#lenore sharp

[river-of-wine]

I finished Sunrise on The Reaping yesterday… I had to draw something about it

[kald-dal-art]

SOTR Sketchbook dump, some of the girls from the book ig

[starryhaze-crystal]

Just finished reading sotr a few days ago. After I got over it COMPLETELY breaking me (Ms Collins took out everything she was going through on Haymitch istg), I just started reveling in the writing.

The part I loved most was the fact that we got to see some sympathy from Haymitch for the Careers. It was so sweet when he dropped that chocolate for Silka when he heard her crying. I think it really helps us understand that while it does not justify them doing what they do, they are at the end of the day just kids who were brought up that way.

I think it also shows us how kind Haymitch is even after everything he went through. He could've heard her crying and used his dart on her right then, and no one would've batted an eyelash (except maybe lenore dove)

Sorry for the yap lol I just love this book and series and I fear there will be more yap coming.

[sillyengineerperson]

another day, another hunger games book that's made me cry my eyes out

[hcreath]

The urge to change Tamar's voiceclaim.

[onlybeeewrites]

What are the Odds (2/ )

Pairing: light Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader, Haymitch Abernathy x Lenore Dove (mentioned/referred), very light Wyatt Callow x Fem!reader

Word count: 3k

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SUNRISE ON THE REAPING!, light violence, mentions of death

What are the Odds series: Previous

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. This was all one terrible nightmare. And soon you’d wake up next to Burdock. With your Ma’s cooking in the air while she hummed, Pa sitting in his chair by the fire. and everything would be okay.

But a part of you knew this was a nightmare you’d never wake up from. This was a living nightmare featuring you and your friends. Your peers. Innocents that had done nothing wrong, being punished for those who simply wanted to be free.

The still shock clung to you like the coal dust that stained your home. It sunk into your skin, into your lungs, into your bones. You felt it in the weight pressing down on your chest, in the ringing in your ears that muffled everything else.

The world had moved on without you, the anthem playing, people speaking, names being read. But you were stuck. Frozen in the moment your name had been pulled from that bowl. But you refused to allow the Capital to see it.

Your schooled features were all you allowed them to see. The inner thoughts and panic were all your own. A silent weight that sunk deeper and deeper.

Though you were still trying to process it. Who could truly blame you? Out of all the kids in District 12, they had picked you.

District 12 was not that large. Twice as many tributes, twice as many names, twice the deaths. The odds had been worse this year, you knew that. You should have been prepared for the possibility. And yet—

You had never actually believed it would be you.

Or Haymitch. Or Louella. Or Wyatt.

People you knew. People you had laughed with, fought with, lived with. People you grew up with? How were you supposed to survive? How were you supposed to get home?

How awful. How absolutely awful this whole thing was.

You barely heard the conversation as Drusella, who remained you of a canary, wrapped up the hole thing. The square started to empty, though it seemed they were all hesitant to go. As if it would be the last time they saw the four of you—which you supposed it was.

That was until a sharp voice cut through the haze of your mind, causing you to snap back to the present.

“You.”

The man—Plutarch, you think—pointed at Louella first. Then he hesitated, scanning the rest of you before his gaze settled between Wyatt, Haymitch, and you.

“And you,” he finally decided, his finger landing on Haymitch.

Your escort took a pause, then with a flick of his wrist. Dismissive. Like none of you were even people to her. Just names. Just bodies to be moved. Animals to corral.

“Fine. Make sure they’re on the car for the train in five minutes.” She said as she pulled out a cigarette and left the stage, heading out behind the Justice Building.

Then, everything moved too fast.

The Peacekeepers pulled Louella and Haymitch away first, leading them toward the crowd, toward whatever sick Capitol production they were staging. Maybe they wanted a shot of their tearful goodbyes. Maybe they were filming a show of strength, proving how easily they could take your people and turn them into sacrifices.

But you didn’t care about that.

Because the second rough hands clamped around your arms, the second cold metal cuffs snapped around your wrists, it hit you.

They weren’t going to let you say goodbye.

“No, wait,” you gasped, jerking back, your pulse spiking. The panic ran through you like ice water. The Peacekeepers barely reacted, just kept marching forward, starting to pull you along like dead weight.

The cuffs bit into your skin as you twisted against them. “Let me come! Let me say goodbye! It’s the least you can do!”

They didn’t slow. If anything, they moved faster.

“No, please—please!”

Your feet dragged against the dirt, the heels of your boots skidding as you fought against their grip. But they were stronger. Larger.

No matter how hard you dug in, they kept moving. Through the entrance of the Justice Building. Past the halls lined with closed doors—doors that should have been open, should have had your family behind them. But you wouldn’t get that. No final words, no last embrace.

Only this. An unforgiving last glance at your family in the crowd from the stage.

Only the cold hands forcing you forward, out into the back of the building where a black truck sat waiting idle for the four of you.

“Please, just let me—”

“Shut it.”

The first warning.

You twisted harder, your heart slamming against your ribs. Your wrists throbbed where the cuffs cut into your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could think was no, no, no, I can’t leave like this. Not like this.

“I just—please—I just need a minute! Just—“

“I said shut it.”

The second warning.

Then came the pain.

The stun baton cracked against your ribs, and your whole body lit up with agony. Electricity surged through your nerves, burning from the inside out.

Your legs collapsed before you even registered what had happened. The breath was punched from your lungs, your muscles locking up as you hit the gravel beneath you.

Your head spun. The world flickered in and out of focus for a moment.

And still, they didn’t stop. They didn’t give you a moment to pull yourself back together.

Hands yanked you up again, too rough, too fast. The cuffs dug deeper as they forced you forward, your body struggling to keep up. Your limbs felt useless, trembling, weak. The only thing keeping you upright was the strong grip that caught your arm before you could fall again.

Wyatt.

He was cuffed too, his face tight with but showing no emotion. But he didn’t fight them, though. Didn’t waste his breath. He just held on, his grip steady, solid, anchoring you in place as the Peacekeepers shoved you both toward the truck.

He helped you inside, guiding you when your legs refused to work, your mind still lost in the haze of pain.

Then the doors slammed shut behind you.

Darkness.

No goodbyes. No last words.

Not for you, at least.

Not to your Ma or Pa. Not to Lenore Dove, who used to sing with you by the old fence line. Not to Burdock—your brother, your blood. The person who had been by your side through everything.

Your heart broke and you squeezed your eyes shut. Your head leaning back against the cool metal of the truck.

For the first time since they called your name, the fear finally, truly sank in. You allowed it to. Better now without the cameras. Better to do it now until every moment from here on out is recorded and shown on screen.

