what's the most romantic thing that has happened since you've become a married woman?
A birthday here, a wedding ring there, and now suddenly The Girl on Fire is a woman. The distinction was made quickly. This time last year she was just a girl from Twelve with an unexpectedly high training score and a chip on her shoulder. Well, the chip is still there and she's certain that her score would be even higher this time around had she been given the chance to save her sister again, but that would defeat the purpose. The point.
The Hunger Games is about sacrifice and Fava didn't sacrifice enough the first time around.
Never mind the blood on her hands. Never mind the lives she was forced to take in order to see her sister again. None of that matters now that she is a married woman. A wife.
Fava remains calm, her smile practiced to the point of sincerity, though she allows her eyes to roll. Banter is important with Flickerman. He always likes a bite -- just not too hard. "I'm not going to answer this question the way you want me too, Caesar." There is a communal aww, a reaction enhanced by Caesar's dramatically disappointed reaction. Fava giggles. She giggles. "I simply can't pinpoint one thing, is all. Hudson is romance personified." Fancy word. She learned that from one of the stylists just two days. "Hmm, let's see... I would say it's the understanding. Hudson understands me better than anyone else. I feel seen when I'm with them. Heard. There is nothing more than romantic than being truly understood."
She casts her gaze over her shoulder, squinting in the hopes that she'd see them standing in the wings. No such luck. She returns her attention to Caesar with a pout. "How cruel of you to keep us apart for our interviews! We won the Games together, you know." A grin returns on painted lips. Her fingers twitch in anticipation of what's yet to come.
Level with me, Fava. So many of our viewers are concerned. Last year, you volunteered for your sister, Wren, and this year, you're sending her into the Games yourself. Can you tell us how that feels for you?
When she walked onto that stage, she made a point to be pleasant. Her smile ( albeit fake ) was wide and she waved to those that cheered for her arrival. She even blew a kiss or two; intentionally polite, prim and perfect. She even greeted Caesar properly, with a peck on either cheek, before settling in for her first interview as a Mentor.
Interview.
More like interrogation.
The question comes fast and it hits hard, but her smile doesn't falter. "Starting with a bang, aren't you, Caesar? I can't say I'm surprised. You always get right to it." The laughter shared between them is natural, though hers peters off into a sigh. Her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. "I can't explain how terrible it feels. Really -- there are no words to describe how... dreadful this is." She glances to the audience with a look that could only be construed as sorrow. They should know how hard it's been for her, for all of them.
"People have been asking me if I regret volunteering for Wren last year, knowing what I do now." She shakes her head slightly, allowing her focus to fall elsewhere for a moment. "And the answer has been the same: absolutely not. This last year has been the best year of my life. I fought, I survived, I fell in love..." She hesitates, expecting the usual reaction of oohs and aahs that usually followed their declarations of love. "Winning the Games has afforded me -- and my family -- the comfort of security. I wouldn't have traded this last year for anything."
Her eyes return to Caesar, their gaze matched in intensity. This gives her pause, her lips parted. Suddenly her mouth feels dry. She swallows and gains her composure. "Forget about me for a moment, will you, and put yourself in her shoes. She is at risk of losing the family that we've only just become. I feel awful forcing her to take time away from Hudson. You know how much she loves them." A beat, "I'm doing everything I can to make sure that she is supported, both emotionally and physically." She raises a hand before the host can interrupt. "And don't start asking me about alliances, Caesar. I can't give you all my secrets."
We have been watching Wren grow since your victory, and we're so enamored with her, but I know I speak for everyone when I say we're nervous. Your sister is at a considerable disadvantage. Are you prepared to do more work than your peers to make sure she stays alive?
"You know, Caesar. I expected you to ask about my sister a lot given the circumstances, but I must say I'm disappointed." His jaw drops in a dramatic expression that borders on comedy. She laughs on cue, swatting his wrist playfully. "This question is ridiculous. You could ask it to every single one of us and we'd say the same thing. Of course. I'm doing everything imaginable to make sure that my sister is set up for success. But that's not new information, is it? We all feel the exact. same. way." She leans forward to whisper the last sentence as if she's sharing a secret, a period placed for emphasis between the last three words.
And then she sits up straight all at once and tucks a loose curl behind her ear. As if nothing is wrong. Another smile. Ding! Sparkle, sparkle.
"This Quarter Quell is cruel. There's no other way to say it. What's being asked of us is unimaginable. We all sacrificed so much already -- we are all irreparably damaged in some capacity. Every single one of us. We killed for security. For the safety of our loved ones. That was promised to us." Her voice falters just slightly, she can feel an unexpected mistiness in her eyes, but she blinks back the tears that will not fall.
"So, I'd like to address President Snow with the time that I have left."
Fava brings her fingers to her necklace, the movement akin to the fidgeting she was known for, but it's much more than that. She presses her fingers into the petals with raised edges, activating the dye masterfully created by Dawn Hardin.
"I have had the honor to speak with you personally. I hope that I am given another opportunity to do so."
She gasps, her face contorted in pain as she pulls back to see her fingers covered in "blood". The rose between her collarbone is no longer white, but red. It drips down the front of her dress, staining it immediately. She has to give it to Crane -- the dress only makes the display more impactful.
Caesar reacts quickly, standing to offer the handkerchief from his pocket, but Fava declines. She simply curls her fingers into a fist and squeezes. Drops of red on pure white.
"Please -- this isn't the first time I've had blood on my hands."
Do you think you're being the best spouse given the circumstances? You know now is the most crucial time to instill stability in a relationship...
She finds it hard to smile through this question.
Her brow furrows and the corners of her lips pull down in a frown that they didn't want to give. It's a different kind of pressure, a different kind of disappointment, though Hudson never said anything against her, she can't help but wonder if this question was birthed from truth.
Fava clears her throat to regain her composure. "This Quell has been hard on us. Not only is it our first time being Mentors, but it's -- our family." She smooths the satin of her dress idly, too aware of the way it wrinkles and moves beneath her touch. God, she hates this thing. "We've only just become a family and now we're at risk of losing huge chunks of it completely. That is bound to put a strain on any relationship." She baits them with a look of sorrow -- no, desperation. The audience is on the edge of their seats, awaiting the terrible news that she set them up for, but it never comes.
Instead, she twists the wedding ring on her finger and finds a smile. "But I think it's made us stronger. If we can get through this -- and we can; we will -- we'll be able to get through anything. There is just one thing, though." Her head falls to her shoulder as she returns her attention to Caesar, who encourages her to continue by raising his brows. "I can't imagine having to raise our children without Uncle Gage or Auntie Wren."
There's a gasp from the crowd, of course there is, but Fava does nothing to ease their flare of concern.
They have discussed the possibility of children in the future, but it hangs on one condition: the world has to be better than this. They're not sending their children to the Reaping.
We've noticed some staff here have been 'taking leave', some of whom have been close to you. How are you keeping your focus with the uncertainty?
If she was allowed to be honest she would say I don't want to talk about it or I'd like some answers, actually, but she isn't able to say either of those things. She has to keep it polite and proper, just like everyone around her suggested she do. No matter how much she yearns to pop off like some of the others before, it's better for Wren this way. She is -- and always has been -- her priority.
Still, she can be honest about one thing: "it's painful."
That doesn't immediately answer the question, but she finds it important to mention regardless. "I really bonded with some of those that have decided to leave. I can't say I blame them though. It's a hard situation to be in. Dressing children for their funerals is one thing, but being asked to dress people that you've come to love is another." Her laugh is humorless, nothing more than a forced exhale.
"I haven't let it distract me. I am fully focused on helping my sister prepare for the Games and Hudson -- well, you know Hudson. They've been the best at keeping me grounded." She glances to the audience again with a saccharine grin. "I don't think I'd be able to get through this without them. They're the reason I'm sitting up here today with a smile on my face at all."
