The letters Mags brought Finnick kept getting more demanding, full of backhanded threats, disguised as regular conversation. Each time he read the words, Finnick felt venom enter his mouth. They filled him with anger, and he wished for the rebellion to come now.
He wished that he could kill Snow. He wished that he could save Annie.
As Annie and Gerald took turns taking watch through the night, Finnick looked through each of the alive tributes, and felt confident in Annie's safety. Everyone was sleeping.
The cold weather was clearly Plutarch's idea, and Finnick applauded his intelligence. Nobody wanted to move around in the dark and cold, it's simply too hard to function. This would allow Finnick to do what he needed in the night.
With the threats becoming more obvious, and the letters coming more often, Finnick knew he needed to fulfill at least some of his duties, as much as it killed him to do so.
He hated Snow, and he hated what he had to do because of him.
Finnick began walking down the barren streets of the Capitol, watching the sidewalk as he went. It was odd how perfect it was there. Unlike home, there was no trash on the ground, no stray rocks to kick as you walked. Everything had its place, and stayed in that place.
He felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety knowing he wasn't watching Annie. She could be dead, and he wouldn't know until he went back to the screens. She could be injured beyond imagination, and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. He felt helpless.
Mags gave him a small sense of relief, though, as she was watching out for them, and would send anything they needed. The sponsors had been generous to District Four this year, and Finnick was grateful. He knew that Annie's beauty mixed with her score would put her on the top of the board.
Plutarch was smart with that, too. When watching the bloodbath, it was clear that the scores didn't line up with the tributes. Annie hadn't thrown a single weapon, yet she scored the highest. He knew she could hold her own— but she wasn't confident enough in her skills to engage. Saphira should have gotten that nine, and Annie should have gotten a six.
Plutarch was, indeed, a smart man.
Every once in a while, Finnick would doubt that Haymitch had ever told him of his conditions. When Finnick stepped back and looked at it, though, it was very clear that he had.
As slowly as he walked, Finnick eventually made it to his destination. He felt the pit in his stomach grow as he entered the apartment, and put his lips on the Capitol women's. He tried his best to be in the moment, but his thoughts kept traveling to the Arena.
He tried to think about how soft this woman's— Jada Pickett's skin was. He tried to think about how she smelled, and how her sheets felt.
All he could think of was how cold the ground must feel, or how the stench of blood filled the air. Or how he was sentencing twenty three children to death, just because he was in love with his tribute.
He prayed he was doing enough for Jada, that she didn't mind his absent state. He prayed he did enough, and that when he returned, Annie would still be alive.
——————
The night was cold. At some point, the wind began howling, bringing droplets of water and ice with it. Gerald and Annie refused to start a fire. It was too risky, anyone could come from behind the trees, and the precipitation was likely to put it out.
Before sleeping, they watched the fallen tributes in the sky. Annie repeated their names. Seven people had died in a day. Nine tributes remained.
Halfway through, they switched watch, Gerald now huddled into Annie's lap. She felt her lips go numb, and her body cramped. As hard as she tried to stay awake, she felt herself slip in and out of consciousness.
Someone must have been watching, and taken pity, because as she let herself drift off, she heard a small ring in the distance. A parachute.
Annie tried to not disturb Gerald as she reached for the gift. It was larger than she had been before.
When she opened it, a note was revealed.
"We're rooting for you two. Try to keep moving, stay warm. Love, Mags."
Inside, there was a thermos of soup, and a reflective blanket, which was soft and cotton on the other side. Annie looked up, smiling, and said a soft thanks.
She warmed her hands on the thermos before spreading out the blanket over herself and Gerald.
When the sun began to rise, he slowly woke. Annie told him about the gift, and they both took turns taking sips of the soup. When it was half empty, they decided to save it, and use it to warm their hands. The pair continued to sit by the tree they slept at, feeling too cold and too tired to move.
The arena had been kind to them so far, neither one sustaining injuries. That's considered lucky.
The sun had barely risen, and a cannon went off.
Gerald spoke first, "I wonder if it's the cold, or if someone's decided to go hunting."
"Don't call it that," Annie said, glaring at him. "We aren't animals."
"Then what should I call it, An?" He questioned, handing her the thermos, noticing her shivers.
"I don't know. Maybe we just shouldn't call it anything."
Her face grew soft, as she stared into the frozen grass surrounding them. She felt as though she had been staring for hours, oblivious to the world around her. The phrase hunting triggered something in her. Was it empathy, or was it insanity?
Annie wasn't thinking about anything in particular, and it almost felt as though she was sleeping. Alone in a daze. The noises of combat surrounded her, she heard the grunts and the grumbles, she even saw the blood on the ground. It was a bitter red, like the wine her mother drank every morning with breakfast.
She began to think about her mother, and the mornings they shared. The way she held up so strong through her husbands death, the way she comforted her daughter, and let her go when it was time.
Annie felt a pang if guilt when she though of her mother. She's strong. She can handle me being gone.
Then Annie started picturing her mother's face when she heard the news. She saw the agony, her brows tilted upwards, the tears, and the screams of a mother losing her child. She decided that she was just dreaming, and needed to wake up.
Stop thinking about that, Annie. Stop. Look away! Wake up!
Her face felt flushed as she remained in her own little world, guilt pushing its way through. She tried to close her eyes, or look away from the ground, but she couldn't move, she was paralyzed. Annie began to question herself, not understanding what was happening to her. She had heard of sleep paralysis, but had never experienced it.
Am I dead?
She felt a noise escape from her throat as she tried to move, but was unable to even lift a finger. She felt helpless. Annie didn't know what death was like, or what being dead was like, but she always thought it was painful, and she didn't feel any pain. I must just be asleep.
She then saw Casifer's face, with Gerald's axe in it, lying in the snow in front of her. His shaggy brown hair was now deep red, his eyes wide open with fear. Annie felt herself scream, although she couldn't hear it, and began pushing against the tree behind her.
Was she caught in a nightmare? I fell asleep. I'm dreaming. This isn't death. This is a dream, I'm sure of it. She told herself this, and kept hoping Gerald would wake her up. Wake me up, please. Please hear me scream. Gerald, wake me up.
He did.
Annie's trance was broken when she felt someone grab her and pull her off the ground by her arm, and realized it was Gerald, and he looked scared.