The Corunucopia is so close, its golden light blinding at this distance. At its mouth, the bow and arrow. The bow and arrow that is survival. If I can just get to it, maybe I won't die. If I don't, I will die, with only the chorus of feral snarls and growls to farewell me from this life.
The force of impact on my back sends me sprawling on the ground. I roll over on my back and kick the mutt off my stomach, but before I can scramble back to my feet another sails through the air with a gut-wrenching snarl and lands heavily on my stomach, clawing the flesh beneath my tattered clothes. The foul stench of their breath fills my lungs and I turn my head away as I push it off.
But for every mutt I shove off, another leaps forward to take its place. Their teeth and claws tear at my flesh and their snarls and howls fill the air. The pain is more immense than anything I have ever known but I cannot scream for help, I cannot run away. They keep coming, wave after wave, until I just give up. I stop struggling. I let them tear me apart, I let them lap up the blood that flows from my wounds. I stare up with grim determination, hoping, waiting for the moment when the sea of fur will part to show me the sky, or just fade away altogether.
It takes me a while to notice that the attack has stopped. I can still hear the mutts, can still smell the blood- my blood- on their breath, but they're just watching me. With what little strength I have left in my shattered bones, I roll to face them. I'm greeted by a sea of dog faces- frail dogs with wiry white fur, big dogs with endless sea-green eyes. At their head is a small dog with silvery-blonde fur and soft blue eyes that remind me of home. Its tail is shorter than the rest, and blunter, more like a duck's than a dog's. Out of the entire pack, this mutt is the only one with no blood on its muzzle.
"Prim…?" My voice is so hoarse I can barely hear it. But all the same, the word sparks a flicker of hope in my heart. Prim will come through for me. She's my little sister. Prim can save me. She knows I'd do the same for her.
Before I can do anything else, the Prim-mutt lunges for my face.
I scream myself back into consciousness just before I hit the floor. The transition of bed to floor doesn't slow me down- I scramble to my feet and keep running. The terror of being chased sends me flying down the corridor, falling and stumbling. I'm not screaming anymore because there is no air left in my lungs, and my throat is so hoarse I would barely be able to speak anyway. All that matters now is getting away from them. The Mags-mutt. The Finnick-mutt. The Prim-mutt. The mutt of every person who ever died because of me. Hunting me down, thirsty for my blood, the only payment for what I have done to them.
I don't feel the cold as I burst out into the night. Even when I fall onto my hands and knees in the middle of the Victor's Village, I feel nothing and scramble back to my feet because every second wasted on the ground is another second the mutts have to get closer and tear me apart. Already my body, still recovering from the war, is tiring from all the effort of running from ghosts.
But they're not ghosts. Not really. As long as they come for me, night after night, they will be real. Horrifically, painfully, terrifyingly real. I will never escape them, because no matter how far you run, you can't run away from yourself.
Without warning, I slam into a broad, softly-padded chest and go reeling back into the snow. Snow. President's Snow laughter, the sound of him choking on his own blood after I killed President Coin, fills my ears, and I scream. I flail about madly, curling up into a ball with my head between my knees and my arms over my head, as though that can protect me from the terrors of my mind. Tears begin to fall, and I don't stop them. I sit in the silent winter night, nestled in the cold grip of snow, and with my eyes squeezed shut I wait for morning, the soft light that means I can be safe from the terror of the night.
I scream again when I feel arms settle about my shoulders. I struggle and try to push away, but the arms tighten, holding me close. I hear a voice, a voice I recognize, but not the words. Sobs rack my body as I slowly let myself succumb to Peeta, burying my head into his chest and feeling his warm breath slide down my neck as he tries to comfort me.
His artificial leg creaks as he repositions himself, sliding his arms gently under my back and legs. I let him carry me back into his house, still half-curled up, and holding onto his jacket like my life depends on it. He sets me down on the couch and it's only when he wraps three blankets around me that I realize how badly I'm shaking. I feel his warm fingers wrap around my cold ones and gently try to prise my hand from his jacket, but I refuse to let him go. I don't want him to leave.
