It begins innocently enough. He is in his garden. The scent of his flowers is filling his nose and he is feeling as relaxed as he can in his old age. As he bends to take a deeper inhale of the scent, perhaps pick a new bud for his breast pocket, something makes him turn away from the plants. Footsteps strong and assured, his legs seem to have a mind of their own as he is carried from his garden, out of his house out the front doors.
When he steps outside, however, it is not the Capitol scenery he expects. It is not a skyline full of uneven buildings that push the architects to their limits. It is not his city framed in dawn that he is greeted, but rather, a place he has only been twice. His first visit was many, many years ago. His second was only a few months old. He was in District 12.
He emerges onto the steps of the Justice Building in District 12. He turns, wanting to return to his own quarters. It is not because he is afraid, no, a great leader like himself does not feel fear, but he leaves the place because he feels contempt. The dirt of District 12 is not even worthy to grace his shoes. His eyes are too civilized to have to gaze upon the crumbling 'grand buildings', to have to look at the emaciated children so covered in coal dust that you cannot tell age or gender. He is above this place, this District 12. But when he turns to reenter his mansion, to find the solace that is only present in his garden, his Capitol home is gone, replaced with the crumbling remains of a once new, once proud Justice Building.
As he is about to try the door anyway, because logic states that if this door is how he got here than this door should be the one to take him home, he is being carried away by single-minded feet. He feels as though he is on a mission now. Although he has never had to navigate these disgusting streets (for both visitations he was both dropped off and picked up at his destination point) he feels he knows where he is going. He knows this is impossible, he has never walked these streets, but he walks with the steps of someone who has lived there their entire lives, and knows the whole of District 12 like he knows every rose bud in his garden.
The change is not subtle, it is swift. The change pounces upon you. One moment you are in the slightly respectable town. The next, you are in the Seam. He had not thought that District 12 could get any worse, but it had. None of these shacks should be considered houses, yet he saw the signs of habitation despite the early morning. Men pour out of the doors, heading for one focal point. The mine, he knows, this is where his coal comes from. He wonders, for a moment, if he should hide from the men. Surely the men were corrupt, all of them, and would jump at a chance to take his expensive jewelry and fine clothes for their own, but not a single man took notice of him. In District 12, he was invisible, and he was not used to that.
His pause was for but a second. His subconscious had a mission, and his body was abiding by it. He trekked through the streets, his shoes getting dirtier and dirtier; the coal dust snaking its way up his pant legs. He held his head proudly though, despite the state he was in. He was, after all, a very powerful man and he would always hold himself as such. Before he reached his destination, he was forced to pause again. Children were coming out of the decrepit Seam houses, and unlike the men, every child stopped and stared. Many of these children would not know who he was, being as young as they were, but they stopped and stared anyway. And, despite their youth, he stood a little straighter, made his gaze just that much more imposing. He swept his gaze across them all, and, with a unified gasp, the children fled to school and he continued his journey.
The moment he saw the place, he knew this was it. It was nothing special. It was like every other place in the Seam; dirty and small. Unlike every other home, however, it did not seem occupied. This in itself was strange. Inferring what he did from the environment around, he knew that the people would grab any chance they had for shelter and, though the place was not in great shape, it was not in poor shape either. Not by the Seam standards. Marching up the front door, he pushed it open. He didn't knock because, not only did there seem to be no residents, but he was never denied entry. No citizen in Panem could ever deny him entry.
He was right. The building had an abandoned quality to it, although furniture and slight signs of life still littered the area. He lets the door shut behind him as he walks further in, inspecting everything but touching nothing. It only takes a moment for him to realize. There are no obvious clues in the home, but there can only be one reason why he was brought here. This home, this decrepit, ugly, little shack from the Seam was hers.
An icy chill fills his heart that he chooses to ignore. It does not mean a thing. It is a sign of old age, though the Capitol scientists have been working hard to negate the pesky aging business. He looks at the place again, with a new eye. What better way to understand ones enemy, than to walk her path? But the moment he takes a step, his legs take over again. He has no explanation on why he comes to the house, only to realize whose it is, before being taken away again. But he is not allowed to look around the home, to try to glean clues to her weaknesses. He is being carried out the front door, but he does not walk out into the Seam, to coal dust lined streets, but rather the woods. He does not like the woods. Even in the poorest of Districts, there are peacekeepers, there is order, protection. Out in the woods, there is no protection. Yet, when he turns back to the hut it is gone.
He looks around, and something tells him to go north. Some instinct is telling him that north will take him back to the Capitol. So, he walks north. The walk is easy. It seems that a path just seems to appear beneath his feet, exactly as it should be. A man such as him should not have to pains. The world around him should make it good for him. He walks, and as he walks he begins to hear it. The ghostly lines of a melody.
"Deep in the meadow, under the willow"
At first, the words mean nothing. It was probably just an ancient song from his childhood, something that his mind brought forward to keep him entertained on his walk home.
"A bed of grass, a soft green pillow"
But, as he continues, the voice begins to get stronger, weaving delicately through the branches of trees that look decidedly more menacing than the ones outside of District 12.
"Lay your head down and close your sleep eyes"
He pauses for a moment, and closes his eyes, letting the words take form inside his mind. It is not a creepy song, he realizes, and that's all he needs. Besides, even the woods would not dare mess with a man like him.
"And when again they open, the sun will rise"
The morning has become sweet, he notices, feeling the taste of warmth shimmer across his tongue. He has always been a man that admired beauty and this morning was no exception. Despite his irritation at the long walk, it was nice to be out of his duties for a day. People were always so demanding. They did not realize that he was human too.
