It's a while before Peeta takes a much deserved and much needed day away from the bakery. No matter how many other stores open up in town, the bakery keeps a loyal patronage. Everyone says it's because of the quality of the food. Though Peeta is undoubtedly talented and his treats so delectable they melt on your tongue, I have a suspicion this isn't the entire reason. I suspect the female patrons care more about the ambiance that Peeta's presence brings and less about the taste of their bread. And most of the others simply like meeting and gossiping and being close to one of the victors of the Games and the war.
Either way, he's thankful for the business. His customers busy him with a constant stream of obligations. I hardly see him during the spring which is becoming his busiest season of the year. But I'm grateful he has this distraction. I grew tired of the morbid paintings littering the floors and walls of both our houses. The bakery is a much healthier means of escape for both of us. I'm sure our old friend Dr. Aurelius would agree.
When Peeta declares a day off during the peak of spring, I almost protest. I've fallen into this routine of ours and a break in it seems like a bad omen. I enjoy the time we spend apart, him in the bakery and I in the woods. It gives significance to the time we spend together, even if we are doing something as benign as Peeta attempting to teach me to bake and failing miserably. But when the day comes, I'm ready for a day out of town as much as he is, as well as a rest from hunting. Deer are becoming weary of the woods again now that I've returned to hunting. I spend most of my days setting and checking snares. The days are monotonous and tiring, and some mornings it's difficult to force myself to make the trek outside of town alone.
So I relent and grab the crude fishing poles I made over the winter while the snow had me trapped inside the house. We stuff ourselves with breakfast which makes the walk out to the lake agonizing. We don't bother with a picnic or a blanket or any of the normal things we bring with us. It's just us and the fishing poles and a wicker basket in case we catch anything worth keeping.
It's a perfect day to be outside, sitting on the shore of the lake instead of mucking through the undergrowth of the trees. Perched on the large rock, we have our lines dipped in the water but we aren't worried about catching anything. We have more than enough food as it is, and I don't look forward to the prospect of having to gut and scale the fish. I'm not even sure there are any fish in the lake.
Lying back, I let my spine follow the curvature of the rock, stretching my neck as I bend. The weather is perfect and I contemplate closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep. But the possibility of nightmares keeps me awake. As it is, I already have more than enough memories that I can associate with aspects of the lake. There's no point enticing more to follow. It's one of the few places I can still enjoy myself and feel free.
The soft twittering is deceptive at first. So gentle, I think it's just a figment of my imagination, filling in the silence with noise. As the sound continues to flint in and out of my ears, I turn my head to squint at Peeta. His lips are closed, and he's as silent as the night. I try to track the sound but it seems to move. I turn my focus to the trees, and finally I spot it.
It's too far away to be able to distinguish much, but it's definitely a mockingjay. I can't remember the last time I saw one. Actually, I can. In the arena. Singing with Rue. Carrying the little tune that signals the end of the work day. I wonder if they still use that in Eight, or if the tradition has been replaced. I hope not. I hope it carries on, taking Rue's spirit with it.
Then I remember that isn't right. We saw them when we came back to Twelve with the camera crew. When Gale took them on the tour of town, and they had me sing. This memory is almost as painful as the other because it reminds me of Gale and the kiss and how we'd been able to just sit and talk that day. The tension had still been there, but we'd been able to connect at least. Unlike now, as the bridge burns and the chasm grows wider and wider each time we come to pass.
I don't think much of the mockingjay until others start to join it. They must not be used to seeing people out here in the woods. Our presence fascinates them. They circle overhead, hopping between branches. A few even fly lower overhead as if scoping us out.
Peeta seems oblivious, so I inch over to nudge his shoulder and point to the nearest one. There must be at least a dozen or so of them gathered in the trees around the lake now but they shy away from the clearing. Probably for the best. Their history with humans has not been kind.
It's funny, but seeing the mockingjays now feels different. They still bring back painful memories. I think they always will. But as I watch them, I don't think of them as my symbol for the resistance. I don't see them and picture myself as the Mockingjay. If anything, I look at them and I visualize my father. I remember the way he used to sing and how it mesmerized them. How they could pick up his simple tune and carry it to the skies.
It will never be the same, I realize. No matter how many times I sing to them, I'll never compare to my father. He could have brought peace to the world with his voice, if only it hadn't been oppressed by the outlaw of the songs and the soot from the mines. Even this place will never be quite the same now that he's gone. It's been years, but nothing seems to change, except that now I have Peeta here with me.
Sitting up, I turn to face him. His blonde hair looks almost white in the sun's rays, and his eyes shine bright outdoors. He's striking, plain and simple. He leans into me, and I lean into him. Without a word, we gravitate toward each other under the chatter of the mockingjays. He doesn't have to know my thoughts to know I need an escape from my head. The ghosts will always be there, but he can quiet them without a word. It only takes a touch. As his lips press to mine, the thoughts drift away.
I didn't bring him out here for privacy. We have two giant houses back in the Victors' Village for that. I come for the peace and the quiet, to escape from the routine of our lives. As his tongue slides into my mouth and flicks across mine, I almost push him away. It feels a bit wrong, as if we are defiling this sacred space from my childhood. Then I remember the instance in the lake. If it could be defiled, we've probably already done the damage. So I pull him to me, closing the gap between us. Descending into bliss, I catch the sweet tunes from the mockingjays watching overhead before I shut out the world completely, save for Peeta.