Chapter Text
Rain pressed itself against the earth like a grieving thing, relentless and cold, turning the road into a ribbon of blackened mud. The night breathed damp sorrow. Lantern light wavered, trembling like a dying star, casting long, broken shadows of men and steel across the ground.
A cart waited at the roadside, its wooden ribs soaked through, wheels half-sunken as if the earth itself wished to swallow it whole.
Soldiers moved like vultures in human skin.
A man dragged a child by the arm.
The boy could not have been more than three, his small feet failing to keep pace, slipping in the mud, knees bruised, breath torn apart by sobs. His cries sliced through the rain, sharp and desperate, a sound too fragile for a world this cruel.
“Mother,” he screamed. “Mama.”
Behind him, a woman was being hauled by two soldiers, her dress torn, her hair matted to her face. She fought them with the last of her strength, clawing at the air, reaching for the child who was being ripped from her gravity.
“George,” she cried, her voice breaking into pieces. “George, look at me. I am here. Mama is here.”
The rain swallowed her words, but not her fear.
The boy’s name was George.
The woman was Martha.
George twisted his small body, tears streaking down his dirt-stained cheeks as he stretched his arms toward her, fingers grasping at nothing but rain and night.
“Mama,” he wailed again, the word dissolving into a scream. “Mama, please.”
Martha screamed his name as if it were a prayer, as if saying it loud enough could pull him back into her arms. Her voice tore itself raw against the storm.
The man who stood before them watched in silence.
He wore no mercy in his eyes.
With a violent shove, the soldiers forced mother and son into the cart. George fell hard against the wooden floor, his cries echoing inside the hollow cage. Martha collapsed beside him at once, gathering his trembling body against her chest, rocking him as if she could still shield him from the world.
The man stepped closer.
“When you find your strength, come for me. As long as you’re weak, you’re not worthy here.”
He reached for his own hand, sliding a ring from his finger. Gold dulled by time. A circle with a swan engraved that once meant something. He tossed it into the cart like an afterthought, the metal clinking softly against the wood.
“Take them to District Twelve,” he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm. Like ice that had never learned to melt.
The cart lurched forward.
As it moved, George lifted his head, eyes swollen and shining. Through the curtain of rain, he found the man’s gaze. Their eyes met, child and executioner, innocence pressed against something utterly hollow.
George searched for love.
There was none.
Only cold. Endless and indifferent, like a winter sky that had forgotten the sun.
The cart disappeared into the rain, the sound of wheels fading, Martha’s sobs dissolving into the night.
Silence followed.
Then the man turned.
Steel sang.
One by one, the soldiers fell. Some did not even have time to scream. Rain washed their blood into the mud, red threading through black, the earth drinking it greedily. Bodies collapsed where they stood, lifeless shapes beneath a sky that did not care.
When it was over, only the rain remained.
The man stood alone on the road, unmoving, as if nothing had happened at all.
The night swallowed him whole.
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“Mama, I’m scared.”
The words were no louder than a breath, yet they trembled through Martha’s chest like a blade.
She tightened her hold on George as the cart groaned forward, wood shuddering beneath them. Rain slipped through the cracks, cold fingers tracing their skin. Martha rocked him gently, her body curved around his as if she could become a shield made of bone and will.
“I know,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his hair. “Mama is here. Mama won’t let you go.”
George clung to her, knuckles pale. His tears fell in quiet streams.
“Why are they angry?” he whispered. “What’s happening to us?”
Martha’s throat closed. Words gathered and died before reaching her tongue. She had learned long ago that truth could be sharper than any blade. Instead, she hummed, low and broken, a tune meant to hold fear at bay.
“Can you, can you?
Feel our rhythmic beat,
No sword in sight,
Yeah our voice, fierce and fleet,
Birds soar up high,
Uncontainable to the sky
When robin meets swan,
She told them to run,
If Star and moon intertwined
Fate of the land was signed.”
The journey stretched on, endless and cruel.
When the cart finally lurched to a stop, hands seized them. They were thrown out onto the ground, bodies striking mud and stone. George cried out as soldiers shoved them forward, boots heavy, laughter careless, the kind born from power unchecked.
One soldier stepped too close.
His hand reached for Martha.
George reacted on instinct, small body launching forward. His teeth sank into flesh. The soldier howled, jerking back, fury igniting in his eyes as he raised his arm.
Martha moved.
Her body remembered before her mind did.
She twisted sharply, stepping inside the soldier’s reach, her foot striking the side of his knee. Bone gave way with a sickening sound. As he fell, she drove her elbow into his throat, precise and merciless. He collapsed, choking on his own breath.
