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Ascension
(Katniss)
It is time to come home, to accept my birthright, to be my father's daughter and our people's leader.
When Peeta's hands squeeze mine, I realize I'd been clutching the fingers to the point of pain. "Sorry," I mouth.
He gives me a gentle smile of forgiveness.
"Will you, um…" I begin awkwardly. "I'll see him first but… will you meet him after?"
"If you wish."
My wishes are what has gotten us into this mess. I should not be making any more of them. "Thank you," I say instead and then I stand. My hands slide out of his grasp. Turning to my sister, I ask her to send in Peeta and Haymitch on my signal.
She nods, wraps her arms around me in a quick hug, and then I'm passing over the threshold into a room I have seen time and time again in my dreams over the past year, a room filled with memories that had never failed to break my heart upon waking. My gaze sweeps the walls. There is the rack of antlers from the first stag I'd killed… and there is the rug Prim had finished weaving for me when I'd failed at the loom… and there is the chest with our mother's wedding dress – I remember the day she'd shown it to me – and there is the bed where Prim and I used to collapse in a twisted pile of giggles as our father ticked us on a sea of furs.
"Papa," I breathe.
His head turns toward me slowly. I swallow back my fear at the sight of his pallor. He is dying, but his eyes burn with a devotion that makes me feel like a little girl being rocked in his arms. How could I have I forgotten how much he loves me? Why had I willfully given up any chance of seeing him again?
The shame drowns me.
"Papa," I cough, fighting my tears as I crash to my knees beside his bed, ignoring the bench entirely. I take his hand in both of mine and press his cold, dry palm to my face.
His voice is little more than a ghostly whine. "Kat—nh…nh!" His throat works and a dribble of spit escapes the corner of his mouth.
I scramble for a nearby square of clean fabric and gently blot his jaw.
"I'm here," I tell him, pressing kiss after kiss to his brow and gaunt cheeks. "I'm home. I'm fine. I missed you."
His lips move and I think I read the question he is trying to ask in the shape of his mouth. "Where…?"
"I was in Denmark. With King Harald's family. I met his sons. He has two. The eldest, Káto, is married with three children. The younger…" I have to stop and focus so I don't ramble stupidly and tire him. "The younger son is called Peeta and he is so kind, papa. So wise and gentle and he protects me."
I pet his hand, happy that my words have soothed the urgency in my father's wan features.
"Peeta is here. He came back with me. He is a good man, papa." His eyes beg me to keep speaking, so I do. I tell him how Peeta taught me his people's language and how he tried to teach me how to weave on a loom and— "He saved my life once. I could have been killed, but he acted quickly and… here I am. With you now." It is the truth even though it is not all of it.
My father's hand squeezes mine with surprising strength.
"Would you like to meet him?"
His chin dips in the barest of nods. Grinning through my tears, I lean back and call for Prim. A moment later, Peeta enters with Haymitch. I've never seen Peeta look nervous in quite this way before. He is pale rather than flushed. I stand and reach a hand out to him as I continue clutching my father's in the other. He walks slowly and I realize he's trying to make a good impression, trying to mask his uneven gait.
Idiot man. Doesn't he know how admirable his scars are?
"He's not usually this slow," I tell my father. "He was injured when he was a boy, hunting with his brother and their friends. It was a boar. It nearly took his leg."
My father's gaze flicks down to Peeta's knees.
"Katniss…" Peeta objects softly, embarrassed. I stretch for his hand and, grasping it, haul him over to sit on the bench with me.
"Stop," I say yet again. "You are strong and good."
His face flushes bright red. Ah, yes. This is the man I know.
"My father respects men of courage." I squeeze his hand. "As do I." Once again, I conduct the introductions. "Papa, this is Peeta, son of Harald of Denmark." And to Peeta I say in his language, "This is my father, Everdeen, King of Samland."
Peeta salutes him twice, first in the custom of Denmark and then using the same gesture Prim had offered him earlier in the evening. "Thank you for your hospitality," Peeta says clearly, speaking as if seated at the head table in the dining hall rather than at a sickbed. I see a gleam of approval in my father's eyes even before I begin to translate.
Peeta has no end of good things to say about our land, and I try not to feel embarrassed as I convey his kind and thoughtful words about me.
"Your daughter is uncommonly brave and gifted. She has learned our language so quickly." He gives me a charming smile and adds, "I hope Katniss will return the favor so that I might speak to you without inconveniencing her."
"It's not an inconvenience," I add once I've finished speaking for him. Our gazes meet. I'm suddenly overheated where our skin touches: my hand feels like it's trapped in a fire grate. We share another smile. It is almost shy. My father rasps out a chuckle which quickly turns into an unfortunate cough.
Prim darts forward to gently trickle water into his mouth and massage his throat. After his body has stopped fighting him and he calms, Haymitch steps over to his side and murmurs into my father's ear. I cannot hear what my mentor says but I know from my father's suddenly somber expression that is it dire.
