Chapter Text
Lucien knew this day was coming his whole life. His earliest memory was his father handing him a wooden toy sword and telling him that his family were victors and that when he was 25 he would volunteer for his games as would all of the Vanserra’s. He was the youngest of his brothers, the seventh son of Beron Vanserra, victor of the 60th Hunger Games, current Governor of their district. Lucien never bought into the whole rhetoric of winning the games bringing prestige and honor to families and their districts. The whole institution was just a weapon in a century long war to oppress and control the country. Lucien had fantasized about not volunteering for his games, the biggest form of defiance and rebellion a Vanserra could do—well except maybe committing suicide like his brother did after his twin died in his games—their father didn’t even hold a funeral for him. When he thought about the rule changes to bring novelty to the anniversary games, he had never once considered changing the reaping pools to family members of victors. His hands were tied now, though he has no need to yell the words that would guarantee him becoming a murderer, he was the only male standing on the lawn of their town hall.
Across the lawn there are a handful of young girls, one as young as 13 but none older than 17. Lucien’s heart broke for them. The Victor they descended from long dead. How there were no other boys or young men was confusing for Lucien, but then again hardly any Victors had children after they came back from the games and the ones that did have children stayed in the Capitol to do everything in their power for their children to not have to go through what they did—but not Beron. How they decided the “family members” was beyond Lucien and confused him greatly.
The feedback from the microphone speared through Lucien’s ears making him wince. The Capitol representative stood center stage in their ridiculous clothes, themed to match the leaves of the autumn deciduous trees that surround them. A little too on the nose, Lucien thought, he sniffed as he prepared himself for the long monologue of the history of Prythian, the fall of old Courts and the rise of Amarantha and the districts. They named the Capitol after her, of course only after she died, they had to feign some sort of humbleness. After the indulgent speech and reciting of the pledge to the portrait the current Potentate Hybern, Lucien blew out a shaky breath. He tried not to tremble as the name for the female tribute was called. He tried not to wince and join the onslaught of tears and screams as the 13-year-old slowly trudged up to the stage, no one volunteering in her stead.
"Now, for the boys.” A pause, while she puts her hand into the bowl, “Lucien Vanserra.” Lucien knew it was coming but still hearing his name felt like a blow to the gut, his feet faltered on the first steps he took towards the stage. Each subsequent step felt heavier, like he was sinking further and further into the ground. He went up the steps but the feeling in his chest grew heavier still. He was rushed into the train, he turned just in time to see his fathers assessing gaze before the doors sealed shut with a hiss. Lucien didn’t know how long he stood staring, long enough to acclimate to the fast-moving train. He didn’t move until he felt a familiar hand strongly grip his shoulder.
“Come, lets watch the other reapings.”
Songbirds and frog croaks filled the air, the normally soothing sounds suddenly suffocating this morning. Elain sat on the chair in front of the mirror, staring blankly at her hair as she brushed it shiny.
“I fixed some breakfast for us this morning Elain, you should eat before we head down to the lawn.” Elain jumped at the sound of his voice. She swiveled on the chair to face him. He had one hand, white knuckled, gripping the door frame, his weight leaning into it. His other hand shakily gripped the cane he used. Elain’s been so in her head she hadn’t heard the dull thump of the cane walking around their wood floors all morning.
“Thank you, Father. I’ll be out after I change.”
“Your hair looks beautiful. You look beautiful Elain.”
“My beauty won’t serve me anymore.” Her father made a sad humming noise and pushed off the door frame. Elain stood and walked to her closet. The chosen dress already set aside, waiting to embrace Elain for the final time. Elain fretted over what she was going to wear today. She decided on the monstrosity of a dress she would’ve worn to her wedding. It was soft, silky, fluffy, a gown fit for a princess in a fairy tale. When Hybern had announced the new rules for the Centennial Games Feyre and Nesta had immediately traveled home. The three of them discussed at length the type of image they wanted Elain to present, a sympathetic image that would grasp the hearts of the citizens living in the Capitol. The idea was simple really, Elain and Graysen were already dating and a step away from being engaged anyway. Feyre thought that if Elain were to wear a dress that looked enough like a wedding dress, and Graysen wore a suit that looked enough like a wedding suit that they could paint the image of two star crossed lovers.
Elain and her father ate breakfast and meandered down to the town square. It was wet out, damp from an overnight rain, the earthy smell of petrichor—fresh, earthy, and musky—filled Elain’s lungs as they walked from their home. Elain didn’t hold up the skirts of her dress, she let them trail in the grass, and mud, and asphalt, and puddles. The image of her dress wasn’t supposed to be sad; it was supposed to be idealic and perfect, an image the Capitol could relate too, see themselves in Elain’s place. Elain didn’t like that image—the juxtaposition of a perfect woman and man on stage, hand in hand, on their perfect day—before the floor falls under them and they are left forever swinging, hand in hand. Elain liked that image, that split second before death filled with dread, tragedy, pity, fear, desperation and then finally resignation. That’s why she let her skirts drag and get heavy and dirty, and that’s why in the early hours this morning she dyed her veil black and walked as if she was walking to her own funeral pyre.
