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Chapter Text

Dawn has colored the horizon by the time I slip back under District 12’s fence. I crept out to the forest earlier than usual, but Peeta’s used to it. He probably got up not too long after me, now that he’s back on a baker’s schedule.

Today’s haul was decent: three squirrels, two rabbits, and an assortment of nuts, herbs, and berries I gathered from the forest. I keep the squirrels for myself, Peeta, and Haymitch to eat today, along with one rabbit for our dinner and some of the herbs Peeta asked for. The other rabbit, plus the herbs, nuts, and berries, will go to Greasy Sae and her granddaughter’s soup stall at the Hob.

After the bombing of Twelve and the end of the war five years ago, the Hob was rebuilt and brought back to life. It had always been the beating heart of the district, so naturally, everyone who came home gravitated to it. Still, there have been improvements to the building – it’s a lot cleaner, and no one was afraid of Peacekeeper raids anymore. And now that it’s a legitimate market for trading, the official merchant shops have to keep prices low to compete, especially as the supply of food, medicine, and other resources have gotten steadier in Twelve with each passing year.

It was one of the changes I liked most in the aftermath of the war.

There were a couple of customers eating when I arrived at Sae’s stall, who looked up from the bowls long enough to give me a nod of recognition before continuing with their meals. Since my trial, I’ve been keeping a low profile and the people of Twelve have given me space. Or rather, they kept me at a polite arm’s length, which suited me better than the emotional fervor I experienced during my time as the Mockingjay. Occasionally, I would run into people who wept at the sight of me, but those are few and far between.

Sae happily accepted my haul, offering me a hot bowl of chicken, carrot, and wild rice soup in return, which I declined. I always have my meals with Peeta, so I don’t get to eat much of Sae’s cooking anymore unless we head into town together.

“Is she doing well?” I asked, nodding at her granddaughter. She is around 11 or 12 years old, and can function well enough to help Sae with the business.

“Oh yes,” beamed Sae. “The hospital’s doctors have helped a lot with her condition.” Sae has been getting on in years, so her chief worry was that no one would look after her granddaughter when she was gone. Peeta and I have told her repeatedly that we would never let the girl starve, but it looks like the treatment helped relieve Sae’s fears.

Shortly after our first year back in Twelve, they broke ground on a new hospital along with the medicine factories that are keeping the district busy. My mother even visited us briefly when she came in from Four once to inspect the hospital’s developments. She lives with Annie and her son these days. Grief brought them all together, but they are well.

I bid Sae goodbye and headed over to the bakery, where I was greeted by the warm glow of the oven, freshly baked bread, and a flour-dusted Peeta.

“Morning,” said Peeta as he arranged the remaining breads on display. “Almost done here. Do you want a roll or two? It’ll help tide you over before breakfast.” He knows perfectly well how cranky I can be without food.

“Only if you’ll have one too,” I said, putting my gear down. He peers through the game bag. “Great, we can fry up the squirrels for lunch!”

“Do you need me to get anything else before we head back?” I asked him as we ate a fresh roll each. While Peeta does sell his baked goods for money, he does so at absurdly affordable prices to keep the district fed. Between our winnings from the Games, plus some reparations from the war, we’re pretty much set for life anyway and can easily cover the difference.

Peeta thinks for a moment, then writes a list of things we’re running low on: salt, soap, and so on. I get everything from the shops between the town square and the Hob, Peeta sells the last bit of bread for the morning, then we head back home to Victor’s Village.

He makes pancakes and fries up a few eggs while I skin the game, and soon we sit down to break our fast. I pour a healthy dollop of syrup I harvested and preserved from tree sap last spring on my pancakes.

It’s a quiet sort of day, which is always good. We follow a routine: Do the dishes, shower, and get all the other chores done. Sometimes, Peeta and I play a game to see who has to wake Haymitch up, deliver his breakfast, and help him feed his geese. I suspect Peeta let me win today, so he’s on Haymitch duty. Again.

After lunch, he goes back to the bakery so he can prepare tomorrow’s baked goods, and I go back into the woods to reset my snares and traps. Then, we’d have supper and work on the book before bed.

The nightmares remain, but they’re more bearable when we’re together. It’s been a few months since Peeta’s last attack, and I’ve stopped hiding in closets entirely. Progress can have its ups and downs, Dr. Aurelius says during our monthly calls, but he’s glad that we’re on course for something close to normal.

Tonight, however, Peeta and I were startled by a knock on our door shortly before dinnertime. He and I glanced at each other. We were folding laundry in the living room.

“Are you expecting anyone?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Not that I know of. You?”

My immediate world was Peeta and Haymitch. Sae, Thom, and the rest of the District don’t do social calls. “Nope.”

“I’ll get the door then.”

“Hi, Mr. Mellark,” I heard a young, cheerful voice. “May I come in?” Evidently, Peeta gave his assent and they exchanged how-do-you-dos and is-everything-well-with-yous.

Our guest peered into the living room. “Hello, Miss Everdeen!” A tall, well-built youth with curly brown hair and freckles bowed politely to me.

“Hi, Tallow,” I said. “I take it school’s done for the day?”

“‘Course, Ms. Everdeen! I’m not one to play hooky,” he beamed. That’s right, he was a pretty good kid.

Tallow’s parents moved from District 10 and took over the butcher’s shop after Rooba died. As part of Panem’s rebuilding efforts, families across districts were encouraged to relocate to other areas to boost industries and regrow populations.

A large group from District 3 in particular, came over to teach locals about medicine and pharmaceuticals. But really, there’s been at least one or two new faces from every district looking to take advantage of Panem’s mobility program. And with those families came their children, all of whom were healthier and better fed than any I had seen in my lifetime outside the Capitol.

