you can always bleed a little more.

I need a father, I need a mother / 
I need some older, wiser being to cry to.
I'd talk to the sky but it is empty.

THE UNABRIDGED JOURNALS OF SYLVIA PLATH / SYLVIA PLATH

﹙ chapter ten, act one ﹚

southern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    AVENS COULD NOT DENY THE TERROR SHOOTING ACROSS HIS VEINS AS THE GAMES BEGAN, NOR CAN HE DENY IT NOW. To fear is to be human, and he will be trapped in this mortal body until he dies. Avens will always be afraid ─── if not of another opponent, another child, then it is a Peacekeeper patrolling the zone. Then it is impending starvation, the frets for his sister's safety. That his mother can keep her job, that his income can be spread enough to keep the three of them afloat. He's just so used to it he never really noticed until now.

                    No, he knows better than to lie to himself that he is fine ─── to the rest of the world, though, he must try to appear unaffected. But not even he can convincingly say that he wasn't terrified as Alaina stepped off the pedestal a moment too early, and for that, was blown to smithereens. That the immediate cannon fire signalling her bitter, brief end didn't shake him into a bundle of raw nerves ─── and as he briefly contemplated doing the same, an end to the fear and blood, that he wasn't frightened by his own desperation. 

                    Especially as he noticed Yoselin, a Career in all her sharpened steel glory, and only a teary Amira separating him from her. Once the games began and he took off running, both terror and her presence were what kept him going, even as his lungs began to burn and cramp; as he dodged and ducked and weaved his way towards the centre. How narrowly he avoided the spear of Dakota Garner, too far away by the time the boy from Seven readied for another attack. The now familiar weight of a machete did little to soothe him, however, as it identified him as a target to be killed. Though it offers the security of defence at the same time; double-edged. Somebody bleeds either way.

                    As Seeder said: it's both a curse and a blessing. How he wishes he'd listened to her before, and gotten an average score like Mara. Suddenly, he's jealous of her position.

                    Oh, he was most certainly terrified as the horror unfurled around him, manic and raw and electric. As the part of the games that he'd always looked away from came into play, more inevitable than ever. Death, death, death everywhere. It made him want to lie down and curl up and wish it all away. Even more so when he saw Yoselin once more, a few metres away from him, lift her spear to plunge into the blonde's chest. Her cannon should've fired. He should've moved on, glad that it wasn't him she killed. Glad he wasn't positioned next to her around the Cornucopia.

                    But, he didn't take the smarter, more callous choice. Evidently. 

                    Some part of him thought it was a great idea to intervene, and he's still not sure why he played the part of the knight in shining armour. ( But that makes it sound heroic, and this was decidedly not ). Perhaps it was those few days of training which made her a person, not just another name of a variable keeping him from going home. Perhaps it was merely common decency that held him back from leaving her to die; conscience is a terrible thing. Or maybe it was just because she's pretty. He'll never know exactly why; and the how still shocks him.

                    Machetes, his weapon of choice, are strictly forbidden in District Eleven, on pain of execution. Avens' mother, wanting her son to be able to defend himself, but not willing to lose him the way she had her husband, gave him the idea of playing sword fights with sticks as a way to pass the time. Of course, a younger Avens had thought it was his idea, his game ─── he now knows it wasn't, and adds it to the list of reasons to be grateful to his mother. Willow was always far more formidable than she let on. And so, when there was nothing but time and hunger in the long winter nights, they'd put away anything that could be broken, and he and Aster would spar under her watchful eye. It was a nice distraction from everything going on in the outside world.

                    ( For a small child, she was surprisingly adept ─── people wondered where the bruises came from, but he never admitted it was his little sister beating him in a fight. Mara, especially, would never let him hear the end of it ).

                    Sometimes Willow would make sure they practised at least once a week, when the Peacekeeper patrols lightened up. Sometimes she'd wake them up even earlier so they could do it before they were likely to get caught. He always complained, grumbling that he needed what little sleep he could get; now, he only wishes he had paid more attention. She taught them how to fight with fists, how to fight viciously and unfairly ─── to target the eyes, the neck, the crotch. How to wield a stick; now, a blade; like an extension of his arm.

                    Once he reached the Capitol, it was just a matter of getting used to the extra weight, and the notion of actually doing harm with it; which was why it shocked him so much when he drew Yoselin's blood. She was far larger and far more experienced than him, yet she never expected someone else to outright attack her. With the surprise, he managed to slice both her face and stomach, very much saving Amira, who then vanished. After that, he didn't want to push his luck any further, and Yoselin was beginning to quickly prove that she had earned the title of Career. 

                     Running across the sea separating the island from the Cornucopia seemed like a safe idea, before realising he hadn't gathered any food or water. A puddle, somehow not yet evaporated, had kept him going through yesterday, as well as some fruits hanging from the branches he had taken a chance with. Nothing had killed him yet, but as he could not help thinking, there was always time. Other than the bloodied machete he still can't let go of, he had very little to his name. Very slight odds.

                    Which brings him to now, and to her.

                    He hacks his way through the dense foliage, so thickly laid on itself that he cannot help but be grateful for the fact that he has a blade. Otherwise, he doubts he would've made it this far across the southern island. It's relatively flat and level compared to the others, though it more than makes up for it in the sheer amount of trees. Vines wrap around them, leaves the size of plates brush overhead, and ferns tug on his legs as he ploughs on, as if trying to reclaim him into the wild. In response, he slashes and cuts away, leaving behind a trail of broken branches. A glaring path right to him, he knows, but he doesn't see a better option.

                    Gradually, he begins to tire. It's the third day of this, and his muscles have cramped up many times. He's barely slept, far too wired to shut his eyes, and it's taking a toll on his body. Every movement becomes more half-hearted, more weary; at some point, perhaps he'll pass out from the exhaustion. That begins to look appealing. Though, it would be very easy for a passing tribute to kill him in that state ─── and he hasn't seen anyone else this far from the Cornucopia, which leaves him with a shivery sensation of paranoia.

                    Therefore, he doesn't stop. He can't afford to. 

                    Even in his sleep deprived haze, his senses remain acute, too acute. Each movement in the corner of his eye has him sweating, panicking. Each rustle ─── which, logically, is the scurrying of one of those rats he's considered hunting and eating ─── translates to an oncoming tribute, and then a slaughter of some kind. Each branch snapping under his feet makes him flinch, wheeling around, gripping the machete and holding it to his chest. It's become a lifeline over the past few days.

                    How far he's fallen, and how they must be sneering up at him from the Capitol. We had such high hopes for him ─── Eleven's best chance in who knows how long! He can hear them say in their snooty accents, watching the silver screen with a platter of pastries, and yet such a disappointment. 

                    Part of him just wants to see that familiar, sarcastic face again ─── but Mara has seemingly vanished. He's searched for her face displayed in the sky every night, and it hasn't appeared yet, which offers some consolation. At least she's alive, in some other part of the arena. He thinks back to the last time he saw her; a brief goodnight before the games. ( But he definitely heard her footsteps that night, so she didn't sleep either ). He doesn't know whether to be glad or not that he hasn't seen her, maybe that way it'll hurt less when the inevitable arrives. When the victor is crowned.

                    Everything seems cursed. Including the faint sound of footsteps that he hasn't just been imagining for the past ten minutes.

                    He carries on, trying to ignore the slight sound, wondering if it's a hallucination, the side effect of the brightly coloured fruit from earlier. As he walks, he casts a subtle glance behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary, until he spots a lock of blonde hair poking out from behind a leaf hanging on one of the branches, which is attached only by a sinewy thread. At first, he's relieved ─── maybe he's not going crazy and imagining things, after all. Then, he tenses, that wretched fear clawing at his insides again. A rustle, a killer; he whips around, taking a short sprint back, machete extended and ready to maim.

                    ( Or perhaps, to kill? )

                    "Woah!" A high shriek sounds around, coming from the hidden tribute as he moves to stab, to defend. Is it really defence? Not really, but he'd rather stay alive. "Wait, wait, wait! I come in peace, I swear!"

                    There is no peace here, and he's becoming more aware of that.

                    And then, he sees exactly whose heart he's about to dig the blade into. Amira stands there, wide-eyed and visibly panicked as it hovers just above her chest. That would be deliciously ironic ─── risking it all to save her, only to finish the job himself. Nonetheless, he jabs it forward, eliciting a tiny dot of blood, unrelenting, yet also considering. She seems unarmed, at least.

                     "Prove it." He spits out, heart beating wildly as the adrenaline begins to die down. "Drop the pack and show me what's in it."

                    She does as asked ─── rather, ordered ─── without question, and arranges the whole contents of her bag in neat rows on the ground before stepping away. He gives it a quick once-over. Some squashed fruit of various colours and sizes, a knife too small to do any real damage, rope, and a metre by metre square of waterproof tarpaulin. No water, disappointingly enough. His throat will continue to burn. It's not much, but far more than him. 

                    "No weapons?" He asks suspiciously; she raises both of her palms in an open gesture of surrender. Slowly, with no sudden movements, he lowers the weapon.

                    She lets out a shaky exhale, chuckling nervously. "Talk about suspicion, huh?"

                    "No chances." He responds, perhaps more snappy than intended. He wants, so terribly, to go home, and he won't jeopardise that. "I had to be sure you weren't going to kill me."

