A/N: This fic was inspired by this fabulous fanvideo, and I really encourage you to check it out. www youtube com/watch?v=90DAOx1KTqg
When her name is called out, she can hardly feel surprised. Her name was in the bowl forty-two times, having received tesserae for each member of her family every year since she turned twelve. It was a total scam, of course. Her three brothers had been kicked to the streets by her parents long ago, and the extra rations of oil and grain were sold at extortionate rates by her father, to those who desperately could not afford it. They had done the same to her sister Azelma, forcing her to apply for the maximum number of tesserae, too. This year was her brother Gavroche's first year to be entered into the reaping. He does not even live with them, and yet his name sits on seven slips of paper, each of them spelling out death.
Numbly, she walks to the stage set up before the town hall, conscious of her matted hair, her torn and grubby dress projected for the whole of Panem to see. She keeps her eyes lowered, gaze dragging over the ornamental (and impractical) shoes of Effie Trinket, the pristine white boots of the Peacekeepers.
"Hurry up then dear, come along."
There's a low pitched buzzing in the back of her head, and the shuffling and muttering of the crowds stood before the stage seems distant and muffled. Her heart pounds in her chests. She stands to Effie's side and looks up, eyes searching. They fall on her parents, stood to the side, hair styled in horrible imitations of the Capitol's fashions, and expressions blank. A stone settles in her stomach.
"And now for the male tribute!" A garishly manicured hand rifles through the bowl, catching a slip of paper between two talons. "Marc Enjolras!"
She knew that name. She'd heard it called across the grounds in front of the school, seen Marius walking with a tall, blonde haired boy with a stern expression. The expression is still fixed on the boys face as he ascends the steps, hands loose at his sides and chin raised. He doesn't look scared, Éponine thinks to herself, he looks… defiant? Here is not the place for such emotion, Monsieur.
What does surprise her is that her parents come to say goodbye. The surprise doesn't last long. Her mother remains silent while her father turns on her, a sloping grin winding its way up his face.
"'Ponine. My dear 'Ponine. At last, you might bring some honour to this family."
"Or die trying?" she bites back. Her father smiles grimly at her. "I wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for you! Why couldn't you make some kind of honest living like everyone else, instead of selling your children's lives? You don't even look after Gavroche and yet you're perfectly happy to risk his life for your ridiculous scams!"
Crack. Her head snaps to the side with the force of the blow, but she merely spits in his face in response. "You know what, I hope I die out there, Papa. It would be better than seeing you get yours hands on the winnings!"
"You little brat! I'll make you wish you were never born!" He raises his hand again, and it takes all her willpower not to flinch at the action.
"Too late for that, I already do! Now get out! I hope to God I never see your face again."
Her father visibly shakes before her, his face red, but her mother grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the room. As soon as the door shuts, she sits down heavily on one of the blue velvet chairs, the sound of her pulse rushing in her ears. After a couple of moments, the door creaks open once more and she looks up sharply. Her little brother stands in the doorway, and behind her she can see the russet coloured hair of her sister. She motions to them to come inside. Azelma hangs back, looking uncertain, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Gavroche runs straight to her, throwing his arms around her waist.
"Hush there," she murmurs, stroking his hair. "You're meant to be the tough one, remember?" He pulls his head out of her lap and looks up at her, eyes wide and old beyond their years.
"You can do it, 'Ponine. I know you can. You've looked after me and the boys, you can look after yourself."
She smiles softly at him, knowing there are no words she could say to make it better, make it different. What chance did a skinny little street girl have against trained career tributes who've been eating three square meals each day of their lives? She looks up, catching Azelma's worried gaze.
"You look after them, you hear me, 'Zelma?" Her sister nods, a short jerk of the head. "And don't you take no shit from Papa. And stay away from 'Parnasse and the rest of that lot. They'll do you no good. I mean it. I'll know, and I'll come back to haunt you," she grins, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"Oh, 'Ponine!" Azelma cries, eyes glistening.
"Come on, off with you both," she whispers, sniffing slightly. She pulls Gavroche to her once more, before shoving him gently towards the door. "You'd better be rooting for me."
Her eyes meet Azelma's, and she prays to whoevers listening that her sister heeds her words. "Adieu, ma sœur, mon frère. Je vous aime."
Her time is almost up when the door opens once more, and her heart leaps into her throat.
"Monsieur Marius," she breathes, beaming.
"Oh God, 'Ponine!" he cries, rushing in and sweeping her into his arms.
"Don't you fret, Monsieur. It is better it is me than you. I was going nowhere good anyway."
Marius pulls back, his eyes red. "Don't say that."
"It is true though, non? Though perhaps I would not like to go so violently," she says with a grimace.
"How can you talk like that?"
She shrugs. "I accepted my fate a long time ago, Monsieur."
He looks at her, concern etched into his face, then his gaze flickers to the window. "It's raining."
From somewhere, a laugh emerges from her lips. "A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now, Monsieur." There is a knock on the door.
"I should go," Marius sighs forlornly. "Adieu. Je t'aime, 'Ponine." He leans forward and pressed his lips to her forehead while she grasps his sleeve. She can't quite help her smile as the door shuts behind him "Adieu, Monsier. Je t'aime, aussi."
The car ride to the train is silent and tense. The boy, Enjolras, sits stiffly, his stern gaze still in place, and Éponine starts to wonder if he is made of marble. He seems more statue than man.
She tries not to gawk at the interior of the train, the polished steel surfaces and the large TV screens. She notices that Enjolras remains impassive. Well of course, she thinks snidely to herself, this can't be much different to that palace he calls a home, our little bourgeois boy.
He disappears swiftly into his compartment, and she doesn't see him until dinner.
When she enters the dining cart, she sees Enjolras, glaring darkly at Grantaire, their mentor, who is leant back in his chair, roaring with laughter. Alec Grantaire is the only surviving victor of the Games from District 12. He is also the worst possible mentor Éponine could imagine. From the doorway of the carriage she swears she can smell the stench of alcohol that clings to his breath and clothing, and he looks as if he has long forgotten the use of a shower or razor. She imagines she does not look much better, but at least there is reason behind her appearance. She can't imagine what excuse he has, considering the victor's mansion he currently occupies, with everything he could ever want at his disposal.
Neither of them haved noticed her entrance, and she watches as Grantaire proceeded to recover his composure.
"You're a fool, boy," he cackled, slamming his hand down on the table in mirth. "You'll never manage it."
"I can try, can I not?"
"Try what?" Éponine interjects, stepping further into the room. Both men looked sharply in her direction.
"Your friend here is getting a little over ambitious, that is all," Grantaire explained vaguely.
"We're not friends. We've never spoken before."
"Well that's good. A word of advice: keep it that way."
Éponine nodded, her eyes fixed on Enjolras, who did similarly.
Despite everything, dinner was magnificent, and Éponine returned to her compartment feeling nauseous from the richness of the food, and smiling softly at the way Effie's had chastised her for eating with her hands.
She swears she has never felt anything quite as heavenly as the hot water of the shower pouring over her bruised and grubby skin, and she steps out with her hair feeling softer than it has in years, and she begins to ache just a little less. Looking in the mirror, she wonders if, had she a little more meat on her bones, she could be considered pretty.
As she crawls between the lusciously soft sheets of the large bed and shuts her eyes, she thinks of Marius and a small smile graces her lips. "Je t'aime, 'Ponine."
She can't help but stare as they pull into the Capitol, the tall buildings scraping the clouds, and shining in the bright morning sun. People with brightly coloured hair and clothing turn and look as the train rushes by, excited smiles plastered onto their faces.
Enjolras turns away, his face grim and his hands clenched at his sides.
Her stylist grimaces at her bruises, the number of ribs on show, but makes no comment as he waxes, cleans, polishes.
As they step down from their chariot, Éponine rounds on Enjolras. "What was that for?"
"What?" He has the decency to look affronted.
She waves her hand in front of his face, the one that not two minutes previously he had held, raised before a cheering crowd.
"I was merely playing to the audience. Don't read into it too much."
"I wasn't." What would Marius think?
"Good." He turns to walk away, the remainders of the fake flames flickering across his shoulders.
"Let's just make one thing clear, Monsieur Enjolras," she calls after him. He pauses. "I do not care what connection you have to Monsieur Marius. We are not friends, nor will we ever be, and I am not to be used for your little ploys to win over the audience with your pretty boy looks and your bourgeois airs."
Enjolras turns slowly, his shoulders set. "And let me make this quite clear, Mademoiselle Thénardier. I apologise for any offence I may have caused, but you do not know me, nor should you assume to know me. Perhaps sometimes you should keep your thoughts to yourself; it'd do us all a favour."
"And perhaps you should keep your hands to yourself!" she seethed.
Training feels like a disaster. None of the survival skills taught to her back in District 12 are of any use here, and she knows that hanging uselessly by the side of the gym is not helping her to not come across as prey. She can pickpocket, and make herself disappear in the blink of an eye, but these are hard skills to demonstrate to the judges. She is malnourished and weak, and each time she sees Enjolras pick up a sword and proceed to fence quite adequately with one of the careers she feels acid drop into her stomach.
She is unsurprised when the screen flashes a large red four at her. Enjolras follows with a nine.
Her dress is deep blue and feels like water, clinging to her thin frame. It seems appropriate, or more so than fire, at least. Enjolras appears silently as her side, in a scarlet jacket adorned with brass buttons. It is perfect in its severity and nobility.
On stage she is no longer Éponine Thénardier. She is Éponine Jondrette, and she is beautiful and rich and charming, with a smile that makes men fall to their knees. As her interview finishes up, she realises she has been exactly who her father would want her to appear as, and she feels sick.
"What the hell was that about?!" she screeches, her hands shoving against his chest to no effect. "You love me? You can barely have looked at me in the past and now you're telling the whole of Panem that you love me? The idea is stupid! Why would anyone believe that? A skinny little street rat and pretty bourgeois boy like yourself? What games are you playing at, Monsieur Enjolras?" Oh Marius, my Marius. Forgive me, he means not what he said. I am only yours.
He looks at her, unwavering, eyes cold and hard. "Look around you, Éponine. There is so much more going on here than just your self-pity and whatever you have with Pontmercy. It would do you good to take note of it."
He strides off before she can think of a response.
He finds her on the roof, her knees drawn up to her chest as she surveys the city lights, glittering like hot coals beneath her. She doesn't look up as he approaches.
"What did you mean," she whispers, and her voice is almost lost in the breeze that murmurs over the rooftops, "when you said there's so much more going on?"
He sits opposite her, and even this action is careful, practiced. "You mean you haven't noticed? You're the one it affects most, Mademoiselle."
"I notice little besides the changing of the seasons and the starving frames of my brothers and sister, Monsieur."
"And Marius."
She ducks her head, her face flushing. "How do you know?"
"My friends, they call you his shadow." She can hear his smile in his voice, and she looks up, wanting to catch the rare moment. His eyes looks wistful, far off, and she notes that she has never seen him quite like this before.
"That is embarrassing, non?" She smiles slightly.
"No, there are worse things. I am told it natural, human, to feel such a way about someone."
"You are told? Are you not natural or human yourself, Monsieur?" She laughs, and cannot remember the last time she has done so.
"Some people would say that I'm not," he smiles wryly.
"And what would you say?"
"I would say I prioritise differently to most. I choose not to take part in matters of the heart."
"Matters of the heart are not a choice, Monsieur. They tend to catch you by surprise."
Enjolras shrugs.
"So what you said tonight was completely invented? You are good with words, Monsieur Enjolras."
"It has been said. I apologise for any difficulty it causes between you and Pontmercy."
Éponine glances down at her bare feet. "Never fear. I doubt we shall ever see each other again, anyway." Her companion made a sound of agreement. "You still have not told me what it is I am missing."
Enjolras is silent for a moment, seeming to consider his words, concern marring his brow once more. "You cannot tell me you do not see the injustice in our political system, Éponine?" Each year, twenty-three children are killed, all because seventy-four years ago, it was realised that the system we are controlled by is completely unjust! People die in our streets of starvation and disease every day and nothing is done by the government in the Capitol. The only way to scrape through life is by risking your life further through the purchase of tesserae, and that's never enough. Our education is poor and we have nowhere to advance in life. We can become miners and shopkeepers and that is our absolute limit. Meanwhile in lower districts, children are trained to kill from a young age. Being a murderer before you're legally an adult is considered an honour, and you can honestly tell me you haven't noticed all this?"
"Well of course I've noticed it, Monsieur, but I don't see what can be done about it! Life is shit, and then you die. That's how it's always been, and that's how it always will be. At least this way I will not have to endure it much longer."
"You have rights, Éponine! Human rights to life, to a certain quality of life! You don't have to live like this."
"It is a bit late now. Plus, who are you to change things? You're just a boy, you're barely eighteen."
Enjolras's jaw tightens. "I cannot be alone in thinking this. There must be others who realize this- this inégalité. Being here is my chance. Winning would be my opportunity to get people to realize, to call them to arms and fight for what we deserve!"
Éponine laughs, high and loud. "Your mind escapes you, Enjolras. But alas, at least you have something to fight for."
The time is drawing closer. She sits in the holding chamber, palms pressing into her eyes until she sees stars and flashes of light against her eyelids, trying to block out the faces of Gavroche, Azelma, Marius that flash through her mind. It is too late now for goodbyes. Shakily, she gets to her feet and smiles softly at her stylist, who doesn't respond. His face is stony, and she knows that he is not wanting to form any kind of a tribute that will likely be dead within the next twelve hours.
The gong rings out and she's running, along the edge of the circle of metal plates. She collides with someone running from the Cornucopia, a bag on their back that they have snagged from the edge of the supplies. The boy looks up at her, fear in his eyes, before scrambling to his feet and running on, disappearing into the woods. Éponine quickly tucks away the knife she had slipped from the back of his back. You may have given me a four, she thinks, but I've got more in me than that, you'll see. I have some fight left.
The careers come thundering past her, and Éponine let out the breath she had been holding. Footsteps in woodland were no different from footsteps on stairs, both leading to an inevitable beating, except they these were easier to escape from. Éponine had learnt long ago how to slip through shadows, unseen and unheard.
When Enjolras's voice finds her in the dark, leading the careers after her, she doesn't know what to feel.
Fire reigns down from the sky, and she laughs darkly at the irony. Now you will truly be the boy on fire, Enjolras. Is this the attention you were wanting?
A fireball narrowly grazes her shoulder just as she plunges into the river. The burn calls up echoes in her mind of the time her father brought down a burning hot poker on her back, and it only pushes her on.
She slips past the snoring careers and steals enough food to last her the next few days. Before coming to the Capitol, it would have lasted over a week, but she has too soon become accustomed to full meals; she needs to keep her strength up. She's no longer sure what it is that keeps her fighting, but when she shuts her eyes to cold, quick sleep, she sees green eyes smiling at her, crinkled by laughter, and soft brown freckles. Je t'aime, 'Ponine.
The next time she crosses paths with the careers, Enjolras is not with them, and she barely escapes with her life. She presses her hand to the wound across her stomach, gasping as she stumbles through the undergrowth. She is not so quiet now. She slips and finds herself falling, barely suppressing a yelp of pain and shock. She lies, deep and dark in the hollow she has tripped into, biting back her harsh breaths that threaten to give her away. The careers run on, and she allows herself to slip into unconsciousness.
She is roused by a voice booming over the arena. Through her foggy mind, she tries to understand what is being said. A rule change. Both tributes from the same district can be victors so long as they are the only two left standing. Hazily, she attempts to recall who is left. The two from District 2, two from 5, and another from 11. And Enjolras. However she doesn't know how long she has been asleep for, and she could have missed another cannon.
Her skin feels hot, though the cave is cool, and the slash across her front burns. She can barely lift her head and she knows infection is spreading fast. She fears that soon there will be just six tributes left. You will have to go on without me, Monsieur, she thinks morosely.
"Éponine? Éponine!" His voice calls overhead, and part of her wishes he would let her die in peace. However she finds her voice anyway, and it is rough from dehydration and fever.
"I am here, Monsieur, but you had better let me die." She hears him stop somewhere above the cave. His face appears at the well-concealed opening, and she smiles weakly at him.
"You're alive!"
"Not for long, I'm afraid," she mutters, feeling consciousness swiftly slipping away from her once more.
"What have they done to you?" he murmurs, kneeling beside her and moving her arm from her chest.
"Leave, Monsieur. I am of no use to you."
"Many things that are broken are worth fixing." She knows it is not just her that he speaks of. Enjolras's expression is worried as he examines her wound.
"I am dying, non?"
He looks her in the eye and his head shakes almost imperceptibly. "Not on my watch, Mademoiselle."
"You must stop calling me that," she coughs, "I am no lady."
He hushes her gently as he pulls her up into his arms, and her breath catches in her throat as pain shoots through her middle.
"It is of no use, Monsieur." He does not response.
She is laid to rest by the stream, and she notices how Enjolras averts his eyes as he pushes up her tattered shirt past her chest to reveal the deep gash that runs from her right shoulder to her left hip. He moves to sit behind her, leaning her against his chest as he does his best to clean the wound, and she tries to hold back the whimpers that escape her lips. His heart beats steadily behind her, lulling her in and out of consciousness as the cold water trickles down her front.
In the back of her mind, she wonders why he is behaving this way, before remembering his words at the interview. It's all for the cameras, Éponine.
He tells her that the boy from 5 is dead. Six of them remain, but her infection is only getting worse. Enjolras tells her she has blood poisoning. Once more she tells him to leave her, but he simply turns his back on her requests.
