16AN: im back im back! this one was a monster labor of love, i kept editing it and coming back to tweak it until it was just right. eventually i decided i needed to just shut up and post it. anyway i hope ur well! stay safe!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
That night he dreamt he was in a boat.
Moored somewhere in an expanse of ink black ocean, it bobbed and rocked against the postulation of the sea. As natural as walking or dancing or singing, his body moved to the rhythm of being on board, tilting and rocking to the rhythm of the water's flux. It had been so long since he'd commandeered a boat on open waters, but he still knew what to do.
The boat was a tiny, rickety thing. Not unlike the Spooner that had been passed down the Odair line so long you'd have to squint to see how high the branches of the family tree went. He spent many evening patching holes, scraping off barnacles, and repairing the fraying sails canvas of that old boat. By the time it landed in his father's hands, his grandfather had foregone slapping new coats of paint on the cracking side paneling - Finnick would watch the red paint chips flake away in the water like a blood trail.
But here, in this dream, this was not that boat.
It sat vibrant white in color against the black churning water it rocked against, and Finnick was deafeningly alone, in the dark, under the speckle of stars that shone like eyes above him. They did not speak to him, but Finnick understood they could, if they wanted to. It set him with unease, an urgency to run that he didn't know how to handle.
"You do not sail at night," his father's gruff voice had echoed in his ear when Finnick, just a small frail thing at the time, asked why they didn't stay out past sunset. They would catch more; bring in more revenue. Maybe be able to buy some red paint. "You just don't, Finn."
And yet here he was. It was so dark he could put his hand out before him, and not see it, if not for the blinding, crisp white of the floorboard beneath him.
Finnick lifted anchor, he set sail. Hands on the ropes, curving the smooth tip of the bow to cut the water like a parting crowd. He did not know where he was going, perhaps somewhere where the stars could not see him. He did not like how they stared.
"There is no way to hide from them," a warbled voice coos to him from behind. He turns and finds a ghost.
Mags is dressed in opal, glowing a spectral white. She fizzes out along the edges, kind of like the boat they stand upon. Even still, she shines like a beacon; like a star, crisp against his vision.
The image of him hurts his eyes and they water.
"I can try," he croaks, emotion filling his throat, his chest. Sudden, like a storm. He can't pinpoint why. They're just sailing together, that's all.
"Yes," she smiles at him, her lopsided half-smile that's been precedent on her face since her stroke. The sight of it feels like waking up from a long sleep. "If anyone can try, it's you."
"Will you help me?" he asks. His hands cramp around the steering wheel, he feels the wet, cold sea air cut against his skin. "Will you stay?"
Her face is so sad, so heartbroken. It cracks him in two, the steering wheel nearly slips from his grasp. Ocean spray kicks up over the side and slaps his cheek like a reprimand.
"Oh, I don't think you need me," she says and it's quiet. The wind almost steals the words from his ears. He realizes she's fading, her image receding, stars punching through like bullet holes. "You haven't needed me in a long, long time."
"That's not true," his voice is desperate, angry almost. But angry at what? At Mags? Himself? The night air whips around him, like a hurricane. Weirdly enough, he swears he can hear the stars begin to laugh. In the distance is the succinct sound of a cawing crow. "I'll always need you."
She smiles at him again, and this time it's different. She's younger. Healthier. She's Mags when she won her games: spry, calculative. Finnick blinks against the image of her, confused. He's never met this Mags; only seen her in video footage of old reapings and Games that played during ceremonies and reunions. He has the sneaking suspicion he's in a dream.
"We're survivors, you and me," she says, and her voice is young, healthy. "Perhaps you more so, my dear."
Tears spill from his eyes and down his cheeks, like rain.
"I'm sorry," he says, but he's not sure for what.
Young Mag's smiles a smile that is warm and at peace. And suddenly, before his eyes, she is a girl no more than eight. Her brown hair woven in tight twin braids. Her dress a mother of pearl. Mag's tiny face. She opens one of her tiny fists, palm up, revealing a freckled, pink seashell.
Her pearl of a dress feathers around her like birds wings. He opens his mouth to say something, but she winks out, like a star.
Finnick could not remember the last time he hadn't slept on the forest floor. To wake on top of a mattress was jarring. The soft cushion of his bed lulls the near-permanent ache in his ribs like a bandage, and he groans against the sensation. He feels well rested, like the full eight hours actually served to bring energy back into his body. His chest feels light, his head is clear. A rush of relief floods his body. The connection between him and the Colony must have severed when they crossed, which means he's probably not being siphoned from anymore.
But that begs the question: what will happen when he returns? Will it jumpstart from where it had left off? Or does the ritual have to have to kick off all over again in order to suck him dry?
And if he's feeling peachy keen now, what did that mean for the Colony? Were the nymph people dying all over again? The thought makes him uncomfortable. Though they had tried to succubus the shit out of him, he's not too sure if they should be killed off entirely. Especially when you factor outliers like Johanna and Annie…
Annie.
Finnick turns, nearly rolling into the body nestled in the sheets beside him. Carefully, he worms his way into a sitting position.
Annie's hair spills over the expanse of the pillow beside him, tucked under the sheets like a cocoon. The tip of her nose pokes out through the lip of the blanket, and she's watching him quietly. The sight of it nestles a lump in his throat, a whole mess of emotions and thoughts going haywire in his head. Last night didn't feel real. All of yesterday didn't feel real. He's almost surprised to see her there, beside him.
He has had practice of falling into bed with bodies, sure, but never waking alongside them the next morning. He was always the one out the door before the sun rose, with his clients eager to push him out the door once what they had paid for had been fulfilled. And, sure, he and Annie had spent days plenty of nights together on this journey, but this felt…different. Especially after everything that happened. Especially after last night.
Honestly Finnick wasn't sure what to make of it.
He was used to being groped and touched and kissed. Fuck, he was used to it. But he was also used to guiding those kinds of touches away from his person. When he worked, he made sure that the violation stayed as one-sided as possible. He'd never been interested in the reciprocation. They were always there for their pleasure, not his, so why even bother pretending?
Finnick did the kissing.
Finnick did the touching.
But with Annie, he had wanted her touch. Immeasurably. He craved her in a way that he'd never experienced with anyone before. Her touch, her kiss, it didn't trigger revulsion or hate. It lit desire. He trusted her. It opened a door in him that he thought had been closed a long, long time ago. A door that he would have happily kept closed until his dying day. And shit, it scares him, the vulnerability of it.
But…it thrills him, too. The possibilities that lie in it all, now that the door's been flung open.
"Hi," he murmurs.
Annie smiles at him from beneath the white sheets. A dust of pink fans over her cheeks and it stirs up memories of last night so vividly in his mind that he can't help but pause on it, to drink it in.
"Hi," Annie croaks, her voice still thick with sleep. Her fingers paw listlessly at the duvet, nestling it closer to her chin as she regards him lazily, serene. Her eyes flutter closed, but she breathes a continued greeting to him. "Mmm. Sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you," his voice is small, almost a mumble. The memory of his dream nags at him like a whispered threat. He settles down into the bed, tries to will away the chill in his spine. Annie peeks her eyes open to peer at him, like she's trying to seek out something in his face. It's the same regarding look she gave him all of yesterday, following their visit with the Mildway's. He wonders what she's searching for, if she finds it now.
Eventually, whatever she sees she settles with, because she closes her eyes once more with a hazy yawn, "I'm surprised you're not up and bouncing around."
Normally, he would be. Sleeping in, especially in Mags' home in Four, was rare for Finnick. He liked to spend his mornings watching the sunrise over the water. But the past few days were so draining and his dream last night shook him off a little bit. His routine was shot to hell with everything that had happened, anyway.
"Yeah, well, I figured we both deserve a morning in bed for once," he jokes. She hums in agreement.
This moment feels like a bubble, serene. Quiet, from the ghosts outside. Through the large bay window behind his bed, the mid-morning sun filters a golden lake over their heads. It fans out, honey yellow over Annie's cheeks, setting her aglow. The sunshine from yesterday pulled out a smattering of freckles on her face, as well as pinkening sunburn, but she looks absolutely sun-kissed.
He hesitates for a moment, thinking, before he leans in to softly kiss her puckered mouth.
Upon contact, she makes a startled sound, so soft and sweet, and it stirs something in him; that same new, exciting turn in his belly. Finnick pulls back to gauge her face, now deeply flushed at his initiative. She blinks at him, her green eyes suddenly so aware, whisked from sleep. For a beat, he panics, wondering if he overstepped…
"Kiss me again," she whispers, arms stretching, reaching for him.
Finnick rolls, crashing into her like the tide, his hands like worker bees finding purchase in the flower of her hair as he presses his lips to hers. She sighs against his lips, hiking her leg to tangle against his hip, her toes knocking gently into his calf. Her breath is hot against his, their shared warmth radiating between them like the sun, and it spreads out around him.
This is what he was good at. This is what he could give her. With a groan, Finnick pushes the kiss deeper, his thumbs brushing against her temples.
She's tentative, her hands drifting to perch along his shoulders, and he breaks the kiss to turn his attention to her jaw, her neck. She nudges their hips to lock in, her thighs hugging his sides as she pulls her knees up. There's a soft spot, at the apex where her jaw and the bottom of her ear meet, and when he brushes it lightly with his lips he feels her tremble beneath him. Annie releases a tiny "oh," squeezing his shoulders with her fingertips, clenching her thighs against him. The experience of it nearly makes the room spin.
He's never felt this kind of want, this kind of give.
He's been with many bodies and many partners, but never like this. Never. It was dizzying, and frightening, and new, so new.
Finnick feels like he's a teenager all over again. Before his Games. When he would kiss his classmates on the cheek behind the dockyard after classes. He feels like he's fumbling into something unknown, falling into territory that's uncharted and he's about to make an idiot of himself. His hands tremble as they trace the side of her face, evidence to how much of a livewire his body is.
The touch is the same. It's a practiced dance. The kissing. The brushing, the grinding.
But not for her, and it screams through the back of his mind. The knowledge of it snaps him into focus a little, shifts him to turn his attention to her expression, the overwhelmed look on her face that probably mirrors his own.
"You okay?" he asks, voice heady, heavy.
Annie nods, shifting beneath him slightly, brushing her lower body up against him, and he almost blacks out. The neckline of her dress had shifted in the night and (perhaps more likely) during their romp, exposing the small dip between her collarbones, and Finnick turns his attention there next, pressing his lips to the skin there.
"Finnick," she says, nearly a hum, and he feels the sound of it reverberate through his lips, a straight shot down his front.
"Hmm?"
Her hands slip up his shoulders, toward his neck, "Is it always like this?"
He shakes his head, still pressed against her chest, and laughs a breathless laugh before pressing himself up to hover over her.
"No, Annie," he admits, "I, uh, I don't think so."
Her eyes widen at his frank answer. Her mouth, swollen from his kiss, pops open in a small o shape, like she's about to say something, before she presses it into a small, thin line. She looks so thoughtful, like she's gathering the final pieces to a puzzle she'd been working on for a long time. Like a magnet, her hands find their way into his hair, fingers playing with the strands affectionately as she thinks.
"Hey," he whispers, nudging her lightly, and she turns her attention him, smiling shyly. "It's not a bad thing, right?"
"No," she says, "I don't think so." She's echoing his words back to her, but there's a different tone to them, something he can't pick up, almost a question lurking beneath. There's a lolling, lazy moment, where he's so sunk into the feeling of her fingers playing with his hair, of her thighs pressing against his hips, before she attempts to ask her next question.
"So you've never…I mean, when you've kissed other people…" her cheeks flush a deep red as she fumbles for the right words, and he smirks.
"I've done a lot," he says, brushing his lips against her neck, feeling her shiver beneath him. He intends for it to be a joke, but suddenly his stomach feels sour. He has done a lot. It's not been a pleasant experience, not like this. He sobers for a moment, hands finding purchase against one of her hips, and looks up at her, "But Annie, I, uh…no. It's definitely different. With you."
She nods, "Same here," her eyes widen, almost in horror, "Oh! Uh, but I've obviously never, you know. I mean, I wouldn't know..."
Finnick grins like a Cheshire chat, suddenly relieved to be able to pop the serious bubble. He grabs at her waist, twisting and hauling her up so she's sitting up into his lap, and she scrambles to find purchase, grabbing at his shoulders to keep herself upright in the new position.
"Annie, you horn dog, all this time I took you for an innocent little nymph. Have there been other humans that you've been wooing before me?"