I’d met Tallow when I worked with his older brother Tanner, who – true to his name – had a talent for working with leather. Together, they’d helped me patch up my father’s old hunting jacket and sold us sturdy boots last winter.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Tallow?” asked Peeta, shutting the door behind him. I handed Tallow a jar of cookies that Peeta kept stocked, to which he dug in happily. There was nothing quite like the appetite of a 15-year-old boy.

Tallow swallowed and his face turned red. “Well, the Harvest Festival is happening next week, Mr. Mellark. The school is hosting a fair where kids can work with people in the community to sell all sorts of things: hot cider and candied apples and stuff. It’s, uh, also supposed to be very romantic.”

Peeta chuckled. “Ah, is this about the girl you’ve been courting?” Peeta is well-versed in playground gossip. The bakery has become overrun by teens these days, who would flirt and make fun of their friends while picking up snacks after school. He tells me all about them when he gets home.

Tallow’s blush darkened. “Yes, sir, her name is Mayapple and she’s the best artist in our class. I’m here because,” he took a deep breath, “I’d like to commission a small cake for her.”

Peeta and I shoot glances at each other, trying our hardest not to laugh at how adorable Tallow was. He rambled on. “She stops by the bakery every day to look at your frosted cakes, so I’ve saved up a bit of my pocket money to get her one as a gift.”

“Well, I’d be happy to do it, Tallow – on two conditions. One, you don’t have to pay me.” Tallow looked like he wanted to hug Peeta right then. “Two, and this is important, you have to help me make the cake.”

Tallow nodded. “So it comes from my heart, ain’t that right?”

“Exactly. Drop by the bakery after school tomorrow so I can start teaching you how to make one. Now, would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Aw, thanks a bunch, Mr. Mellark. But I’ll pass on the dinner because my folks will miss me. I’ll see you tomorrow, though! Bye to you too, Miss Everdeen!”

“Get home safe,” I called out. He practically bounced out the door as Peeta waved him off.

I grinned at him, and he grinned back. “What?”

“You’re eager to help Tallow,” I observed casually. “Is there a particular reason why?” Grown men often approached Peeta for similar cake orders, but he has never offered to take on an apprentice before.

Peeta flushed. “I see a little of myself in Tallow,” he answered sheepishly, wrapping his arms around me. “I know what it’s like to be pining over a girl.” Against all odds, the soft, romantic side of Peeta survived the hijacking and the horrors of the war.

I tease him a little bit. “But it looks like Tallow has an idea of what to do.”

“Oh, I knew what to do,” Peeta smirked, and I relaxed further in our embrace. “After all, I succeeded in the end, didn’t I?” I refrain from commenting on the circumstances under which our relationship developed. “I just never had the courage to enact my grand courtship plans.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Which were?”

“Flowers, candy, love letters. The works.”

I think back on our relationship: lifesaving burnt bread, shocking public declarations of love, and primroses to memorialize my sister. “You’ve done more than enough,” I murmured, fingering the pearl he gave me, which I wore on a cord around my neck.

“Still,” pouted Peeta. “It’s not how I imagined doing it. I’d do it all if I had the chance.” We both chuckle at the notion. Here we were, twenty three years old and already living together, thinking about behaving like kids again — since we missed it the first time around.

Peeta’s eyes glittered as we came to the same conclusion. “Katniss Everdeen, do you want a proper courtship?”

For the next week, Peeta gives me all sorts of gifts: treats from the sweet shop, a rare purple flower I’ve never seen before, a sweet note tucked into my hunting boots. In exchange, I’m freer with my affection. We laugh ourselves hoarse reading the love letters and poems we write for each other, and it’s a nice break from our routine. I remember my parents, and how giddy they were when my father was still alive. I suppose it must have been something like this.

The day before the Harvest Festival, Peeta knocks on the door of our house with an autumnal bouquet: flowers, pine cones, and leaves in shades of red, orange, and golden yellow, which he arranged beautifully using his artist’s eye. He asks me to attend the fair with him, and I eagerly accept.

Haymitch catches the entire exchange from his porch, then hastily hobbles over to me to check my forehead for fever. I swat him away and scowl. He sighs exaggeratedly in mock relief, bringing Peeta close to tears with laughter. I give him a swat too.

At the school fair, Tallow, Tanner, and their friends run a stall with children’s games. I do particularly well throwing a ring over wooden pegs arranged at a distance, and Peeta has to drag me away because he’s afraid I’ll win all the prizes and no one else would get any.

In the end, we only keep a small leather pouch for Peeta’s coins, a carved ball for Buttercup to play with (he likely won’t), and a leather hair tie for myself. At the next table, students sold refreshments they learned to make at school.

Peeta and I have pumpkin pastries and cups of apple juice when I notice the rest of the district watching us. A few people smile or nod, but no one really approaches.

“Peeta,” I whisper to him. “Why is everyone staring at us?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers back. He takes my hand, and we walk over to a less crowded area, where we run into Thom. “It’s good to see you two out and about,” he says before turning back to visit his children at their tables.

“But we’re always out and about?” I ask Peeta, before I realize what Thom means. Usually, when we go into town, we’re always working or running errands. We’re friendly, but we generally keep to ourselves in Victor’s Village. And we definitely don’t do anything obviously romantic beyond holding hands.

Witnessing us play around like this must have meant something to our neighbors – the two star-crossed lovers who, after everything, have found peace and happiness at last. And if we, who have suffered so much, can heal after the war, then surely the rest of Panem can do the same.

Peeta shakes his head. “You still don’t know the effect you have.”

“You don’t know the effect you have, either,” I tell him, clutching his hand tightly. We turn to each other and I wonder what Peeta sees when he looks at me. I stare back at him, catching the threads of white in his blond hair, the burn marks on his body. His eyes, forever blue and framed by long, golden eyelashes, are fixed on me.

