(a/n): I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving! I had a great one (because I worked and avoided dishes and turkey XD)! I'm very excited to be bringing you guys this chapter. This one was fun but also gut-wrenching to write. So...enjoy. ;)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
come, sail away
It's been almost two weeks since I came back to District 4. Frankly when I came back, I wasn't sure what to expect. One part of me imagined that District 4 would remain as it was when I left, yet another part of me imagined it completely different. I wasn't sure what I dreaded most. As it turned out, everything was basically the same, in a physical and aesthetic sense. But as I stood on that stage, after Ivoree introduced me as District 4's new Victor, there were cheers, but there was also something incredibly somber in the crowd. I can't say I was surprised. I was a Victor's daughter who had killed her own brother to win, even if it hadn't been intentional. Undoubtedly there are people who think I knew what I was doing, who will judge me for it. I saw a few hyper critical expressions in the crowd.
But, gratefully, I hadn't had to spend too long on the stage. I was greeted by Mayor Eyphra, who had shaken my hand and had given me a fairly standard speech which consisted of small praises and relief for my return. There was still an unmistakable sadness in his eyes, though. I saw a lot of that. After all of that, I was taken back to Victor's Village to what would be my new home - a house next door to my parents. It looks like theirs, too; the same with all the rest.
My house in question is three stories tall, though it has extra height thanks to the house being built on a solid, elevated platform which stood about ten feet high. The reason behind the house's elevation was the same as most house's being built on some variety of platform in District 4; hurricanes. We lived by the sea and the sea could be merciless. The stairs leading up to my house, which is a shade of pale blue with bronze sliders on the roof, are white, just like the door, pillars, shutters, and window trims. There is a covered front porch with a porch swing, like the one at home. There is another porch on the second level, which curves around the house just like the bottom porch. Then on the upper level there is a simple balcony for what I can only assume is the master bedroom.
The inside of the house was near exactly like my parents'. There was a large fireplace in the parlor, as well as in the master bedroom (much good it would do, given how hot District 4 is), made up of some white, silvery stone. The kitchen is exceptionally large with white cabinets and marble countertops. The bathrooms are too large with bathtubs designed to fit more than one person. The rooms have high vaulted ceilings. The floors are a pale shade of wood with the walls alternating between a pale sea-green and grey.
The furniture inside is luxurious, though I hate it. I hated it in my parents' house, too; though theirs had the advantage of being roughened over the years. And all the gifts that I had received from the Capitol, after I'd won, had been placed on my dining room table. I had given away the finer things like fancy food, chocolates, and drinks, while I had burned gifts like dresses and perturbing letters in the firepit on my back porch. The smoke had wafted in large plumes towards the sky, free.
As it turned out, burning things was a tricky thing to do alone.
Well, technically I've never actually been alone. The Victors alternate between seeing me. Tilda stops by to make sure I'm eating, though her visits are brief. Ren stays for about an hour, usually just sitting with me in quiet or the rare walk by the water. My mom comes by to deliver food and we'll sit together in uncomfortable silence before she decides to leave, seldom any words exchanged between us. I haven't breached the topic of Liber and neither has she. And my father hasn't even bothered to talk me or even see me.
This is to say, he has his own way of displaying some variance of affection, but it's not exactly beneficial. When I wake up just before dawn, my head pounding and my body aching, I go to sit on the windowsill overlooking the ocean. When the sun creeps over the ocean's surface, an orange hue against blue, is when my father removes himself from my porch. I can only imagine him on my porch swing. Each morning, he gets up and walks back towards his own house. Sometimes he looks over his shoulder and up towards my window. For those rare moments when our eyes lock, he's always the first to look away. I'm not sure why he stays there all night, if it's out of guilt or if he's trying to protect me, but it isn't helping.
Sometimes it's not even my dad who's there, but Finnick. Their postings are fairly inconsistent. Sometimes my dad is there three days in a row then Finnick five, and then my dad has one day and Finnick three.
Maybe they're waiting for me to scream or to react violently to something. A trigger or a nightmare. I don't wake up screaming, but sometimes my body thrashes so violently in my sleep that it's pain that stirs me awake. Those nights are always interesting. I'll be in the clutches of a crocodile or face to face with a bleeding eyed President Snow as he crowns me, and suddenly I'll be falling off the edge of my bed - just barely catching myself - or slamming my arm against my wooden bedframe in an effort to fight off something that isn't there. I've since moved the bedside tables on either side of my bed, after nearly bashing my head against one of them one night.
I'd like to think it gets easier. The lacking presence of Ren and Tilda isn't strange, as they had never been apart of my life before, but their quick visits don't particularly hinder what would be, theoretically, my daily routine. I maintain some semblance of the life before. I haven't gone fishing yet, in part because I'm not sure how I would handle it, but also because I don't want anyone to go with me and to constantly be fretting about me. It's a part of my routine I miss dearly. Still, it pales in comparison to the loss of those I would fish with.
Finnick's absence hurts me, but it doesn't quite hit as hard as my dad's.
Mags says that Finnick wants to see me, but he had a meeting with President Snow just before we left, and since that meeting he has been reclusive to basically everyone, excluding her. She's his confidant. And as much as I want to pry - and have even asked a few questions, in an effort to understand what's going on - there's no point. Mags' lips remain sealed when it comes to Finnick's secrets. She simply consoles me by reminding me that he does care, but that he's afraid. I can only imagine what that means. None of these imaginings give me any sort of consolation. All they do is apply salt to my already aching wounds.
When Mags comes in to check on me, as my most frequent visitor, she tells me that it's hard for all of them - for me, too. I miss being in my family's boat out on the water, fishing with my father. The sun would beat down upon us, warm and glittering across the water, and we would sit in comfortable silence as we waited for fish. I miss the normalcy of laying out in the water and just brushing my arms over its surface.
I miss being able to dress myself without almost stumbling and hitting something when I'm tugging a shirt over my head.
I try to fall into some semblance of a routine, but it's hard. Two weeks later, and it's still hard.
Maybe it would be better if people stopped looking at me like I was damaged. It might be better in town, but I haven't braved it yet. I've stuck close to home, which has been fairly isolating - and might very well have begun to hinder my sanity. I try to find comfort in little things, though. I've taken to sitting on my porch after I wash my hair, to let it air dry. I've also started practicing cutting fruit by myself with one hand, which was incredibly difficult at the start, but has begun to get easier. Strawberries are the easiest to cut, I've learned.
But as I think that out loud to myself, I realize how incredibly boring that sounds. And I really try not to think about what I was doing before the Games.
Sitting on my back porch steps, with my legs outstretched over the sandy surface below me, I try to find comfort in the way the warm sea breeze rustles my damp hair. The sun is pleasantly warm and the air is cool. On a day like this, dad and I would have been out on the water together - or even Finnick and I, both waist deep as we hunted larger prey, and usually ending with one of us being dunked in the water below. If I were still me, I would be out on the water now, in either my family's boat or in Finnick's. I would also be on some rock formations set out into the water, balancing carefully as I used my spear to hunt larger prey. I remember spearing a barracuda once and having to use both of my arms to carry it back, due to how large and heavy it was.
I've mostly been alone today, though that changes when I hear footsteps approaching; muffles by the sands, but distinct enough against the quiet. Even the waves down below are being surprisingly silent and gentle. When I look up, expecting Ren, Tilda, Mags, or even a wandering fisherman, I see Demetra.
We haven't seen each other since Liber's funeral. His body had been brought back to us in full shape; clad in sea-green and any scars along his body made by the Games or by the Mutt were absent. All that remained was the thin white scar on his cheek that my spear had cut. My family had stood on the beach, setting Liber's body off to sea in a little boat; along with a few of his treasured possessions. The pufferfish skeleton he had taken into the Arena as a Token had not been on his person - had not been anywhere, really - and I'd assumed it was lost in nature of the Games, or had been returned quietly to my parents. I hadn't mentioned it. There was already so much hurt. And all of us had stood on that shore, watching Liber sail far enough out until my father used a bow and arrow to release a little thing of fire; it spread across the small boat. Soon enough, it turned to ashes and disappeared into the water. It was customary in District 4 to return the bodies to the sea. Our graves are the sea and our gravemarkers are waves.
In District 4, we dress in our finest suits or finest dresses when we're buried out to see; one must dress well to meet our final resting place, after all, for in death we are married to the sea.
My mother had been quiet during the funeral, though I could tell her lip had been trembling and her blue eyes were glassy with resistant tears. None of us had said anything afterwards, merely departing from each other...it was best that way. What else could be said? So, to see my mother approaching as she was, I am a little surprised.
My mother looks surprisingly okay. Her long, wavy dark hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, tussled by the breeze, and framing her long face which holds a rather stern expression. She's wearing a pair of shorts and a short sleeved shirt, of which look remarkably strange on her person - but more so than that, what truly causes my eyes to widen and my jaw to near unhinge, is that she's holding a net in one hand and my spear in the other. I've seen my mother weave nets before, as that was her family's trade, and she often made nets for my dad and I, but to see her like this now - almost like a real fisherman - is just baffling. She looks dressed to be in the water.
She's been down to the beach, of course, but I've never seen her in the water before. It's jarring.
Demetra stops right in front of me, her intent blue eyes - a shade lighter than my own - staring down at me intently. She seems to consider me critically, which causes my back to straighten subtly, and then she releases a breath that I, too, had been holding. "Would you like to go fishing?" she asks me.
I blink at her, more than taken off guard. "Fishing?" I say, waiting for the punchline. But she keeps staring down at me expectantly with her brow slightly raised and an almost amused smirk tugging at the corner of her full mouth. I blink at her again. "Mom, you don't fish."
"You're technically right," she says. "I have fished before, but it's been a while. In any case, we're both even now in terms of skillsets, so I expect that we don't have much to worry about."
I'm so startled by her blatant statement that I laugh. Skillset. My mother hasn't been fishing in years - which the thought of her ever having fished to begin with is funny to me - and I have now lost my arm. What a pair we will be out on the ocean. Now, to my mother's credit, she has a natural skill at scaling, gutting, and cracking fish and crustaceans open, but she has never been one to catch them herself. She has provided homemade nets to my dad and I in the past, yet I've never seen her actually throw one out over a school of fish, nor have I seen her actually holding a net full of fish.
I just have to wonder what this is going to look like. "I...guess you're right," I admit. "Does dad know about this?"
Demetra scoffs. "As if your father is my keeper," she says. "Get up, now."
For a split second, I expect her to offer me her hand. Everyone does. Whether or not I'm sitting in a chair, on a couch, on a step, or on the floor, if I am with someone they offer me their hand, with that pitying gleam in their eyes. I seldom accept it, though I do sometimes out of obligation and politeness. Whenever Mags offers me her hand, I feel I have to accept it. Her gaze is too kind and her demeanor is too warm to refute.
But my mother just stares down at me, expectantly. It's with a surprising wave of relief that I bring myself to my feet. I hold onto the railing on the steps to hoist myself up. My mom doesn't hesitate to hand me my spear. I don't even have time to feel a measure of sickness to see the same variety of weapon that I used in the Games, for such terrible things, before it's actually in my grasp and she's speaking again.
"Let's go while the sun is high," she says. "Try not to slip and fall on the way. You're still uncoordinated."
Her brazen words should offend me, but I find them refreshing. Besides, I know my mother better than most. She has never been one to coddle her children and it's with some relief that I realize she doesn't mean to coddle me now, even though I am arguably in a point where it would be most acceptable. She's always been a cold, distant woman, who had always leaned to her husband's side, but she is still my mother. And, I suppose, I'm glad she still talks to me as she would before. "I'm trying to work on my balance," I say, following after her.
We move down towards the beach, though we don't go towards the dock where my dad's ship rests. Instead, she leads me out towards the edge of the beach and to the water. Over the course of the last two weeks, I have been edging myself closer and closer into it. The smell of the sea is so comforting and the waves lapping against my ankle provide security. But the pull of the water tugs at me in a way that makes me feel uncertain. I'm not as steady as I was before. Furthermore, a part of me fears what it means to be underwater. The last time I was submerged, I was fighting for my life against a Mutt that had me in its grasp.
I'm afraid that my brain will take what was once so calming and so affiliated with home and replace it wholly with the memories of the Games. It's just been easier to avoid it. Still, I know that my mom won't want to do anything too outlandish or absurd when it comes to fishing - especially with it being the first time in a while for her. I expect she'll want to wade knee deep in water and see what goes from there.
She turns to me when we reach the water's edge, arching her brow. "So, what do we do first?" she asks.
I look back at her, a little incredulous. "This was your idea," I remind her.
"Yes, and I clearly stated I haven't done this in a while," Demetra says. "Don't be sassy, Ceresea. Instruct me."
I stare at her for a moment or two longer before sighing. "Fine. We'll go out into the water and wait," I say. "When we see a fish, you throw the net and I'll spear it. That should be easy enough. Can I trust you to throw the net properly?"
"Yes, you can," Demetra says. "Can I trust you not to miss?"
"I never miss," I say.
"I've seen you miss a few times," Demetra says, advancing into the calm, rolling waters.
I follow after her, deciding not to argue on the matter. We wade out until we're able hip deep, which is further out than I would have liked, though my mother seems oddly confident in herself, and I try to lean into that to the best of my ability. It's definitely not a comfortable silence, particularly since this has proven to be the longest my mother and I have spent together since I returned, and also the most we've spoken. It's touching to see her efforts, but I also can't help but to shake the obvious which lays over me. So far there are no fish, despite how still and quiet we have been. And when I look up at her, I see her gaze fixated to the surface layer of the sea.
It might be stupid, but I decide to test my luck. Whether I like it or not, some things need to be said, and now seems as good a time as any. "Are you going to say anything?" I ask.
Demetra looks up at me briefly, then back down. "We aren't supposed to talk. It'll scare the fish," she says.
"Mom...you're being really casual about this."
"Of course I am," Demetra says. "Would you prefer formal conversation over fishing?"
"That's not what I mean and I think you know that."
She lifts her eyes to find mine again. Her dark brow furrows together and small lines forge themselves across her features. "You want to talk about Liber?" she asks.
"You haven't talked about him since I got back," I say. "Could you say something?"
My mother sighs loudly, averting her gaze from me. She's looking beyond the horizon now and I am staring at her face. I know that it's likely guilt that my father is feeling, less so than resentment - though I'm certain it's prolific in his mind, as well. I'm sure he hates me for having Volunteered to begin with. At least then he could have fought harder to save one child during the Games, but, even then, I doubt Liber would have survived. He got as far as he did because he used people. When Lamia had her back turned, he plunged his trident into her neck. Her bewilderment had been evident upon her young, pretty face. He had wrestled with me and left me to die with the Muttation. I very much doubt Liber could have survived the brutal strength of Jason, even with Jason cornered as he was.
In the end, he would have died, too.
But the thing is, I don't know how my mom feels. She gave Liber the pufferfish skeleton as a Token. I remember him telling me about that when we had been in the gymnasium together. She hadn't given me anything. That seems telling enough, right? That is to say, I wouldn't be offended if my mother's favoritism was that blatant, though I would feel another measure of guilt and also pain that her undesired child came home instead of Liber.
Even if he had betrayed me, again and again.
Finally, she looks at me with blue eyes that seem to have paled since Liber and I left for the Capitol. There's something so cold in them that I find myself almost coiling away from her. Yet I remain strongly footed as the waves gently lap around my waist, trying to tug me back and forth. Demetra seems unfazed by it. Her gaze is fixated on me for a long moment before she turns her head. I watch as her lips press together and then purse, her whole face shifting with every little thought in her head. I have to wonder what's going on behind her eyes. She doesn't look at me the way my father does - hers is a more open and honest expression - but she's also doing a good job at hiding her thoughts.
When she directs her attention towards me, my arm has slumped into the water along with my spear, whose tip grazes the sandy floor, and my own eyes feel as though they're conveying defeat. Her stern expression softens a little. "What should I say?" she asks.
"Anything," I say. "How about being angry? It's better than indifference or pretending. Just say it, mom. I killed Liber - be angry, throw something, say anything."
"Why would I be angry?" she asks.
"I killed him," I say, my voice conveying complete disbelief. "Liber was your son."
"You say that like I'd forgotten," she says. "If I am angry, it's not towards you. It's the Capitol for Reaping him to begin with."
"I promised to keep him alive and to bring him home."
She sighs again, this time sounding mildly frustrated. "That, Ceresea, was a stupid promise. And I won't apologize for saying so," she says, sternly. "It was also stupid when you made your father promise to bring Finnick back. You were lucky."
My face flushes. "How do you know about that?"
"Your father happens to tell me things, for better and for worse," Demetra replies. "One of the things he told me was that you came to him before Finnick and Harpee to left, pleading for his life. Promises mean nothing in the Games, even to the most powerful, well-off and Sponsored Tributes and Districts. Finnick won not just because of your father's promise - not even a quarter of the reason, I'd wager. So you promising - "
"You made me promise to come back with my shield or come home on it," I counter, feeling myself prickling.
"That was never a promise. I told you to come home on your shield or come home on it. And one way or another you would have."
"I still don't know what that means," I say, "but I think I did neither."
"It's from an old book my father owned," Demetra says. "It describes a warrior going off to war and his wife telling him to return home on his shield or with it. If he returned on it, it meant he died fighting. If he came home with it, it meant he fought honorably. But if he came home without it, it meant he had thrown it down and abandoned the fight - a coward."
I remember hearing once that poison is a coward's way out. I think back on my poison tipped spear gliding across Liber's face, as it spread quickly through his body and hitting his brain faster than the rest of him. That had to be cowardly, right? I hadn't meant to do it, yet I had, anyway. His blood was on my hands, regardless of intentionality. And he had died a poor man's death. "Funny, mom. I came home without my arm," I say. "Does that count as returning home without a shield?"
Demetra watches me sharply for a moment. Her blue eyes are leveled to me coldly, staring me down in a long lapse of silence that drags on for way too long. The water around us moves a little harder, though we both stand against it. "You're goading me, Ceresea," she says, tutting at me. "You want me to be angry."
"And I see what you're doing," I counter. "You're distracting me."
Demetra rolls her eyes. "It's mildly disappointing you're viewing a mother-daughter morning with some variety of deception," she says, slowly. "But I'm almost proud of you for being so perceptive - if not mistrusting. You're right. I am distracting you."
"I'm fine, you know," I say. "I've been doing really well, actually."
"So well you haven't left your house in two weeks," Demetra says. "You haven't even tried to get your personal items from home. And you haven't actively sought out any of us since you returned home."
"I'm not sentimental when it comes to stuff," I say. "Besides...I've been giving everyone space."
"We're not the ones who need worrying for," Demetra says. "You know, I keep trying to convince your father to come see you."
"I don't want him to see me," I say.
"And that's why he should," she says. "I won't see my husband and daughter be torn apart by guilt."
"And you're not guilty, either? No guilt and no anger?" I say, an edge to my tone. "Mom, you can't - "
Demetra shakes her head. "Imagine what it was like for me. Your father was in the Capitol, at least he had the power to keep you two alive - whatever he does to gain it, I don't care - I was here the whole time, watching it all unfold. I watched my children be separated during the beginning, then separated during the flood...and then Liber betraying you. You can't possibly understand what it was like, as a mother."
My voice raises before I can stop it, the sound echoing across the beach. "I know exactly what it feels like! I had to watch him die! He begged me to kill him, mom. You can't imagine what that's like," I say, through strained breaths. I've never yelled at my mother before and even she appears a little startled by it, though her expression soon shifts back into its state of neutrality. "You watched it, but I lived it. All of it."
"You're right," Demetra says, maintaining a steady tone despite my rising one. "I can't imagine what you went through. Neither of us can understand what we're feeling. You, me, your father...Liber is all of our losses. He's for all of us to carry."
"I killed him," I remind her.
My mom sighs. "And I as good as killed him when I birthed him into this world. I knew the risks of having children with a Victor, Ceresea," she says. "Maybe not to this extent, but I understood."
I see a small measure of grief in her eyes, which she is quick to mask. Although her expression remains stern, I feel myself being crushed beneath the short lived moment of grief yielded by my mother. She has never been a sentimental or coddling sort, but I've never doubted her love - for me and for Liber. I'd tried very hard not to imagine her watching everything unfold. The relief of us being reunited at the Cornucopia, then separated again...and then betrayed, within a breath of finding each other again. And I most certainly don't want to think about her watching our final fight together.
As a mother, it was undoubtedly devastating. I've never seen my mother weep or express any sort of extreme emotion, so imagining her in tears over the screen seems too farfetched. Yet I can't imagine her sitting calmly there, either, with her eyes widened just slightly as she processed everything.
I exhale. "You should hate me."
