I was in the hammock for four full days. Longer than I can remember anyone being subjected to that ultimate wretchedness. Sunday, the only day off in Panem, was to be the day of my execution. The Peacekeepers were worried that I wouldn't be able to stand on my own, so late Saturday night they released me from the outdoor shackles and placed me in a holding cell. It has a cot, a sheet, and a hole for bodily refuse.
Paralyzing soreness prevented willful movement of my arms and my legs. The limbs ache with prolonged hypoxia. All I could do is lay still and try to rest. Friday morning, Katniss and Peeta had both won the Hunger Games, something which never happened before. District 11's people celebrated for the pair from 12, something which had also never happened. Everywhere, mockingjay pins ornamented residents.
Surprisingly, my impending execution wasn't bothering me. Four days in the Peacekeeper's hateful custody instilled within me a strong measure of internal strength, while stealing it from my physical form. The brokenness of my torture is gone. Bad as the electrical charge was, the hammock was worse: slower, longer, more complete in exacting despair and pain.
I am ready now. It's the Peacekeepers who are not. My execution is to be an event of mandatory attendance for all in District 11, just like the reapings. So, I must remain absolutely defiant until the end. I would rather hang than take back my actions! Even the inflow of Peacekeeper reinforcements doesn't change that. Our oppressors can die like the rest of us. Just takes someone putting them in death's way and now that secret dream in each mind has been given demonstration.
Jura Penrose is dead and gone, body sent back to where ever he was from and probably buried already. I don't regret that some may mourn him. I don't regret anything.
There is one nagging item that simply refuses to allow me full relaxation on the luxurious cot: Volente Covas. Keva's words sank in over the eternal days in the hammock. In context of having to maintain his cover, it makes sense that Covas did what he did. He couldn't investigate a Peacekeeper because that would mean he'd be pegged and then whatever ability he has to change things in Panem would be lost. And what of Mason?
What must it be like, I wonder, to sit in such an office and not merely abide within an awful system, but to carry out its detestable crimes? Covas grew up in the Capitol so maybe those deeds are easier for him than it would be for anyone else. What is it like knowing how devoid of dignity that place is and yet have to serve it so willingly? How many years had Covas been a part of the underground?
I couldn't take a single year without rebelling. Of course, I lost my son. Covas had to have been in contact with Scipio for several years, otherwise the trust Scipio places in him wouldn't be nearly so strong. Most likely, the underground leader has been in contact with Covas for years, since before the Capitol promoted him to Captain and assigned him to track down insurrectionist agents.
It was in front of me all this time. Who better to seek that position than someone who can use it to the underground's advantage? What better person is there to delay and mislead the Capitol but their own trusted and forever loyal appointee? But Covas had to commit atrocities to get that position. I'm not the only person that knows him to be brutal and heartless. Was everything he did out of necessity? It really doesn't matter, now.
I have no sense of time in this blank room because it has no windows, nor a clock. They leave the lights on. I drift in and out of sleep until the door opens and men are here to take me to my end.
They have to help me walk. My legs are still stiff and cold from mistreatment. Stairs are particularly difficult. The Peacekeepers don't say anything. They hate me and they relish seeing my doom. I understand that. My gut thirsted for Peacekeeper blood as I walked out of the Main Office, having rigged it to collapse.
We pause near the front entrance of the Justice Building, I breathe deep a few times. The mayor is giving a vitriolic, propaganda-laced speech outside. We wait until he beckons to bring me forward. Three Corners is absolutely soundless. No songs drift over the currents of wind. No birds lighten the mood. Thousands of people crowded into the triangular plaza watch with sculpted stillness as I am taken onto the platform.
The mayor reads another prepared statement. "Kippen Silvernale. For acts of extreme barbarism, for treasonous destruction of Capitol property and the terrorist slaying of twenty-six members of the Capitol's Peacekeeper Corps, and for the heinous murder of a Peacekeeper in cold blood, you are hereby condemned to hang by the neck until your breath is extinguished. Your death shall serve as an example that no upright civilization can tolerate wanton acts of violence and chaos, that our just society is impenetrable to destructive minds like yours."
Oddly, his words aren't terribly far off from what I would have said to him if the situation were reversed and I was ordering the mayor's execution for his acts toward the residents of District 11. My stare finds Captain Covas among the uniformed ranks of Peacekeeper officers, bolstered by recent reinforcements. His face is masked, devoid of emotion. If he really is a member of the underground, he's the most controlled member they have. He watches my execution without a hint of anything behind his eyes.
I survey the crowd, looking for my wife or my sister's family. There're too many faces. My eyes blur. Resigned to my fate as I might be, it's still my demise. The mayor nods toward a Peacekeeper wearing a hood. The man moves me into place on the platform and slips a thick rope over my neck, tightening the noose.
Deep breaths. Commanding myself, I look out at the crowd and raise my chin. The executioner ties my uselessly weak hands behind my back. Thousands of eyes watch, none blinking. Mockingjay pins glitter on every chest or collar in the crowd.
I don't expect peace to settle over me. I'm going into the beyond, with no understanding of what I leave behind or what lies before me, probably nothing. A bitter smile settles across my cheeks. This execution can't take away what I've done. I won't let them receive regret from me either. The world holds silent before me.
The platform falls away.
epilogue
Peacekeepers hold the crowds back at the train station so the cameras can get decent shots of the tributes' homecoming. Hundreds have packed into the tiny station to greet Katniss and Peeta. We families are sequestered off to one side, slightly closer. The train slides to a sluggish stop, its magnetic station brakes engage with dull, electric thunks. Cameramen crowd around each other trying to get different angles of Katniss and Peeta as the doors open and the pair step out, hand in hand.
They're better fed, though they could both use weeks more of a regular diet. All their scars have been smoothed away by the wondrous surgical technology in the Capitol. Even with that miraculous equipment, Peeta's left leg had to be replaced with a mechanical prosthetic.
I can't contain myself, practically jumping on my toes when I see Katniss. The cameras get their fill as the two tributes move past them, toward us, waving to applause. I break free of Mom's restraining grip and dodge Darius, the redheaded Peacekeeper. It's a short sprint to Katniss.
"Prim!" Her voice dances with joy and she lets go of Peeta's hand to open her arms to me. My momentum knocks her back a step. Katniss laughs squeezing me tight against herself. Her hair smells of flowers and she whispers into my ear. "I really, really tried."
Somewhere behind me the crowd is awing. I just hug her tighter, laughing and crying and shivering with delight. The cameras capture the shot as Mom joins us. Katniss doesn't push her back, for now at least, savoring the reunion.
When we finally move further down the platform, I insist on holding my sister's hand. She's gained back much of her weight lost in the arena, still thinner than when she left. Once my emotional enthusiasm is back under control, I manage a few words. "Katniss?" She looks at me as we walk; a rare, contented smile still plastered across her face. "Thank you for volunteering." I regret the sentiment as soon as it sputters out. I try to cover up. "I'm-I'm sorry you had to."
She kisses the bow in my hair and squeezes my hand. "I know, Prim. It's okay."
Obligatory celebrations are put on, filmed for the Capitol's partying crowds, even Mayor Undersee's speech. They party every year. I've never experienced a victor's feast. Frankly, no one wants this absurd commemoration because it reminds us of the Hunger Games. If the Games must happen though, no better outcome could possibly be foreseen. No one ever thought there could be more than one victor. So we celebrate and give the Capitol a good show.
Why not? They've brought in a bountiful feast that could feed the whole District for the rest of the year, if the food would keep. Might as well enjoy it. It's better even than the meal I had at Mayor Undersee's house. There's dancing too all throughout the evening and the cameras can't get enough hours of Peeta and Katniss' dancing a traditional District 12 step. I didn't even know my sister could dance!
Gale hugs her several times, but the cameras don't really notice him any more than anyone else. He even dances with her momentarily. The Gamemakers never showed much of his interview, and somewhere in the broadcasts, Gale had been mentioned as a cousin to the Everdeen family. That's not true and everyone in District 12 knows it's not true. Maybe it's just for the perfected image of Peeta wooing Katniss. We dare not contradict the Gamemakers' delusions.
The evening is too public for any of her real feelings to be revealed. After the first meal, I catch on that Katniss is playing her part. She's thrilled to be home, I can see that. She really wants to be home though. Back in our house, or the new one that is being given to Katniss as a victor. We'll live among a dozen houses which, until recently, were unoccupied, save for Haymitch Abernathy.
Where is Haymitch anyway? Oh, there he is. Over at the makeshift bar, across the square, drinking and talking with some man. Of course, drinking! For all his faults, Peeta and Katniss are both alive. That redeems the man from his stupor-inspired disgraces, in my book.
All the attention is surreal. Other kids treat me nicely: tell me how happy they are for us and how proud they are of their mockingjay pins. Katniss still wears the one she has, the original. I get a closer look at it. It's real gold and polished shiny, the intricate detail of feather lines etched into the bird. Very beautiful. It fits Katniss' persona somehow.
Madge approaches the tributes later on in the night and hugs them both warmly. I don't think she's friends with Peeta. She's not really friends with anyone besides Katniss.
As the celebrations wind down and people begin to leave for home, Madge stands off by herself watching the festivities slow. I approach her with an extra glass of chocolate milk. "Too much noise, Madge?"
Tired, worn beneath her eyes, her smile is faint as if the Hunger Games are not yet resolved. "Just needed some air, Prim. Thanks." She accepts the milk and sips it.
I can't get enough of the stuff although my tummy is begging for me to regulate consumption. "You're pretty close to Katniss then, huh?"
Madge shakes her head a little, "We keep each other at arms length." More dancing breaks out in the square, two goofy boys prance around the stone to laughter and claps of onlookers. "It's just nice that she's back and Peeta too."
I nod into the glass, spilling milk over my cheeks. Good thing this blouse is dark. I wipe off what chocolate milk I can. "It looked like you were having as much trouble as I was. You were out of school even." The milk smears. "What was that thing with your dad?"
She reaches over and dabs the spot with a napkin. "Sometimes, Prim... The right thing to do is more difficult than you think."
"Like Katniss volunteering for me." My tone is reverent. I watch my sister, carefree after a month of fierce hardship.
"And just because it was hard to do, doesn't mean it wasn't right." Madge's eyes solidify into confidence. "We have to do what is right... No matter what."
I smile at her, "Thanks, Madge."
She grins back, "Careful with that stuff, Prim. Too much can make you sick."
"We'll see!"
She laughs after me as I skip off to sneak another cup. Katniss comes over to me pats the top of my head. "Have you grown since I left, Prim?"
"Maybe... Have I?"
Katniss runs her flattened hand across my scalp and it intersects her chin. When she left, I was only as tall as her neck. "I think you have."
She's right. I have grown. Maybe a little in stature. A lot more in heart.