Please excuse all the errors. This was disgustingly overdue, so I stayed up late to finish it last night. Unfortunately, my 2 AM grammar isn't all that fabulous.
Katniss Everdeen could've never anticipated that fifteen years of service as a palace maid would leave her here: unemployed, pregnant with the youngest prince's child, and horribly, devastatingly alone.
The morning the Queen dismisses her ("Who in God's name would knowingly commission a dirty whore?") Katniss seeks out her mother, only to find her floundering around the impoverished sector of the kingdom known as the Seam, her fair hair clotted in ratty, uneven clumps around her hollow face. She doesn't recognize her daughter. She pins Katniss with her vacant eyes, murmurs something about primroses, and teeters down the mud path.
Considering she's lived in the palace all her life, Katniss has no clue where to go from here. She has no income. No connections. Not even a place to stay.
Above all, she has no way of contacting Peeta Mellark – who is miles away and now married to someone else – to tell him she's carrying his baby.
Not that it matters.
She'll never see him again, anyway.
She sneaks into the palace, her desperation for solutions numbing her to the fear of being caught. After sleeping under trees or in alleyways crawling with rats for three nights, she can't imagine the punishment for trespassing would be much worse than what she's already endured. Besides, the guards at the outside door leading to the maid's quarters aren't aware of her termination, so they unsuspectingly let her in.
It's just after dawn, and she finds Annie making her cot. The moment the girl sees her, her green eyes flicker to life, and she flings herself at Katniss. She smells like clean linen. Katniss doesn't want to ever move.
"Where have you been?" Annie's palms carve into Katniss's back; she's sure her friend can feel the sharp pikes of her shoulder blades, the rutted disks in her spine. She's barely eaten.
"I can't be here," Katniss says, her voice a whisper. Her gaze flickers to all corners of the room, straining not to draw attention to herself. "Where can we talk?"
Annie leads Katniss into the laundry room, where the clunky noises drown out their presence. They crouch behind a washing machine. Katniss breathes deeply, struggling to push out the memories that swamp her thoughts. So much happened here. A quiet song, one she used to sing to Peeta while she worked, floats through the shiny corners of her head, and she trembles.
"The Queen fired me." Katniss leans her cheek against the cool metal of the washing machine, its hum whirring through her whole body.
"I assumed as much," Annie murmurs. "Was it because you were sick? Or did she figure out about you and the prince?"
Her head is spinning. She needs water, or food, or Peeta, but not in that order.
"She found out I'm pregnant, Annie."
Even in the dim lighting of the work room, Katniss can see color bleeding out from Annie's cheeks, her hand moving to clasp over her mouth.
"Pr—you're…" Her throat bobs as she swallows stiffly, her eyes fluttering. "Does Peeta know?"
The sound of his name alone severs her heartstrings, leaving a frayed mess of faulty wiring in her core. The last time she said it, it'd been appended to the words I love you, and without the declaration, those two syllables sound so empty.
She shakes her head. "How could he? It happened the night before he left. I have no way of contacting him."
"We can find a way," Annie shoots back, her tone bloated with anxious enthusiasm. "We know people in the castle. I mean, even Finn—"
Katniss feels her lips perk up a little at Annie's naiveté. She's had the second Prince's right hand man, Finnick Odair, wrapped around her finger since they were children. So, she was right to assume this gave her some sort of power, since Rye Mellark could be bent like a flower stem to his best friend's influence, but wrong to assume that this connection alone could solve everything. Prince Rye was fairly immature for his age, but he wasn't foolish.
"Annie, under no circumstances would Finnick be able to convince Prince Rye to, somehow, contact his brother on behalf of a maid claiming to be carrying his child."
"But Katniss—"
"Look, I'm not even supposed to be in the palace." Katniss clutches her sharp elbows, holding them against her ribs. "There's nothing I can do."
Annie looks her over for a few moments, her eyes wide with sympathy. Katniss can see the calculations streaming through her head, and then, as quick as a blackout, it all cuts off. Annie sighs.
"You're tiny, Katniss."
Katniss's nails dig crescents into the cracked skin over her elbow. "I know."
"Too tiny."
"I'm aware."
"Are… are you planning on keeping it?"
It isn't a thought she's confronted yet, although maybe she should have it earlier. Especially for girls in the working class, terminating pregnancies isn't unheard of.
But it's Peeta's baby. She doesn't know if she'll physically be able to carry the child to full term, having no job, no money, no shelter, no steady source of food. But if there is a way, her loyalty to Peeta and consequently his baby will win out, she presumes.
"Maybe I can find a way to get hired back," she whispers. "There's got to be a way. I mean, they're always in need of more maids, you know? I bet…" Her voice dies in her throat as she sees Annie looking down to her own knees, clicking the sides of them together.
"That's not going to fix everything," Annie says softly, reaching out to touch Katniss's shoulder. As she retracts her fingers, they brush the end of Katniss's snared braid, the hairs pulling delicately on her scalp. It, oddly, reminds her of Peeta. His fingers in her hair, or on her jaw, would beget the same sensation. She wonders if he's ever touched Princess Madge like that.
Shuddering to rid the thought from her bloodstream, Katniss slumps the entire side of her body against the washing machine. "I wonder what he'd want me to do."
"Does it matter?" Annie scratches the side of her nose. "He's gone. This isn't about what he'd want. This is about what you need."
