Chapter Thirty.
I walk down the stairs cautiously; fearful about what awaits at the bottom. Each step leaves a footprint of the gut-wrenching terror that swirls in the pit of my stomach. I will myself to run back upstairs but can't. I cannot. Because of him.
When I get to the kitchen, my Father dressed in his Peacekeeper uniform stands stoically, his eyes two burning beads of a red, bitter inferno.
"Damon."
I cannot reply. Not because I don't want to, but because I cannot. Panic rips my heart open when I touch my lips and realise they have gone. Vanished from my face as his anger ripens and grows stronger and fiercer.
"Answer me, boy!"
I feel his hand on my shoulder and he throws me into the cupboard we have under the stairs. I want to scream but my throat feels scorched and acidic. A hot poker is shoved through the door and stabs straight into my abdomen – I scream, or I would if I could. My fingernails snap against the wood of the door as I try to claw my way outside. The pain is iron-hot, twisting and turning my skin into charred, blackened swathes of meat.
"Damon!"
That's my Fathers taunt – I hear him laughing and can only sob silently.
"Damon!"
The voice sounds distant and I try to ignore it against the pain that ravages my body.
"Damon!" My father continues to jeer, glaring through the peephole at me. Malicious grin from ear to ear.
"Damon!"
"Damon!"
"Damon!"
"Damon!"
"Damon!"
His eyes snapped open and Damon was met with the concerned look of both Henley and Iva. The two of them had red-shot eyes, blue bags underneath that were beginning to get darker. He tried to smile up at them and attempted to shuffle upwards from where he lay, but his body forbade it and screamed at the slightest tremor.
"It's okay," Henley said, placing a hand against his shoulder. "Just – just try not to move. It won't do you any good."
The silence of last night had been deafening. No sponsor gift. No sign of anything from the Capitol. Henley wanted to blame Archie but couldn't. What was so special about their alliance? They were nobodies to the Capitol. She hated the idea that she was being seen as a weak competitor and Henley couldn't help herself but partially blame her two allies.
But it wasn't their fault, she knew that. It was just the way the game was rigged. Tributes like Henley were never revered by anyone.
Iva was closer to Damon and wiped back the thick locks of blonde hair that clung to his head. He was burning up – the sweat paramount as it trickled from every part of Damon and he shivered from his place on the couch.
Iva looked at the remnants of the fight from yesterday and the scorching sunbeams that radiated through from the open window. They had barely gotten any sleep. Iva didn't want to leave Damon by himself in case he got worse – which he had – and Henley herself as the healer of their group felt a moral obligation to do her best by Damon.
The deep gouges in the wood told a different story to each of the girls as they watched Damon sombrely. Iva saw an attack that had almost ripped apart the alliance she had come to cherish. Henley saw only the confliction in her mind between the duty she felt compelled to fulfil and her duty to herself as a tribute. Both girls wanted to cry. They wanted to scream and rip their hair out and just glare towards the cameras and ask why?!
But their priority had to be Damon. Because he was growing worse by the minute, and no help was coming.
"Iva?"
Damon's voice was weak but Iva grabbed his hand, squeezing it. "Damon – are you okay? Do you need some more medicine? I think we have some – I think –"
"No," he said, smiling. "I just wanted to ask - is it daytime or am I just imagining it?"
"It's daytime, I think. But it was daytime during the night as well," Iva looked at Henley and both girls just frowned – exhausted. "It's very confusing."
Damon continued to smile. "It's warm."
His stomach was agonizing but he could feel the sun against his skin and found comfort in it. The remnants of his nightmare had begun to fall from his mind – his Father a villainous shadow in the peripheral of his subconscious. He continued to hold onto the anchor that was Iva's hand and feebly squeezed it back.
"I'm so sorry about Spelt," Damon said. "He seemed like a nice guy."
Iva had dealt with the throb of sadness that had hit her square in the face last night as his face had appeared in the sky. Henley had said her goodbye to Teak. Both united in their loss of a District partner. And Damon …
"Please tell me Altia is alright," he said. "Please. I need to know, Iva."
There was a pause. Iva looked at Henley and Henley back over at Iva. They knew the truth – Altia's hardened exterior gazing down at the Arena, emblazoned across the sky at their final look at the girl from Twelve that Damon had always spoke so highly of.
Henley shook her head. Don't, she mouthed. Iva bit her lip and nodded in response.
"She's alive, Damon. You don't need to worry about her."
"That's good," he hummed. "That's good."
A gasp broke from his dry lips as his body shuddered with pain and Iva yelped automatically. When did I become so… so… like this? She'd only ever cared for her Mother and that was it. She had never needed, nor wanted, anyone else. Yet Damon in his sweet, yet oblivious nature, had wormed his way through those walls and settled brightly and firmly.
Fuck… Iva looked over, helplessly at Henley, and the girl from Five beckoned her over with a small wave.
She led Iva to the furthest window and looked down at her hands. They were covered in his blood and she found herself shaking. Henley looked once more over at Damon – her ally, her patient, her friend? – and couldn't meet Iva's look.
"Nothing is coming for him," Henley said.
Five words of a truth that Iva knew the moment Damon had been attacked, but five words she had hoped to ignore and never let settle. She looked at Henley and then took hold of Henley's hands, shaking them in front of her eyes. "You can do it," Iva said, voice barely above a whisper, but determined in its blind hope all the same. "I know you can. There – there has to be something."
"We're in the Hunger Games, Iva."
"So?"
Henley sighed. "So – so if we want to win, if one of us wants to win, he has to—" Henley couldn't say it. It went against everything she believed as the girl from Five she had always prided herself on becoming. Yet when the thought ballooned in her head, it continued to rise, and she couldn't shake it.
"How long?" Iva said, bowing her head.
"Could be today, could be tomorrow, could be a few days. But it'll be painful. Very painful," Henley said. "Someone like Damon doesn't deserve to go that way."
Both girls knew what Henley's words meant. Iva immediately hated Henley for putting that thought out there, but not as much as Henley hated herself. They looked over at Damon, moaning in agony from the couch and Iva looked at the sword she had rested against the table.
"He's my friend," Iva said.
Henley nodded wordlessly.
"And he's in pain," she continued. "For him – I'll do it."
"Use this," Henley said, handing over the knife she had clasped in her hand and had done since the moment they'd left the bloodbath. She felt helpless without it. "Clean and quick. He won't suffer."
The callousness of her words stung Iva and punched Henley in the gut, but Iva nodded, took the knife, and walked over to Damon. She knelt by him and smiled as his bright blue eyes, lit up with painful tears, rested on her face. He relaxed in Iva's company. Swallowed the pain down to be strong for his friend. She'd lost her District partner. He couldn't imagine the pain of losing the only presence from home that you had. And she'd been there for him the past few days. She'd made him a better person.
"Hi, Iva," he said.
Iva tried not to cry. If she cried, she wouldn't stop. "Hi, Damon."
The knife was so heavy in her hand. With her fingers, she delicately brushed the sweaty hair from his forehead and smiled back down at him. He gasped and the gouges in his stomach looked so much more prominent in their deathly, bloody glow.
"Thank you, Iva," Damon said, his eyes closing tight, clamped with pain as it coursed through his body. "You're a good friend."
He'd never had a friend before. No one had ever given him the time of day before Iva came along.
Iva stood up and walked back over to Henley, tears now falling from her eyes and shook her head firmly. "I can't," she stammered. "I – I just can't."
Henley took the knife from her hand. "It's okay. It's okay."
Oh god… Henley thought, as she walked towards Damon. Oh god, oh god, oh god. On the outside, her face was a mask of a gentle, kind smile belonging to the last person that Damon would see. On the inside, the healer Marilyn had raised her to be, the knowledge her books had told her, the principle of save lives, protect, preserve, heal… they swirled around and around in a cycle that made Henley feel sick and destructive. It went against everything she'd ever believed.
It went against the person Henley was.
"Hi, Henley," Damon said with a smile, opening his eyes faintly. "You look tired."
Henley only returned the smile and leant forwards, kissing his forehead.
"Go to sleep, Damon," she said kindly. "We'll always be here, I promise you that. Always."
Damon nodded his head and closed his eyes, drifting off into another pained dream-like state, the agony of his wound twisting through him. As he shuddered again, Henley moved the knife down to his chest, looked over at Iva and stabbed firmly forwards.
It pierced his heart quickly and cleanly. Damon was dead, the cannon slamming through the rafters and shaking the cottage. She dropped the knife as his body lay still and she slumped to the ground, resting her head against her knees and allowing the dam to break and the tears to fall.
The healer had become a killer.
Iva had lost a friend. Henley had been the one to take him away from her.
Nothing could, nor would, be the same again.
The blood soaked too deep.
Roarke thought of what lay behind him and kept going.
