Disclaimer: Still not my world, still not my characters, still sad.
Watching V
She sits, in an old rocking chair that Haymitch of all people, dug out of his attic. I remember him dragging it over to our front yard one morning, face flushed and focused.
"What's this?" I had asked, breathing the fresh, crisp air of an autumn morning.
"For Katniss. She'll need a chair when the baby comes," his words are clipped.
I raised my eyebrows and smiled, "Well, thank you Haymitch, this is very thoughtful of you, really."
He looked away, then down at the ground, as if struggling over what to say next. When the words do come, they're in a whisper, ground out, "It was my mother's, and hers before that. I don't have much from them left...my family...but I have this, and you need a chair for the baby."
I remember my throat tightening, memories are precious here in 12. All of us have lost so much, as almost no heirlooms remain, the firebombs took care of that. I stepped forward to hug him, but he stepped back.
"I didn't come here for a damn hug, kid, this isn't therapy. Just take the chair into your girl and tell her its for the baby." And he clomped off back to his house.
Katniss cried over that chair.
And polished it, and dug out cushions for it from the boxes we'd packed away from her Victor's house. She meandered around our home, for the longest time, deciding where to put it before settling on a corner in the kitchen, near the hearth.
The two treasures of my life are sitting in that chair now. Her dark hair falls softly, covering much of her face, as she peers down at our daughter, quietly singing a hill air as a lullaby.
I'm supposed to be making fairy cakes; small cakes to be dusted with sugar, to be served along with the Naming Cake tonight. But I keep getting distracted by the sight of my two miracles together, and I'd like nothing more than to stop and hold them both. I fell asleep last night holding my girls, knowing they were safe in my arms and in my heart.
There will be time for that later though; the batter is almost ready to be poured into the molds to bake. I could have done this at the Bakery, but I didn't want to be gone so long. The Cake, with its rich spices and dried fruit, has been done for a few days now, and the orange liqueur that has been sprinkled upon it is only deepening the flavors. The fairy cakes were my wife's (after ten years I still preen, even to myself as I say the words: my wife) idea, so that the children would have a treat of their own to greet the new life with.
We do a lot of celebrating with food here in 12, we always have. We marry with a Toasting, and we greet new life with a Naming Cake. The family and friends of the baby will gather at our home tonight, and over cake and wine, friendship and fellowship, the name will be given. The life will be toasted and celebrated, and we will pledge to keep faith with one another, to guide and protect the newest amongst us.
There is one more ceremony with food, but it is somber, the Saying of Farewell. Where we gather in sorrow and reflection to say goodbye to our dead, after the funeral, and food is involved there too. One makes the driest corn cakes they can, for grief sticks in the throat like crumbs that won't wash away, and sorrow leaves the heart hollow, as poor food leaves the stomach.
She found me on the edge of the meadow, roughly a month after she told me I was to be a father. Standing on the edge of where a mountain of bone and ashes grows under wildflowers and new grass. Where memories linger for us to meet with and stumble over. It was early morning, and she was returning from the woods, but I wasn't waiting or watching for her.
I was grieving.
"Peeta?" I remember the concern in her voice, as her arms went around me. "What's wrong, why are you here and not at the Bakery?"
It was some moments before I could respond. Taking in deep breaths to keep grief from swallowing me, from overflowing.
"It's my Dad's birthday."
"Oh, Peeta," and she just held me tighter.
"It's my Dad's birthday, and I'm in there, making his recipes and I want to tell him so badly about the baby, and about how we're doing, about everything and I can't. Because he's gone. He's gone and I never really said goodbye. He's just...gone."
And I cried for the fact my father would never hold my child, that his broad sure hands would never lift his grandchild to the sky and promise them the world, as he did for me. His arms would never shelter my child, as he did me, nor slip sweets and cookies into waiting pockets and open mouths.
That night, as I trudged home from the Bakery, I was surprised to see our friends in the front yard. Haymitch and Sae, Thom and Liam from the Grocers. I was even more surprised to see my apprentices there; Corin, Arch and Padraig. Delly was there with her husband, and Leevy with her new beau; all waiting and wearing somber faces.
"Are we having a meeting no one told me about?" I attempt, badly, to smile.
"No," says my wife coming out from the house, "We're Saying a Farewell. Sae helped me with the corn cakes, and it is time to say our goodbyes, Peeta. You never got a chance in 13 to grieve or participate in the ceremony there, so this one is for your Dad, and family." And she takes me by the hand and leads me to healing. She who had sheltered and saved me in so many other ways, was doing so again; her heart guarding mine, clearing a way to grieve in the manner of our people.
The fairy cakes are dusted with sugar, the Naming Cake is on the table, the spiced wine is simmering, and the house seems to be bursting with quiet merriment. Our friends, so many of them now, are downstairs, talking and laughing, their voices traveling up to us; joy is called forth tonight and seems to touch everyone.
All of our friends from 12 are here, and so many others have come from far distances; Katniss's mother with Annie and young Finn from Four, Johanna from where ever her restless travels have taken her, Beetee, Cressida and Pollux from the Capitol; though without cameras. Plutarch wanted to film this, but not everything belongs to the world, somethings are too dear to give away. I hear Haymitch roaring at something Effie chirps, and I grin. Homes are meant to hold joy, and ours is abundant in that tonight.
With my daughter, tiny and precious, held securely in my arms, I turn to my wife, my beauty, my song, and I offer her my biggest smile.
"Shall we go and introduce Laurel Primrose to her family?" I murmur, and my girl, with soft tears in her eyes, nods and takes my arm.
And as we enter the room, I begin..."Long may the blessings of love and laughter be upon this home, and upon this family, and upon all who enter in."