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Opening quote by Ray Bradbury. Overused, it is. Honestly, I don't know what it is about it that's so lovely.
Love, Thorns and Fire
VIII.
The Conflagration
"What is it about fire that's so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it?...The thing man wanted to invent, but never did...If you let it go on, it'd burn our lifetimes out. What is fire? It is a mystery."
I'm glad I'm here instead of Prim. More than ever.
That's the first thing to rush through my mind when three people who'd introduced themselves as Venia, Octavia and Flavius sink their multicolored claws into me. I couldn't stand the thought of perfect strangers touching her like this - even though they aren't lewd or improper, in fact they are treating me like a somehow charming work assignment. As if it was perfectly normal for them to take a person and subject them to all kinds of highly embarrassing torture with an excited smile. Experience by experience, the reality of the situation sinks in. For them I'm a tribute. Payment requested by the Capitol in unfair punishment for the offences of our long-dead ancestors, to do with as they please.
I reckon my beautiful little sister, whom I'd protected from all the hardships I possibly could, wouldn't need as much attention as I do - older, callused and scarred from years of striving for survival in the woods that I am – but still… they'd have absolutely no right to strip her naked and inspect her to make sure her body complies with their beauty standard.
Apparently, mine is well below the lowest notch. They scrub and peel and depilate my skin, discussing all my flaws in high-pitched voices, in between random reminiscing about past Games and wondering about the impeding round. And most often, telling me how amazing I will be once they are done with me. I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from telling them I've received more pleasurable votes of confidence even without an ounce of their help, and now I only feel dirtier with every procedure and with the application of every new 'beautifying' substance.
What do they think they can achieve?
Gale can make me feel beautiful with a single glance. Wonderful with a smile. Perfect with a touch. I shiver slightly, quickly suppressing the memories of our lovemaking mere hours ago, in irrational fear my prep team will pluck them away too to rid themselves of the natural opposing force. Because whatever they do, their efforts can't come nowhere near to making me feel that desirable.
But they don't know that, and I don't think I could stop them from trying by telling them. Heeding Haymitch's advice and my own assessment that this indeed isn't the time and place to fight, I grit my teeth and hold still. I can't show them how much they are getting to me already. They'd barely started, and I don't even fully know what am I going to need all my strength for.
Closing my eyes tightly, I concentrate on the last glimpse of Gale's face I'd caught before we were led our separate ways; recalling all the tiny details that may be lost forever by now: the sunburn gracing his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, the slight chapping of lips, the dark stubble he hadn't deigned to take care of since before our last free adventure, the unruly hair already growing out from the haircut I'd given him myself few weeks ago. Which wasn't perfect to begin with and we laughed about it till our stomachs hurt, and then kissed, and then it suddenly was perfect and I slipped my fingers into his hair and messed it up just how I liked it...
I scrunch my eyes a little tighter, and resist the urge to ball my fist when I imagine another trio of well-meaning idiots touching him. I know they have nothing against me; they seem to be thinking they are helping me, but my resentment still grows with every second. Even if I don't really want to hurt my technicolor molesters personally, I wish I could somehow undermine the principle that makes them act the way they do, all excited about primping me up for slaughter. Whatever Haymitch's plan is, they don't seem to have the capacity to be onto it, and to think outside their bright, colorful and endlessly entertaining box.
When they finally step back to admire their work – that is, me, naked and plucked raw, they confirm my suspicions.
"Wonderful! You look almost human now!" exclaims Octavia, the woman with all, at least visible, skin dyed pale green, and claps jeweled hands in childish glee. Flavius smiles with purple lips and tight orange ringlets bounce around his head as he nods vigorously.
Unfortunately, I can't repay the "compliment". Their images would need a lot of down-tuning to pass for human in my eyes. But I'm sure I wouldn't send them into the arena with a happy smile. Instead, I'm torn between astonishment and disgust. They seem purely happy; celebrating a nice little accomplishment they get a shot at only once a year. And they obviously think the best they can do is to make me almost human. Because in their eyes, I'll never be fully so.
Is that why they are doing it? To make our bodies look pleasing and human by their standards, only to convince themselves that we are not when they lock us in a deathmatch specifically designed to strip every bit of humanity from us? To make us into pretty toys first and gruesome toys later, and to assure themselves that's all we are, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with what they are doing to us?
I swallow a little bile and smile with all the sweetness I can muster. Admittedly, it's not much. "Thanks."
"And you'll be absolutely gorgeous when Cinna is through with you," adds Venia, golden tattoos swirling above the wiggling turquoise eyebrows that match her hair. "Wait here, we'll go get him."
I nod. "Can I at least put something on?"
"Oh no. Your stylist needs to see what he has to work with, dearie," squeaks Octavia and darts out after her colleagues.
Cinna?
I don't quite remember the names of the District Twelve's stylists, after all their most remarkable achievement up to date had been that "naked and covered in coal dust" creation that didn't come out very impressive on the poor emaciated kids from the community home, but I'm pretty sure neither of them was named Cinna.
But I'll find out soon enough.
He enters the room and I flinch uncomfortably, but resist the urge to cover myself. I'm not particularly ashamed for how I look, with the exception of the skin that is still unpleasantly red and raw from my 'humanizing' procedures, but I hate the fact that I had no choice in the matter. Honestly, being introduced to strange men while naked is not my way to go. And come to think of it, is some strange woman ogling Gale right now? My jaw clenches compulsively at the thought.
I do my best to hold my temper in check and my chin high, though, and meet a pair of green eyes with yellow flecks accentuated to gold by lightly applied eyeliner. Surprisingly, that seems to be the only visible homage my stylist paid to the twisted cult of Capitol fashion. Otherwise, he looks genuinely young – unlike many of his fellow stylists who choose to extend their youth beyond the border of grotesque, and perfectly… normal. With his close cropped dark hair and inconspicuous black clothing, I guess he wouldn't look out of place in any district.
"Hello, Katniss. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he introduces himself softly. After the highly accented chattering of his forerunners, his words sound soothingly natural.
"Hello," I say cautiously, forcing the word through tight lips.
"Just a moment, please," he says, obviously sensing my discomfort.
He walks around me once, not touching me, and looks at me as if I were an unfinished piece of art, with a strange kind of passion I can't quite fathom. Like Prim while dressing a wound, like Gale while setting a complicated snare, like Madge the one time I'd accepted her invitation in and she played something on her piano for me. It makes me uncomfortable enough to clench my fists at my sides, but not violated to the point of being tempted to use them.
True, to his word, he keeps the scrutiny brief. "Standard procedure or so I've heard," he says with a hint of dismissal, retrieves my robe and hands it to me. "Put this on and we'll have some talk to go with the lunch, okay?"
Nodding, I quickly pull it on. Getting a scrap of my decency back and the prospect of food do sound inviting after the excruciating morning. Cinna bends over the rest of my discarded clothes for a moment, and then leads the way into a sitting room.
"You are new, right?" I ask unnecessarily when I settle opposite him onto a red couch, plusher even than the one I'd sat on in the Justice Building. "Is that why they gave you District Twelve?"
"I asked for District Twelve," he corrects me after nodding at my first assumption.
"Why?" I ask impulsively, even though something tells me I probably shouldn't.
"To make you remarkable for a change," he answers, with slight but noticeable emphasis on the last word. He lowers his eyelids for a moment, the movement coaxing my own gaze to drop to the tiny gleam of gold between his fingers. My mockingjay pin.
So this is why Haymitch told us to obey are stylists. Whatever is happening, they are onto it. I just can't help but wonder how are they going to make us stand out. I've seen enough recaps of tribute parades to tell our district industry doesn't offer many creative possibilities.
I nod slightly, and try to giggle to cover up my almost-blunder. "So, how do you make a miner's uniform remarkable?"
Cinna smiles wide, gold-rimmed eyes sparkling. "My colleague Portia… " - another new name - "… and I have decided that concept is a bit overdone. Of course, we still are confined by the industry of your district, but we've decided to focus on the product itself."
I raise my eyebrows. Making lumps of coal interesting sounds even more impossible to me. And here I was hoping naked and covered in coal dust is so last year.
"Tell me, Katniss, what the coal does?" says my stylist with a grin.
I shrug. "Burn?"
Cinna nods sagely. "Exactly. You aren't afraid of fire, are you?"
He chuckles under his breath at my expression, and presses a button on the table that calls our lunch. The miraculous appearance of several scrumptiously looking dishes does little to distract me, but I still dig in with gusto.
The meal may well be my last, and even earlier than anticipated.
