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everlarkficexchange · 5 years ago

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Unmasked ~ Twenty-Two

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Dear readers, we continue with our game. I thank you for allowing me to write and share with you from behind a mask, for embracing this story wholeheartedly despite not knowing my identity. Remember, learn my name, you must use the clues in each chapter starting with 21 until the end to hunt for a word in the text of each chapter itself. Gather the words, hold onto them, for they will provide the final clue to the puzzle.

Please enjoy the twenty-second chapter of this adventure. I apologize for the length of this one, but it could not be helped. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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~~ Chapter 22 ~~

Miss Everdeen,

I cannot even pretend to understand what you must be feeling right now. I am certain none of it is charitable towards myself nor towards my relations, and I could not fault you for thinking so. I can only apologise a thousand times and hope that given time, your thoughts and feelings towards me might change, might soften perhaps.

I scarcely know what to write, an unusual predicament for me. I so rarely lose my way in words and yet today, I stumble through them like a fog, flounder in waves of them which I could not hope to swim.

“Oh these are lovely,” I say softly, grasping several beautiful, vibrant orange dahlias by their stems, lifting them from the basket Mrs. Walters, our gardner, brought in earlier. Tonight is the final evening of the Harvest Festival. The sun shines still, though it now begins to sink inexorably towards the horizon, eventually to drop out of sight and bringing the day to a close, having warmed the earth for most of the day and yet making no progress in drying the land of the rain that doused it for the past day and a half.

I am swimming, swimming, swimming in months old words and move the flowers through the air, slowly towards the ivy crown in my lap. I imagine the petals of the blooms parting the cool, clear waters of the words I have now memorised, I read them so many times this afternoon.

Your distaste today at the idea of marrying me was quite evident, although perhaps not unsurprising. Yet I hope to change that, to convince you that I am not a monster and am perhaps someone who could be worthy of your regard at least. I do not expect to do so with this letter. I can only hope that it is a start.

Perhaps I may be a bastard by birth, but I endeavor to live my life in such a way that I am not one in behaviour, in actions. Sometimes, I fail, most grievously. I failed several nights ago.

Madge laughs, twisting the stem of a pink flower through the ivy in her hands and showing the work to Maysilee. Prim helps Delly with twisting her own length of ivy into a crown. It is a custom to wear such flower crowns on the last day of the Harvest Festival at Everdeen. I had almost forgotten about it until Madge had asked. Now we sit on the verandah, a circle of ladies seated around us, our dresses soft islands of colors with flowers and bits of green strewn between us.

If you are reading this, then it means I have already made my confession and you know, or rather I have at least told you, that it was not Robert you met at the masquerade but me, the lowly bastard son who then proceeded to prove himself to be one indeed.

I console myself that what I did, I did to protect my brother, and indeed that is true…to a degree. For some time now, the Marquis has been after Robert to marry – someone, anyone, so long as she were acceptable in the Marquis’ eye. He feared his youngest son becoming an itinerant bachelor and leaving the line only to Ethan to continue. You know already of Henry and Angelica’s plans to only adopt children, and of Ethan’s large number of daughters and single son. What you may perhaps be unaware of is that Ethan has already announced their intent to have no more children. As a bastard, I do not count, which leaves Robert responsible for the spares.

How cold and terrible we must seem to you, my sire already planning out your future, and you would be right to feel such fury. The Marquis, in all his infinite kindness, saw fit to lay some of the blame for Robert’s elopement at your feet. He had such hopes that you might snare his son and then when you did not…well he arrogantly assumed the fault must lie with you rather than his own precious son, where it belongs.

Six orange dahlias adorn my crown. Six bright blooms of irrepressible hope. My mind accepts that the recent weather may make a return home impossible for Peeta. The post did not even arrive as expected today. And yet…I hope. He promised me, and while I would not wish him to come to harm in keeping his promise, I desperately hope he is able to do so safely.

In some ways I wonder if The Marquis almost meant to punish us both in forcing the issue. You for not securing Robert’s undying love, me for not seeing the superficial nature of his interest in you. I’ve no way of proving it so I shall let it go and endeavor to make the best of the situation in which we find ourselves.

You already know that I myself had reservations about Robert courting you. My primary misgiving being that his affections seemed stronger than yours. You are already aware of my concern that you selected him for his purse.

Here I must confess my motives to be already muddled, before you even so much as smiled at me that night. I believed his courtship of you to be real. I believed him to be falling in love with you. I believed it with great conviction until the moment his valet confessed to Robert’s whereabouts. Although the poor man did not know with whom Robert had eloped, I had my suspicions. We all did, and it turned out that we were correct. But that night, before I knew for certain, I could not help but wonder…had my perceptions of my brother been so wrong? Had my own interest in you hindered my ability to discern his feelings? Or had he eloped with you? We could not be certain and needed to ascertain the truth.

I arrived at the ball that night, intending only to converse with you, if you were even present, to distract you long enough to make you believe Robert still in town rather than already several hours on his way to Northwest Panem, and then to leave you. In that way, it was hoped that you could not cry foul before we could recover him, bring him home, and convince him to honor instead his courtship of you…or we would know that he had eloped with you, which while not the ideal wedding the Marquis had in mind, would be better, to his way of thinking, than the alternative.

I did not wish my brother humiliated and cut off from the family. I wished him happy, and if he were eloping with the person I suspected to be his partner… then I was no longer certain that I wished to stop him, for both their sakes. I knew them to be in love once, for many years. Perhaps I had been mistaken about his feelings and he was in love with her still. If not, I hoped that perhaps both of you had been taken with love for one another and chose to elope. Foolish, perhaps, but at least then you would not be hurt. In this way, my motives were at least in some part altruistic.

I sit in a chair as Mary brushes through my hair and asks how I wish it styled for the night.

“Unbound,” I tell her and she smiles.

“Like a pagan goddess of old,” she says with a nod. “You glow like I expect one of them might. Mr. Mellark will be knocked clear off his feet when he sees you.”

I relax into the brush strokes and swim in the words, letting myself sink into their depth. I do not ask her which Mr. Mellark she means, for there is only one who matters.

But that does not change the fact that I was partially dreading seeing you but more so…hoping to see you. If my motives were at least partly altruistic, there were parts of them that were not, that were utterly selfish.

Prior to the masquerade, I had believed your feelings towards my brother to be rather tepid and based more in finance than the heart. My own feelings were more complicated and so I had chosen to ignore them, perhaps to my own detriment. I convinced myself of the wholeness of my motives when in fact… they were not. I found myself almost hoping that Robert had truly eloped with his longtime love…perhaps then he might have a chance at a loving marriage and I might have a chance to spend more time in your presence without conflicting emotions of protecting Robert and being enchanted by you. Without him present to necessitate my lurking in the shadows unwanted.

This knowledge will likely do nothing to soothe the sting you yourself must be feeling today. I apologise if I seem callous, I mean only to explain why this happened, in the hopes that one day it will be enough to help you heal from whatever wounds my brother and I have caused you.

“There,” Mary declares, stepping back so that we both might admire her work in the mirror. My unbound hair falls in gentle waves over my shoulders and back. She has braided two small sections from my temples to the back of my head, then woven those together, a means of keeping my hair from my face. “Beautiful. Now for your dress.”

I stand from my seat and lift my arms to don the dress she holds for me. We work together to arrange fabric and layers until I am satisfied and able to slide my arms into the snug sleeves. This dress laces in the back and so I stand still as she works.

One part of me wished only to serve as a distraction, a shield for my brother until he could return to you. And the other part of me… the other part of me recalled the swift wit of your words as you sat distressed in the mud, the worried response of your household when you were safely returned, the clear way everyone around you admired and cared for you, and the pert way your nose turned up when you sneered at me and reminded me of my manners. The spark of your spirit and the fire in your eyes. That part of me which remembered the bite of pepper in tea, the proud defenses of a woman forced into a less than ideal situation, but who would not be cowed by it, and the grace with which she set about attempting to determine her own fate as much as possible…that part of me which could not forget you nor the way I felt in your presence had been odious and admittedly envious of his own brother, for that brother was able to court you when I wished to and could not.

