(a/n): *rolls up sleeves* We are officially in it now, my loves! We have officially entered the beginning of the 74th Hunger Games with the Reaping. To say I am excited would be an understatement. This is a moment I have been waiting to write for a very, very long time. I am so excited to introduce you all to District 4's Tributes, the Games themselves, and, of course...the entry of the woman herself, Katniss Everdeen. ;) But I'm getting ahead of myself. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Read on, see you at the bottom. ;)
CHAPTER FOUR
the reaping
Ceres.
The mornings leading up to the Reaping are always hectic for a Victor, but it's not a routine I'm unfamiliar with. I guess it's one of the advantages to being the daughter of a preexisting Victor. When I became one myself, I had already acclimated. Waking up before dawn to take a bath, get dressed, do my hair, and be ready well before the Reaping would even begin is second nature. Then there is the being picked up from Victor's Village by an entourage of Peacekeepers who escort the Victors and their families to the Mayor's house, where we all sit together and wait for the ceremony to commence. It's so natural I could do it in my sleep.
But today is different. While I understand that today I am going back to the Capitol, armed with two children who are most likely going to die in the coming weeks, there is something else weighing down on me. For the last week, I've been restless. In my mind, I keep repeating that conversation I had with Annie. She knows who N.D. is in my brother's journal, albeit with the initials flipped - that, most importantly, her father knows him. She had slipped too far into her own mind to tell me anymore details and I didn't have the heart to pry further into her. I'm not a good person, by any means of the word, but I don't think I could have pursued Annie after she found her bearings to persist with the conversation. Bringing up her parents is too difficult, too unhealthy for her, which is unfortunate for me.
Her father knowing who Nodon Doyle is huge. It means that I have a lead, the potential to find out more about my brother's life. If I can gain information through Angler Cresta, then I might be able to find this D.N., who's most likely Nodon with a new name. I could find him and ask about my brother, learn more about his boat designs, about who he was...and maybe find out if killing me had always been in the grand scheme of his plan. It goes without saying that your brother actively trying to kill you, even delighting it in, raises serious questions and unresolved emotions. I need to figure Liber out, because, in the end, I didn't know him. And as someone who struggles with loose ends, that's been severely bothering me.
There's also the fact that my parents have gone out of their way to eliminate my brother's memories. They've hidden or destroyed all of his other journals, his bedroom is practically a tomb with a perpetually locked door, they refuse to speak of him, and their marriage has essentially obliterated since our shared Hunger Games. They seem to live under the same roof as courtesy only at this point. Then again, I suppose my dad choosing me over my brother doesn't help with that - assuming my mom even knows. My dad certainly has an affinity for keeping secrets from his family, so it wouldn't surprise me if my mom was kept in the dark.
But those finer details don't really matter. My family is a lost cause. Finding out more about my brother doesn't have anything to do with fixing what is entirely broken, it's about understanding certain pieces which could potentially form a pattern; like piecing together a broken vase, finding what matches together. I just need to understand. That's all. God knows, something has to make sense in my life, because my life as a whole certainly doesn't.
In any case, the pursuit of Nodon Doyle directly is going to have to wait until I get back from the Capitol, but first and foremost I can find a starting point. That starting point is Angler Cresta, who, if all goes well, will give me the information I want. Problem is, he hates the Victors, and has lost all association with his daughter. So, it's going to be tricky - but not impossible.
I've had a week to map out my plan. If I had gone directly to Angler Cresta's house - and believe me, I know where that bastard lives - he could just slam the door in my face and refuse to see me. Technically I could use my influence as a Victor to get inside, but that would draw unwanted, unnecessary attention. My solution came pretty easily to me. It goes without saying that attendance to the Reaping is mandatory, unless you're on your death bed or, on the other end of the spectrum, giving birth, so Angler will have no choice but to be there. He is also a relatively important figure in District 4, at least by merchant standards, and as the father to one of District 4's Victors he will be obligated to arrive early and cordially - and reside under the Mayor's roof with the other Victors and their families, albeit kept at a distance. Even though he's cast Annie aside, he still has to play his role - as we all do. For once, it's actually working to my benefit.
The important members of the Victor circle, willingly or unwillingly a part of it, will be at Mayor Nihar Eyphra's house before the Reaping begins, waiting in the finer wings of the building whilst the District's occupants settle in their places. It's practically an inescapable fish bowl at that point, crawling with Peacekeepers who would stop anyone from leaving the building itself. Mags has requested audiences with Angler in the past before, at the Mayor's house and other locations, in an effort to reason with him. She is far too kindhearted for this world, too gentle and willing to mend bridges reduced to ash over a raging body of water. Again, this will work to my advantage. Despite the fact that Angler hates all of the Victors in District 4, he has some measure of respect for Mags. It could be on account of her age or her genuine kindness, but he's always been willing to speak with her when summoned - even if it usually ends in a slur of insults and yelling on his end, as he storms out.
All I have to do is summon him on the false pretense he will be meeting with Mags, and after that I just have to keep him there. Just keep him there. There's a high possibility he'll storm out or cuss me out or both, without me getting a word in, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. My options are limited, as is my time.
But everything is mapped out. I know what I'm doing. My fellow Victors and I are currently at the Mayor's house, waiting for everything to begin. Sometimes we gather together under the same room, other times we're scattered. Today, Tilda and Ren are sharing a drink together in one of the many parlors in the large house, whilst Mags is distracting Annie however she can. Finnick is somewhere in the building, likely in a quiet space where he can unwind. Going back to the Capitol is hardest for him, since he's its darling, and he can often be found alone in the time leading up to the Reaping. My dad is, alarmingly, with my mom, but they're not saying any words to each other. Needless to say, my fellow Victors are well-occupied.
And all I have to do is find Ivoree Greenscape - District 4's Capitolian escort - and convince him to request a private room and audience with Angler, from Mags. It'll require a little lying, which I do feel a measure of guilt for, but it's a necessary evil. I've made an active point not to tell anyone about my radical plan, aware that they'd likely either try to talk me out of it or find ways to stop it themselves. Tilda probably wouldn't give a damn, Ren would probably protest. My dad would certainly put a stop to it if he knew I knew any semblance of this. Mags wouldn't approve. Annie, by no accounts, can know I plan on seeing her dad - who is deliberately kept far, far away from her at the Mayor's house. And Finnick...I don't know what he would do or say, but I can't risk him.
I need to be discreet, above all else, and fast. If I'm lucky, Angler Cresta will cooperate. He and his wife will be in a separate part of the Mayor's house, strategically placed away from Annie, but their presences placed there as a courtesy due to their familial connection to a Victor.
I sigh deeply, raising my tired, stressed eyes to a large gold lined mirror hung upon the wall of the parlor. My reflection is one that I wish I could turn away from, but today I face it head on, all too aware that countless cameras will be facing me and my fellow Victors today, and then my two new Tributes. When I stand on that stage, it can't be me, it has to be a strong and powerful Victor and Mentor ready to take on her Tributes. I need to inspire hope in them, confidence. They can't see me the way others see Haymitch Abernathy, often found stumbling onto the stage during his Reapings in a drunken stupor; his Tributes aware they're dead even before they enter the Arena. Despite the loss of my arm, I'm proud to say that I've proven myself to be an efficient leader. I've lost Tribute after Tribute, but I'll be damned if they go into their Arena hopeless.
