"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book states that only one victor may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor". And then he's gone, leaving us to digest what he'd just said.

My first instinct is survival and I grip my knife tighter in my hand. It would be all too easy, the voice in my head whispers. All too easy to throw the knife, to cut him down. Wasn't this what I wanted, what I'd been working toward this whole time? To be the victor. One last kill, one last obstacle. And then freedom.

But as I thought this, I knew implicitly that I couldn't. I couldn't kill him. If I did, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. "I'm not going to kill you". He said it matter of factly, like it was obvious. I didn't believe him at first; after everything that had happened I was almost certain he'd have no issue killing me and going home to District 2.

He dropped his sword, however, ignoring the clatter it made as it hit the ground. I slowly sink to the green grass that surrounds us, placing the knife on the ground, trusting him enough to put it down, but not enough to toss it away completely.

I'm not sure what we expect to be able to do now. They're not going to pronounce us both victors simply because we say we're not going to kill each other. Suddenly, I'm so tired, exhausted, more then I've ever been in the entirety of the Games, as if a brick wall had hit me. I feel like slumping to the ground and never waking up. Which makes my choice that much easier.

"You should", I say. He turns and eyes me as if trying to assess whether or not I mean it. And it surprises me even more than it surprises him that I do. The drive to keep fighting, to keep surviving has left me.

"Do it". He shakes his head. "I'm not going to kill you", he repeats, somewhat more firmly. "Fine, I'll do it myself. Then I'll be dead and you can be victor all by yourself", I say, sure of my actions, sure that its the easier way out. "No". I watch as he pulls out the extra knife he carries in his pocket.

At first I think he is going to kill me after all and I do nothing but stand there, awaiting death. But he says, "On three then?" I blink once before I understand his meaning and I pick up the knife from the ground, almost laughing at the fact that I'd come so close to everything I'd ever wanted, only to throw it away. But it doesn't feel like I'm throwing it away. It feels like I'm about to find relief.

I meet Cato's eyes once again and realize that I'm never going to see him again. Strange to think that, given that we've spent three or four weeks without going so much as a day without seeing each other. And it's even stranger to think that he's willing to give away his chance at being victor because he doesn't want to win without me as much as much I don't want to win without him. "One". I raise my knife and he raises his. "Two". I look around at my surroundings, thinking it's not so bad to die here, in the grass, wind whispering softly. Peaceful even. "Three".

The knife has only just pierced my chest when a voice rings out. "Wait, wait! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Clove Chaterly and Cato Helamore!" The relief I feel at hearing this announcement is so sudden, that it's as if someone's punched me.

I hardly even feel the trickle of blood from the small cut I'd made. We're both getting out of here. We're both going home. I'm not sure if I hug him or if he hugs me, but suddenly we are Just as quickly though, we pull apart and everything's the same again.

Even so, I keep my eyes on his blue ones, and give him a small smile. He smiles back and for a moment we're locked in each other's gazes, until the hovercraft whirs overhead.

It's not until we're inside the hovercraft, sheperded away from each other to receive any medical attention we might need, that the complete exhaustion hits me again. I momentarily feel a needle enter my arm and a voice say, "Just something to help you rest easier".

My fighting instinct is back now, screaming at me not to be subjected to the various medical instruments in the room. But it's dulling slowly and I blink wearily determined to keep myself awake. "Sleep". This time it's a command and one I obey, my heavy eyelids closing to utter darkness.