(a/n): *rubs grimy hands together* Here we are, my dear readers! A chapter I have been looking forward to for a minute. A Ceres and Seneca centric chapter. ;) I hope you guys enjoy it!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

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It's hard to focus. God, it's so hard. I'm staring at Seneca Crane as he's standing in the middle of my parlor, looking at me with all the gentlemanly decorum I would expect in a man like him - but he is in my house, offering me a seat on my couch (okay, it's Mags' couch she brought from her house, but that's beside the point). All I can do is stare at his bashful face and slightly pink cheeks and wonder what the hell happened between waking up this morning feeling moderately okay and being here right now. My mind is reeling too fast for me to process and it feels like my vision is blurring. With my heart going so fast that I can hear it in my ears, I resist the urge between fight and flight. I want to wheel around and tear back towards the beach or to, childishly, my parents' house. Then there's the part of me that wants to grab my spear and fight him, whatever that means.

But all I have to do is remind myself of my precarious situation and I'm still back where I started, just standing here like an idiot staring at the all too patient Head Gamemaker. President Snow is no doubt still weighing his options on how my life is going to be led, so it would do me no good to cause issues with the Head Gamemaker who requested exclusivity to me. His upset could be the trigger between an easier circumstance or a harder one. I hate the way these thoughts have passed through my head, but I can't let that hate show. I need to display calmness right now. I have to, even though I want nothing more than to blink and be back on that beach like I was a mere fifteen minutes ago.

I try to hone my focus in on Seneca. He's looking particularly dapper. He's wearing a fine grey jacket, lined with black, overtop a purple floral vest and a silver and purple shirt, with a tie to match; his trousers are white and his shoes are a polished black. I can't help but to think about how hot he must be feeling, given the humidity of District 4, but if he feels this way, he certainly doesn't convey it. His black hair is slicked back and his face is freshly shaven. He still looks like the young man I met on that rooftop, with that innocent gleam in his eyes and a kind smile. I trust neither.

At the very least, I can pretend I do. Still, my mind is reeling even as my expression remains mostly composed. How the hell did you get into my house? Where is Mags?

I take in a slow breath.

God, where is Mags?

"Sorry, but how did you get into my house?" I ask.

"Ms. Flanagan let me in," Seneca replies, his fair cheeks turning pink. He has the decency to look a little flustered by my query, as if he hadn't even considered how it would look just coming home to find a Gamemaker sitting in your house and enjoying a cup of tea. "She was also kind enough to make me this nice cup of tea while we waited for you to come back. She's been keeping me company, as well; sharing all sorts of stories..."

I glance around the parlor discreetly as Seneca talks, noting no Mags. I feel myself stiffen more and more, but then I see Mags stick her head out of the doorway that connects the parlor to the kitchen. Her long, wild curled hair is all frazzled and framing her wrinkled face, and she's wearing an expression of absolute concern. With Seneca's back to her, she can wear it freely, and she's meeting my gaze with an intentness that makes my heart stammer. If Mags is nervous, I know I have every reason to be by tenfold - and it also solidifies the fact that she was also completely unaware of Seneca coming to District 4. Her eyes convey a simple question: are you alright? As discreetly as I can, I nod.

She seems to recognize this, but maintains an eye upon me as Seneca carries on, until she slips back behind the wall and out of sight. I wish that she would just come out and stand beside me right now, because I feel very vulnerable and uncomfortable. This is my house and yet it isn't even mine. It would seem that anyone has the ability to come and go as they please, which isn't exactly promising for the future. And I feel myself shudder as I recollect the rare sight of Capitolian men and women coming and going through Finnick's door. He always smirked at them in that specific way that drove them wild, but it always broke my heart. He seemed to time these encounters well, since I was usually down at the beach or out on the water, so I seldom saw them. But when I did, they were wretched.

Am I supposed to wear one of those signature smirks now? Am I supposed to be charming, desirable, and seductive? Frankly, I am none of these things. The very fact I had sex before the Games was a miracle - no, it was a fluke. I've been described as pretty before and, sure, a few boys had taken interest in me in school, but no one marveled at me the way they did at Finnick or Tilda - justifiably so, I'd say. I don't know how to present myself before Seneca right now. I know that I should have some sort of demeanor. Charming seems right, but trying to act charming is like trying to walk normally; once your brain is aware of what you're doing, it goes out of its way to jeopardize your intentions. In any case, I feel too ill in the stomach to be actively charming or play the role of a desirable woman before Seneca.

The most I can manage is a small smile, which feels so unnatural that I almost boycott it. "Mags is a good host," I say. It's the truth, it's not a falsehood or an act, and it seems like a fine way to start out this conversation. Talk about Mags, keep talking about Mags. She's great. She's fantastical. If I can talk about and think about Mags, then maybe I can find some semblance of ease in my tight shoulders. "She's always had a way of making people feel warm."

Seneca nods. "I couldn't agree more," he says, sincerely. "It is always an honor, as a Gamemaker, to become acquainted with such seasoned Victors. Ms. Flanagan is just such a fine example of her era and a true marvel in old-fashioned class. It's a shame that her popularity was never high to begin with. I, personally, have always been a fan."

A part of me wants to agree, because I technically do...the me I was some odd years ago would have fawned over the potential for this conversation, with such wide eyes, and no doubt would have concluded it all with: and someday I shall be a Victor, too. Those dreams have been achieved, ironically enough, and a part of me wants to mangle the girl I used to be for having such bold and stupid aspirations. Sadly, all I can do is look back in my memories with a scolding glare and try not to cringe too hard. And, besides, I'm irritated that he's discussing Mags' lack of popularity. It's true, I'm forced to admit; nobody likes old Victors. They like the fresh, young blood. But to me, there is no greater Victor than Mags Flanagan.

I guess, by that token, I'm a fan of hers, too. Regardless, there is no denying Mags' grace and character, but I feel uneasy attaching it to her role as Victor.

"She is," I agree. "I am sorry for the, uh, lack of greeting and formality here. I didn't know anyone was coming." I need to get ahold of my riled emotions and my thudding heart, and, above all else, keep my appearance well-groomed. "I would've been more prepared had I known."

I realize I still look absolutely ridiculous. My hair is pulled up into a ponytail that Mags had done for me, to keep strands out of my eyes, and it's coated in sand and sea spray, which has long since dried into something crusty, and there's sweat on my hairline - sweat over all of me, honestly. It had been a fairly hot morning and I had also been pushing myself physically, trying to get back to the strength and prowess I had before. My clothes are also worse for wear; covered in sand and stained with water. I'm wearing a short sleeved shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, which were appropriate and comfortable for a morning like mine. In short, I look as I normally would - albeit slightly worse - on any other day.

