Chapter two, Today is the day
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After the boys are starting to exit the training center, Septimus can longer see the woman in white.
He is only staring at an empty room. There are no shadows, no marks on the glass or even a glimpse of doubt. There is nothing for him to see.
They must have gone to her, he thinks. They must be on their way to judge either or not they have made the right choice by picking them both to represent the district. It makes him sick to his stomach; doubting his kills. Doubting the way his blade will tear apart the tributes. He needs to know if they are doubting him, doubting the way he kills. Only rumors about his soon to be partner have been heard. Some claim to have heard that she can turn men into stone, some say her eyes are as purple as a bruise after a few days of healing. There is only one he knows to be true; she is not from home.
It is the second time she has ever step foot in the Academy, that much he knows. The news had been yelled in their dorms, the boys were screaming it in the cafeteria. She is an intruder. There is no need for rumors when even their mentors were silenced by the brief mention of her. It wasn't meant to be her. She had stolen Gloria's claim, an intruder had deprived her from what was rightfully hers. Septimus had seen Gloria a few times, mostly during the Reapings. She would watch him from afar and he would glimpse back at her. He remembers her smile the most, the way she would grin at him any time careers would volunteer. It was supposed to be them. Gloria and Septimius winning the Hunger Games.
It has been a year since he last saw her officially. She had tackled him to the ground and he had almost punched her. Are you scared you're going to lose, she had asked him. Everyone was staring at them until she bursted out laughing. The rest of the walk was made of them making bets on who was going to win. Turns out they both lost and a girl from the lower district won. It was the last time they talked. Then they mostly heard rumors about each other. Septimus knows he won't see her. It would be admitting defeat and she won't do it. He would be surprised if he can even get a glimpse of her.
It should be her— Septimus wanted her to be Gloria.
It doesn't matter anymore. She lost the fight and she doesn't get the chance to volunteer. He will and they might never speak to each other again. He will keep on hearing rumors about her and how she lost her mind in isolation. He will know about how she starved herself and refused to speak for the entire week after her defeat. He will hear all about her until he forgets her. The same way everyone forgets careers who didn't win the games or careers who fought for years and didn't get the chance to volunteer. Septimus will forget her too. He wishes he wouldn't but he will.
Septimus wonders what Gloria thinks of the female career's speech. What can she possibly say to a crowd full of strangers that wants to eat her whole? What can she possibly have that Gloria doesn't? He wants to know— he needs to know who he is going to kill.
With Gloria it would have simple. She is a skilled fighter, her skills with throwing knifes were unmatched. It would have been easy for him to fight along her. They would have killed together and parted ways near the end. It would have been so simple but he doesn't understand how a stranger could have beaten her so easily. How she could lose.
Now he's in the dark, he doesn't know her name nor the way she looks. She must be a good fighter, he is no fool. Greater than Gloria? Greater than Orion? He doesn't believe that. Whatever she is, she is not from home.
He can think about her faceless features all he wants but she is a stranger to him, to the Academy. If he looks for purple eyes in the crowd, he might see her then. For now, he sees no crowd. The training center is completely empty apart from him. He can no longer feel the presence of Ryker lurking behind his back nor the hungry eyes of boys his age. He won't waste his time looking for them either. They left the night his claim was legitimized. He still wears the bruises on his skin, on his stomach, on his back, on his knuckles. Their presence still follows him.
It was a fight three against one. The odds weren't in his favor, yet he managed to get out of the fight without any broken limbs. He wasn't surprised, a bit wounded but not surprised. Septimus didn't expect them to go out in silence. He knew their cries would be loud, that their anger would be felt.
They came into the night. When the lights were closed and the guards were on duty far from their dorms. Septimus was awoken by a rope against his neck. He was forced on his feet and hit in the stomach. Anger was the first thing he felt as he realized they wanted him dead. He fought with every strength of his muscles but it wasn't a fair fight, he knew that much. He doesn't remember how many minutes passed before Orion hit one of them in the back of his head. Septimus was short on air, his breaths were heavy and he could barely stand still. He could barely see Orion but he knew it was him. It was almost like a shadow he could make out in the dark.
He can still feel the rope burning his skin. As he stands in the training center, hand against his neck, he can still feel the betrayal he felt that night. He won't blame them, he would have done the same in their position. If he had lost the fight that announced him as the tribute, he knows he would not have gone quietly.
