A/N: Oof, I am quickly catching up to myself by doing the weekly update thing. If I don't make much progress in the next couple weeks, Chapter 10 will be a decent enough pausing point. Just a heads up!
Also, thanks to ZainR for the review! I totally understand the confusion on Peeta's death, going by the way I phrased it in the summary. Confirmed - Peeta stole Finnick's death. And the jacuzzi thing - what is this, The Lion King 1 1/2 trailer? xD (Buttercup: "I'm out!" Peeta's ghost: "RIGHT behind you...") But yeah, this is way before s7, as I wanted to allow plenty of buildup for Jon & Katniss before then. You'll see where we're at in this chapter if it's not clear already.
Enjoy!
Chapter Eight: The Pyre
A nightmare of Peeta's death rouses me at first light. He was trying to lead me to the safety we were promised at the Wall when one of the arrows went through the back of his head. Right in the eye, like so many of my prized squirrels. I can still feel him in my arms when I lurch awake with a sob of his name that I hope doesn't ring out across the woods.
Leaning back against the tree, I close my eyes again and sigh. "I thought I told you to stay in that cave."
Even in death, he doesn't listen. If only sleeping syrup worked on ghosts.
I pack up my sleeping bag and climb down. There's time for a short breakfast before we set out. Buttercup's way ahead of me, scurrying through the snow when I call for him with a rodent in his mouth. Between bites of cooked rabbit, I glance up at the parts of sky that aren't shrouded by the treetops. Even from here, some of the smoke is visible. But the worst of the fire is probably out. The forest is quiet.
Satisfied with the peace of the morning, I pull my things together and we set out. The thought lingers that we're heading in the direction of last night's battlefield, but it doesn't slow me. I've come so far. I can't turn back now. There's a certainty in having a specific destination, and that destination is Castle Black.
The forest and river have just opened up into a beautiful green lake when I feel the ground start to tremble again. Driven by the very real memory of mammoths and giants roaming these grounds, I fall back into the woods and consider climbing up another tree.
But this quake is different. It's not mammoths or giants. It's the hoofbeats of a thousand or more horses charging at once.
All the more reason to climb, to hide. And yet I'm frozen in place, listening, clutching at a trunk from ground-level and waiting. The lake is large enough that if the riders break through the trees, I will have plenty of time to get up and out of sight. But it occurs to me that they could just be the men from last night's battle, or even reinforcements, restricting themselves to the same stretch of land.
Sure enough, I hear the familiar clang of steel, horses whinnying, and men shouting, but from the same safe distance. I stay hidden behind the tree just the same, even as the noises die down. It's too swift an end to a battle. Even if it impedes my travel, better a significant delay than a run-in with a bloodbath. I'm not leaving this spot till long after I hear hoofbeats going the other way.
Time passes. I don't know how much. Eventually I get curious and scale the tree, but it's not tall enough for me to see much. I think they've built a fire – a regular one, not a forest fire, but it's still pretty big if I can see the smoke from here.
After the fire, steady hoofbeats signal their departure. They're not heading my way, but I stay in the tree until a comfortable silence has fallen. When it sounds safe, I make my way back down and carefully slip out into the open. A quick scan of the area shows no other signs of life. I snap my fingers at Buttercup and we start our trek around the lake.
It's another two hours or so before we reach what I'm sure is the site of the battle from this morning. There's a camp here, freshly abandoned. Overturned pots and pans, put-out fires still smoldering, a few tents torn or burnt or knocked down but a couple still standing. I find traces of blood and gore on the ground, but no bodies. I should've known as soon as I smelled it. They burned them. There's only ash and bone.
Keeping my guard up, I peek into the biggest remaining tent. The fire in there is low, but burning still, with slightly charred meat still on the fire spit. No one's turned it in quite a while. Two cups sit on a wooden table, both full of a white liquid. Milk, maybe? Picking up the one that's still a quarter full, I take a whiff to see if it's sour. It smells fermented. I wrinkle my nose and put it back down, wondering if Haymitch would dare to drink it. Personally, I'd rather fill up my water bottle at the lake.
The blankets of fur in the corner are a cozy temptation, but I feel a distinct sense of "girl in a fairytale" about this situation. If I make myself comfortable and take a nap in this tent, maybe it turns out that it's not as abandoned as I thought. The real owner, or the one who conquered them, could come back and cut my throat in my sleep. That might not be exactly how the old fairytales ended, but you get the idea.
Still, I run my fingers along the table and the furs longingly. It's a solid place to camp, no doubt. I don't know how far Castle Black still is from here, I don't know if it's going to start snowing again, and I don't know for sure if these Night's Watch men will let me in (or how many of them are still alive). What I do know is that there's decent shelter here, a place to put up my feet. Buttercup's even jumped on the table, knocked over one of the cups, and started lapping up the fermented milk.
I decide the safest course of action is to give it time. It's early afternoon now. I can head back to the edge of the lake and refill my water, maybe set some snares and do some hunting. By the time I come back, probably closer to nightfall, if no one's come and claimed this place (or reclaimed it), the coast should be clear. If they have, I'll just retreat and camp by the lake. It seems as good a spot as any.
Buttercup, having curled up on the furs, doesn't want to come with me. He just kind of gives me this lazy, unimpressed glare when I snap and gesture at him. I guess it's fine. He's had enough walking for today, and I don't need a hunting partner. He survived the bombing of District 12 so I'm sure he'll duck out of here if something spooks him.
"Well, you know where the lake is," I tell him, and shift my game bag on my shoulder before turning and closing the netted makeshift door behind me.
I make it to the lake faster now that I'm not cautiously approaching a battlefield. It reminds me a little of the one back home. With not even Buttercup around to judge me, I sing to myself while I'm getting water. A few verses in, a snapping sound in the forest makes me quickly twist the cap on my bottle. Putting it away in my bag, I pull an arrow from my quiver and go investigate.
To my relief, it's not a dead person or a bloodthirsty soldier. There's a deer roaming these woods. I've been faring pretty well with food so far, but I imagine if nothing else, having fresh game to trade might put me in good graces with the men at Castle Black.
I track it for a while, keeping within reasonable distance of my camping grounds. It's pretty quick and evasive, but I suppose it has to be while living in a world like this one. Even so, I keep after it, because this is what feels the most like home.
With nightfall fast approaching, I've finally got a good clean shot at it. I've placed my feet carefully, it's right in my line of sight. All I have to do is release.
And then a loud crack echoes through the forest, startling both of us. Instinctively I swing around with my bow, searching left and right. There's nothing. No white walker staggering along on its twig-like bony legs. The deer scampers off to safety anyway, probably encouraged by my movements.
I start to lower my bow in disappointment. But the crack comes again. And again and again. The loud, resonant snap and pop of sticks and branches breaking. It sounds like it's coming from somewhere near the abandoned camp. Have its former occupants returned?
Disarming my bow, I follow the noise as silently as possible. After some time, the cracking fades, but I begin to hear rustling and logs shifting into place.
It might just be one person building a fire. But it's possible they don't want company.
As I creep closer, the source of the noise comes into view. So does his lit torch as he stands up. I duck behind a tree, pressing my back against the trunk. Then I take a deep, quiet breath and turn to peer around at the figure.
Just like Benjen, he's dressed thickly in black. His cloak, his furs, I think even his breastplate – all black as coal. And a head of dark curls to match. Another person who would fit right in at the Seam. Another person who reminds me of home.
He's hovering solemnly over a large platform of firewood. As he turns and lights the first corner, I see the dead girl lying on top of it, and a heaviness sinks in my chest while simultaneously tightening my throat.
This is a funeral pyre. I am spying on a girl's cremation. I am intruding on something incredibly personal.
But as the flames spread, illuminating the red of her hair, I find I cannot tear my eyes away. I know I shouldn't move anyway at this point. To move is to risk giving away my position, and I can't let him know I'm a part of this scene. This moment needs to be only for him.
Him, and the girl on fire.
Who is she to him? I can't help but wonder. This girl with red curls, being consumed by the blaze…
Is she his wife? His friend, his lover? Or his sister, maybe, but from where I'm standing, it's impossible to see a family resemblance besides the curls.
He's dropped his torch in the snow and is walking away, walking southeast. The same direction as the battle from last night. It hits me that it's possible he's one of the men of the Night's Watch. Someone who knows the way to Castle Black. Without thinking, I take a step forward, wondering if I should follow him.
The man stops, and I freeze. I dare not even step back, only hope that if he turns around, the rising smoke and fading light will shield me from view.
He doesn't turn. As I watch, holding my breath, I see his shoulders slump and tremble, and his head bow in grief.
Deep in my heart, I know that grief. I recognize it so plainly that it throbs in my chest and wells up in my eyes. A tear runs a hot trail down my frozen cheek.
He loved her, I realize, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. He loved her and she's gone.
When he leaves, I stay where I am. Clutching the tree, watching him and the burning pyre until the acrid smell of charred flesh is too much for me. Only then do I sneak around the funeral site and trudge the rest of the way back to the camp. Even if he is a man of the Night's Watch, I can't chase him down at a time like this, or trail him to the Wall like an unwanted shadow.
It's getting too dark now. I'm sure I'll find my own way to Castle Black in the morning.
Returning to the camp, I discover Buttercup is still the only living soul inhabiting it. I slip back into the tent and pull together a dinner for us, including the meat that remains on the fire spit. Then, saying a silent thank you to whoever lived here last, I slip under the warm furs and go where I know Peeta will find me.