"All the days gone by,
To never show I loved you so,
And I never knew anything at all."
Signet Graymore, 19, President of Panem
"Sibella Graymore appears to be dying."
And suddenly Signet Graymore isn't in that hospital anymore, unable to escape the smooth, detached way the doctor speaks and the acrid smell of antiseptic. No, he's somewhere far away.
He's running through the hallways with his sisters, laughing himself breathless. He's letting Sibella's gentle fingers guide his as they knead bread together, and there's flour dusted over her cheeks. Sicily laughs and reaches up, poking her older sister in the nose. Signet looks on and smiles, lost in a book. Sibella begs to do his nails and he lets her, because of course he does. He'll do anything they ask.
But there's a part of him that knows he can never reach that time again. No amount of remembering the past and pretending it's and present will erase the fact that this is real. He's in this hospital, with Sibella Graymore sad eyes staring up at him.
She's sixteen. Far too young to die. And she shouldn't have that haunted look, not when she's always been so vibrant and carefree and untouchable. She was always the fastest in their childhood games—Signet and Sicily could never catch her. But it seems that even she is not fleet enough to escape Death's jaws.
But no—he can't think like that, not yet.
"Are you sure?" he whispers, his throat feeling suddenly parched. "How... how long does she have?"
"It seems this disease runs in your family, Mr. President. Your father suffered from this illness last year, and he died not long after he was diagnosed. It disheartens me to suggest, but Miss Graymore may only have a few weeks..."
The doctor's words become murky again, slipping through his ears without coming into clear focus. Signet can't accept that this is happening, even now. He feels weak and entirely ignorant, weighed down by the regrets that pile heavy on his shoulders.
If he'd only seen this coming... he should have seen the pattern ages ago. And yet if he had, that still wouldn't change anything. And that's the worst feeling of all.
"What exactly is this sickness?" Signet's not sure if he's interrupted the doctor mid-sentence, but he can hardly bring himself to care. "Do you even know what it's called?"
"Signet..." Sibella's voice is always bright and easy, her cheeks rosy and her curls blowing about her face—the picture of impish light. Now her voice is trembling, her face is sallow, and her curls slump limply over her eyes, plastered to her forehead with sweat. Signet can hardly breathe with the desperate sadness climbing his throat.
A year ago, Signet hadn't needed to know the name of his father's terminal disease. He'd been trusting and young, sure that the illness was out of his control—if nothing else, at least he couldn't blame himself for the mysterious workings of fate. But now he knows better than to blindly trust everyone who claims to be truthful. And he knows that this is entirely his fault, something he could prevent if he only knew how.
He has every reason to suspect foul play. The only question that remains is whether the doctor is being blackmailed or bribed... or if he's a facilitator to the scheme. Because surely a renowned healer such as himself could recognize poison.
(Signet from a year ago would not understand this barbed world that's torn his heart to shreds. He would blanch and balk at the way he's become a part of it.
But Signet has spent so long being passive, letting things happen around him while he took refuge in the sanctuary of reading. He's always relied on others, staring at the world through rose-tinted glasses.
But now he knows there are those who rely on him, who trust him. And he can't let them fall.)
He can't let his sister be poisoned before his eyes by a threat he can't understand.
When the autopsy came back and it was confirmed that poison killed his father, and not some unnamed illness, Signet determined to never tell the public. It was too dangerous, especially with the recent upheaval of the Games being publicized. He now understands that he can't tell his sisters either. He could not stand to see them carry that burden.
"I must confess, I don't know exactly what this illness is," the doctor finally says. "But I am doing everything I can to prevent your sister's death."
Signet has learned that even everything is sometimes not enough.
On the other side of Sibella, Sicily lets out a choked sound and covers her face with her hands. Though only three years younger than Sibella, she looks at her sister like she could realign the stars and make the mountains move, if only she wished. The two share a bond that even Signet cannot understand—and now he worries that he never will. Somehow, he let himself grow distant from them. And now he feels as if it's too late to reconcile. There are too many things he wants to tell them. But not here, with this doctor and his patronizing stare.
"Thank you," Signet whispers, and his voice scrapes against his throat—raw with unshed tears. "You may go."
The doctor leaves, and Signet feels himself come unraveled, just a little. Sibella is the middle child, framed between them as she's always been—the one that holds them together, bright-faced and undeterred despite everything that tried to destroy them. Now she looks frail and scared against the crisp bedsheets, under those sterile hospital lights.