Septimus doesn't comprehend why she went down quietly, why she accepted her fate without fighting back. Maybe Gloria isn't the person he thought she was, he thinks. Maybe she's just a stranger.
It is the sound of a buzzing alarm that shuts him out of his thoughts. His eyes look around the room only to find it empty. Apart from the two guards standing between the doors, he stands alone. For a brief second, he closes his eyes and even as they are closed, he can see the room for what it is. He can see the large windows on what would be the third floor, he can see the mattresses on the floor and the various targets used in simulations. He knows behind him are the racks of weapons and the racetrack. On the second rack on the left, he can see the machetes and small swords. Above them are the bigger swords and in the drawers are hidden the small knives. Even if his eyes are filled with darkness, Septimus sees it all.
It almost calms him, knowing that he will never forget this place. He won't forget the many hours he spent running on the track or the amount of times it took him to successfully climb the rope that is meant to represent a tree.
Septimus begins to walk towards the exit, his steps are heavy and he can almost feel his blood turning warm. He wonders if his face is turning red. If it shows how warm his entire body feels. He can feel the sweat forming on his hands and he dries them off on his pants.
His steps echo against the concrete but they are quickly silenced by the murmurs in the corridor. The must have stopped for a regulation check. The door must still be closed.
194 seconds.
It's not supposed to take any longer. 229 seconds. It has never taken this long.
Septimus looks in the crowd of boys and confusion is spread all over their expression. The older boys stand impatiently in the back of the line, where Septimus now stands. They all know something is wrong. 162 seconds. That's how long it should be taking.
Murmurs fill the room but are quickly quiet down when they notice Septimus walking past them. His steps seem loud— he swears they were never this loud before.
The boys turn their eyes on him as he walks past them while trying to make it to the front of the line. There are too many boys for him to count. In the training center, they looked about two hundreds on parade but now he can not keep count. From the way the boys now carry themselves, he knows he is halfway there. It's no longer their eyes that subtly move to watch him walk past them. Now, the boys have completely moved sideways so they can properly see him. It is like they were never trained, like they should not be there.
Septimus rolls back his tongue. He would tell them to look ahead and stay still but there is no time. Now, he has to watch them be a disgrace to the Academy.
There is no time left.
The corridor seems infinite, as if he's constantly walking towards a goal he will never reach. It feels so hollow. His shoulders are repetitively in contact with the wall or with the boys. Septimus is no longer looking at them— he knows he won't find Orion anywhere. He is way past him already. He must have missed him. Did he look at him and forgot his face? Already? There are so many faces. So many strangers.
From a distance, the hallway is leading towards an open place. He can see it from afar— the square, the enter of the Academy. It is a large room with high ceilings. Doric columns stand in each corners of the room, two additional columns stand tall between the large doors. It makes this place look spacious, almost as if it wasn't build in between mountains.
Murmurs get louder each steps he takes. Murmurs turn into full sentences until he can almost hear the words being shouted in his ears. Then Septimus sees it.
The girls.
He can see them all lined up. Shoulders to shoulders, they stand in the same way as the boys. He can see them walking through the doors, their left foot stepping on the ground at the same time. It echoes in the Academy— it's muffling their murmurs. They shouldn't be up here.
Even if they both train in the same building, they have always been separated. They should have left the building minutes ago. They shouldn't be here.
When the first alarm rings, it's a sign for the boys to go. It means the girls have already left.
Septimus pushes his way out of the crowd. He knows he is stepping on everyone's foot— he can hear their gasps as he passes through. A few more lines and he will be at the entrance with the mentors. A few more steps and he will find Ryker.
He can feel himself getting warmer with each steps he takes, almost as if the temperature of the room keeps rising. His hands are sweaty but he can't bother wiping them. He's too focused on them, on her.
The crowd on the other side of the room feels more visible. He can finally see their features. They are all dressed in black from head to toes. They all seem to be wearing pants as per usual, their clothes are identical copies of their own. It almost feels as if he's looking through a mirror. They all look the same, just wolves in sheep's clothing.
The sudden lack of obstacles almost makes him trip. Septimus has made it to the end of the line.
The room feels so small. It makes him feel so small. The murmurs echo loud against the concrete walls. It feels as if someone is screaming in his ears.
