A/N: I was so happy with the response to the last chapter! I really like this one for the most part :) Finally, the sixty-fifth games are beginning! I've just realized that it's actually kind of sad to age a character several decades… Anyway, weekly updates from this point on now that I finally have free time. I also want to point out that Mags still has her speech intact for now
Sometimes I can't help but think having Finnick in my life is like a second chance. It's not something I was planning on. I never would have expected it. That type of life, the life of bandaging skinned knees and wiping away tears: that was something I had traded away a long time ago. It had been buried with my past and replaced by a life driven by a goal for the greater good.
I didn't think those two lives could exist together. They probably shouldn't. Yet here I am, and I have to say, I'm more content than I have been in a long, long time.
I may be a little partial when I say that it is impossible to not love Finn. After all, he does spend most weekdays at my house. Still, I can't imagine how anyone could be immune to his perfect little smile or vibrant personality.
The best way to sum it up is something I told Thomas Odair when he came to visit. "Your grandson has the world wrapped around his finger." It's true. The little boy radiates life, and I can't be the only one who sees it.
I'm so used to seeing the smile that he uses when he wants to get his way that it shocks me to see a different expression. Finnick runs over to me, his face flushed and eyes barely concealing tears. He drags a long spear behind him.
It doesn't take much for me to bend down to his level. He is tall for an eight year old and catching up to me quickly.
"Finnick, what's wrong? Do your parents know you're here?" I ask.
"No. I'm mad at Dad right now," Finn answers in sniffles.
"Aw, come here," I say, pulling him against me and pushing a lock of bronze hair off his forehead. "Let's go sit down. I'll get you a glass of water."
He leans the weapon against the table and sits compliantly. I come back with the water and watch as he takes gulp after gulp. Eventually, the redness fades from his face and his breathing evens. "Why are you mad with your daddy, Finn? You know he loves you," I say after he has cooled down.
"He won't let me go to Career School!" Finnick huffs. "All the boys in my class are going and I'm going to be the only one left out."
I knew this day was coming soon. I'm not sure how to make him understand why we don't want him training, but I know I have to try. Keeping him in the dark won't fix anything.
"I know it's hard to understand now, but your father has very good reasons. Being a career is dangerous. Maybe not now, but ten years down the road, it could cost you everything. Even your life. Do you understand?"
Finnick looks back up at me and shakes his head. "No, they told us about the Hunger Games at school. I know you won and that's why you live in this nice house. I could win too! Then we would be neighbors."
"I see you all the time, Finn. There's no need for us to be neighbors," I smile.
He frowns and tries again. "We would have money. Daddy won't have to work anymore, and he'll have more time for us." I almost see the tears reappear, but he blinks them away immediately.
"He's doing the best he can," I say sadly. When Fisk and Meredith came over to this side of the district, they had big plans for the future. The Odairs were actually able to build quite a name for themselves. They live in a house that is big by district standards and money has never been a concern.
It's just that success always comes with a price. Long working hours is part of the deal.
"I just want to train. I thought, since you won the Hunger Games, you could teach me," Finnick says, proudly motioning to the spear he dragged to my house.
Just the thought of me throwing a spear in demonstration is ridiculous enough to be funny. "Ah, that was a long time ago," I laugh. "I'm old now. You're lucky I can keep up with you, little boy."
"Please please please," he begs, taking on the puppy dog expression that gets him pretty much whatever he wants.
"You know that doesn't work on me anymore," I tease.
While Finnick is busy thinking up his next tactic of persuasion, the silence allows my mind to wander. Would it be better for Finnick to know how to defend himself? The thought of him wielding a weapon makes me panicky right now, but he might need it one day.
I can't guarantee that he won't get reaped. Especially considering he's one of the few people I love. Just thinking that way unearths layers of guilt and apprehension for the future. They can't take Finnick from me. They've taken enough.
