A/N
A new chapter at last! This one's a long one, and I can say I like this one a great deal. I hope you feel the same way… As a quick recap, we're now in the arena. Last chapter, we saw the bloodbath, Kai's attempt on Glimmer's life and his own demise at Marvel's hands, and then the discovery of an unlikely ally in the boy from District Twelve… ooohhh…
So, without further ado, here is chapter ten. Enjoy, and review, pelase!
-Iri
Night has fallen in earnest by the time we stride into the forest, heavily armed and wearing the warmest gear the Gamemakers provided. Even so, I shiver through the extra layers; it's already freezing cold out, and it's only going to get colder. I pity the poor souls left without some form of cover… or at least, I would if I were not trying to kill them, I have to remind myself.
There's nothing to hear, only an oppressive silence and the sound of soft footsteps in the dirt as we creep only noiselessly through the dark forest. There's a good deal of moonlight visible through the trees, rendering the night vision glasses Clove and Cato are wearing pretty much useless. Sure enough, minutes into our trek, the pair from Two both seem to have tired of squinting through the grainy lenses and they are tucked away in backpacks before we continue onward.
We run silently for hours, our only companions the occasional scared rabbit and the hooting of owls hidden high in the treetops. No one speaks, but I can feel the building frustration among the group. The arena's bigger than anyone thought and we haven't seen a single other tribute since the bloodbath.
Then, I see Marvel, a few feet out ahead of the pack, suddenly fling up a hand and stop dead in his tracks. Like a pack of wolves, we all immediately pull up, and the tension ratchets up yet another notch. At first, I wonder what has caught his eye, but then I see it: the faint glow of a campfire burning low, as if its owner has fallen asleep. The source of the hopeful smoke I've been smelling faintly for miles now.
The cool breeze must have spread it far and wide, because it has taken us hours to find this small beacon in the night. It's a huge risk for any tribute, lighting a fire when they must know the Career pack is out and hunting. Whoever this unlucky tribute is, they're not very smart, which tells me it probably isn't anyone of particular consequence.
I catch a glimpse of Clove through my peripheral vision; every line in her thin, angular face seems drawn ever tighter as she is bleached to pure white by the moon. She leans forward, an inscrutable look on her face, and I wonder what exactly are this girl's motivations. She wasn't a volunteer, but she knows how to handle herself in the arena, that much is far too obvious.
Enough, I scold myself. The enigma that is Clove will have to wait. Especially considering the way Marvel has raised his hand in warning. I tense, every muscle in my thin frame nearly shaking with adrenaline. Then, Marvel brings his hand down, and as one, the five remaining Careers leap forward into the tiny clearing ahead.
She screams when she sees us, the petite blond-haired girl. She's from Eight, I think, and she's maybe fourteen years old. As we advance, though, she whimpers like a much younger child, pleading for her life. "No, please, oh no, please, please!" she cries, tears visibly staining her pale cheeks. I was right about one thing; she's got no supplies, no cold weather gear to keep her warm, and has therefore been forced to light a fire in order to avoid freezing to death.
My stomach tightens. It's a horrible catch-22 sort of dilemma. Is it better to freeze to death or meet your end on the point of Marina's spear? For it is she who steps forward now.
"Well, well, what's this? Did you lose your way, little girl?" The dark-haired girl's eyes glitter maliciously as she hoists her spear up to her shoulder, adjusting her grip. She nonchalantly, even playfully makes a few small, flicking motions with her wrist, opening up several tiny gashes on the girl's torso.
"How awful that must be, to spend the last moments of your pathetic life not even knowing what's going on or where you are. Well, let me enlighten you. My name is Marina, and I'm so glad to meet you." Marina's lips twist upward in a cruel smile as she prods the trembling girl from Eight with the point of her spear, opening another shallow cut across her chest; the girl whimpers even louder, and I hear Clove sigh next to me. I myself find this very sight hard to stomach. This sadistic manner of killing, it's enough to make anyone sick.
"Enough, Marina," I snap harshly, stepping forward with one hand on the hilt of my sword. "Get it over with or give her to someone who can."
Marina whips her head around to glare at me with vicious eyes and opens her mouth to retort, but Cato cuts her off before she can speak.
