Summary:

Everyone seems to forget that the infamous President Snow had a granddaughter. She doesn't forget, though. She can't. She can't forget the way she loved him and the way he loved her back, and can't fathom why he would do those things that he did, why she never saw who he truly was. And then she wonders; she wonders if she did see how he truly was, but no one did.

Disclaimer:

I don't own the Hunger Games or the cover picture.

Grandpa was kind.

Grandpa was nice.

Grandpa cared for me.

Grandpa could do no wrong.

At least, that was how he appeared to me.

My life was sheltered and peaceful.

Serene.

Perfect.

Some might say spoiled, as well.

Me?

I defined it as terribly, horribly, undeniably lonely.

There was never anyone around my age to play with. Because who would be 'worthy' enough of being the President of Panem's only granddaughter's playmate?

The high-up officials, maybe.

But they rarely had children, and if they did, their children were always stuck up and annoying and brown-nosing for influence with Grandpa.

Perhaps they weren't consciously aware of what they were doing, and perhaps they were.

Still, it didn't change the fact that no one saw me as me, as Celestia Snow. They only focused on my last name, on my connections.

I said as much to Grandpa one day, pouting and depressed, and he had smiled that warm smile of his, promising to take care of it.

We clinked teacups and he let me pet his poofy white hair and beard, eliciting a much brighter mood from me.

The children never bothered me again.

It had it's drawbacks, of course, such as an increasing sense of isolation.

Of separation.

Of being different.

And even as young as I was back then, I understood that being different in the Capitol, or anywhere in Panem, really, tended to end your existence rather quickly.

Rather painfully, too.

I was grateful to Grandpa, though, and didn't want him to think I was begrudging his generous gift.

(Plus, I knew he'd never hurt me. …Right?)

Because I knew he had done something to keep those children away, and he knew that I knew.

In fact, he probably wanted me to know.

. . .

At our next meal-time chat, I asked him about his hobbies.

"Hob knees?" he'd repeated in a very surprised voice, pretending to look confused. "What's that, my darling?"

Knowing that he was purposely being comical to provoke laughter from me, I obligingly giggled and poured some more tea for him, just like a real grown-up would do.

(At 6, I was already impatient to reach adulthood, as little children often are.)

"No, silly Grandpa," I reprimanded in my best imitation of my tutors' voice.

(Since, of course, the President's granddaughter couldn't possibly risk going to schools with other children. Commoner children. Or, the horror, Avox children. Not that Avox children were allowed to go school, but still. What if poor, innocent little Celestia Snow happened to see an Avox in passing, and marred her carefully crafted rose-tinted glasses, maintained by setting strict restrictions and almost never letting her venture outside of the president's estate? What then?)

"A hobby. Such as something to do in your free time. I have a lot of free time now, because lessons are kinda easy. And…" my voice quieted.

"... it gets kinda boring when there's nothing to do, and I'm by myself. I'm by myself a lot. Tutors and staff and bodyguards don't count," I added, predicting that Grandpa would say that next.

"Ah, so you came to me for suggestions?" he interpreted.

"Mm-hmm, Grandpa," I nodded, bobbing my head up and down eagerly, my curled brown ringlets bouncing with me.

Grandpa looked pensive, a word he'd taught me the week before.

'Lost in thought', or 'thinking deeply', he'd said.

His eyes refocused and cleared, and he smiled at me, holding out a smooth, firm hand.

"Well, my darling, if you're done with lunch, shall we take a walk?"

And that was how I got Grandpa's love for roses.

It was easy to lose myself among the soft petals and prickly thorns, breathing in the sweet scents and snipping off tangles.

He gave me my own little greenhouse for my 8th birthday.

I gave him a personally raised and studiously cultivated bouquet of pale blue roses.

"Why pale blue?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he graciously accepted the gift.

Beaming, I replied, "Because I know you like white the best, and always wear a white rose, but you always say that you'd like to see me more often, right? So I gave you roses the color of my eyes, and I'll keep my white roses to remind me of your hair, whenever I want to see you but can't."

There were no more objections, and I was proud to see my dried and pressed bouquet hanging framed in his office.

. . .

The 74th Hunger Games had came.

Katniss Everdeen became my new role model.

When Grandpa asked me why I had changed my hairstyle, I was puzzled.

"Your hair looks lovely, darling."

"This is how everyone at school is wearing it, Grandpa," I answered, twirling the end of my brunette braid around my finger.

(Finally, my wish had been granted, and I had been cleared to go to school with the other children once I turned 10, a few months ago.)

He frowned, and looked upset about something.

"Is something wrong, Grandpa?" I questioned worriedly, forehead creasing.

The frown relaxed into a genial smile, and he waved off the inquiry.

"No, no, everything's fine, my darling. So, you were saying something about your new school?"