Her throat tightens, and her brain begins crunching numbers, trying and failing to remember the last time she hydrated.
"I just need to survive." And she must, for now. Until what, however, she's not sure – until Peeta miraculously returns? Until the baby's born? Until she has no reason to live any longer? The destination has yet to be determined, but in the meantime, she must busy herself by simply being.
She stumbles through the Seam, searching in vain for her mother. Maybe today she'll remember her daughter. Maybe today she'll be able to help.
But it's been too long since Katniss last ate, or last drank, and her head fills with a kaleidoscope of butterflies; she teeters on her feet, stumbling against a nearby tree trunk.
Before she can crumble, however, firm hands steady her, wringing her arm and yanking her upright.
"Whoa, girl. You alright?"
She blinks away the lacy veneer fogging her vision, revealing quicksilver eyes framed by wrinkled lids. Katniss doesn't speak.
"What's your name?"
The woman's voice is raspy but low, which invites her into its warmth. She's a larger woman, with doughy, olive arms, and wisdom sewn deep into her features. Katniss swallows hard and croaks out her name.
The woman nods. "Katniss, I'm Hazelle. I'm going to get you some food, alright?"
The woman, who already has four children, becomes an instant mother to Katniss. Her ramshackle home barely has enough room for the five of them, but after Katniss tells her about her state of unemployment and pregnancy, Hazelle lends her the bed of her youngest daughter, Posy, and fixes up a small bowl of stew.
While she does so, the oldest boy comes home from an afternoon hunting trip, his tote bag lumpy with game. He takes one look at Katniss before turning to his mother.
"We don't have room for her."
"She's just a child," Hazelle replies, awfully calm in the wake of having her authority tested. "We have to protect our own."
"Our own?" the boy sneers, slinging his sack onto the table. "What makes you think she's one of us?"
"She's got nothing but the clothes on her back and a baby on the way. She needs help. That makes her one of us."
His steely eyes flash, his handsome face carved in stone to make his disapproval evident, but he says nothing. Instead, he merely grunts, fishing through the bag of game. Katniss watches him pluck out a squirrel, its neck hyphenated with angry red cuts from where the snare must've caught it. Her stomach churns as he begins cleaning it, right there in the sink, just a foot from her stew.
Moments later, Hazelle brings the food to Katniss.
"You'll have to excuse Gale, honey," she says as she tugs the girl upward, propping her against the rigid pillow. "He gets mighty defensive. But he'll warm up to you. He always does."
As her shaky hand drags the spoon to her own lips, Katniss looks beyond Hazelle to watch the older boy's shoulders strain and flex as he works over the game. They, like nearly all else, remind her of Peeta, once again, and the way his own broad shoulders would tense and arch as he painted, or pulled off his shirt before bed, or held her until they both drifted to sleep. Or, when they made love that first time – only time – and he'd caged her in while setting her free, and her hands had felt the beautiful ridges of muscle in his back, her nails scraping the flesh there. It'd made him moan against her neck, and encouraged him to bury himself deeper inside her, and to whisper her name in devotion. Thinking of it now, Katniss feels so empty all over again, because focusing hard enough once allowed her to feel the ghost of his body rocking into hers. But, in this instant, she feels nothing. It's all gone. Everything.
She rips her eyes from the boy as he works. She doesn't want to think about shoulders any longer.
She wakes in the morning to a tiny, fox-sized child in her arms, her breaths arching gently against Katniss's stomach. The warmth feels nice, and she lays still a while longer. She's been sleeping alone too long.
But the peace detonates the moment angry footsteps approach the bed. She feels the child being torn from her.
"Posy, not here."
The child makes something of a squeaking sound. "But Gale—"
She pronounces her R's as W's, and it'd make Katniss smile if the child wasn't being yanked away. Cold air licks at her belly as a pocket of cool space replaces Posy, and she begins to sit up.
"She can stay here, if she wants."
Gale's penning the child in his thick arms, brooding over the edge of the bed. "You don't get to call the shots."
The stiffness wiring her jaw shut begins to release as the child cranes her neck to focus her big, grey eyes on Katniss. She sighs, letting her arms flop over the bunched-up sheets in her lap. "I'm sorry for intruding. But you shouldn't be afraid of me."
Gale lets out a cutting sound, something between a laugh and a snarl. "You think I'm afraid of you?"
"I think you don't like me. But I don't know why."
He slouches to set Posy on the floor, his wide hand flattening against her back and shoving her away from the bed. With her gone, he can cross his arms and puff out his chest, magnifying his size by what feels like twice. He was aggressive before. Now, he's flat-out threatening.
"You're a stranger in my home, taking up space, food, water. What's there to like?"
Heat trickles into her face, and she struggles to keep her expression stony. He's right, to some extent. To him, she's nothing but an unwanted, costly guest. One with morning sickness and enough nightmares to keep the entire block awake.
"If you want to be reimbursed, I'll find a way," she offers, her words cased in iron. "I can clean your game. Help you set snares. Just say the word, and I'll figure it out."
Even though he snorts at the offer, she can see the gears beginning to squeal to life behind his eyes.
It's been a week since Hazelle brought her home, and since then her weight has stabilized, her energy slowly leaking back into her systems. When Gale walks by her cot come morning, he finds her perched on the bed, slipping her feet into a pair of worn-down boots. Katniss can't decide if he appears to be more startled or impressed.