The spell is only broken when we hear a shrill cry of delight behind us. There stood Tallow, with a cake covered in soft pink, yellow, and white flowers. It wasn’t as perfectly done as it would have been had Peeta worked on it all by himself, but it had its own charm and clearly made an impact on the effusive Mayapple.

Peeta watches the scene with a contented look on his face, then tugs my hand. “Let’s go home, Katniss.”

It was, all in all, a very good day.

Chapter Text

Soon, the days grow colder in District 12. Peeta and I huddle together by the fire longer in the evenings. There’s a nip in the air that gives everyone – particularly those working at the factories – a nasty cold. When you compare it to the winters of my childhood, where half the district succumbed to starvation, a cold seemed like a trifle of a problem. Still, there was some alarm about how contagious and severe the virus might get.

We prepare by stocking up on wood, food, medicine, and other essentials. Our last winter before the war is tinged with unpleasant memories: the cruelty of the Peacekeepers, the intensifying rebellion, and even my own sprained ankle from the fall I took after getting over the electrified fence.

There’s no telling what the year's end would bring, so we collect supplies in case it gets too bad for the others. Plus, the merchants and the Hob traders are always happy for a bit of extra money their way.

As we came back from one of these shopping trips to town, we caught a strange and unfamiliar sight in Victor’s Village. Haymitch had a guest.

Peeta and I look at each other. Ordinarily, there wouldn’t be anyone at Haymitch’s door except for us and Thom’s older sons, who clean his house for extra pocket money. The man talking to Haymitch must have been eighty years old at least, wearing overalls and holding a fiddle case in his hand. I gasp in recognition.

“Do you know him?” asked Peeta.

“I don’t know his name, but he made it to District 13 after the bombing here,” I answered. “He played his fiddle at Finnick and Annie’s wedding.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. I squeeze Peeta’s hand. He always felt bad that he couldn’t attend their wedding, even though I point out how he made that beautiful cake for them while he was in recovery. Annie forgave Peeta and I for everything a long time ago, but I know well enough that the guilt never truly goes away.

I pull Peeta forward to eavesdrop on the conversation. The old man looked harmless, but Haymitch’s body was tense. It didn’t help that he was groggy with a hangover, and that all his geese were causing a ruckus.

“Geese?” asked the old man, looking mournfully at the flock wrecking havoc around them.

Haymitch gives him an acerbic smile. “They mate for life, you know,” he croaked.

“That they do,” replied the old man. They stare at each other, engaging in a wordless conversation until Haymitch finally drops his gaze to tuck his knife away.

“So why did you come back? Thought you stayed in Thirteen.”

The old man shook his head. “I’ve only just been allowed to leave. Didn’t want to feel buried ahead of my time.”

Haymitch snorted. “No, all Covey would hate that dark and cold underground they call a district.”

“That’s right. The old therebefore is calling to me, Haymitch,” said the old man solemnly. “You’re the last person who knows where my kin is buried. I’ve come to ask you to take me to them when I go, if you’re amenable.”

“Of course I will,” Haymitch looks affronted to even be asked.

The old man sighs and looks up at the sky. “Thank you. I’m the last of the Covey… I’ll be mighty glad to see them again.”

“Not quite the last,” smirked Haymitch, looking directly at me in the bushes where Peeta and I hid. Evidently, he knew we were there the whole time. “There’s Burdock’s daughter. You all right, sweetheart?”

I straighten up immediately. I haven’t heard my father’s name in years, not since that awful day at the Justice Building when I accepted his medal of valor for dying in a mine explosion.

The old man turned to look at me. “No one was really sure where you’d gone after everything that’s happened, but I suppose it makes the most sense for you to be back here too.”

Peeta steps forward, as though shielding me from this old man’s thoughtful gaze. It’s a credit to his unfailing politeness and charm that the old man doesn’t seem to be offended by the gesture, nor when Peeta asks for an introduction.

“My name is Clerk Carmine Clade,” he turned to me. “You might have never heard about the Covey, but you know our songs. You have our voice, and that pin of yours — our craftsmanship.”

Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut, as though trying to block his memories out. He told us a little about the Covey, once, when we were working on the book, but he never explained exactly how deeply I was connected to them.

We settle Clerk Carmine in one of Haymitch’s spare rooms, but at the other end of the hallway so he won’t be disturbed in case Haymitch has one of his episodes at night.
“It’s a good thing we splurged on the white liquor for Haymitch,” said Peeta, shrugging out of his coat as we entered our house. “Katniss?” he nudged me when I failed to respond.

Like Haymitch, I’m a little shaken by the arrival of Clerk Carmine. I’m not too sure if I’ll ever be ready to hear more about my father and his extended family. I tell Peeta as much, and he accepts this with a nod.

For the next few days, he takes charge in helping Clerk Carmine and Haymitch get comfortable at the other house. I say hello, drop off fresh game in the morning, and go about my day. One afternoon, however, Peeta needed to rush back to the bakery and asked me to help bring them lunch.

“I would do it, but…” he says, trailing off guiltily, but I wave him off. I can’t ignore Haymitch’s houseguest forever anyway.

Clerk Carmine keeps himself busy by watching the geese, but sometimes, he plays his fiddle and the music haunts me. Folk songs, mountain airs, ballads. Some are familiar, while some become new favorites. I think back to my childhood, and how much my father would have loved to hear these songs.

He’s playing a sprightly melody when I bring them lunch, though Haymitch doesn’t seem to hear a thing, passed out as he was on the kitchen table. “Thank you,” smiles Clerk Carmine as I hand him the tray Peeta prepared: a fresh loaf of wheat bread and a warm porridge with corn in it.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, feeling conscious that this is my first time approaching him for more than five seconds since he arrived. “I just don’t know what to say.”

He nods in understanding. “That’s all right. We don’t have to talk.” I struggle to sit with this. His music brought back some memories I’ve long stored away and — memories! The word sparks something in my mind.

