i feel fire; Katelyn oneshot {EyesofArgos}

[charade]

There was a lot on Katelyn Persimmon’s mind. The whereabouts of Harbinger’s wife and children for one. But she had time to think about Vasco and Kirito’s families as well. Opal and Ky. A dozen others. In the off-season Katelyn spent most of her time running the bakery or tending to her garden. Solitary pursuits suited her just fine. Like the walk she was on. It had been a long day and she always found it relaxing, just walking along the outskirts of a corn or wheat field, listening to them rustle with the breeze. She held a basket of bread rolls with one hand, letting it swing back and forth.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the earthiness around her. It was warm and comforting. It smelled like home; like sun-kissed stone and cool, crisp water from a stream. In her younger days, she’d cut right through the fields on occasion, barefoot and carefree, letting the ocean of yellows and greens and browns wash over her, conceal her. Somewhere deep inside her, beneath the scars and the weight of responsibilities, past the friends she’d lost and the family she’d gained, she supposed that young girl was still there. The one who skipped around the watering hole singing please don’t let my dreams run dry, underneath, underneath this amarillo sky.

That part of her was still in her smile. In every cookie she lovingly formed, every pie crust she rolled out. It was in the herbs growing in her garden, the warmth in the hugs she gave. What would that girl say if she could see the woman she had become? She’d caught a bit of a rerun they’d aired about her games a few days prior. Some Capitolite talk show discussing how victors had acted at their reapings and how they’d been in their finales. She’d turned it off before she had to watch Margeret stab her in the throat again, but she hadn’t been able to look away from her reaping.

Seventeen was an eternity ago.

That morning she’d baked berry tarts with the intention of leaving them on the doorsteps of the bereaved. She’d left pound cakes on the doorsteps of the Calloway’s and the Rhodes the year before. A poor substitute for their children, but she’d wanted them to know that someone cared. She couldn't have imagined how close she'd become to the latter, but that came later. Back then, the district had dared to get their hopes up when Crusader made the final four, but Patricia had outlasted the boy-mountain.

And Stella had fallen for the wrong tribute and paid the price not long before Crusader. The year before that, Leon Krigel had killed both of their tributes on consecutive days. She’d gone into the games knowing that nobody thought district eleven had what it took to win. They weren't fighters. Weren't survivors.

The recap showed the peacekeepers physically dragging her to the stage, as the shock of being reaped had stunned her into inaction. Face drained of color, dressed in her work jeans and a grey shirt, her now iconic red bandana tied around her head, she’d held it together until she’d looked at the crowd, and then had burst into tears. A far cry from the bloody girl who hacked the icy throne to bits with a scream of wordless rage and pain.

Farther still from the woman she was now, though she still favored jeans and had never let go of the headwear.

A black cloud on the horizon snapped her out of her reverie, it didn’t seem right because the air didn’t smell like rain.

Was that smoke? Katelyn picked up speed, going from walking to jogging to running as her eyes traced the smoke to its origin.

The grain silos were on fire.

It took her another ten minutes to cross the distance, but as she drew closer and closer, she started to hear the commotion. People yelling. The crackle of the flames. And then it hit her, the acrid, cloying tang of the smoke, the bitterness of burnt wheat and barley. For a moment, Jordan Scoff-Reye was on the ground in front her, screaming in agony as Marc set him ablaze.

Only for a moment.

A couple dozen people had already gathered, scrambling back and forth. Yelling, screaming at the top of their lungs, running buckets back and forth like madmen from the nearest well. This was blood of the district. Filling the storehouses was the culmination of months of hard work. It physically pained her to see the silos on fire. It’d be some time before the peacekeepers arrived with proper firefighting equipment, the silos weren’t near any residential areas. One of the silos was a towering inferno already, the others were bad too, but not like that one.

The fire must have been going for some time; how had she not seen the smoke sooner? Why hadn’t the peacekeepers shown up yet?

There was a horrendous screech of metal as it started to give out and someone screamed for people to run. The first silo collapsed in on itself, sending flaming wheat and shards of white hot metal everywhere as smoke and dust billowed outward in every direction. Katelyn dropped her basket of bread and covered her mouth with her bandana just as the wave of dust hit her.

And then she took that stranger’s advice and ran.

But not away, towards.

Share the load, Vasco.

Her hands found someone on the ground choking from the smoke, and she helped them up and half carried half dragged them away, trying to get them clear of the smoke. She didn’t have to wait long for other hands to join her, and the man was taken to safety. She turned around and without a second thought, she joined the people passing buckets up and down and added her hands to the effort.

Here, in this moment, they were all the same.

She was not a victor. That was not a teenager ahead of her and that was not a grey-haired silo manager behind her. They were Eleven. And that was what the people in the Capitol would never understand. They painted Eleven as being rustic, as being the boonies where food happened to grow. They didn’t talk about the strong hearts and stronger wills. They had roots dug in deep, and any farmer worth their salt knew what that meant. You could cut them down, burn them, freeze them, but as long as their roots were dug in deep, they’d grow back.

But even so, the questions nagged at her. Who could have done this? She’d been right, Eleven was going to be facing a food shortage. Not because their stock would be appropriated, but because it was going up in smoke. Why? Was this a last, desperate act of rebellion from some misguided folks in the underground? To keep it out of the Capitol’s hands?

She prayed it wasn’t.

Hoped that it wasn’t some district eleven citizens that had just put everyone that much closer to starvation. But who else? Rebels from another district? The Capitol itself? But there was one question that batted all the other ones aside and took up residence in the forefront of her mind. The Capitol loved their scapegoats. When it wasn’t victors it was politicians or businessmen.

So what was the Capitol going to do to Vasco for letting this happen on his watch?

She shook that thought away. No use in dwelling on it right now.  

The smoke pervaded everything, clinging to her skin, trying to force its way into her throat. The fire roared, and though she wasn’t the closest in the chain of people she could feel its heat. There was a heat in her chest too though, one she hadn’t felt in years. It swelled within her now, and she felt the energy, the passion suffusing her heart, glowing behind her eyes. She’d forgotten for a while. She’d been frozen, she’d been beaten down, she’d been so close to losing herself in the whirlwind.

Over the years her spirit had been broken, her mind shattered, her heart weighed down. It had felt like her soul had been torn apart. The fight had been knocked out of her and she’d spent so many years holding onto her stomach, curled on the ground, wondering if she was digging her own grave. But even in her darkest moments she’d held on. Though she’d cried and screamed and hurt, she’d dared hope to see the light again. Dared hope that one day she could rise from the ashes that she was drowning in.

Annie and Nico had stoked the embers. Kass had fanned the flames. Opal had struck a match and her brothers in arms had tossed in more kindling. Yes, she had forgotten for a while. Seeing her home in danger, seeing the fearful and confused faces around her pitching in added the last bit of fuel she had been missing. For though they were afraid, they had still risen to the occasion. It's no use!, someone yelled. We're gonna lose another silo! And the human chain of buckets started to slow down.  Yes, she had forgotten for a while.

“Listen!” she shouted over the din, pulling the bandanna down to her neck. They knew her. They all knew her, even in that dark time when she hadn't known herself. They'd listen. She hoped.  “Listen to me! This is Eleven! Our roots run deep! We’ll get through this!" She’d learned over her life, over scores of conversations with people, especially her fellow victors, that a little reassurance went a long way. She scanned the faces around her, meeting pair after pair of eyes. 

"Our roots run deep!", she repeated, coughing a little from the smoke. "Now keep the water coming!” she said as she pulled the bandanna back up.

Yes, she had forgotten for a while.

But she remembered now.

She was strong.

She was fierce.

She was Katelyn Persimmon.

And Katelyn Persimmon never stopped helping people.