"Did you not hear her, District Four? That's enough! Or do you want to go the same way as your idiotic partner?" The look on Cato's face is enough to frighten even the bravest of tributes into submission, and it has no less effect on Marina, who tries to cover her sudden uneasiness with a disgruntled huff and turns back to her victim, who is now trembling harder than ever.
"Sorry, then," Marina says in a sickeningly cheerful tone, "but it looks as if your time is up." And with that, she plunges the spear point directly into the girl's chest.
The girl lets out a terrible, agonized howl that peters off into a death gargle as Marina wrenches her weapon free with a sickening squelching sound and turns to the rest of us. "That's twelve down and eleven to go. Happy now?" she snarls. I have to shove my sword hand into my jacket pocket to keep from running her through right there, but I know even as I do so that to follow through on such a suddenly-desirable action would only lead to trouble for me. This is the Hunger Games, Glimmer, and it's no time to suddenly acquire morals, I snarl fiercely in my head.
"Fine," Cato says brusquely. "You- Lover Boy-" This is directed at Peeta, who until now has stood completely silent and off to the side, as if denying involvement. "Check her pack, see if there's anything useful inside." He nods to the small purple bag half-buried in pine needles. Peeta swallows and crosses the clearing to crouch next to me and unzip the girl's tiny bag. I watch as he dumps it into the dirt.
Out spills an empty water bottle, a half-eaten loaf of bread, now filthy, and a flint, no doubt the tool used to build the fire that was her doom. I also see a tiny flash of silver, what appears to be a small charm of some sort. I nudge it with the toe of my boot, curious. It's rounded, hollow, and looks like it might fit around the end of my pinky finger. The shape stirs a vague memory in my mind, and I have to search fruitlessly for a moment before I realize what it is. A thimble. It dawns on me that this is probably the girl's token.
"Well, that's not going to do us any good," Marina grumbles, leaning over to wipe clean her spear on the jacket of the still form. "Can we go now?"
"Oh, do us all a favor and shut up, Marina," Clove snaps, turning to her hulking district partner, who sheathes his sword and straightens up to his full height.
"All right then, that's that. Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," Cato says. I turn to look at him, surprised by his unexpectedly cavalier words, and am just in time to catch the small flash of emotion in his midnight blue eyes. Sadness. Exhaustion. And I suddenly find myself thinking that maybe the massive man from Two isn't quite as vicious as he appears.
As I turn to walk away with the rest of my allies, I stop, and look back at the girl lying crumpled and prone in the dirt. The soil around her body turns rapidly to mud with her blood, and her hair hangs tangled across her face, obscuring her features. I feel a sudden impulse to brush it back, so her family can at least see her face. She deserves that much.
Glancing back at my vanishing allies, I make a decision. I dart back to the girl's body and hastily smooth the messy strands away. Her skin is cold and clammy and I flinch away in revulsion, standing to go. Then, I notice the glint of silver near my boot. The thimble.
I quickly scoop up the tiny object and, stooping, tuck it in the dead girl's head before straightening up and ducking through the trees to find my allies, blending into the rear of the pack unnoticed, trying to forget my moment of weakness. Weakness. It's true. You cannot allow yourself to become so distracted now, Glimmer. Not now.
We've only gone about a hundred feet farther into the forest when Clove, walking a few feet ahead of me with Cato at her side, calls for us to stop. "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" she asks.
"I'd say yes," I reply, confused. "There's nothing to prevent them from going in right away." And there isn't. In every Hunger Games I've watched, the hovercraft picks up the body as soon as you vacate the immediate area, although Clove's right, the cannon hasn't sounded yet. The girl seemed dead when I went back, but I didn't think to check for a pulse. Marina did a good enough job butchering that I didn't even bother.
I voice what everyone is no doubt thinking. "Unless she isn't dead." Ouch. That would mean the girl is still lying out there with a gaping hole in her chest. I wince internally.
"She's dead. I stuck her myself," Marina growls, flicking back greasy black bangs.
"Then where's the cannon?" I challenge, spinning to face my most hated ally. After all, it's her fault the girl is probably suffering excruciatingly right now.
"Someone should go back," Cato asserts. "Make sure the job's done." His eyes, now completely devoid of all emotion I glimpsed earlier, sweep across me and land on Marina, who, were she a dog or small wolf, would most certainly have hackles raised right now.
