Plutarch used to think of himself as a patient person. It had taken over fifteen years to climb the ladder to Head Gamemaker and almost the same amount of time to build a network of trusted people within the Capitol and outside of it. He hadn't decided to stop being patient; the rebellion was not ready, entirely lacking its most important part of a chess game: the spark to begin the match.
But those past two weeks, he hadn't felt very patient. Time had seemed to stretch in ways never experienced before. In truth, it had been a gross miscalculation not to burn the letter as soon as he had read it. Caesar would have called it love. Plutarch called it being foolish, and foolish had seemed to be how he acted around her.
Luckily for him, the nausea from thinking about her, about the letter, and the fact he might not have that much time left, came to a brief halt in the midst of white roses stretching left and right. Filled with a new kind of horror, one that stenched his clothes and came in through every breath—regardless whether he tried to breathe through mouth or nose—at least momentarily distracted him from the first irritation to his stomach.
There were the first glances of spring between the clouds. Anywhere else, for anyone else, today would have been a wonderful afternoon. But he felt hot underneath the lightest of dress shirts and even rolling up his sleeves into the crook of his arm was only a small relief.
Waiting had become its own kind of torture—the closer to seeing her, the worse it was. Time stretched exponentially, and now, a few moments away from seeing her, it seemed to have become an eternity. Undoing one button was little relief, and he decidedly passed by a bench despite the wobbly feeling in his knees.
No, no emotions, nowhere. No body giving up, no face failing. If not from behind the mansion windows, the two palace guards chatting past the rose bushes gazed at him far too frequently. And perhaps it was best not to fall prey to the turmoil in his chest now. It would only be worse later, that much he was certain of, and giving up now was out of question.
Come on, he had done much worse things before.
Plutarch willed himself into walking down the path. The maze of white and ever-white roses had to end somewhere, but it seemed impossible to rediscover the spot he had been guided to once and watched Virgilia see to un-white and un-reeking flowers.
It had been briefly after her birthday last year, when so much of her mind had been a mere stranger to him. Where they talked about flowers and constellations, not statesmanship and chess matches. He liked both versions of her, though, the one that to this day would attach a pressed flower to a letter, and the one who challenged his view on purpose and ambition.
Commotion raised his suspicion. It distracted him from keeping his shoulders tense and his face without emotion. A group of tiny finches passed by, their wings stretched in flight, their feathers blowing with the wind. They landed on a window sill, chirping at the sky, at the gardens, at everything that must have touched their view. Their songs were only interrupted as the palace guards shifted, moved aside, and bowed as the sun flooded the chess-patterned inside of the mansion.
Virgilia emerged from the shadows.
He had remembered her there, too. When the ground had been frozen, when the dim light was a harsh blue against her soft cheeks, when she had shivered by the edge of the stairs. She had become Virgilia that day, not Mrs. Snow, and Virgilia had become a soft nudge in the back of his mind. She was a riddle that day, words that hadn't matched with the person he had thought she was.
The finches flew from the windows back to the forest, past her head and past the flower gardens. She smiled in the way the glittering constellations at night had looked down upon them. It was a canvas of wonder, an emerging night sky that only the luckiest of them all could study enough to understand. And it had seemed he had not understood her fully yet, had missed the puzzle pieces, the stars that aligned to bring about the whole picture.
Virgilia had seemed fragile when they had first sat underneath the stars. But he had misjudged her, had read her like a celestial cartographer who only now discovered the polar star. He hadn't focused right, hadn't seen what one was supposed to see; Virgilia had been the only one who had ventured into the cold night. She had been the only one daring enough to stare into the darkness and have it stare back.
