Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.
The week goes by in a whirl. Newspapers pump out rage-inducing headlines, political leaders bicker back and forth on television about the "ethics of warfare", and my own students whisper about me incessantly during class. Some kids stop showing up entirely. They announce that they're dropping the course because of the "problematic" nature of the instructor. I don't put up a fight. It's their decision, their right to do as they please with their class schedule.
Nonetheless, the ensuing uproar isn't as loud as I expected it to be. If I had to guess, I'd say about fifty percent of the district population still support my actions during the war. They seem to view the development of the bomb as a net positive. Not because they enjoy watching the slaughter of children, but because they view it through a "lesser of two evils" lens. Another thirty or so percent are ambivalent, feeling deep sympathy for the murdered kids, but also sympathizing with younger me because of the suffering he went through. Those people are currently repeating Andronicus' talking point about how I can't be blamed, because I just lost control of my feelings for a bit, and how Coin is actually the one everyone should point fingers at.
Then there's that twenty percent. Mostly found among the upper echelons of society and those who were born in the Capitol. The ones who were already wary of me because of my place of birth, and who find it easier to rightfully criticize what I did because my anger was directed at them, not just their dead children. The same people I used to despise, but now wish to console with my long-overdue apology. It's funny, I can't figure out what to say or do to them now, except to let them rant on the radio airwaves and the television about what a piece of shit I am.
I let them all talk in circles. I've said what needed to be said. I'm finished now.
Then something comes up within the Panem Film Institute. After a sexual harassment scandal involving one executive producer rocks the entire organization, it takes the place of the WAR HERO OR BABY KILLER headlines for a month. I don't have the right to feel relieved, but I do. Then, in order to divert the attention of the Capitol press, one Board member decides to put the spotlight back on me. He calls an early meeting and the Board votes unanimously to revoke my membership and ban me for life. They release a public statement explaining that, because of my "unacceptable" actions during the war, they can no longer in good conscience allow me within their ranks.
Everything in my professional life goes to pieces after that.
The slow drumming of raindrops on the glass window helps me to pull myself out of my own head. My thoughts spin dizzily around like moths surrounding a lamp. I just left my boss' office, where I was delivered the bad news. Now I've wandered to the teachers' lounge, where the tables have been stripped bare and every chair is empty save for one colleague's.
Rohleder doesn't look at me at first, but I can tell he knows I'm there. He quietly lights a cigarette and takes a gentle puff while staring out the window. Of course, there's not much to see, the gray rainstorm's currently submerging the brick buildings outside. My fellow ten-year veteran teacher, a former Peacekeeper, is just biding his time.
At last he turns and regards me with his usual sly grin. "Did he terminate you?" he asks, referring to the boss.
I don't say a word. Almost robotically, I press myself forward, feeling my shoes drag on the carpet, then I sink down onto the chair across from Rohleder's. Finally I nod. "Dean's office said he didn't want to," I explain in a murmur, "but the loudest minority always wins. Kids with the petition got it this time."
All the disappointment comes rushing back at once. I suppose I shouldn't feel sad over the outcome, because it's what I expected anyway. But it was heartening, for a while, seeing many of the kids in my Film Composition class stand up on my behalf and defend me against the Justice for Capitol Children group.
With a sympathetic glance, Rohleder digs in his pocket for another cigarette, plucks it out, lights it, and passes it to me. I take it gingerly. "Darn shame," my ex-Peacekeeper friend comments. "You were a fine teacher." A look of something like indignation actually passes over his face. "It was twenty-one years ago," he points out, "and you've done a thousand acts of reparation."
I just listen to him as he vents. I smoke the cigarette he gave me, making good use of that excuse for silence and reflecting on the oddity of the situation. A group of eighteen kids who've never even seen a minute of warfare campaigned to have me dismissed from my job, yet this former soldier of the Capitol, who watched his wife and son get their throats slit by rebels, is ardently defending me.
When I finish, I silently discard the cigarette butt, then I respond to Rohleder's assertion that all my commendable deeds since should've been far more than enough. "That's debatable," I say.
Rohleder just smiles. The fifty-eight-year-old Oral Communication instructor's been around the block a few times, and so I know I can count on him to offer me some bits of wisdom. "Let it go, Gale," is his advice this time, said in his trademark sarcastic, yet not unfriendly, tone. "You've confessed your sins and been forgiven."
He inserts his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, but not to give me a second cigarette. "I'll lend you my card for the metro," he offers, then his hand resurfaces with the coveted object. I'd usually say no, but this time I don't have a choice. The local council in District 2 recently voted to rescind my status as a Special Veteran. The reasoning they gave was that it was an insult to "Panem's liberation army" when I refused to defend myself after the PFI debacle.
