.
So I walk into the haze, and a million dirty waves.
Now I see you lying there like a lilo losing air, air.
Black rocks and the shoreline sand, still that summer I cannot bear.
And I wipe the sand from my eyes—
The Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna
Leave the horror here.
Forget the horror here, forget the horror here.
Leave it all down here; it's future rust and it's future dust.
Forget the horror here, forget the horror here.
Leave it all down here; it's future rust and it's future
dust.
—-—-—
ashes
—-—-—
The train grumbles, its glide punctuated by ridges like heartbeats. I have to remind my muscles to loosen, my cheeks to keep from flushing. Those crags have long since faded, the yellowed grasses giving way to stacked stone, paved streets, an air of dust and urban fatigue. When the train finally eases to a stop, I force myself to swallow my dread.
There's less to escape from now. Training may still be cruel, but the worst of reality will soon be behind me. I just need to be brave enough to confront it.
Afternoon fades into rosy dusk, shadows crawling away into the evening. The streets turn pale, bloodless. Next to our front door, I fish the key out from its hiding place and press it into the lock.
The hallway's dim and empty. I remove my shoes and stack them neatly by the door, my breath frozen in my chest.
Am I really doing this?
"Scout?"
Nico's voice rings through the hallway. I'd be more touched to hear him greeting me if I weren't so distracted. "Is Mom here?" I ask.
She emerges from the living room as I push into the kitchen, propping my bag on the counter.
"Where's Dad?"
"In his room."
"Can you get him?" I try not to sound aggravated.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
"Nothing. Just—" This is already harder than I thought. "I need to talk to both of you. Please?"
She vanishes down the hall. I don't look at Nico, just wait for the two of them to return. When Dad appears, my face burns. I can't remember the last time I had to face both of them at once, or even just him. We've always survived by keeping our distance, but I guess that's not possible today.
At least Aris isn't here. I don't think I could bear to let down all three of them at once.
But I don't know how to tear the bandage off. "I'm…" My parents stare, my mother's gaze frigid. "I'm— I'm moving out."
Silence.
"Where?" my mother asks, finally.
"The Atheneum," I say. "An extra space opened up. I claimed it."
"You're…"
"I want to train," I say, painfully aware of the way my hands curl against my sides, kneading my own skin. "And if I want to get to the Games… this is the best way."
My father watches me, his expression stern. I bite the inside of my lip, trying to keep my shoulders straight.
"I just didn't realize you liked it that much," my mother says finally.
"What? I've always liked it."
"That's not what Nico said."
"That's not what—" My heart drops. "Nico."
"I didn't…" He creeps backwards. "All I said— I just said it was hard on you."
"That's not your secret to share."
"I didn't know it was a secret," he says softly.
My face flushes. "Look. A bed opened up there. I figured I wouldn't have to keep going back and forth between here and there. Might help long-term." I can't bear to admit that I'm leaving because I absolutely hate it here. But maybe they know. Maybe they'll fill in the blanks.
"Long-term," my father finally says. "You're planning on training all the way through, then?"
I frown. "Is that surprising?"
He looks at my mother. If he had more shame, he might have said his next words more quietly. Panem knows he has no right to even say them. But he does. "I guess I… just didn't realize that was your plan."
"What? You think I'd work this hard only to quit midway? After everything I've given?" I just barely hold myself back from saying Like Aris? "Of course, I'm training all the way through. I want to volunteer, Dad. I always have."
"But there's Trials," he says. "This year, or next year… I mean, what happens then?"
I stare at him, anger crawling back up, residual from Akello's words. I'm just as tired, but the frustration crawls along me like a live wire. "I make the cut," I say coldly. "I stay."
"Scout," he says. "I'm not doubting that you can—"
"Really? Because it sounds like you are."
"Scout," my mother cautions.
"I've already submitted the paperwork," I say. "I didn't need signatures from either of you. Because it's not your call, anyways. It's mine. This is what I want."
My mother stands against the counter, her fingers bent along the hard edges. My father's jaw is set, his eyes dark. "What do you mean, not our call?"
I feel my shoulders curling. Hang in. "You've never made an effort to learn about my training. I don't— I mean, it feels like I'm the only one here who really understands what it means to me, how it defines me. Maybe you understood what it meant to Aris when he wanted to be a Peacekeeper. And then he quit, right?" That's as much as I should dare breach the subject of Aris. "Think of that, except there is no way in Panem I could quit. That's what this is to me."
"Scout," my father says. "This is… this is a big deal."
"You think I don't know that?"
"I mean…" He pauses. "Say you make it all the way to the Games. Your life— I mean, you're risking everything."
"Maybe it isn't a risk to me," I say. "Maybe that's a sacrifice I'm okay making. Because it's for Two. Because it means I've done something to make a difference. To matter, just for once. Is that really so bad to want?"
"Do you even realize what you're saying?" my father asks.
"Do you?" I counter. "If Aris had wanted to be a volunteer, tell me you wouldn't have supported him, no questions asked."
"Don't bring him into this."
"I have every right to bring him into this," I say. "You treat me differently than him. Admit it. You don't give a damn about my training until—" The realization strikes me. "Until I'm out of your control."
"Scout."
"I know. You're the one who got me into this. But you don't even think I'm going to be good enough to make it. So why else let me?"
"Tasia," he nearly pleads.
But my mother is closed-off, matter-of-fact. "You hate it," she says to him. "Hate the Games. You hate when I watch them, hate when Scout brings them up. You've never liked her training. You've admitted it so many times."
"Because it's a punishment," he says. "That's what the Games are, no matter what you name them, no matter if they let you volunteer and give you riches if you win to trick you into thinking it's some sort of honor to throw your life away. If she loses herself to that— I mean, what are you dying for? Pride?"
"Why can't you—" I attempt to recover myself. "Why can't you try to understand? This is the one thing I want more than anything and you can't even think to permit it."
"Because it's wrong."
I can feel my face flushing with grief. "Fine. Message clear. You won't support me."
"I won't," he agrees. "Not with this. You know what— you're done. Done with training."
I shake my head, scoffing. "No chance. This isn't your say anymore."
"I'm your father—"
"And I don't need your permission. You have no say at the Atheneum. If this is what I want, they'll let me train." Even if I didn't think they would until two hours ago.
"Otho," my mother says quietly.
"I'm not allowing this."
"It's not your say," I maintain, pushing back towards the stairs. "And I just think it's so classic that this is the most you've ever thought to consider my training out of all the years I've done it. Can't let me enjoy my one thing, can you?"
My father follows me. "That's not true, and you know it."
"Might as well be," I say, taking the stairs two at a time up towards my room. "Seriously. I mean— I wish you agreed with it. I really do. But you're still supposed to at least try to care about what's important to me."
"I don't want you to die, Scout!"
I whirl around, freezing on the top step. "Why would I die? I thought you said I wasn't good enough to make it past Trials." He catches my door before I can shut it. "What?"
"You aren't leaving."
"Yes, I am. What difference does it make to you?"
"I don't like you leaving," he says. "I don't like you going off and just— I don't know. I don't know what you're going to get up to. Who's taking care of you? What is it even like living there?"
Truth is, I have no idea. But it has to be better than this. "You're acting like I'm leaving to go roam the streets. Honestly. Just let me pack and—"
Oh. Oh no. I'm an idiot and a fool and an idiot to have this conversation tonight. Because I can't move in tonight. Or tomorrow. The man I'd talked to about moving in had said two days from now and somehow I hadn't registered the fact that trying to have this conversation with my parents, which was clearly going to go poorly, would alienate me so badly.
Stupid. Stupid.
"You're leaving tonight?"
"No," I say, cursing myself. "Night after next. Room's not ready till then."
"You're not going," he says. "Night after next or any time."
"Yes, I am," I maintain, eyes burning. "I swear."
"Scout."
"Let go of my door," I hiss. "Let go."
He retreats, and I slam it, holding my body against the wood in case he wants to try coming in. But he knows his limits at least. I hear his feet fading down the steps and I know it's not over for him.
