ballads-and-bairds

[ballads-and-bairds]

The Rose and the Briar: The Ballad of Barb Azure

Dedicated to @triassictriserratops and @scherrauthor for their feedback and support.

Part 2: When Green Buds All Were Swellin'

It turned out that Barb Azure's birthday was one of the last golden days the Covey would spend together as a family. Barb Azure would fantasize about it years later when she yearned for her past. The Covey made it a magical day for her by somehow finding all of her favorite small luxuries.

Lucy Gray had spent the day baking her mother's famous bread pudding. Meanwhile, Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine had scoured the woods to find honey and maple syrup. Maude Ivory had even earned enough money by singing at the Hob to purchase a small bar of lavender soap.

However, Tam Amber saved the most special gift for last. He had managed to purchase enough metal to forge a pair of rings for her. As she put one on each ring finger, Barb Azure stared at their intricate designs. One was shaped like a rose, the other a briar.

"Just like my name ballad!" she exclaimed. "How did you afford...?"

"I traded some milk from Shamus," Tam Amber explained. "Maude Ivory won't get her butter for a while, but we agreed that it was for a good cause."

"No we didn't!" Maude Ivory burst out as Barb Azure laughed, hugging Tam Amber in gratitude.

"Sorry to cut you both off, but tick tock!" interjected Cinthy. "It's dark out and I need my escort home!"

"Don't get lost, you two," smiled Tam Amber, sending them on their way.

Since they were always the last two awake in the Covey house, Barb Azure often walked home with Cinthy, who claimed to be afraid of the dark. It wasn't an irrational fear, since there were no streetlamps to light the way and the biggest dangers were wild animals and drunk peacekeepers. But Barb Azure still raised her eyebrows when Cinthy told her this, since it seemed to be the dark where she came most alive.

On the journey home - just down the road - Cinthy didn't just walk. She practically skipped and danced all the way in Barb Azure's company. Ever since the first supper, it made Barb Azure feel something in the pit of her chest. It took her longer to act on those feelings than it did for her to realize what they even meant.

They were almost at Cinthy's house when she stopped in her tracks and turned to face Barb Azure.

"Sorry I couldn't join you in the meadow today," Cinthy apologized. "I would've picked you those roses myself, though you know why I couldn't."

"Don't worry about it," replied Barb Azure, fiddling with her rings. "Seems like I ended up with one rose too many anyways."

"Tam Amber make you those?" asked Cinthy, eyeing the rings glinting in the dark.

"Apparently they're real silver," Barb Azure explained, putting them in Cinthy's hand. "Must have cost him a fortune to collect."

Cinthy held the briar-shaped ring close to her eye. "Just like your name poem," she murmured.

Barb Azure explained the Covey naming traditions to Cinthy when they first met in the meadow all those years ago. One of the things she liked most about Cinthy was that she had a knack for remembering the stories that Barb Azure told her. Oftentimes it made Barb Azure feel like those moments were alive once more.

"Keep it," pressed Barb Azure. "Keep one. I don't need both."

"Are you sure?" asked Cinthy, holding them up to the moon. "That's a tough choice."

Her gaze returned to the briar ring.

"I like this one," she decided. "It reminds me of you."

She quickly realized what she said. "I mean that as a compliment by the way."

"Really?" laughed Barb Azure. "The rose is way prettier though."

"No rose can grow without the briar," Cinthy frowned. "Besides, I thought that was the reason you liked them?"

"The briar is the guard, but the rose is what it protects," Barb Azure argued.

"Then you'll be the guard of my heart," Cinthy said, slipping the briar ring on her finger. "And you can remember how much of a treasure you are to me."

The pit in Barb Azure's chest grew to what felt like a tumor, gradually taking over her whole body. Without thinking, she gently kissed the ring on Cinthy's hand. When she rose her head, Cinthy was waiting to return it to Barb Azure's lips.

The remainder of the walk home seemed to last an eternity, but Barb Azure's courage found her again when they finally made it to Cinthy's front porch. Before Cinthy could go inside, Barb Azure planted another gentle kiss.

"Good night," Cinthy winked, reaching the door. Though no one could see it, Barb Azure's face flushed as pink as the flowers she picked what felt like a lifetime ago.

As much as Barb Azure wanted to avoid it, the following weeks flew by like the geese did for winter. She wanted to preserve the good days as much as possible, but time cannot be contained in a bottle. Though unfortunately for the Covey, that bottle was smashed.

It started when Billy Taupe left. He had never been one to stick around at home, though lately he'd been staying out more and more giving piano lessons to the mayor's daughter. One night, Lucy Gray and Maude Ivory had had enough and went to the mayor's house themselves. The mayor was gone, but they walked in on quite a sight with his daughter and Billy Taupe tuning each other's instruments.

Barb Azure had always known her cousin to be the bigger person, and was proven right when Lucy Gray refused to be a piece in Billy Taupe's games. Though that didn't mean she would avoid having to be a piece in another deadlier game.

Though Lucy Gray had taken her bow, Billy Taupe and Mayfair weren't done. Mayfair had made her pa call Lucy Gray's name during the Reaping, where she would be forced to compete and likely be killed in the Hunger Games. The Covey learned to never put anything past Billy Taupe and Mayfair, but this new low cemented the former's exile.

They could do better without him anyway. But after Lucy Gray was sent to the Capitol, the Covey's zest for life seemed to leave with her. They even stopped their weekend gigs at the Hob, too anxious and despondent to perform. The music that once permeated their walls faded away, only to be replaced with Maude Ivory's screams at night.

There was little Barb Azure could do to try to comfort her. She didn't even bother telling her baby cousin that Lucy Gray would be alright. The pain would only rip deeper if Barb Azure denied the truth and got Maude Ivory's hopes up and her own with them.

"All we know is that whatever happens to Lucy Gray, she'll keep her head held high," she told Maude Ivory one difficult night.

July dragged on and the Covey were trapped in limbo. Cinthy and Amarant did what little they could - bringing over food, flowers, and such, but Barb Azure's patience was wearing thin. She just yearned for the waiting and the dread to end, regardless of the outcome. At least then she would have an answer of what happened to Lucy Gray.

At last, the day came when a shipment was reported to be on its way from the Capitol. Barb Azure and Tam Amber wasted no time in getting the younger ones ready to wait at the train station for its arrival. The morning before they left, Barb Azure forced everyone to dress their best.

"What's the point of dressing up when Lucy Gray might not even be there to see us?" complained Clerk Carmine.

"The point," emphasized Barb Azure, tightly finishing his braid, "is that we will greet her with the same dignity she left with, one way or the other."

Clerk Carmine clammed up and joined the rest of the Covey, who were waiting at the door to leave. It was almost afternoon when they made it to the train station, though the train had still not arrived.

The hours dragged on just as the rest of the month had, and the afternoon sun bore its heat down on District 12. Any conversation had long since died, and anxiety gave way to boredom and exhaustion. Maude Ivory, who had been awake all of the previous night, fell asleep on a bench while Clerk Carmine kept himself busy weaving a grass necklace. The train, which had been due around one-thirty, was long since late.

Five o'clock. Afternoon waned into evening, and hints of orange and pink streaked the sky. The heat was merciless, still sweltering. Barb Azure was about to send Tam Amber home with Clerk Carmine and Maude Ivory when finally, finally the Capitol train came around the bend and pulled into the station.

The train screeched to an unpleasant halt. Two peacekeepers opened the door and tossed a large, lumpy bag onto the platform. Barb Azure and Maude Ivory walked over to look, but immediately blocked their nostrils. A putrid odor rose from the filthy bag, and flies buzzed towards it as though it were a beacon. Tears formed in the girls' eyes, but not from the stench.

"Didn't that one die from rabies?" asked one peacekeeper, glancing apprehensively at the bag. "They'd better pay us compensation if we get infected."

"Screw that, if they pay us for anything, it should be overtime," grumbled his partner. "Let's just throw the girl out and go home."

Barb Azure's heart dropped. Maude Ivory wept bitterly as the two men re-entered the train. But something in her perked when they did not haul out another body bag.

Lucy Gray didn't look much better than a corpse, but at least she was alive. Barb Azure almost cried all over again when she saw the condition her cousin was in. Lucy Gray sank to her knees as the peacekeepers unlocked her shackles. Even though the ugly bruise Mayor Lipp gave her had faded, several more had replaced it. The cherished rainbow dress Lucy Gray's mother had given her was now dirty and torn. Beyond all the scrapes and cuts, the most injured part seemed to be the haunted and desolate look in her eyes.

Maude Ivory wrapped her arms around Lucy Gray. Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine rushed over to join in, but Barb Azure held them back for a minute.

"Careful!" she cautioned them. "She looks like she could keel over at any moment."

Barb Azure let them go and they all joined in a gentle embrace. For once, Lucy Gray was lost for words, but instead nestled in her cousin's shoulder and sobbed. It all seemed like a dream. No one had dared believe that they would be fortunate enough to have her back alive.

"You're safe," cooed Maude Ivory. "You're home."

After some time, they finally let go. Lucy Gray could barely stand, and had to be supported by Barb Azure and Tam Amber. Night was falling. The trek back took so long that the Covey didn't return home. Instead, they took Lucy Gray to their favorite spot, the meadow nearby.

All was quiet except for the crickets chirping and the breeze rushing ahead of them. The air had thankfully cooled, so the Covey could rest for a spell. Fireflies lit the way towards the old willow Maude Ivory liked to call her "hiding tree," because of the canopy that shielded them from view.

The rest of the Covey almost collapsed on the ground, already half-asleep. Barb Azure helped Lucy Gray lay down on the flower bed underneath the tree. Braving her fatigue, she started to hum the old song their granny used to sing to them some distant lifetime ago.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise.

Previous | Next

[ballads-and-bairds]

Sorry if this has been asked before, but which of the Brontës/their books do you prefer the most?

Well, I haven't read all their books yet, but for the moment, I think my favorite is Wuthering Heights, and I tend to be most drawn to Emily.

I know that's not the "sophisticated" answer. If I were a person with scholarly "good taste," I'd say that my favorite Brontë was Anne and my favorite book was The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. But Wuthering Heights is the Brontë book I'm most drawn to. At the very least I can say this for myself: I engage with the whole book, not just Heathcliff and Cathy's love story, and I think it's nowhere near complete without the second generation.

[ballads-and-bairds]

I know Haymitch was losing his fucking MIND when everyone was doing the OPPOSITE of making Katniss want to ally with them.

Finnick, putting on the "please don't kill me" bracelet: I don't get it. Everyone likes me.

Haymitch: Maybe quit it with the fucking sugar cubes and sideways talk, you idiot. This is why they should have kept you in school.

--------

Haymitch: IN FRONT OF HER?!?

Johanna: Well, I mean, are you like totally sure she wouldn't be into that kind of thing?

Haymitch: ....

Johanna: Just had to be totally sure. How'd she take the naked wrestling?

Haymitch: I'm too fucking sober for this conversation. Knock it off.

---------

Chaff: Your girl's a great kisser, by the way. Peeta's a lucky guy, that's for sure.

Haymitch: You wanna keep that other hand?

---------

Plutarch: Yeah, I don't know I tried but I'm not quite sure she got the message.

Haymitch: you didn't show her that stupid fucking watch, did you?

[ballads-and-bairds]

Hey guys my cousin @ballads-and-bairds is writing a queer Hunger Games fanfiction on Tumblr (also trying to get him to move it to ao3 lol). I know so many of you think The Hunger Games should be queer so he is writing this for YOU! Give him a follow and show your support! :)

[ballads-and-bairds]

Sejanus Plinth, Lenore Dove, and the Impulsive Rebel

Both Sejanus Plinth and Lenore Dove rebel impulsively. Sejanus, foremost, enters the arena with the intention to give last rites to Marcus. He begins to act in accordance with other rebels in District Twelve, but his trust of Coriolanus becomes his downfall. Lenore Dove takes to the stage to sing about the injustice of oppression. It was not her singing that necessarily got her arrested, rather, the crowds that gathered. Both characters suffer from impulsive and emotional rebellion, which often befalls the characterization of immaturity. However, in the context of an oppressive and isolating Capitol, their Bradburian rebellions, akin to Guy Montag’s rebellion in Fahrenheit 451 and Winston’s in 1984, speak to Plutarch Heavensbee’s greater continuum of revolution. 

Sejanus Plinth

In The Rebel, Albert Camus defines a rebel as “a man who says no, but whose refusal does not imply a renunciation”. In that, a rebel is someone who recognizes the authority has moved beyond the limit of its power. It has begun to encroach on the rights of others. However, the rebel is also someone who believes that there is moderation in which the authority has power before said limit. (This definition hinges on the difference between revolution and rebellion, but for the sake of the scope of this essay, I will omit Camus's broad section on the differences. It's long enough already.)

For example, Sejanus Plinth rebels against the idea of the Games and the inhumane treatment of the districts. He believes instead of punishing the districts, the Capitol should seek to protect everyone in Panem, but he still believes in the government having power. The line for him would be the abuse of the districts. 

Sejanus represents John Locke’s idea of natural law, which denotes that people are born with natural rights to life, liberty, and property. Any government must then recognize said rights, and it cannot expect obedience from people who have not freely consented to its rule.

This encompasses Sejanus’s impulsive rebellion:

“But if a long train of abuses, prevarications and artifices, all tending the same way, make the design visible to the people, and they cannot but feel what they lie under, and see whither they are going; it is not to be wondered, that they should then rouze themselves, and endeavour to put the rule into such hands which may secure to them the ends for which government was at first erected.”

In the Capitol, Sejanus is isolated in his perception of injustice. Unlike his classmates, he has insight into the humanization of people beyond Capitol borders. He recognizes they are not animals, like his classmates believe, but instead, people born with rights just like him. He must grapple with the knowledge of the harm the Games are doing and the conflicting role of being a mentor- a cog in the machine of the Games. Still, he is around people who do not perceive the “long train of abuses”, and thus feels he must convince them of the prevarications. 

“Hardly rebels. Some of them were two years old when the war ended. The oldest were eight. And now that the war’s over, they’re just citizens of Panem, aren’t they? Same as us? Isn’t that what the anthem says the Capitol does? ‘You give us light. You reunite’? It’s supposed to be everyone’s government, right?” “That’s the general idea. Go on,” Dr. Gaul encouraged him. “Well, then it should protect everyone,” said Sejanus. “That’s its number one job! And I don’t see how making them fight to the death achieves that.” “Obviously, you don’t approve of the Hunger Games,” said Dr. Gaul. “That must be hard for a mentor. That must interfere with your assignment.” Sejanus paused for a moment. Then he sat up straight, seeming to steel himself, and looked her in the eye. “Perhaps you should replace me and assign someone more worthy.”

He wants to be freed from the Games. He expresses this proposal to Dr. Gaul, who refuses to oblige. Yet, even Sejanus knows freeing himself from the Games is not something that would end them. Even after he no longer has a stake in the Games when Marcus goes missing, he continues to show up to classes and chime in to discussions on the Games. He rebels through free thought, as it is the only rebellion he can manage under the oppressive restrictions of the Capitol. 

Returning to Camus’s The Rebel, he writes that to remain silent means to consent to the malpractice of the authority:

“To remain silent is to give the impression that one has no opinions, that one wants nothing, and in certain cases it really amounts to wanting nothing. Despair, like the absurd, has opinions and desires about everything in general and nothing in particular. Silence expresses this attitude very well. But from the moment that the rebel finds his voice—even though he says nothing but "no"—he begins to desire and to judge.”

Sejanus rebels through continuing to show up. He earnestly believes that speaking in front of his classmates and Academy staff will change someone’s mind. He believes if he can convince someone to understand, then maybe, he will make a dent in the Games. It is why Lysistrata’s speech when Jessup dies is impactful. Lysistrata, who was born and raised in the Capitol, begins to see the people in the districts beyond their characterization as animals. 

“What I’d like people to know about Jessup is that he was a good person. He threw his body over mine to protect me when the bombs started going off in the arena. It wasn’t even conscious. He did it reflexively. That’s who he was at heart. A protector. I don’t think he would’ve ever won the Games, because he’d have died trying to protect Lucy Gray.” “Oh, like a dog or something.” Lepidus nodded. “A really good one.” “No, not like a dog. Like a human being,” said Lysistrata.

