A Game called Life
Summary: From the anonymity in the middle of the market place, he watches her. The game called life has had truly surprising revelations in store for him. OneShot.
Warning: OneShot.
Set: Story-unrelated, future fic set approximately twenty years after "Mockingjay" (after the Epilogue)
Disclaimer: I don´t own "The Hunger Games".
From the anonymity in the middle of the market place, he watches her.
It feels strange to him, even foreign, because since he can remember, he always has been active. Restless, even. He is a hunter, a soldier, a hard-working man. From the age of fourteen, when his father died, he has taken care of his family and even though it has shrunk and extended again in the past years, he prides himself in taking responsibility. No matter if it is the actual work of earning money, providing food or working in the house. He never was able to sit still, to quit moving. Always needing to do something. Never stopping to move, never once standing still.
But now, he watches, unmoving like a statue.
She´s still beautiful, maybe even more so than when he saw her the last time. It is something in her eyes. In her face, in her hair, in the way she holds her head high, her shoulders relaxed but straight. This is no longer the person he knew.
The girl, desperate for food for her family, and determined to provide for her mother and her sister.
His hunting partner, his second half, his best friend and the only one he could talk to and show his feelings freely.
The girl whom he fell in love with and who was taken from him by the cruelty of the now far-gone Capitol and its hunger for entertainment.
The girl who came to be the very symbol of the rebellion. The Mockingjay.
The woman who went insane with the loss of her sister and who assassinated President Coin. Who was sent back to District 12 as an outcast.
Of course she looks better than when he saw her the last time. Actually, everyone would look better. The last time he saw her is clearly imprinted in his mind: The dark brown hair, matted and clotted with her own blood. The grey eyes, staring into nothingness. The hands, nails bitten down, her face, hollow and alien. Unmoving, barely even breathing. So unlike her.
He left without saying good bye.
He never returned to District 12.
They sent her back, he heard.
Peeta and Haymitch were with her, he heard.
He heard the rumors of how his home town started to come back to life again, how the people slowly, painfully, built a new life again. A new town. A new cause. Still, he never returns. He knows he can´t.
Until today.
Taking in his surroundings, he carefully releases the breath he hasn´t known he has been holding. It is so familiar, and, at the same time, strange. The market square, once lined by run-down house fronts and dusty shop windows, is a bright, lively place. The bakery´s window exhibits cakes, cookies and buns in every form and color. He pays special attention to it because he knows the man standing behind the counter. Broad shoulders, blond hair. Familiar movements. The door bell rings softly as another stream of customers enters. Closely examining his feelings, he is surprised by the lack of emotion at the sight of his lifelong rival. He´s not jealous. He´s not even angry. Maybe the anger and jealousy really did fade those days, when they were forced to cooperate. Maybe later, during those past twenty years. Maybe he´ll enter the bakery, later, just to greet him.
There´s a noise and a little girl runs straight into him, bouncing off and almost hitting the house wall next to him. He catches her with one arm and prepares for her to start bawling. He is surprised once again as she only stares at him in equal surprise and takes of running again, barely excusing herself. But he has seen enough.
Blond hair. Grey eyes. Her face.
He follows her with his eyes only and is rewarded as she steps onto the market square, a bag in her hand. For a second, he is taken back in time: dark hair, grey eyes, soft lips. The game bag over her shoulder, the bow in her other hand. Then, he returns to reality.
But still, it´s her.
And she is beautiful.
Her hair is braided down her back, the way it always was. Her eyes carefully sweep the crowd in search of something and he ducks back into the shadow of the arcade which has been concealing him. Then, her eyes fasten on the little girl that just had run into him and her face softens. Her lips form a smile and her eyes seem to shine and it´s all he can do not to run towards her to see if she really smiles like that, if it´s really her. At the same time, incredulity washes over him. She never has been beautiful in the true sense of the word – there always as a certain beauty to her, but she never was beautiful. Well, now she is. Maybe it is something about her hair, the way it is long and obviously whether burned nor shaved nor torn out. She´s not merely flesh and bones, as she was when he saw her last, but she hasn´t put on unnecessary weight, either. Her curves show nicely, the shape of her hips, her breasts. The way her hand is clasped around the hand of a toddler trailing behind her and the way she now takes the hand of the other child, too, is protective and speaks of volumes of love. Her skirt and blouse are plain and functional and the only accessories she wears are a green ribbon in her hair and a thin band of gold around her finger. The girl chats along and the boy sucks on a piece of bread and she listens, smiling, as the three of them walk along the market.
He watches.