It is for me, though. I'm not changing my mind.
Was it cruel of me? Probably. But with Akello having worn my patience so thin, I don't have a lot of energy left to care, even as guilt begins to creep its way back into my chest. I force it down and forget about it.
I find the biggest bag I have under my bed. I don't need bedding, toiletries, or really anything but clothing and, if desired, one or two personal items.
Clothes are mindless. Some t-shirts, pants, pairs of shorts, and a few nicer articles for Reapings to come. Sneakers, boots, socks, underwear. Coats. I've never owned many clothes— never found a style I really loved. Besides, most hours of my day would ideally be spent in training garb. It's not so hard to leave anything behind— more so harder to think of what's worth bringing along.
My bag's still half-empty when I'm satisfied with its contents. In theory, I know I can return for anything else I need. But I know that's not likely. It might be foolish, but more than anything I feel like I'm proving a point. Anything I don't leave with, I likely won't see again.
At the top of my closet there's a sweatshirt, large and bundled. Soft on the inside in patches, most of the surface worn away from age and use. It used to be Aris'. It used to be a comfort, too. I consider taking it, just in case, until I remember I want nothing to do with him anymore. This is my life now. Not his. Anything I'm fighting for is for me and me alone.
So when I close the bag and stow it under my bed, out of sight but ready to be taken at a moment's notice when the time's right, I don't feel any regret. Just the slightest air of melancholy.
But it's necessary to grow. I won't go anywhere if I'm trapped somewhere that's only going to hold me back.
I'm awake as early as my body can bear the next morning. I keep my shoes off until the door's eased shut behind me, then bury my feet under the laces and toss my pack on my back. I'm right on time for the first train of the morning.
Without classes today, there's nowhere else to go but the Atheneum so early. But there's nowhere I'd rather be. I stow my bag in a locker, the room dim with the faint beginnings of sunrise, and go to nest in the main viewing room.
Everyone made it through the night. Nine's still in bad shape from her run-in with the mutts, but she's awoken at least, even if her breathing is raspy from the wounds on her abdomen or maybe the thickness of the air, which is clouded faintly with ash. Elias' doing, naturally, but that fire's far from anyone yet. Doesn't mean the smoke isn't a setback. Regis is the most put-off by it, but that's typical for a boy from One. Tasman's resolved. Asherah's determined.
And Cavara… she just looks tired.
"How long?" she asks.
"Five hours, give or take," Tasman says. "Starting to think I should go back to sleep."
"Any use hunting?" Cavara says. "Or are we just going to screw around till then? I've got an empty water bottle we can spin."
I don't want to be, but I'm terrified for Cavara. I thought maybe as the reality of Akello's bluff set in, I'd stop caring so much. Of course I always wanted her to survive, but I thought that was just for Two's sake. Now I don't know if it's for hers or mine.
What I've slowly come to terms with, too, is that I don't think she ever hated me. We might have been rocky all year, ever since I told her Rhodes had agreed to train me and she'd gone so cold so quickly. But maybe he was right— Panem knows this, the whole experience surrounding the Games, all the stress and fanfare that comes with it, is bigger than that. The pressure must have just worn her down. How can I, of all people, not try to understand that?
Guess it's just hard to unlearn always blaming myself. In any case, it's far better to claim fault when it's not my own than to learn sometime up the road I was responsible for something and had no idea. That's the difference between guilt I can manage and guilt that would consume me. And trust me, I'm well aware of the difference.
Less aware, it seems, of Avari's presence behind me. I don't know how long she's been standing in the doorway, perched cautiously against the frame, before I hear something soft— a breath, maybe, or the scratching of her toe along the carpet— and turn around.
"Hey," I say.
She smiles faintly. "Morning," she says, after a beat.
She approaches, her tread surprisingly delicate. But she doesn't drop next to me, just eases herself down on the wall ten feet away.
"You're here early," I say.
"Yeah, figured I'd get my run out of the way before everything picks up," she says. "And so are you, right?"
"Just needed to get out," I say honestly. "Haven't done my run yet. Might go in an hour or so, but… just wanted to check in here first. See how everyone's preparing and all that."
Avari's hair is pulled back, tight and rigid against her scalp. She could go run for an hour and come back and every loose hair out of place would look intentional. "Yeah, I figured I'd check in before I head out. I'd rather it get a bit lighter first, too. No need to trip and sprain something right now."
I smile, my lips feeling strained. Her presence isn't unwelcome, but it is uncomfortable, unnerving for reasons I can't fully place. Regardless, I know she's thinking about it, even if she won't bring it up. "So, Akello pretended he was going to kick me out."
Avari inhales, her chest gently swelling before she releases an easy breath out. "Yeah."
"That was…" I shake my head, not even sure what I mean to say. "I'm sorry you had to hear all that. I know that probably wasn't something you wanted to really know about, but…"
"It's fine," she says. "I'm sorry he made you think that."
"Yeah," I say, eyes glued to the screen as Ten presses on back towards the Cornucopia, where the tributes all started the Games. "Yeah. I'm glad it's not true, though."
Avari doesn't say anything. I don't know if she's looking for Cavara like I am, or if she's just hoping the tension will resolve itself. I push down the lump in my throat and steady my voice. "Why'd you have to meet with Akello?"
Avari turns. For a minute I think she's going to snap at me, say it's none of your business, Scout. I don't know when my opinion of her changed or why because she's never been that cruel to me. It just seems to be my gut feeling. But it's incorrect, wherever it comes from. "Oh. I asked him to help train me. We just had to talk about some scheduling stuff."
Inexplicably, I feel threatened, resenting the fact she's asked Akello for help. Or maybe I just resent the fact he's willing to help her. "Really? I mean— you want to work with him?"
"He wasn't my first choice," she says. "But he's a good trainer."
"No, definitely," I say. "It's just…"
Just that I hate it. Selfishly, I hate it. Because he's going to accept Avari and push her towards greatness, while continuing to do everything he can to drag me back.
"It's just what?" Avari says.
"Nothing." I swallow. "I just— I mean, you never liked him when he trained us."
"No, but I think we're more mature now. I feel like it was definitely hard to work with him for Fourteens because he was a lot to deal with. Still is… but it's more manageable. And he knows what he's doing."
That much, at least, is true. Even if it applies just as much to the head games he plays as it does the skills he teaches. "Sure," I say. "When are you starting?"
"A few weeks from now. Soon as the Games are done, I guess, and everything's back to normal. He wants to get through the Trials for the Sixteens too, so I guess after that."
"Cool," I say, even if my insides are burning.
She smiles again, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. Should help prepare me, I hope." She gets to her feet with a sigh. "I really want to be first. So it can't hurt."
"You'll do it," I say, and I mean it. "Just do whatever you did for Fourteens."
"Easy," she smirks.
I watch her step towards the door, already bored with the Games or, worse, our conversation. I don't know what I expected— her to ask about me? About what my training's been like? Rhodes and Akello couldn't be more opposite, but that doesn't mean I'm not a resource if she wants me to be. Unless she's just really not interested. Maybe she sees us as being as different as we truly are— and I wouldn't blame her, even if it stings.
"Think I'll go start that run," she says. "Before it gets too warm."
"Good luck."
She nods, and then she's gone, like she was never here.
I lean back on my hands, the silence and emptiness of the room suddenly more troubling than they were before Avari got here. I just don't know why Avari's absence stings more than Cas', Mallen's, or even Khione's after last night. It's not like Avari's always been the warmest friend, but she's been a friend all the same. I don't know how to manage the idea of losing her.
Or maybe I already have lost her. Maybe something about this year drove us apart in a way I can't mend. As much as I've lied about my confidence, she's smart enough to see her own talent, compare it to mine, and understand that we've been on different levels for as long as I've known her. Maybe longer.
