who's the heretic now? ⇢ eurydice le roux [95th]
Jan 11, 2024 12:13:29 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 11, 2024 12:13:29 GMT -5
She—
is an empress surrounded by nothing but gold.
is a goddess whose name is adjacent to glory.
is a lioness prowling in a test of her gold cage.
But above all else, she is a mother.
Eurydice forgets it sometimes, and that forgetting feels akin to having to her womb split open every single time she comes upon the painting of all her children in the foyer, the living and the lost. That loss, on the other hand, has granted her unholy strength. After all, the empire she has so delicately and painstakingly built had risen from the ashes of Emmett, Silk, Emerson, and now, Larissa.
It is strange to mourn a daughter who was not your own. Even as a young girl, she had been in fierce competition with her brothers, fighting for even scraps at the dinner table to prove her own worthiness as a Le Roux, and that meant, in every other language, Larissa’s death should be defined as a victory over John.
But in the language of women, Larissa Le Roux could only be termed as ferocious, a true lioness. Her mantle harkened back to stories she’d heard of old Le Rouxes, lions hidden amongst the thicket during the Dark Days who were patient and calculated, armored with an old, true blue honor that could be scarcely found these days. She fought until her last dying breath, and no one could deny her of that. No one could say she hadn’t wanted to be a victor. No one could say she hadn’t wanted to win.
And yet where do feral women often end up?
In a gravestone, or as the dregs of society.
Perhaps the same fate awaits her. It would be too unwise of her to say she doesn’t have her share of enemies—people she has gored and left to bleed. But what choice did she have? What else did they expect her to do? Offer herself like a feast for vultures and crows?
Never.
She was not proud, but she was also not sorry. Anyone who threatened her family would be shown the sharper side of her claws. That included the Le Rouxes themselves. Their name held the weight of ancients, a heraldic symbol and an heirloom passed on from one generation to the next, and it could not, she had learnt through her past mistakes, be handed over to simply anyone. It demanded of you as much as it empowered you.
If you could not bear the golden crown that was the Le Roux name, you would very well be crushed under its weight.
In her barbed crown of gold, Eurydice has forged an empire. The district blooms like a garden under her tending, albeit with a few places needing shears. The industry change has flowered beautifully with an array of colorful opportunities. She, of course, hides the thorns. The rose plague has been gathering like rot underneath, slowly gnawing at the beauty of her garden, but she has forbidden it from festering. Instead, she chose to remove it at the root. Cull the sick, ramp up the quarantine measures. If a limb was poisoned, wisdom dictated its severance.
And then there was the quandary of the Games. It had been a decade since Ridley won, with none to follow in her footsteps, save Larissa's tragically close attempt. That meant she could make up the district as much as she’d want, polish it up to shine, yet it would amount to nothing if there was no new victor on the throne. No victor, no darling district.
Perhaps it was time for District One to raise their banners again. To forge warriors. Eurydice fancied the idea. It’d certainly help her to have a stronger arsenal under her belt when it comes time for war. They’d given her an army, so why should she not command it?
This is an old story, held out by a lion’s patience. In the end, whether by her hand or another's, the Capitol must burn.
is an empress surrounded by nothing but gold.
is a goddess whose name is adjacent to glory.
is a lioness prowling in a test of her gold cage.
But above all else, she is a mother.
Eurydice forgets it sometimes, and that forgetting feels akin to having to her womb split open every single time she comes upon the painting of all her children in the foyer, the living and the lost. That loss, on the other hand, has granted her unholy strength. After all, the empire she has so delicately and painstakingly built had risen from the ashes of Emmett, Silk, Emerson, and now, Larissa.
It is strange to mourn a daughter who was not your own. Even as a young girl, she had been in fierce competition with her brothers, fighting for even scraps at the dinner table to prove her own worthiness as a Le Roux, and that meant, in every other language, Larissa’s death should be defined as a victory over John.
But in the language of women, Larissa Le Roux could only be termed as ferocious, a true lioness. Her mantle harkened back to stories she’d heard of old Le Rouxes, lions hidden amongst the thicket during the Dark Days who were patient and calculated, armored with an old, true blue honor that could be scarcely found these days. She fought until her last dying breath, and no one could deny her of that. No one could say she hadn’t wanted to be a victor. No one could say she hadn’t wanted to win.
And yet where do feral women often end up?
In a gravestone, or as the dregs of society.
Perhaps the same fate awaits her. It would be too unwise of her to say she doesn’t have her share of enemies—people she has gored and left to bleed. But what choice did she have? What else did they expect her to do? Offer herself like a feast for vultures and crows?
Never.
She was not proud, but she was also not sorry. Anyone who threatened her family would be shown the sharper side of her claws. That included the Le Rouxes themselves. Their name held the weight of ancients, a heraldic symbol and an heirloom passed on from one generation to the next, and it could not, she had learnt through her past mistakes, be handed over to simply anyone. It demanded of you as much as it empowered you.
If you could not bear the golden crown that was the Le Roux name, you would very well be crushed under its weight.
In her barbed crown of gold, Eurydice has forged an empire. The district blooms like a garden under her tending, albeit with a few places needing shears. The industry change has flowered beautifully with an array of colorful opportunities. She, of course, hides the thorns. The rose plague has been gathering like rot underneath, slowly gnawing at the beauty of her garden, but she has forbidden it from festering. Instead, she chose to remove it at the root. Cull the sick, ramp up the quarantine measures. If a limb was poisoned, wisdom dictated its severance.
And then there was the quandary of the Games. It had been a decade since Ridley won, with none to follow in her footsteps, save Larissa's tragically close attempt. That meant she could make up the district as much as she’d want, polish it up to shine, yet it would amount to nothing if there was no new victor on the throne. No victor, no darling district.
Perhaps it was time for District One to raise their banners again. To forge warriors. Eurydice fancied the idea. It’d certainly help her to have a stronger arsenal under her belt when it comes time for war. They’d given her an army, so why should she not command it?
This is an old story, held out by a lion’s patience. In the end, whether by her hand or another's, the Capitol must burn.
