Lystra's POV
The next two days were a whirlwind of food and tears. People were constantly offering me congratulations, sorrows, gifts, and other things before armies of cameras. I felt a bit like a doll they wanted to put on a commercial.
My thoughts continuously turned to Rayne. I could save her. She was the reason that I kept going through the days.
That . . . and Tanner's death wish.
I spent those long parties thinking, trying to sort out my memories of the tributes, and repair my wounded soul. It wasn't easy. I still missed them all – especially Tanner – desperately, and I was far done from mourning. But I was able to make civilized conversation now without either staring down the other person or bursting into tears.
I was never punished for my dress during the interviews, but I noticed that Snow was keeping very close to me – keeping a careful eye on me. And when he wasn't, one of his security guards was in the room, at the table, or walking by. I knew I was being monitored. I knew that this was my warning – I wouldn't get another.
After two days of agonizingly long and loud parties, it was time to go to District 1.
"What should I expect?" I asked as Vincent picked out my outfit for the funeral. "I mean . . . it's District 1. How do they . . ." I waved my hand in the air, trying to find words. ". . . do funerals there?"
Vincent appeared from behind the clothes rack holding a long black dress and veil. "I don't know," he said. "I've never attended one before. But I'm guessing that they put the bodies out where we can see them, say some words, perhaps put a few gifts with them, and then they get rid of the body."
"Get rid of the body?" I asked, shivering. "How?"
Vincent shrugged, straightening the dress on a table. "Perhaps burying, perhaps burning. I heard something about bodies being thrown in the sea in four."
I nodded. "Different each place?" Vincent nodded. "It makes sense," I agreed. "Do I need to bring anything?"
Vincent considered. "In 1, it is considered customary to bring gifts when entering a household. I would bring something to give to the fallen tributes and their families.."
I narrowed my eyes. "I wasn't exactly friends with either of them," I said. "I don't know much about them. What do I bring? Their families have everything – at least, much more than I do."
Vincent disappeared behind the shoe boxes again. "Yes, but you must know, Lystra; the young President has paid for all of this" he gestured to my new and extensive closet "especially for you appearances on the screen. He will pay for any gift you desire to give."
I blinked, surprised. "But why? We were never exactly friends. Why doesn't he make you pay for the closet? Or the Gamemakers, maybe?"
Vincent reappeared, his face amused. "Well, you two must appear to be friends. It's politics."
I sighed and twirled a piece of golden hair about my finger. "Well, I don't like politics then."
With that, Vincent and I both fell silent. He handed me the black mourning outfit, and I dressed slowly, thinking. What would Elvatorix want me to give her family? And the boy – Colin, had been a loaner. I hadn't known him. What gift could I give? In 11, the customary gift was food. But this wasn't District 11. This was District 1, where everyone was rich and no one ever went hungry. Food wouldn't do.
I sighed, turning my thoughts to the dead tributes. What could I give them? It was only right to give them something to go to their graves with – wherever those graves might be.
"It's time," Vincent said quietly. I stood, dusted myself off, and took his arm. The prep team giggling nervously behind us, we walked into the crowd of people. They cheered and cried for me. I didn't acknowledge them at all. I just kept walking. When we reached the train, Emerald and Kayton joined us, and we silently boarded the train.
Once the train took off, Emerald, Vincent, and the prep team all hurried off, having work to do. This left Kayton and I, standing awkwardly.
"Well . . . lunch?" I suggested
She shrugged. "Not hungry."
"Me either."
With that, we entered the dining car, sitting gloomily at the table. There was so much food . . . what a waste. Feeling guilty, we forced ourselves to eat a little.
"So," Kayton said.
"So." I said. There was a long pause.
"Do you have a gift for the funeral yet?" Kayton asked.
I sighed. "Not yet."
"Well, take care you find one," Kayton looked at a clock. "We'll be there in about three hours." I nodded and she walked off.
What could I give? I swirled my fork through the contents of a stew. I hardly knew Colin and Elvatorix. Their families . . . I knew nothing about. Were both parents living? Grandparents? Great-grandparents? Did they have uncles and aunts? Great-uncles? Great-aunts? Cousins? Siblings? Step-families? In-laws? In a society where everyone was healthy and safe, there could be lots of family. The idea made my head turn. In 11, we kept our close family close. We didn't both with second or third cousins. Often, only one parent was present, or none at all. The occasional sibling stayed in the home. Surviving parents died before seeing their grandchildren (or, rather, grandchild). Mothers and babies died in childbirth. From hunger. From simply losing the will to live.
And in 1 . . . this was making me feel sick. I stabbed the table with a butter knife. It went all the way through and came dangerously close to stabbing my leg. Somehow, this made me feel better.
I stood, walking away from the table. I entered my old room, locking the door behind me. This made me feel secure, even though I knew the lock was a flimsy thing. I looked at the balcony, remembering the night when I had stood on it, rushing towards the Capitol; towards destiny. I opened the doors, and immedietly fell back. The pressure of the wind was surprisingly strong. The last time I'd stood on this balcony, I hadn't minded the wind – I had loved it, in fact. But that was when I had been strong; full of life.
Like I had told Viola . . . I was dead now.
