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mollywog · 6 months

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Not new, but Since we’re talking Everlark in Different Districts…

Read on Ao3

He’d been 5 the first time he’d heard it. They were in one of the fenced yards District 13 used for aboveground recreational time. He'd been holding his father’s hand, watching his brothers wrestle when the first bird had flown over. It wasn’t the usual chirps and chittering, but high and clear notes intoning an unmistakable melody.

The next bird that passed echoed the song but in a slight variation, taking up the harmony.

His father’s grip tightened as he inhaled sharply. His brothers stopped their tussling and craned their necks to see the source of the sound. Even his mother, though her mouth pinched in a frown, stared up at the sky. Peeta scanned the faces of the crowd: Everyone frozen as if under a trance, the entire yard falling silent as the flock of mockingjays passed.

The mountains reverberated a final somber echo and the spell was broken.

This wasn’t the first nor the last time this anomaly occurred.

The District’s official position was simple: a genetic defect in a Mockingjay allowing it to remember a single song and repeat it back at random, inspiring a whole flock's tune: a mutation.

They had all seen the maps. The closest district was hundreds of miles away: the mockingjays would have grown tired or forgetful of even their favorite melody on their journey and the space in between the districts was harsh and uninhabitable. Where else could the song originate? The District knew best and the citizens knew not to question, so the official opinion was adopted, but that didn’t stop the stories.

Everyone had a tale of fortune or sorrow connected to the tune. That very night, his father had spoken of a girl he had known: her disappearance on a rare day when the music had returned. For his father, the melody forever inexplicably linked to the lost girl.

Some swore it predicted a good gather, a fortuitous hunt, or clear skies. The older children whispered terrifying tales to the younger: a rite of passage before their time in the woods. With two older brothers, Peeta had heard them all.

By the age of 12 a rotating job assignment were added to their daily schedules. If in any other district a twelfth birthday meant a slip in the bowl for the annual reaping, 12 was old enough to contribute to the workforce in District 13. Peeta along with the other 12 year olds had spent weeks in training, preparing them for their shifts: in the kitchens, in the woods, in the laundry room.

Over the years, the leaders of the district had established hatcheries, green houses, and herds of animals all underground, but of course not everything thrived there, so they sent gathering parties and hunters to collect what they couldn’t support. He had been paired with his brother, but when in the woods Matti felt his time best spent in pursuit of the girl he admired: Too perturbed by their father’s tale to let her out of his sight above ground. Peeta didn’t mind: his fascination with the woods far exceeding his fear.

He was alone and lost in wonderment over the alternating patterns of light and dark that the sunlight falling through the leaves cast when he realized the woods were eerily silent; void of even the usual chirps, until he heard the faint echo of a song. Not any song but the Mockinjay’s song. It had been months since anyone had mentioned the birds or their melody.

His feet moved of their own accord. He wasn’t thinking straight enough to be scared as he approached the direction of the crescendoing sound. He crested the hill and that’s when he saw her.

She stood by the lake in the valley bellow, face towards the sky, eyes pinched shut as she sang the song the mockingjays mimicked. The sun at her back casting a glowing orb around her, wild strand’s escaping her single dark braid. He could almost believe he was dreaming; but his dreams were never this pleasant and so full of light.

Shifting his weight, a branch splintered under his foot.

The birds registered the sound first, letting out a bellow, wings in a frenzy of feathers, as they took flight. It was another moment before the chaos cleared and he could again see the girl. Frozen, eyes wide, she resembled the frightened rabbits he stumbled upon: terrified, trapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, not having the faintest idea what he would say, when she turned and ran; a flash of yellow released from her grasp as she took flight like the birds that now echoed her song. Disappearing into the woods, out of sight, seemingly forever.

The melody had disappeared with the birds and the sun slipped behind a cloud throwing the landscape into a dulled affect after just being so clearly golden. He cautiously approached the spot where she had stood. Reaching down he picked up the yellow flower the apparition had dropped. He held it delicately: a taraxacum officinale, the only tangible proof of what he had witnessed.

He pressed the remnants of the flower between his pocket field guide, taking one final look at the empty forest, before turning away, back towards home.

🩶🩶🩶

“Does anyone live in the woods?” All week he’d gathered his courage to ask the question.

“Of course not! What kind of fool are you? Have you not been paying attention in school?” His mother’s words came quickly with a bitter edge.

“Yes mam” he mumbled and dropped his eyes back to his book.

“Nothing can survive out there. The weather, the wild animals, the Capital hovercrafts, no government to provide: Imagine! A worse fate than the games, that’s what it’d be!” And with that the conversation was over.

Parents told stories, cautionary tales, some even incorporated the mockingjays song: Beautiful Capitol mutts, who lured children too far into the woods, devouring them whole. As they grew older the threats became more tangible: breaking a limb as you fumbled over uneven terrain, drowning in streams, real animals hunting for prey: dogs, and bores, and bears,

He knew it wasn’t impossible to survive out there. Refugees sometimes arrived from other districts. Brave souls that made the trek through the Wilds: Dalton from 10, a couple from 5, a handful from 11. He had waited for the day an announcement would be made of new refugees, but none came.

