PART TWO - HAVING SOMEONE TO FIGHT FOR MAKES YOU STRONG
One hour. That was how long she had until Chilton Meadows, Juno, and Catia and Cassia arrived. And it wouldn't be just them, either. Dozens of reporters, camera crews, an entire staff to cater to her every need and whim on the upcoming fourteen day journey across Panem.
"How am I going to do this?"
It wasn't the first time Willow had asked her mentor that question over the course of the past few weeks, and Delta very much doubted it would be the last, but she still couldn't give The Hunger Games' most recent victor a helpful or satisfactory answer to that all-consuming question.
"We'll get through it together. I'll be right beside you the whole time," Delta promised.
Willow hated the skepticism that pierced her thoughts at the words that were supposed to be comforting. She'd heard the phrase already this year, right before her victory interview, and the person who'd said it was now lost to her. Oh, stop it, Willow, she berated herself, more to stop the tears falling than anything else. She wept so easily these days. The doctor insisted it was hormonal, but Willow knew differently. They had started falling one awful afternoon in the middle of July, and it seemed as though they'd never completely dried up since then. And in far too short a time, she would come face to face with the cause of those tears.
Willow had been dreading this day for months. In three hours time, after undergoing intense prepping and primping for the Victory Tour, she had to step out of her front door and greet the entire country with laughs and waves, knowing that he was going to be watching her. Recalling the last time he had seen her, remembering the last time he had been in District 7. And in fourteen days, she would be in the Capitol, smiling at Caesar Flickerman as though he was nothing more to her than the Master of Ceremonies, as though he hadn't fathered the baby that now swelled her belly, as though a squad of peacekeepers hadn't broken into her home, dragged him from her arms, taken him back to the Capitol and beaten him to within an inch of his life.
How the hell was she going to do this?
She still didn't know, but she did understand that she had to, that Caesar's life quite possibly depended on her acting skills, just as hers was linked to his. He, however, had had a lot more practice at it than she had, and she genuinely didn't know if she was brave enough to get through it without him beside her. She hadn't really done any of this alone, not the public aspect of things, at least. Right from the tribute parade, he'd been there, supporting her from the sidelines, and then from her very first interview, he'd literally held her hand and waltzed her through everything. Even when she'd been mad at him. Was she actually even capable of pulling this off alone?
Well, not quite alone, hey Willow...
The victor glanced up from her teacup and peered across the table at Delta Jones and Vinnie Andrews. Her mentors. Her saviours. Two of just a small handful of people who knew about the horrible twist her life had taken since President Snow's private visit, and the two people who had physically picked her up and cared for her when she'd been knocked unconscious by that peacekeeper. What would she have done without them? What would she do without them now?
Strategically placed midway between the annual Hunger Games, the Victory Tour was the Capitol's way of keeping the horror fresh in the eyes of the nation. The victor had to travel from district to district, to celebrate their win with the cheering crowds who naturally, albeit secretly, hated them for killing their children.
If she was honest, Willow's journey wasn't too bad to begin with. They arrived in District 12, where the tour officially began, in good time, despite the smattering of snow that lay on the tracks. Catia and Cassia helped her shower again, fussed around her bump once more, made her up for the second time that day, and then Juno was there with her outfit draped over one arm. Fitted green trousers tucked into chunky brown boots, a warm top and a fur-lined cape that covered her from neck to mid-thigh, thus successfully eliminating any sign of her pregnancy, for which Willow was exceedingly grateful.
The celebrations weren't over the top in 12, a simple victory rally in the square with a speech from the victor and a pleasant but not overly elaborate dinner with the mayor and other high-ranking officials were about it, before they boarded the train again, and headed for District 11.
11 was vastly different to 12, and security was tight, really tight, Willow thought in awe as they passed through a tunnel and the track was suddenly surrounded by high voltage, barbed wire fences. It was a big district, though, which probably accounted for the extra security measures. It was quite possibly even larger than 7, because it was the agricultural centre of Panem. Everything those in the Capitol ate originated from this district. It was much warmer, too, the trees were still green, the harvests lush and ready, but when they entered the town square, despite the obvious effort to make the place seem joyful, it was easy to see that the buildings were starting to fall into disrepair, that this once-beautiful place was unloved, and slowly crumbling to chalky ashes.
