Rated Adult for Sexual Situations, Intense Violence, Torture, Language, and Abuse.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Thank you to my girl, SheepAmongstWolves12 for Beta-ing, and for her commentary that I can't help but giggle at.
Reviews are loved and happily received.
Touched
Notice: There are Sexual Situations and Intense Violence in this chapter. Please Be a Responsible Reader.
In a time of sorrow a lone warrior, a protector shall join with a woman who possesses the gift of visions, the touched, and in this union a new reign will form.
from the 'Book of the Order'
Chapter One
He can hear the crackling of the embers bursting into the air, like glowing sprites, the fire below birthing beauty and destruction, before he begins to stir.
He hangs onto the melody filling the silence, an orchestra of deep solid tones that are made visible by an array of bold color.
There are times where he finds peace laying on his bed of straw and sown together rags, listening to the ambient noises surrounding him.
He waits for the sound of his father's snoring from the far side of the shack, or the rustling of hay as his brothers toss and turn in fitful sleep.
It's nearly paralyzing, as each second goes by and only the sound of the fire pit located in the center of his home is heard, the boy strains for the reassurance of familiarity, but he's sadly disappointed.
It's immediately after that the screams follow, and he's awarded with numerous varieties of sound, his body shifts on its back as his eyes open, introducing him to empty pallets where his family should be sleeping.
The eerie silence of the hut is enough to send chills down his spine, the fear he's feeling begins to resemble that of nefarious vines weaving the strength of their tentacles through the vertebra of his skeletal structure.
The normally tight space that makes up his home is abnormally hollow, his heart drops into his gut at the blatant foreboding.
His curiosity regarding his family's absence is short lived when the smell of smoke threatens to choke him, his throat already raw from the noxious fumes.
He rolls to his stomach, placing his palms flat on either side of his pallet for support, as he hunches over the ground, heaving and spitting, desperate to clear his senses of the present threat.
Blonde waves fall into his eyes like blinders, the ends of the curls tickling the thick lashes of his lids, normally he would have already swiped the hair, pushing it back with an irritated sigh, but now as his head spun from the smoke, his concerns weren't as vain.
Even with just being a boy he was aware of how quickly the hut could engulf in flames, the building materials consisting of only straw and clay.
It was crude and simple, but so was their way of life, their methods resembling the world around them.
He had only known the land around him, it shifted and grew as he did, tying him to one existence, which infuriated him daily, as he yearned for adventure past the acres of farmland.
However, as he dug his fingers into the dirt of the hut floor, a layer of dirt caking on top of the previous one, all he could think of was how he needed to flee, because even if the rest of his life revolved around the land he was born to, he'd rather feel empty than be dead.
The smoke filled the room around him, circling around his body like an additional layer of skin, the fumes sinking into his pores.
With a guttural groan and a strangled cough, he mustered up enough strength to push himself up from the ground, his knees pressed into the ground, before he stood on shaky legs.
The sudden change in posture caused his head to spin, a wave of nausea washing over him, as he turned towards the canvas flap that served as a door to their home.
He couldn't help but cough and sputter, saliva formed at the corner of his mouth, the skin there already chapped and flushed.
The delicate flesh inside of his throat was raw, and the boy could taste metallic covering the crevices and surface of his mouth.
The smoke filling the hut was now as thick as the sheets of rain that fell during the storming seasons, it was a product of the fires roaring outside, but it was its own force of nature.
He squinted against the fumes, his lids rimmed in red as his body produced tears to force the toxin out. The boy forced his feet to move forward, the bottoms bare, taking on pain as rocks from the dirt floor pressed into the flesh.
He leapt the last few remaining feet, conjuring all of his energy to force his body beyond the canvas door.
The smoke rushed down him as he landed outside of the hut, his body impacting the ground with a powerful blow.
He breathed in deeply, cool air filling his lungs but he could still taste the after effect of smoke, before he rolled on his back, his chest heaving violently as he choked on his own breathe.
The flames engulfing his home were brilliant as they illuminated the dark night sky, casting fire play into the atmosphere.
His trance was shattered when the inhuman wails filled the space around him, he arched his back so that he could peer above him, the sight he was met with was almost surreal, and he pondered if he was still dreaming.
The sound of hooves pounding the ground beside his ear caused him to fold into himself, shielding his body from harm, he still had memories of the time their horse became spooked and nearly trampled him when he was nine.
