▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀

chapter fifty
SKELETONS IN YOUR CLOSET

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

tw:
mention of torture, mention of abuse, violence, ptsd, mention of forced prostitution/sex trafficking — mockingjay is heavy :(

━━━━

The mountains are moving. Or at least, they look like they are as the hovercraft enters District Two's airspace, clouds parting to reveal the warring land below. Ptolemus knows they aren't actually, the troops merely shifting their positions in all of the outlying villages and in some pockets of Ravenna. The mismatched tones of grays and whatever else the rebels could find for a uniform hold the blaring white Peacekeepers at bay, but they still can't break through to Two's most famous mountain. The hub for The Capitol's military and defense, the final barrier between the rebels taking command of the war.

Beetee's been talking Ptolemus's ear off the entire ride about it in his own intelligent but confusing manner, prodding the District Two native with questions of the mountain's nature. He learns that the rebels are calling it The Nut, as in a "tough nut to crack." A contrast to what he's always been taught to know it by, Promise Peak, a symbol of hope towering over the quarry and mine workers to escape poverty. All in the name of serving The Capitol.

Ptolemus tries to humor Beetee and engage, but he struggles to pull himself out of his mind. The questions rear their ugly heads again as he toys with his wedding ring.

How long will he be here? Katniss has been in Two for two weeks. Will it be that long? Or even longer? What about Sage? Is she okay? Or is she trapped in another horror of her mind and he isn't there when she needs him? His heart aches with longing, already missing her. He just got her back.

Then there's the other ache plaguing his body. One that's already known loss. How could they hurt Dev? Did she suffer? He knows the answer, but he doesn't want to accept it as he hears the echo of her humming, head still hurting from all the crying. Then his mind wanders to another loved one whose status remains unknown.

Is Gunnar alive? Will he reunite with him if he is? Or was their goodbye before the Reaping truly final and his best friend is gone? Did he suffer too? Will he get to crumble bread over his body, or is he buried with the rest of the wounded in an unmarked grave? His stomach churns at the thought, remembering the boy's crooked grin from the first day of Kindergarten as the two played together with the blocks. He can still see him in the crowd on Reaping Day — both times.

Can he face the people of Two? Will they welcome him with open arms, or is he merely a traitor to them as their District is torn apart? He asked them to stand up for themselves, to stand with him, to stand with the Mockingjay. They've clearly answered his call. But who is he to them now as he's been tucked away safely in Thirteen while they're the ones who truly fight and die for the cause he called them to?

Boggs and Soldier Cormac, another lead, tell the others to brace for landing. Beside him, Gale adjusts his grip on his crossbow. Ptolemus grips one of the handles by his head and watches through the window. It's as they grow closer and closer to what he recognizes as Carrera, a village known for its marble quarries and the home of Marcellus, that his stomach sinks with dread from another thought.

His parents. Is he finally going to come face to face with his parents again?

His heart is hammering relentlessly against his chest bone once they finally land. It echoes in his eardrums, and he can barely hear himself think as he stands. Ptolemus doesn't realize he's lightheaded until he notes the weakness in his knees. He grinds his teeth together and anchors himself into reality the best he can. It becomes even more real once his boots hit the dirt and that crisp mountain air slides down his windpipe like refreshing ice water. It should draw a sense of comfort.

But it doesn't. Because the further he steps out into the rebel camp, once just a village as Ravenna waits ahead, he can smell the faint aroma of blood and gunpowder. His stomach churns again.

Ptolemus doesn't know where to look at first. His gaze scans everywhere around him anxiously, still in dumb disbelief that he's even in Two in the first place. But sure enough, these pines are his pines, this soil is his soil, and these mountains are his mountains. All the ones of home.

When he looks, the people are real too, spread throughout the houses and tents. He spots two rebels, one clad in a uniform and another patched together in quarry clothes rushing to carry a wounded man on a stretcher. He groans in pain before being tucked into a tent. It makes him think of Gunnar.

Boggs sidles up beside him, clearing his throat. "You're wanted by the Propo Team. They think some shots with the Commanders or Katniss might be of use to the cause."

"Lyme and Corbel?" he asks. "They're still alive?"

Before Boggs can answer that question, his gaze shifts somewhere in front of them. "Speak of the Devil."

"Ptolemus," a familiar voice greets. His head rears at his name, but he's only met with sinking disappointment when he locks gazes with a smiling Cressida. Beside her, Pollux aims his camera at his grand entrance, red light blinking. "Perfect shot. That outta boost some morale."

Boggs clenches his jaw at the camera in his face, averting his stare around the camp. The tattooed woman grins brighter, and with a wave of her hand, she signals for Pollux to stop recording. Ptolemus frowns. Some of the District Two rebels have paused in their work to stare. He doesn't know what to make of it just like they don't seem to know what to make of him.

"How was the ride?" Cressida asks. He barely hears her, heart still hammering in his eardrums.

Ptolemus shrugs stiffly. "Fine." When he peers around again, the other Thirteen soldiers are already wandering off with a sense of purpose, Boggs included. It's as he goes back to look at Cressida that he notes a crowd forming. Some of the villagers stare at him from the doorways of their houses, while others peek out of the tents. Now comes the whispers, and he shifts his weight uncomfortably. "I heard you wanted me? For some Propos?"

She nods. "We've got a lot of ideas. Standing with Katniss. Visiting the wounded. Reuniting with —"

"There he is!" Someone calls. Their voice floods Ptolemus's body with relief before he even sees its owner to confirm it's really him. It almost feels too good to be true — quenching all those buzzing questions. "There's my brother!"

As Ptolemus shifts his body to the right, his vision is painted with Gunnar's obnoxious and goofy grin barreling toward him. He watches him push through the crowd in a stupor. "Holy shit." Ptolemus shakes his head in disbelief. Then a boyish grin — similar to the ones from the recess yard or hours of skipping rocks across the lake — tugs at his own lips at the sight of his best friend alive. "Holy shit!"

Nerves evaporate, and pure joy propels Ptolemus to meet him halfway. Gunnar's bony shoulder knocks right into his chest as the two wrap one another into a fierce and desperate hug. He can feel the cameras trained on him again, but he doesn't care. Not when he thought he'd already given a heartbreaking farewell.