But, for this particular day, I look unacceptable. Nevertheless, Seneca finally allows his eyes to take in my unruly appearance and he doesn't seem deterred by it. He doesn't even spare me a Capitolian smirk, undignified or otherwise. He maintains that all too pleasant and cheery smile, as if this is a perfectly normal encounter. He still looks flushed and bashful, but he certainly still makes himself all too at home.

"It's no fault of yours, Ms. Rythe," Seneca assures. "There was no way you could have known. President Snow sent me with discretion. He didn't want it to be made a fuss of, you see, so he sent no forewarning until we were about an hour away. The Mayor was startled to see us, as you can imagine." He laughs, seemingly waiting for me to do the same. When I stand silently, he clears his throat and continues. "I do apologize. I know this is odd."

That is an understatement. "Capitolians visit District 4. It's not strange," I say.

Seneca arches his brow at that, but remarks no further. "Would you like to sit down?" he asks, again.

"I'd like to get cleaned up first," I say.

"Of course," Seneca says, looking across my figure for the first time.

He looks amused by my appearance now, though he doesn't laugh or make any sort of quips about it; I wish he would. It might alleviate our situations and truly solidify what a Capitolian prat he was. He does no such thing, maintaining that gentlemanly persona that I can't tell is real or false. With Finnick, I know who he is and who the Capitol darling is, even if the lines blur sometimes, but Seneca is an enigma altogether.

This charming demeanor he carries and the way he smiles so pleasantly is so strange against a person in his position, I can't tell if this is an extremely good naïve act or if this is truly how he is. He acted this way on the rooftop, too, and during our first meeting at the Tribute Parade. The blunt truth of it is that I do not know. And I hate not knowing.

Seneca makes a soft tutting sound, his eyes widening. "Oh, before I forget, President Snow had me bring some gifts for you. Ms. Flanagan put them up in your room so you could open them privately, since they are sentimental."

Sentimental? My stomach churns to the word, my mind already working against me to conjure up horrible images of what President Snow would qualify as sentimental gifts. I imagine the heads of my loved ones laid out upon my bed, then I am forced by my cruel mind to imagine my parents hung up from the ceiling in my bedroom, or even a bloodstained room adorned with white roses. Realistically I know that none of these options are real. Finnick is still out on the water - I saw him myself. My parents are sitting on their porch, looking cross about something. Mags is in the kitchen, just on the other side of the wall from me.

I try to keep calm those nagging thoughts in my head demanding to be heard, those horrible images to be seen. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. "How kind of our President," I say, biting back the edge in my voice. He doesn't seem to notice. "I'll be back in a moment."

I turn from him, then, and disappear through the hallway. Once I am properly out of sight, I bolt as fast and as smoothly as I can upstairs, ignoring how my feet thud against the steps. My heart is thudding just as loudly, if not more so. My breathing is coming out in short spurts and, once I reach the top of the stairs, I have to brace myself against the wall in order to remain standing. But I don't have time to truly gather myself. Although panic wants to grab ahold of me and shake me senseless until my bones turn to jelly and I melt into the floor, I need to keep myself sensible. I can hear voices downstairs. Mags is talking to Seneca now about something or other; their sounds muffled by the largeness of the house and the barriers between me and the parlor.

Straining my ears, I can tell that Mags is laughing, and so is the Head Gamemaker. She's buying me time. She's keeping him content. Of course Mags knows how to play this game. I try not to imagine how long she has played it or how thoroughly - were Victors in her era sold ? - and, instead, try to think about the here and now. I push myself off of the wall and charge towards my room. The door is ajar so I merely have to push myself through and lean against the doorway for support. Quickly, I scan my bedroom - no bodies hanging or placed anywhere - and then I gently shut the door behind me. I press my back against it, eyes closing as I procrastinate looking more thoroughly for these gifts Seneca spoke of, or whatever the hell the President left for me.

I want to scream. I want to grab a pillow, press my face into it, and just scream until there's nothing left of me.

Finally, with a heaving breath, I open my eyes. The first thing I see is a glass vase containing a huge bouquet full of white roses, which I shall most definitely be tearing apart later this evening if, God willing, Seneca leaves by then - oh, God, let him leave. It seems to be staring back at me, just like the white roses in President Snow's large greenhouse; non-sentient eyes watching me closely, predatory. There is a card sticking out of it, as well; a fine red envelop that looks like blood against the white. I inhale sharply, though it's not the only gift in the room I have to focus on.

Laying on my large bed, with its layers of teal and green quilts, is a long thin box that covers the length of it. It's perfectly packaged with a huge white ribbon on it. Even without opening it, I know what's inside. I want to also tear it apart and throw it into the ocean to disappear, forever. But I can't very well do any of this now. I have so little time.

I need to change. I need to be charming. And I need to get everything right.

I decide to leave the gifts alone for now, rather choosing to rush into my attached bathroom and take a short, albeit thorough, shower. I scrub at my skin and my hair until I'm certain there's no sand, sweat, or seaweed to be found. From there, I dry myself quickly and get dressed. I go through my closet and my dresser to find something adequate to wear. I consider, with a tightness in my chest, a ruffled orange sundress I typically wear for Reaping days or other formal occasions. It is a pretty enough dress and would be pleasing to the eye, but one of the sleeves would rest awkwardly on my left shoulder, and I can't bring myself to dress up for a person.

I understand the importance of keeping Snow happy through the Head Gamemaker, given his request - and being owned by one person is better than dozens, I suppose - but the thought of dressing myself for the part just doesn't sit right with me. I know I have to, but not this way - not yet. I choose, instead, a pair of sea-green leggings and a shirt with a hem that reaches just above my knees; it's sleeveless, so my arm and stub are fully exposed, but I don't mind. The shirt is on the looser side, though it does provide a small enough dip in the neckline that a minor view of my cleavage is available. That should suffice.

Be pleasing to the eye. I close my eyes, trying to force out the thoughts of Finnick in his tight, revealing clothes, and the smirk he'd wear for the Capitolians.

How the hell does he do this?

I decide to let my hair hang loose. I have it combed out and I'm letting it hang over my shoulders to dry.

As it does that, I bring my attention to the gifts. I decide to open the larger package on my bed first, because I know what it is, and, with that, it should be easier than the unknown. It's surprisingly tricky to undo a bow with one hand but I manage to get it done, then I lift the box cover off. Sure enough, the spear I used to kill my brother is resting inside of it, carefully nestled in white paper. Its obsidian tip, lined with sapphires...my blood runs cold as I look at its far too gaudy form. It's been cleaned, of course, but it's like I'm seeing Liber's blood on its tip. It's my imagination. I know it is. But I can't seem to evade it.

