Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment, he will realize it's futile, she can't be saved. – The Hunger Games
Maybe he's not so heartless; maybe he's got conscience, after all. The thought crosses his mind once and then bounces back and forth between the walls of his skull.
He's clutching her hand tightly as she whimpers, willing her to somehow recover and fight alongside him. He closes his eyes, hoping that the darkened vision will allow for Clove's wounds to heal and evaporate into a mere trick of what might remain of the Tracker Jacker poison in his bloodstream.
But it doesn't work. Death cannot be wished away.
The words escape him before he realises his lips have parted. "Hang on, Clove. You gotta stay with me. If you just hang on a bit longer we'll go finish off her and Lover Boy. Then we'll go home. You and me both. You hear that? We can go home."
She mumbles something that could be his name.
"C'mon, Clove, don't leave me hanging. Stay with me, that's an order." His voice betrays the choice of words, resonating like a sob rather than command. He realises how pathetic he sounds almost crying, and steels himself against vulnerable emotions, replaces them with something more familiar, something he can embrace, something to arm himself with. Rage and fury. Determination. Aggression. Like the berserkers of old tales from before Panem.
So instead, his voice desperately spouts orders. He commands her to survive; he threatens her with despicable scenarios so as to scare her into obedience. Results are no more effective than the wishes.
But no matter his efforts, his pleas, her moaning grows gradually feebler and quieter until finally she breathes out her last. A cannon goes off, signalling the finality of it.
Just this once, Clove's not going to do whatever he wants.
So he starts scolding himself, blaming himself for not taking on Katniss alone, or at least accompanying her when she did. That way he could've gained better momentum, better view of what was to come, remove the threat speedily.
In one second, his temper spins out of control. He starts cussing, throwing things, kicking the polished metal of the Cornucopia ferociously and almost hurts the toes of his feet, but what he really wants to do is embrace Clove and cradle her till the hovercrafts arrive. He can't afford that bit of sentimentality, though; it does not fit his public image.
People are still betting on me. he reminds himself.
So all the display of weakness he allows himself is to close her unflinching eyes.
Only one solution can quench his pain. He's going to kill both of them. First things first, though—Thresh's got his backpack.