Chapter Text
We know
so perfectly
how to give birth
to the monsters
inside us,
but for reasons I
will never figure out,
we have not the slightest
clue of what to do
with all the
love.
-Christopher Poindexter
Peeta had imagined his death many times. A slit throat or an ax in the chest. Perhaps run through with a sword and thrown from a cliff. A warrior’s death, a man’s death, as was expected of him in his service to Sjorkden. Never did he think he’d pass bloodlessly and without a foe to fight. Yet here he was.
Drowning.
The frigid water wrapped around his body like a salt casing, waterlogging his shoes and pulling at the cloth of his uniform. He imagined clammy hands latching onto his limbs, dragging him down, down, down. In the harrowing moments before he ran out of air, Peeta watched soft orange light filter down to the inky black depths of the ocean floor. Below him gaped miles and miles of seawater, and he would be lost to it.
He prepared himself for what was to come, slowly counting down the seconds to when he would snort salt water into his lungs and end it. No use in prolonging the inevitable, though something lay like an air pocket in his stomach, lifting him to hope there was still time to change things. To save himself. To achieve something with the life he would have had if not for this stroke of bad luck.
Water pressed at his lips, an unwelcome guest. He was truly out of air now and the suffocating vacuum in his chest was enough to burst him apart from the inside out. The tips of his fingers began to tingle painfully, oxygen deprivation or the effects of cold, he couldn’t tell.
His last thoughts before he lost consciousness were of the countdown to drowning himself.
Three. Two.
And then nothing.
Peeta awoke to an embrace. Thin arms twined about his ribcage, hoisting him above the frothy crests of waves.
His people believed in Gratka, the valley of heaven, the holy place of worshippers, warriors, and the most pious of women. A divine world spun from light and cloud, flowing with rivers of honey wine and heavy with the scent of eternal orchards. Peeta was not sure if he had been worthy of Gratka, but surely the chasms of hell would have been hotter than this.
He jerked his head about, trying to get his bearings back. His lips dripped with saltwater and his lungs burned with every ragged inhale.
He and his companion were bobbing on the frigid waves. The sky wheeling above was full of black, ominous storm clouds and the ship, The Bloody Rose, was on fire.
He hadn’t meant to, but he must have let out a cry because suddenly the arms tightened around him and a pair of lips pressed against his ear.
“You can’t save them. Just help me swim.” Then a strangled grunt and a: “Gods, you’re heavy. What do they feed you? Horses?” The words were choked, spoken in the voice of someone who had swallowed too much seawater and was struggling against the current. She spoke in Krellian, a sharp language of hissing consonants and hard breaks, only punctuated by the occasional swooping vowel. He twisted to face her, his lip curling in disgust when he saw those flashing silver eyes.
The witch.
How had she gotten out of her cell?
Her eyes bulged in panic as he kicked away, ripping himself from the circle of her arms.
“No!” she screamed as she grabbed at him, but without her there to buoy him, his head quickly slipped beneath the waves once more. His arms felt sluggish and he realized with a paralyzing rush of cold that she had been keeping his blood warm with her magic.
He struggled to break the surface, coughing up a mouthful of seawater and thrashing about as he tried to find her once more in the dark. “Witch?” he sputtered, ashamed of the sharp edge of fear in his voice. They reached out for one another, barely holding on by their fingertips as a wave crashed overhead, but then it passed and they were righted once more. He didn’t try to get away this time, afraid of his dipping heart rate and the hazy rush of dizziness that quickly abated with her touch. He didn’t feel warm, but the numb ache in his limbs lessened. He pulled her to his chest, locking her body within his arms.
“We can make it to shore, but I need you to kick. I can’t swim and keep both our hearts beating.”
He blinked the water from his stinging eyes, already exhausted from treading water.
She pressed the back of her head into his shoulder in frustration. “Jųlaik, ” she begged.
Please.
He grunted in reply and then started swimming. In return, she kept their hearts beating despite the cold. They weren’t sure which way the shore was. For all they knew, Peeta could be bringing them further out to sea, but with every passing minute, the blazing ship they’d escaped from grew smaller and smaller until it collapsed in on itself, a charred heap dipping below the waves.
