#ft. caesar

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."

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."

"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."

It comes with a promise. A warning:

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.

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.

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.