EDIT: I had a typo there at the end, so the number is Six not Nine. x)

A/N: I'm uber sorry for the wait! This one's... um, idk. I'm tired lol. Anyway, it is what it is, and I've got the next chapter pretty much ready after this, so yay! Thanks to all of you reviewers and readers and my lovely beta! And I owe you a chapter on Katniss' reaping! Which I will get out at some point here... In the near future. Probably after finals... Anyway, enjoy?

Woot for 200 reviews! You guys rock!

CHAPTER 14: SAMSON HAD A FEELING

After Spencer, he couldn't stay there anymore. Not just because of the obvious danger it posed to him—someone had found them and whatever their reasons for leaving him alive, they still knew where he was—but also because he didn't want to think about her crushed skull, her dead body, the fact that he had been sleeping as she had been dying...

He didn't need reminders like that.

So with the remainder of the bread—Katniss' gift to him—in his pockets, Spencer's hand-ax slung across his back, and the remnants of his make-shift water container at his waist, he pushed forward leaving the ruined structure behind him. His first priority was always water, he remembered, but it was clear that the stream outside of the ruins was not a source. It had collected the water from the rains, but it was already stagnant and quickly drying up. He considered going back the way he came, but it would be a precarious climb at best. And really, where was he headed? He already knew there wasn't anything in that direction. Assuming he could even follow his original path. So instead, he choose to follow the quickly drying riverbed, hoping that it would lead him to a trickle of flowing water.

By the time he had reached the far facing cliff where he and Spencer had seen a waterfall of rain runoff, the stream beneath his feet was little more than damp soil. It was still darkness all around him, and though his eyes had adjusted, he still glanced up at the nightsky as though waiting for another flash of brilliance.

What the hell was that anyway? What was the point of a blinding flash of light? Maybe it was supposed to disorient them, he mused. Blind them so that their enemies could find them and kill them more easily. But that didn't seem to make a lot of sense to Peeta. Wouldn't they all suffer from the same effects? After all, they were all stuck in a continuous night. Maybe someone had sunglasses.

He reached the cliff wall within the hour. It seemed to be completely vertical, and Peeta had his doubts about managing to get himself up it at all, much less having the stamina to make it all the way to the top. Still, he couldn't very well hang around in this basin forever and he had no intention of returning to the ruins. He could follow the wall around until he found a more suitable way to get up to the top, but who knew how long that could take? And then what? His initial idea had been to follow the river bed towards water. What if he couldn't even find it if he came up somewhere else? He remembered how dense the forest had been. Hell, Spencer had nearly walked straight off a cliff...

With a sigh, he resigned himself. He would have to go up here. It was his best bet for water, he reasoned.

He started at the base, hesitantly feeling his large hands around the rock slab looking for some sort of hand hold. When he found a couple of good ones, he began digging around with his feet. Tightening his grip and pushing with his legs, he started his way up. About two handholds above the ground and his hand slipped, sending him crashing back to the ground with a heavy "oomf." With a huff, he began again, a little to his left. He started the same way, first with solid handholds and then footholds and then slow, slow, slow going. Push with your legs, balance with your arms, make sure your holds are sturdy. Right hand up. Balance. Right foot up. Push. Left hand up. Balance. Left foot up. Push. Right, left, right, left, over and over again.

It seemed like he had finally gotten the hang of it. Already his limbs were tired, but he was making progress. A quick glance down confirmed it; about half way up from the ground. Which was a big chunk of space between him and the dirt. A lot of space that, should he slip, he would be careening through until he crashed heavily in a broken mess.

Not that he was concerned.

Swallowing heavily, he forced himself to look up in stead, and focus on the task at hand. He had to keep moving. Stopping here was not a good idea. Because his hands weren't going to get stronger, his legs weren't going to get sturdier. He wasn't going to just stop being tired by resting in the middle of a damn cliff wall.

Right hand up. Balance. Right foot—

He slipped. His right hand felt the handhold crack and crumble beneath his fingers, sending him sliding against the rock, hanging only by his left hand. His arm ached as his muscles strained against the sudden strain. He desperately scrambled to find a place to put his feet again and some place to reach out with his right hand, but his grip was giving out. He was shaking with the effort, breathing short and quick gasps, grunting with effort, and his grip was giving out.

