Chapter 6:

Getting a pencil is an accomplishment she hadn't expected she'd have to fulfill at any point in her life. After all, she had never even dreamed of saving a boy from the teeth of a wolf, and especailly not that of all the gifts he could have been born with, it would be art. Much less of herself learning how to write, of course.

He is an artist, yes, she has no doubt. She's heard him talk, draw a picture with his words. She needs no proof to believe he can work the same magic with his hands. She can't believe, however, how she's spending more money on the boy she barely knows, who barely knows himself, now.

Of course, it could help his recovery. Which, guaranteed, is the only reason she's willing to buy something other than food for him. She rarely does that for Prim -she's usually clothed in Katniss' or their mother's old dresses, as they can't afford to spend money on things which aren't essential for survival normally-, and her little sister is the person closest to her, the motivation and kingpin in Katniss' cruel world of loneliness.

Peeta, though, is not only a healthy young man, with qualities surely more worthy than drawing, whether it be on paper or in his counterpart's mind -heaving weighty, bulky sacks, trunks, bags or other objects are rather unlikely to be a problem for him; as soon as his leg is recovered, that is- but, judging from his physical, corporal condition, he must have lived a wealthy life, with more money than Katniss has ever dared dreaming of. Money he will surely spend to thank his saviors in the most sincere way. Especially seen as he thinks of himself as indebted to them.

Which, quite honestly, Katniss can comprehend. Picturing herself in his situation means picturing herself with the same emotions, and guilt is alarmingly close to the top of the list, accompanied, and possibly exceeded by suspicion and distrust. For she knows herself well enough to say she wouldn't trust as easily as Peeta does, isn't certain if she would trust some strangers patching her -especially her brain- together at all.

Evening is nearing, the sun already beginning to set. Its now orangey golden rays already hit Katniss in a different angle than they did when their producer was at the zenith. Color her usually olive skin a light brown. Her father used to say sunsets made people glow, no matter their crimes, their past, their origin. As a sign that everybody, in the end, is the same; a human being. And that everyone has something good in them. How much can only be defined by how much light they're emitting.

And Katniss, small and naïve as she was, believed his every word, and she saw what he meant. All of them didglow. At least in her imagination, they did. Her father's words had captivated her, and she wanted to see the radiation she believed in. Over time she learned only their hair glows, for skin simply cannot reflect sunlight, except it's wet from raindrops or her lake.

Or, and she can't fully preclude the thought, every goodness vanished with the old ruler's and her father's death. But that sounds too much like superstition, and she isn't one to persuade herself into deeming black cats or the number thirteen ominous either.

In the corner of the coal covered, rundown warehouse, she spots a worn looking chest, as she accidentally turns her head into it's direction while entering. The lid is opened, revealing about six different surfaces, separated by small boards, which are already visibly cracking, but still doing their job.

Normally she wouldn't pay attention to the old, crippled man with the broken nose, but the slender branches wrapped around a small line of lead manages to catch it. She lets her feet draw her to the chest without offering resistance, as she usually does when they choose to carry her without any order consciously given by herself.

The man, who is currently staring off into space, doesn't notice her approaching until she comes to a stop right in front of him and coughs softly. It's perplexing how fast his eyes dart from the wall of the Hob to Katniss, piercing her one's immediately, making her flinch.

"What'd ya want?" Slurring his words the way he is, she doesn't have to hear him twice to realize he's dead drunk. The well-known frown returns at this; the only person around who is in possession of the very thing she -well, Peeta- desires, is just about to pass out.

And he is; he clearly smells of it. So how, Katniss wonders, can his eyes be as focused as they are? Somehow dangerous, intimidating, but that isn't an uncommon reaction to alcohol; she only can't detect how they would be so keen.

Slightly shaking her head; turning it into the direction of the ceiling as if to diminish the -to her sober, empty stomach- nasty, sharp white liquids' scent; Katniss reaches into her bag, getting a hold of a few coins. She clutches them tightly in her hand, hesitating a second before showing them to him.

"I want to buy this pencil."

The man's eyes narrow, fixed to the money for a second, before once again boring into hers. He raises an eyebrow, higher than she thought possible.

"You write?"

Her frown deepens at his question, even if she doesn't know why exactly. Of course she would be asked this; a young girl buying an utensil used to write is more than only suspicious. As an answer, though, she shakes her head.

"How's it any of your business? Give me what I'm asking for, take your money and I'll leave."

For the first time, something sparkles within the gray orbs, and he gives a husky, low, cracked chuckle, only airing his drunkenness, making it more even obvious than it was before, and stealing all respect from Katniss. There's no way for her to take someone like him seriously, especially not when he's so sickly, openly laughing at her.

