Chapter Text
"Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed never to lie to each other."
Coriolanus Snow smiled at her. Katniss knew his words had more than one meaning – first off, he was probably trying to drive home the point that he'd really never lied to her before. And, secondly, he was letting her know that he'd seen right through her; that she was the one who had been lying when she had said she didn't believe him about the parachutes. It was too much, far too much for her to wrap her mind around in her current state, still numb and hurting from the loss of Prim. Prim – the little sister Katniss would sacrifice everything for. The quietest sobbing sound escaped from her throat, unbidden; she hoped Snow couldn't hear it. But, she knew him all too well to really believe he did not. To his credit, he didn't comment on it. For once, for whatever reason, he didn't seek to cause her greater pain. Snow was an intelligent man – no doubt intelligent enough to know that now, after the loss of Prim, who he'd even offered his condolences for, the Mockingjay was truly broken. Numb. Useless. She was no longer dangerous.
She tried to keep her gaze cold and devoid of emotion; but inside her, something fundamental was starting to sway, and she knew her doubts were showing on her face. Still, he said nothing. He was merely looking at her carefully, attentively, waiting for her to make the next move. It was true. They had indeed agreed never to lie to each other, back in her study in District 12. That conversation seemed so long ago, as though it were from another life. As though it had happened to a different Katniss Everdeen. Thus far, he had kept his end of that agreement and had, despite all the cruel, gruesome things he'd done, never lied. Never tried to hide who and what he really was. Never made the slightest effort to conceal just to what lengths he would go for power and ultimate control. Never had he hidden just how much he wanted to break her. And yet, here they were, and despite his efforts, he was the one who was defeated now. Katniss Everdeen didn't feel like a victor this time – she felt none of the satisfaction she'd thought Snow's defeat would bring her. She was a shell, an empty husk, drowning in pain, turning to morphling in the darkest hours of the night when she could no longer stand the images haunting her.
But what he was saying now could not be true – why would Coin order the bombs to be dropped? Why would Coin deliberately kill children and valuable members of her own forces? And most of all ... why, why, why Prim? The little sister Katniss had sacrificed so much for – the little sister who was her everything. The little sister without whom her life was meaningless. Coin knew Prim was there; she knew her little sister was with the medics. Why would she order something as gruesome, as terrible, as cruel as this? Why would she throw away so many human lives? Katniss could feel slowly losing control over herself; she suddenly wanted to collapse down onto the bench beside the man she hated with every fibre of her being, bury her face into her hands and just cry everything out; all the pain, all the suffering, all the torture, all the loss, all the confusion, all the darkness. The morphling she'd taken earlier that morning made her feel as though all the thoughts in her head were just some fog. Nothing made sense anymore now that Prim was gone – and Snow knew that. He had to know. The manipulative old man could probably see the state she was in, and was using her one last time. But yet – why would he kill Capitol children and cause his people, the only line of defence he still possessed, to inevitably turn on him? She didn't want to admit to herself that his story logically made sense.
Far too much sense than she could take right now.
She tried to get herself together, with great effort and pain; she would not give Snow this final satisfaction, the pleasure of seeing her broken, hollow, defeated. Yet, almost instantly, she gave up the fight. It was too much. It was no longer worth it. Let him see. The man was to be tried and then executed anyway – and she would make sure Coin would keep the word she gave and hand the privilege of his execution over to her, and her only. For Prim. For District 12. For Peeta. For everything. She made a note to keep off the morphling a day or so before, or they'd even use that as an excuse to take the privilege of the execution away from her. They'd say she was unreliable, shaky, drugged, mentally unstable. As if Coin didn't think so already. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts flitting around and she found herself unable to focus.
She was still grasping the pristine white rose in her hand; without a word, she broke her eye contact with the president and numbly turned around, about to leave the abhorrent greenhouse with its humidity and pungent smell of genetically altered roses. She couldn't take it anymore. Even considering what he'd told her hurt her deeply – even now, when she thought nothing and no one could hurt her anymore, that she was finally numb and beyond the reach of any human emotion, President Snow had again managed to cause her pain. The guards at the door noticed her approach and made to open the door and let her out, and she was nearly there when Snow's voice reached her; first a cough, then he spoke.
Don't listen to him. Not anymore. It's enough. He's a dead man.
"You know, Katniss Everdeen, now that I'm about to die, I might as well tell you a little story." His voice was calm, contained – as though he'd already fully accepted his defeat and imminent death. Had he? Or was this just another ploy on his part? Just another, final joke to play on her? A story? No remorse at seeing the broken person The Girl on Fire had become. No regret over what he'd done to Peeta. A story? No more. She could take no more. Coriolanus Snow was an evil man. Gruesome, cruel, relentless and cold-blooded.
And it was good that he was going to die.
Yet, somehow, she motioned the guards to wait by showing them the palm of one of her hands; and couldn't restrain herself from turning around, once again establishing eye contact with the weary, tired, white-haired, shackled man sitting on the bench, surrounded by his roses. He was president no more – just an old man about to die. And was she right in observing that something had now changed in his blue eyes? She couldn't pinpoint what that was – was it some last flicker of his hidden human nature that had surfaced now that the end of his life was near? Did this man, who had spent his long reign killing and torturing so many in cold blood, fear his own death, his own end, after all? Was he capable of any remorse at all? She couldn't say – but whatever it was in his eyes, it made her walk over to where he was sitting, and sit down opposite him, never breaking eye contact. He smiled faintly, then coughed again into his white handkerchief. He bowed his head to wipe his lips, and as he straightened back up, she could just catch the sight of a walnut-sized glob of partly-clotted fresh blood in the handkerchief before he folded it in half.
She remembered Finnick's words; Snow's regular use of poison on his enemies, some of which he'd also had to drink himself to avoid suspicions, had caused permanent mouth sores that always reeked of blood. That was why he took to wearing roses in his lapel – to conceal the smell of his own sickness. But was his mouth truly the only part of him that was affected? Could it really bleed this much? Or was the former president also experiencing damage elsewhere? She took a closer, more watchful look at him; he was well-groomed and well-dressed, with his flawless white hair and white beard, wearing a white shirt and a patterned crimson red coat, but he had an unhealthy pallor to him and his eyes were cloudy. His lips were still tinged bright red around the edges. She made a note to ask her mother – yet she knew she didn't really need to. She had seen enough sick people in her life to know that this man was ill. Seriously ill. Perhaps he was already dying of his own accord. Maybe he wouldn't even last as long as his trial would take.
Katniss put the white rose down on a small, round stone table between them, waiting for him to speak. And so he did, with another faint smile. "Well, I should thank you for coming back to hear me out. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm so accepting of my own defeat and my own end. After all these years ..." He leaned back slightly, his eyelids fluttering shut for a brief moment before he looked at her again. "I know what you see, Katniss Everdeen. You see an old man coughing up blood. You and I don't need to be medics to know what that means. Tell me, to what end will Coin go to keep me alive through the trial and the execution? The execution which, I'm told, will be up to you, Mockingjay."
Katniss was just enough at a loss for words that he noticed it, and smiled smugly. "Ah yes, she told me that much. She probably thought she could humiliate me further that way. Matters not. She cannot break what is already broken."
She cannot break what is already broken. Katniss held his gaze intently; what was he trying to say? Was he trying to, in one of his twisted ways, connect with her? Imply that both of them were broken? In no way could his state compare to hers. In no way could a physically ill old man, who'd become ill as a result of his own lust for power, compare to her ravaged heart, mind and soul – to a girl of eighteen years who was supposed to be feeling joy, love, happiness, safety; it was a long time since she'd last felt any of those. And she doubted she would ever feel them again at all. There was nothing left for her to live for. She said nothing.
"I promised you a story," Coriolanus Snow went on. "It's about your District. And someone you remind me of. Very much. Too much, in fact." He coughed again, and after this bout was over, it took him a few moments to catch his breath. As he went on, there was a slight wheeze in his voice, which disappeared after he'd spoken a few words. "Her name was Lucy Gray Baird. Have you ever heard of her?" Katniss began shaking her head – then, through the morphling haze, remembered a song her father used to sing. The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird. Some of the older people in Twelve knew the words to the song as well – but no one had ever implied that the woman had ever been a real person. She knew she had to speak; and forced herself to do so with great effort. She'd spoken only one sentence since Prim's death – moments earlier, when she and Snow were discussing the parachutes. Her voice was quiet, her usual resolve gone. She found that she didn't care how much pleasure Snow would get out of that. He was a dead man anyway, and she had no idea why she'd even stayed for this story or whatever he was going to tell her next. Something in his eyes made her stay. Something about him had changed. Or maybe it was just the drugs in her system.
