A Blossoming Primrose: Katniss's Daughter

Chapter 1

I glance at the sky, a smile forming across my face. I clutch my bow more tightly to my body and continue stalking through the woods, a sly grin decorating my face. My dark hair blows in the wind as I lithely dart through bushes and trees. I've grown up in these woods; they're like a second home to me.

My name is Primrose Mellark. I am the daughter of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, renowned victors of the 74th and 75th Annual Hunger Games.

I am fourteen now, my birthday was just last week. It was September 22nd, to be exact. The day that Autumn, my favorite season, began.

I currently live with my parents and my little brother, Boggs. Our home is in District 12. My parents and I live in their old house in what had been nicknamed the 'Victor's Village', back when the Hunger Games were still in place. Now, Panem is under the rule of President Paylor, who is a good ruler. She stopped the Hunger Games and now all of Panem is safe under her rule.

District 12 is scarcely populated, though. We're some of the few residing here. Many of the old residents now live in District 13, the Capitol, and other Districts. District 12 hasn't really been rebuilt.

I'm a mix of my mother and father. I have my mother's dark hair, but my eyes are blue, like my father's. And I have a fiery personality, just like her. I'm sometimes told I'm a bit like my late Aunt Primrose. Apparently we have the same facial features.

My beautiful wooden bow was crafted in the Capitol. My mother had it specially made for me for my birthday. Ever since I was a child, I've been like her. Living in the woods. Hunting, and bringing home food to my proud mother. My father cooks it and we eat it, but sometimes we give it to others. The Hob, the nickname for the black market where my mother used to sell her meat, hasn't reopened, but it is legal for us to trade in the town Square.

We really don't need the food, anyways. My mother and father are wealthy from their days as young Victors in the Hunger Games, where they were awarded riches from the Capitol.

We don't speak much about the past. My mother refuses to talk about her part in the Rebellion against the Capitol, and my father usually keeps his mouth zipped. But occasionally, I'll wake up hearing my mother screaming, and my father soothing her. I know that she has nightmares.

We learn about it in school. Mother and father make me go to school every day, and learn. Each week, we have a History of Panem lecture about the Dark Days, the Hunger Games, and the Capitol. I've managed to piece together most of my parents' story. I know they won the Hunger Games together twice, and my mother was the face of the Rebellion and was known as the 'Mockingjay', from a pin that she wore in the Arena when she was in the Games.

I smile a little as I glance down at my shirt. I'm wearing a black t-shirt and trousers. My quiver of arrows is slung around my shoulder, my arrows safely in place. My bow seems to come alive in my hands. The woods, where I am truly happy, where I know not of the Capitol or of the previous horrors of our world.

My mother's gold Mockingjay pin shimmers in the sunlight. I wear it pinned to my shirt, shining in the sunlight. It almost appears to come alive in the woods; it seems almost as real as the black-and-white birds that fly through the treetops, singing melodically.

I shake my head; I need to clear my head if I'm to hunt properly. My mother was the one who taught me to hunt, after all, she is the best archer I've ever known. She told me that in order to hunt, each sense must be 110%. My eyes flit around the tree-filled area as I near a clearing.

I step into the meadow. It's got a single, large rock. Tall grasses dance in unison with the gentle breeze, and plump, ripe berries bloom on a nearby bush. This was my mother's rendezvous point with her old best friend. His name was Gale Hawthorne. She refuses to mention him, and whenever news about District 2 comes up on our television set, she abruptly turns it off. I guess it still pains her to think about him.

But I've seen Gale Hawthorne. A handsome man, who is now married and has a son my age. His name is Phox Hawthorne. I always roll my eyes at his stupidly cocky smirk. It makes my fists curl thinking of them. Because, instead of feeling sadness like my mother, I feel anger.

Snapping back to reality, I notice a deer wander by, and aim my arrow. But my wandering thoughts have caused me to get sloppy, and my arrow misses by a millimeter. The deer scampers away, and I'm left with a failure.

"Drat!" I mutter angrily under my breath. My mind is so adventurous, it manages to wander away all the time. I know I need to be more focused, but staying mindset on one thing is my flaw.

