The next day, Embelia spends hours working on how to present herself with Narcisse and Seeder– Narcisse marvels that she's a quick study, much better than she'd anticipated from an outlying district. She supposes her mother is to thank for that. While Chrysanta didn't quite teach her Capitol standard etiquette, she's been taught to hold her head high and her back straight. She's not sure she wants to be so good at this, though. She doesn't want to be anything like the weaklings of this city, with their soft beds and horrible fashion. But she understands all too well that she needs them to like her if she has any chance of surviving this.
Countless hours of work bring her to the day of the interviews, where she stands before a decadent mirror while Dorian puts the finishing touches into her curly hair, a crown of blossoms. She wears a tiered blue and white dress that falls to her shins, the soft chiffon pleated just as her parade dress had been. She can see herself in the mirror, and she doesn't look like such a stranger this time.
She wears makeup, but it's soft and only highlights her features rather than carving a new face into them. Dorian has outdone themselves again, while she's certain a number of her opponents will look like circus clowns, Embelia simply looks like herself, in a pretty dress.
She plucks up the quiet courage to ask, "Do I match with Korren again?"
Dorian beams, and nods proudly. "You bet your pretty little cheeks you do! Now get those on, I've made them shorter since you were struggling with the last pair."
Embelia watches as the boy with sharp teeth and stark white skin hands her the shoes, a pair of simple heeled sandals, a deep blue to match her dress. Her hand brushes over his as she takes them, and she notices how clearly she can see his veins through his skin, translucent like a worn down muslin cloth. She dreads to think it may be intentional, and she's suddenly very thankful that the Capitol folks she spends the most time with have such little surgical enhancement, and almost seem normal in comparison.
She buckles up the shoes, finding it easier to walk in them with Narcisse's tough regime of training over the last day, and she's led out to wait backstage with the others. First she finds Seeder and Narcisse– the latter about faints when she sees her – but she's only looking for Korren. When she spots him approaching with Chaff and Duchess, she can't help her big grin.
As promised, he matches her handsomely. He wears a tailored white suit, splotches of blue watercolour decorating it in patterns shaped vaguely like blossoms. He smiles that big smile when he spots Embelia, stopping before her and spinning in place, showing the outfit off.
"You look good," Embelia says, suddenly feeling shy. He looks better than good, he looks astonishing. Combined with his charisma, and his impressive score, he's sure to win the love of the crowd. And, really, she should despise him for it. But she tries for a moment, and she can't come close.
He laughs, gesturing toward her dress. "You look better!"
Embelia's heart pounds, and any stammered attempt at a response is saved by Seeder directing them further down the hall.
"This is where we leave you," she says. "The stage crew will direct you from here. Do your best, okay?"
"Don't embarrass us," says Chaff, so strikingly sober that Embelia can only just smell the remainders of the booze on his clothes. "Or I'm out of a job."
Korren gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up as they're led away by a young man in a headset. He matches Embelia's careful pace, looking at her with a more subdued smile. "I like your hair," he says quietly. "The flowers, like a crown. Like you're really confident in winning."
Embelia's flustered expression quickly recedes when she's reminded of the future, and she barely manages a smile. She's sure he didn't mean to imply anything, but she can't help but think of the daunting possibility of killing him. As they find some of their peers lined up to begin, she discovers District 2's stylists had a similar idea. Venus and Cassius stand in striking golden outfits with leaves of gold woven into their dark hair like a crown.
She catches Venus' eye, and she's glad when she doesn't make any attempt at a smile because she doesn't think she could manage one in return. She's too busy looking at the almost sheer dress Venus is in anyway. It leaves little to the imagination, and it makes Embelia feel for poor Venus, who she knows prefers to stand on her strength and prowess rather than her looks.
"Oh!" She hears suddenly, turning to see Emerald and Plaid approaching them. "You look gorgeous," says Emerald. She's wearing a lilac purple dress that's utterly covered in soft and flowy feathers, still with a slit in the leg to show off her golden tanned skin. "The colours suit you, can you believe my stylist put me in purple? It's so not my colour."
Embelia gives her a polite smile– despite their unfortunate first impressions, Emerald does seem to be making some sort of effort to show kindness to Embelia. Maybe to avoid being poisoned, maybe because she had grown to like Embelia some. Presumably, it's the former. "No, you look beautiful. You too, Plaid."
Plaid grins, looking proud and handsome in his sheer pink ensemble, but he isn't given any time to respond as they're ushered into their places in line, Korren and Embelia standing close to the back.