"It's OK, Katniss. I'll be back. I promise," he whispers, and after a moment of hesitation, I reluctantly let him go, because in spite of everything Peeta has never once lied to me.
I bury my head in my blankets as Peeta leaves, trying to regulate my breathing and stop the tears. But every time I tell myself not to think about the nightmare, I see the Prim-mutt lunging for me and burst into tears again. When Peeta returns and pulls the blankets down, uncovering my head, it feels almost like a punishment. He gently wraps my hands around a steaming mug of hot chocolate and watches me carefully as I take little sips from it, staring at the ground. As the warmth seeps into my bones my muscles begin to relax and the blankets gradually slide away from my previously hunched body. When I drain the mug under his watchful eye, I set it down carefully, and without hesitation open my arms. Peeta obeys immediately, enveloping me in his embrace and squeezing me tight. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and let the tears fall. Again.
"It's OK, Katniss," he whispers, rocking back and forth. "I'm here. I won't let them come anywhere near you. No-one is going to hurt you now. It's OK. They're not real, it was just a dream. I'm here, Katniss, I won't let them hurt you."
I don't say anything. I can't. My throat is too tight, the tears are falling too thick and fast for words to be entirely coherent. Peeta repeats his words like a mantra, and like the hot chocolate they spread warmth through my cold bones, warming me to the core.
I don't remember falling asleep, but when I open my eyes I'm curled up on Peeta's couch, covered with three blankets just as he left me lastnight. I try to remember what happened, but it all seems so hazy. All I remember is running for what felt like miles until I collapsed in the snow and Peeta found me. I shiver as I think of what might have happened to me if he hadn't found me. Would I have stayed curled up in the snow until morning? Would he have stepped out to deliver me my usual cheese bun rations only to find my lifeless body under a blanket of snow? Once again, I owe my life to Peeta Mellark.
Slowly, stiffly, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the couch. I ditch all of the blankets except for one, keeping it wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak as I follow my nose to the kitchen. Sure enough, he's there, as he usually is. On the table sits a plate of freshly baked toast with neat pots of spread arranged around it and a pot of what smells like hot chocolate nearby. I wonder how long he's been up, or if he has just been continuously making fresh batches of bread and hot chocolate until I wake up.
I watch his back silently for a while. If he knows I'm here, he doesn't react. It looks like he's still wearing his pyjamas with a very outdoorsy-looking jacket all squashed beneath his apron. His blonde hair gleams like silver thread in the winter sunlight that trickles through the window, and I remember how it was impossible to distinguish snowflakes from his hair and how they sometimes got stuck in his eyelashes when it was snowing. I remember how beautiful he looks in winter, with the white background and his blue eyes and the blonde hair. And his smile. Crooked and bittersweet as it now sometimes is, it's probably one of the most refreshing sights for an eye as sore as mine.
He slides something into an oven and turns, wiping his hands down on his apron. He pauses and blinks when he sees me, and then scans my face as though he's not sure whether he should smile or hug me.
"Good morning," he says carefully. "I hope you slept OK. I would've brought you upstairs to a spare bed, but I wasn't sure if I should move you."
"It's fine," I croak, surprised by how hoarse my voice is. I clear my throat. "Thanks for letting me stay."
Peeta shakes his head. "Don't mention it," he says, like it was no big deal. "Do you want some breakfast?"
I sit at the table and he joins me. We eat and drink in silence. I want to slam my head on the table- I ran through the Victor's Village in my pyjamas screaming in the middle of the night and he saved me and we talk about it like it's completely normal. In a way, it is, but our mannerisms are so formal it's almost more painful than the dream-mutt attack.
When I finally speak, it's probably the dumbest thing I've ever said. "I didn't know you wore a jacket to bed."
