A/N: Written by Lils for the third day of the Caesar's Palace Shipping Week.
The last time he sees her, he throws up. It's understandable, Maysilee supposes. The bird's beak went in deep, tearing through muscles; morbidly, she wonders whether the hole's visible. There's a scratch just underneath her eye, too. At first she was thankful it was below her eye, instead of above which would have impaired her vision, but now she wonders whether it matters. Blood dries in streaks down her face, and her head is hazy from the pain. The few salty tears she can't keep back sting when they come in contact with the tiny cut.
Then he kills them all for her, of course he does. He burns with fury and strength, despite their weeks in the arena, while she's so weak she can barely stand. The beak went into her side and when it withdrew, it took her strength with it. "Haymitch," Maysilee croaks, or tries to. Her voice went with her energy, and she closes her eyes.
Haymitch moves to kneel beside her. She's on the ground, she realises. When did that happen? Her fingers scrabble in the dirt, because the moment of painlessness has passed and now she burns all over. Maysilee wants to say something, anything, but the heat reaches her throat and it's too much effort to even lift her head, let alone find a sound inside her.
She notices it's getting dark. Dark, when the sun was high in the sky only an hour ago. His hands are by her stomach wound, a futile effort to fix her, and his lips move, but it's like she's nearing the end of a dark tunnel and his words can't reach her there. The dirt she's swirling her fingers in has turned to mud, but it isn't raining. It feels thicker, too, and it makes it too hard to move her hand, and she's so tired ... Maysilee closes her eyes and leaves Haymitch kneeling in dirt made muddy with her blood.