"The problem is you want such little things from the world. And they're the hardest things to get."
Madge Undersee woke this morning from a nightmare, a strange phenomenon in her young life. The blonde woman can count on one hand the number of times she can recall being shaken from slumber by terror, and three of those times hardly count because she had fallen asleep in front of the television watching that year's Hunger Games. Now that she's older, she knows better than to make such a mistake, so the bone-shaking grip of a nightmare has not wrapped its skeletal arms around her for some time now.
It is this fact that makes her odd, incoherent dream all the less fathomable, and all the more disturbing.
She doesn't remember much of the vision. There was fire; it felt raw on her skin, melting away her flesh into ash. There were Peacekeepers, the masked protectors of justice in the Capitol and across the Districts. There were, all around her, faceless people, people who grew wings as they ran, flying high above the flames to safety, ignoring her no matter how many times she cried for them to help her. And there was a man, a man in shadow. She could just make out his outline, feel his presence as she ran after him, her breath ragged and her throat burning from the effort. Something in her wanted to be near him, wanted to reach out for him. But the moment she felt close enough, the flames rose up around her, engulfing them both before she could touch him.
She woke in a cold sweat, the sheets sticking to her body and her mind in a haze. The lamps in her room were still lit; the sky outside only hinting at the promise of a soon-to-come sunrise. Rising from her covers, she pulled a silk wrapper about herself, hugging the material to her chest in a futile attempt to contain her violent shivers. It was only a dream, she reminded herself, It was only a dream. But the words do little for her comfort. Crossing the expanse of her wide room to one of the windows lining the far wall, she presses against the frame, opening up the window to let in the warmth of the night. Closing her eyes, Madge breathed in heavily, drawing fresh air into her lungs, feeling the weight of the early morning hour ground her back in reality once more. Madge had a pressing upon her chest, a deep urge, to go out into the land she was surveying from her window, to feel the grass beneath her feet and run her hand across the bark of those trees that seemed to climb heavenward. And so, without delay, Madge slipped something of a presentable dress, and slipped out of her house.
That is how she ends here, up in the highest branches of her beloved, backyard trees. Her feet dangle from the branch carelessly, and she looks through the leaves surrounding her like a second sky, peeking through them until she can see the true sky, which is becoming more and more like the morning with every passing second. Mist fills the air around her, that breath of a new dawn wet and cleansing against her skin. Her skirt hikes its way up her thighs, and she doesn't give a moment's thought to how a sight like this must look. A young woman, a figure in Capitol Society, alone in the forest with her legs on display, her hair unkempt and unbrushed as if she were some child of The Districts. The newspapers would have a field day if they found out a scoop like this; Mister Undersee could certainly never show his face around The President again.
But Madge doesn't even think of the repercussions, doesn't think of the scandal she could cause. After all, there is never anyone on the grounds at this hour of the morning. The world is at its most peaceful, most quiet and kind at this time, and Madge often finds herself being called to this part of the forest to reflect and explore her own mind. This morning, she doesn't think at all. She merely breathes, merely calms the raging tempest in her heart, and tries to forget this morning's nightmare, which hangs over her like a chandelier made of wasps.
It is in this state, this complete unhidden, unbound state that someone finds her. She should have been alerted to the presence of this stranger, should have heard the crackle of leaves beneath their feet or the sound of their breathing, but she is trapped in her own little world, and this stranger is a practiced hunter.
"Are you alright up there?" Comes the voice.
Madge almost jumps out of her own skin at the sound that breaks the silence of her momentary universe. Frantically looking down, she braces herself against the body of the tree, contorting her body until she can look down at the source of her shock. Her chest moves up and down sporadically as she struggles to maintain her breathing, but she makes no move to make herself look more presentable. Her hair remains as untidy as a crow's nest and her legs as bare as an unwrapped gift. Gulping hard, Madge peers through the branches to look at the stranger.
"What?" She repeats.