The truck’s interior was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a small, barred window near the ceiling. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of rust and oil. You sat on the cold metal bench, wrists bound in front of you, the sting from the stun baton still resonating through your ribs. Wyatt sat beside you, his own hands cuffed, his expression unreadable as he stared at the floor.

But it was company. You’d known Wyatt from school. Knew that he was different than the rest of his brother’s, or even his father. The way his brain worked was fascinating. But now? Now he was a welcome comfort of company as you both faced the same death sentence.

Minutes passed in oppressive silence, each second stretching longer than the last. The weight of what had just transpired pressed heavily upon you, making it hard to breathe. Your mind raced, replaying the events over and over, searching for some way this could all be undone.

The truck’s rear doors swung open abruptly, the sudden influx of light causing you to squint. Two Peacekeepers stood silhouetted against the brightness, their grips firm on Louella’s arms as they hoisted her into the vehicle. She stumbled slightly, her eyes wide and glassy, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. The doors clanged shut behind her, plunging the three of you back into semi-darkness.

Louella took a shaky breath, her gaze darting between you and Wyatt, before landing back on you. “Are you both… okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded numbly, not trusting your voice to remain steady. Wyatt offered a curt nod as well, his jaw clenched tightly. But didn’t respond.

You weren’t alright. None of you were. You were all going to be dead this time by next week. How were you supposed to comfort Louella? Were you supposed to lie and make a promise you couldn’t keep?

Another agonizing minute crawled by. Then another one before the doors opened once more. This time, it was Haymitch. He was ushered in more roughly than Louella had been, but the tension in his posture was evident. His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of something passing through them before he settled onto the bench opposite you.

The four of you sat in silence, the weight of your collective fate hanging heavily in the confined space. The truck’s engine roared to life, and with a jolt, you began moving, the vibrations rattling through the metal floor beneath your feet.

As the vehicle rumbled over the uneven roads of District 12, you couldn’t help but think of the families left behind, the goodbyes that were stolen from you. The image of your parents’ faces, etched with worry and grief, flashed before your eyes. Burdock’s teasing smirk, now a distant memory, felt like a cruel reminder of the life you were being torn away from.

The journey to the train was brief. The truck came to a halt, and the doors were opened once more. Bright daylight flooded in, revealing the imposing structure of the train station. The Peacekeepers gestured for you to exit, their expressions impassive.

One by one, you stepped out, the cuffs around your wrists a constant reminder of your captivity. The train before you was sleek and opulent, a stark contrast to the grim reality you faced. Its polished exterior gleamed under the sun, a symbol of the Capitol’s excess and control.

Though the next few parts were a bit of blur. All you remembered was being shoved forward onto the train platform and then into the train.

The next thing you had known was the four of you were sitting in chairs. Wyatt was next to you, Louella across, and Haymitch was diagonal.

Your mind kind of shut out for a moment as Drusilla rambled on in annoyance at the four of you. She had mentioned something about mentors.

Since District 12 had no live mentors, they would be assigned one from one of the other districts. Spares for the outliers. You remembered the last victor though. She wasn’t spoken about often. But you knew enough to know that whatever actually happened, wasn’t something they your family spoke about often.

It was a grief that moved on. But no one forgot her name. Not you. Not Lenore Dove. Or your uncles. You knew exactly where the missing covey girl was.

But one thing was for certain.

The four of you would be completely on your own.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The train hummed beneath you, steady and ceaseless, a lullaby for the damned. You lay on the upper bunk of your shared room, facing the wall. Your knees drawn to your chest beneath the Capitol-issued blanket. The room was dim, lit only by the soft green glow of a control panel near the door.

Louella’s breathing was slow and even beneath you, curled up on the lower bunk, her arm draped over the edge like a doll left behind. Across the room, Wyatt was sprawled on his back in the bunk opposite, one foot hanging off, rather loud snores occasionally catching in his throat.

“That’s going to get him killed,” you think to yourself. In the arena. If Wyatt snored like that? He would be dead quicker than given the chance.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time your eyes closed, they were filled with images of home—of Burdock calling after you in the square, of Ma’s quiet smile, of the reaping stage, of Woodbine’s body hitting the ground, the gunshots, the crying.

Your fingers twisted the ring on your middle finger. The small copper thing was smooth from wear, the edges dulled by years of being fidgeted with. It had belonged to your grandmother. You’d taken to spinning it around your fingers when you were little, back when bad dreams were your biggest fear.

Now, it was a tether, something to remind you that you were still here, still real. Something to keep you grounded.

Across the room, you noticed the faint shift of movement from the corner of your eye.

Haymitch.

He was sitting up in his bunk, elbow resting on his knee, turning something over in his hand. The light caught the object just right, flickering softly against the polished metal. You squinted, blinking past the shadows.

The flint striker.

Lenore Dove’s present.

Your breath caught slightly. You didn’t know why it surprised you to see it, but it did. Maybe because your cousin had been so excited to give it to him.

“Pretty with a purpose,” she had said to you when she told you of the idea. She had been so excited. She was so in love with him. A love like that was something you were so jealous of. Though you were unsure if it was because of the genuine love that they had for each other, or if it was because who Lenore Dove was in love with.

Haymitch looked up, catching you watching. He didn’t flinch or tuck it away, just held your gaze for a long moment in the dark.

You whispered first.

“She gave it to you,”

His voice was rough, low, barely above a breath. “Yeah, this morning. Before the Reaping,”

You smiled faintly, shifting to lie on your side, one arm tucked beneath your cheek as you whispered back, “I’m glad. She wouldn’t stop talking about it. It came out really pretty,”

He gave a quiet huff, something like a half-laugh, barely audible. “Yeah?” He asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah she came up with it months ago. Working out the design with Tam Amber. Watched over his shoulder and everything when making it,” you say though the memory was hard. How excited your cousin was when she had thought of the perfect gift for her guy.

Haymitch let out a soft hum as his thumb ran over the smooth surface again. As if hearing what you said made it even more dear to him; if that were even possible.

Silence settled again, soft and strange—not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just… quiet. The kind that only people who’ve lost the same thing could sit in. He had always understood you, just as he understood Burdock.

You traced the edge of your ring again, absently. “I thought I’d be more scared than this.”

