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chapter forty-four
AGONY AND MERCY
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tw:
ptsd, sadness — mockingjay is heavy :(
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Going to District Eight to accompany Katniss and the Propo Team earns him an obnoxious burst of laughter followed by a big fat no by his doctor. While his eye is recovering nicely, the key word is that it's recovering. As in still unhealed and incredibly delicate. The stitches need several more weeks at the least, and one wrong bump could split them open. Not to mention the risk of infection from the dirt and debris of the recent bombing.
"When then?" Ptolemus asks. "When will I be cleared?"
Dr. Warwick shrugs. "Maybe another month. Maybe two. It's not a process we can rush. You want to keep your eye or what?"
"What good is it?" He shakes his head. "I can't see out of it anyway."
The older man stares at him for a long time. Then he huffs, lips forming a grim line as he points his own medical file at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that after I spent eleven hours in surgery sewing it back together." Dr. Warwick swivels on his heels and stalks out of the examination room. He calls out over his shoulder. "Your limitations remain the same until your next check up!"
Ptolemus scowls. Eventually, with a huff, he heaves himself off the exam table, paper crinkling and tearing with the movement. Dalton is waiting for him outside along with his occupational therapist Dr. Fission.
"Maybe next time," the refugee from Ten tries, patting him on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile.
He clenches his jaw, fingers twitching at his sides. What good is he to the Propo Team if he can't even go with them to film? What good is he to the war? What good is he to Sage? Ptolemus glances over at Dr. Fission and raises a brow. "Are you coming to Special Defense too?"
His occupational therapist nods. "Depending what you're doing with that sword today, I might be able to help."
"Hm."
The trio embark on their journey down to the earth's core, otherwise known as Special Defense. Ptolemus is too irritated to grow uneasy at that sinking sensation, levels upon levels blurring past them like before. They start through the labryinth, except instead of heading toward the Propo Set, they turn to the guarded hall labeled Special Weaponry.
The guards check the schedule on all three of their arms. Then comes the fingerpint, retinal and DNA scans as well as the metal detectors. Ptolemus's locket and wedding ring set them off, and one of the guards demands he hand them over for inspection. He's about to fight them on it when Dalton gives him a pointed look.
He glowers as he watches the one open and close the locket, holding it upside down, shaking it, rubbing his thumb all across for grooves and latches that aren't supposed to be there. He even takes the picture out of Sage's family, checking behind and holding it up to the light. Heat swarms the right side of his body.
A muscle in his cheek twitches impatiently. "You done?"
The soldier stuffs his possessions back into his fist, though he doesn't slip the photograph back where it belongs, it loose in his grip. There's an air of superiority to his tone as Ptolemus's glacial gaze narrows. "Done."
They're pushed through the door and to the other side where a second round of identification checks takes place. Ptolemus fumbles to carefully slide Sage's family picture back into the locket, and he curses under his breath when he has to give his DNA again. Finally, after twenty more yards of a stroll, they're permitted to enter the weapons collection.
The sight of it stirs that feeling of deja vu again. Almost as if instead of being buried deep within the earth, he's back home, deep within that mountain behind Ravenna. At the ripe age of six, the children are taken on a class field trip to learn about the alternatives to poverty in the quarries or working in the weapon manufacturers. Serving one's Capitol as a Peacekeeping grunt. They call it an honor for the brave and true.
Just like District Two, District Thirteen is home to one hell of an arsenal. There's rows upon rows of firearms, launchers, explosives and armored vehicles. According to Dalton, they house their Airborne Division elsewhere. Ptolemus would be in awe if he weren't infuriated by the growing complexity of District Thirteen. So much for being bombed to radioactive ash.
"So they've been locked and loaded in their little caves while the rest of the Districts starved and sent their children to die every year?" he asks tightly.
Dr. Fission appears insulted as he scowls, but Dalton remains patient. "They had other problems. Their focus was to be entirely self-sufficient underground so that they wouldn't run out of resources."
Ptolemus might be sympathetic if they weren't calling for Sage and the other Victors' heads. Not to mention the nasty looks they've been giving her family since her Propo where all she did was stand there.
They finally reach their destination, which appears to be an underground training facility. To the right are ranges for long-distance weapons like rifles and bows, turf in the middle with several dummies and a climbing wall, and sparring rings to the left. Ptolemus scans the room silently until he notes the soft creaking of a wheelchair spinning toward his right side. He shifts his body to lock gazes with Beetee.
"I see you found it." Another adjustment of his glasses sliding down his nose, and he gestures toward the training facility. "I've been working on developing simulation booths like the ones they used in the Quell. Perhaps then it'd be safer for you to practice some forms of combat again until your injury has healed." Then he turns his chair, gesturing for him to follow. "Come. The others are waiting."
Others?
Ptolemus awkwardly follows the man as he leads him through a series of various prototypes and weapons along some shelves. There's another room with rubber padded walls and a turf coated floor, dummies and targets propped readily. To the right is where Beetee seems to be in the process of creating a simulation booth like from The Capitol's Training Center. Ptolemus avoids his gaze as haunting whispers from that damn Quell resurface. How in the hell was that over a month ago?
The additional figures almost blend in with the practice dummies, and if it weren't for his bronze hair, Ptolemus probably wouldn't notice him. Finnick wanders around with his hands poised neatly behind his back as his dazed stare inspects everything. A woman, perhaps the same age as his mother, stands readily at attention, though she doesn't appear to be another guard. The first thing Ptolemus notices is her left eye. Veiled silver.
"Ptolemus, this is Soldier Emery," Beetee introduces. She nods curtly in his direction. "Just like you, she has monocular vision. I utilized her expertise as well as Dr. Fission's here to develop your weapon. She also has agreed to train with you to help you adapt to potential changes in the way you may need to fight."
He straightens at that and just blinks dumbly. Up in the training yard, he's treated like a nuisance by the overseeing officers, as if he were a toddler for them to babysit with all his conditions and restrictions. He's not sure who to thank first, Beetee for consciously thinking about his new limitations and adhering to them, or Soldier Emery for even being willing to train him.
Ptolemus settles for both as he nods. "Thank you."
"Finnick," Beetee calls. The other Victor stumbles out of his daze at his name. "We're ready."
