Windgrass (A Hunger Games Fan Fiction)

Twenty-eight: Kindness

My uncle is engaged.

I was shocked when I came home today and found him wearing a wheat crown on top of that bandana he never seems to take off.

In 9, we have a long-standing tradition regarding marriages. Of course, like everyone else in the country, the bride and groom sign papers at the Justice Building and move into a new house together. Among the people, however, there’s a much more lively interpretation of the event.

The story goes that after the Dark Days, a man and a woman in Nine wanted to get married. They went through the processes to get the papers, but wanted something more substantial and meaningful. In the Capitol, the bride and groom exchanged gold rings to symbolize their love. In Nine, where gold is very rare indeed, the bride and groom thought it would be nice to make crowns out of wheat. They’d seen pictures in books of couples about to wed wearing crowns of leaves (though some argue it was an arrangement of vines) on their heads. The groom made a crown for the bride, and the bride one for the groom. Since then, it’s been customary among citizens of Nine (or my sector, at least) to make and exchange wedding crowns made of woven wheat. The wheat symbolizes being able to nurture oneself and others, and the weaving of the stalks symbolizes the intermingling of the lives of the bride and groom. The pair then hang the crowns somewhere in their new house.

My parent’s crowns are hung over their beds. Aisling and I would always play with them when we were small. She’d be the groom, and I’d be the bride. We’d have a mock ceremony in our backyard with various rocks and branches as witnesses and scribble our names in the dirt like we would on the papers issued by the Capitol. We’d hug (neither of us liked the idea of kissing one another like real couples) and retire to the kitchen where Mom would make us barely tea and take the crowns back. We really weren’t supposed to play with them because they become so fragile after so many years, but she allowed it regardless.

So when I saw my uncle, I simply had to ask.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” I inquired, popping into his treehouse like a squirrel. Barley skittered up my arm and into the wooden structure.

“No one you know,” he teased. “C’mere,” he said, beckoning me forward. “Look what I found.

Inside the small box he was holding a milk-soaked rag over was an owlet. It’s feathers were fluffy and brilliantly white. Large golden eyes stared up at us. It nipped at my hair.

“He thinks your hair is grain,” Rye laughed.

“Funny,” I drawled. It’s no secret I hate my hair color. There was a time when I was mocked for it in school. Being a short kid with glasses and weird hair: I was the perfect target for bullies.

“Must be this hideous color,” I grimaced, holding up a lock of copper hair.

“Don’t say that, your hair’s a lovely color,” he protested.

“Well, that’s out of character for you,” I stated. “Normally you’re super snarky.”

“Am I?” he asked absently.

“So who made it?” I asked. “Please tell me, Rye, I really want to know.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you…” he started. “If you do a few things for me,” he smirked.

I rolled my eyes. “There’s the catch…”

“Come on, Coppertop. If you really want to know, just do this one teensy little thing for me,” he teased, grabbing me in a headlock and ruffling my hair.

I laughed, the only way to make people think I was alright.

“Because you’re lying to them, aren’t you?”

That voice again. I decided to call it my Conscience. At least, that’s what I think the little voice inside people’s heads is called… as I’ve most likely mentioned before, my memory is absolutely horrible.

“You always knew she was your sister, didn’t you? And then… to suddenly have her ripped away from you… I’m surprised you haven’t broken yet. You must be sturdier than I thought…”

“Stop it,” I wheezed, partially at the voice and partially at Rye who had taken to tickling me.

“Will you do me my favor?” he demanded playfully.

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it,” I giggled, pushing away from him. “What is it?”

He looked at the ground, his face turning bright red. He held out the box.

“Take care of it for me,” he mumbled.

“Huh?”

“At least until it learns to fly and can fend for itself! I can’t take care of a baby owl with my current situation! Hell, I’m practically a bird myself, living in this stupid tree!” he kicked the trunk of the tree the house was built around.

“Then why don’t you come into the house once in a while? You have a perfectly good room, you know,” I pointed out, taking the box from him. The owlet nipped at my hair again; I brushed it back over my shoulders.

“You look so much like her when you do that,” he sighed what I assumed as dreamily. Rye was… well, I never really figured him to be a ‘dreamy’ sort of person. Sure, he was good-looking and young and the ladies loved him, but he was just so… so… geh, I couldn’t find any decent words! I absently picked at the peeling skin of my sunburn.

“…rotten…”

“Her name’s Elsabet Catraione. She lives in the northern part of 9. We’ve been meeting at the train station for a little over a year now…” he trailed off, looking out at the fields longingly.

“Well, congratulations, man, I mean that,” I grinned, patting his head and tucking the box under my arm.

“Fiore, try to talk to your mom. Despite her bitchiness, she really does care about you,” he called after me as I climbed down the tree. I waved a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, because everyone loves a bastard child,” I spat under my breath, kicking anything in my way, mostly small rocks accompanied by clouds of dust.

I needed someone older to talk to. What Frida had told me still weighed heavily on my mind, and Poppy’s death was like a thorn in my side.

It just wasn’t fair. I wanted a normal family. I wanted a normal life. I wanted to look like normal people in 9, with their brown or black hair and tan skin. I wanted a normal romance, without Percival’s PK bullshit interfering. I wanted my mom to love me the way she loved Aisling. I wanted my dad to get better soon, so he could come home. I wanted to know who my real father was.

“You rotten girl.”

I wanted people to see me as Fiore, not as Aisling the Disappointment’s weird-looking little sister. I wanted people to like me. I wanted my sisters back. I wanted to be pretty and tall, kinda like the girls from the Capitol, only without the gaudy colors.

“Rotten girl!”

I wanted to see places other than Nine. I wanted to do something worthwhile with my life, not waste all of it in the fields of factories. I wanted to make lots of friends. I wanted Percival to love me. I wanted to avenge Poppy. I wanted to find my real father. I wanted to be Reaped and win the Games so my family could get away from the miserable life the fields stuck us with.

“Rotten girl!!”

I ran, tears streaming down my face, to Élysée’s house. She wasn’t home, so I let myself in. I set the owlet’s box on the table and curled up on the couch, clutching my chest where it hurt so badly I thought someone was stabbing me. I felt so awful, all I wanted to do was die. I heard someone come inside, and a voice that sounded like Percy’s. In my… fit… it could just as easily been Élysée. Someone hugged me and I dissolved into a sobbing, screaming mess. I caught a glimmer of blond hair. I hoped Élysée wouldn’t mind if Percy was here… because right now I needed him. Élysée wasn’t home, and he was the next best thing.

“Looks like you’re going to go through hell and back, you rotten, rotten girl.”

Oh, why wouldn’t that voice leave me alone?!