Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Trilogy. It is the property of Suzanne Collins.

Warning: this story is rated mature for adult themes, language, and sexual content.

This was originally a submission to Prompts in Panem, Round 3, Day 2. It's now cleaned up and fleshed out a bit. The prompt was the masterpiece, "Les Amants" by Rene Magritte. The cover picture for this story is a public domain image inspired by Magritte's famous painting. The original painting can be found by searching 'Les Amants, Magritte.' I highly recommend viewing it.

This story is dedicated to allies-person. She gave me my first-ever review when this was put up on PiP. Her encouraging words meant a lot to me, and when I found out the revision was posted on her birthday, I knew this story had to be hers, if she wanted it.

Behind the Veil, Beneath the Shroud

Chapter One: Jabberjay Lovebirds

It's funny how, in a world without freedom, there are more choices than you expect, sometimes more than you want. A year ago, I would have sworn there were only two outcomes to the Hunger Games: you live or you die.

As it turns out, part of the winner dies in the arena. And those that die take on new life in the victor's psyche, lurking in the unconscious, reenacting horrors and fueling endless recriminations nightly.

I would have said that only one tribute was allowed to survive. The truth is, if the Capitol viewers find you particularly stimulating, two can go home.

And I would have claimed that should you happen to make it out of the arena, you are allowed to return home and reclaim some imitation of a life, when not mentoring.

Apparently, this is not the case, if the audience really loves you. Then they want you to marry your unexpected co-victor, and they want you to live in the Capitol so they can obsessively monitor your every move.

And here I am. Living a half-life I often wish I'd lost, wed to a boy who probably shouldn't have made it out of the arena, stuck in a city that shouldn't deny victors their district return.

Prim is safe. That's what I have to focus on. The repetition of those three words gets me through every day of my life. We convinced Snow. The 'star-crossed lovers' act quelled the hot-blooded districts on the Victory Tour, sparing my family from his wrath.

Saving Prim makes my current circumstances worthwhile, but it can be hard to continually endure life in the Capitol without being able to see her. We have next to no communication with our families. My friendship with Gale is a thing of the past, abandoned for his own protection. I am essentially trapped here, and any contact between us would be hollow and forced with all that must remain unsaid. The Capitol has all but erased the life I had, and almost everyone who was in it.

I'd be all alone here, were it not for Peeta.

His affection and attentiveness can get annoying. Sometimes he is the only thing that makes being here bearable.

We have an odd relationship. We're married, but only by necessity. Snow demanded a lavish Capitol wedding upon our return from the Victory Tour. Our families really had no choice but to comply. I know that for Peeta, loving and cherishing his spouse weren't just words he parroted back to the wedding official, like me. He meant them. I'm no better than a jabberjay, reciting phrases for the Capitol's benefit.

The best I can do is uphold the rest of my vows, being faithful and honoring my partner as best I can. I won't give him children, but we do share a marital bed and I reciprocate as much physical affection as I can manage. He is my companion and friend, probably the person I trust most these days. Lately, he's been growing on me.

So when he returns to our revoltingly sumptuous penthouse suite, face white as flour, I run to him, panicked. I've had too much terrible news in my short life to assume anything but the worst.

I grab a controller from a small table in the entryway and turn on some mood music, moving the volume to its maximum setting with the drag of a finger so we can speak freely. Without fear of being overheard.

He slumps to the ground, holding my hands in his. I follow him down, crouching on my knees. We're still in the foyer, which has been designed to look like the opening of a cave. The entrance to our apartment is supposed to reference the beginning of our 'romance.' I hate it. That cave had been the one place I felt safe with Peeta during the Games, and the insipid interior designer hired by Snow had to pervert it into a tacky tribute to us. The entire suite has been featured on dozens of decor-themed shows.

"Peeta, what is it?" I say softly, trying to maintain calm in the face of his obvious distress.

A low, despairing moan wrests its way from his throat. "Katniss, I- I don't even know how to tell you." His eyes well up as they meet mine. "This isn't enough for them any more, us in our love nest, being their perfect little couple."

