I haven't been home in over thirty-six hours. It's been nothing but furious work and preparation from day into night, back to day and into night again. Now, with the sun long gone, I find myself staring out the window of my office, wondering what tomorrow will bring as we set out into the unknown.
I said my goodbyes to Clint and Aurora on Sunday evening. There never was a guarantee that I would make it home before H-Hour, and quite frankly, I was happy to get that gut-wrenching task out of the way as soon as possible. With the amount of tears that were shed on both sides, it was not pretty by any means.
Unfortunately for my getaway plan, we completed our tasks a few hours ahead of schedule and were able to give the soldiers one final night on their own before we deploy in the morning. Now, as I sit by myself, afraid to go home and face the possibility of losing it again at the sight of my loved ones, I feel more alone than ever. That's when I sense someone's presence behind me.
Slowly, I turn my chair around to see Bixby leaning in my doorway once more, but the smug sense of satisfaction in his face that I found so annoying is gone. Instead, there is finally a genuine human being standing in front of me.
"I'd thought you'd be home by now, Sir."
"That's the problem with being a bachelor, Sergeant Major," he replies. "Don't really have a reason to...you on the other hand…"
"I'd prefer not to go into that, if possible."
"Fair Enough," Bixby says dropping the subject. "By the way," he says nervously rubbing his hand across his shorn head. "I haven't gotten the chance to thank you," he says humbly.
"For what, Sir?" I ask curiously.
"C'mon," he says taking a few steps inside my office. "I was about as inspiring to the battalion as a dry piece of white toast…But you…let's just say that I was quite moved by your little speech."
"I'm glad I had the desired effect," I say cracking a small grin. He walks over to the chair in front of my desk.
"Do you mind if I sit down?" he asks carefully.
"Go ahead, Sir," I say with a polite wave of my hand. He cautiously takes a seat. I can tell he's struggling to find the words to say something that's bothering him.
"You know…" he says timidly, "my great-grandfather was a Victor."
"Really?" I say somewhat surprised.
'I thought about raising my hand when you asked the battalion if we had any friends or family in the Games, but for some reason, it just didn't feel right."
"Why not?"
"Because," he says looking down at the floor. "What you meant was if we knew any victims of the Hunger Games. My great-grandfather was a Career. He volunteered for them."
"Sir," I say trying to sound understanding. "Even Careers could be victims."
"Still," he says seemingly afraid to look me in the face. "Everyone in my family admired him so much. The stories my parents told were about how my great-grandfather brought pride and honor to the District. Brought food and wealth to us by fighting." He starts to shake his head like he's about to make a personal epiphany he desperately doesn't want to. "Ever since I was a little kid…I wanted to be him. I wanted to fight, I wanted to kill, and I wanted to win. I wanted people cheering my name in triumph! I always knew I wanted to join the military, but not out of some sense of duty or honor like I tried to sell the soldiers back there. I wanted to be a hero.
But what you said to me after the meeting, and then what you told the battalion, made me realize…that I never really got it. I never let in what it really meant. There was nothing glorious about the Games, and there's nothing glorious about going into combat either."
"That's where you're wrong, Sir," I say shaking my head "There can be glory in combat, but it comes not when you fight for yourself, but when you fight for those who can't fight for themselves." Something about my words touches him. I can instantly see his eyes open a little wider in understanding.
"I guess I don't know anything about anything," he pauses. "And I'm glad I have you to keep me on the right path."
I lean back in my chair and can't help but smile. Finally, through some miracle, it seems Bixby has learned some humility.
"Sir, if you finally realize that you don't know anything, then that's the first step to really learning something. I think you'll be alright."
Bixby smiles and lifts himself to his feet.
"I'm glad you think so, Sergeant Major," he says turning toward the door. "Skids up at 0600 tomorrow. I'm going home and getting some sleep. I strongly suggest you do the same."
"You know, Sir," I say flashing him another grin. "That may be the first piece of good advice you've ever given me." We both chuckle.
"Good night, Sergeant Major."
"Good night, Sir," he turns toward the door.
"Sir!" I say before he exits. He turns back around. "The odds are going to be in our favor…"
"I hope you're right," he quietly replies before finally disappearing down the dark hallway.
Once again, I find myself alone with my thoughts. They drift back and forth through many different memories. Some, like my wedding day, my return to Panem at the end of the war, and then the birth of my child, are among my most treasured. Some, like watching my mother suffer flashbacks to her torture at the hands of the Capitol, running away from home at seventeen to get away from it all, and finally almost watching General Snow die at my feet in our escape from Germania, are ones that I've desperately tried to forget.
However, a strong realization finally sets in. One thing is always constant through every experience, good and bad. No matter what I've done, where I've gone, or who I've been with…I've always been me.
There's one last thing I have yet to do to prepare for Africa. It's time to remember who I am. Slowly, I rise from my chair, walk around to the front of my desk, and carefully open the glass case…
When I arrive home, the entire house is dark. I think Clint went to bed early because he doesn't want to risk the emotion of saying goodbye to me again either. I think what makes it especially hard is that both of us are combat veterans and he knows the dangers I could face as well as I do.
