Cordelia Snow Winclair

Mercury was inquisitive by nature, but very rarely did that which he so often sought reach him first. His head was swirling in the visuals of porcelain swans on black lakes, fireworks stunning inky skies, men in outrageous uniforms marching to whistling, the sort of total nonsense that he conjured from himself to influence his writing process. It was all he had to keep him afloat, the surges of obscurity that Capitolites fed into like starving vultures, whether he chose to admit that to himself or not. Rare was it for him to have allowed something as simple as a camera light disrupt the flow of creativity. Perhaps it was the voice that followed, however, the silvery tone that drew him out of the submissive shadows he so often relinquished himself to.

He rose from his seat on the chilled cobblestone wall, eyeing the camera without a trace of fear fragmenting his narrow gaze, a step or two from entering the frame and interrupting the broadcast. This might have been as daring as his stunt on stage during the President’s Party; the memory was nebulous in that moment, though he could recall something along the lines of crowd surfing, feeling hundreds of hands press against him, supporting his gawky limbs and freakishly thin middle, then collapsing into a pile of faux fur and magnificent jewels. It didn’t feel nearly as exhilarating as the present. They weren’t permitted within a hundred feet of one another without possibly arousing suspicion, let alone ten. 

He could interact with her solemnly. When the day was dreadful and the lingering eyes of Peacekeepers were turned upward at the grey horizon, when the cameras were lowered and the crew were busied with gathering the equipment. How quaint. This had been a day cleverly constructed for them to speak, he could tell because she initiated the conversation.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me twice,” he spoke up, sauntering closer to Cordelia. There was always a magnetic pull between them — perhaps that was the connection their son provided on his part, or perhaps it existed before then. He couldn’t remember. It’d been so long. “Candy? A sugar high? If I didn’t know you any better I’d think you were trying to seduce me, Delia.”

The rules to follow for being a Snow had always been clear: stay behind the scenes until you’re needed, avoid controversy, don’t expect much of a private life. Wanting to fit right in, Cordelia had been one to obey and take advice from those in her circle when she was younger. She was told she needed to be ready to be wheeled out to adorn her the president’s arms at a moment’s notice. She had to marry someone that would only be beneficial for the family’s empire even if it wasn’t a marriage out of love. Eventually, the woman decided to take the situation in her own hands and with a bit more of experience and skills, she refused to retreat into a shell. Cordelia wanted to cast off the expectations that came with her lucky upbringing and forged her own unpredictable paths, strewn with colorful characters, intense passions, and daring choices. Betting on Mercury not only when he was inside that arena had been a step in that direction.

“You wouldn’t be wrong to consider yourself the target of my deliberate seduction, darling.” She agreed, biting the edge of a smile. There was that familiar static again, that crackling in the air that now seemed common for them when they stood within a foot of each other. “But you’re right to assume I would know better than playing with a double-edged sword out here in plain sight. I can make you surrender to desire in far more prudent ways that wouldn’t involve the possibility of gunfire interrupting Archie’s nap and happiness.” Cordelia had never considered becoming a mother even though it was true she’d never have the same concerns as parents of kids born in the districts. Hers would always have something to eat on their plates and their fate wouldn’t be determined by a reaping. But those privileges wouldn’t stop them from having the Sword of Damocles hanging over their head since day one for the mere fact of being her child or President Snow’s great grandson. Let alone being the being the evidence of how much she was willing to break boundaries. People from the districts would never be inferior, immoral and animal-like...comparisons that were used to justify the maltreatment and enslavement of those that weren’t any less human than Capitol citizens. If anything, maybe they were more humane than them. The blonde strongly believed no kid whether it had been born into high society or not should ever be tucked in to sleep knowing the worst monsters weren’t under the bed or inside the wardrobe — they were right there, maybe even singing their lullaby. And she was determined to do what she could to achieve that, step by step. Maybe then, she could finally guarantee their kid a life worth living. But the only thing she could do right there to protect both their son and his father was keeping their distance.

