Chapter Text
The limp body of the fox fell into the brush, a little bit past what Ryland himself could see, as Colt cheered from behind him.
"Good shot, Ry!” His twin cheered, a bright grin on his face. The twins had been at this for just over an hour—hunting, that is. While Courtland was usually the one to do so, he was usually the one who did everything around the house, from hunting to cooking and cleaning. It was due to this that it was easy for either twin to jump on opportunities to help whenever they could.
Even if that meant Ryland had to resign himself to hunting some poor, defenseless animal. Originally, he hadn’t wanted to go out hunting at all—he hated it more than anything else, and with the added stress of Reaping Day, he could hardly focus on any task in front of him—his mind flew through endless possibilities, the off chances that one of his friends or, god-forbid, Colt would be chosen. Ryland knew, realistically, that it wouldn’t happen—the chances were in their favor, after all, or whatever the Capitol escort—Carl, he vaguely remembered his name being—said each Reaping Day.
But God only knew how stressed Court was during Reaping Day. It would be the first one where he wouldn’t be participating, having finally turned nineteen that past February, yet it was hardly the last time he was stressed for his brothers during the said day. The twins had only just turned fifteen, not a month away from Reaping Day, and there were still a handful of birthdays to go. Birthdays that would call for freedom, that would be a beacon of hope that in just one year less, they would be spared from that horrid July Fourth.
Yet the twins were only just sixteen, and they were yet to be spared from the gathering of children twelve through eighteen, with one name of either gender to be called.
That would happen in four hours. Currently, however, Ryland was much more focused on his grinning twin as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, laughing in his brothers’ small, newfound victory. “Keep this up, and you’ll get as good as me and Court!”
"'Court and I,'" Ryland corrects, just to be patronizing. It clearly worked, if the elbow in his side said anything, but Ryland hardly minded. Anything for that grin on his face. “It wasn’t that cool, anyway; the fox was sitting still.”
"It was cool for you,” Colt replies easily, dodging the returning elbow sent his way as he dragged himself out from behind the log and into a standing position. “You see where the body went?”
"No," Ryland shook his head, following his brother up and leaning on a tree close by. Guilt was already beginning to weigh down on him; he never minded eating the animals after they were skinned, cooked, and eaten for their mock enjoyment. But it was always the action of killing the animal that got him—Ryland could already foresee later that night, after Colt had skinned the fox and he had cooked it over the shoddy stove, that Ryland would only see the fox. That he would chew on the tasteless meat and stare anywhere else except for the—
–The very alive fox, apparently. Colt and Ryland watch with vague horror as the greenery rustles, stealthiness long forgotten as the same fox claws itself into the sunlight. An arrow was lodged into the poor thing's side, leaving a trail of blood behind it as the fox hobbled to its legs, teeth bared in pain as it ducked back into the surrounding forest, escaping death for the moment. The only thing the arrow appeared to do was hurt it a bit, giving a bit of annoyance before the animal ran off.
The twins were silent for a long, aching moment, staring at the empty place in the brush that the fox had just crawled out of. Ryland ran his eyes over the bloodied leaves, the red-stained grass, and the signs of injury that he himself had caused. Nausea churned in his stomach.
A hand fell onto Ryland’s shoulder, causing the teen to startle and turn towards his brother, who’d managed to fall in line next to him without notice. A grimace crossed Colt’s face, disappointment shielded by surprised shock but not quite hidden, as if he could hide anything from Ryland anyway.
"Oh," Stars. Colt even sounded disappointed. “Er–you’ll get it next time?”
'At least you hit it this time’ was left unsaid by both of them. There wouldn’t be a next time anyway—not necessarily, seeing as the fox was likely long gone by now. Sure, the brothers could follow the blood trail to wherever the fox found solace, but Ryland knew that Colt wouldn’t do so. Colt was always impatient like that, always wanting to get the perfect shot immediately, to succeed immediately. It was just how his twin brother was—either success or nothing. A habit that neither Court nor Ryland had any clue as to where it came from, but it was easily covered by how Colt would run his mouth afterwards, insulting and badgering whomever his opponent had been.
