Author Games: World Seasons

Task Six - Six Shades of Snow - Easter Tributes

April Joy:

Has not handed in.

March Easterwells:

If you think about it, peace is very much like warmth. You don’t know how precious it is until you’ve lost it, and it makes you feel good inside, and happy. Of course, there is one more very important link between warmth and peace, one that most people could not guess, or at least not if they’ve never been in my current position.

I have neither.

Winter has returned, and the cold wind sends snow pelleting into my eyes. The cold has a refreshing effect on my skin –which still stings from the leaves- but brings a new burning to my cheeks. I don’t know if that pain will end, which makes me long to be buried in the autumn leaves; at least then I knew the suffering would finish.

If I were to sit down, the snow would easily cover me from head to toe; as it is, it reaches half-way up my chest. It almost feels as if I’m standing in my grave -this place has already witnessed the deaths of sixteen people- and it could easily be just that. There are so many things that could still kill me: hopelessness, other tributes, and now the cold as well.

I quickly cover my ears with my hands, as if that could actually block out my own thoughts. Make a joke, March. I tell myself; laughing is the best remedy to anything. Make a joke. “Why did the tribute volunteer for the Hunger Games?” I ask, not expecting anybody to answer; I have been separated from Leveret again, and besides, it’s too late to keep allies around.

“He volunteered because he was bloody stupid.” I mutter, knowing the joke has taken a dark twist, one it was never intended to have, unlike these Games.

Those have always been dark.

(\/) (\/) (\/) [Gamemaker's note: I'm pretty sure I said no fancy things like this. And what are they anyway; those flower things from Mariokart?]

The remaining tribute from Saint Patrick’s is angry at somebody, though I have no idea who. The person is lying in the snow, though their face is blocked from view. Lucky’s ears are pointed, almost as if there were sensing around her, trying to scope out everything that was happening. Almost as if they were acting as her eyes.

Almost as if she couldn’t see.

“Did you kill him?” she asks, and I don’t know whether she’s heard me, or she’s talking to the tribute in the snow, so I simply stay quiet and hope she hasn’t heard me yet. “Answer me! Did you, or did you not kill Patrick?”

“I swear I didn’t kill him!” the voice screams, and I can tell they are young. Not many young tributes are left. There are only three youngsters left in these Games: Victoria, though the voice sounds male, so it cannot be her, me, though I know I am currently safe, and one more tribute…

“Liar!” Lucky screams, and I finally identify the tribute she has pinned down; Leveret.

As I come to this conclusion, Lucky’s whip cracks in the air, lashing down my ally’s face. A scream of pain exits his mouth, as one of sorrow comes from mine. The girl turns around, alerted by the noise, a blank look in her teary eyes; I can’t help but think that that is an odd combination. Time begins to run out, as she approaches me, whip ready to snap.

Panicked, I flick an egg blade from my belt, my arm shaking just enough to send the blade into the girl’s arm instead of her heart, and a groan escapes her mouth. “Did you kill Patrick?” she demands, hate showing in her eyes.

I can’t respond, no matter what I do, she’ll just continue to suffer, and she won’t believe me. There is only one alternative to end her heartbreak, and that is the route that almost all of us will follow outside of the arena; death. Not the magic tree.

A second egg blade sinks into her forehead, and Lucky falls to the floor, her gaze still as blank as it was before. Chills flow down my back; part of them are from what I have just witnessed, part from the icy wind that surrounds the entire arena, coating us all in a frisky veil of fear.

(\/) (\/) (\/)

I can just barely see smoke rise in the air, and wonder if I should venture towards it. There will be heat, that is certain, but it could be a trap. The tributes could be unfriendly, and in my frozen state I would be of no use in a fight. This could also be made by the Gamemaker, a way to lure us to our deaths with a false promise of heat.

But I am freezing, and if I don’t go, I will die of cold. I have no choice but to take a chance, to gamble with my own life. The thought makes me shudder. “Hey March, why doesn’t the gambler ever stop betting?” I ask, the only answer the wind hissing at my ears as I drag myself the few metres separating me from the fire.

“He knows he’s already doomed.” I mutter, as I stumble into the makeshift camp, where the pair from April Fools’ are curled in front of a fire. “Please, don’t kill me.” I whisper, and the boy looks at me, confused.

“Why wouldn’t we kill you?” He asks, frowning. “There is no room for pity left.”

“I… I don’t know.” I whisper, and close my eyes; Jefferson has no reason not to kill me, and he has all the reasons to do so. Oddly, he picks me up, and places me down next to the fire, or at least I assume that’s where I am from the increasing heat. As I fade into sleep, one more thought surfaces through my mind.

Though I have found heat, I still lack warmth.

Leveret Hare:

Has not handed in.