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Sejanus plinth has always been a crier.
He came into the world with a loud scream and a deep scowl, taller and heavier than most newborns in the area. His birth was not a difficult one, but since when was labour in general an easy task. It was all worth it, though, as she pressed his warm, waxy skin into her heaving chest, the midwives and nurses around her blurring into the background. She rocked him gently, shushing and cooing to ease his cries. He struggled against her momentarily, his tiny hands coming up to wipe over his face weakly.
The yellow and orange hues of the candle lit room were comforting, gentle heat currents surrounding them in the soft October night chill. Despite her husband’s modest fortune and insistence on hiring the best professionals for her home birth- ‘only the finest for my misses!’- they were still district, and so the lights were cut out for sometime. It was a miracle the water was still running well, heated, too, otherwise the bath she was in would have been freezing. She would have a few moments before the next contractions started, the nurses whizzing across the room to prepare to check up on her son as she delivered the placenta. The lights bouncing off the bathroom’s subtle gold detailing reflected onto his features, still mildly indistinguishable from any other newborn. She used her thumb to brush over the white residue on his cheek and he leaned into her touch slightly, the skin on his lid wrinkling and smoothing a few times as he wrestled against his rudimentary muscles to force his eyes open.
They were unfocused, as babies are, and were the same shade of deep brown as hers. She let out a silly sigh of relief, finally seeing what people saw when they looked at her. Her little miracle, her gift from the mountain tops. His pupils bounced around the room, exploring the world he was brought into before finding hers. She used her index to brush a stray water droplet by his lower lid.
“Hello, sweet boy.”
-
Strabo was more than overjoyed, not only a child but a male, an heir. Plus his wife was in more than great condition, so he had nothing to complain about. Well, other than the fact that everyone that visits comments on how he inherited his mother’s features, which must mean he’ll come to love her more. Old superstitions that Strabo couldn’t find it in him to care about, though the repetition irked him.
Sejanus was quite popular with the ladies in the market, snug on his ma’s clothes as he napped peacefully in a handmade wrap, courtesy of his aunt. As he grew older, hitting milestone after milestone and standing taller than most boys his age, he still found himself hiding behind his ma’s legs as the purring women grabbed at his chubby cheeks. Even if he wasn’t speaking properly yet, he enjoyed interacting with various shopkeepers and ogling at their odd stalls. He especially loved finding unique cutter shapes to share with his ma, saving them for when they made his favourite cookies. While Sejanus had kept up a more than ideal development rate, he was alarmingly late in speech. With no other abnormalities, the doctors just brushed him off as being the shy type, which was news to his very social mother, considering she’d been taking him out basically every other day since she regained her strength.
Strabo had found them one night huddled around the oven for warmth during another one of the district blackouts, heart shaped dough bubbling inside. He was always sweet on his ma, kissing the top of her head tenderly before moving on to any other task. But when it came to Sejanus, the warmth would melt away turning him into a militant figure rather than a father.
His joy from having a son had long dissipated into subtle, constant anger. His rivals, allies, friends, brothers- they all had sons, but it seemed like he pulled the short end of the stick with him. Maybe Strabo had a certain idea of what a man should be, maybe Sejanus broke every expectation his Pa had set up and not in a good way. Shy and cowering behind his ma at any given turn, that’s the kind of boy Sejanus was, and Strabo had trouble keeping his resentment towards the way too kind boy at bay.
Still, he obeyed, eyes fixed on his pa. There was a certain level of respect Strabo had been told he deserved, an unbroken cycle he carried over from his rigid father, one that called him sir. Not pa. Even if it kept the distance between them significant.
Sejanus cut him off by throwing himself onto his legs, clutching him tightly in a warm embrace. Strabo was only human, and his heart would inevitably soften, if only a little, at his son’s actions. His hand came up to brush through the boy’s curls gently as the light flickered back on. Perhaps it’s how much time he spent with his equally sweet ma, cooing and coddling him to her heart’s contempt. Maybe if he stressed Sejanus a little, it would push him out of his tongue tie and they could put him into a school where he would have to face the reality of the world head-on and unprepared.
And it was in the strong bulb’s illumination that Strabo decided he’d have to toughen him up on his own.
-
For as far back as Sejanus’ memory goes, he could always feel the phantom weight of the gun in his hands. The first time the cold metal touched his ungloved hand in the heart of the freezing winter, he recoiled in unease. He knew what guns were, vaguely, and he knew they meant violence, anger, he knew the mean peacekeepers waved them around to scare people. The snowfall had been uncharacteristically heavy, his little legs almost half buried in the icy ground. His feet were numb. No amount of layers could protect from the determined dampness of the half melted snow that clung to him, seeping through the most expensive gear in 2 and wiggling his toes wasn’t enough.
He didn’t dare move, though.
His muscles rigid as his pa crouched behind him, supporting the weight of the firearm and walking him through the basics of being a soldier. Ahead of them was one of the patches of wildlife that stood at the foot of the mountains, snow gradually thinning out from where he was to where the tree line is, giving him a clear view of the forested floor. The air was still, save for his occasional cough and sniffle.
His pa’s tone was firm, breath warm on Sejanus’ partially covered ear as he repositioned his head.
This is how you aim.
The gun was a little too heavy, or perhaps just unfamiliar, for him to actually hold the shot, but it was only his first time so he gave him some grace.
The snow shifted ahead of them and to the untrained eye, Sejanus’ eye, it must have been the wind, but not for Strabo. He spent way too long crawling after his next meal to miss something as nutritious as a large rabbit like that.
He quietly took the gun out of his grip and moved into position silently. Sejanus watched his father’s stealth with no words on his tongue, confused at the sudden change. To him, his pa had just gotten trigger happy for a pile of snow, he didn’t see the bunny at first. Not until it’s blood splattered.
Maybe he thought it would impress Sejanus, but all it did was scare him.
The loud bang disturbed the cold morning’s silence, pushing the last migrating birds out of their hideouts in the tall trees. The pure snow was now stained with a colour so angry, he decided that he hated it. He hated the colour red.
Bright and an eyesore contrasting the white of the ground. The poor animal twitched once before it gave up the ghost, limping helplessly against its final cold abode.
Tears sprung into his eyes and he found himself rushing to the long gone bunny’s aid. It was too late, but Sejanus wouldn’t hear it, the sharp commands from his pa to get back falling on worried ears. Maybe it was his naivety that told him he could still help, that his rescue would be worth whatever earful he would get from his Pa later anyway. He scooped the creature into his hands, sobbing softly as it sat spiritless in his palm, blood staining his tanned skin.
He wanted to tell the little rabbit he was sorry, for standing by uselessly as its life got taken away, but the words never came out. His thumb brushed off stray specks of mud that soiled the previously pristine fur as his shoulders shook with each tear shed. Rough footsteps finally approached him and he turned his remorseful face to his pa.
He had never seen him so angry.
