Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins, obviously. Wildfire is (c) to John Mayer. It's just a song that always reminded me of dancing at a festival in District Twelve.
If you've made it this far, then that's cool! I never post what I write, but in honor to the end of the Hunger Games in cinema form, I thought... ehhhhh, surrrreee why not; I've read enough fanfiction to go around, now it's time to give back a little.
~*~ Two: Phoenix ~*~
I died that day in the closet, I'm sure of it. I felt something strip away, some deep, integral part just break off from me and melt into the floorboards. I hadn't possessed the consciousness long enough to discern if it was something important to me or not. My mind simply ceased to exist. I didn't even possess enough of a grip on the world to suffer from nightmares.
But my body persevered against my will, and I awake to a gentle nudging and familiar far off whisper three days later.
"Get up, Katkin. We've got woods for stompin', not snoozin', and ya kent stay here all day," it whispered. Those were the same words my father said to me out at the lake during a lazy summer afternoon when we had grown fat off of mouthfuls of berries, sunflower seeds and long drags of goat milk, three months before he died. Words that have been a quiet mantra in dire straits ringing in my head ever since. They've never failed me before. Only figures they wouldn't fail me now.
I feel another nudge, like the soft shove of a mother wren to her hatchlings right before it's time to leave the nest, or one quick lick of a mountain lion to her cub after stumbling over a crop of mangled forest roots; perhaps more like the quivering wet nose of a doe on the rump of her fawn to help guide her through the meadow.
I blink, and stretch my arms, my father's jacket pooling in between my legs. My joints creak, and I am welcomed by the soft crack of light underneath the door. It's some point in the day—judging by the buttered light, it is most likely early. I rise and grip the doorknob with movements strangely fluid and capable after being cramped in the fetal position for a few days. Unlocking it, I pull it open, and it gives a creaky protest, catching on a floorboard before finally giving way. The pale, clean light of morning bursts in my face, and I reel back from the sensual overload. I peel my clothes away from my body until I stand, naked and numb in the middle of my room.
A certain clarity, an acceptance of my will to survive, thinly veiled by a jaded indifference to everything around me, helps me finally find a semblance of inner peace. It isn't really peace by any means, but it's something more than the gaping maw of sadness and despair I became so accustomed to.
I arise from my pitiful ashes scattered around the bottom of that closet with the will to at least exist. I woke up alone, as I would die alone, and there isn't a clearer, more gratifying truth than that. While different, whatever this thing is that I feel isn't life. It's acceptance. The bottom line. A willingness to go through the routines of living, but nothing else.
I stumble into my bathroom, turn on the shower as hot as it will go, and let the steam envelop me. My nipples pebble, and gooseflesh ripples up my arms and down my torso to my toes. I don't allow myself to look in the mirror naked lest I lose my nerve and crawl back into a hole again. I slide into the glass box, and close myself inside. The hot water pelts me, washing away the stale sweat and immeasurable grief clinging to my skin. I don't move, save to hug myself, and the water dribbles in between my breasts and into a triangular pool between my forearms and stomach. I grab a loofa hanging down from the showerhead and scrub my body until the skin bleeds. Pumping a few squirts of shampoo into my palm, I sud up my hair and rip out the knots. I watch the debris, dirt, matted sworls of hair circle the drain with a strange sort of liberating satisfaction.
I stay in the shower long after the water runs freezing cold and everything loses feeling. Wrapping myself up in a towel, I stalk over to the dresser and force myself to sit in front of it. As I run the comb through my hair, fat tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. I was never one for my appearance, but the brittle skeleton staring at me from the mirror with my father's hollowed eyes and dark skin and mother's high cheekbones and pointed nose bring a fresh wave of terror over me. I stare ahead to a point on the wall, and my fingers weave a thick plait into the side of my head. It wasn't the showmanship of the hairstyle I had during the games, but a tighter, more practical approach that I fasten under my ear with several bobbypins.
I lather up the seams of my scars with cream sent from the newly-formed Capitol, then slide into what-was-once a tight pair of khakis, now loosely clinging to my hipbones, and a modest hunter-green top before shimmying into my father's hunting jacket and grabbing my bow from the closet. Sleek and silent, my feet find the soundless sections of each stair with ease of muscle memory, and I go into the kitchen to make breakfast. As always, signs of Sae are present: all manner of fruits and vegetables in bowls piled around the counters, refrigerator freshly stocked with cheeses and other perishables sent over on the train from District Five, and the smell of vinegar and lavender lingering in spaces that she frequented.
Another basket sits neatly in the middle of the table, a pale blue cloth peeking out and a note with Sae's uneven chicken-scrawl sitting folded in front of it. It promises bread and bad memories, a scene I wholly avoid as I stuff a set of hunting knives into my game bag. I slide two in between my sock and boot. Perched on the bay window that overlooks the backyard, I shovel saggy eggs melted in haste to bits of cheddar into my mouth and down a glass of orange juice. I force my boots onto my feet, stuffing the cuffs of my pants haphazardly inside, lace them up, and step outside.
