Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They linger in the meadow after Haymitch leaves. 

Hazy yellow sunshine glints off the barbed wire of the fence and Gale is electric, his fingers in hers livewires sizzling her skin. Madge breathes in the woody smell of the trees and the damp earth of last night’s rainfall and that’s it then. They’ve committed and as Haymitch said, there’s no backing out now. They’re going to war. 

It’s...it’s a lot, a lot a lot, and her stomach crunches up in terror. Had she made the right choice? Can she really change anything? Save anyone? It’s hard to breathe, but then it always is isn’t it? With the Capitol pressing down on them, it always will be. She’d never thought she’d win the Hunger Games, but she did, and she’d done it with Gale. They’d come home together. If they could do that, they can do this. They have to.

“I can’t believe it,” he says and awe shakes his voice. “We’re really doing it, really fighting back.”

Madge nods and there’s a thrill in her too at the thought. She’s terrified, she’s going to be until this is over, but she’s excited too. Gale’s always been a revolutionary and maybe, she has too.

“It doesn’t seem real,” she admits and it doesn’t. Any moment now she’ll wake up and this will be a dream. Panem’s never going to change, they’ll never be free. Except, except maybe this time, they will be. Gale grins at her with such boyish eagerness it makes him shine.

“It is real and we’re going to win,” he says and there’s no worry in him. He’s all confidence and certainty, blazing so bright with it he could be the sun. She smiles too and it’s a little wonky, but she’s not him. She’ll never be able to shake her caution, her wariness, but that’s a good thing. They’ll need that to carry them through this, just like they’ll need his passion and conviction. They’re stronger together than they ever could be apart. 

“Six months,” she says and Gale pulls her in close.

“Six months,” he echoes and rests his forehead against hers. “And then the real game begins.”

And we’re going to win it

Chapter Text

Six Months Later
November

Madge stares at her ceiling.

It’s early, too early to really be considered morning, with just the gentlest breath of dawn touching the sky. There’s a chill in the air and even under all her blankets, Madge can feel it on her skin. The pale, white ghost of sunlight falls through her window and fights the shadows in her room and Madge wills it to win. She’s ready for morning to come. She’s ready for all this waiting to be over. 

Tomorrow’s the first day of the tour and the sooner today comes, the sooner everything can finally begin. 

She’s restless, her legs bounce and remembering when her mom told her a watched kettle never boils, she tugs her covers over her head. Otherwise she knows she’ll spend every single moment staring at the sun waiting for it to rise. Waiting hadn’t really bothered her just after the Games; everything was already so overwhelming. She needed time to try and get her bearings. But now, the closer the tour is, the harder it is to wait. Every day crawls by, allowing her anxiety plenty of time to fester. She doesn’t regret committing to the rebellion and she has no intention of trying to back out, it’s just that the longer it takes to get there, the more time she has to torture herself with everything that could go wrong.

It’s almost like how she felt before entering the arena, the same nerves, the same anxiety, the same fear. Except it’s sharper now, cuts deeper because last time she was just fighting for her own life. Now she’s fighting for everyone’s. It’s hard to believe she could save anyone, let alone a whole country. She hates doubting herself, but the weight of her country is heavy. What if she’s not strong enough to carry it?

A bird trills in the distance and Madge peeks her head out from under her covers. From the corner of her eye, she can see a delicate glitter of gold on her end table. A mockingjay, Aunt Maysilee’s mockingjay, a symbol of the one thing the Capitol could never kill. 

She has to be that Mockingjay. She is. Panem has to change, Snow has to fall and she can’t let the Capitol beat her before the game’s even begun. She won’t. She’d won the Games, she’d outplayed the gamemakers and come home. She can do this. 

They can do this.

(june)

(Ever since she was little, baking has soothed her.

Madge isn’t quite sure why, but maybe it’s inhaling all that sweetness and warmth. Maybe it’s the business of her hands or maybe the step by step process she can lose her mind in. Maybe it's the soft sort of joy she always feels when people bite into something she’s baked and love it. Maybe it’s all of the above, but whatever it is, it’s always settled her and smoothed out her edges.

So when Merrie starts making tarts with freshly pressed jam about a month after Madge has come home, she joins in in a heartbeat. It’s the first time life feels almost normal again. As she stirs ingredients together in a big flowered patterned bowl, Madge can almost imagine that nothing’s changed, that nothing’s happened at all, that she’s still just Madge Undersee and not Madge Undersee the Victor. Merrie works beside her, bright sunlight shines through the window and she just knows there’s flour on her cheeks. She smiles. I missed this .

“So I was talking to Rosamynn Nuthatch yesterday,” Merrie says and there’s already laughter in her voice, “and she said-oh, damn.” Madge turns her head to see Merrie’s knocked over a jar of jam, the contents oozing out over the floury counter. Madge opens her mouth to say something teasing like oh, and why’d she say that? but her voice withers in her throat. The jam spreads out and out over the powdery counter and Madge stares at it, her heart shriveling in her chest.

Strawberry jam on flour.

She's not in control of herself, she feels like she isn’t even in her own skin as she starts to shake and stumbles back. 

Red on white.

Her mixing bowl clangs on the kitchen tiles but she doesn’t hear it.

Blood on snow. 

All she can hear is Eleven screaming and crying as she bleeds out and Madge can’t help her. But it’s not real, it’s not, and Madge closes her eyes and presses her palms against her ears to block out the sound. It doesn’t help. She can still see Eleven lying in the snow, can still hear her terror. Madge’s legs tremble and she sinks down, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” falling from her tongue.  

Hands touch her arms, pull at them with tight fingers and they’re Cato’s hands. He’s trying to kill her, to squeeze the life right out of her and she flails out, her fist making contact with soft flesh. Cato lets go of her but his cry of surprise is...a woman’s voice. Madge opens her eyes and she’s crouched in her kitchen, poor Merrie wincing in front of her. Her eyes widen in horror. 

“It’s alright,” Merrie says but there’s fear in her eyes. There’s a red scratch on her cheek, ragged and fresh, and Madge did that. Guilt, horror and shame wriggle like maggots in her skin.

“I...I’m sorry,” she says and why is it so hard to breathe? Merrie tries to smile and Madge can’t stop crying, her cheeks wet and her chest too tight. 

“I’m sorry,” she manages again and she is, she is. Is she losing her mind? 

“Madge…” Merrie murmurs and it’s only for a moment, one bright, hot flash of a moment, but Madge almost wishes she hadn’t come home)

November

The sun rises higher, the sunshine grows a little brighter and Madge decides it’s finally safe to get up. She doesn’t want anyone to worry about her, so she’s made a point of never getting out of bed before nine. She hasn’t slept that late since she came home, but it’s better if they think she does. It’s better if her parents think she’s healing.

Madge pushes off her covers and gets out of bed, her toes curling a bit from the cold. Her fluffy pink bathrobe is draped over the back of her desk chair and she pulls it on. For a moment she just snuggles into it, like getting hugged by something cuddly and warm. Socks are next and she wishes she could sleep with them on, but her feet don’t allow that. Even if she falls asleep with socks on, she’ll wake up without them. She tugs open her curtains but it does very little to light up her room, the sky all mottled grays and depressing. 

A sigh flutters out of her and one fingertip absently touches the little wooden bird on her window sill. And then, as she always does before she leaves her bedroom, Magde reaches into her underwear drawer and takes out the fancy makeup she’d ordered from the Capitol. She smoothes it over the bags under her eyes and she’s so used to this now she doesn’t even have to look in the mirror. When she’s done the makeup goes back into her drawer and she heads downstairs. She isn’t attached to this house, this building, but it’s a stange, jittery feeling to know that after tomorrow, she might never come back here. Her fingers curl around the railing briefly, tightly, enough her fingers hurt.

She steps into the dining room and her dad’s already sitting at the table, a mug of tea in hand and his newspaper spread out in front of him. Her mom sits across from him, wan but there, and Madge looks at the both of them and suddenly has to fight the urge to cry.

Her mom notices her first, her pale lips pulling into a smile. “Good morning, sunshine,” she says in her soft, fragile voice and Madge can’t say anything back, her words crowded up into a messy lump in her throat. 

“Merrie’s made french toast,” her dad says and of course she has. French toast is Madge’s favourite.

“And look, we have fresh strawberries with cream,” her mom adds and what Madge wants to do is fling herself on them, hold them as tight as she can and sob out how much she loves them. But she can’t do that. They think this is just an average Victory Tour and she can’t tell them any different. This house isn’t safe, the truth is too dangerous and keeping them safe is the only thing that really matters. They can’t know what she’s planning, she’d never want them to so all she can do is hoist up a smile and sit next to her mom. Her parents talk and Madge listens, watches, soaks them in until she’s overflowing with them.

She might not be able to say a proper goodbye, she might never get to explain, but maybe that’s better. At least this way her last memories of them will be their smiles, not their tears.

(june)

(It’s almost noon and the sun is merciless today. Madge’s bare arms burn as she sits on the front steps of her new home in Victor’s Village, her forehead pushed forcefully into her knees. Her head pounds, her nose desperately needs to be blown and her thighs are wet from all her crying, but she can’t stop. She wants to, she really does, but she can’t. It’s hard to breathe and her arms hurt, but she doesn’t move. Moving means going inside and that’s the last place she wants to be right now. 

Her nose is dripping but there’s nothing she can do about it here, unless she wants to blow it on her skirt. She closes her eyes and tries to hold in the tears, but they leak out anyway. As stupid as it is, she feels a little betrayed. 

“I know moving’s a lot of work, but this might not be the best place for a nap.” 

Gale’s voice is light and jokey and Madge is so surprised to hear it she jerks her head up. His grin drops immediately. 

“Shit,” he says and she knows what he must be seeing. Her, red, puffy and miserable with a drippy nose. Gale pats at the pockets of his pants until he reaches into one of the back ones and pulls out what might be the dirtiest rag she’s ever seen. He winces. 

When she was little, her grandpa kept a handkerchief in his pocket, a white one with a pretty pattern of flowers. “In case I see a pretty girl crying,” he’d told her with a wink. Unlike Grampy, she gets the impression Gale had used his rag to clean something and then stuffed it in his pocket. It doesn’t matter. She’s desperate. Madge takes it from him and blows her nose. Gale sits beside her and heedless of the fact that she’s probably going to get black smears on her face, she blots at the tears on her cheeks. Gale doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. His eyes touch her and they ask what’s wrong. She feels a little silly and stupid on top of miserable and she’s not sure she can explain, even if she wanted to. But then his arm presses against hers and suddenly the words don’t seem so daunting.

“We were moving in and everything was fine but then...suddenly my mom just got really quiet and sad and…” She trails off and his arm slides around her shoulders. Madge takes a steadying breath even as a few stubborn tears dribble down her cheeks. “She was in so much pain, her head. It was...it was really bad and she just kept whispering ‘Maysilee should’ve had a house like this, Maysilee should’ve lived in a house like this’. She was so...miserable and in so much pain she couldn’t even walk, my dad had to carry her upstairs. And they had to give her so much morphling, she was barely conscious. I hate seeing her like that, but this was so much worse. In the arena I kept telling myself I had to win so she wouldn’t suffer like that again. But I won and she still is. It’s my fault and it isn’t but it is. I started to cry and I couldn’t stop. I never can anymore.”

It’s a lot and she covers her face with Gale’s smelly rag. Her breathing’s still shaky, her throat feels sticky and there’s nothing Gale can say to make this better. She doesn’t even want him to try. Just saying it, having someone hear it without offering any guidance or reassurance or advice, that’s what she wants. He gives that to her. He’s quiet, he’s there and she’s grateful.

The silence stretches between them, comfortable and comforting. When he finally does speak again, she no longer feels like she’s being strangled. 

“Since we moved in last week, we’re pretty much settled now. I was wondering if you wanted the grand tour. And maybe we’ll be able to find something for those arms of yours, crispy.”

Madge laughs, a wet, ugly sound and Gale grins. 

“Come on,” he says and stands. He offers his hand. She takes it and lets him pull her up. They walk down the wide, cobbled lane together hand in hand and even though the weight of her mother’s grief is still heavy, it doesn’t feel quite so impossible to carry anymore)

November

What do you do on your last day at home? Madge goes for a walk.

She closes the door behind her as she walks out onto the porch, the wind biting at her nose. The sky looks like smoke and Madge can only hope it doesn’t open up and rain on her. She buries her hands in her coat pockets as she starts down the steps and though it’s been months, she still finds herself missing the creak her old top step used to make. It used to irritate her, but now she finds herself pressing down extra hard with her foot as if that’ll force these shiny new stairs to creak like old wood. They never do.

Madge walks slowly down the empty road and Victor’s Village is particularly desolate in late fall. The flowers have all died, the leaves have fallen and all that’s left are bony trees reaching for a sky of cinders. Four houses with too much space between them and eerie almost-silence, broken by a hiss of wind, a skitter of dry leaves blown across the street cobbles. The little ghost girl from Gale’s story belongs here; she’s not sure living people do. 

Her new shoes with their hard soles clack clack on the stones beneath her and Twelve isn’t any prettier than it was when she’d left for the Hunger Games, but just like then, Madge gathers every sparse, gray detail. Just like last time, she might never get another chance. She doesn’t know what the plan is for their victory tour, she won’t until they’re already on the tour, but she knows there’s a chance she won’t be coming home. Maybe according to the rebels’ plan or maybe because the Capitol puts an end to her and all her dreams of revolution. It’s a cold thought, a terrible one but not nearly as awful as she would’ve thought. But then maybe that’s because she’s already lived this fear. Hopefully this’ll be the last time she does.

She’s pretty sure it won’t be.

(july)

(Rain soaks through the sleeves of her jacket as Madge stands in Haymitch’s backyard, the untended lawn under her shoes turning to mud. The screen door is ajar, there’s a puddle forming on his floor and Madge hesitates to go inside. It’s wet, she’s cold but she’s still not sure if she should go in, if she’s supposed to, allowed to or if she should just go back home even though the chasm inside her begs her not to. She bites her lip too hard and thunder grumbles in the distance, the rain rising in tempo. Madge breathes in and finally moves towards the door, the mud squelching with every step.  

She feels like a criminal as she slips inside, making sure to latch the door behind her. The house is quiet, empty in a lonely way and she pulls off her drippy shoes and drenched jacket. She feels bad making the puddle even bigger, but there’s no towel to mop it up and every part of her is wet. She bites her lip again, still too hard, and walks deeper into the house. The air is stale and full of liquor, none of the lights are on and besides the rain outside, the only sound is a snuffling, snorting sound she follows into the kitchen. Haymitch and several bottles are sprawled across the table, the wood is sticky with spills and without really thinking about it, Madge digs out his kettle and fills it up. She sets it on the stove and listens to the rain, Haymitch’s snoring somehow getting louder the longer she stands there. 

It’s the whistling that wakes him up. 

The kettle is shrill when it’s ready and Haymitch twitches, his snoring ending in a snort. Madge finds two hopefully clean cups and fills them up as Haymitch groans, several of his bottles rattling. Madge sits across from him and slides him a cup of tea. Haymitch blinks at her with bleary eyes. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asks and glares at the nearest empty bottle. She hesitates to answer, the chipped porcelain of her mug burning her fingers. The truth is that sometimes when she’s at home, surrounded by the people she loves, she feels alone. Alone in an awful, horrific way that eats and eats and eats at her. Alone in a way she can’t explain, alone in a way no one would understand. Except maybe...

“Someone has to make sure you’re still alive,” she says instead and Haymitch grunts. He sips his tea with a look of disdain and somehow, Madge thinks he understands. 

She’s still lonely, they both are, but at least now they can be lonely together)

November

It’s a chilly Saturday and Twelve’s streets are at their busiest, which is to say they’re barely busy at all. Madge has a little brown purse full of money but no one else in Twelve does, ever does, so trips to town are fairly rare. Of course, town, or at least the part with shops, is really just one dusty street lined with faded storefronts in need of new paint. Madge stops at each of those storefronts, pushes open old doors with little jangly bells and hands out her money like her grandpa used to hand out little striped candies to lure people into his shop. 

She goes to the seamstress’ first, a squat building bleached milky brown by sunlight with a sign that sways in the wind. The letters are in purple paint so worn she can’t actually read them and the doorknob sticks a little but she’s used to that. Madge bumps the stiff door with her hip and it opens up, the smell of leather and clean linen settling over her. Behind the counter is a very bored Lanna Thimmonier, who might be Gale’s age. She straightens and stares with widening eyes, but then, Madge is the only customer standing between the buttons and rolls of fabric. Lanna clears her throat. “Can I help you with something?”

“Um,” Madge starts and grabs the nearest thing, hair ribbons, a whole handful, and pulls far more money than they cost from her purse. Lanna stares at her as she places it all on the counter.

“Keep the change,” Madge insists and she’s already leaving. It’s not enough, it’s not even close to enough, but it’s the only thing she’s been able to do in these six months of waiting. The people here are starving and anyway, her money’s Capitol money and the Capitol owes them. More than Madge will ever be able to spend, she knows that, but it’s something at least.

Next up is the butcher and she orders bacon, the best kind that costs the most. Mr Hardwick wraps it up and maybe it’s the smell of death or the blood stains on his apron, but Madge finds it hard to breathe. It’s been six months, she doesn’t want to feel like this but there’s acid in her gut as she stares at his bloody butcher’s knife.

“Here you are,” he says and hands her the bacon. Madge hands him her money and the bile’s so thick in her throat she can barely say “Thank you. Keep the change.” She’s dizzy as she stumbles from the shop and there’s something awful clawing at the back of head, but she ignores it. She’s had months of practice. After too many deep breaths with her hands on her knees, she moves on, this time to the grocer’s.

The walls are painted with green and white stripes, which was probably cheery once. Now it’s just old and chipped. She goes inside and runs her eyes slowly over every item, her feet moving through the shop at a leisurely pace. Nothing here tastes as good as the wild strawberries Katniss still sells her, but the pears are pretty good and she’s been hankering after apples ever since she came back from the games. She fills up a bag of each and heads to the counter to pay.

Mr Keene the grocer is old with gray hair curling into wisps and he takes her coins with a shaking hand. He’s missing a tooth when he smiles and she wonders if it was old age or something else that took it from him. Madge smiles back but there’s an unwelcome thought starting to bloom in the very back of her head, fighting its way through the bones of her skull. Will she make it to his age? 

It’s an ugly, awful thought and Madge does her best to banish it. Still, Mr Keene’s hands aren’t the only ones shaking anymore.

“Keep the change,” Madge says, trying not to stumble over her lines. She leaves the store quickly and next up is the bakery, the front window smudged with tiny handprints. Madge wants to smile at the same time she wants to cry. She breathes in to steady herself and then pushes open the door, the bell jingling in announcement of her presence. Again, she’s the only one inside, and when she breathes in this time, it’s to savour the sweet smell of sugar and warmth. She feels a little calmer already.

Mrs Mellark stands at the counter and she smiles brightly, friendly and it’s hard to smile back. Everyone knows Mrs Mellark is the farthest thing from friendly, though she’s never been anything but pleasant to Madge. She guesses that’s because even before she was a Victor, she still had the deepest pockets in Twelve. 

“Welcome to Mellark’s Bakery, Miss Undersee. How can I help you today?” Mrs Mellark asks and Madge wishes someone else was working the counter today.

“A dozen more of your peanut butter cookies, please. I just can’t get enough of them.” She uses the same faux cheery voice she’d made use of in the Capitol and Mrs Mellark nods eagerly.

“Of course, right away. Anything for our best customer,” she chirps and Madge smiles. This is good practice for the tour at least. Mrs Mellark disappears into the back and Madge waits, her eyes drifting to the magnificent cakes on display. Her gaze sticks on a woodland scene with the greenest grass, trees with detailed leaves and little sculpted squirrels. It looks amazing, too good even to eat and she knows they're made of icing, but she can’t help finding those squirrels adorable. She’s smiling, for real this time, and then Mrs Mellark says, “Here are your cookies, just made fresh.”

Madge looks back at the counter and Peeta Mellark stands beside his mother, a box of cookies in his hands. They smell delicious but Madge barely notices. She and Peeta have been in the same class since they started school, but they’ve never been close. He’s always been nice though, friendly in a genuine way and able to charm anyone, from their classmates to every teacher. Well almost anyone. There’s a welt on Peeta’s face today, as there is on so many days. It looks almost as fresh as her cookies and Madge knows how he must have gotten it. Everyone in town knows. 

“I hope you like them,” he says and grins. “I figured you might be coming by for your Saturday pickup, so I added a little extra peanut butter.”

Mrs Mellark’s smile tightens. “I’m sure you have work to get back to,” she says in a tone trying for friendly but falling short. Peeta nods. 

“Thank you,” Madge blurts and Peeta smiles. The corner of Mrs Mellark’s mouth twitches.

“No problem, I hope you like them,” he says and then turns to head back to his baking. Madge watches him go and it occurs to her then that even if their revolution succeeds, even if they win and Snow falls, they still won’t save everyone.

That doesn’t seem fair.

(july)

(“Aren’t you ever afraid someone’s going to catch you?” Madge whispers as Katniss leads her to the fence. The meadow is deserted, but Madge can’t help her skittishness. They’re about to break the law and the Capitol is never kind to rule breakers. 

“No. The peacekeepers never come around here. And why would they want to stop us? Most of what we sell is to them.” Katniss doesn’t whisper, her steps don’t falter and she ducks through a gap in the fence’s wires like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Madge stands on the other side and stares, both impressed with Katniss and surprised at the peacekeepers. But why is she surprised? Of course the peacekeepers are hypocrites. 

“You coming?”

Madge feels a sting of heat in her cheeks and tries not to let her apprehension show as she sizes up the gap in the fence. The electricity isn’t on even if the faded sign promises it is, but it’s somewhat barbed and the last thing she wants is to cut herself. Madge presses the fabric of her dress against her legs and holds her breath as if that’ll somehow help. She sticks one leg through the gap and then tries to slide the rest of herself through, but just as she thinks she’s done it, the fence tugs on her shoulder. Madge freezes and twists her neck to check, one rude barb caught on her sleeve and determined to hold on. Half-squatting and straddling the fence wires, she can’t help the errant thought that she’s glad it’s Katniss who invited her out here and not Gale. 

Katniss reaches over and unhooks her. Madge pulls herself the rest of the way through, tries not to wince at the hole in her sleeve and “Thank you,” she mumbles in embarrassment. Katniss shrugs and turns to face the woods.

“My gear’s not far,” she says and sets off, her steps as quiet as Gale’s. Madge trots after her like a lumbering bear, twigs snapping under her shoes. She’s never thought of herself as particularly heavy or ungainly, but next to Katniss she’s like an army tromping through the trees. Snow had cushioned her footfalls in the only other woods she’s ever been in and there’s none of that here. Everything is green and vibrant, sunlight slashes through the canopy above to butter everything in gold and it shouldn’t remind her of the arena, everything’s different, but not different enough. Old branches block the path, birds twitter out of sight, her feet land awkwardly on uneven ground and trees tower above her. She’s beyond the fence, freer than she’s ever been and yet, she feels almost trapped. 

“Alright, you ready?” Katniss as she straightens up, her bow in hand. Madge stares at her for a moment, too long a moment, and then tries to smile. 

“Yeah, let’s go.”

It almost feels like her chest’s caving in and Madge doesn’t want to breathe so heavy, doesn’t want to jump at every little sound and touch of plant life, but she can’t stop herself. A bit of grass or maybe a fallen leaf brushes her ankle and a scream swells in her chest, up into her throat and fights to pass her teeth, but reflex presses her hands to mouth because a scream in the arena might be what kills you. Even still, her heart is a battering ram against her ribs, the bones surely splintering under it’s onslaught. Are her feet always this clumsy? Why does the screech of a faraway bird make her want to sob? 

Katniss comes to a sudden stop and Madge trips over her own feet in surprise. She grabs onto the nearest tree to keep from falling, her nails scraping the bark. Katniss is alert, still, her eyes focused on something Madge can’t make out no matter how hard she tries. She watches as Katniss ever so carefully notches an arrow, her movements fluid in a way that might be beautiful. There’s no stiffness in her, no hesitance or lack of certainty. She’s steady, sure and when her arrow flies, it’s with a sort of grace Madge isn’t sure anyone could recreate. Gale is good with a bow, she’d seen that first hand, but Katniss is...she’s natural, natural like she’d been born with a bow in her hand, natural like it’s just another part of her arm. A squirrel thumps to the forest floor. Madge breathes again, the spell around her broken. Katniss steps over to inspect her kill and Madge presses a hand to her chest, but there’s no hammer beat beneath her palm. 

Katniss straightens and looks over at her. “Let me know if you want to give it a try,” she says and Madge nods. One day maybe, when the thought of a weapon in her hand doesn’t make her shake, but today, today she thinks she’ll watch. She’s not ready yet for blood.

And maybe because...because when she’d watched Katniss shoot, she hadn’t been afraid anymore.

She’s not about to give that up)

November

Madge lets her feet decide where to take her next.

Strange eyes stick to her as she walks, but this isn’t new. There are always eyes on her now. Some are filled with awe, and surprise and wonder. Tributes from Twelve always die but Madge didn’t, Madge came home and her district partner came with her. They’re a sensation, a miracle, and because of them, District Twelve will be fed for at least a year, will finally reap the rewards of Panem’s favourite spectacle. Sometimes the eyes that follow her are tinged with gratitude too.

That’s strange, to be liked and well thought of, to have her District watch her because they are impressed and thankful. She is the mayor’s daughter, she is used to much harsher eyes. All her life she has tasted their hostility, their accusations and the same hatred that used to burn in Gale Hawthorne every time they saw each other.

Of course, there’s still plenty of that too.

Some people like her now, some might even love her, but there are plenty that don’t. She’s a killer after all and fear and disgust touch some eyes that glare at her down dusty roads, glare and watch and judge. She murdered children to come home, just like the tributes that stole so many of Twelve’s own children, some people will never forgive or forget that. Some people are scared of her and the blood on her hands, others are resentful she managed to come home when the people they loved didn’t, still others see her and think of all the killers they spent their lives watching and being taught to hate. Twelve is a district very used to loss and defeat. Most really aren’t sure what to do with a victor, let alone two.

The Capitol has watchful eyes too so Madge keeps a pleasant, cheery look on her face even as all those eyes feel like hands and fingers, touching and holding and pushing down on her. Every moment of every day, she has a part to play. Her only comfort is the thought that hopefully she won’t for very much longer.

Her feet take her to the fence and she should’ve known they would. There’s only one place she won’t be drowning in other people’s eyes.

She doesn’t look around to see if anyone’s watching like she always used to, her stomach doesn’t curl with apprehension of what might lurk in the woods and there’s no spike of anxiety at the thought of the consequences of being caught, not like there used to be. Madge doesn’t feel much of anything as she slips through the gap in the metal wiring and comes out the other side, officially beyond Twelve’s borders and beyond the Capitol’s protection. Leaves crinkle under her shoes and the faintest hint of her breath mists the air. The woods are full of shadows even in daylight, but that doesn’t worry her like it used to.

Is it courage? Or recklessness?

She’s not sure she can tell the difference anymore.

(august)

(The sun burns high in the sky, hot enough that the air almost shimmers. The sky is impossibly blue, not a single cloud braves the heat and Madge sits on a worktable in the Hawthornes’ backyard. Shiny new shoes from the Capitol lay abandoned in the grass as she watches Gale work, the both of them tucked into the shade of the leafy oak tree Gale had planted for his siblings to climb. There’s hair stuck to the back of her neck but she barely notices as she watches Gale work, his knife sure and his bare arms revealing every flex of muscle. It calms her the way watching Katniss shoot does, softens the sharp edges trying to poke holes in her skin. 

Woodcarving is the marketable hobby he’s taken up to please the Capitol, and just like with her music, they can’t get enough of everything he makes. There are talk shows gushing about his talent, a pile of orders sent from Effie from prominent Capitolites and the funniest thing is, every carving he makes is...ugly. Bumpy, uneven, sometimes unrecognizable, not one merits the effusive praise the Capitol can’t stop showering him with. It’s the same with her music. Madge hates every song she records, can’t bear to listen to even one and always expects to receive complaints or anger or reprimands. She never does. Instead, people on TV lavish her with compliments and Effie gushes over the telephone about her talent. 

Madge swings her legs and Gale’s current project might be a bird. She thinks she might like a bird, one with unfurled wings as if ready to fly away. She wishes she had that kind of freedom, she wishes they all did. Not that she’ll ever ask Gale for one. He has enough work to do.

“Posy showed me the cat you made her, it’s adorable,” she says and Gale’s knife stills for a moment, a solitary bead of sweat sliding from his jaw down to his collarbone. 

“She deserves it,” he says and his voice is low. Madge nods. She understands what he’s saying and what he isn’t saying too. Posy deserves something beautiful, deserves the effort and all the time it took to make. The Capitol doesn’t. 

Gale understands her too, understands just what she’s thinking. “They’ll love whatever shit I give them, no matter how awful. I’m not going to waste my time. Not on them,” he spits and Madge nods again. He’s right and he shouldn’t spend any more time labouring for the Capitol than he has to. They don’t deserve it. 

“I wonder if the other districts are going to see or hear our stuff on TV and think we’re talentless hacks?” she muses and picks up a lumpy, illformed mouse. There’s something almost endearing about how homely it is. She’s not sure why her heart’s aching.

“Probably,” he says and Madge sets down the mouse. The other districts will mock how terrible they are and never understand that they’re fighting back the only way they can. She wants to scream. 

She always wants to scream)

November

Madge sits in the woods and watches the sun set.  

The air is brisk, the trees look almost black in the fading light and thin beams of gold shoot between the trunks and stretch shadows out along the ground. It’s quiet, peaceful and it’s so soothing just to be Madge without having to worry about anything or anyone else. There’s no one watching, no one judging or analyzing her every move. It’s not freedom, but it’s the closest she can get these days. 

Madge runs her fingers over the fallen leaves pooled around her feet and breathes in deep, the air crisp and cool in her lungs. She’s not quite safe out here, but she almost is and for the moment, she relishes that. After tomorrow, who knows if she’ll ever feel this safe again? And it is a little funny that out here, where the Capitol warned there was nothing but danger, Madge feels safest. Or is it just sad?

The sun dips lower and suddenly she isn’t alone. 

Katniss steps out from between the trees, her footsteps so quiet Madge hadn’t heard her coming. For a moment, Katniss is silent and the sinking sun sets her edges ablaze. It burns all around her like a fiery outline, but the shadows hide her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Madge doesn’t ask why. 

It’s safer that way.

(september)

(Fall creeps in and Madge watches the younger Hawthornes walk to school in their drab gray uniforms. They pass by every morning, laughing, talking and swinging their bags, and Madge sits by her window and watches. Her own dull uniform hangs in the far corner of her closet, abandoned and lonely. She could throw it out, but never does, even though she never has to go to school again.

A perk of victory they say, just like the fact that she’ll never have to get a job. School in Twelve was gloomy and lackluster, the jobs hard and unforgiving. Being excused from both should be a good thing, it should make her happy but...sometimes Madge opens her closet and stares at that ugly, unloved uniform and doesn’t feel happy at all. It’s not that she loved school and had so much fun there or anything, it’s just...she’s not really sure what it is. But there’s an ache in her when she stares at that uniform nowadays)

November

Madge is quiet during dinner.

She usually is, she’s never been chatty, but tonight it’s something else. Tonight she wants to absorb every aspect of his moment, wants to focus on nothing but her father’s exuberant storytelling, his fork waving around and the piece of meat on it’s end in imminent danger of being sent flying. On Mrs Sparrowsaw clutching her knife as she glares at that piece of meat, her eyes hawkishly guarding it’s every move. On Merrie bustling around the room pouring wine and excitedly telling them, “ooo, make sure you try the salad! I’ve come up with a brand new dressing for it.” On her mom picking delicately at that salad and listening to her husband raptly, her smile genuine even if it is strained. On the crooked picture frame above her father’s head, the wrinkle in the corner of the carpet, on the stain on the table she’d made at age six that Mrs Sparrowsaw had never been able to remove, no matter how hard she’d tried. On the fact that even in this new house bought in blood with Snow embedded in its walls, she feels warm and bright and so full of love. 

There are dark days ahead, but she’ll carry this moment with her through them all. As a reminder, as a token, as a shield against whatever it is Snow plans to throw at her. He and his gamemakers failed to break her once and he’ll certainly try again. She remembers the black depths of his eyes when he crowned them after the Games; he won’t tolerate any more disobedience. He’ll come after them with everything he’s got, but so will they. And she'll have moments like these to fall back on, to make her brave and strong. 

Snow has only himself.

He must be miserable.

(october)

(Melancholy notes plink plink from the piano keys and just like they always do nowadays, Madge’s fingers feel clumsy. She’d used to believe magic could come from her music, healing, happiness, but not anymore. Everything she makes now is ugly.

“You’re really good,” Gale’s voice says quietly from behind her and Madge stops her playing in surprise. She turns to see him standing in the doorway, his posture stiff and his eyes anywhere but on her. She shakes her head.

“I’m not. I used to be better.”

He frowns and still won’t meet her eyes. Madge bites her lip.

“Do you...do you want to go for a walk?” he asks and she stares at him. His tone, his posture, the look on his face, there must be something he wants to say to her in private, away from the Capitol’s prying ears. She nods.

“Of course.”

It’s late fall and that means Twelve is grayer than usual, the light and the air, the sky, the people, the ground and the buildings saturated in it. Madge glances up at the ashen sky instead of Gale walking beside her and wishes she could forget the look on his face when he’d asked her to go on this walk. His hand feels awkward in hers and what secret could be making him so tense and unable to look at her? She can’t ask of course, they need privacy for that, so she tries to smile to make up for his frown, to fool anyone who may be looking their way. They’re in love, they’re happy, of course they are. She can’t let anyone think anything else.

The flowers in the meadow are graying too, starting to wilt and sag and Madge and Gale wander to the edge of the fence, it's metal twisted and rusty. Their hands fall apart and Gale’s go back in his pockets, hers knotting together. She tries not to worry. She fails. 

“I-” he starts and stops, his expression pinching. Madge stares at him and waits. He kicks the fence post.

“I did something really stupid.”

His admission hangs in the gray air and Madge refuses to imagine what that might mean. Her throat’s dry.

“What?” she asks and he kicks the fence post again, the hands in his pockets tightening into fists. 

“I kissed Katniss.”

Three little words and somehow, they punch her in the gut, so sudden and hard she actually can’t breathe for a moment. She stares at him with wide eyes and it was stupid of him, stupid and selfish and reckless and dangeorus, but it shouldn’t hurt this much. This isn’t worry or fear or shock, this is something worse. She doesn’t understand it, she doesn’t want to.

He turns away from her, maybe takes her silence as condemnation, and kicks the fence post so hard it shudders. He’s angry with himself and Madge thinks she might be angry too, somewhere under all the hurt. Why? she almost asks, why would you do something so stupid? but she knows why. Because he’s in love with Katniss, because he’s always been in love with her, he always will be. All their lies haven’t changed that. They can’t. She feels sick.

“I know I shouldn’t have,” he says and his voice shakes with how mad he is at himself. “It was stupid, so fucking stupid! I knew it as soon as I did it and if anyone saw...if anyone finds out it could ruin everything. Damn it!” he snaps and this time he slams his fist against the post. His hand must ache and she should say something. But what? She can’t think of anything to say. She just keeps staring at his back.

“I kept telling myself I had to do it just once, to-” He cuts himself off and leans forward until his forehead touches the fence post. “I messed up. I know I did and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, fuck, I wasn’t thinking.”

There’s a strange part of her that wants to run away, another that wants to rage at him, but instead she dams the flood inside that’s threatening to drown her. It’s difficult to breathe but she does. Anger won’t help them here, fleeing and tears and whatever other messy feelings are alive within her won’t make this any better, so she steels herself against them all. This is just an extension of the arena, just another stage of the Hunger Games and she has to use her head if she wants to make it out. She’s so cold, but she has to be. Survival’s at stake, just like always, there’s no room for anything else.

(and deep down she thinks, I can’t really blame him, can I?)

(their little game must be breaking his heart)

“It’s okay,” she says and he pushes his forehead into the wood.

“No, it isn’t. If anyone saw, if anyone finds out-”

“You were in the woods, right? Chances are no one saw you and Snow doesn’t have surveillance out there, so it’s probably okay,” she says and her voice is steady, calm, soothing even. It’s like listening to a stranger. Gale shakes his head and when he turns back to her, his anger hasn’t lessened.

“Why aren’t you angry with me?” he demands and Madge stares at him. “I put us both in danger, not to mention our plans with Haymitch. And we-”

He stops himself short, swallows whatever he was about to say and turns away again, his face pressed into the splintering fence post. Madge looks at him, feels the maelstrom rising in her heart and honesty, they’d promised they’d be honest right? She swallows.

“I am. I am angry and furious and scared and...and hurt, I-” she cuts herself off, isn’t sure what she’s saying. Gale turns back to her and she closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see his face.

“I am, but that’s not going to help. Being angry or upset isn’t going to fix anything. And...and I understand. This situation’s a mess and...and you’re in a terrible position. I can’t imagine what that’s like, to be in love with someone but have to lie everyday and pretend to be in love with someone else. And every day this lasts, you miss out on time you could have spent together.”

“That isn’t an excuse,” he insists. “And what about you? You’re stuck in the same situation I am.”

Her eyes open in surprise and she shakes her head.

“I’m not,” she says and it’s odd how heavy her heart feels in her chest. “I’m not in love with anyone. I haven’t had to sacrifice anything.” She does love people, her parents, Katniss, even him, but that’s not romantic. It’s...she’s not really sure what it is when it comes to him, but she isn't in love with him. She’d never be that stupid.

Gale’s mouth flattens into a line. “Maybe not. But what if...what if you miss out on them, on the person you’re supposed to fall in love with because of me?”

The sun sets to the left of him, orange light slicing through the gray space between them. Madge breathes in the smoky air of Twelve and she’d never really thought of that had she? What if her soulmate is out there just waiting to be found? What if this game of theirs steals her only chance to find them? That should worry her, shouldn’t it? But as they stand there in the dying light, half in shadow and glowing around the edges, she finds it doesn’t. 

“It’s not the same. And anyway, we can’t worry about hypotheticals. We have enough to worry about.” She tries to smile and half manages, Gale’s face still hard. The wind picks up and flutters the ends of her hair, the strands tickling her face. Madge looks up at the sky, orange and yellow and streaked with pink. 

“I...I don’t think you and Katniss should spend time alone anymore,” she says and watches a bird soar past the clouds. “Not because I don’t trust you, but just in case someone did see something or suspects something. You can still spend time together, I just don’t think it should be alone. I can come with you, but I’ll stand far off so you won’t even know I’m there. But if I’m there, no one can suggest there’s anything romantic between you two, right?” She finally drops her gaze to look at him and he nods, his eyes dark. There’s a chill beneath her skin, sinking deep into her bones. Madge wraps her arms around herself but it doesn’t help. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again and without really thinking about it, she reaches forward and places a hand against his chest.

“It’s okay. And I’m sorry too.” She looks up at him, his moonlight eyes burning, and he puts a hand over hers. They stay like that, setting sun beside them and something warm growing in her chest. Their last day in the arena, right before the avalanche hit, she’d felt a yearning for something as she’d looked at him, and she feels it again now. An ache, a longing, but for what? It fills her top to bottom, stretches out and swallows her and it’s too much. She drops her gaze. 

“So...so what did Katniss do when you…um…”

She’s not sure why she can’t bring herself to say it and Gale’s hand slides from hers. Her fingers tighten for a moment in his jacket and then let go, her hand falling to her side. She still doesn’t look up at his face.

“Nothing.”

She does look at him now but he’s looking at the sunset. His face is tight and maybe she shouldn’t have asked. 

“Nothing?” she finds herself echoing in surprise. She knows what Gale’s kisses are like, the way they melt her and consume her and light her aflame. It seems hard to believe anyone could have no reaction.

“Nothing,” he confirms. “I realized almost immediately how stupid I was being and stopped, but when I kissed her, she did nothing but stand there. And when I apologized she just stood there and nodded and we went home like nothing happened. I don’t know what that means. Was she surprised? Disgusted? Afraid because she knew how stupid it was of me?”

“I’m sure it was just surprise,” Madge says and hopes she sounds comforting and sure. Her fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him, but she doesn’t let them. Gale doesn’t answer, his eyes still off in the distance. Madge hates how cold she feels.

“It’s dark, we should head back,” he says and Madge nods. They hold hands, she forces a smile and even though he’s right beside her, she feels...she feels far away. 

So very far away)

November

Madge goes out to sit on the front steps and stares at the stars, the ones she’ll lose when they reach the Capitol. They’re beautiful but so far away, as distant as a dream. Like diamonds in the sky as the old song says and how sad for all those Capitol citizens with all their magnificent things; they have everything, but they’ll never have the stars.

“Hey.”

Madge lowers her gaze and Gale stands just inside her fence, his hands in his pockets and his silver eyes far brighter than any star could ever hope to be. Shadows touch his face and she knows they’re touching hers too, because tomorrow they go back. Tomorrow the game begins again, but worse this time. This isn’t just about saving their own lives anymore. This time they’re fighting a war.

“Hey,” she says back and tightens her blanket around herself. It’s chilly in the dark and Gale comes closer, his footsteps so light they barely make a sound. Always the hunter, even now. She smiles even as fear and apprehension and nerves slither beneath her skin, revolution and war and so much responsibility falling heavy on her shoulders. Gale sits down beside her and she has to believe they can do this, make a difference and change things and defeat the Capitol. She has to and she will. Whatever it takes, no matter how terrifying, they’re going to do this. For her family, for his, for friends and classmates and neighbours, for Twelve, for Panem and everyone who’s already died. They will be the mockingjay and they’ll see this through. They have to.

She just wishes she wasn’t so scared.

“Are you cold?” she asks and scoots in a little closer, her blanket already opening. He smiles just the smallest bit and shakes his head.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs but his body leans into hers anyway and she wraps her blanket around him. It’s fragile, the safety, the calm that sitting here together provides, it always has been, but that’s alright. The world waiting for them is filled with terror and death and danger, but they won’t be facing it alone. That’s enough.

Gale looks up at the sky and he’s beautiful in moonlight, the sort of beautiful that stops time for just a moment. She stares at him and what must it be like to shine so brightly? She’ll never know, she’ll never steal someone’s breath or put the night sky to shame, but he does. He always does.

(she wonders if Panem will lose her in his light)

“So tomorrow,” he says and Madge nods. She looks back up at the stars, the ones she’ll miss in the Capitol’s bright lights.

“Tomorrow.”

(october)

(It had been her idea to accompany Katniss and Gale on any future outings and objectively speaking, it was the logical solution. But as Madge leans against a tree with peeling bark and watches them hunt, she realizes she hadn’t factored in just how much this was going to hurt. She doesn’t understand why it hurts deep down in the pit of her stomach, but it does. It really, really does.

Standing alone as she is, she has plenty of time to dwell on it, to come up with possible reasons and each one is worse than the last. She tries really hard to think of something else. The leaves still clinging to the tree branches are beautiful, a mix of burnt orange, rusty red and golden yellow. If she squints her eyes just right, the shafts of sunlight pouring down into the woods make the trees look like they're on fire, burning and glittering and glowing. It’s sort of breathtaking and Madge tries to drink it in. But as stunning as nature is, her eyes can’t stay away from Gale and Katniss.

Even without speaking, they’re completely in sync. Their teamwork is effortless, easy and Madge is a little mesmerized. Somehow, they seem to know exactly what to do and when to do it without any sort of communication, not a word or a gesture or jerk of the head. Madge watches as Katniss takes aim with her bow at what appears to be nothing at all, as Gale bends down soundlessly and picks up a rock, as he tosses it into the trees. It clatters, birds burst up into the air and Katniss fires. She hits her target dead on, but then, Madge has never seen her miss. Gale stands back up, Katniss steps over to investigate her kill and for a just a second, Madge sees Gale hesitate. His leg twitches, his body leans slightly forward but for that one second, he doesn’t move. And then he snaps himself out of it like he’s been doing all day and follows after Katniss.

Madge leans a little farther back into her tree and feels her sweater catch on the wood. Hesitancy hangs over all of them today and it’s no secret why. It's that kiss, the kiss that never should’ve happened, and the fact that none of them seem to know how to deal with it. Katniss and Gale have barely spoken all day and they keep looking at each other, but only when they’re sure the other’s not looking at them. And every once and awhile, one of them shoots a furtive glance at Madge. She pretends not to notice.

No one’s mentioned that kiss and it makes sense. Gale isn’t going to bring it up, he’s mad enough at himself that it happened at all. And what would be the point in talking about it? If Katniss tells him she loves him back, that’ll be awful because there’s nothing they can do about it. And if she tells him it meant nothing and she’s only ever seen him as a friend? That would be awful too, wouldn’t it? Madge can understand why he’s just letting it lie. And Katniss could be keeping quiet for so many reasons. Maybe she doesn’t like Gale that way and doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. Maybe she does love him but knows they can’t be together now. Maybe she doesn’t know the truth about what’s going on between Madge and Gale and doesn’t want to cause trouble. 

Madge hasn’t told her (why not?). Has Gale?

And the thing is, Madge knows she could say something. She could explain that she and Gale are just friends, that it’s okay if Katniss loves him back but she doesn’t. The very thought of doing so makes her feel nauseous. She refuses to puzzle out why. 

Katniss and Gale move deeper into the woods and Madge follows, trailing after with a hollow chest. Watching them together is sobering. She’s friends with them both now, deeper friends with Katniss than before she left and twined up with Gale because of so many forces beyond their control and she’d let it fool her into forgetting. But when she looks at them now, awkward, barely speaking and yet somehow so in tune with each other, working so harmoniously together, she can’t help but remember.  No matter how much she means to either of them now, it’ll never be even close to how much they mean to each other. 

Madge is used to being lonely. She always has been.

So why does it hurt so much more now?)

November

It’s hard to sleep tonight.

It’s always hard to sleep, but usually it’s because she knows that when she closes her eyes, she’s going to die. Sometimes it's Cato's hands around her throat, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until the world fades away, sometimes it's Clove's hands doing the squeezing or maybe even her knife, digging in so deep it never comes out. Sometimes the boy from Eleven hits her with that stone and ends it quickly, sometimes he chokes the life out of her with no Gale to stop him. Sometimes the avalanche overtakes her and she drowns in white, sometimes the mutts rip her into pieces with sharp teeth and sharper claws. Sometimes the boy from One throws his spear and kills her just like he did the little girl from Eleven. Sometimes she just steps off the platform at the start and ends it herself. Either way, every night her bed becomes her grave.

Tonight is different.

Tonight there are worms in her gut, twisting and turning and tangling, and nothing she does will quiet them. She rolls over again and curls into herself, but her stomach keeps slithering within her. The enormity of what they’re doing is a firecracker in her head and yes, she’d won the Hunger Games, but that was against kids like her. This is a different enemy, an enemy that’s already won a war, subjugated a country and holds every advantage. She wants to fight, she’s going to fight, but still, she wishes she had more than just determination and anger to offer.

The moon is bright through her window and even with her eyelids squeezed tight, she can still see it’s light. With an exhale of defeat, Madge gives up on sleep. Her eyes open and her room is almost blue tonight, even the shadows and dark corners. Her comforter is too hot, too heavy and she kicks it off and then her sheet too, her limbs feeling trapped. But then it’s chilly, fresh air kissing goosebumps onto her skin. She’d forgotten to close her window and when she glances at it, the moon calls her out of bed. She goes. Bare feet flinch at the coolness of her wood floor and Madge reaches her window, her hands settling on the sill. The night sky stretches out like a canvas above her and even six months later, she’s almost waiting to see faces painted in the stars. 

She wonders if they’ll ever be a day when she isn’t.

(october)

(Madge and Gale walk home together after their day hunting with Katniss and as they reach her fence, Gale says “Thank you.”

Madge stops walking and stares at the paint on the fence post, its crisp white already starting to fade to gray. “You don’t need to thank me,” she says and chips at the perfectly even paint with her nail. 

“I want to.”

Madge’s finger freezes. She glances up at him and he’s smiling, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the crescent moon half hidden above them. 

“I messed up but you figured out a way to make it better, just like you figured out a plan to get us all the way to the end of the Games,” he starts and Madge shakes her head. 

“I didn’t do much and it was so awkward out there…”

“Painfully awkward,” he agrees and she’s surprised there’s no bitterness in his voice. “And it probably will be for a while. But I still got to spend time with Katniss and I couldn’t have done that without you. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.” His voice is soft but sure and there’s a lump in her throat. Her nail digs into the wood until it hurts.

“I couldn’t have done any of this without you either,” she says and means it. Gale’s grin brightens just the slightest and he pulls his eyes from the moon to settle them on her. For a moment she feels like maybe she’s the moon. Gale puts a hand on her shoulder and even in the breezy autumn night, it’s warm.

“We make a good team,” he says and she nods.

“We do,” she agrees and lifts her hand to cover his. Her fingers curl over his, his thumb strokes her nearest knuckle and she feels a little steadier than she had all day in the woods. He laughs fondly.

“I never thought I’d say it, but I’m lucky to have you Madge Undersee.” The sincerity in his voice lightens her heart and she smiles up at him. 

“I never thought I’d say it either, but I’m lucky to have you too Gale Hawthorne.”

The wind stills and again that yearning grows in her chest, in her lungs, her hands, her skin and organs. She wants, she burns and then her dad’s voice calls out “Is that you sweetheart?”

They fall apart like cut string, hands to their sides, eyes flicking away and the fire in her blood dims to embers. “It’s me!” she calls back,“I’ll be in in a minute!”

“I guess this is goodnight,” she says to Gale, a strange shivering in her heart. Gale nods and stuffs his hands back in his pockets.

“Goodnight,” he echoes. They stay there for a moment and then he leaves, his eyes back up on the moon. Madge watches him make his way down the road and suddenly he stops, turns and her heart bounces against every rib in her chest. 

“Oh hey, I almost forgot,” he says with a grin and pulls something out of his pocket. He tosses it at her and she catches it with fumbling fingers. Madge looks down at it. It’s a little wooden bird, every feather painstakingly carved and every small detail intricate, from the eyes to the beak to its little wooden feet. It’s been painted black and white, mockingjay colours, and its wings are partially unfurled, almost as if it means to fly away any moment. She stares at it, stares at the effort and work put into it and feels warm even in the rising wind. She looks up but Gale’s gone, the street’s empty and she smiles. Things are complicated and uncertain and confusing, but maybe she isn’t as far away as she thought. Maybe she’ll never be a part of what Katniss and Gale have, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe what she and Gale have and what she and Katniss have are important to them too. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a competition.

Madge walks to the front steps and looks down at her little bird. Her smile somehow grows.

No matter what’s coming, she won’t be facing it alone)

November

The sun rises and the sky is rose petal pink and butter yellow. The clock on her end table ticks, her mockingjay pin glitters gold and the day’s finally here. Six months have come and gone, the countdown’s finally reached zero.

Today their Victory Tour begins.

Today their revolution begins.

Chapter Text

Madge watches the Capitol arrive through her window.

She is dressed in a sweet blue dress, her hair held back with ribbons but her reflection is not soft. The face in the glass is hard and grim as the too shiny, too sleek car pulls up before her house. It’s wheels kick up ashy clouds of snow behind it and Madge’s hands become fists on the chilly glass of her window. 

The enemy’s here, her war’s begun.

She watches with cold eyes as they pour out of the car, all violently colourful and glittering like gems. The prep team clings to each other, little white clouds puffing out of their mouths as they gasp and chatter and look around with wide eyes. Effie strides forward quickly, her tall shoes scarring the snow while Agrippa walks more slowly, his hands in his pockets. Madge has no love for the eerie emptiness of Victor’s Village, but this invasion is far more threatening. A ghost town is safer than one ripe with Snow’s soldiers.

Agrippa glances up towards her window and Madge stares back. Does he see her? She can’t be sure. She stays there until they’re all inside and then presses her forehead against the window, her breath fogging up the glass.

Goodbye , she thinks at the girl looking back at her. It’s time for Madge Undersee to disappear.

There’s a neon rainbow crowding up the hallway as Madge comes down the stairs, her eyes unsure what to focus on. The colours are overwhelming, the laughter too loud and she can barely see her father wedged into the corner by the door, rosy cheeked and drowning in taffeta and sparkles.

“There she is! There she is!” Effie cheers, her voice two pieces of metal dragging against each other. She squeezes through the huddled prep team and though Madge’s fingers tighten on the rail, she matches Effie’s electric blue smile with one of her own. They meet in a gauzy, shimmering embrace.

“Oh, yes,” Effie says as she pulls away. “You look so much better than last time I saw you.” Madge doesn’t mention that last time they’d seen each other she’d barely survived a death game where she’d killed people. That might make things tense. Instead she just smiles some more at the compliment as Effie pats her cheek.

“Now I’m going to leave you in Agrippa’s capable hands while I go check in with your other half,” she says, her cheery expression wilting somewhat at the prospect of Gale. Madge’s smile warms. But instead of leaving, Effie waits, her hands tight on Madge’s and her smiled fixed. No one gives Effie a reason to stay and her shoulders tremble with the effort not to slump.

“Right, yes, off I go!” She does this time, her heavy shoes clomp clomping down the hall. Madge watches her go until six different hands grab onto her shoulders, her arms, her wrists.

“Ooo, let’s make you beautiful!” her prep team coos in unison and Madge smiles even though her skin is covered in ants. They steer her to the bathroom, shut the door behind her and push her down onto the toilet lid. They chirp and chitter excitedly like birds at dawn as they fill up the tub with steaming water, but not one of them says anything to Madge. But why would they? She is only a doll ready to be made up.

