day four: solway firth
If I'm alive tomorrow, I will alleviate the pressure by cutting you out of me -
I know I'll never go home; so set fire to your ship of past regrets and be free.
Kellie isn't all too sure what she thought bein' in a jail would feel like.
Colder. Stiffer. More oppressive and stifling, that's for sure; really, the cellblock she and Madigan set themselves up in isn't too different from the home in Three, each cell equipped with a pair of matching bunks and a lotta floor space. It's not too cold or uncomfy neither, just impersonal. Nothin' to show whose space is whose, nothin' marking any cell as different from another. White walls, cement floors, hard bunks and too many bars to count.
'Least she's got a chance to sleep in an actual bed again. A small comfort, but a real one - beds are better sleep-spaces than in a cabinet or under a desk by far. And Kellie would know; Games aren't the first time she's had to take off and wedge herself into a small space for a few hours to avoid the notice (read: anger) of other people. She'd gotten in her share of fights in Three - never started 'em, but definitely finished 'em. Mrs. Koehler took a lotta issue with that; Kellie took issue with bein' chewed out over things she had nothing to do with. Sometimes sneakin' away was just easier. She could curl up in an alcove with her journal and the blanket off her bed, stay there for a few hours just thinking, or writing, or talking to herself. Wasn't too hard to keep entertained on her own when she'd done it for thirteen years.
Still… it's nicer to have company, sometimes. Like Mads. She's fun. And she puts up with Kellie's talkin', always lets her know if they got an issue or there's somethin' serious on her mind. Kellie's come to appreciate that quite a bit. No thing is ever a sure thing in the Hunger Games, but Madigan's pretty close to one; a steadfast and stalwart ally. A big sister.
Kellie doesn't want to think about her dying. Doesn't want to think about killing her, because she has, and all too much lately. Every time another cannon goes, it feels like a part of her goes as well. She's glad to be here - glad she's made it here, more than halfway to the end - but there are pitfalls. Madigan's one of them.
Because, at the end of the day, they can't stick together forever. They can't both live.
And Cal's still out there, too, she thinks. Me and him and Mads, and only one of us can make it in the end. Rest gotta go. Like Virian. Like Mama.
…
She'd rather not think about it. Not yet. Three outta eleven's still a minority and what are the chances they'd all make it to the finale anyway? Slim to none. She won't have to fight Mads. She won't have to fight Cal. She won't have to kill…
Someone.
If I wanna live, I'll have to kill someone.
Kellie can feel… well, feelings, niggling at her again, makin' her wanna go sit in a corner and sulk. She flops onto her side on the cell bunk she's claimed, facing the wall, her back turned toward Madigan. Too many thoughts, and she didn't ask for 'em, no way no how.
Just wanna get out.
Just wanna…
Live. I wanna live.
"Didn't think I'd ever be sleeping inside a prison cell," Madigan says suddenly, jarring Kellie from her thinking. But Kellie doesn't mind - really, talkin' with someone's a good distraction. Better than just talkin' to myself. Even though I dunno what t'say anymore.
"Me neither," she agrees with a giggle. "But 'snot so bad actually. Got what we need in here. Real mattresses."
"To us, maybe," Madigan replies. Kellie can hear her smirking. "Capitol'd be screaming if they had to make do with beds like this."
"Oh, man, Capitol beds." Kellie sighs dreamily, rolling over, pulling the pillow from her back and hugging it to her chest, just wanting something to hold onto for a lil bit. "That was a thing. They're livin' the dream. Fluffy mattress, fluffy blankets, fluffy pillows…"
"Think I could call 'em up and ask for all that shit if I win?" Madigan asks. Kellie laughs.
"Do it. Can't say no to a bonafide victor."
Victor.
Her throat runs dry.
"Who d'you think it's gonna be?"
"I dunno." Madigan shrugs her shoulders, turning on her side as well, facing Kellie from across the cell, their positions practically paralleled. "Could be any of us, but… a Career, probably. It's always a Career these days."
