Chapter Two

He felt her presence before he saw her. She had been following him nearly every day for a week. At first it had been the stray track, carelessly left behind, or the telltale snap of a branch, the hint of movement from the corner of his eye. But he never saw her, his wilding in the forest. She was a hunter, and would always be a small deadly, vanishing act. Sometimes he wondered if she planned to kill him, shoot him down as revenge for the loss of her sister so many years ago.

The woods around Twelve had always been theirs, explicitly theirs, a forsaken playground that was dangerous and mysterious. Unequivocally free, and in it they had been children together, babes in the woods. It had a magic that tied them together, in a way that other children, who had never understood the last, soft breaths of a kill could ever be.

There were some days where he thought he had imagined it, and others, when he was certain that he hadn't. One morning he had found a dark green scarf, hand knit and thick, tied to a tree, still warm from her body. Perhaps, he had surprised her, got to close to discovering her perch, scaring her off. He imagined it around her long lovely neck, trapping her braid to her back and into her jacket. He had held it with both hands and raised it to his nose, she still smelled the same: of earth, pine tress, sweat, and fresh morning dew. He had taken it with him, carefully folded it, and placed it deep in his drawer next to the other memories he had managed to keep of her.

Although, things had improved in Twelve, fresh meat was rare. So many generations had been raised to fear the woods, and so they left it alone, like the ghost of freedom, so precious and unattainable, to disappear into it, would be to never return. His mother, who had always too many mouths to feed had delighted in the extra food, spending hours making meals that she had only dreamed of making when he was young: Quail, stuffed with wild herbs, hand picked mushrooms sautéed in rich, real butter, over fat squirrel meat. Berries tossed with goat cheese and drizzled with honey and balsamic vinegar. She made stew every night, from the herbs, plants and meat he brought home, and in the warm evening set the pot on the porch and distributed heaping bowls of it to the children, who despite the rebellion were impossible thin.

One morning he returned to the cabin, their cabin, the one that had been abandoned for years on the edge of the lake they once swam in. From the outside it looked the same, like a grand Seem shack, falling down in all of the right places, still standing where it had to, the tired grey wood almost silver. When he had lived in two, he had thought of it often, the place that had been theirs. Even before Katniss had become the Mockingjay, he had imagined rebuilding it, making love to her in a bed carved from old trees and stuffed with the feathers of birds they had taken down together.

He had imagined escaping to the cabin, and taking her with him. Where there would be no starvation, no poverty, no sideways glances from wealthy merchant children. He had dreamed of living there with her, and fishing in the hot summers, planting a garden in the back, perhaps even luring honey bees to one of the trees not to far back. As he stood just out of reach of the doorstep, he once again felt her eyes on him, just a glimpse of fur boots, so quick he almost missed it. He turned and looked at the spot where she had once been, and considered it.

If she wanted to kill him, now would be her chance. He set down his bow and game bag, sat down on a rock that over looked the lake and looked out over the still surface. He had helped destroy what was left of her carefully guarded innocence, had designed the snare that cut off the part of her more precious to her than her hand. If she wanted to, she had every right to take him down. It was fair, the hunter always became the hunted. And so he took off his shirt, laid his chest bare for her arrow and waited, waited until the sun, was not just a promise of something warm beyond the hill. Waited until his shoulders hurt, and his hands twitched with impatience. But nothing, just the still quiet judgment of the trees and the air so fresh that it cut him like glass.

He walked into the house, oddly disappointed, it needed work, most of the wood needed replacing, but the bones were good, treated with resin, and reinforced. Windows could be added, doors rehung, but he knew that this was the home he belonged to, and perhaps someday he would fill it with another girl, and children of his own, who grow to live in the forest as he and Katniss had.

For the next couple of hours he measured the space, sketched the shape and structure of the rooms, and made a list of what needed to be the time he was done it was late in the afternoon, he repacked his things to return home, but came to a sudden halt. Through the old tired window, was Katniss, standing naked on the other edge of the lake. Perhaps she had thought he had already left. Perhaps she knows that you are watching. He stood, unable to move. His eyesight had always been nearly perfect, never truly damaged by the darkness of the mines, illuminated by only Keroseen.

Small breasts, that could easily fit the shape of his hand. Long muscular legs, lean and tanned by hours of swimming. Hair that had never been cut, hanging down her back, just above the curve of her smooth round butt. She was standing on a ledge, barefoot, and stripped of all her clothes. And he noted that she looked, sad, tired even. Her shoulders sloping back, and even from a distance he could see she was just a little too thin. Her clavicle, and rib bones, still visible.

In one smooth movement she dove into the lake, swimming underwater, and resurfacing to float on her back. He turned away, heart pounding suddenly embarrassed to be spying on her, and sat back down on the dirt floor of the house. This too he would build, a wooden floor. He shuffled through his bags until he found the raspberries he had discovered on his early morning walk and wrapped in a handkerchief. Most likely a rabbit or a mouse would get to it, but maybe not. He placed the handkerchief with berries on the edge of the hearth, imagining the way she used to eat them when they were young, slowly with her eyes closed, moaning in pleasure. She would never know of how many hours he had spent looking for those berries, every summer, but watching her eat them had made him in some small way feel like a man.

