Part I.
"We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels."
—William Shakespeare, Henry VIII
The violin is Sonnet Chandani's first friend. Before the war, before tragedy's song fills his heart, before the poison ravages his body, before everything that comes in the aftermath. In some ways, it is his truest friend.
Music is easy to understand—it requires no words, and yet it expresses the purest emotions. It brings back lost memories. Heals broken minds and soothes feverish anxiety.
In a garden, somewhere untouched by the evils of the world, a far-away place only Sonnet can escape to, delicate fingers pluck each string with care, coaxing out forgotten songs that dance in his head.
He hardly remembers what happens outside this sanctuary—lost in one melody and revived by the next. It sometimes comes back in flashes and fractures. He remembers lavish concerts. Acts of rebellion. Cries of fear. Death. A silver box and white uniforms. Overgrown hedges.
Above all, though, he remembers Tris.
x
Sonnet loves the springtime. High in the mountain valleys of his homeland, snow melts away to reveal lush greenery and sweet-smelling wildflowers. As winter's icy grip relinquishes its hold, nature awakens in a symphony of colors and scents.
Spring also brings his birthday.
His mother calls out to him, voice warm and pleasant. The air dances with birdsong, harmonizing with each rustle in the breeze, stretching towards the sun. He follows the trail back, in awe of nature's tranquility.
"Sit down, darling," his mother beckons as Sonnet wanders back into the clearing.
Their picnic spread is still the same as he left it, delicate pastries and savory finger foods presented on elegant plates. His father smiles, watching Sonnet get comfortable on the checkered blanket. "Close your eyes, son, we have a gift for you."
Sonnet's heart flutters with a blend of curiosity and excitement.
A slender, elegantly wrapped box rests before him. He unties the delicate ribbon, letting it cascade down like a soft whisper. The lid lifts, revealing a sight that steals his breath away—a violin, nestled within a cushioned embrace.
Its polished body gleams in the gentle afternoon light, inviting fingertips to trace its curves. The wood resonates with a hidden tune, as if harboring tales of the long past.
Sonnet caresses the smooth neck, feeling the subtle ridges beneath them. He lifts the instrument, cradling it with reverence, the weight of the violin settling against his chest.
Strings, silent for now, beckon with potential and infinite possibilities.
This is how his love for music begins.
x
Once the violin is in his hands, Sonnet can't seem to put it down.
Every waking hour is consumed by ideas for new compositions. One would think night offers reprieve, when his head lies on a silk pillow. But even then, melodies and music notes fill his dreams.
Sheet music scatters his bedroom floor, ink and graphite a constant mark on his hands. Once it starts to take more than two baths to clean off the stains, Sonnet's father has the maids restock the wet wipes on his bedside every other day.
Throughout it all, his parents meet Sonnet's energetic creativity with support and praise. Even when his more experimental techniques result in shrill screeches during his make-believe concerts, they simply encourage Sonnet to try again.
On the night his fifth violin instructor claims Sonnet to be too advanced for her teachings, his parents set up a chair in the living room. He doesn't recognize the official-looking men and women that filter into the room fifteen minutes later, but Sonnet's not too scared.
He looks over at his mother and father, standing in the archway, and he knows what to do.
Performing has always come easy.
x
As he takes his seat among the orchestra, Sonnet's fingers tremble with anticipation, clutching the polished wood of his violin. It's his first performance and he's a tad nervous.
Well…maybe more than a tad.
The Gilded String Youth Orchestra is a staple in the upper echelons of One. A shining beacon for the youth of the district, smiling faces plastered across event posters and advertisements. Sonnet grew up watching in the stands, quietly waiting for his turn.
And now it's his time to take up the torch.
He remembers the jealous looks and biting comments of his classmates when the invitations went out. He only got in because his parents founded the orchestra. It's so unfair, he was guaranteed a spot. Talentless brat.
Sonnet chooses to ignore their hurtful jabs—knows that they're only upset with their only lack of ability. He forgives them for the teachings of their parents. Not everyone is as lucky to have a loving family.
Though, doubt creeps in at the most inopportune moments.
As pillars of the fine arts community, Sonnet knows the reach of his parents' influence. It's because of their hard work that the orchestra has the sponsorship of the Capitol in the first place.
