66th Reaping [D7]

Oh my god
Please help me, knee deep in the river tryin' to get clean
He says wash your hands, get out the stains
But you best believe, boy, there's hell to pay
Yeah you best believe, boy, there's hell to pay

I hear the echo of the wind overhead and I know it's time. Still clutching to the final tendrils of my perfect dream, I allow my icy blue eyes to open- only a millimeter. The sky reminds me of hard concrete, pressing in on me brutally between the slivers of rotting wood. I feel my countenance contort into a frown, and I very slowly worm my way out from comforting layers of wool, surrounding my lanky body in a cocoon. A huff works its way through my parted lips, and I already feel myself regretting crawling out of bed.

Shaky fingers searched around my now chilly form, and I drag on a pair of dirty black cargo pants, pulling on the five-size-too-big pantloops as I slide a belt through. A flannel shirt works its way over my shoulders, and I button it all the way up to my neck. It's a cold day outside- I can almost see my breath in the warehouse we spend most of our time. Searching for my overcoat, I pull on an ebony scarf, knitted with care. Sometimes, I wish more than anything for all of us to be safe at home, with no threats of the games anywhere in sight.

But not today.

Today, I need to visit a friend I have not seen for some time. I hear his voice calling to me in my dreams, demanding a few moments spent alone. My boots are the final thing to adorn my body, black as night and caked in mud. Though it is hard to see, I lace them up, and clack them tight against the ground below my feet to be sure they fit all the way.

I steel my nerves as I drag my wool fingerless gloves over my palms, flexing and withdrawing my fingers as I tug them on. They are slightly frayed at the ends, and I start to wonder if I can find another pair buried in the confines of the plastic bins full of fabric we keep stored above our living chambers.

Calloused hands work themselves between wooden posts, and I tugged myself out of our 'abandoned' warehouse home. The cold hits me hard out here, and I take notice of the fresh layer of white snow as I crunch through it. The sun is a little higher now, behind the clouds, and the grey transforms to an almost cleansing shade. I love winter. I love the cold, the green of the pines, the other deciduous trees and their dormancies.

Now is probably the safest season to wander alone through the woods- most of the grizzlies are hibernating in the deepest parts of the forests, where we humans are careful enough to avoid. No man treads there, unless they wish a violent, painful, or bloody death upon themselves. Naturally, this is where the more rambunctious little boys play. I pass many of the old trails my brothers and I took together. In a long forgotten corner of my mind, I wonder if Zachary passes this way and thinks about when we were small and carefree. Reckless. That's the word.

I smile to myself, but quickly quash it the second I realize it is there. My frown is quick to replace the stupid grin. I a still furious with Zach, I remind myself. He killed our brother, our sweet mediator who kept our family close-knit and tight together. An old wound re-opens ever so slightly in my chest, and a wave of emotion slaps me across the face. Moving of their own accord, my fingers rise to run along the bars of a wrought iron fence, and I approach our meeting place.

Peter is buried somewhere in this cemetery, towards the back. I recall the empty coffin we placed in the ground; there was not enough left of him to really bury after the tree collapsed on him. There was one hell of a bloody mess for some poor lumberjack to clean up. But I don't want to think about that now. I came here to have a decent conversation with my brother. Occasionally, when I come here and sit with my eyes closed before his looming tombstone, I can almost hear his answers to my questions as if he were there before me.

I need that right now, probably more than any comforting words my living family could provide. Seeking answers, I brush away the snow from the engraved words- 'Peter Fleet, Well loved Son and Brother, Taken far too soon.' My digits curl gently into a fist, and I lovingly tap the granite stone with my knuckles in greeting.

I do not bother to move the piles of collected snow from my sitting place, and I fold my knees below my lanky form. A hand rises to my jawline thoughtfully as I stroke the stubble growing upon my chin. Blue eyes slide closed, and I lower my hands to my knees, and I focus. I remember everything about the fifteen year old who left us behind. His quiet mannerisms, his blonde hair so like mothers, his dark eyes so like mine.

I sit in silence for a long while with my eyes clamped firmly shut. I'm sure I look as though I froze to death to any other cemetery-goers. Finally, my lips part, and I question the darkness beneath my lids. "Peter?"

I jump at the voice that answers- it is much closer than any others in recent memory. It echoes just behind me, and I swear I feel fingers pushing down into my shoulders, and a memory pops before my vision. 'You can ask better than that.' it answers. Trembling, I hold myself still. I am not sure how I should answer it, how I could answer it.

"I miss you." I attempt, keeping my hands glued down to my knees.

'Zachary misses you too. So do mom and dad.' he answers me, and I feel my stomach heave. It is what I know, but not what I want to hear. I am furious with Zachary, he is furious with me. Mother and Father hate both of us. 'Go visit them after the reaping. Bring the girl that gave you that. I feel a force gently nudge the chain attached snugly to my left wrist. I feel a smile climb upon my lips as my mind wanders over her, and Peter's presence grows weaker. My head shakes, and my brother is back, tugging on locks of my hair like he did when he was a child.

