stillplaying | 8th Game [voice]

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8th Game [voice]

[It's been just about a week now. A week since she had returned home from her hunt to find him collapsed in front of his easel. A week since she had feared the worse, feared his death and had forgotten how to breathe. She had been loathe to leave him, surrounded by paints and canvas and so very, very still. But common sense had won out and she had run, run as fast as she possibly could, to the small clinic Maturin ran. She had barely begun to fulfill her side of the bargain, but he hadn't seemed to care.

Even if it turned out, there was little the doctor could do to assist her.

A coma, he had said. The whys and hows remained unknown. Peeta had fallen into a coma and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to wake him.

It's been a week. She's barely left the house in this time. The bakery's stood ignored, her compulsion to spend time in the woods forgotten. Only brief trips to the grocery have given her a chance for fresh air and even then, each of those trips had been for the bare minimum needed to keep them both alive. Almost all of her waking hours have been at his side, watching, waiting. Carefully tending the feeding tube or sponge-bathing his body as he lies there on their bed, so utterly, utterly still. Talking to him, singing whatever songs come to mind, pleading with him to wake up.

Her journal lies at the foot of the bed, mostly ignored. Every now and then, she looks through it. She looks for a message from Maturin or some sign that there's an explanation for this - even if it is all just another cruel game being played by the Malnosso. Right now, though, she could care less as to what goes on outside the four walls of the bedroom.

So when Buttercup knocks it onto the floor and the pages open, she doesn't notice. She's lost in watching him for some sign of life as she sings. Hadn't he always said how much he's liked her voice? That she, like her father, could make the birds stop to listen?]

--dreams from all terror and fear,
Sunlight has passed and the twilight has gone,
Slumber, my darling, the night's coming on.
Sweet visions attend your sleep,
Fondest, dearest to me,
While others keep their revels,
I will watch over you.

Slumber, my darling, the birds are at rest,
The wandering dews by the flowers are caressed,
Slumber, my darling, I'll wrap you up warm,
And will shield you from harm.

Slumber, my darling, till morning's blushing ray
Brings to the world the glad tidings of day;
Fill the dark void with your dreamy delight--
Slumber, your lover will guard you tonight,
Your pillow shall sacred be
From all outward alarms;
You, you are the world to me
In all your charms.

Slumber, my darling, the birds are at rest,
The wandering dews by the flowers are caressed,
Slumber, my darling, I'll wrap you up warm,
And will shield you from harm.

[But even songs don't seem to wake him. She wipes at the tears that fill her grey eyes and only then seems to notice how Buttercup's curled up next to Peeta and how her journal now lies open to the world, recording most of the song.]

Get out of here, you stupid cat! Get out! [Rather than reach for the journal, she lunges at the animal, shoving him angrily off the bed. He lands on the floor with a hiss. Maybe, at another point, she'll find comfort in him. But right now all she sees is a reminder of the sister she lost nearly a year ago.] Go!

[Unable to stop herself any longer, she falls back in her chair, buries her face in her hands, and begins to cry.]

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Peeta likes it.

[The words are so, so quietly spoken that Clove would have to strain to hear them. But with the way they threaten a new round of tears as she watches him lying there, still so very, very motionless, it's hard to speak any louder.

She's thankful that the camera isn't recording video. It wouldn't do to let a rival tribute see the stray tear falling down her face.]

["C'mon. You have to stay with me. Okay?"
"Yeah. I'm just... a little tired."
"...Okay. Okay. Get some sleep."
"You sure?"
"Promise. Get some sleep. We'll... we'll go hunting tomorrow."
"Finish it."
"Yeah. Get 'em all."
"Then..."
"Yeah. Then we'll go home."

She knows the tone. It brings back awful memories. Though, somewhere deep inside her, she's relieved she can remember. And now Katniss isn't the only one trying to hold back tears and failing a time or two.

It takes Clove almost a minute to answer. Time enough to try and make her throat loosen, to reign herself in.

She doesn't know what's wrong. But she knows that tone. And it's strange yet not, to hear an echo of Cato in District Twelve. And, in the same way that she wouldn't know how to deal with Cato being upset in front of her, she doesn't know how to handle Twelve.

So, she goes for the easy option:]

What's another one you know?

[She should just close the book. She should go back to her insular world, back to taking care of Peeta and ignoring everything else around her. But she holds on, for some reason, and stays attentive to responses. It's hard, when all she wants is to start crying again, but somehow, the threat of Clove listening in keeps the tears mostly at bay.

The distraction is jumped on immediately. What other songs does she know? The list, she thinks, goes on and on.]

There's the Hanging Tree.

[Maybe Clove understands.

There's little animosity between them here and now, but there's still adversity. They've still fought, and they still won't show any kind of weakness, least of all to each other.

For Clove, it's listening to Twelve, knowing she's being listened to, that keeps her strong right now. While the memories she'd forgotten still threaten to overwhelm her, to drown her. Twelve drives her, keeps her going when everything in her wants to stop.

What she really wants is a fight. Someone to go against until she's too sore to move. Or until one or both of them is dead.