Annie groans, and throws an arm over her eyes, shaking her head furiously, ends of her long hair curtaining her face, "No."
"It's all right if there was, that go-go juice you guys have back in the Colony is pretty potent-"
"Finnick! Don't joke about that!"
Finnick had plenty of practice joking about being prostituted out. It was one of his many beautifully unhealthy coping mechanisms. If anything, this kind of joke was as innocent as it got.
The fact of the matter is, he knew everything he was saying was untrue. He was nearly 100% sure that all of this was beyond new to Annie. He'd spent a first night with every single nymph in the Colony, knew for a fact none of them had, well, fucked, save for the few who had admitted to him that they had played for the other team before he'd showed up for the ritual.
She peeks at him from beneath her hair, her cheeks flaming red and green eyes like glass.
"I've never partaken in the ritual," she admits, "ever. I want you to know that."
He realizes there's a weight to what she's saying here. It's more than just an admittance of inexperience. She's trying to give him trust, given his history, and her knowledge of that history. Finnick might be used to joking about what has happened to him, but Annie is not. There is guilt there for her, he realizes.
"I know, Annie," he says, softly. He gives her sides an affectionate squeeze. He wants to say more, feels like he should say more, but words are a loss on him. Maybe he should have gotten up before the sun instead of opened his fat mouth.
She nods, her gaze shifting away, almost sheepish.
"Hey," he says, taping her hip with his thumb, "look at me. It's okay. I'm okay, alright?"
Annie nods again, and this time offers him a weak smile while tucking her hair behind her ears. His hands give lazy strokes up and down her thighs, like trying to stoke a fire. She watches the movement idly but she seems lost in thought, her eyebrows knit together gently.
"Come on," he says, "let's have some breakfast."
They share the leftover oranges and the rest of the bread Osa gave them for breakfast, and Finnick relishes in the feeling of peeling the citrus between his fingers, the way it stains the moons of his fingernails orange and sends a tangy scent in the air.
It almost makes up for the fact that this was the second meal he was having in Mags' kitchen without her.
It feels wrong, enjoying food without the labor of making it, especially in a space where the comfort of food was such a resounding presence. Mags' kitchen was what made her home a home. It turned a Victor's Village mansion into a place where neighbors could gather for meals and company. A community.
Now it just felt cold, empty, dusty.
A front had rolled in while they lazed around in bed, so while they chewed they watched sheets of rain blow sideways against the kitchen windows. He was secretly relieved to see the storm – he was scared he'd be tempted to find refuge back out in the ocean, even at risk of being seen by someone. At least the rain and ripping currents that came with it kept him at bay from being a heart-worn idiot.
The thing is, he'd been apart from the ocean for so long, unsure if he'd ever see it again. And now he's not sure he'll ever see again after this.
Finnick didn't realize how much he missed the environment of Four until it'd been taken from his life completely. He didn't realize how much he'd been giving up by running away; how much he was still giving up in choosing to continue running.
Who knows if he'd ever see the ocean again?
He tries not to dwell on it. Instead, he turns his attention to watch Annie. She stares out the window, damn near transfixed with the storm. Her eyebrows knit together in a tight line, as if she were concentrating on something; trying to spot something in the distance that wasn't quite coming into focus.
"You've never seen a coastal storm," he realizes, out loud, and she turns to observe him.
"It's very…chaotic," she says with a sigh, "and it makes everything else so much louder."
"Louder?" he says, amused.
She nods, as if it made sense, and then her eyes widen a little as if she realized something, "Oh, yes, sorry. I forgot you probably don't feel it, too."
He waits for her to explain and she pushes her tongue between her teeth, concentrating on how to explain. It's so fucking endearing. She probably tastes like the oranges they've been peeling this morning. He wants to reach out, kiss her, feel the tip of that tongue up against-
Okay, Finnick.
He squeezes the edge of the table, forcing himself to focus.
"I guess you could say I'm a bit disorientated," she starts, smiling sheepishly, "I can't connect with the world here like I can with the Great Forest. It feels like someone shut off one of my senses, and everything else is so much more amplified as a result, if that makes sense?"
Finnick nods, and then suddenly, it hits him, what she's implying.
"Wait, can you hear the ocean from here?" he asks.
"Kind of, I guess?" she shakes her head, as if to clear it, "It's like I'm trying to find something deeper within it but it's just…dead." She shivers. "I have an awful headache."
Finnick sits back, a little astonished. She can hear the ocean from here. She's trying to tap into it's fucking soul.
It's odd, that this was the tipping point for him in the weirdness that comes with…well, magic and Annie's part in it. It's one thing if he's dancing with pixies and running from rock monsters in a magical forest, but it was a whole other thing to witness it here, in Four. Normal, average, human Four.
With a sharp, hot, pang, he wishes Mags was here to see it. To witness it. Magic.
"Can I help, somehow?" he asks, because her expression reveals she's a little uncomfortable. It's the same one she wore for the most of yesterday, but at the time he figured it had more to do with what they'd heard about Mags, not that she was dealing with a whole shift in senses.
"I don't see how," she admits, a sad smile on her lips, "but thank you."
He nods with a slight frown. He hopes they won't be here for that long, but if push comes to shove, he'll try to find a way to help. She's giving him that look again, like she's searching his face for something. It made him uneasy, like he was already failing.
"So I was thinking," he clears his throat and sits back in his chair, "we let the storm ride out today and head out tomorrow after dusk."
"Why not head out first light?"
He shrugs, "I figure traveling at night would be better, as far as going unseen. Four doesn't have any magical beasts that come roaming the beaches after the sun goes down, but we do have Peacekeepers."
Annie smiles, "That ocean is a beast enough, I think."
He leans forward, folding his arms onto the table, laughing softly. He had seen awe when they'd approached the ocean for the first time, the wonder in her eyes took his breath away more than the sight of the waves did. But he also caught her apprehension. She looked at the water like it would come up and bite her feet.
"I'll get you in that water at least once before we leave," he reaches out to take one of her uneaten orange slices, popping it into his mouth. "Just you wait."
What he really wishes is that he could get her on a boat. There's nothing, nothing like sailing the open ocean. He thinks of a white boat in dark water and frowns slightly.
"Yes, well," Annie shrugs, rising to her feet with a lengthy stretch, "you can certainly try. I'm going to take a bath."
She meanders back upstairs, leaving Finnick with nothing to do but think. He sits at the table and watches the rain outside splat against the window, the dream from last night bouncing around his head now that it's been brought back to his attention.
Finnick builds emotional walls, it's what he does, but why is it so hard this time?
He's good at loss. He lost his parents, his friends, his dignity. When all of those bad things happened, he managed to push them away, leave their ghosts behind. Build his walls and move on to the next disaster. It was his survival instinct.
For some reason, he can't leave Mags behind, though. He's living in her house, pressed up beside her ghost. Eating at her table and sleeping in her bedrooms, and it's too much. He can't build the wall in the way he's used to – the foundation isn't drying, nothing is sticking like it should.
He's worried about how that's going to cost him in the long run. How can he shut the door if it won't latch properly?
Finnick should have taken up Osa's invitation to stay at their house. What was he thinking, crashing at Mags' home? But he couldn't put the Mildway's in danger like that. Him being here, if thought to be apart of the Rebel cause, puts her and her family at risk. How else would his long absence be explained? Of course he'd be suspected of playing for the Rebellion, if he were found they'd kill him.
Which begs the question, if he knew about the Rebellion…would he have stayed?
Osa's words from yesterday were like a sucker punch. "I have hope that I won't have to dress my own kids up for their reaping day."
Would he be able to come back to that Panem? If he ran away now, to live in the Great Forest, wait it out for the Districts to rise up to kill Snow? Is he that much of a coward that he'd let them do the work for him?
Yes…and no.
The demons here are too strong. Even if things were fixed, and the Games were dismantled, he couldn't stay here. He wouldn't be able to. Some wounds go too deep to heal, and it was something he wouldn't have been able to realize, had he not ran.
He drifts through the layout of her house again, like yesterday, roaming the empty rooms. The rain pours against he windows, and he hears the distant sound of running water as Annie turns the faucet in the sink upstairs.
Annie.
Her presence here has been a blessing he couldn't begin to fathom. When she came to his room last night, she saved him from nearly flying into the dark. Where there has been fear and guilt and uncertainty, she's been strength and comfort. A lifeline.