The sky is clear and peach-colored and the air is crisp with the sweet organic stench of leaves shedding from the trees. Light peeks out from the woods in splotches against the scenery; the morning is still relatively young. The Indian summer still lingers during this time of year, but is reaching the cusp of overstaying its welcome. I clutch my bow to my chest, and take a moment to revel.
"There's my girl!" Haymitch caws from his chair on the porch. He's up unusually early. My face darkens, and I whirl around to head off toward the woods through my backyard.
"Wait, sweetheart! Where you goin'? Don'tcha wanna hear about your boy?" I stop. Of course, I stop, and he knew I would.
As I slither to the furthest point on the porch away from him, facing outward into the center of Victor's Village with my game bag clutched in my lap, he chuckles. I hear the tinkle of liquid sloshing in his bottle as he takes a long pull from it. I lay down my bow carefully, directly in his sight, my fingers dancing along the string. My aura exudes glass daggers in his direction.
"What do you want, Haymitch," I sigh.
"What are you talking about what do I want? You disappear in that depressing hellhole of yours for days on end and then come out looking as fresh-faced as Death himself, ready to go traipsin' off into the world, and that's the tone you decide to use when all I care about is your wellbeing?"
I turn my head slowly around to level him with a scowl. He chuckles again and scratches the fat of his stomach. I continue to stare at him. Pulling himself to the edge of the seat, his look softens a bit.
"Listen, sweetheart, I'm just worried aboutcha, is all," he says. I pluck at an Irish pennant in my pants and refuse to look at him. He clears his throat, digs around in his pocket for a chew packet and stuffs one in between his left cheek and teeth as natural as the day he was born. Since appearances are no longer kept up for mentoring the Games year after year, it seems he's taken up another bad habit. Either that, or he hid it so well all these years.
"I suppose you have questions about the boy," he said with a small bit of phlegm stuck in his throat. I am ever thankful that Haymitch is on my same page, straight to the point.
"Am I in a dream or does Peeta Mellark not know who I am?" I say. My voice is strong and clear, not at all the way I feel. Haymitch knows it's an act, but he keeps up this weird mutual understanding of my pride without batting an eye.
"'Fraid so, sweetheart. The Capitol couldn't figure out what to do with him since his brain couldn't figure out what to do with you, so the Good Doc hooked him up with an 'experimental invasive procedure' to essentially erase you from his memory entirely."
"So I don't exist at all, according to his brain?"
"I'd say not."
"Well that's convenient," I say. "Kinda curious why they didn't do that in the first place."
"Mind you, this Capitol is just trying to help," Haymitch says.
The irony in his voice is not lost on me.
"How would he not just learn about me and the procedure from everyone else in the District?"
"Well, we've all been… instructed to keep you a bit hush-hush when talkin' to him, for the better of his health and all that shit. Seems to be working pretty well, since you've all but disappeared for a year and a half, and most of the folks in Twelve have had enough drama for several generations. Your name doesn't pop up that much anymore. Besides, yesterday was his first day back to Twelve."
"Does he suffer from the hijacking?" I ask. It's almost a whisper.
"Not that I've noticed. Doc says he's doin' just fine."
"Do you know what he does remember?"
"Welll… they made some tweaks here and there. Prim," he pauses to take a swig of liquor and for me to regain my composure from hearing her name, "is intact, as well as the memory of your mother. They obviously couldn't erase the entire war, but they switched things around a bit so that her death coincided with his victory in the Games. That sparked a rebellion, in which he became a prisoner of war, and a ragtag band of rebels, including your Mr. Hawthorne and myself, among others, rescued him and brought down the Capitol in a slightly skewed replica of what actually happened. Snow died of 'natural' rebel causes, as did Coin."
"How do you even do that? Fake memories," I snarled. My knuckles were white as I gripped the end of the porch.
"I'm supposin' in a less painful and fear-inducing way that Snow did," he says. "For better or worse, it seems pretty permanent, especially with the way your introduction went down the other day." Grabbing an empty bottle, he brings it to his lips and spits a long string of chew into it.
I scoff and stand up.
"Now don't go runnin' off just yet. What happened over there? I got an idea from the boy. He was pretty shooken up that a poor skinny girl was starvin' to death in the house of a famous dead family. I insisted he not worry his newly-pretty little head about it 'cause wild animals tend to take care of themselves." He gave me a sideways look. "Of course, he still left you a few loaves of bread for Sae to bring in for the mornings."
"Since when have you wanted to talk so much?" I leap off the porch, strapping my bow and bag around my shoulder and whirl around to face him.