Haymitch glanced over at you, his face unreadable in the dark. “You are scared,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re just not showing it. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids. Putting on a brave face. But once you’re alone…then you’ll allow yourself to feel,”

You nodded a little, almost hating how well he knew you. Your tells. Your habits. Straight down to knowing how you’d handle situations like this. “You know me too much, Hay,”

He looked down at the striker again, turned it once more in his hand. “Yeah I know. Makes two of us though,”

You swallowed. You hadn’t expected that to matter as much as it did. But something in your chest unknotted, just a little.

The train hit a slight curve, the walls groaning softly. Louella shifted below you, mumbling something in her sleep. Wyatt rolled over.

“Do you think we’ll…” you started, then stopped.

“Live?” Haymitch finished, blunt and quiet.

You nodded.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I’m not going down easy. There are twice the amount of tributes. Twice the careers. The odds aren’t exactly looking great for us,”

You watched him for a second longer, then whispered, “I know. But we have to at least try, right? Or at least try and get Louella home..”

His thumb flicked over the striker, “Yeah. One of you girls,”

“Louella,” you corrected.

But Haymitch’s grey eyes flickered to yours again, “No. One of you girls. Your family needs you too, sweetheart. I know Ma and Sid will be taken care of when you get back.”

And there it was. That irritatingly sweet nickname he always called you. It started out as a condescending nickname a year or two ago. Everyone kept saying how sweet you were. How you were so willing to spare your own food to those who were hungry. To help out along the Seam, whether with laundry, or cleaning, or medicine.

But to Haymitch you were a menace. Which is why he couldn’t believe it when he heard someone referring to you as the sweetest girl in the District.

Though as you both grew older, it kind of stuck. And still, it gave you butterflies every time he called you that. You wondered if he’ll ever stop, not that you would want him to. But what did Lenore Dove think of it? Did she care?

“They have Burdock. And Burdock has Asterid. Sure, they’d grieve. But they’d move on. They’ll help your Ma and Sid. And eventually Burdie and Asterid will have some kids. The Everdeen will be alright without me, Hay.”

“You say that now. But you’re more depended on than you realize. They’ll grieve you harder than you’ll ever know. I know that for a damn fact,”

“Just promise you’ll look out for Louella. At least I can hunt. But she’s…” your voice trailed off softly as you couldn’t put it into words. You couldn’t say how she was a frail girl. A poor girl, from the poorest District in Panem. A twelve-year old with no experience even holding a weapon.

You could defend yourself. But Louella needed someone to keep an eye on her. And you would make sure to do just that. Louella needed to be the one who got home. She had no much ahead of her.

Haymitch stared at you for a moment, the flint striker between his fingers, “Fine.” He finally had said, “As long as you don’t try to be some hero and pull some self-sacrificing bullshit,” he then tucked the striker back under the collar of his shirt, arms behind his head.

“Alright.”

You turned back toward the wall, ring still on your middle finger, twisting softly.

Neither of you said another word, but sleep came a little bit easier after that.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

After moving to District 12 to begin her nurse apprenticeship, soft-spoken, curvy Y/N finds herself temporarily housed in the last place she expected: Haymitch Abernathy’s home. He’s gruff, sharp-eyed, and far too observant—and she’s spent her whole life trying not to be seen. But the longer she stays, the harder it is to ignore the way he looks at her… or the terrifying thought that maybe, for once, someone really means it.

pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Plus size!Female!Reader

warnings: fat-shaming, body image issues/insecurity, childhood bullying, low self-esteem, verbal harassment, age gap relationship, slow burn romance, soft dom dynamics, emotional vulnerability, alcohol use (Haymitch), mild language, slight disordered eating? (declining food when hungry, scared to eat in front of others), smut (later chapters), divergent from cannon, lenore dove doesn’t exist in this one i’m sorry y’all

just a warning, stuff will be spelled funny in dialogue and words will be shortened in dialogue because i intend for y/n to have a midwestern/country sounding accent. for example she often does not enunciate the letter ‘t’, so she’ll say ‘jus’ instead of ‘just’ or ‘don’ instead of ‘don’t’. just assume if anything is spelled wrong or funny it’s based off how she’d say it, especially in the first chapter when she says ‘twenny’ instead of ‘twenty’.

Peach

Soft and Sweet

Feels Like Touchin’ Perfection

I See You Too, Y’know

Doesn’t Have to Be Just Right Now

more to come! :)

[benevolentcalamity]

Beautiful Little One [Dad!Mihawk x Fem!Reader]

A quick note before we get started, I am only at a certain point in Enies Lobby. (You may know the one.) So like with Crocodile, please refrain from spoilers/fan theories.

Kay thanks, enjoy! Also hot diggity dog I vibe with this aesthetic so hard.

Btw I'm not confident in writing Mihawk since I haven't seen much of him, so pointers would be appreciated. Thanks fam! ^^

Content warning: Childbirth, breastfeeding (I don't know if that needs it, just in case.)

CURTAINS!

Labor was long and torturous.

Blinking in and out of consciousness, you don't recall if you've seen the sun rise and fall even once. The days leading up to this point have all raced together, melted like wax until they're indiscernible. For all you're aware, this baby had been ready to come out since Roger's execution.

A nurse takes the little red mass from beneath your hips, carrying it over to the bucket. Wearily you attempt to lift your head, squinting to see it through the fuzzy world of colors. Violent tremors overtake your body, forcing you back down, another nurse at your side in seconds.

Light pierces into your eye, your lips parted and your tongue pulled out. Your neck and wrists are prodded along the faint sensations of wiping along your legs. Sucking in a breath through your teeth, your one hand comes up to your forehead, eventually your arm falling across your eyes like limp noodles.

"Congratulations, Miss [Name]," You hear through the haze. "She's a healthy little princess."

Eased upright and propped against some pillows, you tear your eyes open, finally beginning to regain focus. Reaching out, you watch the little red blob being carried back to you. As the fog clears, you gaze upon her face, calming from cries you could not hear, and her little hand grips your awaiting pointer.

"... Is he still outside...?" You vaguely recall him coming, or trying to.

"Hawk...eye?" A nurse trembles. "Um... let me go look..."

Your gaze falls to the baby. She's calm and serene, finally in your arms. As her soft coos fill the air, the previous days become but a fleeting dream... No, the pain and sickness of pregnancy is all beyond you, all of it having lead up to her being here. It's all worth it - she's here, and both of you are fine.

Her eyes slowly pry open, gazing up at you. Their amber hue doesn't pierce you at all, but rather it's a warm glow. Not as sharp, not as striking as her father's, but one day, they will be as strong. If she's anything like him... which is quite the opposite of a far cry.

creak

Your head lifts back up, turning towards the opening door. Shadowed by the trembling nurse, Mihawk comes in a bit slowly, as though waiting for you to tell him 'not right now'. To be frank you'd be chuckling if you weren't absolutely drained right now. Gently stroking the child's head you manage an assuring smile.

