Archive of Our Own

Even as he slept, Patroclus felt it creeping up inside him: that horrible, horrible dread.

Today was Reaping day.

It woke him before the sun. The world was quiet and grey, and he could feel the bitter taste of fear at the back of his throat as he slipped on his jacket and snuck out through the back door, basket already in hand. Even the birds had gone silent with it–that anticipation, the fear, the distant shouts of peacekeepes setting up blockades and checkpoints at the town center. Patroclus moved away from it, creeping along the lines of ramshackle houses toward the district's edge and the forest beyond.

Chiron hated him going out so far alone. While the forest itself was perfectly safe, the eyes that might be watching were not, especially this close to the Reaping: their little world was ripe with peacekeepers eager for entertainment and district folk desperate for the meager stipend ratting on one of their own might grant them. But Patroclus knew that they were low on more than a few herbs his foster father worked with, and that those herbs grew must abundantly in patches beyond the fence. A medicine maker can't bring in money without the means to make medicine. He was young and spry, freshly sixteen, and it was much easier for him to slip between the gaps in the fences than it would be for the older man. He didn't mind these chores, anyway; it gave him something to focus on, and a taste of the fresh air that only came with stepping foot where one is not supposed to.

The walk wasn't long, and soon he found himself standing before the metal fence which separated the district from the rest of the world. These bars were meant to be charged with electricity–it was what was taught to them in school, to keep them inside–but he rarely saw them activated. Their native peacekeepers didn't usually bother. He leaned in close now to listen for the telltale hum, and heard only silence. A gentle tap, and the cold metal beneath his fingers confirmed it.

He slipped through as easy as anything. Though his height had shot up a good four or five inches the past year, the rest of him hadn't quite followed. Chiron worried about it, but Chiron always worried–for his weight, for his health, for how easily he bruised, how quick he took ill. Patroclus knew that if he woke and discovered him gone, he would worry about that, too. Better he gather the herbs and be back before the first bells ring.

It would be easy to do so. He could be back in bed before Chrion even notices he's missing, if not for the hand suddenly clasped around the back of his neck. He would know those footsteps–or lackthereof–anywhere.

"Achilles–" he shoved the other boy off of him, but there was no heat to it, and Achilles only went as far as he wanted to. Then he was upon him again, strong forearms slung around Patroclus' shoulders until he let himself be pulled to the ground. They tussled for a moment in the dirt and the leaves until something caught in Patroclus' chest and he coughed, pushing back against Achilles's jaw until he finally rolled off of him, snickering.

They lay there in the grass, Patroclus' basket left forgotten a few feet away. Achilles sat up and leaned over him. The morning light caught on his curls and turned them golden, scattering brilliance across Patroclus' dirt-streaked face.

"I told you not to sneak up on me," he panted, though there was no bite. The coughing, the tightness of his chest, the shortness of his breath–it wasn't something he could control. He coughed again, hunching in on himself with the force of it, and a flash of guilt passed over Achilles' face before it settled once more into smugness.

"You're not even supposed to be out here." The blond said. He settled back on his heels and helped Patroclus to sit up, holding a hand at his back as he spasmed.

"Neither are you." He shot back, more strangled than he wanted. It was true–if anyone should be worried about being caught, it was Achilles. Being the son of the district's mayor carried far more weight than being the sickliest of Chiron's foster children. But he had never cared for such things, and Patroclus didn't expect him to care now.

Achilles didn't answer. Instead he fixed Patroclus with a frown, a strange intensity in his eyes. They matched the leaves haloing his head perfectly. Finally, when Patroclus' struggle had died down some, he asked, "You're not sick again, are you?"

"I'm not." Patroclus murmured hoarsely. He wipes his mouth with his hand.

"You're coughing."

He huffed. "I'm not sick, though." Not this time at least. It was no secret Patroclus caught ill easier than anyone–he'd spent nearly two weeks out from school the past year when the flu came around, and a week the year before that. Achilles knew as much–he'd been at Patroclus' window every day both times, bringing cheese and bread and once even a little wine stolen from his father's cabinet. It was bitter and old, but they'd shared it when Patroclus was lucid enough. And both gotten equal scoldings from Chrion, afterwards.

Achilles stood and held out a hand to help him up, and Patroclus took it. Leaves crunched underfoot as he rose.

