"Hey," he says softly, as he crouches down beside her, gently pushing back one stray hair that has fallen from her usual tight braid as she rocks back and forth on her heels, knees against her chest. "Come on."
He gently pulls her to her feet and takes her hand. His warm touch is enough to stir some life into her and she allows herself to be pulled along, her mind far away.
"I want to show you something."
She nods, still not fully understanding what's going on, and stumbles over a large stone in the path. This jolts her to her senses and the clouds clear from her head.
"Where are we going?"
Her voice rings clear and loud, disturbing the peace of the birds and the swaying of the flowers in the meadow that they are swiftly leaving.
No answer.
But he starts pulling her more strongly, relieved that she has awakened from her dream state. The gap between them widens as she is forced to walk faster, or let go of his hand. And that is one thing she does not want to do.
The peaceful air of the meadow is replaced with one of building dust and hard work as they move further into town. They wind around people, busy with tasks of carrying heavy loads, wheeling wheelbarrows of heavy bricks and wood. The closer they get to the square, the harder it is to stay close together. They hold on to each other tighter, because they keep each other together, and to let go would be like crumbling apart.
They slip into the woods through the opening under the repaired fence by the just visible foundations of the old butcher shop. They have to go slower now, because he is still not fully in command of his artificial leg, and she has lapsed back into a dream state, lost in memories.
The long journey continues as they tread softly through the forest, him placing his feet carefully, her gliding along the ground as if she were on clouds. When they finally reach their destination, it draws a gasp from her, as the memories threaten to drown her, but he pulls her back to earth with a few whispered words, and together they survey the scene.
The lake has not changed, not in all the times she has been here, with her father, alone, and now with him. It is still clear and blue, and the fish can still be seen swimming lazily in the water. Flocks of waterfowl still line the edge of the lake, drinking and chattering to themselves. Tall ancient trees still droop their branches over the water, each gentle breeze causing ripples as the leaves caress the surface. The sky is as blue as it has ever been, and small wisps of cloud can be seen under a white-hot sun, which has begun to sink to the horizon.
And everywhere she can see, dandelions and primroses dot the ground, and katniss flowers blossom in the shallows of the lake. The colours of yellow and purple mix together and remind her that, while she has lost her primrose, she still has her dandelion. That thought is enough for her. Her dandelion isn't going anywhere. And neither is his girl on fire.
Arms around each other, they walk into the water, him stopping when it reaches his knees, but she keeps going, wading further into the memories of her childhood. When it reaches her waist, she stops, and rests her arms on the cool water. No matter how far she walks, the horizon still stays far away as the sun slowly sinks. The sky is a soft, muted orange when she finally turns her head to him.
"Your favourite colour," she mouths, and he frowns slightly until he places the memory. He still has trouble with true and false recollections, and some days it's so bad that he doesn't know anything anymore. But slowly, painstakingly slowly, he is learning what is Right and Wrong. Real and Not Real. She has trouble with her memories too, although her troubles are of a different nature. She knows exactly what happened, and that kills her. To know exactly what happened and to not be able to change a thing. Because she blames herself for the past. The past plagues her present, because it should have been many others' present too.
They are damaged, the tortured boy and the broken girl. Together, they help each other to hold on, to become whole again, even if it is an impossible venture, an unattainable goal.
After the sun sets and the bright stars come out, he reminds her that they should leave, in case the animals that make the woods their home decide they are hungry. With reluctance, she agrees, her common sense winning out. As she wades out of the lake, she picks a bundle of katniss flowers, and he pulls some dandelions, and they each gather a primrose blossom. They walk back together on the same path they took. By the light of the moon, he can still see the moss on the trunks of the thick trees, and pointing it out to her, he whispers, "Your favourite colour."
She reaches out to touch the springy moss and the rough bark beneath it, and is reminded of scaling branches, shimmying up trunks and hiding behind leaves. Not all of the memories are good, but she still remembers them, because the alternative of blocking them out leads to sorrow. Acceptance helps her, and she is learning to accept her memories. She studies him and gives him a small smile, a reward for remembering. They step lightly on leaves and grass as they journey back towards their fence, towards their home.
The next time they visit the lake, many years have past and they have grown old and wise. Still, though, the woman walks the forest floor like she floats on clouds. And the man treads softly slowly, age winning out over his command of his newer leg.
The lake remains unchanged in all the years they never came, and this makes them chuckle. The fish still swim passively through the water, the waterfowl still prattle on to each other, the leaves from the trees still cause ripples on the water as the wind blows. But so much has changed for these two.
Their minds travel back to the day when they last visited the scene, still recovering from the violence that tore their home apart while making it a better place. They know that, back then, they never could have imagined the future they had together – they were too wrapped up in the past. But then, the past is just an anchor that holds us down. To fly, you have to let it go.
Together, they wade in the water until it comes just past their ankles. They don't need to submerge themselves in the water anymore – there's no need to block out their troubles, because they have each other. They have no troubles. They watch the sun rise this time, and as it peaks over the horizon she whispers to him, "Your favourite colour."
He smiles, remembering the last time she said those exact words to him there, recalling the connection. His memories are retreating, not from trauma, but from age, and it comforts her to see that he still remembers that particular time. They leisurely step out of the water and onto the grassy bank, where the thousands of primroses and dandelions grow. They stop to gather the flowers, putting them together for one last time. When they finish, they pause for a moment, to get their breath back, for the weariness settling in their limbs does not need much exertion to make an appearance.
They stand together like that for some time, her clutching the flowers in her wrinkled hands, him with his arms around her. After a time standing together, he grasps her hand in one of his and places the other on the small of her back, and together they dance in the clearing of swaying grass and flowers. It's a peaceful moment, one that they hope to remember for the time they have left together.
As they turn to walk home, hand in hand, in the bright light of the new day he points to the moss and the trees and reminds her softly, "Your favourite colour."