I cover it over as quickly as I can and leave it there, for now.

I then turn to that stupid bouquet. As it were, there's more than a note in the flowers, for I also found a small box burrowed within its white petals. I pull it out and undo it as I did the other gift. Within it, carefully wrapped in fine paper, is my brother's token. Tentatively, I take it into my hands. I turn the solidified skeleton over in my hand, brushing my thumb over its spiky surface. It isn't expanded, but rather its bones are coiled into itself. Its mouth is ajar and its fins are remarkably intact, despite their delicacy, and for what my brother's body went through in the Games. It feels hollow and fragile in my hand, yet also impressive durable. It, like the spear, is clean. I try to find even a speckle of blood on it, but there's nothing.

It's just a white collection of all too small bones of a creature that is remarkably dangerous for being so little.

Uneasily, I recall my mom's confusion when I brought up the token, and she had been all the more confused, as well as almost irritated, when I had brought it up to her again. She had no answers for who would possibly give Liber a pufferfish skeleton as a token, or as to why Liber would lie about it. It seemed that my brother had a great deal to lie about in the end.

But who the hell gave this to my brother? And why did he tell me it was mom?

Knowing that I don't have much time, I carefully set aside my brother's token, tucking it back into the box, and setting it away into the drawer of my dresser. I then take that horrible red envelop into my hand. Its crisp parchment feels like little needles against my fingertips. When I carefully open it, I half-expect it to ooze with blood and poison onto my hand; having the same acidic reaction Birch did when he had died.

Instead, I pull out a fine white piece of paper, which I unfold, to unveil President Snow's fluid handwriting.

May these memories serve as fond reminders to your loss, and make you learn to keep them. Play the game.

I crumple the parchment in my hand. I want to tear the parchment up but something compels me not to, so I also open my drawer again and shove it inside. The sound is loud, echoing across my room, and almost muffles the dull sound of a knock upon my door. For a second, I expect that it's Seneca, who has come up here to do with me what he undoubtedly wants. Instead, it's Mags' voice I hear, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"May I come in?" Mags asks quietly outside the door.

"Yeah, come in," I reply.

Mags pushes the door open slowly. She's wearing a long sleeved blue dress with a braided belt around her waist; casual attire like mine had been, what she would wear as she made little fish hooks around the house, or cooking something. Still, she looks more presentable to be hosting a Capitolian than I had been - arguably even now.

After reading President Snow's letter, I'm starting to think about that orange sundress a little more seriously.

"How long has he been here?" I ask, lowly.

"Less than an hour," Mags says. "He came here accompanied by Peacekeepers. I didn't know who he was, at first, but I - "

"You know now," I say, exhaling sharply. "Seneca Crane. He's Head Gamemaker now, and the guy who I met with on the roof at the Tribute Center. I think it goes without saying what he wants."

She inhales sharply. "I've never liked the Cranes."

"Why's that?"

"They're ambitious to a fault."

"Sounds like me," I say. "How do I look, Mags?"

Her lips almost quiver. "You look lovely, Ceres."

"Lovely enough?" I ask. When she doesn't reply, I sigh. "Maybe I should just wear the stupid dress."

"Don't," she says. "You look so beautiful, sweet girl."

I don't feel beautiful. Frankly, I feel like I'm a building that's about to fall apart; its foundations crumbling, everything caving in, and my walls staggering. I make myself stand a little straighter, then look into a large circular mirror on the wall; staring back at me is a wide blue eyed girl who has no idea what she's doing.

Slowly, I turn back to Mags. "Finnick is still out on the water, right?" I ask.

"He's still out fishing. I just checked on him a while ago; he's miles out from shore. Why?" Mags leans forward. "Do you need me to get him back here?"

I wonder if Mags has any way to contact Finnick. I imagine that Mags' power over us is so great that all she would have to do is cup her hands over her mouth and call him home and he would be here. Then again, it's funnier to imagine her rapidly swimming out to fetch him. But none of these thoughts are consoling me now. "I don't need Finnick's protection," I say. "I'm just asking because I need to know he's still out there. I need him to stay on his boat. God only knows what he'd do if he knew what was going on."

Mags' eyes widen. "He would break Seneca Crane's neck without a second thought," she replies, with a worried expression.

I blink, more than just taken aback by Mags' words. "That's a violent assumption," I say.

"It might be, but I know what you mean to him," she says. "If he thought you were in danger - "

"He'd keep his head and know better," I say. "And I'm not in danger." Not yet, anyway.

"He cares a great deal for you, I mean," Mags says.

I wish that she wouldn't say stuff like that. Mags knows what has happened, how Finnick has set sail and how everything we could have been needs to be erased. She hadn't been pleased to hear any of this and had promised to give Finnick a firm talking to the next time she saw him. I'd talked her down, I think, but I know she's still upset by it. Something about how upsetting it is that we can't even be allowed to live our own lives outside of the Capitol. I don't disagree with her assessment, but I can't think outside of Finnick's wants and needs. If this is what he demands, then so be it.

When it becomes obvious I'm not going to reply to her words, Mags' shoulders sink down and she almost looks defeated. "What are you planning on doing?"

"Figure out what he wants and get this over with," I admit. "You don't have to stay here, Mags. I'd suggest that you go over to Ren or to Tilda's for a little while - maybe even go into town. If things, you know, go a certain direction...just...go into town, okay? That might be easiest."

"And what do you mean by a certain direction, Ceresea?"

"You know what Finnick does..." I trail, noting how her face blanches to the mere thought. "Hopefully it doesn't come to that. But...you know."

I don't give Mags much time to respond. I gently grab ahold of her and pull her into a quick embrace. Despite her stature, smaller than mine, she holds me in a vice-like grip that is almost stifling, and presses a kiss to my cheek. When we pull away, I don't spare her another glance. I'm too afraid to lose my nerve. Rather, I walk out of my bedroom and fix my now dried how as I venture back downstairs. A part of me is hoping that Seneca will have gotten bored and will have left already, but he's still sitting there. He has one leg crossed over the other and is looking out the large window of our parlor, watching the ocean. But when he hears me cross the threshold, he turns.

His light blue eyes take me in and he smiles. To my surprise, his gaze doesn't lewdly take in my form, nor does he look at me critically or with disappointment, but rather maintains a steady eye contact that I almost find unnerving. "Ms. Rythe, you look stunning," he says. "Not that you didn't look stunning before."

"You don't have to call me that," I say. "Ms. Rythe is too formal."

"Ceresea, then," he says, beaming.

Ceres. It's Ceres, I think, but I smile back.

Seneca gestures to the seat beside him. "Please, have a seat with me.

"You're telling me to sit in my own home," I say, still standing in place.

