you can always bleed a little more.

She is strong but she is a child /
she is a child
she is a child
and children should not have to fight to be young.

M.H.W / YUKI

﹙ chapter nine, act one ﹚

northern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THE NIGHTS ARE SHORT. Everything about this arena is as beautiful and summery as can be: dawn and dusk pass quickly and so do the hours of darkness. Despite this, though, Mara manages to slip into a short but dreamless sleep. The past few nights before the games were haunted by sickening images from previous games tormenting her. She'd hardly slept in that luxurious Capitol penthouse. Maybe it's because there were no limits to the hypothetical horrors, and now she knows exactly what she is facing. Or maybe it's because she didn't trust herself to fall asleep in that place of pageantry. The arena may be just as artificial, but it feels more real. It's simple ─── kill or be killed. No interviews to stumble through, no dresses to wear. In a sense, it's easier.

                    Exhaustion keeps her asleep for a few hours. The sun soon rises steadily, dousing the paradise in a warm glow. It dips up from the horizon, making its way higher and higher; golden rays fanning over the arena, filtering through the leaves and sparkling off the sea like thousands of tiny citrines. With the first light, everything is peaceful but not silent; birdsong laces the air, insects chirp, and a gentle breeze rustles the trees, which lulls Mara out of her shallow sleep. For a moment she wonders, eyes half open and slow with sleep, if she is in heaven, blinking the blue spots from her vision and sighing deeply.

                    She wonders if she is home.

                    Stiffly, she raises her head, dizzy, becoming acutely aware of how much her limbs ache. Her wounded leg, in particular, feels as if on fire; the bandage has soaked through and left a bloody patch on her trousers. She frowns at the sight, knowing she won't be able to replace it. It's now that she realises she's hanging upside down, which is what makes her head rush, unnaturally sprawled across several branches ─── head feeling like it might pop ─── only a loose rope tied around her waist keeps her from plummeting down and breaking her neck. She gasps a little, eyeing the ground beneath her.

                    She has fallen from trees before, she reasons as she dangles there, clawing at the branches to upright herself. She knows how to protect herself from the worst of the impact.

                    Mara clings to the ropes and pulls herself up. Her hands slip and burn, but she doesn't stop until she's untied and properly seated. Hunger then makes its presence known, hitting her in a ravenous wave, stomach groaning; she rolls over, reaching for the pack strung up in a branch, and by the time she stops herself, she's already bitten off half of the dried meat strip. It's chewy and bland, yet somehow also leaves behind a bad taste, but at least it's cooked. It does nothing, however, to quench her thirst, which is a looming problem more than ever. She's drained, her second day so far without water ─── and at this rate, with this heat, she doesn't see herself making it past the third day.

                    That would be a miserable way to go. Mara is morbidly intimate with things such as dehydration, and already sees the signs in herself. The headache, the fatigue. No, these odds are certainly not in her favour.

                    Mouth bone dry, she chews slowly in an effort to savour the strip, face scrunching up in disgust. It's pointless, because nothing in the processed strip is worth savouring. Hestia is beside her, in a similar position of discomfort. Twisted up in the sleeping bag, her unruly hair covers most of her face, which Mara gently brushes away. She considers waking her, but soon there's no need ─── unbidden, a cannon fires. She chokes, and Hestia lets out a strangled yelp, hand clasped around her mouth, stifling most of the sound.

                    Mara wonders who has died, and how. It was probably the Careers hunting down whatever soul was closest to them. In the corner of her mind, she prays that it was not marking Avens' passing. She should've looked for him. He should be here with her. Or maybe their separation is for the better.

                    She tries to pay the cannon little attention, however, while she gathers up the ropes and sleeping bag and stuffs them into the pack. Death is an occurrence far too common, and something she's far too used to. All it means is one less variable to worry about ─── callous, but necessary. There's no point wasting time over things she can't control, and they need to keep moving.

                    ( At least, that's what she tells herself while she's busy ─── alone in the silence, not so much. What if Avens is the one who died? What if she never sees him or hears his voice again? )

                    "Who died?"

                    A short glance to the ground, reminding herself that it doesn't matter, not at all. "No idea." And then a quick change of subject before she can dwell on it for too long. "The meat strips are disgusting and won't last forever. We need to hunt somehow. Water is a priority too."

                    Hestia nods, ever looking up at her with those big brown eyes. "We'll find something. Some stream or maybe even rain."

                    Mara tries to seem enthusiastic about their prospects, she really does, for the small girl's sake. "There must be something on this forsaken hill. In the meantime, we should hunt."