He grabbed the bunny by its ears from Sejanus’ hold, holding up to his eye level. It was a clean kill, that much was expected from a man who permanently smelled like gunpowder. He trained this shot many times during his younger and less fortunate years, aiming for the head so that the rest of the body could be consumed. Strabo was so young when he fought to keep food at the table, so it was bitter irony that his son was weeping for the life of the very sustenance he chased after. Sejanus flinched as his pa made a show of the kill, a small drop of blood landing on the man’s already intimidating face.
Their walk home was quiet, the dead rabbit still in his pa’s clutch as they shuffled through the freshly waking district.
His tears were dry by the time they got home. Fear replaced the previously present sadness as he watched his pa’s cold expression and tightly clenched jaw. He watched him hand the bounty off to his ma to make for dinner.
It was a district classic; rabbit soup, stacked with fats and nutrients to keep the most ill fed person full for some time. It was a delicacy she was oh so familiar with, her nimble hands wasting no time on the delicate meat.
Sejanus watched in horror, the words stuck in his throat as his ma got to work in dismembering the very creature he last saw beaming with life.
He did not want to eat the little rabbit.
No one would hear him.
His pa stood back as Sejanus rushed to his ma’s side, pulling at the hem of her cozy winter pajamas in futile protests that she would not understand. Not now, sweet boy. She brushed him off, dinner will be ready soon.
With a satisfied grin, Strabo dismissed his son to his room, leaving him to simmer in his own spiral for the next hour or two.
It didn’t take long for the rich smell to fill the house, a tempting mix of spices and oils that, on any other day, he would not be able to resist. But not tonight.
Tonight he hauled his body back to the dining table begrudgingly to join his excited parents. This meal brings them back to their childhood, their innocence, or so his ma said. She served him a hearty portion on his dedicated plate, a little ceramic bowl painted to look like a fish pond he had picked out in one of their many flea market runs. It was now tainted with vitamins that once belonged to the bunny.
Sejanus was not that naive, not really. He knew animals were for ethical slaughter for them to consume, he knew it was the only way it meant survival. But seeing it happen in front of his fearful eyes, now that was something else entirely. Perhaps it was the sight of fresh blood, violence, on pure snow that made him dizzy.
He pushed the plate away with an ‘I’m not hungry’ and turned on his heel to sprint back to his room. It was the furthest he’d ever gotten with his words.The first time Sejanus spoke, it was still a subtle act of defiance, if only towards his father, even if ma was none the wiser.
His shyness carried over into his early school days where his hand would grip the strap of his bag by his shoulder tightly for comfort. No amount of ‘but ma!’ would change her mind. It was at least a little bit reassuring to see others in the same distress, geared up and unwilling to abandon their mothers to go to school. She put a small cloth bag of sweets in his tight clutch, urging him to just try. He put all his willpower into keeping his tears away so that he would not seem weak, because if his dam breaks it would be quite the show. He was so nervous, lip trembling and the sack in his palm was starting to wet from his sweat.
His class teacher was nice, a bright young woman with a warm smile that made them feel right at home. She planned a day’s worth of various activities to help them warm up to each other. Sejanus felt out of place with his smart, new clothes and candy to share that his classmates were more than happy to get their hands on. Some of them had never known the taste of pure sugar like that, while he was not a stranger to it.
It worked in his favour, though. The kids were more than happy to have the boy with the gumdrops playing with them. Though he could tell they were a little wary of him, perhaps their parents had told them to take heed from the Plinth boy. His father, though (at that point in time) innocent, was not a popular person. Gruff, blunt, with an aim that shakes people in fear for their heads. But children in his school did not know prejudice, they did not know last names or what they meant, not unless their parents hammered rumours into their brains.
Boys would welcome him into their games of tag and hide-and-seek with open arms, sometimes even arguing on who gets him on their team. This wasn’t a rare occurrence, he and another boy -Marcus- were the tallest in their class. While Sejanus gained his stance from mandatory vitamin D supplements they could afford, Marcus was built on pure genetics. Still, it created a weird bond between them, knowing that, together, they would be an unstoppable team so they always had to separate them.
And between monkey bars and amateur games of football, Sejanus had finally found his voice. Now their home was filled with loud giggles and stories about his day went. He couldn’t tell back then, but she would always let out a subtle sigh of relief when he returned home with a bright smile on his face, grateful that he was growing into the boy she hoped he’d become, even if it meant he became a little bit of a handful with his newfound voice. Nightly protests against ‘way too early’ bedtimes that he would inevitably lose by passing out cold on his plush bed, only to repeat the cycle all over again the next day.
And so for the first (and last) time in his life, Sejanus Plinth had friends.
It was never going to last long, and he was only 5 when his whole world came tumbling down.
Rebels, bombs and a war that the average citizen was able to feel the tension of long before the first shots were fired. It was inevitable, the uprisings and their domino effect. And now, 4 months into a violent conflict, Sejanus could already feel that his world had shifted. Long before they came.
He had been playing with his friends in the park that morning with not a care in the world. An ear splitting sound knocked them all off their balance, a siren. A warning.
The only warning he got.
His ma appeared shortly after, coat hastily closed over her home-wear and hair still in bright blue rollers. She looked ridiculous, especially for a woman that held herself to such a high standard, which meant that this was more than urgent. She grabbed his arm with more force than she’d ever intend to use against him, and he only had a quick moment to mumble a goodbye before they left. As did his friends, each rushing back home with their frantic parents. She wouldn’t tell him what was wrong and whatever it was had completely taken over the district. On the short walk back, he watched as ships shut their doors and locked their windows, putting papers up to keep anyone from looking in. It was uncharacteristically quiet for 2, and the people that usually littered the street were now nowhere to be found. When they got in safely, she promptly let him go to begin boarding up windows with old newspapers and locking every door. His father burst through panting, no words were exchanged as they got to shutting off the lights and checking their stock of food. His ma clutched her necklace in a silent prayer, shutting her weary eyes and facing the mountain. And for the first time in his entire life, he watched as his father joined her.
The Capitol is coming. That’s what that siren meant.
They were given no further explanation, and so they prepared for the worst. Whether it would mean bombs or a presidential visit, they would find out soon enough.
With nothing better to do, he ran into his room and tore a piece of the paper silently, giving him a clear view of the street as the big white peacekeeper truck barrelled through thick mud. An ugly eyesore of a vehicle painted in Capitol white as a poor attempt to cover the blood stains. Suddenly, a loud Splat! Echoed in the street, where a brave, anonymous citizen had managed to hurl some faeces from his home onto the windshield. The truck kept on.
And Sejanus watched in horror as it slowed to the stop at his doorstep.
3 peacekeepers jumped out first, guns cocked in their hands with their backs to the 2 more men that exited after. Tall, angular, clad in tailored blue suits with the Capitol emblem on their chest.
He rushed out to the living room to find both his parents with their brows furrowed, partly in fear and partly in confusion. 4 quick knocks on the fine wood of the door cause his ma to flinch a little. Were they in trouble? He hid his face in his ma’s skirt, a habit he could never seem to grow out of, as the men at the door conversed sharply with his father. He led them into his office quickly and they followed without any protests. They passed him on the way in, and while the first man had ignored him entirely, the second man; a pale blonde with a decorated chest and the initials CXR stitched on his sleeve, grabbed his chubby cheek and pinched him playfully, paying no mind to his recoil.
