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thesweetnessofspring · 11 months

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Post-epilogue Everlark family. Inspired by a conversation I had with a little one. Rated T for theme.

On the walk home from school, the boy is quiet, letting his sister monopolize Peeta's ear. He doesn't even stop to examine a bug or an interesting rock, or to say hello to the shopkeepers they pass. Peeta listens to their daughter, who chatters about the jump rope tournament coming up, and how she and her classmates compare to each other.

Thankfully, the boy's teacher had phoned Katniss and Peeta to let them know their son would be getting the first lesson about the Games. And that would always include the old star-crossed lovers, the baker and the huntress. The children had to be assured that such atrocities were over, and their story central to that ending.

Katniss waits anxiously in the bakery, helping a customer pick out a box of pastries. Peeta takes the kids through their normal routine of heading to the back and getting a snack, while Katniss finishes with the customer and flips the sign over to "closed" just a little earlier than usual.

Katniss first looks at their son, sitting on a stool at the counter and somberly pushing around an apple slice, and then to Peeta. He gives a quick raise of his eyebrows and a shake of his head, indicating a lack of response from their son. The boy has always been the quieter of their two children. The girl had come back home with a million questions when she learned about the Games, but the boy is taking the opposite approach.

"Hey bud," Peeta says, taking a seat at the counter next to him. "Your teacher told us you learned something hard in school today."

He looks up at his father with discerning gray eyes, older than his six years and gives a short nod.

"I'm learning long division," the girl says. "That's harder than anything he learns."

"You learned about The Hunger Games today," Katniss says. She stands next to Peeta, an arm wrapped around his shoulder and he puts his arm around her waist. "Your teacher told us."

Their daughter closes her mouth, pressed in a line. When she first came with her questions, Katniss and Peeta had been sure to have her promise not to tell her little brother, not until he was old enough to know.

"No one else's parents were in The Hunger Games," the boys says. "Only me."

"You're right," Peeta says. "Here in Twelve and in your class, only you and your sister have parents who had to go in the Hunger Games. There are a few other people whose parents were in the Hunger Games, but most of them are grown up now and live far away."

The boy scrunches down, eyes on his plate. Katniss knows this boy and how he works. She works in a similar way, thoughts becoming dangerous without being spoken out loud to have someone help straighten out.

"Do you have any questions for us?" Katniss asks. "Anything you want to know?"

"Did you kill anyone?" the boy asks, glancing up through pale lashes.

"Yes," Peeta says. "Neither of us wanted to. Never, ever."

"Were they bad guys?" the boy asks, desperation in his voice.

"No, bud," Peeta says. "No, they weren't."

Not most of them, Katniss thinks, her final arrow in Coin's chest flashing in her mind, but they were keeping things simple for their children until they were older.

"They had no choice," the girl says, sitting up straight in her stool. "Momma and Daddy wouldn't kill anyone if they didn't have to."

The boy's lip wobbles, though he ducks his head to try and hide it underneath his mop of blond curls. Katniss slides her arm off of Peeta and holds their son to her, pressing his cheek to her breast. She wishes she could take this fear and ache away from him, knowing how heavy it rests on such a little body. She would take his pain onto her own, if she could.

"I don't wanna kill anybody," the boy wails in his mother's arms.

"Oh, baby, you won't have to kill anybody," Katniss says. "There are no Hunger Games anymore. Daddy and I made sure of it."

"My teacher said there was a war," the boy says, his grip tight on the back of his mother's shirt, his words muffled between fabric and one squished cheek. "Didn't people have to kill then, too? What if there's another war?"

"We don't think there will be another war," Peeta says.

"But what if there is and I have to kill somebody?" the boy asks. "You and Momma had to. That means I might, too."

There was no reason to believe Panem would succumb to the horrors it had when the baker and huntress were young, but there was always that what if, that chance history's cycle picking up again. It haunted both Katniss and Peeta still.

"It's scary to think something like that could happen again," Katniss says, brushing their son's curls out of his eyes. "But remember the game we play together?"

"The good things game!" their daughter bounces in her seat excitedly and her brother lifts his head to turn and look at her, light coming back to his eyes.

"Yes, the good things game," Katniss says. "That's what we can play when we get worried about bad things in the future."

"Let's play the game now," Peeta says. "Only the good things we think about will be about you, bud."

The boy squishes his shoulders inward, his chin ducking to his chest in bashfulness, but the slight lift of the corners of his mouth let them know he's pleased with the idea.

"What about me?" the girl demands.

"We'll do you another day, baby," Katniss says. "For now, let's focus on your brother."

Their daughter is less intrigued by this, hand now propping up her chin against the counter.

"Let's see," Peeta says. "There's no one better at catching tadpoles than you, that's for sure."

"Or such a help when we have to clean up the kitchen," Katniss says.

"And you're so bright and curious," Peeta says. "You ask questions I've never had before."

"And so friendly to all of our customers that come in."

Their daughter jumps in, "You help get us free candy from the store."

"Free candy?" Peeta asks. "Well that's just about the best thing to the two of you, isn't it?"

Peeta gives their son a tweak on the nose and he laughs, glowing at the game revolving around him. They share a few other good things about their son and brother, until if he's still worried about having to kill anyone like his parents, it's far from his mind. The boy tucks into his snack and then he and his sister are off playing.

Peeta can sense the worry coming off Katniss with the way her brow hangs heavy over her eyes, and he draws her to him from behind, kissing where her neck and shoulder meet.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Yeah," Katniss sighs. "I just hope we weren't lying to him."

"I wasn't," Peeta says. "He really is the best at catching tadpoles."

"I mean about what he's worried about."

"We weren't lying. We don't think he'll need to, but..."

"Right. The 'but.'"

"Maybe we need to play the game ourselves," Peeta says, turning Katniss around so they face each other.

Katniss sighs, putting her arms around Peeta's neck. The game gets tedious and long for her, but she's always willing to start off with her first good thing.

"You," she says. "Saving me with that bread."

And Peeta returns his first good thing. "You. Coming to find me in the arena."

They usually banter back and forth all of the good things they'd done for each other, purposefully leaving out the messy complications of their early relationship and only remembering what made them fall in love in the first place. But today, Katniss skips ahead.

"You," she says. "Helping me talk to our little boy about this."

Peeta gives her a kiss, then says, "You. Having the courage to carry and birth and raise our children."

And all they can do is hope they can do enough to protect their children from their fears coming true.

#everlark fanfiction #thg fanfiction #everlark family #everlark #toast babies #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #everlark family fanfiction #post epilogue

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randomgarbagecan · 1 year

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I was trying to study and started drawing this in the margins. Sorry for my handwriting, here is a transcript if you need it: KDJ: Sooyoung-ah HSY: hm? KDJ: when you shared my story to those other worldlines...the ones where I myself don’t exist... HSY: hey, are you going to be ungrateful again?

KDJ: Hah? No-- I just KDJ: Do you think they write their own stories about us? HSY: pffft KDJ: What? HSY: You know they write fanfiction about us now. in this worldline. KDJ: You’re kidding. HSY: Yeah, Anna Croft goes on twitter to talk about how its... HSY: “problematic” KDJ: huh.. HSY: Actually, three of the biggest author accounts got doxxed last week. [image of Uriel saying ‘huh!’ and ‘ah, not this one too!’] [image of Jan Hayoung saying ‘nooooooooo’] HSY: Two turned out to be Uriel. The other was Jang Hayoung KDJ: Do I want to kn-- HSY: You don’t want to know. HSY: You know, I do think that 1% of you out there is probably dreaming fanfiction stories of you. Us. Everyone. HSY: For you...I hope they dream a million happy endings.

#orv spoilers #orv #kim dokja #han sooyoung #post epilogue #my art

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sailorgundam308 · 5 months

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SPOILERS of BG3 Epilogue (Karlach’s, more specifically).

So we learn that while in Avernus, Karlach found the location of Zariel’s infernal forge and some blueprints that might allow her to get a new engine or fix her current one.

This is awesome in itself, but I thought it was extra cool because this was so close to my headcanon and is neatly connecting to DnD lore about Avernus!

Zariel wasn’t the only Archdevil of Avernus. Before her, a devil called Bel was the Archdevil of that hell. Bel still lives and actually works for Zariel now - BUT he still schemes and patiently waits for a chance to reclaim his rule.

Do you know where Bel works now? The forge.

… >>

You see that, right??

“After being deposed, Bel made his home in an iron fortress carved out of a volcano. The bastion acted as a forge for Blood War weapons and armor and was protected by infernal legions and dark magic that divined intruders.”

“Bel oversaw the production of Blood War arms and armor while scheming to retake his throne after Zariel supplanted him.”

Both quotes from the Forgottten Realms wiki.

SO. Bel is the ‘owner’ of Zariel’s forge, and he doesn’t like her very much. In fact, he wants to depose her and is waiting for an opportunity to fuck her up. And Karlach is going to the forge to get her heart fixed. I always imagined in my head that Karlach and Bel would end up meeting and joining forces (temporarily) to take on Zariel - or at least take a swing at her. And what better swing than to get Karlach a new engine and let her loose on Zariel’s forces for a bit - or even at Zariel herself? Seems perfectly canon compliant to me! Plus, Bel is a devil that is known to honor his promises and one that sometimes doesn’t request a soul in exchange for a contract or deal - he often requires other types of contributions (kicking Zariel’s ass or sabotaging her efforts might fit the bill perfectly!).

If before I was inclined to headcanon this sort of deal with Bel to help Karlach, now I’m pretty much sure that is the path implied by the canon story. I can see it not being easy and Zariel lashing out but… as Astarion said to Karlach, her just never being able to return to Faerun “is not fair, not after everything we’ve been through”.

So, for me, this is what happens: Karlach and Astarion go to Avernus. She won’t burn, he won’t burn there. They fight and struggle, but pick on cues and plan to infiltrate the forge with the help of Flo. There they find Bel who proposes a deal to give Karlach a new, more powerful and Faerun-proof engine - in return to sabotaging Zariel. It’s rough, difficult, but they manage. She gets her engine. And then it’s time for Karlach to return the favor to her beloved vamp - to turn Faerun inside out in search for a way to get Astarion to be in the sun again!

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #patch 5 spoilers ahead!#karlach #bg3 headcanon #bg3 canon #forgotten realms lore #karlach x astarion #astarion x karlach #DnD lore #Zariel #Avernus #post epilogue #lore #bg3 lore #infernal engine #astarion

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oxydiane · 1 year

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sirius buys harry a crop-top that says “trophy husband” for christmas. harry also buys the exact same one for him

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mae-i-scribble · 5 months

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Hi, I hope you're having a nice day - in your author's notes for chapter 2 of The Long Way Home, you mentioned the idea that the story HSY wrote is different from the ORV that we know. I wanted to ask if you've ever written any posts expanding on that? I would love to read more about your thoughts on this (KDJ in your story's last memory being about reading that instead of WoS. Gutted me.)

Hello there! I have unfortunately not written a post detailing this (if you are the very nice anon who has asked me to elaborate on this i am very sorry, if you're not anon i am still very sorry), in large part because doing so in a way that I would be happy with would involve combing through the last 1/3rd or so of the novel. Since the major thematics about authors and characters and readers as one aren't really gotten into until that point. To be honest, I just haven't had the energy for that.

The idea that the novel HSY wrote not being ORV is one that I've always had since first finishing ORV- I can't say where exactly it originated from. Now to be clear, it's an undisputed fact that HSY and kimcom *are* writing about the events they lived through, and I do 100% both understand how and why HSY writing ORV is the more widely accepted theory (them including lines from early orv scenes, the way that it loops right back around into ORV's very meta theming, the way it would match up with the ideas of loop of fate, etc.) I just don't agree with it.

One of the greatest takeaways for me on the author/character theming in ORV is that an author will never fully understand a character they write. HSY and YJH live this out in real time, alongside HSY learning the origins of WoS vs the YJH she has come to know as a companion. In writing WoS she straight up admits that she fudges her memories of him because it isn't as if she could know everything about him- she just wrote the story she thought KDJ needed to hear. (I swear I have a point I promise). HSY as intimate knowledge in how while writing someone, you both grow to understand them intimately while simultaneously remaining clueless. With the experiences she goes through, combined with the fact that KDJ's narration in ORV is so specifically *him* with all its unreliability and the glimpses we get into his past/bits of him on his own without kimcom around, I just don't think ORV is something HSY would have written. To me, she wouldn't have tried to write from KDJ's perspective, already having far too much entanglement in obscuring people and characters with KDJ (and possily from that one scenario where she's almost taken over by the character she's incarnated into, but again, i would need to reread).

Then we reach the point where she writes this novel for the KDJ's across worldlines- or rather, kimcom does. Which I think is another very relevant point, HSY is compiling and spinning this into a narrative, but *everyone* is contributing to it and writing bits and pieces. Now that I type it out, I think that might be part of what makes me so happy with the thought that instead of ORV, HSY is writing that same story but told from kimcom's perspective, not KDJ's like ORV is. The image of everyone coming together to give their own perspective and accounts while HSY compiles and sorts those varying viewpoints into a narrative with KDJ as the focus just warms my heart. In a post I made about the epilogues, I brought up that with this interpretation, you can see it as kimcom writing KDJ as they see him, so that he can understand just why they love him so dearly- which I think is especially poignant considering this novel's true purpose isn't even to bring KDJ back, its to help everyone else heal from the trauma of losing him.

So basically, I can't really give you much of a textual basis for my argument besides for the fact that ORV doesn't straight up say HSY is writing ORV, it's more just was my first takeaway that has forever stuck with me as my preferred interpretation.

(P.S. thank you for taking the time to read my fic, I also loved writing the bit where KDJ remembers that story.)

#orv #orv spoilers #post epilogue #kim dokja #han sooyoung #this has been orv meta with mae #well wannabe meta it doesnt really count without evidence #but still i am just never letting go of this interpretation #sorry if its not exactly the answer you were looking for #but it is the only one i have to give #until the day i do a full reread of orv and go absolutely mcfucking insane dissecting it like a lab rat

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fukaselover · 1 year

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This is a post-epilogue fic so if u don't want spoilers don't read

My man making jokes I love him😭

Fic: 'somehow, this old heart has found time' by qiilings

#omniscient reader's viewpoint #omniscient reader #orv #kdj #kim dokja #kdj x yjh #yjh #joongdok #they r so silly #i love them #they r happy and im happy #kimcom is there too dw #all of them r happy #post epilogue #spoiler of orv #still fanfic

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maidahselky · 1 year

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He finally caught him

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natyshaw · 1 year

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También dibujé a Edna post epilogo. Edna y Mikleo se han apoyado todos estos años después de sus pérdidas (obviamente la dinámica se mantiene). Edna: Meebo, ya estás viejo para comportarte como un Meebo.

#tales of #tales of zestiria #toz #edna #post epilogue

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years

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Katniss Everdeen- Measured in 5 Decades

(10 years old)

Target practice with my father on a warm day in May. The new bow he’s crafted for me is a little big, but he insists I’ll grow into it.

“You’ll be the queen of the forest in no time Catkin.” He tells me. I smile back at him as I pull my arrow out from the center circle carved into the gnarled bark of the tree he has me practice shooting.

The lake shines behind him as he smiles at me, so at ease and proud.

I smile back at him, feeling very grown up and joyful on this birthday.

I think at the moment, I’ve never been happier.

(20 years old)

That thought comes back to me ten years later, like a strange self fulfilling prophecy.

I stare down at the remains of the child bow that I used to shoot with, and eventually, hunt with after my father passed. The body is cracked, after too many years where I couldn’t get out to the lake to oil it and care for the wood properly. The thought makes me melancholy. Just another one of my father’s gifts that fell to the wayside because of circumstances out of my control. For a moment I feel like cursing everyone and everything.

I don’t know what possessed me to come out here today. The lake looks the same pristine untouched blue as always. The woods are quiet and peaceful. The animals are about their business. Even the small house is untouched except for the debris of dirt and leaves on the floor that’s built up over the years.

Everything is the same as it was ten years ago. That thought helps to defuse my dark thoughts a bit.

I look over at the glistening blue waves and think the water will feel cool and calming against my skin. So I tuck the bow away and head over to the lakeshore. I strip quickly and wade in up to my ankles.

I breathe out a sigh of relief at the refreshing feeling.

Yes, I think. Everything is still the same here. Comforting, familiar.

Then I make the mistake of looking down.

Everything is familiar except for me.

I stare down at the reflection of my body on the water’s surface.

I did not have these scars ten years ago.

Ten years ago I had a mother, a father, and a little sister.

Today I have these scars, and their memories.

I have nightmares.

I have bad days.

For a moment it's all I can do not to run screaming from the image of the woman on the water.

She is a mess. All wild eyes and patchwork skin.

She is alone.

Then I do something I hate. I sink down onto the shore and I cry.

I cry for who knows how long. About so many things.

And when I’ve cried myself out, I go and rinse myself in the lake. My saltwater stained face is cleansed by the freshwater of the lake.

I take a while to float in the water and think. The mockingjays tweet in the trees.

I think about the difference ten years can make in a person’s life. Ten years ago the Reaping was still a distant concept, for me. It was a vague fear, like a boogeyman people spoke of on dark winter nights but then forgot in the light of the dawn. It was an unlikely future because of my father’s diligence to make sure Prim and I never had to take out tesserae.

Ten years later, the Reaping, and the Hunger Games are very real to me. As is the reality of war, and the cost of fighting in one. It's been a couple of years, but if I close my eyes I can still see it. The blood, the violence, and the death, that permeated those dark years between sixteen and eighteen. And while I have no problem remembering the gruesome aspects, I do have trouble recalling the good things.

The way my father’s eyes crinkled in the corner just so when he smiled. Or all of the different kinds of ways my sister used to laugh.

Those things are kept alive now in the memory book. Through my words and Peeta’s illustrations.

That thought snaps me out of my reverie. I shift off my back and stop drifting. I am not as alone as I thought.

I know people are waiting for me at home. There will be an impressive spread for dinner, good wine, and a big cake.

Peeta will be there, and Haymitch.

They may not be the ones I am missing so terribly on this sad day, but they are the ones that make these days bearable.

Especially Peeta.

Ten years ago I didn’t have him. Or his arms around me at night. Or his lips on mine. Now, I can’t imagine life without him. We have come so far together. And we still have farther to go.

For many years I wasn’t sure of my own feelings. But now that everything has been stripped away and we are just ourselves, no cameras, no audience, no presidents and their agendas, and no games, there is one thing I am sure of.

Having Peeta doesn’t just make life bearable. It makes it worth living.

So I swim for shore and give myself a quick shake before throwing on my clothes.

This day might not be as happy as the one I spent with my father beside the lake ten years ago, but there is happiness waiting for me back at home. All I need to do is go and meet it.

(30 years old)

Peeta makes a humming sound as he presses a kiss to my temple.

The blissful breeze licks at the water of the lake and the water ripples and expands in tiny waves.

I lean back against my husband and sigh. We’ve done a lot of nothing today. Just some swimming, some fruitless fishing, some picnicking, and napping, in between bouts of lovemaking.

The air is clear, the birds are singing, and the sun is drying the water off our naked bodies in record time.

Today is good.

Peeta’s hand sneaks around my front, his fingers lovingly caressing the softness around my waist and abdomen, built up from years of eating his good cooking and my hearty game. It's a softness that I never carried before we began living together. I squirm a little under his touch, still nervous after all these years of having my soft underbelly bared to anyone. I’m still wild like that in some ways, even though my husband has made excellent progress in taming me.

He’s proud of that softness in some strange way that only makes sense to him. Something about always wanting to feed me and fatten me up when we were young.

I don’t pretend to understand it, I just reap the benefits of his large, warm hands that stray towards me at any given moment.

Currently they are straying upwards, towards my breasts.

“Careful,” I tell him in a warning voice.

“Haymtich and Sae are expecting us back for dinner soon.” I add, when his hand cups me, and his fingers pluck and pinch my nipple in that practiced way of his that drives me crazy.

Peeta relents, and pulls back, but not before huffing out a small sigh of disappointment.

“Four times before dinner is really too much at our age.” I tease him playfully. He laughs, deep and beautifully against my neck and hair.

“I’ll never get enough of you, at any age.” He replies, nuzzling my neck and planting a wet, sucking kiss right below my ear.

My breathing kicks up, and I lean back against him, and into his growing hardness trapped between us.

Peeta nips playfully at my earlobe, knowing he’s caught me, and I’m ready to submit to whatever game he wants to play before we pack up and head home.

“Alright,” I say, wiggling my slightly damp skin against him, eliciting a nice gravelly moan.

“Once more before dinner.” I offer, before turning around to claim his lips.

Peeta makes an ‘Mmm,’ sound against my mouth and I climb onto his lap while he lays back against the red picnic blanket, his hands going around my back and waist to steady me as we get into position.

I grip his hardened length in hand as I lift my hips to rub against him.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Peeta says with a playful upturn of his eyebrows when I rub him against my slick folds. I moan in pleasure, as I glide over him, teasing my clit and lubricating him in the process.

He chuckles at my eagerness, when only a few seconds ago I was resistant to this idea.

I snort a short laugh that turns into a breathy mewl as I sink down onto him.

Peeta groans and his hands brace my hips to guide me in our familiar rhythm.

The sun begins to dip down past the horizon, setting the world awash in muted pinks, reds, and that particular perfect shade of orange that Peeta adores.

We find our peaks, one right after the other and in the calming moment that follows I have a strange thought.

As I rest my head atop his slowing heartbeat, I remember the past decade, and the one before that.

And I think that I’m just as happy today as I am the day my father brought me out when I was ten years old and gave me my first bow.

(40 years old)

The children play in the water, taking turns splashing their papa.

Their sweet giggles of laughter fill the air, sweeter than the mockingjays' songs.

I prepare the picnic, organizing the containers of food and plates for the four of us. There are cold turkey sandwiches, cucumber, tomato, and kale salad, butter cookies, and fresh squeezed lemonade for us to enjoy.

I take out the cake last, and place it in the middle. It is the centerpiece today. Skillfully baked by my husband, and lovingly decorated by our children.

Our daughter opted for swirls of different colored frosting on her side, while our son crafted sugar flowers with a steady hand and patience that rivals his father’s.

It’s a beautiful combination, just like our family.

I mentally remind myself to set aside a piece for Haymitch. He’s getting on in years and can’t easily make the walk from the village to the lake anymore. But he’ll be waiting for the children to take him a piece of cake when we get home for supper.

I whistle out a sharp note, to get everyone’s attention.

Peeta and the kids turn in my direction.

“Time for lunch!” I call out to them and their quick exit from the water coupled with their subsequent smiles when they see the banquet have me laughing in amusement

Peeta leans in and kisses my cheek.

“Are you enjoying your birthday sweetheart?” He asks as he sits down beside me and starts serving.

I ponder his question for a moment.

I think back on the birthdays I’ve spent out here at this lake. Some of them good, some of them a mixture of sadness and resilient hope.

I give him a nod.

“I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been on my birthday.” I tell him quietly while our children argue over how to divide the cookies amongst themselves.

Peeta’s eyes go wide, and he looks confused for a second. But then I reach out and grip his hand tightly in mine.

He knows I mean it, and he knows how much it really means for me to say such a thing.

We are finally at a place where the ghosts of our past have mostly settled, and our present is outshining the quiet monotony of our lives before the games. Our children are safe. Our country is free. We are becoming less important public figures, and our days are filled with peace.

Things are good again, and everyday brings with it the chance to be better than the one before.

That chance, that undeniable hope, helps me to look at the future not with dread, but with a steady anticipation. We have so much life left to live, and I am now so grateful that I am still here to live it.

(50 years old)

My son lines up his shot, takes a breath, releases it, and lets his arrow fly.

It hits the squirrel a little low, in the neck rather than the eye, but that’s alright.

“Darn,” He laments, moving to pick up the furry creature by the tail.

“He’ll still make a nice stew.” I tell him with a chuckle and he grumbles for a second, before my pointed look cuts him off. He knows the rules of the woods. We hunt, and we try our best, and we don’t complain when things don’t go our way.

He goes to work dressing his kill before tucking it into our game bag. His shoulders have been steadily broadening and his flaxen hair is overdue for a trim but he reminds me so much of his father as a teen that for a moment I’m spellbound.

He looks back up at me quizzically.

“You’re starting to look like your dad.” I tell him in a dry tone.

He shoots me back an unamused expression and I laugh.

“I’d rather have dark hair, like yours or—”

“Your sister, yes I know.” I tell him quietly. He’s spent most of the spring comparing himself to the oldest Hawthrone son. Who is getting more like the spitting image of his tall and masculine father with each passing year. Gale moved his family back to 12 a few years ago and ever since then my youngest and his oldest have been engaged in a contest of milestones and manly prowess. It was cute when they were younger. Now it’s just tiresome. But I remind myself there were once much worse games for children to play.

It’s always, who can spit the farthest? Who's the better wrestler? Who started shaving first?

Gale’s son can grow a thick beard that makes my youngest lament his blond, almost colorless scruff that he says no one can even see. I just shake my head and tell him there are worse shortcomings to have, if that is really even a shortcoming at all.

And right now we’re out spending ‘bonding time’ while Peeta and our daughter put the finishing touches on my birthday feast.

But I know why we’re really out here. Last week when the boys competed against each other in an archery contest they both came home disappointed.

Who’s the best shot with a bow? Well, actually neither my son, nor Gale’s.

It was my daughter who trounced both of them. Peeta laughed about it for a full ten minutes when they both came home pouting and our daughter returned with a triumphant grin.

So, here I am, fifty years old and trekking through the brush with my son on this hot May afternoon, trying to teach him patience.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We eventually take down a pair of pheasants, both of them right through the eyes. And my son’s boyish smile is brighter than the noon sun.

We walk back to 12 side by side. Him with a skip in his step and me with a contented heart. Our family awaits and we are eager to return to their warm embraces and heartfelt congratulations.

As I welcome another decade and say goodbye to the one before, I feel grateful, and not for the first time for what Peeta and I went through. Although I will never be able to quite reconcile all that we lost, I am able to celebrate the things we have gained.

And every decade seems to bring more joy than the one before.

#prompts in panem #everlark #thg #fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #fluff #smut #hurt/comfort #gbt phase #post epilogue #time skips

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