Chapter 13: Hardscrabble Married Life

My pregnancy with Peeta's and my daughter is difficult.

I have to ironically reassure myself by way of my cynicism: it probably feels this uncomfortable because I've never been great with child before. My physical discomfort is only made worse by the nightmares plaguing me every night with a vengeance. I had welcomed their absence when Peeta and I first wed, but now… every night, I wake, thrashing and choking, gasping and sobbing, from dreams in which my little girl is taken from me in the Reaping, just like her aunt before her. It's all the worse because I know my fears – now manifested once more – are not unfounded, while sitting up in our marriage bed, clutching at my ballooning, blossoming womb. This little one inside me had both her aunt and her uncle go into the arena twice, and though they came out once, it wasn't enough to save them or 21 of their fellow Victors from Snow's wrath. Tributes related to a Victor, whether by blood or marriage, has serious precedence: who's to say my child won't be Reaped the moment she turns twelve? Peeta holds me, murmuring to me that we'll be OK. We have each other.

"I'll always protect you, Katty girl," he croons, spooning me, his fingers cupping the distended skin of my belly, where our offspring lies cocooned within. I yearn to believe him; I distract myself from the little, nagging part of me that does not by pulling him on top of me, between my legs. Then I yank down the bodice of my nightdress, revealing my breasts and aching nipples to the frigid winter draft of our home. I touch myself there, arching my back and pressing myself against my husband, I only need to let out one pleading moan.

Peeta quickly gets the hint. His body becomes my way of coping with the horrid dreams.

As my belly grows rounder and my breasts become tender and filled with a mother's milk, Mother moves into the Bakery with us to help me prepare for the baby. Peeta is ever dutiful in helping Mother make the transition, shepherding a great many of her things to and from the Seam by way of our small delivery cart. Our little bundle of joy heralds her arrival in the middle of a punishing August heat wave. She's premature, Mother notes, which does little to help my mood as I go through the pangs of labor for 26 grueling hours, crying for and calling to my anxious husband from where I lie in our marriage bed.

When Mother places my daughter in my arms, I nearly weep from the terror and the all-encompassing love that I had foolishly hoped I would not feel once I lay eyes on her.

Even with Peeta kissing my lips and then my eyelids to banish the tears away, even with the awe and yes, small joy I feel at becoming the mother of Peeta's child, it's drowned out by the dread of a ticking-down clock starting its countdown in my head: 12 years….. nearly 13, as Focaccia – that's what we call her – has a post-Reaping birthday.

It's a balmy evening in late September, and I finally feel like my body is becoming my own again, the aches from pregnancy and labor fading. I smile wanly as I sit in the front area of the Cartwrights' cobbler shop, rocking the bundle in my arms. When my girlfriends – Delly and Madge – had cornered me into having a cup of tea, I hadn't had the will to say No, despite the sleepless nights I (and now Peeta with me) have had. Besides, they've been anxious to see the baby.

I keep an eye on Amara, my niece, prancing about by the front windows and benches where customers come to measure their shoe size and try the inventory, balancing my saucer on my knee so as to sip from my teacup conservatively. Delly emerges from the back, her flaming auburn hair in ringlets, a delighted smile on her face. She rubs her hands together, reaching.

"My turn." I pass my baby girl over to her proud aunt, who holds her gingerly. There is a slight clatter from up ahead as Amara knocks something over. Delly turns almost absently, the baby at her breast.

"Amara, hush. Your cousin is sleeping!"

Remembering herself, Amara tiptoes over to where her mother is holding her baby cousin. My niece's eyes are shining with wonder, a hopeful smile on her face. "Auntie Katniss, can I hold the baby, please?"

"May I hold the baby please?" I correct her grammar, a smirk of amusement tugging at the corner of my lips while Delly nods in appreciation of the teachable moment. I finally smile. "Yes, you may, but be gentle."

Delly lowers the bundle holding my daughter into her own daughter's arms. "Mind her head." I have to credit Amara – she is extremely conscientious, treating Focaccia like something fragile. Delly takes her back after a moment or two.

Seated next to me, Madge cranes her neck over the folds of Focaccia's blanket to get a better look. "Oh, Katty…. she's beautiful…. she'll break a lot of hearts."

My smile is one of pride, though also false bravery. "She… she has much of her aunt in her."

Delly and Madge look at each other, knowing instantly who I'm talking about, and the silence is ascendant. I shake my head, understanding and appreciating their tact. "You don't have to be sensitive for my sake. It comforts me to know she looks more Merchant – more like Prim."

Madge smiles amusedly as she lifts the rim of her cup to her lips. "You and Peeta must be fairly tired. Stressed, too. Is business good?"

"Mmm-hmm," I nod disinterestedly. "Peeta works so hard… And Mother's been a lifesaver… I think we're both working on ways to convince her to stay…"

"Speaking of things to work on," Madge interjects. "Have you and Peeta gone back to being intimate?" I nearly choke on my tea, and turn to look at her, spluttering. Madge shrugs, with a small smile. "I'm just saying sex can be a wonderful de-stressor, especially with a new baby in the house."

I clear my throat, cradling Focaccia as Delly passes her back. "Peeta's been…. very attentive," I state diplomatically. Delly winces, grateful that I'm keeping this aspect of her brother-in-law so vague, but Madge actually squeals instead.

"Details!"

I glower at her reproachfully, though it lacks any bite. "Let's just say Peeta and I have always had a healthy sex life, even before we were married, and we shall continue to do so." That seems to mollify my friend. I almost dare to explicitly turn the question back on her – I know who she's been sleeping with, but I shouldn't with Delly right here. Instead, I step right up to the line: "And you, Madge? Are you content with your activities in bed?"

Madge turns an adorable shade of bubble-gum pink, even as Delly whips around to study her with intrigue, confused. The Mayor's daughter's eyes plead with me, begging me to let it alone. I assent, imperceptibly nodding my head. At least Madge will know that I know. So I'm surprised when Madge takes a deep breath before hissing:

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Yeah," Delly leans over the front counter eagerly. "I love secrets!"

Face heating even further, Madge chitters to us, "Gale Hawthorne and I are to have a Toasting, next Sunday, on his day off from the mines." Delly gasps on the way to a happy squeal and Madge shushes her frantically. I smile in approval, letting that be my blessing. Madge's eyes search ours. "Will you come? He knows the perfect spot…" I nod again, cutting her off. I know the place too, but best that the Mayor's only daughter not speak of it here. I have to admire her bravery for being willing to marry across class lines and in defiance of her father's wishes.

"Of course, we'll be there!" I gush. "It sounds lovely."

Delly frowns with concern. "Be careful, Katty dear… you need to take care of yourself…"

"Fine, I'm fine…." I dismiss, grunting a little to prop Focaccia over my shoulder, bouncing and burping her. "Childbirth doesn't leave you out of commission for six whole weeks – not even that long… I can walk wherever I damn well have to in order to see this one married…" I nod with pride to Madge. "….. and even if I can't, I'll just make Peeta carry me."

Madge's eyes grow huge in the firelight of the blazing, setting sun. "He can do that?"

I grin, blushing furiously. "He is terribly strong." My best girlfriend squeals, laughs gaily, and I can't help but chuckle myself, shaking my head.

We're interrupted by the bell tinkling over the front door of the shop. A hulking miner with a heavy tread strides into the room. Though the cobbler shop has been on a lull for much of the evening, it's still a short time yet before closing. Delly moves about busily behind the counter, smiling kindly.

"Welcome. How can I help you…?" Her voice peters off once the sooty miner lifts his helmeted head. Even under the coat of coal dust, I recognize him. "Oh. Good evening, Thom," Delly smiles, her voice a tad breathless. "Good mining today?" I cringe. Delly only ever means well, but sometimes her Merchant upbringing can leave her oblivious as to how the other half lives. Outside of the rare occasion when someone uncovers gold amidst the coal, there is nothing 'good' about mining. I know; I was raised Seam.

Thom grunts, propping his one leg on a spare chair. "Evening, Mrs. Mellark. I, erm… I was hoping you'd have a pair for me. I've been saving up."

"Of course!" Delly titters. "Worker boots, I take it?"

"Aye, lassie." Thom grumbles in discomfort as he tries to work his way out of the first sole – so old, the leather itself is beginning to fray. "I've been saving up… Mining Office policy is one size fits all, I'm afraid, 'less you can afford your own…"

Delly emerges from the back, bustling and handing him a new pair. "Try these."

We watch as Thom tugs on the boots, sighing in audible relief. "Aye. These'll do, lassie. Much obliged." He digs around in his pockets. "I, erm… I owe ya…"

"Half-price," Delly oddly whispers it, her voice small. I have to wonder if that pricing is really true. Thom studies my sister-in-law for a moment, before smiling, his teeth blinding white and even when in sharp contrast with the coal dust. "Grateful, Mrs. Mellark."

Delly shrugs, tucking a strand of her flaming hair over her shoulder. "You can call me Delly."

He nods, tipping his helmet to her. "Evening, then…. Delly," he turns and heads for the door, a giant paw of a hand patting Amara's head as he passes. The bell tinkles, leaving silence in its wake. Delly is staring after the large, handsome miner, her deep green eyes curious. Madge smirks.

"He's the Miner Foreman, now, isn't he?"

"Huh?" Delly blinks out of her reverie, turning to us. "What was that now, Madge?"

"Thom Borden. He's the new Miner Foreman. Took over from Dex Stalag after the Reaping this summer…"

The bell abruptly tinkles again, and suddenly Thom is back, panting a little. Delly jerks a little, blinking rapidly.

"Snow hang it all, I forgot! Didn't see ya there, Katniss – baby and whatnot, too!" Thom is clearly kicking himself for his own empty-headedness. "Yer husband asked me to fetch ya; didn't expect to find ya here, is all!"

"Oh, y-yes, I've been keeping you ladies anyway…" I stand, smoothing my skirts, turning to smile at my sister-in-law weakly. "Thanks for everything, Delly." I then nod my congratulations to Madge before following Thom out.

"Don't be a stranger, Katty!" Delly calls after me through the tinkling of the bell.

I'm thankful for Thom's stoic companionship on the walk through Town. But I'm surprised, and worried, when approaching my little house I see that it's dark inside and the curtains are drawn. I rush the last few steps, heart in my throat, afraid that Peeta has fallen or been attacked in our home. In a district with Peacekeeper presence this lax, petty burglary has happened every now and again, though not often. But before I can reach for the door, Thom grabs my arm, turning me to face him. I don't have a chance to explain the reason for my panic before he lays his finger across my lips, and though I'm confused, I trust the Miner Foreman enough to remain silent.

We step inside my home, and as my eyes adjust to the dim, I realize that it's not empty. My small living room is packed with people, sitting, standing or crouching wherever they can find room. The darkness is split by the flickering light of a single candle, held aloft by my husband, who stands by our hearth, speaking in hushed tones to the assembly.

His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed. I've seen flashes of it before: when he would barter at the Hob, when he confronted his father over his mother defrauding the Bakery, when he realized Rye and Prim would be sent back into the arena. But I don't know quite what to make of it. I glance around at the motley group in my house, men and women, young and old, Seam and Town, all leaning forward, completely absorbed. Peeta doesn't need a brush to paint images. He works just as well in words.

And the words he's sharing with the breathless group are ones I've heard before, but never from him. Words about revolution, about rebellion. Words about taking back our district, about making it a place where everyone can be safe. Words about overthrowing the Capitol. Gale used to say things like that, in the woods, when we were but children with no idea how much more difficult our lives were to become. And even Daddy had occasionally murmured bits of sedition, when he thought I was asleep or not paying attention. I'd never been swayed by either my father or by Gale, though. I'd always thought their ideas preposterous. But in Peeta's simple, direct manner, the words make sense, almost seem plausible. Coming from him, the words are a beacon of hope.

But I still can't believe it's my mild-mannered husband inciting rebellion.

I glance at Thom, only to find him already watching me. He shrugs, his expression sad but defiant, then without a word he slips out of the house and into the night.

The candle gets passed from hand to hand as others take turns speaking, and I'm surprised by the calm that permeates the group. No one shouts, or even tries to talk overtop of anyone else, despite the number of people and the weight of the discussion. There's a focus, a resolve in the group that I've never experienced. A certainty that what's happening is bigger than all of us.

I pad away silently, shutting the bedroom door firmly between myself and the assembly.

When the last of the visitors has left, Peeta brings a bowl of broth to our bedroom, where I'm pacing in front of our bed from a mixture of anger and fear. He doesn't speak, only sets the bowl on the dresser and waits, watching me warily.

"Why?" I ask, a single word that carries the weight of his betrayal. We've been together nearly four years, happily married for over two of those years, shared every hope, every dream, nearly every thought, or so I've always believed. But here he is, my husband, organizing a rebellion in the living room of the home we've made together, and he hadn't said a word to me.

Not a single word.

Peeta rubs the back of his neck, averting his eyes. "I can't sit around and do nothing anymore, Katniss," he says softly, missing the underlying meaning in my question. Or avoiding it, maybe. I scowl at him, and after a long, tense silence, he relents. "I was going to tell you."

"You don't trust me." It isn't a question.

"It isn't that." Peeta sighs, world-weary. "I just didn't want to involve you until there was something to say."

"The minute you spoke to a single person about this there was something to say!" My voice rises in anger. "I can't believe you were doing this behind my back! Do you have any idea how crazy this is? Did you ever even think about what might happen if you provoke Cray or, Snow forbid, the Capitol?" I lean in closer to him, practically spitting. "What happens if you're caught, and the city responds by transferring Cray or changing out our Corps? And when they do, what happens if Cray is replaced by someone worse?" Peeta might have not thought this far ahead – in our two years of marriage, I've done that enough for the both of us. "How could you be so careless?"

"This is why I didn't want you involved," he snaps, then blanches. I turn wide grey eyes at him, letting out a little gasp of horror, my heart clenching painfully in her chest. "I didn't mean-" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Yes you did."

I turn away and climb into our bed, deliberately facing the wall.

I don't let him touch me, put his hands anywhere on me, all night.

Peeta and I have fought before – we're both scarcely twenty, young and strong-willed. And now the parents of a small, helpless child besides. Besides, married people squabble, and Peeta and I have had our quarrels, though I've always been able to slough them off.

But this is different. My husband doesn't seem to realize that he's risking poking a sleeping bear. I hate the Capitol as much as anybody, but we've always had it good, absurdly so, under Cray. He leaves us alone in squalor instead of leaving us poor and beaten bloodied too.

I let my displeasure with the man I married be known all through the following Sunday, keeping my distance from my husband and using the need to nurse Focaccia as an excuse. Though I daresay that Gale and Madge's Toasting in secret is beautiful, backdropped by the lake and my father's hunting cabin and only a smattering of trusted friends who dared to brave the fence.

I could have told Peeta that something would go wrong.

It starts when Cray and his men suddenly start making mass arrests. Oddly, my husband who has used our Bakery as a meeting place, is not among them. I can only dare to hope that whatever intelligence was tipped off to the authorities was incomplete, and that Peeta's connections haven't given him up.

As fall's chill begins to descend on the district, so too does the Capitol's presence. Cray is deposed without fanfare, exactly as I predicted. Much of the now-former Head Peacekeeper's High Command is relieved of post, cycled out to other districts. I feel sad when I learn that Darius is among them. He was always a kind man; I recall him laughing boisterously at Peeta's and my wedding.

Peeta somehow is able to avoid suspicion, but the crackdown by this new Head Peacekeeper, Thread, only gets worse. A garrison is set up in the town Square. Hangman's gallows, stockades. The old stocks from under Cray were all but ruins in their chronic disuse, but it's still deeply disturbing to see the fresh new ones now full.

If anything in Peeta's and my life is punished, it's the Bakery. Business slumps, and one night, while I'm putting Focaccia down to bed in her bassinet, I hear the shattering of glass coming from the expansive bakery windows downstairs. Focaccia promptly wakes up and begins wailing, and I draw her to my breast, fretful. I turn to my husband with fear as he bounds out of our washroom half-shaven, but Peeta shakes his head wordlessly as he prowls downstairs. I wait for maybe two terrified minutes before he comes back, something large in his fist. When I drift anxiously into him, the baby nestled between us, we stare down at the brick he is holding.

Peeta sighs, looking truly remorseful, pained. "I'll go visit the glassblower in the morning. In the meantime, we'll have to board that pane up." He pulls me tight into him and kisses me squarely on the mouth, a firm peck, before turning back to our bed. I watch him, biting my lip.

Conditions continue to deteriorate. More mass arrests occur. I am shocked into dismayed silence when Greasy Sae comes round back of the loading dock one morning, her face ghastly pale as she tells me the Hob has burned. I fish for some spare coin in the pockets of my frock, adding to it a spare loaf of bread, my thanks and a hug before sending her on her way.

A curfew is imposed. Peeta tries to forbid me from walking anywhere alone, and I vehemently argue the point, insisting I can take of myself. It's the fiercest argument we've had since the night I found out he was working with the rebels, and it quickly boils over into a furious bout of angry sex on our mattress. I leave hickeys – red and inflamed from a mixture of anger, passion and deep love – on his shoulders and neck. Tangled in exhausted post-coitus, I finally compromise by telling him that I'll always be home before sunset, and he gentlemanly insists that I at least keep a butter knife hidden in the folds of my frock. Though they're only meant for bread and haven't been seized by the Justice Building as confiscated weaponry simply because we need them for business, our knives are still sharp. From then on, I also become even more demonstrative and assertive in the bedroom, Peeta and I working through the stresses of parenthood and government oppression through desperate, raw lovemaking.

When it is daylight, I try to visit Mother and Delly, my sister-in-law. I beg each of them to consider moving in with Peeta and me at the Bakery, insisting there's plenty of room. Delly declines, assuring me that she and Amara will be fine. I discover this for myself when, one evening, I am making my way back to the Bakery in time for curfew when I see the lights on in the cobbler shop. Through the glassy panes, I observe Delly in hushed, deep conversation with Thom Borden. She's wringing her hands, clearly distressed, but then stills when Thom takes her small hands in his own – large and calloused and strong from the mines. And when he pulls Delly close and kisses her, she lets him, though I can hear her gasp of astonishment clear through the window. The embracing couple doesn't see me as Delly hesitantly deepens the kiss, and I smile sadly. I only turn away when I see Delly hike up her skirts as Thom hefts her leg up and around his waist. In spite of everything happening during these dark times, I am glad Delly has found someone to love again. From then on, whenever I pass the cobbler shop in the twilight hours, I can be sure to hear a mixture of sighs and grunts coming from inside or round the back in the shop's rear alley.

The end comes rather abruptly one late spring morning, about nine months after Focaccia's birth and with the Reaping for the 79th Hunger Games mere weeks away.

A strange lull has fallen over Twelve in the past several days, the morning almost normal and with a new front pane gleaming in the Bakery's window. I expect that Thread has found his rhythm, the district now sufficiently cowed. I'm at the counter, kneading some dough rather unconfidently, pausing to caress the slight baby bump starting to curve under my frock.

I'm expecting again. I haven't told Peeta yet, wanting to see how he'll react. Turning back to glance into the narrow rear hallway leading to the loading dock and our loft, I bite my lip. My husband was thrilled when we had our first child, but that was before Twelve suffered a shake-up in its security forces. I can't help but wonder if Peeta will feel the same jubilation at the prospect of our being parents again, knowing what we know now. I wouldn't trade Focaccia for anything, but I remember well how reluctantly I brought our baby to term. I only went through with it because I so desperately wanted to make Peeta happy. But perhaps now Peeta might be as wary as I am of bringing another child into this world. As compared with my last pregnancy, carrying him – I have an instinct that it's a boy – has been easier, but not by much.

Focaccia is crawling around on the floor, playing with some spare pots and pans for toys, and I smile at her indulgently. Casting my eyes back down to the dough, I try pounding it as I hear my husband's heavy tread coming up from the back, where he's been reviewing our account books. Feeling his arms encircle me, unknowingly cupping my slight baby bump, I sigh as Peeta presses a kiss into my neck, then my jaw.

"You OK?" he croons like the devoted lover he is.

I nod heavily. "Yeah. I'm fine." I shiver as I feel Peeta's lips on my skin again, then gasp sharply when his hand snakes around to cup my breast through my dress. My nipple pebbles, aching with growing desire as Peeta's fingers give it a pinching tweak.

"P-Peeta….!" My gasp turns into a breathless laugh as Peeta turns me about in his arms and kisses my lips fully, deeply. I purr without meaning to. "The… the baby! What… what if a customer…?"

"We'll be decent," he growls huskily.

I smirk, rolling my eyes, and indulge him, so we embrace. As I sink into the kiss, listening for the tinkling of the bell or for any sounds of distress from my daughter, I try to forget about Peacekeepers, or about the Hunger Games, or about…

KABOOM!

The sound of an explosion rocks the very foundations of the building; only the counter and our arms about each other keep Peeta and I upright. Focaccia squawks and then starts bawling in terror. Still at rest in my husband's arms, my hands braced lightly on his chest, I turn my head to peer out the front windows, in the direction of Abernathy Mine in the distance. The horizon is the same cloudless, brilliant blue as Peeta's eyes, and yet there's no plume of black smoke marring the skyline.

"What was that?" I breathe.

"A shaft explosion?" Peeta guesses, stepping out of my embrace to see to our daughter, picking her up and cooing to her.

I shake my head. I was raised in the coalfields and I know for damn sure what a mine collapse looks and sounds like. "I don't think that came from the mine shafts…."

The door to the back loading dock suddenly bangs open like a tribute cannon blast and Delly comes pelting in, Amara squirming and whimpering in her arms.

"Katty!" I've never heard such terror in my sister-in-law's voice. "Katty – Peeta! …. They're bombing the district!"

"What? Who's bombing it?" Peeta's jaw drops, as if he thinks it could be anyone other than the Peacekeepers. Seeming to guess what I'm thinking, Delly shakes her head at me; her very eyes, sparkling and green and with life returned to them ever since she's been sleeping with Thom, seem to be holding their breath.

"Hovercraft…. Overhead…" she's panting. "I heard it roar, it flew right over the cobbler shop…" Her breasts are ballooning under her dress. "I was close enough to see an insignia. It… it didn't look Capitol…."

Something unreadable is churning in Peeta's expression. He grabs my hand, then seizes Delly and our niece with the other. "Come on! We have to get down!"

"Peeta…." I whimper, my voice laced with both fear and warning. "What's happening…?"

"Come on, everybody into the flour cellar!" And we hustle down the dimly lit, rickety staircase to where Peeta and I keep our flour and yeast stores.

"Wait! Wait!" Delly yelps, trying to double back. "Papa….! PAPA!" Then, another, more plaintive wail: "THOM!"

"Don't worry about them; they'll be all right, so long as they get below-ground!" Peeta whispers to his sister-in-law hurriedly. We ushers us back behind some casks of wine, the fermented liquor often solidified to add to our yeast supply. If Haymitch Abernathy knew this was down here, he'd probably storm our shop for it.

Delly and I kneel, terrified, behind the casks, clutching our children, and Peeta throws his own body overtop of us in a bear hug. "Hold tight to me!" he whispers in my ear.

Another explosion shakes the earth, and I barely hear Delly squeak over the din. The cacophony doesn't seem to let up for many minutes, nearly an hour. When it finally quells, it's a time before I can finally hear panicked shouting wafting from outside. Even so, Peeta doesn't move or let us up, not trusting it.

We stay there, huddled together, with not even the lengthening shadows on the walls to help us measure time, the patterns of the sun. I wonder if the sun has been blotted out by the smoke that is surely rising over our razed home.

We're finally startled by a crash as someone breaks in through an entrance upstairs, followed by anguished shouting.

"DELLY!"

My sister-in-law shoves Peeta off with remarkable strength and flies for the staircase. "THOM!"

The Miner Foreman is halfway down the cellar steps before Delly is launching herself at him, kissing him furiously and indecently, nearly knocking them all down and with Amara smushed between them. Peeta traps me with a shocked look, capped with a cocked eyebrow. I shake my head unconsciously, listening to the squelching smack of Thom and Delly's long kiss, their moans of relief.

"I thought… I thought…" Delly hiccups.

"We were deep enough," Thom rumbles, rubbing her spine while Delly has her arms still tight around his neck. "Even with the mines taking the brunt of it. Only one elevator shaft worked, and we were able to climb through." He looks over my sister-in-law's shoulder at Peeta and me. "That's not the worst part. The Justice Building is gone!" My jaw unhinges in shock. "The train station…. And the Peacekeeper Barracks…. It – it's just…. gone!"

I draw a hand to my mouth in amazement. "Snow have mercy…." Delly leans back out of her and Thom's embrace, hands sliding up his strong arms as she clutches at him and shakes him.

"My papa! We have to find my Papa!"

That is all it takes for me to clue in. "MOTHER!" I scream in fear. If the mines took the worst of it… that means the Seam – what if there isn't anything left….?

Peeta looks dazed. "My parents…" he mumbles. "Leven…."

Thom leads us helter-skelter above the surface. We emerge into a ghost town of ash.

We find the cellar of what used to be the cobbler shop easily enough, half-buried under rubble. Mr. Cartwright looks shaken, but unhurt. Then it's a mad dash into what's left of the Seam. I'm only able to find the ruins of what used to be my childhood shack thanks to memory. Seam homes have dirt floors, no cellar to hide in, so Mother is pulled bleeding, but alive directly from the wreckage.

My sweet husband isn't so fortunate, finding what remains of his blood family dead and cold under the skeletons of their homes. His parents eerily appear to have died where they sat, the structure of their house standing but charred through. Mr. Sowerberry, the undertaker's, property, has been flattened, the cellar where he kept the caskets empty of survivors. Leven, Morticia and their children are instead hauled from the splinters, cold and lifeless.

That evening, a runner pelts through Twelve's ruins, acting as the town crier. According to someone who salvaged his wireless telegraph, District 13 is attacking the Capitol and Twelve has been liberated, our Peacekeepers having either died or fled (most likely the former).

We are at war.

Three Years Later

They play in the Meadow. Focaccia, with her father's blonde hair and my grey eyes, pelting ahead of her little brother, with my dark hair and blue eyes, trying to keep up with her on chubby legs. Seated on a picnic basket, the folds of my sundress fanned out around me, I smile as I rock Peeta's and my baby boy, in my arms.

The Capitol fell with shocking speed after the bombing of District 12. A new government, democratically-elected, was imposed; there are no more Hunger Games. But they still teach about them at the district school, one of the few buildings other than the Bakery and the Victors' Village to survive the carpet-bombing unscathed. The statues of Prim, Rye, Haymitch and Lucy Gray Baird still stand in the school courtyard.

I worry about a time when my kids will be old enough to ask questions, and Peeta and I will have to give them answers. About the war. And the Games. How they lost an uncle and an aunt to them. But there will be happier stories too – about how Mommy and Daddy fell in love and married. About dandelions in the spring and mockingjays and hope. Peeta tells me we'll be OK. We have each other, and I trust him wholeheartedly. For I need the promise that life can go on… and only Peeta and our children give me that. I watch him now, playing with our little ones, and I drink him in with a beaming, content smile of adoration. I could truly live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve him…

I'll tell my babies how the Meadow they play in now is a mass grave, burying the dead from the bombings, including their paternal grandparents. But I'll also tell them how it is also where Daddy and I celebrated our marriage. And it is also where, this past spring after a long courtship, Delly and Thom wed and Toasted the bread. Delly had flowers in her flaming red hair…

My baby stirs disquietedly, and I bounce him as he begins to cry.

"Oh, ssssh…. Ssssh…. Ssssh…." I tickle his nose. "Did you have a nightmare? I have nightmares too. Someday I'll explain it to you – why they came… why they won't ever go away…. But I'll tell you how I survive it… I make a list in my head, of all the good things I've seen someone do…. every little thing I can remember. It's like a game. I do it over and over… gets a little tedious after all these years, but… there are much worse games to play."