It is as if she stands alone in the center of the city, her body numb and working on something likened to autopilot. She does not see the many faces of those that have gathered, of those that are weeping, of those that wonder why. In this moment, it is only she and Metaphor and the blackness of the falling night.
She does not hear the sound of Isra’s approach, the sound her dragon makes, or the sound of Finnick’s voice telling her that her queen has arrived. Instead, she focuses on placing another large log into formation, the base of the alter slowly forming.
Denocte citizens have realized what she is building and some have brought logs to aid in her progress. They lay at a pile, each citizen placing one after the other. They do not place them on the alter, Katniss making it very clear that she will be the one to make this alter, that she will be the one who sends Metaphor home.
She lifts another log wrapped in twine, using her teeth to pull the log towards the alter. And when she finally lowers that log, she looks up, finally. She only sees Isra standing there. She does not look her best. Tears still slip from her eyes, even though she feels as though there is no more tears to fall. Her body is covered in dirt and blood and she is unsure of if the blood is hers or Metaphors. After all, she had accidentally healed her own wounds instead of those of her lover.
Her eyes remain locked on Isra for some time, the silence building between them. “Find out who has done this…and kill them before I get to them.” A death from Isra might be quick and painless, but if Katniss were to capture the one responsible, then a different story would be told. Torture and medieval methods would be used. She would keep him (or her) just on the brink of death, only to torture them further. It would not be a pretty sight. From the mare who was usually so kind a humble, she is only filled with anger and the need for revenge. Metaphor did not need to die. They should have been happy together, grown old together, raised their child together.
She blinks, for the first time in what seems like ages. She goes back for another log, her muscles aching in fatigue. From the long night of dragging his body to building a grand alter, her body was on the brink of collapse. But she would not stop until his death was honored.
As the log falls into place, Katniss sighs. Her body is starting to feel the wear and tear, needing strength and food and water. In the silence of the moment, she speaks, just barely above a whisper. She knows that Isra will hear her, but it is unlikely if anyone else will as well. “I must build this alter…he deserves the funeral of a warrior. He fought so hard.” As she continued, she felt the quiver of her voice, the emotion threatening to overtake her. It was too much for her heart to take. She felt it breaking, breaking in a way she was sure she would die from.