It was a long wait.
Like muscle memory, ma got started immediately on some cookies to keep her worry away, giving him tasks that he’d done a thousand times over to keep him occupied as well. When they finally left some hours later, he sat alone at the un-set dining table, chewing on the warm cookies as his parents argued loudly in the next room over. He never saw them argue, in fact, their love was so sickeningly sweet, so this screaming match was a first. His ma was angry, properly angry.
And he would find out why soon enough.
Word spreads quickly in the districts, passed around by ladies with loose, wrinkled lips that had nothing better to do than exaggerate rumours. Most times. But this was no rumour. The Plinths were working with the Capitol.
It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, money that he would never be able to put his hands around had he chosen to do the right thing. Maybe if Sejanus hadn’t grown up so pampered, he would have agreed with him.
Agreed that it will only get worse from here, agreed that he would have a better life
Still, he wasn’t really sure what it all meant when he went to school the next morning, the nervous looks from his peers having been lost on him. He didn’t understand when his teacher insisted that they don’t repeat things their parents had said the previous night, that we are all children here, all friends.
He didn’t know why she looked at him, and, despite her best efforts and internal turmoil, recoiled away from him like he carried an illness when he approached her for a simple question.
My pa says you’re a traitor.
Traitor.
They never played with him again starting that day, banishing him to always only watching from the sidelines.
His father used to be kinder, he thinks. At least he vaguely remembers that. He asked him at dinner that night what it meant to be a traitor.
He got anything but an answer.
5 is a funny age. Your life changes overnight and now people look at you weirdly, tossing words neither you nor they really understand. Your father says it’s for the best, that it isn’t just for you but also your generations to come, that you’ll understand eventually. You don’t believe him, the look in your ma’s eyes only reads worry.
Have you heard, Strabo? The rebels have won. The noose will find your neck soon. Pray they spare your family. Pray, Strabo. Pray.
It was only two months into the Capitol’s besiegement when the threats became unapologetic, painted onto the walls of his factories that employed a hefty sum of the population. It became a slogan that followed him in whispers and mumbles, pray Strabo, pray.
Of course, the rebels had not actually won yet, but it was big enough of a change in odds that had people celebrating out in the streets.
With each passing day his composure broke apart chip by chip. They were mocking him, mocking his name, singing it like it was some old folk chant.
Pray Strabo, Pray
They would repeat it for the entire duration of the 2 year siege on the Capitol, seemingly comfortable in their inevitable win. Now, he knew he had it coming with his siding with the Capitol, but the involvement of his family was what angered him. He realised then, that the districts were not as community oriented as they pretended to be, or maybe they just don’t think he deserved it.
He thought it quite odd, to bite at the hand that feeds you.
The new factories alone thrust the district into a new economic age, creating job opportunities for men and women across the mountain. Skilled labour, he made them. They would have starved otherwise but he gave them a chance, a shot.
Sure, it was morally questionable, but anyone else would have done the same.
Any man in district 2 who had the slightest chance to save his family from the slums of the district would have done the same, and that was a statement he had a strong belief in.
And sure, they had been well off for some time, selling novelty firearms at exorbitant prices to rich Capitol vacationers that came to shoot migrating birds. But it was never enough, not for him.
When you’re raised starving, it’s never enough.
Pray, Strabo, pray.
It mocked his lack of religiousness in an otherwise devout district. It said pray, because those prayers wouldn’t be answered. It said that you will be punished for our win and that was inevitable, that no amount of begging would change it.
If the mountains have abandoned you, why shouldn’t we?
And that, Sejanus thinks, was why he was more than happy to accept their move into the Capitol, abandoning his previous identity completely.
-
Another siren, another warning he failed to grasp. A scramble through a crowd with his ma’s hand tightly around him. Stairs, a lot of them. They’re going down. And then-
Silence.
They were packed like sardines in that stupid bunker, hidden deep underground a safe distance away from the incoming bombs. Bombs. They would not know if it was Capitol or Rebel bombers that had gifted them this night until it was safe, and who knows when that would be.
Until then, they shuffled through the tight entrance, everyone too preoccupied with themselves to spare them any glances. Just him and his ma down there, his father miles away, probably in a safer bunker. Tonight was meant to be a celebration, a special night just for the two of them. Some fun this was.
It was quiet in there, save for some whispered prayers. His ma’s hands were trembling, fearsome that she’d be left alone if his father didn’t survive. She was trying to slow her breathing down, keep it together for her boy, who was now bundled under her arm, face red with tears. The shelter was so stuffy, despite being one of the nicer ones, making it difficult to take a proper breath in.
The alarms, his ma’s panic, it all got to him. She took a spot in the corner, walking with her head held down, hoping her boy won’t hear the sly comments or see the side eyes they get. They gave out food and water, but she was too frozen with fear to get up to collect their share, and no one would extend a helping hand to the Plinths. After all, they’re well fed and heavy rested, so why should they?
It was warm that July night, sweat dripping down his back causing him to feel he was suffocating. His ma looked at him, biting her lip in an attempt to keep her own tears at bay.
For the most part, district 2 was spared from the frontlines of the bombs and conflict. The Capitol wouldn’t bomb it's only supplier, and the rebels wouldn’t target one of their own. Because, after all, most if not all of the district were on the right side of history. Save for a few, of course.
So this…bunkers, bombs, the scramble, the panic….this was definitely a first, and he hated it.
When the first shock came, rattling the base so hard he thought the wall might cave in on them, it messed with the circuitry, causing the room to fall into a sudden darkness.
He didn’t mind the dark.
Some other children did, strained cries and sobs replaced the brief moment of hushed prayers. The generators kicked in shortly afterwards and the previous harsh lighting was replace with a gentle yellow one. A man near the centre of the room brought out an old radio, messing with it a little until it picked up a rebel transmission.
Static. Held breaths. His ma holding him tighter.
The voice on the transmission was frantic, desperate, reporting live from the heart of district 13. Except it wasn’t a report, it was a cry for help, an SOS to anyone that could hear their screams.
Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!
The more distraught the voice became, the closer they moved towards the device. No one paid attention to anything but trying to figure out what was happening. He saw panic on some people’s faces, the dim yellow lighting providing an eerie ambiance for the night.
The bomb-
The voice came and went.
We've got women and children!-
He held his breath, tears dry in favour of the shock and fear that froze him in place.
Spare-
Static once more. A different voice came on a few seconds later, this time far more clear and calm, though filled with vain. Dejected. Defeated.
The war has been won. It was all over. The shadow that was cast over 3 of Sejanus’ formative years had come to an end in one simple July night. He was clutching his ma’s arm when they said it.
13 has fallen.
And maybe if they didn’t sell their act so well, it wouldn’t have haunted him for years to come.