Although as the masquerade continued, I began to suspect his feelings for you to be significantly less than what I had previously thought, and yours for him to be more. I found myself facing a new, and perhaps in many ways worse conundrum. Now I faced the likelihood that I was complicit in your broken heart and shattered hopes, a possibility that now seems confirmed in your reaction to our betrothal.

A true bastard at last.

The final touch is placed upon my head. A woven crown of green ivy and orange dahlias. Turning towards the mirror to examine the effect of my appearance, I laugh as Prim and Madge and Maysilee make sounds of appreciation from the sofa where they have crowded, all awaiting the completion of my toilet apparently.

“Should you not be getting dressed?” I ask and they shake their heads.

“Pointless.”

“You outshine the stars, Katniss.”

“And you will surely outshine all of us.”

Maysilee agrees that I am beautiful, declaring that my smile is made of the stars.

I scold them ineffectually, for I am smiling like a loon, and send them scurrying, all of them giggling like girls. Then I take one more look in the glass, hands flat on my stomach as I caress over my belly. Nerves and pregnancy sickness turn my insides to crashing waves and roiling surf, yet I cannot help but think that somehow, this would have happened anyways.

Then the worst thing happened. You smiled at me. Flirted, and it was like a crack of thunder across my skull. Somewhere between your fan on my chest as you scolded me for being late and the garden steps, I lost my way completely. I lost my way in your eyes and your smile and forgot my reason for being there. I meant to pretend to be Robert, to lie to you, to keep myself distant through a mask of pretend identity… and then I forgot how. I forgot even my reason for being there with you.

I could not now distinguish for you which moments during that night I consciously attempted to emulate my brother and which moments I forgot entirely what I was about other than simply enjoying the company of an extraordinary and exquisite person. And Katniss…you are extraordinary and exquisite. If I had any hope of escaping your effect, it was destroyed that night.

I forgot to guard my own heart and selfishly took pleasure in the freedom of wearing a mask. That night, I gave of myself, safely hidden from you. Only myself set before you with my brother’s name as a shield from your censure, and I enjoyed the freedom to act around you as I had long wished to, as well as enjoyed your response to me immensely. I convinced myself even as you opened to me that I acted as a man besotted with you and courting you would do, and you gave so willingly and openly of yourself. I could not bring myself to turn away from you. For the first time in my life, that night, I was glad to be a near twin copy of Robert.

Until your simple remark informing me that my brother had proposed to you only that morning brought me straight back to reality and condemnation. I was reminded of the true nature of our connection. The impossibility of it because I had misled you, and my brother had already proposed to you, which I had no knowledge of until you told me, then fled with another. I was reminded that anything I believed I saw in your eyes, heard in your voice, or felt in your kiss, was not meant for me. And still, bastard that I am, I claimed one last kiss for myself, though it may console you to know that I regret that last kiss far more than the others, for it was truly false.

None of what I told you that evening, however, was an intentional falsehood, save for my allowing you to continue believing me to be my brother. In no way do I expect my honesty now to absolve me of my perfidy then. It is all so confusing even to me that I expect it shall make me appear even more loathsome in your eyes, but I am willing to pay the price of my actions. Indeed I already have begun to do so…

The evening air grows chill and I am grateful for the heavy stockings I chose for tonight, the woolen dress and the thick shawl tied about my shoulders. I order torches lit, lining the lane and the courtyard, flanking the stable doors. The recent rains make both fires and Peeta’s return unlikely, and yet… I have hope. Should he manage to return, I would have his way home illuminated, clear in the night. I gaze down the lane, empty and shadowed but glowing with warmth. I imagine it beckoning him home, to Everdeen, to me.

When the task is done, I join the festivities, standing on the fringes and letting my eyes roam over the heads of those already assembled.

There is laughter and music, dancing and food piled high on trenchers. The refreshments slowly dwindle as the day progresses into night. Casks of cider and of ale are emptied and replaced with fresh ones.

… For the way you looked at me that night, the way you spoke to me… it was how I have always imagined a lady in love or one who has just begun to fall in love to look. It was something I craved to a frightening amount, and from you, it was heaven to me.

But it was not meant for me to even see, certainly not for me to receive. You laid your heart out for the man you believed yourself engaged to, and I did not correct your misconceptions. I was a thief that night, and it was all that I could have wished for. You drew me in deeper until I was drowning in my lies and your lips, with no will to end it. My weakness, my fault, and it is now my burden to bear how selfishly I accepted what I desired from you, encouraged you to give more, when none of it was mine to receive. In receiving it under such false circumstances, I know I may lose every chance to truly deserve that very look I so crave from you.

Jo partners with a buxom widow and sends us a lascivious wink. Sir Robert obliges every woman and girl left lingering unpartnered. He even manages to dance with his wife several times. She smiles prettily and surprisingly has him laughing with great mirth. Perhaps they will sort out whatever issues plague their own marriage. For Delly’s sake, I hope they do.

I stand along the fringes of the crowd, laughing with Madge, with my sister, even with Delly as we observe the dancing between their own partnered turns about the floor. It is a constant tide, an ever changing sea of faces. While the three of them are swept into the dance repeatedly, I decline all offers. My partner has not yet arrived.

And yet… I have hope. I will do everything in my power to deserve your regard. I will wait, whether you read this letter and answer it or not. I will endure whatever lectures you aim at me, for I truly deserve them. The mending of your heart need come first before there can be so much as a drop of trust between us. I understand this, and so I will wait. I will wait, and I will hope to see that expression in your eyes again one day, meant for me this time, with no lies or masks between us. I already know that it will be worth every second of the wait.

Yours,

~Peeta~

At first reading, his letter gave rise to such boiling fury. Yet it passed within a blink, leaving me clutching the letter and reliving the past with new eyes. Not quite nostalgia nor longing but rather, a sort of acceptance. He cannot change the Marquis or Robert. He cannot change the past, nor can I, but we can affect our future together in the choices we now make. I choose now to not allow the past to poison our future.

I wish to stretch the day into an unending bow of orange, to give my husband more time to return to me. The sun cares not for my wishes. It persists in sinking from the sky. The last of the light fades. Maysilee and many of the other children are sent to bed, protesting the whole way that they are not tired, begging for one more treat or one more dance.

With night upon us, I clap along to the songs, smiling at Madge when she returns from seeing Maysilee put to bed. She partners with Jo and laughs joyously. The night wears on, inexorable towards midnight. But with each dance that ends and brings no sign of Peeta, the more I worry. It grows late and dark, the roads that are questionable in the light, are treacherous at night.

“The night grows late,” Sir Robert says, standing beside me and echoing my own thoughts, offering a mug steaming with cider. A peace offering, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of what we share right now, worry for someone we both love. For Peeta.

“Thank you,” I murmur and accept the mug. It cannot hurt to be polite, although I am still leery of him.

“You do not dance, Mrs. Mellark?”

“I do, if there is an agreeable partner.”

“You wait for my brother,” he says. I drink my cider and hope my cheeks do not reveal my blush. Am I so transparent then? Perhaps it is the orange flowers in my hair, or perhaps how my eyes are continually drawn in the direction of the house and stables, where Peeta would be coming from. “He may not return tonight.”

“I can wait. It will be worth every second of the wait.”

“Perhaps, but even if he does return tonight…he does not dance. Not since…” Not since he lost his leg. I lift my chin and stubbornly ignore Sir Robert’s words. For I know that as long as the conditions are right, Peeta can and does in fact dance. He will dance with me.

“I cannot abide a lady sitting idle when there is dancing to be done.” I mutter a protest as Sir Robert removes the mug from my hand. I reach for its warmth and instead find my fingers within the grasp of his gloved hand. With a broad smile, he pulls me onto the floor. I’ve no idea where my cider disappeared to, and rather resent his presumptions.

He twirls me once, into line with the other women. Leevy Webster smiles at me and comments on what a fine night it is for dancing.

“Yes,” I agree, wondering how rude it would be to storm from the line right now, but the music starts and I’ve no choice but to dance. I attempt to scowl at Sir Robert and remain above all of it.

I nearly succeed.

But the laughter about me as I progress through the steps proves infectious. I am smiling by the end of the dance, although ready to make excuses.

