Disclaimer: Not mine. I just like to play with it.
AN: Constructive criticism is as always highly appreciated. Please forgive my grammar and spelling mistakes, as there are plenty of them, considering that English is not my first language. Ironically, I use several spellcheckers but they always seem to fail me. Enjoy the story, and… May the odds be ever in your favor!
"Primrose Everdeen"
Effie Trinket's voice rings clear, caressing each vowel in the unmistakable Capitol way.
As the confusion slowly melts away, I watch with horror as my sister tucks the back of her blouse inside her skirt. Clenching her fists in a tight grip, she walks, slowly, bravely, towards the stage.
I register in the back of my mind the unhappy mutterings of the crowd. This always happens when a twelve year old is 'graced' with the 'honor' to represent the district in the Games. No one could easily accept this. Be it Merchant or Seam. The reaping made us all equal in the eyes of Fate.
When was the last time I saw my sister? Back in District 13, in the hospital, while I was strapped to a bed and given morphling, day in and day out? Before the Quell? Longer than that? The sister I almost died for, came back to and then abandoned, when life felt no longer worth living. I do not remember her ever being so vibrant, so colorful, and so full of life.
As the Peacekeepers approach, leading her to the steps of the stage, my body suddenly remembers the ability to move. My throat clenches, throbs and then aches as a startled cry leaves my now dried up lips.
"Prim!"
I take several steps forward.
"Prim!"
No one stands in my way. The crowds formed by children part for me as I rush to keep her safe.
I reach Prim as she was ready to mount the steps and I roughly push her behind me.
"I volunteer!" I say, voice laced with desperation.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
I can feel the thick confusion in the air.
District 12 was never known for having any volunteers. Here, to volunteer is unthinkable. It is a death sentence. An execution.
"Wonderful" cries Effie Trinket. "What a lovely turn of events, ladies and gentlemen! District's 12 very first volunteer!" she cheerfully carries on.
A small smile escapes my lips as I remember the bubbly, hyper, dedicated Capitol woman that joined the rebels and died so many years ago. The determined and passionate woman that hid behind the façade of a shallow and proper Capitol escort.
Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly feel Prim's arms embracing me from behind. She hysterically cries and yells, refusing to let me go.
"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"
I steel myself, and with a harsh voice I manage to address her.
"Let me go! Go find mom Prim! Go!"
Pushing her roughly behind, never glancing back, I clench my fists and climb the stairs.
"I bet my hat that was your sister!"
"Yes."
"What is your name, dear?"
My voice rings clear and steady across the still horrified faces of the inhabitants of District 12.
"Katniss Everdeen."
I keep my eyes fixed on some other place than the crowds below. The silence irks me, filling me with dread.
Back in 13, silence was never a good omen. Or at least that's what they told me.
Silence always precedes a storm. Everything was silent before the bombing that took so many from us. Everything was silent before the fire burnt everything to ash. Everything was silent again before they sent in the mutts.
I remember the panic, the dread, the utter devastation I felt while tasting the bitter grey flecks that danced through the air a dance of death. I remember how the world fell once again while I realized, then and there, that those flecks were once a young blonde healer, with shining blue eyes.
The same silence embraced me once more.
"And now, for the boys!"
I feel the blood draining from my face.
I watch as her polished fingernails enter the ball that contain the slips with names and close my eyes waiting for the unavoidable to happen.
"Peeta Meelark."
My head snaps immediately towards him, searching through the crowd, drinking him in. He walks towards the stage. Steadily. He is the same, just as I remember him. Stocky built, medium height, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. His face and blue eyes betray the shock of being reaped. I can tell that he tries to hide his emotions, not to appear weak, taking his place on the stage.
His eyes meet mine. They soften for a moment, full of love, regret and sadness, before turning into a look of sheer determination.
I feel my carefully constricted walls crumble by the siege of so many emotions. Emotions I no longer felt for far too long. Disbelief, sorrow, joy, pain, regret, devotion, tenderness and above them all, love.
I do not realize I am crying until I find it very hard to breathe as my throat ties itself in knots.
I shake my head, biting my lower lip, and wipe my face with my hands. I do not care that my actions might make me appear as boy with the bread has always been my undoing.
I hear Effie clear her throat, eyebrows raised in surprise, her twinkling blue eyes set upon me.
"Do you know each other?" she inquires, tilting her head to her right.
I glare, not in the mood to answer this question.
Her eyebrows furrow and then she starts saying something, but gets interrupted when Haymitch bumps into her.
"I like this one" he slurs, breath reeking of alcohol. "She's got…. She's got…." He continues, stumbling on the stage, trying to get a point across. The rest does not follow, as he falls flat on his face.
But this was enough to get her distracted.
"What an exciting day" she giggles behind her hand, straightening with the other her wig. An useless effort to salvage some appearance.
I quickly avert my eyes from her and turn them to the crowds, where I easily spot Peeta's family. I cannot help myself but give them an icy glare. None of his two older brothers volunteers to take his place. His mother seems unaffected by the prospect of losing her youngest son. I bitterly realize that, as always, there is no such thing as family during the Reaping Day. I… I was the exception.
I do not dare look at Peeta, but I listen in the background as Mayor Undersee starts reading the long Treaty of Treason. He does this every year, before handling innocents to the Peacekeepers. Children sent to the Arena to be slaughtered as a reminder, as a punishment, for those who dared long ago to rebel against the Capitol.
Moments later, as the anthem of Panem plays, we turn our heads towards the crowd.
There are not so many things that I am allowed to change in order to reshape the future. I must play my part on a scene I abhor. But there are two things I can do. Repair my past mistakes and keep all those I love safe. Safe and alive. Even if it's the last thing I do.
