(no subject)

[channeled]

[ Waking up in a forest is the last thing he expected. Really, waking up at all was astounding, let alone with the sounds of nature around and with fresh, cool air filling his lungs.

He's slow to sit up, waiting for the pain to come. His sole companion for...he wasn't sure how long...it only made sense it would return soon. But there's nothing. Long, skilled fingers find his face and skim over unblemished flesh. His bare chest, when he looks down, is unharmed as well. Not what he remembers.

The lack of fire in his nerves lets him finally feel something he hasn't felt in awhile. Hunger. Thirst. It's enough that, eventually, he allows himself to stand and make his way to the nearby stream. The water is cool and welcoming against his skin, even if the spring air is a bit chilled, and he drinks his fill and splashes his face before settling back on the bank.

It's only then he catches sight of his reflection...really catches... and he sees the sleek black wings. They flex under his attention, and there's the briefest flash of gold as the tips of the pinions come into view...and then disappear. Well.

He gives the briefest of laughs, his soft voice carrying to the open journal, unknown to him. ]

Not my first choice... but it will do, I suppose.


Are you new?: N
Character Name: Cinna
Character Fandom: The Hunger Games

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[action]

[channeled]

[ He has a few ideas where he might be, some nicer than others, but none of them are places where he wants to hear that voice.

Oh, he knew it was likely. They were gunning for her, his girl on fire, and her game had been so much more dangerous than his. But he'd hoped-

It's all he can do to keep from looking utterly crestfallen when he looks up and confirms that it really is her. But, of course, he can't. She's always carried too big a burden without him adding to it. So, after a moment of sheer surprise, he manages a small smile and rises to his feet. ]

Katniss.

[ There's warmth in it, even if it's wary. He doesn't dare touch her, though. He'd rather her be an illusion, safe away from the Capitol or death or whatever else this place is. ]

[action]

[stillplaying]

[Her own wings are covered by her dad's hunting coat. She holds her bow in her hand and a couple of squirrels dangle from her belt. She's every bit the huntress from District Twelve today rather than the Mockingjay she had been turned into.

But none of that matters right now. Because she drops the bow onto the soft grass as she closes the space between them for that hug she so sorely needs from the one man who never stopped betting on her.]

I'm sorry. [She barely chokes back the sob that accompanies those words. The weight of his death hangs just as heavy on her as any of the others.] They killed you. Because of me.

[action]

[channeled]

[ It hurts when she hugs him. Not physically. The bruises and broken skin are all healed as if they'd never happened. It's a deeper pain, because this confirms what he'd been afraid of. He was dead. He was dead and here, with wings, and this wasn't where he wanted her to be at all.

But he can hear that pain in her voice, and he doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight, doing his best to keep his own agitation low and controlled. He even tries to force a bit of levity in into his voice, though his success is limited. ]

Katniss, darling. We only pretended you were designing. Don't try to take all the credit.

[action]

[stillplaying]

[It takes her a moment to remember what he's referring to. Her talent. The one that was supposed to be in clothing designs. Where all she really did was sit there and take credit for Cinna's work.

But that's different. She knew that was only pretend. Just a way to appease Snow and the rest of the Capitol's expectations. This was real. Cinna never would've died if she hadn't been the Mockingjay.]

Snow wanted to send a message. Before I got into the arena.

[By watching her stylist, her friend, be brutally beaten as she stood helpless and trapped in the lift, unable to do anything but watch and beat her fists against the glass.]