If The Quiet Was Not Better
Title: If The Quiet Was Not Better
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Word Count: ~6000
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Katniss, Thresh, Cato, Peeta
Spoilers: through The Hunger Games
Author’s Note: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Title comes from Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun. Also, I need a beta so all mistakes are mine.
Description: After Thresh saves Katniss from Clove, Katniss’ injury to her head had more immediate effects. Thresh brings her into his field.
And I even will have moments when I wonder if the quiet was not better than all that death and hatred. But I will look about my village at the illiteracy and disease and ignorance and will not wonder long. And perhaps... perhaps I will be a great man... I mean perhaps I will hold on to the substance of truth and find my way always with the right course... and perhaps for it I will be butchered in my bed some night by the servants of empire.
Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun
“You better run now, Fire Girl,” says Thresh.
Instead, I trip over my own feet, swipe my fingers across my forehead and smear the blood further into my eyes. My body feels weightless, but my head is so heavy. I can hardly see through the red, the world tipping over now, I blink and blink again, and the red turns to menacing, merciful black.
I come to, hearing but not feeling the rhythm of feet at a canter across dry earth. I am surrounded by gold in all directions. It looks like the meadow before the gate around District 12, and I think of Gale, emptying snares as he watches for me to round the bend before our rock. I am surrounded by the color of bread. When I get home, I will spread goat cheese on it to share with Prim. I will never toast it over a fire made with my hands and another’s. When we get home, Peeta and I will live in the Victor’s Village and he will bake loaves, thousands of loaves, to feed all the children of the Seam. Then I remember, Peeta! Peeta is hurt; where is Peeta; is Clove dead yet; is Cato looking for us; where am I? I blink and it hurts.
All of a sudden I am aware of strong arms around me, shaking me, shuddering, but with a certain cadence. My eyes finally come into focus. I am high on Thresh’s shoulder. He has picked me up and holds me to him like a sack of grain, which is exactly how useful I am. Not even, unless he is a cannibal. My stomach bounces against his ear, which I notice for the first time is pierced with a tiny shaved bone. Perhaps he is a hunter, too. In his other hand he carries three packs. His hand looks as big as my face. I remember first seeing him, thinking, I would bet on him.
He is running through the field, not sprinting, not even breathing hard as far as I can tell. I should be worried, but I’m not. Is he taking me out here to kill me in solitude? Does he know that at this moment he withholds the one thing that Peeta needs most? The two things: that medicine and me to deliver it. Is he so cruel that he would let him die slowly in that cave all by himself? No, he must not know about Peeta. No, he spared my life for Rue. For Rue’s memory. We’re even now, square. So why is he carrying me across this field?
He must sense that I’ve regained consciousness because he slows to a walk, and then finally stops. He swings me down slowly, smoothly, seemingly examining my movements. I hang off him limply, his arm still around my waist as my feet reach the ground. His eyes are so dark I can’t tell where exactly they fall, but the bright whites around his irises shine so clearly against his dark skin. They look bluish, even. He abruptly lets me go and takes a step back. I waver but regain my footing, feet apart and shoulder back as I would to string my bow.
He looks to the ground, mumbles something. “What?” I ask.
“Better look at your head. I’ve got supplies at my camp.” He turns away, starts walking. I follow robotically, my legs moving in short bursts to keep up with his brisk steps.
I look around, unsure of how he is able to navigate. Long golden grasses kiss my shoulders. There is no path. He swipes the stalks out of his way without damaging them; I crunch and snap despite my hunter’s feet. I watch his strange grace in what should be a lumbering giant’s body. I see Gale’s shoulder blades upon his back and shake my head to clear my vision.
A few quick turns and we reach his camp. It is marked by nothing visible from above or outside, but now, standing in the little patch of cleared dirt, I notice a different kind of plant grows here, greener, and, next to it, a small bird’s nest filled with pale blue eggs. I wonder how he found it, what he did back in District 11 that made him capable of locating such a treasure. Or did he wander through this great field until he stumbled upon it by chance? Somehow I doubt that. There must be signs I would never have known to look for.
He digs along the side of the green plant, a leafy mesh that he pulls to reveal a large white bulb, similar to a turnip. He digs two, hands me one. He bites into it, nods at me to do the same, and I follow his lead. I smile in delight and surprise: it’s not tough like a carrot or turnip, it is soft and filled with sweet tasting water. We have not been hurting for food in our cave, but I find myself swallowing the root as fast as I can. When I notice my hands are empty, I look up sheepishly.
Thresh hands me the remainder of his own fruit and nods again at the space above my eyebrows, “Use the water.” I nod, press my lips together. I can feel the dried blood caking my skin, mixing with the sweat dripping from my hairline in a dull, painful reminder of my fight with Clove. I finger the wound and discover it is much worse than I realized. It is jagged and deep and stretches above my eyebrow from my hairline to the space above my nose. I wonder if she was trying to cut open my brain, I picture her crawling inside and taking over my thoughts and memories.
Thresh turns around and rustles behind some tall grasses before producing a small kit containing a needle and thread, bandages, other supplies. When he is satisfied that I’ve cleaned my wound as well as I can, surely just smearing blood and dirt around my face, he presses his large hand on my hair and tilts it back so I am staring at the Gamemakers’ sun. I close my eyes.
He hesitates for a moment, then unbuckles his belt. I panic, for the first time more than just slightly afraid, and begin to ready my legs to propel myself out of his grip and run. But if he wanted me dead, I would be. I saw him smash Clove’s skull myself with so little effort. I set my shoulders and resolve to be the appropriate level of wary. He pulls his belt and sets it between my teeth. The message is clear, this will hurt.
He rubs the juicy part of the root against the open slash, and it stings. Then comes the real pain: he pushes the needle through the fleshy part just above my eyebrow, looping it through and pulling it tight. I want to scream. I settle for sobbing instead. This makes it worse: the muscles in my cheeks tighten and pull at the thread. He does not relent, but presses two fingers down the side of my face as he pulls at the string. I think of his hand around the rock that made a gaping dent in Clove’s head; I try to reconcile this image with the present, of these same hands so carefully putting me back together.
I am struck by the memory of a rabbit caught by one foot in one of my early attempts at a snare. The leg was mangled and raw, ruby caught against tawny brown fur. I had wanted to shoot it through the eye, put it out of its misery, but Gale had stopped me in a rare moment of kindness above pragmatism, noticed the wound was only superficial, and had removed the surrounding fur and washed the area rubbed pink. He brought it home for Posy and set it in Hazelle’s small garden. It had dug a hole and escaped once it was well enough, but not before it feasted on lettuce and snap peas.
I flail my arms and legs, beating the ground with my fists. I gnash my teeth against the leather, swallow against it and bare my teeth to the sky. I am a child having a tantrum; I am an animal just before the throes of death; I am an ancient warrior with cheeks smeared in red and salt-stained paint. I am a Seam girl; I am a survivor; I am Katniss Everdeen. I lose consciousness.
---
I wake up under a woven mat of grain. The sun is sinking in the arena. I must get back to Peeta. Surely the sleeping syrup has long worn off. Does he have anything to eat? Can his leg hold him long enough to leave the cave for food and water? Has he come after me and found Cato instead, full of rage at Clove’s loss? I sit up straight.
