Chapter Text
58 - After Dark Days. Seven years old.
The sky is beginning its morning shift from faded indigo into rich gold and red, as the sky welcomes the gradual rising of the sun. It turns the surface of the ocean, still in the morning quiet and outlined by blackened shapes of boats, like liquid fire.
Finnick watches it from his perch at the end of the docks. A gathering of thin ropes are neatly settled on the left side of him, with his fingers expertly moving to carefully weave them together into a net. He doesn’t have to look down to do this. His fingers move on memory, weaving in and out, and then carefully knotting, before moving on.
It’s mechanical, but it relaxes him.
It certainly does well to help distract from the deep-rooted ache in his bones and the fatigue that’s lying in wake in the back of his mind.
The Hatchery is in the throes of summer harvest, meaning that even the school children of District 4 would have to join the adults out on the water. Children like Finnick spend the hours preluding dawn patrolling the shoreline with lobster traps, out on the boats to catch fish, and hauling what is caught to be catalogued and shipped off to the Capitol.
During the summer harvest, the Hatchery works twice as hard. After all, there needs to be compensation for the impending Hunger Games. Two less workers, presumably, and mandatory viewing. District 4 must continue to operate like a well-oiled machine, so a strengthened workforce is a necessity even as the large screens poised on the beaches play the Games.
And maybe the extra work is seen as an opportunity to get stronger, giving a prospective tribute or volunteer certain advantages.
Unofficially, anyway.
Dawn rises, granting the children of the Hatchery only a small enough freedom to eat breakfast and then go to school.
The older kids have already left half an hour ago to go to the Quarry, to spend a hopeful hour or two training. If these older kids happen to run a little late to school, the Peacekeepers usually turn a blind eye. After all, they’re training to be Careers, and District 4 Careers are always promising for a good show even if they don’t win.
And tomorrow is Reaping Day.
If ever there is a time to train, it’s now, because tomorrow all eyes will be on their district. And there will be no forgiveness for preexisting excuses.
At only seven years old, Finnick has five years before his name is eligible in the pool, and five more years until the folks down at the Quarry will give him the time of day.
Most of the boys and girls around Finnick’s age have already pulled from the beach to prepare for the rest of their day, returning back to the uniform row of houses, which more closely resemble unkempt and half-painted stacked shacks to prepare for school.
A few others like Finnick stay behind, prolonging the inevitable.
His feet dangle over the edge of the dock. The morning tide pulls in, reaching out to curl around his ankles, as if trying to coax him into the water, but he can’t - no matter how much he may want to. He’s still damp from earlier in the day, when he’d gone out with his father and a few other fishermen for the morning harvest. The nets that had been left overnight had been full to the brim with fish. It had taken three grown men and four of the boys to help haul the writhing net out of the water and over the edge of the boat.
But Finnick had lost his footing in the scuffle, one of the boys elbowing him mistakenly in the ribs. Somehow, this caused one of the men behind him to loosen his grip, and the net tugged forward. With that, Finnick fell overboard. The water greedily swallowed Finnick whole, dragging him down. Underwater, Finnick could see the silver fish writhing in the net, forming a moon-like swarm as they wriggled in a panic. Trapped in the net, they looked so helpless.
For a moment, Finnick felt pity for them.
It was short-lived. There’s no room for pity like that in District 4, not when the harvest is so bountiful and fishing season is in full swing. The Peacekeepers would never hear it. They’d probably laugh or beat a fisherman for saying anything of the like, boy or man.
Finnick had kicked himself back to the surface and had to haul himself back onto the boat. It took effort, his small feet fighting to gain traction over the boat’s surface, and his hands clawing at the edge. When one of the men stepped forward to help him, Finnick’s father whistled.
“Let him do it,” Neleus Odair had said.
Finnick got himself up.
But he’s definitely going to smell when he gets to school - more so than usual.
It’s not as though he cares. Everyone at school knows that he’s from the Hatchery, the primary source of fishing within the district. There are numerous sectors within District 4, with the Hatchery residing at its base, and delegated to the heaviest brunt of labor.
Other sectors within the district work on building boats, merchants turning seashells into jewelry, or farmers handling the orange orchards.
Even at seven years old, Finnick Odair is confident in his lack of care for other peoples’ opinions. Why should he? He’s proud to live in the Hatchery, proud to contribute. His hands are calloused and he reeks of fish. So what? Let them smell it.
But his father wouldn’t think so.
It doesn’t matter.
Finnick would rather be down here at the docks with his father than at school, but he doesn’t have a choice in that regard. The Peacekeepers won’t complain about the young boys and girls who go out at dawn to help the adults, but they will step in when it impedes on educational values. The thought makes Finnick snort.
It feels pointless to spend upwards of six hours a day stuck at a desk, learning again and again about the Dark Days, the origin of the Hunger Games, or District 4’s significant role in the Capitol’s economy.
He doesn’t drag himself there for his own benefit.
Finnick steals a glance over his shoulder, finding his father.
Neleus Odair stands on the other side of the docks, helping catalogue the barrels of fish and crustaceans from this morning’s harvest. On the other side of him stands Pluto Varian, District 4’s Head Peacekeeper. He’s young considering his position, having replaced the long-time Head Peacekeeper of twenty years only recently, after the former died in an unexpected transportation accident.
Because of this, Pluto holds a rag over his mouth when he comes down to the Hatchery to handle affairs; still unused to the smell, face twisted in disgust. Finnick has a feeling the young Head Peacekeeper most definitely did not choose District 4, or if he did he had grossly underestimated what fishing district really meant.
“A good haul,” says Pluto, voice muffled by the rag.
Finnick’s fingers tighten around the rope, trying to focus on the intricate weaving of the net instead of the Peacekeeper’s muffled voice. But in spite of that, he still strains his ears to listen. It’s more than just good, he thinks, but doesn’t say anything.
He hears his father exhale, though it does not sound annoyed. No, instead his father sounds tired. The sound slipping through him, in front of the Peacekeeper, makes Finnick bristle a little. He doesn’t like it when the Peacekeepers see just how tired they are, regardless of praise or scrutiny.
“You and your fishmongers did well today. I will be sure to include you in my report to the Capitol,” Pluto says. “Nerus Odair?”
“Neleus,” says Finnick’s father.
Finnick tightens a pair of ropes and knots them, a frustrated sound slipping through his lips. If anyone were to notice, they would only assume that the net had been the root of it, not the disrespect from the Peacekeeper.
Fishmonger. Finnick hates that word. It’s so indignant and simple.
Finnick tries to distract himself by looking back up over the water, watching the surface be set ablaze as the sun crests over its edge; an orb of fire, far away and yet so remarkably close. From his place on the dock, Finnick can see the outlined horizon and the long stretch of sea ahead of him, and the curve of the world.
And he’s stuck here.
So caught up in the sunrise, Finnick doesn’t hear the steady sound of footsteps behind him. It isn’t until his father’s fingers are tapping against his head that he jumps, turning at his waist to look up.
“Finnick,” Neleus says. “School.”
“Almost done,” Finnick says. “You said you needed a new net, so I wanted to get this done before the afternoon harvest -”
But Neleus hears none of it. He reaches down with his calloused and scarred fingers to claim the net and sets of rope.
“I’m almost done,” Finnick says. “Five more minutes -”
“You’re still wet,” Neleus says, his voice disapproving.
“Yeah,” Finnick says. “They know where I’ve been. It’s fine, dad.”
Neleus sighs. This time, the frustration is clear, and it’s directed towards his son. “Take more pride in yourself, boy,” he says.