It was like connecting the illuminated dots in the sky to find the bigger picture. Each one of them was beautiful on its own; her smile was wonderful, tugging at his heartstrings, her eyes glimmered in a hopefulness he hadn't seen before, her neck was carved tight and ended in the nape between shoulder and neck he desired to kiss until she giggled. There were stars less easy to find in the constellation. The way her face turned, new light shining into her eyes whenever they exchanged ideas. The thoughtful contemplations spoken in her light voice and the courage that she had cultivated since they had begun speaking. The quick motions of her hands working at watches, flipping pages, moving pawns that had been so eager to learn, and so fast to adapt. Those stars needed to exist for the constellation to connect into the bigger picture. They were part of her beauty.
Two weeks ago, a new star emerged. It had thrown off the pattern of the constellation, needed readjusting of lines and changed the image. Keeping that star, making it part of the constellation had been a selfish desire that only a fool could make. He had become privy to the darkest, most faintest lights in her picture. He couldn't pretend it had never existed, so he had readjusted the constellation.
There was his name on her lips. It was a gut-punch, returning him to the here and there, the here-and-there that was the reality of her eyes, her lips, her smile. Plutarch blinked. He had moved into her direction, and had left one path to return to the central crossing leading to every horrid white rose that the President himself had cultivated.
She said his name the way she looked at the world; with the same intensity and spirit for the imagination he had begun to admire in her. No—more. Being granted the privilege to listen to her speak, he had envied the world she painted with her words. A true opposite to the rational perspective he had grown accustomed to.
Virgilia's gaze fled from his chest to his arms, her hands wrapped around its crook, fleetingly touching his skin. Her bursting excitement, surely for more reason than merely seeing him, poked inside his chest. "We could… There's a longer path around the gardens. The sun's so nice and…"
Those were words trailing into nothingness; her view fixated onto something beyond them. No need to speak on what else was—or wasn't—there. Plutarch understood well enough. "I hope your time in District Four was enjoyable."
"It was most—" she paused, her brows tightening in the manner he loved most. "Illuminating."
They turned around a corner. The white roses had stretched for a while, and the path leading toward a line of trees seemed never ending. Time still stretched in the strangest of manners. "Did you arrive safely? Settle back in well?"
"As well as—well, all those impressions." Virgilia's voice gnawed at every word and let the end of the sentence plunge into bitterness. Turning when the winds picked up, the free strands of hair dancing along did not seem to bother her.
She looked at him.
Their gazes met.
A smile spread like wildfire. "How was your time here? I've noticed the frost has cleared, you must have seen the first spring blossoms."
"I have." Plutarch nodded, chin pushing lips together. "Although only from the inside. We've been busy planning the next games."
A few more steps, and they would reach the treeline. Its crowns rustled and swayed with the blows of winds, but none could keep his attention for a long while. "That must be plenty of pressure."
"Why?" Plutarch asked, his eyes narrowed.
"All the talk that Finnick got. He's so beloved… Surely, it must be difficult to surpass yourself."
He hummed. "Good point. Maybe one day I can, though not likely for the next ones."
It was here, around the clear pathway that she led him astray, changed direction and walked along a smaller, beaten path. Virgilia stopped as the forest grew dense enough to be hidden away from the mansion. Her arm slipped from his, his heart skipped in fear he had given away too much, or, possibly worse, offended her enough to step aside.
A second passed. The blink of a moment transpired.
Her hands held his biceps. Her lips met his own. Whatever pride he had held to his rational mind, it left, entirely, leaving nothing but the swirl of emotions inside his stomach, the intimate sense of her closeness to his own. Any fears were yanked from him—his worry, his doubt, his reason to have arrived here in the first place.
Virgilia was the one to pull away and leave him with a yearning for another kiss—and another right after.
"I wish you had been there with me," she admitted, slightly breathless. Her cheeks were a rosy colour he wanted to remember, to paint into life, to never let go.
In response, there was a mere empty blink. Then a cough. Then an attempt at conversation—right, that's what humans do, communicate. Usually they didn't stare at people like that. He forced himself to look elsewhere, and failed. "What left you illuminated?"
"Well, for one, they have the perfect night sky to gaze at the stars. You would… Certainly, you would have liked the darkness better. Is that where you got it from? The love for the stars?" Virgilia pulled ahead, her hands touching his, enveloping him and dragging Plutarch to a world yet unknown. The lights through the forest's crowns, illuminating her hair, her smile. Her gaze was lit, observant as if she was looking at the sky, the watches, the books. Siren-like, dragging him underneath the water.
Plutarch wanted every moment of it.
Enthralled, shaking his head was a force of muscles. "I got it earlier. Even before my uncle took me along."
There was silence, the ruffle of the winds dancing with the trees. He looked at the side of her braided hair, and wanted to disentangle, to figure out how her deft fingers had created such riddles.
A crack. A tiny branch underneath his shoe. Plutarch forced himself to speak: "I loved to read, ever since I could decipher each letter and understand the words they made. And I got my hands on a book about constellations. Of course, it made most sense to read it at night, when everyone was supposed to be asleep." What a rebel, he thought, and chuckled to himself. "What did you think of District Four?"
They reached a patch of grass. Nothing that could count as a meadow, far too small for such a definition to fit, but enough that the remaining parts of a fallen tree made for a decent seat.
Virgilia was the first to sit, and plucked at a wildflower by her side. "I'm not… it's difficult, Plutarch. Right at the start, when Coriolanus spoke to the people—I don't remember a crowd who hadn't cheered him on. They all… they seemed so angry, so resentful. I'm sure they didn't look at Finnick the same way, but—but there was a sadness to them, too. All the guns, no escaping—no escaping from their own starvation."
It was luck that she had handed him a flower. One that he could hold tight, and pretend the fear and exhilaration weren't fighting inside him.
"I keep thinking, maybe Coriolanus has a blindspot. They starve, don't they? They are tired from all the labour. Maybe my husband made a mistake, maybe he's just not aware—" A rush of air, and Virgilia abandoned her seat. Trailing from one tree to the next, she seemed lost in thought. Her head bowed high, her feet barely touched the ground.
A sight to follow, the words of the letter coming back up, and he wasn't sure what to make of that riddle. Following her movement, she did not look back. "He visited more often than you. If you noticed, then—"
"But what if he's never been shown?" Some escaped strands of hair flowed along like sea foam riding a wave.
"Do you believe he doesn't know?" Plutarch pushed back, softly, feeling the flowers' stem crack underneath.
Another crunch. Another branch snapped. She paused dead in her tracks. Her sudden gaze, a maddening intensity, hit him by surprise. "No—-No, he knows. He must. Surely he does… What do you think? Is it unfair? Or—or am I making things up? I can't… I can't be making things up."
Tension coursed through his body. This was worse than the countdown of another arena, the invitation to President Snow's dinners. It stuck right between, cutting at the strings of his heart and leaving his mind to wander, freely, without restriction, to imagine the worst possible outcomes. The wind speeding through the trees, ruffling their crowns and creating its own music. It was accompanied by wild birds, singing their songs in unison.
"I don't remember that much from when I was a child…"
"But you travelled again, no? What.. You must have seen something. Or nothing, or nothing at all…" Her words ached in defeat, and he thought back to the wild finches, and how their tunes must sound when caged. Her gaze had moved past him, lost somewhere else. Usually he admired that in her, but he had never seen her bite her nails. It all seemed too foreign.
"We visited District One and Eleven. When I was older I saw District Eight. They are different, some of them—" Who was he to deny her the truth? Far too many times he had lied, avoided topics, and buried a part of himself. A sigh. "Some of them are as you said. The less favoured by the Capitol, the worse the living conditions are. What you have seen it's … it has existed for as long as I can remember."
"What's the solution then? You have… You know things, you must be…" She gnawed at her nails. "I read more of that book. There were chapters about who should rule, ending the presidency of men like… like Coriolanus. They wanted to give the presidency to the people. Does that work? Did that ever happen? Is it a solution? They were talking about re—"
She shook her head, decidedly so. Her hands pushed into each other, tight until its knuckles turned white.
