I don't see the man for two days. After leaving the market, I watched as he walked away, an enigma trapsing down the same street I've walked up and down my entire life. It almost seemed eerie, seeing him do so, as if he bore an answer I was eager to have a question for.
He couldn't have been very old. Perhaps around my age, maybe a few years older, but those grey eyes had held more than his number of years let on. He had that deep look. The same look I'd seen on only the elders here. The same look both my parents bore.
I think I expected to see him shortly afterwards. Roaming the shops, maybe walking the trails. Heading in a particular direction. But no. The man seems to disappear, all traces of him wiped from existence.
Nomad, I finally conclude, after bringing my game in for the second day. Nomads aren't uncommon. Not anymore. Few people wish to stay where they're raised, after living with parents that had once been condemned to one living. One lifestyle. One way of doing things. In all honesty, I wouldn't mind being one myself. Maybe that's why I'm eager to leave; to go someplace new.
I'm hunting again on the thrird day, arrow perched in the notch of my bow, aimed at a jabberjay that whistles on a high branch. A part of me doesn't want to kill it; the graceful creature, but powerful in its own way. It has the ability to mimick sounds, like live recordings flickering through the trees, whistling pieces of someone's past to each other.
They were in the Hunger Games with my parents, before my dad had been taken and the Uprising had been fully brought.
I close my eyes at the last second and let go.
The arrow makes a short hissing sound before I hear a thunk, but then a branch snaps behind me, in sinc with the arrow now lodged in the neck of the jabberjay and I twist around.
At first, I don't see anything. Nothing but light shadows, cast by the tall trees onto the dense forest floor. Then I see it. Or rather, I see him, peering down at me, his shadow ebbing away from the darkness, the light peeking through the branches scaring it away. He wears the same clothes. The same thick padded boots. The same emotionless smirk that's impossible to read. My alarm spikes as I spot his own bow gripped in his hand.
His grey eyes stare at me and I'm debating if I should point my next arrow at him, just in case.
My mind swims. What's he doing here? Had he caught me staring the other day? Who is he?
I go with a different question. "Can I help you?" I ask, my hand itching to have another arrow. I feel defenseless. Exposed. But I have to remind myself that times have changed and I wasn't alive to know how that change had taken place; to see this world as it was before, during the time of the Hunger Games. But I wait, watching as he lifts his weapon and strings it across his shoulder.
I lower my hand with my bow to my side.
He continues to stare at me, pushing away a branch. "Good shot," he says, motioning to the Jabberjay that lies at the base of the tree a few yards away. I glance at it once before meeting his gaze again. "Do you need something?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
His mouth quirks up, another unreadable expression, one that can either be deemed bemused or lingers by the branch. "Nothing more than you do. Food. Though that's what the market is for, right?"
I lift my eyebrow. "The food has to come from somewhere. Where did you come from?"
"I've always wanted to hunt here," he says. "Nostalgic purposes."
"No, from where? I've never seen you before," I say. "And I don't forget a face."
He shrugs, tapping his fingers against his leg. He motions with his other hand that it's not from around here. "You could say the territory wasn't for me."
"Which district?"
"The districts don't exist anymore," his tone sounds irritated, like it's not his first time saying it. "Just a curious traveler."
That doesn't sound curious, it sounds suspicious, but I don't say that out loud. "Who are you?"
"Isn't that a bit prying?"
"You snuck up on me," I say, voice harder than I intended it to be. "Not many people can do that."
"Not many girls can shoot an arrow through a Jabberjay twenty yards up, buried behind foliage either. I've only heard about one who could."
My hands tighten again on my bow. I don't look away as my stare deepens, as if they alone can beckon his intentions from him. "I'd be surprised if you didn't know of her," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, trying to dissolve some of the inexplicable tension that has risen in a thick cloud around us. His look is inquisitive, questioning, alluring in a way that I don't trust. "Is that why you traveled here? Anxious to meet the famous Katniss Mellark? I should let you know, her fanbase has quieted down since then."
"So you know her?" he asks, his voice even, blank. There's nothing blazing beneath his words; almost like an innocent stranger asking for directions. I shrug, but don't loosen my hold. "Yeah, but it's hard not to when you live in the same place as her."
For some reason, I don't want to tell him I'm her daughter. I don't know what he wants. I don't know him. Though it isn't hard to believe he traveled here to meet her, I'm alone in the woods with him and I don't know what kind of leverage he could glean if those are what his ulterior motives involve. People either love my mom or don't. No hero can ever be agreed upon by the world.
"I'd imagine that to be true," he says, leaning his shoulder against the tree. He looks relaxed, much more loosely wired than I feel. "I've got other matters to attend to, though."
"Right," I say with a nod. "Nostalgia."
His lips lift, a ghost of a smile. "Not mine. I'll let you get back to your hunting."
Before he goes, however, an urge creeps up inside me and before he can disappear, I ask for his name, but says nothing.
And then he's gone, his body disappearing through the woven branches.
I hunt for two more hours after that, trying not to wonder at the stranger's ambivalence. I get three more Jabberjays and a couple of squerrels, preserving them in a sack as I trek my way back. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting orange rays through the thinning treeline as I pass into the city. At the market, I get the same lower price than usual but say nothing, though my irritation makes my hands clench. Regardless, I take the money and shove it in the same sack I'd carried the squirrels in before heading home.