Rohleder flips the card toward me and I accept it. I make sure to smile as gratefully as I can.
"District Eight? Why that far?" I ask Rachel. The crowds are growing on Platform 1 at Chilcoat Station. With them, the less than friendly glances thrown my way by total strangers. Alright, not all of them are strangers to me. Some of them I recognize from past parent-teacher meetings. I suddenly want to get on that train headed for the former textile-manufacturing district as soon as possible.
Rachel answers my inquiry with a brief shrug. "I know some of the people there," she explains. "First cousin, a niece, a former client of mine." The way she says it, it's like she improvised it on the spot. Maybe that was true of the plan she laid out for our entire family yesterday, to relocate us all to a new home, far away from District 2.
I won't resist, as I didn't with my students who quit. Mostly because it's what I would've done anyway. "Lead on," I say to my wife. She tries to smile in her usual encouraging way.
Yet the recent media frenzy's taken a toll on the whole family. I can see it in the heavy eyes and sagging shoulders of the younger girls as they wait with us on the platform. Demelza's managed to hold herself together for her siblings' sake, yet I know inwardly she's about to collapse. The sight of her, Elizabeth, and Rosalind almost makes me regret my decision to confess.
Almost.
Demelza approaches me just as the front carriage of the train pulls into the station. She taps me on the shoulder to get my attention, then motions to the just-opened letter in her hand. "Now Mar's the one who hates you," she says in a confidential tone. Rachel hears and looks at me worriedly.
I think of my oldest daughter, away at journalism school in the heart of the Capitol, and want to cry.
As with all wounds, the pain gets easier to bear over time. Marion's rejection of me ceases to be a hot poker twisting into my flesh, and becomes something akin to a scab that won't fall off. Of course, I'll never give up on the possibility that she'll forgive me. There'll always be a spot in my heart reserved solely for her. How could there not, when her first word was "Papa" and she was the only one in our family to send me a birthday gift the year Rachel and I were estranged? Remembering all this actually makes the separation harder to tolerate. But I'll get by. I always have.
District 8 could never come close to feeling like home. No urban area without adequate green space and nearby wilderness could. Already I miss the sight of a single tree sprouting from the dirt. I realize how often I took it for granted in Districts 2 and 12. Even just a sapling would do. Oh, well. Starting over with a clean slate costs a lot.
I begin to really look forward to our monthly trips to District 12. Not just to visit Mother and the rest of the clan, but to be able to inhale some fresh air. The climate of 12's doing the younger girls good, and I'm thankful.
Now the red and brown leaves concealing the forest floor are crunching at a disturbingly loud volume, and I'm trying with all my might not to yell at the seven-year-old. Imagine that, the daughter of an experienced outdoorsman sorely lacking the ability to take a step in the woods without alerting every prey animal in a mile-wide radius. If not for her looks, no one would believe that Elizabeth's my child.
At least she's having fun. That's evident based on the huge grin she's wearing.
I decide to just be grateful for the quality time we're getting outdoors. I keep my lips pressed tightly together, lest the crude words in my head spill out. Striding to catch up with the little one, I offer to carry her the rest of the way. She obliges when I claim she'll be too exhausted otherwise.
We reach the water in no time. I've decided we'll visit the lake an hour early. Forget teaching her how to set a snare or shoot a few arrows, she won't be good at either. I retrieve the fishing rod and reel and other equipment that Mother purchased specifically for my daughter.
"And this is how you bait the hook," I tell her a few minutes later, demonstrating the proper way to do it using Mother's expensive fishhooks. Elizabeth watches and then tries to copy me after I manage to snag a good-sized fish on the line, but she just confuses herself in the process. I have to literally hold her hands for her when she's preparing to cast.
"Careful, or it'll fall in!" I nearly shout at her more than once. Her grip on the rod finally slips around ten minutes in, and the whole assembly collapses into the water with an epic kersplash. Several droplets go flying right into my eyes.
I rub my eyelids with the backs of my hands, then I look to where Elizabeth's still perched, to my left on the far end of the dock. The sheepish glance she gives me should've made me furious, but instead I burst into laughter.
"Aw, Liz," is all I get out when I'm able to breathe again. Feels good, being in the aftermath of that explosion, rather than one of anger.
Soon, my little girl's laughing, too.
The magazine headline beckons to me from the stand, the blocky white letters spelling out a name that looks familiar. JENNIFER LAURENCE WINS CASTOR AWARD, they read. I do a sort of double take before scooping the magazine up and studying the airbrushed face on the cover.
Sure enough, it's the same Jennifer I taught in my Cinematography 101 class ten years ago. She still has the same pretty yet ordinary features. Flaxen hair, pale face with the ruddy cheeks, even those narrow gray eyes I recognize. The photo was taken the night of the awards ceremony, yet she isn't wearing much makeup beyond a thin layer of foundation. It is, of course, because of Marion and Demelza that I even know what the stuff is called.
I continue to gape at Jennifer's movie-star photo, simultaneously nonplussed and relieved the film industry didn't try to turn her into a bombshell. If they had, it would've been like seeing my grown daughters on the screen in a porno theater.
Now that thought's even more horrifying than the one of my wife divorcing me. I shake the mental image off and flip to the page in the magazine where the article on Jennifer begins.
I do a second double take when my brain registers the name of the reporter.
At the same time, a female voice that's startlingly close asks, "Dad?"
I don't look up at first. I keep my eyes focused on the page in the magazine. They scan the length of the article, skimming a passage highlighting the best moments during Jennifer's acceptance speech. How she gave most of the credit to her friends, family, and of course the very first person to introduce her to the cinematic world, her teacher Mr. Hawthorne. How she passionately declared onstage that she would defend me to her last breath, because she knows for a fact that I've learned from my misdeeds.
By the time I'm done reading, tears are blurring my vision. Yet I don't have to see clearly to recognize the woman standing across from me.
"You said you're sorry," I hear Marion say. "I believe you now."
I stretch out an arm as if for help, and my adult daughter comes to comfort me without a word.
The June roses have begun to blossom in the flowerbeds in front of Mother's house. I just know that soon, the younger kids will be all over them, desiring a whiff of the sweet aroma. I don't blame them. I want to move closer, too.
The District 12 weather's beautiful and balmy this time of year. Perfect for an outing with Posy, her daughter, and Rosalind. My wife, Demelza, and Elizabeth are going out to see the unveiling of the new war memorial, designed by Peeta Mellark and a few students from the local arts high school. It's supposedly going to be a collection of four hundred bronze sculptures resembling the lost children of our district. Four hundred lifelike boys and girls, dressed in bronze overalls and dresses and shirts with hanging duck tails. Four hundred squinting eyes and gap-toothed grins that will never, in reality, get to see the light of day.
No, I don't regret deciding to stay at home.
Mother sits next to me on the porch in her favorite rocking chair, the wood heavily scarred from years of use. She's talking to me while gesturing with her hands, her face animated. Trying to get through to me while I'm in this semi-trance. "Someday," I catch her saying, "you'll get an offer from one of their schools. A better one than where you worked before. And it'll be like this chapter of your life was never written."
In spite of everything, I laugh. "You have so much faith, Mother."
As if incensed by the implication that she wouldn't, she slaps the armrests of her chair with her palms and leans in closer to me. "Got plenty of practice growing up in Twelve," she reminds me. "I had to have faith everything would be alright, after what that Head Peacekeeper did to you."
The unwanted memory's like getting lashed all over again. I avert my gaze and shake my head slightly, as if to clear it. "Let's just put that era to rest," I propose to Mother after a pause.
She actually looks surprised, even offended that I don't want to discuss the Rebellion further. "You have no good memories from those years? None of little Catnip?"
I do. But the past is in the past. "Can hardly conjure up her voice in my head anymore," I tell Mother. Truthfully.
The annoyance vanishes from her eyes and is replaced by a wistful gaze. "A tragedy, if ever there was one," she muses. "Twenty-one years is enough time. You can go see her, ask if you two can talk. Few people can hold a grudge forever."
She reaches out and gently taps the back of my hand. "You for sure didn't."
It doesn't take very long to walk back to the edge of the lake, where Katniss Everdeen, I mean, Mellark used to swim with her father as a girl. I suppose the circle's complete at this point, because now Elizabeth and I go fishing there every month. Actually, I fish. Elizabeth watches. Most of the time she gets bored, then goes off to splash and paddle about in the water. I think she's doing a fine job teaching herself how to swim. When we go back to Mother's house and prepare the fish for dinner, that's when the youngster becomes very helpful. She can assemble a place setting and fold a cloth napkin like no other.
Well, that's beside the point. I'm here right now because I have a good hunch I'll find the lady I'm looking for. It's strange how over twenty years have passed since the last time I spoke directly to her, yet I still feel like I know her better than she'd give me credit for. Not that I can claim to have a stronger connection to her than her own husband or kids, but years of mutual dependence in the darkest times of our lives have got to count for something.
My footsteps slow automatically when I arrive within sight of the dock. Yes, there's the woman who's been missing from my life for almost a quarter of a century. The woman whose absence I don't feel so keenly anymore, not after losing my four-year-old daughter ten years ago and nearly losing my wife and other children, but whose absence still stands out as a spot of gray nothingness in my heart, where color should be.