If he let his mind wander too much to what might happen in the future, the Roarke that had let himself crumble and join Chancellor, would resurface. He could not let that happen.
It was his duty to both himself and to the girls that had given him a second chance that he would accomplish what they'd tasked him with. Roarke felt almost elated with the sense of purpose that distracted him from everything else.
With every snap of a twig beneath his boot, every push of a branch in front of his face that sometimes snapped back against his skin, it grounded Roarke in his resolve. He felt better than he had done all week.
He only hoped he could keep it up.
The fireflies that had become so permanent in this Arena seemed to follow him in a golden cloud on his journey through the trees. So far, it had been very much of the same, with some trees that were larger and further apart, and those that were thinner hugging together and blocking his view.
That was the hardest part about this. The Arena seemed quite small from what he'd gathered so far, but he couldn't see very far ahead and that was what unnerved him. Even when he looked up, sometimes the canopies of the trees were so densely packed that the treetop obscured the bright blue of the fucked-up new daytime façade and the fluffy white clouds that drifted above.
His sleep had been abysmal but he'd come to accept that that was going to be a recurring theme in the Games. Especially by himself. He'd woken up every five minutes whenever there was so much as a single noise. Roarke's entire body was on edge. He just had to be and accepted it.
As he wondered if Destan would be so easy in his acceptance of his return, the words he would lay on thick, the lie underneath them all, the trees seemed to depart into a wide-open clearing of dark, pitch-black grass. It rose upwards into what looked like half of a hill, barely reaching a quarter of the way up to the trees that surrounded it, but what sat on the hill neared closer to the clouds above.
A tower made up of solid rock, moss-covered in some places, loomed firmly into the sky. A bird perched somewhere at the very top where Roarke imagined a balcony overlooked the Arena and he smiled to himself, nearing the wooden door cast with iron bolts and a lion knocker. He pushed it open hesitantly, bow firm in his hand, arrows ready on his back, and nothing but a plume of dust fell into his face and he coughed, spluttering as he took a step forward.
A winding staircase rested against the wall going up, up and up as it stopped right at the top. Roarke needed the vantage point that it would provide and he couldn't help but feel irritated at not being able to feel closer to his target. The longer it took, the more likely Roarke felt that his determination to fulfil this plan would start to fall apart. Especially as more and more cannons sounded. The higher the death toll, the more this felt like the walls of the Arena were slowly moving in on him.
"Fuck's sake," he mumbled to himself, breathless as he continued up the staircase. He paused, exhaled deeply, and finished the journey upwards as he came to another door that he pushed open.
The room was quaint and miniscule, barely furnished except for a four-poster, rickety bed and a table with a mirror perched atop. A bearskin rug lay across the rocky floor as he made his way to the window. The bird flew off at Roarke's presence and he looked out upon the Arena.
He could see the trees all around him, stretching as far as the eye could see, but in the distance a faint glimmer that only the sunlight catching a portion of the sky enabled him to see. Inside the shimmer, the forest itself was actually quite small and he realised that perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to find Destan after all.
Or someone else.
Though Roarke could not see any tributes, there was something that caught his eye from where he stood at the window. Peeking through the leaves, he saw what looked like a small wooden building, the first half of a hut or something similar. There were a few dotted amongst the trees in close proximity to each other and Roarke immediately knew that he would head there.
After traipsing around with an aim, but with no destination in mind, this was the first sign of where someone might be that he had come across. Chances were it might not be Destan, but the fact that it could was enough for Roarke to nod grimly to himself and map out in his mind the short journey it would take to get there.
As he resolved himself to this new venture, a ding echoed out from somewhere above the clouds and a small parachute carrying a long canister of sorts fell towards him. He thought maybe it would head for the trees but as a quick breeze blew it towards Roarke and through the window, he caught it with a small smile on his face.
Someone was rooting for him. Money spent on him. It was a supportive thought that actually made Roarke feel confident in himself and the journey he was embarking on. He popped the lid off and another dozen or so arrows fell out with a clatter onto the floor.
Good luck. Those were the only words scrawled across the note. Roarke didn't know if it meant Destan was or wasn't within those trees, but he had more arrows which meant he wouldn't run out anytime soon.
Roarke thought about Armina and the pretty face that had looked down from the sky last night. It had filled his gut with remorse, but also a focus that he had what it took, had already taken the first step, and would see this through to the end.
Roarke was afraid of the fighting, but he wasn't against it anymore. He would go where he had to and do what he had to do. Not just for Neviya, Britta or Linnea. But for himself.
