It is a long time before he comes to visit me.
Gale.
But he does come. The snow has begun to melt, and the icicles that have clung to the window panes so desperately throughout the winter have begun to fall. I am sitting outside on the porch, looking out at the remains of District 12- looking at the ashes, and looking at the sunrise- when I see him out of the corner of my eye.
Gale.
He walks with his head down, his shoulders slumped. He carries himself like a traveler who has seen too much of the world, more than they had ever wanted; a traveler who just wants to go home. After all this time, and after all the words he spoke against the district, 12 remains home to him. It is a shadow of what it used to be, of course. He is a shadow of what he used to be, too. But I recognize him instantly, immediately. Even though it feels like a thousand years have passed since I have seen him walk these streets, I can still pick him out of a crowd as if it was only yesterday.
My breath catches at the sight of him instantly, and a mix of emotions rises within me, invoking that which had been dormant for a long time. I cannot pick out which I am feeling more of- love, or anger; sadness, or relief; joy, or fright. I sit on the rocking chair, paralyzed. Unsure of what to do or say, or if I should do or say anything at all. But then, as he approaches the house I have yet to call home, he looks up. He looks me right in the eye, and in that moment, the anxiety disappears, and is replaced with a calm I have not felt since our last morning in the woods. Before the Games. I know I do not have to say anything if I do not desire to, and I know that he doesn't either. This is Gale.
But Gale does speak. As he steps up onto the porch, his boots leaving heavy marks of dirt, snow, and ice on the colored wood, he speaks.
"Hey, Catnip," he says softly. A ghost of a smile settles on his lips, barely twisting them upwards. Gale's eyes look about a thousand years old, and thin as glass on the verge of shattering.
I stand up slowly, allowing the blankets that had warmed my body fall to the ground. I freeze once more, wary of his presence, but a voice whispers in my head. This is Gale, it reminds me. Only Gale.
And then I am stepping forward and wrapping my arms around him, breathing in the familiar scent of oranges and pine, and letting myself go as he envelops me in his embrace. We stand there for a handful of minutes, a collection of seconds, and a fraction of eternity, simply holding on to the only pieces of each other that have remained. Holding on to each other.
"You came back," I whisper. I say it so quietly I doubt he hears me, but he does. He has always been able to pick up on the softest sounds.
"No amount of fire can change the fact that this is home," he explains, his voice low. "I had to come home," he says, his words catching in his throat and escaping in a choked voice.
Silence falls once more, but it is not uneasy or uncomfortable. This is Gale, after all.
But he breaks the silence once more, a millennium later. He gulps before speaking once more; I hear his heart pounding in his chest, the steady rhythm matching my own.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. The words need not be explained. Prim.
"I'm sorry, Catnip. I couldn't-," he struggles to continue. His voice is breaking; the walls of anger and sorrow and resent and sheer hurt are cracking, and I don't think he can stop them from collapsing this time. He is in a pain I have never seen him in before.
"I couldn't save her. I didn't know they-," Gale attempts to keep going, but I feel a single tear fall on to the top of my head, and I cannot stand to hear him in pain any longer. I silence his anguished words with a kiss; and it is then I realize that Gale was right on the night of the whipping, so long ago. My weakness is seeing him in pain.
I only remove myself from his lips for a breath, but I end up crying myself. The tears begin to spill over and race down my face, and this time, it is Gale who comforts me. He wipes a thumb over my cheek, although he knows that it is in vain. The tears will not stop, neither mine nor his.
"I know," I gasp out, my throat tight. The glass in Gale's eyes has shattered, and I know there will be nothing I can do to bring an end to the pain he is in right now. The pain we are both in. We are drowning in the same ocean of sorrow; the same pain, and the same loss. I have bottled up the sea of emotion inside of me for so long, I have no grasp of just how deep it is.
And then I see it. It is only here, only now, do I realize that Gale suffered greatly from her death, too. She was the second sister he never had; she was his little duck. He was her protector when I was not, and he was her provider when I could not provide. He was her brother. And I can see that nothing burdens his heart more than knowing he played a part in her death.
"I know," I repeat, more steady this time. He must know. He must know that I finally understand how deeply he hurts, too. He must know that I do not despise him, or resent him. He must know that I see his pain, and how I still long to stop it. He must know.
He must know that while I will never forget the past, or Prim, or his role in the loss of her life, or how she was taken from me- from us- I will forgive him.
I do not forgive easily. I do not forgive anyone, if I must be honest.
But this is Gale.