But not with Twelve. They have a pact. So it's easier like this, to sit and talk without really talking.]

Haven't heard it.

[In her own way, it's an invitation.]

[Maybe she could have picked a happier song or another more heartfelt one. But she's not happy. There's no reason to pretend otherwise. Peeta's coma eats at her every day and sometimes she feels that it's only mere moments before she falls silent again, like after Prim's death.

Even if the song is sad, reflective of the mood Katniss currently feels, at least it keeps her voice strong.]

Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree

Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree

Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, Are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here,
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

[There's a quiet sound. Very, very quiet. A strangled, muffled sound.

A single sob she tries not to let out.

And her voice is muffled, because she's tucked her knees to her chest listening, her forehead on her knees. She knows even now -- she will never forget that song. She will never not be able to call it up in her mind, in Twelve's voice.]

You're good.

[A choked out compliment.

Because everything else she wants to say hurts too much. Because she doesn't know why she's crying. Because she doesn't want to think about anything it makes her think about. Because she can't bear to try and block it all away. Because she can't walk away. Because she can't let Twelve know she's crying. Because she can't explain it. Because she prefers anger. Because she feels too empty when she cries. Because she feels like she can't move.

And then. More words come. Hushed and cracked, like a different girl all together is speaking. The girl who had grown up in Luceti with Katniss. For just a moment.]

What's happened to him?

[She pours all her sorrow into the song. Sadness over all those she killed, all those who died because of her mere existence. The friends she lost: Finnick and Boggs, Madge and Rue, Rick and Arthur. Her sister, Prim, who never was supposed to die. Not in the seventy-fourth games and definitely not a mere year and a half later. All the people she would have died for. Should have died for.

More than anything, she sings for Peeta. He's safe here. There's no Games for him to wake up to, no fear of him being held by Snow. This boy has never been hijacked, still loves her completely. And she loves him. She does. It's always been him. Whatever love she felt for Gale, it's just not the same. Important, yes, but not nearly what she feels for Peeta.

Peeta, who hasn't given any sign of hearing her voice at all.

It takes a few minutes, after she finishes singing, to answer Clove's question. She's wiping tears from her face again, resisting the urge to curl up next to Peeta on the bed and let sleep claim her, too. She'd die for him. Again and again and again. Hang by his side off the tree branch.]

He's in a coma. [It's revealing weakness. But Clove knows that she'll kill anyone who dares to hurt him further.] I don't know why. I found him like this.

[Twelve and Lover Boy are off limits. Now more than ever. Even if she wanted to hurt either of then, Clove knows she doesn't have the energy to do it. Not right now.

Besides, that would only invite reprisal.

There's the mildest form of regret in her voice. Something that suggests that if she could, she'd offer a round-about way of help, something that wouldn't seem kind on her part or charitable toward Twelve.]

I don't know anything about medicine. They don't teach us that.

[The hint of regret is surprising but, perhaps, no more surprising than anything else in this conversation. But it is also welcomed, even if it's coming from Clove. It means that the girl from District Two, and the boy by extension, will not be a threat. The only people she really has to keep Peeta safe from are the Malnosso.

And, she supposes, his own traitorous immune system. Whatever it is that had caused his coma.]

A doctor checked on him. He didn't think medicine would help.

[And she's seen enough in District Twelve, reluctantly helping her mother, to know that sometimes there is nothing that can be done. All you can do is wait.]

[She doesn't know why she cares. District Twelve means nothing to her. Yet, Clove has some need to reassure. Perhaps because she did not try to take advantage of her blank state, when she was helpless. When Cato was helpless.

Besides, she lost Cato. Briefly and did not know it at the time. But she still felt the loss. She feared losing him again, too.

She liked Lover Boy, too. In a way. Ready with a smile even in the heart of the Career Pack. One of the few she'd been able to expect to kill Cato.]

He'll wake up soon.

[No one should feel alone here.]

[There's nothing mocking in Clove's voice. No attempts to be malicious or cruel. She means it, doesn't she? That Peeta will wake up soon. That Katniss should just hold on, hold on to this stupid thin thread of hope that he'll come back to her.

It has nothing to do with the truce and, perhaps, everything to do with a girl who knows what it's like to lose the people you love.]

I hope so.

[Even a Victor gives up a lot. She can remember that sense of loss, still, from the hijacking. And... they've both left their lives behind, not just here. Going into the Arena, being a tribute... It means leaving everything behind.

Even so, she takes a breath. And then:]

He's held his own before. He'll be fine now.

[Because her fellow tributes -- even Twelve and Lover Boy -- are part of her pack. She might not always like them, no. But they're in with her. They're a reminder of home.]

[He has. Peeta Mellark has survived more than anyone should. Life in District Twelve, two Hunger Games, the hijacking. He's held his own, made it through. And somehow still remained that boy with the bread she encountered all those years ago. Still remained good.

But she doesn't feel that confidence now. It's that exact same feeling that existed when Snow held him captive. He's held his own before, but what if this is it? What if this is time, he can't?]

Maybe.

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8th Game [voice]

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