                    The tips of Hestia's ears turn red. "I'm not good with weapons, or . . ." She swallows, her eyes turning glassy and the fear from the bloodbath brushing across her features. "Killing things."

                    Despite herself, Mara's shoulders drop; she corrects her posture before the girl notices her brief dismay. Too late ─── Hestia blinks in shame. Ever eager to prove herself, she says: "But I can make snares. I did it at training and I can remember most of it."

                    "Good," she nods fervently. "I could never get the hang of those." She was actually quite passable, but she doesn't want Hestia to feel useless. It's stupid how she seems to care for her feelings; she's going to die. They're all going to die. And yet: "You'll set them up as we carry on up, and then we can check them later."

                    And then, they walk, continuing uphill. At least it starts off uphill; they end up meandering around, trying to cover as much land as possible, looking for some kind of salvation. It's just as ─── if not, more ─── exhausting than yesterday, weary and aching, starving and thirsty. Every so often, they stop to allow Hestia to make the snares ─── Mara can't quite follow what she does, only that her nimble fingers work deftly, using whatever she finds. Rocks, twigs, rope. Some of the contraptions fall apart almost immediately, some last longer; though, Mara doubts they'll work, since no animal would want the meat strips. But she knows better than to voice her cynicism.

                    As the sun arches higher into the sky, and the air slowly starts to bake, their breaks become more frequent. Soon, they run out of rope ─── and excuses to stop. By then, the arrow wound on her leg has split open twice, thin and newly healed skin tearing, bandage drying crimson in the heat; so they are resigned to walking, or in her case hobbling, on the ground.

                    If anything, that's a blessing, otherwise they wouldn't have found the pond.

                    Really, it shouldn't exist ─── the heat, the slant of the ground ─── but Mara has little care for that. Nestled in a small clearing, it's ovaline and about knee depth, no more than a few feet in diameter. The water seems clean enough, since the backdrop of dirt makes it appear far dirtier than it does while cupped in her hands; though, it's not something that she pays much attention to as she brings her hands to her mouth, relishing as the liquid hits her chapped lips and parched throat.

                    Hestia goes as far as rinsing her face in the stuff, and she follows suit, scrubbing the grime and dirt and blood from her dark skin. It's relieving to feel a little cleaner, and she's satisfied with the coolness it brings to the sunburn on her limbs. ( But there are some things she can never wash away ).

                    "Should we be drinking this stuff?" Hestia asks, wetting and pulling a matted knot from her head, wincing. "I read somewhere it should be running at least."

                   "Probably not," Mara says, downing some more; it's slightly bitter, now that she thinks about it. She pauses, water trickling down between her fingers, instantly absorbed by the ground. A nasty thought makes its way to the forefront of her mind. Poison. It hadn't even crossed her mind ─── she'd been too blinded by relief. Has she been that stupid? This could be an even more miserable way to go.

                    How the Gamemakers must be laughing at her from their air conditioned control room, watching as the stupid little children fall into such an obvious trap. She resists the urge to spit it out, but then she'd be back where she started ─── severely dehydrated. Again, she limits herself so as not to raise the alarm. "Still, we should find a way to purify it."

                    But as Hestia points out, it's far too risky and attention-grabbing to light a fire, and there's no iodine to cure it. She throws her head back in despair. "I guess we'll have to hope it's not poisoned."

                    "Poisoned?" Hestia's voice rises an octave; she starts to wipe her arms on her baggy trousers. "Surely they wouldn't."

                    "It's unlikely." A feeble attempt at reassurance, one that fails miserably. "Just . . . don't get it in any open wounds. There aren't any other options."

                    After filling her canteen, she cups the water in her hands and splashes it over her face, gently dabbing the blood stains, careful not to get it on any scratches or cuts. Given how battered her face, arms, and legs are, that proves to be a meticulous task. She also uses it to wet her braids, flattening the frizz that has risen since the bloodbath. ( She can imagine Caesarius silently weeping at the sight, and it brings her a little amusement ).

                    The sun beats down on them, unrelenting, scorching, any heat radiating back up at them from the ground, sweat trickling down the sides of her temples, which she wipes away. It's far too hot to even exist ─── and she catches Hestia's not-so-subtle glances at the meat strips, the way her eyes stray to them over and over. She quickly averts them, staring back to Mara, but they always flicker back just long enough to notice. When was the last time she ate? She seems thin and pale enough to be a ghost.

                    She slips one of them her way; she smiles, but with the bitter ─── yet also bland ─── taste, it appears more like a grimace. They then dig into a lunch of dried fruit, nothing more than a couple of raisins, drinking and refilling the canteen. As the midday hours slowly stretch by, and a restless energy consumes Mara, she digs for roots around the base of the tree, instructing Hestia on how to recognise edible from poisonous.