Kellie doesn't know what to say to that. Not like Madigan's wrong.
"Could be you," she says. "You're all tough 'n stuff."
Madigan snorts. "Not as tough as you. C'mon, don't sell yourself short."
"You're one to talk about short," Kellie snarks right back, unable to resist going for the jab. It's just too easy.
"Says the little kid," Madigan retorts, and Kellie sticks her tongue out at the Six girl.
"You're just jealous I got time on my side!"
Madigan covers her mouth when she laughs this time, but Kellie doesn't bother. She snickers out loud, the noise sonorous, bouncing off the walls. Feels good to laugh. Even in here, I ain't gonna let 'em take my laughter. Just like back home. Nothin' gets me down unless I let it.
(And I won't let it. Not now, not ever.)
"If I get out," Kellie starts, half hiding her face behind the pillow she's hugging, returning to their original thread of conversation. "I'm gonna get one of those light-up changin' walls we got in the training center. Set it to the beach since we don't got one in Three. Or maybe I can move to Four, who knows?" She giggles again. "Mads, can you imagine me in Four?"
"Why not? You know how to live it up as much as anyone, from what I hear." Madigan pauses. "Might need to cover up some so you don't burn to death, though."
"Can't see me as a sunbunny?" Kellie asks, all smiles.
Madigan looks at her, laughs. "Kellie, you're albino."
"Shit, I am?" Kellie holds up her arm, pretending to inspect it, wide-eyed. "When'd that happen?"
"Don't ask me! Consult the journal."
Kellie nods at Madigan's words, sagely. "Yes, the journal. Mama's journal knows all."
"Does it know when we're gonna get the hell outta here, because I could use some reassurance." The Six girl practically deadpans.
Kellie's smile slips away.
"If only."
If only I knew.
If only I could tell whether or not 'sall worth it. Whether I even got a chance.
I love you, Mama. But I ain't ready to meet you yet.
Maddy's gone when they wake up the next day, not a trace of her presence remaining in the chilly environs of the clerk's office. Half of the supplies she'd had - an extra bottle of water that must have been Elowyn's, some crackers and some dried fruit - are lying on the ground beside Kahlan's head, one of the recorder's books next to them, opened to a page that's blank save for a note scribbled into the margin - I'm sorry I couldn't stay. Don't come after me.
"Not surprised," Celesto tells Kahlan when he sees it, though his eyes are brimming with tears anyhow, and his hands are shaking when he snaps the book closed and tosses it back down on the clerk's desk, turning his head. "Just hoped she might change her mind this time. About me."
"Change her mind?" Kahlan asks. Celesto just sighs.
"She said we were too much of a liability, back in training. Too nice. Didn't think we'd last very long." He pauses. "Guess we proved her wrong, but… she still left. She's still gone. And I figured she'd leave, it's just that I…"
He trails off, one hand clutching at the clerk's desk, fingers wrapped around the corner of the surface, palm pressing down on the wood as he tries to steady himself. "I hoped she'd stay."
Kahlan nods. It makes sense, at least to him, why Celesto would feel some sort of kinship or tie to Maddy, even if she's rebuffed all his efforts at camaraderie, choosing to part ways with him each time she had the opportunity.
"She's from home," he says.
Celesto nods. "Yeah. She is."
They settle into a stiffer silence than usual after that; not anything uncomfortable, but the absence of their momentary third ally is something that's palpable. Her abandonment is palpable, a shroud of misery that hangs over the pair of boys as they open up the packets of fruit she'd left behind and prepare for a somber breakfast. It's because of Elowyn, Kahlan thinks. Because she's dead, and Maddy probably didn't want to see it happen again. No matter how many walls she tried to put up, the loss of her ally had hit her hard. She'd never wanted to stay with him or Celesto, but she had anyway, if only for a little while, and she'd left them something useful before bowing out, something she didn't even have to share.
She cares, Kahlan thinks. About him. And that's why she left - she left because she cares, not because she doesn't.
