Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream

by titaniasfics

Co-written w/ Katnissdoesnotfollowback for PIP: Everlark Dreamscape Week. Summary: Katniss and Peeta share a bond so strong, even death cannot defy it. When tragedy threatens to separate them forever, Peeta risks his soul to save Katniss from an eternity of despair. Inspired by the book, What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson and the movie by the same name. Art by Ombradellaluna

5. Chapter 5

Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream

Co-written by Katnissdoesnotfollowback & Titania522

Trigger warnings: Major Character Deaths, Minor Character Deaths, Suicide, Afterlife, Heaven, Hell, Reincarnation (Literally Everybody Dies).

Rated M for Mature Sexual Content.

Day 5 of 7: Tongues

XXXXX

Peeta

I hear her voice in my head. It's extraordinary, the throaty cadences, the notes soaring high, then sinking and breaking, like a buoy in water. I've emerged from the mists and find myself seated in a plush, capacious armchair in a cozy study, but it is Katniss I hear in my head - harmonizing, rising, calling to me, so strongly, I almost turn around and re-enter the mysterious tunnel through which I came. I shake my head, trying to focus on my surroundings and her song recedes, but only just. I become aware of someone sitting in a small loveseat adjacent to my chair so I glance to my side and catch sight of the apparition who has been trailing me since my soul freed itself from that wreck.

With a start, I recognize my companion.

"Delly!" I exclaim in shock.

"Peeta," she smiles indulgently, taking my hand in hers. The Cartwrights and the Mellarks had been friends since before my brothers and I were born. Delly and I had spent an entire childhood playing together, even going so far as calling each other brother and sister with those who did not know us. We dated briefly in middle-school and the memory of her was filled with so many firsts, including first girlfriend, first kiss and first great loss. She was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder as a junior in high school and just before graduation, she passed away.

She is as I remembered her - shiny blond curls that hung loose around her shoulders. She had the sweetest blue eyes that were the same color as Prim's but lacked the exotic almond shape that Prim shared with Katniss. Delly's were wide and round. Open. Happy. That's what I have associated with Delly since we were children.

"Shhhh…" Delly said tiredly when I came to visit her in the hospital room. "I'm okay with it now."

"It's not fair," I said angrily, unable to control the resentment that, of all people I knew, it was Delly who would get sick, Delly who would…

"Hey, it's the next great adventure," she chuckled softly. "And no worries, I have a funny feeling you won't be getting rid of me that easily…"

And now she was here. She'd been my guide all along. I was suddenly ashamed for the way I'd treated her.

"Delly, I'm so sorry…" I begin and rise from where I was seated, pulling her up in the process. I hug her to me, lapsing into the familiarity we'd shared from when we were children. "I didn't know it was you…"

She laughed, pulling back to look at me. "You've had other things on your mind."

Remembering Katniss brings her melancholic song to the foreground of my brain again. It is similar to having a tune stuck in your head, except that I don't tire of the sound of her voice when everything else goes silent. I listen, overwhelmed with feelings of longing and loss, and I can't be sure if they are my feelings or the ones that belong to Katniss' songs. Delly looks at me quizzically, and I feel my face break into a sad smile.

"I can hear my wife singing. She's so sad," I say, suppressing the sudden urge to cry on her behalf.

"You are hearing a projection of her aura - her soul. I suspected as much when I came to you but now this confirms everything. You are soul mates." Delly nods, almost to herself, before she releases me to pace up and down the study. I take a moment to look at the decor - it belongs to a more tropical environment, the chairs and tables made of bamboo with wicker woven strongly along the joints and corners. Thick fronds of waxy leaves rise up from pots set strategically around the room. A window gives out onto an open veranda and beyond, the sea laps at the shores with small, gentle waves, the water the deepest blue I've ever seen.

"My home," Delly stops, spreading her hands towards the ocean. "I've always loved the sea."

I nod, remembering how much Delly loved to swim, how she seemed to blossom in the summertime, like Prim. Her laughter tinkles through the air and for the first time, I have the feeling she is reading my mind.

"You are so new! You haven't learned to control your thoughts, so anyone can read them," she responds happily.

"Well, that's an inconvenient gift," I reply ruefully, my thoughts returning to Katniss. "Tell me about this business of soul mates."

Delly shakes her head in disbelief. "Aren't you the least bit curious about your surroundings? Usually, new souls want to see everything and wear themselves out with questions."

"I do!" I burst out. "But I just can't help but worry about Katniss. She's all alone. You don't know how much she's suffering now. Do you think I can check in on her?" I ask, glancing involuntarily behind me, as if the path back to Katniss lay there.

Evading my question, she says instead, "Well, I'll be able to explain it all but you need a little information about how things work here first," she continues. "I'm your guardian, so I will be giving you the grand tour."

"Like a guardian angel?" I ask in astonishment.

Delly chuckles again, her mirth infectious, "Something like that. I've been following you around since I became able to do so. You have to learn to do everything here just like you have to learn to do things on Earth. Mind is everything," she says, tapping her temple with her forefinger. "As you learn to imagine things, they will be created and these things will become your reality."

"Can I imagine Katniss here with me?" I ask seriously, the dirge in my mind rising and falling as Katniss' grief rises and falls in her.

Delly raises her finger, wagging it back and forth dramatically. "You can't just manufacture or transport a soul. That's a little bit beyond our abilities here. You can call forth an illusion of her, but I strongly suspect that a mirage will not be enough to make you happy."

"No," I respond firmly.

"You see," she walks slowly out onto the veranda, the wind meandering gently into her hair, and I am compelled to follow her, "Every soul creates their reality, their home, as it were. We can travel to other realities, just as you are here in my home now, but your home will be whatever you create with your mind. It will be one of the first things we will do here." She turns towards me and takes both of my hands in hers. "Creation belongs to your imagination, just like traveling and summoning - everything depends on what you envision. The better, more pure soul you have, the more beauty you will invoke in your surroundings. Now, close your eyes and imagine the most beautiful image you can conjure, the one that makes you feel the most at home."

I close my eyes and for a moment, my home with Katniss appears as she moves through it. I am both exhilarated and saddened by the memory of her because what made my house a home was Katniss and she is not here with me now.

"Still your emotions and filter them!" Delly admonishes, squeezing my hands. "You're all over the place. Focus on a place that makes you feel at home and imagine it in detail."

My home. Katniss' garden. My paintings and sketches. These are home to me. But images descend, and I am captivated by the vibrancy. Lake Tahoe. The hills on the slopes of Cascade Lake, the towering mountains of the Sierra Nevada in the background, covered in ice and snow even in early summer. The falls. The evergreens. An amalgamation of the Appalachians, where we grew up. I can smell the pine in the air, feel the cool mountain wind sweep down the peaks. I hear Delly whisper "Yes" as the air vibrates around me. When she squeezes my hands again, I know it's time to open my eyes. What greets my vision takes my breath away.

"Delly!" I shout happily.

"It's your home, the way you envisioned it," she laughs as I spin in place and take in the very panorama of my day dream.

"It's incredible!" I shout, listening to my echo bounce across the hills, dissipating into the open air.