“Oh, wait a moment, please,” I said, rushing out to fetch something from our house. I return with the memory book that Peeta and I have worked on diligently since our homecoming, and pass it to Clerk Carmine. He looks through it, asking me questions about one thing or another. I beam when he praises the sketches, the colors.

“Peeta works on this with me,” I explained.

“Ah, Peeta. He’s a good one.”

“Yes, he is.”

“And you seem happy together, after everything,” Clerk Carmine stares wistfully out the window, where the lacy little snowflakes start falling down, coating our world in white. “There’s nothing like finding a soulmate, huh?”

“A soulmate?” I ask, unfamiliar with the concept. Truth be told, it sounded kind of cheesy.

“The old poems and songs talk about it a lot, how a soulmate is the person whose soul aligns with yours. Sure, you’re still supposed to work on loving them, but it should be easy and natural and all that.”

Unbidden, my mind wanders to Gale, with all the difficulty and arguments we’d had, and how ultimately, we could never fit together the way I fit with Peeta. Okay, maybe I can see where the old poets got it.

“Did you have one?” I asked Clerk Carmine quietly.

He nods his wizened head. “I did, but I lost him a long time ago.”

I’m well-versed with the feeling of loss, so I reach out to give his hand a squeeze. He seems to understand what I mean.

“I hope you and Peeta get to have a long, happy life together,” he said after a while. I don’t need to tell him that I have the same wish. We sat in silence watching the snowflakes dance until I saw Peeta walking by, and then I bid Clerk Carmine goodbye.

“Hey,” I said, meeting him at the door. Peeta turns and smiles at me, our mutual exhaustion melting away. “How was the bakery?”

It was a false alarm, he explained. Some of the kids who liked to hang out around the bakery noticed something was wrong with the garbage cans out back, and one of them ran to tell Peeta, thinking it might have been a burglary.

After looking around, they found a raccoon pawing through scraps at the shop next door. Of course, Peeta still had to reward his well-meaning, if mistaken, informants with fresh pastries. I chuckle at the story, imagining Peeta leading a group of teens to investigate the commotion, only to find an uncommonly heavy animal going through the trash.

He relaxes when I laugh and eyes the memory book tucked under my arm. “The visit went well, then?” he deduced. I nod and gently brush off the snowflakes in his hair. He leans forward to kiss me, and we keep each other warm until Buttercup yowls for his dinner.

—

The winter keeps us busy, even when a snowstorm forces us indoors for most of it. Clerk Carmine looks over our memory book and shares the details we missed, particularly about the Covey and District 12. Haymitch, to our surprise, recounts stories along with him, and in a strange way, it helps them both.

By the time spring rolls in, we are eager for a warm breeze and fresh food. The stress of feeling stuck at home gets to both Peeta and I. My mind races to all the times I’ve felt some kind of claustrophobia: field trips to the mines, the catacombs before the Games, my stay in District 13, the underground siege in the Capitol and so on. Everything becomes a potential setting for my nightmares, which come in full force.

Peeta, on the other hand, fights off a flashback before bedtime for the first time in months. We toss and turn together, but eventually, we give up and accept that neither of us will feel well-rested in the morning. I was trudging along the Meadow with bleary eyes and a yawn, when I looked down at my feet and spotted them: dandelions. Their golden heads peeked up from the green grass and bade me hello.

Instinctively, I knew what I needed to do and ran to fetch Peeta before he could get to work.

Two hours later, we arrived at the lake with a basket of food, my bow and arrows, his art supplies, and little else. Peeta closed the bakery for the day, but left a tray of rolls with Sae for the hungry.

“This is kind of like that afternoon we had to ourselves before the Quarter Quell,” he said as we unpacked our spread of bread, cheese, fried ham, and sliced apples. I recall our picnic at the Training Center’s rooftop and how relaxed we both felt.

“You’re right,” I said, dipping my toes into the lake as I bit into my sandwich. I figured we both needed a break from our routine, and maybe the hike coming here and back will help us sleep better tonight. “That’s a rare happy memory for both of us, don’t you think?”

“Even when we both thought we were going to die?” he smiled, brushing away a bread crumb from the corner of my lip.

“Especially because we were both planning to die. We were free to do whatever we wanted.”

“Which was to be together.”

“Exactly.”

Peeta looks at me like I said something funny. “Katniss… Did you already love me then?”

I look at everything but him: the clouds, the lake, our feet in the water. I took so long to reply that Peeta starts muttering about me teaching him how to swim again, and he’s shocked when the “Yes” flies out of my mouth.

“Wait, did you just say yes?” his blue eyes are nearly bursting out of his face in wonder, and I stifle a laugh at his expression.

“Do you remember when we got back from the first Games?” He nodded. “I was really confused because our situation got so complicated. But I think my feelings for you became real when we started working on the plant book together.”

There were a lot of moments when my feelings for Peeta ran deeper than I expected, but it was those peaceful months cooped up together without an audience that made me realize how much I enjoyed being with him. No expectations; we were just ourselves.

“I felt happy and content, even when my foot was all bound up and you had to carry me everywhere. I’m glad we live that way now,” I added, feeling the tips of my ears turn red. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you too.” We bask in the truth for a minute until Peeta blurts out, “I think we should get married.”

“Okay, when?” I lean back languidly, taking in the sight of Peeta whipping his neck around like an owl to see whether I was joking or serious.

“Is it that easy?” exclaims Peeta, hands shaking in excitement and surprise. I look at him and shrug. We’ve been living together for the past few years; we were pretty much a married couple already.

“Well, yeah it’s that easy. Who else would I marry?” I tease him. He’s beyond caring as he pulls me in for a hug. “I thought I would have had to beg you to agree,” he murmured.

“You weren’t too thrilled the first time I proposed getting engaged,” I reminded him and he looked sheepish. “Haymitch said it’s because you wanted it to be real. I wasn’t too excited about not having a choice, either. But I choose you now, Peeta. You’re my only future.”

