At first comes the visceral, immoderate terror, the innate fear of death that seizes Finnick in its taloned hands and won't let go. He's no more than a piece of driftwood being pitched about, once again deposited at the mercy of the river and its caprices. It's all he can do to maintain his grip on his trident, which the river so urgently tries to wrench from his grasp.
Just take me, he finds himself thinking, begging. He longs to dissolve, to wear away like the rocks and shore, to let the river carry him on and on until it lays him to rest at last, fragmented and forgotten, in the vast and dispassionate sea. He holds his breath until he's sure his lungs will burst, until lights flash in his vision and oblivion beckons, quiet and gentle. Images begin to flicker in his vision, memories dredged up from the silt of looming unconsciousness. His parents taking each of the stones Finnick brings them and arranging them in a lovely pattern on the beach. Batten giving Finnick a begrudging but genuine nod of approval. Mags sitting next to him on the beach, her curls nudged by the salt-tinged breeze. And Caspia, standing on the stage before her entire district, offering up her life so another might be spared.
He breaks the surface of the water like a window shattering, panting, thrashing, fighting to break through the darkness closing in on all sides. The river batters him ruthlessly, persistent wet hands grabbing and shoving, trying to pull him back under. Finnick knows better than to tire himself out battling a force he can never overpower. Perilous rocks jut out of the water, immovable obstacles against which the current will not hesitate to dash his soft, vulnerable body. And there are fallen trees and meandering roots reaching out to entrap him. If he's caught on one and gets pulled underwater, he doubts he'll be able to pull himself back up. The river is stubborn and keeps tugging him under, longing to claim his body as the earth claims the sun when it sets. All Finnick can do when his face dips below the surface is hold his breath and hope, pray the night will not be endless.
When the river pushes him up for the fourth time, Finnick notices a bend approaching. A cluster of tree roots and branches extend out toward the center of the river, quickly approaching thanks to the speed of the current. Finnick will have to act quickly. He shifts so he's floating belly down and begins to paddle as hard as he can, inching gradually but inexorably toward his salvation. His injury makes the endeavor agonizing, but he's a strong swimmer, always has been. His dogged attempts to navigate the current are met with no leniency; water does not deign to bend to the inclinations of whomever is foolish enough to traverse its depths.
Then he's sweeping around the bend and slamming against the tangle of vegetation, eliciting a pained gasp as the rough bark aggravates his injury. The river presses determinedly against him in a final effort to submerge him for good, but Finnick clings stubbornly to his lifeline, the animal need to survive spurring him onward. Mustering the last of his strength, Finnick stabs his trident into the snarled mass of roots and stems and uses it as a rope to haul himself toward the bank. The current heaves at him, petulant at the notion of losing a victim. Finnick just grits his teeth and keeps pulling himself toward shore. As he draws nearer to his goal, his feet hit the river bottom, then his knees. The force of the current weakens to a mere tug as Finnick drags himself out of the water and onto the bank, shivering and wheezing so hard black spots dance in his vision.
It's no longer raining oil. Instead, a dense white fog has settled over the ground, concealing the rainforest in thick, cloying clouds. Another Gamemaker threat? Finnick finds he doesn't much care.
He crawls more than walks across the bank into a clump of trees at the riverside. Finnick feels less than human, a creature risen spontaneously from murk and sludge, all of his actions reduced to basic, primal compulsions. Thoughtless and aimless, he curls up in the weeds, soaked to the bone, the mud cool against his cheek, underbrush scratching his skin. If he lays here long enough, perhaps everything will go away. Perhaps he will go away too, sink into the dirt like a decomposing fish.
Perhaps someone will find him and finish him off. Perhaps it will be Ruby and Alabaster, and they'll eviscerate him like Bellona did to Caspia.
Caspia.
Memories of his district partner hit Finnick like a hurricane, unusually powerful for how little he truly knew her. Caspia training in the gym. Caspia eating lunch in the cafeteria. Caspia following him to her eventual demise with an insolent smirk on her face and a witty remark on her tongue.
