A/N: Happy 2022! Thanks to all new faves and follows, and thanks to ZainR for the review burst that proved to me that FFN is just not updating the freakin' view count. Also, I'm still cracking up over the very accurate comparison between Katniss's situation and Yuri in HC, because that would make Beetee Rumple, which is honestly hysterical.

Enjoy!

Chapter Six: The Cave

Buttercup trots ahead of me as we make our journey south, long past tolerating the snow at this point and now stepping lively like a cat on a mission.

He's the one who finds the river first, eagerly helping himself to an ice-cold drink. Since he still bristles whenever I get too close to him around water, I wait patiently from a distance, taking in the sight of it. Bordered by rock structures, it flows south with a slight bend. I decide to follow it for as long as I can, while keeping close to the shelter of the forest. The woods feel like home but there's a sense of security in having already found a water source. Haymitch would be proud, I'm sure.

I've already turned off my microphone and camera after an hour of this. Beetee has other things to do besides watch me like some Gamemaker, and there is only so much snow and forest he can ooh and ahh over, so we agree to conserve the camera for something important and he grants me my privacy. After that, it's just Buttercup and me. I appreciate Beetee, but I don't mind this. I came here for this.

The scents of ice and pine perfuming the icy air. The sounds of running water and snow crunching beneath my boots. It was still summer when I left Panem, but I embrace the novelty. I embrace the solitude.

(Buttercup doesn't count.)

There's still the lingering threat of the dead – white walkers, I believe Benjen called them – but at least now I know how to deal with them. In my mind, they are mutts I just have to stay ahead of until I get out of their realm. Until I reach the edge of the arena, the Wall where the dead cannot pass.

Where Benjen cannot pass.

Even though he rode off in the opposite direction, the man still haunts me. His dark hair and greyish eyes, his gaunt features, his general aura of diligence and his attire black as coal. He could've been anyone from the Seam. He could've been my father, warm and good-humored despite his dismal surroundings. Or my uncle, I suppose. I never had one, so I feel sorry for his nephew. Benjen may still be riding and fighting, but he has still gone to a place from which he cannot return.

The thought follows me into the night. I make camp in the woods and set myself up as I did in my first Games, in a heated sleeping bag in the trees. When I fall asleep, I dream.

I dream of Prim happily trailing after Buttercup in the snow. I dream of Peeta at my side, making so much noise in the forest that I cannot hope to shoot a thing. I dream of Rue climbing the trees, letting me know with a whistle if there's danger in sight. I dream of Cinna walking with me, discussing and designing winter apparel that will keep me warm in this particular environment.

And then, in my dreams, I approach the Wall. It's somehow a mountain of ice, a dam, and a district gate, an amalgamation of sorts. After I reach it, I turn to them, and they are standing still as statues, looking at me. Prim softly shakes her head. Her fingers link with Peeta's and Rue's. Rue takes hold of Cinna's.

Their sad eyes vanish from their sockets. Their skin rots off their flesh, decomposing right in front of me. That's when Prim, as in so many of my dreams this year, becomes the human torch she was the last time I saw her.

Courtesy of their linked hands, she ignites Peeta and then Rue, who in turn ignites Cinna. In the blink of an eye, I am caught between walls of ice and fire…

I wake up with a scream that nearly knocks me out of my tree.

Steadying myself, I search around frantically for signs of unwanted visitors who might've heard my cry. A steel blue sky indicates that it's still early twilight, not yet dawn. Nothing stirs except for me, and Buttercup in another branch with his wary glowing eyes. If anyone else is even out there, probably they assume they heard a wolf or some other nocturnal creature belonging to these woods. Or even the dead. No wonder they stay away.

As for me, I am used to death. With a sigh, I settle back into my branch and claim those last few hours of sleep.

We set out again in the morning, and I do a little hunting along the way. A hare and three squirrels fill my game bag by early evening. We celebrate by making camp and cooking them on a low fire. Buttercup eats with me almost companionably, pleased to be getting more than just scraps. He's the only one I have left to feed anymore besides myself, so I figure why not.

As the fire crackles, and Buttercup noisily chews his meat, I dare to fill our little section of the forest with song. Mountain airs, The Hanging Tree, a song I made up from Rue's four-note whistle, the Meadow song. Buttercup's ears prick up at the last one and he stops eating to look at me. This one he knows well, so often wrapped up in Prim's arms or at the edge of her bed while I sang her to sleep. I reach out to stroke his fur, and he lets me, purring. He is probably thinking of her too.

Another morning comes – luckily, as I reassure Beetee when he checks in on me, without any further visits from the dead. He's been trying to use some of my footage to create a map of the world I'm in using the technology available to him. Which is interesting, though I'm not sure if I've given him much to work with. Just trees and rocks and endless white.

We go a fair distance before a snowfall begins. It's light at first, but as the day goes on, I tighten my coat around me and raise my hood. The canopy of the forest provides some respite, but not enough. Squinting, I use a hand to guard my face from the flurries while I keep an eye out for shelter.

We're well into the afternoon when I find the cave. Not just any cave. I turn my camera on for this one. Something this beautiful needs to be shared with someone who isn't a cat.

A dazzling waterfall crashes down on some rocks from an opening in the surface. Light spills in after it, shining on a pool that has steam radiating from its waters, making it look that much more inviting. I set down my bow and slowly let my bags and quiver drop to the cave floor, trying to find my breath. This vision of paradise seems to have stolen all of it away. Even Buttercup padding over to the waterfall and getting his head soaked while lapping at it doesn't shatter the illusion.

After giving Beetee a good look at the cave's beauty, I turn off my camera and peel off my dampened, snow-crusted coat and clothes, leaving them to dry. A quick toe-test tells me that the pool water temperature is safe, so I take a deep breath and jump in. The relief that floods through me at its warmth is divine, and so is the look of annoyance I get when I wipe the water out of my eyes and notice I've dampened Buttercup with my splash.

Grinning, I shake out my hair and tread water for a second, relishing in this chance for a much-needed bath. Then I push back and relax against the pool's rock wall.

There's so much space in this pool. Space enough for two.

My splashing slows as I look around at the interior of the cave. It's so different from the one Peeta and I shared together in our first Games, and yet being here feels wrong without him. He would've liked this cave. I can almost imagine the paintings it would inspire. I can almost imagine him in this pool with me, as flushed as my face gets at the thought. But I would overcome my discomfort if it meant having him in here with me, a perfectly Peeta-like smile on his face as the hijacking venom mists out of him like the poison from the Quell.

Maybe he'd jump in, immerse himself entirely underwater with much zeal, then resurface and kiss me as himself, as much as we kissed in our own cave. But I think it would be too steamy for the Capitol to air. Murder they can show, but not this.

Here, I think, is the place where I miss him most. I have never missed him more anywhere else.

Removing myself from the pool, I sit and dry myself, watching numbly as the cascade sends a steady trickle down the rocks. I am lonely in this cave. It isn't ours. I'm not sure it even belongs to me. Something haunts the air in here, the ghosts of past romances and stolen moments beneath the waterfall. This place is meant for passion between young lovers, while I am merely hiding away from the winter's chill.

Away from the snow, away from the danger of frostbite, I allow myself a few tears. But maybe that's not the right word; I couldn't stop them if I tried.

I get a small fire going and change into fresh clothes. Buttercup comes near to dry his fur as well. We have dinner and wait for the weather to subside. With my flashlight from my pack, I pass the time by indulging Buttercup in a lazy game of Crazy Cat. It tires him out, and we both fall asleep listening to the wind whistle outside as the waterfall continues to lash down from the surface.

He's no Peeta, but he does have soft fur.