Another breeze, colder than the sun, blew past her hair, along the bottom of her dress, and breathed waves into his shirt. An answer died in his throat. A cough. No relief. He knew whatever would come next was shaky at best, and he knew what that weak spot was. If he were wiser, he would leave. "Many countries followed those theories. They called that democracy. The rule of the people."
"Did they fail because of the people?" Virgilia turned, her gaze meeting his own, briefly, fleeting, and she seemed as much a bird in flight as those that she liked to look up to.
"No," he answered in a certain voice. Yet, the rest grew hesitant, his own words a quiver. A path built on unsteady grounds. Anytime it could be snatched away. Anytime he could turn from friend to traitor. "Natural disasters destroyed space to live and we were too many people with too few resources. Wars broke out, and you know how good some solutions sound."
Her voice rang hollow, deeply in thought. "What do you mean?"
"Persuasive leaders can exploit moments of uncertainty. Tell the people what they want to hear. Tell them who to blame, who to be angry with. Humans have always fallen prey to conspiracy in moments where they lack control," Plutarch spoke in a dull monotone. Only facts, all of them. It couldn't make him a traitor, not in her eyes, surely…
Her silence was an ache, a spinning of words, reaffirming the value of the past. Hadn't it been difficult to find those books? Difficult to receive access, to pick apart the useful from the less useful ones. Understand their truth. Once it was there, it had been as clear as day.
Plutarch continued: "We still do it today; the Districts were at fault for the war."
Virgilia had looked up the trees, biting on the same nail as before, and having her back to him. He counted the braided strands of hair, tried to solve the riddle. Her head moved, not turning to him in full, but leaning in. "The Districts weren't at fault?"
"Would you blame the people in Four for fighting today?"
Silence was a peculiar thing. Patience had little to do with the absence of noise, with the anticipation of the next moment. It wrapped reality into a different sight, focusing on the bow of her head, focusing on the tension in her shoulders. The wind seemed to slow down—all as if someone had pushed a button of an arena, controlling the winds, picking the camera that didn't show her face. Anticipation on screen was never a thrill for those in the frame.
"No."
And release. Virgilia turned, he could see the edge of her face. Imaginary cameras that focused on the tiny nod, on the fallen resolve. If he didn't feel the pain, they would make a wonderful scene on a movie screen.
The ground crunched underneath her steps, closing the distance between them. Virgilia let herself fall by his side, the warmth of the sun caressing her face. A direct touch, the kind that they would shift the light in an arena for. It painted her eyebrows lighter than they were, and drew her grey eyes in a warmer colour. Hues he hadn't seen before, right here to admire. Plutarch imagined kissing every spot of skin, every graze of the sun—
"I didn't want to—everything that we know, it's not—true. Smart people make the smart decisions, no? That's why we have a president, because he thinks for us, he decides for us. I didn't think … well, most aren't smart enough to decide what they decide. People like me or the people in the Southern Capitol or—or District Four or—"
Every crushing realisation manifested in a shiver, in an irregular breath. But Plutarch was no mere viewer, nor a gamemaker controlling the weather. His hand reached out, a sole pinky lifted, a brief moment to touch her own, and her body stiffened, then eased. The grey looked his way. His voice raised like a shiver from the tree crowns: "You are smart."
"That's what you say—" Just like that, her gaze was gone, and its absence panged inside his chest. "But—But… Maybe it shouldn't. It cannot be the reason why one decides. He's never considered my life, and even less… Coriolanus doesn't care for them, either. He doesn't care. Despite being smart, despite—It can't be why he decides. Everyone should have a say, because only then can we make sure everyone is considered."
Another push. Another beat. He envisioned the closing in of the cameras, the same thrill that the Capitol people felt when watching the games. The same naked calculation that left the hair on his neck standing upright. Danger was around the corner, it lingered like the ghosts she must see within those woods. Plutarch understood now, and his hand held tight around hers. It was a selfish comfort. "Would you want democracy in Panem?"
