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Wyatt has always known his odds of dying young in the mines.
For as long as he can remember there had always been a dark cloud of early death hanging over Wyatt Callow. From the second he was born under a cloudy winter morning his fate had been known, not by his parents or his brothers and certainly not by him who had simply wailed at the fact he was born at all, but by the very forces of the universe. It was written in the stars for him to die young.
First it had been the Hunger Games and all the brutality they provided, but even once he’d aged out of the reaping after the 50th Games, Games his odds of being chosen had been high enough to work against him, he wasn’t free of the curse.
Then it was the mines.
Not as brutal, not as public, but still a killing machine all the same. The Capitol would work the men of 12 to their deaths and demises to scrounge every last bit of ore from the mines that took as many as any plague or famine ever did.
He’d known before his name had even been placed into the reaping that if he were to come out of the other side of those six years untouched by the Games there would be nothing but dark mines waiting for him, and the only end to that tunnel was his own grave.
He’d hated it, he still did, but he accepted it, what else was there to do? Plus he figured he’d never find anyone willing to look past the stain his family put on his name long enough to marry him, let alone have kids with him, so at the very least when he was buried by the earth of 12 young enough his mother would be there to weep over his grave he had the consolation he wouldn’t be leaving behind a wife and kids.
And then he’d met Maysilee, she’d slipped into his life easily, settling in place like there had always been a crook in his life and in his heart waiting just for her that he’d missed for 20 years. She’d made such a place for herself that mere months after they met, being somewhere without her by his side felt strange, like he was missing a grounding weight.
And, against the best logic, for himself but especially for her, he’d felt himself fall in love with her, slow enough that when he looked back he could see each domino fall but quick enough there was nothing he could’ve done in the moment to keep them standing.
His odds stayed the same, fate wasn’t kind like that, it didn’t care if you were lonely or well loved, married or single, had children or be childless, it would take you all the same, because Wyatt Callow was always meant to die young.
He married her, despite the many times he’d told her that she could find someone more cohesive with her life, a merchant boy who would run a shop with her until they had grey hair and grandkids. She’d get no strange looks, she wouldn’t have to live in the Seam, she wouldn’t have a husband she’d have to remember by the photograph on the mantle like so many widowed brides had to.
But she married him anyway, because she was stubborn and tough and loved him for reasons he never did end up understanding, and she took the weird stares and dilapidated house and the odds stacked against her for growing old with the man she married.
She knew he knew his odds of making it back to her every day, she never asked, he never told her.
And then they had kids, as every one was want to do unless they were to face scrutiny for the rest of their lives and extra eyes on them from the Capitol. But each one brought new light to his life he’d never even realised he’d been missing until their tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers and their laughs echoed around their house and their thunderous footsteps rattled the old foundation.
His daughters looked like Maysilee, Maryella’s smile and nose, Seraphina’s eye and hair colour, but they looked like him too, his colouring on their eldest, his facial features on their middle. They walked around as physical embodiments of their love.
It didn’t sway fate.
Wyatt is 38 years old and it’s June when a major collapse happens in the mines, it is far from the first one that’s happened since he began at the mines or since he’d been married, it had been the deadliest though.
It was another sector, 15 men dead because of one mistake, the Capitol pawns said it had been one of the dead miners fault, that’s they’d dug in the wrong spot, had light a lantern without checking, everyone knew it was the Capitol, they’d pushed those men to the limit, it left room for errors big enough to down a bloodline, it was coming for them all.
They’d posted the names of those who had died around 12, they claimed it was an act of remembrance to those who had given their lives for Panem, Wyatt knew it was to keep them all in check, to show how easily each life could be ripped away, if anything ever called for it.
Wyatt and Maysilee had read over the names side by side the day they’d first been put up, Wyatt knew those names, had gone to school with some, had shared a drink with others, he had known their odds, he knew his own.
“Don’t tell me,” Maysilee had said quietly beside him, he’d turned to his wife confused by the comment, he hadn’t even been about to speak but just standing quietly as he read every name and then read them again, “I know you know the odds, I don’t want to know them.”
She’d turned to him then, her hand on the swell of her stomach, their third child in the safest place they’ll ever be and will never be again by the time the dusk of September rolls around. Her blue eyes had been watery, her hair pulled up and back meaning he saw the way her lip quivered before she bit it and turned her gaze fierce, she looked near distraught, like she was seeing his name up on that list.
