Futile
(Katniss)
I scan the feasting crowd, smiling woodenly over the rim of the ale pitcher until my cheeks hurt. I have no idea what I'm looking for or that answers will even be revealed tonight. Or that I'll know them when I see them.
This is a futile exercise.
Futile, but I have no intention of leaving Peeta's side, not even to collect the solitary arrow still awaiting retrieval from the gallery of the archery. My acceptance of Gale's overture must wait. My place is here with Peeta as he pours ale for our visitors and my countrymen alike. I'm also keeping an eye on Prim and my father, but Haymitch and Chaff are with them. My comrades are spaced out nearby as well. They do not need me. Peeta does.
"We must stop meeting like this, Peeta," Finnr jests as the ale pitcher is deftly tipped and his cup refilled. "Although at least you've brought a girl with you this time."
"I'll have you know that I am more than pretty enough to serve ale to the likes of you," Peeta responds with a luminescent grin.
Finnr's lips twitch as his green eyes flick over my husband. I know that look. Haymitch had offered us its twin the moment we'd stepped outside to join the banquet tonight. Finnr is looking for evidence of what Peeta and I might have been up to just prior to dinner: furrows left by clawing hands… impressions from too-sharp teeth upon his pale skin… bruises from sucking kisses.
Well, Finnr is welcome to search and assume all he likes. I value my husband too greatly to leave marks upon his supple skin.
"You're not half as pretty as you think you are," the swaggering Northman grouses. He is a grown man and yet he is pouting. Pouting.
Peeta laughs. "You sound sad, Finnr. But don't worry – you'll be home with your wife soon."
Finnr lifts his cup to that.
As I steer Peeta away, he chuckles and presses a whiskery kiss to my cheek. My inner thighs tingle at the memory of those same whiskers brushing against my tender skin only an hour earlier.
"What?" I demand, trying not to smile too widely. Why is it I am constantly manufacturing a smile or suppressing a genuine one?
"You were right – they know. With just one look at my face, they all know."
I arch a brow. "Is that bad?"
He tilts his head to the side and replies through a charmingly crooked smile. "Hm… no. I think I like it."
And with a smile like that lighting him up from the inside, I can't bring myself to even pretend embarrassment. This had been my idea, after all. Peeta is incapable of hiding his joy and if his countrymen see him happy, they will feel less obligated to try to take him away.
This hope I aim at his friends' hearts, but another I direct at their logic. They have met my father, seen his frailty. His impressive energy from the previous evening is fading fast. They know I am the eldest – that had been made clear during the introductions and Haymitch's welcome speech, which I'd translated for our guests – and thus they know that with my father's death, Peeta will be king. They cannot expect him to abandon that.
That is my hope, anyway. A glance in Káto's direction reveals his continuing scowl. He is not impressed by his half-brother's display of cheer or high status here. My palm itches to slap him. He is behaving like a child throwing a temper tantrum. His younger brother has finally come into good fortune: a marriage that could benefit King Harald, a home in a land where Peeta is both welcomed and admired, and a wife who puts this smile on his face. How can his brother object to these things?
I don't understand.
"Don't," Peeta cautions, his voice dipping softly into my ear.
I turn away from Káto and raise my brows in silent inquiry.
"I'll deal with him."
"Why is he angry? Do you know?"
Peeta shakes his head, shrugs off the conundrum, and renews his smile. "Don't forget we're mad for each other. You may kiss me at any time."
I laugh, which I'm sure had been his goal, and I surprise him by leaning forward and placing a kiss upon his cheek, just above his bearded jaw. His blue eyes illuminate even further; I hadn't thought it possible, but here's the proof. He'll be shining like the sun soon.
He marvels. "You really want me."
"Of course I do." And in so many ways: at my side as we face my people, in my bed in the dark of night, rocking our children to sleep after dinner, sharing a platter and a cup at meals…
I watch the disbelief wax and wane across his expressive face. "I just… I never once expected… Is this a dream?"
How can he still doubt it? "No. It's real and I want you."
His eyes darken. His jaw flexes. He sets the half-empty ale pitcher down upon the nearest table and draws me through the cheerful throng toward the stables. I try to bite down on my smile, but it escapes me time and time again.
We slip in through the door and slide into the shadows. Peeta wastes not a moment more before taking my mouth with his. The night air has made his lips a little cool, but they quickly warm until the both of us are blazing like the torches in the bailey, where people drink and eat and tell stories and swap jokes and wrestle and dance.
