Chapter Text
XXVII Epilogue
“Are you ready, Love?”
I look up at my husband of 19 years. He is holding our daughter’s hand while our son gleefully rides atop his shoulders. His hair may be speckled with grey and skin wrinkled with laugh lines, but he is far too fit to be a father of two. He catches me scanning him hungrily and winks a sapphire eye my way.
After that first day at the lake, the walls we kept between us quickly began tumbling down. First the emotional ones, then the physical. The comfort found in chasing away each other’s nightmares made the move to one bedroom undeniable. When the last of our boundaries dissolved, Peeta and I found a harmony so connected, any who saw us felt they could see the threads that knit our lives together.
By our first snow I knew what I wanted. That morning I casually asked Peeta to make his favorite bread and left to visit Mayor Thom’s office to ask a favor. When Peeta found me that evening in my mother’s white linen dress, I handed him a toasting fork and a marriage license and asked him to join me in front of the fire. We began with two loaves of burnt bread thrown across a yard, but this new beginning only required two charred pieces placed on the other’s tongue.
Those first five years flew by. Business ventures and new projects filled the days as we tried to spend each one doing a little good for some part of our community. The memory book grew thicker and then overflowed into a second volume.
Peeta was introduced to a war widow from District 11 and immediately knew she and her sons were the perfect family to live above the new Mellark’s and run the bakery. He spent weeks working with them, trading recipes and offering advice, before stepping back to only handle special orders. It has been such a success that, to this day, the bell hasn’t been put back on the door because of its incessant ringing. However, despite its popularity, the bakery is most renown for over-making its daily inventory so there are always leftovers to handout to those who are hungry.
After months of conversations with Pollux and a committee of Avox and local representatives, we were able to open Peeta’s old Victor house, simply calling it the Haven. With the understanding that every resettled Avox was considered under Peeta’s and my protection, District 12 was immediately welcoming. Decent jobs were available to them through local shops however most residents of Haven became well-respected artisans, authors, and craftspeople. The interest was so high, after its first year President Paylor gifted three neighboring houses to meet demand.
For that next year, I learned their hand signs and spent several days a week helping to develop the four properties into a working farm. The Haven Weekend Market soon became District 12’s favorite spot for fresh produce and handmade crafts. And, in time, citizens of 12 started to pick up bits and pieces of the sign language and on any given day you could see them cheerfully gesturing in conversation with their Avox neighbors.
After Samson moved into a new home with his father and returned to school, our trips to the woods were limited to the weekends. Year after year, his skills improved while his enthusiasm never diminished. And at 18, he began holding camps and teaching wilderness classes to the children of the district, passing on what he dubbed the ‘Everdeen Technique’. I’ll never forgive him for the arrow-clutching Mockingjay patches he designed for the children’s uniforms, but I will always be supremely proud of the man he became.
Effie spent the two years that followed the inaugural Remembrance Day being the ‘it girl’ of party planning around Panem. Between events, she’d wearily return to 12 and stay with us, each time finding it harder to leave. Our dingy town had grown on her, and her adoration for Peeta was endless. We were shocked to learn that she, like most Escorts, was taken as an infant from her family and raised to work for the Games, so joining our odd little family meant the world to her.
One night, she unexpectedly turned up on our doorstep with ten trunks and a plan. She sold her Capitol apartment and most of her valuables so she had enough money to build a large home on an empty plot of land near our house. She was going to march up to poor unsuspecting Colton and tell him she was now available for formal courtship and he better be able to handle not only her but also the houseful of orphans she planned on adopting. In a month, they were gaily married, and by the end of the year, they had adopted two of what would eventually grow to be their eight children. Our little found family quickly multiplied in Effie’s always-efficient hands.