"You are truly an artist, Peeta. Everything you imagine, you have the ability to recreate. This is just a manifestation of your gift. Your imagination is alive!" she said, clapping her hands together. I looked out onto the landscape and see my home nestled in the trees, on the shores of the lake. I walk towards it, eager to be reacquainted with the home I'd shared with Katniss, but Delly pulls me back.

"There are better ways to travel here," she says coyly and I recognize the glint in her eyes, the one she always got when we were young and meant Let's play.

"What do you have in mind?" I laugh.

"Well, how would you like to get across that ravine?" she points at the small brook that cuts the hill in half, separating us from the house.

"Fly?" I quip. However, Delly raises one eyebrow, and I know she is not joking. "Can I just do that?"

"You can do anything you want!" she laughs again. "Just envision yourself doing it and you will."

I turn towards my house and concentrate on the elements of flight that I know of, from watching birds flutter to imagining Superman taking off, laughing at the image of myself in tights and a cape. Delly chuckles next to me and I remember that she can read my thoughts. I refocus on lifting off and soon I'm in the air, tumbling clumsily until I imagine a more graceful arc. There is nothing like it - the wind flowing through my hair, over my skin, the breath-taking view of the lake below me. I'm enchanted and watch Delly follow with more control, dipping and nosediving, squealing with delight. We're six years old again and we dance like leaves on the wind. I can't remember ever feeling so free.

Delly lands gracefully before my front door, whereas I tumble and land flat on my back in the grass. I stare up at the blue sky, the laughter dying in my throat. This is the kind of day Katniss would love. Large, billowy clouds floating across the immense sky, the sun warm but not oppressive, the brook burbling at our feet.

But the thing that freezes me in place is the weeping wisteria tree on the hill just above our home. It is an exact replica of the one Katniss and I had once painted together when I'd taught her how to paint.

"C'mere," I stand and gently pull Katniss in front of the stool, gesturing for her to sit. She only hesitates a second before taking the seat. "You tried to teach me how to shoot. I can try to teach you how to paint."

I grab a chair and set it behind the stool to sit in. My legs spread, bracketing hers, our thighs touching as I reach around her and draw her gaze up to the canvas.

Selecting a brush, I place it in her hand.

"We've got some flowers to grow," I whisper against her neck and she shakes her head frantically.

"No, Peeta. Not this one. I don't want to mess up this painting."

I slip a finger under her chin and tilt our bodies and heads so we're facing each other. "This painting is for us. There is no way on earth you could ruin it."

No, no way to ruin it at all. If only Katniss knew how amazing our painting was. The tree before me now was a perfect version of the one we'd painted together that day. Seeing the tree with the deep blue and purple blooms elicits tears and soon I'm on the grass, weeping for the tree and the memory of us together. The moments flow over me and Katniss' voice changes in my mind to one of nostalgia and remembering. After several minutes of this, I wipe my eyes with my forearm like a child. It is clear this place is a mash-up of all the wonderful places we'd been together, and I feel guilty enjoying it without her. With a touch of embarrassment, I pull myself together and glance at Delly, who waits patiently at the threshold of my home.

"She'll be here one day, won't she?" I ask hopefully. "That's why everything that's here includes things she would love. I could have chosen anything…"

Delly practically skips over to where I'm laying and sits down next to me, legs crossed like a little girl. Only now do I notice that she is dressed all in white, a kind of light, linen tunic over loose, pants and sandals. The grass and dirt have no effect on the crispness of the material.

"Katniss will be here when her time comes. When I mentioned you were soul mates, I wasn't being metaphorical," she straightens up. "I want to do something with you. Stare at me and let your eyes blur."

I furrow my brow in confusion but do as she tells me. Suddenly, I see a halo of light emerge around the outline of her figure. It's nothing short of breathtaking - iridescent colors that are dominated by pinks and yellows dancing like butterflies in the light. I have the feeling I can see the joyful nature of her character the way I could taste her sense of humor. I reach my hand out to touch the laughing pixies.

"You're beautiful!" I laugh, my fingers disappearing in, what appears to me to be, an emanation of her life force.

"It's my aura," she confirms. "And now that you can see it, you will never be able to unsee it again. With time, you will be able to recognize others solely by their auras and not by their physical appearance, which is a construction of your mind," Delly tugs at my hand and I look down to see my own glow, the pattern of light dominated by warm oranges like the shade of a summer sunset interspersed with a rich, vibrant green that swirl like eddies in a pool. I flex my fingers, studying the patterns.

"That is your aura, Peeta," she whispers with a kind of awe. "This is the definitive evidence that you and Katniss are soulmates."

I stare at my hand, watching the dance of colors, the way the orange and green link and unlink in a kaleidoscope of rhythm that is mesmerizing to watch. Delly continues her explanation, "Katniss' aura and yours are synchronous. They vibrate at the same frequency and your colors and patterns compliment each other." Delly shakes her head in wonder. "Soul mates are somewhat rare. No one is sure how they are made but it is clear to me, from the way you hear her at this very moment, singing to you across the spheres, to the way your spirit world reflects her preferences to the harmonic resonance of your auras." She puts her hand to my cheek and I feel the warmth of her generous heart through the palm of her hand. "This is why you are having such a hard time letting her go."

I'm suddenly very tired. I look out over the mountains and everything is alight with an energy that makes each color more alive, every shaft of light more vibrant. It's all suddenly too much and my eyes flutter closed. "Just a few minutes, Delly," I whisper as a profound exhaustion overtakes me. She lifts me up from the grass and leads me into my house, which is a replica of the one I shared with Katniss. I walk through the open corridor, passing the large, airy sitting room with giant canvasses propped against the wall. The stone and marble kitchen with the island where Katniss and I always sat to eat, even though there was a perfectly suitable table. The study, full of Katniss' botany and plant books, her dried plant samples - leaves and flowers on pins in display cases. Delly takes me to the bedroom Katniss and I share and indicates the bed. I want to ask why I am feeling tired if I no longer have a human body but I can not articulate the words past my exhaustion.

"Though you are spirit, you are still a form of matter and energy. You will need periods of recuperation, though they will become less frequent. You are new to all of this so comprehending your environment will wear you out. Rest now," she sweeps a flop of curls from my forehead. "When you wake, you only have to call out and I'll appear."

I nod, my eyes drooping closed. It's only as I lose consciousness that I realize that in all the time Delly has been speaking to me, she hasn't been moving her lips.

XXXXXX

I hear Katniss' screams, even from far outside our home. Suddenly, I'm running, listening as she gasps and calls out my name. I race through our house, searching each room frantically, the sound of her cries surrounding me from all sides. As I come upon her study, her cries become a gurgling, choking sound, something so horrible, I feel nausea rise up in my throat.

"Katniss!" I cry out. A heavy thud thunders through the house and I search among the furniture to find her writhing on the floor, a giant python wrapped around her. I pull at the beast but his tongue, as long as his body, snaps at me, leaving a swath of fire where it makes contact with my skin. Katniss is turning pink, her eyes bloodshot, and I leap onto the snake, heedless of the pain to me. Soon it is me who is being strangled, while Katniss now lies unconscious. There are others around me now - children who lay limp on the floor in the same condition as Katniss, a boy with blond hair like mine and a girl who is the spitting image of Katniss.

