Chapter Text
This story begins at a where, a when, and a who.
The where is a soft bed. A pillow of feathers and sheets of linen. A home, not a house. A neighbourhood, not a Village. A family, not a team.
The when is early in the morning. The bright yellow of the sun replacing the once darkened sky. Sun rays cutting through window panes, streaming unstoppably through curtains. The rooster belting its song. The cicadas still snoozing away in their burrows. Somewhere, a baker stirs late, his leaven starved and loaves overproofed. Somewhere, a huntress flutters her eyes open way past the time animals are easy kills.
The who… well, dear reader, the who I think we both know.
Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the star crossed lovers from district twelve, the Victors of the 74th Hunger Games and heroes of the Rose War of 76ADD, live quiet lives up in the mountainous plains of District 12.
It is said their two children – a girl with the darkest of hairs and the bluest of eyes, and a boy, with his blond waves and eyes of charcoal dust – were brought into the world by the hearth. They were welcomed first by the warmth of fire, and second, by the warmth of their parents’ love. Each one of them arrived healthy, with a pair of lungs strong enough to hold the battle cry that was their triumphant entrance into this world.
Was it the arrow, driven into Alma Coin’s chest and piercing through her heart, that signified the end of the war? Perhaps it was the bloody pulp of guts, skin and bones, left behind by the man known as Coriolanus Snow – his death a violent proof of his own mortal nature – that told the world tyranny and pain was over? Speculatively, maybe it had been President Paylor’s swearing into office, her scarred hand pressed firmly over her left breast, promising to the broken and divided nation to not just bring peace, but to set the foundation for it to be everlasting. Some argued that instead, it had been the policies set up by Paylor – her promises ringing true of quenching the remaining blazing fires in the districts – and delivered by her successor. Boarders had been lifted, inter-district migration encouraged, new homes, new factories, new flowers, new life and new death. But in the end of the day, history books and the populous had agreed that the true signal of the war ending had come at the destruction and repurpose of the military and weaponry in districts two and thirteen – the remaining two districts to continue on the fight, the last two to welcome the new sunrise.
But toss away the history books, watch the presidents and governments go up in flames, stand on top of the remains of what this country and its people once stood for – doom the world to extinction. For a small family tucked away somewhere in a valley surrounded by trees, where once the air was coated by coal and grime and now bathed in the gold glimmers of sunrise, the war ended when the scales were tipped. When good, glorious days were spent in the sun, with busy hands and a quiet mind, with the sound of children laughing somewhere nearby. When nightmares twisted and formed into running lates and nude bodies in public spaces, and guttural screams, bloody gurgling, detached limbs littering the snow, ash forced down your throat, were a mere whisper – a distressing footnote – to their days in the sun.
When a bad day could look like a bad cold, a stolen toy, some broken fridges. When a toddler’s cries for his father’s warmth became louder than the ghosts haunting the halls. When a girl’s outrage was met with forgiveness and a hug, when her worst punishment could ever look like a detention and a talking to – not a death sentence.
And this story, gentle reader, begins when the sun rises again on another day. The after of the bad one – the regular one, the nothing one – the best one.
The husband, throws an arm around the wife and kisses her exposed shoulder in feathery whispers, lips trailing to her neck and to her ear. Breathy words are spoken, staccato sentences exchanged between them, before one caves and rolls over the edge of the bed.
The wife stretches over, each limb, knuckle and ligament waking up along herself. She breathes in her lover’s scent, the warmth the man left behind him – the one meaning love and safety and hope. She sighs, in what any of us could translate as contentment.
The husband is at a different door, a different bed. His hand brushes away different hair, blond and curly like his own. The skin underneath his hand warm but not burning, the boy’s shirt wet but not soaking, his breathing steady in and out of his mouth. The boy wakes, not with a start, for his dreams had been sweet – dreams of chasing insects in a field, of climbing up a tree and weaving flowers. The father helps the boy sit up and when he offers to carry him up, the son rejects it and holding tightly onto his toy goose, he walks out the door with purpose. The father follows close by to witness the son sneak into the other room – the one with the soft purple walls and colouring pencils tidied away neatly. The father bears witness to the daughter holding the bedsheet open for her brother to climb in.