It had happened nearly three years ago, but he could still piece together every second that passed while the wild animal panicked above him.
The boy battled with his own mind, mentally pushing himself to deal with the matter at hand, as chaos ensued around him.
He could still feel his pulse race as he rolled into his stomach, the dirt that touched his bottom lip tasted tainted and metallic, warmth to it that shouldn't be present.
The ends of his light colored bangs soaking up the substance, and even in the darkness surrounding him he can see the strands darkening, taking on the color of death.
He tries not to gasp out loud, when he lifts his face forward to see the rolling hills of farmland and wheat engulfed in flames, flickers of scorching destructive beauty lighting the night sky.
The ground beneath him rumbles from the stampede of livestock retreating from the flames, the dirt and pebbles lining his body shift and rise inches from the earth.
He forces his vision to clear, the smoke before still stings his eyes and he's begun to cough again from the fire behind him that has already decimated his home, the simple hut where he conceived and brought into this world.
His eyes fall onto the stilled body a of horse not four feet above him, lying atop a risen piece of ground, a trail of dark liquid stains the luscious grass, to eventually pool where the boy is now positioned.
It's then that it occurs to him that he now sits in the blood pool of the beast that nearly killed him years earlier; the death of the beast now stains his hair and hangs at the corner of his mouth.
The boy rolls to the side, but he can feel where the blood has already seeped into the material of his light weight clothing, the liquid coats most of his chest and he has to force down the bile that threatens to fill his mouth.
With the little bit of energy he has stored, he forces his legs to find their balance, before standing to his full height, and turning around to take in the entirety of the horror unfolding around him.
Soldiers dressed in odd clothing of metal and cloth that he had never seen before, lead the remaining livestock onto a platform that is lifted and steadied by wheels, much like their simple wagons.
The mewling from the bovines that attest to being moved and prodded, are drowned out by the protests and blood curdling screams of young women being thrown to the ground and violated by these men with decorated breastplates and aggression.
Those who are not raping and pillaging have gone about sinking their sharp bladed weapons into the bodies of the enraged villagers.
Death surrounds him; he is drowning in a sea of violence and gasping breaths, and strangled sobs.
He mentally commands himself to take action, to fight, to run, but all he can do is witness, and look upon the destruction of his reality, because even if it was a life he wanted to refuse, this wasn't how he wanted to lose it.
His gangly limbs are shaky around him as the reality of the situation sinks into his bones like weighted limbs thrown into a body of despair and murder that drags him beneath the surface, blood filling his lungs like air.
A wall of fire has formed a few yards before him, the mixture of yellow and red kissed oranges tear into the darkness illuminating it and the faces around him in destructive beauty.
It's then that he notices young boys like him being herded together and forced into a similar structure that now hold most of the villages live stock.
The men that instruct the children to move forward are dressed differently than the soldiers, their clothing lighter that seems to be made out a material similar to the linens he notices the wealthy traders and merchants wearing.
And even more peculiar and curious than their clothing is the weapon they brandish, a sleek blade gracefully curved at the middle that glints with brilliance against the embers of the reflective fire surrounding everything.
The boy's eyes fleet back to the other children from before, most of their shoulders are hunched over from injuries or fear, and he can hear some of the youngest yowling for their beaten, raped, and murdered mothers.
The vomit has now entered his mouth and he gags, before bending over to empty his already hollow stomach from their meager meal the evening prior.
The contents hit the ground, splashing up to spread at his bare feet; he tries not to touch the front of his body that is still covered in animal blood, as he rests his hands on his bended knees for balance.
After, his body is taken over by only dry heaves, the blonde haired boy, looks to the side, his back still curved, meeting eyes with a dark skinned man with golden eyes that seem to capture the flames around him in perfect coexistence.
He wears the same clothing as the other men different from the soldiers, a long blade extended out to the side, appearing to be as much part of him as his own arm.
The boy assumes he's in charge by the way the others, even the more savage soldiers hold onto his every word and instruction, the younger man is stilled by the look the man gives him and he nearly misses when the collar of his shirt is pressed into his throat, cutting off his air flow temporarily.
His small body is lifted off from the ground, as his legs dangle in the air desperately searching for ground, for something stable.
His hands instinctively go to his throat where he scratches the skin there, trying to relieve the pressure, he nearly passes out before his body hits the ground and it registers in his mind that he had been thrown, the air rushing to his lungs as he heaved and panted.
