katniss everdeen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burnwithus) wrote2010-09-28 12:21 am
burnwithus) wrote2010-09-28 12:21 am
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(peeta) heavy in your arms
As time passes, I go through the motions but nothing I do would ever qualify as living. The cravings for morphling have returned, and it's enough to send tremors and shooting pains running down my body. I don't eat anything except for mangoes. There's nothing else that my stomach can keep down. And sometimes during the midst of all the island's peacefulness I expect the roar of gunfire. I expect all of this to be taken away sooner rather than later. Like District 12. Like Peeta. Like Prim. If I don't expect anything from anyone, then I won't be disappointed. It's a fail-proof plan that gets harder to carry out every day because the people here are friendly without being asked. It's why I avoid them in favor of my own company, seeking refuge in a collection of caves that leads to a small lake and a waterfall outside.
I dip my legs into the pool. The water is cold, but it helps me keep my grip on reality well enough for these next few moments. My legs still remember what it was like to be on fire, and the change in temperature has a numbing effect that I'm grateful for until it's combined with the tremors and ends in small fits. I scramble out as best I can, rising unsteadily from my knees. The old Katniss would have loved this place, but it only serves to remind me of my father's lake - the only untouched piece of land surrounded by ashes.
My wet feet slip unsteadily on the grass until I stop myself at the sight of a prosthetic leg and further up until I see him. This isn't happening. I've lost my mind or my morphling-starved brain is bringing back images from the past. I half expect him to have a shovel in hand, ready to throw the clumps of dirt onto my deserving face. But his eyes have lost that crazed, clouded look and his skin looks smooth and unburnt, which should have been a sign.
Logical or not, I take steps towards him, my hands reaching tentatively out to touch him, because I need to make sure that he's real.
I dip my legs into the pool. The water is cold, but it helps me keep my grip on reality well enough for these next few moments. My legs still remember what it was like to be on fire, and the change in temperature has a numbing effect that I'm grateful for until it's combined with the tremors and ends in small fits. I scramble out as best I can, rising unsteadily from my knees. The old Katniss would have loved this place, but it only serves to remind me of my father's lake - the only untouched piece of land surrounded by ashes.
My wet feet slip unsteadily on the grass until I stop myself at the sight of a prosthetic leg and further up until I see him. This isn't happening. I've lost my mind or my morphling-starved brain is bringing back images from the past. I half expect him to have a shovel in hand, ready to throw the clumps of dirt onto my deserving face. But his eyes have lost that crazed, clouded look and his skin looks smooth and unburnt, which should have been a sign.
Logical or not, I take steps towards him, my hands reaching tentatively out to touch him, because I need to make sure that he's real.
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He couldn't help it. This girl looked like Katniss, but instead of dirt and scabs there was a strange pinkness to her skin. If this was her then something had happened to her that he couldn't place. But he had been told that sometimes people from home never made it here. Others came that wore their face, like terrifying muttations without the evil that the Capitol infused. It was just different.
"Katniss?" he asked, taking a step forward legs moving stiffly. He was better than he had before but it had been a while since he had been forced to recover the natural way. Extending a hand to her, concern etched across his face Peeta wondered what could have happened to her. "You are Katniss, aren't you?"
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I take deep breaths to stop the tremors, but it hardly helps. "What do you remember?"
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"Katiniss," he sighed, feeling better just knowing that she was alive. That had been all he had wanted. "You had just shot the arrow into the ceiling of the arena and everything went nuts. But you're alive, that's all that matters."
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But I'd also failed this Peeta. In the months that he'd been gone, I had reviewed every second of the moments before his disappearance, trying to find a way in which I could have saved him. Just because I couldn't think of anything doesn't mean I was absolved. He's steady and warm like the sunset, and because of that my heartbeat begins to slow down and I'm calm enough to speak.
"She's dead." he has a right to know, but speaking it aloud seems to cause something to burst from me. "She's dead, Peeta! She's dead and I couldn't trade places with her this time."
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His concern was growing. She seemed calmer than she had been a moment before, but Peeta knew better than to assume that she wasn't going to get ramped up again. Much like their shared nightmares, the darkness of the games could come back at any moment. He wasn't going to give into them. One of them had to be steady, had to keep it together and he was going to make certain it was him.
The Capitol wanted her to fall apart and things might be different here, but there was no guarantee that this wasn't another game. "Slow down, who is dead? What happened?" Gently he ran a hand along the line where new skin met old along the back of her neck. He was missing something fairly big.
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And there's more news. How do I tell him about his family? About Finnick and Cinna and Portia and everyone we knew from District 12? It feels like I shouldn't tell, because all of their deaths were at least partially my fault and I don't want him to hate me. Not yet. This Peeta loves me unconditionally. I want to keep that, even though it's selfish and horrible.
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Now more confused than ever, he just stared at her. Had she been drugged? He knew about the jabberjays being used to taunt them, the voices of their loved ones echoing through the trees. He hadn't heard anyone he knew, but he hadn't gone into the jungle at that time. All Peeta could think was that this was another trick.
Hand moving back to her shoulders, his hands tighten slightly before relaxing and letting her go. He didn't want to scare her, to make this even worse. "Who's Coin? Prim can't be dead. She's home, safe with your mother in District 12. There is no way that Snow would hurt her, it was just a trick."
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I dig my fingernails into my palms and begin to order myself to do even the most rudimentary things. Take deep breaths, Katniss. It almost helps to fight off the rising hysteria and the knowledge that this Peeta probably thinks I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.
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"Fighting?" he echoed, still confused as to how something like that would have even started. He knew about the growing tension, about the rebels using Katniss as a sign for change, but somehow it didn't fit. "What do you mean apparently? Why was Prim there at all?"
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Keep it together, Katniss. You're not going to cry. "Finnick's dead. Cinna's dead. Prim's dead. She was -" I felt my voice begin to crack. "She was a healer. A good one. She wanted to help the wounded but she - they - the bombs went off." I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the blinding flames from my mind's eye. I claw deeper at the skin in my palms, wishing I still had my medical bracelet on to use as a tourniquet. Pain helps me keep my grip on reality. Peeta taught me that. "I saw her-"
It's not necessary to say any more.
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It was an overload, his brain hopped from place to place and had no idea where to settle. He had felt the tension growing, but full on war seemed like madness. Not caring if she fought him, he wrapped his arms around her holding her tight. He would be the anchor for them both.
"You didn't get them killed. Remember that. It was a war and any people who leave the rest of the Districts to fend for themselves are dangerous. Stop, Katniss. Stop blaming yourself for the world."
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His face is so concerned, and his arms are steady and so unlike the shaking, quivering heap I remember him as. A year ago, his arms were the only things that could make me fall asleep. The effect is the same here. I flinch, but don't fight him. I rest my head against his shoulders. Reliving it all is exhausting.
"It's too quiet here." I don't respond to his words, because what's there to possibly say? I can't promise anything.
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"I know," he said because he did know. He often woke up with little sleep, hearing noises that weren't there. He had taken to walking, spending the hours between snatches of sleep moving. Anywhere out of his head.