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laceswan · 1 year ago

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The Angel of Hope

The Smiling Princess, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4

Finnick Odair x fem!dancer!reader

What if the equivalent of a Disney Princess was thrown into the Hunger Games? Sylke is optimistic and has an affinity for all that is gentle and sweet. What happens when she is placed in an arena and forced to kill or be killed?

Fluff and angst, strangers to lovers, T/W: canon-typical violence

Part 5 is out!

Finnick’s leg was bouncing uncontrollably. He was hunched over with his hands close to covering his mouth. His eyes were wide, staring at the screen in front of him. He didn’t normally watch the news, but this was important. President Snow, the man he hated most in the world, was looking right back at him on that screen. That voice would never sound anything but vile in Finnick’s ears. That voice was the one who threatened his family, his friends, the root of so much evil, and all done with that snake-like smile. Finnick tuned out of his thoughts just long enough to hear his words.

“…are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors…”

His head snapped up to look more directly at the screen. Snow was calm, smiling like he hadn’t just broken a promise. Finnick’s mind went immediately to Mags. Exiting his house, he walked quickly to the adjacent one to see his mentor. Mags and Annie were sitting at a table, the remote for the tv still in Annie’s hand. She looked on the verge of tears, staring down at the grain of the wooden table. Mags called Finnick over with a small movement of her hand. She looked to him with kind eyes as she signed.

“Let’s go to the shore.”

Finnick nodded, helping her up from the chair. He tapped Annie’s shoulder. She didn’t look up.

“We’re going to the shore, you should join us.”

She nodded and got up, never once taking her eyes off the ground. They strolled out of Victor’s Village down to the beach in silence. The sun was setting when they sat down on the sand, silently watching the sky slowly darken. Finnick’s mind wandered to Sylke. He wondered if he would ever see her again. If he would ever see her lips curl into that lovely smile, if he would ever get to show her that he never forgot how to waltz.

The next few days passed quickly and yet not fast enough. Being the only living male victor in their district, Finnick knew he would be reaped. He flashed his signature Casanova smile when the camera focused on him. He expected--he knew--that his stomach would drop upon hearing the other tribute get reaped, but he never could have anticipated just how much. His heart felt immensely heavy when Annie’s name was called, and only more so when Mags raised her hand. The three of them only had a moment before he and Mags were whisked away to the capitol. They didn’t say much on the train ride, just gazing out the window. Through each of the districts, signs of rebellion and rioting were present for those looking. Finnick saw them and couldn’t help but wonder what part he, the capitol’s prince, would play in the inevitable rebellion. He’d always held disdain for the capitol, ever since they mercilessly killed an angel ten years ago. Many nights after his victory were spent wallowing in his own self-pity, hopelessly letting his mind torture itself with thoughts and memories of her. When he turned sixteen, that depressive melancholy shifted to a simmering and spiteful sort of anger. She was alive, but not smiling. And if she was ever to regain that smile, perhaps see him again, he would have to play by the capitol’s rules. Such powerlessness in his own story and agency had a way of infuriating him, which he was able to channel into machinations for his own gain. It was never something he was proud of, that he resorted to secrets and blackmail to survive, but what else was he to do? Sylke always had that ability to hope, to see the little joys. Perhaps that was how she kept her sanity. He didn’t have that skill, at least not to her degree. Even ten years ago it had been like this. He was focused on survival, and desperate times called for desperate measures. She didn’t like to stray from her morals, even in the most trying of times. That was what killed her in the end. Finnick couldn’t have that. He needed to survive, to keep going, and that meant he needed to play the game. Only recently was there a glimmer of hope that it didn’t need to be this way. When Katniss and Peeta were both crowned victors, there was hope that things could change. When they were fourteen, Sylke had a way of making things seem hopeful. That air of possibility returned when the rebellions began. Perhaps it wasn’t naïveté, perhaps she had been right to hope. When they got to the capitol, all of the tributes were whisked away to be prepared for the parade. As they stood by the carriages, the air was thick with tension and discontent. The games were a celebration, at least that’s what the capitol treated it as, with their lavish preparation and roaring crowd. But no one in the spotlight wanted to be there. Finnick kept a smile on his face, but it was clearly one of snark, laughing in the face of struggle simply to make it seem less mortifying. Johanna had mentioned something to him, something that had been on his mind ever since that night at the beach: that things didn’t have to be this way, that maybe they could finally burn it down. Perhaps that is why he was so willing to trust Katniss, the symbol of rebellion. A closer relationship with her might be a step closer to change. When the noise of celebration died down for the night, Finnick enacted his own small rebellion. He knew the streets of the capitol well enough that he could slip quickly through alleys and small one-ways until he reached the life-size dollhouse of Lycan Indigo. In fact he’d done it many times before. Whenever he was in the capitol, Finnick would sneak out to see Sylke. They had no way of communicating specific nights, as his schedule often didn’t prepare that far in advance, and so sometimes she wasn’t even awake when he visited the house. Sometimes she was. A few times, they even spoke. Every year, around this time, Sylke’s letters would mention the magnolias. Once he got to the house, Finnick realised just how accurate her letters had been. Even from the street, he could smell the gentle sweetness in the air. When he got closer he saw her sitting by the window. She’s awake. Must be fate. One hand was hanging out of the frame, caressing the petals. There was a book in her lap, probably one of the ones that Mr. Indigo recently let her have. She looked beautiful, glowing like an ethereal, heavenly spirit in the moonlight. Finnick threw some pebbles to the window, making sure to aim a little higher to hit the wall instead of her head. They bounced off the brick, making a noise that roused her from what looked like a daydream. She looked around before fixing her gaze on him. He saw a small smile before she disappeared into the house. After what felt like an eternity, she emerged from a door and ran over to him.

“Finnick!”

She came up to the fence, reaching her arms between the iron bars to touch him. His hands found hers instantly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

She smiled, pressing herself even closer.

“I saw you at the tribute parade. You look so different.”

“You do too. Ten years…”

“Ten years. It almost feels like it didn’t happen.”

Finnick knew what she meant. In her letters she often mentioned how time passed in a haze in that house. And in some ways he agreed with her, it did feel like just yesterday when he felt her go still in his arms. But at the same time, so much had happened in between now and then. And yet, here they were, meeting secretly in the safety of night, before going back into that arena.

“I wanna dance with you.”

She laughed, a small chuckle that might turn into crying at any moment.

“I wish we could.”

“I didn’t forget. You taught me how to waltz; I still remember.”

“Finnick…”

Her voice started to crack, her eyes welled as a gentle smile grew on her face.

“Come back to me and we can see how much you remember.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“I know… I think you can though. You did it before,”

“That was different.”

“How? You’re stronger and smarter now anyway, who says you won’t be able to win again?”

“The other tributes are stronger and smarter too.”