"They're so condescending," mutters Korren once the careers are out of earshot, bitterness creeping into the edges of his warm timbre. "It's sickening."
"She was just being nice," says Embelia, unsure why she's defending them. "Not scared of them all of a sudden, are you?"
"No," he scoffs, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. "But you know it's fake. Why bother?"
"So they don't kill me right out the gate, Korren." She turns her gaze from him and looks forward. "You do your strategies, I'll do mine."
She hears him take a breath to respond, but a stagehand calls for silence as the lights come up on Caesar Flickerman outside. She swallows, glancing back at him with an apology in her eyes. Not that she has anything to apologise for, but she hardly wants to go into the arena on a bad note. He only gives her a tense smile, seeming uncharacteristically worried.
The interviews begin, and Emerald takes the stage. The strategies of the careers are standard, Emerald plays up her sex appeal, Plaid and Cassius are confident and charismatic, and Venus is cold and calculated. At least it's true to who they really are, Embelia thinks.
The tiny boy from 3 makes her heart break, he looks so frightened. She had noticed his attempts at a brave facade in training, but there was no denying the shaking in his hands whenever any of the bigger kids approached. Whenever he went, Embelia just hoped it was fast, and from behind.
The kids from 4 shine as much as their former allies, but no one else catches much of Embelia's attention. Maybe it's to her detriment that she's so distracted, but the closer it gets to her turn the more her ears begin to ring. She practically has to be forced to the wings when the girl from 10 takes the stage, the young stangehand placing a gentle hand on her back to lead her forward.
"A bit of advice?" He says into her ear when her turn rolls around, making Embelia jump. "Don't look directly at the lights. Good luck."
Embelia looks at him with wide eyes as he urges her out into the lights. Did he offer the same advice to everyone? Why show that kindness to her? She doesn't understand, but she doesn't have time to. Her feet are carrying her onto the stage and toward Caesar. She doesn't look directly at the light, and it doesn't help– though she supposes it's favourable to being blinded.
Instead, she looks at Caesar Flickerman, whose handsome face and royal purple hair are coming closer by the second. Ears ringing, she takes a seat with him and catches a whiff.
"Oh, you smell like cherries!" She says before she can stop herself. And he does. He smells strongly of cherries, with an undertone of alcohol. But not in the awful way Chaff smells, it's cool, inviting.
Caesar appears startled by her outburst, but he's smiling when he looks to the crowd. Embelia looks too, and she knows she looks as startled as he.
"Sorry," she says quickly, trying to recover. What a dunce she must look like to her peers.
"No, no!" Caesar says with amused laughter in his voice. "You're just fine, Embelia– may I call you Embelia?"
Embelia blinks, gathers herself as much as she can, and breathes a playful sigh of relief. "Yes, if I can call you Caesar?"
"Of course, we're all friends here!" says Caesar enthusiastically, shifting back in his seat and smiling at her. "You've quite a keen sense of smell, I see. You must have more hidden talents, any you can share with us today?"
"Well, I hardly want to ruin anyone's fun," She says, lacing her fingers over her knee as she crosses her legs over one another, sitting just how she's been instructed. "If I leave it all on the stage tonight, I'll have nothing left to surprise you all with."
"Oh, a woman of mystery, I like it!" He laughs, leaning toward her with interest– feigned or not, Embelia can't tell. "Now Embelia, I have to mention that incredible debut of yours at the parade. You looked stunning, like a blossom. You've caught everyone's attention, did you love it as much as we all did?"
She nods eagerly. "And you know, it's sort of funny, and I told my stylist this when I saw the dress– the lovely Dorian, everyone!" She gestures out into the crowd, not too sure where they actually sit. The crowd erupts into applause, and Embelia gives them just a moment before she's continuing. "Back home in 11, I work in an orange orchard."
"An orange orchard! How very picturesque. And how perfect a coincidence you appeared before us as an orange blossom!"
"I said the same, it's like it was meant to be, Caesar!"
The very phrase makes her sick to her stomach, but she keeps smiling. None of this is meant to be, it should never be.
"Like it was meant to be, Embelia," repeats Caesar, nodding in agreement. "Our orange blossom! And you look just as striking tonight."
She thanks him humbly, then adds, "And so do you, as you always do."
And it's only half a lie. Each year, Caesar dons a new colour to accent his face, to dye his hair and eyebrows. This year it's a, rich, deep purple, the likes of which Embelia's only really seen in the rich fabrics of the capitol– it's the very same colour she recalls Plaid wearing in the parade. It suits him, suits his regality and his relatively untouched face. He's clearly had work done, enough to keep him looking young, but it's not noticeable. He almost looks normal if you look past the colours.