While I do not intend to reduce Lysistrata’s revelation to a sole factor, Sejanus’s insistence must have impacted her thoughts. She shows empathy towards his rebellious outburst after Sejanus sees Marcus in the arena. She even attempts to get Snow to console him. Snow, in fear of association, the opposite of Lysistrata, refuses.

We see more emotional rebellion in Sejanus when he attempts to give last rites to Marcus via the breadcrumbs in the arena. The rebellion of this act can be construed two ways: a boy trying to give someone passage into an afterlife, or a rebellious student attempting to humanize someone in front of the Capitol and willing to die for it. Both of these options convene in emotion. 

Dying in the arena as a sole rebel will not accomplish the same messaging as working strategically with a team of conspirators. Rather, his emotional rebellion is personal and impulsive. He cannot depend on anyone to rebel with him. Again, he is isolated from any inklings of rebellion or rebellious thought leaders. Any time he attempts to bring the ideas to the classroom, someone shuts him down. Therefore, he deems it necessary to act in accordance with his own ideologies even if it means going at it alone. To him, a fleeting rebellion is better than none at all. There is no greater conspiracy other than the ideologies in his dialects: people deserve rights. 

When he sprinkles the breadcrumbs on Marcus, he accepts his own death. To him, as to Camus, rebels who are willing to die recognize that some causes transcend that of a single man:

“If he prefers the risk of death to the negation of the rights that he defends, it is because he considers these rights more important than himself. Therefore he is acting in the name of certain values which are still indeterminate but which he feels are common to himself and to all men. We see that the affirmation implicit in every act of rebellion is extended to something that transcends the individual in so far as it withdraws him from his supposed solitude and provides him with a reason to act.”

Sejanus’s impulse is driven by the idea that rights (or, rites) are more important than himself. He has accepted death, even if his actions will not lend themselves to a greater movement. He acts on his own, isolated from his district and alone in his ideas. He recognizes that he must act, even if it will end in his own death. The injustices occur before his eyes, and he realizes he cannot wait to recruit more people to his cause. He has tried and failed, and now his friend is dead. He cannot wait for a rebellion. To him, there is no such thing. Of course we as readers know about Plutarch and the later rebellion, but Sejanus is not given such insight. Nor is he aware of anyone who may even consider the district citizens as humans. To him, he is alone in life and thought, and thus he accepts this as true and rebels on his own. 

It is why, in District Twelve, farther removed from the Capitol’s watchful eye, he feels more emboldened. He latches on to the first signs of rebellion and devotes his life to it. He works with Billy Taupe and the rebels to try to free a prisoner, because once again, he believes people have rights. With people behind him, he has something he has never had before- a community of like minded people. 

For the first time, he is no longer alone. He realizes his ideas all along can come to fruition. While his tactics are unrefined, such as drawing a map in the dirt where anyone can see, his rebellion is still appropriately limited.

Sejanus’s rebellious plot lacked a direct attack on the Capitol. While he believed in ending the Games, he set the bar lower. He likely realized the Games were too big of a target, and, unlike in the Capitol, escaping became a viable option. His goal was never to blow up the arena or free the tributes. He just wanted to get the imprisoned girl and run.

His greatest fault was trusting Snow. To him, they are brothers. He has been his confidant before, and Snow has saved him countless times. He refused to graduate unless the academy allowed Snow to graduate, too. Inasmuch, he is misled to believe he can tell Snow the plan. 

For once, Sejanus found people who believed in the same things he did. Had he not told Snow, his rebellion likely may have worked. However, just like Guy Montag in Fahrenheit 451, he placed his trust in someone he believed to be his brother, and it got him killed. He felt emotionally compelled, just as he did in the arena, to give a final goodbye or an explanation. He trusted Snow, and it got him killed. 

Lenore Dove

Lenore Dove’s acts of rebellion are reactionary, but still emotional. She does not act without a cause in front of her. 

Assuming she was the one to cut the gallows rope and burn the flag, her actions of rebellion are always focused on one event. She sawed the rope to permit it to snap, and she burned the flag to create drama around the reaping ceremony. Neither of these events end with anything other than someone getting arrested. She acts out of necessity, but her acts are impermanent. Like Sejanus, she lacks an overarching goal and an overall movement.

However, unlike Sejanus, she is raised with rebellious media- books, free thought, and music. She idolizes the raven on the tree that can say what she desires. She admires people who can speak freely, going so far as to tell Haymitch she hopes to be able to speak her mind when she’s older:

“And nobody tells them what to say. That bird is who I want to be when I grow up. Someone who says whatever they think is right, no matter what.”  No matter what. That’s the part I’m worried about. That she might be saying something rash. Or even doing something beyond dangerous words. Something the Capitol won’t warn but whip her for. The year she turned twelve, she crossed that line twice.

Yet, Lenore Dove respects the wishes of Clerk Carmine by singing only in the meadow. She complies with her uncle's wishes by refusing to play the Goose and the Common in public. She censors herself, and she will not sing in public because she “says it makes her too nervous to sing in front of people. Her throat closes up.” 

However, her ultimate rebellion has her doing both things: Freely singing what she wants and gathering a crowd in the square. She immediately gathers like minded people:

“Less about what I played, more about how it drew people. Everybody’s real upset this year, so many kids. They needed a place to be together, to raise their voices. Sometimes the hurt’s too bad to bear alone.”  So it wasn’t just her, playing her heart out in front of the Justice Building. A crowd had gathered. Sung the forbidden songs. “Did they say the charges?”  “Disrupting the peace or something. And you know, ‘No Peace, No Anything.’”

She became, for a moment, a voice for District Twelve, who sang along with her forbidden songs. Had this occurred during the 75th Games, when tension was already high, it may have spawned something greater. Instead, with the ever present threat of the peacekeepers and propaganda in the square, the people complied by dispersing without issue. There was no compelling call to rebel. It was, as Camus says, “Rebellion is, by nature, limited in scope. It is no more than an incoherent pronouncement.”. She struck a spark that did not catch. However, in doing so, she placed herself, literally by being on the reaping stage, on the same level as the Capitol’s propaganda. She demanded respect for the ideas present in her songs. 

To return to Camus:

“The act of rebellion carries him far beyond the point he had reached by simply refusing. He exceeds the bounds that he fixed for his antagonist, and now demands to be treated as an equal. What was at first the man's obstinate resistance now becomes the whole man, who is identified with and summed up in this resistance. The part of himself that he wanted to be respected he proceeds to place above everything else and proclaims it preferable to everything, even to life itself. It becomes for him the supreme good.”

Lenore Dove’s emotions drive her rebellion, and, like Sejanus, she doesn’t think about the consequences until they occur:

“No, darling, that’s not how it went down at all. I overstepped, just like my uncles always warn me about. I lost my temper and started hollering and now you’re — oh, Haymitch . . . I don’t want to be on this earth without you.”

Both characters do not consider the consequences because they act according to the urgency of the situation. They recognize no one else is making a move to rebel, and they rebel without support, because to them, none exists. To them, it is better to rebel than to sit by and watch, even if the fall out is worse than staying silent. 

Haymitch says it best:

“It’s not like she’s part of some big conspiracy, so, hopefully, they won’t use methods to force her to talk. Just view her as an emotional sixteen-year-old whose boyfriend got reaped.”

She is not part of some “big conspiracy” because she is not given the opportunity. To both, there exists none. There is not even a chance, nor the liberty of joining. Their acts, then, are often mischaracterized as immature. Rather, the existence of the acts themselves is enough of a threat for the Capitol to silence them. Sejanus’s intrusion into the arena is never shown, and Lenore Dove is arrested. Their acts are significant in themselves, as they exist as moments of rebellion. The existence of rebellion itself is dangerous, as Drusilla says:

“You can’t say that!” Drusilla protests. “You’ll spoil the brilliant work I did covering up the riot!” “What riot? Woodbine ran and your people shot him.”  “I know a riot when I see it! Never mind. That’s forbidden. It won’t win you any points with the audience anyway. They’ll respond to a bad boy, not a rebel. You need to be naughty, not dangerous.”

