I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.
I
ra cannot shake the habits of his old profession—he wakes well before the sun rises, and busies himself with old, soothing routines. He braids his mane ornately down his neck, and his tail as well. He rereads his journal entry from the night before, regathering his thoughts on the recent call to the summit all Sovereigns underwent, followed by his own Champion Trials. The edge of excitement, of—not knowing—strikes him both with exhilaration and a bit of fear. For the last two years he has spent every day in monotonous routine. The routine itself, although repetitive, has brought him comfort and confidence. He never had to question himself in the woods; always, he was sure-footed and swift, with traps or with bow and arrows. This new life, however, often overwhelms him.
On one hand, there is always much to be done. On the other, he finds his lack of current advisors to be disheartening and, often, quite lonely.
Luckily, Katniss saves Ira from the spiraling nature of his own thoughts. He had just been descending a crystal-bright staircase when he sees her entering the Keep. He smiles—a brief, bright expression—and finishes the descent.
“To what,” Ira begins. “Do I owe the pleasure, Champion?”
He has always enjoyed that title—Champion. He remembers asking his father what it meant and his father’s distracted—nearly disinterested—explanation. “It means—it means to be a person who supports a cause, who triumphs on the behalf of someone else, on behalf of the people—“
Does it, Katniss?
Is that what being a Champion entails?
“Walk with me,” Ira invites. “I usually go out into the city around daybreak. An old habit, that has been hard for me to give up.”
