This is an extra-long chapter. Thanks to TiffOdair for the great ideas.
HG Fanfic Rec: Worse Games to Play by Belmione. This is a beautiful retelling of how Katniss decides to finally have children.
Disclaimer: The idea for the speech was an amalgamation of Elie Wiesel's speech to the East Room of the White House called The Perils of Indifference and Jimmy Carter's dedication speech for the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. Together they hit the right note.
Disclaimer #2: I don't own the Hunger Games.
Disclaimer #3: I've gotten some really great reviews. I respond to all of my reviews unless it is posted anonymously by a Guest. In this case, this shout out is for you, too.
Chapter 11 – The Day of Remembrance
After that night, I found it hard to look at Peeta without being overwhelmed by feelings of embarrassment. I wanted to go back to the ease of the previous days but my efforts at normality failed miserably. After an awkward breakfast in which Peeta tried too hard to be cheerful, I grabbed my bow and arrow and decided to go hunting. Despite what Peeta said, I needed to be alone. He did not bring me the comfort I sought that day so I was determined to find it in my woods. I sat for a long time in a tree, letting my mind flit from one thing to another without any direction until I concentrated on what needed attention. The majority of my survival depended on the unwavering certainty of my instincts, the sureness that at the moment of decision, I was right regardless of the consequences. This was a trait born of years of having to anticipate the movement of prey during a hunt. It seemed this very trait which ensured my success at catching deer and rabbit made me completely worthless in the realm of human interaction. This became magnified during the Games, where I went from danger to danger, ready at the smallest provocation to react. I don't know if this wariness would ever wear off but there were times that it was best to stand and wait, something I was terrible at doing. Peeta was better at this. It was no accident that Coin toyed with saving him instead of me in the Arena – his ability to interact and persuade people was a powerful, innate gift.
Last night, I was completely, utterly and miserably myself. I was reactive towards everything – the stress of the ceremonies, Peeta's hands and mouth, the resulting frustration of stopping something so consuming. It pained me to admit it but he was right. I reacted to him out of a need to be comforted, to forget the travesty that was my life. That I was attracted to him, there could be no doubt – it was becoming more difficult to ignore as the time passed. And I knew my feelings for him ran deep, the type that could take me to the end of my days. But I was not expressing these things last night and he knew it. So now, I was sulking because I didn't know how to come back around to making things normal again.
As the afternoon began to wear on, I lifted my bow and shot at two squirrels, a wild turkey and a rabbit, just to have something to show for the exorbitant amount of time I spent in the woods. When I returned home, Peeta was shut up in his studio so I went to work on cleaning my kills, setting the squirrels aside for Greasy Sae and putting the scraps in a bowl for Buttercup. I made a rabbit stew for dinner that night and despite the addition of herbs from the garden, it still tasted like sand in my mouth. Peeta came down warily and sat at the table across from me. He gave up the pretense of normalcy, eating with a grim set to his mouth. When he asked me if I wanted to talk, I just shook my head and begged off the rest of the evening with the excuse of exhaustion, after which I went upstairs, readied myself and went to bed.
When Peeta came in later, I pretended to be asleep as he went about his nighttime ritual. I felt the mattress sag under his weight as he removed the prosthetic. He shuffled under the thin blanket but did not come to my side of the bed. I drifted in and out of sleep, mostly because I was physically uncomfortable, trying so hard to appear asleep that I couldn't actually sleep, my muscles cramping in an effort to remain still. Peeta moved occasionally during the night but they were not the movements of sleep either. When the sun lightened the sky, I slipped out of bed, not bothering to see if he was awake. I dressed, took my weapons and left again, spending the morning in the forest wandering uselessly. The exhaustion of the night before kept me unfocused until I gave in and curled up under a mossy tree to take a nap. When I awoke and saw the mid-afternoon light, I caught my token animals and returned home to the same routine. I was getting emptier and emptier with each passing moment. Maybe I would snuff out like a candle and eventually disappear.
