Though Come it May
"They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes.
The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs.
It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly.
When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself.
Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much."
Prologue: Put Together
Only Love Remains – Griffin House
From riches to rags
From diamonds to coal
You've always seemed better to me
You trade in your silver for the price of my soul
To buy what is already free
I stare at her. We blink simultaneously, tilting our heads in silent recognition of one another.
I take in her appearance, examining her. White sleeves of a long white dress, the color of purity, encase thin arms. A high neckline with lace adorns her, adding regality to her appearance. Her simplistic hairstyle is crowned by wildflowers, filling in gaps of lost innocence, dignity, and pride with newness, humility, and hope. It attracts attention to her head; not held high, but level with my own. She stands barefoot, hands clasped in front of her.
Who is she? Part of her is faintly recognizable as someone I once knew.
The woman standing before me is not a war hero; though the scars crisscrossing her features suggest a past of brutality and hate that is well known and well worn. She is not full of reckless, naïve youth. Gray tired eyes peek dimly through thick dark lashes, having seen much, cautiously taking in what is left of the world. Nor is she discovering adventure- her braid, put together by practiced, particular, decided fingers, reflects a daily choice for some semblance of routine.
Steadily she stands, not as a woman confident in her ability to put together, but one trusting another, at peace to be put together. Behind the history of zigzagged lines across her face, past in her eyes, format of familiar hairstyles is a finality. Around her rests the choice to keep scars a thing of the past, to allow someone to know their origin yet craft a future with what hope remains; never again fueling the fire of once embraced rage.
She is a bride, although not one attended by laughing friends, doted upon by adoring mothers, or complimented by passers-by. She stands alone, listening to the distant crackling of a fire that surely grows, silently waiting and reflecting before turning away to the next chapter of her life.
I stand before the mirror, taking in my own reflection, knowing I am not the same as I once was. Knowing that when I turn, I will leave behind the former ways I lived; so lightning fast and motivated by disaster, and embrace what has always been before me. I will choose Peeta. I will choose hope. I will choose bread, dandelions, and love.
It was a process, Peeta and I. Slow. Deliberate. Intentional. This time, the fancies of the masses did not sway me in his direction. I did not kiss him to earn the fickle approval of my enemies. I did not whisper secrets to him for the whole world to hear. I did not force his hand into proposing. I did not say yes with pain in my heart, questions in my head, and hate flowing through me. Instead, this time I truly saw the person before me. He was, is, and will be the boy with the bread, the man who saved me, the friend who gave me hope, the defender I never wanted to hurt again, the love my heart had embraced. I chose him, not for the good of the rebellion, not for the protection of family, but for my own sake.
A small, peaceful smile settles onto my face. Breathing deeply, I acknowledge my reflection and slowly turn towards the hall. There is stirring downstairs. He is there below me. Stoking the fire. Preparing the bread. Waiting for me, as he has now for many years.
It will be just the two of us at our toasting, as unconventional as it may seem. There will be no broadcasted wedding, no gaggle of people to fawn over us and make our lives their own. Rather, the bread will serve as witness. The fire will ordain us. And our home will preserve the memories not even a hundred pictures could grasp. Just the two of us, as it somewhat has always been. Peeta and me, standing against all odds, against tributes, against ourselves, against each other, against the Capitol, against the uprising. Now, we stand together for our future. Of course, I am still terrified of what could come. I am unsure of the milestones and tribulations our future will hold. However, I stay firm in who I want to spend the fear-filled days with, whose words will soothe my frantic thoughts, whose arms will ward off the nightmares: Peeta's.
One step at a time, I descend the stairs.
He is crouched beside the fireplace, dressed in brown pants and a simple cream shirt. Stationary, Peeta looks into the fire, perhaps reflecting just as I had moments ago. I watch him breathe; see the steady, reliable, safe rise and fall of his chest.
When my foot reaches the next ledge, boards creak, signifying my arrival. Instantly, Peeta's blue eyes, alight with joy, reflecting the dancing of the flames in the fireplace next to him, jump up to meet my gaze. A smile as old as life itself spreads across his face, hair dark golden in the dim lighting, the firelight flickering and changing, casting long shadows in our living room.
Slowly he stretches up, unfolding his limbs from his prior crouch.
Peeta crosses the floor and takes my hand in his. Calculated, he places my palm to his lips, as he has done so many times before. His liquid blue eyes close as he takes me in and breathes out my name.
It's a promise. It's a declaration. It's an invitation.
Our passion is fragile. Not to say it will not withstand the tumults of tomorrow, for it has withstood plenty already. No, it is fragile in that we are broken people. Lost. Hurt. Afraid. Still healing. Our passion is not consumed by flames and momentary heat, but by the sweetness and the surety of long-withstood care and affection.
We grow together. We break together. We choose to love together. No matter what will come, though come it may.
Ending Notes:
When I read the book's epilogue, my mind began to explore what the above scenario would look like. I researched, read other people's versions, but did not find anything that looked quite like what danced inside my head. So, I decided to write my own version, my own imagining. I hope you enjoy. I hope stays true to the characters. I hope it touches you at times, gives you hope at others, and reminds you to take hold of the joys before you.
I know that starting a story about a baby with a toasting 5 years earlier may seem strange, but I did it to establish how I want Peeta and Katniss' relationship to be. In my mind, post Mockingjay especially, I picture their love as something quiet, sweet, and chosen. Its not a passionate, loud celebration of make-outs and fanfare, but a trust and a security in the little everyday moments.
Also, I wrote this in present tense because that's what Suzanne Collins does. Also, for some of you that followed right away, you may notice that I've changed the format, edited, and added quotes so many times that this looks nothing like the original version. However, its better, and I'm planning on continuing this way.
Thank you for reading. Please review with any questions, suggestions, or comments you may have.