Peeta smiles. "I don't," he admits. "I heard you screaming. I was coming to see if you were OK."
"Oh." I don't know what to say. What is there to say? Peeta is impossibly good, and for reasons unfathomable to me still loves me, regardless of every wrong I've ever done to him. Nothing new there.
"Are you OK?" he asks after a while.
I almost laugh. Almost. "What do you think?" I ask. My voice breaks at the end, wavering pathetically.
He reaches across the table and grasps my clenched fists, and I feel obliged to meet his eyes. He's staring at me with an incredible intensity, and I can't tear my gaze away. "What happened?" he asks. Not in the demanding way. He sounds genuinely concerned.
"Mutts," I whisper, finally dragging my gaze away and watching our enjoined hands intently. "Of… They died, Peeta. They're all dead because of me! And- and Finnick, he was just married, and he had a baby, and I took everything away from him and from Annie and-"
I choke on a sob and the tears fall before I can stop them. I let my forehead fall onto the mass of bones and skin that is our hands. I flinch in surprise when I feel Peeta's lips pressing against my head, but I don't try to move away.
"Hey." Peeta murmurs. Every word resonates through my skull, despite the fact that his voice is soft. "Finnick was a brave man. He wouldn't have wanted to die any other way. He died fighting for freedom. He fought for Annie and his son. He fought for a worthy cause, and he died a hero."
"But he shouldn't have died," I sniff quietly. "No-one should have."
"No," Peeta agrees softly. "They shouldn't have. But you have to understand that it wasn't your fault. The Capitol created the Games, and without those none of this would have happened."
I try to think of an alternate universe where there was never any such thing as the Hunger Games. An alternate world where I may never have met Peeta. Somehow it seems more unthinkable than a world with the Hunger Games, but I don't dwell on it.
Silence falls for a time. Neither of us move. The tears have stopped, but I don't want Peeta to move away. I find strength in his every word, in his very being.
"Do you see them?" I whisper. "In your dreams?"
Peeta shrugs. "Sometimes," he says, almost casually. "I see the hijacking hallucinations mostly."
As he speaks, relief floods me. This is why being with Peeta does so much more for me than being with anyone else does. Peeta and I saw everything together. Not even talking with Gale as my best friend could bring me the comfort I get from being with Peeta, because Gale could never understand the things we've seen. No-one could. That's why Peeta and I work so well together, star-crossed lovers or not. We're a team.
Peeta squeezes my hands and pulls his head away from mine. I make a strangled sound in the back of my throat and look up in alarm, catching myself before I make him come back. If he noticed my pathetic moment of weakness, he has enough grace not to show it and smiles down at me.
"Come on," he says. "I'll show you how to make your own cheese buns."
I look at him strangely but obey anyway. Who knows? This could be interesting. He keeps his fingers wrapped around one of my hands as he leads me into the kitchen, and I don't argue. His warmth is more effective than the blanket around my shoulders.
Peeta stands behind me and guides my hands across the dough, but as I expected I can't bake to save my life. You wouldn't think that there's much that can go wrong when you're just kneading dough, but you can't fail to hear the smile in Peeta's voice as he corrects me and tells me what I'm doing wrong. Eventually, I give up like the champion I am and slam the dough down on the tabletop, sending flour all over Peeta and I. I blink, affronted, and cough, sending a cloud of fine white powder across the tabletop. Peeta's shoulders shake with supressed chuckles and after a moment I can't help but to laugh as well, and before we know it we're both standing in the middle of the kitchen laughing our heads off. My laugh in particular sounds crazed and I can't help but be a little scared, but Peeta's voice, as per usual, glosses over any imperfections and brightens up the moment.
As I laugh, I feel some sort of tension leave me. I haven't really messed around like this since… Since my father died. I was fighting for my survival long before I entered the Games. Every move I ever made was carefully orchestrated by how it would affect my family and our survival. I didn't have time to mess around, to laugh. And leading a rebellion didn't help much, either. Now, standing in a warm kitchen laughing with the boy who has become something of my other half, I feel an immense weight lifted off my shoulder with every peal of laughter that comes from my mouth.