Ryland was half sure that if it weren't for Ryland himself, Colt would be getting in a lot more trouble; the people of District Twelve adored the Gentry siblings, Ryland especially. It was half the reason Court managed to score a job as a blacksmith, or how Colt managed to stay out of trouble, or how—miraculously—Ryland was taught how to read.
It was also half the reason that the siblings managed to stay afloat food-wise, not having to hunt—illegally, mind you—nearly as often as they should. But the instincts of survival between the residents of the district could only be stretched so far whenever it came to simply liking somebody.
The fact that the fox had managed to live on the first shot was not, technically, a sign showing the fox would live to see tomorrow, it being very likely that said fox would die from the blood loss. But Colt was never one to follow blood trails after battles, and Ryland was never one to argue, so he let Colt lead him away from the damning forest, and that was the end of that.
On the plus side, the little cottage that the three brothers lived in was barely out of the forest line, sitting neatly on the edge of town. Their cottage being on the edges of town just made it easier to slip through the ‘high-voltage’ gate—that hadn’t worked in years, let's be honest—and slip back and forth with ease. By all technicalities, nobody was supposed to find themselves in there; it was such a minute problem, however, that the Peacemakers hardly ever bothered to enforce said rule. Especially considering hunting was half the reason the entirety of District Twelve wasn’t starving to death, provided that whoever could hunt would hunt. Nothing but survival.
What was less easy was slipping back inside said cottage, where Colt and Ryland were immediately caught by Court, who’d immediately caught the twins by their shoulders and looked just about ready to throttle the both of them.
“It’s Reaping Day, you morons,” Court hissed through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed on the twins from where he was crouching to their level. For all of how ticked off their older brother looked, Ryland could see the fondness of his brother's expression, the utter love that was present every time his brother looked at him and Colt. That was something that would never change, Ryland distantly hoped, yet he never dared to speak aloud for fear of jinxing his worst fears to come true. “Why were you out doing God knows what? We all know that security is extra tight today–”
“Don’t be such a worrywart,” Colt huffed, crossing his arms in front of him and looking every part the snarky sixteen-year-old he was always meant to be. “We all know they never do shit around the fenceline; they can never be bothered to get off their fat asses –"
“Colt, watch your damn language–”
“And it’s not like we’ll get caught in here, anyways! They’ve got shit to prove anything we do is actually us doing it.”
“It’s not you being caught in here that I’m worried about,” Court scowled. “What were you two even doing out there, anyways? I don’t see–”
“I shot a fox.”
Court’s head snapped to Ryland. He stared for a long moment; Ryland already knew why. Ryland was never the hunter, never had the heart to kill; for him to even pick up a weapon was a feat in itself, let alone use it. “What?”
“I got it on the side.” Ryland couldn’t help the heartbreak in his voice if he tried, wincing as he shrugged off the quiver strapped at an angle to his back. “It bled all over the place, but it managed to get away.”
Clearly, Court mistook why Ryland sounded so heartbroken. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m sure you’ll get it next time – and hey, you managed to hit the thing, yeah? Your aim is getting better.”
“His aim isn’t just getting better,” Colt proudly huffed, as if Ryland’s accomplishments were his own. In a way, they were. Either way, Colt clearly was happy to get an out on what was definitely going to be a lecture. “You should’ve seen it, Court; I swear he shot it from a hundred metres away!”
“That’s an overexaggeration, and you know it,” Ryland huffed.
“You’re an exaggeration.”
“I’ll show you an exaggeration–"
“Hey now," Court easily placates, breaking in between the twins’ bickering. “Save the fighting for later, yeah? Both of you, go get dressed – I set clothes for you both out on the bed and a little something to get you both hyped.”
Colt and Ryland both gave a quick nod, but it wasn’t until Colt elbowed his brother in the side before taking off cackling that any of the brothers moved.
