I don't own the Hunger Games.
Enjoy! Leave a review if you have time. It's much appreciated :)
Watery morning light seeped into the black-velvet sky, barely a shade lighter than that of the Western horizon. But Peeta noticed. His artist's eye, though more trained for the lines of charcoal sketches, picked up on the subtle difference of color. He pushed his fingers into the crooks of his elbows, shoulders drawn up towards his ears. It was cold. This whole part of the ocean was cold. Since they left the Seam, the smothering fog that hung there had only gotten worse, eventually freezing and dropping into the sea as tiny, stinging pellets of ice. Peeta hated it.
Katniss, however, seemed to thrive in the miserable weather. It had been three days since they had found themselves face-to-face below deck, and Peeta hadn't spoken to her since. But he saw her around the ship. At the prow, leaning into the chilled wind with her palms pressed into the curved, salt-bleached beams of wood. Climbing in the frosty rigging like a squirrel in a tree. She would purposely slide across the sleet-glossed deck, as if she was ice skating, and when the crew gathered for meals, her cheeks would glow not just from cold.
He couldn't figure it out. Why was she so happy? The ropes were sodden and icy and cold. The sails were stiff and uncooperative and cold. The food was running out. And cold. Everything was cold, especially the spray of briny seawater that burst up over the sides of the ship every few seconds, soaking anyone near to the marrow. Even in the kitchen, the only really warm spot was inside the oven, but Peeta wasn't that desperate. Through all this, Katniss went about her work with a small, perplexing hint of a smile tipping up one corner of her mouth.
The ship's bell startled away Peeta's thoughts like a flock of birds. He shot towards the stairs, nodding to Marcus on his way past. Marcus grunted and glared at the imperceptibly lightening sky as if it had insulted him. The former sailor, unlike Peeta, had no trouble adapting to the title of pirate. Just weeks after their old ship was raided, Marcus Wool the sailor became Mad Mark the pirate. Since then, Peeta had stopped talking to him.
The hammocks swung back and forth in sync, most so wrapped in blankets that they resembled cocoons. Peeta yanked the top off his box of spare clothes and few personal belongings. Every sweater he owned went over his head, and every pair of socks were shoved onto his feet. Then he wriggled into his own hammock, huffing indignantly. It should not be this cold. We're on a ship, for God's sake. Shouldn't we be frying eggs with just the sun?
Then again, he had never handled the cold very well, seeing as he grew up in a bakery, where the temperature seldom dropped below seventy.
Bundled up in heavy layers of fabric, he ducked his head under the blankets and drifted off.
The sea was freezing over, foam turning to ice in jagged, choppy swells, waves as still as death and just as dark. Peeta slipped and stumbled on the glassy surface, completely unable to get any traction. There was no ship anywhere in sight, nor anyone else, just the frozen sea and star-pricked sky.
Some dark, unseen force whispered behind him, like a shadow made into something tangible. Panicking, he ran, falling onto hands and knees more often than not and scrambling over the smaller swells. A shallow path of sorts opened up between the mountainous waves. It led into an even darker space, but which was worse? The darkness ahead or the shadow behind?
Peeta tripped. His pant leg caught on a jutting spike of ice and he fell hard, sliding several yards before finally coming to a stop. The shadow swooped down on him just as a bird of prey would swoop down on a field mouse, but instead of sinking its claws into his flesh, it grabbed his arm and flipped him onto his back. For a moment, Peeta forgot to be frightened. Standing beside him was… himself. Except, not himself. This Peeta had a long, cruel rapier hanging from one hip, bangs swept back by a tattered bandana in typical pirate fashion and old bloodstains on his sleeves. Worst were his eyes, which glittered with the exact shade of blue as Peeta's own, but frosted over with a malice that made him shudder.
"Why are you running?" Other Peeta asked, tipping his head to the side just as Peeta did when puzzled. "Don't you want to go see her?"
"Her?"
Other Peeta pointed behind him, down the path and towards the darkness there. A heartbeat later, a voice, lovely and sweet, echoed between the waves.
"Katniss," he breathed, struggling to his feet. He did. He did want to see her.
"Go on," Other Peeta prodded. "Nothing's keeping you back."
Peeta stepped forward hesitantly, but the ice melted under his feet, giving way to rich, fragrant earth. He stepped again, and again, and all at once started running again, towards the sound of Katniss's voice. Swing around a bend, hurdle over a quickly-melting curve of ice, duck under a sinewy tree branch. The frozen waves abruptly gave way to forest, and then meadow. In the middle of the meadow, sitting cross-legged on a large lily pad that floated in a pool, was Katniss. She smiled as she sang, stretching a hand towards him. Peeta tried to go forward, but there was one more obstacle: a clear sheet of ice that extended around the whole meadow, blocking his progress.
Other Peeta stepped up beside him and, with a smirk, passed right though the barrier.
"Why can't I get in?" Peeta asked mournfully. Katniss kept singing, her arm still extended, waiting for him.
Other Peeta grinned, fox-like. "You're not a pirate," he said. "You'll never get to her unless you're one of us."
"I am a pirate," he argued. "I'm part of a pirate crew."
Other Peeta laughed humorlessly, his lip curling in a disdainful manner. "No. You're just a sailor."
With that he strode onwards, across the meadow, leaving Peeta to press his palm against the ice and wonder wildly which side he wanted to be on.
He woke to the tramp of many boots on the stairs. Breakfast time. Groaning, he scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, thoroughly shaken up by his dream.
The air had warmed a merciful degree or two since the sun came up, and he peeled off most of his sweaters, leaving only one still on his back, before joining the crowd for breakfast. Which was, of course, cold. He sat down and, out of habit, glanced up at Katniss's spot.
"Hey." The word surprised him, though it had come from his lips. "Where's Ka- Miss Everdeen?"
"Hm?" Thresh grunted, shoveling gray, lumpy porridge into his mouth.
"Miss Everdeen isn't here. She's never late for breakfast."
Thresh shrugged. "She'll be along."
The only other person who seemed to notice Katniss's absence was Rory, who looked at her stool, grinned knowingly, then looked away. Peeta's stomach sank as he realized that Gale wasn't present, either. That old woman may have said that Katniss and Gale weren't together, but how did she know? They were probably in the Captain's Cabin right at that moment, cuddled up in front of the fire. A pang of longing shot through Peeta. He should be the one spending the morning with her. He should be the one in front of that fire. Maybe they'd drink steaming cider from those fancy cups he had noticed last time. But it wasn't him, it was Gale.
Rousing himself from his bitter thoughts, Peeta went off, glaring, into the kitchen to start washing the dishes. That was all he was good for, after all. Making food and cleaning dishes. His dream self had been right. He wasn't a pirate, or even a decent sailor. He was just a baker, ill-suited to life on the sea and in love with a girl who had never given him so much as a second glance. No, he'd certainly never get Katniss that way. But he couldn't excuse the violent acts the pirates committed, either, no matter how noble the cause. A poor, starving village did not excuse demolishing entire ships and crews.
At that moment, the ship's bell rang out once, twice, three times. A horn sounded. Peeta gripped the plate he was washing and groaned for the second time that morning. He knew what that meant- the three tolls of the bell and one long blow on the horn. It meant another ship had been spotted.
He hunkered down on his stool, sighing in resignation, before Thresh burst into the kitchen. "Peeta," he said, his face serious.
"What?" Peeta asked, alarmed. He had never heard Thresh sound so worried before. Joking, yes. Sarcastic, yes. Determined, yes. Never worried.
"Cap'n says you're to fight in this raid."
Peeta choked on his own saliva. "W-what?"
"Says you've got to prove your loyalty." He gave Peeta a sympathetic look. "Ye knew it was goin' t' happen sometime, mate. Migh' as well be now."
Peeta tried to shake his head, which felt as if it was spinning. No. No, no, no, he couldn't do this. But then he remembered the threat issued to him at the very beginning of his time on the Tracker. You're either useful to us or you die. He had spent far too much time just cooking and gawking at the First Mate. Now, his break was over. It was time to decide which side he belonged on: pirate or sailor. And he didn't have much time to do it.
Gah! I'm sorry! I'm a terrible person! I didn't mean to end on a cliffhanger, but if I went on it would be a really long chapter compared to the others, and plus, I should be sleeping. :/ Don't hate me!