A/N: A little warning: If you are extra queasy about anything abusive, reconsider whether this is a healthy fic to read for you. What will be mentioned is Snow and Virgilia talking to one another and not particularly nicely - their relationship is strained (no screaming). Nothing sexual between them is written out, albeit there's mentions about this happening. Take care of yourself first x
Part One: The Wife
Mrs. Snow was dead and her passing was mourned in private. That is to say, no one mourned her and her death was quickly forgotten about. Some deaths painted a wonderful opportunity for others, and this one was an outstanding one for many. Vultures in the shape of rich and influential Capitol families already hovered above the presidential mansion all but waiting for their entrance into the palace. All it required was a pretty daughter and the attention of President Snow. If one wife died, another could take her place.
For Virgilia Pictor, the death of Mrs. Snow had been an ordinary Thursday. Her back lay flat in a green patch by a large tree, grass leaves tickled between her naked feet, and a book stretched open on her chest. Page seventy two and seventy three, she had memorised. Akin to gusts of wind, her attention soared up toward the sky, watching clouds pass by and mulling over the last text passages she had read. Most books she owned engaged in the same topic and concluded in the same ways. They had been given to her in learning what prepared her for the arranged marriage she one day ought to have. Her legs stretched out along the grass and the wind rattled through the leaves.
Virgilia peeked to an upper window of her home, her brother inside and studying history or military strategies or politics. Sometimes she was glad to smell the grass and flowers and winds - especially when table manners were on the schedule - but sometimes she envied him for learning.
When Coriolanus Snow finally visited their home a few weeks later - finally because her mother had chewed her out for days - she had not been home. The surprise visit did not require her presence until its final moments, when the sun had kissed the day goodnight, and had cast a shadow along her suitors' frame. The agreement was made between President Snow and her father. She did not stay to listen to the details. What better match was there than the President of Panem himself? As long as Coriolanus showed interest, her father had to agree - that much she understood - and she was proven right. The sudden passing of previous Mrs. Snow had raised some concerns, but none that mattered to Mr. Pictor.
To say that everything in Virgilia Pictor's life had led up to the moment before a wedding altar would have been a mere understatement. In the name of family honour she had to be married to someone richer than them. It was luck that the old wife had died, she knew, and years of learning had prepared her for the moment she thought to be the happiest in her life. That she was entirely wrong was not on her mind that day. Instead, she was certain he had chosen her for her looks alone, and further details didn't matter to the Pictor family.
The wedding was a few months later. She had reminisced about a day that had not yet come, fingertips had hovered along the white seam of her expensive dress. White roses, all along, hauntingly beautiful causing a turmoil in her chest whenever she thought of touching the fabric. She ogled the dress instead, a wait far too long until the wedding day, all her life long had she waited for this momentous and important day. A last night spent in her former home and a last drive away from the house she had used to live in. Would the wedding be as wonderful as the stories had promised her? As her mother's retelling of her wedding day had been? She had stuck her nose back into the same book the day that Mrs. Snow had died. The very same that promised any arranged marriage to turn impeccable eventually.
The dress had been heavier than expected. Dragging her down, the white roses had scattered behind her in an extraordinarily long trail. Virgilia's heart had jolted at the strangely soft satin, but the sharp padding gnawed into her skin. Her then-future husband had commissioned it for her - and she was certain that was what love was supposed to be like. How special this seemed; he had thought of her enough to ponder on her dress! Following a long chatter with grandmother, aunts, and faces she recognised but could not point a name to, her arm interlinked with her father's. What came next remained a sharp and blurry memory. She remembered the bouquet of roses in her hands. The heavy cologne attached to the collar of her husband. The cold that her father's touch left when he returned to his seat. The way her husband's lips twisted and disappeared into the surrounding stubbles. She had been surprised at that, at those wrinkles, which curled around his eyes and could have matched that of her aunts. Most importantly, she remembered the way her mouth had formed the words that had bound them together. In love, she had hoped: "I do."
Virgilia had felt his lips on hers. No one had told her that the stubble of his white beard would tickle as much. It had left her irritated for days to come. A sign, she had thought, that he, too, would not leave her heart as easily. The books she had read about love were bound to come true.