The man stalks over hastily with interest, a crack of a grin tugging at his lips. There's a hint of his old self resurfacing before the electrical shock's effects. Ptolemus feels his stare boring into his cheek, waiting for them to make eye contact, but he just ignores him. Instead, he follows Beetee as he wheels himself over to a table with two large black cases. He opens the one on the right first. The latches click, and the hinges lift silently. There's a gorgeous gleam of silver and black against the shining maroon velvet of the case. Ptolemus recognizes the shape of the weapon immediately.
Just like Beetee promised — a sword.
A soft hum rumbles in Finnick's throat when he stands alongside Ptolemus, peering down at his own treasure in the other case. The latter side-steps to put more distance between them as he marvels at the sword. There's also an electronic cuff of sorts in the case. Finnick has one too.
"They may not look much different than the weapons you're used to dealing with, but they very much are," Beetee starts to explain. "First, they're equipped with vocal recognition, designed to only recognize your voice for use. Go on, say something."
Ptolemus just stares silently at it. What the hell is he supposed to say? Finnick takes the direction with stride as he leans down toward his trident with his signature smirk, his seductive pur making The Legacy roll his eyes. "Hello gorgeous."
Sure enough, the weapon hums to life in response, a few lights faintly glowing along the shaft. The cuff has matching sensors as it whirs too. Finnick chuckles lightly while Beetee still stares at a stiff Ptolemus patiently but pointedly. He just shakes his head and clears his throat awkwardly.
"Hey."
Despite the lack of allure to his voice, sure enough, his sword responds similarly. Finnick smirks again.
"I think you charmed it."
Ptolemus shoots him a warning glare. Why does he think he can talk to him?
Beetee nods. "Now you can tap into their special features that I've added. The cuffs go around your wrists. With just a click of this button, should either of you lose your weapon in battle whether you've thrown it or not, it can fly right back to you. Ptolemus, I've equipped your sword with sensors, particularly ones that will alert you to targets or adversaries approaching your right. Red lights mean trouble."
Dalton clicks his tongue to the roof his mouth sharply. "Lots of bells and whistles, huh?"
The Legacy raises his brows in wonder and agreement. A weapon that can cover him while blind? Beetee's seemed to have thought of everything. He glides an astonished hand gently across the humming blade. "Sounds useful. Thank you."
"I'm glad," the inventor from Three smiles. He then gestures to the training facility around them. "You're free to spend your time trying them out. When you're ready to turn them off, just say 'Goodnight.'"
Ptolemus is more than eager to pick up a sword again. In fact, both him and Finnick are like two kids in a candy store, retrieving their newly accessorized weapons to toy with. The Legacy is just starting toward one of the dummies when his sword vibrates with a warning, red light glowing. Someone's shoulder brushes his, and he notes Finnick's reflection along his blade. Ptolemus's nostrils flare as he turns stiffly to face him.
"Do you think you could break the teeth off this one?" The Victor from Four asks coyly, holding up his trident for him to inspect. He can't tell if he's taunting him or genuinely inquiring. There's a devious spark in his eye.
Ptolemus grinds his teeth together, sweeping a dismissive stare across the weapon as he continues his approach to a dummy. "Maybe if you piss me off enough again. Which you seem to have no problem with."
Finnick chuckles and nods, taking his threat with stride. "Noted. Guess I'll be over there then."
"Smart move."
After some stretching, Ptolemus's body still aching as he regains his strength back, he loosely cuts the weapon through the air. The motion exudes a lethal grace that's innate at this point of his life. With every swing and twirl, he feels himself slipping into a part of him so familiar it's like draping himself into a well-loved and worn coat. There's something soothing and powerful about it all at the same time. Ptolemus holds onto that ghostly feeling as long as he can.
Eventually, Dr. Fission and Soldier Emery join him. While the occupational therapist is able to offer more domestic and practical support, she offers an edge with her tips on combat. Soldier Emery reveals that rather than losing her sight to something violent, it was a strange and unfortunate side-effect to the epidemic several years prior.
The two work together for quite some time, and it's clear that Ptolemus has a lot to learn and adjust to. Skills and moves that once were fluid and second-nature become choppy and unsteady as he has to shift his technique to combat hers. Depth perception remains a problem — especially with a hastened pace. She tells him to lean into what his body knows, not necessarily what his eye can see. There's several times where he realizes that if this were real, if he were in battle right now, he wouldn't survive. He'd lose. He'd be dead.
Ptolemus never loses. Or at least, he didn't use to.
It's been an hour of training and toying with the weapons when one of the black television screens illuminates, startling everyone in the facility. Ptolemus is mid-swing with his sword at the sound of The Capitol anthem, and with a grunt, he hacks off a dummy's head. It clatters to his feet as his chest heaves, and he pretends it's Snow, crimson staining his white hair. His gaze snaps toward the television and his stomach churns with dread when he spots that Capitol seal.
Sage. Is it going to be another Propo with Sage? That glimpse of her from the other day still haunts him.
He staggers forward, still clenching his new sword. Even Finnick pauses in twirling his trident to watch as Caesar Flickerman begins his typical greeting to the viewers, fashioning a grim seriousness to his tone that he's adopted since the start of the war. Ptolemus waits for the camera to turn its attention to a guest across from him. But instead, Caesar isn't interviewing someone in The Capitol.
The screen splits in half, Caesar in his studio on one side, and two familiar faces perched in front of a fireplace from his own childhood on the other. He recognizes the tick of his father's jaw and the cool flicker of his mother's eyes as they stare back into the camera. This image of them in their District Two mansion glitches with memories of hundreds of interviews, some he and his sister were part of and others they watched from the hall. Even now, they still wear the masks they always wore for the watching eyes. At this point, they're probably forged into their true faces.
Ptolemus stares dumbly for a moment. The glint of the mantle catches his eye again, and he's sharply reminded of where they are. They're home. They let them go home. He doesn't understand why at first until his father speaks, the grim expression on his features making his blood boil.
"The radicals who have kidnapped our son won't get away with this," Nero states, clutching his wife's trembling hand.
Ptolemus barks out an incredulous laugh that startles everyone around him more than if he started screaming. The ridiculousness of it all is so hilarious it's infuriating, white heat swarming his entire body. He sneers at the image of his "heartbroken" parents, their masks more obvious than they've ever been.
Caesar eats up their rouse like he always does, and Ptolemus turns away from the screen with disgust, swatting a dismissive hand. "Turn this shit off."
