Victor's Crown: A Hunger Games Story

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 [𝟮𝟯]

At first comes the visceral, immoderate terror, the innate fear of death that seizes Finnick in its taloned hands and won't let go. He's no more than a piece of driftwood being pitched about, once again deposited at the mercy of the river and its caprices. It's all he can do to maintain his grip on his trident, which the river so urgently tries to wrench from his grasp.

Just take me, he finds himself thinking, begging. He longs to dissolve, to wear away like the rocks and shore, to let the river carry him on and on until it lays him to rest at last, fragmented and forgotten, in the vast and dispassionate sea. He holds his breath until he's sure his lungs will burst, until lights flash in his vision and oblivion beckons, quiet and gentle. Images begin to flicker in his vision, memories dredged up from the silt of looming unconsciousness. His parents taking each of the stones Finnick brings them and arranging them in a lovely pattern on the beach. Batten giving Finnick a begrudging but genuine nod of approval. Mags sitting next to him on the beach, her curls nudged by the salt-tinged breeze. And Caspia, standing on the stage before her entire district, offering up her life so another might be spared.

He breaks the surface of the water like a window shattering, panting, thrashing, fighting to break through the darkness closing in on all sides. The river batters him ruthlessly, persistent wet hands grabbing and shoving, trying to pull him back under. Finnick knows better than to tire himself out battling a force he can never overpower. Perilous rocks jut out of the water, immovable obstacles against which the current will not hesitate to dash his soft, vulnerable body. And there are fallen trees and meandering roots reaching out to entrap him. If he's caught on one and gets pulled underwater, he doubts he'll be able to pull himself back up. The river is stubborn and keeps tugging him under, longing to claim his body as the earth claims the sun when it sets. All Finnick can do when his face dips below the surface is hold his breath and hope, pray the night will not be endless.

When the river pushes him up for the fourth time, Finnick notices a bend approaching. A cluster of tree roots and branches extend out toward the center of the river, quickly approaching thanks to the speed of the current. Finnick will have to act quickly. He shifts so he's floating belly down and begins to paddle as hard as he can, inching gradually but inexorably toward his salvation. His injury makes the endeavor agonizing, but he's a strong swimmer, always has been. His dogged attempts to navigate the current are met with no leniency; water does not deign to bend to the inclinations of whomever is foolish enough to traverse its depths.

Then he's sweeping around the bend and slamming against the tangle of vegetation, eliciting a pained gasp as the rough bark aggravates his injury. The river presses determinedly against him in a final effort to submerge him for good, but Finnick clings stubbornly to his lifeline, the animal need to survive spurring him onward. Mustering the last of his strength, Finnick stabs his trident into the snarled mass of roots and stems and uses it as a rope to haul himself toward the bank. The current heaves at him, petulant at the notion of losing a victim. Finnick just grits his teeth and keeps pulling himself toward shore. As he draws nearer to his goal, his feet hit the river bottom, then his knees. The force of the current weakens to a mere tug as Finnick drags himself out of the water and onto the bank, shivering and wheezing so hard black spots dance in his vision.

It's no longer raining oil. Instead, a dense white fog has settled over the ground, concealing the rainforest in thick, cloying clouds. Another Gamemaker threat? Finnick finds he doesn't much care.

He crawls more than walks across the bank into a clump of trees at the riverside. Finnick feels less than human, a creature risen spontaneously from murk and sludge, all of his actions reduced to basic, primal compulsions. Thoughtless and aimless, he curls up in the weeds, soaked to the bone, the mud cool against his cheek, underbrush scratching his skin. If he lays here long enough, perhaps everything will go away. Perhaps he will go away too, sink into the dirt like a decomposing fish.