hoping against all hope // maya

You've known this moment was coming for years.

Oh, it wasn't exactly like this. Details for such future events were reserved for psychics, the elderly, and the betting type, and you were none of the three. But it was the greatest fear for any a mother to face when it came to life in Panem, one thing that every parent in Eleven could empathize with, from the richest merchant family to the poorest beggar on the streets.

And you'd known. No one did so much to put themselves into the Capitol's - no, Coriolanus Snow's - good graces, and then did so much to distance themselves from that very poisoned sweet without suffering consequences.

It's subtle, to be sure. So very subtle that there are few who would recognize it. But you are no fool, you've seen firsthand the senseless butchering of the Miristiomas, the Rhodeses, even the Izars. You've been on this world for nearly half a century, and never before in your life had you ever seen something like that.

So yes, you recognized the signs when your eldest was plucked from your grasp at the last possible chance. And it was subtle because, for all of your efforts in distancing yourself from the slander of Katelyn Persimmon seven years before, for all of your efforts into painting yourself as the successor to Kirito's legacy two years prior, it was simply not enough compared to a man who had suffered in a way that only a select few had ever suffered. A man who knew firsthand just what sort of pain was experienced when a child was not lost due to a tragedy, but murdered to pay off the sins of people who had long since passed from the mortal realm.

One does not paint themselves as a lackey of the capitol hellbent on trashing the only good thing that the District had going for them and then invert that very same portrait five years later without consequence.

And you'd seen it in the distrust in Katelyn's eyes even as she swore she'd do what she could to help your eldest. In catering to both sides, you'd successfully driven away both.

One was more forgiving. The other was not.

And you suspect it was because it was Vasco Izar that claimed victory that fateful night a year and a half ago and not yourself that you even had that extra year to prepare for the inevitable fall of the guillotine. As if you weren't even worth being on the forefront of the president's mind so much as an afterthought, an annoyance, like a fly buzzing around in a cage much too small compared to the vast openness it was used to.

You'd watched with baited breath as the second Rhodes boy in as many years had been selected for the slaughter in place of Jacob, Noah, and Elias, watched in barely disguised fear as a relative to a long-dead tribute had been chosen in place of Charlotte. You'd hoped that the warning would be all that came to pass, a suggestion, perhaps, that you should keep your head low and mind your own business and that perhaps only then would you not have to worry about losing that which you loved most.

You'd hoped, against hope. And the blade had fallen when, in his last year, your eldest son was selected to take your fall.

There was no Rex Antilles to take the fall for him. Not this time. Everyone wanted to get in the good graces of the three people who had done more for this district in as many years than anyone else would be able to do in a decade. No one cared about the child of a woman who had polarized the very people she had wanted so desperately to help twice in five years.

And so, you'd watched as your son was taken away to his death. And though you'd hoped against hope, you had no delusions as to what his fate would me. Jacob was a soft, sweet boy who had never willingly laid fingers against a spider, let alone another person. And you'd seen the type of people who went into the games emerged with their lives. Few remained intact. And even those that managed to put themselves back together were never quite the same afterwords.

If working with Kirito for as long as you had had taught you anything, it was that every single soul that went into the arena lost part of themselves in the fight to return.

And so you'd watched for two weeks as your eldest was paraded around the Capitol like a prized trophy instead of the kind, smart young man you'd raised for the better part of eighteen years. You'd swallowed down the ball of icy fear as his score was revealed to the world, the mark of one who had no idea how to navigate the hell he'd been forced in against his will.

And why should he? You'd hoped for the best when raising each and every one of your five children, raising them with the idea that they'd become strong, compassionate, smart adults instead of merely another pawn in the chess game of the Capitol's most evil of pastimes.

You'd forbidden all of them from watching after that. Noah had protested, of course, trying to prove that he could take Jacob's place as the resolute, the infalliable, the one that others could turn to towards guidance. You'd gently but firmly reminded him that he didn't need to subject himself to horror in order to build strength and character.

And besides, you didn't have the heart to let him be scarred by the brutal murder of the boy he'd always looked up to, the boy he'd unquestionably referred to as brother from the moment he could talk despite sharing not a single drop of blood in their veins. That would be your burden, and your burden alone.

Hazel had done what she could, and you appreciated it. Your wife, your rock, your loving partner of over twenty years, had stood right by you, knowing full well that you would blame yourself for the boy's fate, offering no judgment but only strong, unconditional love in return.

And it was with such strength that you watched as your boy escaped the bloodbath with nothing more than a couple of fractures to speak for, something three others could not claim. You watched as he fought against butterflies and overaggressive goats and other tributes alike.

You pride yourself for never breaking no matter what the circumstances, whether in politics or manual labor. Not once on the campaign trail did your facade shatter.

During the eight days of survival, you almost broke three times.

The first was right after the bloodbath, when the chaos had faded into a relative calm. Jacob and the boy from Six whom he'd deemed worthy of being an ally - a boy who reminded you so much of Elias that you knew it was going to end badly - had had their last real moment of joy, in the form of a plastered bandage on a bruised cheek. A final moment of innocence in a world of war.

The second was when the very event that you'd feared came to past, at the hand of Arbor Halt's boy and his district partner, no less. The boy from Six lay dead, impaled on a blade of light, and your own son, offering himself up to the mercy of strangers.

Strangers too nice for the games, it would turn out, as breath remained in his body come the evening.

The third was the hardest. The boy from Eight, a meathead almost like a Career in nature, was not someone you expected to get along with your son in the slightest. But not only did they get along just fine, they got along a lot better than you would have expected, as well. You suppose you can't blame him, surrendering to the very idea that death was inevitable and wanting to try some things along the way, but you just knew that it was going to end the same way things had with the boy from Six - that is, to say, poorly.

But even you had not expected them to have to fight it out against each other. And seeing your boy's pain, being so close yet so very, very far away, and being completely unable to do anything about it - that had almost driven the crack into your psyche. But you had to remain strong, for yourself as well as your wife, and so you did not crack.

Then he reached the top eight, and interviewers from the Capitol had to be swatted away like the pests they were. And then the top four, and maybe, just maybe, you allowed yourself to reach into Pandora's box for the first time and allow yourself something beyond pain, beyond despair, to hope.

And then Kassandra Nerys, the very same girl who'd left home with him, had proven superior. When the bolt had hit his chest, when the cannon had sounded, sending her onwards and him back home in a wooden casket-

You still didn't allow yourself to break. For you had a duty to fulfill, an oath to carry out. You allowed Hazel to cry on your shoulder until her tears ran out. You allowed Noah to rage and scream, maintaining an aura of calm, and then accompanied him to tell his younger siblings one by one.

It was hours after the fact that you finally retreated into solidarity, hours after the death warrant of the boy you'd raised for eighteen glorious, unforgettable, amazing years had been set in stone.

And only then, out of the eyes of your family, your foes, and anyone and everyone else, did you finally allow yourself to break.