Snow's brief moment of hesitation quickly disappears. He bows slightly to me and extends his arm to me. There's a roll of disgust that slips through the crowd behind us. His suit, his bow, the red carpet… it's all an act. He tries to show he's in control. He's still accustomed to the luxuries and he commands power even in the one place he has none. If I take the arm, I cross a threshold. District 13 will be at my back and Snow will guide me towards his hovercraft. And Peeta. I fold my arm into his and he brings my hand up to his lips.

"I'm so glad you've chosen to accompany me," he says, "I daresay you'll find the fresh air a bit more comfortable than this hell hole." He turns me away from the set of a thousand eyes and we walk slowly up the red carpet. His stance is tall, his shoulders rolled back. There's the slow click-clack of his loafers as he walks. Ahead of us, I can just see a dining table where Snow's loyal servants are smoothing a crisp white tablecloth around a series of silver dishes. An Avox stands precociously on a chair as he tries to polish the years of caked on dust from the hanging chandelier. At the doorway, a man stands with his arms folded behind his back and his feet spread slightly apart. He straightens his collar and tugs at his cufflinks. The suit— which he appears to have outgrown—could have fed the Seam for a month.

A sudden fear rises in me. I'm underdressed. I'm walking into the one world where power and beauty can be seen as an advantaged and I'm dressed in fleece and linen pants with water shoved every which way up my bra and underwear.

"Not to worry," Snow presses his clammy palm on top of mine. "My servants are very open-minded. They will not judge you."

I concentrate on making my strut match Snow's. I imagine a string, pulling me to the ceiling and let my other hand drop lightly on my outer thigh. I feel my hips rock and my shoes begin to have a similar click-clack. I only hope I look regal enough. If I become cannon fodder for the servants, I'll never be able to gain the upper hand. A strong gate means power.

The walk is long. I spend a few moments imagining myself turning away and walking backwards towards the simpler life—the one where Gale and Haymitch took care of everything. I'm so lost in the thought that my foot catches on the stairs to the hovercraft. I feel the fleeting sensation of weightlessness before fingers tightly gripped my arm. Snow's fingernails dug so deeply into my skin that I could feel the wetness of blood brush against my shirt.

From behind me, I hear the click of various guns being raised. I glance behind me and am a little surprised to find a least four of them being pointed at Snow's head. All noise ceases. I could only hear the ragged breathing of the collective crowd and the controlled rise and fall of Snow's chest.

"Nothing to worry about friends," he calls to the guns. "Lower your weapons. Our Katniss just lost her footing, that's all. Please," he turns to address his assistant who had pulled out a long gun in front of him and pointed it in the direction of one of our generals, "Let's be civilized. No need for violence over a simple misstep."

His assistant nods and places the gun besides the door. He stands at attention, his eyes blazing holes into the army behind me. I do not have to turn around to know that they have not dropped their guns. Snow smiles and opens the hand that's not clutching my arm.

"Gentleman," he oozes, "Come now." He pulls me around to face the crowd, careful to make it seem like I'm doing it of my own accord. His fingers dig deeper and I have to concentrate on keeping my face collected. Tell them, his hand says. He twists his hand and I feel my skin split open. Or else, he adds.

"Drop them," I croak. I still find it hard to utter commands after these last few years. I've found it hard to find my strength at all. Within seconds, the army lowers the guns. The tension is still there, but their guns are place safely at their hips.

Snow's eyes narrow. His thick lips form a heavy rose. "Let's go," he urges. He drops my arm and cradles my hand once more.

When we cross the threshold, I'm careful to pick up my feet. No room for mistakes this time. Almost unceremoniously, the door slams behind me . . . and locks. No chance to change my mind. Trapped. Snow's assistant flutters behind me. He eases off Snow's jacket and places it next to the gun, mixing business with sick pleasure. The smell of roses burns my nose but I have trouble discerning whether that's because of the bouquets that surround me or the sticky smell that drips from the man besides me.

He comes for me and attempts to pry the fleece from me. I politely—then roughly—refuse, insisting that the hovercraft is too chilly for a girl that's been in the heat of the underground. I catch the look the assistant sends to Snow before the man snaps his fingers and leaves. An Avox, dressed in the starch white that I'd forgotten, motions us to a room down the hall. I finally realize how we're going to be spending the hour and a half it takes to tow the hovercraft away from District 13—a dinner.

The room is crisp and bright. There is a black tablecloth with red petals painstakingly laced into its hem, framing the golden plates. White napkins sit at their helm, folded into elaborate fans. Gold lace, gold platters and gold candlesticks litter the table as the glittering light from the chandelier bounce off their surface. One orb catches me in the eye and I take a step back, temporarily blinded by its opulence. When I open them again and regain my sense, I notice the two place cards—gold. My name, in loops I couldn't dream of creating, designates my place. I'm to sit at Snow's left hand. His name glares up at me with heavy, block letters. He's to sit at the head.

The Avox creeps Snow's chair back from the table. Snow carefully situates himself and allows the Avox to push him in. She takes the napkin and places it in his lap. Then she comes for me. I pull out my chair and plop down before she can reach me. The chair grates on the floorboards as I push myself in and I leave the napkin on the table. If it's one thing I've learned in the Games, it's that revolution is in the small things.

Snow says nothing of the matter. He waits. He swirls his wine and sniffs it with great anticipation. He processes the smell and looks to some distant object. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking of. How can he enjoy the delicacies of wine with all the things for which he's responsible? I silently hope that the wine turns into blood when he tastes it, but he seems to smile slightly when he brings it to his lips. I'm left thoroughly dissatisfied.

There's wine in front of me, but I don't touch it. I'm not the same person when I get that kind of stuff in my system and I need my wits about me. I reach for the water in front of me. When I sip it, it tastes like the Capitol. I'm brought back to the days I was forced to parade around Snow in his home and pretend like I had no care in the world. And then, I don't care to drink.

The Avox returns with two steaming plates. They teeter back and forth. She sets the larger one in front of Snow and the smaller one in front of me. She turns back to Snow and removes his cover. Steam rises from a whole roasted duck. The juice rolls down its breast and into the roasted vegetables that surround the bird. The duck could feed five people down in the district. Of course, Snow has no intention of sharing it with them. The Avox moves from the ducks, but not before I see her steal a longing look at its crisp skin. I never thought to ask what they eat. From the looks of her, I'm sure they're not fed well.

In another act of rebellion, I daringly rip the cover off of my plate. And I instantly regret it. Lamb and plum stew. The smell floods my nose. If it is possible to be repulsed and seduced at the same moment, this was my moment. My tastebuds erupt because they remember. My stomach rolls because it remembers. And my heart sinks because it remembers, it remembers Peeta's laugh. Because of all the things I ever ate in the Capitol, this was the thing I choose as my favorite: something as simple as lamb and plum stew.

"Your favorite, is it not?" Snow looks up from the roasted duck. He has stripped a bit of meat from the cadaver and holds it to his mouth. A bit of wine drips from the edge of his lips. "I wanted you to enjoy your meal," he says. He slips the fork in and mulls over what he chews. His eyes follow mine as they wave from the stew, to the candles, to his duck, to him. He smiles, "After all, it will be your last."

He's trying to get me agitated. He wants to see me squirm. He wants to know that he's gotten under my skin. And he has, but I've gotten under his as well. I saw the look when the soldiers refused to listen to him—only me. He's lost control outside the walls of his hovercraft. He's no longer all powerful—I'm just powerless against him.

"Yes," I say instead, "I enjoy it very much. Although this is missing something... the plums, they're not as juicy. They seem quite old, not as juicy as when I first had it. I wonder why." I look over the spoon, pretending I'm pondering all the possibly reasons. I know that my remark has hit home. District 11 is the agricultural district. They would be responsible for providing the Capitol with fresh goods, but obviously, District 11 is not under Snow's control.

"Do you really think you have a chance?" he asks. He has grown tired of delicately sawing the flesh from bone and instead, takes his fingers and rips the duck's leg from its body. The duck shakes a bit from the force, but settles back down onto its bed. I look a bit closer—the carrots are a dark orange and the squash looks mealy. I can't help but smile.

"Actually, I do. Maybe not for me, but I think Panem will be rid of you soon." The lamb stew slides down my throat. It's so hot that it claws at my insides. Or maybe, it's not the stew, but the topic we're currently discussing that makes my guts want to throw up. Being strong is hard, especially when you're facing the man that can see right through you.

"Don't count those chickens, yet girl. You forget, I will kill you. And then," he pauses to take a sip of that red, red wine, "And then what will the world do without its precious mockingjay?"

I shrug. To be honest, I haven't thought about it. I don't really care. My life these past years have consisted of one thing: getting Peeta back. Nothing else seems to matter. I'm still a little bitter they pulled me into it in the first place.