Something about her leaving unsettles me, regardless of the cause. I need to clear my head. I let her get a half-hour ahead of me before I start my run, snaking up and around the hills. By nine, when I'm back, my hunger is almost sickening. I inhale a granola bar and find myself gravitating back towards the viewing room, afraid to miss even the tiniest thing, but nothing's happening. Cavara's up and moving her body, stretching her throwing arm and tossing knives into the side of the horn mindlessly. Tasman's sitting watching her. When Asherah comes over, he nods to her but doesn't say anything.
"Can we talk?" she says.
Cavara looks over, frowning. "We means all of us, I hope."
"Yes," Asherah says, but she glances at Tasman like it isn't what she meant at all. "Regis, come out here."
Regis emerges from inside the horn, where he's been sharpening his spear.
"Just figured we could go over everything again," she says. "Now that we're just a few hours out, it might feel a bit more real this time." She nods to her district partner. "You want to…?"
Tasman clears his throat. "We've got the four of us. Five others. We don't know who's coming to the feast, but I think we're more than capable of handling the others individually." He looks around at his three allies. "Ten boy's got to be our biggest target, of course. I don't mind doubling up just to make sure he's out of the running."
"What?" Regis says. "Don't think we can handle it?"
"I'm sure we can," Tasman says. "I'm just saying, I've never seen him in the arena, but he did well in training and he's lasted this long. Might have even killed that other kid in the Bloodbath. I just think it's better to overestimate him than have one of us get taken out out of nowhere."
Cavara frowns. "What about Seven?"
Asherah's eyes narrow, her lips twisting. "Her, too. Regis, you can take her if you want."
He's not grieving exactly, but his eyes fall on the rocks at their feet. He hasn't said much about Vienna since she was killed, and there was nothing really to suggest they were close besides their District identity. Still, the reminder must sting. "Yeah, I'll take her."
"That leaves Nine, Twelve… and Five," Tasman places. "Again, not really sure what we're up against there, so stay vigilant."
No one says it, but the question lingers after Regis has returned to his place inside the horn and Cavara has started tossing knives again: What happens after?
Of course, it's a question that would only lead to more tension, but everyone's thinking about it. Cavara's not really watching her knives or stretching her inflamed wrist out, hoping to relieve that old, chronic injury that was the whole reason I ever met her in the first place. Regis isn't really cleaning the handle of his weapon, and Tasman and Asherah aren't just sitting around trying to kill time. They've all got one eye out, watching in case the others try something early.
But they don't. So I follow Cavara's lead, going down to the main gym to toss knives, losing myself in the repetitive motion but focusing, as I always do, on the proper form, making sure to manage my balance as my arm swings forward, making the proper adjustments if my tosses tend towards either side of the target. When I'm properly bored, I take up a bow and shoot with that. Maybe I'm not supposed to be in here without a trainer, but nobody's going to stop me. Not when there's a feast we're all waiting for.
I mean, honestly. You try telling a girl with a deadly weapon she's not supposed to be down here when the tension's already so high I can feel my arm hairs splitting.
Besides, I'm not the only one down here. Akello's throwing spears, plunging them from twenty, thirty feet into mannequins not meant for withstanding the glinting points of our silver weaponry. His spear cuts through layers of fabric and stuffing and protrudes out through the other side.
When he comes back to retrieve his weapons, his eyes fall on me, just for a second.
I force myself to hold his gaze, even when it makes my chest hollow, my throat ashy. I don't expect him to say anything, and he doesn't. Just watches me with that same, undeserved contempt he's always held for me.
A braver soul might call him out for it. I am not that person. Regardless of what happened yesterday, I'm still walking on eggshells with Akello, as much as I wish I weren't. But old habits are hard to break.
Targets? Not so much. Even with a weapon Rhodes and I decided wasn't meant to be my primary. At my size, with my style of fighting, I'm built far more for range— striking from afar, before they get close. So, amidst knife training and the basic hand-to-hand drills I've needed extensive work on, especially in learning not to let my slimness completely damn me, we've returned to bow work, too. It's not always clean, but at least it's more consistent. Who knows? One day I might need to know how to use it.
I line up to face the target, drawing the arrow back along the side of my cheek. Today, there's a new shape in the target. I let the arrow fly and it pierces his throat, cutting through the other side like a spear through a training dummy.
"Scout."
I jump. But it's not Akello. Cas stands in the doorway, watching the goings-on in the gym. He nods to me.
"Hey," I say.
"You done your run yet?"
"Yeah," I say, letting my bow come to a rest against my leg. "Did it early this morning. Mallen keeps giving me grief for going too late in the day, but where was she today?"
"Classic," he says, which is funnier when I take into account he's talked to her maybe twice. "I'm going for mine just before things get going."
I check the large clock hanging above the doors. 9:42. Too much time left to stand around throwing knives or hitting targets. Besides, I'm not even tired. The temptation to get out, make my chest tighten from fatigue instead of stress, is far too strong to ignore. "Mind if I come?"
"Yeah— no, sure. That's why I came down."
Despite myself, I smile, dropping my bow down at the station. When the arrows are cleaned up, I follow him out to the front. There's not a lot of talking. Not much to be said, besides general direction markers, where to turn. Except when we reach our second stop an hour into the run, I realize why he's asked to run with me, why he can't go with his typical partner. "Did you see Khione at all this morning?"
"No," he says simply.
Even though I shouldn't blame Khione, I find my bitterness doesn't recede. "Interesting."
"He might show up for the feast," Cas says. "Either way, we'll know."
I doubt it. Cas does too. Because when we return just before the feast is set to start, neither of us spend more than a second looking for him when we finally get to the viewing room. Part of it, at least on my end, is knowing that it's futile— the room is packed, conversation pressing in from every direction. I, on the other hand, find that I have no idea what to say. Stress has never been able to wake me up; instead, it shuts me down. My mouth dry and foul-tasting, I swallow and try to steady my breathing even as the tension presses in.
At the very front, Nell sits rigidly, deep in tense conversation with Akello. I find myself anticipating the lesson she'll come up with if Cavara dies. Never trust One. Never make mistakes. Never fuck up.
Mallen's right— maybe I could do my own lesson. All I need is to be endlessly cruel in the face of kids dying. How hard can it be, really?
With ten minutes to go, Cavara's set up inside the horn with Asherah. Regis and Tasman are up in the grass above the Cornucopia. As for the outer Districts, it looks like everyone but Nine has made it there. When the camera cuts to her, it's clear her only hope is for everyone else to take themselves out before she succumbs to infection.
Ten's hands wrap and unwrap around his spear, his brow dripping sweat in the heat. Twelve approaches, too. But when he sees Ten, he doesn't retreat. Doesn't try to creep up on him, either. He steps carefully towards him, keeping an eye out for the others, but it's only Ten who senses him and turns around.
Quickly but gently, Twelve raises his hands up. "Four of them. Two of us. We'd do better fighting together."
It's not a bad move. He's dying anyway— might as well give himself a fighting chance. It's an interesting time to make it, but it puts Ten under pressure. If he disagrees, one of them dies here. And then whoever lives is put at a stark disadvantage.
"Fine," says Ten.
"Is that bad?" someone says from next to us. One of the Seventeens, it looks like. "I feel like that's bad."
"It wouldn't be bad if Asherah weren't about to slit Cavara's throat," another says.
So that's what the tension's about. "What?" I ask.
"Asherah and Tasman got a second together a few minutes ago," the boy says. "Just told him Elias killed Vienna. Neither Regis nor Cavara know."
My eyes widen. "Oh, no."
"Yeah. She's fucked. Cause Tasman and Asherah are about to let Regis and Cavara do some of their dirty work for them and then kill them both. What are they going to do about it?"
Cas watches me, unspeaking. He knows by now how much I've wanted Cavara to win— has known since the day she volunteered, the day I defended Cavara until I became intoxicated enough to stop caring about what Khione or Pike were saying. He doesn't understand it though, because he doesn't know the reason I depended on Cavara so much in the first place.
"Maybe she won't," the boy says. "Maybe it's just Four's fun little secret."
"Shut up," says Cas.