Another soldier rushed toward George.
Martha pivoted, low and fast, sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard. Before he could rise, she stamped down on his wrist, forcing the gun from his hand. She caught it mid-fall, grip firm despite the tremor running through her arms.
The third soldier raised his weapon.
She fired first.
The recoil jolted her shoulder, but her stance held. One shot dropped him. Another soldier lunged, blade flashing, but Martha sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and twisted. The knife fell. She struck the base of his skull with the butt of the gun. He did not rise again.
The last soldier froze.
Rain poured over them all as Martha aimed, breath steady now, eyes dark and focused. She pulled the trigger. The sound echoed, final and absolute.
Silence followed.
The storm bore witness.
Martha let the gun fall into the mud. She rushed to George, lifting him into her arms, her hands checking him with swift precision, searching for blood, for breaks, for anything she might have missed.
He was shaking, but alive.
She did not wait.
They ran.
They ran until their lungs burned and the world blurred. When they reached the nearest town, lanterns flickered like false promises. Doors closed. Faces turned away. Fear was easier than compassion.
The storm returned with vengeance.
Martha dragged George beneath the stables, pulling straw around them, her back curved protectively over him as thunder cracked the sky apart.
They waited.
Then the door opened.
Warm light spilled into the darkness. A young man stood there, rain-soaked, eyes steady, unafraid.
“Come in,” he said simply.
Inside, they shared only names. Nothing more. No questions. No past.
After a moment, the man spoke again.
“My name is Steve Russell.”
For the first time since the rain began, Martha allowed herself to breathe.
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14 years later,
The hills rolled endlessly beneath the open sky, draped in layers of green that breathed peace into the world. Tall grass swayed like a quiet sea, whispering secrets to the wind. Wildflowers bloomed without fear, splashes of gold and violet tucked between rocks warmed by the sun. Far below, the town slept gently in the valley, roofs small and harmless, smoke rising lazily as if nothing terrible had ever touched this land.
It was a beautiful lie.
A boy of seventeen sat upon a makeshift swing tied to an old tree branch, the rope creaking softly with each idle sway. His hair, dark dirty-blonde and perpetually untamed, curled freely as the wind tangled itself through the strands. His eyes were striking, a deep blue fractured by a ring of gold at their center, like sunlight trapped beneath ice.
George Russell was not watching the hills.
He was staring at his hands.
Resting in his palm was a gold ring, worn smooth by time. A swan was engraved upon it, wings curved mid-flight, frozen forever in silent defiance. He turned it slowly between his fingers, thumb brushing over the familiar lines as if the metal itself could answer the questions burning inside him.
He was too lost to notice the footsteps.
Grass bent softly behind him, and a shadow fell across the ground. A boy with dark hair and slightly tanned skin approached, posture relaxed yet cautious, as though the world had taught him early not to trust peace too easily.
It was Alex Albon, the healer’s son who lived next door to George’s house, the one who always smelled faintly of herbs and smoke.
“What are you doing, Russell?” Alex asked, folding his arms.
George startled, fingers curling instinctively around the ring before shoving it into his pocket. The swing swayed once, then settled.
“Thinking,” he replied flatly.
Alex snorted and sat down in the grass beside him. “That explains the haunted expression. You miss hunting again. We could have brought something back before dark.”
George shrugged. “There’s barely anything left to hunt anyway. Capitol men scare everything deeper into the woods.”
Alex’s expression darkened. “They’ve been coming more often. More guards. More weapons.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “The reaping is soon.”
The word settled between them like ash.
Alex picked at the grass, jaw tight. “What if I get reaped, George?”
George did not answer immediately. His hand slipped back into his pocket, fingers clenching around the ring until the edges pressed painfully into his skin.
“I don’t care if I get reaped,” he said at last, voice steady to the point of cold. “I’m strong. I’ll prove it to everyone.”
Alex looked at him, incredulous, then laughed without humor. “George, I love you, but the only strong thing about you is your head and maybe your heart.” He tilted his head. “Your physical strength is nonexistent.”
The hills vanished.
Rain. Mud. Lantern light shaking in the dark.
The man stepped closer.
“When you find your strength, come for me. As long as you’re weak, you’re not worthy here.”
George’s breath caught.
The memory burned behind his eyes, sharp and unforgiving. He curled his fingers tighter around the ring, as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the present.
“You don’t understand, Alex,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “I need to be strong.”
Alex frowned. “Strong for what?”
George lifted his gaze toward the distant horizon, where the hills met the sky and peace pretended to be eternal.
“I need to get reaped.”