Chapter 6

Ghosts of the Past

The faint sensation of fingers tracing over my face wakes me. It is Peeta. His arm is wrapped around me and my head is resting on his chest. I can hear the beat of his heart, it is frantic for someone who has just been sleeping, but it is still strong. It is the sound of a young heart.

"Good morning." He whispers to me the faintest of smiles on his face.

"Good morning." I whisper back.

I am just sitting up when Haymitch opens the door. He first peaks in the room his face taught. His muscles relax slightly when he sees Peeta sitting. I was not the only one who doubted that he would live through the night.

"Another fine morning today, Master Peeta." He says as he draws open the shades to let in some meager light. "I thought I heard a bird singing at sunrise it should be a fine day. All right up you go." Again Haymitch gathers Peeta up in his arms and carries him out of the room.

Maids descend as soon as Peeta is out of sight. I jump from the bed and cling onto my pillow. For some reason stashing all those stolen things inside it made it feel like it was, well, mine. Besides the crushed piece of bread is still inside and as someone who has faced down the threat of starvation I know how much that is worth.

Alma walks through the room at the meandering pace of a bumblebee clapping her hands once and giving stern orders. "All right. We are finished in here girls." She says. The girls snap to attention and file out of the room. They all seem to be around my age and it feels strange not to go with them. I feel so out of place here.

Haymitch returns with Peeta, who looks half asleep in his arms. Haymitch places him in the bed and takes great care to make sure he is comfortable. Peeta only eats two or three spoonfuls of broth and with each one he makes a grimace. Haymitch tries coaxing him, but it is no good. For once I want to say something. I want to beg him to eat and tell him he can sleep later, but what good would it do. I stay silent and watch on until Haymitch gives up.

Haymitch takes the tray of food out to the door. I watch him the way a crow watches a dog who has just made a kill, wondering when it is safe to pick off the scraps that are left. I am waiting for him to set the plate of bread on the side table. He doesn't. At the last second before he is out the door I catch him giving me a dirty look. I understand now. I am not forgiven for trying to run away last night. This is payback.

I take out the crushed bread and break it in half. I need to be frugal now that I don't know when my next meal will be. With bird sized bites I peck away at the ration. I have learned from years of experience that it is important for whatever your eating to at least feel like a big meal to help keep hunger away.

I then attend to my feet. They are laced with bloody gashes from last night and throbbing. I still have shards of the pottery crushed into the wounds. I spend the next few hours scraping away at my cuts trying to get them clean and watching different shadows form on the stone walls.

The following days melt into a gray blur. There is not much difference between waking and sleeping. Peeta is almost always there in some way or another. He has all but stopped eating and has shed a few pounds that he can ill afford to lose. Every joint and bone of his body is visible and I am waiting for his stomach to swell and for it to be over. I have seen death by starvation before.

His coughing fits have increased too. They happen at least twice a day, and I have learned that it takes no great skill to hold a handkerchief to someone's mouth and catch the blood. You simply make yourself do it, like you make yourself release an arrow to bring down a doe.

It is also not a complicated task to lie next to someone and hold them close. I have done it often enough with Prim. What makes this so different, I reason with myself. Besides it seems to comfort him when I am flush against him. He does not cry out so much. A few nights ago I realized it is so sad that he never calls for anyone by name. Even I sometimes do this. Years ago I fell from a tree and landed hard on my ankle. I couldn't stand and could scarcely breath for a few moment and to my great surprise the first word to pass my lips was my mother's name.

He does not call for his mother or his father. No names ever escape him, only sounds of his agony. Haymitch is the only one to visit and I am the only one to comfort.

One night as I lie next to him with my arms wrapped around his waist and my nose pressed up against the back of his neck so I can tell if he is still breathing, he speaks.

"What is your favorite color?"

At first I think I am hallucinating. I am so sleep deprived anything is possible, and besides we never seem to talk.

"Hmm." I hum in a sleepy voice, hoping that we can both try to rest.

"What's your favorite color?" He repeats again and rolls over so that our noses are nearly touching.

My first thought it that it is a silly question. What do colors really mean anyway, there are so few of them to begin with. However, when I look into his eyes I can see that he is in earnest.

I must take too long with my response and he tries again. "Please tell me. You hold me to your side every night and chase some of my suffering away. Yet all I know about you is your name."

"Green." I whisper to him.

"Like the color of your woods?"

