This is a fanfic. The original work belongs to the marvelous Suzanne Collins and any other co-owner. You want to read a good story? Start with the original. This is merely my bad take of the story I've fallen in love with.

I make no profit...

Chapter 20

No one dies during the second night. Meaning that at least one death will occur today. I'm proven right as the cannon goes off soon after daybreak; awakening me. As I glance up at the sky Craigh's image is shown; he was fifteen years old. I close my eyes in sorrow. Breathing in the scent of molding leaf and wet rock.

The belief that I could have saved him hits me hard, as with all the others. It would have been easy to die instead of them, but where would that leave Prim? Alone and exposed, an easy prey for the monsters back home. I owe it to her to try.

With that though serving as my reminder I push the guilt aside, getting dressed and ready for a busy day. I know what I feel is survival guilt, something that is common for people to have in such an extreme situation. Having struggled with it before I use the tools given to me to push it aside.

The fact that both my sister and Peeta depends on me gives me strength to carry on. Also, I am not a god; I may have a general idea what's going to happen, but that doesn't give me the power to change it; at best I can influence certain bits, something I'm just starting to realize. The irony here is that I actually had more power the first time these game took place, because then I had no idea of the outcome and the cost.

It doesn't help against the darkness spreading inside me, but it gets me up and out of the small cave. As I crawl out I can feel how the sun has started warming up the rocks; it will be a warm and sunny day, making a fire hard to spot. Which is perfect to get some hot breakfast before facing the day.

I find some oysters and edible algae, which are boiled with the help of hot rocks. A trick I learned from Annie; she use to place rocks underneath a fire to heat them up and then dropped them in a water bowl. It is a bit bland, but fills the tummy. It may be a tricky survival method, but using the flintstones found yesterday I can quickly build a proficient enough fire.

After getting some much needed energy I head into the woods to do more carving. This time using a thicker piece of branch; carving out the innards, making it into a canteen. For sealment I use a stopper, resin and birch-bark. It is a hard work, but rewarding. It takes me a couple of hours to do, but it keeps the mind calm. When done it holds about a liter of water, which is good for it will make traveling easier.

When the canteen is filled I wash my face and neck, changing the moss on my wound and check for infections. Relieved not finding any; it's healing well. After I'm done I just relax for a couple of minutes before braving the forest and its many dangers. Taking comfort in the knowledge that I'm one of those dangers.

Hopefully the gamemakers won't realize the camp is a decoy in case they are sending other tributes after me; that way any trap is more likely be around the water then near my actual position. Giving me the advantage.

With the sun kissing the tree tops the entire forest floor is filled with light and shadows, creating a magical image of peace and tranquility; none of which I'm feeling since the career-pack most likely are on the prowl. For every minute I walk in this beautiful scenery I expect being killed or attacked. Keeping my knife firmly in my hand, ready to defend myself.

The constant vigilance tests my nerves and as a result I make several traps to throw any followers of trail. Forcing myself to stay mobile as much as possible. As the hours tick by I am surprised that no more cannon shots has echoed over the arena. For certain one of the other tributes should be in mortal danger by now, it is day three after all.

When noon comes and passes without anything happening real anxiety set in. To keep busy I twin a firm rope from tall grass as I walk. The process is more difficult than that of bark, but just as rewarding; it keeps my mind from thinking too much and my trembling hands busy. In the end I have about three meter of rope that will hold my weight come night.

Unfortunately is doesn't cure my anxiety.

By late afternoon I'm sick with worry. I can't even keep down the blaeberries growing near a field of fern. The most likely cause being that by now I should have been up in a tree, burned and in mortal danger. Instead I'm sitting on a rock and letting the sun caress my face, listening to the bird singing for each other; waiting for my stomach to calm down.

The difference is welcomed, but terrifying in its unknown. Soon I can't handle it any longer and decide to head for the clearing. A stupid plan, but I need to know what's happening and the best place to start is at the packs home base.

What's making me brave enough to follow through with such a foolish plan is my training from thirteen; it taught me how soldiers act and think, giving me the advantage since I'm a huntress. I play by completely different rules.

...

It takes me a while to find the river that splits the valley in two, leading from the mountain tops down to the lake. It is big, ice cold and dangerous, which is why I avoided it as much as possible the first time. Too many dangers, both along its sides as in it.

The current can sweep away with the most experienced swimmer and if not that - predators, both human and animal, seeks its life source. After finding it and refilling the canteen I cautiously start walking downstream; knowing it will lead me to the clearing.

