Alone he walks, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
The young man with an old soul, clutching a leather bag tightly within his blackened fingers. Coal dust packed deep in his nail beds, deep in his clothing, deep in his lungs. He breathes deeply and revels in the taste of the clean, fresh air. Even as the dusky sky darkens and the crisp air chills around him, he cannot wipe the broad smile from his face.
He reaches the hilltop, locates his favourite outcropping and lowers himself to the ground. He reaches slowly into the satchel, inspecting its contents carefully, checking for damage or blight. The rich aroma of the herbs fills the still air.
The first minute after she had told him, he had been floating on air, swept away in a tidal wave of joy, wrapped up in a tight embrace and tearful kisses. The next minute, he was out the door, immediately in search of the plants his own hand had drawn so carefully under the bold heading, 'For Pregnancy'.
He lifts his eyes and gazes out at the gleaming full moon hanging low on the horizon. He can barely keep straight the dozens of thoughts that hurtle through his mind.
As he stares out at the shining orb, contemplating its steady path higher into the starlit sky, considering its patterns and movements and constancy, he feels an overwhelming peace settle over him.
He vows to share this place with his child.
Alone they walk, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
The tall man and the little girl, a soft, white palm grasping its coarse, blackened partner. The man tells stories in a low, warm voice. The girl giggles and tugs on her silky, black braids. Her heart is racing as they head further away from everything she has ever known with each step. It is her first time under the fence, her first time out in the great unknown, unauthorized wild. She has been looking forward to this trip her entire life.
Adrenaline shoots through every vein, but the calming voice of her father soothes and assures her. She begs a song and together their voices rise, echoed by an army of birds that flitter above their heads.
They round the rise and there it is: the shining ball of light. From this hilltop, on this clear, cloudless night, it looks as if it were close enough to touch. With a wide grin, she reaches out a hand and her father laughs, pulling her into a tight embrace.
There they sit for hours, whispering secrets and lessons and stories and jokes, until the girl succumbs to exhaustion and the man carefully carries his precious bundle home.
Alone she walks, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
So young, too young, to be here alone, every rustle and distant howl sends her heart straight up into her throat. It is her first time beyond the fence solo, a day she would have never predicted would come so soon. Her thin arms shake – from cold, from fear, from exhaustion. She tries to conjure up a memory of reassuring words but all it accomplishes is worsening the jagged rip that tears right through her heart.
She makes it to the hilltop and collapses on the ground. Unable to choke back the sob that rises up, she finally lets loose the tears she so carefully restrains within the fence. She weeps and howls for her lost, beloved father. For her stolen childhood and broken heart. For the non-responsive woman and trembling child waiting for her in the cold, empty home.
Red-rimmed eyes stare listlessly at the moon as it begins its slow trek across the sky. She reaches out a trembling hand, averting her eyes from the exposed bones it displays, and wishes with all her might for the moon to take her away.
It doesn't, and she walks back to the fence hollow.
Alone they walk, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
The fatherless child has found another and with him she chooses to share the view. The pair walk silently in the dimming light, weighed down by leather bags and belts full of the takings of the night's hunt. They share a comfortable silence cultivated by years of teamwork and companionship. She has not told him where she is taking him, or just what it means to her, or how long she debated sharing this place with him. But as she glances up at grey eyes that mirror hers, eyes that she knows so very well, she is content with her decision.
They reach the hilltop and she tries to conceal the way her heart both races and aches at the sight of the moon. They settle into the outcropping and make a small meal out of their spoils. With soft whispers passing between them, they stare up at the bright light that illuminates the hill. They try not to think about the slips of paper bearing their names that will be placed into glass bowls tomorrow. They try not to think about a place, a time, a world in which the foreboding darkness that hangs over their heads does not exist. They fail.
When the moon's arc takes it beyond their line of sight, they trudge back down the hill to small children with waiting arms and the restless, anxious sleep that accompanies the eve of the Reaping.
Alone she walks, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since she last walked this particular path. No, it feels like another life altogether. It was a different girl entirely who was brought to this place by her father, who ventured up here alone and who introduced her closest friend ("cousin") to the view. But that girl did not exist anymore. Her life ended the moment 'Primrose Everdeen' was uttered by impossibly pink lacquered lips.
Even after almost a year, she still has no idea who exactly this new girl is. She is running out of time to find out.
She settles into the cold rock outcropping and searches the sky for the glow of the moon. As the cold night air rustles dry leaves, memories of nights past sweep over her. Nights spent in a dark cave in the pouring rain, sweaty embraces and feverish kisses. Nights spent in an empty, new bed, in an empty, new home, thrashing and crying and waking up in tears. Nights spent on a train, arms wrapped tightly to ward off familiar nightmares, holding on for dear life itself, waking up with blonde curls brushing her face and blue eyes trained intently on hers.
The uncertainty of nights to come fills her with a terror so intense and all-consuming it takes all of her strength to ignore. She stares up at the moon and wonders if she will be able to see if from where she is going. Either way, she knows it is her last night with this moon, in this place, with her father. She reaches out a hand.
But again, the moon fails to take her away. Instead, tomorrow, a train will. Tomorrow they leave for a place from which she knows she will never return. She holds on to the hope that he might. That one day he might point out this very same moon to a tiny, blonde-haired child. Her heart aches, but she is prepared to do whatever it takes and give whatever she can to ensure that he lives on to contemplate the moon.
Together they march, up past the hilltop, not daring to catch a glimpse of the moon.
The golden moon is almost entirely obscured by the haze of black and grey that has settled over the valley. To turn back is to see the red glow illuminating the horizon. To see the remnants of the all-consuming destruction from which they flee.
Onward they march, coated in ash and sweat and tears, onwards into the unknown.
Alone she walks, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
A patchwork survivor and the ghost of the young one she never introduced to the view. As she collapses into the outcropping, thoughts come unbidden of a blonde head of hair and a childhood promise unkept. She had promised to bring her here one day. She had promised to keep her safe. She had promised.
She had failed.
Every waking moment is spent in battle with the ghosts that try to drag her over the ledge with them. But she only fights because of him.
She thinks of a different blond head and the flowers he planted in remembrance. The flowers that finally awakened something within her and began the long journey of whispering her back to the land of the living.
She stares up at the moon and thinks of a man in his kitchen, covered in flour and scars and fighting the venom that speeds through his veins.
She wonders if they will make it. If there will ever be a light at the end of this darkness. If there will ever be a way out of the deep pit they reside in. If they will ever even be 'okay' again.
If they ever do, she vows to share this place with him.
Alone they walk, up to the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
Two broken souls, together made whole, matching scars reflected in the moonlight. She guides him along a familiar path. A glint of metal shines out from the hem of his pants and their hands are entwined inextricably.
They reach the hilltop and she smiles as he inhales sharply in awe of the view. She turns to face him, blue and grey shining bright in the moonlight. They lower themselves to the ground and relax into a familiar embrace. They sit in silence for a spell, allowing the light of the moon to wash over them, the voices of their ghosts growing quiet and faint.
She does not reach out a hand to grasp the moon this time; there is nowhere she would rather be than here, with him right beside her. After everything they have survived, the nightmares they could not wake up from, the deepest despairs and the highest prices paid, he alone remains the hope that sustains her. Her dandelion in the spring indeed.
With whispers and kisses and arms wrapped tight, they watch the moon's path across the sky.
Real, she told him last night. Real, she will tell him tomorrow. Always, he tells her. Always.
Alone she walks, up the hilltop, to contemplate the moon.
The list of herbs clutched tight in one fist, the other hand resting gently on her stomach.
She vows to share this place with her child.