Disclaimer:The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Susanne Collins.

Enjoy!

Their boisterous laughter rings across the meadow, an intricate component to the innocence of their juvenile merriment.

They frolic and giggle and roughhouse among the wildflowers in the verdant field, under the introspective liquid blue gaze of the man running his fingers lovingly, absently through the raven tresses of the woman whose head lies within his lap.

He always sees it within these children.

This little boy, with hair the color of flaxen wheat, which his painter's eye can easily denote is far too many shades lighter than his own ash locks to be gifted by him. This rambunctious child, whose deep little laugh- even now at the tender age of two- both foreshadows and evokes memories of another rich, deep, intelligent baritone, silenced nearly two decades earlier by the merciless inferno of retribution.

And this little girl. This cherub-faced minx, who's presently trying to tickle her little brother into oblivion, he saw that lop-sided, devious smirk split another more rugged, masculine set of features far too many times in his formative years for an unwitting chuckle not to escape him every time he witnesses its display on this beautiful four-year-old's demeanor. The exact source of her short fuse will likely remain a paradox, as she has both her mother and his own lineage to supply plenty of that particular idiosyncrasy. However, her propensity to lose that fire the instant she's realized she's gone too far and inadvertently hurt someone, usually seeking comeuppance through a fierce, unrelenting embrace… he knows exactly where that came from.

Blissfully unaware of it, these children are the living, breathing extensions of those whose ashes they so merrily traipse over in that field.

They posses both their darker and their redeeming qualities and the man with azure eyes who muses as he gazes at them play, swears inwardly to make sure they know every story, every detail of those who lie beneath their tiny feet in that meadow.

After all, these are the baker's children, who run atop what was once the baker, his wife and his children. This is their family's history, lying buried in this meadow.

These are the baker's children. Those buried here live on through them.

This little boy and this little girl are the Mellarks' legacy.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who embarked with me on this amazing journey. I hope this meant to you as much as it did to me.