Chapter Twenty-Two: Of Peeta, Panem, and Pearls
A few more days go by. I wake up in the middle of the night for all of them. It seems my talks with Shireen and Jon brought more dreams and memories of Peeta to the surface. Some of them are good, like our kisses in the cave and on the beach or watching him draw the illustrations for the plant book, but many of them are bad, like his crazed attempts to kill me. I think I actually prefer the nightmares, because at least when I wake from them, it's a relief. With the happier or more mundane dreams, I stir and look around, expecting to find Peeta in bed beside me, then remember why he's not. I guess it should be the same for the nightmares he used to protect me from, but he also used to be the reason that they went away, or the reason they never came in the first place.
Nightmares or no, when I rouse myself and he's not there, I know that sleep will be out of reach for a while. When that happens, I calm myself by retrieving the pearl from the parachute and holding it for comfort, rubbing it between my fingers or rolling it against my lips. Thinking of that last kiss. The last kiss I ever had that meant anything. It's been over a year since then, an epiphany that almost makes me drop the pearl in bewilderment. After all the kissing we had to do since the middle of our first Games, a year without it feels unreal. Maybe I've been going through withdrawals. Maybe kissing Peeta was like morphling. I remember the feeling of the one on the beach and think I might be onto something.
After that, I try to steer my thoughts away from the subject. The fact that Gale was the last person I kissed upsets me.
Instead, my usual escape is a trip to the library. I don't always get there. Once, I was on my way when I ran into Shireen, who confessed she had also snuck out of her room after a nightmare. I'd felt bad about it, thinking maybe showing her my burns and gnarly tracker scar wasn't such a good idea after all, but she waved away my apologies and my offer to let Buttercup sleep with her again. Then she asked me about my flashlight, and I ended up introducing her to the game of Crazy Cat. Ser Davos eventually caught us, having heard Buttercup meowing and us giggling outside, but was probably too baffled by the light to make too much of a fuss or get us in any trouble. He just had her bid me goodnight and escorted both her and Buttercup back to bed. I never heard anything about it later from Stannis, so he must not have said anything.
Another night, what stopped me was the briefly terrifying sounds of a restless wolf. Once I caught my breath, I followed the sounds over to the larder and approached the door cautiously.
"Ghost?" I'd asked, placing my hand near the widest crack. "Can't sleep either?"
He'd grumbled and whined, but I could feel hot breath seeping out where he was trying to sniff for me. Once he confirmed my scent, his whimpering quieted down, though he still let out a few unhappy whines. I sank down in the snow by the door and offered him my hand again at the crack on the bottom, talking softly to him until the whines started to die down. Then I sang the Meadow song through the door, though I feel like that was more for my benefit than his. He's a direwolf, so I think he prefers snow to spring meadows and daisies. But by the end, he was calm, and so was I, enough to go back to bed. At least in my dreams, Ghost can join me in the Meadow. I wonder if he'd make a softer pillow than the green grass in the song.
On the nights I do make it to the library, it's Sam who discovers me. At first he just offers a friendly greeting and leaves me to read in peace. But the one night he catches me with a pen in hand, curiosity wins over courtesy and he asks what I'm writing.
"Memories of my experiences in Panem," I answer truthfully. "That thing Maester Aemon said a few nights ago, about writing things down, it kind of got to me."
"Oh," he says, intrigued. Then, more tentatively, "Do you think we might be allowed to read it when you're done?"
I look down at the part I'm on, which is a flashback detailing the events that followed my father's death, and frown uncertainly. "I don't know, it's kind of personal," I say. When he looks apologetic for asking, I amend, "But if you're looking for information on Panem, I could… write a more objective history on it?"
He's pleased by the idea and resumes going about his business, but later he asks about the pen and lack of use of an inkwell, and I pause to demonstrate how the ink is inside the pen. I decide to do my writing in my room after that, since I'll need to use the handheld device with the pages of memories stored inside, and that'll be harder to explain if Sam sees it.
The second time he finds me brushing up on Westeros's books and history, though, he helpfully reminds me, "You know, you can read in the library during the day."
"Just something to do when I can't sleep," I say, while privately thinking, pot calling the kettle black. Does he really visit the library this late so often? I'm new to this world, so I have an excuse. Sometimes the things he fetches or looks at while he's down here seem trivial, and at this point I wonder if he just comes down here to check on me. Then I feel guilty, because it's Sam and he does like books and has always come across as fairly decent and earnest, and I'm being my usual suspicious self for no reason.
