Lost in the Meadow

I don't know what makes me do it. I haven't been there... the Meadow, since Peeta and I made it home scarred and damaged and barely sane.

It has been years since that day, and a few more after our toasting. Abigail came a little over a year after we were married, and Simon two years later. She is barely four now, her beautiful, blond hair, so like Peeta's, has grown in ringlets down her back, and her grey eyes seem to portray an understanding beyond her age.

I remember the fear I felt when Peeta and I first learned of her existence. The scars of anxiety left from the Games brought nightmares of my own child's reaping and horrific death.

I lived nine months of emotional turmoil, nightmares, and aggravating bouts of tears. But as I watch Abigail now, I know in my heart I would do it over again.

I sit in the Meadow with Simon in my lap, absentmindedly pushing dandelions away from his mouth whenever he pulls one up from the ground; chubby fingers clenched and slick with slobber. He tries to sneak the fluffy tops of the dandelions surrounding him into his mouth faster than I can stop him, but I catch him as he does, laughing as Simon kicks his feet and waves his fists in a fit of pique.

I kiss the top of his head, my lips brushing softly over his hair, the complete opposite of Peeta's, but exactly like mine. Sometimes, when I wake up in the early hours of the morning, I'll sit in the nursery beside his crib, waiting for him to awake and blink his bright, blue eyes at me.

Peeta's eyes.

I am glad my hair is all Simon has inherited. And even then, it is not straight like mine, but wavy like Peeta's.

I kiss his head again before I look up to watch Peeta crawl through the flowers and tall grass after Abigail, making 'roaring' noises, pretending to chase her as she squeals and giggles.

I watch for a while longer, smiling when Abigail throws herself at her father, knocking him sideways. My attention is diverted when Simon, who has grown tired of attempting to eat dandelions, has crawled from my lap and decided to beat his palms on the picnic basket.

"Foo' mahma foo'."

Simon has taken to speaking sentences of two syllable words with missing consonants, leaving me and Peeta to decipher what it is he means exactly.

I scoot across the blanket to be closer to him, moving his hands away so that I can open the latch on the basket. Peeta has packed cheese rolls and the goat's milk he bought from one of the families in town.

I dig through the basket, setting food items on the blanket. The sealed jug with the milk, a tin filled with biscuits, and a jar with mashed boiled carrots for Simon.

I'm just pulling out the small plates, cups, and a single spoon (for the carrots), when I realise Simon is no longer babbling beside the basket.

I look up from my work, expecting to see him toddling toward where Peeta and Abigail now lay a couple of yards away from me. Simon isn't there.

I can feel my heart beating faster in my chest, and I stand up, nearly giving myself a crick in the neck as I whirl around looking out across the meadow for a mop of wavy brown hair. My ears strain for Simon's cheery giggles or his nonsensical words.

Nothing.

My eyes sting and anxiety creeps up my throat. My hands are shaking; I'm frozen in place, and I can't seem to call out for Peeta.

It takes me a second for my panic to spur me into action. Less than a second, but it feels like forever.

"Peeta!" I cry out, stumbling forward. He jerks upright, catching Abigail by the arms as her small body is thrown off his chest.

"Katniss?" he asks, obviously confused, but he's getting up, hoisting our daughter onto his hip.

My mind is skittering around along with my eyes, scanning the field around us. Simon can't have gone far with his toddling walk, yet I don't see his little body anywhere.

"Simon's missing," I manage to choke out as Peeta draws nearer. "I was fixing the lunch and he just- I don't-" I'm a wreck already, barely able to think straight, let alone speak.

Before the Games, before District 13 and all the chaos and death that followed, I wasn't like this. I was always secretly proud of my ability to hide my fear or uncertainty during a hard situation. Now I am reduced to an emotional puddle of shaking limbs, anxiety, and tears.

Peeta's free arm slides around my shoulder, and he pulls me to his chest. "Shh, what happened? Where's Simon?"

I swallow several times to force away the lump in my throat. I lift my head from his chest to make eye contact, "I don't know where he went, I was getting lunch ready, I barely took my eyes off of him for a minute, I don't-"

Peeta takes his arm off my shoulders to lay a sleeping Abigail down on the blanket.

"Alright," he says, "He can't have gone far, lets just sweep through the area. Maybe he's decided to crawl and we just can't see him through the grass."

I nod, and we start on opposite sides of the blanket, Peeta on the side with the basket of food.

I am ten feet out, casting my eyes around frantically, and calling Simon's name, hoping that perhaps he'll laugh or call back to me. He hasn't started responding to his name very much, just giggling when he thinks we're chasing after him, or reaching his hands out if we're near.

"Simon!" I yell, moving to the left first, then the right.

I can hear Peeta calling for him as well.

Cold sweat is breaking out on my forehead, and my hands are undoubtedly clammy. My spine is hurt from crouching low to the ground to move overgrown grass and weeds and flowers.

What I once considered to be apart of the Meadows beauty is now nothing but a nuisance.

A lump is just beginning to build in my throat again when I hear Peeta shouting for me.

I twist around, my heart seems to have leaped into my mouth because Peeta is standing beside Abigail, arms full of a little boy with brown hair.

I let out a breath that is a cross between a sob and a relieved sigh as I stumble back to my family.

"Where was he?" I demand as soon as I'm close enough to pull Simon from Peeta's arms and into my own. He squawks in protest, likely because the hold I have on him is uncomfortably tight. I kiss his sun-warmed hair and cheeks.

"Laying on his stomach digging worms out of the dirt," says Peeta, I can hear the amusement in his voice, and I lift my head from Simon's cheek to glare at him for laughing at me.

"Oh, don't be like that, Katniss," he smiles fondly at me, arms slipping around both of us.

"He's fine. Everything's fine."

And I know he knows why I lost control so fast. Why I was afraid of marriage and children to begin with. The fear of losing the people I love that grips me so tightly I can scarce breathe.

I've lost Prim, Gale, my mother, my father, Finnick... I can't bare to lose anyone else, not even for a little while.

My head falls onto Peeta's shoulder and we stand there for a moment, Simon's forehead pressed against my neck, his dirty fingers curling into my shirt. Abigail sleeps on, her blond curls glinting in the setting sun.

"I know," I whisper, more to myself than to Peeta. And I do know, although it isn't likely that I'll bring either of my children to the Meadow again for a while. I know that everything is fine, and that's what counts.

Author's Note: So this was written in response to my friend's prompt. It's my first attempt in the Hunger Games Fandom, although I do read a fair share in the fandom. It also helped me overcome some horribly debilitating writer's block. So for those that read Just For Now, I am back to writing. It will be slow-going at times, but my story won't be abandoned. I've just been really busy with school, work at the newspaper, and National Forensics League. Don't give up on me! Remember, reviews are like good chocolate. It's to die for.

Thanks, Marie