Peeta and I hold each other and cry together at the place where an apple tree once stood.
We're quiet; no words are exchanged, no sobs wrack our bodies. I just need him close to me right now, and he seems to feel the same. The rest of the group gives us as much time as we need to collect ourselves. Even once we finally separate, we don't talk, not with everyone waiting for us a few feet away. We suffice with soft kisses and whispered "I love you"s.
Amazingly, despite the fact that I just shared my lowest moment with a bunch of strangers and a camera crew, I feel okay. Good, even. People have always been too focused on me, propping me up as the Girl on Fire or the Mockingjay. They've never given Peeta his proper due. I hope that people will finally see how wonderful he is, even if I'm the one who has to tell them.
Maybe Peeta was right, being filmed really isn't that bad when we can just be ourselves. So long as I know when they're recording.
There's nothing else to do here at the bakery site right now, not unless we want to start digging through the wreckage looking for remains. And I think we've already seen more than enough of that today. So we move on.
We continue walking around the town, and at Cressida's prompting I resume my narration, describing Harvest Festivals and market days held here in the square. Gale joins in more frequently now, talking about some of the folks he traded with. Peeta even begins to talk more as we go along, sharing stories of the people he grew up with.
At the end of the square we get to the Justice Building, where Gale and I were given our medals when our fathers died, where Peeta and I said our final good-byes to our families before leaving for the Hunger Games. It's nothing but a scorched ruin now. There's a melted lump of metal nearby that is the remnants of the gallows and whipping post Romulus Thread had constructed. Cressida asks if any of us were ever tortured, and Gale pulls off his shirt to show her the scars on his back. I lean further into Peeta for comfort.
Not far from the Justice Building is the mayor's house, where Peeta and I were married, where I first saw the footage of the uprising in Eight. Where my friend Madge died. Where almost nothing recognizable now remains.
I had held out hope, when we first got to Thirteen, that maybe the Undersees had survived. Maybe the mayor and his family would have been evacuated to the Capitol, due to his position with the government. Haymitch had dashed that hope. "I don't think being the mayor of Twelve put the odds in his favor, sweetheart." Instead the nicest house in the district is just another ash-strewn grave.
Finally we make our way towards the Victor's Village. In the days after the bombing, scouts had reported that the Village remained intact. After seeing the rest of the district today, it's hard to imagine anything escaping intact. But sure enough, as we get farther from town and nearer to the Village, the ash on the ground thins out until there's just the road. By the time we get to the Village itself, the houses appear untouched.
"I don't believe it," Gale says as he turns to take them all in. "It's pristine."
"It's a message," Peeta says grimly, echoing my own thoughts.
"To who?" asks Cressida.
"To us," I respond. "To Peeta and me. Snow flattened the entire District but he left the Village untouched. He's saying that he can get to us anytime, anywhere, anyway he chooses."
Beside me, Peeta snorts. "If that were actually true, he would have done it by now."
Even on a day like today, Peeta still has the rhetorical brilliance he's shown since his first Hunger Games interview. I just hope he's not tempting fate.
"Do you have a message for him?" Cressida asks.
I'm the one who answers her. "I think Snow and I have exchanged all the words we need to. We each know pretty well where the other stands by now."
Cressida doesn't have any more questions as we make our way through the Village. We head to my Victory house first, where Mom and Prim lived, because it's the first one along the road. The house is in a bit of disarray, obviously speed was of the essence when Gale came to get them out of here. Cressida asks me about moving into this house after the Games, and what the adjustment was like coming from my old Seam house. When she decides she's gotten as much out of me as there is to get, she turns to Gale and has him explain what it was like evacuating Mom and Prim the night of the bombing. Peeta and I take the opportunity to escape to the kitchen and begin packing up some medical supplies that my mother asked me to pick up while we were here.
The camera crew tromps its way upstairs as Gale continues his tale, and Peeta and I are left alone for the first time since we landed this morning. I can feel the tension seeping out of me, even if today's shoot has actually gone better than I feared.
I give voice to the thought I had earlier. "You know, I almost don't want to admit it, but you were right. Now that we can just be honest, I don't mind the cameras as much."
Peeta gives a small chuckle. "Yeah. I could do without them today, though."
"I know." I put down the jars I'm packing so I can look at Peeta. "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay," he says, letting out a long breath. "I'm actually feeling better than I thought I would. Seeing the bakery was horrible, but now that it's done, I feel…" He pauses, at a loss for the right word, before shrugging and settling on "…better."
I reach up and rub his shoulder. "I'm glad."
Peeta turns and pulls me into his warm embrace. "Thank you so much for being here. I don't know if I could have faced all this without you."
