If we burn, you burn with us.
If we burn, you burn with us.
If we burn, you burn with us.
And burn they did. As my arrow shot President Coin in the heart, more wood was added to the fire. The sickening laughter that followed was President Snow's — who keeled over moments later, rather by the blood he choked up or the twisted irony of it all. But, the fire kept burning, a blistering heat, not any like the comforting glow of the embers in the fireplace in District 12.
District 12. Already burned, far before the Capitol blew up in flames. It was only after I had been rescued from the Quarter Quell did I learn that my beloved district was nothing but rubble and cinders. Gale had told me. I had not only lost Gale with the star crossed lovers act, Peeta when I was busted out of the arena, but now my home. All to fire.
But, a mockingjay flies in fire. Smoke does not daze the majestic bird, rather, clothe it's body and wings. And I was the Mockingjay.
I was the Mockingjay. But, no longer, no more. My days in the dank, claustrophobic bunkers of District 13 had passed, endless days negotiating in Command. I had already fought my way through the Capitol streets, dodging pods and avoiding the cameras. I was no longer Soldier Everdeen, now just a mere citizen of what was left of Panem.
And what was left of Panem, really? The Capitol had been reconstructed, after the bombs were dropped — oh, the bombs that killed my dear, dear Prim — the government salvaged into the republic that Plutarch had hoped for. Indeed, life had become better. The Capitol still was home of luxury and extravagance, the outrageous styles and odd traditions. But, it no longer seemed foreign to me, after my trips into the Hunger Games and the rebellion. I could only hope the rest of Panem felt the same.
The districts themselves meshed together. The strict borders no longer existed, and officially, there were no districts labeled by numbers, though everybody still identified them as such. Each region no longer provided their set resource to the Capitol, rather, the areas that produced what they could, did. The shores were home to fishing, the rolling hills adept to orchards and agriculture. Some mines remained in District 12, but by far, the cinders had been plowed into the ground as the district of miners became home to farmers.
The Victor's Village was still there, though it had lost it's stiff title. Just another line of homes, similar to the rest of them that were scattered along all the districts. The bombs had obliterated nearly all of the homes throughout Panem. And with the homes, had been the memories and the belongings of all of the citizens, who watched their nation burn. Fire.
Fire is catching. How many people had I heard that from throughout this whole thing? And how many of those people had died because of that fire? That unstoppable, fierce spark had destroyed almost all I had loved. That flame had singed me.
And besides me, it had burned Peeta. What Snow had done to him after I had blown out the arena, rescued by the rebels, was torturous and cruel, almost irreversible. The littlest of things could bring about the attacks — he would clutch the chair, or the wall, screaming and wailing as the memories of all they had done to him replayed, and replayed, and replaying — and sometimes they would last for hours. The effects still lasted for me, as well. I woke up frequently from nightmares and the scent of roses still chokes me up.
As for Gale, he had left the charred remains of District 12. Perhaps he couldn't bear to see our hunting grounds in their charcoal colored state. Maybe it was the sight of the Hob, crumpled like a child's toy. He had left for District 2. Maybe it was me.
My mother, too, had not bothered to return to our home. After Prim's death, I worried she would fall into the depression she had with my father. I was not the one to push her away this time. Slowly, we grew apart. The phone calls grew longer and longer apart, the words exchanged between us meaningless and stiff.
Greasy Sae still came to visit. She had adopted a few of the Capitol recipes, filling the need for District 12's resident chef quickly. Delly, too, would come, speaking of her new life in the Capitol as an elected official of Plutarch's republic. I expected her too good and too weak for the government, but she had been quite popular with the voters.
I still saw Haymitch and Hazelle, too. As the districts slowly repaired themselves, Hazelle had assigned herself the task of helping Haymitch recover from the insufferable damage years in the Hunger Games had done to him. It was not only his home she had cleansed, or his alcoholism she cured (how, I still don't know). It was his heart that she eventually mended. Their wedding was the first in the rebuilt 12. I was able to dig out some of Cinna's dresses for Hazelle, and all the former 12 residents were able to throw a phenomenal dancing party for her.
Annie was another I had managed to keep in contact with. Losing Finnick had wreaked havoc for her, the poor unstable girl with the wild, green eyes. She had moved to 12 briefly, along with Johanna, to join among those of the Star Squad. But, it was the sea she missed, the gentle tides she craved. She left for the shorelines of Panem, while Johanna left for her familiar forests at the same time. Beetee had stayed in the Capitol, working along Plutarch in the communications department.
As for the fame I had gathered during my stint as the Mockingjay, it had quieted down. My mental breakdown had convinced Plutarch that occasionally filming updates on the Mockingjay would push me over the edge. Somehow, I still think he wanted to protect me. Still viewed me as the face of the rebellion.
And then there was what was left of Peeta and I. After he planted the primroses, he began to spend more time over at my house. He would bake, I would hunt. Life started to resemble something a little more recognizable, a little more familiar. Water … had met the fire.