Note: Sorry it took a while, and I'm aware it isn't a very long chapter. Still, thank you so much for all the amazing reviews and all the followers. It means a whole lot and I'm glad you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you!
Chapter 4: The Reaper
When I was a child, when Prim was a little over two years old and my father was still alive, I had a friend who was my age, Basil Conher. We'd spend a fair amount of time together, playing and telling each other stories. One afternoon, we met behind the wooden fence that separates the Seam from the main town. It was a place we often rested at, mainly because of the plum and cherry tree that boarded it at the far side. We ate them until the peacekeepers found out about it and removed the trees.
On that day, he brought a book he said once belonged to his many great-grand-mothers. It was a storybook crafted before Panem was built; Old and worn out, the pages yellowed by time, the images had long lost their bright tints. I remember being mesmerized by the fact that someone well before our time, before the world went out the deep end, before the Districts and the Hunger Games and the Capitol, had held this book, read the words and turned the pages as I did. The concept itself made me feel as though I could travel in time and accentuated dreams and questions of the past.
The first story had a cover image that to this day is still crystal clear in my head. A tall, lengthy being with thin appendages, its fingers like dry branches wrapped around a scythe with a blade that could cut through pavement as it would paper. It... He was hooded, a cloak clasped at his front. Black. All black. His face was concealed in shadows. I remember feeling uneasy just looking at the image, but that wasn't the worst. It was the story. It was a story about death. How this creature came and took people away; put them into the soil for their eternal sleep. No matter how much these people begged for mercy, it took them anyway: young and old alike.
After three sleepless nights too terrified to close my eyes because I was convinced the cloaked man would take me away, my mother forbade me to speak to Basil again.
The black cloaked man was called the Reaper. It would become ironic later, when I would turn twelve and faced my first Reaping. The analogy would hit me as I would stand under the burning sun of summer, sweating and mortified at the idea that my name could escape Effie Trinket's purple lips. It wasn't so much the games I feared, but leaving Prim behind while my mother despaired with the strain of my father's death.
Basil's name was drawn out. He walked to the stage with twitching hands, clearly losing his sanity with every new step he took in the dry earth. I remember how we locked eyes shortly, and how hollow with despair they looked in the moment. He burst into tears when the mayor told him to shake hands with the girl tribute. A career killed him before he reached the Cornucopia, a career with a black hooded vest, pulled tight over his head and casting his features in shadows. It scared me so much, how the tale of the Reaper superimposed itself so well with Basil's fate, that I didn't sleep for weeks.
Years later, I'm returned to that same feeling of fear I felt when reading the story, when watching Basil walk on stage and later get his throat ripped apart, because what I see here, hovering over Peeta, is the Reaper. My heart drums in my chest, drowns Peeta's howl of fury. It's so sudden, so unexpected in contrast to how tired he looked only moments before, that I gasp in surprise. It takes me a moment to take in the scene: Peeta struggles to close the door on the towering figure, screams with the force he uses to hold her back. But it's no use. His leg impairs him, his latest episode exhausted him, and he doesn't have the will of strength to keep her from coming in. She's shouting at him but I can't make it out through the sound of the hailing rain and the constant rumbling.
A flash of lightning blinds me, followed immediately by the deafening blast. When I manage back to my senses again, Peeta's sprawled on the ground and the woman is advancing on him with renewed confidence.
I forget the bakery, the District people, the fight, Peeta leaving me. I forget it all because in that instant my survival instincts, and that need to save him, have all kicked in. I rush to the kitchen in a few long steps and grab the sharpest knife that first grabs my attention: the one I was cutting meat with and left to dry on the counter during my earlier daze. The blade is still covered in the dry blood of the wild turkey I was chopping apart two hours ago. I smell it, salty, and it ignites a fire I didn't remember I had: the adrenaline rush that drove me through both arenas and the Capitol during the Rebellion.
I return to the parlor and Peeta's still on his back, legs hunched up and propped on his elbows. The woman bends down, readies herself to finish what she started. She's not looking at me and it's the moment I take to throw myself at her. Either I make too much noise or she saw me coming, because her large hand wraps around my wrist before I have time to cause any damage. And then what I see is a blur of dim greys and blacks as everything around me spins before I'm slammed into the wall by the opened door.
"Katniss", Peeta shouts.
"Drop the knife, girl", the woman snarls by my ear. She holds my arm up behind my back and squeezes at the nerves at my wrist, playing with the tendons like it's a musical instrument. I don't listen, my anger at this stranger invading my home all that I know, all that I breathe.
"Katniss, drop the knife", Peeta calls to me. His voice brings me back into focus. No, not so much his voice as his tone. It's calm and soft, reassuring. I want to yell at him for it, but when our eyes meet I see that the alarm he felt, that I still feel, isn't present. Slowly, he gets up and brings his hands forward as though I'm an animal gone wild. I suppose he isn't half wrong but the analogy makes me a little uneasy.
"Drop the knife", he repeats with a firm hand on my shoulder.