I look into the eyes of the serpent as my chest burns, crushed in its deadly embrace and everything soon fades to black.

I wake with a start, sitting straight up in bed. I reflexively look to my left but I already know Katniss is not there, sleeping next to me. I imagine holding onto her as she coos in my ear, smoothing the tension of the nightmare away. When I search for her song, it suddenly floods my mind, a low, refrain of loneliness and loss. I grasp the pillow on her side of the bed and clutch it to me as if it were her body.

"I'm in heaven." I whisper to the pillow. "But it isn't much without you." I say this in response to her song as it continues uninterrupted.

"At least I have your voice," I whisper, letting it sway me as I rock the pillow back and forth in time to her forlorn melody.

XXXXX

Katniss

I dream of Peeta's fingers linked with mine, the sensations intense and overwhelming. I can feel him lying next to me. A sweet breeze blows over us, carrying the scents of jasmine blossoms and the forest. A lake shimmers at the bottom of the hill on which we recline and birds free-wheel in the sky. Ice capped mountains tower in the distance. He whispers to me and I laugh before everything goes misty and then black and I drift in oblivion for a time. When I wake, I look around me, confused. Someone has drained the color from our house. I lay in bed, curled into Peeta's warm body and cling to his shirt.

"Peeta," I whisper, listening closely to the hissing sounds that fill the hallways. "Peeta wake up. Please, wake up." I frantically shake him until his limp form rolls enough for me to see his blue lips and sightless, bloodshot eyes. I scream and leap from the bed.

"No, no, no, no, no," I chant mournfully while the hissing grows louder. Thoughtlessly, I turn and run from the room, race down the hallway to Prim's bedroom, throwing the door open and yelling for her to wake up. Yanking back the covers, I stifle another scream with my hand. Her face, identical to Peeta's in death. Wide, sightless, bloodshot eyes and blue lips.

The hissing is right behind me, I feel a tickle of a forked tongue on the back of my neck and swat at the disgusting sensation as I race from Prim's room, desperate to escape this nightmare. I fling open a door and come to a jarring halt.

"No," I whisper. "Not possible."

I am in a child's room. Two toddlers in two small beds. I tentatively reach a hand out and caress the blond curls of the boy, choking on my grief. He's dead, too. I know it without turning his face, his body terrifyingly cold and still. I don't bother checking the dark haired girl in the other bed. Somehow knowing what I'll find. I squeeze my eyes shut and whirl around to flee, but I can't.

I am trapped. Mirrors surround me on all sides and I stare, horrified, at my reflection as my tongue slithers out of my mouth. Forked and deadly.

I sit upright with Peeta's name on my lips, body covered in sweat. Then I hug my knees to my chest and tangle my fingers in my hair, trying not to hyperventilate or vomit. Rocking back and forth on the bed, I tell myself over and over:

"Not real. Not real! It was just a dream."

It started so wonderfully. A universe of color and intimacy with Peeta. I haven't felt that close to him since my shadow disappeared that day by his grave. And then the dream turned into something despicable. I have turned into something despicable.

My feet carry me almost immediately to the studio. I stand in the middle of the room, arms crossed to ward off chills that linger from my dream. Slowly, I turn, taking in the dozen or so canvases that I've added to or altered. They look exactly the same. I don't know what I'm expecting. Those strange words in my journal were written by my hand, if not by my will. Whatever mania possessed me to paint doesn't quite feel the same way. So this was probably fruitless.

A faint meow sounds and I look down to find Buttercup, winding his way around my ankles, his fur soft and comforting against my skin. I reach down to touch him and he darts away, springing up onto the worktable, still strewn with sketches, a couple of the altered paintings propped up on the surface. Buttercup turns before settling on top of the papers and focusing his yellow eyes back on me.

"You felt it, too. The shadow after he died. I know you did." He swishes his tail as if to suggest he has no clue what I'm talking about. Stubborn feline. "I saw you swatting at the air and mewling like you used to do. To get their attention. Peeta. And Prim."

His ears perk up and he mews again at the sound of their names, two of the few words, other than his own name and the word food, that he understands.

"They're dead, you stupid cat. We're not crazy. But they're dead and never coming back," the words taste foul and sound hollow as I turn and leave Buttercup to stare at the paintings.

There's little chance of me getting back to sleep, so even though it's only 3 A.M., I shower and get ready for work, boot up my laptop and check my university e-mail. Then I grade a couple student papers. My actions are mechanical, and although I get the work done, I feel…detached. Like those days you drive your car on autopilot and can't remember exactly how you got to your destination once you arrive.

I watch time tick by, swallow my small line of pills and head out to work. When I finally return home that evening, my body drained and limp, I sit in the driveway with my car still running and stare, only half-seeing, at our neighbors. I watch the father lift the daughter and toss her, squealing, pigtails swishing. The mother kneels by the azaleas with the son, pointing out something to him, maybe caterpillars or other insects, as he claps his hands in joy.

Dearest Peeta, I thought I had today under control. I was so proud of how I held it all together through an endless afternoon. Then I came home and I'm still not sure how I let the day unravel so quickly. I suppose the answer is that I never had it together to begin with. I'm just going through the motions of my life, waiting for the actions to have some kind of meaning again.

His studio has become my sanctuary. When staring across the kitchen table at empty chairs becomes too painful, like it did tonight, I eat dinner with the paint and canvases. An entire gallery of messages, an attempt to reach across the void or the miles. To let him know that he's still with me. And still wanted. I continue to add touches to them, even though I don't believe these messages reach anyone other than my battered psyche.

I haven't told the shrink about my new hobby, too afraid he'll tell me that it's unhealthy and I need to stop. I can't stop. Can't let it go. Can't let Peeta go. And in some way, this is also a connection to Prim, who'd begun to explore art with Peeta as well, and is present in the oil images almost as much as I am.

The lists aren't working anymore. I can't seem to focus on them long enough to finish, or they somehow morph into a list of regrets or things I've lost before I realize what I'm doing. The lists only make me feel worse. I turn to my calendar, something I used to be fastidious about maintaining, and flip the pages, looking for answers.

It gives me a flicker of hope and I drive to a pharmacy in the middle of the night, buying a couple different brands, just in case. The hope is slim at best. We didn't have much time between his birthday and the accident. And I know that stress or medications could be the reason I haven't had a period since before then.

Sequestered in our bathroom, I stare at the test, thinking of the dead children in my dreams, waiting for the second line to appear, double check the instructions. Twenty minutes later, a solitary line remains. Not pregnant. Discouraged, I store the unused tests under the sink and lay on the couch, staring up at the painting hanging over our fireplace. The test could be wrong.

Dearest Peeta, We wanted children one day. A family. It was something we wanted before we lost Prim. And after, we knew we could never replace her. But having children, moving forward, was a sort of promise to ourselves and to her that we'd live our life well but never forget her. I won't lie to you, I haven't exactly been dealing with this well. If there were nothing else, I think I might lose it. But there's this one last thread. I seem to be waiting for that last thread to either lead me somewhere or to be cut. Peeta, I'm scared. I don't know if I can do this without you. I'll probably be a shitty mother. You wouldn't want me to say that, but it's the truth.

Not pregnant. Not pregnant. Not pregnant.

They all come back negative. And then nature finally catches up and gives me the last sign, cutting the thread forever. Every last piece of Peeta has been stolen from me.

Dearest Peeta, My love. I don't know what to say. We won't have a family again. Not ever. I'm so sorry, Peeta. We both wanted this and then Prim was gone and I broke in half and couldn't give you what you so badly wanted. Not until it was too late. Maybe if we'd had more time. I will always regret not getting the chance to see you snuggle a tow-headed infant or listen to you coo an off-key lullaby before insisting that I handle the singing. I couldn't give that to you and now that you're not here anymore, it doesn't matter. Except to me.

My additions to the paintings grow more frantic. Fuzzy blue dandelions, scattered wishes, in a panel of abstract shapes, one of Peeta's attempts to expand or test his style. A sailboat on a lake with a lonely figure at the bow. A man with sunshine curls. I am compelled. Consumed.

At night, I sleep on the couch. Or rather, lay on it. Because I can no longer bear to inhabit the bed we shared. I am tortured with the memories between its sheets. Some that make sense, and some that don't. Fantastic landscapes that seem familiar but are no place I know. Slithering snakes and mangled metal. Nights spent with Peeta.

No longer able to tell when I sleep and when I wake, nightmares and life merge. Smeared just like the version of myself I added to his painting. The dreams and nightmares feel more real than the day.

XXXXX

Peeta

"I thought heaven was a happy place?" I ask Delly as we move along the path of the small stream, a sliver of water dividing two hills.

"Well, this isn't quite Heaven yet. There are nine spheres. Earth is known as the Fourth Sphere, the one in the middle. It's the place where the soul will do it's greatest work of growth, because that's our purpose. For each sphere we traverse, our soul becomes more refined until it is pure enough to reach the Ninth Sphere, where you contemplate eternity. This place here is the Sixth Sphere. It is the place where unconflicted souls will spend their time in purification and self-knowledge."

This configuration completely blows me away. "Was Dante onto something, then, with his nine bolgias of hell?"

Delly chuckles again, filling the air with the lightness of her sound. "Dante has an active imagination. Hell is nothing as he envisioned it, unless you consider The Inferno as one, elaborate metaphor. No, hell here is really self-created. Souls who have unresolved traumas or those who refuse to accept their deaths go to the Lower Spheres for their own process of purification. They may take centuries but most make it up through the spheres again. It usually involves reincarnation, though. It is necessary to play out those traumas in the Earthly realm before moving up."

"Reincarnation? You mean, you can go back into the world again?" This new reality never ceases to amaze me.

"Yes, it is absolutely possible and, in some cases, necessary, to the soul. Each soul has a journey, a path that they must complete to reach purification. For some souls, reincarnation must take place to resolve issues from previous existences. Otherwise, their journey is stunted."

This was a lot to take in at once and I lapse into silence as I ponder her description. Maybe if I reincarnated, I could find Katniss and be with her again. I didn't even care if it was in a romantic capacity but it would put an end to our separation.

"As to your other question," Delly interjects and I know full well she had read exactly what I was thinking. "For most, this sphere is full of joy. But you are still missing Katniss, so you are not able to really immerse yourself in your environment. However, time works a little differently up here than on Earth. She'll be here before you know it."

I stop in my walking to study Delly. "You say that with such certainty," I say suspiciously.

"Well, of course, silly! Everybody dies," she gives me a sidelong glance before giggling. "Oh, alright, you've figured me out! While you were sleeping, I asked about your Katniss."

This gives me pause. "You asked about Katniss? What does that mean?"

"Well, people here learn different tasks that help keep things organized. There are Guardians, like myself, Comforters, who work in the lower regions with more difficult souls, Trackers, Builders…"

"Okay, Delly, I get it!" I exclaim impatiently, immediately regretting my tone. "What did you find out about Katniss?"

"Only that she is destined for a long life and will join us in her seventieth year," she smiles excitedly when she sees my reaction.

"A good, long time. Did you get any other details?" I ask, wondering if they are good years, if she moves on and maybe begins a family with someone else. Though I know this is something that would do her well, I am already jealous of whoever will get to share her life.

Delly shakes her head. "The future is malleable, and details are vague but the trajectory of her life has been measured out and she will be here in time. And time here is very strange. A lifetime is but a moment in this Sphere."

My heart leaps with joy at the prospect that our horrible separation and pain will be at an end. And yet, there is a vague apprehension that will not leave me alone. Katniss' song has not changed - there is no evidence that her vigil for the dead has ended. Delly worries about me moving on but what about Katniss? A life of mourning seems unendurable and suddenly, I want nothing more than for Katniss to end her grieving and move on.

I'm seized with a thought that lifts my spirits. "Prim! She has to be around here somewhere! Can I see her?"

Delly's appearance quivers, her outline shimmering before settling back into her solid form. "You'll see her soon, I promise."

I need a few moments to process everything I've learned so far. Delly nods with understanding, as if I had asked out loud for a moment alone.

"Call and I will arrive," she says. With a blink, she is gone.

I move to the wisteria tree in the distance, eager to get close to the painting that had meant so much to us. I think on the night we modified the painting, and see, at the foot of the tree, those imperfect flowers that we'd added together. I take a deep breath and smell the jasmine of that night so long ago and Katniss' voice in my mind becomes louder. She's calling me, looking for me, but I am no better than a shadow on a painting. I can't reach her and her voice both soothes me and fills me with a desperation for what I can't have.

I sink beneath the deep purple and blue of the hanging boughs and wish fervently for Katniss. I miss her. I long to touch her. It's ridiculous to think I can be happy without her, even here. The idea of it makes the most perfect heaven unbearable. I need her and I think I say the words out loud. There is so much to see, so much to experience here. I am more than an artist, more than a fallible human being. I'm a living extension of the universe. It should fill me with glory, gratitude and awe. But it is empty without her. It's horrible to wish the death of someone you love but if that is the only way to have her...

A shift in the grass behind me tells me that I am not alone. I look up and almost die on my feet when I see it is Katniss herself. She is dressed as she was that night we painted the tree. Her tiny shorts. Tank top. Long, flowing black hair. I rub my eyes, not believing what they tell me but when I open them, she is still there. Overcome with longing, I launch myself from my place on the grass, striding across the open hill to embrace her.

"How?" I ask but the word dies on my lips as my arms pass through thin air. I don't get to caress her skin, or play with her hair, or grasp her hips and make her mine. What I have conjured is an apparition, a lie. Now I understand the danger of self-deception, loneliness and sadness. I'm going mad even here and the idea of it provokes a rage in me.

"What kind of heaven is this anyway?" I scream into the air as the mirage fades. "What's the point of Paradise if you carry every hurt, every love in your heart as if you were still alive? And why do I have to do this alone?!" I sink back to the ground and it all becomes unbearable. I look up to see Delly staring down at me with pity in her eyes.

"You're not alone," she whispers quietly and there are real tears in her eyes.