It would be faster to take the forest route, but more risky by far. I might reach the clearing with the sun still up, making me an easy target. It's better this way, the arrival will be after nightfall and they won't be looking to the lake; focusing more towards the forest.

This plan is suicidal at best and either path can lead me right into a trap, so to be even safer I walk a bit away from the river; letting the forest hide me. I'm willing to take every precaution, hopeful that I might change my mind before arriving. I wouldn't even attempt this if not for the unknown bothering me so much.

As I walk more and more signs of other tributes appear. Their trace being obvious and easy to avoid, all leading to the water. Thankfully I have my canteen so I don't have to brave the riversides more than once. Choosing my spot carefully since most tributes are killed near water; it being the best place to ambush another.

It isn't until I come upon a green meadow that problem starts to arise. My instincts stopping me. At first there is nothing worrying to see; just an open field with some bushes, trees, tall grass and some fern. What makes me pause is the fact there isn't any visible footprints anywhere. The area is completely untouched and that raises warning flags.

I could try going around just to be safe, but that would throw me off the path and risk a run in with another tribute. After cautiously testing the ground ahead with a tall stick I very carefully step out. Keeping me eyes and other senses open. At first nothing happens and I slowly relax.

I'm almost halfway over when the first sign of trouble appear. My left boot sinks down a few inches upon a step and when I lift it to check why the ground slowly pans out. The realization of the danger hits like a bolt as the right foot starts sinking next. It's a swamp. Already the bushes, grass and ferns are disappearing into the ground.

In the millisecond that follows a million thoughts pass my mind. The loudest being that the gamemakers won't allow me to run back and ahead lies only death. The only option being the trees, the one thing not sinking.

As I begin to sprint for the nearest tree I can feel my boots sinking more for every step; hindering my mobility. My breath is irregular, my legs aching from the struggle and my vision is blurry because of the panic.

Before the swamp can swallow me whole I use what the little ground I have to my advantage. Thankfully I'm lightweight, meaning that I don't sink to fast. I have just enough time to use what little strength left in me to jump; feeling the ground give way underneath me. Aiming for the tree standing tall right in front of me.

I only barely make it. Fortunately the tree is small enough for my desperate hands to grasp on to. The bark is soft and my fingers sink into it while the lower half of my body disappears below the surface. There is no more resistance, everything that was once firm ground has turn into a murky and thick water.

For a second I almost lose my grip, my hands and arms being weakened by the panic. Somehow I find enough strength to cling on. However that isn't the end of my troubles. For every movement done the tree moves. Making it a real possibility that it will sink as well, taking me with it.

After a lot of wobbling it stops. The immediate danger of drowning being staved off. The cold and slimy water seeps into my clothes and weighs me down, but I refuse to let go. My fingers are bleeding from the death grip, the bark cutting into my hands and breaking my nails. I resist the cry of pain; who knows what else they planted here. The thoughts of crocodiles swimming around beneath me is a horrifying possibility.

The mere thought of carnivores make the panic go cold. I can hardly breathe because of the fear or help the tears that comes, having lost all semblance of control over my emotions. The adrenalin rush the only thing that keeps me going as I have a small breakdown. When the strain on my arms starts growing I look for a way out of here. Knowing that my body can only take so much.

I need to get out of the swamp-water as soon as possible, meaning that I need to find the energy to climb up the tree… without losing my grip or tipping it over. Swimming is out of the question, the water to treacherous and thick.

The first thing I try is to climb up using my feet's. When the tree starts sinking as a result I stop. Next I try heaving myself up using my arms. The tree starts swaying dangerously as more of my weight is put on it. Forcing me to stop once again. *So they won't allow me to climb.*

Despair starts to set in. The danger growing as my arms start cramping. Then I can almost hear Haymitch voice. Telling me to calm down and think; to analyze the situation and deal with it, to stop reacting to everything. I take lungful of breath, forcing air into my system: letting it calm me down.

When I can think again I start going over my chances and options. The gamemakers wouldn't build a swamp like this without an escape route, otherwise I would already be dead. This fact makes me focus harder on the area. What am I missing?

The meadow has now turned to a green swamp, its stinky water irritating my nose, eyes and skin. There is no other life but me, not even bugs. It is deadly quiet and the only thing around me, other than the water, is the trees.

That oddity gains my attention. Why can the trees survive here if there is no ground? And how come that it sink only a tad bit when I tried climbing it? My answer comes in the form of a breeze. It sweeps over the swamp, shilling me as well as making the surrounding trees sway.

I stare in shock at the tree ahead of me. It just moved. The realization almost makes me lose my grip, making me sink a couple of inches. With the water now up to my chest I continue to stare at the trees. There! Another breeze and another movement. The trees are floating islands, buoys for the desperate.

After my revelation the tricky part comes: swimming without losing hold the thing keeping me alive. Already exhausted and near the limit I start to paddle, testing the resistance and my movability. The theory holds when the tree actually travels forward a couple of inches, but it took a lot of effort on my part.

To get out of the swamp I'm going to be forced to use every bit of willpower that I have. The tree will not be moved lightly. Bringing to question how badly I want to live and the cost for trying? If I survive I will be extremely vulnerable for hours.

Then again, giving up isn't an option either! So I clench my jaw, direct my stare to the front and start paddling. Refusing to think about anything except for the next kick. It takes me a while before I get the hang of how to paddle with a tree. My grip is awkward and every muscle is screaming in pain, but I stubbornly continue kicking.

It takes over two hours: two hours of nothing but pain and agony to travel a hundred or so meters to shore. I'm sweating, my muscles are cramping and my breath is strained. Many times I want to stop, to just give me a few minutes, but I don't dare. If I stop I won't be able to continue.

The feeling that comes over me when I start feeling ground underneath me feet is indescribable. Complete and utter euphoria being the closes thing. Happily I breathe in the forest air, clean and fresh. I can hear the birds ahead and the sound of insects. I use the last of my energy to paddle the remaining distance to safety. Not letting go of the tree until I come across rocks and tussocks.

My arms and hands screaming in pain as my death grip loosens around the tree trunk. Worn to the very bone I crawl my way up from the swamp and as my feet leaves the water it changes. The land being transformed from a swamp into a meadow once again. Grass, ferns and bushes springing up all around it. An illusion of safety for the next unfortunate victim.

I hardly pay it any attention, to focused on the area ahead of me. I barely have the sense to look around. Only the fear of other dangers gives me that last bit of energy too listen for other tributes. If anyone has seen my struggle they know I'm a sitting duck, too weak to fight.

Luckily I hear no sound of approaching steps. When I'm sure that my death isn't imminent I allow myself to fall into an exhausted slumber. My hands, arms, legs and body needing the time to recuperate.

…

Several hours go by before I wake up; the pain being the first thing to registrate, the next is the thirst. After some cautious movements I manage to get a hold of the canteen and break the seal, almost crying when I find the water polluted. Now I will have to force myself to walk down to the river or else I will be unable to survive.

The thought of getting up is unbearable. I look for a nearby camera and after finding one I plead to Haymitch to send water. Nothing comes which means he won't waste a gift on mere water. Not with it being so close.

With my body worn to the bone I force it to rice. Falling several time before succeeding. The need for water overcoming my current state. With shaking legs and trembling hands I stumble through the forest, looking for the river. It is impossible to be quiet, for every step I snap a branch, stumble into a tree or give a shout in pain.

When the river finally appear I'm practically crawling to it. Forgetting to lookout for others, the need to get clean and rehydrated taking priority. I gulp down the water faster than I can swallow, letting the coldness soothe my parched throat. When my thirst is quenched I crawl into the water next, letting the river wash the stench off of me.

I lose time of how long I lay there in the water, letting its biting coldness cleanse my very being. Only sitting up when the sun colors the sky red and darkness kisses its edges. I don't get out of the water, even if I should, instead I turn my attention to my injuries. Many of my nails are broken and feel like open wounds; the knife wound on my arm is red and irritated. I spend a lot of time cleaning them carefully, hoping that no infection will set in. Taking as much care as I can.

The blood soon lures a northern pike to investigate. I study the fish as it circles me, looking for the injured animal it can sense. The chance for meat makes me focus and I try to find a way to capture it. Placing my bleeding fingers between my legs and when it is between them, almost nibbling on my fingers, I snapped them close. Somehow managing to trap it between my thighs. I use my hands to snap its neck, grateful that I will have some food.

I sit there in the water and salivate over my luck. The only problem being that now I had to find the energy to make a fire. The mere thought of doing more labor brings despair. I can hardly make my body leave the water, much less look for firewood.

In the end I manage to drag myself up to shore and take of my clothes and unpack the bag; placing the things inside out on the ground to dry. Using the sunburned stones littered around me to (hopefully) speed up the process. I force myself to file the pike and eat it raw. Its chewy, bloody and rubbery flesh soothing some of my hunger.