Not only had Peeta’s brothers in arms been on that ship, but Peeta’s future had been on that ship. Seventeen witches, four of which he had captured and that he could claim, all dead, except for one.
In his service as a witcher, he had brought forty-six witches to court and he had witnessed them all, his bounties, burn at the stake. The sweet stink of smoke and the way that charred flesh falls away from bone were all too familiar. This was his country’s way. This was justice. Four more would have won him his freedom, his manhood, his honor. Four more witches and he would have held the world in his palm like a flowering bud ready for plucking. All the blood and sweat and sleepless nights spent scouring the wastelands of countries far from home would have been worth it.
Hours passed. The storm clouds released their last torrents of icy rain and then cleared to reveal a bright purple smattering of stars above, carving their ancient celestial paths across the sky. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the sloshing of waves, the occasional whimper from her. Peeta’s legs felt as if they were going to fall off, both burning from the physical exertion and freezing in the arctic water. Nerves endings didn’t know what sensation to succumb to, retreating into numbness. He felt as if he were kicking around two wet logs.
The witch hadn’t spoken since the ship disappeared, but Peeta could tell by the sound of gnashing teeth that it was taking everything in her to keep them from freezing to death. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The witch and the witch hunter. Not a pair destined for groundbreaking teamwork.
So why had she saved him?
Dawn peeked over the horizon, pulling smoldering pinks and oranges upwards like the curtain on a theatre stage. Violet stars faded and the moon became a pale white ghost of its nighttime brilliance.
“There,” the witch whispered through chattering teeth, her voice weak with exhaustion. Peeta turned his head to see what she had gestured to.
A coastline with tall cliffs crusted in ice and snow, and there at the shore, a black stretch of beach. Peeta swam on against the surf, the waves pushing them back out as if the ocean wasn’t quite ready to let them go. Finally, Peeta touched bottom and they crawled to land, collapsing on the sand with water lapping at their ankles. The two were heaving and freezing and giddy with the fact that they were alive, against all odds they had survived, though the silent celebration didn’t last long. The air was bitter and their wet skin puckered beneath its needle-sharp caress. They needed to find shelter, and fast, or the witch’s magic wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive.
Movement was hard. Peeta’s body felt as stiff as a piece of plywood and each attempt to stand left him trembling under his own weight. He looked back at the witch lying prone in the sand. Her hair was a tangled mess and clung to her face in dark, wet clumps. He almost thought she wouldn’t make it, that she’d just stay collapsed and never get up again. But she managed to rise onto her hands and knees, and then slowly to her feet.
They didn’t talk as they climbed a narrow pass up the cliffside. The rock was black and smooth, flowing magma that had cooled, dotted here and there with the greenish-brown blooms of lichen. Perhaps the land had once been volcanic, but that must have been a very long time ago.
As they reached the top of the cliffside, they found themselves marooned in a land of winter. Sharp white mountains jutted up in the misty distance and the foothills that spread out before them were dotted with boulders and stretches of snow and the shrubby, paling vegetation that hinted at a short growing season. It was a harsh land where only the most adaptable species could survive, and Peeta knew if they didn’t find a cave or some sort of outcropping to huddle in soon, they’d be done for.
Luckily, they stumbled across a cluster of circular lodges at the top of the cliff. The witch, shuddering so violently Peeta almost thought she could be seizing, disappeared past the thick curtain that acted as a door, shuddered one final time, and then collapsed onto a pile of discarded furs.
Peeta limped inside and scanned the den. It had been constructed and then abandoned by whalers, though whaling expeditions were only undertaken in the spring. The walls were layers of tanned animal skin and were held up by thin ashwood beams running from floor to curved ceiling. They looked like the bones of a rib cage that had been bleached chalk-white in the sun. A thick column stood sentinel at the structure’s center so the roof wouldn’t sag and beneath it lay a small fire pit with a few half charred logs. The lodge was designed to house upwards of fifteen people, whalers with thick cloaks and packs full of food and supplies, but now just sheltered two shivering, salt-crusted water rats with nothing. The whole place smelled of wet fur and welcomed Peeta with open, shadowy arms.