It was well known that District Twelve only ever had two victors in the entire history of the games: Eva Stratt and Rocky Ortiz. Both had won their games in particularly brutal ways, Stratt having led the ones who decided fire meant victims into traps designed to trap and burn the other tributes alive, leaving Stratt herself to not have to do much work in actually killing. All except for the other last tribute, that is; Stratt put him down like a dog, shoving a dagger into his throat over and over until the body went still.
Rocky Ortiz’s game had been far, far more brutal. The most brutal in history, in fact; Ryland himself wasn’t even born whenever his or Stratt’s games took place, but he’d heard enough from the townsfolk. Not that Ryland was exactly keen on thinking about it, seeing as he had no clue how anyone could be so brutal.
Go figure, Ryland had thought one night, dead of night and careful to make no noise. Two of the most brutal games in history, and they both came from District Twelve.
He supposed that was something to be proud of, but instead of pride, the sense of dread he felt every July was cranked up a few notches. He knew nobody, not a soul currently in the district that he knew would be able to handle the games. Not that he particularly knew everyone, but it sure felt like he did as he was rallied into the same dragging line with his brother.
It was the same way every year. His blood would be taken, smeared onto a sheet of paper, and he’d be directed to stand in the crowd of the other boys his age. Colt would always stand next to him, no matter if he had to push through others or not; it was something Ryland admired about his twin. Court, whenever he was still young enough for the games, would always try to stand where he could see the twins or where the twins would see him.
Now, it was much easier for Ryland to find his older brother, standing at the front of the crowd in the stands around the clearing, his gaze locked onto the twins. Not that Ryland could stare at Court for long; a tug at his sleeve was the only warning he got before the ceremony began.
Speeches always dragged on for too long, anyway, and it was the same speech given every year. A recounting of the Silent Rapture, a bloodied tale that painted the Capitol of Eden in heroic light. Ryland never particularly liked the story, the thought of it leaving a rotten taste in his mouth, so he never cared to exactly tune into the whole thing. He only ever paid attention at around ten minutes afterwards, when Colt shook him out of his daze and to attention as Carl reached into the bowl of names.
“And for our female tribute of District Twelve,” The man paused for a long moment, building up enough suspense that Ryland wanted to bash his head into a wall and scream, “We have…Olesya Ilyukhina!”
Where cheers should be, there were never any. If anything, a sense of dread washed over the crowd as Peacemakers dragged what couldn’t be older than a fourteen-year-old girl out of the sea of people. What would be shoulder-length brown hair sat in a high ponytail, bangs doing nothing to hide the glaring, doe-brown eyes as she was led to the stage. She was dressed in her finest, as all of them were instructed to do: a plaid button-up with too-big slacks that nearly drowned out the dirty tennis shoes. Her father's clothes, as it was likely there was nothing nicer for her to wear, similar to how the shirt Ryland wore had once belonged to Court.
Ryland vaguely recognized Olesya, the bakers’ daughter; if he guessed correctly, a nice enough family. Never particularly thought of them much, but whatever. It still filled Ryland with a sense of overpowering horror regardless—she was barely a teen. Just a year younger than him, and still chosen to die for games nobody wanted any part in.
But it wasn’t their choice. It was nobody's choice.
It only took around a minute for Olesya to get situated on the stage, Peacemakers flanking either side of her. A necessary precaution, though Ryland didn’t see any world where the girl would try to run off stage. She stood frozen to the right of Car, who was proudly shaking her hand and murmuring words of encouragement, as if they were going to be used either way. Everyone in the area knew that Olesya was doomed, and for all the brave face she put on, it was clear she knew it too.
Ryland tensed as Carl finally turned back to the crowd, a bright grin on his face as he shuffled back to the bowl of paper names, hands folded neatly behind his back before one came up to hover above the bowl. He could feel the grip of his brothers’ hand tighten on his own, and it was all Ryland could do to cling back.