Deep in the middle of that second night, with sleeplessness as my constant companion, I sensed the tension of his body. I looked over to see the clenched fists, could hear his teeth grinding together, his face twisted in an attitude between pain and fear. His chest heaved with whatever he struggled with in his nightmare. My previous unease forgotten, I crawled over to his side of the bed and wrapped him in my arms. I took his head between my hands and stroked him, whispering in his ear, entreating him to come back to me. He whimpered in his sleep – this was not quite a flashback but one of his frozen nightmares, the ones he had before the hijacking added its own hideous form of remembering. Slowly, his body relaxed, the grinding of his teeth ceased and his eyes fluttered open. He looked balefully at me, bringing his hand up to caress my face. All the petulance of the past two days fled me as I brought my lips down to shower him with gentle kisses – his eyes, forehead, cheeks, then mouth, rubbing his ear between my fingers. I slid down next to him to put my head on his shoulder. Hooking my left leg over his right, good leg, I sought out his hands and our fingers automatically intertwined over his chest. I finally drifted off into my own fitful seep. He would wake two more times to still my terrors. I understood then there would never come a time when we would not need to cling to one another.
I didn't hunt the next day, hovering close to Peeta. We worked on the book of memories together, seated at each end of the sofa. I wrote out my memories of Rue while he sketched her. I begged him not to draw her in the bed of flowers. I wanted her alive. I wrote of how we came to be allies, how she reminded me of Prim and stirred every caring instinct in me. I described the way she would stand like a bird about to take flight. The sweet trill of her voice. The bottomlessness of her large, brown eyes. The smooth cocoa brown of her luminous skin. The wiry dark curls that fascinated me by the very way they differed from every lock of hair I had ever known. I wrote of the desolation of her dying, unable to stem the tears as I described her parents and siblings on that day during the Victory Tour. Peeta looked at me from across the sofa, waiting for me to invite him into my sorrow. I set down the pages I was writing and looked longingly at him. He knew without asking and opened his arms to me. Sliding quietly into them, I let him rock me until the bottomless well of my tears dried up. That night, there was no space between us as we lay together against the unrelenting terrors of the night. I turned my mouth up to his ear and whispered that I would never again let my anger keep me away from him. That I had been stupid. That I was sorry. It was the first vow I made to him.
His mouth on mine was his acceptance. When our eyes closed, even the nightmares knew better than to intrude on us.
xxxxx
The day before the ceremonies, we went to Haymitch's house. Sitting in his squalid living room, we discussed the agenda for the next day. Despite the televisions in the square and the continuous live broadcasts, we would be present for only District 12's ceremony. Since District 12 was the last district, we would also remain for President Paylor's speech. Peeta invited Haymitch to come to our house for a late lunch before preparing for the ceremonies, at which Haymitch simply nodded. I came to another realization – that we three broken, discarded individuals were family now and it was right that we spend a moment like this in the company of each other. Peeta and I walked solemnly back to our house. There was one more thing I needed to do before letting this day end. I would call my mother.
"Stay with me." I begged him.
He simply nodded and sat next to me on the loveseat in the study. My mother and I had not spoken since the day he returned to District 12. I rang her and marveled at the way the sound of her voice could make the little house on the Seam appear around me. I half-waited for my sister to walk up to the doorway and knew this was why I never called her. She brought all of the ghosts back to life.
She asked about me, how I was doing. I told her I was as good as I could be under the circumstances. Peeta was with me and we took things one day at a time right now.
We spoke of the ceremonies – she would attend the District 4 unveiling with Annie and her infant son.
"Annie has a baby?" I gasped with wonder. Peeta looked at me quizzically, not quite believing what he had heard.
"He never knew?" I repeated. Peeta put his head in his hands, the shock and amazement of it overcoming him. A little piece of Finnick in the world. I choked on my tears at the perfection and sadness of it all.
"Please send a picture, would you? And one of Finnick and Annie too, if possible." I explained to my mother about our book of memories, how it was like our family book. She agreed to send them along for us. She told me how proud she was of us. How she wanted to see me. I told her I would see, as I was not allowed to leave District 12. I could not imagine under which circumstances she would come to me and a chasm threatened to break open in my heart, so full of fissures already. I steadied myself and ended the call before I lapsed into self-pity and remorse.
"A baby," Said Peeta, with a kind of reverence.
I nodded, pondering the utter insanity required of anyone who brings children into a world like ours, peopled with such a savage species. I would never be able to do it, I was sure of it. I hid from the open longing in Peeta's face, choosing instead to stare out the window.
xxxxx
The day of the ceremonies was a solemn affair. I carefully washed myself like I had done during that awful Reaping two years ago. I braided my hair as I had on every Reaping day, this time without the help of my mother. I searched for a dress for the occasion and laid out a simple beige linen sleeveless shift with a blue belt at the waist. It was not a District 12 style but it was not Capitol either. There was something timeless about the dress that rooted it everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I smoothed my burn cream over my body. The scars on my neck and arms would be exposed and while I did not mind showing them here in Victor's Village, I was self-conscious about letting the world see how their Mockingjay had been reduced. It suddenly occurred to me how very fortunate we were not to have been subjected to some Capitol-devised television campaign in advance of the ceremonies. Maybe they truly did opt for respect and sobriety. Or maybe Haymitch had used his cunning to see that this did not happen. I set the dress aside for the time I would put it on to go to the town center.
When I stepped downstairs, Peeta had on his baking apron. He was fidgety, moving from one part of the kitchen to the other, mixing things in a bowl one moment and cleaning up the next. I put my hand on his shoulder, making him jump. His eyes seemed bright, likely from the anxiety he was trying to channel into his baking. I gave him a hug, waiting for him to unwind enough to hug me back. Looking up, I said "I'll clean. You finish baking." He simply nodded and returned to his bread.
We were cooking together when Haymitch arrived. He was his usual disheveled self, though there seemed to be evidence that he had actually bathed and brushed his teeth, which meant he would only smell slightly and not release toxic vapors into the environment. I'd baked a wild turkey with carrots and potatoes and sautéed zucchini and squash on a skillet. Sauté. Peeta had taught me what that meant. Peeta made the bread. We had not meant for it to be a big meal but I caught the bird at the end of my excursion a few days ago and knew we would have to eat it soon. We ate quietly, an occasional comment about the meal being offered to vaguely fill the heavy silence that befell us. It seemed we dined with the dead this afternoon and they were not in the mood to speak.
When the kitchen was clean, Haymitch sat in a chair in the living room as Peeta and I took the sofa. Switching on the television, news commentators were already remarking on the momentous nature of today's ceremonies, the choice of date, the significance of the event for the future of Panem. I turned the television down, not really interested in listening to talking heads and seated myself comfortably on the sofa, Peeta laying his head on my lap. We would only watch a few of the unveilings before readying ourselves for District 12's events. Soon, the cameras were in District 4 at the commencement of the mayor's speech. Haymitch muttered under his breath but I did not pursue him for conversation. Peeta had long since dozed off, his frantic energy finally giving way to exhaustion as the meal began to have its soporific effect. I reveled in his smell, the firmness of his chest under my hands and felt a brief flicker of joy at the good luck of having him with me.
I was lost in these thoughts when I saw them. Dozens of large white flowers like lilies being handed to members of a procession. As the flowers were given out, the names of each of the tributes were read. I was riveted by the beauty of the flowers, the sheer number of them and curious as to where they were going. District 4 was a large, sprawling district along the eastern seaboard of Panem. The Justice Building was located on a stone boardwalk well above the crashing sea. The procession originated out of view of the Justice Building, individuals in a line walking up quietly to receive their treasure and proceeding barefooted down the wooden stairs connecting the beach to the street above. I nudged Peeta and pointed to the screen, explaining the procession. In the middle of my explanation, I heard their names:
Annie Odair
Finnick Odair
It was Annie carrying both of their flowers to sea. I got close to the screen and touched her red hair, the semi-vacant look in her lovely eyes. I sat back on my haunches, staring as the entire company, one by one, set the flowers to the sea. There was particular poignancy in Annie's reverence for the flower, kissing the petal before letting it float into the gentle tide. The cameras were trained on her for obvious reasons – Finnick's fame before the revolution, his valor in battle, his ultimate sacrifice. I couldn't help but think that the real love story of the Revolution belonged to her and Finnick and now their precious little boy.
So many flowers. So many lives. In one district alone.
I began to grasp the power of these ceremonies, the scale of loss and the time they spanned. Peeta, as usual, was prescient. The pain belonged to all of us and the healing as well. I was selfish in my desire to stay out of it. By being present, I let others know that these children lived, loved, suffered and in too many cases, died. That they mattered. This was true even when the deaths occurred at an advanced age, such as in the case of some victors. To have children ripped away from you was to rob you not just of life now but of your immortality, your right to have life beyond your own. When your child survived off of the deaths of other children, something more vital was robbed from the family and community – witness Haymitch and the complete sterility of his life.
Soon, there was a blanket of flowers floating in the sea, an invocation of souls called together to be released into the world of freed spirits because they had been remembered. Haymitch had his fingers steepled before his face, staring intently at the scene, his thoughts inscrutable to me. I turned to Peeta, who was sitting on the floor next to me, both of us becoming the two kids we really were, refusing to sit like adults in their chairs. I took his hand and kissed it gently. I wanted to acknowledge to him that he had been right but he probably didn't need it. To Peeta belonged another certainty, a moral compass so strong it would bring even the most fractured soul back from the world of shadows.
"Let's get ready." I said.
XXXXX
Every step I took towards the center seemed to increase the vibration of nerves in my stomach. My hand in Peeta's was the only stability I had, every joint and junction of my body having become a vibrating mass of jelly. I had to resist the urge to throw my arm around his waist and cling to him like a child. Even Haymitch was uncharacteristically quiet. The afternoon was so bright, the weather oblivious to the weeping of us poor groundling from the evil we inflict with our own hands. I looked up at Peeta, whose wonderful strong jaw, the one I could kiss for days if I were allowed, was clenched in tension. Moving my head close to him, I whispered "Hey."
Looking away from whatever thoughts had ensnared him, he gazed down at me, giving me a weary smile. "Hey."
I brought my hand up to caress his cheek. He caught it in my free hands and kissed my fingertips before lowering them gently. I glanced sideways at Haymitch to see a look of incredible tenderness flit across his face, so unlike his trademark smirk, he looked 10 years younger because of it. I nodded at him, his own curt nod the only response I would get.
As the road wound away from Victor's Village, I caught sight of the square from a distance. I was taken aback by how changed everything was. I suppose unconsciously I expected to find everything as I had in one of the last propos – piles of rubble, soot and bones everywhere, the carts of workers clearing out the bodies and debris. I did not expect to see a newly paved center and equally restored streets radiating out like spokes on the wheels. In the distance, there were still construction cranes and trucks, flatbeds filled with stone, brick and other building supplies.
The Justice Building had been cleaned and refurbished. There was still the platform before it, similar to the one once used to call up and send children to their horrid, lonely deaths. This platform was not of old, pocketed wood but of a newer, more modern material, held up by sturdy, foldable metal girds. In true District 12 style, there were no frills. A black skirt served to cover the girds, hiding them from chairs and benches set up before the stage.
But the greatest modification was a giant tarp in the center of the square that had not been there before. It was likely a statue on a wide, round pedestal. Even from this distance, I could see that it was a large structure surrounded by a black rope to keep it safe from the curiosity of the other onlooker who milled around it.
Two giant screens were set up on either side of the building. Even with the visors positioned above the screen to keep out the glare of the sun, I still had to squint from where I stood to see that the screen was on and something moved across it. I would have to get closer to see what was being shown.
I looked up at Peeta again. His family's bakery was on the northeast side of the square. Thankfully, there were trucks on that road so it was very hard to see clearly the work being done. However, even from here, it was evident that the roofs of the buildings that had once stood there were no more. The spot where his family lived – where he once lived – was just a part of a greater empty space that seemed to radiate out from the middle of the street to the end of that quarter.
"I don't know what I expected to see." He whispered to me.
"I'll go with you, whenever you are ready." I said to him. He simply squeezed my hand in response.
As we continued on our way, the houses became less sparse. People began to appear on the road, either walking towards the center going about their business. I could feel their eyes on us, people stopping to whisper to one another. Being mostly District 12 residents, they were somber by temperament so the attention was less invasive. I became more and more nervous as the clusters of houses became denser. To distract myself from the potential of interacting with people, I looked up and noticed them for the first time – poles along both sides of the road. I stopped a moment to get a closer look at the one of the poles closest to me. The tops were covered with a canvas that looked like a deflated balloon. Clearly, the canvases covered something. But the most remarkable thing about it was that the poles all seemed to descend on the structure in the center of the square. We were still high enough above the town that I could make out the telemetry of the center. All roads around the center radiated out like spokes on a wheel. Peeta's bakery, or what was left of it, was on one of the spokes to the north east, Victor's Village to the south east. This mysterious structure was intended as the center of the spokes of the wheel, the poles I had been studying ending, or originating, there. I was curious to see what was there, sensing that there was some great import to the design.
On our approach, a tall, wiry man made his way to us. He was lanky, with shortly cropped brown hair and the signature olive complexion of a Seam resident. As he came closer, I was shocked to see that it was Thom, Gale's mining companion from before the war. I was taken aback not only by his clean and tidy appearance but the clear evidence of health and vigor. The last time I saw Thom, I was on my first hunting trip after my return to District 12, the day Peeta returned. He was covered in grime from removing debris from Mayor Undersee's home and significantly thinner. He was the one who told me about Madge and her family and dependents not surviving District 12's firebombing.
As soon as he saw Peeta, he gave him a hearty handshake and clapped him on the shoulder. It was clear that Peeta had had more contact with him, perhaps during his trips to the train station or, less frequently, to the Hob. Thom turned to me and gently took my hand, discreetly appraising me before saying "It's nice to see you Katniss. You're looking really good."
I looked at the ground and mumbled "Thank you." The last time he saw me, I was half what I was now in weight and sanity.
"I'm glad I found you before you found a place to sit. You have a special seating assignment and I wanted to take you there before the crowds rolled in."
My stomach clenched in knots at this and I said, rather abruptly "We're not going to sit on the stage."
Thom smiled. I was known for my brusque nature and he took no offense. "No, nothing like that." He looked over at Haymitch. "The Capitol Press Corps is here, covering the ceremony. We agreed that we don't need some hotshot Capitol journalist making his career by trying to interview you guys. You will be sitting behind the Mayor and the Town Secretary." At this, he puffed himself up proudly. "Let's just say we'll be taking care of those Capitol princesses District 12 style if they come snooping around."
Haymitch chuckled. "Seems we got us some bodyguards."
I groaned. "Won't that just call more attention to us."
Thom perked up. "No, nothing like that. We just have a couple of people who are willing to keep people from getting too close to you.
"Bodyguards." I said derisively.
"No, just we coal mining folks sticking together." Thom said with seriousness. "Capitol is always Capitol."
I don't know how to feel about that sentiment. Given the war, it seemed natural for citizens to feel a particular attachment to their districts, now that they were free to do so.
"What are the poles, Thom?" asked Peeta after a moment.
"Oh, those are part of the memorial. They were installed this week. They've been real secretive about it, though so I don't know what it all means."
Peeta nodded his head. The heat of the day was waning a bit now that it was late afternoon but I still felt the sun on me. Peeta was wearing a simple light blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows which could not compete with the brilliant blue of his eyes. He wore a pair of khaki cotton fitted pants. We hadn't intended our outfits to match but I got a small, irrational thrill from it. I had combed his hair, parting it on the side and taming the waves in his hair to give him a schoolboy style that made him look so young and innocent. He impressed me with how handsome he could be without trying. Even so, a thin sheen of sweat seemed to cover his neck and I longed for the cool of the evening.
When we arrived in the square, there was no way to ignore the stares of the other townspeople. In his life before the war, Peeta and his family were well known so several people came to greet us. They were gentle with me, no doubt because of my status as lunatic ex-rebellion symbol but instead of grating on my nerves, I was grateful for their diffidence. It made the experience of so much attention tolerable. The new mayor, Oakley Greenfield, introduced himself gently to us, giving us condolences and good wishes in an even, unsentimental tone that endeared me to him right away. Thom and his brother, Glen, hovered nearby, making me feel like a Capitol diva but when we took our seats, I realized it had not as terrible as I thought it would be. Peeta gratefully kissed me on the cheek.
The light was finally such that the screens were discernible. Flashing one by one were the pictures of all the tributes sent into the arena, their birth and death dates underneath their names. The montage had been playing for some time so when we sat, I knew I would not be able to avoid seeing myself, Peeta, Prim or Haymitch, the tributes most recent to the war. Haymitch was riveted by the display. He had known so many of the tributes and I could sense the effort he made to resist pulling out his flask and taking a drink from it. I turned to Peeta and put my head in his chest. I did not want to watch her face flash and disappear, like her short little life.
"I'll tell you when it's done." whispered Peeta, as if he had read my mind.
I nodded into his shoulder and, after several minutes, he brought his hand up to my head to indicate it was safe to look up. The screen went dark as everyone was invited to take a seat or occupy the standing room around the square. It was quite full, even though there were a fraction of the residents that lived in District 12 before the war. Looking around, I could see the press corps with their cameras and lights just under the stage and at the back of the crowd. I tried to shrink into the chair or disappear into Peeta's side to not call attention to myself, though it seemed all eyes were on me this evening.
The ceremony began with a salute to the new flag of Panem. Peeta and I must have really been out of it because I had never seen this new flag. It was made of a deep green with a gold circle in the middle surrounded by 14 stars. But the most remarkable thing was the Mockingjay in the center, no longer on fire but ablaze with the same color of gold as the stars and circle on the flag. I wanted to groan at the sheer predictability of it. Couldn't they come up with any other symbol, maybe one that did not involve me in any way? My generosity toward the ceremonies began to dry up and I became morose at the prospect of never being able to live anonymously again. There was the new anthem and then Mayor Greenfield took the stage. Already the sun was beginning to drop quietly behind the Justice Building, bathing the whole company in that light that would always remind me of Peeta.
"We are an old District. We have mined these mountains for hundreds of years. Anyone born here knows that there is so much coal dust in these parts, our children are practically born covered in it. While we have always been considered the poorest of districts, we have always had pride in the persistence of our ways, the durability of our character. We are a district with a long memory.
"That is why on this day, this day that brought so much dread and grief to generations of families, on this day, I am hopeful, even optimistic. Because it is not in the nature of our district to forget. And that is what is needed, more than pretty ceremonies and stone statues. What is needed is the unwavering reliability of our collective memory. And not just to remember in silence. Although words do pale, yet we must speak. We must strive to understand. We must teach the lessons of the Reaping, of our oppression. And most of all, we ourselves must remember. We must learn not only about the vulnerability of life, but of the precious value of human life. We must remember the terrible price paid not just for entitlement but also the terrible price paid for passivity and silence.
"To truly commemorate the children we have lost, in one way or another, over the last 75 years, we must harness the outrage of our memories to banish all human oppression from the world. We must recognize that when any fellow human being is stripped of humanity, when any person is turned into an object of repression, when children are stolen from their families; tortured, defiled or victimized by totalitarianism or bigotry, then all human beings are victims, too. Our race's inability to see the value of our own lives, the lives of our children, has allowed us time and again to oppress one another in ways both great and small. The history books of the old world, the world in which Panem was known as North America, speak of instance after instance of humanity's ability to marginalize, isolate, hate and destroy. And it is up to every generation who survives these violations to never forget the lessons learned. Our generation-the generation of survivors—can never permit these lessons to be forgotten, especially when the worst violations are visited on our children. A population that cannot protect the weakest members of its society is not destined to last very long.
"We in this District are the kind of people who remember.
"In honor of the 154 souls sacrificed to the cruelties of the annual Hunger Games, our district dedicates to them the symbol of our survival."
At this, the canvas's fell off of the poles, as if pulled off by a collective agreement amongst themselves. They were lamps. Not just the poor lanterns that could be found even in the most dismal house in the Seam. They were elegant lamps with large bulbs shaped into what seemed like large asymmetrical teardrops, held in place by iron latticework. I was puzzled. While I was trying to figure out the significance, the giant canvass in the middle of the square also fell away.
The same asymmetrical teardrops on top of the poles were duplicated in the middle of the plaza but with more intricacy. It was then I understood the shapes on the poles – they were meant to replicate the shape of a small flame, like a candle. The larger structure was at least 15 feet tall and seemed to be made of a tinted glass. It was not one candle flame but seemed more like a conflagration of several flames reaching up to the sky. What I thought was a fountain before was actually a metal base with writing spiraled around the bottom.
"So that the flames extinguished every year for 75 long years will never be forgotten, we dedicate the Way of Eternal Fire to our children of the Hunger Games. A flame for each tribute offered in sacrifice. The flames that burn for them also burn as an admonishment from here to all future generations to never forget what was lost here, until time immemorial."
The screens came alive to show an aerial view of the center. I heard the vibration first before all the farthest lamps began to light up at the same time. As each lamp on each spoke of the wheel lit up in parallel, they lit with greater speed, a flame racing across an invisible thread as each lamp lit in turn, one after the other. It looked like the center was on fire again, the terror and beauty of it seizing me until the last lamps closest to the structure lit up, setting it also alight. The flame began from the bottom and spread throughout the structure until it glowed with an inner light, fire that called to mind the spark that every person carries inside of them.
Peeta was transfixed by the spectacle. "Amazing." He whispered.
Haymitch, also moved, commented "They took the Capitol's symbol for this district, for us and turned it on its head, making it their own. That's pretty rebellious"
"It's beautiful." I sighed. The crowds were silent except for the occasional sob of some poor, left-behind soul. The speech now ended, people quietly moved towards the statue. Peeta and Haymitch rose also, waiting for me. I followed, my eyes curious to read the writing that wound around the base. As I drew closer, I realized the names of each tribute were inscribed in rows that circled the entire structure, the oldest ones closest to the statue, the most recent ones spiraling in the outermost circle. There they were: Primrose Everdeen v. Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen, Haymitch Abernathy v. Peeta Mellark. All 154 names were at the foot of this delicate creation which seemed to pulse with the force of all of us. 154 lamps to feed the flames. As I looked around, I could see older people, parents no doubt, gently running their fingers over the names of children long stolen, some crying, some stone-faced and contemplative. There were in some places siblings, cousins, aunts, friends, all eager to touch the last mortal remnant of their beloved ones.
I felt a hand at my elbow and looked to see Greasy Sae, tears streaming down her aged face. She shook her head and I gave into a rare impulse and hugged her to me.
"Thought I'd never see this day." She drew her eyes up to me, eyes that had seen more pain than should be contained in a lifetime. "They didn't say it, knew you wouldn't want it, but thank you. Thank him." She indicated Peeta with her head. She pulled away at this, drawing herself up against the embarrassing emotions. District 12 people were not given to great displays of emotions but I thought of all the meals she fed me, never missing a day when I was just a pile of flesh, letting me be when I needed to just be. As she walked away, I touched her and quietly said, "No, thank you." She gripped my hand fiercely before letting it drop. She then nodded and continued her way around the statue.
I sought out Peeta and took his hand, overwhelmed by how close I had come to losing him over and over again. How I could have turned into a shriveled person at the foot of this monument, caressing his name as if it were the fair skin I touch now. It was the first time I had felt that elusive feeling of gratitude, not towards him but towards those oft-cursed forces of the universe who, after having toyed with me for so long, decided that my reward would be the kindest, gentlest, most decent person to walk this wicked planet. I leaned into him while he studied, with his artist's eye, the design of the monument.
Lost in our admiration, we did not notice the approach of a stylishly dressed man from across the plaza. When I became aware of him, something about his air screamed Capitol and I felt my hairs stand on end. His suit was silver colored, with a bold pink necktie and a matching pair of pink pointy dress shoes. Even Peeta could not have made that outfit look good. He put his hand out to Peeta and introduced himself. "My name is Fabian Andronichus. Sorry to interrupt you but this must be a big moment for the both of you."
Peeta eyed him warily before answering. "It's important for everyone." Normally talkative and open, he hesitated to speak to this over-dressed man. Even without the face paint and tatoos, he still exuded the air of high maintenance. I looked from his manicured nails to the light brown hair perched in such frozen splendor, even a strong wind would have trouble dislodging a curl from it.
"It is very uplifting to see you both out and about after so many months in seclusion. I wonder if you would have a moment to talk a little bit about your reaction to today's events."
I had been shrinking into Peeta's side, trying to make myself as small as possible. He had the same air as Ceasar Flickaman – that self-conscious effort to ingratiate himself with his victims before moving in for the intimate expose.
"We don't really want to talk about it at this time." Peeta said this as he began to move us away. But this Fabian would not be pacified and followed closely.
"Certainly, you can appreciate how gratifying it would be for the citizens of Panem to see the Mockingjay so engaged in the rebuilding of the nation's morale. Just a few questions would be enough."
"He said no!" I shouted, causing heads to turn towards us.