There is a deep pounding in my head and I blindly accept the skin of water and drink my fill. I take in Thresh, his large body strangely folded over a bowl containing a mixture of seeds, bloated with water. I realize he must have found dozens of varieties of edible grains, where I could only see an infinite, unchanging field. He passes the food to me.
“This is good,” I start, my voice croaking with the effort. “Thank you, for everything.” This is not nearly enough. We had been even, tiny Rue for heartless Clove, and now I owed him more than I could ever repay. Especially if I wanted to keep Peeta alive. I know that he knows this, coming from District 11. When you have so little, any debt of kindness must be settled. In the arena, that would most likely mean my life. Thresh only shrugs in response.
“At home, we eat this with honey,” he says evenly.
We watch as Claudius Templesmith announces Foxface’s death, her face hanging in the sky, yellow-brown eyes boring into me. I raise my eyebrows. “Did you know her name? District 5.” Thresh shakes his head, but he also looks surprised. I feel only relief, that our most clever opponent has somehow been killed, that it was not Peeta’s face painted on the cloudless blue. We are four.
“I need to get back. The other District 12 tribute is hurt. His medicine is in the bag,” I say quietly. It is one more thing that I will owe, if I can hope for that much. I can’t tell if I’m surprised when he hands the small parcel over wordlessly. I notice the pink of his tongue contrasting dark lips as he takes another bite. “Rue - she spoke kindly of you. I see now it was true.”
“She was a good kid,” Thresh returns. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
“No,” I say. I want to say, no one does. Instead I think of the eyes that are watching this: Prim, my mother, Gale, whose eyes I’m sure are dry with fury, the Capitol citizens whose false eyelashes will drip at the injustice of it all, the Gamemakers. I continue, “She trusted me. I should have protected her better. Peeta is all I have left, now.” Thresh shakes his head, angrily. At first I think it is directed at me and my selfishness, then I realize, he blames himself. We look at each other, sharing this burden, our guilt, our heartache, our failure.
“You were there when I was not. In the morning, we will go and save your boy. Cato hunts at night. I’ll take first watch.” I nod, infinitely grateful.
---
Thresh wakes me shortly before dawn and the first thing I sense is the smell of smoke. It is thick, dark, spreading through the purple sky above us. I jump to my feet. Cato must be burning the field down since he cannot find us. He must have gotten the idea from the Gamemakers’ fire, I can’t imagine he would ever come up with something like this on his own. Maybe not, maybe his sadism has a clever streak, I wouldn’t know. I remember Thresh had stolen Cato’s backpack from the feast, curse his invitation.
Thresh grabs my hand and we take off, I manage to hold onto my bow and empty sheath as he tugs me along at a breakneck pace. He weaves through the weeds and I follow mechanically, only aware of the space directly in front of me and the smoke billowing towards us and a cackling I come to recognize as Cato’s. Stalks of grain whip against my face, burning into my aching forehead. I feel my braid lift off my back with the speed of our running.
It must be over an hour before we reach the lake where Cato awaits us. The sun beats overhead and the smell of burnt wheat crowds the air. I am in no condition for a fight, my heart thumping wildly even as we slow to a walk. I fight against doubling over from the cramps in my stomach. The throbbing of my head makes me feel nauseous. Even Thresh seems like he needs a moment’s rest.
Cato doesn’t appear to be spoiling for a fight though. He stands by the remnants of the Careers’ stockpile, smiling jovially, munching on a cracker. He leans against his spear, displaying his ease. Except there is a perverse mania shining in his eyes. Tall, blond Cato with a too-handsome face has eyes lit with the glow that only vengeance can provide. I should know, I took out Marvel without a second thought. But I have no weapon. And Thresh has only his hands, as far as I know. He has dropped the backpacks; maybe there is something inside. No time, but maybe his brute strength will be enough. I scan the ground for potential weapons, there are pieces of wood, small metal fragments. A single arrow several yards away.
I think of the crowds at home, in public squares, watching. How perfect a climax to the Games, a fight between the two strongest men, no - boys, and the Girl on Fire with one perfect shot to end it all. If I can get to the other side of the heap, I can pick it up, I can make this, I will have to make this. For Rue, for Peeta. For Thresh, for me. For our sins and for our redemption.
Thresh stands ready, towering as always, hands at his sides as if in a duel. But there are no gentlemen’s rules in the arena, and certainly never with Cato.
“That’s a pretty cut you’ve got there, Twelve. That’ll go nicely with your partner’s. Where is he, anyways?” I flinch and instinctively touch my wound, which leads to more flinching. Foolish. “I think I’ll make this nice and slow, let him hear you scream as I pull you apart. He’ll know you died worthless and pitiful, and then he will too, wherever he’s holed up. If the infection hasn’t gotten him already.” Cato’s eyes burn bright blue and his lips twist in a sick smile. “Unless you’ve already found a replacement? Looks like an upgrade from the dough boy, even if he is a bit slow. And cowardly. Letting that little girl die while he sits around in a field.”
We have no words for Cato. I know we both feel it boiling under our skin, inwardly screaming shutupshutupshutupshutyourmouthI’llkillyouI’lldoitIwon’tregretitforonesecond!
But I am a hunter, I stalk and watch and wait until the moment I take my shot. It is coming, I just have to be patient. I take a breath, I take a single step forward. Maybe I am wrong about our twin minds, as Thresh seems to come undone, lunging forward and catching Cato around the midsection, knocking him back a few feet. He lets out a sound like I’ve never heard, a deep and awesome growl. Cato is prepared though, and uses his weight against him, propels him sideways as they wrestle on the ground. I’m reminded of Rory and Vick playfighting as children, and I feel far away. Why doesn’t Cato go for his spear? I sidestep the scrape, kick away the forgotten weapon, and find my arrow ten yards away.
When I have it strung, I turn to the scene. Thresh is sitting on top of Cato, beating his face into a dreadful mash of blood and mucus and blonde hair. And Cato is laughing. Cato laughs maniacally, gasping for breath as Thresh’s fists come down again and again on his nose and eyes and chin. Thresh has a stream of blood flowing from his own nose, marring his perfect dark skin and bright white teeth and guileless pink tongue, but he doesn’t pause to wipe it from his mouth. I stand still, arrow at the ready. I am completely dumbstruck.
Then I see, Thresh is crying. Tears leak as fast as his nose empties of blood. Cato hiccups, his arms outstretched, palms toward the sky. He closes his eyes. There is no more laughter. But there is no cannonfire. Thresh stops his pummeling, leans back low on Cato’s hips and shows the cameras overhead his face, mouth open wide, chest heaving, his hands dropped to the ground. He says without words, I will not kill again. I will spare this life, however undeserving. Do your worst.
My lips smile without my consent.
There is a clap of thunder and the sky starts to fall.
Thresh is instantly off his knees, and he hauls Cato’s unconscious body over his shoulder like he carried me only a day ago. I hope he was more careful with me. He looks to me, holds out his other hand. I hitch the bags over my shoulder and take it. “Let’s go to the cave.”
We jog through the trees, his pace steady as always, mine start and stutter. We shiver under the pines. It is fast growing dark. Our glasses are little use in the downpour, but somehow we make it. I collapse against my disguised entrance, quickly removing the woven plants to gain access. Thresh gently places Cato’s prostrate body next to the now-roaring stream and seems to realize his face is covered in diluted blood.
My heart tugs as I see Peeta lying unconscious on the floor of the cave. He is breathing, but barely. There are no silver parachutes and that is my fault, all my fault. I pull the syringe from the tiny pack and do not hesitate before plunging it into Peeta’s arm. I shake him. His lips are desert dry and cracking. I rush to get Thresh’s skin and fill it with rainfall before pressing it against his white-caked lips. The sleeping bag is soaked in his sweat. He must have made an effort to save me some food because there is a tiny parcel of cheese and dry bread left from before I drugged him. Thresh has more seeds in a pouch, but that won’t help until he wakes up. If he wakes up. Please wake up, Peeta.
I kiss his pale, parched lips and murmur softly against him. I push against his chest with my palms. I whisper-bargain, beg for him to be alive, for him to wake up, come back to me, I promise him things I cannot possibly keep, in this life or any other. Something must work, must be pleasing to Haymitch or the Capitol viewers, because a tiny silver parachute floats down next to me. I scramble to unwrap it. It is another syringe: intravenous nutrients. I push it at once, breath out deeply.
I crawl out to check on Thresh and Cato. Thresh has discovered an all-weather tent in his feast pack and is setting it up. Cato lies against the rocks. I turn him on his side and take a piece of my soaked shirt to clean his face of blood. He moans and I startle. I remember sitting in a tree above him, listening to them talk about killing me, taunting them with my nearness. Never would I have thought I would be tending his wounds. I spare no excessive care brushing over his bruising cheeks.
By the morning it is clear what the Gamemakers’ strategy is. They will not let the rain up until we starve or kill each other. Two near-dead tributes and two sleeping peacefully do not make for good television.
I awake to Peeta’s somewhat steadier breathing and to Cato’s quiet cries on my other side. I do not pretend to know what he felt for Clove, or what she felt for him. His sobs are mostly silent, but his shoulders shake as he lies, curled in a ball, knees tucked tight to his chest. White-blonde hair falls in his eyes. I realize, he is just a child, another child; we all of us are children. I ignore him, for both our sakes. I peak my head outside. Thresh sits outside in the rain, widdling a stick. At first I think he is fashioning a new weapon, but then I realize he is making arrows. I smile despite myself, cock my head.
“As long as it rains, we won’t be able to hunt. The animals will be burrowed away.” He raises the arrow to check it’s true, at least I think that is what he does. He points it in the air like he might be spearing the camera lens.
“So we wait.” He turns and grins at me, a slow pull of lips gives rise to apple cheeks. I can’t help but return his smile.
---
There is one advantage to the continuous rain that I know the Gamemakers will not have anticipated: frogs. The stream runs too quickly by our cave, so Thresh and I follow it downhill to a flooded plateau. We hear the frogs before we see them, and we see scores. Thresh traps them by hand and I use my new arrows. They are heavier and more warped than the silver ones provided in the arena, more like the ones I use at home. I prefer them, and tell Thresh so. He turns his face away, but seems pleased.
I pull up some waterlogged bulbs to roast. We work mostly silently all morning, but Thresh starts to hum around lunchtime. He sings wordless songs in low harmonies with strong, clear notes and perfect rhythm. I hum along, much more quietly. With the rain pinging into the pool and the croaking of the frogs, it sounds like an orchestra. I want to tell him about my dad, but I don’t.
We come back to the cave for lunch. Cato sits in the rain outside, sulking. I check on Peeta: even breathing, his forehead cooled from this morning, yet still unresponsive. I stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead, then look around. No gifts.
Outside again, Thresh works on a thatch roof to cover a fire. Cato looks disappointed at the bag of frogs, but after a look from Thresh, he says nothing. I sit away from them under the eave of the cave and spear the frogs on one of my arrows for a spit.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Cato asks Thresh. His voice sounds like Rory’s challenging Gale, all bravado in a little-boy tenor. I see Thresh raise his head out of the corner of my eye. “You could have. You should have. I would have if I were you.” I don’t know if he means he would have killed Thresh had he been in a position to, or if he would have killed himself had he been Thresh. I can’t help but look over for his response.
“Doesn’t matter,” Thresh says, staring straight ahead, his voice deep and calm. “In District 11, we believe that fertility is a blessing. That life, in all forms, is sacred. So who you are, what you’ve done…doesn’t matter.” Thresh says again, with a note of finality.
I gape, feel my heart pounding in my throat at his words. It is the most I’ve ever heard Thresh speak. I hope that Cato has understood what these words mean. These words are an admission, a blessing, a condemnation. How lucky he is to have encountered this boy, this man, who will, no doubt, soon die at the hands of the Gamemakers.
Cato stares at the ground. For the first time, I wonder what the life of a Career must be like. I had known they prepared physically, yes, but what did they tell them about death, aside from glory? Then he rears up to his full height and stalks off into the forest. Thresh and I share a look but continue working.
---
Cato returns just after the rain has dried out, moisture seemingly sucked into the earth by a massive instantaneous vacuum. We have set aside three steaming frogs for him and unhurriedly clean the rest of their bones. There aren’t any for Peeta, but I know he won’t be able to eat solids for a while anyway. We had inventoried our supplies: waterproof tent, one set of body armor clearly much too large for me and much too small for Thresh, the woven mat overhead, a small amount of cereal, the frogs, the backpacks, sleeping bags, dull knives, simple first aid kit, two skins and a bottle of water. It’s not much. Still, we sit side by side, admiring our pile of goods.
Cato returns at a sprint, and yelling. He scrambles downhill, sliding on pine needles and swinging his arms. “Get out, go! They’re coming. We’ve got to move!” Thresh and I look at each other, weighing our options, instantly, silently. We don’t know what “they” are. We could barricade inside the cave, but we may never make it out. Peeta is dead weight.
We don’t have long until we see what Cato had. Up the hill, maybe thirty yards up, two wolf-like muttations chase him. They are huge, running on four legs with that rhythm humans can never obtain. I think, goddamn Cato, bringing them straight to us. Then, he was only trying to warn us. But there is no time for blame, no time to be kind now. All of a sudden they mount on two legs, slowing. I am frozen in awe, but Thresh is helpfully pulling the body armor on Peeta’s unmoving frame, yanking him over his shoulder in the way he does so well. He has carried all three of us, now.
Cato tugs at my elbow, pushes me out of my stupor. We run straight downhill, abandoning the river. I know where we are going, the same route as with the Gamemakers’ fire. We are being driven like game to the wide open lake, the Cornucopia. We are helpless against their pursuit with no way to deviate from their plan. All the better for a dramatic end scene.
My knees lock as we rush downhill. Only our chests propel us forward. Give me the steady uphill gradient from the Seam to the forest any day; give me oversized mountains to climb. I am awful and awkward running downhill, never quite able to relax my muscles into freefall.
The first thing I notice when we reach flat ground is the absence of the lake. The earth has swallowed it up and all that remains is a cracking desert negative space. This means the only protection offered are the trees we’ve just left and the gaping golden Cornucopia ahead. I wonder, can we stash Peeta’s unconscious body in a tree? No, the wolf-beasts must be able to climb. Still, the height would be an advantage, and with my slight weight I could climb higher than the muttations. But the others: I know Thresh and Cato can hold their own in a fight against humans, but these? The situation is getting more desperate, the muttations have multiplied. I know I do not have enough arrows for all of them, even if I took each out with one clean shot. Cato and Thresh have only knives.
