I barely make it up the stairs before the tremors start, blackness pushing into the edges of my mind, fear screaming through my veins, shiny memories overtaking my vision. Not real, not real, not real. I pace, I dig my nails into my palms, try to control my breathing but I know there is no stopping the demons this time, not without her. Without her. When I can fight no longer I work my way down to the basement and somehow manage to lock myself in. I crumple to the ground, pulling my hair, punching the concrete floor until the blackness overtakes me.
…
I have a pounding headache. That's the first thing I'm aware of. As the world comes back into focus I realize that I'm curled up on the basement floor, cold and achy. The light coming through the cellar window suggests that the day is well underway. I struggle to push myself up and get my bearings, and the evening floods back to me. The anger is gone, and I'm left with an awful grief, an aching emptiness. I climb the stairs and let myself back into the kitchen, the fire is out and the house is empty. She's gone.
I relight the fire and glance at the clock, flinching: almost noon. I was out of it a lot longer than usual I think, dismayed. It's too late, really, to head to the bakery site, and I'm feeling awful anyway. I should eat something, I haven't since yesterday lunch but I don't think I can stomach anything. I pace for a while, feeling disoriented and disconnected, not sure what to do with myself. Finally I decide to take a bath.
The hot water soothes my cramped muscles while it makes my hands, covered in cuts and bruises from my long night in the cellar, ache. I lay back in the deep tub thinking about her, Katniss, how could I have been so wrong? I think about her small form curled up against me at night, the gentle way she touched me, the soft smiles. I can feel her in my arms, how she would cling to me after her nightmares, how she would bury her face in my chest when she was overcome working on the book. Real, all of these things felt real. The way she would cradle my head to her chest after one of my flashbacks, murmuring sweet words in my ears, leaving gentle kisses on my cheeks and temples. How she would take my hand when we walked to town. I'm so confused. I love her. I need her, but am I what she needs? Am I who she wants?
I rise from my bath and shuffle into my bedroom, and it's as if she's surrounding me, her sweater hanging from the bedpost, her hairbrush on the dresser, her scent on the pillows. Every fiber of my being wants to run to her, but I can't, not this time. I lie down in my bed and let the tears come.
When I rise late in the evening it's with a sense of purpose. I need to help Katniss, to figure out how to get her confinement to District 12 lifted. Then she can go to Gale, sort out her feelings for him, her feelings for me, too, whatever they may be. After everything, she deserves to be happy, I want her to be happy, I love her so much. I make myself a small meal, but the quiet of the house presses down on me and I barely pick at my food before deciding instead to paint away my misery.
...
I'm up before dawn baking bread, it's been a long time since I've baked on a weekday and I hadn't realized how much I missed it. I head out to my job site bearing a few warm loaves for the crew. I immerse myself in the work, the physical labour helps wash away some of the mental fatigue though it's clear I'm distracted and clumsy. By one o'clock Thom is clapping me on the shoulder, suggesting I go home. "Think you're still a bit under the weather Peeta. Probably could use some more rest," he suggests. I want to protest but the truth is I'm exhausted; I painted nearly all night, sleeping only a couple of hours in the chair in my studio before the nightmares woke me.
I return to Victor's Village, stopping at my house only long enough to pull a loaf of bread from the bread box, then head to Haymitch's place. I steal a glance at Katniss's house on my way but it gives no clues as to its occupant. Haymitch is sleeping on the couch, flask cradled in one arm. It's a risk waking him at this time of the day, but I need his help. "Haymitch", I call loudly, nudging him with the toe of my boot. I know better than to get too close; he's likely to wake up swinging, which he does, his knife missing me by at least a foot. "Haymitch, I need your help".
He groans, sitting up and stretching before fixing me with a dirty look. "This better be good," he scowls. I hand him the bread, like a peace offering, and he breaks off a chunk, stuffing it into his mouth without fanfare. I sit in an armchair across from him and begin.
"What can we do to free Katniss?"
"Huh?" he counters, crumbs flying. "What kind of nonsense is rattling around in that head of yours now boy?"
"Her confinement, you know? She has to stay in District Twelve. I want to help her get, well, unconfined. I want her to be free to go where she needs to go. I don't want her to be stuck here anymore." I'm babbling; the words don't flow the way they should, I'm just too worked up.
Haymitch looks at me for a long while, not speaking, a single eyebrow lifted. Finally, he says, cautiously, "she's not confined here anymore kid. They lifted that when she turned eighteen, back in the spring. She doesn't stay here because she has to. She wants to be here. This is her home."