-
The sun was particularly relentless that week, beating down at them with more force than he’d ever seen. Usually there would be some gust of wind to offset the heat, but with the heavy rain of bombs the previous few nights, humidity and dust filled the air instead. Multiple buildings near the square had now been reduced to rubble, rebel hotspots, they were. Now flat on the ground along with plans of freedom and a better life.
They lost.
Overambition, their bodies were now cold on the mountains by the Capitol. The treaty was signed quickly with ink pens dipped in blood, detailing heavy penalties for every crime committed during the last 3 years.
Caissius, the male tribute, was a particularly popular character in 2. Charismatic and outspoken and everything Sejanus looked up to. It was jarring to see him with his head hung so low, shame and grief weighing him down. To say his mother’s body was not yet cold in the ground would be inaccurate. It was cold, alright, abandoned at the peaks with the rest of the resistance and any hope.
They marched the tributes away after what felt like forever, but maybe it was the fact that every minute since the Capitol won seemed to drag on. Handfuls of cachexic but joyful Capitol officials were littered around having arrived here on the train to rub their victory in for good measure. He watched in horror as he realised his father was engaged in a very passionate conversation with one of them.
An offer he couldn’t refuse.
He tried his best. Kicked and screamed and cried his heart out, but it was no use. His ma wasn’t even on his side on this, she was only playing neutral. She didn’t want to go either, it would be the last nail on the coffin to brand them as traitors forever! But coming face to face with the games, it seemed that there really was no future for the districts.
And so it was decided.
They were moving to the Capitol.
-
Out of all the colours it could have been, his new uniform was red.
He played with the rich fabric between his fingertips, sat in a half moved into room at 6 in the morning. He was not due for another 3 hours since he will have to miss the first lecture to process his papers and sort him into a class first. Or maybe they just wanted to give him a dramatic entrance. He wouldn’t put it past that tank of a woman, Sickle. With all that his father had served the capitol with, she still had the audacity to protest his admission. And it wasn’t his cleverness or stellar grade record that swayed her mind, it was money, a new gym. Though, to the general public, she’ll pretend she took a liking to him for his early athleticness. Clearly, most of her students were underfed and lacking half the muscle mass that Sejanus had.
Still, he had been up since a lot longer than this, the fatigue from his recent trip only allowing him some sleep. He dressed himself in the atrocious colour, which came with a skirt-like piece of clothing he was not sure how to wear. His plight was cut off by the room door opening softly, ma tiptoeing in fear that she would wake him. Her eyes had gotten more tired over the past month and she’d lost a significant amount of weight, but she was still as warm as ever. She smiled at him. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, nor did it feel right, but he smiled back, or at least tried to.
All he could think about was how much he despised his father for what he drove them to.
She crouched down to his level to help him with the uniform, smoothing out any wrinkles in the undershirt. She joked that the colour brought out his eyes, he couldn’t find it in him to laugh, even if it was a fake one. She knew he hated it, despised it, but there was only so much parenting books could teach you about raising kids, and you’re on your own for the most part. He tried to keep his breathing deep and even to regulate his emotions, but she could tell he was more nervous than he would like her to know. She could always tell. It had taken such valiant effort to make friends the first time around and he had lost them all. Sejanus spent the last 3 years eating meals alone, sitting in playgrounds alone, doing projects alone, reading alone, playing alone, he couldn’t help but feel that whatever confidence he had in himself was long gone. How was he to peep up his shaky voice to introduce himself?
She reached into her pocket to hand him a small paper bag of gumdrops, one final taste of home she had hid away for his first day. Her hands tamed the curls on his head into place and he stood silently with his teeth biting his inner lip as she rambled on about how things will be okay. How he’ll make so many friends he won’t have time to remember all their names, that, just like the first time around, he’ll share his sweets and they won’t help but want to make his acquaintance.
Another short knock came on the door and he knew deep in his heart it could never be his father. Sure enough, the stranger was let in by a call of his ma and it was one of the ‘servants’ that seemingly came with their citizenship. An Avox. The quick interaction between his ma and the stiff man was beyond awkward, neither of them could really sleep easy knowing they owned slaves. His father was adamant they kept them around, something about it being the norm in the capitol. Yes, the norm is to keep a voiceless human being to tend to your every need and whim, complete with a maid’s uniform and the inability to break your gaze unless you dismiss them. They were not used to kindness, he could tell. When his ma asked for each of their names most of them just looked back at her with the slightest hint of confusion in their otherwise mask faces. It was either that or they had completely forgotten their own identity. When they first greeted them at the door of their new apartment, his ma went a few shades paler, lightheaded and queasy at the face of the casual cruelness of the Capitol.
She insisted on going with him, and he did a good job of keeping it together when she flashed him a final worried smile as he bid her goodbye to go into class. The Academy was grand, sure, but most of the paint was chipped and the walls littered with cracks as a result of years of improper plumbing. It was all just a facade, it was all the Capitol ever was.
They shushed themselves as he walked in, grip strong on the backpack straps nervously. He bit the inside of his lip to keep from crying, they were all eyeing him like a foreign specimen, whispering things to each other that he could not hear. His teacher- professor seemed a little displeased at his addition to her class; the top performers. The students were divided among single-seater desks that kept the distance between them enough to discourage talking.
She sat him in the only open spot, by a girl who grimaced at his closeness to her, mumbling what is that smell?
He knew for a fact it wasn’t him.
Still, his cheeks burned and eyes watered as the kids erupted into laughter before the professor turned their attention back to the lesson. He sat twiddling his thumb for almost two hours since his books were not issued to him yet.
When they were dismissed, they left their belongings in the classroom and bolted out the door to enjoy their break under the early September sun. He grabbed his gumdrops before trailing behind awkwardly.
He kept the bag in his grip as he curled in on himself, as if trying to appear smaller, less threatening. The way the children played in tandem since they’d known eachother their whole lives made him nervous, teary eyed again. He would not find his place here, he just had a feeling.
Maybe if he walked up to someone else that day, it would have been different. But then again, Arachne would have found him either way. Knocked the candy out of his grip and called on everyone to watch him squirm under her gaze.
He managed to keep it together.
Arachne is mean to everyone.
That’s what Snow told him, the only interaction they had that whole school year, a quick sentence exchanged in the hallway. It made him feel a little better, had him hold out a little hope, that perhaps the blond boy was a welcoming face.
(He was not. He was doing charity work, but he would not come to know that in time)
He didn’t even last the whole first day before his identity was outed, he was not aware that he should have been hiding it. They had a brief moment before being let go for the day to pack up their things and chat with their friends. Felix spoke to him, then, though it was from ill intent not friendship. He asked him where he transferred from, Sejanus wished he didn’t answer.
They said things, did things that afternoon that he would never repeat out loud to anyone, for his own wellbeing. He rode the car alone, face puffy with tears and hands dirtied from the fall. His driver kept looking through the rear view mirror at him, sympathy etched onto what he could see from his eyes. He had not learned his name yet.
He dry wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks, taking in a few deep breaths to try to put himself back together, maintain an image for his ma, who would be devastated if he told her what happened.
