A/N: We're over 400! This is awesome! Alas, you continually prove to be awesome! Like epically, gloriously, spectacularly awesome. I cannot accurately express the awesomeness that all of you seem to possess.

So thank you, and please continue to review and make me one very happy child.

This chapter is a lot of fun! Not fun in the actual 'fun' sense, but fun in the 'sadness, bittersweet' sense. Yeah, I know. We get enough sadness in this story already, but, alas, the sadness will continue.

Random Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Series. As the past two stories show, my version of events would have been quite different.

Peeta: Why can't I physically be in these chapters?

Katniss: Because AC has no soul and is forcing you to stay in the Capitol.

Rye: So not cool, AC.

Me: Okay, okay, I get it! I'm cruel and soulless. I'm like Angelus.

Haymitch: Who the hell is that?

Angel: He's my evil alter-ego.

Buffy: And you guys think Coin and Snow are bad . . .

Coin: That's enough! Who are you people?

Giles: Madame, if you would just allow me to explain . . .

Buffy: Oh, wait Giles! Does Mrs. Doom-and-Gloom look just a little vampish to you?

Coin: Are you insinuating that I'm a . . .

(Buffy stakes Coin through the heart. Coin is now dust)

Katniss: (wakes up from dream) That was weird. But I wonder . . .


Chapter 7: All Around Me

I can feel you all around me, thickening the air I'm breathing.

Holding onto what I'm feeling, savoring this heart that's healing.

My hands float up above me, and you whisper you love me.

And I begin to fade, into our secret place.


I gasp into consciousness, already overcome with the sobs that are wracking my body. I hug the pillow that lies beside my own, burying my face into the cotton, my tears quickly soaking the material. My fist is clenched around my pearl, having taken to the habit of falling asleep with it clutched in my hand.

My body shudders as I continue to sob into the pillow that's supposed to be his. Seeing Peeta's tortured state last night on the interview prompted nightmares of the worst kind. My unconscious mind conjured the most terrifying, heartbreaking images of Peeta being tortured. Watching as he slowly succumbed to his wounds. I pictured him dying twice and then being revived by the medical team that was on standby . . . just so they could bring him to life to be tortured some more. The sounds haunt me, too. I don't know how I'm able to imagine them, but they're horrifically accurate. The sound of a blade cutting into flesh. The sound of an electric current running through a wire connected to a bared, bruised torso. The sound of water being poured onto a cloth-covered face. The sound of snapping bone. Then there were the other sounds, like the clinking of shackles as their prisoner shifted.

Yet none of that was the worst part of the nightmare. The worst part was the sound of President Snow's laughter that never ceased to be in the background.

Needing to find a way for it to seem as though Peeta is tangibly with me, I pull at the collar of his t-shirt I'm wearing to smell his scent. I inhale, but all I smell is me. His scent is gone. This brings on a whole new round of tears. In fact, I'm so consumed by my grief that his favorite shirt (and mine as well) no longer smells like him that it takes me five minutes of sobbing before I realize that I brought more of his shirts with me.

Immediately, I spring from the bed, stumbling a little bit in my haste to get to my game bag. I dump its contents onto the floor and then greedily scoop up a fresh shirt. In a flash, I've torn off the blue shirt I'd been wearing and replace it with a green one. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. My tear-filled eyes find the pearl at my feet. I dropped it in my haste to be surrounded by Peeta's scent once more. I pick it up, clutching it in my palm once again.

It'll be alright. Peeta's voice whispers to me. We'll find a way through this. You and me. Together.

"But you're not here," I answer in a hoarse whisper due to my crying.

I'll always be with you.

I shake my head, as though he can see the action. "I want you here with me."

Okay, I know I'm irresistible, but you've got to be able to be away from me for more than five minutes.

Despite it all, I feel my lips twitch upward in a smile. A pathetic excuse for a smile, but a smile nonetheless. I know exactly from which memory I'm drawing this particular whisper from. The second morning I woke up with Peeta after making love for the first time. I had to go over to my house for my wedding photo shoot. I hadn't wanted to leave him. But he was being the responsible one, even if he hadn't wanted me to leave either.

