So this was it. This was what it came down to.
I'd killed my brother, and the closest person I'd ever had to a sister was being carried away in a hovercraft.
I looked up at the sky before I screamed her name, "Pommeline!"
I took one of my knives, and carved, "Here fell Pommeline. A noble fighter," in the soil.
Afterwards, I curled in a ball inside the Cornucopia, sobbing. Pommeline had been so young. So small. And she was dead.
How many others had I not noticed?
How many had been so innocent?
How many had been slaughtered, their stories left unfinished, their names forgotten?
Night drew in as Kestrel appeared at the mouth of the Cornucopia.
"They're in a hurry to finish it," he said.
"They're not going to," I told him.
"Yes, they are," he showed me his arm. It was covered in black marks. "Septicaemia,"
He was going to die. Leaving it until they were forced to let us out of the arena wasn't an option anymore.
I took another knife from my jacket, and handed it to him. "Do it," I said. "Let me die here,"
He shook his head.
Then he bit his tongue, hard.