It didn’t last.
The moment he saw her, warm eyes and a concerned expression, the dam broke once more, tears cascading down his cheeks before he could stop them. He promised her he’d be strong- promised himself, actually, that he’d be strong for her. He didn’t want her to see him like this, and if she held him he’d only cry harder. So he ran past her, dropping his bag along the way before he made it up to his pathetically desolate and harrowingly roomy room. His bed was set up, nothing else was, he felt like he was at a hospital. He locked his door before throwing himself face-first onto his pillows, the lack of his memorabilia only making the moment worse.
He heard her by the door, knocking softly, urging him to speak to her. She slid down to the ground with her back to the wood. Maybe he got his dramaticness from her.
Went to the market today, sweetboy. Went all alone. I don’t know what gave me away she choked out a repressed sob. They knew. They looked at me weird.
2 fish out of water, aren’t we?
Yes, that’s right. Only 2. Clearly his father was getting more than comfortable here. Clearly his money made him easier to swallow down, clearly that grace did not extend to his family. He had not even bothered to be home to see Sejanus back from his first day here.
You’re all I got- sweet boy, I’m- I’m so sorry.
Perhaps they were destined to always feel like they owe the other an apology.
He unlocked the door gently so as to not knock her off balance. She sat cross legged by his door, the bag of gumdrops that was in his bag in her lap. There were only 2 left. The last taste of home, to be consumed by only those who would appreciate it.
She didn’t press him for more about his day and he didn’t volunteer that information. They sat in silence, savouring the last bit of the citrusy candy as they cried in each other's arms. When their sobs subsided and their breathing evened, he told her about Snow. Sure, it was only one tiny interaction he gave him, but amidst how he will be treated, it must’ve meant something, right?
Right?
Every other day after that was its own special torment, the news of his homeland the hot new gossip on everyone’s tongue
And so they pulled his hair and stole his food, citing that he doesn’t need it, given his size. They didn’t need it either, apparently, since all they’d do was toss it on the ground. He always cleaned it up, he was taught better than to waste a blessing, even if they liked watching him get on the ground to clean up the mess, if only to kick him and run away. And when he sought refuge in bathroom stalls and the odd storage closet, they found ways to keep the doors locked from the outside so that he’d run late to his next class, finally turning up red in the face and voice hoarse from his screams for help.
And when he coughed, they said he had tuberculosis so that no one sat by him, even those who did not care to bully him.
And when he excelled, they said he bought the grades, bought out the professors.
And when he out performed, ran faster, lifted heavier, they made fun of how he looked after.
Sejanus felt himself chip away at every snide comment.
But worst of all, when his father would catch wind of what was happening, instead of apologising…instead of getting over his ego and comforting Sejanus, instead of cringing at the pure bigotry his son was facing, Strabo would scold him. For letting them walk all over him like that, for not toughening up and fighting back. For being such a crybaby.
Yes. He used that word.
What will people think?
Because that’s what it was about. Not the fact that his boy was one day away from collapsing from the sheer amount of stress he was in at any given moment, no. It was, what would people think of the weak Plinth boy, how would they trust him to carry on investments in the future.
He thought it would wake Sejanus up, slap some sense into him.
He didn’t have the courage to tell him he didn’t plan on making it to 19.
-
They were a lot of things if not meticulous, clever.
The student body had lived in the capitol during the dark days, hungry to the point where cannibalism was not beneath anyone. The ministry of education knew they needed to skew back the image of the Capitol that had now been cemented in the kids’ brains. But in order to love the Capitol; the place that starved and fell weak to it’s knees for 2 consecutive years, you must first hate the districts.
And they were quick.
Quick to inject the syllabus with subtle propaganda against the districts, highlighting only vicious rebel figures from each one and the crimes they committed against ‘innocent’ civilians.
They started with 13, working their way up throughout the month.
And Sejanus could take the nasty words and snide comments with a tongue in his cheek just fine, but he would not stand for slander of the men and women from his home that laid their life down in hopes of the simple dream of freedom. His teacher was in the middle of a monologue about how the districts wanted to burn the Capitol down and enslave its citizens, that that was the purpose of the war.
He couldn’t help but let a ‘that’s not true’ slip, and it caught his professor off guard, who turned to him with a more than annoyed expression on her face.
The class fell into utter silence, curiosity seeping through their hatred for him. They wanted to hear what he had to say.
And so he told them, repeated words he’d previously heard in hushed conversations in back alleys he ventured in. He told them that the districts only wanted freedom, a better life for their young, a chance to utilise their own resources.
Liar, she called him. The Capitol pours money into the districts, billions, it keeps them pampered and only asks for a little in return.
He got angry, again, not true. The Capitol gives money to the industries to keep the wheels churning, it gives money to corrupt leaders that would sell out their people for themselves.
Like your father?
She had managed to shift the attention away from his protest to humiliation. He had nothing to bite back at her with, nothing to defend himself with.
Yeah, exactly like his father actually.
All Sejanus got out of that was a trip to the principal’s office with a stern talking to. He zoned out of that snore fest, wallowing in self pity over his predicament. His family name goes against everything he stands for, how is he to make a difference?
He hated that they laughed at him then, and hated how it made his logic seem flawed. As if he needed another reason for them to pick on him.
It only hurt because they were right.
He was only a few months shy of 9. Only just a boy then.
-
Happy birthday, sweet boy.
They celebrated every birthday the same way, him and his ma. It was their own little event before they spent the rest of the day in the company of his father as well. She knew he preferred it that way, their own private moment before Strabo would find one way or another to ruin his day.
He didn’t mean it, she would coo, no matter what he did. He never meant it.
Every birthday, like clockwork. A new pomegranate-flavoured dessert that used the first fruits of that season, an exclusive to his birthday. He’ll bake the cake and juice the autumn apples while she puts together her new concoction.
Every birthday, she sang to him early in the morning on the kitchen counter, and he blew out his candles with the same wish.
He spent every birthday alone in her company with no one his age around. He had no grand parties or memorable memories from any of the years, they all blended together.
Every birthday since he was 5.
Every birthday since he was no longer just Sejanus, but Plinth.
Their move made no change to the tradition.
9 is a funny age. You think you know the world and then you find out you don’t. They tell you that you’re just a child but your head hasn't been right for years. You don’t feel like a child, not anymore.
-
And he was at the Capitol for all of 2 months when his ma dragged him into that office, an approach to medicine that would never be utilised back home. Mental health, a therapist. It was a last resort for his violent insomnia that kept him awake into the most desolate hours of the night. They had exhausted the list of neurologists that tried to find a reason for his state, who referred him to look inward instead of trying to find an organic lesion.
The old man, Dr Alexander, took one good look at him and pointed them to the nearest technology shop with the daring prescription of one white noise machine.
It worked, for some time. It turned out his bed time routine was missing the constant ambience of 2 that he’d grown used to. The Capitol was eerily quiet, no matter what time it was, and he missed the distant whistle of the wind combined with the odd clank and bang.