No one does. Silence fills the room uncomfortably as the interview continues. He just tries to block it out, hacking at the dummies with a new ferocity now. Kidnapped? That's how they're playing this now — that he was kidnapped?
Realization pierces through him just like his sword in the dummy's heart.
That's how Snow's playing this.
His parents are arguably The Capitol's favorites from Two, and somehow, also the most favored of his home District besides Corbel. There's not a chance in the world they knew anything of the plot. Killing or torturing them could make even the loyalest of dogs turn.
He doesn't know why, but he glances at his mother one more time when no one shows any signs of turning off the broadcast. Like a phantom, her words the morning of the Quell haunt him just when he's begun to forget their chill. I tried to love you, you know. I just couldn't bring myself to. There's a glisten to her eyes that he struggles to determine whether it's real as she speaks about her stolen son. He grimaces and turns away.
It's just as Caesar is mid-sentence that the broadcast is disrupted, glitching into a smoking and fiery scene. The state of the rubbled ruins almost make it impossible to distinguish until Ptolemus notes the fallen factories. Waves of war planes in the shape of a V rocket through the sky and drop their bombs on District Eight, the explosions echoing through the training facility. His once seething blood runs cold.
"Is this happening now?" Finnick breathes, wide eyes peering between them all. His mortified gaze returns to the screen. "Katniss..."
Another rippling explosion that obliterates a building into nothing but rubble and flames. Ptolemus flinches. He thinks he heard screams in the audio. His eyes anxiously scan the frame for a sign of the Mockingjay.
President Snow's voice echoes over the harrowing footage of District Eight like a merciless god casting out a cruel fate. "Let this be a message to the radicals that seek to defy the generous Capitol." Another building crumples as he says it.
"If you bite the hand that tries to feed you, you too will fall."
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She's okay. Katniss Everdeen is okay. Well, whatever that can mean by the standards of their reality these days. Both Finnick and Ptolemus demanded the teen's status once the hovercrafts returned from District Eight. Her recurring concussion has earned her another stay in the hospital where she's been unconscious since her arrival thanks to the effects of the physical exertion and the bombings.
The following morning, she's wheeled into Command for another meeting regarding her next move as the Mockingjay. They replay the footage collected from her visit in District Eight that Ptolemus has already seen the other seventeen times it's been broadcasted. One of which was in the Collective last night, where District Thirteen then broke out into a war cry. HOO-RAH, HOO-RAH, HOO-RAH! Their fists in the air resembled the warriors' of Two as they chant for pride and glory in front of the Justice Building. Preparing to go to two very different kinds of battle. HA-OOH, HA-OOH, HA-OOH!
It starts out pitch black. Then, a tiny spark flickers in the center, eventually blooming into a flower of flames so bright and seething it burns to just look at. Her Mockingjay pin glows a reddish gold, as if freshly off the hot iron. Ptolemus wants to crawl out of his skin every time he hears Claudius Templesmith's voice echoing through the speakers even though it's just a manipulation by Beetee from an old clip.
"Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, burns on."
Then it pans to her in District Eight, smoke and flames billowing behind her. Unlike the ones before, these aren't artificially crafted by pixels. These are real with real people burning beneath.
"I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I'm right here in District Eight, where The Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors." They cut to the hospital caving in on itself from a different angle than Snow's own live broadcast yesterday. "I want to tell people that if you think for one second that The Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do."
Katniss fiercely gestures to the fiery ruins behind her with outrage. "This is what they do! And we must fight back!"
Next comes the montage of an entire battle caught by Cressida, Messalla, Castor and Pollux as they trail behind Katniss and Gale. Bombs falling. The two teens running. A bloody shot of Katniss's wound. Scaling the roof. The rebels shooting at the hovercrafts. Gale and Katniss wielding their weapons and obliterating several from the sky. Katniss's burning gaze bores right into the camera.
"President Snow says he's sending a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us, and bomb us, and burn our Districts to the ground, but you do see that?"
The camera closes in on one of the hovercrafts Katniss shot down as flames chew away The Capitol seal.
"Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!"
Ptolemus gets chills at that part every single time. He understands why Sage believed in this girl so much now.
More flames engulf the screen, and in big black letters, Katniss's words are stamped one more time.
IF WE BURN
YOU BURN WITH US
Coin plays it again. Ptolemus imagines those in the Districts watching this if they can. If they were too scared to fight before, he doubts they are now. Then his mind shifts back to a loyal Two. Will this be enough to snap them out of their programming?
"Did it play all over Panem?" Katniss asks. "Did they see it in The Capitol?"
Plutarch shakes his head. "Not in The Capitol. We couldn't override their system, although Beetee's working on it. But in all the Districts. We even got it on in Two, which may be more valuable than The Capitol at this point in the game."
"Let's hope Ptolemus's parents didn't cause enough harm then," Fulvia pipes up, peering over at him from her end of the table.
If her concerns weren't valid he might offer a snarky reply. Painting him as one of their own stolen by the rebels most certainly doesn't help their cause in the loyal District. He inhales a sharp and whistling breath as he folds his arms across his chest. "I'd be happy to counter their claims." His muscles ache in a way that makes him feel valuable again, the ghostly sensation of his sword whispering against his palm. "Preferably in combat."
Of all people, Gale is the one to question him from his perch. "How do we know you're not a liability in the field?" His gray eyes bore into him with cool distrust, dark brows folded into a faint scowl. At first, Ptolemus thinks he's talking about his vision. "Could be a good chance to run off, or to blow our position to The Capitol. It's not too late for you to be rescued, after all."
Ptolemus flinches at his accusation in bewilderment. The room is unnervingly quiet for a moment. Gale's words hang in the air, sinking into the already wary as they sneak glances at the District Two Legacy. The confusion burns into irritation, and Ptolemus glowers from his end of the table at the teen.
"Do we have a problem?"
Gale raises his chin. "Your parents could've done a lot of damage to any standings we had in Two." A shrug. "I just wonder how much of what they said you agree with."
Ptolemus scoffs, and a few in the room flinch. Katniss included. "You watch my life through a screen and you think you know me, huh?"
"I know your kind," Gale shoots evenly. The suspicion in his eyes burns into a displaced hate.
Katniss nudges her friend, voice a hoarse and taut whisper. "Gale."
"If that were true you'd know when to keep your mouth shut," Ptolemus snaps. Dalton's stare bores into his cheek pointedly, but he ignores it, maintaining his icy gaze with Gale's. Everything about the boy, between his scowl, his glare, and his judgmental tone, is completely and utterly demeaning. "You wouldn't survive a single day of my life."
"Likewise."
President Coin clears her throat impatiently. "Soldier Pierce and Soldier Hawthorne, do you two need to be removed from the room?"
A sarcastic shrug as Ptolemus's knuckles twitch. "I don't know." He raises his brows at Gale. "Do we?"
"Wait." Prospero straightens in his chair beside his sister. His gaze widens ever so slightly with realization, and he peers over at Ptolemus carefully. "That's it. Your life. Your Legacy — even what you started to say in your interview. What if we did a Propo exposing the truth of it all? What would it do to the loyalists in Two to hear how one of their own was really a victim to The Capitol?"
Plutarch raises his brows as he digests the proposal. A slow and satisfied nod. "I think it might wake them up to realize they're victims too."
Gale makes a sound in his throat that resembles a scoff, jaw ticking at that. Ptolemus dares him with his eyes to open his mouth one more time. Instead, Cressida is the one to interject.
"That could work." The tattooed woman eyes her crew. They nod in agreement. "On top of some additional plans we have with our footage from Eight and Katniss's other moments, we have plenty to work with. And then Fulvia came up with a really brilliant idea."
That bitter expression that she's worn since her initial Propo was scrapped drops from her features suddenly. Once she feels the stares in her direction, she regains her composure, shrugging coolly. "Well, I don't know how brilliant it is, but I was thinking we could do a series of Propos called We Remember. In each one, we would feature one of the dead Tributes. Little Rue from Eleven or old Mags from Four. The idea being that we could target each District with a very personal piece."
"A Tribute to your Tributes, as it were," Plutarch adds.
Ptolemus can already think of several names that have long been forgotten as faceless children. Some he trained alongside with at The Academy. Some he mentored and watched die. Some whose blood stains his own fellow Victors' hands. There's so many he doesn't know where to start.
Katniss straightens with interest. "That is brilliant, Fulvia." Sincerity graces her tone. "It's the perfect way to remind people why they're fighting."
"I think it could work," she says. "I thought we might use Finnick and Ptolemus to intro and narrate the spots. If there was interest in them."
Ptolemus nods within a heartbeat. "I'm in."
"Frankly, I don't see how we could have too many We Remember propos," Coin pipes up. She raises her brows. "Can you start producing them today?"
"Of course."
Cressida and the others fine tune the remaining Propo ideas and prepare their final plans. Messalla will finish cutting the footage from Eight, reiterating Katniss's line "This is what they do," while showing the patients before and after the bombing. Then there's more footage from other Districts as they continue their rebellion. Fulvia plans to work with Ptolemus and Finnick today after lunch on the We Remember Propos.
"Make sure you start thinking about what you want to say," the Capitol woman insists pointedly. "I want to get some footage gathered as soon as possible."
Ptolemus nods as he pushes in his chair. "I've already got a few Tributes in mind."
"Not just the Tributes." Prospero straighens and shakes his head. "But also about your Legacy."
He doesn't know why his stomach sinks like an anchor when he says that. This is something he's always wanted. To douse his family name in gasoline and set a match to it all. Yet now, given a new opportunity, an opportunity where it truly could mean something more than revenge, it seems even more daunting.
He isn't able to focus for the rest of the day. Not at his therapy with Dr. Fission. Nor down in Special Defense as he trains with his sword and Soldier Emery again. He can tell Shiloh notices his silence at lunch, but he chooses not to say anything, simply leaving him alone. Ptolemus remains trapped in his mind, all the angry and heartbroken voices in his being coming to life, ready to finally tell their story.
He's the last one to arrive to the Propo Set. Finnick has already begun filming some of the We Remember's, currently speaking upon Mags and her memory. While his voice is measured and eloquent, tears shine in his eyes with every beautifully woven word. It almost distracts Ptolemus for a moment as he recalls the poor elderly woman and her own bravery to volunteer for the Quell.
Prospero notes his entrance and stands quietly from his chair, careful not to disturb Finnick's monologue. His voice is a low whisper as he hands Ptolemus a slip of paper. "I know you said you had some names, but I have one in particular that I think could really hit home."
A glance down at the slanted writing.
Selene Elpis
Ptolemus frowns at first. Then the understanding behind the motive comes as he nods. "She was my father's District Partner." He knows and remembers the story well even if her image is blurry. "He killed her in her sleep after they made plans to hunt down the last two Tributes in the morning."
"Yes." Prospero sighs. "I thought it'd be great to show what the Games make you do. Turn on your own."
Ptolemus realizes how he's seemed to follow in his father's footsteps yet again. Sterling in his first Games, and Enobaria in the Quell. He's not sure if Prospero is doing this on purpose — it clear that his sister doesn't like him. The man takes him by surprise yet again, but not with any kind of reassurance.
"I heard rumors, you know. About your family." Prospero taps the girl's name again before starting back toward the booth. "I heard she was your mother's best friend."
Rumors. He thought he knew all the rumors about his family. There were always so many, those Capitol tabloids and headlines scripting his entire life for him before he even knew what it was himself. But this one? Ptolemus has never heard this one, not even as a whisper. His brows furrow as he rereads his father's District Partner's name over and over again.
Growing up, Ptolemus wasn't a fool when it came to his parents and their relationship to one another. Sure, there was the adoration for the cameras, but the moment they were off, they were the perfect example of everything love isn't. They were robotic and indifferent, forced in one another's company and begrudgingly learning how to coexist with the other. It didn't take him long to realize that it wasn't respect that his father held for his mother if there couldn't be love. It was fear.
Probably because he murdered her best friend and she earned a 12 in her evaluation.
Something resembling sympathy almost twinges in his chest at the thought. Before it can flourish without his permission, he scowls, snuffing it out quickly. There is no sympathy for a woman as cold and as manipulative as his mother. Only pity. He knows she'd hate his pity.
Finnick continues to share the lives of several murdered Tributes for another forty minutes. It's strange witnessing the man who's been lost at sea this past month eventually find some land to ground himself on. Between his training with his trident and these Propos, it almost seems like the old Finnick has resurfaced. One that Ptolemus only partially knows and has spent this past decade despising, yet at the same time, knows as well as he knows himself.
He hates how well he knows him. It makes him harder to hate. Dr. Metis's words echo in his memory, and he grinds his teeth together.
There's a personal touch to every word Finnick utters that buries mourning into everyone's heart. As if they knew them too. As if they grieve them too.
Finally, it's Ptolemus's turn in front of the camera. He begins with the easiest. Alessandra — his sister of course. He notices Finnick stares at the floor the entire time that he speaks of her.
He mostly talks about their childhood together more than her Games. The beatings. The manipulation. The pressure not to crack all while trying to obtain not just the glory of their name but the conditional love of their parents. How she protected him as children from his father's fists and his mother's cruel tongue. How he still tries to protect her even though she's long gone, guarding her memory with every ounce of strength he has.
Ptolemus has to stop and take breaks several times as that crippling pain creeps up on him again. Tears swell in his eyes and his throat closes in on him. Instead of blinking them away, he lets them fall while filming for all the times he wasn't allowed to mourn her publicly. They will not forget his sister's name.
Eventually, he moves onto Aetos — a boy he trained alongside with in the same Academy class and the first Tribute he ever Mentored. Excellent with a sword, but an even greater musician. The Gamemakers had no heart for his skill or his songs as they drowned him in that Arena.
Then Cato. His own zealousy and blind belief in The Capitol's preachings leading to his brutal demise. He quotes what he said on top of the Cornucopia while Katniss aimed her arrow. "I was already dead anyway, right?" A heartbreaking realization moments before being torn apart by Mutts for agonizing hours. Did The Capitol care about his passion for their Games then as they mutilated his corpse for his family to scatter crumbs over?
Ptolemus then shifts away from Careers and to Ten. Sage's District. He recalls Mateo and his selflessness to save his friend and protect Taura in the Arena — a characteristic of him that The Capitol failed to acknowledge compared to his temper. Then that look. That look in his eyes as he glared hellfire into the Arena camera before splitting it into shards with his blade. He never lost his fight. Not even at the end.
He can still hear the crack of that poor boy's skull beneath that brick. Just like he can hear the whimpering and weeping from Marcellus next door in the dead of night. What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?
Two children lost their lives that day, one buried deep in the dirt and another buried deep in his guilt.
Next is Shep. He's nervous to talk about Shep. He knows how much he meant to Sage, and while he didn't know him well like she did, he wants to do his story justice. Even though he thinks he's butchered it, ready to ask Fulvia to cut the tape, he notes the faint tears in her eyes. Perhaps it's worth something after all.
He almost forgets about the girl until he feels the crumpled and sweat-stained paper in his fist again. When he opens it, the ink of her name is smudged, almost inlegible. Also scrubbed out of history.
So he writes Selene back in, attempting his very best to recollect the faint glimpses of his father's District Partner. When he finishes, he's immensely parched, throat aching and dry.
"Are you ready to dive deeper about your family?" Prospero asks, handing him a water.
He doesn't know. A pause as he wipes at his aching temple with the back of his hand, staring down at the floor. He's quiet for a long time, just taking small sips between breaths.
"I'm not sure what to say."
Fulvia's brows pinch into an incredulous frown. Just when it seems her impatience might get the best of her, puckered lips parting, her brother interjects with a sympathetic nod. "We can try tomorrow then." He glances between Ptolemus and Finnick. "What you've given us should be plenty for now."
They seem to be excused as the two Cardew siblings and the Propo Team return to their booth to work with the footage. No one escorts them out, so they do so themselves. Ptolemus stalks toward the door hastily, still clenching that slip of paper. His heart is pounding. He doesn't know why his heart is pounding. He rubs at the back of his clammy neck anxiously when he thinks about his mother. Why is he thinking about his mother? There's a glint in her eye and a glint of the mantle behind her head in that Propo again.
I tried to love you, you know. A visible wince. I just couldn't bring myself to.
His imagination fills in the holes for him before he can stop it, running absolutely wild. He knows neither his sister Alessandra nor himself were wanted out of pure unconditional love. Only to continue the lineage of their beloved Legacy. To show their power. The Games's power. But this girl — Selene Elpis, who's still just a blurry face in his father's footage — adds another layer to it all.
What would it mean? What would it mean to be forced to wed the man who killed your best friend and bear his children?
Agony, probably. Ptolemus scowls deeply and feels a stabbing pain dig into that hole of his chest again. He lets the crinkled paper fall to the elevator floor. It would mean agony. The same kind of agony his mother relentlessly and shamelessly passed down to him and Ally. His mother knew suffering but still chose to burden her children with it.
She didn't ask for them to be born. But neither did they.
Someone's stare is boring into his right cheek as the elevator soars past level upon level. It grounds and irritates him at the same time. Ptolemus turns his body and head to Finnick's unreadable gaze, glowering back.
"What?" Annoyance laces his tone and makes it echo in the shaft.
Finnick blinks back at him silently for a moment. His brows pinch into a frown, as if he's already forgotten. Knowing the man's current state of mind, it wouldn't surprise him. It almost makes you feel bad for him, which also irritates Ptolemus. He doesn't want to feel bad for him.
"You dropped something," Finnick finally says.
Ptolemus huffs shortly through his nose. "I know." He makes no moves to pick it up. God, when are they going to get to the hospital floor?
Silence ensues, but unfortunately not long enough for Ptolemus's taste as Finnick clears his throat again, seeming to remember. "How do you like Beetee's swo —"
"Stop." He shakes his head and grinds his teeth together as he turns to glare into the elevator door instead. "We're not doing this. No fucking way are we doing this."
Finnick's brows knit together with confusion the way they always seem to do these days. "Which is...?"
"Small talk. I'll tolerate you for our Propos to win the war and save Sage, but I am not having small talk with you."
Finnick just stares. Then he glances at the levels zooming past them with faint bemusement. "Well it's a long way up, so..."
"It's longer when you talk," Ptolemus snaps. A dismissive jut of his chin at his rope. "Just shut up and tie your knots, Odair."
The man narrows his eyes at that. Rather than that foggy stare, he's clear again as he holds Ptolemus's glare. He straightens and ties his knots, shrugging with a frustrating nonchalance. "Suit yourself."
Ptolemus doesn't feel bad. Maybe he should, but he doesn't. Given all the feelings he felt before towards Finnick, annoyance is a much better alternative compared to that rage that he could use to bash his head in. Progress is progress. Dr. Metis might be proud. The elevator starts to slow to the hospital floor the same time that Finnick's lips part again.
