Die for You | Catching Fire

chapter twelve

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chapter twelve
FRIENDLY ADVICE

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The sound of silverware scraping against plates accompanied by chewing claims the air as Ptolemus, Enobaria and their tributes feast upon their first meals in The Capitol. Meats covered in sauces of vinegar, honey and other herbs accompanied by legumes and roasted apples over rich grains. Ptolemus recognizes one dish in particular they seem to serve to the District Two tributes every year, pig's neck— said to be Julius Caesar's favorite dish, a famous Emperor from a nation buried deep in time.

Deverra takes a sip of her scarlet wine while Enobaria digs between her fangs with a toothpick boredly. Marcellus silently saws at a piece of peacock and Kleo scoops another mouthful of rice. Ptolemus eyes his own freshly empty plate, then glances toward the lingering Avoxes. His gaze flits across the dining table as he raises her brows.

"Anyone want dessert?"

Kleo, whose scowl seems naturally folded into her features all the time, brightens at that.
"Ye—"

Sharp fingernails drumming against the porcelain plate halts the sixteen-year-old tribute's reply right on her tongue. Enobaria offers her a pointed look, before shifting her scalding glare toward Ptolemus. Kleo shakes her head silently as she drops her gaze right back to her entree.

"They don't need dessert." Enobaria's dark brows raise. "When they're in the Arena, chocolate and sugar isn't going to fuel their starving bodies. Protein and proper nutrients will."

Ptolemus just blinks at her. Then he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, an Avox starting toward him. "You'd probably be less irritated all the time if you had a cookie once in a while." A giggle stifled as a snort comes from Kleo's side of the table, and if you look closely enough, you might even notice a twitch of Marcellus's solemn lips. Their Mentor glances up at the mute servant hovering beside him readily. "Any chance the kitchen could send up a dozen chocolate chip cookies, please?"

The servant offers a nod, swiveling on his heels and hurriedly striding to relay the order. Kleo's eyes trail him the entire time he goes longingly. Deverra must notice, because the Escort pats her hand encouragingly. "You can have as many cookies as your heart desires once you win, darling."

Ptolemus would scoff if his conscience didn't forbid it. Refusing a dying child dessert is another level of cruelty in the false name of dedication to The Games. He bites his tongue to stifle the comment, particularly because his tributes don't understand their fate— that they are in fact dying children.

There's a certain luxury to being a Mentor to Careers. They've been trained not to fear their death, but to embrace it. Conquering nerves like the other Mentors of other Districts must hurdle isn't something he has to particularly worry about. Until they're in the Arena, and Death looms right in their face, rearing its ugly and daunting head with finality as they realize they may not escape its clutches. That's when he's seen them ultimately admit their fear, and by then, it's far too late for him or the other Mentors to offer comfort as their souls are carried to the battlefield of the afterlife.

Once dinner is finished, with no dessert upon Enobaria's insistence, the two Tributes are hurried off to bed by eight o'clock by Deverra. Ptolemus makes a point to leave four cookies on his plate, sucking a remaining morsel of rich chocolate off his thumb.

For an hour and a half, he's stuck waiting Enobaria out. She swipes through her tablet along the couch, likely rewatching the Parade over and over again. Caesar's voice commentary on their tributes is played incessantly on loop for what feels like ten minutes. Whatever she's looking for, he's unsure if she's found it, because she just grunts, flopping the tablet back onto the cushion. Her boots click with each one of her strides.