When he'd walked to his Capitol provided suite, Haymnitch Abbernanthy had expected to step inside, open a fresh bottle of wine, and drink himself into the ground. He'd done this after every opening ceremony for the Games. It was a feeble attempt to wash from his mind the two teenage tributes he annually failed to save, to wash their faces away in a flood of alcohol, spittle and tears.
He'd hadn't ever succeeded. Every year the same thing would happen. He would wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, and his new charges face's forever etched into the back of his mind. The alcohol never made him forget. That didn't mean he was about to stop trying. Whispers of rebellion plans tickled at the back of his mind. Other victors had tried to get him involved for years, to help them organize and plan to overthrow the government that chained them.
Years ago he'd of followed them without hesitation, eager to fight back. Now his spirit was crushed, and he was grounded in realism. No rebellion would ever work. All attempts to fight back had been obliterated. And all future ones would be as well.
What he hadn't expected was to find his door already ajar, propped open with a shimmering green wine bottle. Arching a brow, Haymitch picked it up. The label was in Greek, which he understood at once. His mind was programmed that way.
"Wine God's Revelry" it translated to English. Beneath the label an Omega symbol was stamped in silver type. It was his favorite drink. From the wine cellar of Dionysus himself. Sighing, Haymitch rubbed his temples furiously. He hadn't been expecting a visit from his mother any time soon. She hadn't shown herself in front of him for ten years. They'd had a shouting match, like they usually did when she came around.
Well, he had shouted anyway. His mother, being the picture perfect wisdom goddess that she was, had sat their calmly, face coolly collected as he bellowed his hatred of her and the other gods right in her face. The gods deserved all the hatred they could get. Even she couldn't deny that.
"The gods do not support these games, son, or the dilapidated state of society" she'd told him in a level voice, the beginning of the same speech she always gave him. The gray eyes she'd passed to him bored into his skull, as if they were trying to influence his mind directly. "But it is forbidden for gods to interfere directly in the affairs of mortals. The shifting of human history must be left to human choices, and to the fates. We immortals can nudge you in the right direction, push the situation back and forth, but we cannot interfere. Leave fate to fate, Haymitch. Find what happiness you can in this world. Things will right themselves eventually. Just as they always do."
With that she always left him, with a kiss on the forehead and a simple goodbye.
The speech did nothing to alleviate his rage. It never did. Her words were a poor excuse at best for the god's lack of action. They could push things in the right direction, could they? Well, no gods he knew had ever tried. Most of the gods kept to themselves in Olympus, reveling in their power and riches while the mortals below them suffered. No, Athena's apolgies and explinations would never sway him. She wasn't his mother. She was an immortal hag, just as deserving of hatred as any of her fellows.
Thankfully he'd trained himself to tune her speech out over the years. He could sit there, let the words wash over him, and get back to drinking like he'd intended. Firming his grip on the bottle, Haymitch took a quick step forward and kicked the door open.
"Trying to bribe yourself into my good graces again, mo-" he began, stopping midsentence at the sight of the couple sitting by the window.
They looked up at his arrival. One of them, a man with a shaggy black mane and eyes green like the sea, held up another bottle of Revelry. A tiny smile crossed his lips.
"Care for a drink, Haymitch?" he called cheerfully. "Old man D says it's your favorite. Vintage, two-thousand fourteen. A good year for wine, he says. Would you mind talking to us for a minute?"
His companion, a woman with golden blonde curls that fell past her shoulders and stormy gray eyes that dubbed her Haymitch's half-sister, nodded her agreement. She held a small leather book, and flexed it nervously in her fingers.
"Please, Mr. Abbernanthy. We'd like to help."
Haymitch stared at them. Though he'd never met them before, he knew they were gods. He could tell. They gave off auras of powerful energy that crackled and sparked invisibly in the air around them. For some reason, gods had come to visit him of all people.
Kicking the door shut behind him, the drunken victor uncorked his bottle and took a long draft. A cavalcade of sweet and spicy tastes exploded on the tongue. Every bit as good as nectar, without the risk of burning you up.
"What do you want?" he snapped angrily, eyes narrowing. He turned to the blonde goddess. "Did our mother send you here?"
