blood pours down to his lips, into his mouth. The world tilts. He doesn’t even try to strike back. It wouldn’t do anything.

 

He pictures his poor mother watching this with the rest of his district, breaking down as she watches him get beaten. Would the district feel sympathy for her? Or would they only be able to remember all their previous children that her husband wasn’t able to save?

 

The taste of blood thickens on his tongue.

 

Somewhere in the periphery of his vision, the bull-mutt screams again—so loud it feels like the air itself splits—but the sound dims beneath the ringing in his ears. Telemachus tries to breathe. Can’t. Her knee’s still pressed against his ribs.

 

The edges of his vision flicker black. This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies. Not from starvation or cold or the mutt that still howls from the center of the Cornucopia. Not in some noble sacrifice or desperate last stand. Just here, crushed into the stone by a girl with blood on her knuckles and victory in her eyes.

 

He wants to scream. Not in fear, but in fury. It shouldn’t end like this. Wasn’t he worth more than this?

 

The point of a spear bursts clean through her chest, just inches from his face.

 

The girl jerks. Her eyes widen.

 

For a moment, Telemachus doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. She stiffens atop him like a marionette pulled too tight, her mouth falling open but no sound escaping. The metal glistens red. It juts out from between her ribs, trembling from the force of the throw. She exhales, a wet gasp, and slumps forward onto him, limp.

 

Her limbs twitch once before going still, still against him. He blinks through the sting in his eyes, trying to shove her off, but his arms are trembling and slick with blood— hers, not his.

 

The spear is still embedded in her back.

 

Then, suddenly, she’s yanked off him. Ripped away like a sack of meat. A figure looms in her place, crouched low, panting hard.

 

The boy from District 2.

 

Telemachus sucks in air like it’s a drug. Chokes on it. Blood and oxygen and disbelief flood his brain.

 

Telemachus scrambles backward on his elbows, trying to get away, his boots skidding against the stone. His chest heaves, ragged with panic, blood smeared up his neck, warm and tacky. He can’t tell which of them it belongs to. His vision swims.

 

But he can’t get away, hes almost stuck to the floor, unable to run.

 

Instead he braces for death.

 

He hopes his grandfather is waiting for him on the other side. A face that looks like his fathers but missing the features that copy his grandmothers. Maybe he’ll pull him into his arms and tell him he tried and that he doesn’t have to suffer anymore. His death will only cause his parents suffering, not his own.

 

He braces for death and some part of him is angry that he doesn’t even get the chance to fight. He doesn’t get the chance to show how he wants to live.

 

But the killing blow never comes.

 

“Get up,” The word is screamed at him, to ensure he can hear it over the sound of death coming from the cornucopia. “Run! Get out of here!”

 

Telemachus blinks, dazed. The voice isn’t cruel or mocking— it’s desperate. Urgent.

 

The boy from District 2 is standing above him, dark eyes flicking back toward the Cornucopia where chaos still reigns. Another cannon sounds, reverberating through the stone like thunder. Someone’s dead. Maybe more than one.

 

Telemachus scrambles backward, his palms scraping against the rough stone, boots flailing for purchase. His ribs scream in protest, and his vision swims with pain and blood and the thundering aftermath of panic. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t question the reprieve. He just moves.

 

Somehow, his legs find the strength. He staggers upright with a ragged breath, the world still tilting beneath him. The bag lies a few feet away, dark and stained with blood. He lunges for it, grabbing it with fingers that barely feel solid. The weight of it slams back into his arms.

 

Then he runs. He doesn’t look back. Not at the girl’s body. Not at the boy who saved him. Not at the spear still slick with red. The Cornucopia roars behind him, echoing with the screams of tributes and the snarls of the chained mutt.

 

He dodges past a fallen body— someone whose throat has been torn open —blinks against the sting of sweat and blood in his eyes, and sprints toward the nearest tunnel. But he doesn’t know which one to take.

 

The tunnels are like gaping animal mouths, yawning wide at the edges of the Cornucopia, concealing their teeth in the darkness. Some flicker with faint blue light. Others are pitch black. One is already choked with smoke. He falters for a split second, panic jolting his limbs again.

 

Then, through the haze, he sees a figure darting into the far-left tunnel.

 

Amphinomus.

 

He slips once— his boot sliding in a puddle of something he refuses to identify—but he doesn’t stop. He crashes into the tunnel behind Amphinomus.

 

It’s dark and narrow, the air is wet with condensation, moss slicks the walls.

 

Two shapes blur ahead.

 

One of them spins, a weapon raised — he thinks it may be an axe.

 

"Wait!" Telemachus gasps, stumbling to a halt, nearly collapsing. "It's me—it's me—!"

 

The axe lowers, but only slightly. “Telemachus?” a voice breathes, half in disbelief. Nausicaa.

 

His knees nearly give. Relief punches through him harder than any blow he’d taken in the arena.

 

He half expects her to come over and catch him as he slumps against the wall, but she doesn’t. She just stares in shock, disbelief.

 

“You’re alive.”

 

“Barely.”

 

She looks at him with a distant kind of look, as if she's already staring at a ghost.

 

“I thought—” she starts, then cuts herself off. Shakes her head like she’s clearing it. “We saw her on top of you. The District 2 girl. We thought—”

 

“You thought I was dead.” He gives a hoarse, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I did too.”

 

Amphinomus hasn’t said a word. He lingers just behind her. Its a bit awkward between the two, they both are only working together for Nausicaa.

 

“I tried to fight back,” Telemachus murmurs, eyes still unfocused, blinking blood and grit from his lashes. “Didn’t work. She was going to kill me. And then—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t say the boy from her own district saved me. It feels fragile, absurd, to say aloud. Like it’ll shatter the moment it leaves his lips. Betraying your district partner is frowned upon, a career betraying the rest day one is unheard of.

 

Nausicaa exhales sharply. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

 

“Yeah.” He breathes a little easier now that he's around allies. Now what's important is following his fathers list. Water, food, shelter. He already disobeyed his first instruction. He might as well follow the rest.

Notes:

SO i decided to upload now because i can't this weekend due to me going on holiday + not much writing will be getting done.

FINALLY IN THE ARENA!!! I hope this chapter lived up to the expectations. Neo is FINALLY having a role, only for him to disappear again...

ALso i wanted to let everyone know, now that the actual games have started, i will put warnings in the end notes. I don't wanna do them at the start to avoid spoilers/suprises, but the warnings will be for like death and especially sad moments -> if you want anything else listed as a warning, let me know. So if you want a warning before reading, just skip to check out the end notes first where the first line will be listing any warnings :> if theres no warnings, i'll just say that theres no warnings that chapter

ALSO YES!!! THE ARENA IS MEANT TO BE INSPIRED BY THE LABYRINTH IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY!!! AND THE MUTT IS THE MINOTAUR

Chapter 9: Third wheel

Only Telemachus had managed to grab a bag.

 

The bag was soaked in blood— not his, he didn’t think —and slick with whatever foul grime the Cornucopia floor had been coated in. But it was his. It was something. It meant maybe he wouldn't die in the first hour.

 

Telemachus didn’t let go of the bag right away. Even as they crouched in the dark, the three of them hunched in a shallow alcove off the main tunnel, he kept it clutched tight to his chest like it was something living. His fingers ached from how hard he was holding the straps.

 

The canvas was damp, sticky with blood— definitely not his, or at least not only his— but he couldn’t bring himself to set it down. It was the only thing he had.

 

“Telemachus,” Amphinomus said gently, crouched beside him. “We need to see what’s in there.”

 

He didn’t respond. Just stared down at the bag in his lap. He knew he looked ridiculous— trembling, smeared in blood, clutching a bag like it was a life raft —but he didn’t care. He’d earned it. He’d bled for it. Nearly died for it. It was his.

 

Nausicaa didn’t wait. She stepped closer, boots scraping stone. “If it’s useless junk, we need to know now. Let me see it.”

 

“No,” he said, sharper than he meant to. His voice cracked on the word, but it stopped her.
“I’ll do it.”

 

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Amphinomus leaned back slightly, watching. Telemachus slowly loosened his grip. His fingers left prints in the grime. With stiff, bloodied hands, he tugged open the flap and tipped the contents out onto the stone between them. One by one, the items clattered into the dim light.

 

First, a tightly wound roll of string, thin but strong-looking, unraveling slightly as it hit the stone. Then a knife— folded, the blade hidden, but its weight unmistakable.

 

Amphinomus reached for it immediately. “Useful,” he said, already turning it over in his hands. “I’ll hold onto this.”

 

Telemachus didn’t argue. His fingers twitched as the knife was taken, but he didn’t stop Amphinomus. Nausicaa, still standing, watched the exchange but didn’t intervene. She had her axe strapped across her back. She didn’t need a knife. She never had.

 

A weapon would be useful, but Telemachus doubts he could truly do anything with it to defend himself. Besides, if the worst comes to worst, Nausicaa and Amphinomus would protect him.

 

Next came a small satchel of dried fruit. Telemachus opened it slowly, his nose catching the dusty sweetness. He could make out thin slices of pear, tough strips of apple, maybe plum. All from trees. He didn’t know why that detail stuck with him, but it did.

 

“Could be worse,” Amphinomus said, glancing at the food.

 

“Could be better,” Nausicaa muttered. “That won’t last long between the three of us.”

 

An empty canteen and empty cup clattered after, dented at the base. Telemachus picked up the canteen and shook it once. Bone dry. They still needed to find water.

 

He didn’t say anything— just clipped it to his belt with a quiet determination, like owning it meant he’d find a way to fill it.

 

Then came the last thing: a small first aid container. It was simple— metal, battered, the latch stiff from rust.

 

Telemachus opened it carefully, half expecting it to be empty too. But inside were a few folded bandages, stained a pale yellow with age but still usable. There was a roll of gauze, a tiny pair of shears. And tucked into the side—a bundle of leaves wrapped in wax paper.

 

Amphinomus leaned in. “Herbs,” he said. “That’s lucky.”

 

Nausicaa stepped closer, casting a glance at the bruises mottling Telemachus’ ribs, the torn skin along his arm from the scrape he took during the scramble. She crouched now, one boot planted firm on the stone, her eyes scanning the bandages, then the little bundle of leaves.

 

“Are any of them useful for you?” she asked. “Something for the swelling. Or the pain?”

 

Telemachus didn’t answer her right away. His fingers hovered over the small bundle, hesitant, and then he reached down and gently pried one of the leaves loose. It peeled away from the others with a quiet hiss, as if even the plant itself didn’t want to be touched. He turned it over in his palm. It was dark green and waxy, the edges rimmed in a sharp, unnatural red—so bright it almost glowed in the gloom of the tunnel. The stem was thick and faintly purple, and when he pinched it, the leaf gave slightly beneath his touch like old leather. He felt his stomach twist.

 

“It’s poisonous,” Telemachus said, holding the leaf up between his fingers so they could both see. “My mum called it bloodvein. I showed it to you during training.” he said, specifically to Nausicaa. He looked back down at the leaf, turning it slowly in his fingers. “It won’t hurt you to touch. But if you eat it—if even a piece gets into a wound, or someone brews it thinking it’s a painkiller—it shuts down your lungs. Fast.”

 

Amphinomus shifted, glancing at the leaf as though it might bite. “You’re sure?”

 

“I’m sure,” Telemachus said. “We were taught to recognize it on sight. Mum made me memorize it when I was little. Said if I ever brought it home, she’d throw me into the lake.”

 

Nausicaa gave a short, quiet breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

 

“This one’s fresh. Potent. If someone put it in here thinking it was useful, they didn’t know what they were doing. Or worse— they did.”

 

Amphinomus stared at the leaf for a long moment, then reached out and plucked it carefully from Telemachus’ fingers. He didn’t flinch at the touch, but there was a tightness to the way he held it— like he didn’t fully trust it not to kill him just by being near.

 

“Can I keep it?” he asked.

 

Telemachus blinked. “What? Why?”

 

Amphinomus didn’t answer immediately. He crouched back on his heels, rolling the leaf between two fingers with more care than he’d shown the knife. “Just in case.” he said simply. “If it comes to it, I’d rather not die slow.”

 

The words landed heavy in the space between them. Telemachus blinked again, then looked away. “You think that’ll help?” he muttered. “Poison yourself before they can gut you?”

 

Amphinomus didn’t smile. “I’ve seen what happens when people bleed out over hours. Or starve. Or get trapped with someone who enjoys it. I’m sure you’ve seen it too.” He paused, then added, voice quieter, “There are worse ways to go than quick.”

 

Nausicaa looked at Amphinomus for a long moment, unreadable. Then she gave a small nod. "Keep it," she said. “Just in case.”

 

The idea made Telemachus feel a bit uncomfortable. He was used to his mother doing all she could to save a patient, not someone preparing for death. But he couldn’t really blame him, maybe he didn’t have as much of an incentive to get home.

 

He watched as Amphinomus shoved the leaf into his inside pocket. Safe keeping.

 

They paused for a moment, as if unsure what to do. Usually they would have someone older and wiser ready to direct them what tree to cut down next or where to put the paper they just created.

