The Mentor

(Katniss)

"Well, well, well. I was wondering when I'd be seeing you again, dumpling."

Despite my worries, I cannot stop myself from rolling my eyes and sighing with equal measures of fondness and irritation. He knows I hate the endearment. That's why he uses it. "Haymitch."

We clasp hands and he draws me close so that we may rest our palms against the side of each other's necks. It is a greeting reserved for dear friends who have earned a place in one's family. I would have used it with Hawthorne had he still been alive.

Hawthorne and how many others are dead because of that raid last spring? How can I keep the still-mourning families from blaming Peeta? How can I protect him if the very act of doing so turns my own people against me?

This problem is too thorny for me to untangle alone, and I wonder if it will be too much for even Haymitch. I have never needed my mentor more than I do now.

"And who is this pretty thing?" he drawls sarcastically, eying Peeta over my shoulder.

"Either a great boon or an insolvable problem," I confess.

Prim locks the door behind us and moves toward the far wall where the entrance to my father's private room stands. I give her a nod of thanks as she passes by, and she gives me a small smile before disappearing into our father's bed chamber to check on him.

I dread seeing him again even though I long for it: I want to see him whole and healthy, strong and proud. I want to see wisdom and kindness shining in his grey eyes again.

"A boon or a problem, eh?" Haymitch muses as he steps back and scratches the scruff on his chin thoughtfully. "Finally found yourself a man and now you don't know what to do with him. Well, if you'd like a few pointers—"

I stomp on his foot and smile when he yelps.

"That was not very nice, dumpling," he observes sourly.

"Well, I'm not going to apologize." Peeta snorts softly when I tilt my chin up and plant my hands on my hips. My smile widens. I like that Peeta likes me like this: unfettered.

"You? Apologize? Perish the thought." Haymitch rolls his eyes and gestures for me to take a seat. I recognize each and every one of the padded benches arranged around the fire lapping lazily at the logs in the hearth. This is home. I am home… and yet I'm not.

I wave for Peeta to join me and I do not make room between us when he sits possessively close. I remember all of the strange people at Trelleborg and how I'd had to fight the urge to clutch at Peeta's arm, how reassured I had been by the touch of his hand. I can appreciate how unnerving this is for him now that our positions are reversed.

And although I may be rude to Haymitch, I do not wish to make a habit of it with Peeta. I perform the introductions before my mentor has the opportunity to scold me.

"Peeta, this is Haymitch. He is…" I trail off with a wince of frustration. I do not know the word in Peeta's language for how Haymitch serves my father. I settle for, "He manages this place."

Peeta suggests, "A steward?"

I'm not completely sure, but I nod. "And he teaches me. Thinking. Ways of thinking."

"Strategy?" Perhaps that is the best word for it. I let it go. The details are not important right now.

"Haymitch," I say quietly, mindful of being overheard through the wooden walls, "this is Peeta."

"A Northman," he summarizes from our brief exchange. I wonder if he knows anything of the language.

"Yes."

He gives me a long, level look. "Dumpling, you're in it deep."

I know. "There's more."

"Of course there is." He pulls out his ever-present hard-leather flask and takes a pull from the neck before capping it with its wooden stopper and returning it to the hook on his belt. Gesturing loosely, he invites on a weary sigh, "Out with it. Let's see how much worse things can get."

"He is the bastard son of King Harald of Denmark."

Haymitch's eyebrows jerk upward. I've surprised him. Under other circumstances, I would be enjoying this rare occurrence.

"I was under his protection this past year. As a slave."

His jaw sags.

"Well, n-not his slave, um," I fumble and stutter. "His brother's. But Peeta was a friend to me even though he did not know who I am."

"Uh-huh…" Haymitch gathers his wits and gives Peeta an appraising look. "Have you told him?"

"No."

"Then why is he here?"

I bite out, "Because I wouldn't let Gale kill him and he seemed rather determined that someone take his head!"

A warm hand presses against my back and I force myself to relax. Peeta is safe. I need to focus on making sure that fact does not change. I'm beginning to understand why Peeta had been so anxious during those first few days of my new life with his brother's family. This is maddening.