There is a new type of want stirring within him, it's something he hasn't had a minute to sit down and digest until now. Although he's safely out of harms way, and his part in all of this is technically over…he doesn't want this to end. He wants to stay beside her. To spend a thousand more mornings like the one they just had – waking up after the sun just to watch how it fans out on top of her cheeks.
When he first left Four he was listless. Nothing more than a pawn, fleeing captivity. He had no wants, no desires, no drives but survival and self-preservation. Past that? He had no direction. But, suddenly, there's a new purpose that serves his days. That keeps him sane. He needs to stay strong, for her. To help her navigate this dangerous world, bring her home, to help her people.
Whatever comes next for Finnick, he wants Annie to be there with him.
Anneyce spends a long time washing from the sink. The array of silky soaps she had found in Mags' cabinet foam and tingle between her fingers. Their strong, fruity perfumes nearly making her dizzy, but it takes only one or two swipes with the soft cloth she'd procured for the task to remove the days of dirt and blood.
They had both washed quickly last night, and had tried to make use of springs and brooks while on the road to do the task, but this was her first thorough bath since she left the Colony.
Once every inch of her is thoroughly clean, she stands before the full-length mirror, cautiously drinking in the first sight of herself in weeks. She had fumbled through the shelves and procured a wide-toothed comb from Mags' cabinet, and had made quick work of detangling her sopped hair, so now it hangs long and slick in thick strands down her shoulders.
Anneyce was surprised to see she was relatively gaunt – had been for a while, if she were being honest with herself. The Great Garden was dying; she had been slowly, slowly, slowly wasting away as a result. But the weeks of trodding through thickets and jungle on nothing but berries, soup broth, and dried fish had sped up the process. She was hollowed in places, found more indented pockets and harsher lines than she had before. She was also thoroughly tumbled, bruised along her legs and thighs from all of the running and stumbling.
Her body looked tired, weary.
But also incredibly alight.
The fancy soaps added a dewy glow to her skin, and her hair seemed silkier, softer. Her cheeks have a deep, pink sunburn that smarts when she presses the raw skin, from yesterday's time spend in the sun. Finnick's world was so harsh; she hadn't even felt her skin burning yesterday. Despite this, it added to the overall glow in her face, like she was constantly blushing.
But she was. Finnick made her flush constantly now; filled her up with moths and butterflies until it tickled her cheeks and embarrassing pink. Their conversation from this morning runs around in her head like a swarm. It had confirmed what she'd been chewing on; that whatever was going on here was something more than just physical affection. That on some level Finnick reciprocated her feelings.
It was a bit of a relief now that she had it.
Anneyce wants tell him about her mother and her father, how she feels it connects to their predicament now, but in what way would that help things, especially if at this point she has more questions than answers?
It feels like she's on the edge of a precipice, waiting on one last piece of the puzzle to be revealed. Any moment now, she's going to tip over.
Not wanting to even dare tackling the problem of figuring out what to wear, she slips back into the same dress she had been wearing, watching it billow around her. Clothes were…an oddity. She was still trying to get used to the feeling of fabric up against her skin, hiding her away.
Anneyce emerges from the bathroom and into the hallway. Across the hall, she faces a room she had yet to venture into. She had not explored much of the upstairs area yesterday, having been too distracted by Mags' room and everything else afterward.
Deciding to explore a little more, she pushes through this doorway to finds a study of sorts, covered in dust but tucked away neatly with a few shelves stacked with books. A library, then. She pauses, a little wide eyed at the sight, not having expected it. The Queen had an extensive personal library back at the Colony, and it was open for the nymphs to use as they pleased, but Anneyce had never dallied in it for too long. She wasn't much for reading, couldn't get her wandering mind to settle into the text long enough.
She circles the room slowly, her fingers dancing along the spines, not absorbing the information displayed on them. The language they're written in she cannot read; it's looping script alien to her. She could speak the common tongue of the human world, whatever the language may be, but their written text was all but gibberish.
Even if she can't read this collection, it is fascinating. She even pulls back a few novels from the shelves to gander at their covers, spines split from generous use and pages yellowed. These books were obviously loved, possibly passed down from generations, as most of them appear to be rather old. Anneyce wishes beyond hope she could read them, just to get some sort of glimpse into Mags' thoughts. She feels like she's missing a vital piece of the woman's personality just within reach but out of her grasp. She spends a moment more circling the room when and she's about to leave, satisfied enough with what she'd discovered, when a thick, forest green spine catches her eye.