He wanted to win. The irony of using Chancellor's weapon of choice on the other tributes hadn't fallen on deaf ears, but Roarke would take what he could find and do his best with it.
He turned from the window, walked down the spiralling staircase, and had in his mind a concrete destination. It was something.
At this point, something was better than nothing.
The fireflies had inspired the two of them.
Shual sat across from Albie and handed over a pack of crackers. Albie thanked him and ate them tentatively, digging the knife into the floorboard by her side, the movement a distraction.
She found herself at odds. Half of her knew that the way she was heading was not the right path for Albie. The other relished the rush of emotions that were pouring out of her. She'd never felt like this before – like she'd shaken up a drink and popped the lid off, letting it all froth and bubble and explode. They weren't good emotions at all. Armina's face had left Albie and Shual in a bitter silence last night, but they were still something that Albie could now tangibly cling onto.
Shual could see Albie trying to control herself and he thanked whatever silent force might have had some sway in her mindset. He was becoming accustomed to seeing the flash of anger in Albie's face, the tear-drops against the wooden flooring, but also the way that she would smile and actually try to talk to Shual again.
He didn't have much to say, but he was forcing himself into conversation because it meant there was some normalcy back in this. He clung onto it for dear life.
"We should have a place ready," Shual said, swallowing down his own cracker and wiping the crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. "I don't think it's wise that once this goes down we're just roaming around again."
Albie nodded. "It'll catch the attention of the other tributes as well. They might all flock towards the flames."
"Or run."
"Or run," Albie echoed, grimacing.
The entire treetop village they'd found was made up of wood, from roof to floor to bridge to ladder. A firefly had landed on Albie's cheek last night, after she stopped herself from crying at Armina's final look down at them all, and Albie's mind had sparked with an idea.
She was glad she still had it in her to think of these things, fit the pieces together that may not have worked by themselves, but with a little bit of force could slot into shape. It meant she still had the same mindset she'd always had – it was just evolving, and maybe that was a good thing. Shual himself enjoyed the way that the plan seemed to be coming together, even if part of him knew it meant teenagers his age might die as a result.
He was becoming detached to that idea. He had to for the sake of himself and Albie. If he put names to these faces and homes and lives and families then he knew his knees would lock and he'd cave. Albie might see the Careers as the monsters in the cupboard but Shual just saw them with pity for a system that had chewed them up and spat them out.
He knew they had to go, though. He was willing to do what he had to do to make sure of that.
"And we're 100% sure that they'll be at the Cornucopia?" Shual asked. He had a mental list of the things he needed ticking off before he could concretely adhere to this plan. He couldn't afford anything to go wrong.
Albie seemed more flippant in her resolve. The pieces were coming together, sure, but spontaneity had its place too. "If they aren't, we'll find them. They're our biggest threats, Shual. And one of them killed Armina. Killed Teak, Castor, Spelt, Ponche, Altia."
"You don't know that, Albie," Shual said. "Not for definite."
She just shrugged. "Whatever happened, it doesn't change that we need to do this. Not just for us. But for Carys and her alliance. Even Nikos—" she paused at the thought of her lumbering District partner. He volunteered, sure, but she knew there was regret there, not a bloodthirst for murder. She was glad he was alive. "—we kill them, we make things fair."
Shual wanted to slap Albie for a second. Fair?! The entire Games were a system built on corruption and the unfair ways that Panem ran. It wasn't fair they were here in the first place. But he couldn't get rid of that small thought in his head that killing the strongest competitors, or even just one of them, meant their chances would shoot up.
It was totally self-serving, but he had to be.
"We find them, draw them towards us, up into the trees, and we set it alight."
Shual nodded as Albie recalled their plan. There were still some missing pieces, like their escape, like what they would do if the fire didn't start, but it was better than sitting idly by and doing nothing. As much as he would have loved that, he knew he couldn't. So did Albie. They were in this now – together.
She leaned forwards and placed her fingers delicately atop his own. "I know you probably don't see me the same way anymore, Shual. But – but this is just the way it has to be. We can do this, I know we can."
Shual gritted his teeth together and forced himself to nod. "Draw them in, set it on fire, and run."
"If they try to jump, they'll at least break something and we can finish them off."
Finish them off. Albie said it flippantly. So uncaring in her resolve to kill three, or four, or even five of the Careers that remained.
In her mind, even one was a small victory. She wasn't just doing this for Armina anymore. She had been the fuel for her vengeance but now she was simply here to do what she had to do for her survival.
And Shual.
She couldn't forget him.
"Let's check everything is in place before we leave," Albie said, standing up.
She moved towards the open side of the hut where a wooden bridge, held together with knotted ropes, swayed atop the undergrowth of the forest floor. Shual joined her as she stopped, leaning against the rope and gazing out towards the trees all hunched together.
"It's quite pretty," Albie mused. "We don't have anything like this in Three. It's all just so – grey."
"That doesn't sound nice," Shual said.
It didn't. Not at all.
He placed his hands over the rope barrier and spotted something in the distance. At first, he thought maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but Albie saw it too and stiffened. A bunched-up row of bushes were rustling and somewhere out there a snap of a twig made Shual's heart jump into his throat.
"You got your knife?" he whispered to Albie.
She nodded. "You?"
"Yup."
The two just watched, kneeling down from where they stood above the ground, as someone appeared into view, looking up at the nearest wooden hut.
When Shual realised who it was, he felt the sense of control he'd finally begun to feel again, the sense of a puzzle coming together, of a plan in motion, fall apart.
He looked at Albie and the colour fell from her face. "Don't."
Roarke Lumally had a bow in his hand as he scanned the area, his face twisting into a frown. His eyes then moved up to the hut and he spotted the ladder.
"Albie. Don't."
She couldn't hear Shual. Somewhere in her mind, all she could focus on was Armina's painful scream as an arrow ripped into her shoulder, and then the deathly silence as she plummeted to the ground face-first, dead. Gone. Just there – nothing anymore, where there had once been a happy girl with a pretty smile.
Her hands were shaking and she couldn't stop herself. The overflow of emotions that she was beginning to temper and use to her benefit ousted the logic of the plan they'd spoke of and she stood up, knees knocking together, face twisted into an angry snarl.
Roarke heard the motion and his eyes fell on Albie. He looked startled at first, then calmed himself down, moving closer to gaze up at her as Shual joined Albie in a standing position. In his mind, maybe two against one, with them having the higher vantage point, might mean Roarke would leave them. Shual had to remain optimistic even though that had never been his forte. The fear would overwhelm him if he didn't.
"Oh," Roarke exhaled.
"Oh?" Albie's voice wasn't loud, but it was laced with rage that spat harshly down to Roarke who stood below them. "That's it? Oh?"
"What do you want me to say?" Roarke said.
He looked uncomfortable. Shual knew it wasn't really Roarke's fault. He was just doing what any tribute would do if they wanted to fight for their place in the Games. He killed someone Shual had grown to like but he didn't look at Roarke with the same bitter fury. He just saw a boy raised to believe this – the Arena, the Games – were his only goal in life.
Just like Albie had been raised to hold in everything she felt. Just like Shual worked hard, didn't care for much outside of his little bubble, and got on. That was the difference in their ways of life.
Albie didn't care for that. Not in the slightest. She saw a murderer. Armina's murderer.
"Did you even stop to think before you shot that arrow?" Albie asked. She could feel angry tears pooling in the corners of her eyes and blinked them away. Now was not the time to cry. "We were leaving. Why didn't you just let us go?"
"Albie," Shual whispered.
She ignored him and looked at Roarke. Whether he apologised or not, she did not care. The knife was in her hand and back in their hut, she had some more of them. She didn't care anymore about getting any of the other Careers here. She only cared about Roarke.
She saw Armina dead on the floor, with Roarke mumbling a stupid sorry over her corpse. As if a sorry was good enough.
"I can't just walk away from what I chose," Roarke said. "And for all I know, Armina could have been the one later on to kill me."
"She was fifteen years old," Albie spat.
"There have been twelve-year-old killers in the Games before," Roarke said. "Age doesn't really matter when we're fighting for our lives."
"That wasn't a fight when you killed Armina. It was butchery."
Shual tried to grab Albie's arm as she raised it, the knife glimmering in the sunlight. Even Shual knew for all their training, there was no way if she threw it, she would ever come close to hitting Roarke. But that bow in his hand, down there with a quiver of arrows on his back; Shual knew that he could do what he'd done to Armina to either of them.
"Albie!" This time Shual made his voice louder and she finally looked at him. "He's not worth it. Stop it."
Albie looked at Roarke once more. I could just walk away. I should just walk away. Hot tears once again fell from her eyes and down her cheeks as Roarke continued to just stare at the two of them. He didn't even seem to flinch with emotion, or wither under Albie's intense anger.
It made him come across uncaring. Albie couldn't forget Armina's scream. It haunted her, embedded into her mind.
She lifted her knife. "For Armina." And she threw it.
Fuck.
Shual only had a second to formulate that thought in his mind as the knife missed entirely and Roarke grabbed an arrow, pulled on the string of the bow, and let it loose.
It soared into the sky, catching the sunlight, and hit Shual in the centre of his chest.
He looked, wide-eyed at Albie, as ice and fire ripped through his body. "Albie?"
She just stared at him as he rocked once and fell over the side of the bridge, landing with a crash on the ground below at Roarke's feet.
He's not-? He can't-?
BOOM!
Albie screamed. It tore out of her throat and shattered the silence that followed the cannon marking Shual's death. Roarke, like he had with Armina, just stared at Shual's body and let the bow fall from his hands. He didn't even notice Albie run across the bridge, gather her supplies, and leg it back and disappear into a hut hidden further in the forest.
She left him alone with the body of her final ally and collapsed into the corner, sinking as far as she could further and further into the floor.
Albie hated herself. The anger that ravaged through her. The sadness. Everything that rampaged through her body and left her mind blurry, her vision wet with tears.
She slammed her eyes shut.
It's a nightmare. Just a nightmare. A horrific, bloody nightmare.
When she opened them, she was still alone.
Shual was dead. Armina was dead.
It's my fault. All my fault.
No longer was she the contained angel of the Mathison household, but the bitter remnants of a girl that had laughed and smiled with two innocent teenagers. They were gone, leaving Albie in the shadows of the woodland, the sunlight bearing down on her from all angles.
A solitary firefly flittered through the window and landed on her knee.
I still have my plan.
Vengeance was still hot in her stomach. And now, she let herself become consumed by it.
Sinta rubbed her eyes sleepily and stared into the placid waters of the pond.
They hadn't moved since settling yesterday after running through the forest. Stumbling upon the pond at the bottom of an incline, with enough of a view around them, had been a reprieve for the four of them. It meant they'd been able to relax and recuperate. Sinta felt bad that she barely said a word to any of her allies but she no longer had the energy to think of any words of encouragement to say.
Bryce and Sheridan were doing their best with the supplies and rationing of food whilst Celestin was trying his best to recover as quickly as possible. The guilt that Sinta felt however was minimal to what she felt about the kill she'd made.
It would be easy for someone not in her position to tell her to get over it, but they didn't feel what she felt. The darkness in her stomach was unparalleled and undefeated. She'd given up scrubbing her hands. Bryce told her they were clean. In her mind, the red stood out even more in the sunlight. A constant reminder of her actions.
I need to get over this. She thought of the note from Gigi and knew that if she didn't, something bad would happen. But again, easier said than done. She continued to just stare into the pond at her ratty hair and the few splotches of mud that were on her face from when she'd fallen over. She had a scratch on her elbow and the pain helped anchor her just a little. It made her feel human.
"Sinta."
She looked over her shoulder at the mention of her name and when she noticed Bryce, Sheridan and Celestin chatting a few paces away, she felt confused. Great… I'm hearing things. Sinta felt a shudder down her spine at the idea of losing it. Her mind had always been something she'd valued and prided herself on. If that too were shattering then she had no chance.
And she couldn't feel hopeless. If she lost hope, she lost who she was.
"Sinta."
She turned around and look at the pond where her reflection stared back at her. It smiled.
But Sinta hadn't.
She leapt backwards and felt pain sear up as the cut on her elbow scratched open upon a bunch of twigs sticking up from the leaves. What…? She didn't want to look but had to. When she crawled forwards, the reflection was still there, just staring at her, smile from ear to ear. It was the sickly-sweet smile that Sinta had been loved for and berated by those less likely to see the light in the world.
She hated it. Absolutely hated it. Her hand splashed the water angrily and as the ripples settled, the reflection was still there. Smiling. Always smiling.
"What do you want?" Sinta asked, feeling foolish, but scared at the same time.
"How're your hands?" It asked, staring into her own eyes, the pupils so black, so dark, so empty. "He'll always be a part of you now."
Sinta shook her head furiously. No, no, no, no. She dug her nails into the mud and found herself subconsciously shaking them, trying to wipe the red off; that insatiable, invulnerable red that would not disappear. "He won't. He can't."
"Always, Sinta. He's a part of you. You are now him, as he is now you."
"No!" She stared at the reflection and bit back a sob. "He can't!"
"It's the only way to win," the reflection said, softer this time, but still smiling. "Accept it. Embrace it. If you don't want to die, you know what you have to do."
A hand rose, bloody and streaked with red from the water and a quiet laugh chilled Sinta to her core. She screamed and scrambled backwards as something pressed against her shoulder and she screamed again.
"Sinta!"
When she looked up through blurry eyes, her allies were looking down, Bryce's face twisted with concern, Celestin looking confused and Sheridan with eyebrows knitted in worry.
"I'm sorry," Sinta said, stammering, lip trembling. "I'm sorry. I – I don't know. I don't –"
"It's okay," Sheridan said, squeezing her shoulder. "C'mon. We're moving on."
When was that decision made?
She nodded meekly and Sheridan helped her up. Immediately as Sheridan set off, Celestin joined her side and Bryce wrapped an arm around Sinta, helping her along. They were slow, even slower than Celestin with his twisted ankle.
As they walked through the forest, Bryce watched Sinta more concerned than he'd ever felt. The girl that had helped him on the Chariot, the girl that had stuck by his side, smiled and helped him through every insecurity and doubt that had muddled his mind, was gone. Or hidden. Stuck underneath the blood she believed to be caking her skin.
He wanted to shake her from it but knew he couldn't. Even with the pressure and fear he felt about being here in the Arena, losing Teak and Altia, Bryce could never do anything to harm or upset Sinta. She was so strong, or had been, that Bryce couldn't imagine a situation where she wasn't able to pull herself out of it. Even this – being a killer, in Bryce's mind surely she could think about it in terms of what she'd done, who she'd killed, and what might have happened if she hadn't have done it.
I hope she does, Bryce thought, because if she doesn't I don't know what I'll do.
The roles seemed reversed, even more than when Bryce had embraced Sinta on those Capitol nights where she'd cried. This seemed near permanent. The thought scared him so much.
Up in front, leading the two from Seven, Celestin and Sheridan were side-by-side, pushing aside branches that got in the way and surveying the area.
Celestin didn't want to be the one to say it, but if Sheridan wasn't, then he had to.
"She needs to stop this," Celestin said, frowning. He felt bad – he had no idea what it must be like to know you were a killer – but that was just the way it had to be. Sinta had to snap out of it for all of them. "It might be okay today. But things are only going to get tougher from here."
"I know," Sheridan said, with a sigh, turning to look at Celestin. "I don't know what to do. Bryce seems the best person to help her. I trust him to do what he can."
"And if he doesn't?" Celestin asked.
Sheridan paused. She knew what Celestin was hinting at, but she couldn't put that energy out there, or else it might become an inevitability, rather than a possibility. The thought chilled Sheridan and scared her.
"We'll deal with that if it happens," Sheridan said. "I don't want to hear any more about it."
"Alright, alright," Celestin said, conceding.
For now.
He knew that Sheridan was definitely in the best position to lead them right now. His ankle wasn't as painful as it had been yesterday but it was by no means perfect. Each step sent a spike of pain up his leg and left him silently gasping. He wanted to laugh at the cruel sense of irony. Just as he was beginning to open up, care a bit more, actually try, the world decided to put a backpack in his way and let him trip like a moron.
As if a higher being was watching him, poking fun at his silly attempts to be more than the cards the world had dealt him. Existence sometimes did suck. His thoughts on that hadn't changed.
"Look who's back," Celestin said.
The four of them watched as fireflies appeared from around them, weaving in and out all four. Sinta tried a weaker smile, finding beauty in their quiet buzz and lovely glow. Bryce saw the twitches of her lips and brightened up. Maybe there is hope.
Celestin swatted one away and Sheridan just looked at them sadly. She knew Saraya would love this. She'd paint some silly yet beautiful picture and Sheridan would swoon like the idiot she was around the girl she cared most about.
"Were they always red?"
When Celestin vocalised the confusion about the firefly that had circled round him, it was as if a switch went off. Every single golden glow soon turned into a foreboding shade of red. A swarm of crimson fireflies that circled the alliance.
"This can't be good," Sheridan said, lifting the axe she had in her hand. "Guys?!"
Sinta and Bryce looked at Sheridan and Celestin as they stopped to let them catch up. The way Sinta was feeling was suddenly submerged under sudden panic at the ominous change in these beautiful fireflies. Bryce's hand was clammy against hers but he did not let go.
Even when the first wisp of a flame caught a tree branch and the inferno began.
