A/N: I, for one, can't believe that I've done this to Gale. But it's necessary. You'll see.
"Mining accident." It's all that's needed to send both the watching girl and her little sister into a panic. Neither of the girls is old enough to harvest coal yet, but the boy is, and the announcement is devastating.
The watching girl is out the door before the sirens have played for a single heartbeat. In the streets, she shoves through the crowds until she comes to the little house bursting with a family. She counts heads – one, two, three, four – but only four.
"Where is he? The Hob?" she asks the woman trying to herd her children to the square. "Please tell me he's at the Hob."
The woman shakes her head, tears beginning to slide down her face. "He's working."
The girl's eyes widen, and she's gone again. At the edge of the mines she clutches the rope as her mother did years before, all too aware of the horrible déjà vu. But now she understands the dread and despair, how it's nearly impossible to move and yet it kills to be motionless.
Please let him live, she thinks, over and over again, a mantra that is the only thing keeping her sane. The elevators shoot up and down, up and down, vomiting soot-blackened miners into the light of day. First the uninjured, and he's not among them. There are so many trips up to the surface, and none carry the boy.
Then she sees him – one of the loads of injured. He pushes the men into the clean air and then, as she screams his name, descends once more.
"What's he doing?" the woman beside her asks, with the children huddled close. "Why?" Nobody has an answer. The only responses are sympathetic, pitying looks.
The day wears on and again and again he plays the hero, making sure the others are saved before he goes back to rescue more. He must hear, must know that the girl is watching and wondering, and so is his family, but he gives no sign of it.
The elevator has just dropped out of sight when a colossal explosion makes the girl's teeth rattle. She wails, so far beyond her normal featureless mask. The mine captain makes his way to them, face grave.
"I'm sorry," he says. "There's no way he could have survived that."
Even as he speaks, a roar rises from the crowd and everyone turns to look. The elevator has risen one final time, along with a cloud of smoke. As the doors creak open, black dust and gases billow out, and three workers stagger into the sunlight. The girl peers around the captain, searching desperately.
He's not there. A hollow deadness in the girl's chest tells her that it is over, that there is no hope. But one of the miners is saying something. The watching citizens fall quiet.
"He's in there!" the haggard insists. "He's hurt bad. He needs help!"
Two men hurry forward and are engulfed in the smoke still streaming from the elevator. The crowd waits with baited breath. Though most have never heard the boy's name or even seen him, today he's become almost a celebrity.
The relief is palpable as the men return, supporting a prone figure between them. The boy's clothes are torn and black, his skin is streaked with ash and sweat. Blood streams from a cut on his forehead. But worst of all is his right arm. It hangs at an awkward angle, bone poking out from the flesh, which is charred and blackened. It's barely even bleeding, it's that bad.
The girl makes a choked sound in her throat, half relief and half horror. She darts forward, the boy's mother right behind her, only to be pushed back by a world-weary woman with blond curls and an expression of extreme focus.
"Get the table ready," she tells the girl. "We'll be there soon."
"But, Mother-"
"Now."
With one last look at the boy, who has fallen unconscious, the girl turns and runs back to the house. She's never been comfortable around wounds, but this is different. This time he needs her, and, if she's honest, she knows that she needs him.
Please let him live.