Work Text:
Annie Cresta (September 30th, 76 ADD)
2:00 AM
Don't disturb the mad girl, I hear the shadows whisper, pressing against the whitewashed concrete walls, clinging to them like lizards, or you'll regret it. Whether it is the demons of her own mind or her lover that inflict the torment, you will never make the same mistake again.
The insistent rapping of knuckles against wood disturbs the last remnants of my sleep. I groan and turn over onto my stomach, the motion strangely uncomfortable, my head buried underneath the soft white pillow. I don't want to emerge; I'm safe from the shadows if I hide in the dark. Yet the knocking persists.
I slip out from under the thin threadbare sheets, my bare feet coming in contact with the cold marble floor. Wincing, I slide them into warm slippers. My fingers anxiously comb through my unbound scarlet tresses, hastily combing them into a braid just as Finnick taught me long ago by the shores of District 4. It's just like rope, I remind myself. The rope that knots into a sailor's net.
Hope pools in my belly, its warmth driving out the cold, as I pull the wooden door open, fighting a yawn. It is only then that I remember that though I am wearing slender sweatpants and a thin grey shirt, I am also wearing Finnick's oversized sweater, as sea-green as his eyes.
My brows furrow as I realise who is standing on my doorstep. Johanna Mason stands in the narrow corridor, the few naked bulbs dangling from the wooden ceiling beams casting her body into darkness. I squint, barely catching the silhouette of her shorn hair and her crossed arms. She taps her foot impatiently. "About time, Cresta. Odair. Whatever."
"Johanna," I say softly, my voice echoing strangely off the concrete corridor. "What are you doing here so early in the morning?"
She sighs, scrubbing a hand across her face. "Just let me come inside and then we'll talk." Without waiting for an invitation-apparently, my silence is enough of an answer-Johanna strides inside the cramped apartment, her gaze oddly downcast.
I'm almost afraid to ask as I gently close the door. "What's wrong?"
She still won't look at me. "Katniss just contacted Plutarch a few hours ago. She's got an update on her mission." Johanna clears her throat awkwardly. "I know we aren't particularly close friends, Cresta-shit, I mean Odair-but I wanted you to hear this news from me rather than...insensitive sources."
"What news?" I demand, my voice strange to my own ears. For the first time, I notice her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, as if she has been crying. And that is what truly terrifies me, the tears of this fearless Victor. The only news Johanna would have for me is of my Finnick-
She is suddenly interested in a crack on the floor as she says quietly, "Finnick is dead." I only stare, aware of a high-pitched ringing in my ears, certain for the first time since I left the arena that this is not real. "Your husband is dead."
This is not real.
This is not real.
This
Is
Not
Real.
Because if it was, then Finnick would have told me so himself.
I attempt a breathy laugh even though this isn't amusing. But it's hollow and from the way I catch pity flickering across Johanna's hazel eyes, she knows it.
"No," I whisper because she is lying. She must be. Finnick promised me he would come home alive and he has never broken a single vow. Never. "It's not true."
"I'm sorry, Annie, I truly am," Johanna adds, her voice cracking for the first time since I've known her. "But I wanted you to hear this from me and not one of Coin's indifferent soldiers because-"
I hold her gaze, feeling my sea-green eyes smolder with a rare fire I have not felt for a long time. "You're lying," I say calmly. She shakes her head, but I only repeat it louder, "You're lying." I snatch the glass swan from the bedside table, one Finnick gave to me after our wedding. "YOU'RE LYING!" I roar as I hurl the ornate decoration at the wall. It shatters upon impact, a rain of crystals scattering across the floor.
Johanna flinches, but she doesn't move. "Annie-" She carefully outstretched a hand, but I back away, kicking off my slippers. I want to feel the cold against my skin, so intense it feels as if I'm burning. I don't even wince as the glass shards press into my bare feet, slicing them like a knife through fish meat, ruby-red blood welling across the deep slashes.
It's only when I feel the sting that I drop to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself, shivering in my thin nightgown.
And then I begin to cry.
Ugly tears that race down my cheeks, tasting of salt, of bitter regret and sorrow. I remember a rainy night at the beach, Finnick's warm fingers brushing against my cheek, wiping away my tears, whispering, You're so beautiful, Annie even though I'm not, I'm not even a worthy Victor, I'm just a poor mad girl, but he won't listen as he tells me that he loves me.