“I am proud.”
Neleus goes quiet, falling into a crouch beside Finnick as his fingers carefully fold the half-woven net, and then gathers the loose ropes. He has large, strong hands, so it is always a wonder to watch how delicately they move in moments like these. Finnick is momentarily entranced, in spite of his own frustrations.
His own fingers brace at the edge of the dock, nails biting into the old wood as if this will keep him in place. He considers propelling himself forward to be swallowed up by the sea again, but decides against it. It wouldn’t do anything to help him.
“Put something clean on,” Neleus says, tapping his fingers against Finnick’s head again, and then his fingers slip to gently cradle him. “You’ll be late.”
Finnick wants to fight, but it’s better to just give in.
He pulls from his father’s grip and reluctantly turns from the dock. As he walks, he faces the lantern-lit Hatchery ahead of him. Long rows of stacked houses face towards the sea, the paint chipped on its surfaces, and the rocky hillsides far behind it illuminating the town. The merchants live up there, their homes out of peril against the elements or storms, and they wear pearls instead of harvesting them.
Finnick follows the shoreline, passing Peacekeepers loading vehicles with barrels and traps filled with this morning’s catch.
The houses in the Hatchery are stacked into two tiers, one perched above the other, with one family per stack. Once bright-blues and whites have dulled to muted, ghostly shades. The edges curl and flake away in irregular patches.
The shingles on the roofs are warped and uneven, some missing entirely. Windows are small and often cracked, with glass panes fogged or fractured.
Finnick is fortunate enough to live on one of the outer-edge structures, on the top level. On the edge of the building, shallow stairs snake along the surface towards a small balcony, wide enough to hold one person, and stationed in front of a rickety door.
The inside is about as nice as the outside.
The old wood had been painted a muted shade of lavender, the walls decorated with framed photographs and some large shells Finnick’s mother had collected a long time ago. The floor is dusted with sand. No matter how often Finnick or his father seem to sweep, it never really goes away.
There’s no time for a proper bath, even if it’s only with a basin of cold water and some rags. But Finnick takes the time to wash his hands and face, at least, and tries in vain to brush the grime from his shaggy hair. Afterwards, he goes to a handmade dresser in the bedroom where he changes into school-appropriate clothes.
It’s a simple pair of black pants and a light blue shirt. Sometimes Finnick forgoes these clothes altogether and goes to school dressed in his fishing garb, consisting of shorts and a sleeveless shirt that’s more of a slip. But today, his dad has given him a special request, and it feels important to honor it.
Maybe because Reaping Day is tomorrow and tensions are high, and each year is a year closer to Finnick turning twelve. Then again, maybe it’s because Neleus Odair wants more for his son than to be a fishmonger.
Finnick bristles.
He turns and looks out one of the old, cracked windows. The sun’s gradual ascent has brightened the sky, turning it into an illuminated shade of yellow and a brighter blue. The clock is working against him, but he’s still allotted himself enough time and freedom for one more act of rebellion.
Smiling, Finnick closes the door behind him and steps back outside. He settles off of the path leading to town and pulls deeper into the heart of the Hatchery. He passes old buildings with chipped paint and markets of fish and trade, until he reaches the old and yet comfortably familiar Rot Mouth.
Rot Mouth rests in the center of the Hatchery. Its age is second only to its smell. Lining the outer wall are rows upon rows of chum buckets, with flies gathered around to greedily pick and claim the array of fish guts and bones inside. Even though Finnick has long acclimated to the smell, it still manages to assault his nose, so he holds his breath.
The inside of Rot Mouth is a very normal, albeit old, tackle shop. The walls are adorned with hand-carved rods, made up of driftwood and materials recycled from retired boats, an assortment of hooks, walls of jarred worms, and display cases filled with equally handmade tridents and spears. These had been melted down from old bits of metal or iron.
Notably, a spear made up of an oversized shark tooth has its own case. The tooth had been found deep in an old grotto by some kids.
It was three times bigger than anything they’d seen before. Knowing that it would have likely been taken by Peacekeepers and forced into some fancy Capitolian jewelry or a display case for a rich official, the tooth had been broken down into individual spearheads.
Finnick had been one of the kids to find it.
But Finnick isn’t here for spears or bait.
In the far back of the shop, behind a thick curtain, is the second half of the place. A windowless and dimly lit room with a curving counter and rows of tables surrounding it. In the corner, some older men are playing cards with each other, the ones who are too old to be out on the water or serving District 4. These ancient beings have the luxuries of reclining back and waiting to die.
Comparatively, there are a handful of younger anglers, men and women, gathered by the counter to get a drink from old Rotter. But predominantly, they gather around a table where a man is standing.
This is a place that Neleus would rather die than see his son present in, but Neleus isn’t here. His father will be busy out on the open water, meeting the extended quota for the day. Since the reaping is tomorrow, the Peacekeepers will be expecting doubled efforts to compensate for a missed day. The Capitol will be celebrating, and apparently they love their shrimp cocktails and lobster tails during this time. And Neleus is not one to let fault fall on his people.
A smile starts at Finnick’s lips as the man plays the fiddle with the same vigor as Neleus wields his trident. He’s stamping his foot gently against the surface of the table under him.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they,
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright,
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light,
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight,
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light,
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light…
There is a small tremor inside of Finnick’s heart, one that ripples into his stomach to clench. This is not an uncommon song in District 4, but it is a forbidden one. It is the kind of song that the Peacekeepers would not be shy hanging a man or woman over if heard, regardless of adult or child. But the familiarity of it provides a comforting swell inside of him, too.
Down at the Quarry, boys and girls will train for the honor of representing their district. But here in Rot Mouth, others will sing for anger and grief in the reaping to come.
When Oisin looks up, seeing Finnick standing there, his fingers stop. The men and women around him voice their disappointment, but a waved hand from the fiddler stills them. He jumps from off of the table, whistling. When the others notice Finnick, they disperse like startled fish.
“Finn,” Oisin says, tucking his fiddle and bow under his arm. His free arm opens and Finnick steps forward, embracing him tightly. “You know you’re not supposed to be here.”
There’s a playful scolding to his voice, but it’s clear that Oisin is far from angry. He sounds pleased, if nothing else then to see the boy he is forbidden from seeing. As it happens, Oisin is very fond of forbidden things.
If Neleus had it his way, Finnick would never see Oisin, but that is part of why he is here. Much like his uncle, Finnick enjoys things that he is not allowed to see or to have. Besides, the day before reaping commands a certain special attention towards family.
Oisin pulls away, patting Finnick’s shoulder.
Oisin is a few years younger than Neleus, but has the same bronze hair and bright sea-green eyes, yet his nose is splattered with freckles. It is also quite crooked, on account of being broken three times by Peacekeepers. And if he were not wearing a shirt, lashes would be visible over his back and shoulders.
Since boyhood, Oisin has been one for trouble, and Neleus had always been one to pull him out of it. That is, until Finnick came around.
Oisin often jokes that Finnick is Neleus’ anchor.
“Tomorrow’s Reaping Day,” Finnick says.
“Best day of the year,” Oisin says, smacking the heel of his palm against his forehead. “But today is still a school day. You’re going to be late.”
“And you weren’t out on the water today.”
“No. I was the mule,” Oisin says, and cracks his neck. “I hauled the brunt of the cargo into the trucks. Double the load…”
“Capitol likes their shrimp.”
“That’s an understatement. But, really, why’re you here?”
“I wanted to hear you play,” Finnick says, honestly. “You always play that song before Reaping Day.”