Even without being close to her, he can see the scars, the ones visible and the ones not. Many have been smoothed out by her repeated make-overs but about the last he knows she has insisted to keep them. Probably, her one hand is still scarred from the fire and her skin still bears the signs of her own nails digging into it. Her back has been burned badly. Her heart has been burned, too, when she saw her sister die. When she saw her friends die. When Peeta attacked her, when President Coin lied to her and Snow told her the truth, when he left her, when her mother refused to come with her, when Haymitch took her back to Twelve. She is a woman consisting of scars, visible and invisible. But right now, this isn´t noticeable.
Right now, she is a beautiful woman walking down the street, stopping at different stalls to do some shopping, smiling at her children playing hide and seek behind the big pots of flowers that line the arcade of shops.
Does she still have nightmares, he wonders.
Probably. She never was the one to forget easily. But seeing her like that, he believes she has found somebody to hold her when she needs it. She´ll pick the one she cannot survive without. He has always known he wasn´t the one for her, but he has hoped. He has hoped desperately for her to turn to him entirely, to give herself to him. Maybe that was his mistake. Peeta never expected anything and she came to him. He always had expectations: being together, marrying, having children. She never did what was expected from her.
Again, surprise hits him but he is getting used to it slowly. Why is it that Life always comes up with such revelations all at once and not one after another?
He continues watching, wondering about at what point she started living again.
The last time he saw her, she was a living corpse. Trying to recall the emotions racing through him at the sight of her broken body and mind, he remembers:
Fear.
What got into her, shooting at President Coin instead of Snow? She had claimed she would kill him, after all. Instead, she assassinated Coin. For what reason? Why? She caused uproar, chaos, and nobody knew what was going on. What had Snow told her? Was she going mad?
Worry.
Would she ever be okay again? Would she ever live? It didn´t seem like she wanted to live. She looked like a doll, a broken one, cast away because she wasn´t important any longer, because nobody needed her. And that was exactly what she was and had been. A doll.
Anger.
How could people be used as pawns in such games? Both, Coin and Snow, had used her as the Mockingjay, had abused her. Had made her fight, run and smile just the way they wanted her to. Had always found the right buttons to press to make her jump higher, aim with greater accuracy. But she was a human being. How could anyone use another human like this? How?
And, finally, Acceptance.
He had to leave. She wouldn´t want to see him. He had no right to be there. He had lost her.
Somehow, between that desperate day and this one, she has started to live again, has grown like a flower in the sun. Her face. Her hair. Her eyes. Her hands. He wants to step closer, to see her, to watch her when she recognizes him. Still, he stays rooted to the spot and watches.
Nothing is forgotten.
He can see it in the way her eyes suddenly dim slightly and she throws back a watchful glance. He knows what she is thinking: You´re never safe. Never will be safe. There always is danger. Out there, beyond the faces of those few friends, awaits a whole world of pain and threats. You can get by as good as you want, you can hide or challenge it. But it doesn´t work on your conditions. She has been in the arena twice and must fear for her children. There are no Hunger Games anymore. Still, the fierce glow in her eyes speaks volumes of how she will fight to protect them at all costs. He can imagine why she has waited so long to have children. Can imagine her fear, her sorrow, her nightmares. But then, she always had Peeta by her side, and from what he knows, he has always been able to give her security and strength.
Peeta steps outside and her smile widens as she walks towards him. The children start to run and Peeta catches the stumbling boy and lifts him up, then he does the same with his daughter. They snuggle against him and chat away, and he smiles at her. Even standing so far away, he notices the world close around the two of them. He doesn´t mind anymore, just feels happiness at the sight of their happiness. How strange.
Gale feels the ghost of a smile play around his lips.
The sun is setting slowly as the square slowly empties. Stall owners pack together their goods to go home. Two children play at the fountain in the middle of the square. A woman sits nearby, watching the birds in the sky.
He watches.
The door of the bakery opens and a man steps outside, taking in the scenery, then localizing his family. The reaction is similar to the one he witnessed on her earlier that day: his features light up as he crosses over. His arms go around her in a gesture that´s both protecting and searching for protection. She clings to him, actually clings to him, then lets go of him quickly as if her public display of emotions has embarrassed her. He laughs. She glares. The children come running. They walk down the street, arm in arm, hand in hand, while the sun slowly sets above their heads. It´s one of the most beautiful sunsets he has seen for the last years.
For a second, he´s tempted to follow.
Then he reigns in himself and turns on his heel, making for the northern part of the little town and for the train station that will bring him back to the place in which he has found a new home. The image of the man, the woman and their two children flashes a last time before his eyes, then he smiles and remembers what awaits him. Or rather, who. The train crosses the Meadows in a slow pace, whistling and puffing and slowly taking up speed. Trees flash by. Flecks of pink sky. Clouds. What surprising twists and turns this game called life has had in store for him, he thinks.
So much pain.
So much happiness.
How strange.
Beyond his window, a black and white shadow flickers past. A well-known tune resounds, probably only in his head, but who cares.
Good Bye, Mockingjay.
Bye, Katniss.