Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

name: Tum

origin: District 3

age: 27

played by: Tom Blyth

name: Silvia Coral

origin: District 12/Covey

age: 24

played by: Eefje de Visser

Chapter Text

The Capitol was a city of gleaming towers, a place where the sky was always clouded by the weight of its own wealth and power. Beneath the polished marble streets, amidst the bustle of haughty nobility and their endless games of politics, lived the forgotten. The ones whose names never made it into the grand speeches, the ones whose faces would be wiped from history. Tum had been one of them. But it had not always been this way.

He had once been a boy, a quiet child of District Three, born of parents who had fought in the shadow of the Capitol's sprawling empire. His memories of them were fading—just flashes of laughter and love before the fire. The rebellion had been fierce in his home district, and his parents had died for their beliefs, for the faint hope of a future that didn't kneel before the Capitol. Tum had been just a boy, too young to understand the gravity of it all. He had only understood that his parents' love was endless, and they had always told him that his life was worth living, no matter what the Capitol threw at him.

When the fire had come, it had consumed everything. Their home, their lives, their dreams—all of it vanished in a single night. And Tum was left alone. An orphan, discarded by a world that had no room for the weak or the lost.

He was placed in an orphanage, a gray and drab place where children learned to forget who they were. There, Tum learned quickly that survival wasn't just about food or warmth. It was about silence, about fading into the background and staying out of the way. The walls of the orphanage were tall and cold, and even the air seemed to be a little thinner, as if the weight of a thousand unspoken tragedies pressed down upon it. Tum never spoke of the life he had lost, and no one asked. He simply became one more shadow among many, living in a place where names had no meaning.

But fate was strange. Tum was adopted when he was still a boy, taken in by a couple who were poor, but filled with a kindness that no one in the orphanage had ever shown. They weren't much, but they gave him something he had not thought he could ever have again: family. His new mother had soft, calloused hands from years of hard work, and his father had the easy laughter of a man who had learned not to take life too seriously. They made sure he was fed, clothed, and, most importantly, loved.

Yet, the Capitol was never far from his thoughts. As Tum grew older, he understood the city's reach. He saw the flickering lights of the Capitol on the horizon at night and felt the weight of its looming presence. It wasn't just the Capitol's shining towers that drew people to its pull; it was the way its very air tasted like power. For someone like Tum, someone from the districts, it felt suffocating. But the Capitol also promised something else—a life, a future that stretched beyond the dreary existence of the Districts. A man could dream in the Capitol, even if it was just for a moment.

And so, with little more than a handful of coins and his skill as a mechanic, Tum left District Three, the only home he had know to work in the Capitol. It was a decision that had haunted him in quiet moments, but there was little other choice. His adoptive parents, for all their love, were poor. The Capitol, with its endless opportunities for those who could stomach its brutal system, seemed like the only place to make something of himself.

He found work at a mechanic shop in one of the lower districts of the Capitol. The work was long, and the hours stretched into the endless night. The machines he worked on were complex, foreign to him, but he learned. He had always been good with his hands, a skill passed down to him by his father, who had been a craftsman in his own right. But the Capitol's machines were not the ones he had learned about in the Districts. These were designed to maintain the luxury of the elite, and Tum's place in that world was as small as it had ever been.

At night, when the long hours of work were finally over, Tum wandered into a small bar that sat on the edge of the district. It was a place where the forgotten people gathered, the ones who had made their way to the Capitol only to find themselves lost in its overwhelming shine. Musicians often played there, strumming guitars and violins, their songs a mix of sorrow and longing. There was something about the music that drew Tum in, a thread of familiarity in the sound that reminded him of home, of warmth he had once known but could never quite name. The rhythm of the music felt like the pulse of life itself, and Tum found solace in it.

The bar wasn't much—a small, dimly lit room with cracked walls and dust on the rafters—but for Tum, it was a sanctuary. The performers, they played their folk songs and stories of rebellion, of love lost and found, of the struggles of life beyond the Capitol's gilded cages. They spoke a language Tum understood, a language that was free from the rules and constraints of the Capitol. And in the music, Tum could feel his heart stir for the first time in years, something ancient and painful stirring deep within him.

It was here, in the shadows of that little bar, where Tum's life began to change. The music became his escape, his brief respite from a world that never stopped demanding. It wasn't much, but it was his.

Little did he know, the Capitol, in all its grandeur and its cruelty, had already marked his path. A single letter, an innocent errand, would soon lead him to an encounter that would forever change the course of his life. But that, Tum would not know yet. For now, his world was filled with the sound of music, the only thing that made him feel something other than the weight of survival.

And so, Tum lived, as all men do in the Capitol, trapped between the fading memories of his past and the unforgiving present. He survived, as best he could, hoping that maybe there would be more than this. More than being nothing in a city that forgot the names of its people. He liked to believe that somewhere, in the distant future, he could find a place where he would finally hear a song dedicated to him.

Chapter Text

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the mechanic's shop, mingling with the heavy, mechanical hum of the machines. Tum wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag, his calloused hands steady as he tightened a bolt on the undercarriage of a speeder. The workshop smelled of oil and dust, a scent Tum had come to know too well in the two years since he had arrived in the Capitol.

He was tall, slim, with sharp cheekbones and a quiet demeanor that made him seem older than his years. His dark hair, which had once been neatly kept when he first arrived in the Capitol, now fell into his eyes, constantly needing to be pushed back. The scarred, uneven skin on his hands was a reminder of the many hours he'd spent laboring in the Capitol's lower districts—fixing machines, repairing anything that could be salvaged.

"Hey, Tum, give us a hand with this!" a voice called out, interrupting his thoughts. It was Braden, one of his coworkers, a burly man with rough hands and a permanent frown that seemed to be etched into his face.

Tum didn't speak, but he was used to the silence by now. Over the years, he'd learned that actions spoke louder than words in the Capitol. And when you were just another cog in the machine, it was better to remain unnoticed, to blend in. Tum could fix almost anything, from the complicated engines of luxury hovercraft to the rusted-out bicycles of the lower classes. But he wasn't going to get rich doing it. He had never seen a mechanic's wages stretch far in the Capitol, no matter how many hours he worked. The city's wealth was built on the backs of people like him—the unnoticed ones.

He walked over to Braden and crouched down beside him, grabbing a wrench. Without saying a word, Tum began working on the engine, the heavy sound of the tools clanging against the metal filling the otherwise quiet shop. The shop was small, tucked away in a corner of one of the Capitol's lower districts. It wasn't much, but it paid the bills.

"You know," Braden grunted as he tightened a bolt on the side of the machine, "I hear they're going to be expanding the Capitol's train line soon. They're gonna need a whole bunch of new workers."

Tum nodded, his face unreadable. He had heard the same rumors. The Capitol always promised expansion, always talked about bringing new workers into its fold, but it was a trap. Those like Tum who lived on the fringes of the city never saw the real benefits. They were just part of the machinery.

"I'm not staying in this dump forever," Braden continued, wiping his brow. "I'm saving up to get out of here, maybe head to one of the richer districts. Do you ever think about that, Tum?"

Tum didn't respond, not because he didn't hear, but because he didn't know what to say. His future didn't exist in any tangible way. It was just an endless grind—fix the machines, repair the parts, and go home to an empty room where he ate alone, sat in silence, and slept fitfully.

"Anyway, there's a bar down the road. You wanna come? A few of the others are going after work."

Tum hesitated, his fingers resting on the wrench. A part of him wanted to say no, wanted to retreat into his solitude, but another part of him—one he didn't often listen to—wanted to go, wanted to break the monotony of the endless work and the empty nights.

"I'll go," he finally said, his voice low but steady.

Braden slapped him on the back, grinning. "I knew you'd come around. You need to unwind, man. You've got no life if all you do is work."

