Author's Note: So there's a bit of fluff and humor in this chapter as promised. . . More fluff than humor, though. Plus, a kind of somber tone in this chapter. I really wish I could just skip to the Hunger Games timeline (or when Meria meets Gale, hehehe) but you know. Gotta keep with the flow of the story and all. . .sadness.

Update Schedule? I plan to update at least once a week, I'm pretty excited about where I'm going with this story.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine! Wish it was, but it's not. So I'm just using Suzanne Collins' amazing characters ^_^

He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced-or seemed to face-the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself.

-Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby

Chapter IV:

A Childhood Treasured

I stared.

He stared back, his bright blue eyes clashing with my own.

This was the boy who would grow up so fast? The boy who was broken over and over and over again? No brother of mine deserved this. No brother of mine should ever have to go throught that. Peeta shouldn't have to go through that.

Slowly reaching out, I tentatively grasped his outstretched hand, shaking it slowly.

"Hello, Peeta."

He was only six months old, and I could already tell that he would be a strong, compassionate boy. Peeta never compained and was only happy when he was in someone's arms, being held and loved. He was in his crib now, staring down at me (since I was short, I was only tall enough to reach the top of the mattress holding him in, and could barely tip-toe high enough for the crib to allow my hands access to my new little brother.

"Gurgle." He let out a happy noise, and I imagined it was a greeting.

"I'll protect you, you know," I whispered fiercely. "There's no way I'm gonna let you get dragged into the Hunger Games." And although there was little I could actually do when the time came to prevent him from being exposed to that horrid world, I swore I would do my best.

He laughed then, as if he had actually understood what I had said, and I smiled.

I would protect him. Even if it destroyed the plot line. Whatever that was.

Already, Elizabeth's words were fading away, and I hadn't exactly been paying close attention to her explanation of the series, being too busy playing pea-hockey with forks and all. Bits and pieces would come to me at random times, like the bit about mother, one day she had me clean the pig pen and I was so upset, frustrated, angry that she didn't even look at me when saying it, when all of a sudden:

"-a bitter, mean bitch. Totally deserved to die in the-"

And a little about Mr. Mellark, too. It happened on one of those days when he was looking out of the window facing the Seam:

"-in love with Mrs. Everdeen, poor guy. They would've made such a good couple! Only married Mrs. Mellark 'cuz-"

I had a lot of flashbacks about Peeta, too. But I discarded them. Partly because I didn't want my little brother to become a character to me, but mostly because I wanted to learn these things on my own. I was interrupted from my daydreaming when a voice called.

"Challah!" my mother called from the kitchen.

I sighed. "Yes mother?"

"Come here!"

"Yes mother."

I looked at my brother. His innocent eyes fluttering closed even as his small hand clung to my pinky finger. I said a silent goodbye as I pulled my finger from his clutches, leaving the room and unaware of the wide blue eyes that followed my form to the door.

"Yes mother?"

"What is this?" she pointed to the lone piece of bread lying on the counter.

". . .bread?" Obviously.

She turned it around, showing a single small piece that had been torn off.

"Now what is it?"

". . . torn bread?" And where was she going with this?

Mother sighed, annoyed at my cheek. Was I being cheeky? I don't know. All I know was that father had torn that piece of bread to give me as a treat. It was the first bakery order that I helped him make. It was an "accidental" extra –not really, my father never made extras- and he had not wanted it to go to waste.

She slapped me upside the head abruptly. Swift and painful. Not maliciously, but unemotionally, which I felt was even worse. My eyes watered. Not because of the sting of the blow, but because the only thought running through my mind at that moment was:

She doesn't love me. She hates me. She doesn't love me. Doesn't love, doesn't love. . .

A continuous mantra, pounding into my brain.

"Go to your room." Her monotone voice broke through my thoughts, and I admit. I ran away shamefully. One day, I wouldn't run. One day, I'd show her what for. But not today. Today, I was two years old.

I did not go to my room. I went back to my brother's room, gently closing the door behind me and once again approaching the crib. I did this often now. Spilled my burdens, my fears and worries, poured them all to him. He who, without fail, would smile and laugh that absolutely perfect laugh that took away that heavy load and seemed to say:

"Everything is going to be alright."

