regulus had blood on his hands.

when he was nine, on a bitterly cold winter's day he had accidentally cut himself on an old nail from a crate that was buried in the snow. sirius, who had been supposed to watch him had gotten a lashing from his parents—unfortunate, yet all regulus could see in the forefront of his mind was the crimson bleeding onto the porcelain white of his skin.

earlier that month, he had been reaped as the male tribute for district 8; even as he was about to turn nineteen years of age, it seemed that he was not to be spared. sirius could not have volunteered in his place—nor would he have.

his fellow district 8 tribute, pandora rosier, had been his lone solace in the lawless bounds of the arena. he had sworn to his friend, her brother evan, that he would ensure that she remained safe. as intelligent as she was, in no world was she a killer. he was.

but on the fateful 7th day of the hunger games, she’d perished in his arms. rage, unadulterated rage was what had hit him first, followed by a, unyielding shadow of guilt that threatened to close off his larynx with tears.

what made it worse, was that pandora would have never resented him for being unable to save her.

“look at yourself, you are filth. unworthy to represent your district.” regulus sneered, pressing a dagger to your throat, the edge biting a bead of sweat hurtling to your collar. you were in a bit of a conundrum, clearly. you had not felled pandora, that much was evident—however, it had been your district mate who had done the job.

and thus, poetically, you were a condemned by association.

his dark curls, once elegantly arranged for his tribute interview, now hung wild, disheveled over his narrowed, silver eyes. tear tracks had been hastily purged from the crests of his cheekbones, grief replaced by a far more dangerous thing. a hunger for vengeance.

“where is your partner now, mutt?” your were forced to take another step back, towards the rushing stream behind your heels. “i’m going to make him fucking watch."