Chapter Two: The Key
The Cave – Mumford and Sons
It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears and all the faults
You've left behind
My hands grasp the drawn bow, limbs shaking as I study the fawn before me, about to let the arrow fly point-blank.
"Why don't you run?" Doesn't it know I am dangerous?
Unfazed, the tiny thing stands unmoving. Startled, I notice it has blue eyes, like Peeta's, causing me to stop and stare back into them.
"It's for your own good," I tell it, still unable to break eye contact.
Unconvinced, it doesn't move. In fact, there seems to be no fear in its eyes. It stands almost expectantly, waiting for my course of action. There should be something, anything around to whisk it away from me and deliver it to a safer resting place. However, any sort of caretaker seems to be nowhere around, just the small tan little thing, standing on knobby thin legs before me, completely unprotected.
Slowly I return the bow string to its resting place, letting it slip from my grasp and fall to the ground.
A conviction comes over me. I can't hurt it.
Curious, I crouch down and hold out a hand to test the barriers of this trust. The fawn leans into my extended palm, pressing its surprisingly warm nose into the center. Warmth spreads through me, starting in the center of my hand and spreading to the tips of my toes. It clouds my vision, causing a tentative smile to spread across my face. Slowly, I move my hand to its neck and caress it gently.
"Isn't she beautiful?" The voice is Peeta's. I didn't know he was here, too.
My head lifts, keeping a hand poised on the young fawn. Peeta stands over my shoulder, and we are underneath the tree wedding arch I encountered yesterday. He looks down, face glowing. Blonde hair sits mussed up, but despite whatever has taken so much focus and energy out of him, he grins, his eyes alight with joy and pride, focused on the fawn and me.
I grin back at him, happy to see him this elated.
"Amazing, isn't it? It's so strange… the thing has your eyes. I never thought- " The fawn has disappeared when I look back down, rendering me speechless.
In its place is a baby, wrapped in white. The deer's soft neck beneath my hand is replaced by tiny fingers gripping mine, the rest of my hand splayed protectively over the swaddling cloth. I watch it breathe. I see the impossibly thin brown hair feathered on the top of its head; nearly counting each of the tiny eyelashes that flutter as blue eyes peer up at me.
My heart beats faster.
"Is it…" I begin to ask, unable to take my eyes off of the thing, marveling as tiny pale fingers tighten around my index finger and a small sound escapes its lips.
"Ours?" Peeta finishes, now crouched next to me, an arm around my shoulders, lightly kissing up my jawline.
Swallowing, I nod.
The kissing stops. His lips go straight to my ear, and he whispers, "No… but she could be."
I jolt awake, breathless.
Flinging a hand out to grasp Peeta's arm, I find he is gone. Honestly, I'm somewhat glad. As much as his presence is missed, I do not know how to face him. He loves me stubbornly, but I dread the moment I have to look into his eyes and see the long held desire shut away again.
Its then that I notice my other arm remains positioned as if I was still holding the infant.
Quickly I shake it out, running both hands through my hair, unsure whether I'd rather the video that plays behind my eyes be of muttations or the unnamed child. Both options are equally terrifying, although for different reasons. Muttations, as scary and unpredictable as they are, are vaguely familiar and experienced. The baby that could be, however, is entirely new and holds with it worry unparalleled. Still, what was the warmth that spread through me?
Before I can think of it more, I drag myself out of bed to the sink, letting cool water splash over my face, patting it dry with an already damp towel that smells like Peeta. I look up and stare into my reflection with tired and confused eyes. I've been called many things in my life: Hunter. Sister. Volunteer. Tribute. Girl on Fire. Star-Crossed Lover. Victor. Mockingjay. Disturbed Murderer. But Mother? Never had I considered myself even a candidate for that term.
As I walk down the hall, seeking a distraction, I hold my fingers out and drag the pads of my fingertips across the walls, focusing on textures, counting breaths, keeping my mind on lockdown so it will not venture to unsafe venues. Shuffling down the stairs, a slight, unexpected ruckus comes from the level below. I see Haymitch looting through cabinets around the corner, eventually pulling out a bowl, hungrily eyeing and feverishly sniffing the mostly untouched stew from the night before.
"Where is Peeta?"