Visibly startled, the mentors stand in a line in front of Septimus. They aren't aware of his presence just yet. Their eyes are too focused on the girls defiling before them. One by one, they walk out of the Academy. Each lines of girls look older as the other line makes it through the doors. It's a never ending circle. Not of them looks startled— it helps only the older girls are left.
That's when Septimus realizes. Gloria should be there— no she is there. In the crowd, in a few lines, he will see her. She still has a year left to volunteer, she has to be in line.
The girl that is to volunteer with him, she must be there too, Septimus thinks.
His eyes run circles against their features as he is looking for a familiar face. There are so many people he has never seen, so many girls who don't even know his name. So many strangers.
Then he sees her.
She is standing in the crowd, her expression bruised and tired. Septimus narrows his eyes. Is it really her, he wonders. There is a lack of confidence that comes with seeing her. It barely looks like her. It barely looks like the shelf of the person he used to know. They used to run through the mountains for hours before would return to the Academy. Now it looks like she can barely hold herself. He saw her three weeks ago, she shouldn't look so different. It makes no sense. It's almost as it someone needs to put her out of her misery— the games would have done that at least. It wouldn't have let her rot like some kind of unwanted beast, like rotten meat.
Septimus takes a few steps forward, almost out of instinct.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ryker's voice echoes, the mentor suddenly being next to him.
He doesn't know— nothing about today feels right. He had empaticed this day for years, he would dream about waking up to be cherished by an excited crowd. Now everything feels far too familiar.
"Look at her," Ryker grips his fingers around his arm, he can feel his fingernails digging through his skin. Septimus is already looking at her. "That's not a victor you're looking at, you're looking at a dead body."
He knows it. That's the worst part. It's a matter of time before she dies.
It's almost shame he feels when he looks at her. He can feel his stomach twisting. She looks weak and it makes him wonder why he ever thought she could be an asset in the arena.
Her under eyes are dark and her skin is pale. It shouldn't be this pale. No, her skin used to be tan. Now she looks so different. Almost like a ghost. Even her eyes look different. Only her hair hasn't changed. It is still curly and dishevelled. He can barely recognize her. She looks so weak.
He knows he is looking at a ghost. Somehow, he can't find the way the mourn her, not when she is standing meters away from him.
"She's gone." Ryker says quietly. "She lost and she's gone."
Septimus nods. He knows he's right. Ryker is always right.
From a distance, Gloria looks back at him. It's small gesture, barely noticeable. He is holding his stare— he doesn't know what else to do. They all have to wait until the girls make it out of the Academy. It feels like minutes passed.
431 seconds. There is no time left.
Ryker must have not notice Septimus' agitation— or perhaps he hasn't cared enough to question it but the grip around his arm loosens.
"What are you thinking?" Ryker's voice is low as he quickly gets between Septimus and the crowd. He can see the confusion in his eyes. "You gotta talk to me boy."
Septimus smirks, shrugging his shoulder. "I don't know what I expected."
He almost laughs.
"You won your fight and you're here." Hearing Ryker speaks with a soft voice feels foreign to Septimus. It's almost as if he's sharing the same pressure. There is such an heavy weight to carry when it comes to representing District Two. They want victors, they expect beasts. "The girl who'll volunteer, Magnolia—"
It's the first time he hears her name. Magnolia.
"She won her fight a reason." Ryker whispers with a stern tone. He believes what he's saying, it's not just words filled with lies to comfort him. "You don't see it now but soon you will."
Septimus nods. If death has a face, it would be his own. Not some stranger he doesn't know.
"No one is doubting your claim because you won your fight, and you were nowhere near losing it. Everyone knows that. They have seen you fight, they have seen the look boys give you when you're about to fight them. It's fear they're looking for and they find that in you. They chose you." Ryker searches for any response from the boy but he doesn't find any sign doubt. It's something else entirely, something he hasn't seen in years. "They chose her. It means something."
"Let's just hope she's good."
"She is."
Septimus scoffs. "You don't know that. You don't know anything about her."
"She's not one of us. That much I know," His voice is low, he's trying not to get the other mentors' attention. "But you know how to kill, you don't need her— or anyone else."
Ryker's hand moves to his shoulders. He's almost trying to shake him but he can't get pass the smirk on Septimus' expression. He knows him well enough to recognize the expression on his face. Ryker has known him since he was a little boy, ever since his parents enlisted him in the Academy. He's the only father figure the boy has.
He has seen that expression once, years ago. When blood was covering Septimus' face, he was looking into those eyes. The same one he is starting at this exact moment.