"Ah, a fierce one," he slurs when he's collected his wits as in any way possible in his current, pathetic state. "Haven't seen one in a long time. Very rare." At her visibly growing impatience, he adds with a smirk,

"I'll give to you what you require. But tell me, if it isn't meant to write, what's it purpose?"

Losing it entirely, she snatches the pencil from him, more quickly than he can react. In its place she leaves the money, sending him a glare. But, with a smirk on her part, she does tell him. For this one time, she can borrow someone else's words.

"Catching moments."

Without granting him a second glimpse, she turns and leaves straight.

She watches in amazement as she comes home to the sight of Peeta drying off some kind of paper he miraculously -for the lack of a better term- conjured with the help of a vat of water, some bark, and an exceptionally edged knife.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?"

He startles, having been too occupied by his work to note her feather-like steps. But as he turns to face her, there's a smile playing his lips, definitely genuine this time.

"How do you expect me to know? It's like the language I use. I cannot recall learning it, yet I possess knowledge of how to communicate."

Katniss brings one hand up to her face, running it along her hairline, tucking a strand of hair which has fallen out of her braid behind her ear. It's easy, forgetting about his lack of remembrance, when he doesn't act on it and talks to her normally, with a never-fading smile. The awareness may be stuck at the back of her head, but when she doesn't think about it, it behaves the way every problem in her village does; it ceases to exist.

Deciding to gloss over her for some reason somewhat embarrassing -seen as the answer should have been obvious- question, she only shrugs.

"When do you think you'll be able to use them?"

His expression, just a moment ago careless, turns oddly troubled. "I believe I have to exercise patience until tomorrow. Unless…well…"

A slight side-glance reveals his motives to her without him having to express them through words. For Katniss is a huntress, her eyes have been trained to look out for movements far quicker than his could ever be.

Furthermore, his intention isn't exactly well-hidden by the longing in his gaze as his eyes fall onto the old plant book. Traitorously, there's a glint in them, unveiling his knowledge of the few empty, most likely never to be filled pages.

He must have gotten curious in her absence, she figures. She doesn't know any plants but the ones inside; she's never had the guts to try foreign ones out, and they got by with the ones she knew for sure weren't poisonous, so why try out the obscure danger if there's a safe haven for them to rely on?

He notices her gaze lingering on the book, and it doesn't take him long to realize she's figured it out either. So his first reaction, as always as he assumes a mistake, is self-defense.

"It wasn't supposed to be a question, much less a demand, don't worry. I have no right to ask this of you. I just…"

"Take them," she cuts him off. She glances at him, his confused yet hopeful eyes, before looking back down to the ground. "I have no use for them anyway. You need to be careful, though, when you rip them out. Don't destroy them, will you?"

Disbelief is written all over his face, mixed with a joy, pure and foreign to Katniss. "I can under no circumstances accept your too kind offer. I may accidentally disgrace your for sure old, valuable possession."

The disappointment at his own words is evident, and Katniss can't prevent the snort from escaping her. Of course. First he looks like a child would if it was announced that Christmas had come early, then he has to go and make her -indirectly- wreck it.

But she isn't playing his game. With an exasperated sigh, she stomps -at least by her standards- over to the shelf, snatching the book from it. Careful not to bring up too much wind, for she is too fascinated by his paper-manufacturing-art to jumble it, she bends down to Peeta's place on the sofa and more or less thrusts the so-called "old, valuable possession" into his none anticipating hands.

"Quit being so stubborn. If I say you may take it, it means you're officially allowed to take it. So just…do what you're told!" Although unnerving her is an hardly an unattainable task, she surmises he's out to get on her nerves. And to makes things worse, to just push his luck, the next words leaving his mouth are "I'm very sorry, I didn't mean..."

Katniss, who definitely isn't the most patient person on the globe, can't refrain from snapping anymore. "And will you stop apologizing? It's like your whole day is an alternation between saying 'sorry' and turning down offers! Can't you be selfish at least once?"

The last sentence wasn't meant to slip past her lips, for she hadn't even know it had been buried inside her. How is it her concern if he's selfish or not, after all?

Her inner confusion is reflected by Peeta's eyes, but she knows better than to let her realization show on her face. She isn't about to modify his furled eyebrows into their usual line, for they would when she'd humiliate herself and amuse him with it.

So instead, choosing escape over embarrassment, she wraps her fingers around her hunting bag's strap and turns on her heal, almost flying out the door, leaving him with his puzzlement at her behavior.

"Do you think I made the right decision?" Her gaze stubbornly fixed on the ground, it's the only question she has to ask her best friend after telling him about the events of the last week.

She can feel his eyes on her, gray like her own, sometimes knowing her better than she does herself, but she doesn't meet them, too afraid to be confronted with his reaction.