After five years, Peeta’s eyes started to linger at the sight of happy families, pregnant mothers, and playing children. We had talked about my resistance to having children many times over the years. I explained that I swore against having them long before our Games and the war and losing Prim was the final confirmation I needed. When both of us were still spending each day battling our own demons, the idea of adding a child into our household of constant nightmares, unpredictable panic attacks, and alarming episodes was unthinkable. But after five years, the nightmares were less disruptive, the panic attacks mild, and the episodes manageable. Peeta’s worry of having children was replaced with a longing for them.
For the four years that followed, my opinion on the subject did not change and Peeta, forbearing as ever, never pushed. I watched as he distracted himself from his own wishes by embracing the role of honorary uncle and favorite local hero to the little ones of the district. He becomes notorious for always having cookies in his satchel and being strong enough to carry any kid on his shoulders. That sight slowly chipped away at my hardened heart. I may not have trusted my own abilities to be a good mother, but there is no doubt that Peeta was born to be a father.
On our tenth anniversary, Peeta surprised me by planting two young trees: a linden for him and an oak for me. I surprised Peeta by telling him that he’d be a father by August.
I lived in constant anxiety during the pregnancy, resurrecting many of my worst post-war habits. I also spent the first half the pregnancy banning Peeta from the kitchen to avoid the scent-induced nausea and the second half demanding he return to provide me with a constant supply of sweets. After nine months, our daughter was born on a sticky summer’s day, angry and wailing much like her mother was from the nineteen hours of labor. She has my dark locks and fearlessness with Peeta’s blue eyes and tenderness. She is blessed with both of our stubbornness.
I shocked the neighbors but not my husband by continuing my trips to the woods. I swaddled and strapped my daughter into a sling on my chest and introduced her to our family legacy. I told her stories and sang lullabies with the birds. Eventually her tiny voice would join mine and Peeta would open the windows to listen to our melodies as the mockingjays carried them home to him and across the district.
For our fifteenth anniversary, we celebrate by welcoming our son into the world. Much like that pregnancy, our curly, blond-headed babe is calmer and full of laughter. He had his father’s adorable childhood chubbiness until his sister taught him to run and be as adventurous as she.
We lost Sae only four months after our son’s birth. I truly believe she forced her weak heart to keep beating by sheer willpower. When I privately confessed to her all my fears of motherhood, she promised to be the one helping me through all of my deliveries and she wasn’t about to break that promise. Sae lived long enough to launch the restaurant of her dreams, see Anabel marry a gentle soul and longtime resident of Haven, and bring both of her adopted grand-babies into the world. When she died, I knew we would only have two. I can not bear facing another delivery without her by my side.
My mother never did return to see me and our relationship never improved much beyond an amiable letter or two every year. But the bitterness melted away with time. Peeta and I took great effort to always show each other love and support, and that security, plus our burgeoning unofficial family, did more to settle my grievances than anything. I forgave her and chose to wish her well. As I watch my two children grow, I know it is her loss. Each moment with them is irreplaceable. Even if had to live in an Arena in order to be near them, there is nowhere else I would rather be.
In the early years, Johanna and I started building a surprising friendship over weekly phone calls after Peeta confided he was worried she wasn’t getting any help. I picked up the phone and got her to open up, well, as much as Jo could ever do such a thing. She now is a regular visitor to 12, with Annie and her son joining her at least once a year. Our children adore them and look forward to Auntie Jo and Auntie Annie’s visits and the unnecessary gifts they always bring to spoil them.
Haymitch lives long enough to celebrate his second godchild’s second birthday. Peeta and I wanted to call him Gramps; Haymitch insisted he was an Uncle at best. We settled on Godfather and let our daughter decide what to call him.
Thus, the grumpy, drunken, knife-wielding Victor, Haymitch Abernathy, became ‘Hayhay’ or on special occasions, ‘mister goose man’.
At first I doubted that his keeping geese would end well, but it kept him busy and from drowning in liquor. He had a strange connection with the irritating creatures. Then again, they were a lot alike: aggressive, rude, and fiercely protective of their young.
