꧁ prologue ꧂

GALA MONTELAGO was five years old the first time she saw someone die. It wasn't her sickly grandmother Lobelia Highbottom, who for as long as Gala could remember actually claimed the next "icy" breeze or "nerve-wracking" discussion would claim her life. It wasn't her older cousin Gylbert Phipps, who always made it a point to climb the tallest trees and was in permanent danger of falling from ten feet onto hard asphalt. It wasn't someone Gala knew personally....

It was a boy on television. Twelve years old. Red hair, sweaty and filthy, but still of a bright cherry-like color. A boy, short and lanky for his age. His skin pale, yet a greenish tinge around his nose, as if he were nauseous.

The boy's name was Don Lapsinth. He was running through a forest, frightened and lonely. On his own he was, yes, however he was not alone.

Don Lapsinth was being chased - two other children, a seventeen-year-old boy and a sixteen-year-old girl, were chasing him - but they weren't playing tag, like Gala used to do with her cousins whenever their families got together for weekend brunch.

The girl wasn't in the mood for fun... This was no game of tag.

She threw a knife at Don Lapsinth and it hit him in the left leg. He immediately slumped to the ground, his pursuers quickly caught up with him. They lost no time: the boy lashed out with his spear, despite Don Lapsinth's loud sobs.

The spear hit twelve-year-old Don right in the heart. His screams immediately ceased, and at the same time Gala watched as a red puddle formed around his torso.

Gala had never seen so much blood before. With her five years of life experience, the worst she had ever seen was a scratch or two. She would never have thought it possible that there was so much blood inside the human body... There was so damn much blood gathered around Don Lapsinth's torso... It did not seep into the earth. It did, however, stain his clothes red. The blood was more radiant and redder even than Don's hair. Redder than any cherry Gala had ever tasted....

Don Lapsinth breathed his last, his gaze became blank and distant. A loud bang sounded from somewhere, but the other children ignored it. They crouched down beside Don Lapsinth and stared down at his face, unsure of what to do next. The girl lowered her head, murmuring a few soft words to herself as if she were praying. The boy gently ran his trembling hand over Don Lapsinth's face, closing his empty, soulless eyes. A few seconds ago he had hunted Don Lapsinth, even fewer seconds ago he had killed Don Lapsinth, but now he mourned for the lost life of an innocent. For a life he had taken.

The boy had become a murderer. He was seventeen years old and he had killed someone. Why, Gala wanted to know.

The girl put her hand on her accomplice's shoulder. As she did so, she nodded in the direction from which they had come, signaling to him that they needed to get back to their camp. It was getting dark in the forest.

"He's so small." Gala heard him mutter. "Was so small."

"We all are." the girl replied. "We don't have time to mourn now. He will rest in peace. I prayed for him."

The boy, however, paid little attention to her words, for he did not move. He was frozen, while the quiet wind rustled through the leaves and brought movement to the otherwise stiffened image on the television - the only indication that nothing was wrong with the live broadcast.

Finally, the boy managed to say, "He is-was probably younger than my little brother. Klaus is only thirteen."

The girl was silent. She didn't seem to know what to say in response.

Gala felt a painful twinge in her chest at the sight of the boy as he wrapped his arms around his torso, turning away from Don Lapsinth's body.

The boy was a child himself. And he had killed someone. This was no way for a murderer to look, Gala thought.

"I'll never see Klaus again," the boy seemed to realize. Suddenly, panic overcame him. "I'm going to die here, and I'm never going to see Klaus again!"

"Don't say that! We'll-" the girl began, but she was promptly interrupted.

"Let's not kid ourselves! We are not career tributes! We're going to die, and it's all that damn Capitol's fau-"

The recording cut off. The television switched to another picture. The screen now showed another group of children gathered around a campfire. One girl was sharpening her knife. Another was throwing wood on the fire so it wouldn't go out because of the strong wind. Two boys were eating what looked like grilled, slightly burnt fish, one of whom kept spitting out greens, cursing softly after one - probably not the first - grete got stuck in his throat.

Gala watched for a few more brief seconds as the boy wheezed and wheezed, then turned to her father Cleos Montelago, on whose lap the five-year-old had made herself comfortable earlier.

"Dad, why was the boy crying?", Gala asked of her father.

Cleos Montelago considered his words carefully. "Because he found out he can't win the games."

"What are the games?"