I grab at Cato’s arm, lock eyes with Thresh and pull them towards the Cornucopia. If we can scramble up the slippery ridges we can hold off the muttations for a while, tire them out. I’m first, climbing up the lip. Cato comes next, and I catch my hand with his and lean my whole body back to haul him up. Thresh has more trouble, passing Peeta’s body to Cato overhead. A muttation has leapt ahead of the pack and leaps into the air to catch the flesh of Peeta’s leg. I put an arrow in its shoulder; it yelps and falls backward, but not before I catch its eyes. They are brilliant blue and cat-like. They belong to Clove. I only pray that Cato has not noticed.
Thresh alongside us now, we try to climb higher. But there is not much space and we are tired, our limbs collapsing against smooth sun-warmed metal. Cato drags Peeta now, holds his arms tight around his chest the way Prim sometimes hugs her goat, Lady.
The sun will be going down soon. The wolves close in, circling and snapping. But their razor-sharp claws are mostly ineffectual against the silky surface. Future tourists will be able to examine each individual groove and clawmark. They will coo in delight, remembering our desperation.
I keep my bow strung; Cato and Thresh keep their knives in hand. They sit back to back, whispers passing between them. I watch their fingers flex and reflex. The wolves’ eyes are not as conspicuous at this distance, but I can tell they are not the typical yellow-brown. I wonder if Thresh has noticed this as well, but he does not make eye contact.
Thresh passes me a sleeping bag. We have no dinner.
There are four of us, but Peeta is comatose. Thresh said he would help me save Peeta and he spared Cato’s life, too. I owe Peeta my life for a kindness five years past due, renewed only weeks ago. I owe Thresh more than I could ever offer. There are four of us, but there is no way that four of us will come out of this alive. Thresh had doomed us all when he said those things he said, but I had thought them too, thought worse and more spiteful things that I wasn’t brave enough to say out loud.
Still, I want Thresh to live. I want to protect him. I know that he would not accept three deaths for his own life. He will not accept three deaths when two would suffice. For the first time, I think, horrified, I hate Peeta.
“You can’t, Thresh,” I say suddenly, meeting his calm eyes with my wild ones. I shake my head. “You can’t!” I move to sit beside him, grab his large hand in my two pale ones. I want to shake him, pound his chest with my fists, cry. I am furious. I am defeated. “I could never…” I do not finish the sentence. He smiles at me, soft and warm. His eyes crinkle at the edges; I wonder how old he is.
“Katniss,” he says, clear and strong and musical. He moves a hand to smooth my fraying braid, presses a kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes against the sweet pressure, tears escape. “I promise I’ll make it quick, okay?” I nod, choked. He releases my hand. I open my eyes and see that Cato has silently moved to take his place next to Thresh. They grip each other’s wrists, these brothers in arms.
I am horrified, desperate, dumbstruck motionless. Cato’s lips form a trembling smile. I reach out to grab his knee. “Cato, please.” But I don’t even know what I’m begging for. My voice sounds whiny and unfamiliar.
“Wait,” I say. I reach behind me to grab the twine holding my braid together. I unwind it and carefully manipulate it into a bow around Cato’s wrist, near where he is joined with Thresh. As I tighten it, I meet his cerulean eyes. He looks calmer and more grown up. His cheekbones frame a handsome face, I notice for the first time. Then he is back to boyhood: he smiles a toothy grin at me.
I unhook the gold Mockingjay pin. I spare a moment to run my fingers over it, polishing the surface and letting it glint in the dusk’s remaining light. Thresh watches me solemnly. I reach for him, carefully placing the pin on his left breast. I place my palm on his chest above his heart. It beats strong and fluid, tranquil. I give him a questioning gaze.
“I’m not afraid. I won’t be alone. But neither will you. You will never be alone, Katniss.” I offer him a shaky smile. I want to sob, cup my hand over my mouth and let my face crumple like a wrinkled baby’s does, the way I haven’t done since my father died. I try to stay stoic, let my emotions flood into my tightened hold on their knees, my only point of contact, as if it will keep them here with me, keep them alive.
Cato goes first, draws his blade across his throat, clown smile frozen on his face. A horrible gurgling sound escapes his lips. I fleetingly hope it is caught on microphone, that everyone should have to share this awful, appalling noise with me. I kneel to clutch at both their knees, my stomach convulsing. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to hear only my shuddering breaths, feel only my hot tears sliding down my cheeks.
Then they’re both gone, and I hear everything. The wolves make quick work of them, but there are no screams. Only the sound of flesh tearing, teeth gnashing, tongues lapping, punctuated by quick, excited barks.
I move to Peeta’s spent, forgotten body. I hug him to me, press my face into his chest to absorb my tears and cry for all those lost these past few weeks. I cry for Peeta and Rue and Foxface and Cato, even Clove. I cry for my mother, Prim, and Gale. I cry for the other Districts, for Cinna and the assistants, and for the Capitol viewers. I cry for myself. But mostly I cry for Thresh. Good, strong Thresh. Because he deserved to live more than us, more than anyone. Because he stood up to the Capitol, gave himself over, gave everything. Because he changed Cato and changed me and changed the rules of the Hunger Games.
I cry myself to sleep and mercifully miss the sounding of canons and photos floating in the sky. I wake up to Peeta stroking my tangled hair, long escaped from its braid. We smile wearily at each other. I will have to explain the last few days to him, but I don’t know how. I lean down to tuck my head back against his shoulder when the announcement is made. And I know.
I know that they have won. I know that nothing we have - Thresh has - done has changed anything for the better. In fact, it has made things worse. Because now they are asking me to kill the one person I have spent so long trying to save. And, for just a moment, I want to.
I want to put an arrow inside him for lying comatose while the rest of us suffered. I want to carve his throat like Cato’s for unknowingly trading Thresh’s life for our own.
Intellectually, I know these things were beyond his control and would never have been of his choosing. That doesn’t change the fact that I felt them for that moment. I felt them with my whole body. It’s all the evidence I need that the Capitol has won.
Peeta looks at me with horror in his eyes. He doesn’t understand where we are, how we got here, or what will happen next.
I pull my knife from my waist. I grip the handle tight, trace the sharp tip over my neck without pressure. There, over my pulse. I will slice in at an angle, losing blood too quickly to feel the pain, like the coward I am. I hesitate, blink at Peeta’s awakening, revolted eyes.
I almost ask Peeta to take care of Prim, make sure she never has to sell Lady. But I know, as unfair as it was to ask it of him, Gale would want that right. I can’t take that from him, even as I take myself from him. I take a moment to remember that last morning together, pushing blackberries through our smiles. I take a deep breath. I hope he will forgive me.
“I’m sorry we didn’t know each other better,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I genuinely mean it. My voice is calm, and I understand now how Thresh felt. I am resigned to my fate. I close my eyes and tighten my fingers on the grip.
But relief never comes. Peeta pulls the knife from my hands and flings it over the side of the Cornucopia. I open my eyes and watch it arc across the morning sky. There is only hope in his eyes.