In spite of this, I recognize her instantly. Even though she's got her back turned to me, and is facing the stretch of clear water before her. That long black braid swinging slightly in the wind, that squaring of her shoulders as she stares out into the intimidating distance, those brown fingers absentmindedly screwing the cap on her leather flask, all of those tell me at once that she's the one I've been seeking.
The next ten steps I take are even noisier than Elizabeth's in the woods. I hurry down to the dock without entertaining another thought, only of whether I'll reach Katniss before she departs.
And alert her to my presence, I do. She spins around, one hand tightening on her bow and positioning it to aim, the other yanking an arrow out of its sheath. But as she's gawking at me, a glint of recognition, at least that's what I hope it is, flashes in her eyes, and her grip on her arrow fumbles.
"Aah!" she yells, more out of frustration than fear, before dropping her bow on the dock beside her. Realizing I'm not a physical threat, her caution wanes and a familiar hostility surfaces. Her eyes narrow. "You scared the living…"
I backpedal and put both hands up to reassure her. "I'm so sorry," I sputter. Now that the excitement's worn off, I feel embarrassed that I made such a mad dash down to the dock in broad daylight.
Yet that's not what Katniss is focused on. She's instead gaping at me. "Wait," she gets out. "Are you…"
The unspoken answer to that question hangs in the air, seemingly for an eternity.
Then Katniss lurches up from her sitting position and unexpectedly throws herself into my arms. The pressure of her much smaller body on mine feels more intimate than any kiss we shared as youths, and if I didn't know her quite so well, I'd be tempted to think she might betray her husband. I hug her with equal strength, salty tears pinching the corners of my eyes. I should, at this moment, experience a flashback to all the times Katniss and I embraced when we were younger.
But I don't. Instead, when I momentarily shut my eyes, I feel Demelza's little body clasped within my arms. In my mind, I'm gripping not the tough material of Katniss' jacket, but the soft cotton of my daughter's old nightgown. With a pang, I realize it's true, that my daughters and my wife now occupy the place in my heart once barricaded off for the sake of my best friend.
Yet is that a blessing or a curse? I don't know.
I'm too scatter-brained at this point to get any eloquent words out, so all I resort to saying to my former hunting partner is, "I've missed you, Catnip."
Katniss responds by clutching me tighter, almost as though I'm her long-lost lover and she's hungry for one more touch. That I now know to not be true. Never has been. And I'm glad it's not. "You jackass," Katniss spits out. When I pull back, a tearful smile's materialized on her face.
"I missed you more," she unashamedly admits.
We pass the boulder on which Cressida filmed us, and almost instinctively, Katniss sits down on it, cradling her chin in her palm and appearing to lose herself in her thoughts. Then she surprises me by speaking. To me, directly. "I'd already forgiven you, you know. I was just waiting for you to ask."
There's a long, almost haunting, silence. The mockingjays soaring overhead fill it with their songs.
Finally, I gather my courage and open my mouth. "At what point did you…"
The question withers while it's still on my tongue, but Katniss is able to fill in the blanks herself. "Just as you were walking away from me, back in that room in the president's mansion," she replies.
I'm completely taken aback. "That soon?" I stutter.
"Yes," answers Katniss, not missing a beat.
A laugh, not an enraged mutter, is what escapes my lips. Looks like I'm progressing after all. "Twenty-one years," I muse, after that shocked pause.
Katniss laughs as well. Guffaws, more like. "Twenty-one years!" she exclaims, echoing my sentiment. Sounding both bewildered and disappointed.
To make her feel better, I slide onto the boulder next to her and offer my thoughts on that subject. "I guess it's good neither of us stepped up. Else we wouldn't have been in happy marriages all this time."
"Yeah," Katniss agrees. It's reassuring, the fact that she didn't instantly scoot in the other direction when I sat down next to her.
"Mellark's a fine example of a man," I continue to share with her.
She reciprocates, to my relief. "And your wife, she's a good one. Must have an infinite amount of patience."
I nod. "She does. Or she'd have left immediately, after she found out who suggested blowing up the Nut." Something in my chest warms at the mental image of Rachel. It's been years since we narrowly avoided a divorce, and since then, I've not been able to spend an extended amount of time without her, without running through the various possible ways the separation could become permanent. With that in mind, I actually forgot that my wife and the woman I used to desire met on the day of the teachers' conference at the Justice Building.
Upon hearing me mention my past crime against humanity, Katniss frowns a little. But not to show her hatred of me. "I've forgiven you for that, too," she says quietly.