They take up seats behind the glass window that separates the clerk's position from the waiting room-like office that surrounds it, both sitting on the ground rather than in any of the empty chairs they're surrounded by. It feels safer. Kahlan's not sure why; maybe the thought that the window's providing cover, and that they're both low enough to the ground they can't be easily seen behind it. Maybe just because they can't see the door, or the hallway, and there's something about being contained that seems secure. He isn't sure.
No words are passed between them as they eat, or once they're done, passing one of the water bottles back and forth and taking sips from it, glad enough to have water for the time being, but still aware of their need to conserve it. Maddy's assistance was beyond helpful, but it didn't lessen the need to be smart with their supplies, try and ration them now since they hadn't been heedful enough to before.
It's only once the bottle's been recapped and they're standing to leave that Celesto breaks the quiet again, tone tentative.
"Do you think she's okay on her own?"
Kahlan doesn't know what to say; the honest answer isn't one that's comforting. So he just smiles, and replies, "Maddy seems tough. She's probably in a better position than we are."
"She left us her things."
"Some of them," Kahlan agreed. "Like we warned her about the mutt. She probably thought of it as a trade."
"Maybe…" Celesto bites his lip. "But if we hadn't told her, would she still have her ally? Are we the reason Elowyn's gone?"
"I don't know," Kahlan says. "I just know that spending too much time on what ifs… it'll make you crazy."
"Think I'm already crazy," Celesto comments as Kahlan opens the door back into the main office, slipping past the clerk's desk and heading toward the hallway. He waits until he hears his ally's footsteps behind him before he reaches for the door, mentally preparing himself for the day ahead.
"I think we all are," Kahlan agrees. "There's nothing wrong with tha -"
"I see you, Eight!" A voice calls from in the hall as Kahlan steps halfway out the door. His eyes widen as he turns his head to find the girl from Two standing like a statue at the end of the hallway, a manic grin on her face as she calls out to him.
"Kahlan," Celesto tugs on his arm, trying to pull him back into the room. Kahlan goes willingly, closing the door as his ally points to one of the chairs. "Let's block it off. Maybe we can keep her from getting in -"
"You can't hiiiiide from me!" Ardelis' voice is louder now, almost haunting with how high-pitched it is. "I can smell your blood… and I want it… it's mine, all mine…"
She's running. Kahlan can't see her, but he can tell, the way her voice is being thrown around and bouncing off the walls of the hallway, the smashing of boots over wood escalating in speed as they near the door. He hooks his hands under the chair Celesto pointed at, dragging it to the door and wedging the back under the door handle, a futile, last-ditch attempt at protection.
"Get back behind the glass," he tells his ally. "Now! See if there's something we can use, a - a pen, the pen Maddy wrote with, some sort of weapon, anything…!"
Celesto nods, taking off as Kahlan stays in place behind the door, his body tense and braced in anticipation to lunge at Ardelis the second she tries to force her way inside.
A hand slams against the wood, once, then again. The handle jiggles, and the slamming gets harder. Ardelis cackles. "Open up, Eight! I came all this way just to see you, don't be a rude little bitch!"
"Sorry," Kahlan calls back to her, trying not to let his voice shake. "But I don't feel like having company today! Come back later?"
"Like hell," a knife stabs into the wood, and Ardelis lets out an enraged scream. "An artist doesn't leave their own exhibition! Open the fucking door!"
Another stab. Then something larger is slamming into the wood, and the chair's jostled from it's position. Kahlan bolts for the door into the clerk's area as the one separating the office from the hallway is kicked inward, and the Two girl comes flying at him.
"Quit playing with me!" She shouts at him, and then she's on top of him and he's hitting the floor stomach-first, Ardelis on his back, her hand sliding around the side of his head to grab hold of his face. Kahlan bites at her fingers when they cover his mouth, elbowing her in the ribs as he scrambles to get away, halfway to the open door where he can see Celesto waiting, pen in hand.
"Get her!" He tells Celesto. "Get her now! We can't run, we have to -"
"Die!"
A foot catches him in the head, and Kahlan doesn't have a chance to escape before the knife's coming down, sinking into his shoulder. He cries out in pain, trying to find Celesto amidst the mess of red clouding his vision. "Run - run, Celesto, run…"
Taking the cue not a second too late, the Ten boy springs into action - but not to flee, not like Kahlan thought he might. He tackles Ardelis to the ground, knocking her off of Kahlan's body and throwing her back into one of the chairs. The Two girl grabs ahold of his hair, tugging it it hard enough that Kahlan can hear a ripping noise as she buries her knife in his gut.
"He's mine, his blood's mine, yours isn't right, it doesn't look right -"
"Celesto!" Kahlan shouts, stumbling to his feet, but the girl from Four's there, now, her spear leveled at his chest, pressing him back toward the wall until his back collides with it, the bladed tip just seconds from piercing his heart.
It's her, he realizes, with sudden clarity. The one who killed Althea, and now she's about to kill me, she's about to…
"Why?" He asks her, his throat dry, his voice thinned to a rasp. "Why'd you go after us? Why not someone else? You killed her…" His eyes feel like they're burning. "Did you enjoy it? Did you like watching her die, Aitana, did it make you happy? You're a Career… you've trained for this, you must've had a reason, but she didn't deserve it, you know that, she didn't…"
She hasn't killed him yet. Kahlan doesn't know why. But the longer he stares at Aitana's face, at her fluttering lashes and the pained tilt of her mouth, the less he's able to see her as a murderer, the less he's able to think of her as a Career. She doesn't look like a Career. She doesn't look like the monster that he'd seen killing Althea, stony eyes and a stoic grimace, all hard edges and drive to kill. She looks like a girl.
And she looks young. No different from Althea. No different from Aubrielle.
"Are you going to kill me?" Kahlan asks, teeth gritted, tears spilling from his eyes. He's ready for it; really, he is, but he doesn't - he doesn't want to die, not with what he's leaving behind. Eight, his sister. Maybe even his parents… will they miss him at all? Will they even care that he's gone? Will they mourn his loss, or just let it be more fuel for the fire of their arguments, something used for guilt-tripping, gaslighting, blaming rather than sorrow?
I don't want that. Please, please, don't let them weaponize my death. Don't let them weaponize Aubri. She doesn't need that in her life… nobody needs that in their life, really, it's toxic, and it's abusive, and I…
I won't be around to mediate it. Won't be around to stop it.
Aubri… I only wanted you to have -
"Aitana!"
She doesn't know why she's hesitating.
Her spear's pointed at Kahlan's chest, fully poised to pierce through the thin material of his uniform and, under it, his flesh, at less than a moment's notice. It'd be quick. Almost painless. She knows where his heart is, and in one blow she could run her spear right through it, end his life before he even had a chance to realize it had happened.
But she can't. Her hand refuses to make the final push, to actually deal the killing blow, and she thinks it's because she can't answer his question. Why did you go after us? Why us? Why did you kill her? Why her?
Why anyone?
And then his mouth's moving and she hears him ask, "Are you going to kill me?" and her mind blanks.
She doesn't know. She could kill him, and she should kill him, but she doesn't know if she's going to kill him. His eyes haven't left her face, deep brown pools of untethered emotion, so present in her vision that Aitana thinks she might be drowning in them. She can't feel the spear in her hands. She can't even feel her hands. She can feel his gaze, and his questions, the weight of them, and beneath that her own guilt, so tightly compacted and compartmentalized she'd almost managed to forget about it.
Almost.
She can't forget about Lazaro. About Ardelis. About what happened yesterday, and how powerless she was to stop it. Eight probably felt powerless too, when she'd killed his partner. Probably saw her as the same monster she'd started to see Ardelis as, somebody beyond reason, beyond redemption.
Aitana wonders if it's wrong of her to feel sorry. As a Career. As someone who volunteered for the Games, who volunteered to be here. She made that choice. Is she allowed to regret the choices she's made since?
"Aitana!"
