The End of the Fog [Open]

Deacan turned as the wind itself turned, causing the flower petals to slowly flow before dying down. The breeze started to settle down with the flower petals falling around him, but none landing on him that were visible, except the white petals which were nearly invisible. He turned around slowly, but deliberately without a hint of fear in his body. His eyes and his posture made Deacan seem bigger than he was. He stood erect and noble, his eyes without a shred of fear, as if he could be staring at one of the Capitol's beasts of war without fear. Deacan had already lived a full life, well into his 60s and he had no family to be hurt by the Capitol. To be truthful, he was untouchable by the Capitol anymore, which is one of the reasons he exited the fence so regularly to tend to the flowers. He knelt down and picked up a single rose.

"No, there are many performances in this world by more than just me. Everyone gives private performances, even the Lords of the Districts and their so-called army of death. Many just refuse to listen to the stories or watch the performances, it truly is sad."

He smiled gently as the sun pierced the fog and clouds, engulfing the field in a light that was nearly blinding to anyone who had lived under the fog so long. Deacan glowed as if reflecting the light, much the same way the pure white snow reflects it. He took off his white gloves to reveal his ghostly white hands, an entire body that matched his outfit. He plucked the leaves of the red rose and watched the leaves drift, half swirling up into the sky, some swirling to the ground, and some even towards the peacekeeper. He smiled again, but a sort of smile used to hide sorrow.

"My name is Deacan. Deacan Greaves of District 5. Unlike many, I have not lost the art of listening to another's story solely for my own benefit. The art of truly watching and listening is being lost by people who fear only for their own safety, though I guess I should understand that fear. I was around when it was first started, though I suspect it will continue long after I become one with the Earth, like these plants."

He spread his arms out and spun a bit, his long coat brushing against the flowers. He turned back to face the man.

"Are you also one who has lost the art?" He asked as if it were obvious whether one had it or not. Deep inside his mind, Deacan thought of the District he grew up in. It changed from friends and families helping each other and listening to each other, to people focusing only on their own survival. People used their children's lives to gain grain and supplies. A tear rolled down Deacan's face from underneath his glasses at the thought and landed on one of the flowers, like a drop of rain.