This little box the colour of heartbreak was most intriguing, but Haymitch turned his full attention to the letter first. It was addressed to him, and had already been opened; damned, Mr Cato knew everything the letter, and presumably the box, contained.

He wasn't at all surprised as he read the description of how Mr Heavensbee had used fairy magic that had backfired in order to restore Miss Everdeen to life. Indeed, it was something he had long suspected. But what was surprising to him was the faith that Mr Mellark had put in his—Haymitch's—magical abilities.

He read and reread the spell, then picked up a twig from the ground. He snapped this in half, then held the two halves tightly in his fist, and uttered the hastily scrawled spell. He felt a blazing heat in his hand, and when he reopened his palm, there sat the twig, whole and pristine and unbroken.

He allowed himself the slightest of smiles. London was two days hard ride, and he had no time to lose. He mounted up and rode away into the night.

Mr Heavensbee watched Haymitch leave with a mix of sadness and trepidation. Haymitch had been in Heavensbee's employ for years; as a young man, Heavensbee had caught Haymitch attempting to pickpocket him. Indeed, he would have succeeded were it not for the fact that Heavensbee's pocket book had been magically protected. There was a cleverness and a will to survive in the boy that Heavensbee had recognised and respected immediately. Rather than turn the poor lad over to the authorities, who would no doubt have hanged him, Heavensbee took him in, educated him, trained him. Indeed, over the years, Heavensbee had come to think of Haymitch as more than just a servant; he was a friend. Forcing himself into a state of absolute calm, Heavensbee hoped that Haymitch considered himself enough of a friend to understand that there was far more to sending him away than met the eye. If his theories about Mr Mellark's imprisonment within the Tower of Perpetual Darkness were correct, it was not only the sensible thing to do—it was utterly vital.

He did not sleep at all well, and ordered Latier to ready the coach at daybreak, and his anxiety was not relieved once they were back on the road. It had rained through the night and every single silver puddle became a mirror. And to a magician, a mirror was as good as a door. Was this Mr Mellark's doing? Or was this an even more ancient magic? Neither option sounded especially appealing.

Much to Mr Heavensbee's chagrin, Mr Cato kept constantly checking and rechecking his pair of ivory-handled pistols, a dark smirk plastered across his face.

"I have told you, "Mr Cato," said Mr Heavensbee. "Those weapons of yours will not help."

"And I have told you, Mr Heavensbee. A lot of problems can be solved with the judicious application of a good pistol."

They arrived at Northolt Abbey a little before nine o'clock. A cold mist drifted through the surrounding trees; the weak sun could not penetrate its grey death shroud, and Mr Heavensbee shuddered at the sight. He had wanted to come home to Yorkshire for many, many years, but not under such dire circumstances.

He stepped over the threshold and into the Abbey's entrance hall. At that precise moment, the house was plunged into darkness and every clock in the vicinity began to chime. Mr Heavensbee forced himself into calm, and with a wave of his hand, all the candles in the hall were lit.

"What on God's Earth is this?" said Mr Cato, as he pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it in confusion. "It says that it is twelve o'clock."

"It is Mr Mellark's endless night," said Heavensbee. "He is here."

"Where?" said Mr Cato. "I shall more than happily deal with him on your behalf."

"He will be in the library," said Mr Heavensbee. "Where else would he be? And you shall do no such thing. I will deal with him myself."

Mr Heavensbee took off with purpose towards the library. "You will need to stay close to me," he said over his shoulder to Mr Cato. "The way forward is...convoluted."

It had been years since Mr Heavensbee had passed through the labyrinth he had put in place to protect his precious library. And it did not surprise him one jot that Mr Mellark had found a way to circumnavigate it.

But as Mr Heavensbee approached the magical labyrinth, he could tell immediately that something was wrong; Mr Mellark had reworked his own labyrinth against him!

"Impossible," said Mr Heavensbee under his breath, and he tried a different direction. But over and over again, Mr Heavensbee and Mr Cato ended up right back at the start.

"What devilry is this?" asked Mr Cato.

"We will find a way," said Mr Heavensbee. "Have a little faith." He closed his eyes, and tried to navigate his way through the labyrinth by feel alone; his eyes could no longer be trusted. "There," he said a few minutes later. "I am certain we are making headway now."

He looked around, and realised with a jolt that he was utterly alone. Of course he was. Mr Mellark would not have allowed it any other way. Mr Heavensbee steeled himself, took a deep breath, and ran his hands over the wall. There was a faint warmth, a trace of the magic Mr Mellark had used, and Mr Heavensbee smiled. His former pupil may have been a tactical genius, but so was he.

As he passed his hand over the magic left behind by Mr Mellark, Heavensbee whispered a few words of a spell, and the world around him warped. He took a deep breath and stepped forward—to any observers it would have appeared that Mr Heavensbee walked straight through a solid wall—and reappeared in his beloved library.

Mr Mellark was seated at a desk, surrounded by flickering candles and a pile of opened books. So this, then, was to be the setting for their showdown. His mouth dry and his heart racing, Mr Heavensbee stepped forward out of the shadows, ready to face the other magician at last.

But instead of attacking him, Mr Mellark glanced up from the book he was reading. "In 1241, a young girl vanished from her home in Bury St Edmunds. Despite extensive searches, no trace of her was ever found. In 1341 a young girl matching her exact description was found, filthy and barefoot, in Thetford Forest. She explained that she had followed a beautiful sprite named Tom Brightwind to his home, where he had been making her wash laundry. She further explained that she had been with him for a week, and that he had told her she could go home when she was finished. She expected to be done in a day or two."

Mr Heavensbee stared at his former pupil in consternation. He had not expected Mr Mellark to be so lucid or so civil. With a slight cough, he cleared his throat and said, "The young girl's account was never formally verified—"

"Further," continued Mr Mellark, "in 1467, a fisherman reported an odd and rather disturbing sight off the coast of Portsmouth. He said that as he pulled his nets in, he spotted two young children, a boy and a girl, just below the surface of the water. They appeared to be in a great deal of distress. Well, naturally of course they would be! He reached down to try and pull them up, and was instantly pulled beneath the surface of the water himself. The children had vanished, but he could hear an ethereal and sad song in an ancient and incomprehensible tongue. He pulled himself back into his boat and went home to his wife. Who, it seems, was a great deal surprised to see him, for he had been missing for well over three years."

"Once again," began Mr Heavensbee, "these reports—"

"In 1511 a beautiful young milkmaid from Kendal went to sleep one night, and in the morning she spoke of a lavish ball that she had attended, and how she hadn't wanted to leave. The next morning, she spoke of the same ball. On the third morning, when she awoke, this sprightly young maiden was well over eighty years old. She hadn't left, and had only been ejected from the ball once the fairies present had considered her too old and ugly."

"Mr Mellark, I—"

"My point is that throughout history there have been many, many inexplicable stories, that may or may not be false. The one thing that links them all are fairies. And today we have in our midst a young woman, brought back to life by magic, who suffers from...inexplicable...maladies."

Mr Heavensbee kept his counsel while Mr Mellark raised an eyebrow at him.

"I know that you used a fairy to bring Miss Everdeen back from the grave. I have visited her in that other land, where she is subjugated by a terrible curse. As is my friend Mr Odair. And it is this same vile being that has placed this curse of darkness on me."

Mr Heavensbee swallowed heavily. Of course Mr Mellark knew. He suspected that his former pupil had known for years. "What do you want from me?" he said quietly.

Mr Mellark looked on him with pity and compassion. "The only thing I have ever wanted from you, sir. Your help."

"You were mad," said Mr Heavensbee. "I saw you, and you were mad."

"Yes, I was," said Mr Mellark. "For as long as I needed to be. I am perfectly sane now. And once again, I need your help."

He ran a shaking hand over his eyes. "I cannot help you," he said. "That being is too powerful. He will not give up what he sees as rightfully his."

"Perhaps not without a fight," said Mr Mellark.

"And you cannot defeat him."

"Not alone. But together."

Mr Heavensbee took a few tentative steps towards his former pupil. He had been expecting a fight with a madman, and was wary to do anything that could cause Mr Mellark's civility to break. But what he was proposing was ludicrous.

"Mr Mellark—"

"Come now Plutarch, I think we are little beyond such formalities."

"Peeta," he said after a great deal of hesitation, his pupil's first name feeling strange and foreign on his tongue. "I am not proud of what I did. Of the sacrifice I made—"

"And that is precisely why I need you so desperately."

"I am not as powerful as you."