                    Ironic, since the water is probably working its way inside her. If she frets about it too much, she swears her skin feels itchy and burning.

                    By the time it feels cool enough to breathe without scorching her insides, they've about a handful of pale roots, which she splits between her and Hestia, pocketing what she's got. The others have been warped from lack of water, but these are rich from the pond water. They could be poisonous too, then.

                    "I can't tell," Hestia says as she cautiously nibbles on the edge of a root, "if these are better than rations or not."

                    She laughs lowly. "That bad?"

                    "Well at least there's plenty," she says, deciding to abandon manners and stuff herself with a mouthful of root. "There's only ever exactly enough rations. I'm always a little hungry after having them."

                    "Oh yeah, we get to feast on these."

                    "It tastes like cardboard," she murmurs. "Rubbery cardboard."

                    Mara hums non-committedly, trying to discern whether the soreness in her throat is all a figment of a frayed mind, or something more real. There are so many things out to kill her, and her own hallucinations had better not join them. Still, she can't quite convince herself.

                    "I bet you don't get rations," she continues. "A farming district, you'll at least try a lot, y'know, since you grow it."

                    Mara blinks, and lets out a bark of laughter. The idea is so innocent, so impossible, that all she can do is laugh. Which she quickly turns into a cough as she remembers the cameras everywhere. "Wait, you're serious? No, they're very . . . strict about it." And suddenly, there's the paranoia of being watched. Even if she's not the main focus of the audience, the Gamemakers will be. Though, they're probably cutting off her feed, not wanting to promote the communication between districts. "You'd be arrested, or punished."

                    Or whipped, but she leaves that part out, closing her eyes for the briefest moment. Several scars on her back tingle like tiny needles pressing into her flesh; she shudders involuntarily.

                    "Seems a bit extreme." Hestia notes while she washes another root in the pond, rubbing away the dirt.

                    "What's it like in Three?" She asks, quickly steering the conversation in a different direction. From what she's heard, Three is a middle income place ─── they mostly live well and long, and everyone lives with the tech of tomorrow. She thought it was perfect, but then anywhere seems idyllic when you live in the poorest, hungriest district. Besides, it's more interesting to hear about her way of life, almost another world, than reliving the tragedies of her own.

                    Hestia arches her back from sitting for so long. "You get benefits if you work, which I do for the extra pay. There's a lot of explosions. The machinery smells and I lost a finger to it when I was younger." She holds up her left hand, and true to her word, her middle finger is slightly shorter than the rest, and there's no nail. "I don't remember it."

                    "You work and go to school as well then."

                    "Yeah, 'till I'm eighteen. It's boring 'cause I know all the stuff they teach already."

                    "Sixteen for us." She thinks about this. In Eleven, schooling is mandatory until sixteen ( Avens is in his final year, he'd graduate later this month ), but everything they learn is either farming techniques or the weekly lectures they have to sit through about Panem's history, and the wickedness of the districts. Often, it's pushed back in summer to just the morning, even cancelled; harvest rolls around and all physically able hands must help. They do get fed a slightly more substantial lunch during harvest as well ─── only to make sure they can keep going.

                    But she doesn't say anything else of note, just more idle chatter. How could she explain the exploitation and oppression of her district to a child? Especially, especially when she is on their land, under the domed arena, where they could kill her with a careless press of a button. So, she does what they want her to, and keeps quiet. Silence falls between the two, stifled by the occasional sip of water. May as well drink up, even if it kills them, while they're alive.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

northern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THEY CHECK ON THE SNARES TO SEE IF THEY'VE YIELDED ANYTHING. There's one not too far away, if she remembers correctly, retracing a mental image of their steps. A twenty minute walk downhill and to the east proves her correct. And, sure enough, it dangles from a low hanging branch ─── even better, a bat hangs from a suspended meat strip, limp mid-flight, sharp teeth digging into it. Though that wasn't the cause of its death, it's most certainly dead ─── like everything else here. Hestia smiles to see her snare working, eyes making half-moon shapes, but that quickly falls when she realises what that means.

                    Mara cuts the rope and pulls it down, collecting it into neat coils. Nothing ever goes to waste. Holding the bat's furry body, she pulls the hook out of its mouth, careful to keep the snare intact, and packs that away too. She then takes her knife and in little time, skins and guts it. Avens' mother taught her how to do this when they caught a wild groosling in the orchards. Then her own mother showed her how to cook and carve it up to share.

                    How long ago was that? How far away is she from everything she's ever loved? Thinking of a simpler time hurts.