And when he smiles at her, there's such a warmth in his smile, such genuineness. And it's not like Dorian's, or like Narcisse's, it's not a smile put on out of willful ignorance, or of a true belief in the righteousness of these games.
Caesar knows. He's completely aware of the terror these children are feeling, the horrors they're about to face. And he smiles anyway, perhaps to help them, perhaps because he enjoys it.
He's their last line of hope. The last kind face they see before they're thrust into the dark unknown.
Embelia truly appreciates, now, looking into his dazzling smile, that he does look so normal. The rich purple of his hair seems like such a comfort – especially when she looks into the crowd and sees such horrible faces – something less alien.
"Oh, you flatter me!" Caesar places a hand to his chest. "Isn't she charming, folks?"
The crowd cheers their agreement, and Embelia's smile grows. "Well I mean it, Caesar, you're a vision in purple."
"Very high praise from such a beautiful girl," he says, patting her hands and taking one into his. "A clever young lady, and a force to be reckoned with, I can tell."
He leads her to stand up as their time comes to a close, and raises the hand that he holds into the air, like he's done with the 20 tributes before her. "Embelia Hackett everyone, our orange blossom!"
The applause is thunderous, she can't hear a thing over the cheering of the audience. Embelia doesn't like Caesar, but a part of her is deeply thankful for him. For his charisma, his kindness, and for the way he just secured her the capitol's adoration.
She makes her way off the stage, hurrying back so she can watch Korren. She can tell he's nervous today, but he told her right off the bat that he talks a lot when he's nervous. She just hopes he comes off to the Capitol like he does to her. And he does exactly that. He and Caesar chat like old friends, discussing the Capitol's food and playfully hinting at a few of Korren's skills. Caesar begs to know what he did to earn his score, but all Korren does is offer a playful wink to the cameras. Embelia's certain she hears swooning from the crowd.
Embelia's not so egotistical as to say they stole the show, but they didn't exactly have many tough acts to follow. The pair from 11 have won over the crowd in a way they haven't in a long while.
Back in the apartment, Embelia heads right for her room. She washes off the makeup, plucks the flowers from her hair and sets the dress ever so carefully on the bed. Then, she steps under the piping hot shower, and lets the water run over her face. She stands there for a long while, debating. As the water soaks her hair, she tries her hardest to decide what to do with it.
Her mother used to rinse her hair out before each braiding session. Every part of her feels shattered when she thinks of her, and what she must think of the stranger on her television. She steps out of the shower and stares at herself in the mirror for a long time, still deciding.
She could ask someone. She lists off all the possibilities in her head. Seeder's hair is long and pin-straight, she'd be unfamiliar with the stubborn coils of Embelia's head. Korren's hair is too short and he has only a brother, so she doubts he'd know. Not that she could ever stand the awkwardness of asking. Chaff… braiding generally requires two hands and some sense of sobriety. He's not even worth considering. That leaves one more person in their apartment apart from the mute servants that Embelia is quietly frightened of.
Narcisse.
She's high maintenance, and Embelia has been increasingly curious about what lies underneath her multicoloured wigs. It must be something similar to her own, right? Unless it's nothing at all– even so, Narcisse must have an understanding of this sort of hair.
It's her only chance of going into the arena with some sort of security, so she finds her way down to Narcisse's room, tucked away at the end of the hall. She knocks, and hears a quiet squeak of surprise before Narcisse calls her in. She finds her standing in a nightgown, wig and makeup gone and a startled look on her face.
"Embelia!" She says, breathing a soft sigh of relief. Embelia smiles. "I thought you were an Avox!"
Embelia takes a few steps toward her, eyes on the deep brown skin of her escort's face. Without the makeup, and without the wig, she looks as though she could be from District 11– if one ignores her curvaceous and well fed figure. Atop her head is black, coily hair, braided back against her head in multiple uniform rows. Like this, in the warm lights of her bedroom, Narcisse looks like she lives down the street from Embelia. She looks like a woman who might've walked her home from school when her mother was working. She looks like home.
"What is it, dear?" Narcisse approaches, padding over and taking Embelia's calloused hands into her soft pair. "You did wonderfully tonight, we're all very proud."
"Thank you," Embelia says, voice almost a whisper. Seeing her like this makes any distaste she held for the woman melt into nothing. She feels as though she's stepped right into her home, and she's facing her mother. "Can you braid my hair?"
