This is the first chapter of my self indulgent fanfiction for the 25th hunger games. I'm currently waiting for the moment I'm brave enough to post it on AO3, but honestly I'm too excited about it and I can't wait so I decided to start by sharing it here. (I should be able to post it on ao3 on the 24th may.)
It's the first FF of my life, so please, don't destroy me in the comments, I'm doing this only for fun and to try to beat my writer's block. (Also since the rise of Ai, I'm feeling like I should never ever feel shame about my art again, no matter how bad it is since at least it comes from my brain and heart and not from a stupid computer without soul. So I have to be brave.) Last disclaimer. English is not my native language.
The FF follows a covey girl from the 8th district (the coveys were forced to stop traveling and since the eighth is very close to the twelfth, I imagined they could have found themselves there too), in the year of the first quarter quell, when the districts were forced to vote their own tributes. (I imagined it was a surprise, courtesy of the capitol)
No smut, but a lover boy in the tradition of Hunger Games.
Tw: mentions of death, death thoughts, sibling loss.
The song the coveys sing is a translation of "Chiena e' scippe" written by La Nina, a Neapolitan songwriter I'm currently obsessing over.
Birds of a feather.
Chapter 1
Prythee weep, May Lilian!
Gaiety without eclipse
Wearieth me, May Lilian:
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth
When from crimson-threaded lips
Silver-treble laughter trilleth:
Prythee weep, May Lilian.
Praying all I can,
If prayers will not hush thee,
Airy Lilian,
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,.
It’s not the sun that wakes me up, but the music of the mourning dove outside. She calls me so gently until I open my eyes and I find myself where I fell asleep last night, on the table where we eat and where I write. I look around: the bed is freshly made, but there is no trace of my sister. She probably already went to the seashore, and is waiting for me with the others.She knows I stay up too late, she must have seen all the papers I trashed last night and taking pity on me, she left me to sleep.She even left me some breakfast, bread and some feral blackberries. They are in season, easy to find. Sometimes when I don't feel lazy I make jam with them. The sugar is not as easy to find, especially since Rosalind Mauve lost her job at the factory, but Enoch Green always brings some at the end of the month.
He is like a weird uncle, Enoch Green, always around when you need him. Rosalind Mauve says he is family, and he must be, he is covey like us, even though he is a Bells and we are Reeds. Anyway, there are so few of us that even distant family feels like blood. He was a friend of our Ma, so he thinks he has to keep an eye on us. He is not the best when it comes to comfort and kind words, but he has a good heart and a voice that could make the trees cry.
July just started though, so he won't bring anything today. If I'm still around at the end of the month I will make jam for everyone, but today the blackberries will have to do.
The first year I had to go through the reaping I didn't sleep for at least three days. It wasn't only the thought of being reaped that kept me awake, but the dread of the possibility of having to watch my sister going on that stage. But since she turned eighteen two years ago, today I only have to worry about myself. Myself and Melton really, the only person I care about who is in danger like me.
Probably he is on the seashore with my sister and the others coveys, so after I dress up, I take the fiddle and start walking to join them. I know they are probably fishing, it's the way we are able to sustain ourselves since Rosalind Mauve is out of work, and they will probably appreciate some music to keep them company.
Outside the sky is cloudless, and I have to walk under the trees to get away from the sun. Unfortunately the beautiful day is ruined by the industrial fumes. I can see them even though our house it's outside the real city.I hate the way they are expanding it. It’s eating away our woods, polluting the air. The smell is horrible, the sounds are worse.
Welcome to district 8. If you are lucky enough to survive the hunger games, and the factory work, you’ll probably die of lung cancer. Long live the capitol.
Can’t wait to go to the central square later today, where it’s so hot people consistently lose their senses. I walk until I feel sand under my feet, and then I run until I hear them singing.
“The wind brought me
A soft touch from the past
I close my eyes in front of roses
When I want to think about you
And then I look out the window
And I lose myself in a painting
Of a beautiful mountain
under the tinted clouds
And the birds keep singing
like they always did
But when I was a babe
I only chased the cats
Black, red and white cats too
I called out to them: «little cat!»
until I suddenly caught them”
I see Rosalind Mauve, radiant as always. She is working on a net with Bobby, next to them it’s a basket full of freshly caught fishes. Looks like I'm late. If I'm honest, I'm not sure I like Bobby, but he is Melton’s cousin, so I kinda have to like him. Moreover, he has a thing with my sister.He is crazy about her, and it's not a wonder. She is beautiful, always turning heads when we go to the city.Enoch Green says I stole her whole face when I was born, but I really can't see it. We resemble each other, but I fear I will never compare to her light.