Sonnet doesn't want to let them down.
A tap, tap, tap at the front of the stage grabs the attention of the entire space.
The maestro raises her baton, and the air crackles with electricity. The first notes of The Horn of Plenty dance into existence, filling the amphitheater with their melodic embrace.
Sonnet follows her lead, as if a puppet controlled by invisible strings.
Every head in the audience is bowed as the Panem flag flies overhead, the national anthem attempting to breach the Heavens.
Or according to his parents, the Capitol's anthem.
The orchestra blares each note, powerful enough to resonate across the district. At least, Sonnet thinks so. His bow moves across the violin's strings, nervousness evolving into excitement and then calm.
This is where he's meant to be.
A hum fills his chest, the vibrations of the collective around him reshaping the inner workings of his tiny body. It is so loud that it drowns out every thought, overwhelming his brain to a synaptic death. All that is left is wonder.
Muscle memory takes over and he becomes one with the music.
x
"Are you sure this is okay?"
"No need to worry, my little songbird," soothes his mother. She runs her smooth palms over the lapels of his jacket, the action grounding. "Remember what I said?"
Sonnet shakes his head up and down. He does remember. A peaceful protest.
"Good boy. Then you know we're not doing anything wrong."
Behind the velvet fabric, the announcer on stage addresses the crowded hall. "Ladies and gentleman, I'm pleased to introduce The Gilded String Youth Orchestra! Tonight, they have prepared a special rendition of our national anthem. Please enjoy!"
It's been a summer of countless luncheons, dinners, and plays. Initially, Sonnet was excited to travel more, see new places in the district, and meet new people. Explore magnificent vineyards and storybook towns. Expand his horizons.
Sonnet found it all to be quite a beautiful show. District One residents and their performance of leisure and luxury. How can there be whispers of civil unrest when picture perfect people live such a beautiful life? Lawn picnics, afternoon champagne, and musical events held out on sun-lit terraces.
"All a front," his mother said late one night. "To placate the masses. To distract us from what's been going on. Pretty smiles eventually crack, my son."
He knows the truth now. Has seen the bleak existence crammed into the outskirts of the district, where the splendor Sonnet grew to associate with his home is nowhere to be found.
In the mining towns and factories and sweatshops, disdain runs rampant. Sonnet's rose-colored glasses have dimmed over the past few months. He finds it all so heartbreaking.
Before the heavy drapes pull back, Sonnet readies himself. Everyone in the orchestra knows the plan—swore to every tweak and change to the arrangement. The maestro may conduct their every move, but Sonnet's parents are the true figureheads of the operation.
When the house curtain lifts, after the baton is raised, the distorted notes of the Capitol's song begin to rise.
x
The demonstrations continue. Graffiti marks pristine boutiques and Capitol-financed guilds. Labor strikes start, thousands joining solidarity, demanding change.
The Capitol isn't pleased. It's one thing for Eight or Eleven to cause a fuss, but One? That simply won't do.
Sonnet and all the other children of the orchestra are sent home with broken instruments and crushed hearts after a performance in front of the Justice Building.
His parents receive notice that their sponsorship is revoked that night. "That won't stop us," says his father, mending the strings of Sonnet's broken violin. "We don't need their money."
They're back performing the next day, the soundtrack of the revolution playing across the district, inspiring more and more to take up the cause.
Sonnet thinks if enough people join together, then a deal must be struck. He may be young, but his parents taught him about the importance of equality and equity.
So, he continues to do his part. Hope keeps his violin tuned and bow in hand. If things keep up, Sonnet knows a resolution can be reached.
x
Not too much later, protests turn into fighting.
District One is one of the last to see bloodshed, but even the loyal lapdogs of the Capitol can turn rabid.
Hidden in the Chandani manse, Sonnet learns that if he closes his eyes, bullets and bombs sound awfully like a symphony.
x
Winter gives over to Spring.
More people die and Sonnet stays tucked away in the cellar, wondering how long blood will run in the streets.
He's heard rumors of ravenous mutations stalking the streets, agents of the Capitol sent to destroy One's frontlines. He thinks one is scratching at the basement window, hungry and programmed to kill.