It goes on like this for months. Peeta keeps trying to teach me how to bake and paint, but of course I'm rubbish at both. I take him hunting with me some days and let him gather greens while I hunt game and set up snares. We deliver bread and meat around the little recovering town and visit Haymitch to make sure he hasn't drunken himself away. We find ways to forget about what we've seen, until night falls. Peeta is still woken up, night after night, by my screams, but I don't have another crazed running episode again. Eventually, by unspoken agreement, I begin sleeping in his house full-time in a spare room. Peeta doesn't trust himself to be in a room with me when he's asleep, when he is most vulnerable to the hijack flashbacks, but as time passes he begins to grow more confident and we drag a couch into my room. I never fall asleep in the same bed as him, but whenever I wake he is there, with his perfect words and strong arms ready to calm me down. Neither of us feels anything strange about the arrangement- by this point it's almost normality.
Until one day, in the middle of spring, that shatters everything.
I wake to the smell of pollen and the sounds of a town rebuilding itself. For a moment I drift in semiconscious bliss before realizing Peeta is not next to me. After being in the arena twice and almost losing him to the Capitol, I have become constantly paranoid about where he is. It's almost become second nature to know where my safe haven, my stronghold is, even when it's the middle of the day and I don't need him to tell me that dreams are just dreams.
I sit bolt upright in bed, sniffing carefully for the smell of baking that has almost melted into the background over the last few months. Nothing. I can't hear anyone in the kitchen. The sounds of the village outside fade away and all I can hear is the thud of my own heartbeat and how lonely it sounds without the assurance of Peeta's presence nearby. The empty house seems like less of a home and more of a prison, and I can barely breathe when I fling the covers off and stumble blindly down the corridor, calling his name.
The silence hums deafeningly in my ears.
I burst out into the Victor's Village. The spring sun is smiling down and the village is alive with life and colour, considering it wasn't that long ago that it was blown to bits. Mockingjays replicate melodies from rooftops and the primroses Peeta planted at the side of the house are blooming. It's beautiful, all right, but I hardly take any of it in because I can't see Peeta anywhere.
He wouldn't have gone out without telling me. He would have left me a note somewhere, somewhere where he knew I would find it. He definitely would have left a note… Unless he hadn't had time.
A cold hand of fear chokes my heart as I consider the possibility. Maybe there are still some Capitol supporters out there. Maybe they came and took Peeta in the dead of night. Maybe they're trying to break me again. Maybe they'll hijack him again. Maybe I'll lose him for real this time.
The thought makes me want to curl up on the ground in despair, but I force myself to be strong. I remember Katniss Everdeen, the girl who supported her family on her own for years, the girl who was on fire, the girl who became the mockingjay. I am the hunter. In the day time, in the spring, when the air is heavy with the scent of pollen and an animal can't tell friend from foe, I am in my element. I can't find Peeta? Fine. I will find him.
I take strong, controlled steps across the Village and knock boldly on Haymitch's door. Sure enough, there's no answer. I step in anyway and move straight to the kitchen, where he is quite comfortably passed out, as per usual. He still sleeps with a knife. He's more ready to stab people than he used to be- something Peeta and I learnt the hard way. I take the precaution of gently prising it from his fingers before finding a bucket and emptying cold water on his head. He splutters into consciousness and waves his empty knife hand around in a manner that I'm guessing is supposed to be threatening but just looks incredibly clumsy. He focuses on me and his eyebrows furrow.
"Whaddya want, sweetheart?" His words are alarmingly slurred. He must have passed out not long before I woke up. "Where's my knife?"
"Have you seen Peeta?" I ask, ignoring his second question. I don't expect to get a coherent, or even sensible answer from him, but I have to start somewhere.
