mc details? 👀👀
omg i cant believe i havent done this yet
now time for mc details😋
Mc's birthday is August 13th
Theyre a Leo😏
Mc looks a lot like their Father but they have their Mothers eyes
When they were fourteen, they managed to sprain their ankle the night before the reaping when they were out with Ash, and it never properly healed
After Ash died Mc spent a lot of nights on top of the belltower in the middle of District 8 instead of their normal spot because it hurt too much to be there without Ash
Mc has top marks in all of their classes☝️
Theres a little cat bed for Hope in their closet but Hope normally just sleeps in Mcs bed
Mc is an enneagram type 4(yes, i did just retake the test for every character, including some of the other tributes. I've got brainrot for my own game, leaving me alone🙄)
Mcs tribute token is a bracelet from their Father (...it may or may be a lily of the valley bracelet)
Mc and their Mother actually used to be pretty close, but when they were about nine, something changed, and they grew distant
the first time Mc went back to the Capitol since Ashs death they were very shocked to find that they somehow have fans
Mc met Snow once, but it was before he was president and incredibly brief
This is less of a detail, but Mc was about 4 when Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes happened, and it absolutely blows my mind
You can pick Mcs' weapon of choice, but i will say they are a natural with a knife, and its kinda scary☝️(a certian district partner finds it attractive, tho😏)
When they were younger, Mc was for sure the kid that always tried to hang out with the adults anytime they were supposed to be playing with other kids
Mc has been drunk before😋
Regardless of whether or not you romance Creon Mc will always keep any letters they've gotten from them
Calliope has a hundred percent found the stash of letters and read through them (mc caught her, and it ended with mc having a black eye, and Calliope got a busted lip)
Mc is naturally a very caring person, but you get to decide whether or not the fully show it
i have no idea why but Mc will forever feel like the moon to me
they cannonically have a gorgeous smile (not sorry about it😋)
Mc also fully believes nobody ever really listens to what they're saying, but it is quite literally the exact opposite. they've just got this energy where you feel compelled to listen to them (they get it from their dad🤞)
you get to pick Mcs main hobby but they also know how to play the paino. it was something their mother taught them when they were young
when mc was ten, they "ran away" but came back a couple hours later because it started to snow, and they literally didn't have a coat. They thought nobody in their family noticed, but Soren had a full force of peacekeepers looking for them while Ione went out herself to look for them. When everyone was back home, they all acted like nothing happened.
Mcs room has one of the best views in the entire District
not a detail, but i know that Sejanus and Mc would've been besties, and nobody can convince me otherwise
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What is a nephew but a father?
i.
He can remember calloused, sun-damaged hands more easily than the leather-sheathed and thin fingers of his father.
He can remember being three and reaching up, his own phalanges tiny and pale in the torchlight, clasped delicately by those huge tanned paws of the man who would become his cavalier. Even then, he grasped, barely, that this man was meant to be used.
But a toddler does not know what using is. They only know needing. And he needed him then–had needed him for first steps and first words and first wantings. When his aged and noble father was busy and his devout, graceful mother was praying, it was Colum, molded alongside his two brothers for this very purpose, who stood behind him.
He can’t remember the other two being there as well. For him, there was only Colum.
ii.
At five, he was taught the man was not only his quiet protector, but his sacrifice.
Sacrifice hadn’t meant much to him yet. He had heard it only a handful of times, in the mourning carols of the church, in the hymns to inspire, in the stories spread about God and his Lyctors and their Noble Deeds. And so Colum became sacrifice which became Noble Deed which became Colum again, and the world made sense.
He was learning many things about nobility, even then, about what is Right and what is Wrong and why there is Suffering and how there can be Salvation. And Noble Deed became Right and Noble Deed became Salvation and Colum, too, became these things.
Sometimes, in his memories of childlike blasphemies, his father had seemed like God to him, but one could not fault something so small for these mix-ups. He, at least, tried to forgive these blasphemes. At least he knew now that was heresy, and the only other being to know of it was that sacrifice he still struggled to grasp.
iii.
He was seven when he first purposefully breathed in the seemingly pitless strength of Colum’s soul.
Of course, before this, he was taught the taste of it, suckling through his earliest struggles of illness and waning flesh by taking tiny pulls of vitality from his constant companion. He had been weak many times as he grew, the cost demanded from a true necromancer, and it was Colum who always had life to give.
At seven, it was simply the beginnings of the teachings to do it purposefully.