Once, when Finnick had first come under Mags's tutelage, he had asked her why District 4 encouraged volunteering every year, instead of just letting the reaping handle the appointment as many other districts did. There would be less guilt among parties involved with random selection, and the hassle of having to generate and distribute Capitol-approved propaganda waxing poetic about glory and privilege would likely be cut back. Then they would no longer have to act as though the Games were a welcome, pleasant affair.
Mags had cupped his cheek then, her hands calloused and wrinkled but strong as ever. Because, my dear boy, District 4 does not merely endure. We thrive. Every choice we make, even if it's to play into the Capitol's façade, even if it is to give when we have almost nothing left, is still our choice, and we make it for a reason.
I still don't see how it can be worth it, Finnick remarked then. Doing all...this. He gestured at Mags, at the academy everything it represented. He knew even then how despicable Four and the other Career districts seemed to the rest—even the poorest, weakest district did not pretend to love the Capitol for what it had done to them. At least while their children were sent to the slaughter, the Games were treated for what they were not and as some battle worthy of celebration and honor. Would it not be better to show solidarity with the other districts, to stand together rather than estrange themselves as One and Two had done?
One day you'll understand, Finnick. Mags turned away from him, looking out over the students and faculty crossing the academy grounds. We who wear the victor's crown will do terrible, terrible things for what we love. It's our privilege and our burden.
If this is what it means to become a victor, Finnick wants no part in it. He will turn his back on his district, on his duty, on Mags and everyone at the academy.
Caspia was right. Why should he, a fourteen year old boy, have to fight for the welfare of thousands and thousands of people? Why did he, out of a crowd of other children, get picked as tribute? What had Mags said the day the train pulled out of District 4's station, carrying them to the Capitol and Caspia to her death? No one gets put in the arena by chance. The same questions Caspia stirred up in his head before the Games resurface, but none of the anger or bewilderment comes with it. Instead, a profound weariness, compounded by heart-wrenching sorrow, settles deep in his skull and stays there, heavy and impenetrable as the fog surrounding him.
Caspia knew the price of going along with the Capitol's narrative. She refused to play by their rules and now she's dead, and Finnick is not. What would she think if she saw him now, huddled in the weeds like a muskrat, praying for death to bury him in the riverbank?
He can hear her scoffing now. Typical, she snorts. Pampered Beacher couldn't stand getting his pretty hair dirty.
Fine, he thinks sullenly. She can think all she wants, because pretty soon I'll be dead too.
But who will take care of my brothers and sistersif you're dead?
Finnick, who has never set foot in the inner sectors of District 4 in his life, conjures up an image of them in his waterlogged brain: A flock of five or six skeletal children huddled under a tarpaulin held up by sticks, weeping for a sister who will not return.
Don't tell me who deserves what. Not here, not with me.
Well, Caspia is no longer here. More than likely, she's lying cold and lifeless in some sterile Capitol morgue, unresisting as a half-dozen Capitol morticians work tirelessly to repair the cosmetic damage Bellona has done and make her presentable for public viewing. She has no money, no influence of her own; will the people of District 4 still afford her the funeral rites she has more than earned? Will the sea still hear her name?
Finnick doesn't have the strength left in him to go far. He meanders away from the river, using his trident as a walking stick, until he stumbles across a patch of soft, velvety leaves. He presses them against his wound and ties a vine around his chest to hold them in place. The bleeding has slowed but the wound hurts in earnest now, like Bellona is still digging her arrow into him and twisting it. Have one of his lungs been punctured? It sure feels like it has. Then he limps on.
He doesn't make it fifty more paces before he crumples like a sail on a windless day. He rolls over onto his side to ease the pain of breathing, blowing dirt and leaves and fog away from his face with each shallow breath. Gradually, his vision focuses on a cluster of squat plant with broad green fonds. Somehow it registers in his rapidly faltering brain that he should hide under them, because hiding means surviving and surviving is indeed something he, as a human being, wants to do.
So he summons the last iota of his strength and crawls under the foliage. He curls into a ball so his limbs will fit under the sprawling fronds and tucks his clasped hands under his chin like a child. What he wouldn't give to be seven again, warm and protected in his mother's embrace. He thought he knew everything then. Turns out he knows nothing at all.
It's his mother he thinks of as he sinks into profound and desolate unconsciousness.