(a/n): Hello, my loves! Welcome to PART TWO of Ceres' trilogy. ^_^ I cannot believe that we are here! I am so, so excited to be bringing you guys the second part of Ceres' story! So, REAP WHAT WE SOW is the story and origin of Ceres' relationship with Finnick, her experience in the Hunger Games, and her eventual 'courtship' with Seneca. Now we are entering book/movie territory. CONVERTED INTO DUST will cover the events of Hunger Games and Catching Fire. ^^ I will be relying on canon from the books and from the movies, as well as applying some AU themes. I need to keep you guys on your toes somehow. Stay tuned. ;)
For any curious readers who haven't read REAP WHAT WE SOW, I would appreciate it if you guys gave it a looksie, but no pressure.
It is pretty long, so here's a TLDR recap:
Ceres Rhythe is the daughter of District 4 Victor Rheon Rhythe and childhood best friend and competitor of Finnick Odair. When Ceres was seventeen, she Volunteered for the 68th Hunger Games after her younger brother, Liber, was Reaped, in an effort to protect him. During the Games, Ceres is betrayed by Liber and loses her arm due to a crocodile Muttation, and ultimately is forced to kill her brother as an act of mercy. Her father, Rheon, also made a deal with Seneca Crane to prioritize her safety over her brother's, a fact she is aware of, but Rheon doesn't know she knows. She finds out Liber had secret correspondence with a mysterious family member who's name has been erased everywhere, and a promise to Mags to stop searching for him. And Ceres is placed in a predicament where she becomes exclusive to Seneca Crane in an effort to survive the grueling nature of the Capitol. Now, six years later, everything has changed. Now begins the 74th annual HUNGER GAMES.
That's a mild summary. XD I recommend reading my story for more details, but there's the small recap. And for anyone who just doesn't wanna read the first part, feel free to leave a question and I'll try to answer it to the best of my ability.
Anyway, please enjoy!
CHAPTER ONE
time of deceit
Plutarch
There's a chaotic joy that's settled over the Capitol. It's not really all that surprising, after all. It's the same energy as a child waiting to open up a present on a special day, staring at that perfectly wrapped parcel with greed and want, and their mind writhing with possibilities. Such is the way when it comes to the Hunger Games. The citizens of the Capitol sit in restless anticipation, searching for even a scrap, a morsel, of what is to come. Meanwhile, those too impatient have taken action. A handful of patrons have already begun placing bets on Tributes who haven't even been Reaped yet, which is an irony all of its own I don't feel inclined to delve into.
Usually, these premeditated examples of money thrown to the wind are directed towards the Careers. They are usually the safest bets. After all, last year a Career from District 2 won. Elias Slayte, age eighteen. The boy built like a mountain had bashed in the head of his fellow Tribute with a brick, from the ruins of that ancient city Seneca Crane had created; based on old illustrations he found in an equally old book.
Now, it's easy to place your bets on the expected winners. After all, nobody likes an underdog. They die the quickest, the hardest, and, usually, running instead of fighting. It's hard to root for those types, harder to sympathize with them. Still, there are the exceptions. Being a Gamemaker myself, I've long since learned to never underestimate any Tribute, regardless of their upbringing. It's a fatal flaw to one's career, in my humble opinion...and as someone who has spent decades in my seat, watching Head Gamemakers come and go, along with all the rest, I feel like it's a fair assessment. The trick I've learned is staying quiet about it.
Clicking my teeth together, I spare a glance from the parchment sitting on my oak desk towards the hologram playing in front of me. It's the live broadcast from the annual interview shared between the Head Gamemaker and the ever admired and adored Caesar Flickerman, whose face is reaching an almost orange color from artificial tanning and is wearing deep shades of blue. I've only been half paying attention. It's more so a courtesy to keep the interview on in the background, but it's also a necessity. Although I've heard Seneca recite his practiced and scripted answers time and time again, I like to keep a keen eye on any difference.
But thus far, it's gone smooth. Six years in the field, and Seneca Crane is an expert by this point.
"...at first it was a reminder of the rebellion, it was a price the Districts had to pay. But I think it has grown from that. I think it's, uh..." Seneca pauses, the camera zooming in and focusing on his face. I can see the way his eyes flicker to the crowd, as if he is speaking directly to them for a moment, and slowly he intertwines his own fingers. "It's something that knits us all together."
My mouth twists into an amused smile as the crowd erupts into respectful applause. Brings us all together. It certainly does that. Gathering a boy and girl from every District, settling them all into one Arena built on a year of hard work and endless analyses, hours of grueling work and research, and experimentation. It doesn't just drag the Tributes into it, it's the war-torn Victors, too, who are undoubtedly so very tired of their circumstances.
I lean back in my chair, picking up the piece of parchment and carefully holding it between my thumb and index finger.
Caesar Flickerman puckers his lips. "This is your sixth year as Head Gamemaker. What defines your personal signature?" he inquires.
A thoughtful expression settles in Seneca's face as he considers the query, his still intertwined hands resting over his lap. He inhales slowly. "Well, I would say truth," he says. "The Arena is more than a battleground, it is the resting place of countless young Tributes who give their lives for us. It is my honor to introduce them to you all, tell their stories. In truth, my Arena is like a skeleton, it's just the base and foundation of these stories, while our Tributes are the meat. Without one, the other does not exist. And every year, the Victor is our heart..."
I glance away, scoffing, and finding my mind drifting as I take in the strange blueprint presented across the parchment. I've seen to it that this little piece of parchment has been copied, and sent where it needs to be. The original, however, serves no further purpose. Its presence, its existence, is a liability. It carries the aroma of sea salt, with a couple of watery stains across its surface; damaging the exterior designs of a blueprint, but the details are there. An underdog's work.
During the 68th Hunger Games, I had expected Ceresea Rhythe to die in the Arena. Her brother, who had betrayed her and left her to die, seemed like the likelier of the two to survive, to win. When the Mutt had torn her arm off, she should have bled to death. As I had been sitting in the control room in the Gamemaker's station, watching those dozens of screens with multiple different angles on her face and her bleeding bone where her arm should have been, I had expected it. Yet Nellie Baumbauch from District 7 had rescued her, had cleaned and sutured her wound, thanks to generous gifts from Sponsors. And just like that, the Arena had an underdog, and she won. She survived.
Her brother died.
Against the odds.
Seneca Crane was an underdog, too. I had worked closely underneath Lucius Crane when he served as Head Gamemaker. I had liked him well enough. Lucius took the job as Head Gamemaker seriously, as he did with every aspect of his life; he was assertive, often cold, and understood the assignment of his duties. It's almost a shame that a man with a sharp mind like his had lost his head the way he did, but he had overstepped. He paid the price.