Feeling courageous, inspired by the soldiers outside, Sonnet rips open the window, wooden sword in his grip, ready to ward off any monsters. A wet tongue swipes across his cheek, cheerful and eager.
"Oh," he says in surprise. "Hello, there."
The tiny dog continues to lap at his face. Its white fur is muddied with dirt and further down…blood. Sonnet gulps as he pets behind the dog's ears, his make-believe weapon abandoned. He scratches down towards the animal's neck, finding a collar and golden name tag that reads: Angel.
"I like your name, Angel."
He receives more licks in response.
"Stay here, I'll be right back."
Sonnet jumps off the stool he dragged to the wall, retreating back to his corner of safety. He returns to the window a few seconds later, now holding out a hand. A snout sniffs his fingers hesitantly, before taking the offering of his left-over sandwich.
Angel chews and Sonnet continues to stroke her fur. "You know," he begins. "It's actually my birthday today." The canine finishes eating and then perks her ears, moving her head to the side. Sonnet giggles—he can't remember the last time he heard his own laugh.
"I asked Mother and Father if I could join them, now that I'm eight. I'm a big boy," Angel sits, and then lays down in the mud. "But they said no. I just want to help."
A siren begins out of nowhere. Before he can assure Angel that everything is alright, that she can come inside, the dog runs off. Sonnet sighs, still looking out the opening.
He doesn't think he'll ever see her again.
x
Iron bites into his wrists.
Heavy handcuffs rub Sonnet's skin raw. It's been two days since the shackles were latched and there's no sign of them being taken off anytime soon.
Any strength in his arms is long gone, the weight of the restraints proven too much for his muscles to bear. Limp limbs simply hang in front of him, swaying back and forth, chains clanking.
Sonnet wishes to be home. Back in his bed, listening to his father play the piano in the other room. He'd rather be anywhere but here, isolated in a dark cell, locked away somewhere in the bowels of the Capitol.
Nothing bad was supposed to happen to them. His mother promised.
Now he doesn't even know what happened to her—she could be dead for all he knows. Buried in some unmarked grave with countless other rebels. Sonnet can still feel rough hands on his body as he was ripped away from her hands when the peacekeepers stormed the Chandani estate.
Tears well up in the corner of Sonnet's eyes. He tilts his head back, leaning against rough cinder block. Sonnet never truly felt fear before the past two years. It didn't have a place in his life before the war.
Fear is the only emotion that he feels now. It courses through his veins, a permanent fixture in his heart. A living entity.
He doesn't know what will happen next, but Sonnet is sure nothing will ever be the same again.
x
The Treaty of the Treason is read out on the screen outside the bars that keep him captive.
Sonnet pays the voice of the president no mind. He cares not of child death pageants that will keep the rest of the country in line for however many generations to come.
Instead, all he can focus on is the song sparrow perched outside his window. Feathers glisten in the sunlight, well-spaced notes spewing from its beak.
How badly Sonnet wishes he could be a bird right now—the ability to leave this place is a tempting thought. His mother told him stories growing up about reincarnation and other lives beyond this one.
When he dies, whether it be today or sometime in the near future, he only hopes he'll come back as something as half as lovely.
x
"Today, justice will be served. Two leaders of the rebellion will finally be punished for their crimes."
Sonnet doesn't know what's happening, let alone know where he is currently. He woke to a cloth bag being placed over his head and strong hands dragging him out of his thin bare mattress. A series of twists, turns, and the unmistakable sound of a truck has brought him to this moment.
Throughout it all, Sonnet hasn't stopped shaking.
Hefty arms try to hold him still. "Orchid and Malachi Chandani, you have been convicted of treason. Conspiring against the Capitol is punishable by death."
Deafening cheers pierce the rough hood. Sonnet can't quell the beating of his chest. It feels like a hummingbird is trying to escape his ribs, wings hammering away at his diaphragm.
"Any last words?"
Brightness floods his eyes all at once.
Sonnet blinks away the disorientation, eyes adjusting to the scene before him. He can't help but gasp, overcome with disbelief.
This has to be a nightmare. He wants to beg someone to pinch him awake.