"Yes. There was a song, in Twelve. The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird. But ... no one ever said she was real." Her answer seemed to amuse Snow, as he smiled again.
"Oh, she was real all right. She was the first victor from your district. In the tenth Hunger Games. I know you don't know. The records of those games were destroyed. Why, is a long story. And back then not many people watched the games. Either way, Lucy Gray Baird was the female tribute from Twelve and I was her mentor. That was the first year of the mentorship concept. All of us mentors were students from the Capitol." He coughed again, and again came the wheeze, a tell-tale sign of something building up in his throat and airways. More blood? She didn't know. Prim would. Prim ... did he tell me truth? Did he really not release those parachutes?
"Well, we won," Coriolanus Snow went on. "I even cheated to help her win. They found out, of course. So I was forced to become a Peacekeeper, and I voluntarily went to serve in Twelve. Do you know why? Why, I was eighteen years old then – I fell in love with her." He smiled again, still upholding their eye contact. "Long story short, we were about to run off into the wilderness together. Can you imagine that, Katniss Everdeen?" She could feel herself, despite her best judgement, becoming interested in the story of this Capitol boy and a tribute from District Twelve. And he was right, of course – Coriolanus Snow doing all those things? She could not imagine him falling in love with a tribute, following her to Twelve, much less running off into the Wilds. Something must have happened to make him do that; something he was, by the looks of it, not going to tell her about. She shook her head in answer to his question. "I thought so," he went on. "Anyway, she left me. I chased her through the forest, shooting at her with a rifle. I don't know whether I hit her. No body was ever found. I don't know what happened to her. Though, I confess, sometimes I still think about Lucy Gray Baird." He leaned back again, closing his eyes. The wheeze was now becoming more prominent, and, soon enough, he was coughing again. She waited, motionless, running over everything the white-haired man had just told her.
Still catching his breath a few moments later, Coriolanus Snow looked back at Katniss and picked up the white rose that lay on the stone table. "Lucy Gray Baird. I could not control her. And now, so many years later, I could not control you. When I left District Twelve back then, I thought she and her abhorrent mockingjays could never hurt me again. Turns out they can – in the form of you." He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and held up the beautiful rose that had just begun to bloom. "Anyway, they say you never forget your first love. I know this is hard for you to believe, but I have never forgotten her. And since then, I have had no particular love for District Twelve. And then along you came, from the same district, singing that old song to the dying girl. Lucy Gray used to sing, too. She even wrote a song about me. Right where you stood, I saw her."
He held the rose out towards Katniss. "The day she arrived in the Capitol, I went to meet her on the train station. My grandmother was growing roses, and I convinced her to give me a single white one for me to gift to my tribute." Katniss took the offered flower without a word. She had come to hand-pick a rose for him to wear over his heart on the day of his execution; and now would leave with a story she knew not what to make of. "That's the end of the story, Miss Everdeen," said Snow. "We may have come to the end of things now, you and I. Sometimes, I do regret that we fought on opposite sides. You may not see it right now, but you and I could make a great team." He smiled, showing off his flawless teeth. Everyone in the Capitol had flawless teeth.
A team? With him? With Snow? Never. Never in a million years.
He probably knew what she was thinking, as he was offering another one of his smiles. Once again, the corners of his lips were bright red with fresh blood. "You know I'm right," he said, "don't lie." Katniss decided it was best not to say anything at all. At the sound of the greenhouse door opening, Katniss turned around and saw one of the guards poking his head inside. "Miss Everdeen, Commander Paylor says there's only so much time she can give you." Katniss nodded and turned back to Snow, who had wiped off his mouth again in the meantime. They held each other's gaze for a moment that seemed to be stretched into all eternity. Then, the silence became too much for Katniss to stand. "I don't believe you," she burst out, her voice ladled with pain. "About the parachutes."
Snow simply gave a shrug. "I keep my promises, Miss Everdeen. The decision is yours. May your aim be true." He smiled again – a man at peace with the approach of his own end. Or, if not that, he hid his fear, or anything else he might have felt, remarkably well. He bowed his head in farewell. She returned the nod wordlessly, then turned around and left the greenhouse, the white rose in hand, feeling Snow's eyes on her until the guards closed and locked the door behind her.