Chapter Twenty-Eight.
From their place around the Cornucopia, the trees had looked so densely packed together that they seemed to touch each other in a woodland embrace.
As soon as Maisley led her allies through the thicket however, the trees became more spacious, allowing for Carys to lean against one and rest her head solemnly against the bark.
"I need a moment," Carys said, breathing in and out harshly.
Maisley looked at her and then back to where they'd just ran from. "I don't think we have a minute-"
"Maisley," Castor placed a hand on her shoulder and tilted his head towards where Carys stood, head bowed, staring at the ground.
Oh. She looked at their ally and the impatience and fear she felt subsided for a moment. She thought of Spelt and the guilt that came alongside what she'd done – or, to put it correctly, what she hadn't done – and took a step towards Carys.
"I'm sorry," she said, not quite touching Carys, but being close enough to let her know she was there. "As I said, you did what you had to do."
Carys nodded her head stiffly and continued to stare at the ground. "I just – I'll be fine. What else did I expect coming here?"
"I'm sure he didn't suffer," Castor said kindly. "You protected Maisley. She's right – you did what you had to do."
If only they knew. It wasn't a huge deal her not stopping Carys from killing Spelt. For all Maisley knew it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. But in Maisley's mind it was a tribute down. And if she wanted a chance of making it home when the odds were stacked against her, she had to think like that.
"Can I do anything?" Maisley asked.
Carys looked up and blinked at her, the beginnings of tears lighting up her eyelashes. For a moment, her face curled up in something that resembled anger, but she sighed and shook her head. "You're right. We need to go. We're too close to the Cornucopia."
Castor watched Maisley grab onto Carys' hand, squeeze it, and comfort the girl enough to lead her back to their little group, trailing through the forest.
His mind went to Ponche and his heart throbbed with sadness. Maisley and Carys quite honestly did not know him like Castor did. Sure, he'd been quiet, but quiet wasn't a bad thing. Sometimes, and he'd seen it enough in Eight, the louder more confident people thought introverted was synonymous with weird and distant.
It wasn't. Castor did not believe that. Ponche was just Ponche.
And now he was dead.
He took a sip of water and shook the bottle in front of Maisley. She politely took it, drank a tiny amount, and handed it to Carys. For the next few minutes, they remained in complete silence, a procession moving through the foreboding forest.
Above the trees, the stars were bright and twinkling, the moon enormous as if a beacon guiding them forwards. For now, the Arena seemed relatively simple and Castor, Maisley and Carys did not mind that. They'd seen enough Games to know there would be more in store, but right now they just wanted to clear enough space between themselves and the starting area and find somewhere to rest up and recuperate.
Carys knew she would be fine. She just had to be. If she began to overthink things, then her mind would run away with itself and she'd be in danger from losing it. For someone who was so emotional, she was doing everything she had in her power to contain herself. Though all she could hear was the squelch of Spelt's skin parting as the knife stole his life from him, Carys continued to lead her alliance through the trees. If she was leading, then she was distracted. If they continued moving, then her mind wouldn't allow itself to dwell.
Snap.
Castor stopped in his tracks. Maisley and Carys were continuing. He almost spoke too loudly but stopped himself when there was another snap followed by voices that overlapped each other.
"Mais'," he tried to whisper as loud as he could but she'd already heard, tapping Carys on the back to stop. "Don't move."
Castor waited with bated breath and held onto the short-sword he had in his hands. He had no idea really how to use it but he would for Maisley and Carys. They'd lost Ponche – they would not lose anyone else.
The voices grew louder as the small group broke through from a nearby tree and halted as soon as their eyes fell upon Carys, Maisley and Castor.
"Oh…" Damon said, letting out a breath, his face paling immediately.
Castor looked at Carys and then at Maisley. Carys, the only one who had killed so far in their alliance, looked panicked but resolved as she held the knife out in front of her. Maisley took a step back and Castor moved towards her, shielding her from the group that had just arrived.
It wasn't Damon that spoke next, however. Henley from Five moved forwards and held her hands out, knife handle pointed outwards, the sharp edge turned away.
