There Will Come Soft Rains

by luviuna

Summary:

“Here,” Haymitch says, but the gumdrop slips from his shaking fingers. They both laugh, but when he picks it back up, his smile falters. Huh. These aren’t the kind Lenore Dove likes, not the rainbow gumdrops he got for her. Instead, its just one color— red.

“Now you’re home, I guess I can eat the others.” Lenore Dove tells him.

He looks up at her, "What others?"

Chapter 1: Snow falls white, melts to red

Summary:

The gumdrop falls.

There Will Come Soft Rains

Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

---

“You came back to me. In this world!”

“And you managed not to get hung!”

“Are you okay? Are you really all right?’

“As right as rain,”

They sink into the grass, hands clasped. Lenore Dove reaches for the bag of gumdrops she dropped in the rush of their reunion. "Thanks for the candy. Gosh, look how hard I’m shaking!”

“Here,” Haymitch manages to say, but the gumdrop slips from his shaking fingers as well. They both laugh, and when he picks it back up, his smile falters. Huh. These aren’t the kind Lenore Dove likes. These aren't the ones I got for her, from Merrilee. Instead, its just one color—the first color of the rainbow, ripped from the rest. Red.

“Now you’re home, I guess I can eat the others.” says Lenore Dove, tone as light as a single feather from her geese.

He looks up at Lenore Dove, who’s still smiling, her cheeks sunken, her eyes too big in her thinner face, much thinner than when they parted. His stomach twists. What did you just say? "What others?"

“The ones Sid brought me. I put them under my pillow.”

The mention of his brother—his baby brother, his dead baby brother, freshly buried and covered with his district’s soil—brings the reality of it rushing back, and it disorients him. His head spins and his vision blurs, Lenore Dove going in and out of focus.

“But . . .” He manages to say and flinches away when Lenore Dove reaches for the gumdrop, hands shaking as he turns the white bag over, staring at the familiar Donner’s label. Only, inside the bag, he’s not seeing candy anymore—he’s seeing Snow’s rose. Hearing Snow’s voice. The words sink in like an early frost.

Haymitch’s hands start to shake. He barely registers Lenore Dove asking what's wrong. His fingers clench around the gumdrop in his hand, blood-red, red, all red. 

The smell of roses and rotting meat fills his nostrils. Taste of milk and bread rolls still on his tongue. He stands abruptly, his breath shallow, his pulse roaring in his ears. Lenore Dove follows, gripping his elbows. When he looks back up, he’s seeing the world behind golden bars once more, like he’s never left it, just got used to look past them. His eyes meet Lenore Dove’s— green wide with confusion, gray wide with terror. 

She reaches to touch his face, but her confusion only grows as he suddenly drops to his knees, gathering the scattered gumdrops into his palms, with one final look at Lenore Dove, who is love in its truest form, the only truth in his world as of now, he forces himself to turn his back to her.

"Don't follow me. Stay home." and then Haymitch runs - runs from the one thing he loves, has had left, but no longer can keep. He runs, even as she takes off after him, her voice breaking as she calls his name in disbelief.

---

He runs—runs until his legs give up, until he reaches a dirt alleyway. He stumbles, crashes against the rough wall, the uneven bricks scraping his back as he slides down, chest heaving. The small white bag trembles in his grip. Inside, the red candies sit, feeling tons heavier than they should be.

His vision pulses with each frantic beat of his heart—too fast, too loud, like his skull is about to crack open from the pressure. He can’t stop seeing it. His hand moving, the gumdrop between his fingers. Lenore Dove’s lips parting.

His breath shudders. He presses a palm hard against his chest, as if to hold himself together. His gaze drops back to the bag of candy.

I should eat them all right now.

End it before it’s too late.

Save her. I should. I should. I must. It’s the one thing I can still do.

Because he won’t stop. Not ever. As long as he lives. As long as I live.

First Ma and Sid. Then, Lenore Dove. And then who? Burdock? Blair? The McCoys? Maysilee’s family? How far will this go?

The thought of a world without Lenore Dove is unbearable. How is the Sun supposed to rise without her? It wouldn’t, he thinks. It couldn’t. The sky wouldn’t dare shine on a world that had lost her. What about another tomorrow without Ma and Sid?  He wishes he could reach up and drag it down, no, don't go up, what about them? How can you rise, when they're not here to see you?

His fingers close around a gumdrop. He lifts it to his lips. His hands shake. Tears run down his face. This should’ve been easy. Lenore Dove’s words from the phone call they had before the games come back to him just as he’s lifting the gumdrop to his mouth.

“I don’t want to be on this earth without you.” He knows she meant it. She still means it, will mean it to the ends of time. That’s how rare and radiant Lenore Dove is. He only ever wants her to love her people, sing her songs, eat her apples, graze her geese, live long, live healthy, everything that Ma and Sid are robbed of, because of me. Live with as much love as you’re capable of, and oh Lenore Dove, you’re something that draws love as easily as the breeze carries a bird’s song. 

Who am I to keep your songs locked in a jar, your spirit caged? I can't bear the thought of it—of trapping something so free, so alive, in a place where it can’t breathe. It would kill me before it did you.

Crushing the gumdrops in his trembling hands, Haymitch breaks. A choked sob shudders through him as he curls over himself, shoulders shaking. He’s hurting, he’s scared, every single breath he gulps is agonising, burns his throat and settles in his lungs like lead, he’s everything that’s left from the arena, he’s gouged, and at the same time, he’s suffocating, damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

---

 That evening, after a whole day of hiding in dirty alleyways and corners, from everyone—Lenore Dove, Burdock, Blair, hell, even the McCoys—Haymitch finds himself standing in front of the Covey house, his hand raised to knock on the door. His knuckles barely make a sound against the wood, but it’s enough for those inside on the ground floor, his beloved’s guardians.

Tam Amber answers, eyes sharp, wary. The moment he sees who’s standing there, his face hardens and his lips curl down in displeasure, “She’s on house arrest. We barely managed to get her inside after whatever the hell you pulled in the Meadow. Look, Haymitch—”

“I’m not here for Lenore Dove,” Haymitch cuts in quickly, his voice rough from disuse and crying, and words feel like they’re clawing their way out of his throat, “Well, I am. But not to speak to her. I need to talk to you and Clerk Carmine.”

Tam Amber studies him, weighing something unspoken. Then, with a sharp exhale, he mutters, “Wait here,” and disappears inside.

Haymitch doesn’t move. His gaze flickers up, to the loft, where she probably is. A breath away, just a call of her name in one breath, but an entire world apart. 

The door opens again, and Tam Amber returns with Clerk Carmine at his side. The two men step out onto the porch. Haymitch swallows. He has to say it all. Quickly. Quietly.

So he tells them about Snow, the promise of his homecoming, the fire that wasn’t an accident. The red gumdrops oh so conveniently left on Lenore Dove’s favorite rock right on the day she’s released. That this is all happening because Haymitch wasn’t supposed to live, he was never meant to come out of the arena, but he did, and the way in which he did.

Tam Amber’s face gets paler and paler with every word, blood drains from his face with each reveal, his head sinking lower. By the end, he can barely lift it at all. Clerk Carmine exhales through his nose, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s holding himself back. Haymitch knows that if the man weren’t so careful with his hands, for the sake of his fiddle, or else they’d either be buried in the wall—or in Haymitch's face.

“I’ll stay away from her,” Haymitch rasps. “That’s why I came. To tell you that.”

Tam Amber’s expression flickers. “What?”

“I’ll do what I have to,” Haymitch says, “To scare her off. Or make her give up. She can’t be near me.” His throat tightens, but he forces himself. “So you can keep her safe.”

Then Tam Amber swears under his breath, scrubs a hand over his face, and looks away. Clerk Carmine doesn’t react other than a nod, his eyes shifting warily to where the loft is. It’s time Haymitch leaves before his songbird is alerted by his presence.

Just as Haymitch takes a step back, quite unexpectedly, Tam Amber steps forward. Before Haymitch can move further, he pulls him into a firm, brief hug. “You look after yourself, too, kid,” he mutters. “We’ll take care of her. That’s our promise back.”

The familiar words send a jolt of pain through him. But Haymitch doesn’t hug back. He has no strength left in his arms, nor his legs—he feels like a ghost, dragging phantom limbs across the earth, trailing behind him the blood of everyone he’s led to die. An empty being, dragging death behind him, he feels like Death itself, knocking on doors.

And so, Haymitch nods, as much as he can against Tam Amber’s shoulder, and then he breaks away. He leaves. Where does he go? Just like a homing pigeon, he flies back to his cage.

---

That night, Haymitch lies awake in his too-big, too-empty bed, staring at the ceiling of his too-quiet house. The sheets are still stiff, feels wrong on his skin. The Victors’ Village is silent, untouched by the rest of the district, no clinks of dishes being washed, no neighbors hurrying to prepare for bed, no crackle of fires being lit.

He assumes his friends must’ve exhausted themselves searching for him, just as Lenore Dove must have, frantically scouring the district all day after hearing about the events of this morning. Someone must've told her by now, he thinks. And if someone checked his house in the Victor’s Village by now, the one that he ran away from, when he was hiding in the corners like a rat, it’s safe to say they won’t be coming again tonight.

He can still hear Sid —Please don’t take my brother, we need him! Ma’s voice —what your pa said to the Whitcomb child, it still goes. Then the crackling roar of fire, drowns their voices in a sea of flames before he can tell his brother — It’s going to be okay, Sid.

I’m sorry, Ma, I let them do it, I let them use me, he thinks.

I’m sorry Sid, nothing was okay. Not then, not after. I’m sorry my last words to you curdled into a lie. I’m sorry they were all I had left to give.  

I’m sorry, Pa. Oh, wherever you are, I hope you haven’t had to see me in that birdcage, Pa. I don’t even want to imagine the look on your face. Would you be embarrassed? Ashamed? Angry? Disappointed? The mere thought of it makes him tear up. I’m sorry, Pa. I was scared. I was so scared. I did it all because I was afraid. I still am. I’m sorry, Maysilee, you were rotting in your box when I was painting their posters. I told you I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Louella. I’m sorry, Lou Lou. I'm sorry Wyatt. I’m sorry, Ampert. My doves, I’m sorry—

He squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t help. The flint-striker resting on his chest feels like it’s burning its way down, leaving a scorched hole. He can't bring himself to lift his hand and hold it in his palm, I'm sorry --

BANG BANG BANG.

There’s a series of knocks at the door. Haymitch jolts upright, groggy and disoriented, before dragging himself out of bed. What’s he rushing for? His heart knows what, his brain won’t acknowledge, and his body moves on its own.

BANG BANG BANG.

His feet shuffle across cold wooden floors. He heads downstairs, passing the windows on the ground level, all tightly covered. He had shut and blocked them with pieces of plank he found around the house as soon as he stepped into the house. He knew the covered windows would be obvious, expose to everyone which house he was staying in among the other untouched homes of Victor's Village. But it was better to take the measures as soon as he could. 

Because, knowing Burdock, that boy would break into the house the second he caught wind of where he was exactly after running away like that. Lenore Dove would do the same, and that’s why the extra miles with the planks—just in case.

He doesn’t need to check who it is. He knows. Still, he presses an eye to the peephole.

Lenore Dove stands there, dressed in black, something she doesn’t do much, she loves her colors too much, her slight frame trembling. He can hear her ragged breathing even through the heavy door. Her eyes—red-rimmed, still full of tears—cut straight through him.

He wonders who was the one who told her, Burdock or Tam Amber are his best guesses. Maybe when Burdock and Blair were running around like headless chickens, headless baby chick, one of my little doves, Wellie, trying to track him down. She shouldn’t even be here—out of her house while on house arrest, standing in the Victor’s Village, where the entrance is supposed to be guarded by a peacekeeper at all times. Though he doubts anyone’s guarding the place right now—it’s not like there’s anything or anyone worth watching over, just empty bricks and roofs.

And now, Haymitch is just another empty part of an empty house. Nothing to see here, nothing to mourn here except the mourner.

She pounds on the door again, chokes out his name, voice brimming with grief. “Haymitch! Open the door! Please!”

His fingers hover over the latch, but he doesn’t open it. He doesn’t even consider it, yet his body betrays him, moving against his will, his reason. His heart, his instincts, are no longer his own. They’re hers. His girl blinds his senses, her voice a lullaby he can't help but fall into, pulling him to shut his eyes and follow her, hand in hand, whatever dream she takes them to.

But he can’t. Not anymore.

Lenore Dove sobs, her fists still striking the wood, calling for him, but he stays still. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, in his throat, in the aching hollow where his organs used to be before Snow had carved him empty.

Please leave.

She won’t. Of course she won’t. She’s Lenore Dove, and she’s never known how to give up on him.

“I heard about Sid and Willamae, oh, Haymitch, my love—“ She slams her palm against the door now, her voice splintering, cracking as she says their names. “You’re not doing this alone, I won’t let you. Talk to me, please, you’re not alone, not now, not ever—”

He is. He’ll make it so.

Because if she stays, she’ll get hurt. Because if she stays, she’ll be just one more thing Snow can take from him, from the world. The world has already lost so much, too many good people, starting with his Sweetheart, and the endless chain of deaths that followed, reaching all the way to his ma and brother. The world can’t lose Lenore Dove too.

Why is no cruelty ever enough?

He doesn’t think he can survive losing her, too. Away from him, but alive. Afar, alive, maybe one day, happy with someone else. The thought sets his heart on fire, but not all-fire, no, an unrelenting heat that boils his insides, scorching him from within, hollowing him out. He is damned to bear it.

So he turns his back against the door, and leans against it, feeling the force of Lenore Dove’s desperate fists. If he closes his eyes, he can almost believe it's her touch he feels—the force against the door between them as a ghost of her gentle touch, a featherlight caress against his cheeks, rather than the frantic punches landing on the wood. 

She keeps talking, begs, her words are bewildered, her tone woeful, dejected, in a way it never has been before. Yet, it’s still her—stubborn to her core. Her fists keep colliding against the door, and it rattles more than just Haymitch’s body.

Seconds pass, they grow up and become minutes, but before they can start running as hours, the knocking fades. Her voice breaks into nothing. He hears the telltale shuffle, the tired inhales between teary breaths, the sniffles. Lenore Dove falls asleep outside his door.

Haymitch can hear her breathing, he presses his ear to the door. Each exhale twists something sharp inside him, colder than the night air, because he knows she’s shivering out there. He knows she’s curled up against the hard ground, still in mourning black, waiting for him even in sleep.

When her breathing evens out, and he’s sure she won’t stir, he eases the door open as softly as he can.

She’s so small like this. Curled on her side, arms wrapped around herself, feet tucked beneath her dress. The porch light casts a glow over her auburn hair, turning it to red of the Sun’s hemline as it pools at its feet, saying goodnight to the Moon as it tucks itself to sleep.

Haymitch doesn’t take his eyes off her as he lowers himself to the ground, pressing his back against his new cage. He folds his arms over his knees, tucks his chin down. And watches her.

He’s kept watch before, it’s a good thing he has practice now. However, there’s no one snoring to warn, no one to switch shifts with, and no little one to keep an eye on even in sleep. 

So he sits there, heart throbbing like a raw, untended open wound, and listens to the sound of her breathing. If he sleeps now, just beside her, would they meet in their dreams? Would their souls find each other in that fleeting space between night’s hush and morning’s stir?

Time doesn’t pass, not in a way he understands anymore. Once, time ran as easily as his fingers did, through Lenore Dove’s locks, like autumn leaves drifting through the cold air. Now, he’s not so sure. It feels like each second cuts through his being to get to the next.

He wants her presence to burn on the back of his eyelids, wants to trace it there with the hot end of a needle if he could, if only it was possible. Then, he’d close his eyes, seal them shut, and live that way. He wouldn’t think twice.

When he finally hears the softest of footsteps approaching, his eyelids refuse to move—his eyes feel dry, frozen open.

Haymitch doesn’t move as Tam Amber comes into view, stepping into the porch light, eyes landing on his niece with a kind of sadness, not pity, but the kind that comes from understanding and needs no words.

Haymitch takes one last look at her—the way her hair spills over her face, the ends curling slightly from where it was pressed beneath her head. Then, he watches as Tam Amber carries her home, walking across the big circular center of the Victor’s Village. He wants nothing more than to see Lenore Dove stepping out of its caged door, free. Only then he finds the strength to get up and go in.

As he walks through the threshold, his foot catches on something, and he almost slips. Crouching down, Haymitch picks up the small, folded piece of paper. He sees the initials "L.D." scrawled across the front. She didn’t really need to sign it—Haymitch knows her handwriting like the back of one's hand. It’s carved into his heart, after all. Lenore Dove must’ve slipped it through the door at some point. Slowly, he unfolds the paper.

The walls of a person’s heart are not impregnable, not if they have ever known love. I love you like all-fire, Haymitch.

Notes:

Idk if homing pigeons even exist in the world of Hunger Games but I couldn't keep using mockingjays for everything lol

Spoilers

I cannot see a Haydove scenerio possible in a world where Snow lives, because the petty old man is too obsessed with Covey girls and 16 year olds' lovelives, so he'll die in this one. For the sake of this 'Lenore Dove Lives and Haydove Marries' AU, I'm offing him. He'll die officially in later chapters, rn he's accidentally taking an overdose of his poisons. Good riddance. It's time to go to bed, grandpa. Or maybe I'll make him sleep until a certain time. We'll see.

Chapter 2: From this page onward in your earthly story

Summary:

Haymitch is stuck at the bottom of a bottle.

Notes:

Will the Circle Be Unbroken? by Ada R. Habershon - I imagined this version as LD singing. Especially with how Elizabeth also chokes up around the end (fun fact it's Troy Baker playing the guitar here and he has his own cover as well)

Haymitch goes above and beyond, if he’s being honest.

He runs out of sleep syrup early in his seclusion, and the line of people crowding around his house—or gathering at the gate of the Victor’s Village, which he can clearly see from his crow’s nest, his bedroom window—turns the first few weeks into torture. The McCoy kids keep showing up like weeds around his house, bringing him homemade food from Ruth. He doesn’t open the door, instead watching from the upstairs window as Ima standing there with Alifair, the youngest McCoy, only to leave the dishes by his door, and walk away.

One day, he’ll start launching air attacks to scare everyone away, he'll throw whatever comes to his hand, Haymitch swears.

Asterid arrives with sleep syrup, only one bottle like that's every enough, trailing after Burdock once or twice very week, he’s not sure. Her companion with handfuls of letters from Lenore Dove.

Yet her presence is a knife to his wound as it is a stitch, as she only comes with Burdock, and his is resin to Haymitch’s burning torch. 

One day, Burdock actually breaks through the upper-floor window after Haymitch stuffs fabric under the door to keep him from sliding the letter through. They fight, well, Burdock roughs up his drunkard arse, then slams the stack of unopened letters onto the floor — Lenore Dove must’ve written on anything she could get her hands on, papers of any kind, wrapping, ripped from notebooks…There’s even one written on a piece of clothing. That one—he cherishes the most. Careful not to smudge the writing, he brings it to the tip of his nose, wishing he could press a kiss to it.

Their relentless attempts start to frustrate him more and more. Blair, at least, accepted this new reality—hugged him tight the one time Haymitch opened the door, just because he’d managed to hide and ambush him. But Burdock? He still hasn’t. Stubborn piece of shit.

Get away from me, Haymitch wants to yell, and one day he will. Go live your life. That’s all I want from you guys. Why do you all insist on being here?

But Burdock still has to come, acting as Lenore Dove’s reluctant missionary. Don’t shoot the messenger bird, he makes himself scoff.

And Haymitch spends nights, days, dawns, twilights, and sunrises, reading Lenore Dove’s words, and there are so many of them, over and over, until he can recite each like he does for her name poem. 

My love ,

I write to you not in ink, but in the soft coo of a mourning dove, reaching to you through door gaps and keyholes. Both yours and mine, how tragic we're both caged, how about that? (For the record, I don't have a choice.) The world says you're with us, yet you're not at my window, you're not knocking on my door, and I can’t see you waiting for me in the meadow. 

I understand, the Games don’t just end where the blood dries. I mourn the pieces of yourself you think you lost in there, Haymitch, you may've changed but you're no less of anything. I am not asking for the boy you were before, I only want to see the one you’ve become. It has been too long since I last saw your face—not in dreams, where I see you plenty every night, but nothing comes close. I've only ever loved one boy, and I fell in love with him every time I looked at him. I long to feel that all over again.

I don’t blame you for pushing everyone away. I hear things, you know. But I can also tell I’m not being told everything. And I know whatever you told my uncles was enough to turn them into fire-breathing Peacekeepers. They don’t even let me into the meadow, my geese are always angry, and when I’m on the porch, it’s no different. I got me some theories, but I don’t think I can write them down. I’m playing along for now, but I know where I’ll be when they finally let me free. Do you? 

You’re so loved, Haymitch, by so many, please let them in, I lose sleep just thinking about you hurting alone.

I still know the boy behind that door. And he is still mine.

I love you like all-fire, 

— L.D.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He opens and closes his eyes, always staring at the same fixed point, until time becomes another nepenthe that drifts by. He drinks the day away, so that his nightmares can haunt him as much as they like, because in the morning, he’ll drink those away too.

He only opens the door to collect his Victor’s winnings and the parcel of food, accompanied by Bascom Pie’s rotgut—the one thing he instructed the Peacekeepers to bring when he first ran out of Asterid's sleep syrup. Lax as they are, one should probably think twice before asking a Peacekeeper to fetch moonshine. But Haymitch isn’t like any other in Twelve, now, is he?

There could be someone like him, once upon a time. But that bird was long smothered by heavy snow.

There’s a thud at the door. Haymitch, assuming it’s his monthly package, finds himself downstairs, not even realizing it’s gotten dark outside. Just as he’s dragging himself closer, one hand still at the neck of a bottle of rotgut, stops in his tracks when the first note of a string break through the silence. 

It’s not the string of Clerk Carmine’s fiddle, nor Tam Amber’s mandolin, nor Barb Azure’s bass. Because of course, why would any of them come and perform at his door?

It’s the sound of one Lenore Dove’s fingers on the guitar she used to practice in the meadow, complaining that her fingers were just better suited to keys than the strings.

Haymitch stands frozen, as if the slightest creak of the floor beneath him will spook the bird perched outside his door at the very moment.

“You didn’t come to the graves,” her voice comes next, all soft, like balm to his ears, spring water that washes all the hurt away, oh how it soothes his heart, only to replace it with a longing so intense it starts to burn, “My house arrest ended today, finally, and I waited all day. I left flowers for them—ones I know they’d like, and you’d too. Found some sweet William,” she lets out a soft laugh at that, though he doesn’t get why, he finds himself smile at the sound of it, like the tinkling of windchimes. “...some baby’s-breath, some primrose, you know."

It must’ve been forty days since Ma and Sid. Meaning, he’s long missed his fallen district partner’s fortieth days as well. It’s been near two months since his Sweetheart. The realization sinks on him, wiping the smile off his face, pulls him to the ground, grabbing him whenever it can, and resisting against it only makes his head spin and hurt.

“I been practicing,” A string of notes follows. “Don’t got much to do this past month. I’ve only written to you and played with some instruments. Whatever I do, you’re all I think about, Haymitch.”

He breathes. Lenore Dove goes on, “I played this for Sid and Willamae today, and all the other Abernathys by proximity, I guess. Now it’s your turn.” Then, quieter, “I hope you hear this, in your dreams or, if you’re awake.” 

Quiet.

She’s waiting a response from him.

He doesn’t give her one, but she starts singing anyway.

There are loved ones in the glory

Whose dear forms you often miss.

When you close your earthly story,

Will you join them in their bliss?

Haymitch sets the bottle down carefully, the soft clink of glass against wood barely audible. He takes a breath, steadying himself, and walks closer to the door, timing his steps with the chorus so that she doesn’t hear him.

Will the circle be unbroken

By and by, by and by?

Is a better home awaiting

In the sky, in the sky?

He hovers near the door, and for a moment, he’s suspended between two worlds—one where she’s still far away, and another where he could open the door and— 

In the joyous days of childhood

Oft they told of wondrous love

Pointed to the dying Saviour;

Now they dwell with Him above.

He turns his back to the door, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor, resting against the wood.

You remember songs of heaven

Which you sang with childish voice.

Do you love the hymns they taught you,

Or are songs of earth your choice?

In another world, they’re sitting just like this—in the meadow, among the soft grass. Their backs are pressed against each other, feeling the warmth and heartbeat of the other, perched on her rock, as Lenore Dove plays and sings. She made them sit like this because she’d gotten flustered by Haymitch watching her so closely, turning her cheeks pink, as they burn to red.

Though it’s only a song later that she can’t bear not facing him. She turns, giving him the permission to do the same, and then they kiss, soft, slow, and roll around in the meadow, tangled together, laughter swishing through the tall blades of grass.

You can picture happy gath’rings

Round the fireside long ago,

And you think of tearful partings

When they left you here below.

This time, it's Haymitch who falls asleep at the other end of the door. He doesn’t hear Lenore Dove’s voice crack toward the end, nor does he see the tussie-mussie of honeysuckles slid through the doorgap, right by his face.

One by one their seats were emptied.

One by one they went away.

Now the family is parted.

Will it be complete one day?

He hears her song in his dreams, and smells her scent as he holds her in his arms, for the first time in what feels like forever.

Will the circle be unbroken

By and by, by and by?

Is a better home awaiting

In the sky, in the sky?

Notes:

Fixed some stuff in the first chapter, Idk what I was thinking but I felt as loopy as Haymitch did during the last few pages of the book, and mixed up the timing of funeral/move to VV/going to meadow. I got whiplash I think.
+ there's also a choir version of the hymn in bioshock, and it's peak, go check it out
+The McCoys I'll use in this fic are from my Louella WIP; whenever I post that one, is a mystery
Sorry this was a bit short, but things will go wrong real fast, soon, now that LD is out of her house arrest, she's going to trigger fight or flight in Haymitch. Who doesn't like pain, amirite?

Chapter 3: Hunter’s fire smothered in snow

Summary:

Lenore Dove out of one cage, and right back in another.

"She can't be unhappy," you said,
"The smiles are like stars in her eyes,
And her laughter is thistledown
Around her low replies."
"Is she unhappy?" you said—
But who has ever known
Another's heartbreak—
All he can know is his own;
And she seems hushed to me,
As hushed as though
Her heart were a hunter's fire
Smothered in snow.
― Sara Teasdale, Snowfall 

---

No one can keep Lenore Dove caged - unless she lets them. And there are only two exceptions to that rule:

One—if you’re a Peacekeeper.

Two—if you’re her uncle.

Unfortunately for her, her house arrest is being enforced by both, thus proves to be near impossible to escape.

The only time she manages to slip through their grip is the very first day. Haymitch’s retreating back is still burned into her memory, along with the horror in his eyes - eyes that, now that she thinks of it, were red, bloodshot, and purple, like every time he slept ended up in a nightmare that bled out from his eyes, forming dark circles around them - like how his pain’s painted him in such way.

She remembers how her legs gave out under her after just a stride or two, too emaciated to go full force like she usually does. Not that it would’ve mattered. There was only one person in their school—and maybe their entire district—who could outrun Haymitch Abernathy. And that was Woodbine, long gone Woodbine.

Her uncles wrestle her back inside and stuff her with food which she scarfs down without a word of protest, sight of food dulls reason and purpose, especially after they basically starved her for her last week kept in the base. But the second she can, she asks for Haymitch. Cries over how he looked at her, took his gift back and then ran like she’d turned into a haint before his eyes.

They tell her to wait (like she has a choice) and he’ll come back to see her.

“He did see me,” she snaps, “and he ran like I was cursed.”

She tries sneaking past them, but eventually all she can do is to sit by the porch with her geese roaming around, Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine right beside her. 

What did you see in me that made you bolt like a spooked bird? What was it? The gumdrops? He changed the moment she dropped them, but why would he? Why the hell would Haymitch Abernathy run for his life, terrified out of his mind, because of some damn gumdrops? What did you go through in that arena that made you run like that, from me?

Her head is swarmed with unwelcome thoughts that she cannot help but open the doors for, pulling at the weed growing beneath the porch steps. It just doesn’t make sense. Does it have to, where fears and feelings are involved? But still…

She keeps catching her uncles exchange glances, worried ones they pass when they don’t know how to tell her something. She presses. They deflect. No answers and no one involved is satisfied.

When Burdock shows up, hope flares, but his fallen face snuffs any newborn flame right out. He brightens up just a bit when he sees her home again, but it doesn’t last, worry brings dark storming clouds back to his gray eyes.

“You seen Haymitch?!” she asks, worried.

“Is Haymitch here?” he asks, breathless and as worried as her.

Their faces mirror each other with concern, some hope, and later, surprise and confusion.

“He’s not here?”

“Why’re you looking for him?”

Burdock looks at her, and his face falls even further down like the core of the earth itself is dragging him under. “You—“ he looks at her uncles, “You haven’t told her?”

“Told me what?” she asks, words coming out sharper than she intends. She follows his gaze, and the misery on their faces mirrors Burdock’s. She can feel her heart beating faster and faster, choosing flight in the face of the unknown, thudding so hard it feels like it might rip through her ribs and out of her chest.

“He was in the meadow with Lenore Dove,” Clerk Carmine says quietly to Burdock, “but he left a while ago. Then he grips her elbow gently. “Come now. I’ll tell you inside.”

“But I—” she begins, spinning back just in time to see Burdock take off, the moment it’s clear Haymitch isn’t there, already halfway to the road.

“You find him!” she shouts after him, voice cracking. “And you better tell me! Or better yet—bring him back here!” To me, goes unsaid, but here for Lenore Dove has always been where she’s with Haymitch.

The front door creaks closed behind them and as soon as it latches with a dull click, she turns to her uncles, eyes blazing, “Tell me, what in the hell’s going on?”

"Lenore Dove..." Clerk Carmine starts, voice wearing thin. “Yesterday—well…” He looks to Tam Amber, who steps in. The way they’re acting, hushing something up and stalling, it’s all starting to get under her skin, she can’t take it. She feels like shaking the truth out of both.

"Day before that, day Haymitch returned…” Tam Amber says, slow, like the words taste bad, “There was a fire. Over at Abernathy’s. Willamae and Sid—" He stops, just hangs there, but she already knows what’s coming. There’s nothing she can do to stop it.

What he says, break into her mind like light does through glass. It enters whole, but disperses into fragments, and she can bring two of the scattered pieces together at most. 

There was a fire. At the Abernathy house.

Willamae didn’t make it. Sid didn’t either.

Haymitch was there. He saw it all.

Lenore Dove sinks onto the couch and buries her face in her hands. I missed the funeral, is the first thought that hits her. Close behind it comes the full realization of who the funeral was for.

Sid. And Willamae. Both of whom are gone, lost in such a horrifying way

The hair on her arms and legs stands on end just thinking about how scared little Sid must’ve been engulfed in fire. She doesn’t know if they were awake. She hopes not. Hopes they were sleeping before the smoke lulled them into the eternal one, that it was all over before they knew it, carried to the next world in their dreams. But that’s unlikely. The house is small, so small, they must’ve felt the heat—

Lenore Dove can’t bring herself to ask her uncles about it, she doesn’t think she can sleep if she does. But Haymitch lived what she’s too afraid to even ask, makes her heart throb in pain.

Her eyes sting. Haymitch.

The way his grey eyes cleared when they landed on her. Like a storm breaking. Like sky after heavy rain, though still clouded. That moment of pure relief, etched into his face, oh, how he has lost everything before he came to see her, which brings her back to the main point of her first brainstorm today, why did he run away from her when he was so full of life at that very moment? 

“The funeral…” she manages to say.

“Nearabout all of Seam showed up,” Clerk Carmine says, voice low, "and a good hunk of Town, too.” Clerk Carmine says, “For the kids this year… then the Abernathys on top of it. Burdock even sung the Old Therebefore.”

Lenore Dove squeezes her eyes shut.

She lifts her head when the thought that got stuck between sense and reason starts hurting her head, not knowing whether it stems from rationale or denial — stray sparks and sleeping embers. “Fire… Fire how?” she asks, “Willamae wouldn’t’ve forgot to bank it, not her. She always warned Haymitch about it, henpecking him near every night. Even I know better just from hearing him go on!” 

“Sometimes accidents—“

“Were they…” Don’t make me finish that. I can’t.

Clerk Carmine drops his eyes to the ground and she has her answer before words follow, “Yeah…”

Oh, my word…

"Then how come they couldn’t get out?" she snaps, voice breaking, denial full force, “Or- or didn’t notice? That house’s tiny as a tick, you’d know if something was wrong! Willamae would!”

"It happened in the dead of night, sweet…"

“There wasn’t enough water? What—“

“Their cistern was dry. The McCoys, the Balsams, and the rest of the neighbors went and put it out with their own water. But it was all too slow...”

“But—“ she starts, ready to rise up like a storm, when a final thought hits her square in the chest and knocks her down completely, the cistern that Haymitch was supposed to fill on his birthday, dry because he didn’t, because he wanted to see her, the girl who ultimately ended up sending him to the Games, and now the cistern was dry. “Oh, Haymitch…Oh, no…”

Her shoulders drop down just thinking about how much pain he must’ve been in. 

Did he run because she didn’t see it? Help her, was he sickened, thinking she knew and didn’t care?

But she’d never. He probably blamed himself, because he would never blame her. Maybe something deep in him has whispered to him at that moment, she did this, she’s the reason why—

“Where did he— Where does he—“ Where does he have left?

“Burdock and Blair took him to Victor’s Village right after the funerals.” Tam Amber says, “He didn’t have much, well, anything, to take with him.”

Victor’s Village. Empty houses, empty streets, there’s no one to share joy or grief with there. Haymitch cannot stay there, it’s not who he is. Not where someone like him belongs.

“I gotta go see him,” Lenore Dove gets up in a blink, and the next, she’s on the couch again, a hand on both of her shoulders nearly slam her back onto the couch.

“You are not going anywhere!”

“You’ve gone mad?!”

“He needs someone!” Me, goes unsaid once more, he needs me. And I, him. So much. I couldn’t look at him nearly enough to satiate my need for him. And guess what? I could stare at him for the rest of my life without blinking once, and I’d still not be satiated. That’s how much I need him.

“Lenore Dove,” Clerk Carmine starts, agitated already, but she is too, so Tam Amber gets in between before it can escalate further.

“As soon as Burdock gets hold of him, he’ll send word, and we may arrange something.” Tam Amber reassures her, he’s always been better at finding the middle ground between her and Clerk Carmine, especially about all things Haymitch.

Thinking about her Seam boy makes her eyes brim, and soon, her face is buried in her hands again, sobbing, soft at first, then with the full force of her grief. 

Lenore Dove cries easily; everyone who knows her knows this. But she doesn’t make show of her sorrows. She drowns it in falling rain, sliding down a windowpane of a family home, just for the people inside to see, private.

She cries when she’s happy, when joy is crisp like winter cold and hits one in the face like so, makes her feel like a child let loose in snow for the first time. She cries at beauty too pure to hold, when things are just too lovely, too delightful to last, to look, that her heart seizes in momentary fear, as if even her gaze alone might spoil it. 

She cries when she hurts, when sorrow claws at the walls of her heart, when she is missing the mother whose life she took with her own, stopper her heart with hers. She cries when the ache of not knowing her birth father becomes too much in the dead of night, for the way every path would lead to trace his face in her mind seems swallowed by hushes and shushes.

Lenore Dove weeps for the skyward and the earthbound alike. For birds struck down mid-flight and shut down mid-song, for every small life that ends in silence and uproar alike. 

With every soul that leaves the world, Lenore Dove mourns, because the earth has lost another one of its own, is a little less whole without them, like a note missing from the sheet music, forcing the world to stumble and skip a beat, because a part of its song has left.

And now, it’s everything all at once. Her Haymitch, the most beautiful thing still tethered to this world - has been taken, ravaged by who-knows-how-many horrors, paraded like cattle and brutalized on screens for weeks. Like that’s not enough, his entire family, gone. The pain he must be in is beyond her comprehension. The guilt however, is not. It’s never felt more within reach than it has since Reaping Day—since his birthday.

He’s alone, and keeps himself that way. Probably will continue to do so.

She cries for Willamae, hard-working Willamae, for sweet sunny Sid. She weeps for their Pa, who must’ve stood in stunned silence as his wife and little boy arrived so suddenly, so early, in the hereafter. Even in that place of everything good, surely some ache clings to him, a twinge must reach into his heart for the years Sid should have had ahead of him, the story of a full life that was supposed to unfold as time went on.

Inconsolable, she suddenly feels sick and runs to the nearest corner to empty her stomach - whatever she scarfed down for breakfast, gone just like that. Her cries won’t stop. Her shoulders ache from the shaking, and the path to her lungs throbs with every sob.

Lenore Dove falls asleep in Tam Amber’s embrace, and she dreams of Haymitch. She doesn’t see him, not really—but in the blurred haze of her ceiling, she hears his voice, the echo of her name leaving his lips. Then, they’re in the meadow. He’s staring at her with wide eyes, filled with terror and horror. He runs away from her again. 

What have I done to you that you’d run away from me even in my dreams? At least hold, hug me here, and don’t let go. I’m fine not waking up if you hold me just now H—

She startles awake with his name on the verge of her lips.

It takes her a while to make sense of her surroundings. She’s accustomed to tiny jail cell over the past weeks, half expecting to see the looming figure of a Peacekeeper pacing past the metal bars, his boots echoing in the silent corridors. But there’s nothing of sort, only the low, hushed voices of her uncles, occasionally a voice rises before one shushes the other.

She sits up slowly, propping herself on her elbows, and listens. They’re still going at it when someone drops something, and the sound of it cuts their argument. Then, silence. Not even a breath.

Lenore Dove doesn’t even breathe. 

She decides on the spot. With a mind half-focused, she slips into her cardigan, the dark navy one she keeps reserved for chilly summer nights at home, for stargazing expeditions with Tam Amber - for both concealing in dark and it’s right to do so right now. She snatches her notebook from the makeshift desk and slips it into the pocket of her dress - what if he’s not home? What if he sleeps somewhere out, not being able to take shelter anywhere, cold, alone, even if that's what he wants right now- Either way, she can’t wait for Burdock to carry her words to him, not right now.

Just as the whispers pick up once more, Lenore Dove glides like a stray feather settling on wood. She knows all the spots where it does not creak under her feet, and slips toward the window without a sound

Not even bothering to stuff a pillow under the covers, her uncles would take at least two steps to sure she was really there and asleep so she’d only lose precious time if she decides to pull a stunt like that, so she slowly slides the window up.

In one fluid motion, she slips out the window, climbs down the drainpipe, and belly-crawls to the other side of the house. She passes beneath the window, the muffled voices of her uncles drifting out into the silent night: Where’d we even— Has to be past the— Just a few days—

She pushes forward, crawling until she reaches the edge of the clearing. Once hidden behind a tree, she rises - knees and palms screaming for help, but she pays them no mind. Her head answers only to her heart’s cries at the moment. Without a look back, she starts running full speed across the meadow. It’s different under here the moonlight, like she’s running on sea and the water just lets her step on it.

The Victor’s Village is as empty as always. Only now she knows: it’s not.

There’s no Peacekeeper on watch tonight. Haymitch’s life must matter less than the explosives kept in mines, or the rule about no groups larger than three, uneasy Peacekeepers everywhere in Town Square and around.

It doesn’t take long to find where he’s being kept. He’s made it obvious—every ground-level window blocked tight. His new cage. And he’s turning it into a fortress.

Lenore Dove is going to break it.

She circles the house. No drainpipes hanging out of the building here, like the other houses in Twelve does, and so not anything to climb on. This house is a piece of Capitol’s leftovers, most likely, but still, even that is better than anything Twelve ever got.

Next time she won’t need to, because Haymitch will open the door for her, right? Or better, she’ll open her door to him, and he won’t have a use for this house. Maybe the electricity and hot water, but only for those. 

Lenore Dove knocks on the door, no answer, tears come without her crying for them, Then her knuckles hit harder. She bangs on the door with both fists. Is he not home?

She’s tired.

She’s so tired, cried all night. She feels bad for feeling bad, like she has any right to, she thinks. 

Not after the weeks locked up and starved and ogled by the Peacekeepers like she’s a thing—not a girl, not a person, just meat they hadn’t gotten around to devouring yet. She’s only kept just barely safe by the Head Peacekeeper, a leash on the worst of them. Plus, the phone call privilege she got from whoever was pulling the ropes in the Capitol must’ve helped. 

But all of it comes down on her all of a sudden, and Lenore Dove slides down the doorframe, sobbing, unable to hold herself up any longer.

She pulls out a scrap of paper from her notebook. Hands shaking, she scribbles her promise, this time a vow meant for Haymitch, and slides it under the doorframe, for Haymitch to see once he’s there.

She dreams then again, not even realizing she’s fallen asleep, Lenore Dove’s daydream turns into a boat and carries her into one of the night. She’s in the meadow. Under the moonlight. Like she’s just run past it, legs light as mist. But Haymitch isn’t there. She waits. And waits. And waits.

He never comes.

The next thing she knows, she’s waking up to a stream of sunlight, broken into fragments across her face, sliced clean by the leaves above. She blinks hard.

Lenore Dove shoots to her feet so fast the world tilts sideways, she hits her head to a soft surface, and she nearly topples over, only kept upright by Clerk Carmine’s steadying hand, and relief takes over fear once her Uncle’s here, now there’s just groggy confusion.

“What…?” she mutters, trying to make sense of this sudden shift in her environment, and pokes her out of the little enclosure she found herself in.

She looks around. They’re in the woods, but not hers. She’d know, she explored every inch of what she was allowed to explore back in the day, Burdock in tow.

Is this how Lenore Dove will keep waking up? Somewhere new each time. From the jail cell to her room, and now here?

Looking around, Lenore Dove finally takes in the little camp they’ve made. A tent, patched together with cloth stripped from what they have in the Covey house. One flap’s slipped loose, and that’s where the sunlight spilled in to wake her. A makeshift stove made from a tin can rests near the ashes of last night’s fire, or this morning’s. How long has it even been? Such a dramatic change in scenery makes her unsure of the time. 

There are no instruments in sight, neither her uncles strings or her tunebox, which tells her this isn’t one of their rare expeditions. And they never went this far to begin with anyway.

She turns to her uncles with narrowed eyes and starts asking. Asking again and again. Until finally, Clerk Carmine snaps, “That Abernathy boy is dangerous to everyone around him right now,” he says, jaw set.

The words stop her cold. Even Burdock, apparently, has been told to stay away. Lenore Dove’s blood runs ice.

Haymitch Abernathy. Dangerous.

A child he’s known known forever. His so-called flaws, if they even count, bootlegging, and being born to a rebel bloodline. Nothing more. Nothing worse. And it could be worse, a lot worse. Haymitch’s an angel, as good as they come. To her, her love like all-fire, he has no flaws. 

“You’re lucky I’m on house arrest,” she fires back, voice shaking, “but wait—we’re not even in a house, are we?”

Lenore Dove spreads her arms. The trees answer her, not walls, her only confinement being arbitrary lines drawn by her uncles.

“So technically, I can go. I should.” she keeps raising her voice, mad beyond reason at Clerk Carmine, at the Capitol, at the Peacekeepers, “Burdock surely must be going anyway! Haymitch is his friend!” She makes a scene of it, stepping off in the direction she thinks leads toward the Victor’s Village. But Tam Amber steps in, calm and solid, blocking her path and signaling Clerk Carmine to walk off, which he does huffing in frustration.

Tam Amber lowers his voice. Gentle, patient, forced to play the middle even more so now. Lenore Dove almost feels bad. Okay, she does feel bad. But it’s nowhere near her desperation and confusion.

“They got Peacekeepers crawling the place. For the next few weeks at least.” he says, “It’s better to keep away. Just ‘till things settle down.”

“But why does that matter to us, that we have to run away?” She asks, “Why isn’t the rest of damn Seam here then?”

“You’re close to Haymitch, you weren’t shown in the recap, but surely they know who you—“

“But why do I matter?” Lenore Dove asks, “Is it because I got arrested twice and now I’ll what, plot a rebellion with the help of a victor?”

“I know you’re scared for him,” So much. “But he’s in a vulnerable position. Capitol’s eyes won’t leave him for awhile, best to keep away.”

He brushes a strand of hair from her tear-streaked face, she hadn’t even realized she was crying. Lenore Dove hadn’t even washed up before she got whisked away into the woods.

Not like she cares about that now.

“Why?” she asks, voice thin. “He won. He’s a Victor. Like Lucy Gray.”

At her name, Tam Amber’s face goes dim.

“It’s complicated,” he says. “Sometimes, not even Victors are safe.” 

“I know that—“

“And sometimes, it’s especially them that aren’t safe. Lucy Gray had to run away, remember? And Haymitch… Haymitch’s way of doing that is staying put.”

He crouches to her level, slower now.

“Remember what I told you? How he won?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“He pulled a trick, and it wasn’t allowed.” His reaping wasn’t allowed! It was illegal! They put him into the arena illegally, now they’re mad at him for getting out in the same way? 

She tells him exactly that, nearly yells it, before getting shushed by her uncle. He looks scared, and Lenore Dove instantly feels worse, mumbles a quiet “Sorry.”

“Can’t go around talking about it, not even to birds. So…” He fishes something out of his satchel. One of her headbands he had Ima McCoy stitch from extra curtain fabric. “Make things easier for him too. He already must be tired fighting off Burdock and Blair”

She swipes the cloth from his hand but doesn’t put it on, just holds it in her fist. “He wouldn’t fight me off. I can just sneak in one night, you can cover me, can’t you?”

“Lenore Dove,” Tam Amber says, quiet and level, “Haymitch was home last night.”

“No.” Her breath stops short. First of all, that’s not his home. Secondly, he just wasn’t there. “No, he wasn’t. I knocked. I was there for more than an hour.”

Her uncle’s expression softens into something that hurts to look at. “He was. He heard you. He just… he just didn’t open the door.”

The words gut her. They’re enough to hollow her out and she keeps quiet for the rest of the day.

They stay in the woods nearly a week, five long days of waiting. Lenore Dove looks at the clouds in the daytime, just like Sid used to do, then switches her gaze to the stars when night comes.

And that one’s a goose, she’d told Sid when she was teaching him how to read them, pointing at .

Why a goose? he’d asked, smart little boy. Could be any long-necked bird.

How many long-necked birds do you even know?

There’s cranes, egrets if you’re lucky, herons, swans…

You got me, Tam Amber actually says that’s a swan. But I call it a goose.

You’re biased, Haymitch had told her. Sid laughed then, from his spot between them.

Guess I am. 

Is that a fiddle next to it? There, do you see it Lenore Dove? 

That’s the lyre. But it can be CC’s fiddle just fine, you’re right, Sid.

Her uncles have established a sign with Burdock just before leaving, her passed out in Tam Amber’s arms, Hanging Tree if safe. Sunny Side if not. The day comes and mockingjays carry Burdock’s voice, are you, are you, coming to the tree? And they go.

Lenore Dove feels a thousand years’ worth of dread fall off her shoulders, the weight of it all lifts so suddenly she almost floats.

She walks ten steps ahead of the others, calling back, “Come on now! Move it!”

But of course, Clerk Carmine just has to spoil it. “Hurry up all you want, you are going straight to your loft.”

She scowls, but she won’t fight him. For now.

They meet Burdock halfway to Covey house, her cousin waiting for them in his leather jacket and bow, two squirrels hanging from his side, Lenore Dove flinches at the sight, who knows what did they took along with them from the world, things humans like them will never truly understand, but still throws herself into him, arms tight around his middle. He hugs her back just as fiercely, holding each other tight.

“Great to see you, cuz,” he mutters into her hair. “Really see you. Didn’t get to say it last time, but look at you! Head still sitting pretty on the shoulders! And would you look at that, arms and legs all still hanging from where they gotta. Ain’t that something?"

She kicks him in the shin for that, and Burdock yelps, laughing, hopping a step back as if the sting surprised him. Her uncles pull him into quick, tight hugs, and Burdock catches them up on what’s been happening. 

“Peacekeepers are everywhere now,” he says. “Especially around the mine entrance and wide open places, even the Hob after dusk's not allowed no more. You gotta wait your turn now in day.. After the funeral and the crowd that gathered, I think they got spooked. Now groups of more than three aren’t allowed unless you’re ten and under. Can’t even walk to school with my own kin....”

“'Course,” Lenore Dove’s face scrunches in frustration, “wouldn’t want too many grieving people standing in the same place. That’s the biggest threat to peace.” she says, “I’d know, I got arrested for disrupting it.”

If peace is so weak that it breaks when people cry together, is it really peace? And if it is, is it the kind people want? The kind of peace where you cannot mourn, cannot protect, cannot share. Lenore Dove doesn't think so. She remembers the slogans, all of the propaganda, and wishes she could go in Town once more, to paint her promises.

Burdock shrugs, looking over at her uncles. “Covey house’s been quiet whenever I went to feed the geese. No one came around. I watched over it one night, too, I know you told me not to,” he adds quickly seeing her uncles faces flare, “…but nothing.”

Then, with a little hesitation, Burdock goes on, “But it feels off. Like no one knows who’s in charge anymore. My pa heard the Head Peacekeeper’s been getting orders from two or three different sources, some of 'em not even from Twelve’s chain of command. Almost like it’s split in half, or more, or people’s gone rogue.”

That makes her uncles stop short. They share a look, Lenore Dove can’t decide between confusion and suspicion.

As they start walking back, Lenore Dove and Burdock fall into step, her arm slung around his waist, his over her shoulders. 

“How’s Haymitch?” she asks, once they’re a safe distance away from her uncles. “Have you seen him?”

Burdock purses his lips, then sighs. “I’ve some guesses…” 

It’s the kind of I’ve that means I wish I hadn’t.

When it’s just been I wish I have for Lenore Dove.

“He’s not doing well, Lenore Dove.”

Her breath catches. “Not doing well how?” she presses. “Is anyone with him? And what did he do to the house,” She still can’t call that his house,  “…the one in the Victor’s Village? It looks like a battle fortress.”

Burdock exhales, his face tight with frustration. “He covered everything in planks, or something. I tried, I swear I did. But he doesn’t respond to anyone. We can’t push too much anymore. There’s two Peacekeepers there now. One at the entrance, one walking patrol. Started kicking us off the grounds like we’re trespassing…” Lenore Dove bites back from saying, they technically are trespassing.

“I still sneak in sometimes,” he adds. “With Asterid. She brings sleep syrup whenever she can. But I think… I think he’s getting rotgut from Bascom Pie. Might’ve paid off a Peacekeeper.”

He looks just as desperate as he sounds.

“Rotgut?” Lenore Dove’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Haymitch doesn’t drink.”

Even so, rotgut? Haymitch works for Hattie, works with white liquor, surely knows better than to poison himself with rotgut.

“I think he does, now.” he shakes his head, “ Haven’t even laid eyes on his face since he snuck out to find you. That morning they let you go.”

“Oh…”

“What happened with you two?” Burdock asks.

“Nothing!” she snaps, perhaps too quickly. “They let me out. Gave me two months house arrest.” Burdock winces in sympathy, “He left a gift for me on my rock. We… you know, embraced.” His face scrunches in disgust. “Then he just up and left.”

“Gift?” Burdock repeats after a beat, sounding confused.

“Gumdrops…” Lenore Dove mutters, lips curling at the memory, she’s sick of the word by now, even sicker of the candy, she will never eat it again. ““Figured Sid left ’em, or something. I didn’t even know he was back then… or, y’know… everything that happened.”

At Sid’s name, Burdock’s face falls quickly, matching hers, but then his brow furrows in confusion.

“Gumdrops. From the sweetshop?” he mutters, looking at her for confirmation, she nods. “Haymitch didn’t have anything on him. Nothing. Stores weren’t even open when we realized he’d left. And that was early, just after first light, maybe”

“Sounds about right. Sun was just coming up when he left me.” Ran away from me. “But like I said, they were on my rock.”

Her legs move, almost of their own accord, carrying her forward as if drawn by an invisible current. She feels like a walnut boat, tossed by children along the Seam’s waterways after rainfall.

Burdock walks beside her, quiet, chewing on his thoughts.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” he finally murmurs.

Lenore Dove nods faintly, “Ain’t that the word for it?

Because it doesn’t. None of it does. 

She looks back at her cousin, “So, you’ll be by messenger bird then, Burdie?”

 

Her house arrest is two months—two months where she’ll miss school, performances everything. Tam Amber says they’ll apply and negotiate for an early pardon once some time has passed and the dust settles. Right now, Twelve is nearly locked down and the Peacekeepers cracked down hard.

She’s not allowed to play piano at the Mayor’s house since she can’t even go there in the first place. Her uncles still perform, but Lenore Dove is always under watch—either guarded by Pa Everdeen or someone else they trust. 

Never Burdock, though. They don’t trust him with her, and they don’t trust both of them to stay home when they’re together. Rightfully so. They'd be out of that house in a blink, leaving dust in their place, and find some way to get to Haymitch.

He’s been warned to keep his distance from Haymitch too, but unlike his housebound cousin, he has no legal strings, more like chains, holding him down. He checks on Haymitch whenever he can, sometimes even skips school to do it, catching the bottom of his Pa’s boot for it. But he still does it, and Lenore Dove loves him for that. Also owes him a lot for becoming her courier, so much that her nickname for him sticks like gum and friends and family also start to call him Messenger Burdie.

Lenore Dove writes. On everything. It starts with short notes, her concern for him and condolences.

I’m sorry for your losses Haymitch, I’m so sorry. I can never say that enough. I can only hope you know this isn’t your fault. Nothing is.

Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Can you? Remember the horseshoe I have by my bed? I’ve taken it down so the nightmares will find their way to me. I welcome all of them with open arms so you can sleep with dreams. I can live with not seeing you in my dreams for a while if it means you’ll rest easy.

Please write back to me. 

I love you like all-fire, L.D.

Then come the reassurances.

If you think I’ll look at you any less, don’t even entertain that thought, I won’t let you. I love you more than the sum of every feather on my goose, and every feather that’s ever been in their whole bloodline. That’s generations of down and devotion we’re talking about and still it wouldn’t come close to how much I love you. I think I’m running out of words to describe my love. 

You’re still you, and I love you, forever, and then some, L.D.

With each one, her words turn into letters, the letters into a kind of diary in which she recalls her day and vents to him like she’d any other day, each entry beginning with Dear Haymitch.

Dear H. ,

guess what I’ve done today? I pestered Tam Amber just enough to make him let me try some forge welding. Takes a bit of muscle, I won’t lie. But I’ve built up some from hauling my tunebox around so much. Not to boast, of course. Tam Amber says I need more in the upper arms if I ever want to do any real blacksmithing. Maybe one day.

Watching him work makes it all look too easy. I’ve always appreciated the worth of his craft, but trying it myself? That takes it to another level.

Do you still have the flint striker? The horseshoe is still down, so I regret to inform you that i'm still having dreams. Though can't complain much about that, not when I see my gift to you in them, on you, of course, since you’re the main attraction in all my dreams. Sometimes I think your soul comes to mine and weaves my dreams into a quilt, and cover me with it, and I only sleep better thanks to you. Just thought of it, maybe the horseshoe thing is not working because you don't have one hung. You better do that, so my efforts won't be for nothing.

I hope I hear from you soon. Please let Burdock in. He’s seriously considering serenading you until you open that door.

L.D.

And eventually, she basically begins to practice poetry. Writing him letters that border on poems, and she doesn’t feel desperate for it.  The boy receiving her words is alone, traumatized, and grieving. But beneath all that, he’s her Seam boy that she knows at the core and loves so so much, Lenore Dove keeps reminding herself whenever her hand hesitates reaching for the pen. Even if he’s not responding, he sure is reading them. 

Lenore Dove pours her heart into every letter and seals with a kiss, soft as spider silk. So when Haymitch unfolds the paper, miles away, her love leaps from the page like a robin eager to sing its songs at the first light of sunrise, finding him, touching the part of his heart that still remembers her own pulse.

By now, it’s been more than thirty days, little less than thirty letters, and Lenore Dove is too frustrated staying home, not being able to paint promises in her sunrise orange, not being able to see Haymitch, not getting any replies from him, and Burdock’s increasingly worrying news about him.

“I managed to climb up the house and break in — Jed and Gillie helped. Smelt like somebody’s gut turned inside out in there.” Haymitch’s, probably, most likely, definitely, who else’s can it be? “ I gave him your letters and got out quick.

Oh, my eye? Well… I mean. Okay, we fought. He just come at me, so what if I broke in? Anyway, we fought. He was drunk, tore down.”

A sigh follows. “He’s in real bad shape, too. But I don’t know what to do except keep on pestering him to open up. I don’t know how to be when he doesn’t act like the Haymitch I know.”

Boy oh boy if Lenore Dove doesn’t know the feeling… 

Lenore Dove is at her wit’s end. She even picks Lucy Gray’s guitar up and starts toying with it, and after replacing the strings with Tam Amber’s help, been nearly a year since she’s last picked it up, she starts to practise for real. 

She’s so bored, so burdened, so pent-up with things she can’t say, can’t scream, can’t do, all to the one person she misses the most, and so does anything to keep her mind busy for sanity’s sake, that she might as well come out of this confinement a one-woman band.

On the porch, fingers plucking at strings, nose buried in sheet music, she tries to find some kind of solace between the staves. But the musical notations offer no answers this time, provides no comfort to her even as the guitar fills her empty arms, longing to hold someone. She feels just as helpless as she did the night she stormed the stage after the interviews—maybe even more so, now that she can’t set a single foot outside her front door.

Lenore Dove’s almost done with the instrumental, a little bummed it took her nearly two weeks, so now she’s working on singing while she plays. It’s very much out of her comfort zone of smooth keys and diatonic buttons. Her voice shakes, her fingers fumble the G C D progression, G to C, G to D, her strumming uneven at times. But each repetition pushes her closer to completing the song, and soon she’s blinking back tears, she has not yet managed to stop her voice from cracking by the end of it. 

Now the family is parted,

Will it be complete one day?

She gets frustrated when Burdock joins in and sings with her, not because he’s annoying, he is but she can't do anything about that other than hit him,  but because she can’t stop admiring him, which is worse. There must be flowers blooming in his lungs, roots carrying air and blood instead of veins. Where Lenore Dove sings with the birds, Burdock makes the them go tongue-tied. They fall silent, listening. And because Lenore Dove's a bird herself, she finds herself quiet, too.

“Why’re you doing this song?” he asks, strumming her guitar as they sit out on the porch stairs. He’s never been one for instruments—my lungs and my tongue are my instruments, he’d say, especially when he got mad at her for teasing. You’re related to Covey and can’t even play a few notes? C’mon now, Burdie.

Lenore Dove snatches the guitar back when his hand starts messing around the tuning pegs. She just tuned it, there’s no way she’s letting him ruin it. “I’m gonna play it for Sid and Willamae. And Louella. And everyone there.”

“You can’t even go out.”

“My uncles’ll talk to the Peacekeepers. Enough time’s passed. Tam Amber’s bound to speak to Gravy sooner or later.”

“Gravy?”

“Nero Marble.”

“You call the Head Peacekeeper Gravy?”

“Alifair told me that she heard Cayson telling Ima that’s his nickname. His little Peacekeeper friend told him.” Lenore Dove says. Well, Alifair didn’t really tell her on purpose. Baby McCoy accidentally let it slip when she came along with Ima who was there to pick up some of her skirts that needed stitching. The way Ima spun around to face Alifair was quite the sight, Lenore Dove has never seen the older girl so spirited before. It ended up a delightful memory for Lenore Dove, not so much for Alifair who got dragged home by her ear.

“Oh…” He purses his lips. “That’s too good. Why didn’t Cayson or Gillie tell me that? Why didn’t Alifair tell me?” He sounds personally wounded that the neighborhood gossip didn’t find its way to him first, and even more hurt that Alifair didn’t bother to tell him about it.

Burdock’s always been good to Alifair, so he probably is a little betrayed. Where Louella once had her infamous infatuation with Haymitch, and kept alive all these years by Haymitch’s Sweetheart jests, Alifair had been sweet on Burdock. Though nowhere near as bold as her older sister, it was obvious. The way her eyes locked on Burdock and refused to budge, like even a mine explosion under her feet wouldn’t be enough to break her gaze. Though Burdock didn’t see it much, typical of him.

She practices her tunebox too, all the time, fingers moving almost without thought. New Year’s is coming, ir’s months away, she whined to no avail, and they’re set to play at the Mayor’s house again. 

Morning practises are with Tam Amber, plays Tam Lin just for him just to see him acting giddy, evening practises are with Clerk Carmine- those late hours when both him and Lenore Dove are just too tired to start quarelling. Still, Clerk Carmine’s words about Haymitch linger in her mind like smoldering smoke.

Sometimes he says them again when she presses them about him. That boy’s dangerous to be around.

As if that boy isn’t the same one he’s known forever. Like he’s not the one she brought home with her, trailing behind. Like Haymitch isn’t the boy who saves every book, every page, anything he can find, just to give to her. Like he hadn’t memorized her name poem and recited it to her in the meadow on her birthday. Like, like…

Her heart clenches every time Clerk Carmine speaks like that - as if Haymitch is wildfire, like he’s very consumption itself, eating one from the inside, like he’s the coal dust that sticks to the lung and paints it black. He’s been a champion of Clerk Carmine’s love for so long, why is it hard for him to do the same? At some point, it stops feeling like basic protectiveness and turns into clots of resentment and hostility. She used to purse her lips when Haymitch grew frustrated with her uncle and warned him, but now it's gotten to her too. 

She only misses Haymitch more and more.

And so she and Clerk Carmine don’t really talk. They clash. Like flint and steel, or not, she remembers her gift to Haymitch and takes that aphorism right back. Like her gaggle of geese when they spot anyone who isn’t her - hissing, flaring, ready to bite, fight. Yes, that’s more like it. 

But she starts playing along. Stops bringing up Haymitch. The questions still burn in her, but by now she’s learned that her uncles hold no answers—only vague, half-hearted consolations. What she really wants to know is what Haymitch told them that made them pack up and leave for the woods, turned into guard dogs overnight. And the only one who can tell her that is her Seam boy himself.

She knows that Lucy Gray’s end came by someone in the Capitol. And Haymitch, now connected irreversibly to there, must bring some kind of bad omen to her as well. A bad omen, that’s how they see it. And say it. And oh, how it hurts her, like fingers plucking feathers one by one.

The way they talk to her, it almost sounds like they came to these ideas on their own. But she knows better. It’s the same as it’s always been. They never tell her the whole thing—just bits and pieces, a riddle here, a warning there—enough to keep her quiet for another day. Just enough to keep her from flying too close to the truth, or she’ll burn. Like it makes a difference. Since falling in love with Haymitch, she’s been on fire in the best way possible. Immune to flames, but now it’s scorching her.

Not everything is the same, though. Because Lenore Dove has a new friend now.

Asterid March is quiet, like her—at least around unfamiliar company—so their first real interaction isn’t much. But Lenore Dove is already more than grateful to her for helping Haymitch, and it makes it so much easier to approach the prettiest girl in their entire District.

Other girls have been jealous of her, boys stare wistfully after her. Asterid stands out in any crowd like a beautiful blue Love-in-idleness - all pale blonde hair and striking blue eyes. It’s not just that, there are plenty of blondes in Town, but Asterid’s perfect face matches her air, soft voice, nature, everything about her in a way that’s rare.

Nor Lenore Dove or her own had paid her much mind before. Then, one evening, she showed up in the Seam alone unexpectedly, treating newly married Leidy Ann Balsam, though that’s her old surname and Lenore Dove doesn’t remember which family she married into, who’d been whipped in the town square earlier that day — yelled at a Peacekeeper following and whistling after her. The young healer moved like a mourning dove, all quiet, almost like Lenore  Doveherself, if she’s being honest.

They bond over many things. And it becomes clear to Lenore Dove that Asterid is just as lonely as she is. Maybe even more so, these days.

The first time Burdock brings Asterid with him, they don’t say much. They’ve just come from dropping off sleeping syrup for Haymitch, trying to keep him off rotgut. Burdock disappears for hours, wildcrafting in the woods, sometimes accompanied by Asterid herself acting as a guide, sometimes only a page of her instructions, and returns with a bag full of herbs, which he hands to the girl over the counter.

“I’m so sorry about Maysilee, Asterid,” Lenore Dove says.

“Thank you,” Asterid replies. Her face falls immediately, the light in her eyes dimming. “Sorry about Louella, and Wyatt. And Woodbine. And the Abernathys.”

The list of the lost is long, as it usually is. With the last one, Lenore Dove gets the feeling she means Haymitch, too.

“Thank you for helping Haymitch.”

“’Least I can do,” Asterid says, smiling faintly. “He was with Maysilee ’til the end. She wasn’t alone.” She nods as if she’s told herself this a thousand times. She probably has. “I’m grateful for that.”

Lenore Dove nods in understanding. She wasn’t allowed to watch the Games, and missed the recap when she was kidnapped to the woods—but she knows this much thanks to her uncles updating her during their visitations. They were partnered up, right until the final five, when Maysilee was killed. By birds.

Birds. What a haunting way to go. Lenore Dove selfishly hopes she dies any way but that. Birds are her thing —the idea that something so beautiful, so effortless, can take a life as it sings, terrifies her

“What about her sister? How’s she holding up”

Asterid’s expression falls even further if that’s even possible and Lenore Dove gets her answer before hearing it: She doesn’t.

“Merrilee is…” She looks down, fumbling with her thumbs. “She just doesn’t want anyone, right now, or anything. Her head hurts real bad, can't even get up most the time, so I make syrup for her too.”

They exchange a glance. And right then and there, a new friendship is born.

Lenore Dove even lets Asterid try her hand at the instruments, though she’s no good at any of them.

“No musical bone in me,” Asterid admits as she hands Lenore Dove her tunebox, flushing red as Burdock barely stifles a laugh at her failed attempt, which Lenore Dove can’t help but kick him for, laughing like he’s any good himself, but can’t help but snort, “Just roots and flowers.”

“What about your blood?” Lenore Dove asks, letting out a laughter. Even if she surrenders fully to this brief moment of joy, lasting no longer than a bird’s flap downward, she knows it’ll only hit her harder when it’s over, and she’s drowning in guilt; laughing and having fun when Haymitch’s suffering. “Think maybe music’s running there?”

What is he thinking in that moment, when they are joking around?

What if he’s crying at the exact second a laugh escapes her lips?

Lenore Dove can’t bear to live in a world in which that happened.

“Not really. I guess my veins are more full of…” Asterid pretends to think about it. “Hm… Medicine?”

Burdock laughs even harder, and the apothecary’s daughter looks proud of herself. And suddenly, the chances of Burdock achieving his dreams don’t seem as far off as they used to. Lenore Dove smiles too— wishes she could catch Haymitch’s eye and share it with him. She can almost picture him raising his dark brows in that Would you look at that kind of way.

Day by day, letter by letter, song by song, her days pass. 

She and Asterid promise each other to sit together in class. 

“Merrilee’s not coming to school anymore,” Asterid says one afternoon. “She dropped out, for good.”

“Oh…” Lenore Dove lifts her head up from the poppy pods she and Asterid were scraping dried gum from. “Because of the…”

“Yeah.” Asterid drops a chunk of dark brown gum into the little jar she brought from home., “She doesn’t even sleep in their room anymore — I mean, hers now. She’s in with her ma, and Mr. Donner’s been crashing on the couch. It’s… a tough spot.”

“It’s understandable.” How could she? When Merrilee woke up beside Maysilee every morning and fell asleep beside her every night. When their first words of the day were probably “good morning” to each other, and their last, “good night.”

“Yeah,” Asterid says, drawing in a deep breath. “They even gave me her canary.” 

She says it like she’s been waiting to, and Lenore Dove understands that the floodgates are open and Asterid will share most of what’s troubling her so far,  “He doesn’t sing much anymore. Um, something happened with Merrilee, and he’s very rattled. I was actually thinking about bringing him to Burdock, just so his singing might spur Dandy on.”

"Dandy?"

"Short for Dandelion. Maisy’s the one named him." She smiles, but it strains against her muscles, and Asterid blinks back tears. "Merry said it sounded like a girl's name and gave her all kinds of grief, but she’s the one named their last canary Lou Lou, so..." 

As much as Lenore Dove hates the thought of any bird in a cage, let alone two, much like how she sees herself right now, like how she sees Haymitch alone in that Capitol cage of his, it makes her want to lash out. 

But she swallows the words rising in her throat. Not the time, not the time. She presses her lips together and nods instead. “That might work. Birds always sing for him, I guess it takes one birdie to know one Burdie.”

“Yeah…” Asterid says, smiling a little. “It feels weird, not sitting with them in school. I’m usually alone these days.”

Lenore Dove is surprised by that, Asterid March might just be the most sought-after girl by both girls and boys alike. 

“Don’t you have other friends? Close friends? You’re very liked all around, Town and Seam both.”

Asterid blushes a bit, and shrugs.

“I do, though not all affection is returned, closest I've ever been to anyone were Merry and Maisy. Right now, I like spending time with you more than anyone else. You and Burdock.” She says, with a fleeting glance at the dirt road Burdock tends to walk to come visit. “Besides, I need to learn something musical. Between your instruments and his singing, I feel like I’m falling behind.”

“I’m real glad for the company, too. Appreciate you dropping by.”

“How’re you gonna pay me back?”

"Thought I was already giving you some music lessons?"

"Well, that don't cut it alone.."

“You take goose eggs?”

“I was thinking something better,,” Asterid says. She’s obviously shy, but still braver with her words and comfortable with her approach way more than Lenore Dove. “How'bout being my seat mate when you come back to school?”

“Well now,” She smiles, finding it easy to agree to Asterid, maybe it’s her weakness against pretty things, “You got yourself a deal..”

Lenore Dove waves at her as she leaves, jar of dried poppy tears tucked safely in her shoulder bag, the pale fishtail braid swaying behind her. She leaves with a promise to bring pastries next time from the bakery. Otho Mellark makes the best vinegar pie whenever he gets his hands on some spare fixing, I'll bring you a slice!

And so Lenore Dove plays with her tunebox a little before climbing up to her loft. She writes to Haymitch, kisses the page, folds it carefully. On the porch, she drums a messy rhythm on Ma’s old drums, just to try it but stops when she spots Clerk Carmine getting teary-eyed at the sight and noise of her playing it, hands off the letter when Burdock visits in the evening, then slips back inside to play Lucy Gray’s guitar. She helps Tam Amber with supper, shares a meal with her uncles, awfully quiet though not for lack of trying on their part, and goes to bed, makes sure the horseshoe is not hung anywhere, and cries herself to sleep.

Just another day in the solitude of Lenore Dove Baird.

 

Gravy gives her the pardon on the fortieth day of her house arrest, a coincidence that it overlaps with the day of the Abernathys' accident. Lenore Dove doesn’t go straight to Haymitch, like she'd told him in her letters many times, instead, she visits the graveyard first.

Her heart breaks at the sight.

It’s well-tended, especially the tributes’ plots—covered in flowers, all of them, and what looks like letters laid gently across Maysilee’s grave. Asterid once told her, after seeing Lenore Dove hand Burdock a letter for Haymitch, that Merrilee had been writing to Maysilee too—whenever her mind felt clear enough to sit up and hold a pen. 

Lenore Dove felt a little unsettled by the comparison, considering Maysilee was dead and Haymitch was pretty much alive, though one would struggle to describe him as living at the moment.

She also feels guilty wanting to open them and read, like they're scattered pages of a book. 

The McCoys are there, too, mourning Sid and Willamae. Alifair and Gillie place flowers beside Lenore Dove’s own bunch made of primrose, sweet William and Baby’s-breath that she collected along with Burdock and Asterid. In her pocket, she’s keeping the honeysuckles for Haymitch.

Though the McCoys came for the Abernathys, they inevitably drift toward Louella’s resting place. Her brothers leave flowers. Ruth McCoy, after weeping for Sid and Willamae for awhile, moves on to caress her daughter’s headstone with a napkin, not even caring to use another one to wipe her own tears. Lenore Dove can’t help but think it’s some kind of ritual to feel closer to Louella.

Little Alifair places a piece of paper on Sid and Willamae’s plot. On it, she’s drawn a constellation—Little Bear and Great Bear—labeled with their names, Sid and Willamae respectively, and wrote on top it I found your Stars. Then she hurries back to her pa’s side and wraps her arms around his middle, turning her face away from the graves. Lenore Dove’s eyes start burning.

She lifts Lucy Gray’s guitar. The crowd is a smaller one, but still able to gather. The Peacekeepers, slack in discipline these days, are nowhere to be seen. Cayson tells her the command structure’s a mess- orders unclear, overlapping, contradictory. Most just falsify reports to keep both parties happy. The worst they do now is harass young men out of sheer boredom.

She and Burdock sing for the small group gathered to honor Willamae and Sid. Lenore Dove’s voice falters in the same spot it always does, but thankfully Burdock’s there to keep the singing going. She hears Ruth McCoy sobbing softly in the back, feels her own tears slipping down her cheeks. Her fingers keep sliding on the strings, adding broken, discordant notes to the background

For some reason, they hold small memorials like this on the fortieth day after a death, for as long as they’ve known, though no one can clearly explain why. 

What is it that really happens on the fortieth day?

That’s what Lenore Dove and Burdock start talking about after everyone else has left—even Asterid. They're waiting for Haymitch, they convince themselves that he’ll come once he’s sure everyone else’s has left, but they both know he probably doesn’t even know what day it is.

“Maybe that’s when they’re really gone,” Lenore Dove says quietly.

Burdock looks over. “Gone where?”

“In the sky.”

“To? The hereafter?” he asks. “Or your heaven with them angels?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe when they’re ghosts, they wait here a while. And on the fortieth day, that’s when they get there. Finally.”

“Bit cruel that it takes so long,” Burdock says after a while. “I’d hope they went there right away.”

“Me too. But what else could it be for?” Lenore Dove replies, “Maybe the angels have to come down first, then carry them up, and that’s why it takes so long.”

Burdock shrugs, but says nothing. The two of them sit in the dirt, knees pulled up, staring out at the graves. It’d be eerie, maybe even frightening, to linger here as the sky deepens into dusk, but with Burdock there, and the thought of the person coming here — its not.

“Hey, Lenore Dove,” he says finally, eyes fixed on nothing, “In the song—Now they dwell with Him above—who do you think that is?”

“Who? Him or they?”

“Him.”

Lenore Dove pauses. She’s thought about it before, actually—quietly, on her own—but she’s never come to a clear answer. There’s a mention in her name ballad, which has confused her a bit when she’s first seen it. ““Maybe…” she begins, thinking at the same time, “maybe He oversees heaven.”

“What, like a Peacekeeper officer?”

“The opposite of that,” she says, the corner of her mouth tilts up slightly, just a ghost of a smirk, “Someone who’s just. Someone good.”

Burdock hums, thoughtful.

She looks at him, “Like in my name ballad, there’s something called God.”

 

     "Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” 

       Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

 

“What does it— no…What does He do?” Burdock asks.

“He sends angels to the narrator,” Lenore Dove replies, "Or so what narrator thinks, at first. He thinks the angels were there to take him to heaven."

“So… He’s above angels, then? Command-wise, since he's ordering them around.”

“Must be,” she says, “Then that’s Him in the song, too.”

Burdock goes quiet at that. But the trouble in his expression doesn’t ease. He leans forward, resting his cheek in his palm. “Do you think there’s someone who looks after us, too?”

“Is that who you think He is?” she asks. “Or… God, I guess I should say I think?”

He nods. “Like in your name ballad. He sends the angels for the narrator to what, help him? Even if he's not, that's what narrator first thinks, that's what he must've been expecting from God. And he sends the angels to take people when they die too. That all means that He is watching.” His voice trails off, waiting for her answer.

Lenore Dove has thought about it. Of course she has, even talked to Haymitch. How could she not, when most of her kin are probably in that place people say waits for them, holding the ones they’ve lost until they’re together again?

She stays silent too, just like Burdock. It’s not an easy question—not the kind you can wrap up with a neat answer. There’s no answer that satisfies her completely, nothing she can commit her whole heart to. Though he’s right— whoever, whatever God is, his actions in songs and poems say he’s watching, and intervening at times. A watcher. Sender of angels. Someone who the dead stay with in bliss.

She’s thought about the place, the one the songs call the sweet hereafter. Where everything is good and pure, where songs also say the souls rest in bliss in the sky, with Him. But she’s never really thought about how it’s decided who ends up there. What makes someone worthy. Who decides.

“I don’t know,” she says at last, “I guess, I don’t know if this is anything I’ll ever be sure of. Not until I die. I just… hope that it'll matter after I do, that there’s someone who looks after us. Even if it's after death.” 

As angry as she is, to the Capitol, to Snow, so the Hunger Games, to the world for letting them suffer in such collective silence, the selfish, yet hopeful part of Lenore Dove wants to find solace in that after death, she won't be completely alone, and whoever takes her to her loved ones, she's fine by.

Burdock doesn’t say anything, her answer doesn’t satisfy him, but this question is one that won’t provide a gratifying answer, it just won’t. He lifts his gaze to the Moon, now hanging bright above the Sun. Lenore Dove wonders if they say good night to each other, when the Sun is going to rise somewhere else on their world, and when the Moon has just left another place.

“Honestly…” he starts, voice low. His gray eyes catch the moonlight, turning soft and ghostlike, like twin moons themselves. “I don’t know what’s worse. That there’s no one, and we’re completely alone in this world…”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the Moon, like he’s daring Him to show Himself.

“Or that there is someone watching, and still doing nothing.” he says, then stops. "Which, again, means we are truly by ourselves."

Later, when Lenore Dove goes to sing the song for Haymitch, her voice catches at that part again, her throat tightens and lyrics struggle to leave, but she sings.

She thinks she feels a warmth at her back, just for a moment, lets herself believe she hears a faint thud of someone moving from the other side of the door. But she knows she has to leave before the patrolling Peacekeeper comes back and throws her in jail again, which is the best case scenerio. She doubts she’ll end up as lucky this time.

She slides the honeysuckles through the small gap and walks home under the Moon. It seems to follow her the whole way.  Maybe God has two eyes like anyone; one is the Sun, the other Moon, and they take turns watching over the world. 

Lenore Dove doesn’t stop herself from whispering to one of His eyes, even if there’s a small chance, even if she doesn’t fully believe in such a thing, she still does it, and asks Him, whoever He is, to send an angel and help Haymitch.

Notes:

Actual footage of LD under house arrest only she cries herself to sleep every night and has fits of sadness during the day... well...

I'm not really religious myself, nor do I think much about it, I'd say I'm more of a deist. But the absence of religion in Panem is too solemn and interesting. People don't even have the chance to take refuge in a higher being to comfort themselves, or hope by praying to that... Anyways...

Long note

For this chapter I skimmed through a Opium Poppy Cultivation guide and learned how to extract morphine just so I could write Asterid and LD talking while working with the poppy pods (there must be some in the d12 woods i swear)... Still not 100% accurate but since LD couldn't leave I had to bring the pods to her. Anyways.. Also I'm currently trying to figure out how one would make turpentine and coal oil by stilling...Especially turpentine bc again I read about southern Appalachian folk remedies and it's quite literally a panacea of those times, expect it to make an appearance because Asterid will be using bottles of it.

+ if LD seems a little too attached to Haymitch here - bc she is. these two are the ultimate loverboy/lovergirl and are NOT good at letting the other go. Call it passion, obsession, whatever, it's everything. I'll die on this hill.

So as I'm writing the chapters I some-times re-read SotR to call back stuff, and I realised I imagined LD's tunebox as a melodeon rather than the typical piano accordion even when Suzanne literally specified hers as an ANCIENT PIANO ACCORDION, but the tunebox's always been a little cute thing in my head, not a concertina but still... most of this chapter was written before I even realised that, who knows maybe I'll fix it later on or it's good news for Lenore Dove, she has another instrument!! She truly is the Chyna Parks of Panem.
Here's some tunes for the interested, : LD and CC LD and TA LD solo practice LD playing Tam Lin

Chapter 4: Dust people in a glass sea

Summary:

Lenore Dove learns that stepping on broken glass isn't always worth it.

Notes:

Mazzy Star, Into Dust

Burdock’s waiting for her in front of the Covey house.

They’ve talked about this, even Clerk Carmine’s knows the plan by now. Her uncle didn’t say much against it, only got that gruff, furrowed look like he was chewing on something sour or spoiled, or both. 

Not like it matters to Lenore Dove now, not when the plan is established: storm Haymitch’s house and bring him back to civilisation. That’s coming from Lenore Dove and Burdock, of course. Asterid suggested a gentler approach, but that did no good so far, it was shut down quickly.

Lenore Dove will meet her cousin there, together, they’ll head into town and pick up Asterid from the apothecary, grab the fresh sleep syrups, and make their way to the Victor’s Village.

Truth be told, she’d rather go alone. But Burdock and Asterid insisted. She’s a bit offended that they think he’s this wild creature that’ll hurt her, but she doesn’t push further. Her and Burdock can sometimes be a little too headstrong by themselves and butt heads, Asterid provides a solid middle ground.

It’s a busy morning. Asterid’s flitting around the little clinic like a sparrow in strong wind, on her father’s heels as he tends to the customers. So the two cousins wait, leaning against the sun-warmed brick of the building in easy silence.

“How’d you two get close, anyway?” she asks, breaking the silence. “This close. I know you were trading after starting your little wildcrafting spiel. But I’ll be honest, we thought you were just pestering her, me and Haymitch both. Turns out, she’s just as sweet on you as you are on her.”

“You think so?

“I see so.”

Burdock’s face flushes a deep, betraying red. “I think so, too. I guess just because she wasn’t making it obvious didn’t mean she didn’t like me,” he says. “It’s new, for both of us. We’ve been closer since the Games started. You were in jail by then. Both of our best friends in there…”

He rests his head back against the brick, the motion slow and almost shy. “Knowing each other helped. And for me, it was something only she could understand. She said she found both her pain and remedy in me. It was the same for me.”

Burdock smiles, “It is the same for me,” he adds. “She’s, I already knew she’s been the one. One for For me, I really believe that. But right now, I’m just enjoying her friendship more than anything.”

Lenore Dove nods. “She’s a good friend.”

“She sure is.”

He’s still smiling. Lenore Dove tries to match it, but something inside her coils tight. A small, bitter twist of jealousy rises in her throat, real ugly. She hates how much bad feelings she’s been carrying lately, grief, guilt, rage, longing. Now this. She wonders if that’s all she has left to feel.

Asterid finds them not long after her shift ends, slipping out from the apothecary like sunlight through leaves, quite literally with her hair catching the light as soon as she appears in the dreary street. Her eyes go straight to Burdock, of course they do, and Lenore Dove pushes herself off the wall, heart aching in ways she doesn’t have the time or energy to name.

The walk to Victor’s Village is not too long, but certainlt feels so and Lenore Dove finds herself grateful for the company, her heart’s beating with anticipation, tickling with longing and so much yearning, it feels like it’s growing in size with each step.

Half a mile later, they reach the gates of the Victor’s Village. No Peacekeepers are on guard or on patrol, just as Burdock had said. With Haymitch never leaving his house and no clear orders from above, the Peacekeepers have simply stopped bothering with this region.

Just as they approach his house -his boarded-up, shut-off-from-the-world Capitol cage- the door creaks open, and Haymitch steps out.

Lenore Dove’s heart leaps into her throat and freezes right there, similarly, the other two stop as well and they all halt in unison, stunned, staring at the man in the doorway. Haymitch has one foot  crossing the threshold, holding a wooden crate in his arms.

There he is. Her Haymitch. That’s his silhouette. That’s his form. That’s his shadow, cast across the porch.

A dozen steps away. Just a few strides, believe her when she says she’d run faster than she ever had before, and she could be close enough to touch him. To throw her arms around him. To kiss him. He’s so achingly near, pulling every bit of her to himself, that it knocks the breath right out of Lenore Dove’s lungs.

But before any of them get a grip and move, Haymitch hoists the crate a bit higher, and smashes it down on the porch. Glass explodes in every direction, raining down across the doorway, the porch, the steps, even scattering across the granite path just a few feet away from them.

“Hey!” Burdock shouts, both angry and startled, stepping forward.

Haymitch vanishes inside for a split second, then reappears with a wild glint in his eyes, arms full of rocks, another empty bottle clutched in one hand. He hurls the bottle toward them. It shatters upon impact on the ground, glass singing and moving across the road like waves would wash on shore. The three of them shriek and skip back, the glass pieces too close for comfort.

“Stay the fuck away!” Haymitch bellows. His voice is hoarse, guttural.

“What the fuck, Haymitch?!” Burdock yells back, the words bursting out of him. He never swears, he especially would not even think about doing it near Asterid, but then, neither does Haymitch. Even Lenore Dove feels one rising in her throat, and angelic Asterid looks like she might finally crack too. The girl stands frozen, shellshocked.

But Haymitch starts hurling the rocks - one crashes against the ground just in front of them, another thuds to their left, a third skitters to the right. None come dangerously close.

For Lenore Dove, the world could be falling apart around her, it already kind of is, and it wouldn’t matter. He's there, all real, just feet away. And even if he’s throwing bottles and screaming them away like a madman, her heart can only see one thing, know one truth - he’s alive, and she’s looking at him.

The boys are shouting now, their voices clashing in a two risings waves of frustration and deflection. Asterid stands frozen in place, her wide eyes darting between them all, utterly lost. And then Lenore Dove takes a single step forward.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

Haymitch jerks like he’s been struck, hurls one last rock before bolting back inside. The door slams shut behind him, almost does anyway. An abandoned, fallen rock wedges itself in the frame, keeping it from sealing fully.

The last rock, however, is already thrown and with a thwack, it hits Asterid right in the head.

The girl lets out a shriek, clutching her temple as she drops to the ground. She lands hard on her backside, tears already springing to her eyes, blood trickling between her fingers.

Burdock is at her side in an instant, knees hitting the ground. 

“Are you okay?”  

The girl nods in shock, lifting her hand off her face and looking at the blood on it, before bringing it back to her temple. Burdock’s face is a storm of worry that turns, second by second, into raw fury. He whirls to face Haymitch’s door, jaw clenched, eyes burning, and turns back to Asterid.

“Hold on to me, Asterid,” he says gently, wrapping an arm around her and helping her upright, Lenore Dove holds the girl’s elbow to steady her. Her legs tremble beneath her, wobbly from the shock. Blood streaks down the right side of her face, vivid against her pale skin. She clings to him with her free hand, taking shaky breaths as she tries to calm her nerves. “Let me see.

She lifts her palm just a bit, and Burdock hisses in sympathy. “Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s just a cut,” he tells her. “Are you dizzy?” A shake. “You think you can walk?” A nod. “Okay, okay, we’re taking you to the apothecary right now.”

“You take her,” Lenore Dove says, biting back the guilt of leaving her new friend in this state, “I’m going in. I need to speak to him.”

Burdock, halfway down the path with Asterid leaning into his side, snaps his head back toward her. “You’re—did you just see what he did? I’m not letting you go in there.”

“Good thing you don't let me do anything, Burdock.” Her tone sharpens, but only for a breath. Then she glances at Asterid, eyebrows furrowing apologetically. “Just be quick. Get her to her pa. Haymitch didn’t do it on purpose. And he’d never hurt me.”

“Lenore Dove,” Burdock warns, his face is desperate, torn between getting help for Asterid and keeping his cousin safe, but her blonde friend nods at her, and tugs Burdock’s jacket, “We’ll see her later.”

“Just go,” she says, already turning toward the house, eyes locked on the door hanging half-open. “I’ll come see you, Asterid!” 

“Be careful! I’m coming back to get you after I drop her off!” 

Her first obstacle is the sea of shattered glass. Her shoes aren't sturdy enough to guard against the jagged shards gleaming in the light like a thousand predator’s eyes. So Lenore Dove circles around the worst of it, stepping onto the lawn, stepping on the freshly cut grass as she edges carefully to the side of the porch. From there, she steps up gently, tiptoeing across the wooden boards. 

The tips of her shoes push against the floor carefully, thinner glass pieces crunch beneath them and she hopes the thicker fronts will be enough to keep them from slicing through. But right now, there's no room in her mind for that kind of worry.

She gets in the house just as a hand slams it shut behind her. She jerks, finds herself face to face with Haymitch. He must’ve doubled back, realizing he hadn’t shut the door, probably heard all thath glass crunching under her feet. He moved faster than she thought he could.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves, frozen in time. 

From this close, he looks worse than Burdock described. Ragged, starved - not just of food, he looks starved of everything one needs to really live. 

His body has definitely withered since she last saw him, thinner, hollowed out. His hair is longer now, hanging down to his chin, unkempt. His face is gaunt, all sharp angles and dark circles haunting his face. Even at his hungriest, there had always been some spark in him. Something lit by her, and the idea of a future he’d once brave enough to imagine, maybe. There’s none of that now. No trace of that boy. Just a man disintegrating from the inside.

Haymitch had always smelled like liquor, never been a stranger to it, especially after time with Hattie, but now it clings to him like a second skin. Not even white liquor, but something acidic and sickly. Bascom Pie’s rotgut. She’s sure that’s what’s eating his insides now, working alongside grief and trauma. She wonders what Hattie would think of him getting rotgut, maybe she knows, maybe she’s tried diverting him to white liquor, the lesser of two evils.

Their eyes lock.

He doesn’t breathe. Neither does she. For one second, Lenore Dove thinks he might kiss her. 

“Leave,” he rasps.

He doesn’t kiss her. A shame, because she couldn’t care less about him reeking of rotgut, or the faint stubble, she’d gladly kiss him. Instead, his hand presses down on the door handle and flings it open.

“No.”

“I said, fucking leave.”

“No. And don’t swear at me.”

“I’ll—“ 

His eye twitches. His hands tighten into fists, then release. Without another word, he turns and walks deeper into the house.

Lenore Dove lets out a shaky breath and looks around. Right by the door are about a dozen cardboard boxes stacked in piles. Only a few have been opened. The rest remain sealed, but a rancid smell wafts from them. One box has a rip along the side, and she catches a flash of a pink tail vanishing back into the box at the noise of their encounter.

She closes her eyes before holding her breath and walking past the heap of rotten parcels.

She follows him, deeper into the dark. The floor doesn’t creak here - either it's sturdier than it looks, or it’s from disuse. This house has stood for a long time, older than either of them. She’s pretty sure the Capitol sends people to refurnish and refurbish the floors every five years or so. Some pointless act of upkeep, even if no one lives here. A fresh coat of wall paint over a lifeless foundation. Like a veil of dead skin spread out on a skeleton. 

Every window of the ground floor is boarded shut, just like Burdock said, planks nailed over them with a desperation. Like he’s barricading himself from Burdock, from her, like they’re the enemies he needs to protect himself from.

“You hurt Asterid.” she says, “She was bringing you sleep syrup.”

Haymitch doesn’t respond when she reaches the living room. He’s rummaging through the clutter, looking for something, likely rotgut. She watches his hands, they flinch, tremble faintly, probably because of, yes— rotgut.

“Did you get my letters?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer. “I wrote a lot.”

To you. Every day.

She can’t take it anymore,she’s by his side in a heartbeat, hands reaching for him. Touching him flares her heart, lights it on fire. The sensation burst out of the beating organ and burns its way through her veins to every inch of skin where they connect.

“Haymitch…” she breathes, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He doesn’t pull away.

His eyes lock on hers, wide and glassy, red lines surrounding that stormy gray growing more pronounced with every second. He trembles under her hands. And in that moment, shaking and wrecked and unsure, heart open and spread under her feet, he looks every bit the boy she remembers, loves.

She just needs him to stay here for one second longer. Maybe two.

“I missed you. So much,” she says, her voice trembling as her hands squeeze his arms. They’re so thin now it makes her regret every bite of food she’s had over the past month. “Look at you, what happened?”

He doesn’t answer.

Her hands tremble where they cling to him. It feels like she’s draining the energy out of him just by touching him, like each second together is making him dimmer, not brighter. Not like before, when every touch, every kiss, even her words, seemed to spark something deep in him, lighting his eyes up.

She tries again. “I know it’s been difficult. You’ve been so brave, Haymitch. But you don’t have to go through any of it alone. I’m here, I came to you as soon as I could.”

Is she saying the words she wishes he’d say to her too? Or is this just her purely caring for him?

Does it make a difference?

Her hands begin to move, slow and careful, not daring to move an inch away from his skin, rising up toward his face. Just as her fingers are about to cradle his cheeks, Haymitch blinks hard, snapping out of whatever stupor he’s been in. He flinches back, shaking her hands off like they’ve burned him. 

“Stay away from me,” he yells. “Don’t— Just leave, Lenore Dove. I don’t wanna fucking talk!”

“Haymitch!” she gasps, stumbling as he shoves himself backward, now not even touching her but still he recoils so violently it’s as if she’d struck him. “You’re making no sense, you—”

“You don’t know anything!” he croaks out, all while taking stuttering steps further from her, it makes her angry that he’s distancing himself like she’s a wild predator, “You don’t fucking know anything!”

“Then tell me!” she yells, fire rising up her spine to match his hysteria note for note. “Talk to me! Tell me what—” She chokes on the last breath, “Tell me why you’re really like this.”

That’s what stops him, makes him freeze. He stares at her, stunned but as if a rusty old machine, he turns his back to her.

“Whatever you told my uncles,” she says, quieter now, just a spark of fire, love, don’t be afraid. “I wanted to hear it from you. I thought of some stuff, but I didn’t want to put words in your mouth.”

He says nothing. But the stillness in him speaks louder than shouting.

“Who’s making you do this?” she presses, “Are you in danger? Like—” Her voice falters, just shy of uttering Lucy Gray’sname, the name that blesses you when you think it and bring curses when you say it out loud,“Who’s threatening you?”

“Shut up,” he sneers, but it’s quieter now. “No one’s…”

“The fire,” Lenore Dove says, softly, like a bunny she’s coaxing out of hiding. Haymitch goes still, not a single strand the hair on his head moves, “I don’t think it was an accident. And I’m sure you know it wasn’t.”

She can feel every nerve in his body come to a stop. The silence is eery, she presses on, “I don’t not know eveything, you might think it but it wasn’t your fault, it never was—“

A long breath escapes him, then he turns. His face is ashen, feral. But Lenore Dove doesn’t flinch.

“No. It’s me,” he says.

He’s blaming himself, because that’s Haymitch being himself. The boy she loves who blamed himself for his reaping when Lenore Dove acted out and got him sent to the arena.

“Haymitch,” she pleads, eyes glassy. “Blaming yourself won’t—”

“You don’t know shit.”

Lenore Dove feels like a poor little stray weed out in the middle of nowhere with no human’s gaze that ever falls on, left untended, unseen, and unable to be graced by both sunlight and water streams. Like her stem’s folding in on itself, wilting under the weight of rejection. The short life of the poor weed that she is, ends on the bottom of a shoe when a human steps on her without a care. 

That’s how it feels to hear Haymitch speak to her like this.

“I know enough,” she says, breath catching. “I know that whatever happened, whatever you did in the Games, they didn’t like it and they took Sid and Willamae and now you’re scared—”

“I’m why, Lenore Dove.” His voice cuts her clean. He steps toward her.

“I’m death,” He’s still drunk, speaking nonsense, eyes red and dry from not blinking. The gray of his irises look like broken glass with blood seeping in between the shards.

“What’re you talking about—”

“I’m surrounded with it,” he says, and his voice is so cutting doesn’t just scrape, it rakes its nails across her ears. “I’m buried in it. I bring it with me wherever I go. What else does this all make me, but Death?”

“You’re not—”

“But I am.” he spits again. “You don’t know anything,”

“Quit saying that!” Lenore Dove shouts, her voice cracking, her fists clenched at her sides. “Is this really you? Or is this someone they’ve put in your skin? A puppet for Snow?” 

The way his pupils shrink, closing up like a snare, pure fear in his eyes, is all she needs. It’s not denial, not anger, not outrage. It’s pure terror showing itself in the most primal, animalistic reaction a body can show. For a moment, Haymitch Abernathy isn’t a Victor, not even a boy, or a human. He’s a hunted thing, cornered by something he can’t flee, and the next best thing is to fight.

And Lenore Dove knows that fear isn’t misplaced.They are the prey, always have been. Snow and the Capitol are the predators, picking off lives and loves like it’s sport, hunting them down on a regular basis if not everyday. She’s no stranger to that fear. Has lived it everyday in that jail cell, for both herself, her dignity, and her love and his life.

But her love for him, her need for him, it rises higher than that fear. Swallows it whole.

“If you’re doing this out of love, Haymitch… it’s not worth it,” she breathes,“They—he—don’t need a reason to hurt us. They’ve never had a reason. And they never will.”

He doesn’t respond. She presses on, desperate for him to understand, she’s always been the talker, him the listener. But once, he wanted to understand, tried even. Now, she sees nothing in his eyes.

“Can’t you see? You’re surrendering yourself so, so willingly because you think it’ll protect us? Nothing can ever protect us!” Her voice cracks.

“Stop.”

“No, listen to me!  What’re they gonna do, kill everyone? All of us?” she yells at him, “Everyone who loves you? There’s just too many damn people for that, Haymitch!”

His face twitches. For a second, she thinks he’s going to break, collapse into sobs and fall into her arms. Selfishly, she finds herself hoping for that. But he laughs instead.

Not a real laugh. Not his laugh. A shrill, uncanny laughter as his face fails to contort into a smile, and his lungs have gotten unfamiliar with a laugh bubbling up inside them.

“I don’t have anyone.”

“You have me.”

“I don’t.” he says, and his face goes blank, like he really believes what he’s saying. Maybe that’s his trick - the lies he must’ve been repeating for forty days, now are real for him. Before she can say anything, he looks back at her, and it’s not the eyes of her love. “Anything we had is gone, Lenore Dove. Do yourself a favor and get out of my life.”

She’s angry, she’s sad, she’s furious and she’s in anguish, she’s confused as hell, so of course she yells, “You call this life?”

“May be. May be not. None of yours to stick your nose in.”

“Haymitch,” Lenore Dove feels breathless from anger stewing deep in her, crushing sorrow under itself in the race against to get out of her burning chest, “I just…I don’t get it.”

“Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

That pauses every thought and every feeling she has. Lenore Dove is frozen in that sentence.

“What.” It’s not a question.

