illari morozov / d2 / cbd 3 (fin)

There was frost on his lips—and a hunger gnawed at his innards.

There was frost everywhere, the world a tracery of icicles and snowflakes. They had been on this mountain for days now, trekking through slough, covering a mile per two hours because every step taken had to be eradicated in turn, masked with more snow. Because ghosts could not leave foot prints. They had to make sure the Capitol would not follow.

“Focus,” her voice cut through the howls of the icy winds, sharp and iron like it’d always been. Never an ounce of kindness, never a dent in that iron. He should be used to it to by now—his mother never believed kindness was the way to nurture a child. Kindness corrupted, she said, kindness ruined and corroded. Kindness is a grave you dug out for yourself with your own hands.

Good thing he could already feel the ice wearing away his kindness.