It's an act of defiance that has me immediately wanting to hit myself in the forehead, but Seneca seems flushed by it and his smile even turns sheepish again. "Ah. I'm sorry," he says, laughing beneath his breath. "This is a bit new for me, in case you can't tell."

Even as he sits there, he looks both quite content and also awkward. "You've never visited a District before, have you?"

"You would be right," Seneca says. "This is my first time out of the Capitol."

It doesn't surprise me that a Gamemaker would not have traveled, though I had assumed that an important apprentice to the Head Gamemaker would have seen the Districts at least once or twice, to some capacity; especially since I recall his father having been a Head Gamemaker before, too. "Do Head Gamemakers travel much, then?"

"I wouldn't know," he says, clearing his throat. "I see you were told the news about my promotion."

"President Snow told me," I say. "Congratulations are in order."

There is a small hesitation between my words and Seneca's response, before he is nodding appreciatively. "Thank you," he says, graciously.

Despite his natural smile and chin tilted up, I notice the way his neck is straining. I have to wonder again what the hell happened to Lucius Crane; if he's dead in a ditch somewhere or if he's very much alive, but wishing for the relief of death. I highly doubt it was a quiet retirement.

"I imagine your uncle is thrilled," I test, feigning ignorance

Seneca doesn't flinch. "He's enjoying his retirement, yes," he says, reaching down to take his teacup. He drinks from it slowly, but does not stop for air. "But I'm not here to discuss my career or my uncle."

"Right. Let's go outside," I say. "You can bring your tea with you."

Seneca seems to be a little taken aback by my forwardness. I even wonder if I had been too bold. But he takes the teacup into his hand and stands, gesturing for me to lead the way. "As you wish," he says.

I lead Seneca to the back porch overlooking the beach, through the door where I had come in. I consider taking a seat on the porch swing, but it is a small swing and if we sat beside each other we'd been rather close in proximity. I decide to lean against the railing of the porch, instead, my arm upon its surface; fingers gently tapping in rhythm. Seneca goes to stand beside me, setting his cup down. He looks across the water with a strangely curious expression. I can't fault him for being marveled by the ocean. Even though I have been surrounded by water my whole life, I am still in awe of it sometimes. The way sunsets and sunrises hit against its surface are so jarringly beautiful. The waves make music everyday, when they curl into themselves or crash against the beach. And the smell of it in the air is home, pure home.

I wonder how Seneca perceives all of this. I remember reading a book once about how District 4 had been a hotspot for tourism before the Districts had been isolated to the Capitol. I can't say that I'm surprised. The Capitolians who come to visit Finnick often times want to see the water with him, not just violate his body in his own home. Watching their brightly colored selves along the beach, hand-in-hand or linked by arms with Finnick, I wish that a great wave would come and wash them away.

Seneca's awe dwells longer than I expected it to, so I choose to clear my throat and break the silence.

"So...did you come here just to deliver those gifts?" I ask.

Seneca presses his hands over the railing on the porch, looking genuinely considerate as he brings his gaze back to me. "It was one of his requests," he says. "But there are other reasons I'm here."

"Did you request to come here or did he send you?" I ask.

"He sent me," Seneca says. "Truth be told, I didn't want to see you until your Victory Tour."

That surprises me. When I had won the Games, I had expected attentions to be lavished upon me almost immediately. That's what happened with Finnick, after all; the boy didn't have a moments peace after his Victory. It wasn't long before they started to leach off of him. At first, it started off as just casual dates and gentle touches. But once he had ripened with a year or two of age, he had promptly been sold for far more graphic and terrible purposes. It had been so quick...barely a breath away from when he had won.

To hear that Seneca had wanted to wait to see me, much less after having made a claim for exclusivity, does take me off guard. I'm not sure whether to believe him or not, though. It could be he's trying to soften me somehow. "And why is that?" I ask. "Given you asked for exclusivity, I'd think you'd want to see me as soon as possible."

Seneca's face erupts into redness. "I, uh...right, I suppose that's a logical way to think about it," he says. "Well, truth be told, I wanted to give you space."

"Why space?"

"You just lost your brother," Seneca says. "I didn't think a high priority of yours would be meeting with a Gamemaker after that."

"Space is all anyone wants to give me nowadays," I say, sighing. "I don't know what I need. Anyway, you didn't answer my question. Why else are you here?"

"President Snow wanted me, as Head Gamemaker, to return your valued gifts from the Arena to you. He thought you deserved to have them," Seneca replies. "And...he told me to do with my time there what I wanted."

What you wanted. I slowly straighten my back. "That's very generous of him," I say, slowly. I carefully enunciate each word, too afraid of my hammering heart and how I wish the waves outside would come wash this house away, just like it would in my dreams. "What do you want?"

Seneca grins. "I'd like to walk by the ocean."

"Walk by the ocean?"

He nods. "The train is going back to the Capitol in a few hours. I don't want to waste it cooped inside of a house, if you don't mind," he says.

"And there's nothing else you want?"

"I'd like to have a seashell, I think, to take back home with me," Seneca says. "A fond souvenir of my first trip outside of the Capitol. That is, if you think that'd be sufficient."

"We'll find you a seashell," I say, fighting the urge to collapse with relief. "But you're probably overdressed."

"I suppose I am," Seneca says.

"You can leave your jacket here. Now, come on, I'll show you the beach."

Seneca left behind his vest, tie, and overcoat, and he still looks uncomfortably hot as we walk down the beach. Underneath it all is a purple and silver button down shirt that is tucked into his pants, with the sleeves now rolled up to his elbows. Although he is trying to feign otherwise, he is sweating profusely and is glaring up at the sun when he thinks I'm not looking. But my eyes don't leave him, even when it seems like I'm looking forward. I'm trying to study his demeanor and every move for something, a key trigger to set off his true character. He's played charming and kind. But it surely has to be an act, at least to some capacity; there has to be something more lurking beneath that surface.

As we've walked along the beach, we've made small talk, though, thankfully, due to his discomfort he's been mostly quiet. He keeps adjusting his collar and occasionally eyeing the water. I wonder if he'll have the nerve to just rush into it in an effort to cool off. If I'm lucky, he'd be swept up and carried away. Then again, this man is the single thing standing between me being sold to dozens of people with sick fetishes and interests. I have to wonder if he's not only fully aware of it, but if he also enjoys that measure of power. Gamemakers must have some kind of God complex, one way or another, to be who they are.

"You were right, I overdressed," Seneca says.

I smirk. "Are you enjoying the beach?"

Seneca's face, which has pinkened thanks to the sun, reddens more. "Well...I'm realizing I don't like sand," he says. "It's course and rough and irritating." He looks down at his one finely polished black shoes, now dulled over by sand. "And it gets everywhere, apparently."

