The magistrate's office was a small, low-ceilinged room that smelled of damp wool, fish oil, and the faint, sour tang of fear. It was tucked away near the main dock, its wooden walls warped and silvered by salt spray. Magistrate Riggs was a man whose face seemed permanently set in a frown of bureaucratic exhaustion. He listened to Corbin's explanation with his fingers steepled, his eyes flicking from the boy's shivering form to Elara's protective hand on his shoulder.
"No identification? No memory?" Riggs's voice was flat. "We'll take his photograph. Send it to the Capitol. See if any of the other districts are missing a child. Until then…" He let the words hang in the air, his gaze landing pointedly on Corbin. "The community dormitory is overcrowded as it is. You know the rules."
Corbin shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "We've got four mouths to feed already, Riggs. We can't—"
"I'll take him."
Elara's voice was quiet, but it cut through the room's stuffy silence like a knife. Both men turned to stare at her. Her back was straight, her faded blue eyes holding Riggs's gaze without flinching.
"Elara…" Corbin began, his voice soft with warning.
"My house is too quiet," she continued, her words measured and firm. She looked down at the boy, and her expression softened into something that made the tight knot of panic in his chest loosen, just a little. "It has been too quiet for too long. He needs a home. I have one."
Riggs studied her for a long moment, then sighed, a sound of reluctant acquiescence. "Fine. On your head be it, Elara Odair. The Capitol will need the paperwork. He'll be your responsibility." He shuffled some papers on his desk, effectively dismissing them.
Outside, the morning had broken into a crisp, bright day. The boy blinked in the sudden sunlight, the world a blur of bustling activity. The air was thick with the smells of the district: salt, tar, roasting fish, and the pungent odour of fish guts from the processing plants. People moved with a weary purpose, their faces etched by wind and sun. He saw Peacekeepers in their stark white uniforms, their eyes scanning the crowds, and he instinctively pressed closer to Elara's side.
She led him away from the main thoroughfare, down a narrower path that wound along the top of the cliffs. The roar of the ocean was a constant companion here, a deep thrumming that vibrated up through the soles of his feet. After a walk that felt both endless and too short, they came to a stop.
Her cottage stood alone, nestled in a dip in the land that sheltered it from the worst of the gales. It was small and sturdy, built of stone and weathered wood, its roof thick with moss. A neat stack of firewood stood by the door, and nets were hung out to dry over a fence, mended with such care the patches looked like part of the original design.
"This is it," Elara said softly, pushing the door open.
The inside was simple, clean, and warm. A hearth dominated one wall, the embers of a fire still glowing. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, scenting the air with lavender and thyme. On a rough-hewn wooden table sat a single, half-finished piece of net-mending. But it was the walls that held his gaze. They were covered in drawings, rendered in charcoal on scraps of paper and nailed up with care. They were all of the sea. Waves crashing, gulls wheeling, the silhouettes of boats against the sunset. They were the drawings of someone who loved the ocean, but with a respectful, knowing love.
She saw him looking. "My Liam," she said, her voice thick with a memory. "My eldest. He had the artist's hand." She didn't elaborate, but the pain in her eyes was a language he understood better than words.
She busied herself at the hearth, ladling a thick, hearty stew from a pot that seemed to have been perpetually simmering. She placed a bowl in front of him at the table, along with a hunk of dark bread. "Eat," she commanded gently.
He did. It was fish stew, rich with potatoes and onions, and it tasted like safety. It tasted like home. He ate until the bowl was clean and the hollow ache in his stomach was gone.
When he was finished, she took the bowl away. She came back and stood before him, her hands on her hips. She looked at him, really looked at him, taking in his shock of damp, bronze-gold hair, his pale skin, the startling green of his eyes that seemed to hold the sea itself.
"Finnick," she said, the name a soft exhale. She reached out and gently touched his hair. "It's an old name here. It means 'fair'. It suits you." She paused, her gaze unwavering, offering him a gift more precious than food or shelter. "Finnick Odair. You can be my family now."
Finnick Odair.
The name settled over him, not like a forgotten garment rediscovered, but like a new, perfectly fitted skin. He had a name. He had a place. He was Finnick Odair, and this quiet, strong woman with sadness and strength in equal measure was his.
That night, she made a bed for him in the corner by the fire, a nest of quilts and furs. As he curled into their warmth, listening to the crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves, he felt the last of the terror seep away. He wasn't home—he still didn't know where that was—but he was anchored. He was Finnick Odair, of District 4. And for now, that was enough.