I only sob harder.
Johanna takes a shaky breath. "Annie, do you want me to bring you some hot chocolate or-"
"Get out of my room, Johanna," I snarl, no longer a timid little thing. "It's the least you can do after ruining my life." And I know it's harsh, I know it's unfair, but the emotions swelling inside of me like a wave demand a release.
She simply slips out the door, not even looking back. I watch the door close, the smack of wood signaling the end of my old life.
Then I carefully begin to pick up the glass shards, even as they cut into the soft skin of my palms. The scars will only match the ones slashing across my wrists, a failed attempt to take my own life when I thought I had nothing left to live for.
And now I truly do not.
I thought I was mad before, but that was nothing compared to what I feel now. I even hear the audible snap as the last of my sanity slips away. My thoughts scatter, fleeing my brain as I lose myself into the maelstrom of grief.
The shadows grow, looming over me, mocking me, taunting me, their cruel laughter ringing in my ears. I want to block them out, but I don't deserve to. I deserve to feel this pain, this sorrow that devours my heart.
I gently pick up the arched neck of what once was a swan and glance at its empty crystal eyes. Dead and shattered, just like my future, my dreams, my love.
Finnick Odair (September 29th, 76 ADD)
10:30 PM
Fire is so beautiful, I once thought when I caught a glimpse of the tributes from District 12 before the 75th Hunger Games. The red and gold flames licking the simple black leather of their suits were deadly the way anglerfish are: tempting until you stare into the jaws of death itself.
This thought flashes in my mind as the bomb Katniss hurls at me explodes mid-air, its hellish orange flames shrieking with savage delight. The resulting blast tosses me off the ladder I was swiftly climbing, the disgusting lizard mutts swarming over me providing an effective shield.
For a moment, I can't breathe as their slimy flesh presses against my skin, their cold breath washes over my body and their scaled hands paw at my belt eagerly. I am brutally reminded of my 'clients' in the Capitol, of their brightly dyed hair and skin-tight dresses, of their false laughter and their persistent hands sliding up my shirt and their cool breath reeking of alcohol. Annie's sea-green eyes flash mournfully in my mind as I recall stumbling back into the tribute centre, her warmth embracing me as I smelled of another woman's perfume.
Then I collide with the ground. Hard. The cobblestones dig into my back, and I struggle to sit up. The air stinks of singed flesh. I force the putrid corpses of the mutts away from me, covering my nose when I see the hideous burns marring the reptilians.
A bolt of pain shoots up my spine, and I stifle a scream. Gingerly, I touch my face. No burns, no scars. Only a smear of black blood across my cheek that I wipe away. I have always been conscious of my vanity, especially since Snow insisted that it would please my 'clients'. Then I check the rest of my body.
An angry red scar disfigures my throat, a parting gift from the lizard mutts. It hurts to swallow, to speak, even to breathe. The fabric of my suit has melted, fusing with my right bicep. I glimpse the horrendous black and red burn beneath before looking away. I slowly move my legs, swallowing another scream as my left leg flares in agony. I must have broken a few bones from my fall.
I glance at the tunnel near the ceiling of the sewers. Katniss and her team must be long gone by now. From the anguish flashing in her eyes as she chucked the bomb, I know she assumes me dead. They all do.
And for a moment, I am tempted. With my broken leg, I will never be able to climb out. Due to the horrendous burn, my right arm may never function properly again. Because of my slashed throat, I may never utter another word. I can be buried alive in this watery grave and die a hero's death.
Are you a coward, Finnick Odair? I hear Johanna snarling in my mind, the first time I ever met her during her Victory Tour five years ago. A pretty coward, but a coward nonetheless. Then I think of Annie, my Annie.
Who will tell her what is real or not if I am not there? Who will hold her in the dark when she threatens to slip away into the treacherous waters of her own mind? Who will tell her that I am dead yet she must continue to live?
I once told her that she deserved a man who loved her and her alone, who didn't have to hide his adoration for her. Annie only smiled tearfully and replied, But you deserve a girl with a mind that is whole, not someone who is broken like me.
You are not broken, I responded forcefully. And neither are you, she fired back.
Don't break her heart, Mags once warned me. It would destroy her.
It would destroy me too.
I crawl pitifully through the heap of smoking lizard corpses, fighting to stay conscious even as the pain threatens to overwhelm me, even as I fear I will close my eyes and never open them again. I drag my limbs slowly across the cobblestones, gasping in relief as my scarred fingers close around its haft.
The trident pierces the lone mutt creeping behind me, the squelching of its footsteps alerting me to its presence, and it writhes before the light vanishes from the black abyss of its eyes. I pull my trident away, cursing when I am spattered with a spray of black blood once again.
The effort strains my broken leg and I collapse against the grimy wall of the sewers, only sheer will keeping me upright. My trident acts as a staff as I struggle to draw breath. My muscles howl from the effort of standing and once again, the release of death tantalises me.
It is only the thought of Annie's radiant smile as she dances in her resplendent wedding dress which anchors me to life.
I stagger towards the rusted ladder leading out of this godforsaken place. I hesitate before wrapping my left arm-which still clutches the trident-around the first steel rung. If I was dragged away from it when I was whole and fit, what are the chances I can climb it when my body is now mangled? But for Annie, I must.
For her, I would pluck the stars out of the sky so she can wear them as a crown.
Once again, my limbs protest as I haul myself up the ladder. My left leg is useless, simply dangling by my side as I reach for another rung. My breath is raspy. My right bicep throbs, but I force myself to ignore it as I pull myself up the final rung and collapse in the concrete tunnel heading away from these sewers. They smell faintly of mildew and there is fresh blood spattered across the floor, as if falling from an open wound. Katniss' team must have passed through here recently.
Despite the torment my body has already suffered, it must endure more as I limp through the tunnel.
Towards freedom, towards my friends.
Towards Annie.
Annie Cresta (October 31st, 76 ADD)
12:00 PM
It's been a whole month and a day since Johanna told me that my love is dead. A whole month and a day since I refuse to leave the apartment, refuse to eat and drink, refuse to live. Eventually, Katniss' mother, Asterid, is assigned to look after me.
She insists upon these therapeutic sessions daily, even though they will not bring me back from the brink of madness. In fact, Asterid will be here in half an hour. Which gives me only thirty minutes to act.
I am so tired of being alive. Mags is dead. Finnick is dead. There is nothing left for me here. No friends, no family, no love. So, I must go now. Go join them in the world beyond this one.
But I am not allowed to keep a knife in my apartment so I can't cut upon the sensitive skin of my wrists as I did six years ago. Finnick saved my life when I was eighteen, cradled my body to his as he screamed for help, whispered meaningless comfort as Mags stitched my wrists. I still bear those scars. I won't have to look at them anymore.
A letter opener should be easy to find. Even the glass shards from the broken swan could have been utilised if Asterid had not asked a maid to clean up my mess. I quickly open the wooden drawers of the bedside table in succession, finding only a seashell necklaces and a few scraps of paper. I am about to slam it shut and check the other one when my name catches my eye. Annie, scrawled across the paper in Finnick's messy handwriting.
I pick up the paper and begin to read:
Lost, lost under the night sky
The stars will not guide me home
Caught in a net of lies,
I find myself all alone
And then I see a maiden fair
Her scarlet hair unbound
Perched on a rock, sitting there
Singing a sweet song, a siren's sound
Lost, lost in her eyes, as green as the sea
She lures me in, a sailor ensnared
And I will go willingly, I will be free
To drown if I must, I am prepared
Annie, oh Annie, the love of my life
I think of you in the darkest of nights
Annie, my Annie, will you be my wife?
For you are the brightest of lights
Tears well in my eyes as I finish reading the poem, blurring my vision. I gently put the paper on the bedside table before my tears can bleed through Finnick's lovingly written poem. I can't stop them from streaming down my face, carving pearly tracks across my cheeks.
What would he say if he could see me now? He would be disappointed. Finnick has never once been harsh to me, never raised a hand or his voice, but he would be disappointed in me if he knew that this is how I choose to remember him. This is how I choose to honour his memory: by living as though I am already dead.
I abandon my search for a letter opener. It's what Finnick would have wanted.
I am going to live, even though it's against my own wishes, because I respect his dearly even in death.
Asterid arrives a while later to find me repeatedly reading my husband's poem, hunched over the paper as though it is infinitely more precious than gold (it is), my hands crinkling the crisp white sheet. She pulls up a wooden chair and sits down gracefully, clasping her hands in her lap. Her golden hair-twisted into a tight bun-only enhances her elegant posture.
"Annie," she begins softly, handing me a steel tray which holds my meal. Nothing too fancy: just a green apple, a glass of water and a bowl of chicken corn soup. "Since when have you known you were pregnant?" I only revealed this to her in our last session after I had reasonably calmed down.
Glancing at my stomach, which has still not begun to show, I answer, "Ever since Johanna told me-told me-" I can't finish the sentence and Asterid doesn't expect me to.
Instead, she politely inquires, "How do you feel now?"
"Nauseous, like I'm about to throw up, and exhausted," I respond bluntly.
"It will get better with time," Asterid reassures me. "Now, do you want to talk about-"
My mood shifts like a pendulum and I hug my arms around myself. I am still wearing Finnick's sea-green sweater. "When I first fell in love with Finnick, I was always aware of his emotions. I could feel what he was feeling here." I tap my heart. "If he was happy, if he was sad, if he was angry...Finnick said the same about me. And I would have felt it if he died. It would have been a gaping hole in my chest, as if my soul has been torn apart. But I don't. I only feel a hole in my head, not my heart."
"Young love always feels-" Asterid begins gently.
"I'm not young anymore," I fire back. "I'm twenty-four. I'm legally considered an adult."
Asterid doesn't push the topic but carefully changes the subject. We chat for twenty minutes, though my mind continuously drifts away and I must force myself to concentrate. At last, she leaves the apartment, so I am left alone with my grief and silence.
Eating spoonfuls of the soup, my mind wanders to my conversation with Asterid. I believe what I told her without doubt. I just don't know if I can trust my own thoughts anymore.
The sound of knuckles rapping against the wooden door startles me. I hesitate, remembering the last time I opened the door to Johanna. But it must be Asterid.
Reluctantly, I set Finnick's poem aside and pad barefoot across the cold marble floor. Then I open the door to find a ghost standing on the threshold.
Finnick Odair (October 31st, 76 ADD)
1:00 PM
Johanna is the first to greet me as I limp down the narrow corridor. She strides past me, her head held high like she doesn't even notice I am there, but then her hazel eyes catch my own in the dim light, and her feet grind to a halt. "Dead man walking," she whispers. Johanna pinches herself to check she isn't dreaming. Once. Twice. Once she has confirmed that I am flesh and blood, she punches me squarely in the arm.
"Ouch," I mutter though I am not hurt. "Was that necessary, Johanna?"
"Oh, absolutely," she snorts. "Be grateful that's all I have done." Johanna folds her arms across the chest of her tie-dyed T-shirt. "Tell me, how did you come back from the dead?"
So, I slowly narrate my story. I tell her of how I crawled out of the sewers, how a few rebel men patrolling the area found me and rushed me to a hospital in District 3, how I stayed in bed for nearly a month before requesting-then threatening-the doctors to discharge me. I pause for breath; it's still painful to talk.
My friend only stares at me for a moment before she pulls me into a tight embrace. I gingerly wrap my arms around Johanna as she whispers, "Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again, do you hear me? I thought you were dead-fricking dead-and I just realized what a horrible woman I am that I don't even have any other friends I care about..."
"You're not horrible, Johanna," I assure her. "Just sassy. And you're my best friend."
"So are you," she mumbles, her head still pressed against my shoulder. Then she pulls back, tears glistening in her eyes, and then punches me again. "That was for Annie," she explains.
My heart tightens at the thought of my wife. "How is she?"
Johanna hesitates before answering, "It's best you see for yourself. She's inconsolable; she won't let anyone near her except for Katniss' mother and that's only because she's a doctor. This past month...it's been a shitty one, that's all I can say."
She pats me on the arm and walks away. I am once again alone as I hobble towards the door of my apartment. I rap my knuckles against the wood, waiting impatiently. My foot taps out a rhythm on the naked concrete floor.
Annie opens the door, and I forget how to breathe.
Her scarlet hair is loose and she's wearing one of the sweaters Mags stitched for me. It's oversized for her slim frame, but it complements her beautiful sea-green eyes. I reach out a hand to tentatively brush against her cheekbone.
"No, no, no," she mumbles, pulling away. She nearly trips over her own feet in her haste to get away from me. I struggle to take another breath and it's not because of my slashed throat. "You're not real. You're a hallucination. A figment of my imagination."
"Annie-" I begin, reaching for her hands with my own, but she tugs away. I step inside the apartment and softly close the door. Annie takes another step back.
"Stay away from me!" she shrieks, her eyes darting around the cramped room like a cornered animal.
"Annie," I repeat her name gently. "This is real. I am real."
Tears well in her eyes and she collapses to her knees, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed. "Why can't you leave me alone?" she demands. "You've taken everything from me-my home, my husband, my life..." Her eyes flash defiantly in a way I have not seen for a very long time. "I won't let you take my child as well!"
Her child?!
I kneel before my wife, waiting patiently as she shudders. When Annie looks stable enough, I grasp her hands. Her palms are ice-cold against my warm skin. "Annie, does this feel real?"
"Yes," she mumbles, still not meeting my gaze.
"Then it is," I continue. "I'm real, Annie. I'm home."
Now she glances up at me, still not daring to believe. When my palm caresses her cheek, she doesn't flinch. "Johanna-she told me you were dead..." she rasps.
"Have I ever broken a promise to you, my love?" I ask. I promise you I will come home, I told her before I departed. I will never abandon you.
Annie shakes her head. Now her eyes glimmer with a delicate hope. She stares at her intertwined hands. Her pale fingers trace my jaw, my throat, my lips. I let her. And when my wife has confirmed to herself that I am real, she throws her arms around me with a ferocity that catches me off-balance. I return the embrace, one arm hooking around her waist, the other lying flat on the floor so I don't fall over. Annie buries her face in my shoulder, and I hold her tighter.
"You came back," she murmurs. "You survived."
I twine her scarlet locks around my fingers, twisting them into a messy braid. "For you, darling. Always."
Annie Cresta (June 18th, 93 ADD)
2:30 PM
Sebastian is the first to notice them.
My teenage son stands waist-deep in the aquamarine waters of District 4, his linen trousers rolled up to his thighs, a glimmering steel trident clutched in his golden-skinned hand. He is the spitting image of his father: tanned skin, bronze hair, sea-green eyes. But Finnick said his high cheekbones and angular face are inherited from his mother and once I squinted, I could admit that my son also resembles me.
Finnick wouldn't lie to me about what's real.
"Mother! Father!" he calls, pointing a slim finger at the sandy shores. A tall woman with her raven-hair unbound carries a blue bundle of blankets and a square-jawed man walks beside her, a little girl with his bright blue eyes in his arms. Another woman strides behind them, her unevenly cut hair just brushing her shoulders.
"They're already here?" Finnick laughs. It's disconcerting to see that he and Sebastian are nearly the same height. "Do you want to race, my love?" His sea-green eyes flash with familiar mischief as he grins. Then he effortlessly dives into the sea and swims for the beach.
"No fair, Finnick!" But I'm smiling. I beckon for Sebastian to follow and then I submerge myself in the sea, swimming towards my husband. My arms cut smoothly through the water, and I recall the stories I heard as a child of mermaids.
He slows down, allowing me to catch up. I glimpse him winking at me as we swim, side by side, until the water is shallow enough so we can stand once more. My feet sink into the soft mud of the seabed, and we wade onto the beach.
"About time!" Johanna scowls, but her face softens when she sees Sebastian emerging from the sea like Aphrodite. He casually twirls his trident-a birthday present from his father on his fourteenth birthday-as he strikes a conversation with his 'aunt'.
When our son was young, Finnick explained to him that Johanna and Katniss were his aunts while Peeta was his uncle. He told Sebastian that Katniss and Johanna were his sisters, not by blood, but by choice. Now they all feel like family. Sebastian even thinks of Willow and Rye as his cousins.
Finnick pulls Katniss into an embrace before shaking hands with Peeta. He tickles their daughter, Willow, until she giggles and congratulates them on the birth of their son, Rye. I stand there awkwardly until Finnick glances back at me. He reaches for my hand again and we intertwine our fingers. An unspoken promise fulfilled.
I see Johanna laughing with Sebastian, Peeta setting down Willow before she dashes over to them and begins to babble, Katniss cradling Rye and smiling-unsure but still genuine.
The sea gives and the sea takes. It's a lesson every fisherman knows.
But the sea has given me so much more than it has ever taken.
And I am grateful.