"Think about Orion," The mentor whispers for Septimus to hear. His eyes are focus on Ryker now. "That's who you're letting down if you don't get your shit together."
And my sister Septimus wants to say, but he hasn't thought about her in months.
As he waits, the collar of his shirt makes his skin rash.
The tightness of the fabric against his neck feels as if it is restraining him from breathing properly. It is strangling him as if District Eight had purposely made it too small for his neck, almost as if District Eight was trying to kill him with its bare hands.
He hates everything about the lower districts, about District Eight. Except maybe the tributes. They're always easy to kill— it makes their victory easier. Their hands are only made to create, they cannot kill.
He takes the end of the collar between his fingers, taking it away from his skin only for the collar to bounce back. Maybe it's his scar that makes the fabric seem so harsh. Either way, it's making him want to rip apart his skin. It's probably red by now.
Everything feels heavy on him.
The mud covering his boots feels as if it added kilograms of weight on his feet. Even the puncture wound on his finger feels as if the needle is still deep in his finger. He knows it's no longer there– there is blood leaking out of the wound to prove it. Yet it feels just the same. A heavy piece of metal behind his skin is what it feels like. It's almost the same uncomfort as a small cut. It's painfully annoying.
Septimus sighs as the dark clouds deprive him of sunlight once again. He hasn't seen the sun in days. Every time he would be allowed outside the Academy, the sky was dark and the ground was soaked with the upcoming rain, leaves flying all around him due to the strong wind. Today looks the same. He knows it's about the rain.
He tries to put his focus elsewhere but the murmurs are loud and cheers are filling the square outside of the Justice Building. It is all he can hear, loud words being screamed against his ears.
Septimus has to focus, he knows it. Today is the day.
The space gets tighter, more cheerful as people arrive. It almost makes it hard to focus one particular thing. People sign in as Septimus waits in line. He as been waiting for a few minutes now. The Academy are always one of the last people to fill the square. Now it's their families that line up around the perimeter. His family should be there too. He doesn't bother looking for them— he wouldn't recognize them either way. His sister should be near the front lines of the girls' section. She's only thirteen years old, a bit ruthless like him but she's still near the stage. The arena would have her dead by day six.
It's always what happens when tributes volunteer too young. Their minds aren't fully grown and their actions are impulsive. It's almost the same as releasing a beast with rabies in the wild and having to put it down every time. People are still shocked, District Two is in shock when their tributes lose— when they are put down. They are forced on their knees and shot in the back while they try to dig out of the arena. Cowards is what the Academy call them while the District don't bother mentioning their names ever again.
Careers in Two used to volunteer much older. When they reached the age limit of eighteen, they had reached their full potential and that's when they would volunteer. They would do what was necessary to improve their odds. Finnick Odair is what changed their ideology of volunteering. Now, everyone wants to beat him, they want to be the youngest tribute to win. District Four holds that record, not Two.
Sometimes, Septimus is thankful for Ryker. Other times, he despises his mentorship. Without him, he would have been thrown in the arena at age thirteen. The Academy called it his prime years. They had never seen a career with so much strength at such a young age. Ryker saw it for what it really was; anger, and no one can win the games with so much rage inside them. Ryker had made him wait three years before declaring he was finally ready for the arena. He's sixteen now.
Sixteen and his foot are fixed to the ground, his hands interlaced in front of him. He is waiting. In just a few minutes, his life will finally have meaning.
The odds are on his favor, the same way they have been for previous victors.
They are twenty-one victors in total, all lined up on the stage. On the furthest side stand the oldest— his face is covered in wrinkles but his smile stands tall on his expression. It is pride they all share in common. Septimus moves his attention to the other side of the stage, where the most recent victor sit. He sees Enobaria first— the victor of the 62th Hunger Games. Even from a distance he can see her sharpened teeth. It is almost as if he is looking right into a forged weapon, a weapon she has become. That's what they all are— weapons created to win.
"He killed someone you know."
Septimus turns his head to his left— it's the boy next to him that has spoken up.
He has never seen him before. His hair is red and his face has been washed raw. The dirt near his ears can still be seen— he must have washed his face minutes before heading to the square.
"Ivar Servina— he killed someone outside the arena."
"They are rumors." Septimus spits out, shrugging his shoulder. Rumors mean nothing.