---

The bar was tucked into a corner of the district, a place that wasn't much to look at. The sign above the door read "The Hollow Grotto," though there was little that resembled a grotto about it. The smell of old wood and stale beer hung in the air as Tum stepped inside. The dim lighting made everything feel slightly hazy, the wooden tables and worn chairs filled with people talking in low voices, the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.

Tum stood at the door for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. He felt the familiar pang of awkwardness, the hesitation that always came when he was around strangers. He wasn't used to being around people who weren't coworkers, who didn't just nod at him and ask for a simple task. But Braden was already waving him over to a table in the back. A few other men from the shop were there, chatting among themselves as they drank and joked. Tum nodded at them, and one of them—Jonah, a lanky man with a perpetual grin—raised his glass in a silent greeting.

The music came suddenly, as if it had always been there, waiting to be noticed.

The woman playing the guitar was sitting near the small stage in the corner, her fingers moving expertly over the strings, coaxing out a melody that felt both foreign and familiar. Her voice followed, clear and haunting, filling the room with the sound of ancient tone. The song was old, a folk tune Tum had heard before, but hearing it in this place—among the drunken chatter and the clinking of glasses—felt like a secret being whispered directly to him.

He didn't know what it was about the music, but something stirred inside him. The weight of the city, the constant pressure of survival, the grind of the machines—it all seemed to fall away with each note she played. Tum closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over him. The words were simple, but they carried a sadness, a longing that Tum recognized all too well.

A few songs passed, and Tum found himself sitting at the edge of his seat, his gaze fixed on the woman with the guitar. Her long hair fell around her face as she strummed, her voice weaving through the air, almost like a forgotten prayer. Tum could feel his heart slow, his breath even out. The music had a way of doing that to him, of pulling him into something bigger than the small, mundane world he lived in.

"Hey, Tum, you alright?" Braden asked, noticing the way Tum's attention was fixed on the performer.

"Yeah," Tum answered, though it wasn't entirely true. He didn't feel 'alright.'

Braden, seeing Tum's expression, just smiled knowingly. "You've got a good taste in music, I can tell. This place, it's got a good vibe, huh?"

Tum nodded, but he didn't speak. The words were stuck somewhere deep inside him, tangled with the emotions that had no outlet. He didn't know it yet, but this bar, this music—it would become his escape, his refuge from the suffocating reality of the Capitol.

---

From that night on, Tum found himself returning to The Hollow Grotto nearly every evening after work. The others from the mechanic shop would occasionally join him, but more often than not, Tum preferred to sit alone, at a corner table where the music could reach him without distraction. The performers changed regularly, but each one brought something different. Some played fast, energetic songs; others, like the first woman, sang ballads that seemed to stretch out the very fabric of time. Tum never grew tired of it. The music became his ritual, the one thing in the Capitol that made him feel alive, that made him feel connected to something otherwordly, beyond the cold, sterile world he lived in.

The Capitol had so much to offer—luxury, technology, power—but it was music that Tum clung to, music that soothed him in a way nothing else could. And for the first time since he'd come to the Capitol, he felt something else stir inside him: hope. And hope was a dangerous, fleeting thing to boast of in his circumstances.

Chapter Text

The mechanic shop had its own rhythm, much like a well-oiled machine. The clanking of wrenches, the hum of power tools, the occasional expletive as something went wrong—these sounds were familiar to Tum, a steady pulse in the backdrop of his day. But it wasn't just the work that kept him coming back; it was the camaraderie, the strange but undeniable bond that had formed with the men he worked alongside.

Braden, Jonah, and the others had become, in a way, his second and only family. It wasn't that they were particularly close, not in the way Tum had imagined family should be. But they understood each other in a way that words often failed to capture. And, in a place where silence was sometimes the loudest voice, that understanding was enough.

"Damn it, this thing's stuck!" Braden swore, his massive hands gripping a stubborn wrench. He was bent over the engine of an old hovercraft, sweat dripping down his forehead, his face contorted in frustration.

Tum, who had been quietly working on a nearby speeder, glanced over, his gaze flicking between Braden's wrench and the engine. Without a word, he set down his tools and moved toward the larger man. Braden's eyes lit up at the sight of Tum's quiet approach.

"Think you can fix it, genius?" Braden asked, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He had always liked to tease Tum, but it was never mean-spirited. He was the type who cracked jokes to keep the mood light, to distract from the endless grind.

Tum didn't respond, but his hands worked quickly, fluidly, as he began to assess the problem. He could feel Braden's eyes on him, the weight of expectation—but there was no pressure, not really. It was just... natural. He had become known for his ability to fix almost anything, his steady hands making him something of an unspoken expert in the shop. As he worked, he could hear Jonah's voice rising from the back of the shop, as usual, carrying more than it should have.

"Hey, Braden, I was thinking, when do you reckon we'll get some time off?" Jonah's voice rang out with its typical eagerness, unburdened by the weight of hard labor.

Braden glanced up from his work, a smirk curling his lips. "Off? You've got more chances of getting free food at a Plinth's banquet, Jonah. Not around here."

Jonah, lanky and all legs, flopped onto a workbench nearby. "Man, you're just jealous. I saw a crowd of kids in District 5 singing some song about revolution, and I swear to the stars, I thought I'd heard the same tune at the Hollow Grotto last week."

Braden shot him a sharp look, though there was no malice in it. "Revolution? What do you think they're gonna do, throw bricks at the Capitol's marble floors?"

Jonah didn't flinch. He had a way of pushing buttons without even realizing it. "I don't know, Braden, but if they did, I'd be all for it. Maybe I'd join 'em."

Braden barked a laugh. "You? You'd faint before you got within two feet of anything dangerous. You're more likely to get a rash from sitting in a pile of bricks."

The entire shop erupted into laughter at the absurdity of it, including Tum, who allowed himself a small, rare chuckle. Jonah's ridiculousness had a way of lightening even the most frustrating days.

"Yeah, yeah, keep laughing," Jonah said, shaking his head but grinning all the same. "But if I had the chance to do something important, you'd all know it. The Capitol needs to hear me sing."

Braden raised an eyebrow. "Sing? Don't make me choke on my own spit. The only thing that'd need to hear you is a mechanic's oil filter."

Jonah leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Okay, okay, I get it. But I'm telling you, there's a spark in me. Just like Tum here. That's the only reason he comes with us to the bar, right?"

The comment caught Tum off guard, and for a moment, he looked up from his work. Jonah was grinning, his eyes sparkling with that mix of mischief and sincerity that made him so likable—if a little bit exhausting.

Braden laughed heartily. "Oh, right. Tum's got the 'spark.' You think a guy who spends his evenings listening to folk songs has a 'spark,' Jonah?"

"I'm serious!" Jonah insisted, propping himself up with his elbows. "He's got this quiet thing about him, you know? He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it's like... it's like he's got a fire inside. Just hidden under a whole lot of mechanic grease and oil."

Tum raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Jonah with a hint of amusement. "I don't know about fire, but I do know how to fix things," he said, his voice steady but with an underlying warmth.

"Oh, don't be modest," Jonah teased, shaking his head. "I see it. There's something there, man. You just gotta let it out sometimes. Maybe not with all this motor oil around, but you get me, right?"

Tum shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn't know if Jonah had it right, but it felt... good to hear someone acknowledge something in him that wasn't just about fixing broken machines.

"That's what I'm saying!" Jonah said, leaning forward like a preacher on a Sunday morning. "See? I'm not the only one who sees it. Braden's just too busy thinking about his next drink to pay attention."

Braden shot him an exaggerated glare. "I'm thinking about my next wrench, thank you very much. But, sure, whatever makes you feel better, Jonah."

The men settled into an easy silence, their work moving along in familiar rhythm. Jonah's banter, Braden's laughter, and Tum's steady focus filled the shop with a rare kind of warmth. It wasn't friendship by traditional standards—not the kind where they poured out their hearts or even shared much of their past. But in this space, surrounded by the clattering of tools and the unspoken understanding that they were all here for one reason—to survive—it felt like enough.