The book's gold-leafed script pulls her gaze like a magnet because she realizes she's able to read it. The title is printed in the alphabet of the Fae Folk.
Her hands shake lightly as she pulls it from the shelf; it's thick, but heavier than it's appearance would behold of it. The cover emboldens itself with elegant floral motifs. Upon deeper glance, Anneyce realizes that within the various flowers and clovers embossed on the cover, there are also images of tiny pixies dancing between the stalks.
The gold script printed on the spine loops in a repetition with the front title: The Gentler Folk: An Introductory Guide.
She glances around the room, upon the other spines of the books, but finds no other evidence of mischief. As far as she's aware, this is the only one of it's kind.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, she lugs the books toward the desk in the middle of the room, brushing away the thick carpet of dust before gingerly placing the text down. Her fingers brush the cover, pull it back to discover thick, yellowed pages, textured as if formed from a special kind of pulp. The room in the library is humid; the house is hot. The books she picked up earlier were rather room temperature.
But this book is cool to the touch, almost as if she were dipping her hands in a cold stream as she turns the pages. Her fingers tingle against the sensation of it. It's the most alive thing she's felt since crossing over. The thought makes her heart pick up a little.
Anneyce flips to a random page, nearly cutting the book down the middle, and almost jumps when a pair of boggling, glassy eyes stare out at her from the page. A creature she's already seen a handful of times stands illustrated on the yellowed page; tiny and clawed, with oak skin and a curling, impish grin.
Lesser Woodsprite, the title on the page reads, along with a brief descriptive passage of the being, history, other species it may or may not get along with. The information is painfully thorough, as far as she knows, leaving nothing behind. From it's physical description to history. A general overview of everything one would need to know about a Lesser Woodsprite, there on the page.
She flips to the next page, half-expecting what she'll find next, and is a jumble of emotions when she realizes she's right – the next page revealing it's cousin, the Greater Woodsprite. They're larger, where the Lesser Woodsprite would only come up to her calf, the Greater Woodsprite would land somewhere by her hip.
Such height difference is even mentioned in perfect detail.
What is this book?
She flips, almost frantic, each creature she recognizes like a punch to the gut. At some point she even stumbles upon the Guardians of the Great Forest and has to close the book entirely, her stomach rolling with nausea, her head spinning.
Where did this come from and how did it end up here, in the human world? Furthermore, why did Mags' have this and could she read it?
"Annie?" Finnick's voice calls out from down the hall, making her jump, "where are you?"
"I'm in here," she calls, her mind spinning out.
She watches as his head poke into the library, squinting around at the room as if it were too bright. He catches sight of her and slowly makes his way over, eyeing the books around them wearily, as if they were going to jump off the shelves at him. It occurs to her that she probably shouldn't be in here.
He doesn't seem upset by her presence in the room, though, placing his hand on the small of her back as he settles beside her.
"What have you got here? One of her storybooks?"
"Storybooks?"she can't help the incredulousness behind her tone, her eyes popping wide.
He observes her a moment, before nodding slowly, "Mags had a pretty extensive fantasy library," his eyes roam back around the room, at the various texts, titles and words he can easily read. Had probably read himself. "A lot of fairytales. Folklore, myths, and legends. She really liked that kind of thing. Would tell me all kinds of stories."
She takes in the library with new eyes, a new understanding of what most of these titles might be. She envisions the stories within them; the tales. She wonders how much is fiction and how much is fact, like the book beneath her. Anneyce looks to Finnick. She wonders if he realizes that Mags' fairytales are more than stories.
"Finnick," she murmurs, "I found this in here."
Gingerly, she turns the pages, revealing the creatures to him. He takes them in with polite fascination. She can tell he can't read a lick of the words on the page, their illustrations meaning even less to him. He'd only seen a fraction of her world, really. The gravity of what she's showing him hasn't hit yet.
Eventually, she turns to the page with the Guardians and she watches the color drain from his face. The hand on her back presses against her, and he props his other free one on the desk, leaning over the page.
"Is that…?"