He could feel hands touch his back gently, before he sat up, perched on his knees to see his dame and sire knelt in front of him, his two older brothers on each side of him.
The divide between the children and parents was alarming to the young boy, and his stomach bottomed out at the possibility.
The blood tangling his hair is slick against his forehead and he can only imagine what his dame is seeing when she takes in his appearance, her eyes wide and scared as she shakes, her usual pinned back caramel colored hair is now displayed around her shoulders, mussed and pulled every which way as a soldier runs his filthy hands through it.
The boys eyes go to his father who keeps his broad shoulders straight, staring out into nothing, everything, his strong jaw clinched as he tries to push away the emotions his mate's cries are causing him.
He notices this determination in his sire, they come from a hardworking, proud people, where the men are as resilient as the lands they live on, and this is what puzzles the boy when he sees a single tear rush down his sire's bruised blooded face, his blonde hair soaked in blood.
His sire was never cold, but it was rare to see him show any emotion, and this is when the boy can feel the world shatter into dust.
This is the moment where he no longer has to assume his world will end, this is the moment his fate has arrived along with his demise.
The boy bites his dry tongue, the taste of blood and soot present, as his eyes work up above his sire's head to see a man dressed in the odd clothing.
His pants are dark in color and cling to his lower half, as a shirt the boy would almost describe as a blouse hangs loosely around the man's waist, a dark colored cloak rides the cold wind behind him.
The boy is in awe of the man, but he also knows to show fear, but against his better judgment, or defiance, as his dame calls it, the boy keeps his eyes locked with the man looming over his sire.
He watches him as he rounds the adults to stand behind the boy and his brothers, before crouching, his breath hot and sickening against the boy's ear.
"I want you to take that rock," the boy's eyes follow to where the man points, "and strike your mother over the temple with it, not stopping until she isn't moving any longer."
The boy can feel all of his strength leave his body as he hears the older boys cry out, his mother's tears coming out with strangled sobs, but the young boy keeps silent, like his sire.
He doesn't have time to respond before, the man behind him waves a hand at the soldier who was running his hands over his dame's body.
The soldier nods sharply before pulling out a blade his other hand gripping the woman's hair tightly down to the scalp, and digging in to the flesh of her throat before dragging the blade across and up.
Blood rushes down her body and the gurgled cries that escape her mouth are torturous, her voice that rung out into the fields as she chased them when they were younger was now drowning in a sea of blood.
Her body fell to the ground separating the boy from his sire, the man keeping his eyes forward, careful not to react, but the boy could see the pain forming in his eyes, the choking sense of grief.
The soldier's hand falters on the handle of the dagger, as it's now slick and covered in his dame's blood, her body displayed on the ground, his brothers crying out.
The boy reacts as best and he can, scrambling over his dame's body to reach for the blade, her blood warm and sticky against his palm.
He lurches forward toward the soldier who has just now realized what is happening, the blade sinking into his thigh.
The man cries out in pain, he falls to the ground waiting for the final blow but as the boy hovers over the man who killed his dame, he hesitates, the fuel of rage leaving him to be filled by regret.
The knife is still positioned in the air, ready to strike, when he feels his wrist being twisted, the blade falling and he's snatched away from the injured soldier.
The boy struggles against the strong arms, his legs kicking out, and the man behind him strong, as he holds the boy firmly against him.
The man from before who had ordered his dame's murder holds his face forward, the man's nails digging into the soft skin of his cheek.
Everything seems to slow down as the boy is forced to watch his sire die the way his dame had just minutes prior, his sire's rich colored blue eyes locked with the young boys before he collapsed to the ground, his jaw set not to cry out, his sire proud to the last second.
The man still holds the boy up off of the ground when he speaks in his ear, "You'll be taught not to hesitate."
The boy is thrown to the ground, his small body hitting the soil with a thud, he looks up to meet eyes with the man from before who had never stopped watching the events before him.
The boy begins to rise up on his hands before he's kicked a few feet down a small hill, his body landing near one of the many fires ravaging the land.
He digs his fingers into the earth attempting to slow his skid downwards, however his leg is caught in the flames, and he feels the heat knowing at his flesh.
He can still feel the heat from the fire when his eyes open, the dream being more his reality than the stone walls which form the room where his alcove is located.
He lays there still, eyes trained on the vaulted ceiling above him, he can feel a pull, as if something is beckoning him forward.
It always seems to happen when he's in the limbo of sleep and waking.
He can feel his pulse race as beads of sweat roll down the sides of his face, he feels foolish for allowing his emotions to control him physically.
He's aware of how ignorant it is to morn those who no longer have any significance to your life, he had transcended to a new state of being, where empathy and conscience were matters he needn't be bothered with.
He was a brother in The Order, and with it he was saved from the turbulence of emotional awareness.
Out of reflex his hand traveled down to his left leg where he knew the scars would be a memory that kept him tethered to the past.
Indented skin and raised edges etched along the skin of his calf, a constant reminder of what weakness could bring you, because he knew his unwillingness to finish off the soldier set in motion the pain he felt later on.
The pulsating pain from the burn had nearly sent him into to unconsciousness, as he was pulled from the fire by a pair of hands stronger than his had been as a boy.
His head had begun to throb by the overwhelming anxiety and reality of the moment when he looked up into the face of the owner whose arms were cradling his injured body.
Deep gold that he had seen before through the wall of flames looked back to him, the creases around his eyes kind, he remember opening his mouth to speak but the dark skinned man stopped him.
"No, don't try to speak now, boy,"his voice soft but firm,"You'll soon enough be forced into more pain and you need to rest. For now I'll carry you the way."
It was peculiar how safe he had felt in this man's presence as his sire and dame's bodies lay forgotten among the decimation.
Although the time had been fleeting, as he was soon thrown into the wagon, taken from the man's arms, to land beside the feet of other boys from his village who were now too prisoners.
He sat up abruptly pushing the past back into his mind where it belonged, because the small boy who refused to act, and take on his true nature wasn't a part of him anymore, he had long buried him through the agony of pain and reconditioning, only his name remained as proof of his life then.
But even then, being referred to as Peeta felt strange like a layer of skin that should have long ago flaked off.
The silk fabric consisting of his bedding slid against the sweat forming at the skin of legs, as he straightened his posture, his palms laid flat on the stone floor.
He breathed in slowly attempting to take control of his thoughts; a metallic taste coated his mouth, his tongue heavy from being dry and in bad need of saturation.
The room was silent, with only the sounds of his fellow brothers' restful sleep, Peeta always felt ashamed of how he still allowed his emotions to affect him when the others didn't seem to suffer from this same problem.
He turned his head to the far wall where the lit lanterns hanging above casted fire light, the glowing hue breaking through the shadows to create shapes and stories birthed from the joining of light and darkness.
He averted his eyes from the wall, his hands going to his damp hair that had fallen before his eyes, the ends of the strands tickling his lashes.
Holding onto his hair he curled his fingers into his scalp, a pinching sensation filled the nerves located underneath his skin, the gentle pain giving him the distraction from the anxiety that was now melting away.
He was aware of how others outside of the Order would see it as barbaric, but to reign in emotional chaos with pain was a tactic used to train those worthy enough to be a part of the Order, to be a brother.
Pain was a part of his daily life, and he had more than survived through it he had risen above, because death was his skill. It was his true talent, and he wielded the weapon with grace and ruthlessness.
The air hitting her back is cool and causes the skin there to rise tickling her bare flesh with tiny bumps; the cool wind touching the sweat there only makes the temperature seem more frigid.
However the heat that's produced from their chests being pressed together causes her mind to become foggy in a sea of lust and sensations.
His hands are firm, and calloused as they travel up her spine, his fingers lightly scratching the taut flesh there.
A trail of warm, wet kisses are placed from her jaw line down to her breasts, his tongue dragging along her pimpled flesh. Her body is perched in front of his sitting up as he holds her to him, her legs wrapped around his waist giving her leverage as he enters her.
She can feel him inside her, every bit of warmth her body can produce has pooled between her thighs where their bodies are joined.
The rhythm of his hips enticing as they connected with hers with intoxicating pressure, a heady combination of sweat and labored breathing.
All of the heat seemed to have left the atmospheres to radiate around their bodies like a protective shell, the air now heavy as she inhales rapidly, the sensations taking her over.
Her head lulls back, the portions of her dark hair that are not plastered to her sweat soaked skin, hangs behind her running down the length of her bare back, his fingers clawing, grabbing for the strands.
The ruins surrounding them towered above, the stone chipped but resilient, an air of strength and wisdom.
Broken pieces of stone surrounded their bare bodies, the cracks allowing moonlight to shine through casting the pair of lovers in a glow.
She could hear his quiet moans beside her as she bore down, as they both fought for dominance.
With her face pointed upwards, her body riding a wave of sensations that could turn a person mad, the partial buildings created a perfect view of the moon.
However, when her vision focused, she caught her breath as the silver colored moon began to turn blood red.
A shiver runs through her, and it's then that she is acutely aware of the absence of his hands on her skin, the absence of his body beside and connected to hers.
Her mind is still spinning when she faces forward to now find herself standing in a dark field, the grass swaying against her bare feet, the hem of the white gown she bow wears tickles the sides of her ankles as it bends in the wind.
The sky too has changed along with her surroundings and clothing, the night black and cold with streaks of vibrant blue casting lines, breaking through the void of color.
She can barely let out another breath before the sky bursts with an array of color; she instinctively throws her arms up before her face shielding her from any harm.
Her long dark hair has served as a curtain, the soft strands swaying in the wind; she peeks past the mass of hair and arms to see that the sky has now settled in a mixture of muted and neon lights.
She lowers her guard, fascinated by the sight when a strange odor in the air rides to her nostrils, the smell making her want to gag, before it covers her tongue in a metallic residue.
Even with the darkness surrounding her she can see flecks of red floating around her, and by the second the area is covered in them.
The realization that she is breathing in the residue of those past, comes to her slowly, she can feel her stomach drop when she's positive that she now can taste blood of those loss in her mouth.
Her raw throat is coated in bile as it slowly rises up to settle in the back of her mouth, when the sight before her unfolds.
Miles upon miles of the land that had once been fertile with vegetation is now covered with the corpses of fallen men, their limbs mangled and twisted in inhuman ways, depicting the macabre tales her father would recite to her when she was a child.
Death upon death surrounded her, threatening to swallow the light that she emanates simply by breathing.
She had held back her anxiety, proud of her self control until she felt light scratching at the exposed skin of her ankle, she looked down with frightened wide eyes to see the corpses that were once still, crawling towards her, wanting to bring her down into their depths.
Her skin burned by their violent marks, her flesh tearing from the jagged edges of their nails, her body inched closer and closer to the ground until the corpses covered her view of the colorful sky and she was now a part of their world, sinking into the nothingness of despair, into the black sludge of the earth.
She can hear her name whispered like a slur before her heart stops beating…Katniss.
Her eyes open wide as her chest rises with shallow strangled breathes, her body not yet able to move as the sensation of hands dragging her to the ground is still haunt her skin.
She's able to look down to her arm, the absence of someone else's grip is noticeable, but the pain from sharp nails digging into her skin is still felt.
She tries to quell her anxieties as the phantom touches are still present, even after years of suffering from the visions, the after effects still take as much from her as they did when she was a child.
After a few minutes of deep deliberate breathing, she's able to calm herself down, the sensations of pain washed away.
A chilled breeze hits the bare skin of her legs as it travels into the stone room, the arch way open, beautiful as the architecture of the abbey is, it's impractical when it comes to regulating the temperature.
The heels of her bare feet kicked against the soft linens of her pallet, the sweet aroma of wild flowers that she pressed underneath the material wafts through the room catching the breeze.
She's grown accustomed to sneaking out of the abbey to walk through the surrounding forest that leads to a vast field covered in wild flowers, even in the biting cold of the winter months.
They remind her of strength through adversity, that beauty can come from great loss.
Katniss sits up pulling her bare knees to her chest; the thin material of her sleeping gown does little to keep out the cool air that now fills the space around her.
She can feel herself tremble from the memory of the vision, her nails digging into the skin above her sheens for leverage as she rocks back and forth.
The death toll must have been in the thousands at least, a sea of broken men covered in decay and dried blood seeping from wounds.
It's then that the taste of metal forms on her tongue again, she opens her mouth quickly to frantically scrap the skin of her tongue.
Her nails dig into the taste buds, trying to remove the sensation, though she knows the truth, that there really isn't any blood on her tongue but the small amount that she has produced by placing red welts due to her scratching.
Her nervous system is sending the vision through her body, to remind her of the importance that it represents, so she won't easily forget it after she wakes.
She believes it to be cruel, an outdated occurrence that the ancients devised when they sent the magic into the universe, placating for a divine see'er, for the touched.
Katniss merely saw it as men who would rather see young women tear themselves apart then have to endure the misery and responsibility themselves.
The stench and the taste of blood still hung around her and she hoped it would fade soon, the metallic undertone in the air making her ill.