And even if it was only a fleeting kind of peace, Tum was starting to appreciate it more and more. There was something in the way Braden would crack a joke after a long day of hard work, in the way Jonah would bring up nonsensical ideas just to get a rise out of them. And that, Tum thought, as he fixed another broken part, was all that mattered for now.

After a while, Braden clapped Tum on the back, his large hand thudding against Tum's shoulder. "You're a good one, Tum," Braden said gruffly, though there was an odd warmth in his voice.

Tum nodded, not needing to say anything in response. It was one of those moments where words weren't necessary, where the weight of simple gestures spoke louder than any grand speeches.

As the day wore on and the shop gradually emptied, leaving behind only the lingering smell of oil and metal, Tum felt a small flicker of something inside him, a spark indeed hidden underneath the grease.

Chapter Text

The day had been long and exhausting. Tum wiped his hands on a rag, the grease from the day's work darkening the cloth. The sounds of wrenching metal and the scent of oil still lingered in his senses, a constant reminder of the work he did at the Capitol's mechanic shop. He looked over to his friend, Braden, who was standing at the far end of the shop, an envelope in his hand.

"Hey, Tum!" Braden called, his voice a bit hesitant, almost embarrassed. Tum raised an eyebrow and walked over, wiping his hands on his pants before taking the envelope.

"What's this?" Tum asked, examining the plain paper. There was no mark or indication of who it was from, but Braden's expression suggested it was something personal.

Braden scratched his neck awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. "It's, uh, a letter for Mireille Pearl. The singer at The Hollow Grotto. I... I'm not good at this sort of thing," he admitted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

Tum's lips curled into a small smile. "A letter, huh? A love letter, maybe?"

Braden flushed, shifting on his feet. "I—I guess you could say that. Could you take it for me? I can't bring myself to go."

Tum looked at the envelope again. There was something about Braden's awkwardness that made Tum chuckle, though he didn't say it aloud. "You've got it bad, haven't you?" he teased. But he nodded, taking the envelope. "Alright, I'll take it. Don't worry about it."

Braden's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Thanks, Tum. I knew you wouldn't mind." He gave Tum a relieved grin. "Just... don't mess it up."

Tum smiled back and shrugged, tucking the letter into his pocket. "No problem. I'll drop it off and be on my way."

—-

The walk to The Hollow Grotto didn't take long. Tum enjoyed the brief respite as the evening air cooled the heat from the Capitol's streets. The city hummed around him—shouts from street vendors, the clink of coins, and the endless murmur of the crowds. But as he walked, his mind wandered to the simplicity of the task ahead. Deliver the letter, leave.

The bar was just as Tum remembered it: a cozy, dimly lit place, the air thick with the scent of old wood and tobacco smoke. He made his way inside, the warmth of the place a stark contrast to the crisp evening air. The low murmur of conversation filled the room, but it was the music that caught Tum's attention. A gentle guitar strum mixed with a soft, almost melodic voice that filled the air.

At the bar, an old man with a graying beard raised his eyebrows when Tum approached. "You looking for the singer, eh?" the man asked gruffly.

Tum nodded, feeling out of place for a moment. "Mireille Pearl," he said, hoping the name would be enough.

The bartender pointed to the far end of the room. "She's setting up over there," he said, his tone welcoming but neutral.

Tum nodded his thanks and walked toward the small stage. Mireille was adjusting her guitar, her back to the room as she prepared for her performance. Tum couldn't help but notice the way she moved—graceful, effortless. As if music flowed through her veins, and it was second nature to her.

When she turned to face him, their eyes met. For a moment, there was something almost unspoken between them. Mireille smiled warmly, her expression soft and inviting.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice light, almost teasing.

Tum cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah," he said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "I've got a letter for you. From Braden."

Mireille's smile widened at the mention of Braden's name. "Ah," she said, taking the envelope from his hand. "Braden, huh? How sweet of him." Her fingers brushed against Tum's for a brief moment as she took the letter. "Thank you for delivering it."

Tum hesitated for a moment. "I... I wasn't sure if you wanted me to stick around or not. If you'd rather me go, I can just—"

"No, no," she interrupted, waving her hand playfully. "Stay. I'm about to perform. It's always nice to have someone new in the audience."

Tum hesitated but then nodded. There was something about her presence that made him want to stay, something calm and reassuring in the way she spoke. He took a seat at one of the tables near the stage, settling back as she started tuning her guitar. The music began to fill the room, soft and haunting, a gentle melody that spoke to something deep within him.

The room around him seemed to fade, the conversations blurring into the background. Mireille's voice, clear and soothing, wrapped around him like a warm blanket. The notes of the guitar blended with the rhythm of her voice, each word she sang seeming to float through the air like a story he couldn't quite grasp but still felt deeply.

Tum didn't know why, but something inside him shifted as he listened. There was a peace he hadn't expected to find here, in a bar like this, surrounded by strangers again.

He was lost in the moment when the door suddenly crashed open.

A shout rang out through the room. "Everyone down!" The peacekeepers stormed into the bar with a force that sent the crowd into a panicked shuffle. Tum froze, his body stiffening as the sudden shift in energy overtook the room.

He glanced toward the stage, his heart skipping a beat. Mireille's face was a mask of fear, her eyes flicking toward the door as the peacekeepers began moving toward the performers. The tension in the room shot up like a spark, igniting every corner of the bar with dread.

Tum's first instinct was to flee—to slip through the chaos and run. But before he could take a step, a hand grabbed his arm, forcing him back into the room. He tried to pull away, but there was no escaping. The peacekeepers were moving too quickly, and their eyes were sharp, scanning the room like vultures.

One of the officers marched toward Mireille, who was now standing frozen, her guitar hanging loosely from her hands. He reached for the envelope she had just placed on the table. Tum's breath caught in his throat as the peacekeeper ripped it open with practiced ease.

The officer's eyes scanned the contents. He froze, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. He turned slowly to Mireille. "Who gave this to you?" His voice was a low growl, dripping with suspicion.

Mireille hesitated, her face pale as she glanced nervously at Tum. Tum's heart raced. He wasn't sure what to do. He hadn't seen what was in the letter, hadn't read a word of it. The pressure was building, and the room seemed to shrink around him.

In a moment of fear and guilt, Mireille pointed at Tum. "He did," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tum's chest tightened. His stomach churned. He hadn't done anything wrong. He had simply delivered a letter. But it felt as if the entire room was closing in on him, the weight of the peacekeepers' gaze like an iron fist around his chest.

"Yes, I delivered it," Tum said quickly, his voice unsteady. He wanted to explain that he hadn't written it, that he was just the messenger, but before he could say more, a peacekeeper struck him across the face. The force of it knocked his head back, and a sharp pain exploded across his cheek.

He staggered, disoriented, but the peacekeepers wasted no time. They shoved him forward, binding his wrists in tight cuffs and dragging him out of the bar with the others, pushing through the crowd of shocked patrons. The cold night air hit his skin like a slap, but he couldn't focus on anything but the pounding in his chest, the fear that tightened around his throat.

They threw him into a transport vehicle, and the ride to the holding facility felt like an eternity. Tum sat in silence, trying to calm his racing heart. He didn't know what was happening, but he couldn't escape it. The peacekeepers had taken Mireille too, and the thought of her, looking so scared, only made his own fear intensify.

Hours later, he found himself sitting alone in a small interrogation room, the cold walls pressing in on him. His arms were still bound, and his head throbbed from where he'd been struck. The door creaked open, and the head peacekeeper walked in. His expression was cold, calculating.

"So," the peacekeeper said, leaning against the table, his eyes fixed on Tum. "You claim you didn't read nor write the letter?"