Truth be told, I hadn't thought the position would go down to his nephew. Cicero Crane had failed as a Head Gamemaker and as had his brother, so why would President Snow yield the position to Cicero's son? It's a wonder. Most importantly, it's all a game, and Seneca has learned to play it beautifully. Like a fine conductor with his orchestra, he has played his role, and has provided music. The Capitolians demand for more, as they have for the last six years under his rule as Head Gamemaker. Their arousal for violence is without end, and his hand in the matter plays them.
Slowly, I curl the parchment between my fingers, listening to it softly crunch in my grasp, and I carry it to my fireplace. Without so much as a second thought, I toss it against the crackling logs. I kneel by the fire, watching the parchment quiver and coil as its edges blacken, the body twisting until it is fully absorbed by the flames. I stay crouched like that for a short time, as the interview carries on. Eventually, I stand up and retrieve my coat hanging by the door of my office. And once sure that the parchment is reduced to ashes, I leave.
I spend the next hour or so with my fellow Gamemakers, assessing the various progresses, until high noon, when my appointment with Seneca Crane approaches. These meetings are annual at this point. I don't need to ask why, nor do I fully understand the need for them. We both know why he summons me, what he's doing, where he's going. It's all routine, but routines are good. They are, first and foremost, predictable. It's an unfortunately fatal flaw of the human body, falling into a system. So, within the building, I take an elevator to the tallest floor, and am met with a long hall full of painting of past Head Gamemakers and a handful of successful Gamemakers over the years, excluding myself (a shame, technically, but not a hindrance to my pride).
At the end of the long and tall corridor are a set of large white doors, leading into the Head Gamemaker's private offices. Standing outside of it, holding a tablet, is Ames Cairncross, Seneca's personal assistant. He is an odd man, to be sure. He has a strong, chiseled jaw often highlighted with some variety of glitter, despite Seneca's personal policy for his staff to be simple in their attire. His light brown hair is slicked back out of his square features. He is wearing a neon yellow suit adorned with sunflower patterns, and there's a butterfly broach upon his chest that moves periodically, its bejeweled wings fluttering mechanically.
"I'm here for my meeting with the Head Gamemaker," I say.
Ames casts me a glance, then looks down at the tablet in his hands. "Five minutes early, sir," he says, in a lofty voice. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait outside. The Head Gamemaker is with someone at the moment."
"I see," I say. "I take it he's leaving the Capitol."
Ames raises a perfectly plucked brow at me. His unnaturally colored eyes, on account of contact lenses (and so uncanny, as his pupils remain ever the same size) look me up and down critically. He glances down at the tablet in his hands, his fingers dashing quickly across its surface. He pauses, fingers dashing again, and looks back up at me. "Indeed," he says, with a secretive smile. "It will only be a minute more, sir. And I'm afraid it will have to be brief. The Head Gamemaker has a train to catch."
"A week before the Games," I muse.
Ames smiles. Those odd eyes of his dart so swiftly I almost miss them towards the corner of the hallway, to a camera positioned directly towards us as we stand outside of the Head Gamemaker's office door. "The Head Gamemaker has been working so hard, he couldn't do the trip earlier. I'm sure you understand how even important men need a break every once in a while to wet their feet," he says.
I nod understandably. Seneca Crane, our esteemed Head Gamemaker, is going to District 4. I can't really say I'm surprised, given the rather infamous relationship - if it could even be called that - Seneca has built for himself over the last few years. That, and how he tends to visit a week or two out before every Hunger Games every year, to unwind.
A little vaguely, I recall the wistful grin over the young Head Gamemaker's face when I had seen him later that night at the dinner at President Snow's house, at the conclusion of Ceresea Rhythe's Victory Tour. It had been apparent to deduce what had transpired, even if the willfully ignorant, or downright moronic, patrons at the party were oblivious to it. Seneca had said not a word about it, but he didn't have to. It became all the more apparent six months later, when the 69th Hunger Games commenced, and Seneca's exclusivity became public knowledge. It had caused a mild stirring among a certain crowd - an arousal of anger, a few choice words directed towards the Head Gamemaker himself, then some complaints to President Snow. Like a child being denied a toy they desired, so did a small crowd cause a small uproar over having never had a chance to taste the most recent Victor.
Still, exclusivity is a rare thing, and rarer still for it to last. I had expected Seneca Crane to slip up to some compacity, forcing President Snow's hand and for that exclusivity to wane. But every year, Seneca Crane has remained uncontroversial, keeping his name in the spotlight - impressively so, I admit. I remember once that Seneca Crane, during a banquet celebrating the President's birthday, telling a group of important Gamemakers (me lurking in the background), that he kept his good luck close. It doesn't take a genius to piece together the clues there, about who that could be referring to.
The door opens. Ames takes a strategic step back, turning to bow his head at the door's direction respectfully. A woman emerges from the glossy white doors, her head held high, and sparing no glance towards Seneca's secretary. Two Avoxes flank either side of her, their heads low and hands folded in front of them.
She is a tall woman wearing a purple, tulle lined jacket over a lavender dress that goes to her knees in frills. Her glossy black heels provide her a few extra inches in height, allowing her to be presented with an imposing demeanor; authoritative, to say the least. Her long silvery-blue hair hangs in ringlets around her shoulders, a few strands pulled back in fancy, tactical braids that take form in a spiral at the top of her head. Her face is pleasant enough, long with a narrow nose and full lips. Her eyes are wide-set and a deep shade of brown, lined with purple and pink makeup. Most prominent about her appearance is the roundness in her belly; barely noticeable on account of her fashion, but there all the same.
Our eyes meet. Ithaca Crane, formerly Numitor.
I'm familiar with her and her family. Cedric Numitor was a long-time successful Gamemaker of roughly twenty years, who had retired well and had become a prolific member within President Snow's inner circle of associates. His wife, Amabilia, is a popular and moderately successful house-wife known for hosting immaculate garden parties. She is also a popular patron of Finnick Odair, which I have made a long-time mental note of. They are a well-known family of great renowned and overall successful careers, with strong ties to the presidential seat. It would take a very great fool to not take these advantages into account for marital purposes. Luckily, Seneca is no fool.
After two years of a successful career, Seneca Crane had announced his betrothal to Ithaca, and they had been married within three months in what had been an enormous and eventful wedding ceremony. It had been enormous, and, in my humble opinion, ludicrous. But notably, it had been during Annie Cresta's Victory Tour, and the Victors had been invited to the after party hosted after the gathering at President Snow's mansion. If I recall correctly, there had been a small period where Ceresea Rhythe and Seneca Crane had disappeared from the party.
If Ithaca Crane had noticed, she hid it well.
Her deep brown eyes glance me over, narrowing a little. "Plutarch."
"Mrs. Crane," I greet back.
"My husband is in a good mood," Ithaca says, folding her hands in front of her, resting strategically over her belly.
