[74th] The Reaping - District Ten

Saffron's unconditionally love laced fingertips intertwine with the tangled mess of softly rusted, bronze knots and strands. Myara apologized for their first evening together, an easily startled girl stared into the brazen eyes of a woman who'd gripped her gently, yet firmly with a sort of unrelinquished determination, around a fragile arm littered with goosebumps. Hairs stood from their follicles, she'd slapped at the back of her neck before, turned around to meet the gaze of simple, dark nothingness, and when she'd turn again the bulbous eyes latched twice more. It was the uneasiness of a world riddled with an inevitable unknown, a potential danger - it was the fleeting emotions and feelings one gets walking alone in the dark, the eyes of a predator hunting down its prey. Though, in the end it's almost always just nothing more than a shrug, and a flickering street light overhead on a night fallen against a street of rocks and cracked pavement.

A nimble touch, the familiar shivers ran through her neck as the victor took each lock and drew it over and over and over again and again. "Shhhh -", Saffron whispered in her ear, unrevoking of her dead set concentration. "Don't worry your mind with it.", she mumbled again as she bit her bottom lip, bringing her swiftly working hands up and down Myara's stitched hair. Perplexity masked precariously across the newly settled Lowe's face when observing in the grand mirror with a sort of rushing guilt. And it wasn't for the absolute moment her glass mug dropped from her own clammy, shaky hands, the hot tea bursting in an explosion when the mug shattered against the cracked concrete. The minor burns from scattered droplets faded quickly with time that moved slow, however, in its own comparison. Her face was drawn blank, but she twiddled her thumbs which drew Saffron to question what was wrong with a genuine concern, and the response was a smile and a nod and a "not a thing, promise -"

Myara could swear Saffron was a woman of stitch work sewing her own timelines tapestry. A glimpse into the past of the once fourteen year old girl she watched from a live game show reenactment, or that's at least what her mother had told them. ("It's not real, don't worry - your favorite will win this time.") It was repeated as the days moved along, and her worrying had risen, the numbers dwindled to very few vying for a Capitol's promise of the better life, but only if they were Panem's favorite - oh, how times have changed from then to now. She was the sweetheart, the darling little girl who could swing a mace that was far too over sized for such a tiny body; they all were, at that. ("Who's your favorite?", "Mine's Saffron, she's that one girl with the orange hair.", "Why?", "Because we have the same last name.") She'd been eight years old with an attachment that was already filled to an overflowing point about a girl who hadn't even known of her existence. The years pressed on and throughout she'd asked her mom to do her hair just like Saffron's, flowers and petals and small vines twirled in randomly, and in her mind she was just like the girl she'd seen on Capitol TV every year since her victory.

Myara could swear Saffron was a woman of stitch work when she fixed the patches of a torn and dangling last name. She'd felt validated once again, ("It's just a last name, Myara, don't be foolish.") her conspiracies were proven to be true at the warmth of her touch, and the sight of an old Polaroid photograph. It'd been presented by her own form of flesh and blood, Saffron had proof of their relation upon the dusty, torn picture of Myara captured in the essence as a young girl - inscription upon the backside of the photo was in gibberish, the writing was unknown and had been the reason it took Saffron years to find who the lost wanderers really were. - "You're perfect...", Saffron finished, she grabbed the small flowers and falling petals from the gardens of the Victor's Village, placing them one by one within Myara's fishtail she embroidered. Laying her hands against Myara's shoulders she peaked into the mirror from the side of her cousins head, the resemblance was uncanny, a living representation of the girl Saffron had been at the age of only seventeen.

A pause with mutual silence interrupted - "Oh, one more thing.", the words were of joy as the ginger haired victor grabbed elegantly patterned feathers to emblazon into Myara's braids to resemble a Laurel Wreath crown. Walking away from her masterpiece in its finishing phase, Saffron took one final glimpse of only one of her lost family members she'd been seeking for several years. "And you're mine, and I'm yours.", crossed fingers followed by a playful chuckle from the other victor of Ten. Mace Emberstatt stood at the door frame looking in, observing, a piece of his cake on a fine china plate brought to his mouth by a priceless silver fork. "Ain't that a little much, Saff?", he commented lightheartedly, bringing another piece to his mouth. Myara hadn't been too familiar with him yet, she donned a genuine smile before Saffron turned with a still glare.

