I Don't Want Your Crown // [Killian Oneshot]

He looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time understood what it was to hate his own reflection.

There was still something charming, something cosmopolitan, about a mirror to Antony Telemachus. When he was a boy, if he wanted to see his reflection, he’d have to hike to the nearest lake. He only really knew what he looked like on a daily basis from the reflection in his mother’s eyes. They didn’t have an abundance of mirrors in the camps outside of Thirteen, either. When he finally moved into a District, he started to shave, even though he’d been working on facial hair for years. It was a much less daunting prospect with a reflection. So, generally, he was a fan of mirrors.

But not this one. Not today.

He sighed and finally slipped the helmet over his head. It was a little snug, like the whole outfit, but he didn’t exactly have a lot of uniforms to choose from. His friend nodded from the shadows. “One hour. Then I gotta take up my post again.”

“Thank you,” Killian said, and he meant it. He understood the risk this man was taking. He wasn’t even a part of Killian’s rebel network; he was simply a friend who had once worked with him in the wheat fields, before being shipped off to the Academy. They’d used to share stale beer behind the silos as they watched the sunset.

After today, Killian doubted if they would ever speak again.

He walked in perfect formation, not a pinky out of line. Beneath the black mask, he became even more anonymous than the urban legend. In the Town Square, he stood directly in front of the stage, staring into the faces of children he hadn’t been able to spare. He accepted his punishment for abandoning them mutely, letting the disguise disgust him to the edge of sickness. Every second he stood still and watched the tragedy unfold, he hated himself a little more.

When it was over, he had to stop on the steps up to the stage. He could feel his breakfast curdling, his bad knee seizing, his heart stopping. He sucked air in through the mask’s thin slit and thought – not for the first time – that he’d been gone too long. Then his head snapped to attention, and he marched with the other Keepers into the building.

He was given a station near the front door, but he knew from years of observation that the Victors and Tributes would exit by the back. He positioned himself in an alcove and waited. And waited. And listened to the wrenching sounds of hearts breaking.

He’d prepared for a week for this moment, carefully setting up each step of his disguise. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the actual sight of her. She was both more beautiful and more ordinary in person, especially now that she looked absolutely pissed. He smiled grimly beneath the shade of the mask. He stepped forward, not even into her path, just to the edge of the hallway, but apparently it was provocation enough. Katelyn shoved past him, anger radiating warmly off of her. He lifted the badge and slipped it, unseen, into her bag.

A black scythe, sewn by hand onto a plain background.

He wasn’t sure if she would understand everything he offered, but this was just an opening bid. Now, even though she didn’t know it, they’d met. That was all he had hoped to accomplish.

After all, you only needed two stones to meet to spark a fire.