"Dracule..." You murmur, the nurses leaving to give you some privacy. "Come here... hold her..."

Picking up the pace, he leans over to kiss your brow. "Forgive me, that I wasn't here for the whole thing."

Shaking your head, you maintain your smile, delicately passing her into his awaiting arms. At first it's hard to gauge his expression even with his hat off. His one hand comes up, stroking her little head as her eyes gaze curiously up at him. With a coo from her he brings her up to his face, peppering her little cheek with tickling kisses.

"Hello, little one..." He breathes, an uncharacteristic softness in his voice.

Through her giggles you sigh, relieved. "Isn't she beautiful...?"

He nods, holding her to his chest. "She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Given how much he's seen on the seas, that's a hard accomplishment, surely. "... We haven't decided on a name for her."

Simpering, you reach to put a hand on his arm. "Well, you have so many good ones."

"As do you." He kisses her forehead. "... I've had Lenore in my mind."

Your senses return fully. "That's a beautiful name. I like it, too."

Holding her up, you notice his cheek crease with a smile as his beard tickles Lenore. For a moment he's completely lost, taking all of her in. From how his head tilts to foil her attempts to grab his beard, to the way his poking fingers tickle her belly, he's spellbound by her. Bringing her close, he kisses her forehead, noticing her beginning to fuss.

Delicately he passes her back to you, and for what must be the first time, a genuine smile is on his lips as you tug the blanket down to breastfeed.

"... Thank you."

Your eyes flicker up to him from her latching. "For what?"

"For the love you've given me, for the light you've brought to my heart..." His hand reaches forward, scooping yours up. "... And for Lenore."

"You..." You falter. "... Dracule..." Lucky you, Lenore has eaten her fill, drifting back into slumber.

"Oh." He notices your exhaustion, kissing your forehead. "I'll find the nurses, worry not. Here, allow me..." Gentle he pulls her from your lap, helping you lie back down. "Get some rest. You've done well."

As you drift off into the stillness, you feel him pull the blankets over your shoulders.

"... So long as I live, you and Lenore will be safe. I promise."

[lina-studen]

I was drawing pluto's portrait the other day and it got me into thinking: does he have a left eye or not? and a bigger question: do in-life disabilities transfer into the academy?

let's take a look at the other character — lenore. for a long time she couldn't walk at all and needed a wheelchair. it was also stated by the doctors that her legs could never fully heal. and even when she finally felt better, lenore still had to use a cane.

but in nevermore she's able to run, jump and do all kinds of other cool tricks. I could remember only one scene where she felt a sharp pain in her legs — in the arboretum. but from a bad landing like this any healthy person could feel the pain too. or maybe it's more of a phantom pain.

so, if we assume that lenore's injury didn't carry over into the afterlife, then what about pluto? when he was still alive, he clearly lost his left eye. and after that he probably started covering it with his hair.

and I wonder: does he wear emo bangs now just out of habit or is his eye still missing? what do you think?

or maybe I'm just overthinking and lenore's injury did fully heal and everything stays as it was in the afterlife...

[chrkrose]

am i the only one who left sotr feeling like haymitch was just a pawn in somebody else's game? him not being interested in the rebellion because "it is the way it is" (may i say, is this collins winking at us a connection with katniss?) and then poof! suddenly he's on board with whatever plan beetee and plutarch have for him and haymitch not thinking not even once about the possible consequences on his family? him being that clueless felt like a disservice on his character especially given beetee's backstory with ampert and how much he thought about it. maybe it's because i know they're all gonna die, but bro didn't spare a single thought about his brother or ma until the very end when he witness them dying and he's like: 🧍🏻‍♂️ah yes snow said to enjoy my homecoming. I'M??????? are you really this unaware? naive? did you never connect the dots this whole time? literally bro saw capitol's brutality in almost every page but all he can think about is his gf and how much he's missing her (which is valid, he's 16 and in love after all, but what about YOUR FAMILY. why are you not thinking about them?) are we being serious? it's like this prequel robbed him of all of the agency and ruthlessness he had in the og trilogy and yes, people grow & change - he got worse - but him being chained for life by a promise he made to his 16 yo gf seems kinda .. whack to me? and mainly because he had so many reason to be angry at snow & the capitol. i wonder what this book could have been if collins did not went for a quick cash grab (the whole book felt like something she thought in, like, a week? instead of something she was cooking for years, a way of revisiting the characters and explore the themes she wanted to write about) and if she left lenore dove as the gf of his youth and nothing else, someone who was not this special & amazing figure (concept) he idolize in every page. and i have to say: this character in particular felt like an explotation of the covey girls after we had lucy gray. it's like she thought: ohh the fans loved lucy gray, so what if i made haymitch's gf a covey? but without fleshing her out completely, because i don't want to write another trilogy, i just need the covey (baird) name in their faces all the time. i don't know, all those pages and i felt almost nothing, didn't even care when she died and she was supposed to be "the character that haunts the narrative". yeah okay suzanne you wanted that, but if so why haymitch never mentions her in the og trilogy? with all of these covey songs katniss performs multiple times why he never stepped up and told her about his story, why no one ever in district 12 told her about her family history, not even her father whom she loved and spent the most of her time with? ah yes because it was all an afterthought i suppose.. can't believe that back then almost all of us thought (and the feeling persisted in ballad) that she must have been a descendant of some people whose history was lost due to time, genocide, persecution [..] because not even her father was able to tell her a thing and seemed the only one branch left alive in his family tree and instead it all boils down to "it was just 25 years ago!". only thing that makes sense now is asterid never speaking of haymitch because she never acknowledged mayselee either until she saw her on tv because she was a painful chapter in her painful life

Honestly? Haymitch came out of SOTR kind of lame. Like, not even in a “flawed character I understand” way—just flattened out. Passive. Reduced to this guy being shuffled around. And I agree, it just doesn’t track with the Haymitch we knew in the trilogy, who was sharp, cynical, perceptive, and constantly five steps ahead of everyone. Of course the years and the traumas would change him somewhat, but we would still be able to see echoes of who he becomes in this books. This version? He’s just… there. It’s like the book actively stripped away all the agency and intelligence we know he had later on—and for what?

The trilogy genuinely stands stronger without this prequel. I feel like it damages canon more than it adds to it. And yeah, people grow and change, but Haymitch becoming who he is in the original books makes way less sense now. Especially when all his rage and pain is suddenly boiled down to a teenage promise.