"Here it's safe, here it's warm"
As the song gets louder, a chilling understanding coats his mind.
"Here the daisies guard you from every harm"
He had almost decided he was wrong, surely what he thought could not be true, when the scene that had popped into his mind appears at his feet.
"Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true"
A meadow had appeared out of nowhere. A sea of rich, green grass had sprung out of a path of old tree leaves and bowed, rotting trunks. In the middle of the meadow, was a tiny, dark-skinned girl that the Capitol had cried for many months ago. She was wreathed in flowers. The citizens could not know about the flowers, of course, but he had seen them. And if the flowers and the child were at his feet, that meant …
"Here is the place where I love you"
That meant that the voice, the song, was her. He tensed, looking back the way he had come. Could she really be here now, could she be watching him? He spun again, facing the body of the long dead girl, but the meadow was gone, and his path was clear again. He straightened his suit jacket. He was infallible. No one would get the better of him.
"Deep in the meadow, hidden faraway"
He walked, enjoying the travelling once again, when he noticed something else about the forest, and the singing. The mockingjays had joined her. Their haunting tones mirrored her hopeful, but eerie, song. He told himself not to overreact. He was simply remembering a scene from an old games. Didn't that happen often? Yes, of course it did. The disastrous Quarter Quell was still haunting him.
"A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray"
When it happened, he thought he was seeing things. The leaves from all around him were lifted by the wind, flowing in front of him like some Capitol child on a sugar high. He dismissed it as a joy of nature, until the leaves began to solidify. The leaves molded together, and began to take shape. Before the fine features emerged, he knew. He knew who he was facing in these lonely woods, because hadn't they zeroed in on each other from the very beginning? Hadn't they recognized that they could never be anything but enemies but had been bound together by his dedication to madcap world and her mistake that she had tried to reclaim?
"Forget your woes and let your troubles lay"
She faced him on the path, and he could not move a muscle. He knew he should not be afraid of this tiny girl clothed in the Tribute outfit. And he wasn't. Of course he wasn't afraid of this little girl, no matter who she thought was standing behind her. He was not the type of man to be afraid. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.
"And when again it's morning, they'll wash away"
He hears it before he sees anything. The growling from between the tree trunks. A slight sweat breaks out on his brow. The sound is familiar, but he cannot place it. As the perspiration drips towards his eyes, he wished he could wipe it away with his handkerchief, but he cannot move. He is bound by her eyes of steel.
"Here it's safe, here it's warm"
It's still her voice filling his ears, over the inhuman growls and mockingjay trills. She looks toward the woods, and he is finally free too as well. The muttations, all twenty-one of them from the 74th Hunger Games have emerged. He remembered being in the room, watching the gamemakers create the ungodly creatures. They are not attacking, but just the sight of them is enough to make his knees go weak. He makes the mistake of looking toward her again, and he is caught within her gaze.
"Here the daisies guard you from every harm"
Behind her, the trees start to glow. First, it's so far in the distance that he thinks it is just the setting sun, but the light and the heat begin to grow, and he realizes that it is fire. The flames devour the forest, sweeping around him and her, but he knows that the trees at his back are ablaze too. He can feel it. Even the muttations are not exempt from the flame. When the fire begins to burn, it takes no prisoners.
"Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true"
The heat on his back is becoming more intense. His heart is thudding wildly. The song is still playing, her voice bouncing around within the inferno, but the girl in front of him does not move a muscle. Her eyes are locked with his while he is forced to listen to her spectral voice, the maddening call of a mockingjay, the desperate growls of the muttations and the unearthly screams that seemed to fly out of nowhere, but that he knew were the dying screams of a thousand sacrificed tributes. She walks up to him, every footstep slow, deliberate. Finally, she is almost toe to toe with him, as near as she can get while they still keep each other in full view. She opens her mouth, and mouths a sentence. He doesn't hear it, cannot catch it over the cacophony of pain that she has decided to rain down upon his mind. As the fire descends on the two of them, she spreads her arms, and he sees it again. The dress on the stage, the outfit from the hacked feeds. As flames begins to lick around his leg, beginning to consume him, she spreads her wings, letting the smoke carry her away from him, away from the country he knows will forever cast him as the villain, and her as the hero. He curses her, the true villain, the true cause of the pain, the death, as the blaze she left in her wake, finishes him off.
"Here is the place where I love you"
It never ends innocently. He awakens with a jolt in his plush, Capitol bedroom. And he knows that it is just a dream. He knows this, because the dream comes almost every night. Yet, every time it is like the first time. And he knows the dream will not go away. The never ending loop of tragedy will not end until he has doused the flame; plucked her wings. It will not be over, until she is dead, until the world has forgotten the once brilliant fury of her fire. Because she is not the hero of this story, she has been the one trying to destroy everything all along. But as he climbs out of bed to begin his day, he can still smell the smoke, and hear the sound of the mockingjay, and he knows, deep in his heart the words that she mouthed at that last moment, and that they were true. He knew the whole world was going to burn.
"If we burn, you burn with us."
So … Not totally sure if this turned out how I wanted. I own nothing affiliated with the Hunger Games. I hope I was able to capture the spirit of President Snow, and how he views Katniss. Also, I wrestled with the song choice, going back and forth from "Rue's Lullaby" to "The Hanging Tree". I finally went with the lullaby because the lullaby signified hope and I was using it in a setting where he was being overwhelmed by the fact that he is not hope, he is the fear. Anyway, I hope I portrayed everything okay. I do not own the image, it is by LovesickMelodyxo from Deviantart.
~TLL~