"Shit."

As he felt his fingers peeling away from the one hold that was keeping him from falling to his death, he did something desperate. With his free right hand he reached back to Spencer's hand ax. As his hand spasmed and released, he swung the ax around above his head. Air whipped at his hair, tore at his clothing and he thought he was dead. That he would spend the last few seconds of his life falling and then with a loud thud, he would be dead. A canon would sound, his face would appear in the sky that night, and just like that District 12's male tribute would be no more.

But there was a clang of metal on rock and he stopped his downward motion. He glanced up. The ax was hitched on a jagged piece of rock jutting out from the cliff face. By sheer dumb luck, he was saved.

…

Peeta hefted himself tiredly over the edge, scrambling and slipping and grasping. He managed to fall safely onto his back, staring up at the night sky as he forced air in and out of his burning lungs. There was no way to tell how long it had taken him to climb. No sun to estimate, no stars to map by, just an empty expanse of dark blue sky that went on forever. Not that it mattered. How long it took him to accomplish a task didn't really affect the Games all that much. Spencer's death had granted him a little leeway with that. It bought him a little time to relax. Right. Because there's nothing more relaxing than scaling a cliff.

If he could, Peeta would have spent the rest of his life just laying there catching his breath. Unfortunately, if he did that the rest of his life would be significantly shortened and he wasn't having any of that. He had promised Katniss to fight for her, so that's what he had to do.

Even if it meant dragging his half-dead limbs to a sitting position so that he could gobble down what was left of the bread in his pockets. It wasn't much—especially after that much physical exertion—but it was all he had to work with at the moment. He washed down the bread with what little water he had left.

He took a minute to acknowledge how hungry he still was and admitted that water wasn't his only concern. If he went too much longer without proper nourishment, he wasn't going to put up much of a fight against anything—not the elements nor the other tributes.

With effort, Peeta forced himself up off the ground. It was time to get moving; staying out in the open like he was, wasn't smart. Although the treeline wasn't far and the density of the forest probably provided cover from anyone far enough away, it wasn't ideal for someone hiding just within that treeline. He was an easy target, and that was unacceptable. So he began to move again, dragging his sore legs forward against their stiffness.

At first, it was pretty easy going. The path the runoff was made obvious, an indentation in the earth of mud and debris, but as the night wore on, he found that it was becoming more and more difficult to even tell where he was going. Was this little slope where the runoff river started? Had he already passed it? Was the entire arena just one big dry riverbed emptying into the basin he had already found? Was the air getting thicker? Was his mouth getting dryer? Was he damp from sweat or from the water that seemed to hang in the air and elude him all at once?

He couldn't tell anymore.

In the distance, a canon sounded. Peeta paused, looked up to see birds scattering from the trees at the noise. How many was that now? Eleven? Twelve? He wondered who it was. A churning feeling in the pit of his stomach worried it was Madge. Although he hadn't deluded himself into thinking there was any way both he and Madge would make it out of the arena alive, he couldn't help but hope that if it wasn't him, it would be her.

Maybe it wasn't her, he reasoned. He started moving again, pushing aside branches and pushes and hanging vines that looked more like snakes—he hoped none of them were.

Madge didn't seem very intimidating. As far as he knew, she didn't have a lot of skills beyond that of manners and physical beauty. Which were fine and dandy for the Capitol, winning her sponsors here and there maybe, but not here in the arena. Not where there were tributes hunting her and the elements working against her. Here she would need something more.

With each passing step, his heart sank.

There wasn't much hope for Madge, really. Not much hope at all. He paused again.

"Okay! I get it! I'm screwed, I'm useless, I'm worthless. I'm dead. There is nothing I can do that will make me any match against the other tributes. I can't even climb a goddamn tree!"

No one was expecting him to do well, either. At least, Peeta hadn't been expecting it. But Katniss had been determined—still was, he assumed, back in the Capitol trying her hardest to win over the frivolous rich that resided there—and here he was, still alive.

Appearances could be deceptive, and that was the only consolation he could muster.

Continuing on was getting harder with each step he took. His eyes momentarily blurred and he wiped at his brow trying to clear them, but he still felt dizzy, unfocused. His foot caught against an exposed root and he nearly tumbled, his hand reaching out to catch a low-hanging branch just in time to keep him mostly vertical. He tried clearing his throat, hoping to alleviate the burning that had begun there, but it just made him notice the scratchiness.

He had to face it, he was exhausted. Maybe dehydration? Maybe hunger? Maybe he was just physically drained. He didn't know. All he knew was that he had to stop and rest. There was no way he was going to get any farther without collapsing.

Searching his surroundings, trying to focus, he found a suitable log set behind a bush that would provide him enough cover from the outside. Slipping to his knees, he rolled under the log and shimmied a little closer to the bush for cover. There, he let exhaustion take him.

…

Peeta awoke with a start to the sound of the Anthem playing. That told him at least what time it was, then he remembered the canon from earlier. Someone had died today. Blinking his sleep crusted, burning eyes, he pushed at the brush that covered him and looked up at the sky. The seal shone bright against the pure darkness and he watched closely.

Spencer's image appeared in the night sky, followed by the image of the boy from Nine.

The grip that had been attacking Peeta's chest relented, and he let a breath escape him. He hadn't realized how much he had been hoping it wasn't Madge.

He waited a moment longer, looking around with the scarce light of the boy's image, but still couldn't make out anything. It all looked the same nothing but forest. Forest, trees, vines, moss, grass—what did he know about any of it? Not a damn thing. He was useless out here, not like Katniss.

Katniss. Only thirteen and the winner of the Hunger Games. Only thirteen and able to—

He stopped himself. He didn't want to think about it. What had happened, had happened and he wouldn't hold it against her. It wasn't her fault—he had to believe that—and after spending what time he could with her at the Capitol, he was sure—sure—that beneath all that toughness, that hardness, that broken bitterness, was a girl worth loving.

And he did. He really, really did.

…

The second time Peeta awoke, it was once again to the anthem. Briefly, he panicked. How could he have possibly slept that long? A full day? That wasn't good. There was too much he had to do—find water, figure out the food situation—how could he have slept that long? Although his sleeping schedule was off and it was impossible to tell when one day ended and another began, he was almost positive it wasn't time for a death toll. Regardless of his skewed internal clock, he was sure it had only been several hours since the last announcement.

Then he heard the voice.

There wasn't strictly speaking a lot of communications between the outside world and the arena. There was the death toll, announced at the end of each day by the anthem and the seal. And there were the little silver chutes that were sent in by a combination of sponsor and mentor. Then there was Claudius Templesmith. And there was only one reason for him.

A feast had been announced to the arena, meant to lure the tributes in to destroy one another. Apparently things were getting too boring for the Capitol audience. They wanted some action and this was the best way to do it.

Peeta had debated the idea for about half a second before dismissing it. Although hunger had begun to gnaw at him uncomfortably, he would stand a better chance trying to catch his own food than duke it out with a bunch of probably half-crazed tributes at a Feast. He would take his chances in the forest. He stared up at the seal, waiting. Hunger bit again at his stomach, but he didn't think it was enough to make him go to any feast. They were as bad—if not worse—than the Cornucopia at the beginning. There wasn't anything he thought he wanted badly enough to go head to head with the remaining tributes for.

But he listened anyway.

Templesmith's booming voice assaulted his ears. He might have covered them, just to block the obnoxious voice out, because it was so loud. But he didn't and he was glad, because the announcement did more than shock him:

Tributes! This is the 75th Annual Hunger Games and those of you brave and resourceful souls who have managed to survive this long have the privilege and honor of participating in the Quarter Quell. You have done your districts proud to have made it this far! Your reward is this:

There has been a special alteration to the Games—

Alteration? Did Peeta hear him right? In all the years of the Hunger Games, there had never been any alterations. That just didn't happen.

—This year Tributes will find their Mentors on the battlefield!

His heart dropped somewhere deep into his stomach; he felt like he was going to be sick. This couldn't be happening.

Six mentors stepped forward, choosing to reenter the Games for the glory of battle!

Choose. Six mentors chose to reenter the Games? Peeta couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. This couldn't be the truth. He just couldn't accept it. But He knew it was. Somehow, he just knew. She was here. In the arena.

Peeta shut his eyes tightly, kneeling down to put his head between his knees. He tried to breathe but it was impossible.

Katniss was here.