It Will Come Back // [Eve/The Vulture]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul
Honey, make this easy
Leave it to the land, this is what it knows
Honey, that's how it sleeps

They release us from the Vault and into the care of mentors and stylists, and it’s the first time I’ve really been away from all of my allies in days. Without their presence, it’s difficult to feel comfortable. There’s the ever-displeased gaze of Julian Bryze looking over me, and I don’t think there’s any District pride there.

I’m alive, sure, unlike most of his other past tributes,

but I’m not a Victor,

and I don’t know how District Two will welcome me home.

Certainly this welcome leaves much to be desired, and I don’t spend my confined time in the Two apartments fidgeting under that judgmental stare. No, I haul my one possession into my designated room and I shut the door.

I huff out a sigh and set the object on the carpet.

Under a blanket--

a large blanket--

there’s a cage.

And I know what’s in there,

but I don’t dare look at it.

I think at first it’s a reminder, a weapon of the Gamemakers meant to haunt me. Everyone else got their sentimental items and they were precious things, photographs and flags and items tinged with memory.

All these memories,

they’re burning a hole in my chest,

.scraping my thoughts raw,

booming so loud, I’m sure all of Panem can hear

the cacophony,

the dissonance.

The sentiment hurts.

With shaking hands I pull the blanket off of the cage and I take in the sight of the vulture. This is not memory and sentiment and warmth. This beast is an omen of death, the lingering doubt waiting to prey on my corpse like leftovers, a reminder of the inevitable awaiting us all.

It’s a curse with giant wings and a scavenging face without feathers, skin stretched taut against its skull. It lurches against the side of its cage,

a Word trapped where it doesn’t belong,

silenced,

kept locked up in metal bars for caution.

Wouldn’t want that thing set loose in the Capitol, said nobody. This is a rule that is simply assumed: Words are caged for a reason.

(Words can be fickle things.)

The vulture honks against the bars of its cage, beak catching on the metal. It wants to tear itself free, but my hands don’t reach for the lock. There’s no feeling in my injured thumb and there are scars littering the crevices of my palm, and this isn’t something kind. This is a bird with a sharp beak and a nasty attitude. Its beady eyes watch my every hesitant step forward, the slow progression of my good hand toward the lock.

Will I be able to catch it again once I let it loose?

I hesitate, taking a single step back.

Its eyes follow me.

Those eyes follow me all the way out of the room as I rush to avoid the piercing stare of Julian Bryze, my stylists, the avoxes, everyone who looks upon me. I dart into the dining area and try to find something, and I settle on an uncooked piece of beef in the corner fridge.

This is not a good enough offering, but the Capitol’s a little short of rotting flesh these days.

Hurried footsteps carry me back to my designated bedroom as I dart past the lounge. I shut the door loudly behind me and face the vulture once more, this time with my gift wrapped up in a napkin.

I don’t hesitate when I turn the lock. If I hesitate, I’ll never set it free, too afraid of its beak to let myself move closer to the cage.

The metal creaks as I pull the door open, and--

The Word honks,

but doesn’t move.

I tilt my head in confusion.

It does too.

We stand there in collective uncertainty for a long moment. I slowly nudge the meat forward into the cage and take a step back,

not confident in the slightest,

shaking with the fear that this beast might lunge for my throat at any second.

The vulture sniffs at the offering,

both of us pausing in tense air,

And with an excited honk it tears a hefty chunk and throws its head back to consume it. There is nothing for me to do but watch as the bird takes apart the offering piece by piece, and when it is finished I worry that it might still be hungry.

Its beady eyes might say you should be dead, but that’s how everyone looks at me nowadays. There’s not a lot I can discern from the bird’s expression as it eases its beak forward to sniff me. I remain still, persistent in the notion that I won’t run, never again, and I let this happen. If the bird is going to attack me-- fine.

I’ve had worse wounds.

But the Word doesn’t strike.

It’s not… that kind of Word, I think.

It inches its way forward,

out of the cage,

realizing its freedom.

Grand wings expand and take flight, but there’s nowhere for the vulture to go. It cries out and circles a few feet above my head, searching for open air, for the warm thermal currents to keep it aloft without struggle,

for the ability to soar,

not just to fly.

It’s free from the cage but not from this room,

still trapped,

this omen of the future,

this pressing mortality.

It’s wild, it’s dangerous, but it’s mine now.

So I decide, in an instant,

to let it free for awhile.

The vulture cries out as I wrench the window open.

There’s the forcefield below, but that’s okay.

It bursts into the open air,

soaring high,

into the unknown.

Lyrics and title from It Will Come Back by Hozier