short fall from olympus [ love x waverly ]

[pogue]

C   A   L   L   U   M

L   O   V  E

The first night of his Capitol stay is spent watching back the tapes of every one of the District reapings, solid hand and blood red pen jotting down notes and thoughts upon each viewing. He starts first with the Le Roux duo, licks lips and fangs at the legacy they carry. Two to Three, Three to Four and before he had known it the early morning sun was carving its claws against the walls of his room, scattering embers and ashes through the windows in its awakening. 

By the time he was finished there'd been twenty pages of notes, thoughts, and questions left to be answered sprawled open on his chest, finally passing out in the early hours of the morning. When he awakes, his mind is still racing with the questions that dance in the back of his mind, morbid interest in the one's he was supposed to kill spread across his thoughts.

And he can't lie, it's his fellow volunteers that interest him the most. Raised hands and wavering voices and mirrored murmurs of  I volunteer, he can taste the very same words every time he looks at one of 'em. 

So, when he finds Waverly St. Amor across from him at the archery station, fingers twitching with the pressure of a drawn bow and feet nearly falling over one another in what is close to the poorest stance he's ever seen, he can't help but stare.

Arched eyebrow, tilted head, her arrow flies from the quiver and pierces only the empty air, training dummy nearly laughing in mockery. Well, he thinks to himself, following the path of the discarded arrow before drifting his gaze back to her, she definitely didn't volunteer out of confidence she'd make it home. 

He plucks an arrow from the rack, tapping the tip of his finger once, twice on the point of it until the faintest prick of red adorns the skin. He rubs it between his fingertips, until the blood droplet is little more than a faint blanket of red amongst his fingertips before notching the arrow in the bow and adjusting his stance, feeling the bowstring shake and scream in his tightened grasp.

Muscles tense and muscles relax, when he finally let's go of the string it's a half a heartbeat before the arrow lands itself in the forehead of the dummy, quivering for a second before it finally rests. He waits a moment, two, cocking his head and smirking before he wipes the grin off his face and turns back towards Waverly, watching her notch another arrow, poorly. So, why did you volunteer, Miss St. Amor?

 "It'd help if you shifted your stance." He calls to her, voice cutting through the sounds of clanging metal and voices in the background as he places his own weapon onto the rack. He turns back towards the girl from eight, making his way over to her station. "Feet shoulder width apart, toes pointed outwards. That'll get you started, at least." He says, plastering the sweetest of smiles on his face. No time to bare your fangs. He thinks to himself. At least not yet. 

"Love." He introduces, nodding. "And you are?" He asks, feigning ignorance. Let's see what got you here, Waverly St. Amor. 

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

Waverly St. Amor should not be here.

No, she should be reading a book by a fire back home in District Eight.

But she is here and not there, and it is probably for the better.

If Waverly was back home her brother would be in danger, at least here she could keep him safe. Some people might be confused on how one can keep their sibling safe when they are so far away, but when the Peacekeepers are after at least one person in your family you can only hope that a human sacrifice is enough to subdue them. After all, an eye for an eye, right?

Deep down she knows that it might not work, she knows that they still might go knocking on their door to put them in cuffs. Deep down, she'd much rather be here, not knowing the pain he is enduring.

At least here she can have some hope.

The hope wasn't for herself, but for him. Hope that their crime might just be forgiven, hope that he grows old and happy. Waverly knew she was a goner. She knew that no matter how hard she tried her death was certain, but one night while she laid sleepless in her bed an idea overcame her. They couldn't punish a victor, certainly not a new one, it would just be too scandalous.

So the least she could do is try.

She had no experience with any weapons, unless you consider a pillow to be as dangerous as a knife. She decided to try out as many as she could in hopes that one would come naturally, but so far she was failing. The bow and arrow were next on her list, but from the minute she picked it up she felt awkward. It was heavy in her hands and even holding it up caused sweat to form over her upper lip. She was just about to release another arrow when a voice rang out behind her.

"It'd help if you shifted your stance. Feet shoulder width apart, toes pointed outwards. That'll get you started, at least."

Waverly immediately lowered her weapon and narrowed her eyes, back still to the mystery voice. She hated being corrected, it reminded her of her father. But before she turned she plastered a smile on her face, no point in making enemies yet. Immediately she recognized him. It had been a goal of hers to remember as many of the tributes as she could before they arrived, especially the dangerous ones.

"Love, and you are?"

"District Two," It wasn't a question, but a statement. The Careers were the easiest to remember by far. "Waverly," she said with a smile. Then she turned back to the target and followed his instructions, widening her stance and changing the position of her toes. She raised the bow, carefully pulled back on the arrow then let it fly.

Bullseye.

"Thanks for the tips," she said setting down her weapon and turning back to the boy. "If you're not careful I might become more dangerous than you," she didn't believe it, not in the slightest, but the words were already out of her mouth. "I'll be honest though, the bow and arrow doesn't seem like your first choice of weapon. What brings you over here?"

Friends close, enemies closer.

Right?