He hadn’t told a single person about the girl: he was meant to report any unusual occurrences to the guards at the end of his shift. He wasn’t completely sure she was human but whatever she was, was too precious to share.

He hadn’t heard the song since that day nor heard reports of it either. Still, he traveled to the valley with the lake every chance he could; it was just as he remembered it, but he had yet to see the girl again. He collected the items required of him, while pacing the water’s edge, searching for signs of the girl or her song. He’d almost convinced himself the whole thing was a daydream, until he opened his pocket guide once more to caress the faded yellow remnant; the only proof he had that she truly existed.

Each time before he returned home, he collected a fistful of yellow flowers to leave on the spot she had stood, a paltry offering to his mythical songbird. The tribute missing each time he returned - lost to weather, or animal, or simply time.

Several months after the occurrence, he still made his treks to the lake. Though plentiful in haul, his valley visit had begun to leave him feeling empty and alone.

It was a particularly hot day when he came across a bush of berries he hadn’t noticed before. Picking one, he rolled it between his fingers, lifting them towards his nose to sniff.

“Drop it”

Startled, he instinctively dropped the berry, swinging his head towards the voice.

There she stood several feet away, half hidden by the shadows of the woods: arms crossed, scowling, annoyed - but very real.

He raised his empty hand, unsure of his intent: a demonstration of compliance or a greeting

“That’s nightlock.”

He stared dumbly.

She shifted her scowl away from him to the bush, “You’d be dead before they reach your stomach.”

He dropped his hand wiping it on the cloth of his pants, removing the memory of the berry from his fingers.

She remained rigid, half hidden in the shadows of the woods.

“You’re real.” He finally whispered. Perhaps the dumbest thing he could have said.

She rolled her eyes “of course I’m real. Though I can’t believe you still are!” She scoffed “Not knowing about Nightlock.” She mumbled under her breath.

“I wasn’t gonna eat it.” His temper momentarily flaring before he dropped his head in embarrassment. He had been traveling to the lake week after week to get a glimpse of this specter and now he was liable to run her off.

He peered up at her through the too-long waves that fell in his face “Is that what it’s called? This is my first summer on gathering duty. I’d never seen it before.” He reached for his pocket, but stopped when he noticed the girl position her weapon? He was used to the sleek metallic guns of 13, not this delicate wood and string contraption.

“Sorry,” He raised his hands. “I wanted to show you something… it’s in my pocket.”

She lowered her bow enough to encourage him to proceed. He pulled out his pocket field guide, holding it out for her inspection. She hesitated before flitting towards him, plucking the book from his grasp, retreating a few steps out of reach. She frowned as she leafed through the pages.

Unobscured by the foliage, he took the opportunity to commit every detail of her to his memory. He estimated her to be about his age. She was tiny, though slightly taller than him: That wasn’t much of a feat, most the girls his age were. Her skin was olive, darker than most from his district, likely in part due to the summer sun. Her raven black hair was tied back in a long single braid.

But her eyes! Her eyes were the most beguiling shade of gray. His life in District 13 was full of grays: his clothes, his compartment, even the food somehow took on the hue. Color was purposeful: to distinguish rank, to identify routes, to call attention when necessary. He was sure he had encountered every shade of black mixed with white, but he was mistaken.

Peeta tried to imagine her face with a smile: he’d seen her frown and scowl, but imagined the way her mouth would upturn and eyes dance with the motion.

“There aren’t any colors”

He snapped back to present “The colors are listed” he furrowed his brow “can’t you read?”

She scowled, holding the book out to him abruptly “Of course I can, I just don’t know how you’re supposed to tell nightlock from an elderberry based on that. Or excuse me, a conium maculatum from a sambucus nigra.” She lifted her chin as she rattled off the names from his book with an air of superiority. “You really use those long names?”

He shrugged. He'd never pondered the printed titles.

She didn’t wait for a response as she began plucking berries from the bush, a perplexing move to the boy. “I won’t do it again. You don’t have to get rid of them on my account.”

“I’m not.”

He waited expectantly. But she didn’t speak, pulling a deer skin sack from her belt and filling it, before securing the parcel to her belt. She looked up at him, annoyance evident, “They’re useful, just not for food.”

“Oh.” the book contained no reference to use, simply: name, diagram, and physical description. Gatherers were under strict orders not to eat from their hoards; they were told what to collect, not why. He knew some things served purposes beyond food: dyes, medicines, polymers. He just didn’t know which ones were which.

“Are you the one that keeps leaving the dandelions.” He forrowed his brow in confusion. “The taraxacum officinale”

“Oh, yeah. I wanted to let you know I was here.”

“Didn’t need the flowers to know you’d been here.” She motioned in the direction he had come. “You’re very heavy footed. If I had thought you were an animal, I could have easily tracked you back to your den”

“I’m a gatherer, not a hunter, I don’t need to worry about scaring off the plants.”

Her lips twitched, an attempt to contain a smile and she turned her head away from him to school her features. She turned back abruptly “you didn’t tell anyone about me or the lake, right?”

He shook his head vigorously, blonde waves bouncing. “I don’t think anyone else knows about this place. I only came here because I had wondered too far and then heard your song.”

