A/N: I am officially a winner of NaNoWriMo now; aren't you all so proud of me? :D 50,832 words in a month (29 days, technically). Anyways, thanks so much for putting up with my absence last month, but at least now I know how to write more, or at least faster. I'm planning on trying to do weekly updates now, but I guess we'll see how that turns out.
I think Cato was a bit OOC in this, but I don't find him particularly interesting so I felt I had to add another, slightly crazy aspect into his character. And, um, this is a very intense sort of scene. Warning for gore.
As always, thanks to BBC Addict, YOUCALLTHATaKIS5, KatPee81, and Norbert's Mom for reviewing!
When I was in the Games — and I almost never even dare to think about this — I never killed anyone who was not trying to kill me. I always let the innocent live whenever I could, even if they were to just die later or even if they were in extreme pain. I just could not bring myself to kill them if they had not done anything to me, even a mercy killing. The very thought of murdering someone innocent is nauseating.
That is exactly how I felt as I watched Peeta fight Cato. My stomach begins to tie itself into knots, and with every clash of steel or strike on flesh it just winds itself tighter. Despite the fact that I know that I could not possibly have done anything to prevent this if this is what Peeta wanted, there is a still a mantra in my mind that rings of guilt.
Peeta is silent as he parries the swift, devastatingly ruthless strikes. Any direct blow, even if he blocks it, will surely at least incapacitate him. He can not allow even one mistake against such a powerful opponent.
Watching the tiny, flat screen is not the same as being in the fight; I know that from my own times in the Games. But this time, as I worry at my bottom lip and clench my jaw so tightly my teeth grind together, I feel adrenaline rushing through me as if I were in Peeta's position. Sweat trickles lightly down the side of my face, my heartbeat pounding in my ears and I grip the corner of the bar so tightly my knuckles turn white.
Cato sneers as he strikes, his muscles shifting as he lunges, again and again with powerful strokes. Soon, he begins to realize that he is wasting energy, so switching to lazier swings, he taunts Peeta.
"So you were against us all along, huh?" He circles his sword tip, cornering the District 12 boy even as Peeta tries to maneuver into a clearer position. The broad blade winds back and forth like a sleepy snake.
I know that Peeta can use a knife, and well enough. That had been part of his plan, when he had first thought of it. Of course, at that time I had hoped that he would never have to fight a longsword with it, much less one held in Cato's hands, and that was even discluding the tracker jacker stings. The predicament he was in now was far beyond my worst fears.
I had trained him in knife fighting when he had asked me to, spending as many hours that either of us could spare to train. He was surprisingly good at handling the blade naturally, and with his muscle he could plunge it through flesh and bone without the trouble that usually came with a smallish weapon.
Wielding the weapon was also no problem, and the strength and quality of the blade he held was impressive.
But he lacked the speed. Knifing was all about footwork and speed, the lack of the latter troubling me greatly.
Peeta skitters around the leafy forest ground, near tripping several times on a series of raised tree roots. To be fair, right after Peeta stumbles over them, Cato does almost immediately after as well.
"Fine," says Peeta. "I was trying to trick you. So?"
The District 2 boy pauses for a moment in his smooth, periodic attacks, his sword tilted up in a defensive position. Then he shrugs. "Well then, you'll just have to die now. I would admire the fact that you admitted to your wrong, except for the fact that you tried to trick me, and that was a fatal mistake."
Without warning, the tip of the sword flashes forwards, like the bright tongue of the snake that had been, just moments before, resting. Its aim is ambitiously high, going for neck or shoulder, instead of trying to disable the forearm or hand, which is the usual target. Then again, Cato may just be taking advantage of his far longer range.
Luckily Peeta's reaction time is honed by the adrenaline that is probably streaming through his veins and sending nervous, but fiery hot bolts through his limbs. The knife flickers upwards, his muscles bulging as they let the blow glance off it, but Peeta arm still shakes under the full, jarring weight of the blow. Afterwards, when Cato rebounds backwards to survey the damage, Peeta shifts the knife to his other hand, awkwardly rubbing his right against his thigh, as if trying to push away the numb that was surely spreading up through his arm. I had been in enough similar situations to know what that feels like. It was an alien tension that was not painful, but distinctly uncomfortable and far too distracting.
