(a/n): I am so excited for this chapter, guys! It took a lil longer than I would have liked, but here ya go. XD I already have the next chapter mapper out so it should be a little faster! But with Thanksgiving around the corner, I may wind up on the backburner again. XD We shall see!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
president snow
"Do I have any regret?" I wonder aloud.
Sitting on our porch swing, looking out over an enormous blue ocean with a coral sunset above us, my dad and I swing together. He's beside me, his eyes downcast and his fingers moving intricately across the guitar on his lap. The music sounds so strange, as if it were out of sync with the movements of his fingers, from what I can tell out of the corner of my eye, but I can't bring myself to look away from the sea. The tide is rolling in across the beach, from what I can tell from our house on the hill, pulling the sand with it; rising higher, ever faster. The porch swing moves gently back and forth, with my legs dangling off of it, swinging. I'm fiddling with a thing of rope on my lap, twisting it into various knots. It chafes my palms, but my dad says I'll get used to it.
I can feel something warm and wet between my fingers, but I don't look down. My gaze is firmly set on the ocean and the horizon. I have to wonder what rests beyond it, but I like to think it's just a broader expanse of sea, traveling endlessly until it loops back around to District 4 again. The sea is ours, after all. We belong to the Capitol. The sea is ours by equal right. It and its sea creatures don't belong to us. The sea gives as much as it takes.
The sea gives as much as it takes, I hear in the far back of my mind, in Neleus' voice.
My father's voice beside me stirs me from my thoughts. "Well, that depends, are you sorry for anything you've done?" he asks, even though his mouth isn't moving.
Nope, not yet. Maybe someday, is at the tip of my tongue. I feel my lips part to form the words, but I swallow them whole. I've spoken them before. They taste so familiar, so bitter. I blink and the tide rolls faster over the shore, pulling more chunks of it back into the ocean. Although we are so high up, I can't help but to feel uncomfortable.
I reach out to the table in front of us for a cup of water, which I then raise to my lips, but I stop suddenly.
I've been here before.
But this isn't here.
I set the glass aside. It tips over on the table and the glass shatters across the wood floor of our porch, but when it spills it doesn't spread; simply evaporates. The glass quivers slightly. "Hey, dad, do you think - " I begin, tentatively turning to face my father.
When Rheon turns to look at me, his eyes are hollow and black, filled with absolutely nothing, and blood pools from the empty sockets. My dad's fingers are still moving disjointedly against the guitar strings, creating a terrible sound that, as it intensifies, is accompanied by the louder and fiercer roar of the ocean. The tidal wave comes in faster, pulling the beach apart with it. I glance every which way, realizing that the hill our house is placed on is unusually high, and there are no other Victor houses surrounding us. My father's gaze is intent upon my face but I can't bring myself to meet it. I'm trembling now, quivering just like the glass on the ground. I grip the porch swing, which is still swinging gently back and forth.
A shaky breath parts from me. The water down below is pulling at the beach harder and fierce, with the riptide rolling in. It's only a matter of time before it tears this whole hill apart, and us with it. "Daddy, I'm scared," I say. "I don't understand."
"What is regret, Ceresea?" my dad asks, his lips finally moving. But it isn't his voice, not entirely; it's hundreds of voices, conjoined together. It's dad's, President Snow's, mom's, Liber's, Finnick's, Harpee's, Mara's - everyone. "Do you regret killing your own brother?"
Rheon strums the guitars so fiercely that the strings snap, whipping out across his face and leaving huge indentations which begin to bleed profusely, his skin peeling back. This seems to pull the trigger on the ocean, too, because the water has receded far from the beach, and I know what's coming. The wave raises so high that it covers the coral sunset.
When I look back to my dad, he's gone.
The wave snap forward, reaching high enough that it breaches the entire hill. It falls apart around me, but I don't feel the house breaking. I'm surrounded by black water and I'm being pulled every which way. The ferocity of the water's power is tugging at my limbs and I struggle to swim from it. I remember...I remember to swim horizontal to riptides, because swimming against it is pointless. But where is the riptide pulling me? I don't know, it's stabbing at me from every direction, and I can't see.
I flail my legs and kick upward, until I breach the surface. There is a boat beside me, which I grab ahold of and pull myself aboard. But I do so one handedly, because my left arm is entirely gone and black blood is spilling out of me like a faucet. I want to cry and to scream, but I can't hear anything over the sound of howling winds and whipping waves.
The shore is so far away, yet I can see a young boy with bronze hair standing out there; he's calling for his father. I stand on the boat to the best of my ability and flail my arm over my head. Finnick, go! Run! I scream, though no words leave my tongue. I can't make any sound and all of my movements are sluggish. Finnick, so young faced and so stubborn, jumps into the black water. I watch as he paddles towards me, as I helplessly stare at him and plead for him to turn back. But then that black monster with orange diamonds across its body leaps out, claiming Finnick in its jaw. This time, I can scream, and I jump in after him.
I fumble in the darkness, clawing until I feel scales, and I try to tear it apart. But it whips around, and I feel its face which is tenfold as large as it was before, and it swallows me whole. But I don't land in darkness, I'm back in the mossy cave, surrounded by glowing rocks. In the belly of the beast, Liber is sitting hunched over, holding a pufferfish skeleton in his hands.
When he lifts his eyes to me, I see his face as it had been, but the cut I had made across is cheek starts to bloom, and then bleed. "You didn't protect me," he says, his voice echoing across the walls of the beast's mossy stomach. "You lied to me."
You didn't protect me, didn't protect me, didn't protect me, protect me, his voice echoes.
I clasp my hand over my ear and try to scream again, but instead something jerks me, and I'm someplace else.
When I wake up, I'm in a hospital room. My throat is hoarse and my chest is heaving from every ragged breath.
I lay there for a moment, trying to calm my breathing down as I force myself to focus on the white ceiling above me with its artificial lights, and the sound of my heartbeat hammering away. My vision is blurred at first, though it clears after a moment or two, and, slowly, I push myself into an upright position. My head is spinning and I have to fight the urge to fall backwards. I balance myself by pressing my hand behind me, against some silken pillows that are stained with sweat. My eyes scan the room, finally taking in its familiarity.
Calling it a hospital room feels too simple. Technically, that's what it is, but it is significantly glamorous. Its walls are elaborately painted and have pretentious things of artwork made by equally pretentious Capitolian artists; swirls of color that radiate chaos. My bed has monitors on it, but it's still too large for one person and the materials are silky and smooth. Rheon is asleep in the corner. He's sitting in a red chair by the large window overlooking the Capitol, which covers about three quarters of the wall. His face is pressed to the glass, with his arms folded tightly across his chest, and his face scrunched into an array of furrowed lines. He looks remarkably uncomfortable, but at least he's asleep. What few memories I can scavenge over the last few days, I remember that he's been spending most of his time at my bedside, staring down at me intently; as I swam in and out of that haze, he was there. It's a bit of a relief to see him like this now, slightly relaxed - as much as he can be.
I lower my gaze, realizing the ache in my body. My left shoulder is still numb, though I can feel the ripples of tingles through my skin; like pins and needles. The bandages are gone now. I can feel the bareness of my skin moved from off of the silky pillowcase. But I don't look directly at it, at least not yet. I haven't seen the entirety of it, not since it was first torn off; when it was haggard bits of flesh that looked like old rags, drenched in blood, and the whiteness of my bone visible through the carnage. Nellie had tended to it, but it had been well covered up. The doctors had tended to it in their own way once I was in their care, since it had reopened in my fight with Liber.
Liber. He's dead. He's dead and I'm alive.
When I've lulled into brief consciousness, the doctors have told me I'm lucky. They tell me I'm fine. For my own sake, I choose to believe them.
When the Games had ended, I had collapsed to the ground. From the fatigue, the blood loss, and the absolute grief which washed over me like a tidal wave, I had yielded to it all. The ground had felt hard against me and had stirred some pain in my shoulder again, damaging an already reopened wound. I could feel the blood seep through the bandages Nellie had applied for me. I didn't lay there like that for long, but I certainly don't have much memories of being whisked off. I'd fallen into unconsciousness, to put it delicately. They had taken me to a medical facility where they had treated me properly. I was put under in what was a plain black abyss, where they fixed my arm - well, lack thereof, actually, more like they fixed the stump of it. They inspected the back of my head, too, as well as my brain for any damage. Aside from a minor bump, which would eventually go down, it was fine. I was fine, so they said.
My recovery has been a short-lived process, because I don't have the luxury of laying in bed and letting myself fall away. My body has been forced to heal faster than what is natural. The show must go on, after all. With the Games over, my Interview is nigh, and, from there, my return home. There would be cameras at every corner of each affair, following me even after I was returned to District 4.
It doesn't feel right.
I should be home. Instead, I'm here. And the medical wing is more like an apartment, honestly. The bed is strapped to some medical gear, though the blankets are silk and a fine shade of purple. There's wood paneling behind my bed, where a large monitor displaying my statuses hangs above my head. The wood paneling extends to the ceiling, just hovering over my bed; fine curtains attached on either side, so that I could pull them for privacy. The walls of the room are a fine lavender, with the floor being a shiny steel. There are red chairs located by the window, with a coffee table between them. There is also a fine circular table with a white chiffon cloth, which has some food.
On a separate table against the wall, there are dozens of gifts; flowers, boxes, and other miscellaneous things I can't really care about right now.
To my knowledge, my dad is the only one from my District, my team, who's visited me. Even then I wish he hadn't. He's a man in grief, so the last thing he needs is to be staring at the person who killed his son. It was an accident and Liber had intended on killing me, but I can still see the shock of my brother's face across my vision, and the fear residing there as he cupped his bleeding cheek; the poison already working its way through his veins.
I push myself slowly out of bed, shivering as my bare feet touch the cold ground. I pad across the room as quietly as I'm able, until I'm facing a mirror on the other side of it; tall and rectangular, lined with bedazzling jewels. I'm wearing a simple yellow medical gown, which conceals my modesty. My legs are slightly bare and as is my arm, all of which are smooth. They should be lined with cuts and scrapes from having existed in a cave for several days, but, I guess, the staff saw to that.
I wonder what else they saw to.
Slowly, I draw the sleeve over my stump, until it's fully visible.
I swallow.
Liber crying out for me echoes in the far back of my head and I pull my hand away, feeling sick. I had killed him. When he killed Rust, it had just been us. All I had to do was let him impale me with the trident or push me down to face those Mutts in the caverns below, yet I had fought back. I was stupid. I'd tightened my grip on my spear and I'd retaliated with anger. I had complicated things. What had started as my determination to keep my brother alive throughout the Games and then inevitably die for him had shifted into raw anger as our weapons clashed together. Liber was right. I had made the decision for Liber to win, so what did it matter if he killed me or not? I was going to sacrifice myself for him, anyway. It wouldn't have mattered if he had been the one to do it.
But in my twisted mind's eye, I see Liber plunging the knife I had stabbed Lamia with into Rust's eye. The little boy had looked so shocked. He didn't even have time to fully process what had happened before my brother had pulled the knife back out, and Rust's body had collapsed to the ground. I can still hear the cannon. It's an indistinguishable sound, yet it's the same for everyone; same boom, same impact. But Rust's cannon had felt louder than the others. It seemed to jostle and then unhinge a part of me that had never been there before. I could have snuffed it out, rather than letting myself use it to propel me against my brother.
You're choosing to kill me.
You chose to die for me. What's the difference?
So, why am I standing here, staring into the mirror at my new reflection?
I force myself to look at the stump again, this time touching it. The skin is still quite tender, though the medical team who had attended to me had done a fair job. There is the barest trace of a scar against my skin. It's more akin to a subtle V-shape. The area of the wound is rounded, on account of my shoulder bone. But there is nothing of use left. At the very least, people like Chaff maintained some of their arm; its structure, at the bare minimum. I had none of it. The entirety of my arm was lost to the Games, likely swallowed whole by the translucent Mutt that had thrown me around. I try to take comfort in the fact that it's probably dead. I'd embedded my rapala into its eye. I'd like to believe it's at the bottom of the water, having to be manually retrieved by the Gamemakers, and its body disposed of.
