Oh, goodness. The response to this story is just wonderful. Thank you so much for letting me know you're enjoying this journey with me!


Something Ominous

(Katniss)

My fury is unending.

I will never forgive or forget Káto for the cold words he'd said to Peeta, for how he'd treated him: like a disobedient child who refuses to stop playing in the yard after dark, who is in need of a keeper, who deserves to have his life fettered and supervised.

Although I want nothing more than to unleash my anger upon him, I cannot. How can I when I can offer Peeta little better? We both serve Samland. We are both still slaves.

"Haymitch," I call out upon returning to the dining hall.

"Yes, dumpling?"

He doesn't look surprised to see me or all that inquisitive. He knows what I intend to request of him. As the sworn right hand of my father, he is the least free of all of us.

"I've promised our guests the chance to bathe."

He wrinkles his nose. "Good decree."

I lock my throat so that the snort of humor doesn't escape. "Will you prepare the washing room for the men?"

"And while I'm supervising that delight, what'll you be doing?"

I only need a moment to consider my own task. "I'll be moving bedding into the granary." I give Haymitch a tight smile that speaks of vengeful thoughts. "The one Peeta built."

I've never seen Haymitch look prouder of me. "That'll show 'em, dumpling."

I know. It is fitting that Káto and the others, who continue to doubt Peeta's value as a leader, will sleep protected by the structure my husband had built with his own hands.

Yet another reminder of all that Peeta can do.

Laying out beds in the still green-smelling granary is satisfying, but it does nothing to calm my temper. I can shove Peeta's worth in their faces as much as I like, but nothing will change the fact that such a display is needful in the first place. Why does Káto treat his brother as if he is not capable of being a grown man and yet he'd come all this way to retrieve him? He is clearly worth an earnest rescue attempt, but he is not a man of worth in and of himself?

I do not understand.

I'm still wrestling with these thoughts when I enter the just vacated washing room to assist our female guests.

"How could our poor Peeta prefer a woman with a face like that?"

I swing around at the accusation. The women warriors who had arrived on Harald's ship are in the midst of undressing in preparation for their promised baths, watching me with open curiosity. The one who'd just spoken, Johanna I'd heard Peeta call her, looks me up and down. I do not impress her, apparently.

Well, whatever regard she'd won from me by defending Peeta earlier has been lost. Her words, her tone and sneer hold no respect for my husband. Rather, she paints him as some sort of pitiful pet.

If I open my mouth, I will curse her, so I keep it shut.

"Perhaps he hasn't seen this look yet," a red-haired maid suggests, her battle-hardened smile wide upon her pale face.

Johanna smirks, tilting her head of haphazardly braided hair to the side and speculates crudely, "She probably keeps his head too far under her skirt for him to notice much else."

"I am not wearing a skirt," I point out tightly. A heated flush that is part embarrassment and part rage begins creeping up the back of my neck. How dare these women speak of my husband this way! How dare they even think him to be so weak a man!

"Hence the scowl that could crack an iceberg right down the middle," Johanna of the messy braids drawls with a knowing twitch of her brows. "Can't expect the poor man to do his job properly through all that." She skims my fabric-covered lower half with her condescending gaze.

I bite my tongue and ignore the glances directed at my leg wrappings. I could not care less what they think of my garb.

"A pity, too!" a third woman, blond and busty and confident, contributes. "Seeing stars on the ceiling might be the only way to wipe that scowl off of her face!"

Whatever they say of me is irrelevant, but the fact that they are assuming Peeta's worth must be limited to—to—that!

I pause, draw in a deep breath, and dismiss my rage. Peeta would not want me to get angry and I know from experience that it never helps, only hinders. So I think of my husband, of all he has done for me, of all I have done for him… the blame for these demeaning assumptions does not lie with him or with me. It is only themselves who they shame with their uncaring and callous chatter.

"Peeta," I begin in a measured tone. "Will be king here someday. A good one. I pity you – you are his people, but you do not see him."

With deft hands, I set out the bath linens. The women warriors watch me, their expressions set in a range of stone. I have not made any friends, but that is fine. I leave them to their bathing and head to the kitchens in the bailey. The sun greets me like an old friend and I pause to appreciate its warmth. It feels like summer today although it is far too early to last.

The bailey is crowded this afternoon. Káto's oarsmen, having finished with their baths, roam the yard. Beside a weapons rack, Mason is humoring Már, allowing the man to weigh one of our Samish spears in his hand. I don't doubt that the Northmen's weapons are superior to ours; Már's pompous smile seems to confirm that.

I also spy Gale out-of-doors. He is seated under the roof of the archery's gallery, trimming the fletch of a newly hewn arrow. I follow his gaze toward the outdoor kitchen and count two loitering Northmen. I recognize one by his bronze hair, but the name of the second eludes me.

I wish I had the words to inform Finnr just how much he and his comrade resemble a pair of mangy wolfhounds in the way they blatantly hope for scraps to be tossed their way. My lips twitch, tickled by the sight as the kitchen staff gives them a wide berth as they lounge against the wooden counter, eying the array of boiling pots and spitted animals longingly. I can hear the tone of their voices as they jest between themselves. The Northmen are not always cruel. It is this playful side of them that my people cannot adjust to.

But that is my responsibility, isn't it? To see that these two peoples mingle peacefully?

With a surge of inspiration, I recall how Peeta had behaved in a time of similar tension. I recall that first evening in Trelleborg when I'd endeavored to steal a blade under the guise of pouring ale and Peeta had distracted Már from touching me. I do not know what had been said, but I remember playful shoving, a bit of teasing, Peeta's face flushing and everyone laughing. Laughter, I realize, might be the best cure for this stalemate.