One time this winter, when we were searching for wood, my sister walked away and Bobby softly whispered “she has soulful eyes you could get lost into” in a voice so pathetic Melton and I laughed until our stomach hurt, until we were both in the grass. He didn't really like that. When he ran away, red and angry, Melton got really close to me and cupped my face in his hands.
I froze, it was the first time he did something like that. He looked at me like he wanted to paint me, and then he whispered «Lilian Bone, you have the sharpest eyes I have ever seen, and your laugh is the best song of the Coveys».
Then he went after his cousin, like that meant nothing. For some reason those words didn't sound half as pathetic on his lips.
In a way I guess I should be grateful to Bob. If it wasn't for him I would still be obvious to Melton's endless flirting.
We are taking things slowly, but what can I say? I like him. A lot. I like him all-fire, so to speak. Unfortunately, that means Bobby is always around. But I guess it's fair. My sister likes him, good taste doesn't run in the family. Lionel Plum and Simon Stone see me, they are in the water, and while my sister is still singing they run to greet me.They are soaking wet from the sea, so I try to escape their arms.
«You are late!» they laugh and scream, and I run away from them.
“This moon woke me up
she found me inside my house
Without words
She sang me about you
And now with a chest full of sugar
I closed my locked window
Without any tears in my eyes
Now I laugh thinking about you.
And the birds keep singing like they always did
But when I was a babe
I only chased the cats
Black, red, and white cats too
I called out to them «little cat!’»
Until I suddenly caught them
And I used to run back and forth
And I had hands full of scratches
Hands full of scratches, but my heart was still untouched”
When she stops singing, the twins have caught me, and I'm no longer dry, sea water dripping from my dress. But I managed to save my fiddle, so all is well.
«Rascals.» my sister laughs. The twins are nineteen, but like Rosalind Mauve they look older. Like her, they didn't have anyone to take care of them, so they grew up fast. But on the reaping day we all get to act childish. If that wasn't the case we would go mad. They squeeze me extra hard, before I get them to leave me be. I sit against my sister's shoulder.
«Look who finally showed up. Late night?» Bobby's voice it’s almost cheery. I shrug. I love being up during the night, I can't help it. it's the only time I feel it's really mine. I manage to write my music only when the sun goes down.
«In this life you have to rest when you can.» Rosalind Mauve smiles at me. But it's a forced smile.
On this beach we are all trying to ignore the elephant in the room: that even though this year is my last, I'm still not safe. Even though we were extremely lucky, and thanks to Enoch Green we managed to not use tesserae, there is the very real possibility that I will be dead next week. Even so, the sun is warm, and the wind is pleasant.
I keep reminding myself that even without reaping life is not guaranteed. I know it better than others.
We had another sister. Her name was Susan Pearl. She died in her sleep three years ago. Nothing gruesome, no factory death for her, no horrible cancer. One week she had a mild fever, the week after she was dead. She went to sleep, and never woke up again. The doctor said her heart simply gave out. Something about the strain of the fever and a defect of her little heart. Rosalind Mauve found her dead in our bed.
Of course she wasn't really there. That body wasn't really her. Just the shell she left behind.
It was hard. I try not to think about it, because I feel like if I really think about it I will go crazy like one of the girls of the ballads we sing.
I rather think about the fact that she escaped the games, that she is somewhere safe, with our mother, with our nameless father. Frankly, since she died, I obsessively think about what it means to die.
Even though I saw plenty of dead people, I really didn't think it could happen like that. I mean, I knew it could happen, but I just didn't think it could happen to anyone, at any given moment. It surprised me, almost. Before my sister died, death was for me a faceless fear, something almost abstract. Death for me was my mother, someone distant and unknown.
I really can’t wrap my mind around the concept of going to sleep and never waking up. The thought of non-existence is, for me, horrifying. For months I was scared of going to bed, the dark terrified me.
Maybe this makes me a coward. I don't really care. I obsess over the thought, and then I try to ignore it. I have no balance. Having to watch the hunger games year after year doesn't help me in this regard.
Suddenly, my eyes are covered by calloused hands I know too well.
«Who am I?» His voice. Oh! If only he would sing.
«A feral sparrow?» Every time we cover each other's eyes, we try to guess the animal the other is thinking about. A silly game we have played since we were children.
«Wrong. Will you play for us? As a penance?»
I turn to face him, and I feel my heart leaping from me, a trapped animal yearning to go back to its home, his chest. He really is handsome, my lovely smith. His dark hair is like coal in the dawn, his eyes almost green. I softly touch his cheek, his skin pales in comparison to my hand. He won't kiss me, not when there are others around, he knows I don't like being watched. We are still pretending to be only friends, but I know the others are onto us. They definitely suspect we like each other, but I'm not sure they know we talked about it. But I'm sure they saw us holding hands.
When Rosalind Mauve tried to talk me about it, I suddenly became extremely busy and I had to immediately leave the room.
She let me leave. She has her secrets too. We respect each other too much. She knows that when I'm ready I will tell her about it.
«Please?» How could I deny such a sweet request?
«Fine.» I say, with a fake hint of annoyance, as if I didn't bring the instrument myself. I start to tune it, filling the air with the familiar sound.
Bobby immediately stops talking, his eyes fixing on my hands. Mean jokes aside, he is not a bad guy. I can see why Rosalind Mauve would fall for him. He is not bad looking, he is sweet, caring, and he really respects our music. Last year he asked me to teach him to play something, he told me he wanted to surprise her.Unfortunately, he lacks whatever sense of rhythm needed for this art. The music moves him, but it moves him ugly. His words, not mine.
When the music starts flowing from my beloved instrument, he looks a little melancholic, so my sister put his head on his shoulder. Even though they have been together for a while, he still looks surprised when she touches him. He is growing on me, I guess. Or maybe the reaping day makes me kinder.
I keep playing until everyone is clapping their hands, until the twins join me playing their guitars and my sister is singing over the cheerful tune.
There was a time where we could have lived off this. When Enoch Green and our Ma were young they used to play in the squares of the city, and people used to pay them to hear them sing. They would organize shows, parties where people would dance together.It was before most of our songs were banned. Now we sing only for each other, only for our friends.
Maybe it's for the better, maybe the city is not worthy of our songs. I'm perfectly content singing only with the people I love. I know my sister doesn't agree with me.
Anyway, for a moment I feel almost happy. If this is the last day I spend with my family, with the boy I'm crazy about, with his weird cousin, it’s a day well spent. I close my eyes, trying to lose myself in the music I'm making, trying to picture their faces in the dark. I want to remember them, if I have to ride that damned train today.
If my sister could hear my thoughts she would scold me. She lives her life in the absolute conviction that misfortune is attracted by bad thoughts. I think that if Iulia Creek hands are bound to find my name in the bowl, they will find it regardless of what I'm thinking right now.
When the sun is almost up in the sky, we know it's time. We have to go, since we have to make ourselves presentable. We all have to look our best, in case Capitol Tv decides to put us on its screens.
It’s not the real reason why we do it, though.
We are effectively choosing the dress we want to be buried in. At least, me and Melton are.
My sister and the twins are safe. They can't take them from me. It's just me and him against misfortune.
We let the others walk in front of us, we stay in the back, and when they are far enough he puts his hands around me, and finally kisses me. I like our stolen glances, and I like these stolen kisses. Maybe I don't want to let the others know just yet because I like having this secret. I never had one before.
I let his lips soothe me, he smiles on my mouth.
«I missed you. Why did you take so long?» he says softly, and my heart is pounding in my ears.
«I’m sorry. Rosalind Mauve didn't wake me up.»
«Lilian Bone. Always blaming other people for her own fault. Cruel little Lilian.»
When Melton quotes my ballad I roll my eyes, but he keeps going.
«She’ll not tell me if she love me, cruel little Lilian, when my passion seeks pleasence in love-sighs. »
It's cute. I like hearing him recite it, trying to impress me. He always impresses me, but I try not to show it, because I don't want him to stop trying.
The first time I met him I was eleven. We went to the city with Enoch Green, since he had an old horse who desperately needed shoes. While he was inside the blacksmith’s shop, Rosalind Mauve went to look around the market, while I sat outside with said horse.
At some point, a boy I had never seen before sat next to me. He was already tall, all legs and pointy elbows.
«I’ve seen you at school.» he said.
«I didn't.» I replied, even though I hadn't even looked at him. I never liked city boys.
«What’s your name?»
«Lilian Bone.»
«Hi, Lilian.»