 

Nausicaa was the first to move. She stood, slow and steady, like something coiled with tension. The light caught the blade of her axe as she adjusted it on her back, the metal glinting briefly.

 

She looked down the tunnel. “We should move soon,” she said.

 

Amphinomus nodded, already rising. “We’ll head away from the cornucopia, the careers probably aren’t staking there like usual, but I don't wanna be the one to try and fight that mutt.”

 

Telemachus swallowed, then pushed himself upright. His legs trembled, muscles burning with the delayed onset of pain and exhaustion. Before his legs could give out on him, Amphinomus caught him.

 

Part of Telemachus wants to protest anyways. They should stay near the cornucopia. Near that horrific looking mutt until someone — most likely one of the careers — figures out a way to kill it. Then he can start on the plan to destroy the arena. But he doubts it’ll be soon that he gets that opportunity. Besides, he can’t carry out Athena's plan if he dies first.

 

“We should find water.” His father's words echoed in his ears as he spoke. And maybe some animals would be by the water, or some water grown plants like back home. It was a smart idea, maybe an obvious one but hes still the one who said it. Its a small thing, but he feels almost useful.

 

The tunnels stretched long and low, the air inside growing colder the deeper they went. At first, they kept close together, Telemachus in the back, one hand fisted in the back of Amphinomus’ shirt, the other holding tight to the half-empty bag.

 

Nausicaa led, axe in hand now, every step deliberate. The blood on her cheek had dried in a jagged smear, but she hadn’t wiped it away. The sound of their boots echoed— too loud for comfort.

 

Every so often, one of them would stop and press their ear to the stone, listening for anything ahead. Movement. Breathing. The telltale scrape of a weapon drawn. Usually Telemachus would do it, or Nausicaa. Amphinomus was born and raised in 8, no nature in the entire district, only warehouses and smoke. His mother would only talk about her district with disdain, thankful she was able to escape, mournful the rest of her family was still stuck.

 

But the tunnels stayed quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in on your skin and got into your mouth. Telemachus tried not to think about the cameras. He hated the idea of being watched like this— staggering and wounded, smeared in someone else’s blood, weak. He hates to think about his mother back home watching him, knowing exactly how to heal the wounds, knowing the way she should wipe the blood off of him. Knowing how to hold him just right in the way made him feel like he belonged in her arms.

 

Telemachus paused, tugging on Amphinomus shirt slightly as a way to tell the two ahead of him to stop for a moment. He placed his head towards the cave wall. The stone was damp against Telemachus’ cheek, cold enough to sting. He pressed harder, ear flattened, breath held. At first, there was only the rush of his own blood, the ache in his ribs, the distant pulse of boots and breathing.

 

Then— A sound. Faint. Wet.

 

A gasp.

 

The kind someone tries to swallow before it can become a sob. He jerked back.

 

“Wait,” Telemachus whispered.

 

“What is it?” Nausicaa asked, her axe halfway raised, not looking back.

 

“There’s someone—” he said, then turned again to the wall, fingers splayed against the damp curve of stone. He closed his eyes, straining. “Crying. Behind the wall, I think. It’s hollow there, maybe a break in the rock or a side tunnel. Just ahead.”

 

He feels bad for the person, whoever it is. He wishes the arena gave the opportunity for them to sob and cry in peace. But it didn’t.

 

Nausicaa didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head slightly, then glanced at Amphinomus. Their eyes met for less than a second. That was all it took. No words. No gestures. No drawn-out discussion. Just a flicker of understanding passed between them like flint to tinder.

 

Amphinomus grabbed the knife out of his belt, flicking it open as Nausicaa shifted her stance. The axe dropped an inch in her grip, the blade angled low but ready. Her eyes were already scanning the tunnel wall, looking for a crack, a seam, a place thin enough to pry open.

 

“Stay here. Don’t move,” Amphinomus said quietly. The tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even hard. Just... flat. Businesslike. The way Telemachus hears his father talk to the head peacekeepers whenever he comes over to try and befriend his father for the millionth time.

 

Telemachus stepped back instinctively. “Wait,” he said again, louder this time. “We don’t even know who it is—”

 

But Nausicaa was already moving. She slipped around a jagged outcrop of stone and pressed her shoulder to the wall. Her free hand reached up, fingers brushing across a thin line of shadow near the base— an opening, a collapsed portion of tunnel just wide enough for someone of Amphinomus’ size to crawl through.

 

She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Amphinomus followed her lead, crouching low beside the gap.

 

“She’s crying,” Telemachus whispered, more sharply now. But he still sounded like a child, and compared to the two 18 year olds before him, that's exactly what he was. He couldn’t truly understand why they had partnered with him “She’s not a threat.”

 

“She’s a tribute,” Amphinomus murmured, not looking up. “Same as us.”

 

“But—”

 

“Stay back,” Nausicaa said, voice like ice. Not unkind. Just firm. Like someone who had already decided and didn’t have the time or desire to explain why.

 

Telemachus stood frozen as Amphinomus disappeared into the darkness of the side tunnel, knife in hand.

 

For a moment, the only sounds were the soft rustle of cloth and the distant, muffled sobs that grew sharper now, the way pain sounds when it thinks no one is listening.

 

silence.

 

A sharp gasp.

 

A breath that didn’t finish becoming a scream.

 

Nothing.

 

Telemachus' throat felt dry. He clenched his hands against his sides and stared at the entrance to the side tunnel. The rock around it was still damp. It smelled like moss and old iron, the moss was like home, he remembers collecting it when his father was in the capitol and they decided he wasn’t performing enough, the capitol would cut off their money and ability to spend it until he performed well enough for them. During that time he and his mother would collect any food they could from the forest near the victors village. Telemachus would stay by the lake he usually played at and collect the moss and roots. It smelled like that, but the iron didn’t. The iron just reminded him of the blood covering him.

 

Nausicaa stood motionless beside the opening, axe lowered, but ready. She didn’t glance at Telemachus. She didn’t even blink. Her breathing was slow, measured. Professional. It was over quickly.

 

Amphinomus emerged again, ducking low beneath the stone. He was wiping the blade clean on the inside of his sleeve.

 

“She had some crackers,” he said. “And a full canteen. Nothing else.”

 

Nausicaa nodded once and stepped aside, she looked happy at the canteen. Some water to last them until they could find their own source. But she didn’t ask if it was done. She didn’t have to. She just turned and started walking. Amphinomus passed by Telemachus without meeting his eyes. “She would’ve died anyway,” he said under his breath. “Just faster now.”

 

Telemachus didn’t move as he felt Amphinomus unzip his backpack and chuck the items into it. He stared into the side tunnel, into the darkness where the girl had been. He’d never seen her face. Never heard her name. Just a sound: crying. Just a silhouette behind a wall.

 

They hadn’t hesitated. They didn't needed to speak. And that— more than the killing —was what made his stomach twist.

 

It wasn’t rage he felt. Or sorrow. Not even fear. It was something quieter than all of that. Something colder.

 

He was watching them become the kind of people the Games demanded.

 

And worse— he realized they were good at it.

 

He followed them in silence.

 

Their footsteps fell into rhythm again, the crunch of boots on grit echoing off the tunnel walls. Telemachus stayed a few paces behind. He didn’t know if that was his choice or theirs—maybe both. They seemed closer than he thought they would be, but he supposes that isn’t surprising. They seemed to like training together, Nausicaa would usually start training with telemachus and then move to doing it with Amphinomus so it makes sense that they’re close and understand each others cues.

 

The path sloped downward. The walls narrowed in places, forcing them to duck or turn sideways, and widened in others, where the ceiling rose and the stone curved into sweeping arches that caught their footsteps and echoed them back in strange, layered rhythms. Some of the areas had gaps in the ceiling showing them a bright sky that was slowly darkening. He wonders if there's anything outside the cave but the sky. He could probably climb the walls into the opening if the area had enough texture on the walls.

 

The tunnel spilled out into a chamber wide enough for them to stand comfortably side by side. The ceiling arched high above, broken in one place by a jagged split in the rock where sunlight streamed down in a shaft of dimming gold. Dust swirled in it lazily, motes drifting like ash in the still air.

 

Nausicaa stopped first, her eyes flicking upward toward the opening. You could see the sky through it— pink-tinged clouds thickening at the edges with the onset of dusk. She stepped forward into the pool of light and tipped her head back, letting the last warmth of the sun touch her face.

 

“This is it,” she said. “We stay here tonight.”

 

Amphinomus grunted his agreement. “Enclosed enough to defend. One exit. Overhead light. We’ll see them coming.”

 

Telemachus hovered near the edge of the chamber, unsure whether to step into the light. He couldn’t help but notice how both Amphinomus and Nausicaa relaxed a little now that they had shelter. Just a little— barely a softening of the shoulders, a loosening of the grip on a weapon. But enough. The moment held.

 

Then Amphinomus turned his attention to the floor and began sweeping away loose debris with his boot, clearing a space. Nausicaa followed suit, pulling aside rocks, dry moss, and old bones. Telemachus moved finally, dragging his feet toward the patch of sun. He tilted his face up. The sunlight didn’t feel real. It was cool and weak, like someone’s memory of sunlight. But it was something. Besides, it was already have gone as the day began to end and the night was about to start, he should take what he can.

 

“I’ll go have a look nearby.” Nausicaa said, “make sure no one is around, or that there's no food or water close by. If you guys wanna start on a dinner with what little we have.” She looked at Amphinomus as she said it.

 

Her figure slipped into the shadows as if there was nothing to fear out there.

Notes:

WARNINGS - Non major character death

Now, you may have read this chapter and went, 'Cassie, that was a little boring.' and y'know what, that is fair. I was thinking of uploading this friday but didn't because I was iffy about it, but the chapter is needed for the next one so y'know. Added the thing with the girl dying to add some excitement to the chapter + to give an idea on whats going on through Amphinomus and Nausicaa's mind and the way they are easily able to convert into the mindset for the game.

Chapter 10: First Night

“We’ll need to ration,” Amphinomus said, voice quiet but not unkind. “Especially if we don’t find water or food tomorrow.”

 

“Maybe Nausicaa will find something.”

 

“I doubt it.” he paused for a moment, deep in thought, and then as if remembering something he cleared his throat. Amphinomus rubbed at his jaw for a moment, then rose to his feet with a grunt.

 

He moved toward the mouth of the chamber, where a low outcrop of stone jutted out like the rib of a buried beast. Several dry, skeletal branches poked out from beneath it. Amphinomus crouched and began snapping the limbs into usable lengths. The sound echoed harshly in the cavern, brittle cracks that made Telemachus flinch despite himself.

 

Amphinomus returned with the sticks cradled against one hip, his arms dusted with fine cave grit from dragging them loose. He dropped them beside Telemachus without a word. The pile hit the stone with a dull thud.

 

Telemachus gave a small nod, already crouching beside the shallow pit he’d begun hollowing in the dirt. He shifted some of the finer twigs into a loose cone, then began stripping bark from one of the thicker ones, fingers working with quick, practiced movements. His father had taught him, but it was his mother who made him practice, again and again, every time the capitol would cut off their power back home.

 

“Could you give me the knife?” Telemachus asked as he looked for a stone that seemed good enough to help start the fire.

 

“What?”

 

“The knife.” He said slower this time, “I wanna see if i can use it as a sort of flint striker.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” He took the knife from his pocket and passed it over, hesitating only slightly as Telemachus took it from him.

 

He chose a stone from the pile he’d gathered— a sharp-edged piece of slate, flat and angled. He struck it against the spine of the knife. Once. Twice. A weak spark leapt and died. On the third strike, something caught. A faint ember flared in the dried bark and moss at the cone’s center. Telemachus leaned in, breath held, and coaxed it to life with a slow exhale.

 

The flame twitched. Then bloomed.

 

It caught on the bark and the smallest twigs first, curling golden along their edges, devouring them in quick snaps. Telemachus fed it gently, building it up in careful increments until it stood steady— small, but alive.

 

Amphinomus watched from the side, arms crossed. He didn’t offer help, didn’t interrupt. Just studied him with that same unreadable look he always had, like he was weighing something that couldn’t be named.

 

Telemachus sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on his pants. He looked at his ally, pride shining in his eyes, as if telling him ‘see, I am useful.’

 

Amphinomus gave a faint grunt of approval, already crouching beside their shared pack. He pulled out the food without ceremony, setting aside the crackers and the pouch of dried fruit.

 

Telemachus reached for the fruit, peeled it from the cloth with fingers gone slightly sticky from sap and dirt. He tore the slices into smaller pieces, dropping them into the cup, then poured a little water from the canteen over the top. Just enough to cover.

 

He balanced the cup near the fire on a nest of stones, watching the flames flicker against its side. Steam started to rise not long after. The fruit darkened in the water, softening around the edges, bleeding color into the slow swirl. It smelled faintly sweet, like fruit that was overly ripe still left on the trees.

 

“I hope Nausicaa brings back some meat,” Telemachus said eventually, mostly to fill the silence. “Even just a squirrel or something. This is gonna taste so sweet.”

