The canon fired to signal she was no more.

The world, as far as it was known, sat silently as the bang rose up, and then faded away promptly. Just like the girl it was for.

Despite having been only twelve, she was so small, so timid, and so vulnerable. It shouldn't have been so surprising to see the child lie there, in the arms of that one who was on fire, but it was.

Every viewer seemed to have taken a liking to her. The Capitol would give off an almost simaltoneous "Aww" every time the cameras caught her in view. Even the other tribute's families couldn't help but at least smile a bit when she appeared, considering her as a second option to root for. She was like a sister, a friend, a daughter that wasn't theirs.

She was sung into goodnight by her ally, the colorful blooms framing her face where they had been tied.

The blare of music that night had never changed in volume, but felt more silent than usual. More subdued. As the seal flashed across the sky, one could hear the yelling from District 11 from a mile away.

Kill it.

Get rid of it.

The images were displayed unceremoniously across the sky. The image of her, then the boy who had been torn down after her by the fiery girl. The seal reappeared and disappeared as quickly as the former.

The daialogue exchanged between commentators was not as witty as it was usually. Not as enjoying of the "festivities". They spoke only of the dead girl. How it was quite unfortunate, sad indeed, genuinely upsetting.

It was the idea of someone in the Capitol, uncertain whose precisely, to replay her interview. Nothing had changed from the footage being viewed again, but it felt so different to watch her stride softly over to Caesar, the face illuminating calmness. The elegant gossamer wings trembled slightly with every one of her quick steps.

"I'm very hard to catch."

The silence swells.

"And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me."

Some fail to choke back their emotions.

"So don't count me out." Caesar's pearly grin felt more honest than ever.

"I wouldn't in a million years."

Nobody would. Not in two million years.

-000-

Somewhere, in the fields of District 11, near a house in the orchards, a small, frail, pale yellow flower was plucked by a small, frail hand. The one little rue was held up next to the moon that hung morosely in the midnight blue.

Somewhere, in the fields of a better place, near the many lost faces, a small, cheerful, olive-skinned girl was playing. The one little Rue was running in the skies, her wings not of gossamer and permanent.