"No" she said honestly. "We came of our own accord, Haymitch. My name is Ann-"
"I know who you are" he cut her off harshly. "You're Annabeth, daughter of Athena and Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, the dead half-bloods they made gods thirty years ago." He sneered, and his tone became thick and condescending. "Did you get bored of the heavens, come down to play with the little people? Well piss off, both of you. We've got no use for gods down here."
"Please, Haymitch" Percy said firmly. The fidgeting of his fingers gave away his nerves. Charismatic manipulations weren't his strong point. "We're here to help you." A long silence fell over the room.
A dark chuckle rose in Haymitch's throat. It came out as a spluttering cough, which he remedied with another swig of wine.
"Help?" he sneered. "Now why on earth would you want to do that? Thought gods weren't allowed to help us mortals. We have to do things for ourselves, don't we? And besides, even if gods could help, we all know they wouldn't. They don't give a flying fuck about us. They've made that perfectly clear." Another swig.
"We're different" said Percy. He and Annabeth exchanged a look. "We understand what you're feeling, Haymitch. We were mortals too, once. Yeah, gods aren't supposed to interfere, and we're really pushing the line just by talking to you, but we hate what this world's become just as much as you do."
"This year things are going to change" Annabeth picked up where he left off. "Your tributes stand a far greater chance than they did in the pa-"
"Those kids stand as much of a chance as they always do" Haymitch growled, wine flecking from his mouth as he spoke. "None! The District two boy's an Ares kid. A trained swordsman. District five girl's Hermes, and there's definitely others as well. District twelve doesn't stand a chance."
"Both your tributes are half-bloods this year" Percy told him. "A mixed blood and an Aphrodite boy."
"Yeah, what of it?" Haymitch barked, gulping down the last of the wine and chucking the bottle aside. He'd been able to guess that on the train. The air the kids had about them, the way their eyes moved, he knew at once they were demigods. "Their blood doesn't mean anything. They're just gonna lose and die just like all the others. Nothing's gonna change that…" he trailed off and walked to the dresser, from which he pulled a fresh bottle. He always had a steady supply ready.
"Katniss has a destiny, Haymitch" said Percy. He felt really awkward trying to talk like a god, with controlled, meaningful sentences that carried a sense of command, yet talking normally felt just as off. "The great prophecy is coming to pass, and she's at the center of it. Peeta too, though I'm not sure how much."
That was what stopped the victor dead in his tracks. He froze, and the new wine bottle slipped from his grip, shattering on the floor. Gods were something he didn't trust at all. Prophecy on the other hand was another story. Prophecies spoke with definitive truth. Once spoken, they would always come true, even if you did everything within your power to stop it. Sometimes trying to stop it was what caused it in the first place. Fate was coy little bastard like that. Unlike the words of a god, prophecies actually had weight to them. And when Haymitch was a child, he'd spent a decent amount of time with a harpy who'd memorized prophecies like they were the alphabet, spouting them at random in bits and pieces. He remembered all of them, he had a very good memory, especially for things like that. Though the pieces he knew were scattered, collected from a number of prophecies, including the great one, loosely collected in the mind of a harpy.
"A maiden born of sun and shrub."
"The Healer cracks a heart of stone, an instinct forged into his bone."
"Wed in chains, the maiden is bound. In the fires of rebellion, a new resolve is found."
"A game of gods rages across every plane. Beasts, fanged and clawed rise to torment the sane."
"A babe born of battle, destined to lead. The future of a people so newly freed."
"A single arrow seals a tyrants fall. And in the end, His love will conquer all."
These and others echoed across the landscape of his mind. There was a time in his life when he'd spent the majority of his time pouring over old Greek and Roman tomes, searching for anything that might have helped him discern the prophecy's meaning. He'd researched past great prophecies, The Cursed Blade, The Seven and the Doors of Death. They'd been interesting enough stories, tales of demigod heroes who'd journeyed across the North American continent to battle the titans, the unifying of the Greek and Roman demigods to battle the giants, but they hadn't provided him with any sort of cipher or "this is what the vague prophetic words mean, do this, save world" instructions. Yes, these half-bloods turned gods had definitely piqued his interests. If the great prophecy was truly coming true, then perhaps the foolish rebellion dreams of his youth would turn out to be worthwhile after all.
