𝐖 𝐄 𝐇 𝐀 𝐕 𝐄 𝐈 𝐓 𝐀 𝐋 𝐋

( 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑝𝑖𝑚 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 )

𝐩𝐭. 𝟏 - 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠.....

....𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃.

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𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒔
𝑺𝒐 𝑰 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒚
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔
𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔
𝑺𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆
𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅
𝑾𝒐𝒉-𝒐𝒉
𝑶𝒉𝒐-𝒉𝒐𝒉

The man talks of glory.

It is bright and early and the height of summer, and the weapons studio is packed with bodies. Brows are wiped so often, t-shirts pulled from where they've begun to cling to skin, that it might as well be the tenth circle of hell, but not one of the children deigns to move. So many of them have come to listen to him speak, to drink in his hero's tale of blood and sweat and tears. To follow in his footsteps to a crown of their own. Cato stands at the back, because he's tall enough already that he can see clearly without having to join the sweltering crowd. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, the sheen across his brow glistening in the mid-morning sun filtering through the skylight above.

He is eight years old and the man is his father.

He has heard this song of violence – of glory and gore – a thousand times over. It runs through his veins as steady as a river, entwined into his very soul from birth. Even at this age, Cato knows his future is golden.

The speech ends and his father steps down from the podium, inviting the still awestruck crowd to make their way towards the signing table. The woman who waits there, with her platinum ponytail and angled jaw, is his next door neighbour. She runs this place, is the person who paves the road to victory. One simply has to be determined enough to walk it, despite the perils they may face along its broken cobbles. Cato is one of the first to step forward.

He makes his way through the group of other children chattering excitedly between themselves. They clear a path for him without question. They already know who he is, his relation to the man from the podium. And there was no doubt he would be one of the first.

As he reaches the table, a ghost of a smile crosses the woman's lips. Of course she recognises him, and perhaps she is as unfazed by his boldness as the rest of them. He looks down at the paper in front of him, the dotted line where his name will sit. Most of the others here will need a parent to consent to their training. Cato knows that simply his name is permission enough.

His hand is still hovering over the pen when it is snatched out from beneath his grasp. He barely notices the figure beside him at first – they stand at least a head shorter than him and seem to have appeared from thin air – but eventually his vision settles and his gaze comes to rest upon the thief.

The first thing he notices is how small she is. Not just in height but in build and stature too. Even at this age, he's sure he could snap her wrists as easily as twigs. He can't truly understand what a girl like this is doing in the academy, but then he sees her face and he swears something dark and unnatural is crawling up his spine.

The look in the tiny girl's eyes is pure, unbridled fire – one that burns him with a single glare as she presses the stolen pen to the line that should have held his name and begins to scribe. Clove Sevina Kentwell.

When the final flourish of ink has sunk into the page, she waves to someone behind the table – presumably the parent or guardian who will confirm her induction – and disappears into the crowd, tangled brunette waves billowing out behind her.

Cato doesn't even know the meaning of the word yet, but in that moment he's already convinced he's in love with her.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍
𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅
𝑯𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒔
𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔
𝑻𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒅
𝑶𝒉𝒐-𝒉𝒐𝒉

Blood splatters the parquet floor.

It's grading day and she's in the ring, body practically shaking from the effort of holding on, but she refuses to give up the fight. The girl opposite her might as well be twice her size, and the only advantage Clove seems to have is her speed, but after ten minutes of battle even that has been depleted far more than is ideal.

Cato is watching from the sidelines, his own grading already complete. First place, top of the board for the month. His ribs are bruised, nose still bloody, and he has to admit Leo gave him a run for his money today, but he can sleep easy with the assurance that his name will remain in place until the next fight rolls around.

That is the way it is been for the past two years now, since the trainers won't let them move onto arms until they are all proficient enough in hand-to-hand. He can't wait to return to the weapons studio – where they all started their journey here – only this time he'll be wielding one of those swords, just like the boys who win the Games at seventeen. Seven years, that's how long he has to become the best, to bring home a crown just like them.

He knows he's capable, but he's worried about her.

He doesn't like to bring it up, after all it only seems to make her mad, but surely she has to know that she won't graduate to weapons this way. That she's not strong enough to make the boards, and perhaps she never will be.

In the ring, one final hit brings her to her knees. She staggers for a moment before her legs seem to buckle beneath her and she collapses, breathing hard. She's covered in blood and Cato has to exercise every ounce of self-control not to intervene. Her opponent cries victory, and without even acknowledging the girl at her feet, makes her way over to the group of friends waiting for her. They laugh and jibe like hyenas as Clove pulls herself up and disappears in the opposite direction, barely able to drag herself towards the med station in the corner. A trail of blood follows at her heels the whole way there.

Outside the academy he meets her. The sun set a couple of hours before and most of the other students have already begun the walk home down the mountain path towards the town centre. Cato's father's eighteen year old triumph means he only lives a short stroll from the training building, in a grand house in the Victors Village. The two of them are always the last people to leave on a Friday evening – the busiest time at the Academy.

He likes to think she stays to speak with him, but there's just as much chance that she only does it to make sure the rest of the kids are well on their way before she sets off. There was an incident early on, he seems to remember – a couple of the other girls followed her home. She didn't show up for training the next day but when she eventually did her arms were clouded with purple bruising.

She doesn't have many friends, he thinks. Even in school, she always seems to be alone when he spots her in the corridors. They are a year apart, so they don't share classes, but his eyes seem to search her out regardless.