Tum swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry, and he struggled to find the right words. "I didn't," he repeated. "I just delivered it. I swear."

The peacekeeper's lips twisted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How convenient," he muttered. "You didn't read it. But I'm sure you've heard of what's in it, haven't you?"

Tum shook his head, confusion rising within him. "No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I swear, I don't know what's in it. I didn't read it. I—I can't read."

The peacekeeper cut him off, his voice sharp and mocking.

„You can't read? What are you, a moron? Anyway. It's a message. A plan. A plan to assassinate one of the nobles in the Capitol. And you delivered it without a care in the world, didn't you?"

Tum felt his blood run cold. His mouth went dry, and his mind raced. An assassination plot? How could that be? The letter hadn't been anything like that. It was supposed to be just a simple letter. A love letter.

The peacekeeper leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a threatening tone. "Who gave it to you? Tell me his name."

Tum's heart pounded in his chest, but he held his ground. "I won't tell you," he said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm not going to betray someone. Not for this."

The peacekeeper's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. "So be it," he said coldly. "You've made your choice."

With that, the peacekeeper turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him. Tum was left alone in the silence, his mind reeling. What had he gotten himself into? And how long could he keep silent before they broke him?

Chapter Text

The days in the holding cell blurred together in an endless haze of hunger, thirst, and aching limbs. Tum had long since lost track of time. His stomach gnawed at him, a constant, painful reminder of the meager rations they had provided, if any. The once crisp and invigorating air had become stifling, and the shadows of the room seemed to close in tighter with each passing hour. His thoughts felt like they were trapped inside his head, each movement slow and heavy as if he were sinking deeper into the silence.

He had been through seven rounds of interrogation already, each more grueling than the last. Each time, they asked him the same questions: who gave him the letter, what hidden message could it contain, and why had he delivered it. Each question accompanied by a sharp blow to his face. And each time, he had told them the same thing: "I don't know. I didn't read it. I only delivered it."

But it had never been enough. The peacekeepers had smiled at him—smiles that never reached their eyes—and promised that they knew what he was hiding. It wasn't until the tenth day that they came for him again. The door to his cell creaked open, and the familiar figure of the head peacekeeper entered.

The officer's boots echoed on the cold stone floor as he stepped toward Tum, who had been slumped on the hard bench, staring at the floor. Tum's throat was dry, his stomach growling, his face painted by blood, bruises and dirt, and his muscles ached from lack of movement. The peacekeeper's presence filled the room like an oppressive weight, but Tum didn't look up. He didn't want to look at him.

"You've been quiet," the head peacekeeper said, his voice thick with satisfaction, like a cat toying with its prey. "Too quiet, moron."

Tum barely registered the man's words, his mind lost in the fog of exhaustion. He could feel the weight of the man's gaze on him, could hear the subtle scrape of his boots on the floor as he moved closer. The sound of his voice broke through the haze again, sharper now.

"We know you've been lying to us," the peacekeeper continued, leaning down so that his face was just inches from Tum's. "We know the name of the man who gave you the letter. We know everything about you, Tum. You think you've been clever by staying silent, but you've only made things worse for yourself."

Tum's heart raced, but he said nothing. His lips felt cracked, his tongue heavy. He had heard them say it before, heard the threats and the promises of worse things to come, but he couldn't find the words to explain what he didn't understand. Why had they taken him, and why were they so intent on breaking him?

The peacekeeper stood up straight and took a few steps away from Tum, his back to him for a moment. The man seemed to be savoring the silence, the tension in the room thickening. Then, he turned back around and fixed his gaze on Tum again.

"You've been wondering, haven't you, Tum," the peacekeeper said, his voice low and almost friendly. "Why we've been keeping you here for so long. Why we haven't just let you go after all this time. You think it's about the letter. But it's not, is it?"

Tum swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, and his thoughts felt sluggish. But something inside him stirred. He had no way of knowing if they were telling the truth, but the words the peacekeeper spoke gnawed at his gut. What was it really about?

The peacekeeper took a step closer, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. "You're right to be confused. We already knew the names, Tum. All of them. We've known for days. But you see, this has never been about the letter." He smiled then, a slow, cruel curl of his lips. "This is about you. About breaking scums like you."

Tum's breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded, a violent thrum against his chest. The weight of the peacekeeper's words hung in the air, suffocating him. Breaking him? What did that mean? What did they want from him?

"You've been a tough nut to crack," the peacekeeper continued, circling Tum like a vulture, his voice dripping with amusement. "You wouldn't talk. You wouldn't give us the name, even when it would have saved you so much pain. You think your silence is a shield, but it's not. It's a chain. A chain that I've been waiting to... loosen."

The peacekeeper's words were slow and deliberate, but they cut deeper than a severe blow to his head Tum received afterwards. He wanted to respond, wanted to explain himself, but his throat tightened, the words caught in his chest. He couldn't speak. He hadn't been able to speak for days, ever since that first blow to his face. His tongue still felt swollen, his jaw sore, but there was a deeper pain—one that no amount of time could heal.

"You're tough," the peacekeeper mused, his voice softening slightly, like he was impressed. "You've held out this long. In other circumstances you would've made a perfect peacekeeper, actually. That's what the guys babble about, anyway. To me, you're too stupid to wipe your own ass. But you're not invincible. And you've run out of time."

Tum clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His body trembled from exhaustion, but his mind was clear, the fog lifting ever so slightly. He wasn't going to break. No matter what they did to him, no matter how much they tried to make him speak, he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

But the peacekeeper was already moving again, stepping closer. He leaned down so that his face was right in front of Tum's, the coldness in his eyes making Tum's stomach churn.

"You see, Tum," the peacekeeper whispered, "You've been thinking you're important. That your silence matters. But the truth is, we're not interested in your loyalty or your courage. You're just another cog in the machine, another person we can beat to a pulp." His voice dropped even lower. "And we've figured it out. We've figured out exactly what will make you cry."

Tum's heart was pounding now, and a wave of fear coursed through him. But there was still stubborness inside him he refused to let go of.

The peacekeeper stepped back, his gaze hardening again. "You've been silent long enough," he said, his voice chilling. "Now, the Capitol has decided that your silence will be permanent. Forever."

The words hit Tum like a cold wind. His thoughts scrambled to catch up, but they kept slipping away like water through his fingers. Permanent? What did that mean? He had no way of understanding the full extent of the peacekeeper's words, but he knew enough to understand the threat that lay behind them.

"You won't speak again," the peacekeeper said, his voice like ice. "We've made sure of that. The Capitol has a way of handling the broken. You'll be an example to others who think they can defy us." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Tum's ear. "District trash. You think you can all come here, and that the mighty city will greet you with its arms wide open, but in truth, all you do is walk around, drink till you're dead, lure our women and mix your shitty blood with ours."

The weight of the peacekeeper's words settled in the pit of Tum's stomach like a stone. He wanted to scream, to shout, to argue. But the pain in his throat and the crushing weight of the silence they had imposed on him made it impossible.

The peacekeeper smiled, a cold, victorious smile, and turned on his heel to leave the room. "Enjoy your silence, Tum," he called over his shoulder, the door closing with a final, resounding thud behind him.

And in the quiet that followed, Tum was left alone, the room echoing with the hollow sound of his own breath.

Chapter Text

The days that followed blurred together into a haze of numbness, a slow, unfeeling march through the darkest corners of Tum's mind. He had been moved from the holding cell to an unfamiliar, sterile room, where the walls gleamed white, too bright and too cold. He remembered the feel of the paramedics' hands, rough but efficient, as they chained his arms to a metal chair. His head spun, his body still aching from days of interrogation, and the events that were about to unfold seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.

They had warned him. The peacekeepers had warned him. They had told him that his silence would cost him, that it would be permanent, irreversible. But still, as they strapped him down, as they placed the tools on the table beside him, he couldn't bring himself to fully understand what was happening.

