A/N: This story begins immediately after Katniss's confrontation with Buttercup in Mockingjay. It will be split into three parts, each of which will include thirteen or so chapters, each 1k words in length. Part I: The Letter, is about Katniss and Peeta growing back together.
When trigger warnings apply, I will make sure to include them in the notes beforehand.
Thanks to Elricsister for beta-ing and dealing with all my neurotic bullshit.
"There's a new revolution, a loud evolution that I saw / Born of confusion and quiet collusion of which I've mostly known / A modern day woman with a weak constitution, 'cause I've got / Monsters still under my bed that I could never fight off / A gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my night off (...) They write that I'm happy, they know that I'm not / But at best, you can see I'm not sad / But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have"
– Lana Del Rey, "hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have—but i have it"
It's mid-afternoon when I come to. My eyes are swollen and puffy and it takes me a moment to place my surroundings. I am lying on the sofa in my home in the Victor's Village. Buttercup is nowhere to be seen. Evidently, cleaning his cuts for him this morning has not made him forgive me for all the years of mutual rancor between us.
I'm wearing my father's hunting jacket and sweat has made the worn leather arms stick to my damp skin.
Shakily sitting up, I shed off the garment and toss it over the back of the sofa. The fireplace is still burning, but the vase with Snow's roses and the outfit I wore coming back from the Capitol are now nothing but ash. This gives me a small sense of comfort, and I sink to the floor in front of the couch, rebraiding my hair with slow fingers and allowing myself to sweat in the intensified early spring heat.
It feels like winter went on forever, and for once, I'm glad to be surrounded by the beginnings of District Twelve's sweltering spring and summer humidity.
Finally, I muse, a place for a girl on fire.
I look up at the mantle, making eye contact with the framed photos of my sister, mother, and father. I swallow a lump in my throat and rise to my feet, gently running my fingers across the cool glass of the frames, pretending that I'm touching their faces.
Beside a portrait of Prim sits the envelope Haymitch gave me the day we left the Capitol. It's the letter from my mother, her last parting words before she abandoned me for a second time to fend for myself in Twelve. Holding the envelope in my hands, I feel the weight of the thick parchment. I see my name written in the center in her perfect script. For the first time, it hits me that she's the only family I have left.
I step backwards, gently scooting Buttercup aside and falling gracelessly to the couch, finally ready to take in her words.
Dear Katniss,
I am writing this from my hotel room in the Capitol. They wouldn't tell me where you were staying until after your trial had ended. And by that point, I understood that you probably wouldn't want to see me.
As you can probably understand, I will not be returning to District Twelve. I just can't stand to set foot there and know that neither of them will be waiting for me at home. Everywhere I looked, I would be haunted by the memories of all I have lost.
I never had your father's way with words, but I know that it is important that I leave you with something. I am trying my best to make the words come out right. First and foremost, I want you to know that I am sorry.
I'm sorry about Apsat's death. I'm sorry about my absence. I'm sorry about both of your Games. I'm sorry about all your losses. I'm sorry that you hurt so much right in front of me and I never did anything about it.
The truth is, I never particularly wanted to be a mother. Like you, I wasn't very fond of my own mother myself.
And you were always so independent. Even when you were an infant, you never seemed to need me. You used to wail all day as a baby. I would rock you and feed you and do everything I could think of, but you never seemed to want my comfort. The only time you were content was when your father was around. When you two were together, I disappeared into the background. I used to get so jealous of you. It sounds so silly now, but I was so young and I felt so alone in the Seam. Nobody I knew from Town would speak to me after I married Apsat and all our neighbors merely seemed to tolerate me because he was so popular.
Prim was so much easier. She was so loving and trusting. She seemed to really need me, in a way that you never had.
And she needed you too. You were drawn to one another right away. You used to throw the worst fits about going to school because all you wanted to do was stay home and be with her. You'd come home and she'd immediately start squirming in my arms. It made your father so happy, watching both his girls dote after the baby.
I failed you both so much. I couldn't protect either of you. The amount of times you nearly died before my eyes and I was useless to try and stop it. I remember looking at you, really looking at you both for the first time after your father's death, and seeing your gaunt cheeks, your swollen stomachs, and knowing that it was all my fault, I tried so hard to earn your trust back after that, but even I knew that my attempts were futile. I don't remember most of those hard months following his death. The few memories I do have are dazed and distant. It was like I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke up, my eldest daughter hated me and my youngest daughter was wary of me. I've spent all of your teenage years trying to earn back your trust, but you've brushed off all my attempts at reconciliation. It was like we were opposite sides of the district and Prim was running back and forth between us. All details of your early womanhood were told to me secondhand. I remember walking in on you washing rags one morning and realizing you hadn't even told me the news of your first period. I remember watching you walk home with Gale and not being sure if there was something between you. I remember the day of Prim's reaping, being elated that you would let me do something for you as basic as braiding your hair. I remember watching you in your Games with Prim by my side, both of us just holding one another and crying and crying. I remember lonely dinners during your Victory Tour when everyday just seemed like a series of tasks meant to distract us both while we waited for you to come back. I remember us crying so much during your time in the Quell. I remember her sleeping in my bed every night you were gone, from the first night of your Games all the way up until we were all together again in Thirteen. We were so sure we were going to lose you and we knew that nothing would feel complete after that.