"Well, sweetheart, that would be since this was the first time I actually got worried you were gonna die," he said, followed by another spit into the bottle. "There's more than just that boy that cares about you."
"Yeah, well, I don't think that's the case with him anymore," I said, sweeping my arm toward my house in reference to my botched encounter with Peeta. I noticed rows and rows of neatly-planted primroses smiling back at me as they marched along the front of the house and around the corner. I turned away from them as if they were going to set me on fire.
"I'm not much of a bettin' man, but once he gets to know you, for better or worse, he'll fall in love all over again. Lovin' your prickly ass is in his DNA." Again with the sarcasm.
I don't know when Haymitch became such a fan of mine and Peeta's love life, but it makes me uncomfortable, even more so now that the 'starcrossed lovers' don't know how to love each other anymore. Perhaps we never really knew. That is typically the case with those doomed to be "star-crossed."
"'Course… you could save yourselves both the trouble and just stay away from him too," he shrugs.
"That's the only thing I can do," I murmur to myself. That was the least I could do for the boy with the bread, after all this time. Here he was with a fresh start, unburdened by painful memories of our tumultuous romance (if you could call it that) and the shadows of so many that died with or because of me. Regardless of how I felt, or the sadness I carried because of his absence, I couldn't allow myself to mess that up for him.
I want to cry, but the tears won't come.
"I'm leaving so try not to oversaturate yourself while I'm gone." I make a beeline for the path laid out to town. The woods sprawl out in the distance, the trees seemingly shifting to my oncoming presence in a welcoming gesture.
"Land me a big one, sweetheart," he calls.
I decide, against my better judgment, to be swept away with the spontaneity of curious instinct and continue along the path into town. I had left Victor's Village all of two times: once, to receive the small box of ashes that were presumably my sister's, mixed in with soot, and crumbled stone, and the ashes of other children (this alone sent me into a fresh wave of unending nightmares for a month straight), and the only other previous attempt to walk in the woods (which resulted in me climbing up a tree, falling asleep, and waking up to a flashback of the first Games).
In those days, I didn't possess the strange resolve to exist that I do now. It makes me giddy, almost invincible. That should be the first clue to retreat and regroup with a better-thought-out strategy to how I am to spend my time. But I'll take it—it's a fresh change from spending my days wishing I could die.
It has been about a year and a half since coming back to Twelve, and a lot of the town has largely been rebuilt. Buildings in various states of construction line the main street on to where the Seam used to squat, four of which are in full operation. Several plots are lined out with brick borders for more.
The Town is bustling, surprisingly, and I sorely wish for a hood as I pass by the open-faced stores where throngs of people who had the guts to return along with me start to stare and whisper. Many of them I don't recognize, although it is a swarming sea of blonde-haired blue-eyed Townies (most of whom are much scrawnier and humbled-looking than before the war). Some market patrons have the fair, sun-kissed skin and rich oily hair of District Four, others still have the broad hulking muscles from the hard labor of District Seven and District Ten.
I feel weird being around people after having kept such a great distance from them after the war. No one bothers coming up to Victor's Village. There are only whispers of death and self-medicating ghosts there. Although it perturbs me, I can hardly be surprised at the glances I'm given—as if I still wear dirt on my shoulder from climbing out of the grave.
It takes me a good while to pick through the outskirts of Town, sticking to the shadows when I can, my nostrils flaring with the smell of cooking meat, sweat, and autumn leaves. While the war stripped me of too much to sanely recollect, I'm pleased that my keen senses remain. The hunter's blood of my father and grandmother still sings through my veins.
People flock to and fro, moving things, and yelling across the street. Their jittery energy crackles in the air around me, and I subconsciously feed from it. Colored streams of paper, hanging lanterns on sticks, bushels of hay, and barrels of whiskey are toted and rolled along the streets, heading toward the central point of Town. I find myself unable to follow them there. A strange heaviness, like an invisible boundary, or perhaps a mental defense mechanism keeps me a safe distance away from the part of town where the bakery used to be.
A few dark-skinned Eleven souls prick my attention from the crowd, huddling meek and close together over a basket of goods. I catch the eye of one of them, who gives a single solemn nod in my direction before returning to a price discussion with her other family members. The crowd starts to press in on me as the word "mockingjay" flutters about more frequent than I care to acknowledge. I plaster on a scowl and continue past the stores in Town, dipping out to a side path that leads to the Hob.
My heart wrenches against my sternum and warmth spreads in my abdomen. Of course the Hob remains. It was the first thing to be rebuilt, growing up like an ornery weed against the will of any Capitol, this one or the next. There is still rubble strewn about, although nature is starting to reclaim it. Kudzoo sprawls across the crumbled rocks, broken lumber, and ash as long spindly fingers reaching out from the neighboring foliage.
