His Favorite and His Protégé
Brutus sits stunned at the table in his quarters, his eyes fixed on Caesar Flickerman's face as he recaps the events of the feast just in case anyone who's tuned in now missed what happened barely two minutes ago. Brutus knows no one has though. That feast was mandatory viewing across the country. Every citizen of Panem saw exactly what he just saw and is now listening as Caesar repeats the story, analyzing, being impressed by the strength of Thresh from District 11, pretending to mourn Clove of District 2. He's not mourning her though. He doesn't care for her. Never did.
Brutus flips off the television screen, unable to watch or listen anymore. A second later, a mixture of grief and fury has him on his feet, his hands closing around the thin neck of the glass vase that holds the single red rose. He doesn't choose a target, but the vase ends up smashing to bits against the television, soaking the device, making electricity spark white, and putting a spiderweb of cracks into the glass screen. It doesn't help though. Smashing things never helps. He lets out a roar and brings his fists down on the wooden tabletop and collapses back into his chair. There is pain, a shock wave up both his arms all the way to his elbows, an ache after the initial impact, but it doesn't dispel his emotions.
The sharp tapping that begins a moment later doesn't even make him jump. He's lost in his own thoughts.
Clove, dead? After everything? He hadn't expected that. He'd expected her to return safely. Even if she'd had to kill the boy, he'd expected her to do it. Because she was like him, too proud to let something like affection ruin her chances of becoming a legend. Desperate to cling to life, just as he'd been in his arena. But she was less like him than he'd thought, and a better person for it. She hadn't clung on at all. When the rock came down, she knew. She'd smiled as she saw the boy, her friend from home. And he'd left at her insistence because she didn't want him to see her die. Maybe that'd ben her goal since the beginning, to protect her friend, to give him 22 opponents, rather than 23.
At once a mixture of hatred and affection wells up inside him, to mingle with his grief and anger. If her plan was to sacrifice herself, she should have told them. They should have known so they didn't bother with her. Or maybe she shouldn't have gone at all! That would've prevented all this! What a sweet, stupid child. She'd always been half sweet and stupid, half cruel and cunning. And always a child. Never more than seventeen years old.
And it'd been he, Brutus, years ago, who suggested her for these games. Now what? She's dead. His protégé. His favorite, though of course he never told her that. She's gone, crushed to death under the weight of her own blood, and it's undeniably as much his fault as Thresh's, Cato's, Snow's, and her own.
After a while Enobaria's incessant knocking begins rattle around inside his head, hurting his brain. He stands and crosses the room, unsure if he just wants to tell her to piss off or to knock her unconscious for being so obnoxious. Or maybe even let her in so they can sit in silent mourning together. When he yanks the door open, all he says is, "What?" Somehow, the question doesn't feel right on his tongue, but what can he do?
"It's done. They. . ." she says.
For a moment, he's silent. What to say? They've never been so attached to a tribute before. She trained for nine years, which made her one of the most senior trainees. They knew her well. He decides not to think, but just to open his mouth and wait for a sound to come out. "You want a drink?" Without waiting for an answer he turns and heads back into his room, leaving the door open for her to come in if she wants. He presses a button and no more than fifteen seconds later, a handle of amber liquid and two short wide glasses sit ready in the chute where food is usually delivered. Brutus takes the glasses in one hand and the handle in the other and turns to see Enobaria sitting down at the table.
He pours the glasses so full that it's hard to pick them up without spilling, even though they're both still mostly sober. Without hesitating, he drains his cup and refills it. For several minutes they sit in silence, drinking, refilling their cups as necessary, eyes on the cracked television screen, where –– it is possible? –– ten minutes ago they saw her alive, fighting, and unharmed.
Unable to tolerate another second of silence, Brutus slams his glass down with such force that he spills the contents over his knuckles and the pretty table. "That boy, I'll kill him! If he gets out, I swear, you'd better hold me back because if you don't I'll kill him." He can't bare the thought that this is truly his fault and he won't be able to get his hands on Snow or Thresh and he certainly can't chew Clove out for her stupidity, but Cato on the other hand. . .
Enobaria's voice is much calmer, but just as sad. "He won't, Brutus. He'll never win now. We're done." She drains her glass, picks up the bottle and dumps another portion out for both of them.
She's right.
Days later the boy loses as well, torn to shreds by the Capitols muttations. Butus's head aches and he's not sure why. From drink? From illness? From grief? From all three together? He destroyed the television in his own quarters so he watches with Enobaria in hers, and she wraps his bloody knuckles after he puts them through the glass upon the announcement that the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12 have won. Somehow, it doesn't seem fair. Not that he's been on moral high ground all his life, or even half his life, but he'd wanted something good for that girl and boy and now no good will come to anyone, especially to the ones owho orchestrated this, the ones who are really responsible. Smashing televisions and vases has done nothing to curtail his rage.
Disclaimer: Don't own either The Hunger Games or the Harry Potter quote that is the title to this story.
AN: So, the end of this implies that Brutus is going to do something to avenge Clove and usually people want revenge on the Capitol for the deaths of tributes: i.e. Katniss with Rue, Haymitch and Johanna with everyone they ever loved, Peeta with everyone from his arenas, And maybe Brutus wanted that too, but is actually more similar to Thresh than he'd ever have admitted, choosing not to go for the Capitol, but for the first person even remotely responsible for Clove's death he can get his hands on: Chaff in the 75th. It's severely misguided. Chaff never knew Clove. He might not even have mentored Thresh, but he was as close as Brutus could get because he had the same role of District 11 Male Tribute as Thresh. Maybe he'd planned to go after the Capitol after the Games. But, as George R. R. Martin loves to prove again and again, sometimes people die before their plans are realized.
I read something random, inspiration struck, and I wrote this. Thoughts?
Also, whoa, I just realized this was written reeeaaallly weirdly for like the last three weeks. Jeez. I have no idea what happened, but it should be better now. Sorry 'bout that.