Effie's tried a thousand times to get Katniss to leave the arrowhead behind on nights like this. She thinks it's gruesome, an ugly stain on her precious Girl on Fire's carefully cultivated image. Gale pretends that his arguments in favor of letting Katniss keep it are purely to frustrate their escort --which is, normally, a favorite pastime of his-- but he does understand why she needs it. It's her own small rebellion against Snow, in the same way that Gale and other victors swap coded messages and plan a revolution that has yet to, and by this point may never, happen. They may all fall in line when the president snaps his fingers, but never without tiny, personal amounts of defiance.
He already has a handkerchief ready when she glances at him, having had enough experience alongside her by now to guess that she's probably gripped the arrowhead hard enough to bleed. "You'd better hope Octavia can fix that in the car," is his quiet admonishment, less a scolding than a warning. Their tributes are still alive, their families are safe at home, and as long as both of those things are true Snow owns the two of them entirely. Appearing in his presence as anything less than perfect, this early, would be too dangerous to risk.
Her question leads him to look down at the parade, their tributes seeming so tiny from this height. "A day. Two, maybe, if they actually listen to us and the trainers. But they're no Seam kids." It's callous to speak so heartlessly about their tributes, yes, but five years of mentoring have taught him that the Capitol is no place for soft hearts.
And he's only speaking the truth; every victor Twelve has ever had has come from the Seam. Maybe it's in the way they were raised out there, choking on coal dust and used to fighting for survival long before their reapings. But it's not something they can teach these merchant kids, and so while he'll strategize and cozy up to sponsors for them, a part of him has already given it up as a lost cause.
no subject
He already has a handkerchief ready when she glances at him, having had enough experience alongside her by now to guess that she's probably gripped the arrowhead hard enough to bleed. "You'd better hope Octavia can fix that in the car," is his quiet admonishment, less a scolding than a warning. Their tributes are still alive, their families are safe at home, and as long as both of those things are true Snow owns the two of them entirely. Appearing in his presence as anything less than perfect, this early, would be too dangerous to risk.
Her question leads him to look down at the parade, their tributes seeming so tiny from this height. "A day. Two, maybe, if they actually listen to us and the trainers. But they're no Seam kids." It's callous to speak so heartlessly about their tributes, yes, but five years of mentoring have taught him that the Capitol is no place for soft hearts.
And he's only speaking the truth; every victor Twelve has ever had has come from the Seam. Maybe it's in the way they were raised out there, choking on coal dust and used to fighting for survival long before their reapings. But it's not something they can teach these merchant kids, and so while he'll strategize and cozy up to sponsors for them, a part of him has already given it up as a lost cause.