#;oft’ i’ve herd…

[thefirstmockingjay]

@rimeoverreason

She had survived. She had overcome. Maybe, just Maybe, she had lost something out there in those woods. But perhaps not all. The Cabins that spread through the wilderness were bountiful, and Lucy Gray Baird was one Lucky Bird. Maybe not the luckiest. The ice nipped her nose and her fingertips. They had become frozen, blue and black. Her form pale. Her eyes sunken. Dark. What’s it’s like to be alive but dead? Frozen but warm? What’s it like to have your feet numb, dragged through the snow. What’s it like to loose your entirety. To become a Mockingjay, echoing songs back and forth with the birds. Until you become one.

This cycle. This loop. Of never ending emotion. Happiness, for the forest is her friend. Sadness, for the forest keeps her from The Covey. Rage. For it was him who made her this way. It was him who turned her hand. It was him that let her rot in the snow. There was not a day that went by where Lucy Gray’s mind had not been thinking of him. His voice. His hands. His own rage. To think- maybe they could have had a life in these woods.

Maybe it was for the best that she froze out here. that way, she could become one with the birds. Hear her songs resound over the forest. Occasionally peak into District 12. Singing was banned now, and she knew the covey had now turned to other lines of work. Lucy Gray Baird would never forgive herself for that. So when her hands found paper, and a pen, she wrote a letter, addressing him.

Come and find me.

When he reaches the fork in the road, the Mockingjays are sitting above, eyes on him. One whistles, and another, and another, leading him to the right side of the path. The tune- the ballad of Lucy Gray Baird. He was not only in her territory-

Coriolanus Snow had stepped foot into a Siren’s Home.

038.   a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .

- @thefirstmockingjay

The directions had been cryptic enough, alluding to past places he -- they -- had been. Upon first receiving the note days ago Coriolanus didn't even open it thinking if he ignored it it would disappear just as she did. Although he'd been able to fool others he couldn't fool himself; his mind had been choked by the thought of Lucy Gray being out there for him to find. When he finally did break the seal and read her light and flourished handwriting he was consumed once again.

He'd told no one where he was going, not even Tigris. It was between him and Lucy Gray alone. Setting foot back in District Twelve wasn't something he'd ever planned to happen again but his eyes had remained fixated out the window on the landscape that rushed by.

But now he stood still. Even the mosquitos that feasted upon his neck didn't move him. If he could tear himself in half he would as the two separate trails each pulled at him equally. Wide and unblinking eyes stared at the note clutched in his increasingly sweaty hands but there was no more to be gleaned from it.

He recalled the time he followed the Covey through the woods to the lake, remembering one of them saying that they all knew the way as if it was innate knowledge like animals on migration. Coriolanus put it up there with the types of people who, when asked how they knew something, answered with 'I just know' or better yet 'I can feel it'. Ridiculous. At the moment he didn't feel anything except for the humidity smothering him slowly.

"Alright, Lucy Gray," he said in a hushed voice, "it looks like I'm in your territory now."

[thefirstmockingjay]

Theres no noise that echoes from Lucy Gray as Coriolanus wrings his hand around her neck. Her face, however, drops. A frown crossing it as her eyes glimmer, shaking, attempting to keep this perfect form as her anger rises within her. This was his truth. Glazed eyes and a need to end this all. “Tempt you? You brought yourself here. You had a choice.”

The birds, they’re filling the skies, with noises that peak and screech and threaten to deafen poor Coriolanus. They swarm, just as they had in that prior encounter, as if wanting to peck at every bit of Coriolanus and drive him away from their precious songbird. The air gets cooler, and Lucy Grays hand has left her skirt, now gripped around his wrist, it’s black fingertips show clear a woman who can no longer hold back her own rage. Her own anger.

“You don’t understand, Coriolanus. This was never real. It’s never been real. You’ve brought yourself back into this forest to seek answers, seek ending, or maybe- just maybe- to see me. You don’t understand how I’ve missed you, my little snake….”

Her other hand travels up his chest, cuffing his chin and pulling herself in close, despite his hand attempting to keep them apart. Then, suddenly, the grip on his chin is tightening, cold and frozen fingers digging into his soft skin. And then, her lips are on his, and her mouth is warm and soft and fresh. She deepens the kiss, wanting to never let go of him, of this moment, to drag him down with her into the snow. It was all she could think to do now. And it’s all she desired. Sirens have to be fed, one way or another.

He tastes like roses, and Lucy Gray cannot help but want more.

@rimeoverreason

“Did you love me, Coriolanus?” She barely needs to speak for her words to resound in the trees. The echo reaching Coriolanus and continuing its journey through the trees- through the Mockingjays. Their words are not accurate, these birds cannot mimick human word, but they sure awfully sound like her. This is where, hopefully, Coriolanus will realize that the whole forest is covered in an ankle deep layer of snow. It was June. The heat that had been radiating from the train station had been extreme, and locals were doing all they can to stay cool. Yet here he was. Feet covered in snow. With a ghost girl staring right at him with dark, thick eyes. “Is that why? Or was it because you know your truth. And where it stands.”