He's so glad it wasn't a true goodbye.

He can hear Gunnar's smile through his voice. "They said you'd be coming to town."

"You're alive," Ptolemus breathes. The gratitude and relief surges through him like a tidal wave.

The other man pats his back firmly at that. "I'm alive? You're alive!" He leans back, smacking his shoulder before giving it a squeeze. "You scared the hell out of me!" A gesture to his eye patch. "Look at you!"

Ptolemus now sweeps his own stare at his friend, noting the uniform that cloaks his frame. It isn't as pristine as Thirteen's, tattered and mismatched, but he's still got a tag across his chest that reads 'Soldier Kane.' He taps it lightly. "Look at you!"

"Yeah, look at this, huh?" Gunnar smirks, smacking at his name tag dumbly too. He snorts. "The fuck is this shit? Can't pass the fitness exam but I get one of these." He straightens, and when he adjusts the rifle slung over his shoulder, Ptolemus finally notices it. "Turns out my dad didn't name me something stupid after all. I'm a decent shot." Then he shrugs, gnawing on the idea with another goofy grin. "Half-decent."

"Bet you are. You knocked out our kitchen window with your slingshot once." Both of them grin at the memory. The whole Victor's Village thought Petra Pierce was going to combust into flames that day.

"You look like a pirate soldier," Gunnar says, gesturing to his whole ensemble. "Fucking badass."

Ptolemus just shakes his head at him and laughs. "How're your folks? They alright?"

He nods. "Yeah, they're safe. Mom's not too happy with me, ya know with fighting on the frontlines and nearly dying a couple times, but..." He straightens, glancing to Ptolemus's wedding ring. His tone shifts from something lighthearted to concern. "How's the Mrs.? She doing okay? They got her out, right?"

Ptolemus's heart aches at the mere mention of Sage. He couldn't stop thinking about her the entire ride here, and even though it's only been a few hours, he already misses her. Eventually, he nods, sighing softly through his nose. "A little over two weeks ago. She's hurt, but she's getting better. She's with her family right now." He adds that last part to help stifle the guilt and worry that's been chewing at him the last few hours.

Gunnar's lips form a tight line of understanding. He squeezes his shoulder again. "Well tell her I'm thinking of her. And give her a thank you for me. Safe to say she saved your ass, right?" Another light grin. He's never been one to stop smiling. "And tell her that I'm pissed I didn't get to be the flower girl."

The Legacy snorts. "Think our niece Erabelle had you beat for that anyway, pal."

Gunnar starts to laugh, but now, after the raw jubilation of their reunion simmers, he finally recognizes the rolling cameras. He scowls into the lens, then at Cressida, raising his brows. "Can I help you?"

The director takes his distaste with stride, nodding pleasantly in his direction. "You already have." Another frown as he side-glances Ptolemus, who just shakes his head subtly at him.  Pollux pauses the film. "I'm Cressida, and this is my crew. We're here to support the war effort and film some Propos. And you are?"

He snorts. "Noble."

Gunnar's never been one to appreciate the cameras constantly prying into his friend's life. One time, he flipped off a reporter who had been shamelessly chasing him and Ptolemus after Ally's funeral, berating the Legacy with questions regarding his sister's shocking loss. Cressida and her crew take his distrust with stride, already facing plenty of it in Thirteen. Ptolemus squeezes his shoulder in a way that says, It's okay.

"This is Gunnar. We've been best friends since we were five."

"Well it's good to meet you," Cressida says earnestly. He grins a flat and close-lipped grin in her direction. Then she peers back at Ptolemus. "He's welcome to join you. I was hoping we could get some more footage tonight before the big meeting in the morning. That way we can push it out through our sources as soon as possible."

Right. The discussion of The Nut. Ptolemus thinks he remembers Beetee mentioning something about it on the hovercraft here, Coin sending out the "Brains" to solve this great mystery. He glances to Gunnar, who gives him a shrug and a nod.

The Propo Team really doesn't waste a second. Cressida's got various ideas in mind as she walks and talks him through several angles for the remainder of the afternoon. Standing alongside Katniss, who seems just as withdrawn as she did two weeks ago in that hospital wing. Discussing what it feels like to be back home with the mountains behind him. Explaining why he's back home, reiterating what he said in his previous Propo about standing up for himself and his people. Walking through the camp and greeting his fellow District Two citizens.

It's as he does so that he's able to decipher their stares. While the cameras seem to make them uncomfortable, they do throw some small smiles or respectful nods in his direction. Even a salute or two along with a firm pat on the back. There's a sense of relief in it. It's almost supper time once he finishes filming with the wounded.

That part's the most excruciating. Between the pain from just listening to their own agony and the guilt for not being able to do more for them, he can't stop staring at all their faces. Wondering if he could've walked past them on the street, or if they would've enjoyed a drink together under different circumstances. The worst part is, he does find two he knows amongst the injured and dying, Mr. Bevel his fourth grade teacher and one of the owners of a shop he frequented — Mrs. Ashler. When Cressida finally says she has enough film, he practically runs out of the tent.

"I don't know if I can do anymore," he breathes. Ptolemus shakes his head, looming outside the tent door. He can still hear the pained moans and groans of the injured or dying, so he takes several strides further away, trying to heave in the mountain air. It doesn't remedy him yet. "That was..." Mr. Bevel smiling at him through a grimace. Mrs. Ashler squeezing his hand with her right because her left is gone, a bloody bandaged stump in its place. He shakes his head. "I can't —"

Cressida nods with understanding. "That's alright." She glances to her crew. "We'll check over what we've got now."

Ptolemus almost groans with relief. And yet, that knot in his stomach still remains tightly bound, causing him to lose his appetite. He's walked probably this entire town, and he still has yet to hear or see anything of his parents.

But does he want to? Does he want to know what's happened to them? Why should he even care? He swears he can feel them somewhere, between the icy air of the wind blowing at the back of his neck or the shadows of the mountain in this light. Gunnar must sense it.

He juts his chin in the direction of the Propo Team as they review their footage. "You good for a walk?"