Oisin’s lips twitch with something akin to gentleness and a sigh slips from him. “I’ve gotten predictable,” he says, then reaches to squeeze his nephew’s shoulder. “Well, you heard me. Now you’d better go before I make you late.”
His right hand reaches around to tap the back of his fiddle. There’s a soft clicking sound that accompanies it. Finnick’s eyes trail to the golden band around his index finger. The old ring is an Odair heirloom. It is also an odd thing. Ingrained into its surface are two hands, cradling something that Finnick cannot quite understand. Oisin says it is a heart, but it certainly does not look like a heart.
In any case, Finnick knows it is a ring he will inherit one day, though he can’t fathom ever wearing it. More than likely, it’ll end up buried in some drawer, so he never risks losing it.
“Or I could stay,” Finnick offers.
“Your dad would kill me.”
“That’d mean he’d actually have to talk to you.”
Oisin’s brow raises. “Cheeky,” he says. “You don’t have to talk to somebody to kill them. Go, get. I’ve got work to do. Get on, before I pack you up and send you as Capitol shrimp.”
Oisin ruffles Finnick’s hair and pinches one of his ears, gently shoving the boy past the curtain. Finnick finally yields, but not before sparing a small glance over his shoulder.
Once well outside the borders of the Hatchery, Finnick hums that forbidden ballad.
He forgoes the main path into town, where the other boys and girls would be going, and decides to pass through the sandy dunes. He takes off his shoes, bare feet running across the dry and warm surface.
Soon enough, he’s high above the Hatchery and able to see miles across the open ocean. Off in the distance, like annoying blots of flies, he sees the outlines of the Peacekeepers’ boats. The morning patrol monitors the borders.
Always watching.
Finnick presses forward, trying to focus on the feeling of sand between his toes and the warmth of the sun as it rises a little higher. He thinks about the Quarry, where the older kids are gathered. He can see it off in the distance, the outline of heavy rocks and the divet in the earth that descends to a small body of water and rocky formations. It’s an arena in it of itself, perfect for training.
It is technically illegal for prospective tributes to train in advance, but it’s different for Careers. The Peacekeepers, the Capitol, all turn a blind eye to it because it enhances the entertainment factor. At least, that’s how Neleus puts it, and then promptly adds, “That will never be you.”
His voice is tight when he says it.
And he’s right.
Finnick will be in the Hatchery alongside his father, out on the water and trident in hand. Just like a good, obedient fishmonger. Finnick’s jaw clenches, and for a moment he imagines that trident in Pluto Varian’s chest.
He shouldn’t think that way. He knows he shouldn’t.
It’s hard not to think about Pluto Varian and the condescending way he looks across the Hatchery, as if it’s beneath him. District 4 is beneath him. A Career district.
But as the thought deepens inside of him, Finnick’s gaze turns back to the Quarry. His feet twitch, urging him forward. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d snuck off to watch the older kids train by the pure blue water, wielding makeshift and dulled weapons, and being trained by one of District 4’s victors. Ren Lusca.
He’s too young to be allowed to train, but he’s small enough that he’s able to slip soundlessly among the rocky formations to watch the fighting below. Sometimes he hears Ren Lusca's voice echoing against the walls, instructing his unofficial students.
His father would kill him if he knew.
Putting dangerous ideas into his head -
A scream pulls Finnick from his thoughts.
He stops, going completely still. At once, he strains his ears, and his eyes flicker across the dunes ahead and behind him. He doesn’t see anyone on the path, and the scream itself sounds far away. It could have been his imagination, since he was thinking about the Games.
But then he hears the scream again and he knows it isn’t just in his head.
Finnick begins to twist, sea-green eyes alight as he searches over the surface of the dunes and the outline of the town in the distance. It sounds too far to belong in the Quarry, though screams are not necessarily uncommon within its pit. Sometimes the older kids get a little too ahead of themselves in their training.
No. This sound is close.
The sound is coming from beneath him.
Finnick looks down, squinting through the rising sun. He raises his hand over his eyes and sees it - no, not an it. There is someone out in the water.
There’s a small boat drifting further out from the shore with the morning tide. Latched to the boat’s side is a small figure.
Drowning?
No. Finnick doesn’t see thrashing.
The person probably fell out fishing or something, struggling to haul themselves back in. Bad luck, too.
Peacekeepers will be patrolling these shores soon to check up on the fishers and any potentially unauthorized boats, which, Finnick believes, this situation is.
He should probably go.
It wouldn’t do his father any good if he’s late for school and at the scene of something potentially problematic. But even though he wants to turn on his heel, climb back to the dunes, and get out of here, he can’t. Something is rooting him in place.
A conscience, maybe.
Finnick grits his teeth and runs. He tucks his body, carefully navigating down the hilly and sandy surface until he reaches the beach.
“Hey!” he calls, waving one of his arms over his head. “Are you okay?”
There’s a lapse of silence.
He decides to wait ten seconds for an answer. If there’s none, he’ll go to school and hope for the best. The Peacekeepers can surely solve this problem when they pass through, or this person will be smart enough to get themselves back to shore -
“I’m stuck!”
It’s a girl’s voice.
The voice is small and there’s something familiar to it.
Finnick knows her.
At least, he thinks he does.
He looks across the beach, feeling his body tense a little. It looks as though he truly is in some deep trouble now. Nothing is stopping him from turning and leaving the scene. The girl wouldn’t know him, he’s sure of it.
The boat is too far out to risk going back to the Hatchery for help. This beach is relatively secluded even during the busy season, so there’s no hope of encountering a well-to-do fisherman. For whatever it is worth, it’s only them.
Finnick throws his shoes down.
He doesn’t stop to think about his clean clothes or his finally drying hair as he runs forward, bracing against the water. His arms paddle as fast as they can, pushing against the tide. His legs kick fluidly, propelling him forward.
By the time Finnick reaches the boat, his body is aching. Calling it a boat is honestly a little generous, since it’s only a dinghy, but it’s hard to discredit it any further based on its quality. It’s not like the aged boats back at the Hatchery. It’s been recently polished and the wood is clearly expensive. It’s the kind of thing that gets very noticed when it goes missing, especially given its owner.
But there’s no time to dwell on that. The water is pulling them further away from shore and deeper out to sea.
Finnick looks at the girl.
She stares at him with big, wide eyes - blue eyes. Blue like when you’re underwater, staring up at the water’s surface as the sun reflects off of it, at least on normal days. Today, her eyes are blue like a riptide. Panicked and wild.
Her bronze, sun-kissed skin is pruned, and her clothes are definitely not school clothes. She’s wearing a plain shirt and shorts, like what he wears when he fishes. He peers over the edge of the dinghy, seeing only one oar and nothing else, no food, water, bait, or anything.
He looks back at her, then he sees it.
There’s some netting attached to the edge of the boat, improperly bunched and layered, and the girl’s sleeve is caught in it; mangling her arm in place. How she managed that is beyond him. In spite of the situation, he laughs, and her blue eyes narrow angrily.
Ceres Osprey, the only other person more of an outcast than him.
In class, the four students who sit in front, behind, and on either side of her are always so tense, as if sitting close to her alone will result in the wrong kind of attention.
It has less to do with their own thoughts of her and more so what their parents have to say. Stay away from her. It’s an easy enough command to indict, but easier to enforce with the threat of reaping. There are only two girls in the whole of their classroom who pay Ceres Osprey any mind, and it’s clear why.
Ceres Osprey intends on winning the Hunger Games one day. Who else to become good friends with than a girl who is guaranteed to volunteer on your behalf, no matter the circumstances?
