A/N: so...I kinda made myself sad writing this one. Oops XD
Basically, just review. Even if you hate it, it takes 0.5 seconds and it really makes a difference! It makes my day and it's really important as an author to get feedback so...do it D
I own nothing. If I did, Cato and Marvel would be in my bed.
God and his priests and his kings
All were waiting, all will wait as they go over...
Held between heaven and hell
As they're dancing, as they dance over and over...over...
Cold, Cold.
It's only a moment.
They stand at the top of the Cornucopia, his eyes trained firmly on hers as he watches her every movement, studies every emotion that passes through her stormy grey eyes. There's fear - fear is dominant to all else, the shadows that swirl in with the light and consume it, make it their own. She's afraid, the Girl on Fire, and he can't blame her for it. He knows what he must look like right then, caked in the blood of so many people that it almost sickens him.
The beast from Eleven. Some of the mutts. Himself.
Clove. Clove, Clove, Clove.
But then he sees something else in her eyes, something that almost startles him. A cool calculation, a confidence that both thrills him and unnerves him. Even in this arena, even near the brink of death, there's still a part of her that's on fire. It'd be admirable, were it not so sickening.
"What're you waiting for, Fire Girl? Shoot."
All Cato wants is for her to get it over with. Never did he think that he'd be practically begging for his own death, but his mind is frenzied and his body is quickly failing - it's giving out on him, all of it, and the quicker the death the better. At least if he dies this way he takes Lover Boy with him, and that's almost a victory in itself. All he knows is that he can't let them get out together, because that'd be failing, and he can't fail. He can't, he can't, he can't.
Death isn't failure, but failure is death.
It's only a moment, but he's studying her so intently that he doesn't miss the way Katniss' eyes flicker down to his hand, doesn't even question what Lover Boy is doing when he draws the 'X' on his hand. Of course. They think they're so fucking clever, the rats from Twelve. They think they're so fucking smart, but they can't even realize that he's one step ahead. That he's always going to be one. Step. Ahead.
It's only a moment, but when Katniss releases the arrow aiming straight towards his hand, the one that's gripping onto Lover Boy's chest with a sick desperation, he's ready for it. When she released the arrow he releases his hand and jumps to the side, and the familiar sound that follows lets him know exactly what's just happened.
It's the sound of metal ripping through skin, through muscle, through flesh.
It's the sound of blood spurting out of a wound that will soon be fatal.
It's the sound of a victim's sharp intake of breath, one that he realizes must be his last, and the choking sob that follows as his own blood leaves his mouth.
It's the sound of a scream, guttural and pained and filled with an otherworldly kind of grief, the very same kind that had left Cato's own throat not long before as he stood crouched over the broken body of Clove.
For a moment, he sympathizes with Katniss Everdeen. She had been going home with a boy she 'loved' (if there was any truth to that story at all - he himself highly doubted it). Now she was stuck with him, a ruthless killer, a sadistic monster, a barbarian. Because that's what they say about him, right? That he enjoyed, the killing, and he did. Of course he did, because each life he took was a step closer to victory, a step closer to home.
He was no different, no worse than the rest of them. They were all one and the same - Fire Girl especially. They just wouldn't admit it.
Cowards.
He doesn't know what compelled him to do it. Perhaps it's because he knows he knows he doesn't have much more time than Mellark did, the boom of his cannon signifying that Lover Boy's last breath had been drawn. Perhaps it's because, lying dying against the solid metal surface of the Cornucopia, he's filled with the sudden realization that his life, in it's entirety, has been meaningless. Worthless. Nothing. What has he brought to the world? He's brought death and pain and suffering and misery, and he's enjoyed every minute of it.
Perhaps it's because Clove's face keeps flashing across his vision, and for a moment he can almost imagine that it's her standing there, her sobbing, her cursing and screaming and pulling her hair and slowly but steadily losing her mind.
Or perhaps it's because, illuminated by the moonlight and drenched head-to-toe in the blood of her now-dead partner with her arrow now pointed directly at him, he thinks that she looks almost like an angel.
Cato's never believed in anything like that before. He scoffed in the face of any sort of 'religion' back home, mocked the weak fools who thought that praying to their pathetic god would give them the kind of strength that they desired - the kind that he already had. His strength was in his size, in his inability to feel fear or pain of any kind, in the way he could make his wish someone's command simply by looking at them. That was the only strength he needed, the only strength he could have wanted.
Power, control, force.
But now, standing in front of him with a wolfish grin on her face, her eyes entirely demented and the velvety crimson droplets slowly running down her face like tears, he thinks that she mustbe something sent to finish him off.
Not an angel of the god those fool had so easily and unwittingly devoted themselves to. She's what they were trying to save themselves from, what they begged and pleaded their false deity to keep out of their lives. She's an angel of death, his Girl on Fire, and he thinks that it's oddly fitting that she's the one who's going to finish him off.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he doesn't know if he's talking to her or Clove or his district or Peeta or himself. All of them, he thinks, he's sorry to all of them. "I'm so sorry." And there's a desperation to his voice - he realizes then that he's sobbing, his voice hysterical and his hands shaking as she holds her bow steady. And then, before he can stop the words they're out, spoken aloud for all the world to hear.
"It was always supposed to be you, you know that? You were always supposed to win - I just didn't know it until now."
But oh, now he knows. He knows, simply by staring at the blood staining flesh and how she doesn't even seem to notice it anymore. He knows by seeing the fire that still rages in the depths of her eyes, eyes unlike any he had ever seen before. He knows by the way her smile has now taken on a sort of animalistic hunger, her teeth glittering like fangs as the light of the moon reflects off of them.
"So beautiful," he hisses between his teeth, because she is. Dangerous and fierce and beautiful and entirely his. These games were never about her and her lover. They were about the two of them, about this moment, about the way she was going to take his life.
And it's so painfully beautiful. Even more painful than the feeling of his life slipping away.
Cato doesn't even notice blinding pain that accompanies the arrow piercing his chest, tearing him apart from the inside like it did to the boy not moments before. All he notices is the way she laughs as she releases it, an angry desperation hidden behind the joyous sound. The juxtaposition of it all makes him laugh as well, although the sound is weak and pained.
"Beautiful," he whispers, and his last moment alive is spent with bated breath as he revels in the sound of her laugh, music to his dying ears. And the last noise he hears is her voice, hushed beside his ear as his eyes fall closed, and it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard.
"Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight."
Crimson and bare as I stand
Yours completely, yours as we go over
Sing for the lion and lamb,
Their hearts are haunting
Still hearts hold ever and ever...ever
Cold, Cold