I feel Peeta smile against my hair. “And you say you’re bad with words. But yes, Katniss, I choose you too.” We break apart and our eyes land on the bread at the same time, before glancing at each other.

“No time like the present,” he said, pulling me up and taking the loaf with him. We collect firewood and head over to the cabin. Afterwards, we had just enough time to get back home before the sun started to set.

Peeta and I walk back giddily; he never lets go of my hand.

“We’re going to have to do it all over again,” I warned him. “After we sign the papers at the Justice Building, everyone in town will want to sing us over the threshold.”

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing,” grinned Peeta. “Now, who should we tell first?”

I snort. “Isn’t it obvious?” We go directly to Haymitch’s house, where we receive his and Clerk Carmine’s congratulations. “About time,” said Haymitch gruffly, clapping Peeta’s shoulder. It looked like he was trying not to tear up, but since he seemed genuinely happy for us, I didn't call him out on it.

Over the phone, both my mother and Annie had the same sentiments as Haymitch. Were they – Peeta included – just waiting for some kind of sign that I was ready? I try not to be annoyed at the implication that I’m the last hurdle Peeta needed to overcome for marriage. In any case, we promise to arrange a visit soon.

I then allow myself to wonder what Prim would say if she was here, and a pang of pain overcomes all other emotions. I sit by the evening primroses at the side of the house as night falls and imagine her telling her the news. Peeta eventually finds me. “Cold feet?” he asks, joining me on the ground. “Couldn’t find you in your usual hiding places.”

I shake my head. “No, never. It’s just that… I never thought about marrying. Now, here I am and Prim doesn’t get to see it.” I close my eyes and grieve my sister, forever frozen at fourteen while I start to grow into wrinkles and gray hair.

“I’m sure she’s happy for you, wherever she is,” Peeta replies, tucking me into his side. “I just hope she’s okay with you choosing me.”

“Oh, she always knew I loved you,” I say, reassuring him. “When you were hijacked, she told me to hold onto the Peeta-who-loves-me, the one she knew was still in there,” I poke his chest and he laughs. “I’m happy I get to be her brother-in-law too,” he declares, gently running a hand over the primroses.

The next day, we pull out some of our finer clothes from storage: a crisp white shirt and pair of forest green trousers for Peeta, and a light orange dress with a flowing skirt that sits just past the knees for me — wedding gifts from Portia and Cinna, we think. Given my past experiences, I never wanted to wear a white wedding dress ever again.

Naturally, word spreads and by the time we make it back from the Justice Building, neighbors and friends have flocked to our house. Sae took the liberty of preparing food for everyone, and her granddaughter took the lead with the singing as we crossed the threshold and toasted. Peeta even brought out a small cake he somehow found the time to prepare, which was frosted with a variety of yellow flowers.

“Let’s hope this doesn’t get back to Plutarch,” whispers a remarkably clean and sober Haymitch to us, and I choke out a laugh. “Wouldn’t want those cameras back here.”

Soon, Clerk Carmine struck up tune after tune on his fiddle. Much like Annie and Finnick’s wedding, those who were able came together for a dance in our backyard, where Thom and his boys got a bonfire going. We were persuaded to dance too, and managed to maneuver through the steps with Peeta’s artificial leg.

The moon shone brightly and, from afar, I could have sworn I saw fireflies at a distance. Maybe they were our deceased loved ones joining in with the celebration. I think of the last time I danced with Prim in Thirteen, and a sigh escapes me. My husband, ever observant, asks me about my distress.

“I wish she could be here, that’s all.” No need to explain who.

“Me too. I couldn’t stop thinking about Prim after we talked about her last night. So, I kind of put her on the cake.” I stared at him quizzically until he dragged me over to inspect his creation more closely. The yellow flowers were an assortment of dandelions, rue, and yes, evening primroses, to name a few.

“Oh, Peeta,” I could have wept. “Thank you. I didn’t even notice it earlier. When did you find the time to make it?”

He rubbed his neck wearily. “Believe it or not, I snuck out of bed before you got up to work on this. Sometimes, the insomnia pays off.”

I touch his cheek and he leans into my hand, clearly ready to sleep. “Maybe it’s time to make a speech and send them home?”

He agrees and we walk back into the party together, ready to bid everyone thank you and good night.

Chapter Text

Shortly after the wedding, Clerk Carmine passed away in his sleep and entered what he called the sweet old hereafter.

Haymitch led the funeral procession, bearing Clerk Carmine’s ashes in an urn, with Peeta and I trekking after him through the woods. Further and further, well past the lake, was a secluded grove that seemed visible only to Haymitch.

“We worked on his gravestone before he died,” he explained, leaning on a tree for support as he caught his breath. Haymitch had already struggled with his endurance when we trained like Careers during the Quarter Quell, but the years, the war, and the drink have taken more from him since.

Peeta and I examine the gravestone – a warm, reddish brown rock, with unfamiliar words etched into it. Haymitch tells us the inscription is a line from Clerk Carmine’s name poem, written in a language older than Panem, and that it was about a man named Clerk who was in love with someone he had no business being in love with, and that it ends in his death.

“The Covey are always named after sad poems,” mused Haymitch quietly, dusting off a gray rock speckled in pink and purple.

Peeta and I sense his need for a moment to mourn and excuse ourselves to pick flowers. When we return, we place little bouquets on all the graves. Haymitch nods in approval and starts walking back to Twelve without a word.

Summer soon rolls around, and my body seems to remember that the Games used to happen during this time. I watch the news anxiously, as I do every year since the war ended, half-expecting them to announce another reaping.

Peeta sits in front of the television set with me as I fiddle with the pearl around my neck, but the only reports we receive are about food prices and rebuilding efforts. On July 4th, the day that would have been the 80th Hunger Games, we celebrate Haymitch’s birthday with a layered apple-cake.

