(a/n): Holy shit, you guys. 11 reviews, 14 favs, and 24 followers. I know it sounds cheesy, but I truly, truly am so appreciative to every single one of you. I have been writing Ceres' story for years now, so the fact that the sequel has gained this much love is beyond stellar to me. My heart is so full of love, adoration, and appreciation for every single one of you. I am extremely grateful to every person who takes the time to read my story. You are all wonderful! Thank you all for being the encouragement and the fire lit under me to keep me writing. *heart*
Anyways, cheesiness aside, I hope you guys enjoy the next chapter! :D
CHAPTER THREE
boats and stars
Ceres.
I've always detested the term shark infested water. At its core, what does this expression convey? If you are in the open space of the ocean, your head above water and the rest of you submerged into that seemingly endless world, where else are sharks meant to be? They occupy the space between spaces, the bottom of the ocean and, occasionally, its surface. The ocean is their domain, there is no infestation about it. An infestation implies some type of parasitic connection. A house can be infested by snakes, my room can be infested by spiders, and my mind can be infested by intrusive thoughts. But sharks do not infest the ocean. It's their home, just like how stars exist in the night sky; natural, beautiful.
When I was a kid - maybe five or six - my dad and I had been out in the open water in his fishing boat, the rising sun over the horizon as we tried to capture the dawn and the fish that came with it. We must have been floating there idly for an hour when I first saw the shark fin off in the distance, beginning to casually circle us. Being so young, a small part of me had panicked. But my dad had reached out and touched my head, asserting to me that we were fine. We were in their waters, guests in their home. It is only right for the shark to investigate us. Eventually, it went away. Granted, my heart was still hammering - and hammered still, until I developed a comfortable rapport with the sharks I encountered whilst out at sea.
Sometimes I've wondered if the Capitol sees us as an infestation. The Districts supply them all of their very necessary needs, ranging from their luxuries to the coal that fuels their very lives, but what are we to them, really? When those Tributes arrive in the Capitol, are they guests or are they an infestation? I certainly know how I feel about the Capitolians who enter Districts to visit the Victors. They are the infestation, the diseases.
In the beginning, I used to think of Seneca as the intruder, the parasitic plight that periodically infested my home. Like an overambitious fisherman out in open water, goading a shark, I had looked down on him. Between the two of us, I was the natural predator. Such is the way with predators who strike out to the wrong person, though, one wrong move and a gaggle of fishermen would come to see me strung up. I imagine it would bring President Snow personal joy to see me fail in such a manner.
It's a crude metaphor, to be sure, but it's one that I found oddly comforting when I was first finding my balance with Seneca. Imagining myself as the apex predator between us gave me some sense of solace. He was the reckless fisherman and I was the beast lurking beneath the waters; trying to coexist, doing my best not to take the bait. It's...complicated, to say the least. There's a measure of hate enveloping my mind and heart, but there is also something else now. What used to feel so black and white has a horrible grey area.
I will admit, I had expected Seneca's interest in me to eventually wane. I had been the new, shiny Victor after my Games, the valued possession; coveted, yet claimed by the freshly appointed Head Gamemaker. It seemed like a natural course of possession and power, in hindsight. But I had assumed that my value would wear thin. After all, the year after my Games proved to be mostly uneventful and almost disappointing for District 4. My Tributes, Adrian and Pearl, naturally did not survive. Adrian had died three days into the Games, his throat slit in his sleep, and Pearl had lasted one day more only to break her neck falling down a steep, rocky hill. Neither had died impressively, neither left an impact.
The Victor of the 69th Hunger Games had been a Career from District 2. After that, what remained of my popularity, my desirable qualities, should have been overshadowed. But Seneca's affections, I suppose I ought to word them, did not falter. His determination to maintain his exclusivity towards me has remained steadfast these last six years, as proven by the impressive effort he puts into his Games, and how popular they remain to be. He's built a name for himself and a sturdy legacy, on the surface. Mostly this is due to his overriding ambition, a quality I'm all too familiar with. I had been like that once. But I am also aware of where I reside in this. In order to essentially keep me - keep Snow satiated - I must behave and Seneca must keep producing quality content.
Hardly an equal trade, but nothing about Snow is fair.
I'm not even necessarily sure it's a freedom that I fight to keep. I still forfeit myself over and wear a mask, even if it does occasionally wane the longer Seneca knows me - though he seems fond of me for it, damn him. Seneca has described me as brutally honest before. I think that's a fair assessment. In the earlier years, I had tried to keep up a false personality. I played along, I was complicit, and I pretended to like things he did. But now he's begun to learn more about the real me, my truer character; even my flaws. He's unfazed by me, for the most part, though I do occasionally startle him or make him blush.
To his credit, it's not always about the physical intimacy when he visits me - or when I'm in the Capitol, waiting on his call. Victors are typically purchased for their bodies, and while my body is no stranger to Seneca's, it's not necessarily a priority. Sometimes sex doesn't even transpire between us during our visitations...it isn't even a majority. It's talking, normal interactions. Mostly it's going for a walk or visiting a café or just sitting together, words exchanged between each other all the while.
It's a strange thing, to be sure, and not something I've been entirely able to explain to my peers. My fellow Victors in District 4 don't really ask about Seneca, for good reason. It's a taboo subject better left alone. But sometimes my fellow Victors from the other Districts get curious and ask about him, and their reactions vary from being disbelieving to my words to being bitter. So, I've just learned to keep these interactions to myself, save for a small handful of people I feel comfortable talking to. And I do mean, small.
Truthfully, when Seneca arrived today, I expected that we would go immediately to my bedroom. But, instead, he had opted to suggest that we sit together in my parlor, share some tea together and some scones he had brought with him from the Capitol (raspberry, of course, with vanilla cream), and just talk. Mostly, he wanted my opinions on his most recent interview with Caesar Flickerman. I've seen this interview, of course. It had been broadcast live, as all of Seneca's interviews have been, and there have been reruns to keep the public in the know.
I can't say I have anything of high value to note on the matter. It's all very standard, isn't it? Caesar is asking Seneca about his career as a Head Gamemaker and his plans for the 74th Hunger Games. All very typical stuff. It's hardly something I, a Victor and a Mentor, would really like to delve into. Technically I have the leeway to say no, but I'm not going to. No is a dangerous word in the Capitol, after all, even for something so harmless.
So we sit together in my parlor, Seneca leaning forward staring at the holographic scene of himself sitting beside Caesar Flickerman showing across my wall. I sit beside him, holding my glass of overly sweet tasting tea in my hand, watching with him.
"What did you think?" Seneca asks.
"I think Caesar's crow's feet are showing," I say. "And blue isn't very complimentary on him."
Despite his nerves showing, in how he's rubbing his hands together and has a slightly hunch in his posture as he leans forward, he smiles broadly. "I preferred him in yellow last year."
"Yellow? With his cheap orange spray tan? You have to be joking," I counter. "At least the blue brings out his abnormally white teeth."
"You would be surprised the things he does to keep those teeth so white," Seneca says, looking towards me. "Aside from his attire, how do you think I did?"
It's always odd, a Head Gamemaker deliberately seeking out my approval. It's happened several times throughout the last six years, where Seneca will take moments to find some semblance of validation from me. it's varied, of course. I never really overthink it when he asks about his clothes, for example, but when it comes to his work it feels different. It's an area a Victor shouldn't be involved in, but this whole relationship is already out of the realm of normality. As far as I know, a Head Gamemaker has never been so wholly committed to a Victor before, not to this caliber.
Sure, I bet Head Gamemakers and regular Gamemakers alike have indulged in people like me in the past. After well, we're those delightful little gifts the President is so eager to pass out as rewards to willing Capitolians. But it's never been like that with Seneca. While it's no secret he does enjoy me physically, he treats me as more than just a pleasurable occasional night. He enjoys my thoughts, too, for whatever the reason, and my general company. Despite the fact it's been six years, it's still something I'm not totally used to. I'm also aware of how my opinion can potentially be dangerous. If I go around deliberately or even unintentionally influencing the Head Gamemaker to my biases, then what my fellow Victors - and even some Capitolians - say about me is the truth.
It's a perpetual game of caution, no matter what the hell I'm doing.
"You did fine," I say. "Your nerves didn't show."
"I wasn't nervous," Seneca says, though not defensively. I can tell he's lying by the way his shoulders stiffen a little and how he seems to slowly pull back from himself, the way his brow furrows and that brief second his soft blue eyes go distant. Despite the fact he's a successful Gamemaker, he's a shit liar.
"Then why else ask for my opinion?" I ask, noting the flush in his cheeks. "You didn't look nervous. You looked fine."
"My answers -"
"Were all fine."
Seneca audibly swallows, glancing back towards the holograph, as it shows Seneca and Caesar sharing a laugh together over some poor joke the former had made. He folds his hands over his mouth, focusing back in on the holograph just as Caesar leans closely, and rather seriously, towards the Head Gamemaker in question.
Caesar's voice, aloft with dramatic pauses and enunciations, carries on. "This is your sixth year as Head Gamemaker. What defines your personal signature?"
"Well, I would say truth," Seneca 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..."
The Victor is our heart. That almost makes me gag by the sheer cheesiness of it. I carefully set aside my cup of tea and lean back, folding one leg over the other, and hoping to come across as serious and thoughtful as I stare back at the holograph, but I'm no longer paying attention. My mind is drifting elsewhere. Our Tributes are the meat. So the Arena is his metaphorical skeleton, the foundation of the body, and the Tributes are the meat that make it up...and the Victor is the fucking meat. Aside from the fact the metaphor is just bad, I also can't help but to feel my own heart thud bitterly in response to it.
The Tributes who walk into that Arena are pawns, in the end. Twenty-three die and one walks out, completely oblivious to what life is waiting for them after. It seems straightforward. Adored by the Capitol, bestowed with great riches and fame, and then the comforts of knowing they will never be reaped again. It's all a very pleasant dream. I had believed in it once. But now, standing on the other side of that victory, of being that beating heart the Capitol wants to devour whole, I see things differently.
Unfortunately, I can't linger in these thoughts. Seneca's eyes are still focused in on the screen, regarding himself critically. I can't just disappear. So I force myself back into the moment and lean closer to rest a comforting hand across his back, smoothing it over the velvet of his vest.
"I've been a Head Gamemaker for over half a decade now, longer than my father and uncle," he says.
There's a strange tension to his tone, one that piques my curiosity. "And you've done it very well," I say. "Are the stressors getting to you, though? Are you sure you should be here?"
Seneca sighs softly and straightens out his back, turning a little so he's properly facing me. He reaches out a smooth hand and brushes it over my face and cheek, coming to rest it over my neck. "I needed to get away," he says, and for a second I can hear the exhaustion leak out of his voice. "I've left Plutarch in charge. He can keep everyone in line. The systems are going smoothly, of course, so there won't be too many things to keep orderly. Still, you never know. Sometimes the most bizarre things happen a week before the Games begin."
Plutarch Heavensbee. I am familiar with him. To my knowledge, Plutarch is a Gamemaker of several decades who has remained loyally intertwined within the system, serving under several Head Gamemakers, and performing his duties quite well. While I haven't had the pleasure of too many personal interactions, aside from the occasional handshake or nod at certain events, I know that I've seen him interact with my father at some parties. Rheon claims that Plutarch is one of the more tolerable Gamemakers, but leaves it at that. I suppose my father is just keeping his friends close and enemies closer. Pacify the Gamemakers and your Tributes may stand a chance...
But for the last few years that Seneca has come to visit me, he has left Plutarch in charge. It seems that Plutarch has worked his way through the ranks as second in command - at least, until Seneca's sons come of age. But that's another matter entirely. I don't engage fully in Gamemaker politics, and especially not with Seneca's family. I have no interest in it. It's a conflict of interest and just another example of the sheer awkwardness of Capitolian logic; raise a family there, visit your escort here.
"There have been occasional difficulties, within the inner workings, of course," Seneca goes on, hesitating. "I understand this must be hard for you, hearing about the life of a Gamemaker. But I appreciate you for listening to me ramble like this."
"It's the least I can do," I assure.
Seneca reaches out and takes my hand, curling it into his own and kissing my knuckle, then each individual finger. "Do you have any thoughts on your potential Tributes this year?" Seneca wonders, genuinely curious.
"Your guess is as good as mine," I say. "Careers could Volunteer or some hapless fools could be Reaped. It all depends on the odds, as I'm sure you can guess." Careers in District 4 are not quite as prolific or determined as the Careers of the former three Districts, though they are no less vicious. "I hear big talk from some kids determined to Volunteer, but in the end they don't."
Like me, I think, grimly, and horribly recounting Mara Spurnire and Harpee Dowe. I try to push back the memories of Mara being Reaped, of her teary face slowly approaching the stage as Harpee hissed in my ear to Volunteer for her. I had been fourteen at the time, had spent the better part of the weeks leading up to the Games convincing myself and others that I was going to win, that I was going to Volunteer. But Finnick was Reaped...and everything changed. So I had just stood there mutely, watching Harpee Volunteer instead, and then watching her die. Needless to say, Mara hasn't spoken to me in years because of it. To my knowledge, she's married a wealthy net weaver and lives in the upper sectors. Hopefully she's at peace.
Seneca, oblivious to the small shadow briefly passing over my face, nods. "And then next year is the Quarter Quell," he says, with a small, shaking breath.
"You're worried," I say as an observation, not a question.
"It's the Quarter Quell," he says. "Something special needs to be done for it, but I can't decide what."
"The 74th Hunger Games hasn't even happened yet and you're already hyper-focused on next year."
"Well, I'm ahead of schedule, so I can afford to be concerned," Seneca counters. "I know President Snow has high expectations for me already, but I feel confident I can meet them. After all, my Games have been extremely popular. I've reached marks that past Gamemakers could only dream of. I've left an impression. Now, if these Games go as well as I think they will, then come next year I will have bigger shoes to fill, and, well..." He shakes his head. "So many options to list through. Several of my Gamemakers have written down ideas already."
"Tell me some of them."
"You know I can't do that," Seneca says, smiling. "Confidentiality, but mostly fear of bias. The President wouldn't like it."
I smile. I knew that Seneca wouldn't yield anything to me, but it is still somewhat unnerving he's already thinking about next year. The fucking Quarter Quell. Naturally, the last Quarter Quell had been twenty-four years ago for the 50th Hunger Games, and it had been a living nightmare. As a child watching the old archives of the Games and having had a romanticized version of them, I had believed that the Quarter Quell was a magnificent and incredible sight. Rather than two Tributes being reaped per District, it was four. Fifty Tributes stood in that Arena, and only one emerged, that being Haymitch Abernathy - the only living Victor of District 12.
And the aftermath of the Games themselves show clearly upon Haymitch's person; a drunkard at best, bitter and resigned to the deaths of his Tributes every year. Although, on the surface, it seems as though he doesn't fight for them, I can always tell how rueful he is when they die. After all, no one cares about District 12 and its Tributes. When they die, it's barely an afterthought. I used to feel that way, too. It wasn't until I had to watch Daisy and Rust die during my Games that my opinions changed.
But that had been the way of the last Quarter Quell. Fifty tributes rather than twenty-four, doubling the carnage and the horrors. Notably, Haymitch's Games had done fairly well, though, according to something Seneca said, its Gamemaker didn't last long. So who's to say what will transpire for the 75th Hunger Games? Maybe Seneca will triple the amount of Tributes or double the amount of carnage the Arena has to offer. Maybe he'll extend the ages Tributes can be chosen or lower it.
No matter the case, I know I won't like it. But I'm sure the Capitol will. They love everything Seneca does with his Games.
"Does President Snow ever say anything to you?" I ask.
Seneca recognizes the subtle implications to my query, his head instantly shaking. "Nothing concerning you," he says, consolingly. "Ceresea, so long as I stand, I'll make sure no one hurts or touches you. I've kept that promise, haven't I?"
Indeed, Seneca has. By proving to be an efficient Head Gamemaker and pacifying the President, he has managed to keep his exclusivity to me - despite the fact he's been married for some odd years now, and having had twins out of the union. One would expect that his interest in me would lesson after that, or even after some few yeas spent together, but nothing has dwindled. And, because of it, I've remained untouched by lecherous Capitolians.
For that, I am grateful.
"Enough about my life. Tell me about yours," Seneca says, glancing around. "Things look different."
I suppose they do. My house is a little disorderly nowadays, despite my best efforts to clean it and straighten things out. But my life isn't something I like to talk about with him, at least not the full story of it. "Annie Cresta lives here now, mostly," I admit. "Mags thought it would be better for all of us to live under one roof, since Annie..." I trail away, considering my words carefully. "She sometimes forgets what's real or not, so it's better if she's under our care."
"You help each other?" Seneca asks.
"It's what we do," I say.
Seneca appears intrigued by this, his one brow arching. "Victors are such odd creatures."
I bristle a little. "Right. Creatures," I muse, noting how he winces.
"Sorry. Gamemaker habit..." he murmurs.
Right, the dehumanization of the Tributes turned Victors is all a natural habit. I glance towards the holographic screen, now showing the image of Seneca leaving the interview and being greeted with his wife backstage, the two sharing a brief kiss and sentimental moment, as they wave to the cameras. She is a modestly pretty woman with a long face and deep brown eyes, with ringlet hair usually found in pastel colors. What I notice immediately based off of this footage is how her belly is prominently rounded from beneath her fancy, frilly purple dress.
"How's your wife?" I ask.
Seneca's brow raises, his line of sight trailing to the screen. "Ithaca is well. She's pregnant, as you can tell," he says. "Our third child."
"Congratulations."
I admittedly don't know much about Ithaca, but I think that she and Seneca would prefer it that way. I know that she has been married to Seneca for roughly four years now, but I have never met her - at least, I mean properly. I've seen her in passing at formal affairs or the rare instances in public, but I avoid her to the best of my ability. I'm sure I don't need to go into details about why I do. When she does notice me, she makes a similar deliberate effort to keep a fair distance. Similarly, I haven't met Seneca's twin sons. If I recall correctly, their names are Felix and Maximus, who seem decent enough based on footage I've seen of them, or on the covers of Capitolian magazines looking positively perfect beside their equally perfect parents.
The marriage between the two had been entirely a formality. Both came from important and wealthy families, with a union between the two strengthening their business and financial ties, as well as heightening their stations. From the start of that little union, Seneca had made it clear to me he didn't love Ithaca. He had conveyed some measure of fondness for her, as she is a well-bred woman with high class who treats him well and serves her duties as a Head Gamemaker's wife, but he doesn't love her. I think he had been concerned I would be jealous.
As if to assure me, on Seneca's wedding day, conveniently timed for Annie's Victory Tour, he had visited me in bed well before he had shared a wedding night with Ithaca.
"It's a boy," Seneca adds.
"Quite a collection of them," I say.
"You're telling me. Three boys," he says, with a wistful sigh. "I never believed it could be mine, a wife and sons to carry on my legacy. It's incredible, honestly. My career is flourishing, my wife has the most extravagant parties, my sons do me proud everyday, and yet..." He stops, his gaze drifting off. He leans back against the couch, raking a hand through his black hair. "It's a little disheartening. To have a family with a woman I care for, but don't love."
"That's life," I say. "Arranged marriages exist everywhere, even in District 4."
"Yes, but it's not right," Seneca protests.
No, what's not right is sending twenty-three out of twenty-four children into an Arena to die every year and calling it art. "That's life," I repeat, reaching over to rub his arm consolingly. "Come on. Don't think about it."
I can tell he's distracted now, his mind faraway as he ponders over these completely horrible and unjust problems in his head. How completely horrible for you. I move forward, deciding to pull him out of his funk the best way I can think of. I carefully maneuver myself so that I am straddling his lap, the skirt of my white dress bunching a little around my waist. "Seneca," I say. I don't like the direction this conversation is going. I need to redirect him.
Seneca lifts his light blue eyes to meet mine, a newfound certainty residing in them, as well as some mild embarrassment. There's as light fluster of red in his cheeks, which spread out across his neck. "I sometimes wonder...you know the life I lead in the Capitol. It's public knowledge. But your life, when I'm not here and when you're not under the Capitol's eye, is something I still don't fully know, or understand. And I wonder if you miss me as much as I miss you," he says. "Gemma Lux is happy, isn't she?"
Oh, hell no. All at once, my whole body is rippled with chills. I feel the sudden urge to pull back, then to freeze in place, then to pull back again, but all I can do is stare down at him as my ears start to ring. Gemma Lux. The Victor from District 1 who had been sold to a hefty buyer to bear his Capitolian seed...she had had the choice to end it, when his horrible desires had been fulfilled, but she had born a child out of it, instead. Garnet Lux, who became a Victor later in life, but whose parentage remained quiet; save for the inner circle of knowing Victors, and, it seems, people like Seneca Crane.
I swallow a heavy lump in my throat, biting back the sudden course of fear inside of me, when Seneca reaches out to gently cup my face.
As if noticing my expression, Seneca's eyes widen. "No, I - I wouldn't...I'm sorry, I was just thinking out loud," he says, hurriedly. "I would never expect that of you."
Still, my adrenaline is pumping and every instinct I have is telling me to run.
It wouldn't do Seneca much good, anyway, I console myself, even if that were his real intent rather than a harmless musing. Much like all the other Victors subjected to this lifestyle, I'm given routine pills to keep myself infertile - staunching my monthly cycle and effectively making me perfect for routine, no-price-paid intercourse. I also have an implant for extra measures, one that can't be removed idly.
I remember Mags telling me once that she worried about it having a permanent effect on me, for when Snow eventually releases me from my metaphorical shackles. I almost laughed in her face. The thought of wanting children after this hell I've lived is absolute madness. I couldn't in good conscience bring a kid into this world and raise it to possibly be Reaped and die, or worse, live and become like me. Besides, who the hell would father my child? I guess she's hoping it would be Finnick, but who's to say he'll ever be released from his prison? Who's to say I will, either? Maybe I'll live like this until Seneca dies - if he dies before me. But then that opens the door for others to take his place, and I won't have insurance to protect myself.
But, in any case, surely President Snow would never let that type of matter slide. He wouldn't. The whole subject is taboo...and it posed a problem with Gemma Lux in the long wrong. Having a motherly body hurt her prospects among the Capitolians, to my knowledge - to her relief, I imagine. He wouldn't. Seneca is just thinking out loud, I assert to myself.
"In another life, if you were Capitolian, it would be nice to think about," Seneca says. "I'm under the firm belief a child needs his father, so it would be unfair towards you and anything we'd conceive."
I find it funny he says that, and yet has willfully left his two sons and pregnant wife back in the Capitol to visit me - his little escort from District 4, who he routinely visits, and who is the object of his desire. It's one of those jokes that I find funny, yet when I say it out loud it loses its comedic value.
"Glad we're on the same page," I say.
"Still, there's something else on my mind."
Dear, God. What else?
"It has occurred to me...have you ever been in love?"
"Where's this coming from?"
"I've wondered if I could ever be in love with Ithaca. She is, after all, the mother of my children," Seneca says. "But I don't feel for her the way I should feel for someone I am in love with."
"Are you about to confess...?" I begin, my voice tense.
"No. No, not like this," Seneca says, face flushing. "I care about you. I value you deeply. But...love is complicated, isn't it? Besides, I'm not foolish enough to fall in love with a Victor, much less expect her to feel the same way. Our worlds are entirely separate. And one day, there'll come a day where we will no longer see each other. Through death or sickness or if I lose President Snow's favor...I know this isn't permanent, that it isn't...real, much like how your Ms. Cresta resides in her own head."
I find his melancholic sounding monologue to be strange, to say the least, but the open acknowledgment to our circumstances is a mild comfort, at the bare minimum. "This is your fantasy," I say, before I can stop myself, "I'm just living in it."
"Your role is more critical than you think," Seneca says, brushing his hands over my hips. "This is why I value you. You're honest."
"After six years, I think it's necessary to occasionally see the real me," I say.
"Do you think you could love me?" Seneca asks. "As in, if our worlds were different."
"Elaborate on that world for me," I say, mostly to stall.
"I'm not the Head Gamemaker and you're not a Victor."
I think back to this world that Finnick had described to me, in which neither of us were ever taken in by the Games and molded into jaded Victors; we would be free to live our own lives. Finnick would be living in his father's house in the Hatchery, taking up his mantle as a fishmonger. He would live a quiet life in a simple little house by the water. I would still be a Victor's daughter, used to the height of luxuries. But I think I could have been comfortable in the life Finnick hypothetically offered me in this world he made, where things were so different. He claims he would have married me. Ceresea Odair. It's a strange life to consider, being a fishmonger's wife. Well, being anyone's wife is a strange thought, for that matter. Our lives would have been so different...but then again, maybe in that normalcy we would have killed each other.
Who's to say? In any case, the world Finnick made for me sounds like a sweet one. I try not to live in it in my own head too much, because it becomes harder to pull away from it. But the world that Seneca proposes is nonsensical. In no world, in his own head or in mine, could this ever have transpired without the Hunger Games, without our positions. And the thought of what Capitolian me would look like is a nightmare all on its own. I would have been a monster.
Seneca values me for my honesty, so my honesty he shall have. "I am a remarkably selfish woman, Seneca. My emotions are fickle," I say, carefully. "I don't think I'm capable of loving anyone selflessly."
"What makes you say that?"
"I killed my own brother when I swore to protect him, die for him in the Arena. I chose to live, instead, when I threw that spear into his heart," I say. "If I can't even abide by familial love, how can I be expected to feel sincere romance for someone?"
Seneca seems to take a moment to process my answer, a thoughtful look reflecting upon his face as he slowly begins to nod. He seems appeased by my answer, with no trace of melancholy or sadness showing across his features. There is no bitterness to speak of. "So long as you care for me, that's all that matters," he says."
That much I can lie about. "I do," I say, touching his cheek. "Let's forget about the Games for a while, okay? Let's go up to my room."
Three years ago.
"I think that one looks like a bow and arrow."
"I don't see anything."
"That's because you have a limited imagination."
Reeling my elbow back, I push it sideways and ram it into Finnick's ribcage. He grunts at the impact, followed immediately after by an amused laugh. The arm he has resting underneath my head as I lay curled beside him promptly curls around me, squeezing me in retaliation against him. I don't mind the added closeness, though. It's one of those rare nights where things feel...put together, like all of those broken parts that just can't seem to fit right suddenly do, or at least I can pretend. For starters, it's nice that we're not in either of our homes. Although technically our houses in Victor's Village are nice, they are still technically prisons; oversized, glamorous cages, like the kind you keep fancy birds in to sing for you. There's never enough space to fly.
Finnick and I are laying side by side on the floor of his new ship, a blanket thrown over our naked bodies and a few blankets under us to protect our bare skin from the wooden surface. Above us, the sky is cloudless and a full moon illuminates the oddly still, glossy open water surrounding us. Needless to say, there's a lot of lacking decorum in our current state at the moment, which, if I'm being honest, I don't give a damn about.
Sure, this is definitely a step out of my usual comfort zone, but it feels warranted. Hours ago, just before sunset, Finnick and I had made the mutual decision to just sail for a while; find a peaceful space of open water and just anchor. It had started off simple enough, the two of us sitting together watching the sunset, with the shoreline far enough away that it felt like it couldn't touch us. I don't neither either of us had planned for things to escalate the way they did. Frankly, I can't even recall what had triggered it. Maybe it had been in the way we kept exchanging looks, or how we started inching closer, or it could be how I had cut him off mid-sentence with a kiss.
Bottom line, things happened, and this is how we are. The boat is properly large, possessing a lower deck to allow for storage, so there hadn't been any real concern of capsizing the damn thing. And we were far enough from shore that there hadn't been any major concern of being seen or heard...at least I hope so.
Then again, I'm a little too content to care. It's a moment that's ours. I'm not going to ruin it by overthinking it just yet.
In any case, the only thing I can overthink right now is finding patterns in the stars.
"They're just stars," I say.
"Just stars...you say that like they're nothing."
"They're twinkling, glowing dots in the sky," I retort. "It's like glitter on fabric, and, much like glitter, sometimes they fall." I idly wave my hand for emphasis. "Shooting stars. But where do those things go, anyway? They leave their place in the sky, decide to fall - or maybe they're pushed - and then what? They disappear? Awfully rude of them, if you ask me."
Finnick chuckles, his head tilted so I can feel it against my hair. "You are frustratingly technical," he murmurs. "Can't you indulge me?"
"Fine," I relent.
After a small, yet still very obvious, eye roll, I allow my gaze to skim across the sky. It really is such a beautiful night and the sky is full of a vastness of stars, all accompanied by a full moon providing ample amount of silvery light. But it really is all just one blur. It's no different than glittery black fabric - my Stylist, Galeria, has used such material for my costumes before. Still, I try to indulge Finnick to the best of my ability, and set aside any realistic or practical thought in my head as I force my eyes to find something resembling something up there in that sky. Eventually, I manage to connect some of the dots, though I doubt my answer is going to be desirable.
I lift my hand and point, trying to track the stars with my finger. "Okay, I think that one looks like a spoon," I say. "Maybe a ladle?"
"It's original, I'll give you that."
My hand drops to my side, settling over my blanket covered stomach. "I can't say I understand stargazing, but I get why you like being out here at night. It's quiet," I say. "If the weather stays good tomorrow, maybe we could..." I trail away, noticing how his face falls slightly from out of the corner of my eye. I try not to let disappointment or dismay show across my face. "Oh."
"I won't be seeing you tomorrow."
"Right. Client..."
Finnick exhales slowly. "Yeah. All day, too," he says, and gently squeezes me. "Hey...just because a client's coming tomorrow doesn't mean I'm not yours tonight, or any other day."
I know he's trying to console me, but it doesn't exactly help. The sadness I'm feeling doesn't stem from any measure of jealousy - okay, fine, maybe a little, but it's no fault of his - but rather from quiet anger. It's the fact that Finnick has to wake up tomorrow morning and prepare to meet with a Capitolian who desires his company, spending God knows how much time...I can't even think about it. Over the last few years as a Victor, I've had the misfortune of truly seeing how deep Finnick's popularity runs and how many clients he reluctantly accumulates from the Capitol. A couple of them I've memorized, depending on the seasons or even how Finnick dresses or smells before and afterwards, but I try hard to not let any of them occupy my head. I try to keep them faceless, voiceless, and meaningless. But sometimes it's unavoidable.
I am, however, particularly aware to a couple of his more aggressive clients. The looming dread hangs heavier over Finnick whenever their presences draw closer, his eyes going more distant and his demeanor colder. He seems more melancholic than filled with horror now, though, so I doubt it's anyone too awful, but, nevertheless, I know Finnick has been frequented by one particular client more than usual lately. "It's not that Thrax guy, is it?"
"No. Definitely not," Finnick says. "I probably won't see him until we get back to the Capitol."
There's a small breath of relief that parts from Finnick following these words, which, in turn, makes my heart tighten. I truthfully don't know much about Thrax Mellona, other than the fact he's someone important from Snow's inner circle; an older gentleman who keeps mostly to himself, but apparently has a reputation among the Victors. In that, nobody really talks about him. And Finnick has made it abundantly clear he never wants to talk about him, as well as keeping me as far away from him as possible.
I mean, there's not much concern of me ever really encountering him, though, given the fact Seneca Crane has exclusivity to me - and has maintained it impressively well. I do recall, however, Finnick once mentioning (after having a few too many drinks) that one of the few good things that came out of Seneca's claim to me was the fact I was safe from people like Thrax.
"It's Ovid Invictus. He's...one of the good ones. He mostly likes to draw me naked," Finnick says, so casually he may as well be talking about the weather or his preference in colors, or even what shapes he can find in the stars. "He's never touched me. Still, it's a little unsettling, having my body stared at in remote silence. Still, he's the son of some wealthy commander, or whatever, and has some interesting things to say. Secrets, you know, are more valuable than any jewels or gold."
Finnick maintains confidentiality remarkably well, despite his circumstances, when it comes to his payment. While most Victors gain money or jewels or other various treasures from their clientele, Finnick has revealed to me that he chooses a different form of payment, that being secrets. The secrets he is paid in remain just that, and the details of his methods, of why he desires this over money, are safely guarded behind his built honor system. Even to me, he doesn't share what he learns - and I have tried to pry before, at least to understand why he chooses words over resources.
But I suppose that's Finnick Odair in a nutshell, the perpetual enigma.
Nevertheless, it's comforting to know that a less malicious personality is coming to visit Finnick - even if he sounds quite strange.
"How can you talk so casually about it?" I ask.
"It gets easier," Finnick admits. "No less hard, but easier. You just find ways to cope."
"Like your poetry?"
"Yeah, like my poetry."
I hum, pressing closer into Finnick's side. Up above us, I try to make a connection between more stars, darting my gaze between them. It's been a few years since I won, yet I still haven't really found my coping mechanism...not really sure it exists yet. Mags' mechanism is pretty straightforward - love and nurture everyone she encounters, regardless of who they are. Her heart is so large and so welcoming, there isn't any apprehension in welcoming someone into her embrace. Finnick's is his poetry. He keeps a few journals in his room and throughout his house dedicated to his writing. He's let me read a couple of them before. Some are only a couple of sentences long, whilst others take up pages upon pages. Sometimes his handwriting is beautiful and elegant, whilst others are manic and sometimes unreadable.
My dad's...well, I think his coping mechanism had be me, in hindsight. All throughout my life, my dad had taken me fishing, had taught me how to tie knots, how to sail, and how to properly debone fish. But ever since my brother died, things had changed. Our fishing ventures had shortened more and more, and my ability to handle his presence, knowing he had chosen me instead of Liber, had started to deteriorate. I try, I really do, but I see the hidden guilt in his eyes I might've otherwise misunderstood, and I just can't. And he seems to struggle in my presence, too.
The closest thing I've found to a cope would be torturing myself. My dad used to describe remembering as going down memory lane, and sometimes I like to walk that way, just so I can see the old me again, and everyone she knew. This includes the Finnick I knew before the Games, when he was just that reckless fourteen year old boy who was training under his father to be a fishmonger - maybe something more. I remember my younger brother, always going off on his own devices, who had ignored...in my version of memory lane, I pay attention to him, I take him fishing. And when I think about the person I used to be, as I wander down those old memories, I try not to cringe. The old me hadn't been a good person, but she hadn't known any better. Sad to say, but I pity her. I pity me.
Sensing that my mind is drifting away with me, Finnick squeezes me again. I bring my gaze from the stars and onto him, noting how his sea-green eyes intently search my face. His gaze never leaving mine, Finnick turns over on his side, and wraps me tightly in his arms, and I turn to face him, as well.
His fingers brush across my cheek, pushing strands of my dark hair out of my eyes. "It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart," he says.
I try averting my gaze, but his fingers tuck under my chin and gently forces me to meet his eyes. "We're no different from those stars, Finnick. We're up there in that sky now, but someday we're going to fall and be forgotten. Maybe a memory for someone to recall one day, but gone, all the same," I say. "After that, I don't know if there'll be anything left to put back together."
"Then we fall together," Finnick says. "It's you, it's me, it's us, remember?"
We truly are like those stars above us, just two little glittering orbs amidst thousands of others, maybe a little pronounced, but eventually we'll be muted and fall from that inky blackness. When we do, I hope we land somewhere peaceful - someplace far away. Until then, it's not just him and me, it's everything lying in between. It's the Capitolians who think they own him, it's Seneca Crane who owns me, and it's President Snow who puppeteers us all.
What I wouldn't give to be able to cut Finnick's strings, let him fall out of Snow's grasp...fall out of that inky black void that swallows him whole. "I know," I whisper back.
As I lean forward to close the distance between us in a gentle kiss, I think about the stars above us and the moon glowing brightly. If Snow is the moon, domineering his star Tributes, I hope someday to see a sun rise to bring him down, and let the stars fall.
Present.
I spend roughly an hour in the shower, alternating between hot and cold water, and about five different types of soaps I've accumulated. By the end of it, my shower is the pungent aroma of sea-salt, vanilla, some type of flower that's strong, and other types of smells that do well to mask my indignity, but none really ever wash away how I feel afterwards. To my relief, it hadn't been an overly long visit, due to Seneca's duties waiting for him back in the Capitol. He had stayed for only two hours more after our conversation, that time spent mostly without talking, and just forgetting the overall bizarre nature of what was said. At least, he seemed to forget about it. As for me, it's all I've been thinking about.
As I stand under the cold shower, letting the chill take over me as I scrub vanilla soap over my body, I can't help but to think about everything he said. I try not to take it too seriously, but how the hell can I not? Despite the amount of times I have rationalized his words in my own head, putting sense to his nonsense, nothing really settles me. In my mind's eye, I imagine Gemma Lux, the beautiful blonde-haired Victor from District 1 who was forced to carry the child of a Capitolian...not all the way through, according to his desires. He just wanted to stake ownership of her for nine months of her life. Afterwards, he didn't care. But she gave birth to that child, anyway, and he wound up being Reaped and then won, and now, to my understanding, he leads a life much like mine, Finnick's, Cashmere's, and all the rest.
The image of myself in Gemma's shoes sends horrible chills through my body, a fear that I can't put into words. But I know that it won't reach me, for a multitude of reasons. Seneca himself admitted to it just being a fantastical musing and being an unrealistic one, and I think I would assert my dominance, what little I have, under these situations. And, surely, President Snow would never abide by it. It would cause too much of a controversy, wouldn't it? As far as I can recall, Gemma's pregnancy had certainly been a huge scandal, and her popularity had waned because of it. Snow learns from mistakes. He learns.
I exhale shakily as I turn the water back to hot. It's unrealistic, it won't happen, and yet the thought of it alone reminds me of just how perilous of a situation I am in. Possessiveness and ludicrous expectations extend to those who are under exclusive circumstances, this I've come to learn - and all I've been told through Cashmere, when she had opened up to me about that brief period of time where she had only one client. It's a double edged sword, to be sure. One person versus dozens upon hundreds of potential others. At least with Seneca I know what I'm getting myself into.
At least until he threw that little imagining into the mix.
I turn the hot water off and step out of the shower and into the steam riddled bathroom, instantly going for the cabinet where I keep the pills so graciously provided to me by the Capitol. I take them without water, swallowing them down with the assurances to my safety in check. Still, I'm uneasy now, and I feel sick. But this has to be the least of my worries now. The Hunger Games is a week away and I have my own shit to deal with. All of this will be forgotten in due time...I just need to find something to bring my focus back to the here and now. Thankfully, distractions are swift to save me.
Distantly, I can hear that Mags and Annie have returned, by the small array of voices from downstairs, as well as the door shutting behind them. They're back, but they know to avoid me - to leave me to my devices, whatever they may be, until I could muster up the energy to go to them. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the sink, my forehead pressing against the moistened mirror. I'll just talk to Mags about it. She's smart. She'll know what to say to me, one way or the other. Then again, if I tell her she may panic and relay the information to someone else, so where the hell does that lead me?
With an annoyed sigh, I reach over and grab a towel hanging off of the wall, and wrap it carefully around myself. Damn everything for being so complicated.
With a resigned sigh, now feeling properly covered, I push open the bathroom door and step into my attached bedroom, but something stops me in my tracks. Raising my eyes from the floor up, I see someone sitting on the edge of my bed, and for a split second something in me almost snaps. Instinctively I want to reach for something, I want to get into a fighting stance. My guard is down, but I can remedy that. Despite the fact I am in a vulnerable position, I can fight. All I can register in this solitary moment, as surprise grips me, is there is a person in my room. But when I blink, all I see is Annie. My adrenaline is still pumping hard, forcing me to stand there taking deep "calming" breaths.
Annie hasn't even looked up to register me, her expression is just calmly lowered to something she's holding on her lap. Shit, shit, shit, I chant to myself. In hindsight, I really ought to have locked my door. Sure, Mags knows to leave me alone after a visit from Seneca Crane and, to some capacity, so does Annie. But she's gone into my bedroom before, unannounced, in search of comforts or simply an escape. Still, I feel incredibly awkward as I am, wearing only a towel and my wet hair hanging around my shoulders. Luckily, this is my room, not the room.
When I had entered Finnick's house in Victor's Village for the first time, he had explained to me how he maintained two bedrooms. One was for the Capitolian purposes, where he would entertain those wretched periodic visitors; a room designed to appeal to the fantasy. The other bedroom was for his own sleeping purposes, a quieter room that had been meant for storage due to its smaller, simpler design, but he had turned it into something warm and welcoming.
I had taken Finnick's method to heart.
My house in Victor's Village, like all the others, has six bedrooms. One bedroom belongs to Mags, of course, with another belonging to Annie (though she rarely sleeps there alone or at all). One bedroom is mine, where I sleep and maintain my sanity - that being this bedroom I am currently standing in. The other, much like Finnick's is designed for the fantasy, which I have torn the sheets off of and fiercely cleaned after Seneca's visit. My own bedroom is a smaller space, though I prefer it that way. It consists primarily of my bed, a dresser, and some shelves containing little knick-knacks I've grown too fond of to let go; seashells, some books, pictures of my family, and old spearheads that I've accumulated over the years.
It's a space that's entirely mine, though it's been a sanctuary for others, too. Finnick visits here when he is in desperate need to escape the prison of his own house, Annie sleeps under my bed for comfort, and, sometimes, Mags will lay beside me when either of us are feeling low.
But, as harsh as it may seem, I need it to be my room right now. Annie's presence isn't an unwelcomed one, but I'm not thrilled to be entertaining or comforting someone right now.
"Annie, now isn't a great time," I say.
Annie simply hums in reply, and that hum of confirmation that she had heard me quickly shifts into a musical hum; a trailing melody with no specific beat or rhythm, just mindless and idle. Her head bobs along to the sound of it, as she adjusts the item she has on her lap. It's a book, though with her hunched over it I can't really make it out. She must have taken it from Mags' bedroom, since Mags keeps a huge shelf full of different books she's accumulated over the decades.
"Annie," I repeat, stepping closer. "Could you sit in Mags' room, please? Maybe you could go wash your hair before dinner - I'm still cooking, you know. Then, during dinner, we can talk about how your sailing went. I want to hear all about it, but right now I just need..." I try to find the politest word I can think of. I don't want to say anything that could be potentially hurtful, but I also need to be alone. "I need to freshen up. Preferably privately."
