The next morning we are roused by my prep team.
The sight of Peeta and I sleeping together is too much for Octavia because she bursts into tears right away.
"You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely.
Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.
Peeta has to return to his room for prep, and I'm left alone with Venia and Flavius. The usual chatter has been suspended. In fact, there's little talk at all, other than to have me raise my chin or comment on a makeup technique. It's nearly lunch when I feel something dripping on my shoulder and turn to find Flavius, who's snipping away at my hair with silent tears running down his face. Venia gives him a look, and he gently sets the scissors on the table and leaves.
Then it's just Venia, whose skin is so pale her tattoos appear to be leaping off of it.
It's only when Cinna shows up to approve me and dismiss her that she takes my hands, looks me straight in the eye, and says, "We would all like you to know what a… privilege it has been to make you look your best." Then she hastens from the room.
My prep team: my foolish, shallow, affectionate pets, with their obsessions with feathers and parties, nearly break my heart with their good-bye. It's certain from Venia's last words that we all know I will not be returning.
Does the whole world know it? I wonder.
I look at Cinna. He knows, certainly. But as he promised, there's no danger of tears from him.
"So, what am I wearing tonight?" I ask, eying the garment bag that holds my dress.
"President Snow put in the dress order himself," says Cinna. He unzips the bag, revealing one of the wedding dresses I wore for the photo shoot. "Even though they announced the Quarter Quell the night of the photo shoot, people still voted for their favorite dress, and this was the winner. The president says you're to wear it tonight. Our objections were ignored."
I rub a bit of the silk between my fingers, trying to figure out President Snow's reasoning. I suppose since I was the greatest offender, my pain and loss and humiliation should be in the brightest spotlight. This, he thinks, will make that clear. It's so barbaric, the president turning my bridal gown into my shroud, that the blow strikes home, leaving me with a dull ache inside.
"Well, it'd be a shame to waste such a pretty dress" is all I say.
Cinna helps me carefully into the gown. As it settles on my shoulders, they can't help giving a shrug of complaint.
"Was it always this heavy?" I ask. I remember several of the dresses being dense, but this one feels like it weighs a ton.
"I had to make some slight alterations because of the lighting," says Cinna.
I nod, but do not really understand.
He decks me out in the shoes and the pearl jewelry and the veil. He touches up my makeup and has me walk.
"You're ravishing," he says. "Now, Katniss, because this bodice is so fitted, I don't want you raising your arms above your head. Well, not until you twirl, anyway."
"Will I be twirling again?" I ask, thinking of my dress last year.
"I'm sure Caesar will ask you. And if he doesn't, you suggest it yourself. Only not right away. Save it for your big finale," Cinna instructs me.
"You can give me a signal, so I know when," I say.
"All right. Any plans for your interview? I know Haymitch left you two to your own devices," he says.
"No, this year I'm just winging it. The funny thing is, I'm not nervous at all."
We meet up with Effie, Haymitch, Portia, and Peeta at the elevator. Peeta's in an elegant tuxedo and white gloves. The sort of thing grooms wear to get married in, here in the Capitol. Back home everything is so much simpler. They have their own little ceremony, where they make their first fire, toast a bit of bread, and share it. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but no one really feels married in District 12 until after the toasting.
Peeta takes my hand before the elevator opens, and this time, I know it's not because the cameras are waiting out there.
For reasons beyond me, even with last night, it's not awkward. I find only comfort, not guilt, in his touch.
The other tributes have already gathered offstage and are talking softly, but when Peeta and I arrive, they fall silent.
I realize everyone's staring daggers at my wedding dress.
Are they jealous of its beauty? Or the power it might have to manipulate the crowd?
Finally Finnick says, "I can't believe Cinna put you in that thing."
"He didn't have any choice. President Snow made him," I say, defensively.
Cashmere tosses her flowing blond curls back and spits out, "Well, you look ridiculous!" She grabs her brother's hand and pulls him into place to lead our procession onto the stage.
The other tributes begin to line up as well.
I'm confused because, while they all are angry, some are giving us sympathetic pats on the shoulder, and Johanna Mason actually stops to straighten my pearl necklace.
