A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters.

A/N: This is a multi-chaptered fic in response to a prompt about role-reversal (Escort Haymitch and Mentor Effie). So things are going to be different. Up to what extent, I am still unsure. However, despite this deviation from the canon, I do hope that you guys enjoy it. Thank you.


Prologue:

Richard Trinket's life was a life lived in silent prayer. It was all he could do to keep himself sane on those terrifying moments he spent waiting on an announcement that could make or break his world.

In his youth, he secretly cursed his parents for bringing him into such a cruel, unforgiving world and vowed that he would not wed and bring forth an offspring that would suffer the same fate as he and the other innocents. They were the generation of sacrificial lambs, cursed to live seven years in agony as they await their verdict. Judgment day happened once a year and they were required to be at their best – pretty clothes and polished shoes against the dusty soil made fertile by sweat and blood – to distract the Capitol people from noticing their tear-stained faces and buckling knees. But while he hated the ignorant fools from the horn of plenty, he blamed no one but the district elders for his misfortunes.

"Why, we owe them the lives we so pleasantly live; lives that are easily taken away by the glorious moment of harsh inhumanity that one has to wonder why life was given, at all."

"Spoken like a true scholar," hisfriends would say, shaking their heads in mock disapproval, "the president would have our heads if he could hear what you're saying."

He wondered how the district people could manage to procreate, what with the threat of the reaping and the Hunger Games looming over them, it seemed far-fetched to raise a family. He was sure the annual slaughter would go on until the world comes to its devastating end (but with such display of barbarism, he relished the idea of the world sinking into oblivion). Were they unable to see it coming? Perhaps it was blind hope that kept them going, or perhaps it was the fear of extinction. He sneered at the latter idea; they should just let it go. Extinction was a better fate than a life lived in fear and misery. That or the people who made their lives so wretched should just go rot in hell. The latter seemed far more inviting, and he felt that it was well-deserved.

"Stick to reading Peter Pan, my boy," his father advised, "maybe that way, you'd never grow up and think about things you ought to be erasing from your head. Silly ideas of slaves killing their masters for freedom would get you nowhere. Look at what happened to our ancestors. They're all dead, but those who carry their blood still suffer."

Every year, while he waited for the escort to recite the names of the chosen tributes, he prayed to an unknown deity that he be spared. It was a strange human urge – the urge to survive – which allowed him to utter the name of the god whose credibility remained questionable. He had read all about a time so long ago when people believed, but the world was simple then. Although the present seemed even simpler now that he thought about it – simply barbaric. There was nothing wrong with taking a leap of faith, but just in case the Holy Bible was nothing more than a long, boring fairytale, he had mentally prepared himself to meet his bitter end. He chanted to himself every year.

"Should my life end prematurely, I will rejoice. No more will I have to bear the misery of being a citizen of this god-forsaken district – no offense, big guy."

He did this because tall, lanky boys with coarse blond hair and dull blue eyes – obscured by a large pair of glasses that hung onto a beaky nose – did not stand a chance against the smug-faced young ladies from Districts 1, 2, and 4, let alone their male counterparts. All he had at his disposal was his strange vision of a world so surreal, it was out of reach, and the arena was no place for dreamers. It was best to hope for divine intervention that may or may not come, and embrace the notion of one's imminent death if god decided that he did not give a damn. When his eighteenth year had come and gone without incident, he managed to breathe a sigh of relief. God did not fail him, not at this time of his life. And for four years, he had forgotten what it was like to pray.

Richard, in those four years he spent living without fear, began to see women more clearly. The thing about women, he found, is that when they are around, an infatuated man's brain turns into mush, reducing him to a blithering idiot whose impulse is to cover a growing erection. The son of the bookshop owner was not an exception to this unfortunate truth (being twenty-two, he was very much susceptible).

The first time he had set eyes on Sara Whitman, Richard merely shrugged and made his way towards the classroom; he was only seven then. Although their age and status did not differ, they were not on the same circle. Girls had cooties and boys wiped boogers on the sleeves of their shirts; to mingle with each other was an idea they banished from their unadulterated young minds. Moreover, Sara did not impress him. She was one of the kids who raised their hands and blurted out the wrong answers, and the teacher would say 'very good, do we have other good ideas?' He knew she was wrong because he'd read the answers from the books his father sold, but he never said a word. Five years later, the rift between the sexes had vanished and he found that his friends were preoccupied with the girls they fancied. He was the only constant in an ever-changing world – too caught up with the books he managed to sneak out of his family's bookshop. He didn't care about love and attraction because he thought they were unnecessary, burdensome even. It was also around this time when he first made a vow of celibacy to himself for the sake of the child who, he thought, would never see the light of day. But years came and went; the smart little boy from the school playground ate his words and turned into an awkward young man who hid behind the pages of his books. Little Sara Whitman who – despite being outspoken and inquisitive – was just another terrified face in the uneasy crowd, had grown into a beautiful young woman with an interest in literature. Richard Trinket, survivor of the reaping and unrefined scholar, was suddenly reminded of the god he had chosen to forget.

'Do not bring us to the test, and deliver us—deliver me from the pretty girl who's about to make me break the most sacred of my promises.'

It was much too late to plead for intercession; his pants tightened, almost suffocating his treacherous old friend. Only then did he understand the ordeal his forefathers had to endure. They, too, probably thought it was best to die alone, but then some pretty, young thing came along and made them lose their senses; attraction, lust, and love have joined forces and won. His forefathers had failed him. It was not their fault, women should not be allowed to possess such great beauty; Sara should not be allowed the luxury of wearing her honey-blonde tresses down, and her smile should not be so disarming that when it reached her bright blue eyes, his heart throbbed in an unbelievable rhythm. Would he be at fault if he did not stay true to his word?

"You seem to know your literature," she said. "What would you recommend?"

In Sara Whitman's presence, he was no longer the quick-witted young man known for his quiet hostility. Instead, he was a love-struck puppy whose only goal is to do her bidding while covering the embarrassing protrusion growing within his corduroy pants. He scrambled out of his chair and in his haste, tripped face first on the creaky wooden floor of the bookshop.

"Damn it."

He was literally head over heels in love with her.

Richard was more than thankful that after his embarrassing attempt at hospitality, Sara still frequented the bookshop. Week after week, he would sit on the same spot he occupied that fateful day of her first visit, and she would find him. And while he was initially quiet and needed a good shove before he would speak, the son of the bookshop owner eventually spilled out his heart to her, preaching thoughts and ideas that he knew were alien to her.

"If it was the years you spent behind bookshelves stealing glances at your father's merchandise, or a natural passion to seek out a greater truth, I do not know," she told him. "But I am grateful because in all the years I spent in this dreary world, I never had such enlightening conversations that wove paradoxes into one rich tapestry." He stared at her, awestruck, and she bit her lower lip, feeling rather silly. "I'm sorry if it came out all wrong and confusing, it's just that I was trying to match your eloquence."

"No, I think your words made perfect sense."

He pretended not to notice the way her bright blue eyes would shine whenever he patiently explained to her why he believed what he chose to believe, and he tried his hardest to conceal the overwhelming joy he felt each time she voiced out her doubts, or relented.

However, this newfound companionship troubled him to no end. At the back of his mind, a little voice screamed, telling him to stop this madness. He wanted nothing more than to keep his word, but with each meeting, he felt her grow closer to him. On the maddening days he spent alone – desiring the company he had gotten accustomed to – her scent lingered in the air, along with the musty smell of old paper. It dawned on him that the bookshop was no longer his refuge; it was theirs. His logic dictated that it was wrong – he prayed for self-control – but his heart told him otherwise. If he were to put a hackneyed phrase to his dilemma, the words 'so wrong, yet so right' would fit like a glove. Richard realized that his god had stopped listening to his self-denying requests when he woke up one morning with his arms snaked around Sara's naked form – she was sound asleep, comfortable in his embrace, as if she belonged there with him. It was too late to turn back. She, too, felt the same for him, albeit without the half-heartedness and reluctance that was tugging at his insides.

"I'm pregnant." She made her announcement a month after his father's passing, giving him much to think about.

If, on those nights of passion, Richard had forgotten the sole reason for the promise he made as a boy, Sara's announcement became his painful reminder. She was with child, and he fathered the said child. That child would come to know the same world they knew and despised, would struggle against fear, and pray for his or her dear life. That child would curse him and Sara the way he cursed his father and mother – bless their departed souls. His worst fear was knowing that he would not be able to give a reasonable answer if his child would be impertinent enough to ask the dreaded question. He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a smile upon his thin lips. He didn't want Sara to think that he was disappointed with her news when he was more disappointed in himself and his incapability to protect his own flesh and blood.

"Will you marry me?" It was all he could think of. After all, it's the first step to taking responsibility.

When he first heard her infantile wails on that cold winter night, he did not know what to make of it; did the newborn mourn for the bleak future that was in store, or did she cry because her mother was dying of post-partum hemorrhage. He cried for both as he held his dying wife's hand. She smiled at him between labored breaths, her pale, bow-shaped lips betraying nothing. He kissed her hand and begged her to stay because he knew he could not do this on his own.

"Over there, being cleaned up by one of the women is our little girl. She's crying like a little harpy because she wants nothing more than to feel your warmth. She needs a mother, Sara. She needs you."

"I can make no promises." She reached up to touch his face, to wipe away the stream of tears that generously flowed from his eyes. "If you could do me a favor, although I cannot give you what you ask, name our girl Euphemia. With you as her father, I am sure she would grow up to be very well-spoken."

Again, Richard found himself praying to an unseen force. Spare Sara, grant her the energy, and grant the healer a newfound skill, so that his family would be given time to spend together; so that his daughter would not grow up without a mother, just like he had. But he knew it was too much to ask. He knew it was too late when she closed her eyes and her bosom ceased to rise. He held her hand against his face. His wife, his Sara, was gone. For the second time, his halfhearted faith had failed him. He was given the tiny bundle that closed the most tragic chapter of his life. At twenty-five, he was a single father.

"My little Euphemia Trinket," his little one. His pride and joy; she was the only thing that gave him strength to wake up in the morning. She was the flower in an endless field of weeds. With her honey-blonde hair, cerulean eyes, tiny nose, and captivating smile, father could only marvel at his daughter's likeness to her departed mother. Richard would one day tell this child the tale of how the neighbors had come to know her as Effie, the princess who lived above his bookshop. He would tell her that at age four, when people asked for her name, she was unable to say 'Euphemia' because it was such a big word for such a little girl, so she blurted out 'Effie' instead. They all thought this was an adorable name for an equally adorable girl, and hence the nickname was born. And then he would tell her why she was named Euphemia.

Richard spent his years educating the girl with books, and soon, the bookshop became Effie's little paradise – a place where she often found herself lost in a world of fairytales and adventures. She was many things; a pirate, a witch, a sorceress, and a dragon tamer, but to her father, she would always be a little princess, the inheritor of the family business if she made it past eighteen. He shuddered at the latter thought; growing past one's teenage years should not be made a luxury. How he dreaded the day his innocent little girl would turn twelve – that dreaded age when she would be qualified for the reaping. He wished that they could stand frozen in time and preserve his daughter's unawareness to cruelty. But alas, time has a way of slipping by, unnoticed. Soon enough, it was winter and the bookshop princess was blowing candles for her twelfth birthday.

"Happy birthday, love," but from his lips, the words came out too bitter. Effie gave him a smile because she did not notice her father's unease.

He laid out a pastel pink dress for her because it was a special day: her first reaping. Effie Trinket stared at the simple a-line dress with a pale yellow satin sash. Such delicate hues perfect for springtime. He chose those colors to remind his daughter of the pretty wildflowers of purple and yellow that grew on the meadow by the border. The thought of such exquisite beauty was supposed to calm her nerves, but she felt otherwise. Knowing that she may never marvel at the simple joys of the outdoors again filled her heart to the brim with dread. Father read his daughter's thoughts and inwardly sighed at his inability to console her. Richard left the room to allow Effie some privacy as she bathed and dressed, but not before giving her something to think about. He knew that she would dwell on his words, utter them to herself repeatedly until she understood.

"Take heart, Effie."

The dress went on over her head.

"You must stand straight, just like your heroes."

Her arms went through the holes of the sleeves.

"Because you're just like them."

She tied the yellow sash around her waist.

"YOU are your own champion."

She put on her pastel pink shoes. Knock, knock. Richard was just in time. He turned the knob and peered through the door.

"Are you ready, sweetheart?"

She nodded, resolute and strong, eyebrows furrowed in a well-rehearsed frown.

'Even your father cannot save you now.' But he never told her that.

Outside, the sun was scorching hot and the land was arid and dusty. They could already feel the sultry air of summer driving out the cool and dewy springtime winds. Richard held Effie's hand all the way to the town square while silent prayers formed in his mind. He knew his god would not be able to do anything about the reaping. It was a pain experience every child had to endure, because they needed to realize that their lives were hanging by a thread. Those who were fortunate enough to live through those seven years without their names getting called would rejoice and treasure what they'd been blessed with, and get on with their lives, just like he did. Years later, they would make the mistake of having children and the reaping would be excruciatingly devastating for them because they would fear for lives far more precious than their own. There was no room for defiance in 12, and the silent flare the bookshop owner was known for – it was slowly dying.

"In a perfect world, Euphemia – "

"There's no such thing, not even in fairytales."

"In a different world, rather – in a different world, my dear, you could be a true princess. You would be allowed the luxury of living without fear constantly hounding you."

"Even princesses have ordeals, dad. This happens to be mine: a seven-year ordeal that will determine if I am fit to rule the bookshop kingdom. If my name is picked out, then I'll just have to face a whole new adventure and survive. I'll come back to you, dad; stronger and smarter – better in every way."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because I'd have known what it was like to be so close to death. A whole new appreciation for life will take place."

"Well said, my dear. Well said."

Well-spoken was she, he thought, but her vague notion of reality was a reminder of her blamelessness. Effie may be a child raised in the land of tears and dust, but a child would always be a child, regardless of where she came from.

That afternoon, whilst he stood amongst the crowd of anxious parents, Richard Trinket prayed most ardently, harder than he ever did before. Perhaps, his god would spare his daughter the agony of carrying a burden much too heavy for her fragile shoulders. It shouldn't be too hard for a deity to intervene; her name would only be in there once.

"Allow her to enjoy the gift of life, oh lord."

The world was a blur; he barely registered the booming voice of the escort, Nessarose Hagedorn, who stood on the platform coated in neon colors and cakes of make up. She was the high and mighty representative of Capitolian oppression.

"The time has come for us to select a pair of courageous young man and woman for the 49th Hunger Games. I bet you're all excited, aren't you?"

An unsettling silence filled the woeful crowd. The escort cleared her throat.

"Ladies first!"

Richard watched as the woman dipped her hand into the bowl and tentatively reached out for a small rectangular piece of paper.

"Myrtle Jenkins."

A few rows behind him, Myrtle Jenkins' mother wailed like the world was ending, and he was certain that for the woman, it probably was. But while it may seem selfish, Richard Trinket silently thanked the heavens that even if it was at the expense of another, his Effie had been spared. He would not know what to do if his world was taken away from him.

"Now for the boys."

Those who have sons, brothers, or nephews watched the escort's every move, hoping for the same luxury Richard had been afforded this year.

"Arthur Douglas."

In front of him, Arthur Douglas' father held an inconsolable Mrs. Douglas. The couple wept as the boy went up the stage and shook hands with a fear-stricken Myrtle Jenkins.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!"

He certainly hoped so, too. They got away this year, but he could not rest easy. There were six agonizing years left, and he planned to pray without ceasing.


A/N: The fact that there's a bookshop in District 12 may come as a surprise. After all, it implies that the government was much more lenient than in the canon, but I hope this does not discourage you. After all, this is set in an alternate universe where every person was at the right place, except Effie and Haymitch.