His gaze swept over his friend. Achilles wasn't in his Reaping attire yet–no collared button-up or dress shoes–but he still somehow made Patroclus feel homely. His hair shone like gold in the dappled morning light, his skin clear of the dirt that marred Pat's own. His clothes, even these casual ones, were cleaned and pressed: the clothes of a wealthy son. Standing next to him in his hand-me-downs, patched jacket, and scuffed, mud-caked boots, it would have been easy to feel small.

Achilles never made him feel that way, though. Not from the moment they met. Though envy may surge every now and then at the sight of his well-fitting clothes and perfect face, it was hard to see anything but his best friend.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" Patroclus asked as he bent down to scoop up his discarded basket.

Achilles helped him to collect the few herbs and roots that had been scattered in their tussle. "I wanted to see you. Before. I thought you might be anxious, and you always come here when you're anxious."

Anxious. The understatement of the century, maybe. Two people would be sent to die today, all for the entertainment of Olympus. Rows and rows of stiff pressed button-ups and dresses, white as daisies waiting to be plucked. Who wouldn't be anxious? Patroclus straightened, holding the basket close.

Achilles shook his head, although neither of them had spoken. "Anyway, I brought you something." 

He flopped down down against a patch of moss and after a moment Patroclus joined him, their knees bumping together. The blond pulled around his bag and opened it up, revealing a loaf of bread and some fruit. The warmth radiated from it–fresh. Patroclus' mouth watered.

"Where did you get this?" He asked, already reaching for a piece of the bread. It came apart beneath his fingers, fluffy and fat. 

Achilles watched, visibly pleased. "My father ordered loads for the house. He always does for Reaping day, with the feast after, and all."

Patroclus brought the piece he'd torn to his lips with fervor. It was sweet on his tongue–sugar, too? "Won't he be angry that you've taken some?" He asked.

"No. He won't notice. It's good, isn't it?"

"Yes." Patroclus took another piece, and then another. Achilles only watched. When Patroclus offered him some he accepted it, though he didn't eat with half the enjoyment. Patroclus went on, "The bread Chiron buys tastes like stone. As hard, too."

"You ought to get from the fresh stuff at the bakery. It's much better." Achilles said it so earnestly that Patroclus knew it was genuine. 

He snorted. "We can't afford that, Achilles. We're lucky to get bread at all."

"It's not so much." Achilles said around the chunk of bread. "It's cheaper than meat. And the bakery is kind. If my father asked, they would give you some."

"Your father wouldn't, though." Patroclus pointed out.

Achilles shrugged. "…Maybe he would, if I asked him to."

They both knew that was a lie. Peleus was not an unkind man, but he was not a selfless man, either. He held to the wealth he had as mayor tightly, and though he humored Achilles' love of befriending poor boys, he did not spare much more than the occasional shared dinner with them. If he helped one, he'd have to help them all, and even he didn't have enough money to feed every starving mouth in District 12.

"It's alright," Patroclus said. "We're okay. Chiron makes good stew with some of the plants we find, the ones he doesn't need for medicine." He rooted through the basket, holding up a thick stem. "These taste good when they're chopped up and seasoned, and there's still some fish in the creek. We're luckier than most."

Achilles said nothing, but the distinctly uncomfortable expression that wormed its way onto his face said all he needed to. There was a level of strangeness wedged between them when matters of wealth were brought up: guilt, maybe, or just a distinct awareness of their differences. Patroclus was a poor orphan who would probably be dead if not for the charity of the town healer. Achilles had gold in his veins. And yet they lay together here, just boys, pillows of moss beneath their heads and sweetbread clutched in their dirt-smudged fingers.

Achilles rolled over so he lay on his belly. Patroclus shifted to face him, their knees knocking together. A bird sang somewhere overhead, and grass tickled his cheek.

"I'll give you something better after it's over." He says. "There's cakes and sweets at my house, for my father's party."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The caramels you like, too."

He'd gotten Patroclus a whole handful of them for his birthday last year. It was one of the best gifts he'd ever received, and he'd forced himself to only eat one a day to make them last as long as he possibly could. 

The eagerness must have showed on his face, because Achilles went on. "Hardly anyone comes to the parties my father hosts. Not anyone from here, at least. Everyone's always too busy being sad about whoever got picked."

The humor in the words words sour any excitement on Patroclus' face. He sits up, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin atop them. "…You're really not nervous at all?" He asks, scrubbing some of the sugar from his chin. "That it might be you?"

"Not really." Achilles said, easy as anything, and Patroclus believed him. What did he have to fear, after all? The mayor's son, the district's golden heir. It would be a surprise if his name was even in the drawing at all. Olympus would not touch him. That sharp envy surged up his throat like bile, but he said nothing, only tightened his hold on his knees. 