Her chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, as her breathing intensifies, her knees pressing into breasts, the pressure painful to the sensitive skin.
Katniss lays her legs out in front of her, stretching the muscles there.
The absences of her knees allow the material of her nightgown to relax, the neckline of her gown falling to expose the top of her breasts.
She instinctively readjusts the soft material, the pads of her fingers brushing the curve of skin there; it's then that she realizes that her breathing hadn't been from the reminder of blood but by the feel of strong hands, and sweat trailing down her skin as she moved in rhythm with the faceless man's body.
A warmth rising up her legs settles between her thighs where she remembers him buried deep within her. Her body has already begun to react, when she pulls her hands from her chest where they rested to move them over her face.
She felt ashamed of her reaction and of the vision, if that's what it could be determined as, there was still a possibility that deep seeded wanting had translated into a vision.
It was far more a possibility that she her own hormonal state had worked its way into one of her visions, therefore producing the presence of the man, who seemed to know the landscape of her body more accurately than even she did.
It was unheard of for a touched to copulate with anyone, because her virginal state ensured that the vision would be pure, because she was a vessel for something much more important than intercourse or conception.
Katniss was fully aware of her calling and sense of duties; they had been ingrained in her since her first arrival to the abbey when she had barely turned eight.
Obligation was something that she had to come to terms with when regarding her visions, because every sense she had was taken over by destruction, death, birth, and prophecy.
She had been walking the trail outside her village when she had fallen the first time, her head had become heavy and she could feel a dizzy spell come over her.
Her small frame hit the ground with a thud, and before she could call out her mind was flooded with foreign images depicting the death of men she recognized from town, some who were fathers of her classmates at her country school.
The dark walls of the mine exploded in a flurry of heat and color, and coal dust that coated everything in sight.
Afterwards as she held her head in between her hands writhing on the pebble trail, a high pitch scream of agony clawed out from her throat as coal dust coated her tongue.
Her fellow villagers looked upon her like a mad girl whose mind had finally collapsed, she could see out of the corner of her eye where small children were carried away by their parents, frightened she was suffering from a disease that could be caught.
Her father had finally found her, scooping her up in his strong arms, to finally carry her home where she wailed for the past night, her throat raw, but she was powerless against the surge of pain and images that flooded her.
In between unconsciousness she could hear her parents murmuring to each other about the possibility that she may be inflicted with something serious, but it wasn't until the earth shook that the real concerns began.
Even as a young girl, Katniss already knew that the men whose dead bodies had hung in her mind, were now dead, and like a breath the pain had ceased and she could see clear for the first time in nearly a day.
The vision no longer screaming to be heard, had come to pass, and with its arrival the omen was now useless.
The mine had collapsed and souls were loss, grief filled the village and it wasn't long after the viduals that the love ones of the deceased came to her home, demanding justice.
They were convinced she was a child of darkness, perhaps a witch of dark magic that the tales told of.
Her father held his ground, protecting his child when even her mother seemed to have doubts about her.
He kept his place by her side, never allowing her to be outside alone, and at nights he slept on the hard floor of their cabin beside her bed, to keep watch over her.
The day he left her side was the moment the see'er from the Order came to take her to the abbey and begin her training.
The tale of her foreseeing the accident had made its way through the valley, and even more peculiar was the fact that the man had already seen her dark hair and grey eyes in his mind, before her first vision.
See'ers of the Order had great power and it was their duty to train the girl who would be deemed the touched, and in the past these men who were called to the faction to be servants to a greater purpose, waited until another touched was called.
It was known for generations to pass before a girl was called upon by the ancients, spirits who watched over the mortals.
Few had ever heard of the touched in their lifetime, and even then they were a part of tales that were told to children seeking a narrative.
The young girls who were chosen rarely came from anything but noble blood, girls who had golden lives with silk sheets and creamed desserts.
However, Katniss was a peasant and the daughter of a miner, her hands were already calloused from working the land and practicing her bow to hunt game, she wasn't lady like and she never liked the color pink or things that had ruffle stitched at the seams.
So when the man of the Order who only referred to himself as brother, who later would begrudgingly allow her to call him Abernathy, came to take her away from her family to learn her calling, it had come as a surprise.
Her mother had kissed her gingerly, still afraid of the power her daughter was able to wield, before her father took her into a deep embrace kissing her temple, to tell her of the great destiny she had before her.