Her words make no sense, twisting and turning. She cannot speak right. As he begins toward her, Lucy Gray Baird cannot help but drag her feet through the snow towards him. Oh, how alone she’s been these last few years, waiting in this snow riddled forest for his return. Oh how time has melted her mind and turned it into a putty that she’s molded, to fit him, to fit the woods that encompass her home.

As he approaches closer, her haunting figure changes, and she begins to look fresh again, new again, a gust of winter air seems to lift the black off her fingers, freshening them and bringing her to life. Soon, they stand inches from each other. You could swear, her perfume of lavender and patchouli oil was still radiating gently from the crooks of her neck, and her hair. Her hair was still gently slick with the rain. A hand goes to his chest, and gentle brown eyes look up into his.

“Or did you come because you know the birds know. And you’ve come to settle it once and for all. Have you, Coriolanus Snow? Or have you come to love me once again like you did those years ago. Did you finally make a choice?” Her words are harsh, despite how gorgeous and beautiful she is cleansed in moonlight reflected by the pact snow on the ground. Her other hand is holding her skirt, close, as if she’s going to fly away again at the first site of disapproval. It’s clear Coriolanus needs to be careful with his words, ‘for the siren is trying to lure him into her trap.

[thefirstmockingjay]

@rimeoverreason

“Did you love me, Coriolanus?” She barely needs to speak for her words to resound in the trees. The echo reaching Coriolanus and continuing its journey through the trees- through the Mockingjays. Their words are not accurate, these birds cannot mimick human word, but they sure awfully sound like her. This is where, hopefully, Coriolanus will realize that the whole forest is covered in an ankle deep layer of snow. It was June. The heat that had been radiating from the train station had been extreme, and locals were doing all they can to stay cool. Yet here he was. Feet covered in snow. With a ghost girl staring right at him with dark, thick eyes. “Is that why? Or was it because you know your truth. And where it stands.”

Her words make no sense, twisting and turning. She cannot speak right. As he begins toward her, Lucy Gray Baird cannot help but drag her feet through the snow towards him. Oh, how alone she’s been these last few years, waiting in this snow riddled forest for his return. Oh how time has melted her mind and turned it into a putty that she’s molded, to fit him, to fit the woods that encompass her home.

As he approaches closer, her haunting figure changes, and she begins to look fresh again, new again, a gust of winter air seems to lift the black off her fingers, freshening them and bringing her to life. Soon, they stand inches from each other. You could swear, her perfume of lavender and patchouli oil was still radiating gently from the crooks of her neck, and her hair. Her hair was still gently slick with the rain. A hand goes to his chest, and gentle brown eyes look up into his.

“Or did you come because you know the birds know. And you’ve come to settle it once and for all. Have you, Coriolanus Snow? Or have you come to love me once again like you did those years ago. Did you finally make a choice?” Her words are harsh, despite how gorgeous and beautiful she is cleansed in moonlight reflected by the pact snow on the ground. Her other hand is holding her skirt, close, as if she’s going to fly away again at the first site of disapproval. It’s clear Coriolanus needs to be careful with his words, ‘for the siren is trying to lure him into her trap.

TW: detailed talk of extreme frostbite/rotting flesh.

The harsh whistling tune of the Mockingjays was the only sound resounding in the forest. It’s trees silencing the worlds sound around them. Be still, for there is strange music in the air. The cold nipping bite of an approaching snowstorm was biting him, like a vicious snake wanting a taste. The birds continued, some flittering down to peak at the man made of ice. Some of them spurred past his head- as if mocking the bullets he tossed their way. Their whistles merely get louder the further he goes down the path.

Lucy Gray Baird is sitting amongst the trees. Eyes staring. Dark and full and round- they land on the blonde and perfectly poised man below. He came. He truly came. She supposed that even after all this time- he could not refuse her voice. Her sirens call. Luring him deeper into the forest. The air is still, cold and unmoving- it’s stiff like cornstarched fabric. The whistles of the birds seem to turn more and more human, and the forest seems to get tighter and tighter as if the trees were attempting to constrict him like a boa snake strangling it’s pray.

She flitters, walking above him with curious eyes, feet leaping from branch to branch, like a curious bird following along. She didn’t plan out this far- what exactly she was going to do now that he was in her sights. She just knows that he needed to feel that ice cold rage that she felt. He needed to have a lesson well learned. He needed to feel the ice cold air sinking down to his lungs. He needed to feel how dark and scary the world was. He has been speaking, to himself, this whole time. As if he can feel her. Good for him, she’s right there. Soon, the songbird lands, as if apparating in front of him ten feet down the road.