 

“Who knows,” Amphinomus cracked a half-smile, brief and fleeting. “Tree bark might be next.”

 

Amphinomus's smile faded as quickly as it came, but the edge in his voice had softened, just slightly. Telemachus looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then poked at the bubbling cup with a stick.

 

“I’ve never eaten a squirrel.” Amphinomus commented, something clearly said to make trivial conversation.

 

Telemachus glanced up, surprised. “You haven’t?”

 

Amphinomus shook his head, eyes still on the fire. “We don’t really have those where I’m from. Not much green. Just smoke and steam and metal. If you want meat, you’d have to hope the capitol sent some in the last food shipment.”

 

“They’re everywhere back home.” He said as he threw another stick into the fire, “Most parents had their kids get their work in the forest done fast, then they would spend the rest of the afternoon chasing squirrels to eat for the next few days. Cheaper than buying meat.”

 

“Have you ever done that?”

 

“No.” The few times when he and his mother didn’t have food, he would pick the food by the lake, if they needed meat it was up to his mother to try and find it. “Guess I never really thought about what other districts looked like. I mean, I knew they were different. But not like— no trees different.”

 

Amphinomus let out a short breath that could’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. I saw one once. A tree, I mean. Near the mayor’s house. Behind a fence. Looked like it didn’t even want to be there.”

 

“I used to climb them all the time.” He looked up as he said it, they weren’t directly under the opening in the cave, but close enough that he could see the fake sky. “Got my first real scar falling out of one. I was trying to impress my uncle. I was convinced he thought I was lame, and thought if I reached the top he'd finally see me as cool. Landed on a root and bit my tongue so bad I couldn’t talk for two days.” He looked back at their fire to see Amphinomus stirring the makeshift soup.

 

“Did it work?” He asked as he took the stick out.

 

Telemachus grinned faintly. “He gave me a thumbs up while I was still bleeding. I thought it was worth it, but my mum disagreed.”

 

Amphinomus chuckled, this time not just a breath but a low, genuine sound. “Bet she did. My mum would’ve smacked me upside the head.”

 

“Oh, she did,” Telemachus said, laughing under his breath. “Yelled at me the whole walk home. I couldn’t even yell back.”

 

“You probably looked pathetic.”

 

“Absolutely. Blood everywhere, crying, limping. But I was convinced I was so cool.”

 

They fell into silence again, but it wasn’t heavy. The fire crackled, the steam off the cup rising in soft ribbons. Amphinomus tossed a small stick into the flames, watching it catch.

 

“I used to think trees were fake,” he said after a while, voice thoughtful. “Like, something the Capitol made up to sell us paper and excuses. All we ever saw were pictures. Never thought they could be taller than a person.”

 

Telemachus blinked, then let out a quiet breath. “Some of them are taller than houses. If you climb high enough, you can see for miles. Everything smells like pine and air. Not factory smoke. Just… clean.”

 

Amphinomus was quiet for a long moment.He didn’t look at Telemachus, just stared into the flickering orange center of the fire like he was trying to see something else through it. “I think I’d hate it,” he said eventually. “All that quiet. Nothing buzzing or hissing or leaking.”

 

Telemachus glanced over.

 

Amphinomus gave a small shrug. “I’m used to noise. Pipes banging. People yelling. Machines whining through the walls. The silence here makes my ears ring.”

 

Telemachus shifted, brushing ash from his fingers absently. He watched the fire, then Amphinomus, then back again. “My mum apparently said the same thing when she first moved to Seven,” he said quietly. “Said the silence made her nervous. That it felt like something was about to go wrong.”

 

Amphinomus’s head turned just slightly, a flicker of curiosity there—subtle, but present. “Your mums not from 7?” He sounded confused, which made sense, it was rare for people to move between districts, his mother hadn’t been allowed back home since she moved.

 

“No. She's from 8. Like you.”

 

Amphinomus blinked, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something sharper— something unreadable. His posture shifted subtly, a wariness sneaking into his shoulders. “Huh,” he said after a beat. “Didn’t think anyone got out of Eight.”

 

He shrugged, “I mean, does anyone ever get away from their district.”

 

“Guess not.”

 

Amphinomus picked at a fraying seam on his sleeve. The silence stretched again, but this time it carried a charge—like a wire just under the surface. “How’d she do it?” he asked eventually.

 

“People were dying in Seven." he said quietly, as far as he was aware it wasn't a well known fact of the epidemic that occurred in district 7 a few decades ago, “A lot of them. Not just old people—young ones too. Kids. It started with stupid things. Infections. Falls. Things they used to know how to treat, but their last real healer had died a few years earlier, and no one knew how to do anything except cut trees and load carts.” He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, brushing away ash. “The injuries slowed down production. Trees weren’t getting processed fast enough. Quotas weren’t met. The Capitol got nervous.”

 

Amphinomus hummed faintly. A knowing sound.

 

“So they sent healers from Eight,” Telemachus said. “My mum. Her father. Two of her brothers. Just until they could train others.

 

“She was good at it?” Amphinomus asked, voice low.

 

“The best,” Telemachus said, and this time there was no distance in it. Just pride. “People stopped dying. The logging lines picked up again. Everything went back to normal.”

 

Amphinomus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn't speak right away. The flames caught in his eyes like something half-buried and watching. “So how’d she end up stuck?”

 

“She fell in love with my dad.” Telemachus said simply. “He was reaped not long after, Won the Games. But they got married. That was enough for the Capitol to let her stay.”

 

“Victors always get what they want,” Amphinomus said, though not unkindly. Just… matter-of-fact. Like he was saying the sun rose because it always had.

 

Part of Telemachus wanted to yell at Amphinomus that that was unfair to say. Tell him about the times his dad refused to touch him, too scared to stain his precious child with the blood that haunts him. But that wasn’t fair either, because at the end of the day, Telemachus would always have more than other children simply because he was his fathers son.

 

“Yeah.” He said instead as silence flooded them again.

 

"Your grandparents," Amphinomus said eventually, slow and carefully, "they wouldn't be Icarius and Periboea, would they?” He said it like he was hoping the answer was ‘no’.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “That's them. How did you—?”

 

“Are you close with them?” he asked, frantically, almost desperately.

 

“Uh- I mean, sort of.” He answered. Why did this matter? Why did Amphinomus care? Sure, maybe he knew them, he probably went to them if he was ever injured, but why did it matter now? “As close as you could be in different districts. We send each other letters a lot, presents whenever it was my birthday. But we’ve never met. This would be-” his voice caught in his throat as he spoke, “This would be their first time ever seeing me.” Would they even recognize him? Would they see him and think yes, that’s our boy, or would they see the Capitol’s fingerprints all over him and wonder what was left? He let out a soft, shaking breath and rubbed at his eyes, trying not to let it show. “And now this— this is what they get. This version of me."

 

The fire cracked, and Telemachus flinched at the sound. He glanced up at Amphinomus again. The boy’s jaw was tight. His hands were tense, fingers laced together like he was keeping something in. He looked like he was listening too closely.

 

“You okay?” Telemachus asked, the question weak, like it’d slipped out by accident.

 

Amphinomus didn’t answer right away. He nodded, just once, but it was stiff. Mechanical. His eyes were on the fire, but Telemachus could tell he wasn’t really seeing it.

 

Amphinomus’s mouth opened, closed. He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his knuckle, then let out a breath that sounded like it scraped the inside of his ribs on the way out.

 

“I’ve got a sister,” he said finally, voice low. “Back in Eight.”

 

Telemachus blinked. It wasn’t what he expected. But something in the weight of those words, the way Amphinomus said them like they were heavier than they should be, made him go quiet. “She was in an accident,” Amphinomus continued. “Fell off a scaffold a few years ago. Broke her spine. It— she hasn’t walked since.”

 

Telemachus stayed silent, just nodding faintly to show he was listening.

 

“I had to start working early. Anything I could get. At first I thought if I worked hard enough, I could afford better care. Something. But… Eight’s not like that.” Amphinomus looked up, finally, and his eyes caught Telemachus’s for a second. Just a second. “People like her just disappear.”

 

There was something hollow behind his voice now. Something that felt too big for the small space they shared beside the fire.

 

“Your grandparents helped her when it first happened, and then last year offered to train her as a healer, give her a life when I thought…” he trailed off. He looked at Telemachus, right in the eyes, a few tears spilling into them. “Telemachus, I’m sorry.”

 

What?

 

“Why?” He asked, because Ampinous hadn’t done anything to him but talk. If anything he liked the talking, almost made him forget he was in a deadly arena were he was forced to kill people.

 

“I poisoned the soup.”

 

The words didn’t make sense at first. It was so out of place— so absurd in the quiet of their firelight conversation— that for a moment, Telemachus thought he’d misheard.

 

Or that Amphinomus was joking. Some grim, desperate arena humor.

 

But then he saw Amphinomus’s face.

 

Telemachus couldn’t breathe.

 

His face had gone pale, but not with fear— something closer to shame. Was he so stupid? So naive to really think this stranger actually wanted to team up with him? Was his father watching, ashamed of his childs stupidness to truly trust someone in the arena?

 

Telemachus couldn’t breathe. His skin felt too tight, like it didn’t quite fit his bones anymore. His heart beat once— twice —and then refused to settle, hammering wildly against his ribs as if trying to break out and flee.

 

Telemachus stared at him, the words rattling around in his skull.

 

“I just want to go home.” he said, so much pain in his voice that Telemachus almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “You can’t blame me for that.”

 

“You tried to kill me.” He said, standing up and backing away from him so slowly. And the worst part is, he still could kill him. He had the knife and the strength. Telemachus thought he was smart, but if he was so stupid to not pick up on this then he must surely be stupid, meaning he has no advantage.

 

Amphinomus stood too— but slower. Like he didn’t want to startle him. Like Telemachus was some spooked animal and not the boy he’d just tried to murder.

 

“I wasn’t going to let it hurt,” Amphinomus said. His hands stayed loose at his sides, near the knife strapped to his belt. “I dosed it light. You’d just go quiet. Sleep. That’s all.”

 

Telemachus shook his head, trembling.

 

“If she offered you the same you would've done it. I’m from 8 Telemachus, the capitol doesn’t give a shit about me. But if I killed you they’d love me, maybe I'd have a chance to survive.”

 

She?

 

“If anything, this is your own fault.” Amphinomus said, a disbelieving laugh in his voice, he could tell in his eyes that he didn’t believe what he just said. “To be so naive that you really think she's your ally. She’s been waiting for you to die since we got here. She just didn’t want to get her hands dirty.” He paused, looking directly at Telemachus, a sort of crazed look in his eyes, because that's what the arena does to people. “She needs you dead to survive. Your father-”

 

A silver flash spun through the air and embedded itself deep into Amphinomus’s temple.

 

The sound it made was soft, final.

 

He didn’t scream. Didn’t even blink. He dropped, boneless, like a puppet with its strings cut. One leg twitched once before everything went still.

 

Telemachus stumbled back with a choked gasp, eyes wide, staring at the body sprawled in the dirt. The fire cracked.

 

At the opening of the cave stood Nauicaa. Breathing heavily, menacingly.

 

“Fucking liar.”

 

“Was he?”

 

“Of course Tel.” She spat, “He was full of shit. Desperate. You heard it— blaming me for what he did. That’s what cowards do before they die.”

 

Telemachus didn’t move. Couldn’t. His gaze flicked between her face and the axe still buried in Amphinomus’s skull, blood now pooling beneath his cheek and slowly soaking into the earth.

 

“He said you needed me dead.” His voice was hoarse. Small. Because the worse part was, he could believe him.

 

“Your father. Is he going to help me? Or am I just here to die while he throws everything he has at making sure you survive?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Had she been planning his death since he said that? Did every single moment of kindness only exist to lead up to the moment when an axe would swing into his head?

 

"He's lying to you. I would never do that Telemachus. I'm your friend. Your ally. You know that." Nausicaa stepped closer. Just a little. Her voice softened, like silk over a blade.

 

Telemachus didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, barely breathing, as the fire’s glow twisted shadows over the blood-slicked stone and the still body slumped beside it.

 

“He was about to talk about my father.”

 

Nausicaa’s eyes didn’t flicker. Not even a flinch. She stepped closer again. “So what? You think there’s some big truth he had that I didn’t want you to hear? Tel, he was seconds away from gutting you. You saw that. I saved you.”

 

“I don’t know what I saw,” Telemachus said. “I trusted him.”

 

“You trusted him after a few days?” Nausicaa snapped, and for the first time there was something sharp and real in her voice— real frustration, real danger. She caught herself quickly, breathing out slowly. “Sorry. I just— this place messes with your head. It makes you think people are more than what they are.” She reached out, slowly, like she was afraid to touch him too quickly. “I’m not him, Telemachus. I never lied to you. I’ve been by your side since the start.”

 

“My father wouldn’t have helped you if you weren’t by my side.”

 

Nausicaa didn’t flinch. Not when he said it. Not when his words hung between them like a blade. She just smiled—softly, patiently—like she was waiting for a child to come to his senses.

 

“You’re right,” she said, voice barely above the crackling of the fire. “He wouldn’t have. But does that make everything I’ve done a lie?” She stepped forward again. Still slow. Still careful. “You think I would do all that just to kill you in your sleep?”

 

“I think you’d do anything to live,” Telemachus said as he grabbed the axe from Amphinomus head. It made a sickening squelching sound. Blood, bits of hair and scalp clung to the blade. “So would I.”

 

This is the moment she realises only one of them has a weapon.

 

“Telemachus…” she whispered, and for the first time, her voice trembled. “Wait. Just—wait, please—”

 

He took a step toward her. She backed up fast, nearly stumbling. Her breathing turned ragged, her eyes wide with the realization that for the first time in this entire game— she wasn’t in control. “Tel, don’t—please, you don’t understand—” Her words tumbled out too quickly, her hands raised in surrender. “I didn’t want to! I didn’t want to hurt you, I swear.”

 

He said nothing. Just stepped again, slow and measured, like he wasn’t sure yet if he was going to swing—only that he could. “Y-you don’t get it,” she stammered, her back bumping against the cave wall. She flinched like it was a blade, realization fully settling in her bones now— there was nowhere else to run. “He wasn’t lying, not about all of it— your father —he was never going to help me, not unless you were out of the way.”

 

Telemachus stopped, just a few feet from her now. He said nothing, axe hanging heavy in his hands, blood still dripping from its edge.

 

“I just wanna live. I need to go home.” She sobbed out, her legs giving out as she collapsed against the cave wall, sobbing and crying. “I didn’t want to. I liked you, Tel. I do. But I didn’t have a choice.”

 

The axe swung before he even realized he’d moved.

 

It came down hard— cracking into her collarbone with a wet, splitting thunk.

 

She screamed, high and shrill, but only once.

 

Her body twisted, tried to crawl, tried to cover her head— but he was on her before she could move.

 

Another swing.

 

This time to her shoulder. Bone shattered beneath the blade, blood arcing up in a hot spray across his face.

 

The axe tore through her neck next, slicing into it with blood splurting out. She gurgled, trying to speak, maybe beg, maybe curse him— but her mouth only filled with blood. The blood coated his face.

 

He swung again, but stopped when he tasted the blood on his lips. Dropping the axe into the ground.

 

He lifted his hand to his face and could only feel her blood covering him.

 

His breath caught, sharp and wet in his throat, as the metallic tang settled on his tongue like a curse. Slowly, with hands that shook uncontrollably, he touched his face. His fingertips smeared across his cheek, his mouth, his jaw— thick and slick and warm. Not his blood. Hers. All hers. A broken sound tore out of him, low and raw, half-choked and rising like bile from somewhere deep inside. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees beside her. What was left of her.

 

The firelight flickered across the cave walls, casting long, lurching shadows that moved when he didn’t. The axe lay beside him now, discarded, as if putting it down could undo what had been done. His shoulders began to shake. His breathing came in rapid, stuttering gasps. A sob burst out of him— sudden and violent —like something had broken loose inside. Then another. And another. It was all her. the blood, the scent, the guts.

 

The sobs racked through him until he had nothing left but silence and breath and the ruin in front of him. His throat felt raw, his face wet— not just with blood, but tears. Endless tears. Salt mixing with iron, grief tangled with guilt.

 

He tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, poisoned by what he’d done. Every inhale made his stomach twist harder, like it was rejecting the very air that had watched him do it. That had let him. He blinked down at her— what was her —and something in him begged to scream again, to collapse, to curl into himself and never get up.

 

But he couldn’t stay here.

 

The Capitol would send the hovercraft. They always did. For the bodies. She wasn’t a person anymore. She was a dead tribute. One less person until he could go home.

 

They would come for her. They’d take what was left and vanish it into the sky like it was just part of the game.

 

His breath hitched again, chest still heaving. He wiped at his face but only smeared the blood more, into his mouth, his eyes.

 

It didn’t matter. He had to move.

 

He looked around the cave, frantic, desperate, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. The opening at the mouth of the cave felt too exposed— too close to her, too close to what had happened.

 

Then he saw it. The hole above. The hole in the stone ceiling, maybe ten feet up, where the sky bled in soft blue light.

 

He stared at it for a long second, still on his knees, still shaking. The climb would be hard. The rock looked sharp and uneven, and his arms felt like they’d been hollowed out and filled with lead. But the hovercraft would come soon. And he couldn’t be here when it did. So he moved.

 

Slowly, limbs trembling, he forced himself up. His legs were jelly. His body screamed in protest.

 

The bag sat slouched near the cave wall, just far enough from the blood that it didn’t look soaked—yet. He dropped to a crouch and shoved things inside with frantic, clumsy hands.

 

He looked at the axe. It lay there in the dirt, just beside the twisted wreck of her body. Still slick, still red.

 

His stomach turned, but he reached for it anyway. The handle was dry, but the blade was wet and bloody. He tried his best to wipe it across the ground until it was less wet before jamming it in his bag. It didn’t matter if it stank of blood. It was still a weapon. He might still need it.

 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and turned to leave— only to stop again. Amphinomus’s body lay were the almost dead fire was.

 

Telemachus hesitated only a moment before stepping over. The jacket. That was what he needed. He crouched, fingers moving with mechanical purpose as he tugged the jacket from the corpse. It was thick, a muted peach colour. It would be good at night, an extra layer to add, the closest he could get to a blanket.

 

He pulled it over his own jacket, it hung against him, too large for him because it wasn’t made for him.

 

Telemachus adjusted the straps of his bag and rolled his shoulders, the second jacket bulky and awkward over his own, but warm. Necessary. The cave had already started to cool, a draft drifting in from the ceiling like a whisper of what night would bring.

 

He turned to the center of the cave, eyes fixed on the jagged hole overhead. It wasn’t near the walls. Not conveniently placed like something designed to be escaped. It yawned open in the middle of the ceiling— just out of reach. Ten feet up, maybe more, with slick rock below and no handholds until halfway.

 

But the light up there looked softer, cleaner. Still artificial but it was enough. He backed up a few paces, gauging the angle, his eyes flicking from the walls to the ceiling. He was strong, and better— he was used to climbing.

 

His fingers flexed. Blood still clung beneath his nails, but he ignored it.

 

He ran. A short sprint before he kicked off the angled wall beneath the hole. His boot scraped rock, just enough to give him the lift he needed. His arms shot up, hands searching. Fingers found jagged out parts in the stone until he was able to drive his hand into the edge of the opening.

 

Sharp stone bit into his skin immediately, but he gripped harder, locking his arms, body swinging freely below the lip of the ceiling.

 

His legs dangled. He grunted, teeth gritted, and hooked one hand deeper into the hole, curling his fingers into a crevice on the inner lip. He twisted, slowly— his body swinging side to side until he could get his other hand up beside it.

 

The muscles in his shoulders screamed, but he used the motion, letting the momentum work with him.

 

He kicked hard, using the swing to arc his body up and over. One leg hooked the edge. Then the other. And with a final, gasping pull, he hauled himself up and into the hole, chest dragging over the stone lip, elbows screaming under the strain.

 

He flopped onto the ground above, panting, cheek pressed to gritty stone. He lay there for a second, heart hammering, arms throbbing from the effort. But he was out. Above. Away. The air was colder up here, and cleaner. A breeze.

 

He pushed himself upright, looking for anything in the distance but it was dark, too dark to truly see anything.

 

His fingers were scraped raw. His arms ached. The jacket was already sticking to him with sweat and blood. But he was alive. And not in that cave.

 

He found a patch of flat stone a few feet from the hole and sank down, limbs folding like a broken branch.He pulled the jacket tighter around himself, knees drawn up, forehead resting against them. The fabric smelled like smoke and dirt and someone else’s skin.

 

He didn’t care.

 

His breath hitched.

 

A whimper slipped out.

 

And then, just like in the cave, he broke.

 

There was no scream this time, no sob strong enough to shake the ground. Just quiet, pitiful gasps into his knees.

 

His shoulders trembled. His fingers dug into his sleeves. The tears came slowly but steady, carving warm lines down cheeks crusted with blood and ash.

 

He wanted to go home to his parents' warm arms.

 

He wanted her to still be alive.

 

He just wanted it all to stop.

 

But none of it would. Not yet.

 

So he cried, small and silent, under a sky too big to care. And eventually, exhaustion dragged him down into sleep— curled up, heart hollow, tears and blood still drying on his face.

Notes:

hehe

some of you guys predicted it last chapter, so good job!!!

ALTHOUGH, HATE TO NAUSICAA OR AMPHIMONUS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!!! THEY ARE SCARED CHILDREN WHO WANT TO GO HOME!!!

So there was an actual reason why Penelope was from 8, and it was to set up this moment. I hope it come out okay, i really struggled with wwriting it.

Also btw from the start Nausicaa was going to betray tel, this was one of the first things decided upon. In previous chapters there are little hints of like, her constantly looking angry at him, like when he got off his interview and he did well, she was angry until they started talking. Or his score, she was angry at him because he was shaping up to be a good competitor in the games.

Chapter 11: Water.

Telemachus forgot what he did when the sun rose.

 

And then he smelt the stench of blood and it all came back to him.

 

Metallic. Rotting.

 

He killed her.

 

Some part of him was reminding him of the nuance of his situation. He was in the hunger games, she wanted him dead. But the louder part knew he was nothing but a cold blooded killer.

 

He killed her. No matter how many times he repeated it— No matter how many reasons he whispered to himself— That was the truth. He’d taken Nausicaa’s life.

 

Not in a fight or in panic. But after she was on her knees. After she cried. After she begged.

 

Telemachus sat upright on the stone ledge, muscles stiff, joints aching from the night spent curled like paper, Amphs jacket fell off of his shoulders. The early sun lit the world in soft gold and for a moment, everything was still.

 

He expected more stone. More darkness. Another dead end or jagged wall.

 

But instead he saw green. He saw home.

 

The outline of the cave system was large and expansive, taking up most of the arena. He could see other openings that allowed onto the top of the cave like he had used.

 

But patches of land lay scattered between the coiling bulk of the labyrinth— almost like little islands. Trapped between cave walls sat many areas of land that had lakes and trees. He could even see a rabbit jump around in one of the areas.

 

Telemachus watched the rabbit hop into a patch of sunlight, ears twitching. It nibbled at something— grass or bark or whatever else the arena gave it. Innocent. Unbothered. Alive.

 

His gaze followed it, distant, and then dropped to his hands. The blood was still there. It had dried into the cracks of his knuckles, flaked along the edges of his nails. Brown-red smears clung to the creases of his palms, crusted like dirt— like rot. It felt tight, like the skin beneath it couldn’t breathe. He flexed his fingers and felt it pull and crack, like brittle paint. His skin burned beneath it, not from pain, but from the knowledge of what it was. Whose it was.

 

It wasn’t just his hands. The blood had gotten everywhere— his sleeves were stiff with it, darkened around the cuffs. His jacket felt heavier now, clinging to him in places where it had soaked through. When he shifted, he could feel the dried crust of it crackle against his skin. Even his face.

 

He reached up slowly, fingers brushing along his cheek and coming away gritty. He could still feel where her blood had spattered. It had dried in a patch along his jaw. It flaked at his temple. There was a smear across the bridge of his nose, and a crust along his upper lip that tugged when he moved his mouth. He hadn't even noticed it in the dark.

 

Now, in the sun, it was all he could feel. It was as if his body wasn’t his anymore— just something drenched in a death he couldn't take back. Her death.

 

He bent forward suddenly, retching over the ledge. Nothing came up— he hadn’t eaten in too long —but the convulsion left him gasping, chest heaving. The taste of iron was in his mouth. Real or imagined, he didn’t know. He gritted his teeth and wiped at his face with the inside of his wrist, but it only made it worse.

 

The sleeve was just as bloodied. The smear only spread, thick and dark and wrong. He wanted to claw it off. His heart pounded like it was trying to get out. His skin felt too tight for his bones.

 

He didn’t care about the cameras, about the Capitol, about how pathetic he looked. He had to get it off. Off off off.

 

Telemachus stood abruptly, shoving the 2nd jacket into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder as he stumbled back from the ledge, scanning the patches of land below again.

 

And then in the corner of his eye he saw a pond. Small. Quiet. Tucked inside one of the natural clearings below. glinted dully in the morning light, pale green-blue and edged in moss.

 

Moss he could eat.

 

He was so hungry. So thirsty. So dirty.

 

Without thinking, he began walking along the top of the cave, avoiding the gaps in the roof that allowed him to see into the cave, feeling the rough stone scraping at his bare palms where he needed to steady himself. He ignored the strain in his knees, the ache in his spine, the stick of blood beneath his clothes.

 

Every step was driven by the desperate need to wash it off. Not just the blood. The night. The memory. The killing.

 

The closer he got, the more the world narrowed. His vision tunneled. He barely registered the rest of the arena— the way sunlight shifted through the trees or how birds flitted between distant branches. All he saw was that pond, impossibly still, cradled by the jagged teeth of the cave walls. An oasis in the mouth of a monster.

