ice doesn't forgive

tw. mentions of domestic abuse, violence, drugs Archibald spent the first few years of his childhood in the slums of district six. While that happened to be most of the district, he lived further north (in what would be modern-day Ontario.) He was born to the Larsen family, Dora and Arnold, his mother and father. His father was hooked on morphling, and his mother held a bottle like a crutch. The days were cold, and the nights; even colder. In a small shack with no heat, they burned their trash to stay warm. To say he initially had a troubled childhood was an understatement.

Archie was only old enough to remember some of this time spent in limbo. To remember burning the tips of his fingers when his last match broke in half. Or to remember holding his baby brother close as their parents spewed vitriol at each other in their only room with a door. To remember picking a pocket for the first time and hearing praise where a child normally shouldn’t. But not old enough to remember his parents: just above a whisper, wondering if they could get Archibald’s name into the reaping bowl early just to get food on the table.

He was old enough to remember when his life changed for the better. His parents were screaming again, only this time, glass shattered, and he could’ve sworn he heard the one wood dresser snap into two mangled pieces. It was only thanks to a neighbor that Archie and Fredrick (his younger brother) ended up at a peacekeeper station. The two boys sat there for days before being sent to an orphanage on one of the great lakes. Archibald was adopted into another family, the Westbrooks. He gladly took their last name, settling into a new life in the city with two mothers (Laureen and Penelope) and a sister (Irene.) Life had turned out all too perfect for him.

He was old enough to remember when his life changed again, this time for the worse. He remembered the morning of the 79th reaping; his knuckles curled into the fabric of Penelope’s skirt. He was just 16; his name had only been put in three times. But that reality hadn’t stopped tears streaming down puffy red cheeks or the lump in his throat when he tried to protest and wriggle his hand out of Laureen’s before they left home to go to the reaping. He was afraid before his name was pulled and terrified after.

His games lasted 12 days in total. The arena featured tundra and an abandoned research facility. The late autumn breeze, rustling through the scattered birch trees reminded him of home – his first home. Only here, he had less than burnt trash to keep him warm. When the countdown finished, Archibald made for the treeline. One look at the Cornucopia told him it wasn’t worth it. And 11 cannons later, his decision became even more justified. He struggled to count the shots as he labored to breathe. He’d never run this fast, not even to outmaneuver a peacekeeper who had caught him stealing bread. No matter how far he ran, the screams from the bloodbath echoed. Sometimes, the farther he went, the louder they got. After two hours of on-and-off running, he passed out, his vision blurry and his breathing ragged. He woke up shivering that night on the forest floor. His only light, the faces of the fallen, displayed over the arena. At 2 am that morning he received an emergency blanket from a sponsor. There was a chance that he could make it home – to his true home.

Archie survived the rest of his arena with that blanket, a hunting knife he pulled out of a dead tribute, and anything he could loot off fallen tributes. The cold was unforgiving, dipping well into the negatives at night. At some point, he was able to locate his district member, Diana Martel. They’d planned to stick together if they found each other. There was peace, at least until she attacked him one morning. He still has a scar where the knife went through his hand. Plunging his knife into her chest would result in his only kill over the course of his games. He’d walked away covered in Diana’s blood, having stabbed her several times past death.

He’d managed through ice storms, quicksand, animal attacks, contaminated water, and collapsing buildings. The research facility had been underground. The main entrance was locked, but Archie found an alternative way in through a cave and a hole in a wall. – Like something had escaped. By the last day, three others remained when inhuman cries cut through the air. The arena ended just as it had begun, in screams.

Archibald came out of the games a different person. Whether or not it stunted him was a matter of debate amongst his parents and various therapists. He enjoyed the attention that came with his victory. He spent the next four years completing high school and training to be a better mentor. He barely knew anything going into the arena. He wanted to have that knowledge for future tributes. He maintains a knack for plant identification, other survival skills, and close-quarters combat. His victory tour inspired a love for travel, and by the time he was 18, he was barely in District Six anymore. He spent most of his time in the Capitol, only coming home for holidays. It was difficult for him to develop meaningful relationships outside of his family. Everyone wanted him for something, and few were clear about their intentions. Archie was in his 30s before he really developed any boundaries with the Capitol. While he was known as a “wild child” amongst many Capitolites, he never touched morphling, and his days of partying are (for the most part) behind him. His niece’s reaping, victory (and subsequent imprisonment), and the loss of his parents were both reality checks for him.

He wears his heart on his sleeve with those he’s known for a long time. The man is often down to earth unless there’s a circumstance where it isn’t wise to be (it often isn’t, in his experience.) He’s skeptical of newer mentors; though they might have skill, he finds they lack experience. He’s guilty of giving unsolicited advice from time to time.

(+) Benevolent, Whimsical, Organized (–) Weaknesses- Vindictive, Callous, Peevish