Willow and Rye
At age seven, I decided I didn't want kids. My goal in life wasn't to watch my children starve to death in District 12 or watch them fight to the death with kids who are much bigger and stronger than they are.
Of course, my husband disagreed.
"The Hunger Games are over," he pleaded with me several times, "There's barely any food shortages now."
That went on for years. I had been stuck to my plan for over a decade then, and it was hard to let go.
I finally said I wanted kids when we were walking back to our house after Greasy Sae's granddaughter's small birthday party. Peeta was so happy he suddenly picked me up and swung me around, setting me down laughing, even though I was incredibly scared.
My pregnancy absolutely terrified me. I was always catching myself wondering if this was the right choice. If our children would be happy.
Peeta reassured me hundreds of times that they wouldn't grow up the way we grew up. "Our kids will never have to worry," he promised.
Our daughter was born on a warm spring morning, the kind of day that just made me want to climb a tree and enjoy the view. Her name, we decided, was Willow. After the tall tree I had spent hours under as a child.
I thought it would be the hardest thing I ever had to do, holding my child. But she looked up at me with her blue eyes, her father's blue eyes and I was in love.
We spent a few years with just the three of us. Willow was a very happy toddler, always smiling.
When she was three years old, her brother came along.
As soon as he was born, my son had that hard look I always had in my eyes. He was definitely going to be a hunter.
His name was Rye. Rye, the blond curls and gray eyes. Willow, the dark hair and blue eyes.
Those were my children. Willow and Rye. My daughter and my son.
Peeta was thankfully right. Our little family never went hungry. My children didn't have to spend every year in a panic that they would be chosen at the Reaping.
They knew about the Hunger Games, sure. It was a regular topic at the school, the story of the wretched Capitol who made kids fight to the death. And the thousands of people who had died to stop it.
Willow and Rye both knew that their parents were key points in the huge battle, but not how much both of us had to sacrifice.
I remember when Rye had just started school and had heard about the Hunger Games. He wanted to know every little detail that we knew.
Of course, my eight-year-old daughter overheard and soon joined in the protests to hear the stories.
Peeta had given me a look like, It's okay, I'll handle this. He scooped our kids up in his lap and started to explain.
He didn't go into much detail as we didn't want our son and daughter to be woken up screaming the way we did.
Instead, he told them simpler stories, like our very first kiss or when we were lit on fire for the opening ceremonies.
This continued for three or four years. Biweekly, Willow and Rye would join him in the living room, and he'd tell the same old stories that they loved to hear. I always had to leave the room during these sessions. I'd lived this tale and didn't want to experience it a second time.
Eventually, they got bored of the stories and started to create their own adventures. That was about the time Rye started begging me to teach him how to hunt. The first time I handed him a bow and a quiver of arrows, his body literally shuddered.
His sister couldn't be more different. While Rye spent his days in the woods, Willow much rather enjoyed curling up with a good book, painting or playing the violin. He tripped over every single thing he came in contact with and she just nimbly leaped over an astray object or a sprawling tree root. She reminded me so much of Prim, sometimes it hurt to look at her.
They still got along well though, which we were grateful for. My children protected each other which was sometimes a little odd since we were supposed to be the ones protecting them.
My little girl grew into a diplomat who could talk a baker out of making bread. My baby boy grew into a strong fighter who could handle a knife, spear or bow with ease. They both had Peeta's heart though. That sense of selflessness I could never quite seem to duplicate. I was so thankful that they weren't sullen and never mumbled and stared at their shoes while talking.
Willow and Rye were all grown up and it stung to say the least. Our kids were no longer dependent on their mother and father to take care of them and provide for them.
Willow was a teacher at the school. Rye started an after-school program where he would teach kids archery. They had families of their own, families that would come visit every month or so.
Peeta and I stayed in the same house where our children were born and raised.
Sometimes I would wander the halls, pointing out important places to myself.
That's where Rye took his first steps. That's where Willow made her first painting. That's where the rest of my family would curl up for Hunger Games story time.
On a spring day, not unlike the one Willow was born on, I sat in the chair on our front porch, gazing out at the view.
Peeta came out gently closing the door behind him and asked me, "Did you end up regretting it?"
I stood up and wrapped my arms around the Boy with the Bread. "Not for one second," I whispered in his ear.
And that's my version of what I think the son and daughter of Katniss and Peeta would be like. Thanks for reading! Please review!