"We don't want to do anything…" Henley said, cautiously, lowering her knife. "Please. It's too early. Just let us go."
Castor looked at Henley's allies, Iva and Damon, and both of them looked just as scared as he knew Maisley, Carys and himself felt. In a tribute's viewpoint, they were the enemy. But he didn't see that in them. He only saw another group fleeing the bloodbath and trying to find somewhere to rest up.
"Carys," Castor said. "Let's just move on."
"What?" she said.
"Do you plan on taking them on, risking everything?"
She looked back at Maisley, then up at Castor, and then looked over at Henley, Iva and Damon. She bit her lip sadly as she focused on Iva especially. Spelt, also from Nine. Carys shook her head and tried to smile at Henley. "Let's just call it a mutual agreement to let each other go this once?"
This once. Carys had no intention really of fighting them. But the Capitol eventually would not be satisfied with peacefully allowing other alliances to go. However, the bloodbath had just happened, so Carys was confident they wouldn't mind just this once.
At least it made her sound willing to fulfil her role and fight.
"Thank you." This time it was Iva who spoke and she looked at Carys with a smile. "Good luck out there."
Carys couldn't reply because all she saw was Spelt when she looked at Iva. Maisley moved forwards from Castor, putting a bit of space between her and him so it didn't look completely like she was shielding herself away. It was a delicate balance she was trying to find.
"Good luck too," Maisley said.
Carys continued leading the way as Henley, Damon and Iva disappeared into the thickness of the trees. They all knew as the days began to blend into one, that another encounter could not, and most likely would not, end so peacefully.
But they were all tired. They needed to find somewhere to stay, piece together their thoughts, and plan their next move.
I'm sorry, Ponche, Castor thought. He would do this in memory of him.
They all would.
But more importantly, as Carys, Maisley and Castor continued walking, they would do this for themselves.
Destan kicked a rock and cursed loudly as pain cut through his big toe.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been wandering through the trees but the moonlit forest seemed endless. Even Destan couldn't ignore the fact that it looked beautiful, and especially coming from Four where he'd never been exposed to this type of nature before, but he didn't allow himself the time to sit back and gaze at the Arena.
The trees were beginning to thin, trunks taller and sleeker as they veered off into the sky. He could barely see the treetops as he tried to look up and was dazzled by the blanket of stars. He had no idea really where he was going or which direction he'd settled on, but there was one thing Destan knew he could not do.
He could not become boring.
As he dragged his spear along the ground, he thought about the cameras that might be honing in on his position, broadcasting his face to the whole of Panem but especially the people in the Capitol. He'd promised the Gamemakers a show and here he was: a loner who'd lost the biggest threat in the Games right from the off.
What a show I'm giving… he thought begrudgingly.
Right now, he could be afforded the time to relax. But it couldn't last. He had to think of something worthwhile to show the crowds at home. If anything, he also needed the distraction. Being alone in the woods trained or untrained left him feeling slightly scared of the wall of darkness that crept into his peripheral vision. Anyone or anything could be out there. And he was all alone.
He thought about Roarke as he took a swig of water and scoffed down a dry cracker. The six cannons that had ripped through the forest could be anyone. Or at least, five of them could be anyone. Chancellor's death marked off a single cannon.
Was Roarke dead? Or was he somewhere in the forest all by himself?
Part of Destan wished to find him. Part of Destan hoped he was gone and no longer an issue for him. As his mind continued to consider the way he felt about his one and only ally now lost to the Arena, he heard something behind him and almost jumped out of his skin.
A crunch of leaves followed by the looming figure of another tribute as they stepped from in front of a tree, staring eye to eye with Destan.
Fuck. Destan felt the sweat pool round his fingers as he held onto the spear tightly. Fuck.
"Lost?"
The voice was gruff and as the stars lit up his face, Destan recognised the boy from Three, Nikos. Another loner.
Destan plastered on the carefree persona he'd tried to envisage himself being so professional at doing in front of the untrained tributes. He nodded his head and laughed. "Yep. Can't tell which way's up or down in here."
"Likewise," Nikos said, gripping the knife firmly in his hand. Destan became painfully aware that despite his training, Nikos was a big guy. Bigger than him. "Surprised to see you alone. Where's child-killer?"
"Dead," Destan said, dismissively, as if he didn't care. "His loss, our gain, I suppose."
"What a lovely way of perceiving one's allies," Nikos said. "I guess it's good to see the back of someone like him."
"Indeed."
The conversation felt stilted. As Nikos continued to just stare at him, a million and one ways this situation could unravel flipped like pages in a book through Destan's mind. When he pictured his death, he turned the next page, and suddenly an idea sparked through his head. A way to be entertaining to the crowds, reassemble some kind of control, and more importantly… not die.
He wasn't so keen on the idea of dying.
"So, are we going to do this or what?" Nikos said, holding his knife outwards. "Can't say I'm all that pleased at the idea of taking on someone that's trained, but guess I've got no choice."
Destan's plan solidified and he shook his head. "Maybe you do."
"What?" Nikos' grip seemed to slacken slightly. As if suddenly relieved at the idea of not having to fight so early. "What do you mean?"
"Chancellor might be dead but there's still a Career pack that exists in this Arena. And I bet those six cannons were predominately because of them. I can't take them on alone. Neither can you. Neither can anyone really."
"You want me to team up with you?" Nikos interrupted before Destan could make the offer, which annoyed the boy from Four, but he held his tongue and nodded with a smile. "Just us two?"
Good point.
"I can't be the only one that would see the benefit of getting rid of them. If we have to fight Nikos, then we will fight. But I don't see why we shouldn't take the opportunity to thin the talent just a little bit and even it out a bit more."
Nikos laughed. "You do realise you're one of them."
Destan shrugged his shoulders. "Not anymore. I can't beat them on my own. So, are you in?"
The plan was shaky at best, but without Chancellor or Roarke, and without a single chance that the girls would ever take him back, the only way forwards was to create an alliance on the fly that could perhaps tackle the biggest threat in the Games.
And if anything, in the short term, it stopped him having to fight Nikos. Because Destan, for all his mock bravado, wasn't actually sure he could do it with or without his training.
When Nikos nodded, Destan felt the breath go from his lungs and he sighed in relief, lowering his spear. He remained wary and distant from Nikos until from opposite him, the hulking boy from Three lowered his knife and bridged the gap between the two of them.
Destan thought about shaking his hand but that seemed forced. No point in pretending they were anything more than a temporary team-up.
"Any idea where some of the other tributes are?" Destan asked.
Nikos paused, thought for a moment, and then nodded. "I have some idea."
Good. Time to take down the girls.
"I'm hungry," Britta said.
Linnea looked at Britta and threw a loaf of bread at her. "Go crazy."
"I could do with a steak." Britta looked up at the sky, as if pleading. "Or maybe some macarons."
"Where the hell do you think we are?" Neviya asked, though not unkindly.
The three girls laughed as they rifled through their supplies. Although surrounding them, an air of unease and cold reality spread thick, they were still able to chat as if they hadn't killed innocent kids a few hours ago.
Roarke returned from where he'd been scouting at the treeline and shook his head as the girls looked up at him intently. "Nothing. I don't think anyone's set up camp this close."
"Not that I'm fussed about going hunting, but I guess we should do something soon," Linnea said. "At least the bodies have been cleared."
Although it felt slightly callous dismissing them as bodies, it was a relief for all four of them that the hovercrafts had picked them all up. They'd piled them far from the Cornucopia, in a bloody heap to be collected. They'd all paused at the sight of Chancellor's corpse amongst the fireflies, the jet-black grass caressing his pallid cheeks.
Linnea had felt a pang of sadness and felt confused by the feeling. If Destan hadn't fucked things up, they'd have gone for him anyway. The only question remaining was who had killed the biggest threat in the Games. If Linnea ever found out, she'd say a silent congratulations to them. And a thank-you.
From where they now sat, Roarke fell into the grass and brought his knees up to his chin. It was cold and the night-time was confusing because he'd only been awake maybe six or so hours.
In the distance, he could hear birds chirping but aside from that, the dense canopy of lush greenery blocked everything else out. The Arena was an enigma and Roarke didn't really have any desire right this second to explore anything further.