“And for our male tribute of District Twelve…” If anything, Carl was much slower in reaching into the bowl, making a show of mixing the papers around with his hand before he pulled one out. The silence of the crowd was filled by the quiet crinkling of the paper as it was spread open in Carl’s palm before being held up for all the crowd to see. “...Give it up for Colton Grace-Gentry!”
Ryland’s world narrowed down to the hand in his own.
No.
No, Ryland must’ve heard that wrong.
Ryland immediately snapped his gaze to Colt, who looked equally as horrified as Ryland felt before hands descended around Colt’s arms. Colt immediately began struggling in the tight grasps, Ryland doing nothing, absolutely nothing, to help as his brother, his twin, was pulled out of the crowd, just as Olesya, as the tributes of last year, as the tributes of all the years prior, had been. None of the tributes ever came home; nobody ever survived long enough to see any of their families again.
A vision filled Ryland’s mind.
Himself and Court, watching the screen as it broadcast Colt’s bloodied face, fear in his lifeless eyes as the announcer proclaimed his twin brothers’ downfall.
Ryland having to look into every mirror and seeing the brother that he let die.
Ryland was breaking out of the crowd before he could stop himself.
“I volunteer!” The words tore themselves out of his throat, even as the Peacemakers on the side readied themselves to stop him. “I vol—I volunteer! As—I volunteer as Tribute!”
Around him, the already silent crowd went utterly still.
Ryland could feel the eyes on him. The gazes of bleak resolution turned to horror, the recognition of who, exactly, was volunteering. Colt’s already scared face turned to stricken horror as he stared at Ryland, who’d never felt more mortified in his life. Colt, who was most likely already preparing the funeral, who would have to look into a fox’s eyes and recall the one Ryland couldn’t kill, who would have to avoid mirrors and cry himself to sleep at the missing feeling of his twin next to him.
But at least he would be alive to do those things.
Ryland, however, felt that he was already dead as two Peacemakers flanked either side of him, hands falling heavy on his shoulders and arms as he was led past the crowd, past where Colt was struggling in restricting arms and to the stage, where Olesya was staring at him in horror and Carl was grinning like the cat who’d gotten the cream.
He was dead. Ryland could already foresee it; he would die in the games, out in some field or in some—whatever the gamemasters decide the arena to be, Ryland didn’t know. He didn’t want to die; he didn’t want to leave his brothers. Whywould he do that? Why would he ever volunteer for this? Clarity was rushing through Ryland in waves, horror filling his senses as Peacemakers pushed him forward. If not for the Peacemakers, Ryland would’ve easily fallen to the ground, burying his face in his hands as he sobbed to not die.
He still might do that, he vaguely thought as he was made to stand next to Carl, a Peacemaker on either side of him to keep him from running. A damning thought, though an idea he liked to play with nonetheless as he stared out into the sea of silent, horrified faces.
“We seem to have a new tribute for these games!” Carl proudly proclaimed, the microphone finding itself being picked up off of its stand and balanced in the Capitol Escort’s hands as it was shoved in Ryland’s face. “What might your name be?”
Ryland felt completely hollowed out. “Ryland Grace-Gentry.”
The crowd began to murmur softly to one another. In the middle of the walkway between said crowd, Colt was still struggling in the arms of the Peacemakers, having gone muffled as his cries were covered with a hand over his mouth.
Carl ignored all of it. “Ooh, well, I bet my hat that that was your brother!”
Ryland gave a slight, stuttered nod, and that seemed all that Carl seemed to want to rest on the topic as he turned back to the crowd.
“Give applause,” Carl started, shifting his body slightly either way to grab both Ryland's and Olesya’s wrists in either hand. He held them up in the air, as if a mock beacon of hope, finality, or whatever it may be interpreted as by the crowd. “To District Twelve’s Tributes, Olesya Ilyukhina and Ryland Grace-Gentry!”
There was no applause; there never was. Though it wasn’t like Ryland could hear it if there were; he was much more focused on the cries of his brother, echoing in his ears, as he was led away from the crowd, away from his brothers, away from his home and into what must’ve been certain doom.
At least Colt would be safe.
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