 

He kept walking until he met the ledge that led into the area of land with the pretty pond. He crouched low, fingers curling around a ridge of stone, and swung one leg down over the side. The rock face beneath him was jagged, scarred by Capitol design.

 

His hands found cracks before his eyes did. His feet braced against crumbling ledges, soles silent against the stone. Downward. Downward. Wind whispered past his ears. His body knew this language.

 

The scent of moss thickened as he dropped lower, a damp green smell that made his stomach twist in hollow hope.

 

Telemachus landed in a crouch, knees bent to absorb the weight, fingers brushing the soft moss as he steadied himself. He stood slowly.

 

The water lay still, untouched, surrounded by a soft hush. And for a moment, he just stared. The pond was clearer now that he stood beside it— almost painfully so.

 

Telemachus stepped forward, crouc. His reflection met him there again— gaunt, blood-streaked, barely human.

 

He leaned closer, knees in the moss, hands trembling above the surface of the pond.

 

The reflection looking back at him was a stranger. Hollow-eyed, smeared in drying blood, lips cracked and colorless. It stared at him with a kind of haunted knowing, like it understood everything he was too afraid to say aloud.

 

He looked away. Lowered his head. And drank.

 

The water was cold. Shockingly so. It hit the back of his throat like ice and spilled down into the hollow pit of his stomach. He drank greedily, cupping his hands, scooping it into his mouth again and again. Some of it slipped between his fingers, running down his arms, washing streaks of dried blood with it. He didn’t care. Didn’t stop. He kept drinking until his stomach ached with fullness and his throat felt raw.

 

Then he sat back, breath coming hard and fast. Drops of water clung to his chin, his lashes. He wiped at them absently, blinking slowly.

 

The hunger hit next— now that thirst had loosened its grip.

 

His gaze dropped to the moss surrounding the pond, thick and soft and damp. He tore a clump free and shoved it into his mouth. It tasted like dirt and water and something sharp, something almost metallic. But he chewed anyway. Swallowed. Ripped another chunk free. Again. Again.

 

It filled his mouth with green and grit, but it was better than the emptiness gnawing at his ribs. Better than the taste of iron in his throat.

 

Besides, he doesn’t think he could kill a cute little rabbit. He watched his mother do it once and he cried for hours and swore he was going vegetarian for the rest of his life. He quickly abandoned that when he realised being a vegetarian meant he was eating even less if the capitol cut off their food.

 

Although, maybe he could kill a bunny. He killed a friend.

 

He stared at the moss-stained water, lips still tasting of earth, of green rot and memory.

 

Telemachus looked down at himself. The jacket hung from him like a carcass—heavy, stiff, soaked in something no one should wear. His shirt was no better. It clung to his skin, crusted at the collar and shoulders, smeared in dry, dark stains that cracked when he moved.

 

Telemachus peeled the jacket off with shaking fingers. It resisted him—stuck in places where blood had dried thick between layers, binding fabric to skin. It made a sick sound as he tugged it free, like tearing apart old meat. He let it drop beside him on the moss, where it landed with a dull thud.

 

The shirt followed, sticking to his chest, then pulling away in gritty, cracking flakes. He opened up his backpack and grabbed the dead man's jacket.

 

It was his jacket now, because Amphinomus was never coming back. Because he had killed him. Amphinomus' death was his fault, even if he didn’t throw the axe, it was still his fault. Two days into the games and hes already killed two people.

 

His skin prickled in the open air, exposed, raw. He dropped the shirt next to the jacket, stared at both for a long moment, then picked them up and waded into the pond.

 

The water rose around his ankles first. It numbed his toes, climbed up his calves, sent goosebumps chasing across his arms. When he reached the center of the pond— just deep enough to kneel— he let the clothes fall in. They sank like logs. Air bubbles caught in the folds rose lazily to the surface, popping one by one. He reached down after them, dragging the jacket up with effort— it was heavier and wet, like it didn’t want to come back. He dunked it again, then again.

 

The water swirled red. Brown. He scrubbed at it with his hands, grinding fabric against itself, trying to loosen the blood from the seams, the armpits, the collar. It wouldn’t come clean. Not fully. He didn’t stop.

 

He kept scrubbing. His fingers ached from the cold, knuckles white and trembling as he ground the cloth against itself over and over. He twisted the fabric until it wrung out dark ribbons of water, red and brown, like the pond itself was bleeding. The stains didn't lift so much as spread— thinner, duller, but still there, soaked deep into the threads like memory. Like guilt.

 

The clothes floated near the pond’s edge when he finally let them go, limp and soaked, fanning out like dead things left to drift.

 

Then he turned to himself.

 

Telemachus dropped to his knees in the water, teeth chattering now from the cold. The pond lapped against his thighs, sending ripples outward, soft and glassy. He dipped his hands beneath the surface, rubbed his arms, his chest, working at the dried blood with desperate circles of his palms. His skin reddened quickly beneath the friction, and the flakes came off in streaks, floating like sludge around him.

 

He scrubbed harder. Dirt and sweat and blood sloughed off in layers, clouding the water. He ducked his head under, came up sputtering, then dragged both hands down his face, wiping across his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth. It clung. Sticky. Unnatural. His upper lip still tugged where the crusted blood had dried, and he rubbed at it until it was gone—or until it hurt too much to keep going.

 

He took fistfuls of moss from the side of the pond and scrubbed. The texture was harsh, more bark than sponge, but he needed it. He scraped it across his back, his ribs, under his arms. He scoured his neck until the skin turned pink. Then red.

 

He scrubbed the dried blood from behind his ears. From under his fingernails. He scraped at the edge of his scalp where it had matted into his hair. He combed his fingers through it again and again, each knot of dried rot pulling hard at his roots.

 

The water turned darker around him. He didn’t stop. Even after the blood was mostly gone. Even after the stains on his skin had blurred to nothing more than shadows, he kept scrubbing. The moss tore apart in his hands. The water turned murky and choked with debris. But he kept going— until his skin felt tight and raw, until his shoulders heaved with silent sobs and the tips of his fingers stung with open scrapes.

 

Eventually he stopped because his body made him. Not because it was done. Not because he felt clean. He knelt there, water lapping against his chest, arms slack at his sides, chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths.

 

His face was red and wet and streaked with moss fibers. The pond had swallowed the worst of it, but Telemachus didn’t feel lighter. Only hollow.

 

He stood slowly, water sluicing off him in thin, shivering sheets. His limbs trembled. He waded to the shore and sat down heavily in the moss, arms folded over his knees. His skin burned where he’d over-scrubbed. His body ached. But he didn’t reach for the jackets yet.

 

He just sat there. Bare, raw, breathing.

 

He wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever be clean. Maybe if he got a new body, a new soul, a new self.

 

It was hours later when he moved again. He had sat by the pond for so lond the fake sun had started to set, painting the skies in gorgeous tones that only he could see from beyond the cave.

 

He ate a bit more, tried his best to filter some water using some fire, filling his canteen with clean water. He dried his clothes and dressed himself. Cried at around noon. And then just sat and thought.

 

The sky had dipped into soft orange, the kind that seemed too gentle for the kind of world he lived in now. Long shadows stretched across the jagged walls of the cave, the pond catching the fading light like glass, dulled and scattered. The air had cooled, taking on that crisp edge that made his skin tighten.

 

Telemachus stood slowly. His muscles protested, stiff from hours of stillness, but he moved anyway. He had to. The ground no longer felt safe, not even here in this small patch of almost-peace. He looked up toward the ledge where he had climbed down, eyes tracing the rock face with a kind of dull resignation.

 

With one last glance at the pond— at the dark water, the floating threads of moss, the ghost of his reflection —he turned away.

 

The climb back up was slower than the descent. His limbs shook with fatigue, fingers scraping against rough stone, feet slipping once or twice against the smoother parts of the wall. But he didn’t fall. Not yet. Not tonight.

 

When he pulled himself over the edge and onto the top of the cave again, the wind greeted him with a low whistle, soft and constant. The roof stretched wide beneath the open sky, far above the tunnels and traps and death built below.

 

Telemachus moved across the rooftop of the cave with slow, careful steps, the moss giving way to gravel and cracked stone beneath his boots.

 

He walked for a while. Just to move. Just to breathe somewhere that didn’t reek of death.

 

A large opening into the cave sat in front of him. A circle like shape on the rooftop that opened into the cave.

 

He slowed, blinked, and angled toward it, curiosity threading through the quiet of his exhaustion.

 

He barely glanced down at first, meaning to keep walking, to just check the depth, maybe see if the drop was survivable if things ever got desperate.

 

And then—

 

Fuck.

 

Telemachus locked eyes with someone.

 

Green eyes. Long red curls.

 

The man from district 2.

 

His saviour and enemy.

 

His first instinct was to duck, to run, to get low and disappear into the rocks like prey.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He stared at him because he had a question.

 

Why did you save me?

 

“I owed you.” He said softly, as if reading his exact thoughts. He paused, taking a breath as if hesitating to continue, “For the token and the arm.”

 

“I didn’t see it like that.”

 

“I did.”

 

The man— Neoptolemus, had wood in front of him. Scattered in front like he had been trying to start a fire. But from the shape and the colour of the wood, he could tell what kind it was, and it was no good for starting a fire. Best used for its bark, eating it when you aren’t able to find anything better. Everyone in 7 who had ever struggled for food knew that.

 

“You’re using the wrong kind of wood.” He said before he backed down out of fear.

 

Neo looked up, his brows furrowed, not annoyed, not even angry— confused. “It’s dry enough. Should catch.”

 

“That’s not the problem.”

 

Neo glanced down again. “Looks like kindling to me.”

 

“It’s not,” Telemachus said flatly. “That stuff doesn’t burn right. Smokes like hell and barely gives off any heat. You’re better off chewing it than setting it on fire.”

 

Neoptolemus blinked up at him. “Chewing it?”

 

Telemachus nodded. “Yeah. Bitter but its still food.”

 

He just scoffed at it, letting go off the wood in his hands.

 

Telemachus backed away from the edge and moved toward a crooked tree growing near the edge of the cave roof. The kind with flaking bark that peeled like paper and branches that cracked clean when snapped. Firewood. He chose the driest pieces— thin, pale, gnarled like bones. He tested each with a firm bend. They broke sharp and easy. Good.

 

He gathered a handful, just enough to give the spark something real to bite. Then, without ceremony or warning, he stepped back to the opening and let them fall.

 

The branches landed beside Neoptolemus with a dull clatter. One skittered and bounced. The redhead flinched, looked up, mouth half-open— maybe to ask why, or how, or what next.

 

But Telemachus was already sitting again, arms loosely draped over his knees, staring off into the sinking sun like none of this meant anything.

 

Neoptolemus didn’t speak. He didn’t thank him, didn’t argue. He just reached down, pulled the pile closer, and got to work.

 

The fire caught quickly this time. It flared small, then steady, licking around the curve of dry branches, smoke rising in a thin white spiral. Neo hunched forward, coaxing it gently, shielding it from the wind with his hands. Telemachus watched from above, the heat of the fire visible even from this distance in the way Neo’s face flickered with gold and shadow. The flames danced, soft and alive.

 

Below, Neoptolemus pulled a strip of meat from his bag— dark, cured, still wrapped in rough cloth— and laid it across a flat piece of stone he’d propped near the heart of the fire. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. Just worked with a quiet focus, like he was alone. Like the silence between them was something agreed upon.

 

The scent rose slowly and steady, meaty and rich, curling up in tendrils that reached Telemachus where he sat. His stomach turned before it growled—t ight and unsure, like it didn’t know if it was ready to trust food from someone else again.

 

Neoptolemus flipped the meat with a bit of bark, careful not to let it blacken. His movements were slow, practiced. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. And he didn’t offer explanations or pleasantries— just reached into the firelight, pulled the cooked strip free, and set it to the side to cool.

 

Then he looked up. Met Telemachus’s eyes again. He stared as if trying to memorise the soft blue in his eyes before he spoke again.

 

“Do you want some?” The words choked out of him. As if they were difficult to say.

 

It felt like a trap.

 

Had he not learnt the lesson not to trust others last night?

 

He stared at the redhead below, searching. Neo didn’t look like a liar. But then again, neither had Amph.

 

That thought alone almost made him turn away. He nearly stood, nearly walked off into the dusk with his pride intact and his stomach gnawing on itself like a trapped animal.

 

But then Neo did something odd. He tore the cooked meat in two, not cleanly, but deliberately.

 

Then, without so much as a glance up, he took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Sat back and waited. The other half still lay untouched by the fire, steaming faintly in the dying light.

 

A peace offering. Not forced. Not pushed. Just there.

 

Telemachus’s lips parted slightly, a breath ghosting out of him like steam. Then he moved— slowly, like a deer testing if the wolf was really asleep. He slid forward and swung his legs over the edge of the cave roof, the drop stretching wide and unwelcome below him. But the rock held. His hands held. And he began to climb.

 

When he reached the floor of the cave, the firelight painted soft orange shapes on the stone, flickering shadows that danced across Neo’s boots and the sharp line of his jaw.

 

Telemachus stepped into the firelight like it might burn him. He didn’t speak. Just sat cross-legged again, across from Neoptolemus, the flames between them like a wary truce. The heat kissed his skin.

 

The scent of the meat was stronger here— salt, smoke, a touch of fat crackling along the edge. It made his mouth water and his stomach twist all at once. Neo didn’t move. Didn’t watch him like a hawk or smile like they were friends. He simply nudged the meat across the stone with the edge of his boot, then leaned back and let it go.

 

Telemachus picked it up. It was warm, the outer edge slightly crisp, the middle still soft. He turned it in his fingers, watching the juices glisten faintly, then took a bite. And gods, it was good. Or at least his hunger told him it tasted good.

 

He finished it without a word. Wiped his fingers absently on his thigh.

 

Telemachus sat there for a moment longer, legs stretched toward the flames, the warmth bleeding into his bones. He thought maybe he could sleep like this. Not soundly. Not safely. But for a few hours, maybe.

 

Then he stood. Neo didn’t stop him. He didn’t even look up as Telemachus turned back toward the stone wall, toward the climb. But as he reached for a ledge to swing himself up, Telemachus hesitated. Just for a second. Then—

 

“Thanks,” he muttered. Quiet. Barely there.

 

And Neoptolemus put out the fire, not even acknowledging it.

 

The climb back up was harder this time, every muscle sluggish with food and fatigue. His body wanted to stop. But he didn’t.

 

He made it to the rooftop again, dragging himself over the edge with a final grunt and collapsing onto the cold stone. The wind greeted him again— soft, constant, like a lullaby sung through broken teeth. He found the patch of moss near the cave opening. Sat down. Curled his arms around his knees.

 

He still doesn’t quite understand why a district 2 tribute insists on being kind to him.

Notes:

SORRY FOR LATER CHAPTER I AM ON HOLIDAY AT THE MOMENT

Also since i am on holiday it may take a little longer for me to respond to comments, so if it takes me a bit, don't mind that, i'll get to it eventually.

I hope the outside of the cave makes sense, if it doesn't, let me know and i will create a very bad visual.

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THE CHAPTER!!! I think i like it, but i may eventually go back and edit it abit, but it will keep this essance, idk its late and i'm tired

love you alll <3333

Chapter 12: Allies?

Telemachus woke up half expecting to see his mother leaning over him, opening up his curtain over his bed and looking at him with annoyance because he slept in again and almost missed school.

 

But when he opened his eyes, all he saw was the fake sun of the arena.

 

It glowed in a cloudless, unconvincing blue sky, already high— too high. The light was warm but without weight, casting sharp, artificial shadows across the jagged stone of the cave’s rooftop. His back ached from the uneven rock beneath him. His shoulders were stiff, his throat dry.

 

He blinked slowly, dragging himself upright with a quiet groan, and glanced toward the opening in the cave beside him.

 

Neoptolemus was still down there. Curled on his side near the dying fire, jacket pulled over half his face, one arm slung across his chest. He looked too big for the cramped space he’d chosen to sleep in, all elbows and knees, like someone who hadn’t quite figured out how to make peace with stillness. Telemachus sat there for a moment, watching him breathe.

 

His hair had gotten all messed up in an almost cute endearing way, the curls flying everywhere despite being tied into a bun.

 

He sat there a while longer, the silence of the morning pressing gently against him, not heavy like the night before, but light and fragile. Like a bubble he wasn’t ready to pop.

 

Neoptolemus didn’t stir. The fire had burned down to embers, glowing faintly beneath a thin layer of ash. His hand twitched once— maybe a dream —and his breath fogged lightly in the cool air near the cave floor. Telemachus watched the rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow between his brows even in sleep, the mess of red curls like someone had taken a brush and shaken it loose in every direction. It was wild. A little ridiculous. A little—

 

He pulled his eyes away.

 

Telemachus stretched, slow and stiff, then stood. His legs ached from sleeping in one position too long, and there was a sharp pull in his side that made him wince when he straightened.

 

He shook it off and adjusted the straps of his bag. Time to move. He didn’t know where he was going, but staying here too long felt like asking for something— comfort, companionship, safety —that didn’t really exist. Not here. Not in the arena. Not between tributes.

 

Telemachus moved with quiet, measured steps across the rooftop, his boots crunching softly against scattered gravel. The wind stirred his hair as he walked, tugging at his sleeves, brushing against the thin sweat clinging to his skin. The sun crept higher, painting the jagged stone in sharper light, burning off what little mist had lingered.

 

He passed another split in the cave roof, a jagged line of broken stone where the ceiling had caved in long ago, leaving a natural skylight into the shadows below. He barely glanced down at first— just a quick check, a habit he’d formed, scanning for threats, for movement. But then he heard it. Voices. Low, rough. Confident. Laughing.

 

He froze.

 

The wind carried the sound up from below— casual, like people who weren’t worried about being heard. People who thought they were safe.

 

His stomach dropped. He crept back to the edge of the opening, crouching low, staying in the shadows. Slowly, carefully, he peered down through the crack in the stone, heart hammering against his ribs. Four figures moved through the cave below.

 

The Careers.

 

Two from District 1— one girl, one boy, their golden accents glinting in the firelight. And two from District 4. The boy from 4 with the large scar was leading them around.

 

Leading them the way towards Neoptolemus. Their new enemy.

 

They moved like predators— purposeful, sleek, confident in their numbers. Weapons hung from their belts and backs like afterthoughts: gleaming blades, a bow slung low, a knife catching the firelight with each step.

 

Telemachus took a step back from the edge, heart clawing its way up his throat.

 

He should run. He should turn and vanish before they look up, before one of them notices a shadow move on the ceiling or a boot scuff against stone.

 

But his feet didn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on the people below— on the direction they were headed. Towards Neo.

 

He couldn’t make himself move— not forward, not back. Just… stuck there. Hovering between instinct and something softer. Something dangerous.

 

Why was he hesitating?

 

Because he knew how this story went. He’d seen it already. Amphinomus and Nausicaa. Trust. Proximity. The warmth that tricked you into letting your guard down. Then the knife in your back— words that turned cold before you even bled.

 

He had just washed their blood off and he was already thinking about the next person he should trust.

 

He looked down again.

 

The girl from District 1 brushed her braid back, laughing as she adjusted the blade on her hip. The boy beside her grinned, that kind of cruel ease Telemachus had learned to recognize from far too many replays of past Games. The two looked weirdly similar, either related in some way or district 1 all looks the same.

 

They moved like a hunting pack— focused, casual, inevitable. And Neo was asleep. Still curled awkwardly by the fire like he didn’t know he was about to die. Like he trusted the quiet.

 

Telemachus turned from the edge. He started back, fast, each step carefully placed, as quiet as he could manage across the fractured stone. Then stopped again— his hand clenched into a fist, breath sharp in his lungs.

 

What is he doing?

 

He’s not his ally. He barely knows him. He owes him nothing.

 

But that wasn’t true, was it? Neo had saved him.

 

Sure, maybe Neo saw it as him owing Telemachus. But he didn’t see it that way. He was simply being kind.

 

Neoptolemus had saved his life, killing his own ally to save Telemachus.

 

How was he meant to be able to leave Neo to die when he had done the exact opposite.

 

Telemachus pivoted on the stone, breath catching as he broke into a run—no plan, no weapon in hand, just his feet against the stone, trying to land on his toes as he ran to avoid alerting the careers.

 

The wind howled briefly behind him until he reached the area where Neo was sleeping.

 

Neo was still there, still curled up in sleep like he didn’t know the world was about to end around him.

 

There was no time for delicacy.

 

Telemachus reached for the first small rock his hand found— jagged and palm-sized —and hurled it at him. It hit with a dull thud against Neo’s temple.

 

“Ow— what the hell?” Neo’s voice was a hiss as he sat up suddenly, clutching a weapon Telemachus didn’t even know he had. Immediately he was swinging with so much force Telemachus thought he might hit something by sheer will alone. His bun had come mostly undone, red curls spilling in every direction as he blinked toward the shadows.

 

Telemachus dropped into a crouch beside the mouth of the tunnel, one finger pressed hard to his lips. “Shh— shut up!” he whispered harshly. “Careers. Four. Coming this way. You need to move— now.”

 

Neo froze for a heartbeat, eyes sharp now despite the grogginess. His grip tightened around the weapon in his hand— some kind of short-handled knife Telemachus hadn’t seen him carry before— and the loose firelight flickered across the sudden tension in his shoulders.

 

“Where?” he asked, voice low and steady, already halfway to his feet.

 

“Just that way,” he said, tilting his head. I’d say you have a few minutes.”

 

Neo swore under his breath.

 

“The other way is a dead end, I checked yesterday.”

 

Telemachus hesitated, chest heaving with the effort of his run, heart still slamming against his ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. The panic clawed at the edge of his mind, telling him to move, to run, to leave Neo behind and save himself. He couldn’t pull him up. Neo was heavier, broader, and Telemachus didn’t have the strength.

 

Neo probably didn’t have the skill to climb up, either— he was a brawler, not a scrambler.

 

Telemachus spun on his heel, eyes scanning the terrain above the cave. A cluster of trees sat near them, filling one of those little area trapped by the cave walls— twisted things with thick trunks and gnarled, interwoven branches, their roots knotted tight in the thin soil atop the stone.

 

One of them leaned outward, growing almost sideways over the mouth of the cave like it had been reaching for sunlight it could never catch. His eyes locked on it. The limbs were thick— sturdy, from the look of them. Strong enough to hold weight. Strong enough to bring something up.

 

Maybe even someone.

 

This was insane. Stupid, even.

 

But still, his legs kept moving, carrying him toward the crooked tree that hung above the cave’s mouth like an outstretched hand. He scrambled up the base of the trunk in two practiced motions, fingers curling easily around the bark.

 

The branch that arched out over the cave wobbled slightly as he shifted his weight onto it. He paused, testing it, eyes narrowing. It looked sturdy. Wide as his thigh, bark thick and gnarled with age, but as he inched along it— carefully, balancing his weight low and wide— he felt the give beneath him. A soft bend. More flimsy than he’d hoped. His heart gave a jump.

 

“Come on,” he muttered to himself, edging further until he was nearly hanging above the break in the cave ceiling.

 

Below him, Neo stood now, glancing between the shadows and the small shaft of sky overhead. His knife glinted in one hand, but his expression was tightly controlled—like he didn’t want to hope too much.

 

Telemachus shifted again, and the branch dipped a little further. His stomach lurched.

 

“Neo!” he hissed, voice low and urgent. Neoptolemus looked up instantly. His hair was falling completely loose now, a curtain of copper red around his face.

 

“Grab it,” Telemachus called, voice strained. “Now. Before it breaks or they get here— just grab it.”

 

Neo didn’t ask questions. He sheathed his knife, stepped up onto a jagged piece of stone for height, and jumped— arms outstretched. His hands caught the branch with a thud that vibrated all the way up through Telemachus’s bones.

 

The branch dipped hard. Too hard.

 

Telemachus swore under his breath and immediately threw himself backward— off the limb, onto the stable rock of the cave roof. The weight lifted. The branch snapped back up slightly, not fully, but enough that it stopped straining toward the ground.

 

And with a guttural effort, Neo began to climb. His arms tensed, muscles pulling tight with the effort. His boots scrabbled against the cave wall, barely finding a grip. But the branch held. Barely.

 

Telemachus crouched at the edge, watching every second like the moment it might all fail.

 

“You’re almost there,” he called out, quieter now. “Just a little more.”

 

Neo grunted, shifting his weight, hauling himself up inch by inch. He wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t fast. But he was strong. Then— finally —Neo’s fingers caught the edge of the broken stone.

 

Neo’s fingers latched onto the edge of the stone, knuckles white as they dug into the uneven rock. Telemachus leaned forward without hesitation, one hand wrapping around Neo’s forearm, the other bracing himself against the ground to keep from toppling forward.

 

Neo grunted again, jaw clenched, and kicked hard against the wall, finding one last patch of foothold. With Telemachus’s help and a desperate heave of his own strength, he surged upward, muscles coiling tight as a spring. The branch behind him snapped upward in his wake, rustling like a warning.

 

And then— Neo was over the edge, crashing beside Telemachus in a tangle of limbs and breath and adrenaline.

 

For a second, neither of them moved. Just panting. Just the pulse of blood in their ears.

 

Then Telemachus sat back, chest heaving. “Gods,” he breathed. “I thought that branch was going to snap in half.”

 

“Me too,” Neo rasped, eyes wide as he glanced back toward it. His hair was completely loose now, a wild mess of curls sticking to the sweat on his forehead and neck. “Next time you want to save me, maybe don’t pick the weakest tree in the forest.”

 

“Sorry, I figured it was better than letting the careers maul you.”

 

“I’m a career. Besides, I could've taken them. Easy.”

 

“You’re not a career. You killed one of them.” It is at this moment that Telemachus' brain starts working again.