Today I am wearing a black blouse lined with sea green with a pair of high-waisted dark grey leather pants, and tall lace-up boots. Mags has done my long dark hair into a fish braid, which hangs down my back, with only a couple of strands stubbornly clinging to the side of my face. My blouse emphasizes the absence of my left arm, which I bear proudly. Through my Tributes and my experience as a Mentor, I've learned that it's a hopeful sight for the Tributes to see; that someone who lost their arm in the Arena could survive.
In any case, I simply grew tired of hiding it - by giving the Capitol the right to pity me for it. I hope that it also presents a mildly intimidating front - mature, at least - for not just up on that stage, but for when I'm face-to-face with Angler.
Withdrawing myself from the parlor where most of my fellow Victors are idling about (none look at me, they're too preoccupied in their own thoughts), I venture further out into the Mayor's house - which I am freely allowed to do, so long as I don't try to make for any of the exits - and, discreetly as I can, search for Ivoree. It isn't long before I find him, as his voice echoes through the corridor as he is led through the front door by Peacekeepers and flanked by his small team. Ivoree Greenscape has been District 4's escort for years now. Relatively young, he's a flamboyant and extremely hard working personality, who I used to harbor indifferent feelings towards - but having spent six years alongside him, I've grown fond of him and his strange qualities.
I need to get to him before the others do.
Now or never, I think, and rush forward to greet him. "Ivoree, hey, can I have a word?"
Ivoree turns, facing me with a large, delighted grin. His eyebrows are freshly shaved and the powder across his face makes him several shades paler, and there's lime green eyeliner and pastel pink eyeshadow upon his features, along with a rosebud shaped pattern on his lips. "Ceresea, darling, wonderful to see you," he says, reaching out to embrace me. I accept it, patting him a little awkwardly on his back. He smells like a combination of lilies and blueberries. "You look spectacular, as always."
"Yeah, so do you," I say. "A word, please...? Privately."
"Of course, anything for you," Ivoree says.
I lead him to a corner of the hallway, still in view of his little team but overall out of earshot. I try to keep my expression composed, but my heart is thudding so fiercely I'm afraid he'll hear it. I've pulled the trigger now. No stopping it. "It's good to see you," I begin, conversationally. "How's Galeria?"
Ivoree places his hand over his heart. "Excited to see you and work on your stellar clothes again," he says, then slowly points the same hand at my chest. "But...with respect, I don't think you brought me over here to privately talk about your Stylist. What's on your mind? I mean it when I say you look well, but I've really learned the difference between what you look like on the outside versus the inside."
"Perceptive," I say, folding my arm over my torso. "Yeah, there is something on my mind. I need a favor. Could you go to the Mayor and ask him if I can borrow a room, like just an office or something, just to talk to someone for a minute?" I pause, allowing for Ivoree to straighten up and for his expression to change from friendly warmth to absolute focused working mode. "I need to talk to Angler Cresta."
At that, Ivoree blinks. "Um...I...I suppose I could," he says, clearing his throat. "I definitely can do all of those things. But why?"
Here it comes. I swallow. "It's Mags," I lie. "She's been trying to rekindle things between Annie and her family. I'm just acting at the messenger for a change."
Ivoree tuts. "Ah. Again? I would've given up by this point."
"You know Mags."
"I do, indeed. Remarkably kind woman," Ivoree sighs. "But it is a little odd. The Reaping is in an hour, after all. Are you sure you want to put this much stress on you? I could try to set up an appointment with the Mayor for when you get back. I'm sure he would be happy to help provide -"
"No. I'd - Mags would prefer today," I say. "We both know Angler wouldn't drag himself back here any other day, and I don't want to cause a scene. That wouldn't be fair to anyone, least of all Annie. He's already here, anyway. Besides, Mags wants me to do it, and I think it would be better to get everything over with now. Next year is the Quarter Quell, after all, so that'll be enough for me to think about when we get back home."
"A little early to be thinking about it, don't you think?"
Seneca's words flicker into my head, the riled nerves inflicted onto his body and how his gaze had seemed shifty. "No. It's never too early when you're a Victor. Anything could happen for a Quarter Quell," I say.
Ivoree nods, slowly. "And I assume Annie isn't aware about this meeting...?"
I shake my head. "And I'd like to keep it that way. Mags has her in the parlor right now, distracting her," I say. "Reaping day is always hard for her."
"Hard on all of you," Ivoree says, sympathetically, and then sighs. "Alright. I can do it, just give me...fifteen minutes?" At my nod, he nods back. "Good. Is there anything specific you want me to tell him? Mr. Cresta is disagreeable."
"Just that Mags wants to talk to him, and it's important," I say. "He's a heartless bastard, but even he can't refuse her."
"I'll see it's done," Ivoree says. "It's really kind of you, you know. You and Mags...poor Annie's been through enough, she needs her family."
I try to ignore the crippling guilt inside of me, submerging it back into that void. I try to think about my brother's face, instead, but that doesn't exactly help anything. It's not his living face I see, but the look of shock, pain, and childlike terror in his eyes when I had plunged my spear through his heart, just before the Muttations had taken him away. "Can you keep this between us?" I ask. "Annie...she goes between believing her parents are gone or not, and not everyone is entirely sympathetic towards her. So I'd like to keep this quiet."
"Of course. My lips for you, my dear, are sealed," promises Ivoree with a flourish of his hand over his mouth.
"Thank you, Ivoree. You're the best."
As it were, Ivoree is a very quick and diligent escort. Within minutes of receiving my request, some Peacekeepers (assigned by the Mayor) have brought me into a private library to wait for my audience with Annie's father. All the while, I make damn sure no one else sees. All of my fellow Victors are still thoroughly distracted with their own devices. Even in the instances where we detach from one another, it comes as no surprise. Finnick disappears usually until the moment we're supposed to go on stage. Tilda sometimes goes into bathrooms and doesn't come out, though I can catch her sniffling sometimes. Ren will have a drink or two to soften his nerves. Mags keeps Annie's mind engaged. And my dad -
Don't think about him right now.
I'm bracing for a thousand different outcomes as I pace the length of Mayor Eyphra's small library, damn near leaving an indentation in the plush sandy toned carpet. There's no way to guarantee that Angler Cresta is going to give me any of the information I want, much less be generally reasonable. The contempt he wields towards Victors is without dispute, though his ability to tolerate Mags by the simplicity of respect - and, honestly, for the fact that no one in their right mind could ever hate her - is what is going to buy me the chance to talk to him. Once he realizes it's me and not her, and that this conversation isn't a redraw to reconnect to Annie, who's to say how he'll react.