“Tastes a lot like my Ma used to make,” said Haymitch gruffly, which is thanks enough for Peeta, who had wheedled and begged Haymitch for six months to describe exactly what kind of cake he’d like, and then spent the next six months experimenting with the recipe to get it right.

Towards the afternoon, right when I was starting to think we were well past danger, the phone in our house starts to ring.

“Hello? Who is this?” I asked as I picked up the phone. It wasn’t the day that Dr. Aurelius was scheduled to check-in on us.

“Katniss?” asked a familiar voice with a Capitol accent. “It’s Effie. I wanted to wish Haymitch a happy birthday, but he isn't picking up the phone at his house. I’m assuming he’s with you?”

She says this matter-of-factly, as though she has always greeted him on this day. I didn’t even know that Effie knew when Haymitch was born, but I guess she must have learned it at some point, given her long tenure with our district.

I glanced at Peeta, who was busy tucking Haymitch into our couch. I’d be living in a bottle of white liquor too, if I had been born on Reaping Day. “Uh, he’s indisposed right now.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll greet him some other time. Listen, Katniss, I also called for something else.”

Here we go, I thought. This is when the other shoe finally drops.

“I’d like to invite you three to the Capitol next week. I’ve been working with a foundation to help build memorials in memory of the children who died in the Games. I’d like for all the living Victors to see what we have so far and fill in any gaps we missed.”

Effie then explains something about train rides and private tours, but I’m not fully listening to her because I’m still trying to wrap my mind around her invitation.

“Memorials for the dead…?” I repeat, sounding a little stupid, even to myself. Effie seems to have recovered some of herself back after the war, since she repeats herself in a slightly impatient way.

Effie’s foundation is embarking on a project to remember every tribute in the Games, as part of a bigger initiative to grieve and memorialize rebels who fought and died for the new, free Panem.

“It’s a chance for the Victors to tell their stories,” Effie added.

“I know President Paylor pardoned me, but can I even leave Twelve?” I ask her, skeptical about the limitations of my freedom and unsure whether I wanted to participate at all.

“I’ve made special arrangements for you,” replied Effie, making it clear that I don’t have much room to wiggle out of her request. At some point during our conversation, she gets me to write down details of our itinerary and schedule on a notepad, which I dutifully hand over to Peeta before heading out into the woods to shoot my stress away.

“What if it’s a trap?” I murmured against Peeta’s chest when I got home. “I don’t want us to go back there to relive the worst experiences of our lives.”

“No, I don’t want to go back either,” Peeta replied with a resigned sigh. “But if we don’t see it for ourselves, how can we be sure that it’s all well and truly over? That everything has changed for good?”

He has a point there. I can’t be cowering every summer for the rest of my life. At least, not to the same degree as now. And maybe, there was a little part of me aching to go. To honor dead allies and enemies alike. None of us ever deserved any of this.

“Only question is how we’re supposed to bear it,” Peeta closes his eyes and he suddenly looks much older than his years. “I’m not sure if I can handle being back there without having some kind of breakdown.”

I embrace Peeta tightly. I can’t imagine how horrified he must be to return to where he was tortured, nearly lost his sanity, and almost died countless times.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I said hoarsely. “I’d rather die before I let them take you away again.”

“I don’t think that’s what Effie has in mind for us, Katniss, though it’s sweet of you to be so fierce about protecting me” he said, somewhat amused because he’s literally cocooning me in his arms at the moment. “Look, if I need it, just… play Real or Not Real with me, okay? It helps.”

Soon, we were packed for our trip out of Twelve for the first time in years. Peeta refused to let me bring my bow and arrows, but he did let me bring a length of rope so I can make knots the way Finnick taught me. He also didn’t allow Haymitch to bring any alcohol. “Knowing the Capitol trains and Effie, they probably have something stocked for you.”

For the once in my life, I am dressed as myself when I board the train out of the District. I wear my father’s hunting jacket for good luck, along with a soft pair of boots and my old cap, which I figured would help conceal my face if needed.

The train is still the one they use for tributes, which isn’t exactly comforting. However, there were some changes: fewer servers, plainer food, and stops at every District to pick passengers up. We kept to ourselves in the train car at the back, avoiding contact with anyone but the staff Effie had assigned for us until we reached District Four.

Here, we met my mother, Annie, and her son at the platform. The train would stop for an hour to refuel, so Peeta and I stayed to chat with my mom and get some fresh air before boarding again. Haymitch helps Annie and her boy with their luggage and shows them around the train. I think he wanted to avoid my mother, though they greeted each other politely earlier.

My mom holds me for a long time, remarking on how much I’ve grown and changed. “But I’d recognize you anywhere in those clothes, Katniss,” she said with a sad smile as she caressed my cheek. She gives Peeta a hug as well. “It’s wonderful to see you two looking well together.”

They chat a bit about how she’s doing in Four, when my attention is drawn back to the conversation by a question from my mom.

“And will you be having children soon?” she asked us, taking in how our fingers are laced together. As always, Peeta saves me from the need to reply.

“Well, I’d like to have some eventually, but it’s really up to Katniss,” he says simply. “I’m happy to be with her regardless, Mrs. Everdeen.”

It’s the same answer he gave during the discussion we had when we first started sharing a bed. And I know for a fact that he says the same thing to everyone else who asks – which had been the entirety of District 12, right after we got married.

“What, are we like District 13 where the population was eliminated by the pox? Are we trying to increase the number of people in Panem right after the war?” I once complained to him, annoyed at all the busybodies looking for signs of pregnancy on my body. Peeta just laughed and reassured me that they’re all curious, but that there’s no real pressure to have a baby.

During the Quarter Quell, my one dream for the future was a world where Peeta’s child could be safe. Now, the mother of that child could only be me and I’m not sure how ready I am for that.

We spent the rest of the hour talking about everything else: my mom’s job, the wedding, the bakery, and so on. Everything but her. She lingers between us, however, and right before I step on the train, I take my mom’s hands in mine. “We planted evening primroses for her at the house.”

My mom’s eyes were teary as she brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I’m sure that wherever she is, she’s happy you’re happy, Katniss. Live as well as you can, okay?”

I feel numb on the train until Annie’s son walks over to me and hands me a piece of saltwater taffy from his pocket. I thank him and catch a good look at his dazzling eyes, so very like Finnick’s, as he rushes back to Annie’s lap.

“He’s very good at sensing emotions,” says Annie softly, running a hand through his hair. “He helps calm me down when I need it.”

“Are you ever afraid of all the things that could happen to him?” I blurt out, fully aware of Peeta’s eyes trained on me.

Annie smiles reassuringly. “I’m scared all the time,” she admits. “And I always wish Finnick could be with us, but… It’s okay. Watching him grow up healthy brings me joy.” I contemplated her words that evening, wondering what it’s like to raise a child in a world without the Hunger Games, who will never know the fear of being reaped. The idea soothes me to sleep, and Peeta and I have a precious, uninterrupted night of rest.

We pull into the last station the next day at noon. The Capitol has changed since the end of the war. Its candy colored buildings became more muted, while the appearance of its citizens were far less garish. Resources were put under tighter controls, and there was a campaign a few years back for the more influential residents to promote modest lifestyles, so there were fewer appalling wigs, clothing, and cosmetics all around.

Plus, it helped that there was an influx of people from other districts into the city, which meant those who were born into the Capitol had a bit more exposure to the way the rest of us lived and dressed. The result was a more subdued sense of style – something Cinna himself would have approved.

A familiar face meets us at the station. “It’s good to see you, brainless,” said Johanna, looking even better than when I last saw her. She wore a deep blue shirt tucked into a flowing pair of pants, and her hair had grown out again. We take turns greeting her and she coos over Finnick and Annie’s son.

“Don’t worry, if any of you suddenly have a crazy spell, I’ll have someone sedate you at once,” she promises us as we pile into an awaiting car. I glare at her from the backseat, but she smiles brightly and reminds me she’s not supposed to censor her thoughts.

We arrived at an old, but no less magnificent, building made of marble and granite, where we were met by the unlikeliest assembly of people: Effie Trinket, Beetee, Enobaria, and a young woman named Livy, who introduced herself as a curator and an archivist.

“It’s lovely to see you, Katniss,” murmured Effie as I kissed her on the cheek. She looks solemn but more grounded than the last time I saw her. Enobaria gives us a cool nod; there’s no love gained or lost there.

Beetee shakes our hands and he shoots me a regretful look. “Volts and I have been helping destroy the arenas,” whispered Johanna. “He’s sorry for how his bombs were used in the end.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “I’m sorry too.” Effie lets Livy explain how they’re organizing memorials for all the children who participated in the Hunger Games and for all those who died for the revolution. They plan to create huge memorial stones in each District to help them remember the names of the dead, as well as what they call a museum here in the Capitol, which will store artifacts and documents related to the war.

“It’s taking time and a lot of resources, but we’re working on destroying all the arenas, the mutts, and the labs built for the Games,” said Livy, somewhat apologetically.

Peeta asks how many arenas have been destroyed so far. “Our goal is to destroy five arenas per year, and while there have been a few delays here and there, we’re on track to finish it on time,” replied Livy.

To hear that 30 of 75 arenas were already destroyed in such a short time is impressive. Our group develops a sudden respect for Livy and Effie’s team.

“How’d you pull that off?” asked Haymitch.

“We get a lot of volunteers,” Livy replied, pointing to Beetee and Johanna, who mimed using an axe. I imagine her attacking the arenas and chopping up everything she can before they are bombed into oblivion, and a smile creeps into my face. Small wonder that Johanna has gotten so chipper.

“Anyway, we asked you to come over because we thought it would be a good idea for you all to talk about your experiences,” continued Livy. “As you can imagine, there are some inconsistencies with the records, and so we want to confirm some facts with you to get a clearer picture of your time during the Games. You are, after all, the only living Victors left.”

Peeta, Haymitch, and I look at each other. It’s a rare occasion that anyone from the Capitol ever acknowledged the true horrors of what we faced at their hands. I glanced at Annie, who was chewing on her lip. Even she seemed skeptical about this proposal.

“Is this a propo?” asked Peeta with trepidation.

“Oh no,” Livy was quick to clarify. “The clips will help form the exhibit here, and the angle will be purely educational. You’ll also be allowed to approve or reject whatever we film.”

“It’s a chance to help younger people understand what happened and prevent them from happening again,” said Effie softly. Surprisingly, Haymitch decides to go first, and it’s settled that we’ll start after lunch.

We’re brought to a dining hall for a quick lunch of warm, buttery steamed fish on baby potatoes and peach slices in cream. It was delicious, but having limited food options for a Capitol meal is a far cry from the excessive feasts they used to serve back then.

While Haymitch talks to Livy in another room, Effie puts the rest of us to work with her team of students who were trying to earn university credit. Our task was to help them identify who owned or used which objects during the Games.

They’ve collected a vast number of items: bloodstained weapons, worn-out survival gear, even posters from earlier Victory Tours. I spy one from the 11th Hunger Games, which featured a picture of a curly-haired young woman and the name Mags Flanagan in bold letters. I’m about to point it out to Peeta when Annie gasps and starts to sob.

I turn to see what she’s looking at and nearly fall to my knees as well. Behind a glass case was Finnick’s trident from the Quarter Quell, and I can almost smell the blood and seawater from it. Annie’s son isn’t totally sure about why his mother is suddenly having an attack, but he and Johanna are quick to help her. There is no judgment nor pity from anyone, only understanding.

