Chapter Text
The announcement seems to echo around the arena. Even in this economy—economy—economy, we wouldn’t deprive a princess—princess—princess of her essentials—essentials—essentials—essentials…
Around me, the cameras wait, their hidden barrels trained on my horrified face. They zoom in abruptly, invasively, to capture my reaction to the Feast. Another drop of blood drips down my chin—a remnant of my over-smiling, cracked lips.
And then the world comes crashing at me. I feel like my eyes are the cameras, like my pupils are camera barrels twisting in rocketing zoom. Patches of burning sky are shrinking, while others are expanding, and the bushland is hurtling into me. When I tear my gaze away to stare at my sunburnt hands, they are shrinking rapidly, escaping me and running from me. My face is being pulled away—zoomed out—until I blink, and then everything is collapsing into each other again. I push my hands into my eye sockets, but even the staticky blackness is rushing at me and then fleeing in black holes of nothing. When I tear my hands away, I’m screaming.
But I’m not screaming—I wish I was. I’m sobbing. I’m properly crying, with reckless abandon, like a baby. The sobs lack the powerful fury with which screaming would dignify me. I’m huddled in a heap on the ground, weeping. Tears are running from my eyes, down my cheeks, and curving under my chin to meet again and drip to my chest. I am pouring this sad water out of my head, and it is so totally devoid of any of the poison that I’ve so revered. My water is just tears. It’s useless.
When my sobs seem to run out of hysterical misery, the tears slow to a slipping trickle down my cheeks. My chin lifts, to squint into the hot sky. My lips part, twitching in between hiccoughs, and I feel like I should cry something—like I should curse or address some higher being. That’s what people used to do, I think, before the Dark Days. My mouth closes. I have nothing to scream. It’s only the Gamemakers that I’ve been imagining up there.
I will have to risk my life for a hair tool to satisfy the audience. It shouldn’t be a surprise. I’ve been solely concerned with satisfying the audience for two weeks now. I just had the stupid hope that I could do it from a nice, tidy, distance. The Gamemakers—up there, watching—they want a bloody, brutal, fight to finish the Games. They want a finale that suits the inheritors of barbarism, as per President Snow’s Parade speech.
The next hiccough is so strong that my whole torso jerks. I look down at my ribcage, waiting for the next one, and look at my top. It’s not a gem-encrusted bodice, but the shirt I took from Sylacauga’s dead body. She would defeat Weft, with coiled-up predator tension in her posture, slicing cleanly through his neck with her sword, just like she did with that redhead in the Bloodbath. She would do it easily, and with pleasure. I can’t even remember where I put my javelin.
This Feast must also be why Cervelt hasn’t sent me any sponsor gifts while I’ve been burning and starving in the rock pools. Towards the end of the Games, gifts become impossibly expensive, to build tension. It would take the suspense out of a Feast if both Weft and I were well-fed. I suppose the Feast must have whatever Weft dearly wants, or else he wouldn’t be tempted to come, and the Gamemakers couldn’t get their bloody final battle. It must be food. It’s always food. I’d go to the Feast for that, too, but of course they’ve left something else for me.
My shaking hands find my hair again, running my blood-crusted fingernails through it.
Oh, I’m not too bothered about the audience. I’m sure you’re all lovely, don’t get me wrong, but the thing I am most concerned about is most definitely how I will smell after the arena. And don’t even get me started on my hair. I’m sure there will be weapons a plenty, but argan oil? In this economy?
My hands stop touching the slippery gold in my hair and clamp over my ears, trying to block out the stupid little voice that I can hear. It doesn’t work. More little voices laugh at it.
If you don’t mind me saying, your highness, you have lovely hair.
I do! Thank you, peasant.
“Shut up!”
Ha! I pride myself on my hair, but I’m really not too sure about what argan oil even is!
All you need to know is that it’s what my sponsors will send me. Food and weapons are fine, but If you really want some royal approval then I am going to need some proper hair products.
“No! No!”
I open my scrunched-up eyes to discover myself panting. My hands are still clamped over my ears, but it’s hurting my bad shoulder so much that I have to put them down. I hiccough again, wetly.
