Chapter Text
Bitterness burns in your gut as you watch the yellowed pages of one of your favorite books curl and blacken amidst the weak flames of the hearth.
You want to cry. You really do. But it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last. The winters of District 8 are infamously harsh and long.
You wouldn’t have survived it. So you stare with dry eyes and an empty chest as your childhood memorabilia turns to ash.
A wheezy cough tears through your melancholy. Panic rips through you as you get up and whirl. You dash to a small bed across the room and hunker down near your cousin.
You hold her hand, despising how tiny and feeble it feels in yours.
It wasn’t always like this. She used to drag you around the cabin, eager to play, her high-pitched laugh bouncing off its molded walls.
Tears you managed to quell before now rush to your eyes.
You cup her face. Sickness has drained the color from it.
“You’re gonna get better, I swear.”
She gives a weary smile, but it’s interrupted by another fit of wet coughs that makes her entire frail frame shake. Your stomach plummets at the sight. Even you struggle to believe the words that crossed your own lips.
Everyday your younger cousin seems worse off than the one before it. Her medicine has long since run out. So has the food. Your modest wages from working in the factory won’t come for another fortnight. And there are little to no wares left to trade in the rickety wooden cabin.
Nothing except you.
The mere thought sends a shudder through you.
Though the virtue of some lowly district 8’s guttersnipe isn’t worth much, you bet you could easily find a buyer. A warm body is as good as any after all. Besides, you haven’t missed the lascivious glares wandering your way sometimes when you hasten through the streets of the city at night.
You shake your head. No. While your virtue isn’t worth much in this awful world, you will hold on to it for as long as you can. Some modicum of dignity. Maybe it’s too much to ask for someone like you, too…greedy. But it’s the one thing you get in this life. Your one gift. You belong to yourself and no one else.
“Hungry…” your cousin whispers between pained exhales. The orange glow from the chimney outlines the sickly grayness of her skin and the sweat dotting her forehead.
You squeeze her hand, rubbing her fingers against yours. Maybe some of your warmth will seep into her. You can only hope.
“I know, Tilly… but there isn’t any food left anymore.”
At the mention of food, your shriveled up stomach reminds you of its unfortunate existence. Hunger twists your insides, vicious and relentless. As always.
Determination sparks inside you, tiny embers shifting into a furnace of iron hot will.
You rise to your feet.
Tilly will not die. You will not die.
You plant a soft kiss on her forehead. Her eyes flutter closed as she drifts away, her glassy gaze finding the cracks and webs scattered across the ceiling.
She seems to look at nothing at all. It worries you. Tilly’s all you have left, the rest of your family having succumbed to disease, failed uprisings or some accident at the factory.
“I promise to bring food, and something to cure your cold.”
A cold.
Another lie. For her or for you… who knows this time. Deep inside, you’re aware no common cold lasts this long or is this nasty.
But you cling to the lie. Because you need it. Because without it you have nothing.
Nothing to wake up for, nothing to go work another unending, grueling day at the textile factory, nothing to suffer another day in the hell that District 8 is.
A few minutes later, you’re at the door.
Outside, the winter winds swaddle you in their cool embrace. White clouds surround you as you unleash a deep breath. Through the thin soles of your shoes, you can feel the icy stones with each step. You slither through the narrow alleys, hood low on your brow as you ponder the plan you hatched less than an hour ago.
It’s beyond stupid. You could get thrown in jail if caught. Or worse.
But what else is there to do?
You’re past the age to sign up for tesserae, and you’d never subject your cousin to the disturbing possibility of being chosen in the next reaping just to fill your stomach.
You finally reach the grand marketplace. It’s crowded with folks, like every morning. You remain hidden by a brick wall, a strategic spot where shadows engulf you, where you can survey the place as you wish. The perfect way to begin enacting your stupid plan.
Anticipation has your fingertips twitching against the stones.
You note how easy it’d be to mingle with the crowd, how some of the merchants don’t keep a perpetual eye on their wares.
And most importantly, you note the lack of peacekeepers. You squint, seeking a glimpse of the terrifying blue uniforms. Disbelief flutters through you at the realization none of them is here.
Such a chance never presents itself…yet it’s prancing right before you today.
As your eyes land on a luscious spread of colorful fruits sitting on a stand a few feet away, your mouth waters.
How easy it would be.
When’s the last time you ate anything solid? You can hardly recall.
Slow, ginger steps drag you right before the stand. Busy chatting with a customer, the merchant doesn’t see you.
Hope blooms inside you. This is your shot. You just need to be quick, so quick he won’t even notice before you’re long gone.
Your tremulous hand creeps out of your coat. The uproarious drumming of your heart fills your ears, louder as your fingers get closer to the tantalizing skin of the fruit.
Just a few inches.
“What are you doing, little bird?”
Startled, you release a sharp breath. Long, pale fingers cinch around your wrist, causing you to drop the fruit. It hits the wet cobblestones with a soft thud, sending your hopes crashing down alongside it.
You whirl to the stranger beside you.
“You little thieving whore…”
Numb with fear and shock, the merchant’s irate curses dwindle to a faint echo.
The stranger’s towering frame forces you to lift your gaze to the sky, and you are met with eyes bluer than its expanse.
Lost in his unsettling stare, you take entirely too long to notice his uniform. The gear is unmistakable. You have threaded your fair share of the fabric over the years, sewn hundreds of uniforms just like the one before you.
A peacekeeper.