Oh no.

"I talked to Finnick. He's...heard things."

Peeta is so upset he's visibly struggling to get his next words out. "They're- they're going to sell-"

But he can't finish, breaking down with a heartbroken, defeated sob. I stare at nothing, numb and contemplative. Honestly, I'm not entirely surprised. Peeta and I became friendly with Finnick, another victor living in the Capitol, leading up to our wedding. Once we figured out exactly why he was made to stay, I had acknowledged the very real possibility of our being used for the same purpose. I'd been surprised they hadn't devised a way to capitalize off our wedding night. I guess it was finally happening.

Besides the death of one of my few loved ones, losing my autonomy to become Snow's puppet was the worst thing I could imagine. But I was a victor who lived constantly under the president's watchful eyes. My free will had been forfeit for some time. I was experienced in living a life with varying degrees of subjugation and horror.

"Maybe we'll be...sold together." I felt dirty just saying it, but had to finish my thought. "If you're there with me, I think I could get through it."

Peeta looks more broken and hopeless than ever. He's silent for a long time, but I know he's working up to a response. "It's not the both of us they want." His eyes settle on his left leg in explanation. "Only you."

Apparently, in the Capitol, body modifications are desirable only when completely unnecessary. Despair and relief surge within me. Peeta has been saved. I've always blamed myself for the loss of his leg, but it's his missing limb that will keep him whole and safe.

But now I'm in this alone. I don't want to be selfish. I'm beyond relieved that he's gotten out of this, but we've always faced the Capitol's horrors side by side. That is the one thing I have learned to count on. Peeta slides his hand up my cheek and into the wispy hair at my temple, gently drawing my face closer, before he leans his forehead against mine. "I'm so sorry," he rasps.

He has nothing to apologize for. The fault does not lie with the sweet baker's son turned Capitol puppet. Peeta can't save me from this. As grateful as I am that he won't have to endure it with me, I still feel abandoned. I pull my hands from his and turn to the side.

When he tries to reach for me again a moment later, I shrink away. I have no words for anyone, and I can sense myself withdrawing further. Eventually, Peeta takes the hint and gives me space.

...

We drift past each other like spirits for the next few days, neither of us really there, just a poor imitation of life, remnants of people who once existed.

Peeta doesn't seem to know how to talk to me anymore, even though words have always been his medium. He couldn't suffer through this with me even if he wanted to, and I can't muster up the energy to do anything in my free time but huddle under the covers or in closets, anywhere dark enough to shut the world out. The few times I emerge from my latest hiding place to nibble the food he's left for me, Peeta is always staring out at nothing contemplatively.

I know he's trying to think of a way out, but I have no illusions. If there was one, someone would have found it by now. At night, he lies beside me and I can practically hear his mind racing through possibilities. I want to comfort him, put him at ease, but I can't bear to let him touch me. Physical intimacy was one of the few things I enjoyed in our Capitol-crafted lives, but that has been tainted beyond salvaging now by Snow's plans.

Eventually, Peeta coaxes me back to the land of the living. I think he misses me, because he makes my favorite meal, lamb stew, and bakes me cheese buns. While he could obtain the meal in a matter of seconds with our instant meal creator, the likes of which I'd first seen in my room at the Training Center, he's spent hours in the kitchen preparing the food.

Peeta refuses to use the device. He says he doesn't want to forget the effort requisite to real living, that the easy existence in the Capitol is a lie. Everything has its price, and once we forget that, we become like them, he says. Cooking is a connection to his old life and for him, only a meal worth the effort of making is worth eating. I admire Peeta for his principles and his restraint. I agree with him in theory, but we both have a different relationship with food.

When I'm reminded of hollow days, he doesn't judge me when he walks into a room littered with half-eaten prepared dishes, both simple and extravagant. Instead, he sits by me and soothes me as I burrow into his embrace in shame, and talk about how much I miss being with Prim in Twelve, even with the ever present hunger, or how I miss providing food from the woods to the people I cared for. He wraps everything up so it won't go to waste, and if he notices that there are always more bread-centric dishes than anything else, he doesn't say anything.

