It is I, NinjaFranbow! Gahhhh why do I suck at updating?!! Hopefully now that it is Winter Break I will have more time to update though :) (But then again, I am sure you all know my rather tragic updating skills by now--my apologies.)

1) December 24th is  the 2nd anniversary for The Eleventh Hunger Games! (Yay!!) (It is a bit sad that it's taken me two years now to write a fanfiction. Whoops) 

2) I've been getting so many awesome votes and follows lately from you lovely people and it just makes me so happy, so thank you very much and I plan on reading many of your stories over break! :)

3) This is a bit late but have you all seen Mockingjay part 2 yet? Ohmygodricshollow the ending had me sobbing. (Granted all of it had me sobbing, but the fact that it is over is just heartbreaking.)

4) Happy Holidays and I hope you enjoy! 

4.5) Side note: The picture at the top is of a willow tree if anybody needs reference.

                                                                                     Chapter Fifteen

Day Seven

A few short days can do a surprising amount in the games. The weather that used to be a pleasant heat is now scorching the valley below; the container that had once been filled with dried apples and crackers has been reduced to nothing; the many bruises have become dark tattoos on my body, and the pain in my wrist has simmered to a burning throb. This only made my decision that much easier. My plan is to reach the trees on the outskirts of the all but empty valley before the day's end, but the sun that hangs in the dry air like a withered beast sucking away the energy from the world has already began to peak in the blue sky parched of clouds when I reach the bottom of the hill. Even the grass seems to be weeping under the heat.

A few short hours without food or water can do a surprising amount to a human, not to mention an injury and a trek through sweltering heat. My body feels almost delicate, as if a single breeze could blow me to pieces. Just a day or two ago I would have hated the thought of being so weak, so vulnerable, but now I just don't care. Fine, melt my brain, it's muddled enough as it is. Wither me to the bone, there is no food that could fill my stomach anyway. Dry me to nothing, not enough water could quench my thirst. I just don't care, anything to get out of this nightmare. I keep telling myself that this is the step that will be my last, that this is the one that will make me lie down on the valley and close my eyes and never wake up. Buy my feet betray me. They tell me that one step will be another foot closer to something. To safety? Maybe. To food? Water? Possibly. I don't know why, and I just don't care. The hill creeps a bit further away as I stumble through the grass yet it feels as if for every one step I take the trees take two steps away.

By the time I am a bit further to the trees I know the Gamemakers are messing with time. Time is man's worst enemy, so naturally it would come to their minds—as it often does—to twist it. I remember in one Games the sun was out for four natural days straight which, sure enough, led many tributes to go rather slightly insane. The sun continues to hang like a prop in the middle of the arena's pale blue sky, and I can't help but briefly think of what the actual time might be back in District Four. I can just picture the salty breeze flowing like silk through the night sky. In the distance there would be the silhouettes of ships on the ocean that is as smooth and dark as ink. The town would be quiet all but for the distant sounds of workers collecting fish on the horizon of the water. The thought is tainted with an air of melancholy but pushes me further anyway.

. . . . . . .  

It takes me a moment to realize that the limp grass beneath my feet has begun to give way to a slightly damp, cushiony surface. I lift my eyes from the ground and blink in surprise. Quite possibly the most beautiful thing stands towering over me like a gentle giant reaching up for the heavens. It is my safe haven. My escape. There, just one step away, rests the willow forest. I slowly turn around, not quite believing the journey actually took me here, but sure enough, I can barely make out the hill where I stood this morning. I don't need the gentle hymn of the forest to pull me away from the retched valley, my feet are already beginning to pad through the cushioned floor before I pull my eyes away and gaze at my surroundings. The forest greets me with blissful shade, and the sweeping canopy of the willows' weeping leaves occasionally brush my head as I make my way deeper into the trees. The air is slightly humid despite the heat wave outside and it's tinged with the smell of soil and dying grass. I find myself wandering over to the light brown base of a tree and slowly sit down to rest my head against the bark so unlike the smoothness of the aspens'. A wave of exhaustion rolls over me and my shoulders sag with the feebleness of the strenuous day. Whether it is a good thing or not, all is quiet except for the lullaby of distant birds. The cool, damp earth only adds to the calm washing over me....

