Frigga: Loki's Games
By azelmaroark.
Lyme watches Frigga watching the children who will probably kill her son.
They don’t watch the other Reapings live, of course. They sit respectfully in the victors’ box at the Justice Building and watch their own ceremony, and they stand with the others for Glory and Roark while Lyme looks over at Frigga and sees her wondering if one of them will be the one who kills her son. It’s his last year. Just today, and he’s safe. Just today, and he has as many years as the coal mines and bare bones of Twelve will allow him, and these are things that Lyme does not discuss with Frigga but she knows it does no good. She sees the spark of desperation in Frigga’s eyes every year that he’s not on the television and knows what she’s thinking, knows how all the cold logic that she’s made of wages war against the part of her that didn’t know what being a mother was until Loki showed her. And her eyes whisper, maybe. If he can just make it to nineteen, maybe it can be different. Maybe somehow we’ll have him back and-
But the list circulates through the victors hours before the official broadcast is scheduled, and though all they know is name, age, and District, that’s enough. They receive more information as the minutes tick by and Brutus is gone, buried in work for the month. The mentors get more than they do, but by the time the other Reapings play on the television, they have heights, weights, citizen identification numbers and estimated odds on all twenty-four. Spoilers, the people in the Capitol call it. Privilege, it’s called here.
Frigga disappears into her house in the Village, the one she never uses anymore. Lyme doesn’t follow her, and the others have the decency not to ask.
Some in Two make a party of the Reaping broadcast, and the trainers sit the children down in front of enormous screens and dissect everything, pausing and replaying the footage over and over into the night. But in the Village, you’re left alone to watch your own way. Frigga shows up a few minutes before the broadcast, her complicated braid from this morning rumpled and her clothes soaked from the downpour outside.
“Heard of an umbrella?” Lyme asks as she ushers Frigga in. Frigga doesn’t answer.
Lyme peels the drenched coat from Frigga’s shoulders. “We shouldn’t watch,” she says, and Frigga’s eyes catch hers.
There’s a ghost of the treachery Frigga’s always had a toe in as she considers it, but Lyme knows her answer even before she shakes her head slowly and says, “We have to watch.”
“Okay,” Lyme says. Then she plants a hand on each of Frigga’s shoulders and half-drags her to the kitchen. Frigga moves like a sleepwalker. “Then we should be drunk first.”
When Lyme presses a glass into Frigga’s hand, Frigga stares at it as if she doesn’t know what it’s for. When they turn on the television, visible from the kitchen barstools, Frigga drains the glass. They’re just in time for Caesar Flickerman’s lime green hair and blinding white teeth and radio voice.
“Now we’ve got a real treat for you tonight, folks,” Caesar says in a conspiring stage-whisper. “This year’s Reaping has some major surprises in store, especially in a certain outer District.” Eyebrow waggle. “And, folks, I don’t want to give anything away, but we’ve got a wildcard this year that’s going to throw you for a loop. The nation’s already buzzing with controversy about what may just be the most unconventional ceremony in the history of the Hunger Games. Let’s just say you’ll definitely want to stay tuned till the end tonight, fans.” And Frigga is still in the chair next to her, so still. “But enough of that! Let’s take a look at what the folks in District One have cooked up for us this year!”
Lyme nods at Frigga’s empty glass. “Right, let’s get you another of those.”
Lyme watches Frigga watching the children who will probably kill her son.
They don’t watch the other Reapings live, of course. They sit respectfully in the victors’ box at the Justice Building and watch their own ceremony, and they stand with the others for Glory and Roark while Lyme looks over at Frigga and sees her wondering if one of them will be the one who kills her son. It’s his last year. Just today, and he’s safe. Just today, and he has as many years as the coal mines and bare bones of Twelve will allow him, and these are things that Lyme does not discuss with Frigga but she knows it does no good. She sees the spark of desperation in Frigga’s eyes every year that he’s not on the television and knows what she’s thinking, knows how all the cold logic that she’s made of wages war against the part of her that didn’t know what being a mother was until Loki showed her. And her eyes whisper, maybe. If he can just make it to nineteen, maybe it can be different. Maybe somehow we’ll have him back and-
But the list circulates through the victors hours before the official broadcast is scheduled, and though all they know is name, age, and District, that’s enough. They receive more information as the minutes tick by and Brutus is gone, buried in work for the month. The mentors get more than they do, but by the time the other Reapings play on the television, they have heights, weights, citizen identification numbers and estimated odds on all twenty-four. Spoilers, the people in the Capitol call it. Privilege, it’s called here.
Frigga disappears into her house in the Village, the one she never uses anymore. Lyme doesn’t follow her, and the others have the decency not to ask.
Some in Two make a party of the Reaping broadcast, and the trainers sit the children down in front of enormous screens and dissect everything, pausing and replaying the footage over and over into the night. But in the Village, you’re left alone to watch your own way. Frigga shows up a few minutes before the broadcast, her complicated braid from this morning rumpled and her clothes soaked from the downpour outside.
“Heard of an umbrella?” Lyme asks as she ushers Frigga in. Frigga doesn’t answer.
Lyme peels the drenched coat from Frigga’s shoulders. “We shouldn’t watch,” she says, and Frigga’s eyes catch hers.
There’s a ghost of the treachery Frigga’s always had a toe in as she considers it, but Lyme knows her answer even before she shakes her head slowly and says, “We have to watch.”
“Okay,” Lyme says. Then she plants a hand on each of Frigga’s shoulders and half-drags her to the kitchen. Frigga moves like a sleepwalker. “Then we should be drunk first.”
When Lyme presses a glass into Frigga’s hand, Frigga stares at it as if she doesn’t know what it’s for. When they turn on the television, visible from the kitchen barstools, Frigga drains the glass. They’re just in time for Caesar Flickerman’s lime green hair and blinding white teeth and radio voice.
“Now we’ve got a real treat for you tonight, folks,” Caesar says in a conspiring stage-whisper. “This year’s Reaping has some major surprises in store, especially in a certain outer District.” Eyebrow waggle. “And, folks, I don’t want to give anything away, but we’ve got a wildcard this year that’s going to throw you for a loop. The nation’s already buzzing with controversy about what may just be the most unconventional ceremony in the history of the Hunger Games. Let’s just say you’ll definitely want to stay tuned till the end tonight, fans.” And Frigga is still in the chair next to her, so still. “But enough of that! Let’s take a look at what the folks in District One have cooked up for us this year!”
Lyme nods at Frigga’s empty glass. “Right, let’s get you another of those.”