In the Hob is where I find my olive-skinned, grey-eyed, curly black-haired Seam brethren. There are almost as many people in here as there is in Town. Despite the Old Capitol being overthrown and the Town having opened its arms to welcome people from all walks of life, we are creatures of comfort and habit, and flock back to old stomping grounds. Few look up to see me as I enter, and those who do give me a silent nod of recognition. I am not a spectacle here, just another Seam sister here to do my business and get out.
It's nice to be able to walk around with my bow and bag strapped across my back.
I meander slowly through the different stalls. The air is different in the Hob, less gloomy and unforgiving. The mines were obviously shut down with the war as they posed a tremendous hazard from the bombs having rustled up the earth in Twelve. Haymitch, on one of his news-bearing visits, mentioned talk of the Capitol working on installing hydro grids to each of the Districts for electricity. I tuned him out when he mentioned something about BeeTee and Gale being co-heads for the project. As of now, we turn to rationing the coal reserves stocked up at a compound at the edge of town for our fuel needs. Who knows how long that is to last.
Each of the shopkeepers is busy whittling away at sewing things, or preparing food, or stacking items on tables. There aren't too many, but every stall boasts a significant assortment of wares coming from the Capitol allotments sent via train every two weeks—bits of cloth, richly-colored yarn, ingots of raw metal, tools of all shapes and sizes, bags of grain and flour and seeds for gardening. Or what people could scrounge up from the aftermath. I shy away from the older burnt-looking items as the memories and sadness threaten to creep into my psyche again.
"Katniss!" I hear a voice that sounds like crunching paper and sifting soot call out from across the way. "Katniss, chil'!" I weave in and out of folk and find myself faced with Greasy Sae behind a giant black cauldron sitting atop a weeping wooden table. It looks like she scraped together some old lumber and pieced it together on top of some rocks. A few rickety stools sat under her makeshift bar, alongside some giant boulders situated as seats. Resourceful as always.
"Hey, Sae," I say, meek and quiet so as not to attract attention to myself. Sidled up to the bar are some workers, most likely helping to build back the town, yet instead of taking an early lunch in town, they take the long way to the Hob for some of her stew. They sit with their backs to me, hunched over a beaten metal bowl of stew and a mug of white liquor with their dusty hard hats casually strewn at their feet and against the bar. I slide into a stool, and she places a steaming bowl in front of me. The soup inside is brown, with a thick consistency, and rich Capitol-sent vegetables and plump starchy potatoes bobbing along the surface. I spy one or two small slivers of dark beef partially-submerged. Strong hints of rosemary and pepper waft up along with the steam.
"Could use some of your meat, chil'," Sae says, giving me the side eye as she ladles up a heaping portion and slides it along the bar to a newcomer. A few men at the bar, all Seam, grunt in agreement, no doubt remembering the sweet gamey taste of venison and basil in Sae's stew, all those ages ago.
"I'm working on it," I mumble, and slurp the last bit of stew from the bowl. Some tucked away part of me resurfaces, wishing for a corner of bread to slop up the remaining juices. I reel backward with a groan and shove the bowl in Sae's direction. My heart beats fast in my ears. I never want to think of bread again.
She hums in affirmation, although to what, I don't know. Greasy Sae's a very perceptive woman, and she has been on Earth longer than most in this District (or likely all of Panem). Whatever she sees, she doesn't say.
"The Hawthorne boy's back," she says instead. I think she's trying to give me a heart attack. My gaze cuts to her, as sharp and swift as one of my arrows, and her crow's feet wrinkle as she grips my hand. Her palms are warm and maternal, and eclipse my fingers. "He wants you to teach him how to hunt. Says he's plenty old 'nough now," she says.
Ah, Rory. I sigh. "Where is he living now?" I ask tentatively.
"The Capitol's built up a house for the Hawthornes round the east side a' town, northern part of your woods," she says, and lets go with a final squeeze. "Our boy's a hero up in the city and has a buncha folks pullin' strings for 'im and his family. Their mama's not to keen on city livin,' and misses the trees and soot. Brought herself and 'er brood about three days ago, I reckon."
So no Gale. Figures. Maybe he's worried I'd notch and arrow and aim it for his brain before the train was able to dock at the station. I'm worried this is probably true.
"I'll head over on my way back in," I say.
"Good idea, honey," she says in a knowing manner. "Although he's takin' the little 'un to the festival in Town tonight once he's done settin' up. You ought to meet 'em there," she adds.
"Festival?" I ask.
A man a few seats down from me pipes up. "Suppose ta be a celebration from the Capitol about the District comin' together and rebuildin'. Last brick laid on the Town Council building a few days ago, so they sent in a buncha food an' spirits an' decorations an' the like. A few a tha boys'll be playin' music and there's already a dancin' square set up in tha middle a Town."
"They're tryin' to call it the Autumn Equinox Ceremony to mark the end of tha harvest an' summer an' crap," a younger fellow at the end says.
That explains the hustle and bustle I saw.