"What we're watching right now, those are the games. They take place every year. You've just been too young to watch the last few years."

Gala looked down at her polished boot tips, then asked quietly, "Wasn't that boy too young to play? The boy with the red hair?"

"No. He wasn't too young," Cleos Montelago answered firmly, never taking his eyes off the screen, transfixed by the children carrying knives and spears.

"Is he-is he dead, Papa?", Gala dared to ask. She didn't dare take another look at the television, though. She was too afraid of what might be seen there. Another boy with a spear in his hand. Or worse, another boy with a spear in his heart.

"Of course he's dead, Gala!" her cousin Megga Phipps suddenly exclaimed from across the canapé. She giggled softly at Gala's childish stupidity. At ten years old, she considered herself quite a bit more intelligent than Gala. "Didn't you see all that blood? No living person bleeds that much."

"You're quite right, my dear!" praised Miriel Phipps to her daughter, patting her head affectionately.

"It's Gala's first games, Miriel, so of course she's a little confused. When we were her age, we were afraid of the Victors, don't you remember?" interjected Desmera Montelago. She gave her sister a critical look, which the latter acknowledged with a scoff.

"It goes without saying. Back then, the Victors were dangerous. Unpredictable, even." Aunt Miriel sighed deeply and then nimbly adjusted her pink wig, which had slipped slightly to the side in the process. "Today you see who all is let into the arena! Sissies who immediately start crying as soon as they see a little blood. And then that girl prays as if the lord would care about the grief of a child like her! As if he hears her prayers! Honestly!"

"It was a lot of blood, mama! No living person bleeds that much, remember? Megga said so just a moment ago," Gylbert Phipps objected, dumbfounded, but Miriel gave him a warning look over the rim of her gilded glasses and he just shrugged innocently before turning back to the games.

"Oh Miriel, of course the boy is tearing up! He is a child, after all. I would say it's allowed to cry when you see someone die," Desmera replied, arms crossed in front of her chest. Gala looked up with wide eyes at her mother, who, with her blue hair, moss green eyebrows and turquoise dress, was a colorful figure, but at the same time still a formidable person.

"Now stop it, children! Quiet, quiet! I want to watch the games in peace!" growled a deep, raspy voice. Grandfather Aitor Highbottom cleared his throat, then asked the butler for a rose petal and elderberry tea to soothe his strained vocal cords.

"Poor Papa!" said Aunt Miriel, and was immediately on the scene when Grandfather Aitor asked for a cookie to take with his just-arrived tea. It was a cookie with lime-vanilla filling that Aunt Miriel handed him from the tray on the coffee table - Grandfather Aitor's favorite. "Your poor grandfather, kids, is getting a little old. It's not uncommon for his voice to go kaput."

"Balderdash!", Grandmother Lobelia butted in. She was wrapped in a thick wool blanket because of the "fresh" outside as well as inside temperature. It was summer and Gala was wearing a pretty pink dress that reached her knees. She was not cold. She didn't notice anything about an "icy" breeze, but she would never question her grandmother's words. Perhaps it came with age to become more sensitive and susceptible to the cold. "Your father here, keeps ignoring the advice of his doctors! He's not supposed to scream so much, he's been told, but lo and behold, he can't go one hour without it!"

"Lobelia, my darling." Grandfather took a sip of his scalding tea. "My doctors never said I couldn't scream. That was you alone. Just as it was not my doctors who insisted that I not leave the house without putting on a coat or scarf, even in summery conditions."

"It's all for your own good!" said Grandmother Lobelia Highbottom firmly, and Grandfather Aitor nodded soothingly as he took her hand, studded with loud gold rings, in his.

"Of course!", he murmured distractedly, but happily, now that quiet had returned to the parlor after all. All his attention was now back on the games.

Gala wished she could do as her grandfather had done, but her hands became sweaty at the idea of seeing so much blood again. Don had had red hair like her friend Elsie had... he had been just as gangly and short as Cousin Gylbert... he had been just as young as Cousin Osmund... but now he was dead, now he was nothing.

She wondered if Don Lapsinth had had a sickly grandmother too. She wondered if he had also had a strict, yet sensitive mother. Or a father who always told him the most beautiful bedtime stories? Or an ever-cheerful cousin Megga? An aunt like Miriel, who lacked tact but not affection? A grandfather who had once been a singer and now tried to spare his vocal cords? A cousin like Gylbert or Osmund who loved to frolic in the gardens?

