here is the place where i love maysilee by wordswithwind

Deep in the meadow

Under the willow

A bed of grass

A soft green pillow

Lay down your head

And close your sleepy eyes

When again it's morning the sun will rise

Here it's safe

Here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet

And tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place

Where I love you

-Suzanne Collins, "Deep in the Meadow" The Hunger Games

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Here It's Safe

IT'S ALL A hazy nightmare to me. I can't breathe. I can't think. All I can feel is the leaden weight of my stomach, tight and buzzing with nerves. My hands are stiff and immobile. I barely register the pain of the tracker as it's slipped underneath my skin.

I'm forced to sit next to the other district twelve tributes on the hovercraft. I'm sitting so close to them I have trouble not bumping their knees, but I don't look at them. They are suddenly objects of guilt, as if it is my fault they are going to die. Well, it is my fault with Haymitch. How could I have let myself take advantage of him in that way? I should have never let him teach me swimming. Tears sear my eyes; my throat grows dry and parched.

Scenes pass like pictures shown to me. I don't really understand that they're connected to me. They don't seem to be connected to me. Who is this girl, trembling and pallid, eyes too wide and alarmed? Why is she dressing herself in strange clothing, light and breathable, composed of an indefinable high-tech material? She fingers it uncertainly, as if it might give her comfort.

She has to be hustled along by an ill-mannered creature whose nails are swathed in a dark red. The girl wonders if the nail polish is what blood will look like. Blood. Once the image is in her mind, she can't push it away. A dark hole in her blond head. A life-giving red waterfall gushing out onto the dusty earth. She contorts; she screams a silent scream. A flash of gold winks past her eye.

And then she remembers. I'm Maysilee. I have a mockingjay.

I have a mockingjay.

I look down at the bird. It will keep my sanity. It will remind me of who I am and who I'm not.

I am not a Capitol tool.

I am a rebel.

Long ago words, written by a wise man named Thomas Paine, come to mind as I enter my transparent prison. We have it in our power to begin the world over again. The words send a jolt of electricity through my nervous system; I straighten with the strength of these words. Maybe the time for the Capitol to fall is not yet. Maybe it is sometime far into the future. But it will fall. Nothing can last forever, not even the Capitol.

And I have it in my power to tell my secret to someone so that hopefully, one day, we will be able to begin the world over again. The problem is how I will do it, my biggest hindrance being the said someone probably-actually, most definitely-hates me.

The plate begins to rise. Fuchsia raises her wrist and looks impatiently at a watch. Her bloody fingernails point toward the ground. Her eyes flick indifferently toward me, only barely acknowledging my presence before she hastily exits the room. I can not quell the surge of loathing that surfaces within me as I see her leave. Does she even care about me? Of course she doesn't. Ugly words chase themselves through my brain; washed away immediately by heart-stopping fear.

As the cylinder rises to an uncertain doom, I feel a familiar ache in my lower belly, my bladder straining against a weight. Suddenly I get an absurd spike of fear-what if I wet myself!?

Wet yourself? Really? I ask myself. Seriously, you have bigger things to worry about, girlfriend.

I start laughing. It's hysterical laughing, impossible to stem. The plate meets the ground and I'm raised into a different world of a startlingly bright palette of colors, blurry from my laughter tears. My laughter stops as suddenly as if someone had pushed a pause button. I stare in amazement and disbelief at the landscape around me.

It's impossible. It's not real. A dream. An illusion. My eyes sweep the length of the arena. A luminescent, shear face of a craggy mountain bluff beams searing light into my eyes. Waving brownish-green grass spreads out in an arc before the Cornucopia. The sky is a dazzling, bluer-than-blue dream. The clouds are so real, so there, that I want to grab them and put them under my head like pillows, and fall asleep on the grassy ground. I lean off the plate before coming to my senses and stepping quickly back, tripping on my own feet. Stupid, I chasten myself. Still, I find myself captivated by a delicate, many-petaled flower lying inches from where I'm standing. So close… I reach out my hand, straining, when a blast numbs my eardrums.

My head snaps up, heart thudding in my temple like a war drumbeat. I see a mangled mess of human intestines on a plate, a plate labeled with the name of Tempest Sanuve…

I turn away, throat and eyes burning from the image. It will remain imprinted in me for all time...Tempest's gentle eyes, the way her suffering was scorned upon but the also the way she weathered it, how she had no one at the reaping to cry for her, no one who would care if she died…

I care, I think. I care for you, Tempest.

And even though she should have been gone, even though I should have been speaking to air, I feel something, like a touch or a thought or gust of wind, something that says, I care about you too, Maysilee.

Goodbye, I whisper.