I sneak through the quiet, deserted rooms as stealthily as I can, not wanting to wake anyone upstairs. At last, I reach the door to the back porch and step outside. In the corner of the backyard next to the fence, is a shed. When we first moved in, Clint tried to claim it as a storage space for all his tools, but my firm resolve finally made him relinquish it to me. I told him
"This isn't going to a place for just any tools. This is going to be a place for one special tool and one special tool alone." I walk up to the unassuming wooden building, pull a key from my pocket, and open the padlock. I throw open the door to reveal an ancient sharpening wheel, made from the finest District 2 stone and passed down through generation after generation of Masons. My grandfather honed his axes to a razor edge along its coarse surface. When, I was a little girl, my mother showed me how to use it, and after I made my peace with her thanks to General Snow, she sent it to me so I could train my child when she was ready.
I walk over to a shelf and retrieve a bottle of special oil. It comes from a rare plant in District 7 that polishes the metal of an axe-head like nothing else can. Then, with the care of a master, I paint the curved wheel of the whetstone with a thin coat, ensuring the surface is perfect for my delicate task. Finally, I reach down to my belt, and pull out the weapon that gave me my name. I examine it's hand-forged steel in the bright moonlight.
"I'm sorry, old friend," I say aloud. "I haven't done this in far too long…"
My foot finds the wooden pedal at the base of the sharpening stone and begins to pump, spinning the wheel into a perfect, steady rhythm. Then, holding the dense hickory of the handle like it was a living thing, I gently kiss the edge of the blade against the stone. Microns of steel are shaved off the surface in tiny, glistening sparks that slowly create an edge that no enemy in the world could ever hope to survive.
As I slowly pass the hatchet back and forth across the spinning stone, my mind clears, and I become aware of nothing else but the task at hand.
"The hatchet will always tell you when it's ready," my mother used to say to me as she sharpened her weapons on this very stone. "You just have to learn how to listen." I never knew what she meant until she gave me the implement that I now hold in my hands and I began to care for it on my own. Eventually, the hatchet becomes so much more than just another weapon, it becomes an extension of your body that you must learn to understand.
Suddenly, a tingle runs through my body.
"There it is," I think to myself as I gently pull the edge away from the stone. "Perfect."
I hold the newly honed edge up towards my eyes. It sparkles as the blue of the moonlight strikes its surface. I know in my heart that my weapon is ready, but there's still only one way to know for sure. At the far end of the shed, is something else that I asked my mother to send me from home. Hanging against the wall is a round target made from a two-foot wide cylinder of District 7 hardwood, cut straight from the heart of an old growth tree. It is twice as dense as normal timber and heavy enough to simulate the roughest opponent. I rear back and prepare to throw when suddenly a voice calls from behind me.
"Mommy?" I spin around and see Aurora, standing in the doorway of the shed in her pajamas, cradling Ears the Rabbit in her arms, and staring back at me with a look a wonder. "What is that?"
"Rori," I say running over. "What are you doing up, Baby?" I kneel down beside her and see that her eyes are completely fixated on the object in my hands.
"Something made me wake up, and when I saw the shed open, I knew that it had to be you. No one but you comes back here," she says without taking her eyes off my weapon. "What is that?" she asks again even more forcefully. Slowly, I hold up the hatchet next to her.
"This," I say slowly turning the hickory handle so that it catches the light, "is something very special." Aurora carefully raises her tiny hand and touches the cool metal of the hatchet head. At first, I'm afraid that she might cut herself on the razor sharp edge, but then somehow, instinctually, I know that she won't. Reverence for this object is in her blood. She respects it, so it will respect her. "When I was just a little older than you, your grandmother taught me how to use this."
I keep looking at the wonder in Aurora's face. She still can't take her eyes off the hatchet, like somehow she knows that she and it will one day too share an unspoken bond. Suddenly, Aurora turns to me and asks.
"Will you teach me how to use it?"
"Soon, Baby," I say. "Soon."
"When you get from Africa?" The way Aurora says those words nearly rips my heart out and fills me with iron resolve simultaneously.
"We'll see," I whisper before giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead.
"It will keep you safe while you're over there, won't it?" Aurora says with a newly found assurance I've never heard from her before.
Suddenly, I feel what I haven't felt in a long time: invincible. "Yes, Honey, it will. Now, go back to bed, Sweetheart. It's very late." Aurora silently nods, turns around, and takes a few steps back toward the house. Then, without warning, she turns back towards me again.
"I love you, Mommy."
"I love you too. Mommy will always love you," I say fighting back tears. She walks back to the house and disappears inside. Immediately, I wipe my eyes and steady myself in the cool night air. I look up and stare at the sky, knowing that very soon, I will once again be on the other side of the world in a strange and unfamiliar land, but my rediscovered confidence becomes a shield against the pain and doubt. That's when I make myself a promise:
"I will make it back to them. No matter what, I will come home again. Nothing will stand in my way."
I look down at my hatchet one final time, firmly wrapping my fingers around its hard, wooden handle. Then, without looking, I spin around, flick my wrist, and let the weapon fly into the darkness. A split-second later, I hear the sharp thud as the steel buries itself directly into the center of the hardwood target, and a slow grin creeps across my face.
"Still got it."