Anyway, that's how I find myself in the library with Sam and Maester Aemon one morning, sitting at the little desk in the aisle, half-writing about the history of the Games and half-listening while Sam reads raven scrolls out loud. If anyone asks, my assistance is greatly needed in here, but really I'm staying informed and the two of them just appreciate my company.
I hear bits and pieces of news in the background. The rise of the Faith Militant in King's Landing. The arrest of Queen Margaery's brother Ser Loras. The continued search for Tyrion Lannister after the murder of his nephew King Joffrey and his father Lord Tywin Lannister. I'm thinking these Lannisters are such a mess that they're even killing each other when suddenly another familiar house name turns my head.
"Daenerys Targaryen?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I remember the short history lesson I received from Stannis. "Who's that? Is she related to Rhaegar?"
Aemon smiles in my direction, pleased that I have decided to engage. "His younger sister," he answers. "And the last surviving child of King Aerys and Queen Rhaella. Born into exile after the ruin of House Targaryen at the end of Robert's Rebellion."
Sam doesn't look away from the scroll in his hands. "They call her the Mother of Dragons," he says. "She has three of them."
I take three seconds to register this before I pivot in my seat. "I'm sorry, did you just say she has dragons?" I ask incredulously.
"Yes!" Sam says blithely. "Three. They say she hatched them from petrified eggs."
I stare at him blankly. "Dragons," I repeat more emphatically. "That means the same thing here, right? Giant, flying, fire-breathing lizards? Those actually exist in this world?"
Sam's chair creaks as he finally turns to look at me, but I wish he wouldn't because I'm already blushing from my mistake.
"In Westeros, I mean," I mumble, waving my hand dismissively as if to say, oh, you know what I mean.
Blame it on my suspicious imagination, but for a moment I think I see a flicker of triumph cross Sam's face. I can't really tell because it vanishes and is replaced with his usual serene smile.
"In Essos, in this case," he corrects. "There were dragons in Westeros a very long time ago. They were considered extinct until now. Wait until you read about Aegon the Conqueror, and the Targaryen dynasty. The Targaryens were said to be the blood of the dragon."
"Hence their house words," I say, remembering. "'Fire and blood.'"
"Very good," Aemon praises, and chuckles softly. "If only dragon blood kept us warm here in the North."
"Maester Aemon's a Targaryen, too," Sam explains.
"Really?" I ask. The ruin of House Targaryen, as he put it, had made it sound like there was next to no one left. Yet here I am, in the same room with one. "What are you to Daenerys?"
"A man of the Night's Watch," he responds. "A stranger. A great-uncle. And of no use to her here."
"She's doing very well for herself," Sam assures him, and goes back to the scroll. "'And though Daenerys maintains her grip on Slaver's Bay, forces rise against her from within and without. She refuses to leave until the freedom of the former slaves is secure.'" He looks up again. "She sounds like quite a woman."
I can't argue with that. Fighting to end slavery, in my experience, is no easy task. Though I figure having three dragons must give her an edge.
"And she's alone," Aemon says regretfully, the sadness in his voice giving me pause. "Under siege. No family to guide her or protect her." I look over at him, feeling a painful twinge in my own chest. "Her last relation thousands of miles away."
His words touch a sore spot that I'm reluctant to admit is there. I feel for Daenerys. In a way, I am her. Not just for the fire, and the revolution, but because we are both far from home, worlds away from our last living family member.
There is no one like me in Westeros. No one from Panem except Buttercup. Even Beetee, my only direct contact with Panem, is just a voice that occasionally reaches my ear. And I can't say we're not friends, but at times I feel keenly aware that this is a science experiment to him. The other day, I was gleaning information from him on Panem's history while he was going over the footage I sent, and I heard another voice in the background calling his name and Beetee had to suddenly rush off. He later apologized for cutting the connection so abruptly, but all it did was remind me that he has work to do in Panem.
I am merely a part of that work, here in my winter arena. The lone tribute from District 12.
"Useless," Aemon rasps, breaking into my thoughts. "Dying."
Sam, who I only just realize was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, turns his head. "Don't say that, Maester Aemon," he says plaintively.
But he's right, I think. Anyone can see he's deteriorating. People in District 12 start feeling their years long before they reach Aemon's age, but maybe it's the starvation and decades of toil in the mines. Still, the fact that he's only slowing down now is nothing short of miraculous.
Aemon, a trained maester and not a fool, is unfazed by Sam's concern. "A Targaryen, alone in the world," he says, and shakes his head, "is a terrible thing."
I fiddle with my pen, teetering it between my fingers.
Is that me, too? I wonder. Am I alone?
I don't have much time to linger over it, because light footsteps descend the stone staircase and come to a stop at the bottom.