But the silence was not the root of his problem, because it only took a week for the restlessness to return with a strong grip on his shoulders. He was tired, so, so tired. His head would drop and lids would droop but the sleep never came. He felt like his body was not his own.
They returned to the gruff shrink, this time he suggested a folk medicine approach of herbs and calming teas, the protests of his desperate ma falling on (quite literally) deaf ears. She had already tried that. He was one sip away from turning part chamomile for crying out loud, but the doctor wouldn’t listen. Stupid district woman, sick and worried about her degenerate son, what do you know about medicine?
They returned once more, sometimes he wished they hadn’t. The way he wrote off those wretched pills so easily should have alarmed some official, but it didn’t.
Sejanus was freshly 9 when he first got his hands on sleeping pills.
They gave them a stock of enough doses to kill a small town, he thinks, and ma kept them high up in a cabinet he could not reach, for now. The instructions were quite vague; one pill before bed, that's it. Not when or how long before bed, not how many times a week or when to be alarmed of overdose, just one pill before bed. He put the little round capsule on his tongue, washing it down quickly with some water.
20 short minutes later, he was fast asleep on the couch.
He hated those pills.
While they brought him the much missed relief of slumber, he would need about an hour to recover the morning after, staring tiredly at his breakfast plate as he waited for his consciousness to return to his body. He could never scrub their sour aftertaste out of his mouth. It made him a little more apathetic, too, though that might have been a blessing in his case. If this is how he acted with his emotions half gone, imagine how he would act unsuppressed.
The man was a lot more than displeased to see Sejanus dragging his feet back into his office, but he legally could not turn a patient away.
With nothing better to fill his time, he would wait, sometimes for hours, as Panem’s only practicing psychiatrist finished up with whomever had the misfortune of finding themselves here. Unlike his past sessions where his ma was required to attend with him, he was now in a cycle of one-on-one sittings with a man he was sure was secretly a corpse re-animated just to spite Sejanus. Heavier than what Sejanus would assume to be healthy for a man of his age and always half asleep by the time he breeches into his private office. He wondered if he was genuinely certified or just a good listener, since all his slices of wisdom were realisations Sejanus had came to before he could even speak. It was stupid, since he already tells his ma everything, but he appreciated the sentiment.
It had started innocently, really. Mundane talks about how the children at school won’t stop tormenting him, calling him names, and the doctor would repeat rehearsed speeches about self actualisation.
The cold December morning air had no problem penetrating the academy walls and biting the students in the comfort of their lecture hall. Their professor, an important person at some point in her life- he doesn’t doubt, was explaining their assignment for the weekend, it’s just that her voice was so painfully monotone, he had trouble keeping awake. Maybe it was the pills.
“As usual, you could work in groups up to 3. Or you could work alone.”
That clause was added for him specifically.
No one would volunteer their precious schoolwork to team up with the District boy, and mandatory pair-ups only resulted in angry students at the professor’s office, begging for a reconsideration.
So Sejanus often worked alone, save for the odd times his peers would believe he held some value in the assignment. Only then would they put their pride away, only for a higher grade. He was top of the class in the sciences, mainly biology, having always been drawn to everything that has to do with living.
For this essay however, they had to focus on the history of Panem, and so he was soloing his assignment once more.
He walked with his head heavy on his shoulders as he weaved through long hallways to head to the academy library. The collection of books there was modest at best, most not providing anything of value for almost every assignment he sought them out for, but he would try nonetheless. He whizzed straight past groups of his classmates working together, most of whom ignored his presence. Save for Arachne, of course, who couldn’t fathom going one full day without making his life hell.
The academy library was more than unhelpful, offering him only a wide selection of different flavours of propaganda he was sure some of his peers would fall face-first into. He didn’t want to use information that was limited to the glory of the Capitol and its endless list of achievements, he wanted the raw, gritty reality of it. He wanted to hear all about the trenches and how life really was decades before the war. And so, with the possibility of using real retellings, he set out for a first hand account from a man he was sure was around for the creation of the universe.
That seemed to flip a switch on their relationship. In one short sentence, the slightly cross eyed doctor seemed to have woken up like he was some sleeper agent, putting his medical ethics aside and using their time to remember the glory days. Sejanus had great recall, mentally jotting down grievances about Panem he said off-handedly to include in his essay. Though, once the man started teetering close to his distaste towards the districts, he found himself abandoning his previous mission in favour of righting the man’s views. What Sejanus called passion for justice and empathy, his doctor called weakness and psychosis, grimacing and scowling at every word he said. Within that session, tucked away in the modernly-furnished room that was less welcoming than a hospital entrance, Sejanus found solace in being able to let it all out. His doctor went red in the face, repeating fallacies and rehearsed lies about the very place he grew up in. Between his doctor, the library’s inventory of falsehoods and the words of his more than great professors, any weaker man would have given into the propaganda, second-guessed himself and his views.
But it would take a lot more than that to indoctrinate Sejanus Plinth.
He never did get that essay back.
This removal of the filter between them is what kept him coming back deep into his adolescence. There were moments in between senseless confessions and desperate pleas where Sejanus would sneak his way into the doctor’s mind, cause him to stutter and rephrase his sentences. They were moments that Sejanus longed for, moments where he was able to bring out the flaws in his logic about the districts causing him to internally second guess everything that he’d come to believe. And if he was able to make a difference in that room, he would be able to make a change anywhere else. Yes, those moments gave him hope.
He was only 14 when he heard of the man’s passing. Stroke, long overdue. But he will miss their little talks.
As per the request of his ma, he sought out a different practitioner. This one was a much younger woman who clearly paid attention in her ethics lectures since she was able to keep any personal prejudices hidden away from his constant probing. She was calm, mid forties with neat slicked back blonde hair and a stylish pair of glasses always perched atop her nose. Sometimes they’d make it to the top of her head if she was frustrated at him, but that was all he ever got.
With doctor Alexander, wherever his soul was now, it would be less than easy to rile him up, bringing a prominent vein on his forehead into perfect view. Come to think of it, maybe his anger towards Sejanus was what popped that vessel in his brain in the end.
Oh how he missed him.
No matter how often he lay wide awake on his plush bed wide awake and resisting the urge to reach for his pill bottle as he thought of his life going forward, the future seemed to always end abruptly at 18. That was always how it was.
That's how it was since he was 11, when he had fully given up on being somebody.
He was tired, more than he could put into words.
He had no friends, barely one acquaintance. No siblings, no family his age. No family at all, actually, save for his aunt who only acknowledges him on holidays he did not remember why they celebrated. Or used to celebrate, He didn’t resent her, she missed her sister and he was only a complementary plus one. He thinks of his cousin, the curiosity eating away at him. Is it too late to ask if it was a girl or a boy? They had a name he couldn’t pronounce with his half washed out accent. He never even got to fully develop it back home with his psychological tongue tie. Did anyone back home ever think of him?
16 is a funny age.
You hit puberty and things get worse then they get intelligible, he felt his sinuses clear. He’s been here for as long as he has not. He was neither from here nor there.
If you ask him, his life had actually ended at 8.
For their sake, he applied to majors he knew he would excel in, putting his passion in humanities and healthcare at the very back of his closet of dreams, off-handedly agreeing with whatever his parents say. He toured campuses knowing in his heart that he would not walk any of them, ever, and accepted compliments on his stellar record knowing that it would all go to waste.
Sejanus did not plan on making it to 19.
-
He felt silly, holding on to such a mindless act that Marcus more than likely does not recall. But it told Sejanus that there was hope, even if it was a hair strand thick. Hope that, if he were to ever return home, he would not be shunned nor burnt at the stake, that perhaps the people will give him the grace of the innocence of childhood and allow him a second shot.
But with the way Marcus looks at him now, he knew that he could never show his face back there again, no matter how much he longed for it. 2 sides of the same coin yet complete opposite fates. He reeked of nepotism and privilege, while Marcus reeked fruitless struggle. In the fleeting moments their gazes meet on accident, he finds his own eyes staring back at him in desperation.
Sejanus sees himself in every struggle around him.
It was a chance, luck, a turn of odds in an unseen lottery that landed Sejanus on this side of the cage, and only that. He had nothing to show for this gift of his, nothing to present to the less fortunate for them to forgive his tainted privilege. He wonders if he’d been the neighbour's boy, would he turn out differently?
Would he be more violent, outspoken, had his childhood been spent starving? Would he hate the Capitol just the same, if he was not doused in its luxuries? Or would he hate it more?
His empathy was more often a curse.
And Marcus won’t speak to him, won’t swallow whatever district pride he had in him to keep his belly full. He wanted to scream out to him that he was sorry that an association with him a decade ago had landed him here. He wasn’t sure if the reaping had been rigged, if he was always set to mentor someone he vaguely knew from back home to prove his father’s point. The final act to sever his connection to 2.
Once again, the two tallest boys in class were on opposite teams.
–
For the last 10 years, Sejanus Plinth felt like a dead man walking, living a life that was not his own. Playing a part in a movie about his life where he was not his own main character. He was in limbo, not quite dead, definitely not alive.
He got a new lease on life when he got on that train (he would not know it was a short one), banished and exiled for his way too loud moral compass. But he didn’t mind.
District 12 would have not been his first pick, but Sejanus found himself chasing the only semblance of a friendship he ever had, signing on his name onto the most impoverished district.
Inside, it was busier than he had anticipated. Poor souls who had sold their lives away to the Capitol in hopes of a lifeline, only to be tossed away into indefinite service once they ran out of tricks up their sleeves. Some weeped, others isolated themselves, tucked in dark corners of the rustling cart. Sejanus enjoyed the gentle shake of the cool window on his freshly buzzed head.
He let the loud groaning of the carts lull him into a peaceful slumber, grateful for his ability to fall asleep any and everywhere, as long as there was noise. Old habits die screaming.
He doesn’t know what exactly woke him up, perhaps it was divine intervention. The sun had barely made its presence known over the horizon, painting the sky in a splash of pinks and oranges as it woke up early hustlers and breadwinners. It might have been disorienting, not knowing where you were or how long you’ve got left, had it not been for the very mountains he was born between being in the distance.
The very mountains he called home. Calls home. But he often had to remind himself that he doesn’t not have a home, not physically, anyway.
Perhaps the sky had welcomed him back with its stunning colours and wide open arms. Perhaps the mountains were ready to have him back, perhaps they had accepted his guilt stricken soul and repentance for mistakes that were never his own.
He was never at fault, was he?
But it didn’t matter. If the soil he took his first steps in still held a lot for him to build his life on, the people did not. He was not welcome back with a face like his, features eerily similar to that of a traitor they vaguely remember from some time ago.
Traitor.
A family name that doomed him to be outcast wherever his feet struck. And here he was, watching the snowy peaks approach him quickly. He hadn’t anticipated this surge of emotion, but the mountains were calling out to him, speaking to him.
He told them he tried.
They told him they understood.
All his life had been a never ending uphill battle, a climb to summit the challenges of his lineage. He was so lonely in his dredge up the rocky walls.
He told them he was sorry.
They told him he was forgiven.
Or was it forsaken? He had not spoken their language in so long, he was getting rusty.
He often found himself dreaming of a life he would live here, in the heart of the hustle and bustle of the modest district. A humble bakery in the middle of the town centre. A stall he runs in the flea market on weekends. A nice girl, she looks like home. However many children, they’re all girls, lest he turns out like the man he loathed.
To anyone else, he had such attainable dreams, but they always seemed quite far out of reach. It always seemed like even the simplest of lives he wished to lead was him being bizarrely idealistic.
Sejanus just wanted to love, to be loved. Oh how he longed for connection, community, people to worry about his well-being without any hidden motives or blood relations.
He asked if he was doomed to be on his own.
The mountains said maybe.
He watched with his head in his hands as the train pierced through the mountain range, casting them in a brief, cold shadow before his motherland came into view. He didn’t get a dramatic panorama of the place, his vision almost immediately obstructed by the train station walls as the rails screeched to a loud halt.
The recruits didn’t waste time, though they were a lot more ambitious looking than anyone else on the convoy. It made sense, he used to watch peacekeepers in strict uniform train out in the square. His father would tell him that, at 5 years old, he was likely a better shot than them. And Sejanus believed him.
He remembered their drills, synchronised and mesmerising to watch. Sometimes they’d spar in the public eye and he would admire their determined looks and self control. He wondered if he would ever be able to achieve something like that.
His eyes snapped to the loud sliding doors of the car as they screeched open, soldiers filtering out promptly, leaving him with a lot less people that will be divided unevenly amongst the next districts. His last glimpse of home was the dingy station floor, cracks littered in the old masonry and cobblestone walls. A lone, leaky pipe was the furthest thing he could see dripping through tracks in the stone as greenery persevered in its wake. District 2 was cooler than most other districts, the constant cycle of trapped mountain wind an underappreciated player in the symphony of sounds that made 2 work. It smelled like home. His lungs felt on fire from the wave of despair he found himself suddenly sucked under.
He asked if he should stay.
The mountains didn’t answer.
He was one of 2 people to get off at the last train stop, end of the line. But where others saw misfortune, Sejanus saw fortuity.
No, really.
The first full breath of district 12 air was filled with hope and smelled of new beginnings (and totally not like coal at all). Here, he was not Sejanus; the district scum that might taint their capitol bloodlines, nor was he Plinth; the sellout traitor that had no backbone. Here, he decided, he would just be whatever he decided he was, he had a fresh page to introduce himself with.
Even his interactions with Croyo felt different out there, banished to the furthest, most forgotten district (but he picked that on his own), Sejanus felt that Coryo had a little more skip in his step, a lighter air around him. And if they weren’t really friends before, they were now.
Then he became bullseye.