"They'll carry on with it, I guess. If you're trying to get the details of revolution, you won't get them from me. I don't know the plans. I didn't participate in the raids. In fact, I had no idea they were trying to capture your hovercraft until this morning. So, if that's what you planned this dinner for, I'm very sorry to disappoint."

"Katniss," he hums. He sets the wine glass down gently. I hear the subtle ding as the glass' edge hits his golden dinner plate. He dabs his mouth with his napkin and places it to the side. "I planned this dinner, because I want to make it very clear that this is your last. I have no intention of letting you two come back alive. Where you're going, there is no food—I've made sure of that. I want you to die the slow, humiliating death of starvation. Your followers need to know that you're not some immortal agent of redemption. You're just a girl. You can suffer and you can die. Just like everyone else." He picks up the fork and stabs a tomato. "And if the boy happens to die in the process, it would just be an added bonus."

No food. Those are the words that sink in the most. I hear him say he wants me dead and I hear him say that he doesn't want me to come back. I already knew those things and I've heard them before. But now, knowing that where I'm going won't give me any chance to keep myself alive, I become more scared than ever before. Most of all, I think of Peeta, broken and starving. Without food, I had no chance of keeping him alive.

"Eat up, Katniss. You'll need your energy." My fight leaves me. My image of Peeta burns itself into my mind. I have to eat. I'm his only hope. I pick up my spoon and, with no regard to table manners, shovel the stew in my mouth. I want to feel that full sensation I'd experienced so many times during the Victors' parade. I need protein. I try to eat more of the lamb than the broth. No need to fill my stomach on the food that can't help me. When I reach the end of the bowl, I look up.

Snow has completely inhaled the duck. Little is left besides bone and the neck—"I don't care for the taste of that meat," he says. The Avox comes back around and picks up our dishes.

I watch her pick the gold with a delicacy I couldn't manage if I try. She is able to balance them better now that there's only bones and not a duck in its entirety. Snow wipes the last of his dinner from his rosy lips and I'm still thinking about what I'm going to do without any chance for food. Food and water. From the very beginning, Haymitch drilled it into our heads. We would never survive without food and water.

"Tell the chef," Snow commands the Avox, "I think we're ready for dessert."

\\\\\\\

That night, I'm tucked tightly in a bed that's too big for my taste. It's been years since I slept alone and the size of this bed illuminates that fact. I try to wrap the blankets around me in an attempt to fool my body, but it already knows all my tricks. I'm alone. In a way, I've felt alone ever since I woke up in the bed of the last hovercraft I was on.

Snow dropped me off three hours ago with a full stomach and a promise—I would not be able to leave this room. Don't even try. He left a plain nightgown on the bedpost, but I was too paranoid that the bedroom was rigged with cameras. I left my clothes on. They smelled like home. I left the bags too. I was too nervous that I won't be able to put them back in the right spot.

Now, lying in the bed, I'm able to think about the road ahead. I have one goal: get Peeta out alive. He's been through too much. I tried to negotiate freedom over the banana bread pudding, but it was as if I was speaking another language, one that Snow had no interest in translating. He made it clear: Peeta was my responsibility. And without food, and possibly without water if we're in longer than we can make those bags last, I had no possibility of getting him out. I would starve with him. Together.

There are worse ways to die.

I reach across the bed, but my hand falls on cold sheets. I try to think about who I want to be there. My fleece smells like Gale, but Peeta creeps into my head. Gale's body weighs heavily on the other side. My hand pretends to trace his familiar curves. But there's the ache that I've been hiding underneath. The one that's never happy.

I need him.

I don't know how much longer the ride is going to be. Snow refused to tell me when I asked about it at dinner. I'm eager to get to Peeta. From what I saw on the TV, that broken frame is not the boy I left behind. His eyes were cold. His skin crawled with fear. Blood dripped from the bridge of his nose. When I close my eyes now, I see Peeta now. They shaved his head—Gale thinks his blonde hair was too iconic. They turned him from that strong baker's son and into a gaunt image of his former self.

They want him to look like a child, like a boy, Gale had said, Less of a threat that way.

What was I going to find? What if I can save him? What if I bring him back, but he's not the same? What if the Capitol really did break him? I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

What if he doesn't love me anymore?

The last thought grips me so hard I almost feel the lamb crawling back up. I don't think I can live without him. Even if he's different, even if he's broken, I'm just going to have to pick the pieces and put him back together again. I'll get some potion, some medicine. My mother would know, or maybe Prim. They've been in the Medical Ward for the past few years; they must have picked up some useful tips. They'll know what to do. I'll bring him back; I'll make them fix him. And if they can't, well we'll just deal with that when it comes to it.

I pull my arms in, pretend like someone else is hugging me and fall into a tentative sleep.

I only get in a few hours before the light in my room snaps on. The Avox slips into my room and stands at the foot of the bed. The slow hum that drove me to sleep is gone. I know what it means. The hovercraft's engines have shut off. It's time.

I try to look out the window, but all I see is black. Peeta is somewhere down there, so close to me. The hair on my body stands up at the thought. I haven't been so near to him in years.

I nod to the Avox and stand up. The action brings a rush of blood to my head. The room spins around and I put my hand to the bedpost to steady myself. I meant to think of a plan. I meant to look around the room for things to make a bow, or sneak down to the kitchen to find food to steal. Why, why in the hell did I fall asleep? I'm not ready. There's no time.

The Avox brings me to a round, completely white room. My eyes burn from the lights. Before I have time to adjust, she shuts the door and leaves me alone. I note the ladder in the middle of the room and the cut out circle beneath it. I'm going to be put on that. Under that hole, Peeta is waiting for me—whether it's to save him or kill him, I don't care. I just want him.

Snow enters the room with a middle-aged woman. Next to the woman in the white lab coat, Snow's crisp brown stripped shirt looks out of place. I know he's here to watch my final moments, have his final words. I know I should be scared. Every inch of my body is boiling. I want so bad to climb on that ladder, be frozen in place and lowered. The back of my mind is telling me I should be more concerned about the lack of food, Peeta's condition, the escape plan and oh yes, the dynamite. But he's so close, I can't think of anything else.

Snow picks up on my ache and laughs.

"Oh Katniss," he says, "You were always so consumed by these games." He approaches me with his arms wide open. "I'm so glad you're here." He pulls me into his embrace. I don't resist, I don't really care to. He's trying to throw me off. He wants me to regret my decision and muddle my mind. Little does he know, Peeta's the only thing I'm seeing clearly right now. "You're going to make great television. They will finally understand why the revolution can never be successful—the Capitol always wins. We're too powerful for a simple girl to stop." He is giddy with the thought of my death. I look at him and see a small child on Parcel day, not the leader of our nation. I could have killed him.

Could have. But didn't.

The doctor pulls a vial from the countertop. I know what she's doing, so I hold out my arm. I don't have the patience to care about Snow. Peeta is right under my feet. I flex my toes and bounce on my heels—all I can do to stop myself from gripping the ladder and forcing it to lower me down. She pierces my skin with the needle and I feel a quick pinch. The tracker's deposited in me. Now the cameras can find us... where ever we may be.

With nothing else left, I lift my head to look at Snow. He cannot keep me here. He gives me a nod and I spring towards the ladder. My hands grasp the rung so tightly I wouldn't have been able to move regardless of whether or not it froze me in place. My heart races at the thought of purpose again. I can barely feel it under the weight of Peeta. But Snow can.

He places his hand tentatively on top of my chest. Frozen in place, there's little I can do to resist his touch. It's ice cold and yet, it burns holes in my skin. I'm suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am. Without the power of my body, there's not much I can do to resist his touch. In the cruelest of ways, Snow grins. All of his teeth glitter in the light that bounces off the white walls. He slips his tongue over his puffy lips and traces, with long and frightening fingers, the length of my collar bone.

"You know, it's such a waste. A girl of your talents, your wit… I could make you great." He leans a bit closer and the stench of blood overwhelms me. "Come away with me Katniss. You could have your pick of men, your own castles." He makes small circles around my shoulder and rests his hand around the side of my neck. "Aren't you tired of all this?" His voice is low, sympathetic. "You're about to enter another game of death and you have no hope of escaping." He brings his face next to mine and cradles my cheek. With a slow smile, he hums, "I can stop this. I can take away all your pain and you and your mother and your sister… they could be safe again. I will even forgive you lover. I'll let Gale live. All you have to do," he pauses and runs his thumb against the salty trail of tears his words are leaving behind, "is let Peeta go."