A new announcement is made, but it is no reprieve.
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Word Count: ~6000
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Katniss, Thresh, Cato, Peeta
Spoilers: through The Hunger Games
Author’s Note: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Title comes from Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun. Also, I need a beta so all mistakes are mine.
Description: After Thresh saves Katniss from Clove, Katniss’ injury to her head had more immediate effects. Thresh brings her into his field.
And I even will have moments when I wonder if the quiet was not better than all that death and hatred. But I will look about my village at the illiteracy and disease and ignorance and will not wonder long. And perhaps... perhaps I will be a great man... I mean perhaps I will hold on to the substance of truth and find my way always with the right course... and perhaps for it I will be butchered in my bed some night by the servants of empire.
Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun
“You better run now, Fire Girl,” says Thresh.
Instead, I trip over my own feet, swipe my fingers across my forehead and smear the blood further into my eyes. My body feels weightless, but my head is so heavy. I can hardly see through the red, the world tipping over now, I blink and blink again, and the red turns to menacing, merciful black.
I come to, hearing but not feeling the rhythm of feet at a canter across dry earth. I am surrounded by gold in all directions. It looks like the meadow before the gate around District 12, and I think of Gale, emptying snares as he watches for me to round the bend before our rock. I am surrounded by the color of bread. When I get home, I will spread goat cheese on it to share with Prim. I will never toast it over a fire made with my hands and another’s. When we get home, Peeta and I will live in the Victor’s Village and he will bake loaves, thousands of loaves, to feed all the children of the Seam. Then I remember, Peeta! Peeta is hurt; where is Peeta; is Clove dead yet; is Cato looking for us; where am I? I blink and it hurts.
All of a sudden I am aware of strong arms around me, shaking me, shuddering, but with a certain cadence. My eyes finally come into focus. I am high on Thresh’s shoulder. He has picked me up and holds me to him like a sack of grain, which is exactly how useful I am. Not even, unless he is a cannibal. My stomach bounces against his ear, which I notice for the first time is pierced with a tiny shaved bone. Perhaps he is a hunter, too. In his other hand he carries three packs. His hand looks as big as my face. I remember first seeing him, thinking, I would bet on him.
He is running through the field, not sprinting, not even breathing hard as far as I can tell. I should be worried, but I’m not. Is he taking me out here to kill me in solitude? Does he know that at this moment he withholds the one thing that Peeta needs most? The two things: that medicine and me to deliver it. Is he so cruel that he would let him die slowly in that cave all by himself? No, he must not know about Peeta. No, he spared my life for Rue. For Rue’s memory. We’re even now, square. So why is he carrying me across this field?
He must sense that I’ve regained consciousness because he slows to a walk, and then finally stops. He swings me down slowly, smoothly, seemingly examining my movements. I hang off him limply, his arm still around my waist as my feet reach the ground. His eyes are so dark I can’t tell where exactly they fall, but the bright whites around his irises shine so clearly against his dark skin. They look bluish, even. He abruptly lets me go and takes a step back. I waver but regain my footing, feet apart and shoulder back as I would to string my bow.
He looks to the ground, mumbles something. “What?” I ask.
“Better look at your head. I’ve got supplies at my camp.” He turns away, starts walking. I follow robotically, my legs moving in short bursts to keep up with his brisk steps.
I look around, unsure of how he is able to navigate. Long golden grasses kiss my shoulders. There is no path. He swipes the stalks out of his way without damaging them; I crunch and snap despite my hunter’s feet. I watch his strange grace in what should be a lumbering giant’s body. I see Gale’s shoulder blades upon his back and shake my head to clear my vision.
A few quick turns and we reach his camp. It is marked by nothing visible from above or outside, but now, standing in the little patch of cleared dirt, I notice a different kind of plant grows here, greener, and, next to it, a small bird’s nest filled with pale blue eggs. I wonder how he found it, what he did back in District 11 that made him capable of locating such a treasure. Or did he wander through this great field until he stumbled upon it by chance? Somehow I doubt that. There must be signs I would never have known to look for.
He digs along the side of the green plant, a leafy mesh that he pulls to reveal a large white bulb, similar to a turnip. He digs two, hands me one. He bites into it, nods at me to do the same, and I follow his lead. I smile in delight and surprise: it’s not tough like a carrot or turnip, it is soft and filled with sweet tasting water. We have not been hurting for food in our cave, but I find myself swallowing the root as fast as I can. When I notice my hands are empty, I look up sheepishly.
Thresh hands me the remainder of his own fruit and nods again at the space above my eyebrows, “Use the water.” I nod, press my lips together. I can feel the dried blood caking my skin, mixing with the sweat dripping from my hairline in a dull, painful reminder of my fight with Clove. I finger the wound and discover it is much worse than I realized. It is jagged and deep and stretches above my eyebrow from my hairline to the space above my nose. I wonder if she was trying to cut open my brain, I picture her crawling inside and taking over my thoughts and memories.
Thresh turns around and rustles behind some tall grasses before producing a small kit containing a needle and thread, bandages, other supplies. When he is satisfied that I’ve cleaned my wound as well as I can, surely just smearing blood and dirt around my face, he presses his large hand on my hair and tilts it back so I am staring at the Gamemakers’ sun. I close my eyes.
He hesitates for a moment, then unbuckles his belt. I panic, for the first time more than just slightly afraid, and begin to ready my legs to propel myself out of his grip and run. But if he wanted me dead, I would be. I saw him smash Clove’s skull myself with so little effort. I set my shoulders and resolve to be the appropriate level of wary. He pulls his belt and sets it between my teeth. The message is clear, this will hurt.
He rubs the juicy part of the root against the open slash, and it stings. Then comes the real pain: he pushes the needle through the fleshy part just above my eyebrow, looping it through and pulling it tight. I want to scream. I settle for sobbing instead. This makes it worse: the muscles in my cheeks tighten and pull at the thread. He does not relent, but presses two fingers down the side of my face as he pulls at the string. I think of his hand around the rock that made a gaping dent in Clove’s head; I try to reconcile this image with the present, of these same hands so carefully putting me back together.
I am struck by the memory of a rabbit caught by one foot in one of my early attempts at a snare. The leg was mangled and raw, ruby caught against tawny brown fur. I had wanted to shoot it through the eye, put it out of its misery, but Gale had stopped me in a rare moment of kindness above pragmatism, noticed the wound was only superficial, and had removed the surrounding fur and washed the area rubbed pink. He brought it home for Posy and set it in Hazelle’s small garden. It had dug a hole and escaped once it was well enough, but not before it feasted on lettuce and snap peas.
I flail my arms and legs, beating the ground with my fists. I gnash my teeth against the leather, swallow against it and bare my teeth to the sky. I am a child having a tantrum; I am an animal just before the throes of death; I am an ancient warrior with cheeks smeared in red and salt-stained paint. I am a Seam girl; I am a survivor; I am Katniss Everdeen. I lose consciousness.
---
I wake up under a woven mat of grain. The sun is sinking in the arena. I must get back to Peeta. Surely the sleeping syrup has long worn off. Does he have anything to eat? Can his leg hold him long enough to leave the cave for food and water? Has he come after me and found Cato instead, full of rage at Clove’s loss? I sit up straight.