The forest is an army of shadowy limbs when I wake and an almost eerie silence hangs in the humid air. With a new flood of energy, I pull myself to my feet once more and cradle my wrist while scanning the surroundings. The sudden sound of rustling makes me snap my head to the left and reach back for my knife—only to realize that it is just a small blue bird in a nearby tree flying out of its nest. And then it hits me. A nest. Eggs. Food. Before I can fully comprehend what I'm doing I'm racing to the base of the tree and stretching out my hand for the lowest branch—and stop. I would be a fool to try and climb a tree with one hand. I live near the sea, not the forest, tree-climbing isn't exactly my expertise. Disappointment shrouds my vision. I wouldn't be able to cook the eggs without risking revealing myself anyways, and just the thought of eating them raw makes my stomach queasy. My steps back are slower than before, and I find myself wandering through the peaceful willows with my eyes trained on the ground. Moisture seeps between my toes as my feet pad down the grass. It is a short while longer before the moon begins to climb the sky and spill its silver hue through the leaves and onto the ground, and still, any vegetation is yet to be found. Despite the newly replenished energy, it feels as if it is quickly draining out of my body with every step I take. My wrist pulsates with new found pain as if laughing at my so-called safe-haven. I'm starting to think that staying in the aspens would have been a better idea when I suddenly hear a shout that penetrates the still air like a knife.

I wait for the familiar cannon to announce another death, but the boom never comes. Instead, a heavy silence laced with panic hangs in the air like disease. Although the shout sounded far away, I wait ten minutes before I slowly tilt my head to the side for any signs of tributes, then an extra five before daring to move from being pressed up against the tree. It takes nearly an hour for my heart to be tame again. The birds have long since fled from the shout, but as I glance into the canopy of trees I can just make out their small bodies resettling onto the branches. I step quietly through the forest bathed in the pale glow. The air is a pleasant warmth, though I know that it must still be blistering outside of the shelter of the trees. The humid forest purrs with the symphony of hidden insects, but I have yet to catch sight of a tribute. Strange, I haven't encountered another tribute in over three days now, and it's not like my camouflage skills are exemplary. One would think that the scorch outside would attract tributes to an oasis such as this like a moth to a flame, so why isn't anybody here?

I take a few more steps forward and peer through the dark trees for any shapes that look out of place, any shadow looming behind the silver willow trunks with a deadly weapon ready to dart out and kill, or even any dark lumps curled up at the base of a tree. I take another cautious step forward, squinting my eyes through the forest—and look all but right in front of me. I don't see the loop of rope that lays underneath my feet.

I feel a sharp yank on my ankles and suddenly before I even have time to cry out I am dangling from my feet with my head inches from the ground. My backpack droops over the top of my head, the straps slipping dangerously closer and closer from my back to my shoulders. My heart ricochets in my throat as my brain spins frantically to comprehend what has just happened. How long am I going to hang here like meat in a butcher's shop? Will a tribute find me or will I die of starvation first? As if in answer a dark shadow steps in front of me. My eyes are level with the figure's chest as they step around me. I choke on my shallow breathing---the sliver of a blade gleams in the moonlight in the figure's hand. I hardly notice my pounding head as blood rushes to my brain from hanging upside down by my aching feet. My wrist is tangled awkwardly in the sling while the other hand dangles past my head and just brushes the damp ground. Maybe it is the chilling blade in the tribute's hand or the eerie silence that has been suffocating the air since I got caught, but either one makes me twist my body in attempt to spin around and at least see the tribute—CRACK. Suddenly the rope gives a tremoring shake and I crash face first into the ground. I hear the figure curse under their breath behind me and I quickly scramble to my feet, my back with the backpack somehow still on there smacking into the trunk of a willow. The tribute is tall and lean and the blade in their hand pulls up and thrusts backward. Their feet position themselves on the spongy ground so that the tribute's face is illuminated by the pale moonlight. I can't help but to suck in a breath. "Ben?"

. . . . . . .

"Mags?" He retracts his blade, though his fingers still grip the handle. I don't dare move. My eyes dart around him to make sure he has no other tributes to finish me off before darting back to his, and for a moment we just stare at each other, not quite believing who is in front of us. The last time we had a conversation was, well, the first time we had one, which was back in the training center at the fire station what seems like an eternity ago. It is he who speaks first. "What are you doing here?" He asks with a frown, taking a step back.

I eye him cautiously, moving from his face to his weapon to his face again. If he was May and my life hadn't just been dangling from the line (literally), I might say something like: "Oh you know, just out for a leisurely stroll and enjoying life. Man, have you seen this weather lately?" But instead, all I can say is: "The same reason we all are." My voice is quiet and croaky from lack of speaking, but surprisingly not as shaky as I imagined it would be. He tilts his head slightly and slips his blade into his belt. Strange, but I feel slightly offended that he doesn't see me as a threat. I straighten and wish I could cross my arms to look more menacing, but I resolve to instead hold my hand at my side, fist clenched. My eyes stare at his face a moment longer before I glance at the ground, spotting the slightly curled end of the rope—it was clearly not cut with his weapon. He notices me staring at his contraption.

"It kind of...snapped before I could..." He says with shame and embarrassment.

"Before you could kill me." I finish off quietly, my eyes still trained on the rope. "So why didn't you? You could easily just kill me now."

Ben shrugs his shoulders. "I trust you." I frown but don't speak. We had one conversation about creating a fire and suddenly he trusts me? Before I can respond the anthem of the Capitol sings through the air. Our heads snap up to the sky, where the bright seal shines through the trees. The anthem finishes and all is quiet. No death toll tonight.

"You tied it wrong," I say after a moment into the still air.

"What?"

"Your rope, you tied it wrong which caused it to fall apart so easily." I point out, nudging the rope with my foot. I don't know why exactly I am telling him this. His words about trusting me are almost as reassuring as safety in the Games, but maybe he has something I need. A chuckle escapes his lips.

"Somebody knows their stuff." I watch as he bends down stiffly to scoop up the rope, and that is when I see them. I gasp.

"Where did you get those?" I ask in awe, staring at the cloth shoes that cover his feet. "You didn't have them in the arena to begin with, did you?"

He looks down and then at my own bruised toes. "I wish. I found them by the side of the Cornucopia. Granted I got a knife to the back in return, but I'm glad I have them. Your toes look like they've been through hell."

"A knife to the back?" That explains his stiff posture. He tells me that it is just a shallow cut, and I briefly explain what happened to my wrist before he grabs his jacket from behind the tree where he was hiding. Unlike mine, his jacket is still in fairly good condition and he clearly uses it as a knapsack because it is in a bundle in his hand, supporting whatever lays inside. I refuse to get my hopes up, but I can't help but to ask what is inside it.

He grins and sits on the ground, pulling apart the tied sleeves of the jacket to reveal the dark contents. "I tried to get as much as I could when I ran to the Cornucopia, but I dropped my spear and a few containers of food when I was running away." After scanning the moonlit forest once more, I ease my way onto the ground—my breath catches in my throat when I see it. Food. A nearly full bag of mixed nuts rests next to a few strips of meat, a severely bruised apple (I sympathize for the pain it must be feeling) buried underneath, and a  loaf of bread peeking from inside the jacket's hood. Ben holds up a small bottle that fits in the palm of his hand. "I'm not quite sure what this is. At first, I thought it was medicine, but all it tastes like is metal and does nothing for pain." He shrugs and hands me the brown glass bottle.

"You do drink it..." I run my finger over the label on the bottle and notice that most of it is full with yellowish liquid. "But you put it in water first. Ben, this is Iodine—it's for purifying water to drink." I grin and carefully return the bottle to the jacket. I can only hope that his defense skills are better than his knowledge in self-sufficiency.

After briefly enjoying a handful of mixed nuts—just the thought of all this food is making me "nuts"—and part of the now stale bread, (I've never been one for meat other than fish, so he had most of the dried meat strips), we decide to not stay the night and instead make our way further through the forest. Ben tells me that he has been here for two days now and has yet to find any edible food, though he thought he might have seen a tribute just this morning. Despite my tired body, I'm glad we aren't staying overnight. I still don't trust Ben enough to get a wink of sleep without having to worry about being killed, and the thought of having yet another tribute in this forest without knowing where they are makes me just the more urgent to leave.