"But without her, I might as well be. You don't know what it means." I look up at her, pleading for understanding, wondering if anyone could ever understand me. I perceive how singular my and Katniss' situation was. How thoroughly worthless heaven and hell and everything would be if none of the living could let go of each other. "I feel like someone has ripped something essential from my soul and everything has become...heavier, more unbearable than before. Even the things that should bring me pleasure are a curse to me now. Where is my heaven, Delly?"

She shakes her head, true confusion writ across her face. "I don't know, Peeta. You are such an anomaly, like few I've ever seen before. Others take comfort that their loved ones are safe, that they will join them. They are able to release each other. But you and Katniss…" she sinks down on the grass next to me and it is the first time I notice the distress of her aura.

"I'm sorry," I say, sincerely. "I am not much fun to be around."

Delly laughs, her eyes twinkling. "It's okay. I am learning so much about you. You are defying everything I know about this place and it is a growing experience for me, too. I can see you're going to cause all kinds of trouble," she laughs. "Hey, do you want to see some constellations? It will take your mind off of things. I bet you never thought you could get a close-up view of Andromeda."

I shake my head, feeling better but still a long way from being well. "I think I'll just head back home and try to paint. It's always revived me in the past."

XXXXX

Even when I sleep, I hear her song. The night we painted the wisteria tree together, I could not remember what was playing in the background. I knew it was old, a WW2 ballad. But now, in the gauzy, purple recesses of my half-sleeping mind, I watch her sway to the music and sing along:

Sometimes I wonder why I spend

The lonely nights dreaming of a song

The melody haunts my reverie

And I am once again with you

When our love was new

And each kiss an inspiration

But that was long ago

And now my consolation

Is in the stardust of a song

Did she really sing it that night? Or is my imagination, desperate for contact with her, embellishing the memory to attain the mood of loss that I'd come to associate with her?

Not just her song. Her face. Her long, dark hair. The grey eyes clear as running mountain water, melted from snowdrifts and warmed by the sun. I get up from my place on the stool, and reach for her but my hand passes through her as if she were a mirage. The same mirage I'd seen earlier today, placed into the dream landscape of my new home, by the same imagination that had envisioned her song. An illusion of my lonely heart.

The memory is real. I've done this already. I've been here, in this room, on this stool, held her between my arms and legs. But her image won't solidify. She's singing but she's covered in ash now. I reach for her again, thinking "I'll fix this. I'll take care of you…" but she dissipates as I claw the air for her and the only thing I have left is her song. I know when I wake, I will hear it everywhere I go. Had I been mortal, I am sure it would have driven me mad.

XXXXX

Katniss

Always.

Peeta whispers the word and I search for him, pushing through violet mist. I catch the scent of cinnamon and dill. Oil paints. His hand caresses my cheek and when I reach up to hold it in place, it dissolves into the mist. I cry out his name and the sound dies in the clouds before the amorphous purple takes the drooping shape of wisteria blooms.

I hear Peeta calling for me, but my tongue has grown thick and fuzzy. Dry as sandpaper. Ineffectual.

When I try to shift the wisteria blooms out of my path, they shatter into thousands of iridescent shards, beautiful and dangerous, as they float in the air around me to the soundtrack of screeching tires and grinding, colliding metal. Then...silence.

I don't remember opening my eyes. Nor do I remember laying on the couch. But I must have at some point after eating a pitiful lunch. What did I eat?

My gaze hones in on the painting in front of me. The centerpiece of our sitting room. The puffy purple blossoms on the tree recall the mist of my dream. Or hallucination.

Reliving the last sounds I heard on the phone with Peeta has become a staple of my nightmares. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists against my temples, trying to banish the memories. Real or not real. I listened to the only man I've ever loved die.

I can't do this to myself. Thinking about it will make me go mad. So I tear my eyes open and search about the room. My limbs heavy and almost numb, I am unable to move. Unable to seek a change of scenery to distract myself.

Looking back up at the painting, I feel a faint flicker of joy. The whisper of a memory. It will have to work. I force my eyes to see only our painting and instead relive in my mind the night that we finished it.

XXXXX

It's a sweltering summer night. I have to call tomorrow to get someone to come look at our air conditioner. For now, every window in the house is thrown wide, admitting a fragrant breeze from our garden. I sashay into Peeta's studio, my hips swaying lightly to the music, the melancholy lyrics of Stardust slipping through my lips. He glances up from what he's working on and smiles at me, watches me as I make my way towards him, only turning back to the massive canvas on the easel when I come to stand behind him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I examine the canvas while he mixes paints, hips still moving, although I stop singing.

It's our lakeside spot at Tahoe. He's been working on it for a couple of days now and has already finished the trunk and branches of the tree. The sky glows in the vibrant hues of sunset. All that remains to be painted is the abundance of wisteria blooms.

"How do you manage to bring these things to life in such detail?"

"I guess I just have an eye for beauty," he replies, turning his head enough to look at me from the corner of his eye, a playful smile flitting over his mouth, his voice soft and low. "I could show you, if you want."

"I don't know," I bite my lip and hedge his suggestion, leaning my cheek against his soft t-shirt. He smells of cinnamon and dill, lingering aromas of his day in the bakery.

"C'mere," he stands and gently pulls me in front of the stool, gesturing for me to sit. I only hesitate a second before taking the seat. "You tried to teach me how to shoot. I can try to teach you how to paint."

Peeta grabs a chair and sets it behind the stool for him to sit. His legs spread, bracketing mine, our thighs touching as he reaches around me and draws my gaze up to the canvas. Selecting a brush, Peeta places it in my hand.

"We've got some flowers to grow," he whispers against my neck and I shake my head frantically.

"No, Peeta. Not this one. I don't want to mess up this painting."

He slips a finger under my chin and tilts our bodies and heads so we're face to face. "This painting is for us. There is no way on earth you could ruin it."

Then he takes my hand in his, guiding it to the paint, whispering instructions as we dip the bristles in smooth colors and sweep off the excess.

I'm not paying any attention to his words, just the low hum of them deep in my center, and the warmth of his breath against the shell of my ear and my cheek, and the feel of his hand surrounding mine. I suck in a halting breath as we dab paint onto the canvas, and Peeta rests a hand on my shoulder, massaging gently until I relax and smile at the flowers taking shape under our brush.

Swishes of purple and he kisses my temple. A dab of a deeper shade and his hand skims down over my arm, twining our fingers together and resting our left hands on his knee. Our wedding rings clink together and my smile widens as I think of the matching inscriptions on them while the tree blooms brighter with every stroke.

I am hypnotized. Delirious. My skin itches, ready to combust. I ache for his touch. For the same feather soft touches of the paint brush over every cell of my skin and between my legs, only with his tongue instead of synthetic bristles. My breathing picks up at the thought, and Peeta's fingers rub between mine, a lazy imitation of what I hope we'll be doing later. He continues to murmur to me about brush technique and texture, how to create the right gradient of shades to mimic the wisteria.

Finally, he pulls our hands back from the canvas.

"What do you think, Katniss?" his soft words tickle my ear, and I hum my approval. He quickly cleans the brush, and I shift to look at him.