"Who?" Haymitch says, swaying in his seat. "Is that my knife?"
I want to scream and hit him about the head, but I control my temper. "Peeta, Haymitch. Peeta Mellark. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Baker. Lives across the square from you. Currently missing. Have you seen him?"
Haymitch takes a moment to process all of this information, and I can't keep from getting a little hopeful when I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Yeah, Peeta," he murmurs. "Yeah! He… he walked out there a little while ago…" Haymitch waves a hand at the wall, two metres to the left of his grimy window.
"What was he doing?" I ask, speaking slowly and trying to keep my voice under control.
"I dunno," Haymitch mumbled grumpily. "Running, somewhere. He looked… upset?"
My eyebrows crease. What would he be running from? Where would he be running to? "Which way did he go?"
"That way," Haymitch mumbles, swinging his arm around carelessly again. He leaves it dangling in the air as if he's forgotten about it, and I steady it with my own hand and follow the direction he's pointing as if I'm looking down the shaft of an arrow.
I open my mouth to ask Haymitch just how confident he is in his answer, but I figure that he's too drunk to tell a right from a wrong. I let his arm fall and stand straight, tapping my fingers at my waist as I try to make sense of it. I feel my hunter's instincts coming back as I consider what way Peeta would have gone and why. Haymitch pointed to the inside of the Victor's Village, away from the exit that leads to the rest of the town. Only two of the houses are technically occupied- mine and Peeta's, and Haymitch's, but they're close to the exit of the Village. He was going away from any logical place that he would go. The only places left would be the abandoned houses. But why would he go there?
I freeze when I remember Haymitch's words. Running, somewhere. He looked… upset? Of course. Why didn't I think of it before? Peeta was running from me to protect me from him. It's been so long, I've almost forgotten… You wouldn't be able to tell when he smiles, but they're still there. His inner demons are still waiting.
I slam the knife into the table and take off without a word, leaving Haymitch to his incoherent muttering. Stepping out into the square once more, I analyse it again, more carefully. The door of Peeta's house is slightly ajar from when I burst out not so long ago. The windows of my house are dark, like the other abandoned ones around it. I move my gaze away and scan said abandoned houses. They look as blank and grey as ever- people only used them while their more humble houses were being rebuilt. I wanted to join them, but I was too weak to build my own house and then I started living with Peeta.
My eyes hone in on one house. Despite the fact that it's tucked away in the corner, I can't believe I didn't see it before: the door is thrown wide open, opened in haste by someone who didn't have any time to close it. I ignore the fear and apprehension building in my stomach and force it down. I can't afford to back down, not now. I am the hunter. I pad silently across the square and slid in through the door, leaving it open in case I need an escape route. I try not to think of Peeta as a person in an effort to remove any personal feelings I have about finding him, but I just end up feeling disgusted with myself.
The house has the same layout as the others but it looks alien without a fire burning or furniture to fill the emptiness or people to break the heavy silence. I move through the corridors slowly, poking my head into each room, looking for any sign of Peeta. I pause outside the door that would be the lounge room, the only door that is actually closed. I press my ear against it and freeze when I hear the muffled sounds of strangled gasps. I reach for the door handle, clenching my fist to keep my fingers from shaking. I take a deep breath, swallow the fear, become the hunter, and open the door.
The moth-eaten curtains are carelessly thrown aside, letting the spring sunlight flood the room with such intensity that every dust mote in the air and on the floor is clearly visible. In the middle of it all is Peeta, doubled over with his head on his knees and his hands knotted tightly at the back of his head. His arms are tense and his fingers are tearing at his hair at the roots. I waver at the door, remembering the boy who has been so strong for me for so long. I can't see him now. All I can see is the boy I brushed aside and forgot about, the problems I ignored so that I could always keep Peeta for myself, to keep me safe from the nightmares.
