Chapter 12: Promises Made

Peeta's POV

The day of the Reaping dawns hot and sultry. At just after dawn, a squad of Peacekeepers comes to fetch me off my front porch. Next door and across the street, I can see battalions also surrounding Prim and Haymitch. Haymitch nods sullenly to me. Behind Prim, I can see Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen openly weeping as their loved one is led away.

We're also muscled into line at the gates of the Village. As the lady, Prim goes first, while Haymitch and I follow: me in the middle, my drunken mentor in the very back. Under heavy guard on either side, we are thus led to the Square.

A full head taller than Prim, I have to nearly look down my nose to see her blond curls bouncing in the summer air, her head held amazingly high. She stands straight, like a queen – only thirteen but still tall and serene. I wish I had her kind of courage. She is going back in with no choice in the matter. Whereas I…. only the presence of Haymitch might save me, and while the thought is tempting, I have to will in myself a reminder that I don't intend to use Haymitch's life as a shield. Not if I ever want Katniss to look me in the face again.

Her wig shimmering with golden accents, Effie Trinket lacks her usual verve as she joins us on the stage. Haymitch and I are grouped to one side, Primrose all by herself on the other.

"Welcome, welcome to the 75th anniversary, the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games. As always…." Effie's voice just starts to crack, but she stops herself. "Ladies first."

She crosses to the right-most bowl, holding only one slip of paper, plucks it out and unfurls it. "The female tribute from District 12…. Primrose Everdeen."

Tears are streaming down Primrose's face and she glances to us, looking far older than her thirteen years. I give her a grim, but reassuring nod, and Haymitch echoes me.

Effie is now reaching for one of the two slips of paper in the male bowl. I bet Haymitch appreciates that I didn't die in the arena, for if I had, and Prim had come out alone, he would have a guaranteed entry into this Quell. I've made my choice: I intend to not only protect Prim, but my mentor as well.

"The male tribute from District 12…. Peeta Mellark."

Then it all goes wrong.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Haymitch steps forward, strong and self-assured. I know he's been acting more and more sober lately, but still…..

That's when I realize: he's been withdrawing off the bottle for this exact purpose. At first, I thought it was just for my benefit, to humor me during the training I led, but now…

I desperately throw out a hand to grab his arm. "Haymitch – what the hell are you doing? I can't let you do that!"

"You can't stop me," Haymitch eyes me with a hard glint.

"Haymitch…."

"Let go, boy." And he shrugs me off to take his place beside Prim. I can only stare, open-mouthed, while Effie announces the Victor-tributes from District 12. "Primrose Everdeen…. and Haymitch Abernathy."

Effie has no time to say anything else before Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen – placed in the very first row – lift three fingers in a gesture of farewell. I recognize the custom from last year after Primrose volunteered to save her sister. Prim and Haymitch copy it, and then we are led into the Justice Building before visitors will be processed.

It isn't until we get into the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere of the Justice Building – a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat outside – that I realize I am beginning to shake, and not just from the chill brought on by a sudden change in temperature. I feel helpless as I observe Peacekeepers hustle Prim and Haymitch into separate holding rooms, prisoners of the Capitol once more.

I'm more concerned for Haymitch than I am for the baby sister of my love interest. After 25 years, he is going to be led like a pig to slaughter… after already being forced into one Quell and living to tell about it. And yet, here he is, having made the choice to go back into yet another Quell – one with stakes probably just as high as the one from twenty-five years ago. Why? Out of some noble desire to protect me? I can't think of a better explanation, even if it does sound a bit out of character. Haymitch has never been a warm and fuzzy mentor – not by a long shot. What makes him invaluable is his practicality. He's no-nonsense. Much like….. well, much like someone else I know.

Whatever Haymitch's intentions, there is no going back from this reality: I have now been tossed into a very different kind of pool with the expectation that I either start swimming or drowning, not as a tribute in a fight to the death, but as a mentor – when I don't know the first thing about it.

Left alone in the hallway with Effie, I glance to her for help. "What am I supposed to do?"