In front of him, Sonnet's parents kneel, arms behind their backs, peacekeepers flanking either side. They're on a raised stage, thousands of faces below, all craning to get a look at the spectacle taking place.
Sonnet recognizes the platform as one the president uses to make important speeches. He watched the man announce the destruction of District Thirteen not too long ago from the very same spot. Sonnet sobbed watching the broadcast, hidden in their basement, his parents holding him tight.
If only he knew that he would find himself on the same stage mere weeks later.
The full severity of the situation sinks into his veins, the words of the booming voice from before finally computing in his brain. Sonnet feels sick, his stomach uneasy. A lump catches in his throat.
Just as he feels like he's going to faint, his parents lift their heads in unison. Bruises and cuts decorate their faces—dark bags sag below their eyes. It's too late before Sonnet feels a warmth spread down his pant leg, puddling below his bare feet.
The crowd laughs.
His father chokes back a cry while his mother stares into nothingness. Sonnet wants to plead with her to get up, to do something. To fight. But her cleverness and fierce determination is nowhere to be found.
Sonnet cranes his neck to look past his parents, searching out the source of the voice. A man in an opulent suit stands at a podium. Large flags of Panem hang over the buildings surrounding the City Circle.
President Eltair gazes down on them as if they're mere ants. His fingers tap impatiently against painted wood, the microphone picking up the rhythmic pattern.
"Well? Nothing to say? No grand performance? No swan song?" the man pauses, harsh features unpleasant and dark. "Not even a goodbye to your only child?"
That seems to stir something inside of Sonnet's mother, her eyes refocusing. Her long, dark hair moves artfully with the breeze. She glances to her right and meets her husband's kind eyes. At the same time, they both whisper, "I love you."
Sonnet wants to run to them, to hug them and pretend they're back home. As if there's a home to go back to. His father finds Sonnet's gaze first, a sad and tired smile on display. "You're our greatest joy, my son. Never forget that."
The world seems to hush, all sound beyond the stage now mute.
A single tear flows down his mother's left cheek, crystalline and sparkling in the sun. "Don't let them clip your voice, songbird," she says, voice unfaltering. "Promise me."
"I promise."
Sonnet feels a pinprick in the side of his neck as the words fall from his lips. Confused, he looks down to see a thin needle being pulled out from skin. The guard to his right hands off the syringe to someone outside his periphery, but all Sonnet can focus on is the tingling sensation spreading throughout his body.
His parents look horrified. They begin to struggle against their captors, desperation taking over the lines of their faces. Cries of confusion and shouts let loose from their mouths, but Sonnet can't understand the words beyond the ringing in his ears.
Time slows down, Sonnet's feet stuck in what feels like a sea of molasses and honey. It clings to his legs, thick and cumbersome.
"The Capitol is merciful enough to spare your son. But a price still must be paid."
Sonnet tries to reach out to his parents, but his vision begins to blur and all he can see are the guns being raised behind their heads. The metal gleams, luminous and final.
Chants from the crowd camped out on the avenue below add to the chaos. Words catch on Sonnet's tongue, a warning lost in the overload of his senses.
An all-consuming pain ignites his nerves on fire. The hands holding his weight suddenly let go and Sonnet drops to the floor, though the impact means little compared to the torture already taking over his system.
Muscles spasm and foam sprays from his mouth. With his head lolled to the side, Sonnet manages to get a full view of what's about to take place. He can't close his eyes even if he wanted to.
Two shots ring out before Sonnet loses consciousness.
x
Time becomes a never-ending cycle of ice and fire.
Sonnet loses track of the days, isn't sure how long it's been since the execution. Can't even be too sure if he's dead or alive.
When he's not asleep, he's convulsing. A craving, relentless and consuming, clawing its way through veins and arteries, dominating every thought and action.
Nothing else matters. All he can focus on is satisfying the itch in his body.
He hungers.
x
"How are you feeling today?"
Beyond the windows, smoke still rises in the distance. Scars of destruction and evil still pepper the cityscape. Birds chirp on charred branches and squirrels dart over downed power lines. Sonnet finds them more interesting than the nurse at the foot of his bed.
After a long beat of silence, the woman continues. "I see," she says, pity laced in her voice. "Doctor Zaldivar will be in shortly. Sit tight, sweetie."