“You’ve absolutely no idea what an arduous task it’s keeping these to myself right now.” She confessed in distress, looking down at her fingers that were absently playing with the buttons of her coat though a soft chuckle escaped her lips. Cordelia was there ― at least her body was, because her mind had wandered off and brought a feeling of awareness that hadn’t visited her in so long. She had to find in herself the way to control her own hurricane of thoughts and feelings around him because all she wanted was to pull him in a hug. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take it for another five minutes so please, have mercy on me too.” Perhaps it was the breeze but the blonde could feel her body shake, crying for the missed time they’d never get the chance to make back, crying to release the tension. The shame that had been holding her down like an anchor in the bottom of the sea vanished for a moment. It was like being let into the warmth after a lifetime of winter.  She was attracted to her with the kind of heady trance that brought a butterfly to nectar. Being by his side always felt like home and homesickness had been her worst enemy lately. Home seemed to be neither her new place in The Victor’s Village nor anywhere else in The Capitol.

It was both comforting and surreal not having to hear his voice through a cell phone. It was incredibly exhausting taking every precaution to make sure nobody could eavesdrop on them. Theirs had almost always been a relationship ruled by different schedules. Trips, meetings, interviews: everything planned ahead by someone who had proven to succeed at manipulating anyone’s destiny. Cordelia would never manage to apologise for the amount of times she had lost track of time and his husky voice had been there to answer, regardless. Tears blurred her vision each time she had stared at the screen and realised how close yet so far away he was. Mercury had definitely spoiled her with his presence during the nights President Snow had granted her the company of a victor she had insisted on taking off the market. That had made her develop a bad habit, one that was unreachable most of the time. “You’re looking hot today.” Cordelia said as blue eyes took in their surroundings. “Why don't we go back to my place so I can take your temperature, Graves?” She asked, turning on her heels though she looked over her shoulder at the victor and beckoned with one finger — commanding, promising safety.

Cambric did his best not to snort at the words that were coming out of the woman’s mouth. Was anyone really so dense they believed all that Capitol propaganda? Did it make him a hypocrite for even thinking that? Was that not what the Rebels were doing too, trying to win people over with their own? The only difference was the motivation was different, right? Or at least that was what he told himself when he threw his support behind the Rebel forces.

“Are you going to poison my ears with more of that talk?” Cambric asked as he shoved his hands in his pocket. Not that he had anything against Cordelia. He heard she was a decent person, but he didn’t know from experience. He had won his games when she was a little girl and District Eight hadn’t had a Victor since. There had been no need for much interaction on their parts.

Cordelia slowly raised her head at the sound of a voice and silhouette she couldn’t name at the drop of a hat. Although it wasn’t familiar, the facial features that came into sight easily helped her navigate the sea of names in her mind. She knew who he was. Unfortunately, maybe she knew more about him than what one should be allowed to know about a stranger. But one stopped having a private life the moment they were reaped, if they ever had privacy at all. Their lives belonged to The Capitol from that moment on, right? Or had their own lives never really been theirs for starters? It was mandatory to register births, considering it was essential to keep track of those that would eventually have the privilege of taking part in the games. President Snow had made sure his granddaughter learned as much about the victors as she could: weaknesses, strengths, family, history. Cambric had been no exception and her grandfather had never missed a chance to use him as an example of how sacrificing a beloved one of a victor could help putting them back in track. He always remarked how necessary it was to remind them who was in control once a gamemaker set them free. 

But none of that granted her the right to assume who this man was. Cordelia knew better than believing what everyone showed when being forced under the uplight. Forming ideas and opinions unjustly was fairly easy when raised in a society that worked endlessly to turn their  venerated victors into what they wanted them to be — not who they actually were. Maybe that was why his words didn’t catch her by surprise at all and they successfully made her offer a small amused smile in disbelief. This time ignoring that speech hadn’t been at the touch of a button on a screen. That propaganda aimed at convincing the viewer and there was no doubt capitolities would never question the words of someone so strongly related to their adored president. It target an audience that was devoted to a system without questioning anything. And Cordelia knew she didn’t even have to pretend she meant those words to influence a population that praised her last name. 

“The truth is I only allow myself a certain amount of hypocrisy a day, Cambric.” Squinting slightly, Cordelia tilted her head to the side and kept her blue eyes on the camera crew that hurried to leave a place they make it seem more somber than it actually was. A hand went to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear out of pure habit but the second it came into contact with the layers of styling products, the blonde took a deep breath. “And I’ve used mine up today.” She didn’t have the guts to fire her stylist, someone who had worked for her family for years now. But at that pace, she was going to make Cordelia understand why she insisted on making her use a wing. Not only were golden locks boring, but hers dared to dance in the breeze and ruin the stable perfection of an image that needed to be timeless. Motion wasn’t welcome expect when it came to fashion trends. Innovation wasn’t liked, expect when it came to an arena’s setting. Everything had to be under control: from a single hair to how many times their hearts dared to beat. The peacekeepers guarding the gate were proof of such statement. “I’m afraid you will have to put up with me not mincing my words from now on.” She said as she finally brought herself to look at him and though she’d never admit it, those eyes were hoping to be given the benefit of the doubt. She would never stop trying to have a voice of her own but what she had done back there only seemed to contradict her. Yes, it was her voice. But she was speaking President Snow’s words. Why would anyone want to interact with her when the sentences that came out her lips weren’t hers sometimes? Let alone, a victor. “I can’t assure you it’s any less sour than candy. In the best-case scenario, I will redeem myself. In the worst one, my son’s cry will be the one thing wrecking your hearing.” She suggested lightheartedly as she motioned toward the houses of the village with a slight nod. “So, would you let me work on an antidote before reaching a verdict? You wouldn’t be any different to those that consume that slanted speech if you’re misguided and blinded by prejudice...” The doctor trailed off, wondering whether he’d be willing to give her a chance or turn her down.

“I’m sorry, can we do it again?” Cordelia asked to the cameraman as the stylist came into sight to fix the long strands of hair that acted as the frame of an uneasy face. The cloudy horizon was a warning: she needed to get it once before the rain made them lose the chance of getting a perfect shot. Considering the level of technology the Capitol owned, it was able to change the weather out of boredom or need. One day it could be raining, other snowing…the brightest sun could be up decorating the blue background or the biggest moon could be shining through the darkness. It was almost like another arena. It only took her a second to let her eyes rest on the houses inhabited by survivors of the worst artificial weather conditions to reproach herself for such thoughtless idea. Who was a doctor who had been brought up in a crystal castle to even consider having the right to speak about how the games were? 

Cordelia wasn’t the typical kind of Capitolite Sierra would expect from the granddaughter of President Snow. She preferred a lot of things she saw only Victors preferring. So, when Cordelia pulled open the curtains she wasn’t surprised, only grateful. “No, it’s okay Cordelia. You know that I keep a book in my bag at all times for just such occasions,” she replied, as she quickly peeked into the paper bag. The colourful wrappers of the sweets brought a smile to her face. “June is going to love this. I’m sure you’ll be getting a visit from an excited five year old and I tomorrow to thank you for them.” 

Sierra liked Cordelia and knew that she was aware of Hawke’s involvement with the rebels. It was a point she didn’t want to argue with him about, but she thought it was risky. President Snow’s granddaughter knowing his rebel business? However, the way Cordelia acted, Sierra was pretty sure she was taken by Hawke’s views of the Capitol. There was always something that tugged at her though: what if Cordelia was the one that had turned Hawke in? What if all the niceties was to make up for doing that to Hawke?

She did not like having these kinds of suspicions because normally Cordelia was someone that Sierra liked. She was her doctor when she carried June and it was her that Sierra came for any kind of illness or scrapes that her or June developed. There was so much there, but at this point she couldn’t afford to dwell on it too much. Cordelia didn’t give her any reason now to suspect anything malicious. 

“Of course.” Sierra relaxed her hands as the woman removed the bandage and Sierra braced herself for any matter of bad news on her hands. When Sierra looked down at her bandage-free hands she let out a little sigh of relief. It wasn’t as bad as she imagined. Her right hand was blister free, while her left, still kind of obscured by the wrist cast, had a large blister on it. “So, that’s not too bad right?” 

“Oh, absolutely. Archie and I would deeply appreciate the visit.” Cordelia replied with a genuine smile. There was only so much she could do in that new mansion before the loneliness creeped in. Sometimes she’d rather speak to the walls than answering the phone calls. At least, they promised to be more understanding than the peacekeepers standing by her front door or the grandfather on the other end of the line.

Cordelia finished putting on some latex gloves as Sierra complied with her suggestion. Bringing the stool a bit closer to the examination table, she studied the zones that would’ve been protected by smooth skin if it hadn’t been for the thoughtless agenda of a few that had replaced it for raw and weeping flesh in various shades of pink and red. “Not at all. It’s actually much better than I thought it’d be.” She reassured the victor with a nod before pointing out some specific spots. “The skin discoloration you see here is a result of the normal healing process, as you may now by now. This is no cause for alarm.” At this point, Cordelia could only assume wounds, burns and scars were nothing out of the ordinary for Sierra. It seemed like learning about those things guaranteed their survival not only inside an arena, at least not anymore. “You should know they’ll want to expedite the healing process with rather abrasive methods.” She shook her head slightly in disapproval as she reached into a drawer of the medical cart by her side and took out some cotton pads. With delicate touches, she applied a bit of cleanser on Sierra’s hands before rinsing away all traces of it and patting the skin dry. “But we’re not going to be sticking to that rulebook, alright?” She said, looking up at Sierra as she took out an amber glass jar and held it up. “If you promise me you’ll use this each night and take simple precautions in the sun, we’ll stick to making those go in a more natural way.” She took a bit of the ointment with her fingertip and gently massaged it into the skin until it had all disappeared before adjusting a new bandage.

“Yes, other methods work faster but they’re just a nice way of covering what we’ve been taught to refer to as imperfections without getting to the root of the problem...” She realized she preferred the silence when she thought about her words twice and how they could be referring to the overall situation of Panem. Manipulation with subtle violence had become an important practice of the political system. It put its people where it wanted them to be...and it brought results quickly. But it only gave a temporary peace ouf of fear without actually working on the reasons why some felt the need to stand up for themselves. Hawke would’ve said the source of all troubles was the reign of terror, autocracy, oppression. But what if he had lived to see those he supported were leading down the same road of destruction? Was Sierra willing to support a bunch of people that had just proven to her life was as worthless as it had been for President Snow when she was in that arena? She had been in the market and not even the fact she was a victor, someone who had been deeply important to a man that had been executed for helping them, a mother, a human being had stopped them from causing the explosion. Could she dismiss this, knowing she had been as much of a prey as she had been in the games? There were rules in an arena. There was a preparation. But the rebels offered no heads up. No rules: they attacked wherever they wanted, whether the victims could be victors or not. “Sierra...” The president’s granddaughter slowly took off the gloves with hesitation, unsure of whether she was meant to speak the following words or not. “You know Hawke would’ve never taken part in something like...that. Not if he had known you could’ve been a victim of his well- intentioned  actions...he was the victim of his own well-intentioned actions...” The blonde frowned slightly, knowing that her confession and her knowledge on the topic wouldn’t catch the victor off guard. She needed to get this off her chest...understand why people Hawke had died for seemed to respect no boundaries. Had she created an idea of who Hawke was in her head that had nothing to do with the person he was for real? Had he been alive, would he have agreed to let those bombs go off?

The night was still young, yet Hudson had managed to visit all the houses open for trick or treating in the Village thanks to his well-developed stamina from track. He began en route to the Capitol for some extra grabs, hoping to find the residences giving out king sized chocolate bars, balancing Rosie on one hip and carting around a bag teeming with candies in his opposite hand. As he approached the gate he felt his little sister shuffle in his arm, a rush of panic overwhelming his system before he lost equilibrium, sending them both tumbling into the dirt. His ankles were twisted and half the candy they’d collected had spilled from the pillowcase. 

“Shoot…” he murmured. It hurt whenever he tried to bring his feet up; ankles swelling rapidly and knots growing from the impact. He checked on Rosie, who of course was in a puddle of tears beside him. “Shh, it’s okay — ah, shit.” Hudson couldn’t refrain from cursing. He quickly pulled her into his lap without moving his bottom half, scooping up a nearby candy and occupying her with that while he inspected her for bruising or any other damage.