“You heard me.” is all he says, but then Haymitch - no, this can’t be him, this must be someone Capitol put in his place, wearing his skin - turns his head to the side, and scoffs, but it sounds like he’s running out of energy, deflating whatever air he’s left in him, “Guess I liked my pretty without purpose.”

Lenore Dove presses her lips together, stunned still. But she doesn’t cry, not this time. She doesn’t feel the sadness she must right now, nor the anger, anything. 

She turns her back, she can’t look at him when she talks anymore, just like he did eveytime he sent an arrow to pierce clean through her heart.

“If you’re doing this for love, for my sake, then you’re just condemning me to the same fate as yours.” Her voice trembles, but doesn’t crack. “Nothing you do will ever keep me safe. That’s impossible. Not in this system. I want you to know that.

Because whatever you do now, my name will be in that bowl two more times. I’m just as much danger as I was always in. You aren’t the thing that stands between my life and my death. You never were. And you never can be. You would never be the reason for something that’s never had a one to begin with.

The Capitol, Snow, every one of them, they don’t run on what’s fair. They don’t need cause, they just hurt who they want, when they want. They already do it every single year with the Games. So don’t stand there and think you’re doing this for me. Don’t you dare. You withholding your love would be the worst thing you can ever do to me.”

Lenore Dove waits for a response, a gasp, a single breath, but none comes. She leaves. The light outside is a stark contrast to the dark her eyes got used to. The fresh air too, but she doesn’t let herself soak in the air or sun.

She doesn’t bother tiptoeing around the glass this time, shards be damned. Her feet move like she’s floating, but her wings have been ripped out, and her body’s too far from the ground to feel anything real. Just air in which she’s not falling, not flying, but suspended.

By the time she makes it to her spot, the familiar rock beneath her offers no comfort. She slumps down, stares at the sky, eyes wide but not really seeing.

Pain tingles at her soles. She knows there’s bits and pieces of glass embedded in her skin. She can feel the faint sting, the slow seeping warmth of blood soaking through. That pain doesn’t even register against the deeper one.

I wanted to hold you. Be held. I wanted to kiss you, hug you, cry into your neck until the hurt faded, even just a little. I wanted to talk to you. Tell you everything. How scared I was in that cell.

How the Peacekeepers rattled the bars at night with their belts, their smirks physical threats. The way they looked at me. I was scared for my life, and scared for my dignity. I wanted to throw myself headfirst into a rifle before they could touch me.

And I felt guilty. Guilty for being afraid for myself while you were out there, fighting to survive. Guilty every time my breath hitched when one of them came too close with a tray of food.

I wanted to hear your story, from you. Not from the recap. Not from their broadcasts, I didn’t want to see the spectacle they made from your pain.

I wanted to cry with you. Talk about Sid and Willamae. Hold you as you mourned. Mourn with you. It wouldn’t fix everything, but it would make the unbearable a little less cruel. You always could do that—make things bearable.

I wanted to love you through it. I still do. I need you just as much as you need me.

She’s crying when the sun finally goes down, full on violent sobs that shake her entire body until she folds in on herself like the wilted poor grass blade she is.

It’s hours later when footsteps finally join her. And this time, she doesn’t even have it in her to hope it’s Haymitch.

Clerk Carmine crouches beside her and pulls her into his arms. She sinks into him, sobbing into his shirt, her fingers knotting in the fabric. He doesn’t say I told you so, or You’ll be just fine, or anything else that would make her feel worse than she already does. He just stays quiet and Lenore Dove is grateful beyond words.

When they make it back home, him carrying her, she lets go of herself on the couch. Her body feels heavy beyond belief, limbs useless. Her uncle kneels at her feet, gently picking out every shard of glass embedded in her soles, murmuring that he’ll bring Asterid tomorrow. She doesn’t bother telling him that the healer girl is hurt herself, and that Lenore Dove is bleeding from a wound that’ll never close, kept open by the very hands that had torn it open.

Tam Amber brings down her pillow and quilt from her loft, setting up a makeshift bed on the couch. When he leaves, Clerk Carmine stays a while longer. She hears the brush tug gently through her hair, tuntil he whispers,“Nothing they can take from you was ever worth keeping.”

He kisses her forehead. She hears his footsteps retreat.

It’s true. Nothing they can take from her was ever worth keeping.

It’s only a matter of if she lets go, stops hanging on. Lenore Dove, after everything that happened today and past two months, feels like answering this question is the hardest of all.

Notes:

Hey everyone... sorry for that..

MY DEFENSE on why this all happened

1. Haymitch is drunk ofc, but not blacked out, knows what he's saying & thinks must be said
2. He's been talking to himself for forty days, telling himself things, not anything good and awaiting LD's death news basically so the fear of going out also stems from that
3. It was easier to stay put when LD wasn't there, he knew she was home and safe,
4. Haymitch interprets Snow silence as the president's way of torturing him - after LD doesn't die from poison (can't blame it on appendicitis, can't outright hang or etc and ANOTHER fire would be suspicious esp when districts are in unrest) and thinks Snow's watching him or her so for Haymitch: he stays away = she's alive.
5. Things I said in 4 make him paranoid that if he's seen with them they'll die
6. And now that LD is THERE IN HIS CAPITOL CAGE it makes him lose his mind even more and go on a fearful spiral
7. It kills him to say these as much as it does LD hearing it.
8. He needs her to get away, what he did to Asterid wasn't fully intentional but he owns it like he meant it bc it's been the outcome he wanted all along
9. again he’s HEAVILY traumatised he’s in a fight AND flee mode

Just wanted to get these out before we move on to Haymitch's aftermath of the fight...which won't be good and I think I gotta add more tags.

And even though LD guessed Haymitch was being threatened, but couldn't really put her finger onto anything and since she didn't get to watch the games she doesn't know the broadcast manipulation, or else she'd clock it real fast. That and killing everyone he loves just for a final trick he pulled at the end would make little sense, especially now that we know what we know, you know... It's a tough spot, she sees what Haymitch's trying to do, knows she can't break his will to do it, but knows its pointless - like I said, no one is really safe in that system. She doesn't see the point in surrendering one's life to them before ever living it. :)

Now we leave things to time. The Victory Tour is the pivotal moment we all wait for.

+ If there's one thing about me, is that I do love my chapter songs, for this I was in-between Into Dust and Never Dreamed You’d Leave in Summer, and so I'm leaving Joan Baez’s cover bc it also fits & I love it...

Tysm to everyone who's reading this fic, I especially love to read your thoughts etc because I'm just nosy like that & you get my synpases going and its very good for my neuroplasticity :) See you all later!!

Chapter 5: Some kind of Poison Prince

Summary:

Haymitch throws one stone, hits three. It comes back, hits a fourth.

Notes:

tw

self-harm, suicidal ideation, badly written filler chapter

“Is this really you? Or is this someone they’ve put in your skin? A puppet for Snow?”

Her words swirl around in his head, spiraling into a tornado. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision. He sways slightly, feeling dizzy. Lenore Dove has no idea what her words mean to him.

“She’s right” says Louella, “Is this really you, Hay?”

“Really really you?” echoes Lou Lou. “Or are you a puppet?”

“Just like us?” they ask in unison.

They flank him, peering from either side of Lenore Dove—twin ghosts. Because that’s what they are, and that’s what surrounds him the most. Twins and ghosts. His stillborn sisters. Louella and Lou Lou. Maysilee, even Merrilee.

He blinks, trying to separate them. But Lou Lou’s thin face and bleeding ear melt into Louella’s fuller cheeks and eyes sparkling with spunk and grit. He can’t tell them apart anymore. 

Maysilee. Left behind a twin who still breathes and speaks, but who he can’t help but see as a ghost too. That face too, blurs into his ally’s, his sister’s, until there’s one and none at the same time.

Just another thing Snow took from him. Because Snow has to take it all.

It’s never just lives with him. No, he has to rot the memories too, play with them, crush them between his fingers and distort them. He razes the mind from the inside out, knotting it all into twists and turns that even love and longing loses its way and gets lost and has no way to go.

He turns real, breathing and walking people into ghosts as well. Because as much as Haymitch covered every single mirror in this new house, his ghosts aren’t just in reflective glass. He tries to drown them as much as he can, but when he hits the bottom of the bottle, they show up behind that glass as well. So he grabs another one.

He hadn’t known if it was really her at the door, but she’d been there, really there, right there, close enough that their noses nearly touched. The green of her eyes pulled him to themselves like dappled sunlight shining through leaves. One lean closer, she's just one breath away, and he could’ve dropped a kiss on her mouth—real or not.

No, she’d shatter into a thousand pieces, flesh and blood and bone, if he ever did that. That kiss wouldn’t be two lips touching, it’d be fresh ink signing her death sentence.

Haymitch stands frozen, rooted to the exact spot where Lenore Dove had cornered him into just like a like a grave marker. Every muscle taut as wire, strung tight like one of Burdock’s bows, ready to snap.

“I just…I don’t get it.” 

He turns his back to her.

There’s helplessness in her voice. Once, he would’ve dropped everything to run to her. Do whatever needed doing just to make it go away, and he’d do just about anything.

But this time, this is how he can help. By ending it clean, sharp, be done. So she can start moving on. And he can—

He can… Well. There’s not much left for him, is there?

“Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

“What.” 

Lenore Dove’s voice is like a bite, and it reaches him like one. It tears through the flesh over his chest and bones and rips out a chunk of his heart. 

“You heard me.” he says. Let it be over. Just let it all be over.

The air in his body feels too much, but instead of feeling light he feels like he’s being pulled down into the hard ground. He wishes it was so. When Haymitch empties his lungs, it comes out weird, part laughter, part collapse, the sound of a deflating balloon or confetti falling in an empty room for nothing to celebrate and no one to celebrate with.

“Guess I liked my pretty without purpose.”

His lip curls on that last one, not feeling anything but revulsion at himself, disgust like he’s never felt before, but desperation pushes them out of his stomach like bile.

Her pretty with a purpose. Would she ever know how much he leaned on her gift? How many nights he held it close, whispering to it like it could whisper back? How often he imagined her hand in his, her voice in chaos and silence alike? Did she ever feel the kisses he pressed to it, reverent like a prayer just between him and his winged being?

He wishes he could tell her. Wishes she could know how that small gift kept him alive in there. Not just breathing or holding up, but living. It was tenacity in the shape of two metal rings, a serpent and a mockingjay entangled together. And all in all, it was her.

Regret swells inside him, bigger and bigger, pushing against every inch of his skin until it feels like it might split him open. His nerves scream at him to reach out, to grab her, to say that’s not what I mean. That’s not who I am, but what I have to do, for you. But the words won’t come.

I wish you could just give up on me.

He’s forced to bear it, and stand still as his skin stretches and stretches.

“You aren’t the thing that stands between my life and my death. You never were. And you never can be.” Lenore Dove says.

And she’s right. Of course she is. She always is.

He knows Capitol doesn’t need much to declare a living person dead on spot. A whisper, a glance, a wrong breath, a wrong word, a wrong step. Even ‘wrong’ is what they say it is at the moment. He may not be able to save her, or keep her safe forever, not really.

But if all he can be is a pebble in the path that makes Death stumble for even half a second as it stalks toward her—then he’ll gladly be just that.

He’d shatter himself into a million stone pieces and scatter them across the earth if it meant making sure of that.

Lenore Dove leaves. He knows how much she must be holding it in, because he’s the same.

You stay alive. Play your songs. Love your people. Live the best life you can.

He told her that once, what it feels like a lifetime ago. Perhaps in a different world, even. It feels like something that’s happened worlds away.

At least she’ll have time to keep her part of their promise, eventually. His part…I’ll be there in the Meadow waiting for you. Yeah, well. Maybe as ghosts, and the Meadow is the ground they float on to meet up before they take it off for the hereafter. Yes, maybe then.

But as long as he’s got two feet on the ground, the Meadow isn’t meant for him. Lenore Dove may call it a friend of the condemned, and he sure is as condemned as one can possibly be, but even then, the Meadow won’t have him, and he’ll stay away.

For her, and everyone else that’s had the unfortunate luck of ever being involved with him, Haymitch Abernathy, the rascal who got allies, his ma and little brother all killed in a dozen brutal ways because he thought he could outsmart and outplay the Capitol and its President.

No one’s safe with him. So it’s best to just run away from the raging pit of fire that is now my life. Funny, isn’t it? That’s the very thing I was trying to escape back at the potato battery stand. Sorry, Beetee. For so much more than just the thoughts I had back then.

Except that they just won’t unless he chases them away.

He’s laughing as another bottle finds its way into his hand, it flies into his grasp, Haymitch swears. Because life’s got a sick sense of humor and a clean aim, and Haymitch is drenched in red, a moving bullseye and butt of the joke.

He takes a long swig, then stalks toward the living room. Panache trails behind him, hot on his heels, jabbering nonstop. In Haymitch’s nightmares, the Career is terrifying, an arena monster with a bloody sword and white eyes. But right now, he’s more like an annoying mosquito flying and buzzing around his head.

Wish-wash Panache, Maysilee quips from somewhere. Haymitch snorts, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Maysilee, despite being one of his worst ghosts, still has her moments,  just like how it’s been in real life.

He stops when he gets to the door, and stares at the carnage he’s done.

Glass is shattered everywhere, glittering in the sunlight like a hundred small knives. 

Further out, on the cobblestone path, two trails of red snake through the cracks of the stone. One starts at a bloody rock, that he hadn’t even aimed directly at them, not really, he practised way too much for that, but one still found its way to Asterid March’s perfect face. She’d left behind a breadcrumb trail made of blood drops.

The second trail winds through the glass, swerving away from the village gate. He doesn't need to follow it to know where it leads.

His heart lurches. Of course just one drop of what he knows is Lenore Dove’s blood would be enough to undo him and damn near break his resolve. 

Haymitch crumples onto the porch, right there at his own damn doorstep. He slumps like a puppet whose strings finally gave out, eyes catching on a jagged piece of bottle, the thick, green glass of the base. The sharp edge glints with something close to invitation.

He picks it up before he can stop himself.

He’s thought about this, following the failure with the gumdrops in the alleyway and countless times after. He’s wondered why not just end it already, clean and quick. No toy left for Snow to dangle around. It’s not like he has no one to go back to, either.

Ma, Pa, Sid, his sisters, all of them, so many of his friends—they’re all waiting for him.

But then he thinks of Lenore Dove. He always thinks of her. Doesn’t matter if he’s asleep, hurting, or half-dead, every train of thought winding through his mind leads straight to her.

If she loves him even half as much as he loves her, and she does, oh Haymitch knows that very well, then he knows exactly what this would do to her. It would condemn her to a life of questions, of guilt, of grief that festers. Or worse, maybe it’d pull her toward the same jagged edge in his hands. And that, he can never allow.

Besides, who’s to say Snow will stop with Haymitch? If that video, the very one he was specifically made to watch by the President himself, the one with the Covey girl, was any indication, then there’s something deeper at play. A past, definitely. And worse, Haymitch shudders to even consider such a thing—resentment toward the family of bards.

This wouldn’t just end with him. No, if Snow has his way, Lenore Dove would simply take Haymitch’s place. Her turn in the long line for suffering.

Haymitch stares down at the glass, not now. Still, he takes it with him when he goes back inside.

Night finds Haymitch slumped on the floor across from the couch, back pressed to the wall. He’s toying with the shattered glass in his hands, running his thumb along the jagged edge, just lightly, not enough to break skin, but marveling at how easily it could. There’s another glass nearby, still whole but drained of the nepenthe he’s been swallowing like salvation, and so, no use to him anymore.

He might as well throw this one at those stubborn McCoy boys who keep showing up with Burdock and his lot. He just needs to drink a bit more, get a few more bottles and it’ll be enough for all of them.

Then, a beat later, he remembers what he did today, and what Lenore Dove said about hurting Asterid. He’s almost certain Burdock won’t be dropping by again, or ever. He might come to give Haymitch a good beating, maybe. That’s what I wanted, he thinks. So why do I want Burdock by my side more than ever? Why do I want to go running and apologise to the girl who gave me chamomiles for good luck?

Haymitch stares at the empty bottle and sighs.

And of course, the moment invites them in like a gust of cold wind. The opportunists circle, he can feel them coming, and Maysilee steps out from the shadows.

His ally is leaning against the back of the couch, bare arms covered in welts crossed across her chest. She tilts her head and tsks at him. Lips curl in disapproval. A splatter of red stretches from her neck up to her chin, but Haymitch averts his gaze from it.

“This is what you’re going to keep doing as a Victor?” she says, her voice is dripping with raw mockery. “I thought we had a deal.”

Her blue eyes are blazing as he remembers, right up to the point when the light was pulled from them. She rakes her gaze down his slumped, miserable form.

“Then again,” she adds, “you never had my back. Not really, not when it really mattered. Some district partner you are.”

It’s his Maysilee-on-a-bad-night. The one who doesn’t pull punches, tells him exactly what she thinks whether he’s ready to hear it or not, that’s not her problem.

But it’s the version he deserves. The one that’s earned. He’s sure, knows, that if she had lived, in some version of the world where miracles are possible and they both made it out, she’d be giving him all kinds of grief for not manning up and taking down a Gamemaker with her right then and there.

Right now, it feels like a betrayal than a let-down that he could amend later. Well, because there’s no more later. Not with him and Maysilee.

He hasn’t held up his end of their promise. He hasn’t set fire to the Victor’s Village. Not metaphorically, and not literally, not in any way that it matters. If anything, he’s been showering his house with liquor. How easy it’d be to drop a match on the ground and watch it all burn. Ma and Sid’s screams are still trapped in that space between his ears and head.

“It’s not that easy,” he mutters, trying to defend himself, “I still have… one thing. I have to make sure—”

But Maysilee cuts him off with a scoff. “Right. Of course you’d give in.”

“I…” He falters. But then anger bubbles up. He lifts his head to glare at her. “Like you wouldn’t? For Merrilee? Your parents? You’d—”

But her eyes flash, and her words strike like lightning.

“Me being the Capitol’s plaything would be the greatest insult to anyone who ever truly loved me,” she spits. “Being alive doesn’t mean you’re living, Haymitch. I’d rather be dead than be whatever you're right now.” Her tone is unforgiving, and cuts through him, “Y’know what? It’s good you ended up as the Victor. Out of all of us, you're the one who really needs time to grow up and get a backbone.”

That shuts him up. 

Deep inside, he knows this is just his perception of her—shaped by things she said and did. He’s not in her head, never has been.

But then again, Maysilee always wanted to go with her head held high, and in the end, did so without begging for a single thing. She tore her way through the arena with determination and rage, but kept compassion and humanity intact, brought civilisation wherever she stormed next. She’d long grown a backbone strong enough to never bend it.

What she’s saying now doesn’t feel too far off from what she might’ve said if she were actually here.

Suddenly, Haymitch is hit hard with longing. He wishes he could talk to her again. The little they had shared, it’s not enough. It just isn’t.

Without realizing it, he tightens his grip on the glass. It's only when he feels the hot liquid slipping through his fingers that he notices what’s happened.

Oh. He’s sliced his palm. A messy, long cut.

His limbs move on their own as he swirls the shard in his hand. More blood drips onto the floor, but neither the sight, nor the smell, nor the sting of it pulls him out of this daze.

It’s always like this with him and sharp edges.

The knife he keeps under his pillow these days offers protection just as much it offers a promise. If he ever had the choice, or maybe, when he does, a swift cut would be all it takes. He brings the broken glass closer to his forearm. One day. When he’s sure Lenore Dove—

A deep voice startles him, and the glass slips from his hand and shatters against the floor.

“Considering no one’s coming to check on you,” Wyatt pipes up from his corner, along with a comment that is as uncalled for as it is correct. He nods toward the jagged shard of glass, “I’d put your odds of actually dying at, what—ninety-nine? Y'know what? Let’s round it up. A hundred percent.”

They look like what it might've been if they'd gone into the arena as allies, when Louella finally snapped and told them both off and oddsmaker and stuck-up decided to team up instead. Side by side, arms crossed, matching stares and in their arena outwear. There's red on both of them, neck and chest.

Wyatt uncrosses one arm and draws a slow line down his inner forearm. “Just remember,” he says, voice flat but assertive, the way an instructor might deliver the final lesson before the exam. “Follow the river, not the bridge.”

“Find Haymitch.” Louella and Lou Lou say, chasing each other around the couch and their district partners. “Found him.” They call out each time they pass by him.

“I wasn’t even going to do it. I can’t.” Haymitch groans, dragging a hand down his face, then folds in on himself, head buried in the hollow between his knees, “And I know, Wyatt. I know. You’ve told me a hundred times.” His voice is muffled now, “Gotta go vertical, not horizontal. I know…” 

“Well, you thought about it a hundred times, so…” Wyatt rolls his eyes. “Forgive me for putting my input on it.”

“Do you even want to die?” Maysilee cocks her hip and looks at him. Great. Another questioning. Just what he needs. “You keep acting like you do, then cry like you don’t.”

“It’s become something I can’t afford, I fear.” Haymitch responds.

“So, you do?”

“I think everything would be a lot easier if I just wasn’t here anymore,” he says. Or if I just never made it out of the arena in the first place. “But I made myself a big, bad nemesis with no end to his cruelty, and he’s made it so that it’s not easy even to kill myself.”

“That wasn’t the question, though.”

The next voice is higher-pitched, brimming with youth, and Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the electric blue that comes with it. He made the mistake of looking once. He knows there’s no flesh on that face, only bone. And if he looks again, it’ll strike him like lightning.

“Those are two totally different things,” the boy says, smart and kind as always. “You can think it’d be better for everyone else if you were gone, and still not want to die. It’s not a dichotomy, you know. You’ve got more than two scenarios.”

Ampert’s never really been harsh with him before. This might be the most the boy’s ever pushed and that’s still tame in Haymitch’s standards. 

Then again, in his nightmares Ampert doesn’t even talk, because he’s just a pile of bones with no skin clinging to them—so that’s not saying much.

“If you say so…” Haymitch mutters. “I don’t think it’d matter if I had an answer to both.”

“Well, you might be right about that.” There’s a soft rustle from his direction—probably a shrug.

"Probably better not to think about it too much," says Ampert. "But you will anyway.”

“Oh, he will.” Maysilee chimes in, “And we'll all be here to suffer through another pity party.”

“I’m going to sleep,” Haymitch announces to his ghosts, like they’ll ever leave him alone. He wants to laugh.

Wyatt flinches and steps away when Panache returns, trailing Haymitch as he stumbles toward his bedroom. Before he can lift his foot, Silka barrels down the hall and shoves Panache. District 1 tributes have a tendency to battle for the chance to kill him. It’s just Haymitch’s luck.

See you all in my nightmares, he thinks, throwing himself onto the bed. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. When it does, his nightmares are no different from what awaits him the next time he runs out of liquor. And when he wakes up, it’s always with the same ghost, the same voice, saying the same thing, over and over again.

“Happy birthday, Haymitch!” 

Notes:

Haymitch still misses his girl, but his aim is getting better- *gets shot*

ATTENZIONE A/N (esp. if you're here for Happy Haydove Arc)

So I made an exoskeleton on chapters a while back, and I think I have to say that we'll start Happy Haydove in around 7 chapters? 8? 9? More? Let's say on avg 10. These 7-12 chapters are mostly about everything up to and right after the Victory Tour, since VT & its revelations will dictate the path Haymitch is going to take as a victor, and what his long-time strategy will be depends on that. We're going into the VT in* checks watch* one chapter or so? Two if you count this one. Yeah, VT's gonna take a while since it has parts from both H+LD's sides. GOOD NEWS: they won't be that long. (I hope.) (so far...)

I swear I also hate Snow more than any of you rn and even more with every time I open a doc and Haydove's STILL not happy and it's all his fault (& not mine I swear I'm trying).

Even if this was a shorter chapter, I had to post it later than planned solely because I just COULDN’T find a title for this chapter...Then I was listening Amy Macdonald while writing another chapter and so here it is. I KNOW it was a weak chapter but I couldn't leave that fight like that, I had to get into Haymitch's side but also didn't want to re-write the argument entirely from his pov y'know? BUT IM NOT HAPPY WITH IT.

+ a song I really like & find fitting to this chapter & what goes in Haymitch's head about LD: The Manic

Chapter 6: Advice to a girl

Summary:

Lenore Dove's new status quo, also she puts two and two together.

Lenore Dove doesn’t tell her uncles everything.

She tells them how Haymitch’s a mess, tells a very biased version of what he did — he didn’t mean to hurt her, he’d never— but that one gets lost in translation in Clerk Carmine’s brain, tells them he broke things off with her —which she still doesn’t fully accept, no way— and that, she won’t be going back for a while. She will give him time. That soothes Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine just enough for them to settle back on their seats and get back to practising.

In her own head, Lenore Dove is still mulling over it all.

Haymitch pulled a trick in the arena. Pissed everyone important in the Capitol, including President Snow. Abernathys were killed as his punishment. And she’s next. So, how is she still here?

“Haymitch didn’t have anything on him. Nothing. Stores weren’t even open when we realized he’d left. And that was early, just after first light.”

“Sounds ‘bout right. Sun was just coming up when he left the meadow. But like I said, they were on my rock.”

Lenore Dove stops.

"What others?”

She’s no idiot. You don’t know anything. She can connect things.

"Don't follow me. Stay home.”

Lenore Dove shuts her eyes and tries to recall the moment. Seeing Haymitch after so long had blinded her with pure joy. She was jittery from head to toe, shaking, and the gumdrops slipped from her hands. Haymitch froze, then picked them up in a panic, and then the horror in his eyes—

Okay, so those were… poison. Her blood turns to ice as she remembers how close she was to eating one.

They had to be poison, or a lethal anything, for Haymitch to react the way he did. Though she can't quite figure out how he knew. There was nothing weird about them, no rotten smell, no nothing, really. Then he ran, essentially saving her, because she had no second thoughts about eating those gumdrops right then and there. Maybe he would’ve feed them to her. Oh, the horror numb her whole body at the mere thought.

What she can't understand is why the Capitol would go to such lengths to kill her. Sure, she is —was?— Haymitch’s girlfriend, someone he loves and doesn't want to lose, but why go so far as to place a perfectly crafted bag of sweets, Donner label and all, and try to kill her? Why not just shoot her back at the base, or hang her, or even burn down the house like they did with Sid and Willamae? They’re his family, above all else—his ma and little brother. And they set fire to their house right after Haymitch was dropped off in Twelve. Orchestrated and executed.

If the Capitol’s greedy hands can reach her favorite rock, the thought makes her skin crawl and she has to clench her fits and grit her teeth to keep it all down, why not just poison the food given to her in jail? In their eyes, she must just be some girl he was courting.

Then again, why go this far, just for that one trick Haymitch pulled in the Games? It doesn’t make sense. Not the purpose, anyway. Like she’d already told Haymitch, they don’t need a reason for that at all. But to go to such lengths to orchestrate a death that would haunt him forever? Why?

Lenore Dove stops herself before she spirals further, focusing on the heart of the matter.

Haymitch is afraid. Her trying to help only makes it worse. He’s not willing to let her get close and be killed. He thinks it’s all his fault. Whatever happens to her, he’ll blame himself and sentence his own death without Snow ever needing to declare it.

There’s just no fixing this, she thinks, running her palm across her face and tugging at her hair. Not right now. What else can she do? Sit and wait? 

It all leads back to one thing: the Capitol. So what must she do? Take down the Capitol. Take down Snow. That’s what she has to do, really.

She can’t sleep, still not putting too much pressure on her soles therefore can’t go up to her loft, so she perches by the window on the ground floor and watches the sun rise. A sunrise without a Reaping, with Haymitch. She’s been thinking about it ever since they had that talk in the meadow.

I don’t know how, She thinks, watching the Sun put on the painter apron and pick up her brush, stroking the blue canvas with streaks of red and orange, but I will, one day.

I will never ask, 'Who am I to stop it?' but instead 'What can I do?' And I’ll keep doing my part, whatever it takes, to stop it all and make sure there’s no more sunrises over the Reaping. I’ll help save your birthday, Haymitch. That’s my promise back.

---

Lenore Dove is going through one of the poem volumes Haymitch had given her earlier last year, before she lands on one that speaks to her soul, that she quite needs, and can’t help but feel like it's her mother’s soul that guides her hand to turn the page to it.  Advice to a girl, it’s titled.

No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed;
Lay that on your heart,
My young angry dear;
This truth, this hard and precious stone,
Lay it on your hot cheek,
Let it hide your tear.
Hold it like a crystal
When you are alone
And gaze in the depths of the icy stone.
Long, look long and you will be blessed:
No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed.

It reminds her of their song— "Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping"— and the more she reads the poem, the more the two seem to merge. Just as their song speaks to the self, the poem does too, in its own way. 

The song tells the listener about what you have inside you, not what you keep around, and that you stand your ground to stay steady against anyone who tries to possess you. In a way, the poem picks up where the song leaves off, but especially for heartbroken girls such as the very reader herself right now, that you can't truly possess anyone worth loving. You can't take their essence from them, and you can’t force real love to be yours. It’s not an earthly possession to have and put in your pocket.

It should motivate her, really. But instead, all it does is remind Lenore Dove of how powerless she is against Haymitch's mind. He’s worth it all and more, but no one worth possessing can be quite possessed.

She is absentmindedly flipping through the pages when Asterid comes to visit, and Lenore Dove simply tells her they’re on a break, and that Haymitch would never do something like that on purpose.

The blonde girl nods as she checks Lenore Dove’s soles, disinfectant and some cotton in hand. Her temple, now neatly stitched, must be the courtesy of Mr. March, who had the misfortune of having his own child as a patient, has bruised a deep blue, still red and swollen around the wound and the navy clouds spreading toward her left eye. Lenore Dove can’t help but think, in a very untimely manner, that she looks even more like a flower, or the painting of a flower with airy brushstrokes on white canvas, which’d make her a flower anyway.

“I’m not holding it against him or anything,” she says, wrapping a bandage around Lenore Dove’s foot, which is propped on the arm of the couch. “He’s not well, hasn’t been for a long time, I could tell. I told Burdock the same. But he’s still real angry about it. Well—” she pauses, thinking, “I think he’s more upset, really, but you know him better than I do. Oh, don’t tell him I said this, but he cried on the way into town. Didn’t say a word after. I’m worried about him, too.”

“Oh,” Lenore Dove says quietly. She gets it.

He had come by the night before, a good while after she’d gotten home and started crying and sulking on the couch. It was dark, and Burdock hadn’t stayed long, just a brief exchange of, “Are you okay?” and “Not really,” and “Same here. Hey, what happened to your feet?” Her short explanation then had made him purse his lips tight. Then he left.

Yesterday’s Haymitch really did a number on them all.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Asterid smiles, “I’m here, too. If you ever want to.”

“Thank you, Asterid.” Lenore Dove says, smiling at her. “I’m grateful, really.”

“No need. We’re friends.” the blonde beams at her, lips curling into a wide smile. Maybe even family, one day. Lenore Dove thinks.

---

She knows Burdock is going to get mad the moment another sigh escapes her lips. Too bad. She can't help it.

Her cousin whips his head around to glare at her, his hands still as he struggles to pry the resin from the sides of the can, “You done?”

"..." She pouts, “No."

 “Go home if you’re going to mope.”

“I’m not.” Lenore Dove scowls at him, “I’m helping.”

“Some help…” Burdock grumbles, “Bring the bucket.”

“Be nice.”

“Bring the bucket, please.”

Lenore Dove holds the container out, and her cousin dumps in the resin he managed to chip from the tin can he’d nailed to the tree.

Burdock had started this little project around four months ago, he said, to make some turpentine for Asterid as a New Years gift—which Lenore Dove thinks is a genuinely sweet way to court the girl since the apotechary uses boatloads of it— and had roped Haymitch into it as well. The boy in question was supposed to take over after they’d collected all the resin, his part being the distillation of course, which he had the skill and experience for— and if need be, Hattie’s help.

But things are strange, and they haven’t gotten any better, so Burdock has to make do with what he has: Lenore Dove, Blair, and a few of his other friends. His older siblings are out of the question, and so is his Pa. They know about his wildcrafting, foraging, and hunting escapades in the woods, but not to this extent. If a Peacekeeper ever came across the cat-faces he’d carved on all these pine trees—Lenore Dove had counted: They’ve gone through ten so far—they’d surely go on a manhunt for him. 

She’s also here for a New Years gift— for the rosin that’ll come out of this mess, so she has to play along.

So here they are, collecting the neglected resin from the pine trees Burdock had tapped. Since the Reaping, he had abandoned the project, replaced it with daily check-ins on Haymitch. But like Lenore Dove said, things have gone south, and everyone’s weird. And now the resin is hard and brittle, stuck to the cans, had seen rain and sun, with bugs and leaves all over. He’ll have to strain it all first, losing precious time. Lenore Dove is sure there’s some kind of metaphor in that, fitting of their status quo.

Haymitch has been the best friend to both her and Burdock. He was her closest friend even before they started courting. It’s hard, not being able to reach your best friend, let alone the one you love. They are soulmates in every way, after all. Haymitch came in a package of all three, and then some.

They finally reach the eleventh tree, and Lenore Dove sighs, kicking the back of Burdock’s knee before he has to chance to reach and give her even more grief. He yelps and huffs through his nose. Lenore Dove doesn’t like his tone, so she kicks him again.

They stay quiet for a while as Burdock unscrews the can from the tree, and Lenore Dove decides to break the silence.

“It’s okay to be sad. I’m sad too.” she tells him, “And Haymitch is sad too. We’re all miserable, right now, honestly.”

He’s already frowning.

“I know. I never said I wasn’t.”

“You’re covering it up being all mad and grumpy, so I can’t really tell,” she snaps back. “You know Haymitch would never do that, right? Not on purpose. Never.”

Burdock is quiet. He squeezes the pocket knife against the sides of the can, cutting the resin free from where it’s stuck, before going in with his hands to pry it loose.

“Burdock,” Lenore Dove tries again. “You know that, right?”

“Do I?” he asks, glaring at the cat-face he had carved into the tree trunk, throwing the amber-colored chunk into the container she’s holding. “Do you?

“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I do! You should too—”

“I know my best friend,” he snaps at her. “My best friend, would never, ever do that. And my best friend—” Burdock stops. “My best friend went to the Games and never came back.”

"Burdie-" Lenore Dove feels her heart break. 

“I’m not just sad, and I’m not covering it up with anger. I’m sad and I'm angry. I’m—” He continues, his words breaking as frustrated tears well in his eyes. His face collapses with pain, as if the tears are burning trails down his cheeks. “I feel guilty and ashamed, 'cause can’t help him. I can only guess what he's went through, but what else can I do other than be there for him? And if he doesn’t want that, or can’t have that—” 

Burdock looks up at Lenore Dove, and she sees the helplessness bring the clouds of a heavy storm back to his gray eyes. So much like Haymitch’s, yet so different. “If he always lashes out like this, hurts all of us, ends up crossing a line—another one, with no way to come back from that… I don’t want to hate him, Lenore Dove. I’ve come close, so close, when I saw Asterid bleed like that, and that scares me. So much. I don’t want to hate my best friend. I don’t want to lose what I have left of him.”

Lenore Dove breaks into tears then. When Burdock’s arms wrap around her, she feels his tears land hot on top of her head too. 

---

A week or some later, Lenore Dove finds herself in an alleyway again, filled with rage, now more than ever, something she thought couldn’t be possible. But of course, the Capitol never fails to surprise her on that. 

Victor, she thinks, scoffing to herself, that don’t look like someone who’s won. More like someone who’s lost it all. Some who’s used, robbed, tortured, sentenced to dying everyday.

Lenore Dove shakes the bottle of orange spray, and paints a cry. THERE IS NO WINNING! THERE ARE NO VICTORS! DISTRICTS DON'T WIN THE GAMES!

Notes:

Let the VT preparations begin!! There's a train coming to Twelve, who might be in it???

Also, LD underground rebel era?? She's always been, but now she'll be more organized? maybe? I wanted to reverse the roles, keeping her determination and hate for Capitol, and have LD promise to stop the sunrise on the reaping made more sense in this case, as she makes Haymitch promise WHEN she's dying, meaning it's always been on her mind meaning she was singlehandedly going to save all of Panem but Snow got her.. damn that guy. I want to talk about it more but I don't want another long A/N...

nothingburger

Anyways.. Literally only late because genshin 5.6 update news broke my mind... I've been waiting for Mondstadt for YEARS you don't even know.... & then I saw Venti's banner so I had to speed-farm (have quit a little after natlan so I had a lot to do..) anyways(x2)... ragbros, susbedo, hexenzirkel, VARKA????? on top of all that, FREEZE is back??? I used to pray for times like these.

If you want to read Merrilee's letters to Maysilee back in Ch.3, it's here in my oneshot compilation.

+ saw someone on tiktok made a cover for Lenore’s Song & it's truly magical so here's the spotify link.
+ The poem volume Haymitch got LD is the Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale, specifically 1943 edition bc I wish I had it... So I'm giving it to LD... Happy early birthday, girl.
+ remembered Blair's existence just right now lol. He'll appear.

Chapter 7: Build a Victor

Summary:

Team Haymitch arrives in District Twelve - cue fashion flurries, PR fakery, and some good old persona polishing.

Notes:

Effie!! Proserpina!! Vitus!! Plutarch??

Haymitch wakes to the sound of banging on his front door.

Then comes the chorus of shrill voices screeching his name, slicing through the heavy hangover fog that still blankets most of his senses. He buries his face deeper into the pillow, and just as he slips under blissful, though that is debatable, sleep again— a crackling burst of static jolts him awake, followed by an announcement.

“Haymitch Abernathy. Open the door or we’re taking it down.”

Okay… That’s new. He wasn’t expecting anyone after the last visit—though he’s not entirely sure how long it’s been since then. Peacekeepers come by every week to drop his parcels off anyway, and he doesn’t even have to answer the door, and they certainly don’t announce themselves like this.

He obeys on autopilot, trudging through months worth of trash and empty bottles littering every impossibly long corridor of his house. Still weird to call it that. Then again, his real home is nothing but ash now.The last of the wooden beams probably scattered to the wind by now.

By the time he reaches the door, the pounding has escalated, and there’s a commotion outside about whether or not to actually break it down. He speeds up.

It’s not until a sharp sting hits the bottom of his foot that he remembers the shattered glass he’d kicked into corners. Right by the door. He ignores it and yanks the door open, startling the Peacekeeper on the other side enough to stumble back a step.

A shriek comes behind the Peacekeeper. "Watch out! These shoes are brand new!”

Then a head full of curly hair appears over the officer’s shoulder. "Haymitch, finally!”

He blinks.

It takes a second to process what he’s seeing. Haymitch wasn’t expecting at all to see his prep team, a camera crew, and—Effie?—clustered together on his porch like some over-accessorized gaggle of exotic birds. Let alone wearing black.

“I thought you hated black," is what comes first out of his mouth without him thinking. His voice sounds like he’s drowning. He might’ve been. He still might be.

"Oh, that was last season, Haymitch. You set the trend for the year! Coal black is what’s hot right now.”

Ironic, he thinks. Hot coal is more red than black.

"I doubt I’m that popular.”

“Oh but you are, all victors are!”

"Can we come in?" Vitus chirps in, tilting his head to peer into the house eagerly.

He feels the corners of his mouth pull upward in a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Because it’s not really happiness that lifts his lips, and Haymitch’s just really a jackass now, and grown to be that mean.

The inside of his house is a bear trap for any Capitolite's carefully reconstructed, hyper-sensitive nose— about to take a direct hit by rotting food, spilled liquor and emptied guts. Even some dried blood.

He steps aside, pulling the door open wider. 

"Come on in."

 

They end up using another house in the Victor’s Village instead. Not like they’re going to be filled any time soon.

His prep team barely makes it halfway down the hall before they start shrieking—first over the smell, then louder at the sight of a pink tail disappearing into the kitchen. Hey, that rat might as well be one of his roommates, at this point.

A Peacekeeper scrambles to fetch a spare key for the villa next door, and once inside, the camera crew begins assembling their setup for a photoshoot—for his Victory Tour posters, advertising the event next month.

Haymitch can’t believe it’s October already. Well, he can, but it still doesn’t make it easy to realise how time passes for him now. Faster than the rotgut he downs travels through his throat and settles in his stomach, for certain.

He doesn’t make things difficult. He can’t afford to. He just hopes the little prank he just pulled on them slides under Snow’s radar—and that the President doesn’t take offense. Again.

Before Proserpina and Vitus can even get to work on him, he has to shower. Effie practically pushes him into the tub herself. He just lets the water wash over him, sobering up in the meantime, before his prep-team can even handle coming three feet near his body. The two of them keep gasping as they scrub him down, months of grime melt off him like molted skin. Vitus actually cries a little.

Once he's clean, they trim his hair—a fresh cut, getting rid of the length, but not yet styled. Nails clipped. Then Proserpina pulls out a tub of wax, and Haymitch sighs long and loud.

By the time they’re finished, his skin is red and raw, his scalp sore from Vitus’s enthusiastic scrubbing. But he feels lighter. Not cleaner, really. Just less buried in months built up grime clogging his pores—or whatever Proserpina said.

Effie bundles him into a long, soft bathrobe. At least this time his back isn’t on full display. Haymitch counts that as a win. He is then escorted back into the living room, which looks the same as his own, and hands press on his shoulders to lower him onto the couch.

Someone from the crew hands him a cup of steaming coffee they made in the kitchen. He just sets it on the table untouched. His stomach twists at the idea of drinking it.

Effie sits beside him, eyeing the abandoned mug. His prep team hovers awkwardly near the couch—Proserpina nudges Effie’s shoulder with her hand, Vitus fidgets with his thumbs. Something’s clearly coming.

The young woman places a hand on his arm. “Oh, Haymitch.” she begins,  “I’m—we’re all so sorry about your family’s accident.”

Accident. Right. Sure.

“It’s just so tragic,” Vitus adds, while Proserpina and Effie nod solemnly. Haymitch swallows. His throat is suddenly so dry it aches for the coffee he just rejected. “I cried all night when I heard.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re being very strong through all this.” Effie offers.

“You really are! I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost Effie!” Proserpina says, her voice rising in a quiver as she throws herself down next to Effie, clutches onto her sister’s hand. “I just couldn’t go on! Oh, even the thought is just too horrible.”

Haymitch has to remind himself that Proserpina is not born evil; she just has a lot of unlearning to do. She’s incredibly, unforgivably naive, a product of decades worth of brainwashing and propaganda disguised as comfort and patriotism. But damn if it doesn’t take all his self-control not to hurl that scalding coffee right into her face. Thankfully, Effie’s hand tightens on his arm. Meant to be comforting, he’s sure, but with her long nails, it feels more like a desperate clutch.

“But this just won’t do,” she says softly. He can hear the gentleness she’s willing into her voice. “We have a responsibility to carry on.”

Responsibility. Right. And his is doing whatever Snow tells him to do.

That’s when it clicks—Effie’s here. Effie, and not someone else.

“Uh… not that I don’t want you here,” he starts, and he’s being honest. Effie is still better than any other escort or stylist he’s come across, “or that I’m disappointed—but where’s Drusilla?”

“Oh, she fell down an escalator, ended up with a broken hip.” Effie leans in, lowering her voice—then flinches back as Haymitch’s breath hits her. Sorry, Effie. They just scrubbed the dirt outside, there’s no way to clear his insides right now. Not without a good stomach pumping, at least. Even then, the rotgut must’ve settled deep in his teeth by now. 

Hm. You called it, Maysilee, Haymitch thinks, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. Would you look at that.

He can almost hear her cackling.

“That and her age is a problem for surgery. Anything more than cosmetic procedures has been too advised against for a while now, but she chose to remake her face just a month ago. Too much anaesthesia’s making it risky. She’s currently in palliative care.”

“Very ill timing,” Proserpina tuts, shaking her head. “Magno’s gone too. He’s…” She lowers her voice just like her sister, giving him the inside news of Capitol elite,  “He’s fired for negligence. But I think it was the reptiles. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though.”

“So, they sent you instead?” Haymitch asks, glancing at Effie.

She brightens instantly, fingers clasping together in a little controlled explosion of barely restrained excitement, like a child barely holding in a squeal.

“They weren’t going to!” she exclaims. “But Plutarch put in a good word for me and—”

Proserpina and Vitus leap into action, slapping their palms on their knees in a giddy drumroll.

“From now on,” Effie declares, “I am to be your District escort!”

“Woo!”

“Yay!”

“Go Effie Trinket!”

Haymitch, being the killjoy of everything good, offers the best he can muster. The faintest upward twitch at the corners of his mouth and a flat, “Congratulations, Effie.” Thankfully that’s enough. The little group reacts like he just broke into applause.

“Thank you! I’m glad it turned out this way. Any better district and I’d be too up front, you know? It’s better this way, hard enough to be a Trinket already…” she smiles. “So I’m grateful for Plutarch.” Well, that’s the Effie he knows, building up his expectations and tearing them down with a toss-away comment. Still, he’ll take that over raw cruelty wearing age inappropriate high heels.

Oh, wait. Plutarch.

“Speaking of Plutarch…” Haymitch scans the room again, throughly this time and recognises some of the faces focused on the cameras, crew adjusting lights, someone is fiddling with a reflector. But their team leader isn’t there. No violet jumpsuit, no theatrical voice directing the set, no charm to bend wills. “He’s not filming this?”

Effie lifts her cup, blowing delicately on the surface. The steam curls into the air as she takes a sip, her black lipstick cracking at the edges, revealing slivers of raw pink beneath.

“Oh, this is really good coffee,” she says first, savoring it before answering him. “Well, he was going to. But something came up and he was told to stay put in the Capitol. Some kind of family matter, I think? Pitched in for me at the last minute.”

Haymitch hums, “I see.”

“But you needn’t worry!” Effie says quickly, ever the fixer. She gestures across the room to a woman with steel gray hair adjusting a tripod with ease. “Cassia’s here, and so is the rest of his crew. You’re in good hands.”

Haymitch looks over at Cassia, who doesn’t glance up—just tweaks a lens and calls out something sharp to her assistant. He nods. Good hands… They don’t know how little that means to him.

Not that they’d care—Effie springs to her feet the moment the camera crew finishes setting up and joins the little huddle they have on the couch. From there, it’s all excited chatter about the theme of his Victory Tour.

“Now, let’s talk persona.”

“Yes, yes! What will you be?”

“I’m already a rascal,” Haymitch says flatly. “You’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but what kind? You were sarcastic in your pre-Games interview—cheeky, clever—but we need something more defined,” Effie says, voice lilting with enthusiasm for a brainstorming session. Like the one they held before the Games, coming up with stupid nicknames for the Careers.

Powdered milk, a voice only he can hear says. Haymitch starts smiling.

“And your talent will pivot the way for that!” Proserpina adds, clapping her hands.

“Talent?” Haymitch curls his lip. “Like my bootlegging?”

“Your what?” Vitus blinks, genuinely perplexed.

Of course. Not like they would remember. The Capitol doesn’t do memory—just some fleeting interest on a spectacle, then on to the next sob story, not even waiting for tears they shed for the prior to dry. Whatever Haymitch was before the Games—that was just a tribute. Not a victor. Not worth remembering. 

Still, he’s a little offended his own prep team doesn’t remember.

“I don’t think outing your Head Peacekeeper as a customer helped anyone, Haymitch,” Effie murmurs.

Well. At least someone remembers. At least that moment lives somewhere outside of his own head. Most of the others are either dead, or tortured into silence. They are already that few in numbers.

“Do I even need one?” he asks. Gasps all around.

“Of course!” Effie exclaims. “Every victor has one—something they’re known for. Something they do!”

“Like Beetee!” Proserpina chimes in. “He’s a complete genius and did so many amazing things for Panem!” She pauses, lips pursed, eyes darting upward in concentration. “…Well, I can’t list any off the top of my head, but—still!” 

Yes, Beetee. The man whose son was eaten alive for punishment. A genius, he has always been. But from then on, sentenced forever to be a grieving father.

“And Wiress wrote a children’s series for District Three’s elementary curriculum!” Vitus adds brightly. “About circuses or something—”

Now that breaks Haymitch’s heart. 

Wiress who hasn’t been very good with first impressions or… any kind of public image. Wiress, whose words always came out too strange for the cameras, even he thought so in the beginning. And yet, those same words must’ve made sense to children. 

He still remembers her rhyme. And suddenly, it’s no surprise at all that she wrote books for them.

First avoid the slaughter. Get weapons, look for water.

Find food and where to sleep. Fire and friends can keep.

If she made what he assumes are books about circuits, and not circuses, even half as cadenced as her survival rhyme, then kudos to her. Leave it to Wiress to find a way to help. The bird-like twitch of her head shows up before his eyes, and he has to stop himself from thinking about his mentor, barely registering the prep-team and camera crew’s back and forth about the victors and their side gigs.

“Don’t forget Brutus! He co-owns one of the best combat academies in Two—“

That conversation shifts naturally into a full-on brainstorm session. The camera crew starts throwing around their own ideas.

“A strategist! He outwitted the arena!”

“No, no, there’s already a clever type, Wiress won just last year.” Someone shuts down the pitch in an instant, ”Plutarch said they’re saturated with brains for next few years.”

“A rebel!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”

“What about a protector? We can get him a shield, maybe an armor. Did he… help anyone?”

“He didn’t really have any allies other than the other Twelve girl.”

“Maybe not that, then.”

Haymitch watches the conversation like a storm happening behind a glass wall. Thick enough to muffle it all into a blur, but thin enough to break just with a tap. That’s how in-between he feels. Maybe he’s not at either side of the glass, but trapped in it.

The talk of his Games, so wrong, so far from what really happened, hurts him physically. Every beat of his heart feels like a thousand needles stabbing his chest.

Just as the ideas and pitches start to dwindle, someone from the crew snaps their fingers.

“Wait, wait—didn’t we get a hint? That directive from up top gave us?”

The room freezes for half a beat, then the crew breaks the stillness with a flurry of movement, hands slapped against foreheads in embarrassed facepalms, someone shouts for the keys, and two from the camera crew rush out to the car parked just outside his house. They come back struggling with a large black case between them, all breathless and giddy.

“This is it—this is it,” one pants. “Can’t believe we forgot the special delivery.”

“After the shock we had in the first house, no wonder it slipped off our minds.”

Haymitch suddenly feels sick at the sight of the black box. Whatever’s in it, already scares him. 

Maybe it’s another double. Wearing his brother’s face. A gift from Snow. It can’t be Ma, the box is too small. But it could fit his baby brother comfortably. Another Lou Lou, but for Sid. Oh, he feels so close to throwing up.

They pop the latches open. The lid creaks back, and Haymitch shrinks into the couch, wishing it would just swallow him whole, bracing for whatever horror is about to crawl out.

But there’s no body double of any of his loved ones. Instead, inside lies a white guitar, gleaming under the house’s bright lights. On its body, is a hot pink rosebud, though obviously fake, pinned just below the strings.

Haymitch blinks. At first, he just sees nothing special, just something that muddles him. A guitar for him? Whatever for…

But his confusion is short-lived, wilting like dead plant as soon as he recognises them. Not necessarily the exact guitar, but certainly a replica. And the pink rose— that, too.

His blood turns to ice, and yet it burns hot at the same time, every drop prickling under his skin like it’s trying to escape. It’s the guitar of the girl Snow showed him during solitary confinement. She’d worn that very rose in her hair.

I’ve already erased one, he hears Snow's whisper in his ear, the telltale voice slithers up his spine, leaving a trail of burning poison in its wake. It’s not at all difficult to make a Covey girl disappear. After all, the mystery’s part of their charm, right?

Haymitch tries to shake off the voice, and the feeling, and instead just nods along with his team, eyes vacant.

A singer. A guitarist. A rascal with a sensitive artistic side. That’s who he’ll be. His team start throwing around ideas — lighting, poses, backdrop, costume — voices overlapping in a frenzy. Finally, someone turns to him, obviously forgetting the very first thing he needs to sell this image.

“Can you sing?”

“Not much of a singer,” Haymitch answers, voice dry. Sorry to disappoint.

“What about guitar? Can you play?”

“Not much of a musician neither,” he replies. One of the many reasons Clerk Carmine never really saw him fit for Lenore Dove, after all. Oh, the irony. He can almost laugh.

“Then why did they send a freaking guitar of all things?” A cameraman huffs, only to be elbowed by another, “Surely they know something.”

The crew visibly deflates, but Cassia quickly recovers. She rushes to the phone, and makes a call to the Capitol. The final decision comes with her return, now more relaxed, “You just pretend to play and sing. We’ll fix everything in post. Tech department can edit in the audio, match your mouth, no problem.”

Effie doesn’t look convinced. “But what about the Victory Tour? Surely he’ll have to perform live.” 

Haymitch blinks. He hadn’t thought of that. He’ll have to perform, on stage, in front of crowds, across every district in his tour, if he’s that unlucky.

And he is. He’s not lacking in that department, ever.

“We’ll figure it out,” Cassia says breezily.“Maybe a backing track. Anyway, let’s not worry about that now! Come on, time to get him ready!”

And with that, his prep-team all but drags him into the nearest empty room. Inside, clothes are draped everywhere—velvets and silks tangled, shoes and boots thrown across the floor, Great-Aunt Messalina’s outrageous wardrobe and Great-Uncle Silius’s equally offensive fashion sense mixing together to create an absolute disarray.

In the end, he’s stuffed into a feathery mess of black and navy and shoved in front of the white backdrop. The dark colors, Effie says, are meant to make the pink rose and white guitar stand out. Helps that your district’s color is black — what luck!

“Here!” Cassia cries, pushing the guitar into Haymitch’s arms. “Perfect. He’s a singer.”

“It gives him allure.”

“And softness like… like a boy next door!”

“Rascal, but still approachable.”

“Okay, let’s pose him like this. On a stool, half-sitting and—”

“Or by a fireplace, very homey, very District Twelve.”

“I see it!”

Haymitch blinks down at the guitar now resting across his lap.

He doesn’t say a word. Just sits with it, the curve of the wooden handle feels foreign in his hands. Effie leans forward with a fond smile, as if he’s just found a part of himself. She pins the pink rose on his lapel as a final touch.

“Oh, Haymitch,” she says softly. “It suits you very much.”

It doesn’t, Effie. Not at all. That’s not me. He thinks.

“Thanks, Effie.” he says instead.

“Break a leg.” she tells him with an encouraging smile, and moves behind the camera.

Lenore Dove and the rest of the Covey will no doubt take this all as an insult. Pretending to be a musician, how desperate he will look to his own district. A willing puppet strung by Snow. 

Yet Haymitch poses to the camera crew’s instructions, and somehow, he nails the faraway, artistic look they demand of him. Going for a rascal that still has a heart beating with rhyme and rhythm, musical to its very core. 

Before they move on to filming the footage of him ‘singing’ and ‘playing,’ they get a brief respite, and another round of teas and coffees are made. There’s even some light refreshment passed around, one-bite sandwiches and round cookies.

Effie mistakes the fearful jitter in his limbs for nerves—about whether he’ll look convincing on camera and not about the consequences that will await him if he doesn’t— hands him another cup of coffee.

“Positive attitude is ninety-seven percent of the battle, I always say. Keep your head up,” she says cheerfully.

More ice cream?

This time, Haymitch downs the coffee in one scorching gulp.

And now seated on the stool they set up for him, clutching the guitar in his hands, Haymitch feels like an actual caged bird — though not a songbird. Not with his inability to sing. But that’s what this is, isn’t it? He’s there to fulfill Snow’s fantasy of keeping a songbird in a cage. Too bad Haymitch isn’t one.

No, he feels more like a jabberjay, ready to spit back someone else’s voice. A puppet let loose by the Capitol into the districts.

When the cameras are finally ready and Cassia gives him the go, Haymitch starts strumming the guitar without a single thought. He goes at it so hard he can feel the tips of his fingers get sliced by the strings.

He thinks of what to sing. There’s the goose song he sang in the arena—probably one of the many reasons Snow made him get the guitar and perform, here, if you want to be a singer so badly, you can sing and play for me—the ladybug earworm he inherited from Maysilee, Lenore Dove’s song…

But of course, he can’t sing any of those. He has no song to sing, and no voice to sing it with.

Channeling his inner Lou Lou, Haymitch opens his mouth and yells out whatever gibberish he can summon.

Let them fix it in post.

Notes:

Haymitch 'singing' for the propo
Haymitch in the propo: Give me a guitar and I'll be your troubadour. Your strolling minstrel, 12th century door to door. (Let’s Start A Band)

It's been a while... sorry for being this late for a mediocre chapter, one of our cats went missing. We only recently found her. Ao3 curse targets my pets instead of me it seems…

A question for you:

What do you think of me rambling about all these side characters? I happen to be cursed with liking secondary/background characters more in most fandoms I'm in so I tend to go off... I also like worldbuilding a lot - you'll see that a lot in the actual VT chapter (unfortunately for you lol...) I've already made a doc for the mayors & victors for every District. This goes for Burdock and Asterid too, maybe even some others in the future. Honestly, I like everyone I write about, so I want them to have their own motives and thoughts about all that is happening while still living their own lives.

Anyway. It might be a while before I post the next chapter where VT will officially start, have some irl Uni things. And sorry for not being able to reply to comments lately, I've been feeling a little (a lot) under the weather. But I will as soon as I'm better. Know that they're always welcome and a joy to read :)

See you all later!!

Chapter 8: Skin in the game

Summary:

October passes with more questions than answers, Haymitch plays to the cameras and departs District Twelve for a long Victory Tour.

Notes:

Ginsberg's Theorem:
0. There is a game, which you are already playing
1. You cannot win in the game
2. You cannot break even in the game
3. You cannot even quit the game

In the month leading up to the Victory Tour, against Haymitch’s will and definitely without his knowledge, a new schedule is assigned to him.

Twice a week, without fail, a pair of Capitol tutors arrive in a sleek burgundy car that looks ridiculous on District 12’s roads. One is for voice, the other for guitar. 

He must be an instrument waiting to be tuned in their eyes.

It’s Effie who oversees it all. She even starts staying overnight in one of the other Victor’s Village homes, the one to the left of his, but flitting in and out of his house like she belongs there. She even, With the help of a Peacekeeper assigned to her protection, manages to arrange a twice-weekly cleaning schedule, both on the day before Effie and tutors arrive, to make the place clean for them, and stocks the pantry with pre-made tea mixes, and cough drops in every shape and flavor.

Haymitch tries to drink through the whole thing, but he quickly learns that this side of the Capitol has no time or patience for a slurring, swaying victor with shaking hands. Not to mention his breath, and the smell that must be emanating. The first time he shows up to a lesson drunk, the tutors pack up without a word and report him. Not to anyone too high up, thankfully, but to Effie.

The next morning, he wakes to find every bottle gone. The Peacekeeper he’s been bribing for rotgut only shrugs when questioned, apologetic. It’s clear who is the culprit when he finds a forgotten bottle under his bed, don’t ask Haymitch how he even sees it, miracilously full, and downs it with gusto, then wakes hours later to Effie shaking him awake. In her hands, his knife, which he’s horrified to see her holding. How did she even know it was there, let alone take it? Was he holding it in his sleep? 

He’s a bit embarrassed about it, to be honest. It doesn’t surprise him to see most of the cutlery’s gone from his kitchen drawers after that. Effie could’ve just informed a Peacekeeper, and have him cuffed to the bed every night so he doesn’t go on a stabbing spree in the dark, especially when she stays just next door. Of course, he’d never dare do such a thing to others, he has too much on the line, but she doesn’t know that. Maybe she does, she has said so before, but things have changed since then. Who’s to say liquor didn’t turn him into a wandering sleepwalker with a knife in hand. And still, she didn’t report him. Probably got rid of the cutlery for his own safety as well. So he doesn’t see the point of making things difficult for her.

“Day Seven,” she chirps, placing a tall glass of murky green liquid in front of Haymitch. It’s technically Day Eight of the new schedule, but him showing up first day drunk doesn’t really count. “A week’s gone by, just like that. Can you believe it? You’ve come so far.”

Haymitch stares at the concoction like it might gulp him up if he makes a move. “This smells like moss.”

“Technically it's cucumber, celery, broccoli, and kale,” Effie corrects, ever so cheerful. “For your liver. Mint too, for taste.” And breath, goes unsaid. But this liquid doesn’t look like it’s something that’s about to give anyone the freshest breath in all of Panem. 

He sniffs the glass again, then takes a sip. It’s worse than he imagined. His face scrunches, eyes squeeze shut, and tongue instinctively darts out, “Tastes like moss too.”

“That’s the kale.” She smiles. “But your eyes are clearer today. Your face too. Less... puffy.”

She’s being nice about it. Haymitch knows he looked like a walking rotting corpse.

“Thanks,” he mutters, rubbing at his face. “I think I liked the other ones better.”

“Well, I had them put fruit in those to ease you into drinking them,” Effie smiles at him, knowing between the two of them at this moment, she’s the victor. “Now that you’ve gotten used to the medicine as well, we’ll be starting the real deal. Time to flush out the root of your… problem.”

The root of all my problems is currently in his office, plotting another series of torture for children. For me, especially. The root of all my problems is a system built on thousands of dead kids. 

But there’s no flushing that out with greens and fruits, spilling blood doesn't work, and won't work, so Haymitch holds his nose and gulps down the rest of the blend.

Effie has put Haymitch on what she calls a “wellness plan.” Detoxing. No more drinking. Not even once a week. Not even a sip to take the edge off the noise in his head, or to make the figures crowding his vision go away, disappear into a sea of blur.

She’s gone as far as bringing in a box of off-white Capitol capsules. He’s told they’re designed to “reorient the body to return to its natural craving patterns”. Natural craving patterns in District 12, is to not starve, so he’s not entirely sure what the natural part of it even entails.

To Haymitch, at first, it makes everything taste like paper, and yes, he’s ate that before, more than once in fact, and makes his skin itch more than usual. Still, he swallows it when she hands him the pill along with a glass of water.

The medicine dulls the shaking—not enough to stop it entirely, but just enough for him to flick the strings of the guitar and learn. After a week of choking down terrible blend mixes of every vegetable imaginable, a doctor from the Capitol— dietician, Effie says, though he’s not sure how that differs from a healer— comes with them and checks up on him.

He needs to gain just enough weight to be presentable—or they can always just plump you up a bit, as Effie puts it with a grimace, and Lou Lou comes to his mind, her cheeks filled in to resemble his Sweetheart’s fuller face, and the memory alone is enough to make him force down whatever they put in front of him. Apparently, they fixed it with editing for the posters—posters Haymitch hasn’t seen himself, but Effie ‘assured’ him they were plastered all over the Capitol and even here in Twelve, to his horror. She attempts to show him some of the shots, but he rejects the offer. He doesn’t want to see how he’s engineered to look. If he looks, he’ll start being a stranger in his own skin. He’s afraid he’ll rip himself apart in his sleep trying to escape from his own flesh.

Not only that, but Haymitch has been banned from purchasing rotgut even when the tutors aren't there, none of the Peacekeepers he approached would accept his offers. Orders from the Capitol, they say. Even his parcels get inspected now, but it’s not like he has anyone left who might sneak him a bottle. If given the opportunity, he’s sure they’d do the very opposite. And so he’s been stripped of the only escape he had—his nepenthe.

The effects were brutal. That first week was beyond nightmarish. Effie stayed in her self-assigned house nearby for the entire ordeal, making sure he took his medicine and those dreadful wellness drinks regularly, but she didn’t stick around long enough to witness the real battle—his insides wrenching their way out and becoming acquaintances with the floor of nearly every room in his house. He doesn’t remember much of it, not really.

Reorienting to the flow of time proved to be harder than anything else. Without the haze liquor provided, or the company of ghosts to blur the hours into days, he becomes excruciatingly aware of morning turning into afternoon, afternoon into evening, and the slow bleed into dawn on nights he’s being held up by his phantom friends. Time, once something to drown in the bottom of the bottle, or outrun from room to room, now looms over him like an unfamiliar guest who refuses to leave, one that sucker punches his gut on occasion. Every second is long and biting, and it aches just to live through them.

But as it passes by, the medicine shows more benefits than not. More than he expected. Enough that he can stand on his feet and walk past the kitchen without dropping to his knees like a beggar, clawing through the cabinets for a drop of liquor.

The craving still stirs inside him, like waves in bad weather it rises and tips the ship that is his sobriety, threatening to take it under. The urge to reach out, to wrap his fingers around the neck of that all-too-familiar bottle, flares up often. But he manages to do what needs to be done. He eats. He practices. He memorizes. He plays along. 

Effie takes the seat across from him, a clipboard in hand. She goes through his schedule like there’s going to be something new. “Your vocal warm-up’s at one, then your guitar lesson—oh, remember to rest your voice before. Take a cough drop, they have soothing chemicals in them for your throat.” There's nothing new. Same old.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything, but nods. Just stares into the remnants of the green swamp stuck to the sides of the glass. It’s probably already building a whole ecosystem in his stomach. He must look particularly pathetic for a moment, because a sad sigh comes from the seat across him.

“You know,” Effie says gently, setting her clipboard down. “I’m not doing this to be cruel.”

“No?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. Sometimes, he isn’t sure if it’s better that Effie sees him as human—rather than pigs, like Drusilla did. Sometimes it scares him that she can watch a broadcast and see not two pigs battling it out, but children killing each other—and still believe in the greater good of the Hunger Games. “You don’t enjoy watching me choke down swamp juice? Could’ve fooled me.”

Mostly, he tries not to pay it much mind. There’s no changing her mind. There’s no changing anything. No way, whatsoever. Better to have an escort that gives him horrible tasting concoctions rather than one that beats them up with her heels.

They’ve not talked much, really. First week has been so hard on Haymitch he couldn’t even produce a single comprehensible word to utter.

“No,” she says, letting out a small laughter. “It’s because I care. Because we care. The Capitol’s giving you all this, Haymitch, but because you've earned it. A new chance, a fresh start. You just need to meet them halfway.”

A new chance, a fresh new start. Thank you, Capitol. Thank you, President Snow. I’m sorry Maysilee. I’m sorry Louella, Lou Lou, Wyatt…I’m sorry, Ampert.

“Sure,” he says. “Halfway.”

Effie beams.

When she leaves the room to fetch his vitamins and other supplements, Haymitch feels the waves rise again. They jolt him to his feet, dragging him to the cabinet under the sink—the one he knows is empty. Just to check, he tells himself.

But of course, the bottles are still gone.

He sighs and leans back against the counter, stomach coiling with a familiar emptiness that no amount of green sludge and cough drops can’t fill.

His vocal and guitar lessons go by without much trouble after the disaster that is the first day. He’s in a much better state just a week after, which makes him realize how bad he was faring before.

If the Capitol tutors are frustrated by how slow he learns— well, that’s not on him. Haymitch has no musical bone in his body, and that’s one thing he can’t be blamed for. There are plenty of other things he can be blamed for, an entire cemetery’s worth, but not this. 

Maybe they just don’t care. Cassia already mentioned they might just use a backing track, and Haymitch is pretty sure Capitol tech could probably engineer him into a walking, two-legged jabberjay if they wanted to — some advanced model of Lou Lou, parroting songs in a voice that isn’t his. 

The way they handle music, it’s different. 

With the Capitol, it feels wrong. Haymitch can’t quite find the words for it, but it’s there. Everything is about what’s written on the sheet, every note must be played even if his hands don’t quite produce the right sound, every pause must be stopped at, when you mess up, you start over, he’s not taught to improvise, or save the rest of the piece. Show must go on. Not if you’re Haymitch. 

Maybe it’s just the extent of what they’re allowing him to know. But Haymitch knows this is not music, not really.

Because Haymitch has heard real music. He’s felt it. Kissed it, even. Loved it. Still loves it.

He’s heard it from Lenore Dove’s painted orange lips. From her cracked, dry mouth in a particularly warm summer. After a long kiss they share, her lips shining like a riverbed stone under moonlight. 

He knows what it’s like when music comes from calloused fingertips, not from eyes glued to a sheet of paper. It’s not stopping at every stop, not starting over each time you miss a beat or slip up. It’s something that moves and breathes and sometimes, you feel like it has a will on its own. He’s watched the Covey enough to understand that the lines on sheet music are supposed to carry you, lift you like a wave. Not drag you under, not fill your ears and nose and mouth and make you choke on it.

He wonders what the Covey will think of him now. What Lenore Dove would think of him? What will they think? What will she think?

What he’s doing now isn’t music. It’s a faint reflection on a foggy mirror. 

Clerk Carmine will probably hear him playing and assume he’s just banging the guitar around like the good-for-nothing drunk he is—rattling the strings with ear-ringing nonsense. And honestly? He wouldn’t be too far off.

Then he’ll find some better-looking, sober, respectable boy with a normal job and a family not known for being rebels, and introduce him to Lenore Dove, and—

Yeah. Every thought Haymitch has worms its way through a maze of possibilities and ends in some kind of scenario that keeps him up at night.

He’s torn between the two directions love pulls him toward. He knows he has to let go one, but Haymitch’s not sure he’s strong enough. Or weak enough, maybe he has to be drained out of everything, for him to let go of both sides, and sink.

Still, he doesn’t make things difficult. Not if he can help it. He holds back every snark, every jab, every urge, every reflex even if it goes against the wiring of his brain. 

For all he knows, everything he does carries consequence. Even the smallest rock he kicks off the edge of the cliff, it’ll come back around, only this time the size of a boulder. Maybe an avalanche. There’s no in-between.

Best not to start anything that might get someone killed. His image is already beyond saving—and maybe he himself is, too. Not without sacrificing people who deserve far better than to have their lives cut short because of some jackass.

Apart from the lessons, they have dinner together now twice a week—Effie insists. The tutors always retreat back to the train before evening comes, eager to get away like spending another second with Haymitch takes a year off their lives. He’s not sure about them, but it sure does take some off of Haymitch’s.  

Effie, on the other hand, stays behind. She’s had an Avox assigned to her during her stay, who prepares the food and sets the table like they’re some odd little Capitol family of two, sometimes three if Proserpina comes along with her older sister which happened twice so far, and not a recovering addict of a victor and his peppy handler. Effie’s even brought golden napkin rings as a housewarming gift.

“I thought the flames engraved on them fit you,” she had said, smiling proudly. “Reminded me of your tribute token!” Haymitch had thanked her for it. Meant it, too. She was being genuine.

"You really are doing so well,” she says, halfway through a bowl of tonight’s fish soup. They, Effie and the Avox, has learned very early that Haymitch cannot stand the sight of rare meat, neither the smell of burning flesh. So, his protein is served as seafood dishes. “You’re already leagues better than the uncle of a friend of mine. He had to be admitted into a recovery center in the city. Took years, poor thing. Couldn't even sit at the dinner table without breaking a plate or two.”

“Lucky me,” Haymitch replies, side-eyeing the bread roll next to his plate. Yes, he’s not a fan of that anymore either.

Effie beams at him across the table. “You are lucky. But you're also trying very hard, Haymitch! You want to do better, be better .And that’s the real victory, if you ask me.”

"Yeah, well. I figure if I try and pretend long enough," he says, "one day it'll stick.”

“That’s the spirit! Ninety-seven percent, I tell you.”

Right. But Haymitch feels like that three percent is made up of the real hurdles impossible to get through.

He thinks about it all, mostly after he’s done emptying his guts into the toilet, and lies down next to it, breathless and shaking, the taste of bile sharp in his throat and burning from inside out from all that retching. That doesn’t go away, he always finds himself on his knees before the toilet one way or another.

And the longer it goes on, the less he understands any of it.

Why does the Capitol care this much? Why are they trying so hard to groom him into a performer? They’ve already wrung every drop of entertainment out of him— he’s as dry as they come, nothing left in him to dig out. He won. He gave them a show. Snow killed his parents and nearly took Lenore Dove, all for his own personal enjoyment. So what’s the point of polishing him up now? What’s left of him to take? Why bother turning him into the first victor of District Twelve if he wanted to erase her existence to begin with? Is the President really this insatiable?

Haymitch thought so at first. But the more they take care of him, with no new threats received from the man himself, the more he starts to think differently.

It’s just weird.

He’s not sure what the standard procedure for a Victor is, he knows their lives are always on news one way or another, he has watched them show up on Capitol screens— parties, endorsement campaigns, occasional interviews, and of course, as mentors in the Hunger Games.

Maybe this is what they all went through. Maybe they were all dragged through private lessons and posture drills and swamp juice until they could smile and cry on cue and look good doing it.

But then why wait?

Why start in the final month, after letting him rot for so long? Why let him fall apart for months, when they could’ve spent that time shaping him into someone the Capitol could tolerate, and if he pulls it off just right, even love? Wouldn’t that time be better spent that way?

He watches Effie for a moment as she takes a spoon from the soup. Her earrings sparkle when she moves, her fit still coal black, but she’s put her own spin and incorporated golden accessory and embellishments all over. It’s like she’s on camera, even here. Maybe she wants him to take the hint— sit straight, smile pretty, mind your manners. You never know when you're on air. And soon, you’ll be on air most of your days, one way or another.

He nudges a floating piece of fish tail in his bowl. “Effie, can I ask you a question?”

Effie perks up from across the table, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. It’s not everyday he willingly starts a conversation. “Of course! Is it about the set list? Because I think logistics team is handling that—“

“No, no. Not about the set list,” Haymitch interrupts quickly. He doesn’t want to hear about what humiliations are waiting for him on stage. “I was just thinking…Aren’t the tutors and all this, y’know, doing too much? I just don’t know how things work,I guess, so I was wondering…”

He hadn’t even thought about what Mags, Wiress, or even Beetee might have told him about life as a victor. Of course, they hadn’t talked about it — or even imagined it. You don’t go into the Hunger Games worrying about what comes after; what happens in the arena is all you think, naturally. And after his win, he didn’t really have mentors to tell him what to expect.

From what he’s seen, being a victor means living your days clinging on life support, fragile as an unguarded back in the arena, and enduring a lifetime of guaranteed suffering, not just for yourself but for your kin, your entire bloodline, and everyone around you.

So, doctors, dieticians, singing lessons and guitar classes, they all feel worlds away from all that.

“Well, nothing’s too much for the Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, if you ask me!” she says with a bright smile. “But you’re right. It’s not the usual procedure. I’d know because I took a week of intensive District Escort classes just to catch up.” She leans in, and he knows another insider information from the Capitol is coming. “And get this, there were some people there that were already long established district escorts…”

She reaches for her glass, full with a weird drink that tasted like a combination of every single fruit in the world in the worst way possible, and takes a sip before continuing, “I actually cornered Sabine about it last week. You haven’t met her, she handles the Victory Tour logistics for Ulysses Valor— I couldn’t really reach out to him, I’m just a Trinket. But anyways, even Sabine admitted they’ve been rushed into everything. That’s why no one seemed to know what to do with you.”

Haymitch’s eyebrows inch upward. So, he was right. “Why the rush?”

Effie tilts her head, golden curls bouncing with the motion. “New management, maybe. Faustina Gripper’s out. There’s a new Head Gamemaker.”

“Oh.” Haymitch leans back, suppressing a smile. Faustina Gripper, who gave him a training score of one. He doesn’t feel bad for her. If anything, he hopes she’s jobless, broke, and drinking her suffering away. He’s been nearly two weeks sober—he can at least enjoy that petty little victory he has over her. Ha, he thinks, who’s the miserable drunkard now. “I thought the Games were a success.”

My Games, he should’ve said, really. That’s how everyone else around him calls it. Your Games.

“Oh, yes!” Effie chirps. “President Snow even said so himself! But still, lately, change is everywhere. They’re even replacing people in the Stylist and Escort Guilds. New heads, new structure. That’s part of why Magno got booted, on top of the whole…reptile thing. Maybe they just want to start fresh after the Quarter Quell.”

Haymitch stares into his soup. Fresh starts, Effie keeps saying. He doesn’t believe in them.

Effie grabs a bread roll with metal tongs. He told her to use her hands once, and got reprimanded about manners. He’s not about to do it again. “It’s kind of exciting, really. You might be the face of a whole new era. Doesn’t that feel good?”

“If you say so.” He answers. It feels like I’m walking right into a trap with my own two legs, eyes open and hands tied.

Effie smiles too brightly. “Well! Dessert?”

“Sure. What does fresh start lovers have for dessert these days?” Haymitch quips, almost by reflex, though his mind is still stuck on what she just said— Face of a new era. 

Oh, it makes him sick. Lower your head, Pa, please. Ma. Sid. Maysilee. All my Newcomers. They’re not just painting a poster with me, I’m becoming the very thing itself with everything that’s me. My flesh, my bones, my blood, my voice, my name. How long will this go on? I feel so tired, not even my spine can hold me up. 

That’s because you haven’t grown one yet, his ally tells him. He breathes a little harsher, as if trying to blow away Maysilee’s ghost. I have already enough on my plate right now.

Effie lets out a laugh. “Cinnamon mousse tarts. You’re going to love it.”

You can’t really go wrong with cinnamon, yet it makes him want to throw up.

Haymitch’s hand shakes as he brings the last spoonful of fish soup to his mouth. He gulps down the lukewarm broth, and still, it scorches its way down, setting fire to his stomach, leaving a bitter trail behind.

---

I don’t want to go.

The morning of the Victory Tour comes with great nerves.

He doesn’t sleep. He lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Maybe he blinks once or twice. His gaze stays fixed on a single crack above him until Effie’s face suddenly swims into view. His lids feel too stuck to bring down, eyeballs pulsing with every flicker of movement, sending jabs of pain behind them and into the core of his brain.

Proserpina and Vitus are on him in an instant, and he lets himself go in their hands. In the end, he’s dressed in a paisley suit from Great-Uncle Silius—never worn before, they assure him—but since it’s cold, they layer a knee-length overcoat over it as well. Effie is especially stressed trying to find him a matching scarf, while Cassia reassures her that there are always backtracks, so it won’t be a big deal if his voice gets a bit sore. He’s also given a heads-up that they have two speakers: one to attach to his neck, and another to put in his guitar. Sound will come out from his general direction, but Haymitch stops listening at that point. 

I don’t want to go.

It’s the only thought he’s capable of having. It sits on his chest, pushing the air from his lungs. Even as he’s escorted out of the house and toward the car, the words echo through his body, his bones, louder than the constant chatter all around him.

He gives the mandatory soundbite to the camera crew—his face stretched in a puppet smile, it’s time for all his practice to pay off, saying how thrilled he is to visit the other districts and meet his fellow victors, how honored he feels to be returning to the Capitol soon. The words taste like sawdust, feel like it too, scraping their way up from his lungs, through his throat, and out of his mouth.

I don’t want to go.

Next thing he knows, he’s waiting in the Justice Building for his cue to come out, onto the stage. He can hear the faint voice of Mayor Allister making a speech for his departure, but it feels like it’s coming from far away, like sound filtered through the depths of an ocean.

Effie’s hand starts waving at him, and he knows it’s time for him to go.

I don’t want to go.

Outside, the light feels blinding, and the forced reluctant applause feels like a sea of arrows raining on top of him. Each messy clap feels like another hit. By some miracle, he manages to step onto the podium, clutching the cards Effie had given him. She’s written several speeches and ran them through with Haymitch. He has not listened to every draft, and just settled to practise the final one she came up with. 

Haymitch licks his lips, barely stopping himself from scanning the crowd for Lenore Dove, for Burdock, for Blair, for McCoys…He’s afraid that once he looks at them, he won’t be able to look away. But in his own warped mind, he knows it’s only a matter of time before Louella shows up near her family, Lou Lou in tow, before Maysilee appears on her sister’s face, and the cling of Wyatt’s coin will follow somewhere close behind.

“Good people of District 12,” he stars, like he’s practiced with Effie. “I never imagined I’d be standing here like this—alive, let alone a Victor. As the first victor our district has ever known, I am aware of the responsibilities I carry, and I accept them with both pride and honor.”

He had questioned Effie on this, told her he’s not the first. That Twelve had a Victor before him. She looked completely confused and even made an attempt to call Sabine about it, but Haymitch panicked that it’d reach the President’s ears and trigger happy fingers, so he played it off as a lapse in memory. He’s been drugged, or drunk for a good part of the past five months, after all.

“This Victory Tour is more than a celebration of half a century of the Hunger Games. It is remembrance. It is unity. It is a reminder that we are all part of something larger than ourselves: a nation held together by tradition, duty, and loyalty.”

He needs to inhale. Air is important, and he feels completely out of it. 

“Through the opportunity the Capitol’s given me, I have been granted a new life, and with it, a new duty, and that is to represent our district with dignity and gratitude. To honor those who came before me, with me, and inspire those who will come after.” he continues. “I thank the Capitol, and President Snow, for giving me and our District a voice we’ve never had before. I will do my best to use it well. And as I travel through our sister districts, I promise to represent our home with the reverence it deserves.”

“Let us remember that the Hunger Games unite us. With every tribute, every district, every year, every Game—we come together, knit tight, woven irreversibly into the tapestry of our great country.”

“Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.” He flashes a smile at the camera right offstage as he shakes hands with Mayor Allister, but it immediately falls off his face the moment Cassia yells out, “And cut!”

As he’s being ushered back into the Justice Building, the camera crew is already tearing down equipment, fast as greased lighting and hot on his heels, Haymitch can’t help but cast a searching glance to the crowd.

He doesn’t see Ma in the pile of McCoys, nor does he see Sid’s small, horrified face. No hint of dark auburn that burns bright red under sun catches his eye. But just before the doors close, a pair of gray eyes finds his.

His stare is flat but piercing. Burdock’s always worn his feelings plain, and Haymitch can read the disappointment from here. That final arrow hits him square in the chest—clean and true, just like Burdock’s aim always is.

The door shuts close.

---

I don't want to go.

It's still all Haymitch can think. A looping, useless mantra thudding behind his eyes as he's escorted out car and into the train station.

Effie is talking as always. Just behind him, he can her chirping about something, anything, with Proserpina, Vitus and rest of his team. He'd once found the sound of her voice comforting, a distraction from his own inside noise. But the closer they get to the train, the more his body’s grip on his muscles loosens. His legs are trembling. His vision blurs around the edges. World tilts.

Enjoy your homecoming.

Enjoy your homecoming.

Enjoy your homecoming.

President Snow's voice coils through his head like barbed wire, slicing its way through the inside of his head.

What awaits me this time?

Last time I behaved. Didn't change a damn thing. Ma and Sid paid for it with every single agonising second they spent burning alive. Lenore Dove almost… I almost… With my own two hands…

Who’s to say this time will be different?

He wants his Ma.

More than anything in the world right now, he wants her to brush his hair off his forehead and kiss it the way she used to when he was sick, when he fell down as a child, when nothing in particular happened and she just wanted to kiss him. He aches for her hands, rough and calloused from working tirelessly over the years, cup his face in them. He aches for her hugs, her hand on the back of his head, pressing his nose into her shoulder, the one place in the world that blocks everything bad, leaving only the safety and solace of a mother.

He’d not hugged her enough. Ma, are you waiting for me, all mad? I’m sorry I sneaked out instead of filling the cistern, Ma, I know. I just wish you could’ve scolded me about it even once when I came back. We haven’t had the chance.

Haymitch stumbles, suddenly turning back, colliding into Effie behind him. She grabs his arms before the Peacekeepers can, eyes wide with instinct and alarm.

“Haymitch—”

“I don’t want to go,” he says. It comes out more like a whine. His fingers clutch at her wrists, desperate. “Effie, I don’t want to go.”

Her blue eyes flick toward the Peacekeepers, who are beginning to close in. She flashes them a rehearsed smile, all under control, and pulls Haymitch aside. He barely feels his feet move. His vision tips again, swaying like he’s underwater.

Once, when they were thirteen, in a particularly bitter winter, Burdock had shown up to where Haymitch, Lenore Dove, Blair, McCoy kids and a few of their neighbors were gathered, carrying a block of ice, Look what I found! 

With his knit gloves, fraying at the seams, held it up to show the fish frozen inside. It had been alive—twitching in panicked jerks beneath the solid surface, even its single eye looked frantic. Lenore Dove had thrown a fit, shouting for him to let it go. The boys had been mesmerized. Haymitch, trying to win favor with Lenore Dove and unsure of his own shifting loyalties at a time of growing and changing feelings, had taken her side, rounding up on Burdock to set it free.

Though a few hours later found Burdock and Haymitch crouching near a makeshift fire waiting for the fish to cook.

Right now, Haymitch feels like that fish— trapped, squirming in a block of ice. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“Deep breaths, Haymitch,” Effie says gently. She breathes in first, demonstrative, and waits for him to follow. Eventually, they find a rhythm together. In. Out. In. Out.

“Let’s calm down,” she whispers,“It’s just nerves, dear.”

It’s not.

It’s not just nerves, Effie. He wants her to understand him, he realizes at that moment. There’s no one in this group who understands my fear, you can’t even imagine the possibility.

Enjoy your homecoming.

His mouth doesn’t work anymore. Not for words, at least. Just the shape of a scream he can’t let out. A cry lodged too deep in his throat, cutting his breath short.

“I’m scared,” he manages. Maybe he cries it out. He’s not sure.

“You’ve got nothing to be scared of, Haymitch. All your hard work—look how far you’ve come. You’ve got this, don’t worry.”

Effie loops her arm through his like they’re just heading off on a morning walk.

“Come on now,” she says sweetly, and guides him to the train, a different one this time, he spots shining chrome and steel even through the spots of black blocking vision. “Let’s get to the train. You'll feel better once we’re settled in, I’m sure of it.”

Haymitch doesn’t know if he can scream loud enough to shatter the ice block and finally set himself free.

He wishes he had let that fish go, like Lenore Dove had said. He’s afraid of the fire that awaits him when he returns.

I don't want to go.

Notes:

Some Hayffie warming up to each other - as friends!! Yay! I know I said this chapter would be a little late but procrastination fairies decided to pay me a visit just before my finals so… Here you go.

Now... Why the hell would the Capitol work so hard on marketing Haymitch like this? All eyes must be on the Second Quarter Quell Victor as much as possible, but going so far that it’s out of protocol??

The 'theorem' in the beginning note is attributed to the C.P. Snow - a little too close to another C. Snow we know lol- and he's credited by his students for using this to teach the laws of thermodynamics but it’s not really confirmed whether he came up with it or not. Pretty interesting.

Next Chapter: The Victory Tour in its entirety, from 11 to 1. (I'll see you after my finals, so, in June!!)

Elle Fanning picked up the phone :')

Chapter 9: Jabberjay Jubilee

Summary:

Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.

Now say that ten more times. And smile. Perfect!

Notes:

"If a victory is told in detail, one can no longer distinguish it from a defeat."
— Jean-Paul Sartre

DISTRICT 11

Hull / Tile / Chicory / Blossom / Lou Lou

 

It's the first time Haymitch's going to another district.

Well, it would be the first time for anyone, really. Even for the Capitol teams with him, who's only been to 12 before. 

While Effie and the others scamper around, talking schedule and arranging clothes and makeup, Haymitch nests by the window in the sitting room, watching the scenery roll by. They leave the smoky mountains of home behind on the first day, traveling through a stretch of dense woods, and by the next, they emerge into open grasslands that seem to stretch on forever.

They spend a night in the train, barely two days into the journey, but Haymitch's already got a routine.

The train’s kitchen had served puff pastries with every kind of filling—chocolate and jam for him—alongside the fluffiest omelet he’s ever seen, and strong coffee. Ever since Effie insisted he sober up, coffee has become a staple in his mornings. There are worse things, like the detox juice, so he got used to it quickly.

He eats—his appetite has come back full force over time. After he -was forced to- quit drinking and began the meds. The dietitian had told him as such, too. “Your brain’s used to chasing pleasure,” he’d said. “Without the alcohol, it’s going to look for it somewhere else.”

Fine. Let it find it in food. It wasn’t like he needed to get past liquor addiction to enjoy good meal, any meal, before it all.

So, his routine-- he eats breakfast, then heads to his perch and watches the forbidden zones pass by. That's about it.

The only other road he's seen was to the Capitol, and it still amazes him in a way that how big the world is. How much Lenore Dove would’ve loved to explore every inch and cranny of it. If she could, she’d have run straight across it all, like the wind—every color of it wrapped around her.

The train begins to slow, and from his perch by the window, a tall fence comes into view. Calling it a fence doesn’t feel right—it’s a wall. At least thirty-five feet tall, coiled with barbed wire, definitely not for show. Compared to this, the actual fence back in District 12 look like thorns of a blackberry bush. It's just there to piss you off-- you can just pick at my berries, I don't offer any real dangers, just here to make you re-think about reaching a hand. Even then, slipping past those loose wires into the woods with Burdock had scared Haymitch plenty. He can’t even imagine looking sideways at walls like these.

As they pass thourgh, his gaze drops to the base, where massive metal plates line the perimeter. Escape or even sneaking out is out of the question here. Haymitch’s eyes go to the watchtowers next, each manned by guards who keep watch on either side. Rolling grasslands come to a dead stop at the foot of that giant monstrosity.

It's endless crop fields after that.

People are working, men, women, children, just as he expected, bent under the sun. He hopes the air outside is chilly, or at least there’s at least a breeze to cool off the heat that must be burning their backs. The train passes by the fields, which already seem endless, before moving on to the settlements, little shacks that make the houses in the Seam look like a house in Victor’s Village.

The journey from the train station to the Justice Building, where the public appearance will be, is made in a series of vans he's grown used to travelling in. Though his Capitol team seem to hate it. The mayor is waiting for them in the newly renovated building, which only seems to go for the exterior, just as Effie had noted, along with the first of his fellow victors.

Haymitch has met three victors already, yet his palms still sweat with pressure. Is he supposed to be close to them? Or keep his distance? Snow wouldn’t like it if he got too friendly. The president might see it as disobedience. He shouldn't stretch a hand out of his cage, whether it's to wave for help or to clasp to shake.

Right after the mayor, Haymitch shakes hands with the General Peacekeeper and a row of commanders from various zones. It catches him off guard, and he flicks a glance toward his team. His camera crew is already nodding, lenses trained on him, eager.

Right. No Peacekeeper, no peace.

Here’s your victor from the crummiest district of all twelve, smiling and shaking hands with your enforcers. The iron fists of your oppressors.

Marc Tedder and Seeder Martin shake his hand firmly, smiles in place. But Chaff Lyons can’t seem to resist a prank — he extends the arm that’s missing half of itself. Haymitch reacts a beat too late, but the moment sparks laughter from both the Capitol entourage and the District 11 representatives.

Haymitch takes the stage and faces the clapping crowd, eyes skimming over the audience, then up to the raised platforms where the families of the fallen tributes stand. Above them, propped up screens bear the tributes’ portraits, staring straight back at him.

His stomach twists. He takes a deep breath, and adjusts the guitar strap on his shoulder. The speaker devices are already in place—one just below his collar, the other nestled inside the guitar. They’d rigged him up back on the train, he's now layered with wires and adhesive patches, sound levels and frequencies all checked. Ready to go.

"Thank you," Haymitch begins his speech after the applause dies down, "People of District 11, I'm honored to be here today in your proud and hardworking home.

Your children fought bravely, and all the respect goes to their families who raised such strong, noble tributes. Their courage in the arena was a true reflection of the values that are instilled in them.

We are all part of something greater than ourselves. We're a nation united in peace through the safety and abundance provided by the Capitol, enforced by Peacekeepers.

Your tributes fulfilled their duty with strength and dignity in this historic year of the Second Quarter Quell, helping to secure the continued prosperity and stability of Panem. Their sacrifices reminds us why the Games matter. They matter, because they bring us together. So we remember. So we never forget the price of peace, and appreciate how far we’ve all come.

And now, as a token of my respect..."

Haymitch fully meant to obey the setlist and the speech, and everything else they’ve arranged for him. Up until the moment he’s expected to play the assigned song, a patriotic piece made by Victory Tour Logistics, that's when his eyes start searching for Lou Lou’s kin. Anyone who resembles her, but his brain shuts down when he remembers how altered her body must’ve been. The Lou Lou anyone ever saw, was the sketch of a person erased and re-drawn.

Effie's making gestured with her head at him, and he knows he's stalled too long. He lowers the cards, and her eyes pop out of their sockets before she buries her head in her hands. Proserpina starts rubbing her older sister's back in comfort. I'll make it up for it later, Effie. 

“I believe I have something to give back to your district.”

Thank you for singing me your song, Lou Lou, now I’ll sing it for you.

“Something I’ve learned from one of your own…”

I hope I’m able to carry a piece of you home this way. I hope that, wherever you are, you know you made it home. 

“…someone who I think about, very much.” He says, trying to keep it as ambiguous as possible. “All I can hope is I do right by it.”

Haymitch can only hope his month of guitar lessons pays off as he starts strumming the tune.

Mockingjay up on the branch

Nesting in this apple tree 

The audience is stunned, no doubt the fresh new victor from another district singing their harvest song has caught them off guard.

On the platform honoring the fallen tributes, a little boy—likely Till’s brother—sways gently in place. His lips move along with the words, as if the song is the only thing keeping him upright. His mother stands beside him. Haymitch can’t bring himself to look directly at her face. But he sees her hand, clenched tight on her now-only son’s shoulder.

The sight hits him like a punch to the chest. In another world, he sees Ma and Sid standing just like that—facing whoever got out of the arena. He wishes it was that world instead.

Picking time so fly away

Fly away

Fly away

 It’s the children who pick it up first, and High pitched, squeaky voices join in, making up for Haymitch’s clumsy fingers and scratchy voice, and if the Victor marketed as a performer failing this bad at what he’s supposed to be good at, they don’t show it. Adults don't sing along, but they don't stop the children either, watching their kids with slight smiles.

From the sides, he hears a “— says keep rolling.” from Cassia, directing one of the cameras to the crowd. Just as he hoped, they show him as a singer able to attract a sizeable crowd.

Picking time so fly away

Fly away with me

From the front crowd, kids hold up their hands, bring them together, thumbs crossed and fingers splayed. The hands sway in air, as hundreds of mockingjays take flight. Haymitch's lips curl into a smile, a real one, he's sure he's showing all his teeth, now pearly white thanks to his prep-team and all that chemical toothpaste they filled his mouth with. 

He wonders if this is what Lenore Dove feels when she plays her tunebox and the crowd leans in with breathless adoration. He's not sure if this feeling is the one he's supposed to be having, but for once, it's not a bad one.

Looking at the children, Haymitch starts imagining Lou Lou, when she wasn't Lou Lou, but her own self, being herself, called by her own name, signing this same song, hands folding into wings. Maybe she'd be running across the orchards they passed coming here, weaving between trees, pretending to be a bird, or maybe a snake like she was so fond of, sliding through tall grass, sun on her own skin.

Mockingjay up on the branch

Nesting in this apple tree

Picking time so fly away

Fly away with me

He’s cheered on extensively. The image of children jumping up and down for Panem’s brand-new victor? A smash hit. See? Everyone loves him. No need to be hard on this guy.

When he steps off the stage, his nerves ease at the sight of Effie waiting for him, clapping enthusiastically as she takes the guitar from his trembling hands.

"Oh, Haymitch, that was amazing! I won’t lie, you got me there for a second..." she says, dabbing her forehead as if those ten minutes he went haywire added ten years to her face. "But you pulled it off perfectly!"

"Ditto," Cassia adds, pressing a finger to the comm in her ear. "It was probably the right call—we got tons of footage of the locals singing along. They’re overlaying the Capitol arrangement with your live recording. Then it goes out."

Oh.

Not only had he turned himself into the perfect Capitol poster boy, he’d strung along a couple hundred District 11 kids too.

Right. That’s what he does now.

He tells himself it was for Lou Lou, but even thinking that feels like passing the blame onto her. He’d never do that. He should’ve known better.

Whatever joy or warmth he’d felt while watching the children sing, imagining Lou Lou among them, has now rotted and curdled and inflated inside him like a balloon.

There’s no real district tour. Just a stroll around the square near the Justice Building. There's nothing to note about it. It’s Harvest season, so fields, orchards, and greenhouses are all busy, and too far out anyway. The camera crew shows him the “live” broadcast—though the audio has already been swapped with his pre-recorded Capitol track. It's only the mouths that don’t match.

“We’re fixing that in post, for the tour film release,” Saga says. “For now, it works. No one can tell anyway.”

He hopes someone can.

“You settling in, kid?” Marc Tedder approaches him during supper in the Justice Building, when he was just eyeing the basket of crescent-shaped loaves sprinkled with seeds, feelings torn between repulsion and quiet grief. He has a voice like a rusty hinge, a bit creaky like so.

“Figured we’d give you some space earlier,” Seeder says, likely referring to the walking tour, when they’d let Haymitch stroll ahead with the mayor—a quiet man who’d mostly led the group in silence and now eats just as quietly with his family, disengaged from the victors and Capitol entourage. The quiet had been welcome then. Or maybe she means the supper.

Earlier, there hadn’t been much talking during the meal either. The Capitol chef traveling with them is a beast at his craft—access to endless ingredients and equipment must’ve honed his skills beyond anything a simpleton district cook could dream of. The spread set before them was nothing short of insane.

Syrup-glazed orange potatoes shimmered on his plate. Haymitch couldn't help but wonder if there was copper, zinc, and phosphoric acid in this one too—would it power a battery? But the first bite banished all thoughts. The syrup soaking the potatoes had a deep, nutty taste to it—that's sorghum, he's sure of it. He ladled more of it beside a thick slice of what looked like a vegetable loaf, packed brimming with ramps, beets, eggplant, sun-dried tomatoes, and a ribbon of warm, creamy goat cheese running through the center.

For dessert, he all but devoured the bowl of mixed fruit compote on top of dark chocolate and whipped cream. The coldness cut through the warmth of the previous dishes, and the compote itself was a mystery of flavor—berries for sure, but beyond that, the orchard fruits blurred together, sweet and bright on his tongue, going so well against the strong taste of dark chocolate.

“First tour’s always the strangest.” Seeder continues.

“It is a bit, I guess,” Haymitch says, fiddling with the edge of his glass. “I’m trying to get used to it.”

Chaff snorts from his seat, but immediately quiets and tries to play it off as a cough when Seeder shoots him a sharp look. She turns back to Haymitch, “It’ll take some time,” she says. “But if you’ve got questions—well, we’ll be seeing each other every year from now on.”

“Maybe twice,” Marc chimes in, “if someone from Eleven or Twelve pulls another miracle.”