“Yeah, but-“

“And besides, you’re not gonna be there. I won’t have you there to take care of my wounds or keep a smile on my face. I wouldn’t have made it without you in there.”

Squeezing his hands slightly, she looked him square in the eyes.

“Don’t say that. Finnick. I have faith that you’ll come back to me. I assume that means you’ll win, but maybe not. Whatever happens, I know that I’ll see you again.”

There was security is her smile. She looked so gently sure of herself and her words.

“You know I believe in fate. If I somehow survived to see you again, I know you will too.”

There it was. That undying hope and optimism of hers. It occurred to Finnick that he’d never actually mentioned that ability of hers to her. He brought his hand out of her grasp to caress her cheek.

“I love that smile. I don’t think I ever got to tell you--not with spoken words, at least--just how beautiful it is.”

With cheeks dusted pink, she glanced away, laughing a little.

“I’m serious. I think that’s why I fell for you. You always have that smile. Even when things are going to shit, you find something to smile about.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.

“It’s divine--angelic, even--your faith in good things.”

With another laugh escaping her lips, she looked back at him with a lighthearted grin.

“Is that why you always call me Angel?”

“Of course.”

He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her lips. Iron bars were digging into their bodies, but neither of them seemed to notice much less care. It had been so long since they could be so close, since they could kiss without worry or haste. Any and all time limits or responsibilities melted away for a moment. But when that moment was over, Finnick pulled away. He kept their foreheads together when he spoke.

“I need to go.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

Tears were rolling down both of their faces by this point. As much faith as she had, the possibility of his death was still very much present. She couldn’t help but think about him, hold him a little tighter in the hopes she might be able to keep him safe. But she couldn’t. Like he said, she wouldn’t be there this time.

“You need to go.”

He kissed her quickly.

“I love you. Never forget that.”

And then he was gone, slipping back into the darkness of capitol alleyways.

Finnick spent the training period trying not to dwell on the people he might be leaving behind. Knot-tying and throwing practice helped him a lot. While taking a moment to breathe, Beetee happened to be in his field of vision. The man with glasses was standing by a screen, familiarising himself with plants and their properties. Finnick was struck with a pang of melancholy recollection. Back then, when they were but children, it was just like this. He would be working with a trident, endlessly throwing at a target until his arm got tired, and he’d switch to the other one. He would steal occasional glances at her, studiously examining leaves. There was one memory in particular that he carried fondly in his heart. She was sitting on the floor, drawings and leafy stalks sprawled out around her, as she read through an herbology book. Perhaps he had been staring too long, for eventually she looked up and met his gaze. A soft smile came to her face and she waved. Finnick was a little flustered as he waved back, but he tried not to let it show. He quickly turned his head to look back at the target, throwing his trident swiftly after. It was the first and only time that day that he missed. He couldn’t allow himself to reminisce any longer. He threw the knife in his hand, hitting the target with precision as always.

As the two weeks dragged on, a plan formed. Plutarch had apparently learned about Finnick sneaking out and discretely mentioned it a few days later. As gamemaker, he came to training one day, and after giving a small speech about preparedness and odds being in one’s favour, he approached Finnick. Once they were behind closed doors, he said nothing of Sylke. Finnick had a rope in his hand, something to keep his hands busy during the speech earlier, and he began tying and untying knots as he waiting for Plutarch to mention her, too afraid to reply in hopes he had just imagined it. Instead, Plutarch brought up a plan for rebellion. Finnick was hesitant to trust the gamemaker until he said:

“If this works it wouldn’t just be you and the other victors that would be free. It would be Sylke too.”

Upon hearing that name, Finnick couldn’t say no. He was filled with a burning hope. He could almost see it, the day where nothing held them back, the day where they could dance as long as they wanted. No president with a snake’s tongue, no dollhouse or iron bars. Is that what freedom is? Whatever it is, that was a future he would fight for. The plan moved slowly, and much of it between Plutarch and Haymitch. Finnick and other tributes involved were informed of little, only things essential to them. Finnick knew to keep Katniss and Peeta safe, and that Beetee, Wiress, and Johanna were also involved. That was all. Knowing glances between him, Mags, Johanna, and the tributes from three were all too common in the tribute centre.

After two weeks that seemed to pass both too slowly and all too fast, the night of final interviews came. Finnick was dressed to look like a pirate, missing nothing but an eyepatch. The goal of the night was to cancel the games, something none of the tributes could disagree on. First was district one’s Cashmere and Gloss. They were glimmering in the stage light, dressed glamourously with liberal amounts of glitter. Watching them, Finnick couldn’t help but be reminded of the night when he watched Sylke shine the same way. In his memory she had no glitter or shiny fabric, only an angelic light one can only achieve in someone else’s nostalgia. Finnick wondered if she was watching, remembering the same moment. There was a chance that Mister Indigo let her watch despite Finnick’s presence. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless. What did she think of Cashmere and Gloss, he wondered. Did she look fondly to her district? Was it still home? District was never particularly important to Sylke, Finnick knew that much. In the 65th game she hardly cared for the segregation of districts, attempting to make friends will everyone she came across. It worked of course, but never with the other tributes. They thought her a liability and nothing more. As he reminisced, Finnick wondered if that was something that drew him to her. Perhaps he saw that none of the tributes would speak with her, and wanted to relieve her of some loneliness. But all of that hardly mattered anymore. The others were all dead, he was back in the game, and she was trapped in that dollhouse. The feeling of imminent death began to truly set in. There was a spectre itching at his ears and tapping on his shoulder, one that whispered: was this not always the plan? She can be the victor now. He tried to wave those thoughts away, to focus on the plan and the hope that his declaration of love, along with all the other veiled protests from tributes, would be enough. Quickly, he told a member of the staff that he had a message for a lover to broadcast during his interview. After they sped away, he could almost hear the whispers among capitol patrons and socialites. It had been a sly move on his part, something to propel him and his Casanova image into gossip columns and hopefully add a straw to the back of the camel that carried the games. And then of course there was the message itself. Once prompted by Caesar Flickerman, all of the performance melted away. He could only hope that she was watching, that she would understand how much he loved her. His eyes were tender and kind as he spoke, his mouth downturned and ever so slightly melancholy. All of the smug and suave demeanor he carried and amplified fell away, leaving only desperately amorous affection remaining.

“My love… you have my heart, for all eternity. And if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips”

The message was still something of a compromise. He kept it vague, using “Love” instead of “Angel” and electing not to specify that he would be thinking of her lips when she smiles. There was so much more to say left lingering on his tongue, but for her safety (should Mr. Indigo be incredibly perceptive) and for his image, it was better to say less. The crowd roared when he was finished, and he saw a couple of his former clients/lovers faint in the audience. With a returning grin, he took his place standing with the other tributes behind the main stage. Beetee leaned closer and spoke in a whisper to Mags. Finnick couldn’t hear all of it, but it seemed that Beetee was asking if the message was sincere. Mags nodded, and both of them looked a tad bit more melancholy. Was it pity? Finnick could never stand pity, even when he was young. It made him feel separate, lesser, all things he never wanted to be. And so he learned the skill of confidence, of showing the world that you can hold your own, that you needn’t be pitied. The last time he saw a face like that, one that gazed at him so, was in the arena. Sylke had shown him compassion, she took care of him, and though he knew it to be love and affection, it still felt a little repulsive. The more practical side of him made it so he did not refuse her help, but it was undeniably difficult to simply sit and do nothing as she tenderly attended to his wounds. He had sworn to himself that he would protect her, and as she cared for him, he felt utterly incapable. He knew, of course he knew, that she did not think him weak or lesser, but the instinct to refuse help remained. After the games, he never really asked for help again. It was something of a personal mission to do everything for himself, and with no help from others, he would keep his loved ones safe. He would protect them, and when he found out she was alive that of course included Sylke. It was his choice and his alone to sell himself to Snow, and he did so without hesitation. Anything to protect them.

Pity was something he never encountered in the capitol either. All of his clients sought a physical relationship, they admired him, but they never wanted more than a plaything or something shiny to display. Emotional connection was entirely missing from those relationships, and thus so was pity. And that was fine by him, it made things easier. But it seemed pity was unavoidable after his heartfelt message, that was part of the goal after all. He looked blankly forward in an attempt at ignorance to Mags and Beetee’s words, focusing instead on the show before him. The air was tense on the stage. Every tribute was angry and anguished, but they all had their own ways of hiding it, making their pain as marketable as possible. Some tried for reason, others sympathy, and one started a fire. Somewhat literal, but generally metaphorical was the fire Katniss sparked in the people. There was again a burning sense of hope and ambition thrumming in Finnick’s chest when he saw the mockingjay wings spread in the spotlight. Then Peeta revealed that Katniss was pregnant. There was uproar in the crowd; a fuse had been lit. Finnick wasn’t sure what to think. The two victors from twelve weren’t in on the plan, this wasn’t predetermined. Was she really pregnant? Regardless of the truth, it had certainly helped their case. When Mags reached for his hand he knew exactly what to do. They raised their hands in a show of solidarity, shining and united for a brief moment before the lights went out. The capitol was not happy with them.

Sylke didn’t see Katniss on the screen that night. Mr. Indigo had, after some flattery and persuasion, allowed her to watch the interviews. She tried to pay attention when the tributes from one came on the stage. She noted how similar Gloss looked to Cesare, and she wondered if they knew each other. She waited anxiously for the tributes from four to be announced. Mr. Indigo made small comments here and there, jokes about the tributes or the questions, but Sylke barely heard them. Her eyes were empty and yet focused on the screen before her, willing time to go faster. Finally, he stepped into the light. He looked in his element, suave and handsome as ever. People had always made note of his good looks, even when they were teenagers. She had always attributed it to two things: his eyes and his confidence. Of course he had good features, but it was the way he carried himself, the boldness with which he moved, that made him truly shine. Tonight however was the first time she was watching him through a camera. He looked ever so slightly different in that spotlight. As though watching through someone else’s eyes, the camera lingered not of his green eyes, but on his mouth, on the low plunge of his shirt. It made her uncomfortable to say the least. Whenever she saw him in person, she was reminded at least a little of the boy she met ten years ago. Something about him was still the same, whether that was his eyes, his laugh, or his tender care for those close to him. And yet all of that escaped the camera. Sylke was quickly reminded of the image he had cultivated in the capitol. This was how people saw him here. She only saw a glimpse of the Finnick she knew at the end of the interview.

“Now I understand that you have a message for somebody out there. A special somebody.”

He laughed, looking cheekily at the audience.

“Can we hear it?”

Finnick nodded. He lowered his head to get closer to the microphone. In a single movement, something shifted in him, a part of his faces melted and another facet of him revealed itself. His eyes were tender, loving, like he was looking at her and only her.

“My love,”

His jaw twitched. Sylke understood with no words that he was holding back.

“You have my heart, for all eternity.”

It was just one sentence. One sentence, seven words, and tears were already welling behind her eyes. She looked over to Mr. Indigo. His face was somber, eyes empty and lacking all emotion. She couldn’t cry in front of him. Instead, her chest trembled, she shut her eyes tight for a moment, and promised that she would hear all of it before excusing herself to her room. She looked again to his face on the screen. As always, she found such beauty in his eyes. She could almost hear the serene lull and rhythm of ocean waves on a sunny day. She could almost feel the white sand beneath her feet. And around it all, she felt the love he had for her, warming her heart like sunlight.

“And if I die in that arena…”

Fear and doubt were setting in for both of them. Her teeth began to chatter, and the shaking only got worse as she tried to hold in the screams and sobs.

“My last thought will be of your lips.”

She stood up quickly.

“I’m tired, I’m headed to my room.”

Mr. Indigo nodded, never even looking up. She ran up the stairs, finally letting tears slip down her face. Once the bedroom door was closed, she fell straight to her bed. Endless whimpers and wails were caught by and increasingly wet pillow. She clutched a different pillow like a life buoy in open water, with her eyes squeezed tight. She could only imaging that she was holding onto him, and that he was holding her too. She whispered in hopes he could somehow hear her:

“I don’t want you to go.”

Finnick tired to keep his mind empty through the morning. He was briefly informed the night before of plans for the game, but it scared him. He had pondered it before going to bed: what it would be like in thirteen, if they would even get that far. But when the morning came, he didn’t have the energy to wonder anymore. He needed to focus. It was little things that kept him distracted: metal bars, flickering lights, in distinct chatter in the jet, they were like white noise. His head finally cleared when he stepped onto the platform. Thoughts returned in full sentences, fully formed and concentrated. In all honesty, Sylke was hardly present in Finnick’s mind when the game started. His focus was with the golden bangle on his wrist, and with the silver trident beckoning him to jump off the platform. When the gong sounded, he dove into the water and swam like never before. Waves pushed rhythmically against his shoulders, like drums they commanded his thoughts to beat with the melody. They hummed in his mind, alternating between three things. Pull, breathe, pull, breathe. Find Katniss. Pull, breathe, pull, breathe. Find Katniss. Once on solid ground, he sped forward, pushing a faceless body into the water as he ran. There was no time to wonder who it was, no time to look. He grabbed the trident and a familiar feeling raced through his body. He remembered the thrill of throwing a trident, the satisfaction of hearing it sink into the target. And he remembered how it felt to kill. But there was still no time. He could ponder the weight of steel in his hand later. Now, his mind screamed but one thing. Find Katniss. He found a net too, before he saw her, facing away from him, a few feet ahead. She turned with an armed bow.

“You can swim too, where did you learn that in District Twelve?”

“I have a big bathtub.”

“You must. You like the arena?”

“Not particularly. But you should. They must have built it especially for you.”

There was bitterness and spite in her words, hidden carefully under a layer of decorum. He wondered why she bothered being kind.

“Lucky thing we’re allies. Right?”

Her grip on the bow tightened. He quickly raised his arm, letting the golden band shimmer in the light. The sound of footsteps knocks her hostility away.

“Right!” she shot back to him, in a clipped, rushed sort of way.

He saw someone behind her, one his eyes only recognised as a target.

“Duck!”

Hardly even waiting for her to move, he launched the trident. Blood coated the tines when he retrieved it, an image he hadn’t seen in so long.

“Don’t trust One and Two.”

She nodded. They agreed to each take one side of the Cornucopia as the Career pack approached. Only weapons could be found in the golden horn. With their ranged weapons, Finnick and Katniss made rather quick work of slowing their opponents down. Her eyes flickered to Peeta once they set some distance between themselves and the Cornucopia. He still standing on his metal plate. He doesn’t know how to swim. Katniss begins taking weapons off her belt, but Finnick stops her.

“I’ll get him.”

She wasn’t going to abandon Peeta, so the clear way to protect the Mockingjay was to protect her lover. He was certainly a better swimmer anyway.

“I can.”

Her voice is stern.

“Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition.”

He dives into the water. Convincing Peeta to trust him was not difficult, he just pointed our that Katniss was waiting for them. He also spotted Mags making her way to them. Once he brought Peeta to shore it Katniss had a lot less suspicion of him. After greeting his lover with a kiss, Peeta asked if they had any alliance deals with anyone else.

“Only Mags, I think.”

“Well, I can’t leave Mags behind. She’s one of the few people who actually likes me.”

Humor was like second nature to him. Even if not especially in these horrible, inhumane conditions, jokes had to be made.

“I’ve got no problem with Mags. Especially now that I see the arena. Her fishhooks are probably our best chance of getting a meal.”

“Katniss wanted her on the first day.”

“Katniss has remarkably good judgement,” Finnick said to Peeta as he helped Mags out of the water like he had done so many times on the beaches back home.

“Looks like too many people drowned in your game. It’s like a bob,” she signed while patting the wide violet belt on her suit.

Finnick always took for granted that both he and Sylke were decent swimmers. She was slow, but she could keep herself afloat. Other tributes probably didn’t have that luxury. Looking out the water, it seemed Mags wasn’t the only one to notice.

“Look, she’s right. Someone figured it out.”

Finnick gestured to Beetee, who was certainly not swimming or treading water, but managing to stay afloat.

“What?”

“The belts. They’re floatation devices. I mean, you have to propel yourself, but they’ll keep you from drowning.

Katniss gives Peeta some weapons and Mags an awl before they start moving. Finnick hoists his former mentor onto his back, which they had decided during the week of training would be best for traveling in the arena. The jungle was too similar; tropical and humid and just subtlety artificial, just like before. They travel uphill for about a mile before he noticed Mags beginning to get weary and asks to rest. Given the wheel-like shape of the Cornucopia and the steep climb they took to where they were resting, it seemed likely the arena was shaped like a sort of concave disc. Finnick pondered this as Katniss scaled a tree to get a better view. She stayed up there for a while--longer than one would need to simply survey the area. She was probably thinking about all the bloodshed. Finnick had looked back as they began heading into the jungle and caught a glimpse of the violence. When just last night, they were all joined in collective defiance of the Capitol. When Katniss jumped down from the tree, Finnick had his trident in hand, a habit he realised looked rather defensive to someone who didn’t know that he liked to twirl and balance it as something of a fidget.

“What’s going on down there, Katniss? Have they all joined hands Taken a vow of nonviolence? Tossed the weapons in to the sea in defiance of the Capitol?”

“No.”

“No. Because whatever happened n the past is in the past. And no one in this arena was a victor by chance.”

He looked to Peeta. What if he and Sylke had refused to kill each other? What if she hadn’t eaten those flowers, what if she had offered them to him as well in the same way Peeta and Katniss had with the nightlock? It wasn’t Peeta’s idea. He hadn’t become a victor through cunning or ruthlessness like Finnick and Katniss.

“Except maybe you.”

And Sylke. But Sylke hadn’t been given the chance to live a life she deserved. None of them had, really, but she was never even sent home. She hadn’t been to District One in ten years now. But Finnick needed to keep his mind off her.

“So how many are dead?”

‘Hard to say. At least six, I think. And they’re still fighting.”

“Let’s keep moving. We need water.”

And so they stood up and continued uphill. Peeta took the lead, slashing at leaves and vines with a knife. With a single misplaced step, there was a sharp crackling electric noise, and Peeta was left motionless on the forest floor. For less than a moment, Finnick considered letting him die. But all such thoughts evaporated when he heart Katniss’ anguished cry. Both he and Mags were blown a bit back by the force field, and by the time he got both of them standing, Katniss was crouched over her lover, ear to his chest and screaming his name. Moving quickly, Finnick crouched down next to Katniss and pinched Peeta’s nose shut.

“No!”

He kept moving despite Katniss’ cries. She wasn’t thinking, just taking in the information of a deadly man touching the body of her unconscious lover. He likely would do the same in her position with Sylke. Finnick blew harsh and swift into Peeta’s mouth twice before beginning chest compressions. His mind was empty again, a void of all but the task at hand. A song whispered through his mind, keeping a rhythm as he moved. As seconds turned to minutes, his mind wandered to the last time he did this on a real person. He practiced on mannequins, all the fisherman did, but the last time he actually needed to save someone was ten years ago. When Peeta finally woke with a gasp, Katniss jumped to him, wailing and holding him close. Watching them, Finnick was reminded of what he was doing all this for. He was fighting for the freedom to love, to hold her close like that, and to be safe in doing so. There was suddenly a security in him, sure that he would survive. He heard her voice in his head, so sure that they would meet again, and he believed it. But still, he needed to focus. It was hard to forget Sylke, even for a moment, after Peeta opened his eyes. At every turn, Finnick saw Katniss and Peeta, the star-crossed lovers, and he thought of her. He saw her most in Peeta. His kindness offered Katniss hope, the same hope that she in turn delivers to the people. Sylke did that too. That smile had a way of convincing him he’d be alright. Some way or another, he would get out, and he’d get her out too. He would be able to protect her, rescue her, they would be free to love in thirteen.