What can he do to save her, to stop this? He has the sinking feeling that these assassins will keep going. First Alabaster Graymore father—and then Sibella. Sicily. And Signet. They will singlehandedly turn the Graymore bloodline to dust. Soon he'll be gone, unless...
Unless what? What can he do to stop this?
Is it because of him? Have they caught wind of the fact that he doesn't support the Games? Or perhaps it started long before that, with his father and a grudge he never knew of?
There were so many things Signet's father did not tell him. So many questions he will never answer. Why hadn't Alabaster trusted his own son?
(Or perhaps they've caught wind of the secret he's so painstakingly tried to keep... Blade Cassidy, his concealed knife and belated apology, and Signet's eventual plea to spare the young Victor. But he can't even think of that, because if anyone knew... it would be far too terrible to imagine.)
He feels something brush his knuckles, and realizes he has his eyes squeezed shut. He looks down to see Sibella reaching for him, trying to hold his hand. He squeezes her fingers, his heart giving a painful tug.
"Hi, Sibby..." he murmurs, unearthing a long-forgotten childhood nickname, now cobbwebbed from years of disuse.
She smiles up at him, but her face doesn't hold its usual brightness. "You're crying."
He brushes absentmindedly at the tears collecting on his lashes. "Oh... I hadn't noticed." And suddenly, looking at his little sisters, everything comes to the surface.
"I'm sorry—I'm so, so sorry," he whispers, his breath catching on another sob. "This is all my fault—"
Sibella's fingers tighten around his. "Last I checked, you weren't responsible for everything in the universe—and especially not this. How could my condition be your fault?"
He can't bring himself to talk. He just grips her hand, and he locks eyes with Sicily holding her other hand. They're here again, together, after so long.
"I've missed you both," he whispers. "I'm sorry I got so busy."
"You're kinda the President," Sibella says dryly. "You're more than just busy."
"It's okay," Sicily whispers. "You're here now!"
He tries to smile through his tears. He feels far, far too late.
He's been here before, dying in this hospital bed with a wound in his chest. And he'd take his sister's place a hundred times over, if it meant she'd be safe.
Sicily's eyes suddenly brighten. "Will you tell us a fairytale?" Her eyes are starry and faraway, perhaps remembering their childhood, when nightly stories were a tradition. He'd tell them fairytales all the time.
"Of course," he whispers.
He recites a few poems from memory, then begins to tell them every story he knows. He tries not to feel the taint in his mind, the stories from last year's Games he can't forget. He tries not to remember the ghosts and the gargoyles and the guillotine. But he can't help but think of them. For some reason, those haunting moments won't leave him alone, even now.
"You look distracted," Sibella whispers. "What's wrong?"
"I'm thinking about the Games," Signet whispers. Even his sisters now know what they entail.
Sibella hums for a moment, contemplating. "Have you talked to the people who experienced it? Blade and all the other Victors? Asked if they're doing well, whether they have ways to help with the trauma?"
Since when did his sisters get so wise? And yet... they still know so little. Someday, he'll tell them of Blade and all the things that played out after the Games. But not today.
"That's a good idea," he finally says, truly meaning it. In the aftermath of the Crowning, he never actually talked to Blade—only ensured he was in good hands. Now he has the chance to speak with him, and there are so many things he could say.
"Promise you will!" Sicily squeals.
"Okay. I promise," he whispers.
"Good. Now keep telling us stories."
After a few hours, both of the girls are asleep. Sicily has carefully climbed onto the bed beside her sister, head pillowed on her arms. Sibella sleeps with her hands intertwined—one with Signet, and one with her younger sister. For a moment, it feels beautiful, aglow with hope. He'd forgotten how good it felt to simply stay beside his sisters.
But then he remembers the poison in Sibella's body. And suddenly everything is darkened again.
He stands, brushes Sibella's curls from her forehead, and kisses Sicily's cheek. Then he leaves them behind, his heart protesting all the while. He can't handle the thought that it may be the last time they share a moment. The last fairytale he'll ever tell them. The last time he sees Sibella's smile.
He's walking the halls in a kind of trance, trying to keep himself together, when he runs into none other than Avarette De La Lune. Her daughter Stelle is trailing her, now old enough to walk. Ava looks up, and he sees the circles under her eyes, along with the shock when she sees him. It's as if he's splashed water over her face.
