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I've stopped for just a moment when I hear it. I have to *** my head around to the side
to be sure, but there it is again. Rue's four-note tune coming out of a mockingjay's mouth. The
one that means she's all right. I grin and move in the direction of the bird.
Another just a short distance ahead, picks up on the handful of notes. Rue has been singing
to them, and recently. Otherwise they'd have taken up some other song. My eyes lift up
into the trees, searching for a sign of her. I swallow and sing softly back, hoping she'll
know it's safe to join me. A mockingjay repeats the melody to me. And that's when I hear the
scream. It's a child's scream, a young girl's scream,
there's no one in the arena capable of making that sound except Rue. And now I'm running,
knowing this may be a trap, knowing the three Careers may be poised to attack me, but I
can't help myself. There's another high-pitched cry, this time my name. "Katniss! Katniss!"
"Rue!" I shout back, so she knows I'm near. So, they know I'm near, and hopefully the
girl who has attacked them with tracker jackers and gotten an eleven they still can't explain
will be enough to pull their attention away from her. "Rue! I'm coming!"
When I break into the clearing, she's on the ground, hopelessly entangled in a net. She
just has time to reach her hand through the mesh and say my name before the spear enters
her body.
The boy from District 1 dies before he can pull out the spear. My arrow drives deeply
into the center of his neck. He falls to his knees and halves the brief remainder of his
life by yanking out the arrow and drowning in his own blood. I'm reloaded, shifting my
aim from side to side, while I shout at Rue, "Are there more? Are there more?"
She has to say no several times before I hear it. Rue has rolled to her side, her body curved
in and around the spear. I shove the boy away from her and pull out my knife, freeing her
from the net. One look at the wound and I know it's far beyond my capacity to heal,
beyond anyone's probably. The spearhead is buried up to the shaft in her stomach. I crouch
before her, staring helplessly at the embedded weapon. There's no point in comforting words,
in telling her she'll be all right. She's no fool. Her hand reaches out and I clutch
it like a lifeline. As if it's me who's dying instead of Rue.
"You blew up the food?" she whispers. "Every last bit," I say.
"You have to win," she says. "I'm going to. Going to win for both of us
now," I promise. I hear a cannon and look up. It must be for the boy from District 1.
"Don't go." Rue tightens her grip on my hand. "Course not. Staying right here," I say. I
move in closer to her, pulling her head onto my lap. I gently brush the dark, thick hair
back behind her ear. "Sing," she says, but I barely catch the word.
Sing? I think. Sing what? I do know a few songs. Believe it or not, there was once music
in my house, too. Music I helped make. My father pulled me in with that remarkable voice
— but I haven't sung much since he died. Except when Prim is very sick. Then I sing
her the same songs she liked as a baby. Sing. My throat is tight with tears, hoarse
from smoke and fatigue. But if this is Prim's, I mean, Rue's last request, I have to at least
try. The song that comes to me is a simple lullaby, one we sing fretful, hungry babies
to sleep with, It's old, very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music
teacher calls a mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow
will be more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today.
I give a small cough, swallow hard, and begin:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your eyes...
Rue's eyes have fluttered shut. Her chest moves but only slightly. My throat releases
the tears and they slide down my cheeks. But I have to finish the song for her.
...the sun will rise.
Here it's safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Everything's still and quiet. Then, almost eerily, the mockingjays take up my song.
For a moment, I sit there, watching my tears drip down on her face. Rue's cannon fires.
I lean forward and press my lips against her temple. Slowly, as if not to wake her, I lay
her head back on the ground and release her hand.
They'll want me to clear out now. So they can collect the bodies. And there's nothing
to stay for. I roll the boy from District 1 onto his face and take his pack, retrieve
the arrow that ended his life. I cut Rue's pack from her back as well, knowing she'd
want me to have it but leave the spear in her stomach. Weapons in bodies will be transported
to the hovercraft. I've no use for a spear, so the sooner it's gone from the arena the
better.
I can't stop looking at Rue, smaller than ever, a baby animal curled up in a nest of
netting. I can't bring myself to leave her like this. Past harm, but seeming utterly
defenseless. To hate the boy from District 1, who also appears so vulnerable in death,
seems inadequate. It's the Capitol I hate, for doing this to all of us.
Gale's voice is in my head. His ravings against the Capitol no longer pointless, no longer
to be ignored. Rue's death has forced me to confront my own fury against the cruelty,
the injustice they inflict upon us. But here, even more strongly than at home, I feel my
impotence. There's no way to take revenge on the Capitol. Is there?
Then I remember Peeta's words on the roof. "Only I keep wishing I could think of a way
to . . . to show the Capital they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their
Games." And for the first time, I understand what he means.
I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them accountable,
to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a part of every
tribute they can't own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. And so am I.
A few steps into the woods grows a bank of wildflowers. Perhaps they are really weeds
of some sort, but they have blossoms in beautiful shades of violet and yellow and white. I gather
up an armful and come back to Rue's side. Slowly, one stem at a time, I decorate her
body in the flowers. Covering the ugly wound. Wreathing her face. Weaving her hair with
bright colors.
They'll have to show it. Or, even if they choose to turn the cameras elsewhere at this
moment, they'll have to bring them back when they collect the bodies and everyone will
see her then and know I did it. I step back and take a last look at Rue. She could really
be asleep in that meadow after all.
"Bye, Rue," I whisper. I press the three middle fingers of my left hand against my lips and
hold them out in her direction. Then I walk away without looking back.