"I imagine he is," I say. "We are, after all, ahead of schedule. It would put any Gamemaker in a good mood. With the Games next week, I can imagine his mind is at rest. And I can assure you, this year will leave quite the impact."
"Oh, don't they always?" Ithaca smiles at me, then, without delay, strides forward, trailed by her two Avoxes.
I cast a glance towards Ames, who follows her with his eyes before bringing his gaze back to me. The secretary straightens his back and smiles pleasantly at me. "Pleasant woman," he says, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "One moment."
Ames turns promptly and pushes passed the white doors, disappearing for a few moments before the doors are opened again. With my own head high, I enter the Head Gamemaker's offices. It is an impressive space, one that has a tendency to change from Head Gamemaker to Head Gamemaker. The walls are a rich shade of crimson, with white lining across its center, and mahogany wood at its base. Across the ceiling is tiled gold, where white chandeliers hang over us. Large white bookshelves line the wall. Across from me is a marble fireplace, where Seneca Crane's desk sits right across from it.
Across the walls there are portraits of all the past Head Gamemakers, whose expression are hardened and unreadable, with golden plaques beneath their frames; their names, then their years of service. Hanging over the fireplace is Seneca's own portrait. A striking young man with shiny black hair, a fine beard, and piercing pale blue eyes staring at nothing, and yet everything. The man himself sits at his white alabaster desk, adorned with perfectly framed pictures of Seneca's life; his wife, his parents, and his twin sons, Felix and Maximus, who are four years old.
Seneca glances up from his desk when I enter, promptly standing. He is wearing a white button down shirt with a floral patterned red vest overtop of it. He looks tired, to say the least; subtle shadows beneath his eyes, carefully covered by cosmetics. When the door closes behind me, he opens his arms with familiarity.
"Plutarch," Seneca says, cordially.
"Seneca," I greet. "I see congratulations are in order."
"Ah. Yes. Ithaca," Seneca says, with a faint smile. Nothing in his expression conveys affection or even an example of fondness at the mention of his wife or her pregnancy. It is all formality, as most marriages in the Capitol are. "My mother will be pleased. She has been begging for more grandchildren."
"A new line of Gamemakers, to be sure," I say, stepping forward.
At that, Seneca's smile becomes almost genuine, with a small measure of pride puffing up in his chest. Personally, I think Seneca Crane had best watch his back when it comes to heirlooms such as positions. Cicero Crane had lost his right as Head Gamemaker embarrassedly, thus passing it to his own brother, Lucius Crane, and when he failed thus it passed to Seneca Crane. If there is a pattern of positivity within that narrative, I've yet to see it. But Seneca seems hell-bent on its presence, so I decidedly leave it be. After all, why upset my superior? He's more useful collected and wistful than in his unusual bouts of anger and upset.
"Felix aspires to be Head Gamemaker someday. Maximus...well, a Stylist, if you can believe it," Seneca says, with a small tsk. "I imagine it's a phase."
"Of course," I say, glancing down at Seneca's pass on his desk. District 4, it reads across its front. "Is your wife aware of your little vacation to District 4, sir?"
The softness in Seneca's features falter for only a moment, though his coloring cheeks reveal his mild embarrassment. "I don't keep any secrets from my wife, Plutarch, except when it comes to our work," he says. "She's aware where I'm going and who I'm seeing."
I have often wondered what Ithaca Crane thinks about Seneca and his relationship with the Victor from District 4. It's common knowledge he has exclusive access to her, that he had managed to achieve it through impressive feats. It's not often that someone in a new position of power is able to achieve such a highly desirable claim to a Victor. Someone had dared to venture to keep Cashmere Royce exclusively his own, but that had ultimately ended it a blunder. The fact Seneca has maintained his position for so long is enviable, yet, still, it must weigh on a wife's mind. Although the exclusivity began before Ithaca's presence in Seneca's life, I do wonder where her mind rests on it, on her husband.
Food for thought, I muse. Perhaps it's something I will have to investigate later.
"Pardon my saying so, but you do seem in need of a day off, sir," I say. "You look tired."
Seneca exhales. "I am...yes," he says. He clears his throat, straightening out his back. "Plutarch, I am leaving you in charge in my absence. I'll only be gone for just a day, so nothing should be out of sorts until I come back. Besides, everything is ahead of schedule. The foundations of the Arena are completed, as are the mechanisms we have built. The cogs are in place for the machine to function. Now, Lucia has been working on those Muttations and her progress is spectacular, so I implore you to stay out of her way and let her work. She should be finished within the next day or so. And, I'm sure, you can make sure nothing goes out of order."
My brow raises. "Of course, sir. It's always my pleasure," I say. "Keeping the cogs rolling is in the job description."
"Good." Seneca nods. "This year is going to be one to remember, Plutarch. I can feel it."
"I admire your certainty, sir," I say. "But every one of your Games is memorable."
"Then we had best keep it going," Seneca says, gesturing towards the door. "You are excused, Plutarch. I have a train to catch."
Ceres
He's late.
Sitting at the end of a long, old dock, my legs swinging off of its edge, I stare out across the sunrise. The sky is a volcanic eruption of vibrant oranges intermingling with golds and the subtle hue of the rising blue. It glitters across the vast expanse of the ocean, which sways gently against the early morning breeze. It's roughly five-thirty in the morning. I've been up since four-thirty, waiting here at this dock, and just staring at the sky and watching it change colors. My spear rests at my side, along with a carefully folded net. He's late, I think again, this time sighing. My dad was supposed to meet me here at five o'clock, but, per usual...I think he'll be a no show.
This is the habit that has been fallen into recently. My dad and I agree to take time out of our days to try to fall back into the old habit of fishing, waking up early in the morning, and meeting by the dock to fish at sunrise. Fish are most often active early in the morning or late at night, and my father has always lived by the philosophy of getting out into the water before the respective fishermen in District 4. Technically, as a Victor my dad has no real obligation to fish to make a living, but it had been his livelihood growing up. He does it simply for comfort and old habits, and just dragged me along when I was a kid to keep me occupied. Now, being a Victor myself (and even when I was simply a Victor's daughter), I also have no obligation to fish. There's no need. I've always had a house in Victor's Village, and have been paid heavily by the Capitol, and we've had enough food to last several lifetimes.
But, even as a kid, fishing was just something I enjoyed doing. Even though my father could be a gruff bastard, it was nice spending that time with him. It's been a habit we kept up for years, upon years, upon years. But ever since I won the 68th Hunger Games...everything changed. Justifiably so, I think. I mean, I did have to kill my brother in that Arena; a vision that still haunts me. It's been six years since I won, six years of falling into new patterns, new habits. These consist of my dad and I making promises to each other to go back to normal, except we never do. Sometimes - sometimes - my dad will show up at the docks. We'll fish for a while in complete silence, and depart ways without a single word. Most of the time, I'm left alone on the dock with only silence. Rarer still, my mother will come by to fish with me, with a shadowed look on her face.
Yeah. Things never really did change since my Games...not that I blame anyone for it.
It's hard for a family to repair itself, to come back to some semblance of normalcy, when it detonates the way it did. My father had been my Mentor in the Arena and Liber, my little brother, had been my fellow Tribute. I had Volunteered for Liber, to protect him, because I knew more about the Games than arguably anyone else in District 4 - excluding those who had lived it. Who better to keep Liber alive in the Arena, then the person who had spent her whole life trying to figure out how to win and beat it? Growing up, it had always been my strongest aspiration to be a Victor someday. I wanted the fame, glory, the power that being a Victor meant. I had romanticized it, idolized it, so much that nothing else had mattered. It wasn't until I watched what the Games did to Finnick Odair that I understood...more so when I lived it myself.
But during the Games, I had strived to protect Liber, had done all I could. But in the end, he had betrayed me. He had pushed me into open water with a crocodile Muttation, which had claimed my arm, and then I had killed him. Well, I had not meant to kill him. We were the final two Tributes in the Arena. When we had faced off with each other in a closed off section of the cave, I had cut his cheek with my spear. I had completely forgotten that I had coated my spear with jellyfish venom, which I had gained as a gift from a Sponsor. I had watched as his face swelled up, as horror filled his eyes. He'd backed up and fallen into a lower section of the cave, those Mutts threatening to take him away; drag him into the water and kill him. I had given him a mercy death by plunging my spear into his heart. The sound of his cannon still echoes in my dreams.
A lot of things, do actually. The dagger piercing the back of Daisy's head. Birch's body popping like an acidic blister. My brother's trident piercing through the back of Lamia's neck and through her throat. The girl I had gutted with my rapala. My brother's final breath. All of it.
Coming home didn't make things easier. But there's more to it than just that. As Liber and I fought for our lives in the Arena, my father had tried to bargain for our safety with the Gamemakers - Seneca Crane to be specific - and, in the end, he had to make a choice. Only one person could leave that Arena, so he had to choose. If one life could be prioritized over the other, who would it be? My father chose me, and that's a fact I've known for six years now. He remains clueless to the fact that I know, but I can see the guilt eating away at his mind and body every time I see him. I see it in my mother's eyes, too.
We are a house divided, as evidenced by the fact that my mother and father effectively live separate. They live within the same house, but it is quite literally divided now. A section belongs to her, and the other belongs to him. I try to stay out of that...I have bigger things to think about than the wellbeing of my parents' marriage. I don't mean to sound callous, but it's true. The fact our family has gone through such hell is a matter all of its own. Meanwhile, I have other things to think about.
I am still a Victor, a Mentor, and a pawn to Panem.
I still have nightmares from my time in the Arena. I am still haunted by the sounds of each cannon, specifically my brother's, which had felt the loudest and most powerful. Each time I go back to the Capitol with a new set of Tributes, I feel something tear at me, deeper and deeper. I serve as a Mentor to my Tributes. I mourn when they are killed, yet I rejoice when I don't have to go back to the Capitol for a Victory Tour, staring down a Tribute who could possibly become like me, Finnick, and all the rest. But then I find my heart heavy for those who do survive, like Annie Cresta, who are fractured pieces of glass; never to be put fully back together again. And year after year it goes on. It's a cycle all of its own. Its own routine.
There is so much more to comment on, as well. There is also the matter of my brother's secrets. After Liber had died, I had found a notebook of his buried underneath a loose floorboard in his room. It was a notebook containing drawings and various designs for the boats my brother had created, including one that could be submerged underwater. The designs had been meticulous and well-done, but clearly secretive. My brother had hidden this notebook beneath the floorboard, yet other less well hidden notebooks had been taken. There had been spots on his furniture where dust was not as prominent, a square outline where I knew books had been. My parents had taken them, all those years ago; likely hidden or destroyed. I kept my copy of Liber's, though. It remains hidden beneath my own floorboard under my bed.
Within my brother's notes, there resides various initials accompanied by dates and comments, all done by N.D. These initials stood for Nodon Doyle, a man I did not know, but surely had some affiliation to. Doyle was my mother's maiden name before she married my father. I had assumed there was a biological connection of some time. It did make sense. My mother had been disowned by her family when she married my Victor father, so I had simply never had a connection to that side of her family. But, due to Mags' wishes, I had kept my promise and tried not to pursue it. Key word tried. Shortly after my Victory Tour, I had tried seeking Nodon Doyle out, but every person I had gone to, every location I had sought out, gave me the same answer. He's dead, with no other answer But something in their eyes tells me otherwise. But as much as I'd love to launch a full investigation in the matter and unlock the mysteries surrounding my brother, his drawings, and N.D., I simply can't.
I have other duties and obligations. As a Mentor, as a Victor, as a pawn...and as a puppet to President Snow.
I can safely say that I am one of the more fortunate Victors under President Snow's control. Unlike Finnick Odair, Cashmere Royce, or other attractive Victors who are sold frequently to the highest bidders, my circumstances have a greater slack. I am under the title of exclusive to Seneca Crane, which is a double-edged sword. I have been for six years now, thanks to Seneca Crane's success as a Head Gamemaker, and to my own compliance to President Snow. Now, this is not to say that I get off easy. There are still days where Snow will sell my time to important, high-paying Capitolians, but that's all it simply is. Sometimes I will accompany a person to a dinner, or for a walk, or just in their home, but their hands never touch me. My personally assigned chauffer and Capitolian bodyguard, Leto Vulpes, sees to that.
It's the lesser of many evils. And, truthfully, it could be worse. Seneca Crane, despite being a Capitolian and a Head Gamemaker at that, isn't unkind. He buys me lavish gifts, spends a strange amount of time simply talking to me, and takes care to my comfort. He seems considerate, even though he still claims ownership of me. Better him than dozens of others. Truthfully, that thought, as relieving as it is, does strike guilt into my core. Countless other Victors are subjected to boundless horrors through hundreds of different appetites, persons, and desires. Meanwhile, I have some semblance of safety, of security. I'm one of the few lucky ones, if those even exist.
But I try not to think about it, especially so early in the morning. But come next week, I will be returning back to the Capitol for the 74th annual Hunger Games, and the cycle will continue. I have to wonder what it's going to look like. Last year's Games were so eventful, after all. My Tributes, both Careers, had lasted fairly well. But in the end they both died.
Yet things don't just begin next week.
This afternoon, Seneca Crane will be visiting for a quick trip - just a day, nothing more, nothing less. Apparently he desires a small break from the trials and tribulations that come with being Head Gamemaker. This doesn't necessarily come as surprise. The routine I've come to know with Seneca is a simple one. Usually a week or two prior to the Games, he'll take a day to visit District 4. Sometimes he's full of elation and excitement revolving around his plans - which he seldom shares with me, for obvious reasons - or he is visibly exhausted from the fatigue of it all. Four years ago had been the exception, when his wife had given birth to his twin sons. He had felt obligated to stay with her for that period.
