Chapter Seventeen
The sun casts a pale glow on the stone walls. I sit by the entrance, keeping watch while Wesley stirs beside me. He groans softly, and I turn to see his flutter open.
"Morning," Wesley murmurs, his voice still groggy but carrying a hint of warmth.
"How are you feeling?" I ask him, inching closer to him, my calf stinging with pain. He drops his hand on my thigh, squeezing lightly. His hand feels really warm, even through the fabric of my pants.
"I'm feeling fine," he says, sitting up. I notice the grimace that flashes across his face as he moves his injured arm.
"We should move now, before we run into any trouble," I say, standing to pack all our belongings. The pain in my calf makes me nauseous, but I don't let it show outwardly. I don't want Wesley worried about me anymore than he already is.
"Stay close and keep quiet," Wesley instructs, his voice steady.
We make our way out of the cave, moving silently through the early morning mist. The forest is eerily quiet, the usual sounds of birds and insects muted as if the arena itself is holding its breath.
We reach the spring after a tense, but luckily, uneventful walk. The water is clear, shimmering in the early light. The bright flowers look like they are shining in the sunlight. How strange…I reach to touch one, before Wesley cries out, "Don't touch them!"
I yank my hand away quickly, my eyes snapping to his face. He grabs the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply.
"They're poisonous. These flowers don't shine like that in nature," he breathes, his face flushed. Embarrassed, I don't say anything, as I start filling my canteen in the stream. How could I be so stupid? Of course the flowers are poisonous in the arena.
"We need to find some herbs to prevent infection. Keep an eye out for plants with broad, fuzzy leaves and small white flowers. They're called yarrow; they have antiseptic properties," Wesley explains, standing up.
I nod, and begin searching the area. Wesley joins me after securing three canteens of water in his pack. His movements are slower, more deliberate, and I can tell he's in pain.
As I comb through the underbrush, I spot a cluster of yarrow growing near a patch of sunlight. I carefully pluck a few leaves and flowers, stuffing them into a pocket in my cargo pants.
"Found some yarrow. How's your arm?" I ask, concern lacing my voice.
"It's alright. Just need to keep it clean," he replies, forcing a smile.
We sit by the spring, snacking on some dried fruit and meat from his backpack. He leans over and opens the pocket on my pants containing the yarrow. He grabs a knife he has tucked into his belt and scrapes the yarrow leaves, to release their juices. He applies it to his arm, and then lifts my pant leg to apply it to my calf. The cool sap is a welcome relief.
I watch him closely, noticing a slight tremor in his hand. His face is pale, and there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Wesley, are you okay?" I ask, my worry deepening.
"Yeah, just tired," he responds, but I can see the strain in his eyes. "Do you remember the beach back home?" he asks, putting his knife away.
"Yeah…I do," I say warily.
"One day, we'll be back there," he says, a wistful tone in his voice. I drop the package of fruit in my hands and stare at him. What is he talking about? He stands up gathering our supplies as I'm glued to the ground. We'll be back there? Does he mean in the afterlife?
A distant noise in the forest pulls me out of my stupor and I pack up the rest of what we gathered. We start walking, and I notice Welsey stumbling, his steps less sure than before. He brushes it off, but I can see in his face that he's worried.
"Wesley, you need to rest. We can stop for a bit," I suggest, my voice soft, but firm.
"No. we need to get back to safety. I'm fine, really," he insists, but I can hear the fatigue in his voice.
We finally reach the cave, and I help Wesley sit down, his breathing labored.
"Something's not right. What happened?" I ask, panic rising in my chest.
"My arm…there's something wrong…" he pants, his voice weak. I kneel down, and rip the bandage off his arm. I stifle the gasp when I see black veins spreading below and above the very infected looking gash.
"Is that normal?" I ask, my voice ten octaves higher. He glances down, and then throws his head back on the rock wall, the strength in his neck unable to hold his head up.
"Nope," he croaks. The realization hits me hard. The wolves. Their claws and teeth could be laced with poison, making every wound fatal.
"You've been poisoned!" I gasp. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" I demand, my voice shaking.
"Didn't want to worry you. We needed to get the herbs," he explains tiredly, his eyes pleading for understanding.
I tear through our packs, looking for anything that could help. The yarrow, while useful, won't be enough if he's been poisoned.
Wesley's life is slipping away. I can't let this happen. I need to find a way to save him. But how?
I force myself to stay calm, focusing on Wesley. I slide off my shirt, and pour the icy water on it, the thin fabric soaking in as much as it can.
"Now there's a sight," Wesley smiles, his eyes clinging to my bra.
"Bad," I mock-scold him, as I press the shirt to his head. He sighs in temporary relief. What am I going to do? Does the Cornucopia have what he needs to get better? Is there an herbal remedy for this?
While these thoughts race through my mind, something catches the corner of my eye. A silver parachute attached to a glass syringe descends from the sky. I jump up, catching it in time before it could shatter on the rock ledge. The syringe holds an opaque, thick, white liquid. There's no instructions, but I'm fairly certain I just inject Wesley with this, and he'll be okay.
"Wesley, I have medicine!" I shout, turning back to him. He's slumped over. My heart sinks into my stomach. I violently shake his shoulder. His eyes flutter, but he's still out of it. I lay him down flat and rub his sternum hard, with my knuckle. He jolts upright, the daze gone from his eyes.
"I have medicine, where do I inject this?" I ask him frantically, anxiety flooding my senses. He blinks a few times, and shakes his head as if trying to clear it.
"Let me see the needle," he requests, his voice quiet. I hold up the syringe in front of his face. "Intramuscular. You need to inject this slowly into the upper part of my asscheek."
"Is that the medical term? Asscheek?" I raise an eyebrow as he rolls over, pulling his pants down slightly. I smile to myself, appreciating his sculpted behind.
"It's a Wesley medical term," he says. I push the needle all the way into his skin, and push the plunger down slowly, like he instructed me. His fist clenches, and he tenses up.
"Does it hurt?" I ask, although I know the answer.
"It burns like a mother-" he begins, but I quickly remove the syringe and start massaging the area.
Minutes pass like hours, each second stretching into an eternity. Wesley's breathing gradually steadies, and the color begins to return to his face. The flush on his cheeks fades, and he opens his eyes, looking more alert.
"It's working," he says, his voice stronger.
Tears of relief well up in my eyes. I punch his shoulder hard. He jumps, holding his shoulder in surprise.
"Don't ever do that again!" I reprimand him. He stares at me as if I've lost it. I don't care if the cameras are on us or not, I throw my arms around him, and cry into his shoulder. He rubs my back soothingly, kissing my hair.
I lift my head, and press my lips against his, my tongue sliding into his mouth. He deepens the kiss, pulling me tight against him. He shrugs off his jacket, and wraps it around me, covering me from whatever cameras are on us.
I undo his belt, as he undoes my bra with one flick of his wrist, infamously. We keep ourselves covered, and quiet. Our movements are slow, tender, and filled with a reverence for the time we have left. The world outside our small sanctuary ceases to exist as we lose ourselves in each other.