Blood on Their Hands

by imjustagurl

Overcome by guilt over her actions during the war, Katniss seeks refuge in the woods, where she receives comfort and advice from an old friend. Contains references to real events.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

They asked Peeta to do the painting. The sculpting was done by someone else, another local artist and survivor of the bombing, whose name I can't remember. I didn't want to attend. I know it sounds disrespectful of me, but hey, consider the following. I was only sixteen when they forced me into the arena for the Games, and seventeen when they forced me to go back. I wasn't even eighteen yet when they dropped bombs on my sister. The sister of their precious Mockingjay. Valuable at first, but then disposable, just like any other tribute.

Having had all of these crushing weights and more fall onto my shoulders within the last five years, it's no wonder I'd prefer to stay home. They're not going to honor me at the ceremony, anyway. This day is partly for Peeta, partly for the other artist, and partly for my victims.

Peeta keeps telling me I shouldn't say that. I didn't lay a finger on any of them. Never let a single arrow fly in their direction. But where my arrow did hit, in the weakest part of the force field in the last arena, that was what caused that crime against humanity. Without my reckless actions in the Quarter Quell, the Capitol never would've given the order to drop those bombs on the children of District 12.

That was my doing. The victims' blood is on my hands, and everyone knows it. Five years have passed since then, and no matter how hard I scrub each day, I still can't get the stains off my palms.

I stare at my hands as I bend over the sink. Whose blood is it this time? Prim's? Peeta's oldest brother's? Madge's? I press my forehead into the cradle of my palms. I have to get away, or the pressure inside will build and build till I can't take it anymore.

Pushing the front door open with my elbow, I stumble out of the house and head for the woods.

It's when I'm a few feet away from my usual place that I realize I forgot to bring my bow. Annoyed, I smack myself on the forehead. How could I not remember something so essential? Now I'll be at the mercy of the wild animals that decide to wander within range.

As if on cue, several branches snap behind me. I spin around, too disoriented to try running, too dizzy to attempt to fight. All I can do in this moment is watch as a figure materializes from the trees.

My vision swims back into focus, and I have to stifle a gasp. The thing standing in front of me is no animal. But I suppose a wild beast would be less ominous.

My visitor is Boggs. Whom I haven't seen since he bled out while I knelt beside him.

He wears the standard uniform of the rebel soldier from District 13, the same clothes he wore the day he passed. Only his wounds are nowhere to be seen, no blood anywhere. Like the image of Rue I had in my head after I said goodbye to her.

The breeze rustles the leaves in the surrounding trees, and the slight noise brings me back to my senses. I try to speak, but I've lost my voice, I'm too stunned at what I'm seeing.

Boggs speaks first. "Don't look so alarmed, Soldier," he says quietly. His voice is the same as ever, only there's a strange quality to it, like it wouldn't echo even in the deepest cavern. He goes on despite the shocked look on my face. "I told you I planned for you to have a long life. Did you think I wouldn't come to check up on you? See if I'd made good on my promise?"

He chuckles, and I smile in spite of myself. I do miss him badly, almost as much as I do my father.

At last, when I open my mouth, the words come out. "You did," I answer him. "I'm still alive and still going, though I didn't really do as you ordered."

The memories hit me like a high-speed Capitol train. Boggs bleeding out, in what I thought was some delusional state, ordering me to keep moving forward, to put Peeta out of his misery, and to do what I'd set my sights on doing. To say I didn't achieve that goal would be an understatement. I made such a mess of things with my false mission to assassinate Snow, all I really did was add eight more casualties to my list of kills.

My heart is aching now. I'm thinking of my squad and the children of District 12. The people on my kill list. Mine. My doing.

Boggs probably knows what I'm thinking, because he moves forward to reassure me. His hand feels sturdy on my shoulder. "You did good, Soldier," he tells me firmly. "That's what each former member of your squad says. It's true you've made many mistakes, but don't ever kid yourself into thinking you're the enemy."

Right. Because I was correct in thinking the Capitol was our only enemy. "I was wrong, you know," I tell Boggs. "About what I said in Two. That all we had to do was unite against the Capitol. Coin wasn't that different from Snow, if we're talking the important stuff. Like whether or not either of them would vote for another Hunger Games. And Coin was the actual leader of the rebellion. So what makes you think I'm absolved, because I was a rebel, too?"

Boggs shakes his head at me. "You're nothing like our leaders. That much was clear from the moment we met. Are you saying you would've made the conscious decision to drop those bombs? You had no way of knowing how many people you'd lose on that mission, and all those people chose to follow you."

Boggs is lying. My former commander's trying to make me feel better. But it won't work. "I had no way of knowing how many innocent children's lives would end after I shot that arrow," I argue back. "But what does it matter? The result's the same."