When I shuffle into the dining room in my week-old clothes, he looks a wreck, but hopeful at the sight of me. Dinner is spent in silence, but somehow it's not as distant. I make it halfway through the meal before getting caught up staring at a butter knife in my hand. I'm almost contemplating protesting Snow's cavalier use of my body. Is death preferable to what awaits me? I have faced death, and even embraced it on my own terms. I'm no stranger to attempted suicide, as the 74th's finale attests.

The only reason I'm not seriously considering it is Prim. I still have to protect her. To do that, I need to be alive and obedient – not rebellious in death. Snow would undoubtedly retaliate. And Peeta, what of him? Would he be able to carry on without me? I try to tell myself he would, but I can too easily imagine him falling apart or becoming too reckless in his dealings with the Capitol as a form of self-destruction. They would punish him. Terribly.

I'm broken from my reverie as Peeta's large fingers, warm against my cooler digits, gently pry the dull knife from my hands. He carefully places it on the table, then brings his palms up to cup my jaw line, raising my face to his. There is panic and fear in his eyes, and I know he can read the consideration on my face.

"Would you Katniss?" He whispers desolately. "If you could, would you?"

I stare back at him silently, bleakly, unable to give him any answer but the one he fears. He drops to his knees at the side of my chair, leaning down to throw his arms around my midsection and bury his face in the fabric of my clothes. I cradle his head with my arms and drag my fingers through his mop of curls as we sit there for endless moments.

...

We've been spared mentoring this year, and I don't know if it's because the Capitol still considers us to be in a sort of honeymoon stage, or if they just want access to us at all times. If we mentored, we'd be expected to be in Twelve for the Reaping, on the train with the tributes, and at the Game Headquarters each day, only emerging at night to get sponsors at these parties. Whatever the reason, I was grateful until we heard of Snow's upcoming use for me.

Finnick mentors, even though he spends most of his time in the Capitol, but I get the impression that there are few suitable candidates in Four. Twelve still has Haymitch, and with our victory in the 74th Games, he's seen as a capable, successful mentor. Funny, considering the state Peeta, Effie and I saw him in on that train ride to the Capitol not so long ago. The star-crossed lovers are expected to make an appearance tonight though, and I'm not supposed to have any inkling of my future...debut. Finnick surmises that it will be after this year's Victory Tour, when those in the Capitol start searching for diversions until the next Games.

Instead of rallying around me and staying by my side, Peeta throws himself into socializing, flitting from acquaintance to acquaintance at every function we attend. I try to be understanding, but I honestly feel betrayed. He knows I despise Capitol crowds and their phony small-talk. There's only so much time left before I'm turned into a piece of entertainment. I feel like I won't be able to relate to anyone soon, and Peeta's just wasting the little time we have.

As we laid in bed the night he made my stew, he swore an oath in harsh, hushed tones to find a way to get me out of this. I told him that he was in denial and would only be grasping at straws. He can't accept the truth of what's happening, so he's putting all his energy and efforts into pipe dreams. I've been avoiding him in our suite out of irritation that he can't face the truth, but I guess I still hoped he'd reach out to me, as my boy with the bread always has during the hardest moments of my life.

I think his abandonment at this party is bad until he actually starts dragging people over to meet me.

"Katniss, you remember Eugenia, from my prep team? She's worked wonders on this year's male tribute from Twelve."

I tamp down on my lips, successfully preventing a full-fledged scowl, and the twitch of my mouth is taken as an affirmative.

"I just had to show you her exquisite bone structure." Exquisite is one word for it. Another would be repugnant. She obviously had extensive cosmetic grafting, as the bones beneath the skin on her face, back and limbs bulge out in a way meant to resemble the carapace of an insect or the crustaceans I've sampled at some of these parties.

Eugenia fawns at Peeta's flattery. I try to muster a half-hearted smile of appreciation, but I think I fail.

