A/N: Thresh's Song is a traditional African-American lullaby - All the Pretty Horses, unknown origin.


"Can't sleep?" Thresh's voice slurs into my drowsy consciousness. It's still hours before dawn, but my mind has been churning with thoughts of what to do with the pack once I get it.

"No," I whisper back, shuffling around in the sleeping bag to face him.

"What're you thinking about?" In the freezing air, his warm breath is a welcome blanket on my face.

"The feast," I reply, taking his hands and pulling them around my waist. He strokes his palm along my back and I purr from his touch.

"You're always thinking," he whispers, rubbing his other hand along my face. How does he keep his hands this warm in the cold? I press it to my cheek, and feel his skin prickle from the cold of my touch.

"It's the only thing I'm good at," I whisper against his chin.

The wretched cold slips from my fingers, replaced by the warmth in his. He blows a stream of air at me, and the lock of hair lying across my eyes flutters.

"I'm sure you're good at other things," he whispers, tucking the hair behind my ear, "you're a dangerous girl aren't you?"

My other hand slips around the handle of my knife, and with a slow and steady movement, I bring it up to his chest. He doesn't flinch when I press its edge into his shirt.

"You should've known from the start."

"I didn't mean deadly dangerous," he whispers, his lips grazing across my nose, "I meant…"

He hesitates, stroking his fingers along the blade like it's a stalk of wheat. With a simple twitch of my wrist, I could end his life – but here he is pondering what to say next.

"Y-you're…," he whispers, his lips exhaling warm breaths of air against mine, "you're just too easy to fall in love with."

My fingers loosen their grasp on the knife as his words swim around in my head. Dangerous. He combs his fingers through my hair. Fall in love with. With the steady, warm touch of his hands, his soothing voice, and a smile that's capable of whisking me away from all fear – I'd be hard-pressed to say he wasn't easy to fall in love with either.

"You remind me of my father," I whisper, nuzzling against his neck and wishing we met somewhere else so I wouldn't have to hide it from him, "he used to sing me to sleep when he could."

Thresh pulls me close to him and sings softly in my ear.

"Hush-by, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you shall have,
All the pretty little horses.
Blacks and bays, dapples…"

My eyes flutter shut before he finishes; I never find out the last words of Thresh's song.

And I doubt I ever will.


It hurts opening my eyes, the points of light gleaming through my eyelashes feel like needles prickling at my brain. The aching remains, even when my retinas adjust to the dazzling orange glow. Something seems to be causing this splitting pain clenching around my head; perhaps it has something to do with the smell of blood thick in my nostrils.

I try to get up, but the numbing agony in my spine sends me flopping back onto the foliage. With all bodily movement ruled out, I make an effort to regain my bearings. How long have I been unconscious? The sun is setting, so it must have been at least one full day since passing out. The fingers on my left hand fumble in the dirt until they close around my knife, and in the corner of my eye, I see the glint of a machete lying against a tree root; I must've been left undisturbed since Cato's aborted attempt at butchering me.

The pain in my limbs returns: softly at first – like an insect crawling up my arm, and then it washes over my body like a surge of electrical current. With trembling hesitation, I stretch my right hand out and gasp at the sight of a bloody stump where my little finger's supposed to be. The wound has stopped bleeding, a fact which offers little consolation since it looks like the charred remains of a lit matchstick.

Iodine, my brain suggests, and it takes all the strength in my stricken body to roll over and loosen the straps on my pack. A searing heat stabs through my knee when I lie down again, and I retch at the sight of blood-soaked grass beneath my leg. How am I even still alive? Digging through the pack with my good hand, the bottle of iodine tumbles into my grasp. I hesitate before splashing the blue liquid onto the wound, and immediately bite down hard on my jacket as the pain renews itself with an electric vigor.

Right leg, my brain orders me. I drag myself against a tree and resist the urge to scream when the gash in my leg comes into view. Just get it over and done with. I arch my back and claw away at the ground in pain as a stream of iodine trickles from the bottle onto the inch-deep wound above my knee. I'd imagine that the many burns, cuts, and bruises I've endured running around District 5's cramped urban environment and its Power Plant would've prepared me for the hardship of the Games. But not like this.

For a moment, I give up; I surrender to the overwhelming feeling of pain and despair settling upon my wrecked body and hurl the empty iodine bottle far into the forest. It's not fair, I don't deserve any of this. My lungs convulse with sobbing and the tears spilling from my eyes add another layer of misery to my blood- and dirt- caked face. I'm sick of this shit, I think, I just want to go home. I wipe away at my face and try to swallow my emotions for the sake of my parents watching, but every attempt at containing my grief brings another wave of anguish.

With the faintest of whispers, my brain speaks to me again, Home, and directs my gaze to a lump of green lying far away on the grass.

Home!

I clutch my hand to my face and resist the urge to fling myself towards the feast pack. Every trace of my angst evaporates in a singular point of hope in my heart which bubbles into a grin on my face. I can go home.

Everybody's watching you, my mind whispers, before going silent in the breeze. With that last piece of advice in mind, I feign a snivel and wipe my tears one more time before attempting a few feeble movements towards Cato's spear. It's difficult dragging myself along the ground with one amputated finger and a wounded leg; by the time I've reached it, the sun's set and darkness has invaded the forest. They better not send the Mutts now.

I use the spear as a crutch to stand on my good leg and hobble towards the pack. The pain hasn't left it, and my movements are slow and painstaking. The strength leaves me before I reach my green prize, and I crumble to the ground a yard away. With the sweat glistening from my hands and the smell of blood making an ominous reappearance, I reach out to the pack and drag it into my arms.

Even the fingers on my un-mauled hand tremble as they unzip the bag. Stay calm. I pretend to be awed by the items I'm pulling out of the pack: a loaf of bread and some chocolate wrapped in a patterned green and brown cloak that blends with the forest. With trepidation coursing through my body, I bite on my lip and try to steady my hands as they close around a stiff and flat object.

My heart leaps from my chest as I hold the card to the moonlight and watch it shimmer in all its pale glory. Despite my earlier attempts to appear calm, there's no stopping my hands from trembling as I unfold it.


WE'RE PROUD OF YOU.

MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR.

-COMPLIMENTS, RAY & HERTHA.


With the whirr of Cameras barely audible in the twilight silence, I casually toss the card back into the pack before tearing a strip of cloth from the cloak and bandaging my hand.