Finnick wakes before the dawn. He eats as much from his fruit baskets as he can hold, then climbs down from the grotto with only his net and his trident. Today isn't about hunger, not for food anyway. Today is about the Games.
He walks along the riverbank until he finds a safe spot to wade in and hunt for fish to supplement his breakfast. It doesn't take him long to realize the fish have mysteriously disappeared, making him thankful he stuffed himself with fruit and nuts before he started out.
So this truly is the end. Who will still be standing at the end of the day? And what will he do to make sure it is himself?
What would he do if he were One? With only one Callow left, they very well may have split up at this point, unwilling to be the last two tributes standing. As much as Finnick mourns and misses Caspia, he's unspeakably thankful he won't have to be the one to kill her. Or, more likely than not, they're sticking together to give themselves a better chance of taking him out. Are they out hunting so early in the morning? Or are they still asleep in their hiding place?
He's about to exit the river when he hears it—a wretched, drawn-out cry of pain coming from somewhere downstream. Then, almost before he can blink, the cannon fires. Slinging his trident across his back, Finnick races out of the river to the tallest tree he can find and scrambles to the top. As much as he feels safe in water, this arena has taught him As comfortable as Finnick is in water he isn't sure he could fight a mutt stranded in it, and he remembers all too well the terror of the flood and how vulnerable it rendered him.
Something—a black black bird with a fat yellow beak—screeches at him for disturbing the peace, but he ignores it. He watches, paralyzed by expectancy, as the great metal body of a hovercraft appears from above and drops a cable into the arena. The body is close enough Finnick can tell the hovercraft picked up neither tribute from One.
They're here. The realization thuds a rapid beat in his chest, almost choking him. His chest aches from anticipation or his arrow wound or both. The vibrant hues of the jungle become a blur as Finnick relaxes his vision to better attune it to signs of movement, forcing his breaths to come deep and even. Every note of birdsong, every rustle of foliage is as piercing as a scream in his ears. He peers down through the foliage, hardly daring to breath, and tries to convince him to climb back down the trunk to the ground.
Then he sees Ruby Riveta emerge from the trees, coming from the direction of the hovercraft. Even though he'd been expecting her to appear, a thrill of adrenaline still shoots through him at the sight of her slinking through the rainforest like one of the feline mutts.
"Oh, Finnick!" she calls sweetly. She's retrieved her sword and shield from the Cornucopia, Finnick notes with some alarm. He should've known it wouldn't burn up in the fire. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
Could he hit her with the trident from up here? He knows the answer before he poses the question. He's much too far up, and there are too many branches to make ranged ambush a viable option. So he's left with face-to-face, hand-to-hand combat. Just the way the Capitol likes it. He clears his throat, adjusts his grip on his weapons, and calls out:
"Dear, dear, Ruby. We just can't seem to stay away from each other."
Finnick is gratified to see her head snap up, eyes narrowed. She hadn't been expecting him to be lurking above her head. He climbs down until he feels safe to jump, and then he does, landing with a soft thump at the base of the tree. As he straightens, Ruby edges closer, sizing him up with a half-critical, half-amused eye.
"Hello, Pretty Boy," she coos. "Did you miss me?"
"Not particularly." As she gets closer, Finnick is taken aback even now by how starved she looks, cheeks and eyes sunken, bones pressing against thin, fragile skin. Even her hair, once lustrous and thick, has lost its shine and hangs lank and matted around her shoulders. Almost as if she's already dead.
"Where's your little shadow?" Finnick resists the overwhelming urge to turn around to check for Alabaster directly behind him. "Did you finally realize he can't compare to me and come back for seconds?"
Ruby chuckles humorlessly. "No, no. We're not playing that game today. You gave up those privileges the moment you put that trident to my throat and traded me for your good-for-nothing district partner. When I saw her face in the sky that night, I had to wonder who finished her off first—Bellona or you?"
Finnick has always prided himself on being a pretty easygoing person, but Ruby's comment is almost enough to tip him over the edge. Only the likelihood of Alabaster's presence keeps him from cutting her down where she stands. "You out of all people know the district comes first. As if you wouldn't have slit my throat if our roles had been reversed."