The air of festivity increased slowly as the party moved ever closer to the Capitol. The districts became brighter, the crowds hid their sullenness easier, the speeches became longer, the banquets more and more extravagant. They missed out 7. As Willow's home district, the final celebration would be held there, the day after the Victory Ball in the Capitol, and it wasn't until she arrived in District 2, where Ava had lived, that Willow felt the carefully concealed fury of the populace.
Ava. The career who had tortured and murdered Ash. The girl whom Willow had silently stalked and slain. The victor saw her in her nightmares, she killed her over and over again, almost everytime she went to sleep.
1, Jewel's home, if possible, was even worse. The crowds chanted Willow's name, but there was a death cry in their tone, and that night, when they sped away from the district, the victor had her very first nightmare from which she couldn't independently wake. Delta heard her terrified shrieks and went running, found her writhing in the centre of the bed, her arms clasped around her swollen belly, tears staining her face, still asleep, trapped in some horrific dreamworld from which she couldn't escape by herself.
Willow awoke screaming Caesar's name, her fingers clutching at Delta's hands, and the look of unimaginable fear in her eyes scared the mentor more than she cared to admit.
Delta stayed with her until the dawn broke through, and then the weary pair staggered through to the dining car, where Delta knocked back three cups of strong coffee, and Willow attempted to brighten herself up with several glasses of fruit juice.
The mentor watched the victor closely as the train approached the Capitol, noting the shadows beneath those bright green eyes, the unnatural palor of her already pale skin. Could Willow really pull this off, she wondered. Would she really be able to meet Caesar Flickerman without giving herself, him, any of them, away?
They met backstage before Willow's penultimate Victory Tour interview. It was just a few brief, haunting moments alone together, a pause barely adequate enough for them to say hello, but more than enough time for them to clasp hands tightly, desperately, and then Caesar had to continue onto the stage, take his seat and attempt to calm his racing heart and jumbled thoughts enough to pull off this show.
His theme tune began to play. He'd learned to hate it over the last few months. Somebody - no prizes for guessing who - had insisted he watch the reruns whilst he was in hospital, day after day after day, when he was unable to get away from it. The mutt attacking Willow. Ash's death. Willow killing Ava. Her fight to the death with Jewel. Now he could almost hear the dying cries of the tributes in the upbeat tempo.
The show must go on, Caesar!
Caesar forced that dazzling white grin onto his face, threw back his head and laughed.
Bigger and louder than everyone else.
"Welcome! Welcome, welcome, welcome!"
So that the beautiful girl with her curling red hair and porcelain white skin would be safe from harm.
She'd been trembling when he welcomed her onto the stage. He guessed he had been, too, but he didn't really remember. All he could think was that he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and hold her for the rest of his life. He didn't, of course. In fact, he took the extreme precaution of forcing his fingers to release hers just as soon as he had her settled comfortably in her chair. He knew how intently Snow would be watching them at that moment.
Willow's pregnancy was so obvious under the harsh lights of the stage, despite Juno's best efforts to make it less apparent. It hadn't been publicly mentioned at all throughout her tour of the districts, but after her thankyou speech upon her arrival in the Capitol, President Snow had examined her with interest and personally congratulated her on it, and that had left Caesar with no option but to express his own pleasure at the impending arrival whilst simultaneously pretending it was nothing to do with him. It pained him more than he would have ever believed was possible.
How well had she dealt with this on her own, he wondered? She seemed healthy and alert enough, Caesar thought, but then, so did he. And he was wearing more makeup these days than he'd ever had to use before, off-stage as well as on now, to cover the darkening shadows beneath his eyes, to try and hide the deepening lines on his face. He'd already been given an appointment for facelift surgery. He'd insisted that he wanted Franklin Hertz to perform the operation, and Snow had consented, providing Caesar used the training centre hospital. Caesar considered that maybe that should disturb him, but he really wasn't bothered by the thought of returning to that building. It was almost like a self-inflicted penance.
The entire interview was, in Caesar's opinion, absolutely awful. He was probably one of the most competent actors in Panem - he was certainly the best presenter - but even with everything riding on him staying focused, he wasn't convinced he'd managed it very well. Why the president hadn't let them meet privately before shoving them on stage in front of the entire nation, Caesar didn't know. He could only assume it was a test of his abilities to ignore his feelings for the victor. To him, his questions seemed too obvious, Willow's answers too contrived, and there was none of the easy chatter of her previous interview.