I take the rope twinned from grass and together with surrounding greenery I wrap it all around my body for warmth. It won't be much in the way of shelter, but I have hardly any strength left and it will have to do. I curl up on the riverside and take cover underneath some low growing ivy.

My plan is shot to hell and tomorrow I'm going to pay for it; tired, worn out, wounded and trapped in hostile territory I'm going to be forced to use every brain cell I got. The gamemakers will force a confrontation of sorts and the most likely target is me, due to my own foolishness.

Sleep doesn't come lightly and when I do fall asleep I only have nightmares.

…

I wake just after daybreak. Feverish and thirsty, but alive. I drag myself in my wrapped cocoon down to the water and drink from the river. When I'm satisfied I start unwrapping the rope and throwing away the greenery, letting it flow downriver with the current. My energy level is better, but I am sick. My wounds from the previous day has gotten infected and I have a slight fever.

To prevent further infection I force myself to open the wounds and clean them out. The process is painful and nauseating, but in the end the blood is clear and the skin looks a bit better. Now I only got to keep it that way. A sound is heard and when I look up a parachute container is sailing down toward me. It's a thing of beauty with its silver structure and shape of an apple; the gift of life.

With grateful and shaking hands I catch the container and open it. Its two half falling away in my hands, revealing a small bag filled with some brown powder and a tin. The herb smells awful when I sniff it and the tin holds a clear gelé that I recognize: it's healing-paste. A note from Haymitch lays in one of the container halves: "Drink and rub - live. H"

My legs are tired, but they carry me just fine and after getting dressed in the mostly dry clothes I set out to collect firewood. I have to make a warm compress to prevent the infection from becoming more serious than it already is. I take one of the container-halves, its deep enough to be used as a bowl for boiling water.

I have enough after some scavenging and soon a weak fire is built. I hurry to use the boiled water to sterilize the wounded areas before applying the paste, using the remaining water to stir down the brown power. It taste even more horrible than it smells, but I keep it down.

The effect is instantly; the heated and pale skin was turning pinkish, my vision was becoming clearer and I felt perkier. I even manage to catch some crabs and hidden clams to boil, happily using my new bowl. There is even some meat left of the northern pike to fry over the fire, which will give me plenty of snack for the road.

Since it is day four I don't want to linger too long, as soon as the food is done and everything is re-packed I get ready to head out. As unwell as I am it would be foolish to stay here, it's to open. If I walk with plenty of breaks I should be able to keep out of trouble and find better cover.

I head in the direction of the horn. It might have been smarter to head back to the river camp, but the horn holds everything I need. The forest might be able to sustain me, but I am severely weakened and need more medicine, provision and weapons… I only have to get to it.

This time when heading out I stay much closer to the river, not daring to face the area around me. I never did explore this part and I already paid a heavy price for being too cocky. The good thing about all this is that I've gotten a bowl and the people back home has gotten a lot of entertainment because of me. The question now is if anyone else has been as entertaining or more so. This is a game after all.

I think about that as I walk. From the clips I saw at the coronation of victors Cato had gotten a lot of time, as had Glimmer, Thresh and Peeta. Cato for his brutality and looks, Glimmer for her petite way and killing lust. Thresh for his strength and smarts; one of his traps had almost killed Marvel, he only survived by luck. Peeta for his star-crossed-lovers-act and charm.

My actions should win over theirs; I had helped a fellow tribute, made traps and tools, survived the swamp and showed a lot of skin. Unfortunately I can count on it, the capitolist get easily bored and change favorite daily. Today Haymitch may have gotten me a gift, but tomorrow was another matter entirely.

After walking for about an hour I start hearing strange sounds in the wind. I stop behind a tree to scout the area. Not willing to take any more foolish chances. At first all I can hear is the birds, squirrels and insects and all there is to see is the forest; big, open, lush and green. Then the sound of metal hitting metal starts to seep through.

It sounds as if there's people up ahead and they are most likely fighting. I can vaguely hear people cheering and laughing. A deep anger starts growing inside of me as realization sets in. There is a duel going on and it can only be staged by the careers. No other tribute would start such a foolish alteration; too much chance and little gain is in it for the winner. Meaning bad news and I'm too close to it.

This area is now a hot zone and I...*fuck*, would've retreated if not for the sound of cameras focusing in on me. I close my eyes in irritation, of course I should be noticed and now I had two choices; leave and appear weak or stay and appear stupid. The stupid wins as any sponsor watching would abandon me on an instant if I left.