As with Rachel and the day she granted my wish for our reconciliation, this is far more than I ever hoped for. I simply gaze at Katniss in total silence.
"How much better was I, really?" continues my oldest friend. "I shot an arrow at a force field, never thinking it'd cost seven thousand lives. You wanted everybody in this country to be free. You didn't know they'd send my sister off to war." I almost startle when I hear those two words, my sister. The wound hasn't fully closed yet, I suppose. Yet Katniss doesn't notice. "I know you never meant to kill Prim," she wraps up her monologue. "I knew two decades ago."
I hurry to correct her. "Wasn't enough. You heard what I said on the radio. I should've never entertained the idea that a son can be punished for his father's crime."
Actually voicing that out loud, to my best friend, does wonders for my hesitation in speaking to her. Just like in the studio during Andronicus' talk show, all those repressed feelings of regret and the secrets I've kept within for too long are being released.
Katniss seems to understand. She's nodding and looking at me thoughtfully. "That's the revelation that came to me after they got me locked up during my trial. When did you figure it out?"
Another long pause. I decide to tell her the truth.
"Eleven years later," I say.
She tries not to. She really tries. But in the end, she bursts out laughing anyway. "Oh, no," she gets out.
"Well," I try arguing in my own favor, "it was never a race. If my hunch is right, you're done playing any sort of game."
"True," Katniss says.
"So let me talk to you like a friend. Because that's what you are to me still." I turn so I'm facing her and we're making eye contact. Then I reach out and tentatively grasp her hands in mine. "Katniss, I owe you an apology. I never did love you. Not when I kissed you without asking if it was what you wanted, or when Mellark was hijacked and all I could think about was my chances with you."
Saying these words makes me feel as though I'm back in the booth with Andronicus and preparing to confess my sins all over again. This kind of trepidation's different, not even like preparing to march into battle. Yet against all the odds, I have to soldier on. "I wanted you," I continue saying to Katniss. "I didn't love you. And…" The final words are just barely audible. "I'm sorry I ever made you believe it."
I lower my gaze and allow my eyes to close slightly. Not out of lingering shame, nor fear of Katniss rejecting me. No, I just feel weary. Before I was able to make the conscious choice to quit running from the past and instead confront it directly, I felt like a man who'd been spending the last two decades treading barefoot over jagged rocks, struggling to carry several giant planks of wood on his back to a faraway destination. Well, it's only now that the last plank's allowed to come off.
When again my eyes meet Katniss', she's staring at me calmly, without the slightest hint of reproach on her face. "Gale, I…" Now she's the one at a loss for words. "I don't need any more apologies," she finishes. "I'm just so glad we're friends again."
She leans into me, strands of her hair spilling over my shoulder. I savor it. I too am glad we're not debating becoming lovers anymore.
"So tell me how you met Rachel." Katniss' voice abruptly cuts through the quiet. I feel the weight of her head leave my shoulder. See her staring at me curiously with her gray eyes. Her question, I would never have expected to hear. But I choose to respond anyway.
"Well… it was shortly after I relocated to Two," I tell her. "She was a prisoner of war, and they'd made her a cleaner. Sort of a scullery maid. You know, as punishment for coming from a family of Capitol sympathizers."
I remember it well, the instant I first laid eyes on her. She was only seventeen, frail and malnourished, with scraggly reddish hair that hadn't been combed in weeks, and only a single tattered dress in her wardrobe. Two of the gray-uniformed soldiers from Thirteen stood guard on either side of her, gripping her arms roughly. Then they shoved her forward and barked various orders at her while she scrubbed the floor.
Based on the way Katniss is shaking her head, one would think she sees that pitiful mental image as well. "Pretty screwed up," she comments.
"Yeah," I agree. "So I was working for Cressida when they sent her to clean up after me. And then, I don't know, I guess I just started chatting with her. I don't remember about what. Was just bored at the time."
Our actual first encounter contained far more drama than that. What happened was, one of the soldiers from Thirteen began shouting at Rachel at the top of his lungs and threatening to beat her with his truncheon. I had to intervene, naturally. I pushed myself in front of Rachel and yelled at the soldier to leave the lady alone.
Unaware of this, Katniss tries to deduce what happened after. "And one thing led to another and the next thing you knew, there was a baby in your lap."
I can't stop myself, I burst into laughter. It's technically true, what Katniss claimed. The evening of the same day Rachel and I met, she asked me to accompany her to her sleeping quarters. Just to ensure she'd stay safe, that's what she said. I honored her request to remain by her side, even when she was already tucking herself in.
