𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧. ( animals )

           Breath is ragged in my ears. Each step forward is a testament to my devotion to this cause. I have long since forgotten what it feels like to be warm. The world around me is adamant in its resolve to kill me. I will not let it win.

Most often Gloss is in the front, blazing a trail through the deep snow for us to follow. Ronan's periods in the lead are short lived, mine even moreso. We've regained some of our fitness over the months of travel under our belts, but the steady decrease in food sources has put us back in the red for energy budget. I never had the chance to fully regain my muscle and fat before it was stripped away again. It's easier for me, I think. Starvation is nothing new, it's an old friend. I'm familiar enough with it to know its quirks and oddments. I know that the deep gnawing hunger stops after four days with no food, that sometimes you inexplicably wake up feeling full. The worst piece of it is the cold. Especially now in the onset of snow, there is no warmth to be had.

Gloss has always been naturally bulky so he fares the best. He hasn't yet dropped to underweight, judging by the way he looks when he strips off his clothes to dry at the fire. Ronan, however, has always been relatively thin and takes far less time to fade away. It doesn't help that he's always trying to pawn food off to me, claiming that I need it more. It's bullshit. He's taller and needs a lot more calories than I do to survive. He's just never gotten over the guilt of watching me starve alone the first time. He's desperate to prove himself through increased suffering this time.

It's easy to forget their weight loss when we're hiking in full gear during the day. Their beards do most of the work to hide the thinness in their faces. Ronan's, which was once a dark russet, is beginning to streak with grey. He was mortified when we told him, he says that thirty-five is way too young to go grey. But then again, most men at thirty-five haven't orchestrated a war and survived government torture.

I'm incredibly jealous of their facial hair, wishing that I too could have a built-in face warmer to brave the elements. My decision to let Ronan chop off my hair in the first week of travel is a regret that haunts me now. While the tight cropped style is certainly easier to maintain, I miss the warmth of it hugging my cheeks. Gloss says the new style doesn't suit me, but I don't care much about his assessment.

We're on relatively good terms now. It took almost a full month to have a normal conversation with him, then another month before we finally talked about Cashmere. I remember the conversation word for word. I've thought about it every day since.

"You can't go on punishing me for her death forever!" I snapped one evening when patience had worn thin.

"Watch me!" He seethed in return

"It's unfair, you can't tell me that you didn't kill people in the arena. You killed plenty your first time and Ronan said in the Quell you killed Cecilia, Chaff, Nicole, Rome, and Seeder. That's five people! That's thirty-three percent of the deaths in there. You killed them in cold blood, I defended myself one time after you impaled me!" My shouts grew ragged with tears.

Ronan used that moment of silence to excuse himself to piss on a nearby tree.

"Cashmere loved you." His voice was low and quiet. "She had the opportunity to kill you in the arena on the first night, like a golden opportunity, but she couldn't. She told me she couldn't kill you."

"She would have killed me if I ran at her and tried to kill her first!" I insisted.

"I was aiming for your heart with that spear, I only missed because she tried to call me off." His lips rose into a cool sneer. "She was running to help you."