The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

LIII

The air is thick, suffocating, pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. My feet pound against the ground, but it's not solid, not steady. The earth beneath me shifts, roils, alive and trembling, as if it's trying to swallow me whole. The sky is a sickly, swirling mess of black and red, like the aftermath of an explosion, and everything feels wrong, as if the very world itself is bending and breaking. I know where I am—this is the arena. But it's distorted, twisted, a reflection of something far worse than I ever imagined.

I can hear the distant echo of screams, the low, guttural sounds of pain and fear that claw at my insides. The air smells of smoke, blood, and something else, something metallic that makes my stomach lurch. My heart races, a frantic drumbeat in my chest, but my legs—my legs feel like they're moving through sludge, as if every step I take is fighting against me, pulling me deeper into the nightmare.

I'm not alone, though. I can hear them. The mutts, the creatures lurking in the shadows, their claws scraping against the earth, their growls low and hungry. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, my pulse pounding in my ears as I try to run, but the ground beneath me is shifting again. It's like the very earth is alive, alive and laughing at me. I'm running, but it feels like I'm barely moving, like I'm sinking into the earth with each desperate step.

And then I see him.

Finnick.

His body is sprawled on the ground, his suit soaked through with blood. It pools around him, dark and thick, the crimson staining the cracked earth like a warning, a sign of something I can't—don't want to—comprehend. His face is turned toward me, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Empty. Vacant. I can feel the scream rising in my chest, a soundless cry that tears through me, a desperate, frantic noise that claws at my throat.

I stumble toward him, my legs unsteady, my body trembling with a terror I can't control. I reach for him, but he's slipping away, sinking into the ground like he's made of sand. His form is dissolving, vanishing before my eyes, and I can't—I can't—let him go. I try to grab him, pull him back, but my hands pass through him like he's nothing more than smoke. He's gone. He's gone. And I'm helpless.

I fall to my knees, my hands trembling as I search for any sign of him, any sign that this isn't real, that this isn't happening. But the more I reach, the more he fades, the more he disappears, until there's nothing left but the hollow echo of his absence.

The world is spinning now, a blur of shapes and shadows, and the sounds around me—the screams, the growls, the crackling of fire—are deafening. I can't breathe. I can't think. My chest is tight, my vision narrowing as panic claws at me from every side. I need him. I need him here, but the nightmare won't let me have him. The ground shifts beneath me again, and this time, it's not just the earth. It's everything—the sky, the air, the world itself—closing in, pressing down on me, threatening to crush me under its weight.

And then, just when I think I'm going to suffocate in the terror, I wake up.

Gasping. Choking for air. My hands clutching at my chest, the phantom pain of his death still raw, still ripping at me. My heart races, pounding as though it might tear free of my ribs. 

Where am I? My mind flails in the dark, scrabbling for something solid, something real. My hands tighten over the fabric beneath me, grounding me just enough to recognize the familiar feel of the couch. Finnick's couch. He must have let me drift off here in the quiet, holding me close. But where is he now?

The door slams open, and before I can even process it, he's there. His eyes wide with panic, his chest heaving with every breath like he's been running, like he's been a thousand miles away and I've just dragged him back. Relief floods me at the sight of him, but it's immediately tangled with a new, unfamiliar fear, something deep and raw that I can't explain. It tightens around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

He sees me, and his expression softens. The panic fades, but something else takes its place—a tenderness so gentle, so achingly familiar, that it threatens to unravel me even further. His gaze locks on mine, his lips parting as if to say something, but his voice is cautious, like he's afraid a wrong word will shatter me.

"Princess," he murmurs, his voice low and steady, though it cracks slightly, betraying the tension in him. He moves to my side, kneeling down to meet my eyes, and I can see the concern etched deep into his features. "I-... I heard you scream. What happened?"

I can't answer. My breath is ragged, my chest tight, as if the very air is refusing to fill my lungs. The nightmare, that nightmare—it's still here, clinging to me, pressing in from every angle. The terror is so raw, so real, that it suffocates me. I reach for him, needing to feel his warmth, his heartbeat—something, anything, that's alive. The moment his arms wrap around me, the sobs I've been holding back break free, raw and desperate, like a dam shattering under the weight of too many emotions.

"I saw you die..." The words are fractured, barely more than a whisper, but they slice through the space between us. His arms tighten around me, his hand smoothing over my back, and his voice—so low, so steady—reaches into the chaos inside my head.

"It's okay," he says, his tone trying to soothe, trying to anchor me. "I'm right here, Princess. I'm not going anywhere."

But it doesn't feel that way. It doesn't feel like he's here. Not in the way that nightmare felt so real. In just a few hours, he'll be walking into that hell again—the arena. And I'll have to watch. Helpless. Powerless. I clutch him harder, pressing myself against him like he's the only thing that's real in a world that's gone mad.

I look up at him, my gaze wild with fear, and he must see it, because he pulls me in even closer, cradling my head against his shoulder as if the very act will shield me from everything. "It was just a nightmare," he whispers, his voice like velvet, trying to convince me. "It's not real, Ophelia. I'm here. It wasn't real."

My breath is uneven, the words sticking in my throat as I choke on my fear. "But it felt real, Finnick. You're going into the arena, and what if—" My voice breaks, and I can't finish the sentence. The weight of the words, the what if—it hangs in the air between us, a dark, suffocating cloud.

His hand gently tilts my face, lifting my chin so our eyes lock. His thumb brushes away a tear from my cheek, but his gaze is softer now, searching. And then he speaks, his voice breaking through the chaos in my mind, steady and full of something I want to believe more than anything. "I'll come back to you, Ophelia. I'm coming back. I'll be here, every time you need me. You have my word."

A shaky breath escapes me, and I want to believe him. I need to believe him. The promise is like a thread of hope in the darkness, and I cling to it, to him, with everything I have. But as he kisses my forehead, the fear that's been gnawing at me doesn't fade. The quiet between us deepens, a heaviness in the air, both of us knowing what lies ahead.

"I don't want to live in a world without you," I whisper, the words slipping out, raw and desperate, before I can stop them. But they are the truth. And as soon as they leave my mouth, I feel his breath hitch, his body stiffen as if those words have struck something deep inside him. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. He just holds me, his silence heavy with the things he can't promise, with the things neither of us can control.

When he finally does speak, his voice is thick with emotion, with something I can't name. "You won't have to," he says, his words fragile, more a wish than a certainty. His arms tighten around me, his body pressing into mine as if he can somehow shield me from what's coming. I bury my face into his chest, clutching him tighter, needing to feel every piece of him, every inch of his warmth, because the thought of losing him is too much to bear.

For a long while, we just hold each other, the quiet punctuated only by the sound of his breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my cheek. He trails his hand in gentle circles on my back, like a lifeline. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze unwavering, intense, as if searching me for something he can't quite find. His hand cups my face, his thumb tracing my cheek, his touch grounding me in a world that feels like it's falling apart.

And in that moment, the weight of the nightmare feels a little lighter, because with him, I can believe, just for a moment, that the world might not end. That he might just come back to me. And maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.