"Yes," The Legacy breathes, almost with relief.

The two walk side by side beneath the setting sun, and Ptolemus finds himself eager to put some distance between himself and the wounded.

"So what's it like?" Gunnar asks. "In Thirteen?"

"Like here, but underground. I'm talking like, miles underground." Ptolemus shrugs. "They're raised as military, but self-sufficient in every way. Super strict too."

"That explains their lack of humor," Gunnar snorts. A pair of Thirteen soldiers pass them in their pristine uniforms. "I swear, they can't even get a knock knock joke." He wraps his knuckles lightly against Ptolemus's head. "Knock knock?"

The Legacy rolls his eyes. "Who's there?"

Gunnar raises his brows as he kicks a stone down the path lazily. "Hope."

Ptolemus frowns and grins almost nervously. "Hope who?" After a few more strides, he catches up to the pebble Gunnar kicked, and he bumps it further along with his toe. To his right, he notes two shadowy and familiar figures beneath the pines as they pluck feathers from several geese.

His friend grins a big and devious grin at him, smacking him right between the shoulderblades. "Hope you still have a sense of humor after hanging out with those stiffs."

"That was bad, man," Ptolemus snorts, shoving him playfully in the shoulder. It almost sends the lanky man scrambling, which makes both of them laugh harder as Gunnar heaves his frame back into him.

"Was it bad or did you lose your humor? Huh?"

It's easy for the two childhood friends to fall into light conversation. Right now, they aren't soldiers, they aren't rebels, and they aren't in the middle of a civil war, the frontlines in their own backyard. Instead, they're two kids in the recess yard throwing a ball back and forth, or they're two teens joking between sets at the gym. They bullshit about whatever and whoever for however long, and Ptolemus finds himself grateful he returned to Two. Perhaps there are still some comforts in these mountains.

Ptolemus reveals more about what his eight weeks have been like. The therapy for his eye, working with Katniss and Finnick for the cause, even living with Sage's family. Her role in the plot and how it saved him, and how she's now paying the price for it. He remembers he needs to call her. Perhaps Boggs or Beetee can help him with that.

He can't wait to hear her voice.

He learns that Gunnar jumped at the notion of a rebellion the second he heard rumblings of what Lyme and Corbel were brewing in a loyal Two. The sight of Ptolemus alive after his momentous Propo was even more fuel to the fire. That's when things really kicked up in Two, dividing and severring them even more with the purpose of finally uniting them all. Uniting them all to finally stand up for themselves.

Gunnar grows serious as he recounts the working rebellion in Two. It's when he looks at him like that, crooked lips knit together into a grim line, that Ptolemus feels the tension in his gut sink again. His friend stops walking and turns to face him. Ptolemus finds himself surveying the camp once more.

"I can see you've been looking for them," Gunnar says quietly. "All day since you got here."

He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows he's already been caught. Ptolemus gnaws on the inside of his cheek, that sour taste returning. His fingers flex around his sword nervously as he forces himself to meet Gunnar's grim stare. He asks the only thing that feels like it might relieve him of the tension pulling at him like a rubberband. He's not sure in what way yet.

"Are they dead?"

Ptolemus braces for the sting. He can see the way Gunnar hesitates, inhaling sharply, that he's trying to deliver it carefully.

"Your dad is." Ptolemus blinks dumbly as he listens, brows almost pinching into an unsettled frown. "Him and a few other Victors were turned on by a Loyalist mob in the Village last week. They ripped them out of their houses, and..." He clears his throat to choke down the words and protect him from the details.

Imagination spares no gruesome gore or violence at the way his voice trails. Ptolemus can see it now, his father's brutal demise at the hands of those he swore to, so indoctrinated like the rest of them. Tearing him apart like hungry and rabid dogs maybe in the Square or in his own front yard. Knowing his father, he probably screamed for mercy. A barbaric man meeting a barbaric Fate. There's no satisfaction in it.

The fact he's dead bothers him more than he thought it would. Which also bothers him, a hot prick of tears irritating his eyes. Is it because of how he went? Is it because it's a shock to know that a man as skilled and brutal as his father could be killed? Or is it because he never got to do it himself? No, that's not it. Ptolemus certainly despised his father, there's no denying that.

There's something so complex about this grief. It's not totally rooted in the mourning of the person. It's the finality of it and what it means. There's a little boy in Ptolemus that loved his father, that wanted his father to love him and couldn't understand why he didn't when all he wanted was to please him. And with him ultimately gone, that little boy grieves the loss of something he always hoped for. Something he always desired. Something that he secretly believed there could be a day where the tides magically changed and he could have it once he figured out how to achieve it.

And now he knows with certainty that he never will.

He doesn't exactly mourn Nero Pierce. He mourns a father — whoever he could've been.

Ptolemus remembers what Gunnar said. Or at least, what he didn't say. When he feels his friend's hand squeeze his shoulder, he uses that to pull himself out of the fog that encircles him now. "And —" His voice is raspy against his throat, and he clears it, lifting his head. "And my mother?"

"She's here," Gunnar sighs, gesturing to the camp. Ptolemus frowns, unsure of how he could've missed her, but before he can ask his friend continues. "As a prisoner. She and a few other Victors were able to escape that night and sought refuge with the rebels. Corbel agreed to house them."

Dread and relief intertwine in a conflicting dance that swirls around his ribcage. It's disorienting. Like always, everything concerning his parents is always so muddy.

"I doubt you'd want to, but if you did, you could probably see her." Ptolemus is already shaking his head, shrugging his shoulder out of Gunnar's grip. "Commander Lyme and Corbel would give you permission if you want. To say goodbye or something."

"I've already said goodbye," Ptolemus says quickly. His tongue is drying, and he turns to kick the stone down the path again. Gunnar follows after him carefully. He feels himself putting his armor on again as he starts to where they're ladling out dinner. But it still can't protect him from the war going on inside. "I've got nothing left to say to her."

That's what he tells himself. And perhaps, maybe that's true. There's nothing left for him to say. But that doesn't mean there isn't anything left for him to hear. He feels the mountain breeze blow at the back of his neck, and he shivers when it reminds him of her whispers.