Had he had a life like Gala? Perhaps a better life even? Why had he participated in the games? Gala would never voluntarily participate in these games, that much was certain.

"Dad, why do these kids partake in the games? They're no fun. That one boy was crying, wasn't he?"

Cleos Montelago sighed heavily. "It's an honor to be able to participate in the games. It's tradition."

"And that's why they participate? Because it's tradition?"

That was a silly reason to participate in these games. For Gala's family, it was a tradition to have tea together on Sundays. It was boring as hell, although it was tradition, as Grandmother Lobelia always affirmed. And if Gala could, she would love to miss and evade this tradition. Just because something was tradition didn't mean it was good or fun.

"Yes, Gala." her father replied, unnerved. "And they get the best prize they can imagine: the opportunity to live in the Capitol from now on, side by side with the smartest and most talented minds in Panem. Provided, of course, they win the games. Only the winners may claim this prize."

Gala nodded in understanding, though she didn't understand anything. "But we already live in the Capitol."

"You and me, yes, but all of them" Cleos Montelago pointed his index finger at the television, but Gala did not follow his gaze. She was still too afraid. "They all don't. They live in the districts, but it is their greatest desire to be allowed to live with us, to join us at the Capitol."

"Then why don't we let them come to us? If it's their greatest desire."

A giggle rang out to her right. Cousin Megga Phipps had never been able to stay out of the conversations of those around her. She loved to eavesdrop and, even at the young age of ten, made sure that all sorts of rumors were started. At school she was known as the biggest gossip.

"You're funny, Gala! We can't let them all in! There are just way too many of them." Megga shook her head with a laugh, twirling her black braids through the air. "Besides, where would that leave us for fun? The games are so cool. Don't you remember that big party we had yesterday? That was all in honor of this year's tributes. And wait until the winner is announced! That's when the festivities really start. They're fantastic!"

"Shh, keep it down," grumbled Cousin Gylbert.

"Keep it down yourself!" Megga hissed back. "I'm just explaining to Gala how the games work. It's important that she knows that."

Gylbert mumbled a few unintelligible words, which earned him a slap on the head from both his sister and mother.

"How many can win?" whispered Gala to her cousin.

Rolling her eyes, Megga replied, "Only one, of course."

Gala's eyes got bigger. She played with her fingers, nervous about her next question. "And what happens to- to the others?" she asked, breathy.

Megga merely raised a brow. "They die, of course."

"All of them?", Gala wanted to know.

"Yes. That's the way the games are. That's tradition." Megga Phipps frowned skeptically as she eyed her younger cousin. "Say, Gala, what are you even looking at? You're not really paying attention at all."

Her words drew Cleos Montelago's attention back to his daughter. He gently reached out and lifted her chin, preventing Gala from further inspecting her boot tips.

"This is where it's at, Gala. Pay attention," he said softly in her ear. Her father's usually soothing voice didn't have the same effect on Gala's mind at that moment as it usually did - she got uncomfortable goosebumps on her arms and it took her some effort to ignore them.

"I don't want to, Papa," Gala whispered back so softly that only Cleo's Montelago could hear.

With her eyes wide open, she involuntarily watched as the image on the screen changed again. A group of youngsters, around fourteen to sixteen years old, were chasing two others their age. Gala's heart beat faster as she recognized the ones they were chasing - it was the boy and girl who had killed Don Lapsinth.

"You have to understand, Gala. It's tradition." her father's words rang out again, but they felt distant and muffled. Gala heard only her own breathing and her own elevated pulse. And she only saw the pursuers catching up and encircling the pursued. How they all readied their weapons. Everything else faded into the background and Gala again felt such a twinge in her chest that she would have liked to jump up from her father's lap right then and there and crawl into her bed. But no matter how hard the five-year-old tried, she could not avert her eyes despite the horror. She needed to know what would happen next.

And while Gala's eyes were glued to the screen, her family was very proud of how spellbound she was watching what was happening on the TV. From the looks of it, the excitement and thrill had finally hit her. Gala was hooked on the games, had finally discovered the suspenseful and thrilling side of the games for herself! This was good, very good in fact, because no Highbottom relative was going to miss out on this fun - the games were tradition and traditions had to be enjoyed and preserved after all. Happy with Gala's progress, all the Highbottoms, Phipps and Montelagos turned their attention back to themselves and to the murderous children from the live broadcast.