Effie bites her lip, then steals an arm about me. "Come along, dear."

She leads me to another private room down a side hallway. Peering to the end of the corridor, I can see sunlight percolating in from outside, and the outline of an armored car through the glassy panes. I remember walking down this hallway last year, with Prim, after saying goodbye to my loved ones.

I am ushered into a private room, much as I would be if I was the tribute again. "What is this?"

"The mentor's quarters until we're ready to go to the station. I've brought Haymitch here more times than I can count," Effie states this almost wistfully. "The mentor is allowed visitors too, you know."

I never realized this – probably because even if the thought had crossed my mind, I know that Haymitch doesn't have any living family. Who would visit him? Will anyone visit him now, that he's the tribute once again? It makes me sad to doubt it.

Effie gives me a grim smile and closes the door behind me. I begin to pace, willing the clock to move faster. The tributes – and I guess the mentor, too – get an hour to say goodbye to those who care for them. I don't think my family will brave the doors, for this time around, my safety is guaranteed.

So I am surprised when the door clicks open and I hear a Peacekeeper rumble, "You have fifteen minutes."

And here is Katniss, looking as solemn and as beautiful as ever. She is in her blue Reaping dress, her hair down in her favorite braid, biting her lip. Striding forward, she hugs me around the neck. I hold her, knowing she needs the comfort more than I do.

"Did you just come from visiting Primrose?"

"Mm-hmm," she bobs her head against my chest. "My mother is with Haymitch now."

I draw back, touched by Mrs. Everdeen's kindness. Remembering how we once wondered, jokingly, if her mother and Haymitch like each other, I dare to ask, "What do you suppose they're doing in there?"

She makes a disgusted face, and I laugh, the sound dying as Katniss steps out of my arms to level me with a very serious look.

"I'm sorry," I get out, thinking that this is what she wants to hear from me. "I had every intention of going back in with Prim, even if I had to volunteer in Haymitch's place. But then, the drunk had to go act like a damn fool and…."

"Stop," Katniss shakes her head. "Perhaps it's just as well. I couldn't watch you die – not again. I…. I couldn't bear to choose between you and my sister again."

I stare at her, speechless. I had no idea she cared so much. Katniss is looking at me with that solemn, deadly serious expression again.

"Get my sister out of there alive again, Peeta. I don't care what you have to do – just get her out of there again….. Promise me."

I gave her my word this time a year ago…. and by some measure of luck and grace, I was able to keep it. Now, I'm not so sure. I may not have to worry about my own life anymore, but now I have to keep the youngest Victor in history – a thirteen-year-old girl – alive in an arena filled with Haymitch and most of his old friends, and I'll probably fail.

Still, I manage to voice, "I promise…." Then I take a deep breath and go for it. "But only if you promise me something in return."

Katniss cocks an eyebrow at me, surprised, but then she sighs. "Well, never let it be said that I don't repay my debts. What is it?"

"If I bring Primrose home alive…. in return…. marry me."

Her jaw drops and she reels back. "What?" she gasps.

"I know how you feel about marriage and having a family, but I…. I love you, Katniss. I have for a long time."

Probably for the first time in her life, Katniss Everdeen is speechless. Indeed, she appears to have swallowed her tongue. Her face is very, very red, and I search her eyes hopefully, a part of me still wondering whether I should have asked for her hand in marriage like this. It feels more like blackmail than a romantic proposal.

Katniss is finally finding her voice again. "I…. I….." She breathes in deeply, staring me straight in the eye, a strange acceptance there. "Yes." She nods. "Yes. If you bring Prim back to me, I... I will marry you."

Warmth bubbles up inside me, and I just yearn to kiss her, but refrain. I don't want to frighten her; she might not be ready for it.

Our fifteen minutes are nearly up. Katniss steps into my arms again and hugs me. I dare to peck her on the cheek, and she allows it, though I think I feel her breath hitch.

"Hurry home," she draws back, smoothing down the front of my shirt a little. She says it almost like a wife waiting for her husband to arrive back from work. I grin at her easily, and then the Peacekeeper comes to fetch her. For the rest of the allotted hour, no one else comes.

Effie finally arrives to collect me with my tributes in tow. Haymitch is hanging his head, though there seems to be an odd smudge on his cheek that just catches the light. Is it…. lipstick? I smile sadly. Primrose, meanwhile, looks resigned. We are all forced into the armored car for the brief ride to Lucy Gray Baird station, then marched onto the train.

We are speeding out of the coalfields before I can blink.

It is exceedingly difficult not to look at either Haymitch or Primrose as we eat our lavish dinner in morose silence. Yet, still, now saddled with the job of mentor, I must. I will myself to be considerate enough to regard both my tributes as non-intrusively as I can, so I take to perusing them the way I do my canvases when I paint.

When this was Haymitch's task, every year was different, the tributes brand-new. He could mold them however he wished, gradually building up an angle, the way he did with me.

The nature of this Quell has changed that. Neither Haymitch nor Prim will be going in with anything the Capitol or their competition doesn't already know. They're Victors, national celebrities. As known entities, there isn't any angle I could work on with them, no secret we could use to trip the other tributes up. How can you sell yourself when everyone already knows all your secrets? And besides, as I look at these two so diametrically opposed individuals, I can't think of an angle beyond simply this: I have here a middle-aged drunk going through withdrawal, and a teenage girl going through puberty… and I have to keep one of them alive against killers who will probably be more experienced and more appealing than either of them.

Effie suggests that we watch the rest of the Reapings. I really don't want to, as it will just serve as a reminder of how royally screwed we all are. But I have to start my job sometime, however much I think I will fail. How Primrose cannot possibly escape the arena a second time. How when she doesn't, Katniss will never agree to marry me. Yet, I open my notebook, already chock full of notations about every living Victor.

District 1 yields the classically beautiful brother and sister who won when Prim was still an infant. Gloss and Cashmere Delacroix are probably nearing the end of their twenties. District 2 at first Reaps the male who won only three years ago, but then he's replaced by a volunteer – Brutus, who won a couple of years before Haymitch and apparently can't wait to get back into the arena. His district partner is a peer of the Delacroix twins, and I want to groan. And here I was hoping for maybe at least one Career who looked old and decrepit.

District 3 only has one man and woman to pick up on the stage, and both of them look skinny, despite having enjoyed a lavish Victor lifestyle. The woman, Wiress, is mumbling to herself and can't be any more than 120 pounds soaking wet. In other words, what Prim probably weighs, though I don't make a point to say this.

I brace myself for District 4. They traditionally ally with the Careers almost every year, though the boy last year was a mere twelve-year-old and died quickly in the Bloodbath. Finnick Odair, the lethal pretty boy who won a decade ago, is selected with much cheering. After him, we get a bit of a lucky break: the girl who is to be his district partner – a rather striking young woman with flowing auburn hair - starts ugly crying and screaming when she's picked, but she is hastily replaced by yet another volunteer: an eighty-year-old woman named Mags who needs the assistance of a cane to take her place.

So: one weak link in the Career pack out of six. The odds are definitely not in our favor.

The rest of the Districts seem to blur by after that, with many of them whittled down to a sure thing on one side of the gender column, and a coin toss on the other, much like it was for Prim, Haymitch and me. District 7 is notable because there are three men on the stage opposite the only woman: Johanna Mason, who proceeds to cuss out the audience so fluently, there are BLEEPS every second or third word. Haymitch is snickering like a middle-schooler, and I roll my eyes. The same dynamic holds true for District 9, though the solitary woman here looks like she's pushing 70. When we get to District 11, Haymitch speaks up for the first time since we got on the train:

"Try and ingratiate us with them, boy, for an alliance. Chaff and Seeder are wonderful people."

Alliance? Such a thing hadn't been on my radar, but now it is just one more thing I have to complete in a job I don't know how to do.

I watch Prim get selected. Then me. And Haymitch volunteers, setting my blood to boil all over again.

Effie clicks off the TV, looking unusually subdued, at least for her. I star the Victors who were Reaped, and rip out the pages in my notebook of those who weren't.

"Go to bed," I mumble tiredly, sounding a little gruff. Prim stands, looking like she wants to round the table and give me a hug, but thinks better of it. Behind me, I can feel Haymitch beginning to follow her, when I grind out:

"Not you. You stay."

Effie glances between us men, wincing. "Peeta, darling…."

"Effie," I moan. "I appreciate it, really, I do, but please – go see to Prim and make sure she's ready for bed." It's all I can think to say to politely kick my escort out. I hear her heels echoing as they clack down the length of the train car, then the hydraulic door seals shut behind her.

Once we're alone, I swivel in my chair to face Haymitch. I get enraged all the more when I detect not a wisp of remorse or shame from him.

"Why did you do it, old man? Seriously." Oddly, I can't bring myself to let the anger out in my voice; more than anything, I just sound tired.

"You'll thank me later," Haymitch shrugs.

"Well, there probably isn't going to be a later for any of us, so that point is sort of rendered moot. You might as well tell me now. I had it all worked out: I go back in with Prim. I know how to protect her, because I did it once."

"You got lucky once," Haymitch scoffs. The sarcastic, caustic remark hits me right between the eyes. Considering this time last year, Haymitch had pretty much written Prim off and chosen me to help win, his jab surprises me.

"Oh, so you think you can do it better?" I leap to my feet. "I'm out of my depth here, and so are you. I am supposed to mentor probably the most dangerous Games in history my first year as a mentor…"

"Effie will help you. She might be a ditzy bat, but she knows how to play."

I ignore him, the thought of Effie beside me only reassuring me slightly. "…. and you are going back into an arena after twenty-five years, probably still half-drunk."

"You're forgetting two things, boy," Haymitch drawls. "One: in case you haven't noticed, I'm stone-cold sober, and I have been for close to three months. Two: I am now the only person alive in Panem who has walked into a Quarter Quell arena and walked back out, as Cora Shutter's been at rest for six months, the State rest her soul."

This makes me take pause for a moment, the gears turning. "You really think you can serve Prim better on the inside. But if you aren't absolutely sure, tell me now."

"Even if I weren't, ain't nothing we can do about it now, son."

I purse my mouth in a thin line. "Indeed. All right, Haymitch: what's your Game here?"

"Quarter Quell arenas are at a different level than regular years. They're designed to complete break you, discombobulate you, and rearrange you into someone else. If a regular arena wants to break the tributes, these ones want to annihilate you. The Careers can train all they want: nothing they've done can prepare them for what's coming. Only I, Primrose once I teach her, and maybe the District 8 Victors, because Cora Shutter was from District 8, will have an idea of what to expect."

I briefly consult my notes. District 8 culled an 80-something grandpa with dementia and a hysterical young mother who wouldn't stop sobbing over her three little kids. With those kinds of backgrounds, Woof Barton and Cecelia Rheys will be lucky if they're ready for what Haymitch seems certain is to come. Old Woof is probably cannon fodder, thank the State, but I watched Cecelia's tapes – she killed ten tributes personally, literally crawling her way to the Crown. She might have it in her.

A little nagging at the back of my mind is whispering that there is something Haymitch is not telling me, but I decide to drop it for now.

I sigh. "All right, Haymitch, we'll do it your way. But I need you to help me. As much as you can give me, before you go in. And…. we have to trust each other."

He cocks an eyebrow. "When haven't you?"

A vision of myself lying bleeding out with Prim at my side resurfaces, and I can't resist throwing a jab of my own back in his face. "I can think of a few moments." I'm satisfied when now I finally see Haymitch deflate with something close to shame. I sigh. "But that doesn't matter now. We have to keep Prim alive."

Haymitch doesn't react to this the way I thought he might. The knowledge that I want Prim to live, even if it means his death. He doesn't even seem resigned to it, more like he…. accepts it. My spirits lift, encouraged.

"So, Abernathy: what are you prepared to do?"

"For the little girl? – anything. And everything else."

I grin. "Good answer. Let's go to work."