You are not dead. You will never die.

You are eternal as the sea, sticky as seaweed on my skin. I cannot forget you.

Your voice is the roar of the waves when the storms come. I hear you laughing when seagulls call and scrabble for the scraps I toss them.

You are the whisper of the wind in the cracks in the walls, and the sudden cold draft that wakes me is your hand on my skin.

Your trident and net hang dusty on the wall, old blood worn into the knots and the curves of metal and vine.

You were a gift to me. To us.

A shining warrior, dripping in blood that does not wash from the soul, and a friend, running with dark water.

We pay our tribute to the sea, give back part of our catch as a thanks every year.

In the Capitol there is a sea of blood surrounding every citizen, and you were our tribute to it twice over.

You said to me that you never left this place by the waves, that when you closed your eyes in the cities of metal and murder you dreamed of fish and salt and the cold.

(That when you slept in strange beds in the arms of strange men, you had only to close your eyes and you were sleeping in a woven hammock in the summer heat, watching the stars turn overhead.)

Sometimes they say we must not forget you. That you gave and gave as much as any other revolutionary did, even though you did not live to see its fruits. That we must remember you and honor your name.

Everywhere I go you are beside me. When I open my eyes in the morning I see you smiling.

The sea forgets the land - men love and kill and argue, but the ocean does not remember their names. We give her back some of what we take as a promise to remember her.

In return she surrounds us with you.