In all truth, she had heard his question initially. But her state of surprise only allows her to speak that easiest of responses as she attempts to assess him.
She's never seen him before; that's her first observation. Surely, if she had, she never could have forgotten a face like that. Features cut from steel, the edges of his face are sharp and hardened, rough as if he's been away from home for too long. His broad shoulders seem to carry an invisible boulder not built for him, though he appears too proud to let the world know just how much the weight pulls him down. He's too old looking for his apparent young age, and his dark features draw the shadows cast upon him by the light around them. But there is a hidden tenderness in him as well, and when the rising sun shines just so on his face, Madge can see that he once used to smile often. She can imagine such a sight, and thinks it must have been beautiful.
"I asked if you're alright up there," the stranger calls, cupping a hand around his mouth so that the young woman may hear him.
If he notices her wild appearance, he mentions nothing of it, and focuses his eyes on her face, which now regains some of its levity after her initial jolt of fear.
"Yes," she calls down to him.
There isn't any doubt of that in her mind. After all, she's been climbing these trees-without her parents' supervision or permission- for the majority of her life. The branches are as familiar to her as the grand staircase of her home, the one she has walked up and down at least a dozen times every day of her life. She is perhaps more alright here, tucked up among the branches and leaves of these grand trees, than she is anywhere on Earth. The man down below her swallows hard, hesitating to offer help but unable to resist all the same.
"Do you need help down?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at her.
She shakes her head; the last thing she needs is someone coming to her rescue. Idly, she plays with a stray bit of moss trapped between the tree bark and her hand, watching as the green fungus stains her hand.
"I don't think so," she replies.
The stranger furrows his brow, uncertain why anyone would climb a tree just because, especially at this hour in the day.
"What are you doing up there?"
While Madge's mind has been taken off of the nightmare, while her heart has stopped beating like it wants to flutter out of her body, the images still have not left her mind. The image of those faceless people, those grey, faceless humans, sprouting wings and flying off without her, burns the back of her eyelids, branding her vision with their outline.
"Wondering if I can fly," Madge says, the words sweet on her tongue as she looks at the sky, which has begun to bleed with color as the sun stabs its way through the veil of night.
Words like that usually earn Madge a laugh and a scoff and a "what a peculiar girl you are," from others. The Society types here in the Capitol do not understand where her mind goes sometimes, where she trails off to when she says things like this. So, to hear nothing but silence from the young man on the ground sets her skin alight with curiosity. Tearing her eyes away from the sky, she looks back down at him.
"You're not laughing," she calls.
He can as easily hear the confusion in her voice as he can hear the wind blowing around him; it's that apparent. The man's eyes harden slightly, and he shakes his head sadly.
"I don't think it's funny," he says.
There is no room for doubt or irony in his tone; Madge knows that this man means exactly what he says, which only proves his entire point of view all the more curious. Everyone else has laughed at her odd, occasional expressions. He has taken her quite seriously indeed.
The effect of being looked at in such a way, to be looked at as a person and not as a curiosity or museum oddity, strikes Madge to the very core.
"Why not?" She replies.
Taking a moment to think it over, the man seems to settle on something.
"Because if you're not flying, then you're falling," he says.
Like a cool burst of air, this chills Madge's spine upward and downward, giving her cause to shiver shamelessly. The optimism from her voice falters slightly, and she bites at her lip, a nervous habit that many a tutor has tried to unsuccessfully rid her of.
"I suppose you're right," Madge mutters, her eyes downcast.
Confliction settles in the man's features; he rolls up his sleeves and folds his arms across his chest. The line of his jaw pronounces itself.
"Can you get down alright?" He asks.
This question never receives an answer. At least, not any answer in the way that the stranger was hoping to get. For, just at that moment, the breakfast bell rings out from the Undersee house, the bell that rings once morning has broken and the first meal of the day is to be served. Madge cannot believe that she lost such track of time. Her father will be in the dining room by now, and she can't appear at breakfast looking this way.