I must have missed the last part of Claudius Templesmith’s announcement, when I started hearing the echoes—which probably weren’t real, come to think of it. Whenever a Feast is announced, Claudius finishes with the slogan about the odds. He didn’t tell me when the Feast is, either—or where. Luckily, every Feast I remember watching has been at dawn at the cornucopia, so I think I’m safe to assume this Feast will be the same.
I sniff. And then I’ll—or I could…
There’s no point in plotting. There’s no point in thinking, or in considering, or in extrapolating. The Games won’t end in a cunning Jordyn scheme, but in a violent caveman battle. All I can do now is go to the cornucopia, like a good little girl, and get my argan oil. When I wipe my nose, snot sticks to the back of my hand, joining the dirt and blood.
I sleep for the rest of the afternoon, and into the evening, hoping that my body will somehow patch itself up in my sleep. The rocks are mean to my bones, and pus drips from my bad shoulder across my neck when I lie on my side. I jerk awake at nightfall, and then again all throughout the night, convinced that I’m going to miss dawn and the Feast, and starve to death or be punished by the Gamemakers. Every sound is the sound of Weft’s knuckles, cracking somewhere downstream.
Before I leave for the cornucopia, I wash myself upstream one final time. Lenone’s beautiful hair comb has been smashed, but I can still follow her instructions to keep myself clean. I remember what she said about the natural oils in my hair, and wash it as best I can. With every pass through of my hand, more strands of gold pull out, catching moonlight. I stare down at the handfuls of shimmer, remembering the Parade, and how I plied Appius’s feelings about our costumes, then sized up the other driven tributes. The memory of my smug pride leaves a bad taste in my mouth—or that might be the hunger. I can’t remember the symptoms of all the ailments I’ve probably got. Not that I could do much about any of them anyway.
After finding my spear, and gathering the rest of my pathetic belongings, I start walking to the cornucopia. My damp hair drips down my back. I nearly start laughing at that, because argan oil actually helps your hair dry faster. It’s to do with the fact that oil and water don’t mix. I toss my head back, flicking droplets of water into night air. The back of my throat has a tight, scratchy feeling, so I keep swallowing to try and smooth the irritation.
While I hike down, Weft hikes up. He’s down there, somewhere, with soft blond curls and squinted, thoughtful eyes. With a knife and squinted, spying eyes. With a handmade club and squinted, angry eyes.
The edge of the plateau is within shouting distance now. The night is eerily quiet, but I slow down, crouching, just in case. It’s harder to move discreetly over such crunchy, dead, scrubland. Weft had more ground to cross than me, and he was coming uphill, so it’s likely that he’s still hiking up. I find a sufficiently large dead tree to hide behind and sit, holding my spear and my water flask, watching the cornucopia in the dim moonlight. Garibald’s ropes are still there, decorating the darkened rocks with little glinting blades. I’ve got no chance of using them—not that I ever did. I don’t bother trying to sleep.
Unexpectedly, a tear runs down my face. I don’t react—I don’t know how I could. I don’t think I’m capable of doing anything but waiting. I don’t think. At dawn, the Feast will commence, and I’ll go and risk my life for argan oil. I will give a final performance—bloody, beaten and violent. It’s not worth thinking about. The lonely tear falls from my face, and no more follow. In my right eye, from where it fell, there’s now a little wet patch in my vision. It slightly mars my view of the cornucopia, so I blink it away.
Before the Games, I never spent much time awake in the time before dawn, but now I’m an expert on it. There are changes in the sky that you can see if you know how to look. The stars become a little dimmer, but they keep twinkling—the movement’s still there. Then, the sky near the horizon loses its purple, and you can sense the smudge of warmth in colour. The air’s even a little damper, even when the day will be as dry as today will be. Then, the pre-dawn glow of the sun leaks over the horizon.
Or maybe that’s just the projected sky of the arena. Things are weird in here. My fingers tighten around my spear, and I glance down at them, to discover I haven’t successfully washed all the blood out from my fingernails. I start frowning, before realising I’ve taken my eyes off the cornucopia, and my gaze darts back to my target.
The wind whistles over the rocks, and then there’s an odd clicking sound.
Crack.