“I insist, Mrs. Mellark! At least finish the set. You should enjoy the evening and the company of so many happy tenants,” Sir Robert declares. “Surely your husband would not wish you to deny yourself such simple pleasures on his account!” The music precludes any argument as the dancers change partners and the music begins anew.

We dance, and before I know what is happening, I am enjoying myself. Sir Robert is relentless in spreading cheer, it would seem. When the dance finishes, he insists I stay for another with a new partner. Then another.

“The last for me,” I tell him when he once more claims me as his partner and he concedes.

“Only because you are smiling at last, Mrs. Mellark.”

It is a rather vigorous dance this time, with much bouncing on our toes and changing of partners, spinning about until I am breathless and dizzy. A strange darkening occurs on the edges of my vision. I lose my balance right at the end. Sir Robert catches me and Madge hurries over as the last notes fade, met with applause.

“Here, come sit,” Madge urges and guides me through the crowds.

“Is she alright?” Sir Robert asks. I hear other murmurs and Madge sending Leevy to fetch my mother.

“I am fine,” I insist. A cold glass is handed to me and I am ordered to drink. I sip slowly as my heart rate returns to normal and my head ceases to spin. “Is that expected?”

“Not unheard of, darling,” Mother whispers and brushes back some of my hair.

“No more dancing then,” I say to scattered chuckles. At least not for me. The music plays on, and other couples dance. Someone requests Madge as a partner and I insist she go. Mother leaves, needed by someone else, only after assuring herself that I am no longer dizzy. I finish my cold cider and hand over my cup to be cleaned.

My father sits with me for a few minutes and while I am glad of his company, a melancholy still creeps in. He takes my hand in his and does not offer platitudes, only offers silent companionship and understanding. His acceptance of my fears, the fact that he does not dismiss them, makes them more manageable. So when he kisses my temple and is drawn to the floor with my mother again, I am able to happily let him go.

So happy they are, my parents. So in love, even after all their years together, a finely tuned pairing as they move and act in easy harmony. Like the winds and the currents.

As the hour draws close to midnight, I wander through the crowd and am overcome with a need for quiet, for a moment alone. The stables, I decide and make my way up the slight hill to their warmth, snatching two apples from the trestle tables as I go. I have been neglecting Sagittaria.

The torches cast a cheery glow about the stables. As soon as I enter, Sagittaria huffs and comes to her door, lifting her head over it and whickering at me.

“Yes, my darling, I know,” I say and present her treat. She huffs into my palm but accepts the apple. I murmur to her as she eats. “It is inconvenient, this being with child, everyone concerned for me. You would not throw me, would you my darling? Just a short ride would do us both a bit of good.”

She snorts and I sigh.

“Except your mother would have my hide. Then yours. Then Sagittaria’s, and if anything were left of any of us…” I turn slightly at the sound of Jo’s voice. She brushes the coat of a nag used often for chores around the farm. Of course I haven’t got the stables all to myself. I should have known better than to come here, although I wonder at her working so late rather than enjoying the festival.

An equine nose pushes against my arm and I turn towards the gentle brown eyes staring at me expectantly, almost accusingly.

“Oh Cicero, no need to stare at me so. I brought a second,” I say and produce the second apple. “In truth it was meant for Diablo but we shan’t tell him. I like you better anyways,” I whisper and run my hand over his dappled coat, up and down his nose, between his brows and then up to his mane between his ears as he munches. Johanna coughs and I gasp, spinning as soon as Cicero has finished his treat.

“Why did you not say something?”

“It was amusing to see how long it would take you to figure it out, Kitten.”

“Where is he?” I ask, and wonder that I did not see him at the festival. Why he did not come to me. Cicero has been cared for and safely stabled which tells me he has been home for some time.

“Oh that information has a price.”

“Johanna!”

“He’s with that dandified prat of a brother of his and neither of them seemed too happy to see one another, if you catch my meaning–”

“The point!” I shout.

“I can’t leave this poor nag untended to eavesdrop on them, but I want to know if and how Peeta has finally let his brother have it.”

“Done,” I agree without thinking it over.

He is home. Here, safe, with me. Finally. And that is all I care about right now. In a moment I will be in his arms. I can see his smile, hear his laugh. Oh heavens, I will be able to kiss him.

“They were headed towards the house,” Johanna says, the words barely out of her mouth before I break into a run. A mad dash across the courtyard. Into the house as I shout his name to no answer. Our rooms are dark and unoccupied, almost eerie. The drapes dance in the cool autumn breeze from the open window. Embers glow in the grate, the only source of light, and fresh wood stands sentry, ready to become a hearty blaze when someone returns. But there is no sign of Peeta.

Confused, I return downstairs. Perhaps he wished a bath before joining me. Yes, that must be it. He wanted to refresh himself after a long journey. I slide through the kitchens on my way to the bathing room, halting when I hear the murmur of voices coming from outside. I move towards the door leading into the vegetable and herb garden meant for the kitchen staff’s use. Two torches glow on either side of the door, turning the glass in the windows to prisms of midnight and orange, a macabre dance as I pause with my hand on the lever, finally able to distinguish the raised voices.

“You are complaining? What could you possibly complain about?” Sir Robert asks.

“You caused a mess, and I was left to patch it up!” Peeta answers, true anger in his voice.

“Please. You’ve no room to complain. You’ve somehow come out of this whole mess smelling like a rose. Everyone on this estate thinks the sun shines out your ass.” My hand flies up to my mouth at Robert’s coarse language and embittered tone.

“Again, you caused this mess. At least accept responsibility for your actions–”

“I am not asking much!”

“Ask the Marquis. You were always quite skilled at charming both funds and forgiveness from him.”

“Father has refused. Repeatedly. So have Ethan and Henry. My charms seem to have run out with them. You are all I have left, Peeta.”

“So you crawl here to beg as a last resort.”

“It is not as though you are struggling. Peeta, please. We are brothers. You suffer, I suffer with you, remember?”

“That agreement has always been lopsided.”

“Not by my fault, it hasn’t! You never complained about it before!”

I shift my position, closer to the window, dangerously close. A heavy sigh reaches my ear and through the fractured light, I finally see him. My heart hammers in answer. Air rushes in and out of my lungs as I gasp silently for it. I remove my hand from my mouth, for it makes my breathing louder.

He looks tired but well. His hair is windblown and wild, his cheeks and ears scorched red by the cool autumn wind. He wears no hat and I cannot see down past his shoulders. Despite all that, despite the unfamiliar grim expression on his face, I would know him anywhere. I now know what Delly meant when she said she could always tell the difference. I drink him in, even the stern look on his face, the livid clench of his jaw. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Robert says with great relief. “Truly, it is a relief to know I can still, always rely on you. It has been terrible! Exiled up north with nothing to do for months, no diversions or entertainments, not so much as a race track for a bit of sport. Then being summoned back home with no notice. Dresses cost a fortune, did you know, and Delly had nothing suitable to meet Father and Mother as my wife. I had to see her completely made over! Father lecturing me at every chance and ordering me about like I am still a school boy. Mother has been worse than Father, if you can believe that, crying every time I walk into a room as though I were dead, not married. Oh and Father is pissed beyond reason with you. He thinks you are avoiding him.”

“How intuitive of him,” Peeta sneers. “I am avoiding him.”

“You’ve got to show your face there sometime. But I digress. De Vale became insufferable. We had to leave, but there is only so long one can impose upon friends. And I promised Delly to send Elijah to school in England, if I could, which I can’t. I’d no idea how much it would cost! You’ve no idea what it’s been like, not knowing where the next meal comes from or if we shall even have a roof over our heads for the winter, always depending on someone else’s charity. She can barely find any work with all the jaunting about the country we’ve had to do. All the while, you sit here on your fat happy farm with your lovely wife, all comfortable and warm, so I can see why you avoid home, but it can only last so long. I swear this is the only time I’ll beg money from you and… Peeta?”

He stops speaking and I already know why. Robert’s words so carelessly uttered. A dark shadow has fallen across Peeta’s face, because it is Robert who has no idea.

“You think I’ve no idea what that’s like? Being poor? Cast out of my home? Starving? Desperate? Bounced from one temporary residence to the next? Depending on the charity and goodwill of another.” He says the last two – charity and goodwill – as though the words taste foul. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they were made to taste foul by his own kin.

