The Hunger Games: Continued

Bread and Trees

Katniss' POV

Five years later...

It wasn't torture. I know what that feels like.
It was an emotional rollercoaster. I'd never really understood the phrase before — my life had always been flatlined cynicism, steady and sharp. But this? One moment my head rested on Peeta's shoulder, rain trailing down the patio doors, the fire crackling, his steady hand warm against my bump. Our child.

The next moment, I was under the blur of the showerhead, clawing at the curtain, tears mixing with the spray, desperate to keep the baby safe and myself sane. There's nothing quite like it — I'd been right to hesitate. A pain as old as life itself, one countless women have endured before me. I never thought I couldn't do it. If I had, I wouldn't be here.

Peeta kept me strong. Through it all — both times. The second wasn't easier, not really, but at least I knew the shape of it. Or maybe nature insists on forgetfulness. Haymitch kept watch when Peeta worked — drinking, nagging, caring more than he let on. It was always the three of us, strange as that sounds. I might have been the leading lady, but I wasn't alone.

And then there was her. My bump. My baby. My Willow. My favourite tree, the one I passed each morning I fought to keep Prim and myself alive. The tree that bore witness to my arrows, my hunger, my grief. My Willow who doesn't have to bear the weight of her namesake, doesn't have to starve or fight to keep a sibling alive. My Willow whose father bakes "the best bread ever!" and who has a mother who will not leave her helpless, no matter what.

"My father never stood up for me," Peeta once confessed. "Never said a word when my mother hurt me. My brothers didn't save me. I had no one. Except my grandfather. Strong, kind, funny, smart. His name was Rye." He'd told me that with such light in his face that I knew we'd chosen right when we named our son after him.

Now they play in the meadow: the dark-haired girl with blue eyes dancing, the blond boy with grey eyes chasing, tripping on chubby legs. It took years for me to relent — five, ten, fifteen. But Peeta wanted them so badly. And the truth is, when I first felt her stir inside me, terror consumed me — a terror as ancient as life itself. Only the joy of holding her eased it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

The questions have only begun. The arenas are gone, the memorials built, but they still teach the Games at school. Willow already knows we had a part in them. Rye will, soon. How do I tell them? How do I explain that their parents' nightmares were once reality, without frightening them beyond repair?

I'll tell them about the song — the one they take for granted:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow...

I'll tell them they play on a graveyard, but that it's also a meadow. That life still grows where death once ruled. Peeta says it will be okay. That we'll make them understand, not just with the book, but with the way we love them. I'll have to explain the nightmares. Why they came. Why they never truly leave. And I'll tell them how I survive it: by making a list, every morning, of every act of kindness I've seen. It's repetitive. Tedious, even. But there are worse games to play.

There is no "happily ever after." There is no after. There is only now. And now is as good as it will ever be.

Peeta looks at me. I look at him.
I love.
And I love.

The End.