In the end, their search for Bellona is unfruitful. Finnick guesses she took off for the other side of the arena once she heard the cannon boom, which is unfamiliar territory for both Finnick and Caspia. She would be difficult to find without being exposed to her arsenal of deadly projectiles.
Just as Finnick is debating whether to risk venturing into the unknown part of the arena, the anthem starts playing. The Games's newest victims—the girl from 9 and Bellona's mark, the luckless boy from 3—hover morosely in the sky. Then the rainforest is plunged into near total darkness, rendering Finnick and Caspia blind. There seems to be an uncharacteristically high number of Callows being killed by Careers this year, Finnick notes, staring intently at the dark sky. What this signifies from the Capitol end of things, he doesn't know. He debates sharing this observation with Caspia but swiftly decides against it. The last thing he wants is to thrust Caspia further into a moral dilemma.
"We might as well settle down for the night," Caspia says. "Unless you want to risk using the flashlight, we're not going to get back to the waterfall."
Then begins the tedious hunt for a suitable resting spot. Of course, the smartest place to spend the night would be the trees, but this becomes problematic when Caspia tries to climb up after Finnick and falls on her rear, cursing up a storm all the while. Unlike Finnick, Caspia didn't grow up amidst the masts and rigging of District 4's watercraft. Finnick had been surprised she knew how to weave nets until he remembered several inland factories produce a majority of the larger nets professional fishers employ in their work.
From his perch among a lattice of snarled branches, Finnick stares down and tries not to laugh loud enough for Caspia to hear him.
"Try the tree over there," he suggests. "The branches are a little closer together."
Grumbling a conglomeration of threats and profanity under her breath, Caspia clambers to her feet and makes her way to the tree next to Finnick's. She stands at the base of the tree for some time, attempting to find a way to carry her spear and net up with her when she needs both hands to climb.
"Drop your net and throw your spear to me," Finnick suggests. "I'll throw it back once you're in the tree."
It takes some coaxing, but eventually Caspia takes Finnick's suggestion. Without her equipment in the way, she manages to make it up into the tree, branches trembling, leaves and twigs raining down.
"Here." Finnick the spear in Caspia's general direction. It gets caught in the tight network of branches, suspended there until Caspia untangles it.
How do the Callows do it, Finnick wonders, spending night after night out here in the open, vulnerable to every tribute and Gamemaker agent in the arena? He misses the Cornucopia dearly, but he won't risk going back there in the dark. Having never seen them in their quest to find Bellona, Finnick suspects Ruby and Alabaster are no longer allied with her. What had Bellona said earlier? It's just you and me now. District 1's tributes could be anywhere, including the Cornucopia. Finnick doubts they are as averse to returning to the place of Miles's death as Bellona is.
In his head, he counts the dead: Miles, both from 3, both from 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9, the boy from 10, the girl from 11, and both from 12. A week in, and they're down to seven tributes. The Capitol television personnel will be showing up to his parents' house, Finnick thinks. They'll be conducting interviews, shooting footage of his home and remnants of his life, to piece together in the Final Eight Featurette. They'll probably film his bedroom and broadcast it to all of Panem. Finnick knows his mother will have cleaned it in expectation of the Capitol's arrival.
"I know it's a long shot, but I want to try to hunt Bellona down tomorrow," Finnick says. "I don't think she's with One anymore, and her district partner is dead. And she doesn't know we're allied. If we catch her unaware, we have a good chance of taking her out."
"How did he die? The boy from Two."
"Couple of Callows got him with a poison dart," Finnick replies, glancing in her direction curiously. Of all times she could've asked, she chooses now?
"What do you think they do with the bodies in District Two? Do you think the rumors are true?"
Caspia is wise enough not to voice exactly what these allegations are, but Finnick knows precisely what she is referring to. Finnick has heard more than one tale about District 2's strange funeral rites for their fallen tributes. Once the tribute's body is flown back home, the members of the village in which the tribute lived take part in a solemn funeral rite involving cremation of the tribute's body, then gathering the ash and baking it into loaves of bread. Then every child of reaping age consumes a piece of the bread, and the valor, dignity, and strength of the fallen tribute is passed onto the next generation of potential volunteers.
"I'm not sure," Finnick answers. The idea of ingesting ashes that were once someone else's flesh and bone makes him vaguely ill.
"I think I like our way of sending tributes off best," Caspia says. "All life comes from the sea. It seems right that we should return to it in the end."