━━━━

Sage spends the day trying to distract herself. Distracting herself from the worries, the memories, and the screams inside her head. She still pales when she sticks her wrist under the contraption in the wall, the sensation of the ink sprayed along her skin causing her to inhale a sharp breath. While it's nothing like that seething heat of the iron, she still feels the arrows and branches of the emblem burned into her. In fact, she always feels them, wondering how something as noble as an eagle can resemble more of a vulture, picking at her soul before she's dead.

She tries not to worry about Ptolemus in Two, but it's futile as she goes about her day. After all, he's been sent to the front lines of the war. So much could happen.

She can't bear to think about what could happen.

There's breakfast with her family in the cafeteria, to which she finally notices Finnick and Annie hand in hand at the table beside theirs. The sight of them reunited offers some lightness to her heavy chest, smothering the memory of the girl's screams echoing her own. Tolly mentioned he's gotten better at letting go of grudges in his time here. Or at least, one grudge in particular. When everyone has discarded their trays, she tries to find them in the hall.

Finnick notices her approach first. There's a twinge of guilt in his eyes when he looks at her, but he masks it with a pleasant and small grin. It's different than the flirtatious smirk she remembers him sporting in The Capitol. "Good morning, Sage."

She nods. "Hi Finnick." Then she glances over to Annie, who perks at her voice. She's still got that distant look in her eyes, like she's lost at sea. Sage smiles. "Hi Annie. How are you feeling?"

It takes a beat for her to respond to the point Sage wonders if she heard her. Her lips part to try again. "Better now," Annie finally says. She looks up to Finnick, grinning and squeezing his hand.

He smiles back at her. Then he returns his gaze to Sage, and she notices how he tries not to stare at the hollowness of her cheeks. "What about you?"

"Better," Sage says, clearing her throat. Not necessarily a lie. Given her status seventeen days ago, this is definitely an improvement. She focuses on the sensation of her voice vibrating against her vocal chords to ignore the haunting sensations of that white room. Another smile, and she holds up her tattooed wrist dumbly. "Just working on getting used to these schedules."

"They can be cumbersome. I can barely keep them straight," Finnick agrees. His lips part, and he hesitates, almost thinking better of whatever he's about to say. Sage braces herself. "I heard they sent Ptolemus to Two. We have yard time at 13:00 if you'd like to join us."

Annie nods and grins vehemently at the idea. The suggestion feels strange, and she prepares to deny their offer. But she remembers the ease of at least being around someone she knows, and Ptolemus isn't here to lay with her in the sunshine today. Sage glances down to her schedule warily. Sure enough, it lines up to theirs, and she smiles lightly.

"I'll see you then."

She's given the chore of Laundry Duty, sharing a shift with her mother and father in the morning after one of her treatments. Then there's her Nuclear History class with Shiloh. Physical therapy and more treatments inserted into her veins. Another desperately needed pound has added itself to the scale, giving her reason to celebrate with her doctors.

After lunch, Finnick and Annie stop by her Compartment before the trio journeys up to the yard together. The couple never stop holding hands as they stroll around the grass. Sage walks with them for a bit before resting against the fence, wondering if the sky in Thirteen looks the same as the one in Two, or even in Ten. God, what she would give to go back to Ten.

She finds herself searching for a pair of wings like the ones that cast over her protectively all those times before in the Arena, in the Square or even over her brother's pear tree. Unfortunately, she never finds any. Instead, all she can feel is the eagle's talons bearing down on her back.

Her favorite of the day is working in one of the dairy farms with Zo and Coretta. Dalton's there too, coaxing her into completing a wellness evaluation on a pregnant cow while another veterinarian stands by. When she's finished, she looks up to note both of their brows are raised.

"What?"

"Just impressed," Dalton says. He gestures to her with a nod of his chin as she gently rubs the mother's swollen belly. "You're a healer, alright."

Yeah. A healer turned to a murderer. She's responsible for... twenty people's deaths now, and she hears Barrow's screams rattle within her skull. She forces a smile to cover her grimace, turning away from their stares.

It's as she's leaving her session with Dr. Metis that she hears word that Ptolemus's hovercraft has successfully landed in Two. There's some relief in it, but not enough as she fidgets with her ring, knots tying over and over in her stomach.

For Reflection, just before dinner, her family joins her in her and Ptolemus's new Compartment to play a few rounds of cards. Of course, they partake in their favorite game — Bullshit. Sage unbuttons the top of her jumpsuit from a long day, sweating beneath the layers as her white long sleeve remains beneath. She ensures her dark hair covers her back, and she plops beside her niece.

This is the first time Erabelle's been allowed to play after lots of begging, though after a stern reminder from her mother, she promises to only say "Cow poop" during her turn. There's a mischievous spark in her eye as she grins down at her cards between Sage and Shiloh.

This part of the day is the easiest and the lightest. Her father and Almanzo are fumbling to hold their array of cards, their inability to lie their vice in this game. Sage and Shiloh whisper helpful hints and tricks to Erabelle, who forces her own father to take even more from the pile when she blurts out a loud "Cow poop!" Coretta just appears grateful that her daughter has upheld her promise.

Sage wins twice, and Luna and Shiloh each win once. Erabelle props herself against her aunt's shoulder as she watches. Sage is just leaning down to shuffle the cards for a final round when she feels the collar of her white shirt slip, cool air tickling the eagle's beak. Before she can straighten or cover it with her hair, a tiny finger brushes against the brand.

"What's —"

Her bones jolt out of her skin as a yelp cracks at the back of her throat. The sensation transports her back to that white room, and she smacks Dr. Balcom's hand away. He whimpers. Cards scatter and fly chaotically along the floor beneath as she scrambles to get away, standing so sharply she almost falls over. Someone takes a step closer to her, and she finds her voice.

"Don't touch me!" Sage shrieks. Tears sting her eyes, and she bears her teeth like a wounded animal, terror choking her from all sides. The corner of a table pokes sharply into her hip, and she yelps again. "Don't touch me, get away from me! Get away from me!"