It was funny to me...when I'd gone back to the Capitol that year, he had been so guilty for his absence at that time. He had treated me out to a luxurious dinner in a seafood restaurant I, truthfully, had some measure of fondness for. Then he had taken me to an aquarium which housed a vast array of exotic and artificially bred fish and various other species, including very obviously muttated sharks. And then we had gone back to a hotel room adorned with blue rose petals, some champagne, and he had gone to his knees...
I exhale loudly, forcing myself out of my own head.
There are worse things. Seneca having exclusivity to me is, for all intents and purposes, a ball and chain. But there's no denying I am also one of the luckier ones, because, although his intentions are obvious, and he is no better than the rest of the Capitolians, he is not unkind to me. Still, it's easier when it's in the Capitol, where Victors have expected behavior. It's much, much different, and harder, to play that role in my own territory, where my real life is built. Where my heart, in more ways than one, firmly rests.
I straighten, staring up at a now bluer sky.
Yet another small example of how chaotic my life is. It's certainly not the life that little girl who had been me had imagined for herself. When I had been young and stupid, I had imagined the Hunger Games to be full of glory and promise. I had imagined my Interviews to be incredible, to spark inspiration and awe. I would rise out of the Games, untouched by blood, and be met with a chorus of cheers. I would be the hero of District 4, the Victor. Little had that girl known what she would experience, the things she would do, and everything she would lose in the act.
And I don't just mean my left arm.
My eyes flicker, as something catches my attention someplace behind me. I can hear footsteps approaching, and I strain my ears against the sounds of the waves and the morning winds. My shoulders slacken, finding myself torn between relief and disappointment. Turning to peer over my shoulder, I catch sight of a father holding his three year old son upon his shoulders, walking towards the beach. The little boy is holding a net while the father wields a trident. The two don't seem to notice me, so trapped within their own world. A father who has outlived the Games, and a boy too young to participate. The sight of them remind me of Neleus Odair and of Finnick when he had been a boy. A soft chuckle parts from me. I used to get so mad when Neleus and Finnick would beat my father and I down to the beach. Even if they were a minute earlier, I would sulk, and demand to my father that we leave an hour earlier to ensure we did not arrive after them.
I remember, once I had actually body-slammed Finnick into the water, effectively frightening all the fish out of that area. It had been worth it, though, even despite the lecture. And, truthfully, it had been more than once...more than thrice, too.
I look away. Finnick.
I wish I could say it was any less complicated with Finnick...true to our word, we've stayed close, we've stayed friends. We've long since learned that there's no avoiding each other. Just like gravity, we keep being pulled into each other. The farther we go, the harder it will be when we inevitably collide again. But we've had to learn to temper certain emotions, not because we want to but because we have to. Make no mistake, there are still nights where we hold each other, where we share kisses in shadows, and hold each others' naked bodies in showers as thousands of emotions swell through us.
Ever since Snow had made me exclusive to Seneca, we'd been careful - we knew the risks, understood that every action has a reaction, and with that a consequence. We played our roles for Snow perfectly when we were in the Capitol, or when his clients would visit him in District 4, or Seneca to me. But there had been an incident three years after my Games. I had been late to a meeting with Seneca in the Capitol. He had invited me to dinner at some restaurant - Borage House, I think - but I had found Finnick curled naked in the shower after a brutal session with a violent client. I couldn't leave him like that. I had held him, be damned the consequences, and let him cry into me. An hour later, Seneca had been understanding to my excuse of being busy. Games and all...my poor Tributes are so stressed out, I had to comfort them. But Snow had been less kind. It hadn't been me who had paid the price that day, it had been Finnick...and the next day, he paid it tenfold.
To say we're careful now is an understatement. Every move I make, I feel the weight of Snow's eyes. I can't afford to have Finnick punished like that again. So, when we're in the Capitol we try to avoid each other to the best of our ability, even when we desperately need each other. I imagine Snow just loves the impact of his own actions.
Feeling my heart start to tremor, I make the quick decision to propel myself off of the dock. I straighten out my legs, so that as I slide downward I pierce straight through the water's surface. All at once, the water engulfs me, muffling the world (and my thoughts). Swimming is still a trial, depending on what kind of day I am having. It's been a long journey to teach my body to maintain itself, to balance, to swim, to fish, to handle spears, and so on. Thankfully, I'm able to swim mostly comfortably this morning. After spending a few comfortable moments submerged underwater, with my eyes squeezed shut, I eventually use my legs to kick myself back up.
Water on its own had been a battle. When I had been submerged under water for the first time, when Mags had taken me swimming. I had panicked blindly, sending my body into a spiral. I had thrashed in the water, my feet unable to find the sandy floor. All I could see was that Mutt charging towards me in the water, latching onto my shoulder, and twisting.
Breaching the surface of the water, I take a big gulp of air, and push further away from shore. I do so until I am being kissed directly by the sunlight, the water glittering around me, and I carefully position myself so that I am floating on my back. I try to relax myself, just letting the water hold me. It's nice. It's a comfort. It's better than just sitting at that dock waiting for a person who wants nothing to do with me. I've never feared the ocean, but I've certainly been cautious of it. But after having lived through what I went through, of having my arm torn off by a crocodile Mutt, of having to swim through pitch black water, of surviving all of that, the vast openness of the ocean is oddly less intimidating by default. Whatever lurks below can't be as bad as what I saw in the Arena. So my usual air of caution, of minding specific sections of water, drifts away like dust in the wind.
I lay on the surface of the ocean for a while, just idly floating and drifting, until I'm pulled from my thoughts by a voice calling out my name. I reluctantly stir from my peaceful state, opening my eyes and peering towards the dock. To my surprise, and even some measure of relief...disappointment...whatever...I see my dad. He's standing there holding his own spear. I won't lie, a small part of me just wants to dive down into the water and disappear. But I know that's not fair.
Fine. I turn myself over and paddle myself back to the docks. Once I reach there, I'm a little out of breath, so I reach out and grab ahold of the dock's edge, hoisting myself up slowly. My dad leans down, grabbing ahold of me as well and lifting. I want to dismiss him and tell him I can do this, but before I can, I'm already back onto the dock; dripping wet, and my items still where they were.
"Sorry I'm late," Rheon says.
"It's just half an hour," I say. Well, closer to an hour, now that I think about it. "Are we fishing by boat or on the shore today?"
Rheon glances away, as he usually does, and looks over the shoreline. "Beach," he says. "It's quiet this morning."
"Quiet. Right. Quiet's nice."
I lean down and gather my net and spear. After these six years, I've gotten very good about holding and balancing various items under one arm or in one hand. My dad has an expression on his face where he considers offering assistance, but it's clearly unneeded, so he just starts ahead across the dock. With my spear and net tightly gripped in my hand, I follow after him. He doesn't spare me a glance or a word, but I don't necessarily mind. At least this time he had showed up, instead of leaving me in total silence of God knows how long. I honestly do try not to hold it too much against it. It's not fair, despite everything. Still, it doesn't exactly do well for a girl's soul to have her father ignore her so blatantly.
It's not long before we find a little spot on the beach to settle by. We wade out into the water, my father treading a little further out thanks to his height, while I keep closer to shore (being the unremarkable height of five-foot-four). My father, at a six-foot-two, treads deeper and lingers there, his dark eyes regarding the surface of the water. We stay in complete stillness for a while, our bodies unbending to the admittedly cold water, or the winds which bristle over us. As the sun rises, it will become warmer. For now, we are at the mercy to nature's whim.
It must be about half an hour, maybe a full hour, of periodically catching fish in our nets and piercing them with our spears before the silence becomes too uncomfortable. I decide to be the one to break it, since my dad isn't going to.
"How's mom?" I ask.
"Demetra is well," Rheon says. His tone is a little softer than when he usually talks about her, so I see that as something to be positive about. He slowly twists his body so he is facing south-west, lifting his spear over his head. After a small pause, he lowers his spear again with a quiet, defeated sigh. "She thought about coming this afternoon, but she needed rest."
"Don't we all..." I murmur.
"Have you not been sleeping?" Rheon asks.
"Last night was rough," I say, brushing my fingers over the surface of the water. "Annie stayed the night with Mags. She'd wake up screaming, so Mags would soothe her and help her go back to sleep. As much as she can anyway." I exhale through my nose, tiredly. "It's harder for her."
"Her Tribute's head rolled to her feet, Ceres," Rheon says.
"I know," I say, shifting. "But it's hard for all of us."
"Every Victor has a different experience. It's not fair to judge them for it," Rheon retorts.
I bite back the urge to snap something at my dad. He's right. It isn't fair to judge Annie, but I can't help but to be occasionally frustrated with her. I had managed to maintain my sanity - well, some part of it - after I had personally killed my brother, after he had been the cause of me losing my arm - so it's...it's a little frustrating. I don't fault Annie for it, I don't want to hold any blame over her head. She's a sweet girl. I never knew her prior to the Games, but I learned about her all through her time in the Capitol. She had been talkative and kind before being thrust into the Arena. She came from wealth in the upper sectors of District 4, so, although she knew how to swim, she lacked most vital survival skills. By all odds, I had assumed she would be hopeless, and that she would die during the Cornucopia or be killed shortly afterwards. I had simply hoped she would die quickly.
But it didn't transpire that way. Annie had a small handful of advantages that boded her well in the Arena. Because of her lithe build and long legs, she had speed. During the bloodbath, she had run the opposite direction, and had soon reunited with her District partner. Gilbert Pike. He was the son of a fisherman and mostly able-bodied, and he had Volunteered, for reasons he wouldn't disclose to us. But he had protected Annie, and she had helped him find water and food. They had done well together, until it happened. Gilbert had been leaning against a tree, exhausted and hungry, and Annie was trying to cook some fish they caught. And before either could react, an axe flew through the air and decapitated Gilbert's head. There was no time to react. All at once, his body slumped to the ground, and his head rolled to Annie's feet.
She had stayed perfectly still for a minute before she had managed to run. Not long after that, the Arena flooded, and any Tributes who didn't die in the flood, died of water-filled lungs or killing each other off or fatigue. In the end, Annie won, and now she's a Victor. Her parents refuse to live with her due to her hysterics, and her living alone isn't an option - even after all these years. So, Mags alternates between spending the night at my house or Annie's, or sometimes Annie will stay at mine. Annie is comfortable and safe in my presence and in Mags'. She's even fallen asleep on my bedroom floor a few times, burrowing underneath my bed to feel safe; protected.
She has a delicate constitution, and I imagine her mind was fragile before the events of the Games. But all the violence she saw, all the death, had simply cracked and unhinged it.
We Victors stick together, or try to. Thankfully, Annie never comes with us back to the Capitol. Snow makes an exception for her, since she would likely cause a scene. During her Victory Tour, she could barely read off of the cards. And by the time we reached District 6, she had broken down on stage, and Finnick had read the cards for her while Mags and I escorted her backstage.
Maybe it would have been better if I had gone mad, I think. If all Victors went mad, we could stay home. I would have been less desirable. I could just stay in District 4, live in my own head, and pretend the Games never happened - at least, until the nightmares would come for me.
"Annie didn't even know Gilbert before the Games," I say. "Sometimes I wonder why I didn't crack the same way she did, when I had to kill Liber."
Rheon visibly winces. "I'm glad you didn't," he says, simply. "Finnick is going out on the water with Annie today. Mags is going with them. Apparently they're going to try some trust exercises, and just general efforts to bring Annie back to reality."
I try to fight back my own wince, which threatens to overtake my body. No. It's so stupid. It's stupid to even entertain the idea of being jealous, because there's no merit for it. Well, maybe there is a little, but it has nothing to do with Annie, nor does it really have anything to do with Finnick. It exists only in my head. What Finnick is doing is a good, wholesome thing. He and Mags are helping a fellow Victor through her trials and tribulations, which is exactly what I have been doing for her the last few years. I've had my own handful of teaching moments with Annie. I took her out swimming once, as well as fishing, and we even made some decent progress. But then a gun was fired somewhere in the distance, likely a blank from training Peacekeepers, and she had shut down. I had sat with her on that beach for over an hour, trying to bring her back.
Nevertheless, it's just hard. By the afternoon, Seneca Crane will be here, and God only knows what will come from it. I will have to put on my persona for him, will have to act out of my body...take on the identity I've grown too comfortable with. Meanwhile, Finnick will be out to sea, with people I care about. And I won't be able to do a damn thing otherwise. Because of our already established connection, more eyes are set upon us by Snow; watching our every move. Even something as innocent as fishing can be used as ammunition against us. As of such, even in District 4, where we should be able to freely be ourselves, we tread carefully.
"Don't look so sullen," Rheon says. "Its better this way. With Crane coming this afternoon, Finnick won't want to be within any vicinity of Victor's Village. And, besides, Annie needs help."
"I don't dispute that, dad," I say. "I just wish things were different."
"And if they were different, where would you be?"
Isn't that the million dollar question? Finnick had told me once that if the Games had never been involved with our lives, if we had had the opportunity to be free, to be with each other, he would have married me. The thought had been amusing and melancholic at the time, and it still is. It's fully out of reach now, though. After all, we're both subjects to the Capitol, and, by proxy, its property. Snow knows it, we know it. Any life outside of its grip is unreachable. Still, sometimes it's nice to think about, and I do occasionally let my thoughts drift there the nights Finnick and I lay curled next to each other in one another's beds.