I quell my struggling, but I'm taken by heavy tremors, my fingers crisped around the handle as his were in the bakery. My muscles are so rigid that loosening my grip makes me cringe with pain that carries all the way up to my elbow. The woman shifts with the sound of the blade hitting the floor. My jaw's clenched so tight that my whole skull hammers and my eyes feel on fire. I don't understand why Peeta would ask me this, why he isn't fighting the woman off me. Does him leaving mean he doesn't care at all anymore? The thought forces a noise of desperation out of me. Just this afternoon I was eating stew at Greasy Sae's after my stroll in the woods. In less then half a day I've nearly been killed by Peeta, he's decided to leave me, and a stranger who looks like death has come to be the end of us and he doesn't seem to find this very alarming.
I wait for the blow. I wait for it to end. I'm so tired. I thought I was making progress but in a few hours I've taken miles and miles of back steps. And just as those poisonous thoughts swirl in my head, the woman's strong grip is released and the front door closes, effectively drowning the noise of hailing rain and howling winds. Slowly, I look over my shoulder. She's still there, the cloak, now I see is made of pelts, darkened by the rain. She drops her hood. As soon as I can take in her features, I'm taken aback by the familiarity of her. It's so strong it nearly knocks the wind out of me, and yet I can't place where we've met. Not in the storybook, obviously. Now that I see her clearly, she's no Reaper.
Peeta's hands come upon my shoulders, wrap around the thinness of them. He's either steadying me or keeping me from charging again and frankly, I'm not sure what I could do either. It's ironic to think that a few hours ago he was the unstable one and I was keeping him steady and now it's a roles' reversal. Wonders never seize.
The woman stands tall, almost defiant, yet amidst the coal black eyes I notice something undeniable: tenderness. It's the kind of beauty you see in mothers and sisters, the kind I once held for Prim.
"I'm not your enemy", she says with her deep voice. Rain water glistens into her crop short hair, falls in glimmering streaks upon her dark skin. She reaches into her fur cloak and I feel Peeta's hand crisp over my shoulder to hold me in place. When she returns, it's not a weapon she presents, but an old wooden box, resting in the pale shape of her hand. After what seems like long minutes, Peeta's the one who takes it. It looked small in her hand, but Peeta has to hold it between both of his.
"My name is Tisha", she says evenly. "I came a long way to give you this. I didn't mean to scare you", she takes a quick glance at the suitcase by the door, and a flash of understanding carries across her dark eyes. "I see I've come at an unfortunate time. Again, I apologize."
Peeta blinks, all antagonizing emotions drained out of him, glancing from the giant woman to the suitcase and back. In that moment he seems torn while he sways the box between his hands.
The box is simple, shaped from a trunk with holes within. It was as if whoever crafted it wanted to keep it as natural as it could possibly be. It's not varnished, and the smell of pine is very strong. Still, despite all this, I'm silent. Distrustful. Peeta, on the other hand, seems amazingly calm considering what just transpired.
"Um... Well, thank you", he says then, moving the box between his fingers, inquiring. Before he can ask what the box contains, the woman requests to remove the wet pelt at her back. I open my mouth, ready to refuse, but Peeta speaks well before I can, inviting her inside. I give him a long gaze. Has he forgotten how, a few moments ago he was leaving this home? How he was leaving me to myself? How much he hurt me? He side glances quickly at me, thinking I didn't notice but I did, and with this simple, subtle gesture, I understand what he's doing: even after all this, he's making sure nothing will happen to me. He's protecting me from that familiar woman and her mysterious box. I decide to take it for now. I don't forget, but I cast it aside, if only because I can have him by my side a while longer. If only to pretend. It's selfish and I'll be honest, I don't care. If we're still alive later, I'll face the consequences then.
I stay quiet, looking down at my feet and shaking my head. Does he know her? Does she seem as familiar to him as she does to me? He appears as baffled as me, at the very least.
She removes her cloak and settles it on a hanger, and then meticulously sets her boots below. I'm surprised at how casual she looks now that's she's removed the pelt, however there's no mistaking the strong frame of this giant. She could crush both Peeta and I under one arm. Simultaneously.
She lets her eyes wander a moment, wetting thick lips. "So, this is a Victor's house, hm? My brother would have hated it. I guess his defeat wasn't such a bad thing, when you put it that way." A hint of a smile.
Peeta's watching her as intently as I while he invites her to the living room, not opening the box either because he wants to wait for her to tell him to open it, or because he's afraid of what he'll find inside. She's looking everywhere at once, reminding me of an amazed child in a giant's body. She looks gentle despite how obviously strong she is. And amazingly enough, as she walks, she makes no noise. Even the floor doesn't creek beneath her bare feet.
And suddenly, I know who she is. I know where I've seen her before. My head spins and instinctively I grab Peeta's arm for support, using him as my mental crutch. His brows furrow, a muscle rippling across his jaw in concentration.
"Who was your brother", he asks in a small voice.
My nails dig into Peeta's arm, a strong sense of guilt and sadness bursting from the pit of my stomach. It's so obvious now. She looks just like him, her voice sounds similar, her manners. All of it. And I respond before she can, hearing myself from a hundred miles away. "Thresh... Thresh was your brother. You were on the stage during the Victory Tour of the 74th Hunger Games."
She makes a full blown smile in response.
End of Chapter 4