They’d never talked about it so openly before, about how he knew the chance of his boots being kicked off back at the door each night versus the likelihood they'd be left on his cooling body or worse in the depths of a mine shaft that would never be seen again.
She’d never asked, he’d never said, a habit he had picked up as a young teenager when he’d spouted out the odds of an unlucky tribute in those years games and had ended up with a broken nose his brother had had to reset for him. It had been a hard thing for him to grasp, that not every one felt the same comfort from analytical facts and numbers as he did, but he did eventually.
So he had just nodded, pressed a kiss to her forehead and kept to himself how his odds were rising against him.
He was still 38 and it was late October as he wandered the dingy markets 12 offered up after his shift at the mines. He knew he couldn’t linger long, Maysilee had been home alone with their newborn all day and she deserved time to relax as he sorted out dinner. But Maysilee’s birthday was creeping closer and thinking of an idea of what to get her had been pushed to the back burner until recently.
His odds grew ever dark over him, every new death reported down the grapevine, every rattle of the elevator they’d pile into, every errant spark, he couldn’t spot the horizon anymore, he could barely even see the grave that was being dug for him.
He spotted a small roll of deep blue ribbon.
He had stopped in his tracks, reaching out to feel the fabric, it was nice, silky to the touch like the one cushion Maysilee’s parents kept on the armchair that wasn’t meant to be sat on, and soft under his callused hands.
The blue had reminded him of Maysilee’s teary eyes that early summer day. He had gotten the market owners attention and purchased the small roll, tucking it into his pocket as he had made his way home.
The light and noise from his home spoke of his wife and children and once he opened the door, after quickly washing off the worst of the coal dust, Maryella had barreled into his legs.
Jasper had stayed in his sling, pressed against his chest as he’d cooked, the baby’s eyes had been curious and interested but had stayed firmly on Wyatt instead of the noisy pot and pan. Wyatt had wondered if his son could see the same thing he could, if he could see his fates stacked against him primed to topple.
Their kids were asleep hours later, Jasper had been wrapped tightly and placed in his bassinet, Maryella and Seraphina had been curled away from each other on their shared bed as Wyatt had quietly pulled the door closed. Maysilee had been sitting on their old dingy couch when Wyatt had placed the roll of ribbon in her hand with a small smile.
“What’s this for?” She’d asked curiously, running a finger lightly over the material.
“Can I not buy my wife a gift?” He’d asked in return, smiling at her rolling eyes and kissing her soundly on the lips before she could respond.
The windows were dark, he wondered if they were the same for her, he didn’t ask.
Wyatt was 38, it was late October, it was the day after he’d pressed the blue ribbon into Maysilee’s hand when he went to work. He’d pressed a kiss against each of his kids' foreheads, the two older ones barely awake enough to say goodbye past the breakfast in their mouths, before he’d kissed Maysilee goodbye in the doorway.
“I’ll see you tonight,” He had said, he always did, just to show her his promise to try and return to their rundown home and love filled life.
“Don’t work too hard,” She had responded, like she always did.
He filed into the elevator, Burdock had been beside him, he had paused in the middle of the story he’d been recounting as they noticed the grating sound of the chain had grown louder since the day before, rocks, earth and mineshafts had passed them.
He didn’t fulfil his promise that day, that day his fate stacked so high had crumbled and crushed him, killing him nearly instantly.
His mother weeped over his grave as the mass funeral progressed, nearly 30 men total killed within just seconds. Maysilee had sung, her voice wobbling and cracking under the grief of his unfulfilled promise, their kids clung to her desperately, he couldn’t ease that burden anymore. He was buried beside Burdock, neither of them would be beside their wives for eternity, with the rate people died in 12 designated plots weren’t a luxury that could be afforded anymore.
The rain didn’t pour, the sky stayed bright and sunny, the list of the names of those who had died were posted as the funeral progressed, the names stark against the white of Capitol issued paper.
Men, other men from the mines whose sectors hadn’t collapsed around them burying them preemptively, covered the coffins with dirt, sweat covered and arms burning they continued, their fates counting down as it did for those they buried in the earth.
Wyatt Callow had been born to die young.