But my dad doesn't need to know any of that. He still thinks Finnick is dangerous to be around.
"I played with the idea of being a professional whale wrestler," I say, watching my dad's lips twist into an amused grin.
"Depends on the whale," Rheon mutters, lifting his spear up. With alarming swiftness, he strikes the spear downward. It pierces almost silently through the water, leaving a ripple across its surface. My dad pulls it back up equally as fast, revealing a flounder attached to the end of it; flopping madly.
"Not bad," I say. "How did you see it?"
"Instinct," Rheon says.
"Instinct," I echo.
We carry on like this for a little while, time slipping away from us as the sun slowly takes itself steadily upwards into the sky. Our spears pierce through the water, catching a small handful of fish, one after the other. Small talk doesn't really transpire between us, which is fine. The silence is more comfortable. But the peace we find together is disrupted when footsteps catch my attention across the beach. My dad and I both turn, watching as Finnick Odair makes his way down the pathway leading towards this particular section of the beach. Out from the corner of my eye, my dad stiffens. Meanwhile, I just keep my demeanor the same, and try to offer as light of a smile as I can.
When Finnick is within earshot of us, he calls out. "Good morning."
"He's not here for me," Rheon grumbles, gripping his spear and net and trudging towards the shore. "I'm going to organize our fish."
I think about asking him to wait, but decide against it. My dad is right, Finnick's stare is directed towards me, only sparing a slight glance towards my father when they briefly cross paths.
I pierced my spear through the water and into the sandy surface below, allowing me to remain partially steadied against it as the water coils and pulls around my waist. Finnick stands at the edge of the tide, watching me carefully. He knows, I think. He knows that Seneca Crane is visiting. It's not exactly a quiet thing, even overlooking the fact Seneca visits around this time every year...whenever someone important visits a District, every Victor is made aware of it, so that they know to play their roles - stay out of the way, stay quiet.
Whenever Finnick has those Capitolian women, or sometimes men, appear in ghastly colors and wanton smiles from that train, I usually wait inside my house. I sit in my room staring at a wall, trying to keep some measure of composure, fighting off every urge to run into his house and protect him. I remember Mags told me once that Finnick would feel inclined to kill Seneca, which was a measure of violence I hadn't fully understood. But seeing fully the hell Finnick lives, watching that rolling door of clients both here and in the Capitol, I understand now. It's a violent urge I've become friendly with.
Whenever those clients leave, I usually go to his house. Sometimes it involves me cooking for him, as best as I can, or standing with him in the shower as he scrubs his skin raw, or just holding him as he lays in his bed, which still smells of sex. It depends on the day, the client, and his own emotions. I try to match them. And Finnick has tried to do the same to me before - comforting me the way I comfort him, but I just can't. Whenever Seneca leaves, I just lock my door and resign myself to my bedroom or bathroom. He usually sees me the day after, with a pitying gaze I can't stand.
I think I can't stand it because it's not as bad as Finnick might make it out to be in his head, that I'm not in the same hell as he is, and therefore don't want, nor need, that type of sympathy. I'm not deserving of it.
"Could I borrow you for a second?" Finnick asks.
I size him up, noting how his physical demeanor seems to be mostly relaxed. "Is it an emergency?" I ask.
"No," he says, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
My brow arches at that. "Fine," I say, pulling my spear out. In one swift motion, I aim and send it flying forward. It soars through the air, whistling sharply, and lands someplace on the beach. Finnick follows it with his eyes. "Catch me and we'll talk."
Before Finnick can redirect his attention back towards me, I've spun around and charged into the water. I dive head first, acting like a torpedo as I pull myself further out to sea in long, smooth motions. Finnick will understand what I mean by this, as he allows me to launch forward with a decent head starts. The water is mostly calm today, especially on account of it being a quiet morning, so I'm able to move against the ocean with no resistance. There are countless fish below me, panicking as I loom over them and darting every which way. It isn't until I'm a fair distance from short that I start to consider pausing, but before I can even think to do that, something has my ankle.
I know it's Finnick, but he doesn't get to catch me that easily. I twist around and use my free foot to slam into his shoulder, pushing him off of me. The water is dark below, so his presence is mostly a shadowy blur, but I can definitely tell I've thrown him off. Feeling satisfied, I turn my body and dart downwards, and coil myself so that I am under him, and attempt to push further below. Lower and lower I go, disappearing out of his line of sight, until my lungs start to burn. It's been a few minutes, a reasonable amount of time to be submerged underwater. Technically, Finnick is better about holding his breath, but I have the experience of -
All at once, flashes of blackness fill my vision. The memory of holding a crystal illuminating that inkiness fills my head, followed by the memory of an obsidian cave wall, and crocodiles, whose bodies were black with orange diamonds, using echolocation to find me in the pitch blackness. Panic overtakes me before I can stop it, as I'm placed back in that moment, of my hands grasping onto the cave wall in search of an opening. I had palmed the smooth surface, finding that little tunnel I had pulled myself through - the crocodile Mutt too big to fit through - and I had pulled myself out the other side.
I kick upward towards the light and away from the shadows that blackened the deeper I go into the ocean. When I do breach the surface of the water, the light is blinding, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against it. But my heart is quieted down, managing to wear down my adrenaline with the effort it took swimming to the surface. I hone in on my breathing, which is rapid as I take too many feral breathes to fill up my lungs. Once my breathing has softened, as have my senses, I look across the surface of the water and see no sign of Finnick.
I'm grateful for that. He didn't have to see me in one of my episodes.
Something shifts below me and I relax, as Finnick's body jerks upward, sending a huge splash all around us. He flails his head back and forth, a grin on his face as he takes me in.
"That was sneaky," he says.
"Was it?"
"I didn't see you until you swam up," he says, hooking an arm around my back to support me. He must notice how out of my breath I am...hopefully he assumes it just has to do with the one-arm situation, or me genuinely overstepping the efficiency of my lungs. Nevertheless, I lean into his body and fold my arm around his shoulders, as my legs move to keep me afloat. "How are you?"
"I'm okay," I say. "Just out of breath."
"That's not what I'm talking about." Finnick's fingers brush along my back, gently beneath my shirt. The feel of his skin against mine is a comfort, and I sigh contently. "I know that he's coming today. And you -"
"Try not to think about this afternoon, Finn," I murmur, placing my hand underneath his jaw. "Just focus on Mags and helping Annie. Mags needs it...she was up all of last night, comforting her. I think Annie's episodes are getting worse, you know? She needs the support."
"And you don't?"
"I can handle it," I say.
Finnick exhales through his nose. "You shouldn't have to," he says, brushing his hand along my back.