The little girl whimpers when she yells, almost slipping along the slick cards and cowering into her father. Sage never yells at Erabelle. As quickly as she left, she comes back, spit out into the present within her Compartment again. The figures of Dr. Balcom's team blend with the ones of her family, all of them staring at her in bewilderment. Even so, that terror still remains, burrowed deep in her bones like a stubborn parasite. Consuming and choking her so much she can't breathe.

Luna scrambles to help, but she winces beneath her mother's touch too. "What happened, Mija?"

"They did something to her back!" her niece sobs. Sage flinches, arms wrapping around her trembling frame. All their worrisome looks bore into her like she's another spooked animal on the farm. "They did something to —"

Another kind of horror crawls up her spine at the horror in her family's eyes.

"STO –" Sage wheezes to stifle a mortified scream, desperately stuffing her arms back into the sleeves of her jumpsuit. "Stop!" she pleads again between ragged breaths. Sweat drips down the back of her neck, and she fumbles with the buttons. All the stars are burning with the mounting shame.

She can't tell if Erabelle's yelling or crying or both. She sounds just as hysterical as herself. "What did they do to your back?!"

"Erabelle," Almanzo scolds sternly.

Sage's wild eyes finally spot a crying Erabelle in Almanzo's arms, and when she looks to her oldest brother, he's unnervingly pale. Shiloh glares at the cards on the floor.

He's not the only one of her family who's seen it now.

She never wanted her family to see it. She never wanted anyone to see it. Even though they try to mask it, she can see the dread in her mother and father's eyes too. And the heartbreak. She's broken all their hearts again.

Erabelle's scowl returns between her blubbering sobs, red contorted with rage and pain. In fact, she scowls at everyone. At her father. At her mother. At her Uncle Shiloh, at her grandparents, even at Sage. The scalding glare of her tears sends shame and guilt rippling down the Victor's spine. Her throat aches from the force of her traumatized shrieks. Then the smack. She thought she smacked Dr. Balcom's hand, but...

Sage's shaking form slumps as her own tears fall, and she thinks about reaching for her . "Erabelle, I'm sorry —"

"NO! They always hurt us!" Erabelle shrieks. Sage winces. Her balled up fist punches into her father's chest, and he tries to adjust his grasp on her. She starts to kick and wriggle to free herself. "Why do they always hurt us?! I'm tired of it!"

Coretta sidles up beside Sage with tears in her own eyes, almost reaching to graze her arm, but she must think better of it, hand just hovering. "I'm sorry, Sage," she whispers sadly.

Erabelle's still kicking and screaming in her father's arms, and Coretta starts forward to follow Almanzo out of the Compartment. Sage can see both of them are trying to hold in their sobs. They all are as they hear the little girl wail.

"I'M TIRED OF IT! I'M TIRED OF IT! I'M TIRED OF IT!" Erabelle screams over and over again. There's no consoling her. Both her and Sage choke on their sobs, and she realizes she hears more than hurt and anger in her little niece's voice. She hears Colt in that pasture. "I'M TIRED OF IT!"

━━━━

Sage can see her family doesn't know how to be around her now. Dinner is quiet at their table, the scraping of silverware and the chatter of the cafeteria acting as white noise in their ears. Her mother and father attempt some light conversation regarding chores and Ptolemus in Two, but anyone can hear it's forced. Mrs. Navarro sneaks glances at her daughter, and while they're warm, there's something else tangled up inside. Even with her back completely covered, Sage has never felt so bare.

Bare and shameful and broken and...

Erabelle's swollen face from all the crying glares into her mashed carrots with a vengeance. She refuses to look at Sage or anyone else for that matter, jabbing at her food angrily. Neither Almanzo nor Coretta eat much from their plate. Shiloh chews quietly beside his sister, a look of soothing sympathy to his fleeting stares. He doesn't have to say a word for her to understand that he's known for a while now. He squeezes her hand the same time that Erabelle abruptly stabs her knife right into her pile of carrots. Everyone flinches but Sage, and Coretta's already murmuring to her daughter. It's then that Sage recognizes what else she's feeling.

Anger. Hot, seething, and wrathful anger.

Someone taps her lightly on the shoulder, and she flinches, almost snapping at them too. Her alarmed eyes glance up to lock gazes with Dalton. He holds up an earpiece for her with a warm grin. "You got a minute? It's your husband."

Sage stands abruptly, gut lurching. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he's alright. He's just calling to check in on you."

Oh. Right. Tolly did promise to call as soon as he could. Sage excuses herself from the table, taking the earpiece warily.

"Give him our love," her mother says.

Sage nods, straining to tuck the device in her eardrum. Dalton helps her as he escorts her out into the hall for somewhere more private to talk. She raises her brows at him when there's nowhere to speak into, but he shakes his head, silently gesturing for her to answer.

"Tolly?"

"Hi gorgeous," he greets. The sound of his voice threatens to unwind all the tension bound in her body, and she leans into the wall. "What's on the menu tonight? Gray stew or gray casserole?"

Sage chuckles lightly. "Gray stew. I think." She toys with her necklace, gliding the locket along the chain in an attempt to self-soothe. Dalton holds up eight fingers, signaling he can give her eight minutes before he has to return the earpiece. She nods, and he returns back to the cafeteria. "What's for dinner over there?"

"Goose. Katniss shot a couple down today. I think I like duck better." She smiles. "What'd you do today?"

She knew he'd ask, and perhaps if he'd called her an hour ago it wouldn't be such a daunting question. Her heart constricts when she can still hear Erabelle's wrathful screams, or even feel her invasive touch. Not to mention the stares from her family. The same ones they're trying not to give her right now. Something burns darkly just beneath her diaphragm, trying to billow into a flame.

Sage inhales a sharp breath of air to stifle it as she shrugs. "Same old. I had my chores. Spending time with the cows was nice. Then we played some cards during Reflection." He starts to ask her another question, but she quickly stifles it with one of her own. "How about you? Did you find Gunnar?"

"Yeah, actually –"

"Hi Sage!" a familiar voice blurts loudly into the speaker. "Congratulations on the wedding! How do you cope with his awful haircu –"

"Give me that," Ptolemus chastises, though she thinks she can hear him laughing through the crackling static as the two fight over the earpiece. He must win, because Gunnar cackles somewhere in the distance now as she smirks. "Sorry. He's still a goof, as you can see."

