a/n [Written for the c/p prompt 'nascent'. For my beautiful Lils.]
Picture this:
They're sitting in the meadow. Green grass that's still wet with dew drops, little buds of pinks and reds and yellows, a shiny blue sky, and a sun bright enough to scare away the darkness. Two girls sit in the center, fiddling with flowers, forcing them into chains and laughing when each one breaks.
Oh, they're so easy to break.
The eldest girl gives up after ten or fifteen or twenty or so flower stems lay split at her feet. She leans back, dark hair tangling with the grass, and tries to stare at the sun. It claims the sky as its own in a white light. She's seeing spots by the time her eyes tear up and drift close.
The wind parts a path in the grass and footsteps follow it being careful not to wreck the growing bursts of delicate flowers under heavy boots. It's a man, he's tall, and the sky seems to glow around him.
Or maybe that's still the after effect of staring too long at the sun. It's always the most beautiful things that hurt the most.
The younger girl smiles and lifts herself up, stumbling on young, unstable legs. Her blond hair flows like the grass, and she's wobbling into her father's arms. Her sister is still lying on the ground, rubbing her eyes at the corners and blinking too fast.
"Papa!" the little girl cries, wrapping her arms around his legs because she's still not big enough to hug him around the middle.
"Primrose." He smiles and lifts her up.
The dark haired girl reaches out a hand to grab onto the hem of her father's pants. She is dizzy, but she will not be ignored.
Carefully, her father helps her up, and holding her hand, leads both girls back home for dinner, forehead kisses, and thin blankets tucked up to chins.
Now picture this:
The sky is grey. The two girls stand together, next to a strung up rope barrier, clinging to one another and crying. Slowly, the time passes, and with each hour the sobs grow louder and the hands grasp tighter. Tears stain cheeks and desperate hearts search and search and search but only come up empty.
The elevator is an empty metal cage, and it stops squeaking, finally, when it rests at the top of the shaft. No more footsteps trail from it. No more men are coming home.
At the girls' feet, kneeling on the ground, is their mother. Head in her hands, she doesn't make a sound. Her back doesn't shake. She is not crying, but anyone could see the despair floating off of her in waves. With shaky hands, the eldest child removes her arms from her sister.
"Katniss?" It's a soft question, but there's so much power behind a name. Primrose, eyes still so bright with hopefulness, looks up at her sister. Because maybe she thought wrong. Maybe Papa is just running a bit late.
It's no use hoping. Her sister turns away.
Katniss curls up on the hard ground next to her mother, searching for comfort. She is met with nothing. It is just as well. It takes time to get over losing beautiful things after all.
So with little Prim nestled against her other side, they wait.