"This is why we mostly go barefoot," I say.

"But the sand is so grainy and hot," Seneca says, staring at me with wide eyes.

"We're used to it," I say. "I was running barefoot on this beach when I was a toddler. I've stepped on more sea glass and seashells and even a few urchins than you can imagine."

Seneca looks legitimately impressed by that. "District 4 really breeds tough stock."

"You have to be tough, if you live near something constantly trying to kill you," I say, gesturing towards the ocean.

Seneca laughs.

I laugh, too. The same could be said for the Capitol, honestly. At least the ocean is honest.

"You know, President Snow hasn't made the decision for exclusivity yet, though I think I'm winning him over," Seneca says. "I've promised to build him incredible Arenas in exchange."

That seems a hefty promise to make to the President. One girl, all to himself, for the cost of having to live up to the endless, highly set expectations of an annual game that results in the death of twenty-three children. There have been impressive Games before in the past. Even without having studied the Games, I'd seen them. There was the 62nd Hunger Games, in which Enobaria, of District 2, had ripped out the throats of her fellow Tributes, in an Arena that consisted of a large lake and dense forests. It had been given me nightmares for weeks after watching. The way Enobaria had smiled with flesh between her teeth and her mouth dripping with blood, with a near black forest behind her, had been horrifying. But the Capitol had loved it. The same could be said for the back to back victories of Gloss and Cashmere Royce.

Those Games, among many others, had been memorable. I suppose that my Games had been memorable, too. It's not every year that a Victor loses their arm to a Muttation and then rises up the Victor, especially after a final duel with her brother which resulted in death. It was the sort of thrilling dramatics that the Capitol ate up; this, mingled with the cave that was constantly trying and actively killing its Tributes.

These are high expectations to meet. I certainly feel intimidated to know that these expectations are placed on Seneca himself, for the sake having all-access to me. Once more, I find myself questioning the mind of the mysterious Head Gamemaker and his intentions. He's all pleasantries and smiles, but surely there's something else residing behind his eyes.

"In my experiences, you should be careful with what promises you make and what promises you take," I say.

Seneca shakes his head. "You seem a woman worth fighting for, if you don't mind my saying so."

"That's sweet, but you don't know me."

"I'm starting to," Seneca defends. "You ought to know that my intentions are entirely pure, Ceresea."

"So you asked Snow for exclusivity for purely innocent intentions?" I challenge.

Seneca opens his mouth and promptly closes it, looking all at once defeated. "I won't deny it, you are very beautiful," he says, "and you have a certain edge that is definitely alluring. I wouldn't protest if you were to ever be in my bed. But I don't intend on sleeping with you, not until you want to. If you ever do. I just know certain people in the Capitol with indecent appetites. I'd hate you see you mixed up in that."

So, is this going to be my life, then? If Seneca gets his way and I become exclusively his, we'll just walk leisurely together and just talk? I feel as though a person paying heavily for my company would tire of that simplicity after a while. Based on what Finnick said about Cashmere...I have my concerns.

"Am I the first Victor you've ever pursed?" I ask.

"I've never pursed a Victor before, no," Seneca says, looking considerate. "You aren't the first woman I've ever pursued, though."

"Why are you pursuing me and not them, then? Or are you pursuing both?"

"For now, just you," Seneca says. "Inevitably I'll have to marry a woman from a noble family and carry on my family legacy. My father thinks I should be married sooner rather than later."

"So if you're not buying my presence to sleep with me, what do you want?" I ask, even though I know I shouldn't.

"I enjoy your company. You're pleasant to be around," Seneca says. "After long, long days spent surrounded by fellow Gamemakers and endless planning, it's nice to unwind with someone with similar interests."

"I pride myself on being unpleasant, actually," I say. "It weeds out the undesirables."

"What do you mean by that?" Seneca asks, amused.

"I didn't have many friends growing up and I have fewer friends now," I say. "There are people out there who pretend to be pleasant or who try too hard to please, and, in the end, people leach off of that - especially if it's sincerity. I've never been that person. I've always been me, unabashedly, horribly me."

"I don't find you unpleasant," Seneca says, his tone conveying curiosity. "Am I an undesirable?"

"Everyone is an undesirable to me nowadays," I say. "But that's because I'm jaded."

"You're too young to be jaded," Seneca says.

"I beg to differ. I am the exact age to be jaded. My expectations are so low that nothing in life can fully disappoint me now."

"I know something about you now," Seneca says, laughing. "You're sardonic."

"Sardonic?"

"It means cynical or to grimly mock something."

"I know what sardonic means. I'm not entirely backwater."

"And what do you know about me?" Seneca asks.

"You're presumptuous," I say.

Seneca blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I say. "You showed up on the rooftop at the Tribute Center and in my own house, expecting me to be fine with it both times, and that I wouldn't have walked out or done worse. If you tried that with anyone else, it might have gone poorly."

"What does it say about you that you didn't walk or or do worse?"

"That I am an idiot," I murmur, too quietly for him to hear. Out loud, I say, "It says that I'm vivacious."

Seneca is laughing now, looking less uncomfortable and more at ease. When he smiles widely at me, I smile back. It feels less strained that it had before, in part because I'm in the presence of something that gives me joy and comfort; the waves are singing and the sun feels warm. And, in any case, Seneca hasn't done anything remotely awful yet. His hands have stayed to his person and his eyes have never wandered further down than my neck.

"For the record," Seneca says, "I wanted the Muttation set to stun."

"I'm...what?"

"When you were in the cavern with your brother and the girl from District 1, we were discussing what would be done with the Muttation once it smelled blood. One of the Gamemakers asked if we should have set it to stun or kill, but before I could answer my uncle cut in," Seneca says, looking sincerely melancholic for a moment. "I wonder what would have happened if it had been set to stun instead of kill. You might still have your arm."

"You blame yourself for my arm?"

"Gamemakers aren't supposed to feel guilty or have biases, but, yes, I do feel guilty," he admits.

I can't bring myself to reply. My brow is knitting together and my lips part, as I struggle through my words, and an array of emotions flooding through me.

"It doesn't minimize your beauty," Seneca adds.

I feel a laugh bubbling in my chest. Before I can help it, it's bursting out of me; mirthless and loud, more so than I would like. It slips through me like water through cracks. Good to know that my lack of an arm didn't minimize my beauty. How absolutely, positively wonderful and relieving, because surely that is the highest priority on my mind right now. I try to latch onto myself and stay grounded, but I'm slipping harder than I've slipped before. It's just so funny, so stupidly funny.

