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chapter eight
UNWELCOMED VISITS

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She's diagnosed and attempted to heal enough horses with broken legs to know that the bone in her forearm (her Ulna bone) isn't broken. Just hurts like hell. It remains tender, the dark purple along the flesh barely fading the last few days. Either way, she still went to the doctor in town— a small elderly man named Dr. Muñoz— who after inspection also agreed it doesn't seem to be broken. "Just ice and rest," he instructed. So that's exactly what Sage is doing as she lays sprawled along her couch, heavy eyelids just closing for a nap. Or at least, that's what she's trying to do.

After living in such a silent, hollow home for nearly a year, Sage is particularly aware of every sound her ears can catch.

So when she hears a floorboard creak, her eyes snap open, spine straightening. Several more creaks follow as multiple footsteps enter through her front door, down the hall, and headed right toward her living room. Sage sits up with a start, good hand anxiously fumbling for something to throw at an intruder. The closest thing is an empty cereal bowl that she wields readily in the air like one of her hatchets.

Who emerges is shocking, and it doesn't settle her racing heart. She blinks in bewilderment, blood draining from her face. President Snow quirks a white brow at her. With a shaky hand, she lowers the cereal bowl. Behind him, several shadows loom, adorned in black with eyes that resemble pits you could never climb out of.

"Ms. Navarro," President Snow greets. He sweeps an unamused look across her disheveled features. "My apologies for sneaking up on you. I meant to inform you I was coming for a visit, but there simply wasn't time."

Sage just sits there silently and dumbly at first. Part of her wonders if she's hallucinating or dreaming— no, having a nightmare. But she's not willing to chance it, straightening from the couch as she stands, tucking unkempt strands of hair out of her face. She tries to hide her bruise by wrapping a careful palm around her forearm. The smile along her lips is incredibly forced.

"Not a problem, Mr. President. Is there anything I can get you?"

He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand immediately. He stalks toward her grandmother's old rocking chair, making himself quite comfortable. His bony fingers fold neatly across his lap, and his blue eyes coolly glance toward her stiff figure. "Sit."

Sage stifles a wince as she does what he says, sinking back into the couch shamefully. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Snow's henchmen merely linger in the entryway of her living room. She wonders how they plan to kill her. Gun shot? Too messy. Something tells her they don't like to get blood on their jet black suits. Perhaps strangulation. Maybe even poison, the acrid stench of roses wafting from the President's clothes and almost making her dizzy. If he plans to stay long, she might drop dead from the pungent aroma itself.

Light creaking echoes through the house as President Snow leisurely and softly rocks back and forth in the chair. His cold blue eyes bore into her, almost appearing translucent like a bitter winter's wind. They flicker down to her forearm, and he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "What a nasty bruise."

She can still hear the crack of the baton on her flesh and bone, and she swallows the bile back down her throat. "It's ugly, but I'll manage."

"Hm," President Snow hums, offering a stiff and polite smile. "I'm sure you will." He tilts his head at her like a cat. "It was almost noble of you to step in front of the little boy. If only he weren't a thief."

She corrects him before she can think better of it. "I paid for him, actually." One of the shadows shifts his weight in the corner of her eye, and she almost cowers. She clasps her hands together to keep her trembling fingers steady.

"So I heard. But Ms. Navarro, his intention was to steal, was it not?"

"Because he was hungry," Sage reminds quickly. There's tension in her tone, and she knows nothing she's saying is necessarily helping her case. Shep's cries in her kitchen from the day of the incident ring in her memory. You have to tell him you're sorry! The him sits before her right now like a Reaper about to collect. She swallows her pride and ducks her head ever so slightly beneath his icy stare. "I'm sorry. I was overcome with... emotion. In the heat of the moment."

"Yes, I'm aware you make frequent donations to Ten's Orphanage run by Mrs. Dorset. Such a lovely lady. You both seem to have a soft spot for children." His tone makes her gut twist as she warily listens. He perks up in her grandmother's chair, still rocking it back and forth. His blue eyes twinkle and his tone brightens. "And you have a niece, correct? Not much younger than that thief you defended."

At the mention of Erabelle, Sage realizes where he's going with this. If she isn't already sickly looking, she must be white as a ghost, suddenly feeling clammy. The right side of her head buzzes as she fumbles to conceal a reaction. She remembers Shep crying for his dead mother.

"Not to mention all those brothers. What are their names again? Almanzo, Shiloh, and Bolt—"

"Colt," Sage corrects, already grimacing at her tongue the moment his name leaves her lips. She clamps her mouth shut again. Just shut up, will you?

He grins. "Yes, Colt. How could I forget that one? Quite outspoken, isn't he? I suppose it's easy to see that all of you are related. You're all very... passionate. Overcome with emotion is how I believe you put it." President Snow slowly brings the rocking chair to a stop. He sits deathly still as the smile along his swollen lips vanishes completely. Sage expects her heart to stop and fall dead right in her chest. It feels as if she's been suspended in time as the two stare at one another.

"It would be a shame if you were to allow your passions to consume you again."

Sage's chest quakes, and his hidden threat reduces her to a scared little girl. "Please—"

He holds up a palm in the air, silencing her immediately. She hates it. She hates how much power he holds when he's as frail as he is. She could kill him if it weren't for his henchman that loom and wait for his command. "The nation is taken with you, Sage. Not just for your beauty or your brains that you exhibited in the Arena these past Games. But also because of the particular company you've been keeping in The Capitol."

Ptolemus. She knows that's who she means. Is that why he won't kill her right now? Because The Capitol people would lose another source of entertainment?

"I don't mind you, contrary to what this may look like to you, Ms. Navarro. However, I do mind leaving my President's Mansion in this heat to confront you over rather trivial things like you stupidly, or as you may call passionately, resisting a Peacekeeper and defending a common thief. In fact, next time, I won't be the one making the trip to Ten to revisit this conversation." He gestures toward the men standing like guard dogs on a leash, waiting for his cue. "It will be these lovely gentlemen right here. Stopping in Green Grove first. I hear it's quite quaint."

The smile that splinters along his lips sends a shiver down her spine. "I do hope there isn't a next time. Am I making myself clear?"

Sage answers in a heartbeat. "Crystal."

"Good," he chirps. His palms tap the arms of the rocking chair lightly, before clenching his knuckles around them to stand. "Because I do detest repeating myself, Ms. Navarro."

She watches as he stalks back across her living room and toward the henchmen. All her insides are quivering, and it takes all her strength not to allow herself to collapse like a house of cards. The nausea causes her hands to shake. Just when it seems he might leave, he swivels on his heels once more to face her.

"Oh. And don't worry too much about that nasty bruise. Your Prep Team will be able to cover it up with makeup for tomorrow evening."

Confusion washes through her at his words, and her dark brows furrow. "Sir?"

He straightens, blue eyes lightening with an eerie glint as he shrugs simply. "Didn't you hear? Tomorrow night you're invited to another Gala— The Summer Solstice. Mr. Pierce will be there as well."

There's an unnerving glint in his eyes with what he says next. "And others."

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Sweat cakes his body from his workout with Gunnar this afternoon. Already, his muscles ache with soreness, his friend insisting that he could handle more plates along the bar after each set. Ptolemus isn't one to back down to a challenge, but as he walks home from the gym, he's regretting this one in particular. He tilts his head back, drawing his water bottle to his lips once more, draining it of its contents. A drop slips from the corner of his mouth and falls down his chin. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his shirt.

One of Gunnar's boyish taunts rings in his memory as he turns into the Victor's Village. "Come on man, one more plate. Gotta maintain the muscles for Sage, right?"

Unlike others, his best friend might be the only one who teases him about the Victor from Ten without malice. In fact, the teasing is almost comforting. It allows Ptolemus to forget that he's a Victor, to forget the robotic façade, to forget that he's supposedly too grown up now to have those friendly and boyish conversations about crushes and potential loves.

Pictures of Sage and him leaving the hotel and driving to dinner were plastered everywhere, as expected. However, it seems his plan to sneak out the bathroom window worked, because most of the articles mentioned that the two seemed to vanish into the evening, reporters posing their own theories as to how they managed to slip away. Sage looked beautiful that night. He should've told her that. But she looked so lost in the photographs. So sad.

He hopes to see her again before the Games start in about two weeks.

Ptolemus is so lost in his thoughts and memories he doesn't notice a figure waiting for him on his porch until he's already up the first two steps. Her icy blue eyes trail him like a cat watching a mouse. At the sight of his mother perched on his rocking chair, Ptolemus exhales a hot breath through his nose, ducking his head back down and reaching for the door. She doesn't like that, of course.

"That's no way to greet your mother," Petra quips.

"I need a shower."

"I think that can wait."

Ptolemus pinches the collar of his sweat stained shirt, sniffing and then leaning toward her. "Doesn't smell like it can. What do you think?"

Petra wrinkles her nose in disgust, pushing him away with a manicured hand. She clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Are you done being a child?"

It's when she shoves him that he notices something in her other hand. An opened envelope, the seal mangled and torn. His eyes narrow and a muscle in his cheek twitches at whose name it's addressed to. His gym bag falls with a Thump! to the wooden porch as he glowers at his mother.

"You're going through my mail now?"

She doesn't answer or acknowledge his annoyance. Instead, she peers back down at the envelope, pulling out the letter once more. Although, it looks more like an invitation. Petra pinches it between her fingers and holds it up for him to read, cocking her head to the side. "This is your Summer Solstice invitation. Just like every year. Notice anything different?"

Cheers to the longest day and the warmest sunset. Ptolemus Pierce & Sage Navarro, you are cordially invited to celebrate these golden hours with us at the annual Summer Solstice party. The attire is formal and bright.

He feels her staring and waiting for his reaction as he reads the invitation. There's no amount of self-control that can contain the smug smirk that spreads along his lips. "Hm." His brows raise, and he shrugs nonchalantly. "The dress code looks different this time."

The shade of blue in her eyes drops several degrees as she glowers at her son. She exhales shortly through her nose. "Ptolemus." The Victor straightens at his name, a devious glint to his gaze and a corner of his lips tugging upward. "I saw those pictures of you two. At Adonis's party, running around the town. This nonsense must stop."

