rhiannon mortuus | twelve | cb

The day we arrived in hell, it was frozen over just as mother had predicted. Although notably, it was also the ides of winter when we got there, and Twelve's mountainous region was famed for its snows among those available to Panem citizens. Still, there were no leaves on the trees and no people in town. The wind whistled like a secret, brushed fallen leaves around untended yards like paintbrushes on canvases. I remember seeing three different homeless dogs, each with more ribs visible than the next as we delved deeper and deeper into the wood on our way to our new home.

My letter was carefully folded and placed in the inside pocket of my coat. It scratched against the woolen fabric with each hurried, brisk step I took and my heart thrummed heavily inside my chest from exertion. I pressed my hand to my breast to try and silence either to no avail, my saddened eyes quietly observing each of my siblings one at a time before stopping on my mother. She noticed my gaze and smiled. I could not force myself to return the favor. Though my rebellion was not as nuanced as Bram's, or as fierce as Vervain's, or as unapologetic as Ophelia's, it was there. It would happen. Oh, and it would be glorious! Mine was simply one born from love, and not from hate.

That's the difference, I suppose. I wanted to go home because I loved it there, that's what I focused on. Because I loved him and I wanted to see him. Because I loved our house. Because I loved my Dad and didn't think he deserved what was happening. Because I loved myself more then, too. I liked the person my friends described when they were telling others about me. She sounded like fun.

More fun than the person becoming her own mother these days, answering phone calls because she was thought to be too soft to handle what went on anywhere deeper into the Mortuus home than the front desk. A lot more.

I lingered behind a couple paces and let the others get a stone's throw ahead before I dared to pull the letter out into the open air. To my Love, the outside read in his penmanship. I could recognize it from memory at that point. I brought the paper to my lips for only a moment and then tucked it safely back into my pocket. Yes, a rebellion of love. I was certain that's what mine would be. And weren't all the best?