"They're coming!"

"It's them!"

In the distance, a dark spot grows larger in the hazy afternoon light. Excitement runs like a shiver through the crowd. Thousands of people are gathered to welcome our victors home.

Yesterday was the final interview. The Capitol sure knows how to do cliche. The pink frills, the red roses, and the starched white suit. The lover's theme was sweet, if overdone. Our victors curled up next to each other and discussed this and that with Caesar Flickerman. Here, we counted down the minutes until they could come home.

And, as happens every year with the final interviews, there's not much that's new to the audience. We get to hear their view of the Games, but really, it's old news. I hadn't steeled myself for any kind of shock. And yet, somehow I was still in for one anyway. About halfway through, Caesar casually asked Peeta about his "new leg." My son, who was once small enough to fit in my arms, who I watch grow from a boy to a man, has lost a leg. Somewhere, in a sterile room, they amputated his appendage that was past saving. The doctors have given him a high-tech prosthetic, but there's been an ache in my chest ever since. Because again, it's a reminder how impotent I am. I couldn't protect him. I couldn't keep my promise.

It's definitely their train that's coming towards us now, snaking through the parched landscape. Amidst much cheering and shouting, the sleek engine comes roaring in. It's shadow elongates as it rumbles to a stop beside the packed platform. Peacekeepers emerge from the throngs to clear a path for the victors, but the crowd is already making way. Cameras and reporters, who've come from the Capitol to broadcast the homecoming, push past us to get a better angle. My wife, who's by my side, gives one of them a dirty look.

"It's our children coming home," she says, not caring if they hear. "They should be the one making way."

I nod to acknowledge her, but my own heart is pounding so hard I'm afraid it might burst. Inside that train, behind those flat doors, awaits my son. In a moment, I'll be able to see him. Hear him. Hug him. It's almost too much to bear.

And at last, the doors slide open, revealing Katniss and Peeta. As has become practice, they are connected at the hands. When they step onto the platform, people rush forward to hug and talk to them. Suddenly, they are the most precious thing in Twelve. Maybe it's because for once, the Capitol hasn't won. They can take our children year after year and force them to murder each other, but just this one time, we've outsmarted them. The pride at this small triumph hasn't been lost on the district. The two people standing in front of us are rare symbols of hope. And because rare things are always more valuable, that is what our victors have become.

Someone jabs me in the rib as they push past, plodding through the sea of coal-stained clothes to get close to the victors. My feet suddenly seem too large, my arms too long. I try to back away from the pressing hordes, but only manage to knock into a camera man. He looks very affronted. Possibly I've just ruined a shot.

My son is so close - only a few heads separate us now. He and Katniss are still holding hands, but it's becoming difficult for their hands to stay intertwined as they move through the masses. Katniss' mother and little sister push through the crowd.

"Katniss!" Primrose's shriek can be heard above all the cheering. She throws herself into her sister and seems to be crying and laughing all at once. Katniss bends down, releasing Peeta for a moment, to squeeze the little girl she thought she'd never see again. The two cling to each other, the platform temporarily disappearing. The only things that matters are each other.

Peeta watches the reunion for awhile, then his eyes begin to scan the others nearby. Could he be looking for me? And yes, he catches sight of us now - his mother, brothers and me - standing in an awkward huddle. A smile plays at his lips that I can't help but return. It's the same smile I fell in love with sixteen years ago. For a moment, he seems torn between staying with Katniss and coming over to us. After one long glance at her, he begins to wade through the people towards me.

It's slow going. Everyone wants to touch him to assure themselves that he's okay. Despite my reservations about groups of people, I can't stand to wait any longer. I too need to embrace him. With a hundred cameras trained on us, my wonderful Peeta enters my arms at last. The effect is instantaneous. His warmth, his stability that I've been so hungry for flood my mind, body, and heart. After weeks of absence, I'd forgotten just how much I missed it. After a few moments, I detect something. A slight apprehension, maybe. But I force myself to shove it aside because he's here. He's with me.

There's so many things I want to say. About missing him. About the hope he's given the district. About how, in a way, he's brought our family closer, but I just let my head rest on his curls. They are soft after spending days in the Capitol. I think a few tears might have escaped the confines of my eyes.

Reporters eventually whisk him away for interviews. But right before he's pulled away, I catch sight of his eyes. There's something unsettling in them. A fear that wasn't there before. And his smile seems somewhat forced. He catches me looking at him and gives a reassuring nod, but he can't hide it. He's in pain and I don't know why.

Well, that's not entirely true. I do know part of it. The Games are destroying to a person, especially one who's as kind as Peeta. Haven't we seen in it in the past victors? Many of them turn to drink and drug to help drown the memories. The Capitol tends to focus on the ones who stay strong, who fight the pain, but when the victors are all together or if they do a feature on some of the mentors, we get enough of the story. The past few weeks must have been unspeakable hell. I wonder how long it'll take for Peeta to piece himself back together.

I do have my son back physically, but emotionally, he never left the arena.