At that, her soft green eyes raise towards me, clouded. "Sailing," she murmurs, overlooking all else I had said. "Boat."
I make a low clucking noise. "Yeah," I say, trying to bite back the impatience in my tone. "You went sailing on a boat."
"Boat."
Annie brushes her finger along the parchment of her book, then slowly turns over the page. In doing so, I am able to catch a glimpse of what resides within the contents of it. When I do, my heart stops. Across the surface of the page resides the drawing of a boat; with a high arch and a silver lining to it, like a crescent moon. The drawing itself is slightly smudged, but I recognize the style instantly, as well as the handwriting accompanying it. My eyes widen into the size of saucers, something hitching within my throat. My eyes flash towards my dresser, where I had laid Liber's journal before I had started to get ready for Seneca's visit. In my own deep thoughts, I had neglected to put it back underneath my bed. I had let it sit out in the open...but I hadn't even considered this a possibility.
Now my brother's final possessions, the key to figuring out who he was and his life before the Games, is resting in Annie Cresta's gentle hands. My eyes level back towards her, feeling myself start to tremble in place. She is touching the paper gently, her distant gaze looking across the drawings and notes thoughtfully, but not clearly. She turns the page again, smiling. As she brushes her finger over the parchment this time, I notice her smudge the delicate drawing itself.
"These are really pretty," Annie says, smiling sweetly.
I try to hold myself back from snatching the book out of her hands, afraid of damaging it but mostly fearful that I will trigger something inside of her. Being around Annie means you have to be cautious. Your words have to be gentle and considerate and your movements have to be thought out, so by that token I can't manhandle something away from her.
"Yeah, it is. Really pretty, right?" I slowly extend my hand, so she can clearly see it. "Would you mind if I saw it?"
But Annie ignores my hand. She flips to another page and her sweet smile falls away into a frown, with her brow wrinkling together into a singular line, and she slowly raises the book closer to her face. My heart is hammering at the more in this moment, even though, logically, I know Annie would never do anything to damage it. She's too gentle, too kindhearted. But I need to get it back.
I need to hide it away, ensure no one else finds out about it. Me and Mags know that it exists, along with Finnick, and that's all -
"This is wrong," Annie mutters.
I exhale a little shakily. "What's wrong?"
"The initials. They're wrong," Annie says, flipping the book over so I can see. She points to the initials beside one of Liber's sketches with an expression that is alarmingly focused. N.D. are the initials she refers to, unsurprisingly. "The handwriting...I've seen it before. It's the same, but it's different."
Same, but it's different. Slowly my eyes start to widen, my heart hammering faster but for entirely different reasons now. I look between Annie and Liber's journal, feeling a measure of excitement, of hope, start to flourish inside of me. I try to keep it calm, again at risk of frightening her with any potential outbursts. I swallow hard. "What makes you say that?" I manage to ask.
"It's D.N., not N.D.," Annie replies.
I don't know how I can believe her. Annie has said odd things before in the past. She once claimed that she could hear the fish speaking from beneath the water, then proceeded to laugh and then cry and rock herself back and forth. Mags says that the trauma one endures can do drastic things to a person's mind, memory, and very being, and that is an understatement. Annie's mind has certainly been altered - her memory drastically - but I've gotten good about telling the difference between if she's making pretend in her head or if she's being serious.
A small part of me expects that her words stem from such a place, from a distant, disorientated memory that she's projected onto my brother's book. But looking at her, I see that her eyes are clear. Those soft green eyes that were once full of life and softness, now usually dulled and rapid, are regarding me with a focus I so rarely see in her. Despite myself, I swallow thickly, and weigh my options. I can brush this off...I can choose not to believe her, for my own sake. If this isn't real, then it's just a tidbit of false hope I don't need. But then again, if it's true, then it's something. It's a piece of the key to finding out more about my brother, about his life.
"Annie...do you know Nodon Doyle?"
Annie tilts her head at me, a puzzled expression residing in her eyes. "No."
If she recognizes the initials as D.N. rather than N.D., I suppose this would make sense. It could be a coincidence. But everyone I've ever spoken to about Nodon Doyle have made the same claims, that he's dead. Meanwhile, Annie recognizes the handwriting but with switched initials. Maybe the name Nodon Doyle is dead, but the person is very much alive. "Okay, so who's D.N.?" I ask, kneeling beside her so I stand less imposingly over her. "You have to remember the name, don't you? You're clever, Annie, please, I know you know..."
Annie frowns all the more, her expression shifting. "I...don't remember," she admits. "It was so long ago...but dad knows. Dad." Her expression completely falls, a look of absolute anguish spreading over her gentle features, and across her body as she slowly starts to hunch into herself. Liber's journal, once held carefully in her hands, is now thrust into an embrace against her bosom. Her head curls inward, tears abruptly spilling from her eyes.
"No, no, no, no, come on, Annie, I know you have it in you. Please, please..." I beg, reaching out to press a hand to her back, but she flinches away from me. Any semblance of clarity is gone from her now. Annie is trapped inside of her own mind, rocking back and forth as she holds the journal tightly to her chest, and sobs ripping through her. All I can do is kneel there beside her, tentatively being able to lay a comforting hand on her back. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears continuing to spill from them. "I'm sorry, Annie. Damn it, I'm sorry."
Annie starts to wheeze in rapid breaths. "Dad...mom...gone...gone, aren't they?" she sobs.
"No, Annie, please -" I cut myself off, swallowing. "You're safe. Okay? You're here with me, with Mags. We're all safe here, okay? We're home. You're home."
But there's no reasoning with Annie anymore. The clarity she had known mere moments ago is gone and now she sits sobbing uncontrollably at the edge of my bed. All I can do is slowly raise myself up so I'm sitting beside her, and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She allows it, but she doesn't lean into me for comfort.
Annie's parents aren't gone. The Crestas are still very much alive, but any affiliation they ever had with Annie has long since been forsaken in lieu of her ascension to Victor. With the loss of her mind and her hysterical tendencies, they had no desire to live with her in Victor's Village, nor bother tending to her fragile mind and body. As far as they were concerned, they had surrendered her into the custody and care of the Victors when she had returned home too difficult to manage. I had only met them a handful of times, but none of those instances had been particularly positive.
When Annie had been first Reaped, I had encountered them at the mayor's house during the farewells. While Annie's mother and father had both wept, they had admitted they knew they were bidding farewell to a dead girl. When she came home, Annie had collapsed into their arms and wept endlessly, then within a breath she had screamed and called them strangers. In their faces, she saw the Careers who had tried to kill her, and the Mutts who had prowled the Arena. They had only lived with her in Victor's Village for a handful of days before they had departed, with nothing but a note written for any Victor who found it first. A very simple: We leave her in your care.
Perhaps in Annie's mind, her parents are dead, and I'm not going to rectify that detail for her. If I persist that they are alive, which they are, she may insist on seeing them. Then what do I say? Do I admit to her that they no longer have any desire to see her again? No. That would be cruel. It's better to allow whatever fantasy, no matter how sad, to live within her head. It's likely kinder than the reality of it. But that being said, in her moment of lucidity, Annie had admitted a truth. Her father, Angler Cresta, knew Nodon Doyle - by a separate name, as I am guessing by different initials, but it is something. It's a lead.
