Chapter 1: Prologue: Taking Flight
Notes:
Welcome to the second fic in my series Victor, Mentor, Mockingjay! If you have not read the first one, I’d highly recommend it! There will be a lot of discussion/references about/to the things that Owen went through in his Games, which is covered in its entirety in the first fic of this series! It was my first ever posted multi-chapter fanfic and I’m so proud of it!
The events of this sequel will span the entire year after the end of Owen’s Games: his healing after returning to 12, his Victory Tour, the rising Rebellion in Panem, and of course the Quarter Quell.
If you have already read VMM, or were following along as I was publishing it, you might be aware that I was posting chapters as they happened in the timeline (for example: the Games start every year on July 11th so the chapter that included the opening of the games was in was posted on July 11th!)
I’m too impatient — nor would I ever ask you to wait like that — for me to post these chapters sporadically for the next year because they happen to line up with the arbitrary dates I’ve assigned these events. Instead, I'm hoping to establish a weekly posting schedule, which will begin with the first full chapter in a few weeks.
Feel free to connect with me on Tumblr as well: @firehelpmeforget I’m pretty active over there and I’m trying to be better about posting writing updates/progress!
Can’t wait to hear your thoughts as we embark on this sequel! Inspired by one of the best books ever written, Catching Fire
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Finnick
August 9, 74 ADD
Annie will understand why I’m late getting home this year. She won't begrudge my looping route from the train. Before I can reunite with her, there’s something I have to do first. Before I can attempt to return to the normalcy of the secret, lovely, little life we’ve built in the village, there's someone I need to see.
I brace myself. This never gets easier. But there’s something different in the approach to this specific door. I really believed it could be him. That I’d finally be able to save another one, just one more.
I take one last deep breath and force my chin to rise, lifting the heavy metal knocker of the Mayor’s Mansion. With three resounding thunks, I step back, trying to be ready for whatever reaction will greet me. Anger, disappointment, grief, whatever awaits will be justified, after-all.
The door swings open.
“Mr. Odair.” Caspian Murray states. No accusation in his sea-green eyes. Those eyes. So much like his son’s, tinged red with long shed tears. Even that detail brings a vision of Kai to my mind. The way he had clung to me that first night on the train, overwhelmed with terror and grief. I can still feel the boy shuddering against my chest, as I held him through his weeping well into the dawn.
“Mr. Murray.” I greet, choking down the lump in my throat as I stumble over even those few syllables. “Would you like to take a walk?”
“Yes, old friend.” The man agrees, a feigned casualness in his movements as he grabs a light jacket. “We’ll head to the beach. I think we have much to talk about.”
Plutarch
August 13, 74 ADD
“I need someone I can trust, Heavensbee. Someone who knows how to keep them in line.” The President snarls. His snake-like eyes made even more unsettling by the library’s flickering firelight.
I should have expected it. When Seneca Crane’s departure after the 73rd was recreated with Persephone Price’s after the 74th. The poster, the threat, was too clear. Another kid from Twelve, a crumbled Cornucopia. That infamous symbol of the Games shattered by his hand.
“Of course, Mr. President. It is my honor to serve to Capitol and the Games.” I answer with practiced, familiar, words.
“Good." Snow raises his glass. "To your return as Head Gamemaker then.”
“To the Games.” I answer, tapping the rim of his heavy tumbler with my own.
As he takes a slow sip of that dark amber drink, I voice the question he's surely been waiting for. “If I may ask, sir, what twists do you already have planned?”
His lips curl up in a terrifying sneer, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Ah, so he’s set on whatever idea he’s come up with. The President leans in, reveling in the chance to share his, surely, genius plan. “The Victors.”
“The Victors?” I question. He can’t mean…
He grins. A spark of perversion in his eye. “They have become too dangerous, Plutarch. You’ve seen it. It’s time for a reset, a reminder, that even they are not above the will and power of the Capitol.”
Of him, he means. Out of his control, above his power.
I can’t help it, I smile. It’s a terrible idea, even worse than I had expected. It will cause anger, uproar — rebellion. It might be time to reach out to some old friends, and I think I know exactly who will be my first call.
Haymitch
August 19, 74 ADD
Listen, I may be a drunk but even I won’t soon forget the sight of those two kids sprinting across the green to converge on the third: Owen, wailing like a banshee in the grass.
Peeta already dressed, the dawn beginning to break over the horizon. Baker’s hours, he’s always offers as his excuse for being such an early riser. But I doubt all the early hours spent over hot ovens could have prepared him for the sight of Sweetheart, dressed only in her nightgown, bursting out of her front door. Poor lovesick lug. I find my most cynical self teasing him in my mind.
Lenore Dove chastises me immediately, for my unkindness. Reminding me that I was once just as lovestruck. She's right, I remember it all too well.
If only she were really here, she’d adore them all. These lost kids, stumbling around like her geese in the meadow. She’d know what to do. She’d know how to help.
I watch from my window as Sweetheart and the Boy each drop to their knees beside Owen, reaching out with gentle soothing hands and hurried attempts at calming words. Slowly retrieving him from whatever terror his mind has conjured up tonight.
I know the horrors of his Games have already given a few suggestions to the nightmares Katniss and Peeta suffer through. The nightmares I actively drink to escape. And us three were just watching from the sidelines.
After a while, they manage to pull the youngest to his feet and with a hastily thrown blanket to cover his bare shoulders, my trio of young Victors disappear into the house at the end of the green.
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed this little preview! The first full chapter will be up in about a month! September 13th is my current plan! I'm already at 45K words written but I'd like to get as much written as possible before I start posting weekly.
I know myself, I know my writing habits, and I know about the very busy September I have coming up, so to stick to consistent updates I need to have a first draft of as many chapters done as I can.
Still, I wanted to get this Prologue out there to get it on everyone's radar and announce the Second Series! So excited to continue this journey with you all!
See you soon! - Beth
P.S. If it makes the waiting just a little bit easier, the first full chapter currently clocks in at 11k words (the rest won't be that long but I gotta make it worth the wait somehow)! So there's something to look forward too!
P.S.S Did you catch the Taylor Swift reference I threw in this prologue? Sorry we got an album announcement this week and I just couldn’t help myself lol!
Chapter 2: Attempts at Healing
Summary:
We catch up with our cast of characters six weeks after they returned to District 12, with Panem’s Newest Victor in tow!
Notes:
All the gods, this chapter was a beast! 11K words! Please do not expect this going forward! This is a very special exception! But I had to reward you for your patience! Enjoy!
My plan is to stick to a weekly posting schedule! So see you next Saturday for Chapter 3!
Also, I commissioned a piece of fanart of Owen and Mira in their tributes outfits as my little gift to myself for finishing the first fic in this series! This incredible work was done by Chlo at @clxartss on Tumblr.
Take a look here: Owen and Mira in their Tribute Outfits
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Katniss
September 20, 74 ADD
I finally track him down, a sleeping Owen Sparrow, only to discover him hungover on Haymitch’s couch.
His house had been my initial stop. But finding it vacant, I grabbed a clean set of clothes and marched over to my next-best guess, feeling more like the teenage boy's exasperated mother than ever before.
“Get up!” I shout, and receive no response. I try a shove to his shoulder, a light tap to his face, repeatedly calling his name as I raise my voice louder. When I’m met with no sign of movement, I opt for the tried-and-true method: a cup of water dumped over the boy's dark mop of curls.
“Fuck!” Owen yells, leaping to his feet, gray eyes wide and frantic, on high alert. If the small knife in his hand is anything to go on, it seems he’s been learning more than how to drown his sorrows from Haymitch.
“I’m sorry for waking you so suddenly but the more peaceful ways weren’t working.” I state flatly, no regret cracking through my tone. “Shower. Get dressed. We have things to do today.” I command, returning to the mess of a kitchen.
I spend five minutes cleaning as much as I can without gagging. Throwing out leftover food, emptying liquor bottles into the sink and filling the trashcan with nearly everything within reach. Peering my head back into the living room I catch sight of Owen’s black hair still laid against the pillow on the couch. He's fallen back asleep.
Raising my voice I call, “Owen! Get up right now or I’ll give you a second impromptu shower!”
The threat, finally, forces the boy into action. He jumps up once more, face flushing at the scolding.
“Go! Shower! You reek!” I order, tossing the clean clothes I’d retrieved from his house at him, proud to see my aim hasn’t faltered as they hit him right in his befuddled, exhausted, face.
“Ugh! Fine!” He shouts, marching past me and up the stairs, stomping and creating as much noise as possible along the way. Behaving for all the world like the 15-year-old kid we so often forget he is.
I retrieve the bread and butter I picked up from Peeta’s, slicing into it and setting it on a freshly cleaned plate on the counter. While I wait, I busy myself by taking out the trash and tidying what I can in the living room. I doubt anyone has done so in quite some time. I make a mental note to talk to Hazelle and see if she can take on the role of Haymitch’s housekeeper again.
I’m drawn back from my thoughts when I hear the thundering footsteps of a teenage boy once again echoing down the stairs. He greets me with an annoyed huff, but his curls are wet and sticking to his forehead, and he’s now dressed in the clean clothes I snagged for him.
“Come, eat something.” I request, attempting a more gentle approach.
Owen takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping, but he follows me anyway. He dutifully takes a seat at the half-cleared counter and bites into his bread. I'm offered a mumbled 'thanks' when I present him a glass of water and a steaming cup of coffee, with just a splash of cream.
“Why are you doing this?” He asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We need to talk but I’m not doing that here and I’m not doing that until you look a little less like death.” I explain, sipping my own cup of coffee, made just the same.
“What time is it?” He asks while chewing, and I try not to pull an Effie and cringe at his poor manners.
“Eight.” I answer.
“Too early.” He groans.
“No, this is late. Especially for what we need to do.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re done eating.” I answer, drawing out his annoyance with my vagueness.
“You’re being weird.” He eyes me suspiciously, and when all I offer in response is a shrug, he presses on. “So…did Peeta make this bread?” He asks with feigned casualness, his own attempt at annoying me just as much.
“Yes.” I speak.
“And it's fresh.” He points out.
“It is.” I agree.
“Did you get it this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And how far from your bed did you have to walk to retrieve it.” He questions, face twisting into a cocky, suggestive, smirk.
“Further than your implying.” I answer, chugging the last of my coffee.
“Damn…poor guy.” He looks down at his nearly empty plate with a pitying laugh.
“Owen…” I bristle.
“You woke me up far too early and I’m experiencing my first ever hangover. That means I’m allowed to tease you as revenge, especially when it makes you that embarrassed.”
“Finish your coffee.” I order, turning away from him to put my mug in the sink. Only to put my mug in the sink, definitely not to hide the flush I can already feel blooming on my cheeks.
“Oooh, I’m sure he’d love if you use that tone with him.” Owen jests, laughing as he dodges my attempt to lightly cuff his ear in indignation.
While I begin fixing a few bundles of bread and cheese to tuck into my bag, I watch him wolf down his last few bites. Once he’s finished, I make to grab his plate, not wanting to leave another dirty dish in this wreck of a kitchen. But Owen pulls it from my reach and stands. Without prompting, he walks to the sink and silently cleans the plate and both our coffee mugs.
“Ok.” He speaks, drying his hands on his t-shirt. “What do we need to talk about?”
“Throw some sturdy shoes on.” I tell him. “We’re going for a walk.”
“I…I don’t think I have any.”
“No boots?” I ask. “Not at your house?”
“No.”
“Ok. Let’s see what we have at my house, then.” I offer, grabbing my bag from the table and marching out the front door, knowing Owen will follow behind.
Owen
September 20, 74 ADD
I cross the green barefoot, avoiding with all my might to look at the empty house to the left of Katniss’s, mine. But even if they won't say it, I know everyone is slowly coming to the silent agreement that I probably shouldn’t be left alone.
When I first came back from the Games I wanted nothing more than to live alone, reveled in it. This new freedom. Not having to share a room, allowed to wake up whenever I wanted, go to bed whenever I wanted, do whatever I wanted. At least, until the novelty faded and oppressive silence took its place.
I've run the gamut trying to escape the quiet. I blasted the Capitol provided television all day until the insipid, obnoxious programming nearly drove me mad. I tried music, but the crappy radio Katniss had bought for me from the hob had exactly two channels, and even those only worked half the time.
Cinna had, as always, come through. He called to check in a few weeks after the Games under the guise of 'preliminary discussions about the Victory Tour.' In under five minutes, it all came tumbling out. The silence, the blasted TV, the rambling self-destructive thoughts. After a few moments of a very different, more understanding, kind of silence, Cinna spoke again, “I’ll send something along that might help, keep an eye out for the next shipment.”
I was first in line for the Capitol Train a week later. An annoyed Peacekeeper handed me the large box from my stylist, and then a second, and then a third. Unable to carry it back myself, I had to ask one of the miners to drive me back to the village. After paying the man handsomely for the ride, I brought the boxes into my too-big house. Inside, I found a note from Cinna explaining that the gift was called a “Record Player.” Something invented before the Dark Days that was coming back into fashion in the Capitol.
It's a music player, like the radio, but you can select whatever music you want to play at anytime. The other two packages, Cinna filled with as many “records” as he could fit. I immediately became obsessed with the machine. I spent the entire day getting it set up and going through the records, seeking to find the perfect one to play first. Cinna made the decision easy though, once I discovered the note taped to a record buried in the third box. His looping words written across it: Start here…and take it one day at a time - C.
It took a minute for me to wrangle the disc successfully onto the machine, terrified of breaking the delicate gift, but as soon as I did, music filled the room. I nearly burst into tears at the sound. A collection of horns and guitars bouncing off of each other. Unhindered. Uncontrollable. Free.
I took off next door to Kat’s house banging wildly on the front door, like the mad-man I surely was, until the blonde-hair and baby face of Prim appeared. “You gotta see this!” I shouted, running past her and into the house. “Kat! Mrs. Everdeen!” I called. Taking off onto the green once more, I repeated the same disruption at Peeta’s house, then again at Haymitch’s.
Soon enough the entire, albeit small, community of District 12’s Victors Village was sat in my living room, observing with curiosity and confusion as I fiddled with the machine. “See!” I cheered, when the instruments started playing again. “Isn’t it amazing!”
“It’s great, kid.” Peeta offered, a soft smile on his face when he registered how excited I was about my new toy.
“How does it work?” Katniss asked, stepping forward to look at it closer.
We spent the entire evening at my house, playing record after record. I made a note of which ones my friends favored with ripped slips of paper tucked into the record’s sleeves. It was the best day I’ve had since I returned home from the Games.
The music helped for a while. I played something all the time, even when I was sleeping — especially when I was sleeping. Then, when the white noise got too familiar to drown out the nightmares, I started sleeping on the couch right next to the speakers. Then, I started playing it as loud as possible. So much so that a very annoyed, very drunk, Haymitch burst in one night, nearly scaring me half to death, ranting and complaining about keeping the entire District awake with my “blasted radio.”
In the end though, no matter how loud I played the music, or how long, or how many of my neighbors I surely pissed off, it eventually stopped working. I always, inevitably, woke up to the record having finished and the violent return of my nightmares.
Each time, I wake in a pool of sweat. Sheets nearly ripped free from the mattress by my thrashing. Without fail, at least three, four, sometimes five times a night, I’m chased through dreams by visions: Kai drowning in his own blood, Ada being ripped away in a wave of silver, Mira reaching out to me as I flee.
Some nights, Katniss and Peeta replace the tributes from District 1, begging me not to set off the explosion that killed Veloura and Lennox. On some nights it’s me in that exploding ruin, others it’s my mother, my mind conjuring her from that one singular photo. Madeline Sparrow, so young, barely breaking twenty. Sometimes it's Mira, Kai, Ada, the kids from the Community Home, Arden, Reed, Juniper. But every time, regardless of who will get hurt, I still throw that knife blowing them to bits over and over again.
The sound of their screams are so realistic that I’ve had to stop myself from knocking on the Everdeen’s door more than once. Just barely sparing myself the embarrassment of waking the three women while dressed solely in my boxers.
Sometimes the nightmares are more simple. Mira standing over me, her long dark braid, her too pale face, her blood-soaked chest, her wide brown eyes looking down on me not with hope or kindness, but accusation. She reminds me repeatedly how I failed her, how it’s all my fault, how I left her behind. And no matter how much I beg, no matter how much I apologize, she never ceases in her torments. At least those horrors I can tell aren’t real. Even when I’m in them, I know it's not real. Mira never had a harsh word slip past her lips in her life. But even though I know it’s just a nightmare, I can’t pull myself free. I’m trapped. Forced to face her. No escape.
The nightly burning under my skin is not helped by the heat of the summer and the faulty air conditioning in that house. I’m still not entirely sure if the AC is actually repeatedly breaking or if some asshole in the Capitol is getting their rocks off on messing with me just because he can. Katniss and Peeta have hinted on multiple occasions that our homes are bugged and it wouldn’t surprise me if there are cameras hidden throughout the place. I know they've hidden cameras all over the District so why wouldn’t there be some in my Capitol built and provided for residence.
My next attempt to manage the nightmares became simply not sleeping. I’d stay awake as long as I could, chugging an amount of caffeine that cannot be remotely good for my long-term health, courtesy of my new Capitol provided coffee machine. When the coffee wore off, I'd try cold showers, moving the furniture around the house, anything to distract myself, anything to stay awake.
But in the end I always end up collapsing into sleep eventually, whether on the couch, or the chair, or even the floor one time, rarely my bed. Although once I woke to find myself atop the comforter in one of the guest rooms. So at least I'm getting closer.
Forcing myself into such a level of exhaustion seems to work in at least cutting down the number of nightmares, but it presents a new problem: Sleepwalking.
For the first time in my life I suffer through the extremely disorienting experience of waking up with no idea where I am. I’ve been lucky that my half-asleep self seems unable to figure out the latch on the gate to Victor’s Village, so at least my wandering has been kept to the confines of our small enclosed community.
But that seems to be my only string of luck. I’ve had to get back into the habit of sleeping in real clothes, especially after that one particularly embarrassing ordeal. Two weeks ago, I woke to a pile of clothes thrown in my face, only to find I had sleepwalked and collapsed in Peeta’s front garden. I opened my eyes to the panicked face of my mentor, trying to pull me to my feet and drag me into his house. His voice frantic as he reminded me that thirteen-year-old Prim lives right across the green and would be leaving for school at any moment. Yeah, I fully agree with Peeta’s declaration, the poor girl does not need to start her day by being greeted with the sight of me in my skivvies.
That was not the first time, nor the last, that I’ve woken to strong steady arms wrapped too tightly and soothing repetitive voices as they attempt to ground me back to myself. The smell of baked bread and cinnamon always inevitably revealing the arms to be Peeta’s. The soothing soft voice and gentle hand running through my curls would slowly register as feminine in nature, the scent of lemon and pine breaking through my haze to give away Katniss’s role in the work.
I have no memory of the worst episode, only Peeta’s detailed account from the next morning. Apparently, I'd been so exhausted that I'd started sleepwalking in circles around the village. Peeta, by chance, had a nightmare of his own and emerged on his porch to catch sight of my odd behavior. According to Peeta, he managed to get me into his living room. Only then did he realize I was technically still asleep, ranting and rambling about the arena, finding Mira, and getting back to Kai. I began grabbing at him, begging him and Katniss for help. With the promise of getting her, he convinced me to sit down while he sprinted across the green, returning a few moments later with my other mentor. They tried to wake me gently but when that didn't work, Katniss panicked and woke me with a splash of water to the face.
On each of these unsettling occasions, it always ends the same. Once my mentors finally calm me down enough to pull me to my feet they half carry, half guide me back to my house and up into my unused bed. At which point, I suffer through a visibly angry Katniss Everdeen ordering me under the covers before planting herself at my side over the blankets. Resigned to spend the rest of her night keeping watch. A concerned Peeta Mellark encouraging me to settle back down and try to go back to sleep.
At least, despite their obvious frustration with my complete inability to sleep like a normal person, their annoyance doesn't seem directed at me. They’re angry at my reason for nightmares, at the Games, at the things I was forced to survive. Katniss has hinted as much too many times to count.
I fight it but eventually I always give in to the exhaustion. Usually soothed by the comforting hand of my mentor combing through my hair, her voice humming softly until I finally sink into the dark abyss of sleep.
I never knew my mother, but I’d like to think that maybe had she lived that it would be her hand and her songs driving away the nightmares long enough to let me find rest. But no, that’s not the hand that fate has dealt me. The only one left here to help is an equally traumatized seventeen-year-old girl.
Last night, for the first time, and only after convincing the reluctant old drunk to share his stash, I tried Haymitch’s old-faithful method: liquor. But Katniss’s clear frustration at the decision and the pounding headache I expect to be nursing for most of the day has already turned me off repeating that.
“Here. Try these on.” I hear Katniss speak, pulling me from my stupor. I realize we’re now in the mudroom of her house. Great, now I’m disassociating while awake too. She’s holding out a pair of sturdy brown boots.
“Sorry, Kat, but I think my feet are bigger than yours.” I attempt to jest, hoping it will make her ignore my lack of attention.
“They aren’t mine.” She steels herself. “They were my father’s.”
“Oh.” We don’t speak about Mr. Everdeen. At least Katniss doesn't. The only things I know about him: he taught Katniss to shoot, he was a miner, he died in a mining explosion, that all comes from a combination of Peeta’s whispered explanations and the interview Mrs. Everdeen and Prim gave during the 73rd Games.
We’re Seam kids, we don’t keep a lot of excess. But she’s kept her father’s boots. And now, for some completely unknown reason, she’s offering them to me. I don’t have the words to acknowledge the weight of such an offer, or how to describe the soft glow of warmth that blooms in my chest at the kindness. Nor would Katniss want some rambling, flailing attempt, so all I offer is, “Thank you.”
She hands me some thick socks and I sit down to slip them on. The boots are well-worn, well-loved, well-taken care, of even after all these years. Yes, this is too kind a gift. Another gift I don’t deserve. Another gift I can’t repay.
“Perfect.” Katniss remarks, leaning down to press on the boot’s toe. She’s right, they fit well. Durable, stabilizing, sturdy.
“What…what was his name? Your father.” I ask. I need to know. I need to have a name in my mind to thank, even if I know he won’t hear it.
“Burdock.” She confesses. Voice soft, almost stumbling over the syllables, like its unfamiliar on her tongue. Yes, a name that hangs heavy, goes unspoken, in this house. “Yours?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” I admit. Whoever my father was, he wasn’t around, wasn’t there for my mother. He never cared about us, so I won’t care about him.
“And your mother? Madeline, right?” Katniss asks.
“Yeah.” I confirm. There, now we’ve named it. Identified the emptiness, the loss, the ghosts that haunt each of our respective lives, our every movement, our every action.
Madeline Sparrow and Burdock Everdeen. What would they think of us now?
“What happened to those black boots you wore to the reaping?” Katniss comments, rising to her feet, clearly just as uncomfortable as I am at the vulnerability we’ve cornered ourselves into.
“Didn’t make it home.” I answer, grabbing my jacket.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She offers.
“It is what it is.” The boots are just one more thing I lost to the Games. Sure they were familiar, and comforting, and mine. But all-in-all they barely even rank when stacked against all the others I couldn’t bring home.
Katniss
September 20, 74 ADD
Finding a pair of boots that fit him is easier than I thought. Thankfully, we’ve kept one or two of the old pairs my father used to wear and there’s a set that my mother is willing to part with. Once he’s properly outfitted, I lead the boy out of the village. He follows me, obediently and silently, all the way to the broken section of the fence. "It’s not active but still, be careful of the barbs.” I advise, dropping to my stomach to slide under the wire. Owen follows me even in that, brushing the dirt from his trousers as he takes in the imposing woods on the other side of the fence.
“Let’s take a walk.” I state, beginning to move into the trees.
“Are we hunting?” He calls, his feet shuffling through the brush behind me.
“Not today. Today we can collect some fruits and herbs, but if you feel comfortable learning to shoot, I’ll teach you soon.”
“Yeah! That would be cool!” He clambers at the opportunity.
“Ok.” I agree. “I’ll warn you though it was hard to use my bow for a bit after my Games, felt…too familiar to the arena.”
“I didn’t use a bow though, so maybe it won’t bother me. And if it does, then I can simply leave the shooting up to you.” He answers.
We start down my familiar path through my woods. Once or twice, I turn to remind him to stay quiet, but then I see his face. For the first time since we've met, he looks genuinely peaceful. No feigned charm, no righteous anger, no fear, no panic. Just serenity.
Who cares is he scares away the game today? I just needed to get him out of the District, beyond the fence. I’ll reteach him to stay quiet another time. Considering the sheer amount of stress we have already put this boy through in the last three months, not to mention the last 15 years, I'm resigned to just let him be.
There’s so much of myself that I see in him, but at least I had an escape in these woods. Yes, I was desperate to keep us alive by hunting out here but I also had my moments of freedom beyond the fence line: my memories of my father, the quiet mornings tracking with my friend. Maybe if I teach Owen to hunt or at least set traps, then he can find that same sense of calm in my father’s woods.
We trek together in quiet companionship until we reach a familiar rock. I settle down in my usual spot and pull out the cheese and bread I’ve tucked into my bag for a snack. Owen stands back a few paces, unsure where to put himself. I pat the space to my left, where Gale usually leans, in silent invitation. Once Owen is comfortable, I pass him his bundle.
“So what did you want to talk about?” He asks, taking the first bite of his snack.
“The reality of life as a Victor.” I answer, doing my best Haymitch impression with such cryptic wording.
“Do Peeta and Haymitch know we’re having this conversation?” He questions.
“They know I intended to take you with me into the woods soon. That I wanted to speak to you in a place where the numerous bugs in our homes and the District can't hear us.” I offer.
“So what is it really like, the life as a victor?” He brushes my shoulder with his own.
“Well, you already know some of it: the nightmares. But beyond that…the Games don’t end when you survive the arena.” I begin. “The Capitol is angry, Owen. We’ve made fools out of them. First, Peeta and I with the berries, and now you with the dynamite, with the song. District 12 is supposed to be this poor backwater with no chance of winning and we just quadrupled the number of living Victors from Twelve in the last two games.”
I take a deep breath, needing to get it all out, desperate to make him see the danger he’s under. “You were still with the Doctors but between the end of the Games and the Victory Ceremony, Caesar Flickerman made a comment: that District 12 might be the next Career District if we keep this up.”
“Seriously? You won because you had the perfect arena for your skills and because you illegally used a bow for five years! I won cause of dumb luck!” He argues. “They can’t be serious.”
“It was said only once.” I acknowledge. “I’m sure someone made it clear to Caesar that such statements should never be brought up again. But back-to-back winners, from District 12 of all places? It’s too much change and upheaval to the very delicate system they’ve built. They don’t like it.” I turn to meet his eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get what you mean.”
And now the hardest part. I didn’t check with Peeta and Haymitch about this next bit; I realize now I probably should have. Maybe they’d know how to phrase it right, to soften the blow. But I have no choice, he needs to know. I need him to know. “Did you note what type of birds those were? At the very end?”
“No.” Owen admits. “Just a flock of screeching mutts.”
“They were Canaries.” I state. Then I wait, letting the ugly truth hang in the air. Waiting to see if he'll come to the conclusion on his own. He’s a smart kid. I know he’ll understand.
It takes only half a moment. He leaps to his feet, bread and cheese lost to the forest floor. “Kat?” He questions, breathe becoming uneasy. “I’m not supposed to be alive. I wasn’t supposed to win! I was supposed to die!” He rambles, eyes dilating as his mind flies elsewhere, somewhere far away. Somewhere I can’t follow. Yeah, I definitely should have waited for Peeta.
I start towards him. He throws his hands up defensively and takes a half-step back. “It’s ok, Owen.” I encourage. “Take a breath.” That pulls him back to me, back to the present, back to the quiet forest where he’s safe. “It’s ok, Owen. We’re going to talk about this, ok?”
“I’m not supposed to be alive.” He repeats.
“No. Someone powerful wanted you dead, wanted to find a way where you wouldn’t survive the Games.”
“Who?” He’s angry now, eyes wide. Betrayed.
When I don’t answer, he asks again, raising his voice. “WHO?! Kat! Who?!” The mockingjays in the surrounding trees take off into the sky, cooing an echo of his rage fueled song.
“Snow.” I spit out. Crossing my arms over my chest defensively. I know he won’t hurt me. I’m not afraid of Owen. But Snow…Snow wants him dead, wants us all dead.
“Why?!” He questions. “What did I ever do to him?”
“You showed him up.” I explain. “And you had the shit luck to be someone that Peeta and I care about. Whose death would have hurt us.”
I can see he doesn’t believe me, see he’s not quite understanding. “Snow uses the people we love against us, our families. And after last year, with the berries, he made it very clear to me that if I step out of line, it will be Prim and my mother who are punished, Gale’s Family, Peeta’s family, Haymitch and Peeta themselves.”
“So what? Cause you have a heart and didn’t hate the kid Snow thrust into your care, that kid has to die.” His face twists in befuddlement.
“I don’t know. That’s just what we think. Haymitch thinks the Canaries were a warning to us. A reminder that none of us every escape the Games. That Snow always has something over our heads.”
He's still fuming, his anger rolling off of him in waves. But we're not quite done yet.
“Do you remember at your Victory Ceremony?” I try, maybe a different confession will help. “Before Snow presented you with the laurel he came over to Peeta and I?”
“Yeah I remember, he shook Peeta’s hand and gave you a hug. You looked uncomfortable.”
“I was uncomfortable. I thought I hid that somewhat decently, but Peeta has always been the better actor.” I admit. “Snow said something to me, no one else would have heard it, not even Peeta. Snow said, ‘Congratulations, Miss Everdeen, now you have one more person to keep safe from me.’”
“He threatened me to you?”
“Yes. He made it very clear that he had no qualms of using you to keep me in line.”
“I’m…I’m sorry Kat.” He’s on the verge of tears now. “If I had just died…”
“No! Never say that Owen! Never!” I scold. I should say this softer, gentler, but he’s caught me off guard. “You don’t need to apologize to me for surviving! That was what I wanted, for you to survive! I don’t regret doing everything in my power to get you home! So never apologize for that!” I see the fear and guilt in his eyes at my passionate declaration and take a deep breath trying to calm my tone. “Promise me!? You survived! You made it home! Make it worth it in spite of Snow! You need to live! For your mother, and for me, and Peeta, and…and for Mira! Do you understand?”
“Kat?” His breath catches, the first tear falls. “Kat…what do I do?”
“You take it one day at a time. You try to forget what you can, and live with what you can’t. You play your role. And you remember that you have people now, people who are there for you.”
“It's a fucked up little family we’ve built, huh?”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “Yeah. We’re all a little fucked, but we’ve got each other.”
“How in danger am I?” He wipes at his cheek.
“Well, he can’t kill you now. Not outright, not blatantly. You’re popular, you’re charming, you’re a Victor.” I try to soothe. “So you play by their rules, it's frustrating, its uncomfortable, but it keeps you safe. It keeps the people you love safe. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes Kat! I understand!” He vows, that urgent, earnest tone back in his voice. “Can…can I hug you? Is that ok?”
Such an easy, simple request. And one that so rarely comes from Owen. “Yes, that’s…that’s ok.” I accept, holding out my arms. I’m prepared for him to crumble once more, cry and weep like he did the last time we hugged like this, right when he returned from the Games. But he doesn’t. No more tears. This time, just a single shaky breath, a last squeeze and then he’s out of my hold. Schooling his face to one of resolve, trying to be strong.
“Kat whatever I can do to help, to keep us all safe just tell me and I’ll do it.” He promises.
“I know. We’ll all do what we can. Peeta and I have gotten quite good at protecting each other, keeping each other safe. We'll do the same for you.” I answer. “Come on, lets keep moving.”
“Yeah actually I've been wanting to ask you about that. What’s the deal with you and Peeta?” He asks, no judgment, just curiosity in his tone.
“What do you mean?” I try to play it off casually, as we collect our belongings from where we’ve tossed them to the forest floor. “We’re engaged.”
“Sure but you don’t really act like it when your home, only for the cameras and in the Capitol.” He states.
“I don’t know what you mean?” I feign confusion.
“Come on Katniss! I’m not an idiot, you’re all over each other when the cameras are on but as soon as they aren’t you barely even hold hands.” He argues. “I survived the Games too. I won’t blame you for playing things up!”
“Fine.” I confess. “Peeta and I exaggerate our relationship for the cameras and the Capitol.”
“So what’s the deal…for real?” He questions.
“Peeta and I are very good friends. We’re allies. We protect each other. We keep each other safe…” I confess, shoving a rogue branch out of my way.
“You share a bed at night.” He snarks, and I get just a bit of pleasure when that branch snaps back to smack his nose. “Or is that just for show too?”
“No…that’s because we both have nightmares.” I defend. “And we just sleep…not…not…”
“Have sex?” He states bluntly. “You’re a big girl, Kat, you can say the word.”
“No, we don’t have…sex.” I answer, hating the way I can feel my whole face flush at the thought. “But it helps ease the nightmares to be near each other. If it adds to the story that we’re so madly in love we’d rather die than not be together, well that’s a nice bonus.” I press onward into the trees. “How did you know about that?”
“I saw him sneaking out of your rooms that first night after the Reaping. On the train to the Capitol.” He confesses. “And you weren’t subtle in the days leading up to my Games…or after.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I just assumed it was regular seventeen-year-old hormonal fun between fiancés.” He comments. “Ticked me off a bit at first. How dare you two get to be spending your time naked in bedsheets while I’m over here trying not to die? It was your job to keep me alive! But, I got over it after a few minutes, thought well at least they have each other. Quite a silver lining to come out of this whole shit situation.”
“Well now, you know for sure that we weren’t doing…that.” I confirm. “We did actually discuss you and Mira that night, who should work with who in terms of stylists and our initial thoughts on strategy and how to keep you alive.”
“Oof, poor Peeta.” He teases. “Climbs into your bed and all you want to talk about is me. That can’t be good for the ego!”
“Stop! Peeta isn’t like that!”
“And that Gale guy?” He shifts the subject, and when I look back I see that same cocky smirk making its reappearance. “Your ‘cousin’? What’s he like?”
“Gale is complicated.” I admit.
“Sure he is.” Owen drawls sarcastically. “Because he's clearly not your cousin.”
“How do you know he's not my cousin?”
“Because he looked like someone spit in his soup when you introduced him to me as your cousin.” Owen explains with a laugh. “He’s in love with you too isn’t he?”
“I…I don’t know what your talking about.”
“Sure you don’t Kat.” He catches my lie. “And I’ll have you know Peeta is in love with you too. So whether or not you think you’re just friends, that's the truth.”
“We’re done talking about this.” I walk faster. Anything to get out of this conversation. Unfortunately, I can hear Owen’s stride increase to keep pace.
“Well, just so you know, I’m not in love with you Kat.” He teases. “In case you were worried.”
“I wasn’t.” I whirl around to face him again. “And stop that!”
“What? You saved my life! Now I get to spend the rest of it playing the charmer! I gotta practice!”
“Don’t practice on me!”
“Maybe I’ll talk to Finnick Odair! He’ll have some tips I’m sure.” He suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“No tips you need to be listening to!” I remind him. My stomach twists in fear at Owen earning a reputation like Finnick. Sure after meeting him it seems a little played up, but still you can’t deny your eyes. He’s got a lot of lovers. Owen doesn’t seem like that, he’s not so callous with people’s hearts, and he’s only 15. “You’re still a kid Owen, don’t forget that."
He scoffs.
"It’s getting late in the day, and we’ve come out far enough for now, we’re heading back.” I declare, marching through the trees. I can sense the proud smirk he’s got smeared across his face the entire walk back to the District and all the way into town.
“You ever been to the hob?” I ask, when we finally see the old warehouse up ahead.
“Of course I have!” He guffaws. “Has Peeta?”
“Yes, I’ve brought him a few times.” I explain. “He’s tougher than he looks.”
“Oh, he looks plenty tough, it's his heart of gold that has me doubting.” He teases. “He won the Games accidentally after all.”
“Peeta didn’t win the games accidentally.” I immediately jump to his defense, spinning on my heel and forcing him to face me. Great, now I’m yelling at him for the second time today. “Remember, Owen, the moment they pull your name you are in the Games. Peeta knows how to play the Capitol, give them a story to root for. Yeah, he had fewer kills than I did but he still won us the Games. Telling everyone he was in love with me in the interview, got people invested in both of us. So much so that they agreed to change the rules. Now, I believe they only did that so that the final showdown would be between us or Cato and Clove but they changed the rules because of him.” I attest, trying not to raise my voice any louder with us being far too close to the Hob and too many eavesdroppers for my liking. “And because of the rule change, I went after him. I healed him and in the end we both survived, we both came home. He saved us in that arena and he’s been playing that game very well ever since. He’s great at it, he knows exactly which buttons to push, which things to highlight to make the Capitol fall to its knees, its…its incredible. We could all learn from him." I argue. "He saved you too! He saved all of us in more ways than you can ever comprehend! So I never want to hear you say that again, even as a joke. Do you understand?”
“You’re right! I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to him.” He throws his hands up in surrender.
I’m surprised by how immediately he relents. Usually, even when he knows I’m right, he puts up a bit more of a fight, or at least tosses back a snarky comment to tick me off before giving in. For now, I’m resigned not to question it. Perhaps his pointed favoritism towards me is waning. He listened to Peeta during the Games. But there was always an added caution in trusting Peeta. That old Merchant-Seam separation and mutual disdain is hard to let go of, especially when kids like Owen are usually the ones who suffer the most for it.
“Come on, lets get some stew from Greasy Sae.” I speak.
“But we don’t have any catches to trade. Isn’t that what you usually use?”
“We have the few herbs we collected and some coin.” I remind him. “What did you trade with before?”
“Whatever I could find or steal.” He explains. “And sometimes I just stole what I wanted if I couldn’t scrimp together enough.”
“You stole from the hob?” I ask, aghast. The Hob has pretty strict rules: who can come, what behavior is acceptable; especially considering the less than legal nature of nearly all of its activities. “Should I even be bringing you in here with me? I have a reputation to uphold.”
“You brought a merchant kid in.”
“Peeta’s not a thief, and I vouched for him — and it’s Peeta.”
“You could vouch for me.” He claims. “Come on Kat, vouch for your poor, broken, traumatized, tribute.”
“Fine, but you're paying for everything we get today. I’ll keep these herbs for Prim, and the cost of our little trip comes out of your coin purse this time.”
“Fine.” He groans, hand dipping into his pocket to pull out the handful of loose coins that have found a home in his trousers.
“Why'd they let you keep coming back if you stole stuff?”
“I always tried to have something to pay with or trade for. But occasionally I couldn’t swing it and would swipe stuff. No one ever said anything. Maybe I’m just a better thief than I thought.” He explains.
“I doubt it.”
“Or maybe they all took pity on the poor, malnourished, orphan from the community home who was trying everything to buy a single apple." Owen suggests, forming his face into an over dramatic mask of sadness. "So, if he occasionally swiped one they let the kid go unpunished.”
“Maybe.” I answer, marching up to the door.
When we enter the Hob, it's just as busy as expected for a warm September afternoon. Loud voices barter and haggle back and forth around us. Smells from the various food stands emanate from every corner of the market. One of the rare beating hearts of District 12 lays before us. And it all suddenly dies down into silence. The eyes of every market patron and seller fall on the two Victors standing at the entrance.
I look behind me to find Owen frozen stock-still. His bright silver eyes wide in panic under the weight of so many people’s gazes. Carefully, I reach out to grab his elbow, grounding him back to reality with the small touch of contact and allowing me to pull him through the aisles.
Slowly, we move through the market. Owen, half-walks, half-stumbles behind me, as the noise picks up again. It's clear from the whispering behind hands and frantic glances between neighbors that most of the conversations are about us.
I had completely forgotten that, as far as I knew, Owen hadn’t really left Victors Village since he’s returned home from the games. He took the one trip to retrieve Cinna’s gift from the train. A singular spiteful return to the Seam to visit the Community Home and give money to each of the kids there. Sure, District 12 had greeted him like a conquering hero when we returned from the Capitol a month-and-a-half ago, but beyond that, Owen has been hiding within the closed gates of Victors Village. Choosing to disappear behind the walls of his new home and spend his time on half-effective attempts at healing.
I do my best to keep my eyes ahead as we weave towards the back to Sae’s stand, only letting go of my hold on Owen’s arm when we’re planted before her.
“Hi Sae.”
“Afternoon, girl.” She answers, tossing me that familiar kind smile. “You’re later than usual.”
“Sorry I had to drag this one out of bed to take him into the woods with me.” I explain.
“Ah, yes. Our newest Victor.” She remarks looking him over. “It’s nice to formally meet you, Owen Sparrow.” She offers him a wrinkled hand. “Most people call me Sae.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“So what have you brought to trade for today, girl?” She asks, turning back to me.
“Nothing to trade. We’ll take two bowls of stew but Owen will pay for it with coin. He owes me lunch.”
“Very well.” She accepts. “I’ve got Rabbit Stew today. Will that do?”
“That’s perfect.” I agree for us both. “Thank you.”
She prepares two steaming bowls of stew and sets them before us. Owen digs through his pocket for the right payment while I ask, “Any chance we can take these out back to eat? I promise to bring back your bowls.”
Sae looks around the Hob, noticing the number of eyes I can feel on us, and nods in agreement.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Owen offers as he passes her the payment.
“Of course, young man.” She answers. “And just know, that we’ll be expecting payment or a trade every time from now on. You’re a Victor now, we won’t be looking the other way should you steal a rogue apple anymore.”
I chuckle as I watch Owen’s face turn bright red under the olive tones. “Ye…yes, ma’am.” He chokes out, hurriedly grabbing the second bowl and gently pushing me away from the stand with his free arm.
He follows me around the side of Sae’s stand and out the back entrance that opens out onto a quiet alley. Thankfully, the rickety old chairs and table still remain from the last time I hid out here. Not long after my own Games, when I had felt the comings on of a panic attack. It took me almost a month to return to the Hob after that.
Plopping myself down on one of the chairs, I relax, tilting my face up to soak in the warm sun still high in the sky. When I feel Owen settle himself next to me, I speak up. “Told you, you couldn’t be that good of a thief.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He brushes off.
We eat our late lunch in companionable silence, but I can tell he’s still tense. Understandably so, with returning to town, with the revelations I’ve laid at his feet today. I’d be concerned if he wasn’t a little tense or twitchy for a while.
“I don’t think I can go back in there.” He admits when we’re done eating.
“Why not?” I ask. I know why I couldn’t this time last year, but he doesn’t seem to be on the verge of a panic attack. Unfortunately, having witnessed far too many, I’ve long learned all their tells.
“The way they were all looking at me.” He speaks. “Like they were frightened of me. They should be. They’ve all seen the Games, they know exactly what I did, exactly how many people I hurt. I failed Mira. It’s my fault she’s dead and they all know it. They hate me for it.”
“Hey.” I cut into his frantic, increasingly panicked, damn, ramblings, with a hand on each of his wrists.
“You did not fail her, you tried with all you could to keep her safe. It’s not your fault, Mira didn’t survive the Games.” I assure him. “It’s not even the girl from Seven’s fault.”
“Juniper.” He recalls the name of the girl who delivered the killing blow to our sweet Mira.
“It’s not even Juniper’s fault.” My voice dips into a whisper, hoping the cameras that are certainly tucked around us only record visuals not audio. “It’s the Games that are too blame. They make killers of us all.”
“Not Peeta.”
“Peeta let the girl from Eight die in our year. Technically, he killed the Fox-faced girl from Five, and he pointed out where I should shoot Cato to injure him. After which, it was Peeta who shoved him over the side of the Cornucopia to be attacked by the mutts.”
“But you killed Cato in the end.” Owen reminds me. As if I ever need the reminder. “It was mercy, but still. And Peeta didn’t mean to kill the girl from Five.”
“Whether intentional or not, he feels like he did, he carries that weight. He is the reason she ate those berries. She’s trusted he knew they were safe, but still. She wouldn’t have eaten those berries or even ever met Peeta, had they not pulled her name in the reaping.”
I pause, watching his shoulders slump as a sigh escapes his lips. The whitening grip on his spoon slowly regaining color.
“Do you want to know what I saw in there?” I ask, forcing his gray eyes to meet mine. “Those people weren’t looking at you like they were frightened of you. They don't hate you. I think they were looking at you with respect. Because you survived it, you may have returned a little broken and a little different, but you are still a kid from the Seam who has been dealt too many incredibly shit hands in life, and you survived them all. I don't think they hate you, I think they are proud of you. Of the boy who used to come into the Hob with so little that he had to steal a single apple. That boy is now a young man who will never have to go hungry again, who’s victory means District 12 will have extra rations for another year.” I don’t know if what I’m saying is true. At least not for the people in the Hob, but it's certainly true for me. It's how I see him. “They don’t hate you Owen. They are not frightened of you.”
“O…okay.” He gives in, pulling his hands from my hold, resting them instead on his lap. A non-committal answer, a clear sign to end the conversation.
I haven’t convinced him. But maybe I’ve planted the seed, maybe eventually he’ll be able to hear those words. Maybe someday he'll believe them too. “Here I’ll take these back in to Sae.” I offer, rising to my feet. “Then we’ll head over to the bakery, yeah?”
“The bakery?”
“Yeah, Peeta’s working today so I figured we’d go say hi. Buy some sweets for Prim and my mother.”
“Do I have to pay for those too?” He groans.
“No. I’ll buy those. But if you’re well behaved maybe I'll even get you a cookie.” I tease with a condescending pat on his head.
I take us the long way from the Hob to Mellark’s, ensuring we avoid the major thoroughfares and sticking to the side streets. When we arrive at the front stoop, I can see the store lit up as always. Peeta’s eldest brother, Rye, is at the front counter, wiping down the cases. It’s late in the day, nearing the bakery’s closing time, so it makes sense that they’ve started the long process of cleaning.
As I push the door open, the now familiar bell announces our arrival. After my father died, I only heard the sound a handful of times. For years, Prim and I could only look through the front window, unable to afford any of the intricate and beautiful things produced within. Things I now know were made beautiful by Peeta’s hands.
Instead, Gale and I would make trades with Otho at the back door when Sabina wasn’t around. After the Games, I’d send Prim along to the bakery, afraid of running into Peeta. But following the Victory Tour, once we found our footing in friendship, I took on the errand. That bell and the warm scent of sugar and baked bread have become a common part of my life in the last six months, even more so following our engagement, just to keep up appearances of course.
“Katniss!” Rye calls from the front counter, a wide smile on his handsome face.
“Hi Rye!” I answer. “I brought your new help!” Gesturing to Owen standing by the door looking over the display case under the window, awed by the options he’s never been able to consider.
Rounding the counter, Rye approaches the young Victor. “Yes. It’s nice to finally meet you Owen. I’m Peeta’s brother Rye.” He offers a strong hand out.
Owen pulls himself away from the tantalizing display to greet the eldest Mellark boy. He takes his hand in one quick shake. “Nice to meet you.”
“Is that Katniss?” Peeta shouts from the back.
“Yes!” I call out.
It only takes a moment for Peeta Mellark to make his appearance from the depths of the bakery. He greets me with that wide, warm, smile he always tosses my way. The corners of his tired blue eyes lift despite his exhaustion. He's still dressed in a flour dusted apron, and as he approaches, I learn that some of the flour has migrated up to his hair as well. “Oh, and you brought Owen.”
“Yeah, is that ok?” Owen snarks.
“Of course it is.” Peeta assures him, refusing to rise to his challenge. “Come on back, I’ll introduce you to everyone else.”
He reaches his hand out to me and I take it with ease, letting him lead us into the warm kitchens. His family knows it's not entirely real, that we play things up, but still. We’re engaged, anyone from town could peer in through the window. Anyone could talk.
I’ve been into the back of the bakery several times now, treading the familiar path around cases and ingredients storage. Owen follows, watching and matching where my feet fall.
Emerging into the kitchens, we find Otho and Buckley Mellark. The open door to the office reveals Peeta’s mother, Sabina, working at the desk. She lifts her eyes to note who’s entered but gives no other acknowledgment.
Otho, however, reacts completely the opposite. He brushes his hands on his own apron and approaches us, giving me the quick warm hug I’ve come to expect from him in greeting. “Hello Katniss!”
“Hi Otho.” I answer, grateful Peeta hasn’t dropped my hand because it gives me an excuse to step out of his father’s hold quickly. I once believed Otho to be a quiet man. My main interactions with him consisting of stilted conversations as I traded him my kills and the handful of moments we spent together before the Games, he sat there silent until our time was up. Only speaking to offer me a small bag of cookies and the promise that he'd make sure Prim doesn't starve.
But something has changed in the last year. Perhaps Peeta's Victor status has loosened the weight on his father's shoulders. He stands a little taller, speaks a little louder. At least with me anyway. It seems Otho has decided we’re already family. Despite the sham engagement, he is visibly excited to bring us into the Mellark fold. Peeta had once said he thinks his father wishes he had a daughter, rather than a houseful of boys, maybe he sees this as his way to have a few. Or maybe his fondness for my mother endures even after all these years.
I feel Peeta squeeze my hand once, pulling me from my thoughts. He eases me out of my head with a small smile, bringing me back to the sweltering kitchens of the bakery.
“Hi Buck.” I call, waving at the middle Mellark, who’s working over the bench in the back.
“Hey Katniss.” He answers, not looking up from his task: weighing out the ingredients for whatever he’s working on. He tosses me a single hand in a quick wave.
“Dad. This is Owen Sparrow.” Peeta steps in to introduce our Victor.
“Yes!” Otho acknowledges holding his hand out. “I’m Peeta’s father, Otho. If you ever need anything, kid, just let us know.”
“Uh, thank you sir.” Owen answers, unsure how to handle the genuine offer.
“Oh, none of that sir stuff!” Otho brushes him off. “This here is my middle son, Buck.” Otho declares, a strong, burned-scarred arm swinging around Owen’s shoulders.
“Hi.” Buck states with a disinterested tone. But at least he looks up from his work to greet Owen.
“Hello.” Owen answers flatly, matching the blond’s energy.
“And my wife, Sabina, is back here in the office.” Otho uses his hold on Owen to direct him into the narrow hall off the kitchens. I let Peeta drop my hand to follow. Surely, I'm not the only one concerned about what Sabina might say to Twelve’s newest Victor.
I stay in the back, hidden behind the broad shoulders of the Mellark men but hear Peeta begin introductions. Sabina greets Owen in her usual cold tone, before adding, “Is your fiancée here as well?” The subtle snark on the term fiancee rings throughout the room.
“Yes, mother.” Peeta answers, at the same time I push past Otho.
“Yes, Mrs. Mellark.” I speak up.
“So who’s idea was it we bring on Owen?” Sabina asks, her Townie Blue eyes boring into my Seam Silver. Clearly, she’s already come to her own conclusions. But, I refuse to shrink under her glare. Let her try to scare me. I've survived worse.
“Hold on, bring me on?” Owen asks, cutting straight through the rising tension.
“It was mine.” Peeta defends, stepping between his mother and I. His chest blocks my view of Sabina as he speaks over my shoulder to Owen. “I thought it might be a good idea to have you come try a few shifts at the bakery. It’ll give you something to do and keep your mind occupied. Katniss suggested you’d prefer hunting with her but I made her promise to at least present you the option.”
“You want me to work in the bakery? Seriously? I can barely avoid burning eggs.” Owen argues.
Otho steps in. “It's not a permanent contract, just something to keep you busy. Y'know, a new skill to learn, people to be with rather than wandering that empty house alone. Give it a shot and if you hate it, then I’m sure Katniss and Peeta and Haymitch or whoever can help you find something else.” He suggests. “Just try it. If you don’t like it, you don't have to.”
Owen looks to me, but I can't make this decision for him. I can only offer him a shrug. “Ok.” Owen agrees, crossing his arms. “Maybe just once or twice.”
“Perfect!” Otho calls, smacking Owen’s back proudly. “Come on, let's send you home with some bread.”
“Katniss already told me she’s buying.” Owen answers, following the baker back into he kitchens.
“Katniss isn’t allowed to pay for anything here.” Rye remarks with a chuckle.
“You tricked me!” Owen whirls around. “I had to pay at the hob!”
“Katniss barely has to pay there too.” Peeta points out, his hand on my back keeps me from mimicking our tribute and whirling on him. “Me, however, they charge double.”
“Katniss is family, or at least she will be, eventually.” Otho jokes. “Family doesn’t pay.”
“Not that she can’t afford it.” Sabina spits, closing the door of the office once behind us. I catch Owen’s eyes, offended on my behalf.
He opens his mouth to make an argument, but I silence him with a single head shake. She's always like this, It’s not worth rising to her cruelty. It’s not worth giving her the reaction she is so desperate for.
“Ok, Katniss, what can we get you?” Otho asks when we reach the front cases again.
“Can we do one of those last two sourdoughs, the rest of the cheese buns you have back there, and…do you have any apple turnovers?”
“All sold out today but I can set aside some for you when we bake them fresh this week.” He answers.
“Ok. Can we do a half-dozen of those whenever you've got them, then?” I request.
“Sure thing.” He agrees. “Peeta’s working this week, I’ll send them home with him! Or you can send Prim this way after school!”
“If you’d like I can collect some extra apples when I go into the woods this week.”
“Apples would be great, Katniss, thank you.” Rye speaks.
“So just the sourdough and the buns today?” Otho asks, wrapping them up for us to carry back to Victors Village.
“Whatever else Owen wants too.” I state.
“Seriously?” Owen’s eyes go wide, with an almost childlike wonder.
“I promised you at least a cookie.” I remind him. “What do you want?”
“A few of the chocolate cookies, please.” Owen requests.
“I’ve got you, kid.” Otho declares packaging them up as well. “And I’ll throw in a few of the lemon ones for the Everdeen girls.”
“Thank you, Otho.” I say, sincerely. Owen reaches out to collect the packages as I reach into my hunting bag for my coin purse. But when I hold out the payment, Otho gently pushes my hand back towards my chest.
“Not for family, Katniss.” He states. Fond blue eyes bore into me, so similar to Peeta's. Otho's crows feet is the main distinguishing factor that separates them at first glance. “I mean it.”
“I don’t like owing people.” I answer honestly. “Please, let me pay.”
“You don’t owe us anything.” He launches into his usual argument. “You kept Peeta alive, that's a debt we’ll never be able to repay. The least we can do is ensure you get all the cheese buns your heart desires.”
“Peeta kept me alive too.” I argue. Long before the games.
“It all shakes out.” Otho claims. “Owen, you too. You don’t pay when you come in here, especially if you’re going to be helping us out.”
I turn to Peeta who’s leaning against the doorframe that leads back to the kitchen, a proud smirk on his face. “I’m not going to ever win this argument am I?”
“Nope.” Peeta answers, straightening up and coming around the front cases to walk us out. His hand finds my waist, gently pushing me away from the counter and collecting the last of our packages. “Come on, don’t forget your cheese buns.”
“Are you coming by for dinner?” I ask.
He seems taken aback. “Sure. If…if you’ll have me.”
“Yeah.” I answer. “I’ll invite Haymitch too.” I raise my voice to call to Owen, who's standing in the open front door waiting to leave. “Owen, you’re coming to dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He tosses out.
“Ok. I’ll head over as soon as we finish up here.” Peeta agrees.
“Great.” I answer with a smile, taking the box of cheese buns from his hands and following Owen. “Thank you!” I call, raising my voice to reach back into the depths of the bakery.
“Bye Katniss!” Otho answers, the bell of the door ringing as it closes behind us.
Owen and I have barely cleared the District Square when he speaks. “So what’s going on with you and his mother?”
“Sabina doesn’t like me much.” I answer flatly.
“Why?” He asks. “Cause of the playing things up in the games stuff?”
“That might be part of it. But, I suspect her hatred of me goes back much further.” For a moment I consider telling him the story of the burned bread. Of the screaming. Of the bruise on Peeta’s face for offering me a single act of kindness.
Instead, I opt to share the story Peeta exposed in the Games. The story of a merchant girl who married a coal miner with a voice that made the birds fall silent, and the baker who had to watch her go.
“Ahh.” Owen takes in the realization. “So watching her son fall in love with the daughter of the Asterid March might bring up some old feelings of jealousy and anger.”
“She’s also just a miserable witch of a woman, regardless, but I don’t think that helps things, no.” I add with a harsh chuckle.
That night, under the guise of walking the boys home, I put forth the idea of going to the lake. The air hasn't cooled down in the slightest. Tomorrow will likely be a nice day and I’ve been meaning to take Prim out there for years. Sure she wasn’t reaped this year, but there’s too many years left before she ages out. She should know how to swim. Too many games have been won and lost by a tribute's ability to keep themselves afloat. Yes, she can miss a day of school for a much more important lesson.
“Why now?” Prim asks.
“Because we can now. Pa taught me to swim out there and its about time that I teach you.” I add. “Boys, if you want to join us you’re welcome to.”
“Are you offering lessons to the rest of us?” Peeta jokes. “Cause I think Prim and I might flounder if you toss us in.”
“Yeah, before the train, the biggest pool of water I’d been in was the Home's wash-basin. Even little Prim could barely fit in that.” Owen adds.
“I’m not little.” Prim mutters under her breath.
"We'll pack some lunch and some blankets and head out early." I declare. “Haymitch wanna come for a stroll with us tomorrow?” I shout as he makes his way up the steps to his house.
“Nope!" He answers, slamming his door closed behind him.
“Just us four then.”
“What do we wear for that?” Owen asks, my father's boots still clutched to his chest.
“You boys can wear shorts, a lighter pair that you don’t mind getting wet. There’s a place to change out there so feel free to bring a second pair to put on for the walk back.” I explain.
“Great!” Peeta exclaims.
“Wait! How early are we leaving?” Owen groans in realization.
“Don’t worry! We’ll wake you!” Prim tosses out in warning.
Notes:
NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:
1. "A collection of horns and guitars bouncing off of each other. Unhindered. Uncontrollable. Free." - So, Do you like Jazz? - Owen Sparrow someday many years in the future (if he survives the incoming rebellion of course)
2. "the scent of lemon and pine breaking through my haze to give away Katniss’s role in the work" - An odd writer's quirk I've noticed in myself, I have a habit of giving characters a noticeable fragrance of lemon. Another fun fact about me: My favorite perfume is lemon scented (but I'm sure that's not connected). Started out as an unintentional thing but once I noticed it I couldn't stop. So now I tuck it in there as a fun little easter egg in a lot of my writing.
3. There's also bunch of other little nods to things that will happen later in this fic, but I won't spoil you with those details just yet!
A NOTE ON NAME MEANINGS:
Sabina: I knew I wanted to reach for a Latin based name for Peeta's mother, after we learned that his father is named Otho. The name Sabina comes from the tale of the Sabine Women in Roman History/Mythology. It's quite a tragic and somewhat distressing tale, where Roman's would kidnap the women of neighboring tribes to take them as their brides. I AM IN NO WAY IMPLYING THAT OTHO DID ANYTHING OF THE SORT! But my personal Headcanon is that the eldest Mellark boy (in this story Rye) might have been a bit of an accident, and that Otho and Sabina had a "shot-gun marriage" to keep that fact a bit of a secret. Perhaps, Otho still heartbroken over Asterid fell into bed with a different blonde Merchant Girl. So I've pulled a name that references a tragic start to a marriage to hint at the less violent, though arguably still unfortunate, start to this marriage.
Rye: I am one of the rare people that does not head canon Rye as the Toast Boy's name. I have nothing against it and will gladly read any lovely Toast Baby Themed fic that gives him that name, it's just not the one I personally picture. But I do like it as a name for Peeta's brother. Rye is technically a old-english/germanic name that comes from the word for Grain. And while Peeta's name is not technically a reference to Pita bread (his name actually comes from the Greek/Latin words for "stone"), I've given his brother the bakery themed name among them.
Buckley: The name Buckley comes from the old English term for "Deer Meadow" and as a surname once denoted a "Herdsman." I didn't want to leave Rye out in the cold as the only non-Latin inspired name so I gave his brother one too. I've seen some people just use "Buck," likely as a reference to "Buckwheat" This version will use that as a nickname, but his full name is Buckley.
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