(a/n): So this chapter was originally 20k words. XD But I condensed it down to 14k. But you know what that means, we have 6k worth of writing done for Chapter Six, which means it's halfway done...which means less of a wait for you stinkin' nerds. *evil laugh* Anyway, thank you guys so, so much for all of the love this story is receiving! I truly well with tears every time I read a review or see an update. It makes my heart swell.
Anyway, this chapter is an emotional roller coaster...and introduces some very, very, very critical characters. ;)
Enjoy, loves!
CHAPTER FIVE
to save a life
Ceres.
There are a lot of worst parts about the Reaping - about the Hunger Games, in general, but the Reaping here specifically. First, everyone in District 4 wakes up early and prepares for the day, gathering their best clothes, their families, and their prayers to venture into the town square to the huge stage located by the Mayor's house, to wait and wonder if they or someone they love will be chosen to die. Then afterwards, there still isn't a reprieve. Sure, some families will be saved. Mothers will get the chance to take their children back home, able to breathe for another year, but another mother is going to face the reality of losing her child. The Reaping itself, watching those kids walk onto the stage, is hard. But the goodbyes might be one of the worst parts.
As Victors, we don't have a role to play in them. We don't have to stand in those rooms in the Mayor's house, watching as the Reaped children bid farewell to parents, siblings, friends, and other close loved ones. All we have to do is stand in the parlor and wait for them to come out. When they do, we'll walk out of the Mayor's house, the band of Mentors leading the fresh-blooded Tributes to the train, and it will be captured on film. The Capitolians eat that shit up. They love watching the little march of broken people leading children likely to die.
Despite the fact the parlor is several halls away from where the Tributes are saying goodbye, I can still hear a woman sobbing hysterically and pleading with the Peacekeepers for more time - more time - for her son. It's the mother to Kipper Estuary. She had been hysterical during his Reaping and it hadn't changed much since then. The desperation in her voice strikes a nerve deep from inside of me, reminding me, bitterly, how calm my mother had been when she had come to see me off for my Games. Demetra has always been a calm woman, though; far from a doting, loving mother.
We the Victors have our chances to say goodbye to our family members, too, but it's kind of pointless. Ren and Tilda have no one in way of friend or family. Mags lost her family years ago, including her husband - who I never had the chance to meet, but to my understanding he was a kind man, and she had the good wits not to mother children. Obviously, Finnick's parents are dead, and he's not keen on making friends with anyone aside from Victors. Then there's my dad, who used to say goodbye to his wife and children, but now...now there's no real need to say goodbye to his wife, not when they live so separately now.
And the absence of a ring on my mother's finger is proof of that, even if Rheon still wears his.
Speaking of my dad, he's been stoic - too stoic.
After I had revealed my knowledge to him, he had just stared at me with widened eyes, everything else about his expression totally blank. I had expected something from him. Maybe he'd be mad or upset, or fall to his knees pleading for mercy. But all he did was stare down at me for a couple of seconds in stunned silence before calmly - fucking calmly - turning around and walking with the Victors. He hasn't given me the decency of a reaction or answer, though I haven't been able to prod him further. I'll have time on the train, though. I can corner him someplace quiet, maybe during nightfall as we're traveling across Panem to the Capitol. He can't just expect his silence to last. My promise to Mags to stay quiet has bought him six years. He's not getting anymore time out of me.
Currently, Rheon is standing by the window overlooking the front porch of the Mayor's house, with Demetra standing across from him. His arms are tightly folded and he's staring outside at nothing. No words have been exchanged between the two, which isn't unusual, but I know why they're standing together so civilly. Well, in part it's because of the day - it's not like my parents are going to cause an active scene about their dysfunctional marriage on Reaping day. But also, I recognize that Rheon is using my mom as a shield. So long as they stand together, I can't corner him singularly. He's stuck himself into a comfortable corner I can't reach.
Yet.
While my dad hides behind my mom, essentially, I allow my gaze to drift over to Finnick. He's spared a couple glances in my direction since our encounter, but he hasn't approached me. I don't blame him. What I said was out of line. I'd just been in such a fit of emotions, which I keep contained in a tightly bound bubble, and it finally popped. Finnick had been unfortunate enough to be in the crossfire of it. I don't know why I said it. Maybe because I needed someone else to hurt the way I was, or maybe because I wasn't thinking, and I was trying to rationalize his concerns. Either way, it wasn't right. Neleus Odair is a topic that should never, ever be breached.
Hurting Finnick is something I could never aspire to do, even if I find unintentional ways of doing it. The Capitol hurts him enough, he lives in a perpetual state of loneliness and isolation thanks to the Capitol's hold over him, and it had taken a force of nature for him to be convinced to allow me to stay in his life. I can't afford to lose him, too, all because of my mistakes. So, when we're on the train - before or after I've confronted my dad, I'm undecided - I'll apologize. Apologies have never been my strong suit. I've always been too stubborn for them, too in my own head that I'm right. But they've become easier. Surprisingly, after you've done terrible things, it's easier to recognize your flaws, and how to make amends for them.
That doesn't mean I'm good at it, though.
Finnick's sea-green eyes are briefly flickering towards me as he stands by the inactive fireplace with Mags, the two of them discreetly signing between each other. I can't make out the words their hands form, but I can tell that they're comforting each other. Mags' smile is warm like an afternoon sun. It's impossible not to feel warmer by proxy, though I'm admittedly struggling in this moment.
Annie is sitting quietly in the corner, fiddling with a loose string on her sweater. She won't be going back to the Capitol, of course. Given her mental condition and the likeliness of her causing a scene in the Capitol, she gets to stay behind. Notably, someone must take care of her. This changes semi-yearly. Sometimes she stays with my mom - which I find a little odd, I won't lie, but Annie never seems put off by her so Demetra must be kind - or Mags will occasionally stay to look after her. Mags is older and, despite being liked by the Capitol, isn't popular enough to warrant forcing her to go. Ever since she lost her voice, she's had an easy way out, too. This year she's staying with Annie.
It won't be long now before the Tributes have said their goodbyes and we'll on that damned train.
For a second, Finnick and I catch eyes. Rather than looking immediately away, Finnick meets my gaze evenly. A part of me hopes he'll wave me over from my little corner of the room, leaning back against a bookshelf as I stare across the room, but he doesn't. There isn't anything unkind or unforgiving in his gaze, but there's no open invitation, either. A bit solemnly, he looks back down towards Mags, who immediately looks towards me. Sternly, she raises her gaze to Finnick and signs something quickly. I don't catch entirely what she's saying, but I do note two words out of order. Apologize and care.
I can only imagine what she's saying to him, but I don't really have time to focus on that, or even my dad, because something else catches out the corner of my eye. Turning, I see that my mom has stormed away from my dad and is marching out of the parlor, but her gaze snaps towards me and she curls her finger, before disappearing into the hallway. There is some minor measure of panic that is instilled into any daughter when met with such a fiercely motherly stare, but it's not like I haven't seen worse. I push myself off of the built in bookshelf and follow after her.
There are Peacekeepers stationed all around the hallway, especially on either side of the parlor door, but they don't make a move to stop us. So long as we aren't running, it doesn't matter. They recognize the fact they have us in this metaphorical fish bowl.
Once in the hallway, with countless portraits of past Mayors and President Snow staring down at us, Demetra turns towards me with piercing blue eyes, and raises a finger. "Your father is acting strange," she says. "Stranger than usual."
So he hasn't said anything to you. That's in character. "What'd he say?"
Demetra raises her dark brow at me. "He hasn't," she says. "But he's been avoiding eye contact, not just with me, but everyone."
"That's not exactly surprising, mom. Given everything," I say. "He's always been like that."
"Maybe. But never quite to that capacity," Demetra says. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing," I say, which isn't a lie.
