https://t.co/bCoNbDuQsC

fisherman , one of their own . blood of their blood , borne from the same wave .

the ocean , of the sparkling cerulean waters of district four . 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 . and across panem , in a room filled with dozens and dozens of monitors , mags and finnick odair watch her ; a —

mourn her ; and so annie does . she sings the whole song , even when her throat burns , even when her voice is hoarse , even when she feels hollow . 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 , 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘢 . she thinks of —

for solara . a song that had only ever been used for sailors , and lost children , and those that had been claimed by the sea . now it is sung for the girl from two that will never go home again . she deserves someone to —

that had caused the elders to pause atop the docks , the sort of voice that had left the children of four begging her to sing their shanties . now it is thin and off-key , and it trembles . she sings the funeral song of four —

no , not the sand ——– stubbornly seafoam eyes focus . dirt . speckles of dirt . her fingers then curl into it , before she sings . her voice had been lovely , once , before the games . not the loveliest , but . . . pretty . in the way —

that is steadying . the way her father had taught her to , years ago , before braving a storm . she touches her chest , and then the sand , in the way that the fishermen of four do when the tide takes one of their own . —

separated by the thinnest of veils . her loved ones , that she will see soon . anemone cresta weeps for what feels like hours , but likely is not . she only stops when the night is darkest , and then takes a deep breath , one —

still , she cannot breathe . she cannot anchor herself , not when she is so far from the shore , not when the air is not scented of mist and brine . and so she weeps , freely , without restraint . mother , father , ívan ; her dead , —

the cost of another life . and she cannot forgive herself for it . nails dig into her skin , leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake , and still ! she cannot BREATHE . still , the world is a blur of emerald and periwinkle and dirt . —

flame-tinged locks and mountain mist eyes . they eat now , because of her . because she’d killed solara to make sure that nereus would have the trident in her spare hand , and the packs thrown over her shoulder . she’d saved them , at —

tree . the children are nearby , with nereus . little lavendar from eleven , with her beautiful amber eyes and tight curls . branch , from seven , a whisper of a boy that moves soundlessly . and ember from twelve , with her —

forward . SHE’D KILLED HER ——— anemone cresta , trident wielder , mentor of the village , fisherman , daughter of four . she’d done what any fisherman would never do , and now she is alone , back pressed to the thick bark of an ancient —

solara , with her too-shiny blonde hair and perfect training score of ten . she’d killed the girl on her dash away from the cornucopia , mere feet away from the entrance of the forest , so close that the branches were beckoning her —

propped against the wall in her bedroom , all the way back in the sand dunes of four . a trident that is tinged coral and clean ; not silver and cold , with the blood of the female tribute from two on it . solara . she’d killed —

blood still coats calloused hands , speckles of red marring golden , sun-kissed skin ( the mark of a * true daughter of four ) . her trident is by her slide ; slender , elongated , more suited for her than the trident that is —

𖦹 *ੈ ‧ 𓇼 a victor is not a f͟i͟s͟h͟e͟r͟m͟a͟n͟ : a short solo during annie cresta's games.

lady of the sea; lady of the deep.

/ and like i’ve stated before : my ideas , thoughts , ties to history , world-building , etc are all purely my own . so little is known about annie in canon that she can be written in any possible way !

/ in terms of wedding customs , the groom gifts the bride’s family a large fish . a symbolic net is carried to the celebration , and a fish is cooked immediately after the wedding ceremony !!!