(a/n): *deep inhale*

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

liber's notetaker

My parents keep their backdoor unlocked nowadays. My mom says that it's so I know I have a place to come if the vacant openness of my own house starts to take a toll on me, though, so far, I haven't taken her up on her offer. I haven't been inside of my family's house since I left on that train to the Capitol. What had been my home for the entirety of my eighteen years of living is something entirely different now. The exterior, which had once been so warm and inviting, now feels imposing; its tall shadow looming over me. The windows, perpetually stained and bearing some cracks, are like eyes. They seem to be watching me, regardless of where I go. I want to look at it and reflect on every fond memory I have inside of me. My father playing the guitar for me on our porch swing. Mags teaching me how make fishhooks at our old, rickety kitchen table. My mother and I cracking crustaceans together in the kitchen. This is where Liber and I grew up. Our bedrooms are, according to my mom, still untouched for when I'm ready to go back inside of them. I imagine the doors shut to the rooms, which are now collecting dust; hollow, if not for the memories inside of them.

In truth, I don't know if I am ready to go inside of those rooms. It's been over a month since I got back. Arguably it's still too soon. But after everything that's happened and everything that is going to keep happening, I need to get my head straight. Liber is still prominent in my nightmares. In my dreams, he always betrays me. Sometimes he looks guilty about it, other times he looks pleased, and...other times it's me standing over him as he is burrowed in the water, being twisted around by the Muttation. The token he had taken with him into the Arena had not been gifted to him by our mom. Someone else had given it to him, surely. And maybe I can find the answer for that in his room. I don't know what it would be, but it should be there.

Besides, Seneca Crane's perfume seems to linger on me, despite how many times I've washed myself, and I need a distraction.

Demetra and Rheon shouldn't mind my arrival at this hour. It's still technically early, after all. The sun is lowering over the horizon and the sky is darkening second by second, but it's too early for anyone to be in bed. At most, they'll have finished dinner. I climb their porch and approach their door. When I try to twist the knob, I find that the door is locked. This is a little surprising, so I try peering into the windows. The rooms are lit and I can see shadows moving across the wall a room over. Feeling uneasy, I knock as loudly on the door as I can; my fist banging rapidly. But no one comes. I feel my mind clouded by worry as I consider Peacekeepers standing in my parents' house, looming over their bodies. It fills me with an icy sensation.

I glide along the house's edge, peering from window to window like a specter, until I find the window that views into the kitchen. The kitchen in my parents' house is very similar to mine; same layout, same style. But the white paint on the cabinets is chipped from years of use, there are more decorations hung upon the wall, and miscellaneous things along the countertops. As it were now, there is a beheaded fish left unattended on a cutting board, and there are two empty bottles of wine beside it. There's a bowl of cut fruit that's sat out for too long, which has drawn a couple of flies to it; as well as the fish's body. And standing on the other side of the kitchen island are my parents.

The window is closed so I shouldn't be able to hear them talking, yet they're both yelling so loudly that, even though muffled, I can make out their words. As quick as I can, I press my back against the wall beside the window, keeping my ear as close to the window as I'm able to so I can listen in. I know it's wrong. I know I shouldn't be listening in to my parents arguing, but I've never heard them yell like this. It's a pretty rare thing that they squabble together. Usually when they do it's in hushed tones. To hear their voices now, so loud that I can hear them through this barrier, is jarring. I take a deep inhale, even closing my eyes in an effort to heighten my hearing.

I hear my father knock something over, like a table; it clatters against the floor. "So you're blaming me for this?!" he demands.

Demetra makes a shrill noise. "I am so tired of this! Liber is dead! Our son is dead!"

"And you blame me!" Rheon shouts back. "I told you, Demetra! I told you this could happen! You knew what marrying me entailed, what having my children would mean! You did it, anyway!"

"As if my options were spectacular And despite that, when have you ever doubted my loyalty?!" Demetra snaps. "I have always chosen your side! I still do!"

I release a shaky breath, which I'm quick to muffle with my hand. Shock courses through me as I hear these words spoken between my parents, feeling my chest tighten as I try to piece together what the hell is going on. They're undoubtedly talking about me - obviously about Liber - but there's such venom in their voices that I entirely dread the idea that I am a part of this. I hear my mother throw something on the floor; what follows is a shatter of glass that I can only imagine being one of the empty wine bottles. There's an angry yell and a few shouted words exchanged between each other that I try desperately to understand.

There's a thudding in my ears, as well as a small ringing. I just want to push myself off of the house's wall and go back home. I can just lay in bed and pretend that this conversation never happened; just go on believing it was a bad, bad dream. A very bad dream. I have a lot of those, don't I? I can pretend that it's one of those fake memories Tilda told me about. The brain tricking itself into thinking something else, for better or for worse, in order to protect its host. But despite that, I can't bring myself to move away from the wall.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip and slowly pull my hand away, once I'm sure that my breathing is controlled. I listen back in.

Demetra is yelling again, and it sounds like she's sweeping up whatever mess she made. "You've always coddled her, Rheon! Taking her out on the water, day after day! Letting those fantasies of hers carry on!"

"I tried, Dem! I tried! What the hell was I supposed to do?!"

"Tell her the truth! You let her dream on and fantasize about the Games - "

"I seem to recall you did nothing to stop it, either!"

"Enlighten me! Why did it take Finnick Odair being Reaped for her to come down to reality?!" Demetra shouts. "We had our daughter back to her senses! All it took was him! And she still went into the Arena! It's like you wanted her to be in that Arena!"

There's a long lapse of silence and I am tempted to peer through the glass to see my father's reaction to this accusation. I can only imagine his wide eyes, followed by a cold, stoic expression that could turn the ocean itself into ice. But it's too risky to look for myself. They could spot me, then what? It wouldn't exactly be helpful to any of us if I were to suddenly be openly involved in whatever nightmare conversation this was. I clench my fist at my side.

Finally, my father releases an angered growl. "Would you have preferred I'd come back with Liber, Demetra?! Is that it?! Or would you have preferred no child at all?! You have no idea what I did to bring her home!"

"I don't blame you for bringing just her home!" Demetra counters. "But now we have to live with it! All of us!"

"No...no, you just blame me for everything else, then!"

"For our daughter, yes!"

"And what, Demetra, is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you filled her head with fantasies!"

"It doesn't mean anything else?"

There's a pause that carries a weight that's deafening and suffocating. I can practically see the daggers accumulating in my mother's eyes as she takes in my father. I want to peer through the window, if only for a moment, to see what is happening. But all at once there is a deafening sound that causes me to jump. Right by the window something is thrown, on the wall just behind my body; something made of glass shatters everywhere. I suck in a sharp breath, feeling myself become rattled.

"Throwing things won't make a difference," my father loudly says.

Demetra must be close to the window now because I can almost her hear her scoff. "It makes me feel better," she growls. "How dare you assume that's what I meant, Rheon. You don't know anything. At least I am trying. You can barely even look at her."

"It's not because of - "

"He was here! The Gamemaker was here!"

"We knew that he could - "

My father's voice cuts off. I'm not sure if my mother does anything, but suddenly there's a silence that lasts far longer than the one before, and then I'm sitting tensely against the house, waiting for something. The something never comes. Slowly, I release a breath. Through the wall, I can hear the sound of thudding footsteps and someone putting furniture back. I can even make out the sound of glass being swept up, as quiet as it is. As I am about to push myself off of the wall and slide away, the window suddenly opens. My heart leaps straight into my throat and I'm quick to cup my hand over my mouth and nose to muffle my breathing. My eyes widen into that of saucers.