He would, eventually. Being back with the girls had reinvigorated him. He was finally beginning to feel himself with every laugh and joke that lightened the mood.
The loaf of bread that Britta cradled only made him smile more.
Neviya moved closer to Roarke and collapsed into the grass a few inches from him, sorting through another backpack that the Careers had. They really had so many supplies that had been left with the rest of the tributes now gone. There was so much to go through.
"Could be useful," Neviya ruminated as she pulled out a thermometer. "Where would you like this to go, Roarke?"
He looked at her and when Neviya spat out laughing, Roarke couldn't help himself. "If I ever need to use that, I'm opting for the mouth."
"Good choice."
Neviya tossed it aside and took out a pack of bandages. Those were definitely useful and Neviya stuffed them into another pack that she was keeping for essentials. Roarke just watched her, the red curls caressing her face, the freckles dotted across her nose and cheeks. He'd found a true friend in her and again felt immense guilt at the silly choices he'd made.
He felt like Linnea – if he could find out who had killed Chancellor, he would shake their hand.
"We need to talk," Neviya finally said, zipping up the bag and resting her eyes on Roarke.
He gulped. Roarke knew something was coming. "We do."
Neviya arched an eyebrow and smiled.
"About what?" Roarke continued, grinning back.
Neviya beckoned the girls over and the four of them sat in a circle. Linnea and Britta had momentarily discussed this and were allowing Neviya, who was definitely closest with Roarke, to lead the conversation. Usually she didn't mind, but it felt odd putting all the pieces of her rational mindset into an actual, tangible concept now she was in the Arena. For all their training, nothing could have prepared them for the real, chaotic thing.
"Before I start, did Destan see you?"
Roarke thought about it for a moment but shook his head. "He couldn't have. And if he did, it was before I approached you three."
Neviya smiled. "Good. That's good."
Roarke knew where this was finally going and to be honest, he couldn't blame them. For all the camaraderie they had shared, he had made silly choices and it was time for him to pay them back to the girls and do something for them. He was the only one in a position to do so. If they'd asked Roarke a few days ago, he would have been too scared. But now he was finding his feet. So even though the question wasn't out there, Roarke had already agreed to it.
"Destan isn't that much of a threat. By himself, he might be taken out anyway by someone-"
"Not much of a threat?" Britta laughed, interrupting Neviya. "The girl from Six could probably take him."
"Don't be silly," Linnea said. "He's still trained."
Neviya looked at her two allies and rolled her eyes. "Going to let me finish?"
Britta nodded her head, biting her lip to stop herself from talking.
"He's still a trained tribute and our biggest competition out there. And if he didn't see you, Roarke, then he might still buy into the fact that you're on his side." Neviya sighed as she stopped speaking, as if conflicted with what she was about to ask, but Roarke didn't care. As he placed a hand atop hers, he squeezed it gently.
"It's okay, Nev'," Roarke said. "What do you need me to do?"
She smiled as she met his eyes. "Bring him to us. Find him, convince him that you need to fight us, continue to play the part of the scared ally – no offence – and then we'll have got rid of the only other Career out there that isn't sat with us right this second."
"You're more than capable," Linnea said kindly. "And we have to start thinking strategically if we're going to make it to the final four."
The final four.
He couldn't imagine what would then have to happen if they did indeed make it that far, the four of them, but the thought was for another time. Britta, Linnea and Neviya looked at him but he'd already made his decision and nodded, standing up with his bow and quiver of arrows and a backpack slung over his other shoulder.
"You don't have to go right now," Linnea said.
"Have some bread, it's pretty good," Britta said, ripping into another slice. "Could do with some meat." Britta stared again at the sky, eyes pleading with invisible cameras. "Or cheese?"
Roarke looked back at Linnea and Neviya whilst Britta begged to the food Gods. He shrugged and continued standing. "Might as well get on with it. I promise I won't let you down."
"We know you won't," Neviya said. "Good luck, Roarke."
"Maybe try to act like you'll see me again," Roarke joked, though he felt nervous at the thought of not returning. "It's Destan. How difficult can it be?"