 

This man is a career in the most technical sense. Born in district 2. Raised for this. Selected from his entire district to compete in this game. He has three weapons that Telemachus knows of while Telemachus has one he can barely use.

 

Spear, Bow, hidden knife vs one measly axe. The winners obvious.

 

Telemachus quickly scatters up the tree, away from the cave, away from the man who could easily wrap a hand around his throat and strangle him.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Neo called after him

 

“Climbing a tree. Obviously.”

 

Telemachus barely made it two branches up before something small and sharp thunked against the back of his head. “Ow—!” he hissed, whipping around to glare down through the leaves.

 

Neo stood below, one eyebrow raised, a second pebble rolling between his fingers like he was considering a follow-up shot. “Payback,” Neo said dryly. “For the rock to the temple. Thought we were doing that now.”

 

Telemachus scowled, one hand rubbing the spot where the stone hit. “You’re lucky I don’t throw one back.”

 

“You hit me earlier, it's only fair.”

 

“I also saved your life earlier.”

 

“Guess I’m never going to be able to stop owing you.”

 

Telemachus softened a bit at that, as if remembering he was in fact in a death arena and not having a bit of fun with a friend.

 

“Guess not.”

 

“I’m not going to kill you if that's why you're crawling up there.” Neoptolemus said, “I can’t have you die while I owe you.”

 

Telemachus blinked.

 

He wants to believe him. Wants so badly to drop down and smile at Neo, to trust him and maybe even ally with him. A guaranteed way to stay alive, even if its just until Neoptolemus finishes owing him.

 

He also wants someone with him. Even with the memories tinted by her betrayal, he enjoyed knowing there was someone watching his back.

 

People don’t ally with someone unless it comes with a knife to the ribs 5 minutes later.

 

But Neo hadn’t killed him when he’d had the chance. Hadn’t drawn his knife when Telemachus had offered his back— literally, stupidly —dangling from a branch like a baited fruit. He hadn’t even flinched. Had just climbed.

 

Still. Wanting to believe and believing weren’t the same thing. That was a lesson Telemachus had learned the previous day when Nausicaa made her awful excuses.

 

People made promises when it was easy. People broke them when it wasn’t.

 

He shifted in the crook of the tree, glancing out over the landscape. From up here, the arena looked deceptively peaceful.

 

He has to decide soon. Does he want to die alone, or do you want to die with someone watching his back?

 

The thought was quiet. Honest. Cruel in its honesty.

 

But if hes honest with himself.

 

He already feels so lonely.

 

He longs for someone to talk to. Someone who is going through the same thing as him. Someone who can ground him when he longs to lose himself in the trees.

 

He glanced down again. Neoptolemus wasn’t watching him. Just rolling that pebble in his hand, slow and rhythmic like it was keeping him tethered to the ground. He looked tired. Still catching his breath. Still alive. Still here.

 

“I didn’t climb up here because I was scared of you,” Telemachus said finally, voice drifting down like wind through the leaves.

 

Neo glanced up. “Sure.”

 

“I didn’t,” he insisted, frowning. “I just— needed a moment.”

 

“A moment to climb a tree?”

 

Telemachus gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. “Some of us process stress differently.”

 

That earned a low chuckle. “So. You coming down? Or are you nesting up there for the night?”

 

“Depends. Are you still planning on not killing me?”

 

Neo leaned back slightly, arms bracing behind him, gaze unreadable now. “I told you. I owe you. That’s not going to change. That means something to me.”

 

Below them, footsteps crunched faintly over leaves and gravel. The careers had reached Neo’s old area.

 

Telemachus froze.

 

So did Neoptolemus.

 

He pressed back against the tree, body flat along the branch, hardly daring to breathe. His pulse thudded in his ears. Neo didn’t move either. Didn’t reach for a weapon, didn’t speak. Just stayed still, fingers curling around the pebble like he was trying to squeeze the tension out of his own bones.

 

Another voice chimed in, sharper this time. “They were just here. Look— footprints.”

 

“How old?”

 

“Fresh.”

 

“Looks like Neo.”

 

“Then we’ll keep going. He can’t be fair.”

 

The voices faded and footsteps moved. Only then did Telemachus breathe again.

 

Telemachus had no shot at beating the careers by himself. Didn’t even have a chance at outlasting them by himself. But with Neo, maybe he has a chance at beating them.

 

Neoptolemus knows more about them than anyone else in the arena. He could fight, had been raised to do so, and had already shown he was willing to kill for Telemachus.

 

If Telemachus was to take another ally. There was no better option than Neoptolemus.

 

Telemachus exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath catching like a thread snagged on bark. His limbs ached from tension, from stillness, from the cold truth unraveling in his chest.

 

He wasn’t going to survive this alone. And he didn’t want to— not really.

 

Without another word, he eased his way back down from the tree. The bark scraped his palms, the last branch groaning beneath his weight before he landed softly on the stone beside Neoptolemus.

 

Neo didn’t look surprised. Telemachus straightened. “We need to move,” he said, voice low, steady. “Put some distance between us and the cave before they double back.”

 

“Agreed.” Neo nodded once. “We should probably hunt too. I’m running out of food.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Hopefully Neoptoelmus is talking about himself killing the animals.

 

Neoptolemus adjusted the strap of his pack, gave the sky a quick glance and then turned back to Telemachus.

 

Then he unhooked the bow from his back and held it out.

 

“I stayed and watched your interview. You’re probably better with a bow than I ever will be” he said simply. “Y’know, back in 2, before we were even allowed to touch a bow, we had to watch and analyse the video of Odysseus committing his bow massacre in his games.” he was smiling at the memory, as if watching a massacre was something to reminisce about, “I had to write an essay on his technique.”

 

“Oh. Wow.”

 

Telemachus still did not know how to use a bow.

 

“Everyone in training would kill to train in a bow under Odysseus. I’m incredible at one, don’t get me wrong.” He backtracked, as if realising he shouldn’t be idolising Odysseus in front of his song. But I would be lying if i said I wasn’t jealous.”

 

“I don’t know how to use a bow.”

 

“What.”

 

“I lied.” Telemachus said, “I’ve never touched a bow in my life.”

 

Neoptolemus stared blankly at him.

Notes:

I AM IN CRETE!!! I SAW KNOSSOS PALACE TODAY!!! I WAS AT WHERE THE LABYRINTH WOULD"VE BEEN!!! I HAD TO UPLOAD TODAY OR I NEVER WOULDVE FORGIVEN MYSELF.

Again, i am on holiday, comments may take a tiny bit longer to get to BUT i will get to it

ALSO EVERYONE IN INTERVIEW CHAPTER GOING 'I HOPE THE BOW THING COMES UP AGAIN' YEAH ITS WITH NEO OVERESTIMATED HIS ABILITIES.

Also i think the reason they so quickly decided to become allies is becasue they've been setting this up since day 1. They have started creating this trust in each other since Telemachus saved his token. telemachus saving Neo from the careers kinda cemented this final level of trust between them that finally created them being allies. Also setting them both up as having a shared enemy rather than making each other the enemies

If theres any errors like spelling mistakes or grammar fuck ups. I apologise. I am currently very sick (yes i'm on holiday. with a cold. but IM NOT LETTING IT STOP ME) I've been sick for like 4 days now and everything feels so clogged. So again, i apologise, might do a re-read once i feel better to correct anythign BUT i really REALLY wanted to get a chapter out today

Hope you guys like them finally teaming up after... 12 chapters...

Chapter 13: Bow and Arrow

Telemachus let out a groan of frustration as another arrow veered off into the underbrush like a drunken squirrel. “Why is it doing that?” he snapped, lowering the bow like it had personally insulted him.

 

Neo, crouched a few feet away by a mossy tree trunk, didn’t even look up from cleaning his knife. “Because you’re terrible,” he said calmly. “Also— because you keep flinching like the string’s gonna bite you.”

 

“It does bite me! It bit me three times already.” Telemachus whined. He was not exaggerating either, there was a tiny little red mark along his arm where the bow string would hit

 

For some reason, upon hearing that Telemachus was utterly useless at using his own fathers best weapon, Neoptolemus had decided that he must learn how to use it.

 

Neoptolemus laughed— short, sharp, and scathing as he watched him.

 

“What did they teach you in District 7? I thought you all came out of the womb whittling tree bark and spearing rabbits.”

 

“We do. We just use axes and snares like normal people.” He paused, because he didn’t really grow up learning that stuff, “and some of us, maybe grew up a bit more sheltered then everyone else.”

 

“Did you daddy not want you to be able to survive?” Neoptolemus drawled, standing now and sheathing his knife with a clean click. He took a few slow steps toward Telemachus, lazy and sharp like a wolf that wasn’t quite hungry.

 

“No,” he said, gripping his bow tighter. Neoptolemus had managed to immediately find the thing that upsets him the most. “He didn’t want me in the arena.”

 

Neo raised a brow. “That working out for him?”

 

“Not really. Seeing as I’m here with you.”

 

That got a laugh out of Neo. Not a genuine one. A bitter one.

 

“He tried,” Telemachus said, feeling a sudden need to defend his dad. “Tried so hard he didn’t teach me anything that might have helped me survive this. Said if I ever needed a weapon, something had already gone wrong.”

 

Neoptolemus scoffed, not at Telemachus, but at the idea. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

 

Telemachus bristled. “He just didn’t want me to grow up thinking violence was normal.”

 

Neo gave him a long, unreadable look. “Violence is normal.”

 

“Maybe where you’re from,” he said finally. “But not in my house.”

 

Neo let out a low laugh. “Your house was Panem, darling. Same as mine. Just because your dad closed the curtains doesn’t mean the world disappeared.”

 

Telemachus’s grip tightened. He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Because deep down, he knew Neo was right. The world hadn’t disappeared. It had just waited. Quiet and patient, waiting for him to be in that reaping bowl.

 

Neo stepped closer, tone rougher now. “Your dad thought he was protecting you. But all he did was hand you over soft.”

 

Telemachus looked up sharply. “He loved me.”

 

Neo blinked once. “I didn’t say he didn’t.”

 

“He did what he thought was right,” Telemachus said finally, voice low but steady.

 

“Yeah and he was wrong.”

 

Telemachus didn’t respond to that. He couldn’t. There were too many things in his chest suddenly— anger, defensiveness, shame, the terrible ache of knowing his father had been wrong, and that love hadn’t been enough to keep him out of this place.

 

Neo didn’t press further. “Try again,” he said, jerking his chin back towards the trees he had been attempting to shoot out. “Unless you’d rather keep sulking about how the world’s unfair.”

 

Telemachus rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He raised the bow again. Drew the string. Released. The arrow struck into the ground only a moment away from the tree he was aiming at Not great. But not humiliating either.

 

Neo gave a small grunt. “Better.”

 

“Thanks,” Telemachus muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “Coming from you, that’s practically a standing ovation.”

 

Neo smirked. “Don’t get used to it. It wasn’t a good shot either.”

 

Telemachus grumbled something under his breath and notched another arrow. This time, he tried not to think about Neoptolemus watching him, or the way the previous arrow had landed almost-decently, or the fact that his arm still stung.

 

He took a breath, drew, and— Thunk. The arrow hit the bark of the tree with a dull thud and promptly fell out.

 

“Closer,” Neo said, shrugging one shoulder as he leaned back against the mossy trunk. “Still wouldn’t kill anything, but I guess if you shouted loud enough, the tree might faint out of pity.”

 

Telemachus made a face. “Is this helping? Are your insults part of the training?”

 

“Yes,”

 

He sighed. “Maybe you should just shoot something and I’ll do the carrying.”

 

Neo made a low sound in his throat, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “You’re not getting out of this just because you’re bad at it. You should learn how to use a weapon.”

 

Before Telemachus could respond about how he could use a weapon— and that Neoptolemus should see his axe skills —a flicker of movement caught both their attention.

 

A small, grey-furred rabbit hopped lazily into the clearing, unaware of the conversation or the tension that snapped like a bowstring between them. It paused to sniff at the mossy ground, ears twitching, tail a blur of white.

 

Neo stilled, eyes locked on it. “There. Try that one.”

 

Telemachus blinked. “That? It’s tiny.”

 

“Exactly. You want dinner or not?”

 

Telemachus didn’t move right away. The rabbit was still there, oblivious, soft-looking, and completely defenseless. His heartbeat had kicked up so fast he could hear it in his ears.

 

He glanced back at Neo, but the other boy didn’t look impatient— just focused. Intent in that dangerous, effortless way he had. Like his whole body knew how to kill, but didn’t always feel like bothering.

 

Telemachus stood frozen, the bow suddenly heavier in his grip. The rabbit hadn’t moved, still nibbling at something invisible in the moss, completely unaware that it had wandered into the path of someone who was supposed to be learning how to kill it.

 

He swallowed hard, shoulders stiffening. “I don’t think I can hit it.”

 

Neo didn’t answer right away. But a moment later, Neo stepped up behind him, close enough that Telemachus could feel the heat of him at his back.