A wave of snow ripples through your back.
Your entire body turns to stone in his grip, your eyes as wide as plates.
This is exactly what you feared would happen. And now it has.
As stormy irises take you in, you see your miserable life melt in a smoldering sea of blue.
Run.
It’s the only thought in your head as you jerk your hand away from his fingers.
Your body leaps into action, adrenaline pumping through your veins. White puffs of your short breaths flow around you as you dive into the nearest dark alley, hoping to disappear through a drain hole and lose your pursuer.
But you don’t get far.
Only a few minutes into your panicked race, the hard sole of a boot connects with the back of your knee. A shriek of pain tears from your throat as you tumble to the floor.
Wincing, you lift your head.
The tall, lanky figure of the peacekeeper looms over you. Your chest seizes. He holds up the bright red fruit you tried to steal in his right hand. Sunlight limns his frame, threading silver in his white hair, making him appear almost angelic. How deceptive when he is your doom. If it weren't for him, you’re convinced you’d have gotten away with it.
“Hey, I think you forgot this,” he deadpans.
Your brows knit at his casual tone. You wonder if he’s toying with you.
“Please, I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
Mirth illuminates his cerulean gaze as he scoffs, “So you meant to pay?”
Unsure what to respond, you choke on your words.
“I…”
Silence expands, its oppressive weight clogging your airways.
You could lie, or try to. But he saw you, stopped you. He knows exactly what you attempted to do.
So instead of stating your case, you bolt to your feet. Ignoring the needles pricking at your knee where he kicked you, you attempt to flee again.
This time it’s barely seconds before he catches you.
He picks you up and slams you against the wall with frightening ease. Fighting him would be for naught. There is no strength left in you. Still, you try.
The pitiful attempts to claw at his bicep leave the peacekeeper unfazed.
His deathly grip on your neck doesn’t relent.
“Where do you think you’re going, birdie?”
“Please, my cousin needs me.”
He studies you and your stomach sinks at how empty his eyes are. An errant tear makes a slow descent down your cheek.
He plucks it, the soft pad of his finger tracing the salty trail.
“Stop crying. I’m not like them. You can trust me.”
“You’re a peacekeeper,” you retaliate, forehead creased in confusion. Peacekeepers exist to enact the Capitol’s will by any means necessary. Their name couldn’t be more misleading, as peace is rarely how they go about solving an issue.
The blond’s cheek flares ever-so-slightly.
To your utter shock, his hold on your neck slackens. You gulp a wide lungful of air, rubbing your throat where he held so tight. It’s sore. You wouldn’t be surprised if it were to bruise the next day.
“My name’s Coriolanus. What’s yours?”
While he backs away, he’s still crowding your space in a way you don’t like.
Stubborn lips remaining sealed, you glare at him. He steps away from you.
“You don’t want to say?” The corner of his plump lips twists upwards. “I’ll keep calling you bird then, since you keep trying to fly away from me.”
You gasp when he suddenly tosses the crimson fruit in your hands.
“Eat.”
His steely inflection is more order than suggestion. You scowl down at the fruit. Every cell in your body longs to take a bite of it…but you don’t.
“What?” you reply dumbly.
It has to be some kind of trap. Is the apple even safe to eat? Maybe this peacekeeper is the sadistic type and he wants to watch you wither in agony for his sick pleasure.
Still, the longer you peer at the luscious, colorful flesh of the fruit, the more your stomach growls, begging you to just take a bite even if it means running headlong towards your possible death.
Coriolanus heaves out a deep sigh.
“I can tell from the way you were eying that apple earlier that it’s been a long time, right?” he guesses, all too accurately for your liking.
His gaze holds yours.
“I know what it’s like to be hungry, sweet bird…” You go statue-still as he bends over to whisper in your ear, “So hungry, you’d do anything for it to stop.”
The faint scent of roses tickles your nose. You smelt it once before, on a lavish dress you spent hours sewing meant for one of the fancy ladies at the Capitol. You recall shoving the tiniest piece of the silk in your pocket and smelling it every chance you got. But the nice scent quickly faded.
Yet that same scent, that crisp, delicate, slightly dizzying aroma…It clings to the boy in front of you.
You glower at him.
“How would you even know? You’re one of them .”
His jaw ticks as his eyes flicker.
“Eat,” he insists, this time more firmly.
Your insides wrench. You could fight him on it, again. But you have an inkling that this boy, this Coriolanus, usually gets his way.
So you bite into the apple.
The sweet juice that coats your tongue and chin afterwards is heaven. The savors explode in your mouth. You could weep. It’s been an eternity since you ate something this fresh and delicious.
But once you realize his curious stare is on you, you stop eating and hastily wipe your mouth and chin.
“See? Isn’t it better?” he inquires smugly.
You don’t tell him how good it felt, especially after so long. Days, maybe weeks. You don’t know anymore. Every day tends to blend into the other here.
Instead, heated words pour out of you.
“Why are you helping me?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
You don’t like his cryptic demeanor. Nor his nice smell. Nor his striking eyes. Nor his sharp, handsome features.
Everything about Coriolanus seems so out of place in District 8.
After a few minutes of silence, he nods and walks away.
“See you around, sweet bird.”
A shiver travels along your spine.
You wish for the opposite, to never ever see him again. And though the words never escape the confine of your lips, it’s as if he could hear the unspoken venom sizzling the tip of your tongue.
Coriolanus smiles at you as he leaves.