Death and Dying
Title: Death and Dying
Universe: AU, victor!Clove as mentor
Rating: G
Prompt: “What do we say to the God of Death?"/ "Not today."
Death comes in stages and Clove has memorized them all.
Every year she watches children--- big, small, tall, short, thin, fat, all kinds of them--- get on the train and leave their lives behind. To them, what they leave do not seem like much, but what they don't know is that it is all that they will ever have.
I feel fine
In the beginning, District 2 tributes seem different from the rest. They do not stare. They do not stammer. They do not cry. They hoist confidence on their shoulders, wholly convinced that they are not--- will never be--- afraid.
They are in denial.
Clove smirks. "You can't fool me, you know." Twirling her favorite dagger, she watches them swallow, their throats bobbing with the fear they refuse to show.
"But don't worry. They're not any smarter."
How can this happen to me?
At first, they don't talk. They don't ask. The reaped boy and girl stay obediently in their seats and eat dinner with manners so pristine you'd think President Snow was watching. Well, he is. So Clove spears a knife through a whole chicken and makes sure she wipes the blade on the tablecloth.
And then she waits.
After a clearing of the throat, they begin to push questions towards her. They will not shove them right away, no. They drop hints here and there to make it look like they are asking because they are curious, not because they are terrified. Of course. These kids can't tell the difference.
So she plays with them. It's Clove's favorite part. When they ask Should I go into the Cornucopia? Should I learn how to make traps? Should I stick with my sword, my spear, my speed? She sneers: "Follow your heart."
Then she picks her teeth with the tip of a knife and basks in the rage that fills them up, up, up to the roots of their hair.
They are angry.
Good, Clove thinks. The angrier they are, the better they will kill.
I'll do anything for a few more years
When they reach the Capitol (the lights, the colors, the excesses completely escape them), all they can think of are their opponents. Slowly, the thoughts turn into words, the words into numbers, the numbers into names, the names into faces.
On the day they meet, the children no longer think. They only feel. The tightening of their muscles. The weight of their beating hearts. If ever a complete thought comes across, it will be about death. Not other people's, but theirs.
They bargain.
Clove sees their pupils dilate at the sight of their fellow tributes. They drink in every second of sight, thinking of a way they can take. Years, most specifically, but life most of all.
Clove comes up to them afterwards. Her index fingers run across both their throats.
"Good job," she lies.
I'm going to die soon so what's the point?
Their escort usually has to force Clove to put in hours of consultation. It's in the rules, she says. You're their mentor, she says.
Clove accedes not because she agrees, but because she can never escape them.
So she sits and lets them spin a web for themselves. They talk of snares and strategies. They reveal tricks and traps. They urge her to help them think of fifty more ways to slit a throat. When it's over, they go back to their rooms and they stay there.
They are depressed.
Clove knows they bury themselves underneath the covers. Clove knows their shivering lips are calling out their mother's names. Clove knows they are no longer wishing for honor or fame or recognition. They only wish for home.
The escort knocks on their doors sometimes to check. But Clove does not. What those children need is comfort and she had none to give.
It's going to be okay
On the rooftop, the noise from the helicopter drowns what might have been a lengthy conversation. In its place is a solemn ritual of wordless gazes and apprehensive nods.
They accept.
Clove clasps their hands in hers.
"What do we say to the God of Death?"
"Not today."
"Not today," she affirms. And she lets them go.
Most of them die.
A few of them don't.
But none of them live.
Death comes in stages and Clove has memorized them all.