"This will be over soon," Cato declares, and I can feel the others in the room chuckle slightly at the statement. They do not have faith in Peeta, and I realize that I am beginning to lose mine. An ache presses down on my chest, partially of guilt, but partially of a longing for what Peeta was fighting for. I had known that once, but that feeling was gone from me now; I was hollow and empty without it.
Cato's confidence, although absolutely justified, is not what ends up finishing the fight. Peeta puts up a spectacular fight, but slowly, everyone can catch all lingering traces of hope melting from his eyes. Well, perhaps not all of it. Reserved for those that only he can allow to see, there is hope. I can see it.
Even as I watch the flashing blades swing heavily in the rising sun, my eyelids struggle to keep themselves open. The adrenaline that has been forcing me awake earlier was gone, allowing me to think more rationally, but also allowing exhaustion to further cloud my senses. The screen begins to blur in front of my eyes, and there is a quiver in my arms that cannot be shaken away. How long had it been since I had last slept? Not the day before this one...nor the one before that...
I blink rapidly. Peeta, I think. Focus on Peeta.
The glint of a short blade glimmers, occasionally catching a flash of rising sunlight and flashing it over the camera lens. Peeta's movements are not quick, but neither have they slowed. Cato, on the other hand, wielding a heavy iron longsword was beginning to tire, but it was a false hope. The weight of the sword hardly even mattered; his movements were still precise and swift.
I can see Peeta counting the amount of time Katniss has had to run. A few minutes have already passed; she should be long gone. His movements begin to slow, as if the weight of the situation was finally pressing down on him now that his love was safe — for the time being. You were never safe in the Games.
The Games... Bright flowers and green meadows shine tantalizingly behind my eyelids as they droop for a moment. I am almost tempted to lose myself in such an apparently wonderful fantasy, if not for the fact that I knew what came almost right after that scene.
"Katniss is long gone by now," Peeta says, panting heavily.
Cato's chest is rising and falling noticeably as well, but he is not so obvious about it. "Ah, how sweet of you Lover Boy. I'll get her once I'm done with you." He cocked his head. "I think it's time to stop playing games."
Using a technique I showed him, Peeta dodges the first vicious strike and steps within Cato's longsword's range, catching the hilt — along with a couple of Cato's fingers — with his knife.
Cato roars in pain and fury, blood streaming down his wrist in little rivulets of thick, viscous liquid, and for a moment I think Peeta may have pull off the impossible. Improbable, I correct in my mind, hoping beyond hope. It seems like it worked. Cato's hand would now be irritated, even if it was only a flesh wound it would probably force him to switch to his left, which, although I was sure he knew how to use, would not be as powerful as his right.
Then Peeta let out a choked gasp of pain and all the hopes dropped away, all at once.
A sour combination of jeers, gasps and cheers rise around me from the other drunkards, and I clap my hands over my ears, as if that will prevent the sickening sound from reaching my ears. A need to retch throws my stomach into uneasy turmoil. It came not from the knife blade that Cato was currently tearing Peeta's leg apart with, but from the sound of the Capitolists all around me.
Blood coats both boys as it bursts from the wound, but the fount slowly lessens to an alarming flow. The flesh is not even visible underneath the coats of blood, but there is a horrible sound of rent flesh. Cato's face is twisted into a cruel sneer, and he drags the knife agonizingly slowly up from where it is buried in Peeta's thigh. The District 12 boy is screaming with abandon, face contorted. His eyes, when they opened, are clouded with mind-numbing pain. Wordless gurgles tumble out of his mouth like the blood rushing from his leg.
With a final, sadistic jerk, Cato pulls the knife out, allowing another burst of blood to coat his hands. Peeta is writhing on the forest floor, every ripple of movement causing his screams to rise a little higher in intensity every time.
Cato, along with the entire Capitol and most of the Districts, just stands there and watches him. Watches him squirm with the pain he dealt him. He listens to the screams eventually subside as Peeta remembers himself. It was probably not only the pain but the sheer denial of the injury that was causing him to go slightly crazy. We all watch and listen as Peeta eventually gets himself together, gritting his teeth so hard muscles in his jaw jump, and tries to push himself up.
He fails on the first try.
He fails on the second try. And the third.
And this entire time, everyone is just watching him struggle, even me, but there's this feeling that feels like it's wrenching my guts out, that wants me to go help him somehow, because this is not all just happening behind a glass screen — this is real.