There is a deep pounding in my head and I blindly accept the skin of water and drink my fill. I take in Thresh, his large body strangely folded over a bowl containing a mixture of seeds, bloated with water. I realize he must have found dozens of varieties of edible grains, where I could only see an infinite, unchanging field. He passes the food to me.
“This is good,” I start, my voice croaking with the effort. “Thank you, for everything.” This is not nearly enough. We had been even, tiny Rue for heartless Clove, and now I owed him more than I could ever repay. Especially if I wanted to keep Peeta alive. I know that he knows this, coming from District 11. When you have so little, any debt of kindness must be settled. In the arena, that would most likely mean my life. Thresh only shrugs in response.
“At home, we eat this with honey,” he says evenly.
We watch as Claudius Templesmith announces Foxface’s death, her face hanging in the sky, yellow-brown eyes boring into me. I raise my eyebrows. “Did you know her name? District 5.” Thresh shakes his head, but he also looks surprised. I feel only relief, that our most clever opponent has somehow been killed, that it was not Peeta’s face painted on the cloudless blue. We are four.
“I need to get back. The other District 12 tribute is hurt. His medicine is in the bag,” I say quietly. It is one more thing that I will owe, if I can hope for that much. I can’t tell if I’m surprised when he hands the small parcel over wordlessly. I notice the pink of his tongue contrasting dark lips as he takes another bite. “Rue - she spoke kindly of you. I see now it was true.”
“She was a good kid,” Thresh returns. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
“No,” I say. I want to say, no one does. Instead I think of the eyes that are watching this: Prim, my mother, Gale, whose eyes I’m sure are dry with fury, the Capitol citizens whose false eyelashes will drip at the injustice of it all, the Gamemakers. I continue, “She trusted me. I should have protected her better. Peeta is all I have left, now.” Thresh shakes his head, angrily. At first I think it is directed at me and my selfishness, then I realize, he blames himself. We look at each other, sharing this burden, our guilt, our heartache, our failure.
“You were there when I was not. In the morning, we will go and save your boy. Cato hunts at night. I’ll take first watch.” I nod, infinitely grateful.
---
Thresh wakes me shortly before dawn and the first thing I sense is the smell of smoke. It is thick, dark, spreading through the purple sky above us. I jump to my feet. Cato must be burning the field down since he cannot find us. He must have gotten the idea from the Gamemakers’ fire, I can’t imagine he would ever come up with something like this on his own. Maybe not, maybe his sadism has a clever streak, I wouldn’t know. I remember Thresh had stolen Cato’s backpack from the feast, curse his invitation.
Thresh grabs my hand and we take off, I manage to hold onto my bow and empty sheath as he tugs me along at a breakneck pace. He weaves through the weeds and I follow mechanically, only aware of the space directly in front of me and the smoke billowing towards us and a cackling I come to recognize as Cato’s. Stalks of grain whip against my face, burning into my aching forehead. I feel my braid lift off my back with the speed of our running.
It must be over an hour before we reach the lake where Cato awaits us. The sun beats overhead and the smell of burnt wheat crowds the air. I am in no condition for a fight, my heart thumping wildly even as we slow to a walk. I fight against doubling over from the cramps in my stomach. The throbbing of my head makes me feel nauseous. Even Thresh seems like he needs a moment’s rest.
Cato doesn’t appear to be spoiling for a fight though. He stands by the remnants of the Careers’ stockpile, smiling jovially, munching on a cracker. He leans against his spear, displaying his ease. Except there is a perverse mania shining in his eyes. Tall, blond Cato with a too-handsome face has eyes lit with the glow that only vengeance can provide. I should know, I took out Marvel without a second thought. But I have no weapon. And Thresh has only his hands, as far as I know. He has dropped the backpacks; maybe there is something inside. No time, but maybe his brute strength will be enough. I scan the ground for potential weapons, there are pieces of wood, small metal fragments. A single arrow several yards away.
I think of the crowds at home, in public squares, watching. How perfect a climax to the Games, a fight between the two strongest men, no - boys, and the Girl on Fire with one perfect shot to end it all. If I can get to the other side of the heap, I can pick it up, I can make this, I will have to make this. For Rue, for Peeta. For Thresh, for me. For our sins and for our redemption.
Thresh stands ready, towering as always, hands at his sides as if in a duel. But there are no gentlemen’s rules in the arena, and certainly never with Cato.
“That’s a pretty cut you’ve got there, Twelve. That’ll go nicely with your partner’s. Where is he, anyways?” I flinch and instinctively touch my wound, which leads to more flinching. Foolish. “I think I’ll make this nice and slow, let him hear you scream as I pull you apart. He’ll know you died worthless and pitiful, and then he will too, wherever he’s holed up. If the infection hasn’t gotten him already.” Cato’s eyes burn bright blue and his lips twist in a sick smile. “Unless you’ve already found a replacement? Looks like an upgrade from the dough boy, even if he is a bit slow. And cowardly. Letting that little girl die while he sits around in a field.”
We have no words for Cato. I know we both feel it boiling under our skin, inwardly screaming shutupshutupshutupshutyourmouthI’llkillyouI’lldoitIwon’tregretitforonesecond!
But I am a hunter, I stalk and watch and wait until the moment I take my shot. It is coming, I just have to be patient. I take a breath, I take a single step forward. Maybe I am wrong about our twin minds, as Thresh seems to come undone, lunging forward and catching Cato around the midsection, knocking him back a few feet. He lets out a sound like I’ve never heard, a deep and awesome growl. Cato is prepared though, and uses his weight against him, propels him sideways as they wrestle on the ground. I’m reminded of Rory and Vick playfighting as children, and I feel far away. Why doesn’t Cato go for his spear? I sidestep the scrape, kick away the forgotten weapon, and find my arrow ten yards away.
When I have it strung, I turn to the scene. Thresh is sitting on top of Cato, beating his face into a dreadful mash of blood and mucus and blonde hair. And Cato is laughing. Cato laughs maniacally, gasping for breath as Thresh’s fists come down again and again on his nose and eyes and chin. Thresh has a stream of blood flowing from his own nose, marring his perfect dark skin and bright white teeth and guileless pink tongue, but he doesn’t pause to wipe it from his mouth. I stand still, arrow at the ready. I am completely dumbstruck.
Then I see, Thresh is crying. Tears leak as fast as his nose empties of blood. Cato hiccups, his arms outstretched, palms toward the sky. He closes his eyes. There is no more laughter. But there is no cannonfire. Thresh stops his pummeling, leans back low on Cato’s hips and shows the cameras overhead his face, mouth open wide, chest heaving, his hands dropped to the ground. He says without words, I will not kill again. I will spare this life, however undeserving. Do your worst.
My lips smile without my consent.
There is a clap of thunder and the sky starts to fall.
Thresh is instantly off his knees, and he hauls Cato’s unconscious body over his shoulder like he carried me only a day ago. I hope he was more careful with me. He looks to me, holds out his other hand. I hitch the bags over my shoulder and take it. “Let’s go to the cave.”
We jog through the trees, his pace steady as always, mine start and stutter. We shiver under the pines. It is fast growing dark. Our glasses are little use in the downpour, but somehow we make it. I collapse against my disguised entrance, quickly removing the woven plants to gain access. Thresh gently places Cato’s prostrate body next to the now-roaring stream and seems to realize his face is covered in diluted blood.
