Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Corradhin's Reaping (Not in Contest)

A/N: As mentioned, this was not part of the contest, but I already had a clear idea of the way I wanted his Reaping, so I figured I'd write it. (The beginning goes more in depth with the interview intro). That, and I just love his character. I would've liked to have this up sooner but in the middle of this I kinda broke out in song and didn't come back to it for a while. And then I got distracted by Thomas Sangster's face. And I didn't go through and cut things out because I'm lazy so this is pretty long. Probably drawls on but eh.
I'm rambling okay here you go lovelies.

~~~

Corradhin awoke to the feeling of cold stone brushing against the back of his hand. Desperately, he wished for a blanket, but there was nothing except a few pieces of uprooted grass on his chest, blades he'd probably ripped up in his sleep. After rolling around a bit, he sat up, a slight breeze chilling him wide awake. He noticed something right away--he was covered in tiny dots of water. They ran down his cheeks and arms as he leaned towards the stone, shirt sticking to his back. It wasn't primarily sweat, although he knew it would be thrown somewhere into the mix. He hadn't had the luxury of feeling rain in an entire year.

Three-hundred and sixty-five days ago was the last time it had rained in District Four. Drought had taken over the district since the end of the last games. And, although Corradhin knew it was all hogwash, the words carved into the stone served as fuel for the drought superstition:

"Beckett Wynn Malen," it said in bold letters. There was no date of birth or death beneath the name, only the cause. "101st Hunger Games."

Just looking at the second line sent a silent fury coursing through him, and he found himself digging his nails into the recent mud. Despite all he did, he got no respect. He glanced at the rows upon rows of tombstones that went on for miles. None of them did. No one even cares to respect their graves, either. He returned his gaze to Beckett's grave.

Not only had Corradhin been spending the night next to the tombstone for a year, he'd been watering the grass covering the coffin throughout the drought. Every now and then he'd wander to the Victor's cemetery and water his great-uncle's grave, but it was nothing compared to how much time he spent here, with Beckett.

Today was different, though, and he was glad for the change. It had rained on the Reaping. I can rest easy knowing Mother Nature will be taking the reigns until I'm back. 

He circled around the stone, crinkling his nose at the sucking sound that came with every step. Mud rose up through the dead grass, a sickly orange, reminiscent of some thrown up mixture of half-digested pumpkin and tomato sauce. He ignored the comparison as best he could as he bent over and picked up a flower that had been blown over. Carefully, he placed it on top of the stone, careful not to crush the petals. Henbane was its name. He would've placed it in front of the stone, had there not been dozens already residing there.

Corradhin let out a shaky breath as he crouched, hands gripping the edge of the tombstone for dear life. He pressed his forehead against his knuckles. Say bye for now. "I swear to you, Beck," he whispered, "I'll make them pay. They pulled the last straw out of place."

They really, really pissed me off, you know. They'll want me to fall, but I won't go down so easy. His eyes fell on the henbane, and he reached out to adjust it. I've never gone down easy.

After an eternity of hesitation, of letting a knot grow to the size of Panem in his stomach, he stood. Beckett's grave would be just fine left on its own for a few days. I'll hurry up with these Games. I won't keep you waiting too long.

Eventually he'd worked up the nerve to tear himself away from the stone, and marched through the mud, a squelch every time he took a step. He made sure to close the cemetery gate behind him, locking it. At one point, he passed the Victor's cemetery, and his brain suggested he pay good ol' great-uncle a visit.