The whole room steams up and whatever they’ve poured into the water is dizzying in its sweetness, almost like they’ve managed to mix every single kind of flower together. Sweat gathers on her forehead and beneath her clothes, tiny beads soon forming into a sticky coat. It’s getting harder to breathe, at least for her, but the prep team merely unpacks all their bags and bags of lotions, creams and tools that remind her more of surgery than they do beauty. They’re still giggly and gossiping, none of them bothered like Madge is by how small the room feels with all four of them shut inside. She doesn’t say anything. She’s quiet and wordless as they talk, as they strip away her clothes and push her into the scalding water. It hurts. Madge bites her tongue. 

She’s only a doll and dolls don’t complain.

Just like always, her prep team peels her away and scrubs whatever’s left. They wash and wax and pluck and lather until the skin she’s in feels like someone else’s. Every flaw, every imperfection, every blemish is scraped, carved and rubbed away and when Madge wipes at the foggy mirror, it’s not her reflection looking back. The girl looking back is shiny, new and pristine just the way the Capitol likes. It’s Madge’s face, her body but not quite and she’s always felt like an imposter forced into someone else’s clothes. 

But today, she thinks that might be a good thing. This other face, this unfamiliar skin, it’s like a suit of armour hiding her from view. 

Snow wants to snap her into pieces but instead, he’s had them build her a fortress to wage war from.

Agrippa walks around her with critical eyes, his glittery nailed fingers stroking his lime green beard. Madge stands naked in her living room and it’s only skin she reminds herself, and nothing he hasn’t seen before. He pinches her hip. Madge closes her eyes.

“Well, you’re not quite so bony anymore. That’s an improvement.”

Madge doesn’t answer, but of course, he doesn’t really want her to. He takes her chin and lifts her head.

“Still, there’s plenty of work to do. It’s time to remind the world how talented I really am.”

Madge steps out onto her porch to find the night lit up by bright, bright lights. They’re pointed directly at her and it’s hard to see, but she doesn’t let it show. She smiles as brightly as the lights instead. A camera whirs somewhere in the blinding whiteness and Madge walks down the steps carefully, so she doesn’t fall and shatter the Capitol’s favourite bauble. Agrippa’s made her beautiful yet again, sweet, lovely but also a little sexy. Her hair shines gold, tied with a red velvet bow and draped over her shoulder; her dress is white and so tight it feels like another layer of skin, the sweetheart neckline low enough she’s a little bit afraid she might fall out of it. The hem is high up on her thighs, sparkly gold netting covers her exposed legs and then comes the boots, furlined and ending just below her knees. Her eyelids are gold, her eyelashes black and her lips so, so red. She has gold earrings with dangling red hearts and a fluffy white coat that falls longer than her dress, though it’s been left open. 

She might be beautiful now, but she’s also cold. 

Gale is waiting for her just outside her gate. He looks as handsome as always, though perhaps a little less now the Capitol’s remade him. His hair’s been combed over to one side and given an unnatural sheen, his eyes are outlined in a way that makes them pop, and he’s dressed head to toe in silver and black, a sharp contrast with her gold and white. He looks warmer too. She beams at the sight of him and he grins too, the world’s most perfect romantic hero.

She reaches the foot of the stairs and Gale meets her there, Capitol cameras broadcasting them into every home in Panem. It’s time to shine. Madge looks up at him and he leans in, his mouth warm as it descends on hers. One of his hands slides through her hair and the other grips her waist, a hot, fluttery feeling growing in her stomach. It’s been months since they’ve kissed and maybe that’s why she feels weak in the knees. Her heart beats so, so fast, his lips are eager, passionate and suddenly he dips her. Madge clutches his neck, almost gets lost in the electrifying taste of him, but then she remembers. They haven’t kissed in months, but he has kissed Katniss. Katniss, who he actually wanted to kiss. The intoxicating feel of him lessens, the heat between them dims and wanting him, enjoying this, it’s selfish. 

“Ahem,” Caesar says with a delighted giggle and Gale pulls away, setting her back on her feet. Madge tucks into him like she’s too bashful to face the camera head on and Gale holds her close, his grin unapologetic.

“Sorry Caesar, but we haven’t seen each other in ages. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh? And when was the last time?” Caesar’s tinny voice asks from the nearest camera. Madge peers up at Gale adoringly.

“Last night,” he says with a grin and Caesar laughs.

“Well there you have it ladies and gentlemen! District Twelve’s Star Crossed Lovers, still just as in love as always! Still haven’t had enough of each other?” he jokes and Madge shakes her head.

“Never,” she says firmly and Gale looks down at her, his expression sweet and swoonworthy. He leans in and kisses her slowly, Caesar’s distant voice just reaching her ears. 

“Oh my! Why don’t we leave them to it, hmm? But we’ll be sure to check back in with them soon!”

The cameras shut off, the lights too and Gale’s kiss lingers for a moment in the dark. When he breaks it, she has to remind herself how to breathe.

“Alright, in the car! We have a tight schedule to follow!” Effie says as she descends upon them. She chivvies them into the back seat and they’re off. Madge takes a deep breath. They’ve passed the first hurdle, but there’s still so many more they’ll have to clear.

Gale squeezes her hand. Madge squeezes back.

By the time they board the train, Madge’s face already hurts from smiling so much. But she can’t drop the charade quite yet. Effie’s still here, Snow’s eyes and ears are still here. So Madge keeps smiling. Gale doesn’t bother.

“Alright!” Effie says and claps her hands. “We’re finally off and just on time! We still have a lot of preparation to get through before we arrive in Eleven, but you two can settle in first. Everything should be the same as last time, though there is one new rule,” she says with a pointed look at Gale.

“No late night rendezvous!” she declares and wags a stern finger at him. Haymitch rolls his eyes, Madge feels a little warm and Gale snorts.

“Don’t worry Effie, I wouldn’t be caught dead in your room, night or day,” he sneers. Effie flushes, indignation painting her magenta cheeks even darker. Madge does her best to stifle a smile. 

“Charming,” Haymitch says and grabs Gale by the elbow. “I can see we’ll need to start prepping earlier than expected.” He marches Gale out of the room and Madge shoots Effie an apologetic look before hurrying after them. Haymitch leads them down long corridors of intricately patterned wall panels and thick carpeting until they reach the final car. He jabs a button on the wall and steps inside as the door slides open, Madge only a step behind. 

“Oh,” she says softly, maybe too softly for anyone to hear. Like every room on the train, this room has plush carpet that sucks in her shoes, overstuffed chairs and sofas with plump pillows and lamps with crystal shades. But unlike the other rooms, this one has a curved wall of windows that shows the world rushing by. It’s actually kind of pretty. 

“Shut the door,” Haymitch says and she does. He drops Gale’s elbow and sinks down onto one of the silk couches. Madge sits across from him while Gale crosses his arms and leans against a side table with golden inlay. Haymitch looks at them for a moment with calculating eyes that always make her bristle.

“Snow is everywhere but right here. This car is the only place you talk freely, understand?” he asks, tone as grave as it is commanding. Gale narrows his eyes and Madge frowns.

“How is that possible?” she asks and Haymitch shrugs.

“Let’s just say we have a friend or two in high places.”

For a moment, Madge holds her breath. Friends in high places? Friends in the Capitol? Powerful friends in the Capitol. That’s a boon she hadn’t expected. This rebellion is stronger than she’d thought. Good.

“So, is this when you finally let us in on your grand plan?” Gale asks, perhaps a bit more roughly than strictly necessary. Still, she understands his frustration. She feels it too. Haymitch’s gaze is all stone and iron as he answers.

“The parts you need to know.”

It’s not really the answer either of them wants, but it's something. Anticipation and anxiety fistfight in her gut.

“Effie’s going to write speeches for both of you,” Haymitch begins and Gale rolls his eyes.

“Doesn’t trust us?” he mocks. Madge gives him a look.

“Do you blame her?” she teases, desperately needing something to cut the tension nailed against her ribcage. Haymitch snorts. Gale’s eyebrows go up.

“Ouch,” he says, but he grins as he says it and Madge smiles, her tension loosening. 

“No, she doesn’t,” Haymitch continues. “She’s going to hand you some very nice little speeches that’ll make Snow very happy. So of course, you're not going to use them.” Gale leans forward, his eyes alight and Madge’s tension tightens back up until she’s not sure she can breathe.

“So? What do we say instead?” Gale asks and she can see it, the sparks in his eyes, the fire eager to leap from his tongue. He was born to be a revolutionary.

“That’s going to vary from District to District. Right now, everyone’s angry, but that’s not enough. People in Panem have always been angry, you need to inspire them.”

“We need to show them what a world without Snow could look like,” Madge says, surprised to hear herself talk. Haymitch and Gale both stare at her and she feels heat rush up to swallow her. She wants to shut up, but there’s something in the way Haymitch looks at her that tells her to go on.

“We need their anger if we want to change things, but we also need them to have hope. To believe that a better world is possible.”

Her mouth feels dry and Haymitch nods. She doesn’t look at Gale.

“Exactly. One without the other might start a fire, but it’ll never burn hot enough to take down the Capitol. You need to look at each District and stoke their anger, but you also need to give them something to believe in. And you need to be subtle about it. You go in there guns blazing, and Snow will cut off the live feed and kill someone you love as a warning. He wants you to smother this revolution, not water it.”

Madge nods at Haymitch’s words and feels like she might vomit. Speeches and clever turns of phrase have never been her strong suit. She’s quiet, she’s always been quiet and now she has to inspire a nation with words. Everything and everyone is riding on them. She can’t let them down. 

“First up is Eleven...” Gale says and Madge looks over at him. His arms are still folded and there’s a crease in his brow as he thinks. “I killed the boy from Eleven. I won’t be popular there.”

Madge remembers that, of course she does, but even still it’s a shock to hear the words out loud. They killed people and now they’re going to have to face the people that loved them. 

You did it to save me , she wants to say but Haymitch beats her to it.

“So remind them why you did it and who made you do it. Remind them who they should really be angry at. And make sure they know how sorry you are, how much you wished you hadn’t needed to. Show them the compassion the Capitol never has.”

Gale frowns but nods and Magde looks back at Haymitch. Eleven...thinking about Eleven breaks her heart.

“And you, talk about her. The people of Eleven know you cared about her, that’s why they sent you the bread they’d meant to give to her. Don’t let them forget that. Snow will never feel empathy for them, but you can. So do.”

Madge hadn’t realized about the bread, her heart had been too ravaged for that. Tears sting her eyes as Haymitch tells her now. Kindness shouldn’t be this awful, and yet it is. She wipes at her cheeks and nods.

“Okay.”

Gale puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. Haymitch stands.

“I’ll head back and handle Effie, you two should start working out what you’re going to say,” he says and opens the door. Just before he closes it behind him, he says something else.

“And just so you know, their names were Thresh and Rue.”

Madge barely sleeps that night, but for once, it isn’t because of her nightmares.

“Alright, here we go! 3, 2, 1!”

Madge takes one last deep breath as the doors of Eleven’s Justice Building swing open. White sunlight streams into the hall and Effie gestures them forward, her fingers drawing smiles in the air for them to imitate. Madge hopes hers is cheery and bright as she and Gale step through the open doors. His arm is sturdy beneath her hand and though he’s smiling, she can see the darkness in his eyes. They’ve always given him away.

The speakers on either side of the stage roar to life and Madge almost flinches as Panem’s anthem wails into the square’s silence. There are no cheers or applause to accompany it; it sounds a little pathetic without the Capitol’s adulation to buoy it. Less pathetic and more menacing are the Peacekeepers, white and gleaming and everywhere. They surround the stage, line Madge and Gale’s path to the podium and box in Eleven’s people. Nerves wiggle in her stomach at this show of Capitol might so Madge looks out at Rue’s district instead. There is an ocean of wan faces and miserable eyes looking back. 

Twelve is one of the smallest Districts, Madge has always known that. But knowing doesn’t prepare her for just how many people live in Eleven. She has to bite her lip to keep from gaping as she takes them all in, people stretching out as far as she can see. Twelve is nothing compared to this.

“Thank you,” Gale says as if there’d been cheers and Madge knows she has to focus. The music fades and it’s time to kindle a fire. They’d already decided Gale will go first, so Madge squeezes his hand and smiles sweetly at the crowd. Directly across from their stage are two raised platforms and Madge feels her stomach drop out as she takes in the large portraits behind them. One is of Thresh and the other Rue, Madge’s eyes beginning to sting. Their families huddle on their respective platforms and there is bile in her throat as she looks at two women that might be Thresh’s sister and grandmother. They must hate her. Looking at them, she hates herself.

“I never had the chance to get to know Thresh,” Gale begins and though his voice is steady, his fingers shake in hers. “But I respected his strength, his determination, his refusal to play the games any way but his own. He didn’t ally with the careers even though he could have and I admired him for that. He was a fierce competitor and more than that, he was a strong person. He stayed true to himself and I think...I don’t think there’s any greater mark of strength than that.”

Gale’s voice doesn’t waver but when Madge peeks up at him, she can see the sincerity in his eyes. He takes a breath and pushes on. “We ended up enemies in the Games, we couldn’t be anything else, but if things had been different, I...I know I would have wanted to get to know him.” He looks directly at Thresh’s family, the Capitol’s veneer wiped away. “I’m sorry things weren’t allowed to be different. I’m sorry for the choice I was forced to make. I’m sorry. I really am.”

It’s the most they can say without going too far, but it’s enough. A shudder touches the crowd and Madge feels it too. When was the last time a victor apologized for winning? Because that’s what he’s saying, they’re all smart enough to see that. I’m sorry I killed him. I’m sorry I’m here instead. I’m sorry. So simple, yet so powerful even the peacekeepers feel it. They close in around the crowd even tighter, ready for trouble. They can feel it brewing, the whole square can. And now it’s Madge’s turn. 

“I…” she begins and has to stop when her voice catches. Gale presses against her and she closes her eyes. When she opens them she’s looking at Rue’s family, parents and siblings that will never see her again. The speech Madge had planned evaporates in their grief stricken gaze and something else spills out instead.

“Rue was so young and clever and bright, she...she was so smart.” Tears blur her vision and she keeps going, all those lines she knows she shouldn’t cross buried in the bloody snow at her feet. “She was so brave, so brave. And I’m-I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m so sorry you lost her. I...I wish I’d allied with her that first day in the arena. I wish I’d done more. I’m so sorry, I-I wish I’d saved her. I-”

Gale pulls her into her chest, his arms solid and her words muffled against his shirt. I wish she’d won. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Rue should’ve come home . Those are dangerous words, too dangerous to say aloud while Snow is watching but tearfully into Gale’s chest, they hurt no one but her. They’d both agreed that as much as they might want to, they can’t be direct in what they say. If they want this tour to last, they have to be subtle, have to let the Districts read between the lines. For a moment, she’d forgotten that; for a moment, only Rue and the light leaving her eyes mattered.

Someone whistles.

Madge lifts her wet face and there, in the back of the crowd, is an old man whistling. It’s a simple, unfamiliar tune; four simple notes that ring through the silent square. And then another voice joins in, small, young but firm. It’s one of Rue’s little sisters and though she can’t be more than seven, she stands tall and defiant. She and the old man are not alone for long. Someone else takes up the tune and then someone else and someone and someone else. Soon, all of Eleven is whistling those four notes, over and over and over again, but each time louder, stronger. Madge doesn’t know why, but her heart might be breaking. 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Gale’s grip on her tightens as the Peacekeepers surge forward into the crowd, each one brandishing a club. They descend on Eleven’s people with violence and “No!” Madge shouts, her voice lost in the unfolding chaos. Unfamiliar hands shove and push at her and Gale, his grip on hers is bruising and “Stop! Stop! ” she shrieks. People are yelling, guards drag her into the Justice Building but the whistling doesn’t stop. 

Four notes. 

For sorrow, grief, anger. 

For revolution.

“That was a disaster!” Effie moans as they’re hustled back into the train. “I don’t know what you two were thinking. The peacekeepers having to step in, oh it’s humiliating!”

Madge nods along to Effier’s lament even as fear for Eleven’s people makes her nauseous. She’s no idiot, she knows the Capitol will demand blood for their freedom, but knowing doesn’t make the reality of it any less horrifying. 

Her job is to inspire the people of Panem to fight. She wonders now if she’ll be able to bear the cost of her success.

“What am I going to do?” Effie despairs, hands flapping at her flushed cheeks. Madge has no answer but when she looks at Haymitch, his eyes are solemn. He nods once and it’s not triumph in her blood, but something a little colder, a little harder.

So that’s it then, they’re officially revolutionaries.

Gale touches her hand under the table at dinner and leans in close, his breath a cinnamon flavoured kiss against her ear.

“Whatever happens is Snow’s fault, not ours.”

Madge knows he’s right. And she knows he’s only saying it because he’d read the guilt in her eyes. She knows too that he’s taken his guilt and made it into anger, into fuel.

Hopefully, she’ll be able to do the same.

Even as night comes, the day haunts Madge’s room. 

Eleven’s song plays against her ears, faceless voices whistling into the darkness. The train is too quiet to drown it out; Madge’s pillow over her head or her hands over her ears can’t make it stop. Rue’s song, Thresh’s song, the song of seventy-four years of dead children. She doesn’t want to hear it, can’t bear it, but it just goes on and on, four notes that never end. But how could they? Eleven is mourning for hundreds of children that never came home, for hundreds of kids that never grew up. 

And under her eyelids the Peacekeepers attack the crowd, their ruthlessness matched only by their cruelty. Her cheeks are wet from her tears she hadn’t even noticed, her sheets too and though she is exhausted, miserable too, she knows sleep won’t bring any relief.

Awake, asleep, it’s all nightmares now.

There are too many ghosts in her room, so Madge tosses back her covers, slides on a pair of velvety soft slippers and wanders into the train’s empty hall. The lights are dim and everything is quiet, comfortingly so after the melody trapped in her room. No one else seems to be up and Magde lets her feet lead her through the train, her fingers tracing the designs carved into the paneled walls. It’s hard to force her mind away from Eleven, impossible really, but each step in the squishy carpet at least carries her farther away from the phantoms lingering in her room.

Revolution doesn’t come cheap , Haymitch had warned six months ago and he was right. And everyone in Panem knows it too and no matter what she says or does, it’s up to them whether or not they’re willing to pay it. She didn’t make Panem this way and she didn’t force those people in Eleven to turn on the Capitol. But it doesn’t matter; she isn’t Snow or the Capitol. Death will always be heavy to carry, the lives of the people of Panem will always matter. 

Bitterness wells on her tongue. Maybe she ought to be grateful for the guilt and the horror. At least she has proof now that she’s not a monster. Madge closes her eyes and tries not to scream.

When she opens them again, she’s reached the door to the last car. It's no surprise her feet brought her here; just like when they bring her to the fence in Twelve, this is the only place on board she can pretend to be safe. The door is silent as it slides open and though the light from the hall is faint, it’s enough to illuminate the outline she’s long since memorized. 

“Hey,” Gale says as she slips inside. A press of a button closes the door and though it’s not true safety, it’s still comforting to have the illusion of it. 

“Hi,” she replies and sits across from him. She sinks into the silk cushions, goosebumps touching her skin at the coolness of the fabric. The moon through the windows is too slim to shed much light and the dark squeezes at her lungs. She closes her eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks and Madge shakes her head.

“No, I...I don’t sleep much anymore,” she admits.

“No, me neither.”

Madge smiles sadly, not that he can see it. Neither one of them mentions that they have new horrors to keep them up tonight. Of course, it sits between them anyway and soon their silence grows edges sharp enough to draw blood. How long it lasts is hard to measure, but the tension seems to stretch the seconds out so thin time might have stopped. 

Gale sighs.

“It’d be easier, wouldn’t it, if we couldn’t feel a thing?”

His voice touches the knot of grief in her chest, nimble fingers loosening it just the slightest, tiniest bit.

“Yes,” she whispers. 

“But then we'd be just as bad as them,” he finishes and she nods, though he can’t see her. It seems almost childish to think this isn’t fair and Madge bites her tongue to keep from saying it. There’s nothing else to say either, no way to make the feelings go away or to make the situation better. Silence fills the space between them again, though it’s gentler this time. This maelstrom lives in both of them and though that doesn’t make the situation any better, it’s still comforting to know. 

Of course, the quiet allows those four notes to fill the room and maybe she’ll never escape them. Maybe when she dies, it’ll be those four notes that lull her into sleep. 

“C’mere.” Gale’s voice is soft like the shadows and Madge doesn’t hesitate. She stands and makes her way over slowly and for a moment she could be in the arena, stumbling around with a blind spot. Of course, the blind spot is in both eyes this time. Something sharp like acid touches the inside of her cheeks and she tries to breathe steadily. She can see, she knows she can and it’s not like before, she doesn’t need to worry that she’ll never see again. There’s no need to be afraid. But she is. Of course she is. When isn’t she?

Her knee bumps against something solid and Madge stops, her breathing shaky. Her eyes work, she can see, she isn’t blind. She’s too old to be afraid of the dark. 

“I got you,” Gale says and his fingers find hers. Warm, callused and familiar, they slide through hers like they belong there. She grips him a little too tight and he leads her towards him. Her legs hit the couch and Gale pulls on her hands until she sits down. If only the moon was brighter tonight. If only the stars would shine. If only her feelings would listen to her brain and recognize that her eyes are fine, it’s just too dark to see. Gale’s arm slides around her shoulders and pulls her close. His heart beats against her cheek.

“Sleep,” he murmurs and she digs her fingers into his shirt. “I’ll keep you safe.”

She nods against his chest and pulls her feet up onto the couch. “What about you? You need to sleep too.”

“I’ll be okay,” he promises. “I always sleep better with you.”

She wakes up only once in the night, blood in her eyes and a scream in her throat. But Gale is warm and solid around her and tonight, for the first time in so long, she feels safe enough to fall back asleep.

Madge can’t remember the tributes from District Ten, no matter how hard she tries. Faces, interviews, parade costumes, it’s all a blank. 

“Their names were Arla and Jedd,” Haymitch says and those names float around, unconnected to anything or anyone. And yet these names that come with faces she can’t remember were alive, were loved, were murdered. They deserve to be remembered and Madge hates that she can’t, even though she knows she did it to protect herself. They had to die if she wanted to go home, so she couldn’t look at their faces, couldn’t get to know them or let any single bit of them in. She had to, but that doesn’t make it better.

The Capitol always forgets the fallen. Madge wants to remember them forever.

When she and Gale come out on stage the people of District Ten, Arla and Jedd’s friends, families, neighbours, reach into their pockets and come out with handfuls of confetti. They throw them up into the air and each piece flutters down slowly in the windless cold. They drift past her eyes and suddenly Madge realizes they’re not confetti.

Feathers, black and white feathers, feathers in Mockingjay colours, fall slowly to her feet and Madge looks back out at the crowd, penned in by a hastily erected fence and a wall of Peacekeepers. They have skinny bodies, pleading eyes and bravery that shouts loud enough to drown out the Capitol’s bleating fanfare. 

We’re with you

And Madge has never felt stronger.

The revolution doesn’t come with a roar, it comes with a murmur, a hum, a whisper.

It’s not buildings set aflame or Peacekeepers attacked, it’s District Eight throwing scraps of lace on stage, each one with a name stitched carefully onto the fabric. And without asking, Madge knows these are the names of the children stolen from them. It’s a call to arms.

(Madge sleeps with those names beneath her pillow and promises each one that she’ll make the Capitol pay for what they’ve done)

It’s District Seven raising their hands when Madge and Gale finish their speech, showing the world the birds drawn onto their palms. Mockingjays in black and white and Madge presses her palm to the pin on her chest. It’s a promise of unity.

(Aunt Maysilee’s pin is a rallying cry, because Madge is not the Mockingjay. The people of Panem are the Mockingjays)

It’s District Six with words written in bold letters on the sides of buildings “the odds are never in our favour” and “no one ever wins the Hunger Games”. The paint underneath is fresh, clearly meant to cover up what was written before but the people of District Six haven’t let their anger be erased. It’s a refusal to back down.

(Those words are a mantra she whispers to herself when the guilt becomes too sharp, a reminder that there is only one enemy and if the Capitol doesn’t fall, the suffering will never end)

It’s District Four suddenly stepping aside to reveal a pile of beautiful, sparkling seashells in the middle of the square. Peacekeepers bark orders, shove people back into position but Madge doesn’t need to count those shells to know who they represent. These are the fallen. It’s the knowledge that they’ve all suffered at the Capitol’s hands.

(And that’s the thread the Capitol can’t cut, no matter how hard they try. They’ve pitted the Districts against each other for seventy-four years, and all they’ve really done is bind them all tighter together)

The revolution doesn’t come like a bolt of lightning, loud, destructive and gone in a flash. It comes like the sun, steady, unstoppable and ready to illuminate every corner of the world.

(but even at its brightest, the sun can’t fight every shadow)

Peacekeepers smash through the crowd, their batons breaking bones. Madge is frozen solid to the stage, her mouth open but no sound coming out. There is blood on her cheeks, hot, sticky blood and she is watching people die. The people of Panem crumble beneath the Capitol’s assault and the boy from One stands beside her and smiles, even as Gale’s arrow sticks out of his back. 

“You killed them, you know,” he says and she shakes her head even as gunshots ring out in the square. One laughs, his eye sockets empty and filled with bugs.

“You might have the highest kill count in the history of the Games,” he tells her and now she’s covered in blood, her whole body dripping with it. Again she tries to scream, but no one hears her.

One starts to whistle.

Four notes over and over again.

Madge lies on her side in bed and stares at the window, her eyelids heavy but afraid to close. The sky beyond the glass is gray and mottled, growing darker darker darker. And then it opens up, the rain falling in waves against the train. She can imagine the sound of it against her bedroom window, can even remember how it sounds to sit on her porch and listen to rain storms in Twelve. She hears nothing now. The windows must be too thick, maybe the whole train too, built to keep out the world. The people of the Capitol live in an artificial world of luxury; why should their trains be any different?

Lightning cuts across the clouds and Madge curls into herself a little tighter. Their next stop is Two, Cato and Clove’s district. Dread is a sea and she is adrift, surrounded on all sides. Clove and Cato are dead because she killed them and she’s not sure anything has terrified her more than facing the people that loved them. Lightning flashes again but if there’s thunder, Madge can’t hear it. Count the seconds between the thunder and lightning. The farther apart they are, the sooner the storm will be over . Her mom had told her that when she was little and scared. She’s bigger now and still scared and maybe this silence means the storm will never end.

“Madge?” Gale’s voice comes from the other side of her door. She keeps her eyes on the soundless storm but manages a “yes?”

“You ready for breakfast?”

Madge closes her eyes and even though she can’t remember a time she had less appetite, she says “yeah.” The storm may or may not end, but she has to find a way to weather it.

Adrift she might be, but she isn’t going to drown. Somehow, someway, she’ll keep her head above the water. There’s no other choice.

The rain keeps falling as they eat.

Madge picks at her food and as she can’t count the thunder, she counts the seconds between Effie’s words. Not that there’s many to count. 

“District Two is an important stop, I really wish you’d read the speeches I’ve written. Honestly, some of the things you’ve said are just awkward. I’m sure I’m not the only one you’re making uncomfortable,” she says and nibbles on a fluffy pastry. Magde nods complacently but can’t help sharing a look with Gale across the table. Making Capitolites uncomfortable is exactly what they want to be doing. Someone needs to wake them up.

“You’re right,” Haymitch grunts and that’s so surprising Effie actually stops talking to stare at him.

“I am?”

“Mmhm. And as soon as we finish breakfast, I’m going to take both of them aside and give them some special training on the subject.”

Gale rolls his eyes.

Haymitch leads them to the back of the train after breakfast and his eyes are bloodshot, his coffee mug smelling like brandy. She wonders if he even remembers what it feels like to be sober. She wonders if he even wants to.

“Effie is right about one thing,” he says, “Two is an important stop.” Madge nods and Gale’s arm stretches out along the top of the couch behind her. His fingertips brush her shoulder and she’s not sure why she feels that in her stomach, but she does. 

“Of all the Districts, Two is the closest to the Capitol. Breaking Snow’s hold over them won’t be easy. But if we want this revolution to work, you need to.”

“How can they support the Capitol?” Gale asks, disgust and bafflement heavy in his voice. It doesn't seem possible than any District could, but then she thinks of the savagery in Clove’s smile, of the brutality in Cato’s eyes, and it doesn’t seem all that shocking after all.

Haymitch shrugs and gulps down his drink, a few drops dribbling down his unshaven chin. “They live better than we do,” he offers, “they have the most victors, the Capitol’s driven them all insane. It doesn’t really matter why. What matters is that they do, at least a serious chunk of them, and you need to open their eyes. You need to show them that the Capitol doesn’t care about them any more than it does us. They need to see just how badly they’ve been abused.”

That’s daunting and Madge thinks back to every tribute of Two’s she’s seen in her life, their bloodlust and their eagerness. The Capitol has twisted them up into the most willing tools, how is she supposed to undo seventy five years of brainwashing in one speech?

“And that’s not all,” Haymitch says and how could there be more? “You don’t just need to convince Two the Capitol’s the villain, you need to convince the other districts Two isn’t.”

If Madge’s stomach could sink into the earth, it would. She’s grown up on hatred directed at District Two, that place filled with tributes delighting in violence and slaughtering Twelve’s children with glee. Every year in the Games, Two is the district she knows to fear, to despise. It is easy to look at the other districts and see victims like they are. But Two with their excited volunteers, with their legion of oily victors, and trained careers, they’ve always been the bad guy. Those roots grow so deep she has no idea how she’s supposed to pull them up.

“It’d be easier to grow wings,” Gale says and he’s not wrong. “They’re just like us, except that unlike the rest of us, Two actually looks forward to the Games.” He practically spits it and how are they supposed to overcome that? Every year everyone in Panem watches the tributes from Two commit murder and love it. How do you make them see around that?

“This isn’t a discussion. We need all the districts and that means Two too. You have to find a way to convince them of the Capitol’s evil and you need to find a way to humanize them for the rest of the districts. They are just like us, even if the Capitol’s managed to cover it up.”

Haymitch’s tone leaves no room to argue and suddenly a memory pokes its way into Madge’s head. Clove terrified and calling for Cato as she died, Cato driven mad with grief and anguish. Clove and Cato sticking together even as the Games drew so close to their end, Cato’s unstoppable rage when Madge taunted him with Clove’s death. 

“They cared about each other,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Haymitch nods slowly.

“Good, we can use that.”

Exploit it , she finds herself correcting and there’s something a little unsettling about taking their pain and using it as a weapon. 

“Will that be enough though? Just to show that they cared about each other?” Gale asks and Madge can’t help but wonder what they would’ve done if they’d been the final two. A bloody spectacle for the Capitol’s enjoyment? Or would they have finally seen just how cruel the Games really were? Would one of them have won? Both? Neither? Would they be preparing to recite speeches about Madge and Gale and how they cared about each other despite their circumstances?

“I don’t know,” Haymitch admits and throws back the rest of his drink. “Probably not,” he amends. “But you don’t need the rest of the country to love them, just to understand that they were people too and if the Capitol hadn’t poisoned Panem seventy five years ago, maybe Cato and Clove wouldn’t have grown up to be monsters. Knowing they were capable of genuine human feeling can’t hurt.”

It’s hard to fathom how different things might have been if there was no Capitol, no Hunger Games, how different they might be. And terrifying to think that maybe nothing would be different at all. How much responsibility does Two bear for the choices it's made, for how it’s people have turned out? The Capitol is certainly the root of the problem, but how much absolution does that offer? Madge wishes she knew. 

“I know we’re asking a lot of you and I know this isn’t going to be easy. People are angry at Two and they have a right to be, but there’s no easy answer to any of this. Two has been the Capitol’s pet project for decades and that’s affected them in ways we can’t really understand. Is that enough to forgive them? I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that as long as we hate Two, the Capitol wins. You can’t forget that.” 

Haymitch is right and Madge tries to forget Cato’s hands around her neck, tries to forget the way Clove had laughed at the idea of torturing Gale to death. Instead she reminds herself that they were kids like she is, kids twisted up by a system the Capitol forced on them, kids who never would’ve had the chance to wreck such havoc and be rewarded for it if the Capitol hadn’t given them the opportunity to do so. Maybe they’re to blame for choosing to behave the way they did or maybe they never had a choice at all. Maybe they’d have been good people in another life or maybe they wouldn't have. But Haymitch is right, none of that matters right now. 

Everything traces back to the Capitol. Without them, the evil never sprouts in the first place.

Like all the other Districts they’ve visited, District Two is angry. But unlike all the other districts, District Two isn’t angry at the Capitol, not at all. All their rage is reserved for Madge and Gale.

They step on stage hand in hand and there are no cheers to greet them. Instead, only furious, hate filled eyes staring up at them from every face. The peacekeepers don’t stand guard here, instead they’re woven through the crowd like friends. Madge’s stomach turns cold. She doesn’t look out at Cato and Clove’s families, she can’t bear to. Gale squeezes her fingers.

“As always, District Two’s tributes this year were formidable opponents,” he begins and Madge smiles at the crowd. No one smiles back. “They were the fiercest competitors we faced in the Games and they did their district proud.”

Gale’s job is to turn Two against the Capitol, Madge’s will be to soften the rest of Panem to Cato and Clove. Madge wants to pay attention to Gale’s speech, she really does, but there’s a woman in the front row glaring at the pin on her chest with such viciousness it's hard to focus on anything else. Madge’s pin has been a symbol of resistance, a memorial to her aunt and a talisman to protect her against the Capitol throughout the games and even for most of this tour. But it feels less like a talisman now and more like a taunt. The rage in that woman's eyes, the hatred emanating from every member of the crowd; for the first time, Madge wants to rip her pin from her dress. 

“Cato and Clove embodied all of what makes this District great. They were brave, talented, resilient, determined, resourceful and loyal. And I know I’ll never forget them,” Gale finishes, tone solemn. It is Madge’s turn now and her throat is dry, too dry to summon words. Gale steps a little closer so their arms brush and Madge swallows. They’ve been given an impossible task, but she can’t buckle under the weight of it. She has to at least try, even as hopelessness starts to flood through her veins.

“So many people have said such lovely things to me about Gale and I, about our relationship and how it’s inspired them. I can’t put into words how much that means to me, but we shouldn’t be given all the credit. Cato and Clove were loyal too, they fought side by side and never once tried to separate or turn on each other. Even we can’t say that.”

Her voice is shaking even as she tries so hard to make it steady and so far, the people of Two haven’t softened in the slightest. Their disgust, their fury, it still radiates off every one of them. She can’t help but wonder if she stalks their nightmares the way Cato and Clove haunt hers.

“I…I’ll never forget the way Cato mourned for Clove, nor his desire to avenge her. They were truly a team, a partnership and though we were enemies, I’m sorry for being the one to tear them apart. I’m sorry for causing them so much pain and anguish.” And Madge can feel Clove’s teeth digging into her skin, can feel her throat convulsing against her fingers. For a moment she can’t speak, acid and bile pooling under her tongue and between her teeth. It burns all the way down to her stomach when she swallows it, the faces looking up at her just as hard and unforgiving as they’ve always been. And what about teh people watching across Panem? Is she reaching them?

“The Games celebrate strength and bravery, cunning and ingenuity. But I think love and compassion, caring, those should be celebrated too, maybe more than anything else. Cato and Clove had all of those qualities. If you’re touched by Gale and I, by our love story, remember Cato and Clove too. They cared just as much as we did. Only they didn’t get a happy ending.”

Her voice catches a bit, her heart beats against her throat and then a rock sails just past her head. Madge’s eyes widen and then Gale jerks her arm so hard she stumbles. He moves in front of her while the mayor calls for order and though the peacekeepers hustle Madge and Gale back into the Justice Building, they don't; turn on the crowd like they would in any other District. But of course they don’t. A district hating them is exactly what the Capitol wants. 

Another rock shatters a window and how did they ever think this would work? She stole both of Two’s children from them; they were never going to care that she’s sorry. Just like they don’t care that the Capitol’s the one who made the game and the rules, but why would they? The Capitol has had decades, nearly a century, to twist the truth into knots. In Two, the Capitol is an ally, a friend and benefactor. In Two, the Capitol’s beaten the people so deep into submission they can’t even see their own bruises and broken bones.

All while Madge killed both their tributes, robbed them of victory, of glory, of two lives. Her words could never have made a dent. The Capitol may have loaded the gun, put it in her hands and told her she had to shoot or die, but Madge is still the one that pulled the trigger. In Two, that’s all that matters. Standing in the doorway of the Justice Building with the ghosts of her victims, she finds it hard to disagree. 

Cato’s hands slide around her neck, Clove’s nails dig into her side and their district curses her with fiery eyes. 

For a moment, Madge wishes she could burn.

Their stop in Two is a disaster. They don’t inspire Two to stand against the Capitol and they don’t inspire the rest of Panem to see Two as just as much a victim as they are. 

In District Two, the Capitol is the only victor.

As soon as the lights go out, Madge wanders to the back of the train. When she stumbles her way to the farthest couch, Gale’s arms are there to welcome her. He is warm, solid and she curls into him, so so glad for his steadiness, his comfort, his every breath.

But even with his fingers in her hair and his heartbeat beneath her cheek, she dreams of Cato, of Clove, of knives and poison and lungs without air. Madge dreams of Clove’s panicked eyes, of Cato’s anguished cries and of hands around her throat. Gale does not keep her nightmares at bay, but for tonight, she is almost glad.

Guilt and horror stalk her sleep, but at least she’s not broken the way District Two is broken. The Capitol really has ruined them.

District One may make luxury, but they certainly don’t live it.

That’s the thought that runs laps in Madge’s head as she stands with Gale on stage, their hands joined and bodies brushing. The people ranged out before them are better fed than home, they have nicer clothes but the lines of their faces are still too hard, their eyes still burn and they look healthy and happy only because she is used to the crushing poverty of Twelve. Having been to the Capitol, she can see now that District One is not wealthy, not joyful. District One is miserable, angry and suffering. 

“Thank you. It’s an honour to be here,” Gale begins and Madge wonders now if their system of careers isn’t for honour, glory and all those other pretty lies they say in interviews, but to survive, to thrive as much as anyone can in the Capitol’s broken system. More victories mean more parcel days, which means less starvation, sickness, sorrow. More volunteers mean less tiny little children slaughtered for sport. More careers mean the children they send will be prepared, will have a higher chance of coming home. Maybe they decided they’d rather be hated than dead. 

And that played right into the Capitol’s hands, just the same way that every choice in Panem always does. There’s no winning a game where the rules are made by the other side. If only they’d been able to open Two’s eyes to that.

“I’ll never forget him,” Gale finishes and suddenly it’s Madge’s turn to address the crowd. She stares at unhappy faces, looks at the family of a girl she barely recalls and does all she can to avoid looking at the face of the boy she still hates. Marvel is his name and there’s a great screen showing him smiling, green eyed, mud haired and alive. The sight of him makes her sick. She doesn’t want to hate him, doesn’t want to give the Capitol this victory but whenever she tries to be better, she is back in the arena kneeling in scarlet snow. Rue is twelve and terrified and dying and Marvel did that. Whatever the reason, whoever’s to blame, she’ll never forget that day in the cold.

“Glimmer was beautiful,” she says, based on vague memories. “She dazzled me in the parade, in training and in our interviews. I didn’t know her, not really, but I admired her confidence, her strength and her determination. She was such a bright light, it’s...it’s not right she was snuffed out so soon.”

And it’s strange, because suddenly Madge feels a tightness in her throat, feels something almost like tears sting the back of her eyes. Glimmer was a stranger and yet, Madge is sad she’s gone, sad she’ll never grow older or blaze through District One like she was surely meant to. Gale squeezes her hand and it’s far from the best speech she’s given, but District One’s eyes soften as they look up at her. They don’t love her, she’s not sure they ever could, but they’re on the same side. As long as they know that, the Capitol doesn’t stand a chance.

Madge takes a breath and she has to say something about Marvel now, has to push forward for rebellion and revolution and a new world, but the words stick in her throat. She can’t look at his family, can’t face their grieving. She wants to be all Haymitch has instructed her to be, kind and compassionate and empathetic, but she’s not sure she can be. Not when she still wakes at night to the sound of Rue’s screams. 

“I...I’m so sorry,” she whispers and lying is hard but the truth would be cruel. Was he a monster? Was Glimmer? Are they all? Maybe, but if they are, it’s the Capitol that made them that way. It’s easy to know that but harder to feel it, but she has to, at least right now. “Marvel was a strong competitor; I’m sorry he didn’t come home. I wish you hadn’t lost him.”

It’s the only truth she can offer without wounding those who loved him and hopefully Gale said something better, hopefully Gale inspired them. But then again, Gale killed Marvel to save her and maybe the best they can hope for here is that District One hates the Capitol more than they hate her and Gale.

She looks out at Marvel and Glimmer’s District, at the people who knew them, loved them, mourned them and feels a bitter sort of satisfaction. The people of One have smouldering eyes, ones Madge recognizes from her mirror. They are hungry for vengeance, thirsty for change and when the Capitol fanfare plays to signal the end of their speech, the people of District One tug at patches sewn onto the chest of their clothes. The patches come off and there, in yellow thread, is her pin. Peacekeepers flood into the crowd, Madge is hustled back into the Justice Building but she knows what message the people of One are sending.

They don’t love her, don’t even like her, but they will stand with her against the Capitol. 

Madge hopes Snow gets their message too. She hopes he’s furious.

She hopes he’s terrified.

The avalanche rushes closer, Madge’s frozen fingers grip desperately at the rocks above her and there are mutts howling nearby, ready to rip her skin off and gnaw at her bones. It’s hard to breathe through her terror, her arms ache but she can’t let that stop her. She hauls herself up to safety and then turns back for Gale, reaching down to pull him up. The avalanche is so close, thunderous waves of white and death, and Gale grabs her hands and holds so tight it hurts.

“I’ve got you!” she shouts to him and suddenly he laughs, an unhinged, demented sound that turns her organs to ice. 

“No,” he cackles, “I’ve got you!” 

And suddenly he isn’t Gale but Snow, laughing hysterically and with blood leaking from his eyes. He tugs with all his strength and she loses her balance, plummeting off the cliff towards the avalanche’s eager embrace.

She screams, Snow laughs and Death takes her tonight

Death always takes her.

There’s only one stop left and it’s the most important one of all. 

They’re walking into the lion’s den with a lit match and if they fail, everything they’ve worked for could go up in smoke. Every stop on this tour was important, but as always, the Capitol is the one that matters most. If they buckle here, nothing else matters. 

“If you thought security in the Districts was tight, it’s nothing compared to what the Capitol’ll be like,” Haymitch tells them and Madge nods, her stomach queasy. “But even still, we need something big. Something that’ll placate the Capitol, but inflame the Districts at the same time. Anything you do in Snow’s backyard counts for ten times more than what you did in the Districts.”

Madge’s eyes slide to the window behind Haymitch’s head, the world speeding by in a green blur. What should they do? They have to walk the finest of lines, even finer than the one they’ve already been walking. What should the play be?

“The Capitol will want a grand romantic gesture to cap off this tour,” she murmurs more to herself than either of them and her brain connects the dots just as Gale puts it into words.

“An engagement,” he says and without knowing why, Madge flinches. “I could propose in front of everyone, the Capitol’ll lose their minds.”

Haymitch nods, stone grey eyes thoughtful. “Can’t go much bigger than that,” he agrees. “And the Districts will either see it as the act it is and be furious that the Capitol can control even something like who we love and marry or be pissed that your private life will be turned into a spectacle for Capitolite entertainment. You’re their heroes, they’ll want better for you. No matter what, we win.”

Madge nods even as her gut churns. It’s a good plan, a great one, but it lodges in her throat like a shard of glass. Gale puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you don’t actually have to marry me,” he says and she looks at him in surprise. His grin’s a little wry, a little sharp. “The revolution’ll happen before we have to make anything legal.”

Her mouth feels suddenly like sandpaper and she can’t get any words out. But what does she even want to say? This is a really good plan, there’s no reason it should make her so uneasy. Sure, she always imagined her engagement would be for real love, but then, she thought that about her first kiss too. This engagement isn’t any different than anything else they’ve done, so why does it feel different?

“You both need to be on board for this,” Haymitch says and Madge drags her eyes to him. His face is serious but there’s something else in his eyes, something almost like...pity. Madge refuses to think about why.

“I’m in,” she says as firmly as she can, each word a rock she has to force up. “It’s a great plan.” Gale squeezes her shoulder and Haymitch nods.

“Good. You’ll need to talk to Effie to set everything up, we want this proposal to make the Capitol swoon,” Haymitch says to Gale and she peeks up at him. It’s hard to read his expression, but this must be worse for him, right? She’s not the girl he wants to marry, that’ll always be Katniss. Haymitch stands.

“Come on, super should be ready soon. And you know Effie whines when we’re late.” He wanders out of the room and they should follow; he’s right, Effie does whine when they’re late, but Madge can't move. She feels heavy, she feels scared and she doesn’t know why. This is just another lie, it’s teeth shouldn’t be so sharp. Gale doesn’t move either and she wonders if he has the same bile in his throat. The silence around them grows oppressive.

“I’m sorry about this,” Gale says, shattering the quiet and making her stomach jump. He’s fixed his eyes determinedly on the window and clenched his jaw, his lips pressed together. “I know this isn’t what you want.”

Madge’s chest aches and she puts her hand over his on her shoulder. His skin is warm, her fingers tingle from the contact and something swells in her chest, something she doesn't touch. 

“No,” she admits and the words feel sticky on her tongue, “but I know this isn’t what you want either. Neither one of us has much of a choice.”

Gale’s jaw twitches, his fingers slacken beneath hers and suddenly, potently, fear flares within her. It takes her over and with no control of her mouth, she blurts “But I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad I’m in this with you.”

Her cheeks are hot and what a pointless, idiotic thing to say. Fear still has wings in her gut but before she can berate herself some more, Gale’s eyes flicker to hers. She watches the ice in his gaze melt just the slightest bit and for a moment at least, her nonsensical fear disappears. “Yeah, me too,” he says and Madge feels some of the tension in the room dissipate. He doesn’t smile and neither does she, but the longer he looks at her, the warmer she feels. He holds her eyes as the seconds tick by and there’s something fragile about this moment, something that makes her stomach twist. She needs it to end before something breaks. 

“Supper?” she asks in a forcefully light tone and Gale nods. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

His hand slides from her shoulder, but Madge doesn’t let go. She should, the uneasy feeling under her skin knows she should, but instead she keeps her fingers wrapped around his as they walk to the dining car.

Gale doesn’t let go either.

As far as Effie knows this proposal will be a complete surprise to Madge. So while Gale spends the day planning “in secret” with Effie, Madge sits alone at the back of the train and tries not to think. Every thought she has, whether about the districts, revolution, the Capitol or this engagement make her queasy and unsettled. She doesn’t want to dwell on any of it. But that’s easier said than done, especially when there’s nothing else to do. The TV is full of nothing but her and Gale, the magazines too and there’s no one to talk to. Luxurious this train may be, but barren.

Madge folds her arms along the back of the sofa and stares at the world as it speeds by, all it’s colours blurring together. How much planning does a Capitol proposal need? Will they be locked up together all day? I wonder who that’ll be worse for, Gale or Effie? She manages a smile at that, though it isn’t particularly happy. Madge buries her face in a pillow and sighs. I need something to do. Boredom is not my friend. Boredom lets me think.

“Never a thing to do on these damn trains,” Haymitch’s voice says from behind her. Madge turns to see him standing in the doorway with a bottle tucked under one arm, a cup in one hand and a book in the other. “Why do you think I drink?”

Madge rolls her eyes. Haymitch grunts and comes inside, shutting the door behind him. He sits beside her and slides the cup of what she now sees is tea over to her. There is no saucer and he ignores the stack of coasters Effie always insists they use. She has no doubt he’s doing it on purpose. 

“Thanks,” she says, a little surprised but also touched. Haymitch grunts again and takes a swig from his bottle. 

“You ready?” he asks and she’s not sure there’s a good way to answer that. Their plan is ready. She might never be. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” is the best she can offer. Haymitch nods.

“Right, well here.” He holds out the book and she takes it. On the cover is a shirtless man with gleaming, oily muscles. 

“The Gamemaster’s Daughter by Viridana Hopewell,” she reads and both her eyebrows go up. Haymitch gulps down a bit more and shrugs.

“I stole it from Effie’s room. I thought it might help you pass the time, even if it’s just to marvel at how awful it is.”

Madge smiles. “Thank you, Haymitch. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”

Haymitch snorts. “I can’t wait.”

She watches him leave and the smile slips from her mouth. My mom raised me to hate you Haymitch.

I wonder how disappointed she’d be that I don’t.

The train chugs on into the night and just as Madge is thinking of getting up to go to bed, Effie claps her hands together.

“Home at last!” she says in delight and Madge looks out the window. She can see the Capitol glittering like a web of diamonds in the distance, it’s shine so bright she could almost believe it was daytime instead of late at night. 

“Oh it’s going to be amazing, amazing! Just wait until you see the Presidential Palace!” Effie says even though no one’s listening. She keeps talking, entirely oblivious to the mood shift in the room. Haymitch stares into his whisky with forlorn eyes, his hands shaking around the glass and Gale whole body tenses. Effie’s voice flutters around like the persistent buzzing of flies. Madge wishes she had a swatter.

She can’t seem to pull her eyes away from the city shimmering beyond the window and without really thinking, her hand curls over the fist clenched on Gale’s knee. She lifts it gently, turns it over and unfurls his fingers. She runs her own over his palm slowly, soothingly and the stiffness in his body softens slightly.

“It’s so good to be back,” Effie sighs though Madge barely hears her. There’s only her and Gale, her hand and his, his skin beneath her fingertips. It’s okay, she thinks as she traces the lines on his palm. We’re together, we’ll make it through this together. We’ll make them pay together. Gale catches her fingers with his and interlocks them, presses his palm to hers. He doesn’t say a word but she can hear him anyway, his voice strong and firm.

As long as we’re together, they’ll never beat us.

The train pulls into the Capitol late at night, late enough there are no cheering throngs or shrill music to welcome them. 

“So sad we couldn’t have arrived during the day,” Effie sighs as they step off the train. “You two deserve a hero’s welcome.”

Gale glares at her and Madge squeezes his hand, relieved more than she could explain at the cold and the dark and the silence. She is not here to be a hero.

She’s here to start a war.

“Up, up, up!” Effie chants, her hands clapping in time with her words. And up, up, up they go, the elevator carrying them up to the penthouse. Madge looks out at the Capitol below them, shrinking as they rise higher and higher. If only it would disappear completely. 

“And here we are!” Effie declares as the doors open on their floor. She sweeps out of the elevator and Haymitch rubs his temples.

“I need some air,” he mutters, his eyes pointed at Madge and Gale. And then he’s gone, striding as quick as he can towards the balcony. Effie sniffs at him and then goes back to spouting out the charms of their rooms. Madge and Gale ignore her, but then, they usually do. Their gazes move together, taking in this place tied to so many terrible memories.

“It’s exactly the same as when we left it,” Madge murmurs and it’s a bit like falling back in time. Gale’s voice is hard.

“Yeah.”

He grabs her hand then, warm fingers knotting with hers. Madge squeezes back gratefully. Without having to say anything, they follow Haymitch’s path to the balcony. Outside, the air is cool and clean, the sky black silk stretched above them and Haymitch is leaning back against the railing, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Gale shuts the door behind them.

“There’ll be more eyes on you now than ever. You need to be perfect, everywhere but out here. Don‘t forget that,” Haymitch says and Madge nods. Gale’s fingers tighten around hers and Madge steps closer to him, close enough their arms touch. 

“You’re ready for tomorrow?” Haymitch asks and though she nods, Madge can’t meet his eyes. Gale nods too and Haymitch sighs.

“I know you’re scared and I know none of this is easy, but you’re tough. You both are.” He isn’t looking at them when he says it and maybe that’s a good thing. Madge blinks quickly and hopes no one notices the tears burning her eyes. She offers Haymitch a faint smile and then he’s gone, leaving them alone to contemplate what comes next. The interview with Caesar, the party at the Presidential Palace, their engagement.

Haymitch is right; she is scared and this isn’t easy. And things are only going to get harder from here on out. The Capitol interview is more important than anything she’s ever done before, Snow is the truest evil she’s ever known and–

Madge peeks up at Gale as he looks out at the Capitol and feels her heart crack. This beautiful boy that will never love her is going to ask her to marry him. She is going to say yes. It hurts suddenly, hurts so much more than she ever would’ve guessed. 

“I can’t wait to go home,” she whispers, dropping her gaze. She looks out at the lights below, unable suddenly to look at him. 

“Me too.” His voice is soft and Madge closes her eyes. She almost bites her tongue to stop from saying what she does next, but she needs to let these words out, no matter the cost.

“Are you sure about this? About proposing? You don’t have to you know, we can find some other way.” It’s wrong of her, but she wants him to say no. She wants him to change his mind even though she can’t explain why, even though it would ruin their carefully laid plans. What’s wrong with her?

Gale breathes out beside her and Madge keeps her eyes closed until she feels his fingers on her cheek. He turns her face to his and she stares at him in surprise.

“Yeah, I’m sure. This is the best way.”

She nods and Gale shakes his head, a small frown creeping onto his mouth. “You’re always so worried about me.”

Madge averts her eyes and shrugs. “I can’t help it.”

His silence sits on her, heavy enough it might crush her and then he asks, “And what about you? Are you sure about this?”

She could say no, she could say that when someone proposes to her she wants it to be because they love her and want to marry her. She could say she doesn’t want to steal this from him and Katniss, from herself. But when she looks up into his eyes, she drowns in moonlight. And against her better judgement she says, “Of course.”

Gale nods and then does something unexpected. He kisses her forehead. Madge stiffens, her heart loud in her ears. It shouldn’t be this hard to breathe.

“Okay,” he says against her skin, “let’s do this.”

“And here they are! Your victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Madge Undersee and Gale Hawthorne!”

The audience screams as Madge and Gale step on stage, their hands linked and their smiles dazzling. They wave for the adoring masses as they make their way to Caesar, his waiting grin hungry enough to devour them alive. He kisses their cheeks when they reach him, hugs them tightly and still the crowd shrieks itself hoarse.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again,” Caesar says as they all sit down, his voice amplified by microphones but still barely discernible over the audience’s enthusiasm. 

“We were just about to say the same thing,” Madge says back with her widest smile. Caesar giggles with delight. 

“Ooo, what a pair of charmers!”

“We learned from the best,” Gale says with a wink and Caesar practically squeals. The audience laughs and cheers right along with him.

“Alright, before we get to all the juicy details of your love life,” and he pauses here so the audience can scream, “let’s talk a bit about how you’ve been. It’s been so long, I want to know everything!”

Caesar fires off question after question and Madge smiles as she leans into Gale’s side. It’s easy to parry Ceasar’s quips, to laugh at his jokes and spew lies about her life, hobbies, happiness. It’s too easy even, kind of disturbingly so, and she almost feels like she’s watching this on TV instead of living it. This other her, this awful Capitol-loving her, is someone else. 

If only.

Gale is charming beside her and his hand rests on her hip; the only lie she is glad to tell. He is real and he knows who she really is even if no one else can. She needs that. There are cutouts on both sides of her blood red gown and as Gale talks about his wood carving, his fingers move higher and skim her bare skin. Goosebumps flutter to life all over her body and that distraction costs. Gale’s hand keeps going up and then his fingertips brush her scar. Just as she guessed, Agrippa designed her clothes to show it off, to make sure everyone can see her token of true love. Gale had taken one look at it and turned away, his eyes black. 

He flinches now as his skin makes contact with Clove’s mark and Madge freezes. Caesar’s chatter stutters as he notices the tension erupting between them. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks and Madge looks up at Gale as his hand falls away from her, his jaw locking tight. He doesn’t answer, the silence tightens around them and Madge scrambles for a way to make this better. 

“Gale,” she starts without actually knowing what comes next. For a moment, Gale is Gale, the real Gale, the boy the Capitol will never know and then he isn’t. In the time it takes her to blink, Gale, tortured, angry Gale, is gone. The Capitol’s Gale sits in his place with a haunted misery on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says and Caesar looks between them nervously. Madge feels her stomach toss. The audience holds its breath.

“Your scar...everytime I see it or touch it, it reminds me how close I was to losing you,” Gale says and Madge swallows. Are they doing this now? She’d thought she’d have more time to prepare, more inane chatter with Caesar to build up to the moment they tie themselves together in their most official lie yet. “I can barely breathe when I think about that. I can’t live without you.”

Madge is shaking as she touches his face, her throat dry. “But I’m right here, you didn’t lose me.” Gale takes her other hand and presses it against his heart, the thump thump thump fast and heavy. He cups her cheek with his other hand, the callus on his thumb rubbing against her cheek. Distantly, she knows the audience is crackling, knows Caesar is rapt as he watches them, but they could be thousands of miles away. Gale and his fingers and his eyes and his heartbeat are the only things that are here, right now.

“I know. You’re here and I never thought I’d ever be this happy. I never thought I could love someone this much,” he says, serious, sincere, swoonworthy. Madge’s neck feels hot. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. When I think about how close I came to being without you-”

“Then don’t think like that. I’m here, you’re here. We get to be together forever.” Her voice is soft but surprisingly steady. Why am I so scared? What am I so scared of?

“Forever,” Gale echoes, “that’s what I want. I never want to be without you.” His heart pounds beneath her palm and she’s so hot, too hot, hot enough she thinks she might erupt in flames. Gale pulls away from her, gets down on one knee and by the way the audience detonates, this must be a traditional part of Capitol proposals. He holds her clammy fingers with one hand and reaches into his pocket with the other, pulling out a small box. The shrieking of the crowd is so loud she can’t hear herself think and maybe that’s a good thing.

“You saved me, Madge, in every way. And I love you. I love you so much, so so much.” He opens his little box and there’s a ring nestled there, one with a beautiful red red ruby flanked by two perfect diamonds. “Will you marry me?” 

The Capitolites weep, scream, collapse in their chairs and Madge smiles with tears in her eyes.  “Yes! Of course, of course I will!”

Gale surges up, his lips crashing into hers and his arms lifting her off their couch and into the air. He spins her and his kiss is hot, ardent, but for once, she barely notices. She can’t stop crying. Caesar swoons against his chair, hands over his heart, and Gale slides his ring onto Madge’s finger. 

“I love you,” he says, his eyes dark with things he can’t say.

“I love you too,” she says, tears on her cheeks that aren’t from joy.

But the Capitol loves it and right now, that’s all that matters.

“I don’t think there’s ever been a Victory interview that exciting!” Effie gushes as they ride the elevator back up to their rooms. “The whole audience was swooning!”

That’s exactly what they wanted and yet something awful’s still happening in Madge’s stomach, so awful it takes all her effort to smile. And what did Snow think of it?

“And now a wedding to plan! There’s so much to do, we’ll have to start right away!” Effie continues and Madge is so sick she presses a hand to her stomach. It’s not real, none of it’s real and that’s a good thing, so why does Effie’s enthusiasm make her want to vomit? 

The elevator reaches their floor and they all step out, Gale’s face hard and stormy. Madge closes her eyes and tries to steady herself.

“It will have to be here of course, we couldn’t possibly have it in Twelve. Panem’s greatest romance deserves the absolute best of everything! There’s so much to decide; how do you feel about-”

“I’m going to bed,” Gale interrupts. He turns and starts down the hall before any of them can argue, Effie’s mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

“He has the worst manners,” she sniffs. Her only answer is a grunt from Haymith. Madge watches Gale go and then looks down at her ring. It’s beautiful, stunning really; the perfect ring for their perfect love story.

Madge wishes it was ugly.

That night in her bed Cato tightens his grip around her throat, his eyes wild and deranged. Effie’s purple wig with the silver sparkles sits on his head, glittering like a night sky in the sunshine. A tiny Clove perches on one of the twisty curls. 

“You won’t beat us twice,” she says while a wooden bird in mockingjay colours circles overhead. Snow cackles loudly, poison fruit leaking out between his teeth. 

He smiles at her. “May the odds be ever in my favour.”

Madge is quiet as Agrippa walks around her, inspecting her one last time before he sends her off to the Presidential Palace. Her dress is a dreamy pink and made of the softest silk, so tight it clings to her like skin and long enough it pools against the floor. There is a slit up one leg, all the way to her hip, a heart shaped cut-out to showcase her scar and her shoes are a complicated set of diamond studded straps. Her dress is cut low enough to expose plenty of cleavage and the satin straps hang off her shoulders. She has diamond bracelets, diamond earrings, a diamond necklace that hangs between her breasts and almost begs people to stare and of course her glittering ring, unmistakable on her finger. Her make-up is soft and romantic, her lashes long, her lips a lush pink, her cheeks charmingly rosy. Even her hair is bejewelled, a loose bun pinned with a gorgeous flower of tourmalines and diamonds.

Agrippa squeezes her shoulders and leans in close, his beard scratching her ear. “Tonight, you’re my masterpiece.”

Madge can’t deny it. He has taken her unremarkable, pretty but never beautiful self and made someone new and magnificent. More than that, he has made someone who belongs here in the opulence and glitter of the Capitol.

They’re going to love her.

Snow’s palace looms before them like something out of a fairytale, so impossibly big she’s half certain all of Twelve could easily live inside. Lights in every colour shine against its walls while others paint swirling, sparkling designs against the sky. Music and voices clog the air and Madge holds onto Gale too tightly, but he feels like the only real thing in the world. She’s fallen into some sort of distorted dream, a nightmare maybe, and with one wrong step, she might never find her way out.

“Damn,” Gale breathes and his voice holds the same shock running through her bones. There’s not even room for anger yet, the shock that this is a house, a house for one person, is too immense. 

“Magnificent,” Effie says in awe and then turns back to them. “Alright, best behaviour,” she instructs, her stern gaze focused on Gale. “This is the most important moment of our lives, let's do it justice.”

“We will,” Madge promises and Effie beams at her. When she turns to Gale for a similar assurance, he glares at her. Effie ‘hmpf’s. 

“It’s time,” Haymitch says and Madge’s every nerve electrifies. The music rises to deafening levels. Effie’s eyes widen, her hands fluttering wildly. 

“Alright, smiles everyone!”

Peacekeepers unlatch the ornate gate before them and Gale squeezes her hand. Madge squeezes back. They might be walking into the fire, but at least they’re not alone. This is it, time for the grand finale. Let’s make it an unforgettable one.

A plush purple carpet directs them forward and Effie goes first, Madge and Gale just a few steps behind. Dizzying lights burst into life and focus directly on them, illuminating them for the whole Capitol to see. And it might honestly be the whole Capitol.

There are people everywhere, so many Madge can’t absorb them all. Screeching, glittering masses heave on all sides, their roar so loud it drowns out the music bellowing from every corner. Ringed fingers and glitzy nails grope at her and Gale as they pass, so many frenzied faces desperate to drink them in. Her organs recoil in fear, but Madge knows she can’t let that show. She smiles as winningly as she can and waves instead while Gale does the same, his face changed into a stranger’s as he acknowledges their admirers. 

They walk deeper and deeper into Snow’s lair until they reach a courtyard filled with servers and tables overflowing with more food than she’s seen in all her life. A bit farther in is a dancefloor but everyone stops to cheer as she and Gale make their entrance. 

“Welcome to the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games Victory Banquet!” President Snow’s voice announces and Madge looks up to see him seated on a massive balcony several floors up. He smiles with scarlet lips as people begin to swarm around them and Madge smiles back.

Game on Snow

“It’s so heroic,” coos a man with feathers tattooed on his cheeks as he strokes Madge’s scar, his hands leaving bumps on her skin. Everyone around them agrees that yes, it’s so heroic, and then they reach out to touch her, all of them yearning to run their fingers over this small piece of history. Madge smiles vapidly and focuses instead on the grain of sugar caught beneath her left thumbnail. A remnant of one of the too sweet desserts she’d sampled, it remains irritatingly stuck, just too far in for her to pull out. Frustrating, but so much better than focusing on all the unfamiliar hands sliding over her body. 

She really doesn’t belong to herself anymore. 

“Dance with me.”

A whisper in her ear, a shiver down her spine. Madge looks over her shoulder at Gale, his skin glittering with gold. Her smile is small, but sincere for once, and she takes his offered hand. His fingers are warm, and so is she, as he pulls her onto the dance floor. Bright, whirling pairs surround them, but Madge barely notices. She keeps her focus on Gale, her port in the storm. Neither one of them knows the steps to this dance, so Gale merely pulls her close with a hand on her waist (the scarless side). Madge puts her empty hand on his shoulder and they sway together without regard to the beat of the music. He bends his head down towards her and she gazes at him with as much adoration as she can muster. Appearances are everything.

“I feel like I’m suffocating,” he murmurs and she nods, her grip tightening on his shoulder. 

“I know. The longer we’re here, the harder it is to keep from screaming.”

Gale spins her and when she twirls back into his arms, his lips brush her temple. “I don’t understand how anyone can be this callous. People all over Panem are dying and they don’t care. A feast like this could feed Twelve for a week.”

Anger tickles her ribs, demands to be acknowledged, but Madge keeps it hidden. Instead she leans in as if to kiss his jaw.

“It’s like being in an alternate reality,” she tells his skin and his fingers are hot through the thin material of her dress. “It doesn't even feel real.”

Gale spins her again and then pulls her in close enough their noses touch. “I don’t feel real,” he says, “except with you.”

“May I cut in?”

The question brings their dance to an abrupt halt and Madge turns her head to see the man who asked it. He smiles brightly at her, hand outstretched and he’s not nearly as done up as the rest of the Capitolites, but then, neither is Snow. Appearances mean nothing here.

“Of course,” she says brightly and the man beams even brighter. She takes his offered hand and for a moment, Gale’s grip on her other hand tightens. She glances back at him but he’s not looking at her. His eyes are dark as they bore into the stranger holding her hand. 

“That is, if your fiance doesn’t mind of course,” the man says with a cheeky laugh and Gale’s expression flickers before rearranging into something close to a smile. 

“Of course not. Save me a dance,” he says and this time he does look at her. He holds her eyes with his for a second that might last a century and when he drops both her hand and her gaze, Madge is inexplicably short of breath. The crowd swallows him eagerly, her new partner tugs on her hand and Madge turns back to him with unsteady legs. He leads her through the dance and Madge shakes Gale from her mind, at least for now. 

“It’s an honour to meet you,” her new partner says.

“And you,” she replies with a charming smile that curls her own toes. The man laughs and spins her, his lively eyes sparkling in a way that makes her suspicions rise.

“Forgive my lack of introduction; I’m Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker.”

She’s almost tempted to ask about his predecessor, but maybe she doesn’t want to know what Snow had done to the person who let her and Gale win together. 

“Your first Games will be the Quarter Quell? That’s...exciting,” she says instead and his smile only grows.

“Yes, very. Of course, your love story has stolen some of our spotlight.” His tone is light, jokey and yet Madge feels herself grow even more on edge. She shakes her head.

“I’m sure it hasn’t. A Quarter Quell is a lot more important than we are.”

Heavensbee laughs. “I think a lot of people would disagree. You’re a sensation; you have no idea how many people are utterly captivated by the two of you.” 

Madge smiles like she’s enchanted by the compliment and Heavensbee reaches into his pocket, pulling out a watch on a golden chain. He holds it out for her to see, but she has no idea why. It could be any old pocket watch, gold and expensive yes, but not at all remarkable. She looks at Heavensbee in question and he smiles. 

“As am I,” he says and tilts the pocket watch until suddenly it’s smooth surface shows the image of a mockingjay. It's etched ever so lightly into the metal and something about that faint image makes her skin prickle. 

“It’s lovely.”

“Thank you. Mockingjay accessories have become all the rage lately. Everyone wants to look like Madge Undersee, the Games’ most romantic heroine.”

Heavensbee spins her and what an odd thought that is. She’s setting trends. Can you believe it, Aunt Maysilee? Our token is taking the Capitol by storm. Snow must be seething. Before her thoughts can travel any further, Heavensbee pulls her in incredibly close.

“I really am such a fan,” he breathes against her ear and Madge stiffens. “I so look forward to working with you.”

He pulls back as the music changes, the mockingjay on his pocket watch glinting in the multicoloured lights. There’s a promise in his smile, in the twinkle of his eyes and Madge has to act normal lest she give something away. She smiles pleasantly at Plutarch but she hardly sees him. Friends in high places, is Plutarch Heavensbee one of them? Is the next head gamemaker a rebel? 

There’s a crowd gathered around her, a chorus of tinkling voices asking for the next dance and even though Madge goes through the motions like a marionette, her mind is on revolution. She doesn’t know exactly what it means to have Plutarch on their side, but if he is, she knows it's important. Head Gamemaker is a position of power, of privilege, of loyalty. Snow has no idea how deep the rot runs.

Good.

The crowd presses in on every side, every single one of them so eager to touch her. There are strangers’ fingers stroking her arms, tangling in her hair, groping at her dress. Maggots squirm beneath her skin but Madge does nothing but smile, because tonight she belongs to the Capitol. 

One day they’ll hear her scream, but not today.

Gale nurses a drink by the far wall, cornered by simpering Capitolites in iridescent outfits. His expression is flat, determinedly so, and Madge lets herself be drawn into his orbit. She moves through grabbing hands and excited voices, her smile firm and excuses falling from her tongue, but her eyes stay on Gale. People paw at her but she doesn’t let it stop her; Gale’s pull is stronger.

He notices her coming and his gaze locks with hers, the rest of the world fuzzing into a blur. He is her anchor in the storm; she hopes she’s the same for him. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she says and his admirers turn to her with delight. 

“Ooo, you look so pretty!” “You two are my favourite victors ever!” “Ooo, look at her scar!” “Can I touch it?” “Does it hurt?” “How romantic!” 

Their voices are loud, grating and Gale’s jaw clenches as they fawn over her scar, his expression darkening. None of them seem to notice. Madge inches to his side, even as a woman with purple hair sculpted into a butterfly pinches her scar between pointed nails. 

“What a testament to your love,” she simpers and tugs at Madge’s skin. The others gathered around her swoon while Gale’s hands curl into angry fists. Madge reaches for one of those fists as a server walks by and offers them his platter full of colourful, multi-tiered cakes.

“Oh, you have to try these, they’re amazing!” one of the men says and Madge laughs.

“I couldn’t, I’m stuffed.”

The purple haired woman, who still hasn’t let go of Madge’s scar, giggles. “Oh don’t worry, that’s what this is for!” she says and plucks a tiny glass of pink liquid off another passing server’s tray. 

“What is it?” Madge asks, too wary to take it even as the woman tries to force it into her hands. 

“It’ll make you throw up, so you have room for more!”

Madge is stunned almost speechless, the sheer ignorance and depravity and extravagance overwhelming. She stares at the Capitolites before her while Gale’s eyes flash with fury, and she can see the angry words building on his tongue. He can’t say them, she can’t let him (even though she very much wants to) and without thinking, Madge stands up on her toes and kisses him. Her hands come up to hold his face, his skin warm under her palms. He doesn’t move, just stands there stiff and still as a statue. Her cheeks heat up and she should stop, should pull away and hope she’s stopped him from lashing out at those awful Capitolites. She never gets the chance. Because suddenly Gale does move, his hands finding her hips and curling into her dress, the blood in her whole body suddenly burning. He tugs her closer until their chests press together and he kisses her back, hungry and meltingly, a sort of electricity passing through her from his tongue to hers. Her fingers move from his face to his silk-soft hair and she tilts his head down, desperate for more more more. 

“Oh my! Really, this is hardly the time!” Effie’s voice pops the balloon around her and Madge turns red, her fingers slipping from Gale’s hair. His hands stay on her hips. 

“Do you need something?” Gale asks, not even trying to hide his disdain. Madge winces and Effie flushes, but she makes no comment of his rudeness. Instead, she smiles and reaches for them with long, painted nails. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Come along, it’s time for the President’s speech!”

Gale backs out of reach and Effie’s smile twitches in the corner. She grabs hold of Madge, her voice forcefully cheerful.

“Come on, we can’t keep President Snow waiting!”

She’s right and Madge reaches back for Gale, her fingers locking with his. He squeezes and lets her pull him through the crowd as Effie tugs her along. The crowd parts for them and soon they have the perfect view of Snow up on his balcony. He looms over them with his viper’s smile, his champagne glass resting on the railing. Madge looks up at him and there is ice where her stomach should be. Gale wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her in close as the Capitol fanfare plays, an excited hush falling over the crowd. Snow lifts his glass as the music fades, his too-red lips pulling up into an even wider smile. 

“Tonight we gather together to celebrate Panem’s newest victors,” he begins, his voice amplified and pushing down on all of them. “Two extraordinary young people united in their love for each other and for you, people of the Capitol!” 

The assembled masses cheer and squeal and clap and Madge smiles sweetly. Can Snow see her like she can see him? He is a demon wearing a mask of human skin, she is a rebel painted up like a pretty little doll. 

“Congratulations to the victors of the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games! May their love last as long as Panem.” People scream in agreement, Snow drinks his champagne, fireworks burst in the sky and Madge recognizes the threat in his words.

If Panem is to fall, Snow will make sure they fall first.

“Oh, what a night,” Effie sighs dreamily as they ride the elevator up to their rooms. “Guests of honour at the Presidential Palace!” She swoons against the wall and Gale shoots her a disgusted look. She doesn’t notice. 

“I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long and now, because of you two, I’ve finally gotten to live it!” Her smile is wide and she reaches for both of them, but Gale is too quick. He steps out of reach and Effie’s expression flutters for only the briefest moment before she turns all her attention on Madge. She squeezes her in a tight embrace, smelling like roses and lilacs and daisies.

“My brave, beautiful victors. I’m so very proud of you,” Effie says and her smile is warm and genuine. Madge doesn’t know what to say to that and thankfully, she doesn’t have to figure it out. The elevator stops on their floor and Gale is the first out, before the doors have even finished opening. Quick, long strides take him away to his room and Madge has to resist the urge to run back to hers. 

“I’m so tired,” she says softly to forestall any attempts of Effie’s to continue interacting. Effie nods and pats her arm.

“Of course, it’s been such an exciting day! Sleep well.”

Haymitch snorts from the vicinity of the kitchen and Madge smiles before walking down the hall. She keeps her pace sedate and Effie’s exasperated voice floats back to her “Out of the bottle? We do have glasses, Haymitch”. 

Safe (or at least alone) in her room, Madge peels off her costume, shoes, dress, precious jewels. She leaves them in a pile by the bed and unpins her pretty, romantic hair in the bathroom mirror. A stranger’s face watches her every move. She runs the bath water hot and fills the tub with vanilla scented bubbles, sweet enough to eat. Is Gale doing the same in his room? Stripping away the Capitol’s uniform and washing away all the lies and lies and lies? Warmth flutters under her ribs and Madge climbs into the tub, the heat making sweat gather at the back of her neck. 

The water burns and Madge sinks in gratefully, her head falling back against the wall. Tonight was brutal, more than she’d imagined it would be. So much excess, so much ignorance, so much selfish, cruel oppression out on display, it was dizzying and staggering and sickening. It’s one thing to know about the Capitol’s wickedness, another to be surrounded by it. Madge closes her eyes and thinks of Gale’s furious face, of the rage she’d felt in her own gut and how desperately she wishes they’d been able to let all that anger out. But not tonight. Someday though, right? That’s what all her lies are building towards, a better Panem. A better life. 

But have they done enough? Have all their speeches and smiles and kisses made a difference? I guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we? Madge hugs her knees to her chest. Please, let us be the symbols they need us to be. Let us be enough.

Please, Aunt Maysilee, let us be your mockingjay.

Madge sits down on the edge of her bed, her wet hair dripping onto the velvet covers. It has been a long day and she should go to sleep. She should, but everytime she plans to lift the sheets, her hands don’t move. There’s a pull in her, she can feel it under her skin. An insistent tug at her bones and she should sleep, she should rest, she should curl up under all her blankets.

She doesn’t. 

Madge slips from her room as quietly as she can and tiptoes down the hall. Most of the lights are off and it seems Effie and Haymitch have thankfully already gone to bed. Her bare feet take her to the balcony and she stops in the doorway. Gale’s out there leaning against the railing, damp hair, pensive expression and she doesn’t bother to lie to herself. He’s why she’s come out here. She wants to talk to him about tonight and about what comes next, but, maybe, she also just wants to talk to him. Everything’s so complicated, but when she’s with Gale, everything seems so much simpler. Well, almost everything. 

Gale is lit up by the Capitol’s bright lights and she can’t help but remember the way he’d kissed her tonight. Her face is warm at the memory and there’s no point in denying that she’s physically attracted to him, her body’s been pretty clear on that front. Every one of his kisses sets her aflame and has her craving more. It’s embarrassing, ridiculous and selfish, but there’s always been a part of her that never wants him to stop kissing her, touching her, holding her. But she also knows that wanting is one-sided. Gale’s a good actor, but he doesn’t want her. He wants Katniss, loves Katniss. He’d said he didn’t hate kissing her, but that’s a far cry from the desire that always flares up within her. But tonight...tonight hadn’t felt like an act. It was, she knows it was, but…

“Hey.”

Gale’s voice cuts through her muddled thoughts and he’s looking at her. He doesn’t look happy.

“Hey,” she says back and steps up beside him cautiously. His knuckles are tense around the railing, his expression tight and the Capitol’s vulgarity must still be eating him alive. Madge covers one of his hands with her own.

“Tonight was hard,” she murmurs. It’s an understatement, but she’s not sure the words exist to accurately describe how tonight felt. Gale’s hand shakes beneath hers. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He snaps it shut and maybe he can’t think of any words either. They stand together in silence, the Capitol’s glittering web stretching out as far as the eye can see.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Madge looks up at him with a frown. 

“For what?”

“For tonight. I nearly lost it and if you hadn’t stopped me, I would have. I’m sorry.” 

"Don't be," she starts but Gale is already shaking his head. 

"No," he interrupts, as stubborn and frustrating as always, "I nearly ruined everything. You shouldn't have to cover my ass. I shouldn't be struggling this much to keep my cool." 

His self-directed anger is unfortunately familiar and rather than argue, Madge tightens her hand around his. If she pushes, he'll only push back even harder. 

"Why are you?" she asks instead and just as she'd hoped, his rage turns outwards.

"It's...everything," he spits and she nods. "Being here, in this fucking place with all these stupid, ignorant assholes; having to smile at them as they laugh about wasting food while everyone we know is starving; acting like everything’s amazing when all I want to do is burn this hellhole to the ground. And having everyone swoon over your scar, shoving it in my face and cooing at it like it’s some sort of fucking miracle. I hate it. You nearly died for me. I got caught, I nearly got you killed and-”

“Gale,” she says but he keeps talking, her heart squeezing in her chest.

“If you’d died, it would’ve been my fault. I can’t bear that and I remember how close you were, how I-”

“Stop,” she whispers and this time he does, his words dammed behind clenched teeth. 

Her heart beats a slow, heavy rhythm in her chest as she touches his cheek, the air around them delicate like spun glass. Softly she turns his face to hers, but his eyes are downcast. Tension lingers in every inch of him and Madge rubs her thumb against his chin, smooth but starting to stubble. 

“Gale, look at me.”

It takes him a long moment, but he finally does, his eyes lightning in the fiercest storm. She moves her other hand up to his face too and holds him there, won’t let him hide or run away into his guilt. 

“I’m not sorry and I don’t want you to be either,” she starts and though her voice is quiet, it’s firm. “I don’t hate this scar and I don’t wish it was gone. Everytime I see it, it reminds me that I’m not doing this alone, that you’re alive and that when I had the chance to run away, to save myself, I didn’t. I chose to stay, to fight, to save you. I knew the consequences, I knew the odds. And I made my choice. I chose you. I chose me. No matter what else happens, no matter if we win or lose, I’ll always have that. No matter how hard they tried, the Capitol couldn’t break me. This is my proof that I’m stronger than they are. I never want to lose who I am. And I never want to lose you.”

So many words and they’re all true. She still has nightmares about that day in the snow, about Clove and her and him, about terror and sorrow and pain, but she’d do it again. The Capitol never gave them many options, but she’s proud of the choice she made. Her heart is saying something else too, but she can’t hear it. In this moment, the world is only Gale and her and the sky so close she feels she could reach up and touch it. His eyes never leave hers and one of his hands comes up to wrap around her wrist, his thumb rubbing against her skin. Lights sparkle all around them and she’s sure they’re sparkling inside her too, flowing out from his touch. 

“You’ll never lose me,” he says and she’s shivering but not from cold or fear. His face is serious, but soft, and he gently pulls her hand away from his face. He kisses her palm and she almost hears what her heart is saying, almost registers the words beating desperately against her ribs to get out.

“Am I interrupting?” Haymitch drawls from behind her and Madge actually jumps in surprise. She hadn’t even heard the door open. Gale doesn’t let go of her wrist, though he does lower their hands to his side.

“What do you want?” he asks and Haymitch rolls his eyes. He steps out onto the balcony and closes the door behind him.

“You need to work on your manners,” he says and moves to the railing. He leans against it and finishes the glass of brown, strong smelling liquor in his hand, his eyes fixed on the city spilling out below them. Gale’s hand tightens around her wrist.

“So?” he prompts as Haymitch continues to look down at the Capitol with luminous, pensieve eyes. 

“You’ve done good,” he says and Gale scoffs.

“We’ve barely done anything.”

Haymitch sighs, maybe at Gale, maybe at his empty glass and drums his fingers on the railing. “You’ve done more than you know.” He turns to face them then, his fingers still tapping on the rail. “Revolutions don’t happen overnight. They take a lot of planning and a lot of preparation. We need more than just righteous anger if we want to overthrow the Capitol. By keeping everyone’s eyes on you, you’ve given us the time we need. Snow’s so afraid of what the two of you might do that he’s forgotten the rest of us. And maybe even more importantly, you’ve kept the rebellion alive. No revolution can happen if the people of Panem aren’t with us. You’ve made sure their anger’s still burning.”

It’s surreal that people she’s never met see her as a symbol to rally around, as something to inspire them. They’ve filled her up with all their hopes and she owes it to them all to see this through. 

“So what’s our next move?” she asks and Haymitch smiles faintly.

“We go home.”

Home.

She’s not sure any word’s ever been so beautiful.

Panem slides by the train’s windows in a smudge of greens as Madge examines her ring, the lights making it shine. It really is beautiful; who would have guessed Gale would have such good taste in jewellery? 

“As disappointed in my choice of rings as Effie is?”

“What?” Madge asks and turns to see Gale leaning against the door frame. He rolls his eyes and steps deeper into the room.

“Effie hasn’t stopped lecturing me about my failure since I gave it to you. It should be bigger, it should have more stones, it should have more colour, more, more, more. It’s a miracle you said yes.”

Madge looks down at her ring with a frown. She can’t imagine any of Effie’s suggestions making her ring better; in fact, all of her suggestions would probably make it worse. Any bigger and it would be unwieldy,  any more stones and it would look overcrowded, any more colour and it would look confused. Gale chose perfectly.

“Why did you pick this one?” she asks as Gale sits down beside her, close enough their knees bump. He shrugs.

“I was trying to find a ring like Effie suggested, but when I saw this one it... it made me think of you.”

Gale drops his eyes to his hands and Madge looks at him in confusion, but also something more, her heart inching up her throat as it pounds. 

“Of me?” she echoes. He nods but doesn’t look up.

“The red, it’s the exact shade of a strawberry. And that’s how we met, properly at least. I always think of you when I see a strawberry. But I guess that’s pretty stupid,” he says with a strange little laugh. Mocking maybe, derisive almost. Madge shakes her head.

“No! I love it,” she says and means it. The ring is beautiful, but it’s more than that. It’s sweet and meaningful, romantic. She doesn’t even think before more words spill out. “And I think...I think that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Gale stiffens and Madge’s eyes widen, her breath caught in her throat. Had she really just said that? Why would she say that? They’re partners, friends, a team, but they’re not romantic. Their romance is an act, she knows that, so why had she said it? Gale probably thinks she’s gotten the lines crossed, is probably afraid she’s blurred his acting into something real. But she hasn’t. She knows that no matter what he says, or does, or how he looks at her or kisses her, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s in love with Katniss; Magde knows she could never touch that.

“I mean, we should say that in an interview. The Capitol will love it.” Her voice is too high as she tries to correct her mistake, but it’s too late. Gale won’t look at her, his posture still tense and on edge. Madge wishes she could suck the words back into her mouth and swallow them.

“You know, I think I need to stretch my legs,” Gale says and stands. There’s a part of her that wants to stop him, but she doesn’t.

“Okay,” she mumbles and then he’s out the door. Madge closes her eyes. She’s made a mess of things with one stupid slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean it , she wants to tell him, I know you’d never do something genuinely romantic for me. I’m not Katniss. No matter how much you care about me, I know it will never come close to what you feel for her. 

And for the first time, she admits to herself just how much that hurts. Because it does, it really does and she’s been running away from why for so long now. But there’s no point anymore. As much as she’s ignored it, avoided it, denied it, it’s all over now. The words slipped out, her stupid heart let hope control it for a minute and what’s the point in continuing to lie to herself?  She’d said it because it was true,  but more importantly, because of how much she wanted it to be true. She wanted him to have done something romantic for her, just as she wanted that kiss at Snow’s palace to be real. But it wasn’t, it never will be. 

Madge has done the stupidest, most foolish thing she ever could've. She’s fallen for him.

And she’s fallen alone.

They step off the train in Twelve but the show’s not over.  Even at home, the show goes on and on and on.

“And here they are! Your victors, Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee!” Effie trills in a voice that seems to reverberate around the square. Madge and Gale walk up on stage hand in hand, smiling and waving for the cameras and the Capitol. Madge can see her father just beside Effie, his smile warm and his forehead dotted with sweat. Effie smiles a shiny, orange smile and beckons them forward, the stack of bracelets on her arm jangling together. Gale reaches the microphone first and Madge looks out at the crowd. The thin faces of District Twelve look back. 

She’s wearing cream stockings, fur lined boots, a floaty lilac dress with many, many layers of skirt and a jacket of the softest material she’s ever touched, but she feels naked under their eyes. She’s lied this whole tour and it’s been easy, scarily so, but here, in a district that’s never quite been home, she feels like a traitor. The jewels the Capitol’s draped her in, the warm clothes they’ve dressed her in, even the smile on her painted lips, they all feel like a betrayal. She’s doing this for them, but worn clothes and hollow cheeks still make her feel guilty. It’s ridiculous, her victory’s won them a year of food and she’s fighting to free them from Snow, but guilt doesn’t have to be rational, does it?

“Thank you, each and every one of you. I never would have made it home without you,” Gale finishes in his insincere, carefully rehearsed voice and Madge snaps back into the moment. He’s given a whole speech without her noticing and Effie claps heartily. The crowd’s response is more tepid. Gale pulls Madge into his side, tucking her into his warmth, and she smiles out at Twelve’s people. 

“From the moment I was reaped, all I could think about was coming home,” she says and imagines Snow watching her right now in the Capitol. The thought of him so smug and vicious forces the next words from her mouth. “So much has changed since then, but not everything. District Twelve is our home and we are your children. We always will be. We fought in your name and we’ll never stop.”

This time, no one claps. Instead the people of Twelve lift up their hands, three fingers raised to the sky. It’s a salute.

And a promise.

Chapter Text

A few crinkled leaves brush against Madge’s boots as the wind picks up, loose strands of hair tickling her skin. Pushing them away gives her a chance to relax her face, all her muscles aching from the smile she’s been forcing. It’s almost over , Madge reminds herself as she and Gale stand before the Capitol’s final camera. Effie hovers nearby, long nails tapping against her thigh and bright white teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip. She doesn’t need to worry. Madge and Gale know what parts to play. 

“We’ll be checking in again soon; we need to know every one of the wedding details!” Caesar says, his voice broadcast all the way from his studio to Twelve’s dusty square. Its citizens have dispersed to enjoy the Harvest Festival and Madge is glad they have no audience. The less she has to show this side of her to others, the better. 

“Of course! We wouldn’t dream of keeping it all to ourselves,” she promises, voice sickeningly cheery and her smile back on and stretched wide. Gale nods beside her, his fingers slotted with hers but so much looser than usual. 

“You’d better not!” Caesar threatens gleefully and then with a giggle, “Ooo, I think I might be even more excited for this than the two of you!” Madge and Gale laugh like it’s a joke, like it’s funny, like it isn’t entirely, depressingly true. Caesar signs off with a bubbly “Until next time!” and then finally the camera is off, they are free (except not) and Effie kisses her cheeks. 

“I’m going to be so busy getting everything ready, but don’t you worry, I’ll call you as often as I can!” she promises and Madge is so tired.

“Great,” is her less than impressive response but Effie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She turns to Gale, looks at him for an awkward moment and then clearly decides to skip the goodbye. She turns and toters over to her waiting car, exhaust blossoming like a cloud behind it. 

“Talk to you soon, my little turtle doves!” she calls over her shoulder and then slips inside, the slam of the door echoing loudly enough to make Madge flinch. She and Gale watch it drive away, stay silent and unmoving until the engine’s purr fades into the wind. Finally. The tension that had kept her ramrod straight seeps away and Madge sags, Gale’s hand slipping from hers. The loss of contact stings in ways she knows it shouldn’t, her fingers ache for his and she’s pathetic. She’s so very pathetic.

There’s a lump in her throat, a chill under her skin but she can’t let it consume her. She won’t. Swallowing that lump, she forces herself to take in the distant sounds of celebration, faint strings of music and laughter on the crisp fall breeze. So foreign to Twelve and yet so welcome. Her people have suffered so much for so long, they deserve this. The cost may have been steep, too steep, but she will cling to this goodness. Nothing will ever make the games okay, nothing will undo the horror, but at least there’s this. At least her life has brought something good into the world.

Gale turns towards those sounds ( away from her ) and the movement pulls her eyes to him. As much as she doesn’t want to think about it, staring at his back she knows this is the end. They’d survived hell together, defied all the odds to come home together and yet with a few stupid words she doesn’t know how to take back, she has severed the lines holding them together. Her heart has led them to ruin. 

Gale hesitates, she can see it in the stiffness of his posture, in the slight hunch of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, but he doesn’t say a word. Madge is almost glad, she knows what he’d say, knows the only words she could receive would be “sorry”, “I’m in love with Katniss”, “you know this is only an act”. And she does know it, has always known it, but somehow she’d still fallen, still broken their most sacred rule.

I’m such an idiot

“Our families are waiting,” she says and she’s gone before he can answer, striding towards the Harvest Festival as fast as she can without looking like she’s running away. Her eyes burn, her heart too and there’s no coming back from this. Whatever happens next, her mistake will always live between them. 

How could you be so stupid?

Twelve has always been a maudlin, dirty place but not today. 

Today it shines.

There is new vigour to the music being played, new vitality in the people who dance under the starlight. For once their bellies are full, the Capitol’s blood-won gift spread out over the tables set out in the square. The laughter that rings through the air is richer, the chatter livelier, the smiles so much brighter. Happiness, real happiness, has finally come to District Twelve.

Madge is a little bit in awe. 

It won’t last, she knows it can’t, and soon misery will return to swallow them all. But not tonight. Tonight her people thrive, the night glows and Madge will not allow guilt, sorrow or a broken heart to tarnish it. Too long has Twelve suffered, too long has genuine joy eluded them. Oh, she knows the cost of this celebration, knows it’s been bought with the blood of children, but her people have earned a respite.

(perhaps she has too)

Tonight, at least, she will not let the darkness win. Tonight, Twelve’s joy will keep the shadows at bay.

And so Madge throws herself into her district’s celebration, lets herself be just a girl instead of a victor. She drinks a strange fizzy fruit juice that tingles her tongue, shares a monstrous piece of cake with her mother, lets her father spin her around and around. She accepts Hazelle’s warm hug, laughs until her stomach hurts at every one of Rory’s jokes, lets Posy and Vick drag her around in a dance without rhythm. She loses to Prim at bag toss, losses even worse to Katniss and her smile never dims, not until her eyes find Peeta Mellark sitting alone. 

Her heart breaks at the faded bruises on his face, the horrible burn on his arm, the evil that lives with him every day of his life. Impotent rage starts to kindle but…his expression is something like wonder. It washes across his whole face, bright and soft and…it makes her think of sunlight. Madge follows his gaze and warmth touches her heart as Prim and Katniss whirl together, laughing, smiling, shadowless for a moment at least. She is moving without realising it and then 

“Would you like to dance?” Madge finds herself asking him, surprising herself and him even more. He jerks his head away from the dancers to her, eyes widening in surprise. Embarrassment starts to flush her skin but something else too. She can’t save him, but she can do this. He takes her offered hand.

“Of course,” he says, smile warm, and oh Peeta, you’d never have the heart to say no would you?  She pulls him up and onto the floor and they dance, not well, but enthusiastically. Peeta laughs as she trips over his feet and his eyes sparkle as they bump into Katniss and Prim. The music rises and though she will never truly be free of the darkness, for this moment at least, she can almost believe she is.

(and if, just once, her eyes accidentally meet Gale’s, if she feels her heart quake at the guarded look in his eyes, if she wants to wilt at how unreadable and unreachable he has become, who could blame her for turning away quickly and throwing herself back into her dance with Peeta?)

(if, just once, Madge looks at Gale as he looks at her, can you blame her for refusing to ponder the furrow of his brow, the tension in his jaw?)

(what’s the point when she knows the answers will only hurt?)

Madge goes home and sheds her Capitol skin, layer after layer after layer.

Those expensive fur-lined boots (so warm, so condemning) tugged off by the front door, the plush jacket with its gold buttons hung far in the back of the closet to collect dust and already she feels lighter as she heads up to her room. Lilac dress with all its caging layers tossed in her hamper, cream coloured stockings peeled off, hair pins piled up on her dresser as her hair falls free and finally her face, scrubbed clean of every trace of Agrippa’s touch. Madge stands in front of her mirror, raw skinned and stripped of all the Capitol’s trappings. The girl that looks back is tired and worn looking, healthier than she used to be and yet somehow withered. Pretty but not beautiful had been Agrippa’s first verdict but she’s not sure she can claim even that anymore. She’s too pale, too worried, too in need of proper sleep. The Capitolites would be horrified if they could see her now.

Madge feels stronger with that thought to warm her and puts on her own armour. First an old nightgown with a fraying bow on the collar, the material soft and familiar against her skin. Then her favourite comfy robe, belt snug around her waist, like a fortifying hug. Last are thick woollen socks knitted by her Nana, her toes cozy and untouched by the night’s chill. Breathing comes easier and this time when she looks in the mirror she is Madge again, just Madge, no longer a stranger wearing her skin.

There’s hot tea waiting for her downstairs and Madge curls up in her favourite armchair, a quilt her Nana made keeping her warm. This is Snow’s house, but even still, the breath trapped in her chest finally gets loose, something almost like peace sliding over her. Home, even with the taint of the Capitol, was something she’d missed. It’s nice to be back.

“Madge.”

Her dad’s voice is serious, serious enough her feeling of peace curdles like sour milk. Madge looks over at her parents and they’re sitting on the couch, both of them perched lightly on the edge and turned to face her. They hold hands and she can tell by their determined yet unsure expressions that they have something important to say, even if they’re not quite sure how. Madge puts down her tea and tugs her blanket a little tighter, almost like a shield. Her dad clears his throat. 

“I suppose…congratulations are in order,” he says and for a moment Madge has no idea what he’s talking about. “Engaged! That’s quite a big step.” He laughs a little, but it’s not his normal laugh. It’s a little bemused, a bit dazed and Madge is surprised even though she shouldn’t be. She’d been so caught up in plans for rebellion she’d never stopped to think of her parents and what they might think of their sixteen year old daughter getting engaged on national television. Of course they want to talk about it. 

“Yes,” Madge agrees, groping for the right words to appease both Snow and her parents. “I know it is. But I love him, more than anything. I can’t imagine my life without him. I know we’re young, but I’ve never been more sure of anything.” She hopes she sounds sincere, hopes they don’t ask her to reconsider or wait until she’s older. There’s no backing out now, the Capitol’s far too invested. Her parents need to believe in her love for Gale, have to support her decision to marry him and though it makes her stomach ache to lie to them, she doesn’t have a choice. 

“I feel as if I hardly know Gale,” her mom muses and Madge cringes. What can she say to that?

“We have plenty of time to get to know him,” her dad intercedes, “what matters is that he makes you happy.”

Madge seizes on that, because this is the sort of lie she has plenty of practice reciting. Of course, the real problem is that it isn’t entirely a lie. Idiot.

“He does,” she promises and her dad reaches over to squeeze her hand.

“That’s all I need to know. I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”

“We both are,” her mom says and Madge can’t help but wonder if they’re telling the truth. Or maybe they know that it doesn’t really matter, not when Snow and the Capitol want this marriage so badly. Either way, Madge is glad for their support. Maybe they disapprove, maybe they don’t, but they’ll stand by her.

That’s what matters.

When the nightmares wake her as they always do, Madge reaches for Gale. 

In those first frantic moments when her breath catches in her throat, when her heart screams against her bones, when her eyes shudder at ghosts, she expects to find him there. His arms, his chest, the steady beat of his heart, but of course he isn’t there. They’re not on the tour anymore. Madge is alone in her room, the shadows too deep, the stars glittering with the faces of the dead.

Madge sucks in air despite how narrow her throat feels, hugs herself and curls up tight into a ball. Buried under blankets she slowly settles back into reality, all the horrors she’d been drowning in starting to fade. The cold lingers, the fear, the acid on her tongue. She can remind herself that it was only a dream, but comfort, safety, warmth, those remain elusive. 

This was normal before the tour and it will be again. She is on her own. She has to remember that.

And then she goes back to waiting.

“The less you know the better,” is Haymitch’s too familiar mantra, so Madge is left groping in the dark yet again. Her every waking moment is consumed with questions no one will answer and soon frustration is her constant companion. Stewing accomplishes nothing, she knows that, but she can never focus on anything else. 

Did we do enough? Is rebellion about to break out? Is Snow planning revenge?

Today is no different and Madge sighs as afternoon sunlight falls across her book, illuminating the lines she’s read, read and re-read and not once absorbed. It’s like the words are written in a language she can’t understand; her eyes can see them but her brain can’t register a single one. The truth, of course, is that whatever this book is about, it can’t compare to all the possibilities haunting her. 

What if that disaster in Two cost us everything? What if Snow is already moving to retaliate?

Madge sighs again, every breath an exhalation of helplessness. When she’d chosen rebellion, she hadn’t realized how much of it would involve waiting and not knowing and chasing secrets. Need to know basis, that’s the deal to keep the revolution safe and she understands that, really she does. But that doesn’t make the waiting easy and it doesn’t stop the uneasiness she feels at being a symbol for a cause she knows so little about. 

What happens next? How many rebels are there? Who ar-

Knuckles on wood break her from her tangled thoughts and Madge’s neglected novel slips from her fingers to the floor. Who-? Another knock and she uncurls herself to answer. With her Capitol smile plastered on just in case, Madge swings open the door. Woodsmoke scented air fills the hall; sunlight, bright if not warm, falls over the porch; and Katniss stands in her doorway. 

Oh.

Katniss never comes up to her front door, has never knocked or come inside. The closest she gets is lingering by the front gate with a look of discomfort on her face. Madge always meets her there and they spend time in the meadow, the woods, Katniss’ house or in town. But never here. They’ve never talked about why, but Madge has always figured it’s because of how much heavier the Capitol’s presence is here, how oppressive the walls feel when you know who’s inside every one. She can’t blame Katniss for being reluctant to come inside. And yet here she is, standing on the porch and knocking on the door. She looks uncomfortable, tense, her eyes darting around and her weight shifting from foot to foot, but she’s here.

“Hi,” Madge says but before she can invite her in, Katniss interjects with “I thought maybe we could go for a walk.” 

With school, hunting, Prim, chores, Gale, homework and Madge, Katniss’ time is limited and she rations it carefully. Madge knows when to expect her, knows what counts as ‘their’ time. Thursday afternoon isn’t. Something must be going on. Her nerves are wiggly worms and she’s sure it shows in her smile. 

“Sure, let me just grab my coat.”

An awful cocktail of dread and curiosity bubbles in Madge’s stomach as they set off side by side, but Katniss doesn’t say anything as they walk to town and then beyond it, through the Seam and finally to the meadow. Madge wants to ask, but doesn’t, because if Katniss won’t say it in Twelve, that must mean whatever’s going on is a secret, a terrible one. That cocktail turns poisonous, wielding her imagination like a sharpened axe. Has Snow threatened Katniss and her family? Has he found out about that kiss she shared with Gale? Is Gale in trouble?

Katniss slips through the fence and Madge follows, the silence of the empty meadow eerie and unsettling. She focuses on remembering how to breathe as they gather up Katniss’ gear and walk a little farther, the shadows stretching out like greedy fingers. Then, just beyond the pile of rocks she usually sits on when they come out here, Katniss turns to face her.

“Here,” Katniss offers, holding out her bow. Madge blinks. She’s never used Katniss’ bow before; the dead are already too loud in her head. Katniss has never questioned that, has always let Madge watch her. 

(why is that so soothing? Madge doesn’t ponder why, she just takes comfort in it. So few things make her feel safe these days) 

And yet, Katniss is offering it to her now. Why? And why on a day that never belongs to them? She even came up to Madge’s door, something she never does. What’s going on?

“You don’t have to shoot any animals,” Katniss says, guessing at least one reason for Madge’s expression. “Just shoot. Whenever I’m stressed or worried or scared, my bow has saved me. It’s…it's hard to explain, but nothing settles me like this does.”

Oh .

And suddenly everything makes sense, all of Katniss’ out of the ordinary behaviour, and Madge feels her heart expand. Tears prickle her eyes as she takes the bow and she is so touched she can’t find a single word to express it. No matter what the Capitol does, no matter how much it takes and ruins and destroys, Madge is not alone. It’s so easy to forget that, so easy to let the Capitol blot out every light, but Katniss is a sun too bright to extinguish. 

“How about that tree over there?” Katniss offers as a target and Madge nods, feeling braver, stronger and safer with Katniss beside her. She tries to emulate what she remembers of Katniss’ stance, but even she can tell she’s falling far short. But Katniss is a patient teacher and she helps Madge adjust the way she’s standing, the placement of her hands and the angle of the bow. 

“Rotate your chin a bit more…and there, I think you’re ready to give it a shot,” she says and Madge focuses on the bow in her hands, the tree in front of her and lets them drive everything else from her mind. She fires.

“Not bad,” Katniss says and Madge smiles slightly. Not bad is probably a kindness, considering her shot died before it even made it to the tree, but Madge is eager to try again. Again she takes position, again Katniss makes adjustment and again Madge takes her shot. They stay that way all afternoon and into the evening until the dark makes it impossible to see. Madge gets better under Katniss’ guidance but more important is how the concentration required drives everything else from her mind. The repetition, the focus, the urge to improve, it steadies her and Katniss was right. 

Madge is tired but smiling as they walk home in cozy silence, the dark brighter than ever. Instead of saying goodbye, Madge hugs Katniss tight.

“Thank you.”

The nights are long, her bed cold, but tonight when the nightmares come, she has the glow of friendship to push them back.

Madge doesn’t deliberately avoid Gale, but she doesn’t seek him out either. 

If she looks out her window and sees him walking by, she smiles and waves. If they pass each other in town she is thrilled to see him, greets him with a kiss and playacts the girl in love. If someone in his family invites her over, she goes, the distance between them a secret only the two of them can know. It’s the same when her parents invite him over, she is friendly and loving and never awkward at all. 

But she never stops by his house on her own anymore, never pops by just to see him, talk to him, be with him. She never asks him over anymore either, never asks him to go on a walk or for a picnic in the meadow. She doesn’t call him on the phone or go out to the woods with him and Katniss. 

(and though Madge never asks it, when she’s out with Katniss she cannot help but wonder: Do you love him, Katniss? Do you love him the way I do? )

Of course, Gale doesn’t seek her out either. No longer does he stop by to visit, no longer does he call just to talk. He doesn’t invite her out on walks anymore or to the meadow where they can be free to be themselves, to talk about everything and anything. He is always her perfect true love when they interact, but her friend, the boy who used to want her company and seek her out, she doesn't see him anymore. 

She really has broken them.

Of course, the less time she spends with Gale, the more she has to herself. And there is nothing so terrible as that.

When she’s alone, when there’s no one for her to focus on, all the things she doesn’t want to think about (and the things she can’t think about) get loud in her head, very loud, too loud. She can’t shut it out, needs a distraction but without Gale, with Katniss available only on certain days, with Merrie and Mrs Sparrowsaw insisting she not help with their chores, what is she to do? She spends as much time as she can with her mother, but even that cannot fill up all the time Gale used to. Her mother’s migraines mean long hours spent in the dark and the quiet, with no room for Madge.

When she’s alone, Madge’s house feels like a cage, one she needs to get out of. November is a wet month in Twelve but Madge doesn’t care, needs to be somewhere, anywhere, else. She goes out into the chilly downpour with no real destination in mind, just the need to escape. Muddy puddles cling to her boots as she walks down the only road in Victor’s Village and when she stops, well, she should’ve known she’d end up here.

Haymitch’s house stands before her, all its windows dark. Before the tour she’d run here when her home became too much and now she’s back, not so much for comfort, but perhaps solidarity. 

(and Haymitch shouldn’t always be alone either, that can’t be good for him)

Madge makes her way around back and as usual the screen door is unlocked, though at least it’s not open this time. She slips inside, the house so cold she can see her breath. Madge shivers in the musty gloom and fumbles around for a light switch. And is greeted by dust. Every surface back here has a heavy coating of the stuff and when she moves its swirls up into the air and tickles her nose. Madge sneezes, sneezes again and finally flicks on the light. There’s something sad about the back hall, no boots by the door, no pictures on the wall. Just dust and emptiness. 

With an ache in her chest, Madge sheds her dripping jacket and boots and sets out in search of Haymitch. Loud snoring leads her to the living room and there he is, passed out on an armchair with empty bottles by his feet. And one not so empty that’s spilled out onto the carpet. Madge grimaces. There’s a half eaten sandwich on the side table, a crumpled newspaper stuck in the puddle of booze and the telephone left off the hook, definitely on purpose. Well, she can’t blame him for that. The place is a mess but that’s not a surprise. And honestly, it’s a good thing. This is a distraction she can get lost in. And so she does.

Madge throws out the sandwich and then changes the overfilled garbage, though it takes nearly twenty minutes of hunting to find a new bag. She peels the newspaper out of the carpet, collects the many, many bottles left lingering around the house, dusts as much as she can and then nearly throws up at the vomit congealed in the sink. That she won’t be tackling without gloves. Should she go home and get some? It seems unlikely Haymitch has any around.

“Maysi..lee?” Haymitch’s voice, groggy from sleep and maybe a little slurred, calls out and she feels her stomach plummet. It’s not the first time she’s been mistaken for her aunt and she doubts it’ll be the last. And yet every time cuts just as keenly.

“How about I make you some tea? And something to eat?” she chirps, too cheery to try and mask the hurt. Haymitch grunts and rubs at his face. Madge retreats into the kitchen. The kettle isn’t too hard to find, a clean mug is and she finds no tea, but does locate some very pungent coffee. She brews him some and digs into the fridge for something he can eat. It’s a paltry selection. Bread, half a carton of eggs, some suspect cheese and several packets of unidentifiable meats leer out at her. And pickles. The only vegetable present is pickles. How is he alive?

Haymitch shuffles in behind her and collapses into a kitchen chair with a groan. Madge hands him his coffee and settles on making eggs. Maybe she can go shopping for him?

“I cleaned up a bit, this place is a real mess. And I think your cheese has gone bad,” she says as she tries to find a frying pan. “I could do some shopping if you want.”

For a moment Haymitch doesn’t answer and she begins to worry he might be upset with her unannounced visit. He’s never minded before, but then she never started acting like his maid before. Maybe she should apologize.

“I-”

“Don’t think this place has ever been so clean,” he comments, cutting her off. He yawns. “I’m not good company, but if you want to look after the place, I won’t stop you.”

Madge looks over her shoulder at him and though he isn’t looking back, his tone eases her worry. She nods.

“Right, well when I’ve got the time I’ll stop by to keep things tidy. Someone needs to make sure you eat a fruit every once and awhile.”

Haymitch snorts into his coffee, but the very slight curl in the corner of his mouth is a balm to the storm that never seems to stop raging inside her. 

Haymitch cannot fix her, she cannot fix him, but maybe neither of them has to be so lonely.

It becomes a bit of a routine.

When she feels too lonely, when the thoughts and memories become too much, Madge goes to Haymitch’s. She cleans, she cooks, even does his shopping. Anything to keep her busy, even better that it involves helping someone. Haymitch responds to her presence with some variation of “Haven’t abandoned me yet?”. He says it like he means it to be a joke, but the tone never quite lands, the look in his eyes never quite sells it. 

Maybe these visits matter to him the way they do her.

(and though he never says he’s glad she’s there, he always make sure to add her favourite tea to his shopping list, waters the flowers she leaves behind and even confines his vomit to the bathroom)

Her trips to Haymitch’s are a secret she keeps to herself. Her mother would never approve; doesn’t even want to hear his name.

(would the Hawthornes have felt the same about her, had things gone differently?)

Madge understands, she does, but also he helped me come home, doesn’t that matter at all?

(they’re all living in Maysilee’s shadow it seems)

Every morning her dad reads his newspaper over breakfast and every morning Madge finds herself staring at the front page. Usually the story splashed over the cover is nothing noteworthy (except for the sickening time it was about her upcoming wedding), but the first tuesday in December is different. The sky is speckled in greys beyond the window, Madge pokes at her pancakes and when she glances over at her dad reading his newspaper, her stomach clenches. Her gaze snags on the story overtaking the front page, her mind already pulling every sentence apart and dissecting every word. 

Fish Shortage in Panem reads the headline and then beneath it, a large picture of a fishing boat lying empty on a beach. The article swallowing the rest of the page is somewhat empty and uninformative, but there’s enough for Madge to taste what they aren’t saying. District Four’s output of fish has fallen drastically, as have their other exports, from pearls to seaweed to sea salt and more. What does exist is all going to the Capitol rather than the districts and prices are rising with the scarcity. No details are given as to why this shortage exists, only hollow musings about weather or some sort of sickness in the water. The author has no idea when the situation will be resolved, but hopefully soon.

Madge’s heart beat speeds up. 

She remembers District Four from the tour, remembers how they’d shimmered with anger, remembers the beautiful shells they piled in the square to memorialise those they’d lost. A career district they might be, but they are no friends of the Capitol. Is it…is it possible the cause of this shortage is not weather or bad water but…rebellion? Her throat is dry as she contemplates it, as she rolls the idea over in her head. The rebels wanted her and Gale to fan the flames already lit in the districts; has it worked in Four? Have the embers already smouldering come to life? 

It’s a terrifying and intoxicating thought. 

She can’t be sure of course, but the possibility is there. And maybe she can find out more. The rebels might not be willing to tell her anything, but that doesn’t mean she has to stay in the dark. Her dad gets a newspaper every morning, who knows what’s hidden between its lines? And Effie calls nearly everyday, is more than happy to talk and talk and talk. 

Maybe it’s time Madge made use of the resources at her disposal.

(and with every new scrap of information, of maybes and possibilities and theories, she aches to tell Gale)

(she doesn’t)

( coward )

According to the clock on the wall, Madge has been staring at her blank music sheet for two hours and twenty four minutes.

It feels longer.

She’s supposed to be composing a new piano piece, preferably one loaded with blissful romance in honour of her engagement. It’s proving to be a challenge. Madge sighs for at least the third time since she’d sat on her piano bench and tries to make the music come. Pencil poised over the paper, she tries tries tries to conjure the right notes, the ecstatic true love she’s been so good at acting. But no melodies play within her ears, only Effie’s last phone call droning on and on. 

“You won’t believe the demand! I’m beating people off with a stick they’re so desperate for a Madge Undersee original! In fact, people are clamouring for a whole album! Do you think you’ll have something soon?”

The engagement of Panem’s star crossed lovers has sent their popularity skyrocketing. She’d known that was coming, but somehow she hadn’t realized just what that would mean for her “hobby”. Music isn’t supposed to be this hard.

(of course, that wasn’t all they talked about. Feigning interest was easy and Madge had probed gently at Effie’s life, information spilling out. Effie had confirmed the shortages from Four, a real trauma as she was so fond of caviar (not that Madge knew what that was). Better still, she’d been happy to whine about the power outage last week, how disruptive and disturbing. Madge had been sympathetic and under that, thrilled. Power outage, did that mean District Five was rebelling? Was Snow’s iron grip finally crumbling?)

“Damn, I should’ve brought my boots.”

Madge looks up at Merrie’s voice to see her peering out the living room window, a frown on her face. 

“What is it?”

“Snow,” Merrie reports sourly and comes over, setting down a glass of juice and a bowl of soup on the piano lid. “You’ve been hard at work all morning, I thought you might be hungry,” she says with a smile and Madge tries to match it with one of her own.

“Thanks.”

Merrie nods and heads back to the kitchen, shooting one last disappointed look out the window as she passes. Once she’s gone, Madge stands on wobbly legs, her steps unsteady as she goes to the window. The sky is pearlescent and from its clouds little, tiny flakes drift lazily down to the ground. Almost like the layer of sugar on Merrie’s homemade doughnuts, the snow sits on Victor’s Village. It probably won’t last long, will probably melt before the day is out. But still, this first snowfall says winter has come to District Twelve.

Madge closes the curtains, closes all the curtains, and stays inside all day.

At night, Thresh looms over her, his hands reaching for her throat. Madge doesn’t try to resist. There’s no point. 

She is going to die tonight, just like every night.

The snow is gone by morning, yet Madge’s stomach still twists up into knots when she steps outside. December wind blows through her hair, cuts through her coat and Madge hugs herself as she heads into town, her heartbeat too quick. Anxiety lives under her tongue, beneath her fingernails, behind her belly button. It's a promise of terrible things to come; it's a feeling Madge knows too well.

It’s the feeling of living on borrowed time.

It snows again while she’s visiting the Hawthornes.

They’ve just finished dinner and though she’s sitting next to Gale on the loveseat, his arm thrown casually around her shoulders, there’s no warmth between them. The chasm she’d opened between them crumbles around the edges, grows wider and Madge hopes no one can tell how tense she is. Thankfully, all eyes are on Posy as she talks excitedly, her hands waving to illustrate every word. Her chatter settles over Madge like a cozy blanket and keeps her from shivering at the ice growing between her and Gale. 

“And then Asher Whitcomb said Lily wa-”

“Hey, look! It’s snowing again!” Vick interrupts and points at the window. Rather than be upset at being cut off, Posy leaps up and races her brother to the window, the both of them pressing their faces to the glass. Fluffy white flakes drift down from the sky and Madge feels her stomach drop out. Gale stiffens beside her.

Neither one of them says a word, but for this one moment at least, they are united again.

Gale walks her to the door when it’s time to leave, her heart loud in her chest.

She puts on her boots with infuriatingly shaky fingers, Gale’s eyes burning holes in the back of her head. The trembling of her hands makes buttoning her coat impossible and she keeps her gaze on Gale’s chest when she turns to say goodbye. 

“Thanks again for having me,” she says, voice too high and cheer excruciatingly forced. “I always love coming by.” 

Madge doesn’t give him a chance to answer, turning quickly and pulling open the door. December wind comes rushing in, frosted over and swirling with tiny flakes of snow. It hits her like a battering ram, the air stolen from her lungs. On instinct she steps back, desperate to escape the memories carried in by the snow tipped gust. Gale is stiff and hard like a brick wall as she collides with him, the jolt under her skin like an electric shock. His hands grab her arms, his fingers too familiar and too foreign all at once. 

“Madge,” he begins and whatever emotion lives in his words, she can’t handle it. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insists even as tremors shake every word. Once, she had felt safe to show her weakness in front of Gale, but no longer. There is a divide between them, one she made and she can’t let his opinion of her sink any deeper. She can do this. She pulls away from him but his grip doesn’t slacken, his palms and fingertips still pressed into her sleeves.

“Give everyone my love,” she says and this time she gives him no choice but to let go, her legs driving her out the door. The wind chases her, biting her cheeks and nipping at her heels. She runs, runs from the cold, from the memories, from Gale. She runs all the way home, doesn’t stop until the door is locked up tight behind her. But comfort doesn’t come.

She’s made too big a mess for that.

Tonight the avalanche swallows her, sweeps her and Gale away as the Capitol coos and squeals and laughs.

Madge wakes alone and she is so cold. So very, very cold.

In the morning there’s a line of snow angels outside her window, a trail from the entrance of Victor’s Village to the Hawthornes’ house. Three different sizes, each one made with laughter, and Madge wants to feel their joy, she does. 

And yet, as her eyes trace over each one, all she feels is loss.

Always loss.

From then on it snows on and off, some days small tiny flakes that melt as soon as they touch the ground and on others thick, heavy snow that lingers for hours. What falls never lasts more than a day, or at least most of it doesn’t, and yet Madge finds herself going out less and less.

When the snow falls, when it paints the district white, it is easier to ask her father to pick up anything she needs, easier to occupy herself with housework, easier to shut the curtains and not think about what’s outside. Her family must notice but never say a word and there is no one else. Haymitch doesn’t expect her to visit everyday, Gale is long since lost to her and luckily, days with Katniss have yet to coincide with snowfall.

And so Madge hides.

The days grow so much shorter, snow blows in only to melt away and Madge becomes a near-recluse.

(Madge isn’t afraid of the snow, not really. 

It’s not the cold, or the frost, or the howling wind, it’s just that when she looks out at the world painted white, as she steps off her porch into brisk winter air, she isn’t in Twelve anymore. The arena looms around her, danger stalks her every move and her life hangs by the very thinnest of threads. There are growling mutts out there, bloodthirsty careers and tributes desperate to go home. All of them want her dead. 

She does her best to remind herself where she really is, to pull herself out of this living nightmare but it only seems to make things worse. Because then she smells the blood, sees it stained across the snow and hears the screaming, Rue’s, Gale’s, Clove’s, Cato’s, her own. There’s only one way to make it stop and that’s to flee back inside. When she can lock the door, close the curtains and warm herself by the fire, that's when she knows she’s home instead of trapped in the arena.

Does Gale struggle like she does? Does he cave under it like she does? 

Madge hates how weak she feels, how scared and small but no matter how many times she goes outside, she can never make it farther than her front gate. Her real life crumbles under the weight of the games and Madge crumbles under her fear, her pain, her despair. She is fighting for her life again, except this time she’s fighting ghosts. 

And they keep winning)

The first Saturday after it snows and doesn’t melt away, Katniss comes to see her. 

Her knock sounds just after breakfast and Madge has to breathe deep and slow before she opens the door. A layer of thin white powder covers the whole street and a slice of chilly wind thrusts through Madge’s sweater. Panic starts to climb her ribs like a ladder and Madge tries to keep it at bay by focusing on Katniss. She is dressed in her father’s old jacket, a patched hat and wool gloves starting to go threadbare. Madge opens her mouth to say hello, but then she notices the snowflakes dusting Katniss’ dark hair. That shouldn’t make Madge’s chest hurt, but it does and her hello drowns somewhere in the stomach acid rising up her throat.

“Hi,” Katniss says, rubbing her hands together. “Are you ready to go?”

Madge wants to say yes at the same time she wants to say no. She doesn't want to be afraid but she is and what now? 

“Let me just…let me just grab my coat,” she forces out and turns like she’s made of rusty metal. She buttons up her coat, pulls on her hat, laces up her boots and then slips on her mittens. The cold shouldn’t touch her now, but it will. It always does.

“Okay, let’s go,” she says and can’t manage a smile even though she tries to. She follows Katniss outside and closes the front door, her hand gripping the knob so tight it hurts. You can do this. You’re in Twelve, no one is going to try to kill you. This isn’t the arena. You can do this. Katniss is already at the front gate by the time Madge turns around, her expression torn between curious and confused. Shame grabs Madge by the back of the neck and she takes a shaky step forward. You can do this . The mantra works to get her off the porch and down the stairs, but that first step on the snow powdered path undoes her. 

Rue’s scream pierces her like an arrow, shoots right through her and stops her cold. The white snow is turning red and was that a growl? Are there mutts hiding in the bushes? 

“Madge!” Gale’s voice yells out, terrified and pained and Madge closes her eyes, puts her hands over her ears. You’re in Twelve, you’re in Twelve, the games are over! You’re in Twelve! She keeps repeating the words in her head but it doesn’t stop Cato’s anguished begging for Clove, doesn’t stop Clove from choking and gasping out her last breaths. This isn’t real. None of this is real. But it feels real, too real, and her legs burn with the urge to run. The cold sinks under her skin until it hurts, until she loses feeling, until she is sure she’ll never be warm again. 

“Run!” Gale shouts and as much as she hates herself for it, she does. Madge flees back inside and falls to her knees before the fire, tears stinging her cheeks. I’m so pathetic. There are stupid tears burning in her eyes and Madge wants to scream from frustration. She hates being this way, hates living like this, hates hates ha-

“Madge?” Katniss’ voice is soft and gentle, its worry tempered with compassion. Her fingers are light as they touch Madge’s shoulder, cautious yet comforting.

“I…I…” Madge wants to explain but the words don’t come, shame keeping them caged. “I can’t go out today,” she finally says and how weak, how pathetic. That doesn't answer any of the questions written all over Katniss’ face but rather than demand more, she nods. She goes over and shuts the front door, shrugs out of her winter gear and then sits beside Madge, their shoulders touching. Oh. A different sort of tear stings Madge’s eyes as they stare at the fire together, the only sound the crackling of wood and the raggedness of Madge’s breathing. The flames are hot against Madge’s skin, hot enough she should be worried, but she needs that heat, needs it more than she needs to breathe. The quiet is strangely soothing, her trembling calming with Katniss solid and strong beside her.

“Don’t leave,” Katniss whispers, so quiet Madge barely hears her. “Stay with me.”

It is a plea and a command in one and Madge’s heart bumps unevenly against her ribs. Oh. Oh oh oh. The pain laced through those words, the fear threaded through Katniss’ voice…Madge is not the first person she has watched crumble. And Magde can hear herself too, an appeal to her mother before the migraines and morphling pull her under. 

They have all suffered too much.

The words are sticky in her throat so Madge leans into Katniss instead, their temples touching. I’m here. I want to stay. Hold me steady. 

Moments pass in silence, the fire burns and then “Play for me?” Katniss asks. The request is a surprise, but Katniss’ small, shy smile gives strength to Madge’s watery legs. She nods slowly and though her thoughts still stutter over grief and fear and self hatred, she doesn’t want to sink. She wants to come up for air. She wants to breathe. Madge stands and takes off her coat, hat, mittens and boots, takes a few steadying breaths and then settles gingerly on the piano bench. She is jittery and unsure, her fingers shaking as they hover over the keys. What should she play? 

Katniss sits beside her and suddenly the music comes. Madge’s fingers move across the keys hesitantly,the melody of the Valley Song filling the room. She hasn’t played it in years, not since she was little and just starting to learn. Simple but familiar, a flicker of memory in the back of her mind. And then Katniss starts to sing.

Her voice is beautiful but Madge already knew that, has known it since their very first day of school. But it’s something else too. It settles over Madge like a blanket and her fingers grow surer, a spark in her heart starting to kindle into flame. Katniss’ voice is strong, steady and for the first time since she’d been reaped, Madge plays her piano and loves it. 

The snow outside doesn't matter, Snow inside doesn’t matter. 

Their music keeps it all at bay.

Madge walks Katniss to the gate and when the screaming starts, she hums to drown it out. Katniss holds her hand and sings along, the dead and the dying fading beneath their tune. Are they gone? No, but the song is a chain and Katniss an anchor and they hold her steady.

Music is magic, isn’t that what she used to think? Maybe she was right.

And that night when terror forces her awake and every shadow is a threat, Madge starts to sing.

The Valley Song fills her room; a magic spell to keep the dangers away. She imagines Katniss beside her, her voice strong and sure. 

Together they hold back the dark.

It snows again a few days later, big fluffy flakes that turn gray as they pile up in the streets. Madge’s stomach cramps as she looks out the window and her scrambled eggs sit untouched on her plate. No one says a word about it, no one ever does, and when her dad heads to the front door to leave for work, her heart ricochets into her mouth.

“Wait for me!” she calls in a wavery, scratchy voice. She stands too quickly, her empty glass tipping over as she bumps into the table. Merrie, Mrs Sparrowsaw and her mom stare at her as she leaves the room, her gait like a wounded horse. Her dad is half dressed for the weather when she reaches him, his scarf part way around his face and he stares at her too. She smiles, or tries to, and reaches for her coat.

“I’ll walk you to the gate,” she says and he stares some more. He keeps staring as she pulls on her boots and digs out her mittens, is still staring when she’s all dressed and ready to go. She smiles (tries to) again and finally he seems to unfreeze, though his eyes don’t leave her. He finishes suiting up and gropes for the doorknob behind him, almost as if blinking will poof her right out of existence. Cold air rushes in when he gets the door open, frost tipped wind blows a few flakes into the hall and Madge breathes in so deep the ice drags all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Let’s go,” she says and her dad nods slowly, his gaze starting to peel her skin.

“Okay,” he says and then waits. When she doesn’t flee he nods again and finally backs out onto the porch. Madge follows, the squish of soft snow under her boot paralysing her. As always, Twelve starts to disappear, swallowed up by the memories she can never defeat. Blood dyes the white crimson and the screaming is so loud it hurts her ears. Run run run runrurnRUNrunrun is the only thought her brain’s got room for but then, faintly, so faintly, “Madge?”

Cato, Rue, Clove, Gale and the mutts are all yelling, cursing, crying but her dad’s voice flutters just beyond them, soft and concerned and Madge starts to hum as she drags herself from her haunting, the nightmare never gone but receding enough she can see Twelve, Victor’s Village, again. Katniss’ song, her dad’s voice, they are the lifeline she reels herself in with. She can’t answer her dad, has to keep humming, but she steps towards him, slowly, shakily, but damn it, she’s going to make it. 

“Have a good day,” she tells her dad as they reach the gate, her hands clutching the fence. “I’ll see you later.” He nods, turns to go but then he spins around, his kiss warm on her forehead.

Madge really does smile this time.

And when she returns inside, she sobs. There’s no real reason for it but she can’t stop, cries herself ragged. Her head aches, her eyes burn but she feels…well it feels okay.

Maybe she will never truly conquer these demons, but she can try. 

She will try.

And so Madge sets herself a challenge, every day a little farther. It’s never easy and always there’s a battle in her head, but being brave isn’t about being unafraid. That’s the thought she repeats when the fear gets too loud, when doubt tries to eat away at her courage. She sings too, hums and sometimes she fails, but most days she doesn’t. Most days she can take another step and sometimes another and another. The games have followed her home, but Madge is a victor.

She has to remember that.

Three enormous packages tied with shimmering silver bows arrive midway through January, carried by peacekeepers and presented with a letter in Effie’s flourishing script.

Dearest darling Madge, I have a surprise for you!!

Agrippa’s been hard at work designing your wedding dress and within these boxes are the three finalists! There’s going to be a vote for which you ought to wear and a magnificent special on television to present the winner, one I’ll be attending!! No wedding in history has ever generated as much excitement as yours; you’re Panem’s most beloved bride! And I thought, as a special treat, I’d send you the dresses in advance. We’ll be there soon for an official photo shoot, but in the meantime, have a look at them! Though don’t show Gale, we don’t want any bad luck!

Kisses, Effie

Madge stares at Effie’s words with an odd sort of detachment, a distance that shouldn’t be there considering this is about her wedding. But then, thinking of it like a stranger’s wedding might keep the misery from devouring her. It nibbles at her edges, strengthened as never before now that she’s acknowledged her unwanted love for Gale. To dwell on all the reasons this is wrong, awful, heartbreaking will only make things worse, so Madge focuses on details rather than the awful whole.

Three finalists? How many dresses were there to start? Do all Capitol brides have so many options? It wouldn’t be too surprising, they could afford such luxuries. In Twelve, a bride just wore her nicest dress, not one made especially for the occasion. 

Madge should open the boxes and take a look; Effie will expect her to have an opinion (not that it matters which she likes best). She really should.

She doesn’t.

Two days later, Posy stops by after school.

“You should have birds!” she exclaims as Madge opens the door.

“What kind?” she asks and steps aside so Posy can come in.

“Pretty ones!” 

Madge grins, she can’t help it with Posy’s infectious delight, and follows Posy into the living room. Posy liked to come by to discuss her plans for the wedding, whenever inspiration took her. Her ideas so far included a chocolate fountain, a pony for every guest and a cake taller than Gale. It sounded much better than the wedding Effie was planning. Madge’s eyes widen.

“Posy, I need your help with something,” she says and Posy lights up. She clasps her hands under her chin, beaming in anticipation. Lily is with her of course, wedged in between her and an armrest. Madge hurries to the closet she’d stuck Effie’s packages in and drags them all out.

“These are wedding dresses,” she explains, “And I need to pick a favourite. Will you help?”

Posy nods eagerly, bouncing in her seat with excitement. Madge smiles fondly, the sore on her heart growing smaller.

“Alright, let’s get started!” she says and unties the silk ribbon on the first box. There are many, many layers of tissue inside and buried beneath is the dress. Madge pulls it out and holds it up for both her and Posy to see. The skirt is white velvet and long enough it would pool behind her. There are high slits on both sides and the top is lace and nothing else, the entirety of her torso exposed for all to see. It shouldn’t surprise her, but somehow it does. Even on her wedding day, she will be on display for them. It will never be her choice, never a decision she gets to make. They want to see her, so they will. Posy frowns and Madge nods in agreement. 

The second dress is blush pink and frothy with gauze. The skirt is knee length and bell shaped, the top with short, puffed up sleeves and a heart shaped neckline. Heart shaped cut outs on either side will show off her scar and there is a large ribbon tied in a bow around the waist. There are pearls sewed into the bodice and many a layer of crinoline beneath the skirt. Posy looks more impressed by this option and Madge can’t help but notice how opposite it is from the first. Sultry seductress? Or sweet ingenue? Whatever role the Capitol wants her to play, Agrippa has prepared for it.

The third and final dress is cream coloured, with a full skirt covered in frills and bows. The sleeves are lace and stretch all the way down to the fingers, there’s a collar covered in more bows and a little half-cape with a frilled hem. It looks more like a puffed up pastry than a dress but Posy’s whole face glows as she stares at it. Madge smiles.

“So? Is this the winner?” she asks and Posy nods exuberantly. She slides off her armchair and touches it reverently, her eyes bright. 

“I think you’re right. Number three is definitely the best,” Madge agrees and the Capitol may not pick it, but that doesn’t matter. The happiness on Poys’s face, that’s what matters.

Perhaps wedding planning didn’t have to be such a nightmare after all.

And then the Capitol tightens the noose.

It is early afternoon and Madge is supposed to be finishing up her latest composition for Effie, but instead she stares at the icicles hanging off the trees outside, the sunlight making them glitter. It is lovely, truly winter can be beautiful, if only it didn’t cut into her so deeply. Madge sighs and then something in the distance catches her eye. Is that…a cloud? Madge frowns, leans a little forward and…no. Those icicles grow in her blood as Madge stands and walks over to the window. No. Please no. There, curling into the sky, is smoke. Too much to be from someone’s chimney, enough that something awful must be happening. And fires in District Twelve only mean one thing.

Madge remembers the last time the mines burned, remembers the sirens and the smoke and the screaming of those who’d lost their loved ones. Katniss and Gale both lost their fathers that day; who will Twelve lose today?

Except…there are no alarms blaring like last time, no loud sirens etching themselves into her bones. Why not? Madge presses her face against the glass and strains to hear anything, but there is nothing even as that smoke grows thicker, blacker, larger. If there are no alarms does that mean it isn’t the mine? But if the mine isn’t burning, then what is? She wants to go outside and find out, but she could never make it that far. Frustration, fear, anger, all twist around into knots in  her stomach and then she notices Merrie running down the street. She’d gone into town to shop and now she’s sprinting down Victor’s Village’s only street, her brown hair streaming out behind her. Madge is at the door when she arrives, already pulling it open as Merrie comes rushing up the front steps. Her slate grey eyes are wide, her breathing heavy and the acrid smell of smoke clings to her.

“What’s going on?” Madge asks her, terrified to find out but desperate to know.

“It’s the Hob! The Peacekeepers burnt it down.”

Madge is waiting by the window when her father comes home. 

She watches him walk slowly up the front path, his shoulders bowed. Her heart aches. He comes inside and she could cry at how prominent the lines in his face are, at how dark the bags are under his eyes, at how exhausted he looks. The Capitol is killing him.

“Dad?” she asks softly and he looks up slowly, tries to smile but can’t. 

“Hello, honey,” he answers just as quietly, horror casting a spell over their whole house.

“I…I heard the Hob burned down,” she says and he nods, closing his eyes.

“Yes, the first order of our new head peacekeeper.”

Surprise and something worse bubble in her gut. “New…?”

Her father nods again. “Yes, Romulus Thread. He’s replaced Cray and most of his peacekeepers.”

Madge feels the Capitol’s grip tighten around her throat, but her father isn’t done yet.

“Cray was…he was failing in his duty to keep Twelve safe. Thread is here to correct his mistakes. There will be no more crime, no more danger. Even the fence will be turned on and kept on as it was always meant to be. Thread will make sure of it.”

There is so much he isn’t saying, so much he can’t say, but it doesn’t matter. Madge hears every word.

Somehow, life in Twelve has become even more unbearable than before.

Nine months after Madge first came home, she, her parents, Merrie and Mrs Sparrowsaw gather in the living room to watch the Quarter Quell announcement.

No one says a word as the Capitol fanfare bleats on screen, as Snow steps out onstage in his crisp white suit, as a little boy comes out with an old, wooden box filled with centuries of cruelty and undeserved punishments. She’s pretty sure no one breathes either, each one of them balanced on the sharp edge of a knife. The last quarter quell still weighs heavy on her family, its ghosts clinging onto them like an extra layer of skin. Madge knows that’s what has her parents looking so ill, why her mother is slumped against her husband, why her dad’s skin looks near grey. They hold each other, try to keep the past at bay but there’s no waking up from this nightmare. 

