Chapter 6: Births, Death and Marriages

I am standing over a boiling pot of soup when I hear the knock at our door. It creaks open.

"Katniss?" The gentle sound of my husband's voice.

"Kitchen, Dar!" I call. A moment later, my husband of just over a year enters our little living area. I turn about happily.

"Hey," I murmur quietly, reaching up to peck his lips chastely. "Have a good day at work?"

"I just got off patrol. On the Seam beat. All quiet, nothing to report. Your mama says hello."

Beaming, I cup his face in my hands and kiss him more deeply. "You're wonderful," I murmur into his mouth just before we break apart. But my smile doesn't quite reach up to my eyes. And Darius notices. A paw of a hand caresses my cheek.

"What's wrong, my love?"

Glancing down at my feet, I lace my fingers through his, my gaze flicking to his nervously. "Dar, I'm... I'm pregnant."

Darius's sea-green eyes go wide with surprise and a little bit of unmasked, hopeful delight. "You are?"

I nod solemnly, our joined hands coming to rest on a slight swell of my stomach. "Yes, I am." There is a moment of silence as I dare myself to gaze fully up into his face. I see the joyful anticipation there, and shrink back, even as Darius's arms wrap about my waist and hold me fast. "Oh, God, you do want to have it, don't you?"

Darius blushes as red as his hair and smiles at my shyly. "Yes. Look, I know we have discussed this. I know how afraid you are, of any children of ours going into the Games. And it's only right for you to feel that way. But remember - our baby will never have to take out tesserae. And I could curry favor with Cray, maybe try and ensure he or she isn't picked from the Bowl."

"That's not enough, Dar," I whisper sadly. "There is always a chance. It only takes one slip."

Darius ficks a finger under my chin, tilting it back to look me full in the face. "You're right. One slip. But one in thousands. And if the worst happens... we'll have each other." He takes me in his arms and rocks me gently. "I'll protect you. I love you."

My tears fall onto the white, armored plates of his uniform. "I love you, too." I whimper, tamper down a sob. Then: "All right."

Darius stirs against me. "All right?"

I step out of the embrace and nod. "All right. Let's have this baby."

Nine months later, after 23 hours of agonizing labor, I give birth to my first-born son. I name him Finnick. Finnick Odair Freeman, after Darius's brother, and who by all rights is my child's uncle. It is hard to imagine that I am related to a Hunger Games Victor by marriage, and even harder that only myself and my husband and our newborn baby will know that.

When Finn is about a month old, Darius and I wake up in our bed one morning on a lazy Saturday. I had already risen with the sun to give Finn his morning feeding, returning to our bedroom to hear Darius getting off the phone with Cray. Our house is connected to a secure landline with direct access to the Head Peacekeeper; occasionally, my husband will receive orders from his boss in this fashion.

Darius hangs up as I slide back under the covers and snuggle up next to him. He presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

"Cray asked me to hold off, come in later today. The boys on the night beat had a quiet time of it. Besides: Reaping's tomorrow, and set-up is just about done, according to Purnia."

"Hmm," I acknowledge, suddenly worried. Tomorrow will be Prim's fifth Reaping, out of seven total. At 16, she has five chances to be selected for death. Thank heavens it isn't more - after marrying Darius, I never had to take out tesserae, and Darius's wages as Deputy Head Peacekeeper have ensured that my sister won't either. My family is well cared for, to be sure. All the same, five slips is five slips too many for my taste. I hope she is spared tomorrow.

Darius slips out of bed, the absence of his warmth making me whine and reach for him. "Where are you going?"

"I may not be on duty for a bit, but that doesn't mean I can't get ready," my husband starts to change into his uniform, buckle his holster and load his gun. He placates me by kissing me briefly on the mouth, and chuckling at my pouty expression. "I'll make you breakfast, honey." I listen for his heavy tread going down the stairs in his boots; after a few moments, I rise, rustle Finn from his crib, and follow.

Darius is at the skillet, frying up some bacon. "Here, give him to me," he offers, reaching for our son.

"I got it," I smile gently. "Bottle?"

He fills it with warm milk, and passes it to me, laughing at how Finn gurgles and wiggles his fingers greedily for it. As soon as it is within his reach, he latches onto the nipple and begins to suckle. With a tiny smile, I rock him. We have started introducing milk by bottle in recent days, in the hopes that I can wean Finn from my breastfeeding quickly. Thank heavens he has another dozen years until he is eligible for the Games. I hope that accursed day never comes.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek is heard from clear up the hill, up in Victor's Village. Darius opens up the door to our home, shaking his head. "What the devil -?" I come to dutifully stand behind him in my nightgown, our little boy at my breast. A moment later, we see Effie Trinket's indigo wig bobbling ridiculously as she comes pelting down towards the Peacekeeper Barracks.

"Effie! What's happened?" my husband demands.

"He's dead!" the poor escort screams. "The poor bastard is all decomposed and everything!"

Darius's eyes go wide. Turning to me, he kisses me softly. "Stay here!" He orders, and takes off running, hand flicking towards the holster and his gun. Bouncing the baby gently, I obey. I watch my husband disappear over the crest of the hill nervously. What could have possibly happened to old Haymitch Abernathy? We soon find out. According to the district coroner, the Victor and drunk slipped on an empty beer bottle and tumbled nastily down the stairs. He's been dead for ten months.

Two years later, I curse myself and my husband for allowing him to touch me and make love to me in our bed ever again. But I can deny my sweet love nothing, for Darius holds my hand and kisses me sweetly throughout the many hours of childbirth. Finally, I emerge from childbed, with Elsa, a darling baby girl. I named her after my mother. And her arrival is actually a welcome celebration, to congratulate Primrose for surviving her last Reaping this summer, just a few weeks before.

Elsa is only a few weeks old when Darius returns from a court guarding post - the force had recently caught a Seam thief stealing from the Merchant greengrocer - with our mail. He has also taken it upon himself to patrol Victor's Village, a new policy that he suggested to Cray after the Haymitch Abernathy fiasco. Scrolling through a small stack of bills, he comes to the final envelope and slices it open with his penknife. Scanning the first few lines, his handsome face breaks out into a beaming smile.

"Ah! The new Baker is getting married! He's invited us to his Toasting this Saturday evening."

I straighten from where I have been placing Elsa into her bassinet with a curious frown. "Peeta Mellark?"

"That's the one. He's marrying Nata, the confectioner's daughter."

My brow creases further in piqued curiosity. Back before I was married and became pregnant, back when I used to hunt, I would often trade squirrel at the back loading dock door of the Mellark Bakery. Peeta's father was the Baker then, he only just recently retired. His youngest son, Peeta, always insisted that I be given the freshest bread possible. We were classmates together in school, though we never spoke at all. I never know what I would have said to him, especially after he first tossed some burnt bread to me when I was 11. Daddy had been working off an injury that kept him off his feet for good few months - mine explosion - so we were living solely off of Mother's Healer income. Peeta's intercession was a kindness I have never forgotten, nor for which I have thanked him.

I suppose the least I could do is attend his wedding, though I have never been one for parties. I have attended Capitol-District 12 government functions on Darius's arm since becoming his wife, but only out of loyalty to him. Wishing for him to succeed. I smile tightly. "How lovely. I'll wear my blue dress."

The Baker's wedding is only attended by a tight inner circle of friends. Only about 20 people, including my husband and I, can fit into the back storage room of the Bakery, where Peeta and his new bride Toast a bit of pumpernickel bread over their meager hearth fire and share it. Nata is the confectioner's daughter. I have only seen her in Town a few times; when Prim and I were younger, we would often stop beside the candy store's window to admire the goodies on our way home from school. The same was true of the bakery, though we very rarely had enough money to afford treats, except with the little birthday money we received each year from Mother and Daddy.

As I observe the ceremony curiously, I notice how Peeta and Nata's motions and words are flat, correct, as they exchange their vows. There appears to be no love, no affection in their eyes, as Peeta stoops to kiss his bride after they are pronounced husband and wife. No love in the way that Darius and I shared during our wedding.

My heart breaks for Peeta, just a little. The poor man. This is an arranged marriage if I ever saw one. Many Merchant marriages are; very rarely do people in Town marry for love. Parents will betroth their children together, sometimes from a very young age; very rarely are these kinds of contracts broken. Rarer still do these marriages based on economics and advantages turn into marriages based on true love. These marital alliances are usually crafted in the hopes of ensuring a baby, an heir to carry on the family business. Peeta's two older brothers have already married into more prominent Merchant families and will one day inherit those businesses; the destiny of the Bakery will fall to Peeta, and whatever child (preferably a son) comes after him.

There is light, polite applause upon Peeta and Nata sharing their wedding kiss, and the crowd presses in to wish the newlyweds well. When Peeta reaches Darius and I, his face breaks into the first smile all evening; to my shock, he gives me a big hug, holding it for longer than I ever expected him to. Stepping out of the embrace with that same, dazzling smile, he pumps Darius's hand.

"Darius, Katniss! Thank you, thank you for coming!"

That night, as I dance in Darius's arms, I can't help but watch Peeta and Nata sharing their first dance as husband and wife... and feel a strange constricting on my heart.

I am busy chopping up vegetables at the chopping board to put into our rabbit stew for tonight's dinner. I got a good deal on the carcass shopping from Rooba, the butcher, in the Hob this morning. Five-year-old Finn runs around at my feet; with a shriek, Elsa toddles after him. A gurgle follows, and I glance back with an affectionate smile at my youngest son, Kirkman, who is pulling himself up to a standing position in his mobile crib.

Darius is out late tonight, on the night-owl patrol beat. I promised him something hot on the table when he comes home.

That must be him now, as I hear a fierce rap on the door. I happily run to open it, expecting to throw myself into his arms and give him a big, wet kiss.

But it is not my husband on the threshold waiting for me. I shrink back, slightly startled, but keep the smile on my face when I see Mother and my sister. They looked haggard, and that's when I remember that they got a call clear across Town this morning. Nata, the Baker's wife, was having a baby. It must have been a long labor, as Mother and Primrose trudge themselves into our house.