Just because I say you need to leave, doesn't mean that I want you to leave.

"Oh, Peeta," I whisper into the room. "Why?"

I'll do anything to keep you safe.

"I never asked you to die for me."

You didn't have to.

Is that what I really think? Do I think that he'll die? No, I can't allow myself to think that way. Peeta is going to live. I remember Dr. Riley's words, taking as much comfort from their truth as I can.

. . . your man can survive, Katniss. Not just because he's physically strong, but because his will is even stronger . . . never underestimate the will to live, Katniss. He'll keep fighting because he has something to live for . . .

She's right. I know she is. Peeta made me a promise. He said he'd come back to me. He's never broken a promise to me. He'll keep his word. Peeta never makes a promise he can't keep.

I get to my feet on shaky legs, and I take a deep breath to calm myself. I've got a trip to 12 to make today, and it's going to be a rough one. Emotionally, at least. But, of course, that's what they're hoping for, District 13. They want me to show genuine emotion; because that's the only way they get good footage.

I scowl. District 13. I have not forgotten how Plutarch and Fulvia didn't mention Peeta last night. There was no mention of his interview and obvious deteriorated state. Not even consoling words. They pretended like he didn't exist. Why?

What irks me more than anything is Gale. I'd stayed with Finnick only a few minutes longer, neither of us in any mood to talk after what we'd just seen. However, before I could return to my compartment, I had to take Maya back to the kennels. I'd met Gale in the elevator, and when I asked him if anything had happened lately that I needed to know about, he didn't say anything. He didn't say a word about Peeta. Not a single word. His answer was that nothing important had happened.

Gale lied to me. Right to my face.

Hurt and anger mix dangerously in my blood as I continue to fume at the memory. Gale and I have never kept secrets from each other. That was one thing that I liked about Gale, that I trusted about Gale—he always told me exactly what he thought. Brutal honesty.

So why had he lied to me?

I'm not fragile. I think I've done enough and survived enough to prove that point. Obviously, Gale must realize that seeing Peeta's deteriorated state would hurt me. But he has to know that I'm strong enough to overcome it. Doesn't he know that I'll shove it to the back of my mind and work even harder to get Peeta back? While the visual evidence of his suffering pains me, it also fuels me, provokes an even stronger determination to get him back. Gale knows me well enough to know that.

So why had he lied to me?

A pesky little voice in the back of my mind tells me that it's because I'm not as strong as I'm pretending to be. That I've been putting up a front of strength for others for so long that I've come to believe it myself. This pesky voice tells me that I'm close to breaking.

I ignore this voice. Because I will get Peeta back. Nothing will stop me from getting Peeta back. I have to get him back. I have to . . .

I growl in frustration as despair and desperation begin to cloud my mind and heart. Lock it away. Lock it away. Those feelings do no good. Only harm. I force myself to focus on the task of getting ready. I get dressed in my grey, slightly itchy uniform of District 13, and braid back my hair. If it's possible, I lovingly fold Peeta's shirts that I dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, making sure that the green one, my new sleep-shirt, is resting on the top.

It only takes me another five minutes to finish getting ready, and then I'm heading to the elevator to go to breakfast. Prim meets me in the hallway, and gives me a small smile, but there's something off about it. We're both silent as we step into the elevator and the doors close behind us. Prim presses the button for the dining hall and then steps back slightly, slipping into a proper pose. Back straight. Hands clasped in front of her. Looking ahead.

"You're mad at me," I state knowingly, and Prim shrugs. She doesn't say anything in reply so I continue, feeling my guilt from yesterday's actions seeping into my bones once again. "I'm fine," I defend pathetically. "Nothing happened." Aside from an air raid that could have cost me my life and my child's . . .

"They didn't even tell us," Prim says eventually, glancing at me. Her blue eyes filled with hurt and worry. "That you'd left," she elaborates. "I only found out when I saw Rye getting checked over." I lower my head in shame, but Prim continues. "And then you never came by. I didn't see you at all yesterday, Katniss. After everything that happened, I would have thought you'd at least drop by to tell me that you were okay and that you were sorry for doing something so incredibly stupid."

