The Sterling Nightingale ⟷ Finnick Odair/OC

The cascading lilt of a single fiddle

Chapter Twenty Nine | The cascading lilt of a single fiddle

"But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

Contrary to popular belief, Finnick Odair is not exempt from the feelings of hopelessness – he just has the ability to mask it with a smirk and a boyish wink. Most of the time. Needless to say, this is not one of those times. He wakes up in a blank room. His first thought is that it's too white, to a point of blindness. It takes him several minutes to fully adjust to it, and during those few minutes he becomes aware of several other things that contribute to his hopeless feelings.

A bed with starchy, uncomfortable sheets; bolts around his wrists and ankles that prevent him from moving; the subtle beeping sound of a monitor nearby, which increases with tempo each second he realizes where he is. No normal hospital would bolt him to a bed.

He tears his eyes open despite the way the bright room makes them water. The heart monitor beside the bed is frantic now, pulsing rapidly through the silence. He struggles to breathe and finds it oddly difficult. The panic rising up within him is turning against him.

He counts backwards in his mind, desperate for some of the calmness that he normally possesses. He is Finnick Odair, survivor of two Hunger Games and renowned Victor. He will not die from a panic attack after he's survived so much.

Of course, there are so many other ways to die in the Capitol.

"He's awake," a quiet voice sounds somewhere to the blurry left. Finnick turns his head in the direction but can't find it in him to keep his eyes open. They close, blink rapidly before opening once more. As much as he wants to succumb to the safety of sleep, he knows that it won't kept him from harm.

"...Call him," another voice murmurs, so quietly that Finnick can't quite catch the first part of the sentence. Yet he knows, deep in his gut, who they are referring to. Who else would they inform?

He struggles against his binds and gasps for breath, trying uselessly to loosen the ties. But even as he does, he knows there is no point. Even if he can get out of the binds, he is still stuck in the Capitol – a festering snake pit of which there is no escape. None, at least, that he could find in his condition.

"Should I sedate him while we wait?" one of the voices wonders. It's so clinical, cold, as if he is pondering something completely mundane. Finnick isn't sure he appreciates it.

"Mm...perhaps that would be for the best," the other man responds. The voices are louder now, but Finnick is too far gone to see when they approach his bed and administer the sedative. He is suddenly not seeing the hospital at all. Instead he sees the arena coming down around him and the woman lying beside his prone figure in the jungle dirt, screaming something unintelligible that sounds vaguely like his name.

As he drifts back into blackness, her screams follow him into the swirling night.

_______________________________________________

He wakes up again with a jolt.

Hours, minutes – he's not sure how long he's been out, but when he opens his eyes, Finnick wishes he'd stayed under for longer. The sight he's met with isn't entirely pleasant, but then again, President Snow never is.

The President is obviously waiting for him, because he's sitting comfortably beside the hospital bed with a book in his hand, as if he's here to visit an old friend. Finnick very much doubts that friendship is on Snow's mind, though, especially when he snaps the book shut with more force than is necessary and stares at him with soulless black eyes.