iv. THE IMPURE
Sunrises in this place are horrifically beautiful.
Like everything else, it ascends in a ball of red fire, coating the sky in an ugly mass of grey-tinged oranges and yellows. Azaire's never seen anything like it.
Back in Four, mainland sunrises are bullshit. It's the Island ones that are special, depending on what side you woke up on. Sometimes you'll even catch a flash of brilliant green just before it crests over the water and the rays begin to lick the clouds pink. Azaire still remembers the day he convinced Monroe to skip training so they could race to the other end of the island in time to catch the sunset flash.
He'd give anything to do that again.
Here, the sun inches over the jagged peaks of that far-off mountain range, bleeding as if they'd sliced a wound in the star. Even through the lenses of his mask, Azaire's eyes sting from looking.
His first mistake is volunteering to stay at the Cornucopia again.
In his mind, he can prepare for their departure, his and Cosmin's. He can make sure both his bag and the other boy's have everything they'll need to strike out on their own. What they don't take will feed the lava flows.
Seraphima volunteers with him.
That's alright. I can handle this. She won't be alive for much longer anyways. Just before the hunting party leaves, he meets Cosmin's gaze. Nods. You can go. I'll handle this.
The day passes.
Words don't.
Seraphima's clearly got shit on her mind, enough to distract her from small talk, but Azaire can't help bristle under the tension. He can't help but feel like she knows, even if there's no way. She's probably just antsy about having no kills.
The sun's arced a slow, burning path across the sky by the time Azaire catches something moving again, this time in the form of skittering rocks. His eyes snap to the movement; his hand to his sword. Seraphima's whip uncoils in the corner of his eye, and they both stalk towards the origin of the sound, outside the ring of pedestals but close enough to be concerning.
Again, nothing. "Goddammit," Azaire hisses.
He pokes absently at the loose rocks with his rapier, though his eyes flit across the field. The boulder he'd spotted yesterday houses no sign of life, but he investigates anyways. Also nothing.
Maybe he's losing it. Seraphima looks at him like he might be.
But she also wasn't here yesterday.
Azaire doesn't tell her what he saw, or what he thought he saw. She only knows what he sees. "Look!"
A sudden shift in the slow-flowing lava; a plunk! as something small falls into it.
Falls, or was thrown?
Seraphima zeroes in on it, but Azaire hesitates. Another plunk! further down the magma creek…
Away from the Cornucopia.
Azaire straightens; as the One girl sprints towards the sound, he turns on a heel, taking off in the opposite direction. He knows a distraction when he sees one— anyone with half a brain could guess what an outlying tribute might want when they get this close to the horn.
It's a wager, but sure enough a small shape bursts out from behind the Cornucopia.
A girl; one of the younger ones, that's all Azaire can tell as he tears off after her. She's gotten a good head start, though the terrified glances she shoots over her shoulder are enough to slow her down. Azaire's close enough to hear her ragged breathing now, almost close enough to lash out—
The crack of a whip shoots past his ear. It wraps around the girl's arm, dragging her to the ground.
Azaire can't slow down fast enough; his shoe catches on her body and he flies, a one-way collision with a faceful of rock. Some gut-instinct part of him twists, curling into a roll so his shoulder takes the brunt rather than his too-perfect face. It's barely the best outcome; he lies there, winded and gagging. Sharp things dig into his back, flare from his shoulder— left shoulder, at least. A thin flow of lava slithers across the ground next to him, inches from his slightly-dislodged mask.
With a groan, Azaire adjusts it, clambers back to his feet. The muscles in his bruised shoulder burn, and he contorts onto his knees so it doesn't have to put weight on it.
When he looks up, he finds Seraphima with the girl — the '6' on her jacket gives her away — in her clutches.
"What the fuck, Sera?" Azaire spits. "You nearly got me killed!"
"Don't be so dramatic."
