I'm having way too many dreams about the Hunger Games lately.

A much longer chapter this time, but the plot does thicken so I implore you fiction foragers to keep on going, and hopefully you'll like what you find. Of course if you do enjoy it, please do leave me a review so that I know if I'm going in the right direction; also if you are so gracious as to favourite or alert this story, please do leave me a little comment.

And so the story continues.

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VII. Tap At My Window

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The Reaping was a month away; thirty days left of an unknown fate.

Silence had inflicted the town like a plague, as though at night all our tongues had been stolen away by a horde of cats.

Even Finnick was scared; his eyes often drifting to some elegiac reality, from which I'd rescue him with a nudge to the ribs. I tried to keep my thoughts away from the sickening dread of what was to come, for the sake of both of us. Finnick was at breaking point; I could see it in his darting eyes and knitted brow, as though at the slightest provocation he was going to bolt for it.

Nights were the worst. You could fill your day with menial tasks, but it was when the sun set that the demons emerged. They slipped out from the crevices of your mind, hid in the corners you forgot, to then surface, filling your mind with flashes of previous bloodbaths. The Games could never be forgotten, but for the most of the year you could delude yourself into believing they weren't real, surreal and intangible. Yet at night the fears became irrational and overwhelming, stuffing themselves down your throat to stifle your screams.

My dreams were plagued with the image of that siren, twisting about in the water. Her emaciated bones punctured my dreams, infecting them with dark, grimy waters.

She made no sound, but passed through the escapes my mind constructed with the resonance of glass shattering. Her mouth, plump with cuts and bruises stayed firmly shut, as though she was forbidden to speak. I hardly saw her face though; my mind was rather distracted by the sharp angles of her starved body, the deep gashes that ravaged her skin. One night the chunk missing from her leg began to bleed a churning mess of hot black tar and the only way to stop the convulsions her body was thrown into was the sever her leg with a blade so hot it fused my hand to the handle.

Her face was always covered and I was only able to catch glimpses of an eye or the curve of her mouth; the rest of her face always remained covered in swathes of saturated hair. But from what I could see those eyes held a striking familiarity, hidden behind her stained sandy hair. The gash across her forehead was like second mouth, red and raw, sometimes the white bone of her skull shining out like a row of glinting teeth. The flaps of skin floated in the air whispering out harsh cruelties, in no words that formed a speech. Her blood was her languages, spiraling out in the air like a script.

The siren was becoming too comfortable in plaguing my dreams. She was a projection of my mind, and so I could rationalize our physical similarities out, telling myself that the fragments of my imagination drew from my own characteristics. Yet there was still an unwavering unease. The only comforting difference between us being that she was a woman and I was still a child, yet I found that still threatening.

A ripple of noise broke me from my thoughts.

I was back in my bed, alone in the tangle of sheets.

There was a light patter, a sound not too dissimilar to that of a marble dropping. It was enough to rouse me from my hazy pondering, and so I let out from my covers; to find a small pebble on my wooden floor. It seemed such an odd shape, but holding it up to my distorted sight, I could see why. A slip of paper, ripped from one of the markets bags was attached. In the darkness it was hard to make out the wild scribble written across it; haggard loops and precarious, ill formed symbols read:

Meet me by the rocks, early as possible. We're going back to the islands - F

It took some time for my sleep laden mind to make sense of it, but my heart was quick to swell with the thought of returning to our secret luxury, the place where the world had no hold on us, the place I needed so desperately.

I poked my head out the window, a face full of salty night air, watching that bronze haired boy race back into the dark.

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'The sea's a little rougher today,' Finnick remarked, his hands tightly grasping the two oars. We were half way out to sea, the sun still low in the sky from where it had only just peaked above the horizon.

The waves reminded me far too much of the last time we'd crossed these waters; where I'd been convinced he'd throw me and his broken trident out of the boat.

Together, we'd fixed it on my bed. I'd been confined to days of rest after my brush with drowning; left with a pounding head and fatigue right down to my bones. Finnick had come each day, bringing new shells and stories to keep me from jumping out the window from confinement. He'd curled up on my bed like a cat; the both of us sitting on either end, coming up with escape plans. He'd brought the trident on the fourth day, the broken shards in the one hand, and a sopping ball of kelp in the other. Together we'd hesitantly worked as one, fusing the two halves together, making more of a mess than anything. But we'd been able to laugh about it, eventually, and so it felt as though our quarrel was behind us. He'd even taken to teasing me about it, shielding the trident from me, making great leaps and bounds to jump out the way if I tripped anywhere near him, but always with a crooked smile plastered across his face.

Yet I still felt unease crossing thought waters. Perhaps from the past, but part of me believing it was more to do with the uncertainty of our future. This could be my last time coming to the island.

We made it onto the shore easy enough, and the island seemed to spring into life at our arrival. Calls of thickly plumed birds drew us into the forest once again to discover the sumptuous sights our eyes had once devoured. It was as though someone had stopped time, for the island hadn't changed in the slightest since we had been here last. We followed the same path as before, and yet each flower, each vine was still immaculately frozen.

We trekked our way up to the cave a while after midday, and so ate our lunches of crabmeat, expertly caught with Finnick's reunited weapon, on the rocks. We were both quick to consume, eager to explore the cave further.

The pools were situated at the far side of the cave. Smaller ones, a foot deep surrounded a far larger pool, a circle that radiated out from light green waters. Shafts of light sprung from the cave's mouth, and the cracks in the rock roof above illuminated the waters with a strange glow. The steady trickle from the long stalactites above sent a light ripple about its surface, soft waves lapping at its edge. This pool looked far deeper than it's smaller sisters, and so I dipped a toe in, sending waves resonating out across the pool. The waters were surprisingly warm, the mountain's blood dissipating out slowly with my disruption.

Finnick beside me lost his shirt and shorts quickly, wading far out into the pool, soon having the tread water.

'Annie come in, the water's so warm,' Finnick called, his face elated as he submerged himself, diving to the bottom of the pool. I took his disappearance as a chance to shed my own clothes, dropping my dress and swimming out in my underclothes. I knew I shouldn't be conscious of my body around Finnick, he'd never so much as taken a glance at anywhere other than my face. Yet compared to the other girls my age I was like a stray cat. My limbs were far too long and thin for my body and I had not a curve on me, nothing like those Capitol women who languidly swayed about on the screens. They moved as though they were jellyfish, floating through the air like balloons, the heavy clothing they wore and the succulent foods they ate being the only thing holding them down. The only reason I might blow away was for my lack of flesh. But I guess I was still only a girl, though my racing mind felt as though it might be seventy odd years old.

'Annie,' Finnick called snapping me out of my daze. I'd been standing half submerged, staring off into the glassy waters.

'Sorry,' I said shaking my head.

'Up in the clouds?' he asked, splashing water at me.

'Something like that,' I lowered myself in slowly until the waters came up to my shoulders, relishing at the warmth and colours around me.

'I think the pool's a tunnel,' Finnick said swimming to and from me in excitement.

'How'd you mean?'

'Underwater, if you look, it carries on and not too far I think.'

I dived under the water, taking a short breath. From behind Finnick legs I could see how the pool extended, under the cave's back wall. The water was still light, so it couldn't carry on for too far; there must be another connecting pool on the other side. But still, the water's distortions made it hard to tell how far exactly it went on for.

'Do you think we could do it on one breath?' My question caused his brows to knit.

'Sure,' Finnick let out a crooked smile, the smile that wasn't so bold and flashy, the smile for only me; shut down my voice of reason, and together we took a long breath and dived under the water.

His hand grasped mine and pushing past the thousands of tiny bubbles racing towards the surface, we swam deeper.

The passage was far shorter than I had thought, and after several meters we surfaced once again, still hand in hand. Together we waded out into the shallow regions of the pool, this one far larger than it's other mouth. The cave we were in now was large, Finnick's call echoing lightly.

From floor to ceiling the rock face looked as though it was on fire. The flickers of light played about its walls, as though we had stepped in a chamber of the mountains heart. The light, radiant and glowing was alien almost in a place I had expected to be so dank, for a large section of the ceiling had caved in. The fallen rocks littered the floor about the pool, all illuminated by the now setting sun. It had felt like our last meal only a short while ago, and yet out of the cut away I could see that the sun was setting; the white-hot eye ready to blink and submerge herself under the rippling waves.

We found a spot on one of the largest rocks, and sitting on its highest point we were fully exposed to the dying sunlight, it's residual rays drying us of saturation. I found myself lulling almost into a warm sleep, my hand still in his, before his soft voice broke out into the cave's silence.

'My mother would have liked it here,' Finnick remarked quietly, his gaze turned out to the sun.

Finnick hardly spoke of his mother. She'd cropped up a couple of times in our conversations, but he'd never upheld any further questions on her. From what I could remember she was a young woman, but a fear had taken over her after Finnick's birth and she seldom left their cottage. I'd heard the whispers passed about the market place about the 'mad' Odair woman. She'd surface every once in while, but I hadn't seen her in years. I'd hear sometimes from Mama of how she'd be down at the quay, trading fish, hand in hand with one of her sons. Mama would tell me of how they made talk, even gossip, and through her I had no such preconceptions of the woman, other than her relationship to Finnick.

'I think I've only ever seen your mother once,' I replied cautiously.

'Really?' he mused.

'I remember her hair. It was like it was alive. She was on top of the dunes with you, and her hair was the same colour of the sand. I thought it was my eyes, I thought the sand had caught her head,' I smiled quietly.

'It's getting grey now,' he remarked, his eyes still set far out towards the sky, out in the direction of the other shore, as though trying to seek her out.

'But she's the same age as my Mama, she can't be much older than thirty,' I turned to him.

'I guess. The doctor says it's shock.'

We had a single medical professional in the seaport, and he only earned that title from selling antidotes from his apothecary. I don't know which word to question, the doctor or the shock, but Finnick gave me no time to decide.

'I don't like them calling her mad,' he murmured, finally twisting his head to face me.

'I don't think she's mad,' I laid another hand on his. I didn't know what else to do. Finnick was placing his secrets at my mercy, and so I held them tightly in my hands.

'They all call her that,' he argued, his brows knitting in that way that made him look both old and young at the same time.

'She's not mad. Either way it's just a word. See mad, mad, mad,' I repeated the word until it was no longer that recognizable, just two syllables strung together that on any other planet could have meant any other word.

'You remind me of her, your hair and eyes, though she's paler,' Finnick mumbled into his chest.

'Really?'

'She keeps me grounded, anchored to the shore,' he explained. We lapsed into silence again, until I could muster enough courage to break the tension that was building.

'Words can't hurt,' I assured him.

'But the games can,' He replied, looking me once again in the eye.

'Only your body, they can't harm your mind.'

'Because that then makes you mad.'

I sigh, 'We're going round in circles Finnick.'

'These games will send me mad.'

'Me before you,' I shot out with a hollow laugh, trying to throw the stone lodged in my throat.

We sat there, basking in the moribund light, neither of us speaking, but we were connecting sure enough.

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When we left the sun was already setting on the other side of the mountain. With the fading light, swimming back was slightly harder, and we had to use the tips of our fingers to track the bottom of the channel.

Still soaking wet, we drew on our discarded clothing, covering ourselves more from the forest's fauna than each other. Like the cave, the forest was ablaze with the flicking light of the dusky sunset. The white bone trees reflected its colour, as though all the plant life had been daubed in glowing blood.

Our boat was as we had left it, and the sea was kind enough to carry us swiftly home, both our arms tired from swimming all day. We made good time, leaving the island just as the sun dived beneath the waves. Finnick taught me how to use the pole star as a compass and we quickly rowed out towards home, our journey only halting as we approached the cove, spotting a figure dressed in white.

It was like a ghost in the distance, rippling out on the night, a specter on the sand.

Finnick's mother was standing ashore.

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She was as I remembered her, but there was a wildness in her eyes that was not known to me. She was thinner, no longer the weight of her children about her hips, and Finnick was right, she was going grey, the moon trapping stands of silver that lit up in her hair. She seemed to vibrate, as though suspended by wires.

Finnick was quick to leave the boat, stepping straight into the water as soon as the boat hit the sandbank.

'Mom?'

He reached out to touch her iridescent arm. She was wearing white, a cotton nightdress, the hem of which flew about with the winds playful touch. She was soaked through, her dress clinging to her body from the sea foam's touch.

'Mom what are you doing here? It's late.'

'Mom it's me, Finnick,' his hands grasped her arm tighter now.

'Mom?' He voice rose and wavered with concern.

She struck him about the cheek, and though it was dark I could already see the heat rising in his face. He didn't let go at first but she swung her arm out and his fingers released her. He staggered back, and without thought stood in front of me, his back pressing against my chest, his hand slipping into mine.

'Don't go into the waves. They want to eat you son. My son,' she called but made no further contact with his face with either her hands or her eyes.

'I won't I promise,' he whispered and I squeezed his hand.

'Promise it to my ear, not my face,' her eyes soften but her brows, almost invisible for being so blonde, tilted upwards, as though saddened by something.

He let go of my hand and moved towards her. He leant up to gently whisper something in her ear. She kissed him swiftly on the cheek, the one she'd hit only a moment ago, and her hand took place in his where mine had once been.

He looked back at me, but the darkness made it hard to see his eyes clearly. His face was a mix of emotions, worry and embarrassment almost, as he led her away.

'Goodbye Annie Cresta,' she called melodically over her shoulder.

Her sandy hair made it hard to hear my name, as her mane whipped and wrapped itself around her face.

The siren then left the beach.

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After my day's disappearance, I wasn't allowed anywhere near the sea and I thought I was at breaking point. For days I was trapped on solid land, but unless I revealed mine and Finnick's secret wonder, I was not allowed to enter the water. To counter my need to submerge I was bathing several times a day, sitting in the milky water, trying to brush the siren's touch from me.

I sat in our old rusty tub repeatedly pouring the water back and forth between the bath and my bucket. We were lucky enough to own the tub, and for all its peeling paintwork and uneven legs, it was a privilege many didn't have. We had no running water from a tap like in the kitchen, but the recent storm had filled the large outdoor tanks, and so I had a bucket all to myself.

The water was cold, but not unwelcome. Nothing like the sea, this water was harsh but clean; it scrubbed me of the dirt beneath my skin, the fears that even the sea could not banish. I was methodic but not fast. I took my time to scrub every inch of my body clean until I was a red raw.

As a child I'd tried to scrub away the freckles on my arms; the scars on my knees, wash away all the impurities that my young skin had already chalked up, but now I let them rest. Perhaps it had been what Finnick had said that night, his intrigue with the stars. I saw them now the constellations on my skin.

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I found him sitting on my bed, the window open. I had just had another bath and was wrapped up in our family's single towel, and so commanded him to close his eyes as I redressed. It was late in the day, and already I knew he had the intention to stay, so I too curled up on my sheets.

It plagued both of our minds, yet neither of us wanted to voice its name, as though we were tempting fate. The reaping was just over a week away, and already sleep was a distant luxury. We sat like that for hours, my head on his shoulder, our worn bodies side by side, watching the light of my room die out and the darkness descend; another day gone.

'I can't sleep,' I murmured against his shoulder.

'Me neither,' and after a pause, 'what do we do?' I liked the way he referred to us and as a 'we'; a unit, a companionship.

'Become sea otters and escape south,' I suggested, feeling his face turn upwards in a smile.

'I'd love that, though would I be able to take my trident?'

'Of course, and I'll take my nets and shells and we'll live on the island.'

'With all the fish we can eat.'

'Yes, with all the fish we can eat,' I repeated.

'My mother once told me she was a sea otter,' he voice grew quiet once again.

'How'd you know she's not?' I asked

'Because then I'd been one too,' he reasoned.

'The three of us can be sea otters together.'

'You're a catfish more like,' he laughed.

'And you're a slimy eel,' I poked his leg.

'Thanks,' he accepted with a begrudging voice. The stillness of the night enveloped us once again, the soft noises of the recurrent waves drifting through the still open window.

'What did you whisper to your mother? The other night,' I asked in a low murmur, hoping almost he hadn't heard me. But he had, and slowly, drawing in a breath replied:

'I held her hand and told her to stay golden.'

'Stay golden?'

'It's a phrase she likes; it's old too, hundreds of years old she tells me. It helps her keep hold.'

'Stay golden,' I repeated liking the way it held in my mouth.

'See it works,' he said, letting out a huge yawn and settling his head on the top of mine. I could feel his body slump slightly as he fell into unconsciousness, and the lightness of his breath drew me in closer to a slumber.

As we both drifted off to sleep I whispered out finally into the unstill night,

'Stay golden Finnick.'

And at last, I slept.

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The siren was there, out in the air, suspended in the cave's cavernous space.

For a second she was Finnick's mother, but then she was not; transforming into the untraceable face of that familiar girl.

She twisted round in pain, yet her body did not fall, as though supported by string; she was weightless.

A thousand small white scales encrusted her body, like spines, rippling in the nonexistent breeze. The scales engulfed her skin, consuming her hair and as she contorted in the air, began to lengthen. Finally, a convulsion shook though her body, and she dropped to be swallowed by the pool. The impact sent out a flurry of her now finger long, white scales, fluttering out in the air.

They were slips of paper. Thousands of them.

They seemed to pass through my fingers, like ghosts, as I tried to grab at them with my heavy arms. Finally I caught a single one, and unfurling it found two words, illegible with the eyes of my dream.

Written in a script could not understand, I turned to instead find the siren.

And then there, up in the place of the mouth of the cave; a large televised screen, her face, now exposed. She was running, fighting, killing faceless hordes of child-sized creatures.

Then wound on her forehead opened like a mouth and a wave of blood crashed down, filling the cave, with the force of a broken dam.

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I woke with a start, my breath hitched as I sat up suddenly. I was alone, my absent dreamer having covered me with my sheets, which were bunched up tightly in my fist, as he had departed.

I touched the skin on my arm, checking that it was dry, and not caked in crusted blood. The pale flesh was thankfully clean.

The image of the siren was foggy in my mind, but as the clarity of my insight was restored, the image began to sharpen. I went to the basin to wash the sleep from my eyes, only to find an all too familiar sight.

Her eyes, her hair, her skin all stared back at me in that little cracked mirror. It wasn't Finnick's mother, for the siren was in my face.

But there was no her; only me. And finally the plague of dreams made sense; the torrent of bloodied and bloated bodies.

I knew, like a stone in my stomach, what it meant.

The siren was to be my fate.

I was going be to be chosen in the Reaping.

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And so as you've probably guessed, the next chapter shall be the Reaping. Oh how woeful.

If you enjoyed this chapter please do pop me a comment or a review, both are absolutely sumptuous.