"No." Demetra regards me with certainty. "True, I've never been a coddling mother, but you never seemed to mind. Even as a baby, you were so independent. But I never went a moment not loving you."
"You gave Liber a Token - a pufferfish skeleton. But you didn't give me anything," I say.
Demetra's brow knits. "I never gave your brother a Token," she says.
Before I can reply, the water around us lurches forward. My instinct is to brace against it, but my balance is still so imperfect that one of my feet shifts beneath the change in the tide. That singular, almost insignificant, shifting of weight causes my whole body to tip over. I try to catch myself with my left arm, but it's gone, so I wind up falling with a loud smacking noise right into the water. I'm still in shallow waters and the fall is less than worrying. Still, I am submerged for a moment. I expect - no, I wait - for fear to grip me, but it doesn't. I don't see flashes of the Mutt like in my dreams, nor does the water turn to blood. Rather, I spend a moment or two struggling to regain myself. I manage to gain enough momentum to lurch myself towards the shore, until my right hand, still holding my spear, touches the damp sand, and my feet are pushing me forward. I cough a little once I breach the surface.
Demetra is close at hand, trailing after me through my short moment of clumsiness. Her expression conveys a measure of concern, though she doesn't make any sort of move to help me as I bring myself fully to shore. My whole body is now thoroughly drenched and the sea breeze rustling over me causes an array of goosebumps to form along my arm. I feel chilled, though it's better than the alternative.
The spear drops from my hand and to the ground once I'm certain I won't fall. I hunch over myself, my hand pressed against my knee as I try to level out my breathing. But my heart is hammering so madly against my chest that I'm afraid it's just going to stop, and every breath feels labored and not enough.
"Are you okay?" Demetra asks me.
I shake my head. "Fine," I wheeze. "Just...out of breath..."
It's embarrassing, to say the least. Being toppled over by a small tug of water, then losing my breath shuffling to shore from water that had been only to my waist, is mortifying. I used to swim great lengths and delve deep down below the surface towards the coral reefs, where I would hunt exotic fish, or I would go interact with the fish who resided there. I would swim among sharks, for God's sake.
Demetra doesn't make any quips, thankfully. "That's not surprising," she says. "You're not used to swimming one-armed. Your other arm is overcompensating for you." She reaches out and places a hand on my back. "You can sit down, you know."
I brush her off. "I don't," I say. "I'm fine, mom. I promise."
She looks unconvinced, but takes a step back from me, all the same. "They're going to tell you that healing will take time and what you need to be better," my mom says, "a thousand times over, and in thousands of ways. But no one controls your healing but you. However, taking someone's advice and resting is never a bad thing." She glances away from me and towards the the end of the beach. I note that she looks apprehensive, which piques my curiosity. "That's Finnick."
I follow her gaze. Finnick is, indeed, coming towards us. Off in the distance along the shoreline, I see that the small ship that had once belonged to Neleus anchored just off of the shore. The white, albeit stained, sails attached to the mast are tied up. Its wood, once painted white, is now greyed and worn. It's a ship that Neleus had valued, despite its wear and tear. He certainly never let me sit in it during the brief period when I apprenticed for him. I do recall Neleus taking Finnick for a week long fishing trip when he was eleven, though the trip was cut short due to poor weather. To see the ship out causes me to straighten. Finnick seldom uses his father's boat, so when he does it is certainly important.
As Finnick draws closer, to where I can see the sun reflecting off of his bronze hair, I notice that my mother's demeanor becomes slightly colder.
"Hm." Demetra looks at me, brow arched. "Do you want me to stay?"
I consider her. I haven't spoken to Finnick in a while and a small part of me would like to keep my mother beside me, but I decide that it's not worth it. Whether I like it or not, I do need to talk to him alone. "No," I say. "I'll be fine."
Yet again, she looks unconvinced. "I imagine you two have a lot to catch up on."
I recognize something different in her tone. She still sounds cold, though there's a subtle loftiness in her words that causes my eyes to widen slightly. It has a musical lilt of knowing. Slowly, I turn towards her, and she's staring at me with very knowing eyes. "Mags told you," I say, face flushing. "Nothing's happened since that night, mom."
"Mags didn't tell me," Demetra says. "You did, just now. But I would like to hear more about that sometime later."
To say I am now thoroughly mortified would be an understatement. "You actually wouldn't," I say.
"Have it your way," Demetra says. "When we see each other next, we'll talk about Liber's Token."
My mother takes the net that she had brought with us and walks with her head held high back home. As she passes Finnick, she spares him a quick greeting and smile, but keeps marching forward. Finnick looks a little surprised by it, even looking over his shoulder at her, but he's quick to avert his attentions back to me. I'm now standing there alone on the beach with my spear at my feet and my whole body sopping wet from my little accident. I must look like a drowned cat. My hair is out of sorts and various strands are clinging stubbornly to my face and my clothes are covered in sand - and I am pretty sure there's a thing of seaweed stuck to my pants.
As Finnick draws closer, I find myself feeling a little cornered, and that anger I've been suppressing is steadily rising within me. I've tried to be understanding to the distance my father and Finnick have lodged in my way. For Rheon it makes sense, since I killed Liber. As our Mentor, it was his responsibility to train and keep us safe - though he faltered a little in the former, for the first period of being in the Capitol - and the same duties fell on him as a father. I imagine it would have been different if Liber had been killed by someone else.
But when it comes to Finnick, I feel a little stumped. I've tried rationalizing his thinking. He met with President Snow just before we left, same as I did, and I shudder to think about what was said; if he was threatened the way I was, told about what would become of me within six months. It's the same life Finnick leads. If that were the case, surely he'd want to talk about it, rather than leaving me in the shadows; alone.
At the very least, when Finnick reaches me he has the decency to look guilty. He's smiling, though his eyes convey immeasurable galleons of pain that cause my chest to tighten. Slowly, he takes in my frazzled, drenched state. "It's good to see you back in the water," he says.
"It's good to be back." I lean down to claim my spear. I use it as a crutch to maintain balance, though I also hope it helps rekindle the images of the old me - the girl who would lean against her spear casually, who held it tucked under her arms...not the one-armed girl who still has problems just standing. It's more than a little demeaning, but it's necessary. "What are you doing out here?"
"Looking for you," Finnick admits. "Rheon said your mom took you out to the beach." He raises his brow. "To fish, apparently."
"It's strange, I know," I say, looking at my mother as she disappears beyond the sandy hill, net still in her hands.
Finnick's gaze wanders over my figure. I try not to blush when I notice how his own neck reddens slightly. My shirt is clinging to my torso now and my cargo shorts, though baggy and dripping wet, are hugging at my thighs. "You're soaked," Finnick says.
Despite my efforts, my face does flush. "My, uh...my balance isn't great right now," I admit. "The tide came in and knocked me down."
"You okay?"
I shrug, which is a motion that still is remarkably uncomfortable and causes a little sting to ripple through my left shoulder; along my collarbone, to my spine. "I got back up."
Finnick glances at the spear I'm currently leaning on. "We can sit down if you want."
Sitting does sound very tempting, but I decide against it. A part of me doesn't want to have Finnick offer me his hand when we stand up - even though he's done so in the past before and it's never been an issue - and I don't want this encounter to be totally casual. It's still been two weeks since Finnick really talked to me, aside from just dwelling like a shadow on my porch during the night. And seeing his father's boat on the shore isn't helping things, either. Whatever it is that has brought Finnick here to actively seek me out, when he has been actively avoiding me, is being delayed by small talk.
He looks so uncomfortable in my presence, one leg shifting over the other, and he doesn't seem to fully know what to do with his hands; at his sides, folded over his chest, or using them to accentuate his words. It's far from the Finnick I know. My real Finnick and even the Capitol darling. The closest I can compare this to is when Neleus was killed, though Rheon had kept us apart during that initial grieving period. But I had seen him through the window, and had encountered him a time or two on the beach.
Neleus had died violently, while I'm still alive. Still, violence hadn't eluded me; as proven by the empty space at my side.
"Sitting does me no good," I say. "I don't like it."
"You are so stubborn, Ceres."
"Takes one to know one," I say. "Anyway, I'd love to talk to you, but, unfortunately, I've claimed this beach. So if you want to talk to me it'll cost you a small fee."
Finnick looks amused, which breaks across the hesitancy of his expression. "Oh, yeah?" he says. "I don't see your name written on it."
I use my spear and write my name crudely in the sand. My grip on my lifelong weapon is very awkward, but it gets the point across. "There. First order of payment," I say. "Why is your dad's ship out there?"
His arms fold over his chest, the amusement falling away from his face like rain. "I'm thinking about going sailing for a few days," he says. "After everything...I just need to be away, to just think."
A sliver of pain settles itself in the center of my chest. A part of me doesn't blame Finnick for wanting to get far away from the mainland right now, but there's another part that is quietly upset. I want to understand without dispute as to why he needs to sail away for a while. Although Liber wasn't his loss, I suppose I, to some capacity, was. Finnick's statement seems to solidify my theory about what President Snow had to say to him. If it was about me, then Finnick avoiding me makes sense, and then him actively trying to get away from me makes even more sense. Then again, it could have nothing to do with me. Maybe President Snow made a direct threat against him and he's feeling cornered; flight, rather than fight, kicking in.
No matter what, the fact that Finnick feels compelled to flee makes me nervous, wondering what the hell could be so massive enough that it's setting him off. Then, far back in my head, a memory resurges. We're together on a beach late at night, when Finnick stumbled upon me by my campfire. I couldn't sleep that night, having opted to seek refuge on the beach to watch the stars. Finnick had sat next to me. And I'd made a joke about us sailing away together, even just for one day.
Maybe we really should have sailed far, far away that night; taken one of the boats and disappeared beyond the horizon.
"We talked about that once, sailing away," I say, not fully sure why.
Finnick's gaze softens. "You could always come with me," he says. "The boat is big enough to hold two."
I can't tell if it's a sincere offer or an obligatory one. Nevertheless, I know that my presence would be a detriment in more ways than one. I can only imagine that I am the primary source of Finnick's stress and need to get the hell off of the mainland for a while, so my presence would only hinder him out on the water. And, in any case, what use would I be? God only knows if I'll ever be able to hold a spear properly again. My balance, though improving, is still entirely off - as are my instincts. If I were to fall overboard, I wouldn't be able to just swim my way back to the boat and climb aboard. Finnick would have to help me. And I don't think my pride could handle that right now.
I shake my head. "I think I'd be bad luck." I gesture to my drenched self. "Given the fact I can't even stand in open water, apparently."
Despite of what my thoughts convey, Finnick just smiles at me. "I'd keep you from falling overboard."
"I know you would. But first you'd laugh at me if I fell off," I say. "And I'd be upset if you didn't, because it would be very funny."
Finnick looks as though he wants to laugh, but then his expression shifts into something more serious. "What's the second order of payment?"
"An apology, for one," I say. "You've been avoiding me since we got back."
Finnick doesn't necessarily look surprised that I've brought this up but he also does not look pleased by it. His lips press together in a hardened line and the guilt in his eyes seems to intensify. "I haven't been avoiding you," he says quietly, and I notice how he flinches.
"You go way out of your way to not talk or even interact with me," I say. "That's avoiding."
"I've just needed space to think," Finnick admits. "It wasn't about you."
You liar. "But you still spend overnight on my porch," I say. "Why don't you just knock to come in or something?"
Finnick doesn't reply.
I bite my tongue. "I don't know, maybe you could talk to me."
He goes quiet for a moment, looking almost tormented as he looks away from me and out towards the water. In a motion that is fluid and startling, Finnick leans down and grabs a rock. He hurtles it outward; it soars through the air, flipping around itself, before it plunks into the water a fair distance away. Finnick releases a short yell as he does so; a sound like a mangled beast. It sounds so pained that even my eyes have widened and I have stepped back. He stands there for a moment, raking a hand through his hair. "I talked to Snow before we came back home," he admits, voice strained.
I don't say anything. I just stand there, letting Finnick say what he has to. He looks back at me with a pained expression, his gaze obviously moving towards my left shoulder. He doesn't look away.
"He knows about what happened that night," he goes on, a mirthless, cold laugh piercing through his mouth. "He showed me footage of it."
"He did the same when I met with him," I say, quietly.
Finnick doesn't look surprised by that. Slowly he turns his body to face me and I see the gears in his head turning as he looks down at me. I'm loathe to ask what he's thinking about, given how his brow furrows together and how there's an unmistakable tightness now settling in his jaw. I don't have to wait long for an answer, anyway. Finnick soon sighs. "He also told me Seneca Crane wants exclusive access to you," Finnick says. "He said it like it was some kind of gift, that you'd be owned by him, and you wouldn't have to be touched by anyone else...if he decides to give into Crane's requests."
I feel a chill ripple through my spine at that. Guilt of my own weighs down upon me, different from the guilt I've been carrying after the Games. The flashing image of Seneca Crane smiling calmly down at me as we stood on the rooftop makes me instantly uncomfortable, more so as I consider President Snow's all too calm words as he stated the Gamemaker's interest. I don't know what the hell I did to warrant Seneca's attentions, though I wish I knew. And more than that, I wish I could rationalize the small thing of relief to consider being sold to one person versus dozens of others. But it feels sickening to do so, especially since I've seen what that sort of horror can do. I see it in Finnick almost everyday.
It's a life I never imagined for myself. How could I? It's too horrible to put into words or even one's own imagination. I can only imagine what Finnick is feeling right now. Weight upon weights of guilt and horror residing deep inside of him, as it does in me.
Finnick swallows. "Crane is Head Gamemaker now."
I inhale shakily. "Do I want to ask what happened to Lucius Crane?"
"The same thing that happens to anyone who causes Snow trouble."
