The Daughter of the Sea

▬▬ 𝟎𝟔 ∙ 𝝩𝗵𝗲 𝝖𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽

˚✩ ⋆｡ ✩┊ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚 ┊✦ ˚ · .

▬▬ 06 ∙ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜

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That night, Finnick misses dinner and isn't back until dessert. "Where have you been?" Moxie asks, annoyed. "I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"Yes, your concern is very evident," he replies, which makes Moxie madder. "And I was out getting something. Nothing to worry about." He leaves momentarily, then comes back empty-handed.

"What's left?" he asks, taking a seat. I slide over a plate of chocolate mousse cheesecake.

"Looks like this is all that's left."

"Oh, that's quite alright. This is good enough." I would be lying if I said that I didn't see the glimmer in his eyes when I gave him the confection.

When I clean my plate, Finnick asks me to come with him. He brings me to his room, where an assortment of seemingly random items is laid out on his bed. "What is this?"

"This is for you to practice."

"But that's a kitchen knife." I point to the knife that I've seen used by the Capitol chefs.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't get you a fancy knife like the ones that will be in the Games," he says sarcastically. "Anyway, try throwing this," he hands me the knife, "at this." He tapes a large block of styrofoam on the wall. "Please don't destroy the wall too. I can tell someone won't be happy."

I grip the handle, and Finnick comes rushing over, taking the knife away. "I can already tell from your stance that this will be a disaster. Give me a second."

He runs out of the room. I hear Moxie ask, "Where are you going this time?" There's a ding of an elevator and Moxie's agitated sigh. "That boy," she mutters.

When he comes back, he has a large mat, like the ones that you'd see in the Training Center. "When the Capitol likes you this much, you can ask for pretty much anything and they'll provide." He holds the knife, demonstrating how to hold it, and throws it at the piece of foam. The styrofoam gives a crackling sound as the knife sticks in it. He bows and I roll my eyes with a laugh.

"Now, you try." I pull the knife out of the styrofoam and step back to where Finnick is.

"Slightly bend your wrist back and raise your arm," he instructs. "Good, throw." I throw the knife, and it soars.

Though not very far.

It lies ten feet away from the wall on the floor, where the mat is spread out. It cuts through the plastic layer and is stuck in the foam padding.

"Turns out it's not that easy," I say sheepishly.

"At least we have a start. And that," he pulls the knife out, "is what the mat is for."

We practiced for the next hour until I had enough power to hit the foam.

"It won't be this easy with the actual throwing knives, though."

"I know. The distance might be different too. Not to mention my aim is off sometimes."

"Let's go to sleep now, it's late."

"I'll see you in the morning. Good luck on your private session."

"Good night." When I fall asleep, it is filled with dreams of me throwing knives, successfully hitting the target each and every time.