Hunger Games: Fandom Style

District 3 (Lord of the Rings)

Gandalf surveyed the seething crowds of District 3 from one of the seats reserved for victors on the platform. Galadriel sat like a queen beside him. Neither of them had ever actually been in the Games, of course, but that was a fact they were able to make people overlook quite easily.
Magic and technology was a strange mix, but between the two, he managed to get the Capital to overlook the eccentricities of the mixture of dwarves, elves, hobbits, and men that lived in the district itself, not to mention the trolls, Ents, and Radagast, who deserved a category all to himself, outside of it.
He settled his staff, strictly to help an old man walk, of course, more comfortably across his lap and leaned back in his chair. There ought to be time for a good nap before the actual reaping took place . . .
Gandalf, Galadriel whispered in his mind. He sat up quickly. Reaping time already?
"Eowyn Dernhelm."
A shout of protest went up from her people, but she walked forward with her head held high. Faramir cried out as she went past; she hesitated but went on.
"Gimli . . . Gloinsson?"
Ah, yes. A fine young dwarf, that. Not technically in the 12-18 range, but he was in his adolescence, and the dwarfish sense of fair play kept them in it until they considered themselves adults.
A small wave went through the crowd as Gimli made his way through. The dwarf stomped up the stage steps with his axe slung across his shoulder.
The escort - what was her name? - whoever she was, screamed. "Peacekeepers!"
Gimli looked around in honest bewilderment. "What's wrong?"
Eowyn leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
"But it's my district token! It's a family heirloom, this."
"Nonetheless, I'm afraid it's not allowed, Master Dwarf," Gandalf told him gravely.
Gimli clutched it all the tighter. "I can't go without a token from my fathers for luck," he said stubbornly.
Galadriel knelt before him. She unsheathed a dagger from her bodice and cut three locks from her hair and handed them to him. "They may not be from your fathers, but they may bring you good fortune all the same. Will you accept them, Gimli, son of Gloin?"
He stared in awe at the strands that gleamed like gold in the sunlight. The district's elvish population stared in awe.
"Aye, I will," he said. "I'll leave me axe here."
Either Gloin or his wife, it was hard to tell who was behind that luxuriant beard, stepped up to take the axe. Unshed tears glistened in the hardy eyes, but they only nodded once, firmly, as they took the axe and stepped back.
"Right. Um. Volunteers?"
None stepped forward. Eomer or Faramir might have for Eowyn if it had been allowed, but, alas, it wasn't. Plenty of dwarves were eager to fight, but their code would not allow them to steal Gimli's chance for glory.
This was their company then. Mayhap this time they might bring one back.