"Nonsense! I have seen you perform acts of magic that I could only dream of! And you will be even more powerful now. Magic is everywhere, Plutarch, my old friend. It was hidden behind doors long since closed, but it was not so difficult to bring it back as we had assumed. All I had to do was ask them to reopen."

"What have you done?" asked Mr Heavensbee.

"I have done precisely what we had always intended. I have restored magic to England. Spells that have not worked in centuries should be perfectly practical once again. And that, my friend, is how we defeat him." He picked up a copy of The Destruction of Murelai and opened it to a page that had been marked by a folded down corner. Mr Heavensbee tried to swallow his immense discomfort at the sight. "Enchanted silver. Not only does it drain a fairy's will and magic, but it puts an end to any enchantments that fairy still has in operation. In Secrets of the Language of the Wind, Edward Culper describes how the spell to enchant silver worked in his youth, but an attempt as an adult failed utterly. It will work again, I am sure."

"Then you know what to do already. You do not need me."

Mr Mellark looked up from the stack of books. "I do. He has blocked all the paths to Faerie from me. But I doubt from you. You will need to be the one to take us there. Guide me."

As much as the prospect of entering Faerie terrified him, the idea that he would once again be doing magic—new magic—with his protegee thrilled him immensely. "Incidentally," said Mr Heavensbee, "your labyrinth was very well constructed."

"Not nearly as well as yours," said Mr Mellark. "I had only the vaguest notion of what I was doing."

"And yet, as always, your results speak for themselves."

"Thank you," he said with the slightest of smiles.

"I suppose there is no time to waste," said Mr Heavensbee. "What do you need?"

"There are many methods to enter Faerie. I always used a full length mirror."

"There is one in my bedroom. I shall fetch it at once."

Mr Heavensbee practically jogged from the library, immediately becoming aware of the walls of the labyrinth once he entered it. Now that he was aware, he felt he should be able to navigate it with ease.

Northolt Abbey felt strangely empty and deserted. Had the servants left? Been too afraid of the unnatural darkness? And what of Mr Cato? Had he continued trying to find his way into the library alone? Was he still trapped in the magical maze? Mr Heavensbee felt oddly unconcerned. That particular mystery would be solved another day, he was certain.

But as he ventured up the stairs and into the east wing of Northolt Abbey, he experienced a most peculiar sensation. It began as a gentle pull behind his ribcage, that turned almost painful the closer he got to his bedroom. Then, almost like a piece of elastic that had been pulled too far and snapped, he experienced the sudden feel of movement and being thrown backwards. He landed in a heap at the bottom of his staircase, and Mr Mellark was on the floor beside him.

"What on Earth happened?" asked Mr Mellark.

"I am not entirely certain, but I have a theory," said Mr Heavensbee. "When I was watching you to try and ascertain your movements, I noticed a strange phenomena. Every time you performed magic, the veil of darkness around you seemed to thicken somewhat. It was as if it were attracted, not to you as such, but to your magic. I have a feeling that this Fairy being, when casting the spell to trap you, didn't name you as such, but merely called you 'The Magician.' As such, anyone who possesses a magical ability could well be trapped here with us. It just goes to show the vital importance of accuracy when spell-casting."

"Anyone with magical ability?" said Mr Mellark, panic seeping into the edge of his voice. "Would that include Haymitch? Because I have a mission for him to complete."

"Haymitch is not here," said Mr Heavensbee happily. "I already had my suspicions about this tower, and when an opportunity to send him away arose, I took it."

"I am most relieved to hear it," said Mr Mellark. "Now, let us try and open this pathway."

Mr Cato was in a great deal of distress. One moment he had been by Mr Heavensbee's side, and the next moment Heavensbee had vanished into thin air, right before his eyes. He had paced up and down the corridors, trying to find a way into the library. But all of his efforts had proven to be entirely fruitless.

He had returned to the study and helped himself to Heavensbee's brandy, and attempted to drink it with an air of nonchalance. However, much as he hated to admit it to himself, the unnatural dark and the eerie silence that pervaded the walls at Northolt Abbey set him on edge, and he set out around the Yorkshire mansion to find company. Even that of a servant; if he had someone to shout at and make sarcastic remarks towards, it would surely ease his own fraught nerves.

But it appeared that the servants had all already escaped Mellark's Tower of Darkness, for not a soul was to be found anywhere.