She played her part well, though. He voice did shake a little, and it seemed at times as though she were going to reach out to him, but she always managed to hold herself back from doing anything to draw unwanted attention to them.
They talked about what she had been doing since their last (official) meeting: She'd learned how to whittle from Delta Jones's husband, one of the Capitol's chefs had visited her in 7 and had given her cookery lessons. She'd read, she'd written, she'd helped out at the factory - Caesar felt the familiar cold, hard rush of jealousy spark within him when he realised she'd been near Lane Collins. She'd even worked in the lumber offices in order to allow the foreman to go out and do the physical labor. It was almost as though she would have done anything just to keep from sitting in that house alone.
"You sound like you've been very busy," Caesar commented with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"It's the only thing that staves off the awful dreams," she admitted quietly, and there was the briefest pause imaginable in which he understood that her nightmares usually involved him.
"You're not the first to say that," he revealed softly.
They chatted a little more, mainly about the Victory Tour and then it was time for them to sign off. They clasped hands, and he raised her arm above her head, and the roaring crowds clapped and cheered and whistled, blithely unaware that their newest victor was actually on the verge of collapse.
There were peacekeepers waiting in the wings, just out of sight, to ensure Willow didn't get a moment alone to talk to Caesar. They hustled her and her little team away, and as Caesar watched them depart, he wondered if he'd ever get the opportunity to talk to her properly again.
Despite Caesar's own misgivings over his performance, it appeared to have pacified Coriolanus Snow. The president, holding court on the balcony that overlooked the banquet room, sent for him midway through the Victory Ball, and the pair stood together at the balustrade, looking out over the dancers on the floor below them.
"You've performed well so far, Caesar," the president mused. "Perhaps I could see fit to lift the ban on the two of you meeting to allow you a dance with our lovely Miss Monroe..."
Caesar's eyes shot up to meet Snow's gaze. The was no compassion in the look, merely a calculating examination, and Caesar felt a cold shudder creep along his spine.
"Hmm," Snow decided. "You should go and request Miss Monroe's hand for a dance, Caesar."
Caesar knew it was a command, not a suggestion, but even understanding that, he still hesitated; the memory of being torn away from Willow, that threatening conversation with Snow, the peacekeepers' assault, they were all still so very fresh in his mind, but the president was giving him a look that said declining simply wasn't an option.
Caesar straightened up.
"Yes, Sir," he gulped, the edge of a tremor in his voice.
He turned on his heel, took a deep breath, and then he began to cautiously head across the room to where Willow was standing with Delta Jones and Juno, fully expecting half a dozen peacekeepers to grab him at any given moment, for them to slam him to the ground and beat him to death with their batons and their boots. And it appeared that, for a moment, at least, Caesar's concern was valid, for, from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of white uniform heading towards him, and he steeled himself for the attack.
Please don't make her watch me die...
But the onslaught never came. The peacekeeper stepped away with a curt nod of his head, and Caesar knew instinctively that the president had indicated the man should back off, and he almost slumped with relief.
She really was just so beautiful, Caesar marvelled, as he approached Willow. Her porcelain white skin glowed with health, the bright red hair - still a popular Capitol fashion statement since her victory in The Hunger Games - tumbled in soft waves down her back, the front section was plaited in skinny braids and held back from her face with a silver clip. The flowing skirt of the emerald green dress rippled around her legs as she moved, and then she turned and Caesar finally got the full effect of the sculpted upper half of the outfit. It was strapless, hugging her breasts perfectly, the merest hint of cleavage visible, and no one could fail to notice the way it clung softly around her stomach, caressing the bump that contained the life they had created together.
The Master of Ceremonies forced himself to keep walking, knowing the president must be watching his every move, understanding that any hesitation, any hint that something wasn't as it appeared, could result in that tiny life being taken away. Snow hadn't said a word concerning her now obvious pregnancy, but he must be aware that the child Willow carried was Caesar's, and he would know how desperate Caesar would be to protect not only the woman he loved, but their baby too.