But my mom sees through me. Narrowing her large, doe-like blue eyes at me, I know that there's no lying out of this - at least, not fully. She moves a little closer towards me, her demeanor less than warm. She doesn't say anything, which I think is the worst part of this situation. I consider avoiding eye contact with her, but I can't tear my gaze out of hers without incriminating myself, and yet I am entirely unnerved by just how steely her eyes are. They're the same eyes as me, though maybe a shade or two paler. Then again, it could be in contrast against her porcelain perfect skin and ebony hair framing her long, feminine face.
I would fold my arms if I had both of them, and it's a little awkward just folding my right arm alone over my torso, so I allow it to rest tensely at my side and I, alternatively, straighten my back in an effort to match my mother's demeanor. This doesn't phase her, of course, as she continues to search me for something. Now, in this moment, I am being interrogated. No words need to be said, no sharp actions thrust upon either of us. We need only stand here until the other breaks.
Despite myself, I swallow. "It's nice you're concerned about him," I say.
"He's my husband."
"Is he?" I say, glancing down to her finger where a ring once was. "I forgot."
Demetra doesn't flinch against the venom in my words. "Rheon and I were always a losing game," she says, in such a tone I almost find myself wincing. She says it so casually, almost dismissively. There's no ounce of affection or fondness to her words, nor even regret. She does, however, glance away for a moment before immediately settling her gaze back onto me.
"At least you're honest," I say. "So what does that mean, exactly? He's still wearing his ring."
"That's Rheon's prerogative," Demetra says, shrugging. "But it's hard to come back from where we are."
"You mean Rheon..." I trail, a bitterness seeping into my voice. My mother's brow arches again and I recognize she's going to start prying, so I decide to deliver my verbal killing blow now, hopefully to stop her from pursuing the matter any further. With luck, she'll retreat just like my dad is - but that's as unlikely as the sun plunging into the ocean like a shooting star. "You mean Rheon choosing me over Liber?"
If Demetra is shocked by my knowledge, she doesn't convey it. Her expression remains just the same as it had been; remarkably neutral. This almost catches me off guard to the point of enhancing my internal annoyance and even anger. How is it only I am hurting over this? Why does my dad get to stay quiet and not face the truth, whilst my mother remains calm? Meanwhile, I'm plagued by nightmares, and haunted by Liber's shocked, pained expression as he died; his corpse dragged away by Muttations.
Demetra exhales slowly. "I always knew you would find out. Rheon wanted so badly to hide it from you," she says, "but it wouldn't stay quiet forever. Secrets seldom do." At that, she smiles mirthlessly. "My guess Finnick told you, right? Rheon mentioned him knowing, so it's no surprise he'd tell you. Loyalty and all."
There's a knowingness to her eyes.
At least Rheon had the decency to tell Demetra how he sold their son for their daughter. Despite the fragility of their marriage before, I can understand it shattering now. I can't imagine any marriage surviving such a nightmare revelation - of it not even being a shared choice. God, I don't even want to know who my mother would have chosen in that scenario. My whole life, her loyalty has mostly resided in Rheon and his decisions and how they effected us. She'd never been doting or loving or coddling, but we hadn't needed her to be - at least I didn't. Maybe Liber needed a more affectionate mother in his life. Truth be told, I wouldn't be surprised if Demetra would have just let the cards fold when it came to Liber and I in the arena. Whoever won would have won. She wouldn't have played things differently, certainly not actively seeking out Gamemakers to negotiate for her children's lives. But this is all speculation. Who's to say how things would have changed? Maybe Liber would be alive and I'd be dead or we'd both be dead.
"Does it bother you?" I ask. "Dad chose me over your son."
At that, Demetra's neutral expression finally shifts. Her brow furrows together and her lips slowly purse, taking a small moment to consider my query. "That's a cruel question to ask a mother, Ceresea," Demetra says, though not necessarily in a scolding tone. "Of course it bothers me. But I'd rather he fought for one of you rather than neither."
"But he still chose between us," I say.
"And I imagine that's why he's so quiet," Demetra says, this time looking and sounding disappointed. "You told him you knew, didn't you? And, given how he looks like a kicked puppy, you told him today. I can't say that was wise, Ceresea." A small scoff parts from her lips. "More than unwise, I think it was downright stupid. Your timing could not have been worse."
"You told me to come home with my shield or on it," I say, cutting her words off. I mean, she's right. It was definitely stupid, but I don't need to be confronted with that right now, not when so many other things need to be addressed. "I'm still not sure what that meant...but did you tell Liber the same thing? Or anything else? Did you tell him to survive or to die fighting, too?"
Demetra's chin raises. "No."
"You didn't...say anything to him?"
"I visited him and told him to stay strong and to fight," Demetra says, "but I wasn't going to feed him false hope. That, too, would have been cruel." She goes quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting for a moment as I imagine her going back to her final conversation with Liber, before we boarded that train. "He had been so stoic."
"Did he seem angry?"
Demetra shakes her head. "No. But he didn't seem happy, either," she says, "and it wasn't just because he had been Reaped. You volunteering complicated things, Ceres. We both know it. Had you stayed out of it, your father could have protected him, and you would never have had to worry about the Games again. Who knows, maybe you could have had a wonderful future. Married a boring man, mothered children who'd come to resent you..."
"It sounds like you're projecting."
"But, in the end, you certainly could never have married Finnick Odair, so that much hasn't changed," Demetra replies, appearing visibly vexed by my comment.
Despite myself, I wince. "Instead, the Head Gamemaker buys my time and body whenever he so chooses, and I'm his property to do with what he pleases. You know, the last time he was here he mused about Gemma Lux. You do know about her, right? A Capitolian paid for her to get pregnant with his child, and she could've terminated it, but she kept it, instead. I can't imagine why. Of course, Seneca said it was just a musing, because it's too scandalous and controversial nowadays...but the thought crossed his mind. That is how deep his ownership of me has gone to his head, that he even considered it in passing."
I gain some measure of satisfaction by watching my mother's irritatingly well-composed and neutral expression crack for a moment with a little sliver of horror manifesting over her features. It disappears just as quickly, but I catch it in that slim moment in time. She doesn't like talking about that side of my life anymore than I like to think about it. Generally, we keep it out of our conversations in the rare instances we're alone together. It's nicer just to forget it exists. But sometimes it needs to be prodded back into reality, just so we both mutually understand that my circumstances are truly no different than Finnick's.
Sure, I'm not subjected to the countless lovers thrust upon him, with varying appetites and cruel desires and expectations, but I am no less a slave. I still play my role, even if Seneca Crane seems semi-conscious to it. He can't be entirely blind to assume that my affection is real, that my desire for him is anything more than an act to survive. But he lives happily in his fantasy and I just live in it when necessary. At least he's never hurt me, though. He's never marred my flesh, made me cry with pain, or done things so unfathomable I can't even speak afterwards. Those things I've seen in Finnick far too many times...and they haunt my dreams more than I care to admit. Still, while my circumstances are far from worse, they are still real. Very real.
"I know about Gemma Lux," Demetra says, a strange bitterness in her voice. "But President Snow wouldn't allow it."
"Doesn't change the fact I'm property, same as Finnick," I say. "So stop pretending I'm so high above him. Truth of the matter is, mom, we're both in precarious situations. One wrong move on my end, I'm sold to others, and then Finnick and I are well and truly in the same boat. Then maybe we'd finally be worthy of each other, right?"
"Don't put words into my mouth," she says, in a tone that deepens with subtle anger.
"Then don't put yourself into my affairs, least of all in the one thing that makes me happy," I say. "You know, I remember you being angry when you saw me off for my Games. But you seemed pretty accepting that we could die...especially your son. You just accepted he'd die with me in that Arena, didn't you?"
"Everything dies, eventually. I believed you could protect your brother to some extent and you did. But I couldn't have expected him to betray you the way he did," she says. "But, yes, I expected he'd die and you'd survive. You said so yourself that day, you studied the Games for years. You had countless advantages over him."
"Including parental love and support, apparently," I say. "That's probably why he sought Nodon out."
Finally, finally, I've struck a nerve. Demetra's expression instantly shadows with both surprise and genuine horror, her blue eyes widening like saucers and her lips parting as she stares me down. It takes several moments for her to gather herself, which I take immeasurable satisfaction in, and try not to let it show on my face. It does, though, as a smirk.
"I see. So you know...I assume through his journals," she says, her voice noticeably tightened. She clears her throat. "I know what you're thinking, Ceresea. You can seek him out - I know you will even without my permission. But I can't promise you'll like what you find. It might even make things so much worse."
"What do you mean?"
"There's a lot more to our family than on the surface."
"Couldn't have anything to do with very prominent favoritism, apparently...but maybe it has to do with you eloping with a Victor?"
"More so why I eloped with a Victor," Demetra says, taking a step closer to me and dropping her voice into a low murmur. "When you come home, I promise...we'll talk about it. It's time you learn the truth. I just ask that you hear my side of things before you look for him - and I know you may ignore me, and you have every right to, but just try. It might soften things."
"I can learn it from dad, you know," I say.
"Maybe half of it, but not all of it," Demetra says. "It's my family, after all."
"A family that disowned you," I say, "and yet opened its arms to my brother."
"As if our family is any better," Demetra counters, and, ruefully, I can't argue there. "You know he'll never forgive himself for what he did."
My eyes flicker. "Rheon choosing Liber? I know."
"Words are wind, Ceres. Ships passing in the night, at best," she says. "Are you sure you want to stand against it forever?"
"I've already brought it up, mom. No turning back now."
Before my mother has a chance to reply, there's a subtle hem-hem followed by a distinct swooning sound. I turn to look over my shoulder, facing Ivoree who is looking between us a little worriedly. It certainly doesn't look good when a Victor and her mother are toe to toe like this in a quiet, albeit heated, state, but he keeps a safe distance and offers an easy smile, though I can tell it doesn't reach his unnaturally colored eyes.
"It's time to go."
"Time to go, mom," I say, turning to face her. "Don't worry. I'll come home with my shield."
"You're not going into battle this time," Demetra bites. "I promise we'll talk when you come back."
"If words are wind, then promises are pieces of driftwood out at sea. Hopefully yours reaches the shore, mom."
"The train's a lot bigger than I expected."
Despite all the chaos going off in my head, as well as just the general tensions which perpetually preside over the new Tributes and jaded Victors upon this wayward train, I can't but to smile. Kipper is looking around the dining hall in awe, with a plate full of an impressive dinner set in front of him. His wide eyes connected to a deeply freckled face, projecting nothing but amazement and vast curiosity, endears me. He hasn't even touched the food on his plate yet, despite the fact his stomach has rumbled a few times since we got on the train. The train is leading straight towards the Capitol and, most likely, his inevitable death, but he can't help but to feel impressed by it all.
Beside him, Marina has already started to eat. While she had been visibly in awe to the train when we first boarded, it has since subsided, and I can tell she's all business now. We, the Victors, sit together with our Tributes - now is the time for impressions of our own. Technically, Ivoree should be in attendance with us, but he likes to give us our space during the initial introduction. It's better this way, we've learned. It makes our Tributes more comfortable. This is where we begin the training, well before we even enter the Capitol. They may not know it yet, but we do.
"That's probably because you're small," Marina says, scooping some peas onto her fork.
Kipper looks mildly deflated by the comment, so I decide to chime in. "Don't let height fool you. Younger Tributes with shorter statures have won before," I say. "I'm short myself, and I still won."
Ren glances at me, then back at Kipper. I recognize the look on his face instantly. A teachable moment. "Ceres also won with just one arm, with the aid of an Ally. Never underestimate the underdogs, and never underestimate the value of a strong Alliance, eh?" he smiles, looking at me for support.
I nod. "He's right."
My gaze moves across the table. Most of my fellow Victors sitting around this table look completely natural, though the absence of Mags is sorely missed (but it's better she stays with Annie this year). Tilda is looking between Kipper and Marina critically, with the eye of a Mentor looking for flaws, advantages, little things that can be utilized or enhanced or diminished for the purposes of the Arena. Her expression is more or less obvious that she is reading them.
Ren, meanwhile, is idly eating his dinner and looking between them more casually, though I can tell he's being just an analytical. My father has been avoiding eye contact with me all day, his frustrations and nerves clearly accumulating the longer we're unable to talk to each other. I won't lie, watching him sit there as the truth festers inside of him is mildly satisfying. It seems like a fair justice for the six years I spent knowing what he hid from me, all the while pretending everything was okay. That might honestly be cruel of me. Is it crueler to admit I don't care?
My eyes find Finnick, who is sitting across from me. Despite the fact we left our previous conversation tensely and I haven't been able to go back to apologize, he's remained civil. While I can tell he's masterfully avoiding direct eye contact with me, a true testament to just how hard I hurt him with my words, he's maintaining his role of Mentor perfectly. In the presence of the kids, he isn't faltering. He eats casually and offers them smiles and charming words, and encouragements. Finnick has always been a good Mentor. He's found the balance in being kind to the Tributes and being firm when needed. Finnick must feel my eyes on him, because he lifts his and our eyes lock. There's a split second where my breath hitches, waiting for some type of reaction; like waiting for your fishing rod to jolt when a fish takes the bait. To my relief, he smiles at me, and then looks back at Kipper and Marina.
A small exhale parts from me.
"We'll make Alliances with Careers, right?" Marina asks.
"Not necessarily," I say. "We can most certainly try, but there's no guarantee it will go through."
"Or, alternatively, that they won't betray you," Ren adds.
Marina glances pointedly at me but has enough common sense not to say anything. "I mean, in the end only one person is coming out, so Alliances are short-lived by default," she says. "But I'd still like to try forming one."
Kipper uses his fork to prod at the cooked cod on his plate. "We could make an Alliance," he says, looking up at her. "You and me."
By the manner in which Marina's shoulders visibly tighten and how she tactfully avoids eye contact with Kipper, I know instantly that this isn't a part of her plan. But instead of voicing this, she offers Kipper a smile formed by tightly pressed lips. "We could, yeah," she says. "Do you have any talents?"
"I'm good at hide-and-seek," Kipper says.
Ren raises his hand and points at him. "See that can be good. Hiding is a very useful part of the Games, isn't it?"
Tilda glances between them, but I notice how her gaze moves towards my dad beside her. Discreetly, she leans close, and I strain my ears in order to catch what she says to him. "Rheon. You haven't touched your food," she says, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
"Just deep in thought," Rheon replies, sparing a glance towards me.
I narrow my eyes in return.
Marina, oblivious to the briefly shared hostility, pipes back into the conversation. "So, what should we expect out of the Games?" Marina asks.
"Everything," Tilda replies, instantly.
Marina looks at me, expectantly. "The Head Gamemaker is your boyfriend. Do you know anything?"
Not by any spread of the imagination was I expecting that. All at once, I am choking on my ill-timed bite of fish. My hand cups over my mouth, breaking into a coughing fit, and hoping that everyone averts their gazes from me as the mingled horror and embarrassment fade out. Thousands of thoughts fly through my head as I try to get that lodged piece of fish in my throat taken care of. Where the hell did that come from? I know that it's technically common knowledge I am exclusive with Seneca Crane, but never have I heard that word be used before. I can't bear to look at any of my fellow Mentors, least of all Finnick.
Kipper reaches over and pats my back, which is a gesture that I internally appreciate, but definitely don't have any means of conveying outwardly at the moment. Once I've gathered my bearings, I try to think of a way out of it - maybe hide under the table, maybe jump off of the train, maybe hijack the train...yeah, great idea there. Brilliant. I look towards the still-waiting Marina and decide that hijacking the train to get out of this conversation is definitely the best way to go...shame it's too stupid, though.
After a small, awkward pause, I clear my throat and hope to God my face isn't as red as it feels right now.
"First of all...the Head Gamemaker is not my boyfriend. We just associated with each other," I say. Despite the fact it's mostly common knowledge that my relationship with Seneca is more carnal than that, I try to downplay it to my Tributes - anyone, really, but especially the kids I am in charge of. Marina seems keenly aware of it, but Kipper is too young for such details to be voiced. "And no, I don't know anything. The Gamemakers keep everything confidential, even with their own families. It's a violation to talk about the Games with civilians."
Marina is visibly disappointed by my claim, but she also doesn't look entirely trusting. She slowly cuts into a piece of her fish and chews it deliberately, all the while with a thoughtful expression on her face. I wonder if she thinks I'm lying. "Okay...but you can keep us safe, right?" Marina continues. "It's still an association."
Ren must notice how uncomfortable I am, because he interjects on my behalf. Under normal circumstances I would be vexed that he would be cutting into a conversation between me and a Tribute, especially in a matter that is of my concern, but I'm hugely grateful here. I discreetly offer him a smile as he hijacks Marina's attentions.
"Marina, the Gamemakers can't keep Tributes safe or alive," he says. "They aren't your hope. What is your hope, is everything you are going to learn from us, from your instructors in the Tribute Center, and everything in between." He gestures between all of us before continuing. "What keeps you alive isn't some fancy weapon in your hand, it's popularity. Use it."
Marina and Kipper both looks towards Finnick, without missing a beat. As if it were a camera that had turned towards him, Finnick instantly straightens and smiles charmingly at them, with such charisma he may as well be peacocking himself to a crowd of people. My stomach churns and I try to distract myself with the fruit on my plate.
"I can teach them how to be charming," Finnick says. "It may just save your life -"
Rheon pushes himself abruptly from the table, rattling the silverware and fine glasses atop the wooden surface. Finnick has to reach out to stop a glass of iced tea from falling onto Ren's lap. But my father doesn't notice, at least he pays it no mind. His food remains untouched as he steps back from his chair, shoving it against the table.
"I lost my appetite," he says.
While we are all visibly startled by this, Tilda maintains a stern expression as she looks up at him. "Rheon," she says, tightly. "Don't you want to stay and help our Tributes?"
"Yes. Soon." Rheon looks down at them, then, with absolutely no hesitation - no damn warning - reaches up and plucks his false eye out of his head; leaving behind that white empty socket. He folds the piece of obsidian between his fingers as if it hadn't just existed inside of his head, and looks towards me.
I guess that's one way to leave a conversation.
"I need to clean it. Excuse me," Rheon says, and walks off.
I watch him as he goes, disappearing down the long expanse of the dining room. When he reaches the door, he spares a quick, yet meaningful, look over his shoulder, and I understand.
Kipper audibly swallows. "Is...is he okay?" he asks, looking at me.
"Rheon is fine, Kipper," Ren says.
Marina looks doubtful. Her dark eyes narrow to the space where my father had been sitting and I know instantly that he has thoroughly ruined his first impression; any respect he could have gained is now lost. Now, he's just the strange old man who will most definitely not be keeping them alive. I have to say, even I'm rattled by my father's actions.
"Let's bring the focus back, alright?" Tilda says. "Tonight, they'll be broadcasting the Reapings, so we'll be able to see what type of Tributes we'll be dealing with. We'll overview them all."
"I'm good at taking notes," Kipper offers, still looking a little unnerved after my father's exit.
"We'll need that," Marina says, smiling at him.
I try not to stare at my father's empty chair and full plate, nor even towards the door at the end of the room. What does it say about me if I stay to educate them, versus not following after my clearly distressed father? I'm definitely supposed to go after him, based on that look he threw me, also on account of the fact that I called him out on his lies right before we left District 4, but it could reflect badly on me to leave them behind. The crippled girl running after her insane father...then again, maybe it'll be a show of empathy. Empathy never hurts to learn or observe, though it can certainly get you killed in the Arena.
Shit. I'm screwed either way.
Better now than never, I guess.
"You guys get ahead of that," I say, setting my fork down. "I'm going to check on Rheon."
I don't look at anyone as I walk off, concerned I'd be met with pitying, sympathetic, confused, whatever type of glances. I just press forward. First I check my dad's room to see if he's there, then his bathroom, then a couple of the other compartments on this train. Eventually, though, it occurs to me that my dad might have retreated to the same place I usually seek solace. Sure enough, venturing to the farthest end of the train, I find myself to be right.
The back of the train is a relatively nice, quiet space, where I've spent a lot of time over the years. It's more or less a fish bowl with the walls lined with windows and also seating that wraps under it; velvety and plush, with a couple of pillows that are mostly decorative but can be comfortable enough to sleep on. It's a smaller space compared to the rest of the train, but it's still relatively open. It's a warmer, calmer space, where I can watch everything behind me disappear versus standing in the front of watching everything come at me at rapid speed. At least here, I can see some semblance of home, at least its general direction, even as it vanishes from view.
This is a place where I've come whenever I have nightmares and can't stand to be alone in my stuffy room. As a general code of practice, I try not to venture into Finnick's room when we're on the train. It's too revealing. While our houses are safer spaces, because they reside within District 4 - our domain - the train is the Capitol's, and everything in it feels too revealing. Every word, every movement, feels as though it's being carefully monitored. It's too risky to seek out my usual comforts, so I usually come here, laying back on the plush seating and fall asleep to the lulling vibrations of the train and moonlight seeping through the windows.
But now it's far from a place of refuge. It now feels tighter than usual, more than just because two people are in it. My dad is standing in the center of the space, staring out the window with his hands awkwardly placed on his hips, clearly uncertain what to do with them, and his tightened expression slowly turns towards me. He was clearly expecting me and I did not disappoint. Those eyes of his - his real eye so black the pupil practically doesn't exist and the other a mere glass eye made up of obsidian material - looking down at me in such a way I feel like a fish faced with his spear. I'm reminded briefly of our little fishing venture a week ago, when he had swiftly and precisely struck his spear through the surface of the water and caught a fish at his tip. Instinct, he called it.
I wonder if he's trying to figure out a way to properly pierce me here. But he's not saying anything, he's just staring at me.
"Speechless, dad?" I venture, breaking the silence. "How about you show off my stub to them, too, while you're at it? Really freak them out."
"Don't patronize me," Rheon says, his voice a forced measure of calm.
"Patronize you? For what? Walking out on our Tributes like that? This is the part where we're supposed to encourage them and really set an example. Here and now is how we prove to them that we're capable of keeping them alive. But you just pulled your own eye out of your head and walked off," I say. "God, dad. I'd expect that type of behavior from Haymitch, but not you."
My father doesn't reveal whether or not my words effected him, but I can tell that I've struck something small by the way he briefly diverts his attentions from me; maybe he's deep in thought, maybe I hurt him. Either way, when he looks back up at me, his gaze conveys determination. "We both know this isn't about that," he says. "Tell me how you know."
So, my mom hadn't said anything to him before we left. I had noticed how she had looked at him as we were led out by Ivoree, wondering if she would grab him and whisper something hastily to him about how I'd know, or to look out for something, but she hadn't. For once, my mom's loyalty rested in her child instead of her husband. Then again, the absence of her wedding ring has basically stripped that title away, so maybe her loyalties are just shifting by proxy. Regardless of whether or not they shared any words together, I know that my dad and I are about to embark on a horrible conversation right now.
