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“We are not so sure yet, sir.” came the doctor’s voice from across his office.
Coriolanus bit his tongue. It had been more than 17 hours already: and he’d had the best doctors in Panem called immediately. None of them were so sure, yet.
He did not care if the child she bore could not take the effects of the poison, but he did not know what he’d do if his wife — his love, his little songbird — were to leave him.
And it had all been the bloody Plinth’s fault, and he’d come to realise it was rather brilliant he had resulted in getting rid of those good-for-nothing masonry junk. All that was left of them was Ma Plinth: a difficult farewell, because much as he despised that woman anywhere near his cousin, he would miss her little treats.
Had Strabo Plinth never asked to have dinner that particular evening, Coriolanus would’ve poisoned him some other day, and the traces of the poison on his own lips would never have reached his wife when he kissed her.
“I am so glad to have seen my son in you, Coryo.” had been one of the pathetic man’s last words before he started choking. He never quite remembered giving the Plinths the permission to call him Coryo, which sounded such a foreign name now. Coriolanus’s face twitched, not out of anger, but because the irony was overwhelming. He would have burst out laughing, had his mouth not been burning.
If Lucy Gray did not wake up, District 13 would rise before Panem knew peace again. Everyone at his White House knew that.
He dismissed the doctor with a curt nod, swallowing the rage he felt. He, who had gain such tolerance over poison, could feel the burning metallic pain in his mouth. Heaven knew the pain Lucy Gray withheld.
Ignoring his pain, he went to the wine cabinet. And for the first time since he was 18, he prayed. He prayed hard for her before drinking away.
This was exactly why he’d hated falling in love. It made him weak, vulnerable, made him feel too strong, think too little, exactly as he was right now. But she was his girl. How could he help it? They were written in the stars.
A thought occurred to him. Maybe it was the best if she died right now. He would never feel this way again. She would die, and his heart with her.
He would remarry, to a woman of high status, a woman fit to be a First Lady. He would never love her. Never hate her. She would not care, too blinded by the position and wealth. She would be his companion, but never his friend. She would do her duty, sire an heir with him. Then, if she did not trouble him too much, he would let her live.
It was a most perfect plan, to be sure, but Coriolanus could not help reach for the trash can to throw up. The little boy deep within him fought to cry. To go at her bedside and wail, telling her how much he loved her, asking her to not leave him.
Clearly, he had too much wine.
With a little difficulty, he stood up. His hair and shirt a mess. He reeked of his own vomit, a metallic taste prominent in his mouth. His vision was blurred, and his steps almost funny.
He looked pathetic. There was not a servant in sight, and the two guards pretended to not see him. Too scared to be near him when he was such a wreck.
He made his way to her room, clicking open the lock. Her lady’s maid let out a gasp, bowing to him and leaving immediately.
He could barely even comprehend the little interaction, shutting the door behind him and falling to the floor.
His head sunk in his hand. He needed to throw up again, but he did not dare maim her room.
His little songbird, who stayed in here all day, as if this were her pretty little cage, singing as if it was the only thing she knew, welcoming him with open arms, whenever he so wished.
Had she known what he would do at dinner? Was that why she insisted he had her right then? Her little attempt at fleeing?
His mind ran the wildest of fantasies. But she was his girl. His Lucy Gray. She would not even be alive if it were not for him. And he if not for her. They saved each other. They loved each other. They were written in the stars, and there was no escaping that.
Coriolanus did not realise when he had passed out on the floor, but he had awoken with the sun as it shone on his face. She had not once, but many times told him he looked like an angel kissed by the sun, and it had irrevocably always ended up in her legs entwined in his.
He took one look at a picture of them at her nightstand. It was 5 years ago, when she was 21 and he 23, the night they got engaged. Their wedding followed shortly after. He could remember that day by rote. Just as he remembered the first time his eyes fell on her, and day he spent with her that year.
She was like a vital organ in his gut. He needed her to function. If she left him, he would be completely and utterly ruined.
With a final groan, he stood up, walked out of her room and washed his face, then threw up and washed his face again.
He would not work that day. Too sick, too weak, too lonely. He changed into comfortable clothes and brushed out his hair, before making his way to the room she was admitted to.
Coriolanus sat down next to his wife, taking her hand in his, dismissing everyone else in the room. He drew circles on her palm, occasionally playing with the curls in her hair.
There was a time she would do that for him too, before he’d decided his curls made him look too boyish.
Her lips were white, her skin pale. She looked almost ghostly, yet she was still the most gorgeous woman he’d ever laid his eyes on.
She’d be prepared in just the same manner as him, he decided. If she, when she woke up, he would poison her again. A small dose. She’d think it was an after-effect. He’d give her the cure. And the cycle would continue until they had both become immune. She was the First Lady, there was no way to perfectly ensure her safety better than to make her like him.
He did not realise when he’d fallen asleep, sitting with her like that, but this time he was awoken by a rapping on the door.
“What is it?” he hissed, in a daze too strong to control his manner.
“The doctor, sir. He claims to have come back with results.”
“Bring him in.” Coriolanus sat up suddenly.
So far he had convinced himself that Lucy Gray would wake up. Laughed at himself whenever he tried to envision his life without her. But now, he felt his gut sink.
The doctor entered rather timidly, cleared his throat and began.
“The lady is expected to wake up soon.” He said carefully. Coriolanus’s lips twitched upwards, and he found himself fighting a great urge to scream and cry with joy.
“However,” the doctor inhaled, “I could not save your child. The dose was too strong, his mother could only fight the battle for one. My deepest apologies, sir.”
Coriolanus sighed. There was some disappointment, but the feeling in his gut lightened. He nodded and sent the doctor away, not bothering to thank him.
It was no matter if she was no longer with his child, he would soon be making her bear another. But he still had her, his songbird, his love, his wife. He would not make such a stupid mistake again. Never risk her again.
She and he both had managed to survive the poison over anyone else. That was something. And it was very true, that Snow Lands On Top.