It's the least of what it deserves. Slowly, I reach out and brush my fingers over my stub. I shudder a little, due to the sensitivity of the area, and withdraw my hand. From there, I regard the rest of my reflection. My dark hair hangs loosely around my shoulders, the natural curls looking duller than usual; framing my face which has become more sunken in than it was before. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and my lips are chapped. I try to tell myself that this isn't a surprise. I lost so much blood in the Arena, between my head injury and then losing my arm. The fairer hue of my darker complexion shouldn't be a surprise, either, nor should my thinner stature.
I don't look, or feel, like myself.
Rheon stirs behind me, forcing my attentions to shift.
I listen tensely, as well as stilly, as he grumbles himself awake. I hear him mumble to himself, then as the realization that I'm not in the bed sets in; for he goes very quiet, then the couch is creaking as he stands up from it. I hear him as he approaches and I look into the mirror to watch him. Rheon stares at me for a long moment, his gaze moving agonizingly slowly from my eyes to my stump. I see the regret in his eyes. More so, I see the hatred - but it's not towards me. I try to keep his gaze to the best of my ability, my eyes holding his own, so that I can avoid the pity which stretches across his face. But he's still staring at my stump, even after I've pulled the sleeve down. After a while, my dad shifts from one foot to the other, and he forces himself to break the silence.
"I'm glad you're awake," he says, but his voice conveys otherwise. "How do you feel?"
I feel like hell. I'm tired and my head hurts. My shoulder is aching and my phantom fingers keep reaching out to pull my hair behind my ear, but they don't do anything. None of these things would be beneficial to say. My father stands before me a broken man and all I can think about is how my mind and body are completely reeling. I swallow. "I had a dream you were playing the guitar," I say, deciding to leave out the other details. His expression softens slightly, though his eye remains the same. "It sounded nice."
"Then it must have been a dream," Rheon replies, taking a few steps closer. "You didn't answer my question."
"I didn't? Silly of me," I say, glancing back at my reflection.
We stand in silence. Rheon doesn't pry for any answer, but his gaze sharpens a little. His lips press together into a tight line, outlining just how ragged his beard has become; it's so long now that it's started to curl, just like his mop of black hair. My hair has a slight curl to it but Liber's had always been straight, which I find a little funny, since mom's hair has some waves to it. Funny, I think. He's dead. My brother is dead and I'm thinking about the genetics of our hair.
I inhale steadily. "Don't worry about me, dad. I'll be fine."
"Don't do that."
"Do what? Be honest?"
"Hide behind yourself."
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look away from him and to my own reflection. My own eyes, just like dad's, are hate-filled. "When do they want the Interview?"
"Tomorrow night," he says. "How much do you remember over the last few days?"
"Not much...I've just been kind of drifting in and out."
"They gave you morphling to help you sleep and ease your pain. Some of your dreams were...violent."
I had woken up fairly peacefully before, I think, but my past dreams I remember as being difficult. Although my memories are foggy - thanks to the morphling, no doubt - I do remember screaming. I don't remember much aside from that, except maybe someone holding me down and being dragged back into that deep reality my brain conjured up.
"I'm sorry, dad," I say. When he stays quiet, I choose to continue. "I've broken so many promises. I'm sorry...I'm sorry I Volunteered, and I'm sorry I didn't bring Liber home."
Something in my dad's face unhinges. His lips part as he looks at me, his expression changing from hateful to absolute anguish. He looks as though I have just stabbed him plain in the chest. My heart starts to stammer a little. My dad has never been an emotional man. Even as a kid, he had always been so stoic. I remember being eleven and having cut my palm open on my spear accidentally, and my father had sighed quietly and, as he helped me, told me it was a learning experience. He never flinched to anything. He was like a rock.
But now I'm watching him crumble, just like when the cave shattered around him; rocks falling every which way, until there's nothing left but rubble.
"I can't...I can't do this," Rheon says.
The grief across my father's face is immeasurable, but more than that he looks like he's going to be sick. Is this how my father is going to look at me for the rest of my life? My dad is trembling as he stands there. He looks like a cornered animal, torn between fight or flight. And I am the predator.
"Then you should leave," I say. "I'll be fine, dad...just go."
"You're my daughter," he says, less to me. He says it more so to himself, as if it's a fact he needs to remind himself of; his eyes going distant, staring through me for a few seconds.
"Yes, and your daughter says to get out," I say.
My dad hesitates, so I turn to peer over my shoulder at him. Our eyes meet in a terrible lapse of silence, in which I know he is imagining me killing his son, and I start to feel sick, as well.
"I said get out," I say. "Please, dad."
He considers me, but then he's wheeling out and storming from the room. He moves so quickly, practically scrambling to get out of my presence, and I stare at the spot where he was even after he has left. Something stings in my eyes so I turn around my face my reflection. I reel my fist back, considering striking the glass, but then I rethink it. The glass likely wouldn't shatter - the Capitol being very careful to protect its Victors - and I also have to take into account the fragility of my only hand.
I stare down at it, looking over my fingers as if for the first time. My palm is all marred from my years of fishing and my fingers are calloused. My nails had been filed to perfection by Galeria, but now they're stubby and broken thanks to the Games; but this is natural for them. All the blood that had been caked to them, as well as the sand and pebbles under my nails, are gone. I look away and slowly approach the table bearing all the gifts. They're labeled from various Capitolians I don't know, though I can only assume they were my Sponsors. There are chocolates and flowers and fruit baskets and other fancy things that I want to throw on the floor and against the wall. But before I can, the door to the room opens.
Ivoree walks in, looking surprisingly tamed. He's wearing a sapphire blue vest with fine lacing over a white blouse, and has a teal scarf around his neck and tucked into his vest. Black cuffs with silver buckles are on his wrist, reaching up towards his elbow. He's wearing waist-high silver pants that glitter with each movement, and a pair of black wedges that add to his height. His hair is a fine silver adorned with gold highlights. The makeup upon his face is very much the same, with an extended white eyeliner that almost reaches his ears. It's a sharp contrast to the usual frills and fine laces he is usually caught wearing. His expression, however, is far from his usual giddy grins. He is smiling, though I can tell it's solemn.
I'm not sure which is worse.
"Good afternoon, Ceres. I'm so glad to see you on your feet," Ivoree says, with surprising sincerity. "How are you?"
I blink at him.
"Stupid question," Ivoree says, face flushing. "Sorry. So, um...a couple of things. Do you want to sit down?"
"No," I say. "Just say it."
My District's Escort clears his throat, staring at me for a moment of pure sympathy before he forces himself to smile wider. It looks so forced and he looks so uncomfortable, even I am shifting a little uneasily. "Your father told me that you're aware that your Interview is tomorrow night. So, tomorrow morning and afternoon you'll be fitted by Galeria, and then be prepared for the Interview in question. Then come next day, we'll return to District 4."
"That sounds about right," I say. "But there's more, isn't there?"
"Yes...yes, indeed, there is," Ivoree says, his lofty voice faltering. "President Snow said he wanted to meet with you as soon as you were coherent. So, well...you'll be meeting with him this afternoon, for tea."
I scoff. Tea.
I look away from Ivoree and towards the large window against the wall, which overlooks the Capitol. The city is abuzz with activity and the various screens attached to large buildings show my face - the portrait they had taken of me before the Games, which would have shown during it if I'd died, backed by that music. I'm staring stoically off at nothing, and I have both arms. The girl on the screen could never have imagined that she would be here.
I feel a laugh bubbling in my chest but I push it down. I can't teeter over madness...not yet. Not when I still have so much to survive, so much to endure. I won, but the Games aren't over.
Ivoree looks concerned, so I decide to say something. "Sounds fun," I say. "I imagine I won't be dressed like this?"
Ivoree appears hesitant before nodding. "Y-yes. Galeria had some clothes sent over, so you can change into that," he says. "She wanted to be here, but I'm afraid it was prohibited. Rules and all." He chuckles nervously. "Well, in any case - "
There's a knock at the door. It draws my eyes upward and Ivoree appears incredibly apprehensive to approach, but he does. He cracks the door open slightly and peers out, making a bit of a startled, offended sound and pushes himself out. his fingers are curled over the door, keeping it slightly ajar. So, naturally, I approach and, as best as I can, strain my ears.
"As her Mentor, I'm allowed to see her," a voice says from behind the door. Due to it being slightly ajar, I can hear the voices fine enough; albeit just barely. I draw a little closer.
"Yes, well, you ought to know a few things before you go in to see her, Finnick," Ivoree says, sounding worried. I picture him fiddling with his unusually long nails, clicking against his vest as he faces down my...my what? My lover, my friend, my Mentor, my fellow Victor?"
"And what's that?"
"President Snow has a meeting with her. I...I believe you remember your first meeting with President Snow."
"No. No," Finnick asserts, sounding like ice. "Not her."
I step away from the door, feeling quite chilled. I advance towards the table at the end of the room, back to the table. I imagine that they will be packed up and taken away to the train leading home, so that I could bring them back to me to my new house in Victor's Village. I think I'm more inclined to chuck them into the heart of the ocean, if they'll fit in a dingy. I think I'll make a few trips to make sure that happens.
Ivoree doesn't stand outside for long, because in less than a minute he's opened the door and Finnick has entered. He looks like my dad; absolutely, irrevocably exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, which surprise me given how well-groomed the Capitol keeps him, and his auburn hair looks more tussled than usual. He's wearing a dark sea-green blouse that matches his eyes, with a pair of high waisted black pants. He looks well-put together, but I can see in his bloodshot eyes that there's more to it. To my dismay, Ivoree doesn't follow after him. The door shuts behind him, and I'm alone.
Finnick examines me for a moment. He takes me in as I stand there, outlined by the window behind me and the Capitol below me, before he strides quickly across the room. Every instinct in me compels me to run and to dodge him, because I'm reminded of Liber lunging at me, or Lamia, or the girl from District 8, Mox, who I had had to kill. I force my feet to remain in place, though the entirety of my body has gone stiff. It's wrong. Nothing about this reaction is right.
He seems to forget himself, as well as be oblivious to my physical reaction, because Finnick reaches out to cup my cheeks between his hands. The action startles me, though I don't pull away from it. I remain perfectly still, even when his forehead presses against mine. I tentatively take my hand and curl it over his wrist, holding his hand in place.
It doesn't feel right, but, now more than ever, I want to be held by him. I want to disappear into his embrace, for him to tell me everything is fine, and for us to go home. Forget the Interview with Caesar, to hell with President Snow - let all of this burn to the ground behind us, I just need us to get back to District 4, and never look back.
When Finnick pulls away, his eyes now opening, he's staring across my face; seemingly drinking me in. I feel odd beneath his gaze, though I maintain eye contact to the best of my ability, but even I start to flinch and have to avert my gaze. There had been countless instances throughout the Games where I believed I was going to die. When I faced off against the Mutts, my own brother, I had been forced to know that the last night I spent with Finnick would be the very last time I'd ever see him.
"Hey, Finn," I say, wincing over how husky my voice still is.
"Hey, Sea-Sea," he says, thumbs brushing over my cheeks. "It'd be stupid to ask how you are, right?"
"Very," I say. "I know Ivoree told you. You've got that scrunch in your nose when you're angry. And I heard you outside the door, anyway." I exhale slowly, deciding that there's no point dancing around the bush, or negating the topic. "Snow wants to meet with me. I think it's self-explanatory why, Finn."
Finnick makes a low hissing sound. "It might not be for that," he says, though even he sounds doubtful.
My lip twitches. "Could be," I say. "It could be a lot of things, Finnick."
But as he goes to open his mouth, there's another knock on the door. This time it pushes open. With surprising swiftness, Finnick pulls his hands from my face and takes a few steps back, both of us turning our bodies to face the man entering the room. It's the doctor who has been treating me. He is a tall man with fine, angular features and flaxen hair pulled back tightly over his head, so much so that his forehead was slightly strained from the pullback. His eyebrows are bleached, as well, which gives an odd look against his pale features. He seems to enjoy wearing yellow contact lenses, which look incredibly odd and disjointing against his features. To see some odd qualities on a Capitolian is par for the course, though it has certainly been odd and, truthfully, unforeseen for a doctor to have such striking appearances.
Citron smiles pleasantly between me and Finnick, looking rather pleasant. "Good morning, Ms. Rythe. It's wonderful to see you on your feet. How are you?"
"My arm is missing," I say.
Citron's smile remains plastered on his face, though I can see the sliver of irritation across his features. "Well, yes, it is," he concedes, stepping closer until he's all but hovering over us. "Now, I feel inclined to remind you how very lucky you were, Ms. Rythe. To have lost your arm the way you did and to still be alive is rather incredible. No wonder Sponsors took so well to you." He laughs. When I don't reply, he continues. "Now, you are advised to rest to the best of your ability before the Interview tomorrow night. Your Stylists have already begun upon your dress. I'm instructed to tell you that you'll be receiving a fitting sometime tomorrow, so, fear not, you will be well-dressed when you are presented to the Capitol."
"A high priority, to be sure," I deadpan.
Finnick straightens beside me and his arms fold across his chest, a visible tightness forming in his demeanor. I ignore it.
Citron just keeps smiling. "President Snow had also instructed me to discuss the matter of prosthetics with you."
"Prosthetics?" I say.
"Yes, prosthetics," the doctor says. "Unfortunately, Ms. Rythe, there isn't enough left of your arm to justify a full prosthetic. With nothing but a stump, without even a bicep, there is nothing to attach it to. Furthermore, it would only serve as a hindrance to you, as you would have no way of mobilizing it. So, with that, I suggest a synthetic would be in order."
"What's the difference?" I ask, staring at the Capitolian doctor with narrowed eyes.
"A synthetic would merely be a replica of your arm, bound to your shoulder with translucent straps. Entirely cosmetic, but it would soften your appearance," says Citron. "You see, President Snow would prefer you wear something of the sort, to be more visually appealing."
"Of course," I ask, with surprising calm.
"Is now the best time to discuss it?" Finnick asks.
The doctor looks at Finnick, visibly annoyed. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Odair. The President," he says, then levels his gaze to me. "Now, to discuss the synthetic - "
"He can stare at my stump," I reply suddenly, with enough bite that the doctor steps back. "I don't want a fake limb, prosthetic or synthetic or otherwise. I don't have an arm anymore, doctor. It won't grow back, it won't just be covered up by some fancy product. If President Snow is going to see me, if the Capitol is going to see me, it's going to be as I am now. Now get out."
He looks startled. In fact, I would dare to say he looks horrified - downright flabbergasted. He seems to fumble over his words.
I don't. "I said get out," I say.
To my admitted surprise, Citron glances between Finnick and I, and then turns himself to depart. He does so with storming steps and is audibly mumbling beneath his breath. He does not slam the door, though it does make a loud noise behind him. I look back towards the window, looking down. There is an enormous crowd formed around the building; no doubt chanting for me.
Finnick makes a sound. "Ceres, you shouldn't - "
"Shouldn't what? Tell them what I think?"
Finnick licks his lips, looking out towards the window for a long moment. "I can talk to him," he says. "It doesn't have to be this way, Ceres. It's not like it was with my dad."
I laugh mirthlessly.
Maybe it's cruel of me, but I can't help it. Not like it was with my dad. "We both know that's not true, Finn," I say, equally as quietly. My gaze goes downcast. "I have my own dad to think about, regardless of whether or not he's a Victor - maybe more so because he is one. Then I have my mom, who was safe before I came along. And then there's you. We both know that he could hurt you worse than he already does, because of me."
He visibly winces. "You've never hurt me," he says. I hate him for lying. "And what Snow wants from you - "
"Don't." I force myself to smile, even though it hurts. "I'll be fine, Finn. Don't tell me you're sorry. Don't look at me like I'm something broken. Don't talk to me about what happened or about what Snow wants." I reach out to touch his cheek, my thumb brushing just under his eye, which has begun to moisten. His eyes meet mine firmly, though I can feel the tremor in his body. "Just...I'm fine."
"I'm not looking at you like - "
"You're looking at me like I'm wounded," I cut him off, pulling my hand back. Something in me unhinges, a new type of anger that stirs deep within my chest, and spills out through my veins. "I know that I am, Finn. There's no ignoring the truth of it. My brother is gone." I pause, turning to look at my reflection in the glass. I stare for a moment at my nub and, through the reflection, I can tell Finnick is doing the same. "My arm is gone, too."
"You did what you had to to survive. He would have killed you."
"But that doesn't mean you can just stand there and stare at me like I'm some broken piece of glass," I bite out. "I know what I did."
"We did all we could to keep you both safe. It's no one's fault but ours," Finnick interjects.
"Liber is dead because of me," I say. "Finnick, I didn't realize I was poisoning him. I killed him. My brother is dead, because I...I did this." My heart is hammering now and all I can think about is Liber, when we were sitting at the claimed Cornucopia, or when he was trying to kill me, or when I would walk with him, hand in hand, to the beach when he was a toddler. "I can't be angry right now, Finnick. Not when I'm going to meet him."
"How can you be so calm about this?"
"I'm not," I say. "I saw you off for your Victory Tour, Finn. I know what this is going to mean for me, but I can't think that far ahead. I need to survive the undertow before the riptide."
I wish I had Galeria.
But, as Ivoree had mentioned, she is not permitted to come to me out of regulations - which I don't understand, and I wish I could protest against them. More than likely she is slaving away at my dress - whatever I will be wearing for my Interview - but I wish she'd set that aside. The idea of being dressed by anyone else just feels wrong. And dressing myself is completely out of the question, not in the condition I am in.
Finnick left the room shortly after our conversation, due to his pager going off. I've since been left alone, with a few staff members periodically popping in to bring me food, check my vitals, and then someone bringing me some clothes and setting them on the bed. The clothes in question include a pair of sea green leggings that have scale like patterns embroidered into them with silver and gold thread. There are a pair of knee high boots with a small heel, which are glossy black. And then I have a black shirt with an ocean colored, pearl lined shawl. It's simplistic, but it's formal enough to be meeting with the President. I won't lie, a part of me felt compelled to hurtle it to the wall.
Yet now, as I'm sitting in the chair my father had been, I just wish I could disappear. While I won't have Galeria to be dressing me or to make me look good, I am being sent one of her new assistants. I suppose now that I am a Victor, I am going to have a broader team of people, and I expect this will be including her. It isn't long before the girl in question arrives. She's brought in by Ivoree, who looks a bit more relaxed to be in the presence of his own, and the girl is smiling pleasantly at me.
Her name is Turquoise Acker, that much I'd been told. She's a few inchers taller than me, thanks to her lavender heels. She's clad in a fine purple and gold dress that has diamond like patterns along its skirt, with a golden corset. Her dress is high necked and forms into frills at the collar. Her bangs are adorned with golden stripes and her black hair is hung up in a high ponytail, also adorned with golden stripes. There are also pastel pink highlights along her attire and especially in her rounded features, with rosy lips and cheeks. Her eyeliner is defined by a golden cat eye which highlight her almond shaped dark brown eyes.
She looks a little younger than me, but she looks mature, as well.
I try to persuade myself that if Galeria trusts her, then I can, too. Ivoree makes quick introductions, then leaves me alone with Turquoise, who meets my gaze calmly. Then, without missing a beat, she goes to the bed and starts looking over my clothes.
"Galeria picked all of these," she says. "She didn't want you feeling overwhelmed."
"A little late for that," I admit. "What first?"
She looks over at my yellow gown, nose tightening. "First we get rid of that," she says. "Then we'll get you dressed."
I had never exactly considered how demeaning it could be to be dressed by someone. As a child, I had always been remarkably independent. From a very early age I had been dressing myself - albeit with my mother helping me choose what matched and what didn't. Sometimes I would try to get away with sundresses with a pair of paints; the dress tucked into them so it wouldn't get wet. I hadn't been a practical thinking toddler, but I had been a determined one. But standing here in the hospital room, with Turquoise helping me put on a simple bra, I feel completely exposed and mortified. I avoid her eye contact altogether after she had helped me with the clasp.
Even now as she's helping me pull on those tight leather pants, I feel completely demeaned. I feel like a child. I grab ahold of the edge of my pants and tug them up to the best of my ability, though it soon becomes apparent how useful two arms are - and how unpracticed, how unbalanced, I actually am.
Turquoise notices this, but doesn't remark on it. "Are you nervous to be meeting the President?" she asks, as she then goes to retrieve my shirt.
I smooth my hand over my leggings. "Have you ever met him?" I ask.
She shrugs, helping me pull the shirt over my head. "Of course not," she says. "So I'm not nervous."
"I'm not, either," I say, which is partly true. "I know what he wants."
"And what's that?"
"My compliancy," I say.
Her lips twitch, but she says nothing. As she should.
She smooths out the shirt over my torso, then she helps wrap the scarf around me, so that it's tucked around my shoulders, and tied just below my nub. She then proceeds to help me apply a small bit of makeup - not too much, it is just a meeting, after all. She puts some sea-green eye shadow on my eyelids, as well as a small bit of eyeliner and mascara. Then, from there, a light sheen of gloss.
I feel less strange than I did before, but when I look into my reflection I still see a shadow of myself.
Turquoise seems pleased. "Not bad," she says. "You look lovely."
"Lovely enough to meet the President?"
She nods. "I should hope so," she says. "You know, it's okay to be nervous. He is our President."
I exhale. "I'm more nervous about tripping in these shoes."
I'm accompanied by Ivoree, Turquoise, and a small entourage of guards to the Presidential Palace. I used to dream of coming to this place, of being surrounded by my own personal team, with my chest puffed out...but now I can't bring myself to look out the window, even as Turquoise is telling me how exciting it is, as she's touching up my makeup, and as Ivoree is giving me a brief on protocol. I expect to be led through the Presidential Palace to meet with President Snow, but, instead, I'm flanked by his palace guards and they're leading me through large hedges and various archways of white and crimson roses, and bushes full of blooming flowers. The gardens are entirely artificial. Every semblance of its being is controlled. The shapes of the bushes are too circular and perfect, just as the archways we pass under are built by the hands of men, and the roses themselves seem to be watching me.
Ivoree and Turquoise are left behind, to which the former seems displeased and the latter seems genuinely pleased for me. The palace guards lead me into a large glass greenhouse, which is full of white roses. It feels less artificial in this place than it does in the fine hedge mazes and hedge statues and array of perfectly sculpted flower bushes, but there is something all the more daunting about it. The building smells profusely of roses, yet I hear and see no bees or any other types of bugs. There is no life here, save for the one waiting for me.
I find President Snow sitting at a large circular table with a mosaic surface, depicting the image of a sun rising over what looks like a large garden. He is sitting with his hands neatly placed upon the table and his eyes sharply upon me. Beside him is a fountain, which makes soft trickling noises that almost remind me of home. But this, too, is artificial.
Snow smiles at me, though it is anything but kind or welcoming. Slowly, he gestures with a blue gloved hand to the empty chair across from him. Eyes still upon me, not even a blink passing between us, I feel like I am the one cornered now; he the predator, me the prey. "Ms. Rythe, welcome to my home," he says, in a voice that is deep and wrought with authority. His cold eyes fixate on mine. "Sit."
I know better than to refuse the President, though a small part of me wants to defiantly remain standing; let me hover over him if only for a moment, subvert his expectations maybe. The faces of my family and loved ones flashes over my vision, which compel me to ignore any rebellious notion, and I decidedly take my seat across from him. The chair is remarkably uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I try to keep my back straight despite the absolute pain in my shoulder, and I keep my right hand rested on my knee. The President is watching me as I settle, taking in every little twitch. I can't tell if he seems satisfied by it or if he's disappointed.
Either way, I try not to fully shrink beneath his gaze. Sitting here in front of President Snow reminds me of the few encounters I've had with sharks before. Sharks are generally passive creatures, though, of course, we're not exactly actively trying to swim with them - especially when we have chum or bleeding parts. But I had been in the water once, trying to spear some little green sturgeon, when a shark had approached me. My dad had trained me for any such encounter, so I was mindful to keep my swimming calm. Thrashing would make me look wounded and panicked, therefore a fine meal. The shark had swum up curiously to me and I had kept my spear tightly in my grasp in case it decided to take a bite out of me, but its strange unblinking eyes and parted jaw had opted to ignore me.
After a moment of circling, it had left me alone. I had waited before I swam back to my boat, however. I had seen some sharks strike from down below when their prey least expected it. But after a small bit of time, I returned to my boat, unscathed. In hindsight, I found the moment, despite the hammer of my heart, to be peaceful. Although I had been at the mercy to an apex predator, it had done nothing to do me harm, because I had done nothing to harm it or draw attention to myself.
The very same can be applied here. President Snow is watching me for weaknesses, waiting for me to reveal myself one way or the other, and any sight of vulnerability or blood in the water could set him off. I try more so to keep my demeanor natural, despite myself, and I force myself to lock eyes with him the way he has locked eyes with me.
"It is typical to thank your host for their time, Ms. Rythe," Snow says, proceeding to gesture to the table. "I have had some tea and pastries made for you upon your arrival. A little gratitude goes a long way."
I glance down, taking in the sight of the porcelain tea set with the teapot's nozzle steaming, and a fancy cup sat in front of me. Resting beside it is a plate that has a chocolate croissant adorned with cut strawberries and drizzled with honey, which does look pleasant, but my appetite is far from active. I lift my eyes back to President Snow, whose plate has the very same thing. His is equally untouched.
"Thank you," I say, out of obligation.
Snow reaches out and pours our tea. The dark liquid fills my tiny white cup. I watch the steam float off of it, as the bitter aroma reaches my nose. I've always preferred my tea overtly sweet, with arrays of sugar and milk that, according to my mother, would mute the natural flavor of the tea, but I didn't care. Normal tea was so bitter tasting. There is a sugar bowl on the table, as well as a small thing of milk, but I don't go to touch either of them. My hand tightens a little over my knee.
Snow sets the teapot down after he has poured himself some tea. Despite the formality, I understand what this meeting is about. Dancing around the fact seems to be pointless for both of us. I won't pretend this is some pleasant tea party that the President has invited me to for the sole purpose of congratulating me on winning his Games. So, in an effort to muster some courage, I try to think about my measure of calm when I swam up to the boat - knowing full well the shark could have lunged out at me from any angle. I wasn't safe until I was on the boat, but even then I was in its territory. I just need to swim calmly.
I can't panic. I can't thrash.
"We both know why I'm here," I say.
He seems genuinely amused by my statement, with a bushy white brow raising. "And why is that?"
"You want my compliancy, to put lightly," I say. "I'm not an idiot, sir."
"Indeed you are not," Snow says, all too calmly. It sends little chills down my spine. "I am glad that we can cut straight to the point."
I nod stiffly. "Still, I'm a little surprised. I wouldn't that I'd be worth much after what happened."
"You refer to your arm."
"Yes, sir."
Snow raises his teacup to his lips, drawing a slow, quiet sip from the still steaming liquid. "You would be surprised to the proclivity of certain appetites."
His statement feels like ice in my veins. I feel it tear through me until I can't help but to shudder. The vulnerability of that moment is something I instantly regret, as his gaze is intent upon me and shall surely note it, but I'm quick to straighten myself back again. At the very least when I had had both arms, I had been thinking about the likes of Seneca Crane, who had met me on the rooftop. Now I wonder what Victors like Chaff face when they return to the Capitol. It feels so strange to consider, that appetites would extend to those whose parts were stolen from them during the Games. It's about power, I suppose.
All of this is about power. Being in the Games, you have power over someone's life, just as the Capitol has had power over your life all along. It doesn't stop even after the Games. Finnick had proven that to me. What I had naturally assumed to be endless success and fortune and power had been a farce, because I've had to watch Finnick lose bits of himself year after year every time he goes back to the Capitol, or, in those rare instances, Capitol VIP women come to District 4 for his attentions.
I wonder if Liber would have faced this if he had won. He was a handsome young man and Ivoree had even said he looked like our father, and my brother had actively tried to be charming during the Interviews. Yet I wonder if his betrayal would have hindered or intensified his chances. There's really no point to be thinking about that, because he's dead. He is dead. He is dead.
My nails are digging fiercely into my knee now, which I quickly soften the grip of. "I'm sure I would be," I say. "It's still startling that I'm wanted by those people."
"You feel inclined to decline my offer, then?"
I almost scoff. "I know what refusing you looks like."
Snow tilts his head curiously at me. I wonder if he knows I'm referring to Neleus. "I'd like to show you something."
"And what would that be?" I say.
Snow does not reply. Rather he pulls out a little black from his pocket, which he presses his thumb against. He presses it, then a holographic screen appears over the table, which I reluctantly pull my eyes towards. I imagine he's about to show me the terrible things I did during the Games or images of my family - particularly my mother, who is still alone and vulnerable in District 4, just as Neleus had been. Maybe he even intends to show me Neleus' body hanging from the chandelier of Finnick's house. It had been a clear enough message, though I think I might falter to the image of the man who had briefly apprenticed me hanging dead.
Leaving him on that beach with Peacekeepers and ignoring the sounds of pained grunting still haunts me. To see his body after they had been done with him is something that I can't possibly dare to fathom. Yet it isn't any of these things that I have imagined, nor even something I could have imagined. My eyes widen all at once, horror settling deep within my bones, and I feel it tear a breath from me.
Across the holographic screen between me and President Snow, I watch as Finnick and I are in his bed. The image is from a high angle that I can only imagine is a far corner of his room, tucked between the wall and the ceiling. It's the night before the Games, I recognize it immediately. Our bodies are moving together as sweet nothings are said between us; the room had been dark, yet I can see everything so clearly. The blankets are tangled around our legs. I can hear our breathy laughs as we exchange words, as we tease each other, and how I told him I loved him as I held his shoulders. His face is burrowed into my neck as he replies I know.
This had been the third time we had been intimate, I can tell by how our hair is damp. We'd gone into the shower after the first, then had returned to bed after the second. My face is wholly flushed and my chest feels so tight, it's as if it might burst altogether. I feel like I can't breathe, not as Finnick is holding my face and telling me how beautiful I am on the screen. Just as I'm about to flip Finnick over, the holograph goes down, and President Snow is staring at me with a cold calm.
I can barely manage to swallow. My throat feels to dry. My hand now shaking, I take the cup of tea and draw a long sip from it. Its taste is foul and fruity, but I swallow it down despite how it scalds my throat. Snow is still watching me.
When I set the cup down, I can now clear my throat. "You'll hurt him if I don't comply," I say.
"Now, why would I hurt Finnick Odair?"
"He's your Capitol darling," I say, "but you'd still hurt him. People with specific appetites, right?"
The corner of Snow's mouth tugs. "I like you, Ms. Rythe," he says. "Under normal circumstance, such conversations are so difficult. But it seems that your self-training over the years has proven fruitful."
I don't dare to confront him over how he could possibly know about my self-training.
Snow hums. "Still, I dislike the idea of my Capitol darling having a variance of distraction," he says. "But he has proven to be loyal and well-behaved, so, provided you don't interfere with his work, as he would not interfere with yours, I see no immediate threat."
How kind of you. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to stand and to yell at the President. I've seen the shadowed, jaded looks across Finnick's face after he's had to be with Clients. I've also seen his Capitol persona fist hand, when he had kissed me for the first time in the Capitol. He had slipped into it so easily and I had seen the regret instantly upon his face. I force myself to remain sitting, for his sake as well as mine.
"The choice is yours, of course," Snow says.
"If I refuse, you'll hurt Finnick. You'll hurt my dad," I say. "And you'd probably kill my mom."
Snow considers me for a moment, appearing slightly pleased. "If it would give you any relief," he says, "Seneca Crane has requested exclusivity for your attentions, thus meaning those groups with their specific appetites would not reach you."
It gives me no relief. In fact, that startles me all the more. My brow furrows together, feeling sick all over again. "And why would he do that?"
"I believe he enjoys your company."
"I never asked for that."
"But you didn't discourage it either."
President Snow presses the black square again and another holographic scene appears over the table. This time I know for certain what it's going to be. It's the rooftop where I had met Seneca Crane. It is a little alarming to watch it unfold, as I had felt so disembodied in that moment, so tense as the Gamemaker's nephew loomed over me. I had expected to find Birch there yet I had found him instead. He is closer than I remember him being. His words were surprisingly gentle, as well, and I inhale sharply as I watch him kiss my forehead.
I recount all the various gifts I received in the Arena, as well as Liber before his betrayal. He had received a trident, for God's sake - one of the most expensive things available to any Sponsor. I had received a bejeweled spear, as well, which, ironically, had been embedded into Liber's chest before he was pulled into the black water by the obsidian Mutts. "I did what was necessary to keep me and my brother alive."
"And yet here you are," Snow says.
I inhale shakily. "He betrayed me."
"I don't dispute your situation."
My eyes narrow slightly, forcing myself to find his gaze again. "Why does Seneca want me so badly? He Sponsored me and Liber during the Games and he's already making requests to you. Why demand exclusivity? He doesn't know me."
Snow chuckles, though it is a sound that draws a chill from me. "I believe he wants to protect you from certain crowds, Ms. Rythe. Rather chivalrous, if not naive," he says.
"So, what then? Seneca will have exclusivity to do whatever he wants?" I ask, coldly. "Or will the Capitol have me?"
Snow raises his teacup to his lips again, his cold eyes still set upon me. When he lowers the cup again, his smile is gone. "I would like to smooth over my prospects, first and foremost," he says. "I suggest you spend the next six months thinking it over, my dear. Do ponder carefully. I understand you might not be in the right frame of mind to be making such critical decisions. You are still so fragile."
"Having a crocodile tear off your arm can do that to you," I say.
Snow straightens. "If you terrorize that which has teeth, you may very well be bitten," he says, in a tone I understand too well.
I swallow. Then my aim had better be sharp, I think, recounting how I had gripped my spear so tightly when I had swam away from the shark. "I understand, sir," I say.
"Good. Now I suggest you finish your tea, before it gets cold," he says, "then you'll be returned to your team. I imagine they shall be missing their Victor greatly."
A father who hates me. Finnick who looks at me like I'm broken. Yes. I'm sure they're missing me greatly.
(a/n): This chapter was so fun to write! The beginnings of Ceres' PTSD unfolding. President Snow being aware of Finnick and Ceres. Ceres being faced with a critical decisions. So much stuff. *screeches* Next chapter is gonna be Ceres' Interview with Caesar, so *evil cackle* be prepared for that, ladies and gents!
Review replies
the. apple .seed: Haha, thank you so much! Seneca throwing his uncle under the bus was such a fun moment for me. It was a rare moment of me cackling along with the characters. XD Indeed, Ceres is gonna have some interesting encounters in the future, and gonna have to face some hardships! And Seneca is certainly gonna be making things interesting. *cackles*
rikiarin: It's not bad at all! ^^ I'm actually quite happy you do, because I was hoping to humanize and give sympathy to Seneca in that chapter! I imagine Capitolians are very brainwashed, whereas Gamemakers have to have kind of a jaded view of everything. They're partly aware of the shady shit going on. Seneca has a very innocent view of it. Rewatching all of Seneca's scenes, he truly gives off innocent vibes, so I really tried to capture that. And I'm so glad you enjoyed it! ^^ Expect some interactions between him and Ceres soon. ;)