Achilles noticed. He sat up too, close enough that their shoulders brushed together, and he passed Patroclus another piece of bread. "Are you?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He looked at him sharply, brow furrowed. As much as he tried to keep it out, the privilege of it all frustrated him.

Achilles took his shoulders again. His palms were warm and soft and sticky with sugar, and his grip was firm. "They won't pick you." He said. His voice was so certain that Patroclus could almost fool himself to believe it. "There's hundreds of kids who've got their name in way more. They won't pick you."

"But they could."

His hand moved up to Patroclus' hair, ruffling dark curls with sudden aggression. Patroclus made a noise of protest and shoved back against his face, and Achilles retaliated by pushing him back into the dirt. He sat over him, golden hair like a curtain shielding the two of them from the rest of the world. His eyes were big and green and honest, staring down into Patroclus' muddy brown. Patroclus felt warmth pool in his belly.

Achilles leaned down, so close their noses almost touched. "They won't." He said. Patroclus could do little more than nod.

The moment passed too quickly. Achilles rolled off of him with a strange awkwardness, as if even he was caught off guard by whatever that was. After what felt like an eternity, Patroclus sat back up, too, his knees drawn tight together.

"Even if they choose you, I'll volunteer." Achilles said. He spoke so bizarrely matter of fact that Patroclus couldn't fathom a response for a moment.

Finally, managed: "What? Why would you do that?"

"You're my friend."

"You have other friends." He laughed, more shocked than humorous.

"None like you." Achilles said.

Patroclus did not believe it. Achilles had dozens of friends; everyone wanted to be the one the golden boy favored. None else had him out here in the woods, at least. But that alone did not make him special. "Don't say things like that. I would not want you to die for me."

"Then I'll just win."

"I don't think you understand how this works. It wouldn't be so easy." Perhaps for Achilles it would be. Everything was easy for him. Patroclus bumped his head against Achilles' shoulder, and then rested it there, in the warmth of his neck. Friends. Still, he said it with such effortless confidence that it would have been easy to believe him. 

Achilles only laughed, though. "Eat more before we have to go back, you should try this thing, it's good–" he was already shoving one of the fruits into Patroclus' palms, "–unless you're just gonna make yourself sick again. Chiron'll swaddle you to death and the fruit'll be a waste."

"Oh, shut up," Patroclus laughed, and just like that they were boys again. Patroclus dug his nails into the flesh of the fruit and split it in two. Juice trickled down his wrist as he passed Achilles one half, and spurted down their chins as they tore into the flesh. It dried sticky on his face, warmed by the morning sun and the heat of Achilles' body beside him.

"Where were you?"

Chiron was waiting at the door when Patroclus returned. He and Achilles had bid each other goodbye at the fence with plans to meet back up after the Reaping, which left Patroclus alone to face his father's disappointment. The older man ushered him into the house, already reaching for a cloth to wipe the leftover fruit juice from his cheek. He was already dressed for the day's event, his hair nearly combed and his beard trimmed, but the stress that had long since etched itself into his features remained. His brow drew pinched, his lips curled. It might have been bizarre to see a man so tall and broad in stature hunch to fuss over his teenage son, but Patroclus would never complain, unnecessary as it felt at his age.

Patroclus hated being in trouble, but he knew Chiron wasn't really upset–just worried, in his own way, as he always was. He tilted his head and allowed the cloth for a few moments before finally nudging it away, wrinkling his nose.

"I woke up early and thought I'd collect some herbs before we have to leave." He said, holding up the basket like a peace offering. It was full of what he'd gathered: a little bit of everything. He was still learning the intricacies of what Chiron did, but he knew enough by now to at least recognize which leaves and roots and stems were valuable.

Chiron's expression didn't soften, though. "Did you go past the fences?"

Patroclus averted his eyes. "…Only a little. Barely."

"Patroclus."

"I just had to reach through for the yarrow, it only grows on the other–"

"Patroclus."

Patroclus had always been a poor liar. He ducked his head shamefully until he felt the weight of Chiron's hand on his shoulder. It practically dwarfed him as it slid down to grip his upper arm tightly–not enough to hurt, Chiron would never–but enough to draw his gaze upwards again.

"You know how dangerous that is." Chiron said. "I've told you many times. You aren't to go unless I am there with you. Especially not so close to the Reaping. Who knows who could have seen you?"

"There were no peacekeepers there." Patroclus said stubbornly. "They're all in the square."

"Mm."

"And we needed the herbs. The drawers are nearly empty."

Chiron's voice was patient as ever. "We could have gotten them another day, in another place. One that would not put you in danger." 

Patroclus had no argument to that. Chiron's hand shifted to his back as he guided him into the kitchen to sit down at the table. He took the basket from Patroclus' other hand and set it on the counter before starting some water to boil over the stove. He shifted in his seat, watching as Chiron set about making tea. His favorite flavors were slipped in without a word, and a cup offered to him.

Patroclus watched quietly. These moments, the quiet ease of domesticity, still felt strange to him. He had lived with Chiron for almost six full years now, and yet the idea of having a father who worried for him at all was still so bizarre. He accepted the cup and took a small sip. It was warm going down, all the way through his chest.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "…I'm sorry."

Chiron only smiled at him, bittersweet, and ran a hand through his hair. "Have you eaten?

"Yes. I saw Achilles, and he brought sweetbread." Patroclus said. Chiron knew well of their friendship–he'd hosted dozens of sleepovers and pulled them out of trouble more times than either of them could count. Still, Patroclus thought of the strangeness of the morning and had to sip his tea to stifle the feeling.

If Chiron noticed, he did not say. He nodded. "He's a good lad. But you still shouldn't let him get you into trouble, going where the two of you do not belong."

"It wasn't his idea." Patroclus said.

Chiron chuckled. "I didn't say it was."

"…You won't tell Peleus, will you?" He didn't want Achilles to have any trouble on his behalf. Any more than he'd caused him already, anyway.

"No. Of course not." Chiron shook his head. "Peleus and I have very little to say to one another these days. Let alone any need to gossip about our sons." His smile was warm, understanding, and he ruffled Patroclus' hair before returning to wipe down the stove. "Drink your tea and get dressed. We'll have to leave soon."

Patroclus looked down at the swirling cup. His grip tightened on the porcelain handle. "Chiron?"

"Yes?"

"Do you… what do you think would happen if they pick me?"

There was silence for a long moment. Patroclus almost worried he hadn't been heard, but when he looked up the old man was staring at him. His hands had paused where they had been cleaning. The room was quiet, nothing but the distant birdsong outside and the breeze through gaps in the roofing to break the silence. 

Patroclus almost regretted asking, afraid he'd upset him, but before he could open his mouth to apologize, Chiron spoke.

"…I very much hope that they do not." He said finally. "You are young. Your name is only in there a few times, thank the Gods, and we will keep it that way." 

It was lucky they could afford to–most children had to submit their names again and again to secure food for their families. It was only through Chiron's work as a healer and the kindness of his grateful neighbors that Patroclus had avoided the same fate. Still, he didn't feel lucky; his name was in the bowl five times, as all sixteen year olds were forced to do, and that still felt terrifying. 

"I just–" His breath caught in his chest, just as it had earlier that day. It cut his voice off in a wheeze. "I–"

Chiron was at his side in an instant, kneeling beside him with the kettle. The steam from it wafted upwards towards his face. "Breathe," the old man said gently, a strong hand rubbing his back, and Patroclus did. He struggled and spasmed a moment more, but soon enough inhaling grew easier and easier as the steam relaxed his throat. A few moments later he was alright again, slumped against Chiron's chest.

"There you are," Chiron murmured. "You're alright. I've got you."

Patroclus' arms tightened around the old man's middle. He felt very small in Chiron's arms, vulnerable, more of a child than he should've been. Chiron only held him in turn, firm and warm. "I know." He said softly. "I know."

Eventually, enough time passed. Chiron bid him to go and get dressed. He did, buttoning up his nicest, cleanest white shirt and wiping the dirt from his best pair of shoes. Chiron helped him to tame the mess of curls on his head and scrubbed his face raw to rid every speck of dirt. Then, fresh as daises, the two of them slipped outside to join the rows of parents and children shuffling towards the town square.

Patroclus watched a pair of little boys, no more than five, dashing ahead of their siblings in a game of tag. Their laughter and the splashes of their dress shoes in the mud carried over the dull murmur in the air–the cold, dead weight of the inevitable.

"I will find you afterwards, alright?" Chiron's hand was firm on his shoulder as they approached the entrance to the square, where parent and child were separated until after the drawing. There was a strange urgency to his voice, something barely hidden that didn't often surface except days like these. A tightness.

"Okay." Patroclus said quietly.

"I'll be waiting near that tree there. You come straight to me before anything else."

"Yes, I will."

It seemed Chiron wanted to say more, but whatever it was didn't come. He just squeezed Patroclus' shoulder before letting go. "Good lad. I will see you soon."

The lines moved slowly. Name, identification, fingerprints, blood. Peacemakers with batons at the ready, with masks and gloves and folders and sheets. Every boy and girl documented–ages, odds, family, tesserae. Patroclus kept his head down and followed the rest of the sixteen year olds through to the square and joined the neat row of boys all standing straight and still.

He peered to the side. Achilles was standing out of line with his father, towards the front of the stage. It was where the higher-ups of the district and their families stood, separated from the dregs of commonfolk. It was impossible not to see him; he stood out so starkly, gold against waves of grey.

Their eyes met. Achilles cracked a smile and waved, high and fast, before his father quickly swatted him on the side of the head and pulled his arm back down. Patroclus stifled a laugh and gave a much more reserved wave back as he watched Peleus lean down to scold his boy. Achilles' grin told him it was more for show than anything.

Someone beside him shifted, bumping into his shoulder and pulling his attention from Achilles. It was a boy a few inches shorter than him but much broader, strong from work in the mines. He was talking with another, this one taller than Patroclus.

"I don't know why he bothers coming." The broad-shouldered boy said. "As if his name is even in the drawing."

"It is." The taller one said. "I think. Doesn't it have to be?"

"His dad's the fucking mayor. He makes the list. Why would he put his own kid on it?"

"My Da would put me, I bet. He'd put me a dozen times."

"No, he wouldn't." The broad-shouldered boy snorted. "And his wouldn't, either. They only show up because they have to, I bet."

"Isn't his Ma Olympian?"

"That's stupid. Why would he be here if she is?"

Their voices lowered. The taller one murmured, "Who's that he was waving to, anyway? Isn't he that the one who–"

Patroclus tried to ignore them. The clatter of heels on stage had already begun, as did the large screens lowered to span the width of the stage begin to light up. He watched as the Olympian ambassador took her place on stage. 

She was tall and severe, with dark skin and braided hair that shone like silver. Her outfit was not so outrageous compared to what one might expect from Olympians: flowing, off-white fabric with golden detailing and a chest piece which hugged her abdomen embellished with carvings of the victories of the Gods. It mimicked armor in its styling, and the golden headpiece that held up her intricate hair matched, almost suited as a helmet. It was different, but not unfamiliar; this woman had come to their district before. Patroclus recognized her quickly. Her grey eyes surveyed the crowd impassionately, as a farmer might survey their livestock.

Then horns began to blow, deafening, and the screens lit up. The main event had begun.

Patroclus could have recited the video by heart. He'd seen it dozens of times, just as everyone had–first from the stands when he was too small to be entered into the drawing, and now from the field. The war, the bombs, the chaos. The promise of peace under the guidance of Olympus, so long as the districts paid their penance for the rebellion. A time honored tradition kept alive seventy-three years, and now dove headfirst into the seventy-fourth with today's pick. He tried not to space out, but it was hard between the repetitiveness of the fanfare and the anxiety coiling around his insides.

The woman stepped forward as the video faded. There was no kind smile, no attempt to energize the crowd. She raised the microphone to her level and spoke, her voice even and unaffected. "I am grateful to be here among you today, choosing the champions who shall represent my name in this year's annual Hunger Games. As we enter our seventy-fourth year, I ask you to remember what an honor it is to fight in the name of Olympus." Her grey eyes swept over the crowd. For a moment, Patroclus could have sworn they lingered on him. He felt a chill down his back and ducked his head, but when he up again her eyes were elsewhere. She went on. "The lucky two chosen shall be granted an opportunity beyond anything your district life can provide: you will have the chance for glory, for your name to be legend. A hero of your people."

Patroclus' gaze swept to the side. Achilles was watching her, his brow slightly furrowed. From this distance it was hard to tell whether it was in focus or disbelief at the absurdity of it. Or maybe he was just impatient, eager to be gone with his sweets. Patroclus just wanted this to be over with.

"And now, the drawing." The woman said. Patroclus watched as she stalked forward on the stage to where a large, gilded bowl sat upon a pedestal. Inside he could see hundred and hundreds of folded slips of paper, each marked with a name. The world seemed to go silent and still as her elegant hand dug inside. Hundreds of eyes tracked the motion. She swirled around the bowl for an eternity–or maybe it only felt that way to him–before emerging with one small scrap of paper held between her forefinger and thumb.

Her fingers slowly pinched and unrolled the sheet, and by the time she spoke she had no need of the microphone, for the square was so silent.

"Patroclus Chironides."

For a moment, he thought he must have misheard her. That blessed numbness, denial, it surged in his chest, locked his muscles in place. Perhaps if he did not move, it would not be real. Then, the dawning horror.

He looked up, and all eyes were on him. The boys who had been joking beside him had stepped aside, leaving a wide berth of space, a barrier between them and the condemned. Someone whispered a prayer. He looked desperately from face to face, a strange, animal panic welling up inside of him–would they not help him? Would no one protest? This was wrong, this was wrong, it shouldn't be him. He was supposed to meet with Achilles later. He was bringing caramels. 

He shivered and turned, looking to the stands–he could not see Chiron, he could not make out any faces at all. The woman's grey eyes were on him, cold and unfeeling. Someone pushed him forward into the open aisle. He stumbled, his lungs spasming in his chest.

"Well, come on." The woman said. She sounded impatient. "Come up here, young man."

Everything felt very far away. His breaths came fast and shallow as he walked slowly up the aisle towards the stage. He couldn't feel his legs. His body wouldn't stop shivering. His knees shook as he climbed the steps, dress shoes clicking against the old wood. The woman placed a hand at his back and guided him firmly to her left side. Everyone looked so small and faraway, a hundred eyes, all staring. Pity. Murmurs of thanks, thank the gods it is not my child, my son, my daughter, my brother, my sister. Thank the gods it is not me.

His eyes found Achilles, somehow. The blond stared back at him, wide eyed and thrashing. Peleus was hunched forward with both arms wrapped tight around his son. One pinned Achilles' arms to his side, and the other was clasped over his mouth. There was a desperation in the old man as he spoke to his son, pleaded to him, that Patroclus had never seen before. Fear.

He is trying to volunteer. The thought hit him numbly. The way Achilles fought, the way it grew more desperate as the woman approached the bowl again to make their second pick. Patroclus felt a strange wave of gratefulness for Peleus' selfishness, then.

The woman plunged her hand into the bowl again. Everything seemed to move faster from here, behind her on stage. It did not matter who was chosen. He felt static rise up behind his eyes as he watched her hand dig through and pull out a second slip, and then–

A few things happened at one. She unrolled the slip, opened her mouth to speak, and was cut off by a cry from the crowd. All eyes snapped to the source. There was Peleus, hunched, clutching a hand to his chest. And there was Achilles, running forward, hand raised. His mouth was bloody.

"I volunteer!" He shouted, clear as day. His heels kicked up dirt and muck as he stopped short in the middle of the aisle, his chest heaving. "I volunteer as champion."

"Achilles, no!" Peleus' voice was strangled, desperate. He surged forward to catch his son but was restrained by the peacemakers stationed beside him. Still, he reached for his boy. "Please! Son, leave it, please!"

Achilles did not look back. He stared down the woman on stage, his face determined. "I volunteer." He repeated.

There was a long moment. Then, she crumpled up the paper and dropped it back into the bowl. The second champion had been spared. Someone else would live. Achilles would die.

Patroclus felt like he was going to be sick. His knees buckled beneath him and he hit the stage hard, the shock of it sending ricochets of pain up his wrists. In an instant Achilles was beside him with a hand on his back. He hauled Patroclus back to his feet and held him there, an arm around his shoulder. 

"I've got you." He said quietly.

Why? He wanted to ask. Why?

Because you're my friend.

No words came.

Peleus' cries of grief and despair filled the silent square as the woman turned to face them. The looked them over, her eyes passing over Patroclus and settling on Achilles. His long blond hair, braided back out of his face, his sharp features, the strong determination in his face.

"What is your name, boy?" She asked.

"Achilles Pelides."

"Your father is the mayor."

He bowed his head respectfully. "Yes, ma'am."

Her gaze passed briefly to Patroclus, the way Achilles held him up, before returning to Achilles. Her brow raised. "You are either very strong or very stupid indeed, Pelides. I look forward to seeing which."

Her back was to them again as she turned to address the districts. She stepped to the side and swept an arm out, presenting them to their home and the the Olympians watching the Reaping 's broadcast. Golden Achilles, and the ghost of a boy at his side. Somewhere in town, the church bells tolled.

"District 12," her voice was like thunder, like a wave rising up to swallow them both whole. "I give to you your champions for the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games."