Time creeps forward. Five breathes heavily from where he stands on the east side of the horn, just barely concealed by the brush. Seven's still weaponless. Maybe she's hoping for a quick death. Otherwise, I'm not sure why she's even shown up.
Especially when the ground opens up right in front of the mouth of the Cornucopia, and the table that emerges contains only two backpacks, a single sword, and a loaf of bread.
No one moves. Maybe it's the shock. Maybe they're weighing the benefits of risking their lives for that unimpressive bounty. In any case, the stillness extends for ten, fifteen seconds before, from above the canyon walls, a flock of birds descend— talons borne and sharpened.
Ten and Twelve know better than to await that fate. They charge forward, just as Regis and Tasman sprint forward from their place upslope.
Cavara and Asherah stay still, waiting for Regis or Tasman to signal that others are coming from around the side of the horn. And they do. "Right side!" Tasman calls.
The girls run forward, curling around the side. There's screaming from the left side, Seven having been mauled by the first few birds who came diving down onto her.
"Seven!" Tasman says.
Regis turns. "Come here, Seven!"
She cries out again, trying to run, as Regis breaks towards her. She's not well-hidden, even if she had bitten her tongue and kept from screaming. In seconds, he's on her.
In another, he's silenced her.
"Who else?" Regis screams.
"Regis!" Tasman calls, both the boys from Twelve and Ten swinging at him just ten feet from the table. Regis turns.
At the same time, as Cavara's knife finds its place in Five's chest, Asherah raises her axe.
But not to finish Five. It cuts along the outside of Cavara's arm, Asherah just barely misjudging Cavara's running speed. Cavara whips around, her eyes wide in betrayal.
As Five crumbles, Asherah shoves Cavara forward with the head of her axe. Off-balance from turning at a full sprint, Cavara stumbles and falls.
It's mortal terror that seizes her expression. Asherah stands above her, axe raised. "Bet you told Elias to get Vienna while he could."
Cavara's stunned, but gets out, "What?"
"Play stupid. See if I care."
"Elias killed Vienna?"
"You're as bad of a liar as he was."
"I didn't know!" Cavara says, panic beginning to overtake her. She's afraid to move, must be, but desperate to escape. And yet, how does she get out of this?
Elias is dead. No one's coming to save her.
"Please. I'm supposed to believe Elias killed her out of nowhere—"
"He's fucking crazy," Cavara says, her laughter strained. "Fuck, I don't know what the fuck he's had going on in his head since he's gotten here, but he was never sane. I didn't know."
Asherah considers. "Fair enough. But consider— it actually makes no difference to me. I had no ties to Vienna. Just like I have no ties to you."
And in an instant, she's swung down, giving Cavara a fraction of a second to move out of the way. But it isn't enough.
Asherah's axe severs skin, muscle, shatters bone, the squelch of ripping flesh lasting a fraction of a second before Cavara's gurgling screams muffle everything, freeze time. I curl up, my teeth gritted.
Cavara's motionless. Can't move, holding still against the agony she must be experiencing, the blood spraying unfettered from her open wound. Her arm is mangled, held together by just an inch or so of skin. Maybe if she holds still, she won't feel it. Maybe if she holds still, Asherah won't see her.
Maybe I'm wrong, and Asherah's got complete control over Cavara's life.
Cavara shudders, unable to hold back the sobs that bubble from between her lips. I feel my eyes well up, sickness crawling into the pit of my stomach. She spares one look at her arm and screams, the terror and panic manifesting themselves in a desperate, animalistic plea for mercy.
Asherah's eyes aren't as empty as she'd like them to be. However faint, Cavara's pain is reflected in them. But Asherah is not about to give up for feeling bad.
And yet time freezes, the seconds before Asherah ends Cavara's life stretching, straining, like they're about to snap. There's yelling from behind them somewhere and yet it's like everything is silent.
And then the spear cuts through Asherah's hip.
Asherah lurches, turning towards the more immediate threat, the point of the spear lodged in her side. Unfortunately for her, Regis has another ready and before she can react, he's launched it towards her. She turns, fruitlessly trying to dodge it. It cuts straight through her left shoulder and out her back.
Asherah gasps. "Tas!"
Regis comes at her with his sword but she fights back, her axe coming dangerously close to mauling his throat. From the other side of the horn, trying to fight off Ten and Twelve simultaneously, Tasman looks over. "Asherah!"
"I don't believe you," Regis spits, grimacing as he swings again at Asherah. "About Elias. I bet it was you. Why wouldn't you say it? Why would you wait until just now to try to get me on your side?"
Cavara's gasping for breath, trying to swallow her agony and push herself away, but her right arm's useless. She pulls herself backwards with her good arm while Asherah's distracted by Regis.
"I'm not lying," Asherah says. "I wouldn't kill your district partner— Panem, that early? I'm not that stupid."
"That's what you want me to think. What kind of fucking head games—"
"You're paranoid!" Asherah gasps. "Tas! Please—"
"You killed Vienna. You and Elias fucking killed her and tried to play it off, I don't know. But you had a hand in it. And then you killed Elias, too, because he was getting too dangerous—"
"He tried to kill me—"
"Bullshit!"
Tasman knocks Ten to the ground, but it's Twelve who succumbs first. Twelve doesn't have the staying power of a trained Career. All it takes is one tired swing and Tasman finds a gap, severing the artery at the base of his neck. Twelve grabs for his throat, but blood sprays through, undeterred by a few feeble fingers.
"Tasman!" Asherah screams.
Tasman doesn't hesitate any longer. He leaves the Ten boy, knowing there's other, more important priorities.
He leaves Cavara, too. Doesn't even see her crawling away.
When Cavara gets to the grass line where there's a bit more cover, she struggles to her feet. She stumbles away, pale and feeble, her wound continuing to course blood as Regis takes on Tasman and Asherah. But it's not so unmatched. Asherah's crippled, her ankle useless. Her hip swells with blood she hasn't had time to staunch.
It's Tasman who's far too intact. Maybe sunburns stretch his skin and bruising spatters his arms but no matter how tired he may be, he was built for this. The same way Elias was, Asherah is, Regis is.
Except Regis can't finish Asherah without yielding entirely to Tasman. Asherah, recognizing she's nearly useless up close, strings an arrow from a few feet away and looks for her opportunity to let it fly.
Neither of them have time to look for Cavara. As Tasman and Regis' fight stretches on, Cavara stumbles further away up into the rocks. It's trickier terrain than the river, which would be the more obvious choice, but it's also not the first place they'll think to look. Cavara halts a handful of times, the first to gag and vomit, her skin glinting with sweat sliding down her greying skin. The second time she affirms herself, pulling her shirt off as she groans with the agony of moving her mangled arm, keeping one end of the cloth pressed between her knees while she rips a long, dense scrap away.
Tying the tourniquet is a much harder task than creating it— with one hand, with the amount of shock and pain she's in. She grits her teeth but cries, tears forcing their way down her dusty skin, soft sobs crawling out between her teeth.
But she's tough. Always has been. She tightens her tourniquet and keeps moving forward, looking back only to ensure she's not being trailed. In minutes she switches direction, not wanting to continue on the same line as the blood trail she left before her tourniquet was secure.
Ten has made it back to the river, secure but for the blood draining from his chest. Those cuts aren't lethal, not necessarily. But when he wades into the water, he stops, eases himself down, and struggles to bind himself.
And Regis. He holds off for so long. He's cut a gash in the side of Tasman's neck, punctured just below his shoulder blade, drawn deep wounds in his thighs and the base of his stomach. But it isn't enough. As Regis bleeds, Tasman's sword boring through his ribcage, Tasman pulls back. "Ash, now!"
Her arrow buries itself in Regis' throat. He freezes, gripping for its base. Tasman rears back and plunges his sword cleanly through Regis' chest.
Four cannons fire. Seven, Twelve, Five, and Regis. Tasman gasps for breath, pushing back towards Asherah. "Where— where did Cavara go?"
"What?"
"Cavara! Where did she go?"
"I don't know!" Asherah says. "I thought I killed her— her arm— I mean—"
They freeze, looking around the Cornucopia. But nobody's standing tall, ready to release a knife. Tasman circles the Cornucopia in case she's hiding nearby, but Cavara's long gone.
"There's blood here," Asherah says. "This is where we were. And up there—" Her eyes follow Cavara's blood trail up the slope. "Tas."
"There's going to be even more if you don't fix yourself up," Tasman counters. "Come on. If you nearly killed her, she's not going to get far."
Begrudgingly, Asherah follows him back towards the horn— their supplies, for the moment, intact.
"Let's clean our wounds," Tasman says. "Patch ourselves back up. Then we finish this."
Then we finish this. I feel intense, instant fear towards the Fours. They've done what few Fours in recent history have managed to do— make it through the feast intact, their power and control secure. Who's going to defy them? Nine? Ten? Cavara, her arm mangled as it is? The pain she's in is enough of a deterrent. The best she can hope for is that they don't find her.
She's lucky, too, that Regis did the sort of damage he did to Asherah, because fixing up Asherah is the first priority. Killing Cavara must be the second. So they don't pursue her, even if any viewer can see she's incapacitated. Even Nine could come across Cavara and it'd be a fair fight, albeit pathetic. But it's a while till Asherah's truly stable. Tasman could leave her, finish her off or accept her fate, that she's a bleeding, injured mess, but he doesn't. Maybe it's loyalty. Maybe it's fear that somehow, he isn't strong enough to finish off the others alone. Or maybe he just feels guilty leaving her. Regardless, he helps patch her up, helps her ease disinfectant into her flayed skin, doesn't stare when he helps her remove her top to get an easier reach at her injury.
It's the type of partner Cavara deserves to have at this point, but doesn't. Whether or not Elias' decision was a good or a bad move— and I'm starting to think it was a bad one— it inevitably got him killed. And that puts Cavara in a pretty rough place.
I don't think her grit is going to be enough to save her, when push comes to shove.
When it's clear the violence has died down for at least the next few hours, Nell and Akello are the first to leave. Preparing some sort of talk, no doubt, but I can't bring myself to leave, even as the others filter out. Not everyone— a few stick around to watch Cavara's next move. But we'll be called in again if anyone approaches her. For now, there's nothing to see.
Just Cavara, struggling with the reality of her arm being useless, dead weight.
She's got her pack, but it's the Fours who maintained control over the table. Not that they needed the equipment— Ten could have used it, but he's lucky to have escaped with his life. But I'd expect that sword, at the very least, might have helped her.
Especially when, over the next hour, Cavara comes to terms with what she thinks she needs to do. She can't move her arm when any motion brings her agonizing pain. Can't even close her fingers around the knives she's maintained even in her escape. Obviously I'm no medic, but at best, leaving it as is, with the weight of her limp fingers and forearm straining an already fragile wound at the base of her shoulder, will be an inconvenience. At worst, it's weighing her down enough to get her killed. Maybe Cavara's just insane at this point, but I can't say for certain whether it's stupid or imperative. Regardless, who am I to judge?
Cavara puts it off as long as she can. Then, as loud as she can bear, she says to the sky, "I need a blade."
It's day twelve. Even if Cavara and Elias didn't really need many materials those first few days, we sent them anyway just to assure the two of them that we were looking out for them. Now I have to wonder if there's enough money left to provide her with what she's asking for. Even on day one, weapons are expensive.
When the parachute comes down— thankfully far enough out of sight of the Fours— Cavara already knows it's not large enough to be carrying what she needs. She entertains the notion anyways, opening the capsule enough to extract the note atop a folded sling.
You can still win this. Trust your training. -E
Two tablets are folded into the material. Cavara throws them back immediately, washing them down with a swig of water. It's clear she's hoping for something far stronger when she mumbles, "That's all you've got?"
She tries the sling, grimacing with the effort of fitting her mangled arm in the fabric. Her face creases with exertion. She can't find a comfortable position and her face pales with the pain she's forced to bear until, skin white and teeth gritted, she rips the sling off.
"I can't," she says. "I can't. I have to. I'm sorry."
Cavara pulls the remainder of her torn t-shirt from where she's stuffed it in her backpack and shoves it between her teeth. For better or for worse, Asherah did most of the work for her— shattering the bone, severing the nerves. It's that last inch or so that Cavara's responsible for as her knife hovers over the mangled, raw skin, her hand trembling.
"She's not…" Cas mumbles.
I don't know the protocol. I don't know if Cavara's brilliant or crazy or just plain desperate. All I can do is watch in solidarity as Cavara breathes heavily into the cloth.
"Good news, Aspra," Cavara grumbles, muffled. "We're about to fix my wrist problem."
I wish she had a sword. I don't know what kind of money would have provided one, but I'm sure it would have been worth it just so Cavara could finish the job in one fell swoop. Instead, sharp as her knives are, she's forced to saw.
She does it relatively quickly. Knows her limits, probably, knows if she waits any longer to fully finish she'll back out or black out from panic and that's the one thing she cannot allow herself to do. As soon as she succumbs to shock she's entirely done.
Pain, though, is a whole other thing.
Even through the shirt bundled between her teeth Cavara's growling screams are so brutal I look away, my knuckles curling. Cas is cooler than me, able to watch through the wincing pressed into his brow. I breathe, feeling spaciness creep into my skull. The flesh below Cavara's shoulder is shredded and mauled, fragments of bone piercing out among the meaty flesh. I swallow, breathing through my nose.
"You're pale," Cas murmurs.
"Am I?" My nails dig into my knees. "It's just— a lot."
"She can do this."
"I know. Just doesn't make watching it any less horrible."
Cavara's skin is drenched with sweat, her features frozen in stony agony as she forces air through her nose. There's just half an inch of skin left, the only thing keeping her arm attached to her body, but she's forced herself to stop, breathing heavily. At this point, there really is nothing worth salvaging, and there's no turning back.
She yells into her shirt, eyes blurring with pain. She draws the knife across her wound, holding her arm down just as long as she can to sever the last layer of skin before she pulls away, gasping, collapsing back along the rocks, her chest heaving, her screaming and sobbing absorbed by her shirt. She pulls the cloth out of her mouth and rolls over on her side, curled against her severed shoulder, keeping her gasps subdued as she strains to push air into her lungs, her knuckles pale as she scratches against the rocks like her body is begging for release. She thrashes, convulsing against agony that won't fade.
I lean forward, lightheaded. It seems stupid— Cavara's the one dying and I can't keep myself together. But it's not something I can force away, either.
Cas looks over. "Scout, are you going to pass out?"
"No," I say, struggling to think straight.
"Scout."
"I don't know. Maybe."
I'm grateful the viewing room is emptier than it was earlier, even though naturally there are still a handful of cadets who pushed back in as soon as they heard what Cavara was doing to herself. But I'm not the only one who couldn't handle her cutting the rest of her arm off, either. My vision bending, static crumbling in my ears, I'm not embarrassed as Cas leads me out of the room. Just terrified.
My feet guide me thoughtlessly towards the training room, but I'm grateful for Cas in case I don't make it there. I step carefully into Aspra's office and let him help me up on the last bench as my head swirls. When Aspra comes by, I don't even have the energy left to be truly happy to see her.
"Did you see what happened to Cavara?" I mumble.
"In all its glory," Aspra says. "Lie back, please. I'll get you something to prop your feet up."
I breathe through my teeth, feeling so fatigued I can't even think. Aspra stacks pillows under my legs and I lie back, trying to will the blood back towards my head.
"Was that stupid?" I have to ask Aspra. "Fully severing it and everything?"
"Yes," Aspra says. "But given the circumstances, I think keeping it, as useless as it was, was equally stupid. There's no right answer."
I sigh, trying to distract myself. Cas passes me my water and I lift my head to take small sips, but I can't stop thinking of Cavara, which makes feeling less faint a lot more difficult.
Aspra has a screen on in her office, as she always does. She moves around it, clearing up materials on her desk. I shouldn't watch in my state, but I can't just let Cavara die without anyone supporting her.