I forget that hijack Peeta was programmed specially to kill me. All I can see is how selfish I have been and how good he has been to me and how small he looks now, fighting his own ghosts. I cover the distance between us in three quick strides and fall to my knees next to him, gently untangling his hair from his fingers. I hold onto his hands like a lifeline and press my forehead against his head. He doesn't seem to feel anything. From here, I can hear his strangled whispers, two words on repeat like a broken tape:
"Capitol Katniss Capitol Katniss Capitol Katniss Capitol Katniss Capitol…" His fingers tighten around mine, squeezing so tight I wonder if my fingers will pop. "Katniss… Mutt…"
I remember how quickly those fingers once flew to my throat, how bent they were on choking the life out of me. I squeeze his hands right back and put as much force into a whisper as I can, because my throat is constricted as if Peeta is trying to strangle me again.
"It's OK, Peeta," I whisper. Despite my inner turmoil, my voice is surprisingly calm. I think of my earlier attempts of objectifying Peeta, and wonder if I've succeeded. I remember Gale's voice, the tone he used to comfort a dying animal in pain. After hearing it so many times, and being on the receiving end of it, I know that it was nothing even close to comforting. The only thing it assured you of was a quick and painless end to your suffering. Almost simultaneously I remember Peeta's voice- soft, calming, genuinely comforting, promising a brighter future. I will never be a great speaker like Peeta, but now it's my turn to hold off his nightmares. "It's not real, none of it's real. They can't hurt you now. You're safe, Peeta, it's not real. It's just a dream. Stay with me, Peeta. Don't let them take you from me. Stay here, stay with me. You're safe now. Just stay with me, just stay here. Don't you go anywhere. Remember, Peeta. Not real. Not real. None of it is real."
He seems to hyperventilate with every sentence, and I wonder if the boy with the bread is still inside, battling away the Capitol mutts to find his way back to an abandoned house in District 12 with his equally damaged housemate. His muscles tense to the point where I'm sure they'll snap and the whispers fade away to grunts and groans of effort, like he's genuinely fighting a very real physical battle. I press my forehead harder against his head and dare to speak a little louder, wondering what will happen if anyone comes in. Almost everyone knows that Peeta isn't recovered from the hijacking, and probably never will be fully mentally healthy again. Will they take him away? Lock him up? I tell Peeta to stay with me and squeeze his hands a little tighter. "Wake up, Peeta, come back to me. I'm right here. Just ignore them. Come back to me, Peeta, please."
I keep talking as if he can actually hear me, and I get so wrapped up in it I don't notice when his muscles relax and he struggles to breathe regularly again. I stop speaking but I keep my lips pressed against his head, staring into his blonde curls as I wait. What I'm waiting for, exactly, I'm not sure. But I'm prepared for attack, ready to spring away if he makes any sudden move.
My muscles are so tense that when I feel Peeta's hands at my elbows I nearly catapult myself across the floor. I catch myself moments before I can kick Peeta's feet out from under him and let him gently pull me to my feet. I grab his elbows to steady his shaking arms, and it's when I do that I realize we're holding each other up. I glance up into his bloodshot blue eyes, but before I can gage whether or not they are glazed with trackerjacker venom or not he lets my elbows drop and pulls me into a tight hug. I fling my arms around him in return and squeeze him back, relieved to have the boy with the bread back with me.
"Thank you, Katniss," he whispers, his breath ruffling my hair.
I can't reply, because my mouth is full of woolly jumper. But I close my eyes and press myself against him, breathing him in. I remember the hours in the cave, huddled together for body heat. I remember the nights on the train, huddled together for comfort. I remember our last day of freedom before the Quell, huddled together for the pleasure of each other's company. I remember the night on the beach, the last night before everything fell apart, the night when that inexplicable hunger overtook me-
I abruptly disengage myself before I can even think what I'm doing. I turn and march out of the sunbathed room, avoiding Peeta's eye, and slide through the open front door once more, this time taking the care to shut it as if that can keep whatever just happened in the abandoned lounge room away.
