AN: This is the story of Enobaria Malachite, the third in my Victors Trilogy. It exists in the same continuity as 'The Lumberjack and the Tree-Elf,' 'Fall Into the River,' and 'The Victors Project.' Some characters from these will be making appearances, but it is not necessary to read them to understand 'The Bonds of Blood.'

A note on the rating. I've chosen to rate this 'T' because it's not going to be overly gratuitous in the violence or trauma. However, this is a fandom based on kids killing kids in a gladiatorial conflict, and this fic doesn't shy away from that reality. I trust that THG fandom is a generally mature one who knows what they're getting into.

I am, of course, not Suzanne Collins. Everything familiar is hers.

Happy reading!

Oisin55

I stand at parade rest. Legs apart, hands folded behind my back. My red dress uniform is crisp and immaculate, my black boots so polished that I could see the moon's reflection if I looked down. I don't though. I stare straight ahead, watching the fires consume a stack of wood pallets. Around me, the four hundred cadets of the Training and Peace Institute stand in our companies, from the ten year olds in the front who are trying not to fidget to the twenty-four Gold Tags in the rear, all eighteen year olds about to take the Trials. The stars keep their own watch high above us, tiny gems shining down above the Pit.

In the center of the old limestone quarry, Ahenobarbus Romero, Victor of the First Annual Hunger Games, burns on his pyre.

And, naturally, I'm standing downwind of his sizzling corpse. The pyre was soaked in wine and perfumes and sprinkled with spices, but it's still not enough to cover the sickly sweet stench of roasting flesh. Mountains and sky, I want this damn dog-and-pony show to be over.

They wrapped the corpse in purple and gold silk, placed gold and silver armbands on the withered milky arms and a death mask on his face. There was a choir of children singing a slow funeral dirge, speeches, more songs, and then the lighting of the pyre. All this to celebrate the life of a man no one is really pretending to miss. We've all seen the recording of the first ever Hunger Games where Ahenobarbus butchered his way to a record number of kills that has never been beaten and only been tied once. But that was decades ago. All my life he's been a ghost up in his house in the Victor's Village, wracked with arthritis and a failing and feeble mind before finally succumbing to a heart attack at the age of eighty. In another hour, he'll be nothing but a pile of black bones.

But he was the first. The first Victor. Idolized by every cadet to step through the doors of the Institute since it was built. Revered as a god among the civvies. That's why we're all standing in the Pit, pretending to show our respects.

I really need to pee.

I risk a glance to my left. Maura is standing two columns down, trying to catch my eye. She winks at me and rolls her eyes up to the stars. I suppress a smile. Maura is a year younger than I and twice as daring. She's risking thirty laps around the Pit and fifty chin-ups on top of that by being irreverent during Ahenobarbus's funeral. I glance again. Now she's picking her nose. I snort and quickly smooth my features until I'm certain no one of importance noticed.

Someone else is speaking. Some city councilman. Someone who thinks he's important. His voice is like a power drill boring into my brain. He's standing at the podium on the hastily erected dais with the district's past Victors. I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow in the firelight. Can't blame him. I wouldn't be too comfortable standing with my back to some of our Victors. They've all come out for this. At the far end is the immensely old, immensely fat Tiberius, who's sweating from the effort of breathing despite being fanned by a young boy. On the other end is our most recent Victor, Phoebus, who's standing at parade rest like he's still one of the cadets. Between them, the rest of the Victors look down at the pyre with varying degrees of boredom.

I hold back a yawn and try to find more of my friends. The only one I can see from this angle is Declan, standing under the Victors' dais. I try to catch his eye but he's staring straight ahead, every inch the handsome, disciplined District 2 cadet. No doubt he's trying to live up to the brand new, shiny gold tag hanging around his neck. Or perhaps he's actually taking this seriously. It wouldn't surprise me. Declan was the first boy I practiced kissing when I was fifteen, and then a bit more than kissing a year later. Both times I expected him fall over and shatter like a crystal plate. Stiff as a rock, and not in the fun way. I keep telling him it's too early to treat everything like life-or-death, even if he does want to go into the Hunger Games in two months. That's usually when he gives an exasperated sigh and I blow in his ear.