“Though it’s unlikely,” Seeder swirls her drink. “You just won. And Chaff’s was only five years ago.” she says. “Our districts win like five times a decade, and that's split between nine. If we’re lucky.”

“Still,” Marc says, “you did good. Say hi to Mags for us, will you?”

“Yeah,” Seeder smiles at him. “Tell her we’re thinking of her.”

I am too. She got tortured because of me. Did you know that?

Haymitch manages a nod, forcing the edges of a smile. He wonders how much they were shown. Being mentors, they surely have heard of the Newcomers. Did they watch as him and Maysilee hold on to Hull? Rearrange their bodies for a less devastating final visual? Or were they only shown as plotting from a distance as he, along with Chicory and Buck, were writhing to death? Who knows? He could ask...But he decides not to push it for now.

“Sure,” he says. “I will.”

The ongoing evening festivities bring an unexpected dynamic to the table: Chaff and Effie. Or more accurately, Chaff vs. Effie.

Every time Chaff refills his goblet with liquor, Effie swoops in and replaces it with juice—of every fruit imaginable, courtesy of District 11. It becomes such a dance that she eventually starts sitting between Chaff and Haymitch, placing herself directly in the line of fire, then Chaff starts pouring drinks for Effie, who just gulps them down without hesitation. Haymitch is stunned. He didn’t even think she drank this much. And she’s still holding herself together surprisingly well. 

Proserpina catches his look.

“She used to attend a lot of parties back when she ran the Capitol Cohorts Chapters,” she says, raising a glass, “Effie’s great at networking. And that comes with its own cup.” Then, more quietly, “But she doesn’t like it much. Edema’s a frustrating thing, you know. Hard to flush out.”

That, Haymitch knows.

It’s a surprise, honestly—both his fellow victor and his district escort get so cork high and bottle down that tthey end up joining the dancing crowd together, swaying to the crackling tune of the record player. It’s a sight, all right. Haymitch is content watching it, half-amused, half-horrified, but then they rope him in too, hands dragging him from the edge of the room into the swaying chaos.

“At least dance if you’re not drinking!” Chaff insists, hauling Haymitch up with one arm—and he can, because the man’s six feet tall and all lean muscle.

“And he definitely is not drinking!” Effie chimes in, pulling at his other arm.

And because he’s as sober as they come, he’s painfully aware of how awkward the whole thing is—his limbs are stiff, steps always a beat behind, mostly just trying to keep the duo upright rather than actually dance. One of the half-drunk camera crew, Anise, stumbles back to her camera and manages to catch it all on film. Still thiking of her job, even with her head up in the clouds.

By the end of the night—one that drags unimaginably slow for Haymitch on the dance floor—everyone retreats to their guest rooms. They're staying overnight to let the train and its passengers refuel. Effie blabbers to him as he's half-carrying her to second floor, that this won’t happen in every district—just that they skipped refueling in Twelve to kick things off quickly. Maybe every two or three districts, there’ll be another overnight stay like this. He nods, and drops her off at the room she's sharing with Proserpina.

"Goodnight, Haymitch." She slurs and plops without a hint of grace. He knows she'll hate it when he teases her about it tomorrow—or maybe he won’t, considering the only reason she drank so much was to take Chaff's liquor hit instead. "Tomorrow's a big, big day..." comes through the pillow, muffled and drawling.

"G'night, Effie."

As Haymitch opens the door to his room on the second floor, Chaff passes behind him, lays a firm hand on his shoulder, and leans in close, breath sharp and burning with liquor. Haymitch flinches. If this was anything like how Lenore Dove saw him after the Games, rotting from the inside out which he was, he’s ashamed all over again.

He braces for another half-soused line from Chaff, but then the young man says in a low voice, "I wonder what really happened in your Games...”

The words punch the air from Haymitch’s lungs. It takes effort to keep his face blank.

How does he know?

Chaff wasn’t a mentor during the Second Quarter Quell. But Marc and Seeder were. Had they told him? Or had someone else? Haymitch scans the corridor for a set of eyes. Everyone's asleep somewhere.

“Come on.” Chaff starting walking a head, “Follow me.”

They wind through a maze of narrow halls and doors, revealing a ladder leading up to a trapdoor, and then they're in an attic - a vast, dust-choked space, wooden crates and broken pieces of furniture scattered around.

Haymitch turns to him, “How did you—”

Chaff barks a laugh at his expression. “It’s what they do, kid. Get used to it.”  he says, settling on one of the crates. “They played me too, y'know. By the way, you’re a shit stage performer.”

Haymitch had watched Chaff’s year—the 45th Hunger Games.

Chaff was allied with his district partner and the pair from 8. The arena that year had been almost gentle by Capitol standards. It was but a a lush, overgrown forest of tall fruit trees and vines. None poisonous.

One morning, Chaff went out to scout, gather food, check for nearby Careers. When he returned, his camp was a bloodbath. His allies were gutted inside out. Why weren't they picked up? Gamemakers must've wanted the scene of him coming back to witness it. The footage cut quickly after Chaff dropped to his knees, blood on his hands clutching his district partner, growls and screams escaping his mouth. What followed was a revenge tour across the arena.

He stalked the Careers, took them apart one by one. Even Caesar had joked nervously on air. “Some of the footage was just too intense for broadcast.” Haymitch remembers that line well, because it had been just one year before his own name would be dropped into the reaping bowl, and Chaff had scared him senseless.

He wonders, what really happened in there. What Chaff really did. What was really done to him?

“You gonna keep playing their game?”

“I…” Haymitch hesitates. "You danced too!"

“I’m not just talking about that, and you know it,” Chaff replies. “Besides, I danced ’cause I wanted to. You didn’t.”

He eyes Haymitch from head to toe—carefully styled curls, makeup not even a bit smudged, the paisley suit Effie and the prep team picked out. Fits right in with Eleven, don’t you think?

“Who do you have left?”

“What?”

“Family? Friends? Girlfriend?” 

Haymitch takes a deep breath. "Aren't you drunk?"

"I switched to juice halfway through, have you seen me pour myself a drink?" he asks with a grin, "I'm as sober as you. Well, maybe a little less. So, tell me the truth. No bullshit."

He looks away. It's not a secret, Snow knows Lenore Dove's alive, but Haymitch still finds it hard to say anything.

“There’s no eyes or ears here. You can talk.”

“I... I do,” Haymitch finally says, “After my family... Snow tried to kill my girl too. But she’s still alive.”

Chaff’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s not possible.”

“Huh?”

“If Snow wanted her dead, she’d be dead,” Chaff says. “There's no second chacnes.”

“But she is alive,” Haymitch insists. “It’s leverage. He’s keeping her alive to make me act right. I know it.”

Chaff presses his lips together. "With him, there’s no tried or but," he says, “Snow never fails.”

That too, Haymitch knows. Snow lands on top.

"And he hasn't. Didn't you see me? I've been nothing but a perfect puppet for him." 

"Why not just kill yourself?"

"He's..." If that’s not a question he asks himself every day. “It’s not just about me. I don’t think she’s the first person he’s hurt this way. I think there’s a grudge. Me being with her just gave him an excuse.”

It’s only the implications, and his fear of them, that keep him upright.

He thinks he knows me. Thinks he knows my love, our love. And in some way or another, he’s obsessed with it.

But I think what really gives him pleasure, isn’t the idea of killing one end of that love. It’s killing the love itself. Watching it break. Watching me break.

"Besides," Haymitch continues, "He gave me a chance to kill myself, back in the arena. I didn't take it. I doubt it'd do any good now, it's too late."

"Hm. Might be." he says, "You'll have no choice, then."

You're right, I don't.

“Anyway... why bring me up here? What do you want?”

“Well…" Chaff pauses," Where the hell did you learn our song?"

"Doesn't everyone here know that song? Haymitch asks, everybody sang along back when he was performing. "Is it so weird I know it too? There were people from Eleven in my Games, you know."

“That’s a kids’ harvest song,” Chaff replies. “There’s other songs teens sing too, but that one’s for when they just start working. You don’t really find sixteen-year-olds singing Mockingjay and the Apple Tree. All our tributes were seventeen, eighteen. I doubt they were running around the gym singing little kids’ songs.”

“It’s…” He glances around the attic, lowering his voice. “You’re absolutely sure this place is clean?”

“Pretty sure,” Chaff says with a shrug. “This Justice Building’s mostly for show—just for Victory Tours and Reapings. District 11’s crowded, acts out more than most. Real 'Justice Building' is branch offices near Peacekeeper posts. No need to bug a dead space in a decoy building.” he says, “If it helps, Marc dragged me up here too. Gave me a scolding to play safe. I acted out near the end of my victory tour—but I bet you didn’t see any of that.”

“No…” Haymitch blinks, caught off guard. “I didn’t.”

"’Cause you weren’t shown,” Chaff’s voice turns dry. “Like I said—it’s what they do.”

Haymitch nods slowly. “Okay. I...One of my district partners," My Sweetheart. "...she died before the Games. They replaced her with a girl from Eleven."

Chaff’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“My mentors thought so, anyway. And us, too. She was tortured and conditioned. Sang that song with your tributes when she saw their tribute tokens.” With me. Haymitch’s voice wavers. The tears threaten again, he holds himself back but chokes on his words. “I just wanted to bring a piece of her back. It was selfish of me. What I did only ended up benefiting them even more.”

Everything I do ends up that way.

Chaff doesn’t speak right away. 

“That’s… well, it’s more than I expected.” He takes a deep breath. "Just when you think they can't be worse..."

“I know...”

When Chaff looks at him again, there's a kind of geniunity in them that wasn't quite there before.

"I think we could be good friends, Haymitch.”

“I don’t think I can afford to have friends,” he says quietly. “But… thank you for the offer, Chaff.”

Chaff nods, he's not offended. Maybe he's even a little understanding.

“Thank you too,” he says, and before Haymitch can wonder for what, “You just gave me a lot to think about.”

---

DISTRICT 10

Buck / Stamp / Lannie/ Peller

 

District 10's air smells of hay and sun-warmed soil, with the occasional sharp kick of manure and iron—like the lingering tang of spilled blood.

Much to the dismay of his Capitol team—and, to some degree, even his—the Justice Building where Haymitch is expected to deliver his speech is planted right in the heart of it all. Still, they get through it. Haymitch doesn’t take one step out of line, still distressed by how easily he caved in back in 11. But he had to do that for Lou Lou. Best to act his best from now on.

So he 'performs' like he's supposed to, moves his mouth in time with the lyrics and hovers his fingers just above the strings. The music flows, courtesy of the discreet devices hidden in the body of the guitar and wired beneath his shirt. The loud backtrack helps, too.

The outskirts are better. Cleaner air, open sky which can be seen. He’s taken to the stud farms where horses are raised for chariot pulling, dressage, and the other equestrian sports the Capitol adores.

The grass is greener out here—literally. Back in the district center, it was all concrete, slaughterhouses, tanneries, egg factories, dairy plants. Bits of land he’s come across were all brown and plants were wilted, yellowed. But here, behind a wooden gate, it’s a different world. Horses graze peacefully in a wide paddock, and in the nearby stables, workers brush down two gleaming ivory-coated horses. Sunlight glints off their coats like polished gemstones.

The camera crew continues filming, B-roll, he hears Cassia whisper behind him.

Haymitch slows as they near the grazing horses. His mouth goes dry.

It’s only the second time he’s ever seen a horse this close. The first had white eyes and a black harness, dragging their chariot, dragging Louella toward her death parade. His hands curl slightly. He halts to a stop.

“Mr. Abernathy?” a nearby worker pipes up after the camera crew’s signal, “You can pet her, if you like. She’s real gentle, this one. Name’s Biscuit. For now, anyway.”

“I’m good,” Haymitch mutters, to the clear disappointment of the camera crew.

Marnie Bane, the only female victor from District 10, leans in with a smile. “Don’t worry,” she says lightly. “They’re genetically modified to be docile. Won’t bite. Though, that backfired ‘cause now they scare easy.”

Well, no need to tell Haymitch that. He knows already. And from how Marnie’s looking at him, she does too. He can’t help but feel like she’s said this to defend the horses pulling the chariot. Not like Haymitch was blaming them. Louella wouldn't either. They’re animals, they don’t know any better, sure. Still, he’s allowed to be a bit scared of going near one.

“No promises from me, though,” says Bail Ververs, the current youngest victor of District 10 from the 47th Games, flashing a grin sharp as a fox’s teeth—and just as sly, which is ironic given that foxes probably rank high among 10’s threats against their precious livestock. They must have a hunter's team to take care of those.

He clasps a hand over Haymitch’s shoulder and leans close. Bail’s clearly unhinged—Haymitch figured that out back when the man started loudly mimicking every animal they passed. Cassia and Saga had already whispered about scrubbing his audio entirely. “I might just take a big old bite outta you. Now—palm flat, boy.”

Reluctantly, Haymitch reaches out and brushes his hand along the horse’s flank. The animal shivers, catching his tension, and sidesteps away. He lets his hand drop, turning to Cassia with a helpless expression and offers her a half-shrug. Hey, I tried.

From behind, the eldest of the district’s victors who is a man with a hunchback, Angus Shorthorn, walks over and drags Bail away by the collar.

“Quit messig with the newbie,” Angus growls. “He’s green enough as it is.”

But it doesn’t matter, because he ends up at every kind of ranch, petting every kind of livestock. He’s not taken to the slaughterhouses, which he’s grateful for.

The mayor walks ahead, gesturing proudly at the pasture and barns like they’re in his own backyard. Camera crew’s laser focused on the animals, there's going to be an abundance of B-rolls for District 10, it seems.

He’s asked to hold a newborn lamb, which he does gladly. It blinks up at him with such wide-eyed innocence it reminds him of Sid. Then they tell him to give it a name, and he gets scared they’ll just end up slaughtering it, he tries to play it off like he can’t think of anything cute enough.

But in his head, names come easy. Ampert. Wellie. Lou Lou. Sid.

They push again, so he blurts out, “Moonshine?”

It draws a wave of laughter and playful approval—him exposing Hattie’s old liquor business already long-forgotten, buried in history. Just a rascal being a rascal. No big deal.

Later, while the camera crew is busy elsewhere, he finds himself crouched near a coop with Effie standing a safe distance away, nose wrinkled. Haymitch watches the hens shuffle around, heads bobbing in rhythm. Though he needed like two verbal confirmations to believe these odd-looking creatures are actually chickens—they look like someone crossed a good old chicken with a lace doily, and gave butterfly wings as sickle feathers. Sebright chickens, are apparently what they're called. Bred special for Capitol, for whatever purpose they might serve; meat, entertainment, anything.

One hops into his lap without warning, making him jerk slightly and almost fall on his behind. Bail laughs, and Marnie elbows him.

“Well, she seems to like you.” she says, to console him after the near embarassment.

Haymitch nods, stroking its back and the chicken clucks back.

“Guess I have a face for birds,” he says. Doves, certainly. Geese, not so much. Pink birds, definitely not. Chickens are new to the list.

By the time the tour winds down and they’re heading toward the Mayor’s house for the afternoon reception, his pants are covered in hay and animal hair— and he’s already nervous of how Proserpina and Vitus are going to react to it. 

Supper at Mayor’s House is a feast—every kind of meat imaginable, piled high on silver platters. When the server sets a steaming bowl before him, he says, “For Mr. Abernathy, chef’s special: Moonshine.”

It’s lamb stew. Rich, dark, simmered with dried plums, and smells absolutely delicious.

People laugh all around, only Marnie winces a bit, and he forces a smile, then picks up his spoon. The first bite of tender meat hits his tongue, and he finds rice tucked beneath the dark pool of sauce. It’s his first real piece of meat since the Games—fish aside—and the taste is unreal. Something inside him loosens.

He eats it all. The stew, the bread, the white mush topped with peas and caramelized onions.  

There's slices of what looks like a sausage, topped with scallops esting on beds of pea puree. The sausage is, well, it's meaty, like he's expected, but it also has a slightly metallic aftertaste, but the softness and lighter scallops are a refreshing addition, and the minty puree goes well with the two. Still, he clears the edge off it with a tall glass of haymaker’s punch, Bail has slid him the drink beforehand as a personal recommendation along with a pun, Haymaker for Haymitch— a spiced, tangy drink he’s sure has vinegar in it.

When dessert arrives, he doesn’t hold back. All the district specials ends up one way or another, on his plate.

The first pastry he grabs glints under the lights with a sticky sheen. It isn’t too sweet—doughy and soft, but crunches when his teeth sink into it. The flaky layers dissolve into something spiced and savory. He finishes it and picks up another without hesitation. Reminds him a bit of the catheads Ma used to make when they got their hands on some lard.

He eats everything, and then some.

When the wine is poured and toasts begin, Haymitch blinks back to reality and excuses himself. Says he needs the bathroom, gets up and leaves. He makes it just enough to throw it all up right back out. He braces himself on the marble sink, eyes watering, the once delicious taste now rancid and foul on his tongue. The weight Moonshine still in his arms, only for barely five minutes. His throat burns. He shoves open the door, passes bewildered Peacekeepers and stumbles out into the night, gulping in the air like he’s drowning.

He's done worse things than eat a lamb. This must be the last thing in his long list to feel bad about. Maybe if it had no name, maybe if he hadn't given that name himself, he wouldn’t care this much. Maybe that’s how the Capitol sees them too, not just pigs, but also lambs. Nameless lambs, nameless kids, nevermind they've always had names that they've been screaming at you. The ones that survive get to keep their name and thus are worth something now. The rest are dead, but that's nothing to feel bad about, they didn't really have names.

He paces near the house, trying to shake it off under the watch of the half-asleep Peacekeeper. His steps slow when he spots a display stand on side of the walkway to the Justice Building —pamphlets and guidebooks lined, some new, some weathered, all Capitol issued. Haymitch thumbs through them, squinting to read under the faint porch light.

“Looking for anything special?” a voice says behind him.

Haymitch jumps in surprise, and turns to see Shorthorn standing a few feet away, hands folded behind him and back hunched as always. He shrugs, bit unnerved he was being watched. “Just looking.”

"You okay?"

“Yeah. Yeah,” Haymitch says. “Just had to walk off the weight. I ate a lot.”

The old victor gives a hum.

Haymitch just turns back to keep browsing, fingers lingering over a thin, faded booklet with the photo of a chicken, not rooster, he feels the need to tell himself, on the front, The Chicken Health Guidebook. 

His mind flickers to the girl with wind-wild curls, sitting on her rock surrounded by her gaggle of birds. Her face when he's dug through the heaps of thrash in Hob and presented her the treasure. Anything special?

He swallows.

“Actually—” he starts, turning halfway around again. He raises his voice to call after Shorthorn, but then falters when he sees the man hasn’t moved an inch. Haymitch barely stops himself from jumping back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, “you got anything about geese?”

When they board the train to District 9 that night, tucked carefully into the side pocket of his travel bag — just beneath the plaques and his pre-folded speech cards all written by Effie and the logistics team — Along with a small Capitol-issued grooming kit, is a small bundle tied together with twine, three dog-eared guidebooks - Raising Ducks & Geese, Ducks and geese: standard breeds and management, and Domestic Geese and Ducks: A Complete and Authentic Handbook and Guide for Breeders, Growers, and Admirers.

A folded note in nearly ineligible handwriting, that he manages to decode after his years of sitting with Blair in school, sits on top of the pile. It reads:

Don’t know why anyone’d want geese, but since you’ve got a bird face, I guess it tracks. Let me know when you're ready, I'll hook you up with some eggs.

— Shorthorn

He skims through one of the guides all night. The illustrations of geese even manage to get a smile out of him... By the time the digital clock by his side strikes 2:00, he's come up with a solid plan to get the books into Lenore Dove’s hands.

He’ll stumble into the Hob, pretending to be blackout drunk and on the hunt for even more rotgut. And then, he’ll try to trade the books for some. If he’s lucky, they won’t question why the Seam boy with a Covey girl is offering them instead of hoarding them for her himself like he's been doing forever. But traders in the Hob know Lenore Dove also haunts the place, sniffing around for anything with print. They just might bite.

It’s not a plan without holes, but Haymitch doesn’t care what others think anymore. Or he tells himself he doesn’t. Okay, He tries not to. He loves his district, and most of the people in it. He's not sure what's worse, their scorn or their silence?

He flips the page. Another goose breed- gray toulouse. Then another, and suddenly, it’s one so familiar it stops him. Apricot-fawn plumage, peach pink bills, just like the ones he’s been trying to bribe his way into the good graces of for years-- Brecon Buff Goose. It's either this or...he flips back to an earlier page-- just Buff Goose. His lip curls into a smile, Lenore Dove would love to know this. And she will. One good thing just might get out of this trip.

He flips another page to an illustration of two ducks hanging by the neck and the grin falls off.

Haymitch quietly rips that page out.

---

DISTRICT 9

Ryan / Clayton / Kerna / Midge

 

Speech, song, plaque. It's already become routine. And there's still 8 more district left, excluding his own. And the capitol.

Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds for Panem,
Tending to the grain fields, proud and never grim

The only time his pace faltes is when he makes eye contact with Kerna's portrait on the screen. Then he's back in Cornucopia, locking eyes with the girl as she lunges for a weapon.

Waiting for the harvest, and the time of Reaping
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves

The audience claps, if mildly. It's still a better reaction than when he sang the sunflower song for their fallen tributes.

If Maysilee had heard this one, she wouldn’t have laughed like she did back then. No, this time, it’d be angry and disgusted. She'd probably spit in his face.

Afterward, they take him to see the sights. Sunflowers, for one. No surprise. They must’ve passed thousands as they drove into the district, greeted by sea of golden yellow.

The car hums gently over the dirt road, windows down to let in the late-afternoon wind, along with all the golden dust it carries. Proserpina sneezes nonstop. Effie, dutiful as ever, holds a handkerchief to her sister’s nose the entire ride. Haymitch got sneezed on once, then promptly rolled his window back up. The only reason his prep team is even here is because they wanted to see the sunflowers. Normally, they'd have to stay back at the Justice Building, but no one had the heart to leave them behind after they got so excited.

He watches the sunflowers blur past. A minefield in bloom.

Do you want a sunflower? I bet Nine would like you to wear one. You’re the reason they were in the alliance.

Because the last time he saw one, he tried to blow himself up with it. Loose cannon going off.

And now he's on his way to sniff some sunflowers or whatever they're about to make him do for the cameras, Loose Cannon indeed. Right.

The faces of the flowers are turned toward the sun like they’re worshiping it. Always on the sunny side, our Sid, Mamaw's voice rings in his head. He imagines his brother here, barefoot and running, hair whipped up by the breeze, laughing as he vanished into the field of flowers taller than him.

Ma never could grow one herself. She would’ve loved to run her fingers through the petals.

“Do they really always face the sun?” Haymitch asks. He glances toward the other victors in the car—Silo and Millie, slouched beside him.

Millie shrugs. “I guess,” she says. “Mostly when they’re still growing. Not when they’re full grown. It’s... photo... photo-something.” She squints. “We had a class about crops and all, but I didn’t finish school after I won. Forgot most of it.”

The camera crew debates whether filming Haymitch among the flowers would feel too off-brand. It might go against his rascal side. Saga argues he already held a lamb in District 10—that’s enough softness for one young man. But then he ate it! is Cassia's retort. She gets ovverulled. And so they settle for justa B-roll footage of the fields before moving onto see the olive trees, of all things. In the district of grain. That's what Effie ends up asking the Mayor, like she reads his thoughts.

As they film, Haymitch reaches out and grabs a handful of seeds from the flower's head. He does it rather barbarically, if he’s being honest— but he's quick. He stuffs the seeds into the pant pockets of Great Uncle Silius’s suit. He’ll take them home to Ma and Sid.

The mayor is chuckling when Haymitch rejoins the group, “Yes, of course, grain’s our bread and butter. Literally,” he says, “but harvest is happening now. Not much to look at when it’s just dirt and machinery. A bit dull and uninteresting for Capitol eyes.” He gestures toward the trees. “We supply oils, too—sunflower, linseed, cottonseed. Even press avocados and coconuts that Eleven sends our way.”

“Besides,” Cassia cuts in, “sunflowers and olive trees are a far better aesthetic. They photograph beautifully for transitioning shots." She gasps. “Look at this tree! Anise, zoom there."

The tour ends without fanfare. Silo and Millie are a quiet pair. Small talk's mostly them explaining what oilseeds are, which Haymitch's not particularly interested about. They don't drink, they barely eat. The food’s too oily. Haymitch eats it all regardless.

---

DISTRICT 8

Wefton / Ripman / Notion / Alawna

 

Haymitch is somewhere he never thought he'd end up.

A dress rehearsal.

He's seated in the front row, right beside Mayor Bias — Call me Bobby, the man had insisted, but Haymitch can’t bring himself to call a man with a double chin in a burgundy velvet suit anything but sir. On his other side sits the victors of District 8 in order- Woof Bishop of the 19th Games, Faye Loom of the 27th, and Stitch Hawkins of the 40th. Faye and Woof’s families are a row behind. Stitch claims he's a free man and Proserpina lets out a breathy giggle.

Effie had breezed through the details on the train: District 8 would be staging an early dress rehearsal to sync with his tour stop — showcasing fabrics all themed around coal-black couture. A tribute to his victory, just like Proserpina and Vitus said. So here he is, watching workers drag mannequins down the runway — some pieces half-pinned, others stitched just enough to hold them together, in every shade of soot, ash, and char imaginable. 

Woof's not quiet sitting next to him either. He mutters the name of every fabric under his breath- gabardine, lotus silk, brocade, cashmere. Thanks to him, Haymitch now knows the thick heap drowning the dummy is, in fact, melton wool. It's supposed to be a peacoat, from what Haymitch can see, though it has too many buttons for him to be sure.

Effie, seated right beside the rehearsal director, is sweet-talking her and quietly buying pieces mid-show. She’s sneaked out before, whispered to Haymitch that she’d spoken with Sabine and consulted Victor Logistics about the budget—secured a green light for some wardrobe renewal, before slipping back into her seat.

It’d be a step up for him. His current wardrobe is mostly made of hand-me-downs and funeral suits from long-dead uncles.

She sticks her out of the line again, eyes gleaming, pointing toward a pair of corduroy pants. Coal black, of course. She mouths, This one?

Haymitch shrugs. You're in charge, he mouths back.

Her face lights up, and seconds later, she’s tugging the rehearsal director aside with money already half-spent in her mind.

"I've arranged the pieces! We sent your measurements, and they'll tailor everything before sending it our way. It's about time!" Effie says as they're dressing Haymitch for supper. "They told me they could catch up with us in either Five or Two. I’d rather it be Five, really—we need the new pieces for the last four districts."

He’s put into another suit from Great-Uncle Silius, which is tragically not black, but soft peach slacks, an off-white shirt, and a brown blazer. They haven’t run out of black clothing yet, but his prep team absolutely refuses to repeat an outfit, and Effie has decided that 'saving the best for last' is how they'll approach things. So the tuxedos and three-piece suits are still tucked away on the train, supposed to be reserved for the final stretch.

“Clothes make the man,” Effie declares, brushing something off his lapel. “And you are the most important man of this event.”

Though it makes no sense that there was little to no budget set aside for his wardrobe before Effie even asked, Haymitch is long past questioning the Capitol and their incompetence—especially when it comes to the things they claim to care so much about.

The Mayor’s dining hall is too small for the number of guests, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone, because it comes with music, live for the first time since starting the tour. But that's not the only thing that's a surprise. And the food is as always top notch.

After the oily disaster in Nine, Haymitch thought his appetite might be killed a bit, but the moment the plates are uncovered, that theory dies fast. He’s downing a sandwich of sorts with gusto—thick slices of tender turkey drenched in a creamy, cheesy sauce, topped with crispy bacon and roasted tomatoes. Alongside the district’s usual bread, there’s something like cornbread from back home. It tastes close, but it’s softer, less gritty. So yeah, his apetite's going strong.

A small band plays on a small raised platrform, at the end of the table — just three people. Though he's not interested much until halfway through the supper, he hears a “Maisry Spring, that was beautiful,” from the Mayor’s wife. That makes him straighten up and pull his ear away from Woof, who’s been getting loose-tongued, rambling on about how he survived his Games by scavenging overgrown fungi and crawling under collapsed pillars and walls in the abandoned, bombed-out town.

He waits until the wine has done its work on most of the room.

The woman mayor's wife called Maisry Spring is the older women with greying chestnut curls, green ribbons braided in, eyes to match. She's the one playing the autoharp, which he's seen before in both their music classroom in the school and Covey's house. The two men are unmistakably related to her—same curls, same ridged noses, same soft, downturned eyes. One’s on a fiddle, like Clerk Carmine, the other strums the banjo.

Haymitch doesn't get up until they take a break and he hears Maisry Spring adress one of the men as Richie Pine, then he's up. Because Spring green? Pine green? And he's heard Lady Maisry before, from Lenore Dove's very own mouth. While Richie can be anything and John has too many possibiltiies too.

“Hi,” Haymitch says, and the three identical sets of eyes snap on him. “Um. Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to say, you guys are great, really."

“Oh,” Maisry Spring gives him a long once-over. “Thank you.”

And that’s it.

No “you too” for his earlier performance. Not that he was expecting one—but the silence feels like confirmation of everything he suspected.

“So, uh…” Haymitch gestures vaguely. “Spring, Pine—are those your real names, or stage names? I just, uh, overheard and couldn’t help wonder...”

"Real." Richie Pine says flatly, "Family tradition."

They are Covey. Haymitch's as sure as hog is made of bacon.

“That’s great,” he says, “I always wanted two names.”

That part’s not a lie.

After he'd met Lenore Dove, he’d wondered by himself what color name he'd have if he was Covey. Nevermind that Haymitch's not a name from any ballad to begin with. He's told Lenore Dove once, much later when kissing daily became a standard way to live, and she had smiled at him.

"When we marry, I’ll write a ballad just for you. Then, we’ll find you a color.”

"Got anything in mind?"

"A couple."

"I want something matching with dove."

"Of course you do. Well, I have one for that but..."

"But?"

"Maybe I'll save it for the future. You know, for much later."

And now stood Haymitch, the victor with no ballad, no second name. No way to ever get those, no future in which he can.

He wants to ask them what family they're from, how they ended up in 8. He wants to tell them about the Covey in 12. And if they’re here—are there others scattered across other districts? He must've looked pathetically awkward contemplating all that, because the third man takes a pity on him, reaches out to shake his hand, “John Hazel Lyre, at your service."

Lyre. Sounds like a Covey family name.

"Haymitch Abernathy. Nice to meet you."

"We know, you're the man of the night." He smiles, then side-eyes his family, "Would you like to join us, Mr. Singer?"

"Hah!" Haymitch lets out a laugh, "You saw me back there—you could probably tell I can sing and play about as well as a fish can dance.”

Richie Pine still looks skeptical. Haymitch feels the moment’s gone too long, feeling he’s overstayed his welcome, so he lifts a hand in parting—a mumbled, keep going—and starts backing toward his seat.

“Mr Abernathy!” Maisry Spring calls out behind him. “You read music too?”

Haymitch turns around in surprise.

“A little,” Haymitch says, and then adds, more truthfully, “Well, I’m still learning. Kind of my job now, so...”

She watches him for a moment, then reaches into a worn leather bag beside her. She fishes out a stack of loose pages, straightens them, and holds them out to him..

“Here,” she says. “Some old ballads we’ve got. You can take them.”

“Oh, but don’t you—”

“Got more where those came from. Besides, like you said—we've seen you play. You need ’em more than we do, trust me.”

Haymitch’s cheeks flush, but takes them carefully, smiling with embarassment. “Thank you,” he says.

“Music’s no good if it stays in a drawer,” Maisry Spring replies. “You have to play a lot. Or give it to someone who will.”

He thinks of Lenore Dove’s worn journal, actually her mother’s, filled with pages of ballads, songs, and poems all written from memory.

When he looks at the paper music sheet on top of the stack- Flow Gently, Sweet Afton. Again, Haymitch thinks of her, and the way she listens with her whole face. 

Yeah, she’d love to play these.

Haymitch folds the papers and tucks them inside his coat, over his heart. 

---

DISTRICT 7

Bircher / Heartwood / Autumn / Ringina

 

District 7 is a mix of fresh air and sawdust. Fresh air from the endless stretches of trees—thick, massive, every kind—and sawdust near any city center.

After shaking hands with Mayor Lodgepole and high-ranking Peackeepers, Haymitch meets the victors: Woody Gilpin, Dodge Vikram, Ezra Conifer, and Audrey Chipple. District 7 might just have the most living winners of any non-Career district. Makes sense—Ringina was tough as nails too, and a sharp shot. 

His lumberjack song, however catchy and Haymitch has to admit it is, doesn't garner one singular clap from the crowd. He sees Cassia sigh, knowing they have to edit in another fake applause. The move from the stage and into the car is fast, and Haymitch ends up in one of the vans with the other victors, who engage in more small-talk than he thought they'd have. They were quite stone-faced back in the welcoming line. But they offer things about themselves and their district freely in private.

They try to explain how it all is. There's a district center which is actually situated right above their border with One, and that's where the Justice Building and train station are, and the largest sawmills situated at its three entrance points from the rest of the district. Then there are five “Piths,” smaller centers with their own branches of the Justice Building and schools, and each pith is surrounded by four “Rings,” which are residential zones, like rural towns. Go far enough into a Ring, and you hit the “outer barks” which are the logging camps. There are more terms, more systems, but Haymitch zones out. He just knows for the tour, they take him where the trees actually are, to the nearest pith called Sawyer's Crossing.

Woody and Audrey both come from Northspeer—like the name suggests, the northern pith. Dodge hails from Crownrock in the west. Ezra’s from a ring settlement of Sawyer’s Crossing called Bookmatch, known for its paper mills.

“The names are all nicknames,” Dodge explains. “The piths are officially named by direction. Northern, Southern, so on. But we’ve always called them this. Even our district escort knows them by now.”

“Hm,” Haymitch replies. “We’ve got that in Twelve, too. Just two parts though. Seam and Town. Seam’s for miners and the starving. Town’s for merchants.”

“Same kind of divide here,” Audrey chimes in from her seat next to him. The 42nd Victor is a young woman with auburn hair—not as dark as Lenore Dove’s, lighter, almost red. Maybe she’s a redhead, actually. Her sleeveless top shows off muscled biceps. “Northspeer’s where the hard labor is. Bayard Bay’s more woodworking, that's the eastern pith by the way—smaller community, better off, less tessesrae. The rest? All the same kind of dirt.” She smirks, and Ezra promptly kicks the back of her seat. "We don't like Bayard Bay much here in SC."

"Speak for yourself, I wish the Victor's Village was there." Dodge says, "Cleanest air. I went there once to get some furniture for my house."

"Wow, Capitol much?" Audrey asks, rolling her eyes. 

"Where is it?" Haymitch asks.

A collective sigh comes from the car, "Alburnum. We're stuck in the dirty district hub, unfortunately."

Later, they pass through a ring of Sawyer’s Crossing—tree-lined, and surprisingly pleasant. Haymitch asks Ezra if this is Bookmatch.

“No,” Ezra says. “This is Laidlaw.”

So the place where things start to go wrong again has a name, and it's Laidlaw of District 7.

One second he's watching a tree get felled, the next second someone sticks an axe in his hands and tell him to throw it at a tree, and his vision goes black.

You’re not going home, echoes in his mind.

The black dots in my vision clear, and there I am again—Silka’s arm locked around my neck. I still can’t breathe. I must've been here a thousand times.

My eyes land on something small. A bird. Shot out of the sky mid-flight. Her tiny body lies still in the dirt, headless.

The sight jolts something loose in me. My body moves before I think. I rip the knife from my belt and drive it over my shoulder. Warmth splatters across my ear. Silka shrieks and lets go.

I don’t make the mistake of looking down. Just press my hands to the gash in my stomach and run. I feel something slimy against my palms, they hurt too. Am I missing some fingers? I can't look.

I slam from one tree to the next. Is my dove perched in one of them? 

No, she's not, she's shot down, and the other will be too if I don't die. But I can’t let her win.

The holly hedge breaks through the blur of trees. Air fights its way out of my lungs, each breath feels like scream's ripping out my throat.

Ladybug, ladybug, here I am again.

At the cliff’s edge, I finally turn, and face the one-eyed monster I created.

She lifts the axe. Lets it fly—

Up. Away.

Ladybug, ladybug fly away...

At me.

Your house is on fire, your children are gone.

When Haymitch blinks back to himself, he barely registers the applause before noticing the axe is gone from his hands, now embedded deep in the bark of the tree before him. His palms still sting.

Someone whoops. Then comes another horrifying suggestion, “Axe to axe!”

“No,” Haymitch wants to say, but the word never makes it past his lips. Instead, he asks, “With…?”

Audrey steps forward, grinning. “Watched your axe-work,” she says. “You need to move your arms more. Hold the handle like this.” She strides up to the tree, yanks his axe out, and raises it horizontally. “Push it against the neck of the incoming axe—don’t just hop around like a grasshopper. You can't always dodge.”

She hands him the axe and is already picking up another one from the rack the camera crew brought, and that’s when Haymitch realizes this has been the plan all along. Her grip is fluid, the axe moves like it’s just another limb. Of course—Northspeer’s where hard labor and muscle is.

She twirls the weapon once, winks at him, and steps into position.

“Great!” Cassia claps her hands, practically glowing. The camera crew is ecstatic, only Effie retreats back to the car, muttering that she can’t watch. “Now, spar when I say go. Three, two, one—go!”

Audrey charges.

She lifts the axe overhead in a two-handed move, and Haymitch raises his to block—just like she told him. The axes clash. His arms jolt with the force of it, and-

Here again.

This time, I fall as she slices open my gut. Another strike—my hands fall off.

I can’t even crawl back. She lifts the axe with both hands and brings it down again. My skull splits like bark under axe.

Somehow, I’m still alive.

I can’t speak—only gurgle. Blood pours from every part of me. I’m carved open, limbs severed, innards leaking out. I'm still breathing. How? Why?

Silka stands over me.

“I’ll be the one honoring the Capitol,” she says.

That you are, Silka. Bet they’re real proud of your monologue. That’s your poster. Yours, and theirs.

She raises the axe one last time.

And then—off with my head.

He comes back when the spar stops when Audrey comes to him, and says, “You okay?”

Only then he ralizes they’ve moved quite a bit back, to Haymitch’ side, meaning he’s been fully on defense against Audrey’s offense.

Cassia chirps from the sidelines, “Well, that was thrilling!”

“Yeah, it’s a great callback to your Games, Haymitch!” Saga says, “Well done!”

“I’m fine,” he lies, and Audrey extends a hand to him. Haymitch lets her pull him to his feet.

“It’s easier if you just give them what they want,” She says, as they’re piling back to the car. “Saves you a lot of trouble in daylight.”

“And in night?”

“Well, you’re gonna have nightmares anyway.” Audrey replies, “Might as well have a nice day.”

“I’ll keep that in my mind.” Haymitch says. “Anything else?”

Audrey looks at him. Her light broen eyes meet his, and a pitying look takes over her face. “Nope.”

They continue their small-talk in the car. Woody and Dodge are much more reserved than their younger counterpart, but they entertain Haymitch after seeing how the fresh victor is trembling from head to toe all the way in car ride. Audrey seems a bit guilty, but offers no other words. She's already said her part.

Mayor Lodgepole’s house is a beautiful, three-story spruce log cabin, built in a similar style as the Justice Building. The dining hall is especially inviting. A roaring fireplace warms the room, and the dark green tablecloth draped across the long dining table lends a sense of calm, one with the forest.

Effie lifts a corner of the cloth and gasps, “It’s mahogany!”

Ezra jumps in immediately. “Best wood to dine on!” To which Effie aggrees wholeheartedly, clasping her hands, “You know it!”

Dinner is served. Puff pastry-wrapped salmon. Mushroom and barley stew. Maple syrup–drizzled flapjacks—Audrey calls them that as she slides a plate in front of Haymitch.

He can’t stomach any of it. He forces down a few spoonfuls of the stew, barely three, before he’s just physically incapable of pushing further. It feels like anything more would slip right through the line on his stomach, dragging his insides out with it. And so the evening goes by without him paying much attention.

The other victors retreat back to the Victor’s Village after the meal. Audrey lingers just long enough to say, “I’ll probably see you sooner than others. Got some Capitol appointments.”

Haymitch only nods. He doesn’t ask why—doesn’t care, really. Victors always have reasons to be in the Capitol. Sponsorships, interviews, training segments, whatever. Especially careers. Why not Audrey too? He remembers seeing her in some afternoon Caesar Flickerman segments.

They part ways.

That night, Haymitch lies in the guest room of Mayor Lodgepole’s house, staring at the ceiling. Sleep stays far out of reach. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees his guts spill out again—feels the pain all over, and wakes in panicked gasps, hands clutching his stomach as if to hold his insides in. His scar pulses. The stitches are long gone, but it still feels like the line’s ready to split wide open again.

Haymitch doesn’t sleep.

---

DISTRICT 6

Miles / Atread / Wellie / Velo

 

District 6 is filthy. Not just the streets, but the air too, foggy and dense with humidity. The parade is a limp affair. No joy meets him here. Nothing but blank stares and weary faces.

The tributes from Six had been young. All of them under fifteen. Barely even teens. 

When Haymitch sings—well, pretends to sing and play the guitar— he lets his eyes drift from the blinding lights to the line of portraits. His doves, suspended in midair, mid-flight.

Wellie Rouleur, the sign reads under one of them.

Below the image, a couple stands huddled together. The man is hollowed out—his cheeks sharp, one leg missing, standing with the help of a crutch. He appears to be somewhere else in his head, looking off to the side, hazy-eyed.

The woman beside him has dark brown curls, just like Wellie’s, though streaked now with gray. She keeps turning back to the portrait again and again. In her hands, she clutches a small pink cloth. Each time she turns away from her daughter's face, her shoulders sink lower, her body folding in on itself. She presses the cloth to her face, eyes shut tight.

That was their only child. Their baby.

Haymitch looks away. He tries not to think about how Wellie’s headshot only shows her from the neck up.

Where’s the rest of you, my dove?

His hands still burn. His voice cracks. And for the rest of the tour, he checks out. Everywhere he turns, in every crowd, every corner—he sees her. A starving girl reaching for him. It takes everything in him not to lunge forward, knowing there’s no one to grasp. 

Haymitch is hungry. He skipped the meal on the train, and barely ate in Seven. His appetite’s still not really there, but that doesn’t stop him from eating what’s put in front of him.

A bowl of thick stew, packed with vegetables, beef, and rich bone broth, disappears slowly under his spoon. For dessert, he picks up a flattened, deep-fried dough dusted with powdered sugar and sprinkled with orange zest, tart cherry jam oozing from the inside- but after a bite, he puts it back. He doesn’t go for seconds.

Like he feared, his nightmares came back in District 7. And now, leaving District 6 behind, his ghosts are right behind. That night on the train, Haymitch lies awake in the dark. As sleepless as he is, he can't drift off. The phantom pain on his stomach gets worse and worse. In the rare times he spends in somewhere between sleep and waking, he sees Wellie again. The girl trails behind him, voice soft and afraid.

But as much as she follows him, there's no head to this baby chick—just her small body, always a few steps behind. The head is somewhere else. Behind doors, in the dark corners of every room, in bushes- no, up and up in the tree where bough's not so thick anymore, clutching to the branch, waiting for him. Lips cracked, soundless, shrunken to half her size, glassy-eyed.

Ring, ring!

“Don’t leave me again.”

Ring, ring!

“Don’t leave me.” 

The sound comes from inside him, no matter what does shuts the sound away.

He doesn't turn. Ring, ring, ring, ring. The bicycle bell keeps ringing, and Haymitch presses his fists against his eyes, so tight he sees stars.

---

DISTRICT 5

Hychel / Fisser / Anion / Potena

 

Regretfully, Haymitch doesn’t have much to say about District 5.

The power plants are the biggest buildings he’s ever seen, even more so than the Capitol — hulking, humming giants of concrete and smoke. When the Mayor thanks District 12 for supplying the coal that keeps the turbines alive, Haymitch doesn’t know what to say. “You’re welcome” feels absurd because he's never been in a mine, "My Pa lost his life getting coal out of the mines." feels out of place, "I don't care." is out of the question.

Instead he smiles, looks at the cards Effie’s holding out for him to read and tips his head slightly toward the camera. “There’s more where that came from,” he says, “District 12’s always happy to deliver. And hey,” He hopes he landed the line just right--export-friendly. If they’re lucky, the Capitol might just get more on coal-fired goods. If he's lucky, Snow will think he means his act and goes easy on him. “Coal’s not the only thing we’ve got burning in Twelve.”

Like the fire my pa died in while getting that very coal out. Like my ma and brother in our house. The words burn like so as he says them.

The audience is so drained, so detached from their own district’s lifeblood, that Cassia cuts the set short. Not even a song tailored to stoke pride in District 5 could pull a single cheer from the crowd. Haymitch feels for them, he really does.

Then there’s Porter Millicent Tripp. Morphling-drenched, hazy-eyed, spine fused in a brace but still ended up in a wheelchair by the end of her tour. She’d made it to the final two with a crushed vertebra and still won. The only other victor from 5, Nico Blackstart, pulls Haymitch aside at one point and quietly warns him not to ask her anything about it. So he doesn’t. Not like he was goung to anyway.

She flinched when he moved to shake her hand at the welcome ceremony. He caught it in time and offered just a small nod instead. That alone, apparently, was enough to win some measure of favor. According to the Mayor, she’d been more talkative with him than with any other victor before. P.M.- as everyone calls her- skips the tour of the coal-fired power plant entirely. Says her dad used to be one of its engineers, and now he's not. And that's it.

They strap a hard hat on him for the looks and march him through the halls of turbines and wiring. Nico explains how the energy is transferred down the lines, and prompts other workers to show him the process. The sight of the coal stockyard makes him strangely homesick, and the feeling lodges itself behind his ribs. 

He nods, says whatever he needs to as camera crew feeds him some lines, surface level jokes about coal. Other than that, District 5 passes without much worth noting.

Rest of the day goes to another dress rehearsal, causing them to skip most of the tour, to no one's disappoinemtn—to try on the finished clothes Effie arranged for him back in District 8 - as they arrived to Five just in time. Effie and his prep-team cheer extensively as they rip the packages open. They all fit perfectly. Haymitch will be a successful catalog of District 12’s offerings, a walking, talking, singing billboard for their products.

When Haymitch's back in the train, afraid to go to sleep, not like staying awake is any better now - he considers going through the drinking cart, wanting nothing more than to grab a bottle. His hands itch in that familiar way, and he has to keep telling himself, and Wellie in the corner of the room, just four more. He finds Effie and asks for a sleeping pill instead.

---

DISTRICT 4

Urchin / Angler / Barba / Maritte

 

As nervous as Haymitch was to face District 4, it’s where he feels the most at ease so far.

Waiting in the welcoming line beside Mayor Helm is his mentor—no longer in a wheelchair, no Peacekeeper hovering close to stop her. She reaches for him without hesitation, clasping his hand tightly in both of hers, her eyes lit with joy. “Welcome, Haymitch. I’m so glad to see you.”

“I am too,” he says. “Glad to see you.” Here. Well. Standing. Sane. Alive.

To her right, the other victors wait, lined up like a chain of polished shells. He goes down the line, shaking hands one by one. The Career districts have begun, and it shows—District 4’s line is long, thick with older victors, spouses, and extended family.

Seamus Buoy, Ash Driftwood, Gill Raeburn, and Jean Magellan. District 4’s youngest victor won the 41st Games—nearly a decade ago now. They must’ve been itching for another.

The crowd here is more responsive, but Haymitch wouldn't describe it as joyful or gleeful. Haymitch is told it’ll only continue that way, not counting Three. The Career districts never fail to greet victors like champions. Effie looks like she wants to add something, but she doesn't. Instead, she presses the speech cards into his hands and nudges him gently toward the stage. So he does what he must, goes on stage and jabbers on like jay.

The moment they're inside the Justice Building again, Mags is waiting for him. And their real reunion goes just like their first meeting. She smiles in that sad way, understanding and wistful - then opens up her arms, "I'm sorry about your family, Haymitch." she says, her voice hoarse now, as if she's been screaming, she has to gulp between each sentence.

Haymitch presses his lips together and steps into her arms. He drops his head onto her shoulder, and he cries. 

Somewhere behind him, his prep team is already fretting about the makeup. He doesn’t care. He hears a few murmurs from the other victors before Mags waves them off with a sharp flick of her hand.

"I've heard what happened..." she says gently. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Haymitch pulls back a little, sniffs. “Thank you. And I’m—” Sorry, too.

"You've no reason to say such a thing," Mags cuts in, firmer now. “No one blames you.”

No one.

Does she mean Wiress and Beetee, too? The thought stings and soothes at once, the words washing over him like cold water.

Mags has his back through the whole day, literally and figuratively. She's walks either with him or has a hand on his back during the district tour. From the district center, Marianas, they travel toward the mayor’s residence—just between the edges of Marianas and Reefpoint, a short ride away.

Then comes the view.

The lake back home is beautiful, sure—it comes with some of his happiest memories, his best ones, with Lenore Dove on her birthday, on top of all else—but this? The sight of the ocean is something else entirely. Endless water stretching to the horizon, dotted with boats and islands. He stares.

“Those are the minor islands,” Mags explains, clears her throat, flinching when it hurts, “Fishing outposts mostly. Some warehouses.  All the catches come in by vessels,” she adds, gesturing at the clustered boats. “Processing’s done in the Landlocked Zones. Can’t see much of the ocean from Marianas, but there are lakes inland too.”

When it's time for the footage, they actually toss Haymitch a swimming trunk and tell him to strip. He gawks at the shorts, and his prep team just nods encouragingly.

“We’ve had requests for scar footage,” Cassia says as he changes behind a cabinet curtain. “It won’t air until after Caesar’s first update—this is just for the tour reel. Can you swim?”

He can, and so he does. He could say no, but Snow knowing Lenore Dove's favorite rock gives him the impression he could probably find out who goes swimming at the lake outside the fences in Twelve too. 

They film him walking the dock, jumping off the edge. It's not that cold in the water, and once he’s in, he stays under as long as he dares, eyes shut, half-hoping curls will appear beside him, and there'll be a burst of bubbles upon their eye-contact, laughter escaping at the sight of each other's faces underwater-

He breaks the surface, swims back to shore, where the crew’s already filming his emergence. It’s uncomfortable, he feels very exposed. But he keeps telling himself—just three more districts. Almost done.

It’s cold in District 4, but no one seems to mind him—except Mags and Effie. While the others laugh and wrap up filming, they wait near the dock, Effie clutching a thick coat in her arms and Mags beside her, watching the water. As soon as Cassia waves him off, Haymitch heads straight for them, teeth chattering. Effie immediately drapes the coat over his shoulders, and Mags helps guide his arms through the sleeves..

After the evening festivities begin, with live music and a crowd of entertained Capitol guests, Haymitch sits down to supper at the Mayor’s House. A bowl of bean and ham hock soup is placed in front of him—just him. Though, across the table, Mags receives the same. Their eyes meet. He tries to smile, but it slips too fast. She gives a subtle shake of her head, message clear: don’t force it on my behalf.

He tries to sit beside her once, just to talk, but a Peacekeeper promptly nudges him back up- must have an order to not let them talk privately. He backs off immediately, causing even more suffering for Mags is his last wish. Yet as courses keep getting served, there's always something specially done for him. The final blow is the strawberry ice cream. Haymitch eats everything, feeling a bit starved after Seven and Six.

Later, he’s dragged into another round of dancing—this time in a circle of victors. Gill and Jean take his hands and guide him through a District 4 dance. It’s simple, lively, and a bit like square dancing from home, and it comforts him. For a moment, he just thinks it's Burdock and Lenore Dove's hands he's holding, and the laughter from the table is Ma's and the little kid running around the dance floor is Sid.

District 4, like its ocean breeze, proves to be a breath of fresh air—even if it stings a little to inhale.

The night they spend there, Haymitch opens the windows of his guest room in the mayor’s house, which. sat on a higher hill at the edge of Marianas. From there, he watches the ocean for hours, as waves ripple and move. He stays at the window all night, eyes on the horizon, until the moon sinks and the sun begins to rise. 

---

DISTRICT 3

Ampert / Lect / Dio / Coil

 

District 3 is so much harder to face than Four.

The welcoming line is standard enough—Victors, family members, mayor, Head Peacekeeper—but here, Haymitch has too many victims, too many faces he’s failed. No one blames you, Mags' voice comes back, but it's not enough to calm him down.

He meets Nil Beautlos first, the only other District 3 victor he hasn’t met before. She wears thick, smudged glasses, and her speech carries a soft lisp. She seems gentle, a little awkward, and gives him a nod as they shake hands, hers are gloved he thinks, then realises they are prostethics instead. Next, her husband Kelvin. Next-

Beetee.

“Haymitch,” the man says, voice weaker than Haymitch remembers, his frame even more so. He has bald patches on his scalp that look more torn than aging, “Meet my wife, Lux.”

Lux Latier stands beside him, she's a striking woman, beautiful in the way porcelain is, ready to break apart. Her eyes are ringed with purple, her cheeks sunken, and her hand shakes where it holds onto her husband’s arm. The other rests on the swell of her belly—oh, she’s pregnant. She must’ve been pregnant when Ampert was reaped. Her form is worryingly thin for someone who must be eating for two.

Haymitch swallows and bows his head slightly as he shakes her hand. Mags had told him no one blames him, but he still can’t bring himself to meet the Latiers' eyes for more than a moment like he’s the one who sharpened the teeth and then set the squirrels loose that tore their son apart.

Then comes Wiress.

Her eyes jitter the moment she sees him, her head tilting slightly like a toy with a loose springs. He stands frozen, and extends a hand-- but Wiress takes a step forward.

She leans in and wraps her arms around him, barely. She hasn't been one for physical contact, but who knows? Maybe she didn't want to get too attached.

It’s like being brushed by feathers, and feels like they're two birds in a fleeting embrace. She never stops whispering, just loud enough for both of them, “Fire and friends can keep. Fire and friends can keep.” repeating over and over again. Not like the dissociated way he's last seen her, Wiress is more grounded as she hugs him, the words feel more like a comforting mantra to herself than anything else.

“I remembered it," Haymitch whispers when they pull back and face once mroe, “In the arena.”

Wiress blinks, then smiles. Big and genuine. “I knew you would,” she says with a nod, "I never doubted it. Fire and friend."

Haymitch blinks, too—but for reasons entirely different from Wiress. He feels much like a crybaby, but he manages to keep tears behind his eyes. Before he can say anything more, he’s pulled away for a mic-check and makeup retouch.

They make him wait before going onstage, and he soon finds out why. As he takes his place at the microphone, he sees the Latiers being escorted onto the raised platform, now standing before Ampert’s portrait. Lux clings to what little composure she has left. Beetee stands a little straighter, but grief etches itself deep into the lines of his face.

In front of them, there’s a small clearing for the Capitol cameras—separating the mourning family from their own people. A performance, broadcasted grief. Something to make Capitol families shed a tear during dinner, before tuning into Caesar Flickerman's celebrity gossip.

He performs, flinching at the volume of the speakers—they’re louder here than anywhere else. District 3 brims with tech: streetlights pulse rhythmically, while buildings display digital propaganda—classics like Innovation for Our Nation, accompanied by airbrushed illustrations of engineers and technology blinking across glass facades. The screens periodically switch to District 3 tribute photoshoots. Above the square, a towering billboard of Panem’s #1 Head Peacekeeper flickers neon, his face carved in light—and that one never changes.

Later, at supper, Lux barely touches her food. After the first course, crockpot pork tenderloin and honey-butter sweetcorn, she wrinkles her nose and rises, says something about needing to “go feed Volts.” Beetee’s face falls. He starts to stand with her, but she stops him with a slight shake of her head.

“My sister will take me,” she says. He doesn’t press.

Once she’s gone, Beetee turns to Haymitch. “Our cat,” he says. “Voltair. Ampert named him. Said he wanted a brother once, but… well.” He rubs at his eyes. “We called him Volts. Lux even called both of us that too on accident.”

The memory doesn’t bring a smile. His voice drops lower. “Someone poisoned Volts right before the Reaping.”

Ampert hadn’t shown much about the loss. If anything, he’d looked motivated. Most of that was just who the kid was, driven, sharp and observant like no other, but Haymitch can’t help wondering if a part of it had been for his father’s sake. If Ampert had spent training crying, and moping... Beetee might’ve lost his mind long before the countdown ever began.

Haymitch doesn't feel to need the ask who poisoned the cat. He knows who that someone is, he tried to poison my dove.

“Beetee, I’m…” Haymitch begins, eyeing the Peacekeepers nearby. No movement from them. Of course not. They killed the man's son, got him eaten alive, Beetee's just as mentally unavailable as Wiress right now, he won't dare make another move against the capitol. No need to worry about them plotting something together.

“I’m so sorry...”

“Thank you. I’m sorry too,” Beetee replies. “I heard about your mother, and brother.” He leans closer. “If you’re sorry for anything else than my loss, I never blamed you. And don’t think for a second there’s a bone in me that resents you for it.”

“I made a promise—”

“I never should’ve put that on you,” Beetee interrupts, sounding frustrated, but not at Haymitch. “You were a child, you still are. In that moment, I chose to be selfish, and put that on you. That was my burden. I'm the adult, I should've known better. If anything, you’re the one who needs to forgive me.”

Haymitch stares at him, speechless. “Of course. I just wish—”

“Me too,” Beetee says, his gaze shifts toward the window and the deepening night sky. “I wish, too.”

Haymitch glances away, anywhere but their faces. Just nearby sits the youngest Victor of District 3. "Beetee," he begins carefully, "Wiress… is she—?”

"Brilliant as ever," Beetee answers, offering a faint smile. "Just… more prone to triggers now. She’s still sharp—exactly as she was. You get used to the talking. It’s not constant. Mostly comes when she’s nervous. Like her thoughts just slip out before she can catch them.”

He follows Haymitch’s eyes to the Peacekeepers, then lowers his voice. "She’s been through so much, and I bear blame for that, too. I've failed too many children." The last part is whispered, like it’s meant only for himself.

Haymitch doesn't know what to tell him, for the man's way of thinking is a bit like his own when it comes to taking the blame.

You tried your best to take down a system that feeds on children, how are you the one to be blamed for that? 

However broken Haymitch thought Beetee had become, that shatters the moment music starts and the Peacekeepers must've decided they let Haymitch and Beetee talk enough, and signal for them to part. But just before they do, Beetee leans in and says under his breath, “We’re not finished.”

Haymitch stiffens and turns in his seat to stare at the man's retreating back. He doesn’t think Beetee means just the conversation. His eyes flick to the cloth draped across the table between them.

No. He can’t possibly mean another stunt. Not now. Not with a child on the way. Not with everything everyone's already lost.

Right?

The Peacekeepers don’t seem to mind Haymitch sitting next to Wiress, who quietly pushes her food around, not yet finished. She's not even eating anymore—just rearranges the pieces on her plate like a puzzle. Haymitch watches her through the rest of supper, and he senses they both value the silence between them more than anything else.

Every now and then, she murmurs something, a phrase or two, and “Fire and friends can keep.” Haymitch responds to it all the same, not really sure what it means but he wants to meet her where she is.

Mayor Faraday’s house has a projector, and the camera crew starts fidgeting with it to play some of their footage, but quickly lose interest. They will have to edit it in-post anyway, why work more than you should? Instead, they sync up the speakers and switch over to Capitol TV. The screen flickers to a top 10 Hunger Games arenas countdown, then shifts to a Snow-special—tracing the rise of Panem’s most powerful figure, the nation’s number one Peacekeeper.

“Killing machine,” Wiress mutters beside him, eyes fixed on the screen. “Break the machine.” Her voice is quiet—clearly not meant for Haymitch. Must've gone into her head again. But he knows she doesn’t mean the arena this time.

“I tried,” Haymitch whispers back.

---

DISTRICT 2

Alpheus / Camila / Nona / Janus

 

District 2 receives him fairly well, all things considered. But of course, not like they know the 'volcano eruption' that killed all of their tributes was Haymitch's doing. Well, more like a quick retaliation by Gamemakers to his attempt of breaking the arena, pull the eyes somewhere else, oh, sky's gone dark, but look! Twelve kids are dying right here, you don't want to miss that! Look right here and how they're dying!

His team has been anticipating this one from the very start. Effie and Proserpina practically fly out of their seats the moment the train slows into the station.

“—and we’ll have the photoshoot with the two Quarter Quell victors, of course, but that can be done by evening. While they’re touring the district, we can prepare the set—”

The Victor of the First Quarter Quell, Achilles Andras, is here.

It’s all his team can talk about—starting back on the train from District Five to Four. The closer they get, the more the nerves mount, the more the anticipation builds.

He’s told the details by a super-fan who happens to be one of Plutarch’s staffers. Saga talks Haymitch’s ear off, eyes gleaming.

“After the preliminaries they held to pick the top volunteer candidates, Achilles ran a campaign to be chosen—and he won nearly 60% of District 2's votes! He’s been a public favorite from the start. All Careers were, at the time, but he was something else. You could just tell he was destined to be a victor. And a training score of eleven—the first ever to receive it! He had the highest odds ever recorded, 1-to-4! No one’s ever beaten that.”

“He got seven kills in the arena. After his Games, he mentored for a while, and he was in the Capitol a lot, my parents have signed posters of them in our living room, but he eventually settled down with Maida Day. She won the 29th Games under his mentorship, and they have a son together. A real fairy tale, the perfect end to their story…The only way it can get any better if their son ends up a victor as well, ‘cause he totally would if he ever volunteered. I think he will, but my sister doesn't want him to. She's so scared he'll somehow die, hah! As if!”

“I can’t believe we get to see them in real life! They’re the perfect couple. You’ll see. We’ll all see. Oh, this has to be a dream!”

“Thanks for all that, Saga.” Haymitch says, turning his head to the lyrics sheet in his hands, anything to escape this conversation. I didn’t even ask anything.

He shakes a lot of hands—those of the mayor, the head Peacekeeper, all the victors and their spouses. Nearly every older victor has a spouse standing beside them, whereas younger ones are accompanied by their siblings and parents. He meets Nemo Nautil first, the current eldest victor alive in the district, winner of the 8th Hunger Games.

The flashes go wild when he grips Achilles Andras’ hand. The man is a giant, practically a statue carved from golden stone. Knowing Two's masonry, no doubt there’s some kind of statue in golden surface somewhere in the district. His long blond hair catches the light with unnatural brilliance—Haymitch wonders briefly why it’s not white with age, before remembering hair dyes exist. Or maybe his just haven’t gone gray, unlike in Twelve where people tend to get white hair pretty early on. His eyes are dark green, but under the sun, they gleam gold too. He is the epitome of what a man is supposed to be.

Next to him, Haymitch feels smaller than small—subhuman, even. And then Maida Day arrives, just as tall and beautiful, if not even more so with the way her chestnut hair curls around her shoulders. Their son stands beside them like a perfect, miniature blend of the two. Haymitch shrinks a little more.

If he thought District Four was overwhelming, District 2 downright unnerves him. And if this is Two, he dreads what One will be like. Sure, the tributes were grand enough, but seeing the victors in person—that’s something else entirely.

The difference between them must look ridiculous. Two Quarter Quell victors: one, a living and breathing monument to power; the other, barely sixteen and still blinking when the flashbulbs get too much. 

One thing’s certain, Achilles Andras has his hands stained with blood by choice and by pride. And Haymitch? His feet are soaked in it. He walked over the bodies of his fellow Newcomers just to crawl out of that arena alive. He doesn’t know which is worse.

Haymitch is swiftly introduced to the rest of the living victors—Sigrun Jones of the 18th Games, a stone-cold man in a wheelchair, though Haymitch doesn’t dare ask how that happened he hopes it’s due to the some kind of condition he had before winning. The 44th victor, Brutus Utte, gives him a nod, and Haymitch nods back, though he’s not sure what either of them means by it. Then there’s Petra Wystan, the winner of the 36th Games—another epitome of professionalism, who never turns her back to the cameras and always presents her best profile.

Achilles claps a massive hand on his shoulder, nearly knocks him out of position. But they pose, smiling, the expression on the man’s face looks a lot natural than Haymitch’s. Comes with time, he thinks.

After that comes the usual script, speech, song which is more like an anthem than anything, a plaque handed to him by a pair of children in uniforms— one peacekeeper and the other what Haymitch assumes to be a stonemason attire. Then he’s whisked off to tour a local combat academy— which apparently is part of a franchise spun out from Achilles himself. This one they’re touring, he’s told, is the one Brutus co-owns.

Good to know, Haymitch thinks, I am literally never coming back here again.

He’s seen a group of ten years old, he has to blink twice to be sure, throw knives and hit a little too close to bull’s eye everytime, and can’t help but feel a jab at his back. Less than ten years later, these kids will kill kids from his own district. Achilles, Brutus, Maida and Petra are the ones who accompany him. The first two were a given, of course, Sigrun, Nemo and some other older victors stayed behind to let the younger ones shine, in their words. 

The photoshoot with Achilles goes well, both victors do what they’re told. Well, Achilles seems to know how it all goes already, and Haymitch just follows pointed fingers and complies to instructions. They even film a short segment together, all about the honor of standing side by side as victors of two of the most influential Hunger Games in Panem’s history. They talk about pride, sacrifice, and respect for the Capitol—how, if you want it badly enough, you too can make your district proud. 

Haymitch can’t help but feel like it’s a subtle jab at the fact that someone like Achilles Andras—a paragon of manhood—is a victor, and Haymitch Abernathy, an underfed, scrappy boy from the grimiest, most overlooked district, ended up a victor just like him.

For another three hours or so, he stands beside a man sculpted to be admired, feeling like an unfinished block of stone.

Between takes, Achilles and his mentor, Nemo, make conversation—mostly about the First Quarter Quell. Haymitch is surprised to learn the average age of the tributes was 17.8. Aside from Achilles and a few others who were seventeen, the rest were all eighteen. But it makes sense—Career districts would vote for the strongest and most trained, and the other districts would never choose a younger one if they could help it.

He’s never seen footage of the arena, but he knows the basics, it was a jagged landscape made entirely of cliffs and sheer drops. Many tributes fell to their deaths just trying to reach the Cornucopia.

“Most of the fights happened near the edges or on the summits,” Achilles says. “Felt like a mountain goat every time I had to go after someone.”

“Must’ve looked like one too,” Haymitch says, gesturing at the man's styled, long curls. Both men burst into laughter, hiding their grins behind coffee cups.

“My hair was even longer back then,” Achilles adds, throwing a fond glance at Nemo and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “This old man right here nearly killed me trying to get me to cut it before the Games.”

“What good did that do me?” Nemo replies, shaking his head. “Kid refused, then it became a thing. Sponsors were calling in, begging me for a lock of his hair in exchange for donations.”

“And so I had to chop some off after anyway,” Achilles says, shrugging. “That’s how the favors start, boy, get ready to pluck a feather or two.” 

Their conversation ends before Haymitch inquire about these ‘favors’ when Cassia approaches to let them know they’re about to resume shooting. Though she’s on Haymitch’s team, she speaks only to Achilles, eyes shining, barely glancing in Haymitch’s direction. When he says, “Thanks, Cassia,” her name catches her off guard. She yelps in surprise and scurries off, cheeks flushed red, and attaches herself to Saga's ear, most likely telling him that Achilles Andras knows her name.

The supper at the mayor’s estate is packed. Victors and their families are gathered around a long, seemingly endless table. The food is more abundant here than in any other district, and everything served is genuinely good. Haymitch finishes his plate of seared deer loin with sunchoke puree and butter-dripping ramps, then moves on to the roasted winter squash glazed with honey. The meat is tender, the puree smooth and earthy, and the squash strikes a perfect balance between savory and sweet.

Oh, and—everyone’s drunk, as they always are at these events.

Achilles Andras and his wife sit oddly far apart for a married couple, at least in Haymitch’s eyes, but no one else seems to bat an eye. Achilles, along with Pat Nautil—who’s a son of Achilles’ mentor Nemo Nautil—is at one end of the table where Haymitch is, roaring with laughter holding onto each others’ shoulders. Meanwhile, Maida Day quietly drinks herself to oblivion at the opposite end. Haymitch decides to keep his eyes on his plate.

He’s glanced at the liquor a few times, even had a glass offered to him like it would be his first. But Effie—drunk as she is—quickly intervened, reminding everyone he’s on medication that doesn’t mix well with alcohol. So, tonight, he’s sober. Again. And there’s been no saving Haymitch from the endless barrage of stories Nemo Nautil and his ever-loyal minions, Pat and Achilles, have been unloading on him nonstop—their own stories, what they like to do these days, what mentoring would entail. Though their advice doesn't sound too helpful- they're District 2, no matter what there's always going to be someone to sponsor them.

“—Right, I only understood my old man," Achilles points at Nemo, "when I was watching Mayday,” he says, referring to his wife. “We didn’t have much hope for her, you know. She just  wasn’t prepared for that arena. It was a rainforest—thick air, humidity, mutt-bugs and real bugs everywhere. That girl’s not made for any of those. At all.” He chuckles, tipping his glass. “Humidity was going to kill her before a tribute. She would've been long dead if the Capitol hadn't taken a liking to her.”

Pat purses his lips at that, looking uncomfortable. But Nemo, unbothered in the way only a crusty old people tend to be, carries on like the pause didn’t happen.

“Well, lucky for her,” he says, “Capitol likes an underdog every once in a while. Especially if it's pretty to look at. That’ll carry a tribute further than any weapon. Not that you'd know anything about that, Killy.”

"Killy Kranky!"

"I don't wanna sing it! I'm the one who always sings it! I wanna go under too!"

"C'mon Burdie, just sing it!” Lenore Dove begs, already grabbing hands with Gille McCoy and Haymitch, who takes Louella's smaller hand in his. The line stretches on with their neighbors and friends—Mallory Banner takes Louella’s other hand, and Blair grabs his cousin’s, all of them forming a circle.

"You shouldn’t’ve ran out of breath last time. We could’ve played longer if you hadn’t."

"Yeah, besides, you’re the youngest!

"Me?!" Burdock, in disbelief, gestures to the bunch of five-seven year olds, Louella, Mallory and Buster. "Aren’t you forgetting a few people?"

"They’re family of friends, y’kmow they don’t count!"

"Then Gillie's same age as me!"

The boy in question sticks his tongue out with a whoop, "I'm January born, loser! Hah!" he cackles, "I'm already 11! You are still 10!"

They jeer and laugh, already lifting their arms to make the first arch. Burdock pouts, but he clears his throat and begins, voice clear as creekwater. The kids join in chant, the chant begins, Buster Hutfield grins and tugs the line forward, ducking through Lenore Dove and Gillie's arms, dragging the rest behind him and giggles ripple down the line as they all move like a clumsy caterpillar.

Broke my arm, broke my arm
Swinging pretty Nancy

Broke my leg, broke my leg
Dancin’ Killy Kranky

Shrill voices chime in and memories of old days flood in his mind-- the familiar name catches Haymitch so off guard, he snorts into his glass, “Killy?” he echoes, wiping his mouth. 

“That’s me,” Achilles says, brow raised. “What’s so funny?”

Though his tone is playful, Haymitch feels a flash of fight-or-flight like a cornered ant facing a bear.

“It’s—It’s a thing in Twelve,” he says quickly. “Killy Kranky. Game song for kids. ‘Killy Kranky is my song, sing and dance it all day long. From my elbow to my wrist, now we do the double twist…’” He trails off, realizing he’s gone too far into the rhyme, his voice faltering into the silence that follows.

The moment yanks him back to the time he sang the sunflower song for District 9’s tributes- he feels first and second-hand embarrassment at the same time for both present and past Haymitch.

To his luck, three men burst into roaring laughter.

“Well, that’s just perfect now,” Nemo says, looking at Achilles. “No one’s crankier than this Killy here. Really.”

Achilles scowls in mock offense. “Crankier than me?” he says, glancing over at Hero, who’s still sulking quietly beside his mother, arms folded but a glare apparent on his face, directed toward them, actually. “I can think of someone.”

Pat nudges him. “You know he doesn’t like it when you make it sound like his mom didn’t win on her own.”

“Hey, I never said she didn’t." Achilles raises his hands, his turn to defend. "Just said Capitol liked her. That’s half the battle in there.”

“More than half,” Nemo adds, sipping his drink. “You’ll see it yourself soon enough, Haymitch. Back in my day, it was a whole different game.”

Pat and Achilles groan—any time an elder starts with 'Back in my day' it’s elicits an automatic recoil from anyone younger. That goes for Haymitch as well, but right now, it sparks a question instead.

“How were they?” Haymitch asks. It strikes him that for the first time since this cursed tour began, he’s speaking to someone who won before Mags. Most winners before the 11th Hunger Games—especially from the lesser districts—had vanished into obscurity. Twelve's own first victor had, too, until Snow showed Haymitch the truth, that is. "I've seen some re-runs on Capitol TV, but just the...worst parts, I think."

Carefully curated just for Haymitch, all the gory, violent clips edited to remind him that escape that he's never getting out of the arena.

But here in District 2, sits someone who lived through it. He'd like to hear what Nemo has to say, hoping liquor loosened his tongue, out of curiosity more than anything else. Because, really, what else can he do with any information he gets? There's no getting out of this cage. At best, he'd like to pace around.

“Well, can’t speak for everyone,” Nemo says, swirling his drink, “but in 2, we had these old projectors. We’d get herded into conference halls to watch. Only the Reaping footage was any good—after that, everything turned to a mess, you couldn’t tell one tribute from the other if you tried. Just a blur of figures and some red.” He pauses to take a sip.

“When I was reaped—ugh,” The man grimaces. “It was awful. They shipped us in livestock cars. Boy from 10 ate a rat on his second night. I remember that very clearly 'cause my district partner threw up right after. Also 'cause the rat was still alive.”

Haymitch winces.

“Anyway,” Nemo continues, waving a hand, “They shoved us into the old sports venue, before it was, well, demolished. My girl was already expecting when I got reaped, so you bet your ass I tore through that arena like a madman. That was that. No parades, no speeches, no new shiny house waiting for you back home. No one even shook my hand in congratulations, aside from this random man. Great clothes, but looked damn awful.” He looks like he wants to say more,  “I remember his face very clearly, very droopy lad, but never saw him again after that. 'Least I got a good welcome back in Two."

"Things changed later though, right?” Haymitch probes, “You have any idea why? Did something happen?” He's probably testing his luck. But he doubts anyone's really hearing them, or even paying attention, with all the background noise. 

Nemo shrugs. “No clue,” he says. “Tenth Games was its own kind of mess. Eleventh was the real turning point if you ask me— they made opening day mandatory for viewing, and announced the Victor would get a house, lifelong salary, the whole package. They even started tracking us down. Wanted the old victors to come back and mentor. We were lucky -that's us, One and Four- just 'cause we were already somewhat known in our districts, y'know, had names that were easy to find. I had Pat by then,” he puts a hand on his son's shoulder. “So when word spread and talk of certain rewards reached my ears, I stepped right up.”

Haymitch lets that sit for a second. “Huh.” He hesitates, then ventures, “Do you… do you know who won from my district? We’ve always been told there was one before me. But no one’s ever seen her. She must’ve won, what, a year or two after you?” He tries to push further but finds himself unable to say Tenth Hunger Games aloud—he can’t bring himself to utter it.

Nemo meets his eyes. There’s no flicker of deceit, no hesitation, just the eyes of an honest man.

“Nope. Sorry, kid. Had to work—family to raise. I stopped watching after my Games,” he says. “Only picked it up again once it became my job.”

The rest of the night drifts by in a haze, other victors stopping by every now and then for some small talk and an occasional pat on the back. Haymitch listens, responds when he can, but after a while, the voices start to blur, and everything comes in fragments. He asks around about the older Games some more, but no one seems to have an answer. Not a name, not a memory, so he gives up. 

It’s not that he’s desperate to know about her—more that he’s searching for someone whose memory Snow hasn’t managed to erase. Someone untouched by the Capitol’s revision, a flicker of hope for the Covey girl who won the Tenth Games but was wiped from everyone’s world—except for Lenore Dove and her uncles. Of course, asking them about her is out of the question. Even after all that's happened, the desperate part of Haymitch sniffs to find whatever scraps of hope are scattered around.

Is that part of him disgusting? Is it strength, perseverance? Or just the childish part of him believing it’ll all be okay one day? You can call it whatever you want or nnothing at all—there’s no point in naming a feeling that won't lead anywhere.

There’s a shuffle next to him, but Haymitch doesn’t look up. He just wants to get back to the train, fall asleep, and wake up to repeat this circus in District 1—if not worse, considering Panache and Silka—then onward to the Capitol, to Snow, and then his homecoming, to the smell of burnt flesh and poison-laced candy—

A voice cuts in, too close to his ear to be meant for anyone else. He blinks, startled, and turns to his right. It’s none other than the prodigious son of Achilles Andras and Maida Day— Hero Andras.

Haymitch had scoffed, in his head, at the name when they were first introduced. I mean, Hero, a bit on the nose, isn’t it?

The boy is barely fourteen and already inches taller than Haymitch. With his father’s golden curls and his mother’s amber eyes, he looks like something crafted by professional hands. But through the evening, Haymitch has seen the truth behind the scenes. Hero is a brat. He’s acted like he’s got no home training all day, sulked through supper, rolled eyes at every toast, and been nudged or scolded by his parents more times than Haymitch can count.

Still, Haymitch finds himself envious—the boy has parents to scold him. He’d give anything to feel that sharp jab in his ribs when he says something cheeky, to have Ma poke him like that just once.

“—y’know, I’m not,” the boy is saying when Haymitch tunes back in.

“Uh… I think I blanked out. Can you say that again?”

Hero’s amber eyes narrow. “I knew Panache,” he says flatly. And before Haymitch can even begin to say I’m sorry we killed your friend, the boy continues, “I knew him and Silka and our own tributes. I know how stupid he and the others were. Most of them are. I’m not.”

He says it like Haymitch has insulted him somehow.

“…Good for you?” Haymitch tries, unsure why this kid is talking to him at all.

Hero clearly doesn’t like the answer. He huffs, gets up and storms off, curls bouncing on his head and slumps over at a seat next to Nemo Nautil, who's now in a conversation, sitting middle of the table with Sigrun Jones. The elderly man pats his back, and for the first time he’s met the boy, Hero doesn’t brush someone off.

Spoilt rotten, Haymitch thinks again. An absolute brat, but that was something else entirely. The kid smiles like the Capitol poster child he is for the cameras, but behind them, he’s the real rascal.

He’s more than relieved to board the train that night —most victors are so drunk they have to be escorted out of Mayor's house, and Hero shoulders him on the way out, a final petty jab, but it's not like Haymitch cares—even if it takes him one more destination closer to the source of all his fears and misery.

---

DISTRICT 1

Panache / Loupe / Silka / Carat

 

Tension in District 1 is already high.

Haymitch can tell the moment he steps off the train and catches sight of the welcoming team’s stony faces.

At breakfast, Proserpina let him in a little secret- during a conversation with Two’s team, it came up that District 1 holds a special grudge against the new winner. They believe Haymitch cheated in his fight against Silka, and robbed their district of a rightful and hard-earned victory.

That much is further confirmed as soon as they exit the station.

The first poster of himself they see has CHEATER and FALSE VICTOR spray-painted across it in bold red letters.

On the opposite side, workers scramble to cover another defaced poster, SHARP EARNED IT, SHARPER WORE IT, the writing reads, with a mock crown painted onto Haymitch’s head. His eyes have been colored red too, crying streaks of blood, and someone’s added a monstrous grin with jagged teeth on his mouth. They’ve turned him into a grotesque caricature, a thief and a cheat. The mountain monster parents in Twelve scare their children with so they don't go wandering off.

That part, at least, he doesn’t argue with. Deface those all you want, Haymitch thinks. I only wish I could do the same to the ones back home.

Introductions are quicker this time, led by Mayor Inlay. There’s Jet Aigrette, the 37th victor, covered in too many colorful tattoos to count, each wrapping around his muscular frame like a skin-deep armor. Then comes Mavis Lazuli, the victor of the 43rd Games, that he can’t help but end up making intense eye contact with because the rest of her is barely dressed. Velvet Panne, who plants a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek. His prep team groans immediately, already whining about having to reapply his makeup. Some older victors voice their own greetings as well, but Haymitch's brain has given up on remembering every single Victor he has had to meet.

The underlying tension emanating from the silent crowd does not go away no matter how warm he’s greeted by the victors.

So, yeah. His speech is a mess. Gurgly. Nervous. Haymitch feels the sting of a thousand sharp eyes on him, scorching stare of every District 1 citizen burning into his skin. Especially from the Sharp family, stationed just beneath the enormous portrait of Silka on the podium second to right, right beside Panache. The plaque he’s supposed to receive from the Mayor is handed off by Palladium Barker instead, clearly a strategic move to keep things calm and ease the tension. See? Your beloved handsome victor is on Haymitch's side, c'mon now.

It doesn’t help much.

Still, the younger part of the crowd, like how it happened in most districts, starts to hum along to the upbeat District One Loves Panem anthem, or whatever the name was. It's one of the setlist pieces no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't remember a thing about. From what he can hear, that's basically what the song's about anyway, glory to One and long live Capitol, and all that.

Haymitch moves his lips and pretends to sing. It’s thankfully, enough. One take, and he’s off the stage.

He's been told, by Effie, that the giant boy who Maysilee landed a dart on, is Palladium’s little cousin- so Wyatt was right about the familial connection. And then Haymitch himself, of course, went and stole Silka’s crown by cheating.

Though the Capitol’s current narrative is that he outplayed her, thanks to his mentor Wiress encouraging him to think outside the arena’s limitations, following in her footsteps- which Haymitch can't help but think it's another way of threatening him. That’s what they’ll spin for in Caesar Flickerman's interview too.

And so, all things considered, Haymitch had expected some sort of retaliation from Palladium—maybe a punch to the gut to match his cousin—but the young man has been oddly indifferent. Civil, even. He hadn’t squeezed his hand any hard during the handshake, and all of Haymitch’s five fingers came out unscathed.

Haymitch wonders if this is what Panache might have grown into, had he lived. Maybe time would have softened the sharp edges. Maybe growing up rearranged things in one’s head, made everything click into place. But he still can't think it's a shame Panache will never get to grow up, the way he had gobbled up Wellie's stolen lunch box still clear in his mind.

Relieved he's off stage, Haymitch takes a deep breath. But of course, it's not that easy for him. Nothing is, and will be. Not when he's involved.

Just as he steps off the stage with the mayor, the crowd shouts, ”Fraud!" “Cheater!”—and then something hard slams into the side of Haymitch’s head.

He crumples to the ground.

The world erupts in shouts and chaos. A swarm of Peacekeepers surrounds him, lifting him off the pavement and rushing him toward the Justice Building. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s still screaming. But Haymitch barely hears it, darkness comes in and swoops him away.

Then light. It’s not white, not fully, a hint of warmth surrounds around me like an old quilt.

Ma stands before me. Seeing her right there, within reach, it feels like a dream. Her presence doesn’t blaze, it glows softly, settling on my skin like sunlight. It warms me from the inside out. My heart stops beating on its own and places itself in her gentle hands, surrendering completely, trusting her with everything.

“Ma…”

She's holding a laundry basket. It's empty.

“Are you doing laundry? Do you need help?”

“No, baby. I’m waiting.” 

“For…?”

“You.”

“You are?”

“Of course. We always will.”

That’s when I see Pa, just a few steps behind her. He’s looking at me, too. He's closer to where the light comes from, I can't see his eyes, but I can see the way his lips curl into a smile.

“Pa…” My voice catches, thick with emotion. It’s hard to speak here. I feel so happy—only one thing’s missing. “Where’s Sid?”

“Didn’t want to keep him waiting. Sent him along with Mamaw. Told him we’d be right there with you.”

“It’s over, then.”

“It will be.”

“But why do you have a basket? You don’t have to work anymore, Ma.”

“I don’t. This is for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. To catch your head when it falls.” she says, and then, my angel's form warps, bleeding into a man with snow-white hair and bloodied hands holding a crown. He places it on my head, and the metal stabs down, anchoring me in place with needles as long as my legs.

“I guess Snow lands on top.”

“Enjoy your homecoming.” 

“With the stolen crown on your head," Silka whispers in my ear, "enjoy it while you can—before he cuts it off your shoulders. Like your baby chick. Headless. Poor fake bird, poor jabberjay. You never had songs to sing in the first place… so what will you do now?”

Ma. You’re here, right? To catch my head? But who will sing my songs for me? I don’t have any. What do I do then? Ma?

“I don’t know, I don’t know…Ma…” he hears himself whisper when he comes to. A cold cloth presses against his head. He jerks awake, trying to sit up, but gentle hands push him back down. One of them grasps his own. He doesn’t know if he imagines the calluses lining the palm or not, but he feels it—and it feels so much like Ma’s that Haymitch lets himself sink into their arms. he grips the hand tighter when it starts to pull away.

"W-wait for me…” 

You said you'd wait for me, Ma. Wait.

“It’ll be okay, Haymitch. The doctor checked you out—it’s just a minor concussion,” the voice says, and it’s not Ma’s. Haymitch feels a tear escape his eye, and loosens his grip. There’s no point on holding on.

It takes a while before he can look around without his vision swimming. The doctor—an actual one, not just an apothecary like back in Twelve—shines a light into his eyes, checks his pupils, then moves his finger side to side, which Haymitch follows. A few more tests later, he’s cleared. Just a minor concussion. The protestor who hit him had good aim, but a weak throwing arm. If the collision was a bit harder, he might’ve needed more than a few stitches. SOmething about a brain scan, if he heard that right.

“There was another rock,” Vitus says as he’s retouching Haymitch’s hair. “but Palladium Barker caught it before it hit you. It was so real, I thought I was watching the Hunger Games!—we’re lucky he was so close.”

They tell him supper will be quiet tonight. No one wants to damage Capitol goods right before delivery—him being the goods, of course. They skip the rest of the district tour, no need to stir up more trouble by just walking around. Though it makes the camera crew run around like a flock of headless chicken, scrambling for something to film to meet their quota.

In the end, a deal is struck with a nearby ceramics atelier—owned by one of District One’s finest artisans. It’s a win-win for all parties involved. The owner gets Capitol exposure, the crew gets footage, and some bored old lady in the Capitol finds a new thing to splurge on. The studio must not have customers in their own district if they’re willing to let Haymirch, Public Enemy #1, be their shop’s new face.

They even let him make a vase. Well, it’s supposed to be one. It turns out lopsided and awkward, but Effie reassures him it’s the concussion and not a lack of artistic talent. Failing at one form of art is already more than enough for Haymitch anyway.

When it’s finally time for supper, there’s a shared breath of relief. The district tour is done. The camera crew practically collapses into one another, toasting and celebrating. After the Capitol segment, which will mostly be handled by another team there, they’ll only have Twelve left to film. Congratulations, good jobs and great works are handed out like refreshments. Haymitch even receives one or two pats to the back himself. A good player, he’s been throughout all this, after all. His head hurts and his stomach feels its shrivelling inside him.

They’re led to the dining room once again, inside the mayor’s mansion—which, unsurprisingly, is three times the size of Mayor Allister’s back in Twelve. More staff, more rooms, more shine. All interior is marble—or at least, it looks like marble. His suspicions are confirmed when Effie’s lips curl downward as she runs a gloved finger along one of the pillars.

“If there’s something more grotesque than fake leather,” she mutters to Haymitch and the prep team, “it’s fake marble. An insult to any building." She tuts.

Just like their Near Beer Careers, the career districts must be all brag and no britches. All bluff and no aces. All bark and no bite. All foam, no beer—oh wait, that's Haymitch. His bad.

At supper, District One’s spread puts even District Two’s to shame—and banishes all the others, including Four, from the contest. Too bad Haymitch can’t eat any of it.

He’s served lamb first, to his dismay. As heavenly as the lavender-rubbed chops look, glazed in glistening red pomegranate sauce, he hesitates. He doesn’t want to run out of the hall again to vomit in some toilet. He manages a few bites, which he quickly regrets. The taste doesn’t match the look. Again, Near beer. The meat is nearly dried out, and the glaze with the pomegranate seeds must’ve been there to confuse the eater, because the glaze is spicy, rather than the sweetness its looks promise.

He moves on. It’s his first time eating this dish anyway—maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be.

The next dish is a bowl of thick, glistening rice, dotted with rich brown mushrooms. He lifts a spoonful to his mouth—but the first bite nearly cracks his teeth. He coughs, spits into his napkin. In it, a polished black stone, smooth like coal stained glass. He prods at the bowl. More stones surface, gleaming among the grains.

Silently, he pushes it away too, and reaches to grab some of the district bread, only to meet the eyes of a server by the door, standing like a soldier. The woman is glaring at him.

Alright, message clear: the people who really make up One want him to know how they feel. You’re not welcome here, Cheater.

At least the victors are cordial. They likely know he’s stuck working with them now.

No wonder he was served lamb again—his face must’ve given him away back in District Ten. Or someone coaxed it out of the Capitol chef. Either way…

Haymitch sets his utensils down. The server hides a smirk. Fine. He can survive skipping one more meal. He’s probably the only one in the room who can. Still, when no one’s looking, he snatches a few grilled figs topped with creamy cheese and drizzled with honey. At the end of the night, he must’ve gulped down half a dozen

Palladium Barker sits beside him, to Haymitch’s surprise. He doesn’t have any cousins, but even if he did, he can’t imagine sitting next to someone who once intended to kill him—or someone close with the person who did. Burdock certainly wouldn't. Maybe if he knew Haymitch almost killed Lenore Dove, he would have smashed a rock in his head a long time ago--Stop.

Career districts see the Hunger Games differently, he reminds himself.

People here aren’t angry that he killed Silka Sharp. They’re angry that he stole her win and robbed their district of its glory. Maybe her family holds a deeper grudge, but at this point, Haymitch can’t be sure.

So when the victor of the 46th Games takes the seat next to him, he doesn’t know what to feel. He decides to take the first step, turning slightly toward the blonde man. “Thanks for helping me today.”

Palladium shrugs. “Don't worry about it,” he says, then presses his lips together and glances at Haymitch out of the corner of his eye, like he can’t quite bear to look at him directly. “You’re…” he trails off, casting a glance toward his fellow victors. “I’ve been watching the tour. You’re doing well.”

“Thanks,” Haymitch replies. “I’m trying.”

“I can see that,” Palladium says. He looks deeply uncomfortable, and Haymitch wonders why—no one’s forcing them to interact. Well, aside from the whole my ally killed Panache and I killed your tribute thing, there's no need for them to talk or for Palladium to look as sick as he does at the moment, “We all do.”

“Palla!” Mavis Lazuli calls out from the other end of the table, narrowing her eyes at them.

“I’ll see you later,” Palladium cuts in abruptly, rising from his seat. Haymitch is hit with deja vu from just one day ago, Hero Andras had left him in nearly the same way. But where Hero had stormed off in frustration, Palladium just looks unsettled. “Enjoy your evening.”

“You too…” Haymitch watches him go and whisper something to the red-headed victor, more confused than anything else. Career tributes might’ve been little more than muscle in the arena, but their victors? Their victors are secrets wrapped in...again, a whole lot of muscle, all spiffed up.

Palladium shakes his head at Mavis and then exits the dining room altogether, leaving the young woman to take a deep breath and lean back in her chair, visibly unsettled. Her dark eyes flicker toward Haymitch, but she quickly looks away, burying her gaze in her wine glass.

No, we won’t be seeing each other later, Palladium. Haymitch thinks. Not until the next Hunger Games. On my 17th birthday, I’ll be hauled out of my house to mentor two sacrificial lambs. Same thing will happen next year, and the next, and the next. He eyes the nearest goblet—Saga’s—filled with tempting liquor. He longs to down it in one gulp, close his eyes, and reopen them to the smoky mist of his mountains. But before he can sneak a sip, the cameraman’s pale hand swiftly snatches the drink away. Not that he could’ve gotten away with it unnoticed by Effie anyway.

That night, Silka comes to him in a dream. Or rather—a nightmare, courtesy of her.

She grabs him by the collar, eyes blazing with fury. “You owe me a crown.”

“You owe me a chocolate ball,” he says, but the words lack any bite. More than anything, he just wants to get away from her. “You owe me a dove. You owe her a life.”

“I was supposed to be the one to honor the Capitol!”

“You couldn’t even honor a starving child with a merciful death!” he spits back. “No one in that Capitol you so worship gives a damn about you. You’re already forgotten. Your district cries over a piece of metal they wanted on your head—they don’t care who’s wearing it.”

This time, it’s Haymitch who grabs her collar, pulling her close.

“It wouldn’t matter if it was your head that got cut off, as long as it had a crown sitting on top of it.”

And then he shoves her away.

Haymitch jerks awake, heart pounding, sweat slick and cold on his skin but he feels burnt at the same time. Still gasping, he reaches under his pillow for a knife, but his hand comes up empty. He bolts upright, eyes scanning the dim corners of the room, half-expecting Silka to step out from the shadows. Honestly, with how much District One wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d sent someone to finish the job.

In the corner of the room, there's a small head, tossed aside, dead eyes, vacant and glassy, stare back at him. 

“Don’t leave me,” it says. But Haymitch can’t stay. He rips his gaze away, stumbles to the bathroom, and drops to his knees. He vomits—hard, violent, body purging extra weight so it can keep going.

When he returns to the room, stomach hollow but his head too full, Haymitch lies back down and tries to scrape his mind clean of everything this tour has wrung out of him.

He imagines their faces—his people—tired and hungry but still proud, staring at flickering screens, disgusted and disturbed. He imagines them furrowing their brows in discomfort, turning away in secondhand shame. He imagines the conversations that must be going on in Hob, in town and seam- What a spineless fool he looks, dancing and singing for them like that? You can't make a silk purse of a sow's ear, guess no one told him.

And maybe they’re right. They will be. Because how long can you pretend before the line fades and the act becomes you? Just like he told Effie.

He can only hope Lenore Dove sees him that way too. He hopes she’s curling her lips in disgust at the sight of him on that stage—even if the thought guts him. He wants her to have a happy life, to not suffer in his sake, more than enough people already have. 

The next stop is where it all comes to.

Where his compliance might be rewarded with mercy, and he'll forever be enclosed in the shiny jabberjay case. Or- or...

He doesn’t let himself finish the thought.

Because if that happens—then off with his head, too. He only hopes Ma is there to catch him when it happens.

Notes:

Long time no see... WE'RE FREE. Now we can move onto the horrors that await in the Capitol. So, still not free, actually. Tried to keep the chapter a mix of lighhearted/odd interactions between victors, hauntings & some foreshadowing. Hope it made sense. Also wanted to put something for each district, so if you're particularly fond of one (like me and 7) you'll find a little snippet about it. But this chapter took SO MUCH from me. I got so hungry writing the food too (bc I've re-read 1st THG)... Glad we’re done with this :’)

Here's some of my ideas/HCs/side plots that couldn’t be revealed through Haymitch:

HCs

I know SC names most tributes plays on what their district is known for, and being so on-the-nose helps readers remember who's from where bc there are so many of them. So I played onto that as well.
D12
- Bad news: I found a draft in my notes of the camera crew filming Haymitch in school for the VT-reels, but forgot to write it for the previous chapter. Oops.
D11
- Chaff's district partner name was Grist. Meaning=grain that's been separated from its chaff in preparation for grinding in a mill. His Games were particularly vile. The state he found his allies was shocking. He arranged their bodies to give them more dignity and yelling at the gamemakers for letting it happen. All that got cut off, and he's just shown as going on a rampage.
- I couldn't decide whether to add the attic scene in. Then decided to so, but I feel kind of weird about it. Idk.
D10
- If you haven't already guessed...That's Marnie from Stardew Valley :) Her side-gig of being a victor is the true reason why she's never at her damn shop. You can bet your ass she's not attending her ranch in D10 either. Barely kept myself from naming the mayor Lewis.
D8
- Faye Loom = The Fates weaving threads on a loom
- Yes. The band is Covey ***<
D7
- All geo. lore comes from my Johanna WIP which I may never post, who knows...
D6
- Wellie's surname 'Rouleur': French term used in cycling to describe a rider who is strong and consistent over long distances. I thought it fit Wellie’s perseverance in the arena, + her token = bicycle bell.
D3
-Beete's beautiful smart strong wife Lux is an electric engineer.
- 1 Ampere = 1 Coulomb/sec- Hence Ampert and Colm (their son that'll be born sometime later but I had to say it now) But I'll get on that later, there'll be a talk of it in 51st Games.
- Cat's name Voltair = Voltage
- Wiress Fray = frayed wires: wires might fray because of damage (or, y’nkow, torture)
- Nil Beautlos = Absolute Zero (Null=Nil) = lowest temperature that is theoretically possible. It’s 0 on Kelvin scale = her husband
- Post-1stQQ when the built arenas become std is when D3 tributes actually start to win by making do with exposed wirings, junction boxes etc. not unlike what happened in 10th, but later it could carry them to final eights and even win. Like we saw in tbosas with the drones and sotr, the arena inner workings aren't the most polished, & then there’s always a flaw in the system as Beetee says.
D2
- Brutus Utte = Et tu, Brutus? hehe
- 1st QQ Victor Achilles Andras is in love with his mentor Nemo(Menoetius)'s son Pat(roclus) but had to marry the female D2 victor Maida Day (Deidamia) and have a baby, Hero. Born in 36th HG, Hero Andras is expected to make his debut in 53rd/54th HG — which no doubt will be peak TV. We will see what he does in his Games, and learn the secrets behind his birth, so I’ll stop here. It was fun to come up with their dynamics though :)
Covey
*** My little take on Covey is when they were getting rounded up or before— Covey children got split between the eastern districts (3-8-12) depending on the district pop. In 74th HG that is 3>8>>12.
- With 3 and 8 being WAY more populous, Covey easily got integrated to District population. In 12 the small population made it easier to stay in a group and preserve their culture.
- Hence why lines in 3&8 didn't continue the name traditions/perform/even play/sing, as they had to work in textile factories from a young age, same goes for 3 where they'd probably be put in vocational schools first. Meanwhile, kids in 12 are not forced to work in their district industry until they're 18/19 + musical ent. is a big part of the culture there, and so Covey could keep doing their thing and make a living.
- LD's geese are a mix of Brecon Buff/regular Buff goose, please look them up they're the cutest

Honestly I can talk about these for so long, drop a comment/question if you're interested ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) Also I just found out about this details html thing, if you couldn't tell. I'll now stop bothering your eyes with my neverending notes! Yay! See you soon!