Then I glanced at her bedside table, and there were a few empty glasses and a full jug of hard cider, probably left by the room's previous occupants. Rachel told me meekly that in return for chaperoning her, I could drink as much as I desired.
So I did. By the time the jug was half empty, I was no longer sitting at Rachel's bedside, but nestling close to her in the bed. The drink must've been stronger than advertised, because I recall only pieces of what occurred. Namely, Rachel grabbing my hand and guiding it toward her thighs. She had never slept with a man, she said.
Not even a minute later, my jacket lay useless on the floor next to Rachel's dress, while loud, shuddering gasps and moans issued from my mouth and hers.
A brief glance at Katniss brings me back to the present. "Less casual than that, but yes," I respond to her claim. "I found out she was going to have Marion, and I couldn't let her go off alone with our child."
The memory comes with a sharp pang of regret. I remember Rachel practically tiptoeing up to me, avoiding eye contact, dejection in her facial expression and posture. The whispered sentence "I'm with child by you" was much like a double-edged sword in my chest.
Katniss nods slowly. "So you chased her down. Asked her for marriage. But how'd you come to love her?"
That question, I take time answering. "Same way the little prince in the novel figured out he loved his rose better than all the others," I eventually say. I couldn't articulate it any better than that.
Yet it's true, that I fell in love with Rachel for this reason. Because it wasn't Katniss whom I nursed through two supremely difficult pregnancies, it was her. It wasn't from Katniss that I learned how to braid our daughters' hair, it was from her. It wasn't Katniss for whom I made all those hand-woven, hand-sewn anniversary gifts, with help from Marion, of course. It was her. And it was Rachel who listened patiently when I ranted for hours about my upcoming features, or when I complained about my daughters' behavior at school, or even sometimes when I was too angry to talk.
Because even though what I wanted was the girl on fire, turns out I already have fire in me, and it needs to be smothered.
Katniss inadvertently falls apart into giggles at one point in our conversation. I turn to stare at her, utterly bewildered.
"I'm sorry!" she gets out mid-laugh. She actually has to wipe tears from her eyes.
"What's got into you?" I demand to know. Though not unkindly.
"It's just…" She purses her lips, unsure how I'll react to whatever she plans to say. "The idea of you living in the city is so irresistibly funny," she explains at last, with a hint of a very Marion-like smirk.
Then another round of guffaws takes over. I fake getting offended, waving a hand at her dismissively. "Laugh away," I tell her, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Years of teaching have made me resilient."
I should've known that, being a music teacher and all, Katniss would eventually move one of her beloved instruments to the old lake house. In what better place could you go searching for artistic inspiration? The air's far calmer, with far more serenity, here than at the school, where all the kids gather to do their chitchat in the halls.
So it just makes sense that Katniss chooses to write all her songs here. Today, though, she's not performing one of her own works. Nor is she teaching me how to play the piano. No. She's singing. With that lovely mezzo-soprano voice, she's showing off, to the world outside, one of her favorite songs that she learned as a child. She touches her fingers to the piano keys and begins to play the melody softly. At the same time, her lips part and that voice, now rarely heard by the rest of Panem, emerges.
I'm wearin' awa', John
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John
I'm wearin' awa'
To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, John
There's neither cauld nor care, John
The day is aye fair
In the land o' the leal.
I'm immediately struck by how familiar the voice sounds. That's not the same as saying I've heard it before, because of course I've heard it before. She's my oldest friend. No, I'm trying to say that I hear, in the clarity of the high notes and the airy, almost ethereal, quality of her voice, the voice of someone else entirely. The voice of a coal miner who worked the same shift as my father, who taught his daughter how to hunt and stirred up the fiery spirit of rebellion in her. Who could kill instantly with a single arrow, yet also soothe using just one lullaby.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John
This warld's cares are vain, John
We'll meet, and we'll be fain
In the land o' the leal.
O, dry your glistening e'e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leal.
As she plays, I see a tear shine in the corner of her eye. It drops onto the piano and lightly splatters one of the white keys. Her fingers just keep playing, as though she isn't facing, internally, a bitter wave of great sorrow. I know at once what she's thinking of, and that makes me admire her all the more for not breaking down.
Our bonnie bairn's there, John
She was baith gude and fair, John
And O! we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal.
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John
And joy's a-coming fast, John
The joy that's aye to last
In the land o' the leal.
By the time she's through with that stanza, a tear's dragging itself down my own cheek. I have to bite my lip in order to control the sob rising up within my throat. It's childish, but I feel I'd look effeminate in front of Katniss if I were to cry now.
I strain to come up with something to say. "Read a lot of poetry?" is the best I have to offer. Katniss is done playing now, and she's regarding me calmly. No tears remain in her eyes. I guess music is her chief way of letting unwanted emotions out.