Goodbye.

I clench my fists and tell myself, as the clock counts down to zero, that I will not forget her, or the other tributes. I look around at them, seeing the beauty in each one. I remind myself that they are not my enemies. The Capitol is, for bringing us together as killers, not as friends.

All we want to do it survive. We see each other as obstacles to get past. I don't want to see these others as obstacles. I want to see them as people. And people, even bad people, have a good side to them. I have to remember that. Have to.

So when the alarm dings, and I rush off my plate, and I find myself standing over a backpack with another pair of hands reaching toward it, I stop and hand it to the tribute. As I straighten I notice she's a girl, not too much older than me, by the looks of it.

"You need it," I say.

She stares at me, dumbfounded. Her hair is frizzy and auburn, flyaway. Her eyes are big and brown, curious and slightly afraid, like a deer's. She whispers, "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

She looks at the pack a moment, and after a split second of contemplation, seizes the chance I gave her. Gratified, I watch her sprint away-and be overtaken by a large male tribute with a huge battle ax. My heart sinking, I see her fall slowly in a heap, on top of the backpack I have given her. The larger tribute, not seeing the backpack, lumbers away to attack a different boy.

I see my chance, and lunging forward in a sudden burst of energy, I grab it. Long legs pumping, arms swishing at my sides, I make a straightaway for the fallen girl. In one smooth movement I take the pack and swing it to my shoulder, not pausing, just running. Heavy breath behind me alerts me to a malicious presence; I take to a full-out sprint. Whoever it is decides I'm too fast for him and I hear his labored breathing fall away behind me. My lungs screaming and legs on fire, I keep running, fueled by the desire to live. I'm sprinting the fastest I have in my life. Until now I didn't know it was possible to move at such a speed.

I keep the mountain in front of me and the Cornucopia at my back. The mountain gives me a sense of security. Maybe I can climb it until I find a safe place to rest, or at least shelter underneath it.

I run until tree roots start to intrude upon my pathway and I trip with exhausted legs and fall, bruising my arms. I pull myself under the cover of a tree whose protective canopy shades me from harsh sunlight, draw my knees up to my chin, and begin taking deep, gulping, hyperventilating breaths. They're so loud I'm worried they will attract attention, but the forest is silent except for the sigh of wind in the leaves and the drowsy chatter of birds.

Once I've calmed down enough I open my packet to find out what I have to work with. A couple of pieces of beef, a wooden bowl. A long, tubular stick with two dozen dart-thingys. I look at it, trying to figure out what it is, also attempting to reign in my disappointment. What about some water? I'll die very soon without water. I just wish I knew how soon.

And that's when I suddenly begin to feel the sandpaperness of my tongue, the dry, aching burn in my throat, and the pounding of my head, all caused from one thing: the lack of water. I begin shivering from fear. And before I know it, the fear morphs into anger. Why should I be crouching here without even a gulp of water to drink, while thousands of people across Panem are sipping iced tea and waiting placidly for my death? I feel so alone, and self-pity envelops me. Why am I so unlucky?

I look down at a tiny sprig of a plant pushing its way through the earth. It stands in the middle of a patch of dry, brown earth, isolated from the rest of the plants that grow at the fringe of its solitary circle. But as I stare at it blankly, the realization creeps up on me slowly that even though it looks alone, it isn't. The sun above gives it energy for photosynthesis. Water below seeps into its roots. The oxygen it releases help animals like me to breathe.

I am not alone either.

I have Marsilee, my carefree, always-eager-to-please sister, who made me smile on days where I felt bleak. I have Rosianna, kind and soft-spoken, always a sympathetic listener to any and all things I might wish to tell her. I have my mother and father, hardworking parents who care deeply about not just me and my sister but all people. And I have my canary, Lelanabelle, who never fails to sing life into an otherwise dull day.

I have all these people, who love me, care about me, who are watching me and rooting me on and telling me across hundreds of miles that they have not forgotten about me. And how could I forget? How could I possibly forget that there are so many people who love me?

And I know I can keep going on for them. That somehow, I can do the right thing. My mother told me there's always a right choice, but I don't know if she was speaking about the arena. In here, you seem to have to try and pick the lesser of three evils: kill others, kill yourself, or let yourself be killed. But maybe trying to give that girl the pack was the right choice-even if she didn't make it.

I stare at the small twig of a plant a few seconds longer, wondering about sunlight and water and...WATER! I sit bolt upright, heart hammering.

Plants need water. If plants are growing and living right in the space I am sitting, water must be near.

