A/N: Hello there! Study was getting me down and stressed, and made me want to tear my hair out, so I decided to write. Inspiration came to me when lying in bed one night (after watching a scary episode of Doctor Who - yeah, I know) so I hope y'all appreciate my branching out of Warriors for this (hopefully) thoughtful one-shot. I'd really appreciate a nice review - critiques are most definitely welcome, and you may be harsh. I will not cry, scout's honour. Just hope that this idea hasn't been done too much before, and I got zee character correct. Anyway, enjoy!
"Then found myself listening to
The amplified grave ticking of hall clocks" - - - A Call, Seamus Heaney
How quiet it all was.
Not exactly silent; there was the monotonous ticking of a clock in the background, pendulously swinging like a weary soldier returning home from war. This was a feeling felt by many, those that had lost, and those that had won. The latter few, he suspected, were not of the opinion that they had won, or if they were, it would soon be apparent that they were wrong, that there were no winners, nor Victors of war and games. They would see it, eventually, in the quiet. He felt it, in his heart, the quiet. He spoke little to himself, for who here would listen to him except his roses? Their scent hung heavy in the air, and he inhaled, savouring the smell, clogging up his nostrils to rid himself of a different, more feminine smell.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
She had come in, that despicable creature, the scum beneath his feet, with her haughty eyes and her cunning smile, the grandmaster in the chess game he had not realised he had been a part of, until it was too late. Every little detail she had planned out, and with a small sweep of her hand, she had orchestrated herself into this position. It made him want to spit unsophisticatedly on the ground; instead he reached up with a white handkerchief, his hand movement deliberate as he dabbed his lips, scarlet running from the corners, neatly caught by the fabric.
He knew when he had lost, long before this meeting, watching the world he had built crumble beneath his feet on screen, useless against the tide of opposition screaming for blood, crying out for an end. They all fell, one by one, to the whim of an ambitious woman, without her even having to raise her own defences. She would make a terrible President, he had decided in the mirror one day, as he shaved his face into an immaculate appearance once more, taking pleasure in the act that would soon be denied, if statistics were to be believed – which they were. Yes, most hated him – no, that was wrong; at this moment in time, everyone hated him – but she had won them over with her talk of peace and prosperity. No one questioned her, or those that did were silenced by a rebel squad. That was how he would do it. Well, that was how he did it.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
She had ruined his quiet tranquillity, this room of peace that was his prison – the thought would have made him laugh before, of him being a prisoner in his own house. He couldn't help but wonder, if his predecessors had simply gotten the courage and just blown them away, would he be dealing with this right now? There was, of course, the idea of mutual destruction, but in his mind, mutual destruction would have been much simpler than this, this power struggle, won by a woman who required a teenager to carry out her plans.
A teenager who had, he had been informed, signed the one precious thing in his life's death warrant.
What were they doing out there, behind the door? He knew exactly what today was. He had watched the clock pass through hours and days, sitting on his little stool. He could perhaps count the time he had left on his right hand, if his fingers were minutes. He had expected her to carry him out, when she had entered before, but instead, she had simply wanted to tell him the 'good news', and then left him, alone with his thoughts, and his roses, and his clock. It had been her idea, of course. This new Games, which she knew would cement her favour with the Districts, was a rather pointless waste of life. Even after all this time, after all the years of watching the brutality, she still didn't grasp what it was all about. How was she supposed to lead, when she couldn't even take the correct leaf out of her predecessor's book?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Children were precious commodities, and his granddaughter was most precious of all. Death had been part of her life since she could remember the Games; she had seen children not much older than herself brutally butcher and be butchered by others. She had sat on his lap and demanded replays of her favourite tribute when she could barely walk balanced, and in front of his chair when she was older, asking him questions about the arena. She had sobbed into his suit jacket when the little black girl was slaughtered like an animal, and cheered with the rest of his city when Katniss Everdeen had unravelled all his work. Still, he could never have been angry with her, for loving the star-crossed lovers. She had seen death on screen, but she was still so innocent, so untouched by the rebellion – he had made sure of that.
His hands moved to rest on his lap, the manacles clinking roughly, out of place with the rest of the room, including himself, with his suit still crisp; no doubt it was expected that he should look well in front of the cameras, so they would all know that their new President believed in treating her prisoner well. He gave a very small sigh. Had he been able to move around in his room, he would have sacrificed some of his roses to stain his clothing, though it grieved him, the idea of ruining such fine tailoring. Still, it would have been nice to see Coin's eyes darkening with anger. It didn't matter that it would change to relief, and satisfaction, once he had been executed. It wasn't as if he would be able to see that.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Perhaps he should have introduced his granddaughter to the world, and taught her how to manipulate events in her way, told a previous Victor to teach her all they knew; how to fight, how to survive. It was a preposterous thought though, since she would never be allowed to live. She was a liability, a vessel with which a new Snow could be conceived, a new Snow that could destroy Coin's grip. If she was half the terrible leader he had been – terrible, in this instance, being a positive attribute – she would be dead within the first twenty minutes of the Games, killed by another tribute, or an unfortunate 'accident'. Plutchard was good at causing accidents. It irked the former President that he was still undecided about whether or not the Everdeen girl's death was intentional. It was that sort of thing that had gotten the cunning man the position of Head Gamemaker.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Carefully, Snow leaned against the wall his back was to, the chains on his legs slithering along the ground as he crossed his leg, dabbing his mouth once more, and allowing himself a small frown. The white handkerchief resembled the colour of his Dog Rose, a pretty flower indeed, but not in comparison to the white rose that was fastened to his chest. It would be soiled soon as well with his blood, but right now it was still perfect. Deftly, he folded the pink-tinged handkerchief, hiding away the stains until the outer lining only showed white to the world. It was much better that way, reflecting the tone of the room. He bent down and placed it neatly under the stool, straightening up and flicking his tongue across his lips, catching the stray drops of blood at the corners. There didn't seem a point destroying another perfect handkerchief.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He had read it once, a very long time ago, in an old book written in Old English, that when one crossed into the realm of the dead, they would bear the souls of all those who had fallen at their hands. For some reason, the thought gave him a great source of amusement, and he allowed a small smile, his teeth scarlet. It was not the concept that made him smile; on the contrary, the concept would have sparked fear in a lesser man than him, if he counted all the lives that he had destroyed, which would need far more than the one hand he was counting his last minutes on – not that a lesser man would have destroyed as many lives. No, the thing that amused him was that this concept was believed in the past, and quite possibly believed in the present. At this moment, were the survivors of the rebellion hoping that this ideal was true? It was laughable. He had used those lives to progress with his life, and his people's lives. His conscience was clear; a lesser man's wouldn't be.
"It's time."
Tick. Tick.
He was still smiling, he realised, as he took in the two guards, watching him warily, no doubt thinking he had snapped; he had finally gone insane, just as they always thought. Let them think that, as he held out his hands in a bored way, waiting for one set of manacles to be removed; as if he needed two sets of manacles to begin with. These people thought he was some rabid lion, ready to attack and maul them to death. The two approached him and he watched them, his snake eyes boring into them. He could feel how uncomfortable they were in his presence; it gave him a little feeling of satisfaction, the same feeling he had gotten when he watched his Capitol chant his name. They worked quickly, releasing his arm and leg bonds from the wall, and hauling him to his feet.
Tick.
He paused, glancing pointedly down at the hands that grasped his elbows, and deliberately smoothed down his trouser leg, straightening up in a confident way. Up close, of course, he knew how pale and sickly he was looking – it was a good thing Coin had set the execution for now, or else he might not have been alive to see it – but from afar, and it would be at a distance his name-callers would see him, he oozed presence. He still oozed intimidation. He shuffled forwards, his eyes wandering to the clock on the wall, his only friend in the room that had a voice, and he nodded to himself, noting the frozen second hand, fixed at twelve. Prophetic really, like it was out of a book.
"Someone needs to fix the clock."
It was the first thing he had spoken since his meeting with Katniss; Coin had not deserved a response earlier on. He shuffled on, watching his two comrades throw uneasy glances at each other, inhaling his roses for one last time. He paused again as they exited the room, noting the small crowd around the doorway, and giving another nod, his eyes skimming the faces of those around him.
"Someone needs to water the roses too."
It would be such a shame if the room was left to die; the roses were beautiful, beautiful things, and he had cultivated them with what he could only describe as love. They should not be punished for the crimes of their cultivator – rich words, coming from the ideas of a man such as he. His words were met with a mixture of disbelief and disgust, but he paid it no heed, giving a small shrug of nonchalance, and moving on, his back straight. Was his granddaughter somewhere in the house, given the same 'respect' that had been dealt to him by the pseudo President? It was almost enough to give him a heavy heart as he knew the answer to his question. Almost, but not quite. There was no point to start hauling around a heavy heart at this late hour. It was time to meet his maker, or rather, the un-maker of his position that was Katniss Everdeen.
The roar was deafening as he walked into the open, remembering his terrace walks with his granddaughter. She was not there now; instead, a transformed form of the Mockingjay stood. She looked almost as beautiful as she had the night before her first Games, but he knew better. It appeared they were both playing the game of disguises, hiding their true self behind fashionable attire and, in her case, fancy hairstyles. The crowd began to settle as he was marched to his final standing place. His nod to Coin was almost imperceptible as his guards criss-crossed his hands to the post, still, he knew she had seen it, watching her expression cloud over, before smoothing out once more. The stab of pleasure he felt at that little emotion was tempered down a little as he felt his mouth begin to drown with viscous blood, and gave a cough, the sound loud as it vibrated against his home's walls.
His eyes moved back to Katniss, noting the bow in her hand, the arrow twitching under her fingers, and his tongue flicked out against his lips. It occurred to him that he should have perhaps requested water during his last days. His eyes lifted to meet her gaze; he could see her searching for…something. For what? Guilt? Fear? The questions gave him a further sense of amusement. There was no need to be guilty for the crime she wanted him to confess to; deep down, she knew he wasn't guilty for that, and as for the rest of the crimes? Well, Snow was sure she knew the answer to that too, this girl who was sending his granddaughter to the gallows. His lips parted into a smile as he watched realisation dawn on her face, and – probably before even she knew – anticipated what was going to happen.
'Now, we see each other plain,' he thought, his smile widening as her fingers twitched on the bowstring, hesitating, her eyes still fixed on his; she could see his smile, feel his amusement across the short distance between them. His white rose would be untouched by death, by scarlet, with Katniss' next action. Snow watched the fingers twitch again, indecisive, before the bow flew upwards, and the arrow was let loose.
It was a single shot, and it was beautiful.
It made him laugh; laugh until he died.