Easily misdirected, I had forgotten about the subject and moved on.

"Yes! See, Jylvie Mernver had this really pretty bracelet, but one day it went missing, and everyone thought that Kallune Frossi stole it, and then… and then…"

. . .

"Someday, I want to love someone that much," I commented wistfully, avidly watching Katniss tearfully hug Peeta after Finnick had revived him.

I didn't really understand what had happened at that age, only that the boy who Katniss was in love with had died, and somehow come back to life after the District 4 boy had done something.

Grandpa was sitting next to me, and he smiled fondly at me, reaching out one hand to ruffle my hair.

"And so you shall, my darling. So you shall."

I smiled back, and we were happy.

We sat back and watched the show in contented silence.

. . .

Months later, the Mockingjay is declared treasonous and illegal.

My hair flows freely, bound by the braid no longer.

Grandpa doesn't look very genial or fond or happy as he makes his announcement.

Perhaps this was when I first learned to draw the distinction between 'Grandpa', and 'President Snow'.

For there was a very vast difference indeed.

. . .

When Grandpa-, no, when President Snow choked to death on his own blood, brushed by the stampeding crowd, I wasn't around to see it.

That didn't mean that it didn't air on the news, so I did eventually see it.

(And once I did, I immediately squeezed my eyes shut and closed the screen. I couldn't, however, seem to forget the crimson spray that covered him all over, like scattered scarlet roses petals, maybe even the beautifully cared for roses that Grandpa had shown to me, eyes softening with happiness. Eyes that were now dead and crazed and blank and emptytooemptytooempty...)

Sooner rather than later, because later these scary uniformed soldiers barged into my special greenhouse as I was tending my roses, and dragged me away to face these scarier people seated around one of the private meeting tables.

I immediately burst into tears, bewildered and overwhelmed, only knowing that Grandpa was dead and that these people had probably killed him.

Where they here to kill me, too?

…

…

…

… Apparently not.

After a quick and harried discussion, of which I could only catch snippets, overheard through my sniffles and watering eyes.

(A sudden slap across the face and a barked command to 'stop your sniveling' had had a great effect on lessening my bawling.)

"I want revenge-"

"But Snow's dead-"

"Coin is, too, so-"

"No need for another Game-"

"Who cares? I-"

"But think about-"

"Bad example, stir resentment-"

"Pfft, already lots to spare-"

"But what would Katniss do?"

Katniss?

Katniss Everdeen?

My role model, my enemy, my fate-decider?

That last line seems to slowly tilt the scales.

And may the odds be forever in your favor, Celestia Snow…

It's decided.

I'm to be shipped off to an orphanage, disguised and made-over, with a whole new identity, and always monitored severely as I age.

(Being known as President Snow's granddaughter would do me no good. I easily agreed with that. But I still wanted to be known as Grandpa's granddaughter, his 'darling'.)

I will never be able to escape the surveillance and suspicious eye of the new commanding regime.

That was okay.

Still alive, right?

A whole new start, a fresh face to work with.

It was much more than most of the scary people around the table seemed to think that I deserved, but the nicer-looking people (a girl with green eyes and a boy I recognized as Peeta) smiled at me.

Their smiles were tired and weary and barely there, a mere crinkle added to their scarred features.

"Goodbye, Celestia Snow. Hopefully, we'll never have to meet again. If we do, I can assure you that it'll be under much less pleasant circumstances."

I nodded tremulously, clutching the pack of rose seeds I'd been about to plant when the soldiers had broken down the greenhouse door.

I understood perfectly well.

Celestia Snow perished that day, that day in the meeting room.

She perished by the hand of the victors.

Cynthia Nemo walked out the door of the meeting room instead, escorted by heavily armed guards.

She lived by the hand of the victors.

. . .

Cynthia Nemo kept on planting roses in the orphanage garden, ignoring the other children's scandalized cries.

After the Great War, roses were a taboo reminder of the tyrannical past leader.

The girl with the brown hair and pale blue eyes cupped a bloom in her hands and smiled down into the comforting flower.

Just like the Mockingjay had been a taboo reminder of the treasonous past leader, right?

…

…

… Her smile was a bitter one.

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Sorry, ending's rushed. I just knew that I wanted to end with her planting rose, and start with her having fluffy family moments with Snow. Then the emphasis on smiles came in, and the beginning turned lopsided in comparison to the middle and end. But in a way it fits, because those early days are what Celestia liked and remembered the best. The invasion and execution were more of a blur to her, because she doesn't what's going on or to to believe in anymore, and after the meeting, she's no longer even 'Celestia', but instead someone completely different. 'Celestia' is publicly reported to have been executed. 'Nemo' in Latin means 'no man', or 'no one'. And Cynthia was chosen because it starts with a C.

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