Well, I imagine it anyway.

My jaws tremble as they open, and I tell him everything about her. Words pour free from my tongue as if I have no control, and occasionally, my hands ball into tight fists. I conclude with, "She was in your year. You'd remember her."

Silence greets me, and I wait a moment before I hear a laugh. 'I do.' Peter responds, and the tension within me relaxes.

"Then you know how brilliant she is."

'You deserve her.' he answers, and I laugh. What he says is a complete and utter lie.

"I did not come here to tell you about Al, anyway." I grumble, my palms rising to push into my eyes. "I don't know what to do if one of my little ones gets reaped. Do I volunteer for them? I swore to always protect them. Every single one."

The quiet sneaks up on me once again until I hear a quick inhale of breath. 'Could you win? Honestly, sit and think about it. Could you, Henry Fleet, win the Hunger Games? Could you crush your opponents for the Glory of the Capitol?'

My mind races with past images of boys and girls far younger than me hacked to peices with axes and swords, sharp blades dripping with blood, and especially the images of the older ones who butchered them so precisely. It is this that finally causes the expulsion of my empty stomach. My form contracts as I fall forward into the snow, my hands splayed on either side of me while I cough and choke and heave over Peter's grave.

It takes me a while. A few tense moments as tears stream down my cheeks, melting tiny dimples in the fresh powder. Peter is gone from my mind and I am alone once again, with my stress levels higher than ever.

"Even if... Even if I do have to replace one of my little ones, I will never be like those monsters in the games."

~

I left the graveyard in a hurry, with my hands buried within my jacket pockets. The gentle chiming of Albany's bracelet keeps me sane as I listen to it, focusing on the sound. There is no time for me to head back to the warehouse and change, so I continue through the more heavily populated parts of the district in my full black attire. A few children gasp- they recognize me as the man who stole away their brothers, their sisters.

Here, I am Hades; bringer of death and destruction.

I prefer it this way. It is difficult to hurt someone who was never close to you, on any note. The tails of my coat swing in time as I continue through the district, my gaze mostly at the flaming white ball casting odd shadows through the thick cloud cover. I wish it would rain instead of snow, honestly.

Around me, bodies lazily head towards the District Square. None of us are hardcore into the games like they are in one, two, or even four. We prefer to keep to ourselves and our wood. I filter through my age group, who are all decked in their thickest coats. My finger is pricked, my blood taken, and I am free to enter the holding area. This is my eighteenth year, and my sixth reaping. After this, I will no longer be eligible- nor can I save the lives of those who stand below me.

My countenance scrunches up as we are corralled tighter and tighter together, and I gently stroke the chain wrapped around my left wrist, searching for a black haired female- though something catches my eye ahead. A sixteen year old with my father's perfect blonde hair and brown eyes. Zachary.

Shivers scurry down my spine as I contemplate Peter's words to me. He wants me to forgive, to forget about what happened, what the district said about the two of us. Maybe I should. It would keep a load of animosity off of my shoulders, and I could actually relax. I vow to visit Mother and Father after the reaping, and I guess I could go see Zach. However reluctantly, I promise it to myself. I never break promises.

We watch the stupid vid from the Capitol as we huddle around, some of us developing frostbite on our exposed features. The cameras flashed and whirred as the escort meandered across the stage, and I grow frustrated. Couldn't he hurry up? I have plans for the rest of my day!

But... I suppose that's the funny thing about plans, about the universe and fate.

I was not fated to apologize to my brother after a the games claimed a faceless victim. I was not to hug my mother and father and finally meet my sister for the first time.

The boys around me separate, and with a trembling form, I wander to the front. My knees lock as I do so, my boots catching on the first steps. I do not trip, for which I am thankful as all the cameras shine on my face. I need to seem strong for those who stand in the crowd for me. I take my place on our escort's side, and allow my hands to fall behind my back while I rock gently on the balls of my feet. I would be here anyway if Apollo or Hermes' true names had been called.

I doubt half of my family even knew me as 'Henry.' My gaze transforms to a narrowed glare, and I exhale, a puff of smoky vapor rising from my form. "And your are?" the man questions me.

My name? Or... more?"I... I am the son of Kristoph and Rose Fleet. I... I am Hades." He looks confused, but I've made it clear by the tone of my voice and the intense stare that I will say no more. I can finally hear the stifled wails of a woman in the back, and much to my surprise, I can see my mother flailing in my father's arms, attempting to get back to me.

I swear I felt a physical change then, like a wave of cold washing over my body, cleansing my soul and redeeming me from all guilt I may feel in the next few weeks.

Don't worry Mother, Albany, Zach... I will do whatever it takes to come home safely to you.