There was no precedent for this.
Not once in all her history had the Capitol ever openly backed down, let alone surrendered. She was not used to subjugation. There was not even a template on what to write if the occasion arose. None of his predecessors had ever dreamed that they could ever be undone; or if they had they had not given voice to such dreams. Probably wise, a contingency plan such as that, no matter how few people knew of it, hinted at caution and caution hinted at fear and fear hinted at vulnerability. Therefore there was no drafted surrender to neatly copy and issue.
Part of him was tempted just to scribble “you win” and sign it, but this was not the time for it. The proper form must be discovered and observed. Should it be in Latin, the surrender? Formal Capitol documents always were, to prevent them being understood by District eyes, should they somehow fall into rougher hands. But the president’s intention was pass this document into such hands, so unless it made its way to Heavensbee, Latin would not do.
Neatly unfurling the words in the correct formal script and keeping the language as plain as was in keeping with formality:
“I, Coriolanus, of gens Snow, 89th President of Panem, Mayor of The Capitol, Pater Patria, Governor of Twelve, Chief Magister of the Palatine Court and Praetor of the Peacekeepers, officially consent to the total surrender; and order the demobilisation of; all Capitol armed forces currently operating by sea, land or air. I command all civilians of Capitol citizenship to like surrender.”
He remembered the old oath; and added it in. “On the honor of myself and mine, am I bound to my word.”
Still keeping the letters tight and dispassionate, he continued.
“Trusting in the civility of the leadership of the victorious faction; and on grounds that surrender was conducted wholly, without compulsion and without deceit, in the interests of the nation, I-” Humbly? “-respectfully request immunity on the grounds of innocence and humility for the following…”
Writing out the names of his relatives, he was reminded of those who had already gone before. There was no point in including his sons. The second and third he knew were definitely dead, the first beyond his reach. The dead no longer mattered. The living who would be left behind were the only ones to be concerned with. However, on observing the paper, it seemed that the list was a little long. Seven people. If he removed the in-laws, he could painfully cut it down to five. The shorter the list, the better. Having said that, it was probably pointless to include Elly’s name in there. His wife was no more humble or innocent than he was; and everyone knew it.
Then again, now was no time for second guessing. He had best not change it. Crossed-out words or additions would imply uncertainty.
The president opened the top drawer of the desk and removed these objects: a long stick of fresh red sealing wax, a seal so heavy he had to lift it with both hands, a candle, matches; and finally a sharp silver knife.
He carefully lit the candle and turned the wax slowly to evenly melt it. Not a drop out of place. Without being stamped, sealed and signed, the surrender would have no validity and he would be well and truly buggered.
The moment he removed the stick from the candle’s tip, his first thought was that he had pulled the pin of some grenade.
The candle dropped and burned his hand just before he could snatch it out of the way. There was a rushing sound, the windows trembled, the table across the room rocked, glass crashed, water spilled, flowers flopped. Above, the beaded streams in the chandelier chimed together with foreboding.
“Coro?” His wife entered the room in a fluster. “What on earth is going oh-”
There was only time to catch just a glimpse of her silver hair before a hand cut off her words and another pulled her back off the threshold.
Not attempting to identify the hands, he snatched up his pen and waved it around on the paper to form something that would pass as his signature, ignoring the pain where the pen rubbed against the burn. That was all he could do now. He meant to do no more. He swapped the pen for the knife.
A hand closed around his wrist and banged it against the table, trying to shake off his grip. This time the hand was attached to the arm of a guard from the neighbouring room.
Fury sparking and igniting his confusion he grabbed the candle, still burning and stabbed the offending hand with it. The guard screamed and unthinkingly pulled his hand back. The president swiped at him with the knife, to try and ward him off, but his attacker ducked under, slamming his full weight into Snow’s ribcage. The loss of air meant loss of strength, compounded by the consequent collision with the floor. The knife spun out of reach. Before he could even recognise the floor, he was being pulled to his feet, stumbling. To disorient him further, the guard clapped his head against the top of the desk twice.
