you can always bleed a little more.

We'll never get free / lamb to the slaughter,
what you gonna do when there's blood in the water.
The price of your greed is your son and your daughter.

BLOOD IN THE WATER / GRANDSON 

﹙ chapter eight, act one ﹚

central island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    AND SO, THE GAMES BEGIN. The holographic numbers shining in the sky above the arena reach zero, and Claudius Templesmith's voice eagerly cries out from hidden speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games begin!"

                    Momentarily distracted by his words, and by craning her neck in search of Avens, who is nowhere to be seen, she takes off a beat too late. The sand she runs on is white and burning, stuck in her sandals, but she barely feels it. Adrenaline pumps through her veins, exhilarating, as she sprints across the sand; her eyes scan ahead, taking in the scene around her. On her left, Jaya veers off in another direction, silky black hair already coming undone from its plait; on her right, Hestia Torres stays behind, frozen in fear, uncannily resembling a small fawn. Seeing the girl, a small bundle of terrified nerves, she almost wants to stay behind to protect her.

                    But she knows better ─── that's stupid, and stupid gets you killed.

                    Besides, a more pressing concern is food, and weapons, and only then, if she survives, can she ( hypothetically, of course ) give her protection. Better one dead body than two, she tells herself, as she heads further away from her.

                    The design of the Cornucopia, and the arena, becomes more apparent as she enters the forested area ─── though, forest seems the wrong word for it, because it is unlike any she's ever seen. The central island, the starting island, and the tributes placed around a circle, equidistant from the centre; around the ring of its shore. The island slopes down like a bowl, well below sea level, and items are strewn about the place, more concentrated and valuable the further you go down. For example, she spots food, water canteens, and weapons, but there is no medicine. That is closer to the centre, and that is where she needs to approach, but also stay far enough from. It's well known that the Careers command the Cornucopia from the start.

                    It's impossible to keep track of everything that's going on. What were once straight paths to the centre have now diverged into a manic mess, scurrying; desperation and raw terror rage around the air, poisoning the stuff she breathes and infecting her with the fear she's been suppressing. Vaguely, she hears shouting, screaming, grunts of pain, which blend into one long ballad of blurs and terror. Carnage is the only way to describe it, but bloodbath is equally accurate.

                    A club swings towards her, a dark mass in her vision; visceral instinct takes hold of her, crouching down, narrowly avoiding a nasty hit that could've taken her head off. A few paces away lies a knife, shining innocently on the dirt, and the owner of the club clearly doesn't know the proper technique, as they cannot stop the blunt swing ─── though, it's a club, is there any technique other than swinging? Probably not, but still effective.

                    She uses her momentum to slide down the smoothed stone, little rocks bruising her and lumps of dirt smearing over her clothes, grabbing the knife as she comes to a stop. Already, she feels more secure with a seven inch dagger in hand. She was right to sprint ─── any further away, and she'd be defenceless against Jaya Bulstrode, who has taken her chances with the club. Whipping around, she fixes her with a piercing glare. Jaya takes a step back, assuming a more defensive stance, muscles tensing as they stare at each other for moments that stretch into forever.

                    But, the small moment of tense peace is broken all too soon.

                    Unbidden, a flash of regret crosses her over what she's about to do. She leaps up, knife raised to her face, the point extended to Jaya and stabs at her. Knife versus club, mind versus body; Jaya is surprised by her desperate move, expression on her olive features as clear as day, the club going slack in her hands. It's only for a moment, but a moment too long ─── she brings it up to deflect Mara's horizontal slash to the face, barely deflecting it. After that, she is always a beat too slow, the club too heavy in her hands, losing the battle. She's inexperienced, and Mara needs to get out of here.

                    For how long they carry on like this, amidst the chaos, cannot be more than a few minutes, but feels more like hours. Jaya isn't weak or ready to give up; Mara manages to dodge her stronger swings, but the ones that catch her hurt like hell. Bruises will blossom everywhere. A quick jab to the stomach, knocking most of the air from her lungs makes her realise how much she's exhausted herself. It has to end. An exposed spot on Jaya's neck ─── which she's left undefended by the club still swinging from where Mara ducked ─── and she steps forward, forcing the knife into her neck.

