By all accounts, Chrysanta Hackett was a broken woman, a husk of the optimistic young maid she'd been some 18 years ago. She had nothing left, nothing but her daughter Embelia, her pride and her joy. So to see her girl, her only family and her only friend, walk onto that podium to what was surely her death, destroys anything that was left of her. She wails, falling onto her knees on the gravel ground of the square.
And as she steps onto the platform, the only thing Embelia can hear over the ringing of her ears is her mother's anguished wail. And when no one claps, and no one dares to volunteer, it's all anyone else can hear too. Bay rushes through the crowd to get to Chrysanta, crouching beside her and trying to calm her before the peacekeepers have her removed- he doesn't know what cause they'd have, but after what they'd done to him yesterday he wouldn't put it past them to punish a terrified mother.
This wasn't supposed to happen, Embelia thinks as her fellow tribute is picked. This was supposed to be her final year. The escort was supposed to call out another name, Embelia was supposed to feel bad for the poor girl and then go home to help her mother to fix up Bay's back. It was meant to be her last year and then she could put the worry of it behind her. Now all she can do is wish the escort had moved her hand just the slightest bit in another direction. Her heartbeat is deafening in her ears as her arm is lifted into the air before her entire district. She searches for her mother in the crowd, but she can't find her.
A peacekeeper grabs her by the arm to lead her into the justice building, a little too rough to be comfortable.
"I can walk," she mumbles, voice sounding distant in her own ears. He doesn't let go. She's not so gently taken into an empty room in the building, and left alone. The room, upon first impressions, seems nice, and awfully fancy. But while she waits for what comes next, Embelia notices that the velvet chaise has been eaten at by moths, the patterned wallpaper is peeling at the edges and in the room's corners. The curtains that hang from the windows, also velvet, are caked in a thick layer of dust that leaves their red colour dull and graying. The window is dusty too, a thick, dust storm sort of dust that Embelia's sure wouldn't come off no matter how hard someone tried. The room hadn't been redecorated or even deep cleaned since the building was erected, she surmises. Her mother would tut disapprovingly at it.
The door opens with creaking hinges, and Embelia turns her face from the musty curtains. Chrysanta walks in, tears streaking the dark brown skin of her cheeks. Her lip is wobbling, and new tears brim in her eyes when she catches sight of Embelia.
"Ma…"
Chrysanta steps up to her, smoothing back a flyaway hair like she'd done before they left the house just an hour earlier. "Let me take you in," she whispers, trailing her hand down to hold Embelia's cheeks, round and full like her mothers despite her malnourishment. She'd always said it was baby fat that had never melted away. She rubs her thumbs over her cheekbones, sniffling. "My sweet girl. Promise you'll try? You'll try to win, you'll come back to me?"
"I- I will, Ma," Embelia stammers, grabbing a gentle hold of her mother's wrists and lowering her hands, lacing their fingers. "Don't lose hope. I'll come back. I'll try to win."
She squeezes her hands, giving her a shaky smile. Chrysanta's tears spill from red rimmed eyes, and she nods. She pulls her daughter, several inches taller than her, into her arms, holding her a little too tight. Her body shakes.
"I'm clever," Embelia says, perhaps more to herself than to her mother. "I'm clever, mama, I could win. Don't give up on me, I'll come home to you."
Chrysanta doesn't respond. She holds her in silence, inhaling deeply, squeezing her a bit. She's trying to commit her to memory, Embelia realizes. Even though she taught her all she knew, made sure she knew which plants were edible, and which plants were medicinal, taught her how to survive when the world would so gladly let her die… She's too broken to find the hope of seeing her daughter again.
Embelia supposes she isn't in any place to judge. How is she to know what her mother is feeling, when she's lost so much and now could lose her daughter? She'll never know how that feels- she'll never understand her mother's hope in that way.
Then comes the screaming hinges of the door again, followed by the muffled, gruff voice of the peacekeeper stationed outside. "Time's up."
Embelia glances up at his masked face with a poorly concealed scowl. "Go on, Ma," she encourages quietly, prying her mother's arms from around her. She lets go, though it's clear she wishes she didn't have to.
"Come back home to me, my flower," Chrysanta whispers, stepping away from her and heading toward the doorway, flinching away when the peacekeeper reaches for her shoulder to guide her out. Embelia listens to her footsteps recede.
She hears another pair of footsteps approaching, before they're stopped by the peacekeeper. She frowns, wondering who else might be there to visit her. She cranes her neck to see out of the open door but can only see the back of the peacekeeper's white uniform.
"I'm her father." She hears.
She doesn't have a father, never has- but the peacekeeper doesn't know any better, so he steps aside and Bay enters the room. The door closes behind him, and Embelia meets his eye.
"You lied," she says, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "To see me."
"It was half a lie," Bay says, coming up and pulling her into a warm hug. Even in the sweltering heat, Embelia is thankful for it. She tries not to hear him wince at the pain of the movement. "I'll take care of your mother," he assures her quietly after a moment.
"Thank you," she whispers, voice breaking. She had to be strong before her mother, to make it easier for her. She feels that with Bay, she can be strong no longer. "I probably won't come back…"
She doesn't mind admitting it now. For her mother, she had to give her some assurance so she wouldn't break what was left of the fragile woman. But the truth she knows is that she's weak, starved, and ninety pounds soaking wet. Smarts would only take her so far, she would never be strong enough to defeat the beasts that had surely entered from the career districts.
"No," says Bay. "I don't believe that. You're much too clever to die. And very strong."
Maybe Bay doesn't know her as well as she thought he did.
She sniffles. "Sure."
She's released from his embrace, and she resists following him. She doesn't want to be let go.
"I wanted to give you this," he says, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a weathered looking bracelet woven from brown leather. "As a token. To remind you of what's waiting for you here."
She takes it in as he holds it out to her, taking it gingerly from his hands as if it were made from the finest jewels. It's small, much too small for Bay's wrists.
"My son made it," he explains. "As a gift for me, when he was a boy. It never fit me, but it might fit you."
"Your son?" Embelia looks up at his face, grey eyes wide with wonder. He never ever spoke of his son. "No, I couldn't-"
"Take it, Embelia. When you win, you can return it to me."
"If," she mumbles. "Big if."
"When."
She frowns, and he takes it from her calloused hands, slipping it onto her wrist and pulling it tight, so it won't fall off. It fits perfectly. The doorknob turns, and Bay presses a kiss to Embelia's forehead, whispering to her that he'll see her soon before he steps away and leaves without having to be told.
Embelia watches him go, then looks to the peacekeeper, who watches her, as if he's waiting for her to be ready. She's thankful for the kindness, however small.
"That's everyone," she says, voice barely loud enough to be heard.
The peacekeeper nods, gesturing for her to follow, through the justice building and onto the train platform attached. The train waits for her, doors wide open. The train, sleek and well kept, is the shiniest thing she's ever seen… she's sure it was just a taste of the Capitol's finery. She can hardly imagine the rest of it.
She steps in through the doors, looking around in wonder at the lavishly decorated cart. As she looks around, she catches sight of a boy, sitting stiffly on one of the lush sofas. Her district partner.
He stands up to greet her when he sees her enter, approaching her with a friendly smile. He has several inches of height on her, and looks well built, enough to fill out his button up cotton shirt. A stark white compared to the worn cream colour of Embelia's once white dress. He must be wealthy, at least enough to eat often and to have new clothes.
"Hi," he greets, holding a hand out to her. His hand feels big as Embelia shakes it, almost enveloping hers. Big and warm, less calloused than hers… she's never seen him before, perhaps he doesn't work in her area? Perhaps even he lives on the other side of the district, where she's never had reason to venture. "You're Embelia? I'm Korren Gray!"
Korren Gray. She hadn't been able to hear his name called earlier for the ringing in her ears. She nods, words escaping her.
Korren laughs a bit at her shaky nod. He seems confident, awfully confident for his current situation. He must be a good liar, Embelia notes.
"I'm nervous too, but I talk nonstop when I'm nervous," he says, a failing attempt to put her at ease. When Embelia still doesn't speak, wide eyes boring into him, he clears his throat.
Embelia blinks.
"Yeah," she manages.
Korren nods, a little awkward but otherwise undeterred. "I guess we're opposites in that regard... I look forward to working with you anyway, Embelia."