a/n [A companion to my story Power is Glory, Power is Absolute, which does not have to be read to understand this. For Angel in September. (I'm way late, but happy birthday!) Uses Caesar's Palace's prompt 'transcend'.]
She was grasping the pencil in a tight, unsteady fist, when a knock came at the door. Briefly, she decided if her doodle or the person was more important, but in the end, her doodle won out. The person walked in anyway, and stood a moment over her shoulder, watching her scribble over the paper. When the person spoke, she could hear the disapproving tone in his voice.
"You should be practicing your letters, Valeria."
Her hand froze in the middle of a line. "Why?"
The person stooped down and plucked the paper from the table. Val grasped wildly for it, but it was lifted high out of her reach. She yelped a bit, scrambling up onto her chair to match the height of the thief, but before she could stand, large hands ripped the paper to pieces, and let it flutter down around her like snow.
"Because you'll only become important by focusing on important things," he said, gently taking the pencil from her hand as well.
"Stop!" Val yelled, jumping on her chair. "Stop, stop!"
"One day, you'll thank me."
As her father left the room, leaving the ruined remnants of her drawing behind, Valeria cried.
::::
She was alone. Nothing more than a speck in the grand ballroom. Her fingers traced the wall as she walked around once, twice, seven times, before two avoxes walked in. One held balloons, the other a slice of cake. Val took the balloons, and spread them around in a circle around her. There were five—one for each year. When she looked at the cake, she frowned.
"More," she ordered.
The avox, a pretty girl with a name she couldn't give, smiled softly, but Val wasn't looking. She was looking at her mess of balloons and the mess of her celebration. Before the avox left, she called out, "When does it start?"
The other avox, with empty hands, held out seven fingers. He gave a smile, but it was lost on the child as she turned around, staring at the clock in the back of the room. She didn't know how to tell time.
About the time her cake was brought in—a small circle, one layer, with yellow sprinkles—the group of people setting up for the party started to arrive, as did her mother. Val's mother entered the room in a white pantsuit, the same one that she promised to give to Val when she was older, and a small trail of the usual avoxes behind her.
From her circle of balloons, a shield of protection from the sudden commotion, Val sat on the floor with the platter and a fork, while the avox from earlier stood behind her, back stiff.
"What time is it?" she asked, looking at the avox.
Her answer was two fingers. Val counted slowly; that meant five hours until the party. Five fingers. She could wait five fingers.
"Valeria!" he mother cried, finally noticing her. "What are you doing here? The party is a surprise!"
"I'm celebrating," she answered, bringing another bite of cake to her mouth.
Her mother lifted her to her feet, and brushed away the chocolate crumbs from her clothes. "Why? We're celebrating later, dear!"
"I don't want a party, Mama," she whined. "I want cake and balloons and my pencils and you."
"Just think about all the presents you'll get, Valeria!" her mother exclaimed, motioning for the avox to take away the cake, before flashing a smile—the big, full-of-teeth kind with no shining eyes—and walking away, pointing here and there with orders to the workers.
Val stood up, grabbed her balloons in one tight fist, and marched upstairs.
::::
She was tired of not doing the things she wasn't allowed to do. She wasn't allowed to bother her parents when they were working. She couldn't go outside without someone watching her. It was 'inappropriate' to have tea parties with her avoxes and 'unladylike' to race down the halls. And she was never supposed to visit the left wing of the mansion where her grandfather and father and the official people in suits always went.
Sometimes, however, when Val is in a particularly bad mood, her grandfather will open his study door, and she'll march in, notebooks and pencils tucked under her arm, and the two of them will work side by side until he's called away.
"What's your idea today, Valeria?" he'll always ask as she steps through the open door.
"Flower day," she'll announce, or something of that nature. "Every Monday, everyone gets a free flower."
And her grandfather will nod, as if that makes perfect sense, and then he'll tell her that he'll work on that, and then he'll start looking over the reports of treason in each district while she draws fields of flowers.
::::
She was sitting cross-legged in her skirt, notebook folded in her lap, the end of the pencil resting against her teeth while she thought. The room was empty save for her. The walls were blank, the carpet was white, and while furniture had once sat here, it was now gone. Alone in the corner, Val chewed the metal ring on her pencil, humming a tune from the radio.
When she started to draw again, her idea was this: dancing on the clouds. She drew the curls and puffs of the cloud first, swirling her pencil round and round until the wisps almost sailed right off the page. Next was herself, in the center, wearing the blue dress she'd seen in the window while shopping yesterday. The bottom of the dress was enveloped by the cloud, which stirred under feet. A laugh bubbled up inside of her, and she stood, discarding the drawing on the floor, and danced on the carpet in her simple shorts and blouse, making enough noise to lead to her discovery.
Her grandfather stood in the doorway, frowning slightly. Val shrank back, drawing her arms in to her sides, but soon he was smiling again, and she felt herself smile back a little, too.
"What are you doing, Valeria?"
"Dancing," she whispered. Out in the air, her thoughts seemed silly, childlike. She stood up a bit straighter like her grandfather.
He gestured to her notebook, still on the floor. "May I see?"
She handed it to him eagerly, wanting to hear his praise, which she received, along with a smile. At the time, she was proud. Then, months later, she saw the arena of the Games, and shrank into herself. She put her notebook on the shelf along her other books and never touched it again.
::::
She was just resting her head for one second against the desk when an elbow nudged her, and she shot back up, facing the teacher with attention. For Val, history lessons seem to last forever since she does, in fact, already know more about her country's history than her teacher. Her father used to tell her the stories, when he wasn't too busy, and before, she loved hearing them. But rehearing the products of each district was somehow too much to bear.
While the other kids started drawing each product in its respective district, using a poorly printed map, Val fidgeted with her pencil then raised her hand.
"Yes, Valeria?" Ms. Lartius asked, walking over, proud to help the president's granddaughter.
"What does the Capitol produce?"
Ms. Lartius laughed. "We provide safety, Valeria. And entertainment."
Frowning, Val turned back to her blank map and stared. She doesn't remember ever providing safety. Maybe it was a grown-up job. She picked up her blue pencil and started drawing jewels in District One, already thinking of new things like tonight's dinner and the latest episode of her favorite show.
::::
She was curled up in the very center of her bed, a thermometer pressed to the edge of her tongue. It was taken out just as quickly as it was put in, and the avox holding it had to squint a little to read the numbers. Then the avox left, leaving Val alone in the room while she coughed and coughed until she didn't think she'd ever stop.
The next person to enter the room sat right on the bed next to Val, but she didn't have the energy to see who it was. No words were spoken, but a gentle hand smoothed down Val's hair and over her back, rubbing circles. The blanket was lifted a bit higher over her torso, and Val buried into the warmth, an ache still deep in her throat.
"Water," she asked, her voice cracking just a bit. Immediately, the hands helped her up and a cold glass was given to her. Val's fingers curled around the glass; the water sloshed as she lifted it to her mouth. The second she handed it back, she collapsed onto the bed, shivering, and the blanket was lifted up one more time.
"Thank you," she whispered, and the hand returned to her hair.
She could now remember the familiarity of her grandmother's frail hands and kind nature. It wasn't often Val was with her grandmother, so she fought wave after wave of sleep, used up tissue after tissue, until suddenly it was too much, and as tired tears dripped from her eyes, she fell asleep.
::::
She was doing cartwheels outside, smiling and enjoying the summer sun when her grandfather came outside to join her. Val staged a show for him, and after grand finale of four cartwheels in a row, he clapped, smiling.
"Beautiful, Valeria," he said.
She walked over to him, then sat at the little porch table as an avox hurried over to pour her some lemonade. "You really think so?"
"Indeed." Her grandfather took a sip of his wine. "You truly have a gift."
She smiled—the kind that lights up the whole face with crinkly eyes and all—and laughed, her head bowing and hands holding her stomach. What a thought to have a gift in cartwheeling.
"I can do somersaults, too," she said proudly.
"Really? Well, I might have to see that for myself."
After taking a quick gulp of her lemonade, she ran back to the field where she performed until her knees hurt. Her grandfather gave her a standing ovation when she was done.
::::
She was humming a song while sitting atop the counters, watching the head chef decorate the cake for the big party in the evening. The cake had four tiers, each of a different flavor, and Valeria couldn't stop begging for just one little bite, but the chef was adamant.
"But I won't get to try it at the party," she tried. It was true; she was meant to sit in her room, or the gardens, or be anywhere that wasn't the in the right wing. She pouted for good measure.
"Sorry, Val," the chef said, adding frosting roses to the bottom of the cake. "It's strictly for guests only."
"I order you to give me a bite?"
The chef just laughed at her. Val went back to humming her song.
When the chef held up two boxes of edible decorations, and asked her opinion for silver or gold, she tilted her head up to the ceiling, giving it a lot of thought. Eventually, she chose gold because silver was better and should be saved for a cake she was allowed to eat. She could almost taste it already. The delicate frosting and soft cake. A scoop of ice cream to the side that'd be too cold to eat at first.
The chef presented her with a small slice once he finished, while she was caught in her daydream, and she handed it back.
"I didn't really want to take it from the guests," she explained. "The cake needs to be whole."
With a wink, the chef said, "I made this one just for you earlier."
::::
She was holding the pointer in her left hand and holding her right hand up to her chin like she was thinking—like her father always did. He sat in a chair by a desk, watching her. Some time in the past year, he'd decided it was best to teach her politics on his own time. Said school wouldn't cover all of it.
Today's question was simple: which district currently posed the most threat?
Val transferred the stick to her right hand and pointed at the center of District Two. Her father shook his head disappointingly.
"But they've got the supplies. And power," she argued.
"They're also our strongest alliance," her father counted.
So, she pointed to District Twelve. Her father laughed.
"Weakest alliance?" Her argument didn't seem justifiable against her father's judging eyes.
"They wouldn't stand a chance."
Frustrated, Val stepped back to get a better look. It was a simple map of regions of colors and black printed words and dotted lines, but somehow, she couldn't make much sense of it. What did a map tell one, anyway? Certainly not threats. So she turned away, thinking it better to focus on the question, not the answer. It didn't help a bit.
"Eight?" she asked, wariness in her voice.
"Three," answered her father.
Surprised, Val turned back to the map, because even though it wasn't necessary to the moment at hand, something urged her to check it, just to make sure. And it was there, colored light blue, just a couple hundred miles from where she sat right now. So close, she felt like she could reach over and touch it—steal the merchandise, the brains.
"Why?"
"They have the ability," was the answer given, but Val wrinkled up her forehead.
"Ability to do what?"
"It's much too complicated for you, Valeria," her father said with a smile, like that made it better, as he rolled up the map.
::::
She was almost ten years old when her mother came to her crying, looking for support. With a shriek, Val held her mother loosely in her arms, rubbing circles on her back as if that made any difference. From the weight alone, both girls fell to the floor, and stayed in a heap on the ground—one a mess and the other trying not to be. With each sob, Val's breath became shakier until she was crying, too, not understanding what was going on, and not sure if she wanted to.
When her mother was lifted up into someone else's arms, Val couldn't stop crying, her face buried into her collar to dry the tears. Above her, her grandfather stood holding her mother, his daughter-in-law, who had gone rigid in his arms while she swiped madly at her tears.
"Mama?" Val asked, standing up to reach for her.
"Valeria," her mother whispered, then twisted from the hold on her, bending down to meet her daughter's eyes. "You're father's been in an accident."
"Is he all right?"
When her mother collapsed once more into her arms, shaking, Val looked up at her grandfather, pleading for an answer. He shook his head slowly. "You're father is gone."
"No," she whispered, and clung to the fabric of her mother's white pantsuit, wrinkling the fabric in her clammy hands, wishing for a better answer. A better world.
::::
She was sitting with a boy in the hall. He had brown hair that was too long, a nose that was too small, and eyes that were too big. Val didn't know his name, nor did she care to ask. She was banning herself from speaking, like the avoxes, for her little, soon to be short-lived protest.
And the boy wouldn't shut up.
Val had her lips pressed tight, not trusting herself not to speak, because she knew without a doubt that before long she'd be too fed up, and have to tell the boy to be quiet. So after weighing some thoughts for a while, she decided to get up and leave, quickly, away to her bedroom where no one could follow her.
Except two people were already there. Her mother sat on the bed; an avox folded some clothes. Val looked from place to place to decide where to hide, but she was caught in the open. When her mother attempted to speak to her, Val chose the next best option: she sat by the avox, picked up a shirt, and folded it in half—only to unfold it later because it didn't look as neat as the ones the avox had done.
"Valeria are you even listening?"
Before she could bite down on her tongue, Val answered, "No, Mama."
"And why not?"
"I'm on strike." She was proud of her answer. A couple days ago she'd read it in one her grandfather's manuscripts, though it was without permission, so she'd never admit to it.
"Against what?"
"Talking," Val answered, then realized her mistake of entering the conversation, and bit her tongue before her mother could continue. She didn't notice when the avox next to her froze for just a second, or the way her mother's eyes lifted to the ceiling with a sigh.
She didn't find the mistake in her plan, mostly because she wasn't quite sure on the reasons behind protesting, or that there needed to be any reasons at all. She didn't know that District Eight was protesting against their little pay. She didn't know what would come of it.
::::
She was reading a dictionary, a book of words, from start to finish, and didn't stop until she was escorted to lunch. It'd become a hobby in the recent year, once she had finally discovered that in a world where no one tells you anything, you must start figuring things out for yourself. She'd just reached protest when the escort came, and she stilled, reading the definition over and over again, etching it into her brain.
When she walked down the stairs, more words flowed in front of her eyes. Dissent. Oppose. Combat. They told a story she'd never heard before; it was one outside of her walls. More and more, Val spent time looking out the window and wondering. She spent more time reading. The little books from her childhood. The big books in the left wing.
When she sat down and met her mother's eyes across he table, Val could name more of the emotions she saw in them. Ever since she noticed the apprehension, it was impossible to forget.
"How has your day been? Her mother asked.
Fine never seemed like an appropriate answer anymore. But she said, "Fine," anyway, because the less time she spent in the dining room, the more time she could spend up in her room daydreaming and learning.
In a matter of days, Val had felt like she'd learned all the secrets the world had to offer. People liked quick answers. People liked taking charge. She'd learned all the answers to the wheres and the whens and the hows.
And the only question she had left was why.
::::
She was sitting at her desk, pencil end between her teeth, attempting to write, when everything happened all at once. Her music cut off, and the radio turned to static for the slowest moment before someone started speaking quickly, louder than the music had been playing. Val cringed away from the volume before listening, and she only heard spare words like, "—districts in—" and, "—are shouting—" and, "outside the president's—".
The guard burst through her door before the announcer could continue, and rushed over to Val, speaking in hurried words like the man over the radio. When he grabbed her arm, trying to pull her with him, she shouted, "Stop! What's happening?"
"The president has asked your presence immediately."
"Why? What was that announcement—?"
"Now, Miss Snow."
She let him lead her though the halls.
When the door to her grandfather's door opened, and Val saw him sitting alone in his chair, facing dozens of people with no support, everything thrust on his shoulders, she ran forward, away from the guard and into her grandfather's arms. If there was one thing she was sure of right now, it was the importance of a hug.
"My dear Valeria," her grandfather said.
"What's wrong?" she asked, not acknowledging the rest of the inhabitants of the room.
"There's been unrest in the districts for some time now. We're losing our control."
"Some time now?" she asked. Val had always considered her high up on the list of people to be informed of when things went wrong. When had her grandfather stopped telling her everything?
"Go stand with your mother, Valeria."
She felt her cheeks redden at being dismissed in front of such a large group of people. Crowds had always made her uncomfortable, and somehow she'd stumbled into the middle of one. Val ran back to her mother to hide. While the discussion continued, she hid further away with everything else told that she never knew to be true. There was, in fact, a lot that Val never knew.
::::
She was crying in the hall, fabric balled up tightly in her fists, and bones shaking from the fear. Her mother sat next to her, surprisingly reserved; she held an arm around her daughter's shoulders. But except for the guards, she was the only one who managed her expression so.
When another round of gunshots started up again, closer than the last, Val screamed, and a guard rushed to her side. He sat in front of her, and started reading off stories from memory. Tales of princesses and princes and castles and happily-ever-afters. Old tales. Tales that everyone had forgotten to tell after so many years of poverty and injustice. His eyes were kind, and Val found herself slowing down breaths to match his, and that the more he talked, the quieter the shouting was. She held onto his voice.
The war had been brought to their streets a week ago, and Val hadn't seen her grandfather since. Most of her time was managed in the right wing in big rooms and meeting places with important staff, guards, and the unfortunate men and women who had been staying or visiting during the hours the first rebels broke into the center of the city.
That was the only news of the rebels that had been allowed to reach Val's ears since she learned that Katniss Everdeen was in fact still alive. Most of the words spoken to her were comforting and delivered by the people in her immediate vicinity. And none of them were ever spoken by her mother.
When the bombs came, Val learned that there are some things that can sound louder than heartbeats. But firstly, she thought of her grandfather, and where he was at, and if he was okay, and then worried glances and princess tales could no longer suspend her tears. She wept for everything she never knew.
The rebels stormed into the mansion, made a mess, and when they entered where the crowd was gathered, no one seemed to put up a fight. There was even pity in their eyes when Val started sobbing, letting everything out, and mumbling words like, "Stop," and "No," and "Grandfather."
::::
She was being punished for acts she'd never done.
It had been easier to understand in the beginning when the officials said she was being held away for her own safety. The unruly might come for her, she thought. It never occurred to her that she might be the unruly.
When the rebels—that's all they were to her and all they'd ever be—tried to tell her of the country's position, she'd scream until they stopped talking. She'd scream until she couldn't scream anymore because it didn't take long to realize that she wouldn't be getting anywhere soon like that.
Her grandfather was to be executed in public. On television. By Katniss Everdeen. Val didn't know who to hate more. Mostly, she hated herself, and all that she never did. She could've done so much more.