A boy held an axe in his hand, with which he lashed out, but the girl already known to Gala threw her knife in time and hit the boy in the arm, so that he had to drop the axe to the ground, while screaming in pain. The three other pursuers were busy attacking the boy who had killed Don Lapsinth. He struggled incessantly, but was soon overpowered by his opponents and thrown to the ground. They jumped on him and again a child died when two knives sank simultaneously into his chest.

Gala's fingers dug into the flesh of her own forearms. Her nails were long enough that they left crescent-shaped marks on her milky skin. It hurt, but she welcomed the pain, for it distracted her from the oppressive feeling in her chest.

The four pursuers pounced on the remaining girl, and no matter how nimble and skilled she might be with her knives, the other children far outnumbered her. This time it was an axe that penetrated the girl's skull and instantly took her life.

Applause resounded around Gala, and her aunt Miriel Phipps cheered in what the latter hoped was a humble and sublime manner, while Grandfather Aitor praised the axe-wielder's great skills. Her family was in a celebratory mood, so they were distracted from Gala, who had let out a silent scream when she saw the axe strike. Horror had filled her at sight of the girl's face split in two - one side covered in blood, the other unscathed, so Gala could see the girl's left eye - she had a dark eye color, almost black, not so dissimilar to Gala's. The only difference was that at that very moment Gala's eyes were filled with lively fear, while the girl's eyes held a dead emptiness.

And while Gala's heart began to beat faster and faster, her heart must have stopped by now. Her accomplice's anyway.

"I knew Edison wouldn't last long!", Gala now heard her cousin's voice in her ear again, as she leaned in towards her. "Someone who prays for the dead doesn't have what it takes to win the games," she explained expertly.

Edison Kapla was the name of the girl who had an axe stuck in her face. Edison Kapla was dead. Murdered.

"I would have thought the boy would have lasted longer," her father Cleos remarked. "What did you say his name was?"

"Wattson. Mecha Wattson, I think," replied Cousin Gylbert.

"Right. Too bad about that kid. He had potential." Cleos Montelago sighed again, then he smiled. "Can someone pass me one of those cookies?"

"Be my guest!" said Aunt Miriel, handing him a chocolate strawberry cookie - Cleos Montelago's favorite.

Now that the exciting moment was over and the remaining group of children on television began roaming the forest again, the family chatted about their favorites and bet on who would make it the farthest.

"My money is on Opal! She's really good, don't you think, Gylbert?" cousin Megga cackled, and Gylbert nodded in agreement.

Gala, meanwhile, could only stare into space. Her thoughts raced so fast that she felt as dizzy as if she had turned a thousand and one pirouettes.

Don Lapsinth was the first boy she had seen die. But not the last. Not nearly the last. There were much more to come.

Don Lapsinth was twelve years old when a spear was driven into his heart. He had cherry red hair, but his blood was much redder and more radiant.

Edison Kapla was sixteen years old when an axe penetrated her skull. She had prayed for a dead boy... And Gala would pray that very night, in the quiet of her bedroon, for Edison Kapla's lost soul. For her to find rest and peace wherever she was now.

Mecha Wattson was seventeen years old when two knives pierced his chest. He had never wanted to kill, but he had done it anyway. Mecha Wattson had a brother named Klaus. And he was never going to see him again.

And while those three children and many more lost their lives to the games - to a tradition - Gala had and lived the privilege of being born in the Capitol, safe and secure. She would call it her good fortune - good luck - in the years to come, but only in secret, for her family did not like to hear that word. It was an honor to be able to participate in the Games, not bad luck.

Gala Montelago was five years old the first time she saw someone die. The following night, nightmares plagued her, but something told her that this time she could not crawl into her parents' bed, so she had to endure those nightmares alone and in secret.

She was five years old when she first understood that there was something that set her apart from the rest of her family. What dismayed her, her family cheered. What frightened her, amused them.

Gala Montelago was five years old the first time she saw someone die... still she could be considered one of the lucky one's.

—✺—

I hope you now got a first impression of what kind of woman Gala will develop into. This was the first insight into her childhood and family, but in the next chapters she is of course no longer ten. And don't worry! Finnick will make his first appearance soon.

you are more than welcome to leave me a comment to let me know how you liked the chapter. <3

love, farrah