Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. He could sense it, as soon as they were all called out to the street in front of the palace.

Maxon's hands trembled as he picked up his scarf and coat. It had been snowing for the past week, and it was one of the coldest winters Angeles had ever had. He couldn't think; he was so scared. The only time they would take everyone out into the street in this weather was for a punishment. For a whipping.

Please, he prayed, please don't let it be America.

But he knew, in the deepest pits of his heart, that it would be her. But just maybe it wasn't, if the Fates were kind.

The guards marched him to his parents, and they walked in a threesome. As they neared the doors that would take the tote bleachers, Maxon could see some of the girls and other guards walking towards the door too. He searched for America, but he couldn't see her.

The cool metal of the seats was harder and colder than Maxon remembered, but, to be honest, he wasn't as upset and worried those times.

Once everyone was settled, King Clarkson stood up and bellowed, "This woman, who will stand before you in a moment, is a rebellious, feisty girl. From being a nuisance to trying to destroy our way of life, she has made us suffer to no end. We fear and believe that this young woman is conspiring with the Southern Rebels."

King Clarkson paused to let it all sink in. "Therefore, he continued, "she shall be punished today. As she likely has connections to our enemies, she will not be let go."

Not be let go?! Maxon thought. His stomach dropped to his feet, filling with black oil (he couldn't remember, but he thinks it's called fear).

America, standing with her head tall although she was clothed to the bare minimum in the freezing cold snow, was shoved forward to the platform where she would be killed.

Tears flooded Maxon's eyes. His heart was tanking, groaning like a ship rolling sideways. They pushed America down, clipping her over a bar so she could be easily whipped.

One guard lifted his arm, and through the blur, Maxon noticed that he was holding the same whip that his father used with him.

America, sullen-faced, raised her eyes to him, looked him in the eye, and moved her hand in a way that said, "Goodbye, dear."

They brought down the whip on her back. Once. Twice. Five times. Twenty. One hundred. The water streaked down Maxon's face as his mind spun and he lost count.

He wanted to get up, to scream at them to stop. And he would. He would jump off a cliff to save her. But... But if he did... He would join her. They would both die.

He willed his legs to stand, willed his voice to scream. All that came out was a strangled cross between a moan, a gasp, and a sob.

And then, just as he gained the courage to stand, it was over. America was all red; there wasn't a spot on her that didn't have blood covering it.

Everyone left, but nobody tried to take Maxon with them. He was ignored as they unclipped America and left her there to bleed out.

Maxon snapped out of his sniffling stupor and ran, ran as fast as he could, slipping on snow. America made no movement whatsoever when he came over to her. He was sobbing hard, harder than he ever had.

"America, oh, my dear, I am so, so sorry. What- what happened?" he choked/breathed.

She laughed weakly. "You saw what happened."

"No, no, no, why were you... that?!" he sobbed.

"I guess your dad got tired of me," she coughed, "Oh, well. This was going to happen sooner or later."

"No, don't say that, we'll get you all fixed up, I pr- promise!"

"The snow is pretty today," she mused, ignoring Maxon, "Even the red snow."

"Re- red snow?"

"Take a look."

Maxon looked at the snow underneath their knees. Rather than patches of red, there were only patches of white.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" she asked.

Maxon spluttered for an answer. She'd lost too much blood. Her back was peeling off, and the skin beneath was raw and red.

"Come on, I'll- I'll take care of you." He moved to pick her up, careful to not touch her wounds or press her into the snow.

"You didn't answer the question, Maxon. Am I going to die or not?"

He didn't answer.

"Maxon. Answer. The question."

"I don't know!" he cried. She raised her head a bit to look him in the eye; she was startled. "I don't know," he repeated quietly.

"Why is this bothering you? You've got Kriss. You don't need me."

He stopped walking for a moment. "A- Are you kidding me? I would die if you did."

She was quiet as he carried her back to his room. No one was there when he opened the door, so he walked straight in and gently put her down on the bed.

"Are you cold?" he asked, ducking under his bed to get the medicines and gauze.

She didn't answer.

"America?" he said, standing up slowly, like if he moved too quickly he would vomit.

She didn't make a move.

He rushed over to her. Her eyes were closed; her mouth was slack; her face was cold and blue.

"America." He shook her shoulder, tears clogging his brain for the second time that day. "America! America!"

No response.

"Please, America, please. I'll stop calling you 'dear', I'll stand up to my father, I'll propose, I would do anything! Just wake u- u- up..." Maxon sobbed.

She made no movement, but he did hear, "Call me Mer, if you're going to switch nicknames."

He sighed in relief. "Alright, d- Mer-, I need you to keep your eyes open the whole time, okay?"

She nodded her head and opened her eyes. Maxon gently began to apply the gels, rubbing in soothing circles. However, America still hissed in pain, and she shut her eyes out of discomfort.

"Keep them open," he said firmly.

She opened them and said, "It hurts."

"I know."

She was quiet once more, the gel no longer stinging her enough to make her cry out. Suddenly, she spoke again: "Maxon?"

"Hmm?"

"Were they trying to kill me?"

"Yes."

"Hey, Maxon?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

He paused for a moment, startled and a little anxious. "I love you, too." For a moment, Maxon forgot to check America's eyes to see if they were open. That, of course, was when they closed.

He looked at her eyes, finally, and said, "Keep them open, Mer."

"I love you, Maxon," she whispered. Softly, she had whispered, so softly that it was a wonder that it was even audible.

Her eyes didn't open.

Maxon shook her, yelled, screamed, wept, pleaded, and begged, but nothing worked. Her eyes remained shut.

Finally, with sticky tears dripping off his face like he'd taken a shower, Maxon moaned, "I love you, too, my dearest America." He checked her pulse, just in case, and kissed her forehead.

Maxon sniffled. He wouldn't give up; he would only take a break. Just a nap, maybe. He crawled onto his bed next to her, ignoring the fresh blood stains, and curled beside her, carefully putting his arms around her.

His eyes closed.

SO... I REALLY... WANTED TO JUST GET THAT OUT OF MY HEAD. I... DON'T REALLY KNOW WHAT TO SAY OTHER THAN, "NO FLAMES! ENJOY THE VIEW! THE ENEMY'S GATE IS DOWN!"