Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine.
Beyond a Lifetime
When Katy-Jo Lewes had told her about the memorial being built near the stockyards in Ten, Madge had been curious.
It was a garden, filled to the brim with colorful flowers and young trees that she was told would one day grow tall and strong. The cattle cars that had carried the children to the Southern Seat had been dismantled, the sides preserved and erected with the names of the lost Tributes and the handful of Victors carved into them, over the emblems of both District Ten and the Capitol. At the center of the winding path was a field, an area with a clear view of the sky, and at night the constellations.
"We are all like the stars," the Mayor, her golden eyes bright even from the stage, had told them during the dedication, hand sweeping to the darkened heavens. "We may die, we may fade, but we may still guide. Our lost Tributes, our fallen Victors, our passed friends and loved ones, may not be with us, but their light will guide us forward. Even when that light is gone, the memory of it will keep us from ever drifting back to such terrible times."
Gale had tried to look less impressed than he was.
"It's all metaphors and symbolism." He grumbled as he studied the heavy door of an old cattle car, the name 'Tommy Brandsetter' blazoned up it.
"That's all we have sometimes," Madge shrugged. "This District is constantly shifting, moving, they don't get too attached to things, just memories."
It was a District of constant sacrifice for the larger well being, creating memories that haunted them all. The garden was made of those memories, for better or worse. They were embracing them for what they were: lessons in life they needed to take to heart.
"I think more Districts should have memorials to the lost," Madge told Gale as they walked through the dirt streets, back to her apartment.
His mouth turned down, "Why? Just dredge up the past. What good does that do anyone?"
Her arms folded across her stomach protectively. "Our past is important." Her mind flickered to her father, the words he so often told her throughout her life whenever he'd give her a lesson.
"If you don't know your history you keep making the same mistakes."
Gale froze, eyes flickered to her, "Aren't you the one always telling me I need to move on? I can't live in regret."
"Knowing your history and wallowing in it aren't the same thing, Gale."
She takes off again, her pace brisker this time. He jogs and catches up with her, catches her by the elbow.
"Madge," he pulls her to a stop. "I'm sorry. It's just…the past hasn't been all that great to me."
A sigh escapes her lips, her eyes flicker out into the dark, "It hasn't been particularly kind to any of us, Gale."
The past was where her parents were, though. The past, her memories of it, were the only place they still existed. The ghost of her mother's sister, her Poppa, Mrs. Oberst…they were nothing but shadows to the present. Forgotten as insignificant points of light among a brightening morning sky.
Sometimes it felt as though none of them were worth remembering.
Her childhood home, as few truly happy memories as it held, was gone, she'd seen it go up in flames the night of the bombings. Her garden, her room, her back porch…
Often she still thought of herself as nothing but an out of place relic of the past. Someone who didn't belong, who should have died alongside her mother and father, become just another phantom in a painful history lesson.
Gale's mouth droops, his hand comes to a rest on her shoulder, kneading it gently before both his hand are on her cheeks, thumbs sweeping over them. She feels moisture smear under her eyes and realizes she's started crying.
Her head turns quickly and she begins brushing them away. It's stupid to cry over them, it won't do them or her any good.
He grabs her, pulls her to his chest, his calloused hands rubbing circles and tracing patterns on her back, his voice softly murmuring soothing things into her hair. She tries to pull away, but he tightens his hold. Struggling weakly for a few minutes then giving up, Madge wraps her arms around his waist and presses her face into him, inhales the earth and wind that cling to him.
"I know it hasn't." He final says, lips still in her hair.
She can feel his fingers working on her pony tail, pulling the band out so that he can run his finger through her tresses.
Tears fight their way back out the edges of her eyes, trickling out and down her cheeks, soaking Gale's shirt.
He understands…but he doesn't.
He still has his mother, his brothers, his sister, even Katniss and her mother, despite the rift between them, are still solid and real. There's nothing left of her family. Not a single tangible bit of proof that either one of them ever existed, that her aunt, the dead girl that had haunted Madge despite her short, tragic life, had contributed to the Rebellion with her little trinket.
They might not have existed, none of them. Not even Madge herself, except in the flawed memories of the dispersed population of Twelve.
"There's nothing of them. Not a garden or a plaque, not a stone…"
It's ridiculous, none of those things would change their being gone, but having something, somewhere she could go, know existed, where her past wasn't just a fading memory would've eased her aching heart some.
"The whole cemetery is gone," he finally breathes out. "Everyone that ever died there is just…"
Gone.
Madge suddenly feels a little selfish, only thinking of her missing family. Gale, Katniss, Peeta, everyone who'd lived and died in Twelve were without a place to remember their families.
