[Clove takes the bowl and sets it down. She fishes an apple out of her pack and pulls a knife from inside her vest. Down the center. Then into fourths. Eighths. An eighth into half the other way. And then halving that.
She presses the flat of the blade against the flesh of the fruit, squeezing out at much of the juice as she can. She puts four pieces-- the eighth she cut out-- into the bowl, all with the same done.
Apple.
Then it's back into the pack. What else does she have that reminds her of Cato?
If she had her district token, she'd put it into the mix. It wouldn't burn, but it belonged there.
She put the blade against her palm and pressed in. Just enough to break the skin, to let a bit of blood fall on the white meat of the fruit.
Blood.
And a piece of herself. As if the blood weren't enough. But blood doesn't burn.
She pulls her uncut hair over her shoulder and cuts a bit off without cleaning the knife first. It goes into the bowl, on top of the blood.
A piece of yourself.
It's a poor offering. But she doesn't have the sword she took from the Third Party soldier. The one that is for the boy who won't come. She doesn't have any personal items on her. Not except her knives.
And Cato would want them to stay with her.
Clove looks up at Gregor, silent.
It's not enough. It needs something else. Something to scent it. But she doesn't know what, and she doesn't have anything anyway, so it will do.]
action: (tw: self-harm)
She presses the flat of the blade against the flesh of the fruit, squeezing out at much of the juice as she can. She puts four pieces-- the eighth she cut out-- into the bowl, all with the same done.
Apple.
Then it's back into the pack. What else does she have that reminds her of Cato?
If she had her district token, she'd put it into the mix. It wouldn't burn, but it belonged there.
She put the blade against her palm and pressed in. Just enough to break the skin, to let a bit of blood fall on the white meat of the fruit.
Blood.
And a piece of herself. As if the blood weren't enough. But blood doesn't burn.
She pulls her uncut hair over her shoulder and cuts a bit off without cleaning the knife first. It goes into the bowl, on top of the blood.
A piece of yourself.
It's a poor offering. But she doesn't have the sword she took from the Third Party soldier. The one that is for the boy who won't come. She doesn't have any personal items on her. Not except her knives.
And Cato would want them to stay with her.
Clove looks up at Gregor, silent.
It's not enough. It needs something else. Something to scent it. But she doesn't know what, and she doesn't have anything anyway, so it will do.]