Tears threaten to spring from my eyes. I'm overwhelmed by the memories of Madge, Finnick, Darius, and all the others. All the ones who revisit my memories night after night, burying me under the weight of my sins. At times I wish they'd go away, other times I'm scared they will and I'll never see them again.

I let the tears fall at last. "Boggs," I confess to him, "I don't think I can ever face what I did." And it's true, I don't think I can. It'd be like staring all of my thousands of kills in the face, feebly asking them for forgiveness. "I'm no hero," I tell Boggs through a mist of tears.

I'm in real pain right now. Boggs isn't giving up on me, though. He comes closer until I can feel his presence so strongly, it's like he never left in the first place. I can almost feel his breaths near my face. "Listen to me, Soldier," he commands. "Are you listening to me?"

I nod, vaguely aware that I said those same words to my mother, a long time ago.

"You've got a long life ahead of you, thanks to all those who gave their lives to make sure you would. Including me, and Soldier Odair, and your friend Madge, and your sister Prim. Now I understand you're in pain. We soldiers know better than most that war causes pain, and pain's not something you can easily ignore. But all those people you're mourning for, all those you're hurting for, trust me, most of them would want you to go ahead and enjoy your life in spite of everything. Trust me on this, Soldier. We don't want to see you waste away, you've given up too much to help free this country. And you're wrong. You are a hero, Soldier Everdeen."

"How?" I stare openmouthed at him, unsure if he really believes what he just said. "I did so little compared to the ones like Paylor." And when I did manage to do something, it only left a trail of wholesale destruction.

Boggs is quiet for a moment. I'm beginning to think he might agree with me. Because it's all true, I didn't really do anything of significance during the war. I wasn't a real soldier, just a puppet controlled by Plutarch and Coin for the cameras. I didn't have any special skills, just the ability to hunt with a bow and arrow. And even that wouldn't have been good enough for actual combat. I didn't have any real charisma. No acting skills. Nothing beyond good timing and incredibly good luck. And somehow that was enough to inspire the masses.

Plutarch was right, humans really are stupid beings.

But Boggs doesn't say he agrees with me. Instead, he takes a completely different tack. "Let me tell you a story, Soldier," he says confidentially. "I want you to listen, and I want you to remember."

I nod, but only because I don't know what else to say.

Boggs has a sober look on his face as he begins. "Hundreds of years ago, on a faraway continent separated from us by an ocean, there was a country in a situation like ours. Like your district, Everdeen. It was forcibly subjugated by a much larger, more powerful country, one that was led by a tyrant. That country's government began oppressing the people of the territory they'd annexed. Made them live under strict laws. Said they were inherently lesser than the people on top."

I frown. "But they were liberated eventually, right? I mean, there were rebels who fought for their freedom?"

"Yes, certainly. But there's more to the story than that. At some point, the representative of that ruling government who lived there, he was replaced. His superiors had decided he wasn't tough enough. He wouldn't go far enough to enforce the laws meant to keep the people in their place. So he was replaced by someone tougher, a man so cruel and barbaric, he was given nicknames like the Butcher, the Beast, and the Hangman."

Just like Romulus Thread, our last Head Peacekeeper. Who replaced old Cray and made the gallows the place to fear in District 12 once more. I shiver.

Boggs continues. "That man did his job of oppressing the people a little too well. He pushed them to their limit. Until some of them decided to push back. The government of that smaller country was then in exile, but they had two brave soldiers on their side. And those two were willing to risk everything to bring down the Butcher."

"How did they do it?" I can't imagine they would've been like me, deserting and leading their fellow soldiers on a mission that'd eventually fail.

"Well," Boggs says, "the man who was in charge, he'd gotten arrogant. He'd convinced himself he'd be able to keep the people under control. So he decided to show off to his superiors. He'd ride around in a fancy car with an open top, practically daring any of the citizens to target him."

"And they did, of course," I say, resisting the urge to smile. Even Head Peacekeeper Thread wouldn't have been that stupid.

Boggs nods. "Those two brave members of the resistance decided to act. They decided to strike at a time and place when they knew the man in charge would be approaching in his car."

"Bet their mission went smoothly, unlike mine," I say.

"Not at first," says Boggs. "This is what happened. One of the two men jumped out first and aimed his gun. But at that moment, the gun jammed. The other man acted quickly and threw a grenade, aiming for the inside of the car. He missed. The grenade landed next to one of the wheels before it detonated."

I listen in silence, imagining myself in place of the two resistance members. My most crucial weapon, my bow and arrows, failing when I need it most.