A single haughty eyebrow creeps up. "Actually, I don't think I would have. Because I thought we were still allies. But you made the choice to break our alliance, Finnick. Not me. Who knows? If you hadn't bargained me away like chattel, Caspia might still be alive right now."
A critical hit, but Finnick has grown adept at first aid throughout the course of the Games. Staunch the bleeding, soldier through, and above all, don't let your enemies know you've been wounded. "You can talk all you want, Ruby," Finnick says, gesturing impatiently with his trident. "But you're just delaying the inevitable."
"Perhaps." She swings her sword theatrically, which annoys Finnick because he would have done the same thing. A smile is spreading across her face, but there's something distinctly pressured about it, like someone invisible is holding a knife to her throat. "Enough talk. Are you ready to play the game?"
Finnick turns and runs.
He's been doing a lot of running these Games; it's a good thing he's been conditioned for it. But that doesn't take into account the fear, the mounting dread setting every nerve alight with the expectation of a spear sliding into flesh or a sword tearing through tendon and bone. To be honest he should be grateful for it; from a purely physiologic sense it's likely what has kept him alive this whole time. Fear is what drives him forward. But strategy is what drives him to the river.
The river is where he will make his last stand. If he is to fall, he will fall into the embrace of home.
During his year of tutoring under Mags, Finnick asked a lot of questions, some of them smart, some of them considerably less so. As he races through the rainforest once again, Ruby hot on his heels, one question in particular rises to the surface of his memory. Mags had just returned from yet another funeral voyage, traveled on behalf of yet another pair of fallen tributes slain by fellow Careers during the 64th Hunger Games. She wore the responsibility for their deaths on her shoulders, just as she did for each and every other tribute she mentored. Finnick had always marveled at her strength, her ability to soldier on even with such a heavy burden resting on her heart. But then, stepping off the ship, Mags had never looked so weighed down, so exhausted, so utterly defeated. It distressed Finnick to see Mags—District 4's oldest living victor, his invincible, unflappable mentor—so vulnerable.
Why do you take all of the tributes out there? he asked, perhaps a bit rudely, flapping his hand in an expansive gesture toward the sea. Wouldn't it just be easier to bury them here, on our land?
Mags never lost her temper with him, and now was no exception.
From the moment we come into existence, we live in the murky waters of our mothers' wombs. It sustains us, keeps us alive when we are not yet ready for this world. Even when we are born, when we cough the water from our lungs and take our first breath of air, we still rely on water for our survival. Water provides us with food and drink, protects us from whatever lies across it—water gives us life. Without it, we would cease to exist. So then, it is only proper that we return to water when we die. So it can refill our lungs, so we can sink back into darkness's cold embrace, and so the endless cycle of life and death can begin once more.
Not everyone in District 4 receives the privilege of a voyage funeral. Only the most respected—the best and the most beloved—are taken out to be committed to the sea. Finnick has seen many fallen tributes consigned to a voyage. He's seen a couple of victors as well. He can only hope he and Caspia will one day be counted among them.
But one thing is for certain: He will not be voyaging anywhere without a fight. So as he splashes into the river, sending a deluge of droplets spraying down like rain, he turns and shifts once again into a combative stance. In this moment, with water swirling around his thighs and hot sun scorching his skin, Finnick—who cut his teeth on violence and strategy, who gave sweat and blood and tears to the Games before he'd even been reaped for them, who was unquestionably born for this—feels as invincible as the sun.
But Ruby has not pursued him into the river. She's stopped at the edge of the bank, sword lowered but shield covering her torso.
"Not willing to play with me? Perhaps you've missed Alabaster, then."
Finnick curses himself inwardly. With an almost nonexistent current and low water level, not even a Callow would be daunted by crossing the river. He should have foreseen one of them braving the waters to cut off his escape.
And there he is, standing on the other side of the river and carrying his two swords. Like Ruby, he appears thin and worn and tragically young. The arena ate up a pair of warriors and spat out victims. Children. If the tributes from wealthy and glamorous District 1 have been reduced to mud and bones, what does Finnick look like?