After a moment, Haymitch leans back. "Have they your permission?"
The formal words startle me. I can count only one other occasion when I'd heard Haymitch speak this way: just after my mother's death, Haymitch had come to ask my father to let her body go so that she could be taken away and washed for burial.
My father nods and gestures weakly to a wooden box on top of my mother's keepsake chest. Without a word, Haymitch straightens and approaches it. Only when he reverently lifts the lid do I feel a single drumbeat of dreadful anticipation. Haymitch is never reverent about anything that doesn't fit into the flask on his belt, so I can guess what is coming.
"Papa…" I breathe, looking into his eyes. He smiles a little and it should ease me to see him untroubled, but I am restless. I want to ask him why. Why so soon? I think I know the answer, but I cannot bear to hear it.
Instead, I ask, "Are you sure?"
He gestures to our clasped hands – mine and Peeta's – and nods.
"He trusts your judgment," Haymitch gruffly translates. "As well he should. I've been teaching you how to use it for long enough."
Is it a laugh or a sob which escapes me in response? I'm not sure.
Haymitch lifts his hands and my suspicions are confirmed. From inside the finely crafted, wooden box, he has removed two elaborately embroidered and amber-beaded fur shoulder wraps. I recognize them. They have been worn in public by the king and queen of Samland since the day my great-great-grandfather and grandmother had been made head of the tribes. These stoles are the right of our rulers to wear.
My father stretches his cold, thin fingers around my hand – oh, his poor hands! Once they'd been so strong and capable. Steady. With no hint of the tremors which shake them now. His body may be wasting away, but his spirit is just as strong. He tugs me close. With Haymitch's assistance, he lays the decorated fur that my mother had once worn around my own neck. I press my lips to his brow. He squeezes my hand.
Then he turns his attention to Peeta who is staring at the king's stole still resting in Haymitch's hands. His eyes are wide and his face is pale once again. I cannot make this decision for him, but in truth there is little else he can do but agree. If he does not accept this honor, then my friendship with him will become suspect. No one will trust me. Alma will win without a fight because I am incapable of letting anything happen to Peeta. Still, the choice is his to make, although I do wish I'd been able to give him more time to consider it.
When my hand squeezes his, he gulps. When he looks into my eyes, he resolves. When he kneels beside my father's bed, he speaks.
"I will protect Katniss and this kingdom with my life. I give my oath."
Even before I've finished speaking on his behalf, my father's fingers slip from my grasp and he motions Peeta closer, close enough to clasp Peeta's hand between their chests and press his palm to the side of Peeta's neck. Shakily, Peeta reciprocates the gesture and shares the very same embrace that Haymitch and I had given each other. Peeta is now family.
Then my father motions for Haymitch to place the stole around Peeta's shoulders. I act as witness when my father touches the ornate clasp in the front, patting it insistently until Peeta's hand comes up to cover it. He presses Peeta's palm to the carved bear upon the seal.
I explain the importance of our symbol to the best of my ability. "This is the face of Samland. The bear. It guards the river. It eats the fish. It lives in the forest. It watches the sea. It defends from enemies its family."
Peeta nods in understanding without looking away from my father's penetrating gaze. "I understand this duty."
With a look of satisfaction, my father lets his hand fall back to the bedcovers. He is tired. Too tired. "Rest now, papa. I will see you again very soon." I kiss him once more and then I help Peeta to his feet. Haymitch sees us out of the room as Prim moves forward to settle our father more comfortably in bed.
We wait, hands still fitted tightly together, while Haymitch unlocks the latch for us. "Well, dumpling, I'm looking forward to your wedding feast."
He smirks broadly, the cocky old fool, as he swings open the door.
"Bring your own ale," I retort smartly and pull Peeta into the empty hallway. The door shuts behind us, but I can still hear Haymitch's dry laughter through the wood.
NOTES: I've made up so much stuff in this fic, it's shameful. The symbol of Samland, of course. And Everdeen's illness. (Although I don't feel too badly about pulling these symptoms out of thin air - I recently read a study comparing the Black Death of the 14th century to 19th century bubonic plague and there's a strong case for them being completely separate illnesses, suggesting that some medical conditions either die out or evolve over time. So, it's possible that Everdeen suffers from something that doesn't exactly match up with a modern disease.)
Also, I'm incorporating a lot of my own experiences with living abroad, marrying a foreigner, and CHOOSING to continue living abroad despite the fact that I love my family back home. It is very easy to convince yourself that you don't need your family where there's actual distance between you and them... but as soon as you're reunited, you wonder what the everlovin' goatblat you were thinking when you left in the first place. And, by the way, it never gets any easier. Leaving, I mean, after a visit. It never, ever gets any easier.