The knock on the door brings me back to reality - a courtesy, nothing more - as Ivoree opens it promptly and allows Angler Cresta to enter. If the man looked annoyed before, he certainly looks beyond furious now, regarding me with narrowed, beady eyes and his lips curled into a sneer. Angler is a slightly tall, albeit stout, man with rounded features and dark eyes. His hair has a natural curl to it but is cut short. Upon his curved nose is a pair of crescent shaped spectacles. The man is wearing a pleasant looking grey suit, looking formidable for his station whilst also conveying the almost hive-mindedness of District 4 patrons as they come together for the annual Reaping. He doesn't necessarily stand out, even though his clothes are visibly expensive.
The door clicks shut behind him but he doesn't look back towards it. We've crossed the first hurtle. Despite the fact that Angler knows Mags isn't here, he hasn't wheeled around to leave. Rather, he's standing there tensely and staring at me with revulsion, a look I'm all too familiar with. He makes no attempts to hide it. In fact, he seems to revel in it.
"I was told I was meeting with Ms. Flanagan," he says, harshly, and glares daggers at me from over his glasses.
"You were," I say. "But you're meeting with me, instead. I knew you wouldn't see me otherwise."
"Too right you are," he agrees, and takes a small step towards me. "Do you think just because you're important to the Capitol that I am inclined to listen to you? And is there anything stopping me from leaving? Do you have your little escort positioned outside that door with precious guards -?"
"Unlike the Capitol, I don't intend on robbing you of your free will, Mr. Cresta. You can leave whenever you want to," I cut off, watching the colors deepen in his cheeks. "But I would appreciate it if you stayed. I have questions."
Angler's eyebrows arch at that, an unimpressed looking deeply embedding itself into his features. "Questions," he scoffs. "What kind of ludicrous questions could you have where you'd trick me into coming here? If this is about Annie -"
"It doesn't. I need to know about Nodon Doyle," I say. "You may know him as D.N."
There's a second where I can tell Angler is struggling to put the pieces together in his head, the same rapid fire panic I see in Tributes when they're trying to figure out a query on live television with Caesar Flickerman sitting beside them, and thousands of people staring at them. There's the panic, the resolve, and then the answer; sometimes they land it, other times they fail. To the untrained eye, it might not even be noticeable. But to me, I can see the bare, almost too brief moment where Angler gathers together his frenzied answer. His dark eyes flicker to the ground and then back to me, his thoughts together.
"The...name doesn't sound familiar," Angler says, in a tone that almost covers his ass. But his hesitation is what damns him.
It's funny how exhausted a person can get being constantly lied to. I have no patience for Angler's attempts to weasel his way out of this conversation, so I reach into the pocket of my pants and carefully unfold a piece of paper. He watches on with narrowed eyes, as if I were wielding a weapon. And when I outstretch the paper to him to read, I may as well be handing him something with rows of teeth and a hunger for blood. "This will help," I say, holding one of Liber's drawings with Nodon's notes across its surface. The structure is poorly designed, it reads, fix its boning. - N.D. "Does this refresh your memory?"
"It doesn't," Angler grits.
"See, I don't believe that," I say. "You recognize the signature, don't you? Handwriting, too, I imagine."
Angler swallows audibly.
"You do."
"You Victors are all mad," Angler says.
He's not wrong. I don't think I've yet to meet a Victor who doesn't have some semblance of madness inside of them, but it really all just varies in accordance to who wields it. Sometimes I wish I were on the madder side of things. It could have potentially saved me many years of grief and use. I don't engage with Angler's words, though. "All I need from you is a name and a location," I say. "All I want is to talk to him, nothing more."
"Why? So you can drag him into this freak show?" he snaps. "Go to hell. I don't have to say anything to a Gamemaker's slut."
"I think that's uncalled for," I say, though something inside of me twists horribly. He scoffs again. "You have me figured out, right? Murderer, slut...nutcase. Maybe you're right. It's all black and white, no grey areas. Or maybe you're all wrong. I couldn't tell you. Trust me, seeking you out was never my first choice. But this is a page from my brother's journal. There are notes just like this all across other pages, from a person who initialed it N.D. Annie saw this page and she said she recognized them, but the letters were backwards."
"And you're honestly believing her? You're delusional."
"You're not wrong," I say. "But she says you know him."
"My daughter's mind disappeared after the Games. It could be she made it up for attention, as she's always done," Angler says. "You're chasing the words of a girl who probably can't even get dressed by herself anymore."
"Your daughter survived the Hunger Games. Show her more respect."
"You didn't summon me to talk about my daughter, Ms. Rhythe. Be honest with yourself and don't try to justify summoning me here under false pretenses, as if I were a dog to a bone, throwing compliments to my broken daughter," snaps Angler. "Let's say I tell you about this man. If you drag him into this, he's as good as dead. It seems anyone associated with you Victors dies. Why do you think my wife and I cut Annie out of our lives?"
"Because you're a coward."
I half-expect Angler to balk at my insult, but rather he takes it without any lapse of hesitation. If anything, he seems to accept it, though I can tell it has jabbed at a nerve. "Ah, yes. If I am a coward, so are you - the girl who killed her own brother to save her skin, I recall. A coward and whore," he says, plainly, "just like your mother."
"You're trying to goad me," I reply, coolly. "My mother isn't a whore. And my dad -"
"That is an awfully bold assumption."
His face twists into a smile, which causes me to glare back at him. "This isn't about Annie or my mother, or -"
"I wasn't referring to your mother," Angler says, brow arching.
My own brow furrows in response, feeling confused now, but forcing myself to stand securely back into the here and now. I bring my focus back to the piece of parchment still in my hands, of Liber's drawing riddled with notes from Nodon Doyle. He's welcome to throw insults at me, but I need to dodge them. "If you answer my questions, then this will go by much faster for you, Mr. Cresta," I say. "This isn't about our families. Just give me his name and location. That's all, and I'll walk."
"All of this effort for the word of a girl with no sense in her head," Angler scoffs. "Annie's mad, Ms. Rhythe. She could say the sky is green and believe it." His head shakes. "This is such...this is ridiculous. I can't believe I'm entertaining this. You summon me and then demand answers from me, what's next? Threats? Towards me, my wife? I think not, Ms. Rhythe. I would say violence runs in your family, but that could technically be untrue. But I certainly know what does...deception, cruelty, and madness."
"I'm being reasonable, Mr. Cresta," I grit.
"You're asking for an innocent man's information," Angler says.
"He associated with a Victor's son. Why not a Victor's daughter?"
"You're a Victor yourself, now," Angler snaps. "Besides, what would I even get in return?"
Finally, an opening. I try not to act surprised over the fact that Angler is just now opening a door and it has to do with gaining something. He isn't a man starving for money, thanks to everything Annie earns which, by proxy, goes to her parents, and just the simple fact that he had a prosperous career well before his daughter was ever Reaped. I'm not entirely sure what a man like him would want in the material sense, but I think I have a few ideas otherwise.
"We'll never bother you again. Mags will never accost you to rectify your relationship with Annie. You'll never hear from or see a Victor again, save for Reaping day. Seems fair, if you ask me," I say.