Gale's entourage shows no signs of physical harm, so I infer he'd kept our bargain with Haymitch too, but he looks incensed enough to catch fire even without the suspicious invention of our stylists. The emotion in his gaze when his eyes rest on me hits me like a thunderbolt, and then I'm in his arms, oblivious of the people around and unaware of moving to cross the distance.
"You okay?" he whispers into my skin as he holds me, our bulky outfits scraping together.
I nod and pull back to have a better look at him, noting with relief that he survived his prepping ordeal mostly unscathed. The clean shave and flattering haircut only showcase his striking features and his eyes smolder as hotly as ever, from beneath eyebrows that obviously didn't require as much taming as mine. He takes in my made-up countenance with a slight frown, but then breaks into a wry grin and tugs at the end of my braid. Luckily, Cinna had settled for replicating my usual hairstyle in order to keep me recognizable when I enter the arena. The idea calmed me a little, especially because it assured me we are meant to survive our extraordinary display at the tribute parade.
Presently, we are wearing matching outfits that resemble the traditional product of our district in a rather literal fashion – black and slightly glossy overalls that have outwardly transformed us into sections of the coal seam come alive in human form. They are thick like armor and very heavy, with lumpy ridges that copy the lines of human muscles and accentuate both our figures, making Gale's shoulders look even broader and arms stronger, and my thin body curvier.
"You're beautiful even as a fashionable piece of coal," mutters Gale.
I wink at him and lightly rap his chest with my knuckles. "Right back atcha, pretty boy. And we'll make pretty human torches," I add dryly. Because that's what our coal-outfits are supposed to do: catch fire. From one sleeve – Gale's left and my right – extends something like a finger-glove, with a switch that we'll have to press between our palms as we raise our arms above our heads, and ignite the most sensational spectacle. Or so I've heard.
Cinna steps closer and lays his hands on both our shoulders, but I can't even feel his attempt at a comforting touch through the thickness of the material I'm wearing. "You won't burn out tonight, I promise. But you'll shine." He looks dreamy for a moment, gazing somewhere above and beyond us. "Oh, you'll shine so brightly."
My suspicion that Cinna's inconspicuously handsome exterior hides equal measures of brilliance and madness strengthens yet again. But being at the mercy of his subversive genius gives me at least a smidgen of hope that our presence here will count for more than just routine punishment and entertainment. I still instinctively draw closer to Gale, though, finding more comfort in the notion that we are in this together. He's the only living person I completely trust and would rely on in absolutely any situation, and I know the faith is mutual.
Cinna steps back with a slight smile, looking at us as if we were a complete artwork now, and my heart softens towards him. I can agree with that.
We are the last to arrive to the bottom of the Remake center, a gigantic stable from which the tributes ride out on horse-drawn carriages to parade through the streets and then around the City Circle, the very center of the Capitol.
As we pass the other tributes on our way to the far end of the huge room, the Careers glance at us disdainfully, others indifferently, and some from the higher numbered districts with interest that only increases when we automatically join our ungloved hands to present a united front. A little girl from Eleven that caught most of my attention during the reaping recap, tiny and innocent like Prim, but with nobody to volunteer for her, catches my eyes even now. She even smiles slightly, and I can't help but return the favor.
When I pass her, I furiously blink away the familiar sting of tears.
I half-expected Haymitch to be waiting for us to give us some last minute instructions, but he's not there. When I look around, though, I catch a glimpse of him far down the row of carriages, talking to the unmistakable Finnick Odair, one of the most popular Victors. Frowning, I nudge Gale to draw his gaze there. But before we can contemplate what he might want with the heartthrob of the Capitol and mentor of the Career district Four, our stylists tug us towards our carriage drawn by four coal-black horses.
The perch there is precarious, especially for me because of a raised platform that's obviously been added to bring me much closer to Gale's height and thus make our stunt actually possible. But at least I'll have him to hold onto.
Music is already blasting and the door is opening, releasing the dazzling chariot with tributes from One into the cheering maw of the Capitol crowds. They are always the favorites, and I find myself wondering whether the fire of Cinna's experiment really has a chance to outshine them.
The roar of the spectators only intensifies when the second chariot rolls out, with deadliest-looking tributes standing proud and statuesque in stylized armor. I shiver slightly and look around from my newfound vantage point. The District Four chariot is already rolling towards the door and Finnick has disappeared from my sight, but I notice Haymitch stopping to exchange few words with a fierce-looking young woman standing near a chariot with tributes dressed as some kind of trees.
