Splintered

Chapter Twenty-Two: Like a Lamb to the Slaughterhouse

A sudden wind cut through the square, rushing over the crowd and curling itself around Snow. It was as if the weather itself was a part of the audience. It whipped the edges of his coat like a cerulean flag caught in a storm. A lock of his silver blonde hair slid forward, falling across his forehead, the platinum ends curling ever so slightly. Somehow, the small imperfection made him even more unsettling, more mesmerizing, more human.

"Miss Hazel Marlowe, we've been waiting," Snow called into the microphone, lips twisting. "Join us."

The roar of hands slapping together broke through the air, eventually crescendoing into hollers for her to join him on stage. While the crowds in Twelve and Eleven hadn't been small, this was another beast altogether. And with nothing more than Snow's nudge of encouragement, they were practically roaring.

The coaxing breeze pushed and tugged at her limbs as though even the elements demanded her presence on that stage.

Beside her, Lucky soaked in the applause as if it were a steaming cup of rich chamomile. His body relaxed, his eyes fluttered, and she swore he bit back a soft moan of approval.

She shifted her body slightly away from the bizarre man. Despite the south being at least thirty degrees warmer than home, Hazel shivered. Her body was colder than it had been in the District Seven cemetery in the center of a blizzard. Her limbs agreed with the sentiment and refused to cooperate fully.

Lucky's voice shattered through the surface of her frozen state, "Don't be shy." With a soft pull on their linked arms, he guided her forward.

Even her feet resisted, toes curling in the foreign shoes, but his arm was a fleshy hook, dragging her toward the inevitable.

The windowless slaughterhouse loomed in her periphery.

Were cattle just as aware of their fate as she was of hers?

A sudden rush of empathy filled her.

What a familiar yet sickening feeling it was to be led to a fate beyond one's control.

"Nervous?" Lucky whispered. His fingers tapped against her forearm.

"Just...excited." Hazel pushed out the lie with another awkward smile.

Before them, the crowd hastily parted a haphazard path. Some of their own volition and others with the encouragement of a peacekeeper's baton.

Swallowing down the anxiety taking residence in her esophagus, she allowed herself to be dragged forward.

All along the path, Capitol press swarmed. Cameras flashed and clattered like corn over the stove. Popping so sporadically that she couldn't tell where the next shutter snap would come from. Each one caused the tightening of the already tense muscles of her neck.

The world blurred around her, reduced to a sticky web with Snow at the center. He continued to watch her be led to him with a satisfied expression. With every step closer, it was as if his smile grew brighter, and the blue in his irises deepened until they nearly matched the rich sea-soaked blue of his long coat.

Her one solace was Leo's steady breathing, just behind her shoulder. His head was straight and stiff. His fingers hovered just above his weapon. Scanning the gathering in a rigid yet practiced pattern, he whispered, "Keep breathing. We are almost there."

She did her best to follow his command, sucking in a deep, putrid lungful. Despite the discomfort the odor was at least grounding.

Before she knew it, they were ascending the stage's steps. One of her lilac-toned heels slid harshly as it met the first one. Her leg wobbled like it was made of damp pasta, nearly dumping her onto her head.