"It's alright. I'm glad you found him." Sage smiles. "And I happen to like your haircut, actually."

"Thank you. It's getting a little grown out again, but..." His voice trails, and she just listens. Ptolemus inhales sharply. "You doing alright?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," she lies, swallowing the bile down her throat as she stares at her feet. Her arms wrap around herself, and she can feel the burning again. The burning in her heart and the burning against her back. She doesn't want to deal with either of them right now. Again, she quickly changes the subject. "What about you? With everything happening in your District and all?"

"I'm okay. It's uh, it's just surreal... ya know? To see it like this and..."

She hears him clear his throat. Then another pause as he hesitates. There's so much to be said in his silence, and she recognizes it easily, straightening. Sage just waits. It's another minute before he continues.

"My dad's gone." A faint sniffle, and he clears his throat again. "Uh, they..." Ptolemus huffs, "Fuck, I don't know why I'm crying, I don't know why I'm getting upset right now. He was horrible, what the fuck am I upset for? He was fucking horrible, Sage."

"I know," she says gently. She can hear him trying to hold it together, and she aches to reach through the phone for him. His pain distracts her from his own. "It's because he was your father, Tolly, there's no shame in that. I'm sorry."

"I know, but –" Ptolemus stops, expelling another heaving breath. Another minute passes. When he speaks again, he sounds so sad. "I'm never going to be free of him, am I? Or of her."

Sage straightens warily along the wall. "Is she...?"

"She's here, yeah. As a prisoner, not as a rebel of course. Gunnar said I could ask Corbel or Lyme if I could see her but..." He groans, and she can practically see him shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose now. "I'm not fucking do that. No fucking way am I doing that. She's just going to say more shit to get into my head, and I just –"

"Do you not want to see her?" Sage asks carefully. A pause, and she shrugs, finger drawing random lines along the wall. "Or are you just afraid to?"

There's an edge of frustration to his tone. "What good would it be, Sage?"

Dalton peeks his head through the door, holding up two fingers for a two minute warning. She nods quietly, before continuing. "You didn't answer my question, Tolly. And to answer yours, maybe none. But if you did, maybe you could finally get something you've been wanting."

A pause. He clears his throat, and she can hear he's trying not to cry. "Which is?"

"A real chance to say goodbye. To let her go." She remembers that look in his eye when he read his mother's message in the Arena. She could see that wave of turmoil, confusion, and pain washing all over him again. Even if he doesn't tell her all of them, she can imagine all the questions bouncing around in his head. "Or in your words, to be free of her."

Ptolemus doesn't say anything for a while. For a second, she's worried he's hung up on her or connection has been lost, but every now and then she can hear one of his quaky breaths. She nervously watches the door for Dalton again. He's sure to be any second now. Finally, Ptolemus inhales a shaky breath, a sad chuckle rumbling with his tone as he cries. "You're right. You're always right."

"I don't have to be," Sage insists. She shakes her head. "I just want you to do what you think will be best for you."

"I know. One of the many reasons why I love you." Dalton comes back to the door again. Time is up. "I love you, Sage."

The two bid their goodbyes, and she returns the earpiece to a waiting Dalton. Already, she misses him again.

━━━━

Reuniting with Lyme and Corbel lacks a warmth and ease that came with reuniting with Gunnar. Instead, he can see through their worn and tired expressions the toll the revolution has taken on them in the dim yellowing light of their tent. Marcellus is friendlier toward his former Mentor, but even he's exhausted, blinking through bleary eyes. He doesn't note any other Victors present, but he's hoping there's more fulfilling different duties throughout the camp.

"They finally sent you out," Lyme says. She sweeps her stoic stare across his frame. Anyone who knows Lyme like he does, her being one of his Mentors, recognizes this is her being warm. "Was wondering if you'd make an appearance."

Ptolemus nods. "I had to see what was happening. I had to see if –"

"Your speech worked?" Corbel asks, raising a graying brow. He gestures tiredly around him, as if to the remnants of a warring Two. "Well I'd say it did."

Ptolemus inhales softly through his nose, holding the man's stare. It still resembles that intimidating one looming above The Academy, but there's something else now. A new purpose with a new army. "I also had to see you all for myself."

Marcellus bids his former Mentor a respectful nod. "We're glad you're here."

"As you can see there's not much of us left," Lyme says. She sips from her watery, black coffee with a grimace. "We were divided pretty evenly in the Village, Loyalist or Rebel. It was only recently they dragged a few of us through the streets. Terra, Lysander, Bellara and your father are all gone."

She looks at him like she expects him to wince from her lack of tact. And while it isn't visible, his heart still constricts uncomfortably, a gory image displayed in his mind. He just clenches his jaw and nods. "So I've heard."

"Then you must've heard about your mother," Lyme continues, raising her brows.

"I have." A faint shrug. Ptolemus remembers his conversation with Sage only an hour ago. Her words, though they made him feel bare, also helped some things clear. There's so many parts of him that are too angry, too scared, too hurt to face his mother. And yet, it's because those parts are too angry, too scared, and too hurt that he feels like he has to do this. He may never get the chance to do so again. "That's another reason why I'm here."

"I'm not letting her go, if that's what you want. We can't trust her," Lyme insists defensively. "She pledged Loyalist, as did Bronze and Brutus. I've been ensuring they're treated with dignity while under our protection, which is much better than the alternatives they faced."

He shakes his head. "I don't doubt you and I don't blame you." Ptolemus shrugs. "I don't trust her either."

Lyme raises her brows. "So what is it you want?"

Before he can answer, Corbel is the one to straighten from his perch, clearing his throat. "Can't you see?" The man stands stiffly, joints cracking. There's a twinge of sympathy in his stern gaze. "He's come to say goodbye."

It's not a far walk to where the prisoners are kept. They're held in separate tents just a few away from Command's, still keeping them in the heart of the camp but not too close that they can eavesdrop on classified information. There's guards on all sides of them as Ptolemus follows Corbel to the entrance for what must be his mother's. His heart is pounding again while his stomach ties itself into a thousand knots that could make him keel over. He has no idea what the hell he's even going to say.