It wasn’t long until they’d caught the attention of passersby. “Uhhh, don’t mind us. We’re just… Chillin’.” he reassured, his voice muffled from the sheet covering his face. ( @uvstarters​ )

Doing laundry — that was one thing that had never been in Cordelia’s coloring books or dictionary. Her people didn’t do that. If anything, they were good at money laundering. Moving to the Victor’s Village was a promise of freedom and responsibility at some point. She no longer wanted avoxes doing everything for her. Sometimes it amused her how neither her nor anyone that knew no other lifestyle were so useless when it came to the simplest of things. How did they have the guts to put tributes in an arena when capitolities wouldn’t even survive a day without an avox washing their clothes or a personal chef giving them the most unusual dishes?

How unused she was to this new goal she was setting may have been the reason why the sun had long disappeared and the white blankets hanging from the rope still danced in the wind. She had never intended for them to be Halloween decorations considering they were already dry but she could see how they could be mistaken for attempts of ghosts. And she’d have left them there in the spirit of the celebration if only her son hadn’t continued to defy the utility of diapers. Taking down the last blanket and placing it inside the basket, Cordelia was about to head back inside when the sight of two kids by the gates caught her attention. And it didn’t take long for her to leave everything where it was and take off from her spot to see what was wrong.

As soon as she approached them, the blonde squatted down to be at their level and began to place the candies back inside the pillowcase though her experienced eyes were busy examining the aftermath of the fall. “Unfortunately, I believe your trick and treating has come to an end.” She suggested softly, not buying Hudson’s reassuring words. “Don’t worry, you won’t be missing out on more sweets. I brought a lot from The Capitol and they’ll be all yours...” She watched Rosie’s teary eyes light up for a moment. “Only if you come with me and let me introduce your ankles to their new best friend: ice packs.” Cordelia looked up at him with a gentle smile forming on her lips as she returned him the pillowcase. “We’ll get your parents, too. I promise.” She knew just how untrustworthy she could be perceived by some people. She was no stranger to victors refusing to have pain relievers or any pill that could be mistaken for something that could have the same deadly effect as nightlocks. And how could she blame them when that idea had crossed her grandfather’s mind more than once? Even then, Cordelia had refused to let him turn a discipline that was meant to heal people into a weapon.

@uvstarters​

His face hurt.

Ares was refusing medication to try and fight through the pain, thinking that it was partly responsible for why he was having so many gaps in his memory. As soon as he had gotten back to his quiet mansion from the Capitol Hospital, he immediately fell into his own bed to try and sleep it off. He kept his painkiller at bay, hoping that he could make it as long as he could until the pain naturally went away on its own. 

Except it didn’t, and he was miserable, even after days of being released from the hospital. 

So, he decided to try and occupy his time as much as possible, but up until he managed to change his lighter bandages on his own and actually saw how bad the wound was did he really understand that perhaps it wasn’t the medicine that was making him have memory gaps. He didn’t remember Serenity being in the bed with him, he only remembered that Fell had been there at all when he brought it up to him again, and he misplaced the memory of a panic attack when Seph was standing there in comfort. 

The fear of his lost memories and the pain he was feeling made him have panic attacks alone in his mansion. It was hard to deal with but he managed to self-soothe and go to sleep soon after. The minute he remembered how bad his face looked, the angrier he became at whoever had blown up the market and the angrier he got at himself for letting him get hurt at all. He couldn’t imagine Serenity even stomaching to look at him with how bad he was messed up. 

One morning, when he realized the day was beautiful and the air was at a nice temperature, he decided to open the front door and let the air in as well as one of the back windows to let the cross breeze come in. Eventually, he had to change his bandages again and after a mishap in the bathroom caused pain, he was immediately sent into a foul mood but managed to get them changed. Now his head was pounding and his left eye was aching, and instead of going straight for his medicine, he went to the cabinet in the kitchen where he had one bottle of whiskey left, poured himself a shot and took it without a care in the world.

If anyone caught him, he wasn’t sure if he cared. At least it took the edge off.

Except he wished he hadn’t when he heard a knock on the door and his name echoing into the main room. He quickly put the bottle away and put the glass in the sink, grimacing as his head throbbed again.

“Who is it?” he called out.