Retrieving my arrow and tucking it back into my sheath, I decide to head home. I walk, kicking dirt up with the toe of my boot. I could get home from here with my eyes closed.

Soon, we near the fence. It's a tall, chain-link thing topped with wickedly-sharp barbed-wire. Thankfully, once Paylor came into power, she granted the citizens of our District to cut out an area and make a small gateway entrance for us to enter and exit the forest with. I glance behind me once more and latch the gate, minding to make sure that the gateway is securely shut. Then I head up, through the wreckage of what was once called the Seam, to our home in the Victor's Village.

District 12 only has about two hundred residents at the moment. It's been rebuilt since the bombing back when the Revolution was going on, but much of it was left alone, since many people aren't interested in trying to restore it, and Paylor believes it's a waste of money and time.

I job back home, bow in hand. I open the door to our large home and step inside, kicking off my lace-up boots. My socks slide across the wooden floor and I steady myself to keep from falling.

"Mother! I'm home!"

My mother comes rushing out of the kitchen, a ball of yarn in her hands. Her hair has begun to gray a bit in the front, and her face is weary. She has been through so much in her life. But it's hard for me not to see her as the Mockingjay, as the woman who saved our country. To this day, I can still picture her suited up in her Mockingjay suit, made by a supposed 'friend of hers', with her black bow and sheath of arrows, looking like the fierce fighter she is.

I smile. "Hello, mother. I see you've been knitting?"

She nods once. "I'm in the living room, with Buttercup. I've been knitting a blanket."

Buttercup is our old cat. I'm surprised he's still alive, frankly. But my mother's had him since before I was born. Although she doesn't seem much like a cat person, she accepts and even loves this one. I adore Buttercup, and he loves me too. It seems like an unspoken promise between Buttercup and my mother to protect us. Some nights, Buttercup will curl up next to me as I sleep. Sometimes, he will travel into Boggs's room and sleep on the edge of the bed. Other nights, he'll rest at the foot of my mother's and father's bed, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"Good. I hope it turns out well," I remark, taking my pin off. My mother's eyes fall down to it, and she blinks once and her eyes glaze over for a moment, as if remembering her youth.

"It will," she replies, although her voice sounds faraway, her eyes looking as though they're in another world.

I hug her and let her return to her knitting before bounding upstairs to my little room. It's a simple place, with just a white, cushiony bed and a single dresser that has some things that are special to me. I set my Mockingjay pin down upon it and grin a little before combing my hair out and padding downstairs, where my father is cooking dinner.

My mother and brother are already seated at our heavy mahogany dining table, plates and silverware set out in front of them. My father wears a dirtied apron tied around his waist, with supper in his arms. He sets out a steaming turkey in front of us, one that I shot yesterday in the woods. Next he lays out some still-warm bread, and I break a piece off of a rounded loaf. I shove the bread into my mouth, savoring the warmth its insides contain. I chew it a little, tasting a hint of seaweed. This is District 4 bread.

I look at my father, and says, "Annie Cresta sent us this bread. Her son set up a small bakery of his own and she had these sent to us."

My mother folded her hands in her lap. "Well, we'd better make sure to thank her. That was quite kind of her."

My brother and I nod and the loaves are quickly eaten. Next we move onto the turkey. I pull off a leg and bite into it, the meat sliding down my throat. I'm finished quickly, and I'm about to stand up when my father motions for me to sit down.

A confused look on my face, I plop back down into my seat. My father clears his throat once and says, "I have an announcement to make."

I sink back into my chair. What kind of announcement could he have to make?

"I'd just like to know that Haymitch has invited the Hawthornes to come for a visit to District 12. They will be arriving tomorrow and will be staying in a nearby Victor's Village house."

My eyes widen in surprise and my mother's fork clangs as it clatters onto her plate. She rushes upstairs, leaving the rest of us seated at the dinner table astoundedly.

"I'll go talk to her," my father murmurs. He gets up too, tells us to clear the dinner table, and hurries upstairs after my mother.

I clench my fists as I collect the plates and silverware. The Hawthorne family is coming back. How dare they? They have no right! Mr. Hawthorne knows how badly my mother was hurt. He knows coming back is a risky move. Yet he's coming back anyway.

And he's bringing his family with him.