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We are in a ring of fire, it seems. The flames wax and wane, reaching out it's fingers, attempting to lick fury upon our veins. A bright hand whooshes and hushes, grappling the shadows that had me acclaimed.
"Not real."
A glow of light, his hands are might.
Might?
No, there is no such thing as might.
---
"I wished you had told me before," the bruised boy cried.
"Oh, sweet boy, how could you not have known?" a voice so much like mine croaked.
Indeed, how could he not have known?
Could he not tell that his eyes bore the exiled stars, each glance an oath of love to the rippling clusters?
Could he not tell that his descent from heaven had left dregs of honey, sweetening the very air around him?
Could he not tell that his name was twined to the very flesh of my lips?
"How could I have not loved you," I say.
We are silk fibers throttled against the unforgiving rose thorns.
My hands form a noose around his pale neck.
Noose?
No.
My hands clasp his pale neck, a thundering pulse bulges against my skinned fingers.
His lips brush and scold mine.
My lips brush and scathe his.
Brush and unbrush, till our lips tingle and meld into dust.
I build a nest in his lap, ensnared in his tender embrace to watch the stars gather like flecks of time.
We are wretched hollows, clinging to sanity's thin grace.
---
Once, my wings had been tethered. Destined to soar like the perched Mockingjays among red shadows, now they turn a sickly green and melt like candle wax. Once of purpose to light flames , now I burn my vigor away like ashes taken to the blustery wind.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I am a Jabberjay.
His screams pull and push against the walls, I scream and writhe against the halls.
His name, a plea, bursts forth from my lips as white hands pin me against tight sheets.
Wires and syringes.
Wires and water.
Pigs for slaughter.
I am death's daughter.
A hysterical laugh.
I scream and writhe.
Not for my own heart, but for my lover's demise.
---
"Real or not real."
"Huh?"
"Tomorrow they hang us," the bloodied figure shrugs.
Are you, are you
"Real."
Coming to the tree?
"Peeta?"
"Yes," Peeta's eyes turn and look at me expectantly.
"Will you love me. Even in death?" I plead.
"Always."
I unclench my jaw, will myself to stay strong.
I fail.
I fail as his mouth enraptures my lips and fiery tears slide between our locked faces.
"Don't cry, sweetheart," he urges, though I hear his voice crack.
The endearment takes me back to another life, where those blue eyes had peeked through the mud. That first desperate look that had unfurled its storm upon me.
"Okay."
I clutch at his ragged clothes and unspool my lips once again, his parched tongue collides with mine releasing thousands of tiny daggers through my tips and back up my hips. His hands leave trails of fire and somehow I am able to conjure a breeze that flits through the Willow tree, the once-green leaves rain orange, laying feather-light caresses around our breathless souls.
Peeta tugs gently at my tattered clothes, careful to avoid the angry gash across my shoulder, softly bringing his lips down to my pulse point and sucking on it. For the first time in days, I cry out in pleasure instead of pain. It's as if someone is swirling a deep whirlpool building inside my stomach.
I slide my hands against his glowing form and revel in the feel of his soft skin; his chest heaves as my hands reach lower. We slowly unsheathe our clothes and before I let this hunger consume me, he breathes.
"You love me or not real?"
I watch in awe as beams of moonlight spray light upon Peeta's incandescent form, the tips of his blonde curls glisten and glide. I bring my hand up his forehead and gently push his wet hair back, pecking a soft kiss on his nose. His hands ever so carefully glide down my curves as he lifts himself on top of me. The warm, curious feeling grows into something ever so desperate and yearning.
"Peeta, please." I beg
He nods and slowly lowers himself.
Empty. That's how I've always felt. A deep, gaping hollow is what life has made of me, and for the first time,
I feel whole again.
His eyes shine with utter devotion as he dances above me, full and bright.
The moon shines full and bright, and I swear I can almost hear the seething waves break at every shore.
So after, I answer, "Real."
----
Pitter-patter.
Strange things did happen here.
Pitter-patter.
The rain cascades in sweet misery, and the clouds knock angry thuds. Peeta's calloused fingers ground me back to the surface. The crowds sing tunes of fury and revenge. Three-fingered figures salute, weaving and unweaving like loose threads through the surge. Shots upon shots. The scraggy blindfold pinches at my head; I feel myself being pushed upstage.
They bind our hands together with bloodied silk fibres,
a testament to fate, they say.
Pitter-patter.
And just for a moment, the blindfold slips. I see flames behind those blue eyes.
He stands before me unafraid.
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
The noose tightens.
The pedestal stutters.
And just before the light, I whisper.
"Stay with me."
"Always."
"If life transcends death,
then I will seek for you there.
If not, then there too."
-James S.A. Corey, Caliban's War