I used to think that your father was the glue holding us all together. After his death, I thought it was you. Now I realize that we were all equally necessary pieces of the puzzle. With one of us gone, there will always be some vital part missing. Time may pass and the pain may dull slightly, but we will never be that family again.
I remember a long time ago, when I was a few years younger than you are now, my best friend was reaped into the Second Quarter Quell. Her name was Maysilee Donner. I never did know quite how that mockingjay pin came into your hands but during that Games, it was her token. And after that Games, when the Capitol sent home her body, rigid and cold, I watched her sister and mother fade away. The same way that I worry we are both fading away now.
I didn't frequent Paysilee Donner after that. After I married, I never even saw her. But I know you knew her daughter. You didn't share many aspects of your teenage years with me, but I know that you were friends with Madge Undersee. And I know you probably know just how sick her mother was.
I don't ever want you to be that sick. I don't ever want to be that sick again myself.
I know you don't trust me. I know you feel abandoned by me and it's not without sound cause. I know you may never want to speak to me or see me ever again. But do know that I love you and I loved Prim and you don't ever have to go through anything alone. Not ever again.
For reasons I'm sure you can understand, I won't be coming back to Twelve. I'm not sure exactly where I'll be moving to, but the Capitol is sending nurses out to all the districts. When I'm assigned my new address, I'll leave it here. I want you to be able to reach me, no matter how many miles are between us.
Your mother, Cicely Everdeen
I read the letter many times over until my tears start to drip onto the expensive Capitol stationary and I realize I am crying. She has written an address on the last page, an apartment somewhere in District Four, and there's a phone number below it. Haphazardly trying to wipe my wet tears off the pages to stop the black ink from smearing, I find myself walking on heavy feet to the telephone in the kitchen.
With the robotic motions of somebody whose mind is currently far away from their body, I type in the ten digits and lock myself in the nearest bathroom. Sinking to the floor, I lean against the wall and listen to the buzzing on the other side of the line. It rings one…two...three...almost ten times without an answer. Then, just as I'm about to hang up, I hear my mother's voice.
"Hello? Cicely Everdeen speaking."
"Mom." I sound so quiet and childlike. I find myself thinking back to days spent home from school when I was sick, calling out in a desperate voice for her affections.
"Katniss?" she gasps, like she's been underwater for minutes and has just come up for air. "Katniss, you're home."
"Yeah…I just read your letter." She chokes back a sob and I realize then that she's crying. "Mom, don't cry," I plead. "I'm okay now," I begin to cry again too, "Mom, I'm okay."
I'm not sure what we talk about after that, if we even talk about anything at all. I hear my voice at times, but it sounds far away and distant. Sometimes I hear it and it's a moment before I even register it as my own. There are some moments where neither of us talk at all, we just cry in sync with the other's sobs. The information she does convey to me in-between the crying spells is very basic. My mother is living in an apartment building for "displaced women" in central District Four. Her neighbors are women like her, women who have lost someone or everyone in the war and have homes they can't go back to or don't have homes at all anymore. She's working as a nurse for a hospital that is being built piece-by-piece in the district. All the districts are being rebuilt, she tells me, but due to its size and its beauty, Four is seeing the most immigrants.
I try to picture my mother amongst the tanned fishers of Four. I try to imagine her on a beach in a nurse's uniform, her long blond hair braided up on top of her head and her porcelain complexion freckling in the harsh sun. It doesn't make sense, but somehow it fits. This lone, idealized version of my mother blends in with the diverse former residents of other districts. She works in a hospital with real equipment straight from the Capitol. She wades into the cold ocean water with her scrubs pulled up to her knees. For the first time in a long time, she's happy.
A/N: I made a moodboard for this fic, if you're interested. You can find that and various other degrees of aesthetic on my Tumblr (caucasianbuttslut).
Mr. Everdeen's first name, Apsat, is after the male deity of birds, animals, and hunting in Georgian mythology. Mrs. Everdeen's first name, Cicely, is a white-flowered plant with fern-like leaves that is most commonly used as a medicinal herb.