I sigh. The last thing I want is for Prim to be upset with me. More guilt floods me as I realize the truth of her words, though. I never did drop by to tell her that I was okay. How could I have not remembered? I'm a terrible sister.

"I'm sorry, Prim," I apologize softly. "I know that I shouldn't have gone into 8. I rationalized that it was the right thing to do because Coin threatened to take away Peeta's immunity. Still, I shouldn't have gone, and I know how lucky I am to have gotten out of there unscathed. Mostly due to Rye." After all, he was the one who made it so that he was thrown into that wall instead of me. "But after we got back and I got checked over, I just wanted to be alone. Dr. Riley chewed me up and spit me out . . . I didn't want to hear what I already knew from anyone else. I spent the rest of the day with Maya, and then brought her to see Finnick. I thought she would make him feel better."

"Like she made you feel better," Prim says and I nod.

The elevator doors open then, and we both step off into the dining hall. Silently, we go through the line, getting our breakfast of hot grain and milk. I even get a little bit of fruit. Before we walk to our usual table, Prim stops me by gently grabbing my elbow. "I know you're dealing with more than anyone ever should," she says softly. "I know that you're hurting, no matter how hard you try to hide it. I know you miss him terribly. But, Katniss, try not to forget that you're not alone. I may not understand what you're going through, but I'm always willing to listen."

Emotion tightens my throat, but I manage to say, "Thanks, Prim."

Gale isn't at breakfast and I learn from Hazelle that he had an early morning meeting in Command to go over the preparations for our trip to 12. I assume that's where Haymitch is as well. Rye is relatively silent all through breakfast, but I don't blame him. Going back to 12 and walking through the ashes, wondering if some of the black that will cling to his boots belongs to his family . . . I don't envy his position.

It's in the hall, walking to the Remake Room, that I run into Gale. I can't control how my eyes immediately narrow and my lips twist in a scowl. My fists clench at my sides, and by the way Gale takes a deep breath, I know that he knows exactly what has me so pissed. We know each other far too well.

"Katniss—" he begins, and I feel my fury peak, his admission of guilt conveyed in his tone. Hurt quickly follows my anger and I realize that I've been holding out hope that Gale truly didn't know anything about Peeta's recent interview.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I snap angrily. "I asked you last night, Gale. I asked if anything important had happened and you lied to me."

"I'm sorry, Katniss," he apologizes, looking genuine. "I wanted to tell you, but everyone thought that it was best not to. They were worried it would make you sick."

"It did make me sick," I spit. "Of course it made me sick, Gale! But I'm not some weak, love struck girl who—"

"No," Gale interrupts, cutting me off. "You're not weak, but Katniss I know you better than to think that you're as strong as you think you are. You can fool Command. You can fool your mother, even Prim. Even Rye. But you can't fool me. You're this close to breaking, Katniss," he says harshly, though there's pain in his eyes. He holds up two fingers, barely any space between them. "This close," he repeats. "You can try to convince yourself otherwise and so far you've been doing a good job, but don't think for one second you can fool me. I can see it in your eyes, Katniss. Half of you isn't there, and I know it's because of him," he admits. "I'm not even going to pretend that I understand what you have with Peeta because I don't got a clue. But I do know that you can only live with half of yourself for so long."

Before you break, goes unsaid.

"I was just trying to protect you," Gale says softly.

"Lying to me doesn't protect me," I shake my head. "It betrays me." Gale opens his mouth to say more, but I silence him with a raised hand. "I know you meant well, Gale. And I forgive you . . . but don't lie to me again."

I turn away from him before he can reply.

My stay in the Remake Room is brief. I jump into the shower, quickly scrubbing myself clean, and then within five minutes I'm wrapped in a robe while Flavius does my hair and Venia and Octavia work to make up my face. They only use the barest hints of makeup, just enough to hide the shadows under my eyes. The evidence of my frightful night.

They put me in Cinna's last creation for me, my Mockingjay costume, and then as soon as I'm able I'm thrust into the elevator with Plutarch and Fulvia. They talk about the propos and how big of a success they are. Our forces, who were only managing to maintain a foothold in the districts have rallied. They've actually taken 3 and 11, the latter being extremely fortuitous since they are the Capitol's main food supplier.

"Hopeful. Very hopeful indeed," Plutarch says in satisfaction as we enter the hovercraft. "Fulvia's going to have the first round of We Remember spots ready tonight, so we can target the individual districts with their dead. Finnick's absolutely marvelous."

Catching the end of our conversation, Cressida adds, "It's painful to watch, actually," she says with a small frown. "He knew so many of them personally."

"That's what makes it so effective," Plutarch says, sounding completely unsympathetic. It irks me. "Straight from the heart. You're all doing beautifully. Coin could not be more pleased."

Yes. Because her praise just means everything to me.

For the rest of the short ride to District 12, I take a seat by Haymitch, who looks like he's going to be sick. Honestly, he looks so pained that if I could, I would actually give him a bottle of liquor to help. Even though I detest the vile smell and the way it inhibits even the best minds, I would still give it. I've never been able to stand seeing others in pain, particularly those that I care about.

All too soon, the hovercraft is landing in the Meadow. We stand there together in a line. Me, Gale, Haymitch, and Rye. I don't know if it is because of their presence, but I'm filled with renewed grief as I gaze out at the devastation that is my home. Gale and Rye both look pained, undoubtedly remembering their perilous run through the burning streets, watching as people were killed left and right, knowing they could do nothing to save them.

But it's Haymitch's face that nearly breaks my heart. So much pain. It's like the years of being a mentor and watching his tributes die every year, coupled with the loss of his home that holds so many memories, is what causes him to finally crack. A sight that I never expected to see captures my gaze. A sight so alien that I don't know quite how to process it.

A tear, quickly followed by another, and then another, fall from Haymitch's eyes. My mentor is crying. They are silent tears, no sobs escaping him. I think he's in too much pain to sob. There comes a point where it's just too much trouble to work up the energy.

I do the only thing I know to do. I take his hand and hold on tight.

We walk to my house first. I ask Cressida what she wants me to do. "Whatever you feel like," she replies. Reluctantly, I let go of Haymitch's hand. I know that the cameras have probably captured his rare show of emotion, and it angers me that they've stolen his privacy away from him, but there's nothing I can do. I know that Haymitch probably knew exactly what would happen if he came here. And yet he still came, and I know he did it for me.

I step into the remnants of my home, standing where the kitchen table used to be. There's not much left of my house, just parts of the roof, and I find myself staring up at the sky. Maybe I'm just trying to ignore the ashes at my feet, the burned memories of my father's house. But eventually, Cressida says, "That's fine, Katniss. Let's move on."

Gale is next. His home is in no better shape than mine, and Cressida and her team film him as he pokes through the ashes of his home. When he finds a twisted fire poker, Cressida asks him to take her through what happened the night of the bombing. Mechanically, Gale reenacts that fateful night, starting at his house and working his way down to the Meadow. When we cross into the woods, I feel as though they're being violated by the cameras. These woods were my secret sanctuary. So many fond memories of my father and Gale, and then later, Peeta. Now they've been tainted by the Capitol's evil. We have to step over decomposing bodies. Do we really have to record it for everyone to see?

Gale has lost his ability to speak by the time we reach the lake. My father's lake. My sanctuary within my sanctuary. I hate that the Capitol has managed to taint this place as well. Everyone is dripping with sweat from the hike, particularly Castor and Pollux in the insect-shells, and so Cressida calls for a lunch break.

Sandwiches are passed around and I take my lunch away from everyone else. Haymitch is sitting farthest away from everyone, and though I'm tempted to sit with him, just be there, I don't think he wants anyone near him right now. So I sit down on my little peninsula that juts out into the water. A shadow passes over me, and I turn to my right and see Rye sitting beside me. He hasn't said a word all day, so I'm surprised when the first words out of his mouth are, "You know, I always asked Peeta where you two had your first date."