My heart tugs as I see Peeta lying unconscious on the floor of the cave. He is breathing, but barely. There are no silver parachutes and that is my fault, all my fault. I pull the syringe from the tiny pack and do not hesitate before plunging it into Peeta’s arm. I shake him. His lips are desert dry and cracking. I rush to get Thresh’s skin and fill it with rainfall before pressing it against his white-caked lips. The sleeping bag is soaked in his sweat. He must have made an effort to save me some food because there is a tiny parcel of cheese and dry bread left from before I drugged him. Thresh has more seeds in a pouch, but that won’t help until he wakes up. If he wakes up. Please wake up, Peeta.
I kiss his pale, parched lips and murmur softly against him. I push against his chest with my palms. I whisper-bargain, beg for him to be alive, for him to wake up, come back to me, I promise him things I cannot possibly keep, in this life or any other. Something must work, must be pleasing to Haymitch or the Capitol viewers, because a tiny silver parachute floats down next to me. I scramble to unwrap it. It is another syringe: intravenous nutrients. I push it at once, breath out deeply.
I crawl out to check on Thresh and Cato. Thresh has discovered an all-weather tent in his feast pack and is setting it up. Cato lies against the rocks. I turn him on his side and take a piece of my soaked shirt to clean his face of blood. He moans and I startle. I remember sitting in a tree above him, listening to them talk about killing me, taunting them with my nearness. Never would I have thought I would be tending his wounds. I spare no excessive care brushing over his bruising cheeks.
By the morning it is clear what the Gamemakers’ strategy is. They will not let the rain up until we starve or kill each other. Two near-dead tributes and two sleeping peacefully do not make for good television.
I awake to Peeta’s somewhat steadier breathing and to Cato’s quiet cries on my other side. I do not pretend to know what he felt for Clove, or what she felt for him. His sobs are mostly silent, but his shoulders shake as he lies, curled in a ball, knees tucked tight to his chest. White-blonde hair falls in his eyes. I realize, he is just a child, another child; we all of us are children. I ignore him, for both our sakes. I peak my head outside. Thresh sits outside in the rain, widdling a stick. At first I think he is fashioning a new weapon, but then I realize he is making arrows. I smile despite myself, cock my head.
“As long as it rains, we won’t be able to hunt. The animals will be burrowed away.” He raises the arrow to check it’s true, at least I think that is what he does. He points it in the air like he might be spearing the camera lens.
“So we wait.” He turns and grins at me, a slow pull of lips gives rise to apple cheeks. I can’t help but return his smile.
---
There is one advantage to the continuous rain that I know the Gamemakers will not have anticipated: frogs. The stream runs too quickly by our cave, so Thresh and I follow it downhill to a flooded plateau. We hear the frogs before we see them, and we see scores. Thresh traps them by hand and I use my new arrows. They are heavier and more warped than the silver ones provided in the arena, more like the ones I use at home. I prefer them, and tell Thresh so. He turns his face away, but seems pleased.
I pull up some waterlogged bulbs to roast. We work mostly silently all morning, but Thresh starts to hum around lunchtime. He sings wordless songs in low harmonies with strong, clear notes and perfect rhythm. I hum along, much more quietly. With the rain pinging into the pool and the croaking of the frogs, it sounds like an orchestra. I want to tell him about my dad, but I don’t.
We come back to the cave for lunch. Cato sits in the rain outside, sulking. I check on Peeta: even breathing, his forehead cooled from this morning, yet still unresponsive. I stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead, then look around. No gifts.
Outside again, Thresh works on a thatch roof to cover a fire. Cato looks disappointed at the bag of frogs, but after a look from Thresh, he says nothing. I sit away from them under the eave of the cave and spear the frogs on one of my arrows for a spit.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Cato asks Thresh. His voice sounds like Rory’s challenging Gale, all bravado in a little-boy tenor. I see Thresh raise his head out of the corner of my eye. “You could have. You should have. I would have if I were you.” I don’t know if he means he would have killed Thresh had he been in a position to, or if he would have killed himself had he been Thresh. I can’t help but look over for his response.
“Doesn’t matter,” Thresh says, staring straight ahead, his voice deep and calm. “In District 11, we believe that fertility is a blessing. That life, in all forms, is sacred. So who you are, what you’ve done…doesn’t matter.” Thresh says again, with a note of finality.
I gape, feel my heart pounding in my throat at his words. It is the most I’ve ever heard Thresh speak. I hope that Cato has understood what these words mean. These words are an admission, a blessing, a condemnation. How lucky he is to have encountered this boy, this man, who will, no doubt, soon die at the hands of the Gamemakers.
Cato stares at the ground. For the first time, I wonder what the life of a Career must be like. I had known they prepared physically, yes, but what did they tell them about death, aside from glory? Then he rears up to his full height and stalks off into the forest. Thresh and I share a look but continue working.
---
Cato returns just after the rain has dried out, moisture seemingly sucked into the earth by a massive instantaneous vacuum. We have set aside three steaming frogs for him and unhurriedly clean the rest of their bones. There aren’t any for Peeta, but I know he won’t be able to eat solids for a while anyway. We had inventoried our supplies: waterproof tent, one set of body armor clearly much too large for me and much too small for Thresh, the woven mat overhead, a small amount of cereal, the frogs, the backpacks, sleeping bags, dull knives, simple first aid kit, two skins and a bottle of water. It’s not much. Still, we sit side by side, admiring our pile of goods.
Cato returns at a sprint, and yelling. He scrambles downhill, sliding on pine needles and swinging his arms. “Get out, go! They’re coming. We’ve got to move!” Thresh and I look at each other, weighing our options, instantly, silently. We don’t know what “they” are. We could barricade inside the cave, but we may never make it out. Peeta is dead weight.
We don’t have long until we see what Cato had. Up the hill, maybe thirty yards up, two wolf-like muttations chase him. They are huge, running on four legs with that rhythm humans can never obtain. I think, goddamn Cato, bringing them straight to us. Then, he was only trying to warn us. But there is no time for blame, no time to be kind now. All of a sudden they mount on two legs, slowing. I am frozen in awe, but Thresh is helpfully pulling the body armor on Peeta’s unmoving frame, yanking him over his shoulder in the way he does so well. He has carried all three of us, now.
Cato tugs at my elbow, pushes me out of my stupor. We run straight downhill, abandoning the river. I know where we are going, the same route as with the Gamemakers’ fire. We are being driven like game to the wide open lake, the Cornucopia. We are helpless against their pursuit with no way to deviate from their plan. All the better for a dramatic end scene.
My knees lock as we rush downhill. Only our chests propel us forward. Give me the steady uphill gradient from the Seam to the forest any day; give me oversized mountains to climb. I am awful and awkward running downhill, never quite able to relax my muscles into freefall.
The first thing I notice when we reach flat ground is the absence of the lake. The earth has swallowed it up and all that remains is a cracking desert negative space. This means the only protection offered are the trees we’ve just left and the gaping golden Cornucopia ahead. I wonder, can we stash Peeta’s unconscious body in a tree? No, the wolf-beasts must be able to climb. Still, the height would be an advantage, and with my slight weight I could climb higher than the muttations. But the others: I know Thresh and Cato can hold their own in a fight against humans, but these? The situation is getting more desperate, the muttations have multiplied. I know I do not have enough arrows for all of them, even if I took each out with one clean shot. Cato and Thresh have only knives.