Virgilia sighed. The sun kissed defeat, saw a head bow, watched the curl of her lips. He knew what that looked like, had watched it once before in his life, when the cracks came to burst, and the person faltered underneath its weight. She looked just the same. "I don't know, it sounds great on paper. If the past had worked well, maybe… but would it ever be possible in Panem? It sounds so foreign, so strange. What if the people of Panem could never get used to it? And besides, it would need a… a—"
"A rebellion," their voices met, sounding in unison. A conclusion to a song they had danced around ever since they had entered the forest. But the birds hadn't thought their final note would conclude with that of the other—Plutarch's brows rose, mouth agape, and Virgilia's gaze shyed from his.
A foreign tune in her voice, unspoken beforehand, it seemed, but not an unkind one. The sound suited her. She suited the sound.
The dim light of the past, surrounded by food smelling too well and men talking too loudly had been interrupted by none other than her, born in the curiosity of the new, of the foreign, of learning. Could he have known? Today's light was kind to her. It wasn't created by lamps and candles, but the sun itself, real, exposing the real, and it had exposed all that she had become.
Virgilia Snow, a rebel. Caesar's laugh would have had a field day at that.
"That sounds… it makes sense," he swallowed harshly. Perhaps it had been too much for one day.
A strand of hair fell from her left ear. It shimmered in the light. Her voice had grown strained, disturbed. "You said—you just said it, too."
It was a saving grace to cling to her hair's colour. The one that dipped into the sun seemed like gold. Never had he desired more money than the Heavensbees had accumulated, but it had never been money he was after. His secrets were born from a selfish instinct, no matter how beneficial the outcome was for all.
Plutarch refused to see the cursed lips. The brows pushed together, the eyes that narrowed as she continued speaking: "I'm no … You said it, too. Re—It's the only conclusion. The only path forward."
The tension in her face released, turned away at the silence, and he felt the absence of her hand over his own. The strand of hair moved, turned, glistened differently in the light. It turned toward him, then away, then back toward him. It was all Plutarch could follow.
Had the sunshine warmed her face, her gaze burned into him. She had become the sun's transmitter, retaining its strength and turning against him. Faltering underneath her had been inevitable.
"I've heard there are movements, people becoming restless in the Capitol."
A careful glance toward her. Lips that tensed. He continued, carved as he had done ever since knowing her. Step by step, faster and faster.
"I'm… I know them, I—I joined them."
Her gaze had become a blaze, searing heat from the grey illuminated in its light. Succumbing underneath was the only option, the only means of soothing the burns endured.
"It was my idea—people join my idea."
In truth, Plutarch had never greatly cared for his own death. There were worse punishments than death in the Capitol, all of which much rather kept him up at night. Images flashing before his eyes had seemed a ridiculous glorification only shown in the movies. Yet, today, very-clearly-not-dying, the same effect came true.
Only it wasn't his life—not quite. Some memories were his, those of his uncle in his prestigious uniform, those of Haymitch Abernathy on screen some twenty five years ago, those of trying to convince Caesar to join. Then there was Virgilia, and it was where everything grew muddled. Some he recognised; her prolonged gaze during the parade, the smile he had been greeted with amidst a rainstorm, her naked body having left him starving ever since. Others he didn't recognise; when he was drenched in what must be blood, finding her gaze only to notice the pitying laugh. She watched, with a joy for violence, following every kick, every punch, every tear of skin and hair. One last moment, he saw her, and then she was gone, the lights turned off.
"Has this always been your intention?" her voice broke through, and Plutarch dared a quick glance. The sun lashed into her skin, her gaze an unfaltering burst of fire.
"Not always, I didn't think much about—," Plutarch began, stumbled, shoulders faltered. "When I became a lower Gamemaker—"
Virgilia huffed. "That's not… I am not—talking about you."
