Finnick Odair is harder to find these days than he used to be. The revolution took more from him than most people know. All of Panem, now, knows the truth of his life as a victor, saw him bare the darkest memories and secrets in his soul. All of Panem had seen him publicly mourn fallen tributes. All of Panem watched his wedding. All of Panem had seen him declared dead, had heard that news changed to critically injured. Had seen him at the trials and executions. Had seen the tangled scars that now mark the face the whole country once sighed over.
He's been watched and wanted ever since he was fourteen. Prim's age. That was how old he'd been when he'd won the Hunger Games, in part thanks to the sponsor money of people who'd known what would happen once he was old enough.
The last eleven years of his life have been for Panem's entertainment, and he's tired. So he'd come back to District Four, and he'd slipped as far from public life as he could. He'd begged for privacy to be allowed to heal, to try to care for his pregnant wife. That had been good enough for most, even without the things Panem doesn't know. The darkness and demons that haunt his mind, sometimes threatening to swallow him. They're fed now not only by being twice a tribute and many times a mentor, or by the nights of fear and loathing he'd spent in so many Capitol beds, but also by the battle for the Capitol.
(Some nights, he still wakes with the stench of the mutts sharp in his memory.)
But whatever his body and mind and exhausted spirit might do, there's contentment in freedom, hard-fought for and hard-won. The freedom to do all those things: to retreat from public scrutiny, to marry and love and care for Annie, to choose what he does now with his life. To prepare to start a family with the woman he's pledged that life to.
He's fond of the gardens around the hospital. He's spent enough time here for check-ups to have grown to appreciate them, especially in contrast to the bright, sterile hospital in the Capitol that had pieced together his face and shoulder after the mutts were done with him. Besides, he likes to be close to Annie, still, even so many months after she'd been rescued from captivity. He stays out of he way, but he likes to be here.
He'd come in with her today not just to keep her company, but also to meet Prim. He's fond of the younger Everdeen sister. She'd been kind to him, those days in the hospital in District 13 when he'd been so far lost in his darkness he could barely acknowledge her. She'd been kind to Annie, too, and he's always judged people on how they treat Annie.
So he's waiting for her, and for Prim, he's done something he wouldn't usually do: made up his face to disguise the worst of the scars that trace the wounds left by teeth and claws and surgeons' scalpels. He can't quite cover them, but they're less noticeable, at least until they run down his neck to where they disappear under his shirt. He doesn't need to test Prim, doesn't need to gauge the impact the loss of physical beauty will have on her.
He knows Prim, and Prim knows him, beyond the famous face to the man he really is.
That's why, when he sees her, he swings up off the stone bench he'd been sprawled on, grinning. (His movements in his injured arm are getting less and less stiff as the months go on, but there's still a moment's hitch.)
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He's been watched and wanted ever since he was fourteen. Prim's age. That was how old he'd been when he'd won the Hunger Games, in part thanks to the sponsor money of people who'd known what would happen once he was old enough.
The last eleven years of his life have been for Panem's entertainment, and he's tired. So he'd come back to District Four, and he'd slipped as far from public life as he could. He'd begged for privacy to be allowed to heal, to try to care for his pregnant wife. That had been good enough for most, even without the things Panem doesn't know. The darkness and demons that haunt his mind, sometimes threatening to swallow him. They're fed now not only by being twice a tribute and many times a mentor, or by the nights of fear and loathing he'd spent in so many Capitol beds, but also by the battle for the Capitol.
(Some nights, he still wakes with the stench of the mutts sharp in his memory.)
But whatever his body and mind and exhausted spirit might do, there's contentment in freedom, hard-fought for and hard-won. The freedom to do all those things: to retreat from public scrutiny, to marry and love and care for Annie, to choose what he does now with his life. To prepare to start a family with the woman he's pledged that life to.
He's fond of the gardens around the hospital. He's spent enough time here for check-ups to have grown to appreciate them, especially in contrast to the bright, sterile hospital in the Capitol that had pieced together his face and shoulder after the mutts were done with him. Besides, he likes to be close to Annie, still, even so many months after she'd been rescued from captivity. He stays out of he way, but he likes to be here.
He'd come in with her today not just to keep her company, but also to meet Prim. He's fond of the younger Everdeen sister. She'd been kind to him, those days in the hospital in District 13 when he'd been so far lost in his darkness he could barely acknowledge her. She'd been kind to Annie, too, and he's always judged people on how they treat Annie.
So he's waiting for her, and for Prim, he's done something he wouldn't usually do: made up his face to disguise the worst of the scars that trace the wounds left by teeth and claws and surgeons' scalpels. He can't quite cover them, but they're less noticeable, at least until they run down his neck to where they disappear under his shirt. He doesn't need to test Prim, doesn't need to gauge the impact the loss of physical beauty will have on her.
He knows Prim, and Prim knows him, beyond the famous face to the man he really is.
That's why, when he sees her, he swings up off the stone bench he'd been sprawled on, grinning. (His movements in his injured arm are getting less and less stiff as the months go on, but there's still a moment's hitch.)
"Hey, Prim! Welcome back!"