I look away from Finnick and towards the ocean. Some seagulls are flying overhead, cawing to each other, and the waves are pulling in and out; somewhere in the distance, I see one rise and then curl in on itself. I lean down and take a rock into my own hand, turning it over in my fingers. Mirroring Finnick, I hurtle the rock towards the ocean, which draws a quieted hiss from me as my other shoulder protests, and as the rock barely meets Finnick's halfway. I press my hand to my shoulder, palm pressed to the stub. "So...I'm a reward," I say, slowly.
Finnick is watching me closely, a look of concern at my slightly pained sound, and he draws closer. "I know Crane met you on the roof at the Tribute Center," he says. When I look at him with widened eyes, he shakes his head. "He told me himself, when he met with me to discuss a Sponsorship. And Snow showed me footage of the two of you together on the roof...including when he kissed your forehead." His expression shifts into one of disgust. "I know your body language...you looked so cornered. And he just - "
"I didn't know I was meeting him," I say, in an effort to temper Finnick's fury. "I received a note from an Avox to meet someone on the roof. I thought it was Birch wanting to hash out an Alliance, but it was Seneca. It was...startling, but I tried to roll with it, because I was too afraid of angering a Gamemaker by just leaving."
"That was probably smart," Finnick relents. "Still, you didn't say anything."
"I was stupid, Finn. Just...I wanted to believe I could keep Liber alive, and I knew if I said anything to you that you'd panic," I say.
Finnick stares down at me, expression unreadable now. "Panic?"
"Panic," I repeat. "I didn't want you trying to do more for me, Finnick. I know you took on more lovers in the Capitol to keep us Sponsored. And I thought that, maybe, if a Gamemaker would Sponsor us that it would lessen your load." His own eyes widen at me, but I continue. "It killed me to know what you were doing to keep us alive. It kills me every time I see you like that. And I didn't want you going toe to toe with a Gamemaker because you were worried about me."
Finnick shakes his head. "I - "
"I know I should have told someone," I say. "But I was scared. I did what I felt I had to, for better or for worse."
"You were trying to protect Liber," Finnick says, his voice tight. "But you didn't think that we could keep you both safe?"
"Don't twist my words," I say. "I needed him to live. He was my little brother and I legitimately believed that I could protect him in the Arena and get him home...my parents would need him more than me. At least, that's what I tried to convince myself, for it all to make sense. Now I don't know what the hell to believe or if it would have been better if I'd died in the Arena and he'd lived."
"It wasn't a fight you needed to take on alone."
"It felt like I had to, Finn. But Liber still died," I say. "And now Snow will hurt anyone I love if I don't comply. You included."
Finnick goes quiet at that, staring at me for a long moment. I see the torment laced across his expression as he battles with his own words and his own mind. Slowly he lowers himself down to the sand until he's sitting, staring out across the water with a tense expression. I decide to lower myself beside him. We sit together, with a small gap between us, for a moment as the waves crash out in the distance and as seagulls sing above us.
"I didn't think much of what Snow said when he told me that choices have consequences. When I refused him, I did expect to find my dad there...waiting for me. But I failed him," Finnick says, heavily. "I understand what you're feeling. In your shoes, I would've done the same thing to protect someone I cared about."
I brush my tongue over my lips at the mention of Neleus. Even now, I can still see him; tall and bronze haired, standing out in the water with a stern expression as he scolds Finnick over not holding the net properly. But I also recall how Neleus had genuinely smiled when he knew Finnick was coming home...but it was a homecoming that would never be. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Finn," I say. "I did trust you to keep us safe...I just didn't want you to lose more of yourself for our sake."
Finnick scoffs. "Snow could've killed you that day instead of my dad, Ceres," he says. "I think about that more than you'd think. If I'd found you hanging from that chandelier...or face first in the ocean...or worse." He releases a shaky breath. "I still think about it whenever I'm summoned. If I refuse one, I'm putting your life at risk. Now Snow has you, too, and I think that's the greatest punishment he could do to me. When you were in that Arena, it felt like he was toying with me. Every second you were in danger was a nightmare."
"It was a nightmare for me, too," I say, a little surprised by the edge in my tone. "I look in the mirror everyday and face it. Not just the fact I lost my arm, but that I survived all of it. A part of me wants to be proud of that, but it doesn't change the things I did to be where I am now - even if some of it wasn't intentional. But now everyone is looking at me like I'm some broken thing. Everyone is telling me what I need to do. No one is listening."
"I'm listening now. So just tell me the truth."
I meet his gaze, which has begun to water. "I wanted to live. I did. Not because I wanted the victory, but because I wanted to come home and see the ocean...go fishing with my dad, help my mom cook...and be held by you again," I say. "I didn't tell you about Seneca because I was afraid. That was stupid of me, I know. I don't trust him, least of all now, but he did keep me and Liber alive. He stayed true to that. But I was aware of the possible consequences if I survived. I'm not an idiot. I just wish it hadn't been me who killed him...even despite what he did."
"I never wanted this for you," Finnick says, his voice strained by a quieted, held back anger.
"I know, Finn. But you don't get to be more angry than me," I say. "It's not exactly the life I wanted for myself, either, but this is how it is. It's mine to live now."
Finnick goes quiet for a moment. "It won't be so straightforward," he says. "If Crane gets exclusivity to you, he could get possessive, and that could turn dangerous quickly. I've seen jealousy do worse than kill before."
"From your own clients, in the Capitol?" I ask, tentatively.
Finnick hesitates before nodding. "Yeah, I have," he says, clearing his throat. "No one has tried to gain exclusivity to me, but I remember - one year - Cashmere had an exclusive client who practically paid his weight in gold for her. It didn't last long, because he couldn't afford it, and the fuss surrounding it was too massive. Cashmere was too desirable to keep to one person."
I cluck my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "I guess it's a good thing I'm not desirable, right?" I say. "Least of all like this..." Finnick casts me a look and I sigh. "I know there are types out there, Snow made that clear. Still...I understand you're worried about me, Finn. Regardless of what happens...I'll brave it."
"You say that now." Finnick rubs the back of his neck. "Might be one now...could change."
"How...how many lovers do you have?" I ask, slowly.
Finnick's lip twitches. "A lot," he says. "I'm very popular. But most of them know it's better not to get attached, though some have tried."
"You're easy to get attached to," I say, before I can stop myself.
"Capitol darling," Finnick says through clenched teeth. "They love me."
"I'm not talking about the Capitol darling," I say.
"Then who?" Finnick looks at me, with glazed eyes.
"You," I say. "The you they don't own."
"Can't say I know him very well," Finnick admits.
"Well, I do," I say. "And he's very easy to get attached to. I meant what I said, you know. That night."
"You said a lot of things," Finnick drawls, a slow smirk drawing across his face. "I remember more being an avid one - "
"Shut it, Odair," I say, face heating up, and recognizing himself slip. "When I said I loved you. I meant that. But is loving you more dangerous now than it was before? Or is it equalized because of our mutual situations?"
"I don't know," Finnick says. "And that scares me."
When Finnick looks back at me, I watch as his expression shadows over into something gravely serious. I suck in a slow breath.
"I think we need to stay away from each other for a while," he goes on. "Not because I want to, but..." He stops, appearing so pained that I want nothing more than to wrap my arms - arm - around him, like I did when we were in the Capitol and I sat beside him as he slept. My arm even twitches, though I press it firmly against my side. He doesn't seem to notice. "We're both in a very perilous situation right now. If we're together, then that's more ammunition for Snow to use to hurt us."
I'm not surprised by his words, per say...but, God, they hurt. I try my damnedest to mask my own pain behind some semblance of understanding, but it's trickier than I could ever imagine. I want to meet his gaze calmly as he seems to fall apart in on himself. The anger in his eyes is colliding with grief and his expression is contorting in various ways. Every word seems to be pried out of some deeper part of himself, forced out because they need to be freed. It hurts him to admit it as much as it hurts me to hear it, I think. I'm not sure if it makes it any better or worse. Selfishly I just want to wrap my arm around Finnick and for him to hold me, and to remind me that he's real - we're real - so that I can have one of the few good things left in my life.
When Finnick was about to go back to the Capitol for the Victory Tour, he had come to me for a kiss. It had been clumsy and gentle and slow, but it had been about his choice. He had just lost his father and was about to sell himself into Snow's service. I had been his last real decision before he left. When I was about to go into the Games, Finnick and I had both made the decision to sleep together. It had been amazing in more ways than one. Yes, it was definitely pleasurable and felt good, but none of that held a candle to the feeling of Finnick and I laughing together as we tried to find our rhythm, both of us surprisingly awkward, or how he smiled at me when we'd laid in bed afterwards.
All of that, any potential for us to have those moments again, is slipping through my fingers. It's like trying to cup water in your hands. Sure, you can hold it for a few moments, but sooner or later it's going to fall through the cracks. But this isn't just about me. It concerns Finnick now more than ever, and my parents' lives hang in the balance, as well.
Before my expression can break, I look out towards the water, wishing that I could rush into it and swim with the waves. I would lay on my back and just let myself float there, as the salt water carries me. I would feel fish nip at me curiously as my hair splays around my head in a dark brown halo, and the sun would be warm against my skin. If I tried to do that now, I would surely fall face first into the water and struggle to carry myself to and from shore. I'm not strong enough for that yet. I'm not even sure I'm strong enough for this conversation, but I have to pretend I am for his sake.
"Okay," I say, wishing I could say more. The words just keeping eluding me, desperate as I am to try to catch them; swiping every which way, desperate for it to be in my hands. "I understand."
"It's not permanent," Finnick says. "It's just temporary."
I swallow, hoping to keep my voice steady. "You don't have to do that," I say.
"Do what?"
"Coddle me. This isn't a breakup, Finnick. We can't breakup if we were never together. This is just two friends taking a few steps back so we can keep each other...safe, yeah. Safe. It's not ideal, but I understand. Because you're absolutely right, we are in a pretty perilous situation right now, and distance could help us both."
Finnick looks at me with almost saddened eyes. "I think we stepped beyond friendship that night."
I sigh. "It was just sex, right?" I say, forcing my breathing to be level.
"It was more than that," he says, softly.
"But thinking like that is more dangerous now than it was before," I counter. "For now...it was just...a girl who thought she was going to die choosing to live for a night with her best friend. That's hardly dangerous, right? It's just...it's just a technicality."
"Right. A technicality." Finnick stands.
Now to his feet, he leans down and offers me his hand. Under normal circumstances, I might have taken it, even allowing him to pull me up. But as I consider his hand, I take into account that his touch might burn more than it helps. I look away from his outstretched hand. I press my palm against the ground, adjusting my feet beneath me so that I'm able to, for the most part, spring back up into a standing position. I sway a little, so I push my spear down to support me.
Finnick's hand coils back into himself, fingers curling into a tight fist; flexing and unflexing from his palm. His gaze is intent upon me as I stand there, balancing against my spear, and I can feel his gaze alternate between my stub to my face. He stands there for a time, just looking at me. I try to match his gaze, but I can feel something burning in the back of my eyes and I refuse to cry in front of him - not now, not like this. So I just look back towards the water, where I know it's safe. Ironically. We both stand like that for a while, until I hear him sigh and turn his body away from me.
"I should probably be going," he says. "I want to get out while I have the sun."
He walks towards the boat and I follow closely behind. He trudges through the water and boards it smoothly, adjusting several things as he stands there; the boat idly rocking against the water. I stand by its edge, with the water lapping at my feet. I dare not tread any further, lest it pull me back down again. But I suppose that wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would pull me down and sweep me someplace far away from here.
I blink, forcing that strange and intrusive thought out of my head. "Could I talk you into staying?" I ask.
Finnick shakes his head. "I'm sorry...I just...I need a few days to just..."
"I get it," I say.
I honestly do. When Finnick had returned home from the Games, it had been easy to slip into my own mind, and struggle to find anything. Neleus had just died and my father refused to let me see my best friend. It had been horrible, and this was when we were just children, still so ignorant to the way the Games worked before and after they were over. We're far from children now and the friendship we had is now muddled and confusing. We blurred the lines in the sand.
"Will we still be friends?" I ask.
"Always," Finnick says, without hesitating.
"But never anything more?"
Finnick exhales slowly, turning his back to me as he adjusts his mast. "Is that something you want?" he asks, his tone low. "Because it shouldn't be. I can't give you...you would never be safe. Snow would punish you for anything I'd do."
"You're not giving me the choice," I say.
"I know you'd choose wrong."
"So you're saying you're wrong?" I say. "What about that night? Does it really just mean nothing to you?"
"Of course not," he says.
"Why sleep with me? You said that it was your choice to be with me," I say, "so why risk it?"
"I thought you'd die in that Arena," Finnick says. "I thought it'd be the last thing we'd have together."
I don't reply.
Finnick touches the mast of his ship, then his hand clenches into a tight fist. "I don't want to leave when you're angry."
"Who said I'm angry?"
"I see it in your face."
A petty part of me just wants to spin around and leave Finnick on that beach, staring after me - letting him sit and fester in our argument. It's certainly what I would have done some odd years ago, simply because I could. Now, staring at Finnick's broken expression and the desperation in his sea-green eyes, my feet refuse to move and I just want to wrap my arm around him and tell him that I understand. But nothing compels me forward, either. I just stand there, processing everything that's been said and what I'm feeling. I keep having to remind myself that this isn't totally about me, but isn't it? I am the one who survived the Games and had to kill her own brother and will be losing her whole freedom in six months, to one person or to dozens; only Snow will decide.
To say that I am angry is an understatement. I want to fester in it. I want it to fuel me as I trudge through the sands and I want to throw my spear and lodge it into something, preferably a very large fish, but I also want to go swimming and I want to lay in a boat and sunbathe in the open water as I'm anchored in place. There are dozens of things that I want and need, but I need to focus on the now; terrible as it is. "I'm not angry. I just want you to be happy," I say.
Finnick brushes his tongue over his drying lips. "Look, this doesn't mean I don't - "
"Don't say it, Finn," I say. "Just go."
"Will you be alright?" he asks.
"I've been doing fine alone so far," I say, watching as he winces. "I'll be fine now. Just be safe out there, okay?"
"I always try to be," he says. "I'll see you soon."
I stand on the shoreline for a little while longer, until Finnick's ship is far enough out to sea that the sun is blinding me at its angle, and the outline of his ship is too far out to truly take in. It's not until the air starts to feel chilly and my face feels sticky and crusty from my now dried tears that I finally go back home. It's difficult, but I do understand Finnick's thinking...his reasoning for this. If I were in his shoes - which, technically, I am - I think I would have done the same...but, then again, why didn't I? What the hell was I even expecting? Certainly I hadn't expected to survive the Games, but I had. I guess something in me had hoped there'd be some semblance of returned normalcy. Finnick and I would go back to fishing, but what else would come from it? There is no going back to what was before.
Finnick was right. We had stepped outside of friendship when we'd been together, as well as the fact that I had told him I loved him several times - all he replied was I know, or he'd kiss me or a part of my body, and that had been enough for me. Returning back to District 4, what we had when we left is long gone, and what we have now is in ruins. It's like broken pieces of glass spread everywhere; larger shards, then glass particles. Even if we placed the pieces back together, it would still be so broken. Whatever it is that Finnick fears so greatly - whether it's the sharpness of the broken glass, its broken shape, or the fact it's safer to sweep up than to fix - I have to understand it. Whatever it is that I want...it's not the most important thing right now, not at his expense, or the expense of my family.
So, I try to carry on to the best of my ability. I try to get out of the house more, like taking on various balancing exercises and going out by the water more. Demetra usually goes with me nowadays. Rheon still lingers on my porch at night, but he never sticks around, and I haven't sought out the old man myself. He sometimes join Demetra and I for lunch or breakfast. We share a few words, but it's mostly quiet. His expression is always so tight. I understand his pain, too. Demetra had only watched her children go to war with each other, whereas Rheon was put into a position where he had the ability to protect us, and forced to watch as Sponsors and people cheered all around him. I don't envy his position. And, although he hasn't said anything on the matter, I'm sure a part of him resents me for it; no matter how small.
My mom and I are still perplexed over who gave Liber the skeleton, but since we don't have it all we can do is speculate. Maybe he had a girlfriend who gave it to him or had taken it with him himself. And I'm not ready to rummage through his things to try to find the answers yet.
Nevertheless, it's less isolating than it was before. My mother visits me frequently, my father occasionally, and then there's Mags. My mom and Mags are more than enough. They visit frequently, Mags more so now. She brings me food and sometimes spends the night. Since Finnick left, my dreams have become more violent, and what had once been silent awakenings are now drenched in sweat, screams, sobs, and gasps for breath. The days carry on into weeks - two, to be exact. Finnick returns to shore occasionally, though he's quick to get back out to the water; a brief night spent by a fire to cook his fish, then disappearing back into the night before dawn can claim him.
Mags and I keep an eye on him, in our own way. She'll often times sit on my back porch with a pair of binoculars, keeping an eye on him. I'll check up on him, too, with the very same binoculars. Sometimes I'll even sit on my windowsill in my bedroom and watch his boat in its far off place, lit by the moonlight, wondering if he was okay. I try not to think about it too much. Mags tries not to, either. She's upset that he left, though she understands his sentiment. After his father had died, he had gone out to water to mourn for him; gone for a few days, but came back. This is the longest he has ever been gone, and I am starting to wonder if he'll sail away, so far away.
No. As much as he might like to, I know he wouldn't.
In any case, little by little, Mags has started bringing various things of hers into my house. With every night that she spends, she brings more and more; like clothes, pictures, and other things that caught my attention. Sneakily, she has begun a several step process of moving into my house, over the course of time that Finnick has been gone. I had confronted her about it a couple of days ago.
"I know what you're trying to do," I had said. "You're trying to be my caretaker."
Mags, with a large smile, had replied, "I'm too old to be your caretaker, dear. You're taking care of an old, old woman."
That was all that needed to be said. She had taken up residence in the room next to mine, so that she can reach me faster if my dreams become too loud or noticeable. Sometimes she'll lay beside me in my overly large bed and sing me songs until I fall asleep. It's the routine we fall into. I've since helped her bring her personal items from her home into mine, so it feels less like a cage and more like a warm place. She helps me learn to do things on my own, such as helping me figure out how to cut things one handed. She has to help me dress sometimes, which is a little demeaning, but she never makes me feel bad about it. And she recognizes my space.
Today I've spent the better part of my morning out on the beach. I'd taken my spear with me and was practicing various flourishing movements that once came so naturally. I try throwing it, as well as twisting it in my grasp. Sometimes I have success, other times I accidentally hit myself or drop it. In any case, after having spent the beginning of dawn on the beach and having stayed out until almost the afternoon in perfect isolation, I decide to go back to my house. The blue sea is glistening brightly against the sun, which rests in a cloudless sky. Wherever Finnick is, no doubt he is enjoying the sunshine. I hope that for him, truly.
I return back to the place atop the hill where Victor's Village resides, to find that my back glass door is slightly ajar; the sea breeze rustling some lacy curtains that Mags had brought from her old house. It's not necessarily surprising to find the door ajar, since Mags is prone to heat spells and enjoys the chill of a pleasant breeze.
"Mags, I'm back," I call out, setting my things down by the door. My spear leans against the wall, looking worse for wear, but it's starting to feel natural again. I kick off my sand covered sandals and pad across the floor towards the parlor, where I can hear the couch creak. "I left a note that I was going down to the beach. I needed the air - "
I cut myself off as I breach the entryway, finding my breath being stolen away from me and my lungs left barren. Seneca Crane is sitting in my parlor, one leg crossed over the other, and a fresh thing of tea resting on my glass coffee table. He looks up at me with a kind expression, then stands to greet me. All I can do is stand in the doorway frozen, feeling as if every fiber of my being has turned to stone; nothing in me can move, even my lungs refuse to take any sort of air. All I can do is stand and stare at the new Head Gamemaker, making himself all too comfortable in my own home. He almost looks bashful as he gestures for me to sit beside him.
"It's good to see you again, Ms. Rythe," Seneca says. "I'm here to talk."
(a/n): *jazz hands* P A I N. I loved writing this chapter, it was a lot of fun and I am very excited to write the next. So much so that I was writing it at the same time I was writing this one. XD I am weak. But, anyway! We are so close to nearing the end and I am so, so excited to bring you guys the sequel, because so much shit goes down you don't even KNOW! ^3^
Review replies
the. apple .seed: Thank you so much! I am always so moved and excited whenever I read your reviews! :D Honestly, writing pre-canon Cinna was actually quite fun, and we'll be seeing more of him (of course) in the future. Plus an array of other canonical characters I am legitimately terrified to be writing. XD I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and Finnick/Ceres' dialogue! It was gut-wrenching to write, but gave me so much life. :D Especially with that ending...hehe. Much goes down in the final chapters that I'm thrilled to write.