I grab at Cato’s arm, lock eyes with Thresh and pull them towards the Cornucopia. If we can scramble up the slippery ridges we can hold off the muttations for a while, tire them out. I’m first, climbing up the lip. Cato comes next, and I catch my hand with his and lean my whole body back to haul him up. Thresh has more trouble, passing Peeta’s body to Cato overhead. A muttation has leapt ahead of the pack and leaps into the air to catch the flesh of Peeta’s leg. I put an arrow in its shoulder; it yelps and falls backward, but not before I catch its eyes. They are brilliant blue and cat-like. They belong to Clove. I only pray that Cato has not noticed.
Thresh alongside us now, we try to climb higher. But there is not much space and we are tired, our limbs collapsing against smooth sun-warmed metal. Cato drags Peeta now, holds his arms tight around his chest the way Prim sometimes hugs her goat, Lady.
The sun will be going down soon. The wolves close in, circling and snapping. But their razor-sharp claws are mostly ineffectual against the silky surface. Future tourists will be able to examine each individual groove and clawmark. They will coo in delight, remembering our desperation.
I keep my bow strung; Cato and Thresh keep their knives in hand. They sit back to back, whispers passing between them. I watch their fingers flex and reflex. The wolves’ eyes are not as conspicuous at this distance, but I can tell they are not the typical yellow-brown. I wonder if Thresh has noticed this as well, but he does not make eye contact.
Thresh passes me a sleeping bag. We have no dinner.
There are four of us, but Peeta is comatose. Thresh said he would help me save Peeta and he spared Cato’s life, too. I owe Peeta my life for a kindness five years past due, renewed only weeks ago. I owe Thresh more than I could ever offer. There are four of us, but there is no way that four of us will come out of this alive. Thresh had doomed us all when he said those things he said, but I had thought them too, thought worse and more spiteful things that I wasn’t brave enough to say out loud.
Still, I want Thresh to live. I want to protect him. I know that he would not accept three deaths for his own life. He will not accept three deaths when two would suffice. For the first time, I think, horrified, I hate Peeta.
“You can’t, Thresh,” I say suddenly, meeting his calm eyes with my wild ones. I shake my head. “You can’t!” I move to sit beside him, grab his large hand in my two pale ones. I want to shake him, pound his chest with my fists, cry. I am furious. I am defeated. “I could never…” I do not finish the sentence. He smiles at me, soft and warm. His eyes crinkle at the edges; I wonder how old he is.
“Katniss,” he says, clear and strong and musical. He moves a hand to smooth my fraying braid, presses a kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes against the sweet pressure, tears escape. “I promise I’ll make it quick, okay?” I nod, choked. He releases my hand. I open my eyes and see that Cato has silently moved to take his place next to Thresh. They grip each other’s wrists, these brothers in arms.
I am horrified, desperate, dumbstruck motionless. Cato’s lips form a trembling smile. I reach out to grab his knee. “Cato, please.” But I don’t even know what I’m begging for. My voice sounds whiny and unfamiliar.
“Wait,” I say. I reach behind me to grab the twine holding my braid together. I unwind it and carefully manipulate it into a bow around Cato’s wrist, near where he is joined with Thresh. As I tighten it, I meet his cerulean eyes. He looks calmer and more grown up. His cheekbones frame a handsome face, I notice for the first time. Then he is back to boyhood: he smiles a toothy grin at me.
I unhook the gold Mockingjay pin. I spare a moment to run my fingers over it, polishing the surface and letting it glint in the dusk’s remaining light. Thresh watches me solemnly. I reach for him, carefully placing the pin on his left breast. I place my palm on his chest above his heart. It beats strong and fluid, tranquil. I give him a questioning gaze.
“I’m not afraid. I won’t be alone. But neither will you. You will never be alone, Katniss.” I offer him a shaky smile. I want to sob, cup my hand over my mouth and let my face crumple like a wrinkled baby’s does, the way I haven’t done since my father died. I try to stay stoic, let my emotions flood into my tightened hold on their knees, my only point of contact, as if it will keep them here with me, keep them alive.
Cato goes first, draws his blade across his throat, clown smile frozen on his face. A horrible gurgling sound escapes his lips. I fleetingly hope it is caught on microphone, that everyone should have to share this awful, appalling noise with me. I kneel to clutch at both their knees, my stomach convulsing. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to hear only my shuddering breaths, feel only my hot tears sliding down my cheeks.
Then they’re both gone, and I hear everything. The wolves make quick work of them, but there are no screams. Only the sound of flesh tearing, teeth gnashing, tongues lapping, punctuated by quick, excited barks.
I move to Peeta’s spent, forgotten body. I hug him to me, press my face into his chest to absorb my tears and cry for all those lost these past few weeks. I cry for Peeta and Rue and Foxface and Cato, even Clove. I cry for my mother, Prim, and Gale. I cry for the other Districts, for Cinna and the assistants, and for the Capitol viewers. I cry for myself. But mostly I cry for Thresh. Good, strong Thresh. Because he deserved to live more than us, more than anyone. Because he stood up to the Capitol, gave himself over, gave everything. Because he changed Cato and changed me and changed the rules of the Hunger Games.
I cry myself to sleep and mercifully miss the sounding of canons and photos floating in the sky. I wake up to Peeta stroking my tangled hair, long escaped from its braid. We smile wearily at each other. I will have to explain the last few days to him, but I don’t know how. I lean down to tuck my head back against his shoulder when the announcement is made. And I know.
I know that they have won. I know that nothing we have - Thresh has - done has changed anything for the better. In fact, it has made things worse. Because now they are asking me to kill the one person I have spent so long trying to save. And, for just a moment, I want to.
I want to put an arrow inside him for lying comatose while the rest of us suffered. I want to carve his throat like Cato’s for unknowingly trading Thresh’s life for our own.
Intellectually, I know these things were beyond his control and would never have been of his choosing. That doesn’t change the fact that I felt them for that moment. I felt them with my whole body. It’s all the evidence I need that the Capitol has won.
Peeta looks at me with horror in his eyes. He doesn’t understand where we are, how we got here, or what will happen next.
I pull my knife from my waist. I grip the handle tight, trace the sharp tip over my neck without pressure. There, over my pulse. I will slice in at an angle, losing blood too quickly to feel the pain, like the coward I am. I hesitate, blink at Peeta’s awakening, revolted eyes.
I almost ask Peeta to take care of Prim, make sure she never has to sell Lady. But I know, as unfair as it was to ask it of him, Gale would want that right. I can’t take that from him, even as I take myself from him. I take a moment to remember that last morning together, pushing blackberries through our smiles. I take a deep breath. I hope he will forgive me.
“I’m sorry we didn’t know each other better,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I genuinely mean it. My voice is calm, and I understand now how Thresh felt. I am resigned to my fate. I close my eyes and tighten my fingers on the grip.
But relief never comes. Peeta pulls the knife from my hands and flings it over the side of the Cornucopia. I open my eyes and watch it arc across the morning sky. There is only hope in his eyes.
A new announcement is made, but it is no reprieve.