"Her sister was going to have a procedure done to match, but it didn't take," Peeta adds. Eugenia glances at him, surprised. Peeta's banter is usually upbeat and complimentary. For many, he's the sort of person they trust instantly, and people open up to him because of it. I've never seen him use information clearly imparted in confidence in a public conversation before. I'm a little surprised as well; it's unlike him.

"I'm so sorry" I murmur, wondering exactly what the phrase "didn't take" entailed. Eugenia's obviously recovered from Peeta's revelation, because I can see the excitement in her eyes at the prospect of talking to the Girl on Fire.

"Thank you! She's all right now. It's hard for her, with the sequestration, but it's for the best. They've been talking about moving her to an outlier, where she can find meaningful work and assimilate to her new life."

She rolls her eyes as she continues. "The idea of living with district natives terrifies her, but I'm sure she'll manage. I told her you two were great, and you're from the most uncultured district of all!"

My next imitation of a smile is more snarl than anything, and Eugenia luckily moves on. I raise my eyebrow at Peeta, still too angry and hurt to actually say anything to him. "I'll talk to you later" he mumbles in response, and sinks back into the crowd.

By the end of the night, I'm fuming. He never reappeared to let me in on his interest in my meeting Eugenia, and he spent the rest of the night hanging on Johanna Mason's every word, a fact she was only too pleased to flaunt in front of half the room. The District Seven mentor has taken a liking to my husband, and I can't imagine a stranger combination of personalities if I tried. Not even Peeta and I, and I'll readily admit our dispositions may not look compatible at first glance.

But they are. So much so that I often wonder to what extent my feelings for Peeta have blossomed. Every time I manage to uncover them, they've burrowed deeper than I expected and entwined themselves further around him than I had imagined possible. Which may have something to do with how uncomfortable it makes me to see him spending time with another petite, dark-haired, abrasive female.

When we finally start home I'm more than anxious to go. The party was celebrating the completion of this year's Games, and since it's a Quell year, the festivities are an all-out bacchanalia. It makes me uncomfortable to be around the past victors in town for mentoring. I get the impression that some of them believe that by 'electing' to stay in the Capitol, Peeta and I are condoning its practices. How could they assume we have a choice?

The only way we can escape the party is by waiting long enough for many of the attendees to get sloppily drunk, then pretending Peeta's imbibed far too much and needs to go home and sleep it off. He's getting a reputation as a lush, but we both think it's well worth it. My acting isn't good enough to feign poor coordination or drunken gregariousness by any stretch, and I'd certainly never let my guard down enough to actually imbibe here.

But Peeta's a natural actor. He just lays his flattery and good humor on thick and everyone eats it up. People here are still in awe of me for whatever misguided reason, but they genuinely love him. They'll roll their eyes and make a Haymitch joke, give Peeta a slap on his back, then send us their tried-and-true hangover cures via Avox messenger the next day.

Tonight though, we've left later than we normally would, and I know it's because Peeta was in the company of Johanna. When we get home, he tries to help me out of my coat, but I angrily shrug him off and stalk to our room, leaving him holding my outerwear in the ridiculous foyer.

I just want to shower and sleep, but after several contortions of my arms, I realize I can't remove Cinna's latest concoction by myself. We refuse to have an Avox slave for obvious reasons, ones that would seem ridiculous to most others in this city, so I have to wait for Peeta. I feel like a fool, but to his credit, when Peeta joins me he helps unfasten my dress wordlessly.

After my shower, I crawl into bed on my side, relishing the smooth cool sheets against my warmed skin. After days of unwashed listlessness, then being caked in makeup and beauty products for the party, cleanliness is soothing. Peeta, who has kept his distance lately, sidles up to me before I can move away.

"Sing me a lullaby."

I furrow my brow. As much as Peeta purportedly loves my voice, he's never asked, let alone ordered, that I sing. Before I can form a reply, he repeats himself.

"Sing me a lullaby." Normally, I'd refuse simply on the grounds that it was commanded of me, not requested, but there is an urgency in his voice that is perplexing. I can't sing Prim's lullaby, it reminds me too much of a sister I haven't seen in ages and the last terrible moments of Rue's life. So instead, I sing the Valley Song.