Without even thinking about it, I turn from Seneca and go towards the water. It only takes a few strides before I'm knee deep in the lapping waves, the water coiling protectively around me; like a warm embrace. I let it hold me as I stand there. The smell hits me hard, drowning out what I remember from the Games as it hits me all at once. The aroma of blood in my nostrils is staunched by the sea salt. The feeling of being underwater and suffocating is subdued by the sea breeze caressing my face and rustling my hair.

I hear Seneca take a few steps behind me, though he doesn't seem to venture into the water, just to its edge where his fine shoes can't be dampened. Not that I want him in the water with me. District 4 isn't a safe haven anymore. My home isn't safe, either. The ocean, however, is. Seneca stays back because I imagine he fears it. As he should, the ocean deserves to be feared. It is, in it of itself, an apex predator. And I would heartily like it to swallow the Capitol whole.

"I don't care about being beautiful," I say, turning around. "I care that I have to relearn how to use my body. It's like taking my first steps all over again. And it's frustrating...I can't even stand comfortably. Have you ever thought about how important our limbs are to maintain our general balance? You lose one arm and suddenly one side of you is heavier than the other."

"I know President Snow would be delighted to have a synthetic arm made for you. It could help your balance," Seneca offers.

Seneca says this so kindly but all it does is quietly enrage me more. He doesn't get it, does he? It's not the same as replacing an old, broken thing - like when my father will fix broken rods when he fishes, or a time where he had his old eye replaced to get a newer one. It wasn't like cycling through something that is going to be replaced, anyway. My arm was apart of me. It was attached by blood, flesh, and bone, with an array of nerves, muscle, and tissue connecting it all together, and was never meant to be torn off of me. No, torn feels like too gentle of a word. In truth, there is no word or phrasing that can adequately describe the feeling of being twisted in a death roll under pristine clear water suddenly clouded by red, as that thing ripped, with such violence, my arm from my body.

Of course it wouldn't register to the now Head Gamemaker. He is too in his own world welded by the Capitol. The wonderful rose-tinted glass he looks through colors things so beautifully and also sensibly. Certainly he might have recognized the carnage, but I see in his eyes that he doesn't see the loss, but rather the opportunity to fix it. Something inside of me burns angrily at that. I am not something that needs to be fixed, even though I am mortifyingly broken on all accounts. At the very least his gaze is not pitying. I've seen enough of that over the last few weeks. Still, it's vexing.

It's a real shame I can't tell him off. It would be very nice if I could.

"He delightedly made me that offer after I had recovered," I say. "I don't want it."

Seneca seems puzzled by that. His perfectly black sculpted brow furrowing together into a line. "I don't understand," he says.

I figured you wouldn't. "I don't want something fake to replace what was real," I say. The water coils around me and I try to become lost in it all over again; the rich smell, the warmth of it around my legs...far off in the distance, outlined by the sun, I see a ship. I hope it's Finnick. I hope he feels better than I do. I hope, as I stand here lost in the abyss of my own mind, that he's out there lost in the freedom the water provides. I hope he's happy. God, I hope he's -

"I'm sorry. I upset you," Seneca says.

I blink, slowly pulling out of my disassociation. Horror fills me as I stand there, processing what I have done and how Seneca Crane stands behind me, his tone conveying sincerity and yet...fuck. No. I'd upset him. He would be upset. He is upset. And if he's upset and reports back to President Snow about this, who the hell is going to pay the price for it? I'd spoken out of turn and had acted stupidly. I would have no doubt angered him. He'll go back to President Snow...and I'll find my parents dead or Finnick's boat will sink mysteriously out in the water and we'll find his body later, bloated and gnawed on by various sea creatures, and I -

I need to focus. My heart is hammering and everything in me wants to panic. I forcibly make myself think about Finnick's Capitol persona and how easily he falls into it; like falling back into water. If you stay calm instead of thrashing against it, you have a better chance of survival. If a shark sees you, you can't panic. If you panic, you're suddenly its prey. But if you make yourself become still, almost apart of the water itself, the shark will ignore you or view you passively. You're no threat, after all; just a little thing that isn't worth its time. It might even view you as its equal, unless it decides to take a bite out of you. Seneca is a shark, I tell myself as I turn to face him. He's a shark. Now act like it.

I swallow. "No...no, I'm sorry," I say, smiling sheepishly. "I am very sorry. That was...improper of me."

"Don't be sorry," Seneca says, briefly startling me with his gentle smile. "Are you alright?"

"Very," I say. Wear the mask. Be who they want you to be. "It's still early, you know? In my recovery, I mean...my arm...my stub...still hurts and my head was injured during the Games...so...they said it would take a while to fully heal."

"This is why I wanted to wait to see you until after the Victory Tour," Seneca says, sounding relieved. "You poor thing."

Poor thing. Poor thing?! My pride feels wounded and I feel the urge to glare up at him, but I pull myself back down to reality before I can float away someplace else. Do not start thrashing in the water now, Ceresea Rythe. "Poor me," I agree, trying to laugh softly. "I...appreciate your concern, though. It's nice knowing someone cares."

Seneca reaches out and offers me his hand.

I don't want to take it, but I know that he won't meet me in the water - even though I can tell by his gaze that he does want to - he's too afraid of it, and I'm grateful. But I have to meet him on the surface now. I take a few steps out, the water almost trying to pull me back as the tide rolls in. I ignore it and place my hand in his. His hands are smooth, having never known a day of hardened labor in his life. Where callouses reside on my palms and fingertips are void on Seneca's, instead residing silken flesh. He pulls me from the water so that I am now standing in front of him, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand gently. His other hand goes to hold it, as well; a kind gesture, but it's more like a cage in my mind's eye.

But despite the fact that I feel cornered, I manage to smile up at him. I try to play the role of graciousness, maybe even flushed. Whether or not I am good at portraying these things doesn't matter, because Seneca Crane is smiling fondly down at me; seemingly believing all of it. That's all I need out of this. If he can just believe what I am saying is real, that my smiles are real, then that is enough. The little break can be brushed off as a side effect of healing after tremendous wounds; a head injury, plus immeasurable blood loss, and my arm being amputated by a damned Muttation. It's forgivable. It has to be.

"You deserve to be cared for, Ceresea," Seneca says.

I almost laugh hysterically again. I swallow it down. "You're the first person to say that," I say, instead.

"That's a shame," he says. "Could I ask something bold?"

"By all means," I say.

"Could I kiss you?"

I know right away that I can't refuse him. He might seem harmless, and maybe he is, but if he says the wrong thing to President Snow, even well-meaningly, then my family pays for it, as well as those I love. I can't let that happen. Whether I like it or not, I have to agree to it. But with that thought comes another wretched musing that I wish I could snuff out. There's a deep fear inside of me that if I kiss Seneca Crane on this beach, that my memory shall solidify itself here, and I shall always associate the water with the feel of my body being held in the arms of a Head Gamemaker, and our lips pressed together. I want the beach to remain so many other things, but I fear it'll be overshadowed by this one moment.

I could ask him if we could go back to my house, but that alone presents an array of problems. My house has already proven to not be a safe space, given how he had shown up. But if I were to offer him a place there, then the suggestion could sound like an invitation for other things. Kiss me in my home, instead, could convey several unwanted things. Let's go back to the privacy of my home. There nowhere else to go. I know it.

Seneca notices my apprehension and, to my surprise, removes one of his hands from over mine to touch my face. "You don't have to say yes."

Unfortunately, I have to. I think back to the letter President Snow attached to the white roses. "No, I'd like to," I say.

"Is this your first kiss?" Seneca wonders.

I shake my head. "No. No, it's just been a while since I've been kissed," I say, which isn't a lie.

Seneca smiles. "Then I'm honored."

He uses his hand to cover my jaw and tilt my head back a little. When his eyes close as he leans in, I close my own, and brace for it. He keeps his free hand to mine, keeping a gentle grip, while the other still rests upon my jaw. His lips find mine. The first thought I have is how strange it is that his lips are so smooth, like his hands are; not just smooth, but genuinely soft. It doesn't feel right at all, but it doesn't feel awful, either. More so, I'm relieved that he makes no effort to deepen the kiss. His hands don't explore my body, nor does his mouth attempt to pry mine open; he simply stands there, gently holding my hand and gently kissing me.

It doesn't last long, either, but it feels like it does. I try not to compare it to the feel of Finnick's mouth to mine, or how his calloused hands feel against me as opposed to Seneca's soft ones. I can't put Finnick in my head right now; I can't substitute him for Seneca. It doesn't feel right. It feels so violating, even if it's just in the confines of my own mind. Desperately, I push back the image of Finnick smiling at me with his sea-green eyes as his calloused fingers brush over my cheekbone, thumb pulling strands of hair out of my eyes. Rather, I try to focus on the smell of the sea surrounding us. But I feel Seneca smile against my mouth and it forces me back.

He pulls away, looking immeasurably pleased.

I try to smile back.

He doesn't say anything for a while, so I opt to break the silence. "We should get back. Your train should be leaving soon and my shoulder hurts...so I'll be needing to rest," I say.

"Of course. It's best I get back to the train early, anyway," Seneca says, smiling so widely that I think his face is going to break. "I'll escort you back to your house. After all, my coat is still there. Unless you'd like to keep it."

"No...no, you keep it," I say. "Should we find you a seashell before we get back?"

"Hmm. No need," Seneca says. "I this moment was better that a physical souvenir."

My lips are rubbed raw from where I had scrubbed them, in an effort to erase the feeling of Seneca's mouth on mine; significantly softer lips than Finnick's, and smelling discreetly of amber and something floral. I can still smell it now, though I have tried to mask it. I even dunked my face into the ocean, swallowing a disgusting mouthful of sea water, to subdue the smell. In my desperation to mask the feeling of his soft lips against mine, I had rubbed a handful of sand against my mouth, which had done nothing but cause me to spit and to gag.

Kissing Seneca had not been the worst thing. I had certainly had worse kisses in my adolescence, with boys too awkward for their own good, and who had either been too bold or not bold enough.

Seneca had been perfectly fine.

His hands had never strayed further than what was needed in the moment and his lips hadn't parted against mine. He was, by all accounts, a respectable gentleman. I almost resent him more for it.

I can't hate him as boisterously as I wanted to. Despite my expectations, he had not been the monster I had imagined he would be. What I had imagined to be a ruthless creature with ulterior motives seemed to be nothing more than a flustered young man, too committed to his work to have developed experience talking to girls. I believe now that Seneca Crane is not a malicious person. I had had my doubts before, but after our hours spent together I have learned several things. The primary factoid being that, despite being several years my senior, Seneca Crane had youthful aspirations and a view of the world that was overshadowed by my aged, jaded self. I saw myself in him, in many ways; the girl I used to be, rather than the one I am now. He was innocent, in many ways.

Another thing I have learned is that he has some knowledge of the darker side of the Victors. He knew enough to understand my precarious situation if I had been left open to take by any available bidder in the Capitol. He seemed quite proud of himself that he had chosen to save me from such clutches. In a demented way, I ought to be grateful for that. I've seen what this lifestyle can do to a person. I see it in Finnick and in Tilda, more so the former - but I still shudder as I recall Tilda's breakdown the night before the Games. The hysteria in her eyes had been unmatched and the sheer exhaustion lining her face had made her look decades older than she was. There are others, too. Surely it is not just Cashmere Royce who is coveted.

Seneca must surely be aware of all of the Victors' predicaments, in some capacity. He also demonstrated a measure of sympathy in regards to my plight. So, perhaps, he doesn't entirely have a rose-tinted view of the Games as I had imagined, and yet he had talked about President Snow with such respect and dignity.

More so than that...his use of my name. Ceresea. I always hated my name. Ceresea was so posh and formal sounding, it never felt like it fit who I was - who I am, even. My father told me that I was named after his great-grandmother, who had been a remarkable swimmer and who had, allegedly, narrowly avoided the Games by being Volunteered for. Even as a little girl, I would lift my nose and correct any teacher, fellow student, or even pedestrian who dared refer to me by my full name.

Ceres. It's the name I've always preferred.

And then there was the seven year old boy staring smugly at me as he held a fish bigger than mine in his little hands. He had leaned forward with all the confidence he could muster. "I'm a better fisherman, Sea-Sea," little Finnick had said. I had thrown my fish at him, thus losing it to the water; its dead body floating away. My father had been furious at me for being so wasteful. But what was worse was the fact that I hadn't even managed to hit Finnick with it; it was wasted for nothing.

Ceresea. Seneca was always so careful with how he enunciated my name. I'm not sure if it's a matter of respect or if he sincerely likes my name, but it's vexing every time. But I also can't deny, I'm glad he doesn't call me Ceres. That would seem too familiar.

Speaking of familiarity. I turn the solidified pufferfish skeleton over in my hand, as I swing from my porch swing watching the sunset. My brother had been familiar enough with someone that they would give him a token, and that he would feel compelled enough to lie about it. It could be literally anyone. For all I knew, he had a girlfriend at school or he had some friends he never talked about. It could be he had purchased the skeleton for himself and made up the story to feel better about it. After all, his words had conveyed jealousy in the Arena. He said that dad only took me fishing, but Liber always hated it, so why would it have mattered? Maybe he lied about my mom giving him the token because he wanted to make a jab at me. Neither of us have ever been close to our mother. The closest familial bond would have to be between my dad and I, given the fact we've been actively fishing together since I was six years old.

Several times my father had offered Liber a place with us, yet my brother had refused. Sure, maybe dad should have tried harder to get Liber onto the boat or have expressed interest in my brother's hobby - building, Liber had described on that last day - but how could all of that been enough to warrant killing me? He hadn't wanted to kill me for necessity. It wasn't the same as acknowledging the fact that only one of us was going to get out and begrudgingly making the decision to kill me for that very reason. His desire to kill me was violent. Every thrust of his trident and every snarl he expressed, it was abundantly clear that he wanted my blood. It wasn't because he needed to spill it to survive, he just...he wanted me, needed me, dead.

I chose to die for him. He chose to kill me.

I had wanted to live, as I'd admitted to Finnick, for purely selfish reasons. I had wanted Liber to live, too, for selfless reasons. That being said, I think it had been easing choosing to die for someone when I was under the belief that he wanted me to live. Sure, at the end of the day, we both wanted him to be the Victor of District 4 and reunite with our family and be the one standing...but something changed when he made the active decision to kill me. I couldn't even die protecting him or letting him kill me. He had simply decided that my death wasn't coming fast enough and had paired himself with the girl from District 1, who he wound up betraying, anyway.

He had betrayed us all within the same breath, wasting no time or energy.

I shudder, feeling cold all at once as the memory of his figure looming over me rekindles itself.

My own brother wanted me to die - not just die, but seemingly die painfully. Whatever sort of hatred he had towards me was surely buried so deep within him that it had only known blackness, and I pitied him for that. I wish I understood why, so that I could have done something about it sooner. Make amends. I also wish I could so the same for my parents, but it seems that that's out of reach, too. Demetra is significantly warmer than she was as a mother before, which isn't saying much, but my own father still won't look at me fully.

I guess this is it, then. Everyone I have ever loved is pulling themselves away from me, leaving behind an old woman who is helping to take care of a young, very damaged girl and a young man who's infatuated with the idea of a young, very damaged girl.

I sigh, balancing the skeleton between my fingers. Liber had deliberately said that the pufferfish skeleton had been a gift from mom - that she bought it for him, because it reminded her of him. I hadn't thought much of it at the time, for obvious reasons. The detail is so vivid in my brain, because were in the gymnasium of the Tribute Center, working on how to start fires. Then again, my memory hasn't exactly been trustworthy lately, so maybe it's another one of those fake memories that Tilda warned me about when we came home. The pufferfish skeleton is in my hand and my mom made it very clear that she hadn't given it to him. She, in fact, hade made a firm decision not to give either of us Tokens on account of the fear that the sentiment alone would weigh us down.

I can't fault her for that thinking.

I coil my fingers over the tiny skeleton. There must be something buried in my brother's room that can answer this.

Before I can lose my resolve, I push myself into an upright position and move off of my porch. When I turn my head out towards the water, I can see a boat off in the distance. Finnick has anchored his ship and is swimming out to the shore to cook some of the fish he caught. I can see a tightly bound net full of fish at his back. I watch him for a brief moment from my stance well above him. He collects firewood, moving swiftly and yet with a relaxed demeanor. I'm pleased to see it. He is in his element now. Despite everything, I'm glad that he's seemingly content.

Despite everything, I want to go down to that beach and see him. I need to see him. After what happened, I'm still reeling from the whole encounter; from what my expectations had been to what everything had turned out to be. My chest is still tight and my eyes are aching from the long pauses in which I've forgotten to blink; just staring off wide eyed at nothing, vividly imagining every possible horror that could have been. Snow's letter looms in my head. The red envelop has since been buried deep in my trash and his letter is hidden away in my dresser drawer, beside the now empty box where the pufferfish had been. I just want to be by Finnick right now, even if we just sit quietly and reflect on general life things - or how pretty the stars or - or tease him over his unmanageable hair.

In the end, I can't bring Finnick back down to the horrible reality of what's going on around us. He deserves to live in whatever world he's built for himself, at least for now, as he goes back and forth between land and sea. He deserves that peace. I, however, don't have any peace to cling to - not until I have answers, at least. Gripping the pufferfish tightly in my hand, I walk off of my porch and venture towards my parents' house. Against the shadows of dusk, the golden lit windows of their home are like fireflies; warm, inviting, and comforting.

I can only hope that whatever the hell answers reside in my brother's room are promising. And whoever the hell gave him this token to begin with...maybe they can provide insight into my brother's mind. God knows I need the distraction...since I can still smell Seneca's perfume on me.

(a/n): Not going to lie, in my notes I referred to this chapter as the "GETTING TO KNOW YOU, GETTING TO KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU (SENECA/CERES EDITION)". XD I was humming it all the while writing this chapter. My inner theater kid was just blasting all the songs for this chapter. XD But, anyway, this chapter was one I've been looking forward to writing for a minute. ^_^ Writing Seneca and Ceres' interactions was really fun, especially with the eerie atmosphere and general tensions. And ooo-boi, next chapter is gonna be a doozy. Three more chapters left! Dear God. That's so hard to believe. I already have a title and chapter cover made up for the second story! And I have it outlined. ^3^ Basically...I am so freaking excited. Like, I am still so grateful for all of you for sticking with this story! I really mean it. For those who've been reading since the beginning and those who started reading after my resurgence...thank you for your support. I really mean that. Without you guys, I would have lost the will to carry this story one! I am so, so, so grateful for you guys!

Enough sappiness. XD Okay, any thoughts on Seneca and Ceres so far? Any thoughts on how Finnick is gonna react/feel when he finds out about Seneca's appearance? .

Next chapter we will be learning more about Liber, and start to uncover some more mysteries surrounding his token. Stay tuned, lovelies! . 3 .

Review replies

rikiarin: I am actually really glad you caught that! Demetra was deliberately different from what Ceres thinks of her plus what Rheon has talked about - which could be attributed to the idea of an unreliable narrator...or could be some stuff that's gonna come up later on...or both. .3. Haha! Huzzah indeed for poor Seneca. XD I hope that you enjoyed his appearance here! And the shenanigans that arose from it. It was a lot of fun to write and was an emotional roller coaster.

the. apple .seed: God, thank you so much! I was so happy with that chapter so your review made my day! We'll find out who gave Liber that token...eventually. ;) Writing out the scene with Finnick and Ceres was genuinely saddening! I didn't want to write it, because I'm always angsty and sad whenever scenes like that happen in books/movies, but was a necessity. ;_; Keeping each other safe and alive is a high priority, so that means distance. FOR NOW. ;) I hope you enjoyed this chapter and Seneca/Ceres' interaction!