As I said before, It honestly felt like Lenore was only created to connect the dots between Lucy Gray and Katniss and to give Katniss that “special one™” legacy that completely undermines one of the best parts of her arc: that she wasn’t special. That she was just a kid caught in a system, reacting to it in a way that resonated because she had no idea how powerful her choices would become. Now, with Lenore and Lucy Gray retroactively linked to her through symbolism, the pin, the songs, the Covey—Katniss feels manufactured. That raw, grounded quality she had is replaced with a sense of prophecy that I really don’t like.

And you’re absolutely right: the way the Covey, Lucy Gray, and now Lenore are so present in District 12, it completely breaks the illusion that Katniss would never hear about any of them. Not from her father? Not from the town? Not even a passing comment from Haymitch, ever? It’s not believable anymore. The book ended up feeling less like a political dystopia and more like an episode of Dark from Netflix with all the secret family trees and tangled connections. Everyone’s related or symbolically linked, and it’s exhausting. It makes the world feel smaller instead of richer.

I’m still bothered about how the story seemed determined to erase the emotional weight of Maysilee (who turned out to be the best character of the book by far, in a surprising turn of events). She didn’t haunt anything. She was overshadowed by Lenore, then Louella, then the plot mechanics themselves. The pin? Handed off to the Covey. Her possible ties to rebellion? Ignored. Her potential romantic or emotionally complex bond with Haymitch? Squashed in two lines so we don’t even consider it. And not in a “clever subversion” way—more like a “we need to redirect your attention because this isn’t the story I want you to think about” kind of way.

It really felt like a quick cash grab rather than something that was “cooked” for years. And the worst part is, I think Suzanne thought she was doing something deep. But without showing us the layers, and just telling us who’s important and why—they don’t land.

So yeah, I agree—Haymitch deserved better. Katniss deserved better. And the trilogy deserved to remain untouched by this kind of retroactive storytelling that only flattens what made the original so powerful to begin with.

[bey0nd-1he-stars]

A blurb of Haymtich, Burdock and Asterid.

Spoilers for Sunrise on the Reaping.

A blurb of the last time Burdock and Asterid comes over to Haymitch’s after Lenore Dove’s death.

Wc: 689

-

The villa he’s gotten in the victor’s village is too big and the piano pushed to the wall in the grand living room reminds him way too much of his Lenore Dove, but he also knows all too well how much she would’ve loved it to be able to throw it out. Sometimes, in his dreams, he feeds her gumdrops while she wrings a melody out of the old instrument.

He’s torn the phone off of the wall and set fire to it in the backyard, feeding the flames with half a bottle of whiskey. Burdock had to put it out when he came over later that day.

Each time he comes over he pleads for Haymitch to let him help. Haymitch pleads for him to leave him alone. Sometimes he brings Asterid along who often carries a basket of sleep syrup. When he has tired of their defiance, he resorts to throwing rocks at them. They fly across the room, crashing empty bottles and leaving shards of glass all across the rooms. One sails out the kitchen window, glass flying everywhere. Burdock is back the next week with a new glass which he installs when Haymitch has blacked out. He never receives any recognition for the act.

They keep coming back. Defiant and stubborn.

The drop is when one of the stones hits Asterid in the forehead. She stumbles back into Burdock’s arms with a gasp, her hand coming up the face to assess the damage. Her fingers come back wet and red, the blood running down her perfect face like tears. It drops into her long, blonde braid, staining it crimson along with her blouse.

“You alright?” Burdock murmurs in her ear, picking up a clean shirt they brought with them for Haymitch and rips it apart. With gentle motions he presses the cloth to her forehead, apologizing when she hisses in pain.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” she nods, throwing a glance at Haymitch. The image burns its way into his memory and the look he receives from Burdock is like a death sentence.

The fight’s gone out of him and he’s leaning back into the sofa, deflated and shattered. Fucking hell it hurt to hurt her that way. But he won’t apologize. No. Any sign of trust and care and affection is a weapon for Snow to use and he won’t put Burdock and Asterid in that position. Better he hurts them than Snow does.

“Get out.” It’s final and nonnegotiable. Haymitch has lost enough people, he won’t let the capitol take anyone else from him ever again.

They stand frozen in his hallway until he reaches for another rock. That has Burdock opening the door and gently shoving Asterid out the door. Then he steps in, across the glass-covered floors and the carpet stained with alcohol.

Haymitch throws another stone, not nearly as hard and Burdock moves out of the way easily. Then he’s up in Haymtich’s face, pulling the flask out of his hand.

“You can throw however many rocks you want at me, but you don’t touch Asterid. She’s not the reason you’re hurting and don’t you dare act like it is.” The words are steady and warm, but sharp as a knife.

“I will always be your friend,” he continues, softer now, “whether you want it or not. But you don’t hurt the ones I love.” Burdocks looks him over, taking in the mess he’s turned into. “I hope that one day you’ll realize that means you too.”

With that he steps back and Haymitch snatches the bottle back, knocking it back and letting the liquor burn down his throat. The door closes with an echoing bang.

Sometimes Asterid’s picture-perfect face covered in blood revisits him in his dreams. Those nightmares are almost always worse than the ones about the arena, hurting her like that is worse than anything he did in there.

While the nightmares return, Burdock and Asterid doesn’t. They finally leave him alone. His only company is the bottles he keeps on emptying and Lenore Dove playing at the piano, eating the blood red gumdrops. Again, and again, and again.

[shivunin]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @greypetrel @inquisimer @saessenach and earlier @pinayelf and @plisuu, thank you all for the tag! Tagging back @exhausted-archivist, @layalu, @bumblewarden, @pickelda, @bitchesofostwick, @dreadfutures, @star--nymph, @ndostairlyrium, @jtownnn, @idolsgf, @elfroot-and-laurels @saessenach @midmorninggrey @chanafehs, no pressure as always <3

I have been adding to this whenever I have a thought and it'll certainly be a monster to edit, but from my fic about Lenore's sojourn in the regret prison (and what everyone else is doing in the meantime):

(Lucanis/Lenore | 383 Words | No warnings)

Lucanis found the locket while he was waiting for Viago to track down Teia.

