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𝑆𝐼𝑋 ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴅᴅs ᴀʀᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴀᴠᴏᴜʀ
❦
The Capitol trains moved so fast that if one stood too still the world around almost seemed to be spinning. The windows were little more than a blur of blue and green, the new scenery that hid behind it only clear from certain, wide angles. The line of vision from a spot behind the wooden table seemed to make everything slow as if time itself was halted, making the trees and the prey birds that stalked them crystal clear. It was a surprise every year to see that the surroundings of the journey were far wilder than the environment of District Seven's tree farms. It was an even bigger contrast to the clean-cut bricks and cemented floors of the Capitol.
Cillian was waiting in the dining carriage, when Johanna entered, dressed in the same green work pants and white top that she'd worn the previous day. She smiled tight-lipped and lead him in sitting at the table that was already prepared with breakfast foods. As he joined her, the room went black, the flickering movement outside the train letting the darkness seep in. The lights gradually flashed on as they entered the first of the tunnels that created the only way of gaining entrance to the Capitol, which was surrounded by mountains that were too high to see.
"Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if the mountains weren't here?" Johanna asked genuinely as she reached for a single bread roll not bothering to cut or butter it as Eirlys would have expected.
"We wouldn't be here," he said, speaking the biggest understatement of the last seventy years.
"Oh." That was all she said as she ran from the room, returning again seconds later with a brown paper bag. "This was in my room. It must have gotten mixed up."
Cillian opened the bag and peered in. It was a loaf of bread, hidden by a large piece of paper with the words I tried written in Willa's scraggly, almost illegible script above her name. It smelled faintly of the lavender that used to grow in the tiny, box garden of their old cabin.
"Bread. From my sister."
Johanna smiled but said nothing else.
It was a good ten minutes before Eirlys showed up, her hair wrapped in a yellow silk scarf that matched identically to the boxy, low-collared dress she wore beneath a thin, cut-out jacket. Her shoes clicked against the hard floors, the skinny heel hitting the linoleum like a dulled knife. There was a coffee cup already in her hands. The smell wafted through the air as she passed.
The two tributes followed her in only a few minutes after. Cillian half had the urge to stand as they sat as some indication of respect. The thought was absurd.
Otis reached wordlessly for an egg muffin and lumped it onto his plate along with a few slices of bacon, a bread roll, and roasted potatoes. There were numerous more platters of food: cooked tomatoes, egg and butter-dipped toasted bread, golden, syrup-soaked pancakes, and fruits almost as cold as the ice they were bathed in. In the very centre of the table, four different coloured jugs were lined one after the other, two steaming hot pots nestled comfortably between.