A needle pricked his arm, and the world swam in a blur of dizziness. His vision blurred, the edges of the room growing hazy and distant. The pain, when it came, was excruciating—but it was only a flash, fleeting and sharp. His tongue, once a part of him, now felt foreign, disconnected, a piece of him severed, ripped away by cold, calculating hands. The muffled screams of others—of other people who had been dragged into this nightmare—echoed faintly in his ears, but the noise seemed far away, like the sound of a storm raging in a distant land. He couldn't speak anymore. It was gone.

When it was over, when the cold hands finally released him from his restraints, the world returned in a muted hush. He could feel the thick, raw sensation in his mouth where his tongue had once been. His thoughts were sluggish, distant. He couldn't focus. He couldn't think. Only the emptiness lingered, deep and profound, where his voice had once resided.

They made him stand. His knees were weak, his legs trembling from the shock, but they dragged him out of the room. His feet scraped against the smooth floor as they walked him down a long hallway, his eyes struggling to stay open, his body unsteady. The Capitol's machinery moved around him—effortless, uncaring, always moving, always turning. They led him out into the open air, but there was no comfort in it, only the biting, oppressive heat of the heart of Panem.

For days, Tum's existence was reduced to one thing: menial work. He was assigned to clean the streets, to sweep the corners where the city's dirt and grime gathered, under the constant supervision of the peacekeepers. They watched him closely, their eyes cold and unforgiving, like vultures waiting for any sign of defiance. The silence in his mouth—the one they had forced upon him—was a constant, painful reminder of what he had lost. It was a silence that extended to every corner of his life, a void that swallowed his thoughts, his emotions, his desires. He had no voice, no way to express the sorrow, the rage, the helplessness that gnawed at him from the inside.

The city felt different now. The Capitol, with its towering structures and pristine streets, had never felt so far away from him. He was no longer part of it, no longer human in their eyes. He was just another Avox—another nameless, faceless servant in a world that had discarded him.

But then came the day when his life would change again.

He was dragged from his duties, a hand roughly pulling him from the streets, his arms forced into shackles, the cold metal biting into his skin. He had grown used to being led around like an animal, but today, there was a sense of finality, an unsettling feeling that rippled through his chest. They took him to a large hall, filled with others like him—Avoxes, all standing in line, their eyes dull, their faces hollow. He recognized none of them, but they shared the same emptiness, the same vacant look that had come to define his own life.

The peacekeepers stood at the front of the hall, their gazes sweeping over the line of Avoxes. Tum stood rigid, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest, trying not to focus on the rising anxiety in his gut. He stood with his shoulders squared, his head down, trying to appear smaller, less noticeable. But it didn't matter. The peacekeepers had already decided his fate.

It wasn't long before a couple approached, their footsteps light but purposeful. Tum's eyes lifted to meet them. They were wealthy—of course, they were. Their clothes, pristine and carefully tailored, shimmered under the artificial lights of the hall. The man had an air of authority, his sharp features betraying a sense of entitlement, while the woman's eyes were cold, calculating. Tum felt something twist in his stomach as they surveyed him, their gazes flicking over his tall frame, his strength, his physique. It was all they saw now—nothing more.

The man's voice cut through the air, low and disinterested. "This one," he said, pointing at Tum. The woman nodded, her lips curling slightly, as though she were pleased with her choice. Tum's heart dropped into his stomach, but he didn't flinch. He had no choice now.

They weren't looking for a person. They were looking for an object, a servant to serve at their will. Tum was nothing more than a tool to be used.

The peacekeepers unshackled him and roughly guided him forward, pushing him toward the Cardew family, the couple who had just purchased him. He didn't speak, couldn't speak, even if he wanted to. His mouth was still a desert, an empty chasm where his words used to be. The silence wrapped around him, and with it, the bitter realization that he was no longer Tum.

His legs felt like lead as they marched him through the grand hallways, past walls adorned with tapestries and statues, their gilded surfaces a sharp contrast to the emptiness that gnawed at him from the inside. He tried not to look at the opulence, tried not to think about how far removed he was from this world. They had stripped him of everything—his family, his voice, his identity—and now he was just a servant to the Capitol's elite.

The Cardews walked ahead of him, speaking in low murmurs to one another, their voices as smooth and cold as the marble floors beneath his feet. Tum's thoughts raced, but they were fragmented, disjointed, the silence in his mouth distorting everything. He could only think of how he had once been a person—just a man with a name and a life that had been stolen. His family had loved him, had cared for him. But now, there was nothing. Only the coldness of their world, the inescapable reality of what he had become.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout, to curse the Capitol, to make them understand the pain that tore through him with every step. But he could not. The silence in his mouth was not just physical. It was everything. It was the final nail in the coffin of his humanity.

The Cardews led him into a sleek, towering building. It was a place of wealth, of power, and it swallowed him whole. Tum felt like a speck, a shadow, an afterthought in this gilded world. There was no place for him here, no place for someone like him, someone who had been broken by the Capitol.

As they moved deeper into the house, his mind was consumed by a single, lingering thought: This is it. This was where he would be. Forever. No voice. No life. Just silence.

Chapter Text

Tum's life in the Cardew household was a life of quiet isolation. The days blurred together in a haze of monotonous tasks, each one as dull and lifeless as the last. He spent his hours cleaning the grand hallways, polishing the intricate furniture, and serving guests with a stoic expression. His mind had become a labyrinth of thoughts, memories, and emotions he could no longer express. His world had shrunk to the four walls of the house, the small attic room he was given, and the daily tasks that left him with little time to think.

The inability to speak or read left him feeling more like a ghost than a person. The other servants, too, were distant, their lives as detached as his own. They had their own routines, their own circles, and they rarely acknowledged his presence beyond the necessary work. Tum understood their disinterest; after all, he was an outsider.

His only solace came in the form of the chef. A woman in her fifties, round in shape with a pleasant but stubborn face. Her hair was streaked with gray, and she carried herself with a grace that betrayed her age. She was one of the few people who treated him with a kindness he hadn't experienced in what felt like forever. She didn't speak to him in pity or disdain like the other servants did. Instead, she treated him with quiet respect, as though he were just another person who happened to be bound by circumstances beyond his control.

Her name was Marga, and though Tum couldn't speak, he found comfort in the small gestures she offered him. The way she smiled as she passed him a cup of hot tea, the way she would sneak him extra scraps of food when no one was watching, and how she would sometimes pat him on the shoulder as a wordless reassurance that he wasn't entirely alone.

One day, as they were cleaning the kitchen together, Marga broke the silence that had long enveloped Tum's life. She had caught him staring out the small window of the kitchen, his eyes lost in the view of the Capitol below. The distant hum of life in the city, the sounds of people laughing, of music playing, of children running in the streets—it all felt so far away from the cold, hollow existence he led.

"You're a good man," Marga said softly, her voice a warm presence in the otherwise cold kitchen. Tum turned to look at her, surprised by the words. His gaze fell to the floor, unsure how to respond. She smiled knowingly. "I can see it in your eyes. You don't belong here."

Tum shook his head, the familiar weight of his silence pressing down on him. He wanted to speak, to tell her that he didn't belong in any of it—the Capitol, the Cardew house, this life. But there was no voice to carry his thoughts. Only the heavy silence that had become his constant companion.

Marga's expression softened, and she set down the dish she was cleaning. "I lost someone, too," she said, her tone filled with a quiet sadness. "My son, Jorik. He would've been about your age if it weren't for the war."

Tum's heart clenched at the mention of her son. He could feel the weight of her words, even without the ability to speak. Her grief was something he could understand in his own way. She wasn't just a mother; she was a woman who had lost everything, just as he had. He took a small step toward her, his hand hovering in the air as if to offer comfort, but she raised a hand to stop him.