The unfortunate truth of it is, however, that there is no way in hell that Angler Cresta will ever see me. The Crestas make a point of not only avoiding Victor's Village, but any and all Victors in public in general. If they so much as catch sight of any of us, even in passing, they practically disappear altogether. Although I know where Angler lives and could hypothetically use my power as a Victor to get inside of their house, none of that would be beneficial. For one, by utilizing my power and invoking Peacekeepers to break in, it would draw unwanted attention.
As Mags pointed out all those years ago, it was best not to see Nodon Doyle out at risk of jeopardizing him by proxy to the dangers I am associated with. It would be placing a very loud target on Angler's back if I acted in such a manner - though, to be fair, he deserves it. Alternatively, if I discreetly went to his house and requested entry, under the pretense of updating him on Annie, I would never be let inside. At the off-chance Angler opened the door himself, he would slam it in my face. If his housekeeper opened it and I was allowed inside, I would be immediately thrown back out. Whatever the case may be, going to Angler directly would be useless. Of course the only possible person to know about Nodon hates the Victors...
Technically, he isn't my only option. Mags seems to know who he is, but she has no interest in telling me anything other than the fact that he's dead. I could ask my parents, but then they would have to ask how I know about him, which would lead me into revealing that I have one of Liber's journals. A fight would likely break out and they would demand for the book, to either hide or destroy it, and I'd be back at square one. My own family, arguably inner circle, isn't an option. So, that means the only person who might have something for me, this little fraction of hope, will be next to impossible to get ahold of. Next to impossible, but not wholly impossible.
While there is no way in hell I could possibly get ahold of Angler Cresta under normal circumstances, I do believe I know an opportunity where I can corner him. The Reaping is within a week and attendance is mandatory. Even without being the parents to one of District 4's Victors, the Crestas are under duty and obligation to be present for the event. It is unavoidable. And because they are such public and important members of society, they will likely be closer to the front; tucked into the corner of those too old to be Reaped, but still very much there. Before the Reaping, before I leave District 4, I can corner Angler and find the answers I need. Maybe I can catch him as he's leaving his house or about to enter the crowd. Yes. Yes, I could. I could make up a story about how Annie wants to see him, how I need a word, as a fellow concerned Victor. That wouldn't draw too much attention, would it? Annie's condition is no secret. A Victor consulting her parents, negligent as they are, wouldn't arouse much curiosity. After all, Mags has tried many times to reach out to the family to rekindle their relationship with their daughter. I could, hypothetically, pose as a messenger.
As Annie continues to weep into my shoulder, clutching onto me as if I were a piece of driftwood in the open ocean, I feel something stir deep inside of me. Hope. It rekindles itself like a flame deep from within my chest. The waiting is going to kill me, but the Reaping is only a week away. I need only have to wait those few days before then and, if anything, the wait will allow me to map out my plan.
After all these years, I have a lead.
And I'm going to take the bait.
(a/n): So, originally this chapter was going to consist with just the interaction between Seneca and Ceres and then Cere's interaction with Annie, but given the fact you hooligans wanted to see some Finnick...I added in a flashback scene for you guys, free of charge. (Next Ceres/Finnick requested moment is gonna cost you guys. $$$ Just kidding, just kidding.) Okay, so, anyway, the next chapter is gonna be a doozy on so many levels, you guys. To say I am excited is an understatement. The next chapter is going to feature some revelations about Liber's journal and N.D. and, most importantly, we're going to be kicking off the 74th Hunger Games with District 4's Reaping. Gosh, I am so, so excited. I have been waiting for this moment for years now, and I can already tell you how excited I am to be able to write it out for you. But other things are going to be going down next chapter, too. I am especially excited to be introducing you guys to District 4's Tributes! ^_^ I can promise a lot of drama, angst, some fluff in my coverage of THG. I hope you're ready for it, I'M NOT. *heavy excited breathing*
Also, this might be real damn sad, but I just realized that "Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee is a song that 100% fits Ceres and Finnick, and I am NOT sorry for sharing that information.
I love you all so much! Thank you for all of the love, you all motivate me to keep writing!
Read, review, favorite, follow, etc.! Thank you! *heart*
~REVIEW RESPONSES~
rikiarin: Oh thank you so much! Cashmere is a fun character to write and we'll be seeing a lot more of her (along with all the other Victors) in the coming chapters! Something I'm really excited about is writing the behind-the-scenes of the Hunger Games, where we see how the Mentors handle everything and their strategies and tactics, etc. I'm also very excited to introduce Ceres' varying relationships with everyone, because there's some pretty interesting dynamics there. ;) And thank you for your compliment on Annie! I truly enjoy writing her. She's a very dynamic and interesting character, and it's been a lot of fun to convey the sensitive balance of her mind and how others respond to it. As far as rooting for Seneca goes, I'm glad you have conflicted feelings. It's definitely the type of reaction I wanted going into their relationship. A lot of things are going to transpire with him in the follow chapters, so I'm curious how your opinions of him will go moving forward. ;)
miaoca304: Hahaha! To answer your question, Seneca and Ceres' conversations can be summed up as: complicated. Also, I truly appreciate your analyzation on Ceres' view of Annie, and her own inner workings. It really is a wonderful dynamic and I greatly enjoy writing it. Ceres definitely wishes that she had gone mad, with the thought process that, if she had, she could have avoided all of this hell - the exclusivity, the having to go back to the Capitol, etc. But at the same time, she's grateful for her sanity, because it means she can be present, like to help Finnick. It's quite a conundrum she faces. :') I also hope you enjoyed the lil scene with Finnick and Ceres! Not a fully fledged confession of devotion, but, to be fair, Finnick hasn't said those three little words yet. ;) So there's still time. And honestly, I wish I could hug Ceres too! But she'd most definitely shank all of us. Poor bean. XD
DreamonAlina: Haha, it sparks so much joy within me that my silly fanfic lives rent free in somebody's head! XD Full disclosure, I spent a lot of time contemplating what to do with Annie. For a brief period of time, I considered killing her during her Games and replacing her with either her District partner or another Tribute, but, in the end, I love Annie so much and I really thought her different relationship with Finnick and her dynamic with Ceres would be really fun to write. And I'm very glad I stuck with it! ^_^ Per your request, plenty of Finnick in this chapter. ;) Some light lil' tension between him and Ceres, but them together all the same.
the. apple .seed: I'm so glad you enjoyed the chapter! It was really important that I setup Ceres' essential failure at being a Mentor the first time around, so that we can see the change later on when she interacts with the Tributes for the 74th Hunger Games. ;) I am so, so excited to introduce them the next chapter, and then her relationship with them! I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I am very excited.
Grace of the Damned: Gosh, you warm the cockles of my cold, dead heart! I am truly, truly grateful for all of your wonderful reviews! I am so, so excited for you to see the way Finnick and Ceres are going to grow together throughout this story, as everything unravels, since CONVERTED INTO DUST will follow THG and CF. ;) As far as Johanna goes, I am so fucking excited for her introduction. Her dynamic with Ceres is gonna be interesting, I promise you. ^3^ *evil grin*