Although, in his later years, especially once the children came, he made efforts to improve, after decades of abuse, his liver finally gave out. For a man that spent most of his life alone and seeking ultimate oblivion at the end of a bottle, Haymitch died surrounded by a family that loved him; a family he made possible by keeping us alive. I miss the sarcastic bastard more than words can say.
Early on, Peeta and I made a promise that we wouldn’t hide the Games and the war from our children. It wasn’t a difficult decision; we knew our fame would never fade away. Over the years we may have been able to move away from the roles of divine symbol and figureheads, but we would never be normal.
Children are perceptive, there was no way our precocious imps wouldn’t realize something was different about us. After years of being lied to by our elders, we were not about to do the same to our own children. We also knew that they might one day find momma crying in a closet or papa mid-episode tearing at his hair. They needed to know what was wrong so they would never doubt their safety.
Peeta uses drawing to connect and I pick up my father’s mantle of telling fables to impart lessons. We teach them our games of ‘real or not real’ and how to add things to the lists we make of the acts of kindness we see around us.
I want them to grow up to have Peeta’s strong moral fiber and general goodness. He wants them to have my dauntless resourcefulness and fierce loyalty. We try to lead by example, letting them witness how rewarding it can be when you try to lighten the burdens of others. They’ve learned how you leave a piece of yourself with every person you meet. And like the bees that pollinate their mama’s garden, why leave behind something bad when you could leave something sweet instead?
They will not know the brutal truth of what really happened to their parents and family members until they are much older, but they understand enough. They understand enough why Peeta and I take certain things like playground fighting much more seriously than other parents. They understand enough why our eyes scan every room we enter for danger and why we never leave home unarmed. They understand enough that when they hear a passing comment from a neighbor or see a video clip on the television, they’ll never fear coming to us to ask questions. When those days come, Peeta makes his famous hot chocolate and we cuddle together on the couch to talk it through as a family.
Because of this and the Capitol’s unexpected practice of respecting our privacy, when the newest President asks Peeta and I to participate in the 20th Anniversary Memorial of the end of the war, we agree to attend for the very first time. The Arenas have all been destroyed and monuments built to honor those lost, but Peeta and I have declined every invitation, choosing to stay in 12, home and out of the spotlight.
But this is too important to stand down. Two decades have passed, and Peeta and I have both begun to worry about Plutarch’s prediction that we are, “fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.”* We have happily drifted away from the public sphere, but both of us feel a duty to remind our nation of what we fought for - to make sure that our children continue to only know a world of peace.
I straighten my dress and walk to my husband and kiss him soundly. Our daughter groans as one would expect an 8-year-old at the sight of her parent’s displays of affection, but our son is still young enough that he thinks it looks like great fun. He bends over from atop his father’s shoulders so he can plant his own kiss despite his upside-down position.
When we get into the car, the children squeal at the sight of their Aunt Jo, Aunt Annie, and her son, their cousin, who looks so like Finnick my heart aches every time I see him.
This car contains every Victor still alive. Beetee died a few years ago after a botched experiment and Enobaria died nearly a decade ago in, quite embarrassingly, a bar fight. With Haymitch’s recent passing, the four of us are all that remain, living artifacts of our nation’s past shame.
Once we arrive at the Rebellion Memorial, we are quickly ushered backstage. The children will stay with their aunts, seated with the other onstage guests, while Peeta and I are positioned with those speaking. My hunter’s eyes quickly catch sight of the advancing group of government officials. I bend down to meet both my children’s faces.
“Now you remember what we told you?” I ask.
My daughter nods seriously and my son beams, “Don’t stick your finger in your nose.” He recites confidently.
I hear Jo snort loudly and swear I can feel my husband’s eyes twinkling. I try not to laugh and just smile at him encouragingly. “I did tell you that. I’m glad you remembered. But, maybe your sister can help you remember what else we said.”
She tugs at her two braids nervously, then catches herself and drops her hands, straightens her spine, and lifts her chin with conviction. It’s a mannerism so like my own. She is mine, that is for certain.
“Don’t leave Aunt Jo or Aunt Annie’s side and don’t talk during the speeches. If we see or hear anything and have questions, we can ask Mamma and Papa at lunch. We don’t have to talk to anyone if we don’t want to, but um… Aunt Jo said everyone is still pretty scared of her so they’ll probably stay away.”
“Very true, little songbird,” Peeta laughs and kisses her cheek. He ruffles our son’s hair and offers a hand to me to stand up. “And what’s the most important thing to never forget?”
“That you love us both – Always,” she recites and our son catches up in time to shout the last word along with her.
Their aunts guide them away as Peeta and I greet the President and his staff. He is announced and opens the event with a brief speech. Peeta and my hands are clasped, fingers intertwined, still each other’s anchor. All we are missing is a chariot and flaming costumes.
When we are given the cue to join them onstage, we are hit with a wall of noise. We complete the obligatory handshakes and waves before arriving at the lectern. Peeta and I look at each other meaningfully. If Peeta and I do this right, hopefully this will be the last speech we’ll ever have to make.
We are here to remind our country that this new Panem was borne only after nearly eight decades of violence, cruelty, and brutality. How many must have turned a blind eye to the suffering and starvation that surrounded them? How many bowed to the power of the government despite the atrocities committed? How many were, like me before the Games, so afraid of protecting my own that I agreed to be a piece in their games at the cost of standing up for what was right? Why did it take witnessing the callous murder of a 12-year-old girl from District 11 to remind me of my humanity?
Hatred slithers its way into the human heart and spreads like a virus.
Long ago, a few terrible people in power decided to create a punishment so extreme, so vile, their authority would be indisputable and unforgettable. They found a way to strangle an entire nation of its hope. Then, they found a way to turn that punishment into a form of entertainment, a sport to be consumed for pleasure.
Citizens stopped looking at their neighbors as fellow human beings. The suffering of others was so prevalent, it became ordinary. Those in power divided us and pitted us against each other. It became ‘us against them’ to distract us from ‘us against our government’.
They say it is a human instinct to protect the young, yet, it took eighteen hundred children being stolen from their parents’ arms and placed in an Arena to kill each other before the spark of revolution could successfully ignite.
This next generation must hear the stories that the previous ones were afraid to tell. They must remember that the strongest people are the ones that stand up for others. Our country will not be destroyed by those who do harm but by those who stand by and watch without stopping it. Our revolution began when a single voice dared to speak while the rest of the world stayed silent. Peace was only found when justice finally prevailed.
We have a duty to bear witness for the dead and for the living. We have a duty to ensure our nation never forgets. We have a duty to teach our children so they will know what is at stake. Only then can they demand a future that is better and brighter than that of our past.
I look at my husband and hold his gaze. Today with words, we’ll try and shake the nation the same way we did with a handful of berries.
On the count of three…
Decades will pass but peace remains. Panem will refuse to forget the atrocities that led to the rebellion. New mistakes will certainly be made, but the nation will evolve past the horrors that plagued so many for so long. Hope will be borne into each new generation and stories will be passed down from parent to child.
And in the outlying district that sparked a revolution when an insignificant 16-year-old girl volunteered for her sister, children will listen to the story of their great, great grandmother and grandfather. They’ll hear their stories of bread, and birds, and berries - of fire, force fields, and warfare. They’ll learn even a child can change the world and that when all seems lost, with some faith and determination, hope is always just a bud on the verge of blossoming.
Many years ago, a beloved husband and wife entwined their aged limbs around each other, holding one another close as they took their final breaths.
Today, as the children listen and learn, two 50-foot trees watch from above. A faithful linden and a strong oak reach across the lawn with braided roots and tangled branches, unwilling to let the other go.
*Quotes from Mockingjay and The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins