#ft. hestia

[slate-skylar]

A silver parachute drifts slowly to the ground. Attached is a canister containing 3 bandages. Inside is a note from Hestia Ember. The note reads "I love you. Be safe. HE"

After cutting off his own ear, and then Callisto's, and then running from the oncoming flood that had been their gift for their sacrifice -- apparently not acceptable, or come too late -- he had paused in the woods outside the caves, breathing heavily, bleeding even heavier from the hole in his head where he had previously had an ear. He had been leaning against a tree, holding the sleeve of his shirt up to try to staunch the bleeding, wild and panicked and unsure what to do. Then he'd heard the beeping, the package descending.

He'd unwrapped it quickly, and nearly rejoiced in the way those in Twelve did who were the religious types, who claimed that the sky and trees and birds were looking out for them -- Slate had never been like that, and yet now, he believed in Hestia as a god, Hestia as a savior, Hestia as good and right. He took the time to pocket the note before he hurriedly, with trembling fingers, wrapped the bandage around his head, tight against the hole, the stub that his ear had been.

Hestia as savior, as god, loved him. She cared for him. She wanted him to be safe. He felt tears leaking from his eyes before becoming aware that he was crying, as her forgiveness flooded him.

[cheathatcher]

maybe the night of the rebel attack had been enough to get elias back into twelve, at least for a bit. if he was honest, he was doing everything in his power to be alone with his thoughts as little as possible, and elias couldn’t deny that he really, really missed hestia and the kids in the off season. he leaned against the kitchen counter in hestia’s victor home, chewing on the inside of his cheek for the past hour, silently deliberating if he wanted to open up a can of worms. elias could do a damn good job at keeping things hidden, but some things would itch under his skin, begging too incessantly to be talked about for elias to ignore.

“hes — you’ve never like..” he paused for a second, hands in the air mid-sign as he listened for any of the kids coming into the kitchen before he continued, “like.. thought about joining the black eagles, have you?”  

@hestiaember​

[slateskylar]

enough // self-para

Slate heard Hestia’s screams every time.

When Lux died, there was still a chance. When Ellie died, the chance was dead, and Robin only just after her sealed Twelve’s fate: there would be no Victor this year.

When Slate was born, it was a year of enough. Enough for everyone to eat. Enough for a starving district to find hope. His biological mother didn’t seem to find any hope in it, but he sometimes wonders if being born during a winning streak for the District brought him his sense of determination. He knows, has always known, that Twelve is better than what they say. It’s better than the bombs they dropped, it’s better than the lackluster attempts at helping rebuild that the Capitol sends.

The last night before they’re set to go home, Slate’s backpack is packed and he’s ready to return. He feels itchy and odd being away from Twelve, and is glad to be getting back to what he’s used to. But he knows that the house will feel empty even if he never knew it when Lux and Ellie were in it. He knows that two families will be mourning the loss of their tributes in Twelve. And while Slate doesn’t take the Games all that seriously, he does understand death. He’s lost people he’s loved. He knows that more lives will be lost in the District to the mines, to accidents and hunger, to a loss of hope, before the next Games. Robin’s win could have brought months of food and something akin to prosperity, to enough. It might have been a time when children were born with some drive or knowledge that they could do better, be better, than the world they were pushed into.

He goes out into the main living area on the Twelfth floor and makes tea. He’s never had tea before Hestia but he knows she likes it, knows it’s comforting. He pours the hot water into a mug and puts in a tea bag, and then adds another because it doesn’t feel like enough. He knows that nothing he could do would actually be enough because he’ll never be anything like the children she’s lost.

He takes the mug to her door anyway and sets it down outside of it, knocks once, and disappears quickly back to his own room. It’s all he can offer, his version of enough.

[sdghgh-blog1]

# :0

what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone

hestia  ( half-blood )

what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone

what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone

white teeth teens by lorde.

my muse’s last text to your muse

[ sent  -    -  10:13 am ] :  broom closet on the fourth floor at 4 pm?