Clearly, Six captures all of her attention. The poor thing's shivering with fear, tears trailing down her cheeks; she can't be older than fourteen, fifteen. Azaire vaguely recalls her hanging around a pair of older tributes during training. She tries to wriggle away as he gets closer, a panicked cry spilling from her lips, but Seraphima's whip does the job of a rope in restraining her. "Where are the others," he says slowly, almost gently. When she doesn't speak, he snaps his fingers in her face. "Hey. I'm asking you a simple question. Where are you allies?"
"I-I— I don't… There's no one, I swear!"
Seraphima scoffs, and Azaire honestly shares her sentiment. "You cannot possibly be stupid enough to come here on your own," he sneers.
Six still trembles, though she's given up trying to escape. "I'm not…" Her voice is barely audible. "I'm not stupid."
"Desperate, then?" Seraphima pipes up.
Azaire shakes his head; his voice is harsh. "I know you have allies. Where are they?"
She looks away.
"Come on, two older kids, right?" he prompts, softening his tone ever-so-slightly. "Twelve or Thirteen or something?"
"Who cares, they're not here," Seraphima points out. She tightens the girl's restraints, enough to make her whimper.
"Fine." Azaire backs off. "You want this one, you can have it. I don't really care."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't care."
Predictably, Six begins to protest, to bluster and beg. Seraphima only stares at her thoughtfully. "I think I'll wait until Raphael gets back," she says over Six's wails. "He'll want to help."
"—please don't kill me, please! I'll do what-whatever you want, just—j-just let me go—"
"Gag her, then. I'm not listening to this."
They don't have to wait long for the others to return.
They're empty-handed, as always; empty-handed, and shocked that Azaire and Seraphima aren't.
"What the fuck is this?" Rocky demands as soon as she lays eyes on Six.
Seraphima beams. "An example."
As if on cue, Raphael strides over to her, roughly grabbing the Six girl. "It's about time," Rocky mutters; Cosmin shoots her a dirty look. On one hand, she's right; it's time the Ones stop preaching and start contributing. On the other… uneasiness flares in Azaire's gut as they drag the Six girl towards the nearby river of churning lava.
"We're lucky," Seraphima intones, removing her mask to bask in the moment, "that this arena provides us with such versatile means for—"
"Are you kidding?" Remora's irritated voice cuts through the air as she stalks towards the One pair, trident waving erratically. "So you just get to sit in your pretty little ass, shitting on us for doing the dirty work, but when you wanna have your fun, everyone has to watch and tell you how great you are?" She scoffs viciously. "I don't fucking think so."
If Azaire actually gave a shit, he might agree with her. Judging by their tense shoulders, Rocky and Cosmin seem inclined to. Grace only watches blankly.
Looking at Seraphima's maskless face, it's hard to believe she and Remora were ever even amiable towards each other, let alone more. "I won't have you holding me back," the One girl says dangerously.
Red sun flashes off Remora's trident. "Watch me."
In a quick lunge, the three-pronged weapon plunged into Six's chest. A muffled, agonized wail seeks out from being her gag, just as blood pours from the wound as Remora yanks her trident free. The Ones recoil in shock; Azaire neatly bumps into Cosmin when he steps back to avoid the splatter.
Six's body hits the ground in time with her cannon.
"That's four for me now." Giddy satisfaction leaks into Remora's tone. "How do you like that, bitch?"
The fury that reddens Seraphima's face morphs to violence in a heartbeat; her curled fist slams into Remora's cheek, knocking the mask from her face; then her gut, her ribs. The Four girl staggers backwards, gasping. As Seraphima knocks the trident from her grip, Raphael snags her by the arm, holding her in place until he's the only thing keeping her on her feet.
There's not a single bone in Azaire's body that itches to stop them. Not so for Cosmin; Azaire's hand clamps down on his wrist to still him.
Remora may be his partner, but he's not getting in the middle of that.
Seraphima straightens, having tired of her punching bag. In the silence of her stunned audience, she rolls out her shoulders, her wrists. "All I ever tried to do was help you, Remora. But you're rotten from the inside out." Remora glances weakly up at her attacker, a quiet hurt in her bruised features that brings a strange emotion to Azaire's chest.
(Pity.
Just a shred, but it's almost enough to loosen his grip on Cosmin's arm.