Purpose, he was told, was very essential. So essential it triumphed over things like discomfort or anxiety or any pitiful scrambling for questioning. It was not his place to ask why it was, it was his place instead to accept what it was.
He learned this lesson very well. Soon, the only questions he had were in the quiet, when only his nephew was at his side. Quiet when his hair was braided at his back by hands so tough they may as well be hide, but gentle as the down of a dove.
iv.
Eight was an important birthday. At least, it felt as such. Heavy in his mind, burdensome in the way any coming of age should be, weighed down in the significance of its reverberance.
Colum took him to the towers his father never visited and told him of three brothers made from mud to mold into shields. He told him of childhoods lost to obligations they could hardly bear, of trainings in poisonous sunlight and against a blood sickness that sounded familiar, but wrong.
He told him other stories as well. Stories his mother would have made no time for, stories no one else would think he needed to hear. He told him what it meant to hunt and hurt, he told him the sacrality of life, he told him of oaths and sureness and hesitations.
He told him he, too, was a valuable life, and that his path was cleared for him, but would still need to be walked with care.
He tried to memorize every word. He rolled over the weight of it in his mind. He was eight and he was forgiveness and he was Sacrifice as well and Sacrifice was Salvation was Sacrosanct. It made sense, of course, because eight was an important birthday, just as he had assumed.
He asked for tea, had seen tea served a hundred times to his parents at their most Righteous, and Colum had looked at him, eyes deep and brown and knowing everything there was to know in this universe, and he made the tea sweet and he made the tea bitter and Silas felt he knew this was Correct, too.
v.
By ten, he had begun to notice the wear of weather against Colum. The jaundicing of his flesh. The way his jaw clenched when he siphoned, the shudder that passed through that big, sheltering body when he practiced making light from life and truth from spirit.
By ten, he was beginning to fathom more of Sacrifice and Salvation and they were bitter and they were sweet.
Colum’s fingers did not falter when he buttoned up his tunics. Did not shake when he cleaned the chainmail that sat hefty on his slender shoulders. Did not waver when fastening the protection of leather over his own broadness. Silas knew by now he would not fill out the same as his nephew, and knew also he had not been built to carry the same burdens.
They were necromancer and cavalier. They were adept and shield. They were filament and foundation.
vi.
He was not even yet twelve, just before really, when the training intensified to such an extent he would choke on sweat and nightmares from the cost of it.
His father was displeased by his stuttering. His mother turned from him as if he was nothing. He could hardly steady himself and so Colum, Blessed and Righteous and Noble, everything that he could ever admire, all that he aimed to complement, became more the pillar of his penitence.
It was Colum who soothed him through the Truth in the Tome. It was Colum–whose voice had broken in the years of draining between them, whose voice would only break more as it continued–who murmured him through his oaths. It was Colum who stayed firm when the idea of a fallible God nearly swept him away.
He wanted to cling to the childhood he had attempted to discard, but it was too late. He had no more time for Innocence.
He thought of being eight and of three brothers laid at the altar, and finally he thought of Loss.
vii.
Of course, as he grew, he also grew finally to see the faults in his fetal dependence on Colum. His shield, yes, but also his sword. His tool. Gracefully, his nephew did not bring this back to him as he settled into his place, truly, finally.
Fourteen to fifteen to sixteen, to the day that revenant came from that depraved place, that waste of memory and assault to their order, screaming about her lost son and the numerous lost sons and daughters and infants of a wretched planet, and he took his Sureness and he took his Sentence with him to the First House and even as it began, he Knew he would have to be their Salvation, and with Colum at his back, he Knew it would be swift and it would be merciful and it would be more than the damned deserved.
He did not think to ask the man who had always carried him if the weight would crush him. It was simply not a possibility to consider.
viii.
When he felt Colum leave, the familiar mass of a soul larger than there were edges for, a soul he had drank from all his life, a soul that never left him even as he had learned to drink it in like an ocean of conviction, he had not even first known to mourn.
He couldn’t. It wasn’t right, it could not be Right.
He called him back because Colum had never refused an answer. Because Colum had always been the answer. He could not imagine another Truth. He could not imagine another Sense.
He had lost the fallibility of God, not once, but twice, and he had suffered the disobedience of Colum also twice in this horrid test, but he had not thought he could lose him. The lack of him was not something he could hold. Not something he could speak. Even as it was sinking into him, he still found the words in his mouth to bid him back, a babble of the first need he’d had.
And that was how he died.
.
What is an uncle but an infant?
[Also available here.]
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