It’s a covetous thing to be a victor. The glory, the power, the wealth. Who wouldn’t want that? Victors like Ren Lusca reflect district pride, as opposed to the older victors like the ancient Kiernan Moore and Mags Flanagan. But then there’s the Ospreys.
The Capitol calls them legacies.
Neleus doesn’t talk much about the Capitol or the Hunger Games, at least not with Finnick present, but he has brought legacies up before. Rigged is the word he uses. When a victor presents a great measure of success, it’s not uncommon for their children to be reaped at some point. And when that tribute is successful, they become legacies.
Marcel Osprey won the 30th Hunger Games. His son, Orfeo, won the 48th Hunger Games. And then his daughter, Scilla, won the 52nd Hunger Games. They fall into the very definition of legacies for the Capitol, though the accolades stop there.
Orfeo Osprey and Scilla Osprey both lost parts of themselves in the arena.
There’s something about that family that breeds trouble.
And it’s the kind of trouble that Finnick should avoid.
Finnick doesn’t have much time after school to dawdle back. The friends he does have would be heading to the boats for the late afternoon harvest, which was where he was supposed to be going. But sometimes he stops, standing under the shade of a bronze overhang to watch Ceres Osprey walk by herself down the long street that curved up and led to the coveted and ascended Victor’s Village.
Sometimes he thought about walking home with her, but then thought better of it. She’d probably refuse him. And even if she agreed, what would it look like?
Maybe in that regard, Finnick does care what people think.
Poor, lonely girl.
Now instead of walking her home, he finds her drifting off to sea.
“Quite a haul you have,” Finnick says. “You’re the catch of the day.”
Ceres’ free hand pushes out, splashing water in his face, but all it does is pull a wince from her body as her other arm is tugged in the process. “I’m stuck,” she says.
“Clearly. Can you swim? As in, be able to not drown -”
“Of course I can swim.” Ceres looks at her left arm, trapped in the netting. Her right hand braces, trying to tug herself free, but to no avail. “If I could swim out of this, do you think I’d still be here?”
“Beats school,” Finnick says. “A victor’s daughter could probably get away with -”
Ceres’ cheeks burn. “If you aren’t going to help me, then go away,” she says. “I can do this myself.”
“Clearly,” Finnick says again.
He looks down, assessing the damage. The net must be stuck on something inside of the dinghy, which he supposes is good, because it’d be disastrous for her to be caught up in open water. Regardless of how good a swimmer she might be, even the best swimmer can be outdone by gravity.
He reaches out, ignoring her protests as his fingers trace the woven ropes, and trails his fingers to her sleeve. Her arm had slipped through one of the holes, the fabric of the sleeve mangled up in the rope. For any respectable fisherman, this would be a total embarrassment. It’s funny, certainly, but for a girl like Ceres Osprey, it’s unsurprising.
A victor’s daughter wouldn’t have the same common sense as someone like him, after all. She’s a girl from the peak of District 4, and he’s in its lowest part.
“I’m going to get you out,” Finnick says. “It might hurt.”
He’s grateful when Ceres doesn’t protest. She grits her teeth, lips pressing into a fine line. He can tell she’s thinking all sorts of things towards him - a slew of insults and venomous words - but it doesn’t matter. She’s stuck, she knows it, and they’re running out of time in more ways than one.
He can interrogate her about this idiocy later.
For now, Finnick holds his breath and dives underwater, twisting himself in order to assess the damage. He studies the net carefully, noting how the holes are too wide and the rope is too thick and scraggly.
He pulls himself up for a deep breath, fills his lungs, and dives back down. His fingers pry over the material, tugging at the net bit by bit to assess the tightness of the knots and what he can undo. He wishes he had a knife, but he’s lacking. His teeth would be no good, either. So, he tugs and pulls, attempting to loosen the hold it has on her.
He grasps a loose knot near her wrist, the tangled fibers biting into his skin. Cheap material, he thinks. The mesh begins to loosen, the hold it has on the fabric of her shirt falling away and slipping free from the net. He works with patience until her small arm is released from the hold the net had on her.
Even underwater, with light pooling through the surface to light his work, he can tell her arm is chafed and reddened and scratched from the net. It didn’t let her go without a fight.
He kicks himself back to the surface, gasping for air.
When he focuses on her again, he sees her cradling her arm.
There’s a long red line down her arm from where the rope dug into her skin. There’s a small threading of blood along the seam of the cut, not enough to stir any threat of danger inside of his head, but certainly enough not to coax him to stay around longer than necessary.
“Let’s get to shore,” Finnick says.
“We can’t leave the boat,” Ceres says. “It’s my dad’s. He’ll kill me.”
Finnick shakes his head. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “Give me your hand.”
“You’ve done enough!”
Ceres’ head twists to look at the boat and the net she has been released from, staring at both as if she means to hobble herself back aboard. In that same breath, Finnick considers his two options. He could allow her to partake in a second round of idiocy and swim away, letting Peacekeepers or nature take its course. Or he could do the right thing and haul her back himself.
He could probably do it.
Or she’d drown them both.
Fortunately, Ceres looks back at the shore, and Finnick sees just how tired she is. Her swimming motions are lagging and her eyes are bloodshot, so the temptation to stay behind with her father’s boat is waning.
Finnick takes the opportunity to start to swim back, and she’s smart enough to follow.
Once to shore, Finnick looks back.
The boat is drifting further and further out. The Peacekeepers will find it on patrol and find it emptied. It’ll cause some trouble, no doubt, as they search the waters for any bodies or prospective poachers or, worse, runaways.
But the trouble will pass.
Victors don’t get into trouble, so she’ll be fine.
Finnick can worry a little less knowing it’s not some poor fisherman trying desperately for one more morning catch or even a standard boat thief.
A slap on the wrist.
That’s all the Peacekeepers will do, he expects.
Still, there’s no point in sticking around. In spite of the fact his legs are cramping and his wet clothes are anchoring his small body in place, he rushes to his shoes.
“C’mon, we need to go,” Finnick says.
Ceres is staring at the boat.
“Come on,” Finnick says, with more force.
But she doesn’t move.
“We need to go before the Peacekeepers show up,” Finnick says. “Let’s just get to school. They’ll return the boat to your dad. It’ll be fine -”
“He doesn’t know I took it.”
“He probably doesn’t let you within a ten mile radius of boats, anyway, if that’s what happens,” Finnick says, growing impatient. “Girls like you don’t belong in the water.”
A sharp hiss slips through Ceres’ lips. “I was training,” she snaps back.
“Training for what? To be a buoy?”
Her face suddenly turns as red as one. If it weren’t for the glassiness in her eyes, Finnick might have enjoyed that.
“I was casting the net and I fell out,” Ceres says.
Finnick tries to imagine it in his head, but it’s not too difficult given his own tumble this morning. But that was different. It was a net full of fish and there were seven people in the boat working together to haul it out. Two people made a mistake and Finnick slid out because of it. But even he could haul himself back up, with a boat that was much larger than this little dinghy.
This girl was alone - stupidly alone.
Her boat had no supplies on board and she’d readied herself with a singular oar and a poorly made net, treading into territory a fair distance from Victor’s Village. Had she paddled all the way out here? How long? How had she caught nothing?
Finnick eyes her, wondering if the rumors about the odd Ospreys were true.
Her head turns, facing away from him to look back at the boat. And then he feels it. That horrible, sinking sensation in his gut that is so unbearably numbing: pity.
But it fades out, giving to something else.
Frustration. This girl hasn’t even granted him the courtesy of a thank you, and he’s tempted to leave her here. He looks up, wondering if anyone else would have heard her earlier screams. Peacekeepers will be making their way to this side of the beach soon, anyway. They’ll find the boat and her.