I can't help, but smile. What a silly thought, my woods.

"Yes. What's yours?"

"Orange."

I am grinning despite myself. What a silly color to choose. It hardly exists in nature and people never think of it. When people even discuss color it is always something like the sky is blue, now it's gray. The grass is green, no now it is brown. No one ever even thinks of orange.

"Why?" I ask him.

He looks to me like he is about to reveal a great secret and says, "Because it is the color of sunsets, and I have not seen a sunset in five years."

My heart gives a pang. What must that be like, to not have seen a sunset in years. I feel suffocated from being trapped in here for a week. He must feel like he has been buried alive. I look to him what should I say? What is there to say?

"I miss the light." I whisper up into the darkness.

He wraps an arm around me and draws me closer. Why is he comforting me? Shouldn't it be the other way around?

"I know. I am sorry." He tells me.

We stay still for a moment clinging to each other. Two little waifs trapped together with only one another to hold. My heart seems to keep rhythm with his and his breath slows. Maybe he is sleeping again? I hope so, he desperately needs it.

A feel a small spasm run through his chest. And a corresponding shiver runs up my arm. Oh no, not again. He lets out a cough and blood splatters my cheek. I instinctively reach for a clean towel across Peeta on his bed stand. These fits are happening so often Haymitch is keeping a stack of clean linens at the ready.

I hold the cloth to his mouth and do my best to support his head with my other hand.

"Shush, shh." I tell him, "Try to relax. This will pass. This will pass."

He gives me a look that I cannot read and the rate of his coughing increases. My hand is growing sticky from the blood soaking through the cloth and I am beginning to panic. What would Haymitch do?

"Peeta," I say. He starts to cough harder and I think he can hear the panic in my voice. "Peeta, calm down. Breathe with me." I suck in a slow exaggerated breath and let it out. I repeat this again and again, until slowly he starts to do it with me.

Ever so slowly the coughing subsides and turns into ragged breathing. He is limp from exhaustion and both our brows are covered in sweat. I reach up and wipe my forehead. I immediately regret this. I had forgotten that my hand was covered in blood and now I am sure it is smeared on my forehead.

Peeta is now asleep in my arms. I close my eyes and lean back a moment and sleep catches me off guard.

Peeta begins to stir and I wake. I stroke his hair to try and encourage him to return to sleeping, instead he speaks, "What else do you miss?"

"Hmm?" I ask him. My eyes are shut and I am still half dozing.

"You said you missed the light, what else do you miss?"

My first thought is Prim, but I cannot tell him this.

"Bathing." I say.

It sounds sarcastic, but it is also true. I have not had any sort of way to wash myself since I arrived here and I know I must stink. My once white dress is covered with stains of Peeta's blood and the fabric is stiff from my sweat.

He stares to the ceiling in thought for a moment and I wonder what he will say to me. I hope for a moment I have not insulted him. I have never taken the circumstances of my being here as something he is responsible for and I hope he does not feel like I am accusing him of anything.

"Oh," He says and then he looks to me like I am a little bird trapped in the rafters of a church. The kind that all the little children see and want to set free. He closes his eyes and turns towards me, resting his head in the corner of my shoulder. I reach over and tug the blankets closer to his thin frame.

I am going to miss this. A breath hitches in my throat and my hand moves up to catch a stray tear dripping down my face.

What silliness. I don't even know the boy. He said so himself just minutes ago. A sob catches in me chest and I do my best to stifle it. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it." I command myself. Another cry catches and I am able to hold it back for a moment. My eyes are watering uncontrollably. I look over to his sleeping face and the cry escapes. I don't want him to die.

I shouldn't think this way. There is nothing I can do to save him. I have seen so much death before and his time is coming. It's as inevitable as the sun rising. But if there was some other world, some other place where somehow I could heal him I would.

My chapped cheeks are burning from the tears running down my face and my sobs have turned into a soft whimpering. I look to him. "Don't leave me." I want to tell him. I run my hand through his silky curls, sometimes gently grabbing fistfuls of his hair. I want to hold on to him, to somehow tether him to this mortal world.

I grip onto him tighter and let my tears fall freely. How do you take something broken and make it right? You can't. There is no mercy in this world.

My sorrow fades to darkness as I cry myself to sleep.

The light coming into the room is a surprise to me. It is an even greater surprise when Haymitch's hands remove my willowy arms from around Peeta. I have been clutching the boy in a death grip for most of the night.

