Apparently to her, it feels like I have a fever, but I feel fine. Maybe that's partly because I've been staring at the definition of beauty for more than a few hours, but I don't mention that. I lie and insist that I was keeping hydrated while she slept, but evidently the water still feels full. She makes me drink so much water that I feel like I'm going to explode, and gives me several pills to take. She does what she can with the burns and stings, and finally she kneels and unwraps my leg.
It doesn't hurt, on the upside.
On the other hand, I know I have blood poisoning, and Katniss knows it too. "Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," she says uneasily, trying not to show alarm.
"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss, even if my mother's not a healer," I tell her without taking my eyes off of the ruined mess of a leg I'm left with. A leg with frightening red streaks creeping up the angry crimson skin, a leg that I wonder if I'll ever use again.
"You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta," she says defiantly, looking up and into my eyes. "They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win."
When we win? I know well that we won't win. It will be Katniss that gets out of here alive. They may have said that two tributes from the same District could win if they were the last two standing, but I won't make it that far. By the time she's home, I'll be long gone.
So it's with great effort that I relax my face and say, "Yes, that's a good plan."
"You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," she tells me, standing up and grabbing the pot.
"Don't light a fire; it's not worth it," I call after her as she makes her way out of the cave. The thought of someone seeing the fire, the thought of losing her because she's making soup (for me!) is unbearable.
"We'll see," she says without looking over her shoulder. I sigh.
As soon as she's out of my sight, I become much more aware of my surroundings. I realize that it's positively steaming hot in the cave, despite the moistness and shadows. I drag myself out of the sleeping bag and smooth out the wrinkles of it on the floor, then position myself on top of it with my leg stretched out in front of me. It occurs to me that I should feel cooler now that I'm out of the sleeping bag, but I don't. In fact, I realize that I feel warmer than before, and I'm starting to feel queasy again. I'm wondering exactly how long the soup that Katniss is making will stay in my stomach, and my insides squirm uncomfortably at the thought of eating anything right now. I lean back on the rocks, moaning softly, wondering if the cameras are trained on me. Surely they have been lately, because two tributes in love are the most entertaining, but a sick tribute alone is a boring tribute.
I wait for a while, wishing that the heat would let up for a while, and then I wonder if it's really hot at all. Is my fever so bad that it makes me feel like the air around me is scorching? Does Katniss feel it too? I reach over for the water and take a small drink, putting it back in place just as Katniss returns.
"Do you want anything?" she asks as she wrings out the cloths that didn't make me feel cooler at all.
"No, thank you," I reply. The only things I really want are out of our grasp. Medicine, proper care, food that can be counted on. Then I realize that a distraction is what we do have access to. We both need to go back to District 12, even if it's only for a few minutes. "Wait, yes. Tell me a story."
"A story? What about?" Katniss looks a little intimidated at the thought of telling a story.
"Something happy," I suggest, because if she told a sad story I don't think I could take it. "Tell me about that happiest day you can remember."
"Did I ever tell you about how I got Prim's goat?" I shake my head and smile. This sounds perfect.
She begins to weave a story about selling a locket of her mother's so that she could buy a goat for Prim, her younger sister. I listen, enthralled, as I begin to see everything perfectly, painting a picture in my mind. Prim, as sweet and delicate as always, with her arms around the goat, beaming up at Katniss. Katniss, giving Prim a rare smile and tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. I even include Gale in my picture, because he's a key part of the story (then again, he's a key part of any of the stories Katniss might tell). She seems lost in her memories as she tells of her mother and sister healing the goat, and I interject to point something out.
"They sound like you."
She gives a small start, and then shakes her head earnestly. "Oh, no, Peeta. They work magic. That thing couldn't have died if it tried," she adds, and then realizes how that might sound to me.
"Don't worry, I'm not trying. Finish the story," I say, to keep her mind off of me.
"Well, that's it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire. And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a good night kiss or something. It was already mad about her," she finished fondly.
There's something missing in my painting. "Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?"
Her eyebrows furrow, and she bites her lip in concentration. "I think so. Why?"
"I'm just trying to get a picture," I reply, adding the pink ribbon around the neck of the small white goat. It's a beautiful scene, I wish I could really paint it. "I can see why that day made you happy."
"Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine."
I stare at her. Really? "Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping."
Katniss looks indignantly at me before saying, "The goat has paid for itself. Several times over!"
"Well it wouldn't dare do anything else after you saved its life," I point out. "I intend to do the same thing."
"Really? What did you cost me again?"
"A lot of trouble," I answer honestly. "Don't worry. You'll get it all back." After all, I do have a ripped up leg and I've tethered her down in a cave in the Hunger Games.
"You're not making sense," she tells me, looking frustrated. She lays a hand on my forehead and though I can see the worry register in her eyes, she lies and says plainly, "You're a little cooler, though."
Before I can tell her that she's an awful liar, there is a sudden fanfare of trumpets that echoes throughout the arena. Katniss is on her feet and to the edge of the cave before the trumpets have stopped playing, and I shift myself up so that I'm leaning back with my hands behind me.
The voice of Claudius Templesmith booms out of nowhere. "Greetings, tributes of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games! I'm very pleased to invite you to a feast, which will be, as usual at the Cornucopia." Katniss begins to walk back to me, but Claudius seems to read her mind. "Now hold on! Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."
At this, Katniss looks at me and I look down at my leg.
"Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up! For some of you, this will be your last chance."
Before I realize what I'm doing, I've struggled to my feet and limp over to Katniss before she can make any decisions on her own. I place a hand on her shoulder, letting her know I'm there, and then say plainly, "No. You're not risking your life for me." Never. I have lost you too many times.
"Who said I was?"
I'm surprised and a little suspicious. "So you're not going?"
"Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit," she says dramatically, not meeting my gaze as she helps me back to the sleeping bag. Does she think I can't tell when she's lying? She goes on. "Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh?" Yes, Katniss, I do. "Don't be stupid." You're the one being stupid. "I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there." Since when have you been one to just let people "fight it out?"
I can't take it anymore. "You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long," I say bluntly, then put on a high voice and do my best imitation of her. "I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You're a little cooler though. Of course, I'm not going!" I check her eyes for hurt and register only indignation. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," I recommend.
"All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!" she snaps at me, her face flushed.
"I can follow you," I point out. "At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone will find me." I let that sink in, and then add, "I'll be dead for sure."
"You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg."
"Then I'll drag myself. You go and I'm going, too." I mean it. If she risks her life for me, and loses it, I would lose my mind.
Katniss' expression shifts to one of utmost hopelessness. "What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?"
"I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go." I know that her honor would never let her promise me something only to intentionally break it later.
She seems to be at a loss. I think that the way she sees it, it's between watching me die and risking herself so that I might die later. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bit of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!" she barks at me.
"Agreed." Anything is better than the thought of her leaving to probably never return. "Is it ready?"
She sighs. "Wait here."
I shift on the sleeping bag, relieved beyond words that she won't leave for this. I begin to wonder what the other tributes desperately need. Food? A tent, maybe? Or medicine, like I do? I've no idea, but I don't care to find out.
Soon Katniss is back with the soup and I brace myself for it. I promised her I would eat all of it, and I decide that I had better do so enthusiastically. After all, this is saving her life.
She takes the pot and water jugs back to the stream with her to wash up, and returns a little while later with what looks like berry mush with occasional mint leaves in the pot. She hands it to me, saying "I've brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream."
Still as enthusiastic as I was before, I take a huge bite, only to be shocked by how familiar and sweet the taste is. I don't know what type of berries she picked, but I've had something that tastes like them at home. "They're very sweet."
"Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" she asks a little too innocently, shoving another large spoonful towards my mouth.
"No…but they taste familiar. Sugar berries?"
"Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," she tells me knowingly, spoon feeding me another bite.
"They're sweet as syrup," I comment, and then, in a flash of memories, it hits me. I see myself helping in the kitchen of the bakery back home, icing a cake for Mayor Undersee. I couldn't have been more than eight at the time, and my knife slipped, slicing the palm of my hand clean open. I started screaming, and my father came running, saw the damage, and the rest was a blur. I remember specifically waking up in Katniss' house after her mother had stitched up my hand. Lingering in my mouth from the moment my father had seen me was the taste of these sweet fake-sugar berries. "Syrup!"
Katniss was feeding me sleep syrup.
She realizes that I know the truth as soon as I tense up, and seizes the opportunity, covering my nose and mouth with her hand. I try to throw up the syrup, but it's no use. The last to go black are a pair of the most beautiful grey eyes.