She hadn't believed he hadn't heard about it for a second; even he'd always claim he doesn't care about gossip and doesn't believe in rumors. They don't pass anyone, in the end everyone knows, no matter if they want to be informed or not. Strolling through the Hob often is enough, seen as it's the place where the most alcohol is consumed.

Katniss hadn't expected his immediate confrontation, however, for he had always been rather discreet about the many facts he knew. But as soon as they met up on their usual spot, hidden behind blueberry bushes facing the meadow and rocks on the far side, he'd asked her about him.

"I don't know." Gale shrugs. Katniss inwardly sighs, irritated by her best friend. Usually, he'd always have an opinion of whether her behavior had been right or wrong. Usually, though, and often just to tease her, he'd say she'd screwed up.

"I guess I wouldn't have, but it's probably about the eye of the beholder, anyway." Without allowance, her eyebrows rise quizzically, as if challenging him. As if telling him letting someone die is a sin which can't be atoned for.

"I mean, I have never been confronted with this kind of situation. But, looking on the rational side, he's only one more mouth to feed, and Katniss, you can't afford that. So why not let the stranger die, I ask you."

Now the joke's on Katniss, and she doesn't like it one bit. Justifying her actions on the day in question is something she isn't sure she can do for herself, so how is she supposed to express her feelings in words to make Gale understand?

"I'm not sure. Maybe because I held the power to help him? Could you live thinking that you're in any way responsible for someone else's death?"

Instead of understanding, incomprehension fills the boy's eyes. His lips a thin line -one she'd seen him use when he tried to cover up his sentiments in the past- he replies, "Why should I? Without an emotional bond? You would have never known you could have saved his life."

Sometimes her best friend's behavior causes her to wonder. His heart is anything but cold; she knows it's as big as can be, for he is protective of the few but important people who mean something to him, and loving towards his mother, siblings and Katniss' family. She also knows his view on life needs getting used to. It's isn't that he doesn't value it; he doesn't discount life as a curse, like Katniss on her darkest days. He much more thinks of some deaths as a necessary sacrifice, for the greater good.

Katniss shifts a little and leans backwards until her back is comfortably against the surface of one smaller rock, where she can place her head on its surface, so the stone together with the rough ground isn't prickling her anymore. She doesn't believe in "greater goods" or "sacrifices". In her opinion, it's the way of humans to excuse their destructive, damaging existence. The greater good is something they try to talk themselves into believing, so the hope they so desperately crave, so regardless of the consequences want for, which is an illusion of the perfect world, will never die.

"Maybe I would keep thinking of how I could at least have tried." Her eyes drift to the spot where tops of the trees reach the black sky. The half-moon doesn't provide the earth with the light the full one does, thus even Katniss' ability to see is limited. Only the silhouettes of the firs are visible, as they possess a darker shade of black than the sky, which is more of a dark blue. They look like shadows in the night's eeriness, unreal and unreachable, yet she only needs to reach out to touch the closest one.

In a twisted, odd way, they remind her of Peeta. How he -his past and memory- seem so unreachable. Bending her thoughts on it, she realizes only now that he could be far more similar to those trees below the night sky than she'd originally assumed. What if the answer only appears to be so far away? What if it's right in front of her, simple and plain, but unknown?

"Who do you think he is?", Katniss asks her best friend, completely out of the blue. Gale jumps slightly, having been occupied by the still, tranquil beauty of the enigmatic forest himself.

He doesn't answer right away; while he's narrowing his eyes, he's practically gnawing at the question, turning and forming the it, letting different images cross his mind, letting them stay or fly away into the abyss many good ideas have already vanished in.

He then meets Katniss' awaiting gaze, looking deeply into her eyes. "He's different. He isn't like us, I can tell even if I haven't met him." He gives the stars one long lasting before adding, "He's been rich in his former life. He's talked to people with a high social status. Probably the heir of a great fortune. Went hunting, got surprisingly attacked by a wolf, lost his weapon, which you haven't seen in the dim light. That's about it."

He observes her expectantly, waiting for a reaction. His words, which had obviously been chosen carefully, have one slight flaw she barely recognizes. She isn't even sure if it's of concern, but her remembrance evokes a memory of her telling him about bow and arrows, and his lack of knowledge about them. It may be part of his amnesia, as her mother calls it, but everything else he knows how to use, if it's from his past that is.

Suddenly, without forewarning, she rises to her feet and closes her fingers around her bow, which had been placed securely on the rock next to the one she'd been leaning in, knocking a loose stone down in the progress. Gale doesn't say anything as he follows her with his eyes, but in his gaze his wonderment is evident.

"We need to go now. We only have this night."

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