I continue, "I told Gale and the others only that Peeta is important, and he is. His brother and the king are both very fond of him. He has value."

"You know what will happen if we ransom him back."

I chew on my lip. "I know." More raids, worse than before. Perhaps a campaign to conquer all of Samland. How had one noble intention turned into this? All I'd wanted to do was save Peeta's life.

But, no. That's not entirely true.

I look toward the fire and clench my jaw to keep from flinching at my own thoughts: I hadn't wanted to save Peeta's life for Peeta's sake, but for mine.

"No ransoming," I conclude. I'm not certain that I could part with him even if that were the safest option.

Haymitch blows out a long breath and scrubs his hands over his craggy face. I hear one curse word and then a second. "Fine, fine," he eventually mumbles. "So what's your goal here, dumpling?"

"At the moment? To wrest our strongest fighters away from Alma."

He smirks. "And just how were you going to accomplish that?"

I can see that he already has a strategy in mind. He is testing me. He is always testing me despite the fact that we think very much alike, he and I. "I thought… if people were to see Peeta here with me, they might believe that I've secured an alliance with Harald, um, by marrying his son."

Haymitch purses his lips. That means he's impressed. He won't admit to it, though. "His bastard son," he points out.

"No one here knows that," I defend.

"True. So what's the problem? Sounds like you've got it all sorted." He kicks his feet out and crosses his skinny legs at the ankle.

I hiss through my teeth, "You know I don't. Alma will use this against us. The people are still angry and grieving. They won't welcome a Northman."

"Hm," he agrees.

"So… what do we do?"

"What makes you think I have any answers?"

I snort inelegantly. "You're my mentor, Haymitch. My father's advisor. Advise."

Haymitch shrugs. "Your wish is my command." He pulls his feet back under the bench, leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and proclaims, "We ask your father to bless the union."

I blink. "That's all?"

"Everyone remembers his better days, dumpling. They want him to lead them, but they know he can't. If he presents them with an alternative to Alma – you and buttercream, here – they'll give you a chance. One chance." Haymitch squints at Peeta. "Is he going to be able to do anything about it when those longboats hit our shores again?"

I fight the urge to fidget. "He is well-known and well-liked in his father's land. I have seen how everyone holds him in warm regard."

"That's something… but is he willing to stick his neck out for you? I mean, let's not delude ourselves: there is no treaty with Harald, no alliance. Your idea is good, but it won't hold water when it starts pouring rain. We'll be lucky if Harald doesn't send a fleet to obliterate us once he gets word that his precious bastard boy is here. Is this gimp really going to look out for your country for you?"

I feel like I've been slapped. Haymitch hasn't said anything I haven't already thought of myself, but hearing him boil it down so bluntly makes the entire endeavor seem impossible. I clutch my hands together between my knees as I try not to look at Peeta. I know what lengths he'll go to for me, but how can I ask him to do this? How can I ask him to defend my people against his own father? To choose us over the only life he has ever known? Certainly, Peeta will not be welcome in Denmark again if he takes our side. But if he leaves, what is to stop Harald from razing our tiny nation to the ground? What is to stop him if Peeta stays but fails to help us?

Haymitch stares at me until I crack: "What are you looking at me for?"

"Ask him," he retorts drolly, twitching his chin in Peeta's direction.

I feel my face heat at the rebuke. This is Peeta's decision, after all. I must ask him… but I don't know what I'll do if he refuses. Or if he agrees. There is no clear path through these brambles.

Exhaling slowly, I turn toward Peeta, take a breath, open my mouth, and—

Suddenly, Haymitch sends his fist right at me. I'm too shocked with incomprehension to flinch away.

But it doesn't matter. Peeta's arm shoots out and his big hand clamps over my mentor's wrist. In the next instant, following a flurry of motion and an overturned bench, Peeta has Haymitch kneeling on the floor with both arms twisted behind his back.

I gape until the older man's wheezing laughter fills the room. He looks up at me through his bedraggled hair and winks. "Dumpling, I think your plan might work after all."