“Well…” Robert fumbles and Peeta silences him with a shake of his head.

“We share features, Robert. A sire, a date of birth separated by two years. Not a history, not our childhoods. I come from a different life than you. What the hell do you think life was like in that year for me? For my mother?”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I just…forgot.” Robert tries to laugh it off, but the sound is rather hollow.

“Forgot? Christ. I suppose you forgot that you proposed marriage to Katniss only that morning when you chose to elope with Delly that very same day. How did you plan on keeping two wives if you cannot even manage the one?”

“Are we back to that then?” Robert moans and heaves a great sigh. Peeta begins to pace as they trade rapid barbs.

“We never finished with that.”

“Are you not the one always telling me to follow my heart?”

“That was when I thought you had a decent one!”

“Delly still loves me at least. It can’t be all bad.”

“For the moment. She’s optimistic, not stupid. Eventually you’ll cock that up too.”

“Now you sound like Father.” Even I shrink from the words, knowing they are the worst insult Robert could fling at Peeta.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, the old wanker can’t always be wrong, now can he? You ran off with her and left another waiting for you.”

“You benefitted! Why are you complaining?”

“Because you broke her heart!” I gasp and snap my mouth shut, sitting silent and stunned. Faint sounds of the festival hover in the silence. Peeta cannot believe that.

Robert clearly does not, but then…he already knows. He laughs with no mirth and they shift so that now I see his face instead of Peeta’s. “Where the devil did you get that idea?”

“From Katniss,” Peeta says, sounding defeated and I shake my head. Words of denial fill my throat, and I hold them tight within.

“Really? Do we speak of the same Katniss? The one who informed me that she did not seek love, just a financially secure marriage with a halfway decent man. Not even a title, she swore. Just the security that matrimony could bring. Not exactly words to swoon over, and yet I proposed anyways–”

“And then eloped.”

“Yes, well–”

“Why even propose?” Peeta asks something I am suddenly very curious about myself.

“I was getting desperate!”

“For what? Surely not Katniss. You would have stayed, had that been the case!”

“For Delly! She stopped answering my letters!”

I nearly fall over. He couldn’t possibly mean what I think he does. No one is that selfish, that obtuse. And here I thought to perhaps forgive him.

“You proposed to Katniss to make Delly jealous.”

“Yes. No… Perhaps.”

“Which one is it?”

“Come on now, man. Father was up my ass to get married already. It was a last ditch effort. Marrying Katniss was not such a terrifying prospect. It would not have been a travesty if I had. She was desperate herself, just as you had warned me. She would have the funds and security she sought, I’d have Father off my back… And if it brought Dells around instead–”

“You’re despicable.”

“I told you I was desperate. I was not thinking clearly!”

“Fucking hell. Then at least make it worthwhile. You caused a nightmare. Why wouldn’t you at least withdraw the announcement before you left with Delly? It had to be you. No one else would have run that drivel and called it romantic.”

“Withdraw the…? Oh shite. I forgot.”

“You forgot? You forgot that too? You careless piece of–”

I blush at the curse words that pour from Peeta’s mouth then. Oh my. I suppose it is not entirely surprising. The man did spend several years as a soldier, and at some point he lived on the streets with his mother. Their words now fly fast and thick, nearly overlapping one another and making their voices difficult to distinguish.

“How could you play so loose with the hearts and feelings of others? Have you no shame at all?”

“Would you cease lecturing me?”

“I will not! You are in need of a good lecture! Damn I wish for some of your forgetfulness! I wish I could forget we were related!”

“You don’t mean that. What’s really up your arse?”

“I wish I could forget the look of devastation on Katniss’ face when she found out you had eloped, and not with her! I wish I could forget that she was in love with you and may very well still be! No thanks to you, prancing and flirting with her tonight!”

“Now you’re mad! Stark raving mad! What made you think she loved me? I told you it was to be a cold, contract marriage.”

“The way she acted and looked at me – at you – at the masquerade. How could she be truly happy with the bastard when she could have had you? How am I supposed to earn her love…with you popping up to remind her of what she lost!”

For a moment they are silent, and I am grateful for the respite. I can piece it all together now. Peeta’s reluctance in so many instances, the meaning in his letter the day we were betrothed, his insistence on a courtship even after we were married. His reluctance to see his family. How many reasons he had for such things to begin with, and now I add another.

He thought me in love at the masquerade… with Robert.

Foolish man. Foolish, idiotic, wonderful man. Doesn’t he know my heart beats for him? He gave me such space and time to mend my broken heart which was never truly broken, only perhaps bruised. He waited every step to ensure that I was ready. Why then did he not meet me at the festival and dance with me as promised? How could he possibly think I harbor feelings for Robert after all that Peeta and I have endured together, grown together?

Because he saw me dancing with Robert and fear overruled reason. The truth is much like a slap to the cheek. Peeta hides behind it now like a mask, unable to see the truth of what lays before him. Very well then. I will help him to see what he cannot.

“Oh so that is what Ethan meant!” Robert exclaims with a wide smile and a shake of his head. “You finally took advantage, did you? How did it feel to be me?”

“Shut up. Go dance with your own damn wife, Robert.”

“You’re an ass, brother. You ought to be thanking me, but you’re too stubborn and morose to see just how lucky you are.”

I have heard enough. I move back to the door and deliberately make noise in opening it. I step into the cool autumn air and the warm torchlight, standing on the wide stone step that leads into the garden. Peeta’s face registers shock, then fear. His anger fades away as both men bow to me.

“There you are, husband! Jo thought you were headed to the house. I’d nearly called out a search party.”

“Too little room for tempers in there, and now this garden grows stifling,” Robert says and moves to leave. “Brother, I think I shall take your advice, go dance with my own damn wife.” Then he smiles at me, a piercing look in his eyes as he once more gives me a slight bow. “Mrs. Mellark, my apologies for my coarse language. I bid you good evening.”

We stand in silence, listening to Robert’s retreating footsteps on the muddy paths. Peeta swallows and I lift one eyebrow at him. I let my eyes drag over his form, devouring the sight of him from his windswept hair to his broad shoulders and unbuttoned waistcoat. His muddy trousers and boots. The satchel he clings to that must have traveled tied to the back of his saddle and contain only his necessities. He looks wonderful and so handsome and somehow like he has been through hell in one night.

“You are nearly late and you still owe me a dance, husband. Are you to make a habit of this?”

“The bridge over Nine Willows River was washed out,” he explains.

“That at least explains why the post did not arrive. You however, look as though you waded through it.”

“I rather did.” At this, I scowl, anger rising up in me. “I did not wish to drag mud through the house. Thought I would enter through this door to mitigate as much of the mess as possible.”

“You think I care about the mud? I am more concerned that you would endanger your life so.”

“The kitchens are not so dangerous.”

“But fording a river is. You could have been killed! And what of Cicero? He would follow you!”

“Katniss… I am tired. It has been an exhausting couple of weeks and I have been riding since sunrise. I thought to stop at the inn at Seam, but I promised you I would be here tonight.”

“And you think a nearly kept promise would console me had you died?”

“As long as you had a body to bury, then technically I would have kept my promise,” he says.

“I do not think a corpse counts! And besides that, what would I do with a corpse? I certainly could not dance with one!”

“Bury it then dance on the grave.” He moves to leave the garden, to step around me into the house. He will not escape so easily. I block his retreat. My fingers spread on his chest. His heart beats steadily against my palm.

“We are not done discussing this, stubborn, obstinate–”

“Bastard?” he finishes and halts, gives me a wry smile. My fingers curl in his shirt, grasping hold of the damp linen. “One day, I would like someone to come up with a more creative name to call me.”

“Well at the moment it fits, since you chose to stand in the muddy garden instead of what you ought to have been doing,” I accuse and he runs a hand through his hair. Oh how I long to do the same. “Not greeting your wife and allowing me to tell you all that has transpired in your absence, acting as though we were married two weeks ago rather than several months, talking corpses and fighting with your brother when you should have been dancing with me.”

Panic invades his face and he pales.

“How do you know we were fighting? How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” Really, the man is being daft and I’ve about had enough of it.

“Enough? Enough for what?” He steps back away from me, my grip on his shirt forcing my arm to extend.