Any instance of rebellion is dangerous for a tyrannical authority, monumental impact or not.

Bradburian Rebellion

Both Sejanus and Lenore Dove rebel in a very Bradburian way- impulsive, emotional, and immediate. In Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag begins to read directly from banned books, one in the same as Lenore Dove’s banned songs. Both acts ultimately lead to stamped out embers of rebellion. Montag’s fruitless rebellion results in the death of an innocent man. Lenore Dove’s rebellion results in a fortification of the state. Through her, the peacekeepers send a message of free speech and free thought are not allowed, as they disturb the peace. Sejanus’s rebellion culminates similarly to Montag’s in that he ultimately trusts someone who betrays him: 

“Millie?” He paused. “This is your house as well as mine. I feel it's only fair that I tell you something now. I should have told you before, but I wasn't even admitting it to myself. I have something I want you to see, something I've put away and hid during the past year, now and again, once in a while, I didn't know why, but I did it and I never told you.” He took hold of a straight-backed chair and moved it slowly and steadily into the hall near the front door and climbed up on it and stood for a moment like a statue on a pedestal, his wife standing under him, waiting. Then he reached up and pulled back the grille of the air-conditioning system and reached far back inside to the right and moved still another sliding sheet of metal and took out a book. Without looking at it he dropped it to the floor. He put his hand back up and took out two books and moved his hand down and dropped the two books to the floor. He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow, red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife's feet. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't really think. But now it looks as if we're in this together.” Mildred backed away as if she were suddenly confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out of the floor. He could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then moaning, she ran forward, seized a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator.

Montag, Lenore Dove, and Sejanus Plinth are all impulsive rebels. Their emotions and personal constitutions compel them to act. In every case, they do not fight with a greater cause, because the rebellion is so subdued they perceive no other choice than to act alone. They see the urgency in their situation, and they act accordingly. Often, as we see in both 1984 and Fahrenheit 451, this type of impulsive rebellion does little in the grand scheme of things. It is fleeting and, in the case of Winston, completely quelled into naught. However, in the context of Plutarch Heavensbee’s continuum, every act of rebellion is important, even the fleeting one-off ones. To put it simply, it all adds up.

As Camus continues:

“Rebellion is, by nature, limited in scope. It is no more than an incoherent pronouncement. Revolution, on the contrary, originates in the realm of ideas. Specifically, it is the injection of ideas into historical experience, while rebellion is only the movement that leads from individual experience into the realm of ideas. While even the collective history of a movement of rebellion is always that of a fruitless struggle with facts, of an obscure protest which involves neither methods nor reasons, a revolution is an attempt to shape actions to ideas, to fit the world into a theoretic frame. That is why rebellion kills men while revolution destroys both men and principles.”

Yet, all three characters rebel due to hope for a better future, because hope is all they have:

“The slave and those whose present life is miserable and who can find no consolation in the heavens are assured that at least the future belongs to them. The future is the only kind of property that the masters willingly concede to the slaves.”

The purpose of the Games, according to Snow, is to give the districts hope, and they do. To Sejanus and Lenore Dove, they hope for a better future, and they both rebel under the idea that their acts may have no greater consequence than an “incoherent pronouncement”, and yet, they are compelled to act. 

Because, finally, as Camus says:

“Better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees.”

[ballads-and-bairds]

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

[ballads-and-bairds]

unhappy endings

[ballads-and-bairds]

katniss says her father found the lake while hunting. after sotr, this is odd with his covey connection

I wish the tub would expand so I could go swimming, like I used to on hot summer Sundays in the woods with my father.... We would leave early in the morning and hike farther into the woods than usual to a small lake he'd found while hunting.

i can't think of a plausible reason he would lie to his daughter about how he came across the lake, so i doubt anyone from the covey took him there. he probably did find it on his own, as we know he has been in the woods since before ten years old.

It was the fall after I’d turned ten and the first time I’d ever snuck under the fence that surrounds our district.... My friend Burdock had finally worn me down, saying he did it all the time and there was nothing to it and there were still apples if you could climb.

so maybe the covey stopped visiting the lake, or maybe Burdock's covey connection really isn't as strong as his friendship with Lenore Dove implies.

[ballads-and-bairds]

Lucy Gray & the covey

[ballads-and-bairds]

The Rose and the Briar: The Ballad of Barb Azure

Part 1: 'Twas in the Merry Month of May

Oh, I'll twine with my mingles and raven black hair

With the roses so red and the lilies so fair

And the myrtles so bright with its emerald hue

The pale and the leader and eyes look like blue

Barb Azure always had a hard time choosing which wildflowers to bring home to her family. While she almost seemed to have too many favorites herself, she had to consider what her family enjoyed as well. Maude Ivory loved buttercups the most, while Lucy Gray preferred primroses. Each petal's design was intricate, each color swirling around the stem like mixed paint.

Then she remembered what day it was and realized why the other Covey had sent her out to the meadow. She knew her cousins relied on her practicality and tastes, but May 4th was for a different reason.

Her birthday was the one day of the year when her family would treat Barb Azure, rather than her mothering them all day. It's not that she hated doing so - she loved them all, but she missed the life many moons ago when she was free of responsibility.

I will dance, I will sing and my laugh shall be gay

I will charm every heart, in his crown I will sway

I woke from my dream and all idols was clay

And all portions of love then had all flown away

Barb Azure continued her song as she picked the sweet briars - her favorite - and made her way home. She figured the Covey should be finished planning her party by now - they threw one for her every year whether she remembered her own birthday or not. It wasn't like she had had time to look forward to it - when she wasn't rehearsing for the next gig, most of the time she was busy either cooking, cleaning, or nursing illnesses.

She was careful to avoid cutting herself when she put the soft pink flowers in a jar. Sweet briars were lovely, but difficult to pick because of their thorns. Barb Azure always admired how guarded their beauty was.

As she filled the jar with water, she felt a rustling from under the table. Barb Azure first heard giggling, then a shhh!, and the rest of the Covey could contain themselves no longer.

One by one, they emerged from underneath the tablecloth - her cousins, Lucy Gray and Maude Ivory, barely containing their laughter, and the boys, Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine, both smiling sheepishly. Clerk Carmine's brother, Billy Taupe, was the only one of their flock missing, though to Barb Azure this was the least surprising part of her party.

Happy birthday

To someone special!

And we wish you many more!

Once a year

We give a cheer

To you, Barb Azure!

Happy birthday!

After the Covey finished the birthday song, Barb Azure suddenly heard a thumping in the cupboard behind her. Her girl, Hyacinth Hardy spilled out and tackled her with a hug.

"Happy birthday, Barb Azure!" she cheered, roaring with laughter at her reaction.

Hyacinth, called Cinthy, and her twin brother, Amarant, had lived down the road from the Covey ever since they had first arrived in District 12 to stay. Their parents were gone, but their pa had been the mayor's gardener. He had taught his children enough to carry on for him after he died of heatstroke a few years ago. That was fine by Mayor Lipp - he could take on two for the price of one.

The Hardys had been friends with the Covey for many years now, but it was only recently that something more had developed between Hyacinth and Barb Azure.

It started with the suppers. On Sunday evenings, Tam Amber and Lucy Gray would invite the siblings over to eat when they didn't have gigs. Some nights, Amarant would stay home, apparently sick, leaving Cinthy to come over alone.

After they ate, the other Covey would make their excuses. Lucy Gray had to put Maude Ivory to bed while Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine had evening chores. This often left Barb Azure to clean the table, with Hyacinth always more than happy to help.

Cinthy's family didn't have much history outside District 12, so she was often pestering Barb Azure with questions about the Covey's travels. Her favorite topic was life beyond the districts.

"You met people outside Panem?" she had asked one late night. "Were they different from us at all?"

"Not like what you might think - they were pretty nice folks," mused Barb Azure. "They could appreciate all colors of the rainbow for what they were."

Not many people were open about loving differently in District 12 - at least not like some of the Covey had - but at least those who did weren't given much trouble.

Growing up with the Covey allowed Cinthy to grasp their expressions more quickly. She raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"What about you?" asked Hyacinth. Any colors of the rainbow you care for in particular?"

