Sea of Flames | f. odair

CHAPTER 19 | THE REUNION

He stood with a walking stick, his black hair was shaggy and his face was just barely covered in a chivalrous speckling of facial hair. He had a swollen purple eye and no pack. His sword was strapped to his side. In the blinding afternoon sun, he looked like a fallen angel; skin glowing over the taut wane of his bones, strong collarbones appearing out of his tattered shirt, thin lips pressed in an uplifted grimace—relieved and devastated to see her again.

"Griffin." She didn't move from her perch.

He watched her, tilting his head back to get a better look. She didn't want to think about what he saw, of the girl wasting away in the tree. Yes, she was wasting away. Too tired to search for water, she had her last sip that morning. Too tired to hunt, she let her stomach gnaw at her insides, letting herself eat herself alive.

She wanted to laugh at that. Eat herself alive. She guessed she would taste rather putrid if that were to happen. She could imagine Evelin making a gagging noise in mock of her imagination. But she was too tired to smile.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked in that rugged, alluring voice. "Come down here and greet me."

Staring down at him, Cassia could feel it. In his gaze, the burning passion he felt for her. She wanted to run from it, yet there was nowhere for her to go. And she knew they were all watching them, waiting for them to reunite; for the lovers to embrace each other, to be a symbol that love could persist in even the worst of circumstances. What made it worst of all was that he wanted it too, to be that symbol. She could see the restless nights, the fright of waking up and not having her laying by the fire, listening to Clio complain about her shoulder, constantly maintaining a good standing with Ezra. She saw it all on his face like she was reading a book, plain for her and all of Panem to see. So strange, so opposite from the boy she had known in the Tribute Center, of the boy who had threatened Lark during the interviews. As if their time apart made him realize how much he needed her.

She wished it had been her, instead of Azalea. Perhaps if she pissed him off, he would be willing to kill her. That got her moving stiffly from the tree, down to greet him.

Gripping the harsh wood, she felt the splinters enter her skin, climbing down with careful movements. Her broken finger scorched fire down her arm, making her hand tremble, making her want to claw at the appendage like a wild animal.

Her feet barely hit the ground when she was spun around and thrust against his chest. He smelled like sweat and dirt and moss and the muscle that had been tightly packed on at the start of the Games was beginning to deflate. No longer was he a Career, but a regular boy.

She felt him run a hand over the back of her head and over the bits and pieces of bark and twigs stuck in her hair. For a moment she wondered if he would snap her neck then, but he pulled her back by the shoulders and took in her face.

She hated being so close to him, so under analysis. She has created a monster. Not of him, but of herself.

"Oh, Cassia," he said. "I'm so glad I've found you." He caressed the side of her face, looking down at her with adoration beaming in every facet of his expression.

Cassia forced herself to smile, to lean in against his body and produce whatever ounce of love she had left in her blackening heart. "I thought I would never see you again."

He grinned wide and lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers. His sharp green eyes were closed as he kissed her. Cassia stared at him for a second before closing her eyes, thinking about what Finnick thought of her most recent behavior. Not that it mattered. Finnick wasn't there, and she likely would die in the arena, so she would never see him again. But if he was watching, she wondered for fun—Griffin parted her lips with his tongue—what he thought about her fake infatuation with the boy from Two. Was he jealous? A seedy part of her hoped very much so. She wondered if he was staring at the television in his home, or in a lounge with other Mentors, head resting on a fist, a strong drink in the other hand. The Mentors would be talking and eating the hors d'oeuvres, laughing like the good old friends that they are. But he would be staring at the screen, waiting for when her Sphynx, navy-blue eyes would come onto the screen to be entranced by all of Panem to sigh dreamily at. He would not sigh, but take a sip from his short glass and ruminate over every next possibility for her, of what horror she would have to face next, and he would lay in bed every night and hear the television that would never turn off, waiting for the sound of the canon to echo the signal of her final breath.