 

Telemachus flinched slightly as he felt hands come over his own—warm, sure, rough with old calluses. Neo adjusted the position of his fingers on the string, nudging his elbow into line, guiding the bow just a little higher.

 

“There,” Neo said quietly, breath brushing the shell of Telemachus’s ear.

 

The air between them changed— tilted. Telemachus could feel the heat of Neo’s chest at his back, the scratch of breath at his temple. Every nerve in his body lit up at once, buzzing like live wire under skin. He hoped to the gods Neo couldn’t hear his heart hammering.

 

“Now released.” Neo continued, voice softer, steadier than before.

 

Telemachus let go.

 

The arrow flew like it had been waiting to. Sharp and straight and true.

 

It struck the rabbit clean in the side.

 

The animal gave a small twitch and then stilled.

 

Silence. Even the wind paused.

 

Telemachus blinked. Neo didn’t move.

 

Then Telemachus turned, a disbelieving smile breaking over his face like sun splitting cloud. “I hit it,” he said, stunned. “I actually hit it!”

 

“I know. I saw.”

 

“I hit it!” Telemachus laughed now, the sound bright and shocked and boyish, like something he hadn’t remembered he still had inside him.

 

He turned to face Neo, finding that their faces were inches apart, barely a breath could fit between them. He didn’t realise how close Neo was to him until this moment, he couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

 

“Are you proud of me?” he teased with a smile,

 

“Immensely so. I count this win as mine, i taught you everything with a bow.”

 

“Well I'm sure half of it is genetics.”

 

It was nice that neoptolemus wasn’t pointing out how hitting it was mostly due to his help.

 

Neo moved away from him and started his way towards the rabbit, crouching beside it. His heart did a flutter as he stepped away, as if wanting to reach and bring Neoptolemus back towards him. Weird.

 

He probably just feels safe around him. Thats why he wants him close.

 

His fingers were efficient and brisk as he checked the kill. “Clean shot,” he muttered, half to himself. Neo slung the rabbit over his shoulder with a practiced flick, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. “Come on. Light’s going fast.”

 

Telemachus hoisted his bow and followed as Neo began moving through the trees again. It was getting dark, it felt like daylight was leaving faster than it had the previous days.

 

The shadows were longer than they should’ve been. Telemachus glanced up at the sky and frowned. The sun had dipped, sure, but not that far. Not enough to explain the way the light seemed to leave the sky, like someone had pulled a dark curtain over the whole arena.

 

“It’s weirdly dark already,” he muttered. Telemachus adjusted his grip on the bow, the string biting lightly into his fingers. “I wish my bag came with a flashlight. Or, you know, night vision goggles. That would've been thoughtful. Useful.”

 

Neo snorted. “You’d find a way to blind yourself if you had them.”

 

“Well. Excuse me for wanting to see.”

 

“You can see. You’re still complaining.”

 

They moved through a gap between two parts of the labyrinth outside. It felt safer being outside the cave. Every now and then a crow let out a broken caw in the distance, but even the birds were quiet. The arena had fallen into a hush that didn’t feel like peace— it felt like hiding.

 

Telemachus’s steps slowed. There was a smell now. Faint at first. Then stronger.

 

Something wrong.

 

His nose wrinkled. “Do you smell that?” Neo stopped, head tilting slightly.

 

He sniffed once, the line of his jaw tightening. “Yeah.”

 

“Please tell me that’s not the rabbit,” Telemachus said.

 

“No, the rabbits fresh. This is something rotting.” He was looking ahead, gaze narrowed. “There’s something up ahead,” he said quietly.

 

Telemachus’s fingers drifted instinctively toward the axe slung against his back. He slid it free with a whisper of metal and leather, the worn handle comforting in a way the bow never quite was.

 

Neo had already drawn one of his knives, the long, black one he seemed to favor.

 

They moved slower now. Quieter. But as they moved forward the smell just got worse.

 

The smell, thick as blood and just as metallic, clawed its way down their throats.

 

They stilled when they saw it.

 

At first, Telemachus thought it was a person.

 

Tall. Pale. Humanoid.

 

Then it shifted, and the light caught feathers— black as pitch, slick and oil-slicked, layered like armor. A neck too long, twisting at an unnatural angle. A face that almost looked human, except where it didn’t. No lips. Just a beak, jagged and broken like it had once been a mouth and someone had reshaped it into something else. Something hungrier. Its eyes were wrong. Too big. Too seeing.

 

It was crouched over something— something furry and twitching. A dog? A fox? Hard to tell now. The mutt had already torn half of it open, its claws peeling back skin with an almost surgical detachment. Blood soaked the moss in a dark, sticky puddle. Guts spilled like ribbons across the earth. The thing wasn’t just eating— it was dissecting, studying, unmaking.

 

And it was humming. A low, broken, warbling sound. Like a lullaby played on an instrument that had never been tuned.

 

Telemachus felt bile rise in his throat. “What is that?”

 

Neo’s voice was quiet, as if not to alarm the creature. “A mutt. Bird type. Looks like... maybe vulture base? With some kind of human splice, and maybe a small mix with songbird.”

 

Telemachus stared. “That’s not a bird.”

 

The mutt’s head snapped up. that too-long neck twisting like rope wrung too tight. Its eyes— those awful, glassy, human eyes —locked onto Telemachus. They weren’t just looking. They were wanting. They were hungry.

 

The thing rose on skeletal legs, taller than it had any right to be, wings dragging through the muck behind it. Its feathers rustled with a sound like dry leaves scraping bone. Blood dripped from its beak in slow, syrupy strings.

 

The mutt shrieked—a piercing, ragged sound that tore through the air like rusted metal. Its wings snapped out, longer than a man was tall, and it lunged.

 

Telemachus bolted.

 

Get high. Get out of reach. Get anywhere but here.

 

He ran until he almost collided with the caves wall. He could barely see it as the sun was dipping into night. It still looked daker than normal. The moon wasn’t illuminating the sky as it should. Although this is the arena, maybe the moon only behaved like a normal one for a few days.

 

Fingers dug into a narrow crevice between stones, boots scraping against bark-covered ledges. He hauled himself up with the reckless desperation of someone who very much did not want to die with his face chewed off by a science experiment.

 

Telemachus scrambled higher, every muscle screaming, fingers slick with moss and sweat. Pebbles skittered down into the darkness below. He could barely see where he was placing his foot against the cave wall, he could barely see anything.

 

Something wet clamped around his calf.

 

The mutt's jagged beak had clamped around his leg, its too-wide eyes locked on him with a predator’s calm certainty. Hot blood surged down into his boot. The beak tightened until he felt the grind of pressure in his bones. The pain was sharp, tearing, alive.

 

He kicked wildly, heel smashing against something hard. The creature hissed, but its grip didn’t break— it only wrenched backward, trying to drag him from the wall like a wolf pulling a rabbit from its burrow.

 

Telemachus’s nails scraped against the stone, grit grinding into his fingertips as the mutt yanked again, nearly tearing him from the wall.

 

A glint of metal flashed in the dying light, and Neo’s knife plunged upward, driving deep into the joint where the creature’s neck met its shoulder.

 

The mutt shrieked. Its beak tore free from his leg and it staggered back, wings thrashing violently against the rock face.

 

“We need to move!” Neo barked, already shifting into a defensive stance, knife dripping with something blacker than blood.

 

Telemachus hauled himself up until he was sitting on top of the cave, he chose not to look at the “We can’t outrun it out here!” he hissed. “We need to get into the cave!

 

Neo didn’t hesitate. He shoved the knife back into its sheath and leapt for the rock wall, boots scraping for purchase. Telemachus braced himself, leaning over the edge and reaching down. Neo caught his forearm, the grip iron-tight. Telemachus gritted his teeth, every muscle in his shoulders screaming as he hauled him upward. Neoptolemus was far stronger than him, Telemachus wasn’t doing much help except give him something to hold to help pull himself up.

 

The mutt recovered faster than either of them wanted. It was already lurching forward again, that broken lullaby hum leaking out between its jagged beak.

 

Neoptolemus swung himself over the wall until he was sitting on top of the cave.

 

The opening in the cave roof yawned a few feet away, a jagged mouth of stone dropping into blackness. Telemachus didn’t hesitate—he swung his legs over and let himself fall. His boots hit stone with a jolt. Usually his land would’ve been more smooth but the pain in his leg was too great to even attempt any of his usual tricks.

 

Neo dropped in after him, his landing quieter, more controlled, though the air still shifted with the rush of his descent.

 

They both turned immediately, eyes drawn upward. The mutt’s shadow slid over the lip of the opening, its too-long neck craning, glassy eyes catching the faintest scraps of moonlight. It paced in slow, deliberate arcs, talons clicking faintly against the rock above. Every few steps it leaned forward, peering into the black below, that eerie, warbling hum dripping down through the hole like a leaking poison.

 

But it didn’t jump. It circled. Once. Twice.

 

The feathers along its shoulders rose and fell with an odd, restless agitation. Then it stilled, head cocking at an unnatural angle, watching them with a gaze that felt too sharp, too knowing.

 

“Why isn’t it coming down?”

 

Neo didn’t look away from the opening. “Maybe it doesn’t like enclosed spaces.

 

“Maybe it’s waiting for us to come back out.”

 

Above, the mutt’s hum deepened, and then it resumed its slow, predator’s circle, keeping them penned in by nothing more than its presence.

 

Telemachus backed away from the weak moonlight spilling through the opening, the mutt’s silhouette still pacing above. He didn’t like the way those glassy eyes followed every movement.

 

Once he was sure it couldn’t see him, he lowered himself to the cave floor. The stone was cold and damp under his palms. He shrugged his pack off, the straps rasping against his jacket, and fumbled it open, pulling out the little first aid box.

 

The cave was almost completely black now, the only light a faint smudge far behind him. He couldn’t see the shapes of the leaves, so he let his fingers trace their textures, feeling for anything that could prevent infection in his leg and heal it even a little.

 

His fingers glided over a soft leaf, a weird hairy feel to it. He brought it to his nose, inhaling until the faint bite of its peppery scent caught in his throat.

 

He tore a few leaves free, shoved them into his mouth, and chewed. The bitterness bloomed instantly, a tannic sting on his tongue that made him want to spit it back out. He swallowed the urge, working it into a wet paste.

 

Usually his mother preferred a medicine paste made using this leaf as well as many other herbs and healing properties. But he had seen her use just the leaves on times when supplies were low. It worked, just not as well as he would hope.

 

He hitched up the torn leg of his pants. Even without sight, he could feel the ragged tear where the mutt’s beak had punctured through—skin hot and sticky, blood pooling in his boot. He pressed the chewed mash directly onto the wounds, hissing through his teeth as the sting deepened. His fingers worked the paste in, letting the leaf’s oil seep into the punctures.

 

He gave the leg a few seconds before binding it with a strip of cloth torn from the inside of Amphinomous old Jacket that he had kept shoved in his bag. He knotted it tight enough to hold the paste in place.

 

Neo’s voice came softly from the dark, “How bad?”

 

“Bad enough. But i’ll live.” he smiled to himself, “Its worse than your little axe injury.”

 

“Oh fuck off.” Neo said.

 

Telemachus chuckled under his breath, though the sound came out more like a hiss of pain. He leaned back against the cold wall, closing his eyes— not that it made a difference.

 

The cave was sinking into a darkness so complete it felt solid, pressing in on every side. It wasn’t just the usual night-shadow either. Even the faint silver smear from the opening above was fading, like someone was slowly turning down a lantern.

 

He frowned, tilting his head back. “Moon’s dropping,” he murmured.

 

Neo glanced upward, but the movement was barely visible. “No… it’s still up. Light’s just… going.”

 

That shouldn’t happen. Even in the arena, the moon’s cycle was constant or at least that's how it had been the last few nights.

 

But the air around them seemed to drink in every bit of light, swallowing it before it touched the stone. The shadows weren’t growing; they were thickening, turning into something heavier.

 

“I can’t even see your face anymore,” Telemachus said quietly.

 

“Don’t worry. I’m right in front of you.”

 

A canon fired somewhere deeper in the cave. Another followed, closer, though neither of them could see the walls to know where it came from. People were already dying in the dark. The mutt’s pacing above had gone silent.

 

The darkness felt alive now, pooling in their lungs, crawling over their skin.

Notes:

Sorry this chapter come out so late. My life is so busy at the moment and I just haven't had as much time to write.
I mention this on tumblr but I am an *aspiring* actor and I just closed a show, am in the middle of rehearsals for another show, preparing for a duet in front of tons of people, helping choreograph + performing in a little act apart of something that is NOT going well, and I am preparing for an audition that if i get it will completely change my life as well as many other things. Its just made everything reallly stressful and i'm busy almost every day including work and classes. So i just haven't had time, so future chapters will also probably take longer to come out in the future

This chapter is very much setting up the future chapter as i had a cool idea to play around with darkness so yeahhhhhh

Also apologise for the crazy tone change halfway through the chapter BUT this is the hunger games and its crazy so tone changes will happen sometimes lol

Aloso btw, first draft of this chapter had them hug but i decided to remove it lol

hope you guys like it!!!