"Are we done?"

"No," he chuckles, setting the brush down and cupping my face between his wide palms. "We have to wait for it to dry a little."

Then his lips are on mine in a slow caress. I grip his thighs, my bare feet curling over the rungs of the stool. As the kiss grows frantic, his hands drop and then sneak under my tank top, up to palm my breasts. He groans into my mouth, dips his tongue in then retreats. I arch into his touch as he rubs his thumbs in circles around my nipples, coaxing them into tight peaks. The craving for him spreads with every pass of his flesh over mine. It thrums through my veins, and I need to know how badly he wants me, too. I push my hips into his and smile at the feel of his hardening length against my backside.

"Katniss," he says in between kisses. "Don't...be...quiet...this...time."

"What?" I ask, desire clouding my understanding.

"You're always so quiet. I want to hear you shout," he whispers as his hands lower to my waist and lift my shirt. I help him remove it and then his hands are on me again, steadying me on the stool yet sending the room spinning with a simple caress. He continues to speak between the open mouthed kisses he leaves burning over my shoulders. "I want you to tell me exactly where you want me. How hard. How fast. How deep. Until it feels so good that biting your lip or kissing me isn't enough to stop you from screaming your release."

"Peeta," I gasp as his hands hurriedly unbutton and lower the zipper of my shorts. "The windows are open."

"I don't care. Besides, it's late." And then one hand dips beneath the waistband of my panties, seeking out the wet heat waiting for him. The other returns to my breast and grips it almost roughly while he groans into my hair. "Tell me, Katniss. Tell me what you want."

"Not good with words," I whine in protest and his fingers start to retreat. "No!" I shout and buck my hips into his hand. I can feel him grinning against my ear where he's nipping and then licking to soothe the sting.

"Say it, Katniss," he demands. I've never really directed Peeta in this before. He always seemed to just know what I wanted and how to provide it. We've always felt so strangely in tune. But he's right about the other part. I frequently shush him or stifle any sounds I make, afraid of someone hearing us. Hearing me. Why was I afraid to voice how strongly I felt the bond between us in the vulnerable moments created in the haze of passion?

"Say it, Katniss," he commands more harshly, his fingers rolling and pinching my nipple, causing a spike of faint pain followed by a rush of pleasure that rockets straight to my core.

"Your fingers," I squeak.

"Where?" he pushes me.

I take a few gasping breaths before I can force the words from my throat. "Inside me."

"That's it. Just like that," he praises and parts my folds with his fingers before sliding first one, then another inside me. He uses his other hand, spread over my lower abdomen, to bind me to him, so I can't move. Any pleasure I receive will be from Peeta's hands and lips. He's taken away my ability to alter the sensations and movements, forcing me to verbalize my desires, not so I can take them, but so he can give them to me.

Peeta's fingers curl inside and around me as they pump in and out. I whimper and try to wriggle, but Peeta only tightens his hold on me and tsks in my ear before kissing his way down my throat to suck on the pulse point at the base of my neck.

"Tell me exactly what you want."

"Ung, clitoris," I groan and then his thumb is there, brushing breezy touches over the spot I want him to mash his thumb into and use to wring me dry. He must know this. He's just teasing me. It feels so good, though; I am lightness anchored to him through touch. But after a few minutes, I'm desperate. "Harder, Peeta!"

"Yes," he moans as he complies with my wishes. "Keep talking, Katniss."

My head falls back on his shoulder and I pant towards the ceiling while his fingers push me higher.

"Come on, Katniss. Sing for me, baby."

"Too hot. Too tight," I gasp and his motions falter for a second.

"You want your shorts off?" his question is a breathy whisper and I nod. His fingers pull out from me and he holds me steady on my feet while I shimmy out of the shorts and panties. Completely naked, I expect us to move elsewhere, but Peeta tugs me back onto the stool, tight against his crotch and spreads my legs wide, draping them over his.

As soon as I'm settled, his hands resume their torment, the wet noises of his fingers inside me shockingly loud in the quiet night. My small, quiet gasps join them, an erotic song that Peeta conducts with lips and hands.

"Oh...god. Let me move, Peeta. Please."

"No. Tell me how to make you come. Do you want me inside of you?"

"Not yet," I say with a shake of my head. "Not yet. But faster. Deeper. Oh!"

His ministrations draw a few noisy moans from me before I manage to bite my lip, silencing them. Peeta's shoulder jounces my head and then his lips part mine, invading with tongue, and when he pulls back, he nips my lower lip to scold me for stopping myself.

"More," I whisper, and his hand gradually takes on a frantic, impossible pace. My legs press down against his as I struggle to lift my hips into his touch. I whine at him. "Almost. I need..."

"You need what, Katniss? This?" He draws his fingers out and pinches my clitoris, rolling it between his soaked digits and tugging a little. I keen loudly and jump violently in his arms. My hands fly up behind me and grip his hair, pulling on the flaxen strands as more noises soar from deep inside me. "Fuck, yes," he moans lowly as he repeats the motions with more urgency and sends me spiraling into the depths of need.

I'm still seeing spots when I feel him working the fastenings of his own shorts and stop him with my words.

"Not yet," I say again, unsure where this boldness comes from. It is intoxicating and thrilling. "I want your mouth on me first. Your tongue."

He inhales sharply, but stands and moves me to the chair, kicking the stool aside before he kneels between my legs. Peeta's hands run from my knees up my thighs to the juncture of my hips. I can see his erection straining against his paint splattered shorts and the lust burning in his eyes. He looks up at me and grins wickedly.

Then he lowers his mouth to my lips, tracing the tip of his tongue over the wet folds. My hands clench the edge of the chair, and I try so hard not to grind into his face. His fingers hold me wide open as his tongue dips inside me, drawing out liquid want and savoring it. He smacks his lips before taking another taste. I whimper and watch his head bob between my legs, waiting for the moment when he looks up to gauge my response or demand instruction.

When his blue eyes find mine, I lick my lips and speak.

"Stop teasing and make me come again."

Peeta groans and devours me, his tongue lapping at me and his lips sucking. I move my hips in time with his mouth as flames lick through me once more. The urgency of his mouth contrasts with the languid circles his thumbs draw on my inner thighs and only serve to heighten my need.

"I need you inside me right after I come," I tell him. He glances up, but doesn't acknowledge what I said, instead doubling the pressure of his tongue as it swirls over my aching clitoris. I ache for another release and Peeta seems to know that.

"Suck on it," I say, shocking myself. Unable to face him after my wanton demand, my eyes dart up to our painting. He does exactly as I ask, and my vision becomes nothing but the gauzy violet clouds of wisteria blooms. I feel nothing but the fluttering of my flesh against his tongue and the vibrations of Peeta's moans that prolong my release and draw a strangled cry from me.

I float on those clouds while Peeta yanks off his shorts and shirt. I smile and move sinuously as he pulls me to the edge of the chair and hikes my legs up to my chest, pressing them between us as he pushes into me with a slow, elegant thrust.

My walls clench him, and I'm not sure I've even finished one peak before Peeta drives me towards the next with his hips and his cock. Sweat pools between us as he pants harshly, gasping my name and flinging his head back in bliss.

