Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea.
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
The soft footfalls behind me provide rhythm to her voice in my soul. I turn and there she is.
Her voice gives me hope and fresh, if temporary, relief from the pain, even though it is laced with sorrow.
"We could do it."
I know immediately what she means, even though these are the first words we have exchanged today. And what's to keep us here? They are all dead. Blonde hair, blue eyes, black hair and grey eyes. The men, the boys, the girls, the women. The men dead long ago, the others gone only five months ago.
We could.
And I see again the fire that burned our lives to ash, to the ash that stains the silvery grey of her eyes permanently. I see again the charred golden locket that he left for her. It hangs permanently around her neck now.
I reach out and hug her and she willingly comes into my embrace, seemingly radiating an ethereal aura of warmth.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches inside the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
Her body, although lean with invisible muscle, is soft and tender and fragile against my own. Her voice that guided and still guides me as far as it ever can, so beyond what was humanly possible. She had enough to handle grieving for her lost jewels, but she had to help me with my own.
And sweetest in the gale is heard
Sweetest voice I hear that brings me home on a wave of pure celestial beauty already with her own troubles – far too many to also care for mine.
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm
Their storm abashed my bird. Their storm took her refuge to feed itself.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea.
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Her hijacked beloved, her lost treasure. Her cold body by a long-dead flame, staring into darkness while the snow fell outside. Her eyes empty, tearstained and dead. Her soul broken, destroyed, shattered, killed by the extremity of her searing, ripping, tearing grief.
Yet never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me.
"Yes," I say. "Yes, we can."
And sweetest in the gale is heard,
Her voice is like a windchime as she agrees, her chin snug on my shoulder.
And sore must be the storm that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm.
"We'll be free of them."
And sweetest in the gale is heard,
"Forever."
I've heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea.
"And ever."
Yet never, in all extremity, it asked a crumb of me.