Narcisse is clearly taken aback by her request, though she doesn't seem averse. She looks at her head, takes in her damp hair, and smiles. Her answer is soft, not in her usual squeaky timbre. Her already slight accent is almost imperceptible when she's not performing. "What kind?"
"Can you do two dutch braids?" Embelia specifies. She remembers she had once asked her mother what a dutch braid meant. She had explained the process, but little Embelia wasn't satisfied
"No," Embelia had said, little fingers playing with the buckle of her battered black mary-janes. "What does dutch mean, mommy?"
"Ah, well I'm not sure, darling girl," her mother had responded. "It's just what they're called. But they look very beautiful on you, and you like them?"
"Yes! They don't fall out when I play."
Chrysanta had kissed her head with a fond chuckle. "Good, then you sit still and let me finish up."
Though the meanings had been lost to time and circumstance, the name had been passed down through the generations, the intricate crafts shared between mothers and daughters.
By the way Narcisse lights up and nods, Embelia can tell her mother had once shared it with her too.
"Yes, of course, dear! Take a seat."
Narcisse leads her towards a decadent vanity. Embelia sits, closes her eyes, and pretends she's sitting in her tiny home, pretends there's tea steeping over the hearth, and that her mother is the one securing her hair and weaving her protection into every strand.
Narcisse secures the braids tight to her head, perhaps even tighter than her mother used to do. She doesn't mind, doesn't complain when she pulls too hard. It's the safest she's felt since the moment that horrible boy on her prep team undid them. Narcisse sends her off with well wishes and a firm instruction to get some sleep, and she finds her way back to her room and lays down.
Of course, sleep evades her. Her head is pounding and not just from the fresh braids. Hours pass with no luck, just staring at the inside of her eyelids. She decides one of those hot chocolates she's been drinking since she arrived will help, and makes her way down to the living room. Though, she stops at the bottom of the winding stairs, finding a silhouette sat against a window. The same window she and Korren had looked out of when they first arrived. She realises quickly who the silhouette is and slowly makes her way over.
She sits silently across from Korren, looking out at the twinkling skyline. On the streets below, parties and parades rage on. Celebrating them, and their impending doom. She meets Korren's eye when she finally turns her gaze to him, and he gives her an exhausted smile.
"Your hair," he says quietly.
She reaches up to touch it with a small smile in return. "Narcisse did it."
He chuckles, crossing his legs and leaning his head against the window. "She's really not so bad, huh?"
"No," Embelia concedes. "The naivete is kind of charming. She's like a little kid."
"She kind of reminds me of home, is that weird?"
Embelia laughs, looking back out the window. "No, I get it."
Korren feels like home a thousand times more, though. The two fall into silence. It's welcome, and nothing hangs in the air but comfort between the two teenagers, clinging to the feelings of a home that they may never see again.
After a long while, Korren speaks. "Em, are we friends?"
She looks to him, seeing such rare vulnerability in his eyes. "Yes," she tells him after a moment. "Yes, I think so."
"But…" He swallows, seeming to debate his next words. Embelia wonders if he's thinking the same as she is. "That's all?"
There it is. "Yeah. That's all."
"Do you think..." Korren swallows. "Do you think if things were different, we might've...?"
Embelia regards him quietly. This boy, who so constantly contradicted her hard won untrusting nature, who made her laugh and smile even as a sword loomed over their heads. The boy who, against the odds, had cracked her facade of indifference and found the terror, and still had managed to quell it into hope. Would she have, if things were different?
"Yes," she finally answers. "In another life, I would have really liked that."
And that's all Korren needs to know. He sighs, leaning back with a small, devastated smile. And he nods, satisfied with the answer. For a moment, the two of them live in that other life, and dwell on what might have been.
"We'd better get some sleep," Korren eventually says, moving to stand.
Embelia looks up when he offers his hand, nodding her agreement. She takes it, and stands. But she doesn't let go.
Instead, she holds onto him all the way up the stairs, and to their rooms. She stands with him, and as he moves to release her hand, she tugs him close. She leans up, presses an ever so short and sweet kiss to his lips, and steps away.
Neither are blushing, neither embarrassed or shocked.
"Good night, Korren," she says, voice a whisper as their hands part.
"Good night, Embelia," he says. The two of them turn to their own doors, cherishing that taste of what could have been. Simultaneously, they open their doors and step inside, leaving their own private fantasy in the hall.