She was protective over Myara already, an authentic fondness between a possession and its owner, practically. From the moment Saffron grabbed her by the arm to the way she possessively looked into the eyes of a girl who had been wandering lost, thinking it was the right direction all along. Myara had given up on the hope of finding a faithful path, and decided blindly that any taken was the correct one for her life. So it's not a surprise that when they'd made it to the reaping, she'd split pathways with Saffron for only a bit. "When this is all over meet me at the front, and bring the others. I have the camera for our picture.", "Okay.", Saffron hugged her away graciously and the mental image of the extravagant fire place flashed into her mind. Atop were millions of pictures organized fashionably, she peaked at it while heading out, and noticed Saffron had taken the same picture of that young, clueless girl and perched it alongside the frames. (Myara could swear Saffron was a woman of stitch work when she fixed the patches of a torn and dangling last name. She'd felt validated once again...)

Words weren't in need of exchange when a male pulled Myara by the shoulder, the very day had said everything they could've needed to. Lazarus Stroms placed his finger beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to reach his, and the tension became the only thing to encircle the two, the noise and people around drowned out. Mesmerizing - they were made perfect for one another, mesmerizing to the touch, and he gripped his arm around her waist before pulling her in roughly for a face full of her lips. She followed as he ordered, she was good at that if she'd been good at anything. She couldn't tell if he'd been whoring around earlier with another, but she didn't necessarily care, it was never spoken upon when affairs would be made behind each others back - though, it was in the known. She was just as guilty as he'd ever be.

"Don't be a shit and get reaped -", he left her off with, and the thought was reciprocated. He watched her walk towards the crowd for assigned females, and she hadn't looked back, for she was afraid of what history would make for her if she had. Like Saffron, she wished she knew how to stitch Tapestry together to her own fit, a timeline she could make herself and know that she'd still be alive by the end of this Reaping. She'd stitch together a life in the Victor's Village, Saffron had insisted they live there with her - she was hesitant, but now she started pondering the idea of their family together again. She wished she knew how to stitch Tapestry together to her own fit, a timeline she could make herself and know that even though each reaping brought greater chances of her own name winning a lottery towards only death, in place of a random District Ten female, that Saffron could now fix it and protect her from leaving. She wished she knew how to stitch Tapestry together to her own fit, a timeline she could make herself and know that somehow Paige would be able to accept her as the newly found piece in their families puzzle and that she isn't going anywhere now. ("Just because you found out she's related to us doesn't make her family.", "Don't be so rude, Paige.", "Sorry - blame it on my star sign.", "I don't care if you're a Scorpio, Paige. You're being a bitch.", "She's not a real Lo-")

"Myara Lowe!", the escort announced. Dragged from a perfect world, reality seemed to collapse all upon itself, and in that moment all that was heard was a cry from the stage. "NO! NO! NOOO -", Saffron screamed with a sense of distraught. It was the second time a Lowe had been in the games, and the crowd has already determined she wouldn't be as lucky as the first. Myara walks to the stage, unsure of her feelings besides an obvious doubt in oneself. However, she walks, loose petals fall from the braids and against the path they spread in an array of sprouting flowers trailing behind each foot step. She makes it onto the stairs of the stage, and Saffron grabs her by the hand - and this marks once more, the victor of the Sixty Fifth Hunger Games stands in a place where she hadn't wanted to be, but this time it wasn't her going in. ('I hope they bury me in the earth so I can disintegrate into the dust, float around the District and burst into flowers.')

She held a name made for the headlines - the flashing lights of a camera blinds her eyes. ('Smile! This is our first family picture, at least act excited, Myara!')