“We should start a fire,” Peeta croaked, his throat ravaged by salt and exertion. He nudged the witch with the toe of his boot when she didn’t respond. “Are you dead?”
A part of him wanted her to be. He hated owing her for his life, a debt he knew he would have to repay before this horrible nightmare was over. But if the swim had killed her, he wouldn’t have felt a shred of guilt.
He circled her and saw that she was in fact very much alive. Her eyes were propped open, wide and glassy, as if she didn’t have eyelids, shot through with red where there should have been white. She was chanting he realized. Praying perhaps.
The intensity of her muttering scared him.
“Hey!” He kicked her shoulder and the witch’s eyes cleared. “Stop that, it’s freaking me out.”
She glared up at him. “Never interrupt me again.”
“Why?" he sneered. "So you can curse me? Blind me or make me impotent? Cast a horrible death upon me and all my descendants?” Witches were known for curses. Pregnant women whose unborn babes had offered strong kicks days before, born bright blue and as limp as dead worms. Men cursed to wander the forests in circles until they clawed out their own eyes and finally died of blood loss. Children swallowed up by thick mountain mists, never to be seen again. Entire stretches of farmland, even cities of stone, decimated. Death. Woe. Suffering. All at the hands of a wretched few.
“I have not cursed you. Your allegiance to a false God has done that.”
“And yet, here we are in the same predicament. Seems your gods have doomed you as well.”
This struck a nerve. Perhaps the same thought had been pressing on her mind because she narrowed her eyes and bunched her fists in the fur she lay atop of. “If I had the strength I would burn that blackened heart of yours right out of your chest.”
“Should I be worried about tomorrow then?”
“Very.” She rose to face him, hatred pouring forth from her eyes and twining about her head like a poisonous snake baring its fangs.
He met it with a hardened look of his own. “I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you’ for dragging you out of the ocean,” he said.
“And I’m waiting on a ‘thank you’ for keeping your tiny heart from shriveling up. Trust me, it was no easy task.”
He smiled coldly. “My, you have a big mouth for someone so small.”
“And you have a big head for someone with such little brains.”
He almost laughed, but they had been through a lot and Peeta was tired of arguing. He crossed to the fire pit and ignored the eyes boring into the back of his head.
“What? No response?” she goaded bitterly, but Peeta didn’t rise to her bait, focusing instead on starting a fire. After scraping two jagged rocks together, there was a spark. Thankfully the kindling was dry and after a few harsh blows and a prayer, Peeta was successful. The fire was delicious, like a tiny heart slowly beating life back into his frozen fingers.
He realized that this was the first time in weeks that he and the witch hadn’t been separated by iron bars.
As if in response to the shameful flush of heat that radiated through his body at the thought, he heard a muffled sound, like a bird’s wings rubbing together, and turned his head.
The witch’s dress was off, her body bared to him. Her small, rounded breasts and jutting hips shone like bronze in the soft light.
Peeta’s cheeks flamed, afraid that he had been caught staring. “What are you doing?” he sputtered as he moved to shield his eyes.
She turned to pick her dress up off the floor and shot a look over her shoulder. Her very bare shoulder. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to spend the night in a wet dress, do you?”
“But you’re naked!” He winced at how petulant he sounded, how very much like a child he still was in some ways.
She rolled her eyes at him, but he was too focused on avoiding the very sight of her that he didn’t notice. “You’ll get naked too if you have any sense. No use in wearing wet clothes when you can let them dry.”
“You’re perverted.”
“I’m being practical.” She twisted the seawater out of her dress and then snapped the damp fabric at his back. “Now strip.”
He had to admit, shucking off his wet uniform and wrapping his body in a pelt had made him feel much better, though he was careful to cover the flesh between his legs when he did.
“You’re blushing,” she laughed. The sound set Peeta’s nerves on edge. The witch lounged near the fire pit on a nest of pelts she had constructed, wrapped in a glossy black fur that reflected threads of reddish-gold in the firelight. As she sat, the weak glow of the flames cast her features into warm relief, deepening the shadows under her cheekbones and darkening her lashes. Her salt tangled hair was as ebony black as a night sky with no stars and her skin was flawless, the color of water beaten clay beds.