"It's alright," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You can't fix it. But you should know, Tum, that you're not alone. I see you. I see the man you were before all of this." She paused, looking away as if lost in a memory. "I see Jorik in you. And I won't forget him."

Tum felt a surge of emotion, something deep and raw, but he couldn't let it out. All he could do was nod, his eyes meeting hers in a silent understanding. He didn't need words to know what she meant. In her small acts of kindness, he saw a flicker of the world he had lost, the world that felt increasingly distant. For the first time since his silence had begun, Tum felt something akin to comfort—faint, fragile, but there nonetheless.

---

A few weeks later, Tum's life took another turn. One morning, after a long stretch of solitary days in the house, he was summoned. The head of the household, Cardew's wife, had given strict instructions that Tum was to be prepared. He was to be moved to a different part of the house. The Cardews were always very precise in their commands, but there was an edge to her words today—a finality that made Tum's stomach twist.

"Don't damage those clothes," she had said when they dressed him in an elegant suit, all crisp lines and sharp edges. "You are to look perfect, shave your face every day, comb your hair. You're not to communicate to anyone outside the house, and you are never, ever to make contact with the guests. Do you understand?" Her voice was sharp, almost mocking, as if she were speaking to an animal, not a man. She smiled faintly as she glanced at him. "Not that it matters. You've never learned to read or write, so what difference does it make? You're the perfect servant."

Tum stood still, his hands trembling slightly, but he said nothing. His silence was his only rebellion now, his only weapon. He had nothing else to give. The woman's laughter, cruel and light, echoed in his ears as she turned away, leaving him to prepare for the next chapter of his silent life.

The other part of the mansion was larger than the one he was used to, more elaborate in its decoration. The marble floors gleamed, and the chandeliers hung like stars, casting their cold light over the pristine walls. Tum's room was tucked away in the attic—small, cold, and shabby. But it was his. His alone, a place where he could be out of sight, away from the watchful eyes of the Cardews and their guests. It was a place of fleeting solace, but it came with a price.

The other servants here were much the same as the ones in the kitchen—silent, dutiful, and distant. But there was something different about the way they carried themselves. Some were Avoxes, like Tum, but others were just regular workers who had been hired to maintain the house. The Avoxes, when they gathered for their meals, would sit together, exchanging gestures in a silent language Tum didn't understand. At first, he tried to learn, watching them closely, but the group was already tight-knit, a family of their own. Tum was the outsider, the mute stranger who didn't belong.

They spoke in signs, their hands moving fluidly through the air, creating sentences without words. Tum would watch them, his heart aching with longing. He wanted to understand, to connect with them, but there was a wall between him and the others—an invisible barrier created by his incompetence. He could never break through.

Even so, he tried to work his best, doing the tasks assigned to him without complaint, his heart heavy with the burden of his isolation. It was easier this way—working hard, focusing on the tasks, keeping his head down. But the loneliness gnawed at him. And in the quiet moments, when he was alone in his tiny attic room, the weight of the world pressed down on him.

But Marga was still there, a steady presence in his life. She had always been there, a quiet reassurance in the storm. One evening, as Tum passed through the kitchen to fetch a tray for the guests, she caught his eye and smiled. It wasn't much, but it was enough. In that brief moment, Tum felt a warmth spread through him. He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to explain anything. Marga saw him, just as she had seen her son in him. She understood. And in that understanding, Tum found a sliver of peace, fragile but real.

As the days passed, Tum's world grew smaller, and the silence grew louder. But as long as Marga's kindness remained, he knew he could survive.

Chapter Text

It was a day like any other in the Cardew household when the world around Tum was quietly shifted by the arrival of someone new.

He had long since accepted the cold, detached rhythm of his life. The days passed in a haze of cleaning, serving, and silently enduring the routine of menial labor. He had grown accustomed to the stares that lingered just a moment too long, to the way the other servants ignored him, and to the oppressive silence that enveloped everything. It was a life in which Tum was little more than a shadow, a ghost lingering at the edges of the grand house. His presence was required, but not truly acknowledged.

It wasn't that Tum didn't try to engage with the others—it was simply that there was no way for him to do so. His silence, the physical mark of his punishment, kept him locked away from any meaningful connection. And as the weeks and months went by, he sank deeper into the numb routine, clinging to the tiny acts of kindness Marga sometimes showed him, but mostly, he kept to himself.

Then, one afternoon, as the golden light of the sun poured through the high windows of the entrance hall, everything changed.

It started with a knock on the door—sharp, urgent, and unlike any other arrival Tum had witnessed. He was dusting the grand stairway when he heard the familiar sound of the front door creaking open. He paused, the brush in his hand stilling mid-air. His ears strained to catch the low hum of conversation that followed, voices muffled but distinct in the silence of the house. Tum frowned, wondering if the new development would bring more change into his already chaotic life.

A woman's voice, soft and lyrical, answered the greeting from one of the Cardews' servants. It was filled with an unfamiliar confidence, an assertiveness that caught Tum off guard. Unlike the usual quiet servants who entered and left without fanfare, this voice held a spark—something Tum hadn't heard in a long time.

"Is this the Cardew household? I was told my new duties were to begin today."

Tum turned slightly from the stairs, trying to peer toward the doorway. He couldn't see much, just the faint outline of a figure entering the vast hall. A servant, perhaps. But something about the tone of her voice made his heart beat a little faster.

As she entered the light of the hall, Tum saw her for the first time.

She was tiny—barely reaching his shoulders—and yet she carried herself with a sense of vibrancy that seemed to pulse through the air around her. Her hair, dark but streaked with colors of honey and amber, hung in loose waves around her shoulders. She was dressed in an outfit unlike anything Tum had seen in the house—flowing, bright fabrics of blue and yellow that caught the light as she moved. The colors seemed to dance in the air, vivid against the otherwise muted tones of the grand home.

Tum was struck immediately by her presence. Her beauty was understated, but it was real—there was a quiet confidence in the way she moved, a defiance in the way her eyes scanned the room. And despite the chaos inside Tum's head, something about her captivated him. He couldn't explain why. He had seen many new faces in the house before, but none like this.

Her name, he learned later, was Silvia Coral.

Tum's heart sank as he tried to piece together what he knew of the name. The name Coral... Silvia Coral—it was a name that belonged to a family of performers. Musicians, to be specific. It was a name Tum had heard in whispers, rumors floating from the streets, from the bars where he had once sought refuge in music before everything had changed. Musicians were celebrated, revered by the Capitol for their ability to entertain the rich and powerful, and to bear such a name could only mean one thing: she was once part of that world. The thought of her, once so free, now reduced to the same fate as him—a prisoner of servitude—gnawed at his heart.

He glanced over at her again, taking in the brightly colored clothes, the vibrant streaks of her hair, the careful way she held herself—like a bird in a cage. And yet, when she spoke, there was nothing caged about her. Her voice was soft, lyrical, and filled with a quiet strength.

"I suppose I'm here to begin my duties," she said, addressing no one in particular as she looked around the vast foyer with wide eyes. She spoke with ease, her words clear and full of life, like music itself.

One of the Cardews' servants—an older woman who appeared to be a longtime employee—came forward to greet her, a slightly condescending smile on her face. "Ah, Miss Coral," she said, her voice dripping with the familiar air of superiority that came from working for the Capitol elite. "We've been expecting you. You'll fit in perfectly here. Just remember—no talking to the guests. You're to be a servant, not a performer."

At the mention of "not a performer," Tum's heart twisted. He could imagine Silvia—once a musician, perhaps once the darling of the Capitol's high society—now relegated to silence. Her name itself was a reminder of a world she no longer belonged to. And in that moment, Tum felt an unfamiliar pang of sympathy for her.