She peers up at him, through her wet lashes, ashamed of herself. "I'm sorry, Gale, I'm-I wasn't thinking. Your dad-"
He pulls back and frowns before dipping down and silencing her with a fierce kiss, picking her up onto her toes, crushing her to him.
They're both breathless when he lets go, pressing his forehead to hers. "I didn't mean it like that."
She nods, hating herself for always assuming he's trying to start something. He seems to sense her irritation with herself and crushes her to him again, resting his cheek against her hair, taking a deep breath.
"I wish there were a memorial, something, for Twelve, too." He sighs, "There just isn't any interest in it. No one goes there and almost no one has gone back. It was hell getting them to even put a hovercraft port there."
It had been considered a waste of money. Just like any memorial would be.
She sighs into him, wishing she were more, wishing she had some power to create something to remind the people of the new country what the little coal mining district had sacrificed for them.
#########################################
When they got to the apartment Madge's roommate was already running out, hastily telling her goodbye. Her latest boyfriend was taking her to the coast and they were leaving early to reach it by morning, giving Madge and Gale rule over the apartment.
Gale found some wine in the fridge. He smirked, hawthorn and strawberry, already opened, but with only a few sips gone.
Madge didn't drink, but she was emotionally exhausted and keyed up, and though she'd never admit it, the memorial had been a strain on her. It bothered her, and that bothered him. He so rarely felt as though he had anything to offer her when she wasn't feeling her best, a few sips might do her some good. Besides, how could she turn down such a combination?
He pours some into a couple of mugs, 'Crazy-Jo Loon' had apparently still not bought any proper cups, and carries them into Madge's room. She's in the bathroom, brushing out her hair, damp from the shower. He feels an inkling of annoyance, she should've waited for him.
They could've saved some water.
Gale watches her for a minute, her neck sways over as she picks out a tangle he'd most likely caused.
He whistles, holding the mugs up.
She comes out, starts to pull her hair up, but he stops her. "I'm just going to take it out."
Her eyes roll, "I know, but it's cold."
He pushes the mug into her hand, "This'll warm you up."
Taking it, she sniffs, mouth turning down, "What is it?"
"Wine."
It's back in his hand. "I don't drink, Gale."
He sighs and sits it on the bedside table before collapsing onto the bed. It's her choice. He takes a long drink of his own. Wine doesn't do much for him, but he won't turn it down.
Madge sits beside him, a little hesitantly, eyeing his cup. She isn't a fan of drinking. He supposes it reminds her of Haymitch, a dependency, even though Gale is far from being a slovenly alcoholic like the crazy old Victor.
After a minute Gale reaches out and runs his hand through her hair, massaging her scalp with the tips of his fingers, and she relaxes slightly.
He sits back on the bed, reclining onto the mass of pillows, pulling her with him and onto his lap, causing her to squeak. His lips press to her neck, then up to the little patch of skin behind her ear as one of his hands snakes its way under her nightgown.
For once, he really isn't trying anything, just enjoys the feeling of her skin against his. His fingers begin tracing circles on her stomach, then absently letters, his name, though he doubts she realizes it.
"What's wrong?"
He feels her shoulders jerk, just a little, and he sighs.
It irritated him when she did that, shrugged off his concern for her. For some reason she didn't think her troubles were worth dealing with, would bottle them up like she had learned to do so long ago.
He wasn't sure if it was a desire, unconscious or not, to avoid adding to his worries or simple disregard for her own worth that made her do it.
He pinches her side, "No, talk."
She rolls over, eyes downcast, then shifts up, begins kissing him, her fingers sneaking up and starting on the buttons of his shirt. It's off and her delicate and cool fingers have begun on his pants when he realizes what she's doing.
"Don't change the subject," he growls into her mouth. She was playing dirty, using his own tricks against him.
With a grunt he rolls over, pinning her under him and grabbing her hands.
"Madge," he frowns.
She brings her legs up and wraps them around his middle, pulls him down and crushes him to her. He can feel the moisture from her shower still clinging to her, permeating through her nightgown.
Not fair.
"I'm serious." He releases her hands, begins stroking her hair again. "Please talk."
Madge's mouth straightens then she bites her lip, looking away. "It's nothing."
"It's not 'nothing'." He nuzzles into her cheek. "I know the memorial thing bothers you, it bothers me too, but there isn't anything-"
"There could be," she flickers her eyes up. "Maybe we could get donations, get help to do something."
Gale had dealt with many of the survivors from Twelve, been a leader of sorts for them, before and after the Rebellion, helped many with the relocation, and none had been as troubled about the lack of recognition their District got as Madge was. District Twelve was nothing but bad memories and death. It was a little upsetting to him, the cemetery being gone, his father's stone bombed to dust, but it was nothing to what Madge seemed to be experiencing.