"What?"

Rye continues on explaining, as though I hadn't said anything. "I pestered him about it all day the next day, but he wouldn't crack. He just had this stupid, dopey grin on his face." Rye looks out at the lake scene before us, still as beautiful as it was the first time I brought Peeta out here. "I knew you two had gone out into the woods. Didn't take a genius to make that leap. But all Peeta said was that it was beautiful." Rye smiles a little at me. "This is where you two had your first official date."

I look out over the lake. "Yeah," I say. No point in denying it. I surprise myself by laughing a little as the memories come back to me. "I shoved him in out of nowhere," I tell him with a small smile. "Didn't warn him at all. Just shoved him into the water. He was flailing around like he was drowning, even though the water barely came up to his waist."

"So that's how he learned to swim," Rye concludes with an equally small smile on his own lips. "Always wondered how. When we watched the Quell."

I nod, and we fall into silence once more. Eventually, the sun becomes too hot for me to stand, and I move back into the shade of the trees. I take a seat by Pollux, because I really don't want to talk. Rye is different, of course. Rye understands.

Pollux and I sit together for a few minutes before he spots a bird. He points to it and I follow his gaze. It's a mockingjay. There are always mockingjays around the lake, so I'm not surprised to see one. However, I am surprised when Pollux whistles a little tune. The bird pauses and then whistles back to him. A bright smile threatens to split Pollux's face in two, and he spends the next few minutes exchanging whistles with the birds. I figure it's as close to a conversation he's had in a very long time.

Suddenly, Pollux stops whistling and grabs a stick off the ground near him. Next he scratches in the dirt, SING?

I pause. Sing? He wants me to sing? What do I sing? I don't even feel like singing. But Pollux's obvious delight in the mockingjays causes me to softly sing Rue's four note tune. The birds immediately pick it up and begin to sing it softly back to me. Once again, I hear the harmonic brilliance of Rue's tune, how the notes overlap to create a beautiful harmony. Just like it sounded in the Games. Before the harmony became broken because of the mutts and Cato's arrival. Before we fled to the Cornucopia. Before Peeta fell over the edge. Before the mutts gnawed Cato to death . . .

"Want to hear a real song?" I blurt before I can really think of what I've just said. I just want the images in my head to go away. "I sang it for Peeta when I first brought him here."

I don't know why I add that little fact, but it's the truth. The first time he asked me, I refused. He tried everything to coerce me into singing. A particular trail of kisses along my collarbone comes to mind immediately, but I still refused to break. So, Peeta, being the prideful boy he is, resorted to begging. I caved.

I haven't sung "The Hanging Tree" since. And before singing it for Peeta that day, I hadn't sung it in ten years. It was a forbidden song to sing in my household, but I still remember every word. I get to my feet, wondering under the tree where the birds rest, placing a hand on the trunk. Then, I begin to sing softly, sweetly, like I had for Peeta.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

The mockingjays begin to listen to my new song, their voices changing to match me.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

I've captured the birds' attention now. Within the next verse they should capture the melody completely. It repeats with every verse, with little to no variation.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

It's utterly silent except for me and the mockingjays. No other birds sing. Peeta is right. The birds respectfully fall silent when I sing. Just like they did for my father.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

Silence. The birds wait for me to continue, but I don't. That's the last verse. I remember my father teaching me the song during one of our many days in the woods. Back then, I was at an age where I could memorize anything set to music after a couple times through. We'd come back to the house and began to make necklaces out of some old strands of rope, like the song mentioned. Suddenly, the necklace was snatched from my hands by my mother and in the next second she was yelling at my father. It scared me, because mother never yelled, and the raised voice caused Prim to start crying. I ran away to my favorite hiding spot in the Meadow, under a honeysuckle bush. Naturally, my father found me not five minutes later, and said that we could not sing that song anymore. And of course, when he told me that, the words were branded into my brain.

We never even spoke of the song again, my father and I. It wasn't until after he died that the words started to come back to me, and then since I was older, the lyrics began to make more sense to me. In the beginning, it sounds as though a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to meet up with him at midnight. Except meeting at a tree were a man was hanged for killing three people isn't the ideal meeting place for a tryst. It's the third verse when you realize that it's actually the dead murderer who is singing and calling out to his lover. And though in the beginning he's told her to flee, presumably to safety, he still keeps asking her to come to him. The line, Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free, is the most troubling. Because you begin to wonder if he actually meant for her to run to him. To death. And it's in the final stanza that you realize, yes, that's what he's waiting for. His lover, wearing a rope necklace, hanging dead beside him in the tree.

So that they would both be free.

Peeta, of course, had praised my singing, and then told me that there was no way he was ever going to ask me to kill myself to be with him. In fact, he said, "I don't mind waiting for you." And then, to lighten the mood, he added, "And that whole 'talking corpse' bit was just a little creepy."

I'm drawn from the memory when I hear Cressida call, "Cut!"

Startled, I turn to face everyone and see that they're all staring at me intently. Rye actually has a smile on his face, though it's sad. Haymitch is just staring at me, his eyes haunted with pain. Gale is expressionless, still too overwhelmed by the memories of escaping the bombing, I think. Pollux actually has tears in his eyes, and I hope that my song hasn't dredged up some terrible memory for him. Castor was the one filming me, I note. But what irks me most is the bright smile on Plutarch's face.

"Where do you come up with this stuff?" he asks lightly as he strides over to me. "No one would believe it if we made it up!" He throws his arm around me and gives me a smacking kiss on the top of my head. I fight not to cringe. "You're golden!"

"I wasn't doing it for the cameras," I say, my voice sounding strained, but Plutarch doesn't here it.

"Lucky they were on, then," he says. "Come on, everybody! Back into town!"

On our way back through the woods, we pass the boulder where Gale and I used to meet. As though we're dogs catching wind of a scent, both our heads automatically turn toward the monument. Cressida notices and asks if it's anything special.

"It was where we used to meet," I explain. "When we would go hunting."

Cressida immediately wants to see it, even though we tell her that there's nothing much to see. Only a place where I was happy. Gale and I sit on the rock that overlooks the valley below. Slightly less green than normal, but no less beautiful. The blackberry bushes that surround us are heavy with fruit, and without a thought I pick some and pop them into my mouth.

Then, on a whim, I roll a blackberry between my fingers before tossing it up in Gale's direction, saying, "And may the odds—" His eyes stay trained on my face until the last moment, opening his mouth and catching the berry. "Be ever in your favor," he finishes.

And I know that with this simple gesture, all is good between us again. I'm still upset that he lied, and he's probably still upset that I'm delusional in my notions of strength, but in this second we've both resolved to put it behind us.

Despite our protestations, Cressida has us tell some stories about our days hunting in the woods. It doesn't take too long before Gale and I thaw out and we're laughing as we relate some of our misadventures with skunks, bees, and wild dogs. We talk more about our favorite moments, until Cressida says that it's enough and we move on.

When we get into town, Cressida tries to persuade Haymitch to say something, to tell a story, anything really. Haymitch only says, "This was my home. Now it's gone."

Then he turns away from her and starts walking toward town. We all follow him, and I'm not surprised when our next stop is the bakery. Rye can only stare. It's still strange for me; to see someone who I only previously acquainted with smiles and jokes and laughter look so solemn. I follow slightly behind him as we walk through the wreckage. He kicks lightly at the lump of metal that used to be the oven. Suddenly, he turns to me. "Remember those slow days?" he asks, his lips turning up at the corners. "When no one came in and you'd sit on the counter while we horsed around?"

I manage a small smile. "I remember."

Cressida asks Rye to describe those days. The slow days in the bakery where it was just me and the Mellark brothers. They're some of the fondest memories I have. Peeta's enthusiasm and overall good nature he shared with his brothers. Although Chris was the quiet one, at times he was no less exuberant than his younger brothers. Rye would always be the initiator, his target always Peeta. Chris would try to be a mediator, but he would ultimately fail and join in their rambunctiousness, thus leaving me to make sure none of them hurt themselves too badly. They were days full of laughter and no worries.

But at the end of Rye's story, he grows solemn once more. "But that's all gone, now," he says before looking directly at the camera. "It's all gone, Peeta. You're all I got left, baby brother. Twelve is gone. And you're calling for a cease-fire?" Rye looks pointedly at the destruction all around us. "There's no one left to hear you."

We move on to what is left of town square, gathering around the lump of metal that was the gallows. Cressida asks if any of us has ever been tortured, which immediately causes me and Rye to flinch because we're both thinking of Peeta who is being tortured, probably this very minute. But Gale doesn't share in our reaction. Instead, in answer to Cressida's question, he takes off his shirt and turns his back to the camera, the scars of the lash marks clearly visible. I can still hear the whistle of the whip clearly. Still remember how he looked dead, slumped unconscious against the whipping post.

"I'm done," I announce evenly. They must have enough footage, and if they don't then that's just too damn bad. "I'll meet you in the Victor's Village."

Rye and Gale stay behind with Cressida, but I don't see Haymitch. I don't really let this bother me though, because I know Haymitch can take care of himself. However, it's as I'm walking along the road to the Village that I see the footprints of someone who has been here before me.

As I suspected, the footprints lead to Haymitch's house. I already know what he's looking to find.

I continue walking to our house, mine and Peeta's. I don't hesitate to enter like last time. This time, I'm ready to soak up the familiarity, the memories. Everywhere I look I see Peeta. The paintings that hang on the walls. His favorite easy chair that reclined. He loved that chair because it allowed him to really stretch out his tall frame. Too many days I would walk in from hunting and find him asleep in that chair.

A smile pulls at my lips without my permission at the vision of him in my head. Stretched out, looking positively cozy. His head tilted to the side, mouth open slightly. And, despite his vehement denials, a slight snore escaping him.

When I walk into the kitchen, I look at all the pots and pans and can see Peeta using every one of them. I can almost smell baking bread, cheese buns to be exact. One morning that was how he woke me up, disturbing one of the few mornings where I slept in until midmorning. He'd held the fresh bread under my nose, cooing my name teasingly.

I maneuver up the stairs, skipping the squeaky third stair out of habit. I walk right past it, the second door on the left, but I stop halfway to the bedroom and walk back a couple of steps. I stare at the door to his art studio, as if I could possibly see through the door to see what creations lie within. My hand twitches as I fight the urge to grasp the doorknob and twist it open.

Should I? Peeta was terribly private about all his paintings, but he did show me his worst. His depictions of the Hunger Games. That was why I couldn't go inside in the first place. And he did show me those. So, technically, he has given me the green light. Technically, I could open this door and he wouldn't be upset with me. I pause. Why am I worrying about this so much? Peeta wouldn't mind letting me into his art studio. Why? Because Peeta would never deny me something that would make me happy.

And while I doubt entering his art studio will make me happy, I know that it will make me feel closer to him, which is as happy as I can get these days. I feel my stomach flutter, signaling my child's movement. Suddenly, I want to go inside the studio not for me, but for the baby. I want him to be close to his father.

So I open the door.

The room is large and spacious. Well, it would be if it weren't for the canvases that threaten to take over the space. It doesn't take me long to see how he has them organized. It's a timeline. Peeta paints memories more than anything, and so I follow the memories. I find myself talking aloud, explaining to the baby each memory that each painting depicts. Mine and Peeta's day at the lake. A lazy day we spent on the sofa, reading and sketching. A disaster of a day in the kitchen when I tried to reign. A walk in the woods. So many memories. I'm involved in nearly every one of them, but there are a few where I'm absent. A day in the bakery. There's a portrait of each of his brothers. Chris looks exasperated, but there's a loving, indulgent look in his eye. Rye simply looks mischievous, plain and simple. There's even one of Portia, his stylist. I describe the people involved in these paintings, adding how Peeta felt about them and my own two cents here and there.

However, when I come upon a particular canvas, I surprise myself by blushing. It's the first time I've blushed since I was separated from Peeta. The canvas is sketched, using charcoal. No paint. And it's of me.