Chapter 10: Down the primrose path to Omelas

Summary:

Capitol I

Big, big day! A welcome, an interview, a banquet, and a surprise!

Notes:

primrose path (noun)
: a life of ease and pleasure; the easy way out of a hard situation. To “lead people down the primrose path” is to deceive them into thinking that things are easier than they actually are.

“They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery.”

― Ursula K. Le Guin

---

Haymitch truly expected to be treated just as he was the last time he came here.

But this time, a parade awaits him. And even though more things are hurled his way—flowers, confetti, autograph books, money—there's not a single explosive or rock in sight.

Nobody throws up, either. Still, the mixed smell of sweat and heavy perfume starts to burn Haymitch’s nose, and the constant camera flashes sting his eyes. He can handle all that, but it’s the hands lunging forward to get a piece of him that make him flinch and stagger with every step. A woman—might be a woman, or perhaps a sentient cat on two legs—scratches at his neck as she pulls at his collar.

For a moment, Haymitch understands the horses’ fear when the fireworks went off in their path. He finds himself longing for the rock that struck him back in One. At least the rest of the district passed by in a merciful haze after that.

Now, however, it feels more like waking up in that dimly lit room again, the Avoxes closing in around him, hands grasping at him like restless wraiths.

He’s just about one tug away from losing his jacket when they finally reach the van, and he’s all but thrown inside alone in the back before Effie can even squeeze herself in with him.

Nice to see some things never change.

The tribute apartment is the same—a cacophony of colors so loud they somehow manage to offend the ears as much as the eyes.

Effie, however, is more concerned with the fact that a new apartment hasn’t been assigned to them—to him. She keeps going on about it, insisting that no expense is too great for a Quarter Quell victor. 

“That’s the least they can do, after how horridly you were treated right after your victory!” she exclaims when he tells her not to worry about it, already dialling Sabine from Victor Logistics.

She’s fired up now, but Haymitch knows how this goes. Effie will sweet-talk her way through it. She means well, truly, but she also knows where the line is and makes sure not to cross it.

And now, watching her flit about with all this concern, Haymitch feels an unexpected pang of…hurt? sadness? It’s like she’s already shifting her view—seeing him as a victor rather than the tribute she once grew close to.

He doesn’t want to lose the part of Effie that sees him as a person. He’s come to genuinely enjoy her company. Still, the illusion of a growing friendship is sometimes shattered when her brainwashed beliefs slip into their conversations. Yet, despite it all, the one thing he’s come to rely on is the fact that she truly means well.

“Anything you want me to ask them for?” she asks him as they settle on the couches. Well, he’s on it. Effie’s hovering next to the telephone table.

“No—“ He begins, but trails off. Being back here is…It’s empty, but it’s the kind of emptiness that suffocates him. “Actually…”

“Yes?” Effie’s long, glossy black nails hovering above the buttons. They’re matching again today—because of course they are. 

The whole team is dressed in coordinated black. Haymitch wears a flared black suit with a cropped jacket, a gold scarf draped over one shoulder and tied at the neck, the rest tailored to blend into the sleeve. His token is pinned where the knot meets his throat. It’s a little too tight—he keeps imagining the pin slipping, driving into his neck. If only...

Effie’s in her own version of the look, a sleek black suit peppered with the tiniest pink flowers. She has to get her colors in somehow.

Together, they look like a team.

“Do you—do you remember when I asked you to make sure my token got home?”

“Yes! Yes, to your girl!” Her face lights up. “Thank heavens I didn’t have to, right?”

Before he can clarify, her eyes widen with sudden realization. She slaps a hand to her forehead, visibly embarrassed.

“I totally forgot! Everything’s just been so hectic. Oh, how relieved your girl must’ve been when you—and your token—made it back! How’s she doing?” Effie says, “We didn’t even get to see her! I hope we didn’t scare her off—“ 

“No, well. She—We—”

I don’t want to talk about her here where there are eyes and ears on every wall, in every crook and cranny. The room is too orange, the shade all wrong, he swears he can hear every camera and microphone in the room crackle with static, and the sound of it crawls under his skin, his tongue is numb, his ears ring—

“We broke up after I got back,” he says. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

He forces himself to shrug and lean back.

Make it sound like it wasn’t that serious to begin with so she doesn’t ask questions. Just young love. You break up, and move on. Simple as that.

You hear that, camera tucked between the fake oranges and bananas in the basket on the coffee table? Are you listening? The third party involved in this conversation probably is listening— or will, later. I’m staying away, like you want. I’ll see her fall in love and get married while I echo back your propaganda, and I won’t be able to utter a single No against anything. I know, I know…

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. That’s just too bad,” Effie says gently, walking over to give his shoulder a quick, awkward pat. “For her, I mean. You’re a total catch, look at you! And now that you’re working on yourself, future’s looking bright—fame, love, the whole package. The Capitol will make sure of it!”

Then she turns back to the phone, probably thinking that’s enough to reassure Haymitch’s broken love life. If only that was enough.

“Right…” Haymitch clears his throat, he has to reel the topic back. “That’s not what I was getting at.”

Being back here brings his allies to mind—not that they ever truly left him. But suddenly Haymitch is reminded that he doesn’t know if the tokens of his allies, the ones he had on him, were ever placed in their caskets. He just knows they weren’t with him when he left the arena. Only the flint striker.

“Do you think the tokens I had… are still somewhere?” he asks her. “I had one of Maysilee’s necklaces, uh a medallion. But I dropped it. And Wyatt’s coin. I just don’t know if they were buried with them…”

The mention of his fallen tributes draws a frown from Effie. Her face pales, and she drops the receiver. Haymitch knows that means bad news.

“Well… I asked around after you told me to try and get yours,” she says, her eyes don’t meet his. “And… if you hadn’t won, I probably would’ve had to get someone else to do it for me. You see, it’s…”

“They’re…” Haymitch gulps, already feeling it like a punch to the ribs. “They’re not buried with their tokens?”

“Usually they are! Bloodbath deaths, yes. But… the final eight’s tokens are often—” she hesitates, grimaces “—set aside for auction. And since this was a Quarter Quell… everything’s extra special. So all of the tokens were retrieved and reserved for the largest Hunger Games auction yet. I think they’re sold already.”

She tries to smile, “But I’ll try to find out what happened to the ones you had on you. I mean, they must be counted as yours, right? Maybe there’s a way we can get them back.”

Auction.

All those little things, trinkets kids like him carried all the way from home, the last piece of it they’d ever get to keep— from family heirlooms to personal treasures, from scraps of ribbons to carefully crafted pendants…One final bit of comfort, something to clutch on to as you hide, sleep, when you’re scared.

Wellie’s bicycle bell. Ampert’s lariat. Maysilee’s collection of necklaces. Wyatt’s scrip coin. All those wooden trinkets, carved with care. Dolls sewn with love. Horseshoes given in hope that it’ll bring luck.

They’re torn off their decaying bodies, blood and dirt wiped clean, polished, price tag slapped on. 

Then sold off. Lined up on the shelves of rich people who don’t even know the names of the kids who died holding onto them.

“Never mind.” Haymitch gets up and goes to lie on the bed. Even the bedroom he shared with Wyatt is better than the living room. Effie doesn’t stop him, says “Don’t you worry— I’m on it, Haymitch!” and calls Victor Logistics.

The only time he leaves the bedroom is when Effie calls him to rehearse answers for the Caesar Flickerman interview. Not that he sleeps in there anyway.

He keeps hearing it—the sharp, metallic clink of Wyatt’s scrip coin hitting the floor. Over and over, like Wyatt keeps dropping it.

But that’s not him. Wyatt never dropped that coin. 

Wyatt’s dead and his coin sits clean and polished on some shelf.

Someone always makes money off your death. “That’s how it works.” 

---

The thing they put him in is…outrageous. 

Haymitch had seen it coming, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself.

The shirt is black, sheer across the abdomen, his scar clearly visible beneath. His prep team was instructed to apply makeup to enhance its visibility through the fabric as much as possible. The pants are loose, shoes polished to a shine, and there’s some sort of ridiculous bow draped around his neck. He looks less like a person and more like a gift being presented.

His sleeves are ruffled, and the fabric keeps snagging on the neck of the guitar as he strums it like a puppet again for the audience of the Caesar Flickerman show. The song is Gem of Panem, and just like he’s done all his life, Haymitch only mouths the words. This time, it feels less like a personal defiance, but a jabberjay doing what it’s been trained to do.

When he’s done, roses rain down like confetti. He lowers the guitar, walks to take his seat across from Caesar, and catches a white rose midair, slipping it between his teeth. The crowd whistles and cheers for their favorite rascal of a victor.

“Trouble as always, this one, ladies and gentlemen!” Caesar laughs. “Just a different kind of danger—especially when it comes to a matter of hearts!”

Haymitch is feeling a little light-headed,  he can’t lie. He fumbled enough questions during rehearsal that Effie asked for something to calm his nerves. And while the nerves weren’t about performing well or badly—just the dread of what he’d be made to say—the medicine worked. Strangely, his skin doesn’t feel like it’s burning under the hot spotlights. All eyes on him.

“That’s right, Caesar,” he says smoothly, removing the rose from his mouth and winking at the direction of the front row. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular, but a girl wearing a top hat lit with what he thinks is faux-burning coal squeaks and almost faints. That coal export stunt he pulled in District 5 must’ve hit harder than expected.

People around her scramble to hold her upright, trying to keep the flaming hat from toppling off. Haymitch tosses the rose her way—quietly hoping the fire’s the real deal and it might just fall and set the place on fire.

“Better hold on tight—” he says, grinning. “I'm known to steal things that aren’t nailed down.”

“You have to be quick then, Haymitch. Hard to steal a heart once it stops beating!” Caesar booms with laughter, and the audience howls with glee. The girl he tossed the rose to does faint—not from swooning, probably just overheating under that ridiculous hat. 

“Good thing I’m the quickest there is,” he shoots back. “Especially with my fingers.”

“Guess you proved just that!” Caesar says, and the audience breaks into another round of laughter. “Paramedic for the young lady in the front row, please. Check if her heart’s still there!”

The interview doesn’t lose its rhythm when the unconscious girl is being carted off. Someone from the row behind jumps forward to claim her spot before security can stop them. A swift move—better seating, lower price. What a steal.

They talk about his victory. Haymitch tells the crowd how he turned the arena itself into a weapon. He gives credit to his mentor, Wiress, says she taught him to think outside the box. 

They roll a recap. It’s short this time, just the highlights— him sprinting from the Cornucopia like his heels are on fire, the messy fight with Panache, Maysilee, whose image makes his face burn with shame, then the cliff, then Silka, then the wet thwack, and he's won.

“See that fight?” Caesar marvels. “Haymitch, your speed and guts were indeed your saving grace against those Careers!”

“Well, I did tell you,” Haymitch says, patting his abdomen. “Damn near came close to losing one of those, though…”

The crowd howls with laughter. They love it.

The talk goes on to more casual topics, what life’s been like after. His answers hop around the reality of it all. The house is huge, the fridge always full, you can summon water from anywhere, hot or cold—it’s like magic. He talks about how the Capitol’s second chance gave him a life beyond anything he ever dreamed.

Eventually, they reach the question they’ve clearly been waiting for.

“So, Haymitch,” Caesar begins just as the crowd quiets after Haymitch’s improvised quip about his hair—a glossy black with red tips, gelled and pointed sky high like he’s a matchstick. I wish I had you in the arena, he’d told the host. 

“Have you always been quite the singer and hid it from us all —and I’d be very offended if that’s the case—or is it something you picked up after winning? We’re dying to know.”

“Well, Caesar— I’ve always loved music, you see.”

I do. I love it so much it’s the only reason I’m sitting here in this costume, playing this part. All for someone who is music herself—the most beautiful melody in the world. So the world doesn’t lose it.

He pauses, and Caesar’s red eyes snap on him. Haymitch doesn’t want to say it.

“Who doesn't? But… I’ve heard something happened, didn’t it? On the day of your homecoming?” Caesar tilts his head, a nudge to the direction they want. “Am I wrong?”

Time for the sob story.

“You aren’t.” Haymitch begins, and suddenly the roof of his mouth is dry as the summer wind. 

He hesitates. If there were ever a moment to lash out, to burn it all down, it’d be now. He doesn’t want to say their names here, doesn’t want to gift the Capitol his grief.

Ma had gone along with Plutarch’s coercion for the footage of them crying out for Haymitch. He knows how much she hated it—hated using pain that way. But did it for one final goodbye, Don’t let them use you.

Then Lenore Dove’s face flickers through his mind. In that vision, too clear, too real, too close, his very own hand drop one gumdrop in her mouth, his thumb caresses her lip, a trickle of blood comes out—

“There was an accident,” he says finally, “Unfortunately, my mother and younger brother passed away in a fire the day I got back.”

Gasps echo across the room. Someone lets out a wail. What a tragedy it is.

Like you care. You killed them. You all did.

Haymitch wants to laugh. He doesn’t.

“After their loss, I’ve been exploring my grief through music,” he says. The lines flow easily now, and he’s vaguely thankful for whatever drug they gave him backstage—there was no way he’d be able to utter that without help. “Been working on that ever since. I suppose my endless charm and good looks don’t hurt either.”

“Ah, don’t sell yourself short!” The crowd laughs. “You’ve had us drooling at the screens, Haymitch!”

“You were made for the stage, let me tell you!”

Haymitch smiles at the blatant lie. But he’s rotting inside, he can feel it.

“I hope so,” he quips, “’cause it’s too late for me to get off it at this point.”

Another hit. The crowd laughs again, eating it up.

“I suppose you’re right about that. But tell me, Haymitch…Is there anyone special back home you like singing to?”

Haymitch shrugs, lips twitching. “Oh, you know me—footloose and fancy-free.”

“You hear that?” Caesar booms, “Our rascal’s up for grabs, ladies and gentlemen!” He flashes a wink at the audience, and soaks in the hurrahs and shrieks, glancing down at his next cue card. “Who knows—maybe you’ll be the lucky one to get a private serenade!”

Then it’s time for the long-awaited scar update. 

Haymitch rises, bites his tongue, and lifts his arms in a practiced motion.

“Mark of a victor!” Caesar announces, “We’re glad to see your rock-hard body doing well, Haymitch, aren’t we?!” he asks to the audience, referring to Haymitch’s tribute interview. He feels a bit embarrassed about saying that now, especially with how big of a deal they’re making out of it.

The crowd answers with a thundering YES! in unison. By the time he lowers his arms and takes his seat again, Haymitch starts counting the milliseconds, beats, heart thuds, every red blink of the cameras, until this circus is over. Just one more round of mouthing words to music and—

“Now—Haymitch, before we let you go…”

The audience whines in unison, a chorus of kicked puppies desperately protest against his departure.

One more song and—

“We have one more surprise—for you, and for everyone watching.”

The whining halts, instantly replaced by eager oohs of anticipation.

What? Haymitch thinks bitterly. Another surprise. How can you possibly make this worse? Is Snow going to come out of the curtains and re-open my guts live on stage? Turn me into a stew like Moonshine? Set squirrels on me?

Caesar rises to his feet, turning to face the crowd and cameras rather than Haymitch.

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be in the Hunger Games?” he asks, and the question is so ridicilous it turns Haymitch’s head around, the showman’s voice is practically dripping with over-theatrical excitement. “Since the first Quarter Quell, our Gamemakers have worked tirelessly to craft each arena into a masterpiece. Each unique. Each unforgettable. Each with its own victor. Its own story. Haven’t you ever wanted to see it all for yourself?”

A wave of breathless yeses sweeps through the audience.

Haymitch doesn’t move. He's frozen in place, cold settling in his limbs like frostbite. Where is this going? I don’t like where this is going—

“And now,” Caesar continues, hands spreading wide as if unveiling a gift, and in a way he is, “starting today, you, dear Capitol citizens, will finally get that chance!”

Gasps all around.

“You can now book a two-week stay and guided tour through the actual Hunger Games arenas! That’s right—step into the very grounds where victors were made. Walk through the underground catacombs. Ride up through the launching tubes, just like the tributes! Witness live reenactments performed by professional actors. And—if you’re feeling brave enough—even participate.”

The crowd loses its mind, cheers explode like cannon fire and Haymitch turns from frozen to boiling hot. His skin starts melting under the blinding spotlights.

“From the treacherous cliffs and sharp pitfalls of the First Quarter Quell’s Skyfall, to fan-favorites like the Scorching Dunes of the 33rd and Gladiator Amphitheatre of the 44th, to the disorienting Nest of Mirrors of the 49th—that one with a 24/7 guided experience, of course! All painstakingly restored, just for you. Call your travel agent and pre-book your stay now!”

“As for the floral deathtrap of the Poison Paradise, the Second Quarter Quell—”

Then comes his real surprise. Caesar turns to him.

Haymitch is still as they come, mouth slack, as if his soul has quietly escaped from the room without him.

“Just for this year and this year only!” Caesar cries, gripping Haymitch’s shoulder and drags him forward. The entire audience is on their feet, shrieking, feral with glee.

“The victor of this year himself, Haymitch Abernathy, will be joining you during your stay!”

Haymitch, Burdock and Blair used to play a game. 

When they sneaked out to swim in the lake, they’d dive and face each other underwater. One would mouth a word, the other two would try to guess. Sound would be all warped and muffled. You couldn’t really read lips from the bubbles. Water would fill their ears.

Back on shore, they’d hop on one leg, tilt their heads, try to drain it all out all the way back home. Jumping up and down like chickens, pushing and trying to make the others fall.

That’s what it’s like now.

His ears are blocked. The applause and cheers of the crowd only feel like violent punches right to his ear drums. 

Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum.

His head is about to explode.

There’s a microphone in his hand now.

He doesn’t remember picking it up.

I don’t want to go back.

I don’t want to go.

I don’t want to go.

Back to where he began.

I don’t want to go.

Don’t make me go.

Haymitch doesn’t know if the words are coming out or just spinning inside his head.

He’s back underwater.

And every time he tries to breathe, it’s just more water filling his lungs.

---

Drip, drip, drip, drip…

When he comes to, he’s back in the apartment. On the bed.

The ceiling spins for a moment, and then he jolts upright—back on shore. He starts gulping air.

Effie’s there. She’s perched on a chair beside him, a magazine in her hands, and as soon as he moves, she steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, to which his hand shoots up to grasp. “I don’t want to go.” he breathes out like he the words were stuck in his throat before he was submerged in water.

“You’re okay,” she says quickly. “You’re fine.”

“What happened?” he asks, still tense and his voice sounds awful, grating to even his own ears.

“You got overwhelmed, but don’t worry—we got through it.”

Haymitch blinks up at her, eyes glassy. 

“You did very well,” she adds gently. “You... went a little quiet after the surprise announcement. But we got you back on track, and the show wrapped up just fine.” She stands and smooths a crease in her skirt. “I’ll go tell the doctor you're awake.” she says, before turning and slipping out the door.

He looks down.

There’s a thin plastic tube snaking from his arm, taped to the skin. An bag full of clear liquid hangs above him, its contents dripping into his veins.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Haymitch exhales and lets his body fall back onto the mattress. His limbs go slack.

Just tonight’s left. 

---

He is back in the golden cage.

Suspended a little higher this time, he strums the guitar and sings all night long. Some Capitol citizens hover beneath the cage, frustrated they can’t quite reach him. Peacekeepers reassure them tgat this is just for the main event—he’ll be released for interactions after.

President Snow, absent from everything until the banquet at the presidential mansion, lounges in a roped-off section flanked by his tightest circle. The sight of him, even from a distance, makes Haymitch stiffen like someone shoved a rod down his spine. 

It’s just another method of torture. A power play.

When will he call me over? Will he at all? Or will he send me home to find out on my own—

Make me wait and wait while dread shifts into hope, then crush it in one breathless second.

See? I can destroy your life without ever looking your way. And you thought you could win against me. Snow lands on top.

Haymitch finds himself wishing the cage were hung higher—just high enough to drop. From the chandelier. With him in it. Wouldn't hurt if there was a pitfall right beneath too.

He plays. He sings. The music doesn’t stop the whole time he’s up there. He feels the vibrations of it through his whole body. Being stuck up there makes it only worse.

Proserpina and Vitus sing along near his feet for the first dozen songs and cheer him on, getting progressively tipsier with every drink they grav from the servers, before they eventually wander off to monopolize the refreshment table.

At one point, he catches a glimpse of what looks like a black-furred monstrosity being wheeled around. Drusilla. Loudly complaining she can’t see Abernanny from where she’s sitting. Too bad. He can’t be lowered right now.

Below him, his own camera crew has been absorbed by Capitol TV’s team—He sees Cassia and Saga talking animately about his good angles and weak-spots, they know it all after having experienced 11 districts with him.

Though the two groups start bickering, something about a clash of authority and pride, and it escalates into a full-blown argument that peacekeepers have to break apart. In the end, only a handful of Capitol cameramen remain, and even they eventually abandon their tripods, cameras still rolling, to feast at the banquet table.

Every few songs, Effie reappears, never frequently enough to attract too much attention to herself, and hands him small water bottles he downs greedily. He may not be singing for real, but he has to keep the image going.

A jabberjay turning around and around, singing, trapped in its music box.

Around the end of the night, Haymitch’s let out of the cage after his last performance. He sways on his feet like a bird who’s never landed on ground before.

Though he tries his best to stick by Effie, and her circle of friends - she has many of those- to avoid the slurring tore-down Capitolites, they keep swarming around him like flies to a carcass. Good analogy on both ends. 

Even if he has to answer the endless questions Effie’s friends have for him, questions that know no limits whatsoever, he prefers those than to the claw-like hands that keep scratching his face and make him wish for the cage. He can barely hold himself from vomiting on someone’s face.

“So, how does your…entrails feel like? I mean, texture wise. Sure I’ve had raw offal before but I’ve never touched it with my own two hands like a savage!”

It feels like raw seafood right there. Oh, you haven’t picked it up with your hands? Well, if you’re so curious, go ahead and fondle those. My guts are off limits.

“Do you ever think about if you didn’t bow your head in the right time, would the axe kill you or would you die slowly? I know it slices the neck, but isn’t the skull supposed to be, more tough? That One girl died slow, but you were closer to the edge!”

I know it slices the neck clean, too. Don’t have to tell me that. 

They laugh at every cheeky answer he gives, so he keeps them coming.

But now and then, someone else calls out his name, and Haymitch exhales deeply before making his way over like a well-trained dog. He moves from group to group, gets dragged into circles and conversations across the hall. 

They’d been eager to watch him perform in the cage— now that he’s out, they want to keep him close, feed him scraps, stroke his fur, run fingers down his forelegs, make him bark.

What will it be this time? More meaningless chatter, more promises to appear at their parties, more questions—always about his entrails, and the scar. They’re obsessed with it. They keep asking to see it, begging him to lift his shirt and show it off. Maybe there’s something thrilling to them about a permanent mark the Capitol made on him. Haymitch doesn’t want to know what goes on in their sick minds. He’s already given up on tucking his shirt back in—at this point, he’s shown the brand to at least a hundred of them. And there has to be a hundred more waiting. Because seeing it on screen wasn’t enough, and this won’t be enough to, so they’ll swarm around the TV to watch his footage from District 4. And when that won’t be enough, maybe they’ll knock on his door in 12 and ask him to show it again. Never enough. Insatiable.

He’s just close enough to a group of women when one of them grabs his arm and tugs him into their circle. Their eyes are red, both the white and around, pupils pinpricks—it’s clear as day they’re tore down and wasted. Completely out of it.

Haymitch wants out.

His instincts are right. Without even saying anything, which he doesn’t think they even can right now, one of the women reaches out and presses her palm flat against his stomach. Her hand is ice-cold, and the chill makes him stiffen, an ache goes through his trunk. Or maybe it’s just the touch itself, invasive. Giggles and laughs around him are ear-jarring.

“Where am I?” I rasp. The masked women ignores me, just grabs a sponge and pats in on my gut stitches with liquid that smells like death. Maybe it’s coming from my insides, I can’t really tell. 

“Stop! You’re hurting me!” I struggle. She doesn’t stop. I stop, because moving makes the pain worse. 

It hurts. And so Haymitch stops. Struggling will only make it hurt more. 

Or maybe it’s more so the touch itself, rather than how cold it is, before a hand gently grabs the woman’s hand and backs her off.

“Apologies! But I must interrupt!” Effie chimes in, her voice sugary-sweet, her smile very much not. “Haymitch hasn’t eaten a proper thing all night, and that simply won’t do. I’ll be taking him now, thank you.”

She links her arm through his and steers him away toward the buffet, and he takes a deep breath. Her grip is a warm welcome.

“Thanks, Effie,” Haymitch mutters, but her steps are brisk and agitated. She spins on her heel to face him, eyes wide with disbelief, and hisses under her breath. “Can you believe the audacity?!”

She looks genuinely scandalized. “No manners—none! How do you just touch a victor like that without even asking first?”

She shakes her head in outrage, grabbing a plate from the buffet with quite a force, like she needs to do something with her hands or she’ll explode.

“Ugh, shame on their families,” she goes on, still fuming as she starts piling food onto a plate with brisk movements, though mannered as usual. “It’s a good thing I was keeping an ear out. You should’ve said no, Haymitch. They were clearly out of their minds—drunk or worse. For all we know, one of them could’ve tried to punch a hole through you. You never know with those types.”

How could I say no? Haymitch thinks. I don’t have that right anymore.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he says instead.

They make their way through the buffet like that—one dish at a time. Effie provides exactly the kind of distraction Haymitch needs, describing every platter on the seemingly endless table.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at something that looks familiar. “Looks like fried biscuits we used to have back home.”

“That’s…” Effie leans in, picks one up delicately, and slices it in half with a small knife. “Ah! Truffle arancini. You have to try it.”

He’s just about to ask about another dish —blue jello with pieces of something he can’t tell trapped in?— when a younger woman approaches. Much younger than the overly filled-in, flutter-lashed dames who’d crowded him earlier. She’s visibly stressed. To Haymitch’s relief, she reaches for Effie’s arm instead of his. 

“Effie!”

“Sabine!”

Right—that’s Effie’s friend from Victor Logistics.

“It’s great to see you—” Effie starts, but Sabine cuts her off, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries, or has the time for small-talk.

“Did you see Vesper tonight?” she asks, eyes darting around in panic. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Nope,” Effie says, frowning. “In fact, I haven’t seen anyone from Logistics, apart from you now—”

“He’s been transferred to the Stylist Guild now, actually.”

“He is? I didn’t know that…” Effie’s brow furrows, then brightens slightly as she remembers. “Have you tried the Snapping Room? Earlier I saw Agatha Springway heading in there with a bunch of stylists. You know how they get their inspirations.”

“You know what…” Sabine says, already turning to leave. It’s obvious she hasn’t tried whatever room Effie’s talking about. Her lack of a farewell brings a hurt frown on Effie's face.

“No one knows how to act right these days. You know her ancestors were trouble too," She whispers to him agitatedly,"she must be trying just as hard as me to be redeemed!”

“The what room?” Haymitch asks Effie as she picks up a few ball-shaped dumplings drenched in brown sauce with a pair of tongs.

“Snapping Room.” She tuts as she gestures him to bring his plate closer. Haymitch holds it out for her on autopilot. “It’s basically a room with porcupines, but—here, try some of these octopus cakes—but their quills are filled with Snap.”

Haymitch furrows his brow in confusion. “Snap?”

“Snap is…how do I say this?” Effie tilts her head, thinking. “Most say it enhances you.” She gestures for Haymitch to lean in, and he brings his ear close to her lips. “But I’d say it makes you kind of… eccentric. To say the least.”

“So it’s, like, the opposite of morphling?” Haymitch asks.

“I guess so.” Effie shrugs.

“They go in and get.. what? Stung?” Haymitch furrows his eyebrows in disbelief. “On purpose?”

“As willing as they can be.” Effie answers. “Stylists do it a lot. They say it gives them visions.”

“That’s…” Haymitch starts.

“Nuts.” 

“Ghastly.”

They say it at the same time. Haymitch snorts, following Effie as she moves on to inspect a plate of twitching ocean creatures. At least someone else here thinks a room filled with engineered, drug-injecting porcupines is crazy.Voluntarily going in to get yourself stung just to get messed up—that’s a whole new level of loony.

"—I never understood the appeal. They asked me to join once—you know I’m no good with needles—so I got away with saying I’m just an escort, not a stylist. And honestly? If that’s a requirement, I don’t think I ever want to be one.”

“I’d too. I think I’d prefer getting stung by normal porcupines, if anything.” Just normal ones like back in 12, not the poisonous mutts of his arena, or the drug filled ones of the Snapping Room.

“Well, I’d say it’s best to get not stung at all.”

Haymitch doesn’t touch most of what ends up on his plate, even if it goes against every teaching he had from Ma and life in 12— you finish what you put on your plate. The crowd has drained any appetite he might’ve had. Instead, he reaches for the bread basket and picks out the plainest roll he can find to nibble on.

That’s when he hears his name called again.

“Oh, there he is. Haymitch!” Plutarch calls from across the room, from the roped off section, separating the President and his inner circle from the elite citizens. Though from the looks of it, both sides are equally rowdy and worn down. “You haven’t had the chance to speak to the President yet! Come here.” Plutarch nods at a Peacekeeper to let him through and gestures for him to come closer.

Plutarch’s upbeat attitude surprises him, but Haymitch doesn’t have the energy to dwell on this feeling of betrayal.

“Come, come...”

Haymitch drops the bread, and walks forward, almost on autopilot.

He hasn’t faced the President since the man pronounced his sentence. 

Enjoy your homecoming.

Is another sentence about to be handed down?

Just the thought of looking into those eyes makes him tremble—not just from fear, but from rage. Each step toward the man who burned his mother and baby brother alive feels like adding fuel to a growing fire. If Haymitch opened his mouth now, it might light everyone in this room on fire. Now that wouldn’t be so terrible. He’d burn alongside them, if it meant reducing all to ashes.

He reaches the small circle of well-dressed men, Plutarch smiles at him, and people part to reveal the—

Haymitch stops.

Because the man standing next to Plutarch is not President Snow.

Notes:

Now WHO tf is THAT??? Any guesses? I think it's obvious what's going on, tbh. What goes around, comes around :)

You can bet Plutarch was all giddy and giggling as he was waiting for Haymitch to come over and see 'Snow' lol

MORE HCS (things I couldn't include in last A/N + smth I forgot omg)

- Katniss mentions the arenas are popular vacation destinations for Capitol residents in the first book and so I thought another QQ would be a great time to introduce that, since in 25th arenas started to be built from the scratch, and so in 50th or after, either to distract from the failure of it (since the victor was no longer marketable or anything) they'd resort to nostalgia factor and bring back the previous arenas etc. You get me, right?
D5
- As of the 50th HG, coal power plants in D5 are more numerous, but there are some active hydroelectric dams— which provide the Capitol's energy exclusively. The coal power plants generate electricity for the districts. In time, there will be more hydroelectric power, and much like a coal phase-out, the need for coal export will diminish, then D12 gets poorer and serve little to no purpose with its coal, except the few coal power plants that'd be in use for poorer districts like 12,11,etc. But also as back-up. Which is why I love the D5 dam attack scene in MJ1 so much - not only did it strip the Capitol of its energy, but made them dependent on coal even if it was for a short while.
- I love D5 more than I could talk about it in last chapter lol
- Imagine my disappointment when they didn't join Newcomers like I get it but damn (I was butthurt ok)
D9
- realizing I did D9 DIRTY 'cause I barely said anything about them. at least 5&6 had reasons. bc tbh I haven't thought about them much. Suzanne's hatred of D9 is actually contagious and can affect you without you realizing it.
- they press oil. they provide grain. we love them. ah! sunflower!
- but then I got to thinking, something I don't do much so it's hard on my brain — what about the consequences District 9's mentors faced after their tributes' tokens were modified to be explosives??? Well, I have an answer now. There used to be another mentor in District 9 besides Silo and Millie, but he's gone now and the other two are now disassociated. so yeah.
- the song Haymitch sings in D9 is adapted from the gospel song Bringing in the Sheaves-- the Capitol stripping away everything about culture and religion to fit their own image. Who’s surprised?
D4
- The victor in seashell costume that Mags protects - ment. in sotr - is Gill in 37th Games. (This is the thing I forgot to mention)
CAPITOL
- Haymitch's Capitol clothes I took all of them from the Met Gala looks. Pls appreciate I had to look at so many men...
When he arrives: [Justice Smith 2025]
Caesar Interview: [Harry Styles 2019 but the sheer part is the abdomen to show the scar]
Banquet: [Conan Gray 2023]
- Meanwhile Effie's banquet attire is Diana Ross 2017 AMA
- Tried my best with the clothing but 1) I don't understand fashion and 2) English is not my main language and it's impossible for me to make sense of fashion even in my own language, let alone in a foreign one
- Snap's basically crack coca/lsd but I've never done drugs or stuff like that idrk what I'm talking about so I think the Snap affected individuals would be like Trey Parker and Matt Stone that one time when they went to the red carpet tripping on acid or that one weird Requiem for a Dream movie
- If you're wondering why the Capitol's so vile, I got too into the setting with these in the bg: One of Us (LK) - Plagues (PoE) especially this bc Rameses II is literally our Snow now - Savages (Pocahontas) - Hellfire (Hunchback of N-D)

I'm trying to keep the chapters at a reasonable length, so I may have to divide some in two or three parts, I don't think anyone would like to have another 20k long chapter dropped, lol...It's just too much & I tend to do that unfortunately. I'm tired of implications, so it's a good thing next two chapters will be all about reveals. Let's see what's going on behind the curtains ;)

That's it for this week :) Go read 'The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas' if you haven't already! I appreciate all of the comments and I love reading your thoughts/theories - they give me life hehe. See you later! :)

Chapter 11: Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain!

Summary:

Capitol II

Old sins have long shadows.

Notes:

not tw also but also not spoilers just a heads up??

Plutarch's too smart and unreadable for me to write so here’s a lot of mumbo jumbo, philosophy jumpscare, potential misuse of john stuart mill's utilitarianism which I only included because a part of it was interesting to me, 90% dialogue, really they just talk and talk...q&a ass chapter

The man standing before him checks all the boxes of President Snow.

Silvery blond hair? Check.

Pale blue eyes? Check.

The obvious cosmetic procedures his face? Check.

Single white rose in his lapel? Check.

But it’s not President Snow. Haymitch can tell.

And judging by the look Plutarch is giving him, angled toward the other two men with them, he’s not supposed to.

Haymitch reacts quickly, bowing his head slightly.

“Mr. President,” he says, feeling numb from head to toe. His heart thuds uncontrollably, though not from fear. Or even anger.

Above all else, he’s confused—bewildered, baffled, lost. Any word that means such, right now, he is all of those.

“Mr. Abernathy,” ‘Snow’ replies—and oh, the voice is off, too. “It’s good to see you.”

Haymitch resists the urge to reach up, pull his eyes out of their sockets, give them a good rub, and shove them back in just to see if his eyes are deceiving him.

But it’s not only the looks, not only voice, but also the smell. 

This man only smells of roses. No whiff of rot, no sickly bile, no sharp tang of blood. Just the pleasant smell of a rose garden. 

Plutarch’s head tilts into his line of sight, a warning in his eyes. Right. Act normal.

“You too, sir,” Haymitch says, forcing the words out past his dry throat.

“I hope you’re adjusting well to your new life,” the man continues. “You’ve done well on your Victory Tour, from what I’ve seen so far.”

“I am, sir,” Haymitch replies. “I’m… doing my best.”

“Then do keep at it.”

“I will, sir.”

Haymitch can barely wait until they’re out of earshot. But before he can say a word, get the question in, Plutarch hisses, “Keep playing along. I’ll see you later this week.” and goes back to the VIP section just as fast.

“Later this week?” Haymitch frowns. “But I’m—”

---

“—not going back?” he asks Effie, incredulous. They’re walking back to the car, finally out of the presidential mansion.

“Not yet,” she says, looking apologetic. “Apparently we were supposed to get a call from Victor Logistics weeks ago. But,  you’ve met Sabine, well, she was looking for Vesper, and he was the one supposed to inform us—but then he left the department and joined the Stylist Guild! Didn’t even bother to finish his tasks!”

She lets out an exasperated sigh, throwing up her hands.

“So yes, it was a surprise for all of us—again—but everything’s sorted now!” Effie beams. “Starting tomorrow, you’re performing at Festus Creed’s daughter’s birthday party—you know, the Broadcast Director for Capitol TV? Apparently, she;s huge fan!”

She claps her hands excitedly. “And after that, you’re booked for a full two weeks!”

Two more weeks. Here. In the Capitol.

Effie notices the way his face drops and gives his back a gentle pat.

“Oh, just sleep on it tonight,” she says brightly. “You’ll feel much better in the morning! Have you ever had a breakfast buffet before?”

The following week crawls by—every second dragging its way through Haymitch.

Festus Creed’s youngest daughter, Beatrice—a chubby little girl with wild curls and pink cheeks—keeps coming back to offer him slices of cake and various bite-size desserts of every kind. Haymitch politely declines the first two, but on the third attempt, a combination of her near-tears, a subtle warning glare from Effie and Festus Creed’s assistant’s whispered 'Maybe if we put him in a cage...' make him accept the offer.

He chokes it down with a strained smile.

Later, somehow, Haymitch finds himself roped into a family portrait. His white guitar slung across his body, one hand resting awkwardly on little Beatrice’s shoulder. On his other side stands her older sister, Letitia—a much quieter girl about Haymitch’s age—who keeps asking if he's really planning to serenade someone.

“I never promised that. Caesar did,” he says, taking a step back with each flutter of her eyelashes.

Letitia frowns, and Haymitch panics. “Maybe one day, if I have someone special.” I already have one. It’s enough to make the girl beam, blush, and rush off to her friends. 

As they leave Creed Manor, Haymitch passes a series of portraits signed by fellow victors. One stands out the most as the largest. A poster-like shot of f a younger Festus Creed and his wife flanking a nearly naked Achilles Andras, only covered by a red loincloth, and Haymitch’s stomach twists at the sight of the man’s chained feet. Even holding a spear and shield, Achilles Andras has never looked less dangerous or protected.

Right below the signed photo, a glass case displays two long golden locks of hair.

“Sponsors were calling in, begging me for a lock of his hair in exchange for donations.”

“And so I had to chop some off after anyway.”

Haymitch looks away. 

After that, he’s booked to perform at Faustina Gripper’s retirement party—a formal affair where the woman in question keeps shooting him nasty looks from across the room.

By the end of the performance, Haymitch feels half out of his own body. When they hand him a microphone for a farewell speech—courtesy of Effie, of course—he takes it with numb fingers, and says what he’s supposed to. Then, he glances directly at Faustina.

“Before we end the show, I’d like to say a few words,” he says, gripping the microphone. “I’d tell you about myself, but I think everyone here already knows who I am. I’m Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelve.“  I shouldn’t be here. I was reaped illegally, but no one cares.

Polite applause rings through the hall.

“And as the Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, I just wanted to say, thank you for assigning me a One during training, ma’am. I hope you took note of my outstanding skills in the arena. Enjoy your retirement.”

This time, Faustina Gripper does not scoff. 

If looks could kill, Haymitch would’ve dropped dead on the spot a long time ago.

Next comes a performance for the wife of Secretary of Energies and her band of elite homewives, followed by another birthday party, this time for some important official’s son, a boy named Seneca. Then there’s a family gathering for the Jaspers. And on it goes.

Haymitch barely registers the endless stream of preparations anymore. It feels like he’s been on stage nonstop, never off it-- guitar glued to his hands, speakers on his chest and throat. Like he doesn't exist as soon as they close his music box.

The only thing keeping him going are Plutarch’s words, echoing in his mind. Keep playing along. I’ll see you later this week.

Please, please, let him be gone. Let him be dead.

Finally, Effie tells him that Plutarch wants to see him—something about a future charity ball. He wants to speak to Haymitch on behalf of his family. Say no more.

Haymitch practically throws himself into the car.

When they stop and Haymitch catches sight of the white marble building, his heart starts pounding faster and faster. The peacekeeper doesn’t even have to say a word before Haymitch's out and moving like greased lighting. Effie calls out after him, something about Victor Logistics, but he’s already gone.

He’s led back to the Heavensbee library, and the moment he spots the man in the familiar violet suit, Haymitch beelines straight to him. Plutarch raises a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, then gestures to the workers to close the doors and bring refreshments.

“Who...” Haymitch gasps as soon as the library door shuts behind him, already out of breath. “Plutarch, who was that?”

“That was a body double.” Plutarch says, looking satisfied at Haymitch’s dumbfounded face. “We were lucky.” he says, parroting the day that still haunts Haymitch to this day. “They found a very willing failed Capitol actor to play the part.”

“His…body double…”Haymitch can barely think let alone utter any words, “What…what happened to him? He’s gone? He’s dead?”

“Regretfully, no,” Plutarch replies. “He’s in intensive care. Has been since shortly after they sent you back. Took too much of his own medicine—probably a slip of the hand, though I can’t say for sure.” He pauses briefly, letting it all sink in, then continues, “His immune system is completely collapsed. He’s being kept in a sterile isolation chamber. Some of his organs have failed, so he’s hooked up to machines, too. I’ve heard they’re testing organs from… let’s just call them donors. But they can’t risk a full transplant yet, so they’re trying out biomaterials for tissue regeneration. It’s a lot going on there, honestly.”

I can’t believe this.

“He’s…dying…”

“Looked like it. He’s been stable for a while, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Snow’s gone? As good as gone, at the very least…The man who’s been the president since before Haymitch was born, dying? 

Something that’s tons heavier is lifted off his chest, and Haymitch takes his first real breath since seeing Lenore Dove in the meadow.

He collapses onto the chair he’s sat months ago, and buries his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. He can feel his makeup smear across his face, but Haymitch doesn’t give a rats ass about it. A laugh bubbles out from deep within, and he gladly lets it out.

“Let it out…” Plutarch lets him laugh for a good three minutes before handing him a glass of water, a grin on his own face. 

“Chickens’ve come home to roost,” Haymitch says, smiling, “I can’t believe it. I can’t… I can…”

Lenore Dove is safe from Snow. is his first thought.

I can run away? is his second.

I can go, run as far as Lenore Dove can now. We can run away together. Go off on the road, together, nowhere and everywhere to be.

He takes a deep breath, tries to keep his composure. The hope bubbling inside him feels foreign, so different from the misery etched into his bones over the past months that his body rejects it.

“Why not elect a new president?” Haymitch asks after calming down, now genuinely curious. “Why use a body double and pretend?”

“Well, that’s easy—Snow’s influence and power,” Plutarch replies. “Too many people would try to seize the opportunity, especially in the districts. They can’t afford chaos right now. It’s already bad enough, they’re too busy watching their own backs.”

“Their own backs?”

“Everyone wants Snow’s seat. But his power was himself. His image, what he meant to the districts, to the Peacekeepers, to the Capitol. When you picture your loved ones suffering, who comes to mind as the one responsible? A faceless Peacekeeper, or President Snow?”

Haymitch looks down.

The latter.

“Exactly,” Plutarch says. “It’s the same for the people closest to him. No one fears, or obeys just another lackey. So now, those very lackeys use his puppet to rule Panem.” He pauses. “It’s been a mess so far. Snow, for all his evil, understood how to keep the machine running, and how to make everyone play their part.”

“By killing anyone who failed.”

“Exactly.” Plutarch shrugs. “As vile as it was, it worked. The machine can’t run if two cogs start fighting about who’s the bigger one. If it were Snow, he’d just take those out and replace them with new parts.”

“And that’s not happening anymore?”

“No. No one wants to lose favor. The elite families would rather bring the whole thing down than give up their piece of it. It’s an ego thing.”

“So are they actually trying to cure him?” Haymitch asks, ”Or just... keep the charade going as long as they can?"

“Hard to say,” Plutarch replies. “It seems time will tell.” 

Haymitch drops his head into his hands. He still can’t believe any of it.

“So, Haymitch,” Plutarch says, leaning in until their eyes meet. His tone shifts to a more serious note, “This brings me to the most crucial part.” He pauses, “No one else can know. Only a select few are aware—Snow’s immediate family, his wife, my father, and a handful of others. Even his kids are in homeschooling now, their contacts are heavily monitored. If word gets out, it’ll fall back on all of us. But if anyone in Twelve finds out, anyone you’re in contact with, it’ll be traced back to me.”

His face is deadly serious. Haymitch has never seen him look like this.

“Then why tell me?” Haymitch asks, skeptical.

“Because, Haymitch,” Plutarch says, “We need your help.”

“Me?” Haymitch scoffs, “I am living proof that the Capitol always wins. Haven’t you been watching me? I tried to change things, and now everyone’s dead. And me? They’ve turned me into a puppet too. You don’t want me.”

Sometimes, even Effie, someone who he’s sure wants best for him, is too much. Every time Haymitch holds on to her, she says something that knocks him off balance, and he’s left scrambling again, back to grasping at nothing.

Joining forces with someone like you—someone who’s willing to use kids if it means getting what you want—is unbearable right now.

“But we do want you. You demonstrated a lot of nerve and intelligence in that arena. You shook up the Capitol, both figuratively and literally, with that earthquake. You were capable of imagining a different future. And maybe it won’t be realized today, maybe not in our lifetime. Maybe it will take generations. We’re all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?”

“I just don’t know. But I do know, you need someone different from me.” 

“No, Haymitch, we need someone exactly like you.”

“Me.” Haymitch scoffs. “Just luckier?”

“Luckier, or with better timing. Having an army at their back wouldn’t hurt.”

“Sure, that would’ve helped. Where’re you going to get an army, Plutarch?”

“If we can’t find one, we’ll have to build one. But obviously, finding one’s easier.”

“And then we can all kill one another, like back in the good old Dark Days?”

“Well, you know better than anyone what we’re up against, with the system Snow’s built over the decades. If you think of another way to stop the Capitol, you let me know.”  

Plutarch leans back in his seat and takes a sip from the goblet on the table. He swallows, then coughs a few times before continuing. “Ever heard of Mill? John Stuart Mill?”

“Uh… no?” Haymitch replies, caught off guard by the sudden hcange of topic. “Should I’ve?”

Another Capitol high muckamuck I’m supposed to perform for?

Plutarch chuckles. “No.. Just trying to ease the tension, you know, start a conversation.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Alright. Start it.”

“He was a philosopher,” Plutarch explains. Neither the name or the word rings any bells for Haymitch. Lenore Dove would probably know.

“Hm. What’s he, then? Gamemaker? Stylist? Another evil president?”

Awfully normal name for someone from the Capitol.

Plutarch laughs. “You could say he was a kind of a...let's say explorer, he explored ideas. Asked questions, made arguments,” He pauses before continuing. “In one of his works, and I’ll cut it short, don’t worry—he wrote: It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied. What do you make of that?”

“I guess, for starters, by reminding the audience that we’re human beings. The way they talk about us…piglets…beasts. They called my fingernails claws. You saw how those kids outside the gym looked at us. Like they think of us as animals. And they think of themselves as superior. So it’s okay to kill us. But the people in the Capitol aren’t better than us. Or smarter.”

“If anything, they’re stupider. Look at the mess they made with our reaping. The chariot parade. Or Wiress’s Games last year. They couldn’t even get her gifts to her. Show them something like that.”

“Yeah, force them to admit we’re people, too, and they’re the beasts for killing us.”

Haymitch recalls the conversation he had with Wyatt, Maysilee, and their mentors in the kitchen. 

It feels like a lifetime ago. He certainly feels like he’s lived at least three miserable ones since then.

“You—”

“I’ve thought about it when I heard that,” Plutarch answers before he can even ask. “Before you get riled up, it was an accident.” He holds his hands up. “I happened to be there when they were playing around with unnecessary footage to make space for the Games. But that happened after you were already in the arena, so…”

“Then Snow’s seen it too. Guess they got what they needed from it.” The words unnecessary footage echo in his head. Their dying wishes are nothing but a waste of storage.

“Well, yes. Now, back to my point. What do you make of that?”

Haymitch thinks for a moment, then sighs. “Here, we’re the pigs. All we do is tryto love, satisfied as long as we got a full belly. Capitol’s the human, can afford to be dissatisfied with things.”

“So, you’re assumption is that, the Capitol citizens are the humans in the quote?”

“Aren’t you?” Haymitch snaps, not liking how Plutarch is setting himself apart from the group he’s in. “You’ve got all the food, money, education, your fancy philosophers, entertainment—us district pigs— at your feet.”

Plutarch tilts his head, “Not really,” he replies. “Mill didn’t mean humans are those who have more. He meant the capabilities they possess, the greater expectations they hold for life. The pigs are the ones lost in fleeting, animalistic pleasures. Now, who does that sound more like?”

“You’re saying it’s better to be us because we’re miserable?”

“Those two aren’t exclusive or inclusive—mostly, they go hand in hand. Because you live through it all. The Capitol is too doped on these lower pleasures to even question where their entertainment comes from, the misery it feeds from. The momentary satisfaction we have here, turns into collective silence.” He gestures to the books all around. 

“We live every day indulging excessively in the lowest forms of pleasure, despite all the opportunities around us,” Plutarch says, shaking his head. “But still, they choose to remain glued to the flashy colors, the food, the lights, the shows, the screens, the Games. Higher pleasure is intellectual—it’s morality, it’s striving to live a life that means something.”

He leans in. “Your friend Louella’s family could’ve easily broken free from their mental restraints and cried a river for our cameras that day. But their lives meant more than entertainment, so did their daughter’s. And they knew it.”

“You…” Haymitch’s suddenly angry, so angry, “You asked my Ma to storm a show for you and your little cameras, don’t you dare—“

“Your mother knew that too, Haymitch. I’m not judging her,” Plutarch interrupts gently. “She understood what it meant. Even if she gave in, she still knew. There’s no world where anyone can fault her. A mother will cross any boundary for her child.”

Haymitch presses his lips together. Her last words to him were for him to heed Pa’s advice. She sacrificed her iron will against the Capitol just to tell him not to follow that path she trampled all over.

Oh, Haymitch feels sick just thinking of all he’s done in the tour already. Even if Lenore Dove’s living, breathing, very much alive face takes the edge off the ache, it’s something so deeply rooted that Haymitch can never get rid of that shame from deep in his bones.

“The more we’re able to suffer, the more we’re human, is what you’re saying.”

How easy for someone like you to say, for someone who hasn’t lost anything. You, too, live in the fleeting pleasure of a dream, Plutarch. Dream of a nation-wide, successful rebellion carried on children’s shoulders.

“That should be the case.” Plutarch says, “Because you’re capable of understanding what brings that pain.”

“If that’s what it means to be human,” Haymitch “Then hell…Right now, I’d rather be the pig.”

“So, you envy the pig, then?” Plutarch asks, just as fast.

“Not really.” Haymitch replies. He’s not envious of that in particular, just that right now, anything other than being Haymitch Abernathy is preferable. He’d rather be a mayfly, too. At least they live just a day and be done.

“Because in the end, you know the pig’s only happy thanks to its limited awareness of the world.” says Plutarch, “again, Mill doesn’t promise that being human feels better. Just that it is better. Morally, intellectually, in ways that truly matter.”

“Don’t pigs have feelings too?” Haymitch asks.

Plutarch purses his lips, entertaining the thought for a bit. “That’s a question for another day.” he says, "Do you stand by your first answer?"

"I think…” Haymitch begins, “I think humans are humans, and pigs are pigs. There are humans like me, humans like you, and humans like Effie. Then there are humans like Drusilla, and humans like… like Snow.” he says. "I think seeing others as pigs and beasts is what brought us these days to begin with. If you see us as beasts, then us killing each other is just as okay as watching cockfighting. And if we see you as beasts, then it’s only natural for us to assume you mean the worst for us by nature, and that you can’t change the way you see us. If you’re beasts, then it’ll take away accountability for all the evil you choose to do. I don’t think that way of thinking is bred in bone.”

“An interesting point.” Plutarch nods, his face is satisfied. “And I think I was right. We need you. you are capable of seeing a different future. Haymitch, I think you are a human dissatisfied.” he says, then gets up, dusting off his pants. “Though I have the viewpoint of some people as more pig than human, still, so you’ll have to forgive me. I advise staying away from those who indulge in such. Oh, speaking of lower pleasures.” Plutarch rummages through his inside pockets of his velvet coat, “Here.”

It’s a small bottle of capsules. Haymitch looks at Plutarch, eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Whenever you’re called, take the whole bottle.”

“Uh, what?” Haymitch says, staring at him. Plutarch’s expression remains neutral, like he hasn’t just told Haymitch to potentially overdose on a bottle of mystery pills. “What is this?”

“The insatiability of the real pigs here is beyond anything you can imagine. It was beyond mine, too. Ever since Lou Lou, it’s become a race to see who can be the cruelest, just to prove they can.” Plutarch’s voice takes on a more grave tone, “When you’re called, you might want to heed my advice.”

“Called for what?”

“Another thing I needed to talk to you about,” Plutarch replies, pressing his lips together. “It’s… difficult to talk about.”

“I’m listening…” Haymitch says, wondering why the air in the room suddenly shifted.

Plutarch sighs deeply, clearly dreading whatever he’s about to say. But before he can, there’s a knock on the door, making both of them jump slightly.

“Mr. Heavensbee? Victor Logistics called, Haymitch must be on his way now.”

Plutarch straightens. “We need a moment, I don’t think Mr Abernathy’s quite satisfied with the check—”

“Your father’s calling for you as well, sir.” The maid says, “He is a bit…displeased.”

“He’s—” Plutarch rubs his eyes. “Five minutes. Then we’ll be on our way.”

The maid nods and leaves. The moment the door clicks shut, Plutarch immediately crowds Haymitch again.

“Listen, Haymitch. I have a plan to get you labeled...let's say unmarketable, so you won’t have to perform more private shows or appearances. But you’ll have to trust me,” he says quickly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m serious when I say we need someone like you. You’re our only way into District Twelve. But I’m not doing this just because of that.”

“What will I get called for?” Haymitch cuts in, impatient. “I don’t even know what you’re trying to pull me out of.”

Is he trying to tell him there's a way out of the arena vacation? The one he's supposed to go back, act in reenactments, re-play his Games?

“Right now, you’re the distraction. The people pulling puppet Snow’s strings are focused on you so you cover up any mistakes they make, they’ll use you to gain favors and play politics. I’m doing this so you know there’s a way out of it all.”

“But I have to play along! They know Lenore Dove is alive—”

Plutarch’s head snaps up. “She’s alive?” His eyes go wide. Then he glances at the clock, alarmed. “Haymitch. Okay… We’ve got about two minutes. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

A knock. The maid again— “Mr. Heavensbee?”

Plutarch talks faster now, his voice urgent. “Last I checked, your girl was gotten rid of. The rookie Peacekeeper who was sent the order, privately, was disposed of. There’s something about this whole thing that Snow must be, I don’t know, embarrassed about. Or maybe afraid of. So he got rid of everyone involved. I couldn’t find anything more.” he gets it out, finally, and Haymitch’s heart skips a beat. ”Trust your gut, and take the pills when you’re called.”

Then the doors open. Plutarch straightens, slipping into his usual calm mask.

“I hope to see you again, Haymitch!” he says cheerfully, just as Haymitch is flanked by two guards and led out of the building.

So, in Capitol records, Lenore Dove, is unnamed, moreover, officially dead. To them, Haymitch has no one left to lose. 

How is that possible?

Then what about the role of the Covey girl they pushed him into? He had spent months assuming the silence was just another form of Snow’s torture, meant to drive him mad. That their lack of threats and  punishment, of even acknowledgement of Lenore Dove, was all part of that.

There’s something about this whole thing that Snow must be, I don’t know, embarrassed about. Or maybe afraid of. He got rid of everyone involved.

Because it’s personal to him. Snow's Covey girl. The first ever victor of District 12.

What did she do, to make him so begrudging of their district, of the Covey, so full of this personal, vindictive hatred? So much effort to snuff out wandering minds, cut off every loose end. What has Snow really done to her?

Meanwhile, his Covey girl. Lenore Dove can keep on living. She can thrive, without the consequences of Haymitch's actions ever coming back to punish her. 

Maybe, after some time, when, if, his mind adds desperately, she gets over him, finally free of his cursed love, he'll be free to-- 

There’s nothing stopping him from ending it all then. Not really. He could just die. Reunite with his family. 

Or… could he...? If he went to her, asked her to run away with him...would she? Could they just go, leave it all behind?

We need someone like you. You’re our only way into District Twelve.

Isn't it too late for me? What good can I even do now? My people would be better off with mentors like Mags, people who are competent. Ready. Everything I'm not.

Well, now... now he does feel mad.

Everything he’s gone through—Snow being gone, Lenore Dove being safe from the Capitol, whatever the hell Plutarch was trying to warn him about in those last rushed minutes—it all makes his head spin and spin until it feels like the ground’s slipping out from under his feet.

Laughter bubbles up uncontrollably.

The Peacekeepers exchange a nervous glance as the fresh victor starts laughing in the back of the van, alone, clutching the bottle of pills. 

Whatever pit of hell they’re about to drag him into, Haymitch will claw his way out, run, and never look back.

Notes:

That was my take on their D11 Attic Talk. I merged my own take and the canon convo from the book. Again, this dude is just too smart for me and I can't read him at all... But I tried my best... I hope it made some sense at least. Me trying to make a profound chapter: Oh yes, philosophy, actions and consequences, humanity, nature vs nurture, very deep....

Actually alnst final made crash out so bad I TRIED to read some of JSM's Utilitarianism (just bc I found the human/pig discussion interesting and thought of that when I was reading sotr) just so i could think about something else. Like,,,, I don't wanna talk about it. Both alnst and utilitarianism. I ended up reading more quora and reddit posts about it than the book itself lol. Sorry if it's a load of bull, I'm a biology major, but I tried my best :')

Anyways, do you think Haymitch will actually consider running away? Btw don't trust Plutarch when he says shit like 'I'm not doing this just to get your trust' bc he totally is. Aaand that's it :) See you all later!!

I'm an overthinker and an oversharer - Discussion: Is Haymitch willfully ignoring the prostitution issue? Why?

Haymitch’s ignorance about the issue of victor prostitution here—and correct me if I’m wrong--is largely from the fact that he's a teenage boy who never had to confront the darker sides of survival/getting by in that particular way. In contrast, Katniss is more aware. In THG, she mentions girls lining up at Head Peacekeper Cray's door at night to earn money, because she’s a girl growing up in a system that exploits women and girls in particular, especially in districts where anything same-sex is taboo- not saying SA has anything to do with orientation, but I mean the prostitution of men, when the buyer is largely if not always, men. Like the idea that males cannot be exploited in such way would kind of be the standard?

Katniss even says she might have been one of those girls if she hadn’t picked up hunting. Idk If I'm able to articulate my thoughts, the topic is sensitive after all.

So while I think Haymitch might suspect that Lenore Dove could be taken advantage of in that way if he made a wrong move (like how he's worried about her being assaulted in jail) I doubt he considered that he ever could be a victim of the same exploitation. Am I wrong? It will dawn on him, and I think maybe a large factor could be that his brain just shuts off about it, not wanting to think and asusme the worst after all he's gone through. And because for the two weeks he's been in Capitol he only had to perform parties, so maybe, if anything would've happened, it would've already happened. Or, like with how punished same-sex relations are in Districts, which is enforced by the Capitol law and fists, one would expect the same social standards from the Capitol?

Thank you for listening to me if you've read this far :)

 

+(I might delete the part about McCoys and Willamae, Idk if I could articulate what I wanted to say, and i think it's disrupting the momentum of the talk, so...)

The title is a quote from The Wizard of Oz (1939) if anyone cares. I just changed it to 'the men' rather than 'that man' 'cause there's a oligarchy basically running Panem under the guise of Snow now, so.

Chapter 12: These violent delights have violent ends

Summary:

Capitol III

"I hope you do win. You have no idea what’s in store for you then. You know nothing."

Notes:

tw !!!

nothing explicit, but mentions and references of following: attempted SA, forced prostitution, gore, physical assault, underage everything, implied bestiality, overdose, hallucinogenic drugs, suicide attempt under influence, disgusting Capitol elite

"…And if your opponent was not human, if your opponent was a cockroach, what did it matter how many of them you killed?

What was the difference between crushing an ant and setting an anthill on fire? Why shouldn’t you pull wings off insects for your own enjoyment? The bug might feel pain, but what did that matter to you?

If you were the victim, what could you say to make your tormentor recognize you as human? How did you get your enemy to recognize you at all? And why should an oppressor care?"

― R.F. Kuang, The Poppy War

---

Plutarch’s warning sticks in his head, funnily enough, like flies to honey.

Haymitch examines the bottle at night, hidden beneath the covers. It's clear plastic cylinder, filled with small red-and-black capsules. No label, just a scribble on the cap, play along. Cryptic, just like all things Plutarch. 

He still doesn’t know what exactly he’s supposed to be waiting for.

Trust your gut. Pfft, easy for Plutarch to say. 

What helps him sleep is thinking about Snow. Him lying unconcious in the bed in his isolation chamber, hooked to machine. He buries his laughter in the pillow, and thinks about what the love of his life would call, poetic justice.

Tried to kill Lenore Dove with poison, then went ahead and nearly did yourself over with yours. Oh, you deserve a more painful death, but with how things are, I hope you're done for as soon as possible. 

Still, Haymitch spends five excruciatingly slow, tense days waiting fort the ball to drop, and equally strained nights performing. No one’s come to drag him back into the arena yet.

Unable to bear the uncertainty, he keeps pestering Effie. When she’s had enough of his constant questions, she promises to ask Victor Logistics. But they come up empty.

Sabine only ends up snapping at Effie, saying she’s not in charge of the vacations, and that she should stop calling for every little thing. Effie snaps back, pointing out it’s a Victor-related event—so how can Sabine not know? And it’s an event related to her Victor, so why would she stop calling?

Their friendship takes a hit. And in a moment of passion, Effie calls the travel agent herself.

Now they’re both in the sitting room. Effie holds the receiver to her ear, and Haymitch sits right beside her, angling his head to catch every word.

“…Yes, yes, for the Poison Paradise,” She tells the travel agent, “Uh, just wanted to ask about the dates and all. I’ve got a thing—a very important thing—that I must schedule, and I don’t want it to overlap with my stay. My career dependson it.”

There’s some muttering on the other end. Haymitch leans in closer, trying to catch every word.

“We’ve had a surge in demand since last week,” the voice says. “You’ll need to fill out an application and be placed on a waiting list.”

“Oh?” Effie blinks, visibly taken aback. “I just— In what world is there a waiting list for a vacation?”

“Yes, but Poison Paradise is an exclusive event,” the agent replies, already sounding exasperated, like he’s had to explain this a dozen times today. “Only those with invitations can get the Victor-Inclusive Stay Package.”

“And that’s…?” Effie trails off.

“Do you even have an invitation, ma’am?”

“I— I’m sorry—” Effie starts, flustered, but Haymitch nudges her gently, urging her to ask with his eyes. She looks a bit lost, then exhales and gives in. “Well, I’m sorry I thought I had more time, I’m working on myself, I’d like you to know. What if I end up getting an invite? I’d like to take steps accordingly—”

The man on the other end grumbles. There’s a rustling of paper. “The stay begins four months before the next Games and will last about a month.”

That’s March.

Haymitch exhales deeply, a heavy weight lifting off his chest, only to surge back up like a ship breaking the surface after being dragged under.

From March, to June. They want to take him back then.

“I see. Thank you,” she says, and hangs up.

The stay isn’t for months. So, for now, he’s not in immediate danger. But Plutarch’s warning still makes no sense. It circles his thoughts like a cat rounding a rat. 

That aside, how are the pills going to help then?

“Satisfied?” Effie asks.

Not quite, Effie. Plutarch thinks I’m human dissatisfied— don’t you know? Maybe he's right, because I don't feel satisfied with any answer right now, can't even come up with one. Only more and more questions.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Thanks.”

Effie stands, rubbing her temples. “I’m going to bed. I hate dealing with customer service, wholly rude and uncaring.”

“Tell me about it…”

“Good night.” She says, “You’re meeting sponsors again tomorrow, so sleep well.” 

“Night. You too.”

---

Haymitch meets a lot of his sponsors. He plays along. Now that the big shots have had their turn with him, it’s time for the everyman sponsors.

Effie and Proserpina’s great-aunt Messalina, for one. Unlike his other sponsors, Messalina doesn't book him for a performance, but rather him, along with the Trinkets, have brunch together. Something he hasn’t even heard of until then. Not only you eat breakast and lunch, but another one right between?

“I just knew it’d come in handy. I never throw anything out,” Messalina tells him over tea. She looks as classy as one could get in the Capitol— silver hair untouched by dye, cut at the chin and styled into a perfect waves. She wears a deep burgundy dress that he feels strangely familiar with, but since his District's been styled with her wardrobe, he figures it's only natural. “After so many funerals during the Dark Days, people around here gave up on wearing black altogether. Everyone burned theirs. But me?” 

Proserpina and Effie exchange a look, and—surprisingly—even Haymitch can read it. Isn't the real reason you never threw them out because you didn’t want anyone finding the bloodstains? Or matbe because they weren’t black for mourning, but because it hid the blood best.

Messalina leans forward slightly. “You know me, Effie—I consider myself a woman of foresight. Provision. That’s why I agreed to sponsor you, boy. Not because Prosie called me crying her eyes out —”

“I didn’t really cry,” Proserpina interjects, coughing on her vanilla cake, a sad attempt to salvage a shred of dignity. Effie refills her cup with tea.

"Oh, please, dear— you were sobbing,” Messalina says, waving her off with a gloved hand. “Anyway, it means a great deal to me—that our name is, at last, beginning to heal.” She pats Effie’s hand.

“Well, whose fault is that?” Effie shoots back, eyes sharp. “Thanks to you and Great-uncle, we have to work twice as hard—“

Messalina tuts softly and reaches across the table, pinching Effie’s lips together between two long manicured nails. “Hush now,” she says sweetly, “We all do what we have to.” she turns to Haymitch, “That’s how we’re still here. Right, boy?”

And that’s how it goes with Great-aunt Messalina. 

Others are performances like the one for the men he spat on during the parade, a bunch of drunks calling themselves the ‘Rascals in the Capitol’ as Haymitch performs for their gathering. They keep asking him to spit on them again, tore-down drunk. A lot of Capitol everymen.

However, whoever they are, these sponsors are the most tiresome to get to so far.

First, Victor Logistics take him from Effie, who seems bewildered by why she can’t accompany him— but then gets held up by a Sabine who approaches her for a round two. From there, they pass him off to another department, Private Affairs.

He’s been booked plenty of times—families, parties, gatherings— but he’s told this is more private, reserved for a certain kind of clients. The change in terms stirs something in him.

They don’t enter the building from outside. The van he’s in parks directly inside, and he’s escorted up in a small elevator. His handler, Solomon from Private Affairs, is a tall, stoic man with a strangely shaped goatee and walks in large strides that Haymitch struggles to catch up.

He leads Haymitch down a long corridor, the walls painted a suffocating shade of red. There’s not a single window in sight, just a lot of doors, and the entire hallway reeks of cigarettes, though a strange blend of perfume lingers underneath.

The narrow hallway opens into a much larger space—a lounge of sorts, with long, backless, armless sofas arranged near the railing that overlooks a central void stretching through the heart of the building, from the white marble floor below to the glass dome high above.

Thea atrium’s surrounded by floor after floor, lined with identical doors, some closed, some left slightly ajar, that wrap around the void. Right now, they’re near the top, just one floor below the ceiling. On the bottom floor, Haymitch spots a statue of two figures surrounded by animals. He recognizes a lion and a monkey before Solomon urges him forward to another narrow corridor.

Once they’re in another corridor, Solomon stops in front of a door and knocks. “He’s here,” he announces, then gestures for Haymitch to go in.

“But I don’t have my guitar,” Haymitch objects, “Or my speaker—“ but Solomon grabs him and pushes him through the door, and closes it shut.

It takes Haymitch a moment to register anything.

First, his eyes go straight to the source of the laughter that echoes upon his clumsy entrance. A man lounging on a burgundy couch by the burning fireplace that looks more electric any they have in home. The fire doesn’t look real, and there’s no ash bucket, no fire iron, or any hardwood.

“Mr Abernathy, how wonderful to see you,” The man says, raising his glass in greeting. “We were getting impatient.”

Another laughter, this time from the woman on his lap. “Speak for yourself.”

Haymitch only blinks at the sight. 

“Dyeus Ring. You performed for my wife and her friends.” The man says, undisturbed by his silence. ”I could only watch the later broadcasts, since I work often. But you caught my eye from the very beginning."

His wife, and her friends. He played for the wife of Energies Secretary, Latona Ring.

Latona Ring. His wife, who Haymitch remembers is definitely not the woman currently sitting on his lap. 

Dyeus speaks again as Haymitch stares at the woman, clad in nothing but a vibrant silk bathrobe adorned with a cacophony of flowers and animals. And when he pays more attention, he realizes the man is wearing nothing but a matching one.

On the far side of the room stands a large four-poster bed, draped in dark silk sheets and heavy velvet curtains.

He's been brought here to perform for clients, but he doesn't have his guitar.

Haymitch’s breath hitches as he puts it together.

He never thought this would become his reality—never even considered it. And yet, it’s not surprising. He knows it’s the reality for so many others, so why did he ever think he wouldn’t be a victim of it, too? What made him secure from that, really? Nothing.

“Nice to meet you.” Clio says, eyeing him. Brings a hand to her cheek like she’s trying to hide her nonexistent blush. “Don’t mind Dyeus, we’re nothing but patient!”

What do you do in a situation like this?

“We’ve enjoyed watching you so far, and well— it’s not every day Clio and I share the same taste.”

What do you say?

How do you make them hear you?

“Really, we’re actually so different from each other.”

“That's why you and I get along far better than I do with Latty.”

Even if they hear, how do you get them to listen to you?

"Oh, it's the same with me. Sergius is so very dreadfully boring—can't keep a conversation at the dinner table, nor things moving in bed.”  Their cackles worm their way into Haymitch;s ears, get louder and louder.

How do you say ‘no’?

“Good thing we’ve got the means. Though, I have to say, prices are getting ridiculous. I remember my friend paying nearly 35% less for Achilles, and that was right after his victory, during peak demand.”

“I know, not even five years ago, I got Bail for half of what they’re asking for Palladium now. Can you believe it?”

“What’s with you and rapscallions?”

“You know I like my boys cocksure, a little cheeky.”

Do you beg? Do you scream, wail, cry, yell, whisper? Do you write it in bold letters?

Do you get on your knees and clasp your hands?

What else can you offer to them that they don't already have?

“Is that supposed to be jab at me?”

Would they even be satisfied with it?

“Hm, maybe.”

Can pigs truly ever be satisfied?

Does your ‘no’ mean anything?

“I—“ Haymitch blurts out, say something, say anything to get out, anything, anything, say anything. “I have to use the bathroom.” he finally says, desperate to be let out of this room as soon as possible, sounding like a school kid again, trying to worm out of class.

Haymitch is sixteen, has been sixteen years old for four months now, and at this very moment, he's near paralysed with fear. He’s killed three people in the arena, and held his own against a highly trained Career twice his size, and yet it’s here he feels his body frozen, locked with fear

.

The couple quiets down at his outburst— then bursts into laughter. Clio rises and begins to approach him. Haymitch steps back, but he’s numb, and she moves like a feline predator. Before he knows it, the predator descends on the prey, her claws cup his face, squishing his cheeks. Time stops. His soul slips away with an exhale. Her eyes are an unnatural gold.

“Oh, let him go wash his face, at least, precious,” Dyeus calls from his seat, smiling at Haymitch’s stricken expression like it gives him pleasure. “He must be nervous. I was kidding— I can wait. We have all night.”

“But now I don’t want to wait,” she tsks. “Why don’t you give me your coat and come sit with us, little rascal?” She reaches around to take his jacket, her long nails scraping like chalk against a chalkboard, and Haymith finally returns to his body, jerks free from her grasp, and lunges to the door handle, it’s locked, but he yanks it desperately. “I need to… I need to use the toilet, I need to…” Anything to get out of the room, please. “Please.”

"C'mon, it's fine, here, I'll help--"

"No!" Haymitch cries out, and shoulder rams into the door. Clio flinches back, her face contort to a scowl.

Dyeus frowns and rises slowly, every rustle sending Haymitch’s heart closer to a full-on attack. He keeps forcing the door, and suddenly it clicks—unlocked from the other side. 

“Is there a problem—“ Haymitch barely registers Solomon and throws himself out, stumbling down the corridor. The red walls blur around him, and his vision bleeds.

He can’t even really run, Haymitch can only watch himself from the outside as he stumbles from wall to wall, looking for the bathroom. He sees himself crash into someone, someone very tall, and suddenly his sight is back to his own eyes.

Haymitch flails when hands grab him, but the grip is strong.

“Oh, I thought I was late,” a voice says, a total calm, even a little mirth. The face comes into focus, dark blue eyes, blond hair. Palladium? “You haven’t started yet?”

He’s wearing a strange skintight suit, striped all over, with matching lines painted on his face. He looks like a tiger. Haymitch stares, half in shock, half in disbelief, wondering if he’s dreaming. Nothing makes sense, rightn ow.

Palladium mistakes the look for judgment and lets go. “It’s just how things work here. You’ll probably get something assigned soon, too.” He shrugs, looking him up and down. “Maybe an otter? Sometimes they throw the real thing in, too, but it gets too messy.”

“You…” Haymitch croaks. You knew, you tried to tell me. You and—

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to say anything—believe me, I wanted to,” Palladium replies. Haymitch is too panicked to dwell on how strangely calm this Career is.

“C’mon now, breathe,” Palladium adds gently. “They don’t like it when you’re hysterical like this, it’s no fun for them. You have to get it together.”

Solomon catches up, voice gruff, “Mr Barker, he needs to go. Mr Ring is waiting ."

"Dyeus?" Palladium looks at him pitifully, "Don't make him wait, Haymitch. He's not as nice as he makes it out to be."

“I don’t… want…” Haymitch stammers, stepping back. “No.”

I don’t want to go.

“That doesn’t mean a thing in here,” Palladium says flatly. “I’m trying to help you, Haymitch. It’ll be worse if you don’t—”

I don’t want to go.

“I don’t… no, don’t make me-” Haymitch resists against Solomon and Palladium, but he’s no match. Not this time. He doesn’t even have a knife to carve his way free.

“All good?” another voice cuts in. Audrey Chipple steps into view. Her hair is wet, darker now, and she’s wrapped in a long, fluffy bathrobe. The sight of her sends Haymitch reeling once again. “He looks like he’s about to pass right out.”

“He needs to go. His clients are waiting,” Solomon says. Everything he says makes Haymitch feel more and more helpless.

I don’t want to go.

“Look at him. He’s no use to anyone if he shuts down right now. Should just bring out an inflatable doll if they want an unconscious toy.” Audrey replies, trying to reason with the handler. “At least let him wash his face. Haymitch, you gotta calm down.”

“Calm… down…” He echoes her words, blankly. His brain feels like it’s shut off, unable to produce thought or sense.

Audrey and Palladium manage to convince Solon to let Haymitch go to the bathroom, flanked by two guards, though not in Peacekeeper uniforms, they unmistakably possess the training. Solomon hurries off to feed excuses to the waiting clients. Clients. Clients. Clients waiting for him to—

"It's fine, okay? Don’t worry—you’ve got an excuse," Palladium says. "Just say you got nervous, it’s your first time. Happens to everyone." He glances toward the hallway. “Uh, Solomon said clients. So I’m guessing Dyeus isn’t alone?”

No answer from Haymitch.

I don’t want to go.

“That’s good. If he’s with Clio or Pauline, he might be nicer. They might even find it entertaining." He talks like anything he says will actually help Haymitch. Every word just makes him more and more sick. "But you'll have to go soon. A fresh Quarter Quell victor's first must've cost a pretty penny, they won't let it go to waste.”

He is about to throw up.

Before Haymitch is led away, Audrey squeezes his shoulder. “Remember what I told you. If you’ve got something to lose, you give them what they want,” she says, and she’d sound reassuring if it weren’t for the words she was sprouting, “Think of the kids you’ll have to mentor. How do you expect them to survive in there if you don’t do favors? You do this shit for family, for friends, for your tributes. And there’s always someone, Haymitch.” She bites her cheek. "Better than lying awake at night knowing you let your tributes down.”

He can’t listen to her anymore.

When they arrive, Haymitch all but throws himself into the bathroom, locking the door. He misses the key first few attempts, his hands shake violently. When he finally hears the click, he backs away from the door.

Unable to stand still, he begins to pace.

Once, when he was much younger, so young Sid wasn’t even in the picture yet, a stray cowbird had flown into their house. That day, he couldn’t tell who’d made more of a fuss— Ma, or the bird. 

By the time it was chased out, Ma was already sweeping up feathers and muttering as she worked. He remembers it clearly, as if it just happened. “It’s bad luck, hon. Don’t ever let a bird fly into the house.”

Later, they told him the full version— if a bird flies into your home, someone inside is going to die.

A month after the cowbird incident, Ma found out she was pregnant.

Only four months after that, his twin sisters died.

Haymitch once told the saying to Lenore Dove, and after she cried about his sisters, she got so stuck on the saying. She looked so upset, he thought she might march right up to his ma and try to argue her out of it. She wouldn’t. Not only her tongue would get tied in an instant, but also she wouldn't rise up to his ma like that.

“Maybe it’s because the bird doesn’t belong in the house,” She said later.

“What d’you mean?”

“Birds are meant to be free, out and about.” She went on, “So if one ends up inside, maybe that’s why people think it brings bad luck. But maybe the only reason it comes in at all is to warn us against it. But because it did, and something bad happen after anyway, they thought it brought the misfortune in." she said. "When all they've been was bearer of bad news."

And right now, Haymitch is the cowbird—flown into the room in a panic, trapped, throwing himself from one wall to the next with no way out. Too late to warn against any bad omen, they're waiting on the other side of the door. 

Trust your gut, too late for that, but hopefully not too late, please…

His fingers fumble through his jacket in a frenzy, he's shaking violently all over, and there it is—the bottle, nestled inside the lining of his suit.

He pulls it out.With a final glance at the door, Haymitch turns on the sink and uncaps the bottle with trembling hands, gathers water in his palm. His vision is already blurry by the time he swallows the pills.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, staring at the running water. One, two, three…

A knock comes from the door. "Haymitch Abernathy,--" 

Fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven…? One hundred three, one hundred four, one hundred five…?

The knocking grows more violent, rattling the door on its hinges.

Knock, knock, knock--

---

I look up just in time to deflect the swinging axe.

Here I am again. The end of the beginning, for me. The beginning of the end, for my one-eyed monster.

The axe whistles through the air, slicing the space where my neck was only seconds ago.

I turn my back and run for it. The woods close in. I crash into a tree.

It starts speaking to me.

 

"It’s easier if you just give them what they want, saves you a lot of trouble in daylight.” 

“I’ll probably see you sooner than others. Got some Capitol appointments.”

Audrey.

"That’s how the favors start, boy, get ready to pluck a feather or two.”

Achilles.

 

What do you mean by that? I ask, but there’s no reply.

I rip myself away from the tree—no time to lose. My hands burn, so I look down, its bark has scraped my palms raw.

Just as I turn to run, I slam into another one.

 

"Capitol likes an underdog every once in a while. Especially if it's pretty to look at." 

Nemo.

"We’ve had requests for scar footage.”   

Cassia.

Barely dressed Mavis, Velvet kissing my cheek.

 

Everywhere I run, I crash into another tree.

Their barks are stripped away, their insides exposed, sap pouring out from where they are hurt.

And they’re hurt a lot.

Do trees bleed red, too? That doesn’t sound right.

 

“I’ve been watching the tour. You’re doing well.”

“I see that, We all do.”  

Palladium.

“Ah, don’t sell yourself short! You’ve had us drooling at the screens, Haymitch!”

“Our rascal’s up for grabs, ladies and gentlemen!”

"--maybe you’ll be the lucky one to get a private serenade!”

Caesar. 

 

I try to hush him, but he keeps yelling, shining the lights on me, exposing me, drawing my monsters closer and closer. I can’t stay here. I keep running.

I crash into more trees, but these ones are full of branches and spikes. Some curse me for coming too close. Most just scream at me. Some push me away. One hurts me, and I snap its twig.

Then the cold hits me like unexpected cloudburst.

The woman’s palm is on my scar. So, am I back there? Or is she here now, with me? What’s she doing in the woods? Am i back in the manor? Please, no.

She’s one of my monsters too. A five fingered one. It’s so, so cold, my skin goes dark from where her palm is resting. It turns to a dark purple, then black, frostbite spreading like mold, then it starts crumbling like I’m made of cornbread.

I watch in horror as my abdomen gives way, her hand punches a hole and reaches in, pulling my guts out, holds my my intestines like a shawl she’s about to wrap around her neck. She pulls and pulls and pulls and I feel every sickening slide of it.

My masked monster appears then, holding the liquid that will set my insides aflame—and I panic. I leave my guts, and start running, my hands flail, unsure where to protect myself. I wish I had a thousand hands, tjat way I could guard every part of me.

I run and run, passing dozens of headless chicks along the way. I don’t stop for any of them. I want to. But it's my head next, i know it. 

I keep running until I reach the cliffside again—the very edge of everything.

Just as I’m about to collapse on my knees, I see it, right there, a sheer drop of nearly a hundred feet, meeting a carpet of jagged rocks below and nestled among them is the killing machine. Break the machine. 

I feel heavier than any rock, any mountain, if I throw myself, I might just break it—this time--

But wait, something is on it.

A gray, speckled with pink, and just the faintest hint of purple. It coos, tending to its nest.

My... dove?

She carries a sunflower in her beak. Gently, she drops it beside a larger bloom in the nest. Oh, there’s my home. My home is wherever they are. And right now, they're down there.

I exhale in relief. Warmth slides down my cheeks. I open my arms and let the air carry me home.

---

Haymitch wakes up.

The first thing he feels is ache. 

His whole body—from his eyes to his fingernails—throbs with pain.

The second thing he notices is warmth slipping from his eyes. He’s crying.

Pa wouldn’t have let anyone do this to him, he thinks naively, They couldn’t have even laid a finger on him if Pa were here. Ma’d rip them to shreds on her washboard. If only they were here…

Haymitch tries to lift his hand, desperate to soothe the ache crushing his heart, the prickling in his chest like a limb gone numb, wants to wipe his tears but he can only manage a few inches before something rattles against the cold table he’s lying on.

C’mon, Neddie Newcomer. Gotta learn to wipe your own tears now. You’ll be the man of the house soon with how fast you’re shooting up, huh?

It’s okay. Pa’s right here. You can always cry on my shoulder. Nobody else has to see you cry but me.

Then there’s that damn dripping noise again.

How many lives does he have left now? He’s already blown one away.

Should’ve just drank the milk and been done with it. Does that even count? Then it’s the Sub-A explosion.

What if that rock in One had been bigger—had a jagged edge?

What if he’d fallen harder from the chariot, smashed his head in along with Louella?

Then, for some reason, he starts crying all over again. Because he doesn’t know the name whatever Plutarch gave him.

It’s such a stupid thing to cry over. After everything he’s been through, a tiny thing like that breaks him down. He’s already overdosed on them, right? So why bother thinking about it now?

But he doesn’t know the name. And the weight of it presses on his chest. It feels like his bones will give in, crushing his ribcage, his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t know the name, but he knows what those people wanted to do to him, how they thought about it—how those men and women woke up that morning, got dressed, ate breakfast, all while knowing exactly where they’d be that night.

Another thought creeps into his mind like poison ivy. Did Effie know? When she was handing him off to Private Affairs, did she know?

He doubts it. Highly. Right now, he doesn’t think he could handle it if she did. He desperately wants to be right.

Another wave of tears crashes against his eyes, and oh—he’s alone, and he’s—he wants nothing more--

He’d learned another thing after his sisters loss, when Ma took to hugging him to sleep every night for weeks.

Death comes in threes. She was so afraid he’d be the third, she couldn't sleep. Then, the third loss must've been the place of his sisters would have in their family. Death comes in threes, and so his three district partners died. Death comes in threes, and so his three little ones all died in the arena.

Death comes in threes, Ma and Sid died. Will he be the third, and not Lenore Dove?

Then her face comes to him like sunlight filtering through leaves, lighting up the darkest parts inside him.

By the time he realizes, he’s already nearly half into of the song. He can’t stop the melody from slipping out of his mouth, though. Each word calms him, wrapping around him like a blanket warmed by the sun, for her song brings the light like so.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —

Nameless here for evermore.

He sings for hours lying chained on the metal table until it feelsl ike there are open wounds in his throat.

---

Effie—and, he thinks, the woman next to her is Sabine, but his memory is a bit jumbled— along with a handful of others, watch the doctor examine him. He barely hears what they’re saying, his ears only catching fragments. Later, in the silence of his sterile room, he pieces those bits together after Victor Logistics calls for an emergency meeting outside.

He had a panic attack, which led to a psychotic break. 

Fought his way out, bit the client’s arm, tore some flesh.

Thew himself off the railing, down the atrium. A free fall from the fifth floor.

Left foot and ankle shattered, left hip dislocated. Somehow also hit his head hard. Traumatic brain injury. Comatose for a week. It's well into December now.

The sponsors requested a test for rabies. The results came back negative.

Well then, how’s he faring? Will he get better? Only time will tell. 

Considering all of the above, Haymitch feels fine. But he lets the doctors tsk at him, their faces making it clear that they think tending to him is a waste of time. It is. He’s of no use anymore.

His head feels empty. He can’t recall anything. For once, the quiet is peaceful.

Is it the medicine's doing? If so, Haymitch would like to take a few boxes of it home.

Home.

It's well into December now.

He misses his mountains.

---

They don’t give him food. Apparently, he’s been feeding from his own arm. The goal is to get him well enough to board the train and ship the new failed, mentally ill Victor off to his trashy district as soon as possible.

Plutarch comes into view, and Haymitch lets out a sigh— already over it.

“You’re doing better,” the man says. “I saw you when they were wheeling you out of Private Affairs.” He hisses in sympathy, “Looked pretty bad, gotta say.”

“Guess I owe you one,” Haymitch croaks.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Plutarch replies. “I just came to bring good news— you are officially as undesirable as one can get in the free market. Stocks have plunged. Apparently, biting a piece off the Energies Secretary, then throwing yourself off the fifth floor does that to a person.” He waves the clipboard the doctors were scribbling on.

“Look at this, broken bones, traumatic brain injury, brain swelling, not to mention the state of your —” tsk tsk tsk, “and on top of that, a very disastrous breakdown. Word will travel fast. Safe to say certain clients wouldn’t want to come within six feet of you, let alone be in a room alone. They do love their wild animals, as long as they're not the ones getting hurt. You might still have to take the guitar out, though. Oh, look, right here's your saving grace--" Plutarch taps on the clipboard. "Status: Mentally Unstable. Emotionally Fragile. Congratulations.”

“What’d you give me?”

“A mix of snap and tracker jacker venom.” he answers. "Latter's still being developed for precise hijacking. We made sure to omit those from your blood test results."

Haymitch says nothing. Knowing that doesn’t soothe him as much as he thought it would. He doesn't want to know what exactly is hijacking, assumes it's what they did to Lou Lou.

“What do you want from me?” I got nothing left in me. No strength in my bones, no fight, no nothing.

“I want you to know— you’re free.”

“Am I?”

“Well, you have a choice. That’s as free as one gets around here.”

“And what choice is that…?”

“I think you know what.”

Right. Run away, or stay put and join Plutarch.

“Hm.” He sighs. “Lucky me.”

"All things considered, I'd say you're plenty lucky." If Haymitch had any strength, he would love to choke Plutarch at this moment. The man in question is quiet for a moment, then asks, “Still think they’re human?”

Haymitch turns his head to the side. He’s tired of entertaining Plutarch’s questions. Let him find another victim to jabber at.

He just doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

Plutarch, thankfully, takes the hint. “I do hope you get well soon, Haymitch. And—” He opens the door—“I hope to see you again.”

The door closes shut. It's quiet again. But of course, Plutarch has asked him a question that sent his head reeling again. 

It’d be easier to see them as beasts—like that’s just how they think, driven by primal urges, nothing more than predators. Can't do nothing about it. You can't always fight nature.

But he knows they’re not. That’s what makes them scarier. Because they're human, and because he’s human, just like them. And yet, there’s not a bone in his body that will ever come close to understanding how someone can do such things.

Steal children. Make them kill each other. And whoever survives, congratulations, you have rights over them as you please.

You have rights to their lives. End them as you want. Why not have rights to their bodies and wills, too? The word ‘no’ is already non-existent in their dictionary.

The horror of it settles on him slowly, like how cold limbs ache. Haymitch really was sold. He had a price, he had customers, buyers. Who knows how many others lined up? How many talked about him the way those two talked about Palladium and Bail? How many-- How many had wanted him? 

"I hope you do win. You have no idea what’s in store for you then. You know nothing." 

People like Drusilla are human. The woman who said that to Maysilee is still human, and she still meant it, not out of ignorance, but as revenge. As punishment. She knew exactly how wrong it was, how much it'd hurt Maysilee, and still, she wished it on her. 

He feels sick. He's relieved Maysilee never has to go through this. He wishes he hadn't.

Haymitch turns his head and buries it in the pillow. He’s tired. He decides to sleep until he’s back on the train. Luckily, as lucky as one can get in a life like his, the events of the past months have worn every bone in his body thin with exhaustion. Sleeping, passing out and blinking out of reality become one. He doesn’t know which one he succumbs to, doesn't have it in himself to care.

---

He’s taken onto the train under complete secrecy, at dawn just before the sun rises, like a detonator being smuggled out before it blows up their precious city. Loose cannon.

They chain him again, and as peacekeepers move to gag him—he’s rabid, after all, this one bites—Effie intervenes.

“He’s already sedated,” Effie says firmly. “No need, no need.” But she doesn’t sit with him at the back. Maybe they didn't let her, he's not fully aware. 

They chain him in his room on the train. Effie stays nearby, checking something on her clipboard. Haymitch looks around the room, it's the same as before, just...

Next to his leather duffel bag, full of district memoria he gathered throughout his Victory Tour, is a large, pristine black trunk. The leather handles gleam gold, it looks incredibly expensive.

“What’s that?” he asks Effie, who jolts in surprise. He startles himself, too—his voice sounds like a cry for help from the pits of hell.

She recovers quickly, or at least seems to. And he can’t help but wonder— does she see him as an animal now, too?

He imagines her venting about it to her Proserpina, having experience with grooming his fur and claws, who might’ve told her, “Shh, don’t show your fear. They’re more afraid of us than we are of them.” 

“Plutarch sent you a gift. I didn’t want to overwhelm you, and I wasn going to wait a bit more before telling. Until you were…all better.” Effie says, “I can help you open it, if you want.” 

“Maybe later,” Haymitch says, and lies on the bed.

What gift could it be? More pills? Maybe some actual Snap? Tracker jacker serum, too. Why not throw in some morphling while you’re at it? Haymitch’s veins are already a cocktail of drugs.

“Now, I’m—where’s the key…?” Effie mumbles to herself, “I’m taking the cuffs off, but i have to lock the door. Protocol.” she tells him, taking his chains off.

Haymitch nods.

“Call out to the Avox by the door if you need anything. Have some rest, Haymitch, don’t put pressure on your head!”

He turns his head to the wall. 

---

When he wakes up, the scenery outside is completely dark, and in motion. The moon's silver light shines.

He slowly straightens up, his feet aches and a throbbing sensation in his head.

Sliding his legs off the bed, Haymitch sits hunched for a long moment. On the nightstand, there's a plastic cup of water along with his medicine. Effie must have left them for him while he was asleep. With trembling hands, he reaches out, takes the pills, and swallows them down. Sleep had been unbearably dull for the first time in months.

No nightmares. No dreams. He constantly lives in the former and can’t afford the latter.

Using his hands for support, he pulls himself up. His hip protests, and he lifts his left leg slightly, like a chicken, and hops softly over to his bag and the Plutarch's ominous gift. He lowers himself carefully, extending one leg while curling the other. The braces around his feet dig in, but at least the stabbing needles feeling has eased.

He breathes deeply and lifts the top open.

Inside lies an odd arrangement of eight polished wooden boxes. He grabs one at random—the second in the first row—and notices another beneath it. It makes sense; the boxes are small, so the first layer fits snugly in the large trunk. He flips it open—and stares.

Inside is a dog tag. Etched on it-- District 1 Combat Academy. Right beneath the necklace, there's a small golden plate.

District 1 - Loupe Alston

28th Place

Haymitch stares at the dog tag for a long time, turning it over in his hands. On the back, L + Z is engraved, along with, 'Come home with honor — Z'

He stuffs the necklace back into the box and pushes it away.

Hands trembling, he counts to the third box in the first row and reaches for it. Inside, a dusty pink soft-cased pocket mirror.

District 1 - Silka Sharp

2nd Place

Haymitch is numb. He can’t stop himself from opening the boxes. He wants to reach his district partners as soon as possible, and feel the relief that something of them is still here. But he can’t bring himself to leave any box unopened or set any aside like it doesn’t mean anything. Because everything in these boxes meant something.

So, one by one, he opens every single box.

Panache, 11th place, had golden cufflinks with dark green clovers on them.

The girls from Two, Camilla and Nona, 14th and 23rd, a glass marble, and a brooch with a carved hammer.

With shaking hands, he opens the box for Ampert. 26th. The lariat Buck made for him and Maysilee's braided in one-strand. It looks just like the original. He wonders if Beetee kept it for himself, only to have it taken from him later.

A bright orange fishing lure, its hook removed for Maritte, 3rd. The stamped number forever erases the reality that she died before Maysilee.

Urchin, 29th, a seashell with visible cracks. Clearly repaired and pieced back together.

Barba, 12th, and Angler, 13th-- two of his other kills. A small vial of sand and water, and a fishing bobber.

Starting with District 3, except for 4 and 5, his ally has been in every box. Every cord she carefully crafted for the Newcomers is there.

Miles, 47th, tin train whistle. Velo, 46th, a now-laminated bus receipt. The blood on it sealed in forever. Atread, 20th, a piece of wheel leather.

Wellie, 4th, bicycle bell. All held in braids and twists.

Ringina, 9th, the wooden tree she had pinned on her shirt. Autumn, 10th, a small wooden acorn, the cord goes through the hole she must've carved in one of the stations.

Notion, 42nd, and Alawna, 43rd, and their dolls. Notion’s wore a faded red dress, embroidered flowers all over the hem of it, while Alawna’s had green overalls paired with a pink shirt. There are ruffles on the straps. He wonders if they ever had names. He straightens Notion's doll's dress, and finds tiny letters, in pretty handwriting sewn in the inside of the skirt-- Cherry. Name fits the doll.

District 9’s sunflowers are all intact, must be another set of replicas. Whoever replaced them with bombs must’ve gotten rid of the originals, already shattered pieces, barely held together by flimsy glue, to leave no proof behind. Ryan, Kerna, Clayton, Midge. 32th, 34th, 40th, 41st.

Buck, 7th, his horseshoe. Haymitch looks closely. It’s engraved with a family name and a series of others: HALE. Buck. Kidd. Capri. He must’ve had little siblings. The boy making a lariat for Ampert stings more now. Who made the engravings? Buck himself? His parents?

Hull, 6th, a small booklet with tear-out pages. Haymitch flips through and reads the cover, District 11 Harvesting Trip Ticket Book. Inside, tally marks are scribbled on the pages. There’s still half of the booklet left, untorn.

Chicory, 8th, her grass flower, the one Lou Lou recognizes, maybe she once had one just like it.

The last row at the bottom of the trunk forces him to pause. His arms ache from reaching in over and over again to pull out the boxes. He stops for a moment, breathes in and out, in and out, then picks up the first box.

It woudl've been his Sweetheart’s— but it’s Lou Lou’s.

District 12 - Louella McCoy

27th Place

Haymitch breathes deeply and takes the necklace in his hands.

From Maysilee, a parting gift for Louella, then torn from her body, and to poor Lou Lou. Yellow and purple flowers. Had Maysilee liked that combination of colors in particular? He hadn’t really thought about it before. Would Louella have liked it? She liked flowers, sure, but maybe preferred different colors. Lou Lou probably would’ve liked the woven grass flower better.

District 12 - Maysilee Donner

5th Place

Haymitch presses his lips tightly together, on the verge of losing his composure. The set of necklaces is complete—even the medallion he took is back there. He runs his fingers over every cord and beaded necklace. Some look more makeshift, and judging by how she handled everyone else’s tokens, Maysilee must have enjoyed making necklaces for herself when she wasn’t out and about—being the fashion-keeper and tormenting the other innocent residents of their district about their choice of clothing and make-up.

The blood has been fully cleaned off. The necklaces look as pristine as the morning she probably put them on—meticulously cared for, because of course Maysilee would.

District 12 - Wyatt Callow

39th Place

Wyatt’s scrip coin and Maysilee’s craftsmanship, even if it’s detached, again.

Looking at the golden plate, Haymitch sighs. Wyatt's wish came true—39th, gone in the bloodbath. He went out fast, nothing drawn out for people to make money on. Protected Lou Lou with his life, too. 

One last box left, but Haymitch has no strength left in his hands. This box is his, supposed to be his. In different worlds, his flint striker is sitting pretty and shining in a glass display, while one of the rest is back to its district, on its person.

So, what’s inside this one? What could be inside?

He opens it.

And there's the long, muddy-gray crystal. The quartz he used to blow himself up. Or is it? There’s no way Plutarch actually had someone dig it out of the wreckage in the arena. Is his mind just playing along with Plutarch’s tricks?

There's no nameplate in this box. Haymitch holds the rock in his hands for a long moment, then presses it to his chest. The trunk’s lid falls shut with a clunk, but Haymitch doesn’t flinch.

Everyone inside that trunk is dead. Forty seven others, gone. He’s the only one who made it out of the arena. All that’s left of them are the things they carried when the unluckiest day of their lives descended on them. Remnants of home, family, love.

They're all dead, killed, murdered. By him, by mutts, by Gamemakers, all by the Capitol. By Snow. Whose killing spree has become so unstoppable that it ended up with him too.

His absence means Haymitch can run away. Set fire to Victor’s Village, fake his death. If he tells Lenore Dove, she might even go with him. They could start over.

He stares at the quartz, minutes stretching into hours. 

Eventually, he leans his head against the trunk, no, not a trunk. Not storage, not a box, not a gift from Plutarch.

Haymitch has answer to dig out of this graveyard.

Notes:

Boo! Back-to-back update jumpscare! The tw list might be the real jumpscare actually...Gotta keep you on your toes.

I swear I’m as tired as all of you.. I keep going to other chapters to write LD, Burdock and Asterid’s little side quests around D12 and working on 53rd HG (which I’m having a lot of fun writing atm) instead of Haymitch’s eternal suffering. We’ve gone through the worst of it, I think. Let us continue, go back to Twelve, take a breather (…maybe not)

I know I've put him through the ringer. Boy's literally getting knocked out every turn he takes and disassociates all the time, which I realised I do quite a lot.

Some medical mumbo jumbo then my nothing burger special

I've looked into it, and maybe Dissociative Subtype of PTSD is a more accurate term?? I'm not putting a disorder on him, just trying to explain what his symptoms/experience is similar to. He blinks out of reality, sometimes has a flashback, sometimes not, then comes back to it. Here, it's paired with hallucinogens, so like a distorted Derealization episode in a way.

About his fall injures, I consulted my best friend - she's a med student & soon MD, we love women in stem here - and she said his hip would be cracked but otherwise it sounded about accurate. And so I took all that and decided to use a bit of fairy dust (creative freedom) and that's about it :')

By the way, some of the comments on last chap. made me tear up lol. I’ve been in a rush trying to finish this one (don’t even like how I ended the chapter tbh) I wanted to get it over with it as soon as possible, so I couldn’t reply to any of it. But I really really really appreciate every single comment. I always read your thoughts and speculations with so much joy, you have no idea-- I'll reply to all after the grand Victory Tour final!

Plutarch sending the tokens to Haymitch is not out of the goodness of his heart. Of course. It's to trigger Haymitch survivor's guilt and up it to the max, taking advantage of it and nudge him to the direction Plutarch wants - very utilitarian of him?

Next chapter isn't too long, so see you soon!! Let's finish this Victory Tour : )

Chapter 13: Human Dissatisfied

Summary:

Back to Twelve.

Notes:

Man Was Made To Mourn by Robert Burns

Many and sharp the num'rous ills

    Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves

    Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heav'n-erected face

    The smiles of love adorn,—

Man's inhumanity to man

    Makes countless thousands mourn!

 

Haymitch doesn't sleep.

Can't, won't, doesn't matter, he just doesn't sleep.

After carefully putting the boxes back into their graveyard, he closes the lid shut, and rests his head on it, no energy to get back up again. So he stays there all night even when the muscles in his legs scream at him to take a different position. He wonders how long will it be until the ghosts in the box crawl back out to haunt him.

Instead, much later in the night, it's her words find their way into his mind, the way they always do, as the always have.

He’s been holding onto her since the start of this never-ending journey, wondering what she’d do, what she’d say. But now, it’s the things she did say, straight to his face, that finally start to sink in.

"Nothing you do will ever keep me safe. Not in this system."

As always, she’s right. No one has ever been truly safe. Not Lenore Dove, not Haymitch, not even Plutarch.

"You aren’t the thing that stands between my life and my death. You never were. And you never can be. Y ou would never be the reason for something that’s never had a one to begin with.

They don’t run on what’s fair. They don’t need cause, they just hurt who they want, when they want. 

So don’t stand there and think you’re doing this for me."

I’ve been doing this for you to live. Because Snow hates me, and he hates you, and what you are. He has a past in Twelve, one he's either ashamed or scared of, and your family's involved.

But he’s gone now. No longer a threat to you. Does that free you? Does it free me?

The ones who’ve taken his place, they might come after me, sure. But I doubt I’ll be on the forefronts anymore. Hard to be a distraction when all I do is snarl and bite the hand that feeds me.

So, if I asked you to run away with me now- would you?

Is it too late for us to find happiness away from all this? Having left everything behind? Not only pain and fear, but home? Would you?

Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.

After everything, do I even have the right to imagine a life beyond this? Can I ever truly be free of it? There’s a long line of the dead behind me now, following me wherever I go. Hell, I have a box of graves with me, bringing Death everywhere with me.

Why me? Why am I the one still here, when forty-nine others are gone? You shook up the Capitol, both figuratively and literally, with that earthquake. You were capable of imagining a different future.

Then there's you, who sneaked to the gallows, filed halfway through the rope meant for Clay Chance’s neck all so they could fail; you who set fire to flags and stuffed them beneath the stage. "Didn’t do much good anyway, did it? Clay’s dead and the reaping’s alive and well."

You, who held onto Woodbine Chance's ma, begging the Peacekeepeers to let her have him.

Covey girls are a mystery, it’s half their charm. The rest is love, etched deep in their bones, and defiance born out that love. She wouldn't ever bow unless it's after a performance, out of love for her songs and people.

"Most everybody loves breathing, too, and where did that get us?"

"Some loves don’t signify."

A sudden rush of light hits his dry eyes- he’s kept them open all night, or so it feels like-- and when he finally blinks, he hears the skin of his eyelids crack.

He looks out the window and sees the Sun rising beneath his mountains.

“Can you imagine it rising on a world without a reaping?”

 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 

Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil; 

And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 

Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

 

Proserpina and Vitus see him for the first time since the morning they helped get him ready for Private Affairs. A shudder passes through him involuntarily. Too soon to think about that again.

He’s seated, wrists chained by the accompanying Peacekeeper, while his prep team works on him. Haymitch has to give them credit— they’re gentle, feather-soft touches apply makeup on his face. Effie must’ve told them not to jar his head much. Still, they look a little uneasy, probably apprehensive. It reminds him of their faces right after his Victory when Effie had to hold the by the belts so they wouldn’t run away from the big bad beast.

Back to zero, then.

The camera crew flits around, back on the job after weeks of lazing around in the Capitol. No one looks excited to be here.

Well, if that ain’t the truth.

Haymitch just wants to get it over with the final speech, he's not even tasked a performance now. He's truly hopeless in their eyes. In his too. 

There’s a constant pulsing in his head, and he knows it’s not from the fall or the swelling. It’s countless ghosts slamming their fists against his skull, trying to be heard, but they're yelling over each other, and in the end, Haymitch feels like screaming himself.

He just wants it to be over. To go home. To leave all of this behind and, much later, think it through. But not now.

He’s so tired. Thinking hurts. Breathing does too.

 

DISTRICT 12

Louella / Maysilee / Wyatt / Woodbine / Ma / Sid 

 

Haymitch inhales the frigid air of his district for the first time in what feels like forever, but it just doesn't fill his lungs with refreshing cold like it used to.

He feels like he's aged decades since he left. He probably has.

Effie stuffs the speech cards into his hands, and before he fully registers it, he’s limping toward the microphone on stage. The guitar’s slung over his shoulder like an afterthought- more like a coat tossed in haste onto a rack.

And then he sees them; the giant portraits of his allies, staring him down.

Right. He’d forgotten about this part. Been a while. Or maybe it's the brain injury.

Haymitch drops his gaze from Louella, from Maysilee, from Wyatt. Their faces seem to ask, Well? What’ll you do now that you're here? Parrot some more propaganda? To our families? You're gonna tell them how honored they are that we got murdered? Did we die for nothing, Haymitch?

Some loves really don't signify, huh?

He lifts the cards and starts reading. Makes no effort to pretend he’s memorised any of it, doesn't look away from the paper. As always, he recites what he’s learned from the Capitol, how he did his best to represent his district-- His district.

His people. His home, with his love, with his family.

Am I beginning to understand you better now? Your love always signified-- your love for the world and its people, your love for freedom, and for home, too. Your love for us. You made it speak for everyone, Lenore Dove, Your love made you question, it made you dream of a different future, and it made you resist and oppose.

"These Games bring us together. These Games show us what's important. These Games..."

Haymitch stops reading, and stares the card. 

These Games...

He looks up to the families, propped up on platforms. Avoiding the portraits of his fallen tributes, cannot stand the burning stare of their eyes, they keep waiting for him, Haymitch's gaze falls on Mrs McCoy.

The woman's standing up, swaying slightly in place, Ima and Tolbert are flanking her, former has a supporting grip on her mother's elbow. Mr McCoy, Cayson and Randle are missing. Gillie is with Alifair, who is staring at her shoes, his Sweetheart and Lou Lou flicker by her sides. She'll soon be taller than them both.

She doesn’t belong to them. Don’t just hand her over. Make them fight for her. Run!

Wyatt’s mother is there too, alone. She clutches her shirt just above her heart, the fabric rumpled as if, if she could, she’d reach right in and squeeze it to the point of stopping.

Force them to admit we’re people, too. And they’re the beasts for killing us.

Worse, Wyatt, they're fully human, conscious enough to inflict all this knowing the pain it brings. Then they make it so those under their wing can’t tell the difference between us being forced to kill each other, and some random pig show.

"These Games..." he starts only to fall quiet again.

Murmurs and whispers quickly take over the crowd, buzzing his ears and making the inside of his head tickle, a strange feeling of numbness and static, then something like a warning hiss from Effie behind him. Haymitch takes a staggering breath.

 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, 

By Nature's law design'd, 

Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 

If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn? 

 

Haymitch's eyes go to where his ally's family stands. Merrilee’s head is turned away, staring at nowhere in particular. Her arms hang limp by her sides, and her face is hidden from him, as if she doesn’t want him to see it. His heart lurches.

One of us has to be the worst victor in history. Tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the Victor’s Village. Refuse to play their game.

We’ll paint our own posters. 

"These Games..."

Maybe that’s why they call it going haywire.

Because Haymitch feels something spark, no-- crackle, in his head. Grief. Rage. A sudden surge of fury at how unfair it all is. How silenced they are, how drained of hope, of any light at the end of the tunnel.

Something breaks in his mind, like a wire snapping under too much strain, and he feels it all fill his lungs more than the mountain air. Guess that happens when you grow a backbone all of a sudden.

Haymitch takes a deep breath, and...

Loose cannon going off.

"These Games... are KILLING us!" he yells at last, and tears the microphone off the handle and throws the stand to the side.

He turns to the shellshocked camera crew, "You're killing us!"  Haymitch points at them all, “You’re murdering us! You’re murdering us!”

“You! . . . You! . . . You! . . . YOU! . . .”

Haymitch tears the guitar off himself and hurls it toward the camera. He gets up close to a cameraman before a hand yanks him back and slams him down. Suddenly, he’s breathless.

Around him, chaos erupts. 

The district crowd, Peacekeepers, and Capitol crew are all shouting, voices and orders, screams and uproar crashing over each other as Haymitch sinks his teeth into the wrist of the Peacekeeper holding him down.

He hears something crack. Pain explodes in his mouth like one of those rare jam-filled candies you only get once in a blue moon, if you’ve got coins to spare. Only this time, the taste is metallic, filling his mouth full, and it comes with a searing, bone deep ache that sends violent pulses of pain through his skull, like saw grinding through bone.

Effie is screaming, “He’s a Victor!” and then louder and even more desperate,“He has brain damage!” but to no avail. The bite has earned him a few solid kicks to the face and stomach. The feeling of his guts slipping out comes rushing back, and his hands instinctively fly to his abdomen to hold them in.

Haymitch’s kept pressed flat to the floor with a boot grinding into his neck for minutes before he’s dragged toward a bucket, still onstage, and his head is plunged into ice cold water.

For a long moment, everything is still. The noise fades away, the only indication of hell breaking loose around him is the violent vibration he feels through the bucket.

It all goes dark, he can only see the bottom of the bucket and starts panicking. But he can't move, can't breathe, because when he breathes it's water. He feels his legs kick but Haymitch swears he's not doing it on purpose. His arms flail around too, he's also not trying to do it. Is this the will to live? Why does it kick in at the very last second? He hopes its too late.

I said be my rooster, so where are you? Ma's already waiting for me, basket in hand, wake me up, wake me up, Sid--

Happy birthday, Haymitch! 

 

 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast: 

This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last! 

The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born, 

Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn! 

 

And then light. Just not the one he has so selfishly wished to see. Death just won't take him, he must have a lot to do here, still. Lots of loose ends to tie up in the therebefore.

Feeling dizzy, Haymitch coughs and coughs, near hacking up his lung. Someone wrestles him to his feet, but his legs feel like they’re swimming, funny how the rest of his body acts like it’s the one submerged in water when it was just his head.

His senses are frozen by the ice water. Noise is all but a distant ringing. Haymitch feels as numb as a darkened limb lost to the cold, while his team fusses around him, patting his face with soft towels. They fix his collar and retouch his hair and makeup, as urgent shouts from the camera crew rise- but he can only make out, “In 10, 9, 8…”

Then he's all but dragged and propped up before the microphone stand once more, standing right where he had just brought it down.

He wonders if time has actually went back.

“And...Go!"

It's quiet. The crowd in front of him look less than what it was before, even if Haymtich can't focus on every single one much. McCoys are all gone from the podium- all families are, actually.

He sees the camera crew point down and looks down to see the cards in his hand. But the words are left floating in the bucket his head was just in.

Haymitch looks up at the screens surrounding the square, his face broadcast in close-up. Now, it's only his face all over, and none of the families or crowd.

He opens his mouth and smiles, blood streaming from the gap where his eyeteeth is missing and through the cracks in his other teeth. 

A defeated sigh escapes from the camera crew- an exhaled Cut.

Then, with a sharp pain in his temple, everything goes black.

 

 O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, 

    The kindest and the best! 

Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

    Are laid with thee at rest! 

The great, the wealthy fear thy blow

    From pomp and pleasure torn; 

But, oh! a blest relief for those 

    That weary-laden mourn!

Notes:

And Icarus laughed as he fell…

That's it for the Victory Tour! A short chapter to end things, I didn't want to drag it out any longer. I know his thoughts are all over the place, and that's with me omitting so many other stuff everyone said.

Now moving on to LD chapters! What's been happening on her side? And by association, Burdock, Asterid, and other residents of D12 we know (some we will know because it's school time!) and love. Maybe even some future tributes, if you look closely.

And don't worry, his head is fine. Thanks to my fairy dust his initial TBI wasn't too mild (I know he fell from the fifth floor let's assume the ceiling of each floor isn't that high) and manipulated on chart to be seem as such - Plutarch's connections - but he'll be concussed for a while now. If need be, I'll just have to sprinkle some more.

just me being me - rambling

I initially wrote a very long A/N about my take on Plutarch but then I got insecure so I went to reddit to see what people think and saw people complaining about writers doing that and someone wrote 'story should speak for itself' then I got even more insecure lol so that's not here now... Though I might post that much later, maybe in another chapter he appears in?

See you all soon!!

Chapter 14: Songs and People

Summary:

Lenore Dove plays her songs and loves her people, all but one song, and all but one person.

Notes:

screw waiting here's another chapter (I can't come up with a solid D12 map so don't pay attention to where anything is please thank you)

July, she will fly - And give no warning to her flight

August, die she must - The autumn winds blow chilly and cold

September, I remember - A love once new has now grown old

 

LATE SEPTEMBER

It's a busy night in the Hob.

The square dance kicks into full swing, boys and girls bump and crash into each other, falling into each other, and love alike.

Lenore Dove feels even more miserable on the stage.

She's playing her tune box, but her mind's elsewhere. Ignoring the side eye Clerk Carmine keeps giving her whenever she misses her cue - which is often - Lenore Dove tries to stop her mouth from tugging down. She can't help it, the frown's there, it's been there since before they started. 

They perform more now that the performances in Hob are allowed again. Gravy’s gone and there's a new head peacekeeper, Troch, and a whole new set of guards, and the new man in charge found the ban against music ridiculous. Might as well have a good time if we're gonna be stuck in this shithole, were apparently his exact words, thanks to Cayson's peacekeeper friend who hasn't been reassigned somewhere else.

Lenore Dove already hates him. I’ll show him a shithole, she’d told her uncles in a moment of rage-- but it got misunderstood as a threat to start trouble, so she had to spend an hour convincing them she didn’t mean it like that. But she did.

And so, weekend performances are back on track, and Covey's better off these days than ever before. Though Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine are always on edge, before, during and after each performance, and strictly ban her from moving out of their eyesight at all costs.

Lenore Dove's eyes drift to a dancing couple she recognizes-- Leidy Ann, whose married name comes to mind now thanks to the man she's spinning with, Spencer Doyle. Leidy throws her head back, laughing as Spencer, still covered in soot and grime, swings her around without a care in the world.

Life’s strange like that. It just keeps going, no matter what.

Two months ago had been a terrifying blow to their community.

But with Hob performances starting up again, folks could dance their troubles away. And drink them away, too. Mostly, it's bit of both.

Right beside them is Spencer’s twin brother, though they don't exactly look as similar as Donner twins used to, Sterling, also dancing with his wife. Both brothers got married on the same day along with another friend of theirs, pooling what little they had so all three couples could afford music and food for the wedding. Being close friends of Tolbert McCoy, Louella’s eldest brother, they got a discount too, on the promise that Covey will play again at his wedding when the time comes.

So, Lenore Dove knows them all thanks to last year’s celebration.

Back then, she couldn’t stop smiling, kept imagining herself and her love in their place— getting married, dancing in the middle of it all while her uncles played… and she’d make Burdock sing too, for sure. Someone’s got to, if she’s going to be busy dancing.

Now, the sight makes her want to hop off stage and leave.

But she can’t do that, so she figures she’s at least earned the right to frown in misery, in peace. It’s not like anyone’s looking at her anyway— they’re all too busy staring into each other’s eyes.

Lenore Dove sighs again, barely audible to everyone but her younger uncle, and stares off to the side before her uncaring eyes meets her uncle's warning gaze.

Luckily for her, it's break time. Tam Amber hands her the tip basket to make the rounds. She sets down her tune box and takes the basket, actually hopping off the stage. Her uncles always give her a funny look whenever she’s on basket duty, Tam Amber’s mentioned the first time that her mother used to be the one doing that. But it’s been weeks now, surely they'd have been used to seeing her like this.

So she’s around, trying her best to smile as a handful of Peacekeepers toss coins into the basket. Her hand shakes a little as she scans their faces. None of them are the ones who were there during her imprisonment. She hasn’t told her uncles, or Burdock, or really anyone about what happened in there. Her need to tell it all to one person has made every other problem in her life fade into the background. Or so she thought.

She finishes scanning the Peacekeepers— quietly relieved that she recognizes none of them, and her shoulders sag a bit.

“Hey, LD!” someone calls out. "Over here!"

Before she can scowl at them for butchering her name — only people close to her get to play around like that, that's what and who nicknames are for — her expression softens. It’s Burdock and his friends- Blair, Gillie McCoy and Jed Chapman. She lifts her hand in a wave, and the boys wave back. 

It’s still strange, being around so many people more often than not. She’s not exactly well-liked like Asterid — being arrested multiple times before age twelve and her overall quiet nature have a lot to do with that, former kept people from approaching and latter kept her from reaching out — but she’s always had a tight, close knit circle which she's been very much content with. She never needed anyone other than Haymitch anyway. He’s been her best friend ever since they met. No one listened to her like him, no one tried their absolute best to understand her like he did.

A sharp jab of pain pulses in her chest, which she does her best to ignore, shifting the basket to her hip as she walks over. She lifts a hand to her uncles to signal where she is, and Tam Amber nods in acknowledgement. 

“What’re y’all doing loitering around for?” she says. “Go, earn your keep. Do something.” 

“C’mon,” Blair says. “Go easy on us. Once we turn eighteen, we’ll never see the daylight again.”

"Now don't go making a mountain out of a molehill. Besides, you lot still got what, three years?"

“We’re just enjoying the fresh air and open space while we still can,” Jed adds with a smirk.

Lenore Dove looks around. It's full of people, barely any place to move other than the dance floor, and air thick with liquor and sweat. She raises an eyebrow at that.

"The Hob's fresh air and open space for you?"

"As goos as... 'Least it's above ground." He shrugs in response.

Lenore Dove nods in acknowledgment. She’s not especially close to Jed yet— he’s a newer addition to Burdock’sclose circle. Up until a few months ago, Jed hadn't been that close to any of them. 

“Oh, you’re offering?” Burdock asks, reaching toward the basket.

Lenore Dove slaps his hand away without missing a beat, and Burdock jerks back like a snail that’s had its antenna tapped.

“Paws off,” she warns. “Y’all are alone? No dates? Not even a dance partner? I know Burdock’s trying his best, but the rest of you?” She says, tsking.

A chorus of groans rises from the three boys, while Burdock just laughs.

"Not anymore," Jed sighs. “My girl dropped me like a bad habit, like I'm just trouble."

Blair snorts. “Maybe 'cause you are one?”

“What part of me’s trouble, Banner?” Jed shoots back. “I’ve got four older sisters. If I was ever trouble, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“And I haven’t had any luck with your kind,” Gillie chimes in. “Not all of us are Haymitch, y’know. Some of us struggle with that side of life.”

“Yeah…” 

Everyone goes quiet at the mention of Haymitch. Lenore Dove’s just grateful none of the boys rose to her teasing, turned it around on her and asked why she’s single.

Not that people know Haymitch even ended things, but it’s an easy guess after months of not being seen together. Haymitch hasn’t left his house, hasn’t gone back to school, hasn't visited the graveyard even once since the funeral, hasn't been seen.

He might as well have never come back from the Games.

Just the mere thought is enough to run a chill down her spine.

She shakes it off and changes the subject.

“Who’s your girl?” she asks Jed, who immediately looks to his friends, half laughing, like he can’t believe she doesn’t know.

“That's my cuz for you, doesn't keep track of people’s matters of the heart much,” Burdock says, smiling. Except her own, goes unsaid, but it's there.

“Well that just makes me feel lesser, somehow,” Jed jokes, but turns back to her anyway. "Like none of us are worth your interest."

She gives him a sheepish smile and a shrug. "I wouldn't put it like that, more like my mind's occupied, I guess."

“Then y’know Romy? Romy Litwiler?”

“Probably not,” Gillie answers before she can. And even if she wants to prove him wrong, she really doesn’t know who that is.

Jed’s eyes go wide. “No way. You played at her sister’s wedding just this June! I was there too, by the way!”

"Hey, I know Litwilers, I remember the wedding, too." Lenore Dove replies honestly.

The bride’s side was a bundle of nerves that day— Litwilers usually are, Tam Amber had told her as they watched the bride’s mother circle her daughter like a hawk, needle and thread in hand, checking for anything out of place for the hundredth time. We've played in most of their weddings.

Most couples rent their wedding dresses, but theirs was a family heirloom, worn by every Litwiler girl on her wedding day. After each ceremony, the bride’s name would be stitched into the inner hem— all thanks to Nana Litwiler, who’d started the tradition. A chattery woman who kept telling them her song requests from the side.

"And my sweet Romy?"

“Uh...” 

“Told you,” Gillie mutters. She shoots him a scowl.

“Well, doesn't matter anyway,” Jed shrugs, “Romy’s done with me.” His drops his gaze and frowns. “Hope she finds happiness with that Blanken boy sparking her now... before I kill him.” he adds under his breath.

“Stop saying that,” Blair snaps. “You keep saying it. One day a Peacekeeper’s gonna hear you. Or someone he knows.”

“To hell with the Peacekeepers too,” Jed mutters, quieter this time. He risks a glance toward the liquored up group in still uniform at the back and his lip curls in disgust. No wonder Gillie’s gotten closer to him. “Murderers. Woodbine’s gone 'cause of 'em.”

Jed falls silent after that. Gillie reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze, looking solemn on his own. There's suddenly too many people mourning in this circle. She supposes the Second Quarter Quell was the catalyst for this friendship as well. Gillie's more talkative these days too, compared to last Lenore Dove's seen him, on the Fortieth Day of Willamae and Sid.

“You were close with Woodbine?” Lenore Dove asks.

Jed’s eyes widen again. “Seriously? I swear, are y'all born with blinkers on in Covey?”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you pale into the background next to those Chances, my friend." Burdock quips.

"If that's the case," Jed shoots back, just as quick. “Then I'm lucky to be here with you lot, now, huh?”

“Hey!”

The others don’t let that slide, hits start raining on Jed in an instant, who tries blocking the incoming attacks with an arm.

"My older sister's close with his brother, our ma's used to send us to third wheel them all the time, to make sure no funny business happened, you get it. I'm sure you know Crocco."

"That I do,"  Lenore Dove knows all the Chances by now, of course she does. Crockett Chance is —was— Woodbine’s older brother. He’s about five years older than Woodbine was, and he’s already started working in the Mines. Now, he’s the youngest Chance brother. 

"Of course, but you wouldn’t know my older sister now, would you?" Jed tsks, earning loud laughter from the other three.

"Let it go, man."

"I'm sure Lois will live." 

"Wasn't she marrying him?"

"Pa won't let her, and Ma's convinced he'll get her killed along with him."

She thinks of Sid. As they grew up, especially after she and Haymitch started really seeing each other, Willamae used to send Sid along whenever they made plans together. Usually, Haymitch would bribe him with something or send him off to play with his friends. Not that Sid ever needed much convincing— he is just that sweet of a kid.

Was.

The past tense forms a lump in her throat. She swallows hard.

"Well," She says, tilting her head. "Then you are trouble, Mr Chapman. If you lie down with dogs, don’t be surprised when you get up with fleas."

"Good thing we’re not dogs, and our opinions aren’t fleas," he replies with a grin, which she agrees wholeheartedly. "And if that is so, then Romy’s sure as hell not some lapdog who takes three vinegar baths a day. She can do with a bit of flea, one's gotta scratch their head from time to time." 

"I suppose you're right," Lenore Dove laughs, but turns her head as her uncles call out her name, time to go back on the stage.

"That's my cue. The show must go on, boys," she says, giving them a brief curtsy before heading off. Burdock and the others call out their goodbyes behind her, breaking into a cheer.

Back on stage, she feels a little lighter. Burdock and his friends linger a while longer before taking off, careful of their curfews, but not without holding a final whistling competition to cheer on the band. Lenore Dove throws them a parting wave.

Somehow, she manages to close the night on a better note than where it began.

---

“You're really wasting honey on it?"

"Wasting? On it? Oh, I’m telling. Poor Asterid'll be heartbroken you said that."

"Wha—!" Burdock kicks her in the shin, Lenore Dove yelps and kicks him back. 

“You're telling her anything," he hisses.

"I tell her everything now. We're friends." Lenore Dove sticks her tongue out at her cousin, "Besides, she said he’s in low spirits. I think fella needs a bit of sweetness in his life."

She measures out a spoonful of honey, and adds it into the little bowl of flour and water, stirring it all together. Burdock watches her work with a frown on his face, chin resting in palm. 

“We could’ve ate that honey…We could’ve toasted some bread, and then with cottage cheese….”

“Someone’s gonna eat it, and it sure ain’t gonna be you,” Lenore Dove says, mixing in the chicken scratch, crushed corn, and the wild seeds Burdock had gone out and foraged earlier today.

Then comes a series of soft tapping on the door. and Burdock shoots up like he’d just sprouted wings. Lenore Dove rolls her eyes. 

If this is what Burdock had to deal with when she and Haymitch were fumbling their way through the awkward space between friends and something more, then maybe she should cut him a little slack.

She heard the door open, his soft little "Welcome," followed by some quiet talk, a laugh or two, then that sunshine voice rings through their tiny kitchen.

"How do!" Asterid chirps. She hurries in, coat half off, and gives Lenore Dove a clumsy side hug, clunky becauuse of the birdcage she’s holding in her other hand. The cage jostles a little, but Dandelion remains silent.

"Same old, how do back to you!"

"All good-- what'cha making?" Asterid asks as Burdock takes her coat to hang on the hook by the door. She watches him go for a moment, cheeks pink, and Lenore Dove knows it’s not just from the chilly autumn air.

“A lil treat for your boy.” Well, one of them. “Got us some honey yesterday. Thought it might cheer Dandelion up.”

Asterid lights up. She sets the cage gently on the counter and leans in.

“You hear that, Dandy? You're having honey today. We’re a bit jealous over here, Mister, so be grateful.” She coos at the bird.

No response.

Asterid leans back, smile slipping away. The stitches on her temple look better, the violent purple has faded into a sickly green, but it’s clearly healing. Mr March has apparently prepared a miracle balm using nearly everything he has on his daughter, and has been insisting on treating it every day. Lenore Dove is still grateful that Asterid's not harbouring any hate for Haymitch. 

“He looks better...” Burdock says, a miserable attempt to lift her spirits. Though he glances away when Asterid pouts. Already not much of a liar, Burdock Everdeen cannot keep a poker face at the face of one Asterid March.

“No he doesn’t, he looks worse...” she whines. “Won’t eat, won’t move, won’t sing. I was hoping maybe you might give it a go?”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Asterid suddenly looks shy. “Maybe he’ll sing if you do? Birds always sing after you, Burdock.”

“I always say,” Lenore Dove chimes in as she shapes the sticky mess around a piece of stranded cotton. “—it takes one birdie to know one Burdie.” She smiles when Asterid laughs, and slides the tray into the wood stove oven.

Burdock looks entirely out of his depth. But he glances at Asterid, then nods. “Sure, sure. I can do that... I can sing, will. I'll sing. For him.”

They move into the living room and once they place Dandelion carefully on the table, the trio settles in around him.

“You sure he’s not just molting?” Burdock asks, craning his neck to look at Dandelion form all angles. “They go quiet during that, y’know.”

“I know he's not,” Asterid says, pulling the cage closer and pointing out the red spots all over Dandelion. Lenore Dove’s heart pangs in sympathy. “Look— he’s bald and red all over. It’s not molting, and it’s not worms or mites either. I’ve treated him for everything I could think of…”

“He’s plucking himself, too.” Her voice cracks a little, “He’s just… sad. Shaken up, too. Merrilee’s really…” she takes a breath.

“She really scared him. But he misses her. Them.”

Asterid’s not just talking about Dandelion now. It’s obvious the songbird’s not alone in his grief.

She stares at the bird, expression so forlorn and tender that it makes Lenore Dove feel just as desperate to coax out even a single note. 

Burdock, too— her lovestruck cousin looks like he might bust out into song right then and there, and not stop until Dandelion sings something back. Like a true lovebird.

Though, after a certain point, Asterid’s wish stops being about Dandelion and starts being about Maysilee. And no amount of singing can make that wish come true.

They start going through songs. She and Asterid bring up suggestions, Burdock sings.

He won’t look at Asterid while he does, but the girl can’t keep her eyes off him, the back of his ears turn tomato red. Lenore Dove gets very close to walking out, just from how much they’re pining for each other. When it's time to get the honey stick out of the oven, she does just that and takes her time in the kitchen. She places the tray on the counter and leaves it to cool off.

After more songs, which the girls try their hand as well— this time it’s Lenore Dove’s cheeks that burn to high heavens as she sings a short tune— a nasty, croaking cough rips from Burdock’s lungs.

“You good?" Lenore Dove asks. "Got a miner’s lung already?"

"Hey," Burdock says, coughing more. “I’ve been singing for what, an hour now? Had my best performance on for Dandelion, y’know.” 

Asterid’s already elbow deep in her leather messenger bag. After some clinging and rustling, she pulls out a small pouch of what looks like yellow candies, kind of like Lenore Dove's rainbow gumdrops, though the memory only brings a shiver through her entire body now.

"Cough syrup mixes. I made them myself,” she says, getting up. “They melt in water. Come on, I’ll fix you some.” Then turns to Lenore Dove, “Oh, I’m sorry ,Lenore Dove- can we use some of the—“

“Suit yourself.”

“Thank you!” Asterid calls out, already in the kitchen. “I’ll make tea for us, too!”

And they head into the kitchen, leaving Lenore Dove alone with Dandelion.

“Hey, buddy.” She coos, watching him blink slowly. He looks lethargic. 

“You must be missing your people, huh?” She mutters to the yellow songbird in the cage. “That’s why you won’t sing. You probably want to sing for them, and not a bunch of fools hovering around, trying to get a chirp out og you.”

Lenore Dove sighs, and rests her head on her palm, not looking away from the barely moving canary. 

“I get it,” she vents to Dandelion. “I miss my person too. I only want to sing for him as well, I think I understand you more than you’d know.” 

What’s my person doing right now? 

Last I saw, he looked no better than you, Dandelion.

But I'm here, and maybe if I sing, he'll come back, I keep thinking things like that.

She hums a song under her breath, stroking the canary’s head with the softest touch she can muster. Then, without much thought, she whistles a short tune.

Dandy’s been unresponsive to every song, every melody Burdock’s tried his hand at, so she doesn’t expect much now either. If the Burdock Everdeen can’t get a bird to sing back, then there’s no way she, or anyone else, could.

But, by some miracle —a rare thing for her these days— the canary whistles the tune right back.

Lenore Dove’s head snaps up and she looks at Dandy with wide eyes. She pauses for a second before whistling again, just something a bit longer this time.

Dandy responds in kind.

“Did your girls whistle to you a lot?” she asks him, smiling wide now, throwing in another whistle. Dandy whistles back.

“They must’ve, huh?” She beams at him, laughing, and strokes his bald head. This time, Dandy leans back against her finger, oh so slightly. “I can tell, you whistle splendidly.”

Her heart lurches at that. 

She’s never liked the Donner twins much, sure. Plenty at school felt the same, at least for Maysilee. The girl never pulled her punches back for anyone but her sister and Asterid, after all. Lenore Dove’s grudge had always been personal; first, the thing with their first canary and how can they just not see the problem with putting a bird behind bars, then the mockingjay and hummingbird pins and Maysilee outright telling Tam Amber "What good are you then?", and finally, Maysilee again, spotting her slogans all over the alleyways and connecting the orange paint from those splattered on Lenore Dove’s hands, from just that one time she saw her at the Mayor’s birthday party…Followed by the Itchy Itchy Haymitchy thing.

But the picture of that girl, high and mighty in public, highfalutin as they come, sitting alone with her bird, whistling with him…

Being loved so much that now her bird is in mourning, clear as day, so upset by her being gone…

It breaks something in Lenore Dove. Well, they aren't that different after all. She’s more like the bird than she thought.

"Was that you or Dandy?" Asterid bursts in, eyes wide. She drops her voice to a whisper. "Did he chirp back?"

"Yep!" Lenore Dove says. "I whistled, and he whistled right back."

"He didn’t whistle back to me," Burdock steps in, a steaming cup in his hands, frowning. "I whistled to him, too."

"Maybe he’s more used to girls tunes," Lenore Dove teases. "Probably just needed a woman’s touch."

Burdock looks a little put out that he couldn’t get Dandelion to sing, for it was something Asterid asked of him, but he can’t hide the way his face softens watching the bird chirp along with Lenore Dove. And Asterid’s whole face lights up like the sun in the dim room.

"I wish I could whistle too," she says. "I’d whistle for him all the time if I could."

"I’ll teach you," Burdock says quick as a whip. 

Asterid nods with a wide smile and cheeks red as apples.

"If you’d like," Lenore Dove has an offer her own, "I can look after Dandy for a while, get him whistling again and all. Be easier if we don’t move him too much.”

“That’s a great idea,” Asterid agrees, eagerly nodding her head. “It’d be less stressful for him, too. He kept picking the entire way.” She claps her hand, and hugs Lenore Dove in gratitude. 

Overjoyed to have something to do, Lenore Dove throws herself into caring for Dandelion. She’s already familiar with poultry, though she’s never looked after a bird this small, or one that lives in a cage. Still, she’s come to understand that for some birds, life outside the cage might be too late to be a possibility. If Dandy were let out now, he might enjoy the freedom, only to be snatched up by a predator. That’s just nature’s law, she knows that. But who is Lenore Dove to condemn him to that?

She sighs and finds the softest, lightest sheet she can to cover Dandelion’s cage for the night. Asterid had warned her he gets night frights, so she leans in close, whispers a goodnight, and whistles a simple three note tune. When he whistles it back, she smiles, drapes the sheet gently over the cage, and lowers the wick of her oil lamp until the flame goes out.

Before lying down, she checks to make sure the horseshoe isn’t hung by her bedside, she knows it's not but still, just in case. Then Lenore Dove rests her head on the pillow and waits for sleep to take her, ready to welcome any nightmare that might haunt Haymitch and Dandelion. Better her than them.

---

EARLY OCTOBER

 

Her daily routine is all different now.

She’s grown used to walking to and from school with a small crowd.

Usually, it was just her and Haymitch— sometimes Sid, if he woke up earlier than usual and decided to tag along with Haymitch when he came to pick her up. Burdock and Blair, on occasion.

Now, she walks alone to a certain point where she meets Burdock and Blair. Depending on the day, Gillie and Jed join them too.

The school sits at the midpoint between Seam's entrance and the square, just outside Town and a short walk into the Seam— so they meet Asterid there as well.

More often than not, the blonde girl arrives with company, usually the baker’s son and one of the butcher’s girls. The two continue on while Asterid jogs ahead to catch up with their little Seam-side group.

The first day of October is no different. Lenore Dove and the rowdy group of boys trail behind. She’s already tired of them. It makes her miss sweet Haymitch all the more, who's always so soft-spoken with her, even if she has witnessed one too many of his burping contests.

Asterid and Lenore Dove link arms and start trekking to school. It's rained the night before, and ground's all wet. 

That’s right around the time a car comes speeding from the direction of the train station. As it passes Lenore Dove and her group —along with several others walking in— everyone stops and stares. It’s a Capitol car, that much is obvious. A spotless, sleek burgundy thing, and inside is a group dressed entirely in black head to toe. Heads turn toward it and whispers start.

Well, not that she sees any more, or has more  time to look. The car tears by so fast, muddy water splashes all over the onlookers near the road. Lenore Dove and Asterid barely save their coats with a swift sidestep, but Gillie and Burdock aren’t so lucky— both end up with mud on their clothes.

Shrieks ring out, followed by curses and cusses.

"Dang blast it!" Gillie exclaims, "Ma just did laundry, too! I’m done for, sure as sunrise."

“Shoot, I’m getting the boot right along with you," Burdock says, smoothing his pants to see the damage clearly. He sighs, "Let's just go."

All around, kids start walking to school angrily, complaints, and frustrated groans follow along.

“Ugh!"

“What use’s having a car if you're not gonna drive it right?”

"You'd think they'd know..."

Asterid and Lenore Dove fall into step beside Burdock. He’s got a frown on his face, which their Townie friend takes to heart, and starts rambling about washing the coat with the hose behind the school garden.

Burdock lets out a laugh, smiling at Asterid, again, cheeks and ears red that's got nothing to do with the cold air.

“It’s all good. Ma’ll give me the boot, sure, but it was gonna get dirty soon anyway. Getting it messed up right after laundry day’s like a personal insult to her.”

“Can’t they see there are people around?” echoes an outraged cry.

“Well, maybe you shouldn't've been gawking at it, then.” comes a monotone reply.

"Just go on, Lem." 

"I'm just saying."

“Why the hell is a car from the Capitol here, anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Those aren’t meant to be real questions, Lem…”

"Oh- Lem? Lem!" When he hears the name, Jed breaks free from the group and jogs up to two boys, one of them holding a crate full of garden soil. “You seen Romy?”

“Yeah, Tygart picks her up now, they walk around then go to school together,” Lem says. “She told me not to tell you.”

Jed goes quiet. “Then why’d you tell me?”

“Because I don’t care.”

“Lemuel, next time my girl tells you not to tell me something— don’t tell me.”

“Right. Then you’ll barrel into me for not telling you anything.” Lemuel shifts the crate in his arms and starts walking off. “I know your game, Jed. She’s not even your girl anymore. Maybe cut that out if you don’t want Tygart to beat you up.”

“You little--”

“Alright, buddy, let's just go." Blair says, barely stifling his laughter.

“He’s taunting me! And what's that, talking like Blanken could take me, come on!”

“Let it go, Jed,” Even Asterid joins in, grinning at his obvious misery.

Blair pats him on the back. “He’s not wrong about that, though, Asterid. Have you seen Tygart?”

Asterid shakes her head. “No.”

“Built like a twig, really. Like that tailor’s son from your side.”

“Virgil? He’s pretty strong, though.”

“How so?” Burdock cuts in, instantly alert. He looks, for a moment, like a hound dog catching a scent, ears perked and nose twitching. Lenore Dove watches him with mild amusement.

“Well, he carries tons of fabric all day, and they're pretty heavy,” Asterid says with a shrug. “So I think he’d be strong. Otho's the same, just that on him it’s obvious.”

Burdock's face is...Lenore Dove has to hold her laugh in at the forlorn expression on her cousin's face. Probably arranging a whole new schedule for himself: Carry a lot of heavy stuff, build muscle, be strong.

Later that same week, the car starts showing up at least twice, every week. And once they find out it’s been going in and out of the Victor’s Village, Lenore Dove gets instantly more interested. She’d assumed it was just some Capitol errand.

Well, it is Capitol business now, technically. Since Haymitch is their business. The thought makes her stomach churn.

She tries to dig deeper, but ever since the Capitol folks started showing up, there’s been a Peacekeeper stationed right at the gate.

The car keeps coming, stays a night, and leaves. Twice a week. 

Every week.

---

LATE OCTOBER

Dandelion is now fully responding to Lenore Dove's singing.

Between his chirps and honking of her geese, Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber are right about to go nuts. But they bite their tongue— probably seeing this as an opportunity for her to get Haymitch off her mind. It doesn’t, but it helps take the ache off, gives her something else to do other than school and music.

Especially now that she's still forbidden from going anywhere alone unless someone picks her up and drops her off at the door. Otherwise, her uncles have made a deal with Burdocks' pa that she'd have to help him and the cousins empty and reset snares. Lenore Dove doesn't want that.

Asterid's eyes are practically two blue moons watching Dandelion flap around in the cage-- she has already rubbed her eyes squeaky clean for more than Lenore Dove could count. And when Lenore Dove starts whistling, and Dandelion joins in, her hands are pushing the back of her hears like she can't believe what she's hearing. 

"You've done it!" She whispers, then pulls Lenore Dove in a hug. "He's singing and dancing!"

Lenore Dove laughs, hugging her friend back, "'Couse he did, Dandy's tough as a pine knot."

After giving Dandelion a quick celebratory treat, this time a sorghum stick Lenore Dove's made just for him, the two girls decide to leave the house and walk to the meadow alongside Lenore Dove’s flock. But before they head out, as always, Lenore Dove pulls out a tin of petroleum jelly and slathers some onto her their legs and feet- no one’s getting scaley legs on her watch. It's getting colder and colder.

She introduces her flock to Asterid as she readies them up for the stroll. The girl’s always been nervous around them, usually passing on Lenore Dove’s offers to meet, but this time, there’s no getting out of it.

“Here’s the man of the flock - the gander - you can tell by the bill. It’s bigger, look. So, this is Wordsworth. Sir Wordsworth or ‘No, Wordsworth’ depending on what kind of day he’s having. He’s either a complete gentleman or an absolute menace.

Then the ladies— here’s Alleyne and Quarles. They’re best friends, so they’re always together. It’s easy to tell ‘em apart. Quarles walks funny, you’ll see. She kind of slinks like a snake with her neck down. Alleyne’s all business like she’s got smething important. Perfect posture.

Countess Cathleen likes her own space— very much like us, I’d say. She gets mad if others get too close and pitches a fit. And this here’s Lovesong. Her bill’s a bit paler, see? She’s also shyest of the bunch.”

“Oh wow,” Asterid says. “I… they're all actually so distinct, I'm surprised.”

“Really?” Lenore Dove grins, then places her hands on Asterid’s shoulders and turns her around. After shuffling her flock into place —despite their honking protests— she spins Asterid back to face them. The girl already looks defeated, staring at the geese helplessly.

“Which one’s Sir Wordsworth?”

“Wordsworth’s the gander,” Asterid recites like it’s a surprise quiz she didn’t study for. “The bill is bigger…and…”

Lenore Dove can’t help it, she laughs at her friend's face.

“Fine, they all look the same to.” Asterid crosses her arms. “Lou Lou died before I could tell him apart from any other canary, and even with Dandelion, if you put him in with a bunch of other birds, I don't think I could tell him apart either!”

Lenore Dove keeps laughing, “That’s okay. I didn't think you'd look so crushed about it.”

Asterid breaks into a smile as well, holding the door open for the flock as start heading out.

"Where’d their names come from?”

“Just pen names, and books.”

The geese nibble at the hem of Asterid’s skirt and peck at her wool socks and the laces of her boots. Lenore Dove has to give her credit for staying still and not aggravating them further, though she’s clinging to Lenore Dove’s arm like a lifeline. 

The flock eases up on her once they reach the meadow, and Asterid wins them over with a handful of feed corn she scatters around.

It’s cold. The girls run in place and do some jumping jacks to get their blood flowing. Once they’ve warmed up a bit, out of breath from the exercise and laughing, they perch together on a rock-- though not Lenore Dove’s favorite one. That one’s off limits for the sake of her emotional health right now.

"I'm glad I brought Dandelion to you," Asterid says, once it’s quiet. A distant honk makes them giggle, breath forming clouds in the cold air. "I wanted to bring him even earlier, but my mama got me all bummed out. Can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees Dandy chirping and about." She smiles.

“She didn’t?” Lenore Dove asks. “Why’s that?”

"Well..." Asterid shifts, a little sheepish.. "She’s kind of scared of me being friends with you. Not that I care, but she’s—"

"Right," Lenore Dove laughs. "No need to tell me. I know. 'Cause I’m a rebel."

Asterid looks a little taken aback that she said that out loud in the open, but doesn’t push back.

"She's told me not to bother with him. She said...She always says..." she starts, her voice softer now, "...what can’t be cured must be endured."

Asterid sighs. "She says that to people from the Seam when they come looking for a cure but can’t afford it. Said it to Papa plenty, too. Whenever he’d slip someone extra medicine beneath the counter. And she said it to me, about Dandelion.” Then she stands up and kicks her legs out— it’s too cold sitting still on the rock.

"I don’t think like that," she says. “I don’t want to think like that.”

What can’t be cured, must be endured.

It’s just dreary.

Her mind starts whirling on her own, and Lenore Dove goes quiet. What can’t be cured, must be endured.

It applies to everything, really.

To sickness, to injuries, to pain.

To grief.

To the system. To the Hunger Games. To the belief that things won't ever change.

Asterid's mother's words are cruel, especially with the underlying meaning.

You can't cure it. There's no curing it. Best you can do is grit your teeth against it.

Just like how you can't get rid of the Hunger Games. And so, you must endure it.

That’s part of our trouble. Thinking things are inevitable. Not believing change is possible.

“If I can do something about it, then I will. And I really want to." Asterid says, "Maybe that’s the way I rebel.” 

Lenore Dove looks up and meets Asterid’s eyes.

Of course she does. She's the kind of girl who sneaks out medicine and makes her own, just to help the people in Seam. Because if there’s anything that can be cured, she will find a way.

“I think it is,” Lenore Dove smiles at her friend. Turns out they're more alike than she thought.  “I think we hold ourselves back because we believe most things can’t be cured. But I believe it too, Asterid. If I can do something about it, then I will.”

---

Hattie's got a new mule.

She stares at Elcanie Raines so long and hard that her classmate has to set the sack of cracked corn down, catch his breath and ask what her problem is.

“Nothing,” she replies absentmindedly just as Hattie hollers, “Caney! Get a move on! We've got work to do!” and Lenore Dove’s spared any further embarrassment.

Like somehow, seeing his place taken made it all real. Haymitch isn’t coming back into their lives. It must’ve hit Asterid much earlier, when Maysilee stopped showing up behind the sweetshop counter. And much, much harder too, because again, Maysilee's dead.

He’s not dead, Lenore Dove, she tells herself, barely resisting the itch of her hand to smack herself for even thinking it.

She’s here with Burdock, trying to convince Hattie to show them how distilling works for his turpentine project. Hattie doesn’t ask why they’re not knocking on Haymitch’s door instead. She just gives them a long look, lets out a sigh, and says they’d better be quiet if they’re planning to watch.

Even as she works, Hattie mutters to herself under her breath, what she’s doing and why. Burdock soaks it up like a sponge, jotting everything down like a human recorder.

Lenore Dove can’t help but jab, “Never seen you this focused in school.”

“Shut up,” comes the swift reply, as her cousin keeps scribbling down every word Hattie mutters-- Gotta be airtight. No leaks. Seal with mud, ash, or flour (1/2 rye 1/2 wheat works)

Hattie says, not to them directly but to the air and trees, that the process is different for pine sap than it is for corn mash, and soon they catch the gist of it. Then Burdock asks if he can borrow the still— that’s when Hattie kicks them out.

And that’s about that.

She only half-listens to Burdock jabbering on about how he'll get the parts for his makeshift still.

How much time is left until someone starts sitting in Haymitch's empty seat in their class, too? How long until a new house is built from scratch where Abernathy's used to be?

How long?

---

FIRST WEEK OF NOVEMBER

 

“Cold, cold, cold…” Blair repeats, starts jogging to join the other two walking up ahead.

“It’s not that cold, Blair,” Burdock calls out from behind. “You always get like this in fall, then don’t feel a thing in the thick of winter. I don’t get it…”

“Me neither, buddy,” The boy yells back, then falls into step beside Gillie and Jed.

Asterid and Burdock match pace together, and Lenore Dove lets herself drift a bit behind them.

It’s the day after Gillie’s birthday, and they’re headed to town from school. Asterid has a shift, and the rest are tagging along as Gillie goes to register for more tesserae. He hasn’t really celebrated, not really. The McCoys had a nice dinner together. Thanks to Haymitch’s victory, every household got a parcel brimming with grain, oil, canned meat, corn syrup.

Lenore Dove hasn’t eaten taken a single bite of it.

She’s on strike in her own house. She absolutely refuses to touch a single thing from that parcel. Not that she blames anyone else for eating, she'd never, but for herself— she just can’t. Anything made with that just won't go down her throat. Not when it came from Haymitch’s suffering. Her uncles keep trying, cooking things she loves, but she hasn’t given in yet. She's taken to making her own one-person meals just to be sure. Usually, they're not much, just some random fixing thrown in together, really.

Back to the McCoys-- the only gift Gillie talks about is the slingshot Alifair made him—carved from a stick she found in their yard. His only living little sister, now. He shows it to everyone, proudly, and his eyes tear up as he says, “Louella’d be so jealous.”

No one knows what to say to that, but Gillie didn't say it expecting a response anyway.

By the time they reach town, it’s already bustling. Sign installers are working along the sides of buildings, putting up fresh posters. 

Normally, they’d just keep walking, wouldn’t really give it a second glance. No one wants to see the Capitol propaganda more than they have to, and they have to a lot. But it’s the first few words on the poster, half pasted as they pass, that stop Lenore Dove, Burdock, and Blair in their tracks.

“Oh, right…” Gillie says when he notices them stopping, glancing at the men working. “It’s about time.”

 

The Second Quarter Quell

VICTORY TOUR

 

They all stand there, waiting, as the rest of the poster is smoothed down.

 

HAYMITCH ABERNATHY

District 12

 Panem’s Favorite Rascal

Arriving Soon

In Your District

 

"--didn't recognise him..."

"Me neither."

"What's with the guitar? He can't play."

"Panem's Favorite Rascal? Good grief..."

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, staring at the face of someone her heart and blood's just drawn to —someone she should recognize, but doesn’t. It’s like someone’s ripped off Haymitch’s face and plastered it onto a stranger’s. Like a—

“Let’s go, Lenore Dove.”

Burdock is tugging at her arm, and Asterid appears on her other side, links their arms together once more. But as they move deeper into town, more and more posters appear. They're everywhere.

---

Here she is again. 

It's risky. 

Lenore Dove knows it is.

Contrary to her alley work, where her outcries are meant as a call to others like her - I'm here. I hope, too - this one is out in the open. Too open.

She’s looked around at least five times now. It’s past 3 a.m. The witching hour.

Like Cayson’s friend said it, and as Lenore Dove’s seen it herself-- Peacekeepers are divided, lazy. Only really get to work if something big happens. So that's the Reaping Day. The Games. Mass funerals like last time aren’t allowed anymore. Any funeral after that has to be approved and accompanied by a squadron. Too many people grieving and mourning together is dangerous, she wants to laugh at that.

She needs to be quick. It was already hard enough to slide past her uncles.

Lenore Dove knows that too.

But now that she’s here, standing in front of the poster, she finds herself frozen again. 

He’s slick as a whistle, no denying that. Dressed in a navy suit with what looks like white feathers slipping from under the sleeves, he looks like a bird mid-flight you'd spot from the ground and stare. How beautiful, how far away, how... How free. You'd think. This time, that's not a word to describe the bird trapped in this poster.

His hair’s curled, but not the way it usually is. Not the way Lenore Dove used to run her fingers through it, squeezing the strands just to shape them prettier, then release them, watch the curl fall back over his eyes.

His eyes, too…

The grey she loves so much.

Whoever did his makeup made them stand out, surely. Around his eyes it’s mostly black --like the smoke pouring out of the factories here-- but the eyes themselves look like the soft fog that settles over the meadow on an icy morning. 

The color’s right. But those aren’t her Seam boy’s eyes.

His eyes, Lenore Dove has kissed a thousand and one times. Watched them flutter with anticipation, just before opening to see her. His eyelashes, she’s kissed every single one that curls away from those eyes. She’s pretty sure she has. She'd like to make sure.

Before she can help it, she reaches out and caresses around his eyes on the poster, her thumb pausing at the corner of one.

Lenore Dove, get it together. 

She wants to yell at the title— scream at it to stop clinging to Haymitch like it knows him.

That’s not him.

If she can’t tear Haymitch out of the poster, she’ll—

Lenore Dove quickly shakes the canister -- her last orange one, she’d hidden from her uncles deep beneath Countess Cathleen’s bed of hay. It’s a safe spot, her girl doesn’t let anyone come near. She works fast. First, she scratches out Panem’s Favorite Rascal. Then Victor.

She hesitates at his face.

She can’t bring herself to paint over it.

But this-- this isn't him. It’s not who he is, or what he wants to look like, she knows, with all her heart she knows, because she still knows him. She's told him that, written to him.

I still know the boy behind that door. And he is still mine.

So why is it still so hard?

Just then, another idea strikes her.

Taking a quiet breath, she shakes the can again and paints straight, orange beams across the poster— bars.

And she traps the victor in his cage.

Above it all, Lenore Dove takes out the black marker, and once more, speaks her mind.

THERE ARE NO VICTORS! DISTRICTS DON'T WIN! 

Notes:

April Come She Will by Simon & Garfunkel

I wanted Lenore Dove to contrast Haymitch, who knows everything about everyone and won't stop yapping about them and their lineage -- so she's not particularly interested in other people's love lives, who their neighbors or close friends are, or what their families are known for. Names and some background, but that doesn't mean she's not involved in the community. I know I'm treating LD chapters like a break from the endless pain and suffering that is Haymitch, dont yell at me for that... I can't help it...I think we need the lighter moments desperately...

Aaaand next Chapter brings us… a school fight??? Parents/Guardians are called in??? CC vs LD Round 2???? What the hell is going on??? I'm placing my industry plants (OCs) one by one...Oh and I've now successfully infiltrated multiple Facebook chicken/duck/geese groups as a fellow 'poultry enthusiast' to find more about their care... Shh, don't blow my cover.

Chronology - spent some time matching dates and events, and fixed some stuff in the previous chapters- feel free to correct if anything's wrong, missing, miscalculated, I'd really appreciate it : )

July 4 - Reaping
July 4-5 - Train
July 5- Parade - Louella dies
July 6-8 - Training
July 9-10 - Interviews
July 11-17 - Games - 11/Wyatt - 12/Lou Lou - 16/Maysilee
July 17-27 - Haymitch's confinement "Maybe a week has gone by, according to the shifting light on the street. Solitary confinement continues" so I est. around 8-10 days.
July 27 - Caesar & recap
July 27 - August 6 - "For the next ten days, I’m carted around the Capitol."
August 7 - Homecoming - dawn: Willamae & Sid die - Jethro suicide - Haymitch sleeps into next day -"We must be into August." "Dead to the world, I am, for over a day."
August 8 - Funeral, LD's Hearing - "Today we bury them" "She’s got a hearing with the base commander today."
August 8 (Night) - Haymitch leaves. Covey House is empty. CC&TA in base - LD must've been kept to the last possible second
August 9 - LD canon death
- fic kicks in from now on -
September 17 - Fortieth Day and LD's home arrest is over
November 12 - VT starts (Katniss says: District 12 always celebrated their Harvest Festival on the final day of the tour - and wiki says it's like Thanksgiving - So 4th Thursday in November, someday between 23-28: I used Nov. 26. Calculated around 13-14 days for the districts tour)
December 8 - Private Affairs incident
December 8-15 - Haymitch is comatose
December 22 - Back in 12

December 1st is 'Eat a Red Apple Day' - I'll be honest, I actually headcanoned it as LD's birthday, but I forgot about it while writing the Capitol chapters so I might just assign a random day in Dec 8-22 as her new birthday. Just to give them the angst of it, you know.

If you got any day recommendations, let me know...I'm writing the chapters as we go for the most part (I have like scattered drafts all around that I compile into one chapter) even if I have some kind of a set outline, and post them whenever I'm done basically so I might change or add in Haymitch's ANGUISH over missing her birthday in Ch. 12 maybe. But if it's a date between Dec 8-22 then I'll do it in a later Haymitch chapter.

Naming of LD's geese
1. Wordsworth- after William Wordsworth - (Lucy Gray)
2. Alleyne - after Christina Rosetti's pseudonym Ellen Alleyne - (Maude Clare)
3. Quarles - Edgar Allan Poe’s pseudonym when he published the Raven
4. Countess Cathleen - after W.B. Yeats’ work with the same name (because I love him) & an Irish legend
5. Lovesong - after Sara Teasdale's Love Songs, 1917 (because I love her)

See you soon! Take care :) and thank you for reading <3 (I'm expanding the Everdeen/Covey lore as we speak...Wait for me..)

Chapter 15: Wind-up Toys

Summary:

Q: What does a Victor doll do if you wind it up?
A: It dances and sings for the Capitol!
Q: And when it's done?
A: You wind it up again. Break it, if you must, then patch it back up, and wind it again. And again, and again--

Notes:

Hey...chapter started getting too long so I divided it into two :') I'm never doing a 10k+ chapter again unless it's absolutely inevitable (this chapter was around 6k by the time I wrote this note, now it's almost 13k jfc...) anyways here's some family lore! family drama! family trauma! family secrets! family bonding! math jumpscare!

note for end bc I ran out of space (again)

I HATE how this chapter ended bc I just couldn't form a single ending sentence it got longer and longer and longer then in the end we got this shit ending I'm so sorry please don't cringe I just really couldn't end it AND I've tried for hours before I felt like gutting myself

"What if a gun had a soul and didn't want to be a gun?"

- Brad Bird's pitch for The Iron Giant

---

 

"See here, Lovey Dovey?”

They’re sitting on the porch steps together, looking out over the meadow. Lenore Dove laughs and squirms in her uncle’s arms, loves that nickname these days, craning her neck to get a peek at whatever Tam Amber’s holding.

"Yeah," she says. "What’s it?”

“Remember what I been working on?" Tam Amber asks his niece.

"No!" she answers quick, making him chuckle.

"Well, think you know what this is?”

Lenore Dove nods. "It’s a bird, duh.”

“What kind?”

"Hmm…" Lenore Dove tilts her head sideways, studying the painted bird from every angle. Tam Amber’s brushed it with pinks and purples over a soft grey.

“Too many,” she says at last.

“Too many what?”

“Too many birds in one.” That makes him laugh again. The wit this girl has in her.

“Well, I thought I was painting a Dove.”

Her head whips around. “It’s me?”

“Isn’t it? Grey, with speckles of pink and purple. Your color, on your bird.”

“Hm.” Her eyes stay fixed on the bird as her hands join his to hold it.

"Doesn't look like a dove..." she says, "Beak and all..."

He huffs a laugh. The template he used was meant for a parrot, so she’s not wrong about that. He’d tried adjusting it into a dove shape as he went, but the beak placement and wing shape couldn’t be helped, since the motion mechanism had to come first. Still, now that he’s figured out how it all works, he’ll just make a better one next time.

"Well...I guess I took some creative liberty..."

"Cray-tive libberdy." She repeats after him.

When she opens them wide, all curious, like that, it’s Maude Ivory’s eyes all over again. Almond-shaped, with long bottom lashes. And not just her eyes. His niece’s nose, her lips, that heart-shaped face, the curls that fall on her shoulders— it’s all Maude Ivory, just in another coloring.

“Now look, this here’s the key,” he says, holding the little metal crank on the birds side. “When you twist it, the toy’ll move.”

“It’ll move?” Lenore Dove asks, eyes wide. “All by itself?”

“Yep.”

“How?”

“’Cause I made it so.”

Well… had some help. But still. Tam Amber’s more of a blacksmith anyhow. Dovey doesn't need to know all that right now.

Her little face falls. “There's no real bird in there?”

“’Course not, Dovey. Nothing's trapped here. You can play with this one all you want.”

"It won't get tired?"

"Nope."

“It won’t get sad?”

“Nuh-uh.”

She frowns hard. “I will.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“’Cause… ’cause…” She squints, working it out, trying to find the right words. He waits patiently. She'll be five in a couple months. “What if… it doesn't wanna play?”

“I told you, baby, there’s no bird inside. No need to get sad.”

“But it is a bird,” she says, a serious pout on her face. “So it will still feel stuff. Might not wanna play.”

Too smart, too tender-hearted for her own good.

“Well now,” he says, “that’s why it’s here. This bird wants to move and hop and peck on the ground. So why don't we help her? What'cha say?”

She blinks, thinking on it. But his niece trust him with all her heart, and so she says, “Oh… okay. Let’s help her.”

“Let’s,” Tam Amber says, smiling as he fits the key in place. “Gotta crank it first.”

“Crank it!” repeats Lenore Dove, ever so patient.

“Alright, crankin’ it.” He starts turning the key while Lenore Dove watches, caught in a trance.

He cranks and cranks, then gently sets the toy back down on the porch. He gives her a little wave to step back— then lets it go.

The wind-up bird starts marching forward, pecking at the floor with each little step. Lenore Dove lets out a whoop of laughter and springs up, hopping and dancing around it in pure delight.

She quickly grabs the bird and cranks the key again, then watches as it hops around, pecking and moving.

She loves birds, their girl, but can’t bring herself to even touch a real one, afraid she’ll ruin its beauty. And so g etting her a caged bird is out of the question. The last time she saw a chicken with its legs tied for butchering, it took days for her to stop mourning. But this wind-up bird-- this one she can play with all day.

And if it stops working, then Tam Amber will just make another one.

 

NOVEMBER 5

 

Her walk back home had been silent, but full of tears. 

She cried the whole way, the cold air freezing them to her cheeks. So it’s no surprise when she wakes the next morning with a stuffed nose, a pounding headache that feels like someone’s sawing inside her skull, a dry throat, and swollen eyes that won’t stop tearing up.

Dandelion’s cage rattles with his usual morning energy. Lenore Dove forces herself upright and pulls the cover off the cage. His chirping rings in her ears, too grating, but she won’t take it out on him. It’s not his fault.

Tam Amber is on his feet right away, fussing over her, and she lets them think she’s caught a horrible cold. Maybe she has, or maybe it's the broken heart that's started to take over her body.

Her uncles —bless their souls— decide to head out to Town after grazing the geese, and pick up medicine and fixings for potato soup. Just the thought of it warms her from the inside out already.

They’ll also arrange for Asterid to take Dandelion until Lenore Dove’s well again—though she doesn’t really want to let him go, it’s probably for the best. This way, they can see if Dandelion will take to staying in the Marches again, and it’s not like Lenore Dove can properly care for him in her current state. She hasn’t missed a day of signing to him since the day she got him, and if no one sings back now, he might feel forgotten. Besides, Asterid’s taken to whistling more lately, thanks to Burdock’s many lessons that Lenore Dove knows are still going. She can carry a tune well enough, and Dandy’s started responding to her, too.

Ah…She really doesn’t want to let him go.

She sees her uncles off from the doorway, wrapped snug in a thick quilt, and settles on to the couch, doesn't even realize she's fallen asleep, because when the door burst open with a violent thud, nearly breaking the hinges off, she startles awake and shoots up so fast she feels like thunderstruck tree.

Clerk Carmine storms in and starts pacing, snow scattering all over their living room, and Tam Amber hurrying in after and closing the door shut. Her older uncle immediately goes to Clerk Carmine and puts hands on his shoulders, telling him to calm down, but CC looks too rattled.

“What’s going on?” Lenore Dove asks, voice raspy and it hurts her throat to speak. She sees his hands clutching a ripped piece of paper in a white-knuckled grip, and cranes her neck to get a better look, "Is everything okay?"

“He’s… he’s toying with us,” Clerk Carmine snarls, turning to Tam Amber. His voice trembles with anger.

Then, in that crumpled piece of paper, she catches a glimpse of the eyes that she knows all too well, the same ones she'd been starting wistfully just hours before dawn that day, and rushes to snatch it from Clerk Carmine’s hands. He jerks away at the touch, not even looking at her, he’s still saying stuff to Tam Amber in a frenzy.

“That’s Haymitch’s poster,” she snaps, but her throat protests the sudden rise in volume, her voice rasping into a cough.

“The guitar and the— the flower. You saw the flower,” Clerk Carmine keeps repeating the same things to Tam Amber, loud and breathy, “He’s toying with us… he’s taunting us!”

She’s wanted to tear that poster down too. She wanted to burn every version of it that showed him polished and posed like some Capitol prize. But Clerk Carmine is surely not devastated the same way. Not gutted like she is, seeing Haymitch turned into a puppet, cleaned up and hung out like Capitol laundry.

"What's...What's next? He plays the guitar? He sings? How about- how about the ballad--"

“Quit it, CC,” Tam Amber cuts him off. "Let's go take a breather."

“Why would Haymitch taunt you?” she snaps. But it’s Tam Amber whose head whips toward her.

“We’re not talking about Haymitch!” he barks.

He never yells at her, or snaps at her, so it rattles Lenore Dove to hear that tone from her older uncle. 

Still, in that flash of distraction, she rips the poster from Clerk Carmine’s hands. This time, he lets go. He exhales hard, chest shaking, and starts pacing again until Tam Amber grabs his arm and says, “Let’s talk on the porch.”

“Who’re you talking about?” she calls after them, her voice breaks in the middle.

But Tam Amber shoots her a sharp look that shuts her up cold, and they get out of the back door. And just like that, she’s left standing alone with the poster clutched in her hands.

It’s crumpled, a piece ripped in rage. She smooths it flat against her chest, and takes a look at it.

Haymitch’s eyes stare back — half of his face, the slope of his nose, the edge of a curl, his brow. If Lenore Dove so wishes, she can count his lashes. Despite the ache in her bones, she retreats to her loft, lies down on her bed with the poster, it's too thin of a paper already, 

Sometime after, she hears the door open, and just one set of footsteps follow. CC must’ve gone off.

The ladder to her loft creaks, and then her bed gives a groan under Tam Amber’s weight as he sits beside her. His hand moves gently through her hair, and she turns to face him.

“Sorry I yelled at you like that, Dovey,” he says, and he looks like he means it. "I didn't mean to, I was just riled up."

Lenore Dove frowns. “You guys don’t tell me anything,” she says. She doesn't whine, pout, or sneer. It’s not a complaint, just how things are.

Tam Amber nods. “We don’t,” he agrees. “Not ‘cause we don’t trust you. It's for your own good.”

“You hate that whole ‘ignorance is bliss’ thing, though.”

Her uncle smiles a little. “I do. But I lean on ‘ for in much wisdom is much grief ' every now and then.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “This is one of those times.”

She lowers her eyes, resigned.

"It's always one of those times."

"I know, I know..." Tam amber sighs, "You're sixteen, Lenore Dove."

"Nearly seventeen." Just over a month left.

"You're a kid. You're our kid. You gotta grow up first. And for that, you have to keep your head down when you need to." 

Lenore Dove’s jaw tightens. Her fists ball up under the blanket. “I won’t.”

“Alright. Let me phrase it better, then," He pauses for a beat. "Keep your chin up, but keep quiet for the time being.”

“That’s not phrasing it better."

"I'm being serious, Lenore Dove. Look at me." His voice sharpens, and when their eyes meet, his are stern. "Especially now, you have to promise me you'll be on your best behavior."

"Is someone from the Capitol using Haymitch to taunt you?" she asks, voice cracking. Her eyes sting. She wants to burn the Capitol down, for messing with her uncles and Haymitch and Lucy Gray and her District. "Why would they? Why would anyone there bother with us? Are they the same people who were after Lucy—"

"Tha's enough." Tam Amber shuts his eyes and takes a long breath through his nose. He’s on the verge of losing his cool, and that stops her short. "Promise me."

She's quiet for a moment. 

"I promise," she says, small.

"Thank you."

He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. "And I promise you; one day, I’ll tell you everything. But we need you to be here first. Living and breathing, absolutely. Singing and dancing, if you’d be so kind as to grace us."

She nods slowly. Her fingers move again to the poster scrap, smoothing the folds, revealing Haymitch's eyes again. Tam Amber's eyes follow the motion, and before he can speak, she cuts in.

"Can’t I keep it?" she asks, barely above a whisper. She’s ready to beg if it comes to that.

"We left Town in a hurry. If Peacekeepers come looking and search the place--"

"It’s just a poster," she says. "Not a flag, they won't care. But I’ll hide it. If anyone comes, they won’t find it. I swear."

He hesitates, clearly torn. Maybe he’s thinking it’d be a fair trade for her compliance.

"Where’ll you hide it?"

"I got a secret spot."

Tam Amber lets out a long sigh. "And where would that be?"

"It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you," Lenore Dove says, deadpan. But then something clicks in her memory. She perks up. "Hey, what about my potato soup? Medicine? Asterid?"

Tam Amber blinks at her, blank for a beat, then slaps a hand to his forehead. "I’ll go see about that." he says, "You rest."

He leaves and comes back with the fixings and Asterid, who’s brought her special cough drops, a little bottle of her signature homemade syrups, and a mountain of advice. They wrap Dandelion’s cage in the quilt she brought along, shielding him from the dangerous cold, and Lenore Dove keeps whining at her, “Don’t let the weather bring him down too.” Then off they go.

That evening, tucked safe inside layers of cloth and spare quilts, Countess Cathleen gets herself a new ward to guard over. And that night, Clerk Carmine doesn’t come home.

 

NOVEMBER 7

 

This time, Lenore Dove is present to see the immediate effect Haymitch’s new image has on her uncles.

They’d spent the whole afternoon practicing — Victory Tour is nearing, after all, and that means they’ll be expected to play at the gathering in the Mayor’s house and maybe at the celebratory dinner. So the evening finds them sprawled out in the warmth of the sitting room, lazy with fatigue and snacking on the chestnuts they roasted, dropped off by Burdock’s cousins — last of this season.

"Think you left nothing but bark on that poor tree...” Tam Amber had said, eyeing the sack Sorrel plunked down, filled to the brim. “Anything left for wildlife?”

Alba sighed, nodding as if she'd heard that a hundred times by now. “We get it, ‘nature’s a cycle, animals gotta eat too,’ blah blah blah. Just take the chestnuts.”

“You sure didn’t hold back picking.” Lenore Dove had chimed in, grabbing a handful of chestnuts to roast right away.

“Netty’s expecting,” Alba said. “It’s all she craves. I’m under Ma’s orders.”

“Uncle Joe already lit into us,” Sorrel added with a shrug. “Didn’t stop him from taking his share, then told us to deliver rest to you. Besides, he can't rise up against Aunt Carly.”

They save most for later in winter — especially New Year’s, when chestnuts taste even better. Not like now, when the snow is muddy and grey, but when it’s really winter. When it’s pure white outside like an empty canvas.

The TV’s on, mostly as background noise. If there’s nothing playing at all, then all Lenore Dove can hear is her tune box and the songs she’s been rehearsing. She loves her music — of course she does — but after a full day of school and then practice on top of it, she’d rather drown out the silence than sit alone with the ringing.

So when the host of the night program booms, “A special sneak peek for the Victory Tour, starting next week — from the lips of our brand-new Victor himself, Haymitch Abernathy!” Lenore Dove’s head snaps toward the screen.

He’s wearing the same outfit from the posters, pink rose in lapel, white guitar in his hands, black smokes smudged around his eyes. But even the grainy screen of their TV can’t dull the piercing effect those gray eyes have on her. It rains like arrows on her and pin her in place. She draws a shaky breath and turns fully toward the screen.

“This rascal’s got a surprise for the Capitol!” the host cackles, and Haymitch begins to play the guitar and sing.

Only, nothing matches. The melody doesn’t match the strumming, and his mouth looks weird mouthing the words, and the voice isn’t his.

She’d thought it couldn’t get worse, but it does, because the song is a full-blown Capitol propaganda — Gem of Panem, reworked specially for the Second Quarter Quell.

“Now this is what I call a tour!” a guest cries, and the host and audience erupt in glee.

Clerk Carmine turns the TV off, then whirls toward Tam Amber, fire in his eyes. “You seeing this?”

“It’s not…” Tam Amber buries his face in his hands, slouched over and looking like world collapsed on his shoulders. "It's been decades, CC, there's just no point..."

Lenore Dove watches her uncle teeter on the edge of losing it. No point of her being here. Not like she’ll be explained anything. Besides, she's got her own storm brewing inside her.

She stands abruptly. “I’m going to the shed.”

Tam Amber meets her gaze with something close to gratitude. And it nearly undoes her.

I get it, she thinks bitterly. You’re scared. You two know things i don’t. Nothing new.

But what about me? My love is being wound up like a doll — cranked and let loose for their entertainment. What about him?

What about Haymitch?

She says none of it. Just bites her tongue, like she promised Tam Amber, throws on her night cardigan and coat, and bolts through the back door.

Outside, the cold bites her skin. Her hands tremble as she grabs the feed sack from the trunk beside the shed and slips inside.

The geese honk in greeting, flapping toward her. She kneels, pats Wordsworth on the head, then fills the hopper Tam Amber built. The late-night treat surprises them, but they enjoy it all in a flurry of ruffling feathers and pleased honks.

Lenore Dove makes her way to Countess Cathleen’s nesting corner. It's been days. Peacekeepers, as lazy as they are, they don’t take this long if it’s something serious. 

And right now, Lenore Dove needs this.

She kneels beside the nest and starts peeling back the layers, the hay first, then old quilt, then the cardboard bag she’s stuffed the poster in. The smell of her geese lingers faintly, but she was careful. The poster is dry, folded flat, and in good shape.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Because the moment she unfolds it and those eyes meet hers again — void of everything she knows him to be — something in her begins to unravel.

Is this how I'll only see him from now on? Trapped in posters and screens? Out of my reach?

And the longer she sits, the deeper it burns, all that  The ache that’s been nesting in her ribs since they first aired the clip. She’s always hated the Hunger Games, like everyone, hated what they take and how they do it, but this is something else entirely. 

That wind-up doll they put in front of the camera, parade around across the country... Haymitch is trapped inside it, she knows.

Who's gonna take him out of that, if not her?

How is she supposed to do it?

Where does she even begin?

She’s never felt so helpless, curled up in the geese shed, on top pf the hay in Countess Cathleen’s corner.

 

NOVEMBER 8

 

She stays home the next day. Again.

There’s not even anything to do in the house. Dandelion's still at the Marches’, and honestly, Lenore Dove’s too scared to ask for him back. Back, she says, though he never really belonged to her in the first place, if a songbird can belong to anyone at all.

Burdock drops by after school.

“Heard you were sick,” he says. “Again.”

“Yep.” Lenore Dove opens the door so he can step in. She cried herself to sleep again last night, and another migraine's taken her head hostage.

“Asterid wanted to come, but she had to mind the shop,” Burdock says, slipping off his winter jacket and hanging it on the rack. He follows her into the kitchen, where she’s in the middle of steeping tea with Asterid’s cough drops. Digging into his backpack, he pulls out a paper-wrapped bundle and holds it out to her.

“She sent some dried eucalyptus,” he says. “You’re supposed to boil it and breathe in the steam. The way she went on about it, you’d think it was some kind of magic cure.”

“Probably is," Lenore Dove says, putting the leaves on the counter. "Nice of her.”

“Yeah,” he says. Then looks her up and down. “What happened to you?”

I cried so much I passed out in the goose shed. Not even Countess Cathleen’s pecking woke me. My uncle had to help me walk because my limbs were all locked up from sleeping like that.

“Slept with the windows open,” she lies. No amount of house arrest or torture could get her to admit the truth to her cousin. No way.

“Did you?” He doesn’t sound convinced, eyes narrowing as he watches her shuffle back to the living room.

“Happens sometimes…”

“You’re not gonna talk about it?” he asks, and Lenore Dove slumps onto the couch.

“Talk about what?”

“The elephant in the room.”

“You’re the only elephant in the room—”

“Lenore Dove,” Normally, that'd get her an equally childish comeback, but this time Burdock just interrupts her, “I know I haven’t talked about it either, but I think…” He pauses, exhaling. “I think we’re the best people either of us can go to, if we want to talk about Haymitch."

“We’ve talked,” she says. “You'll keep your distance, and he won’t see me either. He’s broken up with me.”

“Yeah, we’ve established all that,” he replies, settling onto the couch beside her. “I’m talking about the promo yesterday. I felt like tearing the house down — Ma had to pass me off to Evans to take me hunting just so I’d cool down. So I can only guess how you handled it.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “It’s hard,” she admits. “Hurts to see him like that. A lot.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Aren’t you gonna tell me there’s nothing we can do?”

“I’ve already said that,” Burdock says. “Doesn’t mean it's not gutting me to see that, too.”

“They’ll—” Her voice breaks. “What if people think less of him now…”

Burdock leans back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

“Anybody say anything at school?” she asks.

“Not really.”

She looks at him, knows it’s a lie. Of course they're talking. They’re surely talking about Haymitch — A Seam boy, son of a rebel line, put on display like that, playing for the Capitol. That kind of thing already doesn't get someone a parade around here.

And Haymitch loves his district. He loves the people in it. This is their community, he's as much a part of it as anyone else, loves it as much as the next person. There's no doubt that he cares what folks back here think of him. It would hurt him to hear, or be told such things.

“I dare them to,” she snaps. “Everyone’s here's eaten well off his winnings —”

“You don’t mean that.” Burdock cuts in, "You know that's not fair."

“I...” she murmurs, “I know... But I can't help it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much awful in me before……”

"Don't I know it."

The cousins sit side by side in silence. Burdock sighs—deep and long.

"How are we even supposed to get through this Tour?"

"Just the Tour?" she asks, voice flat. "There’s more than just that. I think I’ve got a whole life to get through."

"He wouldn’t want you to put your life on hold," Burdock says. "That’s why he ended things the way he did."

"Don’t talk like he’s dead," she snaps. "He’s traumatized. He lost his whole family. They killed them. And he’s scared the Capitol’s gonna come for us too."

"I’m not— I know he’s not dead." Burdock’s voice rises too. "You think I don’t know that? But I’m telling you, that's not the same Haymitch. You have to see that."

"What if it is?" she shoots back, because that's the truth, that's still him. "What if he’s still in there, and you’re just giving up on your best friend—"

"It’s not giving up!" he says, frustrated. "It’s accepting what’s real. And you know it’s not easy for me to say that.”

Lenore Dove doesn’t respond. She knows. They’ve cried over it together.

"This kind of thing’s gonna happen every year now. Maybe even more often." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "It’s hard watching it, yeah, but I hate seeing you waste away like this. You’re wearing yourself thin. At least try, Lenore Dove."

You stay alive, play your songs, love your people, live the best life you can. And I’ll be there in the Meadow waiting for you. It’s a promise. Okay?

I’ll try. That’s my promise back.

Lenore Dove pushes the memory away, heart aching and eyes burning already. He’s not holding up his end of the promise — so why should she?

“I need more time,” she finally says to Burdock, hoping it’s enough to end the conversation.

It is, for now.

 

NOVEMBER 9

 

She gets little to no sleep that night. Just because.

But she can't skip school again.

They can’t really skip, not for long. Attendance is mandatory and checked regular.

Seam kids don’t have set jobs like town kids do, who help out in their folks' shops after school and on weekends. Out in the Seam, it’s more about chasing down odd jobs or running little side hustles— like Burdock and his hunting and wildcrafting, or Hattie’s white liquor business with Haymitch-then and now Elcaine. Ima does tailoring for folks who can’t afford the Amburgeys' prices, and just a few months back, Lenore Dove found out that Jenevieve Reed’s aunt took up Willamae’s old laundry work.

Merrilee Donner’s out, though, making it three empty seats in their class. But with her daddy’s money, it doesn't seem like the principal or the Peacekeepers are gonna kick up much fuss. Not that anyone’d call her lucky anymore.

So Lenore Dove, even though she feels like death warmed over, trudges to school around dawn and drops her bag at her desk. She curls up on her arms and dozes off before the classroom even starts filling.

She only jerks awake when the door creaks open, and a boy walks in. When his eyes land on her, they go wide.

“What the hell?” he says, tossing his things onto his desk. “Mornin’, Baird.”

Lenore Dove squints up at him, to see who that is, barely lifting her head. “Oh. Mornin’, Ern,” she mumbles, then flops her head back down, not in the mood for talk.

Ernest Thigpen is close with Haymitch, or was. Not that much, but they were friends and hung out time to time. Their dads worked the same crew before the mine took them both. But Ernest's family had more folks left behind, and his ma didn’t have to work near as hard as Willamae ever did.

“You’re early,” Ernest says, misreading her silence as a heads-up to keep talking. “Awful early.”

“Happened to wake up a lil’ early, it's all,” she replies.

Thankfully, his friends burst in and take all his attention, sparing her from another uncomfortable exchange. It’s a little while before her own little group show up — Blair and Asterid for her class, joined by Burdock.

Burdock, Gillie, Jed, and a few others are in the fifteen-year-old class, though Burdock always walks in with Asterid and Lenore Dove before heading off to his own room, looking like he’d rather not leave. It used to be the three of them — Lenore Dove, Haymitch, and Burdock, and Blair on occasion. The youngest of their trio would always sneak a glance toward Asterid, sitting all prim and proper next to Rethel Buchanan, who now Lenore Dove can name as the butcher’s daughter.

Asterid’s eyes widen when she sees Lenore Dove, and she makes a beeline for her. “You’re here,” she says, setting her bag on her desk. “Are you sure you’re okay? You should’ve just stayed home if you’re still sick.”

“Sick? Don’t think about sneezing on me, Baird,” comes a voice from the seat in front, “I can’t afford to catch whatever you got, I gotta work this weekend.”

“Oh, she’s sick? I wanna get sick. I don’t wanna work,” another girl chimes in from the other side of the class. “Wanna switch seats? So Baird can sneeze on me.”

“Get over here quick, Oakie,” the first one says.

“I’m not sneezing on anybody,” Lenore Dove mutters, but her voice is scratchy. “I’m fine.”

“C’mon...”

“I’ll just sit here anyway,” Oakie says, dropping into the seat in front of Lenore Dove. The girl looks back and flashes a wide smile. “Don’t hold back if you feel the itch.”

Burdock walks up to the girls’ desks, soon joined by Blair, who tosses his bag onto his own seat across the row.

“You sure you’re good?” Burdock asks, frowning. “You look even worse than yesterday.”

“Thanks, cuz,” Lenore Dove sighs, and Asterid promptly pokes Burdock in the side.

“Did the leaves help?” Asterid asks. "Burdock told you how to use 'em, right?"

“Yeah, thanks, by the way. Felt like I could breathe properly for the first time in a week."

“You’re welcome. We’ve got more, I can bring you some if you need.”

“No, no, I’m fine for now,” Lenore Dove replies, forcing a smile— but it dies on her face as quick as it came.

Blair notices and frowns. “You guys seen the promo, then?” he asks. “It was on every channel yesterday.”

“There’s only like three channels anyway.”

“And it was on all three. I was at the Chapmans last night — you know their TV’s better than ours— and we tried switching it off, but Haymitch was on every single one.” He pauses. “Wasn’t even him singing. You could tell, right?”

“Of course,” Lenore Dove says. “Didn’t even look well.”

“That’s what I said!” Blair exclaims. “Joy and Lois said he seemed like he was doing just fine.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t know him like we do,” Burdock cuts in. “Like the thing with Louella—”

“What thing with Louella?” Lenore Dove frowns, head snapped up. What thing with Louella? She hasn’t had the chance to watch the Games at all - a blessing and a curse at the same time - and the recap usually airs on the night of the first day of the Tour. Though, she's not sure she'll tune in.

“In the interviews--” Blair starts, but before he can explain, the chatter around them falls quiet, and none of them notice until someone clears their throat behind them.

“Burdock, to your classroom, please. Blair, back to your seat.”

Her cousin startles and turns to see Mrs. Pike wiping the green board with the eraser. He jumps up.

“Sorry, Mrs. Pike!” he calls, already hurrying out, and Blair flies back to his chair.

"Mornin', everyone."

"Mornin', Mrs Pike."

Math is as dull as ever. They work through problems, but every single example in the Capitol-issued textbooks is about coal.

 

Coal is carried from a mine in District 12 to a power plant in District 5 in hopper cars on a long train. The automatic hopper car loader is set to put 89 tons of coal into each car. The actual weights of coal loaded into each car are normally distributed, with mean μ = 89 tons and standard deviation σ = 0.8 ton.

a. Suppose the weight of coal in one car was less than 88.5 tons. Would that fact make you suspect that the loader had slipped out of adjustment? Yes or No

b. Suppose the weight of coal in 35 cars selected at random had an average x of less than 88.5 tons. Would that fact make you suspect that the loader had slipped out of adjustment? Why?

 

How is this type of thing even help with what more than half of the class will spend their lives doing?

Lenore Dove rests her head on her notebook, waiting for time to pass. She listens in occasionally; sometimes something Oakie whispers to the girl next to her catches her attention. Mostly, they’re talking about the handsome miners they've seen coming off their shifts — Levi Sharpe in particular has these girls wrapped around his little finger -- but nothing about Haymitch, thankfully. She isn’t sure what she’d do if they started talking about him.

“There’s no school next Monday,” Mrs Pike says after they're over - finally - before leaving their classroom, and every head that had been drooped in boredom snaps up like young trees in spring. Lenore Dove stops scribbling in the corner of her matchbook.

“No school?!”

“That’s right,” their teacher confirms with a weary sigh. “ As you know, Victory Tour officially begins on November 12th. Everyone’s to head to the town square and see our victor off. Then the day's off.”

For a moment, the class goes quiet — then the room bursts into whispers.

"The entire day?"

"I might squeeze in some more work, then!"

“We’ve always been the first… this time we’re the last, right?”

“Looks like it…”

“Think they’ll send more parcels?”

"More than once a month? No way."

“Don’t they throw some fancy dinner in the home district?”

“Isn’t that just the thing at the Mayor’s house?”

“I swear I saw something like that once…”

“You’re tricking yourself.”

“No, no, Arley's right. They totally do.”

“Wonder if we’ll be allowed to take leftovers home?”

“You really think there’ll be anything left?”

Lenore Dove sighs and turns her head, resting her cheek in her palm as she looks over at Asterid, tuning out the chatter around them. Her friend's in the same position, blue eyes already on her.

“A penny for your thoughts?” the blonde asks softly.

"I don’t know if I’ve got any energy left just to be, let alone to think."

“I’m sorry.”

Lenore Dove purses her lips, and shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“He looked better in the posters, and the promo. I mean, like, weight wise. He looked sober." She whispers the last part, thought Lenore Dove's pretty sure most people know Haymitch's dealings with Bascom Pie by now. "That’s good, at least… right? For him.”

“I guess…” she murmurs. “He did look healthier.”

His face had been fuller, the hollows of his cheeks filled out some. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Capitol had touched up the photos, same as they’d played with the video.

“I just…” Lenore Dove starts again, quieter now. “I know something’s wrong. Like, way more than what we’re being shown.”

Asterid nods slowly.

“You don’t think we're crazy for that?” Lenore Dove asks. “Everyone else thinks he’s doing just fine.”

“Well,” Asterid says, “I trust your judgment. You, Burdock, and Blair. Y’all know him better than anyone I know. And honestly… there’s just no way someone comes back fine after going through all that.” She pauses before adding:

“I think folks want him to be fine. Makes it easier to accept the parcels and everything. I mean, it’s the first time any of us have been rewarded after a Hunger Games.”

Lenore Dove nods miserably. Asterid’s got it right, as always. 

"I haven't touched a single thing in those parcels," She mumbles, and Asterid winces, because she has. "I'm not blaming you, or anyone, well, I'm not blaming our own, not really. However, there is someone I do blame. Quite a few, but one more than anyone else."

Asterid nudges her gently. Keep your rebel in check, we're in class - the gesture says without a word. Lenore Dove nods in acknowledgement. 

That's all I do anyway.

 

NOVEMBER 12

 

“Morning, everyone.”

“Morning.”

The Everdeens live in the middle of the Seam — Burdock and his parents, at least. His uncle, aunt, and cousins stay closer to the edge. The families decided to walk to the town square together that day, probably to keep both Lenore Dove and Burdock in check. Under their watch. What can they even do? Lunge at the stage and kidnap Haymitch?

The weekend had been full of the promo reels on loop, Haymitch strumming the guitar and singing. Every screen, every speaker, always ending with the same thing: Victory Tour — mandatory viewing, and a special reminder for District 12 citizens to be present at the town square on 10 am, Monday.

Burdock stands out front with his pa, waiting for his ma to finish up inside. Joe Pye Everdeen smiles and claps Lenore Dove on the shoulder.

“Looking good, LD. You look more alive than the last time I saw you.”

Lenore Dove doesn't see him often. Last time they crossed paths was when he’d sit up late in Covey house, watching over her during her house arrest and her uncles had night performance, who had difficulty trusting Burdock to keep her inside. Before that, he’d stood as a witness for her exemplary citizenship - between the time of her first arrest and last - at the hearing, right alongside his wife.

Besides, Joe Pye is always doing something. If he’s not in the mines, he’s out setting snares, fishing, or teaching Burdock one thing or another. Man should’ve been a teacher, the way he talks about everything he knows, and in his words:“The greatest thing about knowledge is it doesn't weigh a thing, so you can carry as much as you can." Anyways, it's just rare to see him around.

“Thanks for all the treats,” Lenore Dove says, smiling. Joe Pye’s always had his nieces and nephews pass along game to her, never once treated her any different than Burdock or his own blood. "You've spoiled me rotten."

"My pleasure."

“How’s everything, Joe?” Clerk Carmine asks. Not many outside of Lenore Dove call Joe Pye by both his names, everyone usually just say  Joe. But when Lenore Dove was younger, she thought everyone with two names would go by both. And so it stuck with her. “Haven't seen you at the Hob lately.”

That gets a chuckle out of everyone. Joe Pye’s never been one for the Hob unless he's trading. Always in daylight, never in the night.

“Right, sorry to worry you,” Joe Pye says. “Been busy practicing my clawhammer.”

“Oh, you planning to join the band?”

“If you’ll take me,” he says, clapping a hand on Burdock’s shoulder. “I even got a singer lined up.”

“I didn’t make such promise...” Burdock mumbles.

Joe Pye ignores him. “Don't mind my boy, he’ll do what I tell him,” he says, as Burdock huffs and rolls his eyes.

Burdock’s mother steps out of the house just then, locking the door behind her. She skips down the porch steps quickly is immediately swept up in a hug by Tam Amber, then Clerk Carmine. Her uncles’ eyes soften, go all tender at the sight of her.

Sometimes Lenore Dove forgets just how much Robin Everdeen means to them. She doesn’t know the full story, only bits and pieces, that Barb Azure, Robin’s mother, wasn’t exactly welcome among Robin’s father’s people, and that raising Robin and her siblings had been… complicated. Barb Azure chose her children and their family, and drifted away from the Covey. Then Robin, years later, kept encouraging the reconnection, some time after Maude Ivory's death and her own pregnancy, and the family reunited after years of distance. It had been shaky for a while, but nothing that Lenore Dove can point out.

“Lenore Dove, good to see you,” Robin says, pulling her into a hug and patting her cheeks. “You’ve gotta eat more, Dovey. Look at your cheeks, hollower than a downy woodpecker's nest! I’ll have Burdock snag you a fat wild rabbit — just for you, huh? Sound good?”

Lenore Dove smiles, a little caught off guard. “Uh…”

“Don’t start, Ma,” Burdock cuts in as they start walking. “She wouldn’t put anything that used to breathe in her stomach if she had the choice.”

“Well, good thing nobody has to listen to her,” Robin replies. “But she still has to listen to us.”

Clerk Carmine huffs, "You might wanna tell her that."

"I'm still here." Lenore Dove interjects.

Robin's eyes fix on Burdock. “Burdock, I told you to fix those eyebrows — they’re drooping.”

She wets her thumb and forefinger, grabs his face with the other hand, and starts combing his eyebrows upward. Burdock squirms, but Robin’s got a death grip on him.

"Ma, stop--" Burdock yelps, glancing around in panic. His image would take a unrecoverable hit if anyone saw that, Lenore Dove starts chuckling at the scene.

“There. Now you look awake,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “How can he face any girl looking like that? Then poor ol’ me’ll die without ever laying eyes on my grandchildren.” 

The look Robin throws at Burdock when she says “any girl” is telling. She knows he’s sparking on someone, but can’t quite pin down who. Asterid’s been around Seam and seen with Burdock many times, sure, but she’s the Healing Fairy of the Night, and she is in contact with Burdock for all his wildcrafting shenanigans. Robin probably thinks any feelings he’s harboring are just that, fleeting or unrealistic. Not many think it’s possible for Seam and Town to get involved, let alone get serious.

If only she knew…

“I think you’re exaggerating just a touch, Robin,” Joe Pye calls out with a snicker from up ahead, extending an arm for his wife to loop hers through. Robin smiles and joins them. "You'll thank me for it."

Lenore Dove falls to step beside Burdock as they start trudging behind the adults. The mood is immediately brought down by the reality of what they're walking toward. They hadn't talked about Haymitch since then, just slips here and there. Haymitch would like this, or, Haymitch wouldn't like that. If he's got any more thoughts about his friend, Burdock's never voiced it to Lenore Dove. Then again, not like she has either.

The crowd thickens the closer they get to the town square, and the pair of cousins stay close, huddled together as bodies press around them. When the adults around them stop walking to greet neighbors and friends, Lenore Dove scans the crowd, and spots a familiar face.

“There’s Blair,” she says, nudging Burdock.

They shift course and start weaving their way toward their friend, who is in the sidelines, standing beside a shorter girl with chin-length curls.

Mallory Banner. Louella’s best friend growing up. She used to play with Lenore Dove, Haymitch, and the rest of the neighborhood kids. She looks smaller now, timid even, standing next to Blair like that. It’s jarring, Mallory used to be just as spunky as Louella. Lenore Dove frowns at the change but still manages a small smile.

“Hey, man,” Burdock says, then turns to Mallory. “Hey, Mal. How’s it going?”

Mallory shrugs. “I’ve seen better days.”

Lenore Dove nods. “That we have,” she says. “But that means we might see even better ones someday.”

The girl shoots her a deadpan look, and her eyes tremble, either from holding back tears or stifling an eye-roll. Burdock gently taps the back of her heel with the toe of his boot. Message clear -- ease up or shut up.

Blair purses his lips and puts a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Well, y'all excited to see Haymitch again? In the flesh, Imean."

Yes. No.

Burdock just shrugs. Lenore Dove doesn’t respond at all. Blair, having asked the question just for a quick mood-check, reads both reactions correctly.

“Same here,” he says. “I don't think I can handle it if they make him sing or something.” Neither can Lenore Dove. She gets a bit frustrated that Blair's speaking it into existence, though.

He lets out a heavy sigh, then tilts his head toward the girl beside him. “I was just telling Mallory here that she oughta go play with some of the other girls. Don’t you think?”

“That’s a great idea,” Burdock replies, jumping on the topic change immediately. “Weren’t you friends with the Buckner girl? I think she’s your age.”

Mallory’s face sours like milk left out on the porch. “I’m not talking to Leafy,” she says, arms crossed tight.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Not telling.”

“Girl thing?” Lenore Dove asks gently.

Mallory gives her a curt, almost comically serious nod. Right.

“Right…” Burdock says slowly. “How about the Jacksons? I know Alyse is a nice—”

“I know who’s my age around here, thank you kindly,” Mallory snaps at him, “I got other friends, alright? But none of them are Louella, and she's not coming back. I don’t expect you guys to understand.” Your friend came back, she was probably about to sneer, but the girl bites her tongue at the last second.

“Mallory, that’s not fair-- ” Blair starts, but her eyes are already brimming with tears. Before he can finish, she bolts.

Silence takes hold of the trio.

“Did we just make it worse?” Lenore Dove asks quietly.

“Nope. She’s been like that." Blair shakes his head. "She’s lying, by the way. Hasn’t talked to anyone but Alifair and Gillie since the Games. Louella was the social one. Mallory can’t really… start things on her own.” He looks back at the direction she's ran off to, "I better go back to my folks, too. See you both later."

Unlike the Reaping, there’s no formal sorting here, but the divide between Seam and Town is plain as day. The blonde heads cluster near the front of the square, already in position, while the newly arrived Seam folk are packed toward the back. Lenore Dove scans the crowd but can’t even spot Asterid from where she stands.

“We’ll head up a bit,” she announces to the others. Her uncles shoot her a look.

“Why?” Tam Amber asks.

“We wanna see Haymitch better,” she replies, and they share a glance. Yeah, that's right, she hasn't let go. Not the postwr and not the real thing.

"Go ahead," Joe Pye says, giving them a nod. Robin nudges Clerk Carmine's elbow, and her uncle sighs. 

“Don’t act up,” He warns the duo. 

Tam Amber gives her a strained smile, "In case we separate, let's just meet up back home, alright?"

She gives him a short nod, then takes hold of Burdock’s elbow and starts easing their way forward through the crowd. But they can't get far — Mayor Allister steps up to the microphone, her presence cuts the noise, and the square falls still.

