morganite shore ♕ D1 ♕ fin

mor·gan·ite
/ˈmôrgəˌnīt/
n. a rosy-pink variety of beryl, valued as a semiprecious gem.

Semiprecious. What a funny word that was.

What an accurate warning.

They never knew what would become of this boy, the one who preferred the company of little girls to little boys. Who complained when he had to train with brute force, who turned his nose up at the idea of rolling around in the dirt, who carefully cuffed his sleeves before he'd even think about squaring his shoulders to face a fight. He was slight and delicate, a portrait drawn with the sharpest of pencils, a thousand details pieced together with the utmost care. Big eyes, chestnut hair. He was a sepia photograph in a world of crimson blood and the grotesque tones of fading bruises, fresh scars.

Wasn't he a scar though, in his own right? A disappointment, though it would never be said out loud. He wasn't strong like the rest of them. His words were larger than his muscles, his mind sharper than the blades he wielded. His skills may not have been refined, but certainly his thoughts were. Perfectly capable of killing, fantastical in their own right. He may not have been a genius, though that was due to malnutrition, a very specific type of starvation of the intellect that led to an underfed thing, bursting at the seams with potential that would go untouched. It wasn't the right kind of promise.

He wasn't the right promise, this boy who cut deep with his tongue, with the insults he threw. His claws were of the kind that didn't kill, not immediately. They slowly tore his enemies apart, a torturous game of cat-and-mouse where he'd let them think they could get away, just to sneak up and scratch again, again, again. Leave another scar here, criss cross over the last one made. Two seconds ago, two days, two weeks, two years. He was a master in the form of drawn out angst, a killer in his own right. But it wasn't instantaneous, and that was all his parents were after. Instant gratification. The knowledge that by the time their children were twelve, they'd be ready.

Ready for the real world, or at least the real that they had created. It was all about the Hunger Games, the event of a lifetime, the chance to be a hero. It wasn't about District One getting showered with gifts. After all, who cared about the bounties they were offered when they had it all at the tips of their fingers anyways? It was about the Shore family coming out on top.

Every.
Single.
Time.

So what do you do with someone that doesn't quite fit in? You can't throw him out: by the time it became obvious that Morganite wasn't right, wasn't a winner in the making, it was too late. Everyone knew who he was, and he wore it like a badge of honour. It was a badge of honour. He wasn't just a Shore, he was a real Shore, born into the name, not picked up off the streets. It didn't matter if he wasn't that good at it. At least, not if no one knew outside of his family. So it was a secret. There was no mention of his shortcomings, and whatever rumours there might have been he quickly quelled with a snappy comeback.

Then again, that was how he dealt with most things. He was a panther and the world was his prey, it was him against anyone under him, and what a grouping that was. With his own doubts in his abilities creeping, crawling, slugging through his mind like a viscous black poison, he needed to dispel his thoughts somehow. He took it out on anyone who couldn't afford the life he lived, even on the people that shared his home, that he should have called siblings but didn't because they didn't share blood. Wouldn't he know? After all, he'd seen it splattered on the floor. Sometimes by his own hand. Sometimes by someone else's. It may have been red like his own, may have still smelled like metal and adrenaline, but it was different.

(Just as he was different. But no one knew. No one could know. No one should know. He couldn't afford to let anyone know his thoughts, his desires, the way his mind ticked at a different rhythm. He could lose everything.)

What did he know about loss, after all? What could he know? It was a disambiguated idea, a floating thought disconnected from the reality of what he faced. He would grow up without going to the Games, his place taken by older siblings, by other poor little rich kids whose parents wouldn't love them unless they went to the Capitol. Who wouldn't be worth anything until they were dead, heart stopped or mind broken to pieces under the crowns they wore like jail sentences. He would push through with his secrets, and it would be okay.

Fake it 'til you make it.

Besides, there was nothing to be said about the way his slim hips swung a little when he walked away from the spirits he'd broken, if not the bodies. Nothing to look into when his eyes strayed a few seconds too long on some guy's face after they'd spoken. It was crazy to think that preferring to spend time with girls and their catty remarks meant that there was something out of place about him that could get him thrown out on the streets. Nothing to see here. Just Morganite Shore, the semi-precious brother.

A semiprecious Shore. What did it mean to be the bottom of the top?

No, he wasn't the bottom of the top, that was just ridiculous. He wore his name and bled his life out practice after practice, just like the rest of him, didn't he? He couldn't pick up a broadsword or swing an axe with any efficiency, but he was young, growing, going through phases that he couldn't control. It would all sort itself out in the end, he was sure of it. Besides, how could he be the bottom of the top when he always surrounded himself with the very best? With Aquamarine and Phenokite, a trio of attitude and snobbery. He was a leader, not a follower, a little bit unique, too. That meant something.

A lion didn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep. He chews them up and spits them out with a flick of his perfect hair and a quick polish of his nails on the left over bones. Maybe he couldn't crush flesh under his fists, but he could break resolves and stomp all over them. It was just as good when it came to a defence mechanism, at least when it came to whispers and murmurs in town. A deafening roar of quiet voices.

Huh. Maybe a lot of his life was a compilation of oxymorons.

Not that it mattered.

Not that anything mattered, as long as he was a Shore. Gorgeous. Rich. Cunning. How many of his siblings could say that?

No, Morganite Shore would not let anyone know that he accepted his position, not if he could help it. He was better.

And he would always let everyone who challenged him know it.