"Maester Aemon." Jon's voice drifts from the doorway. I look up, but stop myself from craning my neck to peek out at him. He started up his own eye aversions with me right after Melisandre paid him a visit. They died off after a couple of days, but still I wonder what went on in there. If maybe she told him something about me. What could she have shared with him that I haven't, to make him so nervous?
"Lord Commander," Aemon replies grandly.
"Sam, I'd like to speak to the maester alone," Jon says.
As Sam scoots his chair out, I figure that also includes me, so I click my pen and get up from the desk while quickly scooping my papers into my arms. The noise must've surprised Jon, because when I step out into the aisle, he's right there trying to look in, and we almost bump right into each other.
"Sorry," I say.
"Pardon me, my lady," Jon says at the same time. "I didn't know you were there."
I laugh nervously and slide around him, because I hate that little dance that happens when two people are trying to get past each other. It used to happen a lot between me and Gale when we were in places more confining than the woods, a downside of being too in-sync.
Thinking about Gale makes me leave faster, as if I can outrun the memory of him. But there are some people whose memories I don't want to push out. So when Sam catches up to me and asks if I'm all right, that I looked a little upset down there when Maester Aemon talked about being alone in the world, I tell him, "I'm fine. I just need to make a run to the woods, is all."
"Are you sure?" Sam asks doubtfully. "All by yourself in the woods?"
"Sure," I answer with a shrug. "It's the place that feels the most like home. I need to do some hunting anyway."
He still seems wary, but he lets me go. I retreat to my room to drop off my papers, get my bow and quiver and game bag, and head out.
In the privacy of the forest, I ask Beetee for something precious that he cannot give me by parachute – updates on the people I care about. His continued work on and involvement with this experiment must keep him busy, but surely he's heard from someone else in the past couple of weeks? I'd even be happy to hear how Johanna's doing.
Though he sounds awkward and fidgety at first at the question, he understands, and luckily, he's spoken to Effie and President Paylor recently, so he tells me what he knows.
Not as much has happened in Panem in two or three weeks as it has in Westeros, but in District 12, Posy has been asking about me, and the geese are less stressed now that Buttercup isn't paying them a visit. That's what Haymitch says, but according to Effie, he's just desperately searching for the bright side of my absence. Also, rumors of my disappearance are already starting to spread, but Effie has been trying to shut them down and disguise it as a well-deserved "vacation," in the hopes that people will mind their business.
Beetee then tells me of his talk with Paylor, who knows about his portal invention and that it's currently being tested, but not the identity of the test subject. Though, he amends, she probably suspects it's me. Anyway, while contacting her on my behalf to discuss obsidian deposits and references on Panem's history, he learned that Paylor has been working to uncover hidden secrets about the Capitol and the Games. For example, the tenth Games has been covered up for years and people want to know why. Me too, for that matter, since supposedly that was the year District 12 had its first victor. But the reason they ran into this is because they want to start destroying the arenas and building memorials for the tributes that were killed in each one, while also looking back on the victors and shedding an honest light on what Snow put them through after their Games.
"What happens if they can't find me for any of this?" I ask wryly. "I wonder how long Effie can drag out the 'vacation' excuse."
"Well, they likely won't need you until they get to the 74th," Beetee replies. "Your lack of attendance can be blamed on continued self-isolation, and I'm sure Haymitch and the others will vouch for you until then. Of course, we can always fake your death if need be. However," he says, and hesitates before finishing, "it's extremely likely I'll have figured out how to create an exit point long before then, should you wish to return."
Should I wish to return... I don't know what to do with those words. As soon as I hear them, they sink in my chest like rocks, and I feel like some sort of bluff has been called.
I miss people from Panem. I miss their voices. But the idea of returning through that portal stirs up a powerful rush of anxiety in me. My brow furrows as I try to discern what's so unsettling about it. And then it hits me.
"If I did return," I say slowly, "would the portal be able to bring me back here? To this exact world, at this exact time?"
Beetee pauses, and I wonder if I've asked a stupid question.
"I mean, of course, you've been able to send me parachutes and stuff," I say.
"Well, that's just it," Beetee says. "I've been able to send them because I have an established link to the world of Westeros, in this precise timeline, and that's you. Think of it as a star in the night sky. Because you are there, and trackable, you give off a glow, or a beacon to draw my attention to that particular star so that I may send things to it. If you are gone, so is the beacon. At this point in time, finding this world again amongst countless others would be... difficult, to say the least."
"All right, so what if I leave something here that you can track?" I ask.
