A/N: I've altered the first chapter a bit since its initial publication, so if you are one of my original followers, you might want to go back and read it again. It's just a few minor details, but I plan on connecting back to them in later chapters.
The Hall of Justice isn't really much of a spectacle within the district. I'm sure during its construction it was meant to be, a large stage and podium constructed almost to look as a focal point for the area, a base of dust and dirt large enough to hold the whole district population behind its steps. But its reinforced brick walls haven't been more than dusted since its construction after the Dark Days. It's only really used on Reaping Days, with exception of whippings and hangings. The more established Downtown area is set near The Stalls, The Harvest Festival spread out among its cobblestones, music and dancing spread out all along Main Street.
I didn't even bother polishing my feminine loafers before setting off, knowing that the dirt would gladly stick to their licked completion as soon as I stepped from my door, something that would horrify most of the women in the district. They usually look down towards me anyways. I wear pants and low-cut blouses in public. I run alongside the boys in their ball games that bounce through Downtown, my hair tied back with a few sweaty tendrils hanging in my face.
The square is filling up, but a wave of people still step behind me, flowing into the sidelines to watch their sons, daughters, neighbors and strangers be drawn into certain death while they watch, faces numb and hearts enraged, celebrating later on the cobblestones of downtown that it was not themselves.
Five single-file lines stretch from the bottle-neck of people at the entrance to the street where I stand, giving their fingers and a drip of blood to a peacekeeper to smudge on parchment for attendance. They're making sure no one tried to escape again, though it happens every year. With the second-highest tesserae rate and second-lowest population the odds are never in our favor. You might as well run. Their bodies will be brought back limp and lifeless within the week, thrown into the center of the square we stand in, tugged away weakly in the dead of night by family members crying too hard to do so efficiently, buried in a hole in the meadow, too scared to be questioned as an accomplice and possibly hung themselves. There's only been one exception.
I hug Hilt tight to my chest, wiping my pricked finger on my forearm, his face buried in the black floral fluff of fabric as I kiss the top of his head, closing my eyes tight and praying to God not to take him.
"I'll see you at home," I say, wiping the tears that prickle the corners of his eyes, my eyes wide to avoid the same, trying to be brave enough for both of us.
"Don't worry, Mari," Keld assures, his hand on my shoulder. "I've got him."
I know he does. He would sacrifice himself, his mother dependent on him and a whole life ahead of him, for my brother. Oxford would have done the same when he had the chance.
I tug Keld into a hug as deep as I can manage, my arms wrapped around his neck like a child's safety blanket. I squeeze him harder to keep the tears away. I squeeze him harder to stay strong as the minutes tick by, his hands around my waist, kissing my cheek. Willow gives him one as well when I let go, Hilt grasping the gravity on my face. I wave goodbye with a reassuring smile as they walk towards their side, Keld with his arm protectively around Hilt. , and start off towards the girls with Willow
Willow and I start out towards the girls side when we see a group of our friends, inevitable in a district our size.
I see his hazel eyes and subtle charming grin from a few yards away and smile, a film of stubble growing from the sides of his temples to the dimple of his chin. "What are the chances? Mari Chaucer and Willow Rowland together on reaping day?" he teases, as always.
"Very funny, Jedidiah," I smirk, looking towards the two people behind him. "I could say the same for the three of you."
Breccan stands to his right, dark brown hair deeply parted to the side and hanging limp at his shoulders, beautifully captivating rare blue eyes sitting beneath his trimmed bushy brows. I used to have a crush on him our second reaping year, tucking his hair behind his right ear with a shy smile, giving me a hug that envelops my entire being while saying "hello," almost privately, never one to be loud-spoken. The cotton of his dull checkered shirt is work at the elbows, folded up in the heat like most men in the district, tucked into a pair of khaki pants.
Columbus and his sandy blonde hair swing to Willow's side, putting his arm around her shoulder while looking at me, the gaze of his subtle brown eyes glowing ever-so-slightly as he laughs about the irony of last night.
A loose board fell from the window of the apothecary downtown last night while playing kick-the-ball with a few guys from school. They almost knocking out Jedidiah's front teeth, causing a bloody nose and possible head injury instead, having to actually be taken to the healers at the apothecary.
"Oh, really? Let's see how you feel next time when it happens to you," Jedidiah jokes, smiling with scrunched eyebrows, swatting at Columbus' sewer green button-up shirt, tucked into brown corduroys.
"Smart of you to admit to the crime beforehand, of course," I beam.
"Hey, I can think of a few things the two of you have done that aren't exactly genius. All legal, of course," he winks.
Willow perks her right eyebrow up at that, jokingly claiming "Always," though we all know it isn't true.
"I beg to differ. I think it was brilliant to convince Jonah that all of the eggs from his chickens had chicks in them, not just the ones the roosters got frisky with," Columbus snickered. "I mean, he freaked out when we made omelets at his house." He laughed, almost on his knees, "Wait, or telling Thessaly that cows are ticklish."
"She should have known better about that one," Breccan suggests, smiling a bit. "Her family is milkers as far back as it goes. If you have to be wary about their utters, why just go for the tush with no questions asked."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't the most original idea," I admit. "It was you and Lachlan that had me do that in third grade. The cow nearly chased me back into town before I verged right and climbed the fence."
"The first of many times, I'm sure," Jedidiah smirks.
We all say our goodbyes, that we'll see each other at the parties later, the obvious not exactly said or spoken, but thought, always looming. Willow and I weave through the crowd of chattering girls in our age group, wanting to get towards the middle and disappear from the cameras the press on all around us, capturing everything from the "exciting ceremony" about to start.
I look behind us, trying to find my parents and Oxford off in the sidelines, but they must also be lost in the crowd. It's not an uncommon thing in District 10 to not want to be seen. We just aren't those type of people; always stoic and soft-spoken. Or at least that's what they say while trying to sell us for slaughter during the interviews with Caesar Flickerman.
Peacekeepers smack the buds of their guns against the concrete stage and the entire square goes silent. They march into formation as the mayor appears from within the womb of the Hall of Justice, the anthem playing scratchy like an old record they tell us about in school. His head is shaved, like Papa's, and facial features chiseled, but he wears a blue suit we could never afford, even if he sold me to the highest bidder at the Hob like some families do with their daughters when they're desperate.
Next are our past Hunger Games victors, dressed in more expensive versions of the crowd's reaping clothes, spent with their bloody money that remains no-good to those of the Capital, still seen as less-than many of the victors from higher-ranking districts. Sure, we make a good show with our knives and butchery skills, but not enough to feed the starving that don't get picked for slaughter. I don't really know any of their names but Kylan and Lemuel. They're the only ones who have won within my lifetime. The rest file behind with looks like my own, the Capital escort, Ottilia, coming at the end with her knee-length straight black hair woven into tight braids on her scalp, skin flawless and caramel, a train of hand-sewn jewels resembling a dress flowing over the concrete, her hidden high heeled shoes clacking with each step.
Once the anthem ends, Mayor Goshen walks over to the podium and pulls out his speech cards. They're the same thing every year, even I knowing it by heart, but I know he dreads this part of the job as well, maybe favoring to drain it from his mind and read like new each year, never letting the sore seep in.
He begins to tell us the history of Panem, and by extension, the story of The Hunger Games.
"It was many centuries ago when the world as people knew it ended and the world we know today began. Water consumed the continent of North America and from it a new nation rose from the ashes; Panem, one large Capitol city surrounded by thirteen districts that all lived in peace and prosperity. Until the dark days." He pauses, flipping over his card. "War, terrible war. Widows, orphans, and motherless child's. This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. And then came the peace, hard fought, solely won. The people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost, when the traitors were defeated we swore as a nation that we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed that each year the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of generosity and forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future." He takes a long deep breathe and sighs. "Now to carry out this honor is our Capital Escort, Ottilia."
Ottilia rises from her seat and slowly walks to the podium. She taps the microphone and clears her throat lightly, more for dramatic affect, her pitch sounding more like a faint giggle. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds ever be in your favor." She pauses, letting her voice raise another octave. "Now the time has come to select one extraordinary man and woman for the precise honor of representing District 11 in the 73rd annual Hunger Games. Ladies first," she says, in her Capitol accent.
Her fingers swivel around in the bowl until she picks one of the perfectly folded cards.
Willow and I stand holding our nervous breaths close in our throats as Ottilia's hand fiddles around with the uncountable number of cards in the reaping bowl. Our hands push together until they almost become one as our eyes close, praying to God for it not to be us, but it is. I instantly freeze. I can hear Willow hyperventilating beside me, her hand now grasping mine even tighter than before, prying each finger individually away from my own. I'm still in a state of shock as I make my way through the crowd, my face plain and numb.
When I finally get up on the stage I glance at the mass of people in front of me with lost eyes, looking for something familiar to latch onto. I find my brother, Oxford, standing three rows back in the balcony, his hands holding his head and eyes pinching closed as he tries to grasp the situation, his baby sister thrown out for slaughter like the smallest calf of the herd during a harsh winter. Mama and Papa stand next to him, her screaming hysterically and his arms around her, pulling her weeping cries into his chest, fighting them off himself. It's the same every year with the parents. This year, it's just me.
It's then that it all becomes real, yet I still manage to hold onto my composure, taking silent breaths, eyes frozen on the movement everyone else in the square closes their eyes at, cringing, imagining themselves in my shoes, yet secure in their beds tonight, eating an annual sweet before bed.
There is no clapping, like in other districts. There are no cheers or happy optimistic celebration. Only the rolling wind and screams from my mother echo in the square, hushing to huffing whimpers as Ottilia reaches in towards this year's crop of boys, Peacekeepers staring her down. She smiles as she picks one from the middle, like she's sucking a piece of caramel from her fingertip, something sweet, and I almost vomit.
"Maceulis Bronte," she says, exposing her pearly whites and complete silence.
It's hard to pick him out from the crowd at first. The higher percentage of men in the district has made his section denser, but slowly the layers of anonymity peel away, realizing that it isn't their name, sighing in relief before awkwardly recognizing the boy left not as lucky.
He has short brown hair combed almost all the way through, a few stray hairs still sticking up in the back, and shallow bangs that hang over his untanned forehead. His skin is not sunburnt or tanned, puzzling me as he is practically pushes towards the stairs by Peacekeepers, his simple brown eyes glossy towards the corners. I recognize him, though I didn't know his name until now. He lives only a few streets away from my house, passing by every morning on the way to school. He isn't a merchant, but I wonder why his completion wasn't made aware of this, no tint or freckle in sight.
He doesn't look at me, hesitating to turn in my direction as Ottilia positions him so. I don't blame him. I'm not exactly thrilled by the position either, taking his solid hand in my own for a customary handshake before the crowd. My eyes drift towards my toes, self-conscious and very aware of the pity bestowed towards me. Cameras are already on me from every direction. The days to myself are over.
The Peacekeepers make a big show of coming up on stage to escort us into the Hall of Justice. Ottilia congratulates us at the podium, from behind, in her Capital accent that makes me roll my eyes.
I almost miss it, our mouths now away from the microphone, shoulder to shoulder as the doors open, no one around really looking at us, his voice deep and unwaveringly profound, a quote I was sure wasn't his, but I didn't know where to place it.
"I know. I was there. I saw the void in your soul, and you saw mine."