In hindsight, it was stupid of me to bring up such a sensitive and important matter the very moment we were about to board the train leaving for the Capitol, with a fresh set of Tributes before us. But I had been angry. Despite all the years I've had to temper myself, I still find myself inclined to impulsive actions and words when my emotions get too riled up, especially now that I've unlocked so many answers about my family...primarily Liber. The truth is, there's no turning back now. I could try to reason that we should wait to talk about it and he might be inclined to agree with me, but that's only putting it off more.
And this has sat in the shadows for six years. It's time it saw the light.
I brush my tongue over my lips, thinking about how I want to start this. "You know, I've spent a lot of time wondering why Liber wanted to kill me so badly. But considering the fact his own father chose his sister to live and for him to die, it all makes sense. You made it make sense," I say. "I look back on it, and your favoritism was obvious, dad. You never did anything with Liber."
My dad hesitates, doubtless a little put off by how blatantly I've begun our conversation. He visibly struggles to compose himself. "Liber never had any interest in the water or fishing," he says. "He preferred being on land and I respected him for it. But we didn't -"
"Have anything in common otherwise? So you just put all of your time into me. That gave you the right to just ignore him?" I retaliate, frowning deeply at his excuse - the first of many, I expect. "God, dad. Everyday it was you taking me out fishing or to the market or being there with me, but I have no memories of you doing anything with Liber, aside from maybe talking to him during mealtimes or letting him listen to you play your guitar."
"Liber was my son. I loved him," Rheon says.
"I am not arguing you didn't. I am saying you loved me more," I say.
That well and truly shakes my father, as he goes completely quiet and still, staring at me with widening eyes. I may as well have just slapped him. A small sound parts from his lips as he attempts to steady himself, his hands alternating from his hips to his sides, then back to his hips. He glances away from me. It's this pause followed by visible guilt on his face that clarifies it completely to me. There's no denying it now. Sure, he can come up with more fancy words and excuses, but this is all I need to see to understand I have him cornered and he knows I'm right. It hurts him, but it hurts me double.
"You chose me, over him," I go on.
I expect that my dad might falter again, but instead he brings his eyes to mine and clenches his jaw. "And I'd do it again," he says, fiercely. This causes my own eyes to widen. The lack of hesitation in his words startles me, rendering me briefly speechless, and my dad seizes the opportunity to carry on before it fades. "If I had to relive that decision over, I'd still choose you. Before you were born, I swore to protect you."
A stuttered scoff escapes me. "I feel like all fathers make that promise," I snap. "You never swore to protect him, then?
"It was different with your brother. You wouldn't understand."
"Elaborate, then," I say. "You pulled the trigger and I was Liber's bullet. I deserve to know."
Rheon's eyes narrow at me. "Tell me how you found out about Nodon."
My brow arches. I can tell by my dad's voice that this is a compromise. We both want information out of the other, and we're both very much in very tightly cornered circumstances. While I know I could push him to tell me more, I do also know that Nodon plays a huge role in my brother's life and the answers residing there, so I decide to indulge him without fuss. "I found one of Liber's journals in his room, one of many, I expect," I say. "Yeah. You and mom stole the rest, right? Or did you destroy them?"
"Some of them exist, but, yes, mostly they're destroyed," Rheon says, with a small pause between words, as if carefully calculating his maneuvers; something hidden within them. "I saw the initials attached to your brother's drawings. It doesn't surprise me that he would go to Nodon, or if Nodon stumbled on him and offered help...their mutual contempt towards me, specifically, would have been a huge bonding factor. Justifiably so." He exhales. "But somebody told you about my decision. Who was it?"
He's fishing for more answers than I'm willing to give now. It had been Finnick who had told me the truth of the matter, after we had spent our first night together after we'd come home to District 4, after I'd won my Games. He felt that I deserved to know the truth. To some extent, I partially resented him for it. It might have been more ideal to continue to live in blissful ignorance, convinced that my brother's death was my burden to carry, and the fault of no one else. But the truth made it all the more apparent. I had killed Liber, that is without question. My spear connected to his heart.
Yet, my father had negotiated for my life in exchange for Liber's if it came down to it. He went behind his fellow Victors' backs to reason with a Gamemaker - Seneca Crane, no less - to barter for my life. The price, as it were, was Liber's. How could it not be? Only one person was getting out of the Arena. It was unrealistic to assume that any exception could be made, even for two children of Victors. Hell, it only heightened the Games itself, especially considering we were the final two, in the end. In securing my survival, my dad had also ironically secured the success of the 68th Hunger Games. It concluded with a final battle between a brother and a sister, whose father was a Victor...and one betrayed the other, then the other killed the one. Seneca described the moment as poetic cinema to me once.
My father had played an inadvertent role in it, one that I imagine he thinks about a lot. But he never told me the truth - out of guilt, maybe, or a desperation not to be the villain of my story. Finnick telling me the truth is something I am ultimately grateful for, because it proved to me that, in the end, his loyalty is to me. We stand loyal to each other. There are no secrets between us, even at the expense of my father. But I doubt Rheon would see it that way, especially considering he already hates Finnick with a burning passion. I'd hate to play a role in intensifying that flame.
"It doesn't matter who."
Rheon's chin slowly raises, a knowing glimmer in his eyes. "Mags wouldn't have told you," he says, certainly. "It was Finnick, wasn't it?"
Damn it. "This isn't about Finnick," I say. "This is about our fami -"
"He did."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does. He shouldn't have gotten involved."
"He told me the truth. He felt like I deserved to know, you know, like a decent human being helping the one-armed girl who just had to murder her brother after he tried to murder her! Which, by the way, I lost my arm because of Liber, in case you forgot. He threw me in with the Mutt and did nothing to help me. He left me to die," I shout back, my voice raising, and finding myself enormously grateful for how very soundproof the back of the train is. "But Finnick...he's the one you throw all your hate towards. Why do you hate him so much? All Finnick has done is be my friend and take care for me and be there when I needed him most, unlike some people."
"You're forgetting all those nights I'd sit on your porch so I could keep you safe. How I'd play the guitar for you to help soothe you through your nightmares."
"How about all those times you couldn't even look at me? Or how you continued to lie to me even after you saw how Liber's death tore me up? For all you knew, I lived in guilt that I entirely held the blame for his death, and you didn't do a damn thing," I snap back. "You just let me carry it, knowing full-well you forced the Gamemaker's hand to keep me alive. Seneca's hand. You knew what he wanted me for, and more so, you know what I do to stay alive, to keep everyone I love safe. While you let me hold all of that, Finnick has been there. And he never once lied to me."
"I very much doubt that," Rheon snaps. "And I hate him because you're in danger every moment you're around him."
"Dad, I'm in danger in general. Didn't you just hear a word I said? I am owned by a Head Gamemaker because President Snow probably thinks it's funny."
"Not like that you aren't. He is dangerous. If he makes one wrong, you pay the price."
"I was the one who..." My teeth grind together, sick and tired of hearing my father find various new ways to berate Finnick, despite the fact that they are Victors together - that my father Mentored him all those years ago - he still remains critical of him. He looks down on him. Finnick might have dangers looming over his head, but the same applies to me, and it's time my father realizes that, too. "I was late to a meeting Seneca Crane once because I was comforting Finnick. The next day, I found him covered in blood and scars from a very violent client, and it was because of me. I made a mistake and Snow took it out on Finnick, because he knows I love him."
"Ceresea -"
"And we're a losing game, too. I know that," I say, fighting back the anguish in my voice in admitting that. "What we feel, what we have, doesn't matter. Snow will continue to use it and we will continue to be used by the Capitol. But, despite that, we always fall into each other, and I think we always will until one of us breaks. But at least we know that." I steady my breathing, realizing that my eyes are starting to well with tears, and there's a quiver in my voice. "Why did you even marry mom, anyway? Why did you have kids?"
"I never wanted to marry anyone. Fathering children was never in my grand plan," Rheon says. "I thought I would live out my life alone, safe as any Victor could be. I had no family, no friends. My Games weren't popular. I had nothing to gain or lose."
"Mom says we're going to talk about it when we get back, so there's no point in keeping things so secretive."
"Ceres, you're going to hear a lot of different perspectives, from me, Nodon, no doubt, and your mother. It's not always going to be a straight line, but it'll mostly be the same road leading to the same answer. The truth," Rheon says, watching my face intently. "Will you hear my side of things?"
Slowly, I nod back.
"You were conceived before your mother and I got married."
I'm expecting a few things, but this isn't one of them. At my father's words, I find myself blinking confusedly, and stare at him for an undisclosed amount of time as my brain, currently doing cartwheels amidst my riled emotions, finally sticks a landing and comes to a set conclusion.
"That...actually makes sense," I relent, feeling another wave of confusion roar over me. All of this fuss and secrecy, because of a scandal? My parents were still young, still teenagers, when they had me. I wouldn't have been shocked or mortified by this revelation years ago, it might even have amused me. But still, I know there must be more lurking beneath the surface. Why else would they keep it so quiet? There's more, a lot more. "Mom's always said that her family cut her off because you guys eloped. I think her being pregnant with a Victor's baby is a pretty damn good reason for all of it. And...I guess I can see why Nodon never approached me. I guess by Liber he was a little more softened to mom having your kids, right? Even a little?"
"Truth be told, I don't know how your brother came into contact with him or why. Nodon isn't the type of man who would've sought him out," Rheon says.
"Dad, there's no need for lies. We both know I know about the journals."
"I'm not lying. Liber never documented how he came into contact with Nodon. Trust me, I read through all of his journals to find something, but there wasn't anything. Either I haven't found the journal with that detail, or he was smart enough to keep it quiet," Rheon goes on. "There's nothing rational pointing to how Liber even found Nodon to begin with, much less developing a relationship with him."
"It could be he asked around," I say. "Or maybe Nodon wanted to reconnect."
Rheon scoffs. "That's very unlikely, Ceres."
"Okay. So you didn't marry mom because you loved her, you did it to protect her honor," I say.
"There...was more to it," Rheon says. "But that's the gist of my truth. When your mother came to me, pregnant and scared, I knew I had to do something. I swore I would always protect you and keep you safe. I never break a promise."
"But why have Liber, then?" I counter.
"Sex, Ceres," Rheon says, as I bite back mortification.
"So, another accident...?"
"No, not necessarily," Rheon says. "We had talked about having another child, but, well...life found a way before we could come to a set conclusion."
"This can all be chalked up to you being young and stupid, then...you and mom, actually. Great," I say, reaching up to wipe some moisture from out of my eyes. To my disappointment, a couple of tears slide freely down my cheeks, a few drops cascading against my lips. They taste like salt. "We were both your children, though. I'm your daughter and he was your son. And you chose me."
"I live with it everyday," Rheon says. "And I see what it's done to you."
"It could be a lot worse, dad," I say, bitterly. "I could be like Annie."
My father swallows. "It's true. You could."
I brace myself against the fierce assault of emotions that thrust themselves at me all at once, from every corner of my mind; loud, battering, and unrelenting. I sniff. "Few things get me through it...Finnick is one of them. Hell, I'd argue he's the main one. I mean...when he was Reaped, when I made you promise to keep him safe during the Games, surely you must've realized what he meant to me. I didn't realize it then, but you had to have seen through the cracks. I wanted him to come back. I needed him to come back," I say. "And I stood by him, even after you told me to stay away from him after Neleus died. He's stood by me, too. And not once have I deserved his devotion...but I still have it. Imagine that, dad. Imagine actively trying to keep apart people like us, all for what? Dad...do you hate Finnick for the same reason Nodon hates you? What happened between you and mom can't even happen between me and Finnick. We're both under some type of contraceptive method -"
"I don't hate Finnick because I'm afraid of that," Rheon says. There's a new emotion in his face I've never seen before. There's moisture accumulating in his black eye, as soft tears of his own starts to flicker down his cheek. He tears his gaze away from me to hide it, but I can see the teardrops sliding down his bronze skin. "Demetra could never have a real life because of me. I was always afraid of that for you, too."
To some capacity, I don't blame my dad for it. When I had been a kid, I had simply resented Finnick because I was proud, stubborn, and viewed him as a rival. Growing up, everything changed. We were friends for the longest time, but that evolved into longing, wayward glances, then a gap built up by his duties as a Victor, and then the complications we made on the night before my Games when we made love for the first time.
We crossed that bridge under the pretense I'd die the next day, so we lived for what time we could. As it were, I survived. I won. I was sold off, similar to Finnick's predicament, and yet we've managed to balance things. It is precarious at times and often enormously difficult, but it's never broken us. We stand like marble pillars against a fierce wave threatening to break us down. It's just upsetting that my father is a part of that wave.
"Yeah, well...I'm a Victor now. So what difference does it make?"
"In the here and now...loads," Rheon says. "When things change, there'll be a chance for you."
"That's cute, dad. Things will never change," I say. "Neither will how I feel about Finnick. You know that."
"I do. I do." Rheon reaches to take my hand, squeezing it. "I've done wrong as a father and as husband...but I hope you don't doubt that I love you, or your mother, or your brother."
"Despite everything, dad, I don't."
Rheon sighs, his demeanor faltering. I feel him lose something, maybe determination, but when he looks back at me it's with some measure of exhaustion and desperation. "When you came to me begging for me to keep him safe, I saw it as a chance to keep you alive. It's why I made you promise not to volunteer for the Games. I knew if I kept him alive, you'd be true to your word. And you were, until Liber was Reaped...and I understand why you did what you did. But that didn't make me any less angry," he says. "It wasn't until I was faced with the idea of losing you that I understood your desperation to keep Finnick alive. I had to turn to the Gamemakers, even if it was an impossibility, because I knew there was a chance. And you survived, like Finnick did, and now you live as he does."
"Not exactly as he does, dad. I just have one person."
"That's still one person too many, least of all when it was the man I sold Liber's life to in exchange for yours." Rheon's expression shadows over, so dark and sullen. "I think about it everyday. I wonder if I regret it...if I made a mistake, but then I see you, and I realize it never was. Liber was my son, and I loved him, but you...you were the one pure thing I had in my life. I resigned myself to be a reclusive Victor. Having you, keeping you alive and safe, became my new goal. Not just surviving for myself. I had a reason to live and it was you."
At that, tears swell deeper in my eyes. I don't want them to, so I try to use every available trick I have to stop them. I try looking up, but it only burns and stings so I am forced to look back down, and then I try to focus on something random and not blink...but they fall, anyway. They fall hot, warm, and sticky down my cheeks. To my relief, my dad doesn't try to reach out to comfort me. He appears a little surprised, though. I don't think I've ever actually cried in front of him. Even as a kid I had always been stoic. When I had cut my hand open on a rapala, I had whined and hissed, but I don't think I cried.
Pain just didn't bother me the way it should have, and the same can be applied to emotional pain. I've always been stone-faced. Looking at me now, standing in front of my father with tears falling down my ears and my breathing starting to shake, I'm sure I look like a strange sight. My tears feel justified, though. Finally, everything makes sense. All of those years I've spent confused and wondering why my father had chosen me over Liber, wondering where the favoritism stemmed from, has finally found its place amidst the puzzle. The desperation my father felt to keep me alive cuts deep.
