Always: A Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 129

Katniss

 "Hello, Katniss. I'm Angell, Cinna's daughter. I'm so glad to finally meet you." 

I stumble backwards slightly, taken aback. I'm too shocked to speak, not that I would anyway. Angell doesn't speak either, but she watches me with her green eyes. I force myself to look away, as her eyes are the same as Cinna's. Now that I think about it, she really does look like him, though I still can't believe that she's real.

Just moments later, my mother opens the door to this dressing room, Willow in hand. "I thought you would want to dress her for tonight," she tells me. I give her a look that I hope shows gratitude and take my daughter from her arms. Angell's face brightens when she sees her, similar to the way almost everyone's has. 

Willow nuzzles her face into my neck and I plant a soft kiss on the top of her head, causing her to erupt with toddler giggles. Angell motions towards a black leather chair in front of a tall mirror on the opposite side of the room. I hesitate at first, but give in and sit as I'm told. Angell looks me over, silently nodding her head as if agreeing on something. "I think. . ." she says, biting the tip of her thumb. "I think I have an idea." 

I'm confused at first as to why I'm not being bombarded by a makeup prep team, like I always have been but Angell begins pulling out kits of makeup and plastering my face with it herself. She smears a various assortment of powders and tan-colored liquid on my face, draws striking lines and dramatic shadows on my cheeks and eyes, and brushes over my lips with a creamy pink lipstick. When she's finished, I allow myself to look into the mirror. While she's made me look far from dreadful, I don't quite look like myself either. 

Angell begins plaiting my hair into a thick, dark crown around the top of my head. She leaves half of my thick hair down in long, shining curls. I begin bouncing Willow on my knee so she doesn't get fussy. "I didn't know Cinna had a daughter," I say, trying my best not to make eye contact. 

"No one did. My father and mother agreed not to tell anyone about me even before I was born," she says, now concentrating deeply on several strands of my hair. 

"Why?"

"To protect me from Snow," she says, turning her back from me to fetch more pins. I don't ask her anything else. I don't have to. Of course Cinna didn't want Snow to find out about his daughter. If he did know of her, she would have ended up the same as her father. I think of Haymitch's family, of Peeta's. They were killed because Haymitch and Peeta did something to defy Snow. The same would have happened to my family, although what happened wasn't too far off. Coin killed the light in mine, though. Not Snow. "I remember my father telling me all of these wonderful stories of you after your first games. I can't even describe the excitement in my house when you won. My mother was crying. When I asked her why, she told me that this world may finally have a chance." 

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"When you won the games with Peeta, you provided hope for everyone who needed it. It wasn't because you were good at archery or people loved the romance between you and Peeta. It wasn't because you were stubborn or they thought you were funny or pretty. It was because you were different. After years of killing and manipulation and violence, you out of everyone, were different. With your sister, the little girl from 11, Peeta. From the very beginning, you did  the opposite of what the Capitol wanted and it sparked this kind of optimism in people," she says, stopping to place my hair with pins. "This is the reason why you're here today. Cinna would have been so proud of his mockingjay." 

My cheeks grow warm. I train my eyes on Willow, who is soundly asleep in my arms. It's amazing how calm she always seems to be. She's almost always sleeping. I remember when I was around 4 or 5 years old, baby Prim was always crying. Neither of my parents could calm her down, my father probably made it worse. He and Prim never had a bond like I had with him. When Prim was about 4 months old, she absolutely would not stop screaming in her wooden baby crib. My father was at work and my mother was speaking with a neighbor on our porch so I secretly snuck into Prim's room, though I was told not to bother her. I began to sing the meadow song, or as much of it as I could remember being a five year old. Prim immediately stopped fussing, looked up at me with her big blue eyes, and smiled. I remember how proud of myself I had felt. From that moment on, I loved Prim with all my heart and I knew she loved me too.