Ptolemus rolls his eyes once more. "And why's that? You've never even spoken to her."

His mother hardly flinches as she rests her elbow along the arm of the chair. She uses two pointed fingers to prop her cheekbone, peering up at him. "I don't have to speak to her. I know her kind."

That wording causes him to wrinkle his nose. He shakes his head in bewilderment, blinking at her dumbly. "Which is what, exactly?"

"Trash. Outer-District trash." Petra straightens from the rocking chair in one swift and smooth motion. Even though he's taller than her, she still startles him. If he weren't so irritated, he might even wince, expecting those stinging cold whispers to reach from her heart to his with unforgiving fingers. His father with the raging storm. His mother with the bitter cold. "Someone like her is not what we want for you."

"Oh, and selling me off to The Capitol women is?" Ptolemus sneers. A part of him desperately wants to spot some discomfort at the reminder. Discomfort might mean she might care, might acknowledge the wrongs, might actually want to protect her baby boy from such a cruel world and life given to him by his name. He can't tell if it's because he wishes to see it or not, but he swears some ice melts in her gaze. Her lips part, but his father's rage comes alive before she can speak. "You don't give a fuck about me. You never did."

A muscle in her cheek twitches at the accusation. "I'm your mother. Of course I care."

"Yeah, well you suck at showing it," Ptolemus snaps. "You just care about your reputation, your stupid little Legacy. Do you actually think anyone really cares about that other than them?" He nods his head in a general direction, presumably towards The Capitol. "You look pretty stupid to anyone else. At least someone like Sage might actually make us look better. A little more human."

"Oh, and you know her that well already? To presume anything she's showing you is real?"

There it is. The mind games. The creeping doubt. Ptolemus doesn't have the years of getting to know Sage, only a short two months. Petra knows that. This is exactly what she does. Whispers doubt in your mind to question yourself and anyone who might promise something worth putting your faith into instead.

Ptolemus feels his heart sink in recognition at his mother's tactic. He knows he'll never win. Not when she makes her own rules to the games. He straightens, eyes narrowed as he takes a step away from her. He shakes his head again. "Uh-uh. I'm not doing this with you."

"What?" she asks, blinking dumbly. The fake innocence in her voice makes his chest heave.

"You know what."

"I don't like when you speak in riddles, Ptolemus, you know that."

He scoffs at the hypocrisy, running his tongue along his teeth. The angry, hurt little boy in him wants to sink right into her trap like quicksand, rattling off everything she's ever done to turn him into the angry and hurt little boy that he is. That's why it's quicksand— the more he struggles against her the more he'll sink. So Ptolemus resists him, somehow finding the restraint and shaking his head. A deep breath as the blood pulses hotly along the right side of his skull. Slowly cooling, he gently reaches toward her, gaze settled along the envelope in her hand.

"Can I have my invitation back, please?"

Petra just glares stiffly. "For what?"

His tone is tight with irritation, like thread being pulled in different directions, threatening to snap again. "So that I can go shower. And because it's mine."

"Do you still plan to go with her?"

Another wry smile. "That's what the invitation says."

Her lips form a tight line. She sighs a heavy, disappointed sigh. The same one from any time he failed her, whether it be stumbling in an interview, taking too long to defeat an opponent, or wearing the wrong shoes to a public event. He watches as she rips the invitation right down the middle between Sage and his name's. A part of him almost scoffs at the childish manner, another writhes in annoyance. The two halves float to the porch floor.

"You attend that public event with her and you'll continue to tarnish our family name. After all we've done for you, I'd never expect such selfishness and disrespect."

Ptolemus stares at her silently for a long time. Whatever part of him was willing to fight is far too drained right now. He reaches down to retrieve the two pieces, pinching them carefully between his two fingers. Now he's the one sighing as he stares at the shell he's called his mother. It's when he looks at her rigid, steely and unforgiving figure that he almost feels sorry for her. Almost.

"You say she's tarnishing the Legacy, but I think it was pretty screwed up to begin with anyway." He turns toward his door, glancing over his shoulder at her. "And if it's any consolation, Snow visited me a few weeks ago. He seems to be interested in where this storyline could go."

The mention of the President causes her to pale. For once, she seems to fumble over her words, and she takes an anxious step toward him. Nerves bubble in her tone and she attempts to mask them with curiosity. "Is— is that why you're doing this then?"

Ptolemus shrugs as he opens his front door. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mom."

The 'M' word draws bitterness to his tongue and a starving ache in his heart. It's never had the warmth he wished it did. He shuts the door behind him before she can speak again. He starts toward his office in search of tape. When he finds it, he uses it to mend the invitation, taping his and Sage's names back together so that he can put it on his refrigerator.

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thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!!! feel free to comment, i love hearing from you!!!

so this originally was going to be apart of the next chapter that i'm going to post as soon as i'm finished, but things just got hella long, so i ended up separating the chapters. writing ptolemus's mom was ooof her manipulation techniques? flashbacks to my childhood lmao.

but please let me know what you think! i love to hear your thoughts, predictions, etc.

word count: 3215