For the girls in front of him, he would do anything.
He would prove to them that they'd made the right decision taking him back and not just killing him where he stood. If this was their plan, then he would be the spark that brought it to life.
Time to take down Destan.
Shual was worried.
Albie had given up trying to fight against him and storm back towards the Cornucopia, but that didn't dissipate his anxiety over what had become of his ally. Deep down, Shual knew the lingering sadness that clawed at him was because of Armina's death, but he also wasn't kidding himself. He did not know Armina that well.
Perhaps it was the idea that someone – an innocent, fifteen-year-old girl – had died, rather than the actual person that had fallen. It made him feel slightly guilty but then again, the Games were the Games. This was the way.
He'd tried talking to Albie but she wasn't having any of it. A simple conversation had been what had entranced Shual about the girl. Her mind. Her way of thinking. The fact that there didn't seem to be any baggage that came along with teaming up with one of the smartest people he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.
It was so many ticks on the mental list he'd created of the person he'd wanted to find. And now here she was, stomping away, swiping branches and flowers that got in her face and angrily scowling at the forest before her.
He thought about what he'd do if Carys died. She wasn't his ally, but what if one of those six cannons had been hers? Would he understand a bit more about what Albie was going through? Or was she just not the person he'd thought she was?
Have I made the wrong choice?
He held back from allowing that thought to find anchor in his mind and hurried to join Albie, swiftly walking by her side as they entered the forest clearing, trees separating apart to reveal something vastly different from the repetitiveness they'd encountered so far.
"Shelter," Albie said, the first word he'd heard for a while, and it was good to see her thinking in terms of their survival. "C'mon."
In the treetops, wooden huts had been erected, with rickety bridges between them and a rope swing here and there. It looked mightily impressive but maybe that was because Shual had only seen greenery for the past few hours. The treetop village also looked weak and shaky. As if putting a foot on a floorboard would send him toppling down to the ground.
Albie led the way to a ladder that hung from the nearest house a few feet in the air. It didn't look too high but there were other huts that were settled nearer towards the canopy, only accessible through more windswept ladders that Shual did not feel confident using. He followed her as she climbed up and he waited patiently at the bottom until she'd cleared the ladder, crawling into the first hut.
When he reached the entranceway, he saw her sat in the corner, knees up to her chin, staring at him with eyes that did not look like Albie's.
"I'm sorry, Shual," she muttered. "I don't know what I'm doing – what I'm feeling. I didn't even know Armina that well. Not really."
Shual crawled over to her. He didn't quite attempt an act of comfort, partly because he had no idea really how to do that, and also because he wasn't sure it was appropriate for how Albie was feeling, but he sat by her side as closely as he could.
"I don't think either of you, for as much as you might have thought you were, had actually accepted what was going to be happening. And she died so quickly. It was out of your control."
Albie lifted her hand and looked at it. "I'm shaking. Actually shaking. And it's not because I'm cold, or nervous, or anything like that. I'm furious, Shual. I don't think I've ever felt like this before and it scares me. So, so much. I did not know Armina but the thought of her being killed – just shot down, whilst my hand was still in hers, it feels so wrong. And I can't control the way I feel about that."
I might have a problem. Shual sympathised with Albie but he hadn't pictured her being the one that would lose their sense of realistic control. If anyone, he thought it would be Armina. But it was her death that had triggered this response in Albie and Shual just did not know what to do. He honestly didn't.
"What scares me most, Shual. What really scares me is…" Albie's eyes began to tear up and she pulled her hand back, burying it in her lap. "…I want to kill him. Roarke. I want to kill all of them. Everything they stand for and everything they've done to people who didn't choose to be here. Isn't that fucked up? They're still kids. Teenagers my age. And I could honestly say right now that I'd happily go and murder them and I'm not sure if I'd feel bad doing it."
"You would," Shual said. "Don't even let your mind go there. You're angry and upset but there is no way the Albie I know would ever, in a million years, feel good about killing someone. Regardless of who that person is."
If it had been a few days ago, Albie would have recoiled at the idea of Shual putting out there for the whole of Panem to see that she wasn't a willing candidate in these Games. She'd told Nikos off for threatening the image she was trying to convey. She'd been worried that letting him in would get in the way of what needed doing.
