Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

District Ten Reaping - Dawn Janus and Byron Cault

Nothing can postpone a reaping.  Not even a funeral.

Luckily for the people of District Ten, their reaping wasn’t until mid-afternoon, giving a few short hours in the morning to farewell one of the old men of the district.  Varnon Chase had been a well-liked man, respected and honoured by everyone.

And now he was dead, gone to join the children whose memories he had honoured, long after they were forgotten by the people of Panem.

The mourners stand around the grave, listening to the dull thud of the earth clods as they struck the lid of the rough pine box they had laid him in.  Death is something people in District Ten are used to; after all, animals there die or are killed every day.  But today is different, with the reapings looming – the promise of two more dead children, gone to join Varnon and the other tributes in the next life.

One of the children sniffs softly, and her mother squeezes her hand reassuringly.  Someone starts to sing the traditional funeral song of the district, a simple melody that they all know, and soon her voice is joined by the others, blending in sweet harmony as they give their simple farewell to the old man.

Goodbye is not forever
Or it doesn’t have to be.
Our paths will cross someday
But you’ll always be with me.
You are with me every day
when I think of you.
Nowhere else I have found
a friend so very true.

The music floats up and away, over the gently rolling hills of the district, until it is swallowed by the vast blue sky.

***

The reaping is running behind schedule, thanks to a hold up at the train station.  Eldora Grande, this year’s escort, is busy telling anyone who will listen just how disgusted she was with the fact that animals could wander about like that, and those cows the train hit deserved to die.  This is earning her more than a few disgusted looks from members of the Mayor’s entourage, most of who wouldn’t have shed a tear had the woman fallen in front of the train herself.

After all, was it not for ‘those beasts’, half the Capitol would be starving, not to mention most of District Ten.  But there’s no time for fighting, they’ve only got about a half hour before the reapings begin, and the sound and camera crews are in a mad state of panic.

Once they reach the Justice Building, the crews rush off to set up their equipment, and Eldora is left to put the finishing touches to her heavy makeup and ensure her dress looks right.  This year she’s tried to fit into the theme of district, adding a cowbell to her simple dress so she clanks with every step.  There’s a tiny cowboy style hat perched on her flaming orange curls, which she thinks looks rather cute, but in reality it just makes her look like her head has suddenly expanded massively so it no longer fits. 

She pulls out the note they had passed to her as she boarded the train at the Capitol, looking around to make sure no-one was reading over her shoulder.  Getting caught with this would be nothing short of a disaster, the district would be in full scale rebellion before you could say “Happy Hunger Games!”  She smooths it out between her fingers, rereading the precise handwriting for the hundredth time.  There can be no mistakes, no hesitation.

She skims over the first lines, which explain who the man is, slowing down when it gets to the part about the boys.

He has a son, a grandson and a nephew, all of whom he loves dearly. The grandson is too young. You will call the son’s name, regardless of who is reaped. There is every chance his nephew will then volunteer. Either way, one of them must go to the arena to teach them a lesson.

She knows the nephews name, but she repeats it in a whisper a few times.  She must not forget.

***

The speech is over, and the cameras have just begun to roll.  The crowd is restless; it’s hot, and there are far too many people packed into the space before the Justice Building.  A heavy silence hangs over them as they watch their orange haired tribute meander over to the girl’s reaping bowl.  Bucket, actually; in keeping with the districts operations, the names have been heaped into two large milking buckets.  They have to be large. In this district there are a lot of names, and a lot more from tesserae.

Eldora can feel herself starting to sweat, and she hasn’t even gotten to picking out the boy’s name yet.  She hopes her makeup isn’t running.  Realising she’s forgotten her microphone, she trots back to the podium, the scrap of paper fluttering in her fingers. 

Someone groans in the crowd, how much longer will this take? 

The escort clears her throat fussily, and lifts the scrap of paper.  The crowd hushes.  In the silence, the lowing of the cattle in the paddocks beyond the town can be heard faintly.  The sound, usually a comforting backdrop to life, holds no reassurance for any of the girls in the pens before the stage.

“Dawn Janus!”

The girl that takes the stage looks tall, much bigger than the rest of the girls in the fourteen year olds pen.  She stands, shoulders slumped, and Eldora makes a mental note to work on getting that posture improved.  After all, who wants to sponsor a tribute that looks like a hunchback?  She wouldn’t, that’s for certain.  And she looks painfully weak, with thin arms that even Eldora could probably break with a sharp twist.

All in all, the district isn’t going to place too much hope in this one.  She knows they’re thinking that, and she can’t blame them.  And oddly enough, it doesn’t bother her much.  She knows she’s going to die; it’s not that that she’s afraid of.  After all, it’s going to happen sometime, why not in three weeks?  It’s how she knows she’ll go that really bothers her at that point in time.  Killed by someone who didn’t want to go as much as her.  Killed for nothing more than the sick pleasure of the painted freaks in the Capitol.

Suddenly she hates Eldora, hates the Capitol, hates everyone who has given up on her.  She’s going to give this her best, that’ll show them not to lose hope so easily. 

The reaping is running slightly behind, so there’s no chance for her to tell them that; Eldora is already heading for the boys' bucket.  This is it, the moment.  She can’t mess this up, or she’ll be an Avox before she knows where she is.  The people who want this won’t be taking chances with such a delicate secret.

She picks out a name, and takes a deep breath as she peels it open.

It’s not him.  The nephew, the nephew, what was his name?  Eldora panics for a moment, then the name is hissed at her through the microphone in her ear, and she almost shouts it out in relief.

“Brae Cault!”

She sees a tiny boy jump in the mass of twelve year olds, his huge blue eyes turning up to stare at her dumbly.  Please let the other boy volunteer she finds herself thinking.  There’s a hush as the tiny wisp of a boy pushes through the other boys, then there’s an unsteady shout of “I volunteer!” from the back of the pens.

Byron doesn’t remember walking to the stage, doesn’t feel the hands shaking his, barely feels the hug the boy gives his uncle.  He’s done it, and he can’t believe this is really happening.  His heart thuds painfully in his chest.  No chance to back out, no running away.  Just this long walk to his death.  He cracks his knuckles nervously as he moves across the stage, his incredulity at what he’s done dulling the knot of fear he can feel building in his stomach.

How do you say goodbye knowing you’re never coming back?

Somehow he manages to croak out a few words, a promise to try his best, although what that might be, no one is really sure.  the boy doesn’t look like much; slightly stocky, and fairly short – Dawn stands the same height as him, despite the four year age difference between them.  Byron rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, and a few people nod approvingly at the muscles in his arm.  There’s a few scattered claps, and a woman calls out “God bless you, son!”

Byron hears none of it, sees none of it.  He’s watching the distance, where horses run free across the hills of the district.  Jace, Meridian, Silver.  A single tear trails down his cheek.

I’ll be seeing you soon, Varnon he thinks.