"You know me, I'm as blue as my name, though I suppose I like it mixed with violet sometimes." grinned Barb Azure, picking up on her meaning.

By the time it was her birthday the next month, things had progressed more quickly than Barb Azure was used to. Of the Baird cousins, she was known as the most cautious - the most responsible. She had experience with many things, but Cinthy was her first real sweetheart.

The more Barb Azure's feelings bloomed, the more she remembered the advice her mother gave her: "Baird girls fall hard, but even they still need to use their wings."

Previous | Next

[ballads-and-bairds]

The Rose and the Briar Masterlist

Summary: "All the Covey girls have a little mystery to them, it's half their charm." Mystery is in the job description when you're a Covey girl, especially when you're a Baird. Barb Azure, the eldest of the Baird cousins, has always wondered what mysteries life has in store for her. Will she embrace them like her cousin Maude Ivory? Or will she become a mystery herself like Lucy Gray?

1. Prologue

2. Part 1: 'Twas in the Merry Month of May

3. Part 2: When Green Buds All Were Swellin'

4. Part 3: Sweet William on His Death Bed Lay

[ballads-and-bairds]

The Rose and the Briar: The Ballad of Barb Azure Baird

Prologue

A golden crown graced the tall head of the mountain that was now rapidly coming into view. There were no clouds or mist that could hide it from Barb Azure or any of the Covey.

It was an impressive sight, the outskirts of District 12. The Covey was wrapping up its latest tour of the country. At nine years old, Barb Azure was finally old enough to join her family onstage as they performed all around Panem.

She had the time of her life, getting to put her practice to perfection. She wasn't much for performing front and center, but music still flowed through her blood.

Her father was the eldest of a Covey trio known as the Baird Brothers. Like Barb Azure, they and their ancestors before them had been on the road for as long as they could remember. The Bairds used to be a lone flock, but eventually they met up with Covey from parts further beyond Panem, including Barb Azure's mother.

Although she was meant to be a flier at heart, District 12 was Barb Azure's favorite to visit. It had the best colors - from the bluish-gray mountains her family's carts would bump over to the lush green meadow she played in with her cousins.

Her mother had warned her that this visit would be different. The districts were at war with a great city far away - the Capitol. The Capitol didn't look too kindly on rebels or outsiders, even the Covey, who only saw it as their job to spread joy.

"We need to be careful Barbie," she cautioned, "Every mountain must rise to its own peak, but there's a reason the peak is hardest to reach."

Her mother always had funny sayings like that. Barb Azure didn't always know what she meant at first, but she enjoyed thinking about them. But she did agree that the peak was her favorite spot, despite it being such a treacherous journey. There she could become one with the sky, whether it was as blue as her name, streaked with orange and pink, or shrouded in gray or black.

The mountains must have known she was coming, because the sky was a clear blue that morning. Suddenly, a new color joined the painting. Barb Azure gazed down at the dusty town far below. Smoke was rising, though whether from the mines or a more sinister reason she couldn't tell.

A distant crack like a gunshot quickly answered her question. The others, her aunts and uncles, bolted like rabbits. Her six-year-old cousin, Lucy Gray, pierced the air with a scream.

Barb Azure's father jumped in from behind and pulled both mother and daughter down. "Fly away!" he whispered.

Next

[ballads-and-bairds]

More spoilers below...

Missed opportunity to spoil that Maysilee killed a gamemaker.

SOTR SPOILERS! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!

I just saw someone make a racist comment on a Hunger Games video (about the Lenore Dove casting), and someone in the replies spoiled the ENTIRETY of SOTR in retaliation (the person hadn't finished the book yet) and I think that's actually such a slay move.

Random person: *makes racist comment*

Person in the replies: "Ampert gets eaten by rabid squirrels, Lenore Dove gets killed with poisoned gumdrops that Haymitch feeds her, Haymitch's family dies in a fire, Lou Lou dies before the games start and Snow replaces her with a fake body double."

I think this is perfect honestly, as a society we should start spoiling things when people say stupid shit.

[ballads-and-bairds]

Lenore Dove is so misunderstood and mischaracterized by the fandom it makes me sad to see.

She is not this manic, dream pixie girl. Her character very much shaped, flawed and real. Haymitch is able to oversee and ignore her “flaws” because he’s a 16 year old teenage boy who is madly in love with her, but it is not hard for us readers, to look between those lines and see how fleshed her character really is.

She is seen to act before thinking, making rash decisions which aren’t the best for her wellbeing. She is way too emotional, feels too many feelings and has too many thoughts and she doesn’t know how to articulate them into words because she’s an introvert and she fears her words being lost in translation.

She only reveals her unfiltered, (sometimes) dark thoughts to her loved ones, and often enough she does it by using metaphors so she can still backtrack incase she gets misunderstood because she still feels like her thoughts could be a burden to the people around her.

She is not a “Lucy Gray Rip-Off”.

Lucy Gray was a born performer. She loved to be on stage, she loved performing for her people and knew how to get the crowd on her side, how to keep them entertained.

Lenore Dove doesn’t sing in front of people. It makes her uncomfortable. She’s not a “Born Performer” nor does she know how to control a crowd, at least not in the way Lucy Gray did.

She’s a rebel. She’ll only use her voice when she realizes she absolutely HAS to. She’ll use it when she’s mad, and sad, and in despair.

She’ll go against the rules at any given time, especially when it comes to protecting her loved ones. She doesn’t realize nor care about any consequences at the time, she only acts because she’s in pain and wants to avenge her people.

She’s a sixteen year old girl who dreamt big in a world where dreaming was a luxury and not something many people can afford.

In spite of her dark, burdened thoughts, she had still kept her innocence and was able to dream of a world without the reaping, she had hopes that one day that dream could become a reality, no matter how crazy it sounded to others.

She also had dreams of growing up, having a loving family and living peacefully with her loved ones and her boy who she loved more than anyone and she was willing to die for him.

[ballads-and-bairds]

i said i was going to talk about why suzanne collins used the raven perfectly in sunrise on the reaping (and i haven’t seen many people talking about this) so here i am to talk about it. 

if you don’t know, the poem lenore dove’s name comes from is “the raven” by edgar allen poe. i know the final chapter(s) of sotr include a lot of the poem, but i still suggest that people go and read the entire thing. as haymitch says at some point in sotr, maybe a few times, “the raven” is about a man losing his lover, lenore, and being super depressed about it while a raven shows up to fuck with him. interesting premise, right?

now, we already see some of the poem coming true in sunrise on the reaping, and haymitch acknowledges this: haymitch, acting in the role of the poet, loses lenore dove (who is, of course, lenore). haymitch compares himself to the poet, getting depressed about his lost love. but something i haven’t seen people talking about, and something haymitch himself never mentions, is the fact that some (including me) believe “the raven” is about a man sad about losing his lover who he accidentally killed. see, haymitch hasn’t sat around analyzing “the raven”, but i have, and i am here to tell you about this connection and its relation to sunrise on the reaping.

if you’ve read sotr you probably know where i’m going with this, but before i go there, i want to tell y’all about why i believe that in “the raven” the poet (otherwise known as the man whose perspective the poem is from) accidentally killed lenore. and why do i think this? allusions! 

what is an allusion, you ask? according to wikipedia, an allusion is as follows: “allusion, or alluding, is a figure of speech that makes a reference to someone or something by name (a person, object, location, etc.) without explaining how it relates to the given context, so that the audience must realize the connection in their own minds.” 

in other words, an allusion is a reference to someone or something specific (you cannot allude to a concept like death, for example) for the purpose of giving readers/viewers a deeper understanding of what they are consuming, should they pick up on the allusion. obviously we are given some context for “the raven”’s presence in sotr — it is lenore dove’s name poem, and it relates to haymitch’s own feelings about losing lenore dove. but there are more aspects of the poem, like that accidental killing thing, that you would not know about if you haven’t read and extensively analyzed “the raven”. 

so, why do the allusions in “the raven” make me believe that the poet is to blame for lenore’s death? well, first off, let’s identify some allusions. let me just say, there are a lot of allusions, and i am not going to talk about all of them, but i will talk about a few that support my point.

first: stanza 7, line 5, which reads, “perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door”. pallas is most commonly known as another name for the goddess athena, but pallas is also the name of a close friend of athena’s who athena accidentally killed. athena was incredibly sad about the death of her friend, and she ended up creating a statue of pallas in pallas’s honor. that’s not super important, but hey: explicit allusion to a myth of a goddess accidentally killing somebody she deeply cared about. 1 point for the accidental murder of lenore theory.

onto the second allusion that i believe best supports my point. now, i’ll admit, this one is a bit more of a stretch, but stay with me, alright? stanza 15, line 1: ““prophet!” said i, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!”

prophet. now, i may be a bit of a greek mythology nerd (alongside, y’know, a hellenic polytheist), but i saw this part of the poem where the poet addresses the raven as a prophet and immediately thought of apollo. apollo, best known as the greek god of the sun, is also the greek god of prophecy. ravens are one of his sacred animals. well, you ask, what does apollo have to do with accidental murder? even more than athena, in my opinion, at least in the context of “the raven”. 

see, here’s a myth many people have at the very least heard of: apollo and hyacinthus. hyacinthus was a spartan prince and one of apollo’s lovers. now, there are a few versions of the myth of hyacinthus’s death, but the most relevant (and well-known, i think) version in this case is the version where, during a game of discus, apollo accidentally hits hyacinthus in the head, killing him. accidental murder strikes once again, and with yet another (possible) allusion to greek mythology.

but, one final allusion. stanza 15, line 5: “is there—is there balm in gilead?—tell me—tell me, i implore!” gilead is a region known specifically for its medicinal/healing balm, which is clearly being referenced here. i, personally, believe that the reason the poet was asking the raven this is because he is wondering if there was a way he could’ve saved (or healed) lenore.

now, let’s connect all this to sunrise on the reaping.

we all know that haymitch didn’t outright kill lenore dove himself, but through both his actions of rebellion and his feeding lenore dove one of the poisoned gumdrops, there is an argument to be made that haymitch is somewhat at fault for lenore dove’s death. as we also know, haymitch — of course — tries to save lenore dove once he realizes she’s been poisoned. he first tries to get her to throw up the gumdrops she had, but when that doesn’t work, haymitch asks lenore dove if she has any charcoal tablets, which saved him when he was poisoned in the arena. in my opinion, the charcoal tablets seem like a reference to that line about balm in gilead. haymitch accidentally has a hand in the death of lenore dove, and — like the poet in “the raven” — he tries to save her, but is ultimately unsuccessful. this sends him into a spiral. now, it does look up for haymitch in the end, as he doesn’t straight-up die like the poet of “the raven” does, but hey. that’s not what this analysis is about.

this analysis is really all here just for me to say that suzanne collins utilizes “the raven” in such an interesting, expansive way that most readers won’t ever fully appreciate or understand, and i want more people to know. (also, while reading “the raven” can give you a better understanding of sotr, i read sotr before analyzing “the raven” and i can report that it works both ways. sotr definitely helped me analyze “the raven” and what it’s about.)

so, yeah. dislike sunrise on the reaping all you want, but you can’t deny all the thought, work, and research that clearly went into it, bc this is 1) super cool and 2) a level of attention to detail that i strive to have as a writer myself.

[ballads-and-bairds]

Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop saying that Mrs. Bennet is the only one "taking the situation seriously."

She is not.

Screaming about a problem doesn't mean you are taking it seriously. If she was taking it seriously, she'd have given her girls a proper education and advocated for saving for dowries. Her little schemes around Jane don't count as taking it seriously.

No one is taking the situation seriously.

[ballads-and-bairds]

The 2nd Hunger Games

This Hunger Games Comp(act) allows you to experience the Hunger Games through both a tribute’s and a spectator’s lens. If the narrating tribute dies at another tribute’s hands, the latter takes on the narration. If the narrating tribute dies from natural causes or at the Gamemakers’ hands, narration is taken over by a tribute in the close proximity. The spectator does not change.

You will find an overview of the tributes at the end of this post, which includes their names, ages, training scores, number of kills, and placements.

Warning! Some readers may find the following text disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

Warning! The following text includes themes related to suicide, which may be sensitive for some readers.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

Motionless, I stare at the torn noose in my hand. Then my gaze shifts from the three-legged wooden stool up to the ceiling. Another attempt that, in the end, remained just that – an attempt. Is it the rope? Do I need a rope that's more durable? Or is it me? Am I too heavy for the noose to hold my weight? As I’m trying to find the right answers to my questions – after all, I'll try again tomorrow – I start growing impatient. Slowly, I pull myself to my feet. Unless ...

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

There they stand. Huddled together like cattle, holding their breaths. Waiting for their name not to be called. Sighing in relief when it's someone else. Throwing curious glances at the one who has hit the jackpot. The tributes, as they’re called, pass by me. In a few days, they will all be dead anyway, and nobody will remember the survivor. At least I won’t. Not really. All I remember from last year is that the boy who survived had reddish hair and came from the lumber district. Back to the news anchor, who hands over to her colleague standing in front of the smoldering ruins of District 13, wearing a protective suit, and reporting on how radioactive the area still is.

After that it’s back to waiting before the fun starts again next year. Assuming the Hunger Games are still around then. As I see it, it’s not a made-to-last project. I don’t know anyone who watches this crap. I don’t think it’s because people have better things to do. It’s because they don’t know why they should watch in the first place. Why not just execute the tributes right away? Why drag them all the way to the Capitol, where no one even gets to see them? But more importantly, why should there even be a survivor? Why give the tributes a chance to make it out of the arena unscathed? I never had that chance before my leg was torn to pieces by a rebel landmine. When I nearly bled to death. And now I’m stuck with the rest of my life on crutches. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

I don’t hesitate. I raise my hand just as the Capitol escort reaches into the glass ball, his fingers splayed, eager to take someone’s life once again this year. Gasping in the audience. The man looks up confused, already holding an entry slip in his hand, trying to make sense of the sudden commotion. I rise onto my toes and lift my arm even higher to help him catch on. Then he looks questioningly at the Peacekeepers, who return his gaze with the same confusion. That’s when the mayor speaks up.

"Let him come up," he says. "Let him come up. If he’s so eager. Why not?"

He probably thinks that it's better to send away someone who will get himself killed voluntarily than someone who still has something to live for. I wonder whose life I just saved.

The Peacekeepers don’t even have to pull me from the crowd. I make my own way toward the stage, sprint up the steps, and look down at the people below me, who’re still dumbfounded. I just volunteered. What else is there to live for? The Capitol will probably find some way to put me out of my misery soon enough. At least I’ll get to see the Capitol, breathe a different kind of air for once.

We’re transported in silence. The other tributes barely acknowledge me, and I don’t acknowledge them. What’s the point? We’re already dead in the eyes of the Capitol. I have not watched the Games last year. How was I supposed to do that? I don't have a TV at home, and I don't know anyone who owns one. So I practically know nothing about them, other than that one of us will survive. 

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

“The animals have arrived,” Servilia, my caretaker, says as she serves my lunch: a steaming asparagus soup with crescent-shaped bread sprinkled with seeds. District bread for our guests from the Districts. “Cheers!” says Servilia with a cheerful laugh, then she leaves the room with a feather duster in hand, humming merrily to herself. Guests with a short, very short stay.

I catch myself wondering how the tributes must be feeling right now. I know they're waiting for their impending deaths in the Peacekeepers’ stables – or at least that was where they were herded off to last year with much fanfare. I try to recall how I felt when I went off to war against the rebels. I was afraid, yes, but there was something else inside me too. It's hard to explain, but I think the closest word for it is the urge to prove myself. Not in the sense of playing the hero. More like wanting to get back at the rebels. To crush them. To blow them to pieces – the way they later did with my leg. But is that the same thing? A bunch of kids, untrained, flailing weapons and running around in a panic – that can hardly be called a war.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

It feels like someone hit fast-forward. Time here in the Capitol moves so quickly compared to the ride in the reeking, filthy cattle car. I let my eyes wander. None of the other tributes are speaking. I don’t think they could, even if they wanted to. Instead, they stare off into the distance – anywhere but into each other’s eyes. The eyes of a possible victim. Or the eyes of a potential killer.

