The Hunger Games fic: Ironies of Living Free
Title: Ironies of Living Free
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,269
Summary: What we’ve fought for is too far along to fail, with or without us. Our jobs are done. It would be selfish to leave Peeta alone, to leave Annie alone-scared, sorrowful, dead.
Author’s Notes: Spoilers through Chapter 13 of Mockingjay.
Ironies of Living Free
I’ve knotted and unknotted and reknotted my length of rope so many times I do it in my sleep now. I wake, and sometimes I discover I’ve fastened it so firmly my skin has turned blue. Not this time, though. It’s snug in my hand, devoid of any knots at all. Seeing the familiar ceiling above me, for a moment everything’s normal. Until I remember it isn’t. I clench the rope and the rough braid leaves indents in my palm.
“Peeta! Annie! Thank God.”
“You.”
“Peeta, no, don’t!”
Bedraggled brown hair obscuring my vision. Delicate neck snapped.
An animalistic wail.
“I didn’t mean to-not to her.”
A mirror smashed.
“Peeta, wait! Peeta…”
(Blood, there was so much blood. Snow’s roses have nothing on that stench. The doctors had cleaned it up quick, had sedated Finnick and me quick. I still don’t know where they put the bodies. Didn’t have the wherewithal to ask.)
I garner stares just about everywhere I go, though by now I’ve learned to ignore them. Let them stare. Let them ogle at their precious Mockingjay. Let them whisper amongst themselves. I don’t care. Doctors, too, regard me like I’m a bomb waiting to go off, even though it was they who cleared my mental health. Like I’m Peeta. Well I’m not like Peeta. At least, not the Capitol version of him. I’m just…done.
No one stops me when I wander into the armory and take out a length of rope. Everyone’s seen me with my battered piece; for all they know, I just need a replacement. It’s a reasonable assumption. Wrong, but reasonable. It’s good rope, strong rope.
The whole thing isn’t that hard, really. There are plenty of trees, trees I’ve maneuvered around when hunting in this dismal district. At the time I hadn’t meant them to be used for this purpose, but things change. There are plenty of trees that would work, an appalling number, really. I glance behind me, but no one follows. I guess my acting skills, my feigning of I’m all right, I promise, Peeta was pretty much dead to me anyway, really, I swear, I’m fine are better than I’d thought. Good.
As I come upon an ideal tree, as I consider where I am, what I am, the similarities aren’t lost on me.
I can hear Father’s voice inside my head as though he’s right next to me, singing.
I’m even worse, if we’re frank. I’ve killed far more people than three and no one’s punished me for it.
I begin to manipulate the rope in my hands. “Are you, are you coming to the tree,” I sing aloud, taking over for my father, “where the dead man called out for his love to flee?”
I haven’t done this knot much, even after Finnick had gifted me his rope. The last time I’ve done this purposefully was when I hanged Seneca Crane. (His effigy, anyway.) What a long time ago that seems. My movements are clumsy. I wonder how long I’ll have here. They’d let me go out to hunt, but only for brief periods, and with what happened, I doubt I have longer than a few hours before somebody wises up. No matter. I’d see them coming towards me in plenty of time.
I toss the rope over the branch and then make quick work of climbing up to it. The bark is rough underneath my hands, aggravating half-healed burns. I secure the line with one of the few knots I had mastered and it holds. I gaze out at the woods in front of me, at the buildings behind me, at the sky above me, and inhale deeply. Soon. Soon.
“Are you, are you coming to the tree,” I sing again. Are there mockingjays anywhere? That’d be pleasant. Fitting. “Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free?”
He’s so silent I don’t even realize he’s there until he’s at my branch, lazily perching beside me. He’s always been like that, though it took me a while to appreciate it. Quiet. It’s what’s made us good hunting partners. His eyes are swollen and red and the skin on his bones is too taut, yet he’s still so stunning, so arresting it’s almost unfair. The wind blows his hair in his face. He needs it cut.
I look at his hands, which hold a rope of his own. It’s fashioned like mine, only better. The lines are straight, even. The knot is tight. He catches my resentful glare and his exhalation is almost a laugh. He unravels my attempt, guides my clumsy fingers with his nimble ones until mine, too, is as perfect as his golden cheekbones.
I didn’t ask him to come, he didn’t know what tree, and yet here we are. You came when I called, I think wryly. I don’t love Finnick like I loved Peeta, but then, the lyrics aren’t that specific.
“Nice song,” he comments. He hums something that’s not the song. His voice is husky, raw. He’s screamed and sobbed even more than I have.
I rest my head on his shoulder, allowing myself a last moment of weakness. I’m so tired. His arm falls around my waist, and though his muscles are strong as ever, there’s a certain sag to them as well. His chest rises and falls, slowly. I’m tired, too, it seems to say. We’ve been through so much, he and I.
It’s well past dark, the buildings illuminated and the moon casting pale light upon us, when the yells come. Probably my name. Distant. They won’t get here in time, I’ve planned it this way.
I look to my right. We’ve planned it this way.
The light is such that I can make out his eyes, those beautiful sea green eyes that have captivated so many and expressed so much. They have been a heartbreaking hurricane for weeks, but now there is calm. Resignation. The promise of, finally, an end to suffering. I imagine mine are the same, and suddenly I’m glad I’m not here alone. That’s all I’d wanted originally, but now I can’t see it any other way, without the person who knows me best. There are no explanations needed, no justifications. We just know.
My mother had once said that people who do this to themselves are selfish, that they don’t think of others. At the time, I’d agreed. Now, I don’t share the same sentiment. My entire life has been unselfish. His entire life has been unselfish. What we’ve fought for is too far along to fail, with or without us. Our jobs are done. It would be selfish to leave Peeta alone, to leave Annie alone, scared, sorrowful, dead. Finnick pulls me closer, as though he can read my thoughts. He probably can.
There are calls for his name as well that come to my ears but he doesn’t seem to acknowledge them, so neither do I.
Still, they’re fast approaching, and we don’t have much time.
Finnick puts his necklace over his head, secures it. Then he lets go of me and drapes my necklace of rope over my head, too, affixes it as delicately and surely as he does with the most complicated of knots.
He clasps my hand comfortingly, eyes bright. I press my lips to his and he smiles against them, everything I needed to say understood. I squeeze his hand tighter and with an unspoken cue, we jump.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,269
Summary: What we’ve fought for is too far along to fail, with or without us. Our jobs are done. It would be selfish to leave Peeta alone, to leave Annie alone-scared, sorrowful, dead.
Author’s Notes: Spoilers through Chapter 13 of Mockingjay.
Ironies of Living Free
I’ve knotted and unknotted and reknotted my length of rope so many times I do it in my sleep now. I wake, and sometimes I discover I’ve fastened it so firmly my skin has turned blue. Not this time, though. It’s snug in my hand, devoid of any knots at all. Seeing the familiar ceiling above me, for a moment everything’s normal. Until I remember it isn’t. I clench the rope and the rough braid leaves indents in my palm.
“Peeta! Annie! Thank God.”
“You.”
“Peeta, no, don’t!”
Bedraggled brown hair obscuring my vision. Delicate neck snapped.
An animalistic wail.
“I didn’t mean to-not to her.”
A mirror smashed.
“Peeta, wait! Peeta…”
(Blood, there was so much blood. Snow’s roses have nothing on that stench. The doctors had cleaned it up quick, had sedated Finnick and me quick. I still don’t know where they put the bodies. Didn’t have the wherewithal to ask.)
I garner stares just about everywhere I go, though by now I’ve learned to ignore them. Let them stare. Let them ogle at their precious Mockingjay. Let them whisper amongst themselves. I don’t care. Doctors, too, regard me like I’m a bomb waiting to go off, even though it was they who cleared my mental health. Like I’m Peeta. Well I’m not like Peeta. At least, not the Capitol version of him. I’m just…done.
No one stops me when I wander into the armory and take out a length of rope. Everyone’s seen me with my battered piece; for all they know, I just need a replacement. It’s a reasonable assumption. Wrong, but reasonable. It’s good rope, strong rope.
The whole thing isn’t that hard, really. There are plenty of trees, trees I’ve maneuvered around when hunting in this dismal district. At the time I hadn’t meant them to be used for this purpose, but things change. There are plenty of trees that would work, an appalling number, really. I glance behind me, but no one follows. I guess my acting skills, my feigning of I’m all right, I promise, Peeta was pretty much dead to me anyway, really, I swear, I’m fine are better than I’d thought. Good.