“Citizens of District 12,” she begins, voice crisp and steady. “Today marks a moment of great honor and unity across Panem. The Victory Tour is not only a celebration of our roots, but a reminder of the peace our nation has achieved through sacrifice and responsibility. It is a day to stand together. We’re proud to send one of our own to represent us out there. So now, let’s welcome our Victor, Haymitch Abernathy, who’ll say a few words before heading off on the tour.”

Then there he is.

He does look filled out, so the posters and the promotional videos weren’t lying. He’s in a knee-length black overcoat that makes the gray in his eyes stand out even more. Each curl on his head is neatly styled, like they weren’t on the verge of breaking off just months ago. Did he get taller?

Overall, he looks... good. Too good.

Lenore Dove wants to mess up those careful curls, wants to rip that overcoat clean off him. She wants to grab a wet wipe and scrub every trace of Capitol makeup from his face.

He obediently steps up to the microphone, knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the cue cards.

“Good people of District 12…”

She nearly misses the rest, just hearing his voice again hits her harder than she'd expected. It's not raspy or guttural, which only confirms her inner thoughts about that not really being Haymitch, back at the Victor's Village months ago. But this boy on the stage is not him as well.

“I never imagined I’d be standing here like this— alive, let alone a Victor. As the first one our district has ever known, I am aware of the responsibilities I carry, and I accept them with both pride and honor.”

First one? The first Victor?

That yanks her fully back to the moment.

Lenore Dove cranes her neck, glancing toward her uncles. They’re already looking at each other. Clerk Carmine’s jaw is clenched so tight it could snap, arms crossed like a sulking child. Tam Amber’s expression is tight with frustration. No cameras will be pointed their way, that's for sure.

“This Victory Tour is more than a celebration of half a century of the Hunger Games. It is remembrance. It is unity. It is a reminder that we are all part of something larger than ourselves: a nation held together by tradition, duty, and loyalty. Through the opportunity the Capitol’s given me, I have been granted a new life..." Haymitch goes on, his voice is practised elegance, words are coming out of that mouth that never would've before. 

“I thank the Capitol, and President Snow, for giving me and our District a voice we’ve never had before..."

Lenore Dove and Burdock glance at each other. Burdock's face is resigned, disappointment etched into every line, worn as plainly as the nose on his face.

Hers can’t look much better, but even in his own dismay, her cousin can’t help but take a jab at her.

“You should drop by the dairy store after this,” he says.

She frowns, confused. “Why?”

“That face of yours could sour milk just by looking at it,” he mutters, "Might wanna help 'em with the bonny-clabber.”

She elbows him in the ribs, but the humor passes quickly. Their eyes drift back to the boy on stage. He looks farther away now than he did on the Reaping stage.

“Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.”

Haymitch flashes a smile - fake, strained - at the camera right offstage as he shakes hands with Mayor Allister. 

“And cut!”

Lenore Dove can’t look away as the fake smile slips from his face, replaced by that shadowed look once more, he's stressed to high heavens that's clear as day for Lenore Dovev, just before he turns and heads toward the Justice Building. She stares at his back, growing smaller with every step — until someone tall blocks her view.

“Lenore Dove,” says the man.

“Oh, Mr. Lambert.” She straightens instinctively. He’s their music teacher’s father, which makes calling both of them Mr. Lambert always feel strange. “Uh, how can I help you?”

“Good,” he says. “Listen, my daughter’s getting married next month or so, and I’ll need—”

“My uncles are right there, sir,” Lenore Dove says quickly, gesturing toward them, already craning her neck to see past his shoulder. 

“Do you think you three are free on the—”

“I really couldn’t say, Mr. Lambert,” she cuts in, her words tumbling out just as the crowd begins to move again. People are being pushed out. The door to the Justice Building slams shut. Lenore Dove sighs, frustrated. As if seeing his shadow disappear behind the doors were going to make her feel better.

She frowns and lets herself be pulled along by Burdock, slipping out of the square and into the tide of Seam folk trickling back toward the mines or their roosts. Younger kids scatter to play. Older ones hurry to squeeze in what work they can before the day ends.

Everyone just moves on.

“I hated listening to all that,” Burdock says.

“Tell me about it...”

“You okay?” Burdock asks once they're out of the town square, and start walking back. He cranes his neck, trying to spot Asterid, but the townies have already ducked back into their shops. 

“No.”

“Me neither.” He takes a breath, like he’s about to say more, but lets it die in his throat. What can he say that Lenore Dove doesn't already know, about their feelings toward Haymitch? Nothing. So she doesn't press him.

“What’re you doing now?”

“Going hunting with my uncle,” he says, glancing around for said relative. All of a sudden, he spots someone and throws up a hand, and a few arms wave back from way off down the road. Burdock's paternal cousins are there too, waiting for him. “There they are."

Lenore Dove gives them a wave as Burdock starts walking off, then turns back to face her, still walking backwards.

“Sure you don’t wanna come with?”

“I’ll pass. Thanks, though.”

Burdock waves at her, and jogs off toward his people. “I’m off, then. See ya.”

“See ya, ’cuz.”

Before leaving the town square, Lenore Dove makes a stop at the apotechary. The bell above the door jingles softly, but Asterid doesn’t even look up. She’s slumped behind the counter, wearing the most downcast expression Lenore Dove’s ever seen on her.

Lenore Dove beelines toward her. “You okay?”

Asterid jumps, startled. “Oh! You scared me.” She fumbles with her hands. “I’m fine. Should be asking you that, actually. Are you okay, seeing Haymitch on stage?”

“Never mind me,” Lenore Dove says quickly. If she starts unloading her own worries, she won’t stop until Haymitch comes home. “What happened? Something going on?”

Asterid looks like she might brush it off, but then all the energy drains from her, and she slumps forward. “I’m fine, just…”

A horrible thought hits Lenore Dove. Did something happen to Dandelion?

“Merrilee’s getting worse,” Asterid chokes out. “The sleep syrup’s not working anymore. Neither are the lavender oils. She’s... real bad.”

“Oh.” Lenore Dove freezes. There’s nothing to say to that, because saying 'it'll get better' is a blatant lie; and 'it won't get better' is the cruel half-truth. 

What can’t be cured must be endured. And it must be killing Asterid, being so helpless in the face of someone else’s grief. Well, if that's not something Lenore Dove understands just fine.

“I’ve been staying at the Donners’ lately,” Asterid admits. “Just in case Merrilee needs help in the night. She doesn’t really like it. Things haven’t been good between us.” She exhales, rubbing her face. “But never mind me. I’m fine. It’s Merrilee I’m worried about.”

No, you’re not fine. You lost not one friend, but two. Not just any friends, either, the ones who mattered most. And when you lose people that close to your heart, it bites a chunk out of yours too.

“Anything I can do?” Lenore Dove asks, not knowing what help even looks like right now. But Asterid’s face lights up anyway, a smile breaking through the heaviness.

“You already help. Just… thanks for being my friend.”

The unexpected sentimentality makes tears well up in Lenore Dove’s eyes so fast she has to blink them away, and when she sees Asterid doing the same, they both burst into laughter.

“Ah!” Lenore Dove slaps her hands over her face and heads for the door blindly. “I’m leaving! I’ll start crying and won’t stop!”

“Same-- go, go!”

“See ya!”

The rest of the day goes by in a excruciating slowness.

Having an entire day off, she doesn't know what to do, really. There's no Dandelion to teach songs to or whistle with, so Lenore Dove takes her flock to graze, and ends the day as she always has, practising and cooking.

Everything she does, she wonders how far Haymitch's gotten from Twelve. If he's eating on the train, if he's practising, what he must be doing. It only gets on her nerves when she can't come up with an answer.

 

NOVEMBER 13

 

Neither Lenore Dove nor her friends watch the live broadcast in the school cafeteria. Instead, they choose to sit outside in the schoolyard, in the cold.

They look like a bunch of loons, huddled out there in the chill, doing nothing to keep warm. Some younger kids are running around playing tag, while a tight-knit group of boys kneel in the dirt they've scraped snow off from, playing mumblety peg.

Lenore Dove is quietly grateful Asterid and the others are sticking it out with her and Burdock, sitting there like lumps in their shared misery.

Jed hangs around for a bit, but bolts the moment he catches Romy peeking at him from a second-floor window— takes it as a sign she wants him back. 

However, for the first time ever, Blair doesn’t join them at all. Says he wouldn’t take it well being around people just as down as he is. So he goes off to blow off steam — which, in Blair Banner’s world, means hauling coal for the janitor to feed into the heating stoves in classrooms. Looking back at the mumblety peg group, Lenore Dove can guess he'd think of Haymitch too, back when the boys used to show off their skills with knife games.

Back in class, though, there's talk of it. Of course there is.

"Eleven liked him. Like, really liked him."

"Really?"

"Yeah, they were all singing along and shit," one of the boys says to his friend as Lenore Dove and Asterid walk back into class. She catches a few glances, of course she does. People are watching her, waiting for her reaction — for whatever reason. Mind your own business. You’re not the damn Capitol audience, she wants to yell. Haymitch was more liked than her, more known around the school, so it's no surprise people are put off by the sudden change in personality, maybe.

In the place of the girl who used to sit in front of her now sits someone else, but not Oakie — the original seat owner must still be paranoid about catching whatever sickness Lenore Dove might have had. The new girl, surprisingly, actually turns around to speak to her.

“Who knew Haymitch was a singer, huh? You guys been keeping that from everyone?”

Lenore Dove frowns. She can't tell if the girl’s being genuine or mocking.

“And you are?” she blurts, voice flat. Asterid lets out a snort beside her, masking it quickly as a cough into her hands.

The girl, clearly from Seam, scowls. “Right. What did I expect?” she mutters, turning back around — then whips back again. “Name’s Merrell, by the way. Your classmate of ten years, Lenore.”

“Lenore Dove. Your classmate of ten years,” Lenore Dove replies flatly. “Figured you’d know that by now.”

The girl rolls her eyes.

“This is what I get for trying to start a conversation,” Merrel says a little louder, to her friend. "You'd think she'd appreciate it. Having no friends and all."

Lenore Dove shares a look with Asterid, who shrugs like what can you do?

She had lashed out — surprising even herself. Normally, she’s quiet as a mouse around people. Sure, she stands her ground, but not with venom. The only times she’s ever gotten fired up, it’s been out of care, really. Not like this.

Is she turning ugly, like her thoughts? Lenore Dove sighs.

She doesn't want to take it out on people, all that hurt's inside her. She wants it to land on the ones who deserve it. But moments like this… they make her feel like she’s about to explode.

Though that’s about it, most people drop the subject after that and chatter dies as the next lesson starts. No one really brings up the broadcast again.

Lenore Dove doesn’t stop anywhere on the way home — just walks straight back from school. Not wanting to hear anything, even though it kills her not to know what he did, what he’s doing. She wants to keep living in denial, at least for one more day.

 

NOVEMBER 14

 

School goes on as always. District 10 passes for Haymitch just like that, while Lenore Dove hasn’t even seen Eleven yet. She and Asterid take a walk around the school grounds, not talking. Asterid’s been looking worse these days too, and all Lenore Dove’s managed to get out of her being “Just thinking about Merrilee… and Maysilee,” before falling quiet again. It makes Lenore Dove squeeze her friend’s arm tighter.

The Covey household agrees to watch the first day’s broadcast together tomorrow evening at the Everdeens’, including the evening celebrations and all. It’s like a recap, but it shows the events of the entire day and night. Robin invited them for supper, and her uncles accepted without hesitation.

Her and Tam Amber are going, at least. Uncle CC's going to see about a few broken windows. That's just code for visiting his sweetheart. Lenore Dove is unreasonably jealous.

It’s not a gathering out of joy. More like controlling chaos in one place. One way or another, they’ll hear about the Tour anyway. Best to keep the explosion in check, like miners do.

And that's how the moment finds them. After supper, She and Burdock sit with their legs stretched on the rug with his cousin Sorrel, while Tam Amber and Burdock’s little uncle Amos sit on one couch, and Robin and Joe Pye are on the other, watching the broadcast.

Haymitch shakes hands with Eleven’s Mayor, followed by at least a dozen Head Peacekeepers — which already sickens Lenore Dove to see. She can’t help but shiver at the sheer number of them stationed there. Then come the Victors. There’s a moment with the district’s youngest victor, Chaff, that the host —through overlaid commentary— can’t help but cackle at. They replay it a few times, milking the moment.

Next to her, Burdock shivers. “Can’t imagine shaking hands with Chaff. He scared us so bad a few years back. Remember?”

“I do,” Lenore Dove says, watching Haymitch’s face shift from surprise to an uneasy smile. “It was right before our first reaping, too. Haymitch couldn’t sleep at all. Chaff scared him half to death.”

Haymitch takes the stage next, and after another dreary speech — his eyes scanning the crowd again and again — he says, “I believe I have something to give back to your district. Something I’ve learned from one of your own… Someone who I think about, very much. All I can hope is I do right by it.”

Robin catches it first. “He had an ally from Eleven?” she asks.

“Yeah, the Newcomer thing. Eleven was in it, I think.”

“Newcomer?” Lenore Dove turns to Burdock.

“Right, you missed the interviews and all,” he says. “They had a district alliance, to oppose the Careers. But it didn’t work out.” He frowns.

“Oh…” Lenore Dove frowns too. That’s a shame. A district alliance… it could’ve been the start of something good. An alliance of the poorest, the most beaten-down. It would’ve sent a message loud and clear, We’re stronger when we stand together. That's it if they managed to get by, or win.

“Wonder who came up with that name,” Joe Pye says. “That’s like our thing. Neddie Newcomer. One of our own gotta have made it happen.”

"Not the Town girl, for sure." Burdock's youngest -- still older than him -- cousin chimes in.

“Callow boy, most like,” Amos says, one arm slung around the back of the couch. “He just started in the mines, too. A real Neddie Newcomer. Poor thing…”

"Wasn't he a Booker Boy?"

"They must've liked enough him to make that the alliance name."

“How’d he…?” Lenore Dove asks.

“Protecting the McCoy girl,” Sorrel answers.

Wyatt died protecting Louella, then. And even though she knows Haymitch would’ve never let it happen if he could help it… she can’t stop the thought-- Where was he?

Wait, Louella.

She turns toward Burdock, ready to ask what he meant earlier about the 'Louella thing', but the screen pulls her eyes back first. Because something’s wrong.

Lenore Dove leans in, narrowing her eyes.

The song Haymitch is supposedly playing, again, doesn’t match his mouth. It’s subtle, real subtle, but she’s a musician. She sees it, plain as day. His fingers on the guitar are wrong. The lyrics doesn't match the crowd's lips either.

It’s another Capitol-penned piece about how hardworking District 11 is for the nation. The only thing she's certain is real, is the smile on Haymitch’s face is genuine. So is the crowd’s reaction, singing along.

That confirms it for Lenore Dove: this isn’t what he really sang. So what did he sing?

The next cut shows Haymitch and the Capitol crew, along with the Mayor, touring the district. They move from fruit stalls to crop stalls, the camera lingering on abundance.

The evening party is shown too — celebrations across District 11 flick by in a series of fast, fleeting shots, before settling on the gathering at the Mayor’s residence. The amount of food on the table is hard to believe, like something out of a storybook. But they all know it’s real.

Haymitch is seated beside the Mayor, who sits at the head of the table. The other victors are next to him. Later, once the liquor starts working its way through everyone’s blood, the room grows louder, the crowd looser. There’s a shot of Haymitch dancing with Chaff and a brightly dressed Capitol woman — none of them can quite keep up with the steps, and they stumble over each other more than a few times. But Haymitch manages to catch them every time, steadying the trio. He’s laughing, too, though the camera’s pulled too far back for Lenore Dove to make out his face, can't really gauge on the genuinity of his reactions. She can feel her uncle's gaze on her, but she doesn't turn to meet him.

The broadcast closes with live footage of the ongoing festivities in the district, and that’s it for the night. After digging into the pie Robin baked for them — Lenore Dove forced to chow down her plate under the woman's watchful eyes — the cousins decide to take a walk outside.

Sorrel is sent along to keep Lenore Dove and Burdock “in check,” which, again, begs the question-- what can these two kids even do at this point? Best they can do is walk around frowning and sulking. And that's exactly what they do. Even Sorrel gets sick of their doom and gloom and sneaks away to meet his friends.

They walk out of the neighborhood Everdeens are in and follow the gravel trail that skirts the edge of the Seam, close to where the woods begin. Every so often, they pass a house sitting in the last row, and the yellow light from the windows spills out, shining on their faces and reveals them in the night.

"I was gonna ask you," Lenore Dove begins, pulling her winter coat tighter and hugging herself, "what’d you mean by the 'Louella thing' earlier?"

Her cousin sighs, looking genuinely troubled.

"I don’t even know how to explain it. It was just weird as hell," he says. "The night of the interviews — well, you’d just been arrested, so honestly, if Blair hadn’t backed me up later, I’d’ve thought it was just my nerves messing with me. But Louella... she wasn’t like herself. Not at all. She was just off."

"Off? Off like how?"

"Like, mad? I don’t know how to put it. Just… off. She had this snake, too."

The girl's bright eyes come to mind, holding a bull-frog in her small hands, grinning with missing teeth, full of mirth and mischief.

"Well, she liked reptiles. Didn't she?"

"Not snakes. Alifair likes them. Louella liked lizards and frogs and salamanders — she was scared stiff of snakes. Y'know she got bit by a milk snake once. Never got over that." Burdock bites his lip. "Like I said, Gillie said they haven’t watched the Games since the interviews. They said, that wasn’t Louella."

Lenore Dove frowns, heart thuds with the implication. "Then who would it be?"

"I don’t know," Burdock says quietly. "Uncle Al said they're probably in denial. But sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy. Like my eyes and ears and even my memory are lying to me. Especially after this year’s Games."

"You think they messed with the footage?" she asks. "They did it for the Reaping. The promo videos, too. Haymitch’s footage is always off." Lenore Dove’s heart starts pounding faster. "Can you imagine?"

"What?"

"That none of it’s what it seems," she says. "They're constantly trying to clean up after their messes, why couldn’t they have doctored the Games too? "

Because Haymitch wouldn't just let his sweetheart to die alone, he wouldn't leave her. She's sure as eggs is eggs.

"I…" Burdock shifts, clearly unsettled. "I don’t know." He furrows his brow, going quiet as he tries to piece it together. "I really don’t. What could’ve even happened in there? They re-did the Reaping because Woodbine died after getting reaped. That’s the whole point of the arena, kids killing kids. What would they gain by messing with that?"

"I…" This time it’s Lenore Dove who falls quiet. "I don’t know."

 

NOVEMBER 15

 

“You’re fired?” Lenore Dove blurts out, eyes wide at the woman standing in the doorway.

Mayor Allister’s usually impassive face almost cracks. The corners of her lips twitch upward in a somewhat sarcastic smile.

“I’m resigning,” she says coolly, though her tone makes the truth plain -- she’s getting the boot.

Lenore Dove falls quiet, fingers fidgeting with the corner of her music notebook.

She’d been practicing on the piano, preparing for the performance at the Mayor’s house at the end of the Tour. But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The thought of Haymitch sitting at that table, right there, yet worlds out of reach, made her chest tight. Would he dance with the Capitol crew again, like he did in District 11 just two days ago? That thought alone had kept her from practicing half the time she had preserved with the piano.

“Mr. Donner’s the next mayor, then?” she asks, like they’re old friends. Her tongue’s definitely gotten looser since the Games. She’d barely spoken to Mayor Allister before, the usual ‘Do you have any song requests, ma’am?’ and ‘Can I use the piano next Friday?’ don't really count.

Mayor Allister purses her lips. Maybe the end of her career has loosened her tongue too. “He’s in the talks, but I haven’t been made privy to the decision.”

“Oh,” Lenore Dove says softly.

“I’m telling you this so you know; the piano practices will depend on whoever takes my place. You’ll have to sort that out with them.”

“Is the Victory Tour performance still on track, then?”

“That’ll happen regardless,” she confirms. "Nothing will stop that."

"Right..."

There's silence, as Mayor Allister finishes putting whatever she came back for in her work bag. "As you were," she says. 

"Goodbye, ma'am." Lenore Dove calls after her, then smiles at the worker in the Mayor's house - Mrs Minnich always takes the most time cleaning the sitting room when Lenore Dove is there. Cleaning’s just better with a little sound, after. She forgoes the practise for a bit and instead plays whatever Mrs Minnich wants.

After she's done, she wraps her practise up and goes to use the restroom. She’s no stranger to the place — having played here for years — so when she steps out, she doesn’t head straight back downstairs. Instead, she hesitates. Her eyes stray toward the study, the one she knows is empty right now.

She listens. From down the corridor, she can hear Mrs. Minnich fussing in the pantry.

She’ll try her luck. Just this once.

Lenore Dove walks like a newborn lamb, knees shaky. She reaches for the doorknob and slowly turns it. The door gives with a soft click. She slips through the narrow crack, leaving it slightly ajar behind her.

The study is lined wall to wall with books and thick ledgers. Everything to do with District exports, neatly kept. And in the corner, a sleek television sits —better than any model in Seam, maybe even better than what the Merchant families have. Probably.

Her eyes land on a stack of thick paper. She picks one up, holding it carefully. The Capitol Newspaper.

Haymitch is on the cover of today’s issue. And the one before it. And the one before that. All four in the stack are from the Victory Tour so far. Carefully, she places them back. What was she hoping to find, anyway? It’s the same propaganda, only on better quality paper.

She turns to leave, disappointed, but something else catches her eye. Another stack, not full newspaper issues, but isolated pages, on Mayor Allister’s desk. Lenore Dove rounds the desk to take a closer look.

The first one that catches her eye is from September.

 

SATURDAY - SEPTEMBER 1st

Head Gamemaker Faustina Gripper Announces Sudden Retirement

In an unexpected move that sent ripples through the Capitol, Faustina Gripper, Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games for the past decade, architect of many beloved years such as Gladiator Amphitheatre of the 44th, and the Nest of Mirrors of the 49th, announced her immediate retirement this morning, citing a personal desire to "step away from the Games and spend time with my growing family."

 

The one under is even before that, just before the second Quarter Quell even began.

 

THURSDAY - JULY 5th

Parade Master Incitatus Loomy Passes Away at 42

Incitatus Loomy, beloved master of the Tribute Parade for the Hunger Games for the last four years, was found unresponsive in his City Circle residence this Thursday. Authorities confirm the cause as accidental food poisoning, traced to a spoiled batch of oysters.

 

Then another one, immediately after the end of the 50th Hunger Games.

 

TUESDAY - JULY 18th

District 9 Escort Felven Minks Dead After Tragic Gas Leak Explosion

Felven Minks, the longtime escort for District 9 known for his sunny disposition and love for pistachio-green, was killed yesterday in a sudden gas leak explosion that tore through his apartment. No others were injured. Authorities report the blast was “unexpected and unfortunate.”

Another issue, from late August.

 

TUESDAY - AUGUST 21st

District 12 Stylist Magno Stift Fired for Parade Catastrophe

In a scandal shaking the Capitol’s fashionistas, District 12’s lead stylist Magno Stift have been abruptly fired after reports surfaced that he abandoned his duties during the recent Games, leaving inexperienced interns to prepare the tributes — only to later attempt to take full credit for their work. The fallout has left him ostracized by peers and fans alike.

 

They go on and on. Every replacement, every retirement, every death, every appointment from the past few months has been clipped from the newspapers and compiled.

If the headlines are anything to go by, people in the Capitol can’t seem to hold a job to save their lives. Or they’re being disposed of — Parade Master dead, Head Gamemaker retired — because something went wrong in the Games, and someone had to take the fall, and be an example.

And none of it escaped Mayor Allister’s watchful eye, by the looks of it.

Lenore Dove puts everything back where it belongs and slips out the door.

When she leaves the house, there's a pepperoni roll stuck to her hand — wrapped in a napkin by Mrs. Minnich, who wouldn't take no for an answer. She swings by the apothecary again, hands Asterid half her roll, and gets half of Asterid's Mellark bakery pastry in return. They share a short conversation, though Lenore Dove isn’t fully present for it, and then she’s on her way home, lost in thought.

Who can she even share this new information with?

No one, really. And she’s not even sure how any of it could help, anyway.

Sure — of course President Snow rules with an iron fist, disposing of anyone who wrongs him or his system. That would only make him seem even more invincible in everyone’s eyes. A man who’ll stop at nothing to keep his rule in place. Not even Capitol citizens are safe from him.

But then again, all those headlines — if Lenore Dove’s right in thinking they’re intentional, if they’re like what happened to Haymitch’s family, and aren’t just random tragedies. They’re orchestrated, calculated, carried out. All to cover up the cracks and slip-ups, and remind the next person in line exactly what payment for failure looks like.

Lenore Dove turns it over in her head again and again. And every time, no matter how far her mind runs, it circles back to the same place, her promise to Tam Amber. Stay living and breathing. That part’s easy enough. But singing and dancing? Not so much. Most days it feels near impossible.

She just wants Haymitch back home. Safe, in one piece, body and mind. And that’s when she decides, As soon as he’s back, I’ll go to him. No more waiting, no more walking away with nothing but more questions and heartbreak.

Notes:

LD's chapters are pining, rebelling but also helplessness, with a touch of cousin banter... also sorry for being so late - I was enjoying GoUta Week tbh ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀)

Meet the Everdeens! (Naming & Covey Connection)

First things first, I think Barb Azure is Burdock’s grandmother figure. I have a few scenerios; but here I went with
= 'Gal down the road' felt societal/familial pressure to marry and start a family as it’s the norm, enforced by family and friends. So, they’ve broken up.
= If we assume BA is at least 19 yrs old in tbsoas then she'd be at least 44 when Burdock was born (that for me eliminated her from being his mother/mother figure.) Let’s say her Gal broke up with her same year, went ahead and got married, started a family right away- eldest born in 11/12 ADD - would make that daughter max 24/23 yrs for Burdock's birth- Makes sense, doesn't it?
= Years later; maybe when the children are still young, 'The husband' dies unexpectedly in a, you guessed it, mine accident.
= Things happen, they patch things up, lots of angst - BA moves in to help Gal with the kids.
= They raise the kids together = Boston Marriage without the trust fund
= People think they're just besties
= Old Gal dies = BA is their now mother figure
= The eldest child marries an Everdeen
= BA is the maternal grandmother of Burdock

And so the family is as following: (The names are so Nara Smith of me I know ok it's just fun for me to come up with)

Pa Everdeen: Joe Pye - Joe-pye weed aka 'queen of the meadow' - its tea is used to clean the kidneys, bladder, stones
Ma Everdeen: Robin : 'Gal''s daughter. Named after "Robin egg blue" and the songbird in Barb Azure's honour because Gal wasn't over her at all (sapphic angst)
Aunt Carly: Carlina - JP's eldest sibling - "Carlina acaulis/stemless carline thistle" - flowerhead bud can be cooked and eaten = which earned it the nickname of hunter's bread - Not 'appalachian' but I liked the name
Uncle Al: Allium - JP's eldest brother - a bulbous plant of a genus that includes the onion and its relatives
Uncle Amos: Ambrose - JP's older brother - "common ragweed" - seeds persist into winter and are numerous and rich in oil, they are relished by songbirds and upland game birds
Cousins
- Carlina married a Marcesen (Marcescence = withering and persistence of plant organs that normally are shed = most obvious in deciduous trees = deciduous is oppsoite of evergreen)
Nettle - 'Netty' - married, has her own family - 29 - 'Urtica dioica' and 'Stinging nettle soup' and get this: “Other herbs are often added to Nettles in the making of Herb Beer, such as Burdock, Meadowsweet, Avens Horehound, the combination making a refreshing summer drink.” The base herbs are: Dandelion, same of Clivers (Goosegrass)
Alba Marcesen - 25 - 'Spiraea alba' - White meadowsweet - host plant for spring azure butterfly
Clive Marcesen - 23 - 'Galium aparine/Clivers' so we complete the Herb Beer
- Al's son: Evans Everdeen - 25 - 'Avens' with letters rearranged I ran out of ideas
- Amos' son: Sorrel Everdeen - 21 - "sheep/red sorrel" aka 'sourgrass'

Since Katniss doesn't have a single close relative we know of I didn't want to give her a direct, first-degree relative. So the familiarity either thinned out by everyone drifting apart or there's not many living descendants. Probably the latter.

Plant information gathered from "A guide to medicinal plants of Appalachia" PDF provided by US Forest Service; an Appalachian folk medicine book I found; an EOA list from Cincinnati Museum Center webpage; Blind Pig & the Acorn entries; ofc some good old wikipedia & google diving. Lmk if you want links!!

Lastly, I think Barb Azure is already dead. If she wasn’t, she’d be very involved with Lenore Dove. She and her Gal are buried in the same plot like in BA's ballad.

I do have a Maude Ivory fic I'm working on, that some of LD's background here is based on (the Chance connections etc) so a portion of post-tbosas and pre-sotr Covey lore is already made up in mind. If it doesn't make full sense, it's mostly because LD doesn't know the whole story either, and neither does her uncles.

I was researching about wind-up toys and what handmade ones could do etc, then I stumbled on the 'Wind-up doll jokes' pages on wiki and the Q&A in the summary is based on that basically. Btw if anyone here has read my Lou Lou fic, please tell me you get the milk snake reference :) it's another kingsnake species like scarlet kingsnake :)

Also I've taken to calling my favorite trio rn - LD, Burdock and Asterid - B-A-LD these days... Just so you understand if I happen to refer to them as such moving forward : ) See you next time, take care!!

Chapter 16: Rotten Fruits of Victory

Summary:

“I think folks want him to be fine. Makes it easier to accept the parcels and everything. I mean, it’s the first time any of us are seeing the rewards of Hunger Games.”

But he’s not fine. Anyone with eyes can see that — unless their eyes need a good scrubbing, if you ask Lenore Dove.

Notes:

heeey so I crashed out after realizing I had to go through VT again. and guess what I did. split the chapter again. because guess what. it got too long again. mediocre chapter incoming

LATE NOVEMBER

 

The Districts go one by one.

Lenore Dove and Burdock don’t talk about the Tour or the Games anymore. Not really. By the time the eighth day rolls around, and it’s District 5’s turn, they’ve moved back into the cafeteria for lunch. The weather’s turned even colder since then — December biting at their skin through coats and scarves as it comes closer, no matter how much they bundle up. Lenore Dove can’t even go into the woods for her head-clearing walks anymore, unless she wants snow to completely get in her old boots and freeze her feet.

After the Merrell incident, as Blair starts calling it, Lenore Dove starts paying closer attention to her classmates. She feels bad about snapping at the girl. She hadn’t really meant to. 

While she never cared much about what people thought of her before, and did her best not to pay them much mind in return — comes from knowing early on in her life that others held a kind of prejudice against her, one way or another, good or bad, simply because she wasn’t really from Seam, and definitely not from Town, so not exactly from Twelve at all.

But she’d grown out of that, so had they. The rumors with Chances, in a way, must’ve helped others see her as more Seam than her uncles — Still, she developed a thick skin about all that, and held onto the two sides of her. Covey is her roots, and Twelve is where she’s flourishing. (And maybe, someday, she’ll grow up enough to send her branches clear across every place she’s ever wanted to see. No fences to hem her in, no borders to tell her where she can’t go. She’ll just keep on growing, all around, wherever she pleases.)

Still, she surely doesn’t want to come off like someone who doesn’t care at all. Because she does. A lot.

What she’d done for Woodbine’s ma, she’d do for anyone else— no matter how much she can’t put a name to their face. Only ever wanted people to do the same for her, for anyone else.

Back before all this, if someone caught her attention, she could just ask Haymitch. He always knew.

Haymitch has a way of knowing everyone and everything, or at least it seems like that to her when he talks. Not the most social of them, maybe, but always open and approachable. He knows his whole neighborhood, and some ot others' even. He knows the folks from his pa’s old work crew, and Willamae’s clients. From Sid’s little friends, Louella's friends, to half the Hob Market, Haymitch knows a myriad of people in a myriad of ways.

He’s just like that. Still is.

So, with her friends’ help, Lenore Dove starts making a list of names for people she’s been having trouble with. Many hands make light work, as Haymitch liked to say. Or rather his Mamaw. One of the very people she had always wished she could meet.

Honestly, it gives her something to do while she waits miserably for each new broadcast to air.

One of the first names she writes down is Elaine Loar — the girl who moved seats that day, afraid she’d catch whatever Lenore Dove might’ve had. Apparently, Elaine helps her ma with cleaning work. Asterid knows her from when they come by the apothecary to scrub out the back rooms. Jed, who lives next door to her, calls her a neat freak, though he admits she’s alright. And however prickly she is about cleaning and dirt, Asterid tells her she fights with her ma all the time about having to clean. 

“You don’t know her like I do,” Jed had told her. “It's not even dirt that really bothers her. I got sick once when we were little, so she went and poured potash in my juice, just ’cause her brother told her I got something dirty crawling in me. She’d’ve killed you, or herself, if you so much as sneezed near her. I’m still breathing thanks to Mr. March.”

“Potash?!” Asterid had exclaimed in horror. “You drank lye?”

“Loars make soap with it, then sell it in Hob. Anyhow, yeah.”

“Oh, right,” Burdock chimed in, “Mr Loar buys his hogfat from my uncle.”

“Willamae did too…” Lenore Dove had said, and just like that, the chatter quieted down.

Willamae mostly made her own soap. Burdock’s older uncle, Al, used to set aside some leftover hog fat for Burdock to pass on to Haymitch, so Willamae could use the lard. Other times, if she ran out unexpectedly — which usually meant business was good and she couldn’t keep up with demand, because Willamae was never one to be caught unprepared — she’d get it from the Hob. Now Lenore Dove knows exactly where, and from who.

Finding out things about people only makes their absence get bigger. Haymitch probably knew Loars, he probably knew Elaine as well. Maybe bought soap from her directly for his ma.

Doesn't help that with each new information she's presented with, she can't help but think; Haymitch probably knows this already.

“So you’re the reason my dad keeps all that fresh milk in the shop.” Asterid said to Jed, maybe in an attempt to lift the mood. And then to others, a useful fact: “Charcoal tablets are useless against the stuff.”

“Pot-Laine is the reason, technically speaking.” Jed replied. “In her defense, we do use it for hominy.”

“And we rinse it like ten times, Jed. I think that lye's done some kinda damage in you.”

Then there’s Oakie, who turns out to be Ioa Wise — one of Elaine’s closest friends and somehow the opposite of the neat freak girl. Toughest immune system in Seam, but horrible eyesight and even worse muscle control. She wears glasses thick as the bottom of a mason jar, and usually seen wrapped in more bandages than sleeves. Just looking at her, you'd think she’s been through a war with the stairs leading to their class on third floor. Her eldest brother was a tribute for the 39th Hunger Games.

Lenore Dove quietly notes to herself to seek out Oakie next time she actually is sick - not that it’ll work, but she’d like to try and help.

Then of course, Merrell Clark, who doesn't sit in front of her again. There’s someone else in her place, but Lenore Dove hasn’t had the chance to dig around about him yet. Claus Something. But thankfully, he's not so tall, and Lenore Dove doesn't have any problems seeing the chalkboard.

Those are just three, and her list grows by day, as she tries to distract herself from thinking about the tour, and Haymitch, when it's not time for broadcast.

And so day by day, district by district, Victory Tour moves on.

Some of the song tunes feel strangely familiar to her, but the lyrics are so awful she can't help but wince. Capitol this, Capitol that, united districts, peace, Panem today, tomorrow, forever. The mouth still doesn’t match the words exactly either, whenever they do a close-up, Haymitch’s face looks weird and totally off. 

The same thing goes for each district; speech, song, dinner.

So far, other than District 7 and 6, she manages to watch all live broadcasts. For those two, she's missed 7's recap the next day, as it fell on a Sunday evening. All because she has to work. A job is a job, her uncles have told her -- even if she faked a sickness, she was dragged to work along with her tunebox. Root, hog, or die.

Hob performances now happen twice a week rather than one day, due to high demand — Sundays packed with locals, Saturdays draw the Peacekeepers — but the crowds are dense as ever.

Burdock hunts with his family on Saturdays. It’s safer then, Peacekeepers save their energy for the night, and there are generally fewer of them around. Deals still happen in the black market, of course, and some Peacekeepers trade in the Hob too, so they don’t interfere with the Everdeens’ hunting schemes — but it’s still good to have a day you know you’re off the hook and not in the mercy of what local peacekeepers allow.

He even manages to bring Asterid to the Sunday performance. From the stage, Lenore Dove spots that blonde head of hers right away, standing out in a sea of flowing dark hair. With no Blair, no Gillie, or anyone else, Lenore Dove feels justified in thinking this might actually be the first real step — something serious and not just the endless skirting-around-feelings dance they’ve been doing for ages.

She might press them about it later.

When they meet during the band’s break, Lenore Dove notices Asterid’s woven pipsissewa blossoms through the side of her braid — like tiny stars scattered through her hair. And something in her gut tells her Burdock’s the one who gave them to her— if the way he’s smiling is anything to go by, all proud of himself and puffing his chest out just a bit too much.

Love-in-winter, indeed. At least theirs is in-bloom.

Lenore Dove has to stop comparing herself — and her love life — to wilted grass blades.

“Hey, newcomer.” Lenore Dove grins. “First time in the Hob?”

“It is, in fact,” Asterid says, smiling as she takes in the room. Then she leans closer to whisper in Lenore Dove’s ear, “Kinda nervous. Do I look okay? I know I don't fit in, but I feel like I’m sweating bullets.”

“You’re fine, the prettiest girl in town. And I'm pretty sure Burdock's the one sweating bullets right now.”

Asterid’s cheeks and ears flush bright red. Before Lenore Dove can get a flustered hit on her shoulder, she hops back on stage.

“Go dance,” Lenore Dove says. “I’ll play a special song just for you.”

Just for you two, she thinks. This time, she doesn't feel all that alone playing for another couple.

 

Not much goes on in District 6, far as Lenore Dove can tell. But Haymitch looks worn out; low on energy, like keeping up the act’s finally taking it out of him.

It doesn't bring her any comfort, though. If anything, it makes her chest tighter. She does want him to drop the act altogether, to come home already. But not like that. And then again... wanting doesn't mean a thing anymore. She's not getting what she wants, which is Haymitch back home, back together with her, so no use dwelling on it -- she still does it anyway, crying about it before sleeping.

District 4 brings a moment that shoots straight through Lenore Dove’s heart— Haymitch getting swept up in a hug by Mags Flanagan, one of his mentors. The way in which Haymitch near melts in her hold tells her everything she needs to know. But they cut away from it too quickly, replacing the moment with a 'behind-the-scenes' footage of the Games for District 12, well, Haymitch. It’s something they usually do for victors, but it’s the first time District 12 has ever been given a glimpse like this. Normally, their tributes vanish after their cannon fires-- never shown again except for the rare background shot in training.

She’s watching it during lunch with the others — this time without Asterid, who’s sitting with her town friends today. But Lenore Dove sees Asterid set her food down the moment Maysilee appears on screen and her face crumples. Rethel Buchanan’s hand quickly lands on her shoulder, and Otho Mellark’s large frame visibly wilts, folding like a unwatered flower.

The cafeteria grows quiet as more people begin to pay attention at the three faces they know are no longer with them. Two for good, and one—

Wait. Three?

Lenore Dove’s head snaps up. She squints at the screen, her breath catching. On the wide projection, Mags is pinning fabric squares marked with the number 12 onto the tributes’ backs. Again. Only three of them.

She looks over to Asterid, who has slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes brimming with tears at the sight of Maysilee checking to make sure the numbers are pinned securely on Wyatt’s back, who then turns to check hers, and finally Haymitch’s. The girl on screen sighs, and fixes her hair and necklaces.

Burdock is too focused on Asterid to notice, but Gillie’s face has gone paper white.  Her cousin only notices when the table shakes from the force of him standing up. His knees nearly buckle, but he manages to storm out of the cafeteria, leaving his lunch untouched behind.

"Gillie--" he calls out, but the boy doesn't turn back. He leaves the cafeteria, and a smaller form immediately trails right after him, Alifair.

Lenore Dove watches them go, her eyes meet Burdock's for a second before drifting back to the screen.

Haymitch. Maysilee. Wyatt. But no Louella.

She makes a note of it in her mind — another thing to hash out with Haymitch when he gets back. When he sees just how much Lenore Dove’s figured out on her own, maybe he’ll finally come to his senses and realize he can’t keep her out of it all. And if he does, maybe he’ll open up. If not... well, Lenore Dove might just need herself a back-up plan.

In District Three, there’s another close-up moment featuring the most recent victors. Haymitch and his mentor, Wiress. Only nineteen now, yet the girl looks older — deep lines on her forehead, her expression flickers with slightly erratic head jerks. She doesn’t seem entirely sound of mind either, whispering to herself the entire time she hugs Haymitch, but she smiles brightly when they pull apart.

They play another pre-Games clip — this time, a mock interview between the tributes, Wiress, and that awful, vile woman, Drusilla. They don’t bother showing the others, only Haymitch’s segment, but Louella’s still nowhere to be seen. Maysilee's seen in the background walking across, and Wyatt's sitting next to Haymitch on the burnt orange couch.

“You’re up, Abernathy,” Drusilla says. Lenore Dove, already leaning in too close, hears that again — the tell-tale shift in the audio, like a soft crackle in the background. It lingers through her segments. Just like the crackle that Haymitch’s audio has sometimes.

“So, Twelve has an animal lover, a math whiz, and a charmer. What are you?”

“Bad news, apparently,” Haymitch replies. “Else how’d I get a one in training?”

The hosts erupt with laughter. They heap praise on Wiress for training him so well — both for media and arena. Still, there’s a bit of chatter about why they can’t get an exclusive interview with the mentor herself, especially about her first mentee’s big victory.

She remembers last year’s interviews with Wiress — she was a strange one, yes, and Lenore Dove felt an odd sort of kinship with her back then, watching her speak so plainly while everyone else stumbled trying to catch the meaning. She’d won with nothing but her wits, outsmarted the arena and the people who built it, never spilling a drop of blood, proving you didn’t have to wield a weapon to come out on top. Later, they tried to paint her as unsettling, off-kilter, but Lenore Dove had seen right through that.

“I followed the light beams.” So simple, so concise, so obscure. Lenore Dove had smiled when Wiress said it, neatly slicing through Caesar’s endless questions about her victory. The host and his audience only grew more flustered and baffled by her reply, and the calm way she's said it: It’s not clear to you? Well, it’s clear enough to me. I wish you would get me, but I'm afraid I don't have any other way to say what I think.

If there was any victor she’d want as a mentor, it’d be Wiress. No question. She likes to think they’d find that one shared frequency in their wavelengths where they could meet and understand each other. 

But the girl they showed greeting Haymitch now wasn’t the same at all. The girl who’d come out of that hellish, maddening arena with her mind intact now looked like a firecracker, jittering in place — lit and ready to explode at any moment.

What were the odds that after a Hunger Games — the most violent one yet, with forty-seven kids left dead and who knows how many more behind the curtains like Woodbine and ... — so many involved would either retire soon or die in a freak accident, past victors' manners seem to be switched off like a button, and some tributes would be cut from the footage or never shown at all?

Wait until Haymitch comes back, she tells herself again and again. 

Later, surprisingly, Lenore Dove and Asterid end up talking about the interview segment during a short walk around the school. It’s nothing far, just a loop after lunch. They’ve fallen into the habit of doing this lately, the two of them finding it easier to stay quiet together than with the others.

Asterid smiles, retelling how Maysilee had practically lit the Capitol audience on fire with insults about their fashion during her interview.

“I remember her saying, ‘you wore all your friends tonight’ , they’ve showed him up close right after, wearing all dollar bills, “Asterid says between teary giggles, then blows her nose into a napkin. “I couldn’t laugh at the time, y’know, seeing her up there... but it’s just so her. Sometimes I catch myself giggling in bed ‘cause I remember something she said. Then I cry. I know, I must sound crazy.”

“You don’t, not one bit. I do that too,” Lenore Dove tells her friend. She’s lost sleep over things Haymitch’s told her; like the first time he’s said I love you like all-fire. Oh, Lenore Dove couldn’t even close her eyes without seeing his face, and it’d send her feet into a frenzy, kicking up the blankets. “Some moments are too precious to just let go of. Nothing wrong with holding onto ’em a little longer.”

The idea of Asterid — probably the nicest girl Lenore Dove has ever known — being best friends with the meanest girl in town was something she can’t fully wrap her head around. But the more they talk, and the more she gets to know Maysilee through Asterid, the side of her most never got to see, the more it starts to make sense why someone would stick by her.

“She never pulled her punches. Not with anyone,” Asterid says, then pauses, lips pursed. “Well… maybe with her parents. Merry and me if she's in a good mood. But even I caught the sharp end sometimes. Helped me develop a thick skin, though, to be honest. After we got closer, my mother’s nagging didn’t bother me as much, 'cause if there was something truly wrong with me, May would've already caught it. Does that make sense?”

"Kinda...Interesting way to look at things." Lenore Dove replies. “You shouldn’t have to take things like that and just be expected to stay quiet. I’m glad she influenced you the way she did.”

Asterid nods, rueful, and they stand there in silence, leaning against the school building, watching their breaths curl in the cold air like smoke.

“Hey, Asterid...”

“Yeah?”

“What’d you think of Louella’s interview? I couldn’t watch ’em live… I know you don’t know her well, but was there somethin’ off about her?”

Burdock said she looked mad. That's not the kind of thing you forget easily. If you'd ask around, you'd find out that people still remember how Rosamel Kane burst into tears in her interview last year, shaking like a dog passing a peach pit; and how downright aggressive Colton came off the year before that, and how Robbie Fay had people shaking their heads at the screen over how much he played to the cameras.

“Louella’s interview…” Asterid pauses, thinking. “I think she came on after Maysilee. I didn’t watch anyone after that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Lenore Dove says quietly.

“I did see her in the Games, though. Wyatt died protecting her. Then Maysilee tried to follow her, but… well, they never found each other again.” She wets her lips. “It was awful. The bloodbath.”

“I see,” Lenore Dove says. “Thanks.”

Asterid watches her for a moment. “You looking for something in particular?” she asks gently. “I could ask around, if you want.”

“No, no.” Lenore Dove shakes her head. “Truth is, I don’t even rightly know what I’m looking for. Just… stuff’s been sticking in my head, and the more I can’t make sense of it, the more riled up I get.”

Asterid nods, her brow furrowed. “Hm…”

After school, she makes a spur-of-the-moment decision to head up to the graveyard.

Not that she doesn’t already go often.

Lenore Dove visits Willamae and Sid every week, just to make sure the snow and dirt and weeds don't swallow up the plot. She scrubs their joint headstone clean — can’t bear the thought of Haymitch, if he ever did decide to come see them, finding their graves all forgotten and left to wind and cold. Just the idea sets her jaw and makes her stomp her boots harder through the thickening snow.

She’s halfway up the hill that leads to the graveyard when she spots a small figure bounding down the path — bundled in a winter coat and scarf, long hair pulled to a low ponytail, a frayed beanie with a poof on top. The girl sees her too and lifts a hand in greeting.

“Hey, Alifair.”

“Hi, Lenore Dove,” the girl says, quickening her pace. They meet up halfway, and Alifair rummages through the pockets of her coat and pulls out a tight little fist. “Close your eyes and gimme your hand.”

“Alrighty,” Lenore Dove says without hesitation, holding out her palm. She feels something drop into it. When Alifair gives the cue, she opens her eyes and finds a small piece of taffy.

“Oh, thank you, Alifair. How sweet of you!” Lenore Dove smiles and pinches the girl’s cheek gently. “You on your own? Where you coming from?”

She looks around to see someone else with her; Gillie or Ima, maybe a friend. But it looks like Alifair's alone.

“Just me. Whenever I get some candy, I gotta leave two for Louella and Sid,” Alifair says plainly, popping another taffy into her mouth and starts chewing. “They liked taffy too.”

“Oh.” Lenore Dove doesn’t quite know what to say to that. Her heart tugs. “Well, I’m sure they’d love it. Just be careful, alright? Candy like that might draw rats and all sorts of things.”

Taffy’s a sticky business, and sweets like that could choke a bird or worse. Her uncles used to tell stories about how she’d pitch a fit whenever they told her she couldn’t share her candy with the birds. Kicking up a storm, they say — all red-faced and snot running down her nose. So, she gets Alifair, really.

“Oh.” Alifair’s face drops, lips puckered like she might cry. “I didn’t think of that.”

But Lenore Dove’s already got a solution to the little girl’s problem. “How ‘bout this — let’s get two little jars. We can put the candy in there, nice and safe so it's only for Louella and Sid.”

“Glass jars cost a lot,” Alifair pouts. "We don't have any glass. Just tin cans."

“That's what's got you all troubled, hon’?” Lenore Dove says with a wink. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, I’ll snag two just for them.”

“What about the all those I left before…” Alifair says, face still in pout, dragging the toe of her boot through the snowy dirt, tracing a little circle. “I left so much…”

“I’m headed there now,” Lenore Dove assures her, “I’ll take care of it, so don’t you go worrying your pretty little head, Alifair.”

“Then next time, I’ll bring the candy and you bring the jars,” the youngest McCoy says, turning back to keep going down the hill, giving a little wave over her shoulder. "Bye, Lenore Dove!"

“That's a done deal!” Lenore Dove calls after her, waving back with a smile. "See you, Alifair!"

Alifair's schoolbag hangs low on her back, one strap nearly torn through — odd, considering nothing usually stays broken long in the McCoy house. They’ve got two of the finest menders in Seam; Mrs. McCoy and Ima both have really nimble fingers that do wonders with needle and thread. Lenore Dove stands there a moment longer, watching as Alifair disappears around the bend, off toward her own neighborhood.

The graves are kept clean, as always. Only exception’s Jethro Callow’s, whose headstone’s cracked in two -- done it in the dead of night shortly after the burial, but no one’s bothered to track down who. Wyatt’s ma sure hasn’t. She doubts it's even reported anywhere.

But the rest of them, they’re well cared for.

Maysilee’s is never short of color. Even in the thick of winter, when not much is in bloom, her family always finds a way. There are two ribbons tied around her stone, prettiest shades of purple and pink Lenore Dove's seen on any fabric, and partridgeberries scattered along the plot. They won’t last, wildlife always carries them off, but this way, it's like her grave’s never truly without company, there's always something drawn to it.

Louella and Wyatt’s are much the same. Lenore Dove spots the taffy on Louella’s, and gently takes it off. She brushes a bit of snow-dirt from it and picks a few more pieces nearby before heading on to Sid and Willamae’s. Alifair’s left a good many there too.

Lenore Dove takes her time, careful not to mix up Louella and Sid’s candy. She wraps each in a napkin and tucks them in separate pockets of her coat. Then she kneels down to clear the snow from Sid and Willamae’s shared headstone — not that there’s much to do. It’s spotless already.

Truth is, she just wanted to see them today.

Every time she comes by, she means to tell Willamae not to fret — that she’s looking after Haymitch here om this side, so the woman can rest easy and move on peacefully to the next world. But the words catch in her throat every time. She's not ready to lie. She can't lie, not to her.

One day, though. One day she’ll stand here with her boots firm on the ground and chin high, and she’ll say it clear as day, "I got our boy. So dont be worrying yourself."

After the Victory Tour. That's the deadline she sets for herself and for Haymitch. Whatever’s happened in the Games — they’ll figure things out together.

Just two districts left, and the Capitol.

Three more days. Three.

 

Just like District 7, Lenore Dove is unable to watch the evening broadcasts of Two and One. All she ever manages to catch are the welcoming parades while she’s getting ready for the night performance at the Hob — thanks to the timezone difference between them in Twelve, and most districts in the latter half of the tour are packed in western Panem. 

Still, she has to remind herself to shake it off and actually get ready. Because every time she tries, she ends up just standing there, eyes fixed on the screen, staring at Haymitch as he sings for the cheering crowds of One and Two.

Since Distict 11; there hasn't been any other inconsistencies in his district performances. 

But her suspicions about the Games is far from satisfied, and her investigation far from done.

And so, Lenore Dove convinces Burdock to watch the Victory Tour Special Program with her on Monday. It takes some persuasion, but her cousin finally agrees when she explains she couldn’t watch the Games while in jail, and now doesn’t want to face them alone. Besides, she needs someone who’s actually seen them — someone whose memory she can trust. Burdock, who no doubt paid the most attention to Haymitch - the only one left alive - fits the bill.

She doesn't tell Asterid, however, thinking the girl would rather skip watching it altogether, not wanting to see Maysilee's death played ver and over again. Knowing Asterid wouldn’t just refuse, Lenore Dove doesn’t mention anything at all, she doesn’t want to force her friend to choose something she doesn’t want. Blair’s made it clear he’s done; and Gillie’s out of question. Poor boy is already dealing with enough. 

But of course, her friend has to one-up her — because when Lenore Dove opens the door on Monday, just a few short hours after school, expecting Burdock, it’s Asterid standing there with a big grin on her face.

Lenore Dove doesn’t even register her presence properly at first because—

“Dandelion!” she exclaims, immediately taking the bundled cage off her friend’s hands. She leaves Asterid standing in the doorway as she rushes to the table, unwrapping the blanket. Dandelion starts chirping the second the cloth falls off. “I missed you, darling boy!”

The little bird doesn't leave her hanging — he lets out a string of loud, happy whistles. Lenore Dove opens the cage window and holds out her finger for him to hop on, which he does without hesitation. She laughs as she drops a kiss on top of his head, and places him on her shoulder.

“What a welcome…Guess I should just head to the knacker’s yard,” Asterid calls from the doorway, her tone mock-wounded. “Since I’m obviously not wanted around here.”

Lenore Dove — and Dandelion, now proudly perched on her head — both turn to face her.

“What’re you doing here?” Lenore Dove asks.

“Alright, now I’m really going to the knacker’s yard,” Asterid says, spinning on her heel and grabbing her coat back from th rack.

Lenore Dove rolls her eyes, grabs the blonde by the arm, and pulls her into the living room. “Oh, shut up. Sit down.” then all but shoves Asterid onto the couch.

“I thought you had work today,” Lenore Dove says. “And you know your ma doesn’t like it when you hang out with us too much.”

The last time Lenore Dove stopped by the apothecary after her piano practice at the Mayor’s house, Mrs. March happened to walk in and caught the girls in the middle of gossip— well, exchanging information, as Lenore Dove preferred to call it. In truth, it was mostly Asterid sharing the latest news from merchant life.

Now that wouldn’t have been an issue if it had been one of the Donner girls or a Buchanan —or anyone else, really, perhaps even if they were from the Seam — but because it was Lenore Dove Baird, the rebellious Covey girl who had been arrested three times and lived to tell the tale, most recent being mere months ago, it quickly became an issue. 

But Asterid’s mother had quickly pieced together just how close the two had gotten — especially after the whole Dandelion thing — and since then, Asterid’s schedule at the apothecary had become noticeably tighter. Burdock, however, seemed to fly under the radar. With Mrs March laser-focused on Lenore Dove, he managed to keep dropping by the shop at least twice a week to trade, and spark his swan.

“We saw you get arrested that time too, y’know? I still get shivers whenever I think about it… I don’t know how you did it, honestly. You were really brave, Lenore Dove,” her friend had said. “And I really liked your songs, for the record.”

It had brought tears to her eyes, honestly. She’d needed to hear that. She still hasn’t talked much about her time in jail — more like her long captivity. Asterid has offered to listen, but Lenore Dove just wants to deal with the obstacle in her way right now; and that's figuring out Haymitch’s deal and bringing him back - to life, and if he still wants, to her. If she can just do that, maybe then she’ll deal with those.

Only today’s left. Tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon, he’ll return. And maybe, right after the dinner at the Mayor’s, they’ll come face to face. They'll talk.

Just one more day. One.

And so Asterid, already sitting with Lenore Dove in class, had started splitting her time between them and her friends from town. No one had an issue with each other outright, but mixing between the two groups just wasn’t something that happened. Asterid clinging to Lenore Dove had already raised enough eyebrows — on both sides, Seam and Town alike. But no one really questioned them about it.

“I told you that ‘cause I needed to vent, not so you could go using it as some excuse to kick me out,” Asterid replies, keeping up the offended act.

“Well, excuse me for not wanting you stuck behind that counter all weekend again, just so your ma can keep us apart.”

"No issue,” Asterid says, smiling. “Don’t you know? Today, I’m actually with Rethel and Harlow. We’re having a sleepover.”

“Oh, are you?” Lenore Dove raises an eyebrow, petting Dandelion on the head, who dropped to her shoulder.

“Yup.” Asterid plops down more comfortably on the couch, kicking her feet up a little. “Jokes aside, I actually gotta head to Buchanans’ after this, for the night. I meant the sleepover thing. Knew they couldn’t say no once I pulled that card out. We used to have them all the time— me and the girls.” She pauses, “Not feeling too bad about it, really. Maybe ’cause Mom’s always sending me to the Donners, this feels like something I’m doing for myself.”

“That’s real kind of ’em, still,” Lenore Dove says, then pauses. Her brow furrows as she reaches out and lays a hand on Asterid’s knee. “You don’t have to watch, Asterid. Truly. I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want you to put yourself through all that again. I’d never wish that on you.”

“It’s alright,” Asterid replies softly. “Trust me. I just…” She lets out a breath. “I wanna be here for you, just as much, And— and there’s something I been wondering too.”

“Oh yeah?” Lenore Dove raises her eyebrows, that’s unexpected. “What’s that?”

“Something I caught in the first recap, but I didn’t think much of it then. I tried to tell Merrilee, but well, that didn't go well. Honestly, none of us had our heads on straight.” She bites her lip. “Maybe together, we can make some sense out of it?”

Just then, Dandelion starts chirping, and draws the girls’ attention to himself.

“Oh, and— sorry for bringing Dandy back so late. Mr. and Mrs. Donner kept wanting to see him, so I couldn’t take him away,” Asterid says,. “They told me to tell you to drop by sometime; they wanna give you some coupons for the shop. Anything in particular you’re sweet on?”

Oh.

Well, not really. Not anymore.

She thought nothing could ever ruin colors for her, but those gumdrops did. She doesn't want to end up like the Parade Master.

“Sure,” Lenore Dove says instead. “I’ll do that sometime.” Maybe she’ll pick something else, or better yet, some taffy for Alifair to give Louella and Sid.

“They’d just… hand them over?” To me?

She doesn’t say what she’s really thinking. Donners’ were one of the few in Twelve that’s done well from the start and have been living in clover, end each month with more profit than cost, — mostly because they adopted a strict no-scrip policy early on. But hey, people need a little sweetness in their lives. Better overpriced than none at all. But giving something away for free, to Lenore Dove, of all people?

“Oh, yeah,” Asterid replies.“Partly as thanks; for helping Dandelion. May loved him so much — they were devastated seeing him in bad shape. Mr. Donner even whipped up some treats for him with sugar, the real deal — I brought ‘em with me. Besides, ever since the parcels started coming, business in town’s been picking up. People are actually getting medicine from us now, too.”

Right. That’s another thing Haymitch’s win brought. Thanks to the victor’s parcels, people haven’t had to scrape together scrip for necessities in months. Any spare money could finally be saved — or spent on little luxuries from the sweetshop or bakery, or actual treatment at the apothecary. It must’ve took some time with things feeling stable before people were comfortable spending again.

“Not that Mr. Donner cares much about it anymore, really,” Asterid adds, biting her lip, then leaning in. “He’s not gonna run for mayor.”

“What?”

“He won’t,” she continues. “I heard him tell my dad. He said he could never be on that stage again.”

She must’ve made a face, because Asterid looks at her and smiles ruefully. “I know you’re thinking somethng. Go on, say it. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Lenore Dove insists. But Asterid’s right. Again. The girl’s too perceptive for her own good.

When those blue eyes fix on her pointedly, Lenore Dove gives in with a sigh.

“Maybe I wish he hadn’t wanted to step onto that stage that willingly in the first place,” she says, as gently as she can, recalling how the man used to flaunt his wealth — from the ‘No Scrip’ policy to the stale-marshmallow scheme to squeeze more cash out of poorer families and naive Seam kids who thought they were getting a deal.

Theres more things she can list, but Lenore Dove doesn’t want to be hard on a grieving father, no matter his doings.

“I wish it hadn’t taken all this to make him realize it.” she adds.

“You’re not wrong,” her friend responds. “But Mr Donner’s a good man, really. Thought money and a title would keep the bad off his family. He was real desperate for that seat. Then, in the end, it wasn't enough.”

“Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches… Though kind of ironic when we're all wearing the same shoe.” Lenore Dove says, then sighs. “I just hope the next mayor's even half as decent as Allister.”

“Me too. ‘Least she wasn’t crooked. May and Merry’s grandma used to say the ones before her were real pieces of work— only ever lined their own pockets. Lots of bribes and hush money. One’s daughter even got shot.”

“Oh,” Lenore Dove frowns, “Those two related?”

Asterid shrugs, “Probably.”

“Haven’t heard that one before.” That’s only partly true. She’s knows about the first mayor rigging the reaping so Lucy Gray would be chosen -- al because of bad blood between her and the mayor’s daughter. She also knows older folk around here always figured the mayor had something to do with Lucy Gray’s disappearance. Her uncles never told her to deny it if anyone were to ask. But she's never heard of the that girl getting shot.

“Old Maimie loved her gossip,” Asterid says with a smile. “She’d talk up a storm about everything and everyone, nobody was safe. May took after her the most, no doubt — only, she’d say it right to your face.”

“She sure did…” Lenore Dove says, remembering the exchange they’d had about the orange paint.

It still nags at her, even now — but the memory’s gone bittersweet, knowing she’ll never get to find out what Maysilee really thought. Why hadn’t she threatened her? How did she even come across the slogan in the first place? A highfalutin rich girl as herself, how could she even come across what Lenore Dove's been writing in alleyways and back of the buildings? 

Maysilee Donner surely had more going on beneath the surface that Lenore Dove can no longer fish out, even if she wanted to.

“So…” she begins. “How’re they doing?”

She knows the answer to that. She's seen them at work during her visits to Asterid. Anyone with eyes could tell the pair had lost their spark. They’ve both grown thinner, and from a complaint she overheard in class, there haven’t been any new sweet combinations at the shop for a while. Same old candy in rotation.

Merrilee is what she really wants to ask about. The girl has fully drawn away from the rest of the world. It's been months, but Asterid always tended to shut down whenever the topic shifted to her — former? estranged? — best friend. It’s clear there’s more to the story than shared grief, though. 

And lately, Asterid’s face always twists into something sour whenever thr girl comes up, and it’s obvious not just sadness.

She sighs. “Like I said; Business is good. They’re not.” 

Dandelion hops from Lenore Dove’s shoulder, and onto Asterid’s finger. The girl brings the songbird to her face and drops a kiss on his beak.

“They won’t be fine for a long time.”

They won’t. Maybe ever. Maybe Mrs March was right in that way. Though neither Asterid nor Lenore Dove seem to want to admit it. In a world where losing people is a constant, they don't want to give into that.

Her uncles have carried grief all their lives, starting from when they were very young, too young.

Tam Amber was just her age when their entire family was torn apart and taken — culture and tradition cast forcibly aside, forcing their small hands to clutch onto all that could be salvaged. The rest of the Covey were even younger. Grief became second nature to them over the years, losing people one by one, though never grew easier to bear.

For Lenore Dove, death used to feel more like a brief separation. Like how the Covey had always moved from town to town, and in her mind, the hereafter was just another stop on the road for her to catch up on. Her mother wasn’t gone, she just waiting in the next town. So very close. That promise of reunion, the comfort of knowing she’s nearby, was what carried her through the hardest days. 

When they took Haymitch, she’d realised how far that next town really is.

The sudden realisation that he’d move on, go somewhere entirely else that they won't even walk the ground of the same earth, hit her like a blow. She couldn’t bear the thought. Nothing ever dies, but did that even matter if they were not here with me here?

That was when grief, in its rawest form, truly started to set in. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches, indeed.

Before she can bring up Merrilee, the front door creaks open. Asterid quickly cups Dandelion in her hands to keep him from flying outside.

“Asterid?!” her cousin exclaims, frozen in the doorway with a squirrel hanging from his belt, even though he knows how much Lenore Dove hates it when he does that. He's also much later than he said he would be.  Must’ve gone hunting — probably to blow some steam off — before coming over. “What’re you doing here?!”

“Oh, so that's how it is, nobody's glad to see me today, huh?” Asterid teases, smiling at Burdock, who huffs a laughter in response. To him, the suggestion is beyond ridiculous. “Don’t try stopping me now, Lenore Dove. I mean it this time, I’m really leaving.”

But she doesn’t, of course. Lenore Dove quickly moves Dandelion to her loft and covers his cage with the cloth, they don't want him mimic and echo those Capitol-procuded awful music. After Burdock deals with the squirrel as quickly as he can outside, he puts the meat in the refrigerator, and they all cram together on the couch; Asterid in the middle, cousins on either end. A hand-knit blanket, Barb Azure’s handiwork from long ago, covers their pulled-up legs as they watch the screen. It’s just them in the house for now, Tam Amber’s taken most of their instruments for re-stringing in the Hob; and CC preferred to spend the duration of the program outside. 

The big, curlicued 50 appears over a sweeping shot of the auditorium stage. There must be thousands of people there.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Second Quarter Quell Victory Tour Special Program—hosted by everybody’s favorite host, Caesar Flickerman!”

 

Haymitch’s entrance is something else.

He saunters in with a confidence he clearly didn’t have back on the departure stage — this time, he plays his part, and plays it well. Lenore Dove can tell. Though still, that’s not his real voice. It’s at least altered, somehow.

When he finishes the song, roses rain down on him. He catches one midair and slips it between his teeth— a perfect picture of Panem’s Favorite Rascal, the image sealed by Caesar Flickerman’s gleeful introduction.

 

“Trouble as always, this one, ladies and gentlemen! Just a different kind of danger—especially when it comes to a matter of hearts!”

“That’s right, Caesar.” 

 

He winks at the crowd, then tosses the rose to the audience. A high-pitched shriek follows it.

 

“Better hold on tight — I’m known to steal things that aren’t nailed down.”

 

Burdock visibly cringes from the side. “This again…”

“That’s not him,” Lenore Dove says, needing to make sure it’s heard and known and frowns at the screen. It’s just too obvious. “He’s playing a character.”

“Obviously— and it's the same one from the his interview back then,” Burdock nods. “Can’t speak for the others, but Haymitch's put on the show for it.”

“May was very much herself,” Asterid adds quietly.

“Must’ve been for the sponsors,” Lenore Dove says. “Rascal thing makes sense now, though." Panem's Favorite Rascal. She huffs, "He sounds like Woodbine. Or Acer, before he got married.”

“Right? That’s what I said,” Burdock replies. “Still, we didn’t know what to make of it. Watching it was too much then…it’s too much now, if I’m honest.”

“Sounds about right,” Asterid nods.

Lenore Dove suddenly feels incredibly awful. She needs someone who’s seen the Games and knows happened or didn’t, to help make sense of it all. and yes, she hadn’t wanted to face this alone, but the heaviness in their voices pulls at her heart.

“Guys, it’s honestly fine if you want to leave. I was being dramatic, I’ll be okay—”

“You won’t,” Burdock interrupts. “I wouldn’t’ve come if I didn’t want to be here for you.”

“Same for me,” Asterid says softly. “And like I told you, there’s something I’m looking for as well.”

That makes Burdock look at her, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What’re you looking for?”

Asterid shrugs. “We’ll see. It’s just… something that’s been on my mind since that first recap." She turns to Lenore Dove. "I wouldn’t even think of watching it again if it weren’t for you, really. Most in Town don’t tune in. Or at least, we wait ‘til the recap’s done before even turning the TV on. No one wants to see all that play again.”

“We do the same,” Burdock adds. “Normally. But this year, peacekeepers were going door-to-door in Seam, telling folks to turn their TVs on.”

“They did?” Lenore Dove asks, surprised. Burdock nods, then she turns to Asterid. “So you saw it too? The first one, after Haymitch won?”

Asterid nods slowly. “I didn’t mean to. Wasn’t planning on it. They had it playing in the square while I was dropping off medicine, and I just… ended up standing there, watching the whole thing. I guess I froze.”

“I didn’t,” Burdock cranes his neck to speak to Lenore Dove directly. “Watch it, I mean.”

“You just said—”

“The TV was on, but I didn’t watch the recap. We’d seen the Games enough,” he gestures toward Asterid. “I wanted to stay in my room, but Peacekeepers kept knocking ‘cause they saw three people registered at the house and only two by the TV, so I had to come out anyway. Still, I only caught Haymitch’s interview.”

“Were they in Town?” Lenore Dove asks Asterid.

She nods. “They blocked off the town square,” she says, then pauses to recall, “Merchant sector was closed, and I had to show our prescription receipt just to get through. Seam was blocked off too, wasn’t it?”

Burdock nods. “Ratsbane Hankins and his pa were hired to kill rats in some merchant's cellar, but they got turned away. That was before Victor’s Ceremony even started."

"Ratsbane?" The name makes Asterid turn to face him fully. “That’s not his real name, is it?”

All she gets in return is a shrug. "If it's not, I'm not aware."

Haymitch would probably know.

 

“I followed my mentor, Wiress’ words. She told me to think outside the arena’s limtiations. Figured if anyone could manage that, it’d be a troublemaker like me. You get me, right, Caesar?”

 

The recap starts, and she leans in, eyes fixed on the screen.

Lenore Dove has never been one for watching the Hunger Games. She skips all the pre-Games coverage whenever she can, but the first day is mandatory viewing, and the broadcasts are everywhere. Here in Twelve, folks usually scatter after the countdown and the bloodbath — spirits lifted if their tributes survive. But this time, the mood would be different; some wonder if it’s better if they’re dead, so they won’t have to suffer in the arena. Hope pulls people up and down all at once — some rush to the screens to see it through, while others try to stay as far away as possible.

Some don't even show up to watch, but if they're caught anywhere else during the time, then it means some serious punishment -- left to the mercy of whatever the wandering Peacekeeper feels like giving. Though they've always been lax in Twelve, there's no telling with them.

Then, the Games keep on running on every channel, every hour, every day; so they’re playing in someone’s house or shop, no matter what.

Lenore Dove never watches more than she absolutely has to — and that's right now.

The first shot is an eye, then the viewer is zooming closer like a diving bird plunging down and down, until the camera drops right into the pupil, which turns out to be the Cornucopia. The arena’s shaped like an eye. A shiver runs down her spine, hair standing on end, which she tries to chase away by rubbing a hand on her arms. Next to her, Asterid shakes her arm, muttering under breath how it gives her the chills, and Burdock scoffs at the screen.

And then, the arena. Oh, the arena.

At first glance, it looks beautiful. Green meadow stretching endlessly, dotted with flowers of every color and shape. Birds wheel through the sky. Lush woods border one side, a tall, intimidating mountain looms on the other. And in the center, the Cornucopia gleams gold, practically inviting. Around it, a massive ring of forty-eight children.

On screen, however, Haymitch furrows his brows and covers his nose, starts breathing from his mouth.

 

“Smart move by our victor already! Maybe this was the turning point. The scent of the arena was chemically engineered to disorient and confuse the tributes, but our rascal had the upper hand before the Games even began!”

“Y’know what they say, Caesar, everything that glitters isn’t gold. Except the Cornucopia, I guess.”

 

There’s not much shown of the other tributes. The footage centers on Haymitch — just him. He runs into the Cornucopia, grabs a decent haul of supplies, a spear even, and bolts without a second glance while most tributes are still on their spots.

It doesn’t look good for him.

“He wasn’t part of the Newcomers?” she asks Burdock. “That alliance you told me about?”

“He was, he said so himself in the interview,” He answers. “Didn’t stick with ’em, though. Not 'til much later. Look, I don’t know, okay? None of it makes sense — like anything else that’s happened this year.”

“Well,” Lenore Dove mutters, glaring at the screen where Haymitch is fighting off golden squirrels, Caesar announcing they've skipped the unnecessary deaths of the bloodbath to focus on their victor, “He wouldn’t’ve left his allies. Especially not his district partners. He wouldn't leave Louella.” 

“Maybe we should ask him that— oh wait,” Burdock snaps. “We can try, it’s not like he avoids us like we've got consumption or throws rocks at us to keep us away. So…”

They glare at each other before softening, both a little ashamed, and back off. The special program hasn’t even started, and they’re already on edge. Besides, Asterid looks entirely out of place frozen in her seat, probably thinking on how to diffuse the situation if an arugment were to happen.

The volcano erupts on-screen, and Lenore Dove remembers what her uncles told her during their five-minute daily visits, the few precious minutes she’d used just to ask about Haymitch — the volcano blew its top. Haymitch wasn’t anywhere near it. He ran into the Careers. Now he’s running with Maysilee Donner.

And it happens just as they've told her.

Lenore Dove, without a doubt, would always choose the reality where they were gone and not Haymitch. But watching it doesn’t make anything easier. Haymitch must be just as horrified at himself. No doubt.

A trident flies past him, that Haymitch miracilously dodges. He stabs the girl from Four in the gut, then hamstrings her district partner. Lenore Dove can feel the phantom pain of it all on her own body, almost. When the boy collapses, Haymitch brings an axe down on his neck, cleaving it open.

It happens so fast. There’s so much blood. All Lenore Dove can do is stare at the red splashes across the screen. In her mind, she desperately tries to replace them with poppies blooming. Two children — just like that — are gone from the world, lives taken by another scared boy in self-defense.

She blinks.

But her stomach twists and clenches. It’s not just the blood. It’s Haymitch being in the middle of it. Haymitch spilling it, from himself, and from others.

Then it’s him and the giant from One, circling each other like vultures. The boy knocks Haymitch’s axe away and slams him to the ground. Haymitch lifts is hands, tries to back away.

Lenore Dove clutches her head. Asterid’s hand starts rubbing circles on her back, trying to help her, but she’s too in her head at the moment. She'll feel awful about this later, Lenore Dove's not the one with her loved one dying in that arena, Asterid is. 

She’s suddenly grateful there wasn’t a TV in her jail cell. If she’d had to watch this unfold in real time — without knowing how it ended and Haymitch somehow made it out — she might’ve lost her mind. Gone insane. She’d do worse than sing songs. She’d have blown the Justice Building into pieces.

The fear in Haymitch’s eyes is real. She sees it, and hears it, bleeding into his voice as he speaks to the burly tribute looming over him.

 

“…Me, I’ve been doing pretty well. Turns out, some people love a loser. But you, everybody knows you’re going to win. You always win. Come on, at least slide my knife over here so we can give the people a show.”

 

He must’ve been out of his mind, talking like that. Rambling, but slick with it, a smooth-talker to the end.

There’s a wild look in One’s eyes that makes Lenore Dove shiver, even from miles and miles away. Even though he’s already dead. Those eyes might just show up in her nightmares now, haunting her with the thought that maybe that was the last thing Haymitch saw. 

Haymitch — whose face suddenly goes still, set like stone as he stares One down. Like he’s accepted this is the end. But then, out of nowhere, a dart flies into the boy from One’s neck. He drops dead.

 

“We’d live longer with two of us.”

“Guess you just proved that. Allies?”  

 

Lenore Dove, however relieved she feels, turns to look at Asterid, who’s watching her friend with a hazy gaze, like she’s soaking in every word Maysilee’s saying.

On screen, the girl in question helps patch Haymitch up — stitching his gashes close, neat, and quite well-done, if Lenore Dove has to admit.

"I was always jealous of that," Asterid pipes up, offering bits of Maysilee’s memory freely and wholeheartedly. "She sewed better than me and teased me about it all the time, saying I better be careful or she’d come for my job, and I’d be the one stuck behind the sweetshop counter."

"Your pa'd give the shop away?" Burdock asks.

Asterid shrugs. "Maybe. Might’ve preferred her over me, really. She wouldn’t keep sneaking medicine outta the stocks."

Haymitch and Maysilee move through the arena side by side, working together. Time passes by quick in the montage. At one point, they’re chased but manage to slip away. Other than that, they hold their own — better than most who are dying all around. They take turns keeping watch, get more rest.

She sighs as Maysilee stops walking altogether and starts pressing Haymitch.

 

“…But you’re taking me north again, Haymitch. Why?”

“Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can’t go on forever.” 

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. But maybe there’s something we can use.”

“You mean, like something mechanical? Electrical?”

“Maybe. I just think if we’re smart, we can use it for our own means. I swear, do this and I’ll never ask you for anything else as long as I live.” 

“That’s a generous offer…All right. ” 

 

Caesar makes a quick remark about how smooth-talking he is, and Haymitch laughs, admitting he knows his strengths, basking - arguably - in the applause that follows his cheeky reply.

Then it cuts to them burning the hedge; Haymitch wielding the blowtorch, Maysilee burning down the swarms of ladybugs, poor, beautiful things. Ladybugs, bringers of luck, go down one by one.

They even sing, which draws laughter from the audience, entertained by the image. 

But music is a motivator. You’d have to be soulless to deny that. It fills the body with something more than food or blood or air—a soft hum can slow a racing heart and bring on sleep, while a string of rapid notes can set it pounding and burning. 

Their voices rise, louder and louder, singing the same children’s rhyme, but it doesn’t sound like a lullaby anymore. It sounds like a battle cry.

 

“Ladybug, ladybug fly away home.
Your house is on fire, your children are gone. 

All except one, who answers to Nan.
She’s hiding under the frying pan.”

 

Beside her, Asterid’s jaw is tight, one leg jittering so hard it shakes her whole body. Her lips tremble, eyes glassy. Lenore Dove notices her hand clamped around Burdock’s, knuckles white. And in that moment, she realizes what’s soon to come, that her friend is bracing herself to face once more. Again, knowing how this all ends doesn't make it easier.

 

“That’s all there is to the arena, Haymitch. Let’s go back.” 

“No. I’m staying here.”

“All right, there’s only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now anyway. I don’t want it to come down to you and me.” 

 

Haymitch stays quiet, and Maysilee leaves.

“So I did see right. They didn’t split up then,” Asterid says suddenly, louder than she's ever been, and very upset. She gestures to the TV with a frustrated hand.

“There was a cannon, and then they decided to keep going together. She just left to grab some — what was it, potatoes? I hate how they cut it…” Her eyes flicker with pain. “The girl from Four died before May. There weren’t any other deaths that day. Maysilee and that girl were the only losses. Caesar even announced it that evening, I've heard it when we were at Donners. But they didn’t show that in the first one either.”

She turns to Burdock for confirmation, who nods at her. "Yeah." he says, "Haymitch, the little girl and the final Career were the last three."

Meanwhile, Haymitch's kicking rocks off the cliff. He laughs when one flies right back in his palm.

"That's the trick," Burdock explains. Lenore Dove already knows that, her uncles have told her. It doesn't look like that big of a deal. Not something enough to get Haymitch that much in trouble, if that's got anything to do with it. Wiress outsmarted the arena too, and she'd been fine -- not that Lenore Dove's sure of anything now -- until this year.

Then the inevitable comes, and Asterid is a lot braver, a lot more resilient than Lenore Dove; because she bares her friend’s death on screen.

Maysilee screams, and Haymitch rushes like a madman to her side. Pink — not the soft, dusty kind but a bright, unnatural shade — long-beaked waterbirds keep plunging down on her like loons diving for fish in a lake, slashing her arms as the girl tries to cover herself. 

Lenore Dove shudders. The thought horrifies her, and the sight shakes her even more. How vile the Capitol is — to turn animals into something that can kill for sport and entertainment.

Haymitch slashes at them, takes one down, but it’s too late. A bird pierces her neck. Haymitch holds Maysilee as she dies in his arms, choking on her blood, their hands clasped tight. 

Asterid lets out a sob beside her, and Lenore Dove takes a breath, pushing her own thoughts aside to wrap her arms around her friend’s shoulder. She feels like crying herself.

Over the past months, she’s learned a great deal about Maysilee Donner — shared in Asterid’s and Dandelion’s grief. Every time she visited the graveyard, she’d think, Don’t worry about those two. No matter how much she disliked the things Maysilee had done or said, Lenore Dove mourned the empty space she left behind. And now, she’s determined to stop by and thank the girl for all she did for Haymitch in the arena. She saved him.

Lenore Dove hadn’t known that before, but now that she does, she feels just as indebted to Maysilee as Asterid does to Haymitch. When it mattered the most, neither left the other behind.

Maybe because she’s been mostly out of sight for her, Maysilee Donner being dead was like the girl was just at the sweetshop counter — still around somehow. But seeing it? That seals it; the meanest girl in town, who had sharp jabs at everyone and everyone, and truly loved her friends and her canary, was really gone.

“Asterid, you don’t gotta—” Lenore Dove starts, but the girl shushes her with a raised hand. "Let's go wash your face." she insists.

“No, no, I know there’s something wrong, I remember,” she sniffles, wiping her cheek. “And May went through that, 'least I can do is watch it, right? And she— Haymitch—”

She takes a shaky breath and leans back, but the sentence is quickly forgotten as high-pitched shrieks starts blaring from the television.

In a quick cut that spins Lenore Dove’s head around — how can anyone edit these like they're nothing, skipping from one death to another without even a moment to breathe -- Haymitch bolts to where the scream is coming from, but he’s too late. The cannon sounds. Lenore Dove knows then there won’t be a rescue.

All three sit up straighter at the sound, and the blonde wipes her eyes before turning to face Burdock.

“Burdock, wasn’t there—”

“A day between them?” Burdock finishes for her.

Asterid nods. “The Games ended the day after May died.”

Lenore Dove has noticed it too. “This year's was seven days. I know that for sure, too; kept a tally on my cell wall.”

She had two tallies scratched into her jail wall, made with a broken piece of a hair clip Tam Amber had given her — confiscated by the peacekeepers, but not before she snapped off a sharp end and tucked it into her undershirt, ready to jab at a peacekeeper’s eye if need be. One tally counted the days of her own imprisonment; the other marked every single day Haymitch had been in the Games — a miserable countdown she’d stare at for hours while waiting for her uncles’ visitation time, with news of Haymitch, dreading if she'll have to stop scratching the mark for another day. If that’s the say she loses him.

“Then why—”

“Wait, wait. Don’t look at this part,” Burdock cuts in all of a sudden, turning his back to the screen. “Don’t — don’t look.”

“Why?” Lenore Dove asks, but it’s not like the program gives them time to think.

Asterid, who'd stopped watching Games live after Maysilee's death, lets out a yelp just as Burdock grabs a pillow and tries to shield her face. Lenore Dove tears his hand away from her eyes, only half-covering her own vision. 

"I'm serious, Lenore Dove--"

“Stop, Burdock—”

Haymitch’s face flashes on-screen—stunned and void of anything but complete bafflement. Then the camera pans away, fast, too fast. The program barrels on, barely giving the moment a heartbeat.

Lenore Dove sits frozen, staring at the screen.

Then she buries her face in her hands—just as Haymitch and the girl start swinging axes at each other. She knows how this part ends. They showed it back in Seven.

She squeezes her eyes shut — but the image still comes.

That small body, torn apart.

It flickers behind her eyelids, no matter how tightly she tries to close them.

“I told you,” Burdock says quietly. “Ma had to shut off the TV when we saw it. Pa threw up. It was worse in the broadcast.”

It’s not like they haven’t seen violence before. Woodbine’s head exploded, bits of it splattered everywhere like a rock dropped in still water.

But that… That shot is quickly skipped to the last girl from Four as golden squirrels hound on her, and Lenore Dove looks away again—

“That’s it!” Asterid blurts out suddenly, making both Burdock and Lenore Dove jump in surprise.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she says to Burdock, eyes wide. “I told you there was a cannon before her! It’s hers! Maysilee didn’t die first — the mutts got her after! But Merrilee didn’t care, no one else did! I thought I was losing my mind when they showed that first recap…”

“I…” Burdock looks equally as rattled, but confused to high heavens. “What good would come from switching their places?” he asks. "It's easy to spot, but I just don't get-"

“Why?” Lenore Dove finishes for him, feeling drained. “It’s serving their need, sure… but what in the world is that need?”

“I just can’t think of any reason why they’d mess with that order. Maybe they wanted a Career to come in third?” Burdock offers. 

“No one even cares about the tributes other than the winner,” Lenore Dove objects, “Nobody else is referred to by name except Haymitch. Haven’t you noticed that?”

“All I can think of is the final ranking. Don’t they bet on when someone dies? Like Booker Boys — maybe people bet on those placements.”

“I don't know about that, Burdie...”

They don’t notice Asterid still standing there , eyes locked on the screen and frozen still. It’s only when she shifts slightly toward the couch that they see her face, gone paper white. The adrenaline’s drained from her now, having confirmed her suspicion that something was wrong and proved her point, and what’s left is the realisation that she’s just watched her friend die all over again. 

Her breath catches as she opens her mouth.

“I think I'll… go out for a bit. Need some air.” 

“Asterid, wait!” Burdock calls after her, but she’s already at the back door, shaking her head as she fumbles with the latch.

“It's fine, just need to get out for a bit—” she gives them a tight smile before slipping out the door.

Burdock hesitates, unsure, then rushes to grab their coats. He glances over at Lenore Dove. “’Cuz, I’ll go— just for a few minutes—”

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, waving him off. “Don’t let her be alone. Go.”

He nods and hurries after Asterid.

She’s glad they’re gone, honestly. Because Haymitch’s face appears next, and Lenore Dove feels tears gathering behind her eyes again. She lowers her head again, watches the fight and has nothing left in her to do as Haymitch’s pained yelps and grunts pierce her heart. Her stomach twists as she watches him try to hold himself together as his organs slide out of his body, and then the axe flies past his head, bounds back form the force barrier and gets buried in the girl’s head. Trumpets blare, and the announcement rings out.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games, from District 12 -- Haymitch Abernathy!”

 

The interview wanders all over the place after that — from the privileges of Haymitch’s new life, all courtesy of the Capitol, to the things he’s seen in the districts, and stories about meeting other victors. Lenore Dove listens to it all, but it’s plain as day both of them are playing some kind of part.

Like Haymitch's rascal spiel, there’s no way Caesar Flickerman’s persona is real — if it is, then he’s infinitely more terrifying than President Snow in her eyes. This man, laughing like a fool after introducing twenty-four children each year, knowing only one will still be alive at the end of the week… But here he still is; laughing and joking around like nothing's happened.

 

“How’s the Victor life treating you?”

“Better than I ever dreamed. I mean, I got hot and cold water just flowing outta the wall.”

“Now, Haymitch, I don’t wanna sound pretentious, but water temperature is what you picked — out of everything?”

“Hey, you ever seen Twelve?”

“Well, now that you mention it… hmm. Apart from the Reaping? Maybe in history class a long time ago. Very smokey, up in those little mountains of yours.”

“Sounds about right. I ’d say you should come visit, but with that look, you’d be a walking hazard among all our coal.”

“Ahahaha! Oh, you’re a riot!”

“Hope not. But y'know what? I kinda wish I’d had you in the arena. Bet you would’ve come in handy.”

 

Haymitch really sells the rascal image.

The words come out easy, even though he looked nervous at first. Now he’s charming the audience like Ace Chance used to, back when he’d take any excuse to put on a show - especially for the ladies.

Of course, Ace had to tone it down after his wife ran off to her parents’ place, pregnant and fuming, and swore she wouldn’t come back until he made a vow to cut it out for good. That was all anyone in Twelve could talk about back then. And like that wasn’t enough, the baby born from that mess ended up being named Promise and no one could argue the new Mrs Chance against the decision. Which, all things considered, is a beautiful name, in Lenore Dove’s modest opinion. She does like her names with meanings, pretty with a purpose. And Missy’s a cute girl to match her name.

Lenore Dove, though she’s got her own connection to the Chances, only ever heard all this through Haymitch — who’d heard it from… well, that’s where she loses the thread. 

 

“So, Haymitch…Have you always been quite the singer and hid it from us all —and I’d be very offended if that’s the case—or is it something you picked up after winning? We’re dying to know.”

“Well, Caesar— I’ve always loved music, you see.”

“Who doesn't? But… I’ve heard something happened, didn’t it? On the day of your homecoming. Am I wrong?”

“You aren’t.” 

 

The pause this time is shorter, and Haymitch shifts in place. He's look so entirely ncomfortable that Lenore Dove wants to reach through the screen and--

 

“There was an accident. Unfortunately, my mother and younger brother passed away in a fire the day I got back. After their loss, I’ve been exploring my grief through music. Been working on that ever since. I suppose my endless charm and good looks don’t hurt either.”

 

She bites her lip, eyes locked on the corner of the TV.

Lenore Dove hates seeing him like this. She knows he hates it too — and she knows why he’s doing what he does. She hates it.

 

“…Tell me, Haymitch…Is there anyone special back home you like singing to?”

“Oh, you know me—footloose and fancy-free.”

“You hear that? Our rascal’s up for grabs, ladies and gentlemen! Who knows—maybe you’ll be the lucky one to get a private serenade!”

 

It’s a good thing neither Burdock nor Asterid are back yet. The ease with which Haymitch utters those words crushes her spine like the wilted grass she feels she is.

She leans back against the couch.

Powerlessness — it's not an unfamiliar feeling, but right now, it’s heavier than ever. Usually, that very feeling makes her haul it up like a boulder on her shoulders as she runs to grab her spray paint, tune box, anything, and do something. This time, she’s almost grown to accept it.

He doesn’t mean that, surely… he can’t.

If— if they’d broken up under normal circumstances, if the whole Hunger Games thing hadn’t happened — maybe Lenore Dove would’ve actually taken his word for it. Not that it’s a world she can even imagine. He wouldn’t—

She’s so tired that crying feels like a struggle. Her eyes stay dry, locked on the screen. She barely registers the door opening again as Asterid and Burdock come back in — unaware that Lenore Dove has just been dumped on national TV; though, not that she hasn’t been already. She's been dumped for a while, however forced it was. But now it’s a piece of history, played on countless TVs, and everyone in Twelve knows — they’re done.

When she returns, Asterid is still dabbing at her face with a napkin, eyes rimmed red. She settles onto the couch gingerly and lets out a slow breath.

“You okay?” Asterid asks, her voice stuffy, glancing uncomfortably at the screen.

“Are you?” Lenore Dove says, immediately deflecting the question, biting her lip. Hold on, just a little while longer. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. “I know I said it before, but watching it just…I can't say that enough...I'm so sorry for your loss, Asterid.”

Asterid swallows. “You saw it. She wasn’t alone,” she says, voice cracking. “Haymitch was with her ‘till the end. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

A tear slips down Lenore Dove’s cheek, but she wipes it away quickly. Asterid has said the same thing very early on in their friendship, but seeing the desperation in which Haymitch tried to save Maysilee- and what Asterid said about them not really splitting apart. They were still a team, and planned to meet up again, and keep moving together.

Maybe Asterid felt like she owed Haymitch something; that eventually happened to be the endless sleep syrups, then the forgiveness he needed for throwing a rock at her face, even if he hadn’t meant to. 

“He wouldn't leave her. That’s the Haymitch I know,” she says softly. “I’m just glad you see it too. And I hope you can see this isn't him."

"I do," Asterid says, and it sounds like she really means it, just as loud cheers blare from the TV.

"This is just plain unbearable," Burdock says then, glaring at the screen as the jeering audience cheers Haymitch on while he lifts his sheer shirt, everyone desperate to see the scar.

 

“Mark of a victor!”

 

It’s a jagged line, like it was stitched wrong out of spite. After all these months, the scar should’ve faded, but somehow it looks even more prominent — raw and entirely out there. An axe sliced him open, Haymitch held his innards in, trapped in an arena built for punishment over crimes the last two generations didn’t commit, weren't even born yet — not that any of this would’ve been justified if they had. And yet, this scar is what makes thousands in the audience scream with joy, revering the mark that will brand a kid forever. Brand as theirs.

There’s so much he hasn’t told her, so much she’s seen through all of this — and yet it’s still not enough. Because she knows it’s not the whole truth. For all she knows, they might’ve just redrawn the scar for show. This is exactly why she didn’t want to watch in the first place.

 

“Now—Haymitch, before we let you go…We have one more surprise—for you, and for everyone watching.

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be in the Hunger Games?”

 

Burdock, already in a bad mood, grumbles, "What kind of question is that?"

"I don’t like where this is headed," Lenore Dove says. "Feels like he’s about to say something awful."

"Hasn’t he said awful enough already?" Burdock shoots back.

 

“And now, starting today, you, dear Capitol citizens, will finally get that chance!

You can now book a two-week stay and guided tour through the actual Hunger Games arenas! That’s right—step into the very grounds where victors were made. Walk through the underground catacombs. Ride up through the launching tubes, just like the tributes! Witness live reenactments performed by professional actors. And—if you’re feeling brave enough—even participate.”

 

Her hand moves before her mind can catch up, and Lenore Dove brings it over her mouth. To cover what? Nothing, as no sound can escape from her. The reality of what's being said on TV doesn't even fully register in her mind. 

What?

There’s really nothing to say.

Violence silences, and silence enables violence. Though she’s always found ways to make noise — whether through obvious rejection or discontent — now she finds herself stunned into the very thing that she'd detested so much.

Lenore Dove knows why people say hope is hard to hold onto, and easy to lose grip of.

She feels so... small. They’re already dehumanized to the point that all they are seen as beast breeds in some twisted roost fight. And now, they’re turning the very places where people died into an open showcase — where they’ll pretend to kill each other, laughing and joking on top of those very places kids have bled to death, cried and hid and begged and yelled and killed--

She once read that there was never a night or a problem that could defeat sunrise or hope. It is almost impossible to watch a sunset and not dream.

But right now, It feels impossible as it never has, for her. Both hope, and that sunrise have never felt further away.

All three teens sit speechless, staring at the screen as Caesar lists off all the deadly traps that have claimed hundreds of children before.

 

“As for the floral deathtrap of the Poison Paradise, the Second Quarter Quell— Just for this year and this year only, t he victor of this year himself, Haymitch Abernathy, will be joining you during your stay!”

 

Caesar grips Haymitch’s shoulder and drags him forward. The camera cuts to the audience — screaming with wild, unrestrained glee. To Lenore Dove, they look and sound like a swarm of cicadas.

“What the fuck?” Burdock mutters, in complete horror. His head is between his hands, fingers clutching at his dark hair.

“Who thought of that?” Asterid's just as speechless. “What the hell?” even the prim and proper town girl swears, finally.

Who the fuck thought of that, indeed. 

On the screen, Haymitch is frozen too. The horror in his eyes is unmistakable, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. And just as quickly, his expression drains of color — his face and lips turning ghostly pale. He closes his eyes. The screen flashes to Caesar and the crowd again, before cutting back to Haymitch’s empty gaze.

Lenore Dove knows Haymitch. Burdock does too. And once again, there’s no fooling them. That’s not a man present in the moment, and it's obvious he's reading off a script, completely contrasting his previous performance. But the Capitol audience can't tell, or simply don't care, because cheers and whistles keep ringing in Lenore Dove's ears.

 

“You hear that, Haymitch? Your arena’s open for visitation! What do you say to that?”

“Depends if it’s still poisonous, Caesar.”

 “Ahahaha! No worries! For the utmost safety of our citizens, the arena’s been completely sterilized and replaced with plenty of real flowers and fresh spring water!”

“Well, how can I say no? I can’t wait to be back.”

"We'll hold you to that!"

 

They don't talk after that. The program ends, and TV crackles into static - much like Lenore Dove's mind.

It's getting late, so Asterid has to leave before her mother checks up on Buchanans-- which she might do to make sure Asterid's where she told them she'd be.

She sees out Asterid and Burdock, who will drop her off, but no one's in the mood for the promise of a joyful separation. Lenore Dove hugs her friend tight. when both girls start crying on each other's shoulders, the hug lasts even longer. They separate with assurances that they're there for each other and will be, and Lenore Dove, however crushed she feels, drags her feet to the kitchen to make supper for her uncles. They don't have anything to eat; Lenore Dove couldn't do anything at all after school because she's been too nervous that she'd watch the recap and interview and see Haymitch.

Root, hog, or die.

For support, she takes Dandelion down from the loft, and lets him out. She doesn't cry as she chops the vegetables and prepares the potato stew, Dandy chirping on her shoulder. In her mind, there's a mantra made of one word; tomorrow.

All Lenore Dove has to do is hold it in for one more day.

After all, tomorrow, Haymitch is--

---

"-- not coming back?!" 

Thirty pairs of eyes snap to Lenore Dove as she springs to her feet, the question bursting out louder than anything she’s ever said in class. Maybe louder than anything she’s said anywhere, if you don’t count her short-lived moment on stage of two, maybe three songs.

Since no announcement had been made about Haymitch’s return, she’d figured that they’d be pulled from class sometime before the end of the day, maybe to gather at the train station or the town square. But instead, there’d been nothing. Not a single word until now, during class right before lunch, and Mr. Chambers had just mentioned it like it wasn't a big deal -- the victory celebrations had been postponed for the foreseeable future.

“She speaks!” someone yells from across the room. A few classmates clap mockingly, a couple boys let out whoops. But reaction's nothing big, no one's really in the mood.

Lenore Dove sinks back down into her seat, cheeks burning with both embarrassment and frustration. She hadn’t slept a wink last night, too wired waiting for the homecoming that apparently, wasn’t happening.

What do you mean he’s not coming back? Why? He’s done there, isn’t he? Let him out!

“Settle down,” Mr. Chambers grumbles, slamming a copy of the school workbook on coal processing against his desk for emphasis.

“Yes, Baird. If you’ve got objections, take it to the mayor — not the stage.” His usual snide tone lands just as the front row cracks up with short chuckles. One of the girls sitting next to Lenore Dove and Asterid grumbles under her beneath, “Kiss-asses.”

Lenore Dove barely resists the urge to jump up and scream. Or burst into tears. Asterid reaches over and gently rubs her back.

She feels like the old potbelly stove in their classroom-- overheated, embers spitting out. The second lunch bell rings and class bursts into talk about the arena vacations and what twisted mind could've ever come up with it and how Haymitch-- Lenore Dove runs away, breaking away from her friends, and that’s how the moment finds her; pacing behind the school in the ice-cold air, trying to cool herself down, still fuming like she's actually on fire.

Why isn’t he back yet? What more could he possibly have to do in the Capitol? How much more?

She’s timed all her breakdowns, all her revelations, to the date he’s supposed to come home. And Lenore Dove doesn’t know what she’ll do. The longer he's away in there, where he's surrounded by people who want to put him back into the arena like he's a wind-up toy, the more she feels like snapping and she might just set something on fire or jump onto the next train heading to the  Capitol—

Lenore Dove lets out a wail in anger, frustration, whatever you call it, and kicks the wall. Great, now she's lashing out on the school property. Next step, burning the Justice Building down--

“You okay, Baird?”

Lenore Dove yelps and spins around, startled, finds herself face to face with a girl -- a bit shorter than her, with soft brown curls and big, light brown doe eyes, watching her from a few paces back with a hesitant look. She’s real pretty too, small face, cheeks just a little round, and is carrying a small crate full of what looks like eggshells and compost, clearly on her way to the tiny shed behind the school that students call the greenhouse. A few kids tend it now and then, though none Lenore Dove’s close with. 

“Uh, yeah,” she answers. “You... you do gardening, Romy?”

“Nope,” the girl shrugs. “Just hauling stuff for Lemuel. He's trying to grow potatoes before December hits.”

“That’s great. Any luck yet?”

“Better than last year. But he doesn’t like growing ugly things amd I swear seeds can feel that bad energy off him, they just wouldn't sprout. So we keep trying different fertilisers." She tilts the crate, as if to show her the contents. "We've grown beans last year; ever heard of Three Sisters?"

Even though she just said she’s not the one doing the gardening, Romy talks an awful lot for someone trying to seem like she doesn’t care. Lenore Dove feels her heart slow down as the girl talks, calming down however involuntarily. She's still bristling with ire, but she’s trying not to blow up on people’s faces anymore.

She shakes her head no, and Romy puffs her cheeks like she's disappointed at herself for talking too much.

"Right, uh, nevermind." Then, after a pause, "Hey, actually, mind if I ask you something? I know this is like, really bad-timing, but I--”

Please, not now. I’m barely holding it together. I can’t handle small-talk right now…

“Sure,” Lenore Dove cuts in anyway.

“How’s Jed doing? Seen him around you guys lately, so…”

“He’s…” Lenore Dove pauses, struggling for the right words. I don’t know him that well? He looks fine, honestly? Maybe he’s just a good actor? Right now, I'm busy worrying about my boy and how good of an actor he's been forced to be. “Aren't you two in the same class? You tell me.”

“I… don’t know? That’s why I was asking you..?” Romy says, shaking her head. "Can't ask anyone else, really. Most folks we know are common friends."

“He a good actor?”

“I’d say so. He’s real good at impersonating.” She smiles at the thought, but then seems to catch herself, glancing around like Jed might be within earshot.

“Then maybe he's not fine,” Lenore Dove says. Ask him yourself. Do you not realize how lucky you are, having him within your reach? Either go get him or let him go forever. And I don't know about you, but I'm not letting go. “I really don’t know, Romy.”

“Well, fine then.” She turns away — and just as Lenore Dove takes a deep breath, Romy spins back around, making that breath lodge right in her throat. What now?

“Can I tell you something, Baird? Girl to girl?”

“Sure.”

Just spit it out and go, or else I’m liable to scream in your face.

“I want to take him back,” Romy says, glancing around in caution like Jed's hiding behind the patch of brown bush by the door. “I really do. It’s just… he’s not trying. He always tries, so, like...”

“Aren’t you seeing…” What was his name? “Tygart?”

“So he knows?” Her eyes go wide, then narrow into a glare. “Then why the hell—”

“Romy!” a boy’s voice bellows from the shed. “What’re you doing? Bring the fertilizer! I don’t have all day!”

“You do have all day! …Ugh.” Romy grumbles, and for a second Lenore Dove thinks she might just smash the crate to the ground. “Gotta go. Hope you’ll be all right too, Baird. Keep your chin up.”

“Thanks. Bye. Good luck with the potatoes.”

"Thanks!"

Romy quickens her pace to the greenhouse and all but slams the crate into Lemuel’s chest.

“Don’t give me that face, y'know you owe me—”

“Shut it! You didn’t tell me—”

Their bickering cuts off once the door swings shut.

Only then, in the quiet, does Lenore Dove glance back at the patch she’s been pacing. She must’ve looked half-loony — kicked up nearly all the snow, carved narrow one-person path going nowhere down to the dirt. Just a stomped-down line of nerves.

I need to go. Clear my head.

So she goes back to the classroom, grabs her backpack - and goes for a walk in the woods.

Damn her boots. 

Notes:

And yes the school fight's postponed - I know it sounds like I'm building it up for a huge thing but don't expect much.. this is not a marketing scheme I swear.... I just hope you like it : ' ) Still I have some issues with this chapter that's why I procrastinated posting it for so long... + Asterid has FOMO for reasons to be specified but it's obvious I think lol girlie here is so wound tight she needs a good cry (about something else than Maysilee's loss) and we're ignoring pipsissewa are not in bloom in late November - let's say Burdock happened to find some somehow. Maybe it was in the school greenhouse?

Anyway I want to speed run until a certain point because I have two scenes that I want to share as soon as possible so I'm locking in & going SILENT for some time and will respond to comments later!! But I'm reading 'em!!! C-5 (d-day but in chapters I guess?)!! See you very soon! :)

this is really not at all important just me oversharing about a minuscule of a detail in a passing conversation in this chapter like all I talk about here is LYE

the potash/lye water thing might not make sense because even though I've looked into it I'm still not sure if I used it accurately. Like Haymitch says 'hardwood ash' is used for lye (in SotR about Willamae not wasting anything) and so it's wood ash lye water or something but I've found sources saying it's also potash??

Here it's potash as blogger says in comments

Again, here it's explained that its potash lye and wood ash lye. They also mention that the soap is not hard and I think it fits? Since it sounds like Willamae used it for laundry so it'd be more efficient if its liquid. But then - is potash used for hominy too??? I know lye hominy is a thing but I'm not sure if it's the same kind of lye - I saw it being described as wood ash lye but dunno if its potash.

Idk why I got so fixated on this

Beliefs - LD + a sneak peak?

Just to be clear, I’m not changing hew beliefs and ideals, just making her question them for a while. I figured if theres any point im her life to do that, it’d be now (everything that SQQ brought with it). Like how Haymitch talks about her stance on death; while comforting, it sounded to me like the thought process of someone who hasn't really lost anyone. Those she's lost were already long gone from life, and so afterlife is like a place to meet them for the first time.

Whereas for those who've lost many, the absence in this world right now is the dominating feeling rather than the comfort that might come from the promise that they're waiting in the next world - that often comes much later in grief.

She is incredibly emphatic yes but also... obviously if Haymitch died she'd be like well damn this is so much worse than everything I could've imagined - idk if I'm wording this right I hope you get me

Feel free to challenge my perspective, it's just how I see things. If someone told me "nothing ever dies" about the people I’ve loved and lost, I’d probably feel like they just don’t get it. But ofc there's nothing wrong with that line of thought - LD won't stop believing in that, so no worries there. But only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches, and so she's come very close to fully knowing that pain now. There's a lot of room to work when it comes to LD lol I feel like I'm making up someone else entirely tbh so again, do tell me your thoughts about it if you want.

+ I WILL find a way to make LD and Wiress meet I just don't know how yet. But I will.

Chapter 17: Like Moths On Fire

Summary:

Blood is thicker than water - but it can still come out of your nose, so watch your mouth.

Notes:

locked in I tell you

honestly I had a lot of fun with the shit talk hehe

Songs&References

1) Children Will Listen - Into the Woods
2) The propo song is a rendition of: Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition
Again, I wanted to adapt a real patriotic/propaganda song to be incorporated, and having heard this play in both Bioshock 2 and Fallout 76, I wanted to use it -- because it's catchy and it was stuck in my head for weeks.
3) "Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory." is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
4) The song Maude Ivory writes and LD plays for children is: Run Daddy Run from the D12 and Beyond Album. LD remixes it with a few tweaks because of Haymitch - this song's obviously for Burdock's death, from Katniss' POV - but I excluded the first verse to make it more general?? I might change it tho you never know with me :)

I really want to use more of the songs from there; Abraham’s Daughter in particular (but couldn’t find a place for it in this chapter) they’re all too good to be forgotten. DON’T EVER FORGET YOUR ROOTS.

Careful the things you say, children will listen.
Careful the things you do, children will see.
And learn.

Children may not obey, but children will listen.
Children will look to you for which way to turn,
To learn what to be.

Careful before you say, "Listen to me."
Children will listen.

---

The air of their district has never felt so suffocating before. Tension builds everyday, and Lenore Dove can see it on the faces all around.

People have grown to hate the sight of the screens — watching one of their own paraded around like a prized pony. But the broadcast is everywhere. In the town square, in shops, in the Hob; every channel loops nothing but Capitol events. Even in school, where they’re forced to watch it through the dingy old projector if they want to eat their food in the warmth of the cafeteria.

Week after week, it’s the same thing: lavish dinners, showy gatherings, neverending parties, Haymitch signing and smiling and posing for the high muckamucks with no sign of coming home. 

Nothing of the long-promised celebratory supper for the district. The longer it’s delayed, the tighter the strain pulls across Twelve.

Guilt piles onto anticipation until it flattens whatever good the victory was supposed to bring.

It had been easier when Haymitch was out of sight, and so out of mind, to turn a blind eye to his suffering. Then the tour began. Tension built, but each parcel delivery eased it some.

The start of it had been easy enough, compared to what graces their screens now, it was almost tame. But now, with every new appearance Haymitch makes for the Capitol’s most important people — every song played by stiff hands, every verse sung in a voice that isn’t his — the water dries in their throats. Food won’t go down easy. Not for most, at least.

As Asterid said, this is the first time anyone in District Twelve has seen what “the fruits of victory” really look like. Things weren’t like this when Lucy Gray won; she was sent with only the clothes on her back, and nothing else. But they always take the victor away, one way or another.

Lenore Dove can only hope Haymitch comes back.

Not only that, but after another miserable day at school, Lenore Dove heads down to join Asterid and the others by the door — completely forgetting her bag in a daze. Her mind is still stuck on last night’s news broadcast, that girl cozying up to Haymitch, and the ugly flare of jealousy that hit her like a bolt. She’s been in a sour mood all day because of it— when suddenly, she hears it.

 

Praise the Capitol and pass the tesserae,

Praise the Capitol and pass the tesserae, and we'll all stay free!

Praise the Capitol and do your part to contribute

Can't afford to be a tribute

Praise the Capitol, we're all between the reaping and the golden city

 

The primary-level kids are packing up, taking their sweet time, singing together; the very song Haymitch performed at least once in every district, followed the district special, the song Capitol means to lodge in their heads like a landmines set to get rid of all thoughts of freedom. 

Do they sing it at home, too? Their parents surely wouldn’t allow it. But the kids spend most of their days in school, and the rest out playing with each other. Unless they come home with endless energy after dragging their feet from a long, tiring day, there’s no way for their folks to know.

Lenore Dove barely stops herself from barging in to tell them not to give into the ideas so easy, not to let that tune settle in their minds. That wouldn't work. She steels herself by the door instead, catching her breath and starts counting to ten to calm down; but an idea comes thankfully quick.

Problem: her tunebox is too big to sneak into the school, or to fit in her bag.

Solution: some might call it over the top. Lenore Dove would say it’s not nearly enough, but it’ll do. She sneaks out the night before and tucks the tunebox behind the school greenhouse, wrapped in towels. Overnight snowfall will take care of the cover.

By lunch break next day, she’s in the back of the schoolyard like a pied piper in ambush, waiting. Sure enough, younger students slow their chatter, nudging each other toward her. Lucky thing about kids — they always make the first move. 

Soon enough, a little one breaks from the group and flocks straight to Lenore Dove.

”Are you gonna play?”

”I’m planning on doing so,” She replies, “Anything you want?”

The boy nods, he’s no more than eight. 

“Y’know Ground Hog?”

”I sure do, do I look old like I don’t?”

He laughs, and a few of his friends wander closer. Even that small audience sends Lenore Dove’s nerves sparking, but she grits her teeth, sets a smile and places her fingers on the keys.

“Shoulder up your gun and whistle up your dog,” she sings, willing her voice not to crack. This isn’t for scrip or coins; this is for something far more precious. These are children listening, and they’re taking it all in. A song’s not just a song — Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

One by one, they chime in their own requests. Before long, the cold drives them to hop and twirl, dance and stomp their feet just to keep the blood moving. 

A handful of them perch right beside her, little clouds of breath puffing as they chatter — telling her their names, their favorite colors, how many times they’ve slipped on ice this week, how they built a sled from scrap wood to try it this Saturday. Tiny things, bundled from toes to brows, they look for all the world like a flock of chickadees.

Lenore Dove plays every tune they ask for. And when they run out of suggestions, she gives them her own — songs they’ve never heard before, songs you won’t find in any Capitol-approved curriculum or even in their homes. 

They take to it fast, especially “Nothing You Can Take from Me.” It was expected; it’s the song that has people launch themselves onto the dance floor. Covey doesn’t sing, stopped when her mother, the lead singer after Lucy Gray, passed away — so not even people Lenore Dove’s age’s heard of this one, let alone these babies learning how to read and write just this year.

Of the chickadees, two little girls in particular —Willadeane, whose name alone tugs a sharp ache in Lenore Dove’s chest, and Sally — can’t seem to get enough. They dance through every note, breathless with laughter, and keep saying they can’t wait to grow up so they can dance in the Hob while Lenore Dove sings. She doesn’t tell them singing in Hob’s just not her thing, but for these two? She just might consider it.

The air’s biting cold, but still she plays, fingers flying fast, scattering the songs like seeds across the schoolyard for the chickadees to peck up and stash in their heads. If she can chase even one Capitol tune out of their minds, she’ll count it a win. But this fight’s far from over — nuh uh, ain’t nowhere close.

Before long, it becomes her newest gig, a way to keep her mind off Haymitch and this neverending Capitol tour. They don’t even show him on TV anymore. 

She digs out her mama’s notebooks and the old Covey books, pages upon pages brimming with ballads, scraps of poems, and wrinkled sheets of music, and sets out hunting for melodies to kick out Capitol’s carefully engineered sugar-coated propaganda out of their children’s heads.

Anyone else might say she’s fighting Haymitch in a way. She’s not. She’s fighting whoever’s got hold of his strings. And once he comes back, she swears, she’ll cut every single one clutching on him right clean.

She’s flipping through one of her mother’s old notebooks — the bright blue leather-bound with brown pages Clerk Carmine says she made herself out of cattails. Said it felt more intimate, writing down her thoughts and songs on paper her own hands pressed. Lenore Dove tried out paper pressing once, and while a relaxing work, it was quite time consuming. Apparently, her mother would wander off for hours with a friend just to gather cattails.

Lenore Dove thumbs through page after page, some words familiar, others strange, but with her tune box and Lucy Gray’s guitar right at her side, she tries them out as she goes.

She needs catchy pieced, safe enough not to land anyone in trouble. Something so old and tucked away the Capitol couldn’t sniff out as rebellious, or something so fresh new that it’s entirely foreign.

Her protest songs? Out of the question, any rendition of it. Especially not after what happened last time — when her own nearly got her finished. She’d never forgive herself if that kind of trouble blew up in the faces of a child or their family (again). So; The Goose and the Common, The Capitol Store, The Hanging Tree — all off the table.

Hope starts to slip through her fingers until she comes across a worn-down, muted blue feather lying flat against the spine of one page in particular, marking it. Tucked beside it, a folded yellow note.

Once again, she wonders if it’s her mama guiding her hand, steering her straight to what she’s meant to find.

She unfolds the page first. A sheet of music, neat as can be, notes already filled in. Courtesy of her mother.

The page is crowded with lyrics, scribbles curling around the margins, telling a story her mother never lived herself. Neither has she, as she reads, she realizes but someone she loves has.

Maybe that’s why she chooses this song. Maybe that’s why her mother wrote it in the first place.

Just as she’s about to start her practice, Clerk Carmine decides it’s his turn. Starts tuning up for Yew Piney Mountain, claiming he’s realised he’s gotten rusty after the last Hob performance. She huffs and puffs loud enough for him to hear, gathers her things, and heads up to her loft. Space is tighter up there, but at least the fiddle’s holler won’t drown her out. She can work her voice, notes and lyrics any way she pleases.

She tailors the words with care. I’ll sing your song for you, she thinks, hoping it reaches him, wherever he is in the Capitol tonight. There are plenty in the Seam this song could belong to as well. But for now, she lets herself be selfish and whispers in her head, I’m doing it for you.

That night, she studies the song until her eyes burn. But it's all worth it, because the chickadees pick up everything, they love it.

 

Daddy can you hear the devil drawing near l ike a bul flet from a gun, run daddy run

Saw that dark cloud coming from a million miles away

Oh how I’ve dreaded this god forsaken place

 

Daddy can you hear the devil drawing near like a bullet from a gun, run daddy run

Mamas been crying on the porch, brothers been afraid of the dark

I’ve been gathering the pieces of all these shattered hearts

I don’t care where you go to, I don’t care where you land

Just get out of here daddy as fast as you can

 

Lenore Dove goes to the same spot in the schoolyard once every three days or so and plays songs for the children. They try to pay her, but no matter how much, or how sternly she objects, her pockets always end up full of taffies, candies, flowers, rocks, whatever little they got, they give her half.

Some others had caught wind of her little performances, and in time, her whole class knew. Of course they did. She figures it was one of the Greenhouse Club spreading the word; for a moment, she even suspects Romy, before deciding to give Jed’s girl the benefit of the doubt.

Burdock had pulled her aside to ask more about it, but all he could get out of her was I’m doing everyone a favor. Don’t worry. Nothing dangerous.

It’s been near a week since Haymitch went quiet. Nothing new about him has been broadcast for the past five days, and Lenore Dove is on the edge of losing her head. She takes longer walks, buries herself in songs and keeps her hands busy with research, because if she starts listening to people, all she hears is just how much they think this tour can’t end soon enough and how much of a sell-out Haymitch looks like sucking up to the Capitol and everything they give him. Not everyone’s saying that; but a good amount still do.

Still, it’s not long before someone speaks loud enough for their words to reach her ears.

“—She’s bringing little kids into it now,” somebody half-whispers, not bothering to even check if she’s listening, during break after their weekly, incredibly biased history class. “Can you believe that? I mean, if you’re gonna go down, don’t drag little kids with you…”

“Ssh! Watch it. Don’t make Baird mad, or she’ll send you to the Hunger Games!”

“No, no, that’s only if she likes you. Like Haymitch...”

Lenore Dove bites down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. Oh, she's so mad, she could cry.

Don’t rise up. Don’t rise up. You’ve come off like a fuse before; it’s only natural folks to stand few feet away. Let it roll off your back, Lenore Dove You promised Tam Amber. Besides, it’s not them you want to blow up on, remember—

“Oh, someone better tell March that, then. She’s in big danger cozying up to—”

As she is actively trying her best to simmer down, to Lenore Dove’s horror, it’s Asterid who suddenly;y whips her head toward the conversation and parts her lips to speak. But —thankfully? unfortunately?— before she can get a word out, another voice cuts in.

“Cut it out, Trudy.” 

Normally, girls back away when Sunny Chance snaps at them. The girl doesn’t talk much anyway— and what if she tells her cousins about it?

Girls are crazy for a Chance boy, or perhaps the idea of one, while boys make nice so they don’t end up on the wrong side of those boys. Chances are hard to read, after all, straddling that line between rebellion and rascal like it’s a tightrope, and they’re on it barefoot and carefree like slackliners.

Lenore Dove wasn't expect anyone to stand up, maybe other than Asterid -- Blair went to the other class to see others. And it comes from the last girl Lenore Dove would have expected to speak up. Sunny’s no big rebel, but she’s also no pushover, never bothers with petty arguments — rarely bothers with anything. She barely has any friends.

Maybe it’s because like most Chances, no matter how desired or feared, they’re hard to stay close to when their kin tend to drop like flies. And yet, people can’t help themselves. They still try to draw near, like moths to a flame.

This time, though, there’s a response.

“And why should she, Sunny?” It’s Elaine who asks this, though not a part of the conversation. She turns in her front-row seat to face the girl. 

She’d actually sat where she was assigned, but Lenore Dove made the mistake of coughing—had a bit of phlegm, really—and off Elaine went to the frontlines. 

“Is she wrong?”

“Don’t care. I said I want her to cut it out.”

“So she has to listen to whatever you say now?” Elaine presses. “Who died and made you acting snoop of Twelve? Woodbine? Maysilee?”

More heads turn — this time more Town than Seam. Lenore Dove glances at Asterid, whose face has gone ashen, staring at Elaine with a deep frown like the rest. Whatever fight she must’ve had to defend Lenore Dove’s gone at the mention of her friend, in this way.

This kind of talk is cruel. It’s not what they do in Twelve. Kids don’t mock the dead. Not when they know they could be next in line. No one wants that kind of bad luck.

But things have been tense since the start of the Victory Tour, they all managed to avoid the effects of it until then, and it’s only gotten worse. 

People are tired of feeling guilty one moment and then reveling in the safety and welfare that the parcels bring the next — she knows for a fact that quite a few families haven’t let their kids take tesserae for this year — then tired of waiting eagerly for the celebratory dinner, only to feel that same wave of disgust crash back over them when they realize how much they’re starting to act like the very tributes they once critiqued on screen.

Elaine’s original seat-mate seems to realize it too; because Jenevieve tugs at her friend’s elbow who she was leaning against the desk of.

“Don’t talk like that,” she says, seriously. “You know it’s not right.”

She’s a gentler soul, that much Lenore Dove knows about her already, and perhaps a little push-over. She hadn’t risen up to Merrell’s bite that time either, just shot her a disappointed look and kept quiet.

“What’s not right?” Elaine snaps back. “That they keep acting up and get screwed over for it? Surprise surprise, you reap what you sow—”

“What’s wrong with you?” another voice from the back chimes in, thick with disgust.

Lenore Dove cranes her neck slightly and spots Adalade Good wearing a disgusted expression that’d surely make Maysilee Donner proud.

Ada’s father deals with all things string tension and woodwork in the Hob— and, as it turns out, is a surprisingly good luthier. He now handles all of Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber’s precious restringing, once he proved himself competent enough. He even takes care of Everdeen’s faulty snares.

“What’s wrong with me? Surely you mean them.”

“Nope, still you,” The girl sitting next to Ada cuts in, sprawled across her desk with her chin in her hand, looking bored to death, but her eyes are narrowed and locked on Elaine. A curl of her dark brown hair sticks up from the top of her head like a sprout.  “Nobody wants to hear it, Elaine, give it a rest.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Antsy Patsy—”

True to her nickname, the girl in question shoots to her feet, ready to throw down, but Ada hooks an arm through hers and yanks her back into her seat with a warning hiss.

“See, here you go again,” Elaine huffs. “All you fuseheads, itching to set the whole world on fire just ‘cause you can’t keep your mouths shut—”

“Why don’t you come say that to my face, loudmouth—”

“—for not only yourself, but dragging the rest of us into the mess!”

“—but you just can’t help being plain ill-bred—”

“Me? Ill-bred? Honey, go find yourself a mirror, if one’ll have you—”

“Take your own advice, but I guess mirrors just crack when they see your troll mug—”

“You talking looks? Hah! That’s rich coming from a river rat— ”

“I know you of all people aint talking about my looks—“

“Oh, shut it, Patsy!” Oakie snaps, shooting daggers through her thick glasses. "You never know when to shut the hell up-"

“And you're blind as a bat and twice as ugly, Oakie.”

“What are you guys even fighting about at this point?" A voice cuts in suddenly, walking from her seat to the Lenore Dove and Asterid's direction. Rethel puts a hand on Asterid's shoulder, the blonde girl's hand joins hers.

“Why’re you butting in, Townie?”

“Why can’t she?” Virgil Amburgey doesn’t hesitate to back Rethel up.

“‘Cause it’s not her business,” Ernest Thigpen butts in then, unexpectedly.

“She’s trying to calm you fools down,” Another boy from Seam cuts in, backing the merchant girl. 

“Why’re you on their side?”

“I’m not on anyone’s! You’re all talking a mess!”

This thing is getting uglier by the second, Lenore Dove realizes then, standing up a bit straighter.

“I just don’t know what you’re really fighting over,” Rethel says again. “I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Y’know what’s not fair?” Oakie butts in. “Merrilee Donner getting to skip school ‘cause her daddy’s got money.”

"Where'd that come from?"

Asterid interjects, “Her… her twin died.” Her voice trembles with disbelief. “How can you say that?”

“We all lose someone. You don’t see us skipping school. We gotta be here, or there’ll be hell to pay. The McCoys're still coming; heck, Sunny, you’re here.”

“Kit had to come to school the very next day after his brother died. So did Dannel after his sister. So did Vicey, and so did Coy. That make their losses any less?”

“Just ‘cause she can afford to do that, doesn't mean her loss is bigger,,” Lenore Dove answers, ready to defend Asterid’s friends. “And that’s not how anyone should see it.”

“It’s not fair to put all that on Merrilee,” another Seam girl says, frowning at Oakie.

“Since you're all so hellbent on what's fair or not, how about people dripping with trouble getting us involved in their shit? We all saw what happened to Haymitch!”

“But we are all involved whether we like it or—”

“Well, that was more Woodbine and his ma than Baird—“

”Her son got shot before her eyes, what’d you expect her to do? Stay still?”

“I'm not blaming her, are you crazy? But that would’nt've happened if Baird didn’t let loose like that!”

“But it would!” Lenore Dove says then, unable to hold herself back any longer. “They would just pick someone else!" I wish it wasn't Haymitch, but I still have enough head on my shoulders to not admit that in a room full others that could've been reaped instead. "And It’s not Woodbine’s fault for running away from that, anyone could—“

“Then whose it is? What if they decided to shoot a line of us for punishment, huh? Whose fault would it be then?”

“Theirs,” Sunny cuts in. “It’s the Capitol’s. Everything’s always their fault! They start it all, and it’s you fools who blame anyone else? Y'know you don’t, so what exactly are you hollering about now?”

Silence settles on the classroom. It’s not everyday that someone blames the Capitol out and quite loud. They can think about it, and they all do, you just can’t really say it.

“And here it is. Of course it’s trouble looking out for trouble,” Another voice butts in then, eyes fixed on Lenore Dove. He says it loud enough that the now, the entirety of the class turns to look at him, all in the open, and Heath Massey gets up from his seat to look around the class.

Heath’s a quiet boy, as far as Lenore Dove’s concerned, very polite. But she might’ve been wrong about her initial perception of the guy.

“I mean, is anyone really surprised?”

“What’re you saying, Heath?” Ada snaps, still holding onto her friend who’s halfway up from her seat.

“I’m saying blood is thicker than water, and it shows.”

Lenore Dove goes still. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sunny freeze too. 

She can’t rise to that kind of bait— not now. And Sunny can’t either. 

Chances have been keeping their heads down since the Reaping, at least some branches of them do, mostly grieving and all. Lenore Dove can’t afford to stir up anything in daylight, especially now that she’s promised Tam Amber. She repeats her mantra in her head. Let it roll off your back… Just let it…

But the rumors have been a sore topic in school.

Sure, the older Chances are fond of Lenore Dove and make it quite obvious, besides she has done more than her share of things for their sake. 

Her ties to the younger ones, however, —who just might be her half-siblings, or cousins, depending on who’s involved— are shaky at best. For the most part, they stay out of each other’s way. Even Sunny, who wound up in the same class as Lenore Dove despite being nearly a year older -- because a bad case of croup wrecked her immune system and kept her bedridden for months -- never acknowledged her more than she had to.

Lenore Dove is sure none of the Chance children want to think about an illegitimate daughter— the result of their fathers’ ultimate betrayal against their mothers. So things between her and them always teeter between complete ignorance and quiet animosity.

When they were younger, Sunny’s older sister, Clementine, once made Lenore Dove cry — mocked the way she dressed, said all the extra scarves and mismatched colors made her look ridiculous. No apology ever came, but neither did any further insults. Lenore Dove heard through the grapevine that Bill Chance had a stern word with his eldest daughter afterward. And to this day, Clementine never glanced at her again.

All Chance cousins probably just assume Lenore Dove belongs to the other side— their half-sister, not ours. Our father didn’t have an affair, but our uncle might’ve.

Sunny’s face is an impresive frown, glaring at Heath like her eyes alone might light him on fire.

“Don’t start, Heath.” she grits through her teeth.

“Why’re you acting like you call the shots, Sunny, just ‘cause you got your crazy family behind you—“

“No, no, she’s right. We shouldn’t rile them up,” Heath raises a hand and cuts his friend off, eyes drifting from Sunny to Lenore Dove. 

“Look what happens when they get like this; One gets his head burst open, one’s boyfriend gets sent to the Games and then his family dies in a freak fire. What a coincidence, eh? Trouble just follows Chances like moths to a flame.”

At the same time, Blair happens to walk in along with Burdock. Her cousin's face tightens the moment he steps inside, Blair in tow, eyebrows pulling together as he senses the tension and catches the tail end of Heath’s words. But Heath can’t help himself, has to go on—

“And they end up like trouble always does. Chance, Abernathy…Either they blow up or they’re burnt down—”

Being closest to him, Burdock’s fist finds its home in Heath’s face before he can finish the sentence.

And after that, it doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. Because everyone rushes in to help their own friend.

Not that Lenore Dove holds herself back either. 

She’s on the boys trying to pull Burdock away in an instant. And, to her surprise, so is Sunny Chance. 

Blair wrestles Heath off of Burdock when he tries to swing back, and then somehow, Jed’s right there with him, backing them up. Merrel shrieks as Jed throws one of the boys across her table, nearly bumping into the potbelly as she tries to get away.

Suddenly there are shouts. One of Heath’s friends manages to yank Burdock off just in time, and right before a fist can smash into his cousin’s face— someone grabs the boy, yanking him so hard he staggers and falls to the ground.

Otho Mellark, all broad shoulders and impressive height, steps between them, one hand raised to keep Heath’s friends off Burdock, the other in air like a white-flag. “I think we should stop for a minute and—”

But a fist catches the side of his face mid-sentence.

It’s a mess after that. Town kids are in it now too.

The whole thing explodes into a classroom wide brawl. Kids from other rooms come running to watch. Someone yells, “Everdeen’s getting ganged up on!” and then Gillie comes barreling into the classroom like a jackrabbit, launching himself at whoever’s on Burdock.

Lenore Dove gets shoved off by one of the boys and slams her hip against a desk, letting out a loud oof. But she scrambles back up to help— right before a hand grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her back. 

“Stop making things worse!” The voice hisses.

Lenore Dove yelps again, then immediately grabs the wrist of whoever’s holding her and twists around, twisting the wrist in the process.

Elaine lets out a cry and releases her, but Lenore Dove doesn’t stop and shoves her back hard.

Before Elaine can swing, and surprisingly, she really does try, her hair gets pulled from behind by none other than the now-loose Antsy Patsy, whose name Lenore Dove still can't dig out from memory, who drives a knee into her back — a move Lenore Dove’s never seen before.

“The hell’s gotten into you, Laine?” Patsy grits through her teeth, “Don’t you know? You stir the pot, you lick the spoon.”

“Let me go, fucking screwball—“

Patsy yanks her aside, hurling her across the classroom. Elaine goes down with a yelp, and scrambles to her feet, but Patsy's already on her again, and the two of them go crashing to the floor, wrestling like wildcats. Then Oakie’s on Patsy, pulling at the girl’s cardigan. Lenore Dove doesn’t bother jumping in there, Antsy Patsy’s gone full feral now, dealing with two at the same time. Instead, she whips around just in time to see Sunny kicking a boy square in the back, trying to get him off another one who’s got Gillie cornered.

She bolts in that direction without a second thought, throwing herself into the fray beside Sunny.

Shriek after shriek rings out, punches fly, and more students pile into the fight. Then a group of older kids bursts into the classroom, muscling their way between swinging arms and kicking legs.

One of the older girls clamps her hands around Lenore Dove and Sunny’s arms — gentle as she can manage, but the grip is still iron — and hauls them toward the door as Mr. Chambers and Mrs. Pike bark orders to line everyone up. Ten, or fifteen, maybe twenty long minutes of scolding later, Mrs. Pike exhales hard, then turns to Lenore Dove, Sunny, and a few others.

Oakie’s nose must’ve taken a real hit because Patsy’s got a hand cupped under it, and blood is running down her fingers.

“Oh, Mrs. Pike, I think I’m dying,” Patsy whines, her face scrunched in disgust and fear. She can't even look at the sight.

“Oakie's the one with the broken nose!” Elaine snaps at her from the other end, holding a napkin already soaked through with red. Asterid swoops in then, telling Oakie to lean her head back and pinch her nostrils. She doesn't;t look entirely thrilled about treating the girl who talked ill about Merrilee, but Asterid's a healer at heart. “You’re the one who broke it!”

“You don’t know that!”

“You literally smashed your fat elbow in her face--”

“But you don’t know if it’s broken--”

Mrs. Pike rubs her temple. “Hazelle, walk these to the principal, please. Make sure they don’t try anything else. Patience, wash your hands and join them.” Then she grabs Oakie’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get you to the nurse. Help her, Asterid.”

Another round of chewing-out in the principal’s office follows before they’re sent back to class, and after the final bell rings, those directly involved gather outside the principal’s office in a tense little row. The lineup goes like this: a knot of Seam kids with Lenore Dove and Burdock anchored on one end, then Otho — recruited by Mrs. Pike to act as a buffer, though he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else — then Elaine and her friends, and finally Heath with his pack.

They’ve resorted to sitting on the cold wooden floors, coats spread beneath them like poor excuses for cushions. The chill seeps straight through anyway. Together, they make a sorry little picture — a row of sullen faces, misery painted in every slump of their shoulders.

Asterid tries to stay with them, but the narrow corridor is too crowded. The principal shoos her off, and she has to leave, casting a forlorn glance at Burdock’s bruised face and torn lip.

They have no choice but to stay quiet and hope their guardians show up. They have to. 

Because if no one comes to collect them and sort it out, the principal will have to report this to the Peacekeepers, and it’s hard to say what that might lead to. It would likely be counted as an offense, giving the Capitol all the justification it needs for harsher punishment if they ever to slip up again. 

It’s a neat little tactic to scare their youth out of stepping out of line once they’re done with school. Kids fight all the time — over all kinds of nonsense — and the hallway to the principal’s office always has a line of red-faced, freshly scolded students waiting their turn.

It’s condescending, that’s what it is. The real message is -- Sure, you lashed out, but we’ll let you off easy this time because you’re young, and we still need you for the Reaping. See how gracious we are? But after school? No more chances. Straight to the Hanging Tree if you so much as breathe wrong.

Some kids from the Seam ended up in jail for years — not because they were troublemakers, not because their parents didn’t care, but because their folks couldn’t leave work for ten minutes to sign them out. Couldn’t, not wouldn’t. That was enough to sign their sentence.

Lenore Dove’s already on thin ice. Probably the thinnest out of everyone in this line. 

Her hands get clammier by the second she spends in the line, heart beating irregularly.

If this get reported, will this be how I die? ‘Cause of a school fight? Please. Anything but that. If I'm going, let it mean something. What would this mean? Obey the school rules or you'll end up dead like Lenore Dove Baird? Please, no.

“You’ll be fine,” Burdock whispers to her, and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You got people looking after you. Don't you worry."

She can’t manage a verbal response, so she only nods. That’s enough for her cousin to back off but his hand’s still around hers, she squeezes it back.

Burdock clears his throat, and glances at the baker’s son from the corner of his eye.

“Thanks for back there, Otho.” 

“I didn't do anything. Besides, you kinda outdid me already, so can't even say we're even,” Otho replies with a smile. Though Lenore Dove doesn’t know what that means -- Burdock must, because he huffs a laugh, then winces. That torn lip of his doesn’t take kindly to being stretched.

“Back me up in a few more scraps,” Burdock says. “Then we’ll call it even.”

“You got it.”

"You're pretty strong, I gotta give you that.”

"Uh," Otho's eyes widen with surprise, turning into two blue moons, “Thanks?”

The other end of Lenore Dove’s line is not as peaceful — all thanks to one instigator who keeps poking her head out just far enough to lob a jab across the divide. Not that the other side takes it lying down,, there’s always a comeback locked and loaded. They’ve been at it for minutes now, sniping back and forth.

“This is why you don’t have a boyfriend, Patsy,” Elaine snaps back at the girl.

“Oh, that's rich. Like you do?”

“Yeah.”

“What? Since when?”

“You really don’t know?”

“What do I look like — your biggest fan? Or are you just that famous in Twelve? Wake up, Laine.”

“Again, that’s why you’re all alone and sad—”

“Who?”

"Why the hell would I--"

"Who??"

Silence.

“Who? Go on, mouth it. I’ll know.”

Silence between the two stretches on but Elaine must’ve stuck her head out, if the shuffle of fabric’s anything to go by, but Lenore Dove keeps her eyes down. She's not about to give herself away by looking like she’s listening to this ridiculous mess. Besides, she takes what she can in; maybe she can surprise Haymitch with this new development. 

“What?!”

Then, in a twist, Patsy pops right up from her spot to go whisper with Elaine — like the two hadn’t been trying to scratch each other’s eyes out not even three hours ago. “You’re a sneak!” She gives Elaine a shove. “Ratty, too. Definitely got the face to match. But I guess that’s what your boy likes—”

“Don’t start.”

Footsteps come from down the corridor and every head turns into the direction, anticipating the arrival of their respective guardians. 

Elaine’s mother comes rushing in, apron stained and bouffant cap still on, shooting her daughter a nasty look no lye could rinse out. She storms into the principal’s office, barely spending a second inside before she’s back out again. Elaine shares a look with Patsy, and gets up reluctantly to trail after her mother, the two bickering their way out, clearly heading straight back to work.

Burdock’s aunt Carly shows up next to collect him— Robin must’ve been busy. On her way out, she tells Lenore Dove that she’s already sent Alba to fetch her uncles and not to worry. As they round the corridor, Carly cuffs Burdock on the head and launches into a scolding Lenore Dove’s sure will last all the way home. 

One by one, the guardians arrive. Rushing in from their jobs the moment they got a break. Men and women still in miner overalls or aprons, some clutching babies, others wearing heavy work belts. Heath’s older brother shows up fresh from the mines, so exhausted he barely spares Heath a glance.

None of them stay long. And so not too long after, it’s only her, Sunny, and a handful of other Seam-side kids left when Mrs Chance arrives. Sunny doesn’t fix her posture or acknowledge her mother walking. 

The woman’s eyes scan the line, lingering on Lenore Dove longer than the others before she presses her lips together and motions for Sunny to follow her. She opens the door to the office.

“Mrs. Chance,” Principal Upton greets them, and then the door shuts behind them.

They stay inside longer than anyone else had. Maybe it just takes more time because she’s a Chance — Lenore Dove figures that must be it. As far as she knows, Sunny hasn’t crossed any lines herself. Unlike her older sister, who once got in trouble under suspicion of being involved when a dead Peacekeeper was found — the same one who had whipped one of her friends. But the charges were dropped since no witnesses came forward.

Clerk Carmine arrives just as Mrs. Chance and Sunny step out of the office. Sunny meets Lenore Dove’s eyes as they pass and gives her a tight smile, probably meant to be reassuring.

“I’ll be honest,” Principal Upton begins, looking at Lenore Dove with thinly veiled disapproval.

“When I aw your name on the list, I expected a bigger part in the mess. But your name’s only mentioned in passing. Most of the complaints are about…” He glances down at the paper in front of him. “Burdock Everdeen and Heath Massey. Verbal squabbles happen all the time, and girls don’t usually go throwing punches, so that’s about it for most of ’em. They don't even get sent here. You’re only here ‘cause you and Sunny got named by…” Another peek at the report. “Wayne Gibson.”

She writes the name down in a corner of her mind.

“He had Burdock cornered, sir,” Lenore Dove blurts out.

Clerk Carmine shoots her a warning glance.

“I know,” Principal Upton sighs, pressing his hands together. “Still, a physical altercation. As much as we’re all aware of your previous, and most recent, escapades,” he adds with a raised brow, “this is technically your first offense in school. That’s good. Not many can say that. There are more fights around here than you’d think. This one… can be overlooked.”

“Thank you, sir. And if there’s anything we can do to keep it off the record, we will.” Clerk Carmine says with a pointed tone.

“I’m sure there is,” Principal Upton says dryly, then gestures for Lenore Dove to leave.

She rises, already knowing what comes next. Either Covey will be expected to play music free of charge at some upcoming gathering, perhaps multiple, or there’ll be talk of a more small donation.

Either way, she walks out having lost a sliver of the respect she once held for the principal. She didn’t know he took bribes. Though it doesn’t all that surprising to her.

Walking past a window, Lenore Dove catches sight of a head of black hair walking out of the school alone— must’ve finished up something before leaving. She rushes, skipping steps as she bounds down the worn, creaking staircase. One nearly gives under her foot. They’re all too old.

She bursts through the front doors.

“Sunny!” Lenore Dove calls out, breath hitching in her throat. “Sunny, wait!”

Neither Sunny, nor her sisters, nor Chance cousins in general, look like Lenore Dove. 

The only thing they share is their olive skin, as many already have in Seam. But even that’s different. Lenore Dove’s is warmer, sun-touched, while the Chance girls’ is a touch paler. They take after their father a lot, with hair so dark it’s near black, and blue-grey eyes.

It all stands in contrast to Lenore Dove’s dark chestnut hair and green eyes. Even their noses are different. Hers has a high, proud bridge, theirs are straighter. And their smiles? The Chance girls have deep dimples, just like their father. So does a numerous of their cousins. Lenore Dove doesn’t.

Lenore Dove doesn’t look like her mother, except her eyes, and most her life, she figured she must take after her father the most. But the older she gets, the more she sees it; none of the Chance men, nor their kin, have her features. She knows none of that means much, after all there’s a lot in play when it comes to determining a child's traits-- but still. She can't help but keep searching to find the ties that bind her to them.

Sunny turns around to face her, impassive as always. If there's something they certainly do share, it's their quiet nature.

"Thank you, for sticking up--"

"No worry." Sunny responds quickly, “Wasn’t a big deal. And don’t take anything Heath says to heart, if he was any stupider he'd need watering twice a week. Blurting out whatever he thinks isn't his best quality.”

Lenore Dove huffs a laughter, ”Still, I..." she says, ”It means a lot, thanks."

The girl looks uncomfortable now. She gives a light shrug.

“All good,” she says. “Uh, thank you too… for helping Aunt Jessa when you did. Shame Haymitch got caught up in it. Must've been hard on you.”

“Yeah…It is… “ Lenore Dove bites her lip. “And, I haven’t said it before, but I’m sorry for your loss, Sunny.”

She hadn’t gone to Woodbine’s funeral. Haymitch was gone and her world was actively falling apart all around her, and besides, she hadn’t wanted to feed the rumors by showing up to a family matter. And then she got locked up before she could process anything.

Sunny’s eyes glisten under the pale winter sun, already dipping low in the sky. “Thanks.”

They stay in silence for a moment, before Lenore Dove just has to break it again.

“I know it's been hard for you too," She says, this is the longest she's spoken with the Chance girl. "And again, it means a lot to me."

"Well, that's what we do." Sunny says, and takes a step, half-turning her back, "Follow your own lights, Lenore Dove. As you already do." 

And she leaves.

Lenore Dove re-plays the conversation perhaps a hundred times by the time her uncle comes out of the school, and starts walking ahead of her. She follows him and feels the scolding coming closer and closer with each step.

It’s quiet up until they hit the stretch of road that separates the Covey house path from the rest of the Seam. Then, it begins.

"How much trouble are you gonna keep stirring up?" her uncle snaps.

“It wasn’t ‘cause of me, you heard the principal!” Lenore Dove fires back. “They were talking to each other, arguing, then they brought my name up— I didn’t even say a word at first—”

“But you couldn’t stay out of it,” Clerk Carmine cuts her off. “When are you gonna learn? When will you understand there are times you’ve gotta bite your tongue if you wanna keep your head? You can’t even hold back in a playground fight, how do you expect to keep your promise to us?”

“I’m trying! Do you know how hard it is for me to just sit quiet?” she snaps. “If I can’t speak up, then my actions have to speak twice as loud. Because as much as everyone hates them, no one’s willing to do anything more—”

“And why you think that is?” Her uncle stops dead in his tracks and wheels on her. “Why you think, with all the hell we see day in and day out, we still keep our mouths shut? ‘Cause of things we can’t afford to lose. People we’d do anything to keep safe.”

“I got that too,” she grits out, “I got plenty to lose, same as anybody. But I know nothing I do can keep ‘em safe for real unless we all try something— anything—”

“You think you were helping, Lenore Dove? You really think that? When you went running to help Mrs. Chance? Well, it didn’t bring Woodbine back, did it? And look where it got you— look where it got Haymitch! There’s a time and a place—”

“Time, time, time! That’s all you and Tam Amber ever say—but it’s never the time! Never! How much time does anybody need? It’s been fifty years! The time was when they said they’d take four children from us! If there was ever a time, I thought, surely that was it! But no—it’s never the time—”

“Because it‘s just not!” He raises his voice, “You want the truth, don’t get angry when we give it to you. It just not the time! And you’ll never live to see it if you keep on doing what you do—” He stops, draws in a breath deep enough to steady himself, but his eyes are hard. “You think the Tree’s the only punishment they got? You think hanging from it’s the worst of it? Jail? Stocks? They rig reapings, Lenore Dove. You know that. We told you how the Mayor did it to Lucy Gray. When you cross the wrong people here, it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent — you pay.”

Her glare could splinter wood. There’s always something.

“So when I’m a kid, I’m supposed to hush up ‘cause what if they throw me in the Games. And when I’m grown, I’m still supposed to hush, ‘cause they might hang me or lock me up or straight up shoot me.” Her voice shakes, cracks like ice. “It’s not fair!”

“It‘s not!” Clerk Carmine roars, stepping forward. “That’s the whole damn point! Nothing here’s built on fair, so don’t go looking for it and get angry when you don’t find it!”

“Why not?” Her chest heaves. “Why not get angry? We are angry, but we should be even angrier, it’s ‘cause we’re not angry enough that this all keeps happening! we can’t lose more than what they already take from us! They don’t take it fair, they don’t take it clean, so why—”

“Because when you mess up, you’ll drag others with you!” His voice booms now,“And you should’ve learned that already! You’ve seen what happened, Lenore Dove, you know how they play it! That fire you wanna start won’t just burn them, it’ll burn you—“

“If it passes my torch, then I’d be glad to burn, if it gets something going, then I’ll—“

“But it’s never just you, not here! It’ll burn everyone standing too close to you! You have to know this—”

That proves to be Lenore Dove’s breaking point. 

The things she’s told herself in private stir awake inside her, rousing even though the nightly hour for self-loathing hasn’t even arrived. Under the sun, it’s easier for those thoughts to go unheard. Because she knows all that, she does. She did set herself on fire, but everyone around her burned instead. Not entirely, perhaps, but compared to the ashes around her, she had come out of this fire unscathed.

“I know,” she finally lets out, but the words don’t come out as loud as she built it in her lungs, words lodge in her throat and her voice breaks, tears already streaming down her face. 

“I know nothing’s fair, and I know I can’t stop anyone from dying, I can’t stop the Games— I know I’m just one person. But somehow that just makes me even more desperate to try. And I know... I know I made Haymitch go to the Games ‘cause I couldn’t hold myself. I know he pulled a One ‘cause of me, I know his family’s gone ‘cause I sent him there, I know, I know, I know.”

Just a couple years ago, the first time Haymitch had told her about his twin sisters —angels, now resting with their family, all together, all but Haymitch — and topic went on to what Willamae said to her son.

It was the first time she’s heard of such saying. Covey’s sayings do have birds, but never like that.

If a bird flies into your home, someone inside is going to die.

At the time, the thought confused her. When a bird is in flight, there are no hurdles stopping it from going forward, no limits to how far it can soar, and it can perch wherever it pleases. 

How can a creature of air, the freest thing in all the layers of the world, ever be considered bad luck?

But when it crashes in a home, tears it apart?

“You were right. Willamae was right…” she says through sobs, not even realizing her uncle is right beside her, pulling her into his arms. She buries her face in his chest.

“I’m the bird that flew into Haymitch’s home…I’m the reason they’re all gone… I killed them too. I’m just as to blame..”

“That’s not true,” Clerk Carmine says softly into her hair. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby. You’re not.” 

“But I am. If I’d just held myself back, Haymitch would’ve—” Her fingers clutch his coat so hard her knuckles start aching. “I as good as killed his family. Willamae and Sid are gone ‘cause of me. Haymitch weren’t ever supposed to be reaped, but now—”

“You’re the one to blame for this, Lenore Dove,” he cuts in, . “You know it. You done said it yourself. Don’t start talking like that.”

“If I’d just kept my mouth shut…” Her voice wavers. “I... hate how I sit here wishing somebody else went in his place. Anybody else. Then I hate myself worse for thinking that way.”

“Shh.” Clerk Carmine pulls her in, sets her head against his shoulder. Wind whistles through their ears and blows their hair and scarves in the wind.

“I know I’ve given you a hard time. That’s ‘cause you’re so young. But your heart’s in the right place, Dovey. Nothin’ wrong wanting to change what needs changing.. I won’t tell you to kill that part of yourself. I just wish there was a way… And maybe there is. Maybe it’s not today, maybe not tomorrow, but there’ll come a time. Don’t you want to be here when it does?” 

She nods. 

But is she the one who has to sit by and wait for the opportunity? Why can’t she make it herself?

It’s unfair.

“Let’s go home.” He wraps his arm around her drained form, and they walk back together.

“Sorry ‘bout everything I said… about Haymitch. And I’ll admit, I felt bad too. Guilty even, for how I treated him when they sent him off.”

“You told me he was the type to die young.”

Then you told me that he is dangerous to everyone around him.

Well, if she’s anything like her uncle, she knows where he’s coming from. Doesn’t make it easier to hear it.

He sighs and nods. “Didn’t mean it like that. I know I said it, but I’d never wish that on him. No parent wishes death on another one’s child.”

“What does that make the parents in the Capitol then? Watching and cheering for it?”

“Hell if I know. And I don’t ever want to.” His jaw tightens before he goes on. “But yeah… with the Abernathys’ name, then his bootlegging, and you, always two steps from trouble— I figured you two weren’t a good mix. Thought you’d bring out the worst in each other.”

She shakes her head so hard, loose strands cling to the wet tracks on her cheeks. Haymitch’s absence only confirmed things for her; that he’s brought the best in Lenore Dove. The Lenore Dove who dreamt endlessly and had counted a day if only she’s seen Haymitch that day — she hopes her uncles see it as well. That much should be obvious with how sad and irritable and absolutely miserable she’s been these past months.

He studies her, then adds, “Guess it lit a fire under you though, huh?”

That makes her smile. Even if he scolds her about it, her uncles know how she thinks.

“A life with him…It made me want that world even more.” 

So we could be together without him having to waste away in the mines— the thought of him trapped down there, deep in the earth with barely any space to breathe, had kept her awake countless nights as they crept closer to turning eighteen. 

To raise our children in a world where turning twelve is just another milestone, no more or less important than any other age, just not something that turns you into a name on a paper slip in a bowl, something to be traded exchange of extra grain.

“I figured.” He presses his lips together, “And for the record, I don’t think that’s the worst in you.”

As much as hearing that makes her happy, she can’t help but think of something else. Her face falls.

“You never even asked me if he makes me happy. Not once.”

Clerk Carmine sighs, and holds her closer.

“I know he does, Lenore Dove. Anyone with eyes can see it. But sometimes, that’s not enough. Sometimes it takes more than love.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“But that’s the world we got.” His voice drops, “You can’t just love and hope that’ll be enough. Sometimes, loving the right person is the wrong thing… for both of you.”

Lenore Dove could easily retort and ask her uncle why he keeps seeing him all these years if he knows that, that it will only bring punishment upon them both.

She feels for him — how can she not?

She knows that when Clerk Carmine spends nights outside playing his sorrowful fiddle tune, he has more than one person on his mind — but there is someone, among all the others buried in graveyards, still living and breathing and just across the meadow, on the other side of Twelve, in Town. Alas, as far as away as the dead.

That love, meant to thrive in the open air, must instead be lived in dark rooms with drawn curtains and locked doors. That love, which should have had an audience to share its beauty with, must have no witnesses.

And all Clerk Carmine can do is hope the wind carries his music to his love.

Lenore Dove, however, does not bring any of it up.

For some things, there is a time and place.

She wraps her arm around her uncle’s torso, and they walk the rest of the way together, clinging on each other.

"Hey, about that fight...Should've asked this earlier," Clerk Carmine begins, after a while. "You hurt anywhere?"

Lenore Dove buries her laugh in the crook of her uncle’s coat.

---

Careful the wish you make, wishes are children.
Careful the path they take- wishes come true,
Not free.

Careful the spell you cast, not just on children.
Sometimes the spell may last past what you see
And turn against you.

Careful the tale you tell, that is the spell
Children will listen.

Notes:

RIP LD you'd have loved Nemik's Manifesto..."and even the smallest act of insurrection pushes our lines forward." what if I start to scream... (Please read it if you're not going to watch Andor)

LD's inner monologue while waiting in line: “… I was escorted to the principal's office, which I've never been to before, and I found out I wasn't getting expelled or arrested for what DT did to Marcie. I'm being expelled AND arrested for what DT did to Marcie-" (Gaige from BL2 - 8:03-8:18 - I love her Echo Logs, her VA’s amazing)

School fight,D12 dynamics

None of these children are to blame.They're young, frustrated, angry, heck; they’re hormonal, hate the lives they have to live, but cant direct that hate toward the C out of fear, so they take it out on each other. While they'd stand shoulder-to-shoulder and probably have for most their lives, I think if there's a time to lash out on each other it’d be now - Like Maysilee and SC even says: "She's mad about the injustice of the world she's born into and how it threatens and limits her life on every level. Before she's reaped, that just manifests as meanness. But once she's reaped, she begins to evolve and focus that emotion on the Capitol. She remembers who the real enemy is." To make matters worse, they’re all deeply conflicted. For the first time ever, any member of at least 3 gens. is seeing what the “rewards” of HG are - food that allows them to take a break from continuous struggle, but at the cost of watching their district’s child paraded on screen like a show pony. It’s a little like Omelas, though not exactly: just the idea that, however fleeting it is, prosperity must come at the cost of one of their own’s suffering. Which reinforces ’no HG no peace’. So yeah. Not to say there aren't mean/bad teens in 12, but I think we should give them the benefit of the doubt. Elaine and Heath both might hate the Capitol just as much but at the same time, are afraid. So, seeing people like Chances or LD rebel so openly might lead to an odd jealousy in a sense, smth like Horizontal Hostility out of frustration, desire to do the same, but being unable to. At least that's how I see it. That being said, feel free to hate any character lol they're here for a reason after all and I literally put them in just because I wanted to...

And I know there's a lot of characters this chapter but also...'kill your darlings' who? The school fight was literally only bc I needed something to push CC and LD further away then bring them together again, introduce some other views/people in the meantime. And I love D12 lore-esp. from Haymitch’s eyes because it’s really a small town of people who ‘knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy’

LD & Chances

Like I mentioned before, that lore is revealed in my Maude Ivory WIP, and bc those are things that LD has no way of knowing, I won’t reveal anything here.

But I'll ask this: did you notice something about the two of the Chance girls’ names???

This was the other half of the prev chapter, glad we're done with it. Homecoming next, wonder what’ll happen O:) C-4 !

Chapter 18: Longest Night of the Year

Summary:

Night hasn't even fallen yet, but it already doesn't feel like this day's the shortest day.

Notes:

I suck at scenes when characters aren’t sedentary bc I easily lose track of where everyone is unless they stand completely still. like the exact opposite of a t-rex. enjoy.

 "The pace of oppression outstrips our ability to understand it, and that is the real trick of the Imperial Thought Machine. It's easier to hide behind 40 atrocities than a single incident."

— Karis Nemrik

 

DECEMBER 22

 

The day before Haymitch returns, another announcement goes out-- by noon, everyone is to gather in the town square to welcome their victor. That night’s performance at the Hob is postponed since there will be a gathering at the Mayor’s house, and the district’s only musicians are required to perform there. Sunday will likely bring a mixed audience—though not many plan to attend once they hear the infestation of Peacekeepers that will happen at the Hob.

Lenore Dove barely sleeps that night.

She takes it as a sign that things are finally turning for the better. Haymitch is coming back on her birthday, of all days. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

And not just her birthday, but the winter sunstead. The longest night of the year, stealing darkness from all the days that follow, when the light begins to return. Maybe that’s what this is— a promise that brightness will come back into their lives, little by little. 

Maybe her mother had an inkling of her due date, and went overboard with finding a name from a ballad that fit everything exactly. Lenore Dove doesn’t know — but one thing she’s always certain of is making meaning out of her name. Lenore means light, and she was born on the day light begins to return to the earth. Tam Amber used to tell her that all the time, as they watched the sky with him.

She likes turning it over in her head. It feels like decoding a secret message her mother left just for her.

Not all's great, however, the rest of her class is still strung tight, the usual line between Seam and Town smudged a little after the Fool Fight, as Mr. Chambers called it—

But hell, as of today, Lenore Dove does not care.

It’s not a perfect day, but it’s as good as it can be, considering all that’s happened.

Last year, December 22 fell on a Friday — but it was the winter sunstead then, too. Two in a row in Lenore Dove's seventeen years of life. If there’s one thing she never misses on Capitol TV, it’s the weather broadcast, where the host mentions both solstices for their seasonal parties. Lenore Dove has always pitied them for treating it as nothing more than an excuse to get drunk.

They skipped school that day. Haymitch took her to the old house by the lake, where they lit a fire to fight off the cold— though they were all but glued to each other. He’d bought a bag of stale marshmallows from the Donners —you win this time with your scams— and toasted them on sticks.

His gift to her was her own song.

He sang it with a mouth that wouldn’t stop trembling —not with cold, they weren’t cold at all — his fingers clutching hers. The firelight carved his face into halves, made his eyes look two different colors; One a burning red like an ember, the other silver-bright like the Moon.

He sang, and every so often his gaze would flick away, too embarrassed to keep his gaze on her. But Lenore Dove had felt like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to look anywhere else. She was utterly awestruck — no other word for it.

No melody she’d ever played on her own hands and keys had sounded this sweet, this intimate, no word she’s ever uttered or sang had felt this close to her heart, even if it came out from her own lungs. 

Every word that left his lips seemed to reach inside her chest and squeeze, keeping her heart beating. And she knew, with terrifying certainty, that if he stopped, so would it.

It felt like her ballad was re-written that day.

She could barely stand the wait — torn between wanting to hear the song spill from his lips for an eternity, and shutting him up just to claim that mouth for herself. Probably for the best that the song ended when it did, because the second it did, she chose the latter.

They haven’t kissed like that before, she was wholly desperate to breathe him in, pull the air straight from his lungs, along with every song still trapped inside them. And she was sure there were more, and they were never close enough no matter how entangled they were, so they kept getting closer, and… And, well—

Lenore Dove sighs.

Sitting up on her bed, she raises her pillow and pulls out the small fabric bag.

With a thumb, she smooths out the case, revealing Donner’s logo.

The gumdrops he got her are still there. But she can’t bring herself to eat those. Not like anyone can, or should, it’s been too long for these, they’ve long gone stale.

She’s putting too much thought into it.

Before, it had been a piece of Haymitch she could cling to. Now… there’s another pair of eyes that come to mind as she holds the little bag.

Stuffing the bag back under the pillow, she tries to will herself to sleep. 

---

“Let me go!” Lenore Dove yells, heels digging into the ground as Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine drag her farther from the town square. Her heart’s pounding like it’s trying to outrun her ribs — either it’ll never stop, or it’ll stop any second now. 

The reality of everything that just happened is looming over her like the storm clouds above.

They’ve had a grip on her for ten whole minutes, pulling her back inch by inch. She sucks in air, pretending to be worn out, but she’s coiling her strength for one good wrench to break free— but a breathless voice cuts through, coming from behind them.

“Lenore Dove!” Sid yells, running to her. 

Her uncles falter, their hands loosening just enough for her to twist out and sprint. She meets Sid halfway, and both crumple into each other’s hold.

“Oh, Sid—”

He’s starts to sob, body shaking like he might just break apart in her arms. She wills herself to not break apart for this reason alone, someone’s got to hold Sid, it’s what haymitch would’ve done, he’d never allow any part of Sid to break.

But this poor boy— this little boy whose big brother she sent into the Games—

“He- he told me to give it to you.” His words stutter out between hiccups. “For Lenore Dove. And-and--”

He can’t finish. He can barely breathe. Lenore Dove drops fully to her knees, not caring about the dress, and steadies him by the arms. He hands her a small, white bag.

She knows what’s inside before she even looks. Her favorite from the sweetshop that Haymitch never lets her go months without.

“They zapped him.” Sid chokes on his words, and he’s just ten, Lenore Dove keeps thinking, then, they zapped him. Haymitch. “Then they draged him away." Another sob, “They took him.”

Sid pauses, hands finding sanctuary in his rumpled shirt, bites his lip but musters the strength to lift his head to meet her eyes.

“I’m the man of the house now, Haymitch said so. I’ll look after you too, Lenore Dove.”

Fight leaves her body then, watching the clouds burst like her heart is on the verge of doing.

She throws herself at Sid as the rain comes down in sheets, and they clutch each other with shaking arms and heaving cries . Lenore Dove can’t hold her own tears in anymore. Her uncles don’t pull them apart; but gently guide the two of them, still crying and hugging, beneath the narrow shelter of a roof overhang.

“I’m sorry, Sid. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She whispers it over and over, her voice breaking as it tangles with his cries.

That’s when Ima rounds the corner, having followed the boy here to take him back to Willamae. They’d had to near carry Willamae home, Ima says— not to their house, but to the McCoys’.

When Lenore Dove and Sid finally pull apart, Ima reaches out and cups the back of Sid’s head. The boy presses his face into her skirt, arms wrapping around her waist.

“The train’s still here,” Ima says, her voice scratchy and raw. “They can’t leave until the rain lets up. They’re all still here.” She swallows hard, choking on the words. “But we can’t ever get to them. How cruel is that?”

Haymitch is still here. And— oh, Louella…

Sid sobs again as Ima kneels, forcing herself to blink back tears. Always the older sister, she wipes the boy’s cheeks, fussing over him. As he grew up more and more, Sid never liked being babied — though he’d play along now and then to get out of chores — but now, he melts into Ima’s arms without protest.

Lenore Dove risks a glance at her uncles. Tam Amber is looking away, blinking tears from his eyes, and Clerk Carmine stares at the ground, his hat clutched to his chest.

She turns to Ima. “Thank you.” For telling me that. For looking after Sid at the moment.

Then she runs.

“Lenore Dove—!”

Her uncles shout behind her, but she doesn’t stop. She runs even her legs start to burn, runs all the way from Town to the train station.

S he swerves to the side just as she spots the station, avoiding the Peacekeepers posted nearby, and climbs to the ridge overlooking the tracks. There it is, sitting right there like a predator in ambush. Seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours from now, that train will start pulling Haymitch away for good.

Rain pours down on her, mixing with her tears, and she doesn’t stop crying. If she throws herself on the tracks, she’ll stall them for just a few hours at most, then they’ll just take him anyway. She can’t do anything to stop him from leaving. 

She hadn’t stopped any deaths or reapings when she was twelve; and now, at sixteen, she’s the cause of her boyfriend’s reaping and his…

Please, no. Let me never the sunrise again if he—

The train’s roar shatters her thoughts, and she blinks back to reality just as the machine begins to pull away. The rain has mostly stopped — only a few drops land on her, as Lenore Dove takes a shaky step forward. Her breath hitches again, then quickens, turns ragged in an insatnt, train starts moving farther from her.

Suddenly, nothing is enough. 

Everything she’s been holding inside bursts forth in an animalistic wail, a sound that stretches longer and longer, dragging across the ridge and into the empty sky.

She tilts her head back and wails, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

Her love is pulling away, farther and farther, and her heart feels like it’s being stretched instead of severed. It’s being pulled a thousand miles thin, so thin, a blunt miner's fignernail can snap it with a feather light touch. The distance between them is a thread unraveling that she can't reel back in, no matter how much she yells, how much she lets out.

---

Lenore Dove wakes up to Dandelion’s chirping.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she hops to her feet and whips the cloth off his cage.

“Good mornin’, darling boy,” she sing-songs to the bird, who flutters his wings out and lands right on her head like a beautiful crown. Dandelion trills his approval of his usual spot.

She makes her way down from the loft and straight into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh-baked biscuits and bacon is coming from. Sure enough, there’s Tam Amber at the counter, peel­ing bacon strips off the paper on the tray when she rounds the corner. Lenore Dove barrels into him, arms cinched tight around his middle.

“Mornin’, Dovey.” He chuckles, patting her back with one hand while the other keeps the tray from sliding. “You’re bright-eyed for first light. Somethin’ special today?”

She pulls back and gives him a look, bottom lip poked out, and it makes him laugh. “Y'know what...”

“Sure do.” Tam Amber picks up a piece of biscuit and spoons something on top...

"Chocolate gravy?!" Lenore Dove gasps so loud it’s near a squeal. "You didn't!"

He smiles and holds the piece out for her to bite. She does, and it’s so good she could cry the spot.

“Happy seventeenth, Lenore Dove.” Tam Amber hugs her again, then yelps and pushes her back at arm’s length. “Hey now— no birds in the kitchen.”

“Oh, that so?” Lenore Dove says, sticking out her finger for Dandelion to hop on. She lifts him to her face with a grin and loudly whispers, "Guess it’s time for us to skedaddle then, huh?”

"Well, you don’t bite!"

"Oh, y’know that’s not true," comes another voice as Clerk Carmine steps into the doorway. "She sure does bite."

"Alright, fair. ‘Least she doesn’t shed feathers—"

"Clogs in our shower drain tells me something else."

"Hey, I'm—" Lenore Dove cuts in, mock indignation as her younger uncle comes her way, one hand tucked behind his back. He catches Tam Amber’s eye, and Lenore Dove forgets all teasing, practically jittering in place with excitement over what’s coming for her birthday.

"It was my idea," Clerk Carmine begins, "...and Tam Amber’s craft."

He holds out the gift.

"Had thought of this when you started plying with Lucy Gray’s guitar…"

It’s a gray leather strap, edges embossed with birds and flowers. On the other side for her shoulder to lean against, her name is carved in a cursive handwriting she knows well from reading her mother’s notes, familiar and elegant.

"Used to be for Barb Azure’s bass," Tam Amber says, "...took some trimming and bevelling. Now, it’s a piece of all four of our Covey girls."

"I…" Lenore Dove’s near tears. a few slide down her cheeks as she turns it over in her hands. "I love it."

"Beats last year, eh?" Clerk Carmine asks, just as Lenore Dove barrels into him, Dandelion flies off her head and lands somewhere nearby, singing the song she's been diligently teaching him, which feels like a gift itself, really.

"Every gift you've given me’s the best," she says into his shoulder.

"Others haven’t gotten us this much of a reaction, though," Tam Amber chimes in, joining the hug.

"You need the pick-me-up this year," Clerk Carmine says, cupping her cheeks as they pull apart. "You’ve been through a lot. But you’re our girl— you can do anything. Happy birthday, Dovey."

She nods, tears brimming again, thankful her uncle’s shoulder’s there to serve as a makeshift napkin.

“That means…” she manages to choke out between sniffs, “my New Year’s gift’s gonna best this?”

That gets her uncles to fully pull back, both of them turning back to what they were doing.

“You know that means there is no New Year’s gift this year.”

"Oh, come on!"

Whenever Lenore Dove thinks she’s ran out of tears, something else happens that jerks them right back.

Alifair stops by first, which is a surprise on its own, delivering a pair of pants Lenore Dove had recently given Ima, to fit her growing height, along with a handful of lavender suckles — both for her birthday and for going to the graveyard with her. “Free of charge!” she yells when Lenore Dove tries to pay for the pants, running off. “Gift from me n’ Ima n’ Gillie n’ Louella!”

Lenore Dove knows Alifair is still in denial—that there’s no coming back for Louella. Today will likely be the day the truth, which no one has had the heart to break, settles in. It’s not that Alifair doesn’t understand death, or the Hunger Games; it’s just that Louella being gone feels so foreign, so impossible to imagine as forever.

Same thing happens when she runs into Burdock just as he’s about to check their snares before assembly time. She’s headed into town without her uncles, who had to stop by the Hob to take care of some business, when he catches up to her. A jar of chestnut preserve — courtesy of Robin and this winter’s abundance of chestnuts — and a small bundle of colorful bird feathers tied with a ribbon. The smug smile on Burdock’s face tells her he knows he’s nailed it this year with the gifts, so she doesn’t say a word. She just gives him a strong hug.

The Town Square is all prepped for the greeting. Four podiums stand ready, giant screens hanging behind them, set to turn the event into another spectacle of the dead. Lenore Dove wishes she could take them down—maybe snip a wire to disable the screens— but the risk is too high, and Haymitch is more important than anything else right now.

Before the townsfolk pour out of their shops to gather in the square, Asterid thrusts her own gift into Lenore Dove’s hands when she stops by the apothecary; a quart mason jar of apple cider vinegar, with wild mint. For the geese. She’d even managed to find some sulphur to add in, for mites. Though she's not in the best mood, Asterid doesn't let it affect the moment as she celerbrates Lenore Dove's birthday.

“A couple tablespoons to their drinking water should be enough,” her friend reminds her, laughing as Lenore Dove hugs her tightly, voicing her thanks over and over again. They pass the time there, Mrs. March out, busy helping her husband-- and therefore not there to repel the Covey girl away. 

However good the first few hours of the morning go, it all begins to crumble as the town square fills in, and Asterid has to leave her side to go near the Donners, waiting by the podium they’re expected to step up to in moments. Mr and Mrs March are there with them, so are Mellarks along with a couple of other from Town.

As Asterid joins her family, Lenore Dove catches sight of Merrilee.

The Donner girls always had a look about them, cheeks fuller than most their age, a glow that screamed healthiness and how well-cared for they are— but the girl Asterid is fixing the hair of looks anything but alive. Merrilee's willowy frame is nearly swallowed by her long black coat, her face gaunt and looks longer, and her fingers clutching the napkin are ghost-white. She looks like a figure cut from sheet paper — pale and thin, ready to be swept away by the wind or dissolve at the first drop of water. Like her own tears might just be the end of herself.

The only sign she’s alive comes when Merrilee shrugs off Asterid’s hand on her shoulder with a sharp huff, never once glancing her friend’s way. Asterid’s lips tremble, but she presses them shut and forces herself to keep still, and turns her attention to her own fumbling hands instead.

Lenore Dove's heart pangs in sympathy.

Merrilee looks far too much like Haymitch did the last time she saw him. And Asterid looks far too much like Lenore Dove herself when Haymitch shrugged her away.

She forces herself to look away and search for her own kin. Her uncles stand near the edge of the square, not quite joining the crowd, and after she waves to let them know she’ll be in the front, they nod in understanding. Tam Amber gives her a thumb-up and Clerk Carmine mouths his usual warning, be careful, as he always does, just in case. She nods back and moves on, weaving through the edge of the growing press of bodies.

She passes Wyatt’s mother next, waiting alone to mount the podium, leaning against the platform with a Peacekeeper close by like her body’s drained of energy, gazing nowhere in particular. 

A few steps farther, she spots the McCoys — Mr. McCoy and his eldest three, Tolbert, Randle, and Cayson — speaking in hushed tones with another Peacekeeper. They look agitated, hands flying as they argue, but the Peacekeeper glances toward the stage, where squads are taking position and will soon be joined by the Capitol’s ruthless reinforcements. Then he jerks his head and nudges them away from the platform. Only Tolbert lingers behind, but the others turn to leave when Mrs McCoy presses a hand to her husband’s back and gives a gentle push. You'll just make a scene, go, she thinks the woman says.

There’s no fourth platform for Woodbine.

Suddenly breathless under the weight of grief and something heavier — anticipation, sadness, dread, anger, indignation — Lenore Dove lets out a deep breath. She searches for Sunny or any of Chance’s kin, but the crowd thickens by the minute, and knowing them, they’ll likely be among the last to join this circus.

Tragically, there’s no one familiar in sight. Just a sea of faces she can’t name. Lenore Dove likes her solitude well enough, but not like this; stuck in a loud crowd surrounded by strangers. She cranes her neck, hoping to spot Asterid again, maybe see if that downcast look has lifted even just a bit, but the wall of people blocks her view. So she turns her eyes back to the Justice Building and waits.

Then things get even worse.

Haymitch gets out of the Justice Building and steps onto the stage.

For starters — he looks absolutely emaciated. He’s lost whatever weight he gained before going on the Tour; cheeks sunken in, eyes too large for his face, framed by deep sockets and dark circles, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. The clothes he's got on, a simple black suit, hang off him like a shroud. He looks too much like the shadow of the boy Lenore Dove talked with back in September, the boy who reeked of rotgut and told her he's Death walking.

He limps to the microphone. Limps. His left foot is in a cast.

Lenore Dove can’t take her eyes off him. The way everyone has gone dead silent— where there’s usually the tiniest bit of mutter— tells her now that his misery is obvious to everyone, just as it has been to her. Did it take a gaunt face and a limp for them to see it?

What the hell happened to him in these last two weeks?

Haymitch's eyes go over the crowd, and lingers on the portraits. He looks like he's ready to fall over and let Death take him, invitation hanging in his raised hand as he lies down waiting. 

All he can do is keep his eyes down and talk. Unlike before, he's not even pretending or trying, he's reading the speech straight off the cards, his voice coming out like its fighting its way out of his throat, all scratchy and hoarse like he hasn't talked in weeks.

"Thank you all for being here today. These past weeks in the Capitol has given me more than I ever imagined, and I'm filled with gratitude for every bit I've received. Both in and out of the arena, I did everything I could to honor my district and its people, and make you proud while showing the everyone in Panem, what District 12 is capable and worthy of; victory, glory and loyalty. The Hunger Games are more than just opportunities, they remind us of who we are, where we come from and what we do to safeguard our future. We have to remember what these Games mean to us. These Games bring us together. These Games show us what's important. These Games..."" 

She only tears her eyes away when someone's hand slips into her own, and nearly jumps out of her skin. Asterid’s there — must’ve slipped out to find her when Haymitch came on— clutching her with both hands. Her eyes are red and swollen like she’s just cried, and she stares at Lenore Dove with a worried look, but says nothing. What words could there even be?

Onstage, Haymitch pauses and breathes out, the sound crackling sharp through the speakers. His eyes lift, roaming over the crowd. For a heartbeat, Lenore Dove almost thinks he’s searching for her — but no, those eyes aren’t focused on anything. He looks like a man on the edge of falling apart.

“These Games…” The words scrape out, then die.

Around Lenore Dove, whispers start. Is he sick? What’s wrong with him? Asterid gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“These Games…” His voice comes again, ragged, followed by a frown so deep it carves its way in his face.

Hell breaks loose with the next breath.

“These Games… are KILLING us!” Haymitch roars, and the speakers screech under the force of it. He rips the mic from its stand and flings the whole thing aside. Then he half-hops, half-lunges, toward the cameras.

“You’re killing us!” he bellows, stabbing a finger at the lenses. “You’re murdering us! You’re murdering us!”

“You!… You!… You!… YOU!”

The guitar’s next in line, he wrenches it off his shoulder and hurls it, but the screens have already gone black. Peacekeepers flood the stage, and then he’s down, pinned to the boards under a mess of white. Lenore Dove's heart jumps and lodges in her throat, she's left breathless as Haymitch must be.

That’s when the square explodes with protests. “You’re killing us!!" and "Monsters!" and "Murderers!” 

Asterid grips her tighter, holding her close as bodies surge forward like a wave breaking toward the stage, shouting all together.

"Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!"

Maybe the Lenore Dove from just minutes ago, would've joined in and screamed her heart out with them like she always wanted to do, become one with her district and have them beside her, leading their life to better days. She’s dreamed of that so much for so long. But right now?

Right now all she can do is rip herself out of the daze and—

“Haymitch!”

A guttural scream tears out of her. She wrenches free of Asterid’s grasp and surges forward like a riptide cutting through the crowd. Her eyes lock on him, on what she can see— Haymitch, flat on the stage with a Peacekeeper’s iron grip clamped to his skull. There's red on the white of one’s shoes.

Oh, what can she do? What can she say but his name? Her head feels like it might burst with the rush of blood pounding there. She has to reach him. Now. Now—

She barrels through bodies as chaos detonates around her. People scatter in all directions. Some charge the Peacekeepers —older men and women— while shoving younger ones out of harm’s way as they go, yelling at them to run and get clear of the square.

In her periphery, she catches a flash of familiar faces; Woodbine’s older brother, Lilburn, is herding his younger cousins back. Larkin’s got a little girl clutched tight in his arms -- she knows that's Willow, Sunny's younger sister-- and Sunny is gripping his hand as they tear through the crush toward safety. Lilburn watches them get away for a second, before charging back into the mess.

Just as she turns her head back again, someone's shoulder slams into her head and her teeth sinks into her own lip at the impact, falling down as white heat rips through her nerves and she tastes iron fill her mouth, but a hand clamps around her arm, hauling her right up before she can fall-- before tugging her toward the stream of children fleeing the square, essentially saving her from getting trampled all over.

But Lenore Dove holds her ground and meets the eyes of the girl who helped her.

"The hell are you doing?" Elaine yells at her, pulling at her arm, "Run!"

"You go!" Lenore Dove can't even dwell in the shock of her arch-nemesis (that might be overdoing it) helping her before she makes it for the stage again. She thinks Elaine yells after her, are you crazy, but doesn't bother with an answer.

“Let him go!” people are shouting now. A boy just ahead of Lenore Dove — he can’t be older than thirteen — snatches up a chunk of pavement and hurls it at the stage. It smashes into the Peacekeeper pinning Haymitch down, a hit so clean the Everdeens themselves would’ve envied it. The crowd around him catches the surge, scrambling to pick up stones and whatever else they can find, hurling them at the guards.

Peacekeepers whip their heads toward the commotion. Soon, comes the shrieks of panic as bodies scatter like embers flung from a fire. Lenore Dove doesn’t understand why — until the burn ignites her own eyes and nose, and she realizes it's tear gas.

She welcomes the sting. Breath hitching, she lifts her elbow over her mouth and barrels through the suffocating haze. Her eyes sear and spill tears, her lungs ache, but she pushes forward—closer, closer, she’s nearly to the stage. She doesn't stop for a second to think what she might be capable of doing once she gets there, just that she has to get there, because Haymitch-

A Capitol woman shrieks from the side “He’s a Victor!” Then when that's left unanswered, yells again, “He has brain damage!” while the camera crew protests, “We’re not finished filming!” 

Lenore Dove’s almost there, just almost, when arms seize her waist and wrench her off her feet. The ground drops away, her stomach lurches, as whoever's carrying her hurries to the other side of the stage. Over the shouting, she catches a glimpse of more peacekeepers stepping on the stage, a bucket held between them, before more shots are fired, screams flare and die out in bursts. Lenore Dove is sure that some of those thuds hitting the floor are bodies.

“No! Let me go! Haymitch!” Her scream rips out of her as she kicks and thrashes, slamming her heels against whoever’s hauling her. “Let him go! Monsters! You’re all monsters!”

Time moves in flashes as shots keep ringing across the sky and hovercrafts zoom in, canisters drop down, hiss of more and more tear gas floods the square, forming a burning fog.

Peacekeepers have sealed the exits, shields in a ring around the people. The crowd surges nonetheless, slamming against the barriers. Once they reached there, the man staggers to a halt, sucking air. He drops her down in front of him as she twists to see his face—

“Mr. Bates?!” she breathes. Garrett Bates. The window repairman. Clerk Carmine’s fellow from town.

He clamps tighter on her wrist, his chest heaving. “I’m… handing you… to your… uncle…” he rasps.

Lenore Dove doesn’t have time to answer — not even to tell him there’s no leaving — because a megaphone screeches overhead.

"Attention--"

She turns her head to the stage, and sees clearly even from the distance, as Peacekeepers drag Haymitch toward the bucket. She watches in horror as they plunge his head under the water and hold him right there.

The announcement cracks like a whip over the square--“Don’t let his head out until they back away and settle down!”

Shouts don’t stop, but they thin out like a fire guttering under rain.

“C’mon… every second you keep this on is another second of losing air for this poor boy.”

Then the screens flicker to life, and Haymitch fills them. His head shoved under water, his body convulsing in jagged, desperate jerks. His arms flail, and legs kick, like his muscles are spasming.

Lenore Dove’s scream dies in her lungs and never makes it to her lips. Around her, silence spreads like rot until the square is choked on terror. 

“Three minutes until re-shoot.”

Haymitch's head is still in the bucket.

“Any children of Reaping age and below are expected back in the town square. Adults may get out of the barricade. If they stay, their family names will be recorded.”

The square splinters into panic again. Protesting cries tear out from the cluster nearest the stage. More shots follow.

“Or they’ll be taken care of themselves. Send the kids back for the broadcast. Or you all will be held responsible. You decide.”

Lenore Dove throws her arms up to stifle the sobs tearing out of her, tears streaming from both desperation and tear gas alike — she can’t tell which is burning worse. Her heart sure feels its on fire while sinking in a sea of lead. She spares a glance at Mr. Bates, who looks torn up about letting her go, probably thinking how worried Clerk Carmine must be right now.

But it's not like they're left with any choice -- she and a handful of other kids break away from the adults’ line and start trickling back toward the square. Their steps are slow and hesitant, like they expect to be gunned down the moment they hit the midpoint— which might as well happen. A few parents make a run for them, but warning shots crack the air and they are forced to retreat in silence.

Empty shells litter the ground -- and tear gas canisters, scarves, shoes, hats that fell off and left behind, along with spatters of blood on the pavement.

The peacekeepers herd the kids into a rough semicircle, moving fast, barking orders. Lenore Dove ends up near the front.

Haymitch’s hand goes limp just as they yank his head out of the bucket, and the sound of him sucking air back in rips across the square. He heaves and heaves, hacking up water like his lungs might come up right along with it. Lenore Dove cringes in pain with every single cough.

Peacekeepers haul him up before he can catch a breath, and a Capitol team swarms him at once, blotting water from his face, fussing with his clothes and face. Even they look rattled, eyes flicking toward the Peacekeepers every other second. The Capitol woman who was screaming earlier is right beside him, card in hand, reading something fast.

“In 10, 9, 8…”

They prop him up before the microphone stand.

“And...Go!"

It’s dead silent. It stretches on and on as Haymitch stares out at the crowd. His eyes flick to one of the big screens — his own face plastered across every one of them — and he does something Lenore Dove expects the least. Haymitch opens his mouth wide and smiles, though Lenore Dove doesn't know how to explain it fully. Blood spills through the gaps in his teeth. The sight is eerie, and it's sure to haunt Lenore Dove for an eternity.

The camera crew mutters a strained, “Cut—” but they don’t get the chance to finish. A Peacekeeper slams the butt of his rifle into Haymitch’s skull.

Lenore Dove feels like that rifle just fired straight through her own head.

Kids shriek and shouts erupt. It’s about to break into another riot when gunfire cracks the air again.

“On the ground! Now!” a Peacekeeper bellows. Another shot into the sky. “On the ground, or you’re getting it! You hear that?!”

The whole square drops flat on the ground. 

Lenore Dove sucks in a breath, lifting her head just slightly to watch as they haul Haymitch up by the arms, dragging him like a sack of cracked corn offstage. The Capitol woman from earlier is screaming, her heels slipping on the platform.

“I told you his condition! Where are you taking him?!”

“He disrupted the peace, miss. That requires arrest and detainment,” a Peacekeeper snaps.

“But he’s not a regular citizen! He’s a Victor, I’ll have you know!” Her voice trails as they disappear behind the Justice Building, the Capitol crew scrambling after them. “He’s earned his immunity directly from the Capitol! You can’t—”

The crowd ripples with whispers again, everyone too scared to let the noise rise above anything else other than mumbles. No one’s said they can leave yet, and the waiting grows heavier with every passing second. From the far edge of the square where the adults are penned — come shouts and wails, voices cracking with panic, begging for their children back.

Lenore Dove’s face still burns from the tear gas. Her mind’s gone numb, like all the thoughts have been wrung out of it, images of Haymitch being held underwater, being hit, slammed on the ground, dragged away, keep flashing before her eyes.

It’s ten, maybe fifteen minutes before they're allowed to stand up again, and a Peacekeeper steps up to the mic Haymitch was dragged from.

This one’s got no helmet. Just a weathered face with a carefully trimmed moustache, older than the young recruits. Head Peacekeeper Troch takes stage and speaks to the terrified crowd.

“So… what happened today was… well…” His voice stumbles, obviously not the kind that commands a crowd. His eyes dart to the Capitol squad posted on the edges, guns fixed on the kids like they’re waiting for a riot to spark again.

Their new Head Peacekeeper stands there looking unsure of himself, clearly intimidated by the Capitol reinforcements— a contrast to the version Lenore Dove's got to know, the one who’s all too lenient with his own recruits, always angling for their favor and popularity.

Amid the rising tension, a tiny hand slips into hers and clings tight. Lenore Dove looks down to see a small girl, dark hair in half-undone pigtails, clutching her coat and leg. The girl lifts her head, and Willadeane‘s tear-streaked face, eyes red — likely from the tear gas— presses against Lenore Dove’s waist.

She lifts a hand to gently press the child’s head, hoping it’s enough to soothe her. Another set of hands grips the back of her coat, and she lets them hold on.

“To close this matter, who started this disruption’s gotta pay. So… we’ve made some investigations…”

Investigations? In ten minutes?

“…and managed to single out a provoker who hit our officer. Get him out,” Troch orders.

Two Peacekeepers drag a man into the light. He’s lanky and thin, hair wild and white — someone who’s never cared for much besides his job and his students.

That's Mr. Riley -- the teacher of District Twelve. The man who taught everyone here how to read and write; their parents, and maybe even their grandparents before them. His wife was from the Seam, and the elderly woman used to bring baked treats for every class that had fully learned to read and write at the end of the school year, at the assembly to celebrate the children’s newly acquired literacy.

This is Lenore Dove’s favorite teacher, does she even need to say it? He’s the one she used to pester endlessly at recess, dictionary in hand, eager to ask about some interesting word she’d stumbled across. He’s the one who told them, “A great man once said-- Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.’” While her classmates rolled their eyes in quiet disbelief, careful not to upset Mr. Riley, those words carved themselves into her heart. Most still think that's impossible, but not her.

"Having confessed to throwing a tile at the officer handling Haymitch Abernathy and instigating the physical assault against our soldiers....”

But that wasn’t Mr. Riley. That was a kid.

Oh… Mr. Riley…

“…Fritz Riley is sentenced to a night in the stocks to serve as an example.”

A night?

It’s below freezing out there. Snow falls every night, and the ground around the school is so slick with ice some kids started strapping nails on the bottom of their shoes just to get traction.

Lenore Dove’s head feels like it’s splitting in two — half of it dragged with Haymitch, the other trapped here, screaming against what’s happening right now.

She takes a breath that burns all the way down. Every nerve is on fire, every muscle resisting the command in her brain—move, move, MOVE—

Lenore Dove eases Willadeane’s trembling hand out of hers, and nudges the girl behind herself, hoping the other little chickadee clinging to her does the same. Then, she steps forward.

“It’s freezing cold!” she shouts, and heads whip toward her.

Troch's eyes lock on her. The hair on her arms rises, but she forces herself to keep going. Someone tries to grab her sleeve; Lenore Dove shakes them off and takes another step.

“He’s old! He can’t survive the night—” It's going to be the longest night of the year, there's no way Mr Riley, at his age, is coming out of the night alive.

A Peacekeeper strides forward, but before he can reach her, or before Lenore Dove can back down, and she’s not even sure if she would— a tiny voice cries out.

“Please don’t!” 

Lenore Dove’s head snaps around. Willadeane, cheeks streaked, sobbing. And then the sound multiplies, other voices pipe in, just as crushed and desperate. A knot of little kids spills forward from the back, tearing away from older teens who try to pull them back. Most of them aren’t even of reaping age, not even close. They're crying at the sight of their teacher, their only teacher, being held by Peacekeepers.

“Not Mr. Riley!”

"He's too old!"

“Please don’t take him!”

“It’s too cold! Please!”

And just like that, the men in white armour hesitate. Protocol’s shaky when it comes to dealing with twelve and under. They look at the Head Peacekeeper, who throws an embarrassed glance at the Capitol squad, but he doesn't have t he chance to bark out orders.

"Stop!" Mr Riley hollers at the line of kids approaching him, making them halt in their steps. Some even flinch back in surprise. Mr Riley doesn't raise his voice, let alone yell at them, or at anyone. "Go back, now. I won't say it again."

Mr Riley glares at them, and for the first time since Lenore Dove has known the man, she sees him look at a child like this. Wails and soft sobs take the place of their outbursts. But Mr Riley’s clear in his message, don’t get involved in this.

Sobs get louder but kids can't move forward, because Mr Riley told them to. Lenore Dove meets her teacher's eyes, and sees the desperation clear as day, and leans forward to gently pull Willadeane back. The girl lets out a sob, attaching herself back on Lenore Dove.

"Tonight, he'll be put to the stocks and in the morning-- Well, I think the stocks will be just enough."

---

The rest of the day passes in a miserable blur.

They’re let out of the square one by one. No one leaves immediately after the next-- the Peacekeepers measure a distance they deem safe before allowing the next group to go.

Lenore Dove, and most of those her age, let the youngest ones leave first, though it takes some talking to convince Willadeane to let go of her.

No one is allowed back in the town square until tomorrow morning. Any public gatherings are forbidden. There’s no celebratory dinner, no celebration at all — but that goes without saying, really. 

Lenore Dove doesn’t even know what to cry about. After tending to her bottom lip—on top of the tear, a painful bruise sure to show in hours— she makes her way to the meadow to spend the rest of the day. She takes her geese with her, but the joy she had once felt from the promises of this day is wrung from her heart like it’s a dishrag, twisted and dried of everything it once held.

Only when the sun starts to dip does she make her way back home. She can’t stay still once she drops the geese off in the shed, so she sets off again, pacing back and forth on the road that runs between Seam and Town.

They’re keeping Haymitch at the base tonight, for sure. At least for tonight.

But the Capitol woman said he had immunity… so is he going to be let go soon?

Why is his foot in a cast? What happened to make him go off like a fuse? Nothing he said was wrong, he told no lies on that stage-- but what happened? After all that performances, what happened to make him snap like that?

What'd she say about him? His condition? Brain damage, she thinks is what the woman yelled, but she's not sure, and wants nothing more than be wrong about that.

And Mr. Riley… is he doing okay? They’re surely putting him in the stocks soon. Tonight...He will be...

Did anyone else get killed today? So many shots rang out, and Lenore Dove has seen some people dragged away, leaving streaks of blood behind—but she doesn’t even know for sure if anyone’s been lost. She hopes not. Is it, in some twisted way, selfish to think that? A big part of her knows it is because she can’t handle anyone dying on her birthday, after all. Or is this one of those thoughts you can’t help but have? 

She frowns, and her lip screams in protest. Ah…it hurts to be sad, physically. Great…

Maybe she can compete with Haymitch on who has the worst birthday now…

Lenore Dove is walking what has to be her hundredth loop when she spots Elcaine Raines coming toward her, a heavy crate in his arms. It’s covered with a blanket, but she knows what’s stacked under there — white liquor. The sight sends her reeling again, thinking of Haymitch's arms flailing on the stage. She’s about to just walk past, expecting the same from him since they don't really have a reason to acknowledge the other, when Hattie’s New Mule shifts sideways and blocks her path.

“Hey, Baird." he says. "You’re playing tonight, right?” 

She blinks, confused, then shakes her head no. Wasn't here there? Didn't he just see what happened?

"No...I don't think so?"

Haymitch just quite literally had a breakdown on stage and peacekeeper's bashed his head into the ground then drowned him, and then to make things even worse, one of the most beloved people in our district's sentenced to what is basically a death sentence, freezing to death on the longest night of the year.

Besides, Peacekeepers are sure to not let up tonight, no way.

“Your uncles said you are,” Elcaine presses. “As an apology from our district… for, y’know, everything. That whole mess was between us and the Capitol squad anyway, so the Hob’s hosting.”

“Tonight?" She asks, "And they just… said fine?”

“Mayor Allister's sweet talked 'em, but truth be told, didn't need much convincing. More are for it than against. Been a long day, everyone just needs to blow off some steam. Besides, Hattie’s sending these over,” he says, patting the crate. “To make peace. Figured it’ll keep things… friendly. Even Bascom Pie’s pitching in.”

“That’s… nice of ‘em…” she says, her voice trailing as she studies his face, wdonering where this is going.

“Mm-hm.” His tone’s easy, but the eye contact he's making with her is intense, making her shift on her feet.

“This one's a strong batch. Gonna be a full house, from what I hear. Wouldn’t be surprised if the ruckus reaches all the way to the town square.” He gives a half-shrug. “Sound travels easy in midnight, I guess. Or whatever they say.”

Before she can make sense of anything, Elcaine walks off whistling a tune, leaving her staring at his back.

A copious amount of liquor, probably free or at least cheap, handed straight to the Peacekeepers.

What else did he say?

Strong batch, full house... town square...midnight...

Lenore Dove turns back and rushes home to get ready for tonight’s performance. If she’s reading Elcaine right, Covey has a role to play.

Notes:

Aaaand we caught up to Haymitch! Finally!! Only thing is from now on you don't know how things'll go ( >␣o)

LD in the morning: waking up like a princess, birds singing, hbd to her
LD in the afternoon: this is hell. it’s so over.
LD in the evening: we’re so back
[Meanwhile Effie's making a very urgent phone call.]

Big big thanks to enjolraspermittedit for giving me their wonderful idea to make Winter Solstice LD's birthday :)

Here's more about it

The winter solstice occurs during the hemisphere's winter. In the Northern Hemisphere, this is the December solstice (December 21 or 22).
Some stuff I've found out about
- symbolic death and rebirth of the Sun
- For Pagans, the shortest day of the year marks the end of the descent into darkness and the beginning of the return of the light as the days begin to get longer after the solstice.
- The dead of winter, when the longest night of the year takes place, has traditionally been celebrated as a time of renewal and reverence.
- After the solstice, the days get longer, and the day has thus been celebrated in many cultures as a time of rebirth.

And the best things is, to my luck, it aligns with the chronology I did and lands right on Haymitch's homecoming... Though typically it’s on Dec 21st, any day between 20-23 goes apparently.

Is this what they call fate? Great minds think alike, thank you so much for the suggestion once again my lovely reader <3 Ily very much

Aside from hogging the A/N section... While I have a general outline of how things will go, I don’t really have every single thing set in stone; so sometimes I post questions like if some of my HCs make sense etc before I put them in the fic or just brainstorm about some stuff, which might end up in the story as well. so:
turns out thgtwt is hell but here's me @luiviviul
and tumblr: @veeryluvi

Work has been killing me. I've worked - temporarily taking over someone's shift - nonstop for the past 10 days and I think I'm going insane, and it's why this chapter was so late even though it's a short one :’)

Bye! C-3 |･ω･)

Chapter 19: Fire and Friends Can Keep

Summary:

The longest night continues, many hands make light work, and a teacher gives his last lecture.

Notes:

I rushed this chapter I'm sorry. But since this is a filler chapter full of (sad) shenanigans with side-characters, it's a double update :) Enjoy chapters 19 & 20 !!! Also, turns out I dont know the difference between stocks and pillory???? You’ll see what I’m talking about :’ ) pretend you don’t. Anyways lots of talking in this one, important and unimportant.
Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

“I have friends everywhere.”

 

“I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“You didn’t practice all that time for nothing, now, did you? Used up all my faulty metal sheets."

Lenore Dove nods miserably. She takes a long breath, brings the burin near the surface — but as the pointy end of the tool just barely grazes the metal, her hands shake, and she chickens out again.

“Why can't you do it?”

“We talked about this. It's not that I can’t, it’s ‘cause you can.” He bumps her with his shoulder, “It'll be extra special that way, y’know. Your handwriting being on it. He’d take to that more.”

Well, now she’s twice as nervous. She knows he'll like it no matter what; but that just makes her more desperate to do it right.

She’s been dreaming of this project near forever, ever since that day they spent together for her sixteenth birthday.

He’d been wrestling with that worn-out flint striker then — watching him fuss with that piece of tired metal was absolutely endearing, but Lenore Dove’d rather Haymitch not have to fight with anything in his life. Not if she can help him in any way.

She managed to scrounge up the metal she needed, though not by herself. In a way, this here turned into a family project, when you think on it; metal with the eggs from her geese, ironwork by Tam Amber, her own two hands in the making..

“Calm down, Lenore Dove,” she mutters to herself.

“Right. No pressure.”

“Nuh-uh— all the pressure! This is for Haymitch!” she protests, “I can’t afford to mess it up.”

Tam Amber snickers at her pout and glare. “I don’t think he’d mind a crooked scrawl, if it came from you. He better not, if he ever wants my say-so.”

“I know he wouldn’t mind. I just... I want it to be good. Pretty. Like he is.” She trails off, and then she realizes she’s gone and said that last bit out loud. She elbows her uncle, cheeks heating. “Don’t say a word. I know how I sound.”

“You sound young,” he says. “And a bit like people I know.”

“Oh? And who’s that, then?”

“Your mother,” he says. “Lucy Gray. Barb Azure. Hell— Clerk Carmine. We fall in love hard, and when we do, we love with all we’ve got, us Covey. And heavens above, we make it everybody else’s problem.”

Lenore Dove laughs, and for the first time since sitting down to work on the flint striker, the tightness in her chest lets go just a little.

In the end, she ends up writing it as best as she can, but it doesn't look like her handwriting at all. Her L's come with loops, but in this striker it's so small you can't even tell, and her D's are usually a bit more bulbous but there's not enogug space for that -- her hands tremble as she crosses H; Tam Amber helps her with the 'I love you like all-fire'  part and starts tearing her about it,and that's the word that comes out best.

She never gets the chance to tell Haymitch about the inscription — his birthday always carries its own weight. Lenore Dove loves the day he was born, hates how the Capitol’s twisted it, making it feel like a betrayal just to celebrate like any other birthday. And when the moment finally comes to hand it over, she’s so tangled up in feeling that the words slip out of her head.

