Chapter Text
I have made myself as comfortable as possible, which is to say not that comfortable at all; the ground is padded with autumn leaves, but it is still the ground and a tree root pushes uncomfortably into my back.
When they find me, I’m never going to live this down. Haymitch will laugh loud and long and poke me about either severely spraining or breaking my right ankle – I haven’t had the courage to remove my boot – and twisting my other knee while walking. Peeta will no doubt sigh and shake his head as he takes care of me and at some point in the future give me a sly jab about tripping over a root and tumbling down a hill no higher than a train car.
Angrily, I glare at the small incline I tumbled down several hours before. I can clearly see the path of displaced leaves and smeared earth my body made on its ignoble trip down to an end that led to my broken ankle. I’m not sure how I twisted my knee; sometime down the fall, before my ankle.
Never, not even under methods that the Capitol would have used, will I admit I stumbled because I was watching a squirrel and her two babies play in the tree tops without even taking aim. Luckily, my bow seems unbroken, though the same cannot be said for several of my arrows.
In the four years since the fall of the Capitol, I have settled in to a good life. I no longer *need* to hunt, but I *need* the forest, the peace of it, the practice of pulling my bow and shooting an arrow true.
I stay far away from the grave that is now a meadow. I don’t go to the cabin either.
Instead, I find new places, places that I rarely went before because the game was scarce or it was too close the east entrance of the mine. But the mines are closed now, and animals sense death and stay far away from my old hunting grounds.
It is not quite winter, so while there is no snow on the ground, there is a bite in the air. As my ankle and knee throb in time with my heartbeat, I almost wish it were winter so that I could pack the snow around my aching joints.
The tree has a natural dip, and I have made myself as comfortable as possible, shielding myself from the wind, using dry leaves as both padding between myself and the hard ground and insulation from the cold. Still, a tree and forest floor are far from the comfort of a bed or padded chair to which I’ve become used to over the years. I admit that I’ve started to become soft, to let this reality become the dominant one and not that of my childhood. Or worse, the fatal opulence of the Capitol.
The sun is getting low on the horizon and I wonder how long it’ll before Peeta starts to worry. If he’ll start to worry. It has been a long time since I have spent the night in the forest, but it’s not an unprecedented event and I’ve been restless in recent weeks. Still, it’s been months since I’ve stayed out after dark without warning him, years since I’ve spent the night.
And never since starting this new life have I been away more than a few hours without letting him know. A shiver wracks my body and I stifle a small moan of pain as my knee and ankle are jarred. The shivering will only become worse and I wonder how I’ll stand the agony. But worse, far worse will be when the shivers stop altogether. I have no way of building a fire which would both give me warmth and signal my location; even if I could get the damp twigs to light, the way the wind is kicking up the dry leaves brings images of forest fires. Fire is one of the many things that still makes me uneasy, especially an uncontrolled one.
To the west I hear a faint sound and strain to hear if it’s a rescue party or an animal.
Or worse, one of the crazy, half-wild nomads who have left civilization and live on the fringes of Districts 11 and 12.
There’s more movement, closer now, a bit of a stumbling step and the tail end of a slurred curse, but the wind takes a voice that is too low for me to make out who it is. I hope it’s not one of the crazies; there have been whisperings of missing chickens and stolen clothes from those who live on the outer edges, but no ready suspect. And it’s easier to blame the imaginary monster in the woods than one’s neighbors.
Still, those whispers seem to be growing every day and a group of new police have shown up; part of a squad dedicated to making our towns – we’re supposed to call where we live towns now, but no one does; I still say I live in District 12, that Beetee still lives in District 3, the Capitol is still the place of wonder and horror – safer, to find those raiding our homes and give them a choice: stop and accept re-training; go far, far away and lead their own lives, or be incarcerated.
Most end up disappearing. I can’t decided if they have in fact gone to live in their own small patch of isolation or if there is a new place that no one talks of where those who do not fit into this new society get sent.
“Dammit! Why is it always me that has to look for her?” growls a voice from somewhere not far from where I took my tumble.
It is a voice I would recognize in the deepest of comas, in the throes of madness.
“Because you are the only one ornery enough to put up with me,” I answer Haymitch’s question.
“Of course, I’m the one to find her,” he mutters. “Where the hell are you?”
“Keep walking in the direction you’ve been going,” I tell him. Then think to add, “Watch out for the small hill.” The last thing I need is Haymitch tumbling down and landing on me in a drunken heap.