Her form is a stark sight. She hasn’t aged a day. Her clothes remain the same from that fateful day. The white shirt has become tattered and torn and dirty- ice clinging to its stitches. Her dress is the same way, looking unmoving despite the wind blowing the leaves around her. Her hair is perfect, somehow. It’s her face, however. And her hands and arms and neck. That prove that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Her fingers look spindly, as if the meat on them has left, and in return all that remains is charred with frostbite, black tips moving to blueish-purple bruise. Her face sunken, her eyes were encompassed by dark circles that seemed to sink on forever. Her inner lips were tinged black, blue lining it as if it was fancy makeup. She was rotting, her colors dark and faded and purples and blacks of disgusting rot. Her face was not the same beautiful torch of light he once knew. His choices have ensured that she would never be that young and beautiful again. Those dark- sunken- eyes. They stare into him. Glazed.

“why did you come here. Do you know what you’ve done?”

She even sounds like a bird. Hoarse, like her voice is nothing but a Jabberjays recording being played back to him. As if she has succumbed to her true form. A songbird. Destined to call to whoever can hear in the forest. Hoping that somebody hears the call of the siren, Lucy Gray Baird.

[thefirstmockingjay]

TW: detailed talk of extreme frostbite/rotting flesh.

The harsh whistling tune of the Mockingjays was the only sound resounding in the forest. It’s trees silencing the worlds sound around them. Be still, for there is strange music in the air. The cold nipping bite of an approaching snowstorm was biting him, like a vicious snake wanting a taste. The birds continued, some flittering down to peak at the man made of ice. Some of them spurred past his head- as if mocking the bullets he tossed their way. Their whistles merely get louder the further he goes down the path.

Lucy Gray Baird is sitting amongst the trees. Eyes staring. Dark and full and round- they land on the blonde and perfectly poised man below. He came. He truly came. She supposed that even after all this time- he could not refuse her voice. Her sirens call. Luring him deeper into the forest. The air is still, cold and unmoving- it’s stiff like cornstarched fabric. The whistles of the birds seem to turn more and more human, and the forest seems to get tighter and tighter as if the trees were attempting to constrict him like a boa snake strangling it’s pray.

She flitters, walking above him with curious eyes, feet leaping from branch to branch, like a curious bird following along. She didn’t plan out this far- what exactly she was going to do now that he was in her sights. She just knows that he needed to feel that ice cold rage that she felt. He needed to have a lesson well learned. He needed to feel the ice cold air sinking down to his lungs. He needed to feel how dark and scary the world was. He has been speaking, to himself, this whole time. As if he can feel her. Good for him, she’s right there. Soon, the songbird lands, as if apparating in front of him ten feet down the road.

Her form is a stark sight. She hasn’t aged a day. Her clothes remain the same from that fateful day. The white shirt has become tattered and torn and dirty- ice clinging to its stitches. Her dress is the same way, looking unmoving despite the wind blowing the leaves around her. Her hair is perfect, somehow. It’s her face, however. And her hands and arms and neck. That prove that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Her fingers look spindly, as if the meat on them has left, and in return all that remains is charred with frostbite, black tips moving to blueish-purple bruise. Her face sunken, her eyes were encompassed by dark circles that seemed to sink on forever. Her inner lips were tinged black, blue lining it as if it was fancy makeup. She was rotting, her colors dark and faded and purples and blacks of disgusting rot. Her face was not the same beautiful torch of light he once knew. His choices have ensured that she would never be that young and beautiful again. Those dark- sunken- eyes. They stare into him. Glazed.

“why did you come here. Do you know what you’ve done?”

She even sounds like a bird. Hoarse, like her voice is nothing but a Jabberjays recording being played back to him. As if she has succumbed to her true form. A songbird. Destined to call to whoever can hear in the forest. Hoping that somebody hears the call of the siren, Lucy Gray Baird.

@rimeoverreason

She had survived. She had overcome. Maybe, just Maybe, she had lost something out there in those woods. But perhaps not all. The Cabins that spread through the wilderness were bountiful, and Lucy Gray Baird was one Lucky Bird. Maybe not the luckiest. The ice nipped her nose and her fingertips. They had become frozen, blue and black. Her form pale. Her eyes sunken. Dark. What’s it’s like to be alive but dead? Frozen but warm? What’s it like to have your feet numb, dragged through the snow. What’s it like to loose your entirety. To become a Mockingjay, echoing songs back and forth with the birds. Until you become one.

This cycle. This loop. Of never ending emotion. Happiness, for the forest is her friend. Sadness, for the forest keeps her from The Covey. Rage. For it was him who made her this way. It was him who turned her hand. It was him that let her rot in the snow. There was not a day that went by where Lucy Gray’s mind had not been thinking of him. His voice. His hands. His own rage. To think- maybe they could have had a life in these woods.

Maybe it was for the best that she froze out here. that way, she could become one with the birds. Hear her songs resound over the forest. Occasionally peak into District 12. Singing was banned now, and she knew the covey had now turned to other lines of work. Lucy Gray Baird would never forgive herself for that. So when her hands found paper, and a pen, she wrote a letter, addressing him.

Come and find me.

When he reaches the fork in the road, the Mockingjays are sitting above, eyes on him. One whistles, and another, and another, leading him to the right side of the path. The tune- the ballad of Lucy Gray Baird. He was not only in her territory-

Coriolanus Snow had stepped foot into a Siren’s Home.