"She's right in there," Corbel says. He turns to face The Legacy, inspecting him briefly. "I can give you fifteen minutes. Any more and it'll be Lyme dragging you out."

"Fair enough." A sour taste stings the inside of his mouth, and he swallows the bile to try to rid himself of the sensation. It only lodges in his throat, right at his windpipe. Ptolemus peers over at District Two's mountains for comfort. "That's probably plenty."

The guards gesture for him to turn over his weapons. Ptolemus unloads, handing them his knife, pistol, rifle and sword. Once he's done, he realizes Corbel is still looming. The man gives his shoulder a firm but gentle squeeze, dark eyes peering up to his blue ones.

"I hope you get the answers you need."

Answers. Right. Ptolemus wants answers... but answers to what? He doesn't even know. All he knows is that ache in his chest. Maybe it'll speak for him.

Ptolemus waits until Corbel's out of sight, completely gone. But even then, he finds himself still waiting. Still hovering outside. Wasting those fifteen minutes he has. He closes his eyes, trying to think of something he'll say. God, what will he say?

Goodbye. He's going to say goodbye. Whatever that may look like. Because maybe then, he'll finally be unbound to her. He won't be haunted by her final words to him the morning of the Quell, or the words inscribed on that note with her gift, or that glint in her eyes during her Propo.

"I thought I told you I hate you're lurking," a familiar voice drones boredly inside.

She pokes him enough to allow himself to open his eyes. Inhaling a deep breath, Ptolemus steps inside of the tent, and he braces himself for the worst.

His mother is already watching him. Just as they are in his memory, her icy eyes are cold and catlike, and he swears the temperature drops. Both of them take the other in. She inspects his scar and eye, and he inspects the bags beneath hers as well as the shackles around her wrists and ankles. Her goose stew is uneaten, cold and kicked away from the post she's bound to. Neither of them say anything for a long time, just sizing one another up.

Ptolemus is the one to cave beneath the uncomfortable silence first. With a jut of his chin, he gestures to her untouched stew. "That's a shame, it was fresh."

"Mockingjays can make you sick," Petra comments bitterly. Her voice is hoarse as if she's been screaming, or perhaps refusing water too. A raise of her brows at his scar once more. "Haven't you heard?"

She's not referring to the goose, but the archer who hunted it herself. "Sounds like a superstition to me." He shrugs, finding one of the stools to lower himself into. He ignores the pounding of his heart. "Never been superstitious."

"No, but you've always been sickeningly sentimental." Her colds eyes fall to his wedding ring with a glint of mocking amusement. A scoff rumbles in her throat. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To what — see Mommy Dearest one last time before we all die in this war?"

At first, her insult pokes right where she wants it to, somewhere vulnerable and aching. Ptolemus straightens, sweeping a cool stare of his own across her disheveled form. "Guess I got it from somewhere. After all, you did come to say goodbye the morning of the Quell. Or whatever the hell you call that. Heartwarming. That fake tear in your Propo was a nice touch."

A corner of Petra's lips tug upward crookedly, a soft hum vibrating in her throat as her shoulders tremble. He knows better than to believe she's crying. Instead, she's laughing quietly at him in the darkness. Ptolemus narrows his gaze at her, and irritation burns in his gut. "Besides sentimental, you're stubborn like your father. And angry."

Like always, it was his father's fists that bruised his body, but it was his mother's tongue that could bruise his soul. Pierce right through him so softly he didn't know he was dying until the ache came so much later. She digs her sword into one of his oldest wounds, and he feels his heart hammering faster with a fury. He's about to pick up his own sword and shield again.

This was a bad idea. He should leave. This was a fucking bad idea.

Ptolemus doesn't move from his chair as he snaps. "I wonder why I could be angry."

She takes his hostility with stride — always so cool and collected. "The world is cruel, Ptolemus." Petra just shrugs, staring at her son evenly. "You have to be crueler to survive." She then peers at his eye. "You ought to understand that now."

He scoffs. "Is that what you tell yourself?"

She doesn't even flinch. "It's what I know."

"Hm."

"I found your Propos intriguing too. That one about Selene. It was clever on your part, or whoever's decision it was to have you recount that filth. But only a scratch to the surface," she says with her usual superiority. "It made me realize you truly don't know a thing about your own mother."

"I think I know enough," Ptolemus argues. His lips curl into a sneer as he leans his elbows on his knees, peering at her through the shadows. "And besides, if there was more you've never let me."

All the little boys in him that she kept at arm's length rise inside him, clutching their aching hearts. They only ever wanted to be held.

"No. You just never paid attention," she pipes back. There's a cold annoyance to her tone as she glares at him with disappointment. "I taught you how to master a sword but you never bothered to understand why I taught you so. Between your sister, that idiot friend of yours, even that stupid girl you claim to love so much —"

"My wife's name is Sage. That's all you'll refer to her as," he warns sharply. A glacial glare colder than her own. "And she saved my life."

"Did she?" Petra chirps, tilting her head at him like a cat. Again, she stares at his eye. Then she sneers. "Look at us. The Pierces. Your sister died a failure, your father a penance, and you will die a fool while I die as a disgrace." She gestures to her shackles again, them jingling at the motion. He clenches his jaw, and before he can respond or even storm out of the tent, she barks out an unsettling laugh, and he realizes she must've finally gone mad.

"Do you know the relief I felt once your father was finally dead?" Petra smiles a real and genuine smile. Ptolemus has never seen one like it on his mother's lips before. "The relief I felt when your sister died and I didn't have to wonder when it would happen anymore? Or even the agony I felt when I heard you scream like that in the jungle?" She shakes her head at him. Pure disgust laces her tone. "I've never had a motherly instinct. So when I felt... that – well, I've never been so sick in my life."

A muscle in his cheek twitches at the pure disgust in her voice. All the wounded little boys in him clutch their hearts again, and he does everything he can to guard them. This is what she wants. "I'm sorry my pain inconvenienced you." A sneer to cover up the grimace. "I'm sorry Ally's existence or even mine was such a burden to your life."