And then he thinks about the odd Ceres Osprey being led away by Peacekeepers. A slap on the wrist or no, it wouldn’t look good for her.
Finnick thinks about how his father deals with Pluto Varian personally, handling Peacekeepers whenever they enter the Hatchery regardless of circumstances. Neleus Odair doesn’t balk when there’s an emergency. He is the first person to take initiative, barking orders or assembling a force of something.
The Hatchery looks to him as a leader, because he is one.
Leaders do what’s right.
“Go,” Finnick says.
Ceres looks up, eyeing him with uncertainty.
“I said go,” Finnick says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You do,” Finnick says. “So take it.”
Reaping Day is tomorrow.
Finnick imagines the poor girl catching unwanted attention today of all days. Her absence would be noted from school and it wouldn’t take long for word to reach that a Peacekeeper had her. If she was a pariah before, she would be a barracuda now; actively avoided, or fought against.
Ceres, even in her haze of stubbornness, seems to understand this. It registers in her big blue eyes, which fix across the water at the drifting boat. She gulps audibly before turning on her heel, reaching behind a rock for some clean clothes. She spares Finnick a glance, mouth opening as if to say something, but doesn’t.
You’re welcome, Finnick thinks as she turns again.
Finnick watches her as she goes, sparing him a small look over her shoulder before disappearing over the crest of the dune
He stands there for a moment longer, knowing he doesn’t have to do this, that he could turn on his heel now and make it to school the same time she does. But honor compels him to stay, staring at the dinghy as it is pulled further and further out.
And then he runs.
Finnick runs until he makes it to Victor’s Village, passing under the forbidden iron gate. The name is in large letters, with the seal of Panem above it.
Victor’s Village is located on a massive hillside, overlooking the ocean. There’s a fence along the edge of the perimeter, white and short enough to view over the edge, but tall enough to likely avoid any accidents. The hill itself provides protection from flooding. There’s no major risk of these houses crumbling under the weight of heavy storms or waves crashing into the shore.
Houses like these are meant to withstand the elements, whereas the shabby, stacked houses of the Hatchery are like barrels of fish; temporary housing.
Finnick stops, letting himself be momentarily taken aback by the grandeur of the village. As a general rule of thumb, boys and girls from the Hatchery don’t come anywhere near this place. It’s too luxurious for the likes of them, potentially inviting trouble.
The houses are three stories tall each, with lofty porches that curl all the way around and high-ascending steps that make them feel a bit more important, needing to crane a neck to get a good look. Each house has a fresh coat of paint, ranging from pearly white to sky blue.
Finnick looks around, wondering with morbid humor if some sniper has a rifle trained on him right now, just waiting to pull the trigger. For good measure, he smiles, and presses forward.
There is nothing particularly distinguishable about the houses themselves to indicate the victors who occupy them, so it’s mostly guesswork. He does pass a house where an old man with silver hair and a bristled mustache sits on a porch swing, staring off into nothing and a guitar on his lap.
Kiernan Moore.
District 4’s first ever victor and quite possibly the oldest man alive. Finnick stops by the old steps, staring.
He feels comfortable staring on account of Kiernan’s known blindness. The old man is sitting on a porch swing, guitar held tenderly on his lap. He seems to be strumming the chords, but the sounds are soft, barely eligible in the morning breeze.
His silver shaggy hair hangs over his long, wrinkled face, and a whiter mustache adorns his lips.
District 4’s very first victor.
An old man
“Who the hell are you?”
Finnick jumps
From the old victor’s porch, a younger - though not by much - man steps out into view. For a moment, Finnick considers spinning on his heel and abandoning this act of heroism. But he stays rooted in place, though he feels his stomach jump up into his throat.
Kiernan has stopped playing, looking up.
The other man looks down, eyes fixed on Finnick.
Eyes.
As he descends the long white painted steps, Finnick sees it. One of the man’s eyes is solid black and shines oddly. It’s a stone, filling a vacant space where a real eye ought to be. It’s like staring out at the ocean on a moonless night.
This is Orfeo Osprey.
Finnick has only ever seen him in passing before in the marketplace. That is to say, in person. He has seen him countless times on screen throughout the years, mostly in interviews or when he’s promoting his tributes. Up close, Finnick can see the similarities between Ceres Osprey and her father.
The same warm bronze skin and sharper features, coupled with a distinct scowl that, under different circumstances, might have made Finnick laugh.
Orfeo Osprey starts to say something, but Finnick cuts him off.
“I stole your boat.”
For a moment, a flicker of confusion forms in the hardened features of the victor above him, a dark brow rising into a mop of thick, unkempt curls hanging over his forehead.
“The white one,” Finnick says. “It’s stuck.”
“You…stole my boat,” Orfeo says flatly.
He doesn’t sound convinced.
Finnick is by no means a good liar, but he is good at bending the truth. If he spends an hour or two too long at the Quarry, having lost track of time, he knows that Neleus will ask questions. When he gets back to the Hatchery, he endures his father’s scoldings, and when asked about his absence, he answers, “I was with my friends.”
Finnick rationalizes that it is not a lie that he stole the dinghy. After all, he had technically commandeered it when he had gotten Ceres’ arm untwisted. That counted for something. Didn’t it?
And he chose to leave it behind.
“I stole it,” Finnick repeats.
Orfeo Osprey stares down at him with that eye of pure obsidian, an inky blackness where light can never reach. It’s a prying void, threatening to pull Finnick into it, but he meets that gaze.
Finnick is starting to tremble when Orfeo finally looks away with a sigh. It sounds tired.
Victors get tired? Why? They have everything.
“My boat wasn’t stolen,” Orfeo says. “I didn’t tie it to the dock properly. The tide pulled it away. Which beach is it on?”
“Huh?” Finnick blinks in confusion. “Uh - southside.”
Orfeo grunts, then turns to call up to Kiernan, but Finnick isn’t paying attention. He’s too shocked, especially as, without any other word, Orfeo turns to walk away.
“Where are you going?” Finnick asks.
“To report my missing boat to the Peacekeepers,” Orfeo says, stopping. He cocks his head over his shoulder. “What was your name, boy?”
Finnick considers lying again, but there’s something so sharp about Orfeo’s eye, as if he were skinning Finnick alive in search of truth.
“Finnick Odair.”
Orfeo doesn’t say anything else - he just walks away.
And then, alarmingly, Kiernan Moore begins to sing. It carries over the morning breeze, perhaps because the stillness has enveloped Finnick fully and silenced all others.
All he hears is that deep, gravelly voice.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will,
This be the verse you grave for me,
"Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
As Finnick turns to go, old Kiernan’s voice behind him and the sun now fully risen ahead of him, he hopes he hasn’t made a grave mistake.
~`~`~
Finnick makes it to school two hours late.
His clothes are crusty from having dried improperly, crunching and shifting unpleasantly against his body. He holds his shoes in one hand, so his feet are bare and coated in sand as he pads across the classroom floor. The teacher gasps as he passes through the door, immediately assaulting him with demanding questions as to where he had gone off to.
Since Finnick had two lies under his belt for the day, he figured one more wouldn’t hurt.
“I was chasing mermaids.”
He spends what little is left of class in a corner chair, barely able to see the board, and a welt on the palm of his hand from where the teacher struck him with a leather strip she kept in her drawer. He cradles his hand over his lap, trying to keep his fingers from curling in. But the open air stings his palm.