My mind is reeling. She's not confined? She wants to be here? No, that can't be. "Does she know, Haymitch? That she can leave Twelve?" His expression is perplexed.
"Of course she knows. There were papers we had to sign. The whole confinement thing was mostly for show anyway, Paylor knew Katniss wasn't insane when she killed Coin, but it would have looked pretty bad to come out and say it. Why does it matter?" at this he turns away and fiddles with his flask. "She's not planning on travelling anyway," he mumbles.
I can't make sense of this. I know what I overhead, she said she couldn't go yet.
"Haymitch, I heard her say that she couldn't leave. She was talking on the telephone. To… to Gale…" my voice catches on his name as a flare of pain squeezes my chest. Haymitch snaps his head back towards me.
"Gale? She hasn't spoken to him since the Capitol. Last time I mentioned him she threw a glass at my head." His brow furrows and he regards me suspiciously. "Are you sure she was speaking with Gale? Did you ask her who she was talking to?"
I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks as I look down at my feet. "No," I mumble, "but she told him she loved him, who else could it be? She doesn't talk to Dr. Aurelius or Johanna that way!" My anger is rising again, though I'm not entirely sure if I'm angry with her, or with myself. Haymitch sighs. I chance a look at him; he's rubbing his face absently with a grubby hand, looking tired.
"Her mother," he starts, and then pauses, staring at a fixed point in space. I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in his thoughts.
"What about her mother?" I prompt.
He sighs again. "She called me. Two days ago, I think. I gave her your number since Sweetheart is never at her house anymore."
"What?" now my anger is aimed squarely at Haymitch. "Why did you do that? Don't you remember the last time they spoke?" my voice raises at the end with barely contained fury, the memory of Katniss, broken on the floor, still clutching the phone in her hand, flashes in front of my eyes.
He shrugs. "She's her mother, kid," he says simply.
"Some mother," I scoff. "Abandoned her, twice, damn near destroyed her."
"Maybe not a good mother, no, but it's for Katniss to decide if she wants anything to do with her. Not me. They've got stuff they need to say to each other. Sweetheart needs to face that. To heal."
It's my turn to sigh, because he's right, I know her unresolved feelings about her mother weigh heavily on Katniss.
"Did Katniss come here after the call? Did she speak with you?" I can't meet his eyes.
"Kid, I haven't seen Katniss in days. I assumed she was holed up at your place, like usual."
Bile is rising in my throat and my heart is racing. "We argued, Tuesday, and she," I pause here, unwilling to admit that I'd pretty much thrown her out of the house. "She, uh, left, and, uh," I draw a deep shuddering breath, "and I haven't seen her since." I can barely squeeze the words out.
"You argued?" he says evenly, but his eyes flash and I can tell he's already guessed what transpired.
"Yeah, well, not an argument so much as me flying off the handle. I don't think she said a word actually." I can see her face in my mind; the sad, bewildered eyes, the slumped shoulders. She hadn't put up a fight; she hadn't even defended herself. I feel sick. What have I done?
"Peeta," his voice is serious now, his eyes sober and sharp. "Tuesday was two days ago. I haven't seen any movement at her house, no smoke from the chimney," I don't let him continue, turning on my heel and sprinting as quickly as my bad leg will allow across the lawn to her house.
I rap sharply on the door. "Katniss?" I call. I'm met with silence. Haymitch has caught up and reaches past me to try the knob. It's not locked. The door swings open with a groan of disuse. The house is quiet and stone cold, a thin layer of dust everywhere speaking of its vacancy. I take the stairs to the second floor two at a time, calling for her as I do. Her bedroom is empty too; the bedside tables are bare except for dust. The bathroom contains nothing, not even a toothbrush. I'd pushed her from the home we had essentially been sharing without even a thought as to what waited for her here, the nothingness, this shell of a house with only ghosts. A cursory glance into the other rooms and closets reveals nothing, but I'm not surprised. This whole place screams of desertion.
My steps are much heavier as I slowly descend and work my way back to the kitchen. It's empty except for our drunken mentor sitting at the table, staring at Katniss's bow and quiver of arrows, beneath which lies a small white envelope bearing my name. My heart sinks.
"You gonna open it or what?" Haymitch's voice snaps me out of my stupor. With trembling hands I unseal the envelope. Something small and shiny rolls into my hand and when I recognise it I'm stunned. It can't be… but it is, I'm sure of it. I close my fist tightly around what I'm certain is the pearl I gave Katniss in the Quarter Quell. I can't believe she still has it. I resist the urge to bring it to my lips, and instead pull a single sheet from the envelope and read.