The local hospital had always been the distraction Cordelia’s mind and heart needed but her grandfather had been clear this time: she wanted her the closest to the victors and their families in order to slip under their armours in a way peacekeepers couldn’t. The president knew his granddaughter had an empathy that wasn’t in his blood. That was a weakness, from his point of view — unless, of course he could use it in his favour. At first, her sensitive presence seemed to be a threat for the family’s image but only later Snow understood it brought a sense of humanity they needed to take advantage of. And even though he hadn’t been that explicit, Cordelia knew how to read between the lines and know this was more about his duty as a loyal to his cause than anything else. Yes, he probably wanted the victors to have a healthy physical appearance because that was how they came to play an important part in the country’s economy and entertainment business. But he most likely cared more about receiving a list with names of victors he needed to keep an eye on for reasons that be a danger to his reign.

Whilst The President had called a reunion with his advisors to figure how which was the right way to approach the situation, Cordelia had ran to the hospital after the bombing. That month marked a year since she had left the public eye and secluded herself after giving birth to her son. She had stopped visiting the Victor’s Village and lost contact with mostly everyone but her family members — the ones who had been working on the most heartless ideas to gain the most benefit of the newest addition to the family. A baby with the most innocent eyes and darkest blood could be considered a good distraction, a way of having all the country’s eyes on him rather than the lastest disruptions caused by the rebels. But Cordelia had never been fond of such exposure and remaining on the low for that long had been her attempt at keeping her child from becoming anyone’s target. 

However, she hadn’t been able to leave the victors in the hands of those in the Hospital the day the bombing disrupted the peace. She didn’t trust her own people. And even less when she had heard Ares had been one to suffer the consequences of the rebel’s reckless message. Even though Cordelia wasn’t officially allowed to return to the one place where she didn’t feel worthless, she had seen with her own eyes how her co-workers could follow very specific orders that went against what would best for a patient. Cordelia feared that if putting any of them into an arena once hadn’t been enough to shut them up and those bombs hadn’t made their lungs stop breathing, this could be the perfect chance to state The Capitol had done everything to save them but they had hopelessly died in a hospital bed. Her grandfather wouldn’t miss a chance to blame their deaths on the rebels and praise The Capitol’s work. Regardless, she had kept some distance by only staying the first day and then stopping by and checking on him and the others only when they were asleep. She could keep a tight grip on those working under her supervision without needing to take credit for anything.  She could continue to nurture her child but she had two hands and she refused to sit back when she could be giving the victors and their families a humane treatment that lacked in the services the Capitol could provide.

Unknown to most, Cordelia had followed Are’s story from up close. The 86th Hunger Games had been her first time working with the medical team and the fact that the victor they were trying to stabilise in the hovercraft was the same age as her had only opened her eyes even more. Were they that different besides the fact she had a silver-spoon upbringing and he had been born to be an outcast of the good side of the system? How was it that they were the ones putting people like him under such circumstances and then they were considered to be saviours for stitching up wounds that shouldn’t have been there in the first place? He had to be resentful, mad and not thankful, she remembered thinking. She knew about the alcohol and the clients, specially selected by her grandfather. He had all the right to be out of his mind and confronting people like her. But that wasn’t allowed. The system wanted them to be submissive — they were meant to be less significant than them. They owed the Capitol something. They needed to be thankful for the chance the Capitol was giving them. They had to be glad that the Capitol invested time and money in their health instead of letting them die like the rest of the tributes. But neither him nor any other victor had even been considered inferior by Cordelia. Not even when laying powerlessly and vulnerably. She knew least she could do was trying to fix her people’s barbaric way of entertainment.

“Cordelia, It’s Cordelia.” She called back once Ares addressed someone’s presence. Checking on him had been on top of the list of her personal priorities since arriving. However, the list of her grandfather’s interests always came first and that had kept her from having some time off to stop by the victor’s mansion. “I’ve been told that you’ve been out of refills for your prescription of Vitamin…Me.” She pointed out with a soft smile as she reached the kitchen, guided by his voice.  “But believe me I’ve gone through a Vitamin U overdose.” She stood by the door frame with a bright green floral dress that was considered to be one of the Capitol’s latest trends despite the lack of white roses on it. “But I see you’ve been staying hydrated at least...” She trailed off the moment her blue eyes caught sight of the glass he had put down, thought she didn’t have the audacity to assume what had he poured into it.