"I remember what I wanted to say now," he announces distantly, brows furrowed into a pensive frown. Ptolemus clenches his jaw as he feels that stare boring into his right cheek again. He's almost thankful he's lost sight in that eye now so he can't see his very punchable face. "Your Propos made me think of it. And I just..."
His voice trails. Is he going to forget again? The elevator doors part, and Finnick takes a step forward, angling himself so that even if Ptolemus doesn't turn his head, he's still in his left eye's vision.
"For what it's worth." Again, there's no fog, no sea mist, no storms. Just rain in Finnick's gaze, that signature smirk pursed into a grim line. "There's not a day that goes by that your sister doesn't haunt me."
He almost scoffs. Partly for agreement, because there isn't a day that goes by that Ally doesn't haunt him either. Then partly for amusement — the thought that Finnick is kept up at night by her death feeling like a semblence of justice. But unfortunately, he gains no satisfaction from the revelation.
The two just stare silently and warily at one another. Neither of them take a step to leave just yet. Now when Ptolemus looks at Finnick, perhaps for the first time ever, there appears to be a sign of remorse in his eyes. Maybe it was always there and he couldn't notice it before, or maybe it wasn't. Either way, it's so blaring like the sun he can't stand to look at it anymore.
A soft hum vibrates in his throat, and Ptolemus ducks his head, taking a sharp stride out of the elevator. His shoulder brushes Finnick's as he stalks toward Dr. Metis's office. "Me too."
For the next hour or so, Ptolemus spends his session mostly in silence. There's too many voices in his head again that he can't seem to use his own.
I tried to love you, you know. I just couldn't bring myself to.
I know your kind.
I heard she was your mother's best friend.
Are you ready to dive deeper into your family?
For what it's worth — there's not a day that goes by that your sister doesn't —
"I don't know if I can do this," he finally breathes, lungs heaving as if he's finally broken the surface for a much needed breath. He toys with his wedding ring. "I mean — I know I want to do this. I want to help, I want to expose my family, The Capitol, all of it. I just don't know if I can do it in the right way. In a way that will mean something."
Dr. Metis nods empathetically. It's a long time before she says anything again as well, her expertise always so measured.
"I think regardless, whether you believe it or not, what you have to say is going to mean something for the state of this war." She holds his wary and dubious gaze evenly. "So that being said, perhaps just focus on ensuring it means something to you."
Ptolemus leaves their session with a whirlpool of thoughts swirling around him again. Yet, they're starting to clear, ones that are empty evaporating slowly while the others that matter still linger. He feels a purpose condensing the same time that he passes his old hospital room.
Next to it is Katniss Everdeen's again, her concussion earning her another stay. He thinks about stalking right past it, as he's already late for dinner and surely the Navarro's will be worried, but his knuckles rap softly against the doorway before he can think better of it.
"Hey."
Katniss stiffens at the intrusion, shoulders taut like wire as she balances her meal tray on her lap. Behind her, the various Propos from her time in Eight play on the screen. Her confused and uneasy stare bores in his direction, and it's when she looks at him like that that he probably realizes he should've just kept walking. After all, he did threaten her best friend in Command today.
Then when he sees who's seated beside her, he really wishes he would've kept walking. Finnick just blinks dumbly at his towering frame in the doorway.
Ptolemus forces his gaze away, clearing his throat and focusing on a stiff Katniss again. He lingers awkwardly. "Just uh, wanted to see how you were feeling...?"
"Oh." She blinks. Then she nods curtly. "Better."
He side-glances Finnick, but fortunately, he isn't looking at him anymore. Instead, he's watching the Propo. Ptolemus nods and exhales, ready to turn on his heels. This was stupid. "That's good." An awkward wave of his hand. "Enjoy your meal."
He's just about fled when Katniss adds something that makes him pause. "I'm sorry for what Gale said today."
A pause. Ptolemus lingers in the doorway and studies the teen for any hints of bitterness or deceit. He doesn't find anything as she just blinks at him. Her gaze falls back to her lap before she can note his subtle nod of gratitude.
It's at the same time that the Propo of the hospital crashing and burning to the ground that The Capitol anthem rumbles from the speakers. All three of them stiffen, and Ptolemus feels his heart nervously lurch so much so he becomes nauseous. Caesar Flickerman emerges from the seal, and a familiar scene in the Presidential Palace returns. Ptolemus doesn't know whether to be worried or relieved when his special guest is Peeta again.
But then he really looks at him. And it's when he looks at him that he sees that the whole boy from only five days ago has been brutally picked apart. The bags under his eyes. The tremor of his hands. Even the faint grimace that contorts his features with each breath. Katniss notices it too, because she's shaking, a trembling hand hovering over her lips as she gasps.
"Oh, Peeta..."
There's empty exchanges and introductions before Caesar dives into the point of the interview. Katniss's most recent Propo to support the rebels.
"They're using her, obviously," Peeta argues. "To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."
"Even his voice sounds different," she whimpers. "What are they doing to him?"
Ptolemus can't bear to think about it. Whatever they're doing to Peeta, they're probably doing the same or much worse to Sage. He remains rigid in the doorway and just watches, chest barely moving.
"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" Caesar asks.
"There is." Peeta shifts in his seat, barely stifling a grimace. He looks directly into the camera with every word.
"Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't... find out."
Ptolemus sucks in a breath and braces for them to reuse that footage of the Victors with Snow. He braces himself for Sage. She never comes. Instead, an ominous black floods the screen. Then the seal — but no Snow or Sage. Their show is over.
Finnick hits the switch on the remote to draw the television to silence. Ptolemus's mind starts to wander back into the shadows again. No Sage. Why didn't they show Sage again? Did they not show her because she's —
"We didn't see it."
Katniss blinks at Finnick in a teary daze as he grips her arms. "What?"
"We didn't see Peeta," he repeats sternly. Then he glances over his shoulder at a bewildered Ptolemus. He feels himself clutching his aching chest again. "Only the Propo in Eight."
The Legacy straightens and nods with understanding. He's well versed in performances. Finnick stares back at Katniss.
"Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?" Katniss nods. "Finish your dinner."
━━━━
Katniss surprises Ptolemus when she invites him to go hunting with her the next day during Training. He's about to decline until he notes that pointed look in her eye. Then he hears the secret in her voice. One that he's kept close to his chest as well, and fortunately, the Navarro's didn't mention a word of it last night. Perhaps he was too preoccupied by his worries for Sage to notice. He agrees tiredly, running on two hours of sleep from all the crying.
It seems he wasn't the only one invited. He and Finnick are given their trackers by the guards, then led by Katniss into the woods. Ptolemus makes sure to linger on the opposite side of her and away from Finnick. She's the only one actually armed to hunt. If Ptolemus weren't so distracted, he might take the time to actually savor the freedom of being on the other side of Thirteen's fence.
None of them say a word as they wander, but when Katniss ditches her communicator under a bush subtly, so do they. They follow her for a good distance. A gnat buzzes in Ptolemus's ear, and he swats it away with irritation.
"Has anyone said anything?" Katniss murmurs warily.
"Sage's family didn't mention a thing. Neither did Dalton." Ptolemus scratches at his cheek. "Just that I was late for dinner."
Finnick clears his throat. "I haven't heard one word about it either. No one's told you anything?" Katniss shakes her head. He pauses. "Not even Gale?"
Ptolemus tries not to scowl at the teen's name. His accusations from yesterday still ring in his ears, and he glares out at the thick trees to forget. He tries to attempt civility for Erabelle's sake given her new best friend is his little sister.
"Maybe he's trying to find a time to tell you privately," Finnick offers quietly.
She doesn't seem convinced. "Maybe."
No one says anything for a long time. It's so quiet that a buck wanders across their path, and Katniss takes it down easily. She scrounges up three turkeys as well. Ptolemus and Finnick drag the game back to the fence. Later, at dinner, there's some minced venison mixed in with the stew. It's gamey, but it's better than the typical slop scrounged up by the farms.
At the table next to him, he can see Katniss doesn't seem to have much of an appetite. Instead, there's a sunken look to her features, trembling fingers knit together as her wary eyes scan the room for stares. Finnick sits beside her mutely with Gale on the other side. Ptolemus is just about to ask Shiloh how Training was today when that familiar tune echoes through the cafeteria again.
Erabelle gasps and lurches from her seat, scrambling toward the closest screen. "Aunt Sage!"
Ptolemus's head whips around at the sound of her name, and his knee bangs into the table from standing so sharply. His wide eye trails the little girl until it lifts to the screen she tries so desperately to reach for, like a star just out of her grasp. The sight of her sends him stumbling forward too. Then his racing heart drops right into the pit of his gut as if it were thrown over a cliff, the pasture running out.
"Mija," Mrs. Navarro gasps and cries.
Sage looks worse than she did in the first Propo. Instead of wondering if her cheeks look hollower, or if her arms are slimmer, he sees it so clearly he feels himself growing ill. She's so pale — even with the blush they've powdered onto her flesh. Again, she wears another white dress, the collar squeezing her throat. Ptolemus hears someone wheezing. It takes him a moment to realize it's himself, the rest of the chatter and scraping silverware in the dining hall falling silent.
"Sage Navarro," Caesar greets grimly from his chair. Then he frowns, almost unsure of himself. "Or... Sage Pierce? Sage Navarro - Pierce."
Caesar grins meekly and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what to call you anymore."
Sage just stares at her wedding ring silently. Ptolemus feels his own burning against his flesh, and he draws it to his sputtering heart, choking on a sob.
What are they doing to her? What the hell are they doing to her?
"And I think neither does Panem," Caesar continues. "Friend... or foe? Would you care to enlighten us on that?"
A pause. Someone clears their throat, though he can't tell if it's Caesar. It sounded off camera. Sage slowly and tiredly removes her stare from her ring and past the host's shoulder. Her voice sounds so empty.
"My name or my allegiance?"
"The second one." Caesar adjusts his crossed legs in his seat and tilts his head at her. "I think we're all a little confused by your performance in those Games. Lying to the Careers, your husband included, turning on Cashmere, then cutting out your trackers and running to help the others. It looks suspicious."
Sage gnaws on her bottom lip and just blinks. A faint nod. "Hm."
Tears brim across his vision and fall as he drinks her in. He thinks he sees a heavy brush of concealer between where her brow and cheek bone meet. He knows what that means.
His voice breaks into a breathless murmur, lungs still heaving that he can barely breathe. "Oh my God, Sage. Baby..."
She grimaces as the collar of her dress digs into her neck. Ptolemus shudders and clutches his heaving ribs. A little hand latches onto his, a teary Erabelle leaning into his hip.
"Do you deny doing those things?" Caesar prods further.
"No," Sage says.
"So do you admit your guilt for what you did in the Quell to help the rebels' plan?"
A steady nod, and her trembling fingers are clinging to each other again. The rest of her starts to shake too. "Yes."
Caesar straightens, blinking at her as he digests her truth. No one in the dining hall breathes a word. If this a trial, she's about to be sentenced. Finally, he asks the question. "Do you regret it?"
Sage pauses. She stares at her wedding ring again. Oh God, what Ptolemus would give to be able to reach into that screen and take her away from it all. To never let them hurt her ever again. Ptolemus stiffly waits with everyone else. She chokes on the words and bites down on her bottom lip again to the point she draws blood.
"Yes."
That's when the murmurs start. The gasps. The rumbling of anger. Even the curses, and if Ptolemus weren't holding Erabelle's hand, he might unleash his wrath on anyone who utters one ill word about his wife. Instead, he clenches his jaw and holds his ground, still clinging to the image of her talking and breathing on the screen.
"Why?" Caesar asks, pretending to be dumbfounded. As if this entire interview isn't scripted.
Sage doesn't answer now. Instead, her eyes shine with glass, Ptolemus recognizing the veil that's shifted over her stare. Another cleared throat in the background, and she flinches, teary and frightened gaze shifting just past the camera lens briefly.
"Are you saying that you denounce the war?" Caesar asks pointedly. "Are you with Peeta like you were in that jungle, calling for a cease-fire?"
Sage straightens sharply at that. For whatever reason, she comes to, and a faint spark burns in her eyes, her voice strong and full. "I denounce all violence, Caesar."
Ptolemus can hear the double meaning in what she's saying. Violence like the Hunger Games, like the brutal Peacekeepers, like the punishment inflicted upon the Districts. Always so clever.