"I said she's dead!" she hisses, one hand going to her spear. Cato, of course, responds in typical alpha male fashion, striding forward and drawing his sword. I think I'm about to witness the end of the hapless girl from Four, and am in fact rather hoping something of the like will occur, when a sharp voice cuts through the night.
"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!"
There's a moment of silence as we all turn to see the boy from Twelve, still clutching the single knife Clove deigned to let him carry when we first set out firmly in his white-knuckled fist. Without waiting for anyone to respond, he spins on his heel and heads back in the direction we just came from. I'm pretty sure we all stare after him for a minute, openmouthed. Well, I definitely didn't expect that, I think wryly. District Twelve is just full of surprises today.
"Go on, then, Lover Boy," Cato calls after the vanishing blond head. "See for yourself." He waits until Peeta is definitely out of earshot and then turns back to face the rest of us, at which time Marina speaks up, although not above a whisper.
"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"
"Oh, let him tag along," Clove hisses. "What's the harm? Besides, he's handy with that knife." And she would know, I think, being that she's never met a knife she didn't like. But I feel like there's something more to Clove's willingness to keep Peeta around than just his knife skills. Again, I'm brought back to her strange fury on interview night, when he revealed his love for the Girl on Fire.
It is then that my mind makes the electric and fairly stunning connection. I glance surreptitiously over at the pair from Two and am unsurprised to see the way they stand so close together, his large frame always placed to defend hers, even unconscious though it may be. The tributes from District Two are more than just district partners, I suddenly know, and my guess is confirmed when Clove continues.
"Besides, he's our best chance of finding her," she hisses, voice ugly now. And now I'm sure that I've made the right assumption. We all know this little love story that District Twelve has cooked up is just another strategy, and I can see Clove being more than a little angered by it. Why should their relationship, a fictitious ploy for sponsorship, be allowed to thrive and even be celebrated, when she and her lover must keep their own a secret? For surely, only one of them will leave this arena alive.
I find myself feeling a small degree of sympathy for Clove and her doomed little love affair as Peeta returns, face whiter than ever, and we set off back to the lake again, the echo of the cannon bouncing off the trees behind us. Though I have never felt that way about any person, living or dead, I can at least feel sorry for her, the girl who did not volunteer but must regardless fight for her life, most likely killing her own lover in the process.
But I shunt the feelings away in the back of my head where hopefully they will stay, although I can feel the exhaustion in my veins, mixed with all the tangled emotions of the morning, threatening to spill out. Come on, Glimmer, get it together. You can't afford to feel anything for these people. Because really, I can't. If I am to get out of this arena alive, every single one of the other twenty three will have to die. And better them than me.
As the light begins to fully permeate the land and my allies settle down for a quick nap back at the lake, Marina on watch, I huddle my head deeper into the insulated sleeping bag, struggling to pull the tricky metal zipper closed from the inside. It catches in my hair, but I ignore the pain and yank the zipper shut. My head stings where the delicate strands are ripped out, but it's worth the pain to at last hide my face, and everything else, from watching eyes.
I've felt their stares all day, and while I thought I was used to constant scrutiny, I guess I'm not yet accustomed to being stared at by the entire nation. And I never want to be. The air inside the bag is hot, my body heat radiating from the silver-foil-lined interior, and I have to fight off the claustrophobia as it immediately becomes more difficult to breathe.
As I curl in on myself, I feel it. A single hot tear winds its way down my cheek, making my eyes sting and my face flame, though hidden, with shame and disgust. This is why I am hiding. I cannot let them see me cry. My allies, I hope, will assume I am taking shelter from the cold. And while it's true that the Gamemakers seem determined to freeze us all to death within the first twenty-four hours, my own reasons for huddling in my blankets like a child are far different.
My closed fist finds its way to my face and, just as I have done since infancy, I tuck it securely underneath my chin. I promised myself when I started training that I wouldn't do this anymore, but it's a comfort thing, and comfort is something I desperately need.
I don't want this, I silently scream. I don't want to die. Shivers rack my body as more hot salt dries and tightens on my face. Faces flash in front of my eyes. The faces of the people, of the children I've killed. I killed them in cold blood, for the simple reason that I want to live. Their lives didn't matter to me, and they shouldn't. I've spent years training for this. It's no surprise. I always knew I would have to kill, maim, destroy… Somewhere out there, families are grieving, cursing my name, wailing their pain to the skies because I stole the life from their children.
I've never had much of a family to grieve for me, besides Rivet and Cashmere, but this knowledge doesn't make it any easier. It makes it worse. Because I, the cold, unfeeling monster who has destroyed all their lives, have no way of feeling what they feel, no measure of empathy. And I don't deserve to feel for them; I don't deserve a family to love me, because this is what I am capable of.
The gruesome death of the girl from Eight and the revelation of Cato and Clove have shaken me, shaken me to the core, because for the first time, I must fully come to terms with the fact that these tributes are not just nameless creatures trying to kill me. They are people, with names and families and lives and hopes and dreams and futures.
I want to go home. I am tired of acting, tired of playing this deadly game. I want to live. I want to go home, more than anything.
But I can't.
What feels like hours but is really only maybe thirty or so minutes later, I reluctantly emerge from hiding, hoping against hope that the last few minutes of deep breathing and self-talk have served to wipe any betraying emotion from my face. Thankfully, as I brush my hair from my face and crouch a few feet from Clove at the opening of the Cornucopia, I receive no biting remarks, only a nod and a hunk of bread spread with soft cheese, meant for breakfast, tossed in my direction.
We have settled into a somewhat comfortable alliance, the two of us, or at least as comfortable as can be when we are both secretly waiting for the others' death. But we respect each other as warriors, women, and mutual enemies, and as I bite into the somewhat stale lump of bread, I decide that were we not trying to kill each other, we might even have been friends.
But it is useless to think on what can never be, I remind myself. Clove and her something-more-than-district-partner, Cato, are my enemies, and I would do well to remember the fact. I can almost see Cashmere glaring at me through the unseen cameras, probably confused beyond words at my moment- or moments- of weakness.
My mentor has been with me since I was twelve years old, and she knows every expression on my face. Even if no one else has noticed the turmoil I feel inside, I know she has, being the only person on this planet who truly knows me for who and what I am. And I know my actions are so far out of character for me that she will not fail to wonder what on earth is running through my mind.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, a small silver parachute drifts from the sky to land quietly on the night-cold metal horn above me. Clove, Cato, and Marvel look sharply at me as I climb to retrieve the package. Gifts are supposed to be for everyone to share, this being an alliance, but somehow I know that Cashmere means this one for me alone.
Inside the wrapping, I find a pair of soft mesh gloves, black in color and perfectly suited to my hands. They are scarred and worn, the fingertips cut off, and I smile as I realize they are the gloves I wore at home for years, training in the private gardens of my father's home. Cashmere is sending me a message. I think back to those days in the gardens, and I know exactly what she's trying to say.
It is a blisteringly warm summer day, the sky a cloudless blue, the bushes rustling with just the faintest breeze. I am thirteen years old, just beginning to come into my own, my body only barely beginning to develop, my hair pulled into a ratty knot behind my ears, my still-soft and callous-free hands chafed raw and cracked, bleeding.
I am sparring (rather badly, it must be said) with Cashmere, who looks as coldly beautiful as ever, her blade flashing in the sunlight. She moves with near-blinding speed to send my own weapon clattering to the decorative tiles at my feet. I curl my lip and kick aside the slender steel instrument in frustration, immediately feeling ridiculous for throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old. I wipe my painfully raw and bloody hands on my tunic as Cashmere's fierce scowl turns even darker.
"Pick up your sword, Glimmer," she warns in a dangerous voice. "Our match is not finished." I glare at her, arms crossed and fists agonizingly clenched. I toss my braid back and stare her down, steely green against icy blue. We are mirror images of each other, two halves of the same whole. Except for our eyes.
"No," I growl ridiculously. "I am done." I turn to walk away, intending to sulk in my room until tomorrow, or at least until my palms have sufficiently healed so that I can grasp my sword without having to hold back tears, but I am stopped by the feel of cold steel and an arm around my throat. Cashmere's dagger cuts into my skin, sending unconscious waves of adrenaline rushing through my veins. Her mouth is at my ear, warning me that I've gone too far.
"Never turn your back on the enemy," she hisses, releasing me. I spin to face her and she presses the point of her sword, the hilt still firmly grasped in her other hand, to my collarbone. "How do you expect to win the Games if you get a blade in your back the first day? Pick up your sword and continue." She steps back expectantly, dropping into a fighting stance.
What I do next, however, is something neither of us expects. All of a sudden, it feels like every emotion in my body floods through me at once. I tremble feebly, reach for my sword, and then sink to the floor and collapse against a potted tree, crying floods of tears. For a few moments, I expect my new mentor to run me through right there. In District One, Cashmere has a terrifying reputation for intolerance and brutality that has never failed to come through in the past, and I have the scars, scrapes, and bruises to prove it. Though she's never really seriously injured me before, there's a first time for everything.
But surprisingly enough, I hear the sound of steel on leather as she slides her sword back into the sheath and comes to sit down next to me on the polished tiles. Through the haze of my tears, I regard her, dumbfounded, still expecting a knife in the ribs at the very least. Instead, I get a soft hand in my hair, smoothing the loose strands back from my face. This unexpected gesture of kindness only serves to confuse me further, and I begin to sob with renewed vigor.
Everything seems wrong; I can hardly fight my way out of a paper bag, let alone stand up to a fellow tribute. Cashmere is right; I will never survive the Games, and I will forever be a failure in my father's eyes. Too many thoughts fill my aching head, and I just sit and cry, and cry, and cry.
Eventually, my tears slow, and I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hand, the palms being too chewed up to touch. I am vaguely surprised to see Cashmere still sitting next to me with a patient expression and her hand rubbing soothing circles in between my shoulders. Suddenly disgusted with myself, my weakness, I swallow and turn to her.
"I'm sorry, Cashmere. I… don't know what came over me. I will return to training immediately." I go to stand, mentally struggling to shove all my emotions away as I prepare to fight again, but I am stopped by a hand on my wrist.
"Sit," Cashmere directs me. She pats the space next to her calmly. I hesitate before sitting back down, crossing my legs cautiously. She takes a deep breath before closing her eyes and opening them again to stare at me with gentle blue eyes. Again, I try to apologize.
"Really, I'm so sorry. I'll work harder-" She cuts me off with a shake of her head.
"No, Glimmer, just listen please." I shut my mouth obediently as she tucks a chunk of loose blond curl behind my ear before opening her mouth.
"I know you're feeling… overwhelmed," she states, her eyes soft and understanding. "I've been there. I've been you, actually," she laughs softly, a sound I am rarely privileged enough to hear, but this laugh has a strangely bitter edge to it. "I know how hard you work, how much you have at stake here. So I want you to just relax, and I want to hear what you have to say before we go any further." I am taken aback by her words. Who knew Cashmere had a soft side? But she is looking at me with such compassion, I can't help but release the torrent of emotion that has been steadily building for the past year, both during my training and during those times when I don't see my mentor for days at a time. It's unstoppable.
"I- I just feel… untrained. Weak. Like you said, I'll never make it in the Games. I can't even hold onto my sword, let alone win a match!" My voice is raised, but I don't notice. I gesticulate wildly, my hands flying in the air. "And I feel so awkward and useless… and my father won't even look at me half the time because I'm not good enough for him! And I'll never, never be good enough. You know him; I'm only a disappointment, a failure." I'm practically shouting but I don't care.
"And I need to be better than this! I need to be the best! And I can't do it, Cashmere, I can't! Someday, everyone will be watching me and I'll just croak. I can't master my footwork, I can barely manage to stay upright, and," I cry almost hysterically, "I can't even pick up a sword without practically falling over because I've got blisters all over my hands!"
By the time my tirade is finished, I am screaming at the top of my lungs, my throat hurts, and I'm breathing like I've just run a marathon. My chest heaves and I feel absolutely ridiculous… but, as I watch Cashmere through my peripheral vision, I realize that my heart feels, if at all possible, a good deal lighter. I turn to look at her with surprised eyes.
Seeing my expression, she chuckles, smirking. "Helps to get it all out, doesn't it?"
"Surprisingly, yes," I reply, still trying to figure out where all these… emotions… are coming from. Somehow, I've managed to vocalize things I didn't even really know I was feeling.
"Every once in a while, it helps to just vent. I know, I've done it. And I also know I've been pushing you too hard lately," Cashmere says in her usual straightforward manner. "It isn't fair for me to put so much pressure on you, and I'm sorry for that." She twists to face me directly, her face serious. "But you need to realize that you aren't weak, Glimmer." She gives an odd little half-laugh. "In fact, you're the best I've mentored."
I'm taken aback by this; Cashmere is a legend in District One, and the rest of Panem too, for that matter. To hear this from her is… unbelievable. Even if she's only had one other before me. I bask in the feeling for a moment before returning to reality.
"But you said-" I try, wrinkling my forehead. She shakes her head.
"No, I know what I said, Glimmer, but listen to me, please. I'm not joking when I say that you're one of the best I've seen. You may be a little rough around the edges, but that's something only time can smooth out. We've only been working together for a year; these things take a while." She glances up at the shadow of a jay swooping gaily overhead, then back to me. "And if your father stops to think about it, he'll realize it, too."
"But he doesn't!" I cry, feeling like a child. "He never sees anything good in me, never! I'm just a girl! A useless girl. He wanted a boy, and he got me instead. What am I supposed to do with that?" Cashmere leans her head back against the trunk of the tree and eyes me solemnly.
"Then you will have to prove him wrong," she says. "Like I did."
"You?" I ask curiously.
"Yes, me," she smiles. "I wasn't always this astoundingly incredible, you know." She winks and I snort disgustingly. "I didn't win the Games solely on my good looks, Glimmer, and neither will you. I had to work to get there, and that's all you can do right now. Forget what people think of you; you are what matters, not them. I don't see them volunteering for the arena. You can do this, Glimmer, you just have to believe in yourself. You haven't improved because, deep down inside, you don't want to." When I open my mouth to argue indignantly, she silences me with a signature death glare.
"No, don't say anything. You know it's true. You've spent this entire year we've been working together telling yourself you aren't good enough, and you need to stop. You are good enough. Now prove it." In one swift movement, Cashmere rises to her feet and holds out a hand.
"Let's finish the match." I take the offered hand without hesitation, and though I'm exhausted and drenched in sweat by the time we finish, I'm smiling. And when I go up to my room after dinner that night, I find a pair of worn, fingerless black gloves on my pillow, along with a note:
Glimmer,
These were mine when I was training for the Games. They've served me well, and now, I'm passing them on to you. One beautiful girl to another. Besides, you said so yourself; you can't fight with blisters all over your hands.
-Cashmere
I never stopped wearing them, and four years later, I took them off for the last time the morning of the Reaping. Now, they've been returned to me, my mentor's little reminder that she believes in me, at a time when I need it more than anything. I don't know what strings she's pulled to get them to me, how many rules she's broken, but I don't care. These gloves are mine, a representation of the bond Cashmere and I share.
I jerk back to harsh, cold reality and look up as Cato clears his throat menacingly. "Got something you want to share, District One?" he asks with a searching look on his face.
"No, actually, these belong to me," I reply, looking him dead in the eye. It's a staring contest, with neither of us willing to give way. Burning blue-black. Icy crystal-green. It's a battle of wills, and I know I won't be the first to admit defeat. This is my gift, and I won't give it up, nor will I allow myself to be made a weakling of. I belong in these Games as much as the huge man from District Two, and it's time I showed it.
Finally, Clove snorts and puts a hand on Cato's massive chest.
"Leave it, Cato. It's not as if they'd fit anyone else, anyway." And she's right; her own hands are far too tiny, and neither Marvel nor Cato could ever fit theirs inside. Marina is still over babysitting the District Twelve boy near the lake, and no one thinks to offer them to her, anyways.
Clove glances up at the sky, at the parachute in my hands, and then back at my face with a look that is both warning and respectful. She doesn't know the meaning of the gloves, but she understands they are meant for me, and so she leaves me alone.
I rise to my feet, slipping my hands inside, and look up at the sky, glowing brilliantly pink but still faintly studded with stars, the final remnants of a night quickly slipping away. "Thanks, Cashmere," I whisper. "Thanks for everything." She'll know what I mean.
A/N
What did you think? I know that, personally, this is one of my favorite chapters in the whole story… which may actually be because it's the one I wrote first. Before I ever decided to write an entire story, NSG came about as a oneshot. The bit where Glimmer is crying in her sleeping bag, of all things, was the basis for this story. On that note, I hope you all enjoyed. Please review, and let me know what you thought!
-Iri