"Anything you need, Peeta, I'm always here for you," I mumble into his chest. I feel like I've reassured him of this a hundred times in the last few weeks, but I know I'll keep doing it.
"Well," he says, "thank you for occupying Cressida at the bakery. I just... I couldn't talk just then."
I pull back enough so that I can look him in the face as we talk. "Are you okay with me telling them all that?" I ask. "I was worried it might be too personal of a thing to share, but when I realized where I was standing I just couldn't think of anything else to say."
"No, it's fine," Peeta says. "We pretty much told it already in the arena anyway. Although you certainly told it better today. That was really amazing, Katniss."
I blush a bit at the compliment. I've never been good on camera, certainly nothing compared to Peeta. "I just don't want you to think it means any less to me, or that I'm trivializing it somehow by telling it to Plutarch's camera team."
Peeta shakes his head, then pulls me back against him. I lay my head against his chest. "Katniss, no one who sees that could possibly think that anything you said was trivial," he says.
We stand like that, holding each other in my mom's old kitchen, for another few minutes before resuming our packing. Eventually we hear the rest of the troupe coming back downstairs, just before Gale bursts through the door. "Katniss!" he exclaims, "There's something upstairs you should see."
"Okay," I say, "We're almost done here–"
Gale cuts me off. "No, you need to go see it right now. I'll finish packing this stuff up, you two go upstairs."
I'm about to ask more questions when Peeta takes my hand. "Let's just go check it out. If Gale thinks it's that important, we should go and see."
I nod my head and let him guide me towards the stairs.
It's just as we get to the top of the stairs that the smell hits me: a sickly-sweet rose. I audibly gasp when I smell it.
"What is it? Are you okay?" Peeta asks.
I don't know how to answer that right now. "Do you smell that?"
"No," he says. "What is it?"
"Another message."
I slowly make my way over towards my bedroom. It's strange to even think of it that way, it was only my bedroom for about a month and I didn't get much sleep during that time. Why would Snow leave his rose here? Why not in the bedroom I actually lived in?
Because that one already has too many good memories associated with it. This room will now forever be tainted.
Then I remember that it was also this house Snow came to when he threatened us before the Victory Tour. And it suggests another reason: Because Mom and Prim lived here. He's not threatening me, he's threatening my family. Still.
It's on the dresser, it stands out like a sore thumb in the clearly unused room. A fine crystal vase, a bouquet of dried flowers, and right in the center, a perfectly delicate white rose.
How long could that have been here to still be this fresh? An hour? A day? Maybe longer, since this is clearly one of Snow's artificially engineered roses. Could it stay fresh like this for weeks? Could it have been here since the bombing?
Someone behind me bumps into a wall and I'm reminded that there's a camera crew with us. I turn to them and try to be flippant "Well, I don't need to explain who this is from, do I?"
"Just for the record…" Cressida prompts.
"It's a rose. A cloying, disgusting, artificially engineered white rose. Everyone in Panem knows who that's from," I say.
"What message do you think he's sending now?" Cressida asks.
"The same one," Peeta answers. "He can get to us anytime, anywhere, blah, blah, blah."
Peeta is so good at this. And I think I'm getting better at following his lead. "I didn't even live in this house. Snow left this here because my mother and my sister lived here, he's trying to scare me by threatening them. But if he had dropped a bomb here instead of a rose, they would have been killed before anyone knew what was happening. Instead he killed seven thousand other people, and they're safe in Thirteen." The thought of Prim being blown to bits in the first wave of the bombing nearly overwhelms me, but I force myself to keep acting casually. I give the camera a baffled shrug, and walk out of the room.
"Wait," Peeta says, trailing after me, "what do you want to do with the rose?"
I turn and look at him, also once again facing the camera. "Leave it. It's not like it's bothering anyone here. We'll worry about it when we move back to Twelve."
This surprises Plutarch. "You're planning to move back here?" he asks.
"After the war, I imagine we will," I say.
I realize I've never discussed this with Peeta before, but he backs me up now. "I'm sure we won't be the only ones. Eventually there'll be a rebuilding effort here, and we'll be a part of it."
"You could have your choice of places to live after liberating Panem," Cressida says. "Even the Capitol."
The thought of living in the Capitol makes me want to vomit. "Twelve is our home," Peeta says before I can say something more scathing. "It's where we were raised, and it's where our children will be raised."
On that definitive note, Cressida calls "Cut." Plutarch looks curiously pleased.
…..
Entering our house is strange. Everything is in order compared to Mom and Prim's, because we didn't evacuate in a rush. The last time we were here was when we left for the reaping. In fact, if the Quell had gone on as planned, we could very well have been returning home about this same time. Assuming I survived.