He sat on the roof of the Diamond, feet dangling over the city below, and he’d reflexively run a hand over his chest to check his weapons. There—an unfamiliar shape tucked amongst the usual things there. He did not know how he hadn’t felt it before. It was tucked into a pouch at his chest, usually intended for loose sand or other powders. He had not needed either on the island; there had been little use for distractions there. Only blood, hot over his hands, and the wind like ice on his face when Spite kept him aloft.  But now… The face of it was frosted glass, that odd old-copper green that the Necropolis wore in every hall. Etched into the glass was a sort of flower, stretching like drooping fingers away from the chain. She had told him what it was before, touching the wine-purple petals in the Memorial Gardens. Amaranth, she’d called it, a flower of eternity.  “We also use its seeds in breads and such, too,” she’d added in her pragmatic way, and he had felt an unfamiliar tenderness in his chest.  Lucanis traced the shape of the flowers now, catching all its faintly sharp edges against the tip of his finger.  It smells like her, Spite said, leaning close over his shoulder. Hers. She gave it to us. He dug his thumbnail into the seam on the right and the locket opened easily, revealing a piece of paper and a single, ribbon-tied coil of hair.  Hers, Spite said again, bending his face closer as if that would help him smell it. Lucanis lifted the locket to his face, inhaling. It did smell like her—like incense and sweet rosemary.  Rotting leaves, Spite corrected him, and Lucanis sighed.  The hair might have blown away in the wind then, caught by his breath, if he had not reached out and snatched it from the air. How easily this vestige of her could be lost; how easily he had almost sent it right over the edge. Lucanis closed it away again, careful to ensure that every strand was tucked inside the hollow of the locket.

[maysrinn]

Hi I have another question but who is president in the other universe where Coriolanus stayed with Lucy gray in district 12, and if snows a peacekeeper in this au dose that mean Lenore dove gets into more trouble cause her uncle busts her out.

Hi welcome back!

1. I never really thought about who would have become president if Coriolanus had stayed in District 12 with Lucy Gray. One thing’s for sure: I wouldn’t pick any of the characters we already know, or even one of his classmates. Snow was uniquely sharp, but not uniquely evil, in my opinion. Anyone could have been just as cruel and power-hungry if given the chance. Maybe Dr. Gaul would have found another protégé after Coriolanus failed his little district test and never returned to the Capitol. The new president would likely be someone we don’t know, just as ruthless toward the districts, but without Snow’s sharp mind.

__________

2. By the time Lenore Dove is born and raised by the remnants of the Covey, Coriolanus isn’t just a Peacekeeper anymore, he’s the commander of District 12. And Lenore Dove? She’s a constant headache. She always manages to get herself into trouble, because really, what’s he going to do? Scold her? Put her in time-out? He tries, lecturing her endlessly and keeping her stuck in his office for hours, forcing her to listen to another one of his “valuable life lessons” about freedom, discipline, and responsibility.

But deep down, he’s exhausted. Lenore Dove reminds him so much of Clementine Auburn, wild and stubborn, and he had been genuinely relieved when his own daughter eventually grew out of that rebellious phase. Now it’s happening all over again, and Coriolanus knows he’s far too old and tired for this kind of nonsense. Half the Peacekeeper unit probably knows Lenore Dove by name and exactly where to find her when she’s once again caused some kind of chaos. Some of them have even made a game of it, betting on how long she can stay out of trouble before someone has to drag her back to the commander’s office.

Coriolanus: Tell me, Lenore Dove, what great threat to district society did you commit this time?

Lenore Dove: I sang a song. Technically, that’s called culture. Covey culture.

Coriolanus: You sang The Hanging Tree in front of the mayor. During the remembrance ceremony. In front of children. I thought we talked about this-

Lenore Dove: Children singing! Oh no! Next thing you know, they’ll be thinking too.

Coriolanus: Freedom without order leads to chaos. Chaos leads to rebellion…

Lenore Dove: here we go again…

Coriolanus: …Rebellion leads to ruin. I was there, You know this. We have spent decades building a fragile peace on the ashes of war… and you choose to sing it anyaway?

Lenore Dove: hmm It’s a good song. Catchy. Real earworm.

Coriolanus: The foundations of civilization are built on respect. Discipline. Stability. Not nostalgia for anarchy and bloodshed!

Lenore Dove: … we had a hanging last week… Sooo… no requests for The Hanging Tree at the Hob? Got it.

Coriolanus: This is not a joke!

Lenore Dove: you’re right, it’s a balled.

Coriolanus: I’ll inform your aunt-

Lenore Dove: so she can rip u a new one? Like last time?

Coriolanus: oh yes, perhaps I’m really into that-

Lenore Dove: whoah! to many information, I’m not trying to mentally picture something…

Coriolanus: *sigh* …One day. Just one day without paperwork because of you. That’s all I ask-

Lenore Dove: …admit it I keep u young, and in that case I’m here all week!’Commander’

Later that night he’s ranting and venting to Lucy Gray about everything while Lenore dove is sleeping safe and sound in her bed 🪿

[tequiilasunriise]

Okay yall lemme cook‼️‼️‼️

I really, really like the parallels of ‘she fainted and now I’ll fan her’ here with White Raven:

Annabel caught Lenore when she almost fell and tried to remain in this untouched and happy facade while still subtly trying to fan Lenore because Annabel believed her to be upset and needed some air.

Lenore caught Annabel when girlypop straight up fainted and more obviously fans her in an attempt to care for Annabel, her face full of open concern for the fallen woman, there’s even a whole panel that draws attention to the fan specifically.

Why does this even matter, you ask me? Because I love the stark contrasts between Lenore and Annabel, even down to the most minute details they’re opposites.

Annabel is trying to be more discreet in her affections for Lenore, her pretty smile and chipper words a diversion from the way she holds onto Lenore’s arm to steady her, bright eyes a complete distraction from the way her fan is flapping away. Her carefree attitude makes it seem like she could easily play off these attempts to care fer Lenore, like she could flippantly brush it off as ‘nothing big’ and that she ‘doesn’t really care this is just a throwaway whatever action’ (but we all know the calculative Annabel Lee doesn’t just do whatever fer just anyone).

On the complete opposite side of the spectrum, Lenore cares about Annabel. She cares a whole lot, actually, and she’s extremely open about it. From angrily calling Annabel a dratted liar fer claiming what they had to be fake to very clearly worrying about Annabel as she fans her. The delicate care, the way Lenore does not hesitate to grab that fan and start gently fanning Annabel, how she doesn’t try to set up a facade that gives her an ‘out’ if questioned why she’s doing all these things for Annabel. Lenore gives no shit about mindgames and appearances dude!!! Yeah she cares about Annabel, so what??? Lenore is just SOOOO acts of service as a love language, each time she reaches out is open declaration of, “love you love you love you”.