"Make him pay for it, okay?" she says.
I nod, but I don't know what she means.
Not until we're all sitting out onstage. Caesar Flickerman, hair and face highlighted in lavender this year, gives his opening spiel and the tributes begin their interviews. This is the first time I realize the depth of betrayal felt among the victors and the rage that accompanies it.
They are smart, so wonderfully smart about how they play it, because it all comes back to reflect on the government and President Snow in particular. Not everyone. There are the old throwbacks, like Brutus and Enorbaria, who are just here for another Games. There are those who are too baffled or drugged to join in on the attack, but there are enough victors who still have the wits and the nerve to go out fighting.
Cashmere starts the ball rolling with a speech about how she just can't stop crying when she thinks of how much the people in the Capitol must be suffering because they will lose us.
Gloss recalls the kindness shown here to him and his sister.
Beetee questions the legality of the Quell in his nervous, twitchy way, wondering if it's been fully examined by experts of late.
Finnick recites a poem he wrote to his one true love in the Capitol, and about a hundred people faint because they're sure he means them.
By the time Johanna Mason gets up, she's asking if something can't be done about the situation. Surely the creators of the Quarter Quell never anticipated such love forming between the victors and the Capitol. No one could be so cruel as to sever such a deep bond.
Seeder quietly ruminates about how, back in District 11, everyone assumes President Snow is all-powerful. So if he's all-powerful, why doesn't he change the Quell?
Chaff, who comes right on her heels, insists the president could change the Quell if he wanted to, but he must not think it matters much to anyone.
By the time I'm introduced, the audience is an absolute wreck. People have been weeping and collapsing and even calling for change. The sight of me in my white silk bridal gown practically causes a riot. No more me, no more star-crossed lovers living happily ever after, no more wedding. I can see even Caesar's professionalism showing some cracks as he tries to quiet them so I can speak, but my three minutes are ticking quickly away.
Finally there's a lull and he gets out, "So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
My voice trembles as I speak. "Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding…but I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just…the most beautiful thing?"
I don't have to look at Cinna for a signal. I know this is the right time. I begin to twirl slowly, raising the sleeves of my heavy gown above my head.
When I hear the screams of the crowd, I think it's because I must look stunning. Then I notice something is rising up around me: smoke from fire. Charred bits of black silk swirl into the air, and pearls clatter to the stage. Then all at once, the fire is gone. I come to a stop, wondering if I'm naked and why Cinna has arranged to burn away my wedding dress.
I am not naked. I'm in a dress of the exact design of my wedding dress, only it's the color of coal and made of tiny feathers. Wonderingly, I lift my long, flowing sleeves into the air, and that's when I see myself on the television screen. Clothed in black except for the white patches on my sleeves, or should I say my wings, because Cinna has turned me into a mockingjay.
With a tentative hand Caesar reaches out to touch my headpiece. The white has burned away, leaving a smooth, fitted veil of black that drapes into the neckline of the dress in the back.
"Feathers," says Caesar. "You're like a bird."
"A mockingjay, I think," I say, giving my wings a small flap. "It's the bird on the pin I wear as a token."
A shadow of recognition flickers across Caesar's face, and I can tell he knows that the mockingjay isn't just my token. That it's come to symbolize so much more. That what will be seen as a flashy costume change in the Capitol is resonating in an entirely different way throughout the districts.
"Well, hats off to your stylist. I don't think anyone can argue that that's not the most spectacular thing we've ever seen in an interview. Cinna, I think you better take a bow!" Caesar gestures for Cinna to rise.
He does, and makes a small, gracious bow.
Suddenly I am so afraid for him. What has he done? Something terribly dangerous. An act of rebellion in itself, and he has done it for me. I remember his words…
"Don't worry. I always channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself."
…and I'm afraid he has hurt himself beyond repair. The significance of my fiery transformation will not be lost on President Snow.
The audience, who's been stunned into silence, breaks into wild applause. I can barely hear the buzzer that indicates that my three minutes are up. Caesar thanks me and I go back to my seat, my dress now feeling lighter than air.
As I pass Peeta, who's headed for his interview, he does not meet my eyes. I take my seat carefully, but aside from the puffs of smoke here and there, I seem unharmed, so I turn my attention to him.
Caesar and Peeta have been a natural team since they first appeared together a year ago. Their easy give-and-take, comic timing, and ability to segue into heart-wrenching moments, like Peeta's confession of love for me, have made them a huge success with the audience. They effortlessly open with a few jokes about fires and feathers and overcooking poultry. Except, anyone can see that Peeta is preoccupied, so Caesar directs the conversation right into the subject that's on everyone's minds.
"So, Peeta, what was it like when, after all you've been through, you found out about the Quell?" asks Caesar.
"I was in shock. I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns, and the next…" Peeta trails off.
"You realized there was never going to be a wedding?" asks Caesar gently.
Peeta pauses for a long moment, as if deciding something. He looks out at the spellbound audience, then at the floor, then finally up at Caesar. "Caesar, do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?"
An uncomfortable laugh emanates from the audience. What can he mean? Keep a secret from who? Our whole world is watching. "I feel quite certain of it," says Caesar.
"We're already married," says Peeta quietly.
The crowd reacts in astonishment, and I have to bury my face in the folds of my skirt so they cannot see my confusion. Where on earth is he going with this?
"But…how can that be?" asks Caesar.
"Oh, it's not an official marriage. We didn't go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District Twelve. I don't know what it's like in the other districts. But there's this thing we do," says Peeta, and he briefly describes the toasting.
"Were your families there?" asks Caesar.
"No, we didn't tell anyone. Not even Haymitch. And Katniss' mother would never have approved. But you see, we knew if we were married in the Capitol, there wouldn't be a toasting. And neither of us really wanted to wait any longer. So one day, we just did it," Peeta says. "And to us, we're more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us."
"So this was before the Quell?" says Caesar.
"Of course before the Quell. I'm sure we'd never have done it after we knew," says Peeta, starting to get upset. "But who could've seen it coming? No one. We went through the Games, we were victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere—I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like that?"
"You couldn't, Peeta." Caesar puts an arm around his shoulders. "As you say, no one could've. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together."
Enormous applause. As if encouraged, I look up from my feathers and let the audience see my tragic smile of thanks. The residual smoke from the feathers has made my eyes teary, which adds a very nice touch.
"I'm not glad," says Peeta. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially."
This takes even Caesar aback. "Surely even a brief time is better than no time?"
"Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar," says Peeta bitterly, "if it weren't for the baby."
There. He has done it again, pulling everyone and me up short. Dropped a bomb that wipes out the efforts of every tribute who came before him. Well, maybe not. Maybe this year he has only lit the fuse on a bomb that the victors themselves have been building. Hoping someone would be able to detonate it. Perhaps thinking it would be me in my bridal gown.
As the bomb explodes, it sends accusations of injustice and barbarism and cruelty flying out in every direction. Even the most Capitol-loving, Games-hungry, bloodthirsty person out there can't ignore, at least for a moment, how horrific the whole thing is.
Yet, what is so spectacular about this accomplishment, isn't the reaction, it's that not once did Peeta have to even mention or question the authenticity of the Capitol or Snow or complain about the Games; he only spoke of love.
The audience cannot absorb the news right away. It has to strike them and sink in and be confirmed by other voices before they begin to sound like a herd of wounded animals, moaning, shrieking, calling for help.
I know my face is projected in a tight close-up on the screen, but I do not make any effort to hide it, because or a moment, even I am working through what Peeta has said.
This is my greatest fear. This is the same reason I withdrew from him last night.
Caesar cannot rein in the crowd again, not even when the buzzer sounds.
Peeta nods his good-bye and comes back to his seat without any more conversation.
I can see Caesar's lips moving, but the place is in total chaos and I can't hear a word. Only the blast of the anthem, cranked up so loud I can feel it vibrating through my bones, lets us know where we stand in the program.
I automatically rise and, as I do, I sense Peeta reaching out for me. Tears run down his face as I take his hand.
I look back to the crowd, but the faces of Rue's mother and father swim before my eyes. Their sorrow. Their loss. I turn spontaneously to Chaff and offer my hand. I feel my fingers close around the stump that now completes his arm and hold fast.
Then it happens. Up and down the row, the victors begin to join hands. Some do it right away, like the morphlings, or Wiress and Beetee. Others are unsure but caught up in the demands of those around them, like Brutus and Enorbaria. By the time the anthem plays its final strains, all twenty-four of us stand in one unbroken line in what must be the first public show of unity among the districts since the Dark Days.
You can see the realization of this as the screens begin to pop into blackness. It's too late, though. In the confusion they didn't cut us off in time. Everyone has seen.
There's disorder on the stage now, too, as the lights go out and we're left to stumble back into the Training Center. I've lost hold of Chaff, but Peeta guides me into an elevator. Finnick and Johanna try to join us, but a harried Peacekeeper blocks their way and we shoot upward alone.
The moment we step off the elevator, Peeta grips my shoulders. "There isn't much time, so tell me. Is there anything I have to apologize for?"
"Nothing," I say. It was a big leap to take without my okay, but I am glad I did not know. If I had, I would have worried about the consequence back home.
Somewhere, very far off, is a place called District 12, where my mother and sister and friends will have to deal with the fallout from this night.
Just a brief hovercraft ride away is an arena where, tomorrow, Peeta and I and the other tributes will face our own form of punishment, and even if all of us meet terrible ends, something happened on that stage tonight that cannot be undone. We victors staged our own uprising, and maybe, just maybe, the Capitol won't be able to contain this one.
"You look stunning," Peeta says, quietly, a hand musing the feathers on my headdress. "Cinna is amazing with clothing."
"Yes," I breathe, still afraid for my rebellious stylist. "He's done a lot for me."
That's when I notice his hand moves to grip a chain around his neck. "What's that?"
"Effie gave it to Portia, she put it on me before the interview."
I reach out to retrieve the disk that hangs from the chain around his neck and find that my mockingjay has been engraved on it. "Is this your token?" I ask.
"Yes. I hope you do not mind that I used your mockingjay. I wanted us to match."
"No, of course I don't mind." I force a smile. The fact that Peeta will show up in the arena wearing a mockingjay is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it should give a boost to the rebels in the districts. On the other, it's hard to imagine President Snow will overlook it, and that will make the job of keeping Peeta alive harder.
We're waiting for the others to return, but when the elevator opens, only Haymitch appears. "It's madness out there. Everyone's been sent home and they've canceled the recap of the interviews on television."
Peeta and I hurry to the window and try to make sense of the commotion far below us on the streets. "What are they saying?" Peeta asks. "Are they asking the president to stop the Games?"
"I don't think they know themselves what to ask. The whole situation is unprecedented. Even the idea of opposing the Capitol's agenda is a source of confusion for the people here," says Haymitch. "But there's no way Snow would cancel the Games. You know that, right?"
I do. Of course, he could never back down now. The only option left to him is to strike back and strike back hard.
"The others went home?" I ask.
"They were ordered to. I don't know how much luck they're having getting through the mob," says Haymitch.
"Then we'll never see Effie again," says Peeta. We didn't see her on the morning of the Games last year. "You'll give her our thanks."
"More than that. Really make it special. It's Effie, after all," I say. "Tell her how appreciative we are and how she was the best escort ever and tell her ... tell her we send our love."
For a while we just stand there in silence, delaying the inevitable.
Then Haymitch says it.
"I guess this is where we say our good-byes as well."
"Any last words of advice?" Peeta asks.
"Stay alive," Haymitch says gruffly. That's almost an old joke with us now. He gives us each a quick embrace, and I can tell it's all he can stand. "Go to bed. You need your rest."
I know I should say a whole bunch of things to Haymitch, but I can't think of anything he doesn't already know, really, and my throat is so tight I doubt anything would come out, anyway.
So, once again, I let Peeta speak for us both. "You take care, Haymitch," he says.
We cross the room, but in the doorway, Haymitch's voice stops us. "Katniss, when you're in the arena," he begins. Then he pauses. He's scowling in a way that makes me sure I've already disappointed him.
