The Hunger Games
The Kindler's Burden
Chapter One: First Light
Part One: The Flames
" We brand ourselves martyrs of an unworthy cause. Stagger through the flames, snares, and roughs, towards an unreachable precipice of derelict hopes. Yet, it is the worthiest one we know."
The scorches of rebellion. First sight.
The embers I've planted have blossomed. The sparks I've set have grown into flames, but my strides backfired. District 12 lies in ash, the first lights of the new horizon went awry, and now my home, and so many other's, rest in a midden valley.
I was given a full debriefing on how it happened. The bombers were sent out the night of the interviews with Caesar, the night Peeta slandered the Games with false news of my condition, the night I danced in Snow's wedding dress as it burned to ashen colors of the Mockingjay, and the night we linked hands with the other victors, uniting the Districts of Panem for the first time in seventy-five years. Gale spotted the bombers less than an hour before their arrival, and assembled my mother, Prim, his family, and as many others as he could, and lead them out of District 12. Their timing was so close they were caught in the smoke of the scourge. They wandered in the forest, aimlessly for two days before they were sighted, welcomed, and transported to District 13. Shortly after his induction, Gale was selected to board a hovercraft bound for the Capitol, stopping only to retrieve Haymitch and Plutarch, waiting in Northern District 3. Their reclaimance mission was intercepted by the other hovercraft, and our savings became based on priority. I was collected first, then Beetee, then Finnick, and the others were taken by the Capitol. They left in possession of Johanna, Peeta, and Enobaria, who was never linked to the conspiracy.
I awoke three days after, and by that time the arena's destruction had been broadcast throughout the nation, and almost all of Panem had fallen into uprising. My actions, my flares of rebellion stand out as the cause of it, and I stand alone as the head of the war.
The air is blanketed in dust, obstructing our sight, but either way all we witness is an expanse of ash and burnt earth. Nothing remains of the City Circle, or the Market Square, there is no indication a civilization ever existed where we stand. I look around at what used to be Western 12, the most prosperous of our District, leveled to the ground. District 12 is unfamiliar now, appears just as strange and foreign as the Capitol. Only two weeks ago I left here, my home, filled with coal miners, store owners. Granted under Thread's tyranny and rule of the Peace Keepers, it was still a home, their home. Whether from the ash, or the sight of 12 in smolders, I cry, but not from sadness, as I feel nothing at all. The terrain is veiled in haze, the expanse of ash seems to go on forever, there is no distinction between our directions, each step places me no distance forward, and no distance back, on a soft ground that crumbled at my feet. It's like standing in a dream, but my sanity prevents me from believing it.
I consider, when he came to my house before the Victor's Tour, Snow warned me of the Capitol's influence and force, said that he could easily kill Gale or any number of people when incited, and that my defiance, sparking flames of rebellion across the Districts, would be met with flames. I strain to retrace my steps, to decipher which instance may have held this as a result, my provocation of unease in District 11, intervening in Gale's whipping, the performance I gave at the Gamemaker's demonstration, the charring of the wedding dress Snow forced me to wear. Unable to track the cause, I know my thoughtless, anger-driven actions lead to District 12's destruction, all as a result of my underestimating the Capitol, which, through this, I've learned never to do so again, and my lack of restraint or sensibility. This thought rests in mist in my mind, incapable of inciting emotion or query, to link to others who fell for my indiscretion. Strolling the valley, nothing but the apparent delve into my consciousness. If it weren't for me, countless people would still be alive, District 12 would be whole and inhabited, under the Capitol's rule, but still alive. Still alive. Coal dust would line the streets instead of embers, shacks would stand where ruins now kindle, and citizens would live, women would sew, men would labor, and children would play, instead of decaying beneath the charred flecks of their homes. Amidst these notions come flickering thoughts, shards of the lives we lived under the Capitol, poverty, cold, hunger, fear, the nights of pain from starvation and dread for Prim's life that kept me awake, and the lust to burn, the ease to swallow the burden, and fall into death, away from its grasp. I recall my longing for release, that I put aside for her sake, and the means to it, the only means to deliverance, and I granted it to them. The contrasting speculations clash in my mind, as the inperceivable surroundings make my head throb, and I dispel the notions as gradually as they came.
Gale and I walk through miles of ash and rubble. We have no road or point to follow, the District is a black sameness throughout. There is no differentiation between Western 12 and the Seam, it doesn't matter now, as it didn't when the bombs fell. I feel stationary, wandering our old home, but once we arrive there, I know it. We walk through the field of ashes to a smoldering pile of timber, and I stop. "There's nothing left." I say, taking in the ruins of my old house. I recall memories of Prim and I growing up there, my father tucking us into bed every night, sitting by the fire on cold evenings, and I return, standing by the fire of its remains, burning amongst the ashes. I begin to cry again, only this time, I feel sadness. I stay for a moment. Gale comes up and puts his hand on my shoulder.
"Come on, let's go." He says, walking me on. The scorched earth turns to ash laden prairie near the District Boundaries. We pass under the fence without hesitation, there is no source to power it. The forest remains consistent, save a lingering mist of smoke in the air, and the meadow appears completely unchanged. As we rest in the clearing, my mind begins to clear. Gale points our the path he took with the District 12 refugees, but I ignore him. I know details will only add to my nightmares. In the time we remain, I think of the times I spent here with my father, hunting and gathering, singing the songs we cherished, and listening as the Mockingjays repeated them. The Mockingjays fled the forest after the firebombing, and the smoke in the forest and lack of life in 12 makes it unlikely they'll ever come back. Then I think of Gale and I, how we met here, hunted, and provided our families for so many years. I realize those days have passed now. The District is uninhabitable, nothing but ash and ruins remain, we will never be able to return. This notion saddens me, but I don't cry. I'm overcome with knowledge that it's my own fault.
"They'll be back for us soon, we'd better go." Says Gale, reluctantly.
I remain still for a moment, trying to maintain my thoughts. Suddenly I look up, with the realization that this may be the last time I ever see this place. "...Okay, there's just one more thing I need to do." I say, rising with him, and returning to the ashes.
The Victor's Village was spared the firebombing. It stands just as it was built, save the layer of dust. It was saved alongside the Justice Building and the Outlands as a reminder of the Capitol's jurisdiction in the District, even in its destruction. We approach the front lawn of my house, and I turn to Gale. "Wait here, I'll be back in a minute."
"Alright, I'll be right here." Says Gale, remaining in the smog.
"Okay." I say, heading inside.
My thoughts turn to rationality and acceptance of my situation as I enter my home, to the storm beyond the mist-filled dream. Panem is in full rebellion, the Dark Days have come about a second time, as wide-spread and detrimental as before. The Districts war with the Capitol every day, denouncing their rule and governance, and I stand as their leader. The same bloodshed is brought as in the past, but they fight a new war now. While the Districts seek to crush the Capitol for their liberation, the Capitol needs only to asphyxiate the rebellion, cut off the lifeblood of their insurrection, I, the living emblem of their battle. As I drove the Districts into uprising through my defiance, I could just as easily drive them back into the ground through my submission or death. For the Capitol to stay me would be to stay all the Districts, their resources set against me would be more viable than against any army. Snow knows this well, he's been fighting this war for months now.
These inquiries return me to my former realization, Peeta. Taken, in the hold of the Capitol, he is the strongest tie to me they have, and among the best they could hope for. In this war where I stand as their target, he bears the greatest threat of anyone in the nation, as to break him would be to break me. The Capitol knows it, Snow knows it, and he won't squander a chance this volatile. Each day the rebellion rages on, the more danger is imposed on him, Peeta, the boy with the bread, who spared my family at his own expense, who pulled me from their grasp countless times, who fell so many times to keep me on my feet. My debt to him is as large and apparent as ever, my oath to keep him alive, even at the cost of my life, still remains crucial. My only means to repay him is to see the uprising's end as soon as possible, by any means. It is my obligation to him to take up the mantle I bestowed upon myself, as I spearheaded the rebellion, it is my burden to see it through, to lead the Districts I brought into flames, in order to spare him, who I brought this war upon, my only means of recompense for the hardships they bear for my faults.
Still lacking full understanding of my state, I gather the things I'll need for the task. I collect my father's bow, that fed my family so many nights, that saved my life so many times in the arenas. Then I take the pin from atop my dresser, the pin I spread throughout the nation, bearing the Mockingjay, the paradigm of their insurrection. These things assembled, I ready to return to the desolation. As exit, my eye is caught on a locket on my counter. Taking and opening it, I find a picture of Prim inside. I'd received it after my homecoming, and through the months of turmoil I'd forgotten I had it. Something draws me to look at it longer, take in my sister's face. My observation begins to incite anger, as I recall our nights of sleeplessness from the cold, the days she'd cry from starvation, her constant fear of the Games, and, upon looking out the window, the destruction of her home. My mind shifts to the Capitol, the pains they imposed on her, an innocent youth, and the countless others they burden from day to day. Flames rage inside of me, and my hatred for them, and for him, overcomes all prior thoughts. I rest the picture in my pocket, take up my other items, and ready to depart.
Even amidst my anger, I'm taken in by the fact that I'll never see my home again, which holds so many memories from the short time we had, and I'm drawn to look over it one last time. I take in Prim's room, and my room, where I spent many, peaceful hours lying with Peeta, feeling his comfort, and even my mothers room. Downstairs I let in the sight of our living room, where Prim and I spent all our time together, where we watched as Snow announced the Quell, and where Peeta and I could be together, away from the eyes of the Capitol, where I'd always wished to stay.
The last room I perceive is the kitchen, where my mother treated Gale's scars after his public flogging, and where she and Prim treated endless others during the mine closures. I enter the room, but my initial site pauses me, paralyzed with fear.
A single white rose lays on the counter, unwithered, untouched, and I'm pulled into the memories of it, resting in Snow's pocket, complimenting his snake-like visage. I feel the fear I felt each time I saw him, coupled with the concern that he may be watching me, that he always has been. I return to my current place, and it occurs to me that it may be poisoned, but then I see the note placed underneath it, the the query is immediately omitted. Staggering, I walk over, and pick up the rose. Its scent is strong, it burns my nose and my mind, incurring memories of him and his acts.
Then I take the note, setting down my bow and pin. I open it, hands trembling. The paper wreaks of his vile scent, and his handwriting is unmistakable. Nervously, I take up the letter, and my heart stops as I begin reading his words.
"Tis the Kindler's burden to tend to her flames, lest she be caught up in the wildfire."