“Come here,” she beckoned.
Instead, Peeta took a step back. “I do not take orders from witches. Not even naked ones.”
“It’s like you don’t want to survive the night,” she scoffed. “See this?” Her furs shifted as she reached out a hand, allowing a sliver of her stomach to catch the light.
Peeta tried not to stare.
She pointed a finger towards the dwindling fire. “We barely have any wood left, and when the fire dies while we’re sleeping, the only thing keeping us warm will be each other. Now get over here. I don’t plan on freezing to death when I have a big lump of muscle to keep me toasty.”
She made a good point, but still, Peeta hesitated. What if this was just a trick? A lure to get him close enough so she could pounce and gouge his eyes out. Or maybe she’d wait to finish him off when he fell asleep, his beating heart ripped from his chest while he cradled her against him.
In the end, he decided there was little chance of them surviving out here with no food and only three measly logs to keep a fire going. If he was going to die, he’d rather die warm. Besides, having his heart ripped from his chest would be over faster than starvation.
He moved towards the nest, and only after he had discarded his pelt and shimmied under hers did she speak.
“Closer, lieutenant,” she urged in a singsong voice.
He growled in response.
“Seriously, you’re acting like a blushing schoolboy.”
“I do not wish to lay with a witch.”
“This is not laying. This is surviving. If you had any experience pleasuring a woman you’d know the difference.”
Peeta’s body stiffened behind her.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by it,” she chuckled meanly. “I thought the whole point of your pious Order was that you prided yourselves on being virgins. That and murderers.”
He ignored the word murderers. Only a witch would consider what the Order did murder. Everyone else considered it justice. Shearing the rot-riddled branches off the tree of existence. Magic was a disease, nobody should have that kind of power over another. It was unnatural and the world was better off absent of her kind, but he didn’t expect her to understand.
Monsters were always blind to their own evils.
So instead he addressed her derisive use of virgin. “We marry only when we’ve proven ourselves worthy to the Order.”
“Shouldn’t you only have to prove yourself to your wife?”
“A man does not have to prove himself to a woman. He simply has responsibility over her.”
“Is that what they teach you? How romantic.”
“Do not mock me, slum scum.”
“I think I like ‘witch’ better,” she quipped. She was infuriatingly quick-witted and Peeta seethed in silence, unsure that he could contend with such a sharp tongue.
“Whatever,” she said after the silence grew too long. “Just know that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I wanted to, I would never defile my body with the likes of you.”
“That’s reassuring,” he muttered.
Despite her declaration, the witch drew nearer. The goose flesh of her back felt clammy against his chest, but soon their body heat melded and all he felt was radiating warmth prickling against the chill that had settled in his bones.
“Why did you save me?” he asked lowly, unable to quiet his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to keep her talking so he wouldn’t have to close his eyes and picture Yasser’s bloated body lost at sea.
“Because you’re a human being,” she murmured, her voice saturated with drowsiness. “And because I knew if you survived I’d have someone to cuddle with at night.” Suddenly, and with a rustle of fur, she turned to face him. He scooted back. “Relax, lieutenant. This isn’t where I have my way with you. I just prefer to sleep with my back to the fire.”
“Are you always so lewd?” he asked, the disapproval in his voice as clear as a church bell ringing across a courtyard.
“If you knew me you’d know the answer to that is yes.”
“I do not wish to know you, witch.”
“Good. You don’t deserve to.”
With these terse versions of “good night” exchanged, they settled against one another, though Peeta was careful to avoid the brush of her breasts. She smelled of sea and sweat and the musk of fur, but something sweet lay underneath all that. Lavender milk. A chamomile bath. Medicinal salves. Jasmine blossoms suspended in freshwater. Long tumbles downhill.
The smells soothed him, until he remembered she’d been locked in the brig for a month and shouldn’t smell anything but horrible. A spell then. He was surprised. He thought Krellian magic involved blood rituals and sacrifices, not a spell in place of perfume, and he hadn't been aware that a Heartrender could cast spells other than those that ended in death.
Despite himself, his eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was of slinging an arm around her waist.