An escort's earring. Leo, more curls than girl, was six years old at the time. Her mother was preoccupied with the baby in her arms. Always fussing. Always hungry. With her father in the fields, the job of looking after her was made an impossibility. It was after the reaping, the boy and girl were taken into the depths of the Justice Hall to say their goodbyes. The escort was making her way back to the train platform. No one was paying attention to her. She'd simply wanted to take a closer look, see if the escort's hair really was that impossible shade of violet. And then in the grass, she'd seen the glint of the escort's earring. White gold and diamonds, very obvious against the brown soil of district ten. She'd gone to grab it and in that moment the peacekeeper clocked in to her intrusion. One whack to the hand, the second to her back. The harsh metal rod was scalding, heated by the July sunlight.
The words hurt more though. "Off you little runt, or we'll feed you to the pigs."
She'd run off in tears. Not to her mother's arms, but into the fields where no one would hear her.
Eleven years later and she still hadn't learned her lesson.
The sun was high in the sky when she made her attempt at the ostrich egg. She was hungry, the rumble of her stomach barely soothed by the meager serving of stale snack food. She'd spent the evening hidden among the racks in the gift shop, waking at the slightest noise. While there's she'd traded in her bloody white top for a green one and thrown a cap on over her head. It was a down trade, a desperate one at that, from her beautiful capitol outfits, but it would have to do for now. Function above fashion.
She'd seen the glimmer of those cannisters from yards away. She needed something here. A stroke of luck. A little something to take the edge off the pain. Maybe there was a weapon in there. Maybe there was a meal. If she'd been less blinded by her need, she'd have seen just how sharp those ostrich beaks were. Maybe a lifetime spent protecting sheep from thunderstorms hadn't given the sharpest of minds.
Observation one. You cannot outrun an ostrich
Observation two. She'd never seen talons like that before.
Observation three. She could very well be killed by a flightless bird.
The cannister was dropped several meters behind her as she curled herself into a ball, threw her hands over head, and braced for the worst of it. One talon scraped along her shoulder, drawing blood and putting to rest the notion she could look at all put together. And then the weight as the damned bird went to stand on her. It crushed the air out of her lungs, made her realize that bunking down for the worst of it might really not have been the best option. She felt the pressure of the beak against her hand. The pain as one peck turned into two and then three.
And then suddenly a disgruntled honk and the pressure released off her. In the relief she didn't notice the howling voice, or feel the aftershock of pounding against the ground. What she knew was the feel of another hand on her. Another’s fingers running over her bruised hands. When she lifted her head, she met a pair of tawny, curious eyes. A monkey. With a gentle hand it picked the pieces of grass and straw out of her hair, chattering in a low grumble all along.
With a hiss, she picked herself off the ground. "Who are you?" she asked.
Quick as lightning, the monkey was up on two legs, arms high and swaying. Howlering. Knocking it's hands against the ground. The sound was defeaning but the display wasn't for her. The ostrich was coming in for round two and as she dragged herself backward, her new friend chased the bird back toward it's nest. He was fast. A blur of brown and black against the flat enclosure. She stumbled back to the pavement. Bits of dirt were uprooted and tossed at the ostrich. Roots. Rocks.
Once he was satisfied, he made a loop back to Leona. His voice was softer now, almost soothing. He sat before her and after a minute she stretched out one hand. He mirrored the movement and then took her offering. Fingers wrapped around her thumb and he pulled himself close, tucked his head under her chin, and rested against her chest.
And so they met.
He followed her south, back to the woodland enclosure where she could hide and tend to the worst of her injuries. She used her old white shirt as a bandage around the wound on her shoulder. As she worked, her new friend swung in the branches above. He was ever watchful. When she hissed he dropped to her feet, wrapped himself about her leg and chattered.
By the afternoon, he was bringing her bits of bugs and fruit he'd found. Whatever came was offered to share and she took it gratefully. And when bruised and battered, she rested her head against the forest floor he sat in guard of her.
"What should I call you?" she asked. Her fingers played through his coarse hair, feeling the strength and muscle underneath.
It came to her as she was drifting. It wasn't something from home, if district ten could be called that. It was something from the capitol. Familiar. Well loved.
