Greetings (for the first time in forever!)

I apologize for the delay. Some of you probably thought I deserted, but, alas, you are wrong! I just recently started a teaching job in November, so if any of you are teachers, you know the craziness of the first year. I've been writing baby chunks at a time. I hope it is worth the wait.

PS) Summer is on the horizon!

Disclaimer: HG + characters = mine :P

As promised, Peeta and I are prepped, dressed, and on a hovercraft within the hour, thanks to the miraculous workings of Effie and Cinna. Being involved in the rebellion and being citizens of Twelve, Gale and Haymitch are also in attendance, alongside Boggs (of course) and the camera crew in all their insect-like glory. As we all sit in tense silence, unsure of the mission ahead of us, my stomach churns uncomfortably from nerves. I don't think I can do this. I can't go back there. Nothing is the same, and I don't want to be reminded of everything we lost when we ran away. Overwhelmed with my own grief and uncertainty, my fingers dance around each other, fidgeting with the loose end of the gray seat belt in my lap.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Peeta moves to place his arm comfortingly around my shoulders. I lean into him. The scent of spices and sweat from last night lingers on his skin, his clothes, his hair. My lips turn up to form a slight smile as I allow myself to get lost in memories of last night and the comfort he brings. I forget where I am or how much time has passed, gone from the troubles of the present, reliving the sweet moments of my wedding night: blonde eyelashes, the tickle of his breath on my skin, the soft whispers of his devotion...

Breathe in.

Suddenly, my body jolts forward as the hovercraft begins to slow down, and I am once again aware of the present situation.

It seems that we have made it to District 12.

Breathe out.

"We have arrived," Boggs announces, as if none of us realized the rapid decrease in speed a few seconds ago.

I close my eyes, swallowing the acid that is rising in my throat. Peeta's hand becomes laced with mine, and together, we stand, ready to face whatever comes as a team.

Slowly, the ramp lowers, creating a steep slope for us to walk from the interior parts of the hovercraft to our destination. Almost immediately, my senses are assaulted by the familiar, earthy aroma of coal. Coal burning. Coal dust. The scent causes memories to flash across my mind. Walking through town with Prim on the way to school. Hugging my father after he returned home from the mines. The Seam. Mines. The Reaping. Public executions...

"Ready?" Peeta asks, eyeing me warily. As soon as I make eye contact with him, I realize my breathing has become labored and panicked. I close my eyes, gather myself, and nod gently in response, calming myself as I cling tightly to his arm. We exit the hovercraft with our team, and once my eyes adjust to the sunlight, I realize we landed on the outskirts of Twelve, between town and the mines. Several armed men and women surround us, some of whom I recognize from my wanderings around the district; even so, I know none of their names. A young rebel with unkempt brown hair, light brown eyes, as well as coal dust-coated and sunburned skin steps forward. He wears a familiar gray uniform, surely issued by Thirteen.

"Welcome home, Mockingjays," he says with a surprisingly deep voice. He doesn't look familiar, and he definitely doesn't appear to be from the Seam or from town. He positions himself directly in front of us, and extends a hand in greeting. Knowing my discomfort with strangers, Peeta steps up and grasps his hand in a firm shake.

"Thank you," he replies with a courteous smile.

"These," the soldier motions to the armed people surrounding us, "will be your guard for the day. No one knows you are here, but I am sure that as the day progresses the word will spread, and being who you are, we want to ensure both your safety and privacy."

"We appreciate it greatly," Peeta says, acting as a mouthpiece for the both of us once again. I pretend like I didn't just hear any implications of possible danger or public recognition.

"I'm General Axle, the current commanding officer of the district." He must see the question in my eyes as I take in his youth and his obviously alien appearance. I don't understand how someone so young and so... foreign to our home district can hold such a high rank here. He chuckles lightly at my puzzling expression, "As I'm sure you already know, I am not a native of this district. Actually, I am from Thirteen. Though, I haven't lived there for several years now. As soon as I turned fifteen, I was deployed to go undercover as a citizen in District 7. I've been working tirelessly for the rebellion, passing messages secretly from Thirteen to other members in Seven and waiting for the moment when we could finally make our intentions known. Thanks to you two, my dream has become a reality." He straightens up to salute us respectfully.

"Really... There's no need..." Peeta says, fidgeting awkwardly at the display of gratitude.

"They really have no idea of the effect they have had, do they?" General Axle asks, directing his comment to Boggs. Boggs smiles thoughtfully, looking between me and Peeta.

"They really don't," he says.

Neither of us knows what to say, so I decide to change the subject, feeling uncomfortable with the attention and consideration of so many unfamiliar faces. I clear my throat purposefully, speaking up for the first time since we left the hovercraft.

"So, what do we need to do?" I ask boldly, taking a step forward to show my eagerness to get moving.

"Well, just think of a few significant places where you can explain the extent to which the Capitol affected your daily lives as you grew up in Twelve. Then, we will wrap it all up in the town square. That's it. We need the Capitol citizens to understand how their unquenchable thirst for luxury impacts the districts, and the districts need a reminder that many of the rebel soldiers, including the Mockingjays, experienced much of the same oppression and hardship as they have," he explains.

"Let's start outside town and work our way in," Gale proposes logically. I agree with his train of thought. It makes sense and will save time and energy.

"Okay. The mines would be first, then," I confirm. Noticing the tension that suddenly takes over Gale's body at my words, I walk over and grasp his shoulder, reassuring him. "I'll lead the way." I smile at him sadly; he nods in reply.

I escort our entourage to the entrance of the mines. Peeta follows closely behind me. When we finally arrive, I stand beside the dark, musky hole in the earth and the rusty mine railway and immediately begin to explain my personal experience with the mines: the death of my father, which led to the near starvation of myself and my family. I tell the story nothing more. I don't allow my emotions to present themselves in the least bit. It's probably not what Plutarch wants, but it's all I have to give.

Once I finish, Gale takes his turn, giving us a glimpse into his life as a miner. I had heard and seen enough from my from my father to understand the toll the mines take on a man, and I saw the transformation Gale underwent during his short term as a miner, but hearing Gale's account of the grueling, back-breaking work made my heart ache. It's hard learn about the ways in which the people I love have suffered while I was basking in ignorance.

I remember the dark, sunken circles under Gale's eyes when I went to tell him about our plan for escape. He was so tired, so broken, so ready to rebel against his oppressors. Now, I understand why.

A similar spark, a thirst for justice, twinkled in the eyes of my own father. I only recognize it for what was now. Though it only presented itself a few times, I recall specific occasions where my mother would have to get onto my father about something he said or did. "Glenn!" she would whisper harshly, looking around to make sure no one heard, "You can't just say things like that!" I never understood how much my father was risking in those short moments of subversion until after he passed, when I became the protector, when I watched as my family succumbed to starvation. That's when I understood the reality of our oppression in District 12.

I remember how tired my father always was when he came home from work. Being a child, completely unaware of the extent of his exhaustion, I would ask so much of him. Guilt bubbles up in my chest as I recall frequently asking him to cook his specialty dish: squirrel stew, or begging him to play with me and Prim because we missed him so, or even expecting him to take me hunting with him on his only day off. All of these things he did without complaint; he even seemed happy to give to us what little energy he had left at the end of each day.

As Gale continues giving his miner's testimony, I have to turn my thoughts from the words and descriptions he is presenting to Panem and focus on something else before I lose control. All I can see is my father's face, ripened with deep lines and gray hairs not from age, necessarily, but from hard, strenuous days below the earth, in mines that eventually exploded and collapsed on his weary form, finally consuming him completely. Slowly, I move closer to Peeta to take hold of his hand, concentrating on the combined strength of our grip, hoping it will be enough to anchor me.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Grateful for the change in scenery and the growing distance between us and the underground chasms of coal, Gale and I lead the crew to the woods to share our stories of illegal hunting and gathering to provide food for our families. Later, we make our way to the Seam, showing our homes and giving Panem an account of our daily lives.

By this point, I have succeeded in numbing myself enough to enter my old home and see everything how we left it without falling apart. When Haymitch offers to share his own childhood experiences in the Seam, I am sure it is because he recognizes the walls I'm building to hold myself together; he knows my breaking point is on the horizon. He builds walls, too, more so now that he is sober; he just uses sarcasm and liquor instead of mental compartmentalization and emotional numbing. He leads the crew out of my house, but I don't follow after him to hear his stories because Peeta requests that we have a moment alone together. His request is granted, but two soldiers remain outside the house as guards.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks concernedly. I hear him, but I'm not really listening. "Katniss?" he asks again, this time placing his hands gently on either side of my face so that I'm forced to look at him. "Come back to me. It's Just us now. You're safe." His voice melts my walls, and my defenses begin to falter. Warm pools build in the corners of my eyes, but Peeta wipes them away before they have a chance to fall. I move forward and tuck myself into his chest, wrapping my arms shakily around his firm waist. "It's okay. We're almost done." He rubs small circles into my back, and continues to whisper comforting things into my ear. After several minutes, a knock at the door shatters whatever semblance of security we had just constructed.

"General Axle has requested that we escort you to the town square immediately," one of the soldiers informs us.

"We will be there shortly," Peeta assured him.

We separate, and I wipe any remaining evidence of my weakness from my eyes. I take a deep breath, and I try to put the walls back up. I can't let Panem see me break. I have to remain strong.

"Ready?" he asks, taking in my shift in demeanor. I nod firmly.

This time, as we walk from my house in the Seam to the town square, I realize that the word has ideed spread. People stop to stare and point and wave; some try to approach us, but our guards quickly ensure that that does not happen by loading their weapons blocking the path to us. Part of me is grateful, but the other part wishes they wouldn't; it reminds me of our separateness from the rest of Panem, our status as idols and symbols of war.

When we finally reach the square, I begin to register what is left: the bakery, where Peeta will confront his last memories with his family, and the Justice Building, where we will have to discuss Reapings and... executions. We may be close to finishing this mission, but what remains seems to tower over my head like an insurmountable cliff or a tree that refuses climbing.

At my realization, I take Peeta's hand and give it a slight squeeze; I try to read his expression through my peripheral vision, but if there is any inner turmoil, he's not letting anyone in on it, including me. As we approach the bakery, the only change I sense in him is a tension in his limbs that wasn't present moments ago.

The front door is boarded off. The window is dark, empty, and devoid of the vibrant, colorful cakes and pastries that mark my memories of the place. Hesitantly, Peeta drops my hand and walks up the stairs to pry off the wooden barricade. At this point, several citizens of Twelve have gathered to watch as the last remaining Mellark returns to the Family Bakery. I am sure Twelve has been sorely missing the delicious creations from the district bakery, the generous hand of Mr. Mellark-who seemed determined to give away as much as he could afford in order to help the starving families of Twelve-and the the skilled decorations of the youngest Mellark, my Peeta.

After he frees each wooden plank from the entry way, Peeta wordlessly opens the door, which chimes innocently as he passes over the threshold and into the vacant shop. At first, I decide to give him some time alone, some time to grieve... and remember. Anxiously, I take a seat on the front steps, fidgeting with my fingers and refusing to make eye contact with any of the people surrounding the bakery. My mind feels oddly separate from my body, like I'm in a trance or a dream, like I'm not currently pulling back a hangnail from my index finger and watching blood pool in its absence. It feels so unreal to be back here. Though it hasn't been long, in feels like centuries have passed. We are both so much older now.

Eventually, I register that a significant amount of time has elapsed, and Peeta has yet to return.

"Mrs. Mellark, should we go retrieve him?" Boggs inquires, as if reading my mind.

"No," I say as I stand to my feet. "No. I'll go."

Cautiously, I open the door to the familiar jingling of the entry bell.

"Peeta?" I call into the emptiness. The dust-covered display counter compells me to run my hand over its surface as I walk around it to enter the kitchen. "Peeta, it's been quite some time, and we were starting to worry. Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine," a faint voice replies. "Over here."

It takes me a moment to locate him, but after a few seconds of vigorously scanning the room, I spot a head of tousled blond hair at waist-level, backed up against the island which stands in the center of the kitchen. Without hesitation, I quickly plop myself down beside him, noticing a piece of off-white fabric that is wadded up between his hands.

"Wanna talk about it?" I ask tentatively.

"Not much to say, really," he responds softly, avoiding my gaze.

"What's that?" I ask, reaching for the fabric and gently rubbing it between my left index finger and thumb.

"My father's apron. I found it hanging on its usual hook. So far it's the only thing left from before..." he pauses to flatten out the clump in his hands. "See here," he points to a blue splotch In the fabric about the size of a quarter, "I did that. It was an accident, of course, but mom didn't care. I got whooped till my rear went numb. I was about 6 or 7, and I wanted to be just like my dad, so - like any young child would do - I tried on his apron. Only I really wanted to be like him, so I found some dough and some food dye, and I started experimenting. During the process, some of the blue dye ended up on the apron instead of the dough. To this day, I have no idea how the dye spilt onto the apron, but it did. I was caught. I learned my lesson. It would seem that I was always learning lessons..." At that, he chuckles lightly once and folds the apron up neatly. "Enough reminiscing," he tells himself as he make his way to his feet. "Let's finish this thing and go home."

"Peeta," I say softly.

"Here. Let me help..." He takes my hand and pulls me up gently.

"Peeta." He still won't make eye contact.

"Come on. They're probably about to knock the door down."

"Peeta Mellark. Stop." This time, my voice is firm. Resolute.

He turns to look at me. Finally. "It's okay to not be okay," I explain simply, approaching him cautiously. "Actually, it's more than okay, all things considered." My hands find his cheeks and savor the warmth radiating from them. He is always warm.

He looks away. "I know." With those words, he turns and walks out of the kitchen, leaving the apron on the top of the display counter on his way out. Annoyed by his emotional distance, I follow behind him.

As soon as we both leave the building, Peeta begins talking to Cressida about memories of the bakery, watching the Games with his family, eating stale bread to survive... He should win an award for "Best Bullshitter" because, if I hadn't walked in on his emotional meltdown a few moments ago, he would've won me over. I would be oblivious to his frailty. He appears strong. Hard. Immovable. But I know the truth. And it's killing me that he won't let me help him.

I do the only thing left in my power: I stand beside him, a steady and reassuring presence in the midst of a world that seems just the opposite.

Not too long afterward, my ears detect the lack of Peeta's voice in the surrounding air. I turn only to find his blue eyes peering at me through his long, blond eyelashes.

"Thank you for sharing your story, Peeta," Cressida says reverently, pausing momentarily before urging us onward. "Now, let's finish up at the Hall of Justice. Follow me, if you would."

I'm not sure how to feel about an ex-Capitolite commanding me around my own district. My hesitation is cut short when I feel Peeta's scarred baker's hand envelope mine, pulling me down from the steps of the abandoned bakery, away from his darkness.

The Justice building is exactly how I remember it: a tall, looming structure of sharp, intentional angles and designs, so out place in a district composed mostly of impoverished miners living in tiny shacks. The sight of it makes my stomach roll with nausea at the memories of the many children who were offered up for the "good" of Panem. Flashes of dream-visions and reality intertwine as I recall the last time I stood in front of this building, when I succeeded in killing my own mother as well as Peeta's entire family. Guilt crashes down upon me like heavy waves overtake the shoreline of the ocean during a hurricane. Sickness spans throughout my body, and my heart becomes stuck in my throat, unable to feel anything other than the weight of my actions. It's as if my body is rebelling against me as a form of punishment for my sins. My heart refuses to feel; my lungs deny oxygen; and my skin chases away any warmth left in my body. I am lifeless. I am inhuman.

"Katniss? Hey, it's okay. We're okay." I hear Peeta try to reassure me, but just like I wasn't enough to chase away his darkness at the bakery, he cannot chase these demons from me now. After all, the only reason his darkness exists is because of me. Of course, I could never help him with that; I am the origin of his darkness.

I feel the air growing thinner by the moment. I don't know how much longer I can stand here, seeing Peeta and remembering the ropes and guns and horror I felt as our familie were executed for my stupidity.

Breathe, Katniss. Breathe.

It's not working this time around. I can't run or pretend any longer. Everything that has happened with District Thirteen and becoming a Mockingjay has served as a much needed distraction from the truth. I have to face the facts: because of me people have been killed. If I continue as a Mockingjay, more people will die because of me.

"I -" Sound bursts from my throat in between labored breaths. "I can't." I shake my head definitively. "I can't do this. I can't do what you want." As I speak, I slowly step back, away from the Justice building, the guard, Peeta. My heart breaks as I glance at Peeta's face only to see fear and uncertainty. That's all I ever give him, it seems. After my decision is made, I attempt to communicate my apologies to Peeta through my eyes - I hope he understands - and I turn and run.

"Katniss! Wait!" He cries after me in desperation. I can hear his heavy footfalls as he tries to catch up with me, but I know it's in vain. No one can outrun me. Not even the soldiers. I know this district and the woods better than anyone.

"Soldier Mellark! Stop! It's not safe!" I hear Axle warn. Safe? Where am I safe from darkness? No, safety is irrelevant.

My feet carry me straight to the break in the fence, a place that stirs up distant memories of a time when things seemed much simpler. A de-electrified fence stands resolute before me. I crawl underneath; it doesn't phase me and never has. Without a glance behind me, I disappear into the woods.