They started moving again, this time with Katniss in the lead, as she claimed she could hear the buzzing of the force fields. Finnick fashioned walking sticks for Peeta and Mags. Katniss also cut down some nuts and threw them to her left every so often, just to confirm the wall of energy beside them. Soon, Mags noticed that collision with the force field had a way of cooking the nuts, that supposedly the recognised, and she began to eat. They walked for a while, Katniss at one point scaling another tree and confirming Finnick’s earlier hypothesis on the shape of the arena. It also seemed the sky was a dome, so really, they were on the inside of a convex lens. By midafternoon, it became clear that Mags in her old age and Peeta with his newly beating heart and prosthetic leg could not keep going. They made camp and he and Mags began to weave the long grass into mats. Peeta methodically tossed nuts at the force field and collected the meat in a small pile. It was almost domestically enjoyable if it didn’t remind him so much of his time in the arena with Sylke, which similarly domestic as it was, was tainted with bad memories. Everything seemed so different now. When he was little, the games held an air of magic and honour, one that he hoped to one day be part of. All of that was gone now. He was hyper-aware of the cameras examining his every move. Even in the arena, something compelled him not to let his image slip. Over the years of being a mentor, the sound of cannons never seemed to be any less startling. He hated them ten years ago, and he hated them now. But if he was good at anything it was acting. And so, with incredible amounts of denial and restraint, he chuckled at the boom of cannons, and even joked. In all honesty he wasn’t sure why he did it. Dehydration perhaps, or maybe a simple desire to be more stable than he was. Katniss returned from her venture to find water with only an animal they all decided to call a tree rat. Peeta cooked it against the force field as he had the nuts, and all in all they had a decent meal. Finnick wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not that he still remembered all of the skills he trained for when he was young. Even after all these years of Capitol luxury, it was still so natural to him. The air between him and Katniss was tense. And then the anthem played, and faces were projected onto the sky. For the duration of the song, they were no longer tributes, but simply humans, mourning together. Tension and hostility died down for a moment, leaving only quiet sorrow and sympathy. That humanity returned again when they received a spile from Haymitch. There was confusion at first, as to what this strange metal object was. But after thinking for a while, Katniss had something of an epiphany. They worked to drill a hole in a tree with the awl and then widening it with knives before driving in the spile. After some adjustment, a thin trickling stream of water emerged. Katniss drank first, then Peeta, and then Finnick. He then went to get a woven bowl to bring some for Mags. They were all caring for one another in that moment, with smiles that were all too uncommon in the arena. It was a small and sweet triumph, something to lift their spirits a little. And as though the game makers were watching that precise moment (because they probably were), the celebration was interrupted by an alarm ringing twelve times and lightning striking a tree in the distance.

Finnick was soon woken by Katniss yelling for them to run. Once Mags was on his back, they moved as quickly as possible to escape the fog. He could smell it when it got close, it was sweet and heavy. Almost like the magnolias at Mr. Indigo’s house, but somehow sickening and saccharine. He heard both Katniss and Peeta scream before he felt it. Cold white vapor brushed against his back, but it felt like it was burrowing into his skin. He fell to the ground in pain and screamed, feeling the electric sort of burning sensation coarse through his body. It seared like lightning through his veins, and then there was nothing. A numbness set in--far more terrifying than pain. They ran, stumbling and certainly loud, but none of that mattered. Peeta’s prosthetic leg caught on some vines and he crashed into the ground. Barely thinking, Finnick hurried back uphill to help Katniss carry.

“It’s no good. I’ll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?”

“Yes,” Katniss replies. Her voice is hoarse and perhaps unsure, but in the confusion and tension of the moment, neither of them could truly tell.

Finnick began moving diagonally toward the water, which would hopefully keep the fog at bay. He could hear Katniss struggling behind him. They fall and roll when she buckles under the weight. His own shoulders were screaming at him, but he did everything to ignore it. He’d lost control of his arms as well, but as long as he could keep Peeta propped up and balanced it would be alright.

“It’s no use. Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“No. I can’t carry them both. My arms aren’t working.”

Katniss looked to Mags, who was getting herself up from the ground.

“I’m sorry Mags, I can’t do it.”

Mags nodded, almost smiling. She placed a gentle hand on Finnick’s shoulder. She said nothing, but the calm in her smile communicated everything. She placed a kiss to a confused Finnick and walked slowly towards the fog.

“Mags?”

The white mist enveloped her, welcoming her like a long lost friend.

“Mags!”

Finnick screamed, all control over himself vanished. He could barely comprehend it. The world went quiet, but he still heard the canon fire.

“Finnick, we have to go. We have to get out of here.”

He nodded, refusing to let himself dwell on Mags. There would be time for that later. He and Katniss carried Peeta forward until they stumbled and rolled downhill. The fog followed them down, creeping like a spectre of impending doom. The poison was setting in. He felt more and more disconnected from his running legs. They gave way and he distantly felt the support of soft earth against his face. Perhaps he would die here, senseless and exhausted. The cameras would capture it. Everyone would know and no one would wonder. Would she wonder? Would Mr. Indigo let her watch? The games were required viewing for the districts, but that rule didn’t need to be enforced in the capitol. Regardless, someone would tell her. She would find out. And she would know that he loved her. She had proof on paper of that. Finnick consoled himself with these thoughts, relaxing his body and letting the fog engulf him.

“It stopped.”

Katniss’ words roused Finnick to the fact that he was not, in fact, welcomed by the fog. Like it hit a wall, the it had just stopped and faded away. They all sat watching for a little while as the white turned back to clear air. And then Peeta spotted a pair of orange monkeys watching from the trees. He began to crawl downhill once more, and the rest followed. Better not to risk the wrath of mutts. Finnick’s brain was completely on autopilot until they reached the water. He was not thinking, barely feeling, only moving. When a finger touched the warm saltwater there was a burning, stinging, horrible pain that he refused to bear. And so he laid down in the sand, finally allowing his body to rest, even if it was swelling and painful even to breathe. At least you can breathe. You can smell, you can hear. You can hear me sing to you. You’ll be alright. He could hear her words. That’s what she would say, while tenderly running hands over his wounded skin and finding some remedy in the plants growing in the jungle. And she would sing that lullaby, and he would sleep, and in the morning it would be better. There would be a bit of singeing pain, but she would take care of him like she always had. He could feel it, the poison draining from his arms. He felt like he was swimming. Warm water was lapping at his skin, welcoming him into a lullaby embrace. It didn’t put him to sleep, it brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes to see a pale moon and a dark sky. He saw his jumpsuit, cut open, and his own body submerged in the shallow water. His head was resting on something warm. Someone’s lap. It wasn’t hers. He looked to Peeta, and then to Katniss, whose lap he was lying on. It occurred to him that he could feel the water against his limbs. He could move his arms.

“There’s just your head left, Finnick. That’s the worst part, but you’ll feel much better after, if you can bear it.”

They helped him sit up and he dunked his face into the water. It was torturous, like his skin was being pulled away, but just for a moment. And then relief. He felt like his skin was exhaling.

“Thank you,” he tried to say, but the words did not manage to escape his sore, raw throat.

“I’m going to tap a tree.”

“Let me make the hole first. You stay with him. You’re the healer.”

Finnick felt himself recovering as he sat in the water. His limbs were working again, following his commands as they were supposed to. He could swim. He didn’t strive for speed at first, just trying to enjoy the feeling of moving at his own will again. And then some amount of life returned to him. There was energy in him he hadn’t felt in a long time. This was the feeling Sylke described when she danced. She escaped her dollhouse and just moved. She could feel the warmth of stage lights and she could hear the applause of a home crowd. Finnick felt it too. He heard the roar of water against his ear, felt the bubbles meeting his skin as he kicked. For a small while he just sat with his head below the water and let himself feel everything. The water vibrated below where it touched the wind. Plants and algae swayed at the bottom. There was life here. He noticed Katniss’ legs standing not far away and decided to play a little joke. It had been far too long since he last laughed. He popped his head up right next to her.

“Don’t do that!”

“What? Come up or stay under?”

“Either. Neither. Whatever. Just soak in the water and behave. Or if you feel this good, let’s go help Peeta.”

She sounded like an older sister, which Finnick supposed she was.

They had to fight off a band of money mutts hiding at the edge of the jungle. District Six must have also been in on the plan, because one of the morphlings died to save Peeta. He refused to leave her body to the mutts and brought her to the beach while Finnick and Katniss fought off the monkeys. When the fight was over, Finnick kept watching the trees, wary of anything else Gamemakers decided to throw at them. From a distance, he saw Peeta whisper in the ear of the dying victory from District Six and slowly ease her into the water. His gentle nature was once again reminiscent of Sylke. They were both such caretakers, and such good ones. It made him sure that there were good people in this world. As night went on, the fog-blisters scabbed over and began to itch. It took all sorts of restraint on all of their parts not to scratch themselves open as they tapped trees for water. Thoughts of both Sylke and Mags were harder and harder to keep at bay. Finnick insisted on taking watch while the other two slept. And once he was alone, everything came out. Quietly, of course, but he finally let himself cry. His breathing was erratic and his chest throbbed as tears and sobs fell out of him. His body hunched over, refusing to perceive anything but it self and its own grief. Mags was gone. The woman who had taught him everything, who kept him alive and taught him how to survive hadn’t. And for what? To keep Peeta alive? To keep Katniss alive? Why were any of them so concerned with these two teenagers from across the country? Finnick knew exactly why. He knew why all of this mattered, he knew why he was fighting and why he was willing to die himself if it came to that. It wasn’t just for him and it wasn’t just for Sylke. Of course those things mattered, but he also cared for people. She did too. He pictured a world where they could be happy. Where they could dance and he could take her to the shore and treat her to all the pleasures that she deserved. And not just the two of them, but everyone. It was idyllic, he knew that. But she dreamt of such a future, so why shouldn’t he?

By midmorning, Peeta and Katniss woke up. They found Finnick, deep in his thoughts, who had clearly not been idle during the night. While his mind ran around, his body needed to be doing something. He wove grass mats for shelter first, and when that was done, three bowls. Those were finished after sunrise, and the other two were still not awake. He filled two bowls with water from a tree, looking back to make sure they were alright. Eventually, his boredom and inability to sit still with his thoughts outweighed his caution. There were some rocks not too far away that he was willing to bet had some mussels living on it. He was correct. In fact there were far more living beneath the surface. It was a plentiful harvest that he could likely pull from again, filling only a bowl with shellfish and heading back to the camp, where his allies were still sleeping. They woke up as he filled his rumbling belly. It had been far too long since he had eaten good, fresh seafood. The stuff in the capitol was alright, but it wasn’t like this. He recalled his last time in the arena, where he spent the majority of his time fishing in the river while keeping a distant eye on a foraging Sylke. He remembered her fascination as she watched him fillet the river fish on a slab of rock. She made meals so enjoyable, like they were just picnicking in the jungle for lunch. Finnick struggled to hold back tears, but he managed as he heard Katniss stirring. She soon joined him in eating, though the sight of dried blood on her fingernails stopped her for a moment. Finnick had been scratching his skin all night, he knew what she was experiencing.

“You know, if you scrath you’ll bring on infection.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

She washed her hands in the sea before looking up to the sky and shouting:

“Hey, Haymitch, if you’re not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin!”

Almost on queue, a gift came sailing from the sky on a grey parachute. She returned to the sand and opened it with Finnick. They found it full of dark ointment that reeked of pine and tar. It was nothing like the green, watery poultices that Sylke made for his wounds. Katniss let out a moan of relief as she rubbed it on her itching leg. It stained the skin a comically rot-like green colour.

“It’s like you’re decomposing,” he remarked with a chuckle, before taking some on his fingers to treat his own scabbing skin. It worked like magic, relieving the itch like cool water and dry air on a hot humid day. Though admittedly, the scabbing skin and dark ointment made one look rather awful.

“Poor Finnick. Is this the first time in your life you haven’t looked pretty?”

“It must be. The sensation’s completely new. How have you managed it all these years?”

“Just avoid mirrors. You’ll forget about it.”

“Not if I keep looking at you.”

They quickly spread ointment on one another’s backs before Katniss stood up.

“I’m going to wake Peeta.”

“No wait. Let’s do it together. Put our faces right in front of his.”

Katniss’ face lit up. For a brief moment, she looked like a teenager again, amused, with only lighthearted thoughts at the front of her mind. Humor was a necessity at times like this, Finnick was only more sure of that. It was terribly amusing, watching Peeta’s waking face. As they laughed, another gift floated down from the sky. This morning was turning out to be almost too good to be true. They received familiar green-tinted bread from District 4, something Finnick always enjoyed back home. Mags liked to bake it and share it with himself and Annie. This was like treasure to him, not to go to waste. They would eat and fuel themselves in her honour. As afternoon drew nearer, the ground began to vibrate and a wave moved from jungled hills into the sea, raising the water level quite significantly. A cannon fired. Soon, three figures emerged in the distance, in the same wedge of the wheel which the wave had originated from and remained in, not unlike how the fog was contained behind an invisible wall. Finnick, Katniss, and Peeta retreated into the jungle to watch. They were stumbling around, clearly weary and wounded, and solidly brick-red. One was dragging another, until they collapsed on the beach. There was a fit of temper from the dragger, and something the size of a dagger stabbed into the sand. Finnick knew immediately from this that they were trustworthy.

“Johanna!”

“Finnick!”

“What the hell happened--is that blood?”

“Yeah. The lightning struck and we were stupid close to it ‘cause Volts just had to see it, and then we started moving away when it started to rain. And that made sense, ‘cause of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood. Thick, hot blood. You couldn’t see, you couldn’t speak without getting a mouthful. We were just staggering around, trying to get out of it. That’s when Blight hit the forcefield.”

“I’m sorry, Johanna.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t much, but he was from home. And he left me with these two. He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia and her--”

Wiress was circling about in a daze, mumbling to herself, though loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Tick, tock. Tick tock.”

“Yeah we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock.”