The rebellion I'm involved in planning is risky business. For the first time, I consider that Finnick may be part of it. I want him to reap the benefits of change, of course, but what about the fight to achieve it? How old will Finnick be when war finally breaks out? Will he have to fight?
Suddenly the spear next to him seems less like an unnecessary danger and more like a form of protection.
I take a deep breath. I've made the mistake of over-sheltering before. This time needs to be different. What I say next is something that threatens to drain the color from my face and make my legs go weak.
"I may or may not have a set of keys to the Career School. And I may or may not be able to bring you there to practice privately."
"Yes!" Finnick cheers. His whole expression lights up and he looks at me slyly. "You said the face doesn't work on you. I told you it works on everyone!"
"Don't be so sure about that."
"Race you to the school!" he exclaims, jumping up and bounding to the door in a blur of hyperactivity.
"Wait! I don't even have the keys." I make sure to move especially slowly through the house to retrieve the dull silver keys from a cabinet.
I've rarely used them, yet they've aged so much. I remember getting them when the school opened. That was a few weeks after my wedding. I can still clearly recall laying lazily across Alec's back the morning the phone's shrill ring informed us of the school's opening.
I never dreamed I would be using them to take Alec's brother's grandson to the school over forty years later.
Finnick tugs at my shirt impatiently and runs around me as we make our way out of the house. Once we're outside, he runs ahead, only pausing briefly to allow me to catch up.
"I swear, this child is going to be the death of me," I mutter to myself.
There's no keeping up with him, but I have made an effort to keep myself active as I age. I've seen from my parents that once you slow down, there's no going back.
I'm a little short of breath by the time we make it to the imposing gray building. It still looks out of place compared to the rest of the buildings in Four. I turn the key and the door opens with a creak.
Several doors line the massive hallway. If I remember correctly, the first few rooms are meant for beginners. We go through one of the first doors to find a large room clearly meant for the younger ones. Our steps echo in the room. Mine are slow and rhythmic, while Finnick's are light and quick. He runs along the side wall, running his hands along the different weapon stations.
He stops at one and picks up what looks like a child-sized version of a trident. "I want to try this one!" he announces. It occurs to me that he's holding it the wrong way. I don't consider myself very knowledgeable on handling weapons, but I suppose a few decades of mentoring has made me subconsciously aware of how they should be used.
"Finn, I think you should start off with something small," I tell him. I grab a set of throwing knives with dull ends and carefully place one in his hand. My fingers move his to the right places on the handle.
I move a little target so it is only a few feet away from Finnick. "Turn your body a bit to the left and pull your shoulder back when you throw," I instruct. I try not to let him see how nervous I am. Eight year old boys shouldn't even have access to a knife. I tense up and visibly relax when the knife sticks into one of the outer rings of the target.
He cheers and does a celebratory dance, and I can't help but smile. We spend forty minutes or so practicing with the knives. Each time, I move the target back just a little farther. We eventually reach a point where Finnick can't seem to make it.
"I think that means it's time to call it a day," I decide.
"What weapons can you use, Mags?" he asks as he puts the knife away.
"I was always more of a survival skills person," I answer honestly. "Well, there is something I might still be able to do." I catch sight of a dangling string and a loose bit of metal. With some difficulty, I'm able to bend the metal and tie the string around it to make a crude fishing hook.
"How'd you do that?" little Finn asks incredulously.
"That's something my father taught me when I was very young. You can make something out of anything."
He starts asking for me to teach him, but I gently tell him it's about time he gets home. Dusk has already fallen, and his parents will surely be worried about him. Before we go, I make him promise to keep our training a secret for now.
Only Meredith is there when we reach the beige colored house. She's been through a lot the past several years. I've been to the doctor with them to see the x-rays of the internal problems that were already forming during her adolescence. She would have developed chronic pain either way, but a pregnancy complication had only sped up the process.
Most of her days are spent in bed on medication while Fisk works and I look after Finnick. By the evening, though, she is well rested enough to get up and spend time with the family so Finnick won't have to see how beaten down she really is. Meredith is up right now, sitting in the recliner and thumbing through a book when we get there. She looks up at us and smiles. At times like this, you only see her natural beauty. Her face is fair and glowing, and the heating pads wrapped around her midsection become barely noticeable.
A wave of confusion comes over her face soon after. "Finnick, I thought you were with your father. You didn't have to go bother Mags."
"I wasn't bothering her," Finnick insists, and I back up his words.
"Are you feeling good today, Mom?" Finnick asks. Around everyone else, he is rambunctious and maybe even a bit manipulative, but other characteristics surface around his mother. He is defensive of her and surprisingly caring. He does his best to care for her without even being asked.
"I'm fine, love. I'm just waiting for your daddy to get home," she assures him.
Finnick runs off to get her evening medicine, as he usually does when I drop him off.
"Thank you for keeping an eye on him. I really thought he was with Fisk today," she frowns.
"I think they had a little argument about the training school. He should be fine now," I say. The guilt is already seeping in, but I promise myself that I will talk to them about the necessity of Finnick's training. I just need a day to discuss it privately, without Finnick's little ears listening in.
The youngest Odair comes back into the room and climbs onto the recliner with his mother. I take it as my cue to leave. I look back at Meredith running her hand through Finnick's hair and kissing the top of his head. She needs him. I need him.
He needs to stay safe.
6 years later
"Finnick Odair!" comes the cry from the new escort's mouth.
The first thing that hits is a sense of déjà vu. I've seen this before in dreams. Nightmares. It's the same Capitol accent reading the name, but the voice belongs to a different body.
Reality sets in, digging painfully into my skin. My heart leaps as I rise automatically. Finnick. They called my Finnick.
Two pairs of arms grab me before I can make it to the middle of the stage. It's two younger victors; two vague faces from two bloodbaths.
"You're supposed to sit down until the end of the reaping," one voice says, speaking slowly and deliberately as if I am too senile to understand.
My mouth still hangs agape as they guide me back down to my seat. I lift my head and strain my eyes to see Finnick walk up to the stage. There's a loud gasp from the crowd. Several little girls scream in distress.
I should be the one screaming. No, Finnick should. Instead, he shakes the escort's hand calmly and turns to face the crowd. He even has a smile on his face. Not a genuine one, that much I can tell, but believable nonetheless.
The only silver lining is I'm sure someone will volunteer. There must be an eighteen year old who has gone through ten years of training for this moment. I wait for the familiar call that will save Finnick from the stage, but it doesn't come. Behind the muffled cries of teenage girls, all that lies is silence.
"Come on!" I cry, unable to restrain myself. It doesn't make any difference.
My mind races through the rest of the ceremony. Adrenaline has me trembling, and it seems impossible to focus. I look ahead at the glint of the sun off of Finnick's bronze hair and try to make sense of it all.
It must be my fault. The last few weeks have been strange to say the least.
It started with Plutarch's letters in the mail, talking about finding Snow's daughter. Roslyn C. Snow, the letters said. A girl born from an affair.
I had expressed concern over our communication. It is one thing to meet in the Capitol. Exchanging letters no doubt reviewed by Capitol eyes is suicidal.
"If Snow was planning on doing something, he would have a long time ago," Plutarch had responded. "It's like you said; he doesn't take us seriously."
I might not take us seriously, either. An old woman and a relatively unknown Capitol citizen is hardly the definition of a serious threat. They don't know that other victors have joined our ranks. Plutarch and I are both aware that we need a young, strong leader before any rebellion can succeed.
Still, our blatant conspiring made me uncomfortable. "I have a child of reaping age to look out for," I had written back. "Let's leave Snow's daughter out of it for now instead of provoking him. What's four more years of waiting?"
"I want to live to see this happen. I know you do, too," his last letter stated.
That was it until a different letter came in the mail. It said I am no longer required to take the yearly trips to the Capitol unless bound by mentor duty. Supposed to be on account of my age. I suspect they're just trying to keep me away.
There's no way I'm staying away from the Capitol if Finnick is going to be there. I've lost too much for one lifetime. I'm not losing him.
I'm so sorry, Finnick. You shouldn't be tangled up in this mess.
I don't want to think about how this could have been avoided. The reaping is wrapping up anyway. Finnick shakes hands with the girl tribute- a career volunteer, of course- and the sunny-haired escort leads them to the Justice building. I didn't catch her name, but that is at the bottom of my priorities.
I don't plan on going to the Justice Building to say goodbye. "I'm mentoring this year," I announce to the other victors as soon as the crowd begins to clear out.
"Argo and Raini are mentoring this year," a young woman who won around a decade ago points out.
I glance at Argo, the one who helped guide me back to my seat a few minutes ago. He is in his mid-thirties and is recognizable by his wide set eyes and thin beard.
Behind him, Raini sits with the same scowl she has had since her youth. Besides me, she is the oldest here. We rarely talk, but we share a past that has resulted in a mutual understanding of each other.
"I have to mentor the boy." My tone is harsh but vulnerable. It is a barely concealed plea.
"Is he her grandson?" I hear someone whisper from behind.
"I wouldn't mind sacrificing the boy to mentor the girl," Argo considers. "She looks like a proper career. The boy is a little young. I can't tell if he's anything more than a pretty face. But are you positive you want to mentor? He's probably better off in one of our hands," he finishes. Nothing about his suggests hostility. I'm sure the condescending connotation isn't intentional.
"Leave the mentoring to the real adults here for once," Raini snaps. She certainly hasn't mellowed with age, but her agitated tone now brings a smile to my lips.
"We're not real adults?" Argo questions, seeming a little annoyed now.
"Nothing more than an overgrown child," she spits. "I've had enough of the little snide comments about how Mags and I are of no use because we're older. Show some respect and let the woman mentor!"
The others here are too young to catch the irony of Raini demanding I be respected. They didn't see our difficult relationship during the first Quell, but I'm grateful for whatever kinship we have now.
Argo puts his hands up in surrender and backs off. "Okay, whatever. You two can mentor. There's always next year."
"Thank you," I tell Raini as we walk off the stage. In true Raini fashion, she doesn't turn to acknowledge me. She continues walking forward, her gait strong and not yet affected by aging. Her body is still steady and the fiery color has not completely drained from her hair.
I know I look much older and weaker. After all, I do have thirteen or so years on her. Beyond that, though, I never looked as commanding as her. I can't help but think that if she were younger and more agreeable, she could fit the part of leading a rebellion.
We take opportunity of the short window of time to go back to Victor's Village and pack. I make it back to the train a little early. The new escort is bustling around, and I make an effort to study her for the first time. I'm somehow inclined to compare every escort to Isidora, who sticks out in my mind as a general archetype.
As crazy as it is to admit, I miss Isidora. There's certain days where I can close my eyes and see our old Hunger Games family in a nostalgic vision. Alec and I. Kallan making some excited comment. Isidora squealing over magazines and Lilith squinting at her in distaste. How crazy it is that they have all disappeared with the past while I am still here.
The new escort seems to have the same demeanor as Isidora and the others, including the plump man who held the position for the last seven years. Her hair is parted in the middle and colored an ombre yellow that turns into a burnt orange at the edges. Pale powder covers her skin, aside from the colorful swirls around her huge eyes.
She must catch me looking at her, because she turns around to introduce herself. "Oh, hello! I'm Sabina Folli, and I'm so excited to represent District Four. It's considered the most desirable district," she babbles in pride. "You must be…don't tell me…Meg?" she asks hopefully.
"Mags," I correct gently. "Nice to meet you, Sabina."
"Ooh, a vintage victor," she beams.
The doors open then, and soon Finnick is walking in and nothing else is important. I rush over to him as quickly as my muscles will allow and wrap him in a bear hug. He's so much taller than me, but I still consider him to be a little boy. The same little boy he has always been, except now with muscles and a handsome face that drives girls crazy.
"Mags? I didn't expect to see you mentoring," he says, clearly surprised.
"You really thought I would leave you to fend for yourself? Really Finn, you should have known the second I didn't go visit you in the Justice Building."
"Yeah, but I'm still pretty pissed about that whole goodbye situation."
Normally I would tell him to watch his language, but I am curious to know what happened. "What are you talking about?"
"Considering I have dozens of friends I hang out with on a regular basis, I was kind of expecting at least some of them would have the decency to say goodbye."
"Don't feel too bad. Visitation is usually left to immediate family," I assure him. "Did your parents stop by?"
"Dad did," he says.
There's so much I need to say to him that I can't really discuss right now. Most of all, I want to know how he is feeling about all of this. Sabina Folli beats me to it.
"If it isn't the handsome Finnick Odair!" she exclaims, jutting in between us. "How are you feeling about being a tribute?"
"I'm ready," Finn answers, his voice steady. "I've prepared for it long enough."
"I bet you have," Sabina grins. She extends a dainty hand and pulls over the female tribute, who I hadn't even realized was here. "Kelsie and you are going to make an excellent team," she decides.
Kelsie does not look as physically threatening as the careers I am used to seeing, but I can still see evidence of years of training in her lean build. Her features seem to contradict each other: skin that is olive toned but somehow fair enough to show freckles, eyes that are somewhere in between a misty gray and cloudy brown. A dark sheet of hair falls straight down her back. She does not fit in with the traditional mold of classic beauty, but she could be pretty in an exotic way.
Her eyes scan Finnick up and down, and a smile plays on her lips. "How old are you again?" she asks.
Finnick is no stranger to these types of questions. "Does it matter?" he asks in the signature tone he uses with flirtatious girls. He doesn't admit it, but I know he enjoys the attention. I've told him time and time again that I'll have to knock some sense into him if he lets it go to his head.
Raini mumbles from the side of the room. "I've had enough of this already. Come find me when there's actually something useful to do. I'm not here to watch desperate teenagers flirt." With that said, she disappears down the hallway, as she usually does when she has grown tired of contact with other human beings. In other words, nearly all the time.
It's fairly quiet for most of the train ride. Finnick looks fine. I would even go as far to say he looks happy. But then again, I know Finnick, and I know he is a great actor.
He sees my concerned look. "It's going to be okay," he says simply.
Why should he be the one comforting me right now? I can barely hold back everything I want to tell him. It's hard to find privacy in the Capitol, where tributes are on such tight schedules, but there are places. The streets of the Capitol on the walk back from the Tribute Parade. The rooftop of the building. I should be able to steal some time alone with him between the styling and training sessions.
Then there's Plutarch. He needs to understand that I have other priorities this year. I can't help him with whatever plan he had involving the president's estranged daughter.
Hold on a second. Plutarch! I had almost forgotten we had secured him a gamemaker position last year. He will have at least some degree of influence over the arena, and that could make all the difference.
Another glance at Finnick reminds me of all the sponsor money that will surely come in. He's sitting at the table now, plopping sugar cubes in his mouth when he could be indulging himself in delicacies he has never tried before.
"Someone has a sweet tooth," Kelsie says in a singsong voice. She keeps inching her chair closer to his. If only a fraction of the women in the Capitol react similarly, we'll be set with sponsor money.
"For that I blame Mags," Finnick replies, causing me to look up when I hear my name. It's true that I have spent years spoiling him with sweets. I've always had the same inclination toward sugary snacks.
I just can't believe he could be calm enough to recount memories like that in a time like this. Today's events must bother him somewhere beneath that outer façade. Maybe the cold reality of the situation hasn't hit him yet.
I don't think it has completely registered in me, either.