"That's hardly fair. That seems more like a courtesy," Angler says.
"Alternatively, we become inescapable in your daily life," I say. "Trust me, I can make sure you never forget how you monstrously cast aside Annie all because being there for her became hard. If I am capable of killing my own brother, imagine what I could do to someone like you." An entirely empty threat, but I see the way it shakes him. Regardless of how he may feel about Victors, he understands we're also not folks who are to be messed with; by protection from the Capitol, if you can call it that, but also the fact we're all killers. "Does that seem fair?"
Angler swallows, diverting his gaze from me as he seems to consider something quite interesting on the floor. When he looks up, his eyes are a few shades darker. "Declan Nyles."
I nod. "Okay. But he's Nodon Doyle."
"Nodon Doyle is dead," Angler says. "But Nyles isn't."
The edge he carries in his tone draws my brow to raise. All at once, I understand, so I nod again. "I see. So you work with this Nyles, then," I say, watching him grimly nod in return. "Where can I find him? Unless, he's conveniently dead, too."
"After receiving an inevitable visit from you, he most certainly wish he will be," Angler spits.
"Why? Because I'm a Victor or because I'm associated with Rheon?"
"Both," Angler says. "Rheon unlawfully married your mother, for one. Any father would be soured after such an ordeal."
Any father. Slowly, I feel my back start to straighten out, and the years upon years of theorizing and whiplashes I have endured suddenly hit me all at once. It all makes sense. So, Nodon Doyle is my mother's father. According to both Rheon and Demetra, she had married my father against the wishes of her parents, and had led me to believe it had solely to do with the fact he was a Victor. It was a taboo association that had cost her all familial ties. Nodon Doyle. I squeeze the paper in my hands a little tighter. Liber had somehow managed to reconnect with our grandfather, then. But how? Where did he find him? Did Nodon seek him out? If so, why didn't he seek me out, either?
One huge question is answered, but dozens more remain untouched. Currently, I am wondering why Nodon would change his name. Sure, maybe my mom marrying a Victor could have caused a scandal in the inner-workings of a strict family, but enough to change his whole identity? Was he so ashamed to still be associated with Demetra Doyle? What about my grandmother, for that matter? Who's to say if she's even alive or if she, too, has changed her name.
My mind is reeling, but I don't have time for all of these thoughts swirling through my head. I need more answers. "He's my grandfather."
"Nodon Doyle was," Angler says, quickly, and glares at the paper in my hand.. "Declan Nyles is a humble fisherman, who made friends with the wrong sort, apparently."
"A humble fisherman who, in changing his identity, only bothered to switch the first letters of his names," I say.
"I didn't say he was a smart fisherman."
"He's definitely not that. Tell me where to find him and I promise you'll never see me again," I promise. "We're almost done here, Mr. Cresta."
"Nyles lives on the outskirts of the Hatchery, in the Loaches."
The Loaches is a small docking post stationed in the lowest possible sectors of District 4, below even the Hatchery, where haggard houses reside on the shoreside, built along the docks, where poor, retired fishermen who can no longer keep up with those in the Hatchery or elsewhere go to live out their days; damaged goods, they're called. I've never been to the Loaches before, for obvious reasons - being a pampered Victor's daughter who had no need to go anywhere she didn't have to - but I suppose that's about to change. I do, however, find it interesting that this Declan Nyles would retreat to the lowest possible sector of District 4, when, according to what Mags told me years ago, Nodon Doyle lived in the Trawl, the wealthiest part of District 4. It seems he truly fell from such a high place, though whether or not that was willful or forced, I have yet to learn.
I swallow carefully. So far, a huge chunk of my questions have been answered. I finally have a series of truths that make sense, rather than the complicated and confusing theories I've been slaving over for years. Constantly being told Nodon Doyle was dead, despite how semi-recently his little notes were written into Liber's journal, and having no possible way to find him. Thanks to Annie, I have it. I have the name, the identity, and now the location of this man that Liber spent the final span of his life with. Our grandfather. Now, this both collectively complicates and simplifies things. There's a familial connection I'm chasing now, instead of some stranger, but it's someone who allegedly hates the family in question. It's not going to be easy.
I'm going to have challenges waiting for me when I come back home from the Capitol. Luckily for me, I love challenges. I crave them.
"Declan Nyles will be in attendance today, right?"
Angler hesitates. "Yes."
"What does he look like?"
"I've answered your questions."
"One more. Please."
"One more, one more, one after the other. Your questions won't end, will they? You know, why not assert your godly powers over him and have him brought to your feet like a common dog?" snaps Angler, his voice sharpening. "He looks like every other old, tired fisherman you can come across, if not more broken. Your family has a habit of tearing people apart...literally and figuratively." He gestures to the left side of my body. "I've played your game. I gave you your answers, and now I demand you return my freedom to me and my family, and ensure none of you freaks ever come near us again. To be accosted by a Gamemaker's crippled whore -"
Angler doesn't have the chance to finish his angry tirade, as his voice rises higher, because the door to the library suddenly opens. I half-expect Ivoree or a Peacekeeper to be on the other side, to alert us that our time is up and we need to go, but the tall body standing in the doorway with an absolute rage in his sea-green eyes is none other than Finnick. Angler stares at him with wide-eyes, visibly stunned and also looking partly mortified - standing up against one Victor isn't too bad, I think, but to do so in front of two must be another story for him. At least, for someone with a reputation like Finnick's.
But the way Angler pitifully staggers over himself doesn't last long, as he looks sharply between myself and Finnick. He doesn't have the chance to say anything else, either. Finnick steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. The tensions that ooze into the small room is thick like blood and a pin-drop could have been heard amidst it.
"I was passing by...heard some noise. Specifically someone yelling," he says, leveling his shadowed gaze to Angler. "Everything alright in here? I thought I heard some pretty vulgar language."
"Everything's fine," I assert, quickly. "We were done here, anyway. Weren't we?"
Angler swallows, sparing me a narrowed glance. "Yes. We are," he says. "Very much so. Have a happy Reaping."
The man spins around and charges for the door, but Finnick body-blocks him quickly, wearing a dangerously calm expression that makes me shiver nervously. Despite his natural contempt towards our kind, I can tell that Angler is nervous, as well. But the man doesn't try to move passed Finnick, rather just standing there, ready to take whatever it is he has to throw at him. There's a long tense pause of silence where I expect Finnick to shove him or do something, but he rather steps aside, and tilts his head with a cold smirk.
"I don't like your tone, Mr. Cresta. You should watch it," Finnick says.
Angler doesn't reply, simply seizes his opportunity to run. He loses any sense of tact and lunges for the door, disappearing on the other side as it slams shut behind him. Now I am left standing alone in the library with Finnick, who is staring at me with an unreadable expression. The icy smirk has melted from his features, leaving something else behind; a look I have seen before, but too unfamiliar to me. It's one of those rare moments where I find myself staggering to read his body language. For a short while, neither of us move or say anything. We just stare at each other, as if time has frozen around us, and afforded the luxury of this perpetual silence.
Finnick is standing in front of the door, still, so I can't exactly beeline towards it. But I also don't want to leave Finnick without any context about what the hell he walked in on. Pity. I had hoped to get through this encounter without having any of the Victors intrude in on it. But I suppose, the lesser of these evils is having Finnick be the one. He is, aside from Mags, the only one openly aware about Liber's journal - though I doubt he fully grasps my desperation in this matter, not the way Mags does.
Still squeezing the page of Liber's journal in my hand, I slowly advance towards Finnick and, by proxy, the door. "Everyone will probably be looking for us," I say, slowly. "We should go."
But once I am within arm's reach, Finnick moves all too quickly and grabs my arm, pulling me away from the door and gently pressing me against the wall. He cages me in expertly, one arm pressed above my head, and the other gently holding onto my arm. The composed, unreadable nature of his expression shifts into an angry one, but I know it's not directly targeted towards me. I have to wonder how much he heard from Angler Cresta's vulgar mouth.
He has effectively blocked me from moving around him, keeping me from eluding any queries he will have to throw at me, but I don't feel trapped. I understand that with a well-placed shove, Finnick will move back instantly. But I let him feel like he has me cornered, for now.
"Do you want to explain what the hell that was about?"
"Just having a talk -"
"He called you a..." Finnick trails away, eyes squeezing shut and his jaw clenching as he struggles to keep his emotions in check. When he opens his eyes again, they're dangerously dark. "He said you accosted him. What did he mean by that?"
Finnick's voice is trembling. Mags told me once about how Finnick would kill Seneca if he ever saw him in my house, with me, and I had laughed it off in my own head. But I've since learned that there's a small measure of truth to it. So, I reach out and touch Finnick's neck with my knuckle. As Finnick gathers his emotions, I go through the options in my head. I could make something up and then confront Ivoree later about getting our stories straight, then maybe Mags, who will be far less than pleased to find out I had lied and used her as my cover. But I could also tell Finnick the truth. He does, after all, know about Liber's journal and, to some measure, N.D. It wouldn't be a shock. Then again, he might try to deter me. He might think it's stupid of me - which, to be fair, it is.
Once his emotions seem to have gathered themselves, Finnick slowly leans away from me, but his arm remains in place above my head. Still, with his height being 6'0" and mine being 5'4", he still has me pinned.
"Don't be mad. Okay?" I say, uncurling the paper in my hand, and carefully balancing it over my palm so I can smooth it out with my fingers. I offer it to him. "This is from Liber's journal, do you remember it? Annie found it last week, and she told me she recognized these initials through her dad. N.D., the guy who left all of those notes behind...his name was Nodon Doyle, but he goes by Declan Nyles now. Angler works with him and gave me information. Needless to say, he wasn't thrilled about it."
Finnick stands quietly, processing my words, but based on his expression alone I can tell he is far from pleased. "You found out last week but chose to confront her father about it today? Reaping day?"
"Look, I know it wasn't ideal," I say, which is an understatement. "We both know he wouldn't see me any other way, any Victor for that matter. This was the only way -"
"Mags could have found a way."
"I don't think so. We both know he's tired of Mags trying to reason with him. But he couldn't refuse a request from the Mayor."
Finnick looks across my face, his still hardened eyes searching me for something. Slowly, he withdraws, and takes a few steps back. "Do you have any idea the damage this could do?" he hisses. "If Annie saw him -"
"Annie is with Mags, I made sure of that," I say. "Ivoree did, too."
"Does Mags know?"
"Just you and Ivoree."
"Good thing I stumbled on you, then."
I swallow and carefully tuck the page back into its pocket. "Do you really think Angler Cresta would be dumb enough to try to hurt a Victor? Much less on Reaping day?" I say. "It was just insults, Finnick. It's what makes him feel so big and strong. Unfortunately, he was the only person who had the answered I needed. Now I have them, so we won't be seeing him ever again. I'm making sure of that. Annie doesn't need to be around him and neither do we."
It's clear from his expression that Finnick hasn't registered any of my words. He's wearing a scolding expression with narrowed eyes and a tightened demeanor. "This needs to stop."
"What does?"
"Liber's dead, and chasing after Nodon Doyle, Declan Nyles, whoever the hell he is won't make a difference. It won't change anything," he says. "You'll only be chasing your tail."
"I thought you of all people would understand," I say. "Finnick...I just found out I have a living grandparent who knew my brother before he died, who might have known him better than my whole family combined." I pause, allowing my words to process for him before I continue. "My brother didn't just try to kill me because he had to, he tried to kill me because he wanted to. And I need to understand."
He inhales slowly. "I do. I really do, believe me," he says, "but not when it's putting others at risk. Annie could have seen Angler just now, if Mags hadn't been with her all day. Imagine the spiral."
"Why do you think I made sure Ivoree kept them together? And arranged for our meeting to be so far away from them?" I snap. "Believe it or not, I spend a lot of time finding ways to make things easier for her, and for everyone else. I play the game and my role in it."
"It doesn't change the fact you were reckless."
"Don't talk to me like you're my Mentor."
"I was your Mentor once, remember?"
"Sure, I remember," I say, glaring up at him. "But it's not your job to keep me alive anymore. I can handle myself, and I think I've done a good job at it. And as far as I know, no one has died because of me...at least, not outside of the Arena."
"Yet," Finnick says.
"Yet," I grit.
Finnick brushes the tip of his tongue over his lips. I can tell by his expression that his frustration is threatening to burst at the seams, yet he's doing a fairly good job at keeping it all contained. Still, he does place his hands squarely on his hips and he glances away from me, gathering his thoughts, and looks back with a stern gaze. "I think you're forgetting, the more people you force into your life, the more Snow can hurt you."
At that, I scoff. "Forget?"
"You've been lucky."
At that, my eyes widen. My stomach drops with a mixture of horror and anger, trying to understand his words, apply some logic to them - because I know he doesn't mean it to hurt me - hell, he probably didn't think any of it through, but all I can think about is how lucky I am. How I killed in my brother in the Arena, how my parents are separated in every way, how my body belongs to the man responsible for overseeing the murders of my Tributes every year...the list goes on and on. Lucky, my ass. Compared to most, maybe I am lucky. Maybe I do have the fortunes of not having dozens upon hundreds of clients waiting to use me.
I'm fortunate that I have my mind, compared to Annie Cresta who lost hers. And let's not forget the fact that, thanks to my own actions and my own selfish behavior as a child, the only friend I've ever had to lose has and always will be Finnick. Snow, aside from my Victor circle, has no one to use against me. Not that I've ever given him a reason, of course. I play my role, I do my duty, because I've learned what happens when I disobey. It's not me who's punished...it's someone I love; that being Finnick. And he never lets me forget it.
Dragging my newly-found grandfather into my life is a potentially dangerous and stupid thing to do, but compared to all else I've lived through, and the nightmares that plague me - those loose ends that just unravel all around me - I need to tie them into a secure knot and forget about them. All I need, I think, is an afternoon with him, just to ask him about my brother. Why did Liber want me dead? Had he always wanted to kill me? Who was he before he died? Was he happy?
After that, I can move on. It's not like I want Nodon Doyle permanently in my life. It's short-lived, but I still need it.
"Lucky, Finnick?" I manage out.
Finnick shakes his head. "You haven't had to come home to find..." he trails away, his face falling. "It's better to keep your inner circle small, for your sake and for everyone else around you."
"You're right, Finnick. I have been lucky...my parents only just hate each other, I killed my own brother to save myself, I willfully sell my body and pretend to care for someone thinks I'm his," I carry on. "And maybe I have been lucky...I've never come home to find someone I love strung up. But it doesn't change the fact that I am far from -" I cut myself off, noting how the entirety of Finnick's face has contorted with pain.
He turns away to hide it, but I catch it before he can. I realize what I've said, how I've worded it, too late. The anguish in Finnick's eyes is carefully hidden from me, as he expertly turns his body from me to casually pace the length of the room; his stride slow and deliberate, to prolong blocking his gaze from mine. Horror twists itself inside of me, followed promptly by an overpowering wave of guilt. Just before Finnick had left the Capitol after his Hunger Games, when he was just fourteen years old, President Snow had made him the offer. Finnick, being so young and believing he had the right to refuse, said no.
He returned home to District 4 believing he could start his life back up again, forget about everything that had happened. But instead, he returned to his new house in Victor's Village, where he expected to live out his days with the remainder of his family, to find his father hanging from the chandelier in the foyer. There had been speculation about what had triggered this action from Neleus Odair, who had been a stoic and stubborn man, quiet but fiercely loyal to his son. A handful of people believed he do so out of disgust towards his son, who had murdered in the Arena. Others believed he had done it before he learned of Finnick's victory, unable to handle living in a world without him. But I know the true answer, just as Finnick does.
I had been with Neleus Odair the day Finnick was set to come home from the Capitol. In Finnick's absence, as well as my father's, I had taken up the mantle of being Neleus' apprentice. We would fish regularly, watch the Games together, and he taught me a great deal of things about life, fishing, and the sea itself. But on that morning, as we stood on the shoreline, Peacekeepers had approached us. They had sent me away and, despite the twisted feeling in my gut, I had obliged. But as the beach disappeared behind me, I could hear the sounds of grunting and a thud. I hadn't wanted to believe it at the time.
I was the last person to see Neleus alive, and I know he would never leave Finnick alone in this world. Although there is no way to prove it, I know - just as Finnick knows - that Neleus had been murdered on order of President Snow, and the hanging was staged. It was a message to Finnick, and he had received it in full. When he returned back to the Capitol for his Victory Tour, his answer was changed to yes.
After all of these years, though, Neleus is still a sensitive topic. I know that Finnick feels guilt for his father's murder, even though it wasn't his fault, and I know I've done him no favors by bringing it up the way I did.
"Finnick, I -"
The library doors open wide, with Ivoree's body pushing through and looking quickly between myself and Finnick, with both surprise and relief. "There you both are!" he says, with an audible sigh. "It's time to get ready. Everyone on stage, everyone in places, the townspeople are already gathering together, and it really boosts morale to have all of our wonderful Victors all standing tog -"
In a swift motion, Finnick strides out of the room and through those doors, before I even have a chance to rush after him or grab his arm to stop him. All I can do is stand there, watching as he disappears around the corner, with Ivoree staring after him with confusion. He looks back towards me, his freshly applied makeup-coated face regarding me with a new emotion, concern.
"Did...did the talk go alright?" he asks. "Was Finnick a part of it? I did see Mr. Cresta storm out to find his wife a moment ago, he seemed in a somber mood. But will he see Annie?"
Right. The lie. Slowly, I shake my head, still recovering from the emotional whiplash I've just undergone - the gnawing guilt, the interruption by Ivoree, my own inner-conflict regarding Angler's words and my revelation regarding Nodon. It's too much. It's too much. "No, he won't," I say, my voice shaking. "I need to go."
Following in Finnick's example, I rush passed Ivoree and make my way through the hallway. The Victors have already started to file out, being led out by Peacekeepers through the Mayor's house and outside, where all the festivities await. The stage is flanked by Peacekeepers and I can see the Mayor, Nihar Eyphra, sitting with his family already. He has grown pudgier over the years, with his three pronged beard now lined with grey, and wrinkles absorbing his forehead. He has always been a kinder personality, who makes a point to rise respectfully as the Victors take to the stage to line up in their respective positions.
The Victors never sit on Reaping Day, we always stand - we're always alert. Typically, the Victors are lined up by age, or in accordance to years each of us won, but today I make a beeline to stand beside my father - knowing that, otherwise, I would be positioned by Finnick. And I don't think I have the heart to face him right now. Later, but not right now. I just hope I look presentable, that the emotions pooling heavily inside of me aren't overflowing onto my face or demeanor. At least being beside my dad is an effort to distract myself, even if Angler's odd words still stick with me.
"Any prospects, you think?" I ask.
Rheon considers the accumulating crowd, as the sections of boys and girls gather together in front of the stage, each section then divided off by age. Clusters of teenaged boys and girls stand together, with the younger potential Tributes gathered towards the back. Those who are too old and too young to pose as Tributes are set off to the side, their expressions heavy with unfathomable emotions.
Eventually, my dad shrugs. "A couple of Careers boasting about Volunteering. Nothing new," he replies, sparing me a glance. "You look very nice."
I know that's a lie. I mean, sure my clothes are fine, but I really doubt anything about my face right now is very nice. "Thanks. You look like hell," I say.
Despite everything, my dad chuckles. My dad looks somewhat presentable today, too, just like the rest of us. He's wearing a fine set of dark grey trousers with a paler grey button down shirt beneath a black vest, with a subtle pattern of scales across its surface. His dark curly hair hangs looser than normal and his beard is well-groomed, though it has since adopted a salt-and-pepper look to it. But below his eyes are deep, embedded circles, making him appear slightly older than his true age, and there's a slump to his shoulders. My father usually stands relatively tall during the Reaping, but something is bothering him today.
"My neck's killing me," he says, though I have to wonder if that's the whole truth. "I fell asleep in my office chair."
"Sounds like that was a you problem. You have a bed, you know."
"Sometimes you can't help where you fall asleep," Rheon says. On the other side of my dad, I hear Mags gently thump her hand against his arm, then proceed to sign something I don't have the chance to make out - but I can definitely tell she's pointing down the row of Victors. Rheon follows her gaze and grunts. He's fine, he signs to her. He turns back to me. "Finnick looks cross."
I swallow. "Yeah, he is," I say, deliberately avoiding glancing towards Finnick's direction.
Woefully, Rheon must read something on my face, because he leans a little closer to me and drops his voice into a whisper, so neither Mags on his side nor Ren on my other side can pick up the words. "With you...?" he frowns. "Ceres, I've told you -"
"I know you don't like Finnick, dad, but it wasn't his fault," I whisper back, casting him a cool glance I hope silences him. "I said a bad thing."
It does not. "It couldn't have been that bad," Rheon says.
"Dad. Just stop."
"How he keeps close to you...it makes me uncomfortable," he says. "I don't like him close to you."
I bite the insides of my cheeks, feeling my chest tighten again. "Look, just because I occasionally sleep with Finnick doesn't mean we're going to be getting married and you will be stuck with him forever," I say, taking some satisfaction in watching how the color drains from my dad's face. I know that I am deeply downplaying my relationship with Finnick to barebones, but I know that it'll make my dad uncomfortable enough to back off. "Don't worry, dad, you'll never live to see me become an Odair."
"I don't think that called to be so...crass," Rheon says.
"It wasn't his fault," I repeat, "so stop trying to find ways to blame him for things."
That quiets my dad, just in time for Ivoree to glide across the stage. All of District 4 has gathered in full, staring up at the stage to the brightly decorated Capitolian escort, who waves his hands dramatically in greeting, and proceeds to laugh merrily - as if this were all some wonderful social gathering. But this has been Ivoree's performance for years, so I've learned not to let it get to me.
"Welcome to the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games!" he bellows.
My eyes drift mindlessly across the crowd as Ivoree speaks, delivering his usual speech about the importance of the Hunger Games, our devotion to President Snow, and all else that lies between. I can't attest to Ivoree's loyalty or fear regarding President Snow, but I know he is loyal to us. Still, it's better just to tune it out. Alternatively, I look across the crowd and make mental notes on who I think will Volunteer. There are a couple young determined faces in the crowd, several who are trembling with fear, and a smaller handful with tears in their eyes. I try not to dwell too deeply on those, and bring my gaze to the others.
There, across the crowd - somewhere far in the distance, but close enough to be within vision - Angler Cresta and I somehow manage to lock gazes. For the moment he sees me, I see contempt in his eyes, and I expect him to turn away from me; look elsewhere, burrow deeper into the ground. Instead, he raises his chin rather high, then turns his gaze to stare directly at someone else. I slowly follow his gaze.
Something in me just knows. There are hundreds of men, but my eyes find one in particular.
I can't make him out very clearly amidst the sea of others, but there is something unnerving about him. Nothing about him stands out, as he wears the same neutral grey colors as the others surrounding him, and his scraggily black hair is pulled messily from around his shoulders into what I assume to be a knot. He is unusually pale, a complexion like alabaster, with, from what I can tell, a piercing set of blue eyes staring back at me. Though our eyes don't connect, as if he is looking through me rather than at me. There is a blankness to his strange face, whose features I can barely make out. Him. That has to be him, I think. It could be a coincidence. It might be Angler making a show and taunting me. But, in the here and now, I have to believe it.
He looks like my mom, I reason with myself, desperately. The paler skin, the dark hair, blue eyes...it has to be. It has to be.
Ivoree's voice draws me back from my deep thoughts and forces my eyes away from the man staring seemingly mindlessly up at the stage, lost in his own thoughts as I am. Looking at our escort, I see that Ivoree is flourishing his hands dramatically over his head to emphasize his every word, and he's looking theatrically across the crowd. Despite the fact he's developed sympathies towards his Victors, as well as my District in general, it doesn't change the fact that he understands his duties. Much like us, he knows he's a part of the entertainment. He's the performer, the jester.
And he plays the role beautifully, to his credit. "As per usual, last year we introduced the ladies, and this year, the gentlemen first!"
He spins around on his heel, all but gliding towards the glass bowl wielding hundreds of names. His hand slips inside, latching onto the first piece of parchment his fingers come to contact with, and he spins back around and glides to the microphone.
He waves the little tag over his head and slowly brings it to his eye level. "And the male Tribute for this year's Hunger Games is..." he pauses. "Kipper Estuary!"
The name doesn't ring any semblance of familiarity, though my eyes move to scan across the crowd where the eligible boys stand together. I don't see anyone who looks particularly horrified or disappointed, a couple of relieved faces, sure, but no one sticks out. I do, however, hear what sounds to be a feminine wail someplace in the crowd, which is promptly cut off by an unknown force. I don't spare it a glance, at risk of catching sight of a terror-stricken mother, sister, or other. A set of Peacekeepers advance forward towards the boys, just as another cry, this time muffled, resounds across the unbearably silent crowd.
"Mom, it'll be okay," I hear a small voice call out. Too small.
It's then that the Peacekeepers lead up a twelve year old boy, flanking his sides. All at once my stomach drops. The child approaching the stage is a short, lanky thing with a mop of curly auburn hair upon his head, with a face brightly lit by an abundance of sun-kissed freckles. Even as the cries of his mother are subdued somewhere in the distance - likely she has been pulled away by some Peacekeepers or even a family member or friend - he does not lose the carefully composed calm in his face. Sure, once on the stage he's rapidly scanning the crowd and he peers cautiously over his shoulder to us, but there's a surprising measure of maturity to his gaze. Something in me tightens like a fist gripping my gut. It just hits differently when it's a child that's Reaped.
Even Ivoree, who is usually good about masking his emotions during the Reaping, looks quietly horrified. His pale eyes do a quick skim across the crowd, searching for something. I do the same, looking over the vastness of the young male eligible Tributes. There are plenty of them who are qualified to Volunteer, who had openly claimed over the last few weeks that they would do so. Well, now's their chance to prove themselves. They fight for it, they train for it, and then their day arrives only once a year. While our Career pool isn't as prolific as Districts 1 or 2, they do exist. They make themselves known.
So why the hell are they staying quiet?
Volunteer, Volunteer, Volunteer, I chant. You pieces of shit, Volunteer.
But no one lifts a hand or their voice for this twelve year old boy, who stands calmly upon this stage. Cowards. Once a small silence has settled over the crowd, revealing that no one will be Volunteering for this boy, Ivoree relents. He glances down at Kipper, seemingly wanting to say something, but lift his gaze back up, instead. The jovial smile he wields as an escort returns in full, and he thrusts his hands up giddily.
Kipper Estuary keeps his back straight and his head high, even if I can see his lips quivering.
"Now, for the ladies," he croons, gliding to retrieve a name from the bowl, just as he did for Kipper's. "Kara Laptev -"
"I Volunteer!"
Across the crowd, I watch as a young girl's arm shoots up high over her head. The Peacekeepers barely have a chance to retrieve her themselves before she is pushing passed the crowd of teenaged girls, hastening in a quickened, eager stride towards the stage as the staggered Peacekeepers make haste to keep up with her. I glance across the stage towards my fellow Victors. Tilda is gawking at the sight and turns her head towards me. No doubt both of our expression convey the same measure of confusion. Sure, some Careers are eager - and I have seen plenty of those types lunge like sharks out of water towards the stage - but the panicked, almost clumsy nature of the girl's stride is a little disarming.