"Either way, it'll be free food n' drink, an' a way for everyone ta get out of the house," Sae says. Her grey eyes meet mine as I slide away from the booth. I give a nod to her and the boys sitting around her stall.
"Seeya 'round, Katniss," a few of them murmur before returning to their soup.
Once I reach the outskirts of town to the east of the Hob, I am met with vines and large outcroppings of weeds peeking over the chainlink fence. I take a deep breath, all grass and autumn still swirling with a twinge of summer, and take off running. I pump my legs as fast as they will go, leaping over large cuts of rock, precarious plantlife, and fallen logs, and manage to dart into the opening in the fence. My chest tightens as a sticky nostalgia crashes over me, the memories threatening to leave me drained. Somehow, I can still smell Gale here, his woodsy musk mixed with the lye soap Hazelle used to wash their clothes with. My lungs burn, but I urge my legs to move faster until I all but tumble down the hill to where the meadow lays.
I sprawl out on the ground, and there are bugs crawling, and dandelion seeds sent flying, and the long stalks of grass crumpling underneath me poking into my back, but I don't care. I fill my lungs with as much oxygen as possible, pulling in the mountain air and counting so slow with the exhale that my head swims. Somewhere in my mind is the fact that there are people buried under this dirt, but I push that thought away. Everything around me is so fresh and alive and present, and I find it difficult to believe that I had been so willing to curl into the darkness only days before.
Oh, to only wake up on good days.
I lie there, watching the sun crawl across the sky and think about nothing. I take my sweet time to head into the woods and send a few arrows flying into the trees to test myself. At the beginning, most of them miss their mark and skitter off into the leaves, but after shaking off a bit of rust, I'm able to hit my mark a good percentage of the time. Certainly not the stats of my glory days, but for only an hour's worth of practice, I am satisfied with the results.
A fat rabbit hops along, rustling up some leaves and taunting me. I notch an arrow, and aim at the spot between its flank and front leg, so quiet and still I can feel a bead of sweat dribble down my face and hear it splotch onto a dry leaf. I sit there only to watch the hare, lazy and indifferent to my presence entirely, hop away from me into the nearby brush.
My muscles are stiff and the ache is sweet. A greenish-blue bruise blooms on my left forearm as a result of the waning of my skills, and I won't be hunting for a few weeks until I regain my strength, but I feel alive. I arrive at Gale's meeting spot, our rock, and circle around to check the patches we used to frequent for mushrooms. I gingerly pluck a couple of caps and toss them in my bag, along with the various greens I find along the way. My palm lingers on the rock, which has remained cool to the touch as it sits below the full canopy of the forest. I push all thoughts aside and focus only on my exhaustion as I make my way back to Town.
It is mid-evening when I scootch in between the fence to the other side. The illumination from town grows as the sun drips down past the horizon and casts a warm milky glow in front of me.
I know I shouldn't. There is no reason for me to partake in this festival as it only serves as a celebration of my sister's death and all those who sacrificed their lives in war, but I find my feet taking the path into the middle of Town anyway. The urge to see the Hawthornes must be stronger than my self-preservation, and I am too tired to argue semantics with myself.
I slink in between two newly-formed buildings and am swallowed up by the throng of people in the middle of Town. Town buildings encircle a large square bordering a fountain. There is a large statue of a mockingjay bursting into flight among several squirts of water, and a stone plaque sitting at its base, which I refuse to read. The Town Council building (to me it will always be the Justice Building) sits as a backdrop shadow to the fountain and the scene going on around me.
I am blown away. Never would I have imagined that there would be this many people in District Twelve all at once, let alone in the middle of Town Square, and I stand in shock for a few moments. There are wooden stalls set up like a miniature marketplace, boasting games, and woven straw goods, and sweets, and face paints, and floating candles. Children dart from every which way, clacking sticks together and weaving flowers and feathers in each other's hair, and people of all shapes and colors stand in large circles over plates of food and sizable drinks. Music tinkers from somewhere across the square amidst the laughter and amicable banter of festivalgoers.
Night is falling, and the party has only just begun.
A fire pit sits off a ways, and a giant full-sized sow slow-roasts on a spit over the fire's open face. The smell of old-world barbeque and fried food plumes forth from a tent. I make my way inside and weave through the crowd to the edge of a long buffet-style table. I stand there and watch as people flock around it, exiting the tent with heaping plates of sweet-smoked pork falling off the bone, fluffed mashed potatoes stuffed with garlic and goat cheese, fat drumsticks bursting forth with dark turkey meat, plump piles of butterbeans and stalks of oiled asparagus. I see fried corn hoecakes, steaming bowls of butternut squash soup, and candied yams, whole quarters of pumpkin or mince pie with whipped buttercream and honeyed drizzle, generous cuts of filleted fish straight off the train from Four, several-bean salads, sticks of peppermint bark, casseroles of all types only to be washed down with mugs of ale, or white liquor, iced tea or hot white chocolate or anything I could possibly imagine. I haven't seen a spread like this since the train ride during the first Games. And even then, it may have not been this large.
Most people have a few slices of different types of bread stacked on their plates, bursting forth with nuts and herbs and cheese and all mixtures of heady yeasty goodness. I cannot see where the buffet ends or begins for all the people, but I'm not about to explore it too extensively. I'm afraid of what (or who) I might find there.
Several people recognize me, mostly Townsfolk or those from other districts (the Seam folk as I noticed earlier tend to respect my space a little more), and squeeze my shoulder or grasp my hands to whisper words of thanks or well wishing, and it makes me dizzy. My name buzzes around me and catches like wildfire, spreading quickly out into the crowd and beyond my reach.
Nighttime has settled and the moon hangs fat and low in the sky. I hurriedly ladle something into a mug and steal away to circle of seats away from the food tent to regain my bearings. I grip my game bag close to me, taking a sip, and consider leaving. Hot chocolate foam sits on my upper lip and I lick it clean.
"KA'NISSS!" Someone squeals, and a tiny body slams into my lap. I pull my mug away as quick as possible to avoid the inevitable spill and set it on a table next to me. Posy wraps her skinny arms around and snuggles her face into my stomach. I swivel her around on my lap to get a good look at her, all twiggy limbs, large doe eyes, and long brown hair done up in two braids, and crush her to me.
"Poseybear!" I cry, finally remembering I had a voice to speak with. "When'd you get here?"
"Me 'n' Mama jus' got to tha festival, Rory's been here alllllll day, 'n' Rory 'n' Mama were gettin' some food, and we heard people talkin' about you, 'n' I ran away to find you 'n a'course I found you first!" She peeps. "Mama! Rore!" She calls, looking back into the tent. "They're comin'," she says, all satisfied as she gives me a toothy grin.
"How old are you now, little Bear?" I ask, gripping one of her braids and tickling her chin with the end. She giggles and pushes my hands away. She looks like a miniature Hazelle down to the short block nose, but she's got those striking Seam eyes I know so well, a bluish slate grey. A color rivaled only by those that sit in her eldest brother's face. I brush a clump of jagged bangs from her eyes.
"I'm nine, a'course," she says.
"And a heap of trouble, too," a woman's voice says warmly behind me. Posy leaps off of me and I jerk to my feet. I whip around, coming face to face with the second eldest Hawthorne boy. Hazelle stands off to the side, a grin wrinkling her face.
"Oh God," I breathe, and Rory pulls me into a pair of long lanky arms. Hazelle closes the gap between us shortly after, gripping us both in a mother bear hug as Posy squeezes in and hugs our legs. We hold each other for a few moments, and I breathe them in, the flesh of my second family. My face is pressed against Rory's chest, and he smells of pine in a way that all the Hawthornes do.
I only then realize how much it is that I miss this family.
"Hey, baby," Hazelle mumbles into my hair. "You takin' care of yourself?" All I can do is nod.
"You're so tall now," I whisper with my head tilted upward to get a good look at Rory. A clear image of him and Prim tumbling around in the dirt between our Seam houses as Gale and I take off to the woods crosses my memory. Rory seems to see it in his own mind, and he squeezes my hand and flashes me a smile, one that's small and shy. He never was one for words but more of a boy of careful consideration and deliberate action. And although he wore the same olived skin, narrow nose, and dark curls, he held none of the explosive fire of his older brother. Now he wears a quiet sadness.
I know, because I wear the same one.
"All tha Seam boys grow fast once they've hit fifteen," Hazelle says, and ushers us all to sit down at the table with one sweep of a mother duck's wing. She sets another mug in front of me, and my nose is instantly met with notes of chocolate mingled with mint. "Although at this rate, Rore's gonna be the tallest of 'em all."
"Mama, am IIIiiii gonna grow like a Seam boy?" Posy chirps from behind her plate. Hazelle lifts a steaming fork of sweet potatoes to her lips.
"Not if I keep haventa help you remember how to eat," Hazelle chids.
"But Mamaaaaaaaaaa, I don't like these!" Posy frowns and turns away.
"It's that or sprouts, and you like those less," Hazelle warns. Posy immediately grips the fork and stuffs the bite into her mouth. She chews with no small amount of indignation, pointedly looking everywhere but her mother.
"Where's Vick?" I suddenly realize.
"Ma made 'im stay back at the house until he shaved the ash fuzz from his upper lip," Rory says with a grin.
"No son of mine's gonna step foot off that porch without a clean-shaven face," she explains gruffly. "An' if he's too stubborn to look respectable, he can stay at home with extra chores for all I care. Plenty a boxes to unpack from the move."
I bring the mug to my lips, which I find are upturned in a smile. I am content to bask in the glow of people still alive that I love.
"Looks like you brought the meadow with you," Rory says as he plucks a long stalk of grass from the back of my head. "You head out today?" He gently taps the bruise on my forearm.
I give him a quick nod.
"Didn't shoot anything, though," I say. "Sae told me you were looking to hunt. It's gonna be a while before I shake all the rust off."
He shoots me a look of quiet understanding. "Sos long as you let me know the next time." He shrugs and casts his gaze to the middle of the Square, where a centralized crowd is gathering. The band has relocated to a smattering around the fountain, and a section of the Square is blocked off.
"Rore's playin' his fiddle tonight, Miss Ka'niss, isn't that neat?!" Posy exclaims in between a mouthful of peas and pearled onions.
"And it's about damn time we have some decent music around here too." Haymitch stumbles into view from the food tent. Who would have thought he was sober enough to know there was a festival.
Each of his hands curl around a mug of what I can only assume to be full of what liquor. He flings himself into a seat across the table from me, thrusts one of the mugs in the air as a mock toast at me and takes a long pull from it. "I'm tired of this honky Townie shit. All brass and no string. You better go out there and put 'em all to shame, Middle Hawthorne."
Rory says nothing, and it's either the glow from the raging bonfire freshly tended or a blush spreads across his cheeks, I can't rightly tell. He takes that as a cue, and as graceful as a stalking wildcat, he pulls himself from the chair and slinks off toward the procession. Sure enough, a fiddle-shaped case thunks against his back as he walks, getting lost in the crowd.
"KATNISS EVERDEEN?" Something shrill sounds off to the left of me, and barely in the blink of an eye, Effie Trinket stands in front of me. She is markedly watered down from her Hunger Games days, having ditched the wigs and neon colors in favor of a more conservative palette, although much better put together than her time in district Thirteen. Her hair is still big and curly, a pale gold this time, and she's settled for a comfier ensemble of white chiffon blouse and pencil skirt. Some golden bangles clink around her wrists, denoting her arrival.
"Tone it down, Princess, everyone can hear you over the music playing-"
She is quivering and squealing, barely able to contain herself and as I begrudgingly oblige her by standing up, she explodes into a cramping embrace. I had reluctantly grown to love her too over the years, having seen how she cared for me in her own way, but already as stifling as this festival was, I know she would be the one to smother me.
"Katniss, Katniss, Katniss, darling! How are you? Have you been getting my letters, or is the post running foul down here again? I have a few things of yours, but I was afraid to send them via train, the damn thing's still pretty unreliable this far out, but I brought them with me, of course. I think you'll really enjoy them. I came by your house and you weren't there earlier, and Haymitch didn't even have the mental capacity to tell me you were coming to the festival. Ugh, I can't believe they left you in the hands of that filthy drunk, gracious knows he can barely keep himself sitting upright—"
"As you can see, I'm right here and doin' just fine sitting upright, your majesty, and now if you're quite done with your caterwauling before sweetheart shits her pants—"
"Haymitch," I warn. He holds his palms out to me, mouthing his half-hearted apology as Effie squeezes my hand (she's about the 200th person to do that today) and takes a seat next to him.
"Isn't this great? Everyone came to District Twelve to help rebuild things here first because you were hit the hardest," she says. "And also because it is home to the Mockingjay (she looks around and whispers as she says this), and the birthplace of freedom from the Old Capitol! I'm surprised they have built things up so quickly! It's simply marvelous! Pretty soon we'll have specials running about the rebuilding going on around in the districts, won't that be great, darling?"
I nod, and stare down into the half-consumed contents of my mug. The air around us sags as topics of conversation are steadily inching towards things (and inevitably people) I don't want to or will not talk about.
I groan, and find myself wondering why I left the quiet confines of my house in Victor's Village when Hazelle pipes up again.
"I can't imagine you'd go out there and sing for us, Katniss baby," she says, her eyes bright and curious.
"I don't think newborn District Twelve is ready for the hauntingly sober notes of Acker Everdeen in the Hanging Tree, as portrayed by the ex-Mockingjay on the night of a festival celebrating jovial forgetfulness," Haymitch says. Effie smacks him hard in the shoulder and whispers a stern talking-to furiously into his ear. He groans and tries to scoot away from her.
Just then, a squeal from Rory's fiddle rings out and effectively silences the crowd. I am thankful for the distraction as the band belts out the beginnings of an Old World bluegrass song. The melody peals from a pair of violins out into the night, and Rory's bow blazes a fire across the fiddle strings. It's only about two minutes in before a couple breaks the shyness of the crowd and heads to the dancing square. Everyone else erupts into a following behind them. The night is renewed as long cotton skirts are thrown into the air from men twirling their partners around. I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, my artificial ear capturing the enhanced overture of all the sounds around me, and wiggle in my chair with intentions to leave.