"Alabaster!" he calls, forcing any note of trepidation out of his voice for the sake of theatricality. "You're still alive? I thought Ruby would've offed you in your sleep by now. You know, my offer still stands. Don't fight me, and we can take Ruby down together. At least you know I won't stab you in the back the second it's turned."
"Tempting, but I think I'll pass," Alabaster says. He swings his swords back and forth, not aggressively, but like he's preparing or warming up—which Finnick supposes is an aggressive gesture in and of itself. "Did you tell Bellona you're the reason Miles is dead before you killed her, or are you taking that little secret to your grave?"
"You know, you are your own worst enemy, Finnick," Ruby says from his other side. "I could've told Bellona all your little stunt with the salve, but I didn't. You know why? I thought we were allies."
"We can still be allies," Finnick offers. "You never liked Alabaster anyway. You told me yourself."
A humorless laugh escapes Ruby's lips. "You know I won't turn against my district partner, just like you wouldn't turn against yours. It was always us against you, you against us. It's the name of the game, baby."
Us against you, you against us. Finnick shrugs. "It was worth a try."
Ruby moves closer to the shoreline, forcing Finnick to choose between facing her or Alabaster. He elects to stand facing the current with both of his opponents still in his line of sight. "I've got to say: You've put on quite a show, Four. Making friends with Callows in training, getting Caspia to protect you, trying to get Bellona to kill me—I'm impressed. But enough games, yes?" She sinks into a preparatory stance, shield raised with one hand, sword held aloft in the other, weight balanced evenly between her feet. "Show them what you're really made of." Her grin widens. "Show me."
They attack at the same time, Alabaster charging from the left, Ruby from the right. Finnick splashes back, the soles of his boots skidding precariously over the algae-coated stones. Only a lifetime of maneuvering in water keeps him from falling flat on his face. He throws his net at Alabaster's swords, then dodges as Ruby strikes while he's occupied with her partner. The only thing that saves him from instant impalement is the river. His adversaries' movements are slowed and uncoordinated in the water, but to Finnick, moving in the water is almost as easy as moving on land. Different, but manageable. He listens to the river, he feels the current rushing against his legs, the stones shifting beneath his feet. To fight against the river is to lose. He has to work with it whenever he can, to shift with the pull of the water and not against it, to flow around or divert rather than meet resistance head on, to plant his feet like a tree to keep from being swept off of them.
Duck, swerve, evade. Everything fades away except Ruby and Alabaster and Finnick and this fight, their beginning and their end. The river coursing past a boulder. Finnick deflecting strikes from Alabaster's swords. Roots catching river scum in their gnarled lengths. Trapping Ruby's sword in his trident's tines, twisting it away. He's soaked. So are they. The water weighs down their loose-fitting clothing, creating yet another hindrance to swift action.
What is your advantage? Batten asks.
Use it against your enemies, Mags adds.
Parrying another stabbing attempt by Ruby, Finnick gives in to the current's tug and lets it pull him further downstream, out of their immediate reach. As they splash after him, Finnick thrusts his trident at Ruby. She starts and jerks up her shield to deflect, but then she stumbles, soles gliding over traitorously slick pebbles. The combined force of her heavy shield and the river current buckles her knees. Then Finnick's full weight crashes against her shield, driving the edge of it into her perfect, pretty face. She wails a dreadful animal sound and falls back, blood trickling from between her fingers.
Before Finnick can follow through, Alabaster is on him, swords whirling, and Finnick is forced to give ground. He pursues relentlessly, constant enough to prevent Finnick from deploying his net and giving Ruby a chance to recover. The sun, shining bright and high above them, does its best to blind Finnick. He flicks his trident, reflecting the sunlight off of its shiny metallic surface. Alabaster squints, hesitating just long enough for Finnick to fling his net. Weighted and meticulously constructed, the maneuver would have worked perfectly had Finnick's aim also been perfect. It falls over one of Alabaster's blades, but the other is free to arc around and cut into Finnick's side. He barely feels the pain, but he staggers away from Alabaster anyway.
"If you give up now, I'll make your death as painless as possible," Alabaster says, shaking droplets of water from his face.
With Ruby temporarily incapacitated, Alabaster is vulnerable. And Finnick knows exactly where to find the chinks in his armor. "You know, Ruby wanted to team up with me before the Games even started," Finnick pants. "She called you an idiot, a bumbling sycophant, said you wouldn't have lasted five minutes if it weren't for her. Why else would she chose a fourteen-year-old from another district over you?"
