Hurricane • F. Odair

twenty-six » underneath morning light

A L T H E A

   Within a week of being in District Eight, Althea had touched approximately one hundred and twenty-five corpses. They varied in size and amount of pieces. Sometimes they were burnt to a crisp, and others succumbed to their wounds, infections, or smoke inhalation in the hospital. Each day, Althea went back to the hospital and braided more hair. She became quite quick and learned new styles. Her new friends loved when she came to visit.

   Unfortunately, she became used to the smell of death and decay.

   Aunt Flick and the rest of the Ravenhead trained with her in the evenings. Althea felt like one of the trainers in the facilities in the Capitol, but it helped that she knew her team wasn't training to kill each other. Flick needed pointers on blocking. Pike needed tips on energy conservation. Div, most frustratingly, needed tips on not staying in one place. The woman was too solid and didn't feel the need to move. It took a lot of convincing that speed was just as important as strength.

   At night, after a measly dinner of something tasteless and mildly filling that was still more than she'd gotten in the arena, Althea would collapse into the makeshift cot in her aunt's room. Flick had let her have a few nights of quiet before peppering her with questions about her life. The older woman had disappeared right after Elizabeth's execution and missed the majority of Althea's life. So the Hawkforge told her about everything. She explained Willow and Graham's lives in further detail, seeing as Flick missed more with them. When her aunt's soft breathing evened out, Althea let her chest cave in. She let the tears fall silently at all the loss. Thatcher for certain. Her siblings as a possibility. Her allies in the arena. And Finnick. It made her heart crack into thousands of sharp pieces to even imagine him as she'd been. Cold and gone. And if he was alive, did he think she was dead?

   It took approximately ten days after her waking for the bombings to seemingly cease. It hadn't gone more than two days without an attack, but Althea was staring up at the sky on day three. Her hair was rebraided by her aunt, although it had taken the younger woman twenty minutes and a near breakdown to take the strands from Finnick's plait and wash it. Her scalp had needed it dearly and it smelled significantly better. But Althea had realized that someone had heartbreakingly taken her necklace from her in the arena before she'd been lifted out. That braid had been her last piece of Finnick. And now it was gone. The gun on her shoulder had once felt heavy but now felt like an extension of her own body. Admittedly, she missed her sword.

   "Al. Come here," Flick called from the other room. It held one of the last working holo-projections in the district. The victor took her time. Standing from her sitting position on a fallen support beam, she stretched out her tired limbs. She took one last breath before heading inside.

   Peeta Mellark and Caesar Flickerman were hovering in the air in front of her.

   "I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset..." Caesar trails. But Althea wasn't paying attention to him. Peeta spoke to answer, but all she could do was look at him. He was alive. Stars, he was alive. He looked healthier than she had ever seen him. His blue eyes looked lively enough and he was sat with perfect posture. But he was alive and breathing with little signs of physical trauma. Althea raised a shaking hand as if she could touch him.

   Peeta had made it out of the arena. But the Capitol had him in their taloned grip.

   "--Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that-- what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?" Peeta fired. Althea dropped her hand. The Peeta she knew had a fire in him that rivaled Katniss'. He wanted the Capitol's power gone more than anyone.