Hey guys, sorry for the late update! (again, I know.) It's really hard to handle school and write at the same time, although I know it's not a good reason. Anyways, hopefully this chapter will have been worth the wait! On the bright side, winter vacation starts this Friday for me, so I'll probably be writing and updating more frequently then :) Your reviews make me the happiest person ever. Enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think!
p.s. I just realized that I haven't been reading a lot of fanfiction since I started writing it myself, so if you guys have any recommendations, (including your own stories,) feel free to tell me! I'd be happy to read your stories.
p.p.s. Here's some news for y'all...I'm currently working on a series of one-shots with the awesome Katie (Juliet's Shadow!) She's an amazing writer as well as a lovely person, so you guys can look forward to that :)
We're sitting around a conference table, the five of us with Plutarch and Gale and a few others I've never seen before. Nobody looks particularly happy to be present.
A young girl flits around the table nervously, serving us each a glass of what I assume is wine. It looks fancy, the jewel colored liquid, and I've no doubt it's expensive, but I can't help thinking of Haymitch and his liquor. Which brings no inclination at all to touch the drink. I briefly wonder what he'd do if he were here, and a small part of me wishes he actually was.
When the girl is done, Plutarch waves his hand dismissively. "Thank you. You can go now." We all watch as she bows before scurrying out. Now there's no more delaying the inevitable. The atmosphere is stiff and unforgiving.
To his credit, Plutarch does his best to initiate the conversation. "Friends," he says, clearing his throat loudly. "Let's go over the incident which just occurred in the Training Center. One of the tributes was strangled by another. The Peacekeepers on duty attempted-" He's interrupted by Peeta, whose eyes are uncharacteristically cold.
"What was he called?" There's silence for a moment before Plutarch speaks again, looking surprised and mildly puzzled. "We were discussing the incident, Peeta."
"No!" Peeta stands up so fast his chair goes flying back. He slams his fist on the table. We all flinch. "That's exactly it!" he shouts. "You're talking about him as though he were an item. An accessory to your precious Games, maybe? But he wasn't, alright? Goddamn-" He breaks off suddenly. His stare sweeps across us one by one.
"You think I'm mad," he says slowly. "Poor lover boy who's gone off the deep end. Do you want to sedate me?" He flings his arms out. "Go on, then. Lock me up in an asylum. Or whatever you do to all the people who ever tried to speak the truth. He was a living, breathing person. And now he's dead." He stares at us for a second longer before collapsing back into his chair.
Johanna is the next to speak. "He's right," she says clearly. "You hear him? Peeta's just said everything which needs to be said in this stupid conference. He just said what we're all afraid to say. Because we're cowards, the lot of us. We're murderers who are too scared to face ourselves."
Her eyes dare us to defy her. We're cowards, the lot of us. I'd never admit it to her, but I do admire Johanna in moments like this. And of course, Peeta. His words are beyond powerful, surely even Plutarch must see that now. They're infectious. I might be a better fighter, but I know my words will never have the same effect as Peeta's. I realize how tiring it must be for him.
He knew from the start, from our first Games. He saw through the fancy clothes and exquisite food. He saw the Games for what they really are, when the rest of us were only trying to stay alive.
In this moment, I want nothing more than to erase the creases from his forehead and take away his pain. I want the red haired boy to have died for something. Maybe that's what fuels me to say what I do next.
"We all know what happened, Plutarch. I say we hold a funeral. A proper one. We invite his family over and tell them the truth. No sugarcoating or lying. We tell them what happened. It's what we owe them in the least, after all."
The reaction is instant. Plutarch stares at me as if I'm the one who's gone mad. "That's out of the question," he declares. "I'm sorry, Katniss, but it's impossible. The Games are beginning less than a week from now. How do you think people would react if the news got out? We can't afford to have a riot at this point. I assure you the boy will have our highest respects. But I don't think you know what you're saying."
"Katniss knows what she's saying all right," Finnick says quietly. Plutarch closes his mouth. When Finnick Odair makes a statement, you don't argue. You agree. And despite the situation, I have to suppress a smile. It feels good to know you have people who will stand by your side.
However, no one is expecting what Gale says next. "Let it be, then," he says. One of the men I don't recognize turns to him, mouth open in protest, but Gale cuts him off with a sharp look. "I said, let it be," he repeats. Plutarch looks stupefied. "Mr. Hawthorne," he says carefully. "I hope you're not, ah, letting personal reasons affect your judgement?" I can feel my cheeks burning.
Gale, however, looks unmoved as he stands up. "I assume you have no objections, then," he answers coldy. The look on Plutarch's face right now might have been comical under different circumstances. His mouth is opening and closing repeatedly like a fish out of water. Finally, he manages a somewhat forced smile. "Fine," he says. "The conference is over. I'll inform you of the details once the arrangements have been made."
Gale nods once before walking out. The men I don't know follow suit, until we're left alone with a rather exasperated looking Plutarch. He opens his mouth again as if to say something, before thinking better of it and leaving instead.
Johanna bursts out laughing as soon as he's out of earshot. "Did you see the look on his face?" she splutters between snorts. "You would've thought we'd asked him to strip or something."
That brings on smiles, even from Annie.
I have never been to a Capitol funeral before.
Back in Twelve, the ceremony would have been simple. The person who'd passed on would be dressed in his best clothes and laid in a plain wooden coffin. His relatives and friends would be there, along with the mayor and perhaps his children, if he had any.
The mayor would read a passage from an ancient leather book. I'm surprised to find I can still remember the entire thing.
"It's been a long way,
a journey of love and hardships,
as we near the edge of earth,
and our ocean graves are just beyond,
the skyline splits in two,
O' Lord,
I can see the stars,
Can you?
Tonight, we bleed,
Soul and heart,
Together into the stars
O'Lord,
Pray let the night forgive my sins,
And morning bestow me purity,
Life, anew."
Then there'd be a moment of silence during which everyone would lower their heads and say their final goodbyes silently. The only funeral I really remember attending is my father's, and I snap out of my thoughts at this point because I don't want to think about that day right now.
Instead, I focus on what's happening at present. Capitol funerals, apparently, are nothing short of festive. I learn that the boy's name was Lark Sedwick. His family, a brightly dressed group, is huddled a few feet away from me. We're in what I can only describe as an extremely large garden somewhere along the borders of the Capitol.
There's a single path leading to the platform on which the coffin has been placed, under an arch of water lilies. Twinkling lights have been draped over the trees on either side of the path. Rather than the black themed clothes we would have worn in Twelve, everyone is dressed in what appears to be the brightest colors possible. Orange feathered hats, pink heels, purple gowns, and that's not even half of it.
"Funerals are like parties," someone says from behind me. Of course it's Finnick, dressed in a crisp tuxedo and staring off into the distance. Annie is talking to Johanna somewhere to our right. "That's a funny way of putting it," I answer, unsure what he's getting at.
"They're sending in a new tribute," he says, his tone low and urgent. I realize he's barely moving his lips. "It's not the best place to be telling you this," he continues, scanning the crowd. "But I'm not sure I'll have another chance, so just listen. Nod and laugh now and then. Pretend we're talking about something normal and interesting." I nod.
"They found a note on his body – Lark's, that is. It said when we die, you die with us." I can feel a shiver creeping up my spine. The words are familiar, but I just can't remember where I'd heard them before. "Plutarch doesn't want this getting out," he continues. "We're keeping this between you, me, and Johanna. Gale knows, too. That's it. We don't want Peeta or Annie to know because, well, you know." I nod again and manage a shaky laugh. Safety reasons.
"There's no reason to panic," Finnick adds. "At least not for the moment. Just keep it in mind and watch what you say."
"Right," I breathe. And then it hits me. If we burn, you burn with us. I try to make the connection, but my thoughts are jumbled and my mind's frustratingly blank.
I find myself walking towards the arch, to where Lark's family is standing in a tight group. It's almost eerie how they shuffle to the side for me as i approach, save an old woman I presume to be Lark's grandmother. I stop in front of her before realizing I have no idea what to say.
The old woman steps forward and grips my hands in a surprisingly firm hold. Her fingers are icy and worn. "We know," she says before I can open my mouth again. Know what? About how her grandson died? Her voice is husky when she speaks again.
"Let his death matter. Don't let it have been for nothing, Miss Everdeen." Her eyes pierce into mine, and I can only nod numbly.
She lets go.