"Don't flatter yourself," Petra snaps. "You two weren't the first burdens of my life."

Her words sting. Sting and ache and burn and stab every scar he's ever bore because of her. He has to go. Ptolemus starts to stand, fingers fumbling. He has to get out of this tent. This was a bad idea, he can't listen to this –

"My first burden was my mother when she killed herself and I found her. Then she gave me the burden of dealing with my father, who gambled our money away in his depression." Ptolemus freezes as he stares at her. She sneers at him again and raises her brows. "Oh, what's the matter? Didn't think anyone else in our family could have a story as sad as yours? How do you think we got here?"

She shakes her head at him and continues, the hostility detaching from her tone again. It's all matter-of-fact for her.

"I had no choice but to join the Academy and to be the best to break free and take care of us both." Petra nods, almost to remind herself. "And I was. I tried. But like a burden, he just kept gambling all my money away, and they sold me because I was burdened to have my mother's eyes, the same eyes I burdened you with too, until they finally thought it was amusing to pair me with the man that killed my best friend. Another burden."

Silence. Painful, scratching, echoing silence. Ptolemus watches and waits for something from his mother, maybe a tear or two, perhaps a quake of her voice, but there's nothing. His own heart halts as the words soak into the air, and he finds himself hanging onto every one. But she isn't done painting her disturbing picture.

Petra straightens thoughtfully against her post and arches a brow at him. "Do you know why there was such a gap between your sister and you?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer as the real hate laces her tone. "Even my body thought it was wrong, discarding parasite after parasite. And each time I bled, I'd cry but not because I wanted them. Because it meant I had to lay with him again. What was worse? Sacrificing my body to a nine month pregnancy to grow a child I didn't want or to let your father touch me each time I failed to bring one to term? That's a trick question, Ptolemus. Neither are worse, they're just two different kinds of torture. Sage knows something about torture, doesn't she?"

She shrugs when she doesn't get a reaction from him. Not the one she wants anyway. "So I give them a daughter and a son. For what? For them to bring us more glory in a name that my worth and identity is forever bound to? Or for them to die? And again – whose fault was it going to be if you and Alessandra failed? Mine. No matter what I did, it was always going to be mine, just like you blame me now."

"No matter what I did, no matter how I tried to better my life, they always punished me with another burden. Another cage. Sold to The Capitol? Cage. Marry Nero? Cage. Bear his children and sacrifice my body to do so? Cage. Love them and risk experiencing the same agony I felt when I found my mother that day or when I watched him pierce Selene's heart? The worst cage imaginable."

Ptolemus feels pain. Pain that isn't his, and he blinks to stifle the teary burning in his eyes. None fall. They aren't his to fall.

"So no, I didn't allow myself to love you or Alessandra. But you know what that did for you?" Petra waits for him to offer something. Ptolemus has nothing. Nothing she wants anyway as he merely watches her. The moonlight seeping through the canvas of the tent illuminates her shadowed figure, blue eyes electric.

"It prepared you both. It prepared you for a life of cages. It taught you how to wield your sword and shield. It prepared you to be crueler in a cruel world."

They stare at each other quietly and wait. Finally, his mother is the one to blink first, shoulders slumping as she leans against the post in defeat. She shrugs.

"And that's the best I could do."

Ptolemus thought he knew who his mother was. And in some ways, he still does. This isn't an apology, and this isn't something for him to forgive so that they can mend their relationship. Nothing she's said will magically heal him nor satisfy all those starved and wounded parts of him that were robbed of a mother's love. Instead, it's just another lesson to understand why she taught him to wield that sword.

But as he looks at her, he realizes the woman in front of him isn't his mother at all, but what's left of a girl that died a long time ago. There was no love given to him because there was no love for her to give. So he grieves with her instead.

Slowly, he can feel those starved and wounded parts detach. Unhinge themselves from blades that were never meant for him in the first place. Release burdens that were never his to carry. And — free him from a cage that was never meant to hold him for eternity anyway.

Now, hopefully one day, they can heal.

Ptolemus stands carefully from his stool, and Petra glowers at her chains again, expecting him to finally go. As he takes soft steps toward her, her body tightens. The same time that he crouches in front of her is the same time that she winds up her fists and bears her teeth. The chains catch her knuckles inches from his face. He doesn't flinch as he peers down at her icy blue with his own. The ones she burdened him with. From here, he can see so clearly how she's been carved inside out.

She kicks at first when he reaches for her. Then she just remains very still as he presses a sad kiss to the top of his mother's head. He lets her go, and he doesn't look back, not even when she breaks into wracking sobs, clutching her chest. His voice is just a gentle murmur, and the words feel like the release of a breath held too long.

"Goodbye, Mom."

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you!!

Ahh this battle of two chapter is gonna have to be split into two!! I'm at 10k words now and I still am only halfway through what I have planned!!! I'm sorry it feels like I'm dragging it out, I don't mean to, there's just so many important scenes.

Sooo thoughts? Tolly in Two again? Gunnar reunion??? Sage in Thirteen? Her and Tolly's phone call and of course his and Petra's convo?? I've been planning this for so long I'm so glad we're here!

Thoughts on Petra? I'm really intrigued. Again, this is NOT a redemption arc nor meant to be an excuse for Petra. She and Nero are super complex characters and I've just been happy to at least shed light on her and the inner workings of her mind. I hope that convo with Tolly flowed/made sense.

Also, next chapter there's more Sage!! I'm really trying to make sure I balance her and Tolly well. I worry sometimes one falls flatter than the other and I hope you see Sage as complex just like Tolly. Their traumas are just so different — his is from the Capitol and family related and hers is the Capitol obviously as well as systemic due to being from district 10 and seeing more of the cruel treatment to outer districts. Idk does she feel like she's falling flat??? Ahh I've been stressing because I love her so much and want her to feel layered to readers as well.

Thank you for your thoughts, support and love on this story!! This weekend on either the 13th or 14th (I forget) it'll be a year since I published the intro!! Isn't that crazy???

Okay but next chapter is more battle of two and Sage in thirteen coping and you're going to see another side of her trauma as well as a reunion with another Victor we know and love ;)

Word Count: 10247