Ah, there is it, the bitterness, the pain, the rage. I can read it on her face as easily as I can read it on my own every morning when I trace the lines of my reflection in Eik's eyes. Sometimes I wonder how she hasn't gone to war yet, how she hasn't burned the entire world down to find whoever caused the change in her heart. And oh, I know how that change feels--
The way our hearts grow colder each day. The pattern of frost that consumes them, the way each flake of it forms a face. For me it's hundreds of faces. I know how it feels like you are being burned alive, how each inch of your skin is begging to peel off, flake off, disintegrate off. I know how our skin just wants off and it doesn't matter how many others are there to see the gore beneath.
I know how it feels to hide in the grass and wish the world will swallow you whole. It was the sea for me. And because I let it take me, I let the brine fill up my lungs like stones, I know how much she will hate herself for it in the end. I know how much it'll kill her son, her one bit of Metaphor, to see it. When she stands up I want to tell her all this, I want to brush the suffering from her eyes like it's nothing more than ink on glass.
I want to change the world for her.
But instead I only stand still as stone and watch her struggle. There is exhaustion in her eyes and sorrow in the heavy dip of her spine. Each sight breaks my heart. Beneath my skin all my bones are trembling. My eyes sting with the promise of tears. I swallow and it tastes like bile. The backs of my teeth taste like soot, and smoke, and burning flesh. “Not today.” The sound of my voice, the ice in it, impresses me. I thought it was going to come out like a sob. And I'm not sure if it terrifies or exhilarates me that it's almost easy to hide my emotions now.
My hooves carry me closer to her because I cannot resist the urge anymore. Over and over again I remind myself to keep my horn tossed into the light, like I'm more weapon than friend. It's easier than it should be. I don't stop until I can see the sorrow on her like feathers, and hear the hush of her eagle's wings. “I will be going away soon.” I say in tomes of icy hardness that do not fade even when Fable checks in through our connection.
My eyes do not waiver from Katniss as I wait to see if my statement will break her or shake her loose from this sorrow. I pray (and I never pray anymore) that it's the latter.
I pray so hard my knees feel weak enough to bend.
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