Katniss rolled in a sea of blood, unable to move, helplessly bumping against the limp human debris that swayed and danced in the current with her. Back and forth they undulated, scraps and bones and hanks of matted hair swirling past her, inconsequential as dust to her dead eyes. No one was coming for her, she was alone, alone among the dead and the lost and the forgotten. Surely her final breathe would come soon, she longed for it, willed her chest to stop rising, stop sucking in the blood and tissue; she could taste the bitter iron on her tongue. Let her die among the remains of those she had failed.
A twisted and scarred hand floated out of the gloom, wrapped itself around her ankle, and begun dragging her down, down, down into the black. The world turned cold, rain splashed on her skin, washing the blood from her in tiny rivers. Opening her eyes, she gazed upon the being –the man—that was dragging her over piles of concrete rubble, twisted pipes and splintered wood. It was Peeta, his skin blackened and cracked, clothes in tatters. Katniss screamed, yanking her foot from his grasp as he spun towards her; his eyes were sunken into his skull, vacant. Katniss tried to flee from him, but he lunged, hands outstretched towards her throat. He smelled of roses. Gagging, Katniss struck out at him as his shrunken hands closed around her throat; to her horror, her hand broke right through his chest, his ribs shattering to dust. Katniss screamed and screamed; Peeta's chest was empty. They had taken his heart.
Katniss startled awake, gasping for air and clawing at her throat, trying her hardest not to scream, a keening whimper escaping her throat as her eyes darted around the dark room, still half in the dream. Where was she? She couldn't remember, couldn't remember what had happened. It was stuffy and hot, rivulets of sweat were running down her back. Blood. Blood running down her skin in the rain. The smell of roses. Peeta. Her mouth filled with saliva, the meager contents of her stomach threatening to come up at the memory; she clamped a hand over her mouth, whimpering.
Something stirred and sat up next to her, looming pale in the dark. Katniss moaned, shying away from the figure, curling against the damp wall to her right.
"Kat? Katniss?" The voice was soft and feminine, but even heavy with sleep it had an edge to it. Cressida. It was Cressida. Katniss covered her face with shaking hands, trying to breathe steadily. They were in the Tigris' basement. She was going to assassinate Snow. Peeta was alive. Gale was alive. Prim was alive. She was, for the moment, alive.
Katniss heard a rustle of furs and blankets as Cressida scooted closer.
"It was just a dream, Kat." Cressida gently whispered. Katniss felt a light brush of fingers on her shoulder, and she recoiled, the images in her dream flashing, static-like, in the stuffy dark. Was she really awake? The wall was cold, rough-hewn stone. There weren't any windows. She was underground. A tomb. She began to hyperventilate, the fingers of one hand clawing at the stone, her eyes squeezed shut.
A warm hand closed around her left wrist, firm but gentle. "Kat, Kat it's okay, you're awake." Cressida murmured, slowly drawing Katniss' hand away, into the dark, towards herself. Katniss covered her head with her other hand, sobbing into her elbow, expecting to feel the dry scrape of bare bone, and another empty chest. She couldn't bear it. Instead, she felt warm skin, solid and real. Cressida was holding Katniss' hand against her chest, under her collarbone.
"Here you go, Kat. See? I'm real. You're awake. You're okay. We're okay." Cressida crooned, still holding gently to Katniss' wrist.
Katniss exhaled, focusing on her fingertips, and the warmth of Cressida's skin. She became still, almost falling back into herself when she realized that the fluttering feeling in her fingers wasn't her shaking, but Cressida's heartbeat. Katniss slowly uncurled, peering wearily at Cressida; she was wearing her District 13 issue tank top and cargo pants, her hair was mussed with restless sleep, the shaved patch on the left side glowing palely in the weak light. "Cres –Cressida?" Katniss whispered hoarsely.
Cressida smiled. "There you go Kat, you feel that? You're okay. We're okay. You're awake." Cressida let go of Katniss' wrist and carefully put her hand further up her arm, gently pulling her out of the corner, murmuring her name. Katniss nearly fell over, her body going limp with the release from the dream; Cressida caught her neatly, still whispering softly, and half-carried her back over to the pile of furs and blankets.
Katniss stared, glassy-eyed at the other figures asleep in the furs as Cressida tucked her in. With a final soothing touch to Katniss' forehead, Cressida turned to her own spot in the furs. Katniss's heart jumped into her throat, and she grabbed at Cressida's arm. She had no words, they had all dried up.
Cressida paused, her brow furrowed in the middle as she met Katniss' gaze, considering. One second, two seconds passed and then Cressida scooted closer to Katniss, laying down on her back and opening her arms in silent invitation.
Katniss' breathing slowed as Cressida's arms gingerly enfolded her. Cressida's left hand ran soothingly along her neck and through her hair, the other wrapped around her shoulder and back, holding her body firmly against her side. Cressida smelled of gunpowder and dirt, they all did, but her body was soft, and warm, her presence solid. Katniss' cheek was pressed to Cressida's chest, the steady rhythm of her heart loud in her ear, singing to her of life and health. Katniss felt her eyes close, her heart beat slowing to match the rhythm under her ear.
Cressida lay awake, staring unseeingly into the dark, gently guiding the Girl on Fire through her dreams.