                    The way the blade slides into her flesh is easy, far too easy. It makes a horrid sound she'll never forget, like a key fitting into a lock. Mara hesitates, beginning to tremble. She's never killed anybody. The screams awaken her to the truth ─── Jaya would do this to her if given the chance. Committing to the act, she digs it in a little further, down to the bones, before pulling it out. That sound is hideous beyond imagination, and warm blood beginning to drip down her knife, onto her fingers, blood that she drew. Jaya's eyes bulge and she lets out a garbled scream; coughing, wheezing, choking on her own blood.

                    She cannot bear to watch; turning away and beginning to run; the dying girl grabs her wrist, nails scratching down as she pulls away. How the dead envy the living, and how they cling to anything to stay alive. Mara brings the knife down on her hand, and that is the last she sees of Jaya Bulstrode.

                    ( Alive, at least. She will be immortal in Mara's memories. )

                    And thus, the bloodbath continues. A serenade of cannon fire pierces the raw, electric charge of the air as Mara reaches for a pack, which she slings over her shoulder. There's no time to check what it holds. Knife still clasped in hand, she focuses on not tripping up ─── which is her downfall, quite literally. Eyes keeping track of her feet and the ground, she doesn't notice barreling into Hestia; bringing both herself and the small girl down. They crash to the ground, and she's lucky she didn't accidentally stab herself, or Hestia, with the dagger. Scrambling up to her feet, she glances at her, which is the first mistake.

                    Mara has seen many panic attacks before, but none seem as severe as this. Hestia pants shallowly, shaking like a leaf in the wind, doe eyes so filled with fear that she'll never quite understand. Beginning to curl up into a ball, she rocks herself back and forth, muttering under her breath incoherently. Pity is the second mistake, because it's something she can relate to.

                    It quickly leads to the third ─── though it's stupid in every sense, she grabs her bicep and pulls her up to her feet. She puts it down to the despair in the air, or perhaps the innocence Hestia radiates, but doesn't really know why. What she does know is that Hestia is too terrified to run, whimpering and crying, tears streaming down her rounded cheeks. Therefore, she's resigned to half carrying, half dragging her along. At least she weighs next to nothing and doesn't resist. Running has never been something she's done much of, not least with the additional weight of supporting somebody else. No, she's always been climbing, or weeding. She only ever ran when she was late to roll call ─── and five lashes punishment is a very good incentive to speed up. As it turns out, so is a bloodbath.

                    It becomes easier to put more and more distance between them and Jaya's body, which has long since collapsed in the dirt, eyes unseeing. Distantly, Mara hears a cannon fire, signalling her death, but cannot dwell on that now. She runs, legs burning, breath short. The Careers are assembling in the Cornucopia, lashing with a barrage steel at any poor soul close enough, and spreading out. They're in their element, years of training coming into use ─── as Octavian snaps Kayla Lowe's neck, it only becomes clearer that she must leave now. Or end up with the same miserable fate.

                    Only, that fate may be closer than it seems ─── Desiree has her beautifully deadly gaze trained on her, ebony hair tied into a messy braid, strands flying around her face. She has not forgotten the series of insults, not used to being bested in any way. How petty, and how acutely terrifying. She lifts her own knife, grinning, aiming. Fear shoots down Mara's spine. Normally, she could perhaps dodge ─── even then it would be difficult ─── but with Hestia in her hands . . . she cannot help but regret her decision. Better one dead, than two. Right?

                    She throws the knife with astonishing speed, and unfortunately for Mara, accuracy. There's no time to duck. It skims past her head, a hair's width away from piercing her temple, the sharp point cutting her as it sails by. It embeds itself in a tree trunk, and however much she would like to retrieve it, she wouldn't dare try. They're getting closer, and continuing to stumble around, blinking the blood out of her eyes, will only result in death. 