"Maybe," Beetee replies uncertainly. "It could work, but I can't guarantee that quite yet. Not to mention we'd have to ensure the safety and power of the tracker, hoping that it doesn't get destroyed somehow or lose its charge before you return. Basically, you'd be taking a risk. And if we did find Westeros again... for instance, you might return in the time of Robert's Rebellion, or the Long Night, or long after your friends here have passed on. Or you might return to the same time, but an alternate timeline where you've never been there before and they don't know you."
That last part stings me, rubs at the rawest and most vulnerable wound in my heart, and I can't help but think of Peeta. His memories wiped, manipulated, rewritten. Maybe they wouldn't hate me like he did, but I would be a stranger to them. Everything we shared, lost. Left behind in a place that odds are I wouldn't be able to find again.
"I can look into it if you'd like," Beetee offers, after a long pause. "If there's a way to bookmark a universe, I'd be happy to find it for you. That is, of course, assuming you have any intention of leaving—"
"I don't," I say, and breathe out a misty sigh. "Don't bother. It was just a hypothetical."
"Are you sure?" he asks. "I'm a bit curious, myself..."
"You gave me a fresh start, Beetee," I tell him. "I'm not going to risk throwing that away because I'm a little..." I trail off. Is homesick the right word? "I just miss their voices, that's all."
Beetee promises, instead, to see if he can do something with my earpiece or another communication device so that at least one of us can connect me to someone in Panem with a phone. The thought of talking to Haymitch and Effie again makes me feel better, but it also reminds me of the letters, and I wrote those letters for a reason. I went through that portal for a reason. Home stopped being home when I came back to it without Prim and our mother, when it started feeling like an empty house, just like Peeta's across the road.
I realize then that it's not Panem I miss, but Peeta. This is the first arena I've gone into without him. And there's no point in going back if he's not waiting for me there. Nothing is waiting for me there.
I'm not alone in this world. I've made some allies. Peeta would be proud. It's just times like these that I yearn for the solidarity of my district partner – no matter how loudly he'd be moving through these woods right now.
Later, I return through the gate and deliver a good haul to Hobb. Plucking birds and skinning rabbits diverts my thoughts for a while. But after that, all I want to do is hide in my room until dinner. Work on the new book or Panem history, maybe. Or if I don't have the mental energy for that, which is likely, then just lay in bed holding the pearl or looking at pictures on my handheld device.
I've just dropped my game bag on the floor and put my bow and quiver against the wall when I sense that something is amiss. Not the weird kind of feeling that I get right before I find a rose that's not supposed to be there, but pretty close to it. I walk tentatively across the room, looking around for something that doesn't belong. Nothing jumps out at me – the only thing that's different from all the other days I've been here is the parachute on my nightstand, which is now being used as a paperweight — so I sigh and try to shake the feeling away. Blame it on my addled mind.
I sink down on the bed and reach for my other bag, which slumps halfway under the bed. Digging out the device is surprisingly effortless, since I thought I wrapped it up tighter in some of the silver parachute fabric when I put it away last, but it's a little closer to the surface than I remember and not as wedged between the medical kit and compressed sleeping bag, which is probably why it's come slightly unraveled. Turning it on, I flick through the pages for a minute or two, but the anxious feeling persists. I give up and click it off, moving to set it aside on the nightstand. Then my eyes linger on the parachute.
Well, the container, to be more specific. I brought the parachute in its entirety for maximum protection of its contents, but the shell came to be a hassle since I needed to open it nearly every night to retrieve the pearl. Now it's shoved under my bed, stuffed with more parachute fabric and my devices at night, and the container stays on my nightstand with a lid that's easy to unscrew.
I reach slowly for the container and twist off the top, craving something I can actually touch, something to ease my mind. That tiny pearl that somehow holds all the comfort and stability that Peeta used to provide. As I feel around for it, my fingers brush blindly over everything else. The lip of the spile. The chain of the locket. The mockingjay pin. Nothing more.
The sensation that hits my stomach is like going down the stairs and missing a step. My lips purse into a frown, and I prod some more, but nothing small and round rolls forward beneath my coaxing fingertips. I don't want to believe it, but still I look inside.
The pearl is gone.
My breath catches painfully in my chest, stumbling drunkenly up my throat. I shift the trinkets around again, as if stirring three times will make the pearl reappear.
Nothing.
Starting to panic, I dump everything out onto the bed, spreading it all about on the blankets. The meager contents still aren't hiding anything. Peeta's pearl is not among them.
No… I stare down at the bed, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. No. This can't happen.
Rushing to the door, I try to think instead of crying, but maybe it's too late, or maybe the blast of brisk wind is what's made my breathing ragged. Did I take the pearl with me somewhere last night? Was it in my pocket? I'm so upset that I can't remember anything, so I go outside and search the ground, even scraping through the snow with my bare hands. When I can't take any more of that, finally deciding it's fruitless, I storm back into my room and drop to the floor.
It can't have left this room. I'm more careful than that, aren't I? The mockingjay pin, the medallion, yes, I've worn them around Castle Black, but I can't secure the pearl to my clothes or wear it around my neck, so it stays in here, inside the parachute. Only taken out for comfort or reassurance to help me fall asleep. Didn't it make it back inside last night before exhaustion took over me? Wouldn't I have heard it fall and roll if it didn't?
I crawl across the floor, looking frantically. Maybe I kicked it, maybe Buttercup played with it, maybe he swallowed it. Prim help him if he swallowed it, because one way or another, I will be getting it back from him. I refuse to consider the idea that someone has stolen it. It's one little pearl, precious but not fine gold like the medallion and the pin, so why would they steal one thing and not the others?
Besides that, the thought of having to confront the Night's Watch brothers on it, to draw attention to myself with accusations of pearl theft, is too overwhelming to bear. The only men who would come in here and steal a mere pearl are the ones who hate Jon, and therefore possibly me by extension, and I know I could never get it back without making a huge fuss. The fact that I would have to brings tears to my eyes. I wipe them away in frustration; they only make it harder to search.
Wondering if maybe I was so tired that I put it in the bag with my handheld device instead, I crawl back to the bag and drag it towards me, then start yanking everything out. The medical kit, the spare parachute fabric, the carefully wrapped photo of my parents' wedding, the sealed and compressed clothes I haven't worn yet because they aren't warm or black. The deeper I dig, the more my cursing devolves into shaky breaths, whispered pleading, and muttered bewilderment.
I'm throwing things at this point and fiercely unzipping compartments that I don't remember getting into recently, but memories can't be trusted and apparently neither can I when I'm on the verge of sleep. And then I hear creaking coming from outside, followed by a voice that grumbles something I can barely make out, before thudding footsteps stomp right through the threshold of my open door.
"I thought I told you—"
My frenzied searching comes to an abrupt halt as I glance up in shock. "What?" I say, too baffled to ask anything else.
Jon looks just as surprised as I am. He blinks and does a brief sweep of the room with his eyes, before lowering them in embarrassment to the papers in his hand.
"Begging your pardon, my lady. Just a misunderstanding," he says, and clears his throat. "You left these in the library. I only meant to return them to you…" Trailing off, he gets a better look at me, and bemused concern takes over instead. "Is everything all right in here?"
I quickly hide my face, even though I know it's too late, lowering my head in the guise of continued searching. Wiping discreetly at my eyes, which are surely puffy and red, I use my free hand to fumble through another compartment, then zip it closed a bit too hard.
"It's nothing," I say, trying to at least keep my voice composed and not so watery. When that fails, I stand up and turn my back to him, picking up the parachute container and scooping the trinkets back inside. "I just… I can't find my pearl, and I usually keep it in here, but I must've dropped it or knocked it over, maybe I didn't seal it right, I don't know…"
Did I do that? I had to move it when I made it a paperweight, maybe I did tip it or set it on its side, that sounds familiar. Maybe I need another bracelet marked "mentally disoriented." I wonder if I'm saying any of this out loud, because when I glance over my shoulder at Jon, he looks a little unnerved.
"Sorry for rambling," I say, setting the container back on the nightstand and peeking behind it again before going back to the bag. "I don't mean to waste your time. It's just a pearl."
I can tell from the expression on his face that he doesn't believe me. "Perhaps it could have rolled under the bed?" he suggests, then turns sheepish again. "Or is that the first place you looked…"
Now I'm the one who's embarrassed, because it really should have been. "Almost everywhere else," I admit with a shuddering sigh. I spared a quick glance after checking the blankets, and then again when I pulled the bag out from under it. But I didn't look far enough, and it's dark under there. I'd need the flashlight.
I unzip a compartment and fish mine out, but when I stand up, ready to head toward the bed again, Jon strides past me to the other side. "Don't trouble yourself, my lady. If it's down there, I can get it for you."
Dumbfounded, I watch him for a moment as he sets the papers down on the bed, then gets down on his knees. I mean, I've crawled on my belly under a chain link fence a thousand times to get into the woods back home, but all right. I go over and turn on the flashlight, then hand it out to him.
"Here," I say. "At least use this."
He considers it briefly, then takes it and illuminates the underside of the bed. Satisfied, he knits his brows in determination, then drops down and shimmies underneath a little farther as I step back to give him room.
I begin to understand why he offered to do this instead of me. As the Lord Commander, it probably wouldn't be considered proper to stand by and watch while I wriggled under the bed on a dusty floor until only my rear end was sticking out. Maybe I shouldn't be staring either, but right as I'm about to look away, his body shifts as if he sees something and my hopes begin to soar.
Finally, he pushes himself out by his elbows, one hand wrapped around the flashlight and the other closed in a fist. He gets up and sets the flashlight down on the bed, keeping an eye on it for a second like it's going to catch the blankets on fire, then turns to me and opens his fist, revealing the pearl in the center of his palm.
I exhale in tremulous relief and disbelief, feeling the weight of my fear and heartache lift from my chest at the sight of it. It's still here. It's still with me. There's a fine layer of dust that it picked up from its hiding place, but I can probably rinse it off in the snow.
"Rolled right under the middle of the bed," Jon says with a light chuckle, taking the pearl carefully between his fingers as he approaches me.
"Thank you," I breathe, holding out my palm in anticipation. But I'm still too shaken and distracted to keep it level and steady, so when he releases it into my hand, it immediately starts rolling. "Oh—"
We both react quickly, moving to cup the side of my hand. Jon is faster and catches it while I'm in mid-curse, so my hand ends up cupping his instead. I stare uncomprehendingly for a second before letting it drop to my side.
Tilting the pearl back into my palm, he closes my fingers over it. It's a simple gesture – harmless, really — but it makes no sense to me, what I am seeing, what I am feeling. I want to shiver and yet the rest of me is burning. It's as if I'm a fire mutt again, or one recently put out, my skin raw and vulnerable and baby soft beneath his fingers.
Disoriented, I lift my eyes to his, only to see them drift up my wrist, where my sleeve has risen enough to reveal a preview of pink. This is officially too much, so I pull my hand away, hiding my wrist by holding my clenched fist against my heart.
"Thanks again," I manage, my voice still ragged. His eyes meet mine, but I remember how puffy and red they must be, so I turn and make a hasty retreat around the bed to the nightstand. "Sorry for making such a big fuss," I add, and pick up the container. "You must think I'm crazy for getting so upset over a tiny little pearl."
His voice comes from not that far behind me. "I figured it must mean something to you."
I clean the dust off the pearl with my sleeve and take a moment to admire its iridescence. "Peeta gave it to me," I tell him, then drop the pearl inside, watching it mingle with the mockingjay pin. "It was… kind of the last gift he ever gave me."
A silence ensues, but I can feel Jon's sympathy from here and I don't want the reminder that he's seen me after I've been crying, so I keep talking almost defensively.
"I take it out at night sometimes, because it helps put my mind at ease," I say, twisting the lid on tight, "but I guess I must've fallen asleep while holding it or it fell out somehow. I don't know. Maybe I thought I put it back but I really just dropped it or something and didn't realize it because I was so tired. Maybe Buttercup found it and started playing with it, and just knocked it under there."
Then I shut up, because I'm rambling again and I hate it. I've kept Jon here long enough. I turn to give him a look of apology. For finding the pearl, I at least owe him that much.
"Maybe," he agrees, but he's avoiding my eyes. Standing near the door, he turns to leave. He's only gone a couple of steps before he slows and lets his shoulders fall with a sigh. "No," he says, turning back around. "That's not true."
I'm confused. "It's not?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows at him. His conflicted, even guilty expression suggests he knows something, but what?
Jon sighs again and walks back into the room to me. He gestures to the papers on the bed. "I came by earlier, to bring these to you," he admits. "I didn't know you were out hunting, so I heard noises in here and knocked." He hesitates, but quietly continues, "Sam opened the door."
Sam? For a few seconds I don't even know what to think. The big picture is so bizarre I can barely put the pieces together. "What was Sam doing in my room?" I ask. The only thing keeping me from raising my voice is the fact that I still can't grasp this in my mind.
"He was looking for something," Jon answers.
"Looking for something?" I echo. The first thing my mind goes to is what I expect most guys here to rifle through, especially if their vows make them swear off women, and it just seems so unlike Sam that I don't want to believe it. Trusting people wholeheartedly is usually a mistake, in my experience, but this has completely thrown me off, so much that I still don't buy it.
The idea seems to plague Jon too. "It's not what it sounds like," he hurriedly assures me, but he makes a face like he's not sure whether or not he wants to say more. Like he can't decide if the truth is worse or even more embarrassing. "He…" Jon says, and hesitates again, glancing over his shoulder. Then he leans forward and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He thinks you're from another world."