But Silvia didn't seem to flinch. She nodded politely and gave the older servant a small smile, though Tum could see the sadness lurking behind her eyes. "I understand," she said softly, her voice a sharp contrast to the coldness in the room. "I'll do my best."

Tum's heart beat faster. He had never heard a voice like hers in this place before. He knew the silence of Avoxes—the enforced muteness that robbed a person of their very identity—as well as the quiet murmurs of regular servants, and yet there was something in her tone that defied it. It was as if she had not yet fully surrendered to her confinement. There was still some spark left in her—a tiny ember fighting against the suffocating ash of the Capitol's control.

The Cardew matron, a woman whose cruelty matched her perfectly manicured nails, gave a dry chuckle. "Oh, don't worry. You'll be quite good at not talking but singing when necessary. We'll see to that."

Silvia didn't respond to her. Instead, she looked over at Tum briefly. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, there was a connection—a silent understanding between them. Silvia's gaze lingered on him, as if she, too, could sense something in him. Tum was startled by the recognition in her eyes.

It wasn't just the shock of meeting a new servant. Tum felt a sudden pull toward her, though he couldn't explain it. She wasn't like the others. She wasn't like him, either—but she understood. The weight of that understanding seemed to settle in his chest, making his heart ache even more.

But he couldn't speak to her. He couldn't approach her.

Instead, he did what he had learned to do so well: he kept his distance. He watched her as she was led toward the back of the house by one of the other servants. Her vibrant clothes were a stark contrast to the cold, polished wood of the hall. Tum's eyes followed her, the feeling of loss settling deeper into his gut.

Silvia Coral was different, and yet, she was just as trapped as he was.

---

The days that followed felt even more oppressive to Tum. The sight of Silvia wandering the halls of the Cardew estate—the same halls he had come to know as his prison—stirred a strange ache inside him. She was a reminder of everything he had lost. He wanted to speak to her, to offer some comfort, some sign that he understood her pain. But there was no way for him to communicate.

And as the days passed, Tum's thoughts swirled around Silvia Coral, the girl who had once belonged to a world of music and color. The girl who was now as silenced as he.

Chapter Text

The first time Tum saw Silvia perform, he could not help but feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow. It was in the grand dining room of the Cardew household, the lights soft and warm, casting flickering shadows across the polished floors. The Cardews were hosting a small gathering, a mixture of their wealthy associates, and as per usual, they had insisted that Silvia sing. She was made to perform, like a marionette tied to invisible strings, swaying and spinning to the whims of the Capitol's elite.

The music echoed through the grand room, a hauntingly beautiful melody that sent ripples through the still air. Tum stood quietly at his station, dressed in the impeccable butler attire the Cardews insisted upon, as he always did when guests arrived. He kept his head down, the familiar ache of helplessness gnawing at him. He could hear the notes floating in the air, too beautiful for such a place, too pure for the cold walls of the house that held him captive.

Silvia stood there, her small figure poised on the raised platform before the guests, her bright clothes shining like a bird in full flight. She was so different from everyone else in the room. While the others lounged in their decadence, adorned in heavy silks and gold, Silvia seemed out of place in her vibrant garments, her voice filled with a strange energy that seemed to defy her situation.

Her voice, when it rose up in song, had the power to make Tum forget, even if just for a moment, where he was and who he had become. The rich tones of her singing filled the room, and Tum's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than he should have. There was something in the way she moved, so graceful and composed, that captivated him. Despite his situation, despite his silence, something about her music felt familiar. It reminded him of the folk songs he used to listen to back at the bar before the peacekeepers had taken him, before the world had swallowed him whole.

And yet, as quickly as his gaze wandered, he snapped it back. There was no time for distraction, no room for connection. His life had been reduced to servitude, to quiet obedience. He was invisible to them all—just another shadow, another cog in the machine, as he had been told.

---

Weeks passed, and Silvia continued to serve in the kitchen and perform for the Cardews, her vibrant spirit slowly being molded into the silence expected of all servants, Avox or not. Tum's routine was unchanged—he cleaned, he served, and he stood by silently.

But Silvia began to notice him. At first, it was just small observations, fleeting moments that passed unnoticed by the others but that lingered in her mind. Tum's posture, his slumped shoulders, his eyes always downcast as if avoiding the world around him. She often saw him during meal times, tall like a soldier, standing at the edges of the grand dining room, moving quietly, almost too quietly. There was no conversation for him, no acknowledgment. He ate alone, and the only person who spoke to him was Marga, the chef, who would sometimes give him a nod of recognition as she passed him a plate or a glass of water. But even that was brief.

Silvia watched him in the kitchen sometimes, observing his isolated nature, and her heart ached. It wasn't just the fact that he couldn't speak—there was a hollowness in him, something deeper that spoke of long isolation. She could see it in the way he never met anyone's gaze, in the way his hands trembled when he cleaned, in the way he never participated in any of the rare moments of camaraderie the other servants shared. He was like a man drowning in his own silence, a figure lost in a world that had forgotten him.

One evening, as Silvia was preparing the evening meal, she caught a fleeting glance of him across the room. Tum had just finished his duties and was making his way to the servants' quarters, his back hunched and his head low, a posture of defeat. It was then that Silvia felt something stir inside her—a feeling that was equal parts curiosity and sorrow. What had brought him to this state? What had happened to make him so withdrawn, so unwilling to even glance at another soul?

She didn't know why, but she felt an urgent need to learn more about him.

---

As the days turned into weeks, Silvia began to notice a pattern. Tum never engaged with anyone, never spoke, never even acknowledged her presence, despite the moments they passed each other. She had tried to speak to him once in the kitchen—just a simple "Good morning," a polite offering—but he had looked away, his gaze evasive, as if her words were nothing more than background noise. And so she let it go. But she couldn't help the sadness she felt when she saw him like that.

—-

One night, when the house was finally quiet and the last of the guests had left, Silvia found herself alone in the hallway, carrying a book of old poems she had stumbled upon in the library. She had taken to reading aloud to herself in the silence of the servant's quarters, finding small moments of peace in the words of long-dead poets. They gave her a thought to hold onto, something to keep her from sinking into despair.

As she wandered past the doors to the Avox quarters, she found herself pausing near Tum's room. The door was ajar—just slightly. There was no sound coming from inside, but something told her that Tum was in there, perhaps merely staring into the emptiness, as he often did.

Silvia's heart beat a little faster, but she wasn't sure why. She wasn't afraid of him—he didn't pose a threat. But the loneliness in his eyes haunted her, and it made her want to do something, anything, to bridge the gap between them.

Tentatively, she pushed the door open just a fraction wider, taking care not to make any noise. Inside, she saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, his face in shadow, his eyes distant. She hesitated, biting her lip, before stepping back into the hallway and holding the book of poems in her hands.

She could almost feel the weight of the silence between them—the gulf that had grown too wide to cross. But she wanted to try. For some reason, she couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to hear something beautiful, something that wasn't about servitude, or about the grim reality of being an Avox.

So, with a soft breath, Silvia opened the book and began to read aloud.

"It is not for the sake of what is written that we choose to keep silence," she recited, her voice clear and smooth, carrying down the hallway, "but for the peace it brings to the heart that must listen."

Her voice echoed gently down the corridor, carrying the words of the old poet with an easy grace, as if they had been waiting to be spoken. She didn't expect Tum to respond, but as her words filled the silence of the night, she noticed a thing.

A small movement. Tum's door, just slightly ajar, creaked open a little wider. She could barely make out his figure in the shadows, but she could feel his presence there—watching, listening.

A small smile tugged at her lips, and without thinking, she raised her voice just a bit louder, letting the words flow more freely.

"Be still, be still," she whispered, her voice lilting as she read, "For in silence, we become the very thing we seek to find."

She could feel his gaze on her, even though they were separated by the thick walls of the house. She didn't know if Tum understood the words, but something in the way his door had shifted made her feel that he did. And for the first time in a long time, Silvia felt as though she had somehow connected with him, if only for a fleeting moment.