He would not admit it, not even to himself, but the eerie silence and darkness was hugely unnerving, and every now and then he thought he heard a whisper of an accusation. Something that sounded awfully like Mr Crane.

"I know you're not here," he said out loud into the darkness. "You cannot fool me!"

But the whispers grew louder by degrees. "Coward," they seemed to say over and over again. "Coward."

"I shall show you who is a coward!" shouted Mr Cato, back at the cruel whispers. And he ran back outside to the stables, and mounted a powerful black horse.

It was a strange feeling, escaping the Eternal Night. For one moment he was surrounded by pitch black and silence, and the next he was returned to England. To its overcast skies, that appeared as a summer's day to his frightened eyes, and to the constant chatter of birds, the gentle whisper of a breeze through the trees. But he could not escape the feeling of being watched, nor of the accusations that the Darkness had made to him, and he continued to ride.

Eventually, he came to a fork in the road. And one of the paths looked ancient and overgrown; the trees seemed more alive and sentient than usual. Everything about the path screamed danger and yet Mr Cato eyed the path with a grim satisfaction. "Coward, am I, Crane?" he muttered. "I shall show you who is a coward."

He urged his horse onwards, despite the beast's constant whinnying and protests, but eventually it became too nervous, and he dismounted lest the thing try to throw him off.

The whispers seemed to have grown louder again, and Mr Cato pressed forward on foot, determination coursing through his veins. All at once, the world seemed to shimmer; it became eerily thin and fragile, as if it were merely an impression of the world painted on rice paper, something that could be torn with the slightest of effort. And then it reformed.

He stood on the stage of an enormous amphitheatre; the stone seats around him rose up into the sky as far as the eye could see, and the audience viewed him with hungry apprehension.

To the side of the stage was a man dressed in the tattered and blood-stained uniform of a foot soldier. He dragged a body towards a copse of thorned trees at the edge of the stage, and then, with difficulty, he picked the body up and hung it amongst the thorns where it joined several other dead bodies in various stages of decay.

The foot soldier turned and looked at Mr Cato with hollow, dead eyes and slowly walked towards him. As he did so, Mr Cato pulled out his pistols, and checked they were loaded.

"I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena. I defend their honour to the death," said the man. "And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

"A while ago, a villain by the name of Haymitch Abernathy came to your land," said Mr Cato. "You challenged him to a similar dual, and like a coward, he refused. I am here to erase that stain of cowardice and return a sense of pride to England."

The soldier cocked his head slightly to the side. "I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena," he repeated in a hollow voice. "I defend their honour to the death. And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

"Fine. If it makes you fight, then know that I mean all kinds of harm to your people's honour. That I will harm them after I have dealt with you. Now, are we to dual or not?"

The soldier nodded slightly, then raised his own pistol. But at the last minute, Mr Cato could have sworn that the soldier pointed his pistol slightly too far to the left on purpose, and as soon as Mr Cato fired, the soldier dropped to the ground, causing an enormous, roaring cheer to erupt from the watching crowds.

"Fool," he said out loud, satisfied with what he had done. He slowly walked up to the body and looked upon it with disdain. Really, these fairy types were not all that powerful, despite what Mr Heavensbee had always said. He picked up the body with ease, and dragged it to the side of the stage, where he selected a thorny branch, and hung the body up amongst the others. To pass the time a little, he refilled his pistol, and took a few potshots at the other corpses hanging there.

From behind him, he heard a noise, as of footsteps approaching, and he turned on the spot to face the intruder.

"I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena. I defend their honour to the death," said Mr Cato in a hollow and toneless voice. "And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

The sun was feebly attempting to penetrate the thick cover of mist that clung to the moors like a damp blanket. Haymitch had ridden through the night and was exhausted. But the sooner he reached London, the sooner he could attempt to restore Miss Everdeen to full life, and then attempt to save Mr Heavensbee from Mr Mellark. Or Mr Mellark from Mr Heavensbee. He was undecided which.

But as he rode, a most bizarre sight caught his eye. It looked to be a bundle of rags on the ground, with an enormous shard of glass sticking straight up out of it.

As he approached, he realised with a feeling of dread that this was not a bundle of rags. This was a man, who looked to have been pierced with an enormous crystal arrow. And with an increase of terror, Haymitch realised that he knew who this man was.

