(a/n): I have been thinking about this Interview scene for years and it's finally happening. To say that I am excited would be a total understatement. So this chapter is going to cover the Interviews of our lovely Ceres and Liber, of course, as well as the repercussions...and then...and then, my loyal readers...the next chapter shall actually commence with the Games.
I would also like to thank all of you for sticking with me through this story! 48 reviews, 63 favorites, and 92 followers! I am just in complete awe of all of you! I am moved beyond words.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
our choice
I was nine when I watched my dad's Games for the first time. It had been a taboo topic growing up. My dad never brought up his past, aside from answering a query here or there, then obviously leaving to go to the Capitol for the Games or the instances of Victory Tours. But it always hung over us. How could it not? We lived in Victor Village, in large homes atop a hill overlooking the beach, as well as District 4; literally and figuratively the height of luxury. I had watched other Games before, those that came annually and digging up the old Archives. When I found my dad's Games, I remember my curiosity imploding. I had to know. I'd seen the men and women before and after my dad perform remarkable feats during the Games. I'd studied them, taken notes. When it came to the Parades, the Interviews, and the Games themselves, I prided myself on my knowledge of every Victor, and how to emulate them. As a child, all I could think was, who better than to emulate than my dad? After all, he had survived the Games. He'd lost an eye, but he had survived. And as his daughter, surely I inherited some of that power.
My dad was seventeen during the Games. He looked so young in the Archives, with shaggy black hair framing angular bronze features, and a pair of piercing eyes that resembled glittering onyxes. My dad had come from poor stock and he had described a few times how he had placed his name several times yearly into the Reaping to stay alive. It was ironic how it ultimately claimed him, yet he had walked atop the stage when his name was called with pride. During the Parade, I remember he was wearing an elegant blue toga with fish netting draped over him. His attire was adorned with starfishes, seashells, and an array of other designs. He had been stoic during the Parade. The girl he was with - I think her name was Marianna Deepcest - was also seventeen, and she had been all smiles. I thought my dad looked powerful in that moment, and I'd imagined myself in Marianna's attire, which was near the same to my dad's, waving to the crowd as they chanted my name. Surely as the daughter of a Victor, I would be loved and praised by the Capitol. They would see my name, know my family's legacy, and worship me as a Victor even before I had won the Games.
This was the naivete of a child. I almost envy that ignorance now.
The physicality of my father presented himself as an intimidating force. He seemed to represent the sturdier, harsher side of District 4, and I had expected that to follow all the way through. When the Archives reached my father's interview, I watched as he walked across the stage in a suit designed to resemble scales, which glittered in the bright lights. He hadn't bothered to shake the hand of the interviewer, but rather stood for a moment, overlooking the crowd with utter coldness, before he sat. He replied to every query, yet he remained just as stoic and impassive. When asked if he thought he could win, my father had replied in kind: I hope not.
I hadn't thought much of it at the time. But looking back, I understand.
My dad tested fate endlessly during the Games. During the start of it all, he tore right through the Cornucopia. The Arena had been set in a large, open valley where a large waterfall stood on one side and then a huge, dense forest resided on the other. He'd gotten ahold of a sickle, which he used to kill one of the Careers, and had taken the boy's backpack. My dad ran to the waterfall and dove into it. He used his impeccable physicality and swimming abilities to flee the bloodbath, and from there, my dad survived. Against the odds, even as he lit fires at night, or stomped through the woods, collecting water loudly, and talking to himself...he'd lived. In the end, he'd had a chance to let his opponent, the final Tribute, kill him. But my dad killed him, instead. And he lost an eye for it.
My dad's Games were viewed as boring because he never actively sought out Tributes to kill. He kept to himself, doing things that were abnormal, sure, but he kept to himself. Sometimes he did so so naturally that Tributes would be oblivious to him when they passed.
The pride I'd felt when I watched my dad in the Parade had faded the further I got into the Archives, from the Interview to the Games. I'd promised myself that I would be better. Much better. I would learn from his mistakes.
In hindsight, the Parade had been as I'd always imagined. It had felt as natural as one could expect, as we were cheered for and waving to screaming people, enthralled by thematic scope. When I was nine, I'd assumed that I would feel the same measure of confidence that I would no doubt feel for the Parade to what I'd feel for the Interview. God, I was wrong.
When I emerge into those enormous white lights and resounding cheers, I feel my heart drop. It's so different from the Parade, because my own feet are carrying me rather than a chariot, and all eyes are on me in this moment. During the Parade, some eyes were on Liber, and others were on the separate Tributes. It wasn't just me, though it was nice to think so at the time. Now, thousands of Capitolian eyes are upon me. It takes every ounce of strength for me to walk forward, ushered so by the guard who had escorted me here. Blood is thumping in my ears, muting the sounds of people crying out for me. I hear hundreds of people chant my name, as others roar District 4. I look across the crowd with a measure of awe and terror, hoping I closer resemble the former.
My eyes then level to Caesar, who I am approaching. He has unusually white teeth which contrasts with artificially tanned, almost orange, skin. His hair is a glittering shade of red with orange and yellow highlights, resembling a candle; ironically, the texture of his skin is like wax. His suit is also a vibrant shade of yellow. A candlestick. This silly, childish musing draws a genuine smile from me, and I'm quick to muffle the giggle which almost slips out from me. Caesar extends a hand when I am close enough and I accept. He kisses it, then gestures to me.
"Ceresea Rythe, ladies and gentlemen!" he howls, patting my hand firmly before releasing me.
We both settle into our seats, the roars and cheers eventually settling. Caesar is beaming at the crowd, eating up every ounce of attentions with such fervor; insatiable appetite, no doubt. My own gaze flickers towards the crowd. Their faces blend together, their whole bodies molding into one giant colorful ball that is tricky to distinguish. But into the crowd, close at hand, I see my team. Galeria is leaning forward, arms balanced on her knees, and is watching me closely. Mags, as ever, has an affectionate expression, and watches on gently. My dad is...stoic, but this isn't a surprise; no doubt thinking about the various ways I can muddle this up, or prove to him what I'd been saying for years: I'm a natural! How ironic now.
I let myself look over at Finnick, who is leaning back in his seat. His expression is unreadable, but I can note the intensity in his eyes, even from here, as he is watching me. I wish I could convey to him that I'm okay. I'd like to convey a lot of things. One of which being that he was right. I was wrong.
"Now," Caesar says, looking at me. "Ceresea, how are you?"
I meet his gaze, smiling charmingly. "I'm doing fantastic. How are you, Caesar?"
"Can't complain. I'm interviewing some pretty remarkable Tributes," Caesar says, with the crowd cheering in agreement. "You, however, are a very unique tribute. Rythe is a distinct name, you know - Rheon Rythe." There's an obligatory round of cheers and applause. "He was a Victor some odd years ago for a rather eventful Games. To be a child of a Victor must be quite an extraordinary thing. Did your father ever tell you stories of the grandeur he experienced?"
It's a question I've prepared for, but I don't like it. It's a tricky thing to discuss. My father is a recluse by nature and is usually disregarded in the Capitol, yet the circumstances of both of his children being introduced in the Games has reinstated his popularity. It doesn't feel good to lie and say that my father is proud of his times in the Game, but I can't exactly admit the truth either; that he hates everyone here.
I'm so relieved I practiced this in the mirror.
"My father has shared his stories, as well as shown my brother and I the old Archives of his Games. He felt that it was important to show us the things he accomplished. He was proud, and he wanted to share that pride with us." I offer Caesar a warmer smile. "My father is a strong and remarkable man, and he has inspired me through his strengths my whole life."
There are aww's throughout the crowd. I can practically see Ren rolling his eyes and feign gagging, as well as Tilda looking on approvingly to my narrative.
Caesar appears touched. "A daughter's love is truly infinite." He places a hand over his heart, glancing over the crowd. Just as quickly he looks back to me. "Now, Ceresea, was it this pride in your father what inspired you to Volunteer? Or was it a case of sibling rivalry, as your brother, Liber, was Reaped first?"
Tilda and I had discussed the multiple angles we could pursue with this query. We had prepared for it, of course - we'd prepared everything from the most serious to the most stupid. But this doesn't mean I feel ready for it. It still weighs heavily on me and I just want to kick it off. I don't want to talk about what I was feeling when my brother was Reaped or why I did what I did. I know that my answer is going to mostly be a lie, but the key word is mostly. The semblance of truth to it is apart of a me that feels like a shadow now.
I straighten, allowing myself to ponder seriously. "I've always aspired to be apart of the Games, though the opportunity has never really presented itself. I wanted to prove myself the way my father die. But when my brother was Reaped, I realized my true purpose. To prove myself worthy, I know that I must fight alongside my brother, and show the world what the Rythe family is capable of. Our prowess and our abilities are more than that of our father's victory. We want to prove our own," I say, earning some cheers. I can't lie, it does cause my chest to swell.
"And prove yourself you shall undoubtedly do," Caesar says, confidently. "Do you and your brother have a strategy for the Games? Or rather, a contingency plan should the Games end with the two of you?"
"We have certainly strategized together, but I'm afraid those are our secrets..." I smile secretively and, for effect, lift a finger to my lips and slyly eye the audience. I lower my hand. "As far as what happens if we're the last two standing...I suppose you'll have to wait and see."
Caesar proceeds to cackle. "Sibling rivalry over sibling loyalty. How absolutely fetching!" he howls to the audience. "Now, Ceresea...you don't mind my saying so, I'm sure, but you're a very lovely young girl. Isn't she, folks?"
I'm a little surprised by the uproar of people, the hoots and howls and verbal agreements.
Caesar carries on. "Could there be someone special waiting for you back in District 4, who you are also trying to prove yourself to?"
I knew that this would be a possible question. Everything was a possible question, nothing was safe. I try not to let my eyes drift out into the crowd, too afraid to lock eyes with Finnick. Worse yet, I don't want to risk the chance of finding Seneca somewhere in the crowd, smiling at me, and being reminded of our encounter on the rooftop. I wish I could say that I completely understood the exact measure of trouble I'd found myself in, under the eye of the Gamemaker's nephew. To put simply, I know it's not so straightforward or innocent. The attentions placed upon me by Seneca Crane can't entirely be pure, but, at the same time, if these attentions can keep me and Liber alive, then I can't shirk them.
Still, if I can avoid those intense blue eyes for now, it is for the better.
"Someone special, Caesar? Trying to unmask all of my secrets, I see," I say with a playful scolding.
"Oh, I can't help it! Don't we all have a special someone? Surely someone as pretty and with such a big name as you do."
Despite myself, my gaze flickers briefly towards the crowd, meant to smile at everyone, but for a moment I am looking at my team and, by proxy, Finnick. In that moment I see him, he's leaning forward. I remember us sitting on the sands by the water, working on our nets and shoving each other. I remember our fathers trading fish and me threatening Finnick to some capacity, and he just rolling his eyes. He was so infinitely frustrating - he is still infinitely frustrating - and I feel my chest tighten all over again. Finnick. He was that annoying broken seashell in the sole of my foot before he was ever the Capitol Darling. He meant something to me, for better or for worse, before the claws of President Snow sunk into his shoulders, and he was thrown out to the wolves.
But as I'm thinking this, I smile at Caesar and shake my head. "No, no one back home, sadly. I'm afraid I was always too busy. I was always fishing with my dad, I never had time to think about nonexistent suitors or admirers," I say, earning some swoons and aww's from the crowd.
"Oh, I can think of a few," Caesar says, cackling.
Think of a few. It's as if thousands of spiders crawl across my skin at once and I have to fight the urge to shudder, though goosebumps do arise over my arms; little dots thankfully unnoticed by the beaming Caesar. I can't remember at the top of my head if Caesar said the same to Finnick during his Interview, but I wouldn't be surprised...and I know where he stands now.
I force myself to laugh with Caesar. "I'm flattered, Caesar."
"But, Ceresea, as a most serious question...only one person walks out of the Arena. You and your brother are going in together. In the end of it all, for the pride of your District and your family name, who do you see standing?"
Realistically, I see myself. Between the two of us, I am the most physically strong, as well as having spent years studying the mode of the Games and its styles. Every action a Tribute makes has a reaction, which in turn has a consequence, and I have studied all of these to the best of my ability. My brother, meanwhile, can swim but doesn't enjoy it. I've seen him on a boat and holding a trident before, and it's awkward at best. He's smart, and that cannot be underestimated - as proven by Beetee Latier, District 3, who won his Games by electrocuting most of his fellow Tributes. Intelligence can often overshadow sheer brute strength, but I also wonder if Liber has enough of that, particularly as he's made himself vulnerable by verily befriending Lamia Lowvale.
Still, I know he's been training extensively. Ren, Tilda, Mags, Finnick, dad. They've all helped to harden and to protect him, and I know that, at least in the time dedicated to this extensive and fierce training, that my brother has learned enough to keep himself standing.
He has to win. I know what mom said to me, about returning home with my shield not coming home without it - which is a phrase I still don't understand - but Liber needs to be the one to come home.
"I choose my brother, always," I say.
Caesar's eyes soften and the crowd softens with him, awwing to my statement.
"What an honorable little sister you are. I wish you all the luck," Caesar says, taking my hand to kiss it. "Ceresea Rythe!"
I try to the best of my ability to keep smiling and to wave to the crowd as I am escorted away, but once I am out of sight and in a long white hallway adorned by overwhelming lights, I find myself leaning against it. I try to steady my breath, feeling a semblance of relief to have it over with, and yet also an overwhelming sensation of dread. I close my eyes in an effort to find my bearings, but a hand on my shoulder startles me and I whirl around.
Standing behind me is Ivoree, the escort of District 4, who I hadn't seen since we arrived. I admittedly didn't know much of Escorts by comparison to my extensive knowledge surrounding the Games themselves and the duty of Mentors, but I knew enough to understand that Ivoree's absence was quite concerning, though he hadn't exactly been high on my priority list of concerns in the passing weeks. Still, to see him now, beaming at me with familiarity, makes me uneasy.
"That was impressive," Ivoree says to me. He's wearing a tall golden wig that resembles a honeycomb, yet it's riddled with an array of brightly colored seashells and a starfish adorned at the crest of the wig. He's wearing high golden boots with a long sea-green jacket that glitters, as well as being lined with frills. He looks comparable to an angelfish.
"Where have you been?" I ask.
Ivoree leans back. "Otherwise verily occupied," he swoons, head shaking. "Your Mentors have been keeping me very, very busy."
"Sponsors?" I offer.
Ivoree shrugs. "Sponsors and securing new Clients, which have been in abundance lately - I think it's a record of exactly how many I've had to file through the last few weeks," he says, reaching over to bop the tip of his finger against my nose. "I haven't even had time for my favorite new darling pair of Tributes."
I almost swipe his hand away, as well as ask further questions about these array of Clients, but on the screen on the wall across from us I can see Liber moving across the stage, shaking Caesar's hand. My attentions become entirely focused, with Ivoree swooning beside me.
"Oh, he looks just like his father did at his age."
Liber's hair is slicked back and he looks well-to-do in his suit. He looks distinguished, but Ivoree is right. He does look like dad. Seeing him like this on the screen, it reminds me of the Interview I watched of our father some odd years ago. Though while dad was stoic and relatively silent, Liber is smiles and waves. I can tell from the way his mouth is twitching that he's nervous, but he's carrying himself well so far. So far.
"It's an honor to have you here, Liber," Caesar says.
"It's an honor to be here," my brother says.
"Is your father worried about you upstaging him?" Caesar asks.
"A little," Liber says. "As is, I feel like we already are. But I think he'll forgive us for it."
"Oh, I should certainly hope so!" Caesar cackles.
I make a low humming sound as I watch, trying to gauge my brother's strategy. He's being playful, which seems to be working well for him, but the crinkles around his eyes are showing and his fingers are twitching a little; anxiety present, though he's performing well enough.
"Your brother is very talented," Ivoree says, briefly drawing my eye.
"He is," I say. "He's been training and working very hard."
"Oh, I know. He was the one the Mentors were very worried about - me included - but he's really started earning some attentions from Sponsors."
"Thank you for the bode of confidence," I say, bringing my eyes back to my brother, who is laughing with Caesar over something I missed.
Caesar's smile remains, though his demeanor shifts a bit more seriously.
"How did you feel when your sister Volunteered?"
"A little shocked," Liber confesses. "I didn't recognize her right away when she called out, but when I saw her walk up, it became real. She is my sister and...I was, am, afraid to lose her. But as my sister, she's one half of me, and I'm proud to stand by her, and will continue to stand by her in the Arena. I choose my sister."
"Oh, how sweet," Ivoree croons. "You know, Ceres...for the record, I'm rooting for you two."
I exhale slowly, wondering how much of what Liber said was real, and how much was performative. "Me, too, Ivoree."
Galeria helps me out of my gown and she, along with my team of stylists, help to remove my makeup. Afterwards, we're returned to our apartments, where we all seem to divide into our innermost thoughts. When Liber left the Interview, he walked right passed me, and we haven't spoken since prior. Even returning to our floor, he retreats to his bedroom, along with the rest of us. I had half-expected there to be a sort of unity before the night of the Games, a last hurray of some kind, but it seems a quiet sullenness has befallen the place. I can't fault anyone for that. We aren't just any Tributes, after all. We're the children to Rheon. So, mirroring everyone else, I also depart to my room for a spell, thinking about what my brother had to say and what tonight is going to bring.
This time tomorrow we could be dead, everything having been complete forfeit. There are hundreds of things left unanswered and so many things left unsaid, that I have to pace the length of my room to try to count out my priorities; it's an alarmingly large number of them, and I feel ill considering it all, horribly so. Between my father and brother alone, it feels as if there are lightyears between us; a vast ocean keeping us apart, where I can only scarcely see their bodies in the distance, like ants. My father and I would work on the boat together, yet he was always so distant, it always felt more like a business relationship than a father-daughter one. Then Liber scarcely paid me any mind as a sister, as I was to my own devices and he to his.
We had been happy in that dynamic, truthfully. It was where we were comfortable. But now faced with death, knowing that I may never truly know either of them as well as I could have, I feel strangely. I'm not sure whether I should feel guilty or angry. Then there's Finnick, who's an enigma all his own. He frustrates me in the worst ways sometimes, yet I have never doubted his loyalty; never doubted him. And if I die tomorrow, I want him to know that.
I sigh deeply.
I suddenly hear a sound somewhere beyond my door, and I decide to investigate. It could be my dad, returning to the drink, or it could be Liber, or Finnick, or Ren, or even Mags. What I find is Tilda removing her heels and throwing them across the room, thudding accurately against a couch. I blink, watching as she mumbles something to herself, then levels her gaze towards me.
"Oh, sorry," she says. "I thought you were in bed already. It's so...quiet."
"I think everyone's hiding out, till we get our bearings, at least," I say.
She hums. "I see," she says. "It's a very complicated night, after all. You know, you and Liber did well on your Interviews. I was impressed. Quite the impression."
"Ivoree said the same." I shift, thinking about what the Escort said earlier. "Ivoree said something interesting today. He said he's been busy working on Clients...what does that mean?"
Tilda lifts her blue eyes to meet mine, and I can see that the warmth there has hardened to ice. Her pretty lips press into a thin red line. She moves briskly across the room and I think that she's going to leave me to find her room, but rather she approaches a long white table which holds a few bottles of alcohol and some glasses. She pours what I assume to be whiskey into a glass, downs it, repeats the process again, and then finally looks back at me. "Sorry," she says. "Took me off guard."
Her shoulders are tense, as if someone gearing for a fight. An animal cornered by a predator without any place to run, forced to fight instead. I try softening my stance, even taking a small step back, to hopefully ease the tensions in her figure.
"Don't apologize. It's okay."
Tilda raises her glass, eyeing it for a moment. I see her weigh her options before she finally settles and pours herself another drink, though this time she sips it slowly. "I've been doing this since I was sixteen," she says, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "Sometimes it hits harder." She clears her throat, seemingly grounding herself, and levels her gaze towards me. "I asked Ivoree to stay out of things here for a bit, focus on getting us Sponsors...and by that, Clients. You probably know about that, right?"
I nod.
"You would." Tilda draws a slow sip from her glass. "I remember he came to me after Neleus died. He was just a kid, and he told me he was going to take Snow up on his offer again. He was scared, but he asked me for advice. I told him...make your own decisions, to have his choices when he can."
I swallow, remembering the awkward kiss we shared on the beach. Finnick had needed that agency over his body and he had trusted and cared for me enough that he felt I was the right choice. It's a memory I don't take lightly.
"Obviously, not every choice is ours. We have frequent Clients..." she says, trailing. "But Finnick and I...this Games was different. We took more agency over the situation. We can generally accumulate impressive Sponsors under normal circumstances, but this time around, we worked harder. For Rheon."
"You and Finnick, but what about Ren?"
"Ren has no one to lose," Tilda says. "He went into the Games a backwater orphan, so when Snow offered and he refused, Snow had no one to use against him. Ren's lucky that way, I suppose. Finnick had his dad...but not just him, in the end. And I, well...I had two sisters, a long time ago..." She downs the glass.
"One...died in the Games, right?"
"One." Tilda shakes her head. "My littlest sister, Myla...she was just twelve, and she was Reaped the year after me, and died before the day was up. Her head was bashed in."
I remember that. Myla Steelbrook, who had tried running but was cornered by her own fellow Tribute, who grabbed her and used a rock. This had been one of the few Games I had struggled to watch, though it was also one of the ones my father never let me finish. I got as far as day two before my father made those particular Archives disappear. I don't fault him for it, for it was one of his Tributes, and the sister to a Victor, no less.
"My sister blamed me for it," Tilda goes on. "Willa couldn't stand to live in a world without her, so she took the easy way out. Now I have no one."
Tilda is in her thirties, so her Games and the Games of Myla were well before my time, so I wasn't there like my dad was to watch it all unfold. I can only imagine the pain she's endured, just at sixteen and then at seventeen when Myla was Reaped. I can only imagine the strings President Snow pulled in order to execute his vengeance; it was so elaborate and so cruel, my stomach rolls to the mere thought of it. I feel sickened that I had tried to watch her sister's Games as a child. I may not have understood at the time, though I had felt uneased by it, but I still feel ill.
"Then why take on Clients?" I dare to ask.
Her lips twitch. "To protect my Tributes, I think," she admits, setting her glass down. "Ivoree shouldn't have said anything to you."
"Maybe," I say. "But he did."
"Hmm." Tilda shakes her head. "Just know we're doing what we can to protect you and Liber. Rheon's gotten some of his bearings back, but it goes without saying he's terrified to lose all of you. You know that, right?"
"He's my father," I say, chest heavy.
"And his kids could die tomorrow," Tilda says. "Finnick, Ren, and I will keep doing what we have been to keep you safe. And don't take that into the Arena with you, don't be guilty. It's our choice. You choose to keep Liber alive, right? That's us, too. We're choosing to keep you alive." She approaches me. Tilda is well taller than me even without heels, so she stands well above me, her expression slowly cooling. She reaches out and presses a hand to my shoulder, squeezing me tightly. "Do yourself a favor...no loose ends."
"What'd you mean?"
"No loose ends," Tilda repeats. "You could die tomorrow. Make sure you live today, and finish things before you lose your chance." She pulls her hand back, flexing her fingers. Tensely, she smiles. "I'm going to go get drunk in my room, I think."
Before I can reply, she's taken one of the bottles from off of the table and rushes towards her room, leaving me standing there alone to my thoughts. No loose ends. It feels as if everything has unraveled around me, and I am surrounding by hundreds upon hundreds of loose threads which have interwoven with each other and knotted, rendering them indistinguishable. I try to set them apart. I scarcely know my brother...do I say my goodbyes today? I mean to keep him alive well through whatever tomorrow brings, but we could both die instantaneously before I have a chance to do so. My dad hasn't approached me at all, maybe too in denial about it all. Then there's Finnick.
I fidget a little, gritting my teeth.
I didn't Volunteer for Mara because of the Games, because I couldn't bear the thought of being put in a situation where I'd have to kill Finnick. I cared too much for him to allow that, and though I wanted my Victory, I wanted Finnick alive. At the time, I thought it was because I wanted him to experience it and know I was better than him. In hindsight, I think part of it was the truth. But the other half is so much more dangerous. Now I've Volunteered for the sake of my brother, to keep him alive. Maybe it was stupid...it would have been so much easier if someone else had Volunteered for him, some idiot like me willing to partake in this hell scape. Regardless, in the end, I'm the only one who'll show mercy to Liber.
And that means I have to die, in the end.
Before I know it, I'm walking towards Finnick room. I almost lose nerve once I'm standing outside of it, but the door suddenly opens and I'm left with wide eyes and, no doubt, a remarkably hilarious stunned expression as Finnick greets me with an equally surprised expression. His auburn brow arches at me. He's wearing a short sleeved grey shirt with a pair of dark pants, looking like his usual casual self back home, sitting on his porch watching the rain or down at the beach, watching the sunrise before he fishes.
He looks like Finnick, truly like himself.
"What brings you here?" Finnick asks, folding his arms. He's eyeing me carefully, looking over my face and demeanor.
"Can I come in?" I ask.
Finnick must note the urgency in my tone, so he nods. "Of course."
I step inside, raking a hand through my now loose hair, which hangs down towards the middle of my back. "Tidla said something interesting. She said leave no loose ends," I say.
"Funny, she said the same thing to me before my Games," Finnick says. "So you're saying your goodbyes before tomorrow?"
"Sort of...kind of." I exhale, awkwardly putting my hands on my hips. "I need to resolve things, for sure, because I have so many loose threads scattered everywhere, and I don't know what to do with them. My dad, my brother, even myself...and then you."
"Me, huh?" Finnick's expression shifts, looking away.
It's not a mistake being here, I say sharply to myself when I feel doubt creeping inside of me. "Finn, we can't dance around it," I say as gently as I'm able. "There's a lot I have to say to you, and I'm not sure how to articulate it."
"Seaweed brain is a common articulation for you," Finnick says, looking back at me. He forces himself to smile, though I can see there's something pained in his eyes. "You-"
"Finnick, I think..." No, no. I can't think it, I need to know it. My face is reddening and my nerves are riled, but I throw my hands out from my hips, and just yield to it. "Finnick, I love you. You're the most annoying person I've ever met and you used to piss me off frequently, and I thought I hated you for it." I pause for only a breath, but I can see his expression changing from confusion to absolute bewilderment, his sea-green eyes widening near out of his sockets as he takes me in, so I decide to keep going. "But you've always been there. You were the one I would fish with, who'd stand by me even at my worst. Damn it, Finnick, you came to me after Neleus died, and you asked me to kiss you after you came home, and...maybe it's because you trust me. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. But that's just how I feel. It's complicated and it's hard, and I wish I'd said it sooner, and for that I'm sorry. But, Finnick, I-"
"You love me?"
I swallow, forcing myself to nod. "Yeah, Finn."
Finnick watches my face intently, searching for something. When he blinks, he takes a few steps closer to me. "Loving me is probably the most dangerous thing you can do. Plenty of women here love me, claim they do, anyway. But it doesn't matter, not when they're giving me their secrets," he says. "But you...you loving me is something Snow can use."
"I'm in the Games, Finnick, I'm already being used my Snow."
"If Snow knew, he could hurt you out there...use you as a way to-"
"That'd have to mean I mean something to you," I assert. "If it's one-sided, Snow wouldn't care."
Finnick closes his mouth, making a scoffing sound with his throat.
"I do, don't I?"
"You're slow sometimes."
"Maybe," I say. "You know, Finnick, you don't have to say anything - you don't have to reciprocate anything. I'm trying to take off what I'm going to bring into the Arena, so I don't have anything loose with me."
"And I'm your loose end," Finnick says, swallowing. "I almost wish you'd told me sooner." Before I can ask why, he continues. "Maybe then we could've lived through something together in District 4, even for a while. Then again...Snow's made it clear that distractions are dangerous, and I don't think I could live with myself if I found you the way I found my dad, Ceres."
"I know, Finnick."
"Still, I think you know how I feel."
I nod. "I do."
"Loving me is dangerous."
"No, but maybe that's why I chose you - because you're a hard-ass who I also hate," I say, half-heartedly. "I want you to know that, Finn. Whatever happens tomorrow, I don't want you to doubt it."
Finnick draws closer, hand reaching to hold my cheek. "I don't doubt you. I'm just afraid of you," he says, pulling my face upward, and leaning down to close the distance between us.
His lips are soft against mine, and I'm reminded of that kiss we shared in his bedroom, before things fell downhill. Not this time. I place my hands on either side of his neck, returning his kiss as I slowly balance myself on his toes to match his height. His free hand rests on the small of my back, holding me close. It's a gentle kiss, gentler than we one we shared before, but it feels far more passionate and caring. Finnick may not have said the words, but I feel them. They're dangerous to speak, arguably too dangerous for someone in Finnick's position. He can't afford that luxury. But in this moment, holding each other close, when my time of reckoning is a day away, we can afford it together.
The kiss slowly intensifies, as we find ourselves more comfortable with one another. My hands move so that my arms are around his neck, waiting for every physical indication to his comfort and to his consent. When he moves, I move. But it isn't long before we find ourselves out of breath, our lips drawing away from each other slowly. My eyes remain closed as Finnick presses his forehead to mine, his warmth breath fanning my mouth. When I open my eyes, he's looking at me.
"I love you," I say, meeting his eyes.
"I know," Finnick replies.
His hand placed upon my waist, shifting slightly. His thumb brushes tentatively beneath my shirt, his pad ghosting across my skin. I see the query residing in his eyes, and I ponder it myself, as heat rushes up my neck and into my face. I have kissed a handful of boys before, had partaken in some flirtations, but never had progressed so far before. Then again, when is a better time to lose one's virginity than before they're about to die? But it's more than that, because I don't care about that, or what it means. It's never meant anything to me. But the thought of Finnick holding me like this, his eyes questioning and his touch so gentle, I think back to how tentative he had been when he asked me to kiss him for the first time.
In the end, Finnick has so few choices, and he must seize them when he can. His own little rebellions, which are entirely his own; too few and far between. We both know the dangers, in more ways than one. Yet this night can be totally and unapologetically ours.
"Do you want this?" I ask softly.
Finnick steadies his breath. "Yes," he says, with a quiet determination that has an underlying passion. Its sincerity speaks volumes. "Do you?"
I smile. "Yes, seaweed brain."
Our lips attach to each other again, our arms around one another. There is no urgency or fierce ravishing as what I have heard and read about before, or as some girls would describe in their little quickies behind closed doors. This is slow. Finnick and I kiss each other deeply, becoming acquainted to each others' comforts, our likes and dislikes, before our clothes is even shed. I let Finnick undress me first, as I want him to stay as comfortable as he possibly can first. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, which I nod to, and he carefully pulls it over my head. Beneath me is a black bandeau, which conceals my breasts, allowing Finnick the opportunity to caress his hands over my bare hips and pull me to him, to brush his calloused palms over my back. He's being careful with me, I can tell. I don't rush him, though I do shudder beneath his touch.
I need not make any requests for himself, because Finnick removes his own shirt and I find my eyes flickering towards his torso. I have seen Finnick shirtless before, but not within this context. He has a couple of little marks along his body, scars leftover from the Games that I recognize; a spot where a dagger grazed, an area where an axe nearly embedded into him. They all tell their stories. Slowly, I reach out to touch a white long along his ribcage.
"District 3, I think," Finnick says.
"I remember," I say. "You're really beautiful, Finn."
He snorts, though his face darkens a little. "Ceres-"
"Don't even try, you are," I say. "There's a reason I used call you a pretty boy."
"Am I still the prettiest boy?"
"Dear God."
Finnick laughs as he closes the distance between us again, our mouths fusing together in what becomes a more passionate kiss. Our hands explore each other a bit more freely and comfortably together. Clothes are shed between us, myself pulling my bandeau from over my head, and Finnick unbuckling his trousers. I kick my pants off to the side, it landing limply against the wall, and soon enough we're bare to each other. We appreciate each other for only a moment before he has me in his arms again, our bareness pressed together, and he's bringing me to his bed. I don't really have much agency to be self-conscious of myself, as I am a petite woman with a relatively lean, albeit toned, figure from years of swimming and athletics. But I do find myself blushing a little over the moisture between my legs, and the feel of Finnick's appendage against my thigh as we fall into bed together.
He's hovering over me, his lips trailing mine as his hands press on either side of me. Clearly the expert between us, as I have little to no idea of what I'm supposed to be doing. I suppose I should voice that. He knows, right? Surely he knows.
"Hey, Finn?"
He pulls his face from mine, regarding me. "Yeah?"
"I've never had sex, nor have I seen a penis before."
Finnick's whole face erupts into red, matching his hair, and I snort loudly. Finnick is left staggering a little over his words, surprise more than prominent upon his features. Guess he didn't.
"I know, I'm surprised to," I say.
"So you're a virgin?"
"I mean," I say, propping myself up by my elbows, "I think I broke it when I fell really hard off of a dune before, so that technical barrier shouldn't be there. But, yes, I am inexperienced when it comes to..." He leans back a little, taking me in, and still very much red. I smirk a little, pleased to have flustered him. "Digit and erectile penetration, shall we say?"
"I think I hate you." Finnick shakes his head, though I can see he's smiling. "Still, I am surprised. And are you sure you want to...? It could hurt."
"Pain doesn't bother me, Finn. Besides, I want this, and I want you," I say, sitting up a little so I can reach out and gently cup his face. "All of you."
"In that case, do you trust me?"
"Only sometimes."
"Good enough."
Finnick leans forward, pressing kisses to my jaw, then to my neck, where he trails lower and lower until he's on his knees in front of me (appendage very out, and oddly appealing from what I can gather). He presses his hands gently against my knees, meaning to part them when I use my foot to nudge his stomach.
"What exactly are you planning on doing?" I ask.
"I'm going to pleasure you," Finnick says, so casually that my brow arches.
"How, exactly...?"
"My mouth."
I eye him for a moment, blinking. "I'm cautiously intrigued."
"It won't hurt," Finnick says. "And if you don't enjoy it, tell me. But try not to knee me."
"No promises."
"Lean back."
I inhale, leaning back against the pillows. I watch him as he slowly parts my legs, settling between them so that my thighs are resting over his shoulder. This is a view I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams, yet I can't help but to feel a stirring. I take a deep breath, trying to relax even as Finnick's lips brush along my inner thigh, nibbling against the skin until he finds that part of me that I've never thought much of before. I inhale sharply, at first overwhelmed and baffled by the sensation. I almost panic by hurtling my hips upward, but Finnick, no doubt foreseeing this reaction, drapes an arm over my lower abdomen and gently pushes it down, keeping me in place.
It's so strange, yet soon, as Finnick's mouth is working below me, I start to feel it. His tongue brushing against my folds, circling a little nub of pleasure I'd been acutely aware of, but hadn't necessarily indulged in before. I bite back moans, gritting my teeth and biting my tongue, until I remember this room is soundproof, from what Finnick told me. I try not to think about the implications that reside there, as I allow myself to breathe and moan loudly as Finnick's tongue caresses me. He suckles occasionally, causing me to help.
"That okay?" his muffled voice inquires.
"M-yeah," I conclude. "Just...yes."
I close my eyes, finding my whole body enveloped in a strange white pleasure I've never felt before. One of my hands clenches at the pillow behind my head, while the other accidentally reaches to latch onto Finnick's auburn curls. He makes a low growling sound, and I quickly pull my hand back.
"S-sorry," I say. "Are you o-"
"No, I liked it," he assures me, kissing my thigh. "Didn't think you were the rough type."
"Shut up..."
I am consciously more gentle the next time I reach for Finnick's auburn curls, gently tugging as he continues to pleasure me, eventually adding in his digits. This does take me a little off guard, though my body seems to offer no resistance as he pleasures me there; coiling one finger within me, caressing my walls. He adds a second, then a third, which does cause me to stir uncomfortably.
"Sorry," Finnick says. "It hurts for girls' first times, so I'm stretching you out. Try to relax."
"You sound so technical," I say, laughing softly.
"Well, it is technical."
But soon enough, my body is yielding to the movements of his fingers inside of me and his mouth against my nub, and soon that white pleasure blinds me altogether and my back arches sharply. I release a breath of his name, and all at once fall back. It's so blinding and overwhelming that it takes me a moment, with labored breaths, to realize what had just happened. Once I did, I press my hands to my face and try not to think about what it might have looked like from his angle, or how quickly it had come. I peak between my fingers, watching as Finnick shifts slightly to take a tissue from the side table to wipe his face. He looks enormously pleased with himself, more so when he notices how flushed I am.
I remove my hands once he settles back over me, looking across my face.
"Too much?" he asks.
"No," I say. "I just wasn't expecting that."
He chuckles. "That was your first right?" he asks, almost smirking at my nod. "I feel lucky."
"I'm sure you do," I say. "And you're still sure you want this?"
"Yes," Finnick replies, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to my neck. "I do."
He settles himself between my legs then, my raised thighs framing his hips. He adjusts my legs accordingly so that they rest over his him, ensuring my comfort before he's reaching a hand between us to take his member and guide it to my still tremendously aching core; it stirs to the sensation, and I inhale sharply as he hovers over me. His sea-green eyes find mine, waiting.
"Finnick," I say. My heartbeat is going wild and I feel airy. It's such a strange word, but it's what I feel; it spreads through my stomach like butterflies, through my veins, up into my head.
"It's about choice, right?" Finnick says. "This one is mine."
My lips part, taking in a sharp breath as Finnick's hips move forward; burrowing within me in a moment that seems to send me someplace else. It doesn't feel like the beach or any other safe place back in District 4, nor anything else I have ever experienced before; it is wholly and entirely mine. Head tilting back, I allow myself to be enveloped by this feeling. It hurts, there's no denying that. But it's real.
The feeling of Finnick inside of me is mine, entirely mine; it elevates me, takes me towards the clouds where I continue to ascend until I can no longer breathe. My hands steady themselves on his back, holding him in place against me. Our chests are pressed together, bare and breathing deeply. Finnick's face is pressed into my neck, his own breathing sharpened. I have to wonder what he's feeling. It goes without saying that Finnick being with women isn't a new experience for him, but the Finnick he plays for them isn't the Finnick he is...because he's right here with me, breathing shakily against my neck, and his hands fisting the pillow on either side of my head. I can feel the tenseness in his shoulders.
There are a million possible reasons for the stillness of him over me. A primary theory is he's taking into account my inexperience - and by that I mean, none - but he isn't moving above me, not even a twitch in his muscles, and his breathing sounds shaky. With a chill down my spine, I force myself to consider the very real possibility that it doesn't feel right for him. Hilt deep within me, his body frozen like a marble statue, he might feel a sense of obligation to have me now. What once was his choice could have faltered out into that persona of his, like when we kissed in his room.
The tightness in my lower abdomen which had been pleasure is now guilt.
Slow as I can, I lift one of my hands and proceed to gently touch the back of his head. I stroke his fine auburn curls softly, enjoying the surprisingly soft strands between my fingers. Beneath my other hand, I feel his muscles start to relax; still stiff, but slowly slackening. "We can stop," I say quietly, his face still burrowed in my neck.
Finnick props himself up by his elbows, hovering over me. Our faces are mere inches apart. His sea-green eyes are watching me closely. "Do you want to stop?"
The truth of the matter is, I don't want to stop. I could die tomorrow, or within the following days, and if my final moments with Finnick had been the density between us following our previous encounter, forever wondering what could have been, I would have died in frustration. To be with Finnick in this way, to be as open and as truly vulnerable as a person can be, feels right. I need him to know that, me beneath him right here and right now, is what I want. But I won't allow that to take priority. If Finnick were to stop no, so be it. If he allowed me to hold him, or requested that I leave, I would.
I care about him. Maybe there's more to it, but that more scares me. There's only so much I can carry with me inside of the Games. Even now, I know I'm treading into dangerous territory.
"I want you to be happy, Finn," I say. "If this is too much, then-"
"You're worried about me," Finnick cuts me off. "No...Sea-Sea. I don't want to stop. I told you, I choose this."
My face reddens. I have to bite back a grunt when he adjusts slightly, moving one of his arms to curl underneath me, and by proxy hold me closer. My hand moves from his hair to his cheek. "So do I," I say. "But if you need to stop...you just seemed a little overwhelmed."
"Well, yeah," Finnick says. He starts to move his hips, rocking slowly against me in languid, shallow thrusts that cause chilling ripples down my spine and little breaths to part from me. His expression becomes focused, his auburn brow crinkling as he seems to also take in the pleasure. His grip around my smaller body tightens. The sting which had settled starts to fade out, replaced by a wanton ache that has my little breaths evolving into softer gasps. "I have thought about this before."
Enveloped in the feel of him, I almost miss that. "Y-you've...thought about this?" I stare up at him in disbelief. "You've hated my guts for y-years, Finnick."
Finnick snorts. "I seem to recall you did too," he drawls, a lazy grin forming upon his features. "Look where we are now, Sea-Sea. Couldn't entirely hate each other..."
"I still hate you," I say, breathlessly. "Seaweed brain."
"I know."
It's so strange to think about, that he's thought about this before - that this has been a blip on his radar to any capacity. It makes me wonder for how long, when each of our thoughts for each other changed. I spent years hating Finnick, yet when he was Reaped, the day I wanted to Volunteer, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't stand the thought of killing him. Maybe it meant more than I had thought it had. What I might've thought as as empathy or simply not wanting to kill the person I wanted to upstage, maybe it had been the beginnings of something else entirely. Funny how this turned out.
Years of vying for the chance to vex the other, has now resulted in the two of us engrossed together in his bed; the moonlight from outside trickling through the window and over our figures. The silver glitters in Finnick's eyes and casts a fine shine over his auburn hair. The movements between our bodies starts to quicken. Finnick's hips begin to move a little faster and harder against me. His arm holds me securely against his body, angling my lower body just so, so that every thrust feels better than the last. It goes without saying that he knows what he's doing, whereas I'm still not entirely comfortable with my hands.
I have my arms wrapped around his shoulders, occasionally brushing my hands down his back and over his shoulder blades. Eventually, my hands are brave enough to explore over his smooth, chiseled chest; he's lean and toned, with a fine figure worthy of appreciation. He's beautiful, he truly is.
Beautiful still are the noises he makes above me. He moans into my ear, a rumble occasionally resounding from his chest that reminds me of a cat purring. It vibrates against my own, sending shivers throughout my body.
Finnick's lips press to my neck, where he lays kisses and proceeds to suck and nibble over my pulse. I reply in moans, arching my back against him. He moves his hips rapidly against mine, presumably consumed by my own sounds, as I manage out his name.
Finnick, Finnick, Finnick.
"Oh, God, Finnick," I manage out, as I feel something build deep within me; it rises higher, reaching for something. I aim to meet its touch. My nails rake a little over his shoulders, with my toes curling as my legs tighten all the more around his waist, pulling him deeper inside of me. He hits that spot again, where I see white; pure and sparkling. "F-Finnick..."
"I know, I know," he manages out in return, his fingers continuing to caress and rub the pearl between my legs. Something jolts through me, which Finnick must sense because he's watching my face very closely now. "Ceres...please...please."
I don't know entirely what he's begging me for, but all of a sudden the jolt of pleasure inside of me, that great reach I tried to meet, suddenly implodes into a thousand white fireworks. I see them cross my vision, near blurring the mesmerized expression on Finnick's face. He follows soon after, his thrusts becoming slightly clumsy as he finishes within me, a sensation that causes my heart to leap, and my body to shudder. It is with a few shallow pumps that he completes his orgasm, falling against me with a labored breath. His cheek is beside my own, both of us gathering our breaths as we lay limply within one another. My chest is full and my heart is warmed, and my body is...satisfied.
"Sea calls me back...I fell without stopping..." Finnick murmurs into my ear, so quiet I almost don't hear him.
"What?" I murmur back.
"Sorry, just...came out. Poetry, sort of." Finnick rolls over, flopping beside me. He lays there for a moment or two before he sits upright, gathering some tissues from his bedside table. He glances back at me, frowning a little. "And don't worry about that. Capitol gives me some lovely injections that keep me sterile. You alright?"
I glance down, noting a little blood against my thighs. "Yes," I say. "Not the first time I've seen blood there, Finn. I won't faint."
I take the tissues from his hand before he can offer them and clean myself. He chuckles to himself and does the same. Once we have our bearings, we fall back into bed together, each others' bodies cradled with the other.
"What are you thinking about?" I wonder.
"Nothing," Finnick replies, smiling.
I believe him, and I wish I could say the same. I close my eyes and press my face against his chest. My head is swimming with a million things at once, but if only for a moment, Finnick seems a little at peace with himself; his own eyes closed, but a contented grin on his face.
If we were in District 4 right now, in Finnick's bed at his house, then I'd like to think that I'd wake up when the sun was steadily rising over the crest of the ocean, and I'd go down to the beach to start fishing; waiting for him there, of course, but mercilessly teasing him, too. But come tomorrow morning, I'll no doubt be in a small metal room, sitting tensely as my goodbyes weigh over my head, and waiting for the moment I'm lifted into the Arena. God knows what it'll even look like...I've seen dozens over the years. Jungles and forests seem to be the most common, as they provide the most structure, and are generally positive in terms of Hunger Games experience - at least for the viewers. Forests generally provide an aesthetically pleasing environment, but the trees also provide shelter, hiding ground, and an array of possibilities for 'entertainment.' I have seen some Arenas take place in under blizzard conditions, in which even the Victor endured frostbite to his fingers. Another Arena was a barren desert, which was near flat save for some dunes. Water had to be harvested from cacti, but it often made the Tributes hallucinate.
God only knows what my Arena will look like. There are hundreds of possible outcomes and none of them are entirely beneficial. Certainly they will contain attributes that reflect positively to our advantage, but I know that it can equally hinder and break us. District 4 is always warm, so to survive cold conditions would be difficult. A desert doesn't seem too terrible, as we have dunes that we climb back home, but they're nowhere near as high. A forest would be simple, I suppose; a fair compromise of the elements.
But who's to say? Lucius Crane could build an Arena to pander to Panem or he could show his favoritism, whatever that might be, to particular Tributes.
There's no guarantee to our safety, anyway. Finnick and the rest have done what they can to secure us Sponsors, as I have done through Seneca Crane.
"Tomorrow a billion things could happen," I say. "We'll be fine, Finnick. We're smart. And I've been training for this for a long time."
"Finally, your hubris is useful."
"I will hit you."
"Go ahead, Sea-Sea."
I sit up a little, gently smacking at his chest. "How the hell have I put up with you for all these years? I should've just drowned you when I had the chance..." I say, laughing when Finnick, with surprising swiftness, gently clasps both of my wrists. His sea-green eyes find mine, his smile still broad, and I blush a little when he looks appreciatively over my upright figure. "I don't hate you."
"You don't, huh?" Finnick pulls himself upward, as well, his large hands slowly enclosing over my own; fingers intertwining. "Good to know."
I brush my tongue over my lips, thinking carefully. I've never been great with my words, despite my pomp and practice over the years, but I want these moments to stick with him. What I say has to matter. If I don't survive this, I don't want him to be dwelling on the what-if's of every meaning and possibility. Let there be certainty. "You've always been my best friend, Finnick. Even when I was throwing seaweed at you," I say.
"Impeccable aim," Finnick compliments, appearing thoughtful.
"Yes," I say. "Finn...I think I would've been a very lonely person without you."
"You know...I think I could say the same thing."
I smile, leaning forward to capture his mouth in a slow, soft kiss. "You do stink, though."
"I smell like you," Finnick protests. "Easily remedied by a shower, which I think you could really use..."
"I think we could do that."
Sometime later, both of us freshly clean and in bed, I can hear Finnick snoring behind me. It took a while for him to fall asleep, but once he did, he did so deeply. He seemed enamored with holding me, as he had his strong arms coiled around my figure, my back pressed to his chest. He'd murmur in my ear sometimes, little promises and terms of affection that startled me. Sea calls me back, I fell without stopping. Those words repeat, as well, and I smile against them. But the moment can't last forever, as incredible as it was.
With a soft sigh, I slowly untangle myself from Finnick's arms. The man sleeps remarkably deeply and doesn't even stir, though I hear him grumble incoherently against the pillow. I smile at the sight of him, so visibly relaxed. I even do a small, respectable nod towards that little bloodspot on the bed. Now thoroughly cleaned and smelling like some rich type of shampoo, I gather my clothes from off the floor and dress. I then open the door carefully and peer out. With the coast clear, I step out and shut the door quietly behind me. I expect the lights to be out, though I notice a golden hue which catches my attention. Someone is awake. I venture out, relieved to find Liber there. I guess I didn't have to hunt him down to his room, after all.
Liber is seated by one of the large glass windows overlooking the Capitol, looking across the city and its array of lights. We can't hear the people outside, but we can certainly see them. Being on the fourth flour, we're high enough that they appear so small and insignificant, but we're also low enough that I can make out the array of distinct costumes down below. They move together in an array of neon colors. Across the tall buildings, I can see flags hung out various windows, depicting the respective occupant's favorite District. It's so strange to see District 4 hung out a window, flying freely and with pride. It's what I always wanted and dreamed of, but it's funny how quickly dreams can dissolve into nightmares. Seeing my little brother seated by the window, his body leaned against it, and his gaze outward and distant, is like watching someone drown in the distance and being unable to reach them.
I know I'm strong, that I'm stubborn and determined. I can reach my brother and I can keep him from being caught by the undertow.
Slowly, I approach him. He doesn't spare me a glance as I go to sit across from him, his eyes still out across the Capitol, gaze seemingly flickering from the people to the towering buildings; his brow is crinkled, and his lips are pressed together into a thin line. His shaggy dark hair is pulled behind his ears, so I can get a clear look of his face; conflicted is a very right word, I think. It's something I know all too well.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
Liber swallows. "It's..." he sighs. He gestures loosely to the window. "I used to think you were an idiot for wanting this. The Games were always apart of our identity, because of dad, but how hard you went for it always seemed insane. I never understood it."
"Because it was insane," I say, snorting. "Are you going to tell me you understand now?"
"Sort of," Liber admits. "I mean, it's a lot. People are outside cheering for us to survive, and they like us - want us to win - and...we're supposed to kill kids tomorrow. A lot of them. And the people who've been rooting for us are going to send us gifts and Sponsor us and try to keep us alive, and it's just insane - it's weird, Ceres. It's just weird. I...I feel proud, but I feel sick, too."
"I understand."
"I almost wish someone would've Volunteered for me."
"Almost?"
"If somebody else Volunteered for me, they'd be getting themselves into this."
"That would be their choice," I say.
"Do you regret it?"
"Volunteering?"
"Yes."
I exhale through my nose, lips pursing. "Never," I conclude. "I didn't Volunteer because I wanted to, like I would have before. I Volunteered because I had to, to keep you safe."
"You think I couldn't handle any of this?"
"I don't think so." I say, ignoring the annoyed look he throws me. "Between the two of us, I have the most experience. I have the knowledge. I've studied all the Games extensively, from their Tributes to their Arenas to their failings and successes. Whether I like it or not, I know how to play the Game. You, however, don't know how to fish and can barely swim."
Liber's face darkens. "I never liked swimming."
"That's part of District 4's advantage in the Arena, we know how to utilize water. But that's also our disadvantage because they know where to find us."
"Maybe we'll have an Arena that's all on fire," Liber says.
I snort. "Maybe." I look at him, really look at him. "Had this never happened, what would you have been?"
"What'd you mean?"
"Out of life," I say. "Finnick's dad was a merchant before he died, and Finnick was being apprenticed to follow in his footsteps. Pretty straightforward livelihood, right? Dad didn't need us to have livelihoods, because of his wealth, but he taught me how to fish, anyway. That probably would've been what I did. But if you had never been Reaped, where'd you be? What would you want?"
Liber's brow knits, a hesitant furrow residing there. "You'll laugh."
"I promise, I won't."
"I...think I'd want to build things."
That makes me a little surprised. My brows arch entirely and I stare at him a little quizzically. "Build things?"
"Sometimes I'd go into town and help the carpenter build boats, or help repair old buildings. I liked repairing things, it made me feel useful. Strong, even," he says, meeting my gaze. "It's not a life by the sea, like you or Finnick or anyone else, but it made me happy. And I think that I could've made a life there. Maybe even gotten married...maybe a kid, though I don't think I'd be wanting kids."
I smile. "I don't think I would, either," I admit. "Not in this world."
"Sometimes I wonder why dad even had us, if he knew the risk," Liber says.
"Maybe he assumed we'd be protected. Victor kids being Reaped isn't exactly commonplace."
"Figures it'd be me."
"Figures," I say. "You know I meant what I said, right? I'm going to keep you safe during the Games."
Liber exhales, his smile melancholic. "I believe it, Ceres. That's what scares me."
Before I can reply, footsteps catch my attention. Mags is gently ushering my dad towards us, he looking across her face and she nodding. With a deep breath, he approaches us, and sits between us. Liber and I look at our father, and he looks forward through the glass, watching the people and the city below us.
"I never wanted this for any of you," he says.
"We know," Liber says.
"I'm going to keep him safe, dad," I say. "I promise."
"I'm supposed to keep you safe," Rheon says.
"You will," I say, reaching for his hand. "You will."
"I don't believe in goodbyes, do you?"
I glance up, watching as Galeria smooths out my jacket. "How do you mean?"
"Goodbyes insinuate permanence," Galeria says. "Until next time sounds more promising, doesn't it?"
"I suppose."
I look towards the mirror. The Launch Room is small and eerie, with an open glass tube that sits unoccupied, but very much awaiting my presence. My eyes keep flickering to it as I've been getting ready, Galeria helping me to finish dressing. I'm wearing a sea-green shirt that's supposed to reflect my District, with a pair of black trousers, practical boots that reach the halfway point of my calf, and a girthy belt around my center, which has multiple pockets and pouches. My hair has been pulled up into a bun, as opposed to my normal ponytail. Galeria says that ponytails are easy to grab, make you vulnerable. I'd agree with that sentiment.
"It's not too late to shave my head. It'd minimize the risk of someone grabbing me," I say.
Galeria shakes her head. "You'd lose some of your appeal if you lost your hair, unfortunately. That would minimize Sponsors," she says, approaching me. "But I agree. No hair is far more practical."
I offer her a smile, which she returns. She lifts a black jacket, composed with strips of leather and a sturdy looking material that fits comfortably with my body; flexible, but also durable. The attire for the Games are meant to be practical. The jackets in question are meant to contain the heat and deflect from the cold, as the nights will no doubt be chilly. After all, I've seen dozens of Tributes die from exposure alone, particularly from the cold; their bodies frosting over or left blue-lipped overnight.
Galeria zips the jacket for me. I move my arms up and down, ensuring mobility.
"Did you get to say until next time to everyone?"
My lip twitches. "Yes. My family and I, we just sat by the window. I think my dad is still in shock," I say. And Finnick, I want to add, but it feels dangerous. I need to be careful what I take with me into the Games, what I leave behind. My load can't be great. "Now you."
"Now me."
Galeria's face shifts, a sad smile reflecting on her lips. Her black eyeliner coils and creates vine-like shapes around the side of her head, dabbed with a little blue glitter which accentuates her eyes. She's wearing a white wig today, cut off at the chin. Her clothes are black, yet also lined with sea green, and I smile a little when I notice a pair of crescent moons embroidered into her leather jacket on either side of her shoulder, reminding me of what she said when we met. I want them to feel your pull.
"Thank you, for everything," I say. "You-"
"Remember what I said, no goodbyes. And that sounds like a goodbye to me," Galeria says sternly. She leans forward and kisses both of my cheeks, her still flawless purple-black lips coiled into a comforting grin when she pulls back. "I believe in you, Ceres."
"Somebody has to," I tease. "If something does happen, to me or to Liber, please make sure they take care of my dad," I say. I know her power only extends so far, but this is the last person of my team I could be seeing ever, if all goes according to plan. I need her, as my last witness, to affirm to me that my family, those I love, will be safe.
Without any hesitation, Galeria nods. "I swear I'll help your family," she says, pulling me into a tight embrace. I hold her closely, eyes squeezing shut and my arms tightening over her. When she releases her hold on me, she nods again. "Go on. It's time."
"Thank you...thank you."
I feel my throat tighten a little, but I'm quick to turn before it can settle into my eyes and step into the tube. There's a small pause, then the glass circles around me. All falls quiet. Galeria watches me as I slowly start to rise upward, her expression warm and comforting. I keep her gaze until she disappears beneath me, then my eyes raise upwards, preparing for what is to come.
My heartbeat is going wild, but I try not to think about the outer things. The people who are going to be watching the Games don't matter, even the people I love most in this world. I can't think about my mom, dad, Finnick, my Mentors, my District, or even the array of Sponsors who wait with narrowed breaths to determine who their odds will be placed in. During the bloodbath, nothing else matters but sheer, unfiltered survival. It's the most violent section of the Games, as everyone is rushing in for a weapon, and the Careers seize the opportunity to take out easy prey. Others will run, placing their odds for another day.
My dad thinks it's smart to just run. Ren says to seize a chance if you have it.
I steady myself as I'm hoisted upward, prepared to dart or lunge forward. I prepare myself for what I might see; open fields with no possible chance of hiding, an Arena so beautiful it blinds you, or, if we're lucky, an Arena surrounded by water where my brother and I can escape. I don't expect such luxury. Still, I inhale sharply as I'm breached above the surface, expecting a thousand and one things. But the Arena I am greeted with, is no Arena I could ever have imagined.
It's a cave.
In every iteration of the Arena I have seen in the near hundred Archives I have studied, none of been a cave. Certainly there have been grottos in open waterfalls, or even large holes in the earth, but not this. Ruined cities, wide ocean with a tiny island, and even an Arena with an active volcano.
For the first time since the start of the Games, I don't know what to do.
First and foremost, the Arena is massive. We are widespread apart from each other, in a cave structure that is gratefully tall and wide. There are several entrances surrounding us against the walls, some seeming to coil and others going straight. The Arena seems to glow gold, though I couldn't tell where the source came from. The rocky surface surrounding us reflect such shades, as well as glistening from the moisture against the walls and small pools of water; not deep by any means, but it's enough to tell me there is water here. From the floor, tall rocky spikes grow in formation, spread out alongside the smoother surfaces. Above us, rock like icicles hang precariously over us; some large, others thin. The Arena is tall, at least, rather than a narrow space, with a dome like surface that extends so far upward that my head has to tilt all the way back to note it; at the top of it there's a hole, where sunlight pools and lands directly upon the cornucopia; framing it in a heavenly glow.
The cornucopia is a large, golden structure which glitters against the sunlight, almost blindingly so. Weapons are laid out surrounding it, ranging from knives to backpacks, but I can see the fine swords and daggers and spears residing deeper within it; even a trident, leaning promisingly, obviously, against the side of the cornucopia.
If I knew the layout, if I could have some familiarity with it, then I'd know what to do - at least have an idea. But looking across the structure as the timer slowly counts down, I'm stumped. My heart is hammering even louder than before. Gratefully, my eyes catch with Liber who is across from me, whose head shakes, and he looks pointedly towards one of the exits behind him. I nod discreetly, then look across and catch eyes with Birch. I think about our suggested Alliance, and as if he reads my mind, he nods. I nod in return.
And in those final seconds, I let myself regard the giant hole over our heads, showing a clear blue sky where sunlight pours out of. Maybe this cave isn't the entirety of the Arena. Maybe that light is proof that there's an exit out of here.
I release a breath.
As the timer clocks down to five, my eyes lock with Liber again. For that fraction of a second before our lives equal forfeit at any notice, when the air is unrepentantly quiet, we both understand. We're both afraid.
But at three, one of the Tributes - the girl from District 11, steps off the podium and there's a loud explosion. It resounds loudly, echoing tenfold against the cave walls, to a point where I must hold my hands firmly against my ears to muffle it. My teeth grit, fighting back a startled and pained sound. It seems to have the same effect on everyone else, for they are equally startled. My eyes move quickly to where the girl had stepped off of, horror settling in me as I see nothing but a splatter of blood which has sprayed onto the Tributes on either side of her. Bits of her clothes linger on the spot, spread out along with her blood and what is left of her organs and bones. The surprise that has stilled us after the countdown lingers for a moment, as we all seem to process what transpired - an accidental move or a very intentional escape - but it does not last.
Soon, we are all running off of our podiums. The first blood has been spilled.
Now the Games have begun.
(a/n): *smothers face* Houston, we have smut. *smothers face more* Hopefully not written too terribly! I always knew I'd write a love scene when it felt right, and I wasn't originally going to, but it just felt right here.
We are in the Games now! And the Arena reveal! I honestly had issues with the lack of Arena divergence in Hunger Games and Catching Fire. Don't get me wrong, Catching Fire's Arena serving as a clock and the hourly monsters/horrors that attacked were absolutely incredible, but it was still mildly annoying for it to be a forest-jungle scenario all over again. I remember in the first Hunger Games movie we see a scene of the previous Victor winning in what looked like rocky terrain in a barren setting, portraying how varying the Arenas can be. Also, the fact Haymitch described his Arena as being so beautiful that everyone basically had to stop to admire it and he seized the chance to book it.
I was genuinely a little stumped on how to do my Arena, but after looking at various reference pictures of various settings, I came up with my map. Obviously we're only seeing the surface level right now, but my Arena is gonna be huge and complex and have lots of twists and turns that I am very, very, very excited for you guys to see! I hope you all enjoy!
I modeled the initial appearance of this section of the cave after Luray Caverns, which I highly recommend you check out! It's going to play a huge influence later on!
And as a point of reference, at the bottom here, I'll be including the Tributes and their revealed names so far, as well as cross out the ones who go as the chapters continue. ^^
Please enjoy, and please review! 3
TRIBUTES OF THE 68TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES
DISTRICT 1
- Jason Ironjaw (18)
- Lamia Lowvale (15)
DISTRICT 2
- Unnamed Boy
- Unnamed Girl
DISTRICT 3
- Unnamed Boy
- Unnamed Girl
DISTRICT 4
- Ceresea Rythe (18)
- Liber Rythe (15)
DISTRICT 5
- Unnamed Boy
- Unnamed Girl
DISTRICT 6
- Unnamed Boy
- Unnamed Girl
DISTRICT 7
- Birch Indica (17)
- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)
DISTRICT 8
- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)
- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)
DISTRICT 9
- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)
- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)
DISTRICT 10
- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)
- Unnamed Girl (age unknown)
DISTRICT 11
- Unnamed Boy (age unknown)
- Unnamed Girl (age unknown): DECEASED
DISTRICT 12
- Rust Underhorn (13)
- Daisy Plaindrop (12)
Review replies
the .apple. seed: ahhh, thank you so much! Seneca was honestly so much fun to right. Having spent chapters establishing a relationship and foundation between Finnick and Ceres, it was really interesting to write out a dynamic where Ceres has zero advantages in understanding someone, especially as someone as complex as Seneca. I am so very excited to later explore their relationship, because it is truly a ring of complexities and travesties! And I am also *winkwink* excited for the interactions between Finnick and Seneca, which will happen in later chapters.