I take my hand and I raise it from his arm up to his jaw, which I gently cradle against my palm. Finnick cranes his head against my touch, his eyes slowly closing. I, too, lean into Finnick's touch; my forehead pressing to his, and my body being enveloped into his embrace. There's a peaceful moment in time that's solely ours, as the water cradles us, and as we hold one another. There's nothing else in the world except the vastness of the sky and the endlessness of the ocean below us. Nothing else matters, there's only us. And I let myself melt into that concept, if only for a moment. So, too, does Finnick.
He gently bumps his nose against mine, gently forcing my chin to raise. My eyes crack open, taking him in as he stares with half-hooded lids. His beautiful sea-green eyes are staring at my mouth, which is slightly parted and wettened by the sea. He leans forward, his lips just barely ghosting mine, before he closes the distance and kisses me gently. I hold his face against my hand, as his broad arms hold me tighter to his torso. The kiss itself is gentle and slow, the both of us savoring this little, rare moment where the ocean shrouds us, and the sunrise disguises our bodies into ocean shadows. It's moments like these that remind me that there is goodness in this world, it's just deeply buried under so much shit.
His mouth tastes like caramel and sea salt, so familiar, and so...wholly mine. But none of this is wholly mine, is it? That's just wishful thinking, all nicely bundled up in special moments like these. But sometime it's necessary to make pretend. The world is fine, we're fine. There is no Capitol here. It's just him, me, it's us.
When we pull away, Finnick nuzzles his nose against my neck, and I wrap myself tighter around him. "Stay," I whisper, before I can stop myself. "Let's stay here."
"I wish we could," Finnick murmurs against my skin.
I brush my fingers along Finnick's jaw, savoring this moment as I feel it start to slip through my grasp, like trying to cup water with your bare hands. I press my nose against his as an act of affection, before I reluctantly detangle myself from him. Just as reluctantly, he releases his arms from around me, and his eyes soften as they meet mine. It's not easy for any of us, but we try to handle it the only way we know how; find those moments, small as they might be.
"I should get back to fishing," I say. "I'd like to catch some fish to make for dinner tonight. Mags has been working extra hard lately, and I know she's staying this year to be with Annie again. So anything I can do for her, you know?"
Finnick nods. "Yeah..." he trails, clearly disappointed, but also understanding.
I offer him a smile, the warmest I can manage, before turning myself so I'm facing the shore and begin to paddle. Finnick could very easily swim ahead of me, but he stays close at my side. I understand his reasoning. The last time he tried to swim ahead of me, I wound up overdoing it and gaining a massive cramp in my shoulder that lasted for a week. Under normal circumstances I would be annoyed that he's going easy on me, but for today, I'm grateful. I doubt I could control my competitive edge. We push ourselves to the shore. By the time we get back, my dad is there, too.
His gaze isn't hyper-critical of us, nor is it gentle, either. His expression is simply blank, though his dark eyes do track Finnick as he goes to leave the beach. They both share an amicable nod in each others' directions. It's better than the alternative, I suppose.
"All good?" Rheon asks me, once Finnick is out of earshot.
"Yeah, dad. All good," I say, walking towards my spear still embedded into the sand. "He just wanted to check up on me."
"That's important," he says. "Victors need to check on each other."
Yeah, that's true. Finnick and I are just a bit more than Victors to each other, dad, is what I want to say. Instead, I say, "Right."
Turning, I regard the trail that Finnick had disappeared from, and find myself quietly reflecting on the sound of the water behind me, seagulls above me, and the feel of the ocean breeze against my wet skin. Within a week, all of this will be behind me, and ahead will be the Capitol carefully nestled within tall mountains, seemingly at the center of the world. There, everything changes...and the cycle goes, the revolving door carries on, and nothing seems to stop. There is no pause, no reprieve. Only movements. It's like a shark without its fins. Unable to swim, unable to move, it dies.
Such is the way of Victors, I think. More so than that, anyone trying to survive the Capitol. Brief flashes of the Districts flicker across my closed eyelids, particularly to District 12, where everyone was so sallow faced. Those from poorer sectors had their skin hugging their bones, while a luckier few had some semblance of health, yet no life in their eyes. Then there's District 1, where everyone is physically well-built and muscled, their eyes full of promise, with so much faith in their District and Panem.
My eyes open. "It'd be nice to know if there was something more than this," I say, before I realize I'm saying it.
Rheon looks at me, his gaze shadowing in a way I don't recognize.
"Something different," I add.
At that, Rheon looks at me with a stern gaze, no doubt attempting to shut me up before I say something that will get any of us in trouble. I'd like to think we're safe on this beach, out of the reach of the Capitol, but I had thought the same thing about Neleus Odair once, too, before the Peacekeepers came for him. But my dad does not tell me to shut up or to go quiet. His gaze lingers on me for a long moment, where I find myself slowly stiffening with uncertainty.
He breaks his stillness by looking away, his body directed towards the ocean. "All we can do is wait," he says.
Wait. My brow knits in confusion. "I don't -"
"I was lost in thought," my dad cuts off, spinning around to look at me. "Say no more."
Before I can reply, my dad takes his spear and net and returns back to the water. Despite my gentle prodding, he says nothing else, and the coldness in his gaze indicates it's fruitless to try. So, we fall back into that silence we knew before Finnick first broke it. My gaze flickers periodically towards him, trying to understand the way his brow furrows and the tightness in his jaw. More secrets, I guess, I think, bitterly.
But I have bigger things to think about right now.
In a little over a week, I'll be back in the Capitol...the 74th Hunger Games await, and I imagine they will be no different from the others. Still, maybe there'll be a new wind against the tide. I still mean to keep that little whisper of a thought I made to Seneca Crane, that I will watch the Capitol be drowned, him with it. That, in the end, I'll win. And we'll be free.
(a/n): I was actually planning on making Plutarch's POV be a prologue, then Ceres' POV would be second chapter, but I just decided to put them into one to avoid confusion (with the whole numbering per chapter thing lmfao). But here we go! Part 2 of Ceres' trilogy! I am so, so excited, you guys. As much fun as I had writing Ceres' origin story, going into the actual canonical events of the Games is going to be EPIC. I have so many evil plans. :) Also, six year time jump. ^_^ Fear not, there will be a couple of flashback moments laced throughout the following chapters to fill in certain gaps. ;) I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter! Please, please leave me your thoughts! A huge thank you to everyone who's been following me and Ceres all of these years. You guys rock!
Read, review, favorite, follow, etc.! Thank you! *heart*
~CASTING~
Ceres: Seychelle Gabriel
Finnick Odair: Sam Claflin
Rheon: Oscar Isaac
Seneca Crane: Wes Bentley
Plutarch Heavensbee: Philip Seymour Hoffman (RIP)
Ames Cairncross: Damiano David
Ithaca Crane: Lily James