That kinda contrast kills me, man!!! Bright moon x dim sun, the sun does care but she needs to show it in a way where people don’t think she’s that invested you know you know she’s Just A Friend™️, meanwhile the moon says, “fuck it we ballllllll” and snitches her bleeding heart across her entire sleeve right before diving in with affections on full display.

That being said, I also really like how Annabel’s fanning is the last kindness she gave Lenore right before she left and Lenore ‘died’ and by sharp contrast Lenore’s fanning is one of the first kindness she gave Annabel when she came back from the ‘dead’ all resurrected like a funky butch lesbian Jesus.

Kindness as a last resort, as a final parting gift when the time’s up, vs kindness as an instinct, as a greeting call, as your first move.

[nereidof40k]

This is Chapter 1 of the sequel to the Abyssal Edge interview rewrite, tentatively titled “The First Captain’s Dilemma”, which is a nod to one of my favorite Star Wars fics, “How A Romance Novel Saved The Galaxy.”

Now, there’s a plot twist here. Do you get a cookie if you guessed the twist?

Nope, you get a cookie either way. You’re not here to perform for my entertainment.

This contains Night Lords, a dead body and Sevatar being Sevatar. Do feel free to critique my characterization, I’m running on the understanding he isn’t very good at understanding people and how they think.

@beckyninja , @justanothermemestrider , @yanagikou , hope you like. Had to stop writing because my hand was hurting too bad to continue, but I have more planned.

The massive chainglaive stopped less than an inch from her shoulder, she was certain she could feel the teeth against her skin.

Sevatar tilted his head, looking at her with an expression so familiar it made her brain itch.

“Say that again.” She repeated her statement, feeling as if she was almost but not quite remembering something very important. Looking up at the towering Space Marine looming over her, she slipped her hand into her skirts, retrieving the knife she always wore strapped to her thigh.

At the sight of the knife in her slim hand, Jago froze, a long buried memory dragging itself from the lowest depths of his mind.

He was back on Nostramo, standing in a back alley on the edges of the city. A shiny, sharp bone handled knife in his hand.

In front of him was a young woman, smiling brightly at him, looking up at him with clear admiration.

“Father says I shouldn’t muck around with knives.” She sighed.

“He’s an idiot. You, of all people, need to be able to defend yourself, little vixen.” She chuckled softly in response.

“Thank you, Jago. I love it.” She clutched the knife as he laid it in her soft hand, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He turned his head as she did, catching her lips with his own. It was all too brief, but he couldn’t resist. Neither did she, leaning into it.

She smiled. “Stay safe, my dear.” Straightening, knowing she couldn’t remain. Pulling her shawl over her pale blonde hair, wary of discovery. “Do Svidanya, Jago Sevatarion.” It seemed almost too formal, too final.

“You too, Lenore.” He wanted to hold her back. This was the last time he saw his little Vixen. It was like she had ceased to exist. And then the reeducation process Astartes went through made him forget.

As the chainglaive was resting on her shoulder, it had ripped her robes slightly, uncovering a lopsided birthmark on her pale shoulder. He knew that mark.

Two children were standing on the edge of a small pond, wringing water out of their hair and clothes.

“Only way that looks like a bat is if you smashed the bat with a hammer.” The boy grinned teasingly.

The girl laughed and swatted him. “Jago! You’re impossible.”

”And you love it, Vixen.”

She was the only one he ever let call him Jago. He hated his name, but somehow it sounded good in her voice.

Dropping the glaive, he picked her up, looking at her very intently.

Under the scars, he knew that face. It pained him to see the long line across her throat, but yet, it was a miracle.

“Vixen.” He murmured. “You kept my knife?”

Those lovely dark eyes widened in recognition at last. “Jago? My Jago?” Her arms went around his thick neck as far as they would go.

“I thought you were dead.” That wry smile on her face at his words was a welcome sight.

“I almost was.” She buried her face in his neck, shuddering. “The Count discovered I was sneaking out.”

Sevatar snarled. This was the first time he had heard her refer to her father by title. Which, knowing her loyalty to family, said a lot.

“What. Did. He. Do?”

“Tried to make me forget about you. Went as far as getting a Drukhari ‘friend’ of his to wipe my memories of you.”

That explained a lot. If he gritted his teeth any harder he might break his jaw. But he wasn’t going to draw attention to what was going on. Plan. He needed a plan. His Lenore must live.

“Talos.” He voxed his friend. Talos would help.

“Sevatar?” Surprise evident in his voice.

“Get me a corpse from somewhere and meet me in the archivist’s room. As similar to her as possible.” To his credit Talos didn’t argue.

He put a finger on her lips as he ended the call. “We’re faking your death. I’m keeping you here with me.”

She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. “I wouldn’t want to leave. Not when I can remember you again.”

Sevatar put her back down carefully. “Anything you really can’t replace, grab it.”

It was odd seeing her so serious. And the pitiful pile of little trinkets she piled on the table was painful.

As she grabbed the blanket from the bed, a blush spread across her freckled cheeks.

Jago plucked the rolled up poster from her other hand, unrolling it. Smiling to see one of those damned propaganda posters. He hated posing for them, but it was cute how she was apparently drawn to him even without conscious memories of him. “Got a pen?”

Of course Talos had to arrive just as he presented Lenore the signed poster.

Dropping the fresh corpse on the carpet, the apotechary waved his scanner over Sev’s head. “Your head is no more messed up than usual. Now will someone please explain what is going on?”

Lenore just chuckled.

“We’re going to fake her death. I’m not letting the first woman I ever cared for go.”

“This is insane even for you, Sev. “ Talos rubbed his forehead with a grimace. “But let’s do this.”

Sevatar turned to Lenore with that grin. Obviously up to something.

“First off, get those clothes off.”

She stepped back, eyebrow raised and arms crossed, until he elaborated. “We need to dress the corpse like you.”

Grabbing the blanket, she wrapped it around herself, keeping herself completely covered while removing her robes.

Talos, that traitor, just laughed at Jago’s face. No, him looking like Sanguinalia had been cancelled wasn’t that funny, was it?

Lenore eyed the corpse while they worked. “Anyone you don’t like we can blame for my death while we’re at it?”

The two Astartes looked at each other, with matching grins. “Nikolai. Had another injured serf this morning. He needs to stop crippling serfs.” Talos suggested.

“Perfect. He’s an arrogant, self absorbed shitboot. He was about to have an ‘accident’, but getting Curze on his case is much better.”

Once the stage was set, Jago picked up the blanket bundle containing his girl and her things.

