((This character just hit me like a ton of bricks after I (finally!) saw the movie. For some reason - even though she never appeared during the multiple times I read the books. Oh, well. I may continue this, but I do have to finish my other story first...I feel kind of obligated. : ) But you never know...reviews and adds to alerts may help the chances of updates.
I own nothing, of course. Any recognizable character, the Hunger Games, the Capitol, the Districts of Panem, etc belong to Suzanne Collins. ))
The sun is shining on the day her name is pulled from a giant glass ball, up there on the stage in front of the Justice Building, and it's all she can do to keep the tears at bay.
No one will volunteer for her. She knows it. They know it.
And they know that she knows.
But she understands. Of all the names to be called, hers is the best - she's seventeen. She's strong. She's fast. She's clever.
She knows it. They know it. No one will take her place. So she stands and looks out over the crowds of her District. And she offers them a smile.
In the fields, the cows are lowing. The distant bleat of sheep in the pastures drifts on the wind. In the stables, the horses are chewing their grain. But in the town square, everything is silent.
Cornelia Tegan has been reaped. District favorite. The girl who could look at an animal and tell, in just a moment, what was plaguing it. They knew her. They loved her. They were losing her. Possibly forever.
Now, she's struggling to breathe, looking down over the swarm of faces as the Capitol representative slithers toward the other glass ball, straightens his tailcoat, and reaches one gloved hand to catch a slip of paper.
Astor Shaw.
And the crowd sighs, because he nearly escaped. He nearly made it through his young life without being called in the Reaping. He's eighteen. He's an established Wrangler. His girlfriend is crying into her best friend's shoulder. He'd be better off at home.
But, still, no one volunteers to take his place.
She guesses they figure that, of all the twelve-to-eighteens, they are the best bet. District Ten hasn't yet had a Victor.
The sun is still shining as she shakes his hand. As she's taken aback by the sadness in his eyes. As they are both led into the Justice Building. To be handed into the custody of the Capitol, and taken to the Games that will, like as not, take their lives.
And she's heard that those in the Districts nearest the Capitol have begun to train.
Her hands have never held a weapon. She knows how to heal, not to kill. She's never killed a thing. She can't do this.
They lead her into a well-furnished room and close the door, and she stares at the shaking hands in her lap that have to be hers, but feel so far away.
She's going to die.
She's going to die in the Arena. She knows it. How will she live, if she can't kill?
The door opens, and she is allowed three minutes. Three minutes with her family, to kiss her little brothers, her little sisters, to hold and be held by her parents. And then, faster than she can feel their loss, they're gone. And she's alone.
So she takes a breath to steady herself, and smooths the skirt of her deep-green dress. Brushes at her caramel-colored hair. Blinks tears from her eyes.
And Cornelia prays that she can be stronger than she knows how to be. But her heart is breaking. Her lungs are weakening. And she knows she doesn't stand a chance.
Not really.