“Now, what are you doing down there?” Haymitch asks, sounding surprisingly sober. Or, more sober than I’ve heard him in months.
“I thought it was a nice place for a tea party so sat down and waited for others to join me,” I tell him sarcastically.
Straightening up, Haymitch takes in the short drop, the disturbed forest ground and the awkward way I’m sitting.
“You fell?” His tone is both incredulous and highly amused. “Down this?” He makes a broad sweeping gesture that has him swaying ever so slightly and has me worried again about him toppling down on me. “You fell, down this?”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t slide down for my health,” I grit out. Maybe spending the night out here wouldn’t have been so bad.
“How did you manage it?”
“I tripped,” I say to him belligerently. There is no torture or bribe compelling enough for me to tell him – or anyone – more than that.
“And just what was it that made you trip, sweetheart?”
I remain silent.
Belying his normal intoxicated state, he slides down the hill and manages, just barely, to stay upright. With a wide grin plastered on his face, he squats down next to me.
“Now, just what have you managed to do to yourself this time?”
“My right ankle is badly sprained, maybe broken, and I’ve wrenched my left knee.” I list off my injuries matter-of-factly.
As he hasn’t called out for anyone to join him and I don’t see any kind of communication device, I’m guessing he’s going to have to haul me out of here and that won’t be pleasant.
The grin leaves his face for an instant and he runs his hands through his hair; then, like a switch has been flipped, he grins mockingly at me. “Looks like I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”
“We should probably make a brace for my knee.”
Nodding, Haymitch scans the area looking for an appropriate branch. There’s an evergreen not that far away, and he walks over and slips out a wicked looking knife from a holster around his calf. I wonder how long he’s worn it for as I’ve never seen it before. He still sleeps with a knife clutched in his hand.
With a couple of hacks, the branch is separated from the tree and Haymitch is making his way back to me.
“Here.” He hands me a flask from his chest pocket. “Drink enough to dull the pain, but not enough that you won’t be able to hang on.”
Unscrewing the cap, I take a couple of long swallows, trying my best not to shudder as the white alcohol burns its way down my throat and roils around in my stomach. It’s been years since I’ve had anything stronger than the wine that Peeta and I sometimes get for special occasions and I’ve forgotten how vile-tasting Haymitch’s poison of choice is.
Silently, I undo my belt and offer it to him to use as binding for the splint.
“Don’t bother with my ankle; my boot will work better than anything you could do,” I tell him as I brace myself for some jostling; Haymitch isn’t exactly known for his bedside manner or his doctoring skills.
“Says the girl who fell down a five-foot hill and busted herself up. What do you think your adoring fans would say if they could see you now?”
“A lot less than you!”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he mumbles and goes to work efficiently immobilizing my left leg. From what I can see, his hands are steady, but he keeps licking his lips and there’s a tightness around his eyes.
Not for the first time, I wonder how he reacted when I got injured during the games.
For all that Haymitch and I have butted heads, we understand each other in a way no one else does. That understanding is not a comfortable thing, but we have learned to live with it over the years. Also, we’ve had Peeta to smooth out many of the rough edges and sharp corners that we would no doubt of ripped each other to shreds with otherwise.
While Haymitch is gentle enough, I still find myself biting back a gasp as he fastens the top of the two branches to my leg.
“Where’s Peeta?” I ask suddenly, trying to get my mind off my knee which has started throbbing as if wants to explode.
“He went with a couple others to go check out the cabin and surrounding areas,” he tells me as he buckles the bottom sections of wood.
“All the way out there?” I ask, bewildered. Peeta knows I don’t like the cabin and the memories it holds.
“I told him you weren’t there, but he seemed set on a course, and I figured it was better to let him go than waste time arguing.”
It hits me that he said ‘others’.
“How many people know I’m missing?” More importantly, how many people will learn of this ignoble tumble the girl who was on fire took. A girl lauded for her grace and hunting skills. It is a good thing most people stay away from me and that there is no media allowed to approach me without first clearing it through the government.
“I’d say about two dozen or so are out in the woods looking. If there’s no word by sunset, it’ll be more than that.”
“How many more?”
“Enough,” Haymitch tells me shortly, taking back his flask. As though talking of Peeta and the untold ‘others’ reminds him, Haymitch pats his pockets and finally fishes into the left pocket of his coat and pulls out a small communication device. It is similar to the ones I wore when pretending to be the Mockingjay.