He coughs. "I was just—"
"—going out to set or check the snares?" she finishes. She offers him a smile. "Let me come with you."
The smile isn't returned to any degree, instead waged with a curt nod, but she hasn't seen the older boy smile once since Hazelle hauled her nearly-limp body through the front door. She figures this is as close as she'll get.
They begin their trek into the woods, with Gale gracefully navigating the terrain, and Katniss stumbling over roots and shrubs. Growing up in the palace, nature was never her closest acquaintance, but there's something refreshing about the outdoors which breathes life into her lungs. Within moments, she begins to get the hang of things, able to follow just a few feet behind Gale without slowing him down.
That is, until a dagger of nausea prunes out her core and leaves her retching in a nearby bush. Gale doesn't seem to be deterred, but if he has a drop of sympathy somewhere far below his cool exterior, this moment of vulnerability doesn't unearth it. He stands several feet back, impatiently tapping his toes on the soil as she empties her stomach into the plants.
Minutes later, when they're navigating the wood – slower this time, with Katniss taking deep breaths – Gale clears his throat.
"Mom says your pregnant." He doesn't look back to her.
Her breath hitches, the quiet filled with a few chirping sparrows and a rabbit darting through the undergrowth. She doesn't know how to respond, so she allows her silence to serve as affirmation. And he must take it as such, because he doesn't say anything back.
He's showing her how to skin a squirrel when he brings it up again. It's been a week since she started accompanying him on his morning trips to the woods. Since then, she's learned next to nothing about him; he's seventeen, protective, constantly brooding, annoyed by all types of birds. And, under no circumstances, chatty.
Although, he'll initiate conversation every so often. Even then, however, it'll be cold and heavily calculated, as if each response of his has been deliberated for minutes on end.
There's been a long pause before he finally says it.
"How long do you have?"
She assumes he means the pregnancy, and not her life. Even he's not that morbid.
Her knife glides through a patch of stringy fat as she pulls the scrap of flesh from the squirrel's body, just as he's taught her. "At least seven months," she says flatly.
He's breathing loudly through his nose. Several moments pass.
"Do you know the father?"
Her body grows rigid, like someone's replaced her arteries with metal piping, and she needs to take a few deep breaths before she can return to her squirrel.
"Yes."
The silence that ensues is burgeoning with all the unvoiced questions he has for her, like bubbles lifting in a pot of boiling water and straining against the lid. They stream from Gale's body, wrapping around her arms, legs, neck, in suffocating vines, and she waits for him to probe further, to snap all the built-up tension.
It takes him two, maybe three minutes. Her skinned squirrel is lying on the wooden slab, its pink muscles beckoning attention, when he finally opens his mouth again.
"Why isn't he helping you with it?"
Of their own volition, the bloodied fingers of one hand move to her belly, ghosting over the imperceptible arc there. If he knew about the baby, would he be helping her? Would he abandon his responsibilities to help her raise the child? Would he take care of her in secret?
She used to be sure he would. It was mostly because she hadn't given it much thought – allowing her mind to wander into the hazardous what-if territory wasn't something she'd willingly done, so naturally, she'd fallen back on the ignorant assumption that things would be better if he were here and knew.
But would they be?
After nearly two months of his absence, she's regressed into blatant uncertainty. She doesn't predict the answers will come any time soon.
After a long while, she wipes a strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand, sniffling.
"He doesn't know," she finally tells him. "He's married now."
Gale's latent sympathy is awoken after that. The tension planking across his shoulders fizzles, and his behavior becomes less guarded. He'll let her lead in the woods, and remain silent when Posy swings on Katniss like a monkey-child.
He even cracks a smile once or twice when he thinks she's not looking.
In some alternate universe, she'd be contented in their new state of relaxed coexistence, if only her situation was different. If they were comrades out of will and not necessity, or if she wasn't isolated in the Seam, or if she wasn't pregnant, or if she wasn't still constantly aching for a boy who might have already forgotten her… maybe then, they could really be friends, and maybe she could really be happy. But they can't, and she won't.
After over a month of bunking with the Hawthornes, she still wakes up in the middle of the night with her throat raw from screaming. Some sick, masochistic part of her dreams of Peeta coming to quiet her cries. But he doesn't come. Not even Gale will. Only Posy seeks to comfort Katniss, snuggling deeper into the bed they now share to fold herself against the pregnant teen's body. With another heartbeat fluttering inches from her own, Katniss can remember how to breathe again.
The morning after one particularly rough night, Katniss approaches Hazelle, who's sporting dark bags under her eyes.
"I've extended my stay," Katniss says, her tone loaded with apology, although as she sees it, nothing could ever make up for the burden she's put on their family's shoulders.
But, Hazelle only frowns. "You're carrying a baby, child. You need to be taken care of."
Katniss tries to smile, but the corners of her mouth seem to be weighted with invisible dumbbells, and she doesn't even try to resist with Hazelle pulls her into her thick arms, tucking the girl's cheek against her chest. She's not quite sure what does it – maybe it's the way the woman's hands palm circles over Katniss's shoulders, or the way she just holds her, in a way that no one, save Peeta, has ever held her – but something lifts her to the acme of her composure and dunks her off the edge, leaving her to plummet into hysteria.
"I can't do this alone," Katniss chokes, emptying herself into the woman's shirt. Hazelle continues to rub her back as she lowers the girl to the cot, never letting go.
"You're not alone," she responds.
And she isn't, not really, but the mere technicality doesn't rescue her from the void. It only makes her cry harder, releasing all the emotions she's been trying to subdue for over two months now. Since she found out, she hasn't cried. She hasn't allowed herself to.
It's all reaching a frightening pinnacle now, though. It's one she can't avoid. And as Hazelle holds her like a mother would hold her child, she finds it's one she doesn't want to avoid. Not anymore.
"I miss him so much, Hazelle." The sound that shreds her throat is borderline animalistic, and she knows how pathetic she must seem, but she can't stop now. "I love him, I loved him, and I thought I would be strong enough, but I know I'm not, now. Not like this. Not with the baby."
"Have you told him?" Hazelle asks, her voice remaining soft in effort to coax Katniss from her panic.
It occurs to Katniss how little she's told the woman, but after all Hazelle has done for her, she sees no point in keeping it back now. She just needs to tell someone, needs another soul to understand her. With Annie penned inside the castle she's forbidden to enter, there's no one else who knows her situation, which has left her to navigate this tangled network of binds and dilemmas all by herself.
"He left before I knew," Katniss tells her, her voice growing raspy. "The night before he left, we… we did… that because I'd never see him again, and he told me he loved me, and I loved him, I really did, but I didn't think this would happen. And now I can't tell him, because I have no way to reach him. He'll never know."
Hazelle rocks her gently, the movement soothing the hiccups from Katniss's throat, but the ache in her muscles still remain, flaring up stronger than ever before. Even her body craves him.
"Where'd he go, baby girl? We can find him. I can help you find him—"
"He's living in another kingdom, Hazelle."
Katniss can feel the woman stilling, her breath stalled somewhere in her chest. It's clear she doesn't understand. Here, no one leaves the kingdom, not unless they're in the army. Or, if they're royalty.
Her chubby fingers begin to rake through Katniss's hair, her breath curling against her ear. "Honey, who is he? Who's the man?"
She can taste his name gathering on her tongue like a thousand tiny needles waiting to come plunging downward. She hasn't spoken it since he was standing before her, eyes red-ringed but bright with respect, and she doesn't think she'll ever be able to say it again.
So, she takes a deep breath, and pours out her confession into Hazelle's shoulder.
"The youngest prince," she says, finally.
Katniss is lying belly-up on the cot, the darkness from outside seeping in through the windows, an elastic black beginning to stretch to all corners of the room. It's been nearly an hour since Hazelle left, and she can't help the worry that balloons in her sore chest. After carefully pacifying Katniss, the woman had tornadoed from the home on some undetermined war path, refusing to announce her destination but impossibly eager to get there.
As she waits, she lets her hands glide over her belly. She wonders when she'll be able to feel it. As of now, she just feels grossly bloated; to others, she assumes it merely looks like she's been eating well. But when will she pass through that threshold? When will it begin to feel less like piggishness and more like a baby? When will it begin to feel like his baby? Will it have strong legs like him? She imagines if the little thing has any Peeta in him or her, the poor tyke will be quite a chubby baby. Maybe it'll have his eyes. Maybe it'll be able to paint.
Or, maybe it'll look and behave nothing like the youngest prince. Maybe Katniss's contributions will overwhelm its father's to the point of unrecognizability, where she'll begin to doubt if the baby is even his, and drive herself to the brink of insanity with the fear that she imagined Peeta all along.
Her chest is beginning to tighten when she hears footsteps on the kitchen floor, nearing her cot.
"Katniss?"
Her neck snaps to the side to hail her visitor. Through the dark, she can make out little beyond his rigid silhouette.
"Gale?"
She can hear the crackling of his jaw as he clenches and unclenches it.
"Is it true?" he asks.
Something in his tone leads her palms to flatten over her belly in an innate move of protectiveness, although she knows he'd never lay a hand on her. She watches him, waiting for her eyes to adjust to him, but remains silent.
He takes a step closer, and her heart coils.
"I—I heard you. With Mom, earlier. I don't want to believe it."
How much had he heard? Everything?
She's unable to respond. Instead, she slowly sits, leaning up against the wall.
"Was it really him?"
With him bowing over the edge of the bed, she can finally make out the cast iron eyes, the ones whose color mirrors hers, but whose temper is entirely foreign. Her body wants to be afraid of him, and it shrinks against the wall of sod and concrete behind her, but her mind remains resilient. She's not ashamed, so she has no reason to be afraid.
"Yes."
For a brief moment, this seems to almost deflate Gale, as if he was nothing more than a sack filled to the brim with hot air. But he recovers himself soon enough, growing stern once more.
"He isn't—he's not one of us. He's… he's the reason we have nothing, Katniss. People like you and I."
She begins to shake her head. How could she not defend him? Their kingdom's stratification was caused by the system, caused by his parents. Not by him. "He's not like th—"
"They're all like that!" Gale hisses, his voice laced with venom. "And you loved him? How… how is that possible?"
Because he was different, she wants to say. Because he was sweet. Because he was kind. Because he was funny. Because he loved me, somehow, more than anything.
Gale doesn't wait for her defense.