Looking up from the shattered wine bottle, Haymitch narrowed his eyes critically.
"Is it now? How, exactly? What parts do they play in the prophecy?" he'd spent years thinking these things out. He knew the right questions to ask.
"She's the maiden" Annabeth answered. "That we know for certain. Peeta…were not sure what lines refer to him, but he is involved. Percy's seen him in his dreams, with Katniss, and fire. Lots and lots of fire." A smirking tug pulled at Haymitch's lips. The fires of rebellion. That was exactly what he wanted to hear. The dreams of gods were thrice as volatile as a half-bloods. They showed flashes of the future, of what was to come. "With everything else we can only wait and see what happens. But if her destiny indicates anything, it's that Katniss gets out of the Games alive."
"And Peeta will…do something" Percy finished, rather ineloquently, Haymitch noticed. Apparently they didn't give speech classes to initiate gods. Oh well. "Either before or during the games. But that doesn't matter right now. What matters now it whether or not we'll let us help you. We can't do a lot, there are rules against that, but we can help. If you'll let us." There was a sense of pleading in his gaze Haymitch had never thought to see from a God. Though he'd deny it if you asked, he felt a flash of empathy for the god of heroes. Those eyes weren't the eyes of a god drunk with power. Those were the eyes of a man, desperate to help his race.
"What can you do?" he asked.
Annabeth produced a small glass bottle and set it on the bedside table.
"That's a bottle of nectar. Peeta and Katniss don't know they're half-bloods. We'll have to tell her eventually, but the nectar will still work. Slip it to them in a sponsor parachute. In small doses, unless it's medicine your sending. Snow will know something is up when a bowl of soup somehow helps them regenerate muscle or skin." Haymitch nodded. A plan spoken like a true child of Athena. Approached from all sides, with room left in case of setbacks. Very wise indeed.
From behind his chair Percy pulled a silver bow, simply crafted, but well-made looking.
"This is a bow Apollo made himself. He's Katniss' grandfather. He asked that I get it to her….he wants to help, in his own way at least. Slip this into the cornucopia with the rest of the equipment. I didn't bring any arrows. Celestial bronze and Imperial gold will be mostly useless, so she'll have to use the Capitol's ammunition." He tossed the bow onto the bed, which the Avox servants had made fresh with pure white sheets. Percy continued, that same look of heroic conviction shining in those green irises. "During the games I'll be following her. Invisible. Just to see if there are any loopholes I can take advantage of to help her." He exchanged another look with his wife. "We're commited to this a hundred percent, Haymitch. We want you to know that. Your help is invaluable to us. You're a smart man, and I know if anyone can get that girl through the Games, it's you. We'll check back in with you after the Gamemaker evaluations, alright?" Haymitch waved him off.
"Yeah, yeah…I get it. Check in when you want. Now get out. And leave the Revelry. It needs drinking."
Wearing hopeful smiles, the godly couple disappeared with a loud pop.
Snatching up the green bottle, Haymitch slumped back on his bed and took a long draft. Dear gods he was tired.
Already he'd gained a grudging respect for these gods. They were unlike their counterparts, that was for certain. They demonstrated a genuine concern for the state of the world, which was wonderful. But that didn't mean he wanted to listen to them heap praise on him or blather on about nothing. A plan had already begun to form in his mind. A way to get the girl all the sponsorship she needed to survive. She would hate it, but she'd probably end up taking it out on the baker boy. Haymitch could live with that. For the first time in ages genuine hope kindled in the aged victors heart. The great prophecy was coming true. Maybe there was hope for the world after all. Maybe things could finally change.
The first three chapters have been WAY shorted than my chapters usually are, and for that I apologize. These first three have just sort of been setting the stage for the rest of the story, and kind of had to stand on their own to frame the narrative right. I promise, the next chapters are going to be at least five to seven thousand words a piece. Promise. Depending on the response, I may update this tomorrow or the next day, assuming I can squeeze in updating my other story. Happy reading! Please Review!