A/N: I've always had a thing for minor characters.
I don't own the Hunger Games, its subsequent sequels, or its characters, sadly.
Durham Mellark
My first sight of her is one of vulnerability. The girl with her face buried in the rich velvet of the plush pillows, breathing deep and slow, is so unlike the unmoving, distant one that I had seen just a few minutes earlier, the one we had saluted goodbye to, a rare act for the people of District 12, an even rarer act on such a public day as today.
I can see her confusion when she looks up at me, her face knotted, lips slightly pursed. It is clear that Katniss is her father's child. She has his dark hair, his sharp eyes, and his fight. But there are small glimpses of Ruth in her too, in the small circles she draws with her fingers, the way she tilts her head, the soft curve of her lips. It's all there and it painfully reminds me of the young girl I had known in my own youth, reserved, but brimming with life.
I hand over a package of cookies and sit in silence; there's nothing left to say. When I leave I tell her that her little sister will be taken care of. It's the least I can do to ease the guilt I feel. In the final moments, I study her, remembering her. Remembering her mother too, because it's different this time around. I love my son. And after the Games, when the train pulls up with the Victor, it's not her that I want to see.