Eris led Lucien into a viewing car on the train, the interior is ostentatious, Lucien expected nothing less, there was a long dark wooden table lined with place settings of delicate porcelain surrounding gilded platters filled with rich foods, it made Lucien’s stomach turn in on itself. He walked past the table and sat in a plush velvet chair facing the large screen playing the Prythian anthem panning over crowds of people in different districts.
“You were standing there so long they’ve already done Districts 2-8. They’re about to start the central districts.” Eris sounded exasperated. “You need to start assessing your competition, the games started when your name was called. You’re going to need to pay special attention to districts 2, 4, 11, and 13.”
“What about 15? Didn’t the victor last year come from there? Sister of another Victor?” Lucien pushed past the uncomfortable feeling and tried to adopt a more clinical view of the other tributes.
“I wouldn’t worry too much; I mean it is the third sister that’s going to be chosen but it’s the sister Nesta volunteered for last year. She’s probably incredibly incapable of surviving the games.” He said this as if the only reason to volunteer for a family member is because they’re incapable of survival, not because the thought of them walking towards imminent death is unbearable. Lucien grunted at his brother.
“Her sister killed our brother, you know what that means, right?” Lucien’s mouth went dry. “Dad’s going to expect you to avenge his death. If her death isn’t yours, it’ll bring him shame.” Eris looked at him with soft eyes, Lucien swallowed the tiny bit of vomit that threatened to fill his mouth. “Start preparing yourself.”
Lucien was only half paying attention to the reapings, distracted by the weeping family members and the sharp camera cuts away showing high-light reels of the victor they were related too in previous games, the repetition of the Capitol propaganda the patriotic music swelling inspiring emotions. It sickened him. The sun was going to set soon, they were only half an hour away from their destination. The reapings were almost over, only district 15 left.
The speaker was wearing a similar dress to the one at Lucien’s reaping except this one looked like living moss. There were only two people on the lawn. From afar they were dressed as if they were going to their wedding. The camera got closer to the woman her appearance was less pristine than the groom. Her dress was wet and dirty, her fingers were capped in black the same color as her veil. Her lips were bitten and bloody, her face devoid of emotion, but her eyes—red rimmed and swollen—gave way to a smoldering anger one gust of wind away from starting a forest fire. Lucien thought that the real threat was what she held in her eyes, inside her mind. While her sisters won their games by fighting their way out, Elain will fight with her mind. Elain will win and burn the world with her, and Lucien wanted in.
Elain stood on the lawn. Her sisters’ eyes wide taking in her appearance, the black veil, the dye-stained fingers, white gloves purposefully left on her bed, her dirty dress, and blank face. Elain’s name was called last year and after her sister Nesta volunteered for her she genuinely thought she was in the clear. That in a year’s time she would organically get married to the man standing across from her. She shouldn’t have gotten complacent. Prythian is not a benevolent country. The victors were getting too comfortable making political statements—last year Nesta went full on hysterical monologuing in the games but only when she killed so they had to film her, and now Elain is paying that price. At first Elain thought they might change the rules to reap existing Victors, like they did in the 50th games, but the capitol is still doing damage control pitting all the citizen’s favorite little celebrities against each other.
Elain’s sisters did not think Elain had this kind of defiance in her. They though her a demure little fawn, barely able to walk on her own legs. Elain knew the plan her sisters had—they wanted to paint her as a sympathetic victim, one who loved her fiancé so much that they would wear their wedding clothes to the reaping because they wanted to join their hands before the games.
Elain didn’t want to be that. She may not be strong, fit, know how to wield weapons, and kill others. What Elain does know is people. While this image of Elain may ring warning bells to the game makers and politicians of the Capitol—this will also intimidate the hell out of the other tributes. Elain debated this in her mind, make this power move and make herself a target or paint herself a defenseless and lovesick victim and make herself a target. Elain wanted the other tributes scared of her, wary of her abilities, she didn’t want them to underestimate her like her sisters wanted to her to play it. Elain knew that she is a lot less capable than most of the other tributes regarding the ability to kill both in body and mind. She knows that Graysen will attempt to be valiant and sacrifice himself for her—most likely in the blood bath—leaving her alone for the rest of the games. That is why everyone else needs to be wary of her, because without him she will have no sword or shield, she will just have herself. The way she looks now will fool the Capitol Citizens well enough that they will still get sponsors, she still looks like a gilded bride from a distance and on the surface.
Elain heard her name called first, and she let her feet carry her up to the stage. Her sisters waiting for her to claim her unlucky spot. She thinks Effie said something to her, but she didn’t hear the words. Elain dropped her flood gates and let her tears fall. Graysen was called to the stage and when he stood next to her, he grabbed for her hand told her that he loves her loud enough for the microphone to pick up. Elain sobbed. Graysen kissed her hand while the two were being pushed and grabbed by peacekeepers into the train.