In three great bounds, Madge makes her way down the branches of the tree, landing solidly on both feet. With a great exhalation of breath, Madge puts her hands on her hips and looks at the stranger, whose face is awash with a combination of awe and fear.
"See? I can fly," Madge says breathlessly.
The man shakes his head, but his eyes are twinkling with amusement. A warmth fills Madge's body at the sight of them.
"That was falling," he replies.
This is not a fight Madge thinks she can win, and either way, she hasn't got the time. With a shrug and a frantic hand running its way through her head, she takes off running in the direction of her house, calling over her shoulder with reckless abandon.
"It's all the same to me."
Madge is still thinking about the man in the woods when she trods down fifteen minutes late to breakfast. His disarming eyes pierce her now, even when she is removed from him, and she wonders who he is. What he was doing on her family's property. Madge understands that occasionally a nearby family with less than theirs will ask for permission to go on a hunt on the Undersee estate, as land- particularly hunting land- is scarce in The Capitol, but Madge usually knows when such families are making visits. And this man looked impoverished; his clothes were not those of an elite man on the hunt.
His presence in her mind gnaws at her belly until she presses the doors of her family's dining room open, revealing her rather put-out parents sitting at an empty breakfast table. Mr. Undersee refuses to have breakfast on the table until everyone is present, and Madge has been today's delay. At the sound of the doors, both adults look up, Mr. Undersee over his spectacles and Mrs. Undersee over the bags under her eyes. Madge does her best to smile, placing a kiss on their cheeks.
No one says anything about her tardiness. Human beings may just be animals, but the Undersees and families like them consider themselves polite animals, after all. Her parents' displeasure at her late arrival is portrayed to her in the form of passive aggressive tones and sidelong, disapproving glances.
"Good morning, Father, Mother," she says to each of them in turn.
A servant in a gleaming suit appears, his presence in the room as subtle as wallpaper, and pulls her chair out before she can even realize he's there. She sits without looking at him.
"Good morning, Madge," her mother says vaguely, while her father nods once.
Mr. Undersee coughs once, folding up his newspaper as Madge feels a napkin laid across her lap by the same servant who pulled out her chair for her.
"Did you sleep well?" Her father asks, his voice gruff and distant.
Madge nods, her nervous hands fiddling with the arrangement of the silver cutlery before her.
"I did," she says, her mouth small and her tone unassuming.
Often, Madge finds herself afraid to take up space in this household, as though she's meant to be nothing more that can only take up its allotted alcove and nothing more, nothing that would seem too presumptuous. She crosses her feet at the ankles and folds her hands in her lap, feeling such a way now. Don't make yourself too big; the bigger you are, the more they will look at you.
"What does the news look like this morning?" Madge says, kindly, earnestly, hoping to break the uncomfortable stiffness to the room.
Mr. Undersee hands her the paper, having taken out half of the articles unbeknownst to Madge.
"You can read for yourself, if you'd like," he offers.
That wasn't quite the answer that Madge was hoping for, but she supposes it will have to do for the time being. This small talk is all that she knows how to navigate with her parents; her life is lived just above the surface. She accepts the newspaper and places it on the lace tablecloth beside her plate.
"Thank you," Madge says, sincerely, "I was thinking of going on a walk. I can take it with me."
It is too beautiful a day to be stuck indoors; the moment Madge retreated inside the house, she knew she would have to go back out again, if only to feel the sunshine on her pale skin. At the sound of this declaration, Madge's mother raises an eyebrow at her. The gesture surprises Madge; it is the most conscious and alert motion Madge has seen her make all morning. Bitterness tangs Madge's tongue at the thought.
"You weren't on one this morning?" Mrs. Undersee asks.
Madge's heart races. Did anyone see her?
"Hm?" She asks, pretending not to know what her mother is talking about.
The dress Madge is wearing is white and the stains on her hem are green. It doesn't take a genius, or even a fully functioning human, as it turns out, to determine what Madge has been doing with her morning.
"There are grass stains on your skirt, my dear," Mrs. Undersee replies.
There isn't any going back now; words simply fall from the young woman's lips as she tries to defend herself to her two parents.
"Oh. Right. I'm sorry, it was just- I opened my window this morning and there was so much out there to see and explore and the air tasted so-" Her words gentle dignified.
Mr. Undersee's eyes glance at Madge dismissively, and Madge takes the hint instantly, her lips pursing together tightly as soon as he speaks.
"Madge, you're speaking peculiar again," he scolds.
Like Madge hasn't heard that before. Instantly filled with shame, Madge looks down at the hands folded in her lap and recalls the nearly infinite number of times such a sentence has been uttered to her. From childhood, Madge has always had her head in the clouds, and her mind and her mouth sometimes run away like this, something her Father counts as one of his greatest disgraces.
"Right. I'm sorry, Father," she apologizes.
The man sitting at the head of the table rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs before readjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"How in the world you expect me to have you happily settled when you speak like that, I will never know."
Oh, yes. The husband hunt that her parents are currently on. What a wonderfully dangerous topic for the breakfast table. Madge wants to tell her father that it isn't her manner of speaking that runs men off, but the quiet gossip about town that Mrs. Marabelle Undersee, her mother, his wife, the woman sitting at the table with them at this very moment, has been squandering her husband's considerable fortune with late night trips to the exclusive morphling dens on the other side of the Capitol. It is her mother's reputation that has cursed her, not her fanciful words and daydreams.
But she doesn't say that; she knows what place she is meant to occupy in this house, what piece of furniture she is in his life. The young woman merely folds the paper in her lap, relishing the feeling of the black newsprint staining her fingers. Madge's eyes flicker to her mother, whose hangover is painted on every inch of her face, though she puts on a brave and put-together countenance whenever her husband looks her way.
"You know I don't like you walking alone. You never know what manner of people you'll meet," Mr. Undersee says.
The Capitol is safe. It is beyond safe. With Peacekeepers on every corner and cameras filming every angle of the city, there is little that Madge could be troubled by, but more than that-
"I was walking on our own land, Father," Madge tells him.
Lips folding into a thin line, the Mayor shakes his head.
"All the same," he says, "I worry about you."
And she knows that's true. After all, he is her father, and is only looking out for her best interests. His protective nature might feel a bit guided, but Madge sees it as just that. Misguided.
"I know. But, I'm-" She attempts.
Her father holds up a stern hand, and it effectively silences Madge without delay.
"No buts. I'll ring for breakfast," he says, picking up a tiny bell from the table before him and shaking it.
Madge's mother plays the role she's born to play, doting on her husband and her household as if she were any other mother.
"We've taken on a new boy. I'm so glad your sister left yesterday instead of today, Yarrow. I could not imagine how humiliating it would be for her to witness whatever disaster he's sure to get up to this morning," Mrs. Undersee says, speaking to her husband both grandly and dismissively.
This piques Madge's interest.
"We've taken on new staff?" She asks.
"Yes," her father replies distantly, "A boy from the Districts."
Madge receives a pointed look from her mother, though the bags under the woman's eyes lessen the effect of the knowing gaze.
"Now, you can understand why your father doesn't want you walking alone at odd hours."
Gale has been in The Capitol for thirteen days now, and he still cannot stand the smell of the food. The rich aromas and heavy scents slick his stomach, and he struggles to keep his dizzy head on straight any time he's forced into the kitchen. Which is an unfortunate development, given that he has been sold to this family as a servant of the house. The young man stares in the cheap shaving mirror in front of him, in the servant's hall in the basement, drawing a breath into his chest as he assesses his reflection. The Capitol sure does love their servants looking fine, he thinks to himself as he recalls the bathing and scrubbing and primping he endured at the hands of the body traders that sold him here. Now, he wears a fine black suit with the undershirt gleaming white, his hair has been slicked down to the side. The events of this morning rattle around in his brain without his permission, the image of that wild and striking woman in the tree dances around within him. He wonders who she is, if he'll ever see her again. If she was even real at all. After all, he hasn't exactly had a mentally relaxing few weeks.
Another young man appears behind him in the mirror, checking his own bowtie, ensuring that it's carefully centered on his chest.
"When you go in, don't look anyone in the eye, you understand?" The other servant, a man named Skir.
Gale's reply is sharp.
"I've been trained, you know."
Skir shakes his head and pushes Gale away from the mirror and toward the wooden staircase leading up to the kitchen and dining room.
"Yeah, but if you mess up, it's my neck out there to get you out of trouble," Skir growls.
Gale shakes his head, his mind fleetingly caught up in the absence of the feeling of his hair moving atop his skull as a result of all of the gel they've put in it.
"I won't mess up," Gale snaps.
Skir climbs the last step of the stairwell and opens the door to the surface. Gale's stomach rolls at the smell of the food, and he just prays that he won't be sick. The silver teapot resting in Skir's grasp, he watches disapprovingly at the newcomer to the servants' hall meticulously picks up the china milk pitcher with his white-gloved hands.
"We'll see."
Gale enters the opulent dining room set for twenty guests, the last in a line of six male servants in pristine black and white suits. The training he received told him to keep his eyes trained straight forward, but he can't help but spare a glance at the room around him. His entire house in Twelve could fit inside of it, and he wonders if saving all of his salary from the Mines for a lifetime could have even bought the rug that his feet now trod upon.
When the finely choreographed line of servants finishes their procession, Gale stands at attention, waiting for his turn to move. First the fresh china cups must be laid out, then the coffee napkins laid out beside the new cups. Once those tasks are done, the first two servants march back into the kitchen to retrieve the first course- yes, there are multiple courses for breakfast here- and the second two step up. They pour the coffee and place the new spoon, then disappear into the kitchen to help with preparations for breakfast. Gale watches this with nervous anticipation, remembering what they taught him at training.
The wrong moves he makes here are taken out on his family back home. His servitude is a punishment for him, but any retribution he might try to take out on this new family he's been sold into will result in retribution against his family back in Twelve. His hands shake with the terror as he stares at the mostly empty table. There are twenty chairs, twenty place settings. But only three occupants. He and Skir wait at attention for their turn to act, standing behind one of the Capitol citizens. From here, he can see an older, tired looking woman dressed in exotic finery, the likes of which he has never seen on a human before, much less at breakfast time. At the head of the table, he can also see an older man, bespectacled and proud, frowning at the third member of the party, speaking to her in low, disapproving tones. The one he is scowling at remains a mystery to Gale, but he can see from the back of her head that she must be a young woman. Her hair is well-kept and glistening from being freshly brushed. Her shoulders are perfectly balanced and her spine elongated and straight, as if she is trying to balance an invisible book atop her skull even at this moment.
Finally, Gale and Skir are called upon to present their tasks. Skir carries sugar, Gale the cream. Skir approaches the mystery woman first, stepping up to her left side and offering her one or two lumps. Gale stands in wait.
"Three, please," the voice replies, and upon getting her wish granted, she mutters a small, "Thank you."
Gale's moment has arrived. Taking in a deep breath, he steels himself for the moment to come, his first moment of real servitude. His first real test.
Only, Gale didn't expect that the wild and wooly woman he met in the forest today would be the face that greets him when he goes to offer the prim and proper looking woman cream for her coffee.
Gale takes one look at her, gasping in surprise, and spills the cream all across her lap. Madge shrieks, jumping to her feet and looking down at the puddle of spilled milk across the carpet. With a rush of energy and color flushing her cheeks, she looks up in shock at whomever did this.
Only, Madge didn't expect that the rugged and iron-carved man she met in the forest today would be the face that greets her when she goes to explain her shock to the finely attired servant at her side.
Madge and Gale stare, neither quite certain what to do or say. Both of them are too flustered for words; their collective breathing comes in awkward spurts.
They were so familiar this morning, so honest. And now there is a pane of impenetrable glass between them, separating their worlds forever.
Never before have either of them felt so hollow.
Madge's mother cries out, staring at the evident spill coloring Madge's lap.
"Oh! You stupid boy!" She shouts.
But Madge snaps from her trance, tearing her eyes away from Gale for long enough to reach for a napkin. Frantically, she attempts to wipe away the mess and put on a brave face for her mother, but she manages neither particularly well.
"It's nothing. It's nothing. It's fine-" Madge chokes out, desperately dabbing the stained area of her clothing.
Mister Undersee, for his part, merely asks Skir to escort the newly trained servant out of the room to prevent, "any further damage." Skir does as he's told, but doesn't miss how Gale continually looks behind his shoulder with wide, uncertain eyes at the Undersee's daughter.
"It is not fine," Mrs. Undersee cries.
Madge collapses back down in her chair, her voice little more than a vague whisper as she tries to piece together what her life has been for the last few hours.
"It will wash," she comforts.
The dress, however, is the least of Madge's worries. All she can think about is the servant. The servant whose name she still doesn't know, but with whom she was completely herself this morning. A stranger, but a friend all at once.
A friend whose life happens to belong to her father.
The color drains from her face, and she begins to tremble. Her father takes notice.
"Are you alright, my dear? You look a bit giddy," he remarks.
Madge nods a lie.
"I'm- I'm fine. May I be excused to change my dress?" She asks.
Her parents exchange obvious looks that she has seen before. They take one look at the sudden change in her expression, in her countenance, and they share a single thought. Our daughter is a most peculiar sort. But, no matter what they think of her or her prospects in life, her father nods.
"Of course. Of course."
Madge doesn't change. Instead, she slips out of her shoes so as to avoid making noise, and begins to pace the hallways. Up and down, up and down, up and down, running over these thoughts in her mind, these thoughts of hopelessness. She didn't even know this man for ten minutes, but somehow he weaseled his way into the crevices of her mind. Knowing that he is a member of her household, a man whose body and soul was purchased with her father's money…. It disturbs her in a way that resonates down to the atoms she's comprised of.
It is in the middle of this thought that a body appears down the path she's been trodding. Not just any body, though. It is the man's. The man from breakfast, the man from the woods.
"You," she says, her voice betraying the confusion she's feeling.
Gale halts in his tracks and stares at her. He nods once. How can someone so honest be apart of a system so broken, he wonders. Thoughts like that are not helpful, they are not making him feel any better or helping him to understand anything. But, they are there all the same.
"Me," he replies, his voice unshakable, stern.
Madge gulps and tries to explain herself.
"I didn't realize that you were-" She begins, looking anywhere but his eyes.
He shrugs.
"Well, I am," he says.
I am your servant. I am your prisoner. I am being punished by the Capitol at your hand. I am a former member of the rebellion and you have lived your entire life in the sanctity of the Capitol, the institution I was fighting against. Gale doesn't speak for a long moment, until Madge can take his silence no longer.
"What's your name?" She blurts.
She hadn't thought to ask him this morning, not when she thought him a stranger from a neighboring house. But now she wants more than anything to know his name. All her life, she's been taught that those from the districts are barbaric and cruel, primitive and cold, that they need the guiding hand of those enlightened few in the Capitol to guide them into a more productive, happy existence.
But when she looks at this man, she doesn't see a barbarian. She doesn't see someone primitive or needing of help. She just sees the man who tried to save her from the tree.
Gale thinks for a moment of not answering her question, thinks that perhaps he will just sink into the bitterness and anger and resentment swirling around him and puddling at his feet. However, he knows that after spilling a pitcher of cream on her at breakfast and embarrassing himself this morning by caring about her, he is in no position to be denying the woman of the house anything, not when a word of displeasure from her could send his family to the whipping post or worse.
He doesn't know that Madge could never speak an ill word against anyone, much less someone like him.
"Gale," he says reluctantly.
"I'm Madge," she replies.
Gale is walking and infinitely fine line of coldness and politeness. She is a symbol of the enemy, of everything he has railed against his entire life. They took away his father, they made he and his family starve. And The Capitol just didn't care. They acted with malicious delight, refusing to even acknowledge the consequences of what they had done. Gale's lips press in a thin line.
"I know that now," he replies.
Every shift in his features goes noticed by Madge, and she cannot blame him. Madge knows nothing of what has been happening in the Districts; the televisions and newspapers here don't report on it, and whatever bits they do report in the newspaper, Madge's father ensures is taken out before he gives her the paper in the morning. She's oblivious to anything but the information at hand. All she knows is that he's far from home, and that he's been sold to her family. Two pieces of information sickening and normal all at once. She can't help but feel that whatever resentment he's feeling toward her is justified, like he's earned it.
Like she's earned it.
"I didn't mean to- Today in the forest-" She attempts.
The apology is on the tip of her tongue, but an apology won't save his family. An apology won't keep them from starving or keep them from a Peacekeeper's wrath if they get even the slightest report that Gale was misbehaving here.
"I don't want your apology," he snaps.
Madge stiffens at the harsh notes in his tone and Gale is certain that he's incited her anger. That he's finally pushed too far and will be condemning one or more of his family to pain for such an offense. Gale's mind swirls as he thinks of Vick or Posy, even, getting called to suffer for his actions. It would be his fault. It would be his fault. However, Gale is proved wrong, an action that happens not nearly often enough. For, Madge does not storm off and call her father to get someone in District Twelve on the phone. She does not slap him and demand that he apologize for using such a tone with her. She simply softens.
"What do you want then?" She asks.
He thinks of Posy and his mother and his brothers with scars on their backs, sulking in pain, unable to take care of themselves. What he is about to say is a leap of faith, but, he thinks, you have to put your faith in something every once in a while.
"A promise," Gale says.
Madge's response is unfiltered, unassuming. Somehow, she feels that she has wronged him. And she wants to make things right.
"What kind?" She replies.
Gale examines her for an unbearably long time. There is no one in the Capitol worthy of his trust, no one good, no one honest. That's what he has believed, always.
But, here she is. A member of the family indenturing him. And she seems like she wants to help.
In this time of hopelessness, Gale decides that he has to put his faith in something. So, he chooses her.
"That my family back in Twelve won't get hurt for what I did today," he says, his eyes guarded.
Madge bows her head gravely at the severity of what he has just said. She has never heard of such a thing, of servants' families getting hurt for what they do in the Capitol. It seems unseemingly harsh, not something her father could ever do, but she agrees nonetheless.
"You have my word," she promises.
The young man sighs a breath that he didn't realize he was holding, and goes to return to his work. But something stops him. He turns and looks at Madge again, trying not to think of how beautiful she looked this morning with the sun on her shoulders and the wind in her hair.
"Can I trust you?" He asks.
Can he trust her with the safety of his family? He knows he has no choice, but he knows that he must ask, must hear Madge confirm it for herself. Madge's lips fall into a melancholy, troubled smile.
"I hope so."
Here we are! A new story! I hope you all like it! This will be explained later, but just for a little bit of background so you all know what is going on in this universe, Gale organized a violent Miner's strike in District Twelve after a mine collapse, and in response, the Capitol wanted to make an example of him, and sold him to the Undersee family, who live in the Capitol in this story.
I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! I hope you all enjoyed it! Please review! And a big, massive shout out to madgesundersee (Jenny!) for making the edit you see for this story on tumblr!
And happy Gadge Day!