                    She leaves behind the wings, head, feet, skin and innards hidden in a hollow trunk. Buries them in leaves, just to be sure. They then eat the meat raw, in the shade of a tree, trying not to vomit it back up. But after the feast of roots, she's not hungry enough to eat something so disgusting. Mara wipes her mouth with her sleeve, wrapping up the leftovers, and makes sure they have everything ready. She helps Hestia up, the girl fatigued from heat which she's never experienced the likes of before, and they start to continue.

                    That's when they first hear the screams.

                    Hestia is the first to bolt, skirting up the nearest tree like a frightened cat. Mara follows her, her bag leg aching in protest as she climbs to the area of the densest leaves. At least it's no longer agony, but it's not far off. A horde of footsteps grow louder, faster, breaking into a heavy run ─── by the sound of it, at least four people are heading their way. She climbs higher and higher, putting as much distance and foliage between them as she can. Whoops and cheers echo around as they get closer, and she recognises the voices with ease.

                    Steel glints in the sunlight, piercing through the gaps in the leaves. Mara realises what they are witnessing: the hunt. Beneath her feet, Morgan Herring races past, holding a crudely fashioned staff, hair as red as the blood that pours from her shoulder. She and her district partner are the next victims, and he's falling behind. Fear is painted on their face as they run towards the pair, tripping over exposed roots. The boy stumbles; an arrow embeds itself in his back. He arches forward, face first, reeling from the impact.

                    Morgan stops, heaving, lips parted. Torn between saviour and traitor.

                    But who could blame her for running?

                    The boy, however, has no such choice. Behind him, the Careers quickly catch up ─── Julius with another arrow already notched; Yoselin's braid flying out behind her as she lifts her spear menacingly; they're at the forefront, vicious smirks on their faces, wolves that smell fresh blood. Desiree and Octavian are much more graceful than the pair in front, taking their time, lean steps of predators already satisfied. Desiree's messy braid haphazardly tied back up, yet somehow still stylish, and Octavian wearing his signature smirk. Far more terrifying than the desperation for a kill.

                    Yoselin is the first to reach him. He scrambles away, grabbing the dirt and flinging it at her face, trying to put as much distance between him and his murderers. It does nothing more than irritate her; he begins to beg as the tip of her spear draws nearer to his face.

                    "Please," his voice cracks in terror, hazel eyes widening to the size of plates. "Please don't─── please─── don't kill─── me, don't kill me. Don't, don't, please. Don't!"

                    Hestia is shaking once more, letting out a small cry; she buries herself in Mara's arms, facing away from the bloody torture. She stiffens for a moment, unsure how to deal with this as well. "Shh," she murmurs into her hair, shielding the sight, but not the screams.

                    Mara wants to run, to turn away, but she's morbidly transfixed by the sight below. Hestia still shaking beneath her embrace, she watches the deadly dance begin to play out. They circle him, and that boy is dead before he ever stops breathing.

                    Desiree, having caught up with ease, leers above him, a gorgeous smile carved into her face. The smile of victory. "Oh, darling." She leans down, a knife slicing his cheek, drawing a thin, crimson line. "It's our job."

                    "Please!" He begins to sob. "Let me go!"

                    He shrieks as Octavian strides over and takes him by the neck, holding his medium but thin build by the throat about a foot in the air. He tightens his grip; Yoselin cheers and fake jabs at him with her spear. A quieting look from him, and she retreats. The boy ─── what was his name again, Lenny? Something like that ─── struggles, to his credit, thrashing and kicking. His blows glance off the Career; he may as well be tickling him. All too soon, his movements grow more sluggish as his eyes begin to bulge and his air supply is used up.

                    "As you wish." Octavian taunts, throwing him to the ground; a nasty crack echoes around as he lands awkwardly. There's a distinct snapping noise that Mara wishes she could forget. He crumples. Then, Desiree digs a knife into his shoulder, slowly twisting the blade, blood pouring out. A few more arrows puncture his skin as they all attack at once, careful not to fully kill.

                    He screams, he screams, he screams. She has never heard such agony.

                    He's not even dead, clinging onto the last few seconds, lasting longer than anyone could have expected. Octavian kicks his limp body ─── he can't scream anymore, throat sliced deeply. Maybe he sees her, up in the trees, silent witness and complicit in his death. Maybe he doesn't. Either way, she sees that light fading from his eyes. A cannon signifying his death fires in the distance.

                    "This weedling," he smirks at the broken remains, "won't be around much longer. Another one down!"

                    Yoselin, still not having proven herself, asks: "I'll go finish off the girl?" She's the only one who hasn't shed his blood. Their leader, Octavian, nods; she smiles at the attention and races off, spear at the ready. Morgan Herring had better be a fast runner. Mara would pray for her if she still believed in gods anymore, or if Morgan's death wouldn't mean one less opponent.