Maybe part of her truly forgot, the second she saw his face. She hadn’t counted on running into him that day, not before the Reaping — not with all his chores and work with Hattie lined up. Maybe it'd be better for him to find it on his own. Like a gift tucked inside a gift.

Besides, if he can't tell it's actually her handwriting when he sees it… well, she'll just tell him later after the reaping.

---

Elcaine wasn’t lying. It really is a full house.

They’re on their umpteenth song of the night, and the Hob is split clean in two: on one side, the peacekeepers who went overboard drinking early and are now clinging to the last scraps of energy on their feet; on the other, the ones who came for the music and atmosphere and aren’t quite drunk enough yet.

Covey played all their usuals. Lenore Dove has been on edge the entire time— her uncles rushed home in a frenzy earlier, only relaxing when they saw she was safe. She had to wash her face a hundred times before the sting in her eyes and the cut on her lip finally eased. 

After the chaos — and the Capitol crews being forced to leave Twelve after handling Haymitch— the mayor summoned her uncles and struck a quick deal: perform at a ‘peace-keeping’ event tonight. Her uncles apologized a lot for having to spend her birthday night like this, but she shrugged off every offer to skip it. They even promised to pull some tricks to get her out of it and told her she could spend her birthday with Robin and the Everdeens.

The Head Peacekeeper agreed without hesitation. Tension this high between locals and peacekeepers is dangerous for both sides— it makes guards more uptight and trigger-happy; locals more likely to rise to bait and start fights. And when that happens, everything else; liquor sales, music performances, even simple market trades— they all hang by a thread. 

Even in their most uneventful times— hangings and executions still happen for those who openly defy or attack peacekeepers, like Chances are infamous for, but the peacekeepers here still needs to keep things at least civil with the residents of Twelve.

And so, the Hob is packed with peacekeepers, all trying to drink away a rough day.

Most of them have only been stationed here for a few months; only a handful were around before the Fiftieth Hunger Games. And these new recruits are young, insecure, and painfully, obviously, green.

Some young miners are scattered around as well, which she wasn’t expecting. But they aren’t drunk. Lenore Dove prides herself in saying this; she’s mastered the art of surveying and watching the audience as they perform, and so she’s noticed that not a single miner’s touched his own drink. They just keep pouring and passing, topping off the peacekeepers’ cups.

Alright, Elcaine. Got it. Goal is to get them hammered drunk.

Slight problem? How are they supposed to get the other half of these men down?

Among the sea of swaying men, Lenore Dove spots Cayson then, in the corner with a man who must be his Peacekeper friend, they aren’t drinking as well, not even a bottle stand between them. They’re talking, and just like her, observing the crowd. Cayson glances at the direction of the exit every couple minutes.

Tam Amber announces the break, and Lenore Dove hops off stage. She won’t be collecting tips this go-round, since this is a treat from the mayor, though a few Peacekeepers still shove crumpled bills in her hand as she slips past, making for Cayson.

She holds her breath through the stink of sweat and liquor, only breathing again when she reaches his corner.

“Cayson,” she huffs out. By then, his Peacekeeper buddy’s gone.

“Hey,” he says, glancing around all nervous-like. “You shouldn’t—”

“Haymitch,” she blurts out, practically exhales the name, not letting him preach to her when they both know they don’t have the time. “I have to get to him. Can your friend—?”

Cayson shakes his head, grips her elbow.

“They hauled him to the base. I already asked. Look, you showing up’ll just make it worse. They’re keeping him there, don’t know how long.”

“But—” She stumbles over the word. “He needs—”

“We can’t give him what he needs.” He eases her back toward the crowd. “Go on, play something. Maxim is out fetching the patrollers—”

“If the base is unguarded—”

“It’s not. And if it was, what then?” Cayson huffs through his nose. “If they’re not in the Hob, they’re in their barracks. Troch's there, just sent his men out. Maxim’ll lure the strays here. Y’all gotta keep the ones we got drinking.”

"I've been trying! I just don't know how--”

“Maybe... play something fun, play something sad. Hell, start a drinking game if you gotta,” he says. “Anything to keep ‘em sitting and drinking and eventually, blacked out.”

“Is Mr. Riley...?” she starts, can't finish her question to utter the word -- alive? -- and relief floods through her when he nods.

“That’s why this shindig’s gotta keep rolling. And work.” He glances at his watch. “It's near midnight. We need ‘em blacked out. Go on — put ‘em to sleep.”

Before she can get another word in, he gives her one last shove, and she feels like a wind-up bird hopping back toward the stage.The tail end of a conversation catches her attention as she passes a table, and from that moment on, she starts listening in on the snippets of conversation around her.

“—I wish I’d been smarter back then, y’know? Could’ve studied harder, gotten an office job… Now I’m stuck here with these sweaty no-good bastards, and like that’s not enough—”

“—snobs from the Capitol, just because they scored better at the academy, coming here and telling us what to do—”

“—Like they know any better. Haven’t they heard of negotiation? Am I wrong?”

“Exactly! We don’t need any more work around here! They forget the paperwork after is grueling—”

"...but no-- that’s for the losers in shit district to take care of, we get to go back to the Capitol…Fucking assholes.”

"At least Troch lets us have a lil' fun..."

"Can’t wait for Call Day. I just miss my ma, she'd understand...”

“Tell me about it…”

She gets up on the stage, a plan half-formed in her mind. Everybody’s in low spirits. These new recruits are young, homesick, missing their families.

Alright. She can work with that. She thinks she can...

If her vocal cords cooperate — no, no. There’s no if. It's root hog or die.

She spots the sound equipment off to the side, and the mic stand that's unused by the band so there’s really no use in keeping it up. Before hopping back onstage, Lenore Dove grabs it, fumbles around a bit to find the microphone itself, then plugs it into the speakers, and makes her way to the center.

Her heart is hammering, throat’s gone dry. Hands shaking, she taps the mic.

Clerk Carmine hisses her name from behind, and Tam Amber blurts a hurried, “What’re you doing?”, but she can't turn to them — the head splitting screech from the mic has already pulled every pair of eyes in the room toward her.

“Evening, everyone,” Lenore Dove begins, swallowing hard. “Uh… I’d say what a great night, but I’d be lying, and y’all wouldn’t buy it, so…”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Someone hollers a “Yes!” from the back, but it does nothing to settle her nerves. A lot of things are pressing on her; fright from being so upfront on the stage that gets worse since last time she stood like this; ended up with her getting dragged off by a squad of peacekeepers, locked in solitary for a month. And the fact that these are the very people who unleashed hell on her district today, matching the Capitol’s brute force blow for blow — all that’s more than enough to make her throat close up tight.

“So, I realize we’ve all had a bad day-- and you being new, you’re… unused to it.”  she continues, leaning into their feelings, like they’re the ones who just got shot at today. “I’d like to… offer a song.”

She’s not great at public speaking. The fire she had during the interviews —that raw indignation for Haymitch — that’s gone. She was so angry then, and she still is, but there’s the responsibility of being given a task now. One that she’s deathly afraid of failing.

But that’s her role tonight, and she’ll play it.

Lenore Dove glances back at her uncles’ bewildered faces and signals them to follow her lead, then presses the first keys. When it’s time to sing, her voice comes out shaky, the mic squealing again. The beginning is the hardest part, she reminds herself, and forces herself to keep going.

She tries to imagine her chickadees as the audience, but it feels like an insult to her little flock, trying to put them in the place of these… drunk henchmen of the Capitol.

 

Tomorrow will be kinder

It's true I've seen it before

A brighter day is coming my way

Yes tomorrow will be kinder

It works.

Near the front, what she figures to be the youngest recruits sit huddled together. One young man’s lip trembles, and his older friends clasp a hand on his shoulder, urging him to take his shot.

 

Today I've cried a many tear

And pain is in my heart

Around me lies a somber scene

I don't know where to start

 

Some start singing along with the chorus, voices breaking as they cry that tomorrow will be kinder.

Tomorrow won’t be kind to you—not with all that drink in your veins, Lenore Dove thinks, you lot are gonna have the worst hungover of your lives.

And what about us? What about our tomorrow? What about Mr. Riley’s tomorrow — what kind of tomorrow awaits him? Will it be kinder? After the way this day’s gone, she thinks anything would be.

What kind of tomorrow will Haymitch have?

 

But I feel warmth on my skin

The stars have all aligned

The wind has blown but now I know

That tomorrow will be kinder

 

Cayson’s buddy Maxim walks in with a group of four peacekeepers, who must be the patrollers he went out to fetch. They make a beeline for the free drinks and then slump into the seats at the back— exhausted, surrendering immediately to the warmth of the room after the freezing cold outside.

 

A brighter day is coming my way

Yes tomorrow will be kinder

 

Then she sings Undone in Sorrow, then Burn Me Once, then One I Love. Not like she wants to grace them with beauty of these songs, but she plays it regardless.

Each song seems to cut a little deeper, and soon the peacekeepers —young men who’ve probably left sweethearts behind in the Capitol or their own districts— are wiping at their eyes and slamming empty glasses down for refills. She keeps singing, and singing. Until half the Hob is sprawled across tables and benches, lost to barely-coherent slurring and snores and tangled limbs.

Lenore Dove feels like some kind of magician who’s just pulled off an successful trick.

As she and her uncles leave the Hob, a few barely-awake peacekeepers stumble into a truck, but they don’t even manage to start it before collapsing in the seats.

Back home, Lenore Dove waits until her uncles drift off— which, to her luck, happens quickly. They’re not young men; a sad thought that crosses her mind more often than she’d like. But tonight, it’s convenient. They usually retire earlier than most, and after such a long day, they’re out cold the moment their heads hit the pillows.

Then, she rises as quietly as she can, careful to not stir Dandelion up, gathers the thickest blanket from her bed, and slips out into the night, heading toward the town square.

 

 

Amid the white sheet of snow blanketing the square, a small camp has formed around one of the stocks. A cluster of figures huddles close; a few linger at the edges, while others crouch low over something on the ground.

One of the standing figures, taller than the rest, spots her approaching and straightens. Lenore Dove’s short stature doesn’t exaclty scream threat—not a peacekeeper —Still, his gaze follows her until she’s well within sight.

“It’s Baird.”

“Baird!?”

Heads whip toward her, faces blanching.

“Is the performance over? Are peacekeepers—”

“Either passed out in the Hob or in base,” she says, and their shoulders sag in relief. “They couldn’t even start the cars to leave the Hob— just keeled over in ‘em.”

That draws a few chuckles, a couple of muttered losers. She steps closer to the makeshift camp they’ve pieced together.

“Hey, Lenore Dove,” Blair says from his spot. He’s behind Mr. Riley, arms cinched tight around the old man, keeping the quilts piled, snug on his shoulders, which, Lenore Dove notices the skin peeking out, that are bare under all the layers.

They must've stripped Mr. Riley off his clothes, leaving him with nothing on his back before chaining him in the stocks.

A real death sentence. Humiliation is just the nail the in coffin.

Across from Blair, an older merchant girl stands on the other side, her arms wrapped around the old man's torso to hold the blanket in place.

His bare feet are tucked into even more blankets, surrounded by metal cans and bottles filled with hot water. Someone's left their stuffed bear by his side, a little gift for moral support. The sheets around his legs are held up by two more. One girl clings fiercely to his left leg, crying quietly with her face buried in the fabric.

Two others stand watch over his hands; Elaine rubs his fingers through the mittens, trying to coax warmth back.

A boy leans against the wooden stocks, propping Mr. Riley’s head with his shoulder so he doesn’t have to hold it up himself. They’ve stuffed the hole in the pillory with knit scarves to cushion his neck.

The sight… it nearly breaks her, and she’s left in between too many conflicting emotions. To see their beloved teacher stripped bare, left to freeze like a piece of meat hung by the butcher — it’s devastating, it's heart-wrenching.

But this hand-in-hand grit from his students, his children -- my children, Mr Riley always said, never addressed them as anything else, my children, my chillins, my kids, my littles -- holding on like that, fighting the cold for him with everything they have, is something so overwhelming that it tightens her throat, trapping all her feelings there.

“Hello, Mr. Riley,” she says to her teacher and her voice comes out with a hitch. He nods in acknowledgment, offering her a slight smile despite everything.

He must be embarrassed to be seen in such a state, no doubt, Lenore Dove thinks. 

“Nice seeing you, Lenore Dove,” Mr. Riley says.

A younger girl steps up, and takes the blanket from Lenore Dove’s hands.

“Thanks for the blankie,” she says, nodding toward a pile nearby. “We already got more than enough, so—”

“Town kids take ‘em home, warm ‘em up,” The tall boy explains, like Lenore Dove's biggest worry is the temporary custody of her blanket. They could’ve burned it for all she cared, if it kept Mr Riley warm. “Then bring ‘em back, we swap ‘em out every hour or so. I’ll put yours with the used batch.”

Still, she nods, impressed by the system they’ve already got going in such short time. Many hands make light work, Haymitch used to quote his mamaw; and that woman's been right about everything so far, that's for sure. 

“I’m guessing it wasn’t just liquor in those peace offerings,” Lenore Dove says.

“March's a mad one,” the boy leaning against the pillory replies with a grin. “Laced ‘em with sleep syrup. Knocked those bastards flat, eh?”

She nods just as Mr Riley clears his throat and shoots a warning glance at the boy.

“Language, Aaron.”

“My bad, Mr. Riley. I’ve really been trying not to, I swear…” Aaron looks genuinely embarrassed, turning his head slightly to the other side to not face the teacher.

“You had any trouble with it?”

“Well, hard part was getting them to drink the whole lot…”

“How’d you manage that?” Blair asks.

“I sang,” she says, not knowing how else to explain it. “Played some sad pieces, they got all sentimental and found comfort quaffing their nepenthe.” Aaron stares at her, puzzled. “I mean… drowned their sorrows at the bottom of Bascom Pie's rotgut."

“‘Least you didn’t get pulled down the stage and arrested this time,” The girl across Blair says, sounding genuine and Lenore Dove immediately gets a bit sentimental at the subtle support. Maybe it’s the already vulnerable atmosphere.

“That’s smart,” Mr. Riley smiles at her, and Lenore Dove feels her throat tighten. “Music’s got power to it when you use it right. I trust you know it better than anyone.”

“Think I do,” She replies. Now, better than anyone else.

A soft sniffle draws Lenore Dove’s gaze downward, and she realizes it’s Patience Buckner who’s clinging to Mr. Riley’s leg. She couldn’t tell before, the way her face was down. Blair gently nudges her with a foot.

“Quit it, Patsy,” he says, "You're gonna get sick."

This time, a sob.

“Oh, dear Patience,” Mr Riley's cracked lips have lost color, but at least they’re not blue. “I thought we went over this."

A blonde girl steps around then, uncaps a small bota bag, and tips it toward his mouth. “Have some more tea, Mr. Riley.”

“Can’t say no now, can I?” he says, and a ripple of chuckles rolls through the circle, heads shaking in unison. No, you can't.

Everyone but Patience, who sobs and drops her head lower. Mr. Riley sighs and accepts the tea.

Lenore Dove’s eyes start burning too— it’s a miracle she’s held her cool this long, truth be told.

“I’ll take my leave now then,” Elaine says. “Hang on, Mr. Riley.”

She gives him a reassuring smile, then glances at Lenore Dove, tilting her head as a signal, come take my place. After one last squeeze of his hand, Elaine lets go, and Lenore Dove does not let her teacher’s hand hang in the air.

“You should’ve left hours ago, my child.”

“Well,” Elaine shrugs, “I’m used to keeping my arms up, wiping windows and all. So don’t you fret about it.”

Lenore Dove takes Mr Riley's hands between hers, and a tear slides down her cheek before she can stop it.

“Don’t you start too, Baird…” someone grumbles from behind Mr. Riley, “We’ve had enough bawling with Patsy already.”

“I c-can’t—hic—help it…” Patience blurts. She lifts her tear-streaked face to Mr. Riley. “I’m sorry I never read much, Mr. Riley. I never tried to like it either… I’m sorry… I’ll read more from now on. I swear I will, so…”

“I’ve no doubt you did your best—” he begins, but Aaron scoffs and cuts him off.

“Antsy Patsy? Reading? Who's buying this?”

“Not me,” voices call all around, laughter bubbling up as Patience lowers her head again in misery.

Mr. Riley snickers, “Ah, leave her be…” he says. “Don’t you be sad for me, Patience.”

"How can she not?" Lenore Dove chokes out. How can we not? "This is so..."

"...unfair." Patience whines, her voice breaking into a hitch of breath, then a sob. Silence settles over them like a sheet of snow, it's unfair, and best they can do is hold up blankets and cry.

“Don’t be sad for me,” Mr. Riley says again. His gaze sweeps the circle, and the kids inch closer until they’ve made a half-moon around him.

It’s so achingly familiar -- those summer days when the classroom air grew too hot, too humid, too heavy to sit on their seats. He’d haul his chalkboard and storybooks out to the yard and sit them down in the grass for lessons under the shade. The breeze would sweep away their sweat and boredom while they read beneath the trees.

It feels just like that now. A final story he’s about to tell them.

“I lived enough, lived more than most around here...” he says softly, and a chorus of muffled sniffs ripples through the group. Patience buries her face deeper in the blanket. 

"You’ve got enough to be sad about already.” His face twists, and Lenore Dove thinks he might cry himself. “You’ve got so much to be sad about. So much to be mad about. And you already are. Maybe at each other, too.” His eyes sweep the circle, landing on faces that flinch and avert their gaze like they’ve been caught. Of course he’s heard about the fight. Everybody has. He might even know few of the words that were flung, all the teachers are close to him, also having been his student once.

“I’ve got my own regrets… as a teacher—”

“What regrets?!” protests rise all at once. “You been the best teacher, Mr. Riley!” Heads bob in agreement, some slow, some so fast their hats slip off their heads and their scarves get undone.

But Mr Riley just shakes his head. He'd no doubt, if he wasn't chained to the stocks, cross his arms and lean against his desk.

“Not the kind of teacher I wanted to be. I  was never brave enough for that. All I did was hand you a book and teach you how to read the words on the cover. But what’s inside, that takes guts to learn. That’s where I failed. I was too scared to act on the ideas I had. I didn’t push you hard enough. Kept you walking the same worn path as everyone else, instead of the one I wished for us.”

He lowers his head, though not like he can lower it much, Aaron’s shoulder is still propping him up.

“But that’s mine to grieve over, not yours. Don’t stack that on your pile. Be sad about what’s being stolen from you.” His voice softens, “Be sad when you look at the empty seats in your class. Don't mourn me, mourn them. Mourn the ones you hated then — might still hate now — but could’ve called friends a year from now, or ten. Mourn the relationships that never had a chance to be, mourn the ones you never even got to know.”

Lenore Dove lifts her head, lets her eyes wander to Elaine. She thinks about the girl, and Merrrel, and Heath, Merrilee, Maysilee. Misery’s carved deep on every face around Elaine, but credit where it’s due — Elaine’s face is set like stone. All around her are wet noses and quiet sniffles, but for once she doesn’t look the least bit bothered by it. Then Lenore Dove catches the twitch of her nose, hears the faintest little sniff slip out — or else she’d have sworn the girl checked clean out of this talk a long while ago.

"You guys understand me, right?" He smiles when everyone nods.

“You’re all smart. Smarter than most give you credit for. But more than that, you’re good. Every one of you. You’ll always be good.” He pauses, breath catching. “That takes courage too, y’know. Being good. In a world like this… that’s—” His voice frays to a rasp, and the blonde girl is back there in a heartbeat, lifting the bota to his lips for another sip of tea.

"Be good, alright? Be good to your friends, and be good to the world. You be good, and you try your best to make it good for all of us."

The group falls silent again, the kids staring at the ground, tracing circles in the snow. Mr. Riley has poured out what he feels, and Lenore Dove feels compelled to do the same. Because for all she knows… this might be the last time they ever can.

She summons the courage to speak, which is kind of hard without the adrenaline can push her forward like it did in the classroom as the fight was building.

"Y'know that's not true, right?" Lenore Dove breaks the silence, and heads turn to her. "About what you being too afraid. Mr Riley, you've never taught us to be afraid." she tells their teacher. "You're the one who told us, that, once we learn to read..."

Her breath hitches with a building sob, and the weight of everyone’s eyes on her after such a long night is almost too much--

"We will be forever free.’” Elaine finishes for her, still looking at Mr Riley.

"You’ve already taught us everything you could. Even when you were scared. But you were just the right amount of scared, like everyone else. And still…you gave us all the hope you could, even so." She bites her lips. "Thank you for everything, Mr Riley."

"Thank you Mr Riley," voices chime in after her.

The man tears up and sighs. Focus shifts to keeping him warm, and not long after, Lenore Dove sees a gaggle of blonde heads appear from the street leading to the merchant sector. She recognizes the tallest one, Otho, carrying most of the blankets, with the tailor’s son coming in a close second.

“All right, everyone,” the boy who had spotted Lenore Dove earlier, announces. “Let’s not waste the heat— get on it.”

Everyone works in unison. Blankets are discarded one by one and replaced immediately with the new, warm ones. His feet are tricky — first the hot -- now just luekwarm-- bottles and cans are lifted, then the sheets. Mr. Riley’s bare feet are wrapped in an instant, and the replenished hot bottles are placed back around. The town kids gather the discarded blankets and scurry off again, rushing to warm the next set.

Again, Lenore Dove is impressed by how they come up with everything in such short time.

Elaine only leaves after that, even though she announced her departure about half an hour earlier. Lenore Dove notices Blair isn’t taking his place holding up the blanket on Mr. Riley’s back, instead he'd signalled another boy to take over.

“Elaine,” Blair calls, eyes darting to the girl walking off alone. “Wait a minute, I’ll come with you. It’s dark.”

The girl turns, her gaze lingering on Mr. Riley as if she doesn’t want to leave, then shrugs.

“Sure,” she says. “But it's not like there’re peacekeepers around…”

“Still…” Her friend replies, and Lenore Dove furrows her brows, catching the hopeless look on his face at her response. Oh, there's no way…

She can’t wait to tell— if she ever gets to tell Haymitch anything at this point. The bigger her dreams, the more they get crushed, more violently so, too.

Too bad for Blair, though. Elaine, however thorny she is, is a girl taken.

Blair says goodbye to her and others, and Mr Riley -- Lenore Dove sees him wipe his tears when he turns his back-- then walks off with Elaine. 

Her arms start to ache, and she gives the girl leaving credit — it takes a lot of strength to hold the blanket for so long. Lenore Dove’s no stranger to carrying weight, but her tune box wants her arms bent and low, not like she’s trying to hold up a shelf. Luckily, for the hands, they swap places frequently, and someone else takes her place soon after her arms begin to tremble.

Lenore Dove, teary-eyed every time she looks at Mr. Riley, decides to walk around the small camp they’ve set up.

To the side, there's a smaller team working on something, crouched near a bucket full of white chunk, and a pile of empty cans, another line of those being rationed with the stuff. Lenore Dove watches the three of them working on whatever-that-is. She’s a curious one, so she keeps craning her neck to see what they’re wokring on eveyr couple seconds — to her luck, one of the boys catches her wandering eyes and takes pity on her.

“We’re rationing quicklime,” he explains, pointing at the bucket. “Lem’s Club brought some garden lime from the greenhouse. Then we fetched some chalk from the school.”

He looks about the same age Louella was, maybe a bit younger — dark hair, gray eye; but his right eye’s all clouded over like the heavy fog that settles on the meadow, perfect cover for her when she sneaks out for some solitude. White spots and patches circle the socket, like a birthmark was splashed on his face, and some of his eyelashes are missing.

Nodding toward an older boy —likely already a miner-- keeping watch by the outer ring of their camp, he continues to talk.

“Took a while, but Sam took the chalk to the miners, they heated it up in the boiler. Now it’s quicklime. Mix it with water, it gives off heat. We can use it for warmth without making any fire smoke to give us away.” 

Lenore Dove’s eyes go wide.

“Where’d you learn that?” she asks, astonished.

That's the kind of survival trick Everdeens are usually full of. She catches Mr Riley’s eyes, his gaze has turned soft, looking at the boy. He must be proud of raising such a student.

The boy shrugs.

“Page outta my papaw’s old mining book. They used to use quicklime ‘cause it keeps mine water from getting too acidic, settles out the heavy metals.” he narrates the information memorised in his head. “He wrote in there to watch it close — stuff gets mighty hot when you mix in water.”

“That’s real handy.”

“Right now, sure is.”

“They don’t do that in the mines anymore?”

He shakes his head.

"Just in Five now. Did you catch Haymitch’s segment in there?”

Lenore Dove feels a pang of guilt for letting Haymitch slip her mind, even for a minute. Again, overwhelming worry takes her heart hostage and squeezes it tightly.

Is he even conscious? After everything, part of her hopes he’s not — that the bliss of the night has long stolen his awareness, that he’s resting on a bed and not on the cold floor of the solitary cell she herself was trapped in.

A thought nags at her then. What are the chances of Haymitch ending up in the same cell as she spent a month in?

She shakes her head no, and Griggs continues.

“I watched all of it. They do most of that post-processing in their coal plants now, or send people to treat the mine veins once in a while. Ma says we used to do it here too, but it made folks too sick. Papaw died when he was thirty-one.” He shrugs, grabbing another handful of quicklime, breaking it into two, and dumps it into the empty soup can. “Guess they didn’t want us dropping like flies from that too; black lung’s plenty enough. Shame, though.” His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “I really like this chemistry stuff.”

“That’s impressive.” A beat. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. He sounded like a good fella, far as I can tell from his notes.”

“I’m Lenore Dove.”

“Gregory. Folks call me Griggs.”

“Just... Lenore Dove, for me.”

“Appreciate you not asking ‘bout the eye.” He gives her a crooked grin. “Usually first thing folks bring up when they meet me.”

“Oh, well, I—“

“Nothing to ask,” the girl with them cuts in. “What else do boys do, other than play stupid games, win stupid prizes...”

Griggs flashes a sheepish grin. “I was tryna make some green fire.”

Lenore Dove blinks. “Green fire?”

“Yeah. You burn ethyl alcohol and boric acid together. Neat, right?"

“Did you do it?”

“My hand slipped pouring the alcohol, and it blew up in my face. Then Ma grounded me and took my chemicals away. Didn’t even get to see if it was green.”

Oh… well…

“That’s trial and error, now you know what not to overdo.” Lenore Dove can’t help but smile, glad that losing one of them hasn’t dimmed the spark in his eyes --eye?-- a bit.

“See? She gets me!”

The girl rolls her eyes, then holds out a hand to Lenore Dove.

“Imogene. Just Jean.”

“We’re twins,” Griggs chimes in.

“I sucked up all the common sense in the womb, as you can tell.”

“Oh, I can,” Lenore Dove says, and they all share a laugh.

The two talk plenty, Griggs in particular has a way of filling the air. He even gives her tips for handling tear gas — soak paper towels in lemon juice or vinegar, press them over your mouth and nose, helps you breathe through the gas. Milk works for treating after, he says, but who’s got that lying around here? Only water for the eyes. He explains everything using terms that aren’t really common, and Lenore Dove wonders if this is what Haymitch hears when she rambles on about her books.

She helps Griggs and Jean divide the quicklime into small metal cans, getting them ready for the next shift, which comes sooner than expected.

“Showtime,” Griggs says. "You ready?"

Lenore Dove nods, “Born ready." she says, "I'm Covey. Performances are our thing."

Others join in. Jean starts pouring water into the cans, they hiss and spit heat as they’re sealed and swaddled in whatever they have for insulation before being swapped with the bottles and cans gone cold at Mr. Riley’s feet. Two more get tucked under the blanket at his back, and another pair for his hands.

Some kids leave when their shift ends, letting newcomers take their places, but most linger around. Some dart home long enough to boil more water, empty cooled cans, or bring back new ones — sometimes a little one appears clutching a treat, holding it out just for Mr. Riley… only to falter when they see the huddle of ten, twelve more children around. They promise to come back with more, but their parents don't let them get out a second time, so they don't appear again.

“I don’t mean to jinx anything… but aren’t you worried about whistleblowers?” Lenore Dove asks. The thought’s been gnawing at her—last time she’d tried something like this, she got snitched on.

“What’re they gonna do?” Griggs shoots back without looking up from his work. “Arrest everyone? Kill us all? We’re the smallest district. There's already not many here — they need us for the reaping.”

“That, and…” a merchant girl adds, cracking a chunk of quicklime to split between three cans. “If they try to rig the reaping to punish us, then good luck. There’s gonna be a long waiting list. We’ve been swapping shifts every hour— 'least a dozen come with each. And even more that bring blankets and hot water.”

“Strength in numbers,” Jean says, nodding. “That’s what they say, right?”

"Many hands make light work," Lenore Dove says. Haymitch would've said it if he was here, probably.

She’s still sitting with the twins when Asterid arrives, her leather shoulder-bag — that their friend group's taken to call her medkit— swinging at her side. She gives Lenore Dove a quick nod before kneeling by Mr. Riley. She takes his temperature, checks the mottled skin of his fingers and feet, then massages them gently with lard and petroleum jelly to stimulate the blood to flow.

Keeps the frostbite away, Lenore Dove knows this much from tending to her geese.

Once more, Mr Riley’s eyes flicker between shame and gratitude. This whole mess has no doubt left him feeling smaller than he ever has, but the way these kids —every last one he’s raised up — are fighting to keep him breathing, Lenore Dove can see the appreciation just spilling out his eyes.

“You’re all good, Mr. Riley,” Asterid says, though her lips pinch tight when she meets his gaze. Mr. Riley nods, and whispers his thanks.

Next, Asterid makes him drink a concotion she's made -- something to increase blood flow— and after some brief talk, slips her arm through Lenore Dove’s, leading her toward the edge of camp.

Lenore Dove leans close to Asterid, voice barely above a breath. “Who started this? Whose idea was it?” she asks, curious to know the mind who came up with all this.

“I don’t know... But it wasn’t just one person. I came as soon as the square was clear. Then before I knew it, there were twenty-thirty of us out here. People kept bringing blankets, hot water… so Burdock and the others started waiting in the alleys, telling folks to come back later so we wouldn’t crowd too much and waste hot water. After that, we started shifts. That was Burdock and Gillie’s idea.”

“Where’d they go?”

“They were here from the start,” Asterid says, then hesitates. “Last time I checked Mr Riley was an hour ago. Burdock only left when Blair came— so… two hours ago? Give or take. He was dead on his feet dealing with everyone all day.”

It’s around four a.m. now.

“Everyone’s in on it?” Lenore Dove asks. “My uncles said that our show was the mayor and head peacekeeper working together, to soothe things. But then Elcaine talked like—”

“Adults aren’t,” Asterid cuts her off, tone turning wry. “Officially, if anyone asks or questions, this is just a bunch of no-good kids being naughty together. Too emotional after seeing their favorite teacher get sent to the stocks. Even my parents didn't tell me anything, mom cried all night and set spare quilts aside, and dad very conveniently left the key for the medicine cabinet right on the table.”

"Right..." Lenore Dove almost smiles, almost. “And… Mr. Riley?”

Asterid glances around, making sure no one’s listening. When they’re clear, her voice drops to a whisper.

“Not fine. By the time we could start warming him up, he’d been out there for hours. His fingers… his toes…” Her mouth tightens. “They’re all frostbit.”

Lenore Dove’s breath catches. “So he’s…”

“It;s not like he wasn’t…” Asterid says, miserably. “We’re just trying to keep him from dying like this. Let him see the morning. No one wants to let him go that easy. He doesn't deserve to freeze to death alone. Stripped naked and humiliated.”

Lenore Dove nods. No need to tell her that.

She’s done the same for Clay Chance; so they don’t get their way that easily, taking a life like that. Innocent by all means but the law they force on the people they've already deemed guilty long ago, even before they're born. She knows how it always ends, as well.

“He knows it too,” Asterid says quietly. “Told me not to tell anyone, but it’s not like we don’t know. Even if they let him go tomorrow—” her voice wavers, “his feet and hands are gone. And they won’t…” She bites her lip hard. “No one wants to say it. He already makes a goodbye speech to every group that comes by.”

A tear slips down Lenore Dove’s cheek before she can stop it. Asterid brushes it away for her.

"Say your goodbye," Her friend whispers. "Everyone's doing it in their own way."

So Lenore Dove does. She stays as long as she can, long after Asterid leaves, until the next shift appears around the corner and the huddle grows too crowded.

“Thank you for everything you’ve taught us,” she says at last, just before parting ways. Her voice catches, but she pushes through. “I’m thankful for everything you’ve done. If there's a next world, I can only hope to be your student again, Mr Riley.”

Mr. Riley smiles faintly, “I’m already nothing but the luckiest, to have you as a student in the first place.” he says. “Goodbye, Lenore Dove.”

“Goodbye, Mr Riley.”

She starts walking, head turning back to look at him again and again — this is the last time I’ll ever see him, no more chance encounters by the school entrance, no more watching him direct the reading celebrations at assemblies — until she can’t anymore. Behind her, Mr. Riley is already speaking to the newcomers, another circle of tear-streaked faces leaning in close, holding him upright.

Griggs and Jean peel away first, waving as they hurry toward their house in the first stretch of neighbourhoods. Lenore Dove doesn’t have the strength to climb the hill toward the Victor’s Village and cut home through the meadow, so she falls in step with the rest of the group, heading for the far edge of the Seam.

Oakie and Patience who have a broken nose worth of unfinished business between them. The former's nose is still held with splints, though she seems entirely unbothered by it.

“Is your nose any better?” Lenore Dove asks her.

“‘Least I can breathe through it.” Oakie throws a nasty glance at Patience, who fires back immediately.

“For the record, it’s not broken. Just fractured. Like you need my help getting hurt.” Patience snorts, then swings toward the quieter girls.

“You know you could make Oakie bleed just by looking at her sideways, right? She’s a year older than us — did you know? Stayed back ‘cause she got herself knocked out once and just wouldn’t wake up, and her poor ma almost died of heartburn 'cause she was so scared Oakie had gotten some kinda brain damage. They even bribed the apothecary to write a year-long report just to keep her home—”

Oakie’s face drains white the longer Patience talks. The other girl is laughing into her hand, and Lenore Dove can’t help but let out a small huff of laughter too. 

It's hard not to fall in step with people like this; for all their fussing, they’re easy company — they don’t need to be replied, just an audience and topic of trash-talk, and will talk until the cows come home.

“Tell ‘em how you got your name, then, ‘cause nothing's ever simple with her—”

“Hey now, that’s my ma’s business you’re spitting out. You hold it—”

“You hold it! You never do!”

Also, for once, Lenore Dove doesn’t feel out of the loop for not knowing someone’s name— Oakie and Patience haven’t met this girl either. But their ears perk up like hounds when she says her name is Junie Hurst. Instead of just accepting that maybe this is someone new to them, they immediately accuse her of lying.

“No,” Oakie says, “I haven’t heard of a Junie. and your face’s familiar enough that I should know you.”

“No way you know everybody her age.”

“Yes way, and don’t you forget it!” Oakie shoots back. “I’m good with names and faces, y’know?”

“She is good with those, doesn't have those binoculars on for nothing.” Patience says, getting herself a punch on the shoulder by Oakie. “Still not as good as me, but I’m stumped with this one too.”

Turns out her name’s Junco — like the snowbirds they get in winter.

Patience and Oakie think that’s the funniest thing ever and spend a good ten minutes teasing her. Like their own names are so normal.

Lenore Dove backs Junco up — of course she does, bird-to-bird solidarity.

“You should’ve gone with ‘Junkey,’” Patience butts in. “‘Cause that’s not even how you say Junco.”

“I think it’s obvious why she doesn’t,” Lenore Dove defends her. “Your name’s beautiful as it is.”

“Thanks. You use Dove? Or just Lenore?”

“Lenore Dove,” she nod. “It’s a family thing.”

“At least yours is a Dove,” Oakie says. “Your folks got some explaining to do, Junco.”

The girl just purses her lips.

“Well, who doesn't like juncos?” Lenore Dove asks. “They even make the cold better 'cause you know they'll be around.”

“Yeah, Junkey, own it,” Patience butts in and Oakie lets out a snort.

Having had enough of the teasing, Junie all but runs to her house as soon as she spots it, pausing only to wave goodbye to Lenore Dove with a grateful smile.

“Did you..." Lenore Dove starts, and takes a breath. “Did you at least recognize her after you wrangled the name out of that poor girl?”

“Nope,” Patience says. “Did you, Oakie?”

“Nope. Her face's still familiar, though.”

"At least we had a laugh."

“You guys are…”

Heads turn toward her, maybe expecting a compliment -- Lenore Dove can’t really tell with those two.

But she doesn't even get the chance to say a word because a rumbling up comes, fast approaching from the direction of the Hob. Lenore Dove’s breath snags in her throat, and the three girls bolt into the nearest neighborhood, darting down the dark street.

“What the—! You said they were passed out!”

“They were—” Lenore Dove snaps back at Patience’s accusation. “You think I lied?”

“I think you—”

“Wait. Hold on.” Oakie skids to a stop, glancing around. “This is where the Giddenses live. We’re two houses down from ’em. Just stay quiet.”

They take shelter by the house, and the glare of headlights washes over just two steps from them as the peacekeeper truck crawls past, makes a sudden u-turn with cheers and drunken hollers spilling out into the dead night. The whole thing sways on the road, lurching toward the town square like someone too drunk to walk straight — which are its drivers.

The three girls share a look — helpless and desperate.

“That a peacekeeper truck?”

The voice comes from right behind them, sharp enough to make all three of them jump. Patience shrieks outright, and Lenore Dove clamps a hand over her mouth. They turn to see a woman leaning out a half-open window.

“Ioa?” the woman asks, eyes narrowing.

“Mrs. Giddens!”

“Hold on now,” she says, and disappears inside while Lenore Dove keeps her eyes fixed on the car.

It’s slower now, still lurching left and right, with more ruckus rising from inside — drunk men tussling over the wheel, by the sound of it.

Then Mrs. Giddens pops back out, front door swinging wide, and out come two boys holding empty glasses and a box of nails. Mrs. Giddens presses a fire poker into Oakie’s hands.

“My boys’ll smash those in the road before they can get to town—” she starts, but the sound of shatter rings out from a few houses up.

Lenore Dove snaps her head that way just in time to see curtains whip shut and faces vanish behind windows, still rattling from how hastily they were closed. The car grinds on, wheels crunching on the bottles residents threw, but the tires aren't slowing them down yet.

Quickly, she snatches the fire poker from Oakie and joins the Giddens boys. They catch up to the truck, and another girl comes darting around the corner, clutching a rusty rebar rod. While those three dart ahead to scatter nails and junk across the road, Lenore Dove hangs back, heart pounding, poker sweating in her palms.

Sure enough, the thrown junk manages to slow the car almost to a crawl. Running on pure adrenaline, Lenore Dove lunges, low and slouched so they don’t spot her through the rearview mirror. Her legs and thighs are burning, screaming at her, but she makes it to the rear end, and drives the poker hard into the back wheel. She pulls it out, and the tire hisses as it begins to slump.

“You’re out your damn mind,” Patience hisses when Lenore Dove finally stumbles back, the girls dash between the houses, ten she basically gets lifted up the porch and all but shoved into a house.

Warmth burns her face as soon as they get in, and Lenore Dove allows herself to soak it before she peeks out the window , checking what the peacekeepers are doing. She can’t see them, but good grief, they’re loud as hell, and the air’s so quiet she can hear their confused, slurred voices echoing down the street.

“I should go,” Lenore Dove pants, breath ragged. “Soon as the road’s clear—”

“Yoy're not going anywhere, young lady.”

That stops her immediately — not just because of the commanding tone, but also because of how similar it is to Clerk Carmine's. Standing before them, the woman is rather small and wiry, face so like the girl beside her that Lenore Dove knows straight off this is Mrs. Wise.

“It’s a three-dog-night out there. I'm not letting any of you leave — not with those bastards still prowling around.”

Not even letting Lenore Dove voice her objection, Mrs Wise shuffles the girls toward the woodstove. On top of the stove, there's a couple pillar candles for better light, too.

“Fire’s banked. Get your hands near it. Here — these go under your feet. I’m making you some tea, alright, girls? Then — Patience! What in the world happened to your face? And you! Who are you, and what’s in your hands?”

In the flicker of the light, Lenore Dove sees Patience’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes, then looks down to the fire poker still clutched in her hands. Oh… that’s—

“This is Lenore Dove, and that's Giddens’ fire poker,” Oakie says hurriedly. “Ma, Lenore Dove just blew out a peacekeeper's tire with that.”

“No she didn’t—” Mrs. Wise snatches it from Lenore Dove’s trembling hands and makes way toward the kettle. “We borrowed it for tonight. I’ll drop it back to Pauline tomorrow. Nice of you to hold onto it, darling. C'mon, get warm— Oh, Ioa, how’s Mr. Riley holding up?”

And so Lenore Dove finds herself in a place she never thought she’d be — or ever have reason to be. Sitting in the Wise household, right there beside two classmates she still doesn't quite know how to feel about, warming her hands over the woodstove and sipping chamomile and lemon balm tea Mrs. Wise brewed up in a hurry, fussing over them all the while. 

Lenore Dove feels a little sentimental already. Her uncles had fussed over her too, before they turned in for the night — tried to soothe her after everything awful that went and happened today, on her birthday. But this feels just as nice and welcome.

As Patience and Oakie chatter on, Lenore Dove lets her eyes wander around the sitting room. Most of it’s what you’d expect in a Seam house. But something catches her attention; a checkered green shirt, a bit wrinkly, hanging from a coat hanger nailed to the wall. There’s a pair of spectacles — thick as Oakie’s own — tucked in the breast pocket.

Oakie’s eldest brother was a tribute for the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games.

She blinks, pulled back to now, when Patience jabs her in the ribs.

“What’d you say?”

Patience rolls her eyes, but Oakie pipes up. “We were saying-- what a day it’s been, huh?”

Lenore Dove lets out a breath, watching the steam from her tea curl up and vanish. “Tell me about it. That was the worst birthday I had.” By a long shot.

“It’s your birthday??”

“Well… was my birthday,” Lenore Dove says, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Not anymore."

I don't know whether I should be grateful about it. After how the day went, all I can feel is relief that it’s over— but I’m scared of what’ll start again once the sun rises back up.

“Then,” Patience says, shooting Oakie a look. “Since it’s your birthday, you get to make a wish and blow the candle.”

Lenore Dove arches a brow.

“Would it even count?” Her voice sounds as tired as she feels.

“Doesn't hurt to try,” Oakie says with a shrug.

“Isn’t this, like, the longest night of the year?” Patience adds, leaning forward. “My cousins and me, we used to try and trick the Wishmaker on nights like this. We’d say, ‘No way the Candle Wishmaker’s off duty now, not with a night this long.’ Then we’d tell him, ‘It’s just been such a long day we didn’t get our wish in on time.’” She stands straighter , eyes widening comedically as she looks around all dramatic.

“There’s just no way Birthday Candle Wishmaker’s that heartless — depriving a girl of her wish, especially after a day this awful and disgusting.”

Oakie chuckles, holding the candle out toward for her.

"The Wishmaker knows better than to make Antsy Patsy mad, so make a wish."

The birthday girl can’t help but smile as she leans forward.

I wish…

I wish tomorrow’ll be kinder. To me, to Haymitch, to Mr. Riley, to all of us, any of us.

Right now, that’s enough. So please, Wishmaker, whoever you are, wherever you are, make this one come true.

Lenore Dove closes her eyes and blows the candle out.

---

Morning comes, and Lenore Dove hasn’t slept a wink.

When it’s time to check on Mr. Riley, the peacekeepers are stunned to find the man alive and kicking. Their astonished faces are a joy to see— confused, befuddled, and even a little afraid, as if the old man possesses inhuman powers, according to merchants who work around town and have seen it themselves.

He’s taken to the base for his hearing, though the process drags since most peacekeepers are still inebriated from the night before. Much of Mr. Riley’s time there is spent simply waiting for them, and Troch, to wake up and sober. The hearing itself lasts less than ten minutes before he’s sentenced to a real death.

Though gatherings are forbidden, people still line the road from the peacekeeper’s base all the way to the square, following the car that carries their teacher or waving as it passes them. Children run along the sides —ones too young join the secret night-long watch— but still careful not to disrupt the column of recruits, waving at the windows, crying out their goodbyes, and lifting their reading diplomas high for him to see.

“Goodbye, Mr. Riley!”

“Thank you for everything!”

“We love you!”

On Sunday morning, December 23rd, the day after Lenore Dove’s seventeenth birthday — Fritz Riley is hanged from the gallows as hundreds of students he raised stand watching, giving him the three-finger salute.

His burial is carried out by a much smaller group, due to the crowd restrictions surrounding funerals, but plans are already made for daily visits.

When Lenore Dove and her friends visit; Burdocks sings for Mr Riley. Bean and ham hock soup is made as neighbourhoods scrounge together the ingredients for them and distribute them among the district. 

The very next day, they have a new reading and writing teacher. Lenore Dove hears that the first years couldn’t manage a proper class— both the students and the new teacher were crying too hard.

If the wishmaker heard her wish, then it's up to another tomorrow to be kinder.

Notes:

Funfact: Dark-eyed juncos are nicknamed 'snowbirds' because they tend to appear around the winter solstice, and then migrate north-- much like our Junco here heh it's like an easter egg just for me honestly -- & don't worry, there won't be any other chapters like this, not until the next Games start. I just wanted to build the community a bit more, get our feelings up and down :) I also just put in people for the heck of it, free will is a great thing.

And with that, we've met quite a lot of people in the last few LD chapters.. I felt like her pov was the best time to introduce people; since Haymitch would probably already know like a fair amount of all- but us, like LD, are meeting these people for the first time (officially) and getting to know them like her :) That being said - Who do you think will be the tributes going to 51st Hunger Games?
So far, they're both mentioned. This goes for some tributes in 52/53 and even 54 as well. Here’s how it might’ve happened. They...
1. made a cameo
2. have been mentioned in conversation
3. had a relative appear
All I can say is that it hurt me to let them all go. I won't acknowledge your guesses in the comments because I'm afraid I'll give it away, but I’m really curious to see who you think they’ll be :) There's a lot to pick from, too, so it'll be fun I think.

Just 3 more chapters left before we're back to Haymitch, and C-2 until that part I want to share. again it’s like I’m building up for a huge thing but it’s just something we all want to see at this point :)

Mr Riley + tmi + quicklime-in-coal-mining + fixed something in ch.18

- About Mr Riley
His name is based on Miss Riley (Freida J. Riley) from Homer Hickam's Rocket Boys. But really just mixed a bunch of teachers we love in my head; Miss Honey, Miss Stacey, some teachers from Enid Blyton's boarding school books (I ate them up when I was growing up... still a fan & flip through my favorite books every now and then) mashed up together -- I just tried to create a lovable teacher :')
Like if kids played pranks on him he'd be like Mam'zelle Dupont -- good-natured and can handle a joke, but in general the coolness and strictness of someone like Miss Grayling or Miss Theobald...Don't ask me why I used all these great women to make a male teacher out of them, I projected the personalities onto one of my favorite teachers growing up and just imagined a lanky man with frizzly electrified-looking hair.

Also he says: "All I've done is give you a book. You have to have the courage to learn what's inside it." is a quote from Miss Riley.

[wrote a long paragraph about a ship I had in an Enid Blyton series but deleted it bc I really just talk so much...omg...]

- About Quicklime (used my fairy dust to alter reality)
So, I did a bit research ofc so here:
"People use quicklime to spread over the coal face to absorb moisture, which hinders the oxidation process." it says here

I haven't read all of it -- my brain checked out after working on this chapter for so long, but I think it's some kind of procedure done to exposed coal veins in mines or something? Idk if there's any further processing that involves quicklime, but let's assume there is and let's assume they used to do that in 12, but now they don't.

- Ch 18 fix:
In one of my re-reads after posting I realised I mischaracterised the new head peacekeeper I created lol -- I just be saying whatever fits the mood...Anyways fixed that...There's too many side-chars for me to keep track of but it's my own doing so..

Chapter 20: All Things to All People

Summary:

CALL LOG
Line: DISTRICT 12 - CAPITOL
Date: [DEC 22 - 50 ADD]
Time: [16:35]

EFFIE TRINKET:
“—I kept telling them to stop! I even told them that he has brain damage! But they just wouldn’t listen! Then they—oh, then they… [sobs] It was horrible…”
[A VOICE, OFF TO THE SIDE]:
“Have some tissue, Miss.”
EFFIE TRINKET:
“Oh… thank you. [rustle] [muffled honk] I didn’t know what to do…”
OTHER PARTY:
“I see...Alright, here’s the plan: you stay put at the Mayor’s place and leave the rest to me— I’ll be there before you know it.” [Brief pause] “Ahem. Well, let's give or take a day or two.”
EFFIE TRINKET:
[sniff]
OTHER PARTY:
"...Anything you’d like me to bring from the Capitol?"

Notes:

According to my sources the act of blowing one’s nose can be described as ‘snerk/snork’ ‘honk,sniff’ - tell me if it’s wrong or outdated or anything, english is not my main/first language :) it just sounds so horrible to me that I'm desperate for any kind of answer. ty & enjoy

tw!!!

suicide attempt; self-harm; mention of blood

also I rushed this chapter I'm actually embarrassed about it but I couldn't wait anymoree

Lenore Dove becomes a fruit fly to Cayson's sweet cider, and by extension, his peacekeeper buddy even more, flying around their heads to get information on Haymitch. To the extent that Cayson's instructed Alifair and bribed Gillie to lie to Lenore Dove about his whereabouts at all times; though the little girl obeys her older brother, her expression when she lies is to stone-faced; her eyes are wide open to not give away any expression, but it only makes it all the more obvious.

On Tuesday morning, she catches Cayson just as he's leaving the house for his shift. He exhales when he spots her coming closer.

"Nothing new." he says, before she can open her mouth. “He’s still in solitary, but Maxim's not stationed at the base anymore, so he doesn't know a thing.”

"Then--"

“I’ll ask again tomorrow, alright? Trust me, I wanna hear from him same as you—I swear I do. That boy’s grown up right under my nose. Knowing they’re keeping him there… it eats at me. Eats at all of us. But my Ma and Tolbert are right; we gotta learn how to wait. Now let me get on to my shift, please.”

Meanwhile, the topic of the new reading teacher is a hot one around the district. She's a young woman, and apparently the mayor brought her on at Mr. Riley’s suggestion — back before they put him in the stocks. That alone is already more than enough to earn her a bit of respect, if only out of loyalty and gratitude. But for the older people, its not so simple.

Because this new teacher is the daughter of a woman most of District 12 shunned a long time ago; for getting herself knocked up by a peacekeeper.

It happens every once in a blue moon: a Seam girl goes and falls for one.

More often than not, though, it's not love at all, just those Capitol men letting their eyes wander where they please, using their authority to scare off any refusal or resistance. Or even when it's doesn’t scare them off, they still get their way.

Folks frown on it either way, for different reasons, but if a baby comes of it, well… that burden lands square on the child’s shoulders too.

There was never any doubt about her parentage, no, everybody in their district knew who sired Miriam Bee. One young peacekeeper officer who spent more time at the Hob than on patrol. People still whisper and shake their heads about some dance, too — the one where Miriam's ma supposedly flaunted that affair for all to see. Then, only a year later, came a baby girl born out of wedlock— and a peacekeeper reassigned quick as you please.

From the day she drew breath, that baby was marked. She grew up like most of the peacekeepers’ illegitimate children and their 'traitor' single mothers who chose to indulge in that relationship — cleaning outhouses, unclogging sewers and drains, emptying trash, the only work the district would ever give them. Maybe there are more children like that, hidden because somebody stepped up and claimed them as their own. Only the unlucky ones ever get known.

Growing up, Lenore Dove used to keep an ear on the rumors, always on edge about what people were saying about Miriam —back then just a girl of reaping age— and she prayed every night her life wouldn’t turn out like hers.

Even if the whispers about a married Chance man being her father were hard to swallow sometimes —for her, and for what that said about her mother who wasn't around to defend herself— it was still a whole lot better, and far easier for people to stomach, than being the love-child of a peacekeeper. Worse yet, one from the Capitol.

So now, seeing Miriam Bee stand in Mr. Riley’s place — it feels like some kind of a relief. Maybe even a little justice that was long coming.

Because what real difference was there; between the way people here treated those children, who never asked to be born, and the way the Capitol treats the district’s own, all because of the sins their ancestors supposedly committed?

It’ll take time for people to come around, that's for sure. Most probably never will, but nothing’s stronger than a dying man’s last wish, and so Miriam’s place as a teacher is set, like it or not.

First years have taken to her like ducks to water. Lenore Dove’s chickadees can’t stop chattering about Miss Bee and how nice she is and soft her reading voice is. They like she always keeps Mr Riley's sayings around and one of their first ever class activities was to write an acrostic poem with his name.

Mr. Chambers doesn't like it one bit, however, and doesn't even bother hiding it. Every chance he gets, he tosses some snide remark about Miss Bee, usually when he’s in the middle of one of his scolding rampages.

“—I’d retire, I surely would. I take no more joy being in this classroom than y’all do. But alas," he says, drawing it dramatically. “we never know who might come after us. And I wouldn’t wanna leave you kids to just about anyone like that.”

The room goes quiet, every kid clamping their jaw shut and refusing to say a word.

Even if there are some who agree — and there are most likely more than just a few— what does it matter? Making it harder for the women would be disrespecting their late teacher's last action.

Lenore Dove, fighting her own temper, catches how Blair has to be held down by his seatmate — physically kept from leaping up to shut the teacher’s mouth. Even Elaine turns in her chair and mutters, “What’s he on about?”

Meanwhile, Lenore Dove and Burdock fall into a new kind of daily rhythm-- school first, then straight to the woods after. They spend the fading light working with the still — Burdock fussing over his New Year’s gift for Asterid— before heading on into merchant sector. Burdock trades his wildcraft at the apothecary (and see Asterid), while Lenore Dove makes her usual round, trying to pin down the mayor. She never has any luck, however, there’s never any word on Haymitch, just that they’re in communication witht he Capitol about it and a reminder to Lenore Dove to mind her business— and ends up meeting Burdock again, the trio chatter in the apothecary for a bit, and then they walk back to the Seam.

Next day, same thing.

And the next.

Rinse, repeat.

So it’s just another day as Lenore Dove and Burdock walk, boots crunching over snow, when they see a sleek black car parked dead center in the road. Not like there’s ever much traffic out here, but still— it looks absurd.

Two people stand outside: one leaning against the car, the other pacing like a caged cat.

Lenore Dove knows that silhouette.

“Wait,” she says, catching Burdock by the arm to slow him down.

“Let’s just go,” Burdock snaps. “I don’t—wanna—”

“They must be here for Haymitch,” she hisses, and that shuts him up. He falls into step beside her.

When they're just close enough, Lenore Dove calls out, “You two need help?”

“Oh, please!” the woman blurts before the man can answer.

“That'd be very much appreciated! We’re… quite unfamiliar with the District,” he says smoothly, “Would you tell us where the Peacekeeper's Base is?”

But his eyes snag on Lenore Dove as his voice trails off. He tilts his head just so, like he’s trying to place her face.

He has no reason to recognize her — just another shot for his camera. The only time he’d ever spare her a glance would be to catch her tears for their entertainment.

But Lenore Dove recognizes him. He looks almost naked without the swarm of lenses around him and crew following every point of his finger, and somehow that makes him look worse.

Get a camera on that girl, would you?

“Are you here for Haymitch?” she asks instead.

They both nod.

“That, we are,” the cameraman says. “Effie told me what happened. You must’ve been very distraught, going through all that.”

Effie nods, her voice fluttering like she's re-living that day. “Oh, everyone was. It was just horrible, what happened.” Then she presses her lips together, glancing toward the car. “Preventable, too. Such a shame.”

"Guess we have work to do, on both sides."

Burdock shoots them a glare from the side, but Lenore Dove decides to play nice to  pull something useful out of them.

“You think you can get him out?” she asks.

The cameraman smiles like a man who loves being asked the right question. He slips a hand inside his coat and produces a pristine white letter, holding it in the air with two fingers like its a lucky ticket.

“I know we will. This here’s an official letter from someone very high up.” His eyes linger on her, too long, like there’s something more he wants to say—

But before he can open his mouth, Burdock cuts in.

“That’s good,” Burdock says, and gives them the directions as curst as he can, then with a hand on her elbow, he steers her away. She knows why he's acting to skittish. Anyone from the Capitol knowing they're closely associated with Haymitch might bring unwanted attention on them. If only he knew about Lucy Gray, too. “Good luck with that. Now, we gotta take our leave—”

“Oh! That’s it!” The man in violet suddenly lights up, snapping his fingers as if he’s just solved a riddle or had an epiphany. He points straight at her. “Lenore!”

Lenore Dove bites her tongue. She already can’t stand it when people drop ‘Dove’ from her name — cue her little moment with Merrel — but there’s no way she’s sharing that piece of herself with a Capitol man. Especially not this one; the man from the reaping, that Sid told her about —  who made him and Willamae cry for his cameras, just to wring out a final goodbye for Haymitch.

Besides, she doesn’t like her name in his mouth. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know the whole of it.

But how does he know it? Is her name scribbled down in some ledger somewhere, under Haymitch Abernathy – Personal Relationships? Ready to be stricken off, just like Willamae and Sid’s?

“Not my name, you must've mixed me up with somebody else.” she lies flatly. Well, it's not that much of a lie, because her name includes Dove. Without it, it's incomplete. And so, it's not her name, not really. “Goodbye."

She sets her jaw into a cold frown and keeps walking with Burdock, the snow crunching under their boots. But just as they pass the Capitol peacocks, his voice cuts through again, this time much louder.

"Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

She freezes, breath catching, and looks back with widened eyes. Burdock stops too — he knows enough of the poem from the parts she used to sing, and he’s good at memorizing when there’s a melody.

The man in violet beams, fluttering his feathers like a proud peacock, and steps forward with an outstretched hand.

“Plutarch Heavensbee at your service, Miss Lenore Dove.”

Lenore Dove doesn’t take his hand. Her stomach knots instead, because now he knows her full name — and where it comes from. Haymitch is the only thread between them, so does that mean Haymitch told him about it? Did they talk about--

“Tell me—do you think the nepenthe’s the liquor, or the drug they slip into the liquor?”

It’s another surprise for Lenore Dove. One, because she hadn’t expected a question like that after discovering Plutarch knows her name— and the ballad it comes from.

Second, because she’s had the same talk with Haymitch.

She’s ready to respond with her own opinion — I’m not telling you. Goodbye — if she ever got the chance. But he speaks again before she can. He must love hearing himself talk, or just talking, or maybe both.

“Haymitch said the important part is that it makes you forget terrible things, which I agree,” he says, smiling like he’s caught her in a trap. And he has. “We’re good friends.”

“Are you now?” Burdock interjects before Lenore Dove can reply-- she'd asked the same thing anyway. Are you, really, Mr. Plutarch?

“I’d say I am.”

Effie, standing right next to him, is as speechless as Lenore Dove and Burdock; no one seems to know what to say except the overly jovial cameraman and the absurd topics he keeps bringing up. He nudges her and gestures at Lenore Dove. “Effie, that’s Haymitch’s girl!”

Recognition lights up in the young woman’s unnatural silver eyes. She lets out a sharp little gasp. “Oh, goodness!” She eyes Lenore Dove up and down— school pants that have seen better days, long past their original bronze color, now looking like a fashion statement gone wrong.

She extends a hand. “Effie Trinket, dear. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then she shoots a quick side-eye at Plutarch. 

“I’m sick,” Lenore Dove lies, and fakes a brief, dry cough so obviously fake you'd have to be deaf to buy it. “Wouldn’t wanna spread it to you.”

“Same here,” Burdock joins in right away. “Or else I’d give the both of you a big ol’ welcome hug and a kiss on each cheek — ’cause that’s how we do it in Twelve.”

He says it so flat, so matter-of-fact, that if not for the sheer absurdity of it -- the two of them from the districts, talking to two from the Capitol -- Lenore Dove might’ve laughed. But it's tense, so she doesn’t. Not when these folks are tied to Haymitch now. Or maybe it’s the other way around — Haymitch is tied to them; with chains.

"We've heard a lot about you!" Effie chirps, then cringes a bit. "Well, once or twice. I'm terribly sorry how it ended for you two. But you're still young, there's nothing to worry about!"

“What did Haymitch—” Lenore Dove begins, but Plutarch waves a hand, rolling his sleeve down and checking his gleaming silver watch.

“I’d love to stand out in the freezing cold and chatter, I really would, but alas— we’ve got a victor to bail out of jail!” Plutarch says, skipping to the other side of the car and holding the door open for Effie. “After you, Effie.”

They slide into the car, and Plutarch leans his head out the window. “I hope to see you soon!”

And I hope to see you never again, Lenore Dove thinks.

Still… she hopes they succeed. She hopes they get Haymitch out of there.

 

It's not until tomorrow morning that they get the news from Otho, who’d heard it from Asterid.

Plutarch and Effie got Haymitch out of jail, but only for now — he’s been in the apothecary’s custody since last night, getting treated for his injuries while they wait on some new order to move him to the Capitol for further care. Why Asterid isn't at the school, though, no one knows. Lenore Dove asks around; Rethel and Virgil and all the merchant kids -- but all she gets are shrugs and equally confused 'I dunno's.

Lenore Dove figured maybe Mr March needed her to help treat Haymitch, a thought that already feels like a heavy stone on her chest, one she hopes would be lifted as soon as she sees him again — closer than two feet away. But when she and Burdock arrive at the apothecary, it becomes clear that's wasn't the reason.

Just as they step into the clearing where the apothecary stands, the door swings open. Asterid stumbles out, dried, darkened blood streaked along the front and the sleeves her floral sleep shirt. Her braid’s all askew, strands whipping across her face, and she staggers forward. 

Burdock wastes no time, sprinting to her. “Asterid!” he calls, and she swings her head toward them, eyes swelling instantly with tears.

Lenore Dove’s chest tightens, heart in her throat. She can’t look away from the blood. What’d they do to Haymitch? Is that his—

“She—she tried to—” Asterid collapses into Burdock’s arms, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. He holds on just as fiercely, gray eyes wide and alarmed as they glance at Lenore Dove.

“Who?” Burdock asks, keeping her close as her sobs shake against his coat.

“Merri—” Her breath catches. “Merrilee.” And then she breaks down completely, the sobs take over, racking her entire body.

Today, before the sun even rose, Merrilee Donner had sliced her arms with her father's straight razor and was rushed to the apothecary by her frantic parents. Right away, Asterid had to help Mr March stitch her friend back together, she explains, as the three of them sit side by side against the building wall along the alley beside the apothecary. Merrilee’s stable now, resting in the back room. 

Asterid’s knees are drawn up, fiddling with the napkin Burdock handed her. Her blue eyes look pale, standing out against the red rims, and the skin around them is pinkish too.

This is what crying your heart out must look like, Lenore Dove thinks.

Lenore Dove's arm is slung over her friend’s shoulders, rubbing the girl's arm up and down, as they listen to Asterid recount what she’s done. She wants to talk— about what happened, yes, but in a way that keeps her at arm’s length from the thing itself.

“I stitched one side, my dad did the other,” she says, eyes dim as she stares ahead. Her lips are cracked, and she wets them before continuing. “We had a field kit, for blood transfusion, so we used that. We never used it before. 'Least I didn't. Then when it was done, I —” she takes a shaky breath, “— I got the yellow dock out, which we’re running low on, and made some blood builder for Merrilee. Then my dad put her on morphling, and she’s been asleep ever since.”

“I’ll get you more yellow dock,” Burdock says. “Don’t you worry ’bout it. Just tell me if you need anything else.”

Asterid gives a small, trembling smile, her lips and cheeks quivering. When more tears escape, Lenore Dove reaches out and wipes them away.

“I just—” Asterid starts, frustration and misery coiling in her voice. “I knew something was wrong. Something is wrong. Her twin died, and she’s been like that ever since — pushing everyone away. Her headaches are crippling. She gets episodes, gets violent… that’s how she knocked Dandelion’s cage — his chirps trigger her, ‘cause that’s how Maysilee—”

She stops herself and closes her eyes.

“Asterid,” Lenore Dove begins, but falls quiet when her friend starts again.

“It’s just—I’m angry, y’know? So much. But now… I can’t be angry at her. Just like I couldn’t be angry at her before. My parents tell me to go easy on Merrilee. But I lost Maysilee too, and I’ve done everything I could to hold onto Merrilee, and she… she just doesn't want me.” Her voice cracks. “She doesn't. And now… what can I even say to her? She doesn't even want to live. I’ve… got so much left unsaid. I wanna yell at her like she’s yelled at me to leave her alone. I know it's not the same, but I loved Maysilee too. And I can’t even tell her that without Merrilee reminding me she’s the one in most pain. I know it, I do. But she’s the only one who’ll ever understand. I—”

Asterid’s head drops low. “I’m just tired of trying and coming up empty. I don’t know how to let it out and I feel like I'm about to explode.”

Lenore Dove rests her head against Asterid’s shoulder, and takes her friend’s trembling hand in hers. The other's quickly held by Burdock in tow.

“We’re here,” Burdock says. “Let it out on us.” He squeezes her hand. “Cry on me if you need to. Yell at me if it helps.”

Lenore Dove nods. “It’s only natural,” she says. “Asterid… maybe this one thing you can’t cure. Grief’s an illness, but it's got no cure. All it needs is time." Time and place, again. Her uncles always have to be right about something. "But you don’t have to carry it alone, because you're not."

“It's not fair to ask you to be fine when you’re not,” Burdock adds. “Asterid, you don’t owe it to anyone to be good all the time.”

Asterid lifts her head, and she and Burdock share a long, quiet look. Lenore Dove doesn’t dare break the spell between them. Lips trembling, Asterid nods. “Thank you.”

Then she straightens a bit and turns to Lenore Dove. “About Haymitch--”

Maybe, if Lenore Dove were a better person, she would've cut Asterid off and said she didn’t want to hear it right now — that all that mattered was her friend pouring her heart out and needing support. But she isn’t, because her back straightens as soon as his name leaves Asteid's lips.

“He’s in the room beside Merrilee,” Asterid says. “They brought him last night, and… he was in bad shape. We treated him, but he’s just… beaten down.”

Lenore Dove’s heart lurches, like it’s being pounded itself. “When can I—”

“He’s not allowed visits,” Asterid interrupts, looking apologetic even after all that's she's gone through. “There’s a peacekeeper standing guard outside his room. They’re not letting anyone in, besides us and the Capitol escorts.”

And just like that, for the umpteenth time this week, Lenore Dove’s heart gets crushed by reality.

 

It’s only three days later that her daily visit —more like laps around the apothecary, waiting for the peacekeepers to clear out, which they never do so she can slip in to see Haymitch—gets interrupted. They never let anyone in anyway, at least not the part Lenore Dove really wants to go into.

The way to the backrooms is always guarded by a bored peacekeeper. Only Marches ever get to go in there, and the Donners, since their daughter is there. Lenore Dove tried once, but the peacekeeper standing by the door never budged, and she had to leave with only a small purchase of cough syrup under his scrutinizing gaze. Even now, she’s still jittery around them.

Asterid, like a predator springing from ambush, cuts her off right at the entrance to the merchant sector, grabs her hand and drags her down an alleyway, far away that the apothecary’s not even in sight. 

"Asterid, what--"

Her words die in her throat, because in the alleyway stands Elaine, holding bundle of clothes in her arms and a cleaning cap on her head. She briefly makes eye contact with Lenore Dove before she and Asterid take action.

"Thank you, Elaine." Asterid says, taking the bundle off Elaine's hands. The girl nods.

"I need these back by five," she says. Then rummages her pockets, "Here's the slip for the service."

Lenore Dove takes the apron and immediately puts it on, her heart starts hammering in her chest. Okay, okay. They're helping her so she can see Haymitch, because the backrooms need cleaning every once in a while, and Mr March hires Loars to do it every week.

Asterid's placing the cleaning supplies in the pockets of it while Lenore Dove struggles with the cleaning cap, before it's taken from her hands. Elaine spins her around, tucks her curls into a bun and plops the cap over her head with lightning speed.

"There." she says, "I'm off. See ya."

“Thank you!” Lenore Dove calls after her — for this, for what you did back at the riot — but Elaine’s already around the corner without a word.

"How did you convince her?" she asks Asterid, and puts on the gloves she's handed.

"Didn't need much convincing, really. She came to me yesterday, completely unrelated." Asterid says. "Apologised for bringing Maysilee up in the fight. I just asked for her help after that and she said yes."

“Oh.” Lenore Dove grabs the bucket full of more cleaning supplies, and falls in step beside Asterid. “Nice of her,” she says.

Asterid just nods, and that’s the end of small talk. By the time they reach the apothecary, the weight on Lenore Dove’s chest is back again. Please work, she repeats in her head, I'm talking to you, Wishmaker, now's the time to make one wish come true. Isn't that your job? Everyone's doing theirs, c'mon.

The peacekeeper’s out front this time, boots dragging in a straight line as he paces. He looks up when they get close.

“Cleaning today?” The peacekeeper asks, and Asterid nods with a frown on her face. 

“After last few days, it’s a mess in the back— you’ve seen it.”

“Here’s the slip—” Lenore Dove starts digging through the apron pockets, but the man just shakes his head.

“Just get on in,” he says, nodding toward the door as he strikes a match and lights a cigarette. That alone tells Lenore Dove he won't be coming inside anytime soon — his Capitol nose probably can’t stomach the smell of lye soap.

Asterid grabs her hand and pulls her through the shop, straight to the back. The back of the apothecary holds three little rooms, no bigger than an outshed, each with a cheap cot.

“I’ll stand watch,” Asterid says. “Let you know if he comes back in. He won’t — Cosmo can’t handle the smell. I’ll haul the trash and keep an eye out.”

Lenore Dove’s throat burns and her eyes brim with tears. “Asterid—”

“Go.” Her friend gives her a smile and a shove toward the door she knows Haymitch is behind, then slips into the next room.

Lenore Dove draws in a shaky breath, then turns the knob and steps inside.

Notes:

Hope you enjoy the Cliffhanger ;)

Me summarizing LD meeting Plutarch & Effie: when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object

Also making myself cry thinking about LD and Haymitch as kindergarten teachers and calling their students ‘chickadees’ and ‘doves’. Like’ cmon.

About the new teacher + discussion:children of peacekeepers in D12

Miriam Bee is literally Miss Honey of course ; Miriam = Wished-for child

And so she’s the child of an affair between a Seam girl and a peacekeeper.

“Once in a blue moon a Seam girl falls for a Peacekeeper and ends up with a baby, resulting in plenty of social disapproval in 12 as well. But there’s never any talk of the kid going to the Capitol. Most are simply disowned by the father, who’s then shipped off to another district.”

[Disclaimer: In no way am I equating real-life events to fictional ones, but I want to share what I was reminded of when Haymitch said that. I'm also not trying to make a literal reference because I don't think I could make it the justice just by how complicated and nuanced the issue is, but wanted to talk about what I thought and share it with you.]

The social disapproval part interested me about the aftermath of it and treatment of children of these local/capitol-career ‘relationships’ and I got reminded of Lebensborn children in Norway.

AGAIN I’m aware these are sensitive topics and not at all comparable to fictional matters but I wanted to mention it because that’s what it reminded me of when I read that in the book and thought of as I was writing the new reading teacher. OBVIOUSLY not the eugenics/baby-program part. ONLY the aftermath for the children where they’re treated as social rejects — like I hope I’m getting my point across well.

What I know mostly comes from a lot of googling purely out of curiosity -- because I used to watch The Man in the High Castle with my mom (a character is revealed to be one later on) and then played a phone game called My Child Lebensborn (based on a Lebensborn child being adopted by the player in Norway also there's a sequel coming apparently? I highly recommend the game, it's so heart wrenching) and also Anni-frid of ABBA is one, if you didn’t know. Since it kept appearing in my interests I've found myself looking into it. So yeah, that's about it.

Furthermore, in D12 I believe there’d be more cases of these children due to rape rather than the willing relationships that occur once a blue moon - if we go for the most realistic take. Again, with the new teacher Miss Bee, that’s not the case. In any case, no child inherits the sins/crimes of their parents or should be held accountable for being born.

I hope I could make what I thought clear. Feel free to message me on twt/Tumblr if you think I'm overstepping or anything, but I just wanted to share how I came to write Miss Bee and her struggles in life, as well as mention some of LD's struggles growing up as well; and how rumors with Chances have more benefits for her than not.

Aaaand it's C-1!! I'm really excited for the next chapter... I'm also going on a road trip tomorrow for about 10 hrs, and then it's a month-long vacation for me :) I hope I'll be able to update as soon as possible, but I also want to do the next one justice and treat it with the love it deserves. Either way, see you soon!!

Chapter 21: Light at the End of the Tunnel

Summary:

Promise?

Notes:

Faith
Primrose

“Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”

― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven

 

He’s sleeping.

His right hand hangs limp, chained to the bedpost.

Breathless, Lenore Dove shuts the door behind her with a soft click. Her back stays pressed to it for a moment. Then, slowly, she starts forward. One step. Two. Three—

Four, and she’s at the foot of the bed. Five, and the little stool waits beside him. Five and a half, and she’s dragging it closer, the scrape on the floorboards just quiet enough to not wake him up.

Six, she sinks onto the stool, her legs gone weak, her whole body giving in like twig underfoot. Seeing Haymitch like this feels like a stone, no, a boulder,  pressing down on her shoulders, heavy enough to crush the air from her chest.

Asterid had already given them a rundown of his condition. Only Mr. March has been allowed to treat him directly, but Asterid’s his helper, so she’s been there most of the time.

Thanks to her friend, Lenore Dove already knows Haymitch lost a few teeth in the fight — bit straight through a peacekeeper’s armor and even managed to tear skin where the steel ended. Some teeth cracked, some gone. The memory of him smiling with bleeding mouth, presses itself behind her eyelids like it’s carved there.

The bleeding’s mostly stopped, but the pain hasn’t; he still moans and cries in his sleep, Asterid said, and Lenore Dove had bitten into her own pillow the night she heard it. Bless her, Asterid soaks cotton in painkilling oils, tucks them in his mouth, and swaps them out regularly.

She knows they roughed him up after the arrest, in solitary. Asterid told her his face is a mess—swollen, mottled purple and red from the fresh beatings— but they’ve been keeping ice packs on it.

And then there’s his foot. It was already in a cast, but they must’ve gone after it again in the jail, because the cast cracked and the bone started to set wrong. That’s been the hardest part to fix, and only Mr. March is allowed to handle it. As for how the break happened in the first place— Asterid says the Capitol pair told them it was from a fall, but nothing more than that.

The rumors about brain damage haven’t been confirmed or denied. Plutarch said they’ll move him as soon as they get clearance and run a scan on his brain—however they do that over there.

The past few days have dragged by painfully slow for Lenore Dove, burning with these questions day and night: where did he fall from? What did they do to him in solitary? What happened in the Capitol? And when they take him back there for treatment, if they do, will he return with more broken than his head and his foot?

She’s been losing herself over it, so much that she hasn’t even tended to her own injuries properly. The cut on her lip is still there, faded but stubborn, and a bruise stretches from her bottom lip to her jaw, blooming into her cheek. It has turned into sickly mix of blueish purple, but yellow around the edges — real ugly. Asterid had joked they matched, dabbing on her own concoction.

Other than that, he hasn’t been lucid yet — always knocked out on sleep syrup, or drugged to unconsciousness with painkillers or morphling. With injuries like his, it’s better that way; the first few days are nothing but agony.

But nothing Asterid said really prepared Lenore Dove to see Haymitch like this.

His left eye’s swollen clean shut, the other ringed dark like it’s taken its fair share of hits, with bruises sprawled all over his face — some dark and purple, some already turning that sickly yellow like old apples left too long in the sun. They blotch his temples, his jaw, his cheeks, with cuts and gashes scattered all around.

One on his cheekbone looks deep enough they had to stitch it shut. His nose is bent just enough to pass for not broken, but there’s no fooling Lenore Dove. She’s kissed that nose a hundred times —should’ve kissed it more, truth be told— and now she’s half tempted, only she’s scared she’ll wake him, or hurt him, or both. But yeah, it’s fractured, at least. She’ll tell Asterid. 

Her eyes trail down. He’s in a plain old t-shirt — clean, courtesy of Mrs McCoy, who sent over a bundle of her boys’ spares that Maxim delivered so Haymitch would have something fresh to wear. His arms tell the same story as his face; littered with bruises, crosshatched with cuts. Even his fingers bear the marks of this neverending struggle; some nails are ripped back so far the tears run clear to the bed, raw flesh glistening in the dim light.

Fought tooth and nail — every bit of the saying carved right into the boy in front of her.

She sits in silence, her hands twitching toward him only to pull back, every time. 

The time they have is precious, who knows when she’ll get another chance to reach him like this, to touch him, to speak with him — yet she can’t bring herself to steal him from the mercy of unconsciousness. She wants to talk, but Clerk Carmine’s words echo in her mind, and nails her to her seat. So she leans against the tiny stool, eyes fixed on Haymitch.

His chest rattles with every breath. Right, Asterid also mentioned he had pneumonia, on top of broken ribs. The water he’d choked on when the peacekeepers dunked his head — and kept dunking it, over and over in solitary thought they neither confirmed nor denied that as well — was filthy, and the infection had spread into his lungs. Good thing they had antibiotics from the Capitol.

Sitting on the stool, she slips off the gloves and stuffs them into one of the apron pockets. Her gaze wanders around the small room for a moment, she needs to clear her head— By his side sits a bucket full of cotton swabs, the half-wet, pink-streaked ones resting atop the dry, white ones — but it doesn’t help. 

She turns back to Haymitch, counting each shallow breath he takes, watches how he hitches in pain with every single one, noting them in her head so she can relay every detail to Mr. March and Asterid. Just to be sure his recovery’s on track.

Like anything’s gone well so far…

But it’s not long before his eyes crack open, just barely, swollen as they are, and Lenore Dove feels her stomach drop. And then, to her dismay, he startles at the sight of her.

“You’re dreaming,” she blurts, too quick, maybe because she’s too desperate to calm him down.

It doesn’t even make sense; no dream ever needs reminding of itself. And truth be told, she doesn’t know what her in Haymitch’s dreams does. She only knows it isn’t this, because that’s not what Haymitch in her dreams ever does. Dreams are only blissful when you believe they’re real, not dreams at all. Still, she says it, anything to keep him from looking like a frightened animal about to flee.

He tries to speak, but his face twists, discomfort first, then disgust, as his lips work around the wads of cotton stuffed in his mouth. A muffled heave escapes him before he jerks, writhing against the sheets.

Lenore Dove scrambles for the bucket, slips an arm behind his shoulders, and lifts him just enough to spit. He can’t lean far — the cuff on his wrist strains him back. The cotton lands with a wet thud atop the others, streaked pink.

“Easy,” she whispers, easing him down again. His eyes find hers, hazy and unfocused, like he’s seeing through smoke.

“You’re dreaming,” she says again, a little quieter this time, like she’s losing her own grip on the white lie. 

Please believe me. Or at least pretend you do. Do you even understand me right now? Or are you too far gone to question it? I don’t know which I’d rather.

Haymitch blinks at her, then lets his head sink into the pillow. A crooked smile tugs at his battered face, wincing at the effort.

“Am I?” he rasps, taking in the sight of her. He seems unsure if she’s really there, his gaze locked on her face—but strangely, not on her eyes.

She nods miserably, half-given up on the lie by now, but still manages to shake her head. 

“Hm, yeah.”

"I don't think I am..."

"Why not?"

His hand comes up and Lenore Dove immediately catches it before it falls down in exhaustion, holding it up, and bringing it closer to her face. His thumb drags clumsily across the tear on her bottom lip — right where her teeth had split skin when she got elbowed hard. 

Then it drifts lower, just barely grazing the hodgepodge of bruises blooming along her jaw and cheek.

"In my dreams, you're never hurt."

Lenore Dove's eyes start to burn. She holds his hand with both hers, enclosing it gently.

Her heart feels so heavy, she swears it might be sinking inside her.

"Well, in my dreams, you aren’t hurt either."

"Hm," he mumbles. "That so?"

"Yeah," Lenore Dove says quietly. "We must be in a nightmare, then."

"Or reality," he replies.

"Can’t see much of a difference between those these days," she says.

“Maybe ‘cause there isn’t one anymore,” he replies, and his face contorts in pain looking at her injuries. 

"It’s not that bad, really…"

"It's..." His thumb grazes the yellowed bruise on her jaw. "Ghastly grim..."

“Really?” she lets out a scoff, though it comes out choked and teary, struck by the absurdity of Haymitch, half-dazed as he is, is still overplaying the extent of her injury, and quoting her poem. "Have you seen yourself?"

He shrugs, pulling his hand back like he’s afraid she’ll splinter if he accidentally makes contact with her skin. She lets him, reluctantly, and his hand falls back down on the bed with a soft thud. 

“You being hurt…that hurts worse.”

“Then you understand what it feels like for me to see you like this,” she says softly, threading her fingers through his damp hair and brushing the sweaty strands from his forehead. All she reveals is more bruised skin.

“How’d it happen?” he asks, “Did someone…”

“Accident,” she cuts in, but his eyes stay unconvinced. She swallows and tries again. “Really, I swear. We had a class fight,” she adds, careful to keep it vague. She doesn’t want to tell him about the riot he inadvertently sparked on his homecoming — not yet, anyway. “I got caught up in it. So don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”

He swallows hard. “Lenore Dove—”

She shifts closer, slouching until her elbow rests against the mattress, and positions her hand, careful not to brush too near the purple swell of his face. With one hand she props her head on her palm; with the other she reclaims his, laying it flat on his chest. His heartbeat pulses through both of them, and she’s pretty sure he can feel hers just the same.

“You’ve got so much to tell me,” she whispers.

“I do,” he admits, his voice is so resigned, so hollowed out, Lenore Dove can’t bear to hear that tone come from the boy she’s loved —been in love with— for so long. “And so much I can’t. So much I don’t… know how to.”

"I've learned some stuff on my own already, so we can figure it all out together." She tells him, "But I’ll wait for you to catch up.”

His one good eye widens, and his mouth parts. She knows whatever he’s about to say will just be more half-tangled words, anything to steer her off and keep her from any thoughts of rebellion sprouting from what she might’ve found out.

"Don't. Just--" Lenore Dove says, gripping his hand tightly. “It’s fine. Talking can wait.” she says, “Or, explanations, or whatever. I didn’t come here for that.” I did. But you can’t handle it right now, and I need something else right now. I desperately need it.

"Tell me to wait, Haymitch." She feels tears threaten to escape her eyes, "Just tell me to wait. Give me something to hold onto."

Haymitch stays quiet for a long while, working his mouth open and shut, like the words keep slipping from him before they get to his lips. 

“I never wanted this for you,” he says at last, eyes fixed on the ceiling, dejected and faraway. His voice cracks. “I should’ve died there. That was the plan.”

The plan?

“Don’t say that,” she blurts, her voice breaks. “I couldn’t live if you were gone. My heart would give up, Haymitch — it’d collapse and shrivel up and stop, so don’t you dare say that.” Her hands clutch his like she can anchor them both there. “Tell me to wait, and I will. Even if you don’t say it, I’ll wait. I will. But give me something, anything, so I know there’s light at the end of this tunnel for us.”

"I need… we need… time." He struggles with the words, breath hitching. "Some things I have to… take care of."

“Okay…” she says, though the words ignited a spark of curiosity and desperation in her, the thought gnawing at her already. She wants to know what he feels he must take care of first, but she doesn’t want this to spiral into another round of back-and-forth, each trying to pry the other off the subject.

He looks to the ceiling.

“For you,” he adds, voice breaking. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and his words run ragged. “For Louella… Maysilee… Lou Lou…” His tongue fumbles the next, he chokes the names out more than anything. “…Sid… Ma…”

Lenore Dove bites down on her lip so hard it stings, fighting back the sob clawing its way up her throat. If she lets it loose, she’s certain he’ll break right alongside her. And then they’d truly be what they are now — what they’ve always been; two frightened children, carrying fear and grief too big for their shoulders, crumbling under the weight of it.

“They’re gone…”

She nods, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, Haymitch…”

His lips press thin, eyes darting off like he’s searching for a place to hide from the truth. “I’ve lost them all… forever.”

That’s when she shakes her head. She’s stumbled plenty in her own faith, doubted the way she looks at the world, but she’s never let go of the one thing she’s certain of; whatever life — or the Capitol, or anyone cruel enough — strips away from them, it’s never truly gone. Not in the way people think.

“You still got them, though, don’t you?” she whispers, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw. “Remember the song I sang to you? Nothing you can take—”

“…was ever worth keeping…”

She nods, glad he remembers it. “And they’re worth all that… and more. No one can take them from you. No one.”

Lenore Dove thought the song might lift his spirits, and for a heartbeat it does — his mouth softens, his eyelids drop a little. But the words seem to spark another memory, bringing another flash of grief, and his face falls with it. The sight sends her into a frenzy.

“Do you want me to sing it?” she whispers quickly. “I can sing, just for you.” 

Like I’ve always done before. Maybe we can go back, just for a little while, to how things were. Maybe if I try hard enough, want it enough, maybe if I’m desperate enough, this little apothecary backroom can trap us in time. Hold us here, in this one moment, for an eternity. Just us.

And truth be told — I might just prefer that.

“Would you?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she moves closer, settling beside him, careful not to disturb him. His breath hitches when their arms graze, but still winces a little with each small movement. She shifts a little, giving him a clearer view of her face. Her shoulder presses against the cold metal bars of the headboard, digging in slightly, but she bears it so she can stay close, keep her eyes on him. Not wanting to be apart even for a second, she reaches out and clasps his hand in hers. He doesn’t pull away.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

He nods. “Comfortable.”

More than just comfortable, really. This is where she’s been longing to be for all those months. The press of his skin against hers sparks a fire inside her, a burn that threatens to overwhelm, but she wills it to soften, letting it become a gentler warmth instead — to comfort them both.

She begins to sing. He listens. 

If they both close their eyes, they can pretend they’re back in the meadow, perched on her favorite rock together— sunlight warming their back and shoulders, tall grass brushing their legs, geese honking in the distance and there’s a thrill of knowing Clerk Carmine will pop out any second to call her back home…

By now she’s worked out the pattern of his state. He’s lucid enough that he’ll remember all this, she’s certain of that. But every so often, he drifts—eyes hazy, face slack—as if he’s about to surrender to the dark. Then a sharp breath or the twitch of his shoulder jerks him back to the world, sudden jolts of pain bringing clarity into his face before his eye squeezes shut again like he’s trying to hide from it.

Her being there seems to make it worse—he swallows down groans, gulps them back like he’s ashamed to let her hear. It cuts her deep, knowing he’d rather suffer in silence than risk worrying her, or as though she’d suffer just as much by hearing them — he knows her too well, because that is true.

She feels guilty for that — but knowing him, knowing herself, knowing how she’d take it all and more, so long as he stays in her sight, hand in hers — she stays and sings, though the normally jovial song comes out more like a lullaby more than anything.

Haymitch watches her as she sings, even after the last lyrics leaves her lips. When his gaze finally drifts from her face, it doesn’t wander far before it snags on her head. His eye widens once more, this time in pure disbelief.

“What on earth you wearing?” he rasps, just now noticing the cleaning cap over her hair.

Truth be told, she’s never worn one before, and it must look ridiculous on her— curls straining stubbornly against the flimsy fabric.

“What— you don’t like it?”

He shakes his head, grin sneaking onto his face. “You look like Mrs Loar about to storm the back shops with a mop and a bucket.”

“That’s ‘cause I just did,” she fires back, gesturing at the apron tied around her waist. His eye trails down to it, and he rasps out a laugh, this time brings his hand to his mouth.

“It’s my new side hustle, actually.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” he mutters, though that smile won’t leave him be. “Don’t wanna open my mouth.”

“Oh, I already saw your missing teeth,” she fires back, and he squeezes his eye shut like he’s dying of shame.

“Nooo…”

“Don’t worry. You’re still handsome.”

“You don’t gotta lie to me—”

“I‘m not!” she cuts him off, laughing when he starts shaking his head. “It’s true! You could be missing the whole front row, or have bunny teeth poking out every which way, and you’d still be the handsomest boy in Twelve.”

“Now, you and me both know—”

“Handsomest boy to me,” she interrupts. “There. Now you can’t say anything against it, ‘cause that’s a subjective opinion. Can’t argue with a subjective point.”

“Guess I can’t,” he says, and they both laugh. Every chuckle makes him wince, but the smile clings on, and it seems to do him more good than harm. “Wouldn’t matter if I could. I could never win against you.”

“Good for both of us you know your limits.”

Then the smile slips off, a frown replaces it and his brow knots.

“Lenore Dove—” he starts, “What I said before, when you come to the house… I was—”

“You weren’t fine,” she cuts in. “I don’t need an apology. I do want the truth, someday. But like I said,” her hand hovers close to his cheek, just a hair’s breadth away from touching, “…all that can wait. I’ll wait. Like my geese, I mate for life. I’ll wait all my life if I have to. And don’t tell me it’s not sensible or possible or whatever—I don’t care.”

His eyes brim over, but he nods, takes his own advice and doesn’t try to argue. There’s still pain in his face, always will be, but there’s relief too — he knows he hasn’t lost her. 

The thought of him worrying about the same things at her, however painful, consoles her as much. If he’s even half as desperate to hold on to her as she is to him, then she’ll take it.

“Tell me,” she repeats softly.

He presses his lips together, then exhales the words as if they’ve been trapped inside him far too long, like the roots of a withering plant desperate for air, finally breaking through the soil.

“Please…” he begins, looking her in the eyes. His one good eye glimmers like the moon peeking through an indigo sky. “Wait for me.”

“Okay,” she whispers quickly, nodding. “Okay. I’ll wait. I’ll wait however long it takes.”

Then his chest seizes, breath rattling, and a tear slips free down his temple.

Lenore Dove swipes it off before it reaches his gash, her thumb trembling slightly from the effort of being gentle. “Hurts?”

“Yeah…” he breathes.

“Where?” she asks, and immediately wants to smack her own forehead for asking something so obvious. Still, Haymitch, broken from head to toe, doesn’t snap at her.

“Everywhere.”

“I’ll fetch Asterid.”

Lenore Dove finds Asterid in the narrow back hallway, leaning against the doorframe of the furthest room. By the look on her face, that must be Merrilee’s — and judging by the full trash bag in her hands, she’s likely just left it.

Asterid looks dejected, as she always does after Merrilee Duty. She’s been venting about her estranged friend nearly nonstop since the breakdown in the alley to both her and Burdock; and that seems to be the only way she can let any of her frustration out for now.

When Lenore Dove calls her, Asterid straightens and quickly pulls a little tray of medicines together, and follows her back to Haymitch’s room.

She moves through the room with ease, setting bottles and fresh cotton pads down.

When she pulls out the vial of sleep syrup, Haymitch shifts against the thin mattress, shoulders tightening like the very sight of it sets his nerves on edge. And when his eyes flick to Asterid, it isn’t fear or distrust keeping him from meeting her gaze. Lenore Dove knows that look on him. It’s regret.

But he looks better, in terms of spirit.

The promise seems to have lifted a weight from both of them. The unsaid things still linger in the air, but for now, their shoulders feel lighter. Haymitch has promised to come back, and Lenore Dove will wait. Just knowing that a proper reunion awaits them—hearts open, truths shared—is a kind of medicine in itself.

She squeezes his hand gently, though he still won’t look at her. His eyes remain fixed downward, then drift toward Asterid as she pours the syrup into warm water, thinning it out. They’ve been diluting the doses because of how much medicine’s been forced on him already.

“He’s awake and aware now,” Lenore Dove says. “Does Mr. March still need to check on him?”

Asterid startles, as if she’d forgotten something.

“Right! I forgot to tell you,” she exclaims. “I got so excited to get you here, I couldn’t even say it. My dad says he was conscious this morning too, that’s why I even went out to get Elaine, but I guess you don’t remember?” She glances at Haymitch to say the last part.

Haymitch shakes his head. 

“Barely. I remember Mr. March… but I fully remember later, though, when—” He hisses as Asterid lifts the band from one of his cuts to check it, and both girls flinch in sympathy. 

“Sorry,” Asterid mutters.

“It’s okay,” Haymitch says, looking almost guilty that Asterid had to apologize to him. Then his gaze shifts to Lenore Dove — her cap, her apron. “That explains the outfit, though. How’d you even get Elaine to let you have that?”

“She owed me,” Asterid says, shrugging.

“You know she’d rather burn those than wear them again, right?” Haymitch teases Lenore Dove, a smirk tugging at his face.

“I think we get along—me and her,” Lenore Dove says confidently.

Haymitch tries to raise an eyebrow in response, though he can barely move his face, and Asterid can’t help but grin in her way.

“I’m serious,” Lenore Dove insists. “I really think we might get each other.”

“Then you’d have accomplished what ninety percent of others couldn’t for the past ten years,” Haymitch says, and just as he laughs, a cough wracks his chest, turning it into a moan of pain. It must hurt terribly if he can’t hold it in.

Lenore Dove immediately helps him lift himself a little, and Haymitch groans in pain.

“It’s about time for your next dose anyway,” Asterid says, shifting the cotton and bottles around. “I usually put the cotton in after your daily dose.”

“What about the morphling?” he asks, “I was on it this morning, right?”

“We give that at night, so you don’t wake up in the middle of,” she replies gently. “You’re already on so many drugs, it’s best to stick with the herbal supplements for now.”

Asterid hands him the cup of sleep syrup thinned with warm water.

“You’ll go back under once you drink it,” Asterid tells them, glancing at Lenore Dove. “If you want to talk more, you might wanna—”

Haymitch’s eyes land on the cup, and the look he gives it is near heartbreaking. Lenore Dove can tell his body is aching for the mercy of sleep, but his heart hurts worse at the thought of cutting short the little time he has with her awake. He’s battered head to toe, can’t lift his hand without wincing, yet here he is, weighing whether to suffer longer just to keep talking with her.

No.

“Maybe later—” he starts.

“He’ll take it,” Lenore Dove cuts in quick, reaching for the cup herself, leaving no room for argument. “You’re hurting, Haymitch. You don’t have to.”

He doesn’t smile, but the way his eyes soften tells her he’s grateful. She tilts it for him, and he drinks every last drop like it’s liquid mercy.

“What about the… you know,” Lenore Dove asks Asterid as Haymitch sips the syrup. “The thing?”

The brain damage thing. He seems fine, but you never know. What if he’s normal at the moment, but it gets worse later on?

“My dad checked on that this morning too, but the Capitol pair won’t pay us no mind anyway,” Asterid says, and Haymitch frowns at the words. “Reflexes are fine, pupils responding like they should. So… from the crummy district’s healer side, you’re all right.” Her gaze sweeps over his battered body. “Well… at least in your head.”

“Who else is here?” Haymitch asks.

“Hm?”

“You said Capitol pair. Who else?”

“You don’t remember that either?”

He shakes his head, and the glass slips from his loosened grip. Lenore Dove catches it just in time.

“Just Plutarch,” he mutters. The name alone seems to drain him, and Lenore Dove can understand why from her own brief encounter with the man. “I’ve seen him enough.”

“The new escort’s the one called him here,” Asterid explains. “She comes by every day—”

“Effie’s still here?” Haymitch cuts in, slurred now, though his shoulders ease back against the bed a little.

“She’s here after five, most days. Seven, at latest. Just a bundle of nerves, pacing around the apothecary,” Asterid tells him, “I swear, I hear her heels clicking in my sleep now.”

“Good. She’s good,” he says. The syrup’s starting to take full hold of him, his eyelids drooping heavy. 

“She seems to be,” Asterid nods. As she’d already told Lenore Dove, the woman had instructed Plutarch to bring every antibiotic or medicine he could think of beforehand, so Asterid and Mr. March leaned less on herbal remedies this time. That’s more than enough, even if the others still eye the change with suspicion. After such a dreadful escort, it’s only a matter of time before this one shows her true face.

So far, though, so good.

Haymitch nods, and Lenore Dove gently guides his head back onto the pillow, adjusting it for him to rest more comfortably

“Y’know… she cared for us. All of us there. Her and… Great Aunt Messelina… wardrobe and all…” His words trail as his lids sink lower. “We needed black…”

“You all?” Lenore Dove asks softly.

“Our District… Loose cannons,” he mumbles, already blinking longer than he’s keeping his eyes open. “Going off…” His words trail as he finally slumps back into the bed, out cold.

Asterid and Lenore Dove exchange a quick glance before they begin cleaning up in silence. Asterid rolls up her sleeve to check the time.

“Good timing,” she says. “Cosmo’s shift changes in ten. I already cleaned up the main part— we’ve got more than enough time to finish the rest.”

The blonde leaves first, carrying the emptied bucket and trash, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.

They aren’t trapped in time here. Time marches on outside, untouched, indifferent to the fragile sanctuary of these two children were desperate for in this tiny backroom.

Lenore Dove lingers a moment longer, making sure Haymitch is properly covered. She lifts the blanket over him with careful hands, even if he’s knocked out on sleep syrup and won’t wake up, brushing his hair off his bruised forehead. Her lips press lightly to his skin as she drops a kiss.

“I love you like all-fire,” she whispers, then grabs the medicine tray, and steps out of the room.

Notes:

Sometimes that light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train…

Anyways this was the part I wanted to share as soon as possible... Originally I wasn't planning on making them meet like this, but planned their first 'meeting' to be something else in the next chapter. But yeah. They TALKED. They made PHYSICAL CONTACT. (After what..17 chapters....? I'm an asshole, I know. But hey, I said this would be a slow burn.) Moments like this are rare in near future, so make sure to cherish this precious scene :) (We’ll get back to Haymitch in a few chapters and see what happened when he woke up this morning.) I hope I did it justice, but yeah considering the situations of these two; a full discussion of everything couldn’t be made at the moment, hope it makes sense for you as well, if not, feel free to tell me about it :)

I’m trying to gaslight you into thinking I can write romantic and intimate scenes by depriving you of love and joy for a long time and making you desperate for the little crumbs I offer... Is it working?