"I am eighteen years old now," I said aloud, partly to Peeta but mostly to myself. Reaffirming who I am was always important to me. Especially since everything I knew from my old life was slowly but surely disappearing into a haze of memories. Yesterday, I almost couldn't remember my name. . .that was scary. Would my personality disappear, too? Could I be losing my identity unconsciously in order to peacefully assimilate into this strange new world? I didn't often think about these things, they hurt my two-year old brain. I continued on, "I was thrown into this world in a freak car accident. My name was Katri Dunber. I do not know why I am here. I will help my brother." And other such things.

I must have been there for about an hour venting to my brother and the world in general, before my father came in, back from his delivery run. He entered the room and pulled me into a hug, squeezing once before releasing me enough to be able to look at my face.

"Hey honey, how was your day?"

I wanted so bad to tell him what had happened, but I held me tongue.

"Great!" I plastered a smile unto my face. "Thank you for the bread, it was yum." And apparently, in The Hunger Games, sarcastic banter didn't exist in the world of adults when dealing with children.

Or maybe it was just him.

"Did you take care of your brother?"

"Of course!" I puffed up my chest in pride. He chuckled.

"Your chores?"

"Most of them. . .?"

Silence. Stare.

Pout.

Stare.

Super Pout.

Stare. Twitch.

Puppy eyes.

An exasperated, "Alright"

I beamed. He ruffled my shoulder-length blonde hair fondly.

The only way I could be happier right now is if my new family only consisted of me, father, and Peeta. But it just wasn't meant to be.

"Time for dinner!" speaking of the devil. . .

Dinner was always awkward. If not for my father's obvious day-dreaming eyes, then because the witch knew. Knew about his fantasies, his desperate longing for Mrs. Everdeen. I don't even know how I knew that she knew, I just did. The way she pretty much glowered down at her food. . .this was the only time that her face didn't express bitterness, or some other strong negative emotion. It was a melancholy expression, and it swallowed her face, bringing out the haunted side of her natural beauty.

After dinner, my father carried me to my small room, and laid me gently down on the bed.

"You're a big girl now, right Meria?" his voice was odd. And just a bit desperate. I locked eyes with him, searching.

"Yessir," I slurred tiredly, playfully saluting.

"And big girls get to watch big girl things, right?" his eyes watered and my own widened with realization. A heavy silence filled the room. The playful mood was gone.

"Yes, sir," I answered slower this time, watching as a lone tear escaped his eye.

"Tomorrow, you're going to watch something. It's a-" He stopped himself. "A game. The Hunger Games."

And even though I was for all purposes, mentally eighteen, his words still chilled me. I had never seen such violence in my past life, though I had heard and read of wars and senseless killings. I knew the basics, some from Elizabeth, but most from what I had inferred for myself, watching people's reactions and their hushed, quiet defiance. Even then, there was something. . .perverse and plain wrong with the idea of sending children to fight and kill for a game. And now I would be exposed to the true horror of this world.

"Yes, sir."

And that's when I knew, my childhood was over.

A/N: Good? Bad? Review~ Not much dialogue, I know, and I want more dialogue, too. . . so I'll be working on that next chapter. I think I explain things a bit too much, but that's just who I am, lol.

To TypeWriter'sAreCool:

Thanks! Actually, that's pretty much why I did it, I'd been searching for a falling into Hunger Games story for sooo long, I was finally like: "Pfft, if no one's doing it, I will!" I'm actually hoping more people will start writing stories like this, 'cuz I like writing about as much as I like reading. Which is a LOT.

Challah is Hallah, but I read on Wiki that the words were interchangeable and Challah sounds more like a name than Hallah so that's my excuse, hahaha. I spent a while just searching names, trying to find the perfect one.

And nope, lol. No brothers other than Peeta. I know in canon Peeta has two older brothers, but I can't really fit them all in here, I'm still a bit of an amateur writer and I don't wanna have more characters than I know what to do with, ya know?

Once again. . .

I have thick skin! Burnnn mee, lol. No, not really. Need some feedback, though, ya know? I can take flames. But. . .

Praise works, too. ^_^

~REVIEW~