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𝑆𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑁 ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴏᴛs ᴏғ ʜᴀᴛᴇ
❦
The shirt that the stylists shoved him into was as uncomfortable and scratchy as all Capitol fashion was. Black fabric was detailed with thick, bronzed thread that swirled around the buttons, his collar, and the edges of the cuffs. It was simpler than he'd expected, but it was the coat draped across his shoulders that took the attention. Deeply red like the colour of wine, sharp spikes of hardened material stuck out from behind his neck, curving around his body to dissolve into silk-like edging, resting just above the knees.
Bathed in the same burgundy colour, Johanna shuffled to stand beside him. The district mentors held enviable positions along the very front of the procession stands, to the left of President Snow, who sat centrally amongst the head game maker and the rest of his close followers. His place was regal enough, bejewelled with luxury Cillian couldn't name- like a throne.
They were positioned in rows of four districts, ungendered. Each district had two mentors each, except for Twelve, where stood Haymitch at the end of the line as he had for the many years since his victory. His eyes were slightly swollen as if he'd been crying, and his tight, white shirt had not stayed tucked for very long.
Finnick stood in front of them, to the right, the last in the front row, his mentoring partner Mags beside him, a frail arm tucked around his elbow. He couldn't see his face, which was likely plastered with the dazzling smile, but he could recognise the golden tint of his tousled hair anywhere. Cillian recognised a few other of the mentors too. Giselle's fiery hair stood out along the front, the very first in the group thanks to her position as one of the youngest victors from District One.
The blaring horns of the Capitol anthem erupted, sending the crowds into an excited frenzy of screams and clapping. The sun seemed to beam brighter as the ceremony began. It was as if the Capitol controlled the true weather as meticulously as they did in the arena, using the sky as their lighting set for a vast stage. The shouts echoed into a symphony of rattling voices, music of anticipation.
Then, in a collection of thunderous rumbling, the first of the chariots came, exploding through the entrance with momentous power. Beautiful, glistening black horses pulled the golden, diamond-studded cart along the runway. The air of richness punctured the emptiness that had ensued. Was district one as luxurious as the decadent chariots represented, or was that a sugar-coated lie told to the people too?
The parade followed, district four unsurprisingly seeing a leap in the roar of the audience. The boy had transformed, skin painted a glistening gold, the costume that was glued to his skin like a layer of pearls. The chariot itself was made from perfect, swooping curves, the aqua paint like water cascading down to their bare legs. Their hands moved like the soft waves of the ocean, swooping down in gentle, seductive movements. The crowd went wild.