I slowly walk straight ahead. Making sure to stay hidden as much as possible. There is no scout to be seen, but that doesn't mean there isn't any around. Hopefully any spectators is too interested in the game to spot a tired Katniss Everdeen.

The more I walk the more I hear; other than steal hitting steal a swooshing sound can be heard; a blade cutting through air most likely. Then I come to a deep slope that leads into a cliff-landscape. Hardly a tree for miles, only black and brown rocks covered in moss. It makes it easy to spot the fighters. The first thing I notice is the distinct colors of the career packs jackets; blue, red, silver and yellow stands out like lightbulbs in the melancholic land. Then I notice the two fighters.

One is tall and slim, dressed in a dark purple jacket and the other is short and blond, dressed in a similar red/black/grey jacket as mine. They are standing on the edge of a cliff, raised above the others, with nowhere to run. The tall boy is to pale to be Thresh, leaving Timmer from district ten and… Peeta.

I can't move. Hidden behind two rocks I watch the man I love fight for his very life; attacking, defending and retreating from his opponent while trying to keep an eye on the wolf's behind him.

"Come on Loverboy, you want to live or die." Clove shouts and throws rock at the two, seemingly hitting Timmer on the shine. Making the teen jump in pain before resuming the fight.

Peeta looks starved. Even from this distant I can see how slim he has gotten and how pale his face is. My heart aches in pain as I study him, the knowledge that I could have helped him but didn't bearing down on me. He must have been on his own for the last four days, facing the wilderness with barely any knowledge of how. If he had been with them from the start he would never have gotten in such a state.

"Come on boys. Just kill the other already, I have food for the winner." Marvel screams loud enough for me to hear. I could see the bag filled with food dangling from his arm. The price was tempting even for me; if I would ever trust a career to give it to me.

From previous games I've learned that the pack never excluded another member when it came to the booty; either it's food or a kill. I have never heard of them giving a bag away to another tribute before meaning that this is an initiation. The winner gains a place in the pack and food, the other death. I would most likely have chosen death.

It almost felt wrong to be cheering for Peeta to win. He would become one of the careers, forever an outcast in the districts if things didn't go as planned. Branded as one that enjoyed death and blood, none of which was accurate. Peeta didn't have an evil bone in his body, he was as much a pacifist that our life ever allowed him to be. He hated violence and cruelty.

They had been at it for a while, their sweating faces and tired movements giving them away.

None of them were keeping to any rules, dirty trick was pulled at every opportunity. Peeta doing his best to prevent real injury, but already showing several small cuts on his body. Timmer was also wounded, but not near enough to leave Peeta the upper hand.

Unfortunately any hope that Peeta was strong enough to win was diminishing for every blow off Timmer's blade. His opponent showing to be ruthless and cunning, his will to live outweighing Peeta's. Something the careers also seem to have noticed going by the increase cheers for the boy.

For every blow and parry Timmer got Peeta that much closer to the edge. Sharp rock and certain death waiting below. There wasn't anything I could do but watch how Peeta tried to retreat from the edge as Timmer slowly advanced on him, not succeeding.

Timmer was good and was skillfully cutting out any room for movement, leaving him with the upper hand. Peeta tries to strike at Timmer right leg, but the boy blocks it. Sparks flow around them as the blades clash. Peeta then tries to aim a punch to the jugular, but Timmer sees it and ducks and counter attack with a punch to the chest.

Peeta scream of pain cuts through me and I give a small shout in return. Thankfully I'm too far away to be heard. It goes on for a while and for every hit Peeta takes I grow weaker. My legs giving out from under me when Timmer stabs him in the leg, blood gushing out from the wound.

The blood brings back memories best left forgotten; of a hospital filled with injured and dying, their flesh burning before my eyes. Of Peeta struggling against an infection, fighting against restraints and nightmares unseen by others. I manage to hold them off long enough to see who will win.

Peeta is down on the ground, holding his legs as he screams in pain. Timmer has retreated a few meter to watch, but at Glimmer demand he charges; ready to give the killer blow. Tears are flowing down my face. I'm unable to stop it, knowing that my husband will die and I'm too far away to help.

I'm ready to see my husband die and whisper softly - I love you- so he won't travel to the afterlife without it. The blade swing down, almost coloring the air in red. I close my eyes as it falls, unable to see it go through the man I love.

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To be continued….

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I couldn't help but leave a clifhanger. Can't decide if I should let him live or not.