"You have led me- "

I've barely begun before he demands, "Louder." Puzzled, I comply.

"You have led me to the sadness
I have carried this pain,"

As soon as I begin, Peeta lowers his mouth to my ear and starts whispering. I shiver at his proximity, his lips and eyelashes tease my skin with the promise of blissful sensation. When his words register, I finally realize what he was after. He wants to tell me something without any bugs picking it up, but chose to give me space in the bathroom. I'm thankful. I've never felt more vulnerable, knowing what's in store for me.

"On a back bruised, nearly broken
I'm crying out to you"

"With every day that passes, I can see the hope going out of your eyes. If you're made to do this, the emptiness will be filled with fear and desolation until you're completely gone. I won't let your fire die, and I won't let them change you. I'd do anything to save you, I'd die at a moment's notice to set you free, but any sacrifice I could make means nothing to them."

My breath catches at the steel in his voice, but I only falter for an instant before continuing on.

"But I fear you aren't listening
Because there are no words"

"I've wracked my mind for a way to get you out of this without repercussions for you or Prim. A better man than I would have a decent solution, but time's running out and there's only one way I can think of."

I almost stop singing. He has an idea?

"Just the stillness and hunger
For a faith that assures"

"We can make you safe the way I'm safe. You have to make them not want you. The people here have an aversion to imperfection. They're not used to it, they don't want to be reminded it exists. For them, it's like a disease. You have to become imperfect in their eyes."

"While we wait for rescue
With our eyes tightly shut"

"It would have to be pretty significant, just to be sure. There's a lot they can fix here. And you'd only have one chance, because whatever it is, it has to look like an accident or Snow will blame you. We're in his good graces since the Tour, and we've been playing his game by all the rules. He might be cocky enough to believe he's actually broken us down to biddable toys, and it truly is an accident."

Theoretically I suppose it could work. But how would such a thing be accomplished? My voice stays strong despite my uncertainty.

"Face to the ground using our hands
To cover the fatal cut"

"During the Victory Tour, my prep team gossiped with Eugenia about her sister's failed remake. The surgery went wrong somehow, and she was permanently disfigured. The damages were too serious to fix, even with Capitol technology. Instead of receiving sympathy and support, she was exiled to a facility for 'aesthetically impaired' citizens. According to Eugenia, a comfortable life is provided and communication outside of the facility is allowed, but there's a lot of solitude and the residents are practically barred from returning to the Capitol. Apparently a lot of them don't handle it well."

I can see how ex-Capitol citizens might have a problem being banished from their glittering city because they're deemed eyesores. I guess the never-ending cruelty here should surprise me, but it doesn't. The only surprise is how many forms it can take.

"And though the pain is an ocean
Tossing us around, around, around"

What Peeta is suggesting is shocking and drastic. I know he values my safety and my well-being more than anything else, and that's why he's proposing it. I don't want to do myself any bodily harm, not after fighting for my life in the Games, but I know I can't make it through this with my mind and soul intact. Peeta's noticed it too. I can feel myself slipping away and I haven't even become a plaything yet.

"You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down"

Our conversation on the rooftop the night before the countdown come back to me. He was right, wise even then. I understand his words as I haven't before and echo them in my own sentiments. I want to still be me. Snow tried to make me nothing more than an animal in the Games, and now he's trying to degrade me into existing only as an object. I won't willingly submit my body to the Capitol's control.

"I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy."

Peeta has once again given me hope. I pull away and sit up, looking down at his worried face in the dim light. He's not sure he's done the right thing, suggesting I damage myself in some way. I lean down and kiss his brow tenderly, the first voluntary contact I've initiated in days. I stay sitting upright, considering and discarding a dozen awful possibilities After hours of lying beside me, awake and keeping silent counsel, Peeta drifts into unconsciousness. I remain seated, staring not at the room around me, but gazing instead into possible futures. I have a lot to think about.

Note: The song I used for the Valley Song is called, quite simply, Valley Song. I listened to the version by Jars of Clay. It seemed to fit adequately.

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