☆°.˙ ▍𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘

We are made of all those who have built and broken us

— Atticus

⎰𝐳𝐞𝐫𝐨⎱

          Maybe there is something poetic about dying in your youth, the way it leaves an ache in the hearts of the people left alive, or maybe how it inspires to live life to the fullest.

          Falling in the arms of death, to Fleur Astor, is in simple words however nothing more than a cruel fate brought upon her by the devil incarnate in the skin of Coriolanus Snow.

          There is nothing beautiful about blood seeping through your fingers — blood that is not your own. There is nothing uniquely intricate about the way a last breath leaves a young girls lips.

          The Games leave a bitter taste lingering in her mouth, one that has been with her since she stood victorious in the Arena with her brother's lifeless body in her arms at the young age of thirteen.

          The horrors of death are not poetic, they should not be praised around the Capitol like some sacred and heroic act.

          It is vicious and inhumane woven into some sort of twisted and morbid way of living no one can escape.

          It has left her without a brother, and a nephew without a father.

          It has left so many families in shambles.

          She had hoped those days were over, that she could live her broken youth–life in solemn silence with her her eyes focused on on many factories of her home District and taking care of her brother's son.

          But like how death is not poetic, life is not kind.

          The Quarter Quell brings a new form of entertainment to the Capitol in the form of a pool of Victors.

          Once more she gets thrown into the Arena — but this time, maybe there will be something poetic.

          A rebellion is brewing on the surface, slowly coming to life and if Fleur is actually meant to die this time around, she will be damn sure that from her ash and bones a new era will rise. One free from Coriolanus Snow, free from the Hunger Games, free from suffering.