When the coffin bearing the dead tribute arrives in District 4, it is embellished with shells, stones, and other decorative items significant to the deceased tribute. Once it has been properly adorned, the coffin is placed onto a sea-fit vessel. Depending on the family's connections, the watercraft could be anything from a privately owned trawler to a lifeboat. A select number of loved ones are permitted to take the boat out to the boundaries of District 4's waters to see the dead tribute committed. Once the coffin has been dropped into the sea, the living sing dirges and elegies to commemorate the tribute and send them peacefully to their end. Finnick has never been on a funeral voyage; Mags has been on dozens.
"Can you imagine any of the instructors at the academy singing songs for us?" Finnick says.
"Never," Caspia replies, mirth threading into her voice. "I think they'd jump in after us first."
Finnick allows himself a brief moment of amusement imagining some of the more neurotic academy faculty hurling themselves over the edge of his father's ship in the face of uttering a remotely kind word about him. "What song would you sing for me?"
"Oh, I don't know. Something annoying and obnoxiously catchy, probably."
"Well, I'd sing you a whole anthology's worth of beautiful songs," Finnick says. "I'd tell the sea how mighty and beautiful and utterly captivating you were. No one would have any doubt that you were a noble and faithful ally." Through the lightheartedness of his tone, Finnick secretly hopes she can sense his sincerity. Don't you see? You're not the heartless, bitter creature you think you are. You're Caspia Deltan, volunteer in the 65th Hunger Games, fierce protector of her family, and savior of countless young children besides. And I'm proud to be your ally.
A long pause follows. Finnick wonders if he's gone too far, if she found his flattery offensive or even demeaning. Instead, she says something unexpected and vaguely unsettling: "If I don't make it out of this, promise me something: You'll take care of them for me. The kids at the home. Make sure they're fed and keeping up with their studies. I think at least Salish could make it to the academy on a scholarship."
"I'd give them all scholarships," Finnick says earnestly.
"Thanks, but I don't think they'd make it even if they were accepted," Caspia responds. "You've gotta be whip-smart to get in, and even smarter to stay in."
That's not fair. The protest presses behind his lips, begging to be spoken. They all deserve to attend the academy, to be trained and taught and given the best chance at life.
Then he hears Caspia's answer, an echo of something she said only hours ago: Don't tell me who deserves what. You don't get to make that call. Not here, not with me.
So he swallows down his grievances and says instead, "I'll take care of them, academy or not. You'll do the same for my parents?"
"Of course."
"I appreciate it." Finnick can feel himself drifting off into the deeper waters of sleep, his eyelids and limbs growing heavy, his thoughts misting over. "And while you're at it, you should name something important after me, too. Like the dormitory I used to stay in. Or a really big fountain."
"Don't push your luck," comes Caspia's response. Despite the pessimistic nature of the remark, there's no bite sharpening her tone.
"I have luck to spare, remember?" Finnick shoots back, and for the first time in the Games falls asleep with a smile on his face.
The ominous rumble of thunder breaks Finnick from a light slumber. As quickly as his sleep-clumsy fingers will allow, he untethers himself from the tree and scrambles down the trunk, landing in a crouch at the tree's base.
"Caspia," he says. "Wake up."
Through the web of green stretched out above them, Finnick glances up just in time to see lightning arc across the sky, a network of axons illuminating the heavenly flesh they innervate.
Caspia jumps down from her hiding place with considerably less grace than Finnick. She scrabbles for her net, lying on the forest floor. "More rain?"
"And maybe another flood." Finnick recalls the previous deluge with little enthusiasm. "Forget Bellona, we need to get to higher ground." Preferably before they get washed away in another inexorable torrent of water.
Just as Finnick makes to head upstream, the blare of trumpets stops him in his tracks. The voice of Claudius Templesmith rings out overhead:
"Attention tributes! Given the less than favorable weather conditions coming your way, we Gamemakers have elected to lift your moods by leaving each district a sponsored gift at the Cornucopia. Each gift will be marked with a district number. Better hurry: This banquet is on a first come, first serve basis."
Gift. Cornucopia. First come, first serve.