When fever ravages her body at night, making her hot and cold and delirious, he holds her to his side, arms gentle but firm, and when Marius threatens to fall from her lips, he kisses the name away, hand tightening around her in warning.
A feast. Something that each District sorely needs at the Cornucopia. Enjolras looks at her, and she knows what will be waiting for them will be to heal her.
"You cannot go."
"I must," he says quietly.
Her mind is fever riddled as she clasps his hand. "Why, Marc? Why do you stay for me?"
A strange expression crosses his face at her use of his given name. His hand brushes over her forehead, and he leans down, his lips by her ear. "Because you are my Patria. I fight for you." And then his lips are on hers and her mind is blank save for forgive me Marius. It means nothing.
He returns at dusk, the left side of his face caked in blood. He is silent as he pulls a needle out of the small orange bag in his hand, and she barely registers as he carefully finds a vein, and injects the contents of the syringe into her arm. He then leaves, tossing the bag to the floor, and returning several minutes later, his hair pushed out of the way and his face wet. Éponine notices a red gash near his hair line.
"Thank you."
He only nods.
He tells her later that the girl from 2 is dead, killed by the boy from 11 at the feast. Her infection cured, they cautiously emerge from their dark refuge, knowing that the end of the Games cannot be far off.
They try to search for food, but all they find are berries that Enjolras swiftly identifies as Nightlock, a highly poisonous fruit. Éponine wonders when and why he found the time to learn such things. Minutes later, the cannon goes off, and they stumble back the way they came to find the girl from 5, pale in stark comparison to the black juice around her lips. Éponine thinks she has made the same mistake she almost did, but Enjolras is not so sure.
The muttations are nightmarish in their size and appearance. Their howls echo across the arena, sending shivers down Éponine's spine, and she stumbles towards the Cornucopia, Enjolras ahead of her. The boy from District 11 is dead. The only thing lying between her and her siblings, her Marius, is the tribute from District 2, and a pack of hounds straight out of the depths of hell. Somehow, home has never seemed so far off. Enjolras pulls her onto the metal structure that gleams in the moonlight. District 2 is waiting, and as soon as she is up, he throws himself at Enjolras, knocking them both down. Enjolras's fists do nothing, and as after punch after punch is rained upon him in return, he appears to be losing consciousness swiftly. The mutts bark and whine beneath them, and Éponine does the first thing she can think of. She launches herself onto 2's back, the knife she had stolen from the boy at the start of the games in her hand and before any of them have registered what is happen, hooks her arm around the front of the career and drags the blade swiftly across the boy's throat.
The boy gasps, gags, and Enjolras shoves him off himself, his face splattered with the blood of the career, and his cheek oozing from where Éponine caught him with her knife. She helps him to his feet and they stand, panting, resting heavily on each other.
"Greetings final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rulebook has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."
Enjolras swears, and she thinks that this is the first time she has seen him lose him composure. Silently, she holds out the bloodstained blade to him. He looks from the knife to her, and shakes his head.
"Marc." He shakes his head again. "Come on, do it! You are the one with something worth fighting for."
He reaches into his jacket pocket, and her eyes follow. He draws out a handful of the Nightlock berries. She hadn't even realized he had taken any with him. Curiously, she looks at him as he catches her hand and brings it to his lips, before turning it over and pouring a few of the black fruits into it. She understands.
"Together?"
He nods. "Together. My Patria." His eyes flash. There must be more to this.
"One." Is he really willing to do this? "Two." Surely they will guess his plan. "Three."
"Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Éponine Thénardier and Marc Enjolras! I give you – the tributes of District 12!"
Enjolras tells her on the train that President Javert is not happy. There are many in the Capitol that do not believe their love story, and if they are to survive, they are going to have to convince him. How can we do this? A marble man, and a girl whose heart is owned by another.
The train pulls into the station at District Twelve, and though her hand is held tightly in Enjolras', her eyes eagerly seek out Marius. She is desperate to talk to him, to explain to him this thing with Enjolras. It's all false, I swear to you.
She finds him and she feels as though she has taken a cannonball to the chest. He's there, smiling up at me and his friend, but his arms are wrapped tightly around a girl with blonde hair that shines in the sunlight, her hands clutched in his shirt, and she is smiling too, but at Marius, and there is love in her eyes.
A/N: Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be up very soon, I hope, considering I wrote this in six hours or so. Reviews are much appreciated, as I'm not sure how I feel about this yet. I'm doing one chapter per book in the series, as you might have guessed.