Something so simple as Roarke's arrow, a whistle in the air, and now that desire to uphold who she'd always been had fallen apart completely. The walls her mother had built up inside her were tumbling down. If it had been in any other way, she would have felt free.
But if anything, Albie just felt more trapped.
"I don't know what to do," Albie confessed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I'm here," Shual said, shuffling ever so closer to his ally. "And we can get through this together. But we can't have you thinking like this – if we go after a trained tribute, someone who knows what they're doing, then we're screwed. We can't go on the attack blindly, without thinking about it."
Albie paused and looked at Shual. She felt her hand shaking, the fury like vipers curling in her stomach, and thought harder about what he'd just said. Shual didn't know what he'd done, but judging by the look she gave him, he regretted it immediately.
"Then we'll think carefully about it. And then we can."
Shual would have enjoyed more than anything to ride these Games through under the radar, but he also knew that the Gamemakers would never let that happen. If Albie could control her emotions like he truly believed she was able to, and they could piece together a reasonable, logical way of approaching an attack, then he had to be willing to do so.
It went against every instinct in his body, but just by being in the Games, he was out of his comfort zone.
"Alright," Shual said, nodding. "Let's think about it. We can't be stupid about this."
Albie's anger could now be channelled through sound logic. Perhaps she'd found the perfect blend of both sides to her. A way to feel like Albie again.
Sinta looked at her hands.
In the glistening waters of the pond her alliance had found, she submerged them once more and scrubbed into her knuckles, between her fingers and over her palms. When she raised them and saw the red, the horrible red, still etched into her skin, she cried aloud in frustration and shoved them even deeper into the waters.
She was a murderer. It didn't matter that the person she'd killed was Chancellor, that if she hadn't have done it then maybe he would have killed someone she cared about or even herself, it was still murder.
How could she look at herself the same way ever again?
From behind her, a little bit further back at the base of the woodland incline, Bryce stood next to Sheridan and sighed as he glanced over at the back of Sinta.
"I don't know what to do," Bryce said sadly.
"This might sound harsh but she has to get over it," Sheridan said, not unkindly as she too gazed over at Sinta with worry and pity for the beacon that had always been their leader. "I don't know what she expected coming here. Does she want to win?"
"Of course she does," Bryce said.
Sheridan sighed. "Then she has to get over it. Not just for her sake, but ours. Selfish maybe, but that's just the way it is."
"I'll go and talk to her."
Bryce took tentative steps towards Sinta. Her hair looked frazzled and as she scrubbed even harder underneath the placid depths of the pond, Bryce felt unsure of himself and stopped momentarily. He could relate to both Sinta and Sheridan. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to know that you were the one that had murdered another teenager – Chancellor or not. But then Sheridan was right and maybe it was selfish but Sinta had always pledged her allegiance to this alliance and had said she'd do everything it took to help them in the Arena.
He understood that it must be harder, now that they were here, to actually put that into practice. She had hugged him that morning, in the Capitol – was that really only this morning, Bryce thought for a second – and now she needed him. That was how their relationship worked. A cycle of who needed who most.
Bryce took a step closer to Sinta and lowered himself down to her level. He put out a comforting hand and placed it on her shoulder. Sinta jumped, looked over at Bryce, and where there had always been a smile, Bryce was meant with the teary eyes and twisted frown of a girl with blood literally seeped into her hands.
"Don't touch me," Sinta snapped. Then she realised what she'd said, bowed her head, and sniffled. "Please. Bryce. Not now."
At the base of a nearby oak tree, Celestin observed Bryce mumble an apology and shuffle back towards Sheridan awkwardly, brushing past her to slip down the trunk of another tree and place his chin against his knees.
Sheridan glanced over at him and Celestin just shrugged his shoulders. She looked back over at Sinta and then found her own tree to rest at.
The absence of Teak and Altia felt strange. Celestin didn't really know Teak but he had always been close to Sinta and Bryce. Clearly, they were now so connected with each other, that perhaps Teak had already become an afterthought of the Games. He didn't blame them for doing so.
