Her parents had always been the nicest people anyone had ever known. No one ever understood how two such good people had raised the person their daughter had been in her Games. She had loved her family, but you wouldn't have known she was capable of love by her actions in the arena. Maybe that last night––the last night of her life–– as she'd kissed her District partner in front of their entire country. Or maybe the night before when she'd sobbed after he nearly drowned. If you could get past everything she had done in the arena up to that point, and everything she had done to get to the arena, then maybe in those two instances it might have been possible to discern love in her for those few minutes.
But she had been born into love. Her parents had adored her. They were stone cutters, descendants of former rebels, who worked long hours in the quarries. But though they left the house early six days a week and came home tired in the evenings, they had spent as much energy on her as their bodies would give them. They had played with her, hiked with her, protected her as best they could for as long as they could. They had taught her how to cook, how to share work, and her mother had taught her music. She was a proficient violinist by the age of eight, the same year she started training.
Her parents hadn't known what training would do to their girl, but even so, they had not wanted her to go. They were not Capitol supporters and did not agree with the Games. She had been sweet and kind and strong and so stubborn. They had had no idea how she had gotten it into her head that the Games would be a good thing for her, but she had. And that idea had taken hold of her, and that hold had taken her to training. And there she had worked with people who somehow had come to have as much influence over here as her parents had. She was born into love, and through love somehow ended up somewhere much darker.
As she grew she still loved her family, but the trainers taught her apathy. They taught her to create pain in others and feel very little, if anything at all, about it. She hurt her fellow trainees often enough that their pain was not a surprise to her. And they had taught her to avoid having pain inflicted on herself. Of course, the best way to teach that is to hurt someone often enough and badly enough that they develop an aversion to being hit and will do everything in their power to avoid it.
She had. She had been one of the worst at sparring, not because she was no good, but because she did not know how to tone her fighting down. She would break the rules of a match so that she did not end up on her back. And if they were honest, the trainers had liked that. Her apathy, her bravery ––mixed with just a little stupidity, as bravery often is–– her willingness to fight anyone for any reason, her determination to win any fight at any cost, these things proved to the trainers that they were safe sending her to the arena. She would win her Games.
But they had not been her Games after all. It was a fluke, a freak chance that had killed her. And they had not even been his Games either. Her one constant companion from the very beginning of training who had grown to be her best friend and then her District partner in the arena. They had not been his Games either. But everyone had known they wouldn't be his Games after that feast. He had tried, but there had been a part of the mind of every District 2 person who had known them both–– and if you knew one you knew the other–– that had known. He had loved her for years, which had been clear to everyone but himself and her. And there was a part of him ––a small part, not large enough to extinguish the fire that drove him to try to win, just enough to dim it slightly–– that had not wanted to live without her. Not their Games. Katniss' Games. And Peeta's as well, but that had been chance, as well.
And as their daughter and her friend lay cold in the part of the cemetery that was reserved for fallen Tributes, Katniss had gone on to be the face of the Districts' rebellion. And Clove's parents, still loving their daughter and now hating the Capitol as much as their grandparents had when they fought against them in the Dark Days, had wanted to do anything in their power to help the war effort. They were not fighters, as their daughter had been. They did not have influence in the Capitol stronghold, but when the rebellion had started they had helped the fighting rebels. They had treated injuries, soothed minds, quartered and fed rebel soldiers. And when the time came, they had quartered the Mockingjay too. They did not tell her who they were and she did not recognize them. But she slept where their daughter had slept, and sat with them at breakfast the next morning in the same place where she had sat.
They were alike, the two girls, both in personality and looks. Their daughter had been taller, but both were slim and strong. Both were dark haired and olive skinned. Their daughter's eyes had even appeared gray in some lighting, like here in the kitchen. Neither girl was particularly talkative, but both were stubborn. Katniss had volunteered for the Games to save her sister and Clove had trained to earn money for her family and had volunteered because she knew Cato would not go in with her. She had not expected the Capitol to reap his brother, which must have driven any thought of the District partner out of his head just long enough to bring him to the stage. Both had been protectors. And in the end, though certainly both girls' families would rather have denied it, they had been killers.
The other half of their family, Cato's parents, had not been able to face her. She had killed their son. She had sat by while those . . . things tortured him in the night and shot him dead the next morning. They hated the Capitol, but they hated the Mockingjay, too.
But they had needed to meet her. For the daughter they had loved, taken from them by the cruelty of the Capitol, they took care of a girl who had profited directly from her death, and felt no shame.
Disclaimer: I don't own THG.
AN: A short fic by me that isn't inspired by a song. Surprise!
So, ike most of my HG stories lately, this one has been sitting on my computer for a long time. Honestly, I don't even really remember writing it. I found it today and it took a few seconds for me to even understand the title of the document, which is the same as the title of the story. I do remember having the idea though, but only vaguely. So I reread it a few times today and thought I'd throw it out there. Also, I'm not even really sure who this story is written by. Like in the context of THG. Is it just an omniscient narrator? A random D2 resident? Peeta (who I always imagine to have been a little closer to Clove than to any of the other Careers)? An acquaintance of Cato/Clove's? I'm not really sure. But if you have thoughts on that or anything else I'd love to read them.