AN: Sorry this took so long – enjoy! Thanks for reading/reviewing, means a lot.
President Snow is sitting on a badly carved wooden throne on a plinth high above my head. Rose petals drift from the sky like snow, thick and fast, obscuring my vision in a disorientating, claustrophobic way. I raise my hands as if to try to stop them falling. Snow laughs at my efforts, and when he laughs his spittle splatters my face. I wipe it away and my fingers come away coated in the substance that turns out to be blood.
I look up at him and realise with a jolt that his throne is not, in fact, a wooden structure but is in fact carefully arranged corpses.
"Katniss? Katniss!" Prim is there, her lifeless body forming Snow's armrest as she calls out to me. Snow throws his head back and laughs, and more blood lands on my face, trickling down my chin. Prim's corpse calls out to me. Helpless. Unmoving. "Katniss!"
I sit up in bed, gasping, my fingers scraping frantically at the blood on my chin. As my hands encounter the cut on my lip, I realise that the blood belongs to me. Prim winces and puts down the breakfast tray she has carried into my room. She gently knocks my hands aside. "Here." With her sleeve, she wipes the blood away and then strokes my face until I am able to breathe steadily again. I smile weakly at her.
"Thanks."
She smiles in response but says nothing. I grimace as she moves to hoist the breakfast tray into my lap. The smell of cheese buns, once so tantalisingly delicious that my mouth would water with the merest of contact, makes my stomach churn. "I'm really not hungry," I begin hopelessly, but one look from my little sister is enough to tell me that I will not get away with not eating. Not today. Sighing, I reluctantly pluck a steaming bun from the tray – how did I ever eat these? They smell revolting – and bite into it with all the gusto I can fake. "Mmm." Prim smiles. Confident that I will continue to eat, she wanders away.
A week or so ago, I might have worried about Prim's uncharacteristic silence. Before the Quell announcement, it might even have frightened me. But today I refuse to dwell on such a silence, especially one so easily explained by any number of factors: for one, the Quarter Quell that hovers over all of our heads. The prospect of the possibility of losing me for a second time has been a little overwhelming for Prim, a fact that she is remarkably apt at bottling. My mother, on the other hand, has reacted extraordinarily well, throwing herself into the role of my carer with a strength and resolve that I have not seen within her in years. On the tray beside my plate resides the evidence of both her determination to take care of me in the remaining few weeks and her long experience as a healer: iron tablets to keep me alert for training; calcium to keep me strong; vitamins to keep me healthy.
Of course, the pills aren't just for my benefit. At the thought of the other organism profiting from my mother's expert ministrations, my stomach churns and I fight to keep down my breakfast.
A baby.
My hand wanders to my stomach, lifts up the cotton nightshirt. Although it doesn't yet protrude visibly, I am sure I can see a difference: the once flat, toned surface has become softer, alien to my sensitive eyes. I firmly believe that I can feel it, sometimes, too, although my mother reassures me that it is nothing yet but a group of cells. Late at night I lie awake and try to repress my shudders at the light fluttering feeling from deep inside that I know cannot realistically exist.
We don't talk about it – I can't talk about it. Once or twice Prim tried, attempted to convince me to tell Peeta, asked if I was happy, but the only response I could muster was a dull wheezing as my heart pounded and my airways collapsed in on themselves. The whole thing seems so unreal, so ridiculous, that to think about it and to realise that it is really happening is like being given an electric shock. Like the force field that stops tributes from jumping from the roof of the Training Centre, a boundary exists in my mind around the idea of child and I know, in my heart of hearts, that to push past that boundary will be impossible. There is nothing past that invisible wall but heartbreak and death, so I do not try to break it down. Even if I were to try, the probability of my inevitable death within the next few weeks hovers over me, making any attempt pointless. So I don't try.
Another reason for Prim's silence lies in this – in my acceptance of my premature demise. I have given up, and she can see it: regardless of the thing growing inside of me, I never intended to come home from the Quell. The day after the announcement I woke early and wandered out of the house. Haymitch was awake when I ghosted through his open front door, as though he had been expecting me. Odd, as I hadn't known where I was going, but standing on his threshold it was suddenly crystal clear what I wanted.
"I wondered when you were going to turn up," Haymitch drawled. Something was odd with his voice, and it took me a moment to realise that it was because he was sober. Stone cold sober. Looking more closely, I could see that his hands were shaking. He saw my quizzical expression and scowled. "The boy was here last night. Poured my liquor down the drain." He sighed. "Every last drop." I was suddenly full of pity for Haymitch, who looked so fragile and ashen in the early morning light, but the sense of urgency I felt with my newfound purpose pushed me on.
"Haymitch, I - " I froze. How do you say it? How do you ask someone to die? How do you convince them to let you die? Haymitch, sensing my internal struggle, chuckled darkly.
"You don't have to worry about not hurting my feelings, sweetheart, I ain't got none. Spit it out."
I can't. I was suddenly struck by how pathetic Haymitch looked, curled up in his armchair clutching his knife with shaking hands. If he were to go back into the arena, he would surely die. A younger victor would make mincemeat of my old drunk. Is that what I want? The answer is a resounding no; Haymitch might be pretty useless, but he's practically family. Involuntarily, images flash before my eyes: I see Haymitch, with a knife in his gut; Haymitch, being taken by the hovercraft; Haymitch's house, boarded up and empty save for all the ghosts that roam his glass-littered hallways…
I don't want Haymitch to die, that much is certain. But then what?
"The boy argues that since last time I resolved to save you, now I owe him," Haymitch's voice, barely a whisper, was layered with a sort of grudging respect. "And what he really wants is the chance to go back in. The chance to protect you."
I considered this. A year ago, I would have snapped his hand off at this offer. It meant I could come home. See my mother and Prim again. Maybe, this time, manage to keep my head down, stay out of the Capitol's way. My hands wandered involuntarily to my stomach as I considered the idea of a scenario where our child could be safe. Maybe if I did what they wanted, stayed away from any rebel action, maybe even spoke out against it, Snow would let my child live.
But I am not the same woman as I was a year ago. I glanced over to Peeta's house, where the lights were just starting to turn on, and I knew that a world without him was no longer a world that I wanted to be a part of. A part of me was surprised at this – how long had I been concerned only with self preservation, and the preservation of those I cared about most? Since when had my protective sphere of influence grown to include not only Gale and Prim and my mother but Peeta as well?
Since you fell in love with him, a voice very much like Cinna's whispered in my mind.
I suddenly became aware of Haymitch staring at me and pulled myself away from my reverie. I love him, I love him. It was, now, all too clear what I was doing there. What I wanted from Haymitch.
"If it is Peeta and me in the arena…" I managed to get out slowly. "This time we keep him alive." Haymitch nodded – he'd been expecting this – but I saw a flicker of something in his eye. Pain. I pressed on. "You do owe him, Haymitch, but not in the way that he says. You owe him the possibility of his life."
He shook his head. "But the boy said - "
"I'm as good as dead anyway, Haymitch," I interjected. "You know as well as I do that Snow wants me dead. I've caused too much trouble anyway." Haymitch frowned, torn, and I leapt on his indecision. In for the kill. "Please, Haymitch. Let him have a chance at life. Say you'll help me."
My heart raced. A minute passed, but it could have been an hour. Neither of us moved. Finally, Haymitch frowned, nodded. I hadn't realised I'd been leaning forward until I straightened. "Thank you," I murmured, trying to convey all of the gratitude I felt at his self-sacrifice in those two words. "Really. Thank you." No response. Haymitch reached for a liquor bottle, found it empty and dropped it, shaking, onto the floor. It shattered.
I was turning to leave when it happened. Hot, acrid bile raced to escape my body and landed in a foul smelling heap on Haymitch's porch. I fell to my knees, gasping for breath. Suddenly Haymitch was there, shaking hands scooping up my hair and lifting it out of harms way. As I retched, I felt a dull sense of unease settle upon my empty stomach. I could practically hear the cogs grinding into gear in Haymitch's mind. Katniss, Katniss who is never sick, vomiting on his porch? Katniss, who never drinks, sick for no good reason? Katniss, who has been spending an inordinate amount of time in Peeta's bed late at night on the train…
It only took one glance into his eyes to know that he had figured it out. Haymitch and I have always had a way of communicating to one another, and I had never come to appreciate how deep that connection went until that moment. Pity, sorrow, joy and some sort of dark humour flashed through his dirty grey eyes before they settled on a grim sort of resignation. I stood, wiping my mouth and refusing to meet his gaze.
"Does the boy know?"
"Does the boy know what?"
We both jumped as Peeta approached, hobbling towards us on the leg he hadn't quite adjusted to yet. I smiled down to him, hopped down the steps into his open arms. "I'm sorry I took off last night," he whispered as I enveloped myself in his embrace. I felt my whole body relax at the familiar warmth. When we separated I saw his eyes settle on the vomit on the porch. My heart flew to my mouth and instinctively my eyes sought out Haymitch. He was watching me curiously, taking in my panicked expression, Peeta's confused frown. "Are you ill?" Peeta asked me, voice full of concern. My eyes still on Haymitch, I shook my head. Haymitch's nod was imperceptible.
"That was me." Haymitch drawled. "No thanks to you, boy. Do you have any idea how much that liquor cost?"
Peeta laughed, began to pull me into the house. They're talking about strategies and reapings and possible tributes but my mind is elsewhere, and –
An impossible fluttering feeling from just below my navel yanks me back into the present and sends my hands flying to my stomach and my heart racing.
I turn my thoughts away from alien life forms and succeed in returning my heart rate to its normal, less panicked rate. I throw myself into eating with an enthusiasm that leaves thought for little else. When I have finally managed to devour the remaining cheese bun, I pause for only a minute or two to see if it will stay down before I climb out of bed, strip, and reach absentmindedly for my hunting clothes, hanging as they ever do on the door of my wardrobe.
My stomach does a backflip when my fingertips encounter not the rough, weathered texture of my father's hunting jacket but instead a much softer, silkier substance. Instantly, I remember what today is.
Not only my stomach but my entire set of major organs performs yet more gymnastics when I turn to gape at the clock beside my bed and realise that I am late.
Within a matter of moments I have shoved the dress over my head and am struggling to pull it down as I rush out of my bedroom. Downstairs, I feel Prim rush over to me and help me to tug my dress into place before I see her. She wordlessly hands me my shoes and kisses me on the cheek. "Good luck," she says quietly. There is no time to gape at her, to wonder how she knows, as she is shoving me out of the door. No time. I'll have to run.
"I thought you weren't coming."
When I finally skid to a stop outside the house – the furthest empty one from ours in Victor Village – I am breathless and unable to speak. I bend over double and it is a few minutes before I can talk again.
"Sorry," I gasp. "I just - "
"This was your idea, Katniss. You don't have to do this."
The edge to his voice pulls me up short: why does he sound so angry? Then I straighten, look into his eyes, and I see it. The same look that I saw on the train when he realised I had been acting my love for him. It makes my heart break. Peeta Mellark, I realise, will never forget how I lied to him. Within an instant I have climbed the steps to the porch where he stands and I have thrown myself into his arms. It takes a moment before he returns the embrace.
"I'm sorry," we both whisper at the same time. Peeta chuckles but I choke back a sob, pressing my face into his shoulder. I wish every day that there were a way to make him realise how truly sorry I am. This guilt, I know, will never go away. The guilt I feel at having lied to him when he has shown me nothing but love will stay with me until the day I die.
Which might not be a long time in the coming, if I get my way.
"Are you ready?" Too soon, he's pulling away, gesturing inside. I glance past him into the sitting room and my heart leaps. Two loaves of bread sit on the table arranged before the fireplace. I nod. Peeta's face breaks into a smile – one that tells me of how long he's been waiting for this. I return the smile, kiss him, and let him lead me inside.
Together, we construct a fire. We toast the bread that Peeta made this morning. We eat. When Peeta tells me that he loves me, I tell him I love him, too. He asks me why I am crying and I tell him that it is because I am happy.
But as we settle down to watch the fire burn itself out, as the flames begin to die, I can feel my heart breaking.