Crimson Rivers

Chapter Three: Training Day One

"Now, remember," Sirius says as he leads them towards the training center, "the next three days are really important. Not only are you going to be showing the others what you're capable of, you're also going to be seeing what they're capable of. If you listen to nothing else I tell you, listen to this." He turns and comes to a halt, swiveling to face them, eyes oddly intense. "Regulus, stay away from the daggers."

"What?" Regulus sputters, mouth falling open. He feels absolutely betrayed instantly. "But that's —"

"Listen to me, you utter twat," Sirius cuts in harshly. "You don't understand, there will be eyes on you, and I expect your eyes to be on the others as well. The problem is, you're my little brother, and you're from a family of Victors. That makes you a threat, and you can't let them know that you actually are, do you understand? They'll want to get you out of the way early if they think you'll be a problem."

"Wait, you're good with daggers?" James mumbles, glancing over at him with his eyebrows raised.

Regulus purses his lips and pointedly looks away, which makes Sirius snort. Yes, so Regulus is good with daggers. Sirius made sure he was good with daggers, and even after Sirius stopped having him practice with them, Regulus continued on his own.

It was partially just a game as children, at first. Shamefully, they used to leave school and sneak out of the district to go play-fight with sticks, like they were in the arena before they ever were, back before they could fully grasp why it was something to be genuinely afraid of, back before their names were ever in the reaping and it became a possibility—and now, a reality. As they got older, though, the tone changed to the point that it became unspoken preparation just in case, which is coming in handy now, at least.

Sirius used to make daggers for Regulus out of stone. He would work for months to chip them and shape them, then give them handles. Sometimes, he would find broken glass or discarded metal and find ways to turn them into daggers, too. Sirius stopped making them when he came out of the arena, so Regulus had to learn how. He did, but never as good as Sirius.

But yes, Regulus is good with them. Very good with them, actually, above all else. The fact that Sirius is asking him to make himself look weak is—annoying. It goes against every single one of Regulus' instincts, but he'll do it. He will, because Sirius is asking him to.

"You, James," Sirius says, focusing on him, "you're not going to do any showing off either." "And what are you good at?" Regulus asks, turning to arch an eyebrow at him.

James chuckles. "That's a long list."

"I'm listening," Regulus says dryly.

"Well, I'm good with my hands," James starts, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Really good, in fact."

Sirius snorts again. "James is strong, but he has precisely zero skills with a weapon of any kind, which is a huge oversight on mine and Effie's part, I'm now realizing. So, James, you're to do some light practicing with any weapon you come across. Long range is preferable, or anything interchangeable, but you'd be surprised how much of the arena is hand-to-hand. Brute strength can get you far, but it doesn't mean you can't be killed. So, try things, get a feel for what works, but do not make a spectacle of yourself. If you turn out to be a god with a sword, then you make sure you drop it a few times so you look like a fucking idiot, do you understand?"

"Shouldn't be too hard for him," Regulus mutters.

James ducks his head forward, shoulders shaking with laughter. Sirius looks exasperated, and Regulus resists the urge to heave a sigh. Insulting James has never worked. He always thinks it's so fucking funny.