the {godly} die before their time // zori

At a long mahogany dining table, underneath an impossible high ceiling which curves like the roof of a golden mouth, a young girl sits with her eyes open as her father says grace. Although her hands are clasped together piously, their sloppily painted fingernails glossy with bright blue polish, her feet swing restlessly where no one can see them, and she tries as hard as she can to resist the itch at the back of her head. The mother, a superstitious woman due to her profession in the theatre, uses her husband's moment of religious connection to silently thank the Fates and Muses for everything she has. The father thanks his god for their wealth, their health, and their joy. The girl doesn't believe in anything, and doesn't thank anyone except her parents and herself.

Five years later, a priest hands the girl a book of songs of praise engraved with her name, Renee Perdris, across the front. Although the girl thanks him, under the stern eye of her father, all she can think is how irritating it is that they missed off the accent again. When the same priest asks her which her favourite psalm was, several weeks later, the girl doesn't have an answer. Instead, she begins to sing one of her mother's opera arias under her breath.

Almost a woman grown, the girl steps off a train and begins the next chapter of her life in a brand new city. She does not even stop to think about that book, or where it lies now abandoned in a dusty dresser drawer. She was never made to worship anyone. What she deserved was to be worshipped herself.

It's that time of night when the purple sky has become darker than the remaining clouds, which float below it like snowmelt just under the surface of water. If it weren't for the light pollution this City hurls up into the sky, I know I would be able to see a million stars right now. As it is, the faint orange glow that hangs between the clouds and the sky like a veil leaves me blind, so I decide to wear the stars instead. Our training uniforms are only compulsory during the day - at night we have a whole range of outfits to choose from, many to my taste due to their style of Capitol couture. This dress is black and long, and shimmers lightly as I turn to admire it in the mirror. The perfect outfit to go adventuring in.

Most of the doors in the Centre complex aren't marked at all, which only makes me more curious to peer behind them. I know from my own behaviour that when something is not obvious on sight, almost everyone has the desire to look deeper. And yet, only the brave act on that impulse. I have always respected the brave. Disappointingly (yes, I expected more from the Gamemakers who I'm sure are set to break our hearts and turn our minds inside out in a number of days) most of these doors lead only to storage rooms. No treasure, or secret meeting halls. Who knew one set of people could need so many things?

I am ready to give up when I come to the last door at an impossibly long corridor (then I remember that the building is circular, and realise it's not so impossible after all) and push it open to find something much more startling than a storage cupboard. The white tiles at the entrance soon give way to an actual wooden floor, and at the far end, beyond rows of cushioned benches, is an altar. Its green cloth runs up the whole length and pools on the floor like the bottom of a waterfall, held in suspended motion. The two long candles on top flicker sordidly - the only light source in the room. As my eyes adjust, however, I see I'm not alone. There, on the far side of the altar, a boys face dances in the candlelight. His eyes are closed peacefully, until the door clicks shut behind me and he looks up. "I'm sorry," I murmur, flinching as my voice soaks up the silence like a sponge, "I didn't mean to disturb you." It feels cruel to turn and leave now that I've broken his meditation, so I pause at the edge of the white tiling. The rest of the building could have vanished behind the closed door, and I wouldn't know. For now it's just me and him. Just me, and him, and his god.