I would very much like to dance.
My hands skim down from his shoulders and over his chest to venture around his waist to his back. I sway my hips forward. He catches my meaning, bracing himself over me with one hand while the other roves hungrily down from my collarbone to breast, belly, hip, thigh—
I curse the thick fabric of my ridiculous gown. And then I praise the gods for giving me this man, congratulate myself on finding a way to keep him. I melt as his mouth glides from my burning lips to my neck. He reaches down further, grasping my leg behind the knee and lifting it up over his hip, opening me in the darkness.
The hem of my gown flutters – a breeze upon my calves – and then warm fingers trace urgent lines upon my skin, moving relentlessly higher.
I lean my head back against the wall and groan his name.
"Shh," Peeta reminds me, pressing a chaste kiss to my lips.
I grit my teeth together and exhale sharply as his hot palm ventures hungrily up my bare thigh beneath the skirt of my gown. This is not the place or the time – I should be out there in the midst of the banquet watching for that darkness I sense looming ever nearer – but I want him too much to object. If anything, I would complain about how slowly he is proceeding.
His hips roll against the cradle of mine and I press back in reply. He nuzzles my throat and I helplessly tilt my cheek against his yellow curls. The heat of his roving fingers overpowers me in the darkness behind my closed eyelids and I open them on a gasp, searching for some mundane distraction to anchor me against the buffeting waves of his intensity.
The stables are a useless, dark blur to me and Peeta is so solid and real. So tentative and bold in turns. Why is he still surprised that I desire him? How can he dissolve me with a touch? I ought to be surprised by one or the other but not both… and yet they catch me off-guard. Peeta continues to surprise me. I think I like that. Very much.
A movement beyond and through the open awning, out in the yard, draws my blurry gaze. Through the unlocked shutters, I glimpse a familiar figure skulking around the archery shed. I absently recognize his form and gait – it is Gale and he is searching for something.
Well, let him search. I fall back into the feel of my husband's hand. Peeta searches for something as well and very soon I'm sure he will find it.
His breath feathers along the neckline of my bodice, his beard whispering against the fabric like the fletch of an arrow through an archer's fingers.
My eyes snap open.
Fletch.
My hands grip Peeta's shoulders. I remember—
The arrow Gale had left in the archery.
"Peeta—"
"Hush," he murmurs, caught up in our body heat. "Soon."
Fear freezes my heart in my chest. "Stop. Stop, Peeta!"
"Hm?" He pulls away, confused, but releases my leg when I shove myself away. I stumble toward the half-wall, squinting across the bailey to watch as Gale pauses beside an arrow sheath hung up on a post. He had placed the arrow into that battered quiver just a few hours ago. Now it hangs empty. The arrow is gone.
Gale's hand reaches for the knife on his belt on a reflex that prompts my own. I mirror it uselessly; my knife is concealed beneath my gown, belted below my knee. There is no weapon at my waist for my scrambling fingers to latch onto.
"What is it?" Peeta's hushed voice demands.
"I don't know. But it happens soon. Something—"
Gale turns, a fearsome scowl carving up his features as he sprints for the head table, for Haymitch and Chaff, Prim and my father. I begin to push away. I shouldn't be here. I should be out there. Out there.
And then I hear it – the telltale whistle of an arrow in flight. I lean over the edge of the wall, tracking it in the darkness.
Thunk!
I twitch toward the impact, scan the celebrants for glimpses of the head table set out in the yard, searching for my family. I find Prim, my father, and the arrow all in one glance. Peeta's gaze is only an instant behind mine. His hand curls around my arm. We stare at the arrow's fletch. It still vibrates at the end of the shaft that protrudes from my father's chair. Just a hand's width from his head.
No!
I lunge for the doorway, a scream caught in my throat. The music continues. Laughter rolls through the crowd. How could they have not heard the arrow?
Footsteps along the roof of the stables: the would-be assassin fleeing or taking up a better position for a second attempt upon—
Papa!
And then a shriek.
Prim!
And a bellow: Haymitch ordering her to get down, calling on my comrades to defend the king. The music is strangled. The people murmur with confusion.
I do not see it happen. I am scrambling around the corner of the stables when I hear it.
A second thud.
A spearhead striking flesh and breaking bone.
I know this sound well.