Gale walked quickly through forest, thinking of the berries. He shouldn't have left them. She would know he had seen her, or worse thought that he had followed her. He had liked her wordless companionship in the woods. Now that he had blatantly called her out on it, would she disappear again. He thought again of her at the train station, shock, horror, fear, running through her eyes, and then she had walked away.

These woods were her woods now; he had no businesses in them. None at all. He nearly ran to where the fence was, not noticing the tell tale signs of a trap. In a second his foot caught, he heard a snap, and then he was on his back. Unable to stop the yelp of pain, he unsuccessfully grabbed at his foot that now hung suspended in the air. The trap was crude, and unthinking, not small, and elegantly designed for rabbits or squirrels. At best it could have crippled a deer.

Gale swore again. "Fuck. Fuck" A good trap, was supposed to be painless, if the animal died in fear, the meat always tasted rancid. Hunters were supposed to kill their prey as quickly as possible. This trap was clumsy. At best it would injure an animal, and give them a slow, excruciating death. His foot throbbed, and he could not quite reach the barbs from the snare, because having to do so would force the snare even deeper into his skin. "Fuck." He was going to kill whoever thoughtlessly designed it. Realistically, it was probably a small, hungry child who was desperate for some food, but too scared to go to far into the forest.

He lay still looking around for something to sever the cord with. His game bag, holding his hunting knife lay several feet away. Inch by inch he scooted towards it, trying not to cry out in pain as the barbs on the snare bit deep and deeper into his ankle. He reached his arm out, stretching as far as he could, but it was to no avail. Finally, exhausted he closed his eyes, he knew if he stayed in the trap much longer, with the circulation to his foot, severely compromised, he might very well loose his foot, if not part of his leg.

"Help" he yelled, hoping someone who lived near the fence might hear him. "Help me, please!" It wasn't very dignified, but it was his best option.

"Shut up" a voice close to his ear whispered. "Be quiet."

"Katniss?" he asked.

"Don't look at me" she said. He felt her deft, hands touching his leg, her fingers experimentally examining the barbs.

"You're an idiot" she said. "Don't you watch where you're going?" He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it, too shocked. She was touching him. He stared openly at her, her mouth pursed in a straight line. She had aged, but only slightly, becoming smaller than he last remembered her, more wiry. As if her body had completely given up the hope of ever being well nourished. There were bags under her eyes, and her face looked drawn and sallow. He always imagined her as healthy, but in person she looked sick and worn.

"I said don't look at me" she snapped and then said, "You shouldn't have come back." He could feel her blade, running along his foot, slicing the snare. Gingerly he lay there as she stood, angrily above him. She was still beautiful, but not the Katniss of his childhood. Harder, and leaner. Gone was the soft, leeriness of a frightened cub.

He sat up and gingerly felt his ankle. "Why don't you want me to look at you?" he asked softly. She glared at him, picking up her gear, and tucking her knife quickly back into her boot. He immediately recognized it, it had been his father's. He had given it to her one cold Christmas because it was the only thing of real value he had, and because she needed it. He had others, but that one was special, hand made, with a deer horn handle. His father had given it to his mother when they were courting as a symbol of his promise to always protect her, and after he died she had given it to him.

"You should teach the people around here to make traps that don't kill children" Katniss said sharply, he winced at the double meaning. "People are still starving out here, if you want to be really useful, you should teach them how to survive." Then she turned and walked away from him, becoming shadow against the hot sun, her hair still loose and damp.

Haltingly Gale made his way back to his mother's house, limping against the pain. His brother Vick, saw him first and came running, calling to Rory for help. When did they become so grown up he wondered as they lifted him nearly off the ground and helped him to the porch. His mother, had almost instantly appeared and was tugging off his boot and examining the puncture wounds.

"It's nothing" he said gruffly. Her touch was tentative, but experienced. She had tended to many open wounds and hurts over the years. She bit her lip and shook her head worriedly.

"How did this happen?" she asked.

He laughed, it was embarrassing. "I wasn't watching where I was going and walked right into a poorly made trap."

"Will you go get my kit" she asked Vick. With Katniss's mother gone she had become the substitute healer of the Seam, but her knowledge had its limits. If Prim had lived, perhaps things would have been different Gale thought guiltily. He hadn't just kill Katniss's sister, he had robbed Twelve of it future healer. How many more would die because of her absence.

He looked up to find his mother staring at him as she rubbed antiseptic on the cuts. "You were lucky" she said, "It doesn't look like you were in there very long." He nodded. "A couple of months ago Mrs. Laris nearly lost her hand to one of those traps. A lot of people are scared of going into the woods because of them.

"Whoever's making them, doesn't know what they are doing," he said, wincing as she began to wrap a bandage around it. "But I was stupid, I wasn't looking.

Hazelle shook her head and took a seat next to him on the porch. "How did you get out" she asked. His brothers had returned inside to continue their card game. He could hear them laughing. When they were young, and always hungry he had thought he would never hear them laugh.

Gale pursed his lips, and considered lying. Then let out a breath "Katniss… she found me." His mother smiled wistfully as if she was remembering a sad story someone had told her from long ago.

"That girl breaks my heart everytime I look at her," she said. "But I'll tell you what, we wouldn't have survived our first winter back here nearly as well, if it hadn't been for her." There was a note of pride in her voice as if she was recounting something Posy had done.

"You could have asked me for help. Was the money I sent you not enough?" he asked taken aback. His mother had never let on that they struggled. He had never imagined that they had needed anything, and the idea of them struggling to survive while he slept in the warm, yet staunch barracks hurt.

"Oh honey, it was more than enough." His mother said soothingly "And you had your own problems. Besides, I wanted you to have a life that wasn't burdened by us for a little while, and Katniss was there." She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. In the beginning, military pay had been meager, but he had sent her all of it every month, stupidly thinking that it would buy whatever she needed. He had justified staying in Two, by convincing himself, that they needed the money, more than he needed to go home.

"She helped rebuild nearly every house on this street, starting with ours, and the truth is that no matter how much money we had, there was no food to buy. But she made sure we never went hungry. I think helping us, made her not miss her own mother so much." Hazelle got up, and walked inside, returning with a warm cup of tea. She handed it to him, and peaked in his game bag and smiled proudly at the herbs and berries he had gathered. Originally, he had planned on bringing back some crawdads or fish for dinner, but then Katniss had interrupted him at the cabin.

"What happened to her?" he asked, unable to look at his mother. The tea was a blend of mint, chamomile and honey. There was something else, he couldn't quite figure out, but he guessed it was for the pain. In all of these years they had never spoken of Katniss. He hadn't asked and Hazelle had never volunteered any information.

Inside he could hear his brothers' loud laughter, and could smell the stew that was cooking on the stove. Home. It was so good to be home. "She didn't get her happily ever after" Hazelle said sadly beside him.

"Why not?" he asked feeling sick.

She hesitated and nursed her own cup of tea trying to choose her words than said "We were all so glad that Peeta came home, it only seemed right. Everyone thought that being in Twelve would help, and it did in someways. They got married about 5 years ago, but he just has never been the same since…" she paused "Everyone talks about him around here, so I guess its better that you hear it from me then one of those nosy gossips at the Hob." Gale felt his heart sink. When he had thought of Katniss over the last several years, he had thought that Peeta would make her happy, and give her a peaceful corner to rebuild her life. He had trusted Peeta to make her happy. "He's just never been the same since the war. He still has violent episodes" his mother continued. "I know Katniss can take care of herself, but I worry about her all the time."

"Does he hurt her?" Gale asked shocked.

"Not on purpose" she replied, "But I think so. Of course she would never tell me about it if he did."

"Why does she put up with it?" he asked. The look on his mother's face was almost unreadable as she stared out at the Seam with the sun melting against the reclaimed wood like melted honey. "You know why?" she finally said unable to meet his gaze. "He's all she has. And he needs her. I think she likes being needed."

Gale rose remembering the haunted look in her eyes as she told him not to look at her. They were the same in so many ways, both from the Seam, born with the same dark hair, olive skin and green eyes. He couldn't remember a time in his life before her, only the parts of it where she was absent. They had belonged to one another, bound by one simple intimacy; survival, and now there was nothing he could do to help her.

"Son," his mother said "There's one other thing." He paused at the door and looked down at her."
"What" he asked.

"Peeta's sick" she replied "He's got a bad heart, the torture, and the games damaged it." Gale let out a breath, he had never liked Peeta, not really, but mostly because Katniss, his Katniss had looked at Peeta with more tenderness and vulnerability than she had ever looked at him with. But the Peeta he knew would never hurt Katniss, would die before he did, or at least walk away from her if he thought it was possible.

"I don't want to know anymore" he said feeling as if he had some violated Katniss's privacy.

"Gale, wait" Hazelle said. He stopped with his back still to her. "You know she blames herself more for what happened to Prim than she does you." His hand stilled over the doorknob, remember the frantic anguish of betrayal in her eyes when she confronted him about the attack he had unwittingly helped plan. "I thought, perhaps that you might be able to help her," she said, "and that she might be able to help you."

He had justified coming home, by telling himself that he would be able to avoid having anything to do with Katniss. That they could both easily pretend that they were acquaintances, who once used to hunt together to keep their families alive, that there was no history between them. But the truth was, that she was in every corner of the Seam, in the woods, in glimpses of town, leaving little breadcrumbs of the past wherever he went.

"Leave it alone mother," he said "she doesn't want anything to do with me." He opened the door and slowly made his way to the bedroom, feeling woozy from whatever mysterious drug his mother had slipped in his tea. He nearly fell into the bed and was soon asleep.