"He couldn't have loved you either. It wouldn't make sense."
"Gale—"
"A prince? Jesus, he could've had the pick of the litter, and he—"
"Gale." Her voice severs his contention, because goodness knows there'd be other things she'd have to sever if he were to complete that sentence.
His hands move to his hair, tugging in frustration at the roots. "It doesn't make sense, Katniss."
"Not everything is about wealth," she snarls. "We were friends for ages. I don't know why he loved me, but he did." But her voice cracks on the last word, and she adds more quietly: "I mean, he must have."
Gale grunts, rubbing his face.
"It doesn't make sense," he says one final time, the anger still shimmering like an instrumental behind his words. "Nothing makes sense. Not—"
He's interrupted by the angry grunt of the door as it slams open. Both Gale and Katniss startle, shrinking away from the door as a figure slips through the doorway. And then another figure. And then another.
"Katniss?" the second one calls out, and the voice that echoes through the room sends warmth curling through Katniss's chest, because it's been too long since she last heard it.
"Annie?" Katniss whispers.
The torches in the corridor burn orange, casting a sickening hue across the faces of Annie, Hazelle, and Finnick Odair as they tiptoe down the hall. Although it wasn't difficult to steal into the palace given Finnick's high status, drawing attention to themselves is the last thing on their list of priorities. Getting caught by the guards would end in nothing short of disaster.
In recent years, Katniss hasn't frequented this quarter of the castle, but she still recognizes where they are within an instant of them straying from the staircase.
"Who are we going to see?" Katniss asks shakily, although she's afraid she already knows the answer.
"Rye," Finnick whispers, leading them around a bend.
Katniss thinks she may pass out.
Hazelle, Annie, and Finnick had tried to explain most of the situation to her as they made their way from the Seam just minutes ago. The concise summary included a vague recitation of how Hazelle had posed as a maid to sneak into the castle, finding someone who knew Katniss – cue the entrance of Annie – and who could help her cook up a plan to contact Peeta. From there, they sought out Finnick. But that's where the clarity ended.
Now, they approach Prince Rye's door, the whispers of their footsteps fading to silence.
Finnick cocks his brows, nodding at Annie, before rapping on the door in some rhythmic code. There's silence, and then a shuffling beyond the wall, a cough, and then the door swings open.
There stands Rye Mellark, the striking blues of his eyes making Katniss's stomach pang, the sloppy curls dangling over his brow guiding tingles up her fingers. She remembers braiding her hands in his hair, and wonders if it would feel the same, now.
She aches everywhere. She's exhausted and sore from missing him so much.
Rye looks between his friend and the three women he doesn't know, his eyes narrowing to slits. "What's going on?" he asks.
Finnick steps forward, but not before extending a hand to cup Katniss's shoulder.
"We need to contact Peeta."
Rye snorts, raking his hands through his hair, the muscles in his neck flexing as he looks away. "Good luck. Even I haven't spoken to him since he left."
Something in Katniss's stomach folds over on itself, ice prickling up her spine. She reaches through the dark and grasps Hazelle's hand. "So it's not—"
"You're a maid, aren't you?"
Rye's looking at her now, his voice curt but not unfriendly. She feels pink petals flowering in her cheeks as she locks eyes with him. "Was a maid, Your Highness. I was fired."
"If you were fired, the what are you doing here?"
At which point in the story does she begin? With the Queen hurrying her out the back door, cackling as she fell in the dirt? With finding out about the baby? With Peeta's departure? With the countless encounters she and the youngest prince shared, all leading up to this? With her song?
Her speechlessness plugs the corridor like a thick gas, strangling her and obscuring all else. She opens her mouth to say something, or maybe to vomit, but nothing comes out.
Surprisingly, it's a voice from behind her that comes to her rescue.
"The girl's pregnant," Hazelle booms, stepping next to Katniss and curving her palm comfortingly into her spine, her arm keeping the poor girl upright. "And your younger brother's the father."
A nearly comical delay scribbles confusion over Rye's face, his jaw slack as Hazelle's declaration drenches them. Several second pass with no movement, and then suddenly Rye's eyes expand to the size of whole kingdoms, the blood in his face shrinking away from the skin.
He rubs his cheeks. "Shit. Shit." He's shaking his head, now. "Are you sure?"
Unable to say his name, or to further expound her circumstances, Katniss merely nods.
With his hand curled into a fist, Rye's forearm hammers the doorframe. "Look, if money is what you're after, that can be arranged. Or, even your job back at the palace."
Katniss shakes her head, her voice finally building in the back of her mouth. "I just want to tell him. I don't care how. I can write a letter—"
Rye palms his forehead. "Letters go through ridiculous stages of security. It'll never get there."
As if someone's taken a thumbtack to her chest, she feels her lungs deflate and shrivel like crinkled balloons. Desperately, she tries to breathe in, but a valve somewhere in her throat has sealed off her windpipe, and she squeezes Hazelle's hand, trying to steady herself, trying to find air—
"Look," Rye blurts, clearly flustered by the panic attack visibly looming over Katniss's head like a storm cloud. "I can—I can take you to see him. I miss my brother, too."
The seal stopped in Katniss's throat dissolves, a cool rush of air filling her lungs.
"Really?"
He rubs his face. "I'm quite overdue for a visit. No one has to know I'm bringing an ex-maid with me."
For the first time in over two months, she can feel a shadowy pulse in her chest, the stiffness evaporating from her body like steam from a mug of tea. She fights a smile, and the urge to bound across the corridor to hug him. Instead, she settles on a weak, "Thank you, Your Highness."
He acknowledges her with a soft nod.
"We'll part just before dawn to avoid the heavy security and, more importantly, my mother." He rubs the hollows of his cheeks. "We should arrive near dusk."
Think, we'll be there by this time tomorrow, says a small voice behind her eyes. The notion fills her with warmth, elation masking nearly all else to the point where she can almost forget the dormant anxiety. Almost.
She's perched across from Rye in the carriage, packets of sunlight bubbling through the open cavity between the roof and the door. Beyond the car lies nothing but fields, laced with rows and rows of green sprouts, glistening with morning dew.
The space between them is monopolized with silence; he hasn't spoken to her once, although she can practically see the impending questions building behind his clenched lips.
At some point mid-morning, Prince Rye starts bouncing his knees as he looks out the window, his jaw straining boldly in the same way Peeta's would. She misses his jaw. She misses him.
Suddenly, the prince's voice crackles in the compartment. "You mustn't tell anyone but him, Ms. Everdeen."
Her fingers fold into a cradle over her lap. "Of course."
"This is bigger than you," he continues, his voice possessing a sense of graveness she hadn't known he was capable of. "His union to Princess Madge isn't just a marriage. It's a coalition, an alliance – you mustn't interfere. After we arrive, and you tell him, quickly return to the carriage. If he offers to break up the marriage – which, knowing him, is unfortunately not out of the question – you must refuse. Our kingdom's bond with theirs depends on it."
Although his terms aren't ideal, she has no choice but to accept them. Seeing Peeta for a few minutes is a million times better than not seeing him at all.
Still, a string of curiosity begins to ribbon itself through her thoughts, and she pins her eyes to her shoes as she asks, "Why are you doing this?"
Her voice is so quiet that she assumes, for a moment, he hasn't heard her. But after a long pause, he inhales.
"If there's one thing I can hold my brother accountable for, it's his virtue." Rye gives her a soft, sad smile. "He wouldn't give himself away to someone who didn't mean the world to him. So, he deserves to know."
Her cheeks blaze. She nods, but her eyes remain glued to her toes.
The carriage bobbles a bit over a tract of rocky terrain, and they fall silent again for several moments. He sighs. She crosses her ankles. He scratches his brow. She gulps.
And then, Rye sighs.
"He must've loved you a lot."
The words are enough to send a brilliant pang of heat lancing through her ribs. Her lashes flutter as their eyes meet, and she tries to smile at him, but her lips feel like clay.
The air tastes different upon arrival, and she has herself half-convinced it's because Peeta's here, although it's probably just the shift in altitude. The sky beyond their carriage stretches a milky gold in prelude to the looming sunset; it's Peeta's favorite time of day, she remembers.
She wonders if she'll be able to enjoy one final sunset with him.
Their stallions tug the carriage over the cobblestone, bringing them around to the front of the palace. Prince Rye helps Katniss down from the car, and immediately she's overwhelmed by the sheer size of the turrets. The castle's nearly twice the size of the one she grew up in, with vanilla walls veined with flowering vines. To think Peeta's inside, somewhere. Her Peeta.
Rye keeps her close to his side, announcing himself to the guards, who pull apart the massive wooden gates to allow their entrance. One of the men leads them down the front hall, and Katniss feels her bones chill. Shadows glaze the corridor, and even though the ceilings are higher and the walls are decorated with pearl-like lights, this place feels so much less friendly than the Mellarks' palace. Maybe it's because it's unfamiliar. Or perhaps it's something else.
They're taken to the grand hall, which is hollowed out by the remnants of afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows, highlighting the dust motes that swirl in the air. Katniss watches the way the air moves around them as their escort murmurs something to a servant, who jets off in another direction.
They wait in silence, both examining the hall from their spots on the runner. She's not sure who's been summoned to greet them – could it be Peeta? Her head snaps in the direction of the entryway, the violent pulsing in her chest taking off in anticipation of his arrival. It could be a mere moment before they're together again. She'll have to keep her cool – she reminds herself of this, and squares her shoulders, preparing herself for him.
Movement in the corner of her eye draws her attention, and her neck snaps in the direction of another entryway, her heart flying in her throat.
And then she deflates. It's the princess.
And then she really deflates.
The girl is absolutely radiant.
"Hello, Rye," she coos, her silky voice supplementing the coy smile on her lips. She holds out her arms, accepting her brother-in-law in a warm hug, and Katniss immediately wants to shrink into nothingness.
Compared to this girl, Katniss is nothing. Her own threadbare gown, hollow cheeks, and braid which looks like it's been through a blender, are no match for Princess Madge's divine glow. She's beautiful in every way imaginable – in her dress, her rosy cheeks, her dimpled grin, her corn silk hair, her gentle curves, her everything – and Katniss can't imagine how, after two months of marriage, Peeta could ever want anything but her.
Her hands fly to the imperceptible swell of her stomach, wishing she could melt into the rug.
"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" Madge asks, her hand remaining of Rye's elbow. And it kills Katniss, because even when the princess's eyes flicker to her, her smile doesn't falter. She has no idea. No idea that this pitiable girl before her is carrying her husband's child. "And who may you be, Miss?"
"She's my handmaiden," Rye answers easily, leaving Katniss wondering if he'd prepared the label in advance. "It's been too long since I last saw my brother; I'm sorry for leaving you no notice. It was an impulsive decision, really."
Katniss wonders if she's imagining the wavering of the princess's smile, in the same way the light of an electric bulb will flicker near the end of its functionality, or if there really is a shift.
But once Madge weaves her fingers together over her abdomen, Katniss knows she hasn't made a mistake.
"My deepest apologies, Rye – Peeta hasn't been feeling well. He hasn't allowed any visitors in days."
She feels something inside her plummet like a cannonball off the edge of a ship, creating a magnificent tide that drowns her. She opens her mouth to beg for answers, but thankfully, Rye arrives there first, allowing Katniss to remember she has no right to speak.
"What do you mean? Is he ill?"
The princess swallows hard, her fingers combing at the roots of her hair.
"In a way, I suppose." She flattens her palm on her quickly-reddening cheek. "He's not happy here, Rye. I don't know how to help him. He tried too hard to pretend he was alright for the first two months, but in the past week, he's been unable to even look at me. How am I to make things better? He's only allowing the help into his room – I mean, he hasn't denied me entrance, or anyone for the matter, but it so clearly upsets him when I try to speak to him! He doesn't want me, Rye."
Her pitch has raised nearly an octave by the time she cuts herself off, her eyes shimmering with tears. She swabs her thumb underneath her lower lid, turning her head to the side.
"I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "I just—I feel like I'm hurting him. He tried to deny it for too long, which I think made it worse. The doctors say he's heartsick, and have offered him medication, but he doesn't want it. He doesn't want anything, Rye."
Through the corner of his eye, the prince shoots an expectant glance Katniss's way.
"I would like to speak with him," Rye says, still gentle even in his resolution. "If only for a few minutes."
Madge's palms tug down on the flesh of her cheeks. "He hasn't spoken in days."
"There's a first time for everything." Rye touches her shoulder, and then nods to Katniss. "Where can we find him?"
The servant guides them through the castle, and with each step, Katniss can feel more thunder rolling through her veins, her entire body numb and alive all the same. She tries to ease the trembling, but she can't seem to grasp hold of her muscles or nerves; every inch of her system is wired wrong, disconnected from her brain.
As they near, she feels Rye's palm on the back of her arm. He says nothing, which is just as well.
Finally, after what feels like a mile-long journey and, simultaneously, a split second, they arrive outside his door. The servant leaves them alone in the corridor, and when he's disappeared around the bend, Katniss grasps hold of the wall.
"I can't go in there," she pants.
Rye's jaw is set. "You have to, Katniss."
"But what if he's angry with me? I—I won't be able to handle his rejection. I'd rather just not know."
"That isn't true."
It isn't. He's right. She needs to see him, needs to know he's alive, needs to know his eyes are still blue and his heart is still warm and his dimples are still very much dimply.
Her nails scratch against the hard stone. "You go in first."
"I'll go in when you're finished. It surely isn't missing me that's left him debilitated."
She clenches her jaw. Could this be her fault? The heartsickness? She hadn't wanted him to disintegrate into this. She'd wanted the best for him – as long as "the best" could coexist with him remembering her.
He had wanted the same for her, of course. But she hadn't done him one better. Although she tried, really tried to heal, loving him had incapacitated her, too. His absence had left a hollow imprint in her soul, one she thought she could work around, but ultimately it absorbed all nearby divisions like a black hole. Her entire cosmos was left barren because of him, even though that was never his intention.
She wonders if this holds true for him, too.
She wonders if, now, with everything holding true but nothing holding together, he'll let it all go and hold her, hold her, hold her.
She swallows the panic, nods at Rye, and grasps the cast iron door handle with quivering fingers. She squeezes. She pushes. She slips inside.
Once she sees him, everything in her coils into a wad of incarnate nostalgia, throbbing at the sight of his silhouette stretching the bedsheets. His back is to the door, and to her; he must not have heard her enter. Or, if he had, he doesn't react.
The ache from his absence is suddenly replaced by a thousand types of hunger, all directed toward him. She watches the slight slope of his shoulders, rising and falling and rising and falling, his breath so enchanting in its realness.
Real.
He's real.
She chokes back a sob, tensing her body to try to ward off the trembling, but nothing works. So, she attempts to call out his name. But her tongue has been vetoing the shape of it for so long now that she can't produce its sound, which shatters her in an entirely new way. It's been too long. And, all too soon, it'll be too long all over again.
Will he remember the shape of her name?
She paces through the chamber, her shins carving into the edge of the mattress, making it shift underneath him. But he doesn't move. He remains at the other end of the bed, just three feet away but also light years beyond her. The smell of his sheets slowly rises to her, and it serves as a calming agent to her hyperactive nerves, soothing her and propelling her forward.
She crawls up against the head of the bed, sitting on the pillows beside his shoulders. His breaths stir, but he remains still. She wonders if he thinks she's Madge. She wonders if he'll be grateful that she's not.
She wonders if he'll be grateful that she came. That, somehow, she managed to find him for this one final time.
Her hands stray from her lap, splaying out over the curve of his shoulder. The warmth of his skin sculpts through the fabric of his shirt and of the sheets, and she feels torrents of electricity tethering her to the youngest prince, because the touch of him is nothing short of ecstasy.
She allows her fingers to roam upward, gently weaving in his curls. She brushes through them over and over, savoring and memorizing the sensation yet again.
Once more, she tries to speak. A greeting, a promise, his name, anything, anything, but all that strums through her throat is silence.
She doesn't know what possesses her to do it. She's not even sure where the idea originates, but suddenly it's grasping hold of her, hijacking her body and bringing her to life.
Before she knows what's happening, she's singing to him.
It's the first song he ever heard her sing, so it seems fitting that it'll be the last as well. The melody filters through her bloodstream, and dances on her tongue; she sings to him softly, but surely, as she brushes her fingers through his hair. She imagines she'll do this for their child, too. When it's just the little tyke and Katniss – she'll give him or her the lullaby as well, the one that brought its parents together in every way.
She feels him stir underneath her hand, his shoulders flexing below the sheets. He snuggles his back against the bow of her knee, possibly subconsciously. She can feel the heat of his back against her leg, and it coaxes her downward; she slips underneath the blankets, flattening her stomach against his back, her limbs twining around his warm body as she continues to sing for him.
After three verses, the song fades in the back of her throat, a calm quiet settling over their bodies. He's still, neither reeling her in nor pushing her away. She wonders if he's even awake.
And then, then, with no warning at all, he's turning in the bed, rolling to face her, his arms suddenly on her waist, or her arm, and his eyes locking in with hers. Blue, blue, blue.
His fingers braid into the fabric of her gown.
"My little songbird," he whispers, his nose brushing hers, his breath brushing her lips. "You're not real."
Her eyes are stinging, watering; she nods slightly, pressing her forehead to his. "I'm real. I'm here. I love you."
I love you, I love you, I love you.
She watches his face shift from confusion to disbelief to something else, something near-magical, and suddenly he's kissing her, his mouth an old, overdue friend inviting hers forward. He tastes a little like joy, and a little like morning breath, and a lot like home.
"How?" he asks in between kisses, his body contouring hers elastically. He feels perfect. He is perfect.
She gasps for air, and then slides her tongue over his. "I don't know," she admits. "A lot of luck." His teeth drag over her bottom lip. "And Rye."
He draws back, brows knit. "Rye?"
"Finnick found him. Annie found Finnick. Hazelle found Annie. Hazelle also found me."
"Found—who's Hazelle?"
He's very clearly disoriented, and she wishes she had all the time to explain, but she must preserve the quickly-waning minutes she has left. She chooses to allocate that time toward more important things, like kissing him, and figuring out how to tell him the reason she came.
"She's been taking care of me." Her mouth seals over his jaw, his glorious jaw. "Her son taught me how to hunt." Her palms brace over his chest. "I needed a place to stay." She finds his mouth, slack in confusion.
He doesn't push her away, per se – how could he? – but he curls his fingers over the top of her shoulders, holding her back just long enough for induced clarification.
"You needed a place to stay? W-what about the palace?"
Concern swamps his features, and he holds her close but far enough to look at her, and she wants to kiss him senseless.
But, she supposes the truth takes precedence.
"Your mother kicked me out."
His eyes grow wide, his already sunken cheeks – when was the last time he ate? – growing pale.
"Did she find out about us?" he whispers.
Katniss doesn't know how to respond, since she's unsure if the justification of her dismissal is better or worse than his assumption. But, that's for him to decide.
She's done stalling.
Her eyelids squeeze shut, and she snakes her hands under the sheets to find his, her thin fingers locking perfectly between his thick ones. Her palms squeeze his.
"She found out I'm pregnant, Peeta."
There's his name. His perfect, beautiful name, tattooing itself on her tongue back where it rightfully belongs. It has a lovely aftertaste, one delicious enough to wall her in, blocking out Peeta's reaction. He could be screaming right now, or pushing her off the bed, and she wouldn't know, because she loves his name too damn much.
But, he's not pushing her away. The touch of his palms cupping her face slices through her barriers, and her eyelids flutter open to find wide blue ones monopolizing her line of vision, which gives way to the taste of his soft lips curving against hers, and the feeling of his body trembling as it pulls her in.
"What are we going to do?" he whispers, the concern in his voice very adamantly contradicting his avid kisses.
She notes that he used the word "we." Not her, not him, but them.
"I don't know," she says back, curling her fists against his sides.
The look he fixes her with expresses his accord, but his hands on her waist and her back implant a sense of calm in her bloodstream, and she relaxes against him. She doesn't know what they are to do, how they'll confront the world beyond their closed door – his brother, his wife, his kingdom, his mother – but she knows the way in which they'll do it: Together.
And as his forehead leans on hers, with the pale orange light from the setting sun floating through the open window, she lets herself breathe, because it'll be alright.
It has to be.
A part three will be arriving shortly. Originally, I intended to cram it all into this second installment, but for the purpose of brevity and all of our sanity, I decided to break it up.
Let me know what you're thinking, how you're feeling, how your day's been, if you like puppies, what you're planning for summer (or winter, if you're from the bottom of the globe). Anything, really. I love to chat. Leave reviews, PMs, or Tumblr messages to the-peeta-pocket. Let's be friends.