a light exists in spring; Katniss (Katniss/Peeta); post-Mockingjay

[cosmicpretzel]

Real or not real?

All of the pieces have fallen into place. Your role has been fulfilled. The Capitol has fallen out of President Snow’s iron grasp. There will be no more Hunger Games.

A war has been won. It’s what everyone wanted all along, right?


Real or not real?

The scars have barely faded at all.

You hate them.

Your skin is still a patchwork, a fusion between something you’ve always known as yourself, and something that isn’t. You’re a mutt, a legacy of the Capitol among the worst of them. A fire mutt. A creature doomed to feel nothing but perpetual anguish because the last vestiges of what one might call a soul have long since been ripped away from it, cast into the flames of its birth.

You can’t stand to look at your own reflection because it’s only a reminder of everything you’ve lost, of every way you’ve failed. There was a day you smashed every mirror in your house to bits so that you’d never have to face it again.

But the pain never fades, either.


Real or not real?

The nightmares are unbearable without him.

Children die, over and over again. Monstrosities attack, ripping them apart limb from limb, showering you with their blood. The blood that’s stained so deeply into your hands that it mingles and joins with your own. Faces upon faces come sharply into focus, just long enough to allow you to witness the true agony of their last horrible moments before fading into obscurity for good.

You thrash helplessly. You wake up screaming.

Together, though, you make it through the night. His arms are there to steady you, his voice to whisper reassurances into your ear. You reach for his hand, interlace your fingers with his, and with that gesture is a solidarity that you both can face any ghost.

Because that’s what you do.

Protect each other.


Real or not real?

The chill is starting to leave the air. Days begin to grow longer. Dew starts to cover morning grass instead of frost.

Spring is making its arrival.

You’re out with the first rays of sunlight, bow and quiver of arrows dutifully accompanying you as always. All you hear are the gentle beginnings of birdsongs. Already, it’s the kind of day you’re starting to find life in again; there’s a lightness, a spring to your steps that hasn’t been present in what feels like a lifetime. As you move through the Meadow, one noticeable change catches your eye.

The first thing that’s grown is a dandelion.


Real.