                    A few shaky steps backwards, ruefully turning her back, she runs. It takes a toll on her body, more demanding than she would've thought, but Hestia seems to be shaking less, still sobbing though. They reach the shore, sprinting over the sand, and knee deep in water when Hestia gets on her feet, slightly calmed by their distance from the bloodbath. No words are passed, and none are necessary. Casting one last look back between the trees, she sees Yoselin slam her spear through Paola's chest and force it deep into the dirt; she is left there, limp body held upright by the stake through the ground. And with that last sobering glance, she leaves the bloodbath.

               It's the best move ─── she flees.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

northern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    BUT OF COURSE, THE MOMENT SHE STOPS, IT'S NOT OVER. Far from it. Mara has her sights set on a mountainous island to the north, rising out of the sea, surrounded by a thin ring of sand and heavily forested. There must be plenty of cover and prey, but anywhere would be better than here. It's a good starting point ─── she just needs to get to it. A thirty metre stretch of perfectly azure water separates her and safety, of kinds. An expanse of absolute vulnerability, no cover, limited speed. She checks over her shoulder; the Careers are hunting down some other victim.

                    She glances at Hestia, who has been looking up at her, waiting for instruction. Of course she has, Mara is her only hope. Hope, what a funny thing. Sudden responsibility crashes down on her. She points to the island, pushing her forwards, knife at the ready. "Run."

                    "Across?" She seems taken aback by the idea.

                    "Oh, do you want to stay here instead?" Harsh, but necessary. The other option is to stay, and be killed.

                    They run, lungs burning, limbs aching, splattered blood beginning to dry under the stifling heat. The water restricts movement, dragging back her legs, so she ends up doing a sort of undignified gallop, hurriedly shouting some instructions to Hestia to avoid any dark patches in the sand. Knowing the Gamemakers, it'll be some kind of kelp that will strangle her. Or something like that.

                    They're almost there when the arrow strikes true.

                    One moment, she's running; the next ─── the shaft of an arrow is sticking out of her thigh, stabbing pain causing her to gasp and trip, plunging into the salty water. It fills her eyes, nose and mouth before she can take a breath, flooding her senses. A small hand grabs the back of her shirt, weakly attempting to pull her out of the water; she kicks up, coughing, spluttering, spitting out the salty, bloody stuff. 

                    Her leg goes lame, pain singing down her nerves whenever she tries to move it. Rubbing her eyes with her fists, knowing they'll be bloodshot later, knife still clenched in hand, she stands awkwardly on one leg and shuffles forward.

                    "Oh gods above," Hestia whispers, eyes wide at the arrow embedded in her thigh. Her breath becomes more shallow, eyes widening. "Just─── just don't pull it out. And, the salt water will sting. And the─── and the─── "

                    Mara grabs both her arms roughly, bringing her attention solely to her and not the ensuing panic. "We need to cross." The next words are harder to say, but she forces them out nonetheless. "Help me. Help me get across, and everything will be okay. I promise."

                    It's a lie, but one that Hestia believes; with her help, Mara paddles over to the shore. She'd swim, she really would ─── she's envious of Landen Hess, who is like a fish in water ─── but she never learnt. How could she? There aren't even any lakes in District Eleven. It's becoming a problem very quickly ─── another arrow whizzes past Hestia's ear, she flinches, crouching, yelping. After a moment she continues to pull Mara along, with a lot more desperation. They reach the shore, Mara crawling onto the sand, which sticks to her wet skin and clothes, and into the relief of foliage and cool shade.

                    No more arrows come their way. 

                    "What do we do now?" Hestia asks, every innocence in her voice as Mara rolls over onto her back, panting.

                    She sits up, leaning on her elbows, getting a chance to look at her, to really look at her. Her clothes are soaked through, and she shivers despite the heat ─── a gentle breeze rustles the leaves. Her brunette pixie hair is plastered to her head from sea and sweat, beginning to stick up in some places. Her hands are shaking, trying to hug her body, but she represses it, holding the pack she took from Mara during the crossing, which is mostly dry. Huge doe eyes look to her for grateful guidance. A few drops of crimson blood are splatter on her porcelain cheek; she attempts to wipe them off, but only smears them further.

                    Mara breathes deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. Think! What would Avens do?

                    She hasn't thought about him at all, until now.

                   Hestia nervously taps her fingers together, eyes darting anyway but the swelling blood on her thigh. "I can fix your leg. If─── if I have bandages. First aid, you know?"

                    She nods. "Okay. We'll see what we've got and do the best you can to fix it. And quickly. We need to move away from there."

                    Hestia opens the pack, digging through the supplies. Mara makes a mental note to make inventory later. She brings out a tiny roll of bandages, a laughable amount, really. Anger pricks at her ─── would it be so hard to give her some more? She can imagine them laughing at her up there, taunting her with the games they play. A proper roll, and she might be able to use her leg quicker. And she might be able to live.

                    "I can make this work." Hestia says, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. "It's . . . not a lot though."

                    She sits down, examining the roll and unwinding it, all ten inches of the stark white material. Pulling up Mara's trouser leg, she gently pokes the arrow, earning a sharp wince. "Sorry," she says. "It needs to be taken out." Nothing short of horror is painted on her features, gaze straying to the knife Mara still obsessively holds, unable to loosen her grip on the blade.

                    She knows what Hestia is thinking. "I'll do it." She braces herself. Hand trembling, she brings it down closer to her wound, and Hestia readies the bandage. Inserting the knife into her flesh, she cannot help the small cry that escapes her as a fresh wave of pain hits her; yet, she continues, knowing it would only hurt more if she didn't. She keeps it as close to the arrowhead as she can, but not close enough to shift it and worsen the wound. Hissing, her breath comes shakily as she cuts an incision around the arrow, digging it out slowly ─── it is replaced by a quick and steady flow of blood.

                    Hestia gives it a quick look, making sure no arrowhead remains, before wrapping the bandage over it. "Not an artery. That would be really, really bad. It's a large vein." Like a trained nurse, her nimble hands tightly wind the white material around her leg, seemingly unbothered by the blood staining her fingertips. She manages to make it go around once before tying it into a knot and tucking the excess tail into the loop.

                    It's surprising how much she has bled, mortality staining both her and Hestia's hands. It's sobering to see how easily she can die.

                    "Where'd you learn to do that?" She asks, slightly in awe.

                    "First aid class." She replies, blushing; she rubs the crimson stuff off her fingers, smearing it over her shirt. "In Three, everybody has to take it for a few years because the machinery is so dangerous. People have lost whole limbs before."

                    That's why this kind of blood, in a controlled amount, doesn't bother as much as Mara thought it would. She's seen this kind of thing before. Hestia checks it, frowning at the blossoms of blood soaking through the bandage, like tiny roses. "If only I had more."

                    "Doesn't matter." Mara shakes her head, "Saying if only is the surest way to go mad."

                    She seems unconvinced, but laps up her words anyway, nodding her head. "Where do we go now? They'll find us wherever we are."

                    Mara raises a brow, not least at the we. "We go up. Can you climb?"

                    She hobbles over to a low hanging branch, wincing with every step. Hands on the branch, she pushes up, hips level with it; before twisting to the left so she ends up sitting. Hestia copies, scrambling up, a natural. She moves silently, ethereally, like the small ghost of a creature hurrying up, ready to fade out of sight at a moment's notice. She gives Mara a hand up, pulling her bad leg onto the branch, and reaching up to slowly, painfully, stand.

                    "Distance." She manages to say, stark pain shooting through her bones. She points towards the summit of the hill. "We go there." 

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

northern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THE TREK TAKES LONGER THAN SHE WOULD'VE THOUGHT. By twilight, they're barely halfway up what she thought was a hill, now seems more like a mountain. She was right to go up in the trees ─── the amount of heat radiating from the dirt and sand would only speed up their dehydration ─── but even then, the shade offers little solace. The heat is everywhere, inescapable, heavy, suffocating. It reminds her of the height of summer in Eleven, and the thought keeps her legs from giving out under her. They climb higher, Hestia scouting ahead as she carefully, slowly ploughs on. She winces with every step, every breath, but she continues.

