It wasn't torture. I know what that feels like.

It was an emotional rollercoaster. I've never really known what that means. My emotional graph has always been cynical and consistent. But this? One minute I'd be resting my head on Peeta's shoulder, listening to the rain trickling down the patio doors, the fire crackling warmly in the lounge, Peeta's firm hand on my bump. Our child.

The next minute? My tears would be indecipherable under the sense blurring shower head. Clawing at the curtain, trying desperately to keep my baby safe, and failing tediously to keep myself sane.

There's nothing quite like it - I was right to be hesitant.

A pain as old as life itself, an ancient rollercoaster, I was never it's only boarder. Never did I think I couldn't do it. If I thought like that I'd most likely not be where I am.

Peeta kept me strong. Through the whole thing - both times. The second time wasn't as bad. I knew what I was getting into that time round - or perhaps I didn't, perhaps nature had forced me to be oblivious.

Haymitch was there for us, keeping a constant eye on me as Peeta worked to keep a living. Haymitch would drink, I'd sleep. He would nag, I would ignore him. He was as sarcastic and as real as ever, but he cared so much. I know he did - it might even have kept him up at night.

It was the three of us. The three of us would get through it. I may have been the leading lady, but I knew I wasn't alone.

She kept me strong. My bump. My baby. My daughter. My favourite tree, who's figure I passed each day I tried to keep Prim and I alive. The tree that watched me shoot, cry, starve. The tree who knows me well. Who never left no matter how ugly things got. There were many of them, watching me. But there's only one Willow. My beautiful Willow.

Willow, who doesn't have to be a product of the watchful eye of her namesake.

Who doesn't have to craft her own bow and arrow to prevent the starvation of herself and her little brother. Willow, who's father didn't die in the mines, who's father bakes 'the best bread ever!' Who's mother is willing to protect her no matter what, who won't leave her helpless, alone, no matter what happens.

"My father never stood up for me, never said a word when my mother hurt me. I'd like to think that she loved me nonetheless, but I'm not sure she did. My brothers wouldn't risk themselves to get me out of trouble. I had no one. Except when my Grandfather visited. My father's father. He was a great man. Strong, kind, funny, and incredibly smart. I based myself around him, I wanted to be exactly like him. He died when I was seven years old. His name was Rye." Peeta had told me this once. I grew fond of his Grandfather the more he'd speak of him. I had never known the man, and of course I never will, but seeing the way Peeta's face would light up when he spoke of him made me sure we'd made the right choice when we named our little boy after him.

They play in the meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much. The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them at school, and the girl knows we played a role in them. The boy will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? My children, who take the words of the song for granted:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you

My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard. Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away. I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years. But there are much worse games to play.

No one lives happily ever after. There is no after. There is only now, and now is as good as it will ever be.

Peeta looks at me. I look at him.

I love.

And I love.

The End.