Even if he was a killer, even if he had killed someone outside the arena, it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't take away the claim that announced him a victor. Everyone knows he went crazy in the arena— it was all the Academy talked about for the four months following his victory. He was a beast unleashed in the wild. Ivar Servina, the beast who went mad.
"He's crazy." This time, the boy whispers quietly, murmuring in Septimus' ear. "I've seen him downtown— he fought a guy for refusing to give him back his drink. He broke four of his ribs—"
Septimus scoffs. Crazy or not, he's a victor. It's more than most people will ever be.
"You don't have to believe me," The boy puts his hand up as a smile appears on his lips. His teeth are black, almost as if he had just eat iron. "I'm just telling you what I saw. I'm Titus—"
The boy— Titus extends his hand for Septimus to shake but he only looks down at it, refusing to shake it.
"Septimus."
Before the boy can reply anything, the district escort, a flamboyant woman exits the Justice Building. Representative to the Capitol's fashion, her wig is half white and half black, the separation is clear in the middle of the hairline. Her dress looks as if it is made of black wire— the same kind Septimus sees when he wanders too far in the mountains. Even the white coat of what looks like sheep confuses him. And the cone around her neck, it makes him frown. He's almost thankful for his own outfit, almost.
The escort walks proudly towards the center of the stage, her heels echoing against the concrete as the crowd turns silent. It would be hard to miss her presence on the platform.
Suddenly, the cameras all turn towards the stage, filming the escort standing behind the microphone. Everyone is watching.
"Welcome, welcome," Isidore, the escort, exclaims. She looks at the camera while the crowd applauds in excitement. "I am honoured to welcome you for the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games. Now, before we begin, the Mayor will present a speech to remind us why we are gathered here today. Please give him a warm round of applause!"
Isidore claps proudly while the crowd mimics her actions. The Mayor takes place in front of the microphone, carefully holding the scroll of parchment between his fingers.The crowd goes silence. Everyone has heard the Treaty of Treason many times yet he starts reciting it while his gaze never leaves the paper. The story of the Dark Days fall of his lips like a sweet melody. Everyone can recite it easily. The new laws are what led to the Hunger Games. The rules are simple, all twelve districts must provide two tributes every year, a girl and a boy. In order to punish the rebels, the tributes must fight to death. The last tribute standing wins. There is no greater honor.
Septimus can feel his heart beating through his chest. Today is the day he has been waiting for years. He can barely keep the excitement off his face.
"How exciting!" Isidore exclaims, regaining her position on the stage. This is the moment he has been waiting for. Maybe Gloria will volunteer, he thinks for a brief second before shaking his head. "Now the moment we have all been waiting for! The time has come to select one brave man and woman who will have the honor to represent District Two."
His breaths quicken. Maybe she will, he thinks again, maybe she won't be a coward. Maybe she will prove him wrong, for her own sake and for the sake of her brother— he shrugs his head. Nothing good ever comes from thinking about him.
"As always, ladies first."
Isidore stalks over the glass bowl filled with female names while applause muffle the sound of clicking heels. Septimus looks to his left where the girls are standing— the girl who will volunteer is here.
Dark hair; that's all he knows about the girl who is rumoured to volunteer. Dark hair with purple eyes.
In the corner of his eyes , the escort looks distressed but she quickly turns the attention away from her face as she twirls the paper between her fingers. "Cornelia Rivers."
Murmurs fill the Square until a path is created. "Come on dear don't be shy," her voice is pitched as a smile makes its way to her lips. She is extending her hand for the girl to take. "Do we have any volunteers for Miss Rivers?"
A few boys next to him laugh quietly. It is one of the main advantage in the career districts, only volunteers participate in the games. A name who is reaped will never participate.
"I volunteer as tribute."
He doesn't recognize the voice— no, he has never heard it before. It is much softer than the voices he is used to.
But it knows it's her, Magnolia.
Murmurs fill the crowd as another path is formed on the girls' section. They are creating space for her to walk into. His head snaps to the side and everything goes back to quiet. Standing in the middle of the pool of girls, she starts walking towards the stage with two Peacekeepers following her close by. He can finally see her. She is wearing a black dress— he recalls the fabric being lace, he has only ever seen it on Capitol's citizen or maybe it was in District One— and her hair is loose, reaching past the middle of her back. She finally climbs the stairs and that's when he notices her eyes. They are purple. It is a subtle shade of purple but even with the distance, he can see it.