                    The lack of water is beginning to get to her; her mouth is bone dry and awfully salty from the sea water she swallowed before. Ahead, Hestia scouts on, nimble despite the sweat clinging to her face, in a similar, but less severe state of exhaustion. They just need to make it near the top, where it'll be harder for enemies to reach them, even if the odds are looking worse for wear.

                    With every step, that becomes less and less likely.

                    Every time she puts a little too much weight on her bad leg, she curses Julius and his disgustingly good aim. Soon, however, the sky fades into a shade of pale pink, marred by a few wispy clouds. By the time the sun sets behind the west, leaving the sky a dark shade of navy, Hestia asks to stop, and Mara is only too happy to oblige.

                    Hestia spreads herself over several branches to keep herself supported, twisting and turning until she finds some semblance of comfort, and lies there, panting. She was more breathless than she let on. Mara sits on a large one, leaning against the trunk, bad leg resting along it and the other one left to dangle down. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to get some sense of peace.

                    "We'll rest here for the night," she says, looking up at the darkening sky. "And then carry on. It'll be less hot by morning."

                    Hestia nods. "Okay." 

                    The despair of the bloodbath still lingers over her, like the heat curling at her despite the setting sun, unpleasant and invasive. The sun begins to disappear, leaving the sky an inky black. It's been hours since the games began, yet it feels like much, much more. Now that her laboured breathing has somewhat evened, there's an odd peace in the arena, and she doesn't like it. Already, she's been lulled into a false sense of security ─── that sure as hell won't be happening again. She picks at the blood stains flaking on her arms, scratches at the dried flecks on her face, but finds no satisfaction in removing them. Her skin feels itchy and raw, and little beads of blood spring from the deepest scratches.

                    There probably won't be any more deaths tonight.

                    She cannot see more than a few metres in front of her ─── not daring to light a fire ─── even with the thousands of stars lighting up the sky, little diamonds shining through the dark.

                    It's unfair, deeply unfair, how beautiful the arena is. 

                    "Okay," Mara says, disrupting the fragile moment of silence. "What do we got?"

                    Hestia blushes in shame. "I didn't get anything from the Cornucopia."

                    "That's fine," Mara says, even if it isn't really. "I got a pack and a knife. Besides, we can find stuff."

                    There isn't much to their names, not much at all ─── but what it lacks in quantity, it almost makes up for in quality. One knife, covered in dried blood ─── she makes a mental note to wash it ─── which she still hasn't let go of, clasped firmly in her left hand. A sleeping bag, some ropes, meat strips and dried fruit. Her heart jumps at the sight of a water canteen, capable of holding a litre, and yet, it's empty. She swears; how hard would it be to put in a little water beforehand? Obviously, they enjoy toying with her ─── she begins to regret her audacity during the individual assessments. Perhaps this is the start of her punishment. She hears no running water, other than the faint lapping of the sea ─── that would be a last, desperate, disgusting resort.

                    After sorting the contents back into the pack, there's not much more to do, no more excuses to keep the silence away. Mara ties her pack, minus the sleeping bag and rope to a nearby branch. Ruefully, she releases her hold on the blade, feeling insecure without it. She places down the sleeping bag and gestures to Hestia to get in.

                    "Oh, no." Hestia shakes her head, stifling a yawn. "You're injured. I should keep watch."

                    "I won't be able to sleep. Take it."

                    She protests a little further, but the moment Mara's brought the ropes around her and secured them with a zeppelin knot, unbinding and tight, she's out like a light. Her ingenue features relax, softly asleep. Mara hopes she has good dreams, not nightmares like the one she's living in. Something tugs at her heart, and she does her best to ignore it.

                    Unsurprisingly, her skin crawls like live insects are hiding under it as the night becomes darker, comfort hard to come by. She refuses to break the small supply of food they have; one, she's not hungry. The blood and terror have destroyed her appetite, even when her stomach groans she won't nibble at the dried fruit. Two, her week of gorging while in the Capitol has paid off ─── she's gained a few pounds and they'll keep her going for a while. Besides, she's far too used to going hungry. An advantage of sorts, she supposes, gritting her teeth.

