the ways of beasts — eurydice. & emmett. [jb]
May 31, 2020 7:32:59 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on May 31, 2020 7:32:59 GMT -5
Every year, there’s a small and covert ritual Eurydice does to prepare for the reaping.
First, jewelry, because a woman needs to embellish her natural beauty: four rings on her left hand and one on her right, the golden heirloom necklace wrapped around her pale throat. In her vanity, the pearl earrings hanging from her lobes look like droplets of molten gold. Second, clothes—because damn, if she’s going to walk one of her children to their victory, or early funeral, she’d very much rather look majestic, thank you very much. Today, it’s a silken gold dress, because it’s always gold. This, in a way, is what it’s meant to be a Le Roux: encased by gold and bronze, grand like a handcrafted statue deemed untouchable in a museum. It does get tiring sometimes, the splashes of grandeur, but Eurydice would never confess to that. She could not.
And third.
Third, shutting her feelings off. It’s less concrete than all the two things from earlier; it doesn’t have much of a method, doesn’t have much of a blueprint to follow. It’s Eurydice resting the gilt family photo album on her lap and scrolling through it, tracing the faces of her all children there, engraving their features into her skull. It’s Eurydice reminding herself that they are a pride, made for grandeur that’s only achievable through blood.
She glances at herself in the mirror and she looks like she’s dripping gold, rivulets of it down her form.
She’s ready.
The parent section of the reaping reeks. It’s sweaty wanna-be aristocrats and the real aristocrats, wrestling to get a view of their children in the field. Eurydice doesn’t need to worry that; her children shine, and as do John’s and Isaiah’s. Beside her, her two brothers’ features are cold stone, hewn to an expression of indifference. Eurydice rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.
Then, as the escort’s hand dips into the bowl, they all collectively hold their breaths.
The name isn’t Silk’s. It isn’t Emerson. It isn’t Aurora, and thank heavens, it isn’t Cathy. She resists the urge to exhale; she should be furious about not having a child in the contest, about not having a chance to wear the crown vicariously through them, but Eurydice finds no anger in her, only a cold relief.
Then, it’s the boys’ turn. She risks a glance at Harper, Emmett, and Tattot, her golden boys, and when the escort calls out the name, it isn’t theirs, it isn't them, it isn’t them—
“I volunteer!”
Emmett, you little fuck.
She catches herself on the railing at the last minute when her legs threaten to betray her. The world reels; she tries to blink stars away from her eyes. John puts a hand out to steady her, but she’s already clawing it away. “Do not touch me,” Eurydice snarls.
It should be an honor. John’s probably about to congratulate her. She’s won, hasn’t she? One of her children was in the games now, a quell even. Eurydice Le Roux would reign.
But, at the moment, she didn’t want a crown –
she only wanted her son back.
The walk to the justice building takes forever, but at the same time, it takes only a moment.
Inside, Eurydice tries her best to train her eyes on the trashy furniture, on the curtains, on anything that wasn’t Emmett, her little Emmett, always fractured from the rest. I am supposed to be strong, she chides herself, holding her chin up high. He needs me to look strong. Eurydice sets herself down on the lavishly-embroidered couch with what she hopes is a modicum of grace, patting away the creases on her dress. She flings an arm on the couch’s shoulder, and finally, fucking finally, she looks at him.
Her heart twists. God, she forgets how young he truly is, not having lived yet. She should’ve spent more time with him – she regrets that, now. Eurydice plays favorites and Emmett has never been hers. It’s always been Harper with his charm. It’s always been Silk, a mirror of her own self. Never quiet Emmett, never reticent Emmett.
“It should’ve been Harper,” she speaks her first words, angry all of a sudden. “You should’ve given him his goddamn chance. It's the quell, for fuck's sake!” Who does Emmett think he fucking is? He would answer Le Roux, probably, because that’s what she’s taught him and because that’s the right answer. That makes her furious. Perhaps he would have had a good life if he hasn’t been born to her, to this family pieced solely together by values and fame.
Perhaps his life would’ve never been at stake.
“Leave this building with your chin up high and your shoulders squared.” She makes a wave of her hand, rings flashing from the movement. ”Act like I’ve told you to act your entire fucking life: proud, but not too proud. Kind, but also ruthless if the situation calls for it. Make them love you, make them fear you, make them see you.”
Eurydice feels a suspicious prickling at the back of her throat, so instead she looks at the horrendous throw pillows on the settee with a one etched upon it, scowling. “I guess taste isn’t something everyone in this godforsaken district has,” she mutters, then makes herself hold her son’s gaze. Eurydice draws closer all of a sudden, embracing him like she used to do whenever there were thunderstorms. Her fingers rake through the pale gold of his hair, one of the many things that mark them as Le Rouxes, as lions. “And don’t you cry,” she says it with a small quaver like its a warning for Emmett but the words are entirely meant for herself. “This is my most expensive dress.”
Eurydice suddenly aches for a camera, to click a picture of Emmett in a way she remembers him: red-cheeked, beautiful, regal—her golden boy. He’s always been difficult. He’s always been the one she has nearly given up on a many times because Eurydice Le Roux only knows about feral, proud creatures and Emmett is none of that. A trimmed finger brushes away a strand of blonde hair away from his forehead.
“Win, my little cub.” She whispers. “You chose to this, so now you have to go and get that goddamn crown.”
