"This above all: to thine own self be true."

Shakespeare, Hamlet (Act I, Scene III)

*{chapter eight}*

The sun has begun to set. The faint glimmer of twilight, the only remaining light left after a long sunny day, casts itself across the great Capitol city, dappling the scarce, narrow stretches of grass and lawn and adding a natural touch to the artificiality that covers the entire place.

It is, perhaps, the only sliver of beauty anyone can ever wish to see here.

We, among the other tributes, are lining up in the stable, trying to locate our chariots and walking as best as we can in costumes of all kinds – clinging jumpsuits, leotards, and in my case, a jumpsuit made from flakes of coarse, blackish-grey fabric resembling ashes. There is a crown, made of a heavy black metal, on each of our heads.

"Surely this isn't all you've made for us," Gale says.

"No, it isn't," Portia laughs from the opposite side of the chariot. "But we have to keep it a surprise for you." She walks around the back of the chariot and straightens my collar. "Remember. You have to be emotionless. Tonight, no one is above you." She claps us each on the back and smiles, and then the horses begin to move forward and we move out into the shifting grey shadows of the Capitol evening.

At first, we're left credible and unastounding. The horses move at a speed halfway between a trot and a gallop. We do as we were told and stare straight ahead with barely a blink, waiting for our stylists' promised surprise.

Then, it happens.

Two mockingjays appear overhead and swoop down in a graceful arc toward us. In each of their beaks is a flaming twig, held in an iron grip. They trail sparks as they fly, and the sparks dance like premature stars in the evening half-light, exuding beauty and demanding as much attention as the glittering, chunky jewels decorating the gold armour and chainmail headgear that adorn the District One tributes. They fold their wings against their sleek, feathered bodies, dive in a perfect straight line toward us and set us on fire.

The effect is instant. The small flames burning on the ends of their twigs explode and burst into bright red and gold when they catch on our jumpsuits, enveloping us in fire. Smaller ones flash and dance on our crowns, the light making the jewels glitter, casting our faces in a shadowy, foreboding red glow resembling that of the deepest pits of hell. I curl my fingers tightly around Gale's hand and watch not the screens broadcasting our images, to which I had spared only a glance, but to the mockingjays, spinning away on free wings, soaring high up into the sky and gradually fading away amongst the clouds.

The crowd has gone crazy. I hear whoops of exhilaration and shrieks from our supporters, chanting our names, crying out how incredibly beautiful we are set ablaze and glowing against the bloody red shades of the sunset. I can't think of what that means now. Whose blood this sunset promises. Are the odds in our favour or are they not?

It doesn't really matter. We will win, one way or another. I have a promise to keep, and the dreams of a million children to bring into reality.

I swear that I will keep that promise. On everything that I am.

In the Capitol, the skies are too bright to host stars like the ones back in District 12 - shimmering, uncountable silver diamonds, watching over us like angelic guardians. Here, I can only find one, and it's burned out and ashy with streaks of grey cloud. Hopefully, the arena will have real, natural, beautiful stars – a connection between me and the life I had left behind when I first stepped up on that stage a year ago. That way, if I die after Gale, I will be able to find some kind of consolation as I slip out of this world.

My fingers close around the barrette in my pocket, tracing the letters of my mother's name for maybe the hundredth time within the day. I can clearly remember snippets of pretty, happy moments from my short childhood – dying, damp autumn afternoons spent in the woods, cold, bleak winters wrapped in warm arms, sitting on her knee by the fire, and all those times my mother sat me down and taught me to sew, braid, cook and housekeep.

I miss those days very much. So much has changed since, and the human race is losing its humanity the same way blood pours out from a deep, wide wound – continuous and ongoing, losing more and more as time goes by.

The sky is a faded, greyish-blue colour. I think of the morning sky back home – the blotches of peachy, pinkish orange, vibrant red, and shimmering gold. There's nothing here but flat, washed-out grey – like a graveyard.

"Watch out for the snakes here," I mutter into the thin, cool air. "They smell like the sweetest blood and the finest roses – they will deceive you."

I turn around and nudge Gale's sleeping form. He gets up almost immediately, wiping the sleep from his beautiful silver eyes. He opens his arms for a hug, and I willingly comply, thinking about how little the time we have left is, and how I would like not to deprive myself of anything good that might come my way, even in a place that condemns me so viciously.

When we head down to breakfast, we find Effie and Haymitch already at the table. Avoxes stand around quietly, dressed in identical uniforms, afraid to open their mouths to make visible the shortened, ragged, possibly still bloodied stumps of their tongues.

"Eat up quickly," Effie instructs with an edge of annoyance to her voice. "I trusted you to wake up appropriately early yourself without my help, but you have overslept by ten minutes and that has to be compensated."

I pile food onto my plate and sit down beside Gale at the table. "Training starts at ten?"

"Of course, Katniss. And you mustn't be late," Effie says. "Also, it is vital for your strategy in the Games. The other tributes will only be impressed by a punctual, disciplined pair. Otherwise, you will not be worth contending with."

Effie is wrong. The other tributes do not consider a person's discipline when calculating his worth in a fight. As long as he murders without a moment's hesitation, he is automatically one of them.

Hello again – yes, here's proof that I didn't fully abandon this story, and no, I am not very punctual.

First off, I'm very sorry that I couldn't get this up faster. I would have done that, and it would have been longer and possibly better, but in my defence, I was really addicted to YouTube musicians. And I still am. Please, if you haven't heard, check out Kurt Hugo Schneider and Sam Tsui on YouTube – they're so awesome, and I felt that they have to have the publicity they deserve. Their 5th Year Anniversary was just in late October. They're both geniuses (genii?)

I'll try to get the next chapter up soon, the key word being try, but yeah.

Oh, and is anyone else experiencing problems with FFN alerts? Usually, I can receive them by email, but I don't get them in email now, so when I found new followers and new chapters on stories I'm following, which I had not been informed of, I was kind of worried.

Until next time. :)

-StarsAtNight