Finnick's Story (2.0) • The Hunger Games | ✓

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The End is Nigh

The three of us sit down, and I'm expecting silence from here on out. But after a moment, Haven looks at me and she asks, "Finnick, do you trust me?"

A bit taken aback, I respond, "What?"

"Do you trust me?"

I want to say that I do, because I feel that I do. "I think I'd have killed you if I didn't."

Ever so slightly, she smiles. "You mean you would've tried."

"Sure. Tried."

She situates herself on the ground, placing her hands on her thighs. Then, she sighs. "It won't be much longer now."

I look up at the darkening sky. "No, it won't be."

"And what'll we do about it?" she asks, looking around at each of us. "About this?"

"This?" Peony asks.

"Us," Haven replies. She doesn't say more.

"I don't know," I say.

"I'm not fighting either of you," Peony declares. "I won't."

"We might have to," Haven says, sounding matter-of-fact. "You have to accept that, Peony."

"No," she says, though she's glancing more at me when she says it. "I don't, Haven."

"Peony," Haven repeats, sterner this time, "there can only be one victor."

Peony seems distraught. She doesn't respond to Haven, but it's clear that this upset her. At heart, I know she could never bring herself to turn against us. If it comes to that point, I don't know what will become of her.

"Let's get some sleep," I suggest, merely to end the conversation before it gets tedious. "Who takes first watch?"

"Me," Haven volunteers, equipping her knife and springing to her feet. "You two get some rest. I don't know what will happen tomorrow."

"What do you mean?" Peony asks.

"I mean," Haven says, "anything could happen."

Her words seemed final, so Peony drops it. Seeming restless, she tries to readjust her sitting position. On the second attempt, she slides her bow off her shoulder, laying it on the ground beside her. Haven stands overlooking what I imagine is the most exposed area around us. I'm sitting next to Peony, and she quietly says my name. I look at her.

"Do you really think it's the end?" she asks.

"I don't know," I answer. "It could be, soon."

"If it is," she says, "then I just want to say thank you, Finnick."

Unexpecting, I ask, "For what?"

"For everything," she responds, her tone shockingly casual. "I never thought I'd make a friend in this place."

"You don't have to thank me," I say. "I'm pretty easy to like."

"Really? I hadn't gathered that."

"What gave it away?"

"Oh, I don't know--your leather gloves, all the food, your trident--you must feel special."

"Material things," I say, "really don't mean that much to me outside the Games. Does that surprise you?"

"Not really."

I raise a brow. "Why not?"

"Because I've learned more about you. You're more than what's on the surface."

I'm entertained. "And what 'more' would that be?"

I can tell she's being genuine with what she says next. "You're a good person; you care about people. I wouldn't have guessed that when I first met you."