A/N: This is my first Hunger Games and first ever fanfic. Hope you like it. I tried my hardest to make it seem like Suzanne Collin's actual writing, but I doubt I did. No one can really sound like her; she is such an amazing author. This isn't supposed to be my idea of the next book. This is like, after everything in the next two books. So yeah. =D (If you couldn't tell, I'm kinda team Peeta. Gale is freaking amazing, just not for Katniss.)
I'm not really sure if I'm going to continue this fanfic. I have an idea, but it's still in the works. Sorry about any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors. I'm pretty sure I caught all of them but I'm not sure...
Please comment. Everything from fixings to flames is excepted. =)
Also: Does anybody know Gale's last name?? I couldn't find it anywhere! Help!

Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins, therefore I do not own The Hunger Games or any of it's characters.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green sky
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise

My mother's lullaby always runs through my head when I am here, in this position. I usually just push it aside without a second thought. Sometimes it encourages me; makes me think that she is proud of her little girl. And then sometimes, though very rarely, it makes me feel guilty. Reminds me that I should be doing something more productive, not sitting up in a tree or crouching in the tall grasses of the field outside our district.

Today is one of those guilty days. Today, I can't push her lullaby aside. You shouldn't be here, it seems to hiss at me. You should be at home.

My finger twitches around the bow string. I strain my eyes and try to focus on the doe down below my hiding place in this old oak tree.

Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you

I resist the urge to grunt. Instead I settle for a scowl. Yeah, I know I shouldn't be here and that I should be doing what my mother and father have asked of me. But I figure, since I am already in this tree, that I might as well finish what I started.

Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away

A sudden breeze whisks my ashy blond hair into my face, obscuring my vision. I try to move it out of the way with a small, subtle flick of my head, but it does not work. I give up and hope my aim is correct.

Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you

I sigh and ease up with my bow arm in hearing the last verse of her lullaby in my head. I am free to brush my hair away from my face now, and in doing so I see that the doe is no longer alone. Two small fawns, unseasonably late, have leapt out of the bushes and were now grazing by their mother. If I had let go of the string, I most certainly have wiped them of their only protection. A small smile forms on my face, as my storm gray eyes scan the area almost automatically. I consider checking my few snares, but decide against it. Mother and Father will be mad enough at how late I am already. No need to test their patience on the day of the reaping.

I slowly slither out of the tree and land on the ground with a soft thud. The doe looks up, alarmed, and takes off her fawns close behind her. I put the arrow back into the pack on my back and start running swiftly towards the "electric" fence.

When I get there, I stop, hold my breath and listen, just to be sure. No buzzing. I'm safe. I drop to my stomach and crawl under the hole that was created long ago by who knows what. The very hole my mother used on this day years ago.

I take off running for home knowing that I will be in enough trouble as it is. I dodge the few people there are in the road and run through the streets at top speed. The entire way I am practicing a speech that will get me out of trouble. After I discard my 12th attempt, I figure sneaking in through my window might just be the best idea.

Okay, so maybe sneaking out and going hunting wasn't the best idea in the first place. But it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time. With my mother and father skulking about for the last month, I just needed a place to go that wasn't engulfed in pessimistic flames. I was at my wits end, I tell you.

I am just about out of the Seam when I crash straight into an obviously strong man with olive-toned skin and jet black hair.

"Ack!" I cry as I plow into him. "Oh gosh! Sorry! I wasn't paying attention!" He grabs my wrist to steady me, and then I get a good look at him. I can feel his gray eyes, so much like my mother's, burning into my skin as he recognizes me. He hates me. I'm sure of it.

"Acacia," He says curtly. I nod but say nothing. I look down at my feet and wait for him to say something. Finally his response comes. "Shouldn't you be at home, getting ready for the reaping?"

I nod. "That's where I was going . . ." I mutter. He nods again and eyes the bow in my hand and the arrows on my back. "So you were hunting instead of listening to your parents." He notes.

I look up into his face. "If I lie and say no, will that get me out of a lecture?" He chuckles and it lights up his face.

"So much like your mother . . . " He mused to himself. I feel a pang in my chest. He really still does love her. Even after all these years and watching her grow more and more distant from him. His best friend. He had watched her be sent off to die, believing he would never see her again. But she survived. And when she came back home, he was expecting his old friend who scoffed at the idea of love. Instead he got a girl changed by the games and in love, not with him, but the boy with the bread. Must have been hard.

"I'd better get going," I say stepping around him. He comes out of his flashback and nods. Quiet type of man. "Goodbye Gale," I say. Even though our families have been fighting ever since my parents got married, I still find Gale a pretty cool guy. Even if he hates me, which I'm pretty sure he does. "Good luck." He needs it. He has a son a year older than I am that will be entered in the reaping today. Just like every other kid from the aged of 12 to 18. Damn Hunger Games.

"Goodbye and good luck, Acacia." He says before he continues on down the street, not looking back. I wonder if he means it.

I push the thoughts out of my head and start running home. "Oh, I am so dead." I mutter to myself along with a few very creative swear words. Haymitch would be proud.

Speak of the devil. Just as I am rounding the corner and running into our neighborhood, I see Haymitch walk down the front path of my house and down the street to his own house. He grins -- though it looks more like he's planning ways to kill me than happiness -- and growls, "Well, well, well. What do ya know?"

"Hi Haymitch," I gasp coming to a halt in front of him, catching my breath.

He grunts and twists off the cap of the whiskey bottle he is holding. Then he proceeds to throw his head back and glug it down. He winces and shakes his head to relieve the burn. "You'd better get your ass home before your parents consider murder, sweetheart." He growls, taking another sip. I smile. This, coming from Haymitch, is like the ultimate gesture of love.

"I thought you gave up drinking," I shout as I start running again. He flips me off. I laugh and make my way for the house.

My parent's say that Haymitch has a soft spot for me. I really don't see how. He treats me as badly as everybody else. Except for those rare occasions when he warns me of my mother's wrath, like a moment ago, or when he gives me a genuine and true smile, but other than that, no.

I run around to the fence and open up the hatch. I close it behind me and make my way around the flower beds to the back yard, where I come to a very sturdy vine that is climbing up the red bricks. I sling my bow over my back and gab hold. I've become an expert at climbing this thing and can now do it in under 55 seconds. I clocked it.

When I get to the top, I make sure that my bow and arrows are succure, and I launch myself through my window. I land with a thump on the carpet.

A sigh of relief escapes my throat and I relax.

"ACACIA RUE MELLARK!" My mother screams. I scramble to get up and shove my gear under my bed. Just in time too. She pushes the door open to reveal herself standing there, looking extremely pissed. She is already dressed for the reaping in a yellow v-neck sun dress that compliments her gorgeously slim body with her hair cascading down her back in black waves.

"Where the hell were you?!" She shouts. I cringe away from her. She rarely ever gets mad at me, much less scream, but when she does, it is downright scary.

"Where do you think?" My father says, moving up behind my mother. His ashy blond hair, exactly like mine, is tousled and hangs down in his face creating the image of handsome. "Where would you be if you were her?" He asks her again. She huffs for an answer. He smiles and kisses her temple. "Hunting, of course." He says, answering his own question. My mother sighs and you can almost see the anger leaving her body. She can never really stay mad when my father tries to calm her down. She loves him too much. I resist the urge to sigh with newfound relief. My father looks up over her head and winks at me.

"Right," My mother exhales. "Just . . ." She shakes her head. "Just get ready and then come downstairs so I can fix your hair." She steps past my father and walks away. My father leans in to shut the door and whispers, "You're welcome."

"Thank you," I whisper back. He smiles and closes the door.

I turn to my closet and choose a pair of nice black pants and a cute red sweater. I'm not one for dresses and skirts. I guess I'm kinda like my mom in that way. She only wears dresses for special occasions like weddings and funerals.

And the reaping.

I shudder and close my closet doors, shedding my dirt covered clothes and stuffing the sweater over my head. When I sit down on my bed to put on my black flats I notice the picture of my parents on my night stand. I pick it up and gaze at them. It was taken the day they returned home from the Capitol, after their own Hunger Games. Both look a little on the hungry and pale side and I'm not sure if they were actually smiling, or if the facial expression was forced. They are holding hands.

That's my parents. The love birds of the Hunger Games. The first people to win for District 12 in a long time. The first ever two tributes to win at the same time. The great Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. I smile and shake my head. Even though I see them every year on television, at the capitol, training tributes; even though they are still looked upon with awe by everybody else, they will always be just Mom and Dad to me.

I set the picture down and put my shoes on. Then I grab my brush and clamber downstairs. My shoes make a soft thud as I hit the marble floor. I dash into my parents huge bedroom, which could probably have held half the coal in the District 12 mines.

My mother is standing in her bathroom, waiting for me. I walk up to her and hand her the brush. She motions for me to sit down in the chair in front of the mirror. I do.

She starts gently tugging at my hair with the brush. I gaze at my reflection, distinguishing my features. Hair from my dad. Eyes from my mom. Nose from my mom. Lips from my grandmother and my father's smile. Mother's shaped head and face, father's ears. Mother's build and mother's hands. Father's facial expressions. A mix of their skin tones. All in all, I look like a daughter of theirs should.

"Your hair is so beautiful," My mother says as her fingers twist it into an intricate shape on the top of my head. I smile and blush. When she is finished, she clasps my shoulders, leans down and kisses my cheek. I can tell she is afraid. Even though my father and her were winners, that does not promise me safety from the reaping. She runs her fingers through my side bangs, which she pulled over to one side, and sighs that worried-mother sigh. I try smiling, but it doesn't really work. Fear is building up inside of me like a storm. I can't ignore it anymore. Hunting did help get it off my mind, but only for a little while. Sooner or later I have to face the facts; today could be the day I am sentenced to die. Simple as that.

My father walks in and wraps my mother in a hug. She clings to him as he whispers, "She'll be okay,". I hear him, even though the whisper is not meant for me to hear. After a few moments, my mother lets go and steps back.

"Okay, we'd better get going."

I scoot off the chair and my father puts his arm around me. I lean into him and smile as he says, "You look beautiful, Rue." His nick-name for me. No one else has ever called me Rue except him.

We slowly make our way to the center of town. My parents wear wary looks on their faces. They don't want to have to face this again. Ever since they won the 74th Annual Hunger Games, the Careers of the games trained harder than ever to make sure that District 12 never disgraced their districts again by winning. No matter what tricks my parents get the Tributes of District 12 to pull, the Careers always seem to be one step ahead. We've only had 5 tributes from District 12 win since then but five tributes in twenty one years is better than two tributes in seventy-four years, like it was when my mom and dad were picked. And each of those five wins were mostly luck. But then, isn't it always a bit of luck that declares the winners?

Since Haymitch and my parents are still around, and there are four of the five other winners, the tributes get to pick who they want to train them. Guess who it usually is? Every now and then the tributes will mix it up and pick one of the other four tributes to be their trainers, but that rarely happens anymore. Not after what happened at the 81st Hunger Games. The winner the year before was named Henry Fable. He had won with flying colors and his trainers had been you know who. So the next year's tribute, a young girl by the name of Joyce Carilla, chose him and my parents got the year off. Joyce was only 12. Henry, who strongly hated the Capitol and the Hunger Games and probably would have partaken in the rebellion had he been alive 81 years ago, wanted to make a statement by helping her get out of the Hunger Games. To run away. So he did what no one has ever done; he tried to help her escape. He figured that there must be an edge to the arena. And since no one had ever tried to reach it, the Game Makers must watch is a lot less than other area's. So he trained her as well as he had been trained, but instead of the star-crossed lovers maneuver or the just-wait-it-out maneuver, he taught her to gather up supplies and travel to the edge of the arena, and he would help her escape.

At first, no one knew what Joyce's plans were. But when she was more than halfway to the edge, the Game Makers understood what Henry was trying to do and had him put to death on the stage where the winning tribute watched the highlights of the Games. But Henry had expected something like that would happen and had given the Game Makers and the authorities quite a bit of hell in trying to find them. And when they finally did, and the Game Makers could turn their full attention back to the arena, Joyce was gone. The final reminder of Henry Fable. They set off a cannon fire for Joyce, even though no body was found. She was declared, unspoken and unceremoniously, a winner in District 12. And let's just say that the Game Makers were not happy. The next year, they did all they could to make sure the tributes from District 12 died, which they did. My parents got in this huge argument with the Game Makers themselves that was broadcasted live across Panem. Not the first time they ticked off the Capitol.

But the Capitol couldn't torment Katniss and Peeta the next year. They had refused to train any tribute. The reason why? I had come along. Katniss, the girl who was on fire was now a mother, and President Snow himself (whom, sadly, is still alive) couldn't get her away from her baby girl. She had always said that bringing a child into this world was her worst nightmare, but once she found out that she was pregnant with me, she said she couldn't have been happier. My father stayed behind with her, and for four years, they refused to train anyone. But finally, the demand for them had gotten so high that they had to go off to the Capitol once again. So I was left with my Aunt Primrose for a few months, which I didn't mind in the least bit. I love my Aunt Prim. Whenever the sadness from missing my parents became so strong that I could barely sleep at night, she would sing me my mother's lullaby and let me eat candy. I know it doesn't seem like much, but it meant much more than I can say.

When I was eight, my parents took me with them to the Capitol. I was in awe of everything. I mean, I had seen the brightly colored hair and strange clothing and Scoring Test's of the Hunger Games on television with Aunt Prim, but seeing it up close was a whole different experience.

Anyway, I usually go with them to the Capitol now. I rarely talk to the camera's, unless they want to interview me because I'm Katniss and Peeta Mellark's daughter, but other than that, I keep to myself. I try not to talk to any of the tributes. I don't want to have to remember them after they are gone. It would be too hard, watching them die. I would remember what their voice sounds like, their laugh, how they stand, if they bite their lip or not, and remembering those little unimportant thing, as I watch them die is too hard. Trust me. I've gone through it before.

I am brought out of my thoughts by Effie Trinket's shrill voice. We are at the town center near the back with the other four winning tributes and Haymitch. The youngest, Clarissa, smiles at me. She is 18, but won five years ago. The last to win for District 12. I was there at that Hunger Games when she won. I remember my mother's happy cry and how she flung herself into my father's arms when Clarissa won. I remember one of the first people she hugged when she got out, besides my parents, was me. I remember it well.

"Well, here we are again! Picking tributes for the 95th Annual Hunger Games!" Effie Trinket's shrill voice is projected over the crowd. She seems overly happy, like always.

"Twenty-one years," My father whispers.

"It doesn't seem like that much," My mother whispers back. They are thinking of their Hunger Games.

"It is." Says one of the winners, John. His black curly hair is springy and flyaway as always. He was the tribute the year my parents got married. He was 18 at the time, making him the eldest winner after my parents. He often commented on remembering watching my parents in the Hunger Games. "You guys were 16 when you came back. Four years passed and you got married. Then three years later, Katniss gave birth to Acacia." He nodded towards me. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. We were all staring straight ahead. "Then four years of break for you two because you were new parents, then ten years of either training or watching the Games."

"I guess so," My father sighs.

"I hate that woman's voice," Haymitch says, taking another swig of whiskey, nodding towards Effie. My mother rolls her eyes while my father snorts. The rest of us just smile.

"And now, I am super happy to bring up District Twelve's past winners and this year's trainers!" Effie says with a little hop. The reaping is a sad and depressing day, but people can't help but smile and clap and cheer for the winners.

"And here we go," Haymitch tilts the bottle back to get the last bit of alcohol in his mouth and then proceeds to throw the glass bottle behind him. A second later it shatters on the ground somewhere. He walks forward and up onto the stage. My mother closes her eyes in annoyance but opens them when my father kisses the top of her head. Then they walk up to the stage as well. The cheers and claps intensify the slightest bit as they walk up. Then in order, one by one, the rest of the winners -- three boys and one girl -- follow.

Effie goes back into her usual happy-skippy pep talk about the games and I zone out. I look around and spot my beautiful Aunt Prim smiling at me. I smile back and make my way over to her.

"Hey, Acacia," She says.

"Hi, Aunt Prim." That is all the words we have time to exchange for everything has gone silent. It is time for the drawing to begin.

"Ladies first!" Effie says as always. She crosses over to the glass ball filled with the girls' names. She stuffs her hand inside and while she is rummaging around, she catches my eye and smiles. Effie is more or less a family friend. She can be annoying and shallow at times, and that voice of hers is like nails being scraped across a chalk-board, but we love her. Kind of.

I take my eyes from the glass ball to my parents. They are doing their best to look composed, but it's leaking though. Their worry. For me. This is probably the worst part of the reaping for them. The chance that I, their only daughter, will get picked.

But my name is only in that God-forsaken glass ball three times. But still. There is still a chance. At age twelve my Aunt had her name drawn. And it was only in there once. That was why my mother had volunteered as a tribute. To save her little sister.

Effie Trinket takes out the small piece of paper she has drawn. She opens it up with a bright, enthusiastic smile on her face. But as she reads the name, her smile fades. Anxiety builds up in my chest. Don't be stupid. I think to myself. Your name is only in there three times! What are the odds that that piece of paper says Acacia Rue Mellark?

The entire District 12 is now holding their breath. The winners are leaning forward on stage, as if they might be able to hear that unspoken name. I find myself leaning forwards too.

Effie looks up. Her eyes seem to be glazed over. She mumbles something quietly. Something no one can hear.

"Well? Speak up, girl!" Haymitch barks. Effie clears her throat and tries again.

"This years girl tribute for District Twelve is . . ." She falters. Her voice is considerably lower, no longer squeaky and high-pitched. It actually compliments her. Who new that the tone of voice a person has can actually compliment their disposition?

". . . is . . ." She takes a deep breath and, much to my horror, looks right at me.

"Acacia Rue Mellark."

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Katniss POV

My heart stopped.

My world ended.

In that moment nothing more mattered to me than who's name had been called.

Acacia Rue Mellark.

My baby girl. My sweet, sweet daughter. My child.

Before I knew quite what was happening, I was up out of my chair.

How could her name have been called? She's only fourteen! Her name was in that ball only three God damned times!

"NO!" Someone's agonized voice cried out. I could almost recognize the voice. Was it Prim? Was she screaming for her only niece? Or was it Effie? Somehow I couldn't fathom Effie screaming with that sort of passionate misery.

Then I felt Peeta's arms wrap around me. Oh. I was the one screaming. That's why it sounded how it did. It was the sound of an anguished mother that had escaped my throat.

Not caring about the camera's all trained at my face, broadcasting this moment for the rest of Panem to see, I cry out again. I would have been bent over in agony if it weren't for Peeta. And yet, I didn't care if the cameras' saw my moment of pure weakness.

As I look out over the crowd of shocked faces I saw Prim crying. Tears were flowing freely from her blue eyes. And to her left was Acacia. My baby. Her face was a hard mask. Her fists were shaking at her sides and she was breathing hard. But beneath her mask of hatred, I can see that she is scared to death.

I don't blame her.

"Oh, God, please no!" I sob quietly. My daughter being forced into the Hunger Games at one of the worst times for District 12 tributes. No, this can't be happening.

Peeta is trying to tell me something but I don't hear him. I can't hear anyone right now. And just like when Primrose was called up, twenty-one years ago, it feels like the breath has been punched right out of me. I've grown tired of this feeling.

"Oh, God, there has to be something you can do," I say with all the strength I have left in my voice, which isn't much. Effie looks pained.

"I . . . I'm sorry Katniss. Once a tribute has been chosen, unless someone volunteers for them, they must go through with the games."

"Oh, God," I whisper again. If anyone was going to volunteer, they would have spoken up already. I shake my head over and over. This has to be a nightmare. It has to be.

Haymitch walks over and says quietly in my ear, "You're not helping her, sweetheart. She is used to seeing her mother be strong and brave and you are choosing this moment to break down?" He is being sympathetic even though his tone of voice does not show that. A small laugh on the brink of hysterics escapes my throat and Peeta looks at me strange.

I sink down into my seat, tears falling freely from my eyes now, and curl up against Peeta, sobbing quietly. He wraps his arms around me and whispers, "Shh . . . shh."

"Acacia Mellark?" The mayor says. "Please come up to the stage."

She starts walking forward. I can see one small tear escape her eye and another anguished cry threatens to make itself known. Her fists are still shaking and her head is looking at the ground. I can't stand it. I turn away.

Peeta starts stoking my hair. "Shh . . . baby, shh." He makes comforting noises but I can tell that his heart is breaking along with my own. I then utter one simple phrase.f

"Promise me she'll be okay,"

Because looking at my daughter a second ago, proved a few things.

She was trying to be brave.

She knew that this could be the last time she ever saw District 12.

And I knew that today had confirmed my worst fears: Having a child had resulted in sentencing said child to death.

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Acacia POV

"NO!" My mother screamed. The agony in her voice was almost impossible to withstand. I looked to the ground in an effort not to cry. My fists clench and I grit my teeth.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. I chant to myself in my head over and over.

"Oh, Acacia. Oh, baby . . ." My Aunt says. She hugs me and I can feel the tears from her face falling in my hair. "Don't be afraid. You can do this." Lies, but I nod anyway.

"Oh, God, there has to be something you can do!" My mother says. I twist my head around so I can see her. My father is holding her in his arms and she looks like she is about ready to faint.

Please. Please say something, Effie. Please tell her that you can just, draw the name again. Please. Please.

"I . . . I'm sorry Katniss. Once a tribute has been chosen, unless someone volunteers for them, they must go through with the games."

No . . .

She whispers something to herself and Haymitch walks over and says something in her ear. She let out this half-laugh half-sob thing and sank down into her chair. My father is trying to comfort her. I can tell.

"Acacia Mellark?" The mayor. "Please come up to the stage."

Against my better judgement, my smarter judgement, I start walking towards the stage. I keep my head down and my fists clenched. This can't be happening.

But it is.

I can half see my mother turn away. Watching her daughter basically walk up to the gallows must be too much for her to bear. She buries her face in my father's shoulder and he holds on to her. I catch his eye and I can't tell what he is thinking. I suddenly remember what he told my mother about thirty minutes ago.

'She'll be okay,'

Oh, how wrong he was.

I go over and stand next to Effie. She nods and I feel not just District 12, but all of Panem, looking at me. I wish I could shy away. Just block them out. But I can't. This must be how it feels in the Hunger Games. Except no one is trying to kill me at the moment.

"And now for the boy," Effie mutters. She goes over and reaches in and takes out a piece of paper. She looks at it and reads off the name with the same ammount of sorrow. I have never seen Effie so full of an emotion that is not bubbliness. I don't hear the name that is called out. I am too engrossed in my thoughts. I have already taken apart in the games in every way, except actually compeating in them. Now that was about to change.

I hear my mother gasp and I look up as a boy a year and a half or so older than me walks up on the stage. My eyes and mouth open and I falter. Effie's hand steadies me as I look at the boy. It is Gale's son. He is tall with dark eyes and a muscular build. His olive-toned skin matches his father's but he has brown instead of black hair. He catches my eye and gives me a sympathetic look. I close my mouth and look ahead once again.

"Any volunteers?" The mayor asks. No one says anything. "Then that's it then. The tributes will be taken to the Justice Building and decide on their trainers."

The anthem starts playing. No matter how many deaths they cause, no matter how many lives they destroy, the Capitol will always look at this day like a holiday. I shake my head in disgust.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Effie says, trying to get back into her normal, high, bubbly tone of voice, as all the winning tributes stand up. My mother is still clinging onto my father. Effie goes over and shakes the boys hand. He looks like he is in pain. Then she briskly walks over to me, shakes my hand and gives me a hug and whispers something in my ear.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor. . . ."

A/N: I thought that was pretty good. Please R&R and tell me if I should keep going with this, or is my writing sucks and I should stop before it kills someone. xP lol.
Most, if not all, of the story is going to be in Acacia's POV. I just wanted to add in Katniss here so you could all see what was going though her mind as her daughter is called up to die. And I know that Katniss is usually kick-ass and amazing and doesn't let you know what she's feeling, but really. The girl's daughter just got called up to the Hunger Games and Katniss knows what it's like to train the tributes, and be apart of the Games herself, so you can't really blame her for being completely distraught
For those who don't know, Acacia - Uh-KAY-shuh