All character rights belong to Suzanne Collins. AU/Supernatural/Slash. No Capitol or Games in this one, folks. Just writing that's filled with all my guilty pleasures. Let me know if you think it's worth continuing!
Peeta's POV
My lungs are about to burst. The forest seems endless in the night, trapping me in its looming timbers and creeping shadows. I'm lost, but I can't stop running. They'll catch me.
These men were once my neighbors, my confidants. I've baked the bread they've broken at their dinner tables every night. Why can't they see that I'm still that boy they watched growing up and playing in the village square with their own children? The boy whose hair they'd ruffle affectionately when they'd walk in my family's bakery and laugh at the flour always dusted on my cheeks? Why can't they see me? I'm still here.
They're afraid. Afraid of what's inside me; of the unknown and what they can't control. It scares me too. Ever since the night of the possession, I have felt that I'm no longer in control of my fate. Truth is, I'm not. I did what I thought was best for everyone I loved by running away in the dead of night, a pathetic attempt to protect them all before things got any worse. Who the hell knows where I planned on going. Maybe I was thinking that I'd end up finding salvation out in these woods, escape from it all and go back to the way things were before.
But nothing comes easy.
I had travelled all night and an entire day through the woods, seeking to distance myself from home as much as possible when I realized I wasn't alone. Five men I knew from my district, dressed in black cloaks, had followed my trail and descended upon my weary frame.
"Demon!" they hissed as they circled around me.
"Hiding in a child like the coward you are!" one of them, my district's apothecary, scorned.
"How pathetic," another one, the village butcher, sneered. It was then that I saw them all brandish daggers. It was then that I ran. They had no desire to just let me sneak away from district 12 and never return. They wanted vengeance against the evil within me. By default, they wanted my blood spilt upon the earth.
So here I am, stumbling in the dark, desperate for escape. These men I've known all my life clearly sense the darkness within and have no intention of helping me. I'm a lost cause to them now. They don't see the baker's youngest boy battling for his soul, but instead see a demon residing in its earthly vessel. A "vessel" that must be destroyed to rid the world of its darkness. My body, me, is merely collateral damage in their crusade.
I'm screwed. I'm royally screwed.
For all I know, I'm running in circles. I must be because as I rush past a twisted oak, a dark shadow leaps out from behind it and tackles me to the ground. I'm kicking and screaming now, desperately punching into the darkness, hoping to find purchase with my assailant's jaw. I feel my fist connect with bone and gratification runs through me, despite the fact that I just fucked up my knuckles.
Before I can go for another swing, more hands are here and they are grabbing my arms, my legs. I'm being dragged like a sacrificial lamb through the fallen leaves. They take me to a small clearing in the woods where I can see a dark mass in the center. I can't make out what it is until they hoist my body on top of it. It's a stone table. No, not a table; an altar. Where the hell did this come from? Vines twist and caress the rugged and crumbling stone, suggesting it's sat here in the forest far longer than I've existed on this earth. How many "lost souls" of district 12 have been dragged to this very spot to meet their demise? How many times have my "friendly neighbors" travelled out here to do this very deed? The men bind my wrists and ankles to each of the four corners of my impending deathbed and one of the men, a blacksmith from the Seam, flaunts his dagger in his hands. I scream out in fear but he doesn't cut me; he cuts my clothes. He destroys every last inch of fabric and tosses it all away till I'm left exposed to the chill night air and to their cold and bloodthirsty eyes.
My shoulder blades dig into the unforgiving stone beneath me and the coolness of the rock sends chills up my spine. The men depart to the edge of the clearing where they light torches that illuminate the night. The district apothecary approaches me and begins painting strange symbols all over my body. This must all be some ritual to lock the evil inside; to keep it from jumping into one of them when I die. The thought of my soul forever intertwining with this wickedness makes me thrash and scream until the blacksmith gags me with a white cloth. Asshole.
Tied to their sacrificial altar, I know death is fast approaching. I'm not resigned to it, but there's not a lot I can do to change it. These men have stripped me of everything; my clothes, my freedom, my dignity. All that's left for them is to strip me of my very soul, which they plan on doing soon by the looks of that dagger aimed at my heart.
How fitting. The fucking butcher is the one to take out his blade. My mind immediately goes to a nauseating image of my body hanging from one of his meat hooks. Rump roast à la Peeta Mellark. I'm ripped away from the disturbing image when all the men menacingly gather around my body. I look in the face of each man, rebuking them, as I hopelessly struggle against my bindings. All my squirming is smearing some of their symbols off my naked body. Good. I hope it fucks up their ritual in a way that I end up coming back as a ghost so I can haunt their asses.
But all twisted fantasies aside, I am seriously freaking out right now. I could scream some more, but all that comes out is a muffled whine behind the gag. The gag's a little excessive since it's not like anyone's around to hear me scream. We're in the middle of fucking nowhere.
My vision's blurred with tears, but I can still see well enough to witness the butcher raising the blade above his head. Shit. Shit shit shit!
I close my eyes and brace my bared body for the blow, but it doesn't come. Instead, I hear a horrible cracking sound that causes my eyes to shoot open in surprise. The butcher's neck has been snapped and he's slumping to the ground, taking his knife with him. His killer still stands behind his lifeless body. He's young; can't be too much older than me. He's a boy I've never seen before, certainly not from district 12. I would've noticed a boy like him. The wind rustles through his platinum locks and his eyes reflect sheer rage. Before I have another second to appraise my unlikely savior, he whips out a sword and begins attacking the other four men. The scene's gruesome. I turn my head into my shoulder to shield myself from the bloodbath unfolding before me. I can't tune out the screams though; the way they gurgle out of the men I once knew before being silenced with the final death blow. Soon, it goes quiet.
I turn my head and look up to see the older boy standing before the altar; before me. The light from the torches dances off his lightly tanned skin and makes his eyes smolder. I was too preoccupied before to really give a shit that I was naked, but now I find myself thoroughly embarrassed. Being bound and gagged, there isn't much I can do to cover myself up, so I'm just left lying here before this strange boy, pleading to him with my eyes to just let me go.
The older boy suddenly hoists himself up on top of me and pulls out his sword again. Shit. He's not here to help me; he's like some sort of psychopathic killer on a spree and I'm his final victim.
I start my useless screaming behind my gag again and I buck my hips up to try and knock him off me. I look into his eyes, the eyes of my potential killer, and plead for mercy. He's staring right back at me, so intensely. One of his hands reaches down to touch my tear-soaked cheek.
"Shhh," he whispers to me. "I won't hurt you." He puts his sword away as if to prove his point.
If he's not going to kill me, then what the fuck is he doing just keeping me tied up like this?
"I won't hurt you like those maniacs were trying to do," he tells me, "but I'm not going to let you go until I get what I want."
What does he want that I can possibly give him? Before I have another moment to contemplate an answer, I feel his hands run ravenously down my sides and grab hold of my waist. His thumbs begin tracing delicate circles along the bare flesh of my hips.
I think he's making it perfectly clear what he wants now; he's going to take me on the very altar I'm still tied to.