Once she's on the stage, I look between her and the boy, but there's no physical similarities - no indication of a familial attachment. The boy has a softly tanned complexion with rich red hair, whilst the girl has bronze skin and dark brown eyes and hair, appearing to be under eighteen - my guess is sixteen. She doesn't look at the boy as if he's anything - hell, when she's on the stage she barely even gives him a look. She's just gawking at the row of Victors standing behind her, and then out towards the crowd with awe in her widely set brown eyes.
"Well, my dear," Ivoree says, appearing as startled as we all feel. "Quite an entrance. What's your name?"
"My name is Marina Tasman."
"A round of applause for our dear Volunteer!" Ivoree says, clearing his throat. He turns to the crowd. "It is my honor to introduce District 4's Tributes for the 74th annual Hunger Games!"
"No one Volunteered for the boy," I whisper.
Rheon inhales slowly. "I know," he says, understanding the shadow in my words. "I know."
"You know a lot of things."
Choosing Liber to die, choosing me to live. Stealing his things away from me. Hiding countless things from me.
Something inside of me, burrowed so deep it looks twisted amidst the shadows - like those horrible Mutts I encountered in my Arena, which had been built like a cave
I turn my head, staring up at my father who stands nearly a foot taller than me.
His face...I take him in, I take in his strong, angular features and his jawline hidden behind a black beard peppered with grey, and his eyes, his most prominent of features, as one eye stands out as uncannily black, the pupils near blending in, whilst the other is a glass eye made up of obsidian; yet somehow it seems less dark than his own eye, made from his own body. In these flashes, I see my father's face across my vision; of him clean-shaven when I was younger, sitting across from me in our boat as he taught me how to gut fish. I see him drunk and disoriented when I had been a Tribute, the other Victors fighting to keep him away from me. I see him in my hospital room after I had won, staring at me with guilt and horror and, in hindsight, fear.
My father has always been afraid, hasn't he? All of these years I've never thought much of him, brutally comparing him to his Games, which had performed below averagely - I had aspired to be a better Victor than him when I was a child. It had never really occurred to me the brutality of his Games, of how he had had his eye torn from his head and how he kept fighting, just like how I lost my arm and didn't stop. It wasn't by the love for our Districts or the determination to live that kept us going, it was sheer stubbornness. And now we're both paying the consequences for our survival. My father won and sired children, knowing full-well that he could just as easily lose us. I Volunteered to protect my brother and he died for it, while I lost everything. My dad and I are no different. I'm no better or lesser of a Victor that he is. We're equal in that regard.
But never once had I ever lied to him, not to the extent that he has. My mind reels, forcing myself to relive all of those moments where my dad would take me from our house and out to the beach to fish, or to the marketplace, or anywhere in general, and willfully leaving Liber behind. I hadn't thought twice about it at the time. I had unknowingly craved my father's approval and attentions. One Victor to a future Victor, I used to see ourselves as.
My ears start to ring. No one Volunteered for that boy, I think, looking at Kipper as he's led away alongside Marina. She Volunteered. No one stepped forward for him.
No one made a move to Volunteer for Liber. No one moved for Finnick.
My gaze finds my father again as we the Victors begin to move from off of the stage. When I blink, I don't see my devoted father anymore, nor do I see the jaded Victor. I see a broken, hollow man. We all turn from the crowd, which is still roaring with applause, and step off of the stage. My father sticks close to my side, dutifully, and I notice how he deliberately puts spacing between myself and Finnick who is walking ahead of us, with Mags trailing after him.
You did this, I think. I don't know if it's towards myself, my dad, President Snow himself, or some cosmic force existing among the stars, which has the power to push them from the sky. But in the here and now, I target it towards the closest available thing. Nothing is rational inside my own head, not in this moment. I am powerless to everything around me right now...in almost every conceivable way. But here and now, armed with the knowledge I have and the hatred building up inside of me and my confused emotions only tripled by my conversation with Angler Cresta, I realize that nothing makes sense. But I can make a bend here. I can make someone hurt the way I'm hurting right now, that much I have control over...specifically the person who's caused this, all of it.
Once we are returned to the Mayor's house, for the Tributes to say their goodbyes to their families, and I find myself briefly alone with my father in the hallway...I seize this chance.
"I know, dad."
"Know what?" Rheon asks, quietly.
"That lies always catch up to you," I say, in a shaking breath. "I know about Nodon...and you chose me over Liber."
(a/n): *gently jazz hands* I mean...I told you guys this chapter was gonna be a doozy. Behold, conflict, conflict everywhere, and revelations. (Oh my!) This chapter was a lot of fun to write for me, for so many reasons, and I can't wait for everything to unravel. I have big, big plans coming up for our favorite heroes. ;) Our District 4 Tributes for the 74th Hunger Games have been officially Reaped! Ceres has learned the identity of Liber's mystery associate! And, after six years of sitting on all this knowledge against Rheon, Ceres has finally let it slip she knows...right at the height of her emotional distress, because that's a great time to let the facts fly. *evil grin* Next chapter is gonna have a lot of shit unfold...we're gonna be entering the Capitol and meeting up with some Victors...some you've seen already, some you haven't seen. *DOUBLE EVIL GRIN*
Fun fact! The actress of the female Volunteer from District 4 in the movie, Tara Macken, confirmed on twitter her character's name was Marina. I couldn't find anything on the boy, though, so I gave him a new name! ^_^
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~
the. apple .seed: As a writer, I am very happy that you were unnerved by that scene (ah the weird things writers say). I very much wanted the scene to be unsettling and a true example of just how precarious Ceres' situation is and how mind-numbingly oblivious Seneca is to everything. And as far as Annie goes, I feel like she was underutilized in the books, so I'm trying to give her a larger role here, and I am very excited to unveil all of the intricate roles she plays throughout the story. ^_^ Thank you for being a loyal reader and reviewer! *heart*
rikiarin: There was definitely foreshadowing going on throughout the last chapter...quite a bit of it, for various different things. ;) I will tell you that you should definitely be scared for Ceres. A lot of things are going to be happening in this installment of her story, for better and for worse, and I can promise you that a lot of those things will definitely not be pretty. Honestly, Seneca is a fun character to write for. He's technically not the worst type of person, but he also lives with rose colored glasses and willfully exists in his own fantasy. I am also very, very excited to be delving more into Nodon Doyle/Declan Nyles. ;) Annie is gonna be playing a huge role in things to come, so stay tuned.
DreamonAlina: Gosh, to say that warmed my heart would be an understatement! I've always dreamed of being that story that people refresh constantly for updates haha. I'm sorry for such long gaps between them. XD Would that I could pump these suckers out daily. I am also truly moved that the flashback made you tear it, it was such a joy to write and I'm thrilled it had the emotional impact I was hoping for. I, too, *clenches fist* love them. We will definitely be seeing Katniss/Ceres interactions in the coming chapters. ;) And we'll also be seeing more of Finnick, don't worry. Mwahaha.
~CASTING~
Angler Cresta: Alfred Molina
Marina Tasman: Tara Macken
Kipper Estuary: Ethan Jamieson
Ivoree Greenscape: John McCrea
Mayor Nihar Eyphra: Jimmy Smits
Tilda Fell: Bridget Regan