"It is," she says, voice grave.
He shakes his head, licks his lips.
"Finnick, this book is filled with information about my world. True information. The text itself is even written in the language of the Fae Folk," she says. "Why would she have this?"
"I can't…I don't know," he shakes his head again, pulling his hands to push them through his hair.
She's about to panic again, thinking he's going to have some sort of breakdown, before he catches her by surprise when he starts shaking with laughter. It rolls through the room, cuts the tension away.
"Finnick?"
"Oh, man, Annie,"he gasps, flicking tears from his eyes, "She was always talking about monsters and creatures and I always assumed it was just silly stories but who knew it was real? That she was right all along?"
"If only she were here right now, talking to a nymph in the flesh," he shakes his head, now somber, "fuck, Annie. She would have loved you."
A nymph in the flesh.
It occurs to Anneyce just then that, most likely, her people are in the book, too. It startles her, this thought, a bubble of static working up her spine. If she were to find the pages, what would they say? Her fingers idly thrum the worn, smooth paper edge, as if making the decision for her. She starts flipping hungrily toward the front, searching for some sort of index. The broad list is heavy and thick, categorizing all variety of beings, creatures, and folk. Eventually, she finds it.
Nymph, 264.
"I'm in here," she murmurs, her eyes flickering to the human man beside her. He's observing her quietly, his lips a tight line but his sea glass eyes commending her almost in reverence.
"Well, go on then," he says, nudging the air with his nose and a nod of his head.
She pauses, finger in place, and takes a breath. Turns the page.
The illustration, as all the others, is relatively the same. Soft, sure lines and faded earthen colors. A whimsical character upon a rich background. The nymph stands half-emerged in a small pool, trees and flowering shrubs and vines spill behind her, painting a scene pulled nearly from the Great Gardens itself. Her nude frame is curved away, revealing smooth, supple skin. It's yellowed against the paper it's painted upon, denoting the book pigment's age. Her arms loop up, pushing her long, curled hair up away from her soft face as she looks toward the edge of the page. She's wild, demure, lush. Nature personified.
Is this what I look like?
Anneyce does not look at Finnick, but his stare is like a brand. She thinks of hipbones and bruises and harsh edges; of the cusp of her cheekbones. She wraps her arms around her middle. Somehow her eyes keep tying focus back to nymph's supple waist. Her soft, round face, and rolling shoulders.
She supposes that no, she does not look like this nymph. But nor do very many of the nymph's from Anneyce's Colony, either. They just look like Anneyce, with pitted hips and thin arms. Her home is sick. Her people are sick.
She swallows the thought and skims the text. It's accurate. Wholly accurate, including general nymph descriptors, information on the Colony as a habitat, and an overview of nymph customs.
Except…
Anneyce pales, grips the edge of the desk, her legs suddenly week. She can feel the rush of blood woosh behind her ear, her heart picking up tempo as her stomach coils against she words she's reading.
"Annie?"
No, that's…
"Finnick," she whispers, shaking her head, "this has information about the Queen. It says that the Singer is the heir."
He frowns, placing a hand on the desk and leaning forward towards the book. She feels his hand, sturdy against her back, "Heir?"
"It says that after the Queen passes, the Singer is the rightful heir to the Colony."
"But I thought you guys didn't pass the crown, so to speak," he says.
"We don't. Or we haven't! But this says that the Queen, she's the life source. She's supposed to –" Anneyce sucks in a shaky breath, feeling her eyes burn, the horror in her chest spilling tears, "Finnick she's supposed to be the one to die. She's supposed to be the sacrifice to the land. Not humans."
Anneyce mind was spinning. This was the key. This was the missing piece of history that happened on her Queen's rule, centuries ago, before the mysterious sickness hit the Colony. Suddenly everything was clicking into the place. Why the Queen was so frantic to keep the Ritual going, despite how little of a solution it was to their blight. When all along she needed to be the one to die to save her people. If she's supposed to heal the Colony, then all those nymphs who got sick...who died because the land was dying…
Anneyce feels Finnick's hands, sturdy, holding her up. Somewhere along the way, her legs had given way. The air felt thin, harder to take in, as the words on the page began to blur.
She killed them. Nymphs like Anneyce's own mother, the last Singer. The Heir.
The Queen killed her.