Katniss' POV

The following weeks move quickly now that Peeta lives with me. Every morning I wake up content knowing that he doesn't have to rush out before anybody can see. Greasy Sae even stopped showing up to cook, apparently satisfied with the knowledge that I have Peeta to make sure I eat. Although I still bring her some of the things I shoot.

I hunt every day, finding a pleasant solitude in the familiar woods. Honestly, the first few days of being out there, I barely even hunted, only getting a squirrel or two. Of course, I told Peeta and Sae I did, just that I was rusty. I don't think either of them believed me.

Those days I just thought about Gale. I did miss him. I still do. He was my best friend and he helped me survive all those years. But every time I think of him, and I'm sure that, if I ever see him again, all I would imagine would be my sister.

So those days I tried to forget, tried to forget my sister's final moments, and tried to forget the man who caused them. I know that Peeta, with all the good in him, would tell me that it wasn't Gale - that he didn't order those bombs to be dropped and that he didn't put Prim out there. But really that's all I can imagine him doing. That's what some of my nightmares have him doing. I hate what my mind has turned him in to.

Now, though, I actually do hunt, Peeta and I have set up a routine every morning. We wake up, he makes breakfast, I go hunting and he helps with the rebuilding going on in town. I can start to see the effects of him working in town. His shoulders have broadened and the muscles that he had before the war have come back. His smile is bigger and all-around brighter. He looks...normal. Though I know that he actually isn't, and I doubt that either of us ever will be, it's still an odd word to use in such context. Our lives were anything but normal so why should they look as if they aren't? The only things that can physically connect Peeta to the war and his past are his leg, which isn't noticeable unless he wears shorts, and a burn mark that runs along his right forearm, the one that got touched by the flames as he saved me.

While some of our scars do match - I imagine Peeta's burns cover more than just his arm - the town treats us differently. All are sympathetic to both of us and can empathize with our losses but I know they think of me as the girl who went crazy. The girl who killed their leader and was exiled. The difference between Peeta and I is that Peeta actually talks to the community, while I do my best to avoid them. He's still charismatic as ever and I've basically turned into a recluse. The only time they see me is when I'm passing through to get to the woods. Never do I look up; I always keep my head low, avoiding the tragic scenery that I caused. When I do risk a glance there are some who stare and whisper, presumably the ones who came from Thirteen, the rest from Twelve know what I've lost and what she meant to me.

So when Peeta tells me that I should come and help out with the rebuilding this morning, I glare at him. "They could really use the help," he says, his tone is light, signifying that he's trying not to pressure me, but I still feel suffocated.

"They think I'm crazy," I say. Peeta comes to sit next to me on the couch as I put my boots on. He puts his hand on my knee and I can't help but tense up. It's supposed to be a comforting movement but we don't do those types of things unless we've just been through something or are in bed.

"Everybody in Twelve understands-"

"Not them," I snap. "The people from Thirteen. I'm just their Mockingjay who went crazy." I pause, Peeta's hand is still on my leg and I can't decide whether it's comforting or not. I can't determine why I find it unsettling, Hell, we only use about half the bed when we sleep, we're so close. "I killed Coin," I mutter, knowing that it's still a sore subject for some of the people from Thirteen.

"Yeah, I heard about that," he smiles, and for a moment I can see the Peeta that I knew before. I roll my eyes, trying not to smile, too. I walk into the kitchen and grab my father's jacket off the back of the chair. Behind me I hear Peeta's heavy footsteps sounding more irregular than his normal gait, which is only noticeable if you listen for, but is now obvious.

I turn around suddenly, so close to him that I actually have to look up a bit, with my arms crossed. "How's your leg, Peeta?" I ask. It has to be bothering him, he never takes it off when I'm around, so that means that he has to sleep in it, which can't be comfortable. I've asked about it before but he's always said it didn't bother him. He never complains about it, but really he never complains about much.

"It's fine, Katniss," his lie is unconvincing considering that he walks past me with a noticeable limp.

"You're limping," I say, turning to face him.

"I always limp," he shrugs. I've never been patient, there have been few exceptions and Peeta is one of them. So when he lies or avoids my questions, I'm patient because that's how he is with me. But I can't deal with seeing him in pain every day because he's too self-conscious. I want to argue with him, make him realize that he's being irrational, but he has a look in his eyes that tells me it's futile, probably the same look I give when I'm being idiotically stubborn. So I drop it, the same way he would for me, and agree to go into town with him.

In truth, as I stare at what I caused, I wish I never had to look at it again. Yes, it looks better than when I had last truly looked at it, but still not close to the rundown town it used to be. I wish I never had to set foot here again, because, unlike Peeta, I don't see the potential and hope in what it could be. Above all, though, I wish I did. I wish I could look at the town and its rubble and the buildings that are rising and see everything that it could be, but I don't. I see the ghosts of what it was, I see how it perished, what perished, who perished. I just see the past and the present and how it all hurts so much.

I move slowly through, realizing how different it is after the rebellion. Before, it had made some sense in that disastrous world, the despair here matched up with the rest. But now, in a country painted with hope, this misery doesn't make sense.

The first time I stop is at the mayor's house. Madge. One of the few people that I could call a friend. When I had come here after Twelve's destruction I never had time to actually mourn and now that's all I do. I collapse onto my knees, my hands digging into the earth. I want to yell and scream but at whom? There's only Snow, who is dead, and myself to blame. I had to break the force field. I hadto be the spark that led to a rebellion.

Peeta is kneeling beside me, one arm draped over my shoulders. I turn my head to look at him. "How did you feel?" I ask. "When you saw the bakery?"

"Lonely," he says, simply. The word rolls in my head. Lonely. That was probably when he first came back to Twelve. He had to face the destruction of his entire family all in one place, at one time. Without anybody. Most likely he had a terrible flashback that night, and I wasn't there to help, not that we were even on speaking grounds when he came back. And then all at once I feel guilty. I should have been there. I shouldn't have waited so long. I could've helped; I could've done...something, anything. God knows he would've for me. Right on cue Peeta says, "It's okay, Katniss. Couldn't be helped." He smiles reassuringly but it only fills me with more guilt.

Is it always going to feel this way? Am I always going to feel guilty for what I couldn't do for Peeta? Haymitch's voice rings in my head, "You could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve him." And the response is still the same now as it was then. "Yeah," I say quietly out loud to Peeta. He helps me to my feet, holding my hand, and though it's a friendly gesture the intimacy is still unsettling and I can't understand why because my hand feels warm in a familiar way not connected with temperature at all.

I cross my arms over my chest, unsure of what to say or do. But Peeta, still ever charismatic, smiles warmly the way that I've missed for so long but never realized because I never reallylooked. "Come on," he says, "I gotta show you something."

I keep my head down as we pass the builders, like I do every day. "Katniss, nobody's looking," Peeta says. And when I chance a look I see he's right. They're all preoccupied, talking or working. "Like I said, everybody in Twelve understands. People care more than you know. Prim had an effect on everybody here." It's odd, hearing her name; because I think Peeta's the first to outright mention her ever since I returned. I bite my lip, thinking of the way Prim used to go around town staring at all the shops, how she would stop and look at the cakes on display. "And if anybody came here just to gawk at you, we set them straight because you aren't on display for an entire nation anymore." I'm silent, a proper response blanking in my head. I nod because, for all he's done, I can't even let out a simple 'Thank you.'

As we walk through town, the silence, to me, is crippling. Talking has never been a strong point of mine and quietness was always a welcomed friend, but right now I feel determined to say something. "She loved your cakes," I blurt out.

"Who?" He knows who, his nonchalance and refusal to look at me make me think that he is challenging me to say her name out loud.

I say Prim's name quietly, letting it slip through my lips carefully, speaking with fragility that if I don't everything will break and crumble around me and I'll never know that she existed in the first place.

"I would have done it; stolen you a cake," he admits, still not looking my way, seemingly intent on our destination. "I would've taken beating after beating if I could've just given Prim a cake."

"Why?" that boy who barely knew me, he shouldn't have wanted to risk his well-being for me.

He shrugs, "Because it would've made you happy." When he looks at me his eyes are solemn, sorrow and want mingling together in the most natural way that all I can think about is making it go away. "I would give you a million cakes right now if it meant you'd be happy." It's such a cheesy thing to say that I have to smile but I know that it's laced with unintended sadness.

Just when I'm about to respond someone calls Peeta's name and then he's rushing us over to the rubble of the bakery site. When we reach him Peeta shakes his hand and offers a brief "Hello, Thom." I recognize the man from around what used to be the Seam. I nod to him, the way I would show to respect to every other Seam member even though such deference shouldn't really exist in Twelve anymore.

"Peeta!" he says enthusiastically. "Great news, the bakery's blueprints are done! Finally finished'em last night!" Thom pulls a large piece of paper out of the bag at his feet and spreads it out over a crate beside him. The two men look over it critically, Thom exuding pride in his work and Peeta giving him compliments on some of the details.

I wonder how long he's been planning this. It obviously took a lot of effort to make it this far into the process. How long was I so completely self-absorbed to not notice this. I think back to the times when we would be sitting in the living room, myself silently reading a book and him drawing...something. I had always just assumed he was drawing something therapeutic like Dr. Aurelius had recommended but maybe he was actually working on the bakery.

Peeta waves me over to where there stand. "How does it look?" he asks. On the schematics the basic floor plan for the bakery is laid out. It's almost an exact replica of before it was burned to the ground. This time, though, it lacks the second floor and now there is a seating area for the customers to eat at their leisure.

I'm stunned. All this planning. All on his own, without me even knowing or inquiring. When he went to town I assumed he just helped to rebuild not plan to build something of his own. I am so horrible at being there for him. He's always here for me, supportive, asking me what I did every day. I couldn't even reciprocate a simple question. "This is great!" I say. "I didn't even know you were doing it."

"Dr. Aurelius said I needed a way to keep busy. I figured this would keep me busy for a long time," he flashes me a cheeky grin before he goes back to Thom, standing up from the crate to walk to where the bakery was. And as he moves closer, his limp ever prevalent, his leg buckles and he falls to the ground. I'm kneeling next to him in matter of seconds while he insistently tells me "I'm fine," and that it's "No big deal." This is changing, I think. This can't work. He can't go through this physical pain every day. He might've been taking care of me for awhile, but now it's his turn. I'm going to help him instead of selfishly seeking him out for my own help.

At night, as we're preparing to go to bed, I tell him "Goodnight," earning me a confused look. I walk past him, grabbing a blanket, and go downstairs to sleep on the couch.

"What are you doing?" he asks, following me to the living room.

"I'm sleeping down here tonight," he looks completely crestfallen when I say that, making me want to take it all back but I can't, because he shouldn't be in pain anymore. And I know this night is going to be rough for both of us, this being the first time we've slept separately since that dinner, but it will help in the long run. He knows it's about the leg, I've been staring at it ever since I brought it up, in hopes he would relent. Seeing that talking me out of this is futile, he walks back upstairs, his gait uneven.

I knew there would be nightmares and I assumed I would be able to get through them just as I did in the beginning. But when they do come it's not what I was expecting. Instead of horrific images of loved ones being engulfed by flames or attacked by mutts, I'm taken back to the first games, when Peeta and I are being carried off. But this time, when the partition goes up, I'm right to be screaming for him. They're injecting him with venom right before my eyes. It's different than being the one doing it to him; somehow a worse feeling is rising in my gut. Powerless. Being there, knowing all I can do is hit the glass wall and scream his name and watch him in pain, fighting the venom the best he can, and I can't even help.

I wake, sweat starting to run down my face. Now I understand how Peeta felt when his nightmares were about losing me. There's a pang in my chest and all I can think is how Peeta isn't going to be upstairs, that he'll be gone for good. I hate that feeling. The rational part in me knows he would never just leave or that somebody could just walk in and take him without getting noticed. Despite that, I still have an overwhelming need to go upstairs, to make sure he's still there. I suppose there's a part of me that will never stop thinking we're still in the arena.

I climb the stairs and open the door to our bedroom. It's dark and I can just make out his sleeping form on the bed. In my head I scold myself for thinking he would be gone. I detest how much I've come to rely on his presence. But as much as I hate that, I hate being without him at night even more.

As I find myself moving further into the room, and closer to Peeta, I see his prosthetic propped up against the nightstand and I can't help but feel minutely victorious. But that goes away when I see him, tense, eyes closed tightly, and grinding his teeth. And suddenly I'm guilty all over again. Guilty, guilty, guilty. We're both too stubborn and now we're both plagued by nightmares. If I could have made him agree to take it off rather than just leave, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if I was better with words and didn't use my actions as much, there wouldn't be an issue.

Right now, though, I don't think there's anything to say that would make him better. So cautiously, I slide into bed, hoping to help him some other way. I go to move his sweaty hair from his forehead but as I soon as I touch him, his hand snatches up mine. I let a gasp, not expecting him to be so alert. His eyes meet mine, his hand loosening its grip, and he exhales slowly. "Shit. Katniss."

"Sorry," I say bringing my hand back. "Probably should've known better." Peeta turns onto his side, facing me.

"No, I just wasn't expecting it. At least not tonight," he says, his face holding a mirthless smile, ringed with sadness.

"I'm sorry," all I do is feel remorseful.

He sighs. "Stop it. Stop apologizing. I was being stupid and I didn't want to feel like I was...broken. Ever since the hijacking, whenever I look at my leg I feel angry, angry at you. After that I just feel guilty for blaming you. And I just get stuck in my head," his eyes avert from mine and his jaw moves as he bites the inside of his cheek, probably trying to stay in control of himself.

"Dr. Aurelius says that's normal after what we've been through. Especially you," I say, not sure how to go about this. I'm not usually the one that has to reason, to talk someone out of the darkness that envelopes their mind. I take his hand that lies in the space between us; it feels limp and boneless, like all the hope has just drained out of him. "You're much better than me. On the days when I can tell you're worse you still manage to go through your routine. Even on days when we're both feeling low, you still take care of me when I can't even care how selfish I'm being." I squeeze his hand and his blue eyes lock onto mine. Though it's dark, the only light in the room is from the moon filtering in through the open window, I can see some tears stream down his face. "You're so strong," I whisper, "and so perfectly complete." I let go of his hand and start to wipe the tears from his face.

His hand moves to the back of my neck, bringing my head forward slightly, he places a soft kiss to my forehead. "And you say you're not good with words."

"Peeta, I'm going out!" I call, adjusting my jacket. It's after dinner and we've just finished cleaning the kitchen. Usually after this we would go into the living room and tell each other how our days were, doctor's orders.

He meets me at the door, drying his hands off on a towel. "Should I wait up?" I smile a bit, his question bordering on unnecessary.

"Would it even matter if I told you not to?"

He smiles, too. "I suppose it wouldn't."

I walk to the meadow, which, since it's been turned into a burial site, is filled with patches of fresh soil interspersed with green grass. And on the grass are some of the last dandelions, still standing, white and puffy, yet to be taken by the crisp autumn air settling in.

As I look at this place, hope mingled with loss, all I can think about is how Prim didn't even get to spend her last moments somewhere familiar. Instead she was blind-sided by her own country.

I take a seat on one of the green parts of the meadow, acutely aware that those around me are dead because of me. Pushing that thought from my mind I watch as the last remnants of the day begin to fade and the waning moon takes over.

Beside me I see one of the dandelions and think about how, in their golden state, gave me so much hope. I pluck the dandelion next to me from the ground, giving it a soft blow. The seeds on it go swirling through the air, the white specks going on until impossible to see in the darkness. I lie back on the grass, suddenly filled with an iridescent sense of peace and calm that I haven't felt since before the Games. Closing my eyes tentatively, I allow myself to drift off.

I see Peeta, smiling warmly in the way that he only does towards me. A look only meant for me. And only received by me. It's a look that says that nothing he could ever do for me would match how he really felt. That no possible action, not even saving my life numerous times, is enough to prove what I mean to him.

Then I see Prim, her hair as blonde and eyes just as blue as Peeta's. She's standing in the meadow, but instead of being noticeably filled with graves, the grass has come in and it's just as green as before. She smiles at me, so bright and cheerful that I allow myself to think for a moment that she's real. She's lifts her arms and I can see clearly what she's wearing, my wedding dress, post-transformation. But it seems to lack the weight that I remember being held down by and the wings look completely real. Then she begins to move her arms, up and down, as if flapping her wings. Prim herself starts to change, transforming into an actual mockingjay and flying away.

I want so badly to follow her but I'm stuck, stuck on the ground when I want so badly in the air. I'm the Mockingjay, why don't I have wings? Why can't I go with her? After all I've done it should have been me, the one who was given the honor of being granted wings, the one who's not meant on the ground, even if it was just a title that I have now outlived.

Then I'm being lifted off the ground and I think for a moment that I'm flying, going with Prim. That maybe my wings grew in like her's and I'll finally be able to be with her again. But my eyes flutter open and I feel strong arms around me and see the blue of a shirt that smells like sugar and bread. I can't help but move in closer and let my soft smile that I wear grow slightly bigger.

Maybe this is where Prim really wanted me to be. Maybe this is where my wings are.