Altia on the other hand… yeah, that sucks. Celestin knew that if he'd tried to help her, they would have both died. He'd been a prat and fallen over a backpack strap, twisting his ankle and almost landing on a knife. Though the embarrassment had only lasted a few seconds in the heat of the bloodbath, he now felt an idiot as his ankle throbbed painfully.
He hated that he was now on the back foot with a disadvantage that could actually get in the way of his chances. And he also hated the fact that, when he thought of what he'd done to Altia, the guilt was squashed by layer upon layer of the adrenaline over the fact that he'd actually made it out alive. He was still surviving.
If only Honora could see me now, Celestin thought, then foolishly realised that around him there were definitely cameras broadcasting his face to his manor's living room area. He tried to smile and wondered if his sister would see it and realise it was for her. He didn't want her to think that the Celestin she'd always known was giving up. Because he wasn't. Injured ankle or not, like hell was he about to roll over and die.
It was why he looked at Sinta and almost felt annoyed at her wallowing. If she kept that up for longer, then it would get in the way. Sheridan surely knew that. And Bryce for all his puppy-dog eyes and fearful whimpering, he was finding his feet and Celestin admired that about him.
Is our leader actually going to become the one thing that drags us down? The thought was crazy to Celestin, but painfully honest of a future that he could not allow to happen.
All four of them, from their separate positions near to the pond, looked up at the ding, ding that filled the silence. Even Sinta, who was still adamant that blood was covering her hands, stopped as a parachute drifted gently in the night-time breeze and a canister landed at her feet.
"Oh," she said, quietly. She looked at the label at the 7 that was written in black ink and glanced at the eyes of her allies that were around her. "Bryce. It's for us."
As Bryce shuffled over, she saw more writing and squinted her eyes to make out the letters.
You did what you had to. Don't let your reaction become the reason why you lose another friend.
Her mind suddenly brought forth the image of Teak smiling and even Altia's tentative grin – both alive and well, a group in the Training Hall – and the anger and fear and grief over her own loss of self was replaced by overwhelming guilt for the fact she'd just forgotten about their deaths.
When Bryce fell down next to her, she looked at him and wrapped her arms round his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Bryce. I'm sorry."
"It's alright," he said, placing a hand on her back. "I'm still here. We're all in this together, Sinta. But you can't shut us out."
"He's right," Sheridan said.
"I just don't think I can be like I was – it just feels so strange. I know I can't let myself fall apart over this, but I never knew it would be this hard. I think we all just kidded ourselves about what was going to happen and now that it has –"
Sinta blinked away her tears and continued to embrace Bryce. Sheridan looked at the canister and felt rude prying but as both weren't doing anything, she popped the lid off and found four thick-crusted bread rolls and a hot, steaming flask of soup.
They didn't have much in terms of food and Sheridan realised as she looked down at it, that this could potentially be it. She tightened the lid again and ripped half of a bread roll, splitting the chunk into four pieces and sharing it around.
As Celestin thanked her and ripped into his, and Bryce and Sinta sat next to each other, staring into the pond, Sheridan realised with stunning reality that perhaps that she was now the leader of this group.
If she was the only one willing to make the tough choices, then she was willing to step up.
She'd do everything she could to bring back the Sinta she knew, but Sheridan had to admit to herself that she would never return fully. She thought of Saraya and what she would do if ever there was a time where the kindest girl she'd ever met could no longer smile. When she looked down at the frown and tears on Sinta's face, she felt pain like no other.
She would do her best. For all of them.
If she had to lead, then so be it.
She would do everything in her power to keep them all alive.
For however long it could last.
Quickly checked back to have a look at my planning for this and yep, this is the only non-death chapter we've got. Which I've always preferred straight out of the bloodbath – a bit slower paced, things still developing and changing however so there's bits happening here and there for alliances, characterisation and plot.
I am not a fan of complicated Arenas. There isn't going to be loads going on with this because for me, a story is the tributes and what they are doing. That's just my personal preference really. There's more to this than just a forest, but yeah… I haven't gone way out of the box with this Arena.
Thanks for reading guys!