Disclaimer: One every five chapters. So no, I do not own the Hunger Games

Chapter 9:

It's true; one month is an awfully short amount of time. For people who wake nights and days as well as those who rise every morning and falls asleep once the sun sets. Merely four weeks, and only one full moon.

But also it must be admitted that one month can hold events one year wouldn't, if it was a usual one.

For once, Katniss Everdeen would never dare to call her month normal. Dare she call it a good one? She won't claim to. Although, strictly speaking, it was strongly suspected to be worse, much worse. For this month, she'd had a mouth to feed she'd never even dreamed of providing before; she'd had a guest and patient, a noble one at that.

And this man is in her debt, however much her sister may try to deny it. And a debt not easily paid it is; he is owing her no less than his life. Katniss, though, sees said guilt as adequate, for her life had always been a game of debtors and creditor, and she'd played both parts -more often the former than the latter, much to her disdain.

Concerning the man, the month had been eventful as well as slow-going. For damage can be done in a second, while recovery may take a whole life and beyond that. Both can be crucial or disastrous, depending on the eye of the beholder.

While the first week after Peeta's life-altering incident had been amazingly forthcoming, the following three had handed them nothing but backstrokes. Sae's remembrance only faltered further, Peeta's didn't bring a new insight either, since none of it went back to where it belonged; into his mind.

Fate is a cruel, unequable, affair. Some rich, some poor, some old, some young -if it was fair, everyone would be blessed with the same wealth and age.

Katniss doesn't believe in fate, neither in chance. Because if she did, she would have to believe it had endowed her all the doom it had taken away from others, and given those every ounce of fortune it had ripped from her outstreched, all too willing hands.

For on extremely rare occasions, once in a blue moon, it may allow her to keep some luck, if it is well-earned. And if Katniss was like her sister profoundly convinced that fate exists, she would realize that it remunerated her magnificently for her kindness, rewarded her in a way no human could. Not even with all money in the world.

But who does not believe cannot see clearly and therefore, in the girl's point of view, the arrow which had pierced the deer's head had been driven by skill, not by luck. The money she'd received had been paid by the butcher, not Lady Fortune, and the pride and filled stomachs and bright smiles she'd been thanked with had been given to them by herself, not by chance.

And in a way, she is right. Only it isn't what it looks like, not in fate's opinion. For the deer was not shot by the arrow that gored its own head, it was killed by the same one which was the death of another beast; an awfully beautiful wolf.

So the starving family had been recompensed with food and money for a month, a month in which they had not once gone hungry, not once been sent to bed with a rumbling -since empty- stomach. A month easy in comparision to many others, a month where fate had been favorable.

And Katniss would never admit to it, but she had once questioned her disbelief, once even considered such a thing as higher powers. Only to momentarily dismiss the thought, to pretend it had never subsisted. It's a valuable lesson she has yet to learn, still, even after fate took her youth -not in appearance but in reason and experience. She can lie to anyone, even if only in words. But she cannot lie to herself.

"If I asked you who in this village could give me some work, so I can give you a hand and help you with your hard task, would you have an answer I'd like?" If someone had told her a boy her age was able to put on a hangdog look which could easily compete Primrose's, they would have received what one shall consider an incredulous, coming from her cruel laugh, and told them it would be absolutely ridiculous.

Now a bitter smile is drawn across her face. Bitter because she knows she doesn't have a chance against him, bitter because had she not seen it herself, she would never have believed it. But a smile nevertheless, for his eyes are heartwarming, even to her ice-guarded feelings.

"You're smiling," Wonderment resonates in his gentle voice, justified wonderment. Known to him, Katniss refuses to even smirk, and no one but her sister would attain a laugh from her. He'd heard it only once, but still the carillion-like sound rings in his ears, as if it was never-fading music. Clear and carefree her voice had been, making him ask himself if it would jingle if she sang. More than once he'd been tempted to ask her, but her repellent facade had scared the boy off.

Katniss, however, momentarily recovers, forcing her features back into their usual frown. She cannot afford to show feelings in front of him, not even after a month of living with him.

"That shouldn't concern you. I do as a matter of fact know of a man who needs help, but it requires physical strength. Lots of, and around the clock also."

Peeta doesn't miss her change of mood, neither the refusal to tell him whatever job she has to offer. She, herself, has a reason to be wary. If he worsened his condition by overrestimating himself, the boy would only extend his stay in Katniss' home, thus her task of feeding him, giving him food her own flesh and blood so desperately craves. And she can't afford to have him for a winter, where meat is rare and plants are extinct, even if only for the season. Those months where they have to gnaw at bark and roots to fill their aching stomaches, for gathered money -no matter how carefully deployed- is never enough to get through the freezing time. With another mouth, they might have to go weeks without any kind of real nourishment. By then, the young man must be able to make his own money, build his own hut and scrape by without depending on Katniss' small family.

"I do not fight shy of heaviness. My arms are built to lift about twice my own weight, if not more."

She snorts at the pride in his voice, for it is downright misplaced -his words are only confirming what she fears; there's a huge possibility he's going to want -and ultimately try- to exceed his abilities.

"Don't speak too highly of yourself. But you may have forgotten, even though your arms might functioning properly, there is no proof your leg will. You can walk again, true, but not with any heft, you haven't tried. What if your leg can't sustain more than your body?"

Peeta, disregarding her cautinousness as an overacted decision to protect her authority, which she uses to stengthen the walls guarding her from possible mental harm, rolls his eyes. Slightly only, for he can't have her see his merriment at her childish way of wanting to keep power. It would only upset her, which he can't afford if he wants to have a job to provide for himself.

Thankfully, he is aware of all those facts. "How will I know? If I never try," He sighs at her none-fading hard expression. "You know you God did not bless you with the ability to feed a grown man and your family forever. You know I'm right. I need to take care of myself, I'll have to repay somewhen."

Her trail of thoughts, exactly. Only she can't admit this to him, for she that would mean she'd approve of his idea.

But then again, she remembers, he's a noble. The work she has to offer is disgracing and simple, not as elegant as hunting and reading. Surely he would never take something plain, modest, which doesn't earn him much.

"The baker needs new men to gather the sacks filled with flour from the local miller, who may also order you to gather grain from the fields, since he needs every hand he can get at the moment. Flour in bulk weights, and not too scarce. It's not only heaving, it's also walking. But it's the only work my small village has. Strong, well-fed men are rare, and those scraggy ones would collapse."

Too late is it she realizes the way she's praising him, too late to extinguish the spark of determination in his eyes.

"So I will act till I am one of them." He smiles kindly at her, indicating that he's joking, but he cannot fool her. Not this time. He's serious, bitterly so.

"Don't talk like that. I forbid you to think like that. What did my sister tell you? We did not patch you...", only then she recalls Prim's exact words. But she cannot resay them, for he still isn't aware of what happened to him, "...in vain."

His eyes narrow in a manner which can't be spotted by human ones. The usually bright blue turns just the slightest shade darker. "But that weren't Primrose's words."

Inwardly, she is shocked, not having been prepared for this kind of statement, but she struggels to feign indifference. "Well, it's been a few weeks. I'm sorry I don't store every single phrase my sister said in her life."

Her voice is too high-pitched, too cracking to be telling the truth. Peeta's smiling somewhat cruelly, for he can sense her lie. "If I may refresh your memory; she said she wouldn't want to throw me to the wolves. It's an idiom, meaning she doesn't want to leave me to death's vicious claws."

He ponders his next words, his chances, for if they came out of his mouth the wrong way, he would earn silence. "But I wondered if there was more to it. There is something I haven't shown to you. Something I hid away right after I drew it."

Her eyes become large at his confession. She can guess -it doesn't take more brain than you need to count to three- but she doesn't want to believe it, for it would mean admitting that he remembers, remembers what he shouldn't.

Her little -but existent- hope is shattered as he carefully, as not to disturb its tidyness and prevent the feathers from spilling, removes the pillow and pulls out the picture, brushing a lone down away before handing it to her with shaky fingers.

"I know it shouldn't", he says hesitantly, "It's my drawing after all. But it arouses fear in me for a reason I can't grasp."

She cannot resent him for dreading this beast. Baring its pearly teeth, ready to jump at whoever may be looking at it, the wolf, even in only the picture, is nothing she'd want to have beneath her head while sleeping. "Did you hide it because you didn't want to see it?"

He's gnawing at his lip while watching her, silently hoping he won't upset her. Not only is her face scrunched up in anger an unleasant sight, also it reminds him of the woman he drew once, and he doesn't want to be reminded of her. He feels coldness and resentment only thinking of her, and is almost plagued by the fact that he cannot explain why.

"Partly," But there's no good in lying when you've already told the truth, "Still I also did it because I didn't want you to know."

She lifts her head to look at him, not with anger but curiosity. He is relieved, visibly so, but also surprised. He's used to her being rather impulsive, not calm, when she discovers something has been kept from her. She reacts to lies in a way similar to him, even if he cannot control himself, unlike her.

"But why? You have told us about a dark camber you'd been locked in. Why not about this wolf?"

Peeta shudders at the rememerance, and Katniss herself has a uneasy feeling thinking about it. It had been one of his dreams, where he'd been around fourteen. He'd heard screams, female screams, in the background, but their producer'd seemed to be out of reach. Peeta'd struggled to find light, but there had been none, and the screams grew louder, closer and more merciless until they were unbearable enough for him to be scared out of his dream and awake with a start. He'd told them immediately; a game they'd practiced. First he hadn't remembered, but eventually they'd told him. He'd been reluctant to keep this up, for he hadn't been to thrilled about their knowledge of his worst dreams, but had to admit every source of information was needed and agreed to their methods. Only he'd made them swear they'd tell him what he'd seen.

"Because it feared me the most. Because somehow, I had a feeling it was something I shouldn't see."

Katniss bites her lip, for he is right. He shouldn't. And it unsettles her, as with this awareness, there's a new question. Is he ready, his recovery progressed far enough to be told the truth? And if she surrenders in this concern, can she still convince him not to work?

She looks at the picture again, menacing and daunting as it is. How long, how many hours of staring will it take him to figure it out for himself? Will it make matters worse or strengthen him?

"What else do you remember that is related to this beast?"

She is not talking about animals. But if she can bring him to recall some feelings, deep or ostensibly not appreciable, it cannot shock him. At least this she believes, for how should events take a different turn?

Unconsciously, she leans forward, so her elbows are resting on her knees, and her face is closer to his, forcing him to look at her.

"First there's only panic, shall I take a glance at it," He points at the picture, "but my mind won't let it last. Hope mixes with it, although it does not replace. Then relief and after that...there is nothing. No feelings left."

So he must be blind, she thinks. Can't he piece it together? To her, it appears to be obvious, easy. Perhaps because she knows. Perhaps because you never see what's right in front of you.

Suddenly, she remembers the very first words he ever spoke to her. The flattering question, which would make her blush coming from someone fully aware of what he's saying. Strange, how she hears them now clearly.

"Where's the hope coming from?" She is painfully aware of an answer so tangible, and it oddly tears at her heart -something she can determine flawlessly is faint to him, if so.

He squints, a blind man trying to see light instead of darkness, and she's tempted to reach out for him and cover his hand with her own -as if she could transfer her memories, fills his brain with them.

He smiles, with only his half mouth turning upwards, as if fantasizing. "You may call me foolish. But there was an angel. An angel with..."

"...my eyes," Katniss adds. A halfsmile also covers her face, although it's of a different nature. Not only is it a smile itself, a miracle when it comes to her, it's also what would be defined as gentle.

He lifts his head in wonderment, only to meet said eyes. "I am no angle, Peeta. I already told you."

There's a softness in her voice unfamiliar to both of them. Instead of anger at his supposed cockiness she felt back then, there's sympathy. Sympathy for a boy who lost everything, and therefore does not deserve her resentment.

He has done nothing wrong. It was fate, playing its cruel game with him. Even if Katniss may not believe it, it's true. Fate influenced both their lives greatly, and from what it took from them, it must have nourished others with profusion and fortune.

"You?"

She nods.

"But how...?"

"I'm a huntress, remember? It was saving you or leaving you to the mercy of the wolf." Her hand places itself at his healthy knee, as if to reassure him. He looks lost, staring into nothingness, trying to search images in his head.

"Why were you shining?", he asks eventually, earning confusion from her. She doen't remember any source of light other than the full, bright moon.

"I wasn't. You must have imagined it." It's the only reason which isn't supernatural, and for Katniss doesn't believe in those kind of things, the only reason possible.

"So...you saved me? My life?" Shock registers on his face and his body stiffens. He'd owed her enough as it was already; although he could have guessed it, this is something he cannot repay with money.

"I did," she sighs. "But you would have done the same for me, even without knowing me, that I trust." She is not lying. Neither can she lie that well, nor does she see a reason. For it's true; this boy would not let a man die, not if he could help it.

He nods, slowly, but his face betrays his emotions. He is still upset, with whom he isn't particularly sure.

"Tell me," he bursts after a minute of silence, "Tell me what you remember. Please."

She doesn't need to look at him to know he's begging with his eyes, and there's no chance she could deny it. And so, for the fourth time, she relates the story of the fateful night.

I feel very guilty for letting you wait, but I wrote whenever I had spare time. I hope you liked the chapter. If so, would you tell me? I'd love you if we reached 100 reviews with this chapter! I promise not to let you wait as long as I did for the next chapter.