Haymitch looks to me and I immediately look away feeling guilty, but for the first time I think he was looking at me like he didn't quite despise me. He hefts Peeta up like he weighs no more than a small child. Peeta's eyes flutter open, but I don't think he is even aware what is going on. I lift my hand up to my mouth and bite down on my knuckle as I try to keep myself from screaming. He has the glassy eyes of someone with just a few days left to live.

Before, Haymitch walks out the door I hear Peeta say something. I can't make out the words they all sound garbled, but at least he is speaking. That means I have just a little more time with him.

The maids come in and the maids go out. As predictably as a summer thunderstorm's clouds mean rain. The linen is changed and they have started to supply clean cloths for the side table on a regular basis. As always I stand by the side clutching my pillow. I do not know why. There is nothing in it. At this point it feels like force of habit. Just part of the routine that now is my simple existence.

Peeta is brought back into the room. In Haymitch's arms he looks like he is sleeping, but it is different. I think he has fainted from the simple strain of being taken out of bed. He does not even seem to have the awareness of a dreamer. His face twitches and I nearly lunge like a wild thing to be by his side. I am worried he will start having shaking fits like the children that are sometimes brought to my mother. And when their parents ask what can be done for them she only shakes her head and tells them to speak to the coffin maker.

Peeta doesn't move again and a realize it was only a quick sort of spasm, but my concern does not go unnoticed and I can feel Haymitch's eyes focused on me as he pulls the door closed. The hours drag and blur together. At some point a maid is sent in with a plate of bread for me. Haymitch does not come with any food for Peeta and I take this as a grave turn of events. Peeta has not stirred all day and I think his days on earth are reaching their final number.

Sometime after sundown Haymitch comes to the room. He doesn't leave the doorway and looks to me instead of Peeta. He beckons me closer with his hand and glances over at Peeta to make sure he is still sleeping.

My heart flutters with confusion. I am a creature of habit and despise any change of routine. Reluctantly I go over to him. I wonder if he is going to dismiss me. It seems he is aware that Peeta will not be with us much longer.

He signals me to follow him out into the hallway. He closes the door like a sleeping dragon is within and will be awakened at the slightest sound.

I wait for him to speak, but he doesn't. Instead he grabs a torch from along the wall and starts making his way down the hallway. I look around in surprise unsure of what to do next. Haymitch keeps walking as if he has forgotten he brought me out there. And I pick up my feet and run to catch him.

I match Haymitch's strides and walk underneath his hand that carries the torch. Occasionally a bit of ash or rubble will break free and I have to hop and skip around it. I never take my eyes off him, hoping that he can see my eyes silently begging him for some answers. Any kind of explanation would do.

If he notices my curiosity he does not seem concerned with it. With only my thoughts to keep me company my worst fears start to come to mind. My skin prickles as terrible thoughts bubble up inside me. Could they be taking me away so that they could kill me? Do they want to get rid of me quietly? With this being the Cardinal's home I assume there must be other holy men about who might object to my murder. Maybe they want to get rid of Peeta too. These thoughts make me feel like a frantic bird caught in a net whose struggle only causes the cords to tighten.

They could kill him. It has been done before. Sometimes the severely ill are brought to my mother and she tells them truthfully there is nothing she can do but give them white willow bark for the pain. Certain kinds of care takers wear the same face when they hear this. Their lips become taught, their eyes go distant, and their heads start giving lazy nods. They shed no tears. The dead patients body is always brought out of the home within a day or two. Once when I was eight my mother pointed to one of the corpses and said, "See the way the way the hand is curled near their chest. They were smothered in their sleep and tried to fight."

My lip starts to tremble as I think how easy it would be to do that to Peeta without me there to protect him. I doubt he even would have the strength to fight them off at all. There would be no struggle from him and they would say his lungs failed him.

"Haymitch," I say before I even know the question I am going to ask him. I can think of no other words and he looks to me expectantly.

"Haymitch," I try again and as he raises an eyebrow in annoyance, "where are you taking me?"

"Master Peeta thought you needed a bath." He answers in a crisp way and I can tell he is not happy that I have left the room. I wonder if he has the same fears I do for when no one is watching over Peeta.

I wonder if I should even trust what Haymitch tells me. However, when I think of it out of all the terrible things he has done to me he has never told me anything other than the truth. I hone in my senses as I try to learn where he is leading me. To my great relief I start smelling steam, lavender, and myrrh. He has not lied to me.