"FUCK!"
Sheridan and Celestin cursed at the same time, looked once more at the pair from Seven, and they bolted forwards. As if waiting for them to move, the fireflies buzzed harsher; angry and headed straight for the trees. A single touch set them alight, the trees engulfed in flames that sent heat-waves crashing into the four tributes.
Celestin felt each throb of his ankle but he wasn't about to roll over and be burnt to a crisp by some stupid flies. He swatted another away and felt a stab of pain in his hand. The skin immediately blistered and he bit his tongue to stop from crying out loud.
"Bastards," Sheridan swore, gritting her teeth together in frustration.
She had to trust that her allies had faith in her to lead them. She didn't really know what she was doing but as trees gave way to the inferno and collapsed around them, flames engulfing flowers and branches and the beauty of the day-time forest, she sped up, weaving between the trees to try and get away.
She thought about what would happen if she dared to stop. The thought sent a flare of panic through her heart and she refused to give it any weight or further worry. Not now!
Bryce pulled on Sinta, a bit speedier than she was, and jumped out the way of a tree that started to collapse. The heat was shocking against his skin, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down the bridge of his nose. He hoped Sinta was taking this as seriously as he was. Fuck Chancellor, he thought, surprised at the harshness of his mind. Good riddance!
It was true and he looked at Sinta as she panted and pulled on her to move faster, almost angry at her. They dodged another inferno as the fireflies continued to follow them. Their luck, however, ran out with the next blaze.
A tree fell down right in front of Sheridan and Celestin.
"MOVE!"
Celestin darted left. Sheridan, Bryce and Sinta flew right.
The tree crashed down claiming no victim. The forest floor was bathed in wisps of red and burnt orange. Celestin looked panicked, coughing as smoke filled his lungs and watched through the hazy view of the fire as Sheridan, Bryce and Sinta stared at him.
"Can you get around?!" Sheridan shouted.
He blinked furiously, ash in his eyes, and looked around with fear. "I don't think so!" Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. He looked behind him at the clearing that was yet to catch fire and then back at his allies.
"I don't know what to do!" His eyes were now tearing up but he put it down to the fire. I'm not crying. I'm not. "Guys… I don't…"
"I'm sorry, Celestin," Sheridan said.
More flames were ravaging the forest around them and she knew with sorrow that she couldn't wait any longer. She gave her ally one final look and turned to run, pulling on Bryce's arm.
"C'mon," she said. "We have to go."
Bryce spared one final look at Celestin, shook his head sadly and ran after Sheridan, his hand falling from Sinta's as the girl from Seven looked at the terrified eyes of their ally, stuck behind a wall of fire.
He tried moving further up past the tree but the fire had spread and he was beginning to struggle to see past the wall of smoke. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't. He couldn't. Again, the stroke of cruel irony and he wanted to curse the world.
He left Altia to her fate, and here was his alliance leaving him.
They were no longer an alliance of sunshine and rainbows. The Hunger Games had snuffed that out of them.
"Celestin," Sinta called.
He looked at her. It had been her kindness that had drawn him in. She looked over her shoulder to where Bryce and Sheridan were fleeing, unaware that she was not on their tail, right behind the kindest boy she'd ever met.
She turned her head to focus for a final time on Celestin. "Good luck."
It felt almost easy ditching him and she didn't like it. Guilt didn't play a part in her actions and she thought of that sinister reflection, the hand that crept upwards, trying to grab at Sinta and pull her down into the bloodied waters that were now her present self.
You are now him, as he is now you.
If this was who she was becoming to survive, then… then was it so bad?
She looked behind her. Celestin had vanished, scampering off into the forest behind him.
Six down to four down to three.
Her strong foundation was slowly crumbling apart. Soon – if she wanted to survive this – it would have to be just her.
She didn't know what to think.
As the fires burnt the forest around her, choking plumes of smoke watering her eyes, Sinta hurried forwards and pushed that all away. Maybe she had no idea what she was feeling because she was beginning to feel less.
The fact that thought didn't terrify Sinta told her all she needed to know.
17th: Damon Millers, District Twelve Male.
16th: Shual Armenteros, District Ten Male.
Okay so first - new SYOT posted. Please check it out!
RIP to the fallen. You'll be missed.
Schools MIGHT open on the 1st June so who knows what'll happen with me and work. Tbh at my updating rate, this story might be finished by then. Or nearly there. We shall see!
Thanks for all your support guys. I hope you're enjoying these Games.