This will be harder to explain, harder to lie about, when he gets back home to the Hatchery. As he’s trying to formulate a proper explanation, he feels his eyes stray across the classroom to the back of Ceres Osprey.
She’s tidied herself up well enough, all things considered, and he watches her as she fights the urge to steal glances at him. Once or twice she does, and immediately fixes her gaze forward again when she sees him smiling.
When class is over, the teacher’s hardened eyes seem to soften a little as she looks them over. She clears her throat. “Remember,” she says, gravely, “tomorrow is Reaping Day. May the odds…ever be in our favor.”
And her throat bobs, because Finnick knows she’s thinking about her twelve year old daughter. If it weren’t for the welt on his hand, he’d feel bad for her.
Ceres Osprey is the first to rise up from her desk, quick to depart through the doors with her books clutched to her chest. Finnick considers walking her home, for no other reason than to bother her. She owes him, after all, and there’s something quite funny about holding that over her head. The daughter of a victor owes him.
But he thinks better of it.
Nevertheless, Finnick takes his time going back to the Hatchery, figuring he’s broken enough rules today - what’s one more? He looks up at the sky. He thinks about how beautiful the sunrise had been this morning; liquid-fire enveloping the horizon. Now, the sky is cerulean, without any clouds in sight.
Cars pass through the streets, full of Peacekeepers and officials preparing the square for tomorrow. Camera crews, Capitol officials, the escort, will plague his district.
Finnick imagines a great wave rising out of nowhere and washing them all away, but it doesn’t give much of a reprieve. But it does make him smile.
But that smile dies as soon as he reaches the Hatchery, because at its edge stands Orfeo Osprey.
Finnick freezes, feeling panic swell inside of him
He’s not alone, either. Neleus Odair stands in front of him, standing between the victor and the Hatchery as if he were a wall. It is hard to tell what his father is thinking, because Neleus’ expression is so frigid. The same can be said for Orfeo’s.
Their lips are moving, but Finnick can’t hear.
Finally, Orfeo turns and carries on up the path. He passes Finnick but says nothing, doesn’t even spare him a look.
Once his breath is returned, Finnick swallows and tentatively approaches his father. “Dad?”
He braces, waiting for Neleus’ anger.
Instead, Neleus sighs, and touches his son’s shoulder. “You were late for school,” he says.
He turns Finnick’s hand over, looking at the welt on his palms, and grimaces.
“Seaweed salve,” he whispers, then jerks his head. “Come on.”
“What did…what did he want?”
“Orfeo Osprey is going to trade with us,” Neleus says.
Finnick’s stomach drops all over again. Trading with a victor? Is that even allowed? His mind reels as he considers it, then he can’t help but to repeat the name odd Ospreys in the back of his mind. It was one thing to begrudgingly help save a girl from social isolation and potentially drowning. It is another thing to be directly affiliated with a family like that.
What had Orfeo Osprey said? How much does Neleus Odair know?
“Dad -”
“The sea gives as much as it takes,” Neleus says, tapping Finnick’s head, “and the odds are never in our favor. So, we make our own.”
Finnick wonders for the second time today if he has truly made a mistake. Maybe he should have let the girl in the net just drift away.
~`~`~
59 - After Dark Days. Eight years old.
The spear is raised high above Ceres’ head, the tip pointed downward. Her eyes strain across the blue surface, tracking something beneath it. She is waist deep in the salted water, though the tide drags itself across her torso from time to time; she tastes it as it sprays against her lips. Her breathing is controlled. In this stillness, there is only a singular thought going through her head: her arm is starting to ache.
She’s been holding this position for what has felt like hours.
Her wrist is quivering and her fingers are going numb. But all she has to do is spare a glance towards a boat several yards away, and she knows she can’t move. The ache in her arm is irrelevant. The cramping in her legs doesn’t matter. She can’t move.
Dad is watching.
From his place on the boat, he settles and adjusts a net. Periodically, his eyes flicker towards her, and each time she can feel it.
She can’t disappoint him.
With a controlled sigh, fighting back against the growing urge to just sink deeper into the water, she looks back down. Her feet are carefully balancing on a set of rock formations that extend from the mainland, toes curling over the course, hard surface. If she were to step forward, nothing would catch her; a dropoff beneath the surface, nothing but deep water.
She swallows, daring to look up for only a moment, seeing - and feeling - his eyes on her. He’s watching her fully now.
She releases a shaky breath.
A scaly form brushes against her calf. She fights the urge to perk up, as doing so would scare away the fish. Instead, she focuses on her breathing; each intake and exhale is so subtle, then altogether quiet.
Her hands flex tighter around the hilt as she braces for the impending strike.
The fish wiggles through her legs and then ahead of her, unsuspecting. She has stopped breathing altogether, now nothing more than a statue; an extension of rocks for the fish to pass through. Once it is within adequate distance, she inhales.
Her spear impales the fish on the exhale.
Its body twists and jerks horribly, even after it has died; spasming as she raises the spear into the air. A triumphant smile catches across her face. She waves the spear high above her, ignoring the soft trickles of blood that glide down the spear and over her fingers.
Her dad raises his hand in return.
Pride overtakes her.
Her first true catch.
She adjusts the spear in her hand, ensuring that the fish is safely secured in place. Once this is done, she dives down into the water, meeting that dropoff without fear. Below, the water fades from pale blue to blackness, but before that there is a richness of sapphires that meet in the middle between light and dark. She admires it for a moment, submerged in the space between spaces, before pulling herself back up.
With her free hand, she carefully paddles her way back to her dad’s boat. He does not bother bringing the boat closer, so she makes the long tread; bobbing in and out of the water.
He’s not a bad man for doing that.
When she reaches the boat, she is panting.
Dad takes the spear from her first, placing it on the floor of the boat, and then turns to help her up. His arm hooks around her small body as her hands clutch the edge of the boat. He hauls her up as he would a net, and she lands unceremoniously at his feet.
Her hair smells like seaweed and her face feels dried and red. It is going to crust quite ugly from the sun, no doubt, but it’s a small price to pay. Mom would use a salve on it again.
“Good job.”
Ceres sucks in a sharp breath. “Thank you, dad,” she says, looking at the fish. “What is it?”
Dad pulls the fish from the spear. “It’s called a sheephead,” he says.
Ceres watches as her father turns the fish towards her, using his thumb to pry open its mouth. Staring into it, she shudders, and withdraws herself back against the edge of the boat. The fish has teeth, not pointed or jagged, but humanoid. It looks too strange to be real, but she doesn’t turn her eyes away.
As her father pulls it back to tuck it into a gray satchel, she exhales. She can’t help but to think about those things she sometimes sees in the Hunger Games, what Gamemakers create to elevate the tension. Muttations, or just mutts. Genetically modified creatures made in labs, meant to enrich the entertainment factor of the Games, and reap terror from the tributes.
Sometimes the mutts look entirely animalistic, like flesh-eating squirrels or venomous butterflies. But sometimes they look like something even nightmares would cower from.
This fish, called sheephead, looks like something that would devour a tribute who got too close to water.
But her father isn’t bothered by it, so she won’t be, either.
He looks at her, looking as if he wants to say something else, but something has caught his attention. He straightens, fixing his gaze across the seaside, and his hands stiffening over his lap. When she looks over her shoulder, she sees nothing.
No one is on the beach, no fishmongers or Peacekeepers. The Peacekeepers patrol the waters by boat sometimes, but the nice thing about them is how loud their boats are; rumbling with heavy engines. The ocean is good about echoing noise like that, so the sea always warns them when they’re close.
But there’s nothing.
Looking forward again, Ceres finds that her dad’s face has twisted.
