"Does such a thing as "the fatal flaw", that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't
Now I know it does"
President Snow and his First Lady had built an unmatched empire. All their en...
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YOUR NEED GROWS TEETH
001. for the money, for the show _______________________________________
SCARLET BLOOD POURED FROM HIS fingertip, silvery pale skin stained with filthy red, as Coriolanus Snow pierced the epidermis of his fingers with the thorns of the white-as-snow rose. He hissed. Then pressed the wound to the flawless softness of his pink lips. Licked off the red liquid, loved the metal taste that gore provided, but a drop of it fell on the marble floor. A waste. A golden luminescence cascaded down the magnanimous windows all over the train rails, filling the Capitol's train station with the early morning sunlight. It made his blood shine on the undeserving floor.
Coriolanus hated bleeding.
(He was not wastefull)
And he hated waiting.
He was impatient by nature. His father had been such a relentless force that no one, saint or sinner, had dared stand in his way. On the other hand, his mother's gentleness disarmed empathic souls and when their fortress' walls went down, as the driven viper she was, then she would sink her fangs on the soft meat of their hearts. A king and queen made of hardened ice. And when they died, their domain over the Capitol, their whole kingdom crumbled down with them. A legacy, the glorious last name, was the only inheritance Coriolanus received. He had no time to spare. An empire to build, and so little time.
He often prayed. Not to any gods or forces. But to his ruthless ancestors. He couldn't phantom how they had done it. But if victory was in their blood, at the very least Coriolanus could try to reach it. He asked for their guiadance. To enlighten his way or forge him one. It was always in his mind, the next move, as if life was a chess set and he was merely a pawn of his own ambitious.
(He was not)
Even now, if Coriolanus Snow didn't know it was the means to an end, he would hate the waste that waiting for his tribute meant.
"Your mask is slipping" The husky voice of Belladona Hawthorne, the better half of his soul, whispered to him. "Get a hold of yourself, you impacient prick"