Haymitch plops down in a chair, sloshing soup into his bowl. Still ignoring me, he lets out an "a-ha" as he picks up Peeta's spoon from across the table, wiping it on his pants leg and dipping it into the stew before answering my question. "Why, good morning to you too, sweetheart. You know, you and that boy really need to start learning that I'm not your tracking system. Yesterday he rushes over jabbering about where you've run off to and today, in your own house, I'm getting interrogated." He slurps his spoonful of broth, making clearly satisfied sounds. "Although, you two do know how to cook up a mean stew. Gah-lly." He flashes a smile before redirecting his focus.
"So you're saying you don't know where he is?"
"That'd be correct, although as it is a Thursday I'd assume he is at the bakery. That is where he typically goes when he's not out and about with you star-crossed loving, isn't it?"
He has a point. I pull out the chair across from him and sit down. "Did you come just to tidy up our leftovers?"
Haymitch looks up from the bowl. "No, actually." I brace myself, waiting for a question of where our liquor is hidden, or when we'd be able to call Plutarch back, which we truthfully have avoided for years. Instead, he asks a question very different: "How are you doing?"
A snort escapes me. "You came to check on my feelings?"
Haymitch picks up the empty mug in front of him, squinting one eye closed as he peers into it, twirling it around precariously on his index finger. "In case you've forgotten, I do have an interest in you and Peeta's lives. I am, how you would say, involved." He draws out the last syllables of his statement, swinging his hand around in the air in a mock-Effie way.
"We're fine," I muse aloud.
Eyebrows shoot up as if tugged by marionette strings. "That's it? Come on, sweetheart."
"Peeta is wonderful as ever."
He smiles absently, shaking his head. "Tell me something I don't know." Pulling a flask from inside his jacket pocket, he unscrews the lid, letting the clear liquid flow from its mouth into the previously empty mug. Holding the flask up to his lips, he tips back, smacking loudly. "And you? How are you treating our golden boy?" One more swig, and the flask it placed back into its hiding place in Haymitch's outfit.
"I'm…" words fail me, so I cut short.
Haymitch sighs deeply and crosses his arms on top of the table. "Oh Jeez." Scratching his head, Haymitch scans the room before shifting to face me, a serious look in his eye. "Are you having… marital issues? Because I can't exactly mentor that. Give me an issue about a crazed sixteen-year-old or a political figure threatening your life. Now that," Haymitch raises his glass to me, "I can help you with."
"It's not that." My fingers find themselves occupied with a nearby napkin. "I don't know how to give him what he wants."
He slowly shakes his head as he takes a long drink. "Sweetheart. The boy knows you love him. Even I know you do. But listen, no one expects the picture perfect Capitol inspired cheese fest melodrama you pretended to be for so long. This is real. This is you, loving that boy however it is you love him." He furrows his eyebrows together. "Please spare me the details of that, by the way." I nod, the last thing on my mind discussing Peeta and my most intimate moments with our drunken mentor. "You're both still wounded. Heck, I'm messed up beyond belief. But at least you two have each other. That's more than most of us can say." He looks down at his vodka with the first sign I have seen of disdain. "All that to say… Peeta loves you for you. You're all he's ever really wanted anyway. For whatever the reason."
"How did we end up with him?" I wonder aloud.
"Lord knows it sure has nothing to do with either of our charms. This whole worthless world isn't good enough for him." We both take my silence as agreement.
Haymitch's point is precisely the issue.
The rest of our visit is speckled with news. The reconstructed Panem has started treaties with other nations. My mother is the director of a healer center. Effie got engaged, bless the man who loves her. Plutarch and Cressida are beginning preparation for a big 10-year anniversary of the fall of the Capitol, and have asked Haymitch to ask Peeta and me to be a part of it three years in advance. Johanna has taken up whittling. Little Finn is six years old now and loves the water as much as his father did.
Talk of the boy muddles my thoughts again.
"What do you think of children?" I splutter before I can think better of it, begging Haymitch to stop mocking the latest fashion trends and to not to read too much into the question.
"Well, I suppose they're alright- naïve little things filled with questions that never end." He chuckles. "Messier than I am, definitely."
"So you're not a fan?"
He looks at me like I'm having an episode. "Katniss. That whole rebellion thing, no matter the false pretenses it had attached to it, why was it done?"
"Freedom."
"Yes, but for whom? For you and me and Peeta? For the fallen? No, we will soon grow old and die. And in the meantime we benefit from this new freedom… but for us, the way it was is somewhat still the way it is. What we remember, how we react, why we do what we do… it is based on what we we've been fighting against. What we're fighting for is the children. It's so they don't have the nightmares we do. So they don't have to anticipate oppression and destruction around every corner. So they can live; being free from the very start. Children are messy and stupid and unpredictable, take up so much time, and some eventually turn into fools. But they're worth it. They're hope, sweetheart. They're the only thing that can turn this wasteland into the kind of world Peeta deserves."
"Oh," I say, quickly wiping away the one tear that slips past my walls. Tall, thick, defensive walls I had put up around hope so long ago.
…
Numbly I walk to the bakery, Haymitch's speech echoing in my ears. He left quickly after.
The house had seemed so big… so empty… so quiet, driving me to get up and walk out, not imagining the patter of little feet, the giggles of innocent happiness, the sounds of Peeta teaching and explaining and loving.
A bell above the door chimes as I open it, meeting the eyes of Powell Cartwright, Delly's younger brother and Peeta's almost apprentice. He moved back with the fourth major wave of people about a year ago. With his family's shoe shop destroyed and no idea how to proceed, Peeta offered him opportunity to help out at the bakery.
"Mrs. Mellark," he acknowledges. "Peeta is in the back."
I walk behind the counter into the kitchen and see him. His back is to me, standing over a pile of dough, pressing his hands down into it, kneading. The muscles in his shoulders move with skill and precision, wrinkling and then pulling his shirt tight. In so many ways, the boy he used to be is left far behind him. He's changed as much as I have since the reaping nearly eight years earlier. Scars snake their way up the side of his neck. Muscles in his arms are stronger, braver. His prosthetic leg is camouflaged well with the other, so normal now that if I didn't know, I couldn't tell.
Peeta dips his hands in a bowl of flour and hovers them above the dough, letting the flour fall, the dust billowing into the air. Turning his head to the side slightly, I see some of the white powder has found solace on his temple while he continues working, unaware. Perhaps that is one thing I love about him, that despite the torture he's undergone, the losses he's taken, some things still stay the same; still innocent and boyish, untouched by tragedy.
I know Haymitch is right. He deserves a world so much better than the one we live in. And if anyone's children hold the key to making it happen, Peeta's would.
Wordlessly, I walk up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, nuzzling my face into his shirt, breathing him in. He turns into my embrace and runs his fingers through my hair. Unwrapping my arms from around him, I place one hand on his chest and gently rub away flour from his temple the with other. My eyes gaze into his, head tilted slightly.
"I…" he starts to say.
Before he can continue, my mouth is on his. I kiss him to say I'm sorry. I kiss him because I owe him the happiness he desires. I kiss him with all the thanks, love, and hope I can muster- feeble as it may be. He kisses me back, fingers weaved into my hair, not questioning my motivation or wasting precious time.
After a while we part, and I rest my forehead against his, closing my eyes. We breathe together, and I know that right now, things could continue as normal without any remarks, confrontations, or questions. We could pretend like nothing happened and be content as we had a day ago. Neither of us needs to bring up the question of last night, and I surely don't have to explain to him my conversation with Haymitch this morning. However, despite all of this, the word finds its way to the tip of my tongue. I kiss Peeta lightly once more.
"Okay."
Peeta freezes, his arms sliding around my waist, tightening. "Okay?" His voice shakes, frozen in the moment. He seems unsure of what I'm agreeing to.
But we both know; so I repeat. "Okay."
He laughs heartily, picking me up and spinning me around. And when he kisses me this time and the multiple times after that, something begins to further unfold in my heart, threatening to spread beyond what I dared to tell myself could be the most I would ever experience.
Hopeful anticipation.
Ending Notes:
I know what you might be thinking. "Wait! It is five, ten, fifteen years, and she is gives in after 5. That's not what the book says." And to that I say: you're correct. I took a very different look at the five, ten, fifteen years concept. Instead of just a literarily dynamic way to express how much time it took, I took it as 3 mile markers. This is the mile marker of year 5, but know that this marker isn't finished yet.