𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐊𝐔𝐋𝐋 ──
❛ they all said they do
not cower before death,
but when the reaper, the
personification of death
visited their souls, they
always kneeled, praying
and begging for time. ❜
· . ° ✎
the hunger games began in
xvi . iii . m...
A TREASURE LAID IN THE BOX THE MOTHER HELD. Iolite Barone clutched the weathered mahogany case dearly, her thumb grazing the bronze lock, and skin met the curls and indents of the broken metal. Loose was the hinge of the hook that extended out and inserted into a loop, barely acting as a lock to keep the content safe. After decades of friction between the two pieces, shards had been shaved off and they no longer had resistance when moved. Nevertheless, once one opened the lid, they would not have any interest in what rested inside.
It was a necklace—a simple necklace of a braid of plain black thread and a wooden pendant, a flame elegantly engraved in the dark wood. It was a fire of fight, a destructive inferno, and a blaze of hope. Although the charm that hung innocently was scratched and beaten, the string was new and shiny. Despite knowing that a simple weave of thread could not last long, the Barones, for ages, did not wish to replace it with a glinting chain that seemed malicious beside the virtuous wood.
Agate had seen it once before. In the 69th Hunger Games, this was the object that her mother had given her as her token. Some thought the necklace would not be allowed to enter the Arena as it could be used to choke a tribute to death, but the Head Gamemaster at the time and all the operators knew the string was as weak as a vine so commonly scattered across the Arena.
Iolite took it out gently and gazed at it with a sentimental look. Grandma Eden's mother had made this.
Holding it out to her daughter, she silently coaxed her to take it. However, with one look at Agate's hesitation, Iolite retracted her hand and smiled grimly. "It's alright."
The seemingly harmless object held to many dark memories.
"I want to..." Agate muttered, eyes flickering anywhere else but her mother's eyes.
"I know," the mother replied, her voice merely a grey whisper.
Agate shuffled to her mother, every twitch of her finger and gesture innocent as they could be. Iolite cradled her in her arms as though she was a mere babe and it was true—Agate was her daughter who had been through far too much, her daughter whom she loved, and her daughter who needed a mother's touch.
A long silence stretched and engulfed the pair whole. When the shrill of the clock burned its existence, neither were alarmed. Like a programmed monotone robot, Agate left her mother behind and made her way to the launchpad where the jet, which would take them to the Arena, perched.
