Title: The Divinity Games

Rating: T, soon to be M for violence, language and other adult themes

A Greek Mythology / Hunger Games crossover

A/N: This fic takes place in the Hunger Games universe, though no characters from the series are directly involved; many are emulated. Names of places and events have been changed to fit the Greek myths theme. If anything seems unclear, or you have any questions in general, feel free to ask me. Happy Divinity Games!

Disclaimer: I own no material of the Hunger Games, nor the myth of Hades/Persephone or any other Gods in this fic.

"One has to pay dearly for immortality;

One has to die several times while one is still alive,"

Friedrich Nietzsche.

I wake to the sound of starjars, eyes bleary from the dreams Morpheus is said to have brought me while I slept. There's a dull pounding in the back of my skull– a crick in my neck.

My little brother, Arion, sleeps soundly next to me. It would take the rising of the dead to stir him. Either that or the whole town blowing to pieces. I shake my head; push his hair out of his eyes. He ninnies a bit, worrying his thumb between his teeth. In a few months he'll be three– we have to break him of the habit before his teeth turn bucked.

I stretch my arms over my head and pull the covers back, the chill of spring in my spine. Slowly, I move to the end of the bed and grab my boots from where they sit, toes pointed out. My younger sister, Despoina, says this keeps fairies at bay. She and our mother sleep soundly in the bed next to the one Arion and I share, both snoring. She looks most like Mother out of all of us, now that Plutus is gone.

Sighing, I stick my tired feet into my boots and strip of my nightdress, donning a soft patch of fabric cut to resemble the chitons of the capital, tying a strip of leather chord around my waist. Helios has barely brought the sun to the horizon, but that doesn't mean the shop can stay closed. On Altar Day everyone is desperate during mornings, rushing to get last-minute necessities in time for the ceremony.

You would think that they'd be more interested in clothes and accessories, not produce, but the numbers flocking in often surprise me.

Yawning, I spray on some of the perfume Mother makes from the fruits in our garden out back. It's too citrusy for my liking, but beggars can't be choosers. Baths aren't common here during the colder months, and it's not decent to smell rancid when you have paying customers. I can endure the overplay of tangerines and lemons for the sake of business.

We live above the small shop my mother owns just outside of the town square. We sell vegetables and fruit from the garden we have in the backyard, and the occasional pesky rabbit I manage to snare when they go picking around the cabbages. I spend most of my year helping my mother in the shop, and doing favors around town for trade. But for the harvest seasons, I'm in the field. Every able body is, from the time of six to the age of fifty-three.

Most people only live to see forty-five, if they're lucky.

Our apartment above the shop has three rooms– the sleeping quarters, sitting area and kitchen. Go down the stairs and you automatically enter the storage hall of the shop. I part the curtains and walk out onto the main floor, moving behind the counter to make sure we have enough bagging supplies.

Normally, Despoina and I would be headed to school right now. We'd stay there for three hours until going to the fields to weed them before plowing season. But everyone has Altar Day free from school and fields duties.

It's the only break we get during the year, unless the weather's too extreme. After all, there's a reason forty-five is the lucky mark. My mother says she doesn't remember Plutus' father– a drunken experience at a young age makes for trouble, as she likes to state– but she and I know mine only made it to thirty. Despoina and Arion's made it to forty-three.

Plutus made it to seventeen himself, but he didn't die in the fields.

So far I've managed sixteen and a half years. Two more and I won't have to enter for the Divinity Games anymore and my chances of survival will be a little higher.

It's said that having your name pulled for the Divinity Games is an honorable thing, but secretly everyone outside of the Capital agrees that it means death. The Games are a ploy of fame and riches, when really they were made to trample upon hopes of rebellion in the Republics.

After the nation of Elláda formed, there was an uprising in Republic Dekatría against the unjust ways of the Capital, which lets its citizens in the republics starve to death, and works them until they're dead. The Capital bombed Dekatría was bombed to the ground for their outburst.

Ever since then two tributes– a male and female– from the ages of twelve to eighteen have been taken from the remaining twelve republics and forced into an arena to fight to the death. All of it is televised in reminder to everyone what rebellion causes.

But see, the thing that makes them such an "honorable" game is that the last person left standing is then venerated as a God in their own right, forever made immortal in the history books with their own temple of worship and claim to rule of some concept.

Last year a girl from Republic Pénte won. Her name is Athena Pallas, and she's been acclaimed as the Goddess of wisdom, warfare and reason because of the way she outsmarted the other competitors with her wit. They've just finished building her temple in the Capital, presenting it to her on national television during her Victory Tour. She's wise, fierce and beautiful, but the thing that strikes me most about Athena is that her eyes hold a secret, and you can also see it in the corner of her mouth when she smiles…

I'm pulled from my thoughts by a soft knocking on the store's front door. I look up and find Charon's excited face. He motions for me to unlock the door and I move to do so, smiling back at him. As soon as the door's open he rushes in. I turn the closed sign to open and shut the door softly.

"Morning, Kore!" he chirps happily.

Charon's a short boy, with wild blonde hair and sparkling midnight eyes. He's been my best friend since we were very small, always holding a bright smile despite his family's morbid profession of preparing bodies before burial. Today his smile holds hints of anxiety though, and I don't have to ask to know what it's from.

He holds out a wicker basket toward me. "My mother made some fresh butter this morning, and some rye bread. She wanted to trade for some of your pomegranate preserves."

I nod, moving behind the counter to get a jar for him. "Are you nervous?" I ask, even though we both know he is.

"Yeah," Charon says anyways, paling in the coming light of dawn. "Are you?"

I swallow, glance to the patrons walking tiredly on the street. "Not really."

We don't say anymore on the subject. Instead I trade Charon history notes from school, and give him a recently picked apple from the trees in the orchards. I haven't been to them myself in a long time– I'm too heavy to make it to the tops of the branches– but Despoina frequently works there and always brings back treats for us.

We're halfway through a conversation about the comical antics of one of classmates during an algebra test, when someone pulls back the curtain from the storage hall. I look over my shoulder to see my mother, staring at Charon suspiciously. He knows it too– jumps from where he's leaning against the counter and stumbles over himself, heading toward the door.

"Morning, Ms. Hagne. I was just on my way out. Hope you have a nice day. I'll uh, see you at the Altar Kore!" And he's gone, the bell above the door dinging after him.

I look back to my mother slowly, taking in her aging face and faded honey hair. People say she used to be beautiful, but years in the fields and two dead husbands have taken their toll on her. Not to mention Plutus' death. It's only short of a blessing that she fractured her hip when birthing Despoina and doesn't have to work in the fields anymore, instead manning the store and treating the wounded to fill her days. She'd be dead by now without that injury.

"What?" I ask after a moment, because she's staring at me expectantly.

Her lips pull into a scowl, gold eyes crinkling. "You spend an awful lot of time with that boy, Kore."

"He's a friend," I say.

"A friend, hmm," she asks, speculate.

"Mom, it's not like that."

"Does he know this?"

"He's gay," I say, enunciating the word. "He likes guys, Mom. And in case you can't remember, I don't identify myself as male. I'm sound in my identity that I'm a girl. There's no worry of me getting pregnant, or something."

"Kore! Go upstairs and eat breakfast before you get into trouble"

"Well it's the truth," I say, brushing past her to grab the basket Charon brought and walking toward the stairs. "I'm still your little maiden."

Once I have Arion and Despoina fed, it's time to clean them up for when we have to go to the Altar. Because Despoina is only ten, and Arion not even three, I am the lone child in the family that will have to wait in the roped sections and worry over whether or not my name is picked.

I'm grateful for it.

The thought of my baby siblings fighting for their lives in some savage arena is disorientating.

But luckily my name is only in the drawing as much as it has to be. Because our garden almost always seems to be plentiful, I didn't need to enter more for Sacraficials, like bread and oil. Plutus never had to either.

The shop's minimal success also means I'm not the starving willow vine that most children in Republic Énteka are. I'm round in the bosom, whaspy in the waist like my mother. My hair is full and wavy, a honeysuckle gold with hints of strawberry. I have my father's leafy eyes, and freckles from the sun. I'm not really pretty– don't look enough like my mother– but I'm strong and substantial and a lot of men flirt with me because they know I would make a good mother. The Hagne women have always been known for their matronly ways. I think that's why Mother worries so much about me getting pregnant young, like she did with Plutus.

"Kore, look!" Despoina says while I'm brushing through her golden hair, damp from her recent bath. She's been digging around in the basket Charon left, and pulls out a shiny charm from it, handing it back toward me.

"Oh," I say, looking at it. The charm is in fact a pin– shaped like a narcissus flower. I finger it carefully; the dulled onyx edges are warm from Despoina's hand. "Pretty."

"You should wear it today!" Despoina says excitedly, turning around in my lap. "It'd look so nice with your chiton!"

I smile at her, patting her head. "Okay, but first we have to finish getting you and Arion ready."

Downstairs I hear someone enter the shop, loud bartering over a squirrel for a sack of potatoes. My mother better not take it– the guy's trying to rip her off. I'm just about to yell the fact down to her when Arion toddles over to me, having heard his name just seconds before. He falls against my side with an umph; he's got legs like a colt and has never been steady on them. Despoina and I laugh at him as I pick him up and stand, swinging him around.

"Well hello little pony," I tell him, sitting him down on the bed. "Are you ready for your bath?"

"Nu-uh," he says, shaking his chestnut head. I give him a stern look, and he begins to pull a face that means he's going to cry.

"Oh no, no, no," I say, bopping him on the nose with my finger. "None of that."

I manage to get him in the bath with little fuss, though there are some tears. Despoina helps me wash him, and then dress him in a blue robe that has horses stitched into the fabric. He loves horses, so this makes him content to sit and work on a flowered crown with Despoina while I bathe by myself in the sitting room.

By this point our old stove is a bit worn out, so the water's cold. I sit in it and scrub until my skin turns red; washing my hair a couple of times with the ivory soap we save for Altar Day. Afterward I stand until the water's dried, then dress in a pale chiton, tying it off with a strip of gold ribbon and draping the extra fabric over one shoulder. Despoina fusses then, pinning the narcissus to my chest and making me let her comb my hair and weave the flower crown into it.

Mother joins us at last, watching in mute silence as Despoina finishes with my hair. She used to be a very cheerful woman, but between two dead husbands and a dead son Mother's happy demeanor diminished. She's still very loving, don't get me wrong, but she is also very distrusting of the world and way too overprotective. If it were up to her we'd all be locked in a shatterproof box and only let out for essential sunlight exposure.

Arion waddles over to her, saying, "Up," and grabbing out with his hands. Mother does so without complaint, rocking the toddler on her uninjured hip. He giggles and blows a spit bubble. Half the time people mistake him for an infant, but that's to be expected as the doctor said he was born a bit slow.

I grab one of the flowers out of Despoina's hand and tuck it behind her ear. "I can't have all the poppies to myself," I say.

Biting her lower lip, she suddenly leaps to hug me in a tight embrace. "Don't leave," she says.

I laugh. "Desi, I'm not going anywhere." I look to Mother who has a sharp eye on me, worry written in the wrinkles of her face.

A stark fear invades my chest, and I look down at my hands, the scars there from weeding thorn bushes in the fields. Stubbornly, I try to shake the worry off. Today is just another Altar Day. They happen every year. My name is in no more than necessary, unlike some of the poorer kids on the west side of town. Everything will be okay. After the drawing I will come home and eat strawberries and cream as I do every year. Tomorrow I will go to school, and weed the fields and maybe not get sunburned, if I'm lucky.

Everything is fine.

We walk to the town square silently, my family and I. Everyone is already gathering, the teenagers filing into their respective roped sections. I give Mother a kiss and pat Despoina's head, waving to Arion when he calls my name as I join the other girls in our section. I'm not very friendly with any females my age– too quiet half the time for any of them to spark interest and be my friend. The only person that I really talk to my age is Charon, but he's in the boys' section and I can't even see him to point out I'm wearing his pin.

Doesn't matter, because by now Republic Énteka's escort, Iris Arco, has stepped onto stage. She's tall and regal, with dark skin patterned in sparkling dust. Her hair is the colors of the rainbow, as are her clothes and claw-like nails. For an escort, she isn't too awful, but she is very outlandish and outspoken, which isn't often found around our Republic.

The Guards here are some of the toughest ones. Forget having your tongue cut out for speaking out of term– the usually just whip you to death.

Like Plutus…

I shake my head, try to listen as Iris says, "Welcome, welcome! Is everyone ready for another exciting year of the Divinity Games? A chance at honor, immortality."

I remember when we were younger, watching recaps of Altar Day on the television, Pluto would always imitate Isis, making his voice unusually high and adding in the snippy Capital accent. "Immortality," he would say. "And the chance to get stabbed in the ass with a knife."

A small smile flashes on my lips for a moment, but just because Isis is already moving on with the program. She introduces the mayor and he gives the same speech he gives every year, about how it's an honor to fight for your country, and what glory it means to win. He tells us we all have a small chance of becoming a God, that divinity awaits.

More like imminent death or a life of bending to the will of the Capital, as Plutus would say.

A video rolls about the rebellion of Dekatría, chaos in the streets. Some people run, while others fight each other in malice, blood leaking everywhere. The scene switches to a now desolate wasteland that was once one of the Republics. All that is left is ruins, moss growing over broken buildings and battered bones.

The announcer in the video is saying that without the Capital's imposed destruction of the Republic chaos would have ensued in all of Elláda. The announcer says we must have order to live in peace, and that is why we have the Divinity Games every year. They are chaos the Victor must learn to control; they are a form of order within the Republics, a tradition that withstands.

And if you are to be the lucky winner, then in your own right you win the title of a God because of you valor in the face of chaos.

I hold my breath when images of past Victors take over the screen, tired faces, some dead, some alive.

Suddenly President Cronus appears and tells us all, "May the Fates be ever in your favor."

The screen cuts to black and Iris comes up to the podium again, teeth shining in the stage lights. "And now," she says, "let us see who our lucky tributes are!"

This is the time where everyone holds their breath.

She turns to the giant crystal bowls behind her that contain the names of every eligible boy and girl in the Republic, mutters something about ladies first and sticks her posh hand in, digging and digging until a simple slip is grasped in her palm.

She opens it.

She reads the name.

For a moment, the entire world stops.

I think about my father, dying before I could ever truly know him. I think about Plutus, writhing on the kitchen table in agony as we tried to treat his lashes. I think about Despoina, who's on the cusp of working in the fields until her skin burns bare. I think about Arion, who may never have a chance in this cruel place. I think about my mother, too fragile to lose another child.

It would kill her.

I'm going to kill her, I realize.

Everyone's eyes are on me; they're waiting for my first move. Will I scream? There isn't enough breath in me for that. Maybe I'm going to faint instead? But no, my feet are moving, carrying me forward toward the stage, the Altar.

I have become a sacrifice.

Because the female tribute of Republic Énteka is Kore Hagne.

The female tribute of Republic Énteka is me.

a/n: Thank you to everyone for reading. Please feel free to review!