Boggs continues. "The car was badly damaged, but both men who were inside were still alive. Still able to stand, run, and shoot back. That's when the two members of the resistance decided to flee. They thought they'd failed in their mission. It was only later that they found out, they'd succeeded. It had just taken a little more time. It hadn't been the blast or the initial injuries that had taken him out. It'd been infection."

I think of President Snow's final moments. How he'd escaped my arrow, only to succumb to the crushing crowd, or his own deadly cough. "So it went well in the end. They did what they came to do."

"Yes, they did, Soldier. But as you know, actions have consequences. And this was no exception. The resistance had been warned that there'd be retaliation. They just didn't expect it to be so severe. On the same day as the attack, thousands of civilians were arrested. Many were murdered outright. Others were forced into labor camps, including the girlfriend of one of the resistance members. Another young man, one whose family had aided in the mission, was captured and tortured during interrogation, until he had no choice but to talk."

I feel my heart beating faster. So the cruelty of the Capitol, the way they indiscriminately dropped those bombs on my district, murdered Cinna and Peeta's stylist and his prep team, and kept Peeta alive just to torture him, none of that was new. That kind of cruelty's been around longer than most of us thought.

"Intelligence falsely linked the assassins to a rural village full of innocent men, women, and children. Weeks after the attack, the oppressors set their sights on that village. They shot all two hundred of the men who were there. Deported the women to the labor camps, where many of them died. Killed eighty-one of the children."

My eyes close. In my mind, I see once again the faces of the children of 12, whose lives were sacrificed not out of their own volition, but on the orders of the highest-ranking members of the Capitol's military. How different could it have been in that rural village, on that faraway continent, hundreds of years ago? It was a different time, yes. In a different culture, no doubt. Maybe the people of that village hadn't been mining coal on that fateful day, but like my people, they'd just been going about their lives. Feeding their families and kids, like me and Gale. Protecting and reassuring their younger siblings, like me with Prim and Gale with Posy. Perhaps fantasizing about escaping to a place free from oppression, like me when I considered fleeing into the woods and not looking back.

None of those people had asked to be sacrificed in exchange for one of their oppressors. They'd only had the misfortune to be associated with the resistance.

I swallow hard as I turn back to Boggs. "So what'd the rebels do after that? Did they stop targeting the ones like the Butcher, because of what happened to the villagers?"

Boggs nods. "It was advised, yes, that they stop targeting other high-ranking men working for the regime. That one successful attempt was the only one of its kind. After the war was won and the country regained its freedom, memorials were built at the site where the rural village once stood. Place names were changed to commemorate the tragedy. The children whose lives were stolen were remembered with an art installation. The people did all that they could to keep the memory of the village alive, so that such horrors might never happen again."

We didn't learn from that, I think. Plutarch was correct when he said that collective thinking is usually short-lived. We repeated the mistakes of our ancestors, not once, not twice, but three times over.

I'm finding it hard to speak when I look to Boggs again. "So, what of the resistance? The two men who carried out the mission? What happened to them in the end?"

"Sadly, neither of them lived to see the day when their country was freed. A member of their group betrayed them to their enemies. Gave them up for a monetary reward. They, along with their allies, were surrounded in the cellar of the church where they'd taken refuge. One of them died from injuries sustained during battle. The other took his own life before he could be captured."

I don't question that. I was ready to do the same, without hesitation, when I was in the Capitol. So was Gale, when those Peacekeepers got their hands on him.

Boggs goes on talking. "They'd succeeded in their mission, but at the cost of their own lives. And the lives of most of those who'd aided them, and the lives of the thousands of innocents who were murdered in reprisal. But you know what, Soldier?" He pauses as if for dramatic effect. "After the war, even while the memory of the village and its inhabitants remained fresh in people's minds, those two men were honored as heroes. And rightfully so."

I scoff. "So what you're saying is, that's why people today see me as a hero. Well, of course they would. It'd be easy for them to justify all that I did. They didn't have to suffer the repercussions. They weren't targeted by the ones seeking revenge."

"No." Boggs' voice is as hard as metal. "But you're missing the point entirely, Soldier. I didn't take you for someone without a good head on her shoulders. The people that came after that time, they knew a fundamental truth that you don't seem to. Listen to me, Everdeen. The blood is on the hands of the enemy, not the ones who were forced to do something about them."

I stare at him, taking the words in. It makes sense, kind of. And it's a good argument in my defense. But only if you're going to ignore the ones giving the orders, in favor of the ones pulling the trigger.

Boggs can sense what I'm thinking. He scowls at me. "Stop this nonsense line of thinking, Soldier Everdeen," he chastises. "You're really going to equate the ones pushing back against oppression, with the ones who oppressed in the first place? Is that what your experience taught you? That the lowly foot soldier from District Twelve, just trying to secure a future for his kids, is the same as the Peacekeeper who never had to be hungry a day in his life?"

He doesn't let me respond. "Those two men who fought back and helped bring down the Butcher, they continued to be remembered as heroes. They were promoted in rank by the military they served in, even long after their deaths. A statue was built in their honor in their country's capital. The church cellar they took refuge in was preserved, and every year, on the anniversary, the site would be decorated with flowers and candles in their memory."

I'm frozen. I can't speak. Boggs just goes on talking. "They deserved all that and more, Soldier. You know why I'm telling you this, don't you? It's because you ought to learn what the people before you learned. The blood is not on your hands, Everdeen. It never was. The Capitol paid the price for their sins. Now you need to let it go. Let yourself be at peace. That's the least that you deserve."

"I was never even a soldier, Boggs," I argue with him. "Not like those two brave men. Everything I ever did was because of someone else. Peeta, the camera guys, the Gamemakers, the rebels. I never even wanted to join the rebellion, I just wanted to keep my sister safe, and protect Peeta."

"So what?" Boggs sounds a bit gentler, probably because he can see the tears in my eyes, but he's still not going to back down. "You showed so many admirable qualities, it's no surprise that millions were inspired by you. You came forward to save your sister from going into the Games. You risked retaliation from the Capitol by singing to Rue on camera, and putting those flowers on her. You willingly made yourself the puppet of Plutarch Heavensbee, just so you could keep Peeta alive. You risked your own life in combat to try to save the hospital in Eight, and you ran right into a hail of gunfire in Two, just for the sake of the wounded. All of that was you, and only you. No manipulation involved. You are a hero, Soldier Everdeen. Believe it, for your sake as much as ours."

I look at my former commander. He speaks with such conviction, I don't doubt for one second that he feels this way about me. But could he actually be right? Would it dishonor all my victims, if I stopped thinking of them that way?

I'm not going to let Prim become just another casualty of the war. That much is clear.

Boggs is speaking to me again. "It doesn't mean you'll forget the ones we lost along the way. That's not going to happen, in this life or the next. Nor should we try to justify what happened, or say that all those lives were worth it. Because they weren't. But it wasn't you, Everdeen, who chose to make that sacrifice on their behalf. That was the Capitol. The blood's always been on their hands."

He pauses then, and quiet surrounds us in the woods. Even the nearby birds have fallen silent. I think for a long time. I try reflecting on what Boggs said. Because I do want desperately to believe him, I'm just not sure I'll be able to.

Boggs claps me on the shoulder with one hand. "You did good, Soldier," he tells me again. "Everyone says you did. Don't you ever forget that."

"I…" I attempt to get the words out, but my throat's feeling dry. "I'll try, Boggs."

"Good." Boggs starts to move away from me, and I sense he'll be going back to wherever he came from. "Live well, and make our deaths count," he says. "Understand, Soldier?"

"Understood." Then Boggs is gone.

I'm all alone in the woods once more. The birdsong begins again, and I know it's time for me to go back. Peeta will wonder why I'm not at home.

I cross into the meadow, and the sunlight hits my face. Right away, I notice the details that Peeta painted on the sculptures. The children's faces are vibrant with color, pink cheeks and blue eyes and red lips. An even mix of olive tones and pale creams. So true to life, I imagine it's as though these murdered boys and girls were resurrected. I stop to admire the artists' work.

In my mind, I remember what Boggs told me. That the ones whose lives were lost would've wanted me to go on living.

While I stand there, facing the sculptures, I lift a hand to my mouth. Touch my fingers to my lips. Extend my hand outward, in the direction of all those boys and girls, the same way I did with Rue in the first arena. Showing my respect to the child victims of the war.

My eyes focus on one sculpture in particular, one depicting a young girl with a blond braid down her back. She wears a sky blue dress and little white shoes.

After several long moments, I put my hand down. Then I walk away without looking back.

My house is just up ahead. I can smell the aroma of bread baking. Peeta would've returned by now. My footsteps quicken, and I relish the feel of the wind on my face, and I allow myself to smile as the birdsong fades out behind me.

AN: So this is my second story where ghost-Boggs suddenly shows up out of nowhere. Lol.

I decided to write this story to give Katniss a chance to free herself from her guilt, and to present an alternate perspective on her actions during the war. The story Boggs told is a reference to the real-life Operation Anthropoid, the successful assassination of the Nazi third in command by members of the Czechoslovak resistance, Jan Kubis and Jozef Gabzik. The Czech village of Lidice was targeted by the Nazis for a massacre in reprisal.

The sculptures painted by Peeta reference the Memorial to the Children Victims of the War, eighty-two bronze sculptures, created by Marie Uchytilova, that stand where Lidice once stood.