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Needful Friends

(Peeta)

Katniss offers to share the bench with me, welcoming me beneath a quilt made from scraps of fur, and passes a cup of steaming pork-bone broth and spring onions into my hands. As I let the warmth of it singe my fingers, she adjusts the quilt around us both. The fire in the hearth of her father's meeting room softly toasts my knees. It will take time for us both to dry out and warm up. Time well-spent.

I offer the cup back to her and murmur my thanks as our fingers brush. It's not until she has taken a cautious sip that I realize I'd spoken the words in her tongue, not mine. I'm starting to understand what a monumental effort this will be: staying with Katniss, giving my word to help her in whatever way I can… although I'm still not sure how to do that. My head aches, but I refuse to massage my scalp. If I acknowledge the pain, then that means it will have beaten me.

"How is your leg?" Katniss asks, first in my language and then in hers. Little by little, she is teaching me.

"My leg," I repeat, sounding out the new words before speaking in my first language once more, "It is fine. It's just the weather. It aches when it is cold and wet."

Katniss echoes my reply in her tongue, pausing after each word so that I know where one ends and another begins. I scoot a little closer to her wiry warmth.

"Gale?" I prompt and my voice is hard, like the iron in Katniss' eyes. My hesitance has melted away completely. I need to know.

She speaks to me in my own language, wielding it like a shield against eavesdroppers. "He thinks you will take our country. Give it to your father. We will be slaves."

"No!"

Katniss slides an arm around my waist and shushes me. The door to the next room is open. Her father is sleeping. She passes me the cup again. I take it and drink. My face feels like I have borrowed her scowl.

I whisper, "Tell them of my past. Tell them I know how heavy that yoke is and that I would never willingly put it on another person." It had injured me to allow Katniss to be collared. I still feel that wound. A regret that will never heal.

She whispers, "Tell them about your collar? I can't. They cannot believe – you are Harald's son and you were a slave. They cannot believe these two things."

The first gives me some measure of value, although the second might make me more trustworthy. To avoid facing my own frustration, I look at Katniss. Her unsettled frown draws me in. "There is something you are not telling me."

She sighs. "Gale wants to fight. To kill your countrymen." Her grey eyes are caged with worry.

I draw in a deep breath. "Then, how do we dissuade him?"

She shakes her head, at a loss.

It is in this moment, seated with Katniss and enjoying the warmth of her father's hearth, that the true weight of my actions comes to bear. I have to choose. I have to choose between the lives of my people and the wellbeing of Katniss'.

I am not ready for this, but I have to be. Katniss needs me. I must not fail her.

I bite my lip. I make my decision. I say, "My countrymen respect strong adversaries with smart defenses."

She considers this for a long moment. "So we must prepare."

We do. Katniss calls a meeting that afternoon and she insists that I attend. Haymitch smirks at me while the men who had conceived and carried out Katniss' rescue glare and glower. These six men – Gale, Mason, Mitchell, Thresh, Chaff, and Boggs – must be the best of Samland's warriors. They do not want me here, but I will not leave Katniss' side.

It is only Katniss' steady presence and swift translations that keep me focused on the task at hand rather than my simmering resentment; these men have no concept of what I would give – what I have already given – for Katniss' sake. None at all. I want to ask them what they see when they look at Katniss. Do they not see a woman worth following? They should. They are her people. Why am I the only one among them who is unreserved in his devotion?

But these questions will not be answered here and now. Other things demand our attention.

"We need watchtowers," Katniss announces. "It's long past time."

From what I catch of Haymitch's response, Samland had once been guarded by several, but they'd been destroyed by unfriendly, neighboring tribes so many times that people had given up on rebuilding them.

"Then hide them," I advise, speaking to Katniss. "In the trees or underground." I gesture with my hands as I speak, so the idea mists into the discussion before she has conveyed it to the others. The looks I receive become even more wary: my idea is a good one and that makes me dangerous.

I don't even attempt to offer to help with the site selection or actual construction. They do not trust me and I will not put Katniss in a position to advocate for me further. "What can I do here?" I ask instead. "If we have warning of an attack, people will wish to save their livestock. Is the fort in need of additional stables or pens? Is the granary large enough? I can help build those."

Katniss confers with Haymitch, who nods, muttering and gesturing in my direction. His approval seems more indifferent than anything else, but Katniss is pleased.

"We have a lot of work to do," she says, hopping off of her bench and tugging once on my arm.

I assume the meeting is over.

Gale watches me closely as I follow her out of the meeting room. The look he sends after us brings to mind the slinking form of a dog that does not trust his master's new friend, warmly welcomed across the threshold or not. I do not like that look, not because of what it might bode for me, but for Katniss. Gale is supposed to be her ally. His distrust is a blow to her security here in the fortress where she ought to be safe from threats.

My fury reignites.

I smash it back down.

Why do these men – comrades of Katniss' – not see her clearly? What can I do to open their eyes?

I send a silent prayer to the gods, asking for guidance. I have never needed it more. Suddenly, my betrothal to Katniss is about far more than simply emulating the manner of a good king. Suddenly, I realize the monumental undertaking I have accepted in promising to be a good husband. I must protect Katniss just as thoroughly as she protects me.

I cannot.

But Gale can. Could.

For the smallest instant, I wonder if he might be a better choice for her after all, but no. He does not trust her, and that must come first.

What can I do to repair their friendship?

