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Chapter 6: Westley
The Snows were known for their indulgences.
Ascension Snow, patriarch of the dynasty, held lavish feasts of spoiling food and whores from each district. Meanwhile, his people starved.
Praevalia Snow wore her inauguration crown heavy with One's finest everywhere she went, including the battlefield. It was not found with her body.
Quirinus Snow, in his death, called for his two favorite concubines to be buried with him. Alive.
Sciocca Snow was no exception.
Cousin to Little Mandy, the bubbly teen enjoyed life to the fullest. Parties, dresses, boyfriends, drugs. Hedonism was Sciocca. She would not let the deaths of her aunt and father, a war, reconstruction of the entire nation, or the annual slaughter of children get in the way of her duties. Her priorities were set. She had a legacy to uphold.
Her greatest addiction was the Victors.
While she hated the Games (gore so wasn't fash), she loved what they produced. Gorgeous, stalwart men of glory. Every Victor had the pleasure to be in the company of the royal teen. To a performance hall of the greats or a soiree with the elites, the boys were her to claim. No one elses, no, no. You never shared your favorite toys.
Most preferred was Westley Seabrooks. The son of a war refugee and dockmaster, he was the sophistication of One with the ruggedness of Four. A beautiful mix. His father's pay with his mother's stash allowed him a life of privilege. He could dance with the best. Dress to impress. Laugh about the Games. And most importantly, knew a salad fork from a fruit fork. The looks and grace of a true Victor. Many a Capitolite mistaken him for one of their own.
Sciocca adored him. Never had she seen such a wonder. When he won his Games, she did not see a shell-shocked boy covered in blood trying to attack a hovercraft. She saw a man. Normally, she would send for them after they were prettied up for the interviews. This time, the eighteen year old just had to see her Victor. He was chatting with the best of them before his numerous surgeries, Sciocca tight on his bad arm.
Rumors flew about the two of them, the wildest involving a forced abortion from her own cousin. Westley casted them away with a gentleman's wave. Sciocca laughed them off. She never slept with her boys. They were District. She was Capitol. Simply heinous. Though the hellion of the Snow family held a peculiar secret: she was saving herself for marriage. Unheard of in the Capitol. Not even her suitors knew. One too many bedtime stories of dead maidens and warriors fueled the fantasy of meeting her knight in shining armor. The attention, meanwhile, was much welcomed.
His colleagues weren't fans.
Brilliance envied him. Who was he to steal his glory? He only had one year!
District Two found him pretentious. They found everything pretentious.
Enrique found him unappreciative. The boy was his Tribute and not a thanks was given.
Jordano hated him. He was everything he stood against. Pretty. Manipulative. From Paradiso Bay. Blanco. Mixed breed. It was one thing to play the Games. It was another to play Victor. A conspirator. A traitor. The man would have nothing to do with the junior. Being bailed out of debtor's prison didn't count.
None of this mattered to Westley. He won the Games. 'A life of fame and fortune,' Enrique reminded them each year. 'Of prosperity and power.' He was doing such that. More importantly, he had business to do. The Capitol held immense opportunities, beyond the ones Enrique yapped about and Jordano abused. There was something deeper, stronger. Useful. Westley didn't understand it, nor did he know what they were. But he saw them. Understudying his father's business was behind him. He was a Victor now. Might as well make the most of it. When in the Capitol. It's a wonder the others didn't. Too simple-minded probably.
His favorite part of his new status was an unexpected one. He met him at one of Sciocca's mindless parties. Escaping the clutches of the rabid girl, Westley stumbled into the one area of the Snow Estate he hadn't explored. The rose gardens were enormous, swallowing most of the backyard. He lost himself in the beautiful maze. Flowers big as maces, spiked vines long as whips. A little cherub robed in cream sat perched on a bench admiring one rose whiter than his namesake.
"Daddy was an avid gardener," he spoke without looking up. Westley stopped in his tracks. The alcohol dulled his senses. He felt like a trespasser. "Don't worry. My sister hates the gardens. They depress her. You're safe with me."
Westley tiptoed to the blond and sat beside him. Conversation stroke. The boy talked of politics, regulations, the Dark Days, the Games, how silly he found his cousin. Topics unusual for his age. The child was wise beyond his years.
"Amandus is completely incompetent." He plucked rather roughly from the flower.
A Venus flytrap to its prey. "Oh? Do tell. Our president is rather stupid."
"It's true," he plucked another petal from the flower. "He would rather use alcohol and Bliss with Sciocca than do his duties. Thank goodness we have Tarpeia."
If only he had a notepad. These were family secrets just spilling away! "Big words for an twelve-year-old. What makes you qualified to make these claims kiddo?"
"The same qualifications that allows a fish boy to be in my presence."
The Victor coughed in his handkerchief.
The now naked stem is tossed to the side to be replaced by another. "A poinsettia," the boy admired to large plant. "Native to your district."
Westley nodded.
The boy stared off into the moon, twisting and breaking the delicate petals with deliberate fingers. "I'm going to rule Panem one day."
Westley nearly choked on his spit. He didn't dare ask how. The boy looked at the teen and laughed. Westley joined in, having the good sense not to question why.
"I like you. Much better than the others." Tiny eyes gleamed in the night as teeth formed a smile. "You're now my friend."
Westley fumbled with an answer, eventually stuttering out a thank you. The blond placed the ruined poinsettia in his lap and hopped his way off.
The Victor stared at the boy in cream. "Thank you, Corionalus. For your friendship."
The serene noble turned around and answered with the same toothy grin. "Don't thank me. Thank yourself. Friend." Corionalus faded into the dark, leaving the perplexed teen alone in the gardens. For a few seconds. Already, he could hear the mad screams of his drunken companion.
This friendship would prove most useful to Westley. And Corionalus.
