The Hunger Games: Staying True. (Completed)

Chapter Twenty-Two; A Sad Reality. [Edited]

Peeta wakes all at once, a shuddering gasp assaulting his system as his eyes flash open, images of that monstrous beast swiping at him, ripping at him, his skin on fire as it opened up under those knife-like claws.

He expects to be on the ground, not nestled into a soft bed of linen. He also expects a canopy of leaves to meet his gaze, not to be sheltered under a high ceiling run through with metal beams.

The pain is a dull ache in his torso, and he gives a groan of protest as he shifts. It's no longer fire that assaults his system, instead it feels like needles stabbing relentlessly at his stomach, and his left shoulder feel like someone is stepping on it.

He raises a weak hand to his stomach, only to find the ruined skin covered in a bandage. That'll be the reason he's struggling to breathe.

How on earth did he -

Peeta's eyes fly open truly and panic floods his chest.

Emerald.

But he doesn't need to look for her, as soon as he shifts he feels the weight of her beside him.

His head turns, and he tries to roll up onto his side, but he can barely lift his hand to reach for her.

She's sleeping, and she's a mess. Panic floods him again.

Dirt and blood coat her face. The bruises from Larron are nothing but yellow patches against the backdrop of her snowy skin. The deep cut on her forehead from falling into that hole with those cannibal monsters has scabbed cleanly.

But a glance at her body and Peeta knows that she hasn't bothered to take care of herself before passing out. There's deep wounds on her forearm, which is thrown over his hips carelessly. The wounds look like teeth marks. They've ripped into her skin, and the wounds are crusted with dry blood.

Her leg is thrown over his, and there's lacerations curving over her thigh, tearing right through the protection of her trousers to gouge out her flesh. The cuts look clean, if anything, pink muscle shining through the dried blood.

"Emerald." He murmurs. Lifts a hand to brush it against her dirty cheek. "Emerald?"

Her chest flutters in rushed breathing. But she doesn't wake, even when he shakes her shoulder.

Peeta braces himself against the pain, and then heaves himself into a sitting position. Fire licks his wounds, but he grits his teeth against it and rolls up onto his knees.

He twists her carefully, rolling slowly until she's on her back.

Of course, he's got first aid training, but these wounds far surpass his healing capability. Even so, he can clean the wounds and bind them.

Being as gentle as he can, he pulls her from the make-shift bed she'd constructed and arranges her on the concrete floor, methodically trying to bring her back to consciousness.

The leg looks worse, so he works off her trousers and tosses them aside, noting to wash them later if he can. His water bottle is in his pack, but her own water tastes faintly like aspirin, and he assumes that's why he can only dully feel his injuries. He dribbles some into her own mouth, hoping that she can't feel any pain.

He washes the lacerations, and they're deep and nasty, the skin around the wound tinged red. Peeta's breath hitches, knowing that redness is a sign of infection. He checks her temperature, groaning in horror when he feels the heat of her forehead.

He'll deal with infection afterwards, first he has to clean the wounds and bind them to prevent them getting even more dirty.

He spreads anti-septic cream over the wounds, packs them with gauze and binds them tightly with bandages. He does the same to her forearm, though he's aware that they'll all most likely need stitches, but he doesn't want to make even more of a mess of her injuries, so he leaves it alone and just does the best he can.