I didn't close the doors. The wind had always comforted me with its sense of freedom. Flying had always been my greatest dream (Hint, hint : Mockingjay...) Now, more than ever, I wanted to fly away. I found myself singing the song that Estella and I had sung that day with the apple stand, by the compost heap.
Free!
Free to fly!
Free to love!
Free to die . . .
Freedom . . .
Oh!
To be free,
To be free!
The notes died in the whistling air of the wind. I imagined the notes being carried away by the wind, scattered throughout the world . . .
I swear to you,
I swear it!
I shall break through the barriers one day,
No matter what it takes.
To break through the injustice;
To reach liberty!
I stopped again. I had failed my promise, contained in the song. I was still a bird chained to the ground, stuck as if I was made of stone. Still, I tried once more.
Like the bird
Flying above the trees!
Like song. . .
Free to do anything!
Like the wind
Not controlled.
One day, I shall escape!
One day, I shall be free!
Free from this prison,
Free from this cage;
Free!
Yes, yes! Free! One day . . . in 50 years . . . in another game. With the others . . . with Tanner . . .
That's when inspiration smacked me right across the face. I knew what needed to be done. I walked over to the desk and pulled out my drawings.
I'd kept them all. They'd sat on the desk in my room in the Capitol, untouched. Now I laid them out on the desk here.
They were all there.
The first pictures, of me a Lystra the Fay, defeating the Goblin King – the President. The picture of us all, and how we would look in 50 years. The picture of Tanner on the hill, my sun. the picture from the dress during the interview – of the Games. There were over a hundred in all, ruffling slightly in the breeze. I closed the doors to the balcony. I didn't want to lose the pictures.
I took out a pencil and paper. Concentrating on Elvatorix, I drew a sketch of her. I drew her honestly, so her beauty came through perfectly, as well as that sly smile, and the cocky tilt of her head. She wore a plain, light gown to her knees, no shoes. The clothes of the dead. Behind her, I sketched a loan wolf howling to the sky, a full moon and stars above them.
I placed the picture with the others. I hesitated, looking at the black piece of paper now in front of me. I'd done Elvatorix justice, but Colin? I hadn't known him. He was just another dead tribute to me. I waved the pencil over the paper, searching for inspiration that didn't come.
I switched on the television. I had never turned it on before, but . . . The television offered me channels – a luxery we were never given in 11. Each of the channels was a tribute's name. I clicked on 'Colin Shoemaker'.
Immedietly, a woman came onto the screen.
"and," she was saying "this small boy, a jewel miner's son, was thrown into the games headfirst. Obviously he was confused, still mourning for his father. These were his goodbyes."
The screen flicked to Colin speaking to a girl of about three, crying as Colin tried to explain to her why he had to go. The look in his eyes was pure agony. I felt my heart breaking.
"Listen, Sparkle," he said desperately. "I'll be back. I – I – " he couldn't make himself promise.
"Don't go!" the girl, Sparkle, begged. "Please!"
"Sparkle, I have to," it looked like it was killing Colin to say this. "The Peacekeepers want me to."
"I can talk to Peacekeeper!" Sparkle offered quickly. "They nice."
Colin tensed ever so slightly. "No, I have to go."
"WHY?"
Colin tried to raise his head and look proud, but the tears in his eyes ruined the effect. "It is an honor."
The television flicked to his mother.
"Colin," she said "What will we do without youi? With your father d-d-" she broke off, crying. "I can't make a living – I need you!" The woman fell into Colin's arms, sobbing ,while Colin looked sadly at her. He seemed accustomed to this – not even surprised.
I turned the television off, disgusted. So Colin and I were very much alike. One parent dead, the other lost in mourning. Forced to lead the family. Both families near starvation.
I shuddered, staring at the black screen. Everyone in District 1 was rich . . . except for the Shoemakers. Colin wasn't able to work in the mines – just odd jobs, I guessed. So they lived off of nothing – like me. What would the Shoemakers do now that Colin was dead?
I was glad I was going home to Dad.
I turned back to the desk and focused on Colin. After a few moments, I began to draw. I knew what Colin would want me to tell his family.
I drew Colin's likeness, sad and short, with a hint of regret. He wore ghost clothes. The sun shown down on him in a field of clovers. But in his hand he held the only four-leaf-clover. Carefully, I placed the drawing amongst the others.
So it began. I drew each tribute's likeness, some with ordinary objects, like a chair, that I knew would mean something to the family, some with animals that symbolized them, and others alone in a landscape that was important, or sometimes just the look on their face was enough. When I had drawn them all, I made two extra copies – one for the tribute to hold while being sent to the grave, one for the family, and one for myself. This was how I wanted to remember the tributes – as ordinary people with lives, not as bloodthirsty people killing each other in the arena.
I picked up two copies of Elvatorix and Colin's pictures, and stared at them a moment. They looked almost alive, as if their spirits rested on these pieces of paper. I reached a finger out to touch Elvatorix, but before I could, there was a knock on the door.
"We're here, Lystra, dear," said Emerald's slightly nervous voice. She was still a bit scared of me.
"All right!" I called, a bit overly loud, shaking myself slightly. I glanced back at the papers, but they looked ordinary again. I shuddered, scooped them up, and left the room.