Hey again ;)
So I am super excited about this story. I've always wondered about Finnick and Annie's relationship and how they came to be. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I decided to write it down. And I'm in love with both of these characters, so writing them has been so much fun. Also, updates might come a little more frequently at the beginning because I've already written some chapters of the story. I wanted to know where I was going with this before I decided to put it up here, so I already have some ideas brewing. But of course, I'm always open to suggestions or comments, because reviews are like receiving little personal hugs throughout my day to make it better.
I really hope you guys like this. PLEASE let me know what you think. I plan to continue this for a good while.
So without further ado, Chapter One... (plus a little prologue for some extra insight haha)
P.S.- This first chapter's a little short, but I promise they will quickly become longer
Prologue: Innocence
"You must like seashells," I say, picking up a fistful of sand and watching it run through my fingers.
"I do," she says, her little voice defiant. "Don't you?"
"I guess," I say, not really impressed. "But I like the colorful ones. They're better to look at than these boring white ones."
She's already shaking her blonde wisps of hair back and forth as she listens to my reasoning. "No, that's where you're wrong, Fin." She sounds so much more mature than I am, wise beyond her years, as she strokes the soft, white shell in her hand. "The white is prettiest. It's pure. That's what my mother says. She wore a big white wedding dress the day she married my daddy because white means purity. It means innocence. It's like… a new beginning." Her voice is dreamy and far off, and it seems to carry out past the sand and dance across the waves.
My five-year-old brain is miffed by her little rant. "What's innocence?" I ask stupidly.
"It's newness," she murmurs. "It's like being free of everything bad."
"And that's white?" I ask skeptically.
"Yes," she says, her startling green eyes even then shining with a soft spoken, kind light. She's smiling at the sea, her tiny hand clutching the white shells. "It's my favorite color."
I've had enough of her playing the smart one. And I'm also feeling like she might be crazy—how can white be someone's favorite color when it's not really a color at all? So I chime in, "Do you know what the color white means at sea?"
She looks over at me with wide eyes and whispers, "No. What does it mean?" We are both staring at each other very seriously. She genuinely wants to know.
"It means danger. The color that used to mean danger was red, but sometimes the red was too hard to see during sunset or at night. So they changed it to white. So white doesn't always mean good things," I finish, trying to sound as smart as her and ultimately failing.
"Oh," she says, her little blonde brows furrowing. "Well, I still think it's something good and pure." The conviction in her voice is unmistakable.
"Well, I don't think so," I retort, brushing the sand off my tan legs.
"Well, you can go ahead and think what you like, Finnick Odair. But I am probably right." Her eyes widen again and her eyes squint as she back tracks through her brain, realizing the words she's just said. "Sorry, Fin. That was mean. I'm not always right." She pauses briefly then continues talking. "I have to go home now. My mother will yell at me if I'm late again."
"Okay," I nod, standing up quickly. "I will see you tomorrow."
She bobs her head in agreement. "Bye. I'm going with my daddy tomorrow."
"So am I."
With that, she spins and hurries off, her white dress billowing in the dinnertime breeze. The air that whizzes past my nostrils with her passing smells like briny salt and the very comforting scent of vanilla. She smells… pure.
So as I turn away from our beach and begin the short walk home, I scoop up a handful of white shells and decide secretly that white is pure and innocent and beautiful. Even though the next day I'll continue to argue with her that it's not.
But it is. Just like her.
Just like Annie.
Chapter One: Reaping
I look past the symmetrical, stone-paved square and over the walls of the store-lined streets towards the sea. It glistens as the sun shines on it, turning the usual dark blue a bright turquoise. With the mood of the district settling into my mind and making me cringe away from the bad memories, I welcome the familiar sight of the ocean. It feels like home and reminds me of my father, even when its magnificence is so out place here on this doomed holiday.
I'm suddenly five years old again, watching my father as he wades into the water, the silvery ripples tugging against the dark hair of his legs. He looks strong and capable as he positions his body, trident in one hand and net in the other. His face wears a look of concentration that he reserves only for days like this, fishing out here in what he calls his sea. My mother always says that my father grew up more comfortable with the sand and salt and water than in his own home, and I don't doubt her for one second. My father's face appears lighter and less worn, the wrinkles smoothed out on his leathery forehead, when he stands like this, face turned towards the ocean. I can almost imagine the horizon leaking sunlight across the glistening, white-capped waves, the rays slowly sinking into his face. At five years old, this is how I know my father. I know him as the strong man with the sturdy, born-for-fishing hands, delicate enough to handle the soft, woven nets, yet strong enough to pull in large sea bass that he sells at several markets near the square. He is exactly what I aspire to be. A good man with a bright smile and an easy, natural humor that makes the room feel more buoyant. He is afraid of nothing, and in my small, child-like mind, I realize that he must be a hero. And in a way, I guess you could say my father was my hero. He taught me everything I know now: about fishing, about tridents and spears, and about the importance of living life to its fullest.
He gave me what I needed to survive that hellish arena.
I sigh, a big, gusty breath, pushing that thought out of my head. Focus Finnick, I tell myself. It's just today. Get it over with, and then you can forget about it. As soon as I think those words, I almost laugh. Right, because today is the only day I have to pretend to be something I'm not for the Capitol.
That couldn't be farther from the truth. But to keep me sane, I pretend that what I've convinced myself is real. That after this, I can go home and breathe a sigh of relief, free of the Capitol and the Games. It just makes the day more bearable.
I used to be terrified of reaping day. I would stand in my roped-off section with all my friends from school, trying to appear tough as I watched our district's escort, LaBelle Driscoll, reach in with her glitter-encrusted nails to pick the name of the next victim. Those first two years, I remember letting out heavy sighs of relief. It wasn't me. I convinced myself it would never be me. I just couldn't imagine it. I felt what everyone else felt, that mix of relief and shameful guilt as you watched the kids who you maybe had known or seen walk up the stage to their imminent death. It was never easy.
But a few days after my fourteenth birthday had passed and I was standing in the sweltering heat once again, roped-off in the square, my name was called. And somehow, I kept it together for my family. For my father, my mother, my younger sister Cora. I wasn't going to let them mourn for me. My mother and sister fell apart, but my dad was the one who had gripped me by the sleeves, gazed into my eyes, and said, almost demanded, "You will win. You have it in you, Finnick. I know it."
And with that, they were all gone, rushed out of the Justice Building, back to our cottage that lie right next to the breezy, salty sea. Cora's sobs haunted me as she left, her bronze hair matted and sticking to her face.
In that moment, I decided to try for them. For my family, I would try. All my life, I had never gone down without a fight.
And those Games, the 65th Hunger Games, I did exactly what I had come to do. To win, to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible in order to get back to my family.
But when I finally thought I was free, done with the sick games of the Capitol for life, I found myself even deeper in than before.
"Finnick?" I hear a voice whisper, calling me out of my daze as the painful memories start to twist inside my mind, knotting into my brain like the golden fishnets my mother used to weave.
It's Mags, my old mentor who slowly over time became the only person I could ever trust again. I relax at the sound of her garbled drawl, feeling a tiny bit of the tension release in my back muscles.
"I'm fine," I assure her, but it's just a breath. We are on the stage now, the all too familiar sound of LaBelle's heels clacking against the recently-polished surface. Her hair is a frightening bright red color, and since last Games she has had diamond gems embedded into her skin that sparkle as she struts around. I hold back a laugh and glance over to see Mags smiling as well at LaBelle's frazzled manner.
She's speaking in rushed hysterics to Mayor Tate, who assures her that everything is to go as planned. Once she hears this she seems to settle down, rubbing her palms together and beginning in that chirpy, Capitol-accented voice.
I tune her out completely, and try to at least pretend to pay attention to the video being projected across the front of the Justice Building. The man's voice drabbles in the background, detailing that same story that I've heard enough to last a lifetime.
It's only when LaBelle finally makes her way over to the two daunting glass balls center stage that I focus my attention. Already I hate the thought of having to mentor two more kids through hell. It's a hopeless situation, but I'm here every year, coaching and supporting and persuading until I realize there's no need to hope anymore. Last year, it was particularly hard when a boy I had grown quite fond of during the mentoring process, Sam, was killed by a crazed tribute from eight. But then again, it's never been easy, no matter if you take the time to actually get to know the kid. I don't even try to think about the previous years, and the previous kids I've watched die, feeling somehow responsible for them not making it home. But in comparison to the other horrors I've faced over these past five years since being crowned a victor, my time in the arena seems almost easy.
It makes me almost laugh humorlessly that that's what it has come down to. As if participating in the Hungers Games is easier than all of this that's happening to me right now.
The air hums with electricity as the population waits, and I hold my breath in anticipation. LaBelle's hand is in the large bowl now, digging and searching for that 'perfect' slip, as she refers to it. When she comes upon a tiny folded square, she snatches it out and gracefully steps to the microphone.
"Annie Cresta!" She chirps, somehow wearing a bright, Capitol-enhanced smile amidst the serious crowd. "Where are you darling? Ah, come now! Don't be shy!"
I see the initial shock. I see LaBelle's look of excitement that disgusts others every year. I see the usual grim, dissatisfied disapproval lurking in many people's eyes, the same as every year. I see an old, withered man, the girl's grandfather, stumbling and fighting against the Peacekeepers uselessly, lamenting the almost-certain death of his granddaughter. I see LaBelle clap her hands together as a girl steps forward from the safety of the crowd, somehow even more beautiful than the last time I saw her as she makes her way to the stage with a slow, deliberate walk. All of these things I register with my own eyes, but I'm not thinking about them. My mind is trained on one thing. Her.
Her face has changed so much in these last few seconds. She already looks worn down and beaten by fear, as if she knows this will be an excruciating weight to bear. Her mouth is pressed into a hard line, and her alarmed eyes try to fight tears. I cringe, and I know Mags notices, but I'm not paying attention to her.
Annie Cresta had once been my best friend.
Our fathers used to work together at the shipyard, hauling off supplies on short voyages and fishing in their free time together. Since the time I could walk, I'd been stuck with Annie, our parents scooting us towards each other so we would play together while they worked. Sometimes we would be with our mothers in the net-making shop, other times in the large shipyard with our fathers. No matter where we were though, we were always together. When school came around, we walked the road every day side by side, even though we were two grades apart. After school, we would sit on the beach and I would teach her how to snare or spear fish, but only if she'd teach me another knot to practice tying afterwards. Day after day I watched her fragile hands expertly knot and tug her rope until she beamed at the finished product. At first, I didn't notice how beautiful she was. I was outgoing and witty; she was timid yet extremely insightful and a little sarcastic if you got to know her well enough. I think I was about thirteen, her eleven, when I finally noticed her beauty: her bright, sea-green eyes, her blonde waves, the way the sunlight glinted off her bronze skin and slender figure. And ironically, just a few months later, I lost her. For good.
I knew things would change with the Games, but when I finally won, I just couldn't burden anyone with the situation at hand. She came to my family's funeral, and I knew she wanted me to tell her what was wrong. Why I was avoiding her. Why we weren't friends anymore.
But I couldn't. Telling your best friend you're being forced into prostitution in order to keep those you still love alive isn't an easy thing to spit out.
Even though I only was fourteen, I saw the way Capitol women looked at me and marveled at my cocky, smooth behavior that was supposed to all be appearance for my Games. All of that changed though when they started wanting me. They didn't care if I was a child, and to them, I grew up fast into a young, dashing man that would be lovely to have over for the night.
Annie didn't necessarily understand that. And I never told her. I missed her every day, but these past five years, the Capitol has consumed my life so much that I hardly can recognize myself or my own thoughts. My life is a puppet string, tied to the Capitol, and I am whatever they want me to be. But whenever I'm at home, she comes back to my mind in fleeting moments. When I see a perfectly woven knot, or on days when the ocean seems to mimic her mesmerizing eyes. Now, I pity her and myself, wishing that I'd somehow had the courage to say something to her after I'd won the Games. Anything but the silence I gave her.
But I guess it's too late for that now.
I'm too wrapped up in the thought of Annie being reaped, with myself as her mentor, to even notice the boy tribute. I only catch his name. York Shell. Him I don't know at all. Then again, these past few years I've spent so much time in the Capitol that it doesn't surprise me I can't remember all these names of children from around the district.
Next to me, Mags sighs as Annie and York shake hands. He looks almost excited, a smug sneer of confidence and determination on his face, and already I can tell he's a Career. Annie on the other hand, looks timid and frightened. Her sea-green eyes are wide, but I can tell she is trying to hide the fear. Something about that expression looks familiar to me, and I stare at her, trying unsuccessfully to get her eyes to meet mine so that she knows I understand what she's going through. I've seen that same pair of terrified eyes almost every year. I once wore that expression myself.
The tributes are led into the wide doors behind us to say goodbye to family and friends. Mags and I don't get the chance to introduce ourselves as they're rushed off to their respective rooms, so we settle in to wait the hour out. I help Mags sit down on one of the worn green loveseats inside the door, and as I fiddle with my hands next to her, Mags rubs gentle circles on my back. Even though I haven't told her, she knows that Annie Cresta is more to me than just another tribute. She won't ask though unless I offer to tell her, which is one of the things I love about Mags. She never pushes you to do anything you don't want to.
When we are finally boarding the train that will whisk us off to the Capitol, I notice Annie's puffy, red eyes widen in surprise at the rich foods and luxurious compartments, but she still doesn't make eye contact with me. York's of course are bright and untainted. Mags seems to be ready to fall asleep, and I myself could use a nice nap, or even better, a swim in the ocean. My father's sea, with the water slowly washing over my skin and eradicating the griminess and worthlessness that comes along with mentoring. The same sea that reminds me of home and how things used to be, before I won the Games and became known and loved by all the crazy women of the Capitol. The sea that on good days reminds me of Annie's eyes. I crave those blue waves that promise safety and security; that show me there is still some shred of innocent, untainted beauty somewhere out there in this unforgiving world.
But as the train glides away, I watch my sea fade with a sinking feeling.
This is going to be one hell of a long ride.