My mouth falls open in surprise, but then I remember Sam's reaction when I made my slip-up earlier today. His interest in learning about Panem's history. Even his armful of maps when he stumbled upon me in the library the first time – was he trying to locate Panem? I know I've exposed him to a couple of strange artifacts and technology, but Sam really is too smart for his own good.
"Is it normal for Sam to believe in that sort of thing?" I ask carefully.
"It isn't. That's what's so strange," says Jon, wrinkling his brow. "White walkers, yes, that's one thing. He read about them in books but then he saw them for real. But other worlds?"
He seems so distressed for his friend's sanity that I feel bad. "Well, it's not like he's crazy for thinking so," I point out. "I mean, different clothes, different accent, different… tools?" I gesture to the flashlight, which I notice he left on, then grab it off the bed and wave it around before switching it off.
"Other lands have their differences," he replies, though his eyes are trained on the flashlight. "He was specifically talking about worlds. Things you and the Red Woman have said. Like Panem being 'worlds away' – he thinks you mean it literally."
I press my lips together, mentally cursing at myself. Forget Sam's cleverness, that one was a little too on-the-nose.
"He says that's why she's so interested in you. And why Panem isn't on any maps. Why we've never heard of it, or of mockingjays, or the songs you sing, or any of the other things you've mentioned," Jon lists off. "He says the only other explanation is that you're lying, and he doesn't think you are."
I falter, because I can hear Sam's voice saying that. He trusts me enough to believe in the impossible. I don't know what to make of this, especially since I can't trust him to stay out of my room. "What do you think?" I ask Jon, searching his face.
He's quiet for a moment, considering his answer, then looks me in the eye and squares his shoulders. "I think we have more important things to worry about right now," he says.
"Yes, I think so too," I say, relieved.
"It doesn't matter where any of us come from," Jon says. "North of the Wall, south of it. East or west. The dead are coming for all of us."
"The living versus the dead," I note, grateful for the obvious subject change. "Now that's pretty unifying."
Jon chuckles halfheartedly. "I hope the Night's Watch sees it that way."
I frown at the skepticism in his tone. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't they?" I ask, then realize I'm playing anxiously with the flashlight and move to put it back in my bag.
"The wildlings," says Jon after a pause, following me a couple of steps. "Most of them are still on the other side of the Wall. If half the brothers had their way, they'd let the Others take them."
"But you're Lord Commander," I say, zipping the compartment, "so what's your call?"
Another pause. Longer. "I'm going to let the wildlings through the gate," he says softly, but it's enough to make me look up. "I'll give the order tomorrow. I trust you'll keep it quiet until then." I nod fervently, sensing the seriousness of the decision. I'm also a little dumbstruck at actually being let in on a plan for once. "I'll be leaving for Hardhome with one of them and bringing them back here. I suspect tensions will be high around here for a while, particularly regarding wildlings, so it's probably best I let you know now."
I laugh. "Because Thorne still thinks I'm a wildling?"
"And likely everyone who voted for him," Jon replies.
"I thought I was from another world," I say, standing up. "I think I like Sam's theory better." He scoffs appreciatively, and I'm struck by a curious thought. "How does he think I got here? Magic? A portal? The Lord of Light?"
At the last one, Jon inclines his head at me, and I remember he was there when Melisandre said just that. Luckily, he seems to brush it off. "He didn't say. I'm not certain he knows that himself. That's why he was looking for proof," he says.
I think of the unraveled parachute fabric in my bag. "Well, did he find what he was looking for?" I ask, resting my hands on my hips.
He gestures to the handheld device on the bed. "He seemed interested in… whatever that is," he answers. "It glowed when he touched something. But he couldn't do anything else with it before I made him get out."
I reach over and pick it up, pressing the button myself and making the screen light up. "Basically making it just another flashlight," I say, smirking and waving the device in the air. "Sorry to disappoint him."
Jon frowns slightly. "I hope you don't think badly of him," he says. "This is the first time he's done something like this. I assure you he won't do it again."
"I know," I say. Honestly, it feels hypocritical to blame him. And I don't want to be the reason Jon starts doubting his friend. It occurs to me that I could inadvertently cause a rift in their friendship that never should have been there. "I hope this doesn't change your perspective on him or anything. It's not strange of him to be curious of a place no one's ever heard of." I add wryly, "And I am a very mysterious person."
"I'll give him that," Jon agrees, a small grin touching his lips. A silence falls between us, and he regards me for a moment, or the chaotic state of my room, before turning to go. "See you at dinner, my lady."