The Headmistress stands and the man giving his speech abruptly cuts off. Thank Snow. Boudicca glides to the podium and takes his place. She's tall, with silver hair and hard lines marking her face. Her eyes bore into us and I take care to make sure I don't flick even an eyelash out of place.

"The time to pay our respects has passed," she says in a voice that always seems to conjure up images of landslides and barking hounds. "We have honored the life and sacrifice of Ahenobarbus Romero and his ashes will be committed to the vaults next to those of his many tributes. Now, we honor him with our labor and our training. He was the greatest among us. Never again shall his like be seen. Thanks be to the Capitol."

"Honor, strength, justice. For Capitol, country, and duty," we chant back.

The Headmistress returns to her seat as her second-in-command, a sour looking man with a cleft lip named Tigellinus, takes her place.

"Cadets! Attention!"

We snap to attention like the well-oiled machine we are.

"Return to your dormitories. Attend to whatever matters you must before physicals tomorrow. Reflect on what it means to dedicate your whole life to Capitol and country. Lights out in fifteen minutes. Dismissed!"

We salute and the companies march out of the Pit, the Gold Tags leading the way, followed by descending ages. There's only one passage cut into the living stone that leads from the floor of the Pit up into the dormitories, gymnasiums, classrooms, and working facilities of the Institute above us. Slowly, we leave the burning bones of Ahenobarbus behind us and ascend into the clean steel and glass of our home.

I fall back from the rest of the eighteen year olds to where Maura is pushing her way through. I hold out my arm and she immediately links her own through it.

"I thought I was going to die," she moans. "Forget physicals, forget the bloody Games, if one more person got up to tell us about the time Ahenobarbus pissed on his shadow I was ready to throw myself onto the pyre."

I laugh. "You're lucky the Headmistress didn't see you. She would have flayed you alive."

Maura gives an exaggerated wink. "Our dear Headmistress would have had to tear her eyes away from the smoldering bones of the great Ahenobarbus. The way she was looking at him…do you think she'll sleep with his skull for comfort tonight?"

I nudge her in the side. "Don't speak light of the dead, Mauretania. It's ill luck."

She rolls her eyes. "You worry too much, Baria."

"And you don't worry about anything. That's your problem. Well, one of them."

We both laugh. Our verbal barbs are dulled from years of repeated use.

"So," says Maura as we reach the top of the stairs. She checks behind us to make sure none of our fellow cadets are lingering close enough to overhear. "Tonight after lights out at the Three Cousins? It's one sesterce shots night."

I purse my lips. "I don't know. There's a lot more eyes around with the funeral."

She pouts. "Please Baria? Pat promised he would drag Declan along. He needs a drink or two, or a good lay, or he'll wind himself so tight he'll snap at the Trials."

I arch an eyebrow. "So you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart. I see."

Maura crosses her arms. "Yes. And if we all get drunk and start a fight and end up in the brig, it'll be your fault for not chaperoning us."

I throw up my hands. "Well, when you put it like that, it just sounds so damn appealing." Maura smirks. She knows she has me. "Fine. I'll come. But you better not get caught sneaking out, and if you are don't you dare implicate me."

She crosses her arms over her chest in the traditional salute. "Solemn oath. Just like last week. And the week before that. And the week before that."

I shove her. "You monster."

Maura sticks out her tongue. "Only a monster can know a monster."

I turn and walk towards the senior girl dorms without another word.

"Goodnight, Baria!" calls Maura behind me. "I'll see you at the track tomorrow morning!"

Snow, could she be more obvious?

The halls of the Training and Peace Institute are quiet as I continue on towards the dorms with the rest of the stragglers. Home sweet home, or as much as a massive complex of steel and glass and concrete where teenagers train to kill other people can be.

The girls' dorms are just past the indoor range where we practice archery and knife throwing. Senior girls sleep on the lowest level. I claimed the bunk nearest to the lavatory when we moved in here almost a year ago. Won it by wrestling two of the other girls for it. Didn't even cheat.