(And she can’t help but think of Haymitch in his home, can’t help but wonder if there could ever be enough alcohol to drown out all the things he’ll never forget)

Merrie and Mrs Sparrowsaw are nervous and ill at ease too, because the quarter quell is always so awful, a new fresh horror visited on them all. What will the Capitol take from them this time? What price will they demand the districts pay this time? And Madge…Madge knows that this year’s games will be far more than just a quarter quell. Rebellion is brewing all across Panem and Snow won’t let that stand. If the Victory Tour was the rebels’ move, the Quell will be Snow’s. 

Madge’s teacup shakes in her hand as Snow opens the wooden box of quarter quell requirements and pulls out the faded, yellow envelope for the 75th Games. He smiles with his awful red lips and reads in a clear, solemn voice.

" On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol , the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors. "

Dimly, vaguely, she is aware of her tea cup slipping from her fingers, of her mother screaming, of the fanfare still playing from the television. Warm tea seeps between her toes as she sits there, limp with shock and the sickening realisation that I'm going back. It’s the only thought in her head, the only one there’s room for, and it beats against every bone in her skull. I’m going back. She is too numb with horror to scream like her mother or sob like Merrie; she can do nothing but stand on trembling legs. A voice, maybe several, says her name but Madge can’t hear them. I’m going back. She walks to the front door without thought and then out onto the porch, not even putting shoes on over her wet socks. 

Down the stairs, out the gate and into the street, I’m going back, I’m going back, I’m going back . She doesn’t feel the cold, for once doesn’t even notice the snow. I’m going back. All her plotting, all her plans and schemes and yet Snow has caught her in the one trap she can’t escape. I’m going back. Up the only street in Victor’s Village she goes, her legs leading her while the rest of her drowns. I have to go back. Is she crying? She thinks she might be. It’s hard to know, hard to absorb anything other than her fear, her despair, her fury. Back to the Games, back back back backbackback-

“Madge.”

One word and everything stops, freezes, even the refrain in her head coming to an abrupt halt. The world comes slowly back into focus around her, barren trees, forlorn houses, thick drifts of grey-tinged snow. The cold bites at her cheeks, her feet ache in a horribly familiar way and standing in the street in front of her is Gale, his hands in fists at his sides. It’s his voice that’s said her name, his voice that’s yanked her from the abyss Snow’s announcement had cast her into. She stares at his chest, at the navy blue wool of his sweater, cannot, will not, look up into his face. The air is still, dead even, and Gale’s ragged, uneven breathing is the only sound in the oppressive silence of Victor’s Village. 

There’s something so familiar about this, about him and her and snow and terror and rage, but this time there’s no solace to be found. He doesn’t hold out his arms, she doesn’t reach out a hand and the distance left to fester between them rises up like a wall. Too tall to climb, too thick to push through and so they stand there, miles and miles apart. How long? Seconds probably, years maybe and soon the cold creeps over her body, the darkness begins to close in again and perhaps by habit, perhaps in desperation, Madge finally glances up at his face. 

Gale is her reflection, riven and wracked by her rage, her terror, her desolation. 

Months that wall has grown higher and stronger, everyday pushing them farther and farther apart. And yet, as her eyes meet his, it is dust and Madge is in his arms. She clings to him, clutches him so tight it is painful for the both of them, but she doesn’t care and by the way his grip crushes her against his chest, he doesn’t either. She sobs, weeps into his neck and feels the heat of his tears in her hair. Maybe she imagines the thud of his heart against hers, but definitely not the way he trembles, though is it in anger? Horror? Sadness? All three and more probably, the same way she feels as if she may rupture from everything screaming inside her. 

Still, as the whole wide world crumbles around and beneath her, Gale is solid. It isn’t a cure, but it’s…something.

Returning home feels like attending her own funeral. 

Her hand pauses on the doorknob, the metal so cold it burns her fingers. Grief and despair are waiting for her inside and for just a second, she thinks of fleeing, running and hiding until everyone has gone to bed. The immensity of the sorrow she is about to face is overwhelming and she’s not sure how to conquer it, especially as her own horror is still writhing within her. But...she also wants her mom, her dad, wants them to hold her and stroke her hair even if it won’t change a thing. She wants to go home even though she’s sick thinking about what’s beyond her front door. 

And she can’t stay out here forever, can’t outrun what’s coming. Several deep breaths and then she opens the door. Sobbing greets her as she steps inside, the wretched kind that pulls apart her organs. For another brief, fleeting moment, Madge wants to run away. It’s hard not to, but she forces her cold, aching feet onwards, forces herself to confront what’s waiting for her in the living room. 

It’s worse than she imagined.

Mrs Sparrowsaw sags against the wall, her tight grip on the mantle the only thing keeping her standing. But it’s her eyes that dig deep into Madge’s heart, that make her feel like a ghost watching her loved ones mourn her death. The loss in her expression, the profound, excruciating loss, as she stares at Madge’s picture on top of the fireplace, it can only mean Madge is already dead with no hope of ever coming back. Merrie is crumpled in the corner, weeping into her hands and she too has clearly abandoned any hope that Madge might survive the nightmare to come, that she’ll beat the odds a second time. The darkness she’d thought Gale’s arms had banished starts to creep back in, the numbness of terror spreading over her skin. By the sofa are her parents, tangled together on the floor as they cry for her, for the daughter they will never see again. 

Madge stands in the doorway, alive, breathing but already buried by those who love her best.

And when they finally notice her there, when all four of them hold her as tightly as they can, it doesn’t offer the comfort she’d hoped for.

It feels too much like goodbye.

That night when she closes her eyes she is back at Snow’s palace, fireworks bursting in the sky and festive music roaring from every direction. Pairs in eye-watering ensembles spin around her, Effie with Marvel’s rotting corpse, her mother and Cato with his dented head and orange lips, Rory Hawthorne and Rue from Eleven, blood soaking through her pretty pink dress. 

“Dance with me?” 

Madge turns and Gale holds out his hand, effortlessly handsome in his wool sweater and scuffed boots. She reaches for him but before their fingers meet, Clove is behind him, her knife drawing a crimson line across his throat. Hot blood sprays across Madge’s face and Clove laughs, the room applauding and cheering her on. 

“You know,” Snow says as he stands beside her, picking his teeth with a sharpened bone, “I think you’re going to lose.

Madge hates to admit it, but she thinks he might be right.

There is a window open over Haymitch’s kitchen sink. 

It chills the whole room, so much so Madge can see every breath she takes. Sticky white snow has gathered on the sill and spills down the wall into the sink, clumps of it melting slowly down the drain. The mid-morning sun adds no heat, but it slices through the gloom, cutting a path of watery light from the window and across the chipped table. Madge sits with Gale on one side, Haymitch slumps on the other and without the bubble of the kettle, they’d sink into a silence too hard to get out of. 

“Well, you can’t say Snow isn’t a crafty son of a bitch,” Haymitch finally says and Gale snorts. They hadn’t planned to meet here today, Madge had simply shown up at the creaky back door, Gale at the barely ever opened front door and they congregated here, all three of them suddenly realizing they needed to figure out their next move in the game they were now losing. 

“A vindictive son of a bitch,” Madge mumbles and Haymitch nods. Gale squeezes her hand. They need to be careful about what they say, this is still a victor’s house, Snow is still built into every brick and plank of wood, but he can’t expect them to be singing his praises right now, can he?

“So what now?” Gale asks and Haymitch shrugs.

“Try not to die?” he offers. Gale rolls his eyes and Madge looks out the window at the bare branched trees.

“Really? I hadn’t thought of that,” is Gale’s snappy (but devoid of bite) reply and Madge, oddly, finds herself smiling faintly. They’re all a mess, all broken into bits, but they haven't given up. 

It’s not hope, not quite, but it’s something at least.

The plan, as it turns out, is training.

Unlike normal, they know they’re going into the arena (or at least two out of the three of them) and this gives them time to prepare. Three months. Madge prays it will be long enough.

And so every morning after breakfast, Gale waits outside her front gate and they go to Haymitch’s together, Madge to the kitchen to make tea, Gale to find Haymitch and force him awake. Haymitch’s never happy about it, but eventually they get him up, fed, dressed for the weather. He grumbles and mutters to himself as they walk, his bottle of choice never far from his lips. Twelve’s eyes follow them as they go, stuck to these victors marked out to die a second time. Madge’s skin prickles under their gaze. The sensation lingers even after they make it to the meadow, the buzz of the fence greeting them. Snow crunches under her boots with every step but it doesn’t cut into her anymore, maybe because it no longer feels like the games and her normal life are fighting against each other. The games are her normal life now.  

And then they train. Gale teaches them snares and traps; they practice running, both for speed and endurance; they throw rocks at each other and try to dodge; spar with sticks; even try to learn how to move with stealth and agility. They tie knots, make fires and discuss every plant they know and their uses.

Will it be enough? Hope says yes, but Madge knows better than to trust hope. Snow has made sure of that. 

And just like that, three kids from Twelve become careers.

Cato wears Posy’s favourite wedding dress, his lips red with blood instead of lipstick. He opens his mouth and there’s nothing but orange pulpy poison inside, gooey trails stretching from top to bottom. 

“You’re one of us now,” he jeers.

Madge catches the bouquet when he tosses it.

(Gale and Madge don’t talk about what kept them apart prior to Snow’s announcement, never once mention the question Madge had lodged between them. 

On one hand, Madge is glad. Ignoring it, pretending it never happened, it lets them work together, lets them settle back into who they were before she wrenched them apart. And she needs that. She needs his steadying presence, needs his passionate conviction, needs the comfort only he can bring her. And it’s more than that too, isn’t it? Months apart had left her with a hole inside and she is so, so glad to have that missing piece back. And judging by the way he looks at her, the way he leans into her every chance he gets, the way his fingers always seem to find hers, he needs it too. 

On the other hand, the truth, the one she fears he must still suspect, doesn’t go away. It lingers, it festers and one day it’ll rise up. They’re a team, they’re strongest together and for now, that’s enough to bury the inevitable. But for how long?)

(and of course, every moment together digs her deeper into her own grave. Being apart hadn’t erased what she felt, but it had stalled it. She’d thought that was as far as she could fall, thought that maybe with enough time she’d be able to climb her way out. She was wrong)

When they break for lunch on their third day, Haymitch fixes them with his stern-teacher-about-to-lecture-you expression. Madge puts down her water bottle.

“You two are at a major disadvantage going into these games,” he says and she frowns. Haymitch’s eyes harden.

“All the other victors have had years to get to know each other,” he explains and that’s true isn’t it? Madge and Gale are outsiders. “We’ve all had time to make friends-”

“You have friends?” Gale interrupts and Madge is so surprised by the question she almost snorts. She chokes on it as Haymitch levels Gale with the least impressed look she’s ever seen. The standoff lasts a few seconds before Haymitch carries on as if there’d been no interruption.

“When it comes to alliances, you’ll be on the outside looking in. And to make matters worse, you’ll probably be everyone’s first target.” His pronouncement is grave and Madge sobers immediately. “You two are freshest in the Capitol’s minds, not to mention your love story. The other tributes will want you dead as quickly as possible to keep you from monopolising all the sponsors.”

“But that might make some people want to team up with us, at least for a little, right?” she asks and Haymitch nods slowly.

“Maybe, but you shouldn’t count on it. Expect to be on the top of everyone’s hit list.”

As if this wasn’t nightmare enough. Madge tries to tamp down on her panic and Gale leans into her, his arm pressing against hers. At least we have each other.

Haymitch thumbs his chin. “Another problem is we don’t know who’s going back in. If we did, we could study them, work out a strategy. But every district has at least two male and female victors still alive. Well, except Seven. They only have one woman, Johanna Mason.”

“Is she your friend?” Gale interrupts, voice curious but casual. The light in his eyes on the other hand, is nothing but cheeky. For a moment, Madge’s fear fades while Haymitch stares at him.

“She’s a lunatic,” Haymitch says, which isn’t really an answer. Madge catches Gale’s eye and tries hard to keep her expression stern, because this is a serious conversation. Except…his levity is so necessary now, when everything is so dark, so grim, so bleak. The softness in his eyes tells her he knows it too. She melts a little and gratitude is a sun rising in her throat. Gale places his hand over hers on his thigh and Madge turns hers so they’re palm to palm, his skin a map she has traced so many times before. 

Maybe Haymitch senses why Gale is being so silly too, because there is no reprimand, no harsh rebuke. He only sighs and looks at them with heavy, melancholy eyes. 

“It’s going to be a lot harder this time around. Everyone in there knows how to win and they’ve got fans in the Capitol. None of them will go down easy. You’re going to need every advantage you can get.”

As much as she wishes he wasn’t, he’s right. Horror lives in her blood, not so vibrant as last time, because now she knows what to expect, but it runs deeper, grips her tighter, because she knows what to expect. Snow has played his cards so very, very well. 

“You too,” she says and is surprised to find the words coming out of her mouth. Haymitch stares at her with eyebrows slightly raised and though she hadn’t consciously planned to say anything, she pushes onwards before cowardice takes her. “You might go back too; you’ll need to seize whatever advantages you can. You shouldn’t drink so much.”

Her words hang in the air while Haymitch stares at her and Madge feels almost ashamed, as if she’s touched something she has no right to. The silence makes her squirm and Gale squeezes her hand.

“She’s right. Go in like you are now and you’ll be the first to die,” he says. Madge returns his squeeze and Haymitch grunts, which isn’t agreement or disagreement. Still, the idea is out there, maybe he’ll actually listen to it. Miracles happen sometimes, don’t they? He flops down on a log and tears into his sandwich, an unexpected bubble of bitterness swelling in Madge’s stomach as she watches him. 

Haymitch might go back into the Games, just like Gale might go back, but Madge and Johanna Mason over in Seven, they’re the only two the odds have doomed.

And with every day that passes, Madge’s house becomes more and more a tomb.

Everyone is still alive and yet not, the Quarter Quell looming over them. Madge is a corpse still walking, but it won’t last for long. The people who love her know that and it mutes all their colours. They go through the motions of everyday life, but there’s a funeral dirge playing in the back of their mind. No one mentions it, acknowledges it, but they can all hear it. 

Madge’s time is running short. So very, very short.

Saturday dawns bright but chilly, the sky pearly white. It had snowed last night, an icy sheen covering everything and winking in the sunlight. Gale meets her at her front gate and they walk to Haymitch’s together, arm in arm for warmth. For the first time, he is waiting for them on the porch, grumpy and haggard with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He scowls as they approach.

“I don’t know how people live like this,” he mutters and Gale rolls his eyes.

“Easily,” he retorts and Haymitch glares as he pushes himself up on unsteady legs. He looks worse than usual, scragglier,  more unkempt, dark, dark bags under his eyes and a tremor in his hands around that mug. Hollow cheeked and with skin tinged a sickly colour, he must have finally taken their words to heart. She doubts he’s cut himself off entirely, but even still, any reduction in his alcohol consumption is an improvement. 

Maybe taking pity on his stumbly gait, Gale grabs hold of Haymitch’s arm to keep him standing. Haymitch grunts but doesn’t protest and Madge winces in sympathy. She takes Haymitch’s other arm and they walk to the meadow together, leaning on each other.

Katniss is waiting for them when they arrive.

She has her bow in hand, Gale’s by her feet and determination written across her face. Madge’s eyes widen at the sight and Gale drops Haymitch’s arm.

“Catnip?” he questions and a needle weaves through Madge’s heart at his voice saying that familiar nickname and the way he instinctively steps towards Katniss. Their connection is so deep, so genuine and Madge hates how envy and heartbreak eat her alive.

“I’m going to help you train,” Katniss says and there is no offer in her words, no suggestion. She will help them and Madge feels her heart expand in her chest. Gale smiles at Katniss, happy but sad at the same time and Madge understands. Bitter is the only sweetness they’re allowed these days.

Haymitch doesn’t seem quite so touched. He dumps himself onto a snowy stump, muttering under his breath as he goes. Well, he wouldn’t be Haymitch if he wasn’t grumpy. Madge ignores him and turns to Katniss.

“Thank you.”

Gale nods emphatically but Katniss waves them both off, scooping up Gale’s bow. She holds the two out to them.

“Come on, we need to get started,” she says, all business. Madge reaches for Katniss’ bow and cannot help but smile. 

She might not have many friends, but the ones she does are made of gold.

(and she would be lying if she said there wasn’t a secret thrill under her skin when she fires at the targets and hits it, Gale’s eyes wide but impressed)

(Katniss clearly hasn’t told him about their weekly outings and there’s a thrill in that, in having something that is just hers and Katniss’)

(and of course, having him look at her like that, that’s a thrill all it’s own)

And from then on, their every Saturday becomes Katniss’.

She teaches them everything she knows, from hunting to medicinal plants to how to survive off the nature all around them. It’s a wealth of information, one Madge is so, so grateful to have. She knows Snow is going to do his damndest to kill them and that’s terrifying in a way she could never put into words. But it no longer swallows her whole, because she has Katniss and Katniss is determined to make sure Snow fails.

Hope is hard, confidence is harder, but with Katniss in her corner, Madge can’t help but feel a bit of both.

Grey snow becomes grey slush, dirty water soaking through her boots and dampening her socks. The sun lasts longer in the sky, the wind blowing through the streets loses its sharp edge and the rain comes to wash the District clean.

Spring is coming.

The Games are coming.

In all the days since the quarter quell announcement, not one of them has spoken of the rebels, of the plans that must have been affected, of what’s to come. It takes until early April for Gale to bring it up.

“This shit Snow’s pulled, tell me it hasn’t stopped the rebels,” he says one day at lunch and Madge is surprised it took him so long to say something. Gale is a rebel in his bones, his heart beats revolution. Of course, they’ve had other things to worry about, haven’t they? Haymitch sighs and sets down his pickle-stuffed sandwich.

“No, it’s just…changed things,” he begins and Madge’s stomach tightens. Gale leans forward, his body taut and eyes hungry. Haymitch rubs at his forehead.

“Snow’s clever; he knows how important victors are to the rebels. So he’s hoping to wipe out as many as possible in one shot and break the rest. It’s a decent plan, but with something as big as a quell involved, it has to go perfectly.”

Madge nods and Snow must know it too, must know that he’s taken a massive gamble. If the rebels foil him here, the blow will be so much greater than at any other time. 

“Yeah, so? What are the rebels doing about it?” Gale demands and Madge takes his hand without thinking, lets the warmth of his fingers wrap around hers.

“I can’t give you the details,” Haymitch says and holds up a hand to forestall Gale’s usual complaint, “and you know that. Hell, even I don’t know much. But they are working on something. Ruin the quell, save as many victors as possible, show Snow up in the biggest way possible.”

Gale and Madge share a look and it’s electric. Haymitch’s eyes harden.

“But don’t get too excited. Just because they have a plan, doesn’t mean it’ll work. Don’t think this means you don’t need to work at staying alive if they call your name. And anyway, you need to be scared. If Snow gets any indication you’re not, that’s all our plans up in smoke.”

He’s right of course, but even still, possibility is a powerful thing.

Madge had been convinced her life was over, but maybe, just maybe, it won’t be.

That night Madge sits at her window and looks at the stars.

The faces of the dead are there as always, but so too are secret plans and rebel possibilities. Is she still afraid? Yes, always. But even with all the questions she still has, she can’t help but find courage in knowing the game isn’t over yet. The rebels haven’t given up, Snow hasn’t won. Hope still has a chance. 

And maybe, a chance is all it needs.

On their last day of training, just as Katniss is about to leave, she pulls Madge into a tight hug. The embrace catches her by surprise and Katniss’ voice is fierce in her ear.

“Make him sorry.”

There’s no need to ask who she’s talking about. Madge nods and squeezes back.

“I will.”

Madge turns away so Katniss and Gale can have a little privacy as they say goodbye, her heart beating unevenly. Haymitch catches her eye and offers a loose salute before heading home, the sun just a burning line on the horizon. It makes the fence glitter red and gold and Madge breathes in, smoke and trees and rain.

Gale taps her shoulder. “Ready to go?” he asks and she shakes her head. 

“I need to talk to you actually,” she says and he quirks an eyebrow in question. Madge places a hand on his chest. He smiles, his eyes curious and she takes a deep breath, her palm against his heart. “I need you to promise me something.”

He puts his hand over hers. “Anything.” 

Madge smiles sadly. He’s going to regret that. 

“Tomorrow, if Effie calls Haymitch’s name, don’t volunteer.” Lightning flashes in Gale’s eyes as he stiffens and his heart pounds like thunder in her hand. Refusal gathers on his tongue but Madge keeps going, her words gaining strength. “I know you’re planning to. I know you feel like it’s the right thing to do, but please, don’t volunteer.”

“Why not?” he bites out, his hand falling from hers, and even though the sun is sinking lower, even though the shadows are growing deeper, she can see him perfectly. She’s about to be cruel, terribly so, but she has to be. Kindness won’t save him.

“Because I’ll never forgive you,” she says and means it. He stares at her, searches her face and voice and the hand on his heart for a lie, but she knows he won’t find one. The fire in his gaze is an inferno now, black and blazing.

“So, what? You want Haymitch to die?” he accuses, voice harsher than it’s ever been towards her. It’s an awful thing to say, but she doesn’t mind. In this game, these are the only moves they have.

“Of course not. I don’t want either of you to die. All I’m asking is that you don’t volunteer; that you let the odds decide who goes in. If you volunteer, it’ll be for me and I can’t live with that. I won’t.”

She is firm and his hands are fists at his side, his expression both betrayed and furious. “That’s not fair,” he says, nearly growls, and she knows it’s not. She doesn’t care.

“What’s not fair is Snow sending us back in. What’s not fair is that no matter what I do, I get reaped again.” And God, does the rage and the terror and the despair nearly swallow her alive as she says it. She really is damned. “But you Gale, you don’t have to go back in. Don’t throw your life away just because you can.”

Those words wound and he tries to step back from her but she doesn’t let go, her hand clutching his shirt. The world is shadows around them, but Gale burns brighter than every star.

“So, what? I should trade Haymitch’s life for mine? Is that what you want?” he snarls and Madge steels herself.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” she snaps, lets her fear, her frustration, her near-hopelessness twist into anger. “I just want you to let the odds decide.” He glares down at her, but she doesn’t look away, will not wilt under his fury. 

“The rebels-” he tries, switching his tactics, but she will not be swayed.

“Might get us out,” she interrupts. “Or they might not. Either way, you don’t have to risk your life. So don’t .” Not a suggestion but a command and Gale’s expression is a violent storm breaking over her.

“It’s my life!” he shouts, so much anger crackling in every word. It digs in like a knife to have that anger directed at her, but it’ll be worth it. If this saves him, it’s worth it.

“It is. So keep it safe . Don’t try to play the hero, Gale. That won’t help anyone.” 

She loves him; she wants to protect him. You’d never guess it from the ice in her voice. Gale flinches at her accusation but his eyes blaze with outrage even in the dark. Madge doesn’t give him the chance to argue. “If they reap you, we go in together. If they don’t, stay out. That’s all I’m asking.”

Except she isn’t really asking, is she? She’s demanding. Gale inhales sharply.

“You can’t ask me that,” he says as his eyes accuse her, traitor. Madge holds his gaze, steady, unflinching.

“I can. I am.” And then she makes her final move, her most savage attack, the one that will cut the deepest and maybe, finally get him to back down. “Don’t make me responsible for your death. Don’t make your mother watch you die. Don’t make Rory, Vick and Posy watch you die. They’ve lost enough already, haven’t they?”

That question is an arrow straight to the heart and there is hatred in his eyes, hatred she’s more than earned. He turns away but when he closes his eyes she knows she’s won. He breathes out anger, its sparks singeing her face.

“Fine,” he growls and she feels something almost like relief. “I promise.”

She nods and finally lets him go, her fingers unknotting from his shirt. Gale looks at her for one moment more, a look that scalds down to her bones. And then he’s gone, leaving her alone in the darkness. Madge breathes in, her heart shivering. Will Gale ever forgive her this? 

Maybe not, but at least he might live to hate her.

That night, Madge falls asleep to the sound of her parents’ tears.

They wouldn’t want her to hear, wouldn’t want their sorrow to keep her awake, so Madge doesn’t say a thing. She lies in bed crying her own tears and wishes on every star that shines beyond her window.

Let them be happy again.

Don’t make me another ghost that haunts them.

Madge wakes just before the sunrise, a lump in her throat and acid bubbling in her stomach. This is it. Today’s the day. She’s going back.

The rebels have a plan, they must, and hopefully it’ll be enough to save them all. She has to hold onto that. Deep breath, deep breath.

Let the games begin

Twelve gathers as it does every year, only this year they don’t need to worry about losing someone they love. Dressed in their very best with the sun shining too bright overhead, they look at the three people eligible to die and know their sacrifice will spare the rest of the District. It isn’t fair; it’s cruel, merciless. But, deep, deep down, in the places no one speaks of, they cannot stop the relief. The people they love are safe for another year and though the air is tense as it always is on Reaping Day, the fear is not so ripe.

Shame lives beside that relief, feeds on it, and that breeds anger, red hot and burning. Haymitch Abernathy may be past his prime, haggard and alone, with nothing but empty bottles and ghosts, but Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee are too young, too loved. They do not deserve this. Not again. 

Snow has done this, the Capitol wants this and they have forced Twelve into the role of co-conspirators. They are guilty in their relief and that’s not fair either, but the Capitol has never cared about fair. They never will either, not unless someone makes them.

(if Snow had hoped to smother the flames, he has failed)

(these sparks are catching)

Madge stands alone.

A pen of ropes keeps her separated from the rest of the district and though she’s always felt a little isolated in Twelve, it has never cut quite so deep as it does right now. Heart squeezing in her chest, Madge presses her palm to Aunt Maysilee’s mockingjay and ignores the vicious voice whispering in her ear you never belonged here; the Capitol’s only made those invisible walls visible. Gale and Haymitch stand a little ways off in their own pen and she isn’t alone, she isn’t.

(and how disconcerting, how that can be a comfort and a horror all in one)

Effie clears her throat, her smile strained and her pink wig glimmering in the sun. “Now, let’s find out who our lucky, lucky girl is!” Her voice wobbles over the words and it’s almost laughable watching her reach into the great big bowl with its lonely slip of paper. Her nails scrape the glass edges as she grasps it, her hands trembling slightly as she unfolds it. 

“Madge Undersee,” Effie announces somberly and even though she knew it was coming, Madge still takes it like a blow to the gut. I’m going back. I’m really going back. Twelve doesn’t cheer, doesn’t clap and Madge closes her eyes against the sting of tears. 

“And now our lucky boy joining her is…Haymitch Abernathy!”

It’s strange how she can be so hollow with regret, but also so lightheaded with relief. Haymitch doesn’t deserve this, but Gale is safe. Those two thoughts scrape and bang together, incompatible and sickening. Her eyes meet Haymitch’s in the seconds after Effie’s calling of his name and his slate gaze aches, sorrow like a throbbing light. Is he even here? Or is he (and her father, her mother , Mrs Everdeen) twenty five years ago in a different quarter quell, death breathing down his neck as another blonde girl with Madge’s nose, Madge’s chin and a gold mockingjay pinned to her chest stands next to him?

Madge has a handful of seconds to wallow in that misery and then it gets worse.

“I volunteer as tribute!”