The entire time I am wondering how Cato has not exploded yet. He has been standing there, entirely rational, entirely calm, with only the smallest of cruel smirks on his face. He has not killed Peeta; he has not even completed his rage at him. He has just been standing there, smirking.
When Peeta finally collapses to the ground for the tenth or twelfth time, the District 2 boys wanders up to him. "Happy now, Lover Boy? Your dear Katniss is having plenty of time to run now. How much are you willing to suffer for her?" His leg swings back and he kicks Peeta sharply, the harsh thud loud in the silence. The sounds of the forest had all ceased, animals fleeing at the scent of blood and even the wind lay still.
The crumpled body on the ground convulses another time, and bright blue eyes, tearing with pain, glare up towards the other's face. "Worth it," is all he manages to hiss.
The next kick is towards his face, and he takes it, spitting teeth and blood afterwards. Cato's face flickers from rage to unnatural calmness, face twitching. "You'd better hope so," he whispers back at him, leaning down towards his face to leer at it. He grips Peeta's face in his right hand, which is half smeared with Peeta's blood and half mixing with his own. "Because I'm far from done with you."
Even after he lifts his hand away, Peeta's face is covered in a red handprint. Disgusted, he tried to lift his hand to smear it away, but Cato lifts a sword tip to his throat first. Peeta freezes.
Lightly and with expert control the tip of the blade traces lightly down Peeta's jawline and down his chest. "Let's see..." murmured Cato softly. "Which part to start with?"
The Capitol audience was being held captive, and for once, I had to admit that I was as well. I did not understand how Cato's mind worked. One moment he was furious and incapable of thinking of anything before acting and another moment he appeared calm and rational but was completely insane.
"Cato!"
The voice bursts out of the trees before Clove appears, soaking wet. "You have to pull the stingers out," she says urgently, completely ignoring the boy on the ground and just focusing on his leader.
"What?" snaps Cato.
Another figure appears, more silently than the first. "You left too early," Marvel explains seriously. "The poison is probably already working its way through your system. We have to head back to the lake and get the stingers out."
"Hurry," begs Clove. "You'll start hallucinating soon."
Uncertainty edges Cato's eyes, and even though it was probably only for a split second it felt like several minutes to me before he said, "Let's go. He'll die anyways, and slowly."
The others nod. Before he leaves, Cato digs the sword point into the still open wound on Peeta's thigh. Then he runs back into the woods with the other two.
Peeta's eyes close again, but this time he is utterly silent. He quivers though, shaking like a leaf in the wind. The confrontation is over, but Peeta is damaged almost beyond repair. If he is not killed by the blood loss then he will be killed by something engineered by the Gamemakers, no doubt, or even a passing wild animal. And if all of those are not enough, the Careers will find him again soon enough.
I slump against the rough wood of the table, my eyes fluttering shut as well, my body shaking. I recite the list slowly to myself in my head. The list has dozens of names - forty six to be exact, no, now it was forty seven. Sliding 'Peeta' into it's place at the end of the line, I repeat it once more, just to commit it to memory. Others may have forgotten about all of them, but I will never forget.
Forcing my eyelids open again and again, I try to flip channels on the small screen, scout out possible enemy tactics, figure out how to get sponsors...
One moment I think I'm in the District 12 conference room with all its bright white lights, and another I feel like I'm in the green meadow. Where was I really? Neither. I was in neither. I was sitting in a bar, slouching, more like, the rough surface scraping against my fingertips.
But I cannot fall asleep, I tell myself. I cannot fall asleep. I cannot fall asleep. It turns into a sort of mantra.
Still, I cannot help it when comforting blackness swamps my thoughts, dragging them down, down, down and away from reality. Reality was just awful, wasn't it? Then again, my dreams were never much better, and that is the only thought that allows me to resurface just one more time.
Katniss would have to be added to the list soon, I muse. Right after Peeta. Peeta and Katniss. My eyes droop closed, and for once, the image that is burned behind my eyelids is not one of green meadows and bright flowers. Instead, I see Peeta's bright blue eyes, glazed with grief, not for himself, but for his love, the one would never want him.
I can't take it anymore. Instead of trying to stay awake, I just give in and let the darkness swallow me whole. The last thing I am aware of is a lithe, shadowy figure shaking my shoulder, but even that soon disappears.