It was peculiar to her, because at eight the only destiny she wanted was to be able to climb trees and pelt rotten apples at the neighbor boy Gale, who always teased her about her knobby knees.
But she had gone with the brother, and as she walked with him down the path leading away from her home, the place she had been born to, she felt hollow and lost.
Though she couldn't deny the relief she felt in knowing that she wasn't damned, but favored by the spirits to transcend to a new state of being.
However, she had been naive in her youth to not predict the pain and hours of study, she would have to endure until her mind felt as though it would cave in on itself.
Katniss pushes herself off of the ground along with her memories to walk over to the far end of the room, her bare feet padding along the stone ground.
She tries to hold back her disappointment when she holds up the simple white gown that she is instructed to wear every day.
Through the years she had hoped the monks would have mellowed out over tradition when it came to attire she was allowed to wear, but it was deemed appalling for a woman as important as the touched to wear something as demeaning as trousers.
Katniss wasn't aware of how slacks could be interpreted as disgraceful, but she did know how tiring it was to always have to cross her legs while sitting or how the long hems would become tangled in the branches and leaves that littered the forest floor.
But as always she attempted to fake her obedience, because then at least she didn't have to see the disapproving looks of the monks, who some still thought it was a mistake for her to be deemed worthy enough to be chosen.
It seemed only Abernathy, her mentor who had seen the vision of her, believe for the predictions to be true, but it was also an open secret around the abbey that he had a fondness for liquor.
It had started out as a way for him to cope with the repercussions of his visions, but soon became a way of life as easy as breathing.
But even if the consensus was that she wasn't worthy she had still been kept in the abbey for the past nine years of her life, training and learning to control the toll that the visions took on her and her body.
The abbey was a place of tradition ingrained in those men who were called upon to become brothers of the faction, and in that certain obligations were assumed to be met.
They sacrificed their own wants and desire to study humility and sacrifice, their emotions numbed to ensure rational thought.
The stones that formed the fortress were fortified and aged; they held a wisdom that could only be met by witnessing hundreds of years of tradition.
There times the abbey felt closer to a prison than a home for Katniss but in her better judgment she knew that the rules were there to protect her, but even then she couldn't quell her defiant nature.
Katniss laid the dress back down to pull her gown over her head, her dark hair falling down her back, the touch of the strands only reminding her of the boy who pulled at them in desperation.
A shiver traveled up her spine to crawl around her sides and settle at perky nipples that had already reacted to his memory, Katniss growled in frustration, before throwing the gown to the side and bringing the white dress down over her bare body.
Without much thought she pulled on the tall boots she had snuck from a trader's cart, who had come by the abbey a year before, the leather tight and comforting against the skin of her legs.
When the laces were done to her liking, Katniss balanced herself, reaching for a dark velvet cloak that she used when sneaking beyond the walls of the abbey.
It had a deep hood stitched at the base of her neck; easily covering her face if the need arise.
She knew it wasn't long until the morning bells would chime, and she needed to be over the walls before then.
Hastily she pulled the strings of the cloak to her neck, securing the fabric at her back as she raced out of her room and down the stone steps leading down to the courtyard.
She has to duck behind walls, as the stray brother monk passes by, her mouth formed in a wide grin, pleased with being mischievous.
When she makes it to the far wall she has to take a running start before jumping up a few feet, using the cracks in the wall for footing and then eventually hoisting herself over to jump down.
Her feet hit the ground hard, and she can breathe free before running to the tree line, where she knows she'll be out of sight. The light begins to shine through the leaves and she feels like herself for the first time in hours. Her fingers tap each tree trying to locate a special item that she keeps in secret out in her woods; she begins to grow tired with her search when eventually she finds it.
A simple weapon, curved at the ends, that leads to a tight string, is precious to her, and she longs to hold it in her hand, to feel powerful and even graceful.
Katniss slings the bow over her shoulder, before reaching for her quiver of homemade arrows, her trek is light and agile and she thanks Abernathy for teaching her to walk as such.
She begins to drown out her own breathing to hear the forest breath, its own kind of life with birth and wonderment.
The woods are the place where she can come to terms with being chosen, because here she can remind herself that there are things greater than she at work and she is merely a servant to those forces.
The wind wraps around him, pushing the soft hairs beside his ears forward to tickle the skin at his lobes.
He sits with his eyes closed concentrating on the sounds and sensations around him, the ends of his lashes touching above his eye socket, the warmth that spreads over the expanse of his broad back as the sun shines down onto him, mostly he feels hollowness where his conscience should be.
At first when he had mastered the ability to feel nothing it was a release from the burden of empathy and morality, but as the years pass he began to feel similar to a void, where anything of purpose plummeted into darkness.
However, he was aware that emotions were humanity at its worse, men for centuries allowed their own selfish needs to burn down cities and cut down those who stood in their way.
But there were times when he was alone in dark with only his thoughts to keep him company that he began to recollect the destruction and death his own hands had offered many men.
Even as a boy he never felt that farming the land was his calling, but even the first time he held a sword he felt a sense of power that seeped down into his bones.
He knew now he was a dealer of death, and his skill was nearly unparallel, by any other brother in the Order.
Peeta owed his life to Master Snow, he had shown him true enlightenment, a man who had the forethought to take it upon himself to create his own faction of the Order from young boys of humble beginnings and show them a purpose.
He reached out, his eyes still closed; trailing his fingers over the blade of his sword, the curve of the masterpiece was delicate underneath the pads of his fingers.
His hand stills when he hears approaching footsteps, the blue of his eyes now showing as they are now wide open, and his grip tightening over the handle of the weapon.
Peeta keeps his guard up, until the soldier informs him of Master Snow's command to speak with him at once, he keeps his back to the man as he brings his sword behind him to sheath it.
Pushing himself from the ground, the stones of the courtyard cracked and aged, Peeta turns to his left to proceed to where he knows the Master to spend most of his days when he's not holding court.
As he makes his way through the winding corridors of the high arched architecture, rich colored tapestries cover the walls, threads of oranges and deep blue's twist and run together to create images depicting war and conquest.
When he's halfway to the maze of hallways that lead down into the belly of the palace, the tapestries and stone carving begin to disappear, to be replaced by a foul odor of death and mildew.
Peeta swallows hard before pushing forward, a heavy wooden door in front of him, his fingers barely touching the slats before laying his palm flat to press it open.
A strong stench catches in his throat as it wafts through the room, barely any light but from a candle wick is casted into the room and the lack of warmth is almost poetic, because even Peeta knows only death exists in this room.
He keeps his footsteps quiet and deliberate as he enters the room, keeping an eye out for the decrepit, blind women.
A shiver rides through him, when he sees them hunched over a steel bowl their long pointed nails scratching the bottom, as their fingers trail through blood.
The stench of the rotted animal hits him in the face before he spots it hanging upside down bleeding from every surface.
He can faintly hear them chanting and talking amongst themselves before he sees the Master watching the women intently.
Peeta tries to ignore the women to his right as he makes his way over to the older man, who has his finger pressed to his lips, waiting impatiently.
Peeta is sure to bow his head before advancing on the man, his voice low and respectful, "Sire, you sent for me?"
Snow seems to almost not notice the younger man at first, before he lets out a satisfied sigh, "Oh yes, brother it seems that the mothers have located the touched, she's very near."
Peeta is cautious not to come off as overly shocked, "Sire? That would be a great advantage for man of your standing; it could bring you much power to have a touched underneath your tutelage."
Snow nods pleased with Peeta's answer, however something makes him question, "If I can be so bold to ask, sire? Why wasn't my brother Cinna informed of this before me? He is in command of your Order; I am only a basic cleric of no power."
Snow nods, "That may be it, brother Peeta, but I value your loyalty and skill," Snow turned to Peeta for the first time, "You are truly the product I was hoping for when I first embarked on this journey. You have a grace for killing that is commendable and to be respected, even if you do come from the lineage of farmers."
Peeta bowed his head, his jaw gritted, "Thank you, sire."
Snow waved him on, "Go now, brother and inform the others that we shall have a location soon."
Peeta bowed once more before exiting the room, his stomach in knots from the presence of the others in the room.
When Snow wasn't able to hear his footsteps no longer he turned to one of the mothers who now stood beside him.
The woman hunches over, her body nearly broken, her voice coming out high pitched, "That one should be watched his fate is murky even to us."
Snow nodded his thanks, as she walked back to her sisters, their hands buried in the animal blood as they drew their symbols.
He was well aware of the young boy's skill and loyalty, but there were still moments when he questioned the boys will against empathy.
He supposed he would soon find out how far he could push the young man before he broke.
A/N: This is the story that I had mentioned at the end of 'The Other Hawthorne'. I hope it was enjoyable, and I should have an update in a week or so. Please Review!