Ardelis' scream cuts through the air, jolting Aitana back to her senses. She keeps her gaze focused on Kahlan, not withdrawing her spear even as Ardelis screams again.
"Aitana! Aitana, help me, help -"
"Go," she says to Kahlan, inclining her head to the door. The Eight boy blinks, shocked.
"Wait, why? You're not -"
"I said go," Aitana reiterates, pulling her spear back and flicking it in the same direction she'd just indicated.
She and I have unfinished business.
You don't need to be a part of it.
Kahlan doesn't need to hear the command again. As soon as the threat of being skewered is gone, he's stumbling toward the hallway, clutching at his shoulder as he rounds the corner into the darkness, disappearing from sight.
Aitana turns around.
Lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood is the Ten boy, gasping for breath underneath Ardelis as she beats him with her hands, slamming her fists against his face, his chest, his neck, his already brutalized figure only shaking with each hit as he remains otherwise limp, one hand clutching at Ardelis' arm like he's trying to stop her.
"I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" Ardelis is screaming. "Aitana, help me, he's not dead, I can't - I can't see, I can't - I'm losing so much… so much blood, I can't see it, I…"
She turns her head, still weeping, halfway to collapsing atop Ten's body. Aitana takes a step back at the grisly sight she's confronted with upon finally seeing Ardelis' face, one of her eyes completely gouged out, a shiny, silver pen protruding from the other one, still lodged deep inside the socket, piercing directly through her pupil.
"Aitana, please, help me… help me, Alec, he can't… he can't do this, I can't do this…"
Bang!
The Ten boy's cannon goes off and Ardelis gasps, frenzied as she jerks her head back and forth, her blood-covered hands moving to her face, feeling around it until her fingers latch around the pen still in her eye, and she yanks on it roughly.
She screams. Falls forward, onto her knees, her head smacking into the floorboards as Aitana steps forward, spear still in hand. Ardelis fumbles around, trying to reach for her legs, pained little gasps and whines parting from her throat as she searches for Aitana's body, desperation consuming her.
"Aitana…"
Aitana leans down, brushing Ardelis' hair back from her face, cupping her cheek briefly. The gesture's soothing, almost parental, no different from her words as she softens her tone, dropping her spear and reaching, instead, for one of Ardelis' daggers, cast aside on the ground.
"It's alright, Ardelis. I'm here, it's alright. Let me help you."
She kneels on the ground before her ally, fingers curling around the hilt of the blade as she raises it to Ardelis' throat, other hand never once leaving the Two girl's face, remaining steady, present, and as calm as Aitana's forced herself to be through all the bloodshed she's seen in the last few hours. It's too much… beyond too much, even. The arena's become a hellscape, a place of inhumane horror, and the girl in front of her is more than partially to blame for it.
"Don't worry, everything's going to be fine," Aitana says. "I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you."
And she draws the blade across Ardelis' neck, cutting deep into her throat, layers of flesh parting beneath the knife as her main artery is severed, and blood begins to spill out of the gash in her dark skin.
Ardelis slumps forward into Aitana's arms.
Bang!
Her arms wrap around the Two girl's slack body, heavy against her chest, still warm enough to be alive. Aitana only holds her for a moment, keeping Ardelis close like she might a friend, even though her ally is anything but. She didn't only kill Lazaro and the boy from Ten, she's killed Aitana's sense of innocence, whatever parts of it still remained after she'd entered the arena. Aitana had left Four still partially blind to the true horrors of the Games, and Ardelis, more than anyone else, had forced her to open her eyes once she was in them, to confront the damage she'd wrought, the harm she'd done. They weren't friends. They were hardly even allies. But they were something.
"The Games made you into a monster," Aitana begins. "I won't let them do the same to me."
She shifts Ardelis' body in her arms, laying it down on the ground next to the Ten boy's. Aitana takes a moment before standing to move to his side, raise her fingers to his glassy eyes, and pull his eyelids shut over them. She's sure his death wasn't a pleasant one. Neither of theirs were.
But such is the nature of the Games.
And such is the nature of those forced to play them.
"Empty," Angelo huffs, tossing down another bag with a sigh. Ambrosia sinks down on the bench nearest the cornucopia, rubbing at her eyes.
"That's it then," she comments. "Either the others took the supplies and ran, or we aren't the first to come back."
"Could be either," Angelo agrees, a solemn look on his face. "Whatever it was that took Lazaro down…"
Ambrosia can feel her face falling, and she bites her lip to cover up the impending frown. She's been trying not to think about him - Lazaro - if only because wondering will make it harder. He's dead, and he isn't her concern. Shouldn't be, anyhow; no longer competition, no longer a threat… Ambrosia ought to be glad for it. But she isn't. She's sad.
He was kinder than most of us gave him credit for. Stronger than most of us gave him credit for, too. It's a loss to Four… to his family.
To me.
A smile comes to her lips unbidden as she remembers the cookie Lazaro gave her the first night, the awkward way he'd patted her hand in an attempt to cheer her up, the questions he'd kept rattling off in training to try and distract her whenever she'd started to feel plagued by doubt. He may not have been the brightest bulb in the room, but he was smart in his own way. Intuitive, especially when it came to feelings. Something Mother never placed much stock in, but it is a talent.
A noise sounds from down one of the hallways, catching Ambrosia's attention. She stands to her feet, hand on her sword as Angelo turns around, pressing his back against the wood of the tall podium, nodding his head toward the left archway.
Shall we go? He seems to be asking. Ambrosia shakes her head, pointing to the columns nearest the archway.
Flank, she mouths at him.
Angelo seems perfectly alright with the suggestion, or at least is able to act as if he is, slipping over to take the left column as Ambrosia ducks behind the right, the pair of them obscured from sight of whomever it might be that's nearing their position.
Boots clap against the floor, heavy and fast-paced as the 'whomever' in question flies down the corridor, probably in flight. Ambrosia steadies her hands on her sword, preparing herself to strike as they draw nearer… nearer still…
I have them.
The second the tribute passes through the archway, she flings herself out from behind the column, sword piercing through fabric and skin alike, hilting deep inside the tribute's abdomen. She hears a gasp, and the next thing she knows, her eyes are meeting those of the boy from Eight, his hands braced to his torso as Ambrosia pulls the sword out in a swift motion, blood running from his lips. He drops to his knees, hands braced against the ground as he coughs up another mouthful of blood.
Ambrosia hesitates for a second - but only for a second.
She shoves the sword through the boy's back, and the cannon fires.
Her eyes slip closed.
Withdrawing the blade takes more effort than wielding it, her hands slightly shaky, cold sweat dotting the skin of her brow and along her spine. Once she hears the cold steel rip free of Eight's flesh, she takes a step back, eyes still shut, not wanting to look at the remains left behind on the ground.
She's killed someone. Just like Angelo, just like all of One's previous victors, her former allies, the former tributes who've had to compete in the Games for the last twenty-three years.
It doesn't quite seem real.
Ambrosia bites the inside of her cheek in thought, turning to look at Angelo. She isn't sure what he sees when he meets her gaze, but his visage crumples, and he steps forward in seeming concern.
"Ambrosia."
"Angelo," she counters, meeting his eyes evenly, not backing down. He stops in his tracks.
"Are you alright?"
The question's genuine; so much so that Ambrosia knows he must have realized that this - the Eight boy - is her first kill of the Games. That she's only now experiencing what he already has, twice over. And he's concerned.
When was the last time anyone expressed genuine concern for me, before the Games?
Mother certainly didn't; Etienne was wrapped up in all his sorties and mind games. Galen… well, he was a unique case. I'm not entirely sure what 'concern' meant to him.
… I'm not entirely sure what 'concern' means to me.
Ambrosia returns her focus to Angelo, who stands in the same position that he had before, watching her, unmoving.
She smiles, sadly.
"I don't know when the last time was that somebody asked me that… and meant it."
