At first, I named this chapter trash. Because I hated it, it would not come together. The image was fully formed but no matter what I did or didn't do it wouldn't form like it did in my mind. Finally, I laid it down and let it have it's peace and then it came to me. Now, by far, this is not my favourite chapter and I would have made it longer…but I can't without messing up the next chapter which is so pivotal in the entire story. Something, I've laid out since the very beginning. So I'm sorry for this being so short—much shorter than I wanted, but trust me. I think what comes next will make up for it. I should be able to let everyone know the official end date soon.

Update Saturday!

Edit: Check out my friend's first ever HG fanfic-a oneshot!

s/8100091/1/Poison

"Patience is power.
Patience is not an absence of action;
rather it is "timing"
it waits on the right time to act,
for the right principles
and in the right way."
― Fulton J. Sheen

Alaric's father gave me the pin and for hours I sat there staring at it. I was doing this for Alaric as much as for myself. Every single piece of this plan was as if he was there with me as if his hand was guiding it.

Days were spent rehabilitating. It was difficult and painful, but the thought—the idea that I was going to be incapable of actually participating in the fight I'd so carefully orchestrated was unbearable. I gritted my teeth each and every day and bore through the pain.

There wasn't much to do ahead of time except prepare people. Almost half of the district was armed with at least one weapon. Many more would be available when we got a foot hold and could get them from the mine, and from the peacekeepers.

The whippings have increased, and not one of them are planned by me anymore. The whole spirit of the district seems broken but there's an undercurrent of pulsing hatred. They have no idea what we're planning or what we're capable of anymore.

Ambrose and Jackson's names are uttered in words of dread or fear. Their punishment rains down roughly on anyone who dares do anything wrong. Words can't express how much they are truly hated. In some ways, Jackson is more hated because of having been one of us.

…

I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe it. Two weeks before it's supposed to happen, and I'm in a panic. All these precautions that I've taken and still here I am in this…situation. It's not that I'm against it, because I do want children. I want them, but not in this world. If we win the Rebellion, I want them. But if I live if we fail…no matter how much I love them, I will not raise them for slaughter. I will not raise them to go in the games.

Any child of mine would almost be guaranteed to be forced into the games. My hands go to my stomach involuntarily as I touch what could be the haven of growing life. I'm going to war, possibly pregnant.

Cristoff and I have been extremely careful but fate it seems would have it another way. The days go by and I just keep hoping that it's a mistake that I'm just late, but each day that goes by that hope grows fainter.

What am I going to do?

A child. A child in this world while I'm planning a rebellion…what kind of cruel fate is this? I'm going to be fighting and maybe dying while I may be growing a child inside of me. Survival is crucial for me, for this baby…but survival at what cost? I won't stop fighting because I'm pregnant. I won't lay down my arms and have a few years to spend with my child before they take him or her away to the Games. I can't stop fighting. A part of me wishes that it wasn't happening that I wasn't having a baby…

When it comes though, I'm not entirely sure that I'm glad that I'm not with child. It had just been stress and anxiety keeping nature away from taking it's course—there never was a child. Despite my lack of wanting to raise one for slaughter, of wanting to have one now….I loved it even though it wasn't real. Now that it's nothing more than a passing thing, a dream that wasn't meant to be and may never be….I miss it so desperately.

What would it matter here at the end of all things if I was pregnant for awhile before I died? For a little while, I would have been happy…But instead it wasn't meant to be. I suppose it'll be easier then to fight not worrying about it…not worrying about what if I lose. It'll keep me from hesistating to lay down my life if it's required.

But it doesn't stop me from crying for things that could have been.

…

My fingers glide over the golden circle over and over again, each and every day as the days tick down. It's the same today. Everything has been ticking down to this moment. It is the day before our decision…everything that has happened in the past few months has been for this.

The sound of a knock at the window brings me from my thoughts. I watch as Cristoff gets to his feet and opens the window. A white hand reaches through, and Curtis comes through shoulders first smiling at me. His face is smudged with dirt as he drops to the floor.

Little by little they filter into the house as the lights are dimmed and we're sitting there in the semi-darkness. Several men and a few women are huddled around the floor all staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to do something.

Finally, Curtis is the one that asks. "Tomorrow, we make the big push. But you asked us all here tonight," he pauses. "What are we…"

"We're waiting," I say it patiently as I turn the pin over and over again. The gold reflects as I am lost to their voices asking me questions, as I'm lost in recollections of this past month….

"Emera?" There's a tentative voice asking me and I look over at Curtis again.

"Yes?"

"What are we waiting for?"

Before I can answer, there's a soft sound at the door. Everyone turns deadly silent, I see Curtis grab something heavy as he gets to his feet. I can see faces paling, and hands clenched. Who could be here at this hour? No one good.

Their faces show each and every fear. We've been found out, they're going to kill us all—we won't get the chance to fight. It's going to be over before it even begins. Curtis moves forward, ready to attack—ready to at least get the chance at something.

The door shuts just as softly, and there are footsteps in the hall. No one is breathing, no one is moving when he steps around the corner clad completely in white. I hear someone inhale sharply, someone else curses, and Curtis moves forward slightly.

A hand is on the strap of the gun that hangs on his back, the stark black against the uniform made completely of white. He steps around the corner and looks around the room as everyone stands frozen.

I'm the first to my feet my hand stopping Curtis from attacking. He looks at me in confusion as I walk to the peacekeeper slowly. I wrap my arms around him, "Welcome home, Jackson."