Alabaster's eyes narrow, chest heaving as he, too, struggles to catch his breath. "You're lying."
Finnick jerks his chin at Ruby's crumpled form. "At this point, I think…I think I know more about her than you do."
Alabaster begins to advance, swords trembling in his grasp. "Shut up!"
Sinking into a defensive stance, Finnick braces himself for what he knows is coming. "I know what her mouth tastes like, Alabaster. I know what she looks like when she sleeps. Can you say the same?"
The cry that tears from Alabaster's lips nothing less than unhinged. His blows come fast and heavy, a veritable hurricane of fury, but Finnick doesn't try to meet them head on. He dodges and weaves as he had before, using his constant and most loyal ally—the river—against Alabaster wherever he can. He and the current lead Alabaster further downstream, where the bottom is rockier, peppered with boulders. When Finnick's heel hits one of these boulders, he makes his move. He feints with his trident, then throws his net—not at Alabaster himself, but at one of the weapons he carries. Alabaster's sword is not only knocked aside, it's ensnared, rendered useless to its wielder.
Instinct, drilled into him by years of training similar to Finnick's, compels Alabaster to keep hold of his entangled sword, even as he's hauled closer to Finnick and his trident. Even as Finnick launches himself off of the boulder behind him, catches Alabaster's other sword in the prongs of his trident, and wrenches the trident's shaft around, striking Alabaster in the temple.
Even as Finnick heaves his trident back once more and buries it in Alabaster's neck.
Alabaster gurgles, very much how Caspia had when Bellona stabbed her. Finnick has no farewell speech to impart, has no vengeance or regret or triumph left in him, so he says nothing. Instead, he rips the trident from Alabaster's flesh and watches the blood pour down his body in a cascade of scarlet.
While Alabaster stares at Finnick, his indignation not quite extinguished, Finnick is inexplicably transported back to the first day of the Games, to the bloodbath where Finnick first embarked on his gory quest for crowndom. The boy from Ten, Linden, Caspia, Bellona, Alabaster—they were all the same. Career or Callow, rich or poor: Death made children of them all.
Then Alabaster crumples, water flowing undeterred over his head. Finnick swears he can taste Alabaster's blood in his mouth.
Ruby's scream almost drowns out the boom of the cannon.
Finnick doesn't have time to pull his net from Alabaster's arm. He barely has time to evade Ruby's furious attack with her sword, followed by the swing of her shield. He dances around Alabaster's corpse, yanking at the vine wrapped around his wrist.
Even in death, Alabaster is doing his best to take Finnick down—literally. Finnick creates as much space between himself and Ruby as possible, trying to hack at the vine with the prongs of his trident. Ruby's sword whistles as it soars down to cleave him in two. Finnick swerves just in time. Ruby's sword severs the vine tethering him to Alabaster, and Finnick is free. He staggers back a few paces to regain his bearings, holding his trident up to keep Ruby at bay.
"We both knew how this was going to end," Ruby slurs, eyes gleaming with tears or fervor or both. Her words are garbled by the mangled mess Finnick has made of her face: One of her front teeth is missing, and her entire upper lip is a swollen hunk of blood and skin. "Just you, me, and the crown."
"Enough with the theatrics, Ruby!" Finnick snaps as he shifts his grip on his trident. He's tired, he's so incredibly tired. And he's unspeakably angry. This marrow-deep wrath gives him the strength to spit out, "If you're going to kill me, do it already!"
"Fine," she says, and charges at Finnick with her sword brandished.
Immediately, Finnick's primary obstacle to Ruby's defeat becomes obvious. He has the reach of his trident, but as long as Ruby has the shield, he won't be able to use it effectively. So instead of trying to get around the shield, he batters it with all his might.
Every ounce of his strength is dedicated to breaking through this single object and reaching the body behind it. And every time he draws back his trident to jab again, he pictures Caspia and Mags and his parents standing at the station, waiting to welcome him home. Caspia was right: He can't fight for some faceless national cause, a conviction ultimately doomed by the same forces that necessitated it in the first place. His mentor, his family—they are his reason. They are his fortitude. They are the driving force behind every blow of his trident. With them, Finnick cannot lose.