"Vickoriah Hawthorne, we're over here!" Hazelle shouts next to me, and her youngest son materializes into view, a pout plastered over his face. He doesn't look to be a day over thirteen, and he's sprouted up like a cattail, stringy and hunched over in apology to his mother. He presses a bandaid underneath his left nostril.
"Take me 'n' Miss Katniss dancing!" Posy yells in Vick's face and nearly knocks the glasses from his ears. He wrenches his head towards me and stares with eyes wide and mouth open, now having seen a ghost, and a blush creeps over his face. Hazelle knocks him upside of his head, and he dips his head down.
"Evenin,' Miss Katniss," he says. He looks down at his shoes and wrings his hands together.
"Hey, Vick," I say.
"VICK, DANCINNNnnn," Posy whines, taking a hold of his hand and yanking him in the direction of the square and the bonfire. She grips my index and middle fingers in a tiny palm and tugs at me to leave my seat.
I shake my head and gently pull my hand from hers. "I was just about to leave, Poseybear. I had a long day in the woods and I'm tired."
"Naw, Sweetheart, it'll do you good to jostle up your bones with Young Hawthorne, here. Go have a dance." Haymitch smirks, and it looks wicked. I shoot him an angry scowl. He just looks at me from behind his white liquor, obnoxious and smug.
"Yeah, Miss Ka'niss, dance with ussss!" Posy tugs on the sleeve of my hunting jacket.
That protective part of me, the survival instinct that has kept me alive all these years, sings in my veins. It nudges me in the direction of Victor's Village, reminding me of the safe sanctity of the death prison of my bedroom. I have had more action today than I've had in the past year, and I have rightly deserve my rest. I don't want to use up all my mojo in one day because I'm not sure if I'll ever get it back again.
But Posy looks up at me with those doe eyes, and Hazelle smiles at me with her gentle wrinkles, and I can't say no to either. I sigh, crestfallen, and allow the little girl to pull me and her brother toward the bonfire and dancing crowd.
I watch as Effie stands up and twirls around Haymitch's chair. "I wouldn't mind a dance either, you old fart. Teach me how to square!" She says. She grabs him by the hand, and he lets loose a string of swears, but begrudgingly stands to his feet. Not even he can say "no" to her.
There are some times that I am reminded why I love Effie.
"Just one dance, Posy," I yell over the crescendoing music and laughter. Vick looks like a cat being dragged by the tail to a bath.
Conveniently, the song changes to a tune I remember my father would hum as he twirled my mother around the house. An old-world pre-District song, something from their high school days, when things were happier, and they didn't have anything to worry about but each other. A duet between the guitar and banjo squeals into the air as they establish the melody, and people surrounding the dance square clap their hands to the beat.
Despite myself, the energy and music is catching, and I smile and twirl Posey and Vick around. We swirl and stomp with the crowd. A few of the boys in the band sing, and I catch Rory's voice intermingled with the others.
"River's strong you can't swim inside it, we could string some lights up the hill beside it, tonight the moon's so bright, you could drive with your headlights out, 'cause a little bit of summer's what the whole year's all about."
We all swirl around, and people switch partners. Vick and Posy twirl away from me, and I find myself with an older Seam woman. She swings me around, all smiles and wrinkles and laughter, and mouths the words to me. I join in with the chorus, dusting off the gears in my brain to remember the words.
"You look fine, fine, fine, put your feet up next to mine, we can watch that water line get higher and higher; say, say, say, ain't it been some kind of day, you and me catching on like a wildfire."
As I twirl, in my peripheral, I see the telltale mop of curls a few couples away from me and my veins run cold. All of a sudden it's like I climbed a tree and the branch broke without any warning, sending me slamming into the ground and knocking the air out of my lungs.
Peeta bobs back and forth with his legs in place, never much of a dancer (or musically-inclined at all), bent over a pair of long slender legs partially-hidden by a side-cut cotton dress. I notice the hitch in his movements as he overcompensates slightly for the metal of his prosthetic kissing too close to the sensitive skin of his leg nub. My eyes travel up the legs to rest on his gentle hand at her hip, the other hidden, but the way his arm is bent tells me he cups her cheek with an equally as gentle hand. His face is obscured in their unruly blonde explosion of hair, mingling together as intimately as their bodies are. The crowd surges, pushing me and my partner closer to him.
No.
I want to scrabble away but find myself unable to move.
"Don't get up just to get another, you can drink from mine, we can't leave each other, we can dance with the dead, you can rest your head on my shoulder if you want to get older with me, 'cause a little bit of summer makes a lot of history."
No. No.
I stumble over my feet, and am jostled from the Seam woman by a tumultuous sea of elbows and legs and twirling and laughter and singing and music and festival. There's no way I can prevent myself from doing anything else:
I careen right into Peeta and the girl in his arms.