Did one of them see me? Had I done something obvious? The window protests and makes rickety noises as it is pushed upward. A pair of hands grab ahold of its base and my father leans forward out of it, his face pressing into the cool night. I nearly panic and reveal myself, but then I see it. My father's pale false eye is facing me, meaning that he can't see me. He's staring ahead, breathing in and out slowly, in a practice I recognize as him controlling his rarely stirred anger. He doesn't know I'm here. I consider carefully sliding along the wall and disappearing into the shadows. But my father is still a seasoned Victor and fisherman. If I make the wrong sound, he'll recognize my presence.

I forcibly hold my breath and wait it out.

Rheon stays this way for a short while, just focusing on his calming breaths. He makes a light hissing sound that is almost like a whistle between his teeth. His head hangs low and his shoulders are tense. My father looks to be the epitome of absolute misery. Slowly, one of his hands lift to pinch the bridge of his nose. He mumbles something so low and so incoherent that I don't make it out, but I do hear the sadness residing in his tone. His hand falls back to the window's edge and he slowly pulls himself back into the house. He doesn't close the window, so I can hear him leaving the room. That's my break. I push myself off of the wall and scuttle as quietly as I can away.

I keep close to the wall and almost crawl below windows. I almost hightail it from the house entirely, but I decide against it. I don't want to go back to the house Seneca Crane had been in, acting so calmly and kindly to me as if I had invited him to have tea with me. I know it's safe now. His train left back for the Capitol and I wouldn't be seeing him until after my Victory Tour; whether or not his ownership over me would be claimed by then, I don't know. My thoughts are still muddled and blurred in regards to what transpired when Seneca was here. Being inside my own home won't fix anything. Being here at my parents' won't do much good either, but at least it's better.

I don't plan on knocking on one of the doors again. My parents are both heavily intoxicated, no doubt, and reeling from their fight. The last thing they need is me showing up to ask if I could rummage through Liber's things or even request sleeping in my old room for the night. Instead, I carefully go around the long, winding porch which circles the house until I reach the back porch, overlooking the ocean. I take a seat on my family's old porch swing, which protests to my weight, but I find myself sitting mostly comfortably. I rock back and forth for a little while, fidgeting a little against the evening's chilly air. I should have dressed a little warmer. I've changed into a long sleeved shirt (my left sleeve is knotted and tucked so it doesn't dangle at my side) and a pair of long pants and some boots. It's practical for a chilly night, but not wholly satisfactory.

I bring my knees up and tuck my legs under myself, until I'm forming a ball and resting my head against the back of the swing. For the remainder of the night I sit there in the somber quiet, swinging back and forth. I don't fall asleep, per say. My eyes do close and I do find myself wafting in and out of that state of slumber, but it's never deep. I don't even dream. It's just blackness, then accompanied by the sounds surrounding me; waves on the shore, seagulls above me, and my own breathing patterns.

It's not until there's a subtle redness behind my closed eyes that I accept the fate that I will not be getting any sleep. Dawn is creeping above the horizon now, the sun peering curiously across District 4. The sky is erupted into an array of fine colors, as its deep shade of blue shift into rich oranges and violets and golds. My head is aching and my body is most definitely stiff from my uncomfortable "sleeping" position, so I can't really enjoy it the way I normally would have. Still, through my squinted haze, I do try to appreciate it. The ocean is surprisingly calm this morning, too; not still, never still, but it's tranquil.

I push myself into an upright position, hissing as my back stings with pain, and as my left shoulder protests angrily; sending spurts of pins and needles through my torso. I rub my face with my hand, wondering if I look as awful as I feel. Before I can really ponder it, the front door creaks loudly open, damn near swinging off its hinges with the ferocity of my dad's body pushing through it. He staggers a little. He's wearing a loose grey shirt with a pair of black sleep pants, raking his hand over his oily black curls. He looks exhausted. Dark circles are edged under his eyes and his beard has a scraggly look to it. There's no kind way to say it, my father is very hungover. Grimly, I think back to when Liber and I had been training. He had done everything within his power to avoid us and had drowned everything in a bottle; just vanishing out of himself. I had been so angry with him at the time. Looking back on it, I wonder if I would have done the same. He knew that one or both of his children would die, after all. It's easier to process that horror drunk than sober.

That's an immeasurable burden that I hadn't given proper credit to when everything was happening. Looking at him now, I know that the weight hasn't been lifted off of him. He still carries it. How can he not? He brought back one child from the Arena, who is now thoroughly damaged. Maybe he could stand to look at me if it wasn't so obvious what I was. I lost my arm because of Liber, and Liber is dead because of me. Those two things correlate in such a way that I am a walking, breathing memory of his son's death. It's hard enough for me to look in the mirror sometimes. I can only imagine what it's like for him.

I wonder if I was the primary reason he was drinking his woes away last night, same with my mom, or if I had just been the catalyst or the cherry on top of everything else. As my father rubs his face with both hands, staggering towards the porch rails, I wonder if he'll tell me. He just stands there for a while, groaning into his palm, and mumbling incoherently to himself. It's then I watch as his back arches and he throws up over the rails. I look away at that, listening to him gag and spit.

When he straightens back out, he sighs. He must see me, then, because I hear him take a sharp intake of breath right after. Slowly I look back at him, and our eyes find each other. Well, eye. My father's white false eye isn't in its socket, leaving behind an empty black hole that I seldom have seen plainly. My dad has always been careful about his false eye. He would never remove it in front of us if he could help it. Some days it was so irritating and hurt so much that he had no choice, but we could always tell when it was happening, so we'd either look away or leave the room. Sometimes I was morbidly curious enough to watch, but it always made me sick after.

I don't feel much of anything now. I guess after seeing blood gush out of me, with chunks of flesh hanging like old rags over my exposed bone, I'm a little more desensitized to this sort of horror.

Rheon keeps his gaze to me, then he flicks it briefly towards the door, as if considering just storming back inside. Instead, he seems to accept his own self-defeat. He wipes the corner of his mouth and saunters towards me with an exhausted pace. He sits beside me so that his good eye is facing me, even as he looks forward. His hands fold and twist over his lap, flexing his fingers and curling them into fists and then intertwining them. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. Frankly, neither do I. My arm just hangs over the edge of the porch swing, even though I desperately want to cross my arms over my chest. I can't. Obviously.

Finally, Rheon looks back at me. "Nice little twist."

"What? That I'm on your porch instead of mine?" I offer, yawning.

"You could say that," he says, slowly. "How long have you been out here?"

"A while," I admit, clearing my throat. "I came by last night to talk to you guys, but you were preoccupied."

Rheon grimaces, promptly averting his gaze from me and looking down towards his bare feet. He hunches over, burrowing his face into his clenched hands as he releases a low, frustrated hiss. He rakes a hand through his oily curls again. "How much did you hear?"

"You guys were pretty loud," I say, deciding to casually avoid mentioning how I had been eavesdropping. "I just heard you guys talking about blame."

Rheon straightens. He faces me fully. His jaw is completely tight and there's a gentle ferocity in his one good eye as he looks at me. "None of what happened is your fault, you need to know that. Neither of us blame you," he says, so firmly that I almost wince. "What your mother and I said...we were just angry at each other, and a little drunk. We're parents grieving. It doesn't involve you."

"Unfortunately, dad, it does," I say.

He shakes his head. "The Capitol killed him," he cuts off. "It wasn't you."

"I poisoned him, dad," I say. He opens his mouth to retort something, but stops and closes it instead. We both know there's no disputing that fact, as miserable as it is. "I didn't mean to, but I did."

My father sighs audibly, the firmness in his face dissolving as he hunches back over himself; a defeated man. It's a shame that this is the first real conversation I have had with my dad since I returned from the Games, but it's one that's sadly very necessary. The rage inside of him, whether or not it's directed fully at me, needs to be addressed; for both of our sakes, particularly after what I overheard. I've never seen my mother and father argue like that before. The venom in their words was so ferocious and their demeanors were so angry and tense, I felt as if they were going to pounce on each other. They would tear each other apart, until they were flesh and bone and a pile of blood.

It's heartbreaking to know that all of that rage and anger stemmed because of me. "Dad, what did you do to bring me home?"

Rheon sighs against his hands. "You heard that," he says, miserably.

"You guys were yelling pretty loudly," I repeat.

He presses one hand against his mouth and the other hangs limply over his legs. "I did a lot of things to bring you back home," he says.

I don't want to ask it, but I feel like I have to. It tastes like acid in my mouth so I spit it out as quickly as I can. "Did you sell yourself for me?"

Rheon shakes his head. "I've never...no, no, Ceres. It's never been like that."

There's no relief inside of me to that response, because I know that there are more terrible things my father faced in his effort to protect Liber and I. Liber and I. My mom had used me directly in that phrasing, which is now sitting poorly with me. Maybe she was being angry and saying more hurtful things for the sake of being hurtful, but I refuse to believe my father would prioritize me over my own brother. So, licking my dry lips, I manage out my following words through a clenched throat. "When mom says you did everything to bring me home, she meant Liber, too, right?"

My father looks at me with an unreadable expression, as I stare back at him with desperation in my eyes. Our gazes remain locked for a short time before he looks away. I don't see what's on his face, though I can imagine hundreds of things as he conceals himself from me. More and more, horror is trickling into my system and through my heart; it fuels me. I don't want to believe it. He isn't replying. He needs to reply. Why isn't he saying anything? As I am about to leap to my feet, sprung by the crushing weight of my own thoughts, my father finally straightens and looks at me. His expression is more composed now, though there is grief residing in his wrinkled forehead and in the tightness of his jaw.

"I fought tooth and claw for you both," he says, heavily, "until the end."

The horror inside of me slowly fades out. This time I manage a low sound of relief. I realize that my nails are digging into my palm so I carefully uncoil my fingers and flex them. "It must've been hard for you, watching that," I say, softly.

"It must've been hard living it, Ceres." Rheon reaches out and gently cups my cheek, thumb brushing just below my eye. "I'm sorry."

I sniff a little, dreading the stinging sensation behind my eyes. I roll my eyes, staring up at the ceiling above us; wood panels painted white that have long since crusted over, unveiling the light brown chips beneath. When I'm certain no tears are going to betray me, I bring my gaze back down. By then, my father has withdrawn his hand from me, but there's still guilt in his eyes.

"So...the Head Gamemaker came by," Rheon says.

I take in a sharp breath. "Don't."

"Are you okay?" my dad asks, carefully.

I meet his gaze coolly. "Dad. I said don't," I say. "I'm fine. Seneca Crane never even touched me. He wanted a tour of the beach and that was that." Before my dad has a chance to pry any further, I quickly change the subject. "I want to go through Liber's things, up in his room. Maybe there's something in there about that damned pufferfish."

"Language."

"I killed people, dad. I killed people younger than me, and I had my arm torn off by a crocodile. I think I've earned the right to swear."

"I can't argue with that logic," Rheon says. "But, Ceres, why do you need answers about Liber?"

"Why don't you?" I ask, brow furrowing. "Don't you want to know who gave your son a token?"

"If I dwelled on everything I ever wanted to know, I'd have walked into the sea by now," Rheon says. "Your brother wasn't the person I thought he was."

"That's putting it lightly. But maybe this person can give us some answers about who he really was."

"Did you consider he bought the pufferfish himself?"

"Then that's an answer, too," I say.

"It just feels too soon," he says.

"Too soon for you, dad." I rake my own hand through my hair. "Dad, in a few months I'm going back to the Capitol for the Victory Tour, and I'll have to give my answer to Snow by then. You know what it's about and what I'm going to say. When I go back there, to the place where Liber and I had last been together, I want answers. I need them. Preferably sooner rather than later, so I'm not dwelling on more than one thing."

Rheon doesn't reply.

"Is there a specific reason you don't want me in his room?"

"We've already gone through it. We did that last night, in fact...hence the drinking," Rheon says, a little sheepishly. "There's not much in there that could indicate who this person was." He sighs deeply. "Opening the door made it real and going through his things made it realer. There's no reason for you to go up there."

I'm a little mad that my parents had gone through my brother's things without me, particularly when Demetra had made such a big deal out of both of our rooms being untouched. My eyes slowly narrow in on my father, though he doesn't seem to notice. His gaze is fixated elsewhere far beyond me, in his own little world that must be like what I slip into sometimes. "I'm going to check it out, anyway," I say. "At the very least, to grieve."

Rheon shakes his head and mumbles something about how stupidly stubborn I am. "Fine. You can go into his room," he says. "Just try to be quiet. Your mother's asleep."

"Hungover, right?"

He rubs his brow, nodding. "Both of us."

I reach out and squeeze my father's shoulder, which he nods a little to. I then push myself to my feet, the fatigue of being up all night more or less hitting me, and I walk with as much forward motion as I'm able to towards the ajar front door. I press my hand against its frame, sparing a glance to my father as he leans back and idly swings himself back and forth in slow motion. "Dad, could you do me a favor?"

"Depends on the favor."

"If you're going to sit out on my porch all night, could you at least play the guitar?"

"The guitar?" he says, brow raising. "I didn't think you liked my guitar."

"You're not very good at it," I say. "But I like listening to you play. And it might help me sleep."

Rheon nods, sniffing. "Yeah...yeah, I can play for you."

I step through the threshold of my parent's house, then. Everything is so similar to my house, except the obvious. This house is so old and so worn, with its furniture just slightly out of place, its wallpaper and wooden planks long since chipped, and the floor creaks endlessly from years of use. The staircase that meets me at the front is also as old, with a few broken parts along the stairs themselves. The family pictures along the wall remain, including my young-faced father beside my equally young-faced mother holding a baby picture of me. Liber's portraits are still up, as well; little toddler him holding a starfish, then twelve year old him holding a trident for the first time. I avert my gaze as quick as I can before I lose my nerve.

Mindful of my steps, I carefully climb the stairs leading towards the second floor, where my brother and I's bedrooms were. I could walk the layout of this house blindfolded, which works well for me as I am sleep-deprived but also actively trying to avoid the sentimental photos along the wall, and the seashells Liber and I would collect as children. My mother and father would either hang them up, depending on size, or keep them in little glass jars throughout the house. They're everywhere.

When I do reach my brother's room, I notice that there is light creeping through its lower crack. The sun is steadily rising. I stand outside that door for a short while, trying to muster enough courage and nerve. With a sharp intake of breath, I grab ahold of the knob and twist it, and suddenly, with a firm step forward, I'm in the doorway of my brother's room; staring at it as if seeing it for the first time. The walls of my brother's bedroom are painted a greyish-green. The window right across from me, overlooking the sunrise over the ocean, is lined by deep blue curtains that are pulled back, allowing the light to trickle in. On my left against the wall resides my brother's bed, with a large wooden frame, and the blankets are untouched. The blankets in question are a shadow of blue, with a golden quilt thrown over its end. His pillows are clumsily laid out. And there's a small dent at the end of the bed, where one of my parents must have sat.

His side table is the same wood as his bedframe, a circular shape that hosts a large lamp, as well as various rocks that he must have gathered from the beach. Across the bed, on the other wall, rests a large black dresser. Resting on top of it are piles of notebooks and pencils, as well as a couple of pictures of our family, and a large mirror that had a crack on its right side. There are shelves along the wall containing little fishhooks that Mags would make for him, as well as a few different types of books, and a couple of fishing knives that Rheon had bought for him over the years. They're still in their sheaths, untouched.

The entirety of the room has collected dust, save for a few spots atop furniture where my parents must have rummaged through.

I push myself into the room, padding across the wooden floor. I sit on his bed for a while, simply reflecting on the dust coated space as the morning sun trickles through the window, accentuating every imperfect detail of what had been my brother's space. I had been in my brother's room before, though I had never paid much attention to it. The first thing I gather of it is just how simplistic it was. It was a quiet space that lacked details, but it had been entirely his. This was where he had slept and where he would hang out when he wasn't out of the house - doing whatever it was he did.

I swallow. I'm sorry, Liber.

I push myself back to my feet and move towards the dresser. The dresser is curious. It has a couple of pictures of the family, as well as a couple of rough sketches of dad's boat neatly folded. The surface of the old, worn dresser is covered in dust, except for a section on its right side; two large square like shapes standing out against the dust in question. I eye it for a moment. The picture frames are too small to have made those marks, and, even if they were the right size, I don't think it would have made sense for them to have been face down. (Then again, with Liber, who is to say what makes sense and what doesn't? He did plunge a trident through Lamia's neck, and then left me to die with a crocodile.)

Carefully kneeling down, I check underneath the dress and run my land along its back, to check to see if anything had fallen underneath. Aside from a dirty shirt stuck beneath the dresser, as well as some seashells that had become lost beneath it, there isn't anything. I wander the length of the room quietly, padding across the creaky wooden floors. I rummage through drawers which contain art supplies, such as colored pencils and papers, but also drawers containing old clothes and even some fishhooks that Mags had given him when he was little. Just as she had helped me learn how to make fishhooks, she had also helped Liber.

It's like what my dad said. There isn't anything revealing about Liber's room. It's just a plain boy's bedroom, that was left behind moderately clean (save for a few articles of clothing tucked into various corners), and nothing more. Still, it doesn't feel right to leave the room like this. I check every drawer again and rummage through his closet, where his coats were hung up, along with his shoes laid sloppily on the floor. The inclination to just give up is extremely strong. I approach his bed again to sit down, admit defeat, when I hear something creak hollowly beneath my foot. I instantly stiffen, hyper-aware that my mom is still asleep, and of Rheon's words to stay quiet. But after a small pause has passed of silence, I lower my gaze to a wooden floorboard beneath my foot. I lift my foot again and then press down; it makes a creaking noise unlike the others.

My chest now pounding, I carefully bring myself to my knees and knock gently on the wood. Hollow. That is promising. I try to dig my nails into the wood to pry it off, but it won't budge. As quietly as I can, I go to one of the shelves containing knives, and take one. It's fairly thin, meant to scale delicate fish, but its thinner, daintier blade might be able to squeeze through the cracks. Back on my knees beside the wooden plank, I awkwardly hold the knife and start to press it down into the widest crack that I can find. It takes a little prodding, but I manage to slip it through. From there, I carefully twist the knife. The floorboard protests and makes a couple of noises too loud for my liking, causing me to pause and wait for the sound of my mother waking up.

Then I twist the knife a certain way and the floor board pops up. I quickly raise it up. There's a tight, spiderweb coated, dust filled space beneath the floorboard. A large black spider visibly startles to my presence and scuttles off into the shadows. I shudder at the sight of it, but a little spider isn't exactly frightening to me nowadays - not after what I've faced. Instead, I bring my attentions to what is covered in dust. There's a large leather bound notebook carefully tucked into the space. It's almost too big and has quite obviously been pressed inside of it, since the corners of the book are bent and have visible damage. But it has instantly piqued my interest.

Right away I can tell the book is too large to have been on the dresser, but it's general shape is similar. Carefully as I can, I grab ahold of the book's edge and pry it out. I brush cobwebs and dust off of its surface and set it aside on the floor. The book mostly contains drawings - surprising good drawings, at that - of various types of fish, the sunsets and sunrises, and a few outlines of some ships. There are a couple of written notes on there, as well, such as describing the particular fish or boat that it was, as well as adding in a date. The drawings most certainly aren't good, but it warms my heart a little to know that this is what Liber would do in his free time. I flip through page after page. It also contains drawings, though this time mostly of ships themselves, with little notes of each detail and its purpose. Such as the purpose of a mast, the hull, and the stern, to put shortly.

Then, in another section of the book, I find ships of his own design, with similar noting and detailing. He writes little notes for himself, wondering if certain types of wood would make for a better build. The ships themselves are of interesting designs, some of which being built with roofs and large spaces below deck, with others being build with narrower noses, no doubt for speed. On on particular page, there resides a note written in smudged ink, which is different from the messy pencil my brother had worked with.

Not enough support. Use different wood, says one of the notes to my brother. Beneath it, Liber has bullet points, which include a list of substitute wood planks he could use, as well as certain styles for the masts and material to use. I flip through the pages, regarding note after note and my brother's replying bullet points, in search of something that could clue into this mysterious person. I do find notes, few as they are. Whoever Liber's friend is, they reply in short. Change this or this is adequate or, simply, better. They are constructive notes that are composed in a tight, almost sharp, handwriting that lacks flourish. I don't recognize it. On the final page, I find something interesting. Upon two pieces of papers, various little lines are drawn; squiggly things that twist and turn, with little indents in certain parts of the parchment, and a few crude drawings in between. There is a square that has H written above it, connected to the squiggly lines.

It didn't look like nonsense, but it didn't look like much sense, either.

Before I have a chance to really think about this, I hear footsteps approach from down the hallway. Sucking in a breath, I take Liber's book and shove it under his bed, and I put the plank back into place. The knife in question I also kick under the bed, since I don't have enough time to get myself back up and to rush to the shelf. So when my mom rounds the corner and peers into Liber's room, she finds me sitting on the floor, no doubt looking frazzled. To my credit, she also looks like absolute hell. Her long wavy dark hair is bedridden and messy; twice its usual size, all frizzy. It's framing a pale face with dark circles and bloodshot blue eyes. She looks like she's aged over a decade overnight. There are huge, welting backs under her eyes, and her face looks sunken in. She's paler than usual, too. In short, she looks like absolute hell. She's wearing a black shirt and pants. As she stands in my brother's doorway, it's as if she's looking right through me. I don't exist for a fraction of a second as she's regarding my brother's space through squinted eyes. Finally, her gaze levels to me and she looks a little taken aback, as if I just manifested.

Demetra aggressively rubs at her eyes and then looks at me, blinks rapidly, and then straightens. "Why are you on the floor?" she asks, in a heavy voice.

"Dad let me in," I say. "Did I wake you up?"

"The damn sun did," Demetra mutters. "Why are you here?"

"I just wanted to get out of the house," I admit.

Demetra shakes her head, groaning when the sunlight trickles over her face from my brother's window. She raises her arm to cover herself. She steps across the threshold of Liber's room and settles into a semi-shadowy corner, where the sun doesn't pierce at her vision. Slowly, her bloodshot eyes take in the dusty room, and melancholy settles in her gaze despite herself. "Did your dad tell you we've already been through here?"

I nod. "Yeah, he did. Did you find anything interesting?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing to note."

I think about that square shape in the dust, where something had recently been; a large square shape, similar to that of the notebook I had pulled out of the floorboard. I wonder if there are others like it, with the same type of content. Then again, why would Liber hide this particular book and then keep the rest out? Maybe he foresaw that he was going to die and had a couple of secrets in the book in question, but why keep the others out, too? They may not even be notebooks, too...but it's the only theory I have.

"I haven't, either," I lie.

My mom doesn't seem to process my words right away. She's looking across Liber's room with hazy eyes, as if it had only just appeared in this house. Her arms cross tightly over her torso. "Nothing about your pufferfish?" she asks me, quietly.

I shake my head. "No. I'm starting to think he bought it for himself."

"That's the same theory your dad has," Demetra says. "So...how long have you been here?"

"Not long," I say.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I guess you could say that," I say.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Demetra says.

I shake my head. "If it's about Seneca coming, no," I say. "He didn't try anything with me, mom. He just showed up and brought me some flowers from President Snow. And Liber's token." I decide to ignore that Snow had also sent me the spear I had used to kill Liber. "And he wanted to see the ocean, too."

Demetra sighs, rubbing her eyes again. "If you need to talk..." she yawns. "I need tea. Do you want breakfast?"

"You don't have to feed me, mom," I say. "I'm going to go back to Mags, I think. She's probably wondering where the hell I am."

"No doubt she is," Demetra murmurs.

My mother doesn't even seem to wholly process my words. It would seem that both of my parents were entirely decked by the amount of alcohol they had consumed the night before. I listen with strained ears as my mom staggers through the hallway and then down the stairs. I can hear her making some noise in the kitchen and, outside of Liber's window, I hear my dad attempting to play something on the guitar from the porch. Now is my chance. I reach under the bed and grab Liber's book. I tuck it carefully under my arm and rush out. I call a quick farewell to my mother, who is currently downing orange juice in an attempt to quench her hangover, and my dad only cups his head as I say goodbye. I leave out the door as quickly as possible, making a beeline straight to my house.

When I get back home, the house is empty. I call out for Mags and peer into a few rooms before I find a note written on the kitchen table. Off to the market, dear, it reads. This doesn't really come as a surprise. Mags often goes off to the market early in the morning, so that she can get the finest fruits and vegetables available. She's picky when it comes to cooking - only the finest, ripest materials used, nothing less. I've tried going with her, just to get out of the house, but it's still weird having people stare at me. Their whispers just echo in my ear; judgmental, sympathetic, and disgusted. They pity me for my arm - the poor Victor's daughter - and yet a small handful regard me with disdain for having killed my own brother. They are in the minority, but their voices always feel the loudest.

I set Liber's book down on the table. My arm is cramped from how tightly I had held the book to me, which is a little undignified. It's annoying that, a mere few months ago, I had been out swimming in the ocean and diving deep to explore corals, and now I can barely hold a modestly sized book under my arm. There are a hundred things I'd like to do right now...so the first one I decide to do is scream. The walls are dense enough that I know no one would hear me if they weren't pressed directly against the wall and close to a window - like I had been hours prior - so I just scream freely until my voice is too hoarse and I'm gasping for air. It doesn't give me any relief. It only makes me feel lightheaded, which makes sense, given the fact I had been up all night, just barely lulling in and out of sleep on my parents' porch swing. And having had to listen to my parents go at each others' throats for God knows what and have to play dumb.

I'm too angry to fall asleep now, though. Rather, I take my book into the parlor, where I had rearranged the furniture to try to erase the encounter with Seneca Crane out of my mind. I take a seat upon a divan beside a tall lamp, and look through Liber's various designs and notes.

He had a creative mind, that was for certain. There are countless different types of designs for boats in his notes. Some of which are incredibly large and others are quite tiny. One boat is even covered over all the way, which I find a little odd, but has windows along its edges. Submerged is a word written beside it. The mystery notetaker has a note written beside it, which reads: Impossible. I continue to flip through the pages, trying to make sense of the notetaker's aids. It's simply constructive criticism, short and simple.

I try to make sense of it all, even as I'm still reeling from that encounter with my parents. I'm trying to make sense of not just my brother's designs and whoever the hell the notetaker is but also to my parent's argument. Never in all my years had I ever seen them fight so viciously like that. I'd never seen them hungover like that before, either; so it was just a night full of new experiences.

Flipping through the pages, which have started to blur, I wonder why the hell my family is the way it is. It's not just Liber with secrets, it seems.

I don't have much time to reflect on this. One second I'm staring down at the blurring pages of my brother's book, and the next I'm waking up laying on my side, and my arm hanging limply off of the chair. It takes a second for me to realize where I am and what happened. With a thudding headache, I realize, a little irritably, that I had fallen asleep. My brother's book is on the ground, just beneath my fingertips. The sun has started to dip down from the sky, leaving it a deep indigo color, with a few orange and lavender hues just off over the horizon. One of the blankets that Mags brought with her from her old house is draped over it; it smells like her, like the sea and like those little herbs she keeps on windowsills, to season food with.

With a small groan, I push myself up. Another room over, in the kitchen, I can hear the sound of gentle footsteps padding across the tile floor, and then there's a sweet aroma flooding my senses. It smells sweet like honey, with some type of spice. I rub at my eyes and try to gather my wits, feeling a little flustered that I had fallen asleep. I wonder when the hell it happened. I knew that my vision had started to give way, with my head lolling off to the side, and my body slowly going limp, but I hadn't expected it to be so sharp and abrupt.

There's a little reprieve from my earlier headache, though. There's still an ache residing between my eyes, thudding just behind my eyes, but I feel better. I feel less drained and loopy; certainly not great, but not terrible, either. I pull the blanket off of my body and carefully throw my legs over the divan's edge. My bare feet touch the ground - did Mags take off my shoes when I slept or had I taken those off?

I push myself up and pad into the kitchen. Mags is there, wearing a light blue sundress with an old brown apron over it. Her frizzly grey hair is pulled back out of her wrinkled heart shaped face with a scarf. She's humming to herself as she floats around the kitchen, putting some rosemary into a pan, where she stirs up something sweet smelling; a fine aroma that makes me almost smile. Mags loves to cook, which is beneficial since I'm no good at it. I've always been better at catching our dinners versus cooking them - though I had helped my mom in the kitchen before. I haven't exactly caught much in the last few weeks, though. Slowly I'm relearning how to hold my spear, but I haven't had the luxury of impaling anything yet.

For now, Mags gets our food from local fishmongers - and probably from Finnick, too, come to think of it. She does go down to the beach to check up on him from time to time, so I imagine that he provides her some fish, too. Knowing him, he saves her the fattest, most beautiful fish.

"Hey, Mags," I say.

Mags turns around, smiling at me. "Hello, sleepyhead," she says. "I hope you don't mind I didn't wake you. You just looked so tired, and you were out all night..."

"Sorry about that," I say. "I slept over at my parents."

"Did you, now?"

My lip twitches. "I slept on their porch swing," I admit. "And, truth be told, slept is generous."

Mags casts me a chastising look as she stirs what look to be little cut up chunks of fish. "You're a stubborn thing," she says, setting the wooden spoon aside. She takes her free hand and rubs her wrist.

"You okay?" I ask, frowning.

"Arthritis," Mags sighs.

"Let me." I step further into the kitchen and stand in front of the stove. I take the wooden spoon and start to stir up the little white chunk of fish, in what I can only describe as a honey, lemony syrup that smells absolutely incredible. My stomach, having not been fed for a whole day, is roaring at me now. "What is it?"

"It's white fish with rosemary, lemon, honey, and capers," Mags says. "I'm cutting potatoes, as well. And honeying some carrots."

"It's a lot of fish," I note, as I stir.

"Yes, well, I'm going to be bringing out a plate to Finnick. I know he's anchored close for the night, so I was hoping to coax him to the shore to have some real food. The boy has been eating nothing but seaweed, fish, and barnacles," Mags says, huffing.

I would almost laugh if I still weren't deeply hurt by the fact that Finnick left the mainland to take his boat out on the water. Make no mistake, I understand why he did it. He's cornered, the same way I am. I don't know if Finnick loves me or not, but I do know that he cares about me. It has to be awful to watch someone you care about go through what I did, then be sold off within a few months...to a Head Gamemaker, if he has it his way. Well, either way I'll be sold to Seneca Crane. The difference is whether or not I'll have a list of clients, as well. Finnick says it's not the life he ever wanted for me, and I would agree. I definitely never aspired to be a sex slave.

When I had dreamed of the Games, the fantasy - as my mom put it to my dad - had been so simple. I would win the Games and my name would be remembered for generations. Ceresea Rythe, the famous Ceresea Rythe, who had won the Games at a young age, and who had overshadowed her peers, and who skyrocketed in popularity. I wanted to win for vanity purposes, never once wondering what happened after winning. Sure, I daydreamed about my Interview with Caesar Flickerman, as well as being crowned by President Snow, but what came after? I never bothered to consider it. The daydream would just loop itself back to the beginning, when I would Volunteer, and be seen as a hero - a marvelous Tribute who could do no wrong. I would have a score of twelve and everyone would love me.

Seeing Finnick win the Games and watching him continue to play taught me otherwise. Now I'm in the same game as he is, and the stakes are so much higher than my own life.

As badly as it hurts that Finnick just left, I can't blame him. I had struggled to look at him when he first returned from the Games, watching what he went through, and Neleus having just died. That was in part due to the fact that my dad kept us actively apart, but I could've tried harder to see him. I think, at the time, I wasn't ready to accept the brutal reality that my daydream was, in reality, a nightmare.

I set the wooden spoon aside, watching the syrup sizzle and crackle around the fish.

"Unless you'd like to bring it to him," Mags suggests.

I shake my head. "I'm the last person Finn wants to see right now."

"I think you would be surprised," Mags says. "Need I remind you he offered you a place on the ship?"

"To be courteous," I say, wondering if Mags and Finnick talked about our encounter on the beach; when Finnick ended something that never even fully began.

"Courteous. Hmm," Mags sighs. "Did things go alright with Seneca?"

This topic change is almost as unpleasant as what came before. "As well as could be expected. Nothing awful happened," I sigh. "But...I don't know how Finnick does it, just slipping in and out of his role so effortlessly. The whole time, it felt like my mask was slipping, and I just worried about everyone. If my mask fully slips off, Seneca could tell Snow. And then...everyone I love pays for it."

Mags shakes her head. "I know it feels that way. It always does in situations like these," she says. "Every time Finnick gets a new bad client, I find ways to blame myself - as does Tilda, even Ren. And the same goes for Finnick when Tilda gets a new, awful client. He blames himself. We always blame ourselves when something bad happens to people we love, Ceres. But it's not your fault."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Mas, but it would be," I say. "My actions would have consequences."

Her eyes close and she takes in a deep breath. "That's not it, I promise you," she says. "It's the Capitol. It's Snow."

"I don't disagree. Snow is doing this," I say. "But I had to kiss Seneca on the beach. So..."

Mags is quiet for a moment, just staring at me. I lean against the counter, continuing to watch the fish sizzle in the syrup, which has started to pop in these little, sweet smelling bursts.

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be. He didn't force himself on me and the kiss was actually chaste," I say. "But I can still smell the amber perfume on me. And I can still...feel his arms..." I clench my fist over the counter, as well as my jaw. "He even told me I didn't have to kiss him...but I was so afraid that he'd tell Snow, even innocently, and I couldn't risk that."

"So that's why you went to your parents' house?" Mags asks. When I don't reply, she sighs. "Not that I'm nosy, but I overheard your parents arguing."

"It was about Liber," I say, tensely. "Liber told me that my mom gave him this pufferfish skeleton as a token, but that was a lie." With a deep breath, I proceed to tell Mags about my parents' argument, how my mom and dad had played the blame game against each other - dragging my name into it - and then about Liber's room. I mentioned the little patches amidst the dust, as well as the book I found beneath the floorboard; which my parents were quite unaware of, it seems. Mags listens on with wide eyes, taking in every word.

When I conclude, she nods. "Notes, you said?"

"Yeah, notes," I say. "This person would critique Liber's drawings and ideas."

"Sounds intimate," Mags hums. "Would you mind if I saw?"

I leave the kitchen and retrieve the book from out of the parlor. I flip to a page until I find a rather harshly critical note on one of the submerged boat designs my brother had made; its sharpened handwriting with a blank pen almost looking impatient and irritated. I hand the book to Mags, who looks over it with a raised brow. She looks across the pages for a moment, seemingly impressed by Liber's design, before leveling her gaze to the handwriting. Her grey brows furrow together into a bushy line. Her tongue peaks out of her wrinkled lips.

She makes a soft clucking sound. "Your parents don't know you have this?"

"They don't," I say. "I figured if they took other things of his, then they'd take this, too."

"You'd be right," Mags says. "I know who wrote those notes."

At once, my eyes widen, and my heart skips a little beat. Finally! Some good fucking news! Despite myself, I smile widely, and set the book down on the counter so I can turn fully to face Mags. Although we aren't too far apart in height, I feel like I'm towering over her now; a relieved smile on my face and every part of me just wanting to grab ahold of her and hug her and thank her for the fact I am finally going to have answers. I keep my arm to my side, though. "That's great," I say, breathily. "Who wrote them?"

Mags' lifts her brow at me. There's a small gleam of sadness in her eyes as she takes me in, which almost instantly deflated my merry mood. "I met him a few times," she says. "He used to own a shop in town before he retired."

Him, okay. The person Mags is talking about is a guy - that narrows it down...just barely. District 4 is huge. "Okay, great," I say. "Who is he?"

Mags doesn't reply. She simply starts cutting up long sticks of carrots. I stare at her in disbelief, waiting for far too long for a reply, but I'm only met with silence. My smile falls.

"Liber has this journal, which has notes from a person you know. I want to find them and talk about Liber," I say. "They might not even be the person Liber was talking to, but at least it scratches off one name off the list. But it has to be him, right? It's the closest thing that sense."

A disapproving look flashes across Mags' features. "You're trying to make sense of the unimaginable," she says. "Sometimes people do things that don't make sense."

"I guess I want to know who Liber was," I say, feeling my temper rise. "I don't know if he changed in the Arena or if he was always like that. If he really did hate me. But if you just tell me who this person is, I can - "

Mags brushes her tongue over her lips. "I've met plenty of hateful people before," she cuts off. "I have lived a long time, sweet girl. Every year, I watch children die, and I watch people cheer. I've seen tears, too, but more often cheers. And then there are clients. I've been lucky. I was never privy to be sold - it all came after my time - but I have seen what those clients are capable of. They use Victors to let out their aggressions. They vent their furies verbally or take it out physically, and the Victors take it because they have no choice. They smile and bear it, and I am powerless to do anything to stop it. But we try not to let it pull us down. I'm sorry, Ceres. But you're letting Liber pull you down. Going after this person who your brother knew may not be the catharsis you think it is. What are you even going to ask him? Why'd you give my brother a token? What comes after that?"

"Peace, Mags. Maybe I can finally rest."

Mags makes a low sound beneath her breath. "I know you're stubborn. You're going to shrug me off and do what you feel compelled to, because you are, for all intents and purposes, still a child."

"I think I stopped being a kid in that Arena," I say.

"A child was forced to do unspeakable things to survive, but it doesn't change that they're still a kid. When I was in the Games, I had to cut open someone's throat because they were trying to scalp me. I still don't like cutting my hair. Having any type of sharp thing so close to my head makes me uncomfortable now, and all that happened years ago. But I have to cut my hair, so I move passed it," she says. "Ceres, if I tried to make sense of my Games and the Tributes in it, I'd never sleep."

"What do you suggest I do, then?"

"Let it go," Mags says. "Let him go. Bury those books of his for a while. If you go off chasing your tail trying to figure out who your brother was, if he was that way because of somebody else or just because that was honestly him, you're going to lose yourself. And once you start losing those parts of yourself, you might find them again, but you'll never be fully complete. Then you start filling those empty spots with things you never wanted for yourself. Haymitch Abernathy didn't stark off as a drunk, you know. And I've had my own vices. When I was around your age, I indulged in morphling to get through my days. It didn't help. It just made me feel heavier than I already was."

"If I let Liber go, what kind of sister does that make me?"

Mags offers me a sad smile. "It doesn't make you anything," she says. "But it can help you float back to the surface for air, instead of trying to carry deadweight up with you. You're a smart, strong young lady. What happens if you're caught in a riptide?"

"You swim parallel," I say.

"Right. It takes longer to get to shore, but it's the safest way back," she says. "Sometimes it's like that. You exhaust yourself and get caught in the waves, but then you muster enough strength to keep going. You find steady ground on the shore before you're pulled back in."

"So you aren't going to tell me his name," I say, bitterly.

"Soon, you're able to swim harder and faster against the tide. You're able to get to shore faster. Then, from there, you can stand your ground against the tide," she says. "It will always pull you back in. The trick is not letting it drown you."

"Like deadweight."

"Which you don't have to be," Mags says, softly. "Do you ever miss it? Wielding your spear and being out on the water?"

"Of course I do," I say. "But that's not what - "

"Do you want to be able to hold it again?"

"Where are you going with this?"

"I could help you," Mags says.

"Like training?" I ask.

"Not like for the Games," Mags says. "We can rebuild your strength. Tilda could help, as well."

"As nice as that all sounds, Mags, I would like the name of the guy my brother was talking to," I say.

"I'm afraid if I tell you, you'll never stop looking for him," Mags says.

"Okay, fine. How about a trade?" I say. "You tell me his name, and I'll take food out to Finnick."

Mags sighs deeply. "His name is Nodon. He lives in the Trawl."

The Trawl is an upper class section of District 4 where the merchants, like net weavers, live. If Liber had been committed to building boats, then it would make sense he would approach someone from such a sector.

"Does Nodon have a last name?" I ask.

"I doubt he uses it anymore," Mags says. "There, I gave you his name. Will you bring Finnick his dinner?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"He stopped using it some years ago, so it wouldn't serve you," Mags says.

"But why?"

"Family matter," Mags replies. "Now, about Finnick..."

Family matter. I look away from Mags and slip deep into my mind. The name Nodon doesn't sound in anyway familiar. I've never met this person before, nor have I encountered him in the market - so he either retired before I was born or sometime when I was young, because I know almost everyone in the marketplace. But that isn't what's caught my attention, it's the Trawl. I have never been to the Trawl before, but I do have familial connections there. My mom had been born in the Trawl to a net-weaving family, before she had chosen to elope with my father against the wishes of my grandfather. While I had been curious to explore the Trawl before, it was high up on a hill and difficult to reach, and, in any case, my mom always made a big deal out of avoiding it. She had cut off all ties to her family after she'd married my dad. That life, the family she'd left behind, weren't connected to us anymore.

As of such, I'd never met my mother's parents or any other members of her family, whoever they are. I am aware that she has a mother and a father, but she's never elaborated on if she has siblings or cousins or aunts or uncles. My father had been an only child and his parents had died very early on in his life. There was no one left for him to lean on. He was always very honest about that. My mother, however, didn't want us to explore that side of her family. She used to tell us that they resented Rheon because he was a Victor. Marrying him was bad luck and her children would be harbingers of that very same bad luck. It would seem her family was right about that. Liber and I had been harbingers of bad luck.

Bottom line, there are too many coincidences. Demetra is from the Trawl and has a family I have never met who have lived there. That is to say, I'm sure I've encountered them in passing out in public, because it's only inevitable to bump into even the most forbidden of people in District 4, but there's never been any acknowledgements. But what if someone from my mom's side somehow connected with Liber? Or vice versa?

Those missing notebooks on Liber's dresser, I wonder if they also had notes from this Nodon person. Maybe that was why Demetra, or even Rheon, took them away - if they took them away at all. It would also explain the ferocity of their argument, I suppose. My mom eloped with my dad against the judgment of her family...maybe she was having doubts, regrets. The thought sends a small shiver down my spine, so I try to focus on Nodon.

Demetra Doyle. It was my mother's name before she became Demetra Rythe, though she never talked about it much - and it had actually taken a little prying to learn her maiden name when I was younger. Nodon Doyle. It sounds right, though I've never heard the name before.

Worth a shot.

"Is he a Doyle?" I ask.

Mags looks a little startled, but then she's sighing defeatedly.

"That's it, right? Nodon Doyle? Is he connected to my mom?" I ask. "He's from the Trawl and so is my mom, and mom always hid her family from us. Liber might've reconnected with - "

"I wouldn't go chasing after him," Mags says.

I ignore her. "He is. How's he connected to her? Is he her brother? Cousin, maybe?" I ask, feeling a new sense of relief course through me, because, by God, I am finally getting answers. "Her father?"

Mags doesn't reply.

I grimace. "I could just go ask Demetra, you know."

"That would end very, very badly," Mags says, solemnly. "I'm afraid Nodon and Demetra have a poor relationship."

"It can't be any poorer than what the hell is happening to my family," I say, laughing mirthlessly. "My brother tried to kill me and my parents were piss drunk last night throwing shit at each other. And I'm...well, you can clearly see what's wrong with me, right? Not just my arm, I mean, but the screaming and the nights I throw my body off the bed. If Liber managed to connect with my mom's side - enough for Nodon to give my brother notes - then it could very well be he's the person who gave Liber that pufferfish. And it would explain why he told me Demetra got it for him...technically, a family member could have."

Mags shakes her head. "You're chasing rabbits, Ceres," she says, chastising. "Tell you what, go bring food to Finnick and then try to be civil, and then we'll talk more about Nodon. He's probably starving by now, poor thing..."

"Okay, fine - fine," I say, sighing. "But as soon as I get back, you are answering all of my questions. Got it?"

"I would assume no less," Mags says, taking the fish off of the heat. "Are you going to tell Finnick about Seneca?"