As I come upon an ideal tree, as I consider where I am, what I am, the similarities aren’t lost on me.
I can hear Father’s voice inside my head as though he’s right next to me, singing.
I’m even worse, if we’re frank. I’ve killed far more people than three and no one’s punished me for it.
I begin to manipulate the rope in my hands. “Are you, are you coming to the tree,” I sing aloud, taking over for my father, “where the dead man called out for his love to flee?”
I haven’t done this knot much, even after Finnick had gifted me his rope. The last time I’ve done this purposefully was when I hanged Seneca Crane. (His effigy, anyway.) What a long time ago that seems. My movements are clumsy. I wonder how long I’ll have here. They’d let me go out to hunt, but only for brief periods, and with what happened, I doubt I have longer than a few hours before somebody wises up. No matter. I’d see them coming towards me in plenty of time.
I toss the rope over the branch and then make quick work of climbing up to it. The bark is rough underneath my hands, aggravating half-healed burns. I secure the line with one of the few knots I had mastered and it holds. I gaze out at the woods in front of me, at the buildings behind me, at the sky above me, and inhale deeply. Soon. Soon.
“Are you, are you coming to the tree,” I sing again. Are there mockingjays anywhere? That’d be pleasant. Fitting. “Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free?”
He’s so silent I don’t even realize he’s there until he’s at my branch, lazily perching beside me. He’s always been like that, though it took me a while to appreciate it. Quiet. It’s what’s made us good hunting partners. His eyes are swollen and red and the skin on his bones is too taut, yet he’s still so stunning, so arresting it’s almost unfair. The wind blows his hair in his face. He needs it cut.
I look at his hands, which hold a rope of his own. It’s fashioned like mine, only better. The lines are straight, even. The knot is tight. He catches my resentful glare and his exhalation is almost a laugh. He unravels my attempt, guides my clumsy fingers with his nimble ones until mine, too, is as perfect as his golden cheekbones.
I didn’t ask him to come, he didn’t know what tree, and yet here we are. You came when I called, I think wryly. I don’t love Finnick like I loved Peeta, but then, the lyrics aren’t that specific.
“Nice song,” he comments. He hums something that’s not the song. His voice is husky, raw. He’s screamed and sobbed even more than I have.
I rest my head on his shoulder, allowing myself a last moment of weakness. I’m so tired. His arm falls around my waist, and though his muscles are strong as ever, there’s a certain sag to them as well. His chest rises and falls, slowly. I’m tired, too, it seems to say. We’ve been through so much, he and I.
It’s well past dark, the buildings illuminated and the moon casting pale light upon us, when the yells come. Probably my name. Distant. They won’t get here in time, I’ve planned it this way.
I look to my right. We’ve planned it this way.
The light is such that I can make out his eyes, those beautiful sea green eyes that have captivated so many and expressed so much. They have been a heartbreaking hurricane for weeks, but now there is calm. Resignation. The promise of, finally, an end to suffering. I imagine mine are the same, and suddenly I’m glad I’m not here alone. That’s all I’d wanted originally, but now I can’t see it any other way, without the person who knows me best. There are no explanations needed, no justifications. We just know.
My mother had once said that people who do this to themselves are selfish, that they don’t think of others. At the time, I’d agreed. Now, I don’t share the same sentiment. My entire life has been unselfish. His entire life has been unselfish. What we’ve fought for is too far along to fail, with or without us. Our jobs are done. It would be selfish to leave Peeta alone, to leave Annie alone, scared, sorrowful, dead. Finnick pulls me closer, as though he can read my thoughts. He probably can.
There are calls for his name as well that come to my ears but he doesn’t seem to acknowledge them, so neither do I.
Still, they’re fast approaching, and we don’t have much time.
Finnick puts his necklace over his head, secures it. Then he lets go of me and drapes my necklace of rope over my head, too, affixes it as delicately and surely as he does with the most complicated of knots.
He clasps my hand comfortingly, eyes bright. I press my lips to his and he smiles against them, everything I needed to say understood. I squeeze his hand tighter and with an unspoken cue, we jump.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree