Finnick woke up with a startled gasp. With eyes wide open he was now incredibly aware of all that was touching his body. He could feel the suit from the arena clinging to his body, the cold air and the mask on his face, and a bandage on his arm. Looking around, he saw the inside of a jet much like the one had taken to get to the arena. Beetee and Katniss were in a similar position, lying on mats on the floor with bandages and wires monitoring them. Behind a frosted glass door he heard voices. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to the door. Inside, he found Haymitch and Plutarch sitting by a table and talking.

“You’re up.”

“I am. Where are the others?”

Plutarch stepped closer. There was sadness in his expression, but Finnick had half a mind not to trust it.

“Snow got to them before we could, there wasn’t any time.”

Finnick leaned against the table, his head hung low and defeated.

“Alright… what about Sylke, where’s she? Are we headed to the house or-“

This time it was Haymitch that spoke. He placed a hesitant hand on Finnick's shoulder.

“Finnick, I’m really sorry.”

Terror painted across Finnick’s face.

“We sent some people, but by the time they got there…”

Haymitch trailed off as Finnick sunk into his body. He let his body fall onto a chair, but had it not been there he would have just ended up on the floor. He assumed the worst. His hands flew to cover his mouth and muffle the little cries that came out. He’d already suffered her death once before, why again?

“Do we at least have her body? I want… I wanna give her a proper burial.”

His voice was shaky, but this was what needed to be done. He needed at least to say goodbye.

Haymitch looked to him with utmost pity.

“Son, she’s alive. They got her.”

And suddenly her death felt like a blessing. Burning emotion seized his body. It wasn’t even rage, nor terror, just pure anguish.

“No, no! You told me-you promised! You promised we would get her out!”

Haymitch sighed.

“I made a lot of promises. We’ll send a rescue team when the dust settles.”

Finnick nodded. His whole body was still stricken and trembling with agony, but he wasn’t one to throw a tantrum; especially not when he knew firsthand the nuances of covert operation in the capitol. Katniss, however, was a different sorry. When she heard about Peeta she did everything Finnick’s impulse had urged him to do. She screamed and shouted, even attacked Haymitch. She clawed and batted at him like a desperate animal, repeating that he made a promise, that he was a liar. Finnick could only watch, for once feeling pity, as well as understanding. Ten years ago, he would have done exactly the same.

When they landed in District Thirteen, Finnick, Katniss, and Beetee were sent to the infirmary. The lightning strike had presented some complications to Finnick’s health, so they dressed him in a white gown and admitted him to a small room with a thick glass door until he recovered. The room was probably white too, clinical and pristine, probably cleaned by the hour. But right now, it looked like it was coated in mustard gas. The lights buzzed with a sort of iodine yellow hue, washing the room in an ominously warm colour.

During his recovery, they allowed him few personal items-not that he had many to begin with. He was however, able to get some rope. When he was awake his mind would race. There was nothing to do, nothing to keep him distracted, his only task was apparently to recover. He could at least keep his hands busy, tying and untying the same couple ropes until there were blisters on his hands. It helped to move his hands, but not enough. Every second, his head was flooded with thoughts of her. Perhaps he had brought this on himself, refusing to think about her for so long in the arena, simply because there wasn’t time. Now, he had all the time in the world, and it felt wrong not to think of her at every moment. They were keeping her alive, he was sure of that much. They wouldn’t give up their leverage so easily. Was she in a similar room, white and cold with a similarly racing mind? We’re they hurting her? Or was she still just some pretty thing in a cage? Was she able to dance? A bittersweet smile came to Finnick’s face when he pictured her dancing. He saw her in a room just like his, in a gown just like his, dancing barefoot around the room with her eyes closed. It brought him comfort, the idea that she could perhaps maintain at least a little joy. But of course, thoughts of her dancing were followed by a much more somber and unfortunately likely possibility. In his mind, Finnick couldn’t help but wonder if they were restraining her. He saw her strapped fo a bed much like the one he had in the infirmary, struggling and begging to be given even a moment of freedom to move. He at least had that privilege. He could pace, sit on the floor, even dance if her wanted to. What if she couldn’t? Such questions plagued him mind. The span of morbid possibilities refused to be ignored, and so he listened to that dangerous voice. He fell into a spiraling rabbit-hole of ways she might have been hurting, only further enabled by his present utter inability to help her.

It affected his health too. The doctors called it a parasympathetic stress response, but all he understood was that it felt like shit. He was always tired but only sometimes able to sleep, he experienced phantom pain in random places, and everything took longer to heal. The time he spent in the infirmary was miserable. It was miserable for Katniss too. She had a nightmare once and came into his room. That night was perhaps his lowest point. It was when death looked so welcoming, so lovely a fate to experience, if only it would come sooner. The only thing that kept him alive was knowing the capitol wouldn’t let her die. He refused to die if she was still alive and hurting.

Katniss somehow recovered much faster. Finnick was a little jealous, that she was able to keep living her life even when Peeta was in the capitol. She was discharged, and not long after, Coin called everyone to hear a speech, which included those admitted in the infirmary. Finnick stood with the doctors and other patients, making a little patch of white in a sea of grey. Coin announced that Katniss was to be the face of the rebellion, and that in exchange for that, there were some “concessions”. Specifically the extraction the the victors held hostage in the capitol. The crowd began to clamor at the mention of Peeta’s name. They shouted and exclaimed, rejecting Peeta’s rescue. Katniss made her way over as Johanna’s name was announced.

“Finnick, I made the deal for Sylke too.”

Coin’s voice boomed through the hall.

“…and Sylke Fairinan”

Their was utter silence at her name. Some people looked a little confused. Finnick was just a little shocked himself as well. He never quite thought of Sylke as a victor. Hearing her name, her full name, announced like that to a crowd made her feel like a public figure, a celebrity, someone with an image and a life they hide from the world. But to him she was just Sylke, that’s what she’d always been. He hadn’t even heard her last name in ten years. She was always just Sylke, the angel that occupied eternal space in his mind and heart.

“Once freed, they will be granted pardon for any and all crimes committed against the rebel cause.”

The crowd once again resulted into vocal dissent and anger. A worries look quickly came to Katniss’ face. Finnick tried to console her, knowing the two of them were the only ones with loved ones hostage in the capitol.

“Good.”

She looked to him, concerned and clearly unsure of herself.

“That’s good, Katniss.”

For the first time in a long time, there was a small smile on his face. There was hope again, however small.

“If Katniss Everdeen fails to fulfill her duties, the deal will be off.”

That look of fear and heartache returned to both of their faces as the people filed out of the hall. It occurred to Finnick as he made his way back to the infirmary that his spirits were rather fragile now. That night, when he was alone, words couldn’t help but escape his lips. Even with Coin’s speech, hope was hard to hold onto. Finnick sat on the floor of his room, leaning against the bed with his head hung low.

“Angel, how do you do it? How do you stay smiling? I’m trying, I promise.”

His voice was quiet, speaking words meant only for him and someone miles away.

“I’m so tired.”

He cried quietly to himself, though did eventually drift to sleep there on the floor.

Finnick recovered slowly. While Katniss was filming propos and being the Mockingjay, he was in the infirmary. He wallowed, but with every day came a little more hope. Katniss and Beetee sometimes came to see him, bringing news of the rebellion’s plans. Smiling got easier, as did picturing Sylke dancing. The idea that she would be alright seemed more and more true. When the phantom pains and memories of Sylke finally became manageable, he traded in his white gown for a grey jumpsuit.

The whole of thirteen gathered one night to watch Katniss’ new propo. He was horrified by the bombing, he was angry with Snow for uncountable reasons, what he was not was triumphant. At the end, the symbol of the mockingjay came onto the screen accompanied by a message. Join the fight. The crowd chanted their celebration like they won a war. That sort of victory song always felt misplaced to Finnick. Blaring horns and happy voices when people lie dead on the battlefield. People showering him with gifts and congratulations just after someone died in his arms. But that was what the propos were meant to do. He looked to Katniss beside him, and she had a similar look of confusion and discomfort.

“You don’t like hearing a fight song at a funeral, huh?”

She turned her head to look at him. He continued, reminding her and himself of what they needed to remember.

“The more people on our side, the closer we are to Sylke and Peeta.”

She nodded. No matter how icky it felt, this was what needed to be done.

The days passed with incredible monotony. Every day was exactly the same, the same schedule, the same people. The only variety came in the form of news, speeches, broadcasts. One night, Finnick visited Katniss in her room and they watched Peeta’s interview. He was crying, and he looked terrified. Finnick in a way envied her, for she able to see Peeta’s face and know that he was at least physically healthy. But he also knew that the pain of seeing him say everything they couldn’t believe in was a whole different world of pain and confusion. In the short time he knew Peeta, the subject of rebellion or even government never really came into conversation. It was the same with Sylke. Perhaps that was the worst part; that what Peeta was asking of Katniss and the rebels seemed entirely possible. From where he was standing, he just wanted the violence to stop. He was most certainly being fed information, being manipulated by the capitol, but the root of his argument was something understandable. It was almost reminiscent of Sylke’s words in her interview so long ago. She was never one for violence or combat. Ever since the beginning, she favoured diplomacy, kindness, and compromise. Finnick couldn’t help but wonder if Peeta’s words were even that treacherous. They were currently entrenched in desperate times, and thus desperate measures were called for. But later, they would need people like Peeta, like Sylke, to remind them of the value of compassion. Finnick made a small promise to himself, that he would try to be one of those people, at least when the fighting was over. If they managed to win, he was going to try to be like her. To be kind, to have mercy, and to offer grace.

The next day, he went with Katniss to hunt above ground. It was calming for both of them, getting to move and use the skills they had honed for years. That familiar feeling of a trident sinking into flesh, the thwip of an arrow as it flies through the air, it brought them comfort. They did eventually sit down too.

“I’m glad we were able to come out today. I think you needed this after last night.”

She nodded.

“I don’t like watching those broadcasts, but I can’t look away. He’s so different already. What are they doing to him?”

Finnick was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t know. I think that’s the worst part.”

“It is. They could be telling him to say all that stuff and threatening to kill him, or maybe they’re actually convincing him it’s true. I don’t know what’s better.”

“I don’t think there is a better. It’s all bad when it comes to Snow.”

She murmured agreement. They were quiet again, listening to the birds and the rustling trees. Nature has such an ability to soothe, with her ambient noise and dappled light. It made them feel safe enough to talk.

“Is it bad that I just want this to be over? Sometimes I think he’s right, that we should just give up. At least then I could see him again.”

“I don’t think that’s bad, Katniss. I think it’s human.”

She looked unsure of herself.

“You miss him. And you want to be with him, so you can know he’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Do you want it to be over?”

“Of course. I just want to know she’s safe. That safety could come with a ceasefire, or with victory.”

“Yeah. But a ceasefire means she goes back to that mansion.”

Finnick clicked his tongue and tilted his head in agreement.

“And that’s why I’m here. If we win, we wouldn’t just be safe, we’d be happy. I want her to be happy.”

Katniss smiled.

“I think I could be happy with him.”

They spent a few more hours talking in the forest, confiding in each other as the only other people who could relate, who knew this special sort of pain. Their afternoon in the forest was a nice respite, but they did eventually need to return to the concrete rooms under the earth.

After the attack on the dam, another interview was broadcast. Peeta called it inhuman, begged her to stop. He looked so genuinely terrified. But what he was scared of was unclear. There was something just behind the camera, something that instilled and powerful fear in him.

“They’re coming, Katniss. They’re gonna kill everyone. And in District Thirteen you’ll be dead by morning-“

The broadcast was cut off as he was dragged away. Sirens began to blare, people filed out to level forty. If there was panic in the air it was hard to detect. People were calm and orderly as they rushed down the stairs, perfectly trained soldiers. That is, until water rained from above and the lights went out. People screamed, ran, let go of order in favour of getting to the bunker. People would scream each time a blast hit. When the night grew quieter, no one slept. They just kept waiting for the cracks in the ceiling to widen, for the walls to cave in and for death to arrive. Finnick sat in one of the beds, fiddling with the gold bangle instead of rope, which he had given to Katniss during the bombing. She had looked like she needed it more than him. In the quiet of night, Katniss walked over and sat beside him.

“He’s taunting me, using Peeta to punish me. I didn’t understand until just now, watching that stupid cat.”

“Yeah. That’s why he took Sylke too.”

Finnick sighed before continuing.

“After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta’s heart stopped and he almost died that…"

He looked at Katniss directly, hoping to convey just how sincere and vulnerable this conversation was for him. This sort of openness wasn't exactly natural to him, but it needed to be said, and right now, she needed to hear it.

"I misjudged you. You love him. Anyone paying attention can see it.”

“How do you live with it?”

“I’ve been doing it for ten years. For five of them I thought she was gone. I did the whole self-pity thing the first time around. I had nightmares-I still do. But you learn not to give in to it. It gets easier.”

She listened, nodding her head ever so slightly.

“But then it happened again. And it takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart, you saw how long I was in the infirmary. But if Sylke taught me anything it’s that little joys can keep you alive. They kept her sane in that house, and they’ve kept me going down here.”

Katniss didn’t say anything. They sat in silence for a while, and once Finnick started nodding off, she went back to her sister and mother.

In the morning, she was gone and thirteen was buzzing with action. Finnick was sitting, anxiously waiting for something he could do to help. Beetee was working through the capitol’s electronic system or something, there was a rescue team setting up, and all Finnick could do was watch. He had signed up to be on the team, but as a refugee and not a soldier, they informed him that he couldn’t. By nightfall they finally had a job for him. He was going to be a distraction broadcast so they could jam the whole system, and the team could safely get it. He stood on a pile of rubble and white roses, with stagelights warming his skin.

“This is Finnick Odair, winner of the 65th Hunger Games. I’m coming to you from District 13, alive and well. We’ve survived an assault from the capitol. But I’m not here to give you recent news. Instead, I’m here to tell you the truth. The truth about the capitol.”

He continued for what felt like forever, indulging in his whole story, the one he only ever told Sylke. The story of how after he turned sixteen, he was sold like a commodity to socialites in the capitol. That he wasn’t the only one, and if you refused, your loved ones were killed. That there was one girl who was dead to the rest of the world, but Snow brought her back just to sell her.

“Remember Sylke Fairinan? She was your princess. You dressed her up in fancy gowns and gold tiaras before she went into the arena. I felt her die in my arms. And then they started her heart back up and sold to the highest bidder. Lycan Indigo. He kept her like a doll, locked in a mansion for ten years. She’s alive. You kept your princess in a gilded cage. And what's worse, after ten years in that place, after slowly learning to find happiness there, you've taken her from it again. President Snow is holding her hostage, to taunt me. He is not the kind man he shows himself to be.”

Finnick kept going. He revealed Snow’s history of poison and assignation, the reason behind his heavy perfume, the bloody sores in his mouth, every secret he knew was a secret no longer. As he spoke, one or the people behind the camera spoke up.

“Okay, you can stop.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, it looks like they’re broadcasting Katniss now.”

Finnick nodded, unsure of what was going on. They went back down to find everyone looking incredibly distraught. He and Katniss sat in a room, silent, waiting for news. He once again had the rope in his hands, tying and untying knots to keep his hands busy. He had to think she was safe. He had to. Cause if he considered for even a moment that she wasn’t, he’d fall apart again. When Haymitch opened the door, their eyes show up.

“They’re back.”

All that needed to be said for them to get up and sprint to the landing area. Johanna was the first one they saw. She was gaunt, her head shaved, but a smirk was still on her face. And then he heard it.

“Finnick? Finnick!”

That voice he hadn’t stopped hearing for ages, but only ever in his head. Her name fell from his mouth involuntarily, quietly questioning if it was real as he ran towards the source of her voice. Later, people would tell him that they said each other’s names perhaps a thousand times in that single exchange. He would notice later that she looked weak, her hair was longer and had lost some of it’s shine, and that despite all that her spirit had in no way dimmed. Her eyes had lit up when she saw him walk in the room. And suddenly, it was as if there was no one in the world but the two do them, crashing through space to reach each other. They collided and lost balance, slamming against a wall, but they stayed there, clinging into one being. Indivisible. He whispered like he didn’t believe it.

“You’re safe…”

She pulled her head out from his embrace to look at him, nodding with a smile. Whether they were smiling or laughing or crying, even they didn’t know. Words fail to describe the joy, the relief, the wonder of being back together. When heart rates slowed and the dust settled, they finally spoke. Finnick had a smile the magnitude of which hadn’t touched his face in far too long.

“Hi.”

“Hi. It’s been a minute.”

As though they were one being, they burst into simultaneous and gentle laughter.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, I’m okay. They beat me up a little, but I’ll be alright.”

“They what?”

Finnick’s voice was hoarse, breathy. He knew that they would do that, and yet in that moment he couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that someone would ever want to hurt her. Not even Mr. Indigo did that. But her smile clearly wasn’t gone. With a voice laced with affection, she put a hand against his cheek and reassured him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You guys got me out before they started my ‘treatment’. I’ll be just fine, I promise.”

“We should get you to the infirmary.”

“Okay.”

Still refusing to stop touching her, Finnick scooped her into his arms and carried her himself to the infirmary. On the way there, her head was nuzzled in the crook of his neck.

“I was right, you know.”

“Hmm? How?”

“I knew you’d come back to me. You didn’t win, but you didn’t have to. I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did. You were right to hope.”

She laughed to herself, closing her eyes. Even with her sunny disposition, her body was clearly exhausted.

“Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

As her body melted further into his and her breathing slowed, he continued walking. They didn’t put her in a room, apparently her condition wasn’t that bad, so she would only need a bed for a few days. Mostly bruises, a couple of open wounds, but nothing bad.

When she woke up, she found herself in a cold room devoid of colour. For a moment, she wondered if it was a dream. Sitting up, she looked around. Finnick wasn’t there, and neither was anyone else. The curtains were drawn. Had they moved her to a new place? We’re they starting her treatment? She hastily removed the IV from her arm, leaving the patch with the needle and luer connector, but no tubing. Whatever they were pumping into her needed to stop there.

“Johanna? Peeta?”

Silence. She heard faint chatter from just outside, doctors or scientists getting ready. Hesitant feet touched the ground. Her fingers brushed against the thin fabric of the curtain. Fear kept her from grasping it. What would she see on the other side? There was hope in her still that she was safe, that she wasn’t in the capitol anymore, but what if she was wrong? What if she was still there, destined to be Syren Indigo? What if she was wrong to hope?

“Hello?”

She heard footsteps. Fearing the scolding that might come should they find her out of bed, she laid back down and put the IV back against the luer connector, though not actually placing it inside. Hopefully she’d be able to fool them. The footsteps got louder. It wasn’t necessary, but she wasn’t ready to face them yet, so she relaxed her body and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She heard metal rings scraping against a pole as the curtain was opened.

“Sylke?”

That was his voice. She wanted to open her eyes, see him, but what if it was a lie? What if this was the start of her treatment? She heard how it started with Peeta. They played him altered clips and all sorts of things. What if this was one of those?

“Oh. You’re still asleep.”

A chair was pulled up, and someone sat down. A warm hand smoothed out her hair. She took a long inhale. No perfume. The hand then gently rested on hers. She knew that touch, and it made her flinch. But still terrified, she kept her eyes closed. The technology of the capitol could do anything.

“Sylke? Are you awake?”

That was his voice. He sounded so real. Even if it wasn’t him, couldn’t she take a look? Even if it was fake, couldn’t she see his face again? That voice of temptation was so loud. What would be the worst that could happen? They were going to wake her up anyway. Slowly, hesitantly, she opened her eyes. And there he was. With those lovely green eyes staring right back at her.

“Hey, Angel. How are you feeling?”

She frantically searched his eyes, before looking to everything else around her. His eyes looked right. His face too. He was in a grey jumpsuit. Everything else was grey too. Behind him was what the curtain used to cover. It looked like a hospital. It was quiet, but not deadly silent. It didn’t look the same. The walls weren’t pristine white, they were concrete. The lights would flicker every now and then, nothing seemed quite perfect like it was before.

“Angel? Is everything alright?”

She looked back at him with terror in her eyes.

“Are you real? Are you really here?”

He moved closer to her, with nothing but love and affection in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m real. We’re safe. We’re in thirteen, remember?”

“We are?”

“Mhmm. You’re in the infirmary right now, but they said you can be discharged in a day or two.”

He looked at the IV lying unconnected at her arm, and plugged it back in with a chuckle.

“That is, if you actually listen to the doctors and take the meds they give you.”

She smiled, a sad, bittersweet smile.

“How come you unplugged it?”

“I… I thought I was in the capitol. I thought they had moved me to start my treatment.”

“You said that earlier too. What treatment?”

“I’m not entirely sure, I didn’t hear all of it. But Mr. Indigo… when he visited me-“

“He came to see you?”

“Yeah. Almost every day for maybe an hour, he’d come in and talk to me, make sure they were treating me well, he even snuck in a couple things for me once. More recently he started mentioning the treatment. Said he talked to the doctors and convinced them to let me get the help I needed, so I wouldn’t be starting fires in my room anymore. And he said it would make me a real Indigo if I wasn’t already. I remember the words.

‘Syren Indigo. Got a nice ring to it, don’t it?’

I heard what they were doing to Peeta. I figured they’d do something similar to me. He wanted me to be his daughter.”

“Oh Sylke…”

The words to be said evaded him and he was left with only actions. He stood up and walked over to the bed, gesturing that she move over. She did, and he crawled under the covers, holding her close in his arms. His embrace was warm, comforting, familiar.

“Finnick. I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to forget.”

He held her even tighter, placing a kiss on her head.

“You won’t, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. You remember how to waltz?”

She looked at him with a grin.

“Of course.”

“Then get up.”

He got out of the bed and offered his hand. The moment she took it, he placed a hand on her waist, pulling her close. With his other hand, he grabbed the pole on wheels from which a bag of saline fluid hung. Sylke rested her hand by his neck and with the other room Finnick’s hand, holding the pole as well.

“Do you remember?”

“I couldn’t possibly let myself forget. Not when I still owed you a dance.”

And with that, they swayed about the section of the room she had been allotted. It was just like she taught him that night, all those years ago. One, two, three, brush, one, two, three, brush. Swept up in the music they heard in their heads, the dance continued. He spun her around, lifted her off the floor, and always right on the downbeat. It ended when they let go of the pole and it rolled too far away. Sylke felt a sharp tug at her arm and the imaginary music stopped.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just maybe we should be more careful."

“Sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.”

Sylke laughed, wrapping her arms up by his neck.

“We both did. Once I’m out of here, we’ll get to dance properly.”

Finnick nodded.

“Soon.”

Finnick did eventually have to leave and resume his schedule. Sylke went back to sleep, clutching a pillow in his stead. Slowly but surely, a new world faded in. Her limbs were blocky, solid, and utterly incapable of movement. All that she had control over was her eyes, glancing around. In her periphery, she was able to figure out what exactly she was. She was a marionette, strung up on a stage. In the audience, right there in the front row, we’re the cold, wolf-like eyes of Mr. Indigo. He was watching her, with a hideous, inhuman grin. And then the music started. It was plucky, out of tune, like a harpsichord left untouched for ages. And she began to dance. Her arms and legs flailed about, and her torso was yanked up and down. She couldn’t open her mouth or even breathe, and yet somehow she kept moving. This dancing cage of hers moved without life or spirit. It had no bones, no muscle, only string that extended up into the vague darkness above.

Sylke didn’t wake up screaming or yelling. Her eyes merely flew open, tears already pouring down her face. Sniffling and quietly sobbing, she sat up and clutched the pillow in her arms. Johanna, from the neighboring bed, spoke up. Her tone was harsh, unsympathetic.

“What are you crying about?”

“I-I just had a bad dream.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Mr. Indigo. He was looking at me, and I just…”

Words dissolved into sniffles. Johanna just laughed. There was venom in her voice when she spoke.

“Your scared of him? Seriously? That man visited you almost every day. He was so good to you-“

Heartache emerged from her throat.

“He loved you!”

A whimper escaped from Sylke and she clutched the pillow even tighter.

“But he…”

“He what? I heard him talk about you, he had nothing but love for you.”

"Please don't say that..."

She kept going, words flowing like a river from her mouth, with no hesitation or tact.

“Are you really that ungrateful? Everything he did was for you…”

She paused for a moment, a devilish smile growing on her face.

“… for his little Syren.”

“Please, just stop…”

Sylke took a shaky breath, shifting to look at Johanna straight on.

“I never asked for his love. I know he’s the reason I’m still alive, I know that it could have been worse. But that man took my life and made it his.”

The shaking stopped. Sylke regained her composure. She stood up and walked to Johanna’s bed, sitting down next to her. Their time in the capitol made them quite familiar with one another’s hardships. Sylke knew exactly where these words were coming from. She knew why Johanna was hurting, she knew that when one has no one, even unwanted love seems desirable. And so she spoke gently, hoping her empathy would be understood as such, rather than pity.

“Mr. Indigo didn’t love me as a person. He didn’t care if I was happy, so long as I provided entertainment. That’s not how you’re supposed to love someone.”

Johanna nodded, saying nothing. She knew she overstepped, she knew her words were impulsive. And now suddenly she felt a little guilty. Sylke had appealed to her humanity with just a few sentences.

“I know. It just hurts, you know?”

“I know.”

Sylke murmured more validation, placing her head on Johanna’s shoulder. She wanted to say that Johanna had friends here, people who loved her, but decided to let it be quiet. She’d say it some other time.

Sylke’s wounds took very little time in healing. She only needed to stay in the infirmary until the larger wounds had closed up, which didn’t take long. Really, they only worried about the cut on her side. She remembered when it was made. The blade was jagged and dull, dragging across her skin at a snail’s pace, over and over again. They asked her with every stroke what she knew. Of course Finnick hadn’t told her about the plan, she barely even knew he was a rebel. But they kept going. First there was a raised line of red, where the skin was raw and irritated. The blade tore further into her skin, but drew no blood. They grabbed her arms with and iron grip and threw her back into her cell, earning her a couple bruises. Once there was a film of yellow scabbing, they took her back out. Slowly, and again with the questions, they peeled it. With the layer of platelets gone, blood dribbled out of the wound. The flesh beneath was tender, and they took advantage of that. She answered each question honestly, but they didn’t like what she said. And with each answer they didn’t like, she received another swipe against her side with the jagged blade. Eventually, they gave up on trying to get information out of her. Sometimes they would try again, but never to that degree.

Now, she had a bandage wrapped around that area, gently changed and cleaned every couple of hours. The doctors were kind here, always making sure it was alright to touch her and asking if the bandage was too tight. Under their care, the wound closed up in no time. By then, all of her smaller cuts and bruises left only fading scars. Soon, she was given a drab grey jumpsuit and assigned to new quarters. It was a small room not unlike the infirmary in style. There were two small beds and a table between them, one bed for her and the other for a roommate. After guiding her to the room, the nurse previously assigned to her shut the door, leaving her alone in that room. She did not hear the click of a lock. Her schedule was to start tomorrow, for now she could settle in and find a place in the room for any personal items. Of course she had none, but curiosity led her to peak at her roommate’s. Everything was neat, folded, as though it was never lived in. The only signs of a human’s stay there were a couple of items on the table, seemingly the only personal items this roommate of hers had. Perhaps they were a refugee as well, with only a moment to have gathered items of sentimental value. Or perhaps residents of thirteen simply didn’t value material possessions all that much. Considering the lack of decor and personality in all parts of the place she had seen, that was in fact the case. Sylke allowed herself to fantasise for a moment about who this person might be. A coal miner from twelve? She had always wanted to see a forest, maybe they could tell her about them. A soldier from thirteen? One who had trained their whole life for combat, for revolution, and now finally had the chance to prove themselves? Or perhaps another refugee from the capitol. What if she knew them? What if one of the few people she was able to meet in the capitol had been a rebel, one who took a chance one night and ran away? They could exchange life stories, maybe become friends. But none of those turned out to be true. On the table, she found a golden bangle and a short bit of rope, neither of which told her about this person. She sat on one of the beds, hopefully the unoccupied one, and waited. She wasn’t tired, she’d slept plenty in the infirmary. So she sat, waiting for something to happen. The door slid open to reveal her roommate.

“Finnick?”

He chuckled.

“I asked them to put you in as my roommate, I didn’t know they’d actually do it. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Everything’s healing well, so I they discharged me this afternoon. I do still have to keep it bandaged, but the wound is much smaller now.”

“That’s great!”

He walked over to the bed and stood before here, a smile adorning his face.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here with me.”

She leaned into his touch as he caressed her cheek. The words “I love you” were not needed in that moment. There was a mutual understanding of affection, one that had been there for ten years. Though not entirely true, retrospect and nostalgia had a way of convincing both of them that it had always been this way, that this familiarity and affection was present since that first night they met. In some ways this was correct, there was always a connection. But the comfort in it had developed over time. Insecurity was able to fade away, they became more familiar with the other’s habits. And yet wonder was not lost. There was still a glimmer of shock, of flustered joy in moments of affection. Things between them weren’t perfect, but they were damn well close to it.

Sylke’s task in thirteen was to help in the kitchen. The food was boring, seasoned only with salt, and they often stirred in powders of vitamin supplements or something of that nature, because the people down here rarely saw the sun. She spent her days standing beside people she found to be kind, talkative in comparison to the Indigo household staff, and generally pleasant company. Life was certainly monotonous, but that was something she was used to. At least now, she wasn’t alone. During mealtimes, she would serve the food, watching everyone eat and chat from afar. On occasion, she would sneak away and sit by Finnick, but that often got her scolded by someone who cared far too much for rules. At the end of the day, the whole facility would get dimmer, and she would be back in her room with Finnick. The beds were made for one person, but they made it work for the both of them. In the mornings, she would wake up before him, needing to go and prepare breakfast. His arms held her tightly, unwilling to let go.

“Finnick, I need to go.”

His voice was deep, raspy, and barely awake.

“I don’t want you to go.”

She giggled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. His eyes were still closed, but a satisfied grin appeared on his face.

“Fine. Two minutes, and then I really have to go.”

He groaned, considering her offer, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Okay.”

Running his fingers up her body, he attempted to feel for her face, too tired to open his eyes. His touch was gentle and yet possessive, still unwilling to let go. Once he found her jaw, he pulled it closer and planted endless kisses on her face. At some point, his eyes fluttered open. He was confronted with the image of her smile, a little tired and a little exasperated, but undeniably lovely.

“You’re beautiful.”

A little colour came to her cheeks.

“You know, you can’t keep me here forever. Do you want food today or not?”

He let a sigh as she got up from the bed.

“Alright fine, I concede. Just one more kiss though.”

She laughed, leaning down to peck his forehead before leaving. Once alone, Finnick’s mind couldn’t help but fantasise about waking up with her every day, and not having to rush off somewhere.

The explicit concept of marriage had come up only once or twice in their five years of exchanging letters. Far more common was talk of a hypothetical life they would have one day. A wedding was implied, but never really stated outright. Instead, they talked about days without urgency, when they could lie in bed for hours, dance in the kitchen instead of cooking, fall asleep on the beach, and all of this simply because they wanted to. But as the danger of revolution increased, both of them began thinking about the specifics of that vague life together. It didn’t take Finnick long to understand that he wanted to marry her. He mentioned it one night when the room felt quiet and too awake.

“Hey,”

“Hmm?”

“Would you want to get married? I know we’ve talked about being together, when it’s all over, but what if we did it now?”

She looked to him with wide doe-eyes.

“Now?”

“I mean here, in thirteen. Before anything happens-before anything possibly could happen. Just in case.”

She took a moment to think, sinking into his chest. If she had been falling asleep before, she was wide awake now.

“Okay. Just in case.”

“Yeah. That way if something happens, I’ll have been married to you. Another thing to help prove to the world that you’re here, and that I’m yours.”

She lifted herself to prop her head up on her hand, smiling at him. He soon followed, staring lovingly back at her.

“I like the sound of that.”

She placed a kiss on his lips.

“But nothing’s going to happen to you, okay?”

That was partially a lie. There was a reason they were doing this, a risk, and they both knew it. But after everything they’d been through, fate had to be in their favour. It would simply be wrong, to have done all of this, just to lose their happily ever after.

She reassumed her position lying on his chest after that, speaking softly to him, but also to herself.

“I used to picture my wedding, you know. When I was little, I had this image in my head of a white dress and a castle and a ballroom, like in the fairytales. I didn’t know who would be my prince or princess charming, but I knew that I’d love them. That was always the best part. I know we won’t be in a castle, but in a way it’ll be exactly like how I dreamed of as a child.”

He was falling asleep by that point. She lifted herself to look at his peaceful face. He looked calm and safe, lying next to her like he was sure, like everything in the world assured him, that this is where he was supposed to be.

“I love you, my prince.”

Plutarch explained that the wedding was going to be filmed. “To show the capitol that we’re alive and well” he said. Because of that, they were allowed all sorts of luxuries that thirteen didn’t usually permit. The hall was glowing with amber light and greenery they brought in from above. Finnick was dressed in a lighter grey than usual, with sturdy fabric that hugged his waist but got a little looser at the shoulders. He was also given something of a cape, but it only covered one shoulder. He looked somewhere between a soldier and a duke. For Sylke they made a dress fit for a princess. White of course, a colour held with some disdain in thirteen. The skirt was long and full, trailing behind her every so slightly when she walked. It was simple, no layers of tulle or golden jewelry to match, but it made her feel like herself, entirely herself, which was really all it needed to be. It felt like all of her, nothing held back or exaggerated for anyone.

She made her way alone down the aisle, smiling at the man ahead, the destination toward which she walked. He took her hands in his, this time with no iron bars between them. She looked into his green eyes, like she had so many times before, and everything felt right in the world. There was no sunlight or gentle breeze, no magnolias or birdsong, but there didn’t need to be. He was here, looking back at her with all the love in the world. When it came time for her to say her vows, she had very little prepared. She spoke truthfully, freely, saying everything that her heart told her to say in that moment.

“My darling Finnick. I’ve said to you before that I believe in fate. We were just kids when we met, and even then, I knew my story was tied to yours. I promise to love you, to cherish you, and to be by your side for the rest of happily ever after that fate allows.”

The smile on his face grew before he took a breath and said his vows.

“Sylke, my angel, you have my heart, as you always have, for all eternity. Whether together or apart, we will always be united, tied together by the strings of fate. I promise to protect you, to dance with you, and to love you until death do us part.”

They didn’t quite need to be told that they could kiss, but once prompted, they did just that. All of thirteen began to applaud, but neither Sylke nor Finnick could bring themself to care for the audience. Just as it had ten years ago, the watching eyes melted away, leaving only tenderness and love burning between the them.

The festivities began once the aisle and ceremonial decor was packed away. First was a slow waltz meant just for the newlyweds. The two of them had danced in their room many times before, but never with music. With a guiding melody, they were able to truly get lost in the movement. No longer was it necessary to count or concentrate, they could simply dance. They swayed and twirled about the room, never once breaking eye contact. When the music slowed to a halt, Sylke was securely nested in Finnick’s arms and lowered to a dip. There was once again applause as people came to join them on the dance floor. A more upbeat tune filled the hall as everyone started to dance. The sound of lively fiddles filled the room, and spirits were lifted. It seemed like everyone was having a lovely time, smiling and laughing with friends. For that night, war was but an afterthought. It was a respite from tragedy, a true celebration of all that is good and lovely, and its survival even in dark times.

It wasn’t long after the wedding that Finnick was sent away again. He and Sylke had a rather lousy honeymoon, spent mostly in their room underground or in the forest just above. Soldiers were slowly returning from the fight at the capitol, some injured, others returning for a dignified burial. Sylke was transferred to the infirmary when it got too understaffed. And then Plutarch called Finnick into a meeting. That night, Finnick sat waiting in their room until Sylke returned from her shift in the infirmary. She entered the room and gravitated to his hunched figure.

“Finnick, are you alright?”

She placed a hand to his face, suggesting that he look at her. His eyes were sad, conflicted, scared. Sylke saw his expression and quickly kissed him before anything more could be said.

“What happened?”

He shifted to make space for her on the bed; she sat down.

“Plutarch wants me in the capitol. They put together this squad for filming propos, he calls it the face of the invasion.”

He spoke so matter-of-factly, such that it was hardly a question: he would be going. There was no debate about it, both of them knew that. An all too familiar feeling churned in her core. Her chest became heavy and her throat strained. She croaked out a single sentence before leaning into his embrace.

“Come back to me, okay?”

He held her tightly, the way he wanted to that night outside the mansion.

“I will. I believe in fate.”

They fell asleep there, unsure when the trembling cries faded into unconsciousness.

Finnick left in the morning. Goodbyes were cut short by the arrival of a jet full of wounded soldiers. Sylke was pulled away by the other medical staff, parting with a fleeting kiss and a smile.

The infirmary was bursting with people. New patients arrived every day from the capitol, covered in wounds and burns and horror stories from the city. They told of abandoned streets full of bombs and traps set by peacekeepers. Every moment of peace or quiet we’re impossible to trust, they were left waiting for the inevitable bloodshed as they walked through empty streets. Sylke couldn’t help but wonder the state of the mansion. Had Mr. Indigo evacuated? What did he take with him? She pictured the house empty, devoid of the usual upkeep, dusty and alone. What about the household? Had they gone as well? What would they do without their jobs? Did that even matter when the city was under attack? Her imagination took her through each room and corridor. The office she’d only been in a few times, the dining room that could seat a dozen but never saw more than two, and of course, her bedroom. Soot still on the ceiling, dance slippers tucked hastily under the bed. The soldiers mentioned bombs and fire. What if the mansion was destroyed? The image of fallen walls, a pile of rubble and ash, arrived in her mind. A bittersweet sort of pain burned in her chest as she pondered such a possibility. That mansion was her prison, her gilded cage. And yet there were happy memories there. There were times when she smiled, dancing around her room or strolling through the garden. She found joy in that wretched place and thus made it slightly less wretched. The delicate China in the sitting room was beautiful, with hand-painted birds and flowers under the faintly cracked glaze. The furniture was soft, velvet or leather or brocade, but always unreasonably comfortable. And of course the magnolias. Those fragrant blossoms could distract her from everything bad. A lovely part of being human, isn’t it? The ability to be distracted, to find small joys, even trapped in a cage. She pondered all the things she loved in that house. The drapes and the garden and smooth feeling of the banister beneath her fingers as she walked down the stairs, all things she missed now. Was it bad that she missed it? Was that terrible, to think somewhat fondly of her time in the mansion? A part of her was sure that it was simply horrible. Mr. Indigo was a dangerous, horrible man, and thus his home was the same way. But he also gave her dancing slippers. He cared for her in his twisted, infantalising way. Johanna’s words sounded in her head. Perhaps, in a strange interpretation of the word, he loved her. Sylke couldn’t bring herself to fully accept that idea. Love was the tenderness she saw in Finnick’s eyes, it was the warmth in her chest when they were close, she was entirely and unequivocally sure of that. But as time went on, she continued to wonder, her mind volleying standpoints, if Mr. Indigo’s bizarre affection was also love.

Such thoughts bounced around the back of her head as she tended to those in the infirmary. Days slowly bled into one another, all monotonous and practically identical. She would wake up alone, eat with some of the other medics, and then go to the infirmary. After a long day, she would return to her quarters and lie on her side, reaching her arm out to where Finnick would have been lying beside her. And when the foggy darkness of sleep arrived, the day would begin again.

News from the capitol came every night. The whole of thirteen would go quiet the watching broadcasts. Just a day after they deemed Peeta well enough to join the “Star Squad” in the Capitol, that infamous anthem blared from the broadcast. The faces of every member of the squad was shown. Sylke had been working when it came on the screens. All faces looked to the screen in the room, stepping away from their work for a moment. She froze when she saw Finnick’s portrait appear. She hadn’t seen his face is so long, too long, but this was not the way she wanted to see him again. He couldn’t be dead, he promised. Why, after all this time, why now? After all the trials they encountered and survive, how could it end? Something was wrong, it was simply wrong. Fate wasn’t supposed to be like this, fate couldn’t be like this.

You said you would come back to me

Her perception of the world was cloudy. The hands on her shoulder, the steps she was taking, they didn’t register. Voices were muddled, nothing felt real. All she could do was mutter his name, repeat the same phrases, praying that someone would hear her, some great puppet master who could pull the strings of fate and make them right again. Her murmurs became sobs, and when her eyes were dry, when her energy was drained, she could finally sleep.

She woke to a sharp voice and someone shaking her awake.

“Sylke, get up!”

She pulled herself up, groggy and confused. For a moment, it was just like any other morning, and she almost bolted up, afraid of being late for the start of her shift. But then her vision cleared, and reality set in. She saw the medic uniform she was still wearing and the sad look on Johanna’s face.

“What happened?”

Johanna’s tone was careful and sympathetic.

“You kinda lost it after the broadcast. Don’t worry, you didn’t hurt anyone or do anything bad, you just kinda froze. We didn’t know what else to do, so we just took you here to rest.”

Sylke nodded, not quite sure if she could bring herself to stand up and start her day, as though nothing happened.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t even know. But they’re calling all the medics right now, so…”

Sylke didn’t move.

“They’re flying you guys out to the capitol.”

She still didn’t move.

“Sylke, that means you need to go.”

“I know… I just…”

Johanna placed her hands on Sylke’s shoulders and looked her square in the eyes.

“Look. I know you’re hurting. I know you just lost someone. It’s not the same but I lost him too. But Sylke we’re so close. And people are hurting in the capitol that don’t need to be. We need you to go out and help them.”

Sylke took a shaky inhale and nodded. With Johanna’s help, she made her way down to the hanger where medics were streaming into jets and strapping into their seats. Sylke followed suit, getting her jet assignment and sitting down on a cold metal chair.

The flight was a blur. They landed in district two and waited until the final stages of the battle to fly into the capitol to help innocent citizens. Soon, they were flown in and dropped off in the city circle. When the cries of countless people reached her ears, helping them became Sylke’s sole priority. The moment her feet touched the ground, she rushed to anyone and everyone that looked hurt.

“Are you hurt? Are you alright?”

“Where does it hurt? Are you bleeding?”

“Let me take a look.”

She was wrapping a splint for a woman with a broken leg when a familiar chime rang through the air. She looked up to see grey canisters on parachutes floating down from the sky. She froze again, remembering everything from years ago. She remembered the way Finnick’s eyes lit up when he saw a trident float down on an identical grey parachute. That had always been a sweet memory, but now it was laced with pain. She looked around, seeing the people stretching their arms out, welcoming the gifts. There was a flash, a boom, and then quiet.

Sylke’s eyes slowly fluttered open. She was lying on her back, on something soft and comfortable. There was quiet. A peaceful, calming sort of silence surrounded her. She noticed pain on her skin when she tried to get up. Her body was bandaged in random places, and the flesh of her arms and hands felt incredibly sensitive. Her body was sore, but she could move, albeit only slightly. She turned her head to look at her surroundings. She was in a tent, seemingly a medical tent, surrounded by equipment and kits she recognised as the portable medic kits that each person on the jet had been equipped with. Turning her head to look directly to the side, she saw someone lying in a bed like her own. They looked like him. Beneath the bandages she saw his face, sleeping peacefully with his eyes closed. She longed to believe that it was him, to enjoy that delusion and ignorance. But she knew it wasn’t. She knew he was gone. He wasn’t there, no matter how much she wanted him to be, no matter how much he should have been. Tears formed and fell quickly from her eyes. Quiet wails and sobs escaped her. She murmured his name, hoping beyond hope that it would will him back to life. The person in the bed began to rouse.

“Hmm?”

They sounded like him too, why did they have to sound like him? She curled into herself, ignoring the pain in such movement. She hid herself beneath the blanket, like a child afraid of the monsters beneath their bed.

“Hey, are you alright?”

That was his voice.

“Why do you sound like him?”

She wailed with a volume she hadn’t used in days.

“Sylke?”

“You sound just like him…”

Her whole body shook with sobs. She heard fabric rustling and quiet groans that sounded so familiar. There was a hand on the edge of the blanket.

“Can I…?”

“Go ahead.”

Her voice was dejected, entirely hopeless. The blanket was pulled away, revealing a face with cuts and bandages, seemingly some stitches as well, and sea green eyes holding a tender gaze.

“You look like him too.”

“Angel… I’m right here.”

“No you’re not! You died! I saw your picture, I heard the song, you died!”

“Oh sweetheart…”

The person sat down on the bed and gently lifted her to sit up as well. They then pulled her into their arms. That warmth was exactly the same.

“I’m right here, I’m alive. I got damn near dying, but I didn’t. I told you I’d come back to you, didn’t I?”

Finally, she let herself believe. Her grasp on him tightened.

“You’re alive? You’re safe?”

“I’m alive. I’m right here, Angel.”

A part of her still couldn’t believe it. Somehow, there was a shard of pessimism in her that refused to be tricked. And he could sense that. He understood all too well the spirit of self preservation that will do anything to keep itself from hurting. So he pulled away slightly to look at her.

“Hey, look at me, look at my eyes.”

She gazed up at him with scared, teary doe-eyes.

“Don’t you believe in fate?”

And with that, the last bit of denial shattered within her. A smile and then a laugh came to her face as hope returned to her spirit.

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…

Sometimes, she would try to remember how she got here. Flashes of memory came to mind, cold white rooms and clinical chatter, though it was hard to know if the memories were from before or after the game. The clearest memories were of his eyes. Beautiful and affectionate, that sea-green colour she’d grown to love so much. She fell asleep looking into his eyes, safe in his arms, and woke up somewhere else. The time after her waking was a blur, but at least a visible one. Weeks, months, perhaps only hours spent with eyes glazed over, seeing people without faces and hearing voices without words. When her mind and her vision finally cleared, everything had changed. She was dressed in bright colours and soft fabrics, her hair was clean and styled, every part of her body was brushed with shine and lustre, a luxury foreign to even her, a citizen of district one. It took little time for her to realise that wherever she was, it was most certainly in the capitol. She was brought to a new place, a pale, old building that seemed a touch too classically grand for the comparatively mundane city street that it lay on. Inside, the rooms were just as lavish, aristocratic even. She was taken up a marble wraparound staircase and down a hallway of closed doors to one particular closed door. 

“This room is yours, as is the bathroom to your left. I will call for you when the master returns, he will be expecting you.”

Once the door closed, she heard the clicking of a lock. The room was compact, but homely. It was fully furnished, with a very clear colour palette. Everything was rose-coloured, with crème furniture and pink fabric to match. Painted on the walls were bunnies, doves, and various other woodland creatures. Sylke felt slightly out of place here. The man who brought her here had said this room was hers, but it seemed like someone already lived here, someone with a heart and a soul and a personality already occupied, she was just a visitor here. But still, her body was tired and it felt like a lifetime since she had slept in a real bed. A desperation for safety and comfort tore at her belly in a way it never had before and it was impossible not to lie down. She found it quite comfortable, familiar, even. Something about the softness that surrounded her, the plush mattress beneath her, it was all so sweetly warm, so safe. Nothing could harm her here. Like some sort of recursive magic, all memories of cold open air pricking goosebumps on her skin as she slept in the humming ambience of night fell away. They were not forgotten, simply put aside. For the first time in a while, safety seemed like a forgone conclusion, something to be taken for granted. She woke to a knocking sound.

"Syren? Miss Syren?”

She thought back to the doors in the hallway. Perhaps ‘Miss Syren’ was in another room. She snuggled further into the blankets, absorbing any and all residual warmth held in the comforter. The knocking continued, and she couldn't possibly deny: it was on her door.

“Miss Syren? Are you decent?”

With slow movements she got up and walked to the door as she heard the locks clicking.

“I think you’ve got the wrong-“

“Miss Syren! The master has arrived. Please change and come downstairs to greet him.”

He presented a box to her, white with a thick pink ribbon.

“He has requested you wear this to dinner tonight.”

With a nod of the head, the man was gone. Sylke took notice of his appearance as he walked away. He was slim though not quite gaunt, dressed in a black tailcoat and pants. He spoke with excessive formality, though she did notice the posh expression fade the moment he turned away. Shifting her attention to the box in her hands, she walked over and sat down at the vanity to unwrap the gift. The bow was unravelled with a gentle tug, leaving wrinkles and indents where a knot used to be. She also took notice of the box, sturdy and plainly decorated. In all honesty, she noticed these things because she sat staring at the unopened box for far too long. As sweet and welcoming, and significantly tamer than what she feared, as her situation was, there was a lingering suspicion, an instinct that this was wrong. Clearly she was not dead, clearly something kept her alive or brought her back. It was strange, no? To have died only to be brought back, but for seemingly no purpose. To be doted on and nothing expected in return. Perhaps the purpose of her revival and her debt as a result would be revealed at dinner. With hesitation, she lifted the lid. Inside was a neatly folded blouse, or perhaps a dress, with a lacy neckline adorned with small flowers. Some of her fear having faded, she lifted it from the box to see it in full. It was in fact a dress, nearly floor length. The colour matched that or the rest of the room, that rosy blush hue that she always had an affinity for. Pink had always been her favourite colour, something about it was so appealing. Likewise, she always loved dainty fabrics like satin and lace. As she thought about her personal affinities, the room around her seemed to stare into her soul with a certain intensity. Her eyes flitted about to the floral gold trim on every surface, the painted doves on the walls, the tutu hanging from the dresser. This room was made for me, wasn’t it? And not only that, it was made specifically for the image, the persona of hers from just before the Game. But why, why all of this and why to such a degree? Something felt incredibly wrong. And why had no one explained a thing to her? The one man that said a word to her spoke as though she was privy to the situation. But she pushed those thoughts aside. If only based on the man in the tailcoat, this seemed a situation for decorum, and thus a disregard for whatever burning emotion and questions lied within. She could get her answers with politeness in due time. The dress fit astonishingly well, just like the white dress she wore to the gala before, hugging her ribs and falling just by her ankles. In the vanity drawer she found a little makeup and jewellery, and on the closet floor, a pair or two of shoes. She chose a gold locket with mother of pearl inlays, and took a look in the mirror before exiting the room. There was an urge in her, one that told her to stand up straight, to use all the etiquette she had learned as a child. The tension and inability to trust lingered from the arena. It wasn’t comfortable, having such little faith in people. Sylke longed for the feeling to subside, but it did not. As much as she tried, she could not trust her surroundings. This nebulous ‘master’ was waiting for her, and something within her told her not to show fear.

“Little Syren!”

She saw the origin of the voice as she walked down the stairs. It was a middle-aged man, with legs that looked almost too thin and too far apart to support his torso. His hair was greying but still full and well-styled atop a face that held smile lines and sunspots. He opened his arms to welcome her, and forcefully initiated an embrace when she reached the bottom of the stairs. He wore cologne, a strong cologne, one that reeked of sandalwood and a saccharine sort of patchouli, or maybe rose. Even after pulling away, the odour remained, clinging to the lace of her collar like water to a sponge. As he led her over polished marble and parquet flooring, she grew accustomed to the scent. If it weren’t so unbearably strong, she might enjoy it. The man bared his teeth like a wolf when he smiled, his eyes barely moving despite the crow’s feet adorning his temples.

“My name is Lycan Indigo, but you needn’t use such formalities with me. You may call me father.”

Sylke’s eyes widened for but a moment before she reinstated utmost bodily control. Her mind raced as he showed her around the first floor of the house. Father? Was she to be his daughter? And when she remembered the frills, the room, the dress, things made more sense. She was to be his daughter, a child, a ward. Perhaps he lost his daughter before, perhaps this was his way of reliving the past. She wanted whatever his story was to be sympathetic, sad enough that she might forgive him. But why was she here? Why her? How did she become a part of this man’s story? She was led to a sitting room and motioned to sit on a chaise lounge. Mr. Indigo took a seat across from her. There was a table between them upon which a china set was quickly placed. Mr. Indigo never took his eyes off Sylke as he took the teacup and saucer into his lap. Sylke followed suit picking up the other porcelain dishes, though she did not dare look at him. Only after he took a sip from his cup did she do the same, all the while keeping her gaze at the tea. At least when she was drinking there was an excuse not to look at him. One must always look to the inside of the cup when they drink; it is improper to look up. She thanked all the authorities of her childhood that taught her such things.

“I hope you like your new living quarters. We tried to make it to your liking, though if you have any alterations you need only ask.”

Something about his tone persuaded her to speak. She wanted to be polite after all.

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Oh, such a lovely voice! Speak more often little Syren, a voice like that is not to be hidden.”

“Yes, father.”

He nodded with a smile.

“Now I’m sure you’re confused, I can’t imagine how jarring it has been for you. So please, any way the staff can make this more comfortable for you, feel free to ask. There is of course Alistair, who you’ve already met, and the rest I’m sure will introduce themselves in time.”

He took a sip of his tea, sighing as he swallowed.

“Tomorrow I’d like to take you out shopping for clothes and the like. I’ve scheduled appointments with only the finest of designers, and we will be meeting with people who understand our situation, so you needn’t worry.”

“And what exactly is that situation?”

She had wanted to ask that question for so long and with such vigour, but still, she maintained a polite disposition. Her expression was gentle, her tone only the slightest bit playful. It was the best she could do to mask the screeching terror that longed to be voiced.

“Why, that you are now my ward, little Syren. No longer a tribute.”

That she was in fact alive. That was all Mr. Indigo would ever say of her participation in the games. In fact, that was all he ever said of her past. This was a rebirth of sorts. If she wanted to, it would be so easy to leave everything behind. A new name, a new home, and no remnants of the past. But of course, she would never hope to leave her memories behind. There was so much joy and so much love that she couldn’t bear to part with. The exhilaration of dancing on stage, the joy of making someone laugh, those sea-green eyes full of love, things she refused to forget. He stood up, holding out a bent arm to her. She knew what that meant. Taking his arm, she was led to the dining room. Over a luxurious meal of red meat and steamed vegetables, Mr. Indigo explained his own story. He was the owner of a company, something he inherited from family. They were bankers or something like that, wealthy, what Mr. Indigo would call respectable. His younger brother was the only member of his family still alive. Sylke felt a pang of pity for the man. She didn’t trust him, he seemed like a greasy, strange, perhaps despicable man. But losing people hurts anyone, and she understood that. He continued. He had never been married, never had a child. In recent years, the house began to seem increasingly lonely. It was nice to have someone else around now.

So that’s why I’m here.

She was a companion, someone to make the house a little less quiet. Her mind still lingered with questions, the first of which being: why was a ward what he wanted? As expected, that question remained unanswered. Sylke spoke little that night, and never of her own experience. There was a fear that doing so was evoking a taboo, and so she refrained from any sort of pulling from her past, which prevented much of her own speaking. Mr. Indigo dominated conversation with topics of his choice. Sylke’s words mostly consisted of reacting and the occasional mention of something else. When his plate was empty and his energy waning, he called for Alistair to escort her back to her room. As they walked away, Sylke heard him call for someone else to take the plates away and bring him a cigar in the study.

Time passed mostly in a blur after that night. She was confined mostly to her bedroom, which became like something of a home as time went on. It was perhaps the only room in that massive house that was a modicum of welcoming. Occasionally, Mr. Indigo would take her outside. She would feel the moving, fresh air for but a moment before being whisked into a carriage. There were never more than five people in a room she was in, and thus she met very few people. She spent much time gazing out the window, looking to the people who walked freely on the ground. She longed endlessly to join them, to be in the company of friends for even a moment. Even though she could open the window, she never dared exit. She would land on the pristine grass of the garden, and the iron-wrought fence was far too high to climb. And something else, something other than the impracticality of escape kept her in that room. It was comfortable there. She had never been a particularly calculated for pragmatic person, but there was safety in this place. Out on the streets of the capitol, she feared the things she might face. Flashes of bloodthirsty people in the arena came to her mind. And so she elected to remain in the house of Mr. Indigo, forever dreaming of the day she might be granted a safe escape. There was one escape, albeit temporary, she had from her gilded cage. Mr. Indigo had given her a pair of dancing slippers, a gesture she was most grateful for. With them, if she closed her eyes, she could be on the stage. She could be somewhere else, anywhere else, with anyone else. She could hear the music, feel the warm light. Sometimes, she could even feel a partner’s hand on her waist. There would be glimpses of his eyes, of his lips, and she would smile, remembering the way he would hold her. She would imagine herself dancing with him, just like they had the night before the game. And for a moment it would be like he was right there with her. And for a moment she wasn’t alone. But of course it was only for a moment. Most of the time, Sylke was completely alone. Visitors were few and far between, and visitors she was allowed to meet even fewer. The household staff was comprised mostly of Avoxes, like in the Tribute Centre, and even those who could speak seemed afraid to. Mr. Indigo also discouraged her from going into the kitchen, insisting that she needn't go to all that trouble, that it wasn't her place. So she stayed in her room. In her solitude, the passage of time felt like a foreign concept. She was fourteen when she fell asleep in the arena. Who knows how much time had passed since then? It was late Summer when she arrived at the mansion, but of what year she could not tell. Mr. Indigo didn’t celebrate birthdays, he never mentioned age, a sort of denial that confined her to an artificial childhood. All of that only made things more confusing and lonely. Days, hours, minutes, they were all the same.

There was perhaps one way that she was able to note the passage of time in Mr. Indigo's house aside from clocks and daylight.  The television was rarely turned on, but there were times when news broadcasts or advertisements could be heard in the background. More often than not, Sylke turned her back and walked away, for sitting and watching would mean sitting next to Mr. Indigo. Sometimes she would sit on the stairs and listen, but never watch. Only once did she tolerate the overbearing odour of his cologne and sit beside him to watch the screen. A rerun of the 65th Hunger Games was being televised, and curiosity got the better of her. It was strange, watching the same jungle, the same arena, but see herself so little. She was marginally featured and only in conjunction with Finnick who was more often than not shown alone, fishing and killing. It was never explained who patched up his wounds or who he was calling out to. In watching she realised how lethal he truly was. She had thought, all this time, he had only killed once in the game, that one afternoon when he showed up with blood on his trident and no fish. He was efficient, precise, especially after the acquisition of his trident. Her perception of him was of course changed by this new information, but not by much. She always knew he was a skilled hunter, she knew when she met him. But that was never his main quality. When she thought of Finnick she thought of his breathy laughter, his self-effacing sense of humour that seemed to her a defence mechanism when the rest of the world was especially cruel. She thought of his kind eyes that whatever else was going on had a way of reassuring her of the warmth in his heart. The Finnick she saw on the television was a spectacle, an exaggeration of his most marketable traits: beauty and devastating skill. But stranger than even that was watching her own death. It brought questions of if she even died, if other tributes had faced a similar fate. Commentary and music was heavy in her final moments. A clever choice, considering they couldn't omit that footage like they had all other instances of the tenderness between herself and Finnick. In the end, Claudius Templesmith's voice solidified her portrayal of a delirious little girl who ate something she shouldn't have. In a way he was not wrong.

Joy was so hard to find after that. At first it was little things that kept her spirits up. She could appreciate that the household staff did their best to make her happy, that the woodland animals on the walls of her bedroom were painted with masterful skill. But as she stayed in the same place and never left, those joys were harder and harder to find. Thoughts of the Games, of the arena, of Finnick were harder to ignore. She tried to entertain herself, keep herself moving, but as time went on she spent more and more of that time unmoving, sitting by the window, whether in her room or elsewhere in the house once she was allowed, gazing out with a neutral face. Tears slipped from her eyes more often. Once, she cried at the dinner table. It was so quiet. Meals were supposed to be gatherings. Even when it was just her and Finnick, sharing fish and bread on the jungle floor, they laughed and joked as they ate. Everything in that moment seemed only to remind her of the life and the company that she was now without. Tears rolled down her face as she ate, silently, though not unnoticed. After that night, Mr. Indigo took note of her state. He asked the staff to keep an eye on her, and they reported waning livelihood. Her loneliness was undeniable. One night, at dinner, Mr. Indigo finally addressed it.

“Little Syren, I’ve noticed you don’t smile as much anymore.”

“Oh. I suppose so, yes.”

“I understand it’s lonely here each day,”

She looked down, too afraid to nod.

“So I’ve organised something. I am a sponsor in the upcoming Hunger Games, and have been invited to spectate with the other sponsors and mentors. I would like you to join me.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes. She wanted to shout, to sing, to dance with the joy of hope and opportunity. Naturally, did none of those things, but there was a flame within her that suddenly had more air to burn. Mr. Indigo continued.

“While there, I’ll allow you to find one person to exchange letters with. A friend to keep you company. Of course you’ll need to tell me who they are and I can work out logistics, but-“

“Thank you! Thank you, father.”

She bowed her head, the deepest gratitude she could politely show while sitting at the table.

“Of course, little Syren.”

The night finally came. She was dressed, as always, in pink. The collar was high, lined with lace that trailed down her chest to the sash. She did not wear formal gowns normally, or at least not to be seen. In moments of boredom she would sometimes put on a dress far too extravagant for being in the house, just to imagine for a moment. Such a floor-length gown was rather refreshing. The household staff styled her hair into ringlet curls, held up with small, pale ribbons. It was beautiful, she felt beautiful. Looking in the mirror brought a smile, but something was still off. They found a way to make her look so childish, like a porcelain doll in a display case. She looked like herself, but younger. She chose not to dwell on that fact. They rode in a closed carriage to the heart of the capital. There, everything was bright and colourful. She had nearly forgotten how the capitol looked, with its flashing lights and stunning fashion. They were escorted to a large hall, with a four-sided screen in the centre of the room. There was a table by the wall covered in a buffet of food and drink. Once everyone had a plate and settled onto the various chairs and lounges, a man with a microphone stood by the centre screen.

“Sponsors, welcome to the premiere of the 70th Hunger Games!”

There was a roar in the crowd, Mr. Indigo spoke with volume she had never heard from him before. There was a brief introduction for each tribute and their mentors. District 1 was first. Victoria came onto the stage. She looked older, the lines on her face more present, and her makeup more intense to hide them. She and the other mentor from one introduced their tributes, but by that point, Sylke’s attention was not with them. Her eyes were fixed on the line of mentors, waiting to take the stage one after the next. Next to Mags and third in line, there he was. He looked older too, not the fourteen year old boy she met so long ago. Suddenly, the passage of time reared its ugly head, one she had almost forgotten. For the first time, she was left questioning, seriously questioning, how long it had been. He looked so different. Still the same, still him, and yet not. Was she different now too? Her mind was ripped from this thoughts by a very familiar voice. It was deeper now, huskier, but of course still him. He spoke with a one-sided smile, oozing with confidence. He held himself with a snooty sort of pride. Guess they kept up the Casanova image. But one thing was unaltered, undeniably and solely his own. Those eyes. Like the salty ocean itself, they instilled a sense of calm in her heart. With a gentle smile, his gaze raked across the crowd. His words stuttered for a moment, his eyes fixed on Sylke. For a second or less, everything else melted away. She smiled like she hadn’t in years. It truly must have been years. His gaze was just as affectionate and soft as it was in the arena. For less than a moment, they were fourteen again, staring at each other from across a room with the most loving of eyes. For the first time in ages, his name fell from her lips.

“Finnick.”

And as quickly as it came, that moment was gone. He blinked, lightly shook his head, and looked blankly into the middle distance as he finished his little speech. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was all in her head. Perhaps he didn’t look at her. Perhaps he didn’t even recognise her. Did he even remember her? No. She couldn’t allow her mind to go down that painful rabbit hole. So she crossed her ankles, sat up straighter, and folded her hands in her lap. The night went on. People were always chattering, pointing to the screen, sometimes then would go into another room and shortly, something would drop from a parachute into the arena. Conversation ranged from business jargon to shallow gossip. Sylke couldn’t help but bend an ear when people discussed the female tribute from four, Annie Cresta.

“Finnick Odair’s her mentor, you know.”

“Aren’t they around the same age?”

“I heard they’re involved.”

“Really? How romantic.”

Variations of that conversation could be heard the whole night long. Each time she passed by people talking like that, her heart sunk a little more. It was admittedly a bitter notion that he found someone who wasn’t her, but it did not hurt nearly as much as the fact that Annie was almost destined to die. Her eyes nearly watered as she thought how vile it must be, to find affection with someone who’s death is not just certain, but imminent. Pity alongside longing affection laced her gazed whenever if fell on him, and always from quite a distance away. Needless to say, her mind was elsewhere as she stood next to Mr. Indigo. He was currently speaking with one of the mentors. Then, he turned to Sylke.

“Little Syren, be a lamb and go to the table and get us some food. We’ll be back in but a moment.”

He handed her his plate and walked away to the other room with the mentor. She walked over to the table with food, grabbing a little of everything she had seen Mr. Indigo eating. He had particularly enjoyed the shrimp, and so she took care to put extra on his plate. As she did so, gentle footfalls sounded behind her.

“It’s a shame, I thought they’d put out some fish tonight.”

That voice. Could it be? No, she couldn’t get her hopes up. Even if it was him, there was no guarantee he would remember her. Her face assumed a polite smile, the kind presented during small talk and other such formalities.

“I know. At least they’ve got shrimp.”

“It’s not the same. I would have liked that dish they put out at the gala. Do you remember, it was your favourite.”

She went silent for an uncomfortable duration, not daring to speak and risk waking up from this dream.

“Sylke,”

She lifted her head, tears beginning to form behind her eyes. No one had said that name, not even her, in so long. How long?

“Finnick.”

He sighed.

“God, I missed your voice.”

Not knowing what else to do, she laughed.

“I missed yours too. It’s deeper now.”

“Oh, I guess so, yeah.”

He took a step closer. They were both facing straight ahead, too afraid to look. She spoke in a gentle whisper.

“I thought you would forget me.”

“I could never.”

For a moment they said nothing.

“There’s a coat room near the entrance. Can you meet me there in five minutes?”

She nodded. He added some shrimp to his plate and returned loudly to a group talking of people. She turned around and watched him for a moment. He spoke with a gallant smile, a performative cackle erupting from him every now and then. His adolescent awkwardness was replaced with an stunning comfort in his own body and an ease in conducting himself. He soon excused himself from the group, leaving without the plate as he walked to the coat room. She counted a minute before discreetly following him. Thankfully, the door had a lock, which she turned as soon as she came into the room. Immediately, perhaps even before she turned around to face him, strong arms surrounded her. To call it a welcome embrace is an understatement. Warmth like this was sorely missed in her new life. It felt like safety, comfort, the things she was never truly sure of in the company of Mr. Indigo. Finnick wore a cologne now too. It was lighter, fresher, maybe even spicy or woody. It took little time for her to grow accustomed to the fragrance. He did not pull away as he began to speak.

“I missed you so much. Where have you been?”

“I-I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s been five years.”

Her eyes widened and she went still. It made sense. This was the 70th game, she fell asleep at the 65th. But she hadn't seen a game after she woke up until this one. She was asleep for four years.

“What?”

He pulled away slightly to look at her face. There was a frightened look in her eyes. He brought his hands up to cup her face.

“Did you not know?”

Tears welled in her eyes again. What happened in that blank space of four years? She remembered nothing but blurry faces and cold white rooms. Did they wake her then too, wipe her memory? The Capitol was capable of everything, what couldn't they have done in four years? He pulled her close again, pressing his lips to her forehead.

“Angel… what did they do to you?”

The two of them disappeared in and out of that coat room throughout the night. They sat on the floor exchanging stories and catching up with a familiarity like not a day had passed. Eventually, the topic came to the game and Annie Cresta.

“She seems nice.”

“She is. People like her are hard to come by. She’s genuine and kind and…”

He trailed off with a soft smile on his lips.

“So the rumours are true.”

He turned his head with a confused expression.

“You love her. I can see it in your eyes.”

She spoke with a melancholy twinge that did not go unnoticed.

“I do.”

Sylke lowered her head. She smiled, knowing the lovely feeling of being in love, and she was happy knowing that Finnick had it. But of course, she was not the object of his affections, and that pulled bittersweet tears from her eyes, one’s that actually fell this time. Finnick placed his hand over hers.

“I never had a little sister growing up. Annie’s the best one I could have asked for.”

A chuckle escaped her lips. She shifted to lean on his chest and he in turn wrapped his arms around her.

“You know… you said something in the arena, right before the end, and I never got the chance to respond.”

She turned her head to look at him. It ended up bringing their faces quite close, which he then took advantage of. Leaning down, he kissed her. It was slow this time, not quick and fleeting like they had done in the game. They could take their time now, enjoy this moment of closeness and warmth. When they did pull away, he whispered with a smile.

“I love you too.”

Sylke left that night in the same covered carriage, in the same dress, with the same egg-shaped mad as she arrived. But the whole world seemed to glow now. It had not shone like this in too long. She had sorely missed the ability to see beauty in everything. It was a skill she had, but it faded when she came to live in Mr. Indigo’s dollhouse. Thankfully, her rose-tinted view of the world had returned. The sweetest, most genuine of smiles remained on her face until she went to bed that night, and even a little after that. On the ride back, Mr. Indigo brought it up.

“You’re awful chipper, little Syren. Did you make some friends tonight?”

She nodded.

“Yes. One of them I think will make a good penpal.”

“Oh, wonderful! Who is it?”

Sylke gave him the information of a woman Finnick had introduced her to, Aven Ashwind, who agreed to be their correspondence go-between. Sylke would write letters to Finnick but address them to Aven. Then Finnick would write letters back, and Aven would send them to Sylke under her own name. Mr. Indigo suspected nothing as she told him about her new friend Aven.

Days after that night passed in a more orderly fashion. Finnick would put the date on his letters, and it allowed Sylke to keep proper track of time. The letters kept a smile on her face, made it easier to find joy in other things as well. Writing was helpful too. Finnick had this skill for words, he always had, but it really shone through his letters. Sylke had it too, an eloquence in communication that made it easier to connect over only correspondence. Beneath her bed, a box that held her dancing slippers sat, on a soft cloth that looked thicker than it actually was. And beneath that, were all of Finnick’s letters. From time to time, she would pull them out and read through them, holding the papers close to her heart once she was done. One letter in particular she enjoyed rereading.

My lovely angel, my dearest, Sylke,I miss you. I know I say write that every time, but it’s true. For so long, I wasn’t sure if you were even alive. Your smile occupied space in my mind, and I was going insane wondering if I would ever see it again. I mentioned it before, but Snow kept tabs on my loved ones. Sometimes I would get photos of you as a reminder that they were in control, but that was hardly proof. Sometimes I would wonder if they were fabricated. If it was too good to be true that you somehow lived. You were never smiling in those photos either. They were always taken from the ground, looking up at you through an open window. Sometimes you would be staring wistfully out to the sky, other times your back was turned and you were dancing, but you never really looked happy. Though, maybe you were when you were dancing. I don’t know, I couldn’t see your face. My point is that I don’t like uncertainty. You and I both have had to adapt to it and grow accustomed to it, but it really is unbearable. At least, it was when it was about your life and happiness. I want you to be happy. I want you to smile and dance and live a life that you enjoy. I know you want that for me too. I protected you in the arena ‘cause I wanted you to have a shot at a happy life where you laugh and smile a lot. We’ll get there one day. One day I’m going to take you to a beach and we’ll just spend the day relaxing in the sun, wading into the water, dancing on the sand, doesn’t that sound nice? Someday, it’s gonna happen. I promise. Until then, please don’t forget how much I love you. Yours,

Finnick

Sylke often wondered in those moment on the floor by her bed if he did the same, reread her letters just like she did. And in fact he did. They were kept in a box under his bed as well, though not particularly hidden. He too had a favourite letter from her.

My darling, Finnick,I miss you too. It’s lonely here. No one speaks to me, not without the most performative of tones. You were right when you said that genuine and kind people are hard to come by. I feel much of the household staff is kind, like I could be friends with them, but they refuse to call me anything by “Miss Syren” and always say that it would be improper to bore me with details about themselves. I miss having people to talk to, most of all having you to talk to. Letters aren’t the same, but it’s better than nothing. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine you here with me. It’s usually when I’m dancing. It’s like I can feel your hand on my waist as I waltz around my room. I get glimpses of your eyes too. Have I ever mentioned how pretty your eyes are? I swear, they’re just the right colour, like the ocean on a perfect day. It’s a lovely escapism, feeling you with me even if you’re far away. Do you do anything like that? Even before we started exchanging letters, I did that.In other news, Mr. Indigo let me start going out onto the lawn without supervision. For the longest time he would keep me in my room with the door locked until he returned home each day. Then he slowly allowed me to move about the house. It’s so nice to be outside. It’s not quite the same with the finely kept topiaries and flowerbeds, but it is still quite lovely. The magnolia tree beneath my window just started blooming yesterday, the fragrance is just wonderful. Magnolias are quickly becoming a favourite flower of mine, though it’s a shame they only last a short while. I’ve been trying to spend as much time as I can outside while they’re in bloom. It’s best at night. When the whole house is asleep, sometimes I slip outside for just a short while. The pink flowers look so ethereal in the moonlight. If you can, please come by soon to admire them. And who knows, maybe I’ll be outside. With all the love in the world,

Sylke

The morning was a blur. All that Sylke remembered was the cold, the steel. There was a firm grip on her arm or her shoulder, guiding her through the capitol throughout, from the apartment to a plane to somewhere she couldn’t quite identify. Everything about that day was cold and clinical, metallic. She would look over to Cesare every now and then, and each time saw a small smirk, like all of this was standard procedure for him. He wasn’t nervous. Neither was she, not very much anyway. There would always be some level of anxiety in this situation, but it was overpowered in the calm of knowing that she knew exactly what was to come, a luxury that no other tribute had. She knew he would find her, she knew he would be fast, she knew that her final moments would be with him, and she was satisfied with such an ending. It wouldn’t be perfect, for nothing ever truly is, but it would be enough.

She was with her stylist somewhere underground. Just as every other room that day, this one was cold, this time pale in its clinical tile walls and steel racks. The uniform she was given was light, smooth, like the nylon she would wear to rehearsals. It was by far the simplest ensemble presented to her in a while. She had enjoyed the lavish and ornate satins and tulles of capitol fashion. At least I got to enjoy it for so long She thought to herself as she was brought to a circular plinth. Soon, she was encased in glass and moved upward.

Sunlight was harsh and with so few clouds in the sky, it would no doubt be like that for a bit. She brought her gaze down from the sky to see that all of the tributes were arranged on their plinths in a circle, around what she took to be the cornucopia that Victoria and Finnick had mentioned. Her eyes lingered little on the arranged supply, sitting neatly arranged on the sand, instead looking around to the other tributes. Cesare was seemingly directly across from her, nowhere to be seen and thus on the other side of the golden horn. Finnick was nearby, with only two others in between them. He met her gaze as she look at him, giving a small reassuring nod, to which she replied with a little smile, something to tell him that he would be alright. The beach that seemed to go on too long before reaching water, the tree line not too far back, seabirds gliding on the wind, all of it so serene. For a moment, she was able to forget all context and simply enjoy it. But her calm was interrupted with the sound of the countdown ending. She knew exactly what to do. She ran to the trees, over sunbaked sand that seemed far too hot to have been heated by only the sun. Sand quickly shifted to soil, cool and soft when she made it to the trees. Dappled light surrounded her as she tuned out the sounds of violence behind her. The pace of her steps slowed, her head tilted to look up, she tried to take it all and find that calm from before. The sounds of clashing metal, the screams, it was too much. That serenity was gone, overpowered by the noise from the beach. It was too loud here, too hard to find any calm. She could hear blood roaring in her ears, thrumming a pulse through her head. There was no way she could have anticipated this feeling, something akin to a rush, but more horrified. The only thing that could be done was run, and thus she ran. Further into the jungle, past dozens of beautiful things that on any other day she would linger to appreciate. Her body was screaming to escape, there was no time for anything else. All shades of green blurred past as she stepped through, snapping branches and undoubtedly leaving tracks in the soft ground. None of it mattered. Time didn’t feel real, neither did the game, all that she understood as she moved was the air that pushed against her skin.

And then suddenly it was gentle. Everything stopped, nothing was flashing by, all was close to still. That was for but a moment, before she felt the cold. It was shocking to say the least, but it brought her back to the present. With eyes tightly shut, she pulled herself out from the shallow stagnant water and wiped her face with hands that were now dampened with a fair bit of sediment and water. Looking back she could see the fallen tree she had stumbled over. Her uniform was soaked, her hair too. She sat down to catch her breath. A wave of something like calm finally came as she wrung out her hair. She closed her eyes, feeling the water run under her hands. She was all alone here. Far from safe, but at least for now tranquil. She could feel the sun on her face, warming the body she only then realised was shivering. Perhaps she sat there for seconds, perhaps hours. When she opened her eyes she was able to take it in. Some form of greenery clung to every surface, like a human had never dared even look to this place. She couldn’t see any animals but they could certainly be heard. Birdsongs came from every direction, some distant and some eerily close. Every now and then the brush would rustle, something was moving, but she felt no need to investigate. They could show themselves if they wanted to. As she sat, a dryness in her throat presented itself. The heat of the sun and the effort of running had no doubt dehydrated her, but the water she had fallen in was dirty and stagnant, certainly not drinkable. But looking around, she wondered if she might find something nearby with some juice to drink. With that, she decided to wait here for Finnick. She didn’t know how long her would take to find her, so she resolved to make herself useful in the meantime. Just because she was going to die didn’t mean she couldn’t help him. She began scouting the area for plants she recognised. She first scoured things close to the ground, either shrubs or fallen things that could indicate something above. After some scanning she found a growing sapling by the edge of the clearing that had green bulbs hanging from its branches, ripe and ready to be harvested. She’d only eaten guava once or twice, but she remembered enjoying it. And regardless, she wouldn’t be the one eating it, and she doubted anyone would care about something so trivial as taste in the arena. After picking a couple of them, she continued to look around. The search was interrupted when she heard a rustle nearby, one too loud to be made by an animal. The sound repeated, followed by a yell. Whoever it was was getting closer. With the guavas clutched close to her chest she dashed to the nearest tree for cover. Perhaps she didn’t need to do so, but instinct kicked in before she remembered the resolution she had made so long ago. The tree was small, as trees go, low enough to the ground that she was covered by its foliage. Through dappled gaps between leaves, she had a perfect view of one large tree and a rather imperfect view of the clearing. The sounds were getting closer, though they had yet to arrive in the open, treeless sunlight. Startling her a little too much was the repetitive drumming of a sapsucker on the trunk of the tree within her line of sight. Her eyes could see it in her periphery, though she tried to keep her focus on the clearing. Nothing came. From the corner of her eye she saw the bird move up, and the hole it left behind. Red liquid oozed from the new wound in the bark, as though it was bleeding.

Every living thing in this world, it has a soul.

Someone had said that to her when she was young, and it had stayed in her mind. Unfortunately, her attention was ripped away from the bleeding tree when the rustling got loud, she could see the shrubs being hacked away by a machete someone was wielding. She stared with wide eyes as they emerged, though she didn’t dare look at their face. For what if it wasn’t Finnick? What if someone else had found her, was going to kill her, slowly, painfully? She could see the machete, grilled tightly in one hand, with a collection of things in the other, all stained to some degree with blood. A couple of knives, each with varying lengths, and a fishing net. The sight of the net gave her the confidence to look up. Perhaps it was him.

There he was.

His tan skin seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, or perhaps it was the layer of sweat that coated his face. Right there, those were the eyes she knew so well. Those beautiful sea-green eyes, warm and yet cold, ones that she had seen looking back at her with such affection, ones that shone even in the dullest of light. She made her way out of the flora, joining him in the sunlight.

“Sylke!”

In a fraction of a second, his arms were around her, warm and comforting. Silence had become a staple in their interactions, and here it was amplified. He held her tight, tighter than ever before, afraid she would slip away like mist after morning. It began to dawn on her that she likely would never feel this again. She guavas she was holding fell to the ground as she brought her arms to wrap around him as well. Her breath grew shaky as the certainty of her death truly set in. Up until this moment it had provided her with security, with calm, but now, as it was only moments away, she grew terrified. Her whole body began to shake, the grip on his torso became tight and desperate, tears leaked from her eyes.

“Sylke…”

She couldn’t bring herself to speak let alone move. His embrace was loosening. This was it. He pushed her away, only to look at her face, but it was a push enough. The tears fell in earnest now, a hand was on her face to cover her quivering lips, though it did a feeble job.

“Sylke, talk to me, did something happen?”

She continued to cry, lost for words. A hand that was not her own came to her cheek, wiping away the tears. Looking into his eyes, those ever comforting eyes, she was able to draw a steadier breath. Her eyes closed as she collected herself, she would only have to hold it together for a few moments longer. She looked back into his eyes, her voice steady and calm again.

“Do it.”

There was a silence once more, but only for a moment. A long moment.

“What?”

“Do it.”

Her voice was shaky, it was hard to hold it together for so long. Why was he taking so long?

“Do what?”

He was clearly confused, though she couldn’t imagine why. She took the spear from his hold and pointed it’s head to her chest, holding the handle out towards him.

“Better with you than anyone else.”

He looked into her eyes, and then to the handle of the spear. His hand wrapped around it and he took a breath. She closed her eyes.

Nothing.

There was nothing, no pain, she felt nothing. She could still hear the birds, singing away in the distance. She opened her eyes, curious to see what awaited her. He was still there. Those sea-green eyes were gazing at her, full of melancholy. Everything was still there. She looked down to her chest and saw no spear. There was nothing.

“What?”

It was now her turn to be confused.

“Did you think I was going to kill you?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I-“

He couldn’t come up with an answer, not one that made sense anyway. Her logic was sound, by all means, he should have killed her.

“I don’t know. I don’t want you to go.”

The thoughts in his head began to make more sense as he spoke. He didn’t want to part with her, and certainly not like this. There was something in him that burned to see her smile, to keep her alive, to protect her.

“Finnick-“

“I know it’s selfish. I get that, but I just can’t. I can’t watch you go, not yet. I want to be around you, please let me be around you for a little bit longer.”

By the end of his words he was standing closer, everything he had been holding dropped to the ground, and with her hands in his instead, pleading eyes that she could never refuse. Her head dropped to his shoulder, nuzzling into him and whispering her agreement. After all, she too wanted to stay around him. But there was no ignoring that she would need to die eventually. Just not yet.

The rest of the day was spent with no human contact aside from the two of them. Sylke used the red sap, dragon’s blood, to plug his wounds.

“It’s sticky and thicker than blood, if we let it dry over the wounds then the bleeding will stop.”

“It looks like blood. That’s nice, it’ll still look wounded. They’ll underestimate me.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

Finnick hadn't gathered much from the Cornucopia, just some kinves and a spear, by the time he found Sylke he was also in dire need of water and ravenously hungry. The guavas she had gathered were thankfully enough energy that he could help her find a good water source. They found a nice, wide stream of running water. There was a small clearing on the riverbank where they decided to settle. Finnick fished in the stream and Sylke gathered nearby plants. Just before sunset, when the two of them were washing their food and attempting to start a fire, a package slowly descended from the sky on a grey parachute. Their first gift, not even a day in. Upon opening, they found a loaf of bread, still warm and dusted with flour. Black olives were sticking out of the hard crust like rocks, a sign that both Finnick and Sylke understood immediately. This gift was meant for me. She took the loaf in her hands and tore it in half, giving the bigger half to Finnick. They ate well that night, with fish from the stream and a starchy root with violet flecks in the flesh cooked over the fire they did eventually start, and guavas for desert.

"You know, tomorrow I can show you how to weave baskets so we don't have to eat off the ground."

"You know how to do that?"

"Yeah. Mags taught me."

He reached over to the reeds that grew from the riverbed and plucked a few.

"These are pretty similar to the dune grass we use back home."

Most days were spent similarly: hunting and gathering food. It took up so much time, more time than Sylke had ever before spent thinking about food. It had never been much of a challenge to find food, having grown up rather well-off in a wealthy district. Edible plants weren't exactly sparse, but it still took most if not all of the day to gather enough for two hungry young teenagers. Finnick had given her a knife to better cut stalks and leaves, but also to defend herself.

"Don't go far from the stream. Please. And if you run into trouble just call for me, okay?"

Sylke didn't fully intend on doing that. In her mind she should have already been dead, running into trouble would only right the timeline. So she just nodded and smiled at him, basking in the kindness in his heart.

"Okay."

As she foraged she came upon all sorts of plants, not just food, but medicine, anti-septic and vomit-inducing and all sorts of things. She gathered them, naturally, and as she was cutting stems, her eye caught sight of a familiar blossom somewhat in the distance. She knew it immediately, a deadly tree to be handled with care and only in the most dire of situations, with the most beautiful flowers hanging from its branches. It dawned upon her that without her, Finnick could be hurt by these things, by this tree, that he wasn't familiar with, not like she was. He surely wouldn't eat anything he didn't know, but even touching some things, like this tree, could have consequences. And suddenly his actions made more sense. There was reason behind keeping her alive. Any uncertainty or confusion within her settled as she reached this epiphany, and she continued to gather.

The two of them spoke little of the games and of death after the first day, but both were intensely aware of the premise. They knew she would have to die at some point, and Finnick made sure that it would be as late as possible. He mentioned once, whispered to himself when he thought she was sleeping:

“I’m gonna protect you. I’ll do whatever it takes, I promise.”

Sylke didn't know what to do after she heard him speak those words, and so she elected to ignore them, pretend like she was asleep and that it simply didn't happen. They trekked through the jungle, Sylke had made it so that they would never actively seek out people. Finnick couldn’t argue, he didn’t want to kill if he didn’t have to. People seemed to like the pragmatic pacifist approach, as all of the gifts they received were food, supplies, or medicine aside from one. Both Sylke and Finnick had many sponsors, something neither of them expected to such a degree.

“You know, Cesare called you the capitol’s prince. I think he was right.”

Finnick’s eyes were still glued to the shining golden trident in his hands.

“Why’s that?”

“They love you. They sent you all this after all.”

He looked up at her, with the bag on her shoulder full of gifts.

“Then they must love you too. Princess.”

She giggled. Her smile was somewhat rare now that the game had been going for a bit, but it was still just as bright. It had a way of raising Finnick's spirits even more than holding the trident.

The trident was mostly used for fishing, and once for other, miscellaneous bloodshed. Sylke was washing and sorting her gathered plants by the river, and Finnick had just returned from a sadly unsuccessful attempt at hunting in the jungle. It seemed his proficiency with fishing didn't translate as well to land. In his hands he held an unused net woven from vines and the golden trident, entirely devoid of blood. He could see her in the distance, she looked so peaceful. There were birds singing a very repetitive tune, and she chose to sing with it, harmonising with the otherwise simple bird song. The sun lit her in such an ethereal way, and sitting by the river, a melody streaming from her mouth, she really did look like a princess. As he admired her, his attention was taken by rustling in the brush. He saw the poorly concealed outlines of two people, holding weapons with clear and bloody intention. They were further from the clearing than he was, and yet they didn’t see him, too focused on the easy prey by the river. Finnick acted quickly, setting up his net at the portion of the tree line behind Sylke, so they were bound to walk into it. She was a ways away from the edge of the clearing, but there was no way they would risk getting in her line of sight. By some trick of luck, he was able to remain hidden, hoping that she wouldn’t notice and blow his cover. As he saw them come nearer, he finished the final touches, rigging it to all be connected to a vine that would function as a pulley on a strong-looking tree. Perched like a monkey in the tree, he waited for them to step on his camouflaged net. As they got closer, their conversation came into earshot.

“You think she’s alone?”

“I think so. But if she isn’t it can’t hurt, might as well kill them too.”

That was when things clicked for him. People in this arena were bloodthirsty, death meant little to them if it wasn’t their own. They looked rough, a little injured, and yet they continued to hunt. They would kill until someone stopped them. Finnick wondered what would happen after he caught them. Would he leave them there to starve? He couldn’t let them out, they would continue to hunt. An image flashed in his head, one of Sylke bleeding out by the river, leaves still wet in her hands. They weren’t going to stop until they killed her, would they? She was an easy kill and nothing else. His grip on the vine tightened, footsteps came closer.

“Look, there she is.”

One of them smiled, pointing to the girl in the clearing. They took out their weapons.

“This’ll be fun”

One more step forward and they were done. The evil grins on their faces were so casual, their movements too. That was perhaps what Finnick hated most, the ease with which they spoke of killing such an angel. A careless step or two forward, and he held onto the vine, using his body weight as he jumped down to pull them up. They yelled, frantically moving to get out. Finnick wrapped the vine around a branch to secure it in place. For a moment he was still, trident held loosely in his hand, unsure of what to do. One of the tributes quickly began gnawing on the vine, and in little time snapped it before moving on to the next. Both of them had eyes still fixed on Sylke. They weren’t going to stop. Impulse coursed through his body, the image of her lifeless body bright in his mind. He could hear the canon, it was too much. He couldn’t let that happen, not if he could help it. His breathing was heavy, his eyes were closed. When they finally opened, when he finally let go of the trident, it didn’t fall. His chest rose and fell faster than hurricane winds, with more intensity too. The canon boomed, thrumming through the ground and vibrating in his skull. He finally looked up when he heard gurgling. The poor sod was choking on his own blood. Finnick couldn’t focus on that though. With the most indifferent and blank look on his face, he ripped the trident from both the bodies he had punctured, splattering a bit of blood on himself in the process. He left them hanging from the tree and walked into the clearing. When Sylke saw him she greeted him with a smile and asked if he caught anything. He said nothing. There was a fear in her eyes, it had been established by the boom of the cannons, and it only grew as she watched him. He knelt by the river and washed the blood from his face and hands, silent all throughout. What exactly was going through his head, not even he was sure of. It was whirring, full of something, but moving too fast to discern. It was something about safety, something about protecting her, about Machiavellian pragmatism and such.

She watched as his hands moved methodically to scrub off the blood. Something about him was different, and judging by the blood and lack of food, she took it to mean he watched someone die. And then her eyes found the bloody trident, and the full story was revealed. Disregarding any and all morals, her utmost priority was him. As he shook water from his hands and wiped them on his suit, she stood and walked over. In a single and fluid movement, she wrapped her arms around him. He was on his knees, but his back was straight and he looked forward into the middle distance with no trace of emotion. His hands came to gently touch hers. They were cold, almost barren and raw. He continued to stare blankly ahead, saying nothing. There was an unspoken agreement between them, no one needed explain themselves. They said little if anything that night.

He couldn’t seem to fall asleep that night. They didn’t move from the clearing, lying on the ground when that ominous anthem played. Pictures of the fallen tributes lit up the night sky. Finnick’s eyes lost their beautiful colour in the bright and overpowering light of the projection. He recognised them immediately. A boy from eight and another from ten, that was who he killed. After that, he found it even harder to rest. The sky darkened again, and he found some comfort in that, but not much. Sylke looked to him with pity, wishing that she could just make it all go away. His head found itself cradled in her lap. He knew he should sleep, he was trying, but it was hard. Still, he tried.

“Promise if you see something you’ll wake me up.”

“Okay.”

The sound of her voice, which he heard little of that day, somehow brought his spirits up a little, a reminder that she was still here. It allowed him to at least act like things were alright.

“No promise me, actually promise.”

Even in the dim light of night she could see the amused grin on his face, the beautiful eyes that were bright like stars when he laughed. It made her want to laugh too.

“Go to sleep!”

“Only if you promise~”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said while closing his eyes.

He still couldn’t sleep. There weren’t many sounds that night. Birds were unusually quiet, water was unusually calm. He needed some sort of noise, otherwise it was too eerie, too calm to be true.

“Could you sing for me?”

“Of course.”

She ran through the list of songs in her head, before deciding on a lullaby she knew, though from where she did not know.

“There’s a place where all is calm”

Her voice was quiet, breathy, intimate as though her words were meant only for him. And in truth they were.

”Where the sea goes on and on”

This song wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone else. If things were perfect they would be truly alone in this moment.

“Nothing ever goes wrong”

Of course that couldn’t be the case, the whole of Panem was likely looking at them. But if she closed her eyes, felt the weight of his body against hers and the feeling of his hair in in her hands, it was like it was only them. The rest of the world faded away and she lost herself in the melody.

“In the land of seim-hin-seom”

“People there are kind”

“And sweetest of all I find”

“Are the birds that sing, their melodies ring”

“Seim-hin-seom with her endless spring”

“The water is sweet in seim-hin-seom”

“The hills are green in seim-hin-seom”

“And fairies dance in seim-hin-seom”

“My home is there in seim-hin-seom”

In her memories, she would sway while humming the next part. It had no words, just a tune to hum. Finnick was still, his breathing steady, but a part of her knew that he was still awake. His body was still just a little tense, he hadn’t fully let his guard down, and she couldn’t blame him. As she moved ever so slightly side to side and hummed the melody, she noticed his breathing slow even more, his body almost melted with how relaxed he was. That was how she knew he had fallen asleep. She bent her head down to place a kiss on his temple before continuing her song. After all, a sudden stop in the music might wake him.

“You and I, together, we’ll go”

“In no time at all I know”

“We’ll be dancing along”

“We’ll dance until dawn”

“In the land of seim-hin-seom”

As tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. They needed someone to watch. So she kept herself awake with music. Singing to herself with every song she knew, most of them love songs, while trying not to dwell on all the sorrow that surrounded her.

The days were monotonous, blending together to the point that the nightly anthem and booming cannons were the only markers of passing time. Sylke couldn't help but count. It shocked her but it was the truth: they were down to the final eight. She suggested they go to the beach for better fishing and a change of scenery. Finnick agreed because he figured the risk of trouble was lower now that there were fewer tributes in the arena. They followed the stream until soil turned to sand and space between trees expanded. It was a cove, with high and dangerous looking rocks to one side, and the familiar jungle on the other as well as behind. There was a group of tributes left, the careers. Finnick couldn’t help but wonder if he would have joined them had he not been so taken with Sylke. These thoughts came to him as he swam through the water, eyes closed for most of it and feeling the water crashing against his skin. He decided to briefly open his eyes, and saw a world of blue dappled light. The water was so clear, he could see far into the distance. It seemed that where the water met the rocks there was an opening underwater, one he was willing to bet led to a cave. In a moment of stillness, he pivoted upright and opened his eyes to see her sitting by their things and occasionally looking up to check on him with a smile, on the shore. She looked so happy, finding little shells and playing with crabs that ran in and out of their little holes in the sand. He would give anything to have this peace forever. How cruel the world could be. He waded back to the shore, and by the tree line, he saw for a moment the flash of steel in the sunlight. Suspicion crept in, but he chose not to make it known yet. Instead, he whispered to Sylke to be quiet, and tried to listen. Whispers could be heard from the tree line.

“Once he steps away, we can get her.”

“And why do you think he’ll do that again?”

“It’s not like she can fish. He’ll go into the water and she’ll stay on the shore. That’s when we strike.”

That was all Finnick needed to hear. A small amount of fury built up within him, not quite enough to make his blood boil, but close. It made sense, this late in the game with such an easy target still around, but it enraged him nonetheless. All of their supplies were in a bag, which he hastily picked up before holding his hand out to Sylke.

“Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere, I just wanna take you into the water. C’mon, let’s go!”

He walked backwards to lead her into the water, glancing back to the shaded jungle. They hadn’t left yet. Thankfully, they were out of earshot.

“Can you swim?”

“Sort of? I’m not racing you if that’s where you’re headed.”

Most times he would laugh, say something about how no one could beat him in a swim race. But this time he didn’t.

“We’ll have to move quickly. I think we’re far enough out that if we go underwater they won’t know where we are.”

“Who won’t know?”

“There’s some people I’ve by the trees, three or four.”

“Okay.”

Sylke looked around, scanning the area for a place to hide.

“Let’s get out of open water first, and then find a more long term place to hide from there. How about the rocks over there?”

She pointed to a collection a jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff side, a bit dangerous, but safer than open water with a group of tributes itching to hunt. Finnick nodded, and they swam over to the edge of the cove. Once safe among the rocks, they peered over to see the tributes emerging from the jungle upon their disappearance. It was Cesare and the tributes from two. The career pack. The girl from four had been with them earlier in the game, but her canon fired a day before. Sylke got fragmented glimpses of them in between waves that crashed into the cliff and then bounced back at her. The water wasn’t very calm here, not like it was out in the centre of the cove. She saw them moving about the beach, checking for any supplies left behind and scanning the water for signs of other people. Sylke kept her head down.

“They’re going to find us sooner or later, what’s the plan?”

Finnick was staring off into the distance, seemingly at where the cliff smoothed out a bit and met the water more calmly further out.

“There might be a cave over there. Stay here and stay down, I’m gonna check it out.”

Just as he took a breath and prepared to swim, she grabbed his arm.

“Wait.”

She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Be safe. Come back to me soon, okay?”

“Always.”

With not a moment to spare, he dove into the water moved quickly away. Sylke remained, peering occasionally at the career pack on the beach. They had yet to see her, but they likely would soon. Hopefully he would be back by then. Perhaps this was the way she was going to go. She could hardly protect herself against someone like Cesare, and if Finnick wasn’t there to protect her like he had the past few days…

In her mind she could see herself, painting the water red, lying lifeless atop the very rock she presently used as cover. How peaceful it looked, like sleeping. She could only hope that it would be quick and calm like falling asleep. And even if it wasn’t, even if her pain was drawn out and torturous, it would be over eventually anyway. She wouldn’t be around to care anymore. But Finnick would. What would he do, seeing her bleeding out on the rocks? Would he cry? Perhaps he would drive his trident into her head, just to make it a little faster. Perhaps he would smile upon hearing the canon fire, knowing his chances just got better. No. He wouldn’t do that, not for her. In fact not for anyone. The sound of canons haunted him, she could tell, no matter how much he insisted it didn’t. It kept him awake at night, the sounds of canons firing away in his mind. They haunted her too, but not in the same way. It wasn’t the canons that plagued her mind, it was the screams. Sometimes they could be heard. That day in the clearing they sounded so close. She hated those moments, wishing she could muster the strength to run and save them, take care of them, nurse them back to health. But they were too far away, Finnick needed help too, and they would be dead once she got there. Perhaps that was why Sylke insisted they stay away from everyone. She couldn’t bear to be closer to the screams.

Finnick’s swimming form came closer under the waves, and in little time his head came up, turning quickly from side to side like a dog shaking water from its pelt. He wiped his face before opening his eyes.

“They didn’t see you?”

“Nope. What did you find?”

“There’s a cave, it looks safe. We’ll have to go deeper underwater for a bit though, before coming up on the other side.”

She nodded, preparing herself to swim. They pushed off the rocks and stayed along the cliff side towards the cave mouth. Finnick was fast, even with the added drag of their bag of supplies, and Sylke struggled to keep up with him. As the gap between them widened, she began to panic. Her movements grew more frantic, scooping water and kicking with more fervor than ever before. She could see the mouth of the cave, blurry under the surface. Finnick stopped before going in, treading water to wait for her.

“Take a deep breath and hold it okay? It won’t be long.”

They both drew large breaths and moved with closed eyes under the water. As they continued, Sylke found it in herself to open her eyes. It stung, but only a little, and not sharply. The tunnel was dark, though she could see light at the end, and Finnick’s silhouette in front of her. Her lungs were screaming, but she continued. The light was so close, she could see the surface. He had already made it, he was wading out, she could do it too. But it got harder, each movement of her arms and legs brought her shorter distances, her body was losing energy. How funny it would be if this was to be her end. Her eyes closed, finally relaxing, along with the rest of her body that gave in as well. It was impossible to tell if her lungs were filling with water. All that she truly knew was that it was peaceful here. The water was finally calm, pushing against her body with a certain gentle touch, like it’s only purpose was for her to be comfortable. All she could hear was the whirring deadened sounds of waves. How calming. Her body could finally rest.

The kind and gentle water that surrounded her shifted. It was dragging against her skin, she was being pulled away from it, something else was secured around her midsection. Cold, that’s what surrounded her now. It wasn’t gentle anymore, it was sharp, cold, so cold. Something pounded on her chest, something heavy and fast and certainly not within her control. The cloudy noise of water faded away, and she could hear a voice, faint but growing louder.

“Come on, come on, Sylke please-“

Muscles she didn’t know she had convulsed, pushing water she didn’t realise was there out from her throat. She could breathe again. Only then did she truly understand the luxury that is to breathe. How wonderful it is, for wind to move freely in and out of your body. She had little time and less energy to contemplate this ant further, for almost immediately after her gasp for air, she was secured in a warm and strong embrace. There, she was able to regain her bearings and actually understand what had happened.

“Y-you saved me,”

He held her a little tighter, nodding his head a bit as well.

“Why?”

“What?”

"Why, Finnick? It was perfect! It's the final few, sure to end in a day or two, you've no use for me anymore. Why didn't you just let me die, why-"

"No use to me? Sylke is that what you..."

"Isn't it? That's why, on the first day, why you didn't..."

He pulled her desperately close, like he was trying to fuse their skin. With his head next to hers, cheek to cheek, he spoke softly. This wasn't for the cameras, this was just for them.

"Angel, you couldn't be more wrong."

She whispered response, quieter than even him.

"Then why?"

“I told you. I can’t let you die. I don’t know why and I don’t care. Nothing, not even the goddamn ocean, is gonna lay a finger on you while I’m around. I’m not going to see you get hurt if I can help it. I can't lose you.”

"Still?"

He pulled away slightly, still holding her close, but looking now able to look in her eyes. He whispered reassurance meant only for her.

"Always.”

Her brows furrowed as she turned her head to look up at him. Tears were forming in her eyes, though they did not fall just yetl. Light was dim, his face was shrouded in partial shadow, but his eyes, as always, she could see perfectly. In his eyes she saw everything she longed not to. She saw pity, compassion, some kind of anger, and above all, love. There was so much love in his eyes, so much care for the one who beheld his gaze. But she was determined not to let their conversation from that first day replay. She mustered strength to hoist herself up somewhat out of his arms, not letting go, but no longer leaning on him.

“You know full well that’s not feasible.”

His head dropped and a grin came to his face, along with a small, sarcastic laugh.

“I know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“You’re going to have to though-“

“I know that too.”

He exhaled, strong and breathy. In a moment, he raised his head again to look at her, with endless love in those sea green eyes again.

“Would it be so bad if you survived?”

“Yes. Cause it would mean that you would have to die. Finnick, I can’t have that either.”

He laughed again.

“Well it seems we’re at an impasse.”

She laughed too. Incredible- she thought- that ever human ability to laugh when all is hopeless. To find joy where there really should be none.

“I guess so.”

Both of them were exhausted, too much to argue endlessly and likely come nowhere close to convincing the other person. So instead, Finnick shifted the conversation, checking on her breathing and making sure that she was alright. Once that was done, they began setting up camp. Two cannons sounded as they did so. The cave was, as one would expect, entirely stone. It seemed to be a crevice between two much larger rock formations, like the narrowest of cannons. Light came though a sliver in the distance, much to high up to climb, through which water also came, falling in a cataract before flowing into the ocean. Everything around them was either stone or water, none of it particularly colourful, and yet somehow, all together, there was something ethereally beautiful about this place.

When night came, the cave was completely dark. There was nothing with which they could construct a fire, so they decided simply to sleep. For the first time, they were safe enough that one of them didn’t need to keep watch. There was no way that someone would be stupid enough to swim into the cave in the pitch black night. And so, they could finally fall asleep together. Finnick wrapped his arms around her as they laid down on the cold stone. It wasn’t at all comfortable, but neither of them seemed to notice, focused only on the comfort of each other’s warmth. Sleep came quickly that night.

They were woken by the boom of three canons. As much as she despises it, Sylke had created a habit of counting the canons. So far, twenty-one in total. Only one other person was left.

“How many is that now?”

Finnick wasn't counting. She didn’t want to worry him, and for some reason, a part of her decided to lie.

“Don’t know.”

It seemed midday, with so much light pouring in through the top of the cave. The day was spent mostly in the cave, trying to rest and recuperate. As the grumbling of their bellies got louder, it became clear that this cave was not a good place to be, too isolated from food and housing no way of making a fire. They swam out again, this time holding their breath for an extended duration first. Sylke had enough energy to get her to the surface on the other side, and after a moment of treading water, was able to make it to shore. They sat on the warm sand, with closed eyes and heavy breathing. Finnick’s stomach grumbled again.

“I can go into the jungle and get us some fruit or something.”

“Okay. I’ll stay here and fish. Take the bag too, just in case. If something happens, you’ll need it more than I do.”

Sylke nodded and gave him a kiss before heading into the jungle. Affection between them has become rather casual in the past few days. It most certainly would not have happened had they met elsewhere, but it seemed that the arena heightened all emotions. Any other situation and they likely would have acted simply like awkward teenagers, but adrenaline and the looming spectre of death had a way of dissuading that.

It was so quiet today. There was only one other person left roaming about, and with that came a certain safety. As she examined the greenery around her, there was a tranquil security that found her, a reassurance that she was safe. But of course, there was no guarantee. There was an anxiety that still lingered in her mind. As she picked guavas from a small tree, she heard a tumbling in the distance. Curiosity overtook her, and she almost blindly walked toward the origin of the sound, hoping to find an animal she might be able to help. Instead she saw a man, unmoving on the ground. Even in the state he was in, his identity was undeniable. She rushed over to Cesare without hesitation, searching his body for whatever it was that was draining his energy. She found a massive welt on his ankle, red and angry with two puncture wounds at the top of the swelling mass. She acted quickly, pulling leaves and bark she saved along with a bottle of water from the bag. In her hand she smashed a couple of flame-coloured flowers and hastily mixed it with water to create a crude paste. She rubbed that on the welt, hoping it might incite a reaction. It was to reduce swelling, but more than that, she hoped it would prove he was still conscious enough to sense her touch. He jerked, but made no sound. His breathing was shallow, his pulse was weak, and she had no idea what to do. How could she help him? There was no way she could get the venom out, it had clearly already spread. She couldn’t really treat it without knowing what spider bit him. She dug frantically through the bag, desperate for anything that could help. She opened every little metal tin, all of them empty or containing nothing useful. If only they hadn’t used up all of their medicine, if only she had moved a little faster, if only she had taught him how to deal with spider bites when they were still training. She could feel his pulse weakening, hear his breathing slow.

Please, please, not like this. I can save him, I can help him, please…

And when the canon sounded, she understood. She finally understood why he was so silent that day in the clearing, why his eyes looked so blank. To feel the life drain from someone right in front of you, it brings a certain numbness, one that can’t truly be spoken or put into words. But it wasn’t quite the same. She took step after step, transcending the ground beneath her feet, not feeling anything, not even the breeze that brushed her face. Innumerable voice screamed various things in her mind.

She couldn’t really tell what there were saying, so loud that it blended together into a whirring that drowned out everything else in the world. She continued to pick fruit and gather food, but her eyes were blank, her mind was elsewhere. That is, until she came to a certain tree. It was fairly small, the flowers low enough to touch. As she stared at the hanging blossoms, the voices in her head consolidated.

Cesare was gone. He was the last one, it was just her and Finnick. One of them had to die. She laughed to herself, a hollow and nihilistic laugh, impressed that she managed to get this far. It wasn’t even a question her mind, it was going to be her. How perfect that she was standing by this tree, perhaps the most potent poison she knew. They flowers were a beautiful violet with white bleeding at the edges, like handkerchiefs pinched in the centre and dipped in ink. They were so elegant, so perfect. In any other circumstance she would stand back, but now she reached her hand out. The petals were soft, as though crafted from the finest of satin and lace. The voices spoke as one, putting together a plan. With gentle hands, she plucked a small bunch of flowers to form a bouquet, making sure not to touch the bag after handling the flowers. With them in hand, she began trekking back to the beach, slowly strolling through the jungle with unparalleled security. Every now and then, she would pull a flower from the bouquet and place it in her mouth. They tasted like any other flower, mostly bland, but there was a subtle sweetness to them, a comforting and floral sort of sweetness that she quite enjoyed. The stroll was perfect. Birds were singing, all was calm, there was no danger in this space anymore. Finally, she was safe, and so was he. She stopped to admire all sorts of things, flowers, animals, dappled sunlight that hit the forest floor in a perfect sort of way, all was mesmerisingly beautiful. By the time she made it to the beach, there was one flower left. Her vision was beginning to blur, she was no longer enjoying the world around her, she could hardly perceive it. With the little energy she had left, she stood on the sand and called out to him.

“Finnick!”

He turned around, walking over to her rather casually until he came closer and saw her state, at which point he rushed to her side. Her eyes were tired, her stance was far from steady, and in a matter of seconds, her legs gave way. He caught her, lying down where the soil met the sand with her in his arms.

“What happened, are you hurt?”

As she spoke, he could see a violet tint on her tongue. Her voice was breathy, tired, but she spoke with a slightly delirious smile.

“I’m alright. We’re the only ones left you know.”

His face shifted. There was a possibility, an inkling, that whispered horror in his ear, one that he hoped beyond hope that it wasn’t true.

“D-did you get hurt? What’s going on?”

She held up the flower in her hand.

“I found a tree, full of these. Finnick, they were so pretty. They’re sweet too. I ate some, but I wanted you to see one. Aren’t they pretty?”

He laughed, his heart warmed by her childlike delirium, but something about it felt wrong.

“Very pretty. Can I try?”

“No!”

She shoved it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing with haste.

“No, don’t do that. They’re poison Finnick, don’t eat it.”

His eyes widened.

“You ate poison? W-why? Sylke, angel, why would you do that?”

She looked up, her gaze strong and true and full of affection. She gazed into his eyes, those beautiful green eyes, and everything felt right in the world. This was how it would end, and looking into those eyes, knowing they wouldn’t go still, she smiled.

“I love you. You’ve got such pretty eyes, you know that?”

A wave of fatigue washed over her and she closed her eyes, relaxing into his embrace.

“So pretty.”

Her body was unbearably still. Finnick stared with wide eyes, waiting for her chest to rise or her mouth to move, but it didn’t. There was nothing in his arms that moved, even he was still as death. As everything around him began to fade and reality set in, a voice, one singular voice, boomed over it all.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the victor of the 65th annual hunger games.”

(A/N: yes I did write a song for this, I picture it as a simple children's lullaby, sometimes with a flute or harp accompaniment.)

The capitol wasn’t all that different from district one. It was more modern, more luxurious, but not by much. Sylke thought back to the reaping. This year was a strange one. For some reason, none of the training female career tributes volunteered, either too young or not ready. She was only fourteen, never once had she wanted the life of a career. And yet her name had been the one drawn. Standing on that stage next to a man much older who’s trained his whole life for this, she felt more out of place than ever before. The train ride was not long, less than a day, but Sylke found it hard to relax, and time seemed to pass at a snail's pace. She had decided the moment her name was called and no one volunteered, that this was the end of her life. It wasn't even a question in her mind. Normally she would try to maintain a certain amount of optimism, but as she pondered on the train it became evident that such hope was almost always applied to someone not herself. Undying optimism was reserved for everyone else, while a more calculating hope was held for herself. In this case, the odds were not in her favour. The best she could do was enjoy the little bit of life she has left. And she did. Regardless of its strange and bloody traditions, the capitol was beautiful. The gifts she had been offered, the world she got to see from the train window, so much of it was bright and wonderful. And with the little time she had left, she resolved to appreciate it.

The other tribute from 1, Cesare, didn’t seem to like her much. He was cold, offered only backhanded advice, and made a lousy excuse for her only companion. Their mentor, Victoria, was sweet, convinced that Sylke could survive with some allies and sponsors. Their escort, Misty, agreed, and was already assembling a list of rich possible benefactors she planned to meet with. When they arrived in the capitol, Sylke was desperate for a new face, a friendly one. There was one person around her age, the tribute from four. She saw him at the tribute parade, dressed glamourously in blue and green. When they met, she tried to be as friendly and genuine as possible. That was his first instinct as well, to simply be kind, to make a friend, but when the conversation was over, he was swiftly pulled aside and reminded that she wouldn’t make a good ally, that he should put energy into connections with other, more fit tributes. As he tried to talk to Cesare, a broad-shouldered athlete who clearly had an advantage at the game, Finnick couldn’t keep himself from looking in her direction, from thinking about her and what she must be feeling. There was a churning anxiety, an uncertainty, that raged like a storm in the high seas within his core, one deeply tied to being so young in a place full or intimidating older kids. She was probably in the same boat, and he was drawn to that. No one else was that young in this Game, and in a different world, perhaps they even would have been friends. That is what kept him lingering in her mind as well. That they could have been friends. Only to her, they still could be even if only for a short while. It was the only friend she might be able to find in this place.

There was a gala that night, a chance to meet people, network, get sponsors. Sylke’s stylist put her in a long, heavy gown, white and gold with little pearls and jewels, to appeal to sponsors from one as her stylist put it. Something about portraying luxury. As much as she disliked the performance of it all, it had been a while since she’d been in a gown like this, with the heavy silks that draped off her body like water flowing gently over time-smoothed rocks. Something about it felt authentic, the daintiness and femininity. If she looked in a mirror she looked like herself. There had been a few times like that in her life, all of them before or during dance performances. The mirror that hung on the wall backstage was where she would check her costume before going up. She was grateful each time that her character wouldn’t be be frowning. She wouldn’t have to act. It would make her smile like nothing else, to see the dress she was wearing, because the person looking back at her was the girl she would see in her dreams, the princess she always wanted to be. And she would smile, a real smile, and she would go on stage with that smile, and everyone watching would know it’s real. The gala was different. People were closer, meaner, there was a tension in the air that never truly went away. The other tributes were there, closer to her than she’d ever seen them before. They were all so strong, so ruthless, merciless. It became clear to her that she didn’t stand a chance. They all looked out of place in fragile evening wear, like they belonged in a suit of armor on the battlefield. They could kill her in an instant, rip her apart like silk. This was the way she was going to die. She had a week or so until then, a week that she wanted to enjoy. But how would she enjoy what was essentially her deathbed? She would need to look at the little things, just the details could perhaps keep her happy for a week. She would need to distract herself, take comfort in all the things around her that weren’t awful. Those details weren’t as rare as she had thought, not if she looked in the right places. The gala was certainly not the stage, but it wasn’t that different. Those similarities were what she took comfort in that night. The dress, the lights, the few faces in the crowds that were truly friendly. Her dress didn’t flutter like a tutu, it didn’t spin the same, but it still made her happy, she looked liked herself in every glass, every reflective surface, she would see the dress, the jewels, and in a matter of seconds, her smile. She met all sorts of sponsors that night, they loved her. After all, there was no point in trying to appeal to them, and thus she could just be herself. Perhaps they made plans to help her in the arena now that she’d met them, but it didn’t matter. All that she could do was enjoy her night. Bask in the luxury and make some friends. The sponsors weren’t really friends. They weren’t her equals, they weren’t fearing for their lives. Only twenty-three others were like her. One of them was standing alone, at the edge of the dance floor. The boy from four that she had yet to learn the name of. He wore bronze to match his hair and tanned skin, a fairly simple ensemble akin to any other tuxedo or suit. The part that caught attention was the brocade. Just like Sylke’s jewels, they glittered in the light, adorning his chest and shoulders. There was a heavy patterned fabric that was draped off his shoulder like an asymmetrical cape fit for a prince. It hung still as he leaned against the wall, but Sylke pictured it fluttering with every movement and step he took. He was alone, as though waiting for company of some kind. So she walked up to him, the fabric of her dress swaying with each step.

“Hey. I’m Sylke. ”

“Finnick. You’re from one?”

The question was awkward, like he didn’t know what else to say.

“Mhm. And you’re from four, right?”

“Yup.”

There was a silence. She wanted to ask how he was enjoying the night, if he liked galas like this, if he’d ever been to one before, in fact she was about to when-

“But you’re not a career?”

There it was.

“I’m not. Just a regular tribute, like you.”

“Actually I’m not. I trained for this.”

“But you’re fourteen, don’t you wait until eighteen?”

“Yeah, usually.”

His answer was short, clearly a sore subject. She wanted to ask why, but as she looked at his face it became obvious that he didn’t know. So she didn’t push.

“Do you feel ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

His mentor, and kind woman named Mags, had told him not to show weakness, to portray confidence, never let the image slip, but it still did when he was talking to her. He let it slip, for some reason that he couldn’t yet identify. Something in him just wanted to tell her everything, every thought, every feeling, every doubt that floated through his head. Or rather he wanted to tell the world, but the world could not be trusted and so he looked to trustworthy individuals. Something told him she was most certainly one of them. Of course he didn’t say everything, but his performance was still weakened by her presence. Mostly by that smile. So genuine it made him want to smile too. They spent most of the night seated at a table in the corner of the room, occasionally beckoned by a mentor or escort, but always returning to the conversation. That conversation began with talks of the games, but it took little time to expand. Finnick told her about his life back home, and Sylke did the same. They talked about almost everything, from the birds that Sylke kept and trained in her garden to the rigorous dental hygiene Finnick was instructed to keep when he was a boy due to his sweet tooth. He was shocked to learn that she’d never eaten fish. On special occasion shellfish, but never proper fish. Soon after, Mags called him to meet a sponsor, and he returned a bit later with a plate of some of the fish being served that night.

“Here. I found some at the table, you should try it. It’s not like I catch at home, but it’s good.”

“Is there a certain way I’m supposed to eat it?”

He laughed, putting the plate on the table and sitting beside her.

“A fork and knife will do”

She laughed with undeniably genuine cadence before taking a bite. It was certainly new, but still familiar. Like a heightened version of the shrimp her family would get for celebrations, something meant only for the most celebratory of occasions. It was rich and just salty enough, and perfectly seasoned. Perhaps fitting for the celebration of one’s life, a good last meal. She made a decision to request this as her final meal before going into the arena.

“So… do you like it?”

She turned to him, swallowing before smiling, with the edges of her lips pulled high and making crescent moons of her eyes.

“It’s really good! If I had that as my last meal, I think I’d die happy.”

“Yeah? Wait until you try mine. No seasoning or capitol kitchen can make up for freshness--catching, cooking, and eating it right there on the sand.”

He spoke with confidence, almost arrogance dripping from his voice, with a pearly white grin to go with it.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They continued to talk and to laugh, exchanging stories and jokes like old friends catching up after too long apart. At some point she had reveled in the dress she was wearing, how the luxury and flow reminded her of costumes she would wear, how she felt more like herself wearing these than any time before. She spoke with a beaming smile, eyes flitting from his to the fabric to the jewels to the glittering room and then back to him. He said little as she did this, simply watching the joy pour from her every word. It was that genuine joy the pulled him to her, that made his performance slip, that made him content to let it.

“You glow when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“About the things you like, the things that make you smile.”

She laughed.

A minute or two later, the music switched to a new song, and Sylke perked up.

“I know this song!” She stood up and took his hand. “Come on, get up!”

“Wait, to dance?”

“Yeah! What, they never taught you how to dance?”

“Only a little,”

She pulled him to the dance floor and took both his hands in hers. “It’s a waltz, do you know how to do that?”

He shook his head.

“That’s alright,”

She brought one of his hands to her waist with her own on his shoulder. It felt nice to have someone so close, someone to trust. They didn’t move.

“It’s slow, do you wanna look at my feet and I can teach you?”

He pulled her a little closer, practically speaking directly into her ear. It hadn't been long since he felt the warmth of another human, just a few days ago he was hugging his family goodbye. But the capitol was so cold, so glamourously sterile, that this closeness with Sylke felt like a moment of fresh air after a month of factory smog. The rest of the capitol felt sickly cold in comparison to this. This comforting, trusting warmth. Neither of them wanted to leave.

“Maybe later. Let’s just sway for now”

“Okay.”

They swayed in silence, trying to savor this moment of trust. Gold, ivory, and bronze melded together as they moved, these clothes must have been made to dance together. The music was soft, a subtle background for their movement. The night was coming to a close, the dance floor had few people left on it. It didn’t take long for Sylke and Finnick to be pulled away for final goodbyes, the last chance of the night to get sponsors before they went back to the apartments.

They spent the rest of the week training. Sylke spent most of that time learning about plants. The training centre offered plants from multiple different biomes, and Sylke did try to learn about all of them, but she couldn't help but favour the jungle plants. Something about the vibrant colours striking shapes was absolutely fascinating to her, especially because she grew up in an urban area that held only artificial, staged cactus and succulent terrariums. She learned quickly what was poison, what was edible, and what was medicinal. Often, she learned, something poisonous because helpful when delivered in the right dose. There was a tree near her home in district one, planted in a concrete box in a public square. From midsummer to the first cold breeze, the blossoms would hang from its branches like white handkerchiefs dipped in rosy dye at the bottom. The tree was lovely and admired by Sylke as well as many of her neighbors, but everyone who lived nearby to admire from a distance. Adults told her when she was very young that every part of that tree was dangerous, not to be touched, and deceptively beautiful. The man at the medicinal plants station told her however, that the leaves, once cooked, make for a powerful pain reliever. Still to be ingested with caution, as with any other narcotic, but helpful when taken prudently. Sylke was simply fascinated by such topics. She didn’t care much for violence, which most of the training room was dedicated to. She also learned how to use a friction bow, but that was mostly out of boredom. Her favourite part of the training was most certainly the medicinal plants. She took comfort in knowing that with this knowledge she could perhaps help someone stay alive, and that if she taught someone else they could as well. Perhaps if things were different, if she hadn't been reaped, if for whatever reason she couldn't pursue dancing, perhaps she would have become a healer. Sometimes she would catch a glance of Finnick, throwing his trident and hitting his mark each time. He was so assured in his ability, a security that would certainly serve him well in the arena. He trained for this after all, his confidence was justified. His kills would be swift and painless, and she had no doubt that was how he liked them to be. He never seemed the type to torture something like that, something about him, the kindness that he offered to many (though not all) was too great for such cruelty.

The evaluations came too quickly. The game was approaching too fast. Cesare was first, then she would be up. When she entered the room, a small pile of stalks and leaves sat on a table in the corner of the room. In her fifteen minutes, she separated them into three piles. One she burned, another she ate, and the last she sorted into their different uses. She gave a curtsy before walking out.

She was sitting on a couch in the apartment that night, all eyes staring intently at the screen. The man next to her had gotten ten out of twelve. She got a four. No one was surprised by that. Finnick got an eleven. She hoped he would win. A part of her was sure that he would.

After that was the final show with Caesar Flickerman. Everything was just like back home, just a little more glamorous. There was a mirror just before the entrance to the stage, and in it she fluffed up her skirt before looking at herself in full. She had a tiara too, adorned with little gilded doves. She had once mentioned to a sponsor that doves were her favourite bird, a symbol of peace. Not only that, but the tiara was made to look like branches, with green jewels like olives ready to be harvested. In fact, all of the jewels she was wearing were green, to match the olives and complement the dress as her stylist had put it. And the dress. They had her in a rosy pink ball gown this time. It spun better than a tutu, with even more layers or tulle. It was perfect, everything the little girl inside of her could ever dream of. They were really leaning into the princess thing, and it made her happy beyond belief. The smile on her face was genuine, and everyone in the crowd knew it. She walked out from the steel doors, stage lights beaming from every direction as she took a seat. Caesar introduced her to the crowd, but all she could think of was music. She could hear it in her head, like she was sitting upstage while the principals danced. Like clockwork, he’d back straightened and her hands folded in her lap. She only caught the last bit of Caesar’s words.

“You really do look like royalty, sitting so poised like that. Do you know what people have been calling you?”

“What have they been calling me?”

“The smiling princess.”

He looked out to the crowd.

“Now folks, can you think of anything more fitting? Here she is in her royal gown, with a crown on her head, and the prettiest smile in the world. I can’t think of a better name for such a lovely young girl.”

“Thank you Caesar. I really do feel so lucky to be here and to have been received so kindly. My heart is truly warmed by the kindness you show me.”

“And look at that, such impeccable manners!”

His galavanting smile and raucous laugh shifted quickly to something of a pout as the crowd quieted and he took a more serious tone.

“Now of course, manners and sweetness are all gone in the arena.”

“That’s true. I will be completely out of my element.”

The crowd went quiet as Sylke formed her next words. She wondered if she should tell the audience the certainty of her death, how little hope she had for herself. But she decided against it. Instead, she focused on what she knew, the morals that she upheld and took comfort in.

”You know, I’ve been taught that the way to live a good life is to be kind, to have mercy, and to offer grace. I know not how that will apply in the arena but I have no intention of abandoning my morals.”

“Such wisdom at such a young age.”

He took her hands in his and looked her in the eyes.

“We all know that the arena is deadly. Unfortunately, other tributes are not as kind as you are. But we wish you the best of luck. May the odds be ever in your favour.”

The skirt rippled with her as she stood, walking of the stage with cheers sounding behind her. Misty was by her side immediately.

“That was good, you did good. A lot of sponsors are really loving the princess image, and that kindness, mercy, and grace speech really turned some heads.”

Sylke watched the rest of the show from backstage. Tributes came and went, each leaning into distinct personalities crafted by mentors, escorts, and stylists. She wondered how many were real. How many were total fabrication? And how many were what she imagined most of them were, exaggerations and oversimplifications, initially based on truth, but dramatised and amplified to make a good show. That’s what Finnick’s was. When he came on the stage, he had a big plastic smile. He acted arrogant, confident, but in a peacock sort of way. He had confidence in his own ability and his odds in the arena, and in the interview he missed no opportunity to flaunt it. And that was mostly based in truth. He did carry himself with confidence, and he did come off as arrogant when she first met him at the parade. But he was also compassionate, and that same confidence and security in himself allowed him to be wonderful at helping others, caring for the people around him that he trusted. It meant that he wasn’t afraid to step up and protect someone. And Sylke was sorely disappointed when she didn’t see that on the screen in front of her. That wasn’t Finnick, not all of him. But the audience loved it. They had no idea who he really was, and they didn’t care. They cheered and screamed with every toothy grin he flashed. They loved him. If he won they’d love him even more. He’d be their golden boy.

“You know they love him almost as much as they love you.”

She looked up and back to see the speaker. It was Cesare.

“What?”

“You hear the cheering? It’s almost as loud as when you were up there. Looks like the capitol found their prince.”

He slinked away again, with a smirk, like all he came up to do was tease her. But he was right. She wondered what would become of it all. She would die, and hopefully he would live. The capitol would lose their smiling princess. Would they mourn? What about him? If he died would they mourn him too? Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming backstage.

“Hey! They loved you out there!”

“They loved you too, princess.”

They began to walk together, with no defined direction, just aimless, something to do with their bodies as they chatted. Finnick noted how regal her dress was, prompting her to revel similarly to the night of the gala at the way she felt wearing the dress. And again, he watched. She spun, the skirt flying up and revealing layer upon layer of fluffy tulle, and he felt a pang of desire to be the one spinning her, the knight in shining armor to her princess. And then he wondered if it was an act. If even around him she was playing up the princess thing, like he would with his playboy image for the cameras and other tributes. But he didn’t do that with her. Did she?

“Are you really like this?”

“Hmm? Like what?”

“When you’re on stage you’re essentially no different than how you are now. Is this just who you are?”

“I-I guess. I never really thought about it.”

They walked without words for a moment. He began to wonder if he made her uncomfortable.

“I try to be honest with everyone. I know my team likes to have a certain image, but when I get to talk I like to just be me. I’d like to think I’m always like this.”

Always a princess he thought. That’s just who she is.

“You’re not like that though. You were acting different on stage, I could tell. Did they tell you to do that?”

“Yeah. Apparently I’m becoming a capitol heartthrob.”

He rolled his eyes, drawling though his words with palpable disgust.

“My escort said I’ll get more sponsors if I do all that flirty stuff.”

She nodded, waiting for him to say more. There was a question she hadn’t the courage to ask, but he knew it, and answered before she asked.

“It’s not totally fake. But it’s icky, like they’re whittling me down into… it’s not something I’m not, but…”

“It’s not all of you.”

“Yeah.”

Stylists and escorts were moving about, organising the tributes to go into the stage for the finale. As Sylke was summoned to line up, Finnick pulled her close just as he had at the gala and whispered in her ear.

“I wanna come to your room tonight. Will they be asleep by midnight?”

Victoria would likely pass out the moment they returned to the apartment, and Misty always took a sleeping pill at eleven. Cesare would be asleep too, getting a good nights rest before the game in the morning.

“Yes.”

She was pulled away, and soon after so was he.

That night, she asked for fish as her supper. It was similar to what was served at the gala, tender and perfectly seasoned with a certain luxurious richness that she adored. The meal was quiet. They were always awkward, but usually Victoria, or failing that Misty, would try to make conversation. The table was quiet this time. Cesare was eating with vigor, trying to get as much down as possible before the game. Sylke was eating slowly, simply trying to enjoy all of it. Victoria had said all there was to say, now it was just a waiting game. As the night progressed everyone but Sylke went to bed early. She didn’t enjoy silence. Much more pleasant was to have something to listen to. Sometimes that would be bird songs and wind making melodies in the rustling flora, other times it was an orchestra unpacking and tuning as the crowd settled in. Whatever it was, she always preferred noise over silence. And so when all was quiet and everyone was asleep, she closed her bedroom door and found music to play. It was on the vanity, a turntable next to a selection screen. She chose something soft, classical, to remind her of home. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was back home. All was well, all she needed to worry about was the crowd, the choreography, that was it. Music had a power over her, to bring her anywhere in the world so long as she could hear it. Her feet moved across the floor, gliding and stepping with the music she knew so well. The piece was short and coming to an end. Her eyes came open a long time ago, but they didn’t actually look anywhere until the final note, when she would smile and bow to the audience. But of course, the roaring applause wasn’t there, and she was back in reality, back in the cold and grey apartment room. But she had enjoyed her escape, short as it was. A quick glance at the clock showed the midnight was nearing. She made her way to the door and kept an eye peering out the peephole. Right on time, she saw him walking, turning to check behind nearly every step. She laughed to herself at his caution, knowing full well that if she were in his place, she likely wouldn’t look back once. He approached the door and gestured to knock before stopping. He stood pondering a quieter method for perhaps a second before she opened the door. They tried not to make noise until she had closed the bedroom door again.

“You're playing music?”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t say much for a moment. In the end it was Sylke that spoke first, voicing the question that had stayed at the front of her mind for hours.

“Why did you want to meet tonight?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see you again before tomorrow.”

She nodded, understanding and reciprocating his sentiment entirely. Another song faded out, and a lively waltz took its place.

“I never actually got to teach you to dance.”

“I’m still interested.”

She stood up come her place seated on the edge of the bed and placed her hands behind her back.

“Watch my feet. You know how a waltz goes 1, 2, 3…”

He nodded and stood next to her, mimicking her every movement. She took two steps and he did the same. She brushed her leg forward and he followed. With each step she counted, one, brush, turn, two, step, three, step. It took him a moment to pick it up, but with time he was able to find the rhythm and it became easier with each turn.

“Great. Face me,”

They kept their hands behind their backs, not wanting to complicate with arms yet.

“Just waltz, and I’ll be going backwards to match you.”

He nodded again and hesitated before stepping forward. She stepped backwards. When he brushed his leg forward she moved hers back. When they turned it switched. Once again, it slowly began to make sense to him.

“That’s great! Do you want to try arms?”

“Sounds good.”

They assumed a familiar position, with his arm on her waist, and hers on his shoulder. Only this time there was significantly more distance between them. Finnick was too focused on his feet to notice, but to Sylke took note of it, how as much as she loved to waltz with him, she did miss being closer. As the moved clumsily about the floor, she smiled and giggled both when he struggled and when he succeeded, finding joy in anything and everything he did. He almost didn’t hear her laugh with his laser focus on taking the right steps. At some point it seemed to get easier for him, but he still kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Upon seeing this, she lifted her hand from his shoulder and gently took hold of his chin to turn his face to hers.

“Look at me. Or to the audience, but we don’t have one of those.”

Just as he was told, he didn’t take his eyes off her. His steps were a bit messier as a result, but they smoothed over in time. Looking into his eyes, she found herself smiling even more, something he mimicked with a grin of his own. It wasn’t the plastic one from the stage earlier, it was different. Genuine. They could hear the song getting closer to its end. Finnick took the hand that was clasped with hers and placed it on her waist as the final phrase played.

“Dip?”

She smiled again, and that was all they needed for a response. He lowered her, with one hand at her waist and the other moving to support her back, keeping his head by hers and his eyes never leaving. The music went quiet before transitioning into something softer, slower, clearly in 4/4 as well. Neither of them moved once again. Her smile had gone slightly, now just doe-eyed and looking at him.

“Can I kiss you?”

She nodded. Sweet and slow, they moved closer until their lips met. The kiss was tender, slow and yet fleeting as they pulled apart. With foreheads pressed together, both of them donned massive smiles, eyes thinner than crescent moons. Finnick brought them back upright but kept them close. He didn’t want to let her go, perhaps not ever. He didn't want to think either. The future was too dangerous to consider right now. They mostly stayed cuddled on the bed for the rest of the hours they spent together, talking softly because they were too afraid to fall asleep. The conversation was not nearly as lighthearted as other ones. The game was tomorrow, and it weighed heavily on both of their minds. They talked about what it meant to take a life. Sylke didn’t like to think about it, but with the game so near, she could not pluck the thoughts from her mind. To kill someone, to rob them of their life.

“Have you ever…”

“No. No, never. I don’t think I want to either. I can, I know I can, but… I don’t know. It’s that or die.”

She admired his drive to live. It was amazing, an extension of that security in himself she figured. She was choosing to die, but she couldn’t blame him for choosing to kill instead.

“I don’t think I could. It takes so much, so much that I don’t have. I envy you Finnick. You’re strong and capable and-“

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“What, am I wrong?”

“I-no, but… don’t whittle it down like that. You’re not wrong, I have skills that serve me in the arena. And with those particular skills you’re not as strong. But that’s not the whole story. Sylke, I’ve only known you for a week or two but I’ve seen how incredible you are. I’ve seen your kindness and your optimism and your care for the world around you. Those are skills too, even if they don’t serve you in the arena.”

By the end or his little speech, there were tears making their way down her face. There was quiet between them once more, but not out of awkwardness or lack of things to say. She moved closer and rested her head on his chest. His hand almost automatically moved to her head to play with her hair, something of an unconscious attempt at comforting her. The flow of tears came to an end. He tilted her chin to look up at him. Her face was still wet, with doe eyes and little trace of a smile. He’d never seen her look so sad before, and he promised himself to do everything in his power to keep that beautiful smile of hers around.

“You’re wonderful.”

He pressed his lips to hers, this time quicker, more passionate. Time seemed to fall away, and for just a moment so did the music. When they pulled apart she nuzzled into his neck, taking comfort in his arms securely around her. She felt safe here, like the danger of tomorrow could never reach her here. Some amount of time that neither of them bothered to note passed, and the glare of the clock seemed increasingly present. They were tired but still too afraid to fall asleep. Not here, not like this.

“I should go.”

“You need to go.”

Nothing moved.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

For a moment, all was still. Slowly, they rose, making their way to the apartment door. Before she could reach for the door, he took her hands in his and made a point to look square in her eyes.

“There’s gonna be a bloodbath at the cornucopia tomorrow. You should run, but don’t go far. I’ll find you once I get some weapons. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She didn’t need to ask anything more, all was understood. He knew her odds, he knew of her intention to die quickly, this was it. He would kill her in the morning, quickly, painlessly, end her suffering before things could get worse. She opened the door and gave him a melancholy smile. As he began to walk away she spoke quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.