A/N. These were written simply to try and fill in a few gaps in my own mind, but a friend said I should share, so here we go. Each title is a real knot, and the first one, the figure eight, is a stopper knot used to keep a line from getting away.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.
One: Figure Eight
Interior design may not have been his forte, he preferred to decorate the contents as opposed to the room in which said contents resided, but really, all the never-ending brickwork and metal did look particularly inviting. The bloodstains and screaming did not help improve the impression it left on a person either. Then again, the president's choice in dungeon décor was hardly his first concern given the circumstances, hanging from the wall like a broken marionette.
"Where are they hiding her?"
To be perfectly honest he really didn't know, not precisely. He could tell them she would be in District Thirteen, but he wouldn't and to all intent and purpose that was probably something they could at least take an educated guess at. Still, in answer to their question, no, he did not know exactly, to the room, where Katniss was.
He didn't say that though, instead blinking back the impending bout of unconsciousness, tilting his head to one side and regarding the questioner with a critical gaze, "They really should change the cotton they're using for those uniforms; that one will not last more than a month before it is nothing but threads and buttons."
The answer was not the one which was requested so he paid for it before the next question was delivered.
"Who else is a spy for the rebels?"
Another one he didn't really know, not all of them, sure, he knew Tigress, but that was only because she was – or had been – in the same line of work as him.
"How about a nice, hard-wearing, polycotton? Surely that's not too expensive for dear old Snow now is it? Can't have his forces looking like refugees can we?"
Not only a wrong answer, but answering back as well, he should have learnt by now not to make a show of things, because the punishment for that reply made his teeth rattle and sent stars scattering across his vision. It could not, however, shake his resolve as he waited for the next question.
"What are District Thirteen planning?"
That was the most stupid question out of all the ones they insisted on asking him, surely, surely they knew that without having to be told: Revolution, an end to the oppression and Hunger Games.
"You really should take in those seams; the food shortage is beginning to show."
This was what he did, day in and day out, answering they foolish questions with even more foolish and useless replies. Some days he did not even know why they continued trying, but, he did know; it was because he had known Katniss personally, had turned her, literally, into the Mockingjay on live television. They thought he had to know something of use to them and for that he needed to be able to speak, the only reason they had yet to either kill him or turn him into an Avox.
Yes, they needed him to talk, so he talked, about fabrics and fashion because there was nothing they could hold over him. Katniss was safe, and he had seen to it that all his work went to District Thirteen, his team included. Snow could not harm them and he had nothing left in the Capitol. Oh yes, he had won his battle.
"How long-"
He turned them out after a while, watching their lips move but no sound come out, replying when expected and accepting what it cost him to give those replies. He listened to the chains clink between his hands; he wouldn't be able to sew again, not for a long time. That was one of the first things they had seen to.
"Silks do not suit him; they take too much care to maintain the quality."
He'd been through many interrogators and most had the sense to obey orders, but this barb it seemed had been taken a little too personally, vulgar insults accompanying the retaliation.
He wasn't giving in though as he let his eyes shut. He had left everything in the hands of District Thirteen and his Mockingjay, and he had no doubt in his mind that she would do it, he believed in her. And, after all, he was just her stylist, all he could do was make her up for the stage; Katniss was the one who would take his designs and fly, his girl on fire lighting up the skies with hope.
It was such a wondrous image that he never heard the chains fall, broken fingers caught in the links as his heart finally gave up, unable to cope with the punishment any longer. Yet there was a smile on his face and no one could easily unravel his hands from the figure eight he had tied in the shakes that bound him to the rebellion.