A strand of black hair sticks to her forehead, almost as if her face had been covered in water. It hasn't rained yet so he knows it is not water. Stress could be the reason her skin seem so shiny, maybe she is having second doubts— he would not be surprised.
She looks different. He has never seen someone in the Academy wear a dress, let anyone anything else that wasn't their uniform. A wave of confusion blurry his thoughts for a brief second until he remembers she is not from home. No, she looks more Capitol than she does District Two.
"My! What a beautiful lady you are!" Isidore exclaims while the crowd cheers. The cameras are filming her closely and the girl— Magnolia smiles at her compliments. "What's your name darling?"
"Magnolia Cassidy."
Through the silence, he waits for Gloria's voice but it never comes. He has his answer; she is a coward.
"Now for the male tribute," the escort takes her time choosing a paper, almost as if the fate of the person called was impactful. "Titus Sergio."
Septimus sighs. It's a name he is not familiar with— the boy next to him. He can suddenly feel the crowd around them moving and he wastes no time copying their action. Quickly, he backs away, allowing the boy to climb on stage. He can barely feel his body moving. It is almost as if he has lived this moment a few times already.
Septimus starts to feel the adrenaline rush through his veins. He can feel his heart trying to crawl out his rib cage. It's now. The escort barely has time to ask for volunteers when Septimus steps forward.
"I volunteer."
I volunteer. He has finally said it. It makes him want to rip his own heart out. Maybe then he won't hear his own heartbeat through his ears. His fingers would be covered in blood but the calm following it would make him wash them raw. 2764 days, that's how long he has been waiting to say it. I volunteer, I volunteer, I volunteer. He wants to dig a hand through his chest.
As he climbs up on the platform, his steps doesn't feel like his own. They are far too heavy. He's trying not to glance behind him, to not look at the careers his age. The anger and jealousy they must feel— he almost chuckles thinking about it. It's his time, his game, his victory. No one can take that from him, not even the girl who claims to be a career.
The cameras are following his every moves. Ryker must be watching him too and Orion, if he can manage to see him through the crowd. They are far too many people watching him. Septimus' eyes fall on Magnolia— he tries to look away but she is already smiling at him.
A sudden hand is placed above his own and the escort drags him on the middle of the stage. He is standing right next to Titus.
Before being escorted down the stage, the boy extends his hand while smiling at Septimus. All cameras are on them.
This time Septimus shakes his hand.
Subtly, he wipes his hand against his thigh and his lips come closer to the microphone. No one would notice his gesture. Next thing he knows, the escort is asking for his name.
"Septimus Crain." He says looking right ahead at the cameras.
The escort pats him on the shoulder but he quickly readjusts his posture, trying to get her hand off him. "You are a bit feisty, aren't you?" Isidore laughs shakily.
Septimus can feel the pressure rising through his chest, almost as if his skin was catching on fire. His eyes run in circles in the crowd— he is searching for Gloria. He feels shame just thinking about it.
It makes him wonder if they haven't drugged her up so she wouldn't be able to talk— probably not. Maybe she kept quiet because she's scared, because she's a coward. Her brother would be ashamed, that much he know. He knows him all too well.
A smirk reaches his lips as he sees Orion in the crowd.
"Please give our tributes a warm round of applause for their courage." Septimus hears her clap first before the crowd cheers for them. "The two tributes for the 69th Hunger Games, Magnolia Cassidy and Septimus Crain."
His thoughts spiral while his vision is clouded by the cameras flashing. He has to be the first one making a move. He can't have them think she has the upper hand. Before he can even think about moving closer, he feels her fingers interlacing his hand.
He wasn't fast enough.
From the corner of his eyes, he sees her smile. It's a bright smile with teeth and all, almost like she's ready to bite. He looks back at the crowd but he can not seem to find any familiar faces. There is no Ryker or Orion for him to find. Their faces are blurry. The sky is too bright even if it is clouded by dark clouds. The clapping of the excited crowd feels like it's shaking the entire ground. The camera should be right in front of them, zooming on their expressions at this exact second. Septimus can not see anything, he can only feel his hand being dragged into the air.
Septimus smirks, looking right ahead of him. He ignores the feeling of her nails digging through his skin. Whoever is watching will see him.
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It's finally reaping time!! I'm terrible at writing descriptions but here's what the escort and Magnolia are supposed to wear: