Title: The Mute and Silenced

Author: RosesOfTheGarden

Fandom: Hunger Games

Summary: Year after year, the Capitol slowly diminishes right before her eyes.

Notes: Just an idea I've had for a while. (That, and because there aren't enough Lavinia fics.) Part 1 covers Lavinia's childhood, and Part 2 is from her escape from the Capitol to her death.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

The Mute and Silenced

Part One

The first time Lavinia sees him, she is speechless.

It is a fine morning the day he comes, sunlight sprinkling brightness onto the objects in view. She is surrounded by her five dolls—presents that she had received from her parents, one for each year she has been alive. Lavinia hums the anthem to the Games; they had just ended, and outside, the city is rejoicing after another year of Hunger Games. Because of the thick plaster walls of the playroom, the sounds outside are muted, but the sounds inside are heightened. Every hum is amplified, every movement is augmented.

She wears a shimmering outfit, one that resembles a diamond. It might be pretty to an onlooker, but it is anything but comfortable to her. The little-girl dress is made of scratchy material and is almost certain to leave rashes behind. It had been the object of adoration to her mother, who had specifically picked the outfit (just for her, she had said) and ordered her to wear it for the day.

Her mother had gone somewhere last evening. Where exactly, she did not know. She often disappeared like this, without leaving a note behind to say where she was or when she would be back.

For the first few minutes her mother was gone, she had taken to fussing over the dress. But soon, she forgot how itchy her dress was and focused on dressing up her dolls, promising to each one of them that she wouldn't make them wear something so uncomfortable.

She is fitting a hot pink blouse onto Clarisse, a brunette with lopsided pigtails, her favorite so far, when he comes. He is bundled in light blue cloth and cradled by her mother's stick-thin arms. Her mother deposits him in the crib that she had first occupied. He is dormant, even when her mother carelessly plops him onto the sheets of the crib.

Lavinia watches in wonder. Her brother has tufts of rust-colored hair, the same shade as her own, and as her mother's before she dyed it neon green. He is a perfect replica of her dolls—all clear skin and empty eyes. And, for a second, she doubts that he is like her: a breathing, moving human.

"Mommy?" her five-year-old voice calls. "What is that?"

For moments, she doesn't answer. Her mother stares listlessly at the gold clock that hangs above the door, seeing but not interpreting. She asks again.

"Your brother," she says tersely, eyes not leaving the clock.

Suddenly her mother jerks forwards. She moves towards the door, taking short quick steps. Her mother is just about to walk out, before she calls out, "Where are you going?"

"A meeting. Just a meeting. Tell your father that when he gets back." Without looking back she descends down the stairs. Lavinia hears the jingle of keys, before the front door slams shut.

…

Lavinia learns later that her brother has been named Mace, for the weapon this year's victor used to kill his last opponent. She didn't watch the games that year; each evening when her parents and her gathered in the living room, she shielded her face with one of the lush pillows the lined their couches. Even so, she could hear the curses and the clinking of swords erupting from the speakers. She had burrowed her face deeper into the cushion.

Her father disapproved of her cowardice. "Look!" he had barked. "Enjoy the games like the rest of us are!"

She peeked out a corner of the pillow in time to see a tribute bury a mace, the only weapons provided that year, into his tribute partner's stomach. Crimson—so much like the color of raspberries that were sold in shops, she realized—spilled out, staining the grass.

It was only until she heard the final cannon ring, and the announcer—Claudius Templesmith—declare the victor that she removed the pillow from her view. This year's victor is an eighteen year-old from District One. He was, like all District One tributes, a Career: strong, lean, and vicious, trained to win from the day he could stand. He was so different last year's victor: a bronze colored hair boy who never, never (she was sure) stopped smiling. It had been a bit unnerving, but it was still better than this victor. There was a malicious glint in his eyes, like he could at any second leap out the television with that weapon of his. He held a spiked mace, still dripping blood from the countless tributes he had struck.

But as she watches her brother sleep, she wonders how a victor like that could resemble him, merely a bundle of face and flesh, a doll. He turns in his sleep, emitting a quiet sniffle. She giggles and, realizing that it was already an hour past her bedtime, tip-toes out the room, quietly, so her mother won't hear.

Once she reaches the doorway, she looks over the shoulder. Perhaps tomorrow he can help her dress up her dolls.

…

She is seven the year her father becomes a Gamemaker, , a high political position in the Capitol.. Her family watches the Games each day, marveling at the arena that her father has helped create.

This year's Games take place in a desert, seas of sand and not a tree or bush in sight. The blazing sun never sets; it is in a fixed position above the tributes. Some of the smarter ones take cover under the large boulders that litter the desert, while the others wander in circles, certain that there is a lake or tree nearby. Even the Careers this year, five well-built teenagers, have trouble surviving with their lack of water.

It is the third day of the Games, and only a third of the tributes remain. A third had been killed during the bloodbath, and the other third had died of dehydration. Of the three tributes that are not part of the Careers, one is close to death, while the other two have become allies.

The cameras focus on the dying tribute. The boy—a fourteen year old from District Eleven—has been bitten by a bright red snake that, Casear had informed them, contains enough venom to kill a full-grown man.

The boy collapses, his knees sinking into the sand. Lavinia could see beads of sweat trickling down to his chin, whether it is from the sun or the poison, she is not sure. He groans and leans forwards. It is clear now that he only has a few minutes, even seconds, left. He seems to understand this, as he closes his eyes and whispers something so soft that the speakers can't pick up.

Mace is at her side. He pulls at her hand and points at the brilliant colors the screen projects, fascinated by the screen and blissfully unaware of what is happening.

Her mother picks at the extravagant gown she dons, evidently bored with the lack of blood, the lack of action. She hasn't voiced it out loud, but Lavinia knows that she is displeased by this year's arena, for the tributes die much too quickly, and from natural causes instead of from other tributes.

"Mommy, look," she says. "The boy is hurt."

Her mother looks up, and her dull violet eyes (yesterday, they were green) meet the screen. "I see," she says.

"Can't Daddy save him?" she asks hopefully. She knows the answer already, but she asks anyways.

Her mother looks at her strangely. "Now, why would he do that?"

At that moment, a cannon is heard, and a hovercraft comes to extract the tribute's limp body from the arena. Mace must like the sound, because he claps his tiny hands and cheers. Lavinia falls silent, and doesn't speak for the rest of the Games.

…

Her father is home. It is a rare occasion nowadays; he was always at a party or at the Control Room. But the evening after school ends, she hears the front door open, and two sets of footsteps walk in. She recognizes him before he says a word. Over the years, she has differentiated his slow, heavy footsteps from her mother's quick hops, and Mace's barefooted skips. She concludes that the other person must be one of her father's co-workers, a fellow Gamemaker.

She is in the process of braiding Annabelle's waist-length blond hair, her new favorite, when she hears her father say to the stranger, "Right this way." Immediately, she untangles her fingers from Annabelle's golden locks, and lets her hard work unravel. She doesn't mind. She bounds down the spiral staircase to the first floor, where her father and his guest stand.

"Daddy!" she shrieks, running towards him, arms spread out to her sides.

"Lavinia", he says, unsmiling. He lets her wrap her arms around him, but does not hug her back. "Is your mother home?"

"No," she answers. "She went shopping."

He nods. "Good."

His father turns to his guest, and for the first time, she really looks at him. He has bronze hair and green eyes, like…like… Her eyes widen when she realizes his identity.

"Lavinia", he says as she pulls away. "Say hello to Mr. Odair."

She manages to whisper, "Good evening, Mr. Odair."

Finnick Odair looks exactly the same as he does on television, but so different too. His hair is messy, but in a way that would make pubescent girls and even middle-aged woman swoon. He is dressed casually, a far cry from the extravagant outfits he had worn before, but that is not what Lavinia notices most.

He looks wary, perhaps tired, as he follows her father down the hallway. Lavinia walks closely behind, keeping an eye on the Capitol heartthrob. He looks at her father with—what? Disgust, horror, maybe even anger.

His father leads him to the guest bedroom. When she tries to step inside as well, her father blocks her path. He smiles. "Lavinia, Mr. Odair and I have a private matter to attend to. Why don't you go upstairs and play with your dolls."

She protests. "But—"

Her father steps forwards, and Lavinia takes a step back. "Please go to your room, Lavinia." He is no longer smiling.

Behind her father, Finnick Odair sits at the foot of the bed, waiting. She finally squeaks, "Okay", and backs away.

Two hours later, they are done. They exit the room, and her father leads him to the front door. Lavinia leans against the railing as he says something quietly to Finnick Odair, and then opens the door for him so he can step outside. After he has left, her father walks back to the bedroom. She wants to run down the stairs and ask him what they had talked about that made Finnick Odair look so afraid. But does she really want to know?

Some secrets are better left unsaid.

…

It is her twelfth birthday. The thought came to her one morning, calmly, even though she had not realized it until today.

She is blinking the sleep out of her eyes when Mace pokes his head into her line of vision. "Happy Birthday, Vinnie," he says, grinning. From the way his hands are clasped behind his back, she could tell that he has bought something for her birthday.