There was no romantic night - or at least she did not remember one. Whenever thinking back, her mind drew blank. All she could remember was the sweaty linen against her back and the long shadows cast across the room. He always liked to sleep with the curtains drawn back. His faint voice had hovered there, calling her pretty before they had moved to his bed. The words had rung on her skin, liking the way he had spoken them out loud. So strangely sweet and so very powerful in his tone.
She had been given private quarters hosting a living room and a bedroom. The first allowed her to welcome guests, write letters, and indulge in the hobbies a wife ought to take. The latter, her own bedroom, had little use in the first years. She kept close to her husband, and awaited the moment that her heart would completely fall for him. Then, she had hung on his lips already, listening to his words and believing herself to have fallen already.
According to the books she had read, the first months were always the sweetest. Their love was as splendid as the day and as deep as the night. Not unlike her favourite book, they went on long walks across the countryside - or, well, the gardens of the mansion - often resulting in his scratchy beard against her fair skin.
The people in the Capitol liked her well enough as the new Mrs. Snow. Her husband would watch from afar, both hands cloaked in dark gloves while she smiled in pictures, talked to the curious few, and shook hands with the many. Virgilia had been reminded not to speak as he assumed it unwise to allow her to raise her voice. The stutter, he complained several times, was distracting to the message. Insignificant, he reminded her, was the bonding with those that already loved them. A waste of time, he nudged, and they dragged along.
She wasn't sure when she had fallen out of love with him - or if her heart had simply realised it had never completely fallen for him. When the first months turned into years passed, Coriolanus skipped their mutual walks through the gardens and skipped their nights together. Flattery had turned to mockery. More than ever, her mind moved to different places. Trapped no more here, but there. A different mansion whose rose gardens did not retain the cold white colour, but filled with red and romance. She dug her mind into the books that had kept her company for the past eighteen years at the mansion and the many years preparing such a marriage. They didn't answer the many questions she had about a marriage gone wrong - one unlike the stories she believed to have been truthful.
Of course, he had his endearing moments. Sometimes, at least. When he had time for their walks together, she talked about her knack in jewellery making. How he politely nodded along and kept quiet during her endeavours until abruptly leaving to attend company. Coriolanus rarely spoke then, but she was confident he must have listened along. Over time, advisors came and went, Gamemakers changed every few years, and a few died a mysterious death. Her husband's lips grew redder and his beard more irksome. At times, months passed before he called her to his bedroom. Often, she was unhappy when he did.
The early summer in sixty four was supposed to be no more significant than every other summer. She grew older, her husband managed a country, and the nation celebrated the Hunger Games. Virgilia had rarely bothered to watch. Consequently, it was no surprise that the guest list had been filled with names she recognised on paper, but could not link to a face. Mostly Gamemakers, that she knew, but it had been the extent of her knowledge. Those dinners were not rare, they happened every year, but she had learned to be quiet when sipping her soup. Looking pretty, she knew, had been her purpose.
Before the guests arrived, she had taken the opportunity to speak to her husband - he had claimed to be awfully busy - and reminded her of their often skipped walks around the gardens. Six months at least, she had emphasised, they hadn't been on one together. He still was busy, Coriolanus replied, and they settled in for their guests. Greeting them and shaking hands was the easy part. Pretending like she remembered their names after the initial introduction was the much harder one.
Virgilia had decided to will her hands into returning to their formerly silken appearance that evening. It had not worked before. No one spoke to her, and she knew it was wisest to not immerse herself in things she knew little about. Despite the cosmetic surgeries she had undergone over the years, age always crept through. Such as her hands that carried her wedding ring slipping so easily over her finger. Tendons which stood out as hills across separate valleys with oddly shaped wrinkles following her fingers.
She had forgotten to watch the last year's Games except for its mandatory finale. The name of the victor had long been buried away in her mind, but she knew it was one of the prettier Districts. One or Four, she wasn't sure. He had thrown knives, exceeding the expectations of the last Head Gamemaker and from what she could grasp was that that person, too, was no longer present here. Sometimes, people disappeared, and sometimes she liked to speculate who would be next. Certainly more entertaining than the Games.
View rose from her hands across the table; briefly resting on the bouquet of white roses as its centerpiece. Her husband must have had them plugged this morning. Why did he have little passion for the red ones? Those that were supposed to be gifted to a future partner or a loved one. She had believed the white could become red, that love would come from those, but their marriage had grown as cold and stale as the frost settling on snow. Could red roses ever fix such matters? The white ones rotted away, despite their flawless appearance. Virgilia pondered if the smell had grown past the gardens into this very room from this very bouquet and, ever worse, if it had attached itself to her. Did she smell like that?
Eyes moved away from the bouquet to their living guest list. A chair was empty, but all others had arrived. Two new faces had gathered, and she noted to look for their names later. An obituary in the next months for either of them was not unlikely. There was the new Head Gamemaker, replacing the previous one who had died suddenly. A tragedy, but she had wagered on him. The new one was rounder than the usual visitor, yet it suited his face, making him appear softer and kinder than the pointed sticky faces who had aged terribly and talked in long and exhausting sentences. She had noticed he had looked at her ever so often, which seemed both strange and natural. Men liked to look at her, but it wasn't about looking. Rather, the way he looked at her was what she couldn't quite place. Curiosity? Craving? She recalled he had an important surname, but it slipped from her lips. He would survive this year, that she was certain of, but would he ever enjoy a boring retirement? Unlikely. The second face was the new minister of security. Coriolanus had mentioned him several times already and while he had a face that rivalled the others in its pointiness, he was darker skinned than his neighbours, and didn't speak as if ready to solve the world's problems. Virgilia refused to wager on him, as his seat neighbour had stolen plenty of attention - mostly in the form of sighs from her husband. Never a good sign.
They talked about the economy, or something, and she allowed her mind to flow to other places again, furthered by the spoon stirring in the soup before her eyes.. The thoughts intermingled with flowers and age and love and death and she had not realised that the conversation had turned away from the "excitements" of the trading market. No, they talked about something familiar, and the kind face had proudly held up a metal object.
"You - you make watches?" She asked. Her body trembled from speaking, nails pushing into her skin and trying to keep herself composed. Perhaps his obituary would stir up some movement, but he would be gone all too soon. For now, though, he had captured all her attention. His surname continued to call nothing for her - not that she was good at that sort of topic anyway. Several heads had turned to her - including her top bet. Blank, angered, and curious expressions all at once. They were weary faces who had invited her to dance and chatter with her for formalities' sake, but had never heard her blurt across the table. She had refused to be as impolite - until now.
"I do," the man answered. His hairline had already lost a few inches against his forehead and the blonde hair spotted a few white bits in between. Yet, there was something lovely about the way he moved - confident despite the attention that had been placed on them. He didn't seem to mind her outburst, no, seeming the least angered despite the interruption. As if she had not offended everyone with her rude interruption, "I made this one myself."
He turned the golden pocket watch over to her. The same that ticked away at the time she had disrupted the peace of this conversation. It was plain yet complex. Elegant gears exposed through a transparent glass. Virgilia's bet cleared his throat and it was a now-or-never moment. Her heart pounded in her chest so much she could feel it in her throat and ears. It stirred up her thoughts and rushed through the words she had thought she could ask him. She had never been good at talking, least in a manner that required all words be strung together in the appropriate order before one spoke, but the many pairs of eyes did not help.
"One day .. may you teach me one day, Mr. …. Heavensbee?" she jabbered out. A hopeful and uncertain guess was taken at his name, which did not help her fluttering heart.
The many pairs of eyes turned back to him. A sigh of relief, but she could feel one hardened gaze from her left still there. An apology tonight would be in order. After all, the conversation at the table had paused because of her and she had put pressure on his newest Head Gamemaker. Plutarch Heavensbee, question mark attached, did not seem too bothered as he looked between her and the watch. Then, finally, he spoke: "Certainly. We can discuss a visit after dinner."
She recalled her lips pulling into a faint smile. Her fingers eased the pressure. The taste of roasted hare on her tongue not long after. The voices blurring into one again. Losing herself into wrinkles and age and watches. Watches. Sometimes she looked up from her meal and to him, smiling with such confidence and navigating the conversations so easily. Heavensbee.
He appeared again after dinner with a long dark coat and a time he could free for her. Mr. Heavensbee had asked her a question, too, one her pounding heart had blurred out and her mind had long forgotten by the time he left the mansion.