Peeta tries to hold me back, but I push forward until I can see—
No. No!
The arrow had missed my father, but the Northman's spear had not.
Prim screams.
The Northmen lurch to their feet, reaching for their axes.
The people frozen in mid-celebration suddenly scatter in all directions as our warriors surge forth, converging on our bristling guests.
Another movement out of the corner of my eye. At the corner of the stables in the dark. A man lowering his arm, following through with a spear throw, then turning and dashing for deeper shadows.
I try to give chase but Peeta won't let me go. He is too slow, too heavy. He holds me back.
"Stop! Katniss, stop!" he hisses.
I struggle as he hauls me toward the wall, wrestling me into the gloom. "Release me! That man! It was his spear! His—"
Peeta's hand clamps over my mouth. "Shh! I know. I know but hush!"
I claw at his arm, trembling with frustration when my nails encounter the leather bracers I'd made for him. To protect him. From myself, apparently.
"Katniss," he bites out beside my ear. "You can't. It's not safe."
I twist to and fro, trying to earn myself a bit of slack in his embrace. His arms tighten until I can barely breathe.
"Stop fighting me and think!"
Think? What is there to think except that Peeta has allowed the man who'd just killed my father to escape?
"That was your arrow!"
I pause, panting against his hand.
His voice is gentler when he continues, "And that was a Norse spear." He swallows thickly. "Everyone has seen me throw a spear. From a great distance and with accuracy."
What? What is he— what?
"Katniss, we were nowhere to be seen when they attacked your father, and those weapons could be ours."
My blood turns to ice.
"We are not safe here."
He's right. Oh, gods. He's right. I drop my hands from his arms. I fall against his chest. I can hear Haymitch ordering the Northmen to drop their weapons. He speaks in Samish. Káto and the others will not understand—
"Your brother!" I gasp against his warm fingers. We cannot stay here when we are needed there! "And Prim!"
"Haymitch will look after them."
I shake my head. I can't let go of my duties. I can't—!
He turns me in his arms and chases after my frantic gaze. "Katniss, look at me." His jaw flexes. His eyes are pure torment. "We cannot help them now."
"We can," I insist, attempting to take a step forward and drag him back to the main yard. "We can—"
"No. What is the punishment for treason? For betraying the king?" He shakes me once. "Katniss, if you go out there, they will kill you."
I shake my head.
"They will kill me."
My heart breaks. I can see in his eyes that he is not afraid of his own death. He is using it against me, wielding it like a weapon.
I sag against his chest.
"Do you trust me?" he whispers.
I can barely sort out my own name from the image of my father slumped in his seat— and that spear— and the blood— and Prim's scream— and now her wailing sobs and Gale's shouts and Haymitch's cursing and the sound of metal implements falling heavily to the ground in surrender and—
"Yes. I trust you." My fingers tighten around his tunic sleeve. He is the only solid thing in the world. He is my anchor. I have to protect him.
He guides me along the fortress wall until we near the dung heap. "The secret door, Katniss," he prompts, his voice tight. Any moment now, Haymitch will instigate a search for my father's killers… and they will find us. They will find us and we will look even more guilty for huddling in the shadows and Haymitch will have no choice but to—
What have I done?
I don't want to know. Not yet. Not here.
Peeta.
Yes, I have to make sure Peeta is safe first. Haymitch will look out for Prim until I can— until I know what to do next. Until I— Until… yes. Until then.
I turn and scramble for the hidden latch nestled between the timbers. I do not ask Peeta to turn away this time.
The lock gives way easily and with the tiniest of wooden groans. Peeta pushes the log open and nudges me through. It is dark outside the fortress wall. The village is around the corner. The sound of the timber sliding shut again seems to echo in the fields that stretch between us and the safety of the forest.
But the forest will not keep us safe for long. They will hunt us. Gale can track us.
Gale. The arrow that had been missing from the quiver. His sudden scowl and charge toward the table moments before—
Later!
I grope for Peeta's hand in the darkness and grasp it tightly. I need to get us out of here.
Drawing in a deep breath, I pound back my grief and rage and the thousand other flavors of pain that threaten to burst through my skin. Peeta and I have nothing but our boots, the clothes we are wearing, the knife in his belt and the one strapped to my leg, and the darkness.
We only have each other.
He interlaces our fingers.
I begin our careful, crouching trek through the night, going as fast as I dare, thinking as little as I can.