"How was the birth? How is the Baker?" I ask, my smile faltering as Mother and Prim rest themselves heavily in chairs around our kitchen table. I bite my lip when no answer is forthwith right away.

Mother's cerulean, Merchant eyes finally rise to meet mine. "Nata is dead. She died during the birth."

I nearly drop the carving knife I've been holding. Across from me, my 21-year-old sister bursts into tears. She has only been training to be a midwife for a few years, and though losing the mother in such procedures has become less common due to Mother's skill, the occurrence is nonetheless nerve-wracking to her.

"There was blood," Prim sniffles. "Blood everywhere. The baby is alive and healthy, a boy, but..."

"What about the Baker?" I whisper, heart in my throat.

Mother coughs through what I think might be a stifled sob. "Grief-stricken, of course. I only hope he can move past it. For the boy's sake."

No, Peeta will move past it, I think to myself. He will mourn his wife's death, but I doubt that he will remarry. He has his son, his heir. That was the sole purpose of entering into a loveless marriage, what it was for, and that purpose has been served, though at a terrible price.

But, I fear for Peeta's son, and how his survival is now in jeopardy. I think of how Aven was, at an age not much older, with a father dead and a mother willing herself towards death. Of course, Aven is slated for Reaping age; his first will be next year. And Peeta's death is not feared physically, but rather emotionally.

I refuse to allow Peeta's son to be compromised and practically become an orphan just as he begins life.

It is this resolution that compels me to, impulsively, approach the Baker about a month after Nata's death and ask him to bring his son, named Wheat, over to our house to play with Kirkman. Our boys are about the same age - Kirkman about two months older than Wheat - so the situation is ideal. The fact that one baby is Merchant and the other Seam doesn't matter to me. I am half-Merchant myself, and my babies have more... upper-class blood from their father's side.

It is what finds me now, on the front stoop of my home, the Baker at my side, watching Wheat and Kirkman crawling around in the grass. They have two built-in babysitters in the form of Finn and Elsa, who dutifully hover, ready to right them should either infant fall over.

I feel warmth enclose my fingers as the Baker squeezes my hand. "Thank you."

I just manage to meet his eyes and shrug. "Well, you fed me once." With this kindness, I feel I can repay the debt I still owe him. We share an oddly charged look before quickly looking away.

I barely feel the burning heat beating down on my head as the Reaping for the 83rd Annual Hunger Games concludes. I feel immense relief as Rory Hawthorne, Hazelle's second oldest boy, is finally free from eligibility in the sick contest forever. I watch his crop of Seam hair fall out of the 18-year-old pen with a cheer, jostling around as if he is looking for someone.

And find someone he does. My sister, Primrose. From afar, I watch him pick her up and spin her around before setting her down and talking animatedly. He appears to be presenting her with something, and when I see the object catch in the sunlight, I gasp.

Just before Rory tilts Primrose's head back and kisses her full on the mouth.

I always marveled at how someone three years my sister's junior could stand a full head taller than her. Though I suppose the Hawthornes have all possessed exceptionally tall genes. I stare, mouth agape, as Prim stiffens in Rory's embrace until a moment later, they break apart from the kiss. My baby sister looks absolutely stunned, peering up into Rory's hopeful faith. That took real courage, to propose to her like that, and I wonder just how long Rory has been saving up for the ring.

I suddenly feel arms encircle me, spin me about, and then lips are crushing against mine in a searing kiss. Recognizing their taste anywhere, I close my eyes and swoon with a pleased groan, kissing my husband back.

"Mmmmhmmmmmm... Dar... Mmmmm... Look." Turning about in his embrace, I feel Darius's gaze follow mine. We both look just in time to see Primrose seize Rory's shirt in her fist, before she is pushing her lips against his in a passionate kiss of her own. As the couple's arms go about each other, the ring glints in the light as Rory deftly works it onto my sister's finger.

I peer up at Darius happily, and only his euphoria matches mine and my sister's. "I always did like the Hawthorne boy. It will be nice to have him in the family." A flicker of sadness storms up in those sea-green orbs of his as he remembers Gale, but then it is gone again as he grins, "I have news." Dipping his face close to mine, he whispers in my ears. "Cray is retiring. I have been named his successor."

I stare at him, eyes shining. Head Peacekeeper! My husband's salary will double comfortably, and his ambition will have reached its peak. He has achieved a lifelong dream at last. I softly smile. "Let's have another baby," I blurt out. "Kiss me."

Darius blinks in astonishment, before he ecstatically takes me by my waist, his one paw of a hand cupping the curved flesh of my rear through my blue Reaping dress. His other arm crooking at the elbow around my neck, he kisses me on the mouth soundly. Closing my eyes, I melt into the kiss, pulling my lover closer with a pleased, guttural groan. And as Darius and I embrace and kiss, I can hear the piercing shriek of fireworks as someone lets them go whizzing into the midday sky.

Of course, our bliss will be short-lived, because, while one future member of the Everdeen family is free from the Reaping, a current member of the Everdeen family has only just survived his first, and will be subjugated to it again this time next year.