EQUILIBRIUM
You wake with a start. Heart racing, head pounding. The pillow is soaked through – with sweat, or tears?
The nightmares don't come all too often anymore. But when they do... Oh, when they do, they are brutal.
The flash of a knife. The rumbling of a hovercraft overhead. The hiss of an unknown creature, waiting in the dark.
Explosions. Screams. Weeping.
Cannon. Cannon. Cannon.
Memories. Imagination. It's been so long that you can't be entirely sure if they ever really happened or not, these visions that haunt the night. But does it really matter? They're real enough. And when they come, they don't stop coming.
Even now in waking, the visions cloud your mind. A thousand cries echo in your ears, a hundred scars seem to open and ache.
There's nothing you can do but grit your teeth and try to hold yourself together. Didn't Finnick say that was the easy part?
"Are you alright?"
His soft voice instantly pierces through the fog and drags you back to reality. The voices cease, the images fade.
A gentle hand grasps your shoulder and the tension so tightly held within begins to dissipate.
"Are you ok?"
The concern is evident in his voice. You turn your head slowly and allow a faint smile to form upon your lips.
"Yeah."
Those tender eyes. That messy blonde hair. Even after all these years he causes your heart to flutter.
You pull him closer and allow a deep sigh to escape.
"Yeah, I'm ok. As long as you're here..."
The love you feel for this boy continues to amaze you. How long you had resisted, determined that this – that he – was unnecessary. But then one day he was there. And it was real.
And now, the baker's son holds your heart entirely.
He is all you have.
Your eyes drift up to the ceiling. You gaze upon the delicate mural that sweeps across the room. How many hours did it take Peeta to complete it? The wistful sketches, the unbreakable concentration, the look of pride upon its reveal: they are all forever burned into your memory. They are a part of you.
You: Katniss Everdeen. The girl on fire. The Mockingjay.
Tribute. Victor. Rebel. Traitor.
Daughter. Sister. Wife. Mother.
All the things you have ever been. All the things you are. All the things you will never be again.
It's a delicate balance, this life of yours. An incomprehensible equilibrium of mourning and hope.
And he is the emblem of it all.
One look at him and it all comes crashing down. Everything you have lost.
One look at him and it all comes rising up. Everything you have gained.
He is the product of it all.
He is a constant reminder of all that threatens to tear you apart; yet he remains the only thing that holds you together.
Your eyes shift back to his once again sleeping form. His chest rises and falls deeply, evenly. Your gaze drops to his hands, stained with paint, faint traces of flour packed deep under the nails.
Ever his father's son.
After everything you have experienced, everything you have lost, everyone you have lost... Truly, he alone makes your life worth living. Sustains you daily, reminds you why it was you fought all those years ago, justifies these scars that will never fade.
And to think...how close you got to denying his entrance to your heart.
The morning comes quickly. You stare out the window as the first whispers of pink begin to paint themselves across the sky. How many times had Peeta tried to capture this moment? To transplant the magic of sunrise onto the canvas? Peeta was never, ever satisfied, but you found each and every attempt breath-taking. You made a habit of saying so, just to witness the way Peeta's eyes lit up in response. A faint smile makes its way across your face as the memories flood your mind.
A small sigh interrupts your reverie. You turn and plant a kiss on his forehead, pulling him closer. His eyes, so piercing and bright, so able to stare deep into your soul, lock onto yours.
"It's going to be ok. I'll take care of you. Always. Ok, mama?"
Your hearts breaks at the sincerity in his small grey eyes, the conviction in his gentle voice. His strength has always overwhelmed you; it regularly belies his mere eight years.
"Oh baby... I know."
In an instant, your mind involuntarily fills with a picture you know oh so intimately. A portrait. It rests on the mantle above the small fireplace that warms the home.
A family. Happy. Smiling.
Four heads of hair. Two blonde, two brown.
Four pairs of eyes. Two blue, two grey.
Four.
And then...
Two.
Father and sister ripped away in the dead of night.
Two broken souls left behind, struggling to stay afloat in this sea of devastation.
How tempting it had been. To return to that familiar place, the one you slowly crawled out of all those years ago... To give in to the despair, devastation, defeat. To give up on life. To stare blankly at the smouldering ashes as life went on without you.
Just like...oh.
Oh.
But you are not your mother.
In the end, all it took was one look at him. For the first time in days (weeks? You still can't be certain) the world came into focus.
Just like his father, he pulled you back from the brink.
And just like his father, it was his steady, gentle hand that led you back to the land of the living.
To reality.
To hope.
He is what you fought for: in the woods, in the Games, in the war, in mourning. He is what makes it all – all of it, all of it – bearable.
It's a delicate balance, this life of yours. But whenever those tender grey eyes stare up at your own, whenever those tiny fingers grasp yours... You can feel the scale slowly begin to tip in the right direction.
The nightmares don't come all too often anymore, but when they do... Oh, when they do, he is always there. Right by your side, offering gentle embraces and whispers of reassurance. He has learnt all this from you. From the comfort only a mother can offer. From the aftermath of his own, far more frequent, bad dreams.
When peaceful sleep evades either one of you, it is only together that you can survive - with fingers intertwined, clutching on for dear life – it is only together that you will make it through the night.
Ever his father's son...