you're a wolf, boy, get out of this town (sorry this is ridic & someone else should totally fill it!)
Cato says, "Moon's bright."
Clove tilts her face up towards it, doesn't bother to rub her eyes or yawn. "It'll be full soon." Her teeth are sharp and white, eyelashes almost black in the silver light. "You ready?"
He almost says, I didn't think we would ever run together again. They didn't expect Twelve girl to last this long. Didn't expect any of them, really.
He cards his fingers through her dark hair and imagines how it will feel when she is pack, her teeth at his throat as they tussle. He misses breathing her in.
Her stare never lets him go.
He bares his teeth. "Of course."
He wonders if he will miss her more when she is gone. He suspects not; he's not one for unachievable things.
It's cold out here. She wishes for her pelt, fox-red and designed for survival, for her paws, quiet and sure on all the unsteady terrain. She was never much for pack; she doesn't miss them.
She sighs and shades her eyes against the too-bright moon, and decides.
If she is going to go it is going to be on her own terms as herself.
She falls to all fours and lets her body ripple across her.
oh, She thinks, breathing in, the scent of the entire arena coursing through her nose, oh.
It is so good to be home.
Her paws do not slip all the way to the boy by the creek, to his pile of berries on a leaf.
She will have to be human to swallow them. Wolves are designed to survive; children are more delicate things.
Thresh has never had much use for the wolf in the fields; impractical, too low to the ground, too aggressive for their overseers. It was always Rue who loved it, Rue who danced bright eyed and lovely around his heels as a child, around his knees as she got older.
She will never get any older than this.
She always said, "Thresh, it's so beautiful, don't you understand? It's where we're free.
He always thought, freedom is a luxury we can't afford, but instead of saying it ran his fingers through the scruff at the base of her neck, a beautiful dusky dark brown, murmured, "I'll keep you safe."
Twelve looks like a wolf, even wholly human. She says, "I covered her in flowers." Her eyes are sharp and dark and wary.
He thinks about freedom in Rue's light careful voice. He says, "thank you," and wonders what there is left in the world.
It is easy, he realizes: there is the wolf.
He never believed Rue when she said, "It's what we're supposed to be, Thresh."
Now, he does. He is running and he can feel the joy of it singing through his veins. He has never felt such joy.
He imagines it will be better when his teeth close through Two's throat.
It is a full moon; it is all Katniss can do to keep from dropping to her paws and howling. Peeta's hand is clenching around her wrist - Katniss, he is whispering. He is from the town. They have always been less animal.
Cato is walking towards them. The fur is rippling across his skin but he doesn't seem to care; he will be just as lethal either way, she can tell. She knows wild animals.
Katniss digs her nails into her palms and breathes in the scent of Peeta's skin. Her wolf is much smaller than Cato's, will not be as smart, as controlled. She is a runner but not -- she has not spent very much time aware in her other skin. She trusts her instincts out past the meadow but she does not think her instincts will be enough, not when Peeta is here with his blood so warm and limp.
(And she remembers Haymitch murmured, "the Capitol doesn't like the wolves.")
Cato breathes, "Twelve," and there's like poison laden on his twisting grotesque voice. "Twelve, I'm going to eat you alive."
She says nothing. Everything smells like blood.
Peeta says, "no, you aren't." There's something quiet in the set of him that lets her settle, soothes the roiling heart of her.
Cato falls. Katniss does not hear his last words. (Last scream.)
Nobody does.
Except:
There is a small dark wolf, all sharp green eyes and sharper white teeth.
He stares at her and growls her name - Clove - which is a scent, which is as close as he has ever come to love.
She dips her head to his throat and blinks, three times,
no subject
(sorry this is ridic & someone else should totally fill it!)
Cato says, "Moon's bright."
Clove tilts her face up towards it, doesn't bother to rub her eyes or yawn. "It'll be full soon." Her teeth are sharp and white, eyelashes almost black in the silver light. "You ready?"
He almost says, I didn't think we would ever run together again. They didn't expect Twelve girl to last this long. Didn't expect any of them, really.
He cards his fingers through her dark hair and imagines how it will feel when she is pack, her teeth at his throat as they tussle. He misses breathing her in.
Her stare never lets him go.
He bares his teeth. "Of course."
He wonders if he will miss her more when she is gone. He suspects not; he's not one for unachievable things.
It's cold out here. She wishes for her pelt, fox-red and designed for survival, for her paws, quiet and sure on all the unsteady terrain. She was never much for pack; she doesn't miss them.
She sighs and shades her eyes against the too-bright moon, and decides.
If she is going to go it is going to be on her own terms
as herself.
She falls to all fours and lets her body ripple across her.
oh, She thinks, breathing in, the scent of the entire arena coursing through her nose, oh.
It is so good to be home.
Her paws do not slip all the way to the boy by the creek, to his pile of berries on a leaf.
She will have to be human to swallow them. Wolves are designed to survive; children are more delicate things.
Thresh has never had much use for the wolf in the fields; impractical, too low to the ground, too aggressive for their overseers. It was always Rue who loved it, Rue who danced bright eyed and lovely around his heels as a child, around his knees as she got older.
She will never get any older than this.
She always said, "Thresh, it's so beautiful, don't you understand? It's where we're free.
He always thought, freedom is a luxury we can't afford, but instead of saying it ran his fingers through the scruff at the base of her neck, a beautiful dusky dark brown, murmured, "I'll keep you safe."
Twelve looks like a wolf, even wholly human. She says, "I covered her in flowers." Her eyes are sharp and dark and wary.
He thinks about freedom in Rue's light careful voice. He says, "thank you," and wonders what there is left in the world.
It is easy, he realizes:
there is the wolf.
He never believed Rue when she said, "It's what we're supposed to be, Thresh."
Now, he does. He is running and he can feel the joy of it singing through his veins. He has never felt such joy.
He imagines it will be better when his teeth close through Two's throat.
It is a full moon; it is all Katniss can do to keep from dropping to her paws and howling. Peeta's hand is clenching around her wrist - Katniss, he is whispering. He is from the town. They have always been less animal.
Cato is walking towards them. The fur is rippling across his skin but he doesn't seem to care; he will be just as lethal either way, she can tell. She knows wild animals.
Katniss digs her nails into her palms and breathes in the scent of Peeta's skin. Her wolf is much smaller than Cato's, will not be as smart, as controlled. She is a runner but not -- she has not spent very much time aware in her other skin. She trusts her instincts out past the meadow but she does not think her instincts will be enough, not when Peeta is here with his blood so warm and limp.
(And she remembers Haymitch murmured, "the Capitol doesn't like the wolves.")
Cato breathes, "Twelve," and there's like poison laden on his twisting grotesque voice. "Twelve, I'm going to eat you alive."
She says nothing. Everything smells like blood.
Peeta says, "no, you aren't." There's something quiet in the set of him that lets her settle, soothes the roiling heart of her.
Cato falls.
Katniss does not hear his last words. (Last scream.)
Nobody does.
Except:
There is a small dark wolf, all sharp green eyes and sharper white teeth.
He stares at her and growls her name - Clove - which is a scent, which is as close as he has ever come to love.
She dips her head to his throat and blinks, three times,
and rips it out.