There's not much to see, thankfully. Cavara has bundled what's left of her arm and shoulder in her shirt, using the fabric from her sling and the last two rolls of bandages she had in her pack. She was lucky to have packed them. But it means she has nothing reserved if anything else happens to her.
Ten's bleeding has slowed. He wades through the water, trying to move back up and away from the Cornucopia. He won't show tracks, but the river is the first place the Fours are going to look, no doubt.
As for the Fours, they're managing. Asherah's got her ankle wrapped as tightly as she'll dare before it starts to cut off the circulation to her toes. Tasman wraps his throat, bundles the wounds around his shoulder and along his torso, and covers the cuts on his thighs. He helps Asherah stitch some of the wounds in her legs and wrap her shoulder up, but the gash in her hip is nearly impossible to fully staunch.
"Can't do much about this," Tasman says. "Just going to have to manage it."
I breathe, trying to focus on anything but Cavara's injuries. I watch Cas, whose gaze is frozen on the screen, where Cavara moves forward slowly, grabbing for her stump like that will freeze any of the pain. Every so often the camera cuts to Nine or Ten, showing they're still alive. But Nine didn't attend the feast, and Ten is wounded. Neither are meant to win. At this point, Tasman's the clear frontrunner. I find myself thinking that if Asherah really wanted to win, she'd slit his throat now. But again, it's that basic loyalty that stops her. Or maybe the knowledge that, if she doesn't win, it's best that it be him. Not Two, not Ten, or, Panem forbid, Nine at this point.
Most of the footage, though, follows Cavara. She's the most interesting remaining competitor. Possibly the most foolish, though how can I blame her? Desperation makes people do foolish things, and I've had my fair share of desperation.
"Aspra?" I ask. She's not really watching, and not really focusing on the others in the training room. I take my opportunity. "Can I ask you something?"
"As long as you don't think you're going to pass out while you ask it."
I crack a smile, sighing as I lean back against the bench. Cavara checks her bandages, but she's done a good job staunching the bleeding, even if the pain she's in still reveals itself in her twisting lips. "Why'd Cavara train?"
Aspra frowns. "You mean, what did she want to get out of this?" I nod. "Same thing as most people, I'd imagine. Glory. Money to provide for her family." She watches me as I breathe, the knots in my stomach still tensing. "Why?"
Because ever since this morning, I've been fixating on the last real conversation we ever had. About me, about Rhodes. Because I still don't know why she reacted the way she did when I told her he was training me. "It's probably not my business. But you know I always want to know what's not my business."
"I do. Tread carefully."
"I just— I always wondered if that's the only reason. Or if she had another reason, if she was forced, or…" I stop myself. "I'm only asking because she's just been really stressed. More than anyone else, I think. And there was this one time…"
The memory strikes me, hot as a brand: Rhodes is training you? Cavara's expression had been cruel for a second before she'd expertly wiped it clean. But her icy silence stayed with me for weeks until I learned not to make an effort with her, to stop trying to talk to her. It was more painful than it was worth.
"She just reacted really weirdly when I told her I was training with Rhodes."
Aspra considers. Her chair is perched, unmoving, against her desk. "I'm only saying this because I know you're going to stress about it if I don't. Casimir, do you mind…"
"Yeah," he says, standing quickly.
"I'll just meet you back in the other room when I feel better," I assure him. "Thank you. Seriously."
He nods and leaves.
"It's not a big thing, either. Just so we're clear. Which is the other reason I'm telling you." Aspra glances at the screen, as if to check that Cavara's not going to come out and try to stop her from talking to me. "Clearly, Cavara needed this for her family— she'll downplay it, but she loves them more than anything. Seeing them struggle, and doing nothing to help them, wasn't a possibility. So she came here."
Then she and I couldn't be more different. "And she just got overwhelmed?"
"Training's a lot," Aspra says simply. "You know that. Even without the way the trainers treat you. Akello agreed to help her in her Sixteens year, but he's always been cruel to her. But it was either that, or fall further behind, and obviously she wasn't going to let that happen. Meanwhile…" Aspra pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I'm not blaming you, Scout. But she saw the way you secured Rhodes as a trainer a year before she got Akello. And I suspect that might have made her jealous. That you were able to do so before Fifteens. And because of the way, by contrast, Akello has treated her so poorly."
I nod, remembering the way he strangled her the day of Selections, the way no one seemed to bat an eyelid. "She… sorry. I just— I get that. A lot of days, when we were training, I'd see her looking over at me and Rhodes. All year, honestly. You're saying—"
"No. That's the other thing," Aspra says quietly.
"What?"
"Again, I didn't say this. Cavara would rip my throat out if she knew."
"I'm not going to tell Cavara."
"Then, honestly— she was worried about you. She'd mention you when you weren't here, trying to see if you were okay. Realistically, I think she wanted to make sure Rhodes wasn't acting cruel."
Like Rhodes could ever. "He wouldn't."
"I know. But Akello used to be more mellow, too. He's gotten worse." She shakes her head. "Can't do anything about it. But I don't think she ever truly had ill intentions, if that's what you're asking. Just wanted to look out for you."
I can practically feel my heart shatter. All this time, I'd stressed about her hating me, seeing me as inferior, when the concern I'd thought I'd recognized had been exactly that— concern.
Not hatred. Not condescension. My worst fears have always been self-created. Haven't I always known that?
"That's kind of her," I say softly.
"She's kinder than she always wanted to seem, I think," Aspra says. "She'd hate me saying that, too. But it's the truth."
I swallow, looking away.
Every few minutes I risk a glance at the screen. Cavara's doing her best to manage, tossing knives with her left hand, trying to force herself into a rhythm, but there's no way she reaches that same accuracy as her right hand, the arm she's spent years honing, overusing. It doesn't help that every motion must be, at the very least, searing along her right side.
She spent so long trying to look out for me, and no one's there to look out for her.
How cruel that is.
I sip more water, blinking away my fatigue. I want to be back in that viewing room— the desire strikes me so quickly it's a wonder I don't just sit up and hop off the table right there. Because it's so stupid that I'm lying here, letting myself feel sick, when Cavara's out there actually dealing with it. "I'm feeling better, Aspra," I say.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Make sure you come back if you're feeling worse," she says. "I mean it."
"I will," I say, and sit up slowly. The other reason, of course, is because this room feels emptier than normal, and it's an absence I can't ignore. Truthfully, it's strange to be in here without Cavara.
Aspra nods in farewell. I raise a hand to wave, but she's already turned back to her desk.
As I leave, I don't even think to wonder why Aspra's cleaning her things in the first place.
Cadets filter into the viewing room every few minutes, just to check that nothing is still happening. As the minutes pass, I regain my senses. It doesn't hurt that I'm eating again, either. Once my stomach is full, I lean against the wall, fatigue pressing into my eyes. Next to me, Cas lies on his stomach, dozing.
"First to fall asleep loses," I say.
"Are you sure you really want to do that?"
I yawn. "No."
"That's what I thought."
Night falls on the arena, fire glowing at its edges. Ash hangs heavy in the air, scattered towards the Cornucopia and the remaining tributes as the wind swells. It's only eight, but at this rate, they'll have to send us home before anything else happens.
For whatever reason, Nell and Akello haven't called us in. Maybe they just aren't sure how to spin this.
Nine lies still along the riverbank. A ways down, Ten stays near the water, propping himself up along some of the valley shrubbery. Tasman and Asherah rest along the mouth of the Cornucopia, surrounded by months' worth of supplies they'll neither need nor use. Medical wrappings, painkillers, iodine packets, extra water bottles. When Cavara's shown on screen again, her face still pallid in the night's glow, I'm frustrated on her behalf. Any of that might make her night more bearable.
Or maybe not. Not when, in a stormy instant, the fire rears up and surges back towards the southern end of the arena.