He does that sometimes.
Just like the space between light and dark in the sea, where the sun can no longer reach, there’s a space where her dad falls into; stuck between the moments here and the moments before. The times where her dad has gotten stuck like this is usually accounted for by a bad day, but she can’t think of anything that would give her dad a bad day.
Mom says it’s important not to question it.
After all, dad is more than just her dad.
He’s a victor.
In spite of her youth, Ceres understands what it means to be a victor, at least on the surface. She knows that her father is Orfeo Osprey, victor of the 48th Hunger Games. She knows what happens in the Games.
Mom tries to avert her eyes, to shield her from what happens every year when her dad has to go away with the other victors from District 4, and what happens to the tributes. It’s the solemn duty - as mom puts it - for every person in each District to watch the Games, but she’s developed a keen skill of mapping out certain chores for Ceres and for her brother during certain moments; things that force them from home.
But in the end, Ceres always finds a way to watch.
It’s not for enjoyment, she thinks; more so curiosity.
She watches the Games and tries to imagine her father’s much younger face among the tributes. But that doesn’t work, because she always imagines her brother, Liber, instead. And Liber would never be in the Games, because he’s too small, too lanky, and altogether too fickle to do anything half as demanding.
The swim that Ceres had dared between the rocks and her dad’s boat alone would have winded him.
But as for her dad, she’s been told that he survived through wit and resilience. But, to be honest, she has no set answers. Whenever she tries to bring it up, mom always slaps her hand, or finds a chore for her to do - like descaling fish on the back porch or disposing of guts.
And she lacks the courage to ask her dad directly.
He’s still staring ahead.
Ceres takes in the man who leaves every year with a pair of tributes back to the Capitol. It seems like each time he comes back, his black curls are duller, and the lines etched in his bronze face only deepen. Like a tide, the ocean pulls him in and holds him in the open, and then throws him back against the shore.
His eyes are sunken in, but that is not altogether accurate. He only has one eye. His right eye shines like the evening, while the other is utterly black; an obsidian stone holding space where an eye should be. According to her mom, he lost that eye during his Games. The Capitol has fancy enough means to replicate an eye. She’s seen what they can do on the holograph; men and women walking with prosthetic limbs, looking borderline realistic. Surely an eye wouldn’t be too far fetched.
But he’s denied all of it.
She doesn’t know why.
There are a lot of things about him she doesn’t know.
As a victor, her father doesn’t have to be out on the water like this. Frankly, it all seems beneath him. Fishmongers are supposed to be out here on boats and along the shoreline. He chooses to be out here, chooses to work. It’s all routine for him.
That being said, he certainly doesn’t spend hours out on the water, least of all from sundown to sunup. But tomorrow is Reaping Day, which means her dad had woken her up at the crack of dawn, and dragged her out here to spend the whole of the day until dusk.
Fish after fish they’ve caught, until he’d decided for her to do it on her own.
It was a victory in her own right.
She hopes it’s something he can take with him to the Capitol. After all, she has technically earned it.
A year ago, she’d expected to never be allowed out on the water again after the incident concerning his stolen boat. But when she had returned home, finding her father sitting on their porch with a guitar on his lap, he didn’t even look at her before saying, “When I get home, you’ll learn the proper way…”
Maybe because the day after was Reaping Day and Orfeo had exhausted himself of his usual resolve, but he did not confront her on the matter. Rather, true to his word, he came home after several weeks in the Capitol and took her out on the water. A spear in her hand, he taught her how to use it.
It wasn’t in the name of training, but of culture and survival.
Ceres took it, though. Each outing is a lesson and each lesson makes her better. In any case, she knows that this will be the last lesson she has for some time.
Tomorrow, that fussy and odd Capitolian escort will come and take him away. And two tributes will go, too.
Who knows when he’ll come back.
“Dad?”
He grunts.
"Does your eye ever hurt?"
She knows she shouldn’t be asking him questions, but something in her - maybe the tiredness of the day and the aching of her body - loosens her tongue. Before the afternoon comes tomorrow, he’ll be gone.
Her dad’s shoulders heave into a heavy shrug.
“Sometimes,” he says, sighing.
The net he had thrown over the edge of the boat earlier tussles slightly. He reaches over, grabbing it and hoisting it back into the boat with them. A gaggle of fish ensnare within it, thrashing as they are met with open air.
There’s something strange about the concept of drowning. If Ceres were to stay in the water for too long, she’d die; her lungs incapable of breathing underwater. When the fish are brought to the surface, they drown in the open air; unable to acclimate to the change of air versus water.
“It’s a dull kind of pain. But it could be worse. I could be -”
“Dead.”
Ceres reaches out to help him pull the net up. She knows he doesn’t need her help, since he’s so much stronger and older than her, but she wants to.
And she figures, if she helps, he’ll be more willing to answer her questions.
“Did you like fighting in the Games?”
"Ceresea."
It’s Ceres, she thinks, crossly, but decides not to correct him. His voice has a scolding tone, but it’s not to its sharpened point yet. It’s still dull enough that she feels comfortable pursuing the topic.
“I overheard some Careers from the Quarry talking about their plans to volunteer this year. They say they want to bring honor to their families,” Ceres says. “Do they ever try talking to you?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Did you go to the Quarry, too?”
“Enough.”
His brow is starting to crinkle, setting a greater set of lines into his face. A part of her considers retreating, to leave the matter alone, and to leave him alone. But it is so rare that she has him to herself, without literally anyone around.
Her mom would ridicule her for pestering him, but it’s something she can’t help. If she can catch a fish on her own, then she is old enough to know these things.
When minutes tick by as they sit quietly on the boat, she starts to believe that the talking has expired. He’s going to challenge her persistence with the greatest weapon of all: silence.
And then he speaks.
“No, I didn’t volunteer, and no one volunteered for me.”
That surprises her.
District 4 is one of the three Career Districts to have an unofficial “academy” dedicated to combat. Ceres isn’t sure what these academies look like in Districts 1 and 2, but in District 4 all unofficial training transpires in the Quarry. It is built like an arena in it of itself, a deep groove in the earth surrounded by layered formations and at its core a deep sapphire pool.
The Peacekeepers should technically punish the older kids who train there, but they won’t. The Career Tributes provide too much entertainment to the Capitol and win most years, so why bother? There’s wealth to be found in the Career Tributes, especially when they win for their respective district.
Ren Lusca, who won two years ago, unofficially provides mentorship in the Quarry.
Truthfully, there was no reason for Orfeo to ever visit the Quarry. His father was a preexisting victor. There was no reason for him to reach a hand out for glory, but glory found him, anyway.
And then glory found his sister.
Orfeo starts to paddle the boat back to shore, as she ties a knot in the net.
“Did you want to be in the Games?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I won.”
Ceres begs to differ. “I would’ve volunteered for you.”
His eye goes cold and his jaw clenches. “If you saw what I saw, you’d rethink that. Now just help me with the net, no more talk about the Games, or else I’ll tell your mother you were more trouble than you’re worth.”
She has more questions, but her dad’s threat makes her go quiet.
Once docked at the shore, they spend the remaining moments of daylight sifting through the fish together and tying the boat back to its post. His expression is more stone-faced than usual as he does this, and she can’t help but to feel mildly guilty on account of it.
But all the same, some of her questions were answered. She deserves to know, doesn’t she?
He looks up over the sandy dunes ahead of them, his hand raising over his eyes against the setting sun.