Angelo's brow creases. "I mean it."
"I know you do," Ambrosia replies. She's rather melancholic, all of a sudden. "The Games are a fine place for making friends, aren't they?"
"I'm not exactly the 'friends' type," Angelo's comment is a bit aloof, a bit confused… a bit nervous. Cute, Ambrosia thinks, because she's learned to read his tells, and she knows that the comment isn't meant to just be taken as an aside. He thinks of us as friends, just as I do. Companions, if nothing else. But not just allies. Not just District partners.
"I'm not either," Ambrosia admits with a shrug. "But I guess that's why it works. Our dynamic."
"Do we have a dynamic?" Angelo asks, blinking at her.
Ambrosia quirks an eyebrow. "You tell me."
She can't help but let her watch linger on the Eight boy's body when she turns around, a pulse of grief and nausea churning her gut. I apologize, she thinks. I'm sorry for killing you. But I'm playing to win.
Stepping around his crumpled form, she makes her way back over toward the cornucopia, Angelo's soft footfalls following her path, until they're both seated back on the benches, Ambrosia with her head tilted back to face the ceiling, Angelo facing forward, stiff-shouldered.
"Eight left," he murmurs.
"Eight left," Ambrosia echoes.
As if on cue, Panem's anthem begins to blare from the speakers over the judge's box, filling the room with a tune meant to invoke feelings of patriotism. But it's a death toll, Ambrosia thinks, and no matter how symbolic it is, I'll never be able to associate it with anything but the Games. The Games are Panem, and Panem is built around them.
Sometimes I wonder what it was like before.
Her lapse into querying fantasy doesn't last for long. It can't, because Angelo's grabbing hold of her arm, wide-eyed and frantic as the first image of the day's fallen is projected onto the courtroom wall. Ambrosia turns her head to look at it, and her stomach drops.
It's Ardelis.
Her hand finds Angelo's, easing his fingers out of the tight curl they've fixed themselves in. His expression is woefully serious, even perturbed for a few seconds, but he clears his throat and lets his grip slacken at Ambrosia's touch, his rigidity fading.
"Good riddance," he mutters. Ambrosia purses her lips together, hums.
The Eight boy is next. Followed by the Ten boy - his ally, if she remembers correctly.
Their districts will be mourning. And hopefully, their families will be as well. It's never quite so simple, but loss is something everyone understands in their own way, isn't it?
In another world, maybe they both could have survived. In another world, perhaps I could mourn their losses the way others ought to be. But in this one…
I did what I had to do, with Eight. His failure - and Ten's, and Ardelis' - only benefits me. And I'll do well to remember that. I can let myself feel once I'm out of the arena. Once I've won.
But for as long as I'm in here, it's better if I don't let myself get distracted. Not by emotions. Not by anything.
(... it's wrong of me, isn't it? To treat death as transactional.)
(No, it isn't wrong. It's just cold. Like your family. Like Regina.)
Ambrosia sighs, her breath husky. I am not my mother.
I will never be my mother.
But… I am her daughter.
And maybe that means more than I thought it did.
11: Celesto Peradas, District 10. Killed by Ardelis Nerolia.
10: Ardelis Nerolia, District 2. Killed by Aitana Cavine.
9: Kahlan Verrell, District 8. Killed by Ambrosia Salazar.
A/N: Chapter title from Solway Firth by Slipknot.
Huge thank you to twistedservice and Firedawn'd for looking parts of this chapter over for me while it was in progress! Y'all are amazing.
In other news... we've made it to the final eight! Congratulations to the tributes that are still alive and kicking, and my apologies to Dyl, Kevin and Anna for letting your tributes go this chapter; as with the last one, it wasn't an easy decision, and I'm already hurting at the realization that I won't be able to write POVs for these three anymore. Eulogies for them are up on the blog.
Question of the chapter: Predicted final three? How about your current predicted victor? Would love to hear your thoughts on the remaining characters.
Thanks to everyone leaving feedback for me - I truly appreciate it!