And I'm naked.

I'm thrown into a memory. A day in the cafeteria during training for the Quell. Peeta commenting on how I was upset about Johanna offering to pose nude for him, and my snappy reply, If anyone is posing nude for you, it's me.

He was surprised, asking me if I really would. Of course, I began to splutter in embarrassment, but Peeta reassured me.

Relax Katniss. I can draw you from memory. Wouldn't forget a single detail, I promise.

Well, he's right. He even got all my freckles and the small birthmark on my right hip. I don't know whether to be amused, embarrassed, or exasperated. So I feel all three in equal turns.

It's safe to say that I don't describe this canvas to the baby.

I leave Peeta's art studio with a small smile on my lips. However, when I walk into the bedroom, my smile falls. There, on the bed, crinkled and dried, but no less potent, is the rose. Anger that the cursed flower is still spoiling such a sacred place courses through me, and I rip the rose from the bed, uncaring of the thorns that stick my hand. I toss open the window and throw it out, watching has the flaky remains flutter to the ground.

I immediately go into the bathroom and wash my hands thoroughly. When I return to the bedroom, I feel slightly better, but the barest hint of happiness I'd been able to attain by visiting Peeta's art studio has vanished. Solemnity takes its place, and I find myself taking a sketchbook and a set of charcoals from his nightstand. For him to have when I get him back. I even take the extra sketchbook that's completely blank, just waiting for its pages to be filled. I also take some colored pencils, in case he gets tired of having to wash his hands repeatedly to get all the charcoal off.

There's nothing more that I can take, since I don't have a game bag to stuff everything in like last time. So I content myself with the two sketchbooks, the charcoals set, and the colored pencils. Cressida and everyone else must still be in town because they're not in the Village, so I go over to Haymitch's house, where I'm sure I'll find him.

He's exactly where I expected. Sitting at his kitchen table, a bottle of spirits clutched in his hand. I sit down in the chair next to him, and he says, "I'd ask if you want a drink, but it's not a bright idea in your situation."

No, drinking alcohol while pregnant is not a good idea.

"It's the thought that counts," I tell him. "And if I weren't pregnant, I'd probably take you up on that."

Haymitch notices the things I've placed on the table in front of me, just a meager sample of Peeta's art supplies. "Think he'll be interested in drawing when he gets back?"

I blanch. I don't like thinking of how Peeta will be when he gets back. Because I will get him back. That's what I've been focusing on. Getting him back. Not the condition he's in when he gets back. I know that a part of him will be broken, his body if anything. But it's simply too painful to think about.

So I don't.

"He draws when he's stressed," I reply evenly, and Haymitch knows this particular conversation is closed.

We're silent for another few minutes, Haymitch drinking while I stare sightlessly in front of me. Eventually, I decide that we've spent enough time here. So I turn to Haymitch. "Let's go back," I say, and Haymitch nods.

He gets up from the table, takes a big shot of liquor, and then takes out his flask. I don't know why 13 let him keep it. I would have expected them to take it to use it for . . . something. That, or Haymitch hid it well enough that he slipped it in right under 13's noses. I like the latter thought much better. Just to spite Coin.

Haymitch fills the flask with liquor, a smug light in his eye. "Take that you sober bastards," he mumbles under his breath, and despite it all, I find myself fighting not to smile.


And there is my favorite Haymitch line ever! He has a lot of good lines . . . but there's just something about that one. ;)

So, we're getting closer to chapter 11, people! Only 3 more chapters to go and then we'll be with Peeta once more!

But until then, this is what has happened thus far: Katniss proves that she is an elf of Mirkwood because not only is she great with a bow, but she sings in the trees!, regrettably, all efforts for me to be introduced to Legolas have been thwarted; Gale is still in talks about getting Katniss and Peeta to go on Jerry Springer with him; Rye is playing kick-the-can with what is left of the bakery oven; Plutarch has no soul; Fulvia is secretly jealous of Katniss and her awesomeness; and Haymitch can be drunk once more!

Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Mrs. Everdeen!

"How could you have been so irresponsible?"

Lots of love,

AC