"Ms. Everdeen, please, think about the people of Panem…"
I began to drag Peeta behind me, trying in every way to escape the snare of his intrusion, blocked by the crowd. My breath became short and quick, my ability to focus on anything starting to dissolve. I felt trapped, like I'd felt in those awful days when I was just a tool for the powers beyond me. I felt Peeta's arm around me, roughly making a path through the attendees, pushing me towards the edge of the square. Up ahead was another group of cameramen. When they caught sight of us, I saw the monstrous lenses turn towards us. There was no escape and soon I would be a crumpled ball of inertia on the ground. My desperation caused me to stumble.
I saw Thom and Glen walk quickly towards us. Flanking either side of us, they shoved the cameras away and brought us around the back of the Justice Building. When Andronichus appeared behind us, Thom stood between us and soundly sent him on his way with a credible threat of physical violence. At this point, I was in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. I bent down, leaning on my knees, letting my head hang in an effort to still my breathing.
"I think we're ready to go." Said Peeta, his hand rubbing my back, trying to soothe me.
Thom nodded. "Glen will let Haymitch know." He nodded at his brother, who walked briskly back towards the statue. "I'll walk you out of town. I'm really sorry. I saw that dog coming at you but I just couldn't get through the crowd."
"It's okay, Thom. At least we're out of there now." Peeta said, helping me straighten up now that I had regained some semblance of normal breathing.
"I'm fine." I waved them away. I would be embarrassed tomorrow but right now, I just wanted to go home.
We walked without further incident back to the entrance of Victor's Village. We thanked Thom as he turned to go back to the center. As soon as we entered the home, I ran upstairs directly. I took off my clothes as I walked into the room, casting them about as I made my way to the bathroom. Once there, I ran a hot shower, activating both jets. I let the hot water pound my tense muscles. The ceremony wasn't as terrible as I expected, though I had moments of real depression, listening to the speech. Humanity had been through these atrocities repeatedly and never seemed to learn from their mistakes. Why should we have such certainty? How could I be sure that something as terrible as the Capitol would not come back to take our children away? It strengthened my resolve to never have children.
But then I remembered the look Peeta had on his face when he learned of Finnick's son. If there was ever a person in the world who should be a parent, it was Peeta. How fair was it for me to keep him near me if I couldn't give him this? Yet I couldn't imagine not having him near.
I slumped onto the shower's ledge. I couldn't believe the turn my mind had taken. The thought of having children when we were in this limbo between friendship and something else was an absurdity. It was certainly not taking things a day at a time, as I had told my mother. But if I were to have children, I could only imagine having them with Peeta. Somehow, this revelation overshadowed everything else I had been thinking about.
My breathing started to speed up again. My mind was on overload between the ceremony and this line of thinking. I shut off the water, drying my hair with the automatic blower, brushing it out until the strands were luminous and fell over me, long enough to cover my nipples. I reapplied my burn cream, then reached for the cream my prep team left so many months ago. I opened the jar and smelled the contents, a unique combination of earthiness and flowers. I smoothed this cream over my "good skin", all the while trying to still my racing thoughts.
Stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in a bath towel, I saw a shirtless Peeta. Sensing me, he turned his head and gave me a sheepish look. His nakedness sent all of my thoughts to the winds and I simply stood dumbly staring at him.
"I thought it would be worse." He said simply.
"It was going okay until the hair attacked us." I said wryly.
Peeta chuckled at this. "His hair did look like it was glued to his head." His eyes swept over me, still damp from my bath and flitted away. He turned his back to me and gathered up his sleep clothes to go to the bathroom. "You can dress here. I'll go in the bathroom."
He walked to bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Distractedly, I rummaged in my drawer for my pajama shorts and shirt.
I thought of the flames of this evening, all the roles that fire had played in my life. Girl on Fire, firebombing of District 12, the catching fire that had turned me into the Mockingjay, the fire in the Capitol. I would undo all that scorching heat, each lick of flame except for one. The fire that set all others to shame, the fire that fed and sustained me, making me cling to a life I would have otherwise thrown away. The slow burn that I carried every day, that made the sun recede in deference to its intensity.
I burned for Peeta.
Okay, if you didn't catch that, there are some serious lemons in the next chapter. If you are below the age of 18 (you know who you are), go read something else for a little while cause there's some serious stuff going down that will make your eyes fall out of your little heads. For the rest of you, please review! I want to know what you thought of this chapter. Thanks for sticking with this!
