After a dinner which offered more food than she thinks she's ever seen in her life (that she felt far too sick to indulge in), Embelia finds her way to her bedroom. She barely sleeps a wink in the room that's bigger than her entire home, electing instead to sit on the soft mattress of the bed with her knees pulled close and watch the reapings for the other districts. No one stands out except the standard threats: the career tributes. All imposing, each of them seeming stronger than the last.
As she reaches the outlying districts Embelia begins to wonder if her time would be better spent working on accepting her imminent death. If the tank that leapt forward to volunteer for District Four is any indication, she thinks she may be right.
When she reaches her own reaping, she fast forwards, hoping to find comfort in the weedy tributes sure to come out of District 12. She can't bear to see the fear on her face even as the screen quickly speeds past it. She looks so weak, so frail and frightened. She must look like nothing but meager prey to her opponents.
The sun is peeking through the curtains by the time she turns it off and tries to sleep, still wearing that same linen dress.
She awakens to motion and chatter what must only be an hour later. And by the time she manages to get herself up and tidied a little bit, there's knocking at her door. She looks away from the mirror, in which she's been so carefully avoiding the sight of the heavy bags under her eyes, and frowns.
"Come in," she calls, stepping away from the door a little further. For a second she's almost certain it's just someone coming to get her for breakfast, so when the door opens to reveal her district partner, her frown grows deeper.
"Morning," Korren greets, not stepping inside but leaning against the doorframe with arms folded. "How are you today? I noticed you barely touched dinner."
"Wasn't hungry," she responds shortly, taking a tentative seat on the end of the bed and watching him, wondering if he's here to finally break that kind facade and threaten her life.
Korren chuckles a bit, shortly but still with good natured humour. "Me neither," he says.
"Your plate was filled to the brim," Embelia recalls. He'd eaten like a man starved, though he very clearly wasn't. She had wondered, at the time, how he could possibly stomach it knowing what lay ahead.
"Ah, so you do pay attention! Had us thinking you were totally spaced out. I figured it'd be no help to starve myself, even if I don't feel hungry I usually am."
Embelia doesn't have a response for him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, enough to show she'd paid attention to his statement. He's been analyzing her as much as she has him, she realises.
Korren clears his throat.
"Why are you here?" Embelia finally asks, straightening her spine where she sits and staring right at him. "In my room, I mean."
"Ah!" He stands up from the doorframe, as if remembering what he'd come for. "I wanted to ask if you'd put any more thought into an alliance?"
"Oh. Yeah."
Korren watches her expectantly for a moment, waiting for more. More doesn't come. "Yeah, you've put more thought into it, or yeah, you want the alliance?"
"I've put more thought into it. I haven't decided yet."
"What makes you think you can't trust me, Em?"
Embelia's cold expression falters at the nickname. She hasn't been called Em since elementary, and especially not by anyone she's just met. She takes a moment to school her surprise into neutrality again before responding.
"Nothing. But nothing has made me think I can trust you yet either."
Korren chews visibly on his bottom lip. "Then how can I convince you?"
Embelia glances down as she thinks. What would convince her? Maybe if they hadn't met on their way to a death match she'd trust him a little easier- but even so, she doesn't trust strangers at the best of times.
She doesn't know the answer.
"Give me until after the parade," she says, hoping that her indecision won't be her demise. "I'll have an answer."
Korren's handsome grin returns to his face and he nods eagerly. "You got it- I'll dazzle you then. Come get some breakfast, we should be arriving soon!"
When they arrive in the Capitol they're given only a moment to marvel at its majesty through the train windows before they reach a station crowded by screaming Capitolites. They're given no time to take this newfound stardom in before they're being ushered through to a car, shouts for attention ringing in their ears. Then, they're driven through the Capitol streets to where they'll be prepared for the parade. All the while, Embelia can see the hoards of people crammed onto the sides of the road, desperate to catch just a glimpse. She watches them with increasing levels of horror.
The closer they get to the inner city, the stranger they look. And she thought Narcisse was the strangest she'd ever see.
Once inside, she's split up from Korren and taken to be prepared. She's poked, prodded, and watered down over and over again. As the hair is ripped for her legs and armpits, she starts to feel more and more like a prized hog being trussed up for auction. New stylists come through every so often, each stranger than the last.
As a young man with sharpened teeth and stark white skin undoes her braids, he gasps. She worries he's found something bad or shocking, but when she glances up at him, he seems amazed.
"Is this all your real hair?"
Embelia blinks at him with a frown. She doesn't understand the question. Does he think it's a wig, like Narcisse wears?
"Yes," she eventually answers, trying not to sound as confused as she feels.
She wishes he would stop undoing the tightly woven braids, especially so roughly. She's used to the pulling, her mother does the same to make sure it's tight and secure. But this man runs his fingers between her thick curls as he releases them. She feels as though he's tearing at it, ripping the strands as his fingers pull through them. She wonders, in that moment. why he would choose to work with District 11 if he doesn't know what to do with the coily hair that so many of its residents have.
She hates that this strange man is pulling on her hair, taking out the braids so carefully woven by her mother. She wraps her arms around her torso as subtly as she can while her loose hair is brushed, trying to protect herself.
Then, there's another round of wax - supposedly to clear all the dead skin. She doesn't understand who'll be looking that closely at her legs from a chariot, but she doesn't argue, gritting her teeth and baring it. Then, after what feels like hours of torture and empty congratulations, she's left alone. In a cold and sterile room, laid out on a table as though she's going to be dissected. She hates that even when she closes her eyes, the harsh fluorescents of the lights push past her eyelids, giving her no respite from the colours that flash across her vision.
She hears the door open and looks over, slowly moving to sit up. She adjusts the thin gown she wears so she doesn't feel so exposed before looking up to greet the new stylist. With their position, she expects them to be the strangest looking, most surgically altered Capitol weirdo yet. But what she sees appears to be a normal face, only… she can't tell if they're a man or a woman.
Their face is so impossibly androgynous that even looking at their choice in outfit - a decadent black gown - doesn't give any clues. If Embelia's mother had never taught her manners she might just ask, but she fears upsetting them and being made to look like a fool. Maybe they're neither, she's heard the Capitol's eccentricities extend far beyond just their fashion choices.
She supposes it doesn't really matter, there are stranger things about this place than the gender of her stylist.
They approach her with a friendly smile and hold out a well manicured hand, which Embelia shakes politely.
"Such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hackett, my name is Dorian."
The name doesn't provide her with any conclusive answer either.
"I like your dress," Embelia says truthfully. "Did you design it?"
"I did!" Dorian nods, releasing her hands and playfully touching the sharp points on the shoulders of their gown, which look akin to a butterfly's wings. "If you like this, you'll love what I have planned for you. Now, this next part should be easier, all we have to do is make you beautiful- and that face of yours has done all the work for us."
Embelia laughs a bit. It feels like the first she's done so since the moment her name was called yesterday. "If you think so."
"I do," they say, gesturing for her to stand up. "Now come on, let's get you out of this dreadful thing!"
After what must be a few more hours of hair, makeup, and several alterations- apparently she's not the size they anticipated - Embelia emerges into a large chamber feeling like she's wearing someone else's face. It's still her, she knows - a woman in the mirror couldn't be that good at mimicking her facial expressions - but she just doesn't look quite like herself.
She makes her way over to the second to last chariot lined up slowly, trying her best to walk in the shoes she'd been given, tossing some hair over her shoulder as she went. Her curls are out in full force, half of hair pulled up into a ponytail on top of her head that frames her face like a waterfall. Dorian follows behind her, fretting over little details of her outfit and scolding her for touching her hair.
Embelia mumbles a silent apology as they stand in front of her, readjusting her curls. She wonders how they know so much about how hair should look when their own is buzzed off and dyed in mosaic patterns.
She has to admit, though, Dorian does seem to know fashion- at least better than some of the other stylists. While the tributes behind her are stuck, once more, in skimpy orange that makes them stand uncomfortably trying to cover themselves, Embelia really does think her outfit is beautiful. Dorian has put her in a muted pastel orange gown, the soft chiffon silk of its bodice is pleated intricately around her torso. It makes her look as though she sits inside a fruit blossom, like a honeybee taking a break in its quest for pollen. The soft fabric flows down to the floor- the waxing of her legs had truly been an unnecessary torture after all - and floats around her feet. For all their curiosities, Dorian has quite the vision. She wonders why such a talented designer is still working on her district.
She glances around as Dorian fluffs up her skirt, muttering to themselves as they do, and her gaze meets piercing brown. Looking right at her from near the front of the chamber is the girl from District One. She wears a baby pink gown, with great feathered sleeves and a seductive slit in the leg. She's gorgeous, Embelia thinks, with golden blond locks in sleek waves flowing down her back.
The moment she realises Embelia has met her eye, she smiles. It's predatory, like Embelia is a gazelle frozen before a vicious, beautiful lioness. They stare each other down until the girl is tugged away by her mentor and last year's victor, Augustus Braun. She hears him say something about focusing, not wasting time scaring non-threats and she almost wants to scoff.
How should he know? Embelia has a year on him- and he has no idea about her. Maybe she is a non threatening gazelle to a lioness, but a gazelle isn't stupid either. When Braun glances back, Embelia glares.
"Spooky," comes the sudden voice of Korren. Embelia almost jumps, looking around to see him approaching with his own stylist. He wears a sheer white button down, decorated with flowing orange pleats similar to the ones on Embelia's dress, only brighter. "Trying to scare them off?"
Embelia frowns at him. "He called me a non-threat."
Korren's eyebrows shoot up, and he glances up to the front for a moment before back at Embelia. "Braun? He must be even more of an airhead than I thought then."
Embelia manages a dry chuckle, shaking her head at him. "Flattery won't convince me, Korren."
He leans back against the chariot with a charming grin. "I mean it! You're clearly not an idiot, in fact I'd even go so far as to say you're clever."
Embelia can't help but be amused by him, breaking into a small laugh. "Wow, thank you, that's high praise."
Korren's lips quirk a bit at the sound of her laughter, his eyes crinkling around the edges and making Embelia's heart skip a beat. "You look great, by the way."
"Thank you, it's mostly Dorian," she dismisses, hoping the makeup she wears is hiding the pink rushing to her cheeks. "You look good too."
"Yeah?" He looks down at his own outfit, playing with the white chain hanging from his belt loop. "We kinda match. Narcisse is gonna love it."
"The matching is all intentional," Dorian interrupts, pointing to Korren's stylist, who stands silent and stoic by the chariot. "Duchess and I worked very hard to coordinate our designs- some stylists can't say the same." They glance pointedly over to District Six, where the two young tributes wear almost completely different outfits.
"So unprofessional," Duchess mutters, shaking his head.
Korren and Embelia's eyes meet, the two amused by their quiet judgments.
"Looks like everyone's almost here!" Narcisse's eager squeak is unmistakable as she hurries over. "Oh! Just look at you two! Such visions!"
She leans in to kiss the air by their cheeks one at a time, holding Korren by the shoulders for a moment with a pleased sigh. "How lucky we all are. Now, remember, big smiles! Make sure they see your pride, a united pair from District 11. Ready?"
The two teenagers nod silently. Korren offers a hand to help Embelia up into the chariot, which she takes silently - making Narcisse squeal again despite that she releases it almost instantly.
Before they know it, the horses begin to carry them forward. Embelia looks back at Narcisse as she waves them off proudly.
"Good luck," Korren whispers. Embelia looks forward as the end of the tunnel grows closer.
As they emerge into the shining Capitol lights with the national anthem blaring in their ears, she gives him the answer he so desperately wants and reaches to take his hand, lacing their fingers.
Finally getting to the good stuff! Thank you for reading and especially to those of you reviewing, I'm hoping to get a few more chapters out before uni starts this year! Leave a review and let me know what you thought, or come chat with me in verses! I'd love an ear to ramble to.