A small hiccup in an identity he wanted to put together for himself, but it wasn’t anything condemning. He just wanted to be a medic, a healer, but he’ll work with what he got. He could see why Coryo crossed the country to come see his girl, their music -the covey- is worth so much more than just that. Music in the Capitol was often soulless and bland, musicians knew that the money to be made is at live performances in old rich folks’ parties, and they preferred jazz. Not soulful love songs and especially not clever lyrics that are subtly anti government, they would hang for that. Here, though, the Covey danced around freely like birds with their words tumbling the audience into both rehearsed and drunked dances. The hob, Sejanus decided, was the only place in Panem that was alive.
Growing up alone must have gotten to his development one way or another, no siblings especially affected him. He was jealous, deep down, of the people that had someone around all the time. If that was obvious, Maude Ivory was the first to notice.
But perhaps the single most thing that defined his journey to 12, was the rebellion. He came with the intention of finding it, finding his spot in it. He figured with 12 being close to 13 and with their struggling status there would surely be some politically motivated groups there. He wasn’t as naive as people thought, he had his backup plan and enough money to keep him armed and ready. Sejanus was no soldier, but he did not mind becoming one.
The rebellion found him in the shape of Billy Taupe.
And things were falling into place.
-
In another world, Sejanus woke up late that morning, perhaps sleeping through the morning drills and missing the last car to the woods. In a better world, he couldn’t find a quiet moment to talk to Coriolanus, or maybe he did, but maybe it was deep in the woods where only the trees would have testimony of his confession. In a perfect world, he was not half as naive nor trusting, he was not the sweet, sensitive Sejanus the world had come to hate. In a perfect world, he sees right through the blond’s straight face performance on how they’re brothers, and he leaves for the vague idea of the settlement up north, living out his days until the Capitol fell.
But this was not that world.
District 12 was not as efficient as they thought they were with interrogations, perhaps that had to do with the ever existent low-morale at the peacekeeper base. They did not have the facilities or the mind to waterboard him or pull his teeth out, push him to beg for relief, and Sejanus couldn’t help but feel relieved. Though, what they lacked in efficiency, they made up for with pure brute force.
He took one punch after another with gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes tightly so as to not give them the satisfaction of his pain. They drew blood, multiple times, and he could feel every cut and tear they left on his previously intact face. They will execute him anyway, though that thought had not yet fully settled in.
Maybe it was his privilege.
Maybe he thought his father would somehow pull him out of this, buy his life once more. It was the only time he needed him to be the cold man he always was.
Sejanus Plinth lived and died a traitor.
A traitor to the folks back home, with a father that had a hand in the Capitol’s violent win. To Marcus, the boy he couldn’t fathom a way to save.
A traitor to the Capitolites with his loud, dirty opinions and strained voice. His not so subtle acts of rebellion that would have landed any lesser man at the square with a noose around his neck. That’s what Dr. Gaul said, at least. She was never fond of him anyway.
A traitor to the rebels, for not fulfilling his promise well. Getting caught. Doing a sloppy job. Who knows if they’ll make it to that settlement now? Lil. The rebel that will hang with him, he let her down, too.
A traitor to his father, for not being the son he so badly wished for. Business oriented and past hidden on some backlogged shelf in the basement, no. Sejanus couldn’t be that man. He understood his reasoning, why he would give up everything to build a better life for Sejanus and his metaphorical children, but he would never accept it. Never accept abandoning your community and pretending to be pretentious.
And worst of all, a traitor to his ma. His sweet, sweet ma who had only ever begged for him to take care of himself.
Perhaps he should have stayed quiet, swallowed his protests and turned his cheek until he had a real chance. Connected with whatever was left of the rebels in the Capitol and struck when they struck instead of punching on his own.
No time for regrets now.
He thought he saw her face out in that crowd, frantic eyes that looked like his pleading with him to find a way out. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation catching up to him, or maybe it was the pure unadulterated fear that was coursing through his veins. In seconds, the noose will tighten around his neck under the effect of his body weight. He knew it wasn’t her he was seeing, but he would pretend.
He’s got so much to say to her.
I’m sorry, Ma.
In a way, his execution was a bitter call back to the way he lived, scared and alone, desperately clawing at the projected image of his mother for support. No one in the onlookers cared about him, not really, anyway. His death will be private, quiet, with an audience that will not remember his name.
Ma? Can you hear me? I’m not coming home. I’m sorry.
She didn’t answer.
The mountains. Why didn’t he listen to the mountains! They told him. Maybe he was destined to be alone, but he did not heed their warning. He sought Snow out, bought his one man act. Oh foolish, foolish Sejanus. You brought this upon yourself.
Ma, please. I’m scared.
There will be no one to sprinkle breadcrumbs on his body to accompany his soul, and where does that leave him? He was not sure. Would they bury him here, in a land that was not his own? Would his grave be nameless in an effort to erase the rebel activity in the district? Will he be buried in an unmarked area, destined to have people step over his decaying tissue for centuries to come?
Ma, where are you?
His vision was getting blurry with tears.
No. Surely they will ship his bones back to the Capitol, back to his ma. Surely his father would see to it. There’s no graveyard plot for him in that stuffy city, one that he had more than despised his whole life? Probably not.
Will they see to a grave in 2? Will the soil of his homeland welcome him back or will it shun him out? Again?
Will Sejanus Plinth not have anywhere to go, even in death?
Will he wander aimlessly? Dead the way he lived?
Please, ma. Forgive me.
She couldn’t keep it together, tears streaming down her cheeks in cascades that mirrored his own.
Do they know he’s seconds away from the point of no return? If so, why have they not come? If not, who will tell them?
When you’re 18, you don’t often think of death like this. You think of a quiet passing on a comfortable bed deep in your old age, surrounded by people who will be devastated at your departure. But it had been a long time coming. That’s what Sejanus pictured for the end of his life since he stepped in 12. In fact, he pictured a huge community of people that resided in the rumoured settlement up north, he made a difference there. They will miss him.
And even if it wasn’t like that, he still used to picture a private death. An empty pill bottle and a suicide note that said he was sorry to his ma. He had nothing to say to his father.
Perhaps even a quick blow in the humidity of the arena to make a statement.
Yes, Sejanus always thought that he would get the comfort of knowing he made some difference wherever his death was.
18.
Such a tricky age.
They read out his crimes. Treason, a word all too familiar to him in all its synonyms.
He panicked, suddenly face to face with too many regrets and not enough time. He needs breadcrumbs. He needs to hug his ma again. He needs to tell her he’s sorry.
He wants to beg for forgiveness.
Forgive me, Ma. Forgive me, ma. Forgive me,
“Ma! Ma! Ma!”
But his pleas fell on deaf ears, only the mockingjays sang for him.
19 is a funny age. It once seemed so far away yet it was now only a few months out of reach. You think you wouldn’t live to see it, you don’t want to. There’s no life at 19, no salvation, it’s too close to 20. They’ll treat you like an adult, you still feel like a child. But then you do, 19 doesn’t sound so bad with it being so close. You think you’ll finally have a spot in this land, at 19, you think you’ll find yourself, at 19.
You think you’ll find clarity, second chances.
But you don’t make it to 19 anyway.