“But it wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I…” Finnick hesitates.
I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick’s face. The way he excused my behaviour, blaming it on my pretend pregancy.
“That you what?”
“That I knew I’d misjudged you. That you do love him…”
Alternative poster version of this graphic [x]
The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee’s trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks.
“So this is the deal. I’ll be your Mockingjay. But I have some conditions.”
“What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellows that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.”
Bad. This is bad. It brings on the flood of images that torments me, awake or asleep. Peeta being tortured - drowned, burned, lacerated, shocked, maimed, beaten - as the Capitol tries to get information about the rebellion that he doesn’t know. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reach for him across the hundreds and hundreds of miles, to send my thoughts into his mind, to let him know he is not alone.
But he is.
And I can’t help him. - Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins