A/N: Hey guys! This is my first Hunger Games fanfiction. It's not my first ever fanfiction. But it's my first one in quite a few years. This takes place a long time before the actual Hunger Games book takes place. So it's original characters and all that great jazz. This is merely the prologue so there will be more character development later on as the story progresses. Feel free to criticize, review, and all of that. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and its world and contents do not belong to me. They belong to Suzanne Collins who has ignited my newest and most fierce obsession ever!
Merciful Angel
BloodAsMyInk
Prologue
Silence lays like a thick blanket over the square. Time seems suspended as breaths are sucked in and everything freezes, except for a solitary movement. The escort takes slow, purposeful steps across the stone stage that is a permanent reminder of what is to come. It is almost as if she is trying to make as much noise as she can during these few small moments of torture for the populace of District Eleven.
Click, clack. Click, clack.
The tapping of her heels is sharp in everyone's ears, some wincing while others stare on solemnly. In every mother's eyes, there are tears as they clutch their hands together in some manner – some in front of their mouths, some in their laps with eyes squeezed shut, some with heads bowed and lips murmuring silent words of prayer. These moments are the most painful every year for any family that is faced with the worries of the Reaping.
Click, clack. Click, clack.
Hearts still as the escort finally comes to a stop before one ball. Her hand is a claw as it rises over the circular bowl before her, a glint of excitement and glee in her eyes as she pauses to stare out over the crowd before her. The slash of blood red that is her mouth twists into a thin smile before she plunges her hand straight into the bowl. The hush that once fell over the town square is now broken by the rustle of thousands of slips that hold the fate of every child aged twelve to eighteen in this small part of the world.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Hearts become still. Breaths become suspended. Time becomes slowed. There is no such thing as relaxation for any of the people that hang in dreaded anticipation upon this one moment. There is no such thing as peace of mind as the horror of the next few weeks is about to be unleashed.
There is no preparation for what is to come.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Her hand stills. Her fingers clutch. Her arm moves. Her mouth grins. Her eyes dance. Her laugh escapes. The name is read.
"Aubrey Dandritch!"
The world stops spinning for another poor soul for the sixty-first year in a row.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
A scream of despair splits the silence. Sobs are heard as hands are pressed to mouths in relief, others in mourning for a loved one. Movement breaks out as a woman is held back from launching herself into the crowd of fourteen-year-olds where a dark auburn-haired girl moves. Whistles are blown as the Peacekeepers push in on the crowd while this singular figure makes her way with grace to the edge of the crowd. Finally, she is free. Free to walk the final steps she will ever take in this square to the stage that has been erected to "celebrate" her honor as being selected as the female tribute.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
She mounts the stairs, her wrapped feet thudding softly against the stone as she does so. When she takes her place, the escort gives a small cackle, eyeing her up and down. "Aubrey Dandritch, the female tribute for the sixty-first annual Hunger Games!" She claps her taloned hands, the claps ringing hollowly as the girl with the steel gray eyes lifts her chin higher, her face emotionless as if she has already accepted her death.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
A soft wind blows, rustling the stained layered skirts of the white dress she wears. Aubrey Dandritch is a statue as silence once more blankets the town square except for the monotonous tapping of high-heeled shirts. Breaths are held once more. Trepidation beads in the form of sweat on peoples' foreheads. These are the final moments.
Click, clack. Click, clack.
Breaths are bated. Emotions war. Hopes and fears mingle in a broken silence of high heels. Another family is about to be destroyed, more tears are going to be shed, history is about to be altered again for this particular district. Just as it has for the others for the past sixty-one years since the beginning of the Hunger Games.
Click, clack. Click, clack.
The sun beats down upon the throngs of people standing utterly still. There is no wind blowing now as the escort comes to a stop once more. Her hand pauses, delves, rustles, and stills. A single piece of paper is pulled, time is frozen except for the moving of lips as a voice breaks the silence once more.
"Valehn Laertes!"
Another world blackens. Another star has burned out. Another sun has died.
Tick, tock. Tick tock.
A woman falls to her knees, broken. Tears fall silently down the face of a twelve-year-old girl, her black hair a fallen halo around her head. A boy sighs, his shoulders drooping, as he closes his eyes. He steels himself slowly before the crowd parts for him and he takes his last steps towards the stage.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
His strides are long and purposeful. It does not take him long to reach the stairs, to ascend them. Dark green eyes meet steel gray eyes. Freeze time. There is a mutual understanding and acceptance. They both know.
These are their final days. This is their last year of life.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Another wind blows sharply. The layers of her skirt ruffle once more, the locks of his black hair whisper in the wind. They are a stark contrast against one another. Black and white. Yin and yang. Unfreeze time. He continues to his place. The escort stands between them, her mouth split in a delighted grin of horror. The district stares on in relief, unease, and festering rage that cannot be released.
"Valehn Laertes, the male tribute of the sixty-first annual Hunger Games!"
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
There is no applause except for the escort. The clapping rings solemnly through the town square, like the ringing of a church bell serenading death. She steps back, motioning for the tributes to step forward. She takes their hands, raises them in the air.
"Congratulations to the tributes of District Eleven! May the odds ever be in your favor!"
Releasing their hands, she waits for them to shake. Their hands stretch towards each other, their fingers touch, they clasp. Time pauses for a split second as they stand there, staring at one another.
Then they shake.
The handshake has sealed their deaths.
The beginning of their end has begun.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.