At first, this journey to make the pyre to honor Metaphor’s sacrifice was her own journey. She didn’t feel as though anyone else should help her. After all, this was her lover. She was supposed to protect him from harm, to love him endlessly, to give him the gift of children. And yet, she had failed so miserably and she felt responsible for his death. She might not outright admit such a thing, but she felt it so deeply within her being. She had failed Metaphor and if she hadn’t traveled to the creek, then he would still be alive. She would still have him to come home to every evening.
She would be happy.
But tonight, tonight she felt all the feelings of anger, rage, sorrow, despair. None of them were positive emotions. She should be happy that she had sealed her love with Metaphor and instead, all she feels is regret that she had done so. Tonight was a night of conflicting emotions. She knows what she should feel and she knows what she does feel. Those feelings were so vastly different.
Even as she places another log onto the pyre, she does not see what Isra is doing not does she see her approach. She does not notice the way the brick and stone path turns to logs for if she had, she would probably feel grateful. It is only when she whispers about the reason behind the pyre that she even realizes just how close Isra is to her, and Fable too. She looks to both, her eyes no longer soft but devoid of any emotion. They are dark red pits of nothingness, no longer flickering with the happiness of the hours before.
Katniss stands still as Isra presses her nose against her strong shoulder. She should feel the touch, the pressure of Isra’s nose lighting up her neurological synapses and telling her brain of the comfort that it is meant to portray. And yet, she hardly recognizes that she had been touched. If she hadn’t seen Isra touch her, then she would have never known how she was trying to show that she cared.
Eyes look to Fable as he works on the sculpture. She knows that this is representative of her lover and the lighted orb that seemed to follow him everywhere. She thinks of the dull orb, the glow no longer present, that is nestled safely within her satchel that is still hanging loosely over her shoulder. The orb was meant for her, but right now, she cannot bear to think of the orb that has no more life in it.
The final log is placed along the pyre and she begins to work at tying ropes along Metaphor’s mangled and bloody body. She is unsure of how to get him up onto the six foot high pyre. Slowly her eyes turn to Fable and the look is subtle, but the meaning clear. She needs his help. She cannot hoist Metaphor up by herself.
She steps back as she looks from the pyre to the body of her lover. She wishes she could stitch up the hole in his chest, the deep lacerations through arteries that appear on his legs and abdomen. She wishes she could wash his body clean and perfect it for his return to the earth and sky. And yet, she does not have the energy.
Muscles quiver as she watches someone from the crowd bring her a lighted torch so she might send off her lover. Even though she knows this is what needs to be done, she cannot help but hesitate. She is not ready to send him home. Eyes look to Isra and she can see that there is anger boiling beneath her skin. She feels it too. And despite all that has happened, she is thankful that she has a friend in Isra. She might not be able to tell her just how much she needed her to just be there for her. She has never experienced such grief before. She wants to ask her how she will ever recover, but her voice is dry and hoarse from all the tears shed. “Thank you…” It was all she could manage. She had not asked for Isra’s help today, but she knew she needed it. Even the warrior was not strong enough to do this on her own.
Even the warrior was not immune to pain.
@Isra