Her heart ached for him, for the world he lived in, but in that small act of reading aloud, something else had shifted. She could not make him speak, nor could she undo the hurt he had suffered, but she could be there, silently, as a small light in the darkness.

And as she finished the last lines of the poem, she smiled to herself, knowing that, somehow, Tum had heard her.

—-
the „poem" included here is loosely inspired by the works of the Roman poet Ausonius who believed in the wisdom in silence

Chapter Text

The day had been unusually warm, and Tum found himself sweating under the weight of his butler attire, a stark contrast to the coolness of the marble floors inside the house. The Cardew family had decided to entertain guests that evening, so the garden had been left to the servants to prepare, and when one of the gardeners fell ill, Tum was the one asked to take over.

He had worked diligently, though the task was grueling. The bushes were thick with overgrown vines, and the shears in his hands felt like a heavy weight after hours of use. As he worked, his fingers slipped once or twice, catching the sharp edges of the shears and leaving small nicks and cuts on his palms. The blood mixed with the dirt, and by the time he had finished the task, his hands were sore, the rawness of the cuts stinging in the dry air.

He stood at the edge of the garden for a moment, feeling a wave of frustration. His hands were a mess. Not only did the cuts hurt, but the roughness of them was also unsightly—certainly not something that would be acceptable for a butler in the Cardew house. The Master of the house would undoubtedly find them off-putting, and Tum couldn't bear the thought of being reprimanded again.

He moved quickly towards the kitchen, hoping to clean his hands before anyone noticed. Inside, the coolness of the stone floor and the faint smell of garlic and herbs did little to soothe the irritation in his hands. The water from the sink felt like fire when it hit the open wounds, and Tum hissed, the pain sharp and immediate. He gripped the counter tightly, focusing on his breathing as the sting subsided.

"Are you alright?"

The voice, soft and hesitant, made Tum start. He flinched, his shoulders tensing, and turned quickly, his face flushing as he tried to hide his discomfort.

Silvia stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him with wide, concerned eyes. She had seen his reaction, had noticed the way he had winced in pain when he washed his hands, and her heart ached at the sight.

Tum could not meet her gaze. His eyes dropped to the floor, feeling embarrassed. Silvia, ever gentle, took a step closer to him, her soft shoes making no sound on the kitchen tiles. Her small, warm hand touched his arm lightly, the touch so soft, so reassuring. Tum stiffened at first, surprised, but he didn't pull away. Her touch, unlike anything he had experienced in months, brought an unexpected comfort.

"I'm sorry," Silvia murmured, seeing him flinch. "I didn't mean to startle you. Your hands look like they're in pain."

Tum looked at her for a moment, the warmth in her voice seeping into him like a balm. He nodded slightly, still averting his gaze. Silvia's eyes softened, and she continued in a gentle tone, "If you'd like, I can help clean them up for you. I have some medicine I use. It might help with the pain."

He hesitated. His heart hammered in his chest, unsure of how to respond. His silence was always a wall between him and others, and he wasn't sure how to break it. But a spark in her expression made him nod slowly, silently agreeing to let her help.

Silvia's eyes brightened, and without hesitation, she led him over to a small wooden table by the corner of the kitchen. She gestured for him to sit, and Tum complied, his movements stiff as he lowered himself into a chair. He extended his hands toward her, his palms facing up, showing the deep, jagged cuts from where the shears had caught him. Silvia frowned at the sight, but she didn't say anything—there was no judgment in her eyes, only concern.

She reached into a drawer nearby, her small hands moving with practiced ease as she retrieved a small bottle of ointment, her movements delicate as she worked. The bottle was made of glass, the kind that you would expect to find in a doctor's cabinet, and the dark amber liquid inside it smelled faintly of herbs, something sharp and earthy. She uncorked it, the sound echoing briefly in the quiet kitchen.

As Silvia's hands moved to gently apply the ointment, Tum's gaze lingered on her hands. He couldn't help but notice the way her fingers moved, so nimble and sure. Her nails, though slightly bitten down, were painted with a pale orange polish that had chipped around the edges. She had a subtle scent to her as well—something a little musky from the kitchen work, but with a hint of perfume, a sweet floral note that lingered in the air, unusual for someone in her position. Tum felt the strange desire to take in the details, to memorize them, for in these small things lay the only comfort he had known for so long.

"You're very careful," Tum mouthed, unsure if she could understand, his voice barely a whimper, and the words were slow to come out. His lips were dry and cracked, but he wanted to convey the appreciation he felt for her gentleness.

Silvia smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I try to be," she replied softly. She continued tending to his hands, applying the medicine with a tenderness that made Tum feel, for the first time in a long while, more than fear or pain. She was kind in a way that made him feel less alone, less like an object.

As she worked, she started to talk to him. It was easy for her to fill the silence. She spoke of small things—her day, the work in the kitchen, the strange guests at the Cardew's dinner party. She told him about the smell of the cakes they had baked earlier, how one of the chefs had burnt the frosting, and how another had argued that it wasn't burnt at all, just "caramelized." Tum listened intently, his focus entirely on her hands as they moved over his, carefully cleaning away the dirt and blood.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed speaking with someone, even if it was just about trivial things. He hadn't realized how much the silence had buried him until Silvia's voice, soft and steady, started to chip away at it.

She tried to make eye contact with him now and then, but Tum always looked away, his gaze dropping to the floor. It wasn't that he didn't want to look at her—it was just too difficult, too foreign. He wasn't used to being seen. Not like this. Not with kindness.

But, just as she had with her touch, Silvia remained patient. She didn't rush him. She simply continued speaking in her soft, lilting voice, sharing pieces of her world. Tum felt the weight of the moment settle over him, heavy but not unbearable. It was comforting, like a soft blanket wrapping itself around him, protecting him from the chill.

After a while, Silvia paused, her brow furrowed slightly in thought. Then she asked, "Tum, I... I know this might be strange, but would you like to borrow something?" She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small, well-worn book. The cover was a faded blue, and when she opened it, Tum figured that it must've been the same collection of poems she had once read from, old and fragile. She held it up to him, her eyes glinting with a hint of curiosity. "You know, if you ever want to read it, I could lend it to you."

Tum blinked, surprised. He mouthed, "I can't."

Silvia's expression softened. "Oh," she murmured, her voice gentle, "You can't read?"

Tum flushed, his face turning redder than it already was from the embarrassment of the cuts. He quickly lowered his eyes, feeling the sting of shame rise within him. He had never learned how to read—he had never had the chance. In the orphanage, no one had cared to teach him. And after his life had been swallowed by the Capitol, any chance of learning seemed impossible.

But Silvia didn't look at him with pity. Instead, she gave him a reassuring smile. "That's okay, Tum. I'm not judging you. I mean, look at me! I was taken away from my home, too. I never had a chance to learn the things I wanted to." She paused and bit her lip before continuing, "But maybe... maybe you'd like to learn to read? It's fun. I could teach you."

Tum's heart skipped a beat. He had never considered it. The thought of learning to read, of gaining the power to understand the words that had always been out of reach, was both terrifying and exhilarating. His eyes widened as he looked up at her, a spark of hope flickering deep inside him.

He nodded eagerly, then, with a small, uncertain smile, he mouthed the words, "Thank you."

Silvia's smile widened, and she reached over to gently squeeze his arm in a comforting, almost motherly gesture. "You're very welcome, Tum," she whispered, her voice warm. "We'll take it slow. There's no rush. Just take your time."

And in that moment, Tum felt a shift inside him. A sense of possibility. For the first time in so long, he felt as though the future wasn't a dark, empty void. It was a door that had just cracked open, inviting him to step forward. And with Silvia's kind offer, he wasn't alone in crossing that threshold.