Because She Came Here With Me

"The credit belongs to those who are actually in the arena, who strive valiantly; who know the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spend themselves in a worthy cause; who at best know the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst, if they fail, fail while daring greatly, so that their place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat." ― Theodore Roosevelt

The first time he mustered up his courage to meet her eyes was the day of the Reaping. Two names were called, one boy and one girl. They would be sent to the Capital to repay a debt made before either of them drew breath. For one if not both, the cost would be their last breath on this earth. That thought didn't cross his mind as he took her in, from neatly braided crown to her dainty slippered feet. Her eyes, a curious mixture of silver and slate, met his solemnly. There was no fear in those eyes, those beloved, longed for eyes, only resignation and regret.

"It shouldn't be you," she whispered for his ears alone.

"I'm sorry it's you," he muttered back just as softly.

Neither of them noticed the odd looks they received from the Capital escort nor the way the crowd grew silent and still. "Let's go," Effie Trinket trilled as she gathered them up with a wave. "The schedule is a bit of a bear but we should still be on time if we go now." She smiled benignly and let them precede her off the stage, her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete as she followed after.

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His family came to say goodbye. Their red-rimmed eyes and roughened voices grated on his nerves until he couldn't bear another minute. Stay strong. Remember who you are. Try to come home. We love you, son. He caught her gaze and returned her half-hearted smile with a twisted one of his own. "Are you supposed to be in here," he mouthed in her direction.

"No," she mouthed back. "But I won't tell if you won't."

He pressed his lips together and covered them with his index finger, stifling a laugh at the exaggerated way she rolled her eyes when she thought they weren't looking.

"You stay you, Peeta," his father begged hoarsely. "Don't let them change you. No matter what, stay you."

"I will, Dad," Peeta promised. "I will."

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The Tribute Parade was just a taste of things to come, pomp and pageantry as only the Capital could offer. He was all in black, except for the corn silk gold of his hair. He mounted the chariot and listened to the dull roar of the crowd as the others came into view. Their pounding feet and thunderous voices crested like a wave as the last conveyance rolled out of the gate. She stood next to him; feet planted firmly as she side-eyed the crowd. Roses and tokens of favor rained down on them from above. When the flames flickered to radiant life, he mumbled through gritted teeth, "I'll grab your if you'll grab mine." She gave an amused snort of laughter as she darted a gaze in his direction.

"Flames suit you, Peeta," she grinned at the red tinge climbing his cheeks. "You should wear them more often."

Peeta couldn't hide the pleasure he took at her words. "I thought that was my line," he stammered, his gaze fixed firmly on the distant podium where the President awaited them. "What am I to say to you now?"

She didn't reply but twined their hands together until it was difficult to tell where hers ended and his began. He squeezed her fingers lightly and straightened his shoulders, refusing to show them the slightest hint of weakness. With her beside him, he felt like he could take on the world.

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The stage was a fairyland of color and lights but couldn't hold a candle to the enigmatic host that reigned supreme. Caesar Flickerman was a seasoned veteran when it came to getting the most out of the District's frightened children. Whether it was with a friendly smile or a sympathetic ear, he seldom failed to draw the Tribute out in such a way as to put their best foot forward with the Capital. When Peeta Mellark took the stage, an eager audience looked on in wonder.

"So, Peeta," the dapper host asked animatedly. "Is there a girl back home? A handsome man like you must have a special lady."

Peeta found her at stage side, fidgeting with her fiery dress. She looked up then and gave him a wink and a smile. Go on, it seemed to say. Tell them what you won't tell me. "There's one girl," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as his voice dropped to a confiding whisper. "I've loved her forever but I don't think she noticed me until the Reaping."

"Well, you win this thing and then you go home and sweep her off her feet," Caesar ordered playfully. "She couldn't possibly tell you no."

"Maybe," Peeta gave the host a jovial nod, but kept his eyes on the flame shrouded girl across the way. "I hope so."

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He didn't see her again until they camped under the biggest tree he'd ever seen in his life. She sat on a branch, kicking her feet like a little girl and waved when he caught her eye. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from calling her name and giving them both away. He lay beside the fire and watched her until he couldn't keep his eyes open. In the morning, he was awakened by the sound of cracking wood and angry buzzing. He was on his feet, pounding down the path even before his eyes had fully opened. His only thought was her, wondering if she'd gotten away, if she was safe. She had to be…had to be. The sword bit into his thigh, leaving white-hot ice in its wake. "Katniss," her name left his lips on a whisper before the dark wandered in to claim him.

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The cave didn't offer much in the way of shelter from the rain falling in sheets from a leaden sky. He huddled under his sleeping bag and counted the drops splattering on the rocky floor. "You need to eat," her quiet whisper stirred the curly wisps that drooped over his ears. "You need to keep up your strength."

"I'm fine," he breathed. "As long as you're here, I'm fine."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere," Katniss returned. "I'm going to stay right here."

"You promise," he said as his eyes slid shut.

"Always," her fingers were gentle as they brushed loose strands away from his forehead. "Always."

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His blood was hot as it ran in crimson rivulets down his leg, taking what was left of his life with it. His teeth chattered, shudders racking him as he listened to the other boy's agony lost somewhere in the darkness. He knotted the tourniquet one more turn, letting his gaze sweep the horizon in a vain search for the sun.

"You have to hang on," her breath was warm on the side of his face. "You're going home if you can wait just a bit longer."

"I can't," his teeth chattered, his breath frosting the night air with every word.

"Yes, you can," she argued furiously. "You can and you will. Stay with me, Peeta."

The groans and screams grew more distant as the swath of blood widened. He could feel life slipping from his grasp. He fought futilely to keep his eyes open, keep them on her. He memorized her face, the way her braid coiled on her shoulder, the tiny dimple riding high on one dusky cheek. "Katniss," he murmured her name one last time, his fingers scraping the cold metal of the Cornucopia as he reached for her hand. "Katniss." Tears turned her eyes into silvery pools in the moonlight and was the last thing he saw before it faded away.

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They crowned him Victor and thousands shouted his name in the streets. He smiled and waved and prayed for the second it would be over. The train pulled out of the Capital just hours after the last interview and he breathed a sigh of relief when the mountain tunnel swallowed them up. He was going home at last.

Twelve was just as he remembered, small and soot covered and home. His family clustered around him when he got off the train, their voices blending in the warm summer air until he couldn't tell one from the other. Home, they said. You're home. Thank God you're home. He plastered on a smile, waving when he was supposed to and silent when he needed to be. His eyes roved the crowd, searching for her face. Where are you? Where did you go? You said you'd stay with me. Why did you leave me? Why? There was no answer…nothing but the wind rustling the leaves…and every whisper was her name.

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The headstones were like thin white fingers, straining toward a watercolor sky from the dark earth below. Seventy-three years had weathered the earliest nearly illegible. The most recent was the shade of bleached bone, the writing crisp and stark in the dead and lifeless stone. He walked along the row until he reached the one he sought and knelt before it. The bouquet of wildflowers looked the worse for having been tucked inside his bag. They were still beautiful, as lovely as she'd been on that long ago morning in the meadow when he'd first professed his love. He laid them on her grave and walked away, his tears tracing burning lines down his cheeks.

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"My love for you will outlast this beach, this ocean, this planet. When judgment comes and Heaven finally falls, I will take you back with me."
― Scarlet Blackwell, I Am Fallen