She saw him coming, and he watched the mixture of elated terror flood into her eyes. He gave a barely perceptible nod that he hoped would let her know it was okay, that he was authorised to be in her presence, and he stopped directly in front of her, shielding her momentarily from the president's line of vision, and he gave her a sad smile that failed to reach his eyes.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said weakly.
"Do you come here often?" she counteracted shakily.
"Willow - " The tears hadn't come for a few days now. Caesar had thought he was all cried out, but the droplets were brimming in his eyes now, large and imminent as they stood face to face, pressed as close as they could decently get without arousing suspicion, the prominent swell of her belly resting against him. "Snow says we have to dance," he managed to choke out.
When they were settled in the hold of the dance, Caesar couldn't stop himself staring down between their bodies as he felt movement against his abdomen, and he lifted his hand a little, as though to touch her, but then he clearly thought the better of it. She snatched up his fingers, though, interlacing them with her own and laying them where she herself had always felt the most action.
As though sensing its father's presence, the child within began to wriggle around and push outwards, and Caesar felt the activeness with equal amounts of captivation and trepidation, but eventually his fascination, and the utter love he already felt for his unborn son or daughter, won out, and he ran his hand tenderly across Willow's stomach, pressing gently back in response to their baby's movements.
"What did they do to you after you left 7?" she blurted out, and they both glanced around surreptiously the moment the words left her mouth. Every single person on the dancefloor, though, was caught up in their own little world, and Caesar debated as to whether or not he should lie. What would telling her about his beating and subsequent hospital stay achieve?
"Not much," he evaded. "They brought me back here, and took me straight through to see Snow."
"What did he say?"
Caesar lowered his head, desperately wanting to rest his forehead against hers, but not quite daring to.
"He asked me why I left, told me my leaving could be seen as an open act of rebellion... suggested that my defence of you being innocent of having anything to do with what I did may not be enough to guarantee your safety..."
"And after that?"
"I made the broadcast. I'm sure he made you watch it."
Willow nodded, and a lump formed in her throat as she recalled the bulletin Snow had devised especially for the benefit of herself and Caesar.
"Your eyes..." she whispered, and then she asked again, "What did they do to you? To make you do the broadcast? Snow said you needed 'persuading'."
"I was ready to do the broadcast. After the threat to your life, I was ready to do whatever it took to keep you safe. But he clearly felt he needed to teach me a physical lesson too."
"They hurt you, didn't they?" she asked, in that small voice she had used when the peacekeepers had arrived in 7.
He didn't look her in the eye when he nodded.
"How badly?"
"Willow, you don't need to kno- "
"Yes, I do! Everytime I go to sleep, when I'm not watching myself murder Jewel or Ava, or, in the really twisted dreams that I have, Ash, my nightmares are about you, and what they did to you to give that look in your eyes... I know you, Caesar, I've watched you... What did they do to you?"
Caesar understood why she thought she needed to know, but that didn't stop him feeling totally emasculated as he admitted what had happened to him. He left out a few of the more gruesome details, namely that the peacekeeper who had found them all those months ago had been hellbent on destroying something about him, and that that something had been his knee. He didn't tell her that it was now only held together by metal pins and Franklin Hertz's expertise at rebuilding things from nothing, and neither did he tell her about the avoxed train attendent, for the guilt he felt over that was still sometimes unbearable. Some nights he imagined the man was lurking outside his home, waiting for his opportunity to take revenge, but he was almost certain that that was only his overly wild imagination playing tricks on him.
"Oh, Caesar," she murmured, "What did I do to you?"
The tears that had subsided sprang into Caesar's eyes again, and his fingers tightened around her hand.
"This was not your fault," he whispered fiercely. "Don't you ever believe that."
"It is. If I'd have just sent you away that first night..."
"If I'd never sent you that rose; if I'd listened to Vee, and Darius, and Julius before you went into the arena; if I'd never have gotten on that stupid train... It wasn't your fault, Willow. If it was anyone's, it was mine, but I'd still do it all over again."
"Do you still love me?"
"Always," he promised.
"Me, too," she mouthed as the dance ended, and a peacekeeper appeared behind him, walking him to the edge of the dancefloor and up the wide staircase to where Coriolanus Snow still stood at the balustrade, a smug smile curving his overly plump lips.