I break into a run across the Village, launching myself into my old house and slamming the door behind me. It's only as the door bangs shut that my senses completely come back, and I fall against my door limply, staring blankly at the corridor ahead.
What just happened? As soon as I remembered that night on the beach, I was overwhelmed by an impulsive need to get away and I acted on it before I could think about it. What must that have looked like to Peeta? He knows I'm still not interested in him, right? Oh no. What if he's been building up hope over the last few months? Surely not. In the lounge room, I was just helping him out. I owed it to him. It didn't mean anything. Did it?
I sink down to the floor as I think about it. As soon as I remembered the hunger I have only ever felt with Peeta, I just wanted to get away before it could happen again. I'm sure Dr Aurelius said something about it once before. Something about not wanting to get attached to people again. That must be it. I lost so much in the war, I don't want to have to go through the process of losing someone I love again. My brain acted before my heart could. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it wasn't. How am I going to explain it to Peeta? Sorry for running out before, I just don't want to fall in love with you in case you die. How selfish would that sound? After everything he's put on the line for me? The more I think about facing Peeta again the worse I feel. I can't go back to his house. Not tonight. I'll have to stick it out here. Which, really, shouldn't be a challenge. I lived with nightmares long before I knew Peeta. I don't need him by my side every night to survive.
I get back to my feet and start moving towards the kitchen, stopping in the doorway when I realize how surprised I was when Peeta wasn't standing there. Swallowing and pushing all that aside, forcing myself to remember that this is my house, I search the cupboards, but all the food is old. I haven't set foot inside here for months. I haven't eaten yet. But on reflection, I don't feel much like it now either. I could go hunting, but my bow is at Peeta's house. Part of me doesn't want to leave the house out of fear I'll see him and have to confront him, but I push it all away. If I see him, I see him. I'll just have to man up and face it. Shoving down every pathetic thought that can, somehow, be traced back to Peeta, I run upstairs, get changed in some musty clothes I left behind and step out boldly into the empty square. I walk through the village confidently, heading towards the Meadow. It feels strange not to have a bow in my hand and a quiver of arrows at my back, but once I'm in the forest the day's events wash away easily. I set up snares. I find roots and berries and I walk up to the lake. I go for a swim and forget myself in the water that has become one of the only constants in my life.
I stay at the lake until the sun begins to dim and the sky is streaked with Peeta's favourite colour. I trudge back through the forest and the village, moving to the cluster of bigger, fancier houses that is the Victor's Village. One dim light flickers in Haymitch's window, but the windows that I know look into Peeta's kitchen glow with golden light. I wonder if he has cooked for two, expecting me to come back at any moment. For the first time I wonder how he would react if I came back now, like so much of me wants to. Knowing Peeta, he would probably act like nothing had happened. But something did happen, and I know that I can't stand staying with him without knowing what that something was. So, after lingering for a moment, I move away from the light resonating from his windows and walk into my own cold, empty house.
I instinctively go back to the kitchen and have to stare at the cupboard for almost two minutes before I remember that none of the food in there is edible. I curse myself for not bringing back some berries from the forest before trotting back upstairs. I'm already clean from my dip in the lake, but I have very little else to do with my time right now other than shower. Hunger claws at my stomach, but I've dealt with hunger before. I crawl into bed with an empty stomach and a heavy sense of dread about the night to come, alone for the first time in months.
Fire and snow. That's all I remember. Fire and snow, hurling themselves against each other, each bent on defeating the other. The weak gargles of a thousand mutilated voices cheer on the flames while an army roars in favour of the snow. A rain of gunfire echoes around me, accompanied by the boom of bombs detonating and lighting up the black sky. Faceless people surround me and tell me what to say.
"You're the mockingjay," they tell me. "You have to tell the people to fight."
"Fight," I repeat dutifully.
