She is the girl who was on fire. He can see that. She has no idea of the influence she has; no idea of the tiny sparks of thought she's put into his head – his head alone; that's not even counting the numberless smoldering thoughts she's put into the heads – into the hearts – of other people. All of Panem.
Even now, he can see that fire in her. She has an idea. He knows it.
She was the girl for whom the birds stopped singing. That's how he best remembers her. The girl with whom he had been smitten from that very day.
How very like his father he thought himself to have been; his father, who had loved Katniss Everdeen's mother from afar; watching as she wed another man. A better man. A man who could charm the birds, just as his daughter could.
Peeta would have been content to love Katniss from afar. Would have been content to watch her life at a distance, as his own father watched Katniss' mother. Watched as she would marry the oldest Hawthorne boy. As she would have children who looked like her, who could take down rabbits and squirrels in one shot – clean, through the eye, so as not to spoil the meat.
She's thinking. Right now, she's thinking about their options. They are few. It's quite simple, really. One of them has to die. She's thinking about how to avoid being the one to kill him. He's certain he'll bleed out soon, anyway. Either that, or she has to kill him herself. Because he knows he'll never kill her. It's simple, really. And she has an idea of how to make it happen.
She was the girl from the Seam – the one for whom he'd burned the bread. The one for whom he'd taken a beating that day. The one who, ever since, would look at him; like she wanted to speak to him, but she never did.
He always wished she would.
She was Prim Everdeen's replacement. Her volunteer. The girl who wasn't reaped, but became the tribute for the 74th Annual Hunger Games. The girl who didn't cry, even though she probably wanted to. Desperately.
She had been the girl who was on fire all along. Throughout the head games, throughout the interview questions, throughout Cinna's magic, which had only enhanced the spirit she's possessed through it all; the trials she's endured, the battles she's fought to come to the point at which they now stood – everything she is and everything she was seems to converge in this moment.
He knows she will be the one to survive. He'll never allow her to lose. Not after all of this. He had just hoped that it wouldn't come to one of them having to kill the other. He doesn't want to subject her to that – he'll kill himself long before forcing her into killing him.
He feels the injuries he sustains. Knows they are severe. He's favoring his uninjured leg heavily, and the splint helps. The tourniquet numbs him to a certain extent, but he can still feel the blood seeping down from the deep wound in his other leg. Slowly and surely killing him. Feels the pain rack his frame with every thump of his heart. With each beat, he is reminded of his own mortality. Alive for another heartbeat. Possibly his last.
She is torn.
Katniss Everdeen, the girl who is on fire, can't bring herself to kill him.
He shouldn't make her suffer.
He opens his mouth; he wants to tell her it's all right. It's okay if she just wants to wait out his imminent death by blood-loss. She can just leave. He won't think less of her for not watching him die. He could never think ill of her.
But she seems to have made a decision. She tugs at the pouch looped through her belt. The berries. The poisonous berries.
Before he thinks about it, his hand is clamped on her wrist. "No, I won't let you." Never. Not the girl who is on fire. She doesn't deserve to die. Not this way. Not when she's fought so hard to live.
She holds his gaze. "Trust me," she whispers.
She has so many emotions flickering through her face. So very like the flame of fire – never settling on just one expression at a time. There always seems to be a double meaning behind her actions, or a hidden pain.
But trust? He doesn't doubt for a second that he can trust her. He just isn't sure if he can trust her to do what he wants, as opposed to what she might think is the right thing.
He finally lets go. Watches as she loosens the top of the pouch. She fills his hand, then her own.
"On the count of three?"
He realizes how perfect it is. She doesn't want to make this about choosing a victor. She wants to do it her own way. To keep a piece of herself. To help him keep a piece of himself at the same time.
It's the best solution he could have hoped for. He kisses her. "The count of three," he says. She locks her hand – the empty one – the one not holding the berries – tight in his, and stands to his back.
"Hold them out. I want everyone to see." He doesn't know if she complies, but he holds out his own palm, open and clear, the dark berries staining his hand red with poisonous juice.
She squeezes his hand. A private goodbye. For him, not for the audience.
"One."
This is it.
"Two."
They will never own us.
"Three!"
Goodbye, Katniss.
The berries go in, and simultaneously, the trumpets blare, announcing the victor. Claudius Templesmith sounds frantic. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the 74th Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you - the tributes of District 12!"