                    The adrenaline has bled from her veins, dying out, leaving her with a shivery feeling of paranoia. She taps her knee nervously, twisting the ring around her finger to the point of bruising and ripping up skin. This is definitely the safest she will be for a while, so she does try to relax. Hours pass, she's not sure how many. They all seem to blur into pitiful existence.

                    As midnight strikes, a fanfare begins to boom around the arena, ending what little rest Hestia got.

                    She starts, crying out, before clamping her hand over her mouth. "Sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to shout."

                    Mara brushes off her apologies, realising what the fanfare means with a deep sinking feeling. Through the branches above, she sees the seal of Panem floating in the sky; it's another screen attached to the side of a hovercraft. The anthem fades, the screen goes black, and for a moment everything is quiet.

                    "What is that?" Hestia asks.

                    Mara's voice is strained, sick to the stomach. "The ode to the fallen."

                    How selfish she's been, how self absorbed! While she's been struggling onwards, not once has she even thought of Avens, who could very well be dead by now. Killed, bled pale, picked up by a hovercraft, cleaned up, stitched back together, re-dressed and shipped back home. And she never properly said goodbye, heading up to the roof, too preoccupied in her own troubles. Her breath struggles to come properly as the half-hearted procession moves through the Districts, waiting to see her friend's face for the last time.

                    If she were at home, she'd be watching full coverage of every death, but in the arena that would be an advantage. If tributes saw the images of Yoselin's spear sticking out of Paola, they'd know her weapons and plan accordingly, perhaps going for a more long-distance attack. No, the only photos displayed are the headshots from training. 

                    She holds her breath as the faces of the fallen stare back at her.

                    The first headshot is that of the cripple, Alden, the boy from Six. That means there are already ten tributes left; the Careers from One and Two, Hestia and her partner from Three, Four, and Five including Amira, who true to her word, she didn't see at all during the bloodbath. Kayla, the other one from Six, has also been killed; so has Paola, which comes as no surprise. Both from Nine are dead ─── Gianni and Jaya, whose olive face haunts Mara high in the sky.

                     You killed me, the picture seems to say, taunting her from beyond the early grave, do you at least regret it?

                     She hasn't allowed herself to think about it, but of course she does.

                     Alaina from Ten's delicate features are the next to be displayed, forever young, and Mara prays that he is alive. She almost can't bear to look ─── is he gone? No, Alaina's image is followed by Archer from Twelve, and that's it. She leans back, relieved, letting out a breath. The sheer anxiety from the fear he was dead scares her more than anything ─── but he's alive.

                    However, so are seventeen others, other contenders for the crown. Normally, there would be more dead by now, which complicates things.

                    Claudius Templesmith speaks loudly, excitedly, but she doesn't listen. She doesn't want to think any more. He ends with a very merry: "And may the odds be ever your favour!"

                     Across the arena, there is only dead silence for a few minutes. "Seven dead," Hestia remarks hollowly, "And seventeen alive."

                    Mara doesn't think about her next words; they leave her mouth before she can stop them. "But only one victor."

                     There is nothing poetic about this, about dying in youth, blood that is not her own seeping into her skin, the last tears of children scarring her in ways that nobody else will ever know. Nothing about the lingering coppery taste in her mouth is beautiful, and no glitz and glamour will hide the truth ─── this is where everybody dies, where they all scramble to be the lucky one who lives. They all know what must happen; how history will repeat itself since mortals still don't know better.

                    This is not poetic, it's a tragedy. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,843 words! )
the games properly start and i'm so excited
 it is unreal! one of things i want to highlight
 is the amount of meaningless deaths in the
 games. i think suzanne collins either did this
on purpose or  accidentally,, but we  do not 
know much about the tributes who weren't
 directly involved with katniss ( fair enough )
 ───  but we don't know their names 😔,,
it was  always the girl from  nine or the boy
from six. i gave names to every tribute, but
that is all we know about them. ever. it's so
tragic in its own way </3

i think this is the best chapter yet. there's
pace, plot, and an intro to the dynamic of
mara && hestia = parallels but not identical
 to katniss and rue🥺🥺,, plus the arena!!

lmk what yall think of inured so far, i'd love
 to hear any thoughts and theories ✨