There is an instant that I thought about giving in. Though I hate to admit it, his promises sound so sweet and I itch to accept it. It would be so easy—everything I wanted would be rolled into a happy ending. I could live safely. I could live like a normal person. And I want it. I want it so bad I can hardly see Snow, even though he's standing right in front of me with that horrible seductive look in his eyes. He sees it in my eyes. He knows he's got my attention. He holds out his hand and lowers it to wrap around mine.

No. The brief moment of illusion is shattered by Snow's claim of possession. I'm suddenly ashamed that I even thought of accepting the offer. He will never let me go. Even this deal would come with strings attached. The world would hate me for losing Peeta.

I've spent the last few years trying to cope without him when he was still alive. I know I can't survive without him on this Earth. He's the rock that grounds me. With Gale, there's passion. With Peeta, there's something lighter, but heavy and more complete. Peeta carries the weight of my heart. How could I ever have thought of leaving that for the rose with blood thorns that Snow's handing me?

I look away from him. Snow sighs and drops his hands.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," he says. He pulls something from his pocket. I'd forgotten. I had forgotten that besides Peeta, there's also the issue of the dynamite strapped to his chest. I had forgotten about the detonator that Snow is holding so delicately in his hands. "Tell him I say goodbye, will you, my dear? I did like him so." He leans towards me and brushes puffy lips against my quivering cheek. "I'll give you five minutes to say goodbye."

And he smiles as if I should be grateful. In a way, I am. Five minutes would be enough time to tell Peeta all the things I've been meaning to tell him. I could say goodbye in five minutes. I'm getting much better at saying goodbye.

"Good luck," Snow says as he retreats from the white room, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

The door slams behind him. From beneath me, that round door slides open. Even though I'm frozen to the ladder, my mind tells me to grip tighter. Below me, wind whipped sand against the ground. I can feel the grit digging into my skin. I welcome the feeling. The force is much better than Snow's soft hands on my body.

I find it hard to be patient as the ladder lowers me. Though its pitch black, I know Peeta's there. I feel the ladder hit the ground and instantly, I'm released from the rungs. I hear the hum of the hovercraft's engines kick on and from above me, I'm sure I can hear it fly away. I breathe a sigh of relief. I tilt my good ear—the one the Capitol didn't have to rebuild—to hear anything that can help me find him.

"Peeta?" I shout to the wind and hope it will carry my voice.

No response. The night is still aside from the occasional crack of distant thunder. I take a few steps around. He must be close. The Capitol would want that wonderful, bittersweet reunion before they blew us both to smithereens.

"Peeta!" I try again, more demanding this time, as if I was a mother about to reprimand her child for not responding to her call. The landscape—even in the dark—is clearly set out before me. I wrestle with the decision: if I walk around, I could find him or I could be walking further from where he's being held.

"Peeta!" Snow is probably watching with glee. I can hear the seconds ticking away, though I know it's probably just the frantic beat of my heart. Find him, it says. "Peeta," I respond.

What if I don't make it? Even though logic states otherwise, I have a sinking feeling that I'm miles away from him and the last image I will see of him is the explosion. A cry, strangled and mangled, escapes from me. I become frantic. I fan out my hands as if they're going to run into some clue that will lead me to him. Desperation leaks from my pores. I feel the sand mixing with my sweat to make a thick coat on the back of my neck. The thought is torture.

"Peeta," I cry. I choke on his name. I have so little time left to utter it. I strain to hear. The banging of my heart is so loud; it makes it hard to think straight. I'm losing him. I'm so close, but I can't even save him. The realization of my failure pulls me into the ground. The water I'd cleverly stashed mocks me as it churns my insides. I pull my knees towards myself. I'm trying to force myself up. I'm telling myself to stand and fight. I can't let Snow win. But my body refuses. Because in my mind, Peeta is already dead.

I give up. My tears mix with the sand. My throat seethes as I let Peeta's name escape one last time, "Peeta."

Then, from somewhere close by, I hear the crushed, disbelieving sound—"Katniss?"

A/N: Hello! You may have noticed my slight absence from this story. I blame it entirely on the fact that I've had horrible writer's block, I've watched the entire series of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and Katniss is a bitch (to write). Needless to say, we're getting along much better now and I have a direction for the story. The next chapter should be out much sooner than it took to write this one. On a different note, I left my books down at school so if you see something that's not in line with cannon that's why- please let me know so I can fix it! It's difficult when I can't cross reference. Finally, notice the title change. I had to do it because there was another Burning Embers out there. I think this fits anyway.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine except the story. The characters and major plot line belongs to S. Collins.