When I open the door, the air feels strange; charged. I don't know what it is until I walk into the kicthen, slipping the money into my pocket before disposing of the sack. Rye cooks dinner with dad, who gives me a warm smile. I'd already snuck my bow into the house through the window and no one had been paying attention as I dropped the sack in the laundry, but I still feel guilty at hiding it, especially from dad. "How was your day?" he asks, flipping something that smells delicious in a pan. It seems fancier than what he usually concocts for casual dinners and my eyebrows weave together.
"Wow," I say, watching Rye, my younger brother, spoon some kind of sauce onto an elaborate plate of meat. "Why so nice?" I ask, hoping it doesn't sound like other dinners aren't nice. My dad and brother are amazing cooks, regardless of the fact that my brother's true passion lies in scuplting, painting, and other arts he emmerses himself into.
Dad raises his eyebrows. "We have a guest tonight. You're mother is talking with him now in the living room. I invited him to dinner."
"And it was an excuse to pull out the rosemary," Rye says with a kidding grin. He's almost fifteen now, just a few years younger than me, but I do have the habit of referrring to him as my baby brother, a habit he'd like me to break. But it's hard to break that habit when you've been doing it since you were three.
A bad feeling settled over me. "Who is it?"
"Traveler," my dad says, looking up. "Had some questions. Just wanted to talk. They should be done any min-"
As if on cue, my mom walks in, her hair braided and hanging over her shoulder. She wears a black shirt and comfortable pants, smiling at the man with the unreadable expression.
"Seriously?" I say so low, I doubt anyone has heard. But the man's piercing eyes suddenly meet mine and that same ghostly smile, the faintest trace of one, appears on his lips. "I take it this is your daughter," he says, voice even-toned as he continues to look at me. I glance away. I notice he doesn't mention any prior meetings between us and I don't know how to respond as if I'm facing him for the first time.
I smile, but it doesn't feel real. "And you are?"
"Call me Lief," he says, eyes still lingering on me when I look at him again. There's a spark in them I can't place and it frustrates me; like a mask is draped over his features.
My dad claps his hands suddenly, severing the uncomfortable air. "Dinner done. Are you ready to eat?"
The food is delicious, but the conversations held over it weird to me; odd. The man sitting across from me is a complete mystery in himself and it's almost hard to picture him here, as if his presence is surreal. It's how I imagined my mom felt as she was in the Capitol; knowing it existed but feeling foreign in herself that she was actually there.
The man is quiet for a lot of the conversation, his eyes trailing between my parents as they talk and when he finally does, I focus on what he says, something not quite feeling right to me.
I catch my mom looking at him, too, but then she shakes her head as if dismissing the thought.
"In truth, I'm here to discuss some other matters that are taking up concern in the west," the man-Leif- says a half hour later, his plate scraped clean. He relaxes his elbows on the table, hands beneath his chin as he reads my parents' faces. "Some rivalry has begun there, spreading to the south and along the coast. Nobody knows what triggered it, but I was coming here to give you both this." He pulls something out- a small, square contraption that brings up a hologram.
Rye mutters "cool," but I'm too busy looking at the image shimmering before me. Two groups of people are opposing each other, shouting at each other, guns tucked around belts. A shot rings out which causes me to flinch but then the image changes to political leaders, dressed in white, discussing something from inside a private glass room. I can almost feel the tension from there, the looks the representatives give each other come mostly in glares.
"Civil unrest if you would like a particular label to it. People in the Capitol are looking to the leaders to instill force if these rebel acts or disquietness continue, but I'e also heard other therories that if you-both of you- were to travel to the Captiol and broadcast over the nation, could possibly subdue those raids."
Another image. More gunshots.
"Though the government's..agenda has changed quite significantly since the Hunger Games were dismantled, they still seem unwilling to accept the Capitol as still being the Capitol. Some say they want anarchy, others just want the Capitol gone so that a new government can be built on its ruins."
He stops the images and puts the item back in his pocket.
"Half the leaders want to instill force, the other half refuses for the claim that it could provoke another Uprising. The people still look to you two as leaders moreso than the ones put in office. Traveling to the Capitol for a week at most could give the people the reassurance they seek. Especially if your true opinions were unhindered."
"You work for the Capitol." My mom says, her tone suddenly dry. But the man shakes his head. "No, I don't. I came here on my own accord. I don't live near the Capitol. I refuse to even visit there so you could say I'm also a little concerned."
My parents look at each other and to break the uncomfortable silence, I start picking up plates.
I don't trust the man. His words, maybe. His actions, perhaps. But his identity doesn't feel right. I dumpthe plates in the sink and when I return, Leif is stading to go. He thanks my parents for dinner. "I'll be in town when you've decided," he says and walks out.
I ground my teeth together, holding a finger up as I sneak after him, closing the front door behind me. I walk down the steps. "Who are you?" I ask again, eyeing his back. He stops abruptly, raising his head as if surprised. "I've told you," he says.
But the one trait I have, developed on my own, is the keen ability to see through a lie. "I want the truth," I say. "Or I'll dissuade my parents from going."
I'm sure I'm going to attempt to dissuade them anyway, but he doesn't know that.
Leif turns halfway to me, eyes appearing from beneath his thick hair. "You're too perseptive for you're own good," he says, but he makes no move to leave as I take a few steps forward.
Who are you? I ask him again, though I don't voice the question, just continue to stare into his grey eyes, appearing dark due to the arrival of nightfall.
"I'm Leif," he says, as he starts again, putting his back to the house once more. He casts me a final look over his shoulder. "Leif Hawthorne."