Gale can look after Katniss in ways that are not possible for me: he speaks the language, knows the people, understands the way things are normally done. In my ignorance, a threat may very likely slip through and strike, making my vows to Katniss and King Everdeen worthless. The only thing I can call my own in this place is Katniss' friendship. I cannot lose that… but I will if I cannot be her equal.

What am I thinking? I will never be her equal. How could I have believed otherwise, even for an instant? I'm the bastard son of a slave woman. Harald – my own father – had not deigned to ask me for my allegiance like he would of a free-born man in his kingdom. I have never worn his seal, a reminder of an oath of fealty I'd never been allowed to formally make. I am beneath his notice.

Katniss is not. She had been born into this, grown up knowing she would one day lead.

And Gale. I do not know his family's rank in Samland, but he is respected. Despite Katniss' insistence that he is not suited to kingship, he has earned the right to it far more than I.

I open my mouth to tell Katniss she needs to rethink this. How can she marry me? How can I be of any possible use to her people if my own father cannot acknowledge our blood relation?

Tugging on her hand, so snugly fitted into mine, I draw her into a shadowy nook. "Katniss—" I begin.

Her lips interrupt. Just one kiss and all my good intentions are undone. The soft, lush taste of her mouth brings forth a sigh of defeat from deep within me. When I press closer, she retreats. Her mouth trembles open and a puff of breath hits my hovering lips. So sweet. As sweet as her voice blending flawlessly in song. I might have been able to let her go before that dawn, before I'd heard her sing, before my curiosity had been my undoing. I'd awoken when the front door had thumped closed. I'd pulled on my clothes when I'd seen the empty spot where the fishing basket was kept. I'd followed her footprints knowing that Katniss wouldn't go fishing before dawn on the morning of our departure to Trelleborg, knowing she had some other purpose in mind, not knowing that my heart would beat only for her by the break of day.

It beats for her still. Now. Always.

Her hands capture my jaw. Her fingers slide into my hair. Her nails scratch softly against my scalp.

My hands curl around her waist. My fingers quest up her back. My nails drag up her leather vest until they encounter the edge of her collar. The soft hairs and tender skin at the nape of her neck burn my fingertips.

I lose the rhythm of our kiss when her hips bow into mine. Gods. She cannot be this close to me. My gentle affection twists and snarls into a battle-crazed berserker. I kiss her back deeply, swiftly, and then I pull away.

She moves with me. I scramble for her arms and force myself not to grip her elbows too tightly.

"No. Please," I beg. This is too much, this delight. It was not meant for a mere mortal.

"I'm sorry," she mouths. Oh, that mouth. How lovely and luscious.

I tilt my forehead against hers and dare to pet her braided hair. I sigh. "No, I am sorry." I want her. I need her. I need to tell her— "I cannot protect you here. Gale can. Please. Mend your friendship with him."

She scowls.

"You protect me here," I rush to explain, "but who looks after you?"

"You," she insists to my endless frustration. Seeing my jaw clench, she adds, "Haymitch, Prim…"

"Haymitch, who is a drunkard. Primrose, who is a young lady, not a warrior." I smooth my hands over her shoulders and down her arms. "Katniss, they are not capable of protecting you and I cannot be that man for you yet."

The fury building in her eyes ebbs with the utterance of my final word. I'd included it only because I know how much she hates hearing me speak frankly of myself. I have no desire to argue with her over my own qualities – lacking or not. This is about what services I cannot perform for her that others can. Should. Must.

"Be friends again with Gale and the other warriors. Please. For me."

Katniss releases a blustery breath. "I will try, but… He is— They believe—" She shakes her head, frustrated.

"He is worried about you. All of them are," I supply. "Let them help you."

"He wants to stop you. Um, he wants you to go. Away. From me."

Oh. I steel myself and summon enough determination to take a half-step back. "If that is the only way he will understand." When she shakes her head, I offer a compromise, "Leave me here at the fortress with Haymitch. He will help me make improvements. You go and help the others with the outer defenses."

"How will you speak?"

"In etchings if needed. It will be all right. Go with Gale." They are some of the most difficult words I have ever had to say, but telling Katniss she would soon be free to leave Denmark and return to her family had been harder. Asking her to stay despite her freedom and choose me for her husband had been nearly impossible to utter. Despite that, I'm surprised that I find the strength to gently push her away now. It is for her own safety. I will do whatever I must to keep her safe.

"I will go with Gale," she begins tightly – she is displeased but can see the wisdom of what I suggest – "but I will return every night to you."

A shudder works its way through my frame, from scalp to toes and back again. My eyes close in helpless reaction. She seals her promise with a soft, lingering, chaste kiss.

I am divided. I want her, yet she deserves more. She deserves a husband who will be her equal, but she has already promised herself to me in order to protect her father and her people from Alma's schemes. She is giving them another option, one that necessarily includes me and a fictional alliance with Harald of Denmark. That cannot be undone without consequences. There can be only one solution, then: I must become that man as quickly as possible, just as I'd promised. I must be wary of allowing my overconfidence to make oaths I cannot keep. I must give her my best. I must find a way to transform my best into something which is good enough. In the meantime…

"Thank you," I whisper, cradling her face in my hands. "I will be waiting for you here. Always." I brush my lips against her forehead, surrendering to the truth: my love for her is a cage and I am well and truly caught.

After Chapter 39, I'll be changing this story's rating to M for violence, gore, and sexytiems stuff. Not sure if that's going to affect update alerts or favorites. Check back daily if you don't get an alert, okay, folks?