I feel the dirt with my hands, moving away into the undergrowth. It seems to get more moist as I move on, though that may only be my imagination. Sheltered from the sunlight, the shade especially seems to offer a damper type of soil. Blinded by the shadows, I move forward on hands and knees until suddenly the ground slopes downward without warning. I fall face first down a muddy incline into a cool spring of fresh water.

I gasp with surprise, then delight. I take handfuls of water and spread them over myself, cleaning out my ears and sweaty armpits, splashing them over my back. I take cupfuls and pour them into my mouth, most of the water being spit out through laughter that racks my whole body, lungs heaving, ribs shaking. I'm laughing so much I can't stop. Who knew you could get so excited just over a bunch of hydrogen and and oxygen chemically combined?

Through my laughter, however, I hear a soft splash in the water unrelated to my enthusiastic bathing. I freeze, hands cupping fresh dousing liquid, staring out over the sheen of calm water. I feel foolish. I shouldn't have forgotten that this isn't like a casual bath at home; there are dangers is this bathtub I can't even guess.

I'm searching the depths of the murky water when a blast of water hits me in the eye. I fall back into the water with a splash, wiping away the stinging water. Heart slamming against my chest with enough force to break through my ribcage, I sweep my eyes across the expanse of water. An enemy. I'm sure of it. With water to blind me and then weapons to kill me once I'm rid of my eyesight. I stand, rigid, looking in the trees surrounding the waterhole, the waterhole itself, even up at the sky. I don't see anything unusual, but my heart keeps telling me something is amiss.

And then another blast of water explodes in my eyeball-a perfect shot.

I whirl around, hands instinctively up to my face, waiting for I know not what. A dark figure glides underneath the surface of the water-a fish. Shaped like a silver arrowhead with dabs of black making stripes down its spine, it cuts cleanly through the water towards a twig hanging inches above the water a few feet away from me. It swims upward, pokes the tip of its fishy mouth out of the water, and fires a stream of water out directly toward the twig. The water hits a bug sitting atop the twig, causing the bug to fall into the water. The fish swims quickly over to the bug, scoops it up into its mouth, and swims away. All done in a blink of an eye.

The fish* was the thing that shot me in the eye! Not a tribute wishing to kill me. I smile. I wish I could shoot water out of my mouth to stun prey. It might make it easier to find something to eat.

I head back through the trees to where I left my supplies heedlessly to get the wooden bowl from my supply pack. I remind myself not to do something like that again; it could have drastic consequences.

While grabbing the bowl I again examine the strange mechanism that had baffled me before. Long and tubular, with darts to match. Obviously some sort of weapon. But how to use it?

Again at the river I fill up my water bowl, holding my "weapon" at my side. I see a shadow moving through the water and anticipate the splash in my eyeball.

But the fish doesn't shoot at me-it shoots the tubular weapon I'm holding at my side. I look at its intelligent eyes as it surfaces, and I read the secret there and understand something. It all comes to me in a rush of knowledge.

Eagerly I insert an dart into the tubular weapon and put my mouth at its end. Aiming the weapon at a tree nearby, I blow...and the dart shoots out, hitting the bark and quivering slightly.

I go to retrieve the dart and then shoot again and again, getting a feel for the weapon. I improve slightly as time goes on, making the dart go in more or less the direction I want it to go. The sun slips behind the trees, leaving me in shade and dusky darkness. I relax, leaving the sunlight to travel its way down my body as it slips behind the horizon.

When it's so dark I can no longer shoot, I walk back through the trees to my "campsite" and nestle in the surrounding plant life to sleep. At least here it's safe. Idle insects hum a lullaby as I fall into oblivion.

What seems like a few seconds later, though, they're jarring me awake, voices hard and insistent in my ears. I jolt upward, hands automatically closing over my blowgun. Somehow it has become a very dear object to me in these last few hours, and goosebumps prickle my spine at the thought of losing it. With trembling hands I point the gun into the trees...

...and someone throttles me from behind.

Hard, insistent hands push at my windpipe, squeezing it as easily as a clod of dirt. I gasp like a fish out of water, murmuring indistinct things like "no" and "ah", clawing with desperate fingers at my attacker. My vision starts to go black at the edges.

"What do you think, Gil?" a harsh, guttural voice says into my ear. "Useful or not?"

A lumbering dark figure steps into view. Piercing green eyes regard me in the half darkness. "We should take her back to Rubi," the voice says. It's softer but deeper than my captor's voice, and I detect a note of fear in it. "She may be useful."

"You're too soft-hearted," my kidnapper says, scorn in his tone. "We should kill her: another down, I say." He squeezes harder on my windpipe, as if emphasizing his words. "Does she have anything besides that measly bag of crap?" He nods to my backpack, now clutched in Gil's hands.

"I'm not sure…" Gil says quietly, "but maybe she'll be able to tell us where that dangerous District Twelve kid is, you know, the one that got a ten in his training score?"

"Yeah, sure," the harsh-voiced boy says sarcastically. "He was the one who ran off right away. He didn't stop to wait for this piece of trash." He elbows me in the shins. "Trust me, this thing knows nothing."

Gil looks ready to protest, but I see the retaliation die in his eyes as he sees the angry boy's defiant glare. Looking away, he mutters something like an apology.

I know then that if I don't act fast, all is lost. Unhinging my jaw from its clamped-tight state, I say quickly, "You're wrong, Milljohn."

As I intended, my usage of his name has caught him off guard. His grip loosens slightly and he stares at me, eyes wide in the dark. "How do you know my name?"

I choose my words carefully, deciding to use a flattering tactic. "How could I not?" I replied. "You are unforgettable. I remember at the interviews how you wore that blue suit, you looked so handsome and charming…" I struggled to think of other things I knew about Milljohn, biting my lip with concentration. "And you were great at lifting weights and throwing axes, no wonder you got such a high training score…" I kept my eyes focused on Milljohn's. He was glowing with my praise. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I sensed Gil's disapproval.

"He didn't get a high training score," Gil hissed, his voice suddenly changed from his former mild tone. "Not as high as Haymitch anyway. Speaking of which, you said Milljohn was wrong about you being clueless about him. So you must know something. Out with it, girl." Quicker than I can draw a breath a knife is at my throat.

I suppress a moan of exasperation. A few more seconds of flattery and I'd have been free. But I'd underestimated Gil. He may not be as brutal as Milljohn, but he's evidently cleverer. Now I'll have to think up some sort of lie.

I sigh theatrically, burying my head in my hands in a gesture of despair. "Oh, fine," I whisper, making my voice sound as weak and pathetic as possible. "You've caught me. Yes, I know where Haymitch is." I pause, my brain working furiously.

"Well, where?" Gil says impatiently. His knife is trembling in his hand-from eagerness or fear, I know not which.

"He's-near here," I say vaguely.

"How do you know?"

"I heard him."

I know instantly that was the wrong thing to say from the glances that the two exchange. Gil presses the knife closer to my throat.

"A boy so clever as to get a ten on his training score wouldn't make noise in the woods. He's lithe, anyway, and light," Gil snarls. "Tell the truth."

"You don't believe me?" I say casually, though my heart is doing flip flops in my chest. "Okay. I'll show you." I glance at Gil to see if he'll accept my invitation. Reluctantly he lowers his knife. Placing it at the small of my back, he nudges me forward.

I take care to step purposefully but with my back slightly bowed; hopefully then my captors will believe I am fearful of them and therefore will not expect me to bolt off at a moment's notice. I lead them to the edge of the trees near the stream and point out toward the water. "I heard splashing up here earlier. I think he was wading through the stream to erase his tracks." I glance at them, hoping that the 'wading through the stream' part sounded enough like something Haymitch would do.

Gil still looks uncertain. Milljohn asks me, "How long ago was this?"

I consider my answer carefully. If I say I heard him a long time ago, they won't hesitate to kill me this very moment. If I say I heard him only a few minutes ago, then I'll need an explanation for why I think so. I clear my throat and speak as confidently as I can. "I heard the splashing a couple of hours ago at around twilight. Unless he thinks it's smart to wander around in the dark alone, I think he's found a place near here to sleep."

Gil nods his head. "Sounds reasonable." He turns to Milljohn. "Keep guard over her while I look aroun-" He stops suddenly. "Milljohn, what's wrong?"

Gil's ally is holding his eye and hopping around. "Something just shot me in the eye!"

There's another splash of water and Gil also slaps a hand up to his eye. "What is that? Ah!" He slaps his hand to his other eye.

"Gil!" Milljohn cries. "Do you think it's Haymitch?"

I stuff a fist in my mouth to keep from giggling maniacally. This is what I was hoping would happen. Just a few more moments, at the second they get hysterical enough to forget me but before they realize it's not Haymitch who's shooting them in the eyes, I'll bolt. I watch them dance around, slapping hands to their eyeballs, and can't help wondering what the Capitol audience thinks of this. Then I bite my lip, wheel around, and bolt.

I've only taken a couple of steps when there's a flash of black, a heavy impact, and suddenly I'm on the ground. Raising my head painfully from where I knocked it against a rock, I peer upward.

I see two eyes, blue and brown.

Rubi.

*The fish that Maysilee meets are not mutts. They're called archerfish and stun their prey using water bullets created in their mouths.