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The chill of the morning had melted away by noon, and Katniss decided it was time to go on a walk.
She and Peeta went on long, quiet strolls quite often—whenever his leg was up for it. He liked plucking wildflowers and tucking them into her hair, and she liked watching the gleam in his eye as he took in the unending beauty of the forest. Before the war, before everything, he’d never gotten the chance to simply be in nature like this. The arena was wooded and rainy like the mountains of District 12, but the games were not exactly the place where one could stop to appreciate the scenery. It was all Capitol-made anyway. The true forest, the one Katniss had grown up in, was wild and lush. It turned yellow and pale green in the summer, and it was intense and alive in the spring.
Since the war, Katniss had begun to sing again. Not in the frenzied way she had while still in the Capitol, waiting for Snow’s execution. No, she sang softly, just under her breath most of the time. She hummed while she did nearly everything, grateful for the way her mind emptied as the melodies flowed. She’d sung, one night, for Peeta. It was the first time she’d sung someone to sleep since Prim.
He’s jolted awake with hot tears on his face and his hands reaching for her. She’d settled his head against her chest, his hair wild with sleep, and stroked his back softly while he cried. They’d spent many nights like this—shuddering in the other’s comforting embrace. But Peeta had a natural knack for comforting her. He had relearned his impressive ability to always, always know just the right thing to say since his return to District 12, and it came more easily now than ever. But Katniss did not possess that particular skill. She fumbled for the correct words, and often, she said nothing at all. But that night, she hadn’t been able to bear the feel of Peeta shaking and sobbing against her for another minute, and she’d done the only thing she could think of—she sang. He’d stilled almost immediately, most likely out of the shock of hearing her nervous voice singing a shaky tune for him.
His body had tensed, then relaxed a moment later as she continued, melting into her. She’d smiled a little and continued, grateful that her decision had not been miscalculated.
She sang them to sleep nearly every night—humming, high and sweet, as they showered, dressed, and tucked themselves into bed. As she settled on his chest nightly, his hands played with her hair, and she sang sleepily until they both couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore.
For many years, she sang him to sleep. When the test came back from the doctor, she stopped singing.
She was terrified. She kept her hands on her stomach at all times, as if she could protect the life growing inside her. She knew they’d wanted this —she’d wanted this, but it still scared her.
When her morning sickness came, he began to sing. His voice was low and soft, cracking on any note too high or low, but the vibration of his chest as he tried soothed Katniss in a way so foreign, yet familiar.
When was the last time she’d been sung to sleep?
She trailed her fingers over their memory book one night. Peeta’s delicate hand had captured her father’s smile perfectly.
She’d always known Peeta would be a wonderful parent, but the way he doted on her only solidified it for her. He sang when she was bent over the toilet in the middle of the night. He hummed as he braided her hair. He talked to the baby every night, his eyes gleaming with wonder.
When he held his daughter in his arms, he cried like she’d never seen him cry before. They settled in their bed that first night, the midwife cleaning up from the labor, Haymitch slouched in the chair in the corner (he’d refused to leave once he’d heard her contractions had started, and he stayed in their home for three days straight). Willow, with a thatch of brown hair on her tiny head. Katniss sang for what felt like hours, holding her baby to her chest, as Peeta’s gentle hands careened through her hair and down her neck, rubbing the tension out of her.
As their daughter grew, she sang constantly. She sang her to sleep and sang her awake. She traversed town with her baby slung onto her front with a long strip of cloth and hummed and murmured as they went. Peeta did, too. He recited silly songs, ones about dogs and cats, cakes and cookies, and her ABCs. She’d grown fond of his imperfect voice throughout her pregnancy, but seeing him hum tunes for their daughter increased her love tenfold.
Their boy came two years later, blonde and grey-eyed, laughing within a week. His sister was quieter but funnier—smarter with her jokes. Rye was loud and clumsy. "Like his father," Katniss had teased. Peeta had then pointed out their son’s stubbornness when doing practically anything he did not want to and had quipped, “ He certainly doesn’t get that from me.”
Willow took up a fascination with baking—her favorite thing was to help her father taste-test. This truly meant Peeta would sneak her all the spoonfuls of frosting and handfuls of chocolate chips she wanted, making her promise, “Not to tell mommy; she won’t like how much sugar I’m letting you have!” But of course, Rye had a killer sweet tooth, too.
What surprised her the most, though perhaps it should not have, was how full of music their house was. Rye tapped spoons and pencils against nearly everything (including his parents), trying to find some kind of rhythm, and Willow made Katniss repeat the lyrics of the songs she sang until the young girl had memorized them.