It reminds me all too harshly of my own need to keep Finnick alive when he had been Reaped. Hell, I'd gone directly to Rheon, desperate for him to find a way to keep my best friend - the boy I loved - from dying, to bring him back to me. Whenever I imagined my father seeking out the Gamemakers, I'd always imagined him as stoic. I'm sure he was. But I can only imagine how he felt on the inside; a truly broken man, as he always has been. He was never pieced together, never the pinnacle of Victor strength I once believed him to be. He was just a simple father trying to keep his very stupid daughter alive and succeeding in some areas. But in doing so, it cost him his son. I cost him Liber. Things make sense now, as well as his connection to my mother's side of the family. The manner in which Liber and Nodon came into contact is still a mystery, but it's one I'm going to unlock. My mother will tell me her side of things, then I'll find Nodon. From there, all three pieces of these stories will come together. And maybe, just maybe, Liber can make sense, too.
But despite it all, the pain isn't lessened. If anything it's heightened. At least now I understand why it hurts so much.
My family is just...a ruined mess of broken people who tried too hard to fit together.
Rheon clears his throat, wiping tears from his own eyes as he attempts to collect himself. Appearing a bit more together, he slowly straightens out his back and meets my teary eyes with his own glistening gaze. "I'll never approve of you and Finnick, for that I'm sorry. But I can't. He's a danger to you, whether you want to admit it or not," he continues. "But I understand why you fight for him, even if it kills me."
"Yeah, well...now I understand, even just a little, why you fought for me...even if it kills me," I say back.
"Then we have an understanding," Rheon says, though I can tell by his voice that all I've done is open a wound. Worse, I think I caused a wound to something that should have been left alone. "And I can only hope after you hear the whole truth, from your mother and Nodon, when you eventually find him, things will be clearer. But I hope you understand, I don't expect you to forgive me for what I did -"
"I never will," I cut off, watching as his face falls entirely, yielding to complete anguish. I pull my hand out of his, forcing myself to remain strong as I stand before him, even as everything around me longs to be held by my father and for us to cry over Liber together, and maybe find some sort of closure. But I'm not ready for that yet. I doubt he is, either. "But...this is a start to me trusting you again. If that helps."
"It...it does," Rheon says, a pained smile spreading across his face. "Even if it kills me, it does."
We sat there together for a while in mutual silence, the both of us just trying to recover from the emotional assaults we endured from one another. Nothing else was spoken between us. Nothing else needed to be said. When all of it was over, all we could do was try to piece together what was left of ourselves, before we embarked out of the train. My dad was the first to go, able wipe the tears from out of his eyes and compose himself. He did, however, kiss my forehead before he left. All I could do in return was offer a half-hearted smile, which he returned crookedly. From there, he left me in silence, as well as the loudness of my own head. I sat there for a while longer than I think I needed to. My tears had long since dried up and I think I'd composed myself well enough. I felt better and worse at the same time, but that's better than just the latter.
Only after had I grown tired of my own company did I manage to stand up. By then, darkness had already fallen over the train, and I knew everyone would either be asleep or left to their own devices. Going back to my room seemed like the best option - arguably still is. But explain to me why I'm still standing in the hallway beside my closed bedroom door, staring at the door across from me? It's Finnick's door, which is slightly ajar with small beams of light piercing through it. I know what that means. I weigh my options as I stand there, considering multiple factors. I've just endured a whirlwind of emotions, am trying to cope with the general fact I have two Tributes to be strong for, and a family that is falling apart and yet falling together all at once. Now arguably isn't the best time to go to Finnick.
But then all I have to do is think about what I said to him earlier, how I hurt him by bringing up Neleus the way I did. As much as I'd like to save this conversation for another day, by the sheer fact I am emotionally and physically drained, I know I can't. It's not fair to him. So, mustering up a breath to strengthen my resolve, I move away from my door and towards Finnick's.
The rooms provided for us on the train aren't great, but they aren't terrible, either. While they are still very lavish and impressive, tehy are also extremely small - built strictly for sleeping, with attached bathrooms of equally small proportions. The Tributes have a shared bathroom connecting their rooms, of course, but the Victors are provided some measure of privacy between each other. It's one of the perks, I guess. Finnick's room is dimly lit so I can scarcely make out the details. The only light available comes from the thin beams of moonlight piercing through the blinds over his window, but also from a holographic screen against his wall.
But I can see Finnick. He's sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, and some rope in his hands; twisting and untwisting different knots. The holographic screen across from him depicts the various Reapings across Panem. The Tributes are presented from all the Districts, their faces flashing across the screen as Caesar's voice lolls over them. One by one, they pass through - the Volunteers from the Career Districts, then the Tributes who are Reaped and they face their fates stonily or with trembling lips.
I look away from the screen and bring myself inside the room, shutting the door behind me, and going to sit beside Finnick. He acknowledges me from out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't say anything. I take a steady breath, gearing myself.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that about Neleus."
"I know," Finnick breathes.
"It just slipped out. I was angry and upset and...I don't know, everything is just so wrong, and I took that out on you. It wasn't right, especially on a day like this," I carry on, watching as he makes a slip knot out of the rope; doing it twice, testing its security and its swiftness. "Hurting you is the last thing I ever want to do. I'm sorry I did."
Finnick's throat bobs. "I know," he repeats. "It's just...I expected to come home that day to my father."
"I know." I tentatively inch closer, carefully watching his face to see if that was okay. He doesn't convey anything, so I remain in place. "He was proud of you, Finn. Until the end."
"I'm not sure I believe that," he says. "He's dead because of me. I told Snow no, and he warned me...he told me I could decline, but to think long and hard about it." He shakes his head, a mirthless laugh parting from his lips. "He told me not to break my neck over it. Break my neck."
"I'm so sorry, Finnick."
"You didn't kill him," he says. "Snow did. I did."
"I don't agree with that," I say. "How could you have known what Snow would do? You were just a kid, Finnick. You were fourteen."
His hands stop in their endeavor to form another type of knot, his knuckles clenching so tightly they start to blanch. Just as quickly, he starts twisting again, this time harder, faster, and fiercer. I can see the way the rope starts to chafe across his skin with the movements, so I reach out and put my hand over his. The back of his calloused hand is warm and familiar against my palm. To my relief, he stops, and slowly looks at me with hesitant sea-green eyes; they flicker a little, like someone waking up from a dream.
He lets go of the rope, now resting on his lap, and he twists himself so he can better look at me. In the darkness, I can see the way his face contorts with visible pain, like he's being prodded with a hot iron. "And everyday I think about when Seneca Crane is going to get tired of you," he says. "Not if. When. The idea of you being thrown with those monsters when that day comes, I...I'd kill them. Snow be damned, I couldn't let..."
"If you let yourself be killed because of me, I'd never forgive you," I say, sharply. "Whatever happens, let it be. I can survive it. But I need you there with me. If you're gone, a huge part of me goes, too." His expression sways a little, so I decide to continue. "You know what I mean. I've been thinking about those hypotheticals, of what our lives would be like if the Capitol never took away our choices. We're going to grow old eventually, Finn. Too old even for the Capitol...when that day comes, I say we take our boat and sail far, far away. Nobody will go looking for us."
The ghost of a smile shimmers upon his lips, making me smile back. "Alternatively, we build a house on a hill. We can see everything below us, the whole horizon, and nothing else can touch us," Finnick says.
"Just us."
We look up at the screen, depicting the Reaping we witnessed just a few hours ago. The way the cameras flash across the faces of Kipper and Marina causes my stomach to churn, reminding me that they are truly just cogs in this deranged system of entertainment that Panem adores so much. There's a nausea I can only describe as acidic deep inside of me, watching as we the Victors walk off the stage right after they do. They won't be there next year to join us.
"Those kids are probably going to die," Finnick says, no doubt feeling exactly what I am.
"I know," I murmur.