Ceres busies herself arranging the fish in respective baskets. Some of the fish - including the freak sheephead - will go back home for her family to eat. But most of the fish will go to the fishmongers. Her dad will take no coin from it. The fishmongers will take the credit in more ways than one.
“Who’s taking the fish today?” she asks.
It’s not exactly subtle to haul baskets of fish to the market or to the Hatchery where the fishmongers live. There’s too big of a risk of Peacekeepers finding out. Instead, her dad picks a spot to fish, and some fishmonger or two will meet with him to collect the sea’s bounty.
It’s a decent trade.
The fishmongers vary according to the day, yet again another instance of trying to stay ahead of Peacekeepers. It’s important to not be predictable. It’s easy to spot patterns, and easier to track them.
"Neleus Odair and his son,” her dad answers.
Ceres feels her eyes tighten. Not him.
Cruel and angry thoughts slither into her head, as her knuckles clench at her sides until they are pale and shaking. There are no words she can say - or rather, sputter venomously - before she follows her father’s line of sight, and sees them.
Two figures approach from the sand-beaten path.
Neleus Odair is a tall man, with copper hair and a scruff to match, and dark eyes nestled against sun-kissed features. Beside him, his son is his dad’s likeness, with tanned skin and coppery hair, but with a stupid, stupid, stupid smirk.
Finnick.
He goes to her school. As a kid from the Hatchery, he usually comes a few minutes late, and reeking of fish. His skin is still damp from the sea and his uniform clings awkwardly to his body because of it; a fine dusting of sand over the fabric and in his hair. But every time, he comes in with a smirk on his face, and a certain swarthiness to his walk.
As soon as school is over, he’s practically tearing his uniform off, and beelining back to the beach. At the docks, he dives into the ocean like a dolphin, and practically catches fish with his teeth alone.
She hadn’t thought much of him up until a year ago.
There were a handful of girls and even some boys who commented on how he was cute, but she never involved herself in those conversations. She had bigger things to think about, larger ambitions than a boy. But Finnick had wedged himself into her mind the day he found her stuck in a net. It was embarrassing beyond words, an incident she had hoped to leave on that beach.
She would never speak of it again and hoped he would extend her the same courtesy. But instead, his deed had earned his family certain privileges when it came to her father’s trading. According to Orfeo, he liked the honesty of the Odair family. And that was all she needed to know.
He’d ratted her out.
And now she has to do business with him.
“Neleus,” Orfeo greets.
“That’s quite a haul you have,” Neleus says. “Did the girl help?”
“I did,” Ceres chimes in, noting how Finnick cocks his head at her. “I caught a sheephead with my spear today.”
If the spear were within her reach and the fish still impaled on it, she would have proudly grabbed and raised it high above between them, so they could have marveled at the sight.
But without it, Neleus only spares her a small glance. He doesn’t say anything - offering no compliments, no nod of acknowledgment, nothing - and just looks back at her father.
They begin to discuss business.
Ceres bristles a little at the utter dismissiveness of it.
A part of her hopes that Finnick will match his father’s energy and not give her the time of day, but she’s not so lucky. He’s already walking towards her.
“How many times did you almost impale yourself trying to catch that fish, Osprey?”
Ceres’ face flushes. “I caught it the first try.”
He doesn’t need to know how long she stood in that position, waiting for a single fish to come into view. Even now, her shoulder is still aching, and a particularly dull sting pokes between her shoulder blades as if to taunt her.
Finnick looks at the baskets of fish, craning his neck to catch a glimpse at the sheephead nestled at the top of her family’s batch. He whistles.
“I’ve seen bigger.”
“It didn’t want to outshine your big headed ego.”
Finnick snorts. “You wouldn’t get much for it,” he says. “It could feed a family of…one.” He lifts a single digit between them. “Maybe two if they’re really stingy. You’d definitely never last a day in the Hatchery.”
“I’m not a fishmonger.”
Finnick’s lip twitches downward. “That’s very fortunate for us.”
“It was a clean strike,” Ceres says.
“Clean, huh?” Finnick arches his brow. “Like that means much…it’s more about how many you catch. Not that’d you know that, Sea-Sea.”
Ceres’ face burns red.
She opens her mouth to retaliate, but is promptly silenced by the abrupt quiet of their fathers. They are no longer talking about fish or business, but both have grown solemn.
Neleus cuts the space between them by handing a basket of fish to Finnick.
“Good luck tomorrow,” Neleus says to her dad.
Her dad’s smile is brief. “May the odds be in our favor,” he says, his tone dry. “Keep an eye on my family, Neleus.”
The fishmonger nods.
He picks up the second basket of fish and turns, directing his son back up the sandy path from where they had arrived.
Dusk is already on them.
She can feel the final wave of heat from the sun against her face.
At the crest of the hill, once Neleus is well ahead of him, Finnick turns. “Four more years, Osprey,” he says. “Maybe then you won’t be bait when your name is thrown in.”
Ceres has half a mind to chase him back up that hill and impale him with her spear. But all she can do is stand there in the fading sunlight, face burning red and hot, and her hands balled up as fists at her side. Her father is preoccupied with the net, so he hears and sees none of this.
Finnick, though, sees the anger and smoke pluming from her ears. He throws his head back, laughing as he follows his father up that hill.
The Odairs will pawn this bounty off as their own to the Peacekeepers, coupled with whatever they actually caught throughout the day, and Ceres’ family will dine on the sheephead.
It had seemed so big when she had caught it, but now Finnick’s words are filling her mind with doubt. This victory seems lesser now.
Her mind strays away, thinking about his parting words about the reaping.
Bait.
She replays that word in her head. She’s not bait. How could he even say that? Well, she knows why he said it. He said it to get under her skin, and he had.
He has a way of doing that.
In four years, she will be twelve years old, and her name will be thrust into the reaping bowl. It won’t matter that her father is a victor, or her grandfather before him. Her name will be the same as everyone else’s, just like Finnick’s.
Maybe he’ll be the bait.
The thought stills something in her.
Looking back at the setting sun, she can’t stop her mind from imagining herself standing on the covered stage. She imagines her name being drawn from the bowl and no one volunteering for her. Alternatively, she imagines another name being called, and her hand raising from the crowd. I volunteer coming from her own voice.
The thought weaves deeper before she can stop it. She imagines herself standing in the center of the arena, a spear raised high above her head. Her body and figure are clean. There’s no blood in her imagination, but tributes are often covered in blood - often not their own.
She doesn’t imagine bringing the spear down, doesn’t imagine the sound it would make.
But she does imagine herself returning home to District 4, seeing Finnick Odair in the crowd bowing his head to her and falling to his knees, admitting he was wrong, and that she’s better than him.
Ceres smiles.
It’s such a stupid daydream.
She presses it into the dark recesses of her mind, passed the middle space and into the blackness. She holds it there firmly, refusing to let it see light again. And in the wake of pride, there is shame and guilt that resides inside of her.
One day, she will prove herself.
She just doesn’t know how yet.
And surely it won’t take four years for her to figure it out.
As they walk home, Ceres carrying a basket of fish while her father hauls the net and spear, her voice passes between them. “Dad?”
He grunts.
“What’s the point?”
“The point of what?”
“The Hunger Games,” Ceres says. “I mean, why?”
She expects him not to answer, but to her surprise he does. His voice is flat as he speaks. “Because they can.”
Ceres looks up, pausing in her steps as he makes his way ahead of her back to Victor’s Village. For a moment, she simply watches him.
He played the game and won.
She doesn’t understand how yet, but he did.
But something she can gain from it is, all games can be won, one way or the other.
And one day, one day, she’ll win.
I just need to figure out how to play, Ceres thinks.