Finnick and Caspia waste only a fleeting moment to exchange glances before taking off for the center of the arena. Traveling perpendicularly to the river and straight toward the Cornucopia, Finnick hopes he's not walking headlong into floodwaters as he'd been last time. While they sprint through the rainforest, hacking their way through undergrowth, dodging trees and vines and everything in between, Finnick's mind races faster as his feet. What did the Gamemakers leave? Are the Primaries already there? Whether he gets to claim his gift will not be based on skill or cleverness but pure circumstance—as Templesmith said, whoever gets there first will have an enormous advantage. The idea of one of the other Careers getting ahold of his gift, something that may be the difference between his life and death, spurs him on, propels him ahead of Caspia and hopefully ahead of his adversaries.
Even with their early start, they aren't quick enough: The downpour begins, seemingly unimpeded by the canopy overhead, barely ten minutes into their trek. Almost immediately the ground becomes slimy and sodden, making swift travel nearly impossible. As sure-footed as he is, Finnick still finds himself slipping in the mud nearly as often as Caspia. It isn't long before his entire lower half is damp and gritty with sludge, and his upper half is soaked through with rain.
"This isn't rain!" Caspia says grimly, flicking the liquid away from her face. "It's oil. Feel how thick it is?"
Indeed, the stuff Finnick had thought was rain resembles greasy and viscous oil, not unsimilar to the stuff his mother would cook their seafood in. Its mild, fatty taste fills his mouth, and he spits it out in disgust. "What are they going to do, fry us?"
He jokes, but he knows Caspia remembers just as well as he does the Games in which the last remaining Career tied his opponent to a stake and burned her alive. Instead of sinking into the soil like raindrops would, the oil gathers in strange little puddles on the ground and sits large droplets on leaves and rocks. It clings to his skin and hair, making him feel like he hasn't bathed in months. Whatever the Gamemakers are planning, it's going to be highly unpleasant.
It doesn't take Finnick long to comprehend he's struggling uphill. He resorts to using his spear as a walking stick, head down, teeth gritted against the rain. Caspia flickers in and out of his line of sight, her once white shirt stained brown with dirt and sweat. Gradually the trees thin out, revealing the pyramid harboring the Cornucopia and their gifts.
Though his first instinct is to go barreling up the stairs, Finnick knows better. Slipping now could mean a broken ankle or a shattered kneecap. And if someone has already made it to the top, he'll be easy pickings for whoever wants to take them out. Finnick and Caspia slow down, carefully picking their way through the trees, pausing constantly to wipe oil from their eyes and check to make sure one hadn't fallen when the other wasn't looking.
"I guess we could wait them out," Caspia mutters in Finnick's ear. "Whoever's up there will have to come down at some point, right?"
Yes, but whoever's up there could be playing the exact same game, and then none of them will do anything except sit on their thumbs. Finnick voices this thought aloud, and Caspia grimaces in response.
"So we storm it?"
Finnick shrugs. "I'm up for suggestions."
Caspia chews her lip and bunches up more of her net in her hand. "We don't have to make an easy target. No one else knows we're together, right? I'll circle around and climb up from the south, you come in from the north. Whoever gets spotted first will draw their attention while the other makes it to the top and attacks from behind."
Whoever gets spotted first has an incredibly high chance of getting skewered. Finnick elects not to articulate the fact and instead checks to make sure his belongings are secured to his person. "And if there's two of them up there?"
"We each take one. Like I said before, pretty even odds."
"Except they'll have the sponsored gifts and the higher ground," Finnick points out.
"You have a better idea?"
Maybe he would if he had time to work one out, but he doesn't. The longer they wait, the more tributes will be closing in on the Cornucopia, and the bigger mess the banquet will become.
"Fine," he grunts. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Since when did you become all doom and gloom?" Caspia says, nudging him teasingly. "Count to sixty, then head up. I'll meet you up there if I haven't been caught and killed yet."
Finnick can't help but grin. "Bet I can beat you to the top."
Caspia rolls her eyes, rises, and starts toward her section of the rainforest at a swift but silent lope, spear and net held at the ready. "Only in your pathetic little dreams, Golden Boy."
The count to sixty is both the longest and shortest span of time Finnick has ever experienced. He waits on tenterhooks, every fiber of him listening for the boom of the cannon reporting Caspia's demise. What if he just sent her to her death? What if he gets spotted and killed right away, leaving Caspia to fight three Careers on her own. What if there's no one up there, and they have to find a way to stash all of the gifts before the other tributes arrive?
Before he knows it, sixty has left his lips and he's adjusting his grip on his spear, making sure all his knives are tucked snugly in their slots.
"Here goes nothing," he mutters to himself, and breaks out into the open, running pell-mell for the steps of the Cornucopia.