"How can people just forget them?" She whispers, more to herself than to him.
It finally strikes him how much things have really changed for her.
Madge had been someone, a daughter, the child of a politician. She'd been visible in the District, highly regarded and deeply reviled, whether she deserved it or not, and now she was noticed only occasionally, when she was at galas with Gale. Though he didn't think she missed the attention, in fact she often teased him for how he often had to deal with the fools from the press corps; it had to be a shock to her system, to go from someone of importance to what she must have viewed as no one.
Madge, he realized, was unsure of her own importance in the world.
He doubted she even recognizes for herself what exactly is bothering her. Genuinely, she probably is upset about lack of acknowledgment for everyone and everything sacrificed by Twelve.
Alive or dead, Madge would be less than a footnote when the history books were written. Despite her position as the Mayor's daughter, a supposedly elevated station in life, she and her parents warranted no remembrance.
Gale, though he had been born into nothing, a former miner and a poacher, a convicted criminal in the eyes of the law, was an entire book to himself.
She and everything she'd know had been tossed aside by the new government, something it was prone to do, he'd noticed.
Katniss and Peeta Mellark had been shuttled off, quietly tucked away from the public eye in Twelve, despite being the driving forces, the spark for the Rebellion. They were only referred to in the past tense, never recognized for the broken messes they'd been turned into.
Madge may not have been used in the same way, by the same government, but she'd suffered. She'd been ostracized because of her position, insulted by the people her father had insisted she help protect with her subservience. She'd been lost, left to burn, no attempts to find her had been made.
Despite all the good she, and her father, had done, had tried to do, they were forgotten.
Shewas forgotten.
Gale pressed a kiss into her cheek, trying to think of what to say. Despite her quiet nature, words were Madge's strong suit, not his.
"They aren't," he tells her.
You aren't.
She may not make the history books, may be just a passing line or a cut character in the greater story of the Rebellion, she was going to be a major part of his story, as long as she wanted to be.
He rolls off her, his hand back on her stomach, tracing his name again.
"Maybe," he focuses on the softness of her skin, thinking through his words carefully, "maybe I can, I don't know, write to Paylor, ask her about getting a grant, rebuild the cemetery."
It isn't much, but it's something.
The room is silent, he keeps his eyes on her stomach, fingertips just finishing crossing the 't' on 'Hawthorne' when she grabs his hand. She takes it up to her face, kisses his palm.
"You would do that?" A little crease forms between her eyes. "For me?"
It's a little worrisome to him, that even after all this time she still doesn't know, he would do anything for her. She was ridiculous, not realizing that he loved her enough to ensure that she knew how important she was, maybe not to the world, but to him.
"Madge," he sighed. If she wanted him to call Paylor that minute, he would. "You
know I would."
She blinks, her eyes shimmering with tears he knows she doesn't want to fall. Swallowing thickly, she lets a small smile creep onto her face.
"I think the cemetery would be nice." She nods.
Twelve didn't need a garden or some fancy memorial. They weren't the future, they were the past, but they need to be remembered. They needed to remind those to come what could happen, what could be lost.
"I'll call her in the morning," he tells her. "See what we can do. But don't get your hopes up."
His position didn't promise them anything.
Madge props herself up on her elbows, her smile widens, "How can she turn down a request from the illustrious General Gale Hawthorne?"
His eyes flicker upward, "Very easily, I think."
She lean up, presses a soft kiss to his lips. "Thank you."
Gale's hand trails down her chest, back to her stomach then under her nightgown, already bunched up under her breasts. "I'm making a request of the President. I think I deserve more of a 'thank you' than a kiss."
Her eyebrows rise innocently, "Do you want me to go make some candy? I can use Katy-Jo Lewes' wine to make somet-"
He throws his leg back over her middle, straddling her, covering her mouth with his hand, "Using up the only alcohol in this place isn't exactly a 'thank you'."
Madge is grinning when she pulls his hand down, "Oh? What can I do then?"
A little yelp of surprise erupts out of her when he sits back, pulling her up. He jumps from the bed and throws her over his shoulder, carrying her toward the bathroom.
"Gale, what are you doing?"
She tries to sound annoyed, but she's laughing.
"Going to take a shower."
"I just took a shower."
He jostles her a little, flips her down into his arms, "You're going to thank me properly. I have some very dirty places that need some special attention."
She snorts, "I'll bet you do."
There's no guarantee Gale will get anywhere with the request, but there's always the chance.
Just knowing he still remembers everything she's given up, that he's willing to try to give her something, however unlikely, to cement those sacrifices into the collective memory of the nation, might be enough. He doesn't want it to be, he wants to give her whatever she wants, if he can. For the first time in his life he has something to offer her, and he'll be dammed if he misses the opportunity.