"Oh! I didn't expect to see you here. You look terrible."
"Mmh," he says distractedly.
"Ready for the games?"
He'd once hoped, in those long healing hours in the aftermath of last year's Games, that he could end them. But the weight of helplessness has never been so heavy on his shoulders, especially now that his sister is dying, doubtless suffering from the same poison used to kill his father.
"As ready as any of us."
She surprises him with a fluttery laugh. "If that isn't the truth... are you alright, Signet?"
He rolls his eyes skyward. "I'm not a child."
"I know." Her voice is surprisingly serious.
He looks back at her and sees all the children she helped destroy. All the lives gone in an instant. And his sister's wish. That he talk to the ones still left.
It feels as if there's nothing he can do for his sisters. But he knows that's how these mysterious assassins want him to feel.
There are still things he can do for his country. Things that nobody can keep him from doing.
He will fix this, somehow. He'll find some way to fight back.
"I'm not okay, I guess," he says softly. "But I have to be."
She blinks at him. "What happened to you?"
He laughs bitterly. "You're asking the wrong questions, Madame Gamemaker. You should be asking what happened to everybody else. What might happen to us again."
"You obviously need sleep." She's looking at him like he's crazy. And maybe he is, after all this. But at least he hasn't given up.
He can't end the Games. But he refuses to stand still and let everything crumble around him.
"I don't have time to sleep, Ava. You should know that by now."
She smiles teasingly at him. "I know you never stop. Even if it seems that you should."
But how could he rest, when his sister is dying? He doesn't say that. He just waves at Ava listlessly.
"I guess it's one of your only good qualities," she mutters.
He sighs heavily, even as he fights a smile. "Goodbye, Ava."
...
All The Wasted Time- Parade
Hi everybody! Sorry for the slightly chonky chapter, lol! Signet had things to say! And I continue to be mean to him... what else is new? We were introduced to his sisters in person, finally named, but unfortunately Sibella is dying! What do we think?
Now I know what you're all waiting for, and I do have the cast list here for you! I just wanted to thank everybody for the support and love—I'm so honored by all the readers I've picked up and all the help and kindness you've given me! Just know that it means so much; I'm so grateful for such a stellar cast and so many submitters, new and old! Sadly, there were some really stellar characters that I couldn't take. For those who didn't make it in, I'm so deeply sorry—the decisions were especially tricky this time around. If your character didn't make it in, it isn't a reflection of you or your writing—I so appreciate you taking the time to submit, and I loved every Tribute I received. I do hope you keep subbing because you are all incredible! And if you have any questions/cccerns, please feel free to reach out to me and we can chat!
Without further ado, the Cast of Why Do We Cry!
District One
Ithaca Dominica Marquesa Sovatento, 18, she/her (rising-balloons)
District Two
Arya Steele, 18, She/Her (illegalcryptid)
Zean Deveraux, 18, He/Him (Son of Arryn)
District Three
Donna Waterloo, 18, She/Her (HumanWiki)
Rathien "Rat" Laraki, 13, He/Him (ladyqueerfoot)
District Four
Malibu Mokarran, 18, They/Them (ladyqueerfoot)
Sammy Kalakari, 18, He/Him (HumanWiki)
District Five
Sera Velasco, 16, She/Her (Team Shadow)
Enzo Rivers, 17, He/Him (Nautics)
District Six
Concorde Zemītis, 18, He/Him (QueenOfMorning37)
District Seven
Arden Hornbuckle, 15, She/Her (goldie031)
Oriole "Ori" Morgenstern, 18, He/Him (timesphobic)
District Eight
Nylon Singh, 17, He/Him (lancelotgriffin)
District Ten
Pandora Roche, 12, She/Her (mykindleisawesome)
Rivel Baylor, 16, He/Him (SakuraDreamerz)
District Eleven
Sequoia Caishen, 18, She/They (SakuraDreamerz)
District Twelve
Elysande St. Clair, 18, She/Her (Dyloccupy)
Flint Kayode, 18, He/Him (geologyisms)
There you have it! Once again, thank you all so much for the submissions and support, it really means so much! I can't wait to embark on this journey with all of you amazing people and your amazing creations lol! Hope you have a wonderful day, and I'll see you ASAP for intros—although, I'm participating in the Verses Victor Exchange, so that may not be for a little while lol! But we'll try our best!
With Love,
Miri