"Depends. Do you think he'll try to kill him?" I ask, sarcastically.

Mags considers me too seriously, critical of my sarcasm. "I would tell him now. Better he hears it from you then from someone else."

"Right. Do I need to take a boat and meet him at his yawl?"

Mags shakes her head. "He'll build a fire and be waiting for me on the beach," she says, softly.

"When I get back, we're talking about Nodon," I say. "Or I'm going to the Trawl myself and finding him."

"I don't think either would do you any good," Mags says. "Remember what I said about - "

"Moving on, right," I say. "I'll give it some thought."

Mags looks unconvinced. We spend the next half an hour cooking, going between tending to the fish, to cutting potatoes and then frying them in oil. Mags also cuts up some carrots and coats them in honey and sugar, before setting them on the stove to sizzle. Her expression is more somber than it was when I first came into the kitchen and she's stopped humming her little songs. But I can't bring myself to feel guilty right now. I finally had an answer - it wasn't a very good answer, but it was something. Nodon Doyle. I don't know who the hell this man is, but I know that he's connected to my mom somehow. Had Liber actively sought someone out in the Trawl? Or had Nodon sought him out? As I help Mags cook, to the best of my ability, I rack my brain. Mags says that Nodon used to own a shop, meaning he's on the older side.

My mom has never mentioned brothers or cousins or uncles, so, for the time being, I'm going to assume Nodon Doyle is our grandfather. The only thing I know about the man is that he had written off my mother after he'd married Rheon and forbade her from ever contacting the family again. It seemed like an overly harsh punishment, especially since Demetra married my dad because she loved him - at least, I hope she still does. Maybe the years have softened Nodon. It's likely he's watched us from afar to some capacity. We're not exactly hard to miss, being from Victor's Village. Nodon must attend the Reaping, so he sees my father standing on that stage every year. He probably sees my mother in the crowd, too, as well as Liber and me.

For the time being, it doesn't matter who approached who first. Despite the odds, I have a name. I have a name and a possible identity for whoever the hell my brother was in contact with. And, regardless of Mags' secrecy, I know she'll keep her word and tell me about him. She has to.

As Mags is finalizing the food, I go up to my room to change. I feel a little dirty so I wash my hair and body quickly, scrubbing the grime off of me, and changing into something practical. I choose a pair of pants over some shorts, and then a long sleeved shirt. It's comfortable. It's practical. I try to put my long hair up into a ponytail afterwards, but it's still so hard to do one-handed. After a little trial and error, I manage to get a very messy ponytail, with several strands hanging in my face. But it's my handiwork. Then I go back downstairs.

Once the meal is prepared (I wound up snacking on everything throughout, just to satiate my stomach before going off to meet Finnick on the beach), Mags packages the fish, potatoes, and honeyed carrots carefully, and sets the covered bowl into a small wicker picnic basket. She latches it with a white ribbon and hands it off to me with a small smile.

"Look for the smoke," she says.

When I venture outside, it's not too hard. The sun has already dipped out of view, leaving a rich indigo sky in its wake, with a full moon hovering over me and an array of stars twinkling brilliantly. There's a thing of smoke pluming in thin tendrils towards the sky. I follow it, wandering down the path leading to the beach. I try not to lose my nerve. I know that Finnick said it was best to stay away from each other and, to some capacity, I agree. But it had been a fair deal with Mags, and I can't exactly back down from it. Besides, I'd also like to know how he's doing. He's been on his boat for weeks now. Surely he's getting a little stir-crazy.

It's not long before I find Finnick's fire. His yawl is anchored out on the water, floating idly against a flat almost black surface reflecting moonlight; its mast is rolled up, and it seems remarkably still. Finnick himself is laying back on the beach beside a small fire, with his arms folded behind his head and staring up at the stars. He's shirtless and wearing a long pair of shorts. Although he appears to have partially dried, I can tell that he is still damp; his body moistened from the water, and glistening in the moonlight. He has to be deep in his thoughts, because he doesn't hear me approach. As I pad across the sand towards him, he doesn't even raise his eyes or flinch. Whatever world he's found himself engulfed in, I hope it's beautiful.

He looks so in peace, in fact, that I consider just meeting him halfway and setting the basket down, and running out of here. But as I pad closer, Finnick finally stirs.

Finnick pushes himself into an upright position, stretching his arms over his head. "I was worried you wouldn't come, Mags," he says. "I've missed your cooking. God, I've bene living off of seaweed and fish f - "

He cuts himself off once he turns, realizing it isn't Mags staring there, but me. I'm standing about fifteen feet away from him, all at once feeling exposed. Doubt settles in my stomach for a moment, wondering if it wasn't the right thing to be here right now. Finnick's own eyes are wide as he takes me in, though his surprise seemingly starts to dissolve. But he doesn't make any move to stand. Rather, we just stare at each other for a minute or two, neither of us certain of what to say or even do. I suppose I could just throw the basket at him and tell him that Mags says hi, then I could get back to the house and start talking about Nodon to her. But my feet are firmly set in place.

I swallow thickly, deciding that maybe it would be smarter just to be blunt; no filler words, no idle conversation. Just the truth. "Mags asked me to bring this to you. It's white fish with potatoes and carrots," I say. "And...you should know Seneca Crane came to see me yesterday."

(a/n): WE'RE IN THE FINAL COUNTDOWN, GENTS! There are only two more chapters until Reap What We Sow is concluded. ;_; I can't believe I've been writing this story for four years at this point and it's almost done, but not over. Rest easy knowing that the sequel is underway! :D I'll be announcing its title, general premise, etc., when I post the final chapter. ;) More than likely the final chapter and the new chapter will be published on the same day if I can get my life straight. X'D

I really want to thank everyone for your continued support! Every review, favorite, and follow always makes me misty eyed, and truly I can't thank you enough! Just knowing there are people out there enjoying my silly fanfiction really does boost my happiness levels. ^_^

Review replies

miaoca304: haha! XD I definitely wasn't thinking too deep when I wrote that line, but now that I think about it...you right. So, yes, yes, I definitely meant it in that context - I am a clever writer. XD Fun fact, I included the line in the story because I thought Seneca being surrounded by sand would honestly be hilarious, and who doesn't love Anakin's classic winning line? X'D Ooooh, just you wait! Finnick's reaction is gonna be a doozy. 0.0

L.M: hehehe. *evil little cackle* Good things come to those who wait. The sequel will have a lil somthin', somthin'. That's all I have to say about winter soldier-style Ceres. ^3^

rikiarin: Your reaction to Seneca is exactly what I wanted from my readers. Seneca is honestly really interesting to write because of his innocence. It's challenging as the writer, since I am acutely aware of how fucked up the Capitol and Games are, to write a character who views everything through rose-tinted glasses. I will say that you aren't thinking too far ahead. ;) The next story will cover, collectively, the events of The Hunger Games and Catching Fire. .3. I'm very glad you're still pondering it! I have a great deal of things mapped out for the second story, and I can promise a great deal of things are going to be happening, for better and for worse. What I will say is, I will stick to canon...but I will be going AU in several other areas. And if it makes you feel any better...I'd also be down to see Finnick and Seneca throw hands at each other. X'D I can't promise that it'll happen, but what I can promise is I have their interaction outlined, and it is...interesting. ;) So fun fact! As I was writing this chapter, I also read your review, and I was very giddy to see your thoughts on Demetra and Rheon's relationship, because that's going to be a whole other factor in the next story. The Rythe family is hanging on by a thread at this point...and more is to come. So, so, so much more.