We round a corner and I see the familiar wooden door. Steam is seeping out of every crevasse of the wood and mingling with the torch light causing it to look like the golden clouds of heaven.

Haymitch opens the door and Effie emerges from the mist. She is alone; there will be no caste of thousands to help me bathe this time.

"My beautiful bride." She whispers to me with a warm smile on her face.

I smile back at her kindness. I know she is lying. There is nothing beautiful about me any more. My lovely white gown is stained with sweat and blood. My once plaited hair is matted together in knots and I have been shedding the orange blossoms for days. I am aware of how awful I must smell even if I have grown use to my own stench.

I undress in silence and she offers me a hand as I climb into the wooden tub. I sink down into the water. It is as hot as my first bath, but I can bear it more easily now that I know what to expect.

Effie offers me a sponge and gives me a weak smile. "I hope you won't mind washing yourself while I tend to your hair. That way we won't have to refill the tub."

The idea of washing myself pleases me and I gratefully except the sponge. She passes me the dish full of gray soap and I take a handful and begin working on my arm. I am ashamed of the dirt and filth I am lifting of myself with every swipe of the sponge I take. I would have never allowed myself to become this grimy of my own free will and I wonder who I can ask to see if a wash basin could be placed in the room. But I doubt any one would trouble themselves to listen to my requests at all.

I feel Effie's nibble hands in my hair as she starts to remove the remaining orange blossom's from my hair one by one. To my surprise she takes care to place each one into a handkerchief and then carefully wraps them up and ties the bundle with a white silk ribbon. She must see the curiosity on my face and tells me, "So you may save and cherish them always as a memory of your wedding night."

I start washing my other arm as Effie unplaits and brushes out my hair. She then takes her hand and gently places it under my chin and tilts my head back. She empties a pitcher of water over my head and begins to wash my hair. As she works she prattles on about gossip that concerns people I don't know, and events that will happen in the home that have nothing to do with me.

Normally this kind of talk would annoy me, but is nice not to have the burden of conversation placed on me when I have so little to say. She must know everything about everyone who lives inside these walls and if I would ever want any information she would be the one to ask.

A question rises up inside me and I ask, "Effie, why does Peeta's father never visit him?"

Effie's hands stop moving, "Oh well, the king is very busy." She starts and then her nervous fingers start working through my hair again, "And he does not live here. Master Peeta was given into the charge of Cardinal Snow and his father only visits on. . .rare. . . and special occasions. Like your wedding."

"Oh." I answer like a halfwit. What is there left to say?

Effie finishes bathing me in relative silence. When I am done I look down with shame at the water that has turned black on account of my own filth. I rise from the water and Effie begins to pat me down with a towel.

"Effie," I begin nervously, "is there anyway you could ask someone to place a wash basin within my room?"

Effie looks up from my knee she is drying, "Of course dear." She says with a smile. She then draws the towel up and places it around my shoulder. "Here hold this for a moment while I go get your clothes.

I clasp the towel together with my hand as she leaves the room. She returns quickly and is carrying another white gown. This one is a simple shift with no lace or other frills. Effie gathers the fabric up and I raise my arms so she can pull it over my head and body.

As the fabric drifts across my face I am overwhelmed by the pleasant smell of it. It smells familiar and comforting, like something I have breathed in all my life until this moment, but now cannot place.

Effie must notice this and answers intuitively, "I had it stored in in pine needles and then treated with wood smoke."

I understand now. She wanted it to stay fresh longer. She must know that I may not be getting a bath again any time soon.

"Thank you, Effie." I tell her

A morose smile crosses her face and she reaches up to cup my cheek, "My dear sweet Katniss, I know these times may be. . .dark. But please know if there is ever any. . . trouble you have a friend in me."

There is a double meaning in all her words but I do not think I understand them yet. I nod in acknowledgment.

A knock is heard at the door and I turn to find Haymitch waiting for me with a torch. I say goodbye to Effie and follow him out into the dark halls. On and on we go until I see something I have not seen before.

Another source of light moving down an adjacent hall. I turn to see who this light bearer is and when we lock eyes I freeze. I know these silver eyes. They belong Gale Hawthorn, a boy who is nothing more than a distant ghost of my past.

Author's Note: Please review, life's thrown a lot of incredibly stressful curve balls at me and my muse is dead for this story at the moment, but your comments would go a long way to waking it up.