“Enough to know that you have several foolish notions in your brain that I need disabuse you of, and you are on the verge of ruining our reunion. I had quite a good time imagining it, too.”

“Did you? Pray tell how did you imagine it would go? Because this is not how I imagined it either.”

I follow his retreat, stepping off of the stone and into the mud. I grasp hold of his coat lapels and pull him down towards me, standing on my toes to reach his lips. Only my feet slip in the mud and Peeta moves to catch me. He tosses aside his satchel then he too loses his footing and for a moment, we fumble and slide.

He falls on his back on the muddy path. I land heavily on his chest, a tangle of limbs and a loud squelch of mud. Twin gasps escape us and then a moment of stunned silence. It would appear I am still an utter wreck when it comes to kissing my husband.

“Not quite like that,” I grumble and a laugh escapes his lips. He stifles it quickly. But I have hope. His laughter hands it back to me as I notice the faint circles under his eyes. He is as tired as I, and that can affect one’s thinking, one’s perceptions.

Peeta holds tight to my arms and opens his mouth, probably to ask if I am alright because he is thoughtful like that when really, he ought to be kissing me instead of seeing to my welfare.

I bring my lips to his. He attempts to stop me, to speak, and I do not relent. Not until he releases a shuddering breath and his body melts beneath me, warm and solid and so very real. I feel the tension leaving his body as I kiss him. I feel it leaving mine, and then I’ve no need to relent to anything save the feelings inside me.

My eyes are shut and my pulse leaping in affirmation the second his skin touches mine. His hand caresses my cheek. He is chilled. So cold from his journey home to me and right now, I wish nothing more than to be the fire that warms and welcomes him home. And it feels so very right, near perfect, even with the mud now seeping into my clothes, or perhaps especially because of it.

There’s a rumbled moan of desire in his chest, then a sigh. I slide my hands up, up and inside the warmth beneath his coat. I wish to be rid of the layers between us but content myself with grasping tight to his shirt and do not let go. His lips slide beneath mine as he answers my kiss, returns it to me deepened and polished and perfect, a pearl in the moonlight. His cool fingers caress my neck then burrow into my unbound locks.

There is laughter and shouting on the cool night air. I lift my head from his, holding myself suspended with my eyes shut and his fingers massaging my scalp, grasping my dress, my name a whispered kiss of warm and loving wind between us.

“More like that,” I murmur and find the courage to open my eyes, to find him smiling at me.

“Only upright?”

“And with perhaps a bit less mud,” I say and he laughs, the sound deep and wonderful and inviting me into laughter with him.

“Katniss… we should…”

“Yes?” I say and shift my knees to straddle him.

“Return you to the festival,” he whispers.

“Must we?” I sigh and let my body turn limp. I rest my ear on his chest, where I know I will hear his heart, thumping steadily against my cheek. I close my eyes and absorb the soothing rhythm, the constancy of it. He continues caressing my hair and kissing my brow.

“I owe you that dance, although I am afraid I am not as nimble as your most recent partner.”

“I couldn’t possibly now!” I protest and glare at him. “My dress is quite ruined with mud.”

His eyes travel over me and he laughs, shakes his head with a bright and lopsided smile lifting his lips. “It is not as though it would be the first time this crowd has seen you so, and if we are to be making unfavorable habits – AH!”

Peeta shouts in distress as I smear a handful of cold mud over his face, but I have only momentarily stunned him. “You could do worse than this,” he finishes with a wicked grin and rolls us over.

“No! Peeta!” I shout but I am too late. I am too late and I am laughing as I sink into the mud, his body on top of mine, pressing me deeper into the soft cushion of the earth. I cling to his shoulders and laugh in his mud covered face hovering over mine. I am still laughing between his lips as he kisses me, his hand cradling my neck to keep my head from the filth. I am laughing still as he rises over me and gazes down at me with a wondrous light in his eyes.

“What ho! I have snared an earthen goddess!” he says as he captures my flower crown before it falls from my head, pressing it more securely in place.

“Do you not know your mythology, my love? No goddess is snared who does not wish to be so.” His smile lights my own and I cannot be angry with him, at least not for this.

“You should wear the earth more often. It suits you,” he attempts to say it seriously and utterly fails, earning another fistful of mud on his other cheek. “But I suppose a change of clothing is in order before dancing.”

“I think we need a bath, husband.”

He takes another look around us and laughs a few short notes. “Perhaps so, wife.”

He carefully and slowly leverages himself off the ground, retrieving his satchel and handing it to me before hauling me up after him, as though I am nothing but a feather, straight into his arms. I settle the satchel in the curve of my belly and twine my arms around his neck, kick my feet in the air, ridiculously giddy at the sensation of him carrying me so with one strong arm behind my back and the other beneath my thighs, the warmth of his palms radiating through mud and clothing. He takes careful steps and I must work the lever on the door.

“With all this carrying me about, you are contradicting your insistence that you needed to stay mounted,” I tease and then gasp as he falters, clinging to his neck and fearing another tumble into the mud.

“You were saying, my love?”

We enter the house and hurry to start the fire. Working together, we are able to heat water and quickly fill the tub. I pour in some oil scented with vetiver and help Peeta sit on the stone bench.

I can bear the silence no longer then. There is so much to be shared. As I help him remove his boots and soiled clothes, I begin to talk. It is easy and simple, an exchange that happens as smoothly as breath, sharing so much of what he missed – Primrose and my fight with her over Rory Hawthorne, our blackberry hunt with Maysilee, my discovery of Johanna –

“You are not angry with me for keeping the truth from you?” he asks as I set aside his shirt. I shake my head and motion for him to lift his hips so we can deal with his trousers.

“I understand why you did so. It must have been a terribly rough life for her.”

“Katniss,” he says and grasps my arms. I am distracted by his nudity and the need to assure myself of his well being, yet he holds me in place with his eyes. A darkness swirls in their depth and I cannot help but think of Delly’s words. That there was a darkness in his soul she could not touch. I see it now in his eyes and wonder if his time spent with another from that part of his life brought the darkness back to the surface. “It was. That world…when you step into that world, everything else disappears. All that matters, all that becomes real, is whatever you need to survive it. If you are lucky, you are allowed one dying wish, and it costs everything. And if that means…”

“Peeta,” I whisper and brush his hair back from his head. I trace the scars on his face and press my lips to their sharp fringes. I trail kisses down the damaged skin to his jaw. “You came home to me, and that is all that matters to me right now.”

“I am glad to be home,” he whispers. I remove his leg and inspect his skin. I glance up at him and he smiles.

“I would not dare incur your wrath by neglecting one of your edicts, wife.”

“You think you are safe from my wrath after you waded through a swollen river?” I mutter and continue my inspection of his body.

“Well which is it? Are you happy to see me or angry?” he asks with a grin and I scowl at him. He endures my demands and my prodding until I am satisfied that he bears no new injuries and has been caring for his leg.

“Why can it not be both? I am glad to see you, and I am also angry that to do so, you felt the need to act with such little regard for your welfare. I would have been as happy to see you tomorrow as I am tonight.”

Satisfied of his health, at least on the surface of his body, I motion for him to get into the tub. He sets his hands on the brim and heaves himself in, his strength evident as he lowers his body into the steaming, fragrant water and sighs, the sound content. I begin to remove my own clothing and he lifts his head from the edge of the tub to watch. Every piece of sodden wool and linen and lace until I am bare, as naked and raw as the desire I see in his eyes.

When my own clothes have joined his in a pile to be washed later, I step into the tub and carefully sit in his lap.

“Would you care to join me in my bath?” he asks, teasingly as I wriggle to find a comfortable position. The water and Peeta warm me, the feel of oils and skin slick as silk, sensual and comforting. My movements cause small waves of the water to slosh about us.

“Thank you, I would,” I tell him. He hisses and grabs my right hip, holding me still, teeth clenched. I can feel him, slipping between our bodies, rigid against my hip. I bite back a smile and decide to deal with that later. For now, there are several housekeeping matters we need dispense with. I direct him to lean his head back and he does so. “Now we can discuss a few family matters and these foolish notions you have.”

“Tell me, wife. Just what foolish notions do you refer to?”

“The ones from your letter, the day after we were engaged. The ones you just now so foolishly repeated to your brother,” I say with a quick, harsh scrub of his hair. This surprises him. His eyes open wide and he blinks at me. “You will get soap in your eyes.”

He closes them again and swallows before speaking. “I thought you hadn’t read that letter.”

“I hadn’t, at first. I only first read it this morning,” I confess and he squirms beneath me. Oh and now I am aroused as well, my belly quivering with the mounting sensation. Still, I cannot let that distract me from ensuring Peeta and I will be alright. I scrub the mud from his face and neck. Then rinse, he sputters at me but I ignore that, rinsing the soap from his hair, massaging his scalp and combing my fingers through the soaked curls to ensure they are free of both muck and suds. “You have it all wrong, you know.”

“Do I?” he asks and rubs at his eyes. “You went to that ball, asked me those questions…you wished to know Robert better–”

“Yes.”

“– and fell in love with him.”

“Wrong,” I say and he drops his hand, splashing the water. I wipe at his eyes with a drying cloth and wait for him to look at me again. “You are very persuasive, husband, but not quite persuasive enough to make me fall in love with someone else. Do you think my heart so easily swayed?”

I slide through the water to wind my arms around his neck, to ground me to his steadiness as I find the courage to voice things I never thought I would have reason to say. I pour the words into the steamy air where I cannot hide them nor take them back.

“It was not Robert I was enamored with that night, but the very real man behind the mask. I was never in love with Robert for I never had the chance to truly know him, and even if I did, I doubt that would have been the outcome. No, it was the man in the mask who captured my heart – the man who was open with me about the complicated nature of his family, the man who found a way to console a distraught young girl, not by making her feel comfortable in standing out, but by changing the surroundings, convincing an entire ballroom to drink a wine that stained their lips red so that she might fit in.” Peeta stares at me, as though he does not quite believe me, but now that I have started, more words tumble free.

“I fell in love that night with a man who made me laugh before an entire hall of imposing portraits, who showed an immense amount of consideration for the hearts and feelings of so many around him, even those who would never give a whit for his own feelings had they known his true identity. A man who listened to and heard my story and still asked permission to see my scars, then kissed them as though they were something precious, not hideous, if only because they are a part of me I cannot separate from my person. A man who made me feel exquisite as none other had.”

He opens his mouth to protest and I place a finger over his lips to halt him.

“Please. You have such a way with words and have been able to tell me in a thousand ways. Allow me this one with no interruptions.” Slowly, he nods. I trace my finger over his lips. “I was afraid, after accepting Robert’s proposal, afraid that I had acted rashly and would come to regret it. I tried to convince myself that I would be content with a business arrangement for a marriage, and then realised I would never know one way or the other if I never knew love for myself. So yes, I intended to learn more of Robert while both of us wore masks, I even intended to kiss him, and the result was that I found out that I could not be happy with a cold arrangement. I desired something greater, something stronger, but you were the one to show me what that could be, how it could feel.”

“Robert could have done all those things that I did,” he argues, almost pathetically.

“Perhaps, although I doubt he would have thought to do half of them. In the end, it does not matter. Robert did not do those things. You did.” I take a deep breath and twist strands of his hair around my fingers. “I was angry with you, and I was hurting when I learned the truth. I was not mourning Robert’s loss but that of the man in the mask. Then I found myself married, only to fall in love all over again for such similar reasons. Who you were behind that mask is who you have been here at Everdeen. Kind, thoughtful, patient, generous, witty, and still, I was as confused as you were about that night. Could I love you both? It didn’t seem fair that I should, but now I understand. You are one and the same. My husband and my man in the mask. It has taken me months to face what I already knew.”

I stumble then, right at the finish and Peeta’s hands caress up my arms, over my shoulders to my back, drawing me closer to his chest for an embrace.

“And what is that?” he prompts, his voice a mere whisper, as though if we talk above a whisper, we may disturb the delicate, growing bonds between us.

“You really are the luckiest bastard in the world and I don’t intend to let you forget it.”

It takes him a moment and then he shakes his head with a smile, brings my lips to his. “I love you, Katniss. My pearl.”

“And I love you, Peeta. Only you,” I whisper in return, the words are kissed between us, our lips close enough to touch. Then we are kissing for real. A dozen kisses, perhaps a hundred. Soft, soft, and then wild. Ravenous.

I am uncertain how long we kiss. Only that I do not wish to stop. His lips and his hands on me only make me long for more. Endless nights and days filled with kisses such these, caresses such as those, the soft murmur of his moans answering my own.

I keep expecting him to press for more than these kisses and caresses, yet he seems content to share only this for now, and I find myself glad of it, savoring each breathy kiss and heated touch, my body drawn to such a height of both luxurious comfort and scintillating anticipation. We might stay here always, kissing until time ends. Only, the water eventually cools enough that not even the heat of Peeta’s body is enough to combat the chills.

I shiver and he separates our lips, whispering that we need to be swift or risk illness. He shifts our bodies and begins to wash my hair for me, then my body. I relax into his touch and allow his attentions, his care of me.

“I missed you, Katniss. I could wait no longer to hold you, to assure myself that things that…invaded my dreams while I was away were not true,” he murmurs, an explanation for his reckless choice to continue towards home when nature threw obstacles to block his path back to me, and perhaps the chill in his letters.

“You as well?” I ask and blink to clear the tears forming in my eyes. Are we so fragile then, as to fall prey to the doubts of lonely beds and nights?

His hands pause and he examines my face. “What caused your doubts? My brother?”

“He was part of it, but no matter. I have dealt with the doubts he caused. What caused yours?”

“Truthfully? The past. I was…struggling with nightmares and when your letters arrived, I suppose I thought – that is they were very…”

“Detached,” I say pathetically.

“I thought perhaps my own letters in all their vehemence might have pushed you away from me, or shown you that you did not truly feel the same way.”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head and hurry on before he can say more. “I never know how to order my words to say what I wish. Your letters were so…so beautiful, Peeta. I – well you will think me terribly fanciful but I saved every one of them, read them every day you were gone, kept them in my sketchbook. But… Anything I wrote in answer paled in comparison.”

“Well, not that last one,” he says, his voice a sudden low growl. My eyes fly up to meet his and I see desire swirling in a storm of deep blue, freckled with grey. I cannot stop my smile and shake my head.

“Twas only a paragraph of poetry.”

“Twas enough,” he says and brings me close, to feel him again, hard and ready. Heat rises in me, making the chill of the water worse in contrast, causing more shivers. “Twas enough to give me hope that perhaps my doubts were without foundation, imagined, made worse by not being near you. ‘Twas enough to make me set up my two companions at the inn four towns up the road until it is safer to travel, and press on alone. Perhaps stubbornly and obstinately–”

“And foolishly,” I add and he smiles at me.

“Yes that, too.” His words are a balm and also a bothersome worry. But I know now that even my fears are safe in Peeta’s hands and so I ask him.

“After all that, why did you not come to me at the festival?”

“I did, and I saw you dancing with Robert and…” His words trail into the soft splash of his hands as he finishes bathing me.

“Fear won out,” I finish his sentence, a confirmation of what I already suspected.

“I am afraid so. You appeared so happy and carefree. I did not think I could compete with that, not in the mindset I have been in for some time. At the very least, I thought I should present myself to you looking less bedraggled.” As he speaks, he caresses my face and along my jaw. As though he cannot touch me enough.

“I would have been happier to dance with you. But would you have me sour at all times in your absence?”

“No, I wish you happy, as much as possible. ‘Twas selfish of me, and I apologise for it a hundred times over. I would ford as many rivers if it would gain me your forgiveness for my weakness, if it would mean I could hear you say these things again.”

“I would prefer you save the fording of rivers and instead kiss me again,” I whisper. He smiles and bends his head to kiss me, but a thought occurs to me then. “Where is your hat, husband?”

“I…” he pauses and looks rather chagrined. “Lost it in the river.”

I would like to yell at him again for his recklessness, but that will not gain me a kiss, so instead I chose to make light of it.

“Well. At least you have no valet. You have spared the poor man the shock of your garments,” I tease and flick my gaze towards the pile of our now sodden clothing. He laughs, the sound echoing merrily off the stone walls until he kisses me. I sink into the water and tighten my hold on him. I am breathing in short gasps when he releases me and my next words are breathless. “And your boots…we shall have to ask Delly to make you another pair.”