Branches cracked underneath her feet. He could swear he heard them sizzle.
"You—the first time we met, the first time I asked you about those watches. All those books, all those conversations about… politics! And—and history, and the Districts, and what is fair and what is not fair. You didn't—did you hope or… or want me to arrive here? To join your rebellion? To be your chess piece keeping track of… my husband?"
There were worse things than death. Closing his eyes, he saw nothing. Even the horror scenarios seemed a preferable alternative. Yet, there was nothing but the blank pain—harsh and numb and dark. The lights of the woods peeked through, forcing his eyes to open and finding her at the edge to the forest. It would have been easier to see her burning rage. But there, right by the threshold of sun to shadow, she stood, her grey eyes abandoned from the fire. She had turned from flames to ashes; bitter ashes mourning their blaze.
"No, I—"
"I love you, and I cannot love another man who—who …" There were tears, born in a face quenched into nerves protruding, in a grimace burned out, raw rancour seated into her eyes.
A few steps, and he held her. A light touch turned into a warm embrace once her cheeks bowed on his shoulder. She clenched into the sides of his body, taking fabric, and skin, and flesh. "I love you, too."
Coherent speech turned whimper, her voice burned out just the same. "I want to scream—I want to scream, but I can't."
"I know." Her hair felt soft around his lips. Plutarch pressed a kiss to the gold woven patterns.
"Did you… did you meet with me for your rebellion?" She asked, in the tunes of a desperate bird's calling, trapped inside a cage, flapping with its wings never able to spread in full flight.
The drop of a heart, the tension of another audience. The cameras, the shot, the audio. But it was about what the cameras couldn't tell. The softness of her hair carried him to another time, where her skin was a warm yellow and her eyes had been eager. She had been beautiful back then, too, but he hadn't dared to talk to her. A dangerous sight, the prized possession of a fragile tyrant.
Admitting meant losing, lying meant guilt—he couldn't lie to her. That, at least, she deserved. But the voice raised was that of a traitor, and his deep-rooted fear of a card house falling apart. "The first time. Before we did a watch. I thought we would meet once, maybe there was some information, or I could gain favours with President Snow."
"Why did you want to see me again?" Her voice was muffled and he kissed her hair again.
"Obligation. Curiosity. I remember how you pondered over that one question for the rest of the time we sat together. Next time, you came with an answer. A week later, no less."
"I wish it hadn't taken me a week." She sounded like a caged finch defeated, no more wings moving, but staring from the window sill to the outside.
Plutarch shook his head, growing soft in his response. "But you thought about it. You wanted to solve a riddle. It was fascinating. It was beautiful."
Virgilia sighed. He could tell her hand had moved to her face, but it was impossible to guess what she did. "Did you decide to convince me of your rebellion then? Scattered your clues?"
"No," he replied. "I thought I could keep my distance, separate you from the rebellion. Have a brief refuge whenever we meet."
Her fingers moved back and held onto fabric-skin-flesh just the same. "I don't understand. You gave me books. That political one, too. That's not separating anything."
"Over time, you became more important," he answered. Hands moved to the nape of her neck, feeling the heaviness of her braided hair, feeling the entanglements. "Quite unexpected and rather unplanned. I never wanted attachments, they only distract from the mission. You squeezed yourself in, and I ignored the opportunities to leave. Once you were there, I wanted you to enjoy the books I loved—a selfish endeavour, but I wanted to know what you would see in them. Hear about the stories from your perspective."
"And the political book?" She didn't move, but he could feel every tense breath.
"Caught me," Plutarch grinned, and dug his nose deep into her hair. She smelled like pine trees and viola flowers. "When does it become unjust to keep this part of my life from you? I never thought we would get this close, so it never seemed a consideration—until it did. I don't want you to follow me out of love, Jil. I want you to read, to understand, to figure out the world. I want to craft a future with you, not craft it alone while you happen to be by my side."