“Don’t worry, nobody is going to question me walking around with a mysterious bundle.” He smirked.

“Just like home.” Good, she sounded amused. “Just remember, Jago Sevatarion, I have a knife.” Definitely feeling better then.

Nobody was outside the room, so Sevatar headed for his quarters, smiling to himself, while Talos went for Operation Framing the Idiot.

On his way Sevatar saw several of his least favorite Astartes. Letting out a laugh sent them scattering, evidently convinced the world was ending. Which only made him laugh harder.

Arriving at his quarters he locked the door behind him before depositing his Vixen on the bed.

“Welcome to my humble quarters, my dear.” He bowed theatrically as she poked her head out of the blanket.

[cutpaperbleedswater]

My Attempt of Haymitch’s perspective of Peeta’s arrival to 13 (obvious Sotr spoilers)

Mockingjay 

It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. “They’re back. We’re wanted in the hospital.” My mouth opens with a flood of questions he cuts off with “That’s all I know.” -196

Haymitch’s grinning at me. “Come on, then,” he says. -197

Peeta’s awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I’m disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features registers disbelief and something more intense I can’t quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet and moves towards me. I run to meets him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me too, to caress my face, I think. 

My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat.  -198

I know Haymitch would have come to my defence if he hadn’t been utterly unprepared. -200

Sunrise on the reaping

 She sure looks like Louella. Same size, same height. Heart-shaped face, big gray eyes, long dark braids. Her fingernails are bitten down and there’s a scar on her forehead that matches the one the real Louella got falling off our cistern.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

But this isn’t Louella. In the same way you instinctively know the waxed pearls on the table lack juice, this girl lacks Louella’s essence.  -135

————————————————————————

Plutarch is, not for the first time, pissing me off. Really should’ve seen it coming. Once he got the rescue mission green lit, he decided the best use of my time would be in Command. After firmly ensuring both Katniss and Finnick were put together in the crazy ward, using some words that Plutarch lectured me on like I’m still sixteen and the arena can still be taken down by a fucking potato. Would have to be one heck of a potato, the arena seems to have expanded so much that it takes up most of the space in my lungs. Normally I’m able to stave it off with my liquor but 13’s probation law has ripped that possibility from my ever shaking hands. Part of me, a tiny part that died when I came home to find my ma and brother burning alive, is glad I’m in such a state of awareness because I have been anticipating this for weeks. 

I sit in some chair, that could really use a comfier cushion, as I wait for the team to arrive back. I get my entertainment from watching Plutarch make stupid faces upon learning some news he doesn’t like (it’s a way to ease the constriction over my heart because of the fear that it could concern my kid). My feet are level with my head and resting against some sharp table that I can feel pierce my skin to no end. It’s good somehow, reminds me to stay diligent or whatever it is that all these Thirteen soldiers mutter as then run (walk with a brisk pace) through they never ending dove halls. Sometimes the chaos makes my skin crawl but sometimes it makes me remember how much I still have left to lose even after all I did and the promises I made that kept me alive when I couldn’t imagine a worse fate. 

My girl once told me to never let the sunrise on the reaping and this is the way some idiot has decided to go about that. By making an unstable seventeen year old girl, who is the only person not aware of how much she loves the kid, the figurehead of a long awaited rebellion. She is a hard pill to swallow at the worst of times when she acts surlier than I can remember being, not saying much but still, and an even harder one at the best of times. When she looks carefree like Louella, when she leaves like Lou Lou, when she sings like Lenore Dove, when she hunts like Burdock, when she gives herself power in a situation where she had none like Maysilee and most of all when I see myself in her, both when she’s being a jerk and other times like when she took Rue under her wing, same way I did to Lou Lou. Despite all that, I have been waiting too long to tell her any resemblance of good news that I can’t wait for this mission to be done. It cannot fail. It will not. 

It seems the mission doesn’t fail, but takes a good time longer than necessary. So much so that when Plutarch tells me it was a success, I had woken from a two hour nap. There’s a wicked crick in my neck from the position I slept in but it doesn’t stop me from finding the girl with Finnick where I left them. As I see the lost look in her eyes, it makes me doubly anxious to give her the news. I shove the door open and both their eyes snap to mine. 

“They’re back,” I tell them. “We’re wanted in the hospital.” 

I see some life flood into her eyes and notice how she chews her jaw open, no doubt to ask a million questions that I don’t know the answer to myself. So I cut her off by saying “That’s all I know.” 

The journey to the med bay feels like the exact opposite to the time Asterid March drugged me with sleep syrup. Instead of my world slowly collapsing to darkness, I feel the word slowly come into light. I see a gurney with a bald Johanna, she had too much fire than what was needed and overall reminded me too much of Maysilee, more specifically my first thoughts of her. Her burns and the wild look in her eyes makes guilt appear like a hole in my chest that takes and never gives back. 

My feelings of melancholy are somewhat disrupted by the reunion of Finnick and Annie. I know there love is not easy but it’s as true as anyone’s ever doubted. They kiss each other in a way that reminds me of the job I had to do. I lead Katniss to a room that has Boggs in front. He tells us Peeta’s currently still under effect from the gas and to go in. I turn to Katniss and see joy shine in her eyes. I can’t help my grin.

“Come on, then,” I say. 

We enter and all of a sudden I’m more aware of my heart rate than I have been in at least twenty five years. It stops and starts in my chest because whatever is sat on that bed looking lost and bewildered as the medical team attack from all sides, with marks that I have never seen on my skin before, all over his frail looking body is not my kid. It’s not Peeta. But for my hearts sake I try to pretend nothing is amiss, an attempt aided by the emotion that shines on both kids faces’. However Not Peeta’s takes on an undertone that I feel in my gut that I should pick up on, but I’m still hung up on the love in the girl’s eyes and the confusion in his. 

There’s a threat present in this room, where, I cannot say.  Not Peeta seems to have the moral fibre of some mad man, as he sweeps away the hovering doctors with just one arm. He jumps to his feet and makes his way towards the girl. She runs to meet him, with her arms outstretched in a way that predetermines an embrace and he seems to return the gesture in a way, his hands reach for her, looking like they’ll make impact on her cheeks, probably to caress them and I make a mental not to make myself scarce if I see any kissing. I see the elation on her face as her lips form her name. Then it slowly changes to fear, then pain, when his fingers lock around her throat.

Suddenly the rug is pulled out from underneath me. The manic anger on Peeta’s face reminds me of Lou Lous screams of “Murderers!”. And I know in the way you know to never trust a seventeen year old to lead a revolution, that this boy is not her Bread boy.