Wiress stumbled and fell into Johanna, who shoved her to the ground.

“Just stay down, will you?”

Katniss quickly joined the conversation: “Lay off her.”

“Lay off her?”

Her voice was laced with venom. She stepped to Katniss and slapped her. Finnick couldn’t help but understand. Johanna was short tempered, and she had kept the two from Three alive for this long. It couldn’t have been enjoyable for her.

“Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you?” You--”

Finnick saw this as his time to intervene. He tossed his friend over his shoulder and brought her to the water to wash her off and calm her down. A flurry of insults were flying from her mouth for a short while, but they were drowned out as he repeatedly dunked her in the water. Eventually, she started to wash herself as they talked. It was small talk for a bit, something they might have done as victors without tributes to mentor during a game. It was like old times, as though nothing was wrong. Eventually, the topic turned to loved ones. Not much could be said with the cameras rolling, but they managed.

“How’s that girl doing? The one he keeps an eye on?”

“She’s alright. She’s alive, which is really all that I can ask for. I hope she’s happy.”

“From what you’ve told me, I’m sure she is. She’s a toughie.”

“Yeah.”

The two of them returned to the rest of the group and Finnick laid down to rest. Katniss woke him and the rest from quiet slumber and delivered epiphanies. The Arena was a clock, each hour a different plague ravaged a wedge of the wheel. They travelled to the Cornucopia and mapped out the clock as well as stocked their weapons. Wiress’ throat was slit as the Careers began to attack. Then the Cornucopia spun. Their opponents as well as Beetee were flung into the sea, though Finnick was able to get him back. They lost the position of the clock, completely discombobulated. Everyone but Wiress survived the encounter and they made it back to the beach, awaiting the ten o’clock wave to reorient. It didn’t take long before familiar voices sounded in the distance. First it was Katniss who hears them, as Finnick was tapping a tree. She ran into the forest shouting her sister’s name and Finnick followed her to make sure she would be safe. He found her cleaning an arrow with a handful of moss.

“Katniss?”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I though I head my sister but--”

That was when he heard her. She was shouting his name and screaming. She sounded so scared. All inhibition was lost and Finnick began yelling back.

“Sylke? Sylke!”

He ran desperately, aimlessly, trying to find her. She sounded real, that was undoubtedly his angel. How did this happen? Wasn’t she supposed to stay safe, wasn’t that the deal? What was it all for, all the degradation and shame of pretending to love anyone but her, if not just to keep her alive? An anger surged through him, nearly as boiled as his panic, the sort of rage birthed from betrayal and hurt. Katniss soon caught up to him. She scaled a tree and stabbed a bird, at which point the screaming stopped. It fell at his feet, and he could only manage to pick it up, with weary arms and hollow eyes.

“It’s all right, Finnick. It’s just a jabberjay. They’re playing a trick on us. It’s not real. It’s not your... Sylke.”

He was not comforted. He knew this bird, he had learned its history. At least in moments prior, he thought that she was at least here, in the arena, where he could save her or at least die trying. This was so, so much worse.

“No, it’s not Sylke. But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?”

“Oh, Finnick, you don’t think they...”

“Yes, I do. That’s exactly what I think. I wouldn’t ever put it past the gamemakers to do that.”

Another scream rang through the air. It was a man’s voice this time, and Katniss clearly recognised it. He grabbed her before she could chase.

“No. It’s not him. We’re getting out of here.”

He began to pull her toward the beach as the screams continued.

“It’s not him, Katniss! It’s a mutt! Come on!”

The dark birds began to fly at them, attacking with precision and intention. The two of them ran towards the edge, Johanna and Peeta standing with open arms on the other side, but it was like a glass wall. Finnick heard his family, he heard his friends. Mags’ warped scream that she rarely used rang through the air. Johanna’s cry could be heard too, though Finnick didn’t process it in the moment. Loudest in the chorus was Sylke. Sometimes she called his name, even called for help, other times it was just screams. He tried to cover his ears but it was too loud. He couldn’t distinguish what was in his head and what was in the air. Her screams sounded so real, so pained, and oh so loud. They were inside his head, between his ears, behind his eyes, everywhere. With eyes clamped shut he collapsed on the ground, having given up on covering his ears. When the hour was up they went back to the beach. He could still hear her, even after the birds were gone. Sitting in the water helped, hearing the waves crash against him made it quieter, but they didn’t make it go away. Here, he was finally able to think about everything. He finally had time, real time, or rather he didn’t care as much anymore. Mags was gone. He could tell himself that she was never going to make it, but that didn’t make the pain go away. She wouldn’t be there to guide him anymore, or give him a little pat when he did something right. He felt a hole in his heart, one he hadn’t quite felt in years. She sacrificed herself with a smile. He couldn’t be angry with her and yet a part of him was. A part of him wanted to yell at her, tell her to be selfish, then she’d still be alive. This feeling was all too familiar. He had wanted to yell these same things at Sylke ten years ago. It was like deja vu, this unbearable guilt of being the one someone died to help. The one thing he was always grateful for was that she died peacefully in his arms. She wasn’t crying or screaming, she fell still with a smile. But now her cries repeated in his head, and he was left picturing her, hearing her, screaming and wailing until she went silent. And he couldn’t do anything to make it stop.

Finnick’s conversation with Johanna had not been aired. He had also murmured her name in his sleep, something Katniss didn’t tell him until much later. That footage was also omitted. Sylke was watching when the jabberjays attacked. She heard her own voice, but it was different. Younger. It took little time for Mr. Indigo to tell her to go to her room. Sylke knew exactly why and didn’t dare argue. He had never acknowledged her past, and he certainly wouldn’t now. She walked away as Finnick began to tell her name. It took all restraint not to turn back and run towards him, towards where his voice was coming from anyway. But she sat on the stairs and listened, clutching onto the smooth pillars at the end of the banister for dear life. And then the noises were replaced with music and Caesar Flickerman’s commentary came on.

“Now, for the younger folks watching, you might not know the story.”

Finnick called out her name again. He sounded so scared.

“Sylke was a tribute in the 65th Hunger Games with Finnick, you know. He didn’t want to kill her, so she did it herself, poor thing.”

Caesar’s partner Claudius chimed in.

“Such a tragic tale.”

“I know, it really is sad.”

He paused for a moment, letting his dramatic telling sink in.

“But isn’t it remarkable how they managed to capture her voice?”

“I heard they took recordings from the 65th to get it.”

“Really? Wow! The capitol really outdid themselves themselves this year folks.”

