Uhhhhhhhh foreword to this- Lyrielle has three sisters, Lydia, Lyra, and Lyla. Lyrielle lowkey got reaped as punishment for stealing from one of the Peacekeeper captains. Well, that’s not quite what happened, but he made it seem that way to keep their little sisters out of the line of fire. She was already aware she’d be reaped, that was the punishment but she didn’t tell anyone sooooo Ummmmmm also Lyrielle’s transfem…..and their deadname is briefly mentioned below by the Capitol official. Please don’t refer to them by that name. Uhhhhh generally she goes by Lyrielle, if she’s not comfortable being out to someone she refers to it as a stage name though, as she is a performer, so a note was made on the paper slip about that or something idk i wrote this pretty late last night- ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ He woke to the muffled sound of an object hitting against wood. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. No one was working today, not on Reaping Day. They squint against the bright sunlight pouring in through the window at Lyla out in the garden, hitting a stick against the tree with mirth shining in her eyes, and they smile fondly. She wants to freeze this memory in his mind. There would be precious few left, at least, for him. She sighs, rubbing his eyes as he stumbles into the main room of the house, mumbling a vague ‘Good Morning’ to Lydia, who came inside bearing a few eggs, a couple from their chickens, and maybe one that could have been a robin’s. Scrambled eggs feed their family just fine, and they have to go soon anyhow. Lyrielle fixes her earrings in the rusted mirror that hung beside the door, watching her younger sisters play behind them in the reflection for longer than she should. Grief settles heavy on his chest, and they wish so, so hard that she could give them a proper goodbye. But she's made his mind up, they can't know it's any different than a regular Reaping. It'll only be worse if they knew what was coming. She loves them so much, her sisters. She wants to recall everything about them, about home. She won’t ever see it again, not in this lifetime, she reminds herself, as she calls them to go. It’s not a long walk to the stage. They live close by where it goes up each year. She wonders if it’s a blessing that it gives him the extra time to linger, or if it would be better to not have the reminder of their doom right outside. She can see it from here. He herds their sisters through the doorway, but she can’t seem to step over the threshold. He knows why. And doesn’t, at the same time. The Reaping will come whether or not they cross it. It’s more dignified this way, isn’t it? They are so tired suddenly, but they force themselves to take a step. And another. And then they’re on her way away from their home. The water that winds beside the path make her daydream of a world where she could dive below it again, take shelter from the Games with her family in its depths. She was always the best swimmer in her class. Maybe the district, though she won’t live long enough to test her theory. Oh well. It’s a nice fantasy to have. But they can’t be entertained, not now. He wants to remember everything how it is, good and bad. She’ll go out with dignity, at least. So, when they arrive, he taps his nose to the heads of each of their sisters, and lets herself be herded into the Reaping pens like cattle to await the Reaping. She holds her head high. It seems like both hours and seconds at the same time, waiting in the sun. He brushes curls out of her eyes, and watches birds bob and weave in the sky. They try not to hear the intro to the Reaping. The odds aren’t in his favor anyway. District Four is short on volunteers this year. They might be a career district, but even if everyone standing here with her wanted to be in the Hunger Games, they couldn't take her place. Unfortunately, there is no escape for her this year.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Cont. below ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ She doesn’t remember if anyone was drawn before him, or maybe she was the first. He’s frustrated. She wants to remember everything. “Laker- ahem…” the official trails off, squinting at the paper. “Um- Lyrielle...?” he looks to the side to a Peacekeeper that inspects the slip, and nods. He continues. “Lyrielle Atwater.” Their ears catch the sound of a cry from somewhere behind her. It sounds like Lyla. They can’t bear to turn and check. He’d break down there and then, and she’s resolved to be strong. She passes rows of cats, and he has to be surprised by the nods that urge him on, the smiles at encourage them, the steady gazes that meet his own. There are cats that care enough about them to wish them luck. She feels a new pang of grief for the home she knows she’d lost, but she smiles at them. It’s a sad smile, but she has kept her head up. She ascends the stairs, and she stands on the stage. She looks out over the faces in the crowd, and quietly tells himself that it must not be goodbye. So, wordlessly, she bows, just like after every performance, and, when the names have been drawn, follows the Peacekeepers off the stage, glancing back the whole way. They're backstage when they tell him that she will not be permitted to say their goodbyes to their family. They tell them that she knows why, and she should have made better choices. She fights them now, trying to go back out to his sisters, to his home. They can't do this to him! She protests, but his cries fall on ears that are not deaf, but rather choose not to hear. There are many more of them than there are of him, and though she fights, they are made to sit in the room where the Tributes normally wait anyway. It only makes the sting of her losses hurt more. There's yelling outside, and faint sobs, but she can't make himself look. She wonders if making him stay here was intentional, or perhaps the train just isn't yet ready. For some reason they suspect the first. They’re already homesick, though they haven't yet left. He stares out the window, and forces back the tears he'd been holding since they were told the outcome of the Reaping. She repeats over and over in his mind that if they won't let them say goodbye, then she'll just have to make sure no goodbyes need be said. His reflection in the fogged up window scares her. But the cat with cold violet eyes and a scowl that stares back at them stands much better a chance than a daydreaming poet. And yet...his mind still wanders.