In answer, she nods and stares at a random smudge on the wall. "Daddy liked that one," she tells me quietly.
I was right, then. The man who taught her the song's indeed the man whose voice I heard when she sang. Actually, I think I'd rather not be right. The memories of Katniss' father call back other memories, ones I wish I could forget forever.
In that instant, I'm moved to, despite my discomfort, bring up the taboo subject. "Really sad day, when they all…" I can't finish. My voice cuts off abruptly.
"Yeah," Katniss croaks weakly in response.
The silence stretches between us. I know we're both calling to mind the same image, the one of our fathers literally descending into their own grave. Starting what they thought would be just another shift in the mine, mere minutes before the explosives collapsed the shaft and both my father and hers, as well as many of our neighbors' own parents, spouses, and children, were buried forever.
It hurts to imagine, so I distract myself by rubbing the back of my neck. "Sometimes I think I'll no longer dream about it," I confess to Katniss, "and then it pops up again."
She looks up from the piano keys she was eyeing. "I didn't think you'd have the same problem I did," she remarks, sounding more than a little surprised.
"I'd just never talk about it, that's all." A new thought brings a tinge of sadness to my features as I gaze at Katniss. "Wonder how much would've changed if I'd been honest with you. The way I kept wishing you'd be with me."
For perhaps the hundredth time today, regret's threatening to engulf me once again. How often have I felt this emotion in my lifetime, despite my dogged refusal to even acknowledge it? Shortly after she and I went our separate ways, I began to regret my harsh treatment of Katniss during our last year together. Before she and I made amends at last, I regretted the way I would discipline Demelza and make her terrified of me, to the point where she'd obey not out of love, but in order to avoid consequences. And of course I always regretted what I did to those Capitol innocents during the war. For over twenty years, I wished to be able to take it all back.
Course, I was missing the point entirely. How worthless is it to consider how one man can make up for every act of wrongdoing he's ever done? One may as well not stop at murder, but extend this thought to all evil acts. The betrayal of a spouse, the whispered intention to commit murder, the cold dismissal of a desperate employee. Insults uttered hastily, that nevertheless would break an impressionable child's heart.
When you try adding all of these together, there's really no way to calculate the price you've got to pay for a lifetime of wrongdoing. All you can do, then, is express how sorry you are, wash the stains on your soul away with the tears of true remorse, turn yourself deliberately in a different direction, and move on.
So I swallow the guilt I feel and wait for Katniss' reply. "We'll call it even," she finally offers.
Means she, too, is letting bygones be bygones.
Katniss must be feeling generous, because she lets me hear her play and sing other melodies. "Ave Maria" is my personal favorite, though neither of us can understand the Latin words. Eventually she decides she's had enough, covers the piano keys with a linen cloth, and opts to leave the lake house and return to the dock. I follow her.
"Course, my daughter can't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow," she remarks, seemingly out of nowhere. She sounds like she's making light of the situation, but when I glance at her, I notice her eyes are full of sadness.
It's why I choose to share this with her. "My daughter sounds like a charging bull when she's stomping through the woods."
Katniss lets herself laugh a little, and that comforts me a great deal.
The two of us are now making the return journey to Mother's house from the depths of the woods. My strides are more haphazard than normal, and I ignore the way my shoes noisily squash the leaves. I'm not hunting this time, anyway. Rachel and my girls will be expecting me back at the house, and if I'm even one minute late, they'll start nagging Rory to send out a search party.
The urgency of our trip doesn't stop Katniss from continuing to make conversation. At some point she tries to sate her curiosity regarding how Rachel reacted when she found out about my past sins. I tell her in the vaguest terms possible. Just like that, a satisfied grin emerges on her face.
"You? On your knees, begging her for forgiveness?" She has to stop walking for a moment, it's like she can't believe it. "You would've never done that for me," she goes on, though her smile's still there. Then she abruptly turns pensive. "See, that's why I was right to let you go. Your wife can get you to think before you act. 'She is the sun, and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, you remember.'"
Believe it or not, it takes a few beats for me to place the quote. "You're right," I say, at first, without thinking. Then my feet stop in their tracks and I twist around to face her. "Wait, you've read that book, too?"
Katniss' mouth now hangs open. "Forget about me!" she exclaims. "Where the hell did you pick it up?"
"It was Marion's," I say sheepishly.
My oldest friend's wearing that playful grin once again. It looks so foreign on her face, yet I like to see it on her. "Makes perfect sense," she remarks.
