Chapter One

no light thing is it for singers to forget her – whose study is the bow and the shooting of hares and the spacious dance and sport upon the mountains. Callimachus, Hymn to Artemis

Peeta opened his eyes and for the space of two blinks, he was comfortable and at peace. The afternoon light dazzled his vision and there was a whisper in his ears, the gentle hiss of a stream, and everything around him was more green and more blue than he had ever even imagined back in the days when he put ink to paper.

Then, on the third blink, the pain split his leg and he shouted out before he could stop himself. Damn - fucking damn it! He had never regretted waking out of unconsciousness more.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, he propped his body up with his right hand (only to slightly sink as the soft mud gave under the weight) and vaguely swiped at his left leg with his left hand. He couldn't quite reach the wound, but oh shit … the fucking pain. His head felt light and heavy at the same time, and a rising panic made his breath shallow. He was in trouble. Exceptional trouble. No one knew where he was … and he could hardly hope to be found, anyway. That would entail trouble of another sort. He was in more than exceptional trouble. He was dead.

If he couldn't move, he was dead. ...

The second time he woke up, he was lying in a slick smear of his own green vomit. It took longer for him to feel the pain, and it was duller now, but strange - hot and throbbing. Everything was really hot - although it was now dark, heavy and dark. The black velvet sky and the thick field of stars was draped over him - so close-seeming, he thought for a moment he was just lying under a blanket, squeezing his eyes shut to make the patterns of dancing light. But no, that was a boy, a boy ….

He moaned out loud. It didn't really matter, now. He was caught like a - no, actually - he was a wounded animal, caught and helpless. And he was going to die like one. No - he struggled against that thought. No. Not like this. Though Panem offered little better for its District citizens. But he had been lucky, so far.

The third time he woke up, it was to find that he had gone blind.

He clawed desperately at his face, confused to find something soft and dark binding his eyes shut. His fingers curled around it to yank and pull, but they were stopped in the motion abruptly as someone - some human someone - grasped them.

"Stop."

The voice was low and a little hoarse - feminine and unfamiliar.

"Who are you?"

"None of your business. Just shush and keep still."

Out of one danger into another, he thought. So - he might not die here, in the woods. But he would not - probably - escape death. He was far from home, illicitly so.

He had already come to terms with death, so it was with a detached curiosity that he listened to the strange sounds around him. There was a series of metallic clinks and groans … a pressure on his numb leg. A small gasp from the mysterious woman. Then a sudden release of pressure and an abrupt return of the pain in his leg.

"Ah!" he cried.

"That hurts?" she asked. Then, not waiting for his answer: "Good. That's a good sign."

Distressed, he made another move toward the blindfold. But her voice stopped him. "Don't! Not yet. I'd have to kill you."

"You're going to anyway," he panted.

"We'll see."

And at that, he was still.

What happened after was muddled by a haze of pain and discomfort. She pulled him to his feet and he was free, though in pain, and he leaned against her (she was short, but he could feel the hard muscles of her arms and shoulders) hobbling blindly over the uneven terrain, the rough grass scratching his legs. Frequently, he stumbled and she stopped and caught him, every time. He could feel her impatience - it stiffened her muscles, it tightened her voice. But she only spoke encouragement. And by the time she finally, finally stopped, ducking him down into a low, dark place, he had grown accustomed to her voice, and found it almost pleasing. And vaguely familiar.

The blindfold was abruptly removed and he blinked at the low, steady light until his surroundings came into focus. He was sitting in a dark concrete room, the windows covered in leafy branches. The room showed crude signs of long-term occupation: a bearskin rug, a couple of roughly woven baskets, some wooden cups and plates. A fishing pole, a bow, and some long wooden stakes rested in a corner.

Finally, he looked up, and his mouth dropped open. She was standing over him, legs slightly apart, her hands on her hips. She wore a loose grungy t-shirt, hem fraying and hole-y. Her breeches looked to be a patchwork of hides, sewn together with large leather stitches. Her dark hair was coiled away behind her - her face was covered in a mask of gray mud, but ….

"I think I could put a name to you," she said, anticipating him.

"And I you," he replied. "Though I would be wrong. Katniss Everdeen died almost ten years ago."