"Tell me," he moans.

"This." I grip his cheeks, slick with perspiration and taut with effort. Digging my nails in his flesh, I pull him into me and shout with the pleasure. It builds at a frightening pace, flooding my abdomen and chest with something so bright, I dare not look at it. He kisses me, desperate and hungry, and I taste my own desire on his lips and tongue before he releases me with a ragged moan.

"Katniss, I can't last much longer. You feel too good," he grits out, clenching his jaw as I lose all control of my vocal chords, the desperate, greedy sounds that fly from my throat and bounce off the tile floor unlike any other I've made before. I slide my hand up his back, feeling every ridge and chord of straining muscle under my palms and fingertips. Tangling my fingers in his hair, I hold his forehead close to mine, witnessing the fight to hold himself back in his expressions, feeling the effort beneath my hand gripping his ass. He whispers to me, soft, loving words that land in my heart and in the very center of my being as I crest with a long cry of his name, his selflessness my undoing.

Peeta grips my backside to keep me from falling out of the chair as I buck beneath him and he grunts in time with his frantic thrusts. My walls flutter erratically around him. I absently note tears leaking from the corners of my eyes as his motions fire aftershocks in me. Wave after wave rolls through me, blocking out all that exists beyond us, this room, the pounding of my heart and the indecent squeals emanating from my mouth.

"Oh, Katniss," he moans out as his hips slow to lazy thrusts, and I feel him pulsing inside me, filling me.

The chair slips a little beneath me, and Peeta lifts me from it. He settles us on the floor so I am sprawled on his chest with my legs between his, the tile floor cooling our fevered skin. Peeta links our hands together again, pulling them to his mouth so he can kiss each of my knuckles. We lay there, tucked irretrievably into a close embrace as the clock ticks the night away.

I inhale the scent of jasmine and crepe myrtle on the humid breeze, mingling with the fragrance of our sex and the paints. I rest my chin on his pectoral and look down at him. With his eyes closed and lungs still heaving to draw in air, Peeta is beautiful, his cheeks and torso dappled with a pink flush. Then he opens one eye and gives me a slow, satisfied smile.

"I think the paint is dry enough to continue, now."

I laugh merrily and pepper kisses over him. "We should have known this would happen, given the subject of our painting."

Peeta's eyes sparkle in mirth, and I know he's thinking not just of the time we peeled off wet bathing suits and joined bodies in the shade of the tree, but also our last morning at Tahoe, when we paid the tree one last visit and got caught in a sudden rain shower, choosing to pass the time kissing under that tree, protected by the wide branches and layers of leaves and draping blossoms. I can still feel the cool rain dampening our hair and the scorching heat of his lips on mine. He sighs happily and looks up at the tree being reborn in our home.

"I love you, Katniss."

I shift myself to look directly in his eyes, needing him to know what I say next is the truth.

"I love you, Peeta. Always."

Peeta grins and pulls me down for another kiss.

XXXXX

The memory finishes playing across my eyes at a rapid pace. Peeta tickling me as I laugh and squirm, the paint brush clutched in my hand and his teasing as we smeared a few of the flowers, added some at the base of the tree because we could. His insistence that the imperfections were what made it perfect to him. Peeta hanging the finished painting in a prominent spot in our sitting room, silencing my protests with kisses and pleading eyes that I couldn't refuse.

I am suddenly filled with new purpose. I've been adding to the wrong paintings. Unwilling to change the ones with real meaning to them, I have been altering ones he hadn't finished or had scrapped. Ones I could partially view as dispensable.

My body is sluggish as I peel myself from the couch and grab a step ladder, wrenching the painting off the wall and taking it to the studio. It takes me a moment to find the larger easel, but when I do, I quickly set it up with our wisteria tree displayed and ready. My muscles have awoken with adrenaline or purpose, I cannot be sure.

With little thought, I mix paints. Varying shades of orange and brown. A little white and some spring green. Yellow. A touch of red. Then I set brush to canvas before I can change my mind. It requires great concentration because I still do not want to ruin this painting. As I work, my eyes flicker to the spots I know are there. A few smudges or smears, misshapen blooms that show my hand in the painting of this scene. The spots that caused my brow crease in frustration and Peeta's warm chuckle to fill my ears and tease my scowl into a smile.

By the time I am done, stepping back to admire my work, I have to flex my fingers to ease the ache that has taken up residence in their joints. A soft, orange blanket edged in red spreads out over the grass, two pairs of hiking boots discarded beside it. And dandelions have sprung to life around the tree. A sudden melancholy sweeps through me as I am blindsided with the realization that those two pairs of hiking boots will never again be tossed carelessly aside together for a sunset swim or a romp in the grass.

"Why do I think you can see this?" My voice is hoarse and overly loud in the silent house. "Why do I think you can hear me?"

Then...I whisper the lyrics as I wait.

Beside the garden wall

When stars are bright

You are in my arms

The nightingale tells his fairy tale

Of paradise where roses grew

Though I dream in vain

In my heart it will remain

My stardust melody

The memory of love's refrain

I'm not even certain what it is that I'm waiting for.

XXXXX

Peeta

I stumble out of the house into the fresh air of the morning. This perpetual daylight had been wearing on me and I asked Delly if this was something I could change. I was still close to my mortal life and needed the rhythm of sunrise and sunset, day and night.

"Mind is everything here!" she exclaimed happily.

So now, my universe has a sun and a moon that mimic the movement of those bodies on Earth. They make me feel more human.

The forest has grown while I slept, reaching the north end of the house. I stand on the threshold of our home and stare at the new growth, startled at its appearance. Until now, I had full control of the landscape and I willed things to grow in the normal way plants had of doing on earth. I would have seasons. I would have something that approximates the climate I was accustomed to.

Now, beneath our wisteria tree lay a blanket and discarded boots. I rub my eyes, though my perception, as Delly taught me, was no longer dependent on them. The act of pressing my eyelids was a throwback to when I had a body. I sprint towards the hill and see the field of dandelions that now covers it. They are strange flowers - nothing like dandelions I'd remember from home. They are smeared and somewhat undefined, as if they hadn't been sure if they were flowers or blobs of color.

As if they'd been painted…

I freeze in my tracks when I see in detail the picnic blanket and two pairs of boots. My heart, or what I perceive as my heart, races in my chest. I remember that blanket, those boots, the scene beneath the wisteria tree so many years ago.

"Delly!" I cry out.

She materializes next to me. "Peeta?"

I point with a shaky finger at the blanket and boots, the dandelions dotting the landscape, and ask her wordlessly, What is this?

"Did you add these?" she asks with concern.

I shake my head, sinking to my knees to grasp at one of those tender petals, Katniss' song strong in my head. "I woke and found them here."

Delly furrows her brow in real confusion. "If I didn't know better, I'd say someone has added something to your reality."

I know the answer but I can't say it. I know now why I hear her music, why I dream of her every single night. Why I reach for her and cannot touch her.

"She's talking to me, Delly! She's trying to communicate with me!" I choke on the words. It's what I want more than anything in the world.

"I've never seen this before. I've never even heard of this before. Communication across the spheres - that's not supposed to be possible. To travel to the lower spheres is the privilege of guardians, comforters - souls trained to function in those regions. But to be influenced so heavily by someone who is still earth-bound. I have no answers for you!"

I should be happy. I should welcome these signs - Katniss is trying to reach out to me! But instead, I am filled with a cold dread. I shiver and impulsively look down at my hands, at the aura that surrounds me. I can't explain it, but I felt the distress. The pattern is erratic and lacks the elegant symmetry of my aura of only several weeks ago.

"Delly, this doesn't feel right. Something's wrong with Katniss," I say, and now I'm desperate. The dandelions are heavy and undefined, the stalks of varying thicknesses. The imagination that conceived these flowers lacked my talent for verisimilitude. It was amateur and yet, they were the most beautiful dandelions I'd ever seen.

I crawl to where the blanket lay, together with the discarded shoes. It was the same one as from our trip to Lake Tahoe. "We have to help her!" I say, the fear rising up in me. "I have to find a way to communicate with her." I pick up the blanket and shake it out, waving it like a flag on the hill.

"I see you!" I shout into the open hills. "I'm here! I exist!" I repeat myself until I'm hoarse.

Delly only stares sadly at me and after a time, I accept that my actions are futile. I lay the blanket carefully on the ground again, fingering the worn boots, the ones she wore on our trip holding my attention. Delly tries to distract me. She suggests a trip to the city, to meet others like us. She thinks I'm ready for the company of others. But I could care less. Katniss was trying to talk to me and I need to stay close by for any more of her messages. The music, the dreams, the tree - I hadn't understood before but I know now. I have to stay here and try in every way to reach back to her.

XXXXX

Katniss

It must be late. Past midnight, I think. My legs are beginning to cramp and Buttercup has long since abandoned me to my solitary vigil. And still, nothing happens. I really must be crazy to think something would happen.

As quickly as the certainty that altering this painting was what I needed to do arrived, it abandons me just as swiftly. I leave the painting and go into our bedroom, glare at the neatly made bed. It mocks me with nightmares and memories of things I can no longer touch. Peeta's lips, his hands, his hair. I can't sleep here any more than I have been on the couch. Everywhere I go, there's a piece of Peeta or Prim. They are woven irrevocably into the fabric of my life and no amount of rending or death will remove them.

Turning, I face the mirror hanging on the wall and examine the stranger looking back at me. I try to remember who I am or who I was, but it doesn't seem to matter. The person I see has destroyed everything she once held dear. The longer I stare at her, the emptier I become, until I grab a vase from the dresser and hurl it at the mirror.

It shatters under the impact, along with the vase. Shards of both shimmering and reflective glass cascade to the floor and litter the dark wood surface, interspersed with the begonias I cut from our garden just two days ago. I choke on a sob and then stifle it down. Still nothing. No change, no shadow. No words in my head.

Returning to the studio, I narrow my eyes at the painting. The one that meant everything to me. I finally found a way to ruin it and it doesn't even matter. Not really. Peeta's gone, taking whatever we had between us with him.

"You can't see this, can you? You can't see any of it."

I search the cabinets on the opposite wall until I find what I'm looking for and then splash the canvas with undiluted turpentine. The pain I feel is immediate and acute and pervading as the paint begins to run in mangled streaks of color until they mix together to grey, hopelessly marring our beautiful creation. I stumble backwards until I hit the table and grip it's edges to keep from crumbling to the ground.

XXXXX

Peeta

All I can do is scream. The sky has turned stormy and black against my will. Clouds swirl overhead in anger, the wind howling in agony. I run outside, for the first time feeling real fear. I had not made this happen - I hated thunderstorms and lightning. It's midnight as I envision midnight - a moon high in the sky that is now obscured by the tempest gathering overhead.

The focus of the storm's rage is on the tree and I watch as lightning burns angrily from the sky. There is more than just wind and rain in the air - there is desperation and suffering, as if they were spirits whipped by the wind that now thrashes me, wind that was more than the wind you feel on earth, wind that wounds the spirit and scars the soul.

A powerful blast of lightning strikes the tree. I run towards it, screaming into the storm, my grief bordering on madness as the leaves turn to ash. They fall to the ground, mixing with the rain to run in rivulets of once blue and purple into the churning stream at the foot of the hill.

"Katniss!" I bellow, her song rising in my ears, the song choked with agony. It's wordless, only a low humming that fills me with the vibrations of insect wings; angry insects that will pierce my skin and plunge me into a state of nightmarish hallucinations until I can no longer tell what is real or not in my world.

As all the colors of the tree are drained by lightning and rain, my hope drains away with it. I sink to my knees, searching for the a dandelion, a flower, anything that still remains of the additions she made. But I grasp nothing but naked mud and sob. I don't know exactly what it is but I know I am a witness to something tragic, and I am helpless to stop it. I watch hope die. It isn't a quiet or painless death but full of anguish and fear and destruction until the world must acknowledge the gaping wound that now resides in its place.

XXXXX

Katniss

Dearest Peeta, I spend my nights waiting for a caress on my cheek that will never come. A kiss ingrained in my very being that I will never feel again. Instead, my search for you yields nothing but serpents' tongues, mirages, and shattered glass. I'm so sorry I couldn't save Prim. Or you. I'm sorry I never got to say 'Goodbye.' I don't even know if you heard me say 'I love you' before you died. What do we do when we have nothing left to live for? When I stare in the mirror, I see nothing. Just a broken woman with no spark or life to her. A hollow of dead brush where flowers used to grow.

Glancing at the clock, I cap my pen and curl in the bed with the journal clutched to my breast. It's close to midnight. Time to sleep. I remind myself that Prim's cat is safe with the neighbors. A loving family. Then I close my eyes and begin to sing, an old song from my childhood. One that haunted me when my father voiced it in his lilting tones. My mother hated this song. But it always spoke to me in some deep way, as though the lyrics belonged in my bones and echoing from my throat as they do now.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three…

XXXXX

Peeta

I stand in the daylight and stare at the charred remains of the tree. The leaves are gone and the flowers have disappeared. I search for the blanket and the boots, which I'd carefully stored away in the house but they are gone also. Katniss is singing, but it is low and soft. The melody meanders, stuck on the refrain Are you, are you/Coming to the tree.

I want to tell her Yes, I'm here but you've taken the tree away. It had to have been you, Katniss. Who else would know what that tree represented to me? To us? Who else knew that that tree was the symbol of our survival, that we'd made it past Prim, past our grief and had chosen to create life anew? Who knew that every dandelion in the world was my promise of love, made manifest in tender, yellow petals? The world that you inhabit now is littered with my promises, promises I couldn't keep. And so, nothing remains but this charred reminder.

She continues to sing softly in my mind. Are you, are you/Coming to the tree? It is at once a plaintive song and an accusation. You promised Always, it seems to say. You promised Always.

And then her singing stops.

Day 6 of 7 Coming soon!

As always, thank you to abbythebear and solasvioletta for your excellent beta work!

Stardust (1929) Lyrics by Mitchell Parish

The Hanging Tree (2010) Lyrics by Suzanne Collins