"Marvel," he whispered as he dismounted the horse and knelt down beside the body. Very slowly he reached out to touch the strange arrow. It was as cold as ice, and he withdrew his hand immediately.

How had this man come to be so far from London? And who had fired this ice-arrow at him? And how had he, Haymitch, managed to come across the body in the middle of nowhere?

Whatever the answers were, he could not leave Marvel's body out here to be devoured by wild animals. He would take it with him, and and have him buried in a suitable spot. He wrapped a cloth several times around his hand, and pulled the ice arrow from Marvel's body, then picked him up and laid him over the back of his horse. As he did so, he became horribly aware that he was being watched.

Several hundred ravens flew overhead, blocking the sky and Haymitch grew more nervous by degrees. And then he saw a lone figure walking across the moors towards him; a man dressed entirely in black, with long, shining black hair.

Haymitch found his pistol and loaded it; something about the man unnerved him greatly and he held his breath, hoping that the man would change course and direction. But instead he appeared to pick up the pace, and in no time at all, the man was before him.

He was beautiful. There was no other word for him. His eyes were as black as night, his skin pale and shining, and his lips upturned in the slightest of smirks. And yet despite his unearthly beauty, there was something familiar and comforting about him.

Without a single word, the man walked up to Haymitch's horse, and picked the body up, laying it on the ground.

"That body belongs to me, sir," said Haymitch, "and I would ask that you move away from it."

But the man ignored him entirely.

Haymitch raised his pistol. "I shall not ask you again."

The man pulled open Marvel's tattered shirt. Covering his body was a series of blue tattoos, all written in a strange and foreign language. The man placed a finger at the top of Marvel's torso, then dragged it down. The tattoos moved and spilled over one another, like ink in a bath of water.

In fear and confusion, Haymitch pulled the trigger. But no bullet came out, and the gun in his hand turned into a pitch black raven, and flew away.

"Who are you?" asked Haymitch.

The man drew his finger over Marvel's torso once again, and the ink reformed into new tattoos in the same incomprehensible language.

"Who are you?" repeated Haymitch.

"You know me," said the man.

"I do not know you," replied Haymitch.

"Why, Haymitch Abernathy. Not twenty-four hours ago, you pledged your allegiance to me. You said that nothing would please you more than to be able to offer your allegiance to your true leader."

With as little ceremony as a mother wiping a speck of dirt from a child's face, the man licked his thumb and drew it across the deep cut on Haymitch's cheek. He could feel it heal immediately. He then pulled aside a thick veil of mist as if it were a curtain, but before he stepped through it, he placed his hand open the top of Haymitch's head. It felt as though he were no longer able to bear his own weight, and he fell to the ground.

Beside him, with a huge, rasping, shuddering breath, Marvel sat up beside him.

"He was here, wasn't he?" said Marvel. "The King?"

Haymitch looked at the man who sat on the cold ground beside him. His mind was confused and muddied. He could have sworn that a moment ago Marvel had been dead. And there had been a strange and mysterious figure, one who had walked out of the mist, and who Haymitch had known, deep in his heart, and who he had loved unconditionally for his entire life. But it couldn't be...

"He's left the door open for us," said Marvel pointing ahead of him, and Haymitch noticed the strange patch of air that seemed to lead to a different world. "We should go on ahead. A lot of lives are depending on it."

Marvel jumped to his feet and looked down at his own body in delight. "He has rewritten me!" he declared.

"Rewritten...?"

"Indeed! I was a prophecy. Who knows what I am now? Perhaps the greatest Book of Magic ever written? Or maybe I am merely a cookbook? Who knows?"

Marvel seemed decidedly spritely and unconcerned for one who had been dead not long ago. He held a blue-covered hand out towards Haymitch and helped him up.

"Whatever you are," said Haymitch, "I am not letting you out of my sight."

With a grin, Marvel put an arm about his shoulders, and together they stepped through the mist's door, into another world.

A/N - Thanks as always to titania522 for betaing this, and to loving-mellark for the utterly stunning new banner!

And, I know I said that Peeta & Katniss would be reunited in this chapter, and I'm mega sorry - but they WILL be together next chapter.

And there's only one more chapter, and the epilogue to go. Thank you all so very much for sticking with this story. You're all amazing!