we shine, then we burn — eurydice's speech. [90th]
Apr 21, 2022 12:33:59 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Apr 21, 2022 12:33:59 GMT -5
↳ EURYDICE LE ROUX
Another year, the same her.
Same in her wretchedness, same in her wild ambitions, same in her grief and her mourning, her losses that have tallied up to high numbers. When you lose someone, time stops; when you lose third children, it ceases to exist. A part of her will always remain on that reaping stand, her eyes tailing Emmett as he walked towards the gallows with his chin raised high. A part of her lingers in the justice building, her claw over Emerson’s, calling her wretched for the last time. A part of her is trapped in the moment she saw Silk die, her heiress crumbling to the ground like a castle tore down.
Her grief is a sculpture, craved from marble, as immovable as stone.
But today she drapes a cloth over it, dresses for war.
The campaign is at its peak, the numbers already showing on the polls, and the Le Rouxes will rule for another year. The lioness runs unprecedented, the papers say. They don’t know that she’s already crushed all her opponents beforehand.
She affixes her gold earring and looks at herself in the mirror. Every inch of her is gold, but so hollow beneath the shine.
A door opens behind her. That’s her cue. She turns around, walks down the hall, and another set of doors are pushed forward by two guards to reveal a sea of waiting people that burst in applause at her entrance. She smiles, bares her teeth, waving as she walks out and relishes in the sound before clenching her fist to silence it.
The district waits with baited breath.
“My slogan this time around was ‘for each district one citizen to hold the shadow of a lion’,” she speaks, her tone steel, as rigid as her control. “I meant it. I penned it myself. The thing about being district one is that we are already known, so it is high time that we are respected, too. Feared, even.”
She narrows her gaze. “I have no promises to make for you. All of those I’ve already fulfilled in my last campaign. Trade is sprawling in the districts,” thanks to her amending the taxes, “crime no longer stains our pristine streets,” she has let it run amok in the underbelly instead, “and our tributes are the talk of the capitol. We may not have another victor yet, but Le Roux academy is working tirelessly every minute, every hour, to polish our children and make them ready for war.”
But that isn’t enough. That wasn’t enough to save her children. She feels a twisting in her chest then, a sharp pang which she has to work instantaneously to make sure it doesn’t show on her face.
“We shine bright enough but with your support, I can make sure that everyone,” she emphasizes on that, “will see us burn and raze.”
Same in her wretchedness, same in her wild ambitions, same in her grief and her mourning, her losses that have tallied up to high numbers. When you lose someone, time stops; when you lose third children, it ceases to exist. A part of her will always remain on that reaping stand, her eyes tailing Emmett as he walked towards the gallows with his chin raised high. A part of her lingers in the justice building, her claw over Emerson’s, calling her wretched for the last time. A part of her is trapped in the moment she saw Silk die, her heiress crumbling to the ground like a castle tore down.
Her grief is a sculpture, craved from marble, as immovable as stone.
But today she drapes a cloth over it, dresses for war.
The campaign is at its peak, the numbers already showing on the polls, and the Le Rouxes will rule for another year. The lioness runs unprecedented, the papers say. They don’t know that she’s already crushed all her opponents beforehand.
She affixes her gold earring and looks at herself in the mirror. Every inch of her is gold, but so hollow beneath the shine.
A door opens behind her. That’s her cue. She turns around, walks down the hall, and another set of doors are pushed forward by two guards to reveal a sea of waiting people that burst in applause at her entrance. She smiles, bares her teeth, waving as she walks out and relishes in the sound before clenching her fist to silence it.
The district waits with baited breath.
“My slogan this time around was ‘for each district one citizen to hold the shadow of a lion’,” she speaks, her tone steel, as rigid as her control. “I meant it. I penned it myself. The thing about being district one is that we are already known, so it is high time that we are respected, too. Feared, even.”
She narrows her gaze. “I have no promises to make for you. All of those I’ve already fulfilled in my last campaign. Trade is sprawling in the districts,” thanks to her amending the taxes, “crime no longer stains our pristine streets,” she has let it run amok in the underbelly instead, “and our tributes are the talk of the capitol. We may not have another victor yet, but Le Roux academy is working tirelessly every minute, every hour, to polish our children and make them ready for war.”
But that isn’t enough. That wasn’t enough to save her children. She feels a twisting in her chest then, a sharp pang which she has to work instantaneously to make sure it doesn’t show on her face.
“We shine bright enough but with your support, I can make sure that everyone,” she emphasizes on that, “will see us burn and raze.”