"I only want peace for Panem. That's why I'm here."
"I see." He inches forward in his seat as he prepares to ask her one last question. "What message do you have for the rebels you once called your friends?"
Sage turns to the camera this time at her cue. Just like for Peeta, it looks painful, a hitched breath escaping her.
"My message is that it's not too late. It's not too late to lay down your weapons and see what this war will really do to us all if it continues." Ptolemus can feel the anger. He feels the anger rising in him and rising in this room, though for entirely different reasons. His chest heaves, all of it filling him to the brim just like the tears in her eyes.
"I know I have." Sage flinches when President Snow's gloved hands gently find her shoulders as he takes his place behind her. A tear rolls down her cheek, and she struggles to hide the tremor from her voice. Ptolemus is going to be sick.
"I've been given mercy, and so can you."
"Lay down your weapons." President Snow's swollen lips curl into a menacing grin as he speaks. He drums Sage's shoulders lightly with his fingers, and she shakily raises her chin. Ptolemus could tear him apart, and his knuckles twitch at his side. "And you can see how merciful we can be."
Someone throws their tray at the screen the same time it blackens. Just like that, Sage is gone, and Ptolemus is gutted, miraculously able to stand. Beneath all the unrest, he can hear her family weeping behind him. As he turns, he hears the first of many to curse his wife's name.
"TRAITOR!" A man a table over hollers. "SHE'S A TRAITOR!"
The rage swarms his hollow insides with flames, and Ptolemus launches forward before he can think better of it. There's several gasps. His knuckles almost wrap around the man's throat, but two familiar figures latch onto him just in time. The first he recognizes as Shiloh. The other is Finnick of all people. The man glowers back at a fuming Ptolemus in fury and bewilderment. Dalton has to help Finnick and Shiloh to hold his thrashing form back.
"SAY IT AGAIN!" Ptolemus screams, almost breaking free. A few flinch. "SAY IT AGAIN!"
There's a dart of a black braid rushing toward the Thirteen man as his lips curl into another snarl to shoot more venom. No words come out as Erabelle lands a brutal kick right into the man's shin. She wails the most ragged and gut-wrenching wail. "Leave us alone!"
The man clutches his knee, then scowls at the little girl. Another nearby soldier reaches to grab her by the arm and pull her away. Ptolemus lurches again, and Shiloh almost lets him go. Coretta shrieks.
"HEY! LAY OFF HER!"
Just when one of the soldiers has her thrashing form by the arm, Almanzo snatches her back, clutching his daughter protectively. She sobs into her father's chest as he glares daggers at the others. His voice harbors something so menacing Ptolemus never thought a man like Almanzo could possess. "Don't touch my kid."
More and more start to glare and whisper. Some are brave and stupid enough to shout hateful names about Sage in the Navarro's direction. Ptolemus hears someone call her a coward, and he jerks forward. Finnick, Shiloh and Dalton struggle to drag him out of the dining hall. He can hear Coretta crying as she clutches Erabelle, and Mr. Navarro tries to console his weeping wife while weeping himself. It all makes him almost cave into himself as the rage is replaced by stabbing sorrow.
"You gotta stop doing that," Dalton demands, slamming the dining hall doors shut behind him. He's out of breath, and Finnick and Shiloh take over to draw Ptolemus against the opposite wall.
The Legacy's lips curl into an outraged snarl. "Did you see?! Did you see what they're doing to her?" That glimpse of Sage stains his vision, and he remembers the echo in her broken voice. It makes his shoulders and ribs tremble as another sob chokes him. He looks to a stiff and silent Shiloh with teary eyes. "Oh God, what are they doing to her?"
Shiloh clenches his jaw and shakes his head, closing his eyes. If he didn't have to hold onto Ptolemus, he looks like he might collapse too.
"Anyone with a brain can figure out she's been tortured," Dalton admits. Then he points an accusatory finger. "But you've got to control your temper. Even if they're wrong — because that doesn't matter here. You're an outsider and if you keep acting like one they are not going to hesitate to send you down to the prisons. You'll never see the sun again."
Shiloh straightens with realization. His eyes widen. "What about Erabelle?"
"She's six, she'll be fine." Dalton huffs. "They'll probably put her in some therapy or anger management classes. Maybe both. And you?" He looks to Ptolemus pointedly again. "Well I can't be everywhere, and I'm not strong enough to hold you back every time. I'm sixty-five, you know."
Ptolemus might feel guilty if he weren't still so angry. Angry and distraught as he recounts that terror in Sage's eyes. He'd give the entire world to save her. To at least take her place instead.
Dalton sighs a heavy long sigh. His frustration is replaced with sympathy. "You should probably head back to your Compartment. Best to lay low after all that today. I'll get your folks."
With that, the man turns on his heels back into the dining hall. When the door opens briefly, Ptolemus can still hear the murmurs. Shiloh follows warily too. He almost forgets Finnick's even here until his bronze hair flashes in his vision again. He stares at Ptolemus with a solemn glint to his eye. Like he's looking into a mirror.
"Do you remember what I said to you at the fountain?"
Ptolemus blinks at him. The conversation is sharp in his memory, but at first, he thinks he's talking about what he said regarding his sister. Finnick holds his tone and gaze steadily. When he squeezes his shoulder, both of them are surprised Ptolemus doesn't shove him away.
"Everything people like us do comes back to those we love ten times."
He remembers.
Sometimes more.
━━━━
»»————- ♡ ————-««
Ahhhh thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!!!
10k words later 🧍♀️
Please let me know what you think!! I love hearing from you!! This chapter stresses me out with trying to keep finnick and Katniss in character. I think finnick is particularly hard to write personally.
But a lot happened!! Favorite part? Thoughts? Some more info on Petra and her backstory and then poor Sage's Propo :( I'm ngl I'm so ready to just reunite them. We've got the district 12 propo and peeta's warning with thirteen going into lockdown and then it'll be time!! Ahhh!!!
I need Sage and Tolly reunited as much as you do.
I don't like using baby much in romance and in general but once in a while if used sparingly I think it hits so I hope that wasn't cringe 🧍♀️
Please let me know your thoughts on everything!! On finnick and Tolly? Tolly and Katniss? Petra? Not giving her a pass at all, but her story is super crazy so I really want to share it! And Sage's propo? Ugh my poor girl I miss her so much.
Thank you again!
Word Count: 10552