A Song Of Ice {Wolfe Reaction Pt.2}

Caroline did not find sleep the night that Bran was murdered. A thousand forms of pain wracked her tired mind, a hundred inefficient ways of expressing her grief. Ricky had come looking for her several times during the midnight hours, but she had been deaf to his cries, dead to any whimpering plea he made outside her door. She stared at the ceiling, lying on her back and refusing to use any of the blankets. Perhaps if she froze before the morning rays heralded the day she wouldn't feel anymore, wouldn't hear her heart hammering against her ribs or the murmuring of her children in the house. She knew that they wanted her. But she wanted the bright-eyed little boy that listened to stories, the one that refused to let her help him get dressed and still made his way around in the contraption he pretended was a horse. She wanted the girl that ended his life. The little firebrand that never washed her hands before dinner. Who pretended to be a career and carried a stick in place of a sword.

She had pulled Bran's wheelchair into her room at some point; when she couldn't hear anyone moving about. An hour or so passed and she ran her fingers along the spokes of the wheel. A wheel that would never turn again. She would have cried herself to sleep if she had had anymore tears to shed. How could she bring herself to be there for her children when she couldn't be there for the ones who needed her the most? she could hardly bring herself to face them and yet she would have to, for the morning would bring with it another day. The final day. One last fight for her daughter and a Victor for the country.

She crept downstairs, nodding at her children as she saw them, her eyes fixed hesitantly on the screen that showed a trio of tributes, two missing limbs and one that looked so very, very lost. The fight was a slow one, one that seemed to drag on for days, if not months. The remaining tributes were tired and it showed in their attacks. Her daughter and the footless boy from nine traded blows, while the career seemed content to stand idly by, throwing out the occasional remark and jab half heartedly around with his blade. Half a dozen cuts appeared on two of the tributes while on the third there was nothing. Nothing He contributed nothing and nothing was done to him. Even the announcers seemed bored. Caroline hoped that her daughter would be able to whittle them both away, but that hope was soon dashed when Aria's remaining hand was severed.

The evil lad continued to hack away, taking a bit of her arm with every stroke. Carol bit down on her tongue to keep herself from screaming, but oh how her heart was being rent in twain.The cruel blade belonging to the crueler boy from district nine struck Aria once more. And she fell. It seemed to take forever but she did, her young life ended by one that she chose to ally with.

Too soon.

Too soon.

It had been too much to hope that one of her children could make it home, could come back to her. That things could be made right and grief shared.

Too late.

Too late.

There were no tears left to shed. Her chest heaved with dry sobs as her body was unable to reciprocate what she really felt. She threw a shoe at the screen, which did little other then to shift its position slightly. It did not change the picture of the boy from one bending over her daughter to whisper something into her ear. It did nothing to change the blood and chunks of her daughters arms that littered the ground around her like a form of macabre confetti. It did nothing to to change the light fading from Aria's eyes as the second to last canon fired and the heartless commentary began. A strangled shriek escaped her lips, a sound that quickly rose to a howl. It was primal, wounding, like the sound of a wolf unable to do anything to protect its cubs. She shuddered, shook as she backed out of the room trying desperately to find the wall. The paint was cool to her back, and she slid down the wall, numbly, eyes staring ahead blindly, unseeing. She held herself, arms grasping at each other like they were the last real things in the world, oblivious to the stares and actions of her children, she sat there, rocking herself back and forth in a trance.

Tell me a story mama...

I don't want to take a bath!

What's wrong with my legs?

That boy was asking to get punched

Mama, I'm naming it after that heroes horse

Leave Jon alone

I'll tell you a story son. Once upon a time there was a good, kind man who was taken before his time. But he left a legacy behind, one that little children would be wise to heed

I like stories about heroes

Does this story have fighting? I like fighting

For Caroline Wolfe, the stories she told her children tasted like ashes in her mouth. The sixty-second hunger games had turned those tales into bitter lies.

Heroes died.

And in Panem, the villains always won.