It was then that her cheek lifted, and the absence of her warmth left him frightened. "I'm worth more than a chess piece."
"I know."
"I need to hear it, please." He saw her eyes again, the corner of grey. The caged finch's uprising.
"You are worth more than a chess piece. Though I am more than happy to play more matches with you, work on more watches together, talk more about anything we would like, collect flowers for your books together, and—" he raised his arm for her to see. Something golden peeked out underneath the sleeve. "—be a happy recipient of anything you make."
At last, he could see a smile breaking from her face. A thin one, her teeth barely visible. But tension eased and he felt her hands relax. "What made you consider a revolution?"
"There is a fundamental problem with Panem—" Stop; his voice cut off, his mind continued. Recalling all those historic moments about leaders brought to justice, about their violent ends for their violent delights. He knew her better than that. Reciting history was not the wanted answer to her question. "Theories, history, you know some of those. Do you remember my uncle?"
"Head Gamemaker Heavensbee," Virgilia answered, and forcefully looked away as her body shook, her lips stifling a laugh. "Not you. He took you to the Districts once."
"He died when he was around my age today. Gone, no one attended his funeral. I don't know where he is buried, either. No one spoke his name again." There it was, he could sense the waves in his voice, the little boy whose lips quivered, same as his, and whose voice gave out, same as his. His throat cleared to return to its former quality. "There's no evidence for any of it, but I remember him. He looked the same way you did today. Something had changed in him, something that made him move from compliant to defiant. Most leaders of countries like Panem maintain their power by getting rid of the people who question them."
Virgilia's gaze had grown distant, the warm colour drained from her cheeks. Not here, not there, but somewhere else, and he wondered if she had lost someone, too. "Is that why you started a rebellion?"
"For myself. A quiet, brooding young adult. If the mad king can kill anyone, who is to say it won't be us next? That is no way to live."
"It isn't," she said. The sorrow in her tone only grew his wish to take her away from here, though he had a feeling she might not appreciate being taken anywhere when she could make that path herself.
"But a rebellion isn't a thought experiment, Virgilia, and many of them fail before the spark can be lit," he spoke, tunes growing, the gears coming into play. A riddle to solve, a maze to create. "What if we control the spark instead? Panem must watch the tributes fighting to death in an arena. What if the spark is set right there, with the right tribute, the right circumstances, and a leading figure to make sure they survive—" his hand motioned, and lips tugged down to hide a prideful smile. "Have you seen the second Quarter Quell?"
"No," Virgilia answered.
"Haymitch Abernathy?" He asked, his mind ticking, gears spinning.
"The drunken victor? I recall once he—" she went pale and shook her head, not in lack of knowledge (those eyes certainly had seen him) but in something Plutarch couldn't grasp.
"Mr. Abernathy did just that. He exploited the arena. It was a shock for everyone involved—a few heads rolled, or so I heard. Now imagine if there had been the right people, right circumstances around him. He wouldn't have lost his family, but more importantly: We could have caused ripples in a wave that would become unstoppable until the country changed—hopefully for the better, though that is a question for once the wave begins."
There was a pause of words, but no silence. He heard the finches chirping their songs, the winds through the crowns, and the calm in his pulse. She was thinking, her gaze downward, her lips tugged together in a sight to see. If he were controlling the cameras, it was the gaze to capture if one wanted to enchant the viewers.
"Did you try that with Finnick?"
"Yes, I did."
"Why didn't it work?"
"The President has already gained the upper hand," he replied begrudgingly.
A hum from her chest, a slow nod. Virgilia's eyebrows had pushed together in a wrinkle, not unlike the waves he had talked about. Her skin was soft to the touch, her fine brows strained and the wrinkle a joy to feel for himself. She was no mere painting to be gazed at from afar, not to him, at least.
Virgilia's gaze met his own. "Who is helping you? You can't be alone."
"No, I'm not alone," he admitted, a pang to his heart. He had never told someone without recruiting them, their faces lit with a renewed spirit, their hands a warm shake. Their names, however, were a secret. "But it's a system, you see… a system of contacts, of never knowing everyone. Just enough to have aid on one's side. I can't tell you, I'm sorry."
The lines on her face deepend, carved into the pretty skin that seemed stoic whenever he saw her on television. She was prettier here, even with slumped shoulders, but right here, her beauty had become a heart-wrenching thing to watch.
No secrets today, and yet he kept secrets.
"Jil—I would love to tell you, and I will, one day, I promise. But it's a system meant to protect everyone involved. I cannot risk their lives, same as I cannot risk yours. If someone is caught and they talk, the rebellion will not fail. And it cannot fail, it's greater than any single person involved." Any other day, his chest would have been bursting with pride for such a genius move. Today, it seemed a disappointment.
Her hair moved with a sigh and its reluctant nod. Having thought her fallen into a begrudging acceptance of the matter, her voice raised in defiance. "Is Caesar one of them? You two seem friendly."
"N—No, of course, he …" His words came to a painful choke inside his chest. An octave higher, a truth that ached in revealing itself, that could not stay silent. "It's a possibility."
The silence afterward gnawed at him. Breath with breath, chests rising and falling in unison. The scent of her hair had embraced him, expanded to take refuge within him. He knew what defiance was, had done it for more years than his fingers could count, and yet, right here, another way of defiance had opened. Trust, love, it all had no place in the world of Panem. One was meant to distrust, to shy away from their neighbours, to be isolated and lonely in the mass of a crowd. Keeping to it meant safety, but her arms around him, her cheek returned to his shoulder—was it not defiance, too? Companionship, love—it broke from isolation and loneliness. Together, they broke from its claws.
Did he need an answer from her? A promise she would not betray him, not undo what he had worked for? Was the answer not evident in the steadied heart, the slow breath, the scent of her hair?
It felt like betrayal when she moved—cold, harsh, abandoned.
"Plutarch I—I don't want to be anyone's pawn." Her grey eyes lingered on him.
It was the look toward him, the aching for a change in script or redoing another scene. "You don't have to be, I won't let you be a pawn."
"I don't want to… Everyone is playing their games." There was a quiver in her voice. With heels, she easily stood a few inches taller than him. But it didn't seem like it, her shoulders hung, her head lowered. Simmering right there, in the shadows, her gaze decided otherwise. "I am already part of a game, I am already a pawn. Against my will, yes, but he's got his queen on the field. I can't… if I don't do anything at all, I will be a chess piece on the other side. I refuse, Plutarch. And I cannot refuse in silence. Not doing anything, it's acceptance."
He sucked in a breath. No kinds of winds could have gotten him to move—his body had tensed. There was no relief in motion.
"I want to be part of your rebellion. I want—I need to do something." Virgilia pleaded—no, demanded, a determination he saw in her gaze, one he recognised in a mirror. A heartbeat, a jolt of joy. Or was it not dangerous to look and see a part of himself staring back?
Where the sun and fire had been raging, what rose from the ashes was a different kind of anger. Raw and burned, a corpse awakened. He knew the vicious gaze that had stared at him, that had looked on at beaten bodies. It was no vision, but reality. He couldn't deny turning pain into rage.
The path he walked had been a dangerous and lonely one. It had been meant for solitude alone, for no connections, no people he cared for deeply. It had been a principle violated more than once, a dangerous path to walk. It was no life to live, and its consequences far too dangerous.
She deserved the freedom of choice, like he had granted everyone else who joined.
He couldn't live with the fear of her getting hurt, of her being punished, of her dying.
She didn't need his protection.
His heart couldn't bear her pain.
Air pushed up his chest, his throat and mouth shaped at words, and his lips released the answer.
(Subtle) References in this chapter were made to George Orwell's 1984 and Hannah Arendt's The Origins of Totalitarianism