                    They laugh and congratulate each other on another successful kill, once she's safely out of earshot. There's the sound of high fives. One of them cries out: "Nine down, and counting!"

                    That earns some appreciative whoops. So they're fighting in a pack, which isn't much of a surprise. The Careers do this almost every year ─── the strong band together to hunt down the weak, and when the tension becomes too high and the end is in sight, they turn on each other. It's a smaller alliance than some years ( tributes from Four sometimes join as well, but not this time ).

                    She hears them checking his supplies, which mostly earn comments like measly or pathetic.

                    "Oh, would you just look at that?" Desiree's voice cuts clearly. "A water canteen." There's a pause as she unscrews the lid. "Half full. How cute." She throws it aside, water spilling out. Mara silently curses at her carelessness, already considering what she can scavenge once they leave.

                    Octavian grows bored quickly. "Let's get out of here before the body starts to stink."

                    "What about Yoselin?" A male voice, not deep enough to be Octavian ─── it must be Julius, then ─── asks.

                    There's a laugh, dripping in disdain. "What about her?"

                    "Yeah Julius, what about her?"

                    "Shouldn't we wait?"

                    Another harsh bark of a laugh. "Never mind her. She's eager. Let her waste weakness on that one. We'll move in for the proper kills now."

                    "This one, plus that boy we got this morning," She can almost hear Julius counting on his fingers. "We got both from Six, and the girls from Eight and Ten were pretty easy."

                    "Somebody killed Nine." Desiree says, a thinking tone in her voice, which turns sour. "I have a feeling it was that braided bitch."

                    "Still sore about that?"

                    "No." She replies irritably, cleaning the blood off her knife. "Besides, Julius got her good, didn't he?"

                    "I know where I shot her. Good as dead."

                    "Then why," Desiree demands, quiet and sharp, leaning towards his face, equal in height. He edges back. "Did I not see her face in the sky last night?"

                    Through a patch between the leaves, Mara can clearly make out the sweat shining on his forehead, and something tells her it's not just the heat. "Calm down, Des." He says. "She made it through the night, so what? I never miss. She'll bleed out soon."

                    "Enough of that," Octavian says, rather enjoying her hurt ego. "We have bigger problems than some weed. The sobbing blonde and Eleven have teamed up. I say we get them next."

                    Mara nearly stumbles out of the tree at his words ─── Avens and Amira? Since when? Last she knew, Amira was trying to ally with her. She must have taken up the idea he'd be a better ally, but now fear coils in her stomach at the thought of him. He's alive, at least, but now the target of four Careers. She feels sick to the stomach, but doesn't dare move a muscle. They're dangerous, wired up, and still on the high of killing.

                    "Seven is out there with his little spear," he continues, "and he's not going down easily. He's actually a threat. Don't worry, you'll get to see her dead ─── we'll find her, and make sure."

                    A pointed look at Julius; a silencing glare at Desiree. What is it like to hold enough power to shame and shut them up?

                    "What time is it?" One of them asks.

                    "I don't know, I'm not feral." That one is Desiree.

                    "Lunch. I'm starving. We have stuff not far from here."

                    You wouldn't know hunger if it hit you in the face, Mara thinks bitterly. She is swirling with a thousand different thoughts, each one clamouring for attention. The poor boy, brutalised before her eyes. Hestia turning to her for comfort. Desiree's intentions to kill her, and Julius' attempt to. Avens, Avens, Avens ─── allying with Amira, of all people.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,447 words! )
i used to hate this chapter ( it was a whopping
3.6k words ) and everything about it. but now 
i'm actually okay with how it goes, mostly with
really fleshing out the first scene & editing the
second

ANYWAYS. first real look at mara and hestia's
 alliance, which will forever hold a place in my
 heart 🥰 mara has such a terrible view of her
self, but as someone commented earlier on -
the fact that  she chose  to save her  from  the
bloodbath shows more than her thoughts do
 your honor, i love them two, particularly how
mara tries to keep hestia happy and calm and
the way hestia wants her approval and i just
can't w/ them but in a good way,, obvs ✨

more paranoia about poisoned water, talking
and learning about other districts, and then 
the careers arrive  with the hunt 🏃‍♀️ and  just
like that everything's back to reality. they're
bad, mildly sadistic people, but they're also
just children who were raised to be this way.
 it's another layer of the punishment, where
they brainwash the districts into fighting each
other rather than the capitol. know who the
 enemy is.

thank you for every read, vote and comment
<33