The Victors | ✓

9

The trainers are lined up along the Gauntlet, foam bats at the ready. I stand at the start, with Angel beside me. He has a bat of his own tucked under his arm, his empty spot just before the end. "We have thirty minutes to get you to run through this without getting hit. Every time you are hit, consider that a close encounter with death. Every time you are knocked down, consider that a killing blow. The goal is for you to get to the platform and back down without being touched. Understood?"

"Got it." I am tired and grouchy after our argument—if it can even be called that—and all I want to do is go back to my room and scrub any memory of him being close to me from my skin. I am nearly glad that tonight is likely the time that I will ever see him again, because I don't think that I could stand to with his words still echoing in my ears.

He nods to Lars, who hits a button that starts the timer, and I lunge forward. On the third step, I am hit in the gut and knocked to the mats below. Rather than checking to see if I'm okay, I'm told to get up and start again.

By the time I can make it to the top platform without getting hit, my face is streaked with tears and I feel as if every inch of me is bruised. My muscles burn, and I'm not sure that I can keep going. I leap into the air just as a club comes for my ankles, the foam brushing against the soles of my shoes. Deciding that it's better to get it over with, I lunge towards the other side and duck just as Atala swings a bat at my head. I roll and clumsily fling myself onto the next step down, nearly losing  my balance and falling, but this saves me—another trainer is there, swinging at my face, but my bending backward has caused him to aim too high and miss me.

Three steps from the bottom, I am knocked down. "You'll get it next time!" Tiber's encouraging call does nothing for me. I pick myself up, scrubbing at my cheeks, and return to the start.

It takes another three runs for me to get to the end, but that's not good enough for Angel, because I took a hit to the side, even if I didn't even sway from it (of course, it was him that hit me). The next two runs are near perfect until I get to him; he's by far the hardest on me, and I slip and fall from the step on the last run, my torso slamming into the hard step before I start to go down.

Before I can hit the floor, his arms are around me. He sets me on my feet and quickly lets me go, picking up his bat to avoid my eyes. Frustrated, I stomp back to the start and begin again. This time, when I get to his step, I jump over his bat, duck as he swings again, and then kick his wrist. The club goes flying, and I sprint down the last two step before anyone can shut their jaw and try to swing again.

He rubs his wrist, grumbling swears, and glares at me. "Is that good enough for you, or do you want to take a few more swings?" I snap.

This doesn't make him any more pleased with me, and I consider this a small victory. "You're done for the night. Go rest before tomorrow." He storms off to collect his bat and leaves without another word.

The other trainers are far kinder, patting me on the back and telling me that I did well. Yesterday and the day before, I would have been pleased with their praise; today, I have too many other emotions swirling in my head to feel anything other than overwhelmed and exhausted. But I have at least accomplished one thing: I have no reason to ponder whether Angel could be someone I might consider fighting to live for. I will not fight for someone that only wants to fight against me. And so my fate is set again.

♙

The showers are as high-tech and complex as I vaguely recall them being. When I was little, I would take baths, not showers, and was still taking them upon my arrest, but I remember seeing my parents' shower and being awestruck by all of the buttons. The water is hot as it pounds against my skin, massaging the aching muscles and burning off any remnants of Angel. Or at least, that's what I'm telling myself; the ghost of his chest against my back, of his hands guiding me, of his body hovering just above mine, of his arms around me before I hit the ground, remains. I turn up the temperature.

I mix soaps that smell of lavender and ylang ylang and scrub my skin as if I'm trying to remove the top layer (and I am), and I use a shampoo and conditioner smelling of vanilla and lavender to clean my hair. When I emerge from the shower, my skin is red and raw, and I feel almost-new. Almost, because it seems that nothing will fix whatever is wrong within my chest.

I dry my hair and brush it out. When I've finished, I return to my bedroom to pull on pajamas. I had asked that we wait for dinner until after I showered, and I'm surprised that Effie hasn't come in to check on me yet. I wriggle into the soft, comfy clothes and head back into the common area.

Dinner is already on the table, and I join them. It hurts to lower myself into the chair (and to move in general), but I do it with barely a grimace. Still, Effie and Haymitch are too perceptive. "Are you all right, Lia?" Effie asks.

I nod. "Fine. Rough day of training is all. They made me run the Gauntlet."

"How did you do?" Haymitch asks.

I shrug. "Good enough, I guess." I don't elaborate, and I think they get that I don't want to talk and don't ask me any more questions.

I'm not hungry and spend more time pushing food around my plate than actually eating. Effie looks concerned but doesn't ask; Haymitch seems to be ignoring it, as if that will make the problem go away. I wish that it would. Yet Angel is an annoying thorn in my side, and the more I try to forget him, the more I seem to think of him. It doesn't help that every movement is a (literal) painful reminder of him.

After dinner, just as I get up, Haymitch addresses me. "Any idea what you're going to do tomorrow?"

It takes me a minute to realize what he's referencing. Individual sessions. I'd nearly forgotten. I shrug. "Not really. I'm decent at most things, but I'm not great at any." But even as I say that, I know what I'm going to do. It won't make me stand out, but maybe it'll get me a higher score.

"You should take some time to think that over, sweetheart," he says. "Getting a low score won't do you any favors."

I offer him a fleeting smile. "Will do." I fake a yawn. "Well, I'm going to bed. See you in the morning." With my back to them, it's easy to pretend that the concerned looks aren't there and that I'll actually be sleeping tonight.

♙

Sleep comes easily, yet I find myself awake again at three. I can hear the television on in the sitting room, and I wonder who's awake and what they're watching. I'm too tired and too comfortable to investigate, so I roll over and fall back into sleep's open arms.

The President places a golden crown on my hair. I am dressed in a pale blue gown with a skirt that looks like a flower's petals. Unlike in the past, when I would watch the crowning of a Victor, no one is cheering; instead, they are booing and jeering at me, and I feel sick to my stomach. I wonder why I fought so hard to live when it's so painfully evident that no one else wanted me to. Even Haymitch and Effie look disappointed, as if they can't stand me being alive.

I keep my chin up as I leave the stage, knowing that there will never be a quiet life for me like the other Victors. I will never be accepted or viewed as a hero of any sort. No, I will always be the granddaughter of a tyrant that oppressed the majority of the country, the man that poisoned friend and foe alike to maintain his iron rule. The one that slaughtered the same people that the Games had made into heroes. I should not have left the arena alive. There is no life for me here.

In the halls of the Training Center once more, this time unguarded, I hear footsteps behind me. And I nearly freeze. Instead, I keep walking and return to my room. Though the person is behind me the whole time, I do not turn to see who they are. I am a coward through and through, and if death has come for me, I would rather not see the killing blow.

But instead of pain, as I stand in front of the mirror, I only see strong arms curl around my waist. A tall man presses his face into my hair, and I close my eyes and lean back into his arms. He says nothing, but I know that he is relieved. That I am alive, that I am in his arms. It is more than I had ever thought I would have, and his voice, vaguely familiar, murmurs, "You have a place with me. Come home with me."

I do not recall my answer, because I am pulled deeper into the darkness, and he drifts away.