Hey, it's Ryder. I'm one of the two authors on this story. I'm here to tell you that I'm the second author on this story, that it was all my friend Cait's idea. We started this account when we decided to rework this story. Here's the author's note from her original upload:
Hey guys! I bet the email/notification to say I've finally finally updated will be a bit of a blast from the past for you all! But something new and big is happening and I thought that as (possibly ex) loyal readers of my trainwreck story deserved the first heads up.
I loved writing this thing so much, so so so much. It gave me hope and something to focus on in my darkest times. And it also introduced me to one of the most important people in my life; my best friend who on here is known as Rebyll.
He had a bright idea that would develop this story more and we began chatting back and forth, discussing things other than the story and the rest is history; here we are, almost, what, three years later and with 3,503 miles between us, best friends. Without Rebyll I don't know how I would've gotten through some really awful times. He's truly one of the best people I've ever met and without this story I never would've met him. This side project I liked to dabble occasionally in changed my life and for that I am so grateful.
But that leads me to my reason for writing.
Whilst I was writing, it always felt like there was something missing. Reading back I'd always think something was wrong, always try to tweak it- and certain parts just felt childish. I needed another voice.
The other day, Rebyll and I were joking around and he suggested that just for fun we rewrite the story that introduced us. We'd been looking to do a collab and thought it would be fun and especially poignant. We didn't really expect to put it anywhere, just use it to write together.
We'd never been more wrong.
Immediately when we began reading each other's fresh takes on chapters our writing took on a new level. The story became something else, something good. I'd found that edge, that new flavour to contrast with my own; I'd found what the story was missing at first.
So after we'd written the first few chapters we just knew that we had to publish it. Rebyll wrote Peeta's point of view and I took Clove's. We've decided to publish it on our new account RavensofArcadia and I'd love you all to take a read. A lot has changed but we've also kept the key elements that made the story the story. Thank you for reading this originally, this story has meant more to me than anything. I hope you do take a look at the way it has grown.
- 14ismyluckynumber xx
Anyways, I figured it'd be best to give you all sort of an introduction and explanation to the concept, and let us both say something about the story. A few more logistical details, the story starts out in October of 2014 and doesn't follow a consistent time frame (the date changes when it needs to, so we'll make it obvious what the date is whenever it changes). Perspective is first person, either Peeta or Clove, depending on who the narrator is on the current chapter. That will be made aware (though the difference in writing styles will become apparent. You know, since my side won that war that began in 1776. And for the theatrically friendly, no, I have not seen Hamilton.) I don't think that there's much else to say, other than to please enjoy the story that we've had so much fun rewriting, and are pleased to continue for your reading pleasure.
-Ryder
Chapter One: All That Glimmers Isn't Gold
(Clove)
I have been awake most of the night.
It started with binge reading Wikipedia articles and now I'm here, listening to the screech of the waves outside, spread eagled on the bed. I'm wondering why people-myself included-are so enamoured with the ocean.
"Clove," there's my mom, gentle voice, gentle knock. "Time to get up." She pushes the door open slowly and smiles slowly at me. I wish I looked more like my mother. The weak sunlight is kind to her and makes the long curtain of her black hair undulate, her brown eyes deep and liquid as a pool of stars.
"I was already awake." I tell her, but there is no nastiness in my voice. I love her endlessly, even when it's six thirty in the morning and I've approximately two hours sleep.
"The Middle East peace negotiations again?" I grin at her. That had been an eventful morning, where she pushed open the door to find me surrounded by sheafs of paper and muttering to myself about how I could make the world good again.
"Oh haha, so funny. I was ill, I'll have you know, delirious."
"It was rather disconcerting to find my fever struck daughter with detailed plans on how to achieve global harmony at four in the morning." I smile at her again, stretch out my sore muscles, and she takes that as a hint to leave. "Oh, before I forget, grab Meghan and Fleur for me? I need to get a start on breakfast, you know they're going through a crumpet phase."
"Since when did my sisters have British old ladies trapped inside them?" She giggles prettily at me and drifts out, always graceful as a stray leaf caught in the wind, the height of regal femininity even in fluffy house socks.
I tap the alarm that's starting to wail, mourning my lack of sleep on my bedside table. Friday, October 17th. Another miserable, hellish school year of chemistry and calculations and beautiful blonde hair and it's not even nearly over.
I move as quickly as one can at half six in the AM. The cold wooden floor shocks my feet and sends shivers rolling up my spine like slow smooth waves. I suppose that's one way to wake up.
I crack open Meg's blindingly pink door and rap quietly on the wallpaper.
"Meggggg, time to get up, up up up, let's go!"
I peek inside. It's warmly aglow with her little fairy lights, giving everything a hazy tint, smooth and smoky like a harem. The illusion is not helped by the ridiculous amounts of Barbie-brand candy-floss body spray that seems to permeate every inch of the room.
Meg is eight (seven years younger than me) and is totally into princesses at the moment. Her walls are covered in posters of Kate Middleton and her kind smile, sepia portraits of Grace of Monaco's delicate wave. Her pyjamas are plastered in crowns.
"Meg, baby, come on, you've got school," I pad over to her bed, bright gold with violet sheets. The sweet smell is maddeningly saccharine the closer you get to the epicentre of the girlishness. The only indication I have that Meg is in fact alive is the shock of wild red curls poking up out of the bed. An even brighter shade of flame orange is tangled with hers, coupled with a cute little snout just peaking out from the coverlet. Fleur must have had a nightmare and crawled in.
Of course she did- she has her first tester day of school today, in preparation for next year. Fleur is five and less dedicated to fuchsia and ball gowns and more to swords and arrows and Merida from brave.
I creep even closer, till I'm towering over them. I can tell they're awake now, little streams of quiet giggles surfacing from under the quaking sheets.
"Wake up!" I jump on top of them and relentlessly tickle the back of their necks until they have squirmed their way into my arms and we are lying spread out in a panting, ungraceful heap on the duvet.
These are my favourite mornings.
I jump in for a quick shower and pull my hair up into a round bun at the top of my skull, fastening it with the thick cut of a Japanese white bone clip. With strands falling around my face, I make a fierce face at the mirror, trying to look lovely and lethal at the same time. Someone you wouldn't want to fuck around with. I just look freckly and disgruntled, as per. I shake my head and unwind it down into my regular twin plaits. My pallor is milk white and deathly and my hair looks grimly dark. I grab my glasses and push them up over the snubbed crest of my nose. My eyes glow almost bruised in the mirror, thin grey and boring. Lovely.
Giving up on looking presentable, I grab my backpack and a book and jog downstairs, taking the stairs three at a time. The matriarchs (excluding Pickle, my sweet little beagle) of the Manor family are all still in pyjamas, sleepily chewing crumpets at the kitchen table. The kitchen itself is small, crowded but painted a bright loving yellow. The windows are big and it is always warm and close. I absentmindedly stroke one of the paint handprints on the wall. We all left one, in our favourite colours-mine was pumpkin orange-when we repainted the kitchen two years ago. It felt like home then, like we'd all made our mark. The cottage is small and so close to the sea that the growl of the waves wake us up like cockerels, but it's ours. It's safe. Although Meg and Fleur won't know the marble halls and cathedral silence and thick wallpaper the colour of gold and old blood that I knew growing up, they will know driftwood floors and crumpets in a kitchen so small our elbows knock with every bite and my mother's smile. They'll know safety. That's enough.
Mom slides a steaming mint tea across the table and I pick it up gratefully, feel the chocolatey warmth seep into the palms. I take a sip. It's the good mint tea, thin but packed with peppermint and a hint of cinnamon. I smile at Mom and she gives me a wink back.
"S'chwindy." Says Fleur, mouth full of thick crumpet, pointing to the window. I wipe a smear of butter off her cheek and check Meg but of course there's no problem-Meghan is eating her peanut butter smothered confection with a knife and fork, like any self-respecting princess would.
"What did you say, flower fairy Fleur?" I ask, with the nickname she's had since she was a little mite. She's growing so quickly it makes my ribs hurt. She swallows dramatically, points to the window again.
"It's windy. You should take a hat." She nods seriously, such little mother hen. I glance at the sea outside and it's almost black, even in the early morning light. It's streaked with russet and violet and the blue of corpses. The trees that line the sea wall shake and shiver, green leaves twitching like they're waving to us. I remind myself to grab my camera to get a picture of the waves.
I smile at my Mom and she wrinkles her snub nose at me. At base, we're very alike; short, skinny, knobbly knees, thick curly hair the colour of coal that just borders frizzy, pale skin, big eyes. Her eyes are brown, however, as are Meg and Fleur's. The colour of dying firewood, chocolatey brown curled with burnt gold. Mine are grey, the colour that should belong with my sister's hair.I kiss her cheek-she smells of frosted plum and coconut, her perfume- and hug the girls goodbye-they smell like butter and sleep and creamy hot chocolate.
The air is freezing outside, so bitter my molars ache like a fresh bruise. With one earphone in-no morning is complete without Dry The River-I wander down from No.2 Siren Road to No.12. The green door needs a new coat of paint. I knock twice and step back. It swings open with a sudden gust of warm wind and there he is, Peeta Mellark himself, half a piece of dry toast crammed in his mouth, shirt inside out and desperately pulling on his left sneaker. Idiot.
He slings on his navy backpack and wobbles down the crooked steps until his shoe finally slips on, and proceeds crunching his toast as we meander along the sea battered pavement.
"Good moooorning Clove, how lovely to see you, oldest friend of mine! Good morning Peeta, how are you today? Good, you, dearest pal? Good! See, Peeta, that's how you have a conversation with someone." I goad him, laughing at his confused face.
""Mpghmmmwhcoce." he mumbles, crunching up the bread. I stare at him. His ice blonde hair is rumpled from sleep and his smoke blue eyes are shining with chips of a blue so dark it's almost violet. He's wearing a faded t-shirt with red tips at the neck and ends of his white sleeves-which are predictably dirty, covered in black oil fingerprints from where he's been working on that magnificent dragon of a truck-and worn blue jeans. Peeta's my best friend. We've known each other since I was nine and a tiny thing frightened of the world, and he was nine and a short, fluffy, smiley thing who taught me that the world is scary but that's what makes life beautiful. I trust him more than anyone I know. I don't-I can't describe Peeta. He's so just, God, he's so good. Simply good. He'd give you his world to make you smile. When he looks at the distance, face dreamy and soft, his body looks like he's trying to keep an ocean inside of him. Peeta is something else, never ending and older than the ancients and stronger than blood. I have never loved someone so fiercely.
Never loved someone in the way I love Peeta.
He smiles at me around the mouthful of toast and I want to tell him that that grin makes me believe in religion. I swallow the words and smile back. He gulps down the toast.
"Morning Clove!" I raise my eyebrows at him. "Excited for another marvelous day of scintillating schoolwork?" he asks.
"Mmm. You?"
"Hahahaha, always the joker, Clove. You look tired. No sleep?"
"Wow, thanks, Peeta, just what every girl wants to hear." I laugh, but he knows there's no nastiness in it.
"Not facially, dolt. Your hands are shaking, and your mouth is redder than usual, which means you've been biting it, probably whilst trying to work out a problem."
I hate the way breathing hurts when he talks about my mouth. I imagine him noticing that, looking at my lips, kissing me. I shake my head lightly. "Nope. Not much sleep."
"Middle East peace deal?"
"That was one time, Christ, you people need to let it go. Nah, trying to work out why people like the sea."
"And?"
"I think humans have a primitive, deep need to protect, take battle, a need for that thrill of danger. The sea is one of the most powerful things and I believe we want to prove we are stronger than it. I'm not too sure though."
"Speak human?"
"Humans big strong. Sea bigger, stronger. Human want to be stronger than sea."
"Oh haha, hilarious one you are. Don't understand how the nation is still alive without the wide spread broadcast of your comedic talents."
"You're only saying that because you want to copy the math homework Paylor will give us today."
"You know me so well. Even though you're a smarty pants, you still up for a game of chase before we get to school?"
Before I know it, he grabs my backpack and runs off, leaving me to chase him down the streets.
Mount Olympus Public High School (of Learning and The Slow Murder Of Your Mortal Soul) rises out of the cloud white horizon far too quickly for my liking, a crucifix of a building seeming all the more hard to bear with the morning sunlight illuminating it from the back, bright and unavoidable. Backpack now safely secured on my shoulders, we trudge along towards it like the rest of the good little reanimated corpses. Right on time, the death knell of Glimmer's voice screeches out.
"Peeta, baby!" She waves, unavoidable, burnt bronze and as subtle as a dart board. "We're over here!" She yells, levelling her road sign green eyes at me. I'm clearly not part of "We're".
Peeta smiles apologetically at me, the only type of smile I ever see on him when he's with her.
"Sorry, Clove. I'll come around later." And he's gone, ambling over to where beautiful blonde Barbie awaits her well-trained Ken. I stop myself from waving and allow myself a quick glance at them. Glimmer is beautiful, and they really are an attractive couple. Her hair is smooth and shining in the sun and her pink mouth is soft and doll like as a cherry drop. Her skin is drenched in golden tan (more faux than anything, just to let it be known) and her figure is perfect, her clothes are perfect, her makeup is perfect. Everything about Glimmer is sharp to perfection, apart from her festering, maggot infested cadaver of a personality. Enobaria and Cashmere hang off her Gucci-denim-jacket-clad shoulders like tassels. I turn away and head for the girls waving at me from the grass.
"Hi, Jess." I collapse onto the daisy strewn grass next to my flame haired friend. She gives me a wry smile, Jess' specialty, and wraps her lanky arms around me in a bone crushing hug. I laugh and hug her tall frame back. She's regal, pale as milk and hair as bright as jewels. Apart from Peeta, Jess is my best friend, and is the only one who knows about my, well, thing-bit of an understatement-for him. She also understands my utter hatred (there's no other word for it) for Glimmer, who came up with the nickname Foxface for her due to her bright hair and small smile, and has screamed that at her that since Elementary. I wave at Katniss, Rue, Delly, Gale and Marvel. We are the outcasts, not to sound like a special "we're not like the other teenagers" snowflake. There's Katniss and Gale with their obsession with archery, Rue who's young, sweet and naive, Delly who's beautiful and gentle and too kind to join in with Glimmer's hit men, and Marvel, who's just... Marvel is just Marvel. I smile at him and he attempts a wave, spilling his AriZona raspberry tea over his jeans.
Marvel.
School goes quickly enough, and Jess and I are let out early of AP English Lit-we are the only ones in the class, I suppose- so we stroll easily down to the cafeteria. In its empty hall we find Peeta puzzling over some computer code, let out early from Physics. He slings a warm arm around us both and gives us an easy smile. My hands shake when he takes his arm off Jess but keeps it on me, so I hide them under the table. It's perfect, like the old days, until the lunch bell screams and shatters the glass bubble we've constructed for ourselves. Glimmer struts in and with one cold glare from her, the warmth around my shoulder dissipates and Peeta is gone, leaving nothing but a small wave behind him. Katniss slides into the seat next to me and smooths a warm hand over my shoulder. Perhaps I'm not as subtle as I think I am.
A crumpled piece of paper soars onto my desk in Homeroom, our last hour of school. Miss Trinket has her head buried in a magazine, and doesn't seem to notice.
I don't get Paylor's math homework. How's Jess? Tell her I said hi. Still on for tonight?
I look up to see Peeta pretend-reading a book upside down, grinning but trying to conceal it from Glimmer who's laughing and twirling her hair round his finger, leaning onto the desk to give him a very generous view of her-of course, perfect-cleavage.
My house? My Mom's got hot chocolate, and I have to babysit Fleur and Meghan. They're dying to see you! Jess is good.
I roll up the note and flick it across room when Glimmer starts up a scintillating conversation about new lipgloss with an extract of tracker jacker venom to make lips plumper with Cashmere.
Peeta scans my note and nods. He winks and rolls his eyes, pointing to Cato, who's sitting next to him. The blonde boy's head is resting on the wooden back of his chair as he's slumped beneath the table, his mouth is open and his tongue is lolling out as he snores. Thresh is laughing and capturing the hilarious moment on his camera phone. I look at the glitter in Peeta's eyes, the curve of his arm, his smile.
I am fucked.