Hello everyone! Thank you for reading this! The Fire-Crested Wren is not my first fanfiction, but it is my first published story. It is, however, the first time I've written a story in third-person. Constructive criticisim is appreciated. That is all that I have to say...so enjoy, and may the odds be ever in your favor!
Wren POV:
Wren walked slowly along the path, admiring the fire-crested wrens that fluttered over her head. Fingering the pendant she wore over her neck, she wondered for the millionth time what this year's Hunger Games would be like, and calculated her chances for being chosen. She desperately hoped that the reaping would not call her name this year, as that meant certain death. It had been so long since a tribute from district six had been victor, half a decade at least.
A single wren sung a low, melancholy tune from an overhanging branch.
She shivered in foreboding and tightened her arms around the precious food she had picked up at the market, all while picking up her pace to go home. The last pink glow of dawn was rapidly disappearing, replaced with the pale blue of the early morning sky. For once, the factories were not spewing gray smoke into the air, the workers at home, preparing for the nightmare that would occur within the next few hours.
Now Wren approached the suburbs where her family lived. The dilapidated wood frame houses sported peeling paint in various shades of gray and brown. A few braver souls cultivated small vegetable gardens among the thin soil that could barely support the blades of grass that sprouted in the unpaved streets.
She paused in front of her own home, sighing. The tiny three-room establishment was hardly large enough to support her two older siblings and two younger ones. They were the only ones that lived there. A few years back, when the twins were only a few years old, a factory had caught fire. Only a hundred or so of the five hundred workers had made it out alive. Their parents had not been in that group.
Margie, then eighteen, had taken over the running of the household. She worked long hours to make ends meet, and made their sixteen year old brother, Thom, do likewise. Both of them had lived in a perpetual state of exhaustion. Ten year old Wren had gotten herself work as a seamstress, creating clothes for some of the more well-to-do folk of six who were not quite rich enough to afford the better quality of products from district eight. This job had allowed her to remain at home, caring for the five year old twins, Lissa and Elsren.
This year, they would be entered for the first time in the Reaping. Wren was seventeen and had seven entries that year, a relatively small number when compared with the poorest of the district. She was determined to never sign up for the tessera rations, to keep her chances to get drawn as slim as possible.
The hours passed quickly, and before she knew it, Wren was helping her young siblings dress for the reaping. Lissa was swathed in a pale pink dress that Wren had fashioned from the scraps of cloth one of her clients had given her. Elsren was dressed up in an old outfit of Thom's; black trousers, beige tunic, and black leather shoes. Luckily, Elsren was unusually large, so the clothes had needed very little tailoring. At twelve, Elsren was already up to his older sister's shoulders.
With her charges properly clothed, Wren turned to her own appearance. She donned an olive-green dress that she had created several years back to serve as her reaping clothes, ran a brush through her long hair, and glared at her reflection. Wren's thin frame was rather tall. She was taller than most of her female friends and some of her male friends, with long, lanky limbs that still somehow managed to radiate grace. Her long, oval face sported fair skin like flower petals, red lips, and large amber eyes framed by tumbling hair the bright red color of rust. A small, grim smile that exposed only her top teeth flashed across her heart-shaped lips.
The five siblings trudged wearily to the city square, where a rickety wooden stage had been erected for the purpose of that day's events. A small middle aged woman with a bright purple wig and matching eyes looked over a crowd with a lightly glazed look. Maggie Lear was too caught up in the excitement of the Hunger Games to realize that her audience had assembled around her.
Glancing about in worry, Wren caught sight of Phobos. At eighteen, he towered a full half head over the second tallest boy of his age. His brown hair fell over his coffee-colored eyes in a manner that made her heart pound and face flush red. In the older days, back when both of them had gone to school, Wren had done all she could to sit next to him at lunch and class. Sadly, he had regularly been surrounded by a giant throng of friends and admirers, which formed an almost impenetrable wall between him and Wren.
She had no time to reflect on this however, for the crowd was called to attention. Maggie fished about the bowl and fished out a name. Instantly, Wren was filled with horrifying visions of both her younger brother and sister being chosen, of then being forced to fight each other to death…
"Wren Heartwood!"
No. No. This cannot be happening, Wren thought, her feet fused to the ground. She felt somebody next to her grab hold of her trembling hand and squeeze it. Though she never saw the face of the one who did it, the momentary action gave her comfort. With a deep breath, Wren took a small, unstable step. Pausing, she straightened her shoulders and strode confidently forward. Underneath her brave façade, however, her mind was a whirling void of fear.
Only heartbeats after Wren managed to reach the stage, the male tribute's name was called. For a moment, Wren could not register the meaning of the syllables uttered by Maggie. Then the horrified whispers of the older girls reached her ears, and Wren understood. Phobos. They had called Phobos to be her fellow tribute. Wren wanted to crawl under a stone and weep, but that action was forbidden to her. So instead she stared into the distance with a piercing glare that she had perfected years ago, disregarding the audience that seemed to her like a single, unthinking beast.
"Let's hear it for this year's tributes!" Maggie trilled. A loud, if somewhat reluctant, roar of applause rose from the amassed bodies that crowded the city square.
In that instant, Wren felt all of her ties to the people of district six snap. Suddenly, she was floundering in the middle of the ocean, and the rope that she desperately clung to cut.
Wren closed her eyes slowly, painfully. When she opened them again, the people of district six were no longer her family and friends, neighbors and acquaintances. They were a hungry beast that craved her blood.
When she was herded into the city hall, Wren went gratefully, never once looking back.
Galen POV
Galen stared at the television screen in front of him, unable to tear his eyes away from the bright image of the stage. With a casual flick of his hand, he paused the transmission of the reapings across all twelve districts to take a closer glance at the red-haired girl who stood on the platform.
There was just something special about this girl…she had grandeur, a quiet dignity that was impossible to mistake.
A smile tugged across his lips as he considered how to dispose of this particular tribute. The district six contestants had never been known for their survival skills, though they did provide a wonderful source of entertainment.
That was one of the advantages of being a Gamemaker, he thought wryly. Here in the control room, he had absolute control over the tributes of the Hunger Games. As the youngest person ever to hold his post, Galen was determined to give the citizens of Panem a show the likes of which had never been seen before.
Glancing for the millionth time at the diagrams of this year's arena spread over his desk, he picked up a dull pencil and added in some last-minute details to the plans.
His vision still flickered with afterimages of fire-bright hair and bright golden eyes, despite his best efforts to distil the sight from his memory.