She didn’t look wholly convinced but didn’t argue the matter either. She turned to busy herself in her gathering.

He looked back towards 13, his time quickly coming to an end. “I have to go” she didn’t acknowledge him. “I can leave you alone” still no response “you can call me if you want. If I’m on duty and I hear your song, I’ll know to come.”

She looked up at him, sharp eyes narrowed, “So now I can’t even sing for fear of you coming?”

He took a step back, stricken by her words “nevermind”

She must have detected the hurt in his eyes; Her features softened and she turned her head back to her work.

He pivoted towards District 13, a heaviness enveloping his limbs.

“Fine.”

He snapped his head back in the direction of the voice.

“I don’t really sing anymore anyways, but if you hear the song you can come.”

He nodded dumbly, dashing away quickly, before she could change her mind.

🩶🩶🩶

It wasn’t until his journey back that he began recounting the meeting and realizing how little he knew of this girl. He hadn’t even gotten her name, let alone where she had come from, who she was with, why she was there. The questions formed a queue in his mind. He kept his word and stayed away. He knew she was real and she knew the same of him as well as how to summon him.

So he waited. It was nearly a month before he heard the song. His heart soaring as he crashed through the greenery to the lake.

She did not look surprised by his presence: She shouldn’t have been - She lured him in after all and he couldn’t resist the grin that crept across his face. She eyed him wearily as he approached and he made sure to stop with plenty of space between them.

“Your book. Can I see it?” She extended her hand.

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but receiving no further explanation, pulled it from his bag, tossing it to the girl.

Her scowl deepened as she thumbed through the pages reviewing a select few before leafing further in the book, closing it abruptly and handing it back.

She didn’t elaborate nor did he inquire, losing the nerve to ask his questions. She wandered a bit as he wordlessly followed, finally finding a patch of white flowers with sunny yellow centers. She didn’t protest when he knelt beside her to gather them with her.

It was another month before her song and his work assignment collided once more. She again requested the book: Wrinkling her nose in annoyance as she read. Finally exclaiming, “This book is useless.”

He smiled at the outburst “I guess that depends on what the use is. I’ve already learned the plants. It’s just for reference if I forget.”

“So you can identify them, big deal. You don’t know anything about them or what they do.”

He shrugged, “don’t need to. There are people at home that do.”

“You’re not even interested?”

“We’re all doing our part, no matter how small, working together to contribute to the District’s brighter future” at least that’s what they taught them in school.

He had never thought to question it until one day when Peeta had been in the kitchen. One of the large mixers had toppled to the ground, a panel had come open and parts sprang and spilled to the floor. He had watched the mechanic reassemble the machine, collect and inspect all the parts and meticulously rebuild. A few pieces were damaged, but the mechanic didn’t bat an eye, exchanging the deformed parts for new. The old parts would be melted down and made into something useful.

Peeta had been melancholy the whole weekend. It wasn’t until class on Monday morning as they recited the pledge that he realized he was an expendable piece in well oiled machine: important but replaceable.

She rolled her eyes, “And this is your contribution?”

“For now” he said simply. There were all kinds of jobs in District 13, all balanced to support the community. His oldest brother, Solly, looked forward to his upcoming testing and placement. His father baked and his mother was a mid-ranking Commander.

“We used to have one,” she held up the book. “But it was more detailed: with colors and uses. My parents added handwritten notes in the margins. I thought if I could see the pictures again…it might remind me.” Her words trailed off. She looked into the distance away from him, throat bobbing, before turning back towards him, voice again under control, “Why wouldn’t they want you to know their use? What if you were stuck out here? Wouldn’t they want you to survive?”

He’d puzzled over the book that night. He’d never thought about it much before. Most things in 13 were straight forward, no-nonsense, portioned and precise, black and white. The book was no different. If his job was to collect specimens, this book aided him.

He was reminded again of the mixer. All the pieces working together towards a common goal, though they didn’t know what the other pieces did… although they didn’t know anything because they were just bits of metal.

After that she began to call for him more regularly, though she had dropped the pretense of viewing the book all together.

At home he’d often been told he was charming. His charisma however, seemed to have very little effect on the girl at the lake. His conversation was met with scowls rather than smiles. She was fiercely private; it wasn’t until the fifth visit that she reluctantly gifted him her name: Katniss.

They didn’t speak of home: her because she was still weary and him because she was his escape.

He couldn’t hold back the laugh that escaped the first time he made her grin and the first time he heard her laugh he felt dizzy at the sound. Her song was mythical but her laughter was magic.

🩶🩶🩶

Everything in the district was made and maintained with military accuracy. The temperature, water consumption, nutrient intake, all perfectly calculated and dispatched for plant, animal, and human alike.

His schedule contained shifts in the kitchen where his father worked making the bread. Baking no exception, the recipe precise, no room for variation, the yield uniform: Not baked for flavor but substance.

At the lake she gathered and fished, hauling a heavy load home, wherever home was, in her bag and on her back. He marveled at the variation in her catches: different shapes, colors, sizes.

It was pure luck that his thirteenth birthday landed on a gathering day and that the mockingjays happened to sing. Birthdays had little significance in th District: his name listed on the screen in the dining hall in tiny print, an extra tight hug from his father, and added responsibilities.

