Chapter Text
Wulfric Odair stood in front of his crying son's chair and was at loss for words. He had nothing to say to his son. He couldn’t say that everything was fine because it wasn’t. He couldn’t say it was not his son's fault, that he did what he had to do, because it was much more complex than that. And he couldn’t forgive him, because it wasn’t his place to forgive what Finnick had done to survive even though he knew it was unfair to blame his son for surviving. His head was in turmoil. His son was a killer. He had killed five young people in cold blood. He was a victor now .
But this was also his son, and he was just 14 years old. So he had to offer some comfort. And with words not being sufficient, he did what he'd never done before.
He picked his son up and carried him back to the sofa. Finnick was taller than most kids his age. Not fully grown yet but not far from it. Still, Wulfric was taller. He had the size of his long-forgotten ancestors. A stoic giant remnant of the warriors of old times who had passed along a stronger heritage to him than just the coppery reddish hair Finnick had inherited. The hard work as a fisherman had toned his muscles and he was strong. He knew he couldn't be a protector for his child. But at this moment he pretended he could. He wrapped Finnick in his arms and let him cry himself out. Gently rocking his boy as if he was still the small chap who had just stubbed his toe or killed his first fish.
The patriarch was honest with himself. Finnick had been such a gentle soul, such a quiet and kind boy, he’d never thought that this kid had it in him to kill so viciously. Wulfric had told him before the games not to think about anyone back home, not to worry, to do what he had to do and he'd said so even though everyone knew how he thought not just about the games themselves but also the victors. It was the last thing he said to him before he went to the arena. But he hadn’t believed it would work or Finnick could do it. That's why he said it. He'd thought it would help Finnick to ease what was to come, would help him die as peacefully and painlessly as possible with one worry less on his mind. It was meant for comfort, not as encouragement. He loved all his kids but deep down he hadn’t thought his younger son was able to do what was needed to win.
The boy had never been at the training centre, had never learned how to kill anything besides fish and sea creatures and had struggled even with that. His only training with knives was the hard school of life on a fishing boat. Yes, Finnick was tall for his age, and tough on the sea, but not even remotely as tall and tough as those careers he’d killed. He was agile and fit, very skilled with the trident, the knife, the boat hooks and the nets. But he was also a bit feminine, a bit soft, a bit lanky and a bit shy. The man had been shocked when he saw how his son had slit the throat of that boy during the bloodbath so readily and had been shocked to see him flaunt himself during the interviews.
That was not his boy.
This was his boy. This shaking, sobbing mess, this was his true son. He felt a bit of tension leaving his body. Finnicks show had been so convincing and so out of character that he had doubted himself for a bit. How could he not have seen this monster inside his kid? But there was no monster inside. The monster was the Capitol and he wondered how Finnick had been able to pull it off. How he had been able to play it so well. What had happened there? What did those people do to his lovely, precious, gentle soul?
He had always hated the Capitol and everything related to it. Seeing Finnick so flirty and cocky, so seemingly happy among those anomalies that in his opinion weren’t even real people anymore, made his blood boil. Now he felt ashamed. He should have known better.
His boy was the obedient kind and he himself had told him to come home, he himself had made sure all through the boy's life that Finnick, his soft-spoken, weak, pretty-faced son would toughen up, and would know how to follow Wulfric's directions, had made sure he’d followed his fathers advice without question. He'd meant well. He just wanted him to become a man. He'd let the bickering of the other fishermen get the better of him and started early on to shape and mould his son for appearances to stop the others mocking him for his weakling son. But he'd never believed it would be more than a show! His son was meek. Weak. Hell, even his little sister had more spunk than Finnick and would need less aid and leadership when she was old enough to learn the trade. Finnick had cried for killing a fish for heaven's sake!
But that didn’t mean he didn’t love Finnick. With pride had he seen his son overcome his weaknesses on the fisher boat. He had been proud that his son, who wasn’t as strong and naturally fearless as himself or his oldest son or even his little sister, had overcome himself and become a good fisherman, a great help to his family. Wulfric had kept him away from the careers and victors because he still knew his son was no killer. Also, he didn't want him to be. He despised the games and disdained the victors. At least he'd thought Finnick wasn’t a killer. He had firmly believed he’d become a great provider in time. It seemed he had underestimated how much his son could do after all. Or had underestimated how well his lessons of obedience had stuck.
Memories of different situations flooded his mind.
“Finnick, it’s just fish! We need them to survive! Get over yourself, here’s the knife! Now slit it open and gut it, we have to prepare the haul for the market.” - “Yes dad.”
“Oh, come on boy, it’s just some shallow cut. Now take this cloth, press it on, and the next time be more careful with that harpoon!” - “Yes dad.”
“Finnick I know you are tired. I’m tired too. But this haul is not enough. Do you want your sister to be hungry tomorrow? Do you want to take Tesserae? So be a good boy, get to your feet, grab that hook and tidy the net. We have to give it another go.” - “Yes dad.”
And everything only ever had to be said once. During the last two years, he hadn’t had to say anything at all. His boy had stood firm as he wanted him to. He was so tenacious. Just like his mom. If anyone had asked the Odair patriarch, he wouldn’t have thought that tenacity could win the Hunger Games. He wouldn’t have thought obedience was enough. He had been wrong.
Now his youngest, kind, soft son, now sobbing in his arms, was a murderer. It had been the capitol forcing the hand but still, it was the hand that spilt the blood. The first kill had been self-defence, the second too. He had been attacked, he had fought back. But as soon as he had the trident he had become a hunter. He had skillfully planned his kills in his head, had actively sought out those remaining tributes and taken them out one by one. Cold-blooded, like he’d speared fish, sharks, even octopi and the occasional sea turtle. He wondered how they had done it. How they had managed to change his boy in such a short time.
And he realized, it was him himself, Wulfric Odair, who’d done it. His own words were ringing in his head. “Get over yourself! Here’s the knife, kill it!” His son had cried but killed that fish. He had cried again with the next one but killed it without being told again and had cried for days. His father had told him to get over it. And he did. He killed that fish and many more. It was just fish. But it seemed the lesson on how to kill a living being had stuck better than anticipated.
Finnick's sobs slowly died down. Wulfric held him tight. This was the first time in their life he didn't tell Finnick to toughen up. To get over it. He felt tears forming in his own eyes with this realization. All of this was his fault. He tightened his hold on his son and fully embraced him as he was for the first time. It was too late and he knew it. He had lost his Finnick and was just clinging to this last moment of weakness to the fading shadow of his true, precious jewel of a child that could have been saved if he had just allowed him to be weak. Whose body might have died in that arena, but whose soul would have stayed whole and true. He, Wulfric Odair, could have saved his beautiful son.
But by wanting him to be different, he had killed him. And all that was left now was an empty shell and the echo of the sea.