Train-ride to an unwanted honeymoon.
Doctor, fans, smiling, train.
My thumb rolls the golden wedding band in circles about my ring-finger. I sit with my head against the chilled glass window. It'll be sunset soon, the clouds gathering with a hazy evening drizzle. The moon is nearly visible, half-cut like a lemon slice. The landscape's wilds pass by in a blur.
Despite the supposed proximity, compared to Twelve, District Four seems to be as far from the Capitol as anywhere else. We've come through two different train junctions, both in the middle of nowhere. Each time, I've wondered which District the alternating line would lead to, which one would take us back to Twelve. I'd never figure it out.
Effie passes a copy of our itinerary to me, yammering with only occasional words sinking in. West Beach Resort. District Four. Swimming lessons. A ride on a 'yacht.' A 'scuba' dive. Promotions.
Home.
Peeta slides me a roll. I tear bits off, eat them to have something to do.
Three more days of this.
Home can't come too soon.
Peeta's hand rests on my shoulder, causing me to flinch.
"Sorry." He pulls away.
I glance at him, finishing off my roll without a word. None of this is his fault, but I can't find the right way to respond, and he doesn't push me. We don't have the cameras on. I can show discomfort if I want. I can be taciturn all along.
After finishing, I slide out of the dining car without a word. I'm grateful that Peeta doesn't follow, though before I get a chance to shut the car door someone else calls out my name.
Cinna.
I give what I hope passes for a slight smile, and he pulls something from behind his back. The basket from the hotel's bathroom. I stare, before frowning.
"The hotel wanted you to have it," he comments, placing it on top of the car's dresser. "Complimentary. They're going to get a lot of reservations, with you two having stayed there."
"Thank you," I reply. My voice cracks. I realize I haven't spoken a word since we left the Capitol, hours ago.
"Peeta wanted to know if the chef should make some lamb stew," Cinna continues. "If you're hungry for real food, and not just rolls?"
I give an indifferent shrug, moving towards the door.
A hand touches my wrist, keeping me in my room as the train gently pitches left before righting itself. Cinna's painted nails hold orange-and-yellow flame flourishes, similar to my dress for the Interviews what seems like ages ago. Carefully, as if afraid of frightening me off, he retrieves something from the bottom of the basket. The pink packet of pills. Prevention pills, silver-paper directions glued to the front of the package. It's only in disbelief that I finally tear my eyes away, to look at him.
My mouth opens, but he puts a finger across his lips and I swallow the words off the tip of my tongue.
"Have a glass of water, before bed," Cinna says easily, as if discussing the weather; "You seem a little dehydrated."
Thank you, I mouth, pushing away thoughts of what risks he is taking in giving me these. Was he the one who placed them in our hotel room's cabinet? Cinna and Effie both know that this is a pretense. But, if he's giving me this… does he know more?
"Get some rest, Katniss." Cinna's arms wrap around me, and I press my face against his shoulder, trying to find the right way to repay him. If only I knew how. "I'll tell Peeta you're tired."
He pulls away. I'm left in too-quiet train-car with my Mockingjay pin, the pills, and a head filled with unanswered questions.
I drown the first pill down my throat with a full glass of water, but sleep doesn't come.
Instead, I whittle away time by the windows, watching the horizon gobble up the sun. Memories of the last train ride home burn fresh in my mind. Peeta held me, as I cried for the two nineteen-year-olds we lost. Mattie and Sib, both on athletic teams at school, both from Merchant families. Mattie's wild curls. Freckles dusting Sib's nose. Slaughtered by allies Peeta and I had wrangled for them, worked hard to flesh out.
Enobaria, the District Two mentor, laughed while they were being killed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if this will rid me of the visual. I lay on my side on the plush mattress, slipping under the sheets.
The door to the room opens. From the heavy footfalls, it is Peeta, but I don't look up from my place on the bed. The window creaks as it is slid opened, the squeaks of metal train against metal track becoming more distinct. Fresh breezes blow the stuffiness from the room. He lays down next to me, trying to shift the sheets as little as possible. When he is still, I roll onto my back after a few minutes to look up at him. His head is leaned back, against the headboard, one arm behind his neck. His wedding ring clacks against the bedpost dully. His lashes bat with long, tired blinks. I slide my fingers into his free hand, grateful as he gives me a reassuring squeeze. How I want to curl myself around him, fall asleep with my head against his chest.
Only…
Both of us lie still, his thumb soothing circles against my skin.
He drifts, after a few minutes. He twitches awake, eyes fluttering rapidly, catches me staring and gazes back. His eyes are glazed with wearied confusion. I reach up and brush his curls from his lashes. The touch is tentative, but his eyelids slide shut. As he relaxes, a funny pout puckers his lips, in his sleep.
"Stay with me?" I had asked him once.
His posture slumps, arm and head sliding down to rest against the pillow next to me.
He had promised, "Always."
I picture the benign pink circle lolling about, back and forth inside my stomach. How will I tell him I took pills to prevent what Snow wants? Peeta can't want it, not like this. He wants it to be real.
Cecilia comes to mind, the Victor from Eight whose eldest son only escaped being Reaped this year because of the rule change. But next year, or the year after, he could be thrown in. He isn't even the child of two Victors.
Cecilia hasn't even challenged Snow.
District Eight hasn't been behaving, though.
I picture Peeta holding a baby with blonde curls but grey, Seam eyes. I picture the baby being ripped from his arms, placed on a steel metal plate which rises into the arena as we watch helplessly.
I gulp, curling the blankets around me, tightening my hold on his hand. He doesn't stir.
Selfishly, I almost want him to.
We are in the hallway leading to the President's meeting room. The echoes of the announcement reverberate in my head.
"This year, as a reminder that even the strongest among you must be made to atone and to serve, the most recent Victor from each District shall hand-select the male and female Tribute, from a pool of nineteen-year-old citizens."
A plush wine carpet muffles our steps, as we enter a narrower corridor. Black-suited guards posted halfway down are indifferent as we pass. Peeta attempts a thank you, but the words linger in the dead air, sentiments unreturned. They don't check us for weapons, or even eye us with suspicion. It's as if we don't exist.
Statues of youthful figures line this hall. Some bear weapons, others are hidden among carved bushes or rocks. Small, golden placards sit on the base of each, but we don't pause to read their inscriptions. Powder-white stone depicts carved jackets and trousers on some figures, with as much detail as it does the nude forms of others. I avert my gaze. Cheeks burn at several statues in a row bearing breasts or phalluses. I half-expect Peeta to laugh at me; he'd called me 'pure,' earlier, when Johanna Mason had stripped in the elevator in front of us and Haymitch. But his jaw is tightly clenched, forward stare stony. I don't know if I am more relieved or concerned.
The corridor ends into ebony double-doors. Two more guards, nearly identical to the others we have passed, stand abutting the closed entry. As we approach them, I feel my lungs inflate sharply into a gasp as I catch sight of the final sculpture on our left.
A young girl and boy, each with a handful of berries so delicately rendered that they appear about to roll out of their grasp. The girl wears her hair in a side-braid, the boy's hair full of curls. A hard, stony stare rests on the girl's face, the boy's eyes wide. Both lips are partially opened, counting to three between the two of us.
This is the final moment, when we threw the Capitol's Games back in Snow's face.
I glance back over my shoulder, at the statue just next to ours which I had overlooked. A triumphant boy holds a rock to the air. Parry, the District Eleven victor who won the year before Peeta and me. To his left is a barely-clothed Wade from District Two.
The statues we have glanced over must all be of Victors. We are all immortalized in stone, for the President's personal viewing.
"Impressive," Peeta comments sharply.
"What is?" I ask, turning back to our statue.
We are stripped and chained to the stone. Heavy metal chain drags me towards the stone slab-
I wake up screaming, managing to quiet myself against Peeta's chest. Barely ten minutes pass before Effie bursts through the door.
The train has stopped moving.
"Welcome to District Four!"
hello there, thank you for bearing with me. I know it's been a while, and I apologize profusely but well, life has a way of getting in your way, doesn't it? hopefully this isn't disappointing, I know this is a bit on the short end.
major thanks to GreenWool and Lovethybooty yet again, for letting me ramble and for checking me over, you guys seriously are the best (and everyone should read their works on ao3 and tumblr, they're both brilliant) xoxo