It’s been years since I’ve seen one this close – police, soldiers, and many officials wear them, but as I stay as far away from them as possible. Even when I’m near enough to see details, I tend to look at just about anyone else than those people who remind me of the horrors of the past.
“Hey,” Haymitch says into the air. “I’ve found her.” He pauses to listen to whomever is speaking. “Banged up some: a cut on her neck, but it stopped bleeding before I showed up.”
Really? And suddenly, I feel the dull trail of fire graze that starts under my left ear and goes to my chin. “Thanks,” I mutter. Just what I needed: another spot of pain to focus on.
“Her hands are beat to shit, but nothing that hasn’t happened a dozen times before; should heal up quickly.”
I look down at my hands, they don’t seem that bad; just dirty, and bruised some. The cut on my right palm is more of a graze than anything else, but I know it’ll burn like fire when it comes time to pour antiseptic on it.
“I’m going to have to carry her out,” Haymitch says quickly, his words running and slurring together. “I’d need to be much drunker. No, it’s her right ankle and left knee. I haven’t looked too closely at either, but I trust her when she says she can’t walk on them. I know.” There’s another long pause.”Look, just have a doctor waiting for us at your place when we get back.”
It’s then that I realize that he’s talking to Peeta and I want to snatch the communication device away from him. Whether it’s to talk to Peeta myself, or get Haymitch to stop listing my injuries, I’m not sure. Or maybe it’s just the thought of the doctor waiting at the end of this to poke and prod me. I’ve had enough of doctors to last me ten lifetimes.
“I don’t need a doctor,” I say loud enough for Peeta to hear as well. I’m not sure what Peeta’s answer is, but Haymitch rolls his eyes at me.
“Oh, she’s her usual charming self. It’s too bad that the doctor won’t be able to do anything about her sunny disposition,” Haymitch says, grinning sourly at me as he speaks.
“Like you’re one to talk,” I shoot back, crossing my arms and glaring at him. I force myself to ignore the throb of pain in my hands and hold the pose until he gets distracted by whatever Peeta is saying.
“No, by the time you get here, it’ll be full dark, so I might as well start heading back to town now.” The look he gives me is half sympathy, half defiance. “If you can meet me midway, that’d help. You might want to bring a stretcher and some painkillers.”
Great, just great. I wonder how many people are going to witness this newest disaster I’ve brought upon myself. You’d think I’d be used to it by now; it’s not like most of Panem hasn’t seen me at my lowest, but still, I thought my days of being paraded as a broken girl were over.
I wonder if this latest incident will mean more empty phone calls with Dr. Aurelius. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to him, but I have little doubt that those who monitor me from a distance will note down what’s happened today.
“All right, how do you want to do this?” Haymitch asks and I realize that I’ve missed the end of his conversation with Peeta.
“Call a hovercraft to come and pick me up,” I tell him.
“Sure, I’ll just get on line to the captain of my fleet of hovercrafts that I keep behind my house,” Haymitch says sarcastically. “Get real, sweetheart. I’m your only way out of here unless you want me to leave you behind and go get a couple of other volunteers to carry the Mockingjay out on a stretcher in the dead of night.”
I glare at him, hating the truth of his words. I still can’t bear for most people to touch me, for them to look at me. I’ve grown to Haymitch’s accustomed pensive stares and to crave Peeta’s touch, and I can even tolerate Greasy Sae’s pats and her granddaughter’s hugs, but other people still make me tense and suppress the urge to hit. To kill.
“Look, we don’t have all day,” Haymitch cuts in impatiently. “I want to get home before it’s completely dark.”
“Might as well toss me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes,” I tell him. It’s the only way I can figure he can carry me without putting an unbearable amount of pressure on my knee.
He takes a long pull from the flask before offering it to me again. Wordlessly, I take it from him and finish off the last couple of swallows of the white liquor before handing the empty flask back to him.
“Up and at ‘em, sweetheart.” Haymitch offers me his hand and hauls me to standing position. It takes all I have not to cry out. As it is, I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.
“Get on with it,” I tell him, not wanting to disgrace myself by ending up in a heap at his feet.
With a grunt and a dizzying amount of pain, the world lurches and I’m staring at Haymitch’s backside. His pants have an odd green stain by his left hip.
“You’ve put on weight,” he complains as he begins scrambling up the small hill.
I don’t answer because he slips and my right foot slams against a tree; white-hot pain sears through me and I can’t help the whimper that escapes my lips.
In grim silence, we make our way towards home.