Chapter 1
She was sixteen when she was reaped. Slight, awkward, with an affinity for blending in. Her hair, braided down, down, down her back reaching to the very back of her knees. Nobody thought she would make it past the bloodbath. She did.
When the 72nd games began, Arwen was first off her platform. She had grabbed a pack and made like a bird. Until, that is, someone grabbed her braid, pulling her back. She had been stupid to leave it untended to. She had no reason – only that it reminded her of quiet smoky nights sat between her mother’s knees. A gentle brush, a calming presence. Her hair – the only memory of the family she’d lost only weeks prior. So, Arwen had kept it. She planned to die as herself. Except in that moment of endless panic, something struck her. Something stupid… yet – if her hair could be used against her…
She had strangled the boy from 3 to death with her braid. This moment donned her the title of Rapunzel across the Capitol.
After, she had run away and hidden until the final. When the time came, she had done the same thing to the boy from 1. He’d brought up his knife and slashed at it, hacking her braid off quickly. As he struggled in those moments, Arwen had brought up her own knife, stabbing him, pushing it deeper as he fell. His knife had thumped to the dirt beneath them and it was a sound she would remember eternally. A strange detail.
She had watched him fall after the blade. It occurred to her then that she would have to watch him die. She had knelt beside him, grabbing the blade he dropped. Watched him try to rise to his feet, hand to the knife in his back. Watched him pull it out. He realised the mistake when the blood started gushing out. She doesn’t let him regret it any longer. The knife finds the vein in his neck quickly, and it’s over in seconds. She had heaved as they announced her victor.
Returning home to District 7 meant little to nothing for her. There was no family to greet her, and there were no friends to see. She was entirely alone. She’d been completely in her own world through school – she had had her family. It was all she had needed. Then they had died.
When her District cheered, she felt no joy. She’d nodded her head once and had made her way to her new home. From then, she barely went out, and no one ever came in. The hair on her head – once long, well cared for – was now buzzed. She never wanted it how it had been. Didn’t need the reminder when she already had so many to live with.
She was 16 years old and she was ready to die. Her mentor, Blight, had tried at the start. He’d come by, knocking. She never answered. She had no excuses – only that she rarely rose from bed. She let the knocks echo until they eventually stopped, and all the while she hated herself for not trying when someone else so clearly was.
Her victory tour had come upon her. She’d been wrenched from her bed and beyond that… it was blurry. The entire affair was stilted and uncomfortable. She said what she had to, sat through dinners and appearances. She boarded trains, and posed for photos.
In District 4 there was a change to her pattern. She had plans to go right to sleep after the honorary meal, and just as she was getting up, she was approached. Eyes falling on Johanna Mason and Finnick Odair.
Despite being neighbours in Victors Village, Arwen hadn’t had much contact with Johanna. Nor had she spoken to Finnick. Blankly, she waits for them to say their piece.
Finnick is smiling, and gives Johanna a gentle nudge. It is clear her presence before her was forced, “We’d like to be friends.” Finnick waits a moment before clearing his throat, “Wouldn’t we Jo?”
Johanna looks very vehemently against this idea, lips pursed, she lets out a sigh, “Yes, that’s exactly what we want. How about it Arwen?”
She doesn’t hesitate to answer no. Turning on her heel, she walks from them quickly.
***
When Arwen gets home finally, she hesitates briefly before steeling her mind against the doubt. She’d thought to do this for months. The victory tour had only solidified her plan. She suspected she wouldn’t be found straight away – at least not until the smell trickled through the windows.
Days passed and she got what she needed. She put it off. She set it up. Took it down. Set it up again and again.
One day there’s an insistent knocking at her front door. She looks down to the rope in her hands. Takes a breath, waiting for the knocking to go away. It doesn’t. She lets go of the rope, watches it sway into place and rises to answer the door.
She’s barely inched it open when Finnick bustles in with his shoulder, arms filled with goods, Johanna not far behind. “We’re just checking in, keeping you fed, making sure you –“
Arwen hasn’t moved from the doorway, because she already knows how the scene looks behind her. Her eyes are tightly shut and she feels her face screw up just slightly.
She knows they see the rope. The chair.
Arwen steps outside and closes the door behind her. Makes her way calmly down the stairs.
When the door bangs open behind her, she flinched. A hand at her shoulder wrenches her back, swinging her around to face Johanna – Johanna’s other hand comes forward and socks her in the eye.
Arwen falls to the ground and stays there. Johanna’s screaming, raging, furious.
“You brainless fucking selfish bitch. You stupid little fuck – what the fuck did you think you were going to do? Who did you think would find you?”
Arwen, at that, rises slowly, surprised by how unaffected she feels right now, “That’s just the point Johanna. No one would find me. There’s no one left and that’s on me. We’re not friends. We don’t know each-other and I don’t care. Leave.”
“Arwen.”
She looks up, and there’s Finnick on her stairs. Just looking at her. What she sees in his eyes – it’s not pity. That scares her more than anything.
“Just leave.”
Johanna scoffs, “Dumbass. Like hell we’re going to leave. We’re talking about this so get your ass inside. We spent money on those fucking pastries in there and they’re not going to rot like you were planning to.”