They moved so trivially over her ‘death’. Hearing them talk about her like a relic of the past was too much. She ran as quietly as possible to her room, crumpling against the closed door. Her entire being trembled with each stifled cry. Sounds could escape her here, but they still couldn’t be too loud. Every inhale was desperate and starved, every exhale was shaky. She clutched her knees and crinkled the fabric beneath her hands. It wasn’t even clear to her what exactly she was crying about. Everything, I suppose. About the danger he was in, about the fear in his voice, the fact she couldn’t make it go away, that they talked about her in the past tense, all of it swarmed her, filling her ears with uncountable voices. She heard Finnick calling her name, she heard his message from the interview, she heard Caesar Flickerman’s caucus laughter, she heard her own younger voice screaming for help. It took what felt like forever, but the tears did eventually cease. She was able to stand, albeit slowly and exhausted. Her chest was weak and heavy, her legs struggled to carry her. But she still got up. Without a sound and with very little going through her head, she walked to her bed and pulled out the box underneath. She let muscle memory take over as she slipped her feet under the elastics and tied the ribbons. Like she had so many times before, she danced. With closed eyes and gliding feet she escaped. When the music finally stopped and she returned to the dollhouse, things were still awful. Her heart was still aching, the world was still cruel. But now it was just ever so slightly less so. Mr. Indigo didn’t allow her to watch after that incident. He sat alone on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen. When some of her strength had been regained, Sylke returned to her spot on the stairs, where she sat and continued to listen.

They stayed on the beach for the rest of the day. Beetee had come up with a plan that they couldn’t act on until dusk, so they had a few hours with nothing in particular to do, restrained to the safety of the beach. Johanna and Beetee were sitting closer to the tree line, talking about something that Finnick didn’t care to listen to. Katniss and Peeta were similarly separated and talking, and Finnick was standing in the water. It was cold, but it was tactile, something to feel. He twirled the the trident back and forth, up and down, to keep his hands busy. There was calm in repetition, in the waves lapping at his legs, in the shifting weight of the trident as the ends tilted in different directions. They always moved together. When one end got heavier, the other got lighter. When the rest of the world was chaotic and dangerous and cruel, there was balance in his hands. It was something he could control and something he could make good.

The ten o’clock wave let the group know which wedge was which. They moved camp accordingly and rested. They received more bread: thirty-three rolls from District 3. Katniss and Peeta found a way to scour the scabs from their body and joyously announced that they could make Finnick pretty again. The group gathered as a whole when Beetee formed a plan to set up a trap for Brutus and Enobaria, the two Careers remaining. They left their camp around nine in the morning and headed toward the jungle. Once at the lightning tree, they split into smaller task groups and Finnick was left guarding Beetee. There was little for him to do as Beetee was examining the tree. He continued to play with the trident in his hands, keeping a weather eye on the foliage. When the lighting was soon to strike, they retreated away and took a long route back to the beach. They feasted on bread and fish until the sky darkened and it was time to return the the tree and set the trap. Finnick helped wrap wire around the tree before Beetee revealed the rest of the plan. He and Peeta were to stand guard at the tree with Beetee, and Johanna and Katniss would uncoil the wire as the moved to the beach and drop the remaining spool in the water. They stood in silence, watching Johanna and Katniss disappear into the jungle. Until the line went slack. Peeta heard Katniss scream and ran off.

“Beetee, I-“

“Just go. Go, catch up with them, I’ll be fine. I’ll try to destroy the forcefield.”

Finnick nodded before running on the wire’s trail. It was dark and humid, thick air felt like fog against his face as he ran. He shouted for Johanna and Katniss over and over again, with no response. Once he reached the end of the wire, he turned and began heading back to the tree. Hopefully they had done the same. He could hear his pulse roaring in his ears, adrenaline running rampant through his body. And then he saw her, crouched in the brush with an arrow pointed at his chest. She was shaking, her eyes were determined, but scared too. He opened his arms to show he meant to harm.

“Katniss… remember who the real enemy is.”

She lowered her bow. Storm clouds began to move and the sky flashed.

“Katniss get away from that tree!”

She didn’t move, she was doing something with her arrow. He knew it was a good idea to run, but she was still there and so was Beetee, unconscious on the ground.

“Come on!”

She pointed her arrow to the sky, a wire trailing from the head. There was a flash of light, a searing heat, and a sharp noise that made everything go silent.

There was a crackle of static when the light from the sitting room went out. Mr. Indigo was sitting in darkness for a moment before he turned on the light. There was an inexplicable understanding in Sylke, or perhaps a simple hope, that things were about to change forever. The phone rang with an alarmingly shrill tone. Mr. Indigo spoke with increasing frustration as the conversation went on. She continued to listen from her spot on the staircase.

“What? Excuse me, you can’t just-“

There was a low growl in his throat as he listened to the other person.

“She’s not even… I don’t understand why this is necessary.”

Sylke’s eyes widened. Instinct took over, and perhaps it was just precaution, but something within her screamed that it had to be done. She ran to the kitchen, a room she wasn’t exactly allowed in, and grabbed a candle, matches, and a large bowl. The staff were all too busy sitting in their quarters and staining confused at dark screens anyway. Once back in her room she moved like a machine. The candle was lit, the window was opened, and the box was pulled out again from under the bed. This time, she set the slippers aside and revealed the stack of letters underneath. Paper by paper, she fed them to the flame and dropped them into the bowl. Fire ate at the words until there was nothing left but dust. She couldn’t afford to leave a single drop of ink behind. She watched with cold eyes as all the words she cherished, all the pages she read whenever she was sad, all of it burned. The room filled with smoke, her eyes began to sting. She finally let tears down her face, but nothing else. She sat on the floor with composure and propriety as the pile of pages got smaller. There was impatience that urged her to move faster but she resisted. No word could be left behind. Smoke clung to every surface, small burns appeared on her fingertips. But she continued. Then came the final letter. It was the first one he ever sent, five years ago. She didn’t let herself read more than the final sentence.

I miss you and I love you and I hope this letter brings a smile to your face.

Yours,

Finnick

Almost involuntarily, an anguished cry escaped her. Floodgates opened as she burned the final letter. Tears poured down her face, her hands shook, but she did it. It was gone. All evidence of their contact was gone. The more cynical part of her thought they would still know, but at least she could try. She sat in the hazy room for an hour before there was knock at the door.

“Miss Syren? You are expected downstairs.”

She couldn’t bring herself to care about the ashes, the smoke, or the tears staining her face. She walked down the stairs, where she was met by Mr. Indigo’s sad face, and a group of people dressed in white. He took her into his arms, his cologne overpowering the smell of smoke.

“Little Syren… I am so sorry.”

She felt something cold pierce her skin. In an instant, the world went dark.

When the ringing got louder and Finnick regained consciousness, he couldn’t tell where he was. His eyes wouldn’t open, his arms wouldn’t move, no matter how much he willed them to. He could still feel his body, but nothing else. It was like floating in the air, not even gravity pulled on him. He tried to get up, tried to move, but nothing worked.

No, no no no! I need to get up, I need to move, please! I need to find them…

He cried out to an entity he didn’t know, begging for control of his body. It did not come, and eventually the loving embrace of sleep pulled him in like a siren’s song.

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