He pauses and lifts his head, peers at me as though seeking an answer. “They have not been much trouble?”

“Delly has not.” He grunts at this, a darkening in his eyes that is not desire. I cannot have that. “And while Robert has caused some trouble, I do not think it was meant to be malicious. I can handle whatever he metes out to me. Perhaps not at first. I needed reminding of a few things that I already knew, but in the end it is alright. He is…not happy, is he?”

“He wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences. I don’t believe he realised how severe they would be, but I think given time to adjust, they will be alright.”

“Then you should help him.” I say and maneuver myself out of the tub. As I do, Peeta’s hand wanders up my leg, up to my core. I gasp and give him a falsely scandalised look that makes him smile. “After you lecture him half a dozen times for being such a boor.”

Peeta laughs at this and follows me from the tub, bundles me in drying clothes and then in his arms. Our lips gravitate towards one another, the gentle caresses quickly gaining heat. Only now it is the air that cools our skin and cause shivers and chattering teeth.

“We should finish this by our fire,” I whisper when we manage to cease kissing for a breath.

He nods and rubs his hands over my arms to warm me. We finish carefully drying ourselves, deal with the mess as best we can for now. Only, we’ve nothing clean to wear.

“Clearly, I was too distracted by your radiance to think about such mundane things as how we would get out of this room in any sort of decency,” Peeta accuses me with another brief, heated kiss. We drape the drying clothes around ourselves and one around his still wet satchel, and sneak through dark corridors, hiding along the way and listening for anyone who might stumble upon us so indecently garbed. Thankfully, all is quiet. Everyone seems to be still at the festival or fast asleep.

I am blushing from head to toe by the time we fall into our room and lock the door. But I am also giggling foolishly. Peeta drops his towels and wraps his arms around me, hauling me up against his chest to kiss me. I melt into the embrace and release my own towels to cling to him, fingers burrowing in his hair and his flesh as I reassure myself that he is truly here and not a dream I have conjured to torture myself in my lonely bed.

When he lifts his head, he smiles up at me. “Have we anything else we need discuss? There is more to this reunion I had imagined for us, if you desire it.”

I blush, and as much as I would like to order him to take me to bed and love me until the sun rises, I have more yet to tell him. I palm his cheek and give him one more soft kiss. “Not yet, husband. I have more.”

“Very well.” He sets me on my feet, then surprises me by making a content noise. He then maneuvers us towards the fire. I dress in my shift while he works at turning the glow to a cheery blaze. I hand him his nightshirt and he dons it before settling on the couch. I join him, curling into his side and tucking my feet up beneath a blanket as I prepare for the rest of what I need to tell him.

I wish I could think of a gentle way to ease into it, but I decide that being forthright is perhaps my best option.

“I asked Haymitch to conduct a search for your mother, several months ago.” Peeta’s fingers stop combing through my hair and I cautiously lift my head from his chest to gauge his reaction. “I thought…perhaps someone with a name in no way connected to the Mellark’s may have better luck.”

“Oh. Katniss you did not have to do that.”

“I wanted to, and we were fairly successful.”

“You…you found my mother?” he asks and I hate to squash the burgeoning hope in his voice.

“Not exactly,” I say and his face begins to crumble with disappointment. “We’ve managed to piece together a good deal of her life over the past fifteen years, although I think it best that perhaps our man work with yours from now on. Perhaps you have pieces we haven’t and vice versa.” Hope has returned to his eyes and now I truly feel wretched as I bite my lip and impart the most pressing part of this news. “We did find… we found… her daughter.”

“Her…daughter.” Peeta stares at me and I take his silence as invitation to explain, and so I do.

“Her name is Miranda. She is seven years of age right now, approaching her eighth birthday at the end of the month, and when that happens, the orphanage where she has resided since birth plans to hand her over to a workhouse and–”

Peeta shifts me off of him and stands. He bends over the mantel, staring into the blaze, his fingers working in an agitated motion. I am not certain what to make of his reaction and must gather my courage once again, to face the possibility that I may have been wrong about him.

“Did you know of her?”

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “If I had, I would have…but then…I don’t…” It is a lot to take in, I understand, but we haven’t time for Peeta to work through it all. We need to act.

“That is exactly what I thought you would say. So we shall need to pack our bags for Capitol.”

“Now?” he asks and turns to face me.

“Well I suppose Mr. Burbank will need a few days to settle some of the paperwork and inquiries. We could use the time to make that visit to pay our respects to the Marquis along the way. By the time we reach Capitol, it should be a matter of signing and packing her bags. Mayhap we leave in two days. Is that sufficient rest for you?”

“Paperwork? Packing her bags?”

“To assume guardianship of your sister,” I say.

“You would do that?” he whispers. “Bring her here to Everdeen and raise her as part of your family? A complete stranger? The daughter of–”

“She is already part of our family, husband. We need only make it official and permanent.” I cut him off before he can place a label on his mother that I am certain he will regret. He pulls me off of the sofa and into his arms, kissing the yelp of surprise from my throat. I am nearly crushed beneath the force of his embrace and yet I have never felt so relaxed as I do in Peeta’s arms, even under such vigorous embracing.

“I will be honest, tis not the news I was expecting. You are certain she and I share a mother?”

“Yes,” I say and he swallows. I watch his throat bob with the motion and stand on my toes to kiss beneath his jaw.

“Who…who is her father?” his voice cracks on the question and I lean back to stare into his eyes, silently pleading with him to not make me say it. His eyes sweep closed and his jaw clenches. His hands do the same on my back. So then he knew at least that his mother was forced to sell herself to survive.

“I know it is a lot to absorb, Peeta.”

“Yes. Well, I knew she had to….afterwards …it must have been easier to fall into that form of survival after she no longer had me to worry after. Even when she did have me…I had started to suspect at least a little. There were days when she refused to tell me where she went to work. I only knew that she would invariably return with food or money on those days, more than usual.”

“Oh Peeta,” I whisper and he buries his face in my neck, holding me close as his shoulders shake.

“You said she has been in an orphanage since birth? So Miranda has never known family at all? Not even Mother?” He keeps his voice quiet but I still hear the breaks in it. The desperate need to remain strong, even as he falls to pieces inside.

“We will be Miranda’s family.”

“Luckiest bastard indeed to have such a wife as you,” he murmurs and lifts me into his arms, carrying me across the room to our bed, kissing me the entire journey, kissing me as he lays me out across the soft surface before joining me. And he mercifully does not cease kissing me for a good, long while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

Your clue for chapter 22: At times, we wish to run away, to avoid what we fear. At times such as those, it helps to have someone we love. Other times we race towards what or who we love most with no regard for ourselves. Love is a verb, and also a noun. So is the word you seek this time. It is here more than once – preventing retreats and delaying reunions alike – but few obstacles, fights, and fears, be they from nature or design, can stand for long against Everlark’s love.

#Springtime Edition 2019 #prompt 88 #M #late submission #submission

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tothewaterhq · 6 years ago

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ACCEPTED // DAHLIA HORNBY

district twelve → tribute → lola flanery fc

pronouns: she/her strengths: agile, durable, tactical weaknesses: social skills, physical strength, maturity weapon of choice: hunting knives token: a few pages torn from her family survival guide (to be confiscated when she reaches the capitol)

tw: murder, tw: death, tw: guns, tw: language

did they volunteer? if so, why?: No

bio:

Marta and Eldon Hornby were two good people born in a bad world. When they met they knew that there were alike in so many ways. Both were orphans, both detested the capitol and both had people they knew reaped for the games on the same year. Eldon was a natural survivalist who spent his childhood trying to navigate poverty and looking after his younger brothers after his parents death. He’d always tried to teach his two younger brothers survival skills in case they were reaped for the games. His younger brother died before he reached the age of twelve. The elder was reaped when he was fifteen. He had never met Marta before. She had been alone most of her life. No siblings, no parents. Her best friend was her family. Her best friends name was called right afters Eldon’s brother. They both died in the bloodbath.