We sit there for a while longer. Finnick holds his rope in one hand whilst the other has found its way to mine. Our fingers are intertwined together as we sit in comfortable silence, as Finnick's breathing starts to equalize. The episode I had found him in starts to wane. Slowly, we start to draw closer to each other until our shoulders are touching and Finnick's head is resting on my shoulder, with my head on top of his. We watch the Reapings, one by one. The little girl Reaped from District 11 - Rue, is her name - makes my stomach twist. She's so young and has an innocently sweet face, reminding me of Kipper with his sun-kissed freckles and shy smile. Too young. Too gentle.
But then comes District 12, usually easily dismissed. But something on the screen catches my attention. It's the grey, bleak nature of the mining District 12, as a young blonde-haired girl, the same age as Rue and Kipper, no doubt, whose name I didn't catch, slowly makes her way to the stage. But everything comes to a complete halt when a voice pierces through the crowd, rattling everyone, including District 12's escort. I can't remember her name. I never care to remember any of the other District's escorts.
"I Volunteer!" a female voice pierces through the crowd.
There's a broad array of confusion that lapses across the escort's face, as well as everyone in the crowd appearing visibly stunned. A dark haired girl who looks rather malnourished, though better well-off compared to the more sickly versions of her patrons in District 12, with sharp grey eyes steps onto the stage. She appears shaken, as if walking in a dream. Her distant eyes look across the crowd but see nothing, yet the escort is at her side, bubbly.
Beside me, Finnick slowly straightens. "A Volunteer," he says. "Has District 12 ever...?"
"No," I reply. I've memorized every single Game, I've watched every single Reaping in all the old Archives I've had access to. In all of them, I have never seen anyone Volunteer in District 12. Why would anyone in their right mind, in such an impoverished and backwater District, ever risk their lives? It's suicide to even consider. "She's the first."
I strain my ears and eyes against the screen, watching her intently as the escort dressed absurdly in pink with alabaster powder caked across her face, prods for her name.
"Katniss Everden," the girl says, staring off into nothing; bleakness overwhelming her features.
"Well, I'll bet my hat that was your sister, wasn't it?" the escort asks, in a theatrical dialect that sends shivers of hatred down my spine.
Katniss' eyes remain fixated on nothing, her lips parted. Her actions are slowly registering to her, no doubt, as she stands upon that stage with countless eyes set upon her. "Yes," she says, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
I look away.
She Volunteered for her sister. Something inside of me twists darkly. It's a shame Liber hadn't been a girl...if he had, I truly could have saved him, by Volunteering in his place. But then again, that would have overshadowed my father's grand plan of keeping me alive. I try to force the thought out of my head, but it won't go away. The girl standing on the stage, her defeated eyes staring into nothing, is so eerily similar to what I face in the mirror everyday. I almost dare not look directly at her.
I do muster enough courage to look back at the screen for a fleeting moment, enough to watch as, for a second, the cameras pan across the crowd as they do something odd. Together, they curl their pinkies and thumbs into their palms, kiss their three fingers, and raise their left hands into the air in a strange salute. My brow furrows together at the strange gesture. I recognize it, though just barely. When I had been on my Victory Tour, giving a speech about Rust and Daisy that had been written out for me by Ivoree and, doubtless, my Mentors, I had seen someone in the crowd perform the gesture. Someone had yanked their hand down quickly, so I hadn't thought much of it. The most I assumed was it had been a crude gesture.
But now, watching it performed to this girl, I realize it's something more. I don't know what the meaning behind it is. It could be a farewell, some form of respect, anything. Whatever it may be, it catches my attention. And I decide that this girl is interesting, despite the fact I know I shouldn't. The camera flashes away from the strange sight, and carries on to the Reaping of her District partner, a boy named Peeta Mellark, who has blonde hair and looks well-off, with a short, yet stocky, stature.
"That was interesting," Finnick says. "Shame Haymitch is going to get them killed."
I nod, feeling something all the stranger creep into my chest. Doubt. "Yeah," I say, trying to shake it off, so I squeeze Finnick's hand in an effort to bring myself back. "Shame."
(a/n): WE OFFICIALLY HAVE KATNISS, GUYS. WE HAVE KATNISS. God, I am so hyped, you don't even know. Katniss and Ceres meeting each other is something I've been looking forward to for a very, very long time...and next chapter we're gonna get to see it, loves. *evil laugh* We're gonna be seeing a lot of things next chapter, so many things. *flails limbs excitedly* ANYWAY! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I enjoyed writing it. ^_^
As a side note! I was reading a couple of the ship names for THG fandom, and decided it would be fun to think up some ship names for this story, hehe. I consider Cinnick for Ceres and Finnick but it feels too on the nose. XD Lemme know what you guys think! For Ceres/Finnick and Ceres/Seneca. Indulge my old, ancient soul. XD
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~
Slytherin-vikis: Can I just say I started bawling after reading your review? It warmed my heart so much! Thank you so, so much for putting so much time and effort into writing such a lengthy and lovely review, I truly don't have words...I'm just over here dying over your enthusiasm. And gosh, where do I even BEGIN? Okay, so about your question on how Ceres celebrates her birthday. That's a really good question. I would say that Ceres' birthday was typically celebrated (prior to her Games) relatively normal. Like, her parents would make her a cake and maybe give her a present (something small, since she's not materialistic), but mostly she'd spend it fishing with Finnick. HOWEVER, Seneca does intrude on her birthdays when he has the opportunity. I imagine it's not entirely consistent, but he finds ways. Like, either by surprising her, or showing up very announced with some variety of plans. So not much of a reprieve, sadly. :( ALSO! "This Love" made me bawl. It truly embodies Finnick and Ceres, I can't. :'( If I may, "Loving You Is A Losing Game" is ALSO very much a Finnick/Ceres song. And also, I'm glad you're enjoying the Victors BTS side of things! I really was mad that we didn't get to see Katniss in a Victor role in CF, so I saw this as an opportunity to rectify it. And I'm very excited to show it in both THG and CF here, since CID is covering both. Hehe. I hope you enjoyed Demetra here! And I promise, all of your questions and ponderings will be addressed. *EVIL LAUGH*
rikiarin: Ceres has the worst timing. X'D My girl can be so freaking emotionally impulsive sometimes, I swear to God. She gives me such headaches lmfao. Poor Rheon is just in complete shock, so writing his reaction was a lot of fun. The poor man being forced to process the fact that Ceres knows (him likely doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out when, where, why, and how she figured it out), and then having to face off the fact she knows about his father-in-law. XD So Angler revealing the truth to Ceres, despite him being an asshole about it, has some purpose to it. Good catch there...it's going to come back later in the story, why he gave it up to her. ;) I am also in the middle of rewatching THG for the umpteenth time. XD I'm excited for you guys to see how I write it out, how Ceres handles it, and all the various twists and turns. ;)
DreamAlina: Ceres can be so emotionally impulsive, send help! :'( It's okay, though! The two of them made amends here, and we're gonna be seeing more of them together next chapter...along with Seneca, I'm sorry. XD (Also I started sobbing over you calling them soulmates! They really are!)
the. apple .seed: Thank you so much! I'm an avid gamer, and my primary tactic for gaming is stealth and planning, so any excuse I have to have a character stealth and map out their strategies, I take. Ceres figuring out how to corner Angler during the Reaping was very heavily inspired by me playing The Last of Us again and trying to figure out how to navigate certain dangers. XD Yup! Nodon is Ceres' grandpappy. And ooh-boy, he's gonna be a doozy when introduced. ^_^ And thank you again! Finnick's anger is always fun to write. The boy has so much pent up. :'(
~CASTING~
Demetra Rhythe: Kate Siegel
Katniss Everdeen: Jennifer Lawrence
Peeta Mellark: Josh Hutcherson
Effie Trinket: Elizabeth Banks