I sit up quickly. The fire courses forward, consuming the landscape like the massive tidal wave the Gamemakers sent into that arena a few years back. Like that, this is more than the doings of a few embers and a gust of wind— no, this is powerful. Intentional.
For one reason or another, the Gamemakers want more action. A feast wasn't enough. Not when five tributes remain, three in critical danger of succumbing to blood loss or infection at any point in the next few days.
"Hey!" I call, scrambling to my feet. I stick my head out into the hallway, hoping wherever the rest of us are, they'll hear me yelling. "Hey! Something's happening!"
The canyon's far too barren to feed a fire like this. The Gamemakers don't appear to care. All they need is a computer and a powerful grip on technology. Cadets, curious, begin to look back in as I drop back down next to Cas. When they see what's happening, more of them go to alert their friends.
Asherah and Elias had been three hours from camp when he started that fire. It's crept forward since then, but not at a rate like this. As more trainees crowd in, the flames heighten. Within ten minutes, they're lapping at Nine's heels. She struggles to her feet, trying to stumble away. The fire does not take mercy on her, does not stop for her. In seconds, she's been devoured.
Asherah tugs on Tasman's arm, seeing the fire glow bright in the distance, as Nine's cannon fires. "Tasman—"
"It has to be bringing them here," he says, getting to his feet. "Come on. They'll come to us."
Ten certainly does, abandoning the idea of hiding in the water when it's clear he'll just suffocate on the smoke. He stumbles forward as much as he can, his breathing ragged in the ashy air. Up on the slope, Asherah pulls her bow back, but she's having trouble stabilizing it with her mauled left shoulder. Her arrow screams past Ten, a foot from his right shoulder.
"I can't—"
"Wait for him."
"He could—"
"He's not going to hurt us."
But Asherah lets her next arrow fly anyways, correcting for her prior mistake. It pierces through Ten's shoulder. Panic lights along his skin, but there's nowhere to run. If he escapes one threat, he runs straight towards another.
He has to prefer his chances with the Fours, or maybe he just wants the illusion of going out fighting. Either way, Tasman doesn't let him. In a second, Tasman has plunged his sword into Ten's chest.
"Back to the horn," Tasman says, coughing on the smoke that's thickening around them. "It's just Cavara, the fire will kill her, or bring her here—"
But the fire shows no signs of stopping, crawling upslope towards the pair of them until they're forced to flee, Asherah's ankle dragging uselessly behind her. In moments, its goal is clear: it's leading them right to Cavara.
Cavara, who's still weak with pain and exhaustion. She's steadied herself on both feet but she's unsure where to go as she watches the flames slowly approach from below her. In front of her, the fire presses forward. There's no way to wrap back behind the encroaching flames, even if she could run painlessly and at full strength. Behind her, the canyon wall presses into her back— the same one I'd hypothesized on day one was meant to keep the tributes from escaping away in that direction. I just never thought it would be Cavara who was trapped here.
Through the haze, Asherah and Tasman stumble forward. Panting, desperate, Cavara looks around, glancing along the wall behind her. As the fire crawls towards her, pushing the Fours towards Cavara's position, she leaps up to wrap her left hand into a handhold in the wall.
Even with just one hand, Cavara's had plenty of practice climbing. She's still got three functional limbs and she pulls herself up the side of the canyon, cautiously but urgently ascending higher above the arena, gasping with the exertion but refusing, even as she gags on the smoke and ash, to stop.
By the time the fire freezes, forming a ring around Cavara and the Fours at the base of the canyon wall, Cavara is twenty feet up. Sweat streams down her forehead and her eyes burn with tears from smoke and exertion.
They watch each other warily. Tasman coughs and wipes his mouth. "There's nowhere to go, Two."
"I can climb all day."
"Not with one arm, you can't," Asherah says.
"Shouldn't have let me go back there," Cavara gets out, breathing heavily. She tries to pull her jacket up to cover her mouth and nose, nearly losing her balance. My heart drops, but Cavara stays up. "Big oversight."
"Yeah, you can thank Regis for saving your ass. Especially considering your own district partner killed his partner, you probably don't deserve it."
"Don't you dare tell me what I do and don't deserve," Cavara growls. Her pack's pressed between her shoulder blades and the canyon wall and she balances precariously on the narrow footholds she's managed to find. She reaches behind her— delicately, cautiously to a point. If she takes her hand off the wall, she risks losing her balance and tumbling twenty feet to the ground. But if she's weaponless, she's vulnerable in another way.
As her fingers curl around one of her knives, Asherah pulls her bow up and shoots. Cavara lets the knife fly from her left hand, just barely catching herself from slipping before the momentum carries her too far forward. Her weapon slices air. Asherah's arrow cuts between Cavara's ribs and she inhales sharply, fighting to stay stable even as the pain threatens to make her curl forward.
Then Cavara screams against the pain, bloodcurdling and vicious. Her hand wraps again around another knife and she sends it down. This time it hits Tasman before he can block it, burying itself at an angle just below his throat.
"Ash—"
She shoots again. Her arrow strikes rock an inch from Cavara's left arm. Tasman's ripped his pack off, digging through it for bandages. But they left everything back at the horn, and even if there were time to go back for it, it's all been decimated, shriveled to ashes.
"Kill her," Tasman gasps. "Kill her—"
Cavara's third knife comes down, just grazing Asherah's shoulder. She shrugs it off.
"Kill her!" Tasman pleads.
But Asherah waits, watching Cavara, who's swaying up above her, her face pale, an arrow lodged into her ribcage. Asherah looks at Tasman, who doesn't have any ranged weapons, who's so much better off than her but for his one injury, which isn't nearly enough to kill him. All he needs is for Asherah to kill Cavara, and then he's just a minute from clear victory. He's had to have known it for hours, too.
He doesn't see that Asherah's realized it until she buries her axe in his neck.
Cavara almost loses her grip in pure shock. Tasman's eyes widen in fear, then disgust, and finally pain as panic strikes him, steals the breath from his lungs.
He crumbles to the ground, blood spraying from his neck. His cannon fires.
Cavara can't help herself. "What the fuck?"
"Me and you, Two," Asherah says.
"What did you—"
Asherah shoots. Cavara twists around, her footing slick, as Asherah just misses her. Asherah's next arrow cuts across Cavara's cheek.
"Why did you kill your partner?"
"Don't need him. Not when you're practically going to kill yourself for me." Cavara swallows her rage, panting against her pain, but doesn't move. "What's wrong?" Asherah says. "Out of knives?"
"Why?" Cavara asks. "You want one?"
"Yeah. Throw one down."
Cavara obliges, the blade hissing just past Asherah's shoulder. Asherah hardly flinches.
"Missed that one. Give me another."
"For the record," Cavara says, "I didn't know about Elias. Okay?"
"I believe you. I just don't really care. What's done is done. What does it matter?"
"It matters," Cavara says, her breathing strained as blood swells along her ribs, "because I'd hate for you to die being so wrong about things."
In an instant, Asherah's let another arrow fly. This one cuts cleanly into Cavara's hand and she grimaces, gasping back her cry before it can split her lips. In an instant, she rips the arrow out with her teeth and flings another knife at Asherah. Even with the sharp pain from her palm, her aim is true.
The knife embeds itself in Asherah's stomach.
"That one better for you, bitch?" Cavara sneers, turning to pull another knife from her bag.
"Come down and fight me," Asherah says, although her body's caved around the knife. "Or do you not think you can kill me single-handedly?"
"That's funny," Cavara says. "Maybe later I can show you what your spleen looks li—"
Her grip slips against the rocks. Cavara screams, her nails snapping and scratching along the wall, her muscles tearing as she strains. But she can't catch herself.
Cavara plummets down the side of the rock. Twenty feet down, her legs splinter on impact. And Cavara crumbles, unable to breathe with the shock, the impact, the unspeakable pain of her shattered legs.
Asherah approaches, slow, insidious, just visible through the haze. Her eyes are red, burning with ash. In her movement, it's clear she isn't as stable as she sounds. But she's stable enough to finish off Cavara.
She lifts her axe with her good arm, breathing heavily.