Eldon met Marta during the District Twelve stop of the victory tour they were both obliged to go to. He stopped her tossing a Molotov cocktail on the stage. They married a year later. It was as if tragedy had drawn them together. That and a burning hatred for the capitol. They bought a small shack of a house close to the fence. Together, they made plans. They wanted to escape panem, escape district twelve. To do that they needed money and security. Eldon started digging an escape hatch underneath the floor of their shack using tools borrowed from his mining profession. That took him around a year to get perfect. Then the pair of them started trying to track down other rebels through signals they’d leave on trees. They wasted another year on that. It took them three years to put together everything they needed to make there move. However the day before their escape, Marta discovered she was pregnant. So another nine months was added to the time frame. Enough time for them to have their daughter, Dahlia Hornby.

A baby was a new variable they had to take in to account before. They had never planned to bring a child into panem. Not whilst the games were still in place. They thought about hiding her. But that was no way to bring up a child. They thought about fleeing with her. However the risk was too great. So they stayed. Eldon raised his daughter the way he raised his brothers. It may not have helped them. However Dahlia would be prepared for both the games and escaping panem. Whichever came first.

Dahlia, or Lia to them (and only them) was a happy kid who loved both of her parents ‘to the moon and back’. That’s what her mother would say to her every night. She was also reminded every night that, soon they would ‘be in a better place.’ As soon became too long, Dahlia grew impatient. So her father upped her training routines. He even took her out in the woods occasionally to give her a taste of freedom. She was never allowed outside the shade of their house though. That’s something that frustrated her. Dahlia could start fires, tie knots, cook animals and do all sorts of things but waiting? That was a different story.

She was seven when she got the chance. Her parents were busy doing idle tasks. The floorboards guarding the passageway were up. What did the child do? She went outside. She started off slow but was quickly just running through the woods, distracted by all the places she’d never seen before. She heard running water splashing against some rocks in the distance. She was totally encaptivated by the sounds. She didn’t hear hushed voices moving towards her. Before she knew it her father grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth as they hid behind a tree, just in time for them to hide from view as a peacekeeper walked past. That’s what Jervis had heard. Marta joined them quickly as they moved silently into a nearby cave. They had no way of getting out without being seen or heard. As her mother cradled her head, Dahlia whispered,

‘I’m scared mama.’

Marta grabbed hold of her quickly, whispering words of comfort in her ear. The usually mantra about loving her to the moon and back. Neither Marta or Eldon knew what they were going to do, one thing for sure was, they weren’t letting Dahlia get captured.

The plan was for her to run back to the house as Marta ran in the opposite direction to distract the peacekeepers. Eldon would hide and find his way back to Dahlia later, who was instructed to hide until he got back. So she ran back in the direction she came. However Marta didn’t get to run. She tried. Before she knew it the peacekeepers had cornered her. Things were not going as planned, Eldon watched on as his wife was captured. He couldn’t let that happen, so he lunged for the peacekeepers.

As Dahlia sprinted back to her home, she was startled by two gunshots.

When she returned home she hid in the small cabinet under the sink for what felt like hours. It didn’t matter how long she waited, they didn’t return. She wasn’t brave enough to venture back out into the forest to look for her parents until two days later. She went prepared with a swiss army knife. She searched all day and woke up the next morning freezing in the forest. No matter how many times she came back without any more information, Dahlia continued to do this every morning. She lost track of time, not realising that an extended period had passed until her shoes grew too small for her feet. Then she ran out of food. She wasn’t sure about going to the market places, so she stuck to the forest. The first thing she found was a squirrel but the six year old didn’t know how to kill it. That was until she watched a spider pounce on a fly. Smothering it to death. It was better, a lot less bloody. Following the technique, she ate well for a while. Then winter hit and the small animals that she could actually catch disappeared.

Something strange happened during winter. Someone left a dead rabbit outside her house. Then another, then another. All winter the stranger left them for her. She caught a glimpse of them occasionally. Then they were gone again. When spring came back around Dahlia went back to the woods. Spring left the woods full of animals and she couldn’t help but watch them. She tried to emulate a squirrel by climbing up a tree, she copied a rabbit who drank from the stream. She even growled at a wolf. The animals were raising her in a way. At least someone was.

A year passed, Dahlia fell into bad habits. She didn’t wash, she didn’t wear shoes, she ate with her hands. Rumours spread in district twelve about an animal child living in the woods. It wasn’t until she started going to the market that she realised it was her. She was covered in dirt, looking like a wild animal. No one stopped her stealing things. Even the peacekeepers. Especially after she sunk her teeth into one of them when they came across her lifting an apple from a fruit stand.

‘They don’t pay me enough to deal with this feral little bitch!’

Expecting them to chase her, she ran back to her house. They didn’t come. Those words played over and over in her mind. Was she feral? She knew the word meant wild. And what about all those whispers she’d heard in town? The animal girl. The girl in the woods. She caught her reflection in some water. Suddenly, it all made sense.

The realisation that the animalistic behaviour was the reason no one had come to collect the parentless child got the wheels turning in Dahlia’s mind. She spent more time in the woods, crawling around like an animal. It was almost fun for her. She liked to test her luck in the district as well. See how many people she could fool. The answer was a lot. Then again, District twelve were preoccupied with something else at that time.

Katniss Everdeen they called her. She recognised her immediately; the woman that left rabbits outside for her. Suddenly she was engulfed by the hunger games. She was rooting for the girl on fire just like everyone else, sneaking out to the square to watch the live showings. She was destined to win — except she didn’t. In a fit of rage, Dahlia kicked her wall. Out fell a book with a note attached,

‘Dahlia, I hope I never have to give this to you. I hope that by the time you turn twelve we’ll be far away from this wretched place. I hope that we’ll all be safe. In a better life. If you’re reading this, that hasn’t happened yet.’ It didn’t take her long to recognise the phrasing and handwriting. It was from her father. ‘Today is your first reaping day. If all has gone well, your name is only in there once. Your mother and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ They got one thing right. She’d never taken tesserae. It wasn’t like the small girl needed that much food. The letter continued. ‘I hope I’m there reading this to you, but Panem is unpredictable. If not I’ll present it to you in writing. This gift, a book that’s been in my family for generations. The Hornby Survival Guide.’

The book was a collection of loose paper and sketched. There were a few dried up plant clippings. But it was the content that was of most interest. A compilation of survival tips. All the stuff her dad had never got to teach her.

With the book and the memories of Katniss, Dahlia found a new figure to emulate instead of the animals. She even braided her hair (to the best of her abilities) to look like Katniss. Whilst she didn’t have a bow, she threw a knife, that she’d stolen, around like it was an arrow. She climbed the trees like she did. Even slept in them a few times. Dahlia started practicing sneaking around. Her time in the woods became less about hunting and more about training. As she got older she got sneakier, just like Katniss.She taught herself to fight, albeit a tree that gave her a dozen splinters. That still counted in her mind though. Most importantly she studied the book cover to cover. She was going to be ready just in case she got reaped. Of course, she wouldn’t be reaped on her first reaping. So she had time.

Wrong. She went to her first reaping because she didn’t want someone showing up at her house and forcing her to go. wasn’t sure even her fake feral-ness could keep them away. She didn’t braid her hair or clean her face. She was wearing a moth eaten cardigan and skirt combination that didn’t go well with her fathers old boots. She didn’t look anything like the formal kids in the crowd. No one expected district twelve to have lavish clothes though. Like cattle she was hoarded in to the pens they put aside for the girls. Surrounding her were teenagers, all of a much larger height than she. Her mind didn’t know what was going on. All she knew was someone was calling her name. No one knew Dahlia’s name though. The slip of paper from the bowl hadn’t said ‘The Girl from the Woods’ If that had been the case people would’ve recognised her.

Dahlia’s first mistake was attending the reaping in the first place. Her second was trying to creep away. In hindsight, it made her look guilty. Before she knew it she was being dragged up to the stage. Staring out into the crowd of lucky faces who hadn’t been reaped. Then again, luck had never been Dahlia’s friend. As she was dragged on to the capitol train started to kick and scream. That’s what she planned to do right until her last breath. Give them hell. After all, the capitol had taken her mother, father and Katniss Everdeen. They weren’t taking her too.

PLAYED BY // JO

#dahlia #accepted

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