title: honour and grace
pairing: Annie/Finnick, implied Finnick/Glimmer
summary: They told him that if he won the games he would bring honour and grace to the family. They never told him that he'd end up here, smelling like disgusting capitol perfume and throwing up into a toilet. Where are honour and grace now?
a/n: it's more of an AU version of the canon characters; there's a twist at the end of the hunger games in this version, and Annie's childhood wasn't delved into at all during the books, so i didn't expand too much upon that, but more on the early lifestyle. there's probably massive amounts of spag errors throughout this, so i'm sorry in advance for that. i've always imagined Annie as some sort of oracle figure.
warning: A bit of stronger language, and dysfunctional/insane people.
disclaimer: i don't own anything besides the story idea; the characters and everything else belong to Suzanne Collins.
dedication: this is for Ray (liliths) for febi, gge
prompt: modern fantasy au, careers, finnick/annie, history is full of wars fought for a hundred reasons — dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
There's then the fact which is - silence is the perfect water:
to wash minds, to ease our tired eyes,
then dirtied by our endless stream of words.
- Levine
[1]
The day he is born, they ring the bells from sunrise to sunset.
The day she is born, her mother dies. Before the inevitable death, she mutters that this is the unfortunate child, the one with the curse — the curse of the Seer, and the doctors sedate her, ignoring the prophecies and Annie's mother, one last time, holds her child close to her and whispers that it'll be okay - everything will be okay, the time will come for everything to be okay.
Her father knows her forever as the illegitimate child who killed the woman that he loves - it's too soon for the past tense - and everybody hates her forever. There's no hope in the sky - a darkened, day perhaps - and small blue eyes stare up at the harsh world around her; there are other children playing outside, just small games, child's play, and glass shatters across the room, falling upon the face of the child. It all started there, when everybody hated her, because she kept on ruining everything, even from the beginning of her life.
Sometimes, Annie wishes that she could never have been born; it would have been worth it, to escape everything, to never have to deal with the consequences of never being good enough, never being the golden child.
.
She's six years old when the familiar sounds of bells ringing summon the town to the public forum.
It's in the midst of the night - darkness, overwhelming, cloaking the district in a sense of misery - as snow gathers on the sides of the roads, shoveled by peacekeepers who move around awkwardly in bulky uniforms; Annie fingers the metal buttons on her sleeve, tapping a particular rhythm as she is escorted into the public forum, blockaded off with a yellow ribbon and soldiers in one of the front rows, facing the mayor who speaks with utmost sincerity, as though this speech has been rehearsed thousands of times. She's not the stupidest of six year olds - the papyrus cards with thin, ink print lay upon the wooden podium, specks of the material following onto the snow, ensconced in the innocence of white, a camouflage, no doubt.
An array of Capitol individuals stand uncomfortably on the stage, children fidgeting with their expensive clothing and staring back at the threadcloth audience with their blank stares and gaunt faces; a group of Victors remain in the front row, prized smiles displayed on faces because no matter what they say, the Capitol still owns them. "Good day, District four. Sorry to disturb you from sleep, but there have been reports of treason from District Four — people starting a rebellion."
There's the slightest bit of stirring in the crowd, which is silenced by the stares of District Two Peacekeepers, the scene painfully white in the dark of the night, the shadows nonexistent. "Annie," her eldest brother kneels down, whispering in her ear, as though he suddenly cares, after all these years, as if he's cared all along (and if he has, he's done a horrible job of showing it). "Annie, when they take me, you've got to run, okay? You've done nothing wrong. Just remember that. You've done nothing wrong, your mother loved you, I'm doing this because I love you, and this isn't your fault."
She looks up at her only brother with muddled blue eyes, a sea of emotions flickering within. "Okay," Annie meekly responds because she's just a stupid, little girl who never learns from her mistakes, like one of those songbirds in the Capitol, mockingjays, genetic mutations, who have learned through the years to repeat the words of their masters. "Okay, Jaime."
He stands out of the crowd, in the middle of the assembling parting, reaches into his back pocket for a knife and launches the weapon into the air, smiling in a sadistic way as it reaches its target; there's the immediate pause of silence and then the inevitable riot (the massacre, they called it years afterward) and Annie stands numbly as she sees her classmates and her town murdered before her eyes, and thinks that she could have done something to prevent this, and in the aftermath of the bodies and the blood, Annie screams.
It takes about forty-five minutes for the Capitol to find her —
The Capitol always finds you. They strap her up to a board, and stare at Annie with cold expressions and she wonders how these people with their wonderfully fake smiles and fake faces (yesterday Panem, today Panem, always Panem) can be so scrutinizing at the same time, deeper than the shallow shells that they conceive for public appearances.
Her brother loves her, her mother loves her, they were doing this to protect her, none of this is her fault. She repeats the words in her head, chanting them like a mantra, but it doesn't take long for the words to evolve into, Her brother hates her, her mother hated her and died rather than having to see a mistake of a face that she had brought into this world, they were doing this because they despised her, this is all her fault.
She doesn't scream. They strap Annie to the back of a machine, body plugged into wires, and an unfamiliar tingling of her veins echoes throughout, until there's nothing but the cold words of the Capitol imprinted into her mind, and she's released back into the wild.
.
Annie sits on the wet sand, fingers entwined with the gentle waves of the water, honey-flecked eyes looking over the otherwise peaceful scene — there's a flicker in the sunlight where she sees the ocean being replaced by her brother's head falling to the floor (they made her watch, the Capitol; it's all her fault, anyway, so she needs to learn from her twisted little mistakes), the blood spurting across the glass-stained titles, the Peacekeepers, stone and steely, and Annie had thought that they were robots, if they could kill people so easily, without the guilt that settled into the pit of their heart like a black, small stone, expanding throughout their veins until they become distorted, polluted things.
Elsewhere, Finnick is standing in the midst of ripples; there are geese in the water of District Four, and grass collects in the middle; Finnick, at the age of ten (and-a-half, the half being very important in terms of days until his First Reaping, or The Days of Never-Ending Doom), stands next to his burly-looking father, who clutches a trident in one hand, and looks like the god of the sea, framed by the skylight glory of the mid-day atmosphere; Finnick leans against his own relatively smaller trident, and looks out into the sea, and thinks that it's home. "Dad, we've been waiting for hours here - can't we go some place else? There are other spots in the ocean where we can find fish, and it's already getting late, too."
"It's only been fifteen minutes, Nick," his father claims, smiling, and Finnick stabs his trident into the murky depths of the water, searching for something other than a distorted reflection of his own self, plunging the weapon angrily down into the water (when he's older, he'll learn how to plunge the trident into the bodies of people), and casts the weapon into the ripples. "Don't worry, the fish will come. Fishing is a lot like living, Finnick. The best things are worth waiting for."
Finnick tilts his head to the side, rolling his eyes, and thinks that patience is overrated; he takes a breath, and submerges his body into the icy cold water, eyes casting over the grass, sticks blurring his vision. "I get the lesson, Dad. Wait for a while, do nothing, and good things will happen. It seems like a relatively easy concept to follow. Can we go now?"
"Finnick, stand up," his father commands, with the authority that only a former Peacekeeper, reduced to a fisherman on the center of District Four, stabbing his trident and spear into the water with erratic, yet controlled movements, could have; Finnick gets up, with reluctance, and extends his right hand backwards for the weapon, which is held awkwardly in his small, slightly calloused hands. "Every movement that you make sends signals out around you. You train not only your location, but your intentions."
He rolls his eyes for the second time in forever (forever is a very short time, indeed), and honey-flecked eyes cast over the sea which seems to go on forever, and knees brushing against the water, it feels like infinity. "Am I just supposed to stop breathing, so that none of the fish will get scared? I can try doing that, but nobody can do that for long."
"It's not about stopping, Finnick," his father addresses; his father talks to him slowly, in a manner that might have been perceived as condescending if he wasn't ten years old and still respected his father. "It's about controlling your movements. You must be swift, swift as the raging forest with the calmness of the eye of an earthquake, mysterious as the dark side of the Moon; it's all within your capability." Finnick rests his hand upon the top of the trident, flinching back when drops of blood fall from his hand, effusing into the water until the tranquil murky blue shade is retained. "Watch and learn."
With a swift movement, his father stands tall and closes his eyes as though he's meditating, eyes overlooking the mountainous region to the far east; Finnick tries to follow his example, fidgeting nonetheless, chin wobbling slightly as he grows accustomed to the colder temperatures of the water. Moments later, a small fish, scaly, appears in the water; with a somewhat swift movement, he throws the net, his father spears the fish, and they throw the fish into the bucket with the rest of them. "Why can't you just do this, Dad?"
"Someday, Finn, I'm not going to be here anymore, and somebody's going to have take over the family business. You need to learn my skills so that they're not forgotten." Finnick's father walks towards the shoreline, clutching the bucket as though it's a lifeline, heavy weight set on his shoulders casting rough shadows upon the tanned beach. "Are you coming?"
"In a bit," he responds, facing the ocean of infinities—
There is the sound of floundering in the distance, crashes of waves — he feels the disturbance in the water around him, the fish scattering around, hidden behind murky depths; golden-flecked hair bobs up and down upon the surface, and then for a painfully long moment, disappears under; Finnick pedals through the water, arms raised toward the sky of infinities and it feels as the ocean, which was once infinity, is constricting around his shoulders, and the screams and crash of hands upon waves, flailing, increases in pitch as Finnick draws closer to the floundering person. "I got you," he murmurs reassuringly, wrapping an arm around the girl's collarbones, and pulling her alongside to the shore, the sun setting in the distance. "Can you swim?" Finnick asks, once they're upon the shore, the girl pulling her arms across her knees, curling up underneath the heat of the sun; she shakes her head, never making eye contact.
"Why were you in the lake if you can't swim?" He asks the inevitable, staring out into the cavernous landscape — he should get going, by now; his father would be wondering where he had run off to, but for some reason or another, Finnick wanted to stay.
"I didn't want to swim," she murmurs slowly, fingering a bracelet of azure-colored beads which hangs loosely from her wrist, the fraying strings banded together once more under the dampness of the water which still clings to her, covering the girl like a blanket.
"Why were you in the lake, then?"
"I want to drown. Haven't you just sat over here, legs dangling over the side of the rusty smelling nails and wood that could break at any moment, giving way into the tranquil waves beneath, just wanting to submerge yourself in the water, and never come back out?"
"No," Finnick replies, a hint of alarm in his voice; it's then when he starts to get worried — he wonders, for a brief moment, if she's one of those girls who had escaped from the asylum a few weeks back. His teacher had talked about them as though they were dangerous beings capable of colossal damage; the girl in front of him didn't look like she was capable of that. "I haven't. It's a bit messed-up."
"What?" She asks, raising her voice a little louder, her azure blue eyes questioning him with something akin to defiance and anger, as though he's not supposed to think in that sort of way, that optimism is hopeless.
"Uh, nothing; it's a bit messed-up, that's all," he repeats, fingering the sand, and watching the ethereal powder slip out of his hands, molding back into the original sand pile which is scattered across the shore, white remnants sticking to his hand, which still retains tear-shaped droplets of water upon his fingernails which dry up underneath the sun quickly enough.
Annie looks to the empty right for a moment, eyes gleaming with something akin to anger, and continues speaking, avoiding eye contact. "Well, you see, it's like nobody's business what I even do. And, it's not like anybody cares, so—"
He looks at her abruptly, "I care."
"You don't even know me. You can't care." There's the array of mountains in the far distance, and Finnick imagines climbing them; it's one of those vivid dreams that he can imagine himself doing, the rush of exhilaration pounding through his veins that only comes from submerging himself in the water, just staying underneath it. It's not the races or the talent competitions, trying to have a destination from one side of the river or the ocean to the other, that enthralls him - it's just being there.
"I can get to know you," he offers, toothy grin of a child.
"You don't want to do that. You're Finnick Odair — you're going to be the Victor of the Hunger Games someday. I'm not important."
Finnick doesn't know her well enough to know if she's important or not — he doesn't even know her name, but he could find out if he really wanted to, "Okay," he says, awkwardly. (I've never met anybody who's not important in all my life, he should have said, in an ideal world.) He looks back at the drifting ocean, aimless waves, and the fences at the edge of the waterfall in the far distance, and thinks that this isn't quite an ideal world after all.
.
She's sitting on the iron-wrought bench outside of the Training Center when he exits, backpack strapped to one shoulder, ignoring the looks of anger from the upperclassmen that he had beat in a sparring match earlier that day (you're a kid, Odair, not a soldier; but then again, nobody in the Games is a veteran - that's the whole point, that they're all children; soldiers have honor and codes of chivalry, and kids have survival instincts, to kill or to be killed), hand-knitted shawl draped across her shoulders, legs crossed, fingers entwined. "Hey. Um, what are you doing here?"
"Hi, Finnick," Annie murmurs, her voice melodic, like a mockingbird, drifting aimlessly. "Winter is coming," she declares, a lower shift of tone in her voice. "Death and winter."
"It's the seasons, Annie - a cyclic pattern; winter doesn't always necessarily mean death," Finnick says, sitting down on the iron-wrought bench next to her, placing his training backpack on his lap, and removing the knife from his front pocket, which nicks into his thigh — pain is gain, perhaps; that's the motto of the training facilities of District Four - the more pain you experience now, the more rewards you will reap.
She laughs, tilting her head up to the grey sky, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "It does this time. It's going to happen, Finnick, I know it's going to happen."
(And sure enough, it's the worst pandemic of Finnick's lifetime— his eldest brother dies, and Finnick had watched him fall underneath the influence of the hallucenogic drugs that the doctor of the district had mass-produced (the worst is yet to come, he had murmured sadly), and he had been the one to dump his brother's body into a mass grave in the center of town. There wasn't any time for funerals, because of the possibility of one catching the sickness from taking care of the bodies, and the disease inflamed the district like wildfire.)
"How did you know about it?" He visits her asylum common room on a Tuesday morning, hands stained with his mother's blood. Finnick's already lost his brother — he can't lose his mother too, and Annie seems to know more about these sicknesses and pandemics than anybody else he's every known, because his brother was perfectly healthy three months prior, and then all of a sudden, sickness infiltrated through corrupted lungs.
"About what," she mouths, motioning towards the sick patients in the asylum, and raising an eyebrow at his vividly colored visitor badge, a stark different from the grey color-schemed walls of the place, all too grey and plain in a world full of color.
"About the pandemic - for god's sake, how did you know about it?"
"Do you really want to know?" He nods in response, arms crossed. "Follow me," she continues, rolling her eyes, tiptoes trekking upon the flights of staircase that circle around one another, enclosed by an unbreakable glass dome (all the way from the Capitol). The two of them walk into a dusty old room, where the air smells like stale smoke, and books fall down from mahogany-colored shelves, aged with time; Finnick didn't even know that they had books still, assuming that they had either been taken to the Archives of the Capitol or burned by the firefighters. "It's a curse, really. I know things that I shouldn't know, predict colossal damage before it occurs — like the Great Fire a few years back."
"Annie, knowing things like that, it isn't a curse. It's a gift," he murmurs in reverence.
"You don't have any idea how bad this is, Finnick; if the Capitol gained word of my . . . talents, they would take me with them."
"Why wouldn't you want to live in the Capitol? The Capitol's wonderful all time of year, father says, and I've gone there a few times too, for training - everybody's so friendly there, and the adoring crowds fawn."
"Look a little closer next time, Finnick. We're all just toys, pawns in their twisted, little games."
.
They're walking down the streets of District Four —
She thinks that the two of them could be friends - Annie's never quite had a friend before; she slips pocketfuls of sand in and out of her hands, watching them fall upon the paved roads, framed by white picket fences, as though life like this is from a storybook for children (she is not a child), and places the remaining powder in her corduroy pockets, ephemeral dreams pouring in and out.
"Do you want to stop by somewhere and eat something?" He asks aimlessly — Annie has noticed that his words are always carefully chosen, as though there is an inkling of fear subdued within the crevices of a driven mind, that if Finnick says the wrong words, it will end up with his death - he lives as though his life is always on the line, and she wonders whether it is because of the Career training process or perhaps he is like her.
She brushes the thought of her mind - nobody is as messed-up as she is (besides the Victors; the Victors are always dysfunctional people, before and after the Games). The Hunger Games do not change who you are - it only exposes your true colors. "Maybe later."
"Annie —"
"Maybe later, Finnick." Her voice wavers for a moment, her cerulean blue eyes hardening into a steely gaze, but her smile never wavers. Days pass on, and Annie's words are more carefully chosen - the Peacekeepers keep a tighter reign upon the sanitarium, and visits outside are rare, and if they are, they are treasured, though children still sneak out, as though they have all the freedom in the world. In the dark of the night, she nestles herself between warm woolen blankets, and pretends not to hear the gunshots and terrified last words. It is their fault, she thinks, for taking a risk.
The ones who come back tell her that it is worth it - taking a risk, moments of adventure, the overwhelming probability of death - that it is always worth it, and Annie doesn't let herself listen to them, because risky is not who she is.
.
"Why do you like me?" She asks him, not for the first time, on a wintry night - stars cloud upon the landscape, in clumps, brilliantly scattered across the night sky, and Annie thinks that they are like her scatter-brained thoughts; the slightest bit of rain starts to drizzle down upon the beach, the sea thrashing violently as the midnight hour strikes in the center of District Four.
"You're different," Finnick says; Annie thinks that it is a bit of a cliche line, something expected of somebody like Finnick Odair, but smiles nonetheless, and tells herself that it'll be enough - it's not as though she wishes for her life to be filled with misery, to be filled with hopelessness. It is nothing more than she knows that boys like him don't like girls like her, unless for ulterior motives which she doesn't like to think about it, and is expecting that the time will come when he finds someone else. Or maybe she'll find someone else. "Why do you like me?"
Because you like me. "Same reason." They sit on the beach, fingers entwined; silence creeps upon them like the blanket of winter, and it is overwhelming.
.
She meets a boy named James; he's from the asylum, too. Annie watches him walking around town, a half-curved smile on his face, but the look in his eyes as though he's seen too much for too little years, which is all too silly and cliche, because every child in Panem has experienced grievances - they do not all have perfect lives, and they all have their ugly, little secrets, no matter how much they are concealed. The other teenagers make fun of James - of his appearance, of the way his teeth are crooked, of the way his threadbare clothes are skintight to a thin frame, all bones and no muscle - and Annie thinks that he could have been Finnick.
And it wasn't as though Finnick wasn't aware of the situation — James had joined the Academy, the elite training center; he could have stopped the rest of the kids of bullying James. But he didn't - he just sat, and watched, and pretended to see nothing (which, Annie thinks, is better than the alternative, but is still not enough); so, one day, when she is kissing Finnick on the beach, she thought about the new boy with the crooked smile, and how he understood the world, and draws back. It's the first time Finnick and Annie have a fight. "Why are you doing this, Annie?" Finnick asks, demanding tone.
She flinches - he knows that she hates when people yell at her, when people talk at her in a condescending tone; memories of the Peacekeepers still infiltrate her dreams (most often than not, her nightmares) but continues on nonetheless, "He wears plaid shirts and button-downs. He doesn't know how to swim and he used to work in the mines. He's not normal, either."
"How is that important?" He asks; Finnick looks angry then, angry and confused, and she keeps a plain expression, wondering who Finnick is truly mad at.
"He's like me, Finnick. He understands me." Finnick can understand the implied he understands me better than you do and gets off the sand, and leaves.
.
She finds herself back at Finnick's door on a Saturday afternoon - it's one of her least favorite days, Saturdays; the town visits are something to look forward to, but the torture-like questioning (WHY AREN'T YOU NORMAL, WHY CAN'T YOU BE LIKE ALL OF THE OTHER CHILDREN? WHY ARE YOU SO MESSED-UP; and she always answers, I'm sorry, I will be better, but it is a trained, rehearsed lie and everybody knows it) is the downside of the otherwise somewhat decent day. Annie wipes the tears from her eyes, brine mixing from the raindrops that fall from above, but this trickling of the water feels restrained - it is unlike being in the ocean, the deluge of water where she is free. She is at home, there. "Can I come in?"
He stares back at her as though he's insane, before pulling himself together and opening the door a little wider, "Jesus Christ, Annie what are you doing?"
"He found another girl. Lovely James and lovely Maggie; nobody cares about me—"
"I care about you," he murmurs; he looks at her in the way that the girls from the Capitol look at the boys they love in television series - television had come to District Four two years prior - and it's not right, because Annie is a horrible, horrible person, and Finnick is everything but, and she doesn't deserve for him to be looking at her like she's the only girl in the world. It's not right.
"You shouldn't." There's a pause of silence before Annie tilts her head towards the painted, flaky ceiling, eyes skimming over the amassed variety of history textbooks scattered across his bedroom, and her parched lips crack into a toothy smile. "What are you doing, Finnick?"
"That uh, just sort of happened. Do you want to help?" He stands awkwardly, balancing on one leg, clutching the edge of a polished mahogany bannister for support — out of the corner of her eyes, Annie sees maids and butlers moving around the house of the Victor's Village (his father had won, oh so many years prior) and thinks that they are from different worlds, but that is not important (for now).
"Okay," is a tentative answer because she is a tentative person, and at the end of the day, who she is, is all she has left.
.
Beers are cracked, so are jaws.
Annie stands at the outskirts of her house at the edge of town, the refurnished one, and thinks that perhaps a celebration for her release from the Sanitarium would not be the best way of going around things, and wipes sleep away from her eyes, and loses herself in deluges and swirls, all the while, spiraling downwards, consistency the key.
I can be normal, she tells herself, James will like me if I'm normal. He likes normal girls. Maggie's normal, because Annie is still a weak, stupid girl and everybody but her knows it.
.
"You're in a freaking love triangle. Things like these are in the Capitol; you're becoming one of them, aren't you?" Maggie asks a week after the unfortunate circumstances of the party; James had said that he loved her. It was unexpected, sudden, and unbelievable - love at first sight doesn't happen. It just doesn't. That's infatuation, and infatuation is ephemeral, and she's already had enough fleeting things in a lifetime. "You just have to choose which guy you want, and it's not that hard really - you love one of them like a friend, and the other one you actually love. And it's Finnick. It's always going to be Finnick."
She picks up a pocketful of sand, and walks across the shore with Maggie, sitting down upon the dusty rocks and looking across the blue horizon line on the mountain range, and imagines jumping off the mountain - the exhilaration and the peril, an alluring and dangerous combination, but most alluring things are dangerous, and Annie is not a risk-taking person. "And you don't have any bias in the matter?"
"James and I are over, Annie. He has other priorities, and I'm not going to ruin my life running after a guy who's in love with you. It's sort of stupid, really - I've got better things to do. Don't you?" She replies with silence, because no, I honestly don't have any other opportunity in my life, isn't the type of answer that people want and Annie's learned that the only way to survive is to do what people want you to do, say what they want to hear; you do not question the authority, and you remain alive (for a while).
Hours later, in the Odair parlor, where the three congregate, she chooses Finnick. Because it's always been him, and it'll always be the boy with the sea blue eyes and the kind smile, because she thinks that he is not ephemeral, that he is dependable. "Jesus Christ, you can't keep doing this, Annie."
"I know," she says, but she doesn't know anything.
But he kisses her because she chose him nonetheless (for now) and it's enough (for now).
.
At the outskirts of town, surrounded by folk music and something from the Irish heartland (yet another country Panem had ruined) resides throughout the District; she spins around an ancient oak tree, surrounded by a circle of clapping people, friends and family, Finnick hopes but knows differently, and she just looks so effortlessly happy, spinning around, tulle of pink satin dress spinning around, as though Annie's floating on air. James walks up behind him, arms crossed, "Finnick, you've got to get back to training." James and him are friends. Sort of. They're allies, and allies are more important than friendships in a world like Panem.
"I'll be there," he murmurs, mind lost in a daze.
"Just don't get your hopes up. She plays with hearts like they're games."
"You were the one who screwed it all up," Finnick says; James flinches, and stares at the ground, and Finnick knows that he has hit a sore spot - Maggie has always been his weakness - but feels a sick sort of pleasure nonetheless.
"Every story has two sides," James says, and throws a stone at the brick wall, and Finnick wonders if he wants to know the truth. He is a child at heart, and children cling onto lies (and dreams - but the world is not carved out of dreams; it is carved out of nightmares), he thinks that no, the truth is too bitter and he would not like to know (for now).
[2]
It starts off as a glorious day —
The type that Annie had seen in movies, where magic really could exist instead of remaining in her bitter dreams; the sun shines down upon the District Four landscape, and she's never felt as though she's belonged anywhere else but here. If we die, we die, but first we'll live, she thinks to herself. She sits by the water, hair tied back into a fishtail braid, legs draped across layers of sand, toes flitting in the ocean; the mountains rise in the distance, voluminous figures and Annie wonders what would happen if she tried to climb one of them, the thrill rushing through her spine. Finnick sits down beside her, the two of them looking out across the horizon; she walks over to one of the several trees which line the landscape, feet grappling upon the branches until she balances upon the top of the tree, and feels invincible (for now). "You should come up here, Finnick," Annie murmurs in a dazed, oblivious tone.
"Annie, you've got to come down. The reaping's in an hour," Finnick says and Annie thinks that he is reliable and he is dependable, and he will not leave her, but he is a normal boy, and Finnick does not understand her the way that he used to when they were children; when they were children, everything was so much easier, she thinks.
"It's really lovely," she says, inhaling a gulp of fresh air, and wondering how many more breaths of fresh air she will be able to take before it is polluted once more, because it's the evitable, really, the destruction of nature. The Capitol destroys everything that is beautiful, and they turn it into fake robots and machines that repeat what the President wants them to say, until they are no longer useful.
"I've got to go, Annie."
"Don't leave — everybody leaves me. You're no different than the rest, aren't you?" Because Finnick is normal, and this recent discovery of the bitter, bittersweet truth hurts more than it should.
"I'll come back, Annie. I promise." Promises are made to be broken.
.
"Annie Cresta," the escort calls.
.
"Finnick Odair," the name echoes.
.
There's a one-two-three knock on the door; Annie can discern the creaking of the heavy steps of the Capitol-owned facility, and tilts her head to the side, almost smiling as her adoptive father heaves into the room, her second stepmother following suit, a small dog silenced by the withering glare of a Peacekeeper, who stands inside of the room, white suit blending in with the room, which without color, resembles more of a cell than a holding area. "Oh, wow, lovely," Annie smiles with a toothy grin, looking over the assembled audience, "So nice of you to come."
"Annie, darling, this wasn't supposed to happen to you," the step-mother, with her fake red extensions envelops Annie in what she thinks is meant to be an endearing display of affection, completely inappropriate for the time and setting. What use was emotions when she was to be dead in days? Because Annie was intelligent enough to know that there wasn't much of a chance for a small girl to survive in the games; that sort of lifestyle wasn't meant for her, she thinks, but returns the hug, nonetheless.
"It's fine." She closes her eyes, and thinks of the calming sea. "You can go now."
(They've already left.)
.
"Hi." The word flows out like a melody, sweet dulcet tunes resembling the tune of a mockingbird, echoing through the cavernous expanse of nothing, perhaps falling into an infinite oblivion.
"Hi," Finnick echoes, his harsh voice scratching the atmosphere. Together, they stare into the world of infinities, and cast a farewell glance upon District Four - they will both return, that they know of. Whether they return intact (but not even the strongest makes it out of the Games without scars, whether physical or mental scars) or in a glass coffin with a nametag and funeral bills, that is the question they will not ask.
[3]
.
The day of the public interviews goes by quickly enough, and Annie thinks that it could have gone better; Glimmer comes off as the most beautiful girl, sure to win sponsors from some of the male members of the crowd, and Marvel comes out as a comical individual who hides his sheer stupidity under humor; Finnick is strong and courageous, the ultimate killing machine, and she's just a little girl with a silly dress and a snappy attitude. When Lover Boy utters those words (those words that change everything), she came here with me, Annie knows that she should grimace.
So, she does - she doesn't show her inner emotion, because that's the easiest way to be killed in the Games - but it's not the Games anymore, now is it?
.
The Games is horrid —
There's the constant stench of blood in the air, and if that isn't enough, the blood permeating through the polluted atmosphere, and if that's not enough, there is the booming sound of a cannon; the song of the Games is a melodic tune that boils her blood; she stares blankly into the forest where Finnick and Glimmer are sitting upon a rock, and their lips brush against each other. She knows that this is for the cameras, but it still hurts, nonetheless. Everything hurts more than it should. "Lovely Finnick and lovely Glimmer," Annie drawls out the words in a sing-song voice. "Lovely Finnick and lovely Glimmer are kissing."
"We're not doing that," they say. Annie smiles a lopsided, toothy grin that seems to come too naturally to her, and presses a kiss on his cheek — a chaste action, and he almost flinches from it, backing up towards a tree. She slaps him hard, then, and stomps off in the opposite direction, her stomp transforming into a skip only moments later, feet launching across the grassy expanse.
"Go after her," Glimmer acknowledges, moments later, circles of smoke piling upon a stub of a cigarette which she crushes with sharp toenails, cigarette ashes scattered across the grass (if I die, I might as well die happy).
"I'd rather stay here," Finnick murmurs, fingers fidgeting because this is not who he is, and he is lost his identity, and he promised himself that the Games would not change who he is.
"Stop lying, and go after her before I kill you both." The words are said in a gentle tone, but then Finnick's reminded of the situation they're in — it's the Hunger Games, after all, and it's killed or be killed, and things like this just can't get in the way. Sentiment is an emotion, it is a weakness - he remembers how he used to use Maggie against James, and thinks that he has developed a flaw, a weak spot in an otherwise strong facade of armor, and thinks that it is okay to feel human emotions. He'll be alive and human for as long as he can be.
.
He finds her in the morning, braiding flowers into a crown. "Isn't it so lovely today?"
"I don't understand."
"Just look around, Finnick; everything's just so lovely. Do you see that bird over there? It's a mockingjay; it echoes notes and tunes and melodies and it's infinite," she grins a toothy smile, stretching out her arms and enveloping the fresh breeze of air that can only be the harbinger of deaths and cannons to come. "We're all just infinite."
"Annie, you have to come back." The girl in front of him is there, but he looks in her dazed eyes and thinks that she has fallen off the cliffs into oblivion, because this is not his Annie.
"I don't want to, Finnick. It's so beautiful out here. Can't you see how beautiful everything is, today?"
"I love you, Annie," he murmurs, words faint on his lip like a promise,
"You don't love me, Finnick. I love you, you fancy me but you really love Glimmer. But you can't have her because in order for you to survive, she's going to have to die. We all are, in the end, going to die."
"You're not going to die, Annie." He doesn't correct her previous statement, because even though Finnick knows that he doesn't love Glimmer - she tastes like fire and burning pits of death, and that is not alluring; that is dangerous, and there is a blurred line between the two these days - Annie does not believe him anymore, and that's what hurts the most.
"Stop saying that, Finnick. I'm going to die. We're all going to die."
"Why do you always say that?"
"Because it's true."
"It's a bit messed-up living like that."
"We're all a bit messed-up though, aren't we? We're in the Games, Finnick. Isn't that a bit messed-up too?"
.
Something slips in her brain, a spark ignited and Annie fumbles in the darkness of the water remembering the words Finnick had told her all those years prior — breathe, reach your hand for shore, breathe, feel the shore, breathe — and a few words call her back to the reality. They collide, enfold, lose their balance and slide against a tree; where they stay, clinging into one being, indivisible, as though they couldn't live without the other - how ironic that must be in out of all places, the Games; star-crossed lovers, no doubt - and nobody seeing them could deny their love. He pulls back from the embrace; Marvel looks at him, mouthing, we have to go now. Before it's too late, and he presses his lips to Annie's one last time (because it might never happen again, but Finnick can't think like that) and stands up, fingering his inadequate sword, wishing for a better weapon, in the corner of the semi-permeable structure that the four of them had built for themselves. A temporary home or something akin to that. "I've got to go, Annie—"
She stands up, milky blue eyes wild, and Annie squints harder, another prophecy filling through her eyes, and it's the curse of a Seer — to see what's going to happen and have no chance of avoiding one's destiny; it's destiny for a reason, and it can't be stopped. It just can't, and that's what hurts the most. "No, Finnick, you can't go. You aren't going to come back, NO YOU CAN'T GO, YOU'RE GOING TO DIE OUT THERE, THE PLAN IS GOING TO GO TERRIBLY WRONG AND YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT, don't you?" She pleads, pulling on his training uniform.
"I've got go, Annie." Are those his last words? She thinks to herself as the door closes.
"You promised that you wouldn't go," she tells nobody. He's out the door for less than five minutes when Annie feels the stab of a silver arrow in her stomach and collapses to the ground; the prophecy wasn't about Finnick, it was about her.
[4]
They told him that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Well, they lied.
Is it possible to love somebody so completely they simply can't die? I'm a murderer (a survivor) . . . can't I just keep one life? He thinks to himself, knife clenched within his head, blood drops falling onto the grass. "I've always wanted to love someone." The words are abrupt and harsh on Annie's tongue - Finnick stands above her dying body, and thinks them to be unnecessary; any more words, and then there would be a last breath, and the nothing (he's watched people die, but Annie's different). She's supposed to be different, and then if she ends up losing (because life is only a game, here in the Arena), then there's nothing to stop him from the numbness becoming a weakness, a stinging pain. "I guess that you'll have to do."
He doesn't cry when the hovercraft comes for her body - Finnick places on the Ancient Roman-styled armor from District's 4 knapsack onto his chest, and stalks off into the grasslands, numb and dead, but then again, he's been dead for a long time, now.
There's numbness when the golden circlet is placed upon his head, declaring him Victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games! as if the title is something to be admired; Finnick's won a title for killing twelve innocent people, a title for surviving the longest. The only prize for winning the Hunger Games is endless amounts of money, a house in the Victor's Village, the loss of your identity which transforms into the Capitol's grasp, the loss of your dignity, and the gain of insanity.
They told him that if he won the games, he would bring honour and grace to the family. They never told him that he'd end up here, smelling like disgusting Capitol perfume and throwing up into a toilet. Where are honour and grace now?
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notes: please leave a review xx
updates: right now i am working on a sansajoffrey thing for a song of ice and fire so i will try to finish that before march 2nd along with a fi exchange + hpfc challenge/competition drabble