Peeta clutches my hand tightly as he tells one of the students about where the trident came from. Notes are jotted down with a few questions asked, and we move on from this hallway into another one.

I don’t dare linger too long in this new room, but a framed photo catches my eye. Between a muddied orange backpack and a dress made out of feathers was a group photo of medic trainees from Thirteen. I trace the name written on the temporary label: Primrose Everdeen. I make a mental note to ask Effie for a copy later.

“I think we ought to leave,” I mutter to Peeta, who’s staring at the golden locket he used as a token for the Quell behind a display case. He seems to be in a daze and I gently pull him away, unsure how the students would react in case he has a flashback. One of the students, apparently trained to handle unstable guests, guides us over to sit on a smooth white bench where we catch our breaths.

“Wait,” I said, pointing to a small, gold circle winking in the middle of the room. “I want to talk about that one.”

“The mockingjay pin was never mine to begin with,” I start, closing my eyes. “It belonged to my friend, Madge Undersee, who gave it to me as my token. She told me her aunt, Maysilee Donner, once owned it. Maysilee was also a tribute in the Games.”

“But it wasn’t the token she brought,” interjected Haymitch, suddenly appearing at the door. “And she hated that thing.” For the second time today, Haymitch shocks us by offering information. He even tells the student about who made the pin and under what circumstances.

“You two go in for that interview with Livy and Effie. I’ll take this room,” he said, all mentor-like for the first time in over half a decade. “The faster we get this done, the earlier I can be back home to drink.”

Peeta and I do slightly better when filming the propo, since Livy doesn’t ask us to recount all the tragic specifics. Still, it takes us a while to go through her questions; undoubtedly, we will be fighting off dead tributes, soldiers, and Avoxes in our nightmares later tonight.

We finish our segments by the evening, then we are brought to stay at apartments on the upper floors of the museum. For our privacy, Effie says. She also requests for my favorite lamb stew to be served in the room I share with Peeta. “All that’s missing is your speech about not letting them change you,” I comment to him, who groans exhaustedly.

The next morning, we break our fast with fresh toast and eggs until we are summoned down to the museum. Effie and Livy show us a picture of what the memorial stones will look like on a computer screen. Each giant stone slab will feature one district, and all the names are organized from the very first Games until the last. Haymitch squints at the slab from Eleven and asks them to add a missing name for what he called a bonus tribute. Livy then asks us to review the clips we filmed yesterday, and finally, a photo is taken of us as a group.

We’re emotionally worn out by the time we board the train back, with Johanna seeing us off and promising to call. Peeta and I are slumped over each other, watching the city roll by through the window when Haymitch sits across us. Annie and her son retired to bed the moment we got into the train car.

“Victors never really leave this train,” he reminds us. “But maybe next time, you’ll ride it because you’re bringing kids to see those memorials, and not accompanying them to fight for their lives.” He leaves us to ponder this as he heads to his room, a bottle of wine from Effie tucked under one arm.

We bid Annie goodbye when we reach Four the next day. I embrace her and pat her son’s head, and she promises to write to us. I also asked her to take care of my mom, which she said she’s happy to do.

It takes us a few days to get back into the rhythm of our regular routine when we arrive home. Sae instructs Tanner to bring Buttercup to us one afternoon, with a message not to leave him with her next time because he made mischief at her soup stall. Tallow and Mayapple tag along, and the teens feast on the fresh cheese buns Peeta brings out from the oven.

“We sure missed your baking, Mr. Mellark,” said Tallow as he chewed through his fourth bun. Peeta laughs and hands him another one.

Mayapple, who had been fairly quiet since arriving, suddenly stands up. “Um, we actually wanted to thank you both. For always feeding us and stuff.” She digs around her leather satchel for a folder and hands it to us. Out slides a creamy, thick sheet of paper, and on it is a watercolor of us dancing at our wedding.

“Oh!” exclaims Peeta, clearly impressed. “Mayapple, this is good work.”

I nod fervently in agreement. I’m no expert in art, but she rendered us so lovingly in layers of soft orange and green that I chime in with the compliments. “Thank you, Mayapple. I’m going to frame this for our living room.”

Mayapple fights, and fails, to keep the blush off her face. “I-I’m really happy you like it!”

“She’s been working on it for a while now,” Tallow puts an arm around her. “She just couldn’t find the right time to give it.” Mayapple hastily removes his arm from her shoulder and they bicker until it’s time to leave. I shoot a sympathetic look at Tanner, who smiles and shakes his head as he closes the door behind him.

Later, Peeta and I go out to the Meadow for a picnic before sunset. I figured that whenever we’re having a hard time, it helps for us to take these little breaks together. We ate our meat pies in silence until I couldn’t bear it anymore.

“Peeta, if you want children so badly, why do you never ask me for them?”

He raises an eyebrow but answers me anyway. “Because I know better than to force you into doing anything you don’t want to do?” he offers.

That’s fair. “Well, I’m not ready to have them now, but I’m not completely closed off to the idea either, so you have to keep asking me, okay?”

A hopeful smile blooms all over Peeta’s face. “Okay, I’ll keep on waiting and asking, then, if that’s what you want.”

I nod, then quickly look away. The dandelions are growing all over the Meadow now and I pluck one from where I sat. “I’ve also invented a new game we can play. Something like Real or Not Real.”

Peeta accepts the dandelion from my hand and blows a wish with it. “What sort of game?”

I explain how I’m now trying to remember every kind deed I’ve ever seen someone do. Somehow, going through that museum helped me realize that, since I’m unlikely to run out of bad memories, I should try countering them with happier ones instead. Maybe I’ll end up with a museum of goodness in my head, and that might be a better alternative to making knots on my old rope.

“Count me in,” says Peeta, leaning us back on the grass. “I’ll play with you.”