A/N: Thanks so much to anyone who subscribed to or favorited this story, and a special thanks to micmic022 and leighe for reviewing! We loved hearing what you thought. Look out for Chapter 3 next week, which will return to the lovely Peeta's point of view. Until then, here's some Katniss.
-two-
The Fire
"Hey. Peeta," I mumble, closing my eyes and resting my head against his shoulder while he carries me. "Bad idea. Water puts fire out."
By the time I finally hear the splashing sound that accompanies Peeta's steps and look around, he's already a little over knee-deep. The bottom of my feet barely touch the water. It's colder than I remember, and I feel a shiver run up my spine as we move further in. But at least it wakes me up.
Sooner than I'd like, the saltwater reaches my bit ankle. I hiss and lift it up, inspecting it. When I don't see any real difference, I turn my head to look at Peeta and grab one of his arms. I want to get this over with. "Let go."
"Okay, just…don't let go of me," he says, slowly putting me down.
I have to grit my teeth as my ankle submerges. More than anything, I find myself wishing I had some snow to numb it. But of course, there's nothing. Nothing but salt, anyway. Painful, cleansing salt. I remind myself that I should be grateful for this, but it's not easy. Especially knowing my arm is up next, which will be ten times worse.
Peeta notices my hesitation, or he just realizes that I'm stalling, because he speaks up from behind me. "Katniss, soak the wound."
"Really?" I shoot back with a touch of sarcasm, facing him. Instantly, I feel my face flush. He's the only reason I'm alive at all, and I repay him like this. Though I don't apologize, because he'll brush it off and pretend I didn't do anything wrong. And that's worse.
Sucking in a breath, I close my eyes again and plunge my arm under the water. The salt covers the whole area within seconds, and I let out an involuntary gasp. Immediately, I want to pull it back out, but I force myself not to. You'll just have to do it all over again, I sternly tell myself, and it'll be harder next time since you know what's coming.
The pain doesn't lessen—and neither does my urge to give up and find some other way to fix it—so I let go of Peeta and hold my hurt arm in place. While I wait, I mutter obscenities under my breath. Almost all of them are about Johanna, though I save a few for Haymitch, who encouraged allies in the first place. Great advice.
I'm about to mention this aloud, even if Haymitch will make me pay for it later, when I feel Peeta's cool hand on top of mine, helping me hold the injury underwater. The other one reaches up to cup my cheek. "Does it still hurt a lot?" he asks.
Yes. It does. But I just shrug, not interested in complaining about it. It's not like that makes it better. No, what might actually help the pain would be a gift from Haymitch. But most likely, he's withholding everything because of my insults from a few moments ago. Still, I can't bring myself to regret them.
Though it does seem odd that he still hasn't sent anything that might tell us if the snake bites are poisonous. Or maybe more arrows, since I'm low after our run in with the beast. I need more, since my aim will be off anyway now that my arm is injured.
And what about Peeta? He just has the knife, which is only good if your attacker is within arms' length. Too risky.
Given the pace of the Quell so far, I highly doubt we'll make it through the next few hours without some sort of attack. And Haymitch must realize that. But whether he's annoyed with me or not, he wouldn't kill us over it. He'd help.
Unless he knows something we don't. Unless he's saving up for something big.
I picture the pair of us trying to fight off anyone in our current condition. In a battle, we're both hopeless. I'm too weak to kill anyone, and Peeta won't be able to protect himself and me. But maybe he could run. Somehow, I could make him leave.
But to do that, he'll need energy. "You can go sleep. I'll keep watch," I say, nodding back towards the sand.
"No, I'm fine. Really," he says, shaking his head. But his raspy voice betrays him. I'm about to say so when he adds, "Besides, we need to gather food, build up a fire, and figure out a new strategy. We can sleep once we've set up camp. Let me see the arm."
"I'm not putting it back in after I take it out of the water," I warn him. For right now, whether it seems cleared up or not, I don't care.
Trying not to move it too much, I lift my arm. Now that the blood has washed away, I can see just how deep the gash is. It's not good. But, as far as I can see, it's stopped bleeding. "Not bad," I say quietly, "They'll have to call you Doctor Peeta back in District 12."
"Maybe I'll set up my own shop and let Prim run it," he says. I almost manage to smile at him, deciding I like that idea, when he turns serious again. "What about the foot? You think you can sit by the sand now?"
I'm not sure, so I don't bother to answer. Instead, I take his hand under the water and trudge my way to the beach. Oddly enough, it's a lot harder for me to move around on land but I manage to walk about ten feet.
Taking Peeta with me, I plop down on the sand and straighten my leg out. The bitten ankle is swelling and numb. "It's better," I say, unsure if this is a lie or not.
He grabs a hold of my hand, which is sticky and wet with the saltwater, and holds it tightly. His stomach growls, and he says, "I'm starting to miss the perks of District 4. You think Finnick made it out alive?"
"Maybe. Someone died, but it could've been anyone." I sigh, wishing Haymitch would stop sulking and just give us some bread. We haven't gotten anything from our sponsors yet besides the spile, and I'm sure they're really paying up. Especially since I'm supposed to be pregnant.
My eyes widen as I realize we've completely ignored this whole part of our charade. My words come out awkward, like they almost always do when I act, but I still say, "When I fell from the tree…what about the…?" I can't bring myself to say it, because I already sound ridiculous enough.
Luckily for me, Peeta catches on and saves the conversation. As usual. He scrambles over to sit next to me, his expression a mixture of seriousness, sadness, and worry. "What about him? Are you okay?" He puts one hand on top of my belly and leans down to kiss. I shift uncomfortably and hope no one notices—especially the sponsors back home— but their focus should still be on Peeta as he says, "You still there, fella? Hang in there, you're almost home now."
A sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Almost home. How soon is almost? In forty-eight hours? Twenty-four? Twelve? It doesn't matter. It's too soon. Too soon to even think about losing Peeta, let alone watching it happen.
And meanwhile, I'm supposed to pretend that I've accepted the locket and am ready to move on without him. But I can't do that today. Not now. Peeta will just have to get over it.
Fortunately, he doesn't notice anything strange about my demeanor because his attention is occupied. I crank my neck to see what he's looking at and spot a parachute and basket floating down from the sky near the trees.
He hops to his feet eagerly, and I just watch. I don't want to know what it is. Too little, too late.
"Look what they've sent you, love," he says, holding up bread and a clean bandage. Sitting back down on the ground, he kisses my cheek.
I take the bandage and roughly tear the wrappings off with nothing more than a subdued, "Thanks." I'm supposed to be rejoicing, but instead I just stare at him, wondering what it'll take to make him keep fighting after I've taken myself out of the arena. Maybe there isn't anything, and that's the worst thought of all.
A dark look crosses his face, but it disappears almost instantly. He takes me into his arms, kissing my neck. "Do you need any help with that?" he asks, pointing at the bandage.
"No, I don't."
Sitting stiffly, I stare out across the water at the Cornucopia in the distance. It takes all my will power not to look him right in the eye and tell him I'm not playing a game anymore. That the sponsors don't matter, this stupid act about a baby is the last thing I care about, and that we shouldn't be wasting our time with these lies. Not when there's a very real chance he'll leave me in the next few days.
I wrap my arm, wincing at the pressure on my cut. "You should sleep," I say, keeping my eyes trained on the injury even though I'm done working with it. Secretly, I pray he agrees. I need a chance to think things through and figure out my next plan of action without having to hide it.
He tenses, and I wonder if he knows. "You should first, there's the baby to think about."
"But I thought you weren't supposed to sleep with a concussion, Peeta."
There's a brief pause. "You don't. But, you…ugh! Katniss…" He trails off, and I think I've won this battle. A tiny smile creeps onto my face. That is, until he says, "Fine, but you still have to rest and I still won't go to sleep. So just…will you stop looking at me like that?"
The smirk disappears. "What good will you do if you're dead on your feet tomorrow? That's not helping either of us. Go to sleep."
He grunts, giving me a warning look, and lies down by my side unhappily. I watch as he buries his feet and arms with the sand and closes his eyes. I'm not sure how long it is before he stops shifting back and forth. Maybe he never falls asleep at all. But I give up waiting and focus on other things.
Like the cold. Bringing my knees up to my chest is a difficult task because my leg is still numb, but I manage. This doesn't warm me up much, but at least I feel more secure.
In the silence, it's too easy to fall asleep. My eyes droop, and my body aches, and I want nothing more than to scoot over next to Peeta and rest for a while.
No, there is something else I want more. And it's the whole reason I bothered arguing with him over staying up in the first place. I want him to survive. Which means I can't sleep, and I can't stay alive for much longer.
So what do I do? Shoot myself with an arrow? Probably more difficult than it sounds. What about falling from a high tree? No, I can't climb. Not with my pathetic, useless excuse of a left leg. Drown myself? Maybe. Though that's a last resort, because suffocation isn't the way I want to go. Besides, how am I supposed to do that if he's awake? I can't die while he's sleeping, because that leaves him unprotected. Though my cannon would always wake him up.
Frustrated, I decide that I'll just cross my fingers and hope the snake was poisoned. Or I could try to bleed to death, if the cut on my arm somehow reopens. This is the only remotely possible idea that I can control, so I unravel the bandage, ripping it wherever I can. My arm begins to bleed again, sluggishly at first, and then I realize how stupid that was.
How do I hide that from him? I think he'll notice the newly-bloodstained bandage. And I can't die now since he's not awake, and there are still too many tributes left, so what was the point of all that?
Groaning quietly, I squint at my arm. So far, poison is my only—
I jump as Peeta sits up and meets my gaze. "I can't. Sorry. I just can't," he says. I look at him, confused. It takes me a few seconds to understand what he means. He can't sleep.
"Fine," I say. He's telling the truth. I can tell. "Why can't you sleep?"
Before he can answer, I remember my arm. The bleeding, bandage-less one.
Subtly as I can, I blindly feel around the sand for the fabric. It's on my right side, away from Peeta, so I grab it. I'll never be able to put it back on without him noticing, so I force myself to my feet, swaying slightly. Another wave of exhaustion hits me, but I don't have time to wait for it to pass. Besides, the pressure on the bitten leg is so intense that offsets the drowsiness.
I look down at him, careful that he can't see the arm or bandage. "Hang on. I'm getting water." With that, I stumble my way down to the water's edge.
Behind me, Peeta says, "Uh, Katniss, you do know that's saltwater, right? Where's the spile?" I slow down, inwardly cursing my mindless mistake. I'm still desperately searching for some explanation when he catches up to me.
He's silent as he takes in the situation, and I just stand there, frozen in place. Nothing happens right away, but it's obvious when he puts two and two together. Closing his eyes, he rubs a hand over his face. "Just give me the spile," he says. His voice is quiet, but I can hear the angry undertone. I'm sure all of Panem can, too.
Crossing my arms over my middle, I feel blood soak into my shirt as I reply, "It's back at the camp." My tone is the exact same as his. I don't care if it's fair or not; I only had one real idea, and he's already ruined it. As far as I'm concerned, I can be as irritated as I want to be.
An idea finally comes to mind. Although it's too late, I try anyway. "I know it's saltwater. That's why this is off." I wave the torn bandage in the air. "I'm just going to soak it."
I'm not fooling him. Clearly. He stares at me, not even remotely convinced. Though I can't really blame him. I wouldn't believe me, either.
His eyes flit down to take in my bloody arm, and then back to me. "Well, clean it up so we can bandage it again."
"Fine." That's the third time an argument has ended that way tonight, and I'm not sure I like this new pattern.
Without another word, I check over Peeta's shoulder for any potential threats, then turn my back on him. I limp into the water until I'm about waist-deep, then I lower my arm until it's just a centimeter or two above the surface. Last time, it stopped bleeding after I soaked it, and I don't want that happening now. Besides, I meant what I told Peeta earlier: There's no way I'm putting it back in with the salt. I'm starting to feel nauseous already, so I can just imagine what that pain would do.
Once I think I've waited long enough, I head back to our place on the beach and sit down. Peeta's out of sight, and my heart pounds a little faster. Maybe I should go find him. Stay with him until he's away from the trees. But just as that thought crosses my mind, he walks in front of me to the water, cleans something off, and leaves again without saying anything.
Before long, he returns and sits down next to me. "We should have water in at least an hour." I don't get a chance to respond, because he immediately continues, "Let me check your wounds."
Staring out at the shining water again, I say, "Nothing's changed." As furious I was earlier about the destruction of my idea, I don't feel anything now. The fight has left me, and this whole situation is making my head ache. I shiver again.
Just to appease Peeta, I show him my arm. It's hastily rewrapped with the torn bandage, and I can see a red streak of blood. But, since neither of us can do anything about that now, I lower it again and move to show my ankle. I don't see a trace of the ugly blue from before, but there's hardly any color left at all. I can almost make out a pale yellow if I really squint. "I think it's better."
He scoots down a little, kneeling to get a better look, and begins pressing on my ankle. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?"
It hurts. A sharp pain shoots all the way up my leg from wherever his fingers prod my ankle, while the rest of the area is numb as ever.
"Stop," I say, jerking back from him and putting my foot down on the sand. The pain instantly disappears, though now I feel as if I might throw up.
Suddenly, I just need to lie down. I don't care if I have a concussion, and I don't care if Peeta needs to rest. It's cold and every breath takes energy that I don't have. "I'm going to sleep."
I flop down on my back, closing my eyes. Almost immediately, I begin to slip out of consciousness, but Peeta interrupts me. "Wait, did it hurt you? I didn't get to see your ankle properly. What if you're really getting poisoned?" I open one eye and watch as he crawls down to sit by my foot. "Wait just a bit, love. Let me see your ankle again and then you can go to sleep. Okay?"
Well, since the ankle hurts so much, my guess is he's just spreading the poison around. But then again, that's exactly what I want since my bleeding plan failed. Though I do hope to hold on long enough to make sure most of the other tributes are dead before I go.
"Here," I say, lifting the ankle up and putting it in his lap. I clench my jaw, waiting.
"Thank you. You tell me if it hurts, okay?"
He sounds as if he's talking to a little kid or a wounded animal, but I try my best to ignore it. It doesn't take much, since my only current goal is to rest.
It's hard enough to keep silent as he feels around my ankle and lower leg, but he does something that makes it absolutely impossible. I'm not sure exactly what it is—maybe he just pushed a little harder than he had been before—but I can't help the groans that pass my lips. My eyes shoot wide open, and I prop myself up on my elbows.
"What are you doing?" I hiss. "You're making it worse!"
I don't know if that's true, but as far as I'm concerned, anything that causes that much pain can't be good. My eyes are watering, and I bring up a hand to wipe the moisture away, saying, "Just leave it alone."
"I'm sorry," he says, genuine. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Relieved, I watch as he moves back to my side and puts an arm around my waist. "Do you still want to sleep?"
More than he can imagine.
I nod, afraid that my voice will give something away. Just a few moments ago, I'd been hoping that I really was poisoned, and that my death would last at least a few days. But now…well, I still hope for the same things. It's just going to hurt more than I thought it would.
Lying back down, I close my eyes. An alarm is going off in the back of my head, telling me this is a huge mistake. But before I can act on this instinct, I have just enough time to notice how cool the sand is beneath my fingers, and then sleep overtakes me.
XXX
I've never liked dreams much. I don't know about other people, but mine are hardly ever good. My most frequent ones include imagined scenes of my father's death, Prim fighting in the Hunger Games, Gale being whipped to death, Peeta dying in the most gruesome way the Gamemakers could come up with.
Tonight, I don't dream about Peeta, Gale, Prim, or my father. It's just me. Wandering around some place that's oddly similar to one of the barren old arenas I'd seen in the videos before heading into the Games. There isn't shade, water, tributes, or even a sky. There's nowhere to hide from the burning sun.
Before long, I'm so parched that I can't walk anymore. I open my mouth, but the words are lost before they can fully form. And suddenly, I'm more afraid than I've ever been in my life. And so tired. I just want to lie down, right there in that sweltering, dirty environment, and…
I jolt from my sleep, waking to a cold breeze and darkness. But I'm still on fire. My whole body burns. As I lift a hand up to wipe sweat from my forehead, I realize it shakes so badly that it's no use. Slowly, my eyes focus, and I see Peeta sitting next to me.
"Where the spile?" I ask, my voice hoarse and disjointed.
Taken aback, he answers, "I stuck it in a tree nearby." He stands and offers a hand to help me up.
I can barely see, but I spot an outline of the trees somewhere in front of me. But as much as I want to take a step forward, my legs are so heavy that I can't lift them. Like they're made of lead. And my left one is still numb from my foot to my thigh.
Frantic for a reason I can't explain, I reach for Peeta's arm with a trembling hand. Practically choking on my words, I say, "Where is it? I need it."
There's a long pause, and I'm about to go crawling on my knees to find that stupid spile myself so I can put out the fire when he finally asks, "Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm okay. Just…" I let go of his arm, taking a small step in the general direction of the trees. It doesn't take long for me to decide I'll never make it to the dark shadows in front of me. I allow myself to sink back down to the sand. "It's so hot," I say. My fingers tap against my leg, and I can't make them stop.
"Are you sure? You know what, let me carry you," Peeta says, picking me up before I can even answer. If he had any doubt what was going on before, he knows now. I can hear it in his voice.
Then, it finally dawns on me, and I know what's going on, too. How could I not, when I remember the shivering and the incoherent thoughts? The weakness? Numbness? And most of all, the fire—the fire that burns and grows inside my veins with each passing second. It's the venom.
Through the thick fog that's slowly overtaking my brain, I'm still coherent enough to feel a bit indignant as he lifts me up. And being suddenly whisked off the sand is disorienting. At least when I was sitting on the ground, burning, I knew where the sand was. Now I'm not so sure.
Trying to stop the dizziness, I close my eyes. As much as I want him to put me down, the most I manage is a sluggish, "I don't want you to…I just want to sleep." I lean my head against his chest, breathing slowly. "I don't want the water anymore."
"Katniss," he says. I don't answer. He shakes me a little. "Katniss. Katniss! Don't…" His voice fades out, replaced by a gentle humming noise. I feel the vibration of his chest, and realize he's still speaking. But I can't hear him.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and my hearing slowly returns in time for me to catch the next thing he says: "Don't sleep."