The nightmares still wake me up in the middle of the night, a scream escaping my lips as the terrors rip up my spine. Some nights, I swear I can hear Peeta's screams as well, but Gale assures me it's just my imagination.

Maybe it was the screams that convinced Gale to stay. But, my bet's on that last kiss, that day in the woods. The way I picked him, because I knew it was him all along. I still think about Peeta, those days in the Hunger Games. But, what is a sixteen year old to know? When your own fire is burning, what won't you do to end it? Staring into the eyes of my maybe killers leaves one with a fair bit of adrenaline. Adrenaline is like fire, and fire never ceases to burn.

It was my own fire that I had been convinced was large enough. Turns out, the worst part about having Peeta around was worrying about burning him. That fire was so easily triggered, the smallest taunting could bring it out. Every death was another trigger, another piece of firewood, and I couldn't harness it. Some may use fire to warm themselves, but some use the same flame to burn, to destroy. And it is such a fine line between. Such a fine line indeed.

Either way, Gale's own fire had found a piece of ground, among the charred dirt of Twelve, to burn endlessly upon. The day he was to leave never came, his Hunger Games never came reaping for it's tribute. I was ecstatic. We grew back together, just as close as the original reaping, with each kill we brought down. I would never be content trapped in Twelve's civilized portions, and neither would he. Thankfully, the forest was room enough for both of us, where we could hunt all day and keep it to ourselves.

Some days when we hunt, I hear my father's melodic laugh in Gale's. The way Gale moves across the forest floor, not leaving a pine needle out of place reminds me of my father's own steps. The way he smiles at me without ever moving his mouth reminds me of my father. I missed my father, so very dearly. Truth is, what time did I have to truly, deeply grieve? The initial period after a death leaves one troubled and weak, but it is no match for the months of mental torment that follows. As my father's fire was ushered out, my own was fed. No time for a warming blaze, though, as my Hunger Games began. And we all know the mess that followed.

It was Gale that I found myself marrying months later. Tactfully, we agreed to spare Cinna's wedding dresses (those that had survived the blaze) from our wedding, in it's place, a simple, fire red frock that Cinna had hidden in the back of the closet. Gale had his own surprise for his attire, wearing a suit of my father's that fit him perfectly. My mother even made an appearance, all the way from Four, as did Annie, Johanna, Beetee and the rest of the living Star Squad. Plutarch was one of them (only because he agreed not to film it), as well as President Paylor herself. I argued for Peeta's invitation, but Gale didn't fight. The boy with the bread never showed up to the quaint ceremony, but I secretly wished he did. Perhaps the most touching part of the ceremony of all was the ceremony. Gale and I shared a piece of Peeta's bread, and sparked a fire, in which we tossed it in it.

It wasn't only that real life blaze that smoldered, but each of our internal fires. 'Fire is catching', Plutarch once told me (later, I had that quote tattooed across my arm in similar fashion to Gale's). But, it wasn't just with the end of the rebellion that saw the end of a mighty inferno. Gale and I's fires burned each other out, leaving a cozy warmth.

As the days back in the forests came back to me, so did one of my comments. If there were no Hunger Games, would I really be okay with being a mother? Was it just the annual fear of losing my child that had me against it? Certainly, it was a factor, but I couldn't find my motherly instinct, in all that fire. The warmth, yes, it was there, but how dangerous is fire to a child?

Gale wanted them, though, which surprised me. After having his own father wrenched away from him, forcing him to play the father of his family, I figured he would be scared of that sort of responsibility, given the choice. But, that very circumstance had left him knowing and wise, and craving the pitter-patter of little feet among the forest floor.

Years later, the girl and the boy pass through the threshhold of the house, where a sign with 'HAWTHORNE' lovingly carved across it hangs. They both look remarkably like those who once lived in an area called the Seam. The girl's olive skinned face, with her grey-blue eyes is framed by rich, ebony hair, hanging in perfect waves and curls. The boy's face is similar, though his skin is considerably lighter, his hair a fine mix between ebony and blonde, his features even and gentle.

The girl clutches a wad of wildflowers, a wild mix of lavenders and yellows. The boy holds to a single arrow. They move to Gale, hugging his legs, before moving to my arms for a hug. I make sure to let them know how much they mean to me with every squeeze. That Gale and I will always be here.

Someday, we will tell them about the Hunger Games. They learn about it in the school, along with the rebellion, but they will learn from us before. It is a part of not only Panem history, but of the Hawthorne family. They will learn that the meadows they frolic in were once a mass grave, that the ground they tread is where millions were killed. They will learn that the Capitol seal they see on television would once strike terror and anger into the country's citizens.

I am proud to have been a part of the rebellion, now that it is over. Proud to know that mothers, just like myself, can sleep knowing their children will never be taken from them. That their children will never be used to satisfy somebody else's fire.

Fire might be one of the most destructive forces I may ever witness in my life, more forceful then electricity blowing out a forcefield, or an annual games of children fighting each other to death. But, as the wind whips outside, pressing the frozen snowflakes to the glass windows, it is fire that keeps us warm. One last time before I go to sleep, I check the windows for any poor child stuck out there in this blizzard. Any poor being who could use a loaf of bread, even if it's burnt, or a warm place to stay. Anyone who might need the help of fire.

Fire might be catching. But, we are here to hold it.