What’s the point of all this theater anyway? The Games will probably be over so fast, no one will even realize who they’ve killed. A boy with a crooked, dusty pair of glasses – I think he’s from District 3 – is fidgeting with his fingers. How could those fingers ever kill someone, let alone hold a weapon? I glance down at my own hands, limp and lifeless. Could these hands do it?

After what feels like only minutes, the stable door is yanked open violently and we’re hauled to our feet. Some of the tributes are in such bad shape they can’t even stand on their own anymore, and the Peacekeepers have such a hard time with them that other tributes are forced to help. How macabre. Go ahead, get up – I’ll kill you in the Games anyway. 

“Where are we even going?” I ask. One of the Peacekeepers looks at me, then glances at his partner, and both burst out laughing. But I keep staring, genuinely curious, and they realize I’m not joking. “We’re taking you to the playground,” one of them sneers. “Time to let off some steam.” They roar with laughter again.

After a short ride in a transport vehicle – my first time in a car, what a sensation! – we're dragged out of the truck. We’re standing in front of a massive building. It looks a little run-down, but otherwise in decent shape. So this is our playground. An arena. Armed Peacekeepers shove us forward. We’re herded through the entrance and pass under a turnstile that, as we walk through it, triggers a robotic voice: “Enjoy the show!”

The arena is old. Ancient. A decaying amphitheater once used for circus performances. It smells like dirt and rust. The stone seats have been stripped of their beauty, and the place is empty. Bloodstains decorate the steps, streaking across the seats. The sky above is cloudless, but there’s no warmth in the air. I can’t tell if it's the coldness of the arena or something deeper.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

“District 6 is cloudy today, with a fifteen percent chance of drizzle. The sun, however, won't be hiding from District 8, where –” The weather forecast cuts off abruptly. For a moment, I can’t quite make out what I’m seeing from the aerial view – until I recognize twenty-four tiny dots, standing in a wide circle. Ah, right. The Games are being broadcast today. My hand is already reaching for the remote, ready to shut the TV off and banish the Games into darkness once again. But then I pause. Why not? What else do I have to do? A small taste of war.

Just then, the dots start to run – and now, thanks to the close-ups, I can see their gaunt, tense, and strained faces. But they’re not running toward each other. They’re running away. A few are sharp enough to grab a weapon while fleeing. Well, that clearly didn’t go as planned. Tributes who aren’t interested in fighting one another. Interesting.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

“Hey!” someone shouts. I shift my gaze downward, to the center of the arena. A tall boy with cornrows – the tribute from District 11 – stands there, looking up toward us. “Hey, why are you all just standing around like that? Aren’t we supposed to put on a show?” He slings a golf club over his shoulder. “I get it. I’m not really in the mood either.”

He glances around, then pauses, his eyes locking on a small black device mounted on a pillar. A camera. Then he smirks, a slow, knowing grin. It could’ve been a brilliant performance – if I couldn’t hear the fury trembling in his voice.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

I don’t understand what’s happening. They’re fighting. But they’re not fighting for survival. They’re fighting for something else. Something bigger. One of the boys – I don’t remember the district, but does that matter? – smashes a camera with a golf club.

It hits me then, like a slap to the face. The Hunger Games – they're not just about death. They’re about hope. The kind of hope that never reached me. That was never given to me. The hope that you can survive, even if it’s against all odds. The hope that you can come out of it unscathed.

For them, it’s not about surviving the arena. It’s about surviving the world. The same world I fought for, the same world I lost my leg for.

I watch them without blinking. My eyes are burning. They’re not just playing a game. They’re telling the Capitol, telling the world, that they’re still alive. I wonder if I’ll ever have that chance.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

They take the cameras down – one by one – destroying every one within their reach. They’re trying to punish the Capitol in their own way. You want to see us butcher each other? We won’t give you that satisfaction. I watch them for a while from the shadows, then finally shake my head. What’s the point? They’ll never reach the cameras mounted up by the spotlights anyway.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

One girl, tall, ragged – but once very pretty, with features that still hint at it – and bleeding from the forehead, turns to a camera and shoves her middle fingers into the lens, her face twisted in a furious smile. Another boy hacks at the ground with a rusty axe, sending splinters of the arena floor flying. Everywhere, the tributes are screaming, shouting, swinging their weapons not at each other, but at the world itself. The feed turns frantic, cutting from one shattered view to another. Chaos. Pure, raw chaos.

Then – the sound.

A fanfare so loud it feels like the air is ripping apart. The tributes clutch their ears instantly. I clutch my ears, too. But it must be much worse for the tributes, because some of them stagger. Some collapse to their knees, hands over their heads. But a few stay standing. One boy – I think he’s from District 11 – raises a broken sword into the air and howls into the noise: “Keep going!”

And somehow, some of them do. They stumble, they crawl, they swing their weapons blindly. Not at each other. At the Capitol. At the Games themselves.

And I watch, heart hammering, knowing that even when the rest of these Games are forgotten, this moment will be remembered forever.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

I don’t move. I just lie there. The others tear the place apart like wild animals, like it means something. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. All I know is, when the noise dies and the dust settles, we’ll still be trapped here. Still just pieces on their board. I close my eyes.

And it stops. I still clutch my ears, keep my eyes shut, just in case the horrible sound goes off again. But it doesn’t. And just like I anticipated, we’re still here. I wonder why they don’t do anything about it. I wonder why the Peacekeepers don't just storm in and shoot us. Or at least the ones who are tearing apart their precious arena. But then it hits me. This is exactly what they want. This is the proof they've been waiting for – that we're nothing but animals, just like they've always said. And now they have it, captured on every screen, broken or not. Then I hear a scream.

Someone finds the little girl from District 3. She’s unresponsive, obviously, because her body is found by the side of a dusty wall, her eyes wide open, like she is waiting for something to come and take her. It is peaceful. More peaceful than anything I’d seen in years. She’s dead.

The boy from District 11 – Bale was his name, now I remember – turns around to face the others and points at her. "Who killed this poor girl?" he shouts, now pointing at us accusingly. Now he goes around, one by one, ordering each of them to hold out their hands. So he can check if they’re stained with blood. He passes me without so much as a glance. Apparently, even to the others, I already look like someone who has given up. Which, to be fair, is true.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be alive. But there’s a moment – just one moment – where I find myself looking across the dirt at the girl from District 8. Her name is Shawla Ramirez. She’s not much older than me, and we’ve barely spoken. But when our eyes meet, I can see it in her face: she’s done. Her body is thin and broken, the result of years spent fighting for survival. But it’s more than that. Her eyes – those dead eyes – tell me everything. She wants to die too.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

The fun begins – a little delayed, but inevitable. You can only hold it off for so long. Now someone‘s realized that the only thing they can change – the only thing they can win – is their own survival. And to do that, they took someone else's life. While the others were too distracted by the noise to notice. While no one heard the little girl’s screams. I watch the tributes, scanning for a nervous twitch, a flicker of guilt, a glance too quick to hide. Nothing. Whoever killed her did it clean.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

The air is thick with something I can’t quite name. Resignation? Desperation? Maybe both. The tributes still stand together in defiance, hands clasped, faces turned up toward the unseen cameras. Some whisper words of rebellion. Others say nothing at all, their silence speaking louder than anything they could scream. But defiance only lasts so long.

It starts with a shove.

The boy from District 10, Chester, gaunt and hollow-eyed, pushes the girl from District 6, Journey, aside when she steps too close. It’s not much – just a small, tired motion. But it’s enough. Enough to make someone else shove back. Enough to spark something that has been simmering beneath the surface since the moment we were thrown in here.

Anger. Frustration. Hopelessness with nowhere else to go.

A fist flies. A girl cries out as she’s pulled backward by her hair. Someone swings a stolen weapon – a jagged piece of broken wood from the ruined stands – and there’s a sickening crunch as it meets flesh. Blood spatters against the cracked stone floor.

I don’t move. I lean against a pillar, watching as chaos unfurls before me. It spreads like a disease, slow at first, then all-consuming. The boy from District 1, Brand, grabs a rock and brings it down on another tribute’s head. Shawla curls up against the stands, hands over her ears, as if that will keep the nightmare away. It won’t.

And me?

I do nothing.

The fighting grows wilder. More desperate. The tributes have realized something now – realized that no matter how much they hold hands or cry out against the Capitol, the Hunger Games will demand its blood. And if the Capitol won’t spill it, they will.

A boy collapses near my feet, his face unrecognizable from the blows he’s taken. But I recognize his clothes. Flux from 5. He gurgles something – pleads, maybe – but no one listens. They’re too busy tearing each other apart.

My fingers twitch at my sides. I should feel something. Guilt. Horror. Fear.

But I feel nothing.

Because I am nothing.

Just a shadow against a pillar, waiting for a way out.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

The arena is chaos. Bodies falling, screams filling the air – the bloodbath has begun much earlier than last year. But then, there’s that boy who volunteered. He’s standing there, unmoving, in the shadows, not participating in the violence. Everyone else is scrambling for survival, fighting for the smallest shred of life. But not him. Why isn’t he fighting back? I lean forward, watching him closely. I want to understand. Everyone else is driven by desperation, by the need to make it out alive, but him ... he looks different. He doesn’t care about winning. He doesn’t even care about dying. Funny, given he volunteered to die.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

Amidst the chaos, I hear a voice. The boy from District 11, he’s shouting, trying to stop it all. "This isn’t what we fought for!" His voice cracks, desperate. “Don’t let them win!” Out of nowhere, the boy from District 3 appears – his glasses still crooked on his face – and in one fluid motion, he swings a hammer. It connects with the boy’s skull, and he drops like a ragdoll. Before he can even register it, a blade flashes through the air, sinking deep into the boy's back. His body jerks, and then ... nothing. I turn my gaze away.

Then I notice her – Zenobia, my district partner, moving toward me like she’s made up her mind. There’s no rush in her step, no wild desperation. Just … quietness. A kind of resignation I’m all too familiar with. She stops in front of me, and for a second, neither of us says anything. The chaos around us doesn’t matter. The screaming, the fighting – it’s all background noise now. "You’re still here," I mutter, just to break the silence. Zenobia looks at me, her gaze steady. "I’m not going anywhere." It’s not defiance. It’s just an observation. We both know she doesn’t have much choice, just like me. I raise an eyebrow. "That’s the plan then? Stick together?" She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, though her eyes are distant, like she’s already mentally somewhere else. "I don’t know. Feels better than being alone." For some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. But I let it pass.

There’s no time to think about it because then I hear it. The pounding of feet. I turn just in time to see the boy from District 7, axe raised, eyes wide with crazed hunger. Zenobia grabs my arm and pulls me into motion. We run, side by side, but I can feel his footsteps getting closer, the ground thudding under his boots. The heat presses down on us, the air thick and choking. My legs are turning to lead, and I hear Zenobia’s breath grow shallow as she pushes forward. But then – then she stumbles. I turn around, grab her hand and pull her up, but the boy arrives just at that moment and rams his fist into her face. She crumples, hitting the ground hard. 

The boy swings the axe, and for a moment, everything seems to slow down. The axe comes down toward me. Someone seems to have slowed down time. I wait for Zenobia to save me with the sword in her hand. I wait. But nothing happens. My gaze drifts to her, waiting for any movement. But she doesn’t move. Her face relaxes. Her eyes slowly close, and I realize – she’s not going to fight. She’s not even going to try.

And it hits me. The thought slams into me with a jolt. She’s already given in. She doesn’t care. Her fight ended the moment she stepped into this arena. Or maybe even the moment she heard her name at the Reaping. I’m still breathing. I’m still here. And then I realize something else – something that makes my stomach twist. There are tributes out here, like Zenobia, who don’t even fight for their own survival. They’re already gone. I snap out of it.

I don’t wait. I kick the boy in the side, knocking him off balance. His axe slips from his grip, clattering to the ground. I move quickly, grabbing Zenobia’s sword from her hand. It’s heavy, but I don’t think about it. The boy tries to get up, but I don’t give him the chance to fight back. I lunge, driving the blade into his side before he can react. He falls again, gasping for air, and I don’t hesitate. I repeatedly thrust my sword in his chest, then finally pull it out and breathe heavily. Then I turn around and look at Zenobia, who’s still lying there, her eyes shut. I know she’s alive, her chest rises and falls, shallow and slow. She’s looking peaceful.  I could leave her here. Let her go. 

But I don’t. I don’t just leave her. I step closer. Without a second thought, I raise the sword high. And then I drive it into her chest. No hesitation. Not because I want to fulfill her wish to die, but because she didn’t act when it mattered. She could’ve moved, could’ve fought back, could’ve done something – anything – when that boy was ready to finish me off. But she didn’t. She just lay there, giving up, letting me face it alone. And now she pays for it. The sword sinks into her, and I watch the life drain from her eyes. Something twists in my chest, but I push it down. I don’t feel guilt. I just feel ... cold. Her body gives one final, shuddering breath, but there’s no fight. She doesn’t struggle. I stand there, staring down at her. The blood pooling at my feet. The faint sound of distant screams echoing in the arena.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

The arena is a graveyard now. Everywhere I look, there are bodies, lifeless and scattered like forgotten dolls. The screams have stopped, replaced by the eerie silence of death. It's almost like the whole world has paused. No more movement. No more defiance. Just stillness. The kind of stillness that only happens when there's nothing left to fight for.

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, District 2 male tribute)

I don’t look at the bodies. I don’t think about them. Not anymore.

I see the last three. The girl from District 4 barely lifts her head when I approach. She’s on her knees, eyes glassy, blood caked on her forehead. She doesn’t even beg. I grip the sword tighter and step forward. One clean thrust, straight through. She exhales sharply –  a soft, broken sound – and crumples without resistance.

The boy from District 9, he is faster. He lunges out of nowhere, swinging a broken pitchfork wildly. It catches the air just inches from my face. I duck low, slam my shoulder into his gut, and he topples backward with a grunt. Before he can scramble away, I drive the blade into his stomach. His mouth opens in a silent scream as he curls inward, clutching at the wound like he could somehow hold his life inside.

Only one left. The girl from District 11. She’s standing there, chest heaving, clutching a rusty knife that she used to protect herself. I step closer. She doesn't run. Doesn't fight. She doesn’t lift her knife. Doesn’t even try. Instead, she looks me straight in the eyes, chin high, blood running from her temple.

"So this is it," she says, her voice hoarse but surprisingly steady. "This is what they wanted all along. Us, tearing each other apart. And we gave it to them.“ Her fingers uncurl from the knife. It falls to the ground with a dull thud. She doesn’t flinch. I tighten my grip on the sword. She takes a shaky breath, but she doesn’t look away. "You’re not killing me," she says quietly, smiling at me faintly. "You’re finishing what they started." For a second, something twists in my chest. But only for a second.

I step forward and drive the sword into her heart. She exhales – not a scream, not a cry – just a breath, almost like a sigh, as if she’d been holding it in for too long. Then she sinks to her knees and folds onto the ground, her hair fanning out over the dirt. I stand there, staring down at her body.

Narrated by Armin Tanner (26, Capitol resident and war veteran)

I stare at the screen for a long moment, watching the last flicker of movement fade into static. The room falls silent. My finger hovers over the remote, and then I press the power button. The image of the boy fades into nothing, just another winner to be forgotten by tomorrow.  

Narrated by Setho Plynder (18, victor of the 2nd Hunger Games from District 2)

The train rattles through the night, away from the arena, its blood-soaked air still clinging to my clothes. I’m crammed into the same filthy cattle car they used to bring us to the Capitol. I guess I'd expected something different for a victor.

The bodies are lined up against the wall, still in the clothes they died in. Zenobia. The girl from 4. The boy from 7. The girl from 11. And all the others who didn’t even make it this far. I sit alone by the window slit, watching the trees blur into shadows. They didn’t even bother to clean the blood off the floor. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. For a moment, I wonder if I should feel something. Guilt. Sadness. Relief. Anything. But there's nothing. Just a hollow space where everything else should be.

I open my eyes again and glance at the slumped shapes. "You broke trying to be something," I whisper. "I survived by being nothing." Outside, the Capitol skyline glows like a fire on the horizon. 

I sit up straighter, smooth my hair back, and try to remember who I was before all this. There was no before. I’ve always been this.