But reader, you must know, this is not an unprecedented event, nor a maiden occurrence – daughter and son shared a bond unlike no other. The mother had thought she had experienced it, that sibling love, but this was peculiar, different. This was free of any and all expectations. This was not a sister standing in as a parent, nor a brother doomed to fade in the shadows. Once the boy was born, it had been clear – the inevitability of their love and siblinghood – and as they grew and gained the right to bicker and fight, to argue and cry, they always made up and came together – in play or in comfort.
Morning duties take order as they always do. The breakfast is served, dreams are rehashed and enquiries of their sleep quality is asked, and both mother and father and son watch the daughter skip away – joining her friends on the walk out the neighborhood and to school.
And the three remaining ones stay behind, laying in the sun, playing with their son. Singing songs and napping. Sharing soft words, and glances and touches. The father tends to their garden and the mother makes their home tidy again. The father makes them lunch which they all share in the garden with their old mentor.
Haymitch Abernathy, the winner of the 50th Hunger Games and unprecedented co-conspirator in the rebellion plan, eats the remaining soup from last night’s dinner with the closest thing he will get to children. And maybe some of you will question if he still sees her, if her phantom presence ever ceases from his memories and for that I have no answer. What is a ghost if not love persevering? What tethers you to the dead when there is life to be lived, new promises to be made? What is a life gone, when there are new deaths to grieve? Good deaths, dignified and free deaths.
And when the daughter arrives back home, there is fun to be had and homework to be done and dinner to be eaten and laughter to echo out from the rooms. So old mentor, daughter and son sit around the table, legs criss-crossed, or leaning forward as if listening to a fable. And the old man will spin stories and jokes and all kinds of tales for them to hear, and this one time is no different, as he pulls the chess board near.
The mother will steal a glance, the frustration in her daughter’s eyes visible as day. The son is too young to understand the game yet, but who’s to say in two, or three, or four years?
But reader I must confess, the rhyming portion of our fairytale is about to begin, because with the corner of his eye three words catch the father’s eyes – in between the daughter’s school books there lies a paper: Who was Katniss Everdeen? the question begs three examples to be given?
It doesn’t quite stop him in his tracks, they had been preparing, of course, for something like this to happen sooner than later. This was not an unpreceded event, nor a maiden occurrence either. They had been – as much as one can be without scaring a child half to death – honest. Telling her about the arenas, the war, father’s leg and the flames licking their skin. But this had been the very first time, a paper like this had found itself back to the safe haven of their home.
So he pulls the paper out with the precision of a painter, his heart thumping against his eyes, blood rushing to his ears. Who is Katniss Everdeen? the boy thinks to himself, a friend, a lover, a wife held so dear? And let me spare you the worry, my friend, for he exhales in relief – a chuckle bubbling up at his stomach’s pit. The husband pulls his wife close and passes her the paper, her expression changing as rapidly as a rabbit facing imminent danger.
But just like him, her expression waivers and smiles, for the three examples the daughter had given was: My mama, sings really good, her hugs are really nice.
Evening duties take order as they always do. Teeth are brushed, faces are washed, stories told, songs are sung. Kisses are exchanged, goodnights are wished, glasses of water passed until eventually both daughter and son have fallen asleep.
Husband and wife bid their old mentor goodbye and retire to their room. The lights have been turned off and the husband makes sure the door is firmly closed. Eyes are wondering, sneaky glances exchanged, clothes are shed, lips crush like waves, hands meet where pleasure and ecstasy do not meet the sun rays –
Oh, my dear reader, I hope you don’t mind me interjecting there for I believe these two deserve as much privacy as they can bare. So after, they lay in bed, kisses and laughs exchanged, watching the summer sun, dip down behind the terrain.
This story ends at a where, a when, and a who.
The where is a soft bed. A pillow of feathers and sheets of linen. A home, not a house. A neighbourhood, not a Village. A family, not a team.
The when is late at night. The dusky bright orange – the one the painter loves so – fills up the sky in an explosion, and is quickly replaced by the stars. The curtains move softly in the breeze. The cicadas are singing their song. Somewhere, a baker sleeps with his arms draped over his love’s sleeping form. Somewhere a huntress’s chest rhythmically rises and falls, lulled by the drumming underneath his chest, where she lies on her favourite spot. If you could see them from afar – these two wrapped up into one another other – well… I might be completely biased but, don’t they just love each other?
The who… well, dear reader, I think this question is redundant. I say we let them sleep, let them dream, let them hope. I say let’s let the sun set in this story – let’s let them put this bad day far behind them – once and for all.