The trains are getting ready to depart Undersee Square Station. My wife, kids, and I are assembled on Platform 5, looking for a path into the crowd of passengers that're trying to squeeze themselves into the carriages. Somehow, in the middle of a tangle of arms and legs and overstuffed briefcases, Rachel manages to shepherd the three girls on. I'm left alone, the only member of our family still on the platform.
My wife's beckoning to me, but there's one matter I still have to attend to. I turn my head so I can see Katniss, who stoically stands a few feet away, holding her toddler son.
"Hope to see you later," my best friend bids me farewell. "Perhaps at our next wedding anniversary." She throws a glance over her shoulder at her husband, who's got their daughter clutched tightly in both arms.
I nod agreeably in response. I make sure to smile at both Katniss and Peeta. And at Willow and Rye, too. It's the best thing I can do for this lovely family of four, rooting for their eternal happiness together.
Then I gather up all my wife's luggage and my daughters' shopping bags and head for the train doors. Before I make it onboard, though, I hear Katniss address me again.
"Will you be…" Concern for me seeps through in her voice, prompting me to look up and meet her gaze. "Where will you go now?" she inquires.
I pause before taking another step, release my grip on the shopping bags, and allow myself to just think. "Wherever the wind takes me," I tell Katniss at last. "I can't say I know. But I'll get by."
"I bet you will," my best friend encourages me. "Good luck, Gale."
"You too, Katniss," I reply. With a grunt of effort, I retrieve all three of my daughters' bags and heave them toward the train doors.
Katniss simply watches, a faint smile on her lips. She turns to her little boy and lightly tickles his face to get his attention. "Can you say 'bye-bye'?" she requests of the kid while gesturing to me.
Sweet little Rye obliges immediately. "Bye!" he shouts happily. His hand might fall off from how energetically he's waving at me.
Katniss starts waving as well. After a few seconds, Peeta and Willow join in, too. It's the last I see of my best friend's family before the train starts moving, picks up speed, and zooms away.
Three hours go by. We've almost made it back to Eight's main station when the train driver announces that they'll be stopping for an extended period at Leegtown Buzzard, the second-to-last destination before the service terminates. As the train slows and grinds to a halt next to the platform, I suddenly rise from my seat.
"Give me a moment," I tell my wife and kids. "I'll be back before it departs."
I see them simultaneously raise their eyebrows, but that doesn't stop me from pushing into the aisle and making a beeline for the doors, which are already sliding open.
Outside, I wait for the sea of passengers to ebb before I let myself fully inhale the rejuvenating air. It's surprisingly nice, this farm town on the outskirts of District 11. Miles of golden crops and several comfy-looking barns surround the ivory platforms making up the small station. I survey the landscape for several seconds before I slip one hand into the pocket on the interior of my old military jacket.
My fist emerges with a bundle of my old medals of valor, now heavily weathered and with rust on their edges. One hung around my neck by the former President Coin herself, the others handed to me by various district authorities. All earned for my wartime contributions that helped usher in a decisive victory for the rebels.
I stare at the tokens for a few more seconds before my resolve hardens like crystal. Without even the slightest tremor in my fingers, I pitch the despised objects as far away from me as possible. They sail over the nearby railing, fade into the distance, and land somewhere in a distant patch of dirt, obscured by a smattering of dandelions.
I smile. I can't help myself. No matter what the future holds, I can now bid my past goodbye.
"Hey!" Someone hollers at me from the footbridge. The sound's merry, even singsongy, with no trace of aggression. I crane my neck to see who it is. There on the bridge is a girl, I'd guess around twelve years of age. One I don't think I've seen before, though she bears a striking resemblance to a girl I did know. Her knee-length frock's spotless to the point where it's whiter than snow, and her double-plaited golden hair's so bright, it actually hurts my eyes.
Yet I feel an impulse to keep looking at her, because she, seemingly a stranger, is waving to me cheerfully and grinning like I'm her long-lost friend.
My heart leaps. Do I actually know her and just don't remember?
Before I can start to wonder and lose myself in my own head, I answer the girl's joyful greeting with a friendly wave and smile of my own. She gives me one last loving glance before darting away and evaporating into the small crowd on the footbridge. My gaze lowers and I blink hard several times.
"Come inside now," I hear my wife urge me from the waiting train. I glance up and see Rachel and our kids frantically gesturing for me to join them. Our train's about to depart. I wish I could stay longer, so I could possibly find out who the girl was, but my wife and daughters want me.
So I go, gladly, without looking back.
THE END
If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. 1 John 1.9.
AN: Thanks to Nicholas Wilde for always giving consistent feedback on this story as a beta reader. If the lyrics to "Land o' the Leal" deviate from the original poem by Lady Nairne, it's because I used the version sung by Annes Elwy in the BBC television adaptation of Little Women.