"The drop of rain maketh a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling." Hugh Latimer
He turned around and left the room swiftly at the sight of her. One glance at the tiny girl curled behind the stuffed seat and he knew he had stepped in on something he shouldn't have seen – more like something he didn't want to see.
Rue was fast, and would have become wiser than anyone he had ever known if given the chance, but this was no place for a bright little song bird. He couldn't comfort her. She was too proud.
Right?
Strong as she was, he was beginning to see the cracks, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. He pushed aside fear of rejection only to become overwhelmed by the fear of acceptance. Fear of getting too close, of needing to protect, and of expectations for more than he could give.
Seeder and Chaff had told them they both showed promise – some of the best they had seen in years. Even if they were honest Thresh knew nothing good could ever come of this. Everyone knew that.
But Rue thought she could make it home.
On his walk back down the hall towards no particular destination, Seeder opened her door.
"Thresh. Your interview." Seeder was a woman of few words, which Thresh appreciated. There isn't much to say when you're preparing your own funeral. He followed Seeder into a room with a small table. They sat. He tried not to look in the woman's eyes, but the moment he glanced up, a glimmer of his grandmother's sad acceptance crossed Seeder's face, an acceptance that he had inherited, that had kept him from the Peacekeeper's gaze for so long. The accepting expression that had left his grandmother's face the moment he was reaped.
His grandmother was the worst to think about. Her strangled cries over losing yet another child, this time realizing that even the most passive among them can be taken and tortured for the entire world to see. His grandmother, though her tongue had been torn out long ago, had made ways of speaking to her grandchildren. Her way of reminding Thresh and his sister to keep their heads down and their mouths shut was regularly used as they grew up. She didn't want them to end up like their parents, she would tell them. He didn't remember their deaths, and his grandmother had recounted it to him and his sister only once – after she caught Thresh with a stolen piece of okra.
From what Thresh gathered, his father was swiftly executed for repeatedly stealing crops for his mother, late into her pregnancy with Thresh's sister. A year later his mother was taken away for her telling of ancient stories: stories of hope, and of a caring creature that provided gifts and guidance in difficult times. His grandmother pleaded for her daughter's life, knowing that the young woman's sentence would be much worse than that given to a kale thief. Thresh's mother accepted the punishment, as she said they often did in the ancient times, when people trusted in the powerful and kind creature to care for them even after death. Although no one knew where she learned these stories from, one of the highest ranking Peacekeepers was well read in them and knew she was dangerous. The name given to Thresh's sister – Eden – apparently removed all doubt from the woman's guilt. Although his grandmother felt there was deeper significance behind her daughter's sentencing and her granddaughter's name, she wasn't interested in the ancient stories and the power they held. Instead of the public torture received by most criminals before death, Thresh's mother was simply taken away, and the Peacekeepers tried desperately to squelch any proof of her existence, allowing Thresh, his sister, and their grandmother to live after being moved to the other side of the District and the removal of his grandmother's tongue, so that she could never speak to Thresh and Eden about their mother's crimes.
Thresh couldn't sleep for the rest of that harvest season, expecting Peacekeepers to come at any moment during the night to do terrible things to his remaining family. He laid awake most of the night, and began to sweat and shake whenever anyone walked down the path through their small grouping of houses, terrified that someone had understood his grandmother's gestures.
He hoped that somewhere on the other side of the district people still thought about his mother, but he had never spoken about her. His sister had done the same – even when people asked Eden what her name meant or how their parents had died. Even in the middle of the night, when Eden and Thresh lie awake and their grandmother snored and a thunderstorm would drown their voices, they never spoke of their mother. They had been fearful to their cores.
Now, Thresh felt fear losing its grip. He didn't trust the creature his mother told stories about, but knew that he was no longer the peaceful beast his grandmother raised him to be. He understood now that his mother was moved not by risk or a desire for death, but by something deeper. She was not afraid. She believed completely in what she did, and knew what the consequences were.
"My parents were martyrs. I will join them."
"Thresh, no." Her words were flat, there was anger beneath them. "You're the strongest tribute I've seen in years. Your chances are great."
"I won't play their game, so I'm not going to win." He set his jaw and looked her in the eye. She may see him as a big simpleton, but he didn't care, just so he could finish the way he wanted.
"Don't stay at the Cornucopia. Don't offer yourself up to anyone without a fight." He nodded, stood up, and moved towards the door. "You never know who'll win." It sounded like she was talking more to herself, defeated.
"It may be someone you're rooting for." She said, barely audible, before he closed the door behind him.