I scrunch up my nose. "Hey, what's with the 'my lady' thing lately?" I can't help but ask.
He stops and looks back at me, uncertain. "A common courtesy," he says, wavering on the eye contact. "You strike me as a highborn girl."
This sounds like it's partially true, but not the real reason. I'm pretty sure he overheard me tell Shireen about when I was starving and Peeta threw me the bread. I study him briefly and then shake my head. "In my world, there are no lords and ladies. We use different titles," I tell him. "If you don't want to call me Katniss because it's too informal – or familiar, maybe – then you can just say Miss Everdeen."
Jon acknowledges this with a nod. As he starts to leave again. I glance down at the device in my hand.
"Oh, and Jon?" I call after him.
A second later, he reappears in the doorway. "Yes, Katniss?" he asks.
Naturally, this catches me off guard, but I compose myself with a grin and hold up the device for display. "If you see Sam before I do, you can tell him…" I pause to press the button and tap at the screen, "next time, you have to press twice, and then spell 'Prim.'"
The screen opens up to reveal the place where I left off, a picture of the cake Peeta baked for Finnick and Annie's wedding. Jon squints at it thoughtfully, but I don't think he can make it out from here.
"There won't be a next time," he promises.
In response, I give a reassuring grin. "I know," I say, clicking the device off again. "That's why I'm telling you."
Jon manages a faint half-grin, then exits the room once more. I let him go this time, commencing the post-panic tidying up of my stuff that's been flung everywhere, but in a more pleasant mood now that the pearl is no longer lost in this unfamiliar world. Though it is getting more familiar each day.
Moving toward my bed with the bag, I drop it next to the nightstand as I notice the papers Jon returned to me. Curious, I pick them up to read what I carelessly left behind.
The top page finishes giving a brief description of each district, continuing where I left off with District 7 on the page before, wraps it up with a note that District 13 was believed to be decimated and thus was never a participant in the Hunger Games, then moves on to the topic of presidents. Even with Beetee's assistance, I don't have much to say about Ravinstill except that he was Panem's president when the Games began, that he was the president during the time of the First Rebellion and long before.
It's Snow that I go into excruciating detail about. If Ravinstill gets a paragraph, Snow gets a page and then some. I mention all the things that Finnick divulged — his rise to power at a young age, his use of poison to kill off adversaries and allies alike, his selling the bodies of attractive victors and killing loved ones if they refused. His downfall is described as starting with the 74th Games, where the two final tributes – unnamed, of course — defied the Capitol by threatening a double suicide, choosing to die together rather than give the Capitol a victor when they revoked the district team rule change. Though they were both crowned victors, their actions in the arena sparked an unrest in the districts that ultimately led to the Second Rebellion.
I include Snow's retaliation — the Third Quarter Quell with the reaping of the victors — and vaguely mention the escape and the destruction of the arena by one of the victors as the beginning of the war. His section, like the war itself, ends with his death, which you can tell by the change in ink strokes that I took great pleasure in penning. I note that the unexpected assassination of the interim president threw Snow's public execution into chaos, so it is unknown whether his cause of death was choking on his own blood with laughter or being crushed by the mob.
In comparison, Coin's section is like her own reign as interim president — embarrassingly short. I mention her position as leader of District 13 and the rebellion, her tactics used to win the war, her suggestion of a symbolic final Hunger Games, and her assassination during Snow's execution, but that's about it. Paylor gets praise as the current president and the first one to end the Hunger Games for good, and then I move on to describing known arenas and mutts before the page cuts off.
I sink into the edge of the bed, and my heart sinks with me as I shuffle back and forth between the pages. So many mentions of the name Snow, they almost scream out at me, the lettering bolder and darker from increased pressure on the pen.
If I were Jon, I'm sure I would've snuck a peek at the contents. If I were Jon, I would have been unable to ignore the multiple instances of my name, scribbled with hatred. The deeds of this person who shares it with me. He certainly had time to read them after failing to drop them off when he found Sam – though I suppose it would've given away that they'd been here.
Somehow, the thought of Jon reading this feels much worse than Sam's intrusion. I want to call him back in again, tell him that President Snow would never go to the trouble to salvage anything of Peeta that I treasured, he only ever strove to take him from me. That this is a different world, and he is a different Snow.
And unlike the other one, I think I can live in a world that has him in it.
A/N: Thanks for all follows/faves/reviews! ZainR: Jon knew what Sam was up to, but Katniss, bless her heart, is as clueless as ever. ^^ And we say Jon knows nothing? He's learning more and more each day. Perhaps he'll know about the Girl on Fire and the Mockingjay soon enough…