They grab hold of my wrists and melt away into strings until invisible fingers are controlling a little puppet-me across a giant gameboard. I hover above them as I watch bombs explode and people die. I watch snow defeat fire despite the amount of smoke polluting the sky. I see a swarm of tracker jackers hovering over something, and shoo them away with a mighty flap of my wings. A boy with blonde hair and blue eyes lies below them, and after a moment we're standing face to face.
"We're just pieces in their games," the boy says plainly, reaching for my throat. "There's nothing we can do except what they tell us to."
His fingers tighten. I squawk out demands spoken into my ear by emotionless voices, but they have no effect. A horrible choking laugh echoes around me as I black out.
My eyes fly open, and amid the disorientation I'm surprised that I'm not screaming. Then I realize how stiff my body is, and how my mouth is wide open and as dry as sand. I try to move, but I can't. I remember what Peeta once told me on the train, how he only ever woke up paralyzed with fear. Only now do I understand the term.
Peeta. Peeta. Peeta was trying to strangle me. Peeta is a threat. Instantly I struggle, as if by kicking around I can escape my nightmare. I quickly stiffen again when I realize that my nightmare is lying right next to me, arms wrapped faithfully around my shoulders.
My heart starts thumping in my chest, and I force myself to remember that the puppet boy who tried to strangle me was just a dream. Well, mostly. What I have to know now is that Peeta is my friend. Peeta is the boy with the bread, the kind-hearted boy who took me in and put up with my shenanigans. Peeta is the one who, in spite of everything, has once again returned to keep me safe.
"It's OK, Katniss," he tells me softly. "They're gone, they can't get to you now. I'm here, OK? It's all alright. You're safe, I promise. Just breathe, Katniss. It's OK."
I bury my face in his arms. "I'm so sorry, Peeta," I whisper. My voice is so hoarse I can barely hear it, and I swallow to moisten my dry throat. "I'm so sorry."
"What for?" Peeta sounds genuinely bewildered.
"For leaving," I whisper. "Even though you stayed. I should have stayed."
Peeta laughs, and for a moment I can scarcely believe that I was terrified of this. Of course Peeta would think nothing of it. He's Peeta. "I'm lucky you came at all," he says. "I had hoped no-one would find me, in case I tried to hurt them."
"I wouldn't have found you if it weren't for Haymitch, surprisingly," I say, and it's almost like a normal conversation again.
Peeta chuckles quietly and shakes his head. "And despite the fact that I was specially programmed to kill you, you came to find me in my weakest moment."
"I owed you," I say quietly. "You would've done the same for me."
Peeta shifts under me. "It's what we do, isn't it?" he says softly. "Protect each other."
I smile a little. "You're still a hell of a lot better than I am."
Peeta presses his lips against my hair. It feels strange. I've become so used to recognizing every gesture from Peeta as a romantic one that it takes me a moment to figure it out. The gesture felt so completely brotherly I thought nothing of it. It feels so much better than every false kiss we ever shared.
It's lying there in his arms that I finally realize. That night, all those months ago, when I flung myself into the snow-filled square under the illusion I was being chased by mutts, I ran into something that threw me back into the snow. Moments later, Peeta was there. It was no coincidence. The thing I ran into was Peeta, standing his doorway, moments after opening it to come and fend off the mutts. Somewhere beneath my delirium, I knew that if I could find Peeta, I would be safe, and without even thinking about it I ran directly to his house, to find the comfort I knew I would only ever find from him.
The realization warms me much better than all the hot chocolate in the world.
"You're doing a brilliant job by just being here," he tells me in a whisper. "But I'll tell you what. If you can keep protecting me, I promise I'll look after you."
"Always," I whisper back.
And so, from that night on, for better or for worse, I fall asleep to the sound of Peeta's voice and wake up in his arms. Admittedly less often I hold his hand and keep him anchored to District 12. We each keep our promises and we fight off each other's demons with little more than our hands and voices as weapons. Together we do what every doctor in Panem said was impossible.
We help each other recover.