She's angry today – about the fight and the way the other girl, Dara, is nothing but brute strength. She's convinced that once they reach the weapons studio, things will be different. Cato doesn't have the heart to tell her that her ranking means she might never see the studio at all.

In a matter of weeks he will find himself mistaken. In a matter of months, Clove Sevina Kentwell will take on a rigorous, ruthless journey that will elevate her from the bottom of the barrel to one of the most dangerous students District 2 has ever had the privilege of educating.

But before all this, Xavier Merrik will arrive at the Academy, to relieve the pressure from the existing trainers. He will take on a class of ten year olds to ready them for a potential victory in the Hunger Games.

And he will be the one to hand Clove Kentwell her first set of knives, triggering the birth of a legend.

𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒅
𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅
𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌
𝑾𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍

The weapons studio hums to the tune of violence.

Blade combat is a popular form of training, but Cato knows he is the best in his year. There is no denying the shadow of the crown hovering above his golden head like a halo. He is sixteen and the favourite to volunteer within the next few Games.

He finds comfort in the weight of the sword in his hands, it might as well be an extension of his arm – a part of him just as much as flesh and blood and bone. There is a pile of plastic limbs scattered around him, and a couple of his friends stand just to the left, hacking at their own training dummies, calling out to him. He is not paying attention.

She might be on the other side of the studio, but he could pick out her form within thousands. There's another student from the short blade division opposite her, a dagger glittering in his right hand. She holds two - smaller but with wicked curved blades that flash in the glow of the strip lights above. Cato knows that if she didn't have to pull her hits, the boy wouldn't be standing anymore. But she does, and so she's taken a couple of light wounds herself. There's a gash opening up on her bicep, staining her white shirt with red, and her ear is bleeding. Her hair is a tangled mess, sweat plastering stray strands to her forehead, and he's never seen anything so beautiful and destructive all at once.

Since she took up her knives, Clove has become a prodigy. Some say she is the best knife student to have ever walked the Academy halls. From the day of her first lesson, it was clear she had something special, much to the dismay of all the students who were putting her down, casting her off as a failure for the first two years. They say she never misses. Cato knows that's not entirely true, not just yet, but he's still proud of her.

She has friends now, they both do – a big group of them to walk the corridors of the high school alongside, to spend summer nights partying up at the lake in the mountains. She seems to be getting a little more than friendly with Leo, and Cato has to quash the pang of jealousy whenever it surfaces in his chest. After all, he's been no saint either when it comes to girls. But there's something about her which both fascinates and terrifies him more than anybody else, that means he's never mentioned how he feels about her.

He hates it, how weak and confused she makes him. He just doesn't understand why she affects him so, when most of the other girls in the group are either similarly good friends he wouldn't dare think about in that way or those he shares a flirtatious kind of acquaintance with. A few of them he's even ended up kissing – in stolen moments after class, behind the Academy on a Friday evening – but nothing ever seemed right. It was nice enough, sure, only there always seemed to be something missing. Every time it happens his eyes land on her the next day, a ghost of a smirk twisting her lips, and he knows exactly what.

It takes him months to finally find the courage. They are in the locker room after training, a rare Sunday session with Xavier. Only a couple of other students showed up beside them, but it was more than worth it, having the whole studio to themselves.

He's fresh out of the shower when she walks in, tightening the bandage around her arm with her teeth. They were running an obstacle course outside today – winner takes extra points on to the next grading. Her lip is split and her leggings are dusty and there's blood running down her chest from a shallow cut across her collarbone. She looks like a demon and he's never been more tempted by hell.

He asks her how she fared out there. The edge in his voice strays past their usual jokes, bordering-on-mocking, to something he can't even begin to describe. He sounds almost scared and he's instantly furious with himself. Ten extra points and a busted lip, she says, not bad for a Sunday. The smile she shoots him might as well be a drug, one he's been craving for as long as he can remember.

The moment he steps forward she already seems to know what's going on. And as their lips meet and he twists his hands into her hair, she echoes his movements with equal fervour. She tastes like blood and honey, deadly and sweet and intoxicating, and in that moment he knows this is an addiction he'll never be able to shake.

When he at last manages to pull away he notices that she's bleeding – her split lip has opened up again, already puffy and red from the kiss but now with bright claret welling at the corner. She wipes it away with her sleeve before reaching up to brush at his cheek. He swears the whole thing is a dream. You've got blood on your face, she laughs gently. When he doesn't reply, she heads over to her locker in the corner and pulls out a large bag, swinging it over her shoulder. I'm going to shower back at the house, she says, you want to walk home with me?

She doesn't have to ask him twice.

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𝑨 𝑼 𝑻 𝑯 𝑶 𝑹 ' 𝑺 𝑵 𝑶 𝑻 𝑬 - hello my loves! i hope you enjoyed this first part - i've decided to split this into a three parts, one before the games, one during, and one post-clove's death in which cato deals with his spiralling mental state and ultimately his own end (rip my babies). as i said this is not at all a fluffy fic, and it might actually be one of the most in character versions of these two i've written. my new favourite way to write these two is 'cato would literally fight god if it would make him the best, but he's terrified of her and she absolutely knows it'. you'll kinda see more of those vibes in divine violence as well because in all honesty i adore gladiators and it's my best work but they are probably a little ooc.

anyway i hope you enjoyed this, its a little different to my usual stuff and is written in a new style but i enjoy writing cato's pov from third person present more than anything else - clove's pov is always first but his has to be from an outside perspective (because as much as i love writing him bc he's a fucking mess i don't think i could write inside his head like that lol).

still, i hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading as always! much love and hope you're all doing well <3

vee xx