She giggles at his nickname for her, and sits up. "Good morning," she says, rubbing her eyes. She nods towards the item behind his back. "Is that for me?"

Mace flashes her toothy grin, with his two front teeth missing. "Yep. I spent the money you gave me last Friday on it."

Under other circumstances, she would reprimand him on buying things without telling her. But instead, she leans forward. "Well, what is it?"

His eyes dart from her to the object behind his back. He draws his hands from behind his back and holds the item out to her. Shyly, he asks, "Do you like it?"

She takes the object from him. It is a pair of earrings—jewels, not particularly valuable.

"You said that girls like jewelry," he explains. "And you gave me a few dollars to buy candy so…" His voice trails off, and he looks at her expectantly.

"I don't wear earrings," she points out. "But it's pretty," she adds quickly when his face falls.

"How are you going to wear them if your ears aren't pierced?"

"I'll get them pierced," she promises. "Thanks, Mace."

He doesn't seem completely convinced.

"Well, I'll have to hurry up; we're going to watch the Reapings today!"She says, shooing him out of her room.

The Reapings are today, for children from the ages of twelve to eighteen.

The Reaping. The Districts. The Games.

If she had been a little less fortunate, she would be eligible to attend the Reaping.

If she had been a little less fortunate, she could be on her way to her death right now.

If she had been a little less fortunate, in a week's time she will kill other children, or be killed by them.

All for entertainment.

When she thought about it, this hadn't seemed right, hadn't seemed fair, for twelve years old seemed so old, but so young all the same. And she just couldn't imagine someone her age, someone like her being killed, even though she saw it happen year after year.

That day, a twelve year old from Ten is reaped. Her mother snickers ("Is he crying? How pathetic!") and she can't help but feel guilty.

…

Mace tugs her hand. "Vinnie, look," he says, pointing at the buildings that towers over them both. "I bet if I could stand up there, I could see the entire world!"

"You think?" she mumbles, distracted by the flashing lights and the brilliant colors of passersby. They were both on their way to school. Nowadays, her mother is too busy shopping or watching television to send them, so it became her duty to make sure that her brother got to school safely.

She had originally planned on riding the bus; she brought enough money for the two of them, and with the weight of her backpack, it would be much easier on her back. But when she arrived at the bus stop, she caught sight of her classmate—whose mother works alongside her father, and could be considered a friend—sporting her new teeth, sharp and pointed at the edges, like a predator. Something about the way she barred her teeth and hissed at her made her turn away. But she supposes walking to school isn't quite so bad.

"Yeah, that one's gazillion times bigger than our house!"

She nods. A woman with jewels embedded in her skin walks past them. A sleek red car hurries by; if it had been just a little to the right, it would have hit the woman, possibly kill her.

A pause. Then: "Vinnie, why don't we have to go to the Reaping?"

"Because we're from the Capitol."

"So why do the District people have to go to Reapings?"

"Because they're from the Districts", she says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. On the billboard above them, Caesar Flickerman interviews the Head Gamemaker this year. She walks faster, tugging her brother along with her.

"But why?"

"Because…because…"she struggles to answer. "Because the Districts rebelled against the Capitol seventy years ago, so it's their punishment." That is what had been written in the textbooks about the history of Panem; it is what she has been told all her life. If this isn't true, then what is?

Once again, they succumbed to silence. Well, not silence, it can never be silent in the Capitol, not with the parties and laughter and excitement, not with the zooming cars and insistent honking. But at this moment, it came close.

"When will their punishment end?" he asks suddenly, inclining his head so he can meet her eyes.

Never, she almost says. It is the correct answer, after all, but it didn't seem right saying it to Mace. "Soon," she says instead.

"When?" he asks again.

"…I don't know," she admits, and that is that.

…

A stout, plump man stands besides two identical glass bowls. As he reaches in, the silver material that covers his arms twinkle. He flicks his fingers here and there, finding the right slip of paper to pick. The crowd before him squirms, much like the scaly fish that the man resembles, though it is clear that it is not because of the wind that passes by.

The man doesn't notice (or maybe he does) and grins, almost grits, his shark-like teeth at the cameras.

The man announces, "And the female tribute is…"

He calls out a name, and a fifteen- or sixteen- year old girl parts from the crowd. She is hysterical, shaking as she makes her way to the front.

Around Lavinia, her classmates snicker. A weak tribute was one to laugh at, a strong tribute was one to admire and sponsor. That was how things worked at the Capitol; Lavinia has figured out that much.

Her teacher, a middle-aged woman dressed entirely in pink, stands to the side of their television screen. Her lips are tightly pressed together. She turns her face away from the screen, and covers her mouth with a jewel covered hand.

Lavinia looks at the girl with pity. Even if she did have some sort of skill with surviving or with weapons (which Lavinia doubted), she wouldn't stand a chance; no one at the Capitol will sponsor her. That was just the way things were.

It was mandatory that teachers broadcast the Games in class. After all, they were an important aspect to their lives, even the only aspect to their lives. Her classmates had been delighted when they heard that students all across the Capitol would be watching the Games instead of learning. They watch with wide, eager eyes, belied by their lack of attention during lessons on arithmetic or history. Some brag loudly about what tributes their parents could sponsor this year. (My mother was the one who sent the Odair that trident all those years ago! I bet she's going to get a dagger or something for that boy from Two.) Others complain about Capitol children not being able to compete, (It's not fair! If they can, then why can't we?) to which their teacher explains that watching the Games are just a privilege as competing in them.

However, to Lavinia, it is the opposite. It isn't that she enjoys learning; she despises the way their teacher lectures, using wild gestures and a shrill voice. The problem is that here, in a classroom with twenty-nine other students sitting with her, there is no pillow to block her sight, and any outwardly sign of fear will result in her being mocked by her fellow classmates.

The two tributes shake hands. The male tributes seems confident, even excited, while his female counterpart is still sobbing. The camera zooms in on her face, so each tear that slides down her cheeks are clear to the viewers. Lavinia thinks she sees a smile creep across her lips, something that that District 2 victor wore, and all the victors before him.

She looks around. No one, not even the teacher, has noticed this. They are too busy snickering, making snide comments about how pathetic she looks and how there is no hope for her survival.

She has an inkling of doubt that the weak District 7 girl is not all she seems to be.

…

Two weeks later, the girl takes an axe and hacks at the remaining tributes. She stands over the mangled bodies of the Careers, a humorless smile at her lips. It is such a change from the quivering, stuttering girl she was just a few days ago that she is the talk of the Capitol for months afterwards.

Somehow, Lavinia isn't the least bit surprised.

…

She keeps a box hidden in her closet. It is filled with memories; each item is significant to her. She eases it out of the space between her sky blue little-girl dress and the carpeted floor, and places it next to her. It is a simple cardboard box about half her height, one that her mother wouldn't think twice about throwing away, but is valuable to her.

She takes out all her memories, and places them side by side. There are seven items in total, and the one to her far left is a simple sheet of paper, yet is the most valuable item she carries. It was Mace's present to her on her tenth birthday, the year that he first learned to write and draw and color. He had presented it to her one afternoon, holding it up to her proudly with a wide toothy grin. He had drawn a wild, hasty version of her (at least, she thinks it is her; the only thing she recognizes is her red hair, red scribbles pointing out of a lopsided circle) and the words, Happy Birthday, Lavinia! in careful letters.

She had been less than pleased at first—after all, how can it compare to her dolls?—and vowed to get rid of it. She never did. She couldn't bring herself to ruin the present that her brother had worked so hard on, so in the end, she placed the paper in the cardboard box, so she would remember not to throw it away.

She smiles when she sees the paper again, and places it back into the box.

The next six items are in order of which she received them, from the day of her first birthday to her sixth birthday. In the past she had ranked them in the order of their beauty, but now, they are equal to her. It had seemed fitting, at first, that she would receive dolls for her birthdays. After all, she had been her mother's doll, and her presents had been mannequins to dress up and whatnot. It had saddened her that one year, her parents forgot to give her a present, and that they hadn't bothered to give her anything in the next few years.

From left to right, there was golden-skinned Clarisse, the doll awarded to her on her first birthday, golden-eyed Kaitlin, Destiny, who is unusually tall and muscular, Ella, with her kind and friendly smile, Zaria, who has long brown hair, blond-haired Annabelle, and green-eyed Shanna, her most recent present.

But when she sees them, side by side, she notices how familiar they all look. Not because she had dressed them and brushed their hair countless times, but because she has seen them elsewhere.

And it hits her suddenly that Clarisse is wearing an outfit that can be mistaken for scales on a fish; Kaitlin is slim and lean, perfect for running; Destiny is so muscular she could be a bodybuilder; in one tiny fist, Ella holds a ball of yarn and in the other, she holds a needle; Zaria's bares her teeth, showing off their sharp edges; Annabelle is much more beautiful than she remembers, with her blond curls; Shanna's green eyes are the precise shade of the ocean.

How could she not notice?

With a cry, she flings the dolls across the room. Each of them hits the wall and slides down to the floor. The dolls are piled, one on top of the other, and from a distance, they could be corpses.

…

The next day, she stuffs the dolls into the trash can, praying that her parents won't notice. She returns the cardboard box to her closet.

The only item that remains is a sheet of paper.