quinn combes | district nine | fin

But my brother died in the Games was a good excuse until it wasn't. Until it was overused and until she remembered that the Games had touched everyone in the District in some way. Finley hadn't been special, he hadn't been remarkable, he was definitely not a killer, but he had been hers.

Quinn had shared him with Panem and he had been no more than a blip on the Capitol's radar - another sheep for slaughter - but he had been steadfast, true, loving, loyal, and kind. A safe harbor in a storm. A shy smile and an awkward dance.

He had carried Stella Blakesley of District Twelve to the ends of the earth, or rather she had carried him.  Quinn could not find it in her to meet the Victor when she had toured the Districts, escaping to the woods, to her treehouse, whilst her mother and Piper welcomed Finley's friend. 

Piper copes in ways that Quinn knows she cannot - the middle child she always had a mind of her own but they all shared a love of flora. Plants, herbs, flowers. They can kill or they can save. Dried petals scattered on the floor of Finley's room that decay more each day. Particles dancing in the sunlight. The dust has yet to settle. His shirts hanging threadbare in his closet. She wears them to bed sometimes - the holes in the arms and the hem from when they would snag on tree branches. 

She studies - hours and hours to honor his memory. So that she can feel closer to him. To know something of his mind while his body has been lost to a frozen wasteland. It means nothing. It means everything. 

Piper refuses to forget him. Quinn refuses to talk about him to anyone. They're broken and damaged and torn apart and its all a mess. The dust settles and the layers deepen and they go on. Quinn tells no one of the poppies that she keeps in her bedside table. A memory of him and also a promise of the end. They decay as she wavers.