The years turned, measured not in seasons but in the rhythm of the tides and the gradual filling out of Finnick's frame. The scrawny, silent boy who had washed ashore became a young man of fourteen, quite tall for his age and with shoulders beginning to broaden. His hands, once clumsy with a net shuttle, now worked with the same sure, practiced economy as Elara's.
Their life had settled into a deep, comfortable pattern. Mornings were for mending and maintenance, the afternoons for fishing from the rocks or tending the small, hidden garden Elara kept behind the cottage. Evenings were for quiet industry by the fire—Elara with her knitting, Finnick carving bits of driftwood into the shapes of fish and gulls.
As the years passed by he had learned the boundaries of his own strange nature. He could coax a current to nudge their small skiff along, saving his arms for the real rowing. He could sense a school of fish from the way the water vibrated, a secret knowledge that always put food in their bellies and a little extra for trade. He could pull the fresh, sweet water from the heart of the salt, a trick he performed only in the deepest solitude of his cove, a private communion that felt like remembering a forgotten prayer.
He was careful. So careful. The incident with Dern had been a lesson. His power was a hidden knife, to be kept sheathed unless a life was at stake. He wore his "luck" as a disguise, a charming story for the district. He was Finnick Odair, Elara's boy, blessed by the sea. It was a identity he cherished, a shield woven from love and routine.
The Reaping for the 65th Hunger Games dawned bright and clear, a cruel parody of a perfect summer day. The air in the town square was thick with a silence more oppressive than any storm. Finnick stood with the other fourteen-year-old boys, the sun warm on the back of his neck. He could feel the ocean from here, a steady, pulsing hum at the edge of his senses, a comfort he desperately clung to.
He found Elara in the crowd of women. Her face was pale, but she held his gaze and gave a single, slow nod. It was the same look she gave him when he headed out to sea on a choppy day—a mixture of fear, faith, and unwavering love.
The Capitol escort, a man named Flavius with hair the color of a ripe lime, beamed into the microphone. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" His voice was like grating glass. "Ladies first!"
His hand dipped into the glass ball. The rustle of the paper was the only sound in the square.
"Maris Vane!"
A collective, shuddering sigh went through the crowd. A tall, wiry girl with a fierce glint in her eyes was led to the stage. She didn't tremble. She looked angry. Finnick knew her vaguely; she was a year ahead of him and had been training with the other Career-track kids since she was twelve. She was good with a knife.
Finnick's own breath left him in a rush. One name. One tribute. It was not his. For a glorious, fleeting second, he was free.
Flavius moved to the second glass ball, his smile never wavering. "And now for the boys!"
His heart was a frantic bird against his ribs. Not me. Not me. Let me go home to Elara.
Flavius's fingers closed around a slip of paper. The world seemed to slow. He unfolded it.
"Finnick Odair."
The sound was a physical blow. The air left his lungs. For a single, horrifying second, he felt the world lurch. The moisture in the air, the water in the soil beneath the square—it all trembled in response to the seismic shock of his terror. He locked his knees, forcing the sensation down, choking it back into the dark, secret place where it lived.
He was numb. His body moved on its own. He walked forward. The crowd parted. He saw faces he knew—fishermen he worked beside, kids he'd grown up with. Their expressions were a mix of pity and a strange, grim respect. In District 4, being Reaped was a tragedy, but for a boy, it was also a twisted form of conscription. He was now a soldier in their war for scraps of Capitol favor.
He climbed the steps to the stage. He heard Flavius say something about a "strapping handsome young lad" and "District 4's pride." The words were meaningless noise.
He looked out. He saw Maris, her jaw set, already sizing him up as an ally or a threat. He saw the Peacekeepers. And then he found Elara.
She was not weeping. She stood perfectly still, her hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with a devastation that shattered the last of his composure. In her gaze, he saw the ghosts of her husband, her sons, and now, him.
The urge to run, to call upon the sea to rise up and swallow the whole damned square, was a tidal wave inside him. His fingers twitched.
But then he saw Elara lower her hand. She straightened her shoulders. She looked right at him, and she nodded again. The same nod. The one that said I believe in you. Keep your chin up. You will endure.
It was a command. A final lesson.
He was Finnick Odair. A tribute from District 4.
And as the Peacekeepers led him and Maris away, he knew the boy who hid his power would have to become a weapon they had trained, but could never truly understand.
The train door hissed shut. The compartment was an assault on the senses—all polished wood, plush blood-red velvet, and the cloying smell of synthetic flowers.
Maris had immediately stalked to the window, her arms crossed, radiating a tense, focused energy. Finnick stood frozen, his Reaping-day clothes feeling coarse and pathetic against the oppressive luxury.
The door at the end of the car slid open.
Mags entered. She was old, her face a beautiful, weathered map of lines, her hair a cloud of silver-white. She moved with the steady, balanced gait of someone who had spent a lifetime on shifting decks. Her eyes, dark and knowing, swept the compartment, taking in Maris's rigid back and Finnick's pale, stunned face.
The Capitol escort, Flavius, fluttered forward. "Mags! Our illustrious mentor! We have a good pair this year, don't we? Maris here is a real scrapper, and Finnick—"
Mags ignored him. She went to Maris first, placing a gentle, gnarled hand on the girl's shoulder. Maris flinched but didn't pull away.
"It's a hard thing," Mags said, her voice a low, raspy comfort. "The anger is good. It keeps the fear away. Hold onto it for now." She gave the shoulder a slight squeeze before turning away.
Then her attention fell on Finnick. She approached him slowly, as one might approach a spooked animal. Her eyes, up close, were not harsh, but deeply sad. She saw the tremor in his hands, the way he held his breath.
"You're Elara's boy," she said, and it wasn't an assessment—it was a recognition, a tether thrown to him in this strange, hurtling prison. "Finnick."
He could only nod, his throat clenched shut.
She reached out to him and took his cold, shaking hands in her warm, dry ones. Her grip was firm, anchoring.
"Breathe, child," she murmured. "Just breathe. The first hour is the worst."
He let out a shuddering breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The simple, human comfort was almost more than he could bear.
She held his hands for a long moment, her thumbs rubbing slow circles over his knuckles, a gesture so maternal it made his eyes burn. Finally, she released him, her gaze turning more practical, though the warmth remained.
"You've been to the training hall?" she asked.
"A little," Finnick managed.
She nodded. "Good. The basics are there. We will build on them." Her eyes scanned him, not judging, but calculating. "They favor spectacle. They favor what they know. So we prepare for everything, but we need to focus on our strengths." She looked from him to Maris, including them both. "You will be a team. District Four sticks together in the beginning. It is how we survive." Her tone made it clear this was non-negotiable. "Maris, keep practicing with your knives. Finnick, you will focus on the trident. It is what they will expect from a boy from Four. It is the story they want to see."
She stepped closer to Finnick, her voice dropping, for him alone. "And you, with that face... you already make them pay attention to you, now you need to make them love you. You smile in your private session. You make it look easy. Charm," she said, tapping her temple, "is a sharper weapon than any spear. It makes sponsors look. It makes the Capitol hesitate. You understand?"
He understood. She was giving him a suit of armor. She was crafting a persona that would make him memorable, valuable, and most importantly, alive. She saw a frightened boy from her district and was giving him every tool she had to ensure he came home. She was preparing him based on what the Capitol expected from District 4 — the charming, smart and cocky trident-wielding prodigy.
He looked at this kind, weary, fiercely protective woman and made a promise to himself. He would play the part. He would be the tribute she needed him to be.