Even though we only left this home a month ago, with everything that's happened since then it feels like lifetimes. Everywhere I look are reminders of the life we built here, and in response to Cressida's questions we wind up describing several of them to the cameras. The fireplace where we had our toasting. The counter where I used to sit so I could talk to Peeta while he was baking without speaking to his back. The unused sitting room where we stashed all the garish Capitol decorations we didn't want to look at anymore. The stain left on the floor from one of my painting misadventures. The dining table where our friends and family gathered to celebrate our marriage.
Six of those who gathered that day are dead now.
Once Cressida is done prompting us for stories of our home life, our day of filming is declared over. Peeta and I collect some personal effects to bring back to Thirteen with us – my family's plant book and my father's hunting jacket join my parents' wedding photo and the box of medical supplies we collected earlier, as well as one of Peeta's sketchbooks and a box of fine pencils.
Jackson calls the hovercraft to meet us in the Village courtyard. Before we leave the house, Plutarch looks around our living room with a look of almost sadness. "I wish we could interview you here. It would be a stark demonstration of the limits of Snow's power."
Another interview? Peeta said they would want one soon, but I thought that's what we were doing today. Why would they want another one so soon? And why is it always us being interviewed, anyway? Aren't there other victors? I shoot a panicked look over at Peeta, and he tries to reassure me as much as he can without saying anything out loud. We'll talk about this later when we're alone.
Meanwhile, Jackson thwarts Plutarch's wishes. "There's no way Boggs would approve that," she says. "Being inside adds too much time to a possible evacuation. If you want to sit in here for hours, you'll have to wait until Snow's power actually is limited."
Plutarch is disappointed but resigned. "Maybe we could shoot some background plates to use back in the studio, no one needs to know we're not actually here for the interview."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Peeta says. "The one advantage we have right now is that people trust us to tell them the truth, while the Capitol has been feeding people lies for as long as anyone can remember. If we lose that reputation for honesty and people begin to think that we're as fake as they are? Our propo campaign might never recover."
As always, Peeta has judged his audience well, and his careful argument hits its target. "Yes, you raise a good point," Plutarch agrees, though he still looks disappointed.
…..
The team gets huge mileage out of the footage from Twelve. Gale narrating the story of the evacuation as we walk past the bodies of those he couldn't save is riveting imagery. All of us describing a vibrant community that existed despite Capitol oppression, when all that surrounds us is burned-out desolation, will resonate with everyone in every district. Our utter dismissal of President's Snow's warnings will play well with the image of The Mockingjay that they're trying to build.
Me singing to the mockingjays, and the reactions I provoked in Pollux and Peeta… I don't know exactly what purpose that serves for the rebellion, but the others seem to love it.
But everyone agrees that by far the most successful propo to come out of the trip is A Visit to Mellark Bakery, which consists of twenty minutes of uncut footage running from my introduction to the town through my story about the bread. Plutarch thinks the segment lacks polish and Fulvia thinks the message is muddled, but even they can't deny the emotional power of that footage. The little gestures of support between Peeta and me; Gale and I trying to deflect Cressida's questions; Peeta stoically taking in the place where his family lived and died; and of course the full story of the boy with the bread. The segment puts an end to any thoughts of trying again to script my propos. Even if I could eventually become okay at reciting lines, no amount of ending our hunger for justice could ever compare to what we did in Twelve.
I later learn another reason Plutarch and Fulvia aren't as fond of the Mellark Bakery piece as everyone else is: They didn't edit it. The rest of the film crew – Cressida, Messalla, Castor, and Pollux – decided on their own to snip the raw footage, and then Cressida presented it at the next Command meeting as a finished product. I decide they're my new favorites on the propo team.
In the privacy of our compartment, both Peeta and I admit that we're not entirely comfortable with some of that footage. Moments that felt personal and private are being broadcast to everyone we can get it to. Peeta is mostly okay with it though, because at least they're all moments that were real. I'm a lot less okay with it, because I still want my private moments to be private. And because I know Plutarch wants even more of them.
"Why do they keep wanting to interview us?" I ask in exasperation "We're not that interesting!"
"I don't know, I find you very interesting," Peeta says with a teasing grin.
I scowl back at him. "Don't try to make me feel better about this." My sour mood only makes him laugh out loud.
After he finishes laughing at my expense, Peeta tries to quell my rising nerves. "You were talking before about how refreshing it was to be on camera without having to pretend. That you didn't mind them now that we could just be ourselves. Why did that change because Plutarch wants to do the interview that we were already expecting?"
He's right. I thought I was finally making my peace with all of this during our day shooting in Twelve. It felt good to tell the truth that day. To set folks straight about my relation to Gale. To talk about how kids in the Seam were left to suffer and starve. To tell everyone that Peeta was brave and kind and good long before he showed it to them in the Games. But the thought of doing yet another interview has sent me back to square one.