Then my attention is diverted again, because our stylists climb onto the chariot to adjust our stance and add the last details. Cinna pulls out my mockinjay pin and fastens it to my chest, the needle apparently sliding through a predesignated fissure in the odd material. Gale's stylist, a dolled-up blonde whose name I learned is Portia, slips the necklace from Madge around his neck and gives him an encouraging smile. So now is the time, apparently.
"Raise your hands and fear not," says Cinna before they jump from the chariot.
Even though I'm to exude fire moments later, my stomach feels like a pit of ice, and my legs tremble as the chariot starts to move to join the queue at the door. We can't hold hands now in order not to activate our costumes too soon, but Gale shifts a little closer, so that our arms brush. I look up at him with a slight grateful smile, drawing encouragement from his determined gaze. We can do this.
From Cinna's words, I'd gathered we could also refrain from using the fire and pass as unnoticed as any pair of District Twelve tributes before us. The element of choice, the first we've been furtively offered so far, only strengthens my resolve to make a difference, though. I will my breathing to calm, and my leg muscles slowly get used to balancing on the chariot. We can do this.
The ice within me seems to melt slowly, and transform into liquid excitement coursings through my veins and saturating me with almost morbid anticipation. Every cell in my body throbs in tune with the blasting music and roaring crowds. Gale's ungloved fingers brush mine, adding a touch of energy that is completely our own. We can do this.
And into the city we go, into the sea of light and noise.
I look over the crowds, raising my free hand in a preliminary salute and catching a glimpse of us in the one of the big screens lining the avenue. We don't look like us, the boy and a girl from the woods we'd been mere two days ago. For a moment, we look like usual District Twelve tributes, coal-dark and unassuming victims the cameras would perfunctorily cut to before zooming back onto more compelling targets.
But then Gale tugs my arm up and fire bursts from our joined hands, spreading down our bodies and enveloping us in ethereal glow. It gives me faint tickling sensation as it generates somewhere between the layers of my suit, but nothing more, no lethal heat and smoke. It seems to emanate from our very bodies, fighting its way out between the black ridges of our suits and trailing behind us, wing-like, in the wind created by the speed of our chariot. We are united in the light, holding onto each other and flaunting something that radiates from even deeper within, unfathomable and unconquerable.
The screams of the crowd, which have been in the process of dulling into a dutiful buzz after the initial excitement, quickly redouble in intensity. People are pointing, chanting, screaming, first the number of our district and then even our names. Their excitement is contagious and I take it in, drawing strength from the very core of the enemy. I smile so wide my cheeks hurt, wave and even blow kisses, watching with amused satisfaction as the crazed audience literally scrambles to catch them. Gale is doing the same, eliciting even more vivid reactions, especially from the women.
The whole situation is insane; they know they are sending us off to our deaths and cheering into our funeral march, yet they celebrate us as if they cared. It's twisted. They just want us, unto death. And we smile at them like we wanted them to ask why when we die.
We don't belong to them and I swear to myself we never will, but we aren't entirely ourselves either, not anymore. We belong to the cause.
Our symbols shine like the sun and the moon in the firelight, my pin golden against the darkness of my suit, Gale's pendant silver against skin, the outlines of the birds animated by flickering flames. They are flying as if free, better visible through the screens than by the live audience in the Capitol. If Haymitch and Cinna and whoever else decided we are to carry a message to the districts, we are off to a good start. We'll do our best while trapped here and in the arena, most probably never to return. We'll have to make sure it outlives us.
Right as we enter the City Circle, making a beeline for the President's mansion for our official welcome, somebody throws us a red rose. I catch it and pretend to sniff it, and on impulse press it into a ridge in my suit over my heart, half hoping it might catch the artificial fire.
It does.
It burns, and seems to shoot sparkles into the darkening air when I throw it in a high arch. It fills the screens for a brief moment, and then the camera cuts to my face. My grin is so victorious I hardly recognize myself. Gale is looking down on me, and I slightly turn my head to face him, meeting his eyes that burn more fiercely than the synthetic flames fanning around us. Before I can think about it, our lips meet as well, and the final crescendo of our sacrificial march seems to explode in tune with our triumphant hearts and the mad cheering of the crowd.
