It is at my trial that I meet my guard – the guard who I will spend the rest, if not a great portion of my life with. When they find out the abuse I suffered at Grandfather's hands and my aid to various Avoxes, I am let off lightly and am grateful for it. It's a high up rebel – although they aren't now rebels – official, Gale, 'cousin' to the Mockingjay. He eyes me warily in court, even though I am described as harmless, mute, and mousy. The doctors label me a mental Avox, saying it is my form of self-punishment. Perhaps it is, but I disregard their analysis and instead focus on the man with such pain in his grey eyes and a lost expression.

We go to Two, and I am given not a moment alone at first. Even at night, my door is locked, as is the lone window. Grief has made him meticulous. But after he hears the screams, the weeping, it is left open. Something shifts in the air between us, and he goes out during the day for meetings instead of holding them at the pleasant marble house that we share. I cook and clean voraciously, though we forgo speech. My hands bleed, my skin becomes rough from the manual chores, but it is not enough. Even now, I live in comparative luxury and begin to despise it. I want to suffer as those in the Districts did for so long, though now food is plentiful and the streets are no longer populated by hauntingly emaciated children. The 'mods' that were rife in the Capitol have vanished, and citizens are spared the final Games. Paylor, in lieu of it, demands that all residents of the city are exiled to live in the districts, and instead it is filled with those who deserve it. The Mockingjay, however, does not stay. This, I am not surprised by.

I start to decline food, only setting out a portion for my jailer when he returns. Soon, my stomach gnaws with desperation and my ribs jut out. I make myself do hard work, carrying unnecessary firewood to the house, and I leave the electric aids given to us and do the menial work by hand. I suffer from insomnia, roaming the hallways at night in a state of paranoia so severe, the slightest sound startles me. It is one morning such as this that he finds me, quivering and holding a knife in my hand as a weapon against the nightmares that plague me. He prises it away, gently, and with one glance, leads me to the kitchen. He rubs my hands with alcohol that stings and bandages them up by the light of the fire. For the first time, he seems to watch the true girl who sits before him, never speaking, only working. The broken piece of a human being that was just another pawn in the eternal games that we all played. The girl forced to study diplomacy, politics, languages, science until late hours of the morning and act as a prop in an attempt to appear benevolent in front of the populace. For some reason, having a child with you really seems to help in politics.

My voice, interspersed with the crackling of the flames, is quiet in the dark. "My name is Callie," and he nods. He only knows me by Calla Snow, but I can't stand the name. Calla lilies are supposed to be beautiful, but something about the surname makes it sound cold. Snow. Go figure.

"Gale," he murmurs. "I loved her so much." His fists clench and the pain completely overwhelms his face. Instinctively, impulsively, I take his olive hand and hold it tightly.

"I know."

Perhaps, even though we don't speak of it, the nightmares are held at bay by our talk by the fire. I regain weight, my hands heal and I can take the bandages off. Now, I am even allowed outside instead of being confined to the house, having proved my trustworthiness. Everywhere around me, people are rejoicing, but what keeps my sanity on an even keel is knowing that in District 12, in the Capitol, there are some people just as debilitated by grief or sadness as I am.

Despite my words by the fire my voice does not remain. I go back to my former state in that respect. Various doctors come, prescribe medication, therapy, but I accept none of it. He does not make me take it and I am glad. Yet I take solace in another form of expression – music. There is a lone piano in our house, never played, and when I am alone I tentatively start to utilise it. This one aspect of my upbringing that I find joy in comforts me, playing bright tunes to try and ease the pain. I do not sing, make any other sound; but Gale sees the sheet music strewn everywhere and then he does something I've never before seen: smiles. People in the village, he says, have heard the songs through the open window, and the few mockingjays that are around are repeating the notes. Inexplicably, this makes me reciprocate.

"I knew a girl who used to play the piano," he mutters, and his expression dissolves into one of sorrow. "She used to buy my strawberries." Yes, I knew her too, I want to say. We met at a function while I was touring the districts with Grandfather, many years ago. We corresponded, the lone contact with someone my own age. I miss her. But alas, my mouth remains shut tight though my eyes are imploring, prickling with the unshed tears. So many dead, so many who haunt those that remain. Katniss Everdeen's little sister, struck down in the last stand of the Capitol. Killed because of her caring nature, killed because someone thought her sacrifice was justifiable. Yes, I am by no means unaware of the accusations that the rebels were behind the attack and I know them to be true. The helicopter wasn't meant to be used that day and the rebels killed their own to be victorious.

This fact alone makes me wonder about what will happen after this golden age is over. Yes, we salvaged the wreck of a country our ancestors bequeathed us. Yes, we overcame the regime that struck terror into the hearts of the innocent.

I only hope we can overcome whatever human nature does next.

A/N: I can't believe I haven't written something for this fandom until now, so voila. Loads of fics have Snow's granddaughter in the Games, but here's my take on it - trying to be a bit different.

Constructive criticism is always very welcome.