So, as they began on the trail to the lake, the woods were suddenly filled with childish shrieks and trills—her children’s attempts at singing. They were loud and off-key, and she loved it. If the look on Peeta’s face meant anything, he adored it just as much.
They ran up far ahead on the trail, chasing after one another until their father’s stern voice called them back. Even after all this time, Peeta and Katniss hated having them out of their sight for even a moment.
Willow tugged on her father’s sleeve and begged him to hurry, which Katniss was quick to scold her for.
“You know how Daddy’s leg gets, Willow,” she chided, taking her daughter's hand from Peeta’s arm and clasping it in her own. They were far too young to be told about their parents' past, but they did have a certain fascination with their father’s metal leg. Rye had recently taken up sitting on the floor between his dad’s feet and tapping on it relentlessly while Peeta puttered around the kitchen. That was a habit they were still working on breaking. Peeta had suggested getting him a kid-sized drum set to take his energy out on, and Katniss had set their son up with a couple of pots and wooden spoons to communicate how ridiculous an idea that was.
The trek to the lake was long, and Peeta collapsed on the dock with a sigh as Katniss helped Rye into the water. He was eager to learn to swim, while his sister shied away from the water more. Willow joined her father, perched on the knee of his good leg.
“Well, hey there, wild thing,” Peeta teased, tugging lightly on his daughter’s braid, drawing a giggle from her.
She looked at him seriously, a small frown working its way onto her plump face. “I’m sorry about your leg, Daddy,” she said solemnly.
Peeta laughed, drawing her into his chest, kissing the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Willow. I’m a bit of a slowpoke, I know.” He leaned back and pinched her pink cheek. “Thank you for apologizing. You’re too sweet.”
Katniss looked up at her husband and daughter, warmth blooming in her chest. Peeta met her eye and smiled his golden smile at her. Her attention was drawn back to her son, who tried to tug her deeper into the lake. Katniss scooped her up in her arms, cold water making goosebumps spring on her skin. Rye squirmed a little, and she laughed.
“You’re too small to go that deep, sweet boy.”
Rye huffed, going slack in protest, pretending to be asleep in her arms. He was young, but it was more weight than she was used to carrying. So, she grinned devilishly before dunking them both under the water. She rose again quickly, laughing harder at her son’s delighted screams.
They settled on the bank of the lake, lying on a thin sheet. They’d eaten their fill of pastries and berries, and now Willow and Rye were sprawled out over their parents’ legs.
Katniss played with a strand of her daughter's hair. The urge to sing came over her, a familiar feeling that she often indulged, but this time, the lyrics to a particular lullaby popped into her head.
She had not sung that tune since Rue. Its lyrics were intertwined with that moment. And after the war, they were intertwined with Prim’s memory, too. She had never had the sanity to sing it, but with her daughter’s blue eyes squinted in the sun up at her, she wanted to.
“Deep in the meadow, under the willow”
Peeta stilled beside her, his hand pausing where it was rubbing circles into Rye’s back.
“A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes.
And when again they open, the sun will rise.”
Her voice shook as she went on, and she felt Peeta’s warm hand on her shoulder. Willow blinked up at her, her small brows furrowed. She’d never heard this one before. Katniss felt a slight wave of dread at the prospect of having to repeat this one until her daughter learned it. Perhaps she’d have Peeta write the lyrics down instead.
“Here it's safe, here it's warm.
Here the daisies guard you from every harm.
Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true.
Here is the place where I love you.”
Willow smiled, her eyes dropping closed. Katniss could see Prim in her smile. It made her heart ache.
“Deep in the meadow, hidden far away.
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray.
Forget your woes, and let your troubles lay.
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away”
As she sang, she noticed the katniss blossoms nearby. It was too early for them now, but in late summer, she’d take Willow out here again and show her how to gather them. She turned her gaze to Peeta and was confused to find his gaze fixed a little to the right of her.
“Here it's safe, here it's warm.
Here the daisies guard you from every harm.”
She followed his line of sight, and her words choked when she spied the delicate flowers. Primrose. She looked back at Peeta and found her tears mirrored in his blue eyes.
“Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true.”
She drew her sleeping daughter up into her arms, burying her nose in her dark hair, her own eyes sliding shut as she breathed in the sweet smell. If she kept her eyes closed, she could almost believe it was her sister in her arms. The smell of lavender soap and mint was the same.
But forced her eyes open. Willow was peaceful and warm in her arms. Her skin was a shade or two darker than Prim’s, tanned and alive from long hours in the sun. Her cheeks were full and rosy. Her eyes were the same shade as Peeta’s. Willow had her husband’s dimples, too, and a chin like Katniss’s father.
“Here is the place,” she sang, drawing a finger over the apple of Willow’s cheek. “Where I love you."