It's the same argument we had after the Eight propo. The same disagreement we just had about the Twelve footage. Neither of us loves that we're being used as propaganda, but we both want to help the rebels win the war. Does having our lives broadcast to the country become okay because we get to be honest now? Peeta's answer is yes. My answer seems to change with my mood.
But in the end, the circumstances haven't really changed. This is what the rebellion is asking of me. I have to put up with it if I want to help defeat the Capitol. So eventually I more or less come back around to Peeta's position. We'll just continue to be ourselves, and whatever ends up on tape ends up on tape, and at least it'll all be real. We'll continue setting the record straight, because honesty is the thing that makes these rebel propos different from what we had to do for the Capitol. And we'll continue to use our influence to curb the Capitol excesses of the rest of the propo team. Those are the strategies that will help me get through this next interview that Plutarch wants.
"Why is it always us being interviewed, anyway?" I ask in frustration, echoing the thought I had earlier. "Aren't there other victors?"
"None so interesting, I guess," Peeta says with another grin. Then he says more seriously, "We're the newest victors, freshest in everyone's minds. We have the love story. And Annie and Chaff and Johanna aren't the ones who inspired people to revolt. They aren't The Mockingjay." I scowl again at Peeta using that accursed nickname.
"But other people have stories they deserve to share," I say. "You're the one who keeps telling me how good it is that we get to tell the truth to everyone. Don't the others deserve that chance?"
"Maybe," Peeta says. "I guess that's between them and Plutarch."
"Hmm," is all I say in reply.
…..
To distract from my anxieties over interviews and propos, we turn back to our ongoing efforts to name our daughter. Thirteen actually has an entire book dedicated to baby names, they keep copies of it in the hospital and loan it out to expectant mothers. Hundreds of pages of names and their meanings. I find it to be a bit weird. I don't really care that the name Zoe is popular in District Six and means "life" in some language nobody speaks anymore. All I care about is that when I said Zoe Mellark out loud, it sounded wrong to me, and Peeta's reaction was a tepid "I think I could get used to it."
Also, putting all the names together in a big list really drives home just how many girls' names come from flowers and plants. And I already have another book for that.
In fact, despite having no real affinity for my mother's family's tradition of flower names, at Prim's suggestion I do go flipping through our family plant book looking for inspiration. But nothing in there really appeals to us either. Lily is too boring. Daisy is too happy. Chrysanthemum is too fancy. Daffodil is too froofy. Rose makes me think of President Snow.
Iris. Petunia. Lavender. Marigold. Hyacinth. Azalea. Bluebell. Magnolia. Jasmine. None of them really surpasses that "could get used to it" threshold. At one point, Peeta suggests Dandelion as a flower name, but I can tell from the face he makes that saying it out loud has turned him off from the idea, just like hearing it did for me.
I'm in bed one night, the compartment silent but for Peeta's steady breathing beside me. I'm not willing to interrupt Peeta's decent night of sleep just because I can't find my own, so instead I'm staring at the plant book sitting closed on my nightstand as I run my hand over my swollen belly. A part of me is still amazed that I'm having a baby at all. In the quiet of the night I think back to the first time I really wanted to have a child. It was our wedding night, I think. My mind drifting in the lazy afterglow, all of my usual anxieties floating away like the warm summer air. That's the first time I pictured myself with a child and didn't feel terrified by the idea. I still wasn't ready to admit it was something I wanted, and of course at that time it still wasn't safe for us to have a child. But that's when the idea entered my head and refused to leave.
That night, I dreamt of a world where our child could be safe. And now we're trying to make one. One district at a time, one battle at a time, one blood-soaked mile at a time, the rebels are fighting to make a safe place for all the children. In this world, not some other one that only exists in songs and dreams. And if me sitting for interviews and sharing a part of myself on camera helps make that happen… well, it's a lot less of a sacrifice than many others are making. Maybe I should stop complaining and try to make the best of it.
As I finally drift off, I remember the world I dreamed of. A peaceful meadow, full of soft grass and beautiful flowers. A place where children are safe, and warm, and loved. The world described in the lullaby I sang to Rue in the arena. That my father used to sing to me when I was young. That one day I'll sing to my daughter.
Deep in the meadow
Under the–
My eyes fly open. I clutch onto Peeta's arm where it's wrapped around me.
"Peeta! I think I found her name."
…..
Okay, incredibly unoriginal choice for the name, but I really didn't want to get too cute with it. I think that would be OOC for both of them, but especially Katniss. I have three alternate versions of this scene that build up to them choosing other names I was considering, but this it the one I think best fits the Katniss in this story.
Next chapter: Plutarch finally gets his interview.
Preview quote from Chapter 32:
"It's complicated."