Ruby swipes at him with her sword, but she cannot reach him, not with such a small blade. One of Finnick's own wild strikes catches her face, leaving a trail of red across her cheekbone. Ruby makes an indignant noise in the back of her throat, but Finnick doesn't give her the chance to avenge herself. Enough strategy, enough trickery, enough games. It's just Finnick and the thing standing between him and the end.
Gradually, the shield begins to give beneath his assault, and fury gives way to fear in Ruby's posture, in her eyes. She's all defense now, hiding as much of herself behind her shield as she can. Despite his building fatigue, the ever-growing ache in his arm, Finnick does not hesitate or yield for a second. He cannot.
The wind and waves do not relent, and neither do you.
With a wordless noise that sounds more like a death wail than a battle cry, Finnick stabs the trident at the weakest point of the shield. It caves upon impact, the trident's prongs caught within the dent it made. The shield dips, Ruby reels back. Roaring incoherently, Finnick tears the fractured shield away, bats Ruby's sword aside, and plunges his trident into her chest.
Ruby gasps, her eyes gone impossibly wide. She stares at Finnick not with surprise, but with a sudden flood of grief so strong Finnick could drown in it. A strange, choked cry escapes her throat as she totters, pushed back by the force of Finnick's blow.
He expects a struggle, a curse, but she just stands there, held upright by the trident still driven into her chest. Finnick's so confused, so prepared for a fight that the lack of one gives him a pause.
Ruby must sense his bewilderment, because her bloodied, disfigured mouth stretches into a smile. "We both knew how this was going to end." Then—Finnick will never forget this for as long as he lives—she tears herself off of the trident with a guttural scream. The sound is a physical blow, transfixing Finnick like a sword. He will hear Ruby's scream in his ears every day for the rest of his life, hear the wet crunch of metal being torn through bone and muscle and sinew, hear the reflexive intake of air she struggles to draw in after.
Ruby sinks to her knees, and would have fallen on her face if Finnick didn't dart in, intercepting her vertical path earthward and lowering her into the shallow water near shore.
"Guess I was wrong about you," she murmurs, gazing up at him mournfully. For reasons Finnick cannot explain even to himself, he finds himself wiping away the blood trickling from her mouth, from the cut on her cheek.
The river courses over Ruby's broken, wasted body, washing away her blood in a gossamer stream. "Guess there's a heart behind that pretty face after all." She leans up, and although he's not quite sure why, he dips his head toward her.
"That was your first mistake. Go home, Finnick Odair. Go home and show my family your victor's crown." Then Ruby slumps, noiseless, and does not stir again.
At first, Finnick is confused. Then, almost reluctantly, Finnick becomes aware of a deep, spreading ache in his gut. He glances down, mind curiously blank, and notices for the first time the dark splotch staining his torso. Then he sees the sword still gripped in Ruby's hand and the pieces assemble with brilliant, dreadful precision in his mind.
He's not aware he's falling until the river is trickling around his head, turned just in time to keep water from filling his lungs. Ruby fills his vision instead, her eyes blank, staring up at the clear blue sky. He cannot see her chest moving, but it might just be his eyesight failing. Icy numbness creeps through his limbs, gripping him with sporadic tremors he does not have the strength to quell. Soon, he will not feel anything at all.
The sun is setting. The sun is setting and it's golden.
And everything is getting dark. As one typically does when they are dying, Finnick thinks about his parents. He thinks about Batten and Mags and the ocean. His district, his loved ones, his home. He does not think about anything else. No more fear, no more anger. Just peace. Peace is what he wanted the night before the Games, and at their conclusion he's finally earned it, won it with blood and sweat and tears.
The sun dips below the horizon. The twilight of oblivion slips over his mind, a warm blanket on a chilly winter evening. Just before Finnick drifts into unconsciousness, he hears the cannon fire one last time, an echo of his fading, struggling heartbeat. The words of Claudius Templesmith, swimming muffled and resonant in his skull.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games—Finnick Odair of District 4!"
He lets the tide carry him out to sea.