Because he knows what it's like to look at the person who used to love you and see them feel nothing.)
The One girl's face is utterly unchanged. She plucks the bloody trident from the ground, gives it an experimental twirl as Remora starts to struggle and thrash and kick. "You'll have to be my example, then."
"Seraphima, stop." Cosmin's voice is higher than usual. "Raphael, release her now—"
"—Let me go you bitch—!"
"Don't listen to him," Seraphima snaps. Not even for a second did Raphael look like he was going to. "Grace!"
Rocky's voice in his ear nearly makes Azaire flinch. "We need to leave. Now."
"Come here, Grace!"
Cosmin turns to the Three girl. "Grace, please…"
She doesn't even look at him. Remora starts to writhe again, but the combination of Grace, Raphael, and a sharp elbow to the skull subdues her. She locks eyes with Cosmin, Rocky, Azaire. "You just gonna stand there and watch? You fucking cowards!"
Suddenly it takes both himself and Rocky to hold the Two boy back. "Let her go!"
"Oh, don't you suddenly start acting like you care, Cosmin," Seraphima simpers with a cruel grin. "I know what you and Azaire were planning last night."
Cosmin stops; the look he shoots Azaire reeks of guilt. Goddammit.
"Some leader." The One girl twirls the trident, stalking along the bank of the magma river before her attention returns to her example. "You're rotten, Remora." With care, she dips the prongs of the trident into the molten rock and drags them through the current. "But I can fix you. Open her mouth, Raphael."
"What the fuck arrrraaghh—!"
Clumps of lava cling to the weapon — blinding, searing, red-hot — but it doesn't melt under the heat. Capitol-grade weapons, huh?
That's as far as Azaire's brain gets before he's watching Seraphima shove the trident and its viscous, scorching lava into Remora's mouth. The noise that escapes her body is near-inhuman, a shrill agony that's sliced into choked gurgles; Remora convulses in her captors' arms, kicking, thrashing, eyes-wide, skin-blistering, a glowing within her throat that Azaire will never be able to wash from his mind.
It's still there when her cannon sounds.
Even the sound of Cosmin emptying his guts onto the once-liquid rock isn't enough to stop the death knells from echoing in Azaire's ears. He barely has time to process what just happened before Seraphima's trident is pointing at him. "Let's get rid of the snake next, shall we?"
It's only when Raphael begins to lumber towards him does Azaire budge— by then it's too late.
The One boy grabs him by the shoulders, and there's no escaping that grip, no matter how much he flails and jerks. His rapier falls useless into the dirt, out of reach. "Sera, please," he blubbers rapidly. "We can—we can talk about this—I…"
If Remora couldn't get to her, there's no way he can.
He doesn't need to.
Cosmin's longsword nearly cuts off Azaire's head as it slices into the One boy's shoulder; with a guttural shout, Raphael releases him. In a heartbeat, he dives for his rapier, and by the time he's on his feet again, Rocky's fending off an unarmed Raphael and Grace while Cosmin lunges for Seraphima in all his fury.
It's a quick fight, instinctive down to the flash of teeth, flash of weapons, and there's a trident through Cosmin's throat before Azaire even lifts his sword—
He blinks.
Boom.
What?
No, that's not… Cosmin?
Vivid red coats the holes in his neck, the trident, Seraphima's hands. A deep wound leaks blood from her shoulder. Her shell-shocked expression barely registers in Azaire's mind, let alone his own voice.
"Cosmin?"
"…need to go! Azaire we need to go now, come on!" Rocky. That's Rocky's voice, she's here… Something yanks him by the arm, and Azaire stumbles after it, after her.
They don't stop until the red sun sinks from the sky.
• • •
Seeing Cosmin's face in the sky brings a near-debilitating wave of guilt crashing down on him.
Combined with the other numerous aggregators of the arena, it's enough to bring him physical pain. Rocky had managed to grab his bag before they'd taken off; Azaire pops one of the aspirin tablets before he passes out for the night. He's not sure he trusts Rocky to allow him to wake up in the morning, but he's also not quite sure he cares.
His head pounds something fierce when Rocky wakes him. He pops another pill and notices that the pack's been split down the middle. "Don't want you using them all," Rocky clips.
Azaire sighs. Aspirin will do nothing for the guilt that still gnaws at his heart, for the fact that rings true: Cosmin didn't deserve the horror of knowing him.
It's Monroe all over again; shallower, but just as sharp. Permanent.
Azaire's been a common thread of destruction in more lives than he can count, the first — according to the manipulative bastard that is his father — being Marnie Rivette. This was never meant to be any different. It's in his blood, ingrained into his bones. All that love, all that adoration, it's never been enough for his black hole of a heart.
All he does is take and waste. He's not much different from his old man, is he?
Cosmin saved his fucking life, and all that gets him is a wooden box and a funeral pyre. Of all the sacrifices to make, why me?
Why me when even now, all he can do is wallow in old grief and self-hatred, not even bothering to mourn his friend? All he does is wallow behind his mask, behind his smile.
(You know why. It's what you used him for.)
That doesn't make it any easier.
Something nudges him from the train of self destruction; Rocky's boot. She kicks him again, lightly, jerking her chin towards the mountain range. Guess we're going that way.
• • •
"Has anyone ever told you you're annoying as fuck?" Rocky snaps.
"Oh, all the time." In their silent agreement not to talk about Cosmin or Remora or the Ones, Azaire's taken it upon himself to bother his tentative ally. It's easy enough to do, just by tapping his rapier on just about every slab of rock they pass, humming nonsense jingles under his breath.
It's better than the alternative. At least, he thinks so.
He can tell it's getting on Rocky's nerves.
Good.
Maybe she'll actually talk to him. Not good with small talk, this one. But he needs something, anything, to keep from slipping into viscous misery; it'll be harder now, he knows, to pull himself out.
Ahead of them, the mountain range grows slowly larger. Azaire finds a loose shard of obsidian with the tip of his sword; he flicks it along their direction. When they reach the shard, he flicks it again, watches it arc over a half-cooled blob of magma. Flick. Walk. Flick. Walk. Flick—
"Holy shit, if you don't cut that the fuck out, I will rip your head off with my bare hands."
Azaire snickers. "Sounds fun."
"I can do it." He doesn't doubt it. "You are literally going to drive me insane, and I don't think you want to see what that looks like."
Probably not. "Can't be worse than Seraphima."
Instantly, the Two girl goes rigid. I ruined it again. Shocker. Should've known; obviously she'd still be touchy about Cosmin, hell I'm still—
"Was she right?" Rocky asks.
"Hm?"
"About you and Cosmin. Leaving. Or whatever."
Azaire flicks his rapier; the shard goes flying a good couple of meters ahead. "Yeah. We were gonna slit everyone's throats and torch the supplies we couldn't take."
Rocky curses under her breath.
"It was my idea."
"Of course it was. That's not like him."
"We weren't going to kill you." She looks at him, but Azaire can't see her expression through the mask. Her spiked mace passes from hand to hand. "He didn't want to."
"And you?"
Azaire smiles behind the mask. "You're alright."
A cannon shot rings through the now silent air.
"Better be District One," Rocky huffs.
• • •
It's not. It's the Twelve girl.
Far more surprising, though, is when Rocky tells him next morning that she wants to split. Azaire is stunned into silence.
What the hell? Why?
Who doesn't want to be around me?
(Why would she want to stay when you got Cosmin killed?)
Rocky says as much, in so many words. "Listen. You can fight. But you get on my last nerve. I don't trust you—" Azaire opens his mouth to protest, but she's not having it— "and yeah, it should've been you instead of him. Sorry."
She's not. They both know it.
Then why did you save me? he wants to say. Why did you help me get away?
Instead, he nods. He's not used to people leaving him, but he knows what it means to be unwanted, as much as he tries to bury the wretched feeling.
They part as amiable as possible, splitting their rations and sponsor gifts and agreeing to take the day's walk parallel to the mountain range in opposite directions. Still, his eyes beg her to stay.
But she doesn't. And Azaire is alone.