fic: interlude of peeta
title: interlude of peeta.
fandom: hunger games
prompt: septicemia/infected wounds
medium: fic
rating: pg - 13
warnings: spoilers for first book.
summary: A clean, pleasant voice echoed in his mind; Everyone wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes. Ten percent from infection. A moment of Peeta from the arena.
It is only after he gets away from Cato, holding his breath and hiding in a ditch deceptively hidden beneath a bush and a large rock, that Peeta has time to really think about reality. Every second of his time spent with the Careers had left his mind swarming with thoughts of guarding his back and sweeping Katniss' tracks out of sight from hungry, coldhearted predators.
Since the second he had stepped off the platform, he had not spared a thought for his future, since he was completely convinced he had none.
Now, that he couldn't move, there was nothing to do but think of the future. More precisely, how quickly and painfully the wound in his leg would kill him. He has no concept of time, but a while ago the bleeding stopped after stuffing the wound with moss so he figured he wouldn't die due to blood loss.
A drop of water hit his cheek, and then another landed on his closed eyelid. He tried to drag himself further in below the slight rock that was sheltering him, but to no avail. All he could do was hope the water didn't smudge his disguise.
The distractions were not enough to stop his mind from reeling with possible outcomes of his death. A clean, pleasant voice echoed in his mind; Everyone wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes. Ten percent from infection.
While trying to keep himself calm and collected with the petrifying knowledge he would most likely become nothing but support for those statistics within at most a few days, he tried to see what he could do better to keep dirt, bacteria and consequently infection at bay.
Cato had only managed to make the one cut, even if it was deep, maybe even to the bone. Repeated trauma, Peeta knew, would increase the risk of infection. Not to mention the sword could hardly be clean. He doesn't know for sure, but he imagines Cato liked the different layers of blood coating his weapons.
The signs and symptoms. Peeta tries to stave of desperation. He knows the dizziness and the uncomfortable heat spreading through his body are not good signs. It is hard to get a good look at the wound without inflicting such intense pain on himself that makes him want to throw up, but by simply examining it with his hands he knows it is swollen and warm, leaking watery pus.
Peeta tried to repress a shudder, and winced as the tremors caused sparks of pain up and down his leg. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife.
Maybe he will lose his leg and then his life due to something else, like dehydration or starvation. Maybe someone will find him and kill him in his vulnerable state. Maybe the infected wound will spread and he’ll die because of it.
He would like to believe that he fell asleep, but he knows that is not the case. He is somewhat shaken out of his unconscious stupor when the joyful national anthem is followed by even more joyful news, but he is not truly awake until he sees Katniss gazing down on him, his hand weakly wound around her worn boot.
fandom: hunger games
prompt: septicemia/infected wounds
medium: fic
rating: pg - 13
warnings: spoilers for first book.
summary: A clean, pleasant voice echoed in his mind; Everyone wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes. Ten percent from infection. A moment of Peeta from the arena.
It is only after he gets away from Cato, holding his breath and hiding in a ditch deceptively hidden beneath a bush and a large rock, that Peeta has time to really think about reality. Every second of his time spent with the Careers had left his mind swarming with thoughts of guarding his back and sweeping Katniss' tracks out of sight from hungry, coldhearted predators.
Since the second he had stepped off the platform, he had not spared a thought for his future, since he was completely convinced he had none.
Now, that he couldn't move, there was nothing to do but think of the future. More precisely, how quickly and painfully the wound in his leg would kill him. He has no concept of time, but a while ago the bleeding stopped after stuffing the wound with moss so he figured he wouldn't die due to blood loss.
A drop of water hit his cheek, and then another landed on his closed eyelid. He tried to drag himself further in below the slight rock that was sheltering him, but to no avail. All he could do was hope the water didn't smudge his disguise.
The distractions were not enough to stop his mind from reeling with possible outcomes of his death. A clean, pleasant voice echoed in his mind; Everyone wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes. Ten percent from infection.
While trying to keep himself calm and collected with the petrifying knowledge he would most likely become nothing but support for those statistics within at most a few days, he tried to see what he could do better to keep dirt, bacteria and consequently infection at bay.
Cato had only managed to make the one cut, even if it was deep, maybe even to the bone. Repeated trauma, Peeta knew, would increase the risk of infection. Not to mention the sword could hardly be clean. He doesn't know for sure, but he imagines Cato liked the different layers of blood coating his weapons.
The signs and symptoms. Peeta tries to stave of desperation. He knows the dizziness and the uncomfortable heat spreading through his body are not good signs. It is hard to get a good look at the wound without inflicting such intense pain on himself that makes him want to throw up, but by simply examining it with his hands he knows it is swollen and warm, leaking watery pus.
Peeta tried to repress a shudder, and winced as the tremors caused sparks of pain up and down his leg. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife.
Maybe he will lose his leg and then his life due to something else, like dehydration or starvation. Maybe someone will find him and kill him in his vulnerable state. Maybe the infected wound will spread and he’ll die because of it.
He would like to believe that he fell asleep, but he knows that is not the case. He is somewhat shaken out of his unconscious stupor when the joyful national anthem is followed by even more joyful news, but he is not truly awake until he sees Katniss gazing down on him, his hand weakly wound around her worn boot.