Stomping over to the kitchen, I call out to Ripper, the head cook, "Are these louts from my brother-in-law's boat bothering you?"

"Not especially," she returns loudly, directing her voice to all the younger workers who look a bit twitchy. "It takes more than a leer to get under the skin of a Samdian!"

I bark out a laugh. She's not called Ripper just because she can tear meat from a joint, that's for sure.

Seeing that Ripper has the Samish half the situation well in hand, I move to address the other. As I walk by, I give in to the urge to kick a booted foot out from underneath Finnr. He stumbles against his comrade who laughs at his clumsiness.

"Katniss!" Finnr objects, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "That was not hospitable!"

I don't try to hide my guilt. "There are benches, but you do not sit," I accuse with a playful grin. "I only made a suggestion."

"That's not how you invite a man to take a seat!"

"Perhaps it is here."

He laughs. "For some reason, I do not believe you!"

I don't maintain the argument. It's time I returned to the keep. I've been away longer than I'd expected. "Be good," I tell them both, "and we will give you dinner. When it is ready."

Finnr laughs, giving me a jaunty salute when I glance back over my shoulder. They make a show of settling in to wait patiently for dinner to be done.

Yes, they seem harmless enough, but still…

I catch Gale's eye and we exchange a brief nod. He'll watch these two for me just as Mason is shadowing Már. I'm sure Thresh, Boggs, Mitchell, and Chaff are all engaged in similar pursuits.

Our mutual stare holds until Gale fidgets. The arrow in his grasp wobbles and I take note of the feathers he'd used for the fletch. They're the type I prefer and have recommended to him time and time again. Is he finally taking my advice on arrow making? Or could the arrow be intended for me? It looks like it would be at home amongst the others in my sheath.

This is a small thing, but I am confident that it is a peace offering.

He salutes me with it, twirling the shaft between his fingers, and with a flick of his wrist, he sends it into an empty quiver hanging up on the neighboring post. Gale looks ridiculously pleased with himself at the display. Pleased and open. He'd fashioned the arrow and now it is up to me to retrieve it. And I will. Later. Soon. Yes, perhaps Gale and I can mend our friendship after all.

With a lighter heart, I hurry back to my father's rooms. Wrenching open the door, I'm surprised by the sounds of mirth coming from the bed chamber. The swift sting of envy drives me across the room. I'd clearly missed a portion of whatever merriment is unfolding; I feel hollow with a hunger that will only be appeased by a certain Northman's brilliant smile and bright eyes.

Tracking the sound of Peeta's happy chuckling, I discover him and my sister in the midst of playing out a battle upon a wooden game board as my father grunts and shakes his head minutely in disapproval.

"Who is winning?" I ask in Samish and then repeat the question more quietly in Norse. I place my hands on Peeta's shoulders and squeeze the taut muscles firmly.

Peeta laughs, leaning his head back to look up at me and… yes. This is what I need. This look. This smile. Whatever jealousy I might have been feeling upon seeing him enjoy a game with my sister and father instead of with me evaporates at the joyous twinkle in his blue eyes.

"I'm not sure," he confesses. "Prim and I are still trying to figure that out."

"Hm. It sounds like someone is complicating matters," I accuse, aiming the words at my father along with a conspiratorial grin. He tries to look innocent, but I see through his facade.

I offer to help both Prim and Peeta, but my sister declines. "I trust Papa more than I trust you," she cheekily retorts. I roll my eyes and don't resist when Peeta pulls me around the edge of the bench and seats me on his lap.

"This will be a team effort," I tell him, trying not to wiggle too much as he wraps an arm around my waist.

"I trust you," he assures me, and we play.

It quickly becomes apparent that my father and Prim have played this game together before – perhaps the two of them against Haymitch – because they win handily thanks to what I suspect is a series of coded gestures or even well-timed sighs.

"Tell me how you two did that," I demand, irked that I hadn't been able to impress Peeta with my skill. I'm actually rather decent at this game… unless Haymitch has spent the last dozen years simply letting me win so I wouldn't waste his time sulking.

"Oh, Katniss," Prim teases me, shaking her head as if any attempt to explain her strategy to me will be a lost cause.

To my consternation, Peeta chuckles knowingly. Am I the only one who had not seen defeat coming?

"Did you just let us lose?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "I wanted to see what kind of woman I'm married to."

"Really? What kind am I?"

He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. "The kind who can't hide her emotions to save her life. The kind who thinks on her feet rather than five moves ahead. The kind who will forgive her husband for being curious?"

He is right to make that last one into a question. I deliberate on the best form of revenge to exact. "Hm. Fine. When I am curious – next time – you will not stop me."

Peeta grins. "Agreed."

I have to bite back a laugh. He has no idea what he's just agreed to. His trust in me gives him strength, but it is also his downfall.

My smile wobbles.

Peeta notices. "What is it?"

Because I cannot lie to him, because I am incapable of deceiving him, I lean my head against his and murmur, "Later."

Later, when my thoughts are clearer, when I understand why my entire being had just clenched with dread, I will share my suspicion: a downfall is coming. I sense it. I look from Peeta's blue eyes, framed with concern, to my father's clear gaze expressed in grey. He is so calm. Perhaps I am the only one who has glimpsed something indistinct and ominous on the horizon.

Perhaps it is not real at all…

…or, perhaps I am the only one who can stop it.


NOTE: Yup, that was a reference to Glimmer and the Girl Tribute from District 5 (a.k.a. Foxface).