«Lilian Bone.» I repeated it harshly. We have been here since the war, since we were separated from the others coveys, but people still don't get our naming tradition. Sometimes it gets frustrating.
«What?»
«My name. It's Lilian Bone, not Lilian.»
«Ah.»
He sat in silence for some time, looking at me and the poor malnourished horse.
«Aren’t you gonna ask my name?»
«Is there a rule?»
«What?»
«Should I ask the name of someone just because he asked mine?»
«It’s polite.»
We locked eyes. In spite of myself, I asked him, I don't know why.
«What’s your name?»
«Melton. Just Melton.»
At that point, Enoch Green came outside, with a grim face and bad news.
«Let’s go.» he said, and he called me by his side, taking the horse’s bridles from my hands. He was in a hurry to leave.
«Lilian Bone, I'm gonna find you tomorrow at school, and I'm gonna sit with you at lunch.» He almost shouted.
I didn't reply, I just glared at him.
But he did. He really did. We have been inseparable since then. He worked himself into my heart. Constant, like it was a job he had to complete. It’s in his nature. I like that about him. If he wants something he is gonna put in the work to earn it.
He is still reciting my ballad
«She, looking thro' and thro' me, thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks.»
«No need to be dramatic. I’m sorry. I’m not sleeping well.»
He steals another kiss. I'm not sure stealing is the right word, since I put my arms around his neck.
«I know. No need to be sorry. I will steal you after the reaping.»
«If we both are still here.»
He must have sensed something in my tone, the fear I'm shoving down my own throat, so he puts my hands on his heart, and then he puts his hands over mine. I feel it beating under my fingers.
«We are both gonna be safe. We have been safe every year. This is not different. We escaped six years in a row. We are lucky. So very lucky.»
«Very lucky. What’s another year?»
«Right! What's another year?»
«Nothing.»
«Louder!»
Rosalind Mauve must have heard us, cause she calls out to me.
«Lilian Bone, we have things to do!»
I roll my eyes, brush my lips against his.
«For luck. I’ll kiss you again after the reaping.»
«Fine.» but he doesn't let my hand go until we rejoin the others. Then, after stealing a glance, he walks away with his cousin, while we go to the only place I won't allow him to follow me.
Deep in the woods there is a safe clearing, where Enoch Green buried our Ma and the twins’s parents. We all go there every year before the reaping. It's an old tradition. When we were little, Enoch Green used to take us, but now we are all grown up, so we go alone.
We go our separate ways, and me and Rosalid Mauve rapidly find the lavender colored stone that guards our Ma’s remeanings.
"Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing”
She softly touches the stone, she cleans it from the leaves like she always does, while I do the same thing to the white stone next to it. Our sister sleeps here, forever.
“Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.”
Being superstitious as we are, you would think we would refrain from naming our children after tragic poems. How could my little sister escape her death when it was written in her name since birth? If I ever have a daughter I will choose her name from the happiest song I know of, so she’ll die when she is eighty.
But first I have to survive this day.
We sit for a while. I don't particularly love coming here. I don't know where they are, our dearly departed, but it's not here, under these rocks there are only bones. Rosalind Mauve always looks at the graves like they could someday reply to her silent prayers, so I keep her company. The truth is that I can't bear to leave her alone with the dead.
When she is finished we head back to our home.
Last night, while I was searching for blackberries, my sister repaired two old dresses of our Ma. This morning, she dresses herself in a purple shade, more lavender than mauve.
«It was her favourite.»
I believe her, mostly because I can't remember anything about my poor dead ma.
I’m not jealous, the dress suits her more than could ever suit me and I can't complain, because the one she chose for me looks perfect.
A white bodice, sewn on a red skirt. It’s beautiful.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I kinda get where Enoch Green is coming from when he says I look like her. Dressed like this I could almost believe him. I almost love it. How could I not? Everyone would grow to love their faces, if they would see someone they love in it.
I wish I could hug Rosalind Mauve, but today it would make her worry.
Instead, we spend some time doing our hair. I keep trying to make sense of my curls until I give up and let her do it, like when we were little.
She softly hums while she is at it. When she is finished, I stop her from moving away, pressing her hands on my face. I feel her stiffness. I know she would like to open my head, to chase away the bad thoughts.
She knows she can't help me. She crouches next to me and speaks in a calm tone, like she is pronouncing some kind of incantation.
«You are safe.» she says, cupping my face. I nod. «Last year.»
«Last year.»
We get interrupted by Enoch Green's whistle. Our ride to the city is here.