Sonnet has been sitting tight for the past few weeks, wasting away in the city that took his parents. Demanded their demise.
Skin, once vibrant and alive, is now pallid and cold beneath the hospital gown. It's like the touch of Death herself. Sonnet's become a vessel, surrendering to the craving's ruthless grip, a prisoner in his own decaying form.
x
Doctor Zaldivar is unnerving. Nothing seems outwardly wrong with him, but Sonnet can recognize the look of madness in a person. He saw that gleam too often throughout the war.
"You're doing well, Mr. Chandani. The latest tests show your body has adapted to the poison quite nicely."
"Poison, sir?" Sonnet asks, confused. He didn't know what they injected him with but he never expected poison. The doctor leans forward in the chair he pulled up beside Sonnet's bed after he entered the room, his eyes intense and almost…excited?
"It's a modified blend, yes. Something I developed for President Eltair during the war. We never got to use it, but I thought you'd make a lovely test subject."
Sonnet feels all-too small, his thin frame under a microscope, claustrophobic and suffocating.
"You're strong enough now—can handle the effects of the cravings adequately," the chair squeaks as Doctor Zaldivar stands up and moves to one of the cabinets on the far wall. "I've approved of your discharge for tomorrow."
Sonnet breathes out a small, "Oh."
"Don't thank me too much. There's still work to be done." The older man removes a case of vials from a shelf, golden liquid trapped behind glass. He inspects each one before packing them up in a metal case.
"As you've experienced, the drug is highly addictive and deadly. Your body has already become dependent upon it for survival."
"What does that mean for me?" Sonnet asks timidly, voice barely above a whisper.
Zaldivar adjusts his spectacles before answering. His fingers fidget with the wire lenses, wiping away invisible specs of dirt. "The poison will prolong your life, but not save it—you'll be dependent on it for survival until you slowly fade away due to its lingering effects."
"Why not kill me now?" Sonnet wonders aloud. If he's meant to die anyway, why can't they just put him out of his misery?
"Like I said, you're a test subject. Patient zero, quite frankly. For the experiment to work, we need to analyze the results of the study over a period of time."
"What if I die before then? It'll be a waste."
"Then we'll know what to calculate and adjust for the next trial," the doctor responds slowly, as if trying to explain something to a toddler. Sonnet may have the body of a child, but his eyes have seen enough depravity to last a lifetime.
He wants to scream at the thin man to leave him alone. He wants to use what little energy remains to escape this cage—fly away from reality. Sonnet wants his mother. To feel the soft glide of his father's fingers through his hair. Crisp mountain air and springtime picnics dance in his memory.
"You'll be sent a refill monthly. It's important you take a dose every other week, or else you'll experience…difficulties."
Phantom pains travel down Sonnet's body just thinking about the weight of that last word.
"Worry not, young man. I'll be making visits a few times throughout the year to check on the status of things." And that is the worst part of it all. Sonnet will have to deal with this man until he takes his last breath. The president was not lying—it seems like he truly will be paying the price.
Doctor Zaldivar nods his head once and turns on his heel, as if he has nothing else to say. To him, Sonnet is not even a living person, just a carrier for his engineered sickness.
Sonnet speaks up before the man can exit the room, voice cracking. "Wait—Um," the doctor looks over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "You said you'll be making visits…"
"Correct."
"To where, exactly?"
A smirk cracks open Doctor Zalidvar's face, ugly and cruel. "Home, of course."
x
Just as Doctor Zaldivar said, Sonnet is discharged the very next day. He's ushered out of his room by a team of nurses, wheelchair jerking him every which way.
Before he knows it, he's boarded on a train and shipped off to One. The thought of going home grips his heart, homesickness hitting Sonnet all at once. It's been months since he was stolen away, forced to leave behind everything that he knew to be true and good.
Craggy mountain cliffs fly by, inching closer and closer to the place he's dreamed of while held in captivity. Sonnet isn't sure where they're sending him—he wasn't privy to that kind of information.
But it doesn't matter anyways, he'll still be a prisoner.
His parents won't be there waiting for him.
It only gets worse from here.
Sorry, Miri.