“Mutiny carries the death penalty,” the threat was muffled by the table but the president spoke it with such venom there would be no lack of comprehension. “I will spare you nothing.”
“That means nothing to me. You’ve already burnt our own children with your parachute bombs you coward, you-”
“Parachutes? What are you blathering? Since when did I use parachutes the past months for anything you dunderhead-”
“Don’t you f-ing lie to me!” The guard spat at him. “You dropped those parachute bombs on the children outside and then they went off again but bigger and killed everyone who came closer-”
“That would require the same bomb exploding twice,” He retorted. “Did I have a hovercraft to do this? You know? A hovercraft I didn’t know I had? Or did I scatter them from the rooftops like confetti? When they carve up your corpse, will they find a brain in there anywhere?”
That earned him another slam against the table. The throbbing in his head intensified.
“Grandpa!” There was a shriek that had fled from all the way across the house. “Grandma! Help! Help me! Grandpa!”
“We’re surrendering.” The guard grabbed his neck and arms and the bundle formed of the two of them crashed its way across the room, pressing closer and closer to the door as his own guard dragged him off.
“Oh, so you can read? Delightful. Can you read the word "immunity” by any chance? I think you’ve misinterpreted it, it’s a long word for a small brain. I demand it right now and that screaming does not sound like immunity!“
"Not on your orders. Everyone in the mansion is personally giving up. Their own accord. They don’t give a damn what you say.”
As they reached the threshold he grabbed the doorframe and clung on and though his hands felt like they were about to break he kept clinging.
“Someone help me with him!” Feet hurried over and a second pair of hands, a servant’s, pulled him away, leaving bloody marks on the frame.
The delay meant they had rejoined the skirmish Aelith was causing across the landing. Being more robust, her struggling had lasted considerably longer. There were three attempting to restrain her, one had hold of her by the hair, another had long stripes of blood down his face, where she had raked him with her nails. When one grabbed a leg, the First Lady kicked at her, screaming obscenities she had spent her life pretending she didn’t know.
“End it.”
“They’ll want her alive,” grunted the woman who had been kicked.
“Too bad, they should have got her themselves. Kill the old bitch.”
The one at her hair let go and flung the nearest chair at the nearest window. The one with the gouged face pushed.
“Elly.”
“Stop!” She screamed as she followed the chair. “Stop stop no-” the scream stopped short at the smack of her head on the ground.
It was now five against one. They charged on him in a swarm and the pace of restraint grew quicker, more urgent. Snow had lost the power to struggle but they could not shut him up. Every insult and term of abuse his imagination could conjure for him. He coloured his language into a rainbow of spite, but nothing would cut tears from their eyes. Their determination had crystallised them.
The shrieking outside the window had stopped, but the shouts within the house multiplied and amplified from every corner. His assailants had the good sense to avoid going down stairs.
A passing store cupboard gave them pause, but realising it might contain throwable objects they opted for an empty old restroom around the corner instead and flung him inside. Tiles were harder than wood and his bones did not thank him for it. There was no lock outside the door, but it had closed by the time he reached it. He hammered on the door, leaving bloody smears on the wood. Judging by the extra weight, they had of course pushed something against the door from the outside. There was a window, but it was too high up on the wall and too small for any escape to be possible. Unless Snow could find a way to poison himself with hand soap, he was stuck here.
His knees finally gave way to the floor; and his breathing gave way to coughing. Without the adrenaline of the chase, he was exhausted and the pain, unchecked, ran rampant. He leaned his head against the wall. Twisting his handkerchief around and around, he stared into space and the words of the guard returned to his thoughts.
Parachutes. Bombing. Dead children. If what he had said was true, untainted by stupidity, something greater was afoot. Death was close, but the answer to this, he swore to himself, was closer.