When he mentioned the day's significance to Katniss she frowned at the lack of acknowledgement. She asked his favorite meal and when he described the grayish fish and okra stew that ‘wasn’t half bad when warm’, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Then taught him to harvest Katniss roots, to fish, prepare and cook their catches on an open fire. Adding fresh Rosemary and wild scallions that stung his tongue with flavor and clung to his taste buds all day that he could revel in the memory.

She laughed as he described bite after bite in vivid detail, enthralled with each new flavor. Eating in the wild gave him a new appreciation for taste. She listened to him as he filled the smokey air with the recipes he could enhance, the bread that he could make with the wild spices.

The fish from the district were born, bred, and died in underground hatcheries, just large enough for them to fulfill these duties. Peeta had always been thankful for the food District 13 provided; in much of Panem children and adults went hungry or starved. He’d been hungry before, even craved but never feared the feelings. After his sunlight meal at the lake, he imagined he could taste the Distinct fish's despondency. The echo of flavors haunting his taste buds

After that she began to introduce him to forest delicacies: mushrooms, edible barks and leaves, wild berries, strips of dried meat she had saved him. He savored each bite, licking his fingers, delighting in every new flavor as she watched on with amusement. They added notes to the margin of his field book on taste descriptions, placing symbols next to favorites.

Working in the kitchen gave him access to the food waste. He began sneaking seeds from the compost pile, squirreling them away until he returned to the lake. Taking only things discarded: shriveled peas, okra and pumpkin seeds, squash remains, a half rotten tomato, a slice of a sprouted potato. They planted them together, the seeds quickly sprouting, stems with leaves reaching greedily for the sun. Their garden blossomed like their friendship, though the latter at a much slower pace.

One day she mentioned a sister, the next time a hunting partner, a neighbor’s baby she tended: brief fleeting words that began escaping unbidden, but she slowly allowed to flow freely.

🩶🩶🩶

At fourteen his teacher caught him doodling during lessons. She’d ripped the page from his pad, and he spent the remainder of class imagining the punishment the District, or worse still, his mother, would inflict for his idleness. Instead the teacher submitted his sketches to the resource department and his work assignments shifted so his newly identified artistic skills could be put to use. He was tasked with drawing diagrams: technical sketches for soldiers and hovercraft pilots. Black and white renderings of control panels. No room for imagination or colors unless strictly necessary.

This addition to his work schedule had him on outdoor duty inconsistently. When he finally heard their song Katniss had looked both relieved and annoyed to see him. She had scowled as he complained of the dullness of his new job, but the next time they met, she brought dried berries and pressed flowers in all colors. Crushing them between rocks, they made powders mixed with water and goose grease to create inks. They sharpened mockingjay feathers to points to make quills. She doodled patterns of repeating shapes while he mixed colors, painting fleeting images on rocks and trees, that faded slowly between visits.

Katniss was more disappointed by the loss of their pictures than he was until she suggested they shade the loathsome field guide. Visit after visit they searched the ground for colors to match and mix for each page, digging iron rich clay, mixing soot from past fires. He detailed and shaded while Katniss looked on, adding notes and providing names: chamomile for inflammation and sadness, wild carrots were edible but easily confused for deadly Hemlock.

When they worked on the page labeled oenothera she gave him the common name: Primrose. Her eyes shifted from the page to covertly glance at him as she added, “my sister’s named after these.”

He bit the inside of his cheek until he could contain the smile that threatened to overtake his face at the admission. He couldn’t imagine a sweeter gift than her trust.

Little by little she shared more: now calling her sister by name, she spoke of her often, along with a cat and goat, sometimes a mother, but rarely a father. Talk of her sister brought her joy, but her parents a sadness he couldn’t work up the courage to ask about. He told her about his brothers, about his father, rarely speaking of his mother. He didn’t think she avoided talk of her father for the same reason he avoided his mother.

🩶🩶🩶

At fifteen the District began strenuous workouts to gauge physical aptitude. His mother had shaved his head in a bid to demonstrate his eagerness to serve. As a Deputy-Commander herself, it was good optics to have children ready to take up the cause regardless of how unlikely the odds. Peeta had mourned the loss of his youth as the yellow waves fluttered to the ground. He wasn’t the only one; he was amused by the scowls Katniss directed at his head for months after the change.

But it had its perks. He no longer needed to fear explaining a head of wet waves. So he gladly accented when Katniss decided time had come to teach him to swim on a day when he bemoaned the pains from his long awaited growth spurt. The cool water, she reasoned, would soothe his aching body.

It was daunting at first; the water was foreign and freezing. It didn’t help that they were half naked and painfully aware of their own hormone riddled bodies. She had made him turn as she stripped to her undershirt, wading until only her head was visible above the water. She kept her distance as she barked commands that he couldn’t quite grasp. Their frustrations mounting until the lesson devolved into bickering, then splashing, then laughter. Lessons abandoned, they stumbled from the lake feeling happily refreshed.

The next time they met she came armed with a thermos of birch bark tea for his soreness and a less ambitious objective to teach him to float. She had him lay on his back, tethering him in place by small calloused hands at his lower back and neck. Her touches were purposeful and fleeting but they sparked an ache in his chest that distracted him from the ache in his bones.

They climbed from the lake, averting their eyes from the shirts and shorts that clung to their bodies. Then sunbathed like lizards on warm rocks, staring up at the sky, naming shapes in the clouds, listening to the rustle of the leaves as the branches overhead cast shadows until they were forced to pry themselves from the ground, redressing and returning each to their separate homes.

🩶🩶🩶

At sixteen his brother Matti turned 18. His viability confirmed and his preferred match approved, he took his permanent place in the kitchen with their father and eldest brother. He walked taller in his new distinction as adult, baker, and ‘breeder’ and the brothers, once childhood companions, drifted further apart; his wife and ‘duties’ taking precedence and Peeta only a little brother who could no longer relate to his more mature endeavors.

Fraternizing was not forbidden, however coupling was strictly forbidden before adulthood. The District couldn’t risk the complications associated with a high risk young mother and wouldn’t risk birth control sterilizing an otherwise healthy female. Every viable womb mattered to the growth of the District and the doctors determined 18 years was the earliest a woman could safely support life.

He had kissed a few girls, but the memory filled him with guilt rather than pride. It had been pleasant in the moment, but left him thinking of another girl. Imagining how her lips would feel against his, her petite body cradled in his arms, hands in his hair.

He’d gone to the lake unbidden that day in hopes of clearing his head of the estrangement at home. Being underground he was often unaware of the shifts in weather. The air smelled of rain, the ground was spongy, leaves and branches littering the ground as he made his way to the valley. Not expecting to find her there, he was surprised to see a massive charred tree had fallen victim to the evident storm with a weeping Katniss on top of it. They’d rarely touched, but he didn’t hesitate in gathering her in his arms. She clung to him sobbing.

When her tears subsided She rested her head on his shoulder, Her fist gripped tightly to his jumpsuit, dazedly staring off towards the lake as the words poured out. She spoke of her father: How he taught her to hunt and to swim and to sing. How he had died shortly before she and Peeta had met. How her mother’s spirit had died with him. How she had to begin providing for her family alone early on. How the lake was his place, their place - she and her father’s. She knew it wouldn’t go on being the same forever, but each season it had changed in such a small degree that it would still remain the same in her mind. But the fallen tree had forced her to come to terms with the change, with the loss.

Once she’d recovered, they sprung into action. She picked wildflowers as he mixed hues. She taught him to weave flowers so they could adorned the tree with flower garlands and painted designs - a makeshift memorial. They had a funeral of sorts for the tree and by unspoken extension her father; hands clasped in shared sorrow.

He’d left thinking of spirits and souls - The district taught of the body and mind, but the soul, at least as Katniss described it, was something intangible; The heart and the mind combined, but not just as organs, but ideas, feelings, beliefs! It was a concept he cherished. One which he kept safely to himself like the girl who had introduced it to him.

The event seemed to overcome the final restraints on conversation, they spoke freely of their homes and families.

She shared her history: The colony living in the wilderness outside the reach of Capital rule or District restrictions. How their great grandparents' generation had fled District 12 when the first rebellion was all but lost. How they traveled north until they were far enough away finding habitable ground to establish themselves.

In exchange he told her of 13: how children were as good as currency: healthy girls - the most valuable. Not everyone could have children so those that could weren’t given a choice: they were tested and matched or a mutual preference reviewed and approved at age 18. Pairs were directed to do their duty for the greater good of the District. In exchange they were given preferential treatment. His parents were matched based on genetics not personality and had produced three sons in quick succession: Peeta’s birth had been difficult, ending his mother’s chance at producing a daughter. His birth came with her final promotion, Deputy-Commander, a bitter victory as she became convinced had Peeta been a daughter, she would have been made a full Commander, been invited into Command as well as Coin’s confidences. He was a constant reminder of her stalled career.

Her grip tightened around their linked hands. Since their funeral for the tree, they had become more liberal with touches. Not in the ways his brothers talked about touching their wives, but in comforting gestures they were rarely untethered; they’d lay in the grass holding hands or wither head on his chest. No matter how innocent the actions, her touch set his skin ablaze, the lost connection leaving him starved in a way that had nothing to do with his food.

🩶🩶🩶

His seventeenth birthday came and went with little fanfare. While his classmates made predictions and plans for their future, his final year of school was filled him with dread. The months ahead filled with testing: for occupation, status, and compatibility. A few girls and even one of the District 13 widows had propositioned him to submit a match request with them; all which he’d solemnly denied.

Whispers of a second rebellion grew louder every day. They were all required to watch the Games, to remember the Capital’s cruelty. If he were destined to be a soldier in the fight against injustice he could bear his fate, but it would not be his future if he was deemed viable (and there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t be deemed viable). All the men in his family before him had been: brothers, uncles, cousins. All had paired and all so far fruitful.

He’d be a baker or a diagram illustrator and a husband and make some woman as miserable as his mother. Not on purpose of course, but because his soul surely couldn’t survive trapped underground without Katniss and their lake. Without the array of colors and the sunshine grown fish. Without the cool water of the lake and the feel of her hand in his. Without her song!

These thoughts left him feeling like wretched. He could barely eat or sleep; maybe his bodily neglect would make him unfit.

He continued his treks to the lake, even without the Mockingjay’s song to bid him. Just being close to where she had been and would be was a comfort. He put on an unaffected air on the days she was there, but she knew him too well, could sense the shift. She placed her cool hand on his forehead then his cheeks, inspecting his exposed skin for a physical cause for his malaise.

He couldn’t burden her with his fears; wouldn’t sacrifice a single moment of fleeting joy with her to the stifling images of the future, so he begged off with tales of nightmares. These weren’t complete fabrications, for when he did sleep he dreamed in gray monotony.

Their next rendezvous she brought a small cloth sack filled with lavender, catnip, and rosemary, made small enough to be sneaked past Distinct customs. She had him lay in the grass with the parcel close, his head in her lap. The scent, the breeze, and her nimble fingers rubbing circles in his velvety hair lulled him to sleep.

His reprieve was short lived. He soon received his packet confirming his viable designation with schedules, rules, and instructions.

🩶🩶🩶

His gathering day aligned with her birthday and promised himself this would be his last trip to the lake when he heard their song. One final golden day before he wished it all farewell.

He emerged from the woods, her smiling as she spied him, his worries momentarily vanishing as he jogged down to meet her. She seemed happier, lighter, today and for a moment he let himself imagine spending every possible minute of the rest of my life with her.

He laughed “I’ve never seen you so happy to see me”

She rolled her eyes but her smile didn’t falter as she opened her bag to share her elation: goat cheese. A gift from her sister. She had said it was her favorite, but he’d only tried it once.

Katniss set the lines while Peeta gathered: chives, Dandelions, violets, keeping her in sight all the while, dreading the moment he’d have to let her go for good.

Once the fish were placed on the fire, they stripped their clothes. Floating and swimming in their underclothes, laughing and talking of trivial things. Eventually crawling from the lake to lie in the grass and pick at their feast. She placed her head in his lap as he teased out the knots in her hair while she fed him bits of fish and cheese.

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever,” He felt so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about the future that the words slipped out.

She smiled up at him from her place on his lap. “We can do this again, you know? Next time.”

He hummed. A lump formed in his throat and he averted his gaze, unable to look at her knowing it would all spill out if he looked at her now. His eyes fell on the nightlock bush, the place of their first interaction. Where he discovered she was real.

He felt her hands on his face. She’d extracted herself from his lap and was kneeling across from him, forcing his head in her direction. He closed his eyes in a last defense until she spoke his name and he could no longer deny her.

At her pained expression it all tumbling out: the tests, the impending pairing, the placement, the end to his outdoor duties.

She was up and pacing, biting the nail of her thumb, listening intently. She paused her movement when he finished, “And that’s it! You weren’t going to tell me? You were going to leave here today and never come back? Leave me to wonder what happened to you? Never knowing if you were dead or if you hated me? Or if you’d found some other girl, some other lake?” Her eyes brimming with tears.

He sat stupefied, his legs pulled tightly to his chest. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Or maybe he’d thought she meant more to him than he did to her: That she would move on quickly, never looking back to the friend of her youth. Maybe he had wanted to save her the pain, or maybe save himself? Maybe his plan was selfish, not selfless.

He stood, “that’s the problem: there could never be another valley, another lake, another song, another girl. You have Prim, your mother, the Hawthornes. I’m the one losing something. I’m losing the little freedom and choice I have, going on to take my place as a piece in the great District 13 machine, fulfilling my empty destiny. In a place that needs my body and mind, but cares nothing for my soul. That doesn’t want nor need it. No one does.” He paused breathing heavily. “I was blind and content before I met you. I didn’t need a soul to survive but now that I know, I can’t go back. Can't go back to the bliss of ignorance, back to the District to inflict my misery on someone else for the rest of my flavorless gray life. I’d be better off dead.” He stared at the nightlock bush longingly, only a half baked idea he could never follow through on.

“I do, Peeta.” It was spoken so softly he thought he’d imagined it. “I need you, all of you; Your soul most of all.” She paused before whispering “Stay with me”

Certain he had misheard her, but seeing that she required a response he croaked out, “What?”

She grasped onto his hand pulling him down to face her, shaking her head as she spoke, “don’t go back. Come with me. You could choose your life, retain your soul. You could paint in color or bake the recipes you used to talk about. You could grow your hair long and sleep in the breeze. There are so many things still for you to experience: sunsets, fireflies, the moon. You just have to stay with me.” She’s pleading. No longer attempting to hide her tears, her eyes darting across his face, searching his face for a hint at his decision, not realizing he has always been hers.

“Always.” The word escaped along with the breath he’d be holding, “Yes.” He began nodding, “Anything. Yeah. I’ll do it” The words come crashing out in a confusing jumble of syllables, but she seemed to understand them as she let out a choked laugh. Then he laughed and she began in earnest, pressing her forehead to his as he cupped her face in his hands, swiping away fresh tears, lips quickly meeting between relieved laughter. Too giddy and high on their mirth to feel bashful about the thin damp fabric separating their embrace or the gravity of their decision.

After a while, recollected themselves, they gathered their things, heading in the direction of her home, their home, hand in hand. But only after executing one small request: A song for the birds, a final farewell and a continuation of the lore.

To District 13 it would be the song of a boy lost to the woods. But for Peeta, it would be the song of his homecoming.

#sliding my own fic across the table #district 13!Peeta #colony in the wild!Katniss #districts apart #TWHHA #TWHHA summer 23 #everlark fanfiction #it could probably use a review and edit #but I quite like it #fairytale vibes #shameless self promotion #self promotion Saturday

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sillymarigolds · 1 year

Text

Peeta's Proposal

Here's my piece for @promptseverlark's Summer 'This Would Have Happened Anyway'. For someone who's not draw to reading or writing AUs, I've sure been doing a lot of it lately!

It was good to have something to "force" me to write, but I think my favourite thing about this challenge has been reading the amazing works! It's pushed me to read things that I might have otherwise scrolled past, but have really enjoyed. There are incredibly talented people in this community!!

Without further ado...

What if Peeta and Katniss had both been rescued and taken to District Thirteen at the conclusion of the Quarter Quell? This story takes place around the time of events in the early chapters of Mockingjay.

Peeta's Proposal

I’m not sure how long it takes for my reality to sink in. The loss of natural daylight and knowledge I am underground makes me feel like an animal trapped in a Capitol laboratory.

Despite everyone around me telling me I am safe, I continue to feel watched. I look for hidden cameras in the ceilings and the walls; wondering if I am being broadcast on to District Thirteen’s version of Capitol TV.

The first thing I remember was the hospital ward. I found out later from Prim that it took the doctors over a week to wake me up properly. I spent much of that time under the influence of large doses of morphling.

Each day I get a small white capsule of morphling with my breakfast. Prim tells me there are small lines if you look closely to indicate the dose. She says they are weaning me off it slowly because that is the safest thing to do. I tried to stop suddenly a few days ago on my own and felt terrible – it felt like my skull was being split open, my joints were aching and my eyes and nose kept watering. So I take the pill and squeeze my eyes closed swallowing it with a gulp of recycled water.

Even on the morphling, I continue to have pain. Some days, it’s my head that aches where Johanna knocked me out, other days it’s everywhere all at once. One of the doctors here is a specialist in the mind; he tried explaining to me that pain is a signal and sometimes there is no clear physical cause. I guess that is why I am wearing this bracelet to signify I am “mentally unstable”.

The only thing that truly calms me down is Peeta. I have to wait until very late at night when there are only a few people left in the hospital ward and tread silently to his room. Most of the time he is already asleep, his blond curls softly heaped up on his forehead. He is exhausted more than the rest of us, and they have him on special monitors that watch his heart. Apparently, the doctors have never known anyone to survive touching a forcefield, and Prim says they sit around and talk about the shapes of the lines, and how quick his heart beats. As good natured as ever, Peeta doesn’t mind much and asks the doctors questions every now and then. I take it upon myself to be suspicious of them, so I do not speak to the doctors unless absolutely necessary.

Peeta is already asleep tonight to the melody of the soft beeps of the monitors when I peek behind the door. He is curled up on his side with the blanket rolled down, anticipating my arrival. Seeing him prepared like this makes me want to laugh at how well he knows me, but that thought is quickly overcome by tears that spring up into my eyes over this boy that is so good, and that I have already almost lost so many times. I crawl in next to him, pressing my back against his stomach and pulling the blanket up over both of us. The warmth from his belly travels right up my spine and settles around my heart. The beeps slow, a heaviness settles into my body, and before I know it, I am pulled into a dreamless sleep.

***

As soon as we are all discharged from the hospital, we receive summons from Plutarch to join a meeting in Command to discuss the next phase of the Revolution. I have yet to see the full extent of District Thirteen. I have only seen the inside of the hospital, our family’s assigned compartment, the dining hall, and a few supply closets big enough to hide in until today. I don’t know how deep they have buried into the rock here, but I did have to squeeze Peeta’s hand in the elevator ride down here, the air feeling like it was being squeezed out of my chest as we descended deeper under the earth.

It turns out there are far more people involved in the Revolution than I would have guessed. I am impressed by the acting skills. It makes me a little annoyed to think of Haymitch being right to keep me in the dark about all this – my ability to keep a straight face in a lie is, after-all, non-existent.

We are sat around a long rectangular table in the Command Room of District Thirteen – a combination of Victors, Rebels and District Thirteen leaders. Each of us is dressed in the utilitarian grey shirt and trousers, but the groupings remain distinct. The Victors are weary, suspicious; the Rebels hopeful, fiery; the District Thirteen personnel silent and soldier-like in their mannerisms.

While I am told they are grateful for the new arrivals, the original District Thirteen residents keep to themselves. This is the first time I have been in a room with many of them up close. Prim told me there was a poxvirus that wiped out large numbers of their original population. Here in the dark room, the light from the screens on the walls reflects off old scars on some of their faces.

At the head of the table is President Coin, a middle-aged woman with copper eyes and straight, grey hair that falls to her shoulders in a sheet. Her hands are folded on top of the table, her lips pursed. To her right, sits Plutarch Heavensbee, his belly pulling at the buttons of his shirt, leaning back in his chair behind a pile of papers scattered across the desk in front of him.

Trying to be the model of democracy, after standing up and waving us in and telling us how wonderful it is to see us all – I think how pleased Effie would be at his manners, and quickly discard the thought before I start thinking about what has become of her –, Plutarch asks us for ideas about how to stir up loyalty in the districts.

For all their soldiers, personnel and intelligence gathering, District Thirteen have not had a Head Gamemaker here to figure out how to play with all the pieces in this new arena.

Plutarch’s question is met with silence.

I turn to look at each of the Victors seated at the table.

Finnick, looking slightly unhinged, ties knots over and over in a short length of rope without making eye contact with anyone.

Johanna clenches her jaw, her fists balled up, intermittently smacking them into her thighs, eyes angrily darting around.

Beetee taps away on a small electronic machine, muttering to himself and seemingly oblivious to the presence of anyone else.

Haymitch may look the worst of all of us, as he has spent up until now drying out in a padded cell. He barely registers a hint of recognition when I look at him, his eyes bloodshot.

Finally, I come to Peeta who is immediately to my left. He is already looking at me with soft eyes. When our eyes lock glances, his gaze sharpens and becomes questioning. I feel my brow furrow a little, but the corners of my lips pull upwards.

Once upon a time, we talked about the same solution under very different circumstances.

Peeta feels out for my hand under the table, taking it in his and rubbing small circles across the back of it. He has always known how to play the games without being told, so for once, I trust his instincts, and squeeze his hand gently to tell him so.

“Katniss and I can get married” Peeta announces.

Knowing what was coming doesn’t stop my tongue from becoming paper dry, my hands from starting to shake and my heart from thumping away in my chest as if I was trying to outrun a wild dog. I look down at the table, tracing the woodgrain with my eyes to try and calm myself.

Plutarch claps his hands with delight, “Yes, I love it! In fact…” he rustles through the haphazard pile of papers, “I think our friend had just the same idea.”

He pulls out a drawing, ragged along one edge where it has been ripped from its journal and hands it to me. Drawn in Cinna’s hand are two figures – one in a long, white gown, with a glittering gold sash across the shoulder, and a sheer gold cape that falls to the ends of the fingers; the other in a white shirt and formal jacket with black trousers that have what looks like a gold sash around the top. This is me and Peeta. The tears in my eyes threaten to spill over onto the paper, but I swallow them back so as not to destroy this final piece of Cinna. I clutch it to my chest as if to quiet the palpitations, wishing my friend was here with me too.

When I look back up at the faces around the table, I am met by a mix of expressions. While Plutarch is clearly delighted at the prospect of a party, there are dark looks on the faces of many of the District Thirteen delegates.

It dawns on me that here, underground, they may have not seen the “star-crossed lovers of District Twelve”.

A thought that is confirmed when President Coin clears her throat and speaks: “Perhaps there is a more military strategy we can explore.” Plutarch waves her concern away, “Nonsense, Madam President, if we are to defeat the Capitol, we must beat them at their own game.”

“But how exactly will a marriage unite the districts?” asks one of the District Thirteen soldiers I don’t know the name of yet.

Plutarch turns to the solider and asks: “What is the antidote to fear?”

He stops to think for a few seconds, and replies “I don’t know, sir.”

“Anyone?”

“Hope,” comes a voice from the other end of the table – Gale’s voice. I try to catch his eye, but he stares straight ahead at Plutarch unwaveringly.

“Indeed! The districts know only fear from the Capitol, they do not know there is hope that the Captiol’s reign can be overturned. Much less that one can escape the Capitol like these two lovebirds have! If we give people in the districts hope, we can light a fire under this revolution which has until now only been smouldering quietly in the background.” Plutarch looks pleased at this monologue and mimes to the scribe to write it down.

“Well that’s all well and good, sir, but how exactly does a wedding nobody knows about do that?” asks the District Thirteen solider.

“Ah, well that’s an excellent question! One that our dear friend Beetee here can help answer.” He gestures to Beetee who continues tapping away, muttering to himself.

Plutarch clears his throat again, “Beetee”.

Beetee looks up, lifting his fingers off the machine and holding them in mid-air, before pushing his glasses back up his nose. “The broadcasts from the Capitol are secured through a system that was designed not to be breached…However, if someone could indeed break through that encoding, alternative messages could be broadcast to the Districts…Seeing I helped designed this system, I believe I can get through, it will just take some time…” he trails off and looks at his screen once again, beginning to tap on the keys.

“So there you have it, we will have a wedding broadcast to all!” Plutarch claps his hands with finality.

President Coin clears her throat, “Thank you Mister Heavensbee. It’s now noon, we will reconvene at thirteen hundred hours for our next meeting as scheduled. Dismissed all.”

I watch as the District Thirteen soldiers and Gale file out instantly without a look in our direction.

I turn back to Peeta who is waiting to ask, “So do you want to kiss me, kick me, or kill me?”

I pause for a second before I answer.

“All three, I think.”

#thg fanfiction #the hunger games #everlark #ao3fic #twhha #everlark fanfiction #sillymarigolds #this would have happened anyway #This would have happened anyway summer 23

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