I'm the last one to crawl into the sheets and curl up on the thin, standard issue mattress. Twenty seniors snore around me. They're all asleep; we learn how to distinguish between true sleep and faking it when we're twelve. But I still wait for twenty minutes, counting off the seconds in my head, to make sure none of them are just in a light slumber.

When I'm sure I won't wake anyone, I slide out and slip into the lav. Keep the light off, I know my way around in the dark. There's a small utility window, barely wide enough to slip through, at the end of the stalls. I move the wastepaper bin under it and climb on top. I keep the window latch and hinges well-oiled, and it opens without a sound. I pull myself up and taste the cool night air. I perch gingerly on the ledge, sliding the window shut behind me. There's hardly any room now, so I quickly lower myself down until I'm hanging by my fingers. I take a deep breath, count to three, and drop.

Five feet down I hit solid ground. I roll over my shoulder, letting my body take the fall evenly. I crouch low, listening. Nothing.

The first time I made this daring escape, I stayed frozen for ten minutes as I savored my audacity in leaving the Institute at night. Now I just slink down the hill to the meeting place.

Long ago we chose the rubbish bins because the smell is sure to keep the casual pedestrian away. Patrocles is already there. His back is to me as he leans casually on one of the bins, eating an apple he no doubt nicked from the kitchens.

"If this were the Games, you'd be dead." I whisper in his ear.

He jumps about a foot. "Snow, Baria. Announce yourself, would you?"

I shrug. "You should have heard me. I wasn't even trying."

He scowls, prickling at his wounded pride as only a fifteen year old can. He opens his mouth to say something but I cut him off.

"Maura and Declan?"

Pat shrugs. "Declan went back to wait for her. She hasn't made it out yet, and she's usually the first one here."

I frown, but just lean against the heaping rubbish bin, trying to ignore the smell. Maura's escape is always a little more complicated than mine, the seventeens share a lavatory with the sixteens and there's always a bit more traffic. But she usually makes it with time to spare. If she picked tonight to get caught….

After ten minutes I hear two pair of footsteps coming down the path and relax. Maura and Declan appear moments later. She's grinning, he looks resigned to the worst.

"Sorry," Maura whispers. "Dido was prowling the hall on the way to the kitchens. She nearly caught me. Had to hide in a utility closet until she came back the other way."

Declan's frown deepens. "I just want to state for the record that I am against this."

Maura shoves him. "I swear, Dec, you're bad as Baria."

I sniff. "I like to think that he's almost as good as me."

We laugh. I cuff Declan on the shoulder and push him towards the lights of town, giving him a slap on the ass for good measure. Patrocles and Maura follow, Pat trying to snag an arm around her waist. Maura removes it gingerly.

"Not until your balls drop, little boy," she says.

Pat waggles his eyebrows. "I can give you names of several female witnesses who can confirm the elevation of my balls."

"Way too much information!" I call over my shoulder and the rest of the walk into town descends into our usual display of good-natured ribbing.

Administrative Center is one of the smallest towns in District 2, but since it caters to the Institute as well as Capitol visitors and officials, it's also one of the wealthiest. Hence its nickname. 'The Little Capitol.' The Three Cousins on the main road is its largest pub and inn. Named after three of the district's earliest Hunger Games Victors, it's brightly lit and always busy with a varied clientele from visiting Capitolians to quarrymen. Tonight it's about half full. Old Archimedes the bartender gives us a wink as we walk in.

"Well if it isn't the Fearsome Foursome making another daring escape. No broken furniture tonight, please."

"Cheers Archie. You act as if we don't pay for it," I say.

He gives a long suffering sigh and points us to our usual table near the door. A server brings over four beers and four shots of imported District 9 whiskey. Declan tells Archie to put it all on his tab.

"To Ahenobarbus Romero," says Declan as he raises his shot. "We will never see his like again, thank Snow."

"Cheers!" we all laugh and down the shot. Pat chokes as the fiery liquid scorches his throat. Declan claps him on the back and tells him to stop being such a woman, earning him a cuff across the head from Maura. I laugh and give him a kick under the chair for good measure, even though I'm glad he's finally loosened up. Indeed, within ten minutes Declan is the life of the group, flirting with the pretty server and ordering another round of shots for us all.

"Ugh, someone turn this shit off," says Maura as she glares at the television over the bar. She takes a swallow of beer. "I swear, if I have to see her simpering face one more time I'll vomit. Or knife someone."

I glance at the screen. Caesar Flickerman gives his manic smile as he interviews Crystal Flute, the Victor of last year's Games. The young woman from District 1 gives a chirping little laugh and tosses her carefully styled hair. It's a far cry from how she looked at the end of her Games, covered in filth and the blood of her former allies.

"Well, I like her," says Pat, a gleam in his eye.

Maura snorts. "You like anything with the right parts, Pat. But damn, if I have to hear one more thing about what sort of exfoliating cream she uses….I hope the next one's ugly. Unless she looks like you, Baria. I'd love to see what they'd do with your skin tone."

I laugh. Maura tries hard to hide how much of a fashion and beauty junkie she is, and usually fails. "They'd probably dress me like a rock like they did a few years ago. Lots of grey powder and a fatsuit."

"That would be a crime, with your coloring," says Maura as the boys roll their eyes simultaneously.

I laugh again, trying to hide the twinge of discomfort I feel at the talk of my color. I do stand out in District 2. I have the district's strong features and tall stature from my father as well as the thick black hair I keep pulled back in many tiny braids. But my mother's people came from both Districts 1 and 11. Hence my cocoa skin, not as dark as the Elevens but enough to stand out. From District 1 I have the deep green eyes so common to their district and so rare elsewhere. I don't really give a damn about my appearance, but I love my district and my home, and any reminder that there were traitors in my family line is best left, in my opinion, firmly in the past.

In any case, all of Maura's chatter is irrelevant. I have no intention of going to the Hunger Games.

"Doesn't matter," says Pat, loudly breaking me out of my thoughts. "This year is our man Declan's." He raises his glass. "To Declan, Victor of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games."

Maura kicks him under the table. "Shut up, fool. You'll jinx it!"

"I wasn't jinxing him! I was showing confidence in the man!"

"Enough, Pat," I say. He takes the hint, but the damage is done. Declan is staring down into the dregs of his beer, his expression closed off.

I squeeze his arm. "There's still a month, Dec," I say. "Don't think about it now."

He gives me a pained smile, but fingers the gold tag around his neck. All the cadets wear a tag of some sort of metal with our names and cadet number stamped on. Iron when you first enter the Institute. Bronze when you reach fourteen and start specialized training. If you graduate with a bronze tag at eighteen, you're sent to the rank and file of the Peacekeepers. Maura and Pat both wear bronze. For those cadets who show suitable skill and potential, silver tags are given. Silver Tags are awarded special posts in the Capitol or as officers in the more remote districts. A bit more privilege, a bit more prestige. My tag is silver. I would have had to sleep through every test to get anything lower, as the trainers have constantly told me. They also constantly remind me that I could have easily been a Gold Tag if I applied myself. It doesn't impress me. I'll do good work, but I'm not going to kiss up the ass of any passing Victor in the hopes of getting a slightly shinier tag.

Declan, however. His gold tag is something he's worked for since we became friends. There are twenty-four of them every senior class. Each one sponsored by a Victor. Declan's sponsor is an older Victor named Ares. In one month, he and the other twenty-three Gold Tags will undergo the three Trials. Those who fail will graduate with the highest honors and most prestigious posts. The two who succeed will be given a platinum tag that they'll wear as a token when they volunteer for the Games.

That's what Declan wants. The chance to enter a competition where he has a one in twenty-four chance of surviving. For a moment, I see him lying on a beach with a spear stuck in his chest, or being incinerated by a volcano, or his throat cut when he's asleep. Then I shake it off. It's not going to happen. Declan is good, but there are a couple in our year who are much, much better. But I'm hardly going to mention that, since we are here to help him relax after all.

"Another round everyone?" I ask. No one is paying attention. Pat is laughing uproariously at something the server said that wasn't meant to be funny, Maura is still glowering at the television screen and twisting her own dark hair in one finger, and Declan is lost in his worries. I shrug and go up to the bar to have a quick chat with Archie.

The door opens as I'm ordering four more pints. The noise level in the Three Cousins drops considerably. Three men walk into the pub together. They're big, smell of old sweat, and clearly from the quarries. Their coats have a patch with some sort of red leaf. They're also already drunk, by the way they're weaving their way up to the bar.

"Something I can help you lads with?" asks Archie in a distinctly cool, formal voice.

"Somma that District Four tequila if you got it, old timer," says the largest of the men.

Archie slams three shot glasses down and fills them from a dusty bottle. "Not too often we have folks from Redfern up this way."

Redfern. The name sounds alarm bells in my half-inebriated brain. It's a village on the outskirts of the district. Cuts marble for the Capitol. Supposedly it was the only village to go over to the rebels entirely during the Dark Days and ever since it's been a hotbed for sedition. Not that I'm supposed to know anything about that, of course.

The man shrugs. "Got a load of the good stuff we're shipping out. For President Snow's own mansion." He raises his shot glass. "May we always….serve him well." The way he says it sounds like a threat. The chuckling of his buddies doesn't help.

His eyes light on me. "Well, well. We got a little girl down from Murder High? What's a pretty girl like you doing wearing the red, sweetie?"

I smile. Maura says that when I smile I look like a mountain cat ready to pounce. "Girl can't have a drink in peace?"

"Oh, I'll leave you in peace if you want, beautiful, but I think I can convince you otherwise."

I smirk. "You couldn't handle me, quarry rat."

"Well, never say nev-"

"Baria?" Declan is up and shoving his way to the bar. Behind him, Maura and Pat are giving us apprehensive looks. "He giving you trouble?"

"He was just going on his way," I say. The man hoots.

"Well if it isn't a bunch of baby murderers in training. And a Gold Tag to boot. You all excited to kill some babies, boy?"

Declan stiffens. "I will serve my district and my country in whatever way demanded, sir."

The man snorts. "Murder High took your brain, did it boy? That shit get your girlfriend get all excited?"

"Come on, Dec," I say. "I've got the drinks."

Another one of the man laughs. "You cut his meat for him too, girl?"

The first man smirks. "Bet he lets her ride on top too."

"Well, you're not about to find out anytime soon how I ride," I say and walk past him.

One of the men leans forward as we pass. "If they pick you, I hope you die," he whispers in Declan's ear.

My friend freezes. For a moment I think he's going to faint, or throw a punch. Then he bends over and vomits several pints and dinner onto the shiny wood floor.

The men laugh uproariously for about three seconds as I set the glasses down, pick up a chair, and smash it over the biggest man's head. He goes down hard.

The other two give shouts of rage and move in but they don't get two steps until Pat and Maura are on them. Pat is whooping with joy at his first bar fight, Maura is smiling grimly. She delivers a one-two punch to the smallest man then shoves the other one towards me so I can take him down with a kick.

Something smashes into my ear and I go flying into a table. My big friend is back up. I'm vaguely aware of the rest of the pub cheering us on and Archie yelling something into his ancient phone as I take a fighting stance. My opponent is big and his fists are like massive hams, but I'm faster and I know where to hit. I maneuver around, letting him back me towards a corner and get a few hits in. I smile as Declan grabs one of his wrists mid-punch and wraps it around his back, leaving me free to bash in his ugly face.

I only get a few good shots in when one of the other quarrymen grabs me around the waist and throws me into the bar. I yelp in pain as at least one rib cracks. Then I'm up, and my fingers are around his throat and I'm pressing him down to the floor when the door flies open and the Peacekeepers swarm in.

It's all over in moments. All seven of us are restrained and cuffed. I'm thrown down to the floor, held in a firm grip by two larger men. I know better than to resist. Maura is next to me. Her eye is swelling up and her lip is bleeding but she still manages to wink.

The door opens one more time. A pair of high heeled boots step into the pub. Black leather, very expensive and fashionable. They walk slowly towards us, ringing out a slow cadence against the floor.

The men holding me down loosen their grip slightly as they salute and I manage to crane my neck up to see her face.

Aw, shit.

"Well, well, well." Dido Castremi, Victor of the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games, looks down in amusement. "I think we may have gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble with the Headmistress."