(a/n): And here it is, chapter six! This was quite a doozy to write, oof! I am so excited for this, so excited. Stay tuned at the bottom for more details, an update on this godawful website's current predicament, and more! Now, enjoy! Thank you all so much for 19 reviews, 44 favorites, and 66 follows! I am beyond touched, and my heart is so warmed! 3

CHAPTER SIX

drowsy in your touch

three years later

"Keep steady."

"You don't have to tell me."

Along the shoreline there's a stretch of rocks which extend outward into the ocean, balancing atop of each other; somewhat unsteady, but able to support my weight as I balance over its edge. The rocks are slippery and jagged, so my legs, which are mostly bare due to my shorts, have a fresh batch of scars left from their cruel touches. When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that this strange rock formation used to be a bridge to someplace else, and was disconnected by a fierce wave which destroyed the bridge entirely. It's a silly fantasy, but it's hard not to recount as I sit dangerously close to its edge. My palm presses down, balancing me as I lean forward to peer into the water. Something flashes beneath the surface, a slender creature which glitters and frightens nearby fish away. It's not large, per say, but predators don't always have to be. I look up towards Finnick. Unlike me, he's in a boat, idly bobbing a fair distance from myself. He's standing, perfectly balanced, with a trident in his hand. It is not as elegant as the weapon he used in the Arena, as it is silver instead of gold and more slender, but I like it, all the same.

His eyes scan along the water's surface, lips pressed together. He adjusts the trident in his grip when I nod, spotting the slippery creature as it moves carefully above the surface. The creature is teal in color and is spotted with darker tones, as well as a silver stripe down its narrow back; its teeth flash when it grazes the surface, as well. I lift my palm up, while using my free hand to carefully take the spear resting by my heel. I shake my head at him. Finnick is too far out. Even if he were to throw his trident out, there is no guarantee he could penetrate the creature in question. I balance myself accordingly, gripping my spear tightly. It's wooden with the tip of it being carved from a significantly large shark tooth that had been found years ago; whoever had owned it before had been disturbingly large.

I position myself on my knee, prepared to dive into the water, if need be. The creature brushes the surface just within my sight and aim. It's all I need. With a quick breath, I plunge the spear downward. There is thrashing on the creature's end as the spear penetrates into its back and through its stomach, even as I yank the spear upward. It is not necessarily a clean strike, but the creature is skewered. Even when it dies, it thrashes. Its mouth is open wide and I can see the rows of teeth visible there, with little chunks of fish still remaining between them. This damn predator had been a thorn in our side in the recent weeks, as it had been preying on our fish, and even those who sought to swim. As small as it was compared to other apex predators, I had heard a few doctors mention its bite was of root cause of amputating an infected arm; a drastic case, but still.

We can't very well have infected patrons in District 4, can we? Not when the Reaping is tomorrow.

"It's pretty long," I say. It's longer than my whole arm and thicker. "It'll probably go for a good price."

Finnick sets his trident down. "I think people would prefer to hang it than eat it. What's it even called, anyway?"

"I don't know. But it's dead now." I glance down the long stretch of rock towards the beach and then to him. "Bring that boat over here. I don't want to climb back."

"That's not very in spirit of you, Ceres."

"Well, I did all the work getting this thing. Get over here, fish boy."

He doesn't dispute me after that, but he certainly laughs. As he rows the boat to my location, I let my mind drift to tomorrow. Today has been a fair distraction, volunteering in a manner of speaking to go with Finnick to find this predator and properly kill it, but the distraction is dead and there are other things to think about. Such as, who in the coming weeks will be skewered? It's the 68th Annual Hunger Games, a pressing three years after Finnick's victory, and there has yet to be a new Victor from District 4. I might have aspired to be that Victor, if it weren't for my father's words hanging over my head, and being perpetually reminded of Finnick's false smirk whenever he returned from the Capitol. Damn them all, honestly. I've watched Tributes come and go, and I still imagine myself on that stage, smiling. I imagine smirking back at Finnick, at being trained among Tributes from other Districts, and winning in the Arena. I imagine being in the Capitol alongside Finnick and my father and the other Victors.

But it's hard to imagine myself in those circumstances without picturing those alternatives. More than once I've found that Finnick reeks of unnatural perfume, and sometimes the marks across his body are visible and lingering; a hickey, scars left by nails. He covers them well. If he notices my stares, his eyes go distant, or he smirks at me. It's that false smirk that ripples like a shudder through my bones. But sometimes we can pretend there is normalcy, like today.

Tomorrow will be different. I know he still watches me closely when Ivoree calls for a female Tribute, with a sigh of relief followed by tenseness as he awaits those two words. I volunteer, I've longed to cry out, but I need only lock eyes with my father to fall properly silent. It's frustrating, to say the least. Ignorance was bliss, and even after all I know, I still think about my longed for endeavor. Admittedly, I still think about smirking at Finnick, with the words I'm better falling from my tongue. My pride has dulled in the recent years, but, like his smirk, that's a farce, too. It's hard to pretend for them, but it's easier than the alternative. Rheon says I'm lucky. At seventeen, I only have one more year before I am disqualified from the Hunger Games by age, and two more years for Liber. We're luckier than most, I suppose. But, in experience, how long does luck run?

Furthermore, there's a difficulty in watching my father and Finnick leave annually that I can't describe. But for the latter, it has nothing to do with that kiss we shared on the beach those years ago, when our hands awkwardly held each others' face and hip, or how he smelled strongly of something unusual. I think it was lavender, but it could have been something else. Vanilla, maybe. We haven't touched that way since. The glazed sheen in Finnick's eyes is enough to deter any such musings from myself, but he does hold my hand sometimes, usually when we make nets or go fishing. It's short and usually accompanied by silence, but I recognize his vulnerability and meet it gently.

When he comes home from the Capitol, he usually isolates himself on the beach for a day or two. He welcomes my presence after that time, usually with a smirk, his real smirk, and a banter we fall into as easily as breathing.

I've thought about kissing him before, or to bring up what he said to Harpee during his time in the Arena, but I always decide against it. Without any words necessary between us, I know what he would do. He would come up with an excuse, raise the truth of his predicament, and go on about how normal I will be. Normal. He used that word with me only once, but it has stuck with me for over a year. When we had laid under the stars one night, he had mused how lonely he was, and I replied that if I were a Victor that I could be his friend in the Capitol. He had scoffed. You'll have a normal life here, Cece. Don't forget that, he'd said, and I had stayed quiet the rest of the night, until one of us left. I forget who was the first to crack. Normal was never something I wanted. Even now, I wince to the thought of dying old and grey in District 4, when I could have something else.

I'm on the outside, but I want to be in the room where it happens.

Finnick pulls the boat alongside the rocks. "Come on, then," he says, extending his hand to me. I hand him the spear first, along with our little friend attached to its tip. Then, carefully, I slide from the rocks and into the boat. It jostles as I land rather indelicately inside. "Back to shore, then?"

"Maybe." I exhale, extending my legs. There is a particularly long scrape which reddens with the promise of blood on my calf, though I decide to pay it no mind for now. I've had worse, and I've seen worse. Still, it does sting. "I'd like to stay out here a bit longer. The longer we're here, the less we have to think about tomorrow." I say this deliberately, because a part of me wants to talk about tomorrow. I want to forget it, to grasp onto the normalcy shared between us, but I know it won't last.

He shrugs, face remaining pleasantly neutral. "Fine," he says, leaning back. "Planning on Volunteering tomorrow?"

"Funny."

"Rheon still thinks you will."

I hum disapprovingly. "So you've been talking to my dad?"

"As Victors do." Finnick lowers his hand from the boat's edge and into the water, head lolling back.

"Yeah, well, I made a promise."

"But you still want to win, don't you? Prove me wrong?"

If anything, Finnick proved me wrong. I try not to ask about the Capitol, though I've asked about Finnick to Mags and my father, usually amounting to simple words, like, He's fine, and Don't you fret. I hate that word. Fret. He is the Capitol's darling and that seems to tell me enough, I suppose. Finnick is jaded in ways he didn't used to be. He hasn't spoken his father's name in three years and even now I can commonly see Finnick sleeping outside in a hammock in his garden as opposed to inside his house. It's not a luxury to be what he is, or what my father is, or what the others are, but it's not the luxury, or lack thereof, I want.

But any answer I give him is dangerous, because the thought of him sharing my words with my father lingers unpleasantly. "I always want to win, Finnick," I say, shrugging. "I'm only human."

"You'd hate the Capitol, anyway. The food is awful. The company is worse."

"I'll bet." I lean forward. "After next year you won't have to worry about any of that, Finnick. I'll be normal and boring-"

"And you'll die resentful. I know how it goes."

"There are worse ways to die. That thing could've bitten my hand off."

Finnick takes my spear and lifts it up, flicking it in such a way that our little friend impaled to it jiggles, its tail swaying back and forth. "Not enough force in that jaw to take a whole hand in one bite. It would've had to work at it, but, you know, maybe you would've made it easy." His head tilts, taking in my expression with that smirk of his. I roll my eyes and he seems pleased by that. "You do have thin wrists." To accentuate his point, he removes his free hand from the water and reaches across the boat to curl his fingers around my wrist, which lays leisurely over my knee. His thumb brushes over my pulse. In moments like these, it's hard to distinguish between his Capitol persona and him. "Pretty breakable."

I don't remember if Finnick had to break wrists in the Arena, but I know that there have been countless Tributes before and after him who have had their wrists broken. Maybe he's speaking from experience, or the experience of one of his Tributes, or someone else.

"And you..." I put my hand over his, holding it in place. "...presume too much."

"Don't you like that about me, Cece?"

"I don't like a lot about you. But I like you enough to not throw you overboard."

"Huh. Was that a threat or a promise?"

"Maybe both."

I pull my hands from his, pressing my back against the boat's edge. I drift my gaze over the surface of the water, which rocks the boat ever so slightly, and noting the caw of seagulls overhead. They would make for an exceptionally tasty dinner, but there's no distinct need to hunt for them; not when District 4 is as prosperous as it is. Frankly, our little dead predator was more an inconvenience than a genuine threat to our supply, but even inconveniences have to be dealt with - and this sometimes applies to seagulls. In any case, their sounds are pleasant, and they take a perch over the rocks where I once was, looking back at me with intrigue and wariness. I used to chase seagulls when I was a little girl, partly because I had convinced myself that if I had one of their feathers that I could, naturally, fly. It was a silly idea, but I chased them, anyway.

There was one day when I was five where I chased them for a different reason, however. I was with my mother on the beach, her holding Liber on her hip. I saw a seagull pestering a crab desperately trying to scuttle into the sea, but the seagull pecked at it, and almost had it rolled over, vulnerable. I'd cried out and charged towards them, shooing the seagull away and cupping the crab in my hands. I held it tenderly to my chest, mindful of its pinchers.

I couldn't let it get hurt, I told my mother when she eventually reached me. The seagull was perched in a tree, looking down at me. I glared back at it, meaning to take that crab and place it back into the water, before my mother's hand on my shoulder stopped me. Her expression was soft, even understanding, but her voice was firm when she reprimanded me. This is nature, sweetheart. The seagull has to eat. If the crab lives, the seagull will starve. Do you understand? I claimed I had, even though I hadn't at the time, and I promised to set the crab down. Thankfully, she walked ahead of me, and I gave the crab a fighting chance by placing it within reach of the waves against the sand. I looked at it and the seagull before following after her. I still wonder, from time to time, if that crab escaped its death or if that seagull starved to death.

This is the way of nature. There is a give and a take. It's daunting, to say the least. Looking at Finnick with his leisurely stance and his eyes scanning the few clouds above us, I have to wonder which one he is; the hunter or the hunted.

I brush my tongue over the inside of my teeth, thoughtfully. "You may be good...but you'll never be as good as me," I muse. Finnick eyes me confusedly. "You told me that when we were kids, do you remember? Our dads were trading fish, I think. I was bragging about how I caught a single fish with my spear when I was seven and you bragged because you could catch more than me when you were four."

Finnick shrugs. "That sounds right. I've teased you about a lot of things, so it all blurs together," he admits, though he's smiling. "I'm still better than you."

It still vexes me to hear him say that. "I still have time to prove you wrong," I say. He frowns at me. "That is, without breaking my damned promise to Rheon. You know, I wish he hadn't told you about that..."

"All he's said is that you promised not to Volunteer, but I can guess why." Finnick's hand rakes through his hair. "You asked him to protect Harpee, right?"

I wonder how the topic came up. Finnick might have been confused why my need to Volunteer each year seemed to fade, so he probably went to Rheon with these prying questions, because who else could he go to? I imagine that my father was all too glad to admit that he was the reason I had given up on an age-long aspiration; the hint of pride in his good eye. At least he had common sense to not tell Finnick what we had bargained on, and the conversation that followed months after. When I'd gone to my dad after the Reaping, I'd insisted that I cared about Harpee and Finnick, but the words that left me were, Bring him home. I still think about that from time to time, though it's attached with guilt nowadays. I'd shrugged off one of my friends in favor of my adversary. I thought it would be easier to understand when I grew up, but I'm seventeen now instead of fourteen, and I am still confused.

With a low sound, I dip my hand into the water, brushing my fingers over its surface and below. Occasionally, bolder fish come to nibble on the tips of my fingers, though I don't pull away. "It's been three years. Why does it matter?" I ask. I can still see the arrow lodged in Harpee's eyes, after she had so generously mused that she didn't hate me. It wasn't until we had to watch the replay of the Games that it had hit me how agonizing that moment was. Even now, I feel my bones ripple with a chill. "It doesn't matter." It doesn't. Finnick doesn't ask about his father, and I don't ask about Harpee. It seems fair, but as he opens his mouth, I decide to fill the void before he can. "During your Interviews, you mentioned a girl-"

"That was three years ago," he cuts off, far too smoothly. My guess is he predicted the turn in conversation, to my chagrin. "Besides, Mags thought it would make me come across more sympathetic-"

"You came to me right after you got back to 4, right?"

Finnick doesn't reply, but his eyes are narrowed in on me.

I moisten my lips, thinking. "You mentioned a girl during your interview and with Harpee. You can't tell me it was all fake, can you?"

"You didn't ask your dad to protect Harpee, did you?"

I don't reply.

When the silence between us becomes too deafening, Finnick straightens out and starts to row us back to shore. His brow is knit together and there's an unusual tension in his face. "You're going to go home and forget about this. We both are," he says, in a tone with surprising authority. "Just focus on tomorrow. Everything else doesn't matter."

"We have to get the fish to the market," I remind him.

"We will."

"Finnick-"

"I meant it when I said I'd remind you everyday how I survived, at the time," he says. I remember how he had smirked into the camera during his interview and how flustered I'd been. "But everything else was just a way to get sympathy from Sponsors. Besides...Snow took care of that story after my potential clients showed interest. Funny how helpful he is, right?" he goes on. "All of that was three years ago, Ceres. A lot's changed since then. But if you want to hear me go on about why I'm better than you, why don't we start with-"

I lurch across the boat, jostling it well enough. If Finnick's first instinct is to react defensively as I practically close the distance between us, balancing on my knees, and cupping a hand over his mouth to silence it, he doesn't convey it. I do, however, see a wariness in his eyes as he takes me in. His body instantly tenses, which riddles me with guilt, in some way, but I keep my face stern. As best as I can, anyway. "Stop, okay? It's tiring, all of it. If it were up to me, I would've Volunteered by now, but I can't, and you know I can't. And if anything, you're right, the Capitol is shit. But it bothers me you're there alone." He grips my wrist and pulls my hand from his mouth, which is set into a hard line. "It should have been me three years ago, not you. That's how it was supposed to be, and I would be sitting across from you now, saying why I'm better, and you'd be the one who'd die normal and boring. It wasn't supposed to work this way."

"The odds aren't always in our favor." Finnick smiles, though there's no warmth to it. "Why win, anyway? Aside from, what, showing me up? You really want to kill that badly?"

"Of course not. I just...it seemed like the best way to prove to you I'm better. You were mean growing up, and what better way to prove myself than by in the Games?"

That is how your legacy continues on, even after you're dead - at least for some. I expect my dad has been long since forgotten and cast into the nameless lists of Victors.

Finnick scoffs. "There are other ways," he says, and I notice how his eyes drift to my mouth. The first and last time we kissed was almost three years ago, the day before he left for his Victory Tour. He was going to be sold to someone in the Capitol and he wanted a memory to overshadow that, a sense of control over his own body, and I'd given him a kiss as a parting gift. Since then, he hasn't tried anything, and neither have I. But as his hand drifts up my arm, noting the vacancy in his eyes, I remember how he smelled of rich perfumes when he came home. Even after countless showers, the scent lingered. "Wouldn't you agree, Cece?"

"It doesn't matter, fish boy." I pull back. I know there are two Finnick's, and it's hard to distinguish sometimes. Too often, I wonder what touch means to him now. "Let's head back. Our friend is starting to rot."

The fish went for a fair enough price and the market seemed thrilled that the culprit behind our fish and wounded patrons had been killed. It's a small victory, I suppose, though with the Reaping hours away I wonder if it will be enough to sate nerves. Watching the teal shaded and elegantly scaled fish be handed away to a beaming fisherman had been interesting, as my mind had reeled back to the crab and the seagull, but the fisherman had done no damage to the fish. I was the seagull, I guess, but I didn't kill it because I was hungry, it was a threat...threats have to be killed, right? But what is killing? What's the difference between a seagull and a crab and a fisherman and his fish? What's the difference in the Games?

I didn't used to think about the killing side in the Games, more so the survival aspect. I thrilled myself with the ideas of hunting, being resourceful. Watching the Games and studying them all these years, as well as going through the archive of older Games, I had devised my own ideas of surviving and winning. To build a fire is to die, I learned quickly. Choose allies carefully, and be aware that at any moment you will have to kill each other. As vain as it sounds, appearance is critical; my clothes, my chariot, my everything would have to be memorable. And, above all, I'd have to be likable. Being likable means you have Sponsors. If you are well-liked by the Capitol, and heavy with Sponsors and popularity, then Gamemakers cite the Games to your favor - my father told me that once. But if you win, what does that mean? Finnick won, but he's not the Finnick I knew.

It's bullshit.

What a luxury it would be to go into the Games, to win, and to do something outrageous. But when my eyes close, it's not just myself I see beside Caesar Flickerman during my winning interview, in a beautiful dress, I'm accompanied by Neleus' body hanging from a chandelier over me. I never saw his body, but my imagination is kind enough to fill the blanks.

It was simpler before.

With a loud sigh, I extend my legs out over the surface of the roof, where I am currently curled. Our house is three stories tall, with a large balcony to each level, which is attached to the relatively flat surface of the roof. As a child I would climb out here often to dream, usually counting stars and imagining, stupidly, that one would be named after me someday. Sitting out here now, I'm more aware of my humanity and vulnerability. One slip and I could fall off the edge, a fear that had not hummed to me before. The Games are similar enough, just as a crab to a seagull or a fish to my spear. Some Tributes die naturally; they drown, they burn, or their wound is infected. Killing sometimes isn't necessary to erase competition.

Sometimes a big fish eats a smaller fish, but sometimes the smaller fish becomes trapped in coral reefs or gets infected.

It's not black and white.

Neither, I conclude, is Reaping.

"Rough day?"

I smile half-heartedly. "Not really," I reply, as Liber climbs over the balcony's rail to join me. He's clad in his pajamas, looking remarkably relaxed despite the circumstances hanging over our heads. Within a few hours, well after the sun is in sky, one of us could be set to die. "I caught that thing that's been hunting the fish and biting people."

Liber sits beside me, smiling. "Was it hard?"

"The tracking and baiting was, but killing it was easy."

"Hm." Liber purses his lips, regarding me carefully. "And Finnick was..."

"Himself, I think. Mostly."

"Day before Reaping is never easy."

"It used to be," I say, but he doesn't reply to that. "If I were Reaped, do you think I'd win?"

Quite visibly, Liber rolls his eyes. My musings and years of abundant confidence have left him exceptionally jaded to the idea of my victory in the Games, even though those thoughts have withered in the last three years. My lip twitches. At least my impression is everlasting.

"I think you're capable," he admits. "But Finnick won and look at him."

"Not everyone sees what we see. He's the Capitol darling."

"And you want to be what he is?"

"I want to mean something, just...I don't think..." I exhale. "I don't think the Games is how I do that, anymore."

"Maybe the ones who die are the lucky ones. At least they aren't ruled by what-if's anymore," he offers.

My head shakes. "I have to prove myself somehow," I confess, and he rolls his eyes again. "I just don't know how, or to who...or if."

"Catch fish and play along, I guess. You have one more year after this one, you know, then you're golden," Liber says. "It'll be fine."

I doubt that, but I smile, anyway.

Come morning, my mom has my dress laid out over my dresser come morning. It's a shade of dark blue, falling roughly to my ankles with a circular curve from my shoulders to above my bodice. The sleeves are lined by subtle ruffles, which extend down either side of the bodice and downward like soft waves to the skirt. There's a brown leather belt which secures thinly around my waist, with subtle leatherwork designs consisting of fish and other varieties of things. Accompanying this dress are a simple pair of brown shoes. And for sentiment, I wear a small pearl attached to a thin and woven rope, which secures around my neck. My mother made it for me when I was a girl, though it fits tighter than it used to. It's comforting, I suppose; familiar. I'm finding I gravitate more towards the familiar than what I used to.

"Do you want me to do your hair up?" Demetra asks me in my doorway.

My hair falls to the middle of my back and, commonly, I wear it in ponytails to keep it from my face.

"No, I'm fine. I can do it," I say. When she's out of view, I sigh, and opt to pull my hair into a bun that is rather improper, but the effort does not feel entirely necessary today.

With these thing complete, I depart from my room, finding that Liber is wearing nice brown trousers and a clean cerulean button down. Even his hair is slicked back.

Pretty and preened for the ole Reaping, I muse internally, in a song-song voice that alleviates my mood, if only for a minute.

Frankly, any mood that I could have had, positive or negative, is thoroughly eradicated when I reach the town square and view our District escort.

This year, Ivoree is the peak of horror. He's clad in a suit that clings tightly to his long and slender body, accentuating an unnatural waistline that makes me wonder if he is wearing a corset beneath it all. The suit in question is glittering teal, with intricate pattern work designed to resemble scales, with a particularly impressive (and rather heinous) looking curved version of a dorsal fin attached to his back, which is strewn with glitter. He is wearing incredibly high-set heels, in a shade of dark blue which matches his hair, which is held up into an impressive bun. His unusually shaped cheekbones are accentuated by makeup, and his lips are plumper than they were last year. He extends his hands outward in a broad gesture, as if to open his embrace to all of us. "District 4! What an honor it is to stand before you!" he croons, clapping his palms together. "

There's a polite, if not stiff, applause. From up on the stage, my father elbows Mags, and the two smile between each other. That sweet exchange almost makes me smile.

"Now, shall we start with the gentlemen, my friends?"

The energy he exudes is sickening, to say the least. He glides like a damn seal across the stage, his heels clicking in sync with the rapid merriment of his clicking tongue. I suppose there are worse conditions to be in as the escort of a District, I suppose. Ivoree could be in District 12. My lip twitches at the thought of him saddled in the coal District, if only for a minute, as opposed to his outrageous attempts to connect with one of the higher classes. We are certainly not District 1 or 2, but, at least, we don't wear the skins of our fish to keep warm.

With perfectly manicured fingers, Ivoree plucks a piece of parchment from the bowl, then holding it high and rather victoriously above his head as he returns to the microphone. The suspense, the fear, hangs loudly in the air as he spends far too long basking in the pause before the plunge. Beaming from ear to ear, he lowers down the little piece of paper finely gripped between his thumb and index finger. His eyes lift across the crowd, all but glowing, as he finally opens it. "Oh, what a treat..." he says, all too giddily, and I feel my stomach start to tighten. "Liber Rythe!"

There's a moment here I'm on that beach as a little girl, clutching the crab to my chest. I run from the angry seagull, which caws angrily at me, and tried once or twice to pluck at my head. With one hand, I cradled the crab to me, and with the other I swung my hand back and forth violently over my head. I remember I grazed its feathers, though that wasn't what deterred it. It had simply given up, and I'd felt proud, like I had accomplished something, until my mother came to my side to remind me of the harsh reality I'd intervened in.

That crab had been left within the tide's reach, but it was so slow, and the seagull was so fast.

I blink.

All it took was a moment before my spear penetrated the creature from earlier, just a moment to die. Did it even see my spear?

Did Liber see his name being drawn?

"No, no, no," I whisper, so softly I know no one else can hear me.

On the stage, my father visibly tenses. His eyes look to Ivoree, across the crowd, then to the Victor beside him. I can see every muscle inside of him working to stay still, as his mind struggles to catch up with and to understand what just happened. My brother's luck had run dry. Wait. I hold my breath, straining my ears against the murmurs surrounding me, as well as the march of Peacekeepers approaching my brother to take him away. Volunteers. Come on. This is it. I look at where the boys are standing. Some of them are exchanging looks, but none of them are moving. They're so still until they part for my brother to walk through them. He accepts this so easily. His face is so calm. Everyone is watching him.

But I feel as if thousands of eyes are on me.

I feel the way I did all those years ago when I heard Mara Spurnire's name called, when I heard Harpee's fierce whisper from behind me, how still I had been; Finnick Odair standing on that stage, the only thing keeping the words from parting from me. My heart is hammering more so now than it did years ago. I should have Volunteered for Mara that day instead of Harpee, as I had so often preached I would. I'll be Reaped or Volunteer, I had said, so determinedly, and I had smiled so much my face hurt. If I had gone into the Arena, then so many things could have been different. Maybe Neleus would still be alive if I had. Finnick would have lived, because, undoubtedly, his Sponsors would have surpassed mine. He was a threat and an adversary and my friend, and I couldn't place myself as his foe. So, instead, I had watched Harpee take her place on that stage instead of myself. Even now, as my eyes scan across the faces of the girls surrounding me, I see several already bouncing on their heels, certain Careers abuzz with certainty. They wait and bide their time.

But where were you? Any of you? I all but scream within myself towards the boys, who stand quietly.

On the stage, Liber smiles at our father, but it's half-hearted. It's consoling, even as my father's face contorts with visible anger.

My throat tightens as Ivoree reaches into the second bowl. Whatever words were exchanged between him and Liber of greetings and praise fall deafly on my ears. Even the world around me seems to be spinning. Liber never wanted this, he's never wanted to train, he's never been a survivor type. While my father and I would venture out to fish, he would linger on shore, taking to his own devices. He was simple that way, in a way I could never aspire to be. No one Volunteered, I think, and I feel sicker. I had wanted someone to Volunteer for Finnick that day but no one had. Now I want to scream at the top of my lungs to the boys who stand mutely, watching Liber on that stage. He's smiling, though it is tense, and I can see Rheon looking darkly between him and Ivoree, and his gaze slowly fixating onto me. I can't afford to find my mother's gaze in the crowd.

I want to scream.

Liber won't survive the Games. He's unprepared. He's weak. Even under the tutelage of the other Victors, I know it's hopeless. He has no incentive to win and no drive to reach higher. Whoever he is paired with will give him no such credit and aid, I'm sure. With a thick swallow, I allow my eyes to find Finnick. His green eyes are on me, and when he's aware I am looking back at him, he discreetly shakes his head. I'm better for him, I think, fiercely. I can protect my brother.

Finnick looks at Ivoree, his expression masterfully composed.

Liber is still smiling.

Rheon is all but shaking.

None of you can protect him. I'm better. I'm a survivor type.

Ivoree calls a girl's name, but I barely give him the luxury of completing it before my hand is thrown into the air, high above my head, and my voice cuts through his.

"I VOLUNTEER!"

Even he has the good grace to appear startled, nearly dropping the paper in his hand. He blinks stupidly to the crowd, then to my hand, and, all at once, he starts to glow again. Volunteers are never not interesting, but this is never how I planned it. Lowering my hand feels as if I am lowering a great weight, tugging me down, but I keep myself straightened. Guided by Peacekeepers, I walk with my chin tilted high towards the stage. I can hear whispers, murmurs. Somewhere in the crowd, I hear an audible sneer I recognize as Mara's, but I don't look to confirm my suspicions. My eyes are forward, locked onto the stage rather than the people on it.

"And what, darling, is your name?" croons Ivoree, though he already knows, I'm sure.

"Ceresea Rythe," I say. "Liber's my brother."

"Oh, oh, my!" squeals Ivoree, clicking his heels giddily. "Two children of a Victor! What a delightful turn of events! And you Volunteered to fight alongside your breath, I'm sure? Oh, yes, of course! For the honor of not just representing your District, but your family! No doubt, no doubt! Oh, please, gift these two brave and courageous siblings a most grand round of applause! Come, come, please!"

If anyone is applauding, I don't hear it. Liber and I look at each other, taking the other in. There's a darkness in his gaze that I can't place, though not necessarily anger; it's something sharper than that. His dark gaze is intent upon my mouth, with his tightly pressed lips obviously suppressing countless words he wants to scream at me, and, frankly, I want to shout numerous things back, though the words evade me. Everything evades me, if I am being honest. For years, I've longed to stand here on this stage and look out across the faces of my District, to smirk at Finnick standing in the crowd, to find Harpee and Mara who I could wink to, but all of those opportunities have been robbed of me. My pride can withstand these things, I suppose. But I can't let the Capitol rob me of my brother, they don't deserve that right.

District 4 will have a Victor, that much I know.

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

To be frank, of all the emotional outbursts I could have predicted coming from today, it being from my mother is something I could have not foreseen. I'm sitting on a velvet divan, watching my mother pace the length of the mayor's parlor, her fists thrust into the air as she says things, stops mid-sentence, and paces again. It seems not too long ago that I had been in this room before, but I had been staring into the eyes of Harpee Howe here; she in my place, eyes brimming with anger. The wielder of anger in my own circumstances is Demetra, whose flashing dark eyes are unlike any I've seen before. My mother is an unusually calm woman, perhaps even distant as my father is - not in the same vain as where their minds have found comfort, but hers is a distance that is of the natural sort. Seldom do her emotions skid from her, yet now they are unleashed. I'm both fascinated and mildly afraid, though I dare not voice such musings now, nor do I dare to raise my voice against her. She's incoherent and angry and her words are void. So, I sit there, and wonder if she's visited Liber yet.

Would she visit her son with the same venom, I wonder? Likely not. Liber had no choice to walk to that stage, so I expect that she will continue to act emotional and find herself embracing him somehow, perhaps tear up. I haven't decided if my circumstances or Liber's potential circumstances are equally unnerving, or if one is worse than the other.

"You could get yourself - your brother was - how could you do this?!" she rages. Her dark blue eyes are bloodshot, though she has yet to cry, at least in front of me. It's been three minutes of this relentless pacing and screeching. It's a wonder the Peacekeepers haven't tried to pull her from the room yet, but I imagine those are strings pulled by my father, who has not come to visit me yet. He won't, I imagine, since we'll be spending a great deal of time together in the coming weeks. He and the other Victors are probably making arrangements as I sit here and my mother rages. Well, they'll be arranging the train. "You could die! You realize that, Ceres? You've...you've Volunteered! You promised your father..."

A train I've always wanted to ride, I think, though the sight of it does not provide the same jovial excitement that it used to; that tingle of hope in my chest. I used to resent and be jealous of my father and the other Victors when I would watch them leave annually. I'd cling to my mother's skirt and plead with her to let me go, and when she denied me, I'd jut my lip out and silently promise myself that, when I was old and strong enough, that I would Volunteer. Stupidly, at twelve, I didn't bother to consider I could have been Reaped at that age. I might have survived, but my goal would have been different; pettily winning to surpass Finnick Odair. He used to pull my hair when we were children, and I'd kick him in the shin. Our nets were entangled when we were six and we spent hours arguing over whose net we would have to cut to get the other out...in the end, we lost both to a rogue wave.

He blamed me and I blamed him.

It was simpler, then.

"Ceresa!"

I blink, realizing I've drifted so far out that my mother's words may as well have been swallowed by wind. I clear my throat, nodding, and pretending to have heard all she's said. "Liber isn't equipped for the Games, he's too relaxed," I say. "I'm not experienced the way dad is, but I've studied the system, and the Gamemaker's styles over the last few years - and we've had a consistent Gamemaker in the Capitol for ten years. He changes things yearly, but I think I can pinpoint patterns." She opens her mouth to retaliate, but I keep going, even talking over her as she repeats herself. I have to raise my voice, though. "I know more than him. This is something I've wanted for years, and I know how to survive. Me being there will protect him, rather than setting him up with a Tribute with their own agenda."

There's a moment of silence after I plead my case. Demetra is staring at me with raised eyebrows and, for a split second, I actually think she might side with me. Her hands rest over her hips and her eyes are somewhat considerate, that is until she starts laughing. It's a mirthless sound, somewhat wet sounding. I realize that she might start to cry, so I glance around for possible handkerchiefs or other cloth-like materials to give her.

"You do not get to..." Demetra says, exhaling sharply. "Your father would have protected him. Now he has both of you to think about."

I slouch forward, burying my face into my hands. "I've seen Tributes turn on each other. Who's to say anyone Liber was paired with wouldn't have killed him during the bloodbath? Maybe even later, backstabbing him at the nearest opportunity? Quite literally, actually," I sigh, frustrated. "At least with me in there you know he has someone really watching him. There's no guarantee of Sponsors, either. So if he gets sick, needs food, or water, or a weapon, then the Victors can't provide that without them. Even without Sponsors, I could take care of him-"

"For fuck's sake, you're missing the point!" she roars, and I jump. "Only one of you can come out!"

I exhale shakily.

My mother's olive toned features are illuminated by red. The fury residing in her eyes is a true anamoly that I find myself wishing to inch away from, yet I sit firmly in place, all the same. With an audible swallow, I try to speak.

"You married a Victor knowing full-well that your kids would be more than qualified for Reapings, mom. You knew this could happen. We don't always stay lucky." I push my hands outward, trying to keep her attention. "Liber doesn't know anything about the Games, you know that. He has no interest, not in the way I do. Whoever he would have ben paired with would not care about keeping him alive."

Demetra makes a sound similar to a scoff, and walks to the divan. She sits beside me, a fair bit of space between us, and her sharp blue eye are narrowed into me. They feel like knives against my skin. "And I am supposed to watch my children die together, then? If you two are the only pair remaining, what then? You kill him?"

"I've been tempted before," I say, though my quip is regarded with a stern glare. So, I add, "I won't let it come to that."

"He could have come home without you there, then, perhaps, I would have had two of my children," she says. "There are words for husbands who lose wives and wives who lose husbands and words for children without parents, but is there a word for a mother who loses her child?"

I know she isn't searching for a genuine answer, none I can certainly provide, so all I can do is shrug. "I don't know."

My mother looks at me, eyes scanning my face. I can only imagine that she's taking in my features, memorizing me as bet as she can. I keep still in those moments, my expression neutral. Even when her calloused hand cups my cheek and holds my gaze locked to hers I remain unflinching, even though my heart is hammering. I'm not expecting a warm embrace or a kiss to the forehead or a sweet farewell. This wouldn't be within my mother's nature, anyway, even under normal circumstances. But, at the very least, I wish she would smile at me. But her face remains pressed in something harsh and resentful. To be honest, I can't fault her for that, as frustrating as it might be.

Wordlessly, Demetra pulls her hand away from me and stands, marching towards the door. It opens, unveiling two Peacekeepers positioned on either side. Their masked features regard her and then me, and I find them more unnerving now than I ever have before, though my gaze across them is fleeting. I watch my mother as she stands in the doorway, exhaling shakily. She peers over her shoulder at me, taking me in again.

"Come back with your shield or come back upon it," Demetra says.

The door shuts and clicks with the resounding echo of a lock.

I don't even own a shield, mother, I think. In the distance, the train whistles, and a lock mounted on the wall ticks. It's as good a time as any...I grab onto a rich velvet decorative pillow, slam my face into it, and scream.

(a/n): The ball is rolling, I repeat, the ball is rolling! Ceres is officially in the Games! And, what's this, so is her brother! Now, fun fact: the fish caught at the start of the chapter was a barracuda. Also, interestingly enough, Ceres has become a vastly different character from when I saw her three years ago, and I'm wondering if I should rewrite the summary for this story, as Ceres isn't entirely Volunteering based on childhood grudges the way she was before Finnick entered the Games. I tried implying that there's some basis of that there, some lingering pride, but it is largely for Liber, too. What'd you guys think? Does the summary still accurately apply or should I change it? Also, be prepared for new characters next chapter! I'm so excited to introduce them to you. The next chapter will include sibling bonding between Ceres and Liber, with some sprinklings of Finnick / Ceres, and a cameo from some canon characters, shhh. Any guesses?

On a side note, I've been trying to publish Chapter Five since yesterday afternoon, and to no avail, so I pray to the writer gods that C5 and this chapter actually go through, because, if not, I'm going to be really sad.

Also, for funsies, here's my fancast for the story. Note, the more characters you're introduced to, the broader the cast will become!

Ceres: Seychelle Gabriel

Finnick: Sam Claflin (of course)

Rheon: Benjamin Bratt

Demetra: Erica Cerra

Liber: Luke Pasqualino

Ivoree: John Cameron Mitchell (specifically his role as Hedwig)

Neleus (rip): Michael Fassbender

Review replies.

chalseali: Thank you so much, my dear! I'm so glad that you're enjoying my story thus far, and I hope that Ceres' Reaping lived up to your expectations! As you can see, she did Volunteer, but not solely for selfish reasons ;)