Dear Peeta;
I'm so sorry. All I ever do is hurt you. I've hurt you so many times, let you down, and disappointed you. I don't want to do that anymore. I'm sorry that I never found the courage to tell you how I feel about you until it was too late. I'm sorry that I never told you how proud I am of you; your bravery, your strength, your unwavering goodness. I'm sorry that I never thanked you for returning to District 12, for returning to me, and I'm sorry that I never let you know how much having you here with me has meant to me. I've never once thanked you for chasing away my nightmares, for being my tether to sanity.
I heard you and Gale when you were talking in the basement of Tigris' shop last year. He said then that I would choose the person I couldn't survive without, but he was wrong: I don't need anyone to survive. But I can't live, can't truly live, without you, Peeta. And besides, I'd chosen long before then. In many ways that choice was made when we were eleven.
Thank you for the bread.
I don't realize that I'm crying until tears drip onto the paper. I hold in my hand everything I've ever yearned to hear her say, everything I've ever dreamed she might feel for me, and more, but it is hollow without her beside me. I need to find her, to beg her forgiveness, to try to right this wrong I've committed. I threw her away, abandoned her like so many people have before, and instead of anger she had responded with apologies.
I feel heartsick, utterly eviscerated, but more than that I feel a terror welling up inside. She can't live without me? And no one has seen her in two days? I turn to Haymitch with wide, terrified eyes. He snatches the note from my hand without waiting for permission and scans it quickly. His shoulders slump, but he doesn't look surprised.
"We have to find her Haymitch. Where could she have gone?"
He's quiet for what feels like an eternity, and when he finally speaks his voice is thick with emotion. "When Sweetheart's trial was over and she was released it was almost too late. She hadn't eaten or drank in days; she was skin and bones, barely conscious. She'd given up, and I think she was trying to starve herself to death." I gasp; he glances over at me and continues. "When we returned to Twelve I hired Greasy Sae to come twice a day to feed her. Katniss never made any attempt to eat except what Sae could force into her, she didn't bathe, she didn't move from her chair in front of the fire for nearly two months. Two months Peeta! Do you know when she finally started to come around?" I shake my head, though I'm pretty sure I know what he's going to say. He shoots me a dirty look, "Yeah, I think you do. She got out of that chair the day you came back. When Sae found her that morning, showered and dressed, talking, eating without being spoon fed, she thought it was a miracle, boy. We both thought Katniss might have been gone forever. Turns out she was just waiting." He doesn't finish that thought, but I understand the implication. She was waiting for me.
"What have I done?" I whisper.
Haymitch pushes himself out of the chair. "We'd better start looking for her. I hope we're not too late." His face is grim. "I'm going to find Thom and round up as many of the men as I can find to search the woods. You check out the empty houses in Victor's Village." He storms out the door without waiting for a reply.
The woods. Of course that's where she will have gone, but she didn't take her bow and it's so cold at night now that there is very little left to gather; no greens, no berries. She went into the woods unarmed and with nothing but the clothes on her back, maybe two days ago. A black feeling of hopelessness washes over me and I sink to the floor, my head in my hands, shaking. My beautiful Katniss. I let my mind drift to happier times, working side by side in the garden, sleeping together in my bed, her small warm body curled into my chest, that incredible night when I gave her the painting of her lake.
The lake! I snap out of my reverie, remembering the stone cottage near the lake; she had pointed it out to me but we hadn't ventured inside. Could she be there? It would make sense; she often goes to the lake when she's troubled, it's a sacred spot for her, a place where she feels her father's presence. I stumble to my feet and run, ignoring Haymitch's directive, tucking the tiny pearl into my breast pocket as I do. Right beside my heart.
I reach the gap in the fence surrounding the district and push through, into the trees. It's been awhile since Katniss took me to the lake, and the bare trees holding only the most stubborn of fall leaves look very different, but I think I remember the way. I hope I do. Over and over as I journey I question the path I've chosen but still I plow forward.
It takes nearly two hours before I finally crest a hill and am looking down into the valley that I remember from our previous visit. I can make out the lake, dappled in the last of the setting sun, fingers of gold caressing the deep blue surface. In another mindset I might have paused to admire the quiet beauty of the landscape as it starts its decline into winter slumber, but right now my mind is reeling, trying desperately to remember which way the cabin lies. I stop and force myself to take deep, calming breaths, puffs of fog escaping into the rapidly cooling air. I take a moment to assess the absurdity of my situation: standing deep in the woods, unarmed, as darkness falls and the temperature rapidly drops. No one knows where I am. Only the realization that Katniss, too, is likely in the same situation, and has been for maybe 2 days, spurs me on.
I descend into the valley heading vaguely northward, then pick my way along the rocky shoreline, until I catch a flash of orange out of the corner of my eye. The last of the setting sun reflects off a single wavy pane of glass on a derelict cabin tucked into an overgrown copse of trees perhaps a hundred yards away.
I walk carefully along the faint trace of a path, cautious in the dim, afraid of falling and, if I'm being honest with myself, afraid of what I might find. I circle around to the door, gently pushing it open.
The tiny cabin is cold inside, colder than outside even, and dark. At first it appears empty, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness I make out a small form curled on the floor in front of the hearth. Her name is torn from my lips, half scream, half moan, but the form doesn't stir. Heart pounding, vision swimming, I cross the room and kneel beside her.
"Katniss," I gasp, touching her shoulder, turning her towards me. She's so very still, and so cold, her lips appearing almost blue in the dim. With shaking hands I gently touch her neck, and then sob with relief as I feel her pulse thrumming beneath my fingers. I gather her into my arms, rocking her as I hold her tightly, kissing her hair, trying to use my body heat to warm her, but I know it won't be enough. I need to get her warm.
It's fully dark now, and a cold wind is blowing through the two windows that are devoid of glass. There is a small pile of well-seasoned wood next to the fireplace, but no sign that she'd attempted to start a fire. I reluctantly set her gently down and quickly stack some of the wood, grateful for the box of matches I keep in my coat pocket. I can start a fire without them; a skill that came in handy during the Games, but it's faster with matches. The dry wood catches easily, and I settle in front of the fire, cradling Katniss on my lap and wrapping my jacket around both of us as warmth begins to emanate from the flames, driving back the cold.
My tears come in earnest as I rock her, so still and slight, covering her delicate face with kisses, murmuring vows into her hair, promising to never again let her out of my arms if only she'll come back to me.
In the glow of the firelight I can see the colour slowly returning to her cheeks and lips, and after a while she begins to stir. "Katniss?" I whisper, bringing my hand up to stroke her cheek, push the loose hairs off her forehead. Her eyes open briefly, unfocused, before fluttering closed again. "Katniss," I try again, more insistently. Her eyes open again, squinting in confusion.
"Peeta?" Her voice is raspy, but I've never heard a more beautiful sound.
"I'm here, my love, oh Katniss. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my love," endearments tumble from my lips unbidden as I hold her more tightly, so overjoyed I am to see those silvery eyes that I love.
A drowsy half smile flickers across her face as her eyes droop and close and she snuggles into my chest. "I love you Peeta," she whispers so softly I can't be sure it was even real, but my heart soars nonetheless. I keep rocking her, nose buried in her sweet smelling hair, warming her by the fire, whispering my love, hoping that she hears it, hoping that she believes it.
An hour passes, then another. I've fed all of the wood into the flames and now the fire is dying down. I know I'll have to gather more wood, but I just don't want to let go of her, and I'm more than a little nervous about going out into the dark forest alone. Just when I've decided that I can wait no longer, I faintly hear deep voices far in the distance, calling my name and hers.
"Thom!" I yell over my shoulder, relief flooding me. "Thom, in here, hurry!"
"Peeta!" I hear him reply, closer now. A minute later the flickering light of a lantern fills the little cottage as Thom bursts through the door, another man close at his heels. "We followed your trail, and then saw the smoke," Thom says breathlessly, stopping short at the sight of Katniss unconscious in my arms. "Is she…" he begins.
"She's alive, but she was near frozen when I found her Thom. We need to get her back." My voice sounds panicked, even to myself. The second man comes forward, carrying a small medical kit. Thom introduces him as Brody, a medic formerly from 13 who has immigrated to 12, but I barely register his words. Brody is cursorily examining Katniss, taking her temperature, checking her pulse and pupils, but he never once asks me to release her. I think maybe he understands that I cannot.
"Her core temperature is low but her vitals are stable." He pulls a thin metallic-looking sheet from the kit. "Can you carry her, Peeta?" I nod, and he continues, "I'm going to wrap this around both of you then; it'll reflect your body heat to help warm her while we head back."
Once that's accomplished Thom stamps out the embers of our fire and we head out into the cold night, Thom leading, holding his lantern high, Brody bringing up the rear, blowing a shrill whistle every few minutes to alert other searchers who join our retreat two by two.
The darkness and uneven terrain slows our progress, but I feel Katniss snake her slender arms around my neck and tuck her head into the crook of my shoulder, and my exhaustion dissipates. She's in my arms and I'll never again let her go.