"What?" I ask defensively.
"You just remember who the enemy is," Haymitch tells me. "That's all. Now go on. Get out of here."
We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock, and I'll have to spend the night without him. I tell him to shower in my room.
I know we should sleep. Except I cannot help but think this is my last night with Peeta, in which we will be really, truly alone. I will never have this again.
When Peeta returns from his shower, smelling of soap, I pull him down into bed and waste no time. What do I tell him? What does he want to hear? Should I remind him that this is our final night, or does he know? Is that why he keeps kissing me back just as heatedly?
As he finally manages to get me out of my mockingjay dress, I stop him. I sit on my knees at the edge of the bed and he stands before me.
He stares down at me, patient, wondering.
I still don't know what to say to him.
Instead, I give up and kiss him with recklessness.
We fall into the bed, and the barriers quickly fall. The hunger and fire is all consuming.
Peeta does not move beyond any previous boundaries, and does not say he wants more, but the want I see in his eyes is enough to make me feel guilty. I want it, too, physically, but mentally all of those walls that I have built, cemented with my beliefs, still stand strong.
That is, they were until another thought occurs to me.
I have a hand moving against the bulge in his underwear. Peeta's eyes are closed, and he looks so beautiful. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen, those memorizing eyelashes against his cheekbones. The sound of his ragged breathing makes my legs feel weak, and fuels me with an empowerment I have never known.
I think of how I will miss him.
After these Games, he will live on; heartbroken, but alive. He will have to march through the aftermath of these Hunger Games, and I will be cold in a coffin. I know he will never forget me. I know he will savor these moments between us… and then I think, for no apparent reason, of Finnick. A young, strong, beautiful tribute, just like Peeta. My mind goes to the rumors about such tributes. The way they are turned out to the Capitol citizens who pay the best price. Peeta and I as the star-crossed lovers have been able to stave off such a fate... but, finally, horrifyingly, I realize if I am gone, Snow would not hesitate.
I know I cannot prevent this. I know I still want Peeta to win these Games, even with this threat looming over his head. There is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable. I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of someone else, let alone a Capitolite, touching Peeta the way I have.
There is nothing... nothing, except to take away some of the fire's burn.
I want him first, all of him.
I cannot let them take that from me, and I want him to think of me, every time he's with those others.
As selfish as the thought is, it is enough.
Peeta notices almost instantly that there is something different about my movements. He draws back to examine my face, and I finally know what I want to say to him.
"You're mine," I say, and I am yours.
I tug at his underclothes and they are quickly discarded. I toss mine aside, a sudden smile on my face. I am eager, I realize. Eager to experience this with him.
"I am yours," Peeta whispers to me. He leans down close to my face. I can see the love in his eyes, the trust, the kindness…
It is enough to make me breathless.
He eases into it. He kisses me and rubs me with his hand. He is gentle with me, and I find myself wiggling impatiently against him.
Finally, he pushes into me, and I cannot help the sound that escapes me.
It hurts, a little, but the pleasure is there as well. Mostly it feels obscene, but a good obscene, like intrusive and warm.
I move my hips with his. The pain quickly transforms, becoming a tantalizing, burning ache. Both good and bad, the way a scalding bath soothes and sears at the same time.
Rapidly both our wants and tempos grow. I forget to think of anything else. I forgot the reason. I just look up into his face and admire him. I lose myself to the burning, aching, throbbing. I feel as though my pleasure will never stop, that it will continue to ebb and flow and wash over me, until suddenly, it is as if I am pulled under the tide of it. I grab at his chest, and I feel as if the pleasure is lightning through my body.
Soon after, Peeta cries out, and I can feel the warmth spread inside of me.
Our bodies are drenched in sweat, and I kiss him, before anything else can be said.
I lay there savoring the moment, before I am forced to consider the guilt, and the awful reason I even consented to this.
As we lay there, catching our breath, I feel more than sensual warmth leaking out of me and on my thighs. I feel gross, and since Peeta has already had his shower, I get mine in peace.
Once I return clean, we spend the rest of the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dream and waking and endorphins. Neither of us speak. Perhaps we are both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest with the time that is left.
A little before dawn Peeta caresses the side of my hip. He says only this, "I love you."
I say nothing.
Cinna and Portia arrive with the dawn, and I know Peeta will have to go. Tributes enter the arena alone.
"See you soon," he says.
"See you soon," I answer.
Cinna, who will help dress me for the Games, accompanies me to the roof. I'm about to mount the ladder to the hovercraft when I remember. "I didn't say good-bye to Portia."
"I'll tell her," says Cinna.
The electric current freezes me in place on the ladder until the doctor injects the tracker into my left forearm. Now they will always be able to locate me in the arena.
The hovercraft takes off, and I look out the windows until they black out. Cinna keeps pressing me to eat and, when that fails, to drink. I manage to keep sipping water, thinking of the days of dehydration that almost killed me last year. Thinking of how I will need my strength to keep Peeta alive.
When we reach the Launch Room at the arena, Cinna re-braids my hair down my back and helps me dress over simple undergarments.
This year's tribute outfit is a thick long-sleeved turtleneck, made of wool and, after Cinna's input, spandex. The pants are no different from the shirt; black, tight, and thick. A belt, which is just simple enough to tuck a knife under, added and then my shoes, black also, reaching to nearly mid-shin, and made mostly of rubber.
"What do you think?" I ask, holding the accompanying jacket out for Cinna to examine.
He frowns as he rubs the thick stuff between his fingers. "I don't know. It might offer protection from cold and water, but the wool would only absorb water, and it could get rather heavy."
Cinna seems more interested in my boots though, than anything else. He examines them as I pull on the clothes. I wince only a few times. I find I am a little sore from Peeta and I's activities last night.
"Look," Cinna says, and I move to see what he's pointing out. "See these grooves in the soles?" I nod. "They have a grip and that may mean climbing. Mountains possibly."
I could just picture the arena now. A mountainous, cliff infected place with fierce waterfalls and down traveling streams, dovetailing Gamemaker induced heavy rain and possible snowfalls, and freezing winds.
"Oh, I almost forgot this." Cinna takes my gold mockingjay pin from his pocket and fixes it to the outfit.
"My dress was fantastic last night," I say. It was fantastic and reckless, but Cinna must know that.
"I thought you might like it," he says with a tight smile.
There is a knock at the door. Confused, Cinna answers and a Peacekeeper stands there in the hall. In his hands is a fanny-pack: black and zipped closed. "For the tribute."
Cinna takes it. "What is this about?"
"A part of the outfits. It is meant to be passed out only minutes beforehand. It is not to be opened until the gong has gone off." The Peacekeeper motions for me to get on the metal plate, just as the voice overhead announces the same thing.
The man does not leave.
Cinna walks me over to the circular metal plate and attaches the fanny-pack to my waist. "Remember, girl on fire," he says, quietly. "I'm still betting on you." He kisses my forehead and steps back as the glass cylinder slides down around me.
"Thank you," I say, although he probably cannot hear me.
I lift my chin, holding my head high the way he always tells me to, and wait for the plate to rise.
It does not. I look at Cinna, raising my eyebrows for an explanation. He just gives his head a slight shake, as perplexed as I am.
I look to the blank faced Peacekeeper.
Suddenly the door behind them bursts open and two more Peacekeepers spring into the room. Two pin Cinna's arms behind him and cuff him while the third hits him in the temple with such force he's knocked to his knees. They keep hitting him with metal-studded gloves, opening gashes on his face and body.
I am screaming my head off, banging on the unyielding glass, trying to reach him.
The Peacekeepers ignore me completely as they drag Cinna's limp body from the room. All that's left are the smears of blood on the floor.
Sickened and terrified, I feel the plate begin to rise.
I move away from the glass just in time.
Something seems to be wrong with my vision. Everything is dark. I squint down at my feet and see nothing: not the metal plate, nor the climbing boots.
I raise my head and realize there's nothing wrong with my eyes. This is the arena.
We are underground, and it is pitch black. It is cold and damp, and even the oxygen tastes thin.
I can only form one clear thought: this is no place for a girl on fire.