Cavara isn't moving. Her eyes trace Asherah, narrowed in fear, desperation. She isn't allowed to accept defeat, even if it's imminent, even if she's fought with everything she has.
Doesn't matter how many kills she got, how much she weathered to make it here; death, by any means, is unforgivable. Didn't Jasira prove that much last year?
Asherah brings her axe down into Cavara's stomach. The momentum carries Asherah forward, weakened by the blood oozing from her stomach, her hip, every gash that running and shooting and swinging has reopened, to collapse on top of Cavara in fatigue. Cavara grits her teeth but the added force makes her cry out in pain.
I watch, unblinking, expecting tears to climb to my eyes. But it seems they won't come. Maybe, subconsciously, I'm afraid that if I look away to blink them away, even for a second, I'll miss it.
I've supported Cavara this long— I'll defend her till her last breath.
Cavara's maintained a grip, weak as it is, on her last knife. With the little room she has, Asherah's chest to her, she forces it against Asherah's skin, but she doesn't have a good enough angle. The blade digs into her chest, shallow and at an angle. She tries again, but she's even weaker.
When she goes limp, the knife remains balanced along her fingertips.
Asherah rests on top of her, her breathing shallow.
One cannon fires. Neither girl moves.
For ten seconds, fifteen, we're silent, waiting for movement. It feels like I'm suffocating, all of the air being sucked out of the room. My skin crawls, terror seizing me as the inevitable creeps forward, forward, forward...
And then Asherah's arm moves.
I feel Cas's shoulders bow as I exhale, my eyes burning. Asherah's face is slack, her eyes pressed shut against the fatigue and agony this final day has caused her. Her arm lifts again, heavy, as if carrying the weight of the entire universe, like she's trying to push herself up, except reality's too heavy.
"Scout."
"It's fine," I say quickly.
I can't bear to look at Cas, or anyone. My body aches, lethargy curling my neck and shoulders forward.
Asherah hasn't opened her eyes, not even when the cheers, live from the Capitol, blast deafeningly through the sky. Her hand is limp when it traces the ground. Her shoulder never contracts.
And then I see the fingers forcing Asherah's arm up, away from her body. The camera finds Cavara's face, pale and sweating, as she forces Asherah away from her and, painstakingly, onto her side.
Asherah's body rolls off of Cavara, limp and heavy. Cavara gasps, forcing air back into her lungs from where the impact knocked it out of her. Her legs are mangled, stomach ripped open. Her right shoulder oozes fresh blood through her makeshift wrappings at the end of her stump.
But as Games announcer Aegis Arneau's voice begins to boom through the arena, announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen…", Cavara pushes herself towards Asherah with her left arm, groaning and grimacing against the agony exploding across every inch of her body, fueled wholly by cold, undying fury.
"May I present to you, the Victor of the Eighty-Second Hunger Games— Cavara Perrigon!"
Cavara doesn't stop, not even when all that cheering is for her. She grips the knife in her fist and positions herself above Asherah.
In a second, she's slashed open Asherah's throat, leaving a gaping, seeping wound. When she falls back, too exhausted and pained to stay upright, Asherah's tongue is tugged through the wound.
It's grotesque. It's cruel.
It's exactly how Akello taught her.
I think I've forgotten how to breathe.
There's celebration and jubilance from every angle but I can't breathe. Even when Cavara's been airlifted from the arena and we see they're keeping her stable in the hovercraft, and I should know, explicitly, that she's not going to die anymore, I don't dare believe it.
She's alive. She survived. No, she won. It feels too just to be true. That after everything, Cavara somehow outlasted all twenty-three others— and she wasn't even meant to be in the Games.
I'm too used to being let down to understand. I don't know how to respond to the alternative.
Cavara's a Victor, and I just feel exhausted. I'm proud, of course. But that pride can't manifest fully, and I resent it. She deserves my pride after what she's gone through, the hell that recovery is going to be. But maybe I can save that for later, when I see her in person. I don't even have the energy to talk to anyone, much less join the cheering, crazed mob that's pushing out towards the main gym to do Panem knows what.
Neither does Cas, it would seem.
"She did it," he says, when the room's quieted down, hoots disappearing down the hallway.
"She did," I say. "I just…"
There's so much he doesn't know. About Akello, about Cavara, about everything this year has been— even these last few days. So much I can't fit into words. So much I might try to, if I had the breath for it. I just laugh softly. "I'm exhausted."
I haven't seen Nell or Akello since the feast. I wonder if they've got the heart to celebrate Cavara or if they're trying to find a way to diminish it. I'm angry for all of an instant until it dissipates, my eyes fogging and heavy.
"I'm exhausted," I repeat.
"I know," he says. "Are you going home?"
I exhale, my shoulders feeling weighed down. "Oh."
I hadn't even thought about that, where I was going to end up again after this. I'd caved, mid-run, and told Cas about my talk with my parents last night, but everything with Cavara must have made me forget again. I sigh. "I guess."
"Yeah, you shouldn't," he says. "We can set up a bed for you on the couch. Don't go back there tonight."
"I should."
"No, you shouldn't. Because you'll hate it."
"Yeah, but I still should."
"Stop it," he says. "This is why you're moving out. Look, my dads are home, they'll be glad to see you, and it's ten minutes from here. So no train. No walking back in the dark."
"Yes train," I say, pouting.
"That's— no. Scout. Shut up."
"Fine," I say.
"Come on, then. We'll watch something. I don't know. Doesn't matter."
I step forward, relenting. "Only because you're begging."
"I'm not begging. You want me to beg."
"That's what someone begging would say."
We leave the Atheneum, the night warm and still. No breeze. No wall of fire. The sky's still darkening over the ridges, glowing like the tongues of approaching flames.
And then Cas takes off running.
"Cas!" I yell.
"Race you back!"
"You're a cheater!" I call, pushing myself down the steps to follow him. "Cheater! You know I ran twice today!"
"Then you should be faster! Keep up!"
I trail him back towards Naissus, my nerves trickling away into the evening air like fallen feathers, running on legs that, despite their fatigue, feel strong, secure. My back is painless. My chest feels weightless.
Cavara's safe. My place is safe for another year. Even if things aren't perfect for me here, they're about to get just a little bit better.
Glee, childish but not unwelcome, bubbles into my throat. And for once, instead of smothering it, I release it, letting out a high, euphoric scream as I race into the dark.
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This chapter was brought to you by the near-loss of consciousness I had while watching 127 Hours for research purposes, an entire bottle of Barefoot Rosé Wine, and seven cumulative hours of listening to Spanish Sahara on a loop on vc. I don't own the song, by the way. It owns me. I am its bitch. I am a Spanish SaWhoreA.
Also Y'ALL REALLY THOUGHT I COULD SIMP SO HARD FOR CAVARA AND THEN KILL HER? ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT? Given my track record and the way I said I was sad as fuck for this chapter (which was not a lie because this shit was painful) and putting lyrics at the beginning and everything, I get it, but please. I simply would not be able to cope.
(Is Cavara really safe, though? Who's to say. I mean, I am, and Bad Bitch Beta Opti is, but like. Who's to say.)
Sorry for the chaos in this AN but I'm really stoked that we've gotten this far, especially because the last three days have essentially been writing-only days and AGL has just very much consumed my entire consciousness. As you know from the end of Part I, I'll be taking some time to breathe now that this is done. I need to re-outline (re-scoutline) the next batch of chapters, organize everything I did in the last few, and also graduate I guess so that's going to be a whole thing for a while. Not necessarily saying I'm not updating for another full month, but I'm not not saying that either. Again sorry for the chaos this has just been A Lot.
Thank you to those of you who have been steady readers, who have caught up, and/or who have binged this— I am continually flattered by your interest in my writing and I've loved getting to discuss it with you so far!
Next time we see Scout will be in Part III. Any predictions? Requests? Intrusive thoughts you need to share? I'm here for all of it!
Take care, and hopefully see you sooner rather than later.
Love always,
Ali