a beginning and an end,,,

You were eight.

You were eight, your fingers working at a pink-and-purple lanyard as your mother towered over you, holding the collar of your shirt so you wouldn't get distracted and wander off in the crowd. Your sister Satin's roped in by the reaping pens already, just like the other girls her age. She's been worrying all day, but you've never given thought to her being reaped. You've only ever seen older boys and girls stepping up, after all, brooding figures at the cusp of adulthood - never one as young as your sister, for all she played at being a grown-up.

So you fiddled with the strings, and wove rows as you waited - just two more inches until it would fit around your tiny wrist - not quite paying attention until a thin child's voice stood out from the hubbub -

"I volunteer as tribute in place of Samael Razier!"

She was - barely Satin's age, and so very brave; you wanted to run to her in the Justice Building and tell her all about how cool you thought she was, but your mother only scolded you with I'm sure she doesn't want fans crowding around her right now, only her family.

Lily, you whispered, the two syllables of her name flowing so easily from your tongue. You doodled Lily Hope on the edges of your notebook, with a crown dotting the i - you imagined finally getting to meet her when she wins the Games, you wanted to talk to her and share your stories, you could tell she'd be someone who understood you -

Your parents warned you against becoming so obsessed, but they've said that about your toy loom and your puzzles too, and it never stopped you then - so why would it now?

When they pushed you away from the couch, you slipped behind them and peered from the door-crack. And when they caught you at that you'd sneak glimpses of the Games from the Square, from friends' houses, through windows -

Because Lily was amazing. Because you'd make her win through your belief alone, because she was so much better than that stupid doodoohead from your district who took a swipe at her as soon as the gong rang. Because you were going to fold a thousand cranes, and when you finished you'd wish on them for Lily to become the first Victor of Eight.

Little sketches littered your room. Lily killing the Pocket Dragons. A lumpy but detailed tiny Lily, with everyone else drawn as stick figures, standing in front of a giant Cornucopia that took up half the page. Lily facing a copy of herself, wires spilling out where a hand should have been.

With bated breath, fingers working the creases of crane #496, you watched her advancing on the District One guy, a match in his hands, an explosion -

She crawled out from the wreckage to slam an axe into his arm, and the cannon sounded.

"Told ya she was strong. Told ya she could do it. She's the last one from Eight, and if she can beat that guy nobody in the arena's gonna mess with her and leave alive -"

Slow motion, a knife whistled through the air.

You cried for days after that.

---

But aren't you different now? Haven't you shed such childlike infatuation in favor of more practical matters, in favor of learning important things like how to run machinery in the textile mill? Haven't you learned that you can't leave your heart open like you did as a child or you'd break, you'd crumble into a million pieces without your sister to poke fun at your tears as she glues you back together?

Your parents gave up on trying to make you stop watching the Games after that year. And - you'd never paid the slightest of attention before Lily, but now their names all run through your mind: Paige, Kimmie, Gentian, Cecilia, Cody...

You still have the sketches, the lists, still have your youthful pages carefully torn from the spiraling and pressed in a purple folder under your bed marked "Special Do Not Touch", hidden so your siblings wouldn't throw it away thinking it was junk.

But aren't you different now, sixteen years old and late to the reaping because you were poring over your study sheets - you couldn't bear the embarrassment if Satin got to gloat she'd gotten higher marks than you when she was in school - papers fly out from your hands and as the girls around you help you gather them back in order -

"..ily Imberline!"

You blink.

Blonde hair, blue-green eyes, fearful but determined step as she climbs up the stage; you tune out what the boy's saying and all you see him as is Noah whatshisface, you're eight and your heart is beginning to pound again for what you now know must have been a silly childhood crush -

Eight years and you're still thinking about her; what the hell?

Aren't you different now? Older and wiser, you've seen too well the Games are not about kings and queens and feather crowns, not about naive notions of heroes and villains and who to cheer for - you aren't supposed to cheer for the little ones, you know now what you didn't so many years ago - yet will you cheer for this little girl nonetheless, out of your memory of Lily?

The big bad wolf hails from One and not Two, but the cannon still sounds mere minutes into the Games, her skull destroyed in one hit - and little Gilly flees, safe from the chaos still brewing in the cornucopia. She's no queen, whether black queen or white one - the pirate hat nestled atop her head makes that clear - but you still imagine her wearing a crown.

Gilly Hope Lily Imberline all mixed in your mind -

You wonder if Lily's ghost still hangs around Eight, and she must be, 'cause your brother who's nine years older than you and knows everything told you he once hopped the fence on a dare and saw a waifish valkyrie leading around a dead tribute in the woods where folks aren't supposed to go - sometimes you're tempted to climb over and search for other hidden spirits, see if you can find her behind the veil.

Hope lies dead, four crosses carved with four letters each in the tribute cemetery; if it weren't for Lily you might have remained innocent a bit longer, might have been spared a bit of heartbreak, but this was the path life chose to take you on, and you couldn't really say you were unhappy for it. It has been better for you to learn and grow, to love the world and be let down, to understand instead of remaining hidden in the bubble you would have wrapped yourself in were you not careful.

Parallels -

Spears in place of throwing axes, a zombie girl with an unfamiliar name who might as well have been a mechanical L1ly - and she keeps surviving, outlasting her district partner, outlasting a Career in a burst of flames; you have enough nostalgia for the past to begin doodling little crowns in your notebooks again, to begin imagining another District Eight victor, to picture the surprise on everyone's faces as she faces off and triumphs against tributes twice as big as her -

The Career brings his arm back and throws; slow motion, you already know how this will end - how this always ends. You've seen this before, you think, you rewind -

"Lily -"

Your cry echoes in emptiness.