                    "I wouldn't try." She says in an even tone, as if stating a fact. Crouching to the ground while maintaining eye contact, though particularly gazing at the bloody machete with a look he can't read. Is it fear? Probably. She repacks her bag and slings it over her shoulder, using a hand to grab and pull her blonde hair from under the straps with a wince. "You'd win, no contest. Why even bother trying?"

                    Avens holds the machete a little tighter, his knuckles going pale, not at all relaxed by those words. They merely open the gaping wound of a question: "Then why are you here?"

                    There's a moment of silence which stretches on a little too long, in which her facial features morph into an expression of discomfort and awkwardness. "Oh," she says, more sullen, more serious. "I don't know how to put this. You wouldn't get it."

                    He raises a brow. "Try me."

                    "It's . . . a thing we have in Five. Action; you─── you saved my life in the bloodbath. I'm now in your debt. Counteraction; I have to do whatever it takes to pay that off."

                    He frowns at the concept, which seems like it was invented as an excuse for free labour. "That's really a thing you have?"

                    "Yep." She nods somewhat glumly, popping the 'p' at the end, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet. "I'm basically like your servant now."

                    Distasteful confusion. "You don't have to do that. Your . . . debt, or whatever, is paid. Feel free to go."

                    "I'm gonna die, so I may as well do it with honour. Besides," she adds tentatively, "you could do better with it. When was the last time you actually ate? Have you even slept at all?"

                    He doesn't register how quickly she changed the subject to him. "So you're proposing to be an ally?"

                    "In a sense." She replies non-committedly. "We both benefit from it. I know that alliances don't last forever. They can't. So we split once the numbers get too small. It would just be temporary. Just for survival."

                    The longest stretch of silence follows, weighing it out in his mind. For better, or for worse, he accepts. He really needs sleep, food, and water. Hopefully, she won't kill him. He'd hate for that to happen.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

southern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    BY SOME MIRACLE, AMIRA HASN'T KILLED HIM YET, WHICH SEEMS TO BE A GOOD SIGN. No, he was half-expecting never to open his eyes again when his knees finally gave up, collapsing and staining his trousers in the dirt, and he conceded defeat in the form of a nap. Yet, as he groggily comes back into the world of the living, he finds himself very much alive. Well, however, is a different matter ─── maybe it would've been better if he'd stayed asleep. The first thing to greet him is a head-splitting migraine on one side of his head, one that he assumes is a side effect from the disgusting water he had earlier.

                    Slowly, he sits up, a rush of dizziness storming through his already aching limbs. Sleep normally fixes everything; and if anything, he feels worse.

                    He takes in his surroundings, immediately feeling the loss of the machete in his hand; exposed without it. A clearing, of sorts, and he's on a makeshift bed of leaves. One that he doesn't remember making. How did he get here? Everything seems blurry. He rubs his head in an effort to relieve the blooming pain. Across from him, and not yet aware that he's awake, Amira is sitting on her jacket and leaning against a tree, picking at her nails and the dried blood on the machete. She murmurs to herself under her breath, some tune he doesn't recognise.

                    Her gaze drifts over to him, hearing the slight sounds of discomfort, eyebrows slightly raising and holding the machete a little tighter. Then she relaxes, throwing her head back in relief.

                    "You're awake." She says, as if to state the obvious. "I thought you'd sleep longer."

                    He manages to shake his head. Whatever thankfully dreamless nap he had didn't help at all. "How long?"

                    "A few hours. I'd say it's about nine or ten in the evening now. Need anything?"

                    "Water." He rasps, mouth dry. "Could really use some water."

                    She looks at him plaintively, pitifully. He cannot tell whether he hates that look or not. "We don't have any."

                    He swears, though not really aimed at her. More the general hopelessness shrouding him like a thick, unwelcome blanket that blocks out any light trying to make its way in. More at the buzzing in his ears, low and incessant; the migraine that leaves him dizzy and unbalanced as he stands, shakily like a newborn doe.

                    Amira throws him the machete, which he barely manages to catch at the hilt. "Feel better?" she asks, an adequate but not overly patronising tone of concern.

                    He coughs bitterly. "Not at all."

                    "Splendid." She says, and he utters his first laugh since being dropped into this wretched place. It's bitter and all out of place in his mouth. Look how far you've fallen.

                    "So we carry on."

                    And they do, slowly, gradually, taking turns at hacking a path further and further through the island. Away from the shores, away from the bloodbath. As day makes way for night, what little visible sky above them darkens like an old bruise, and Amira begins to do more of the work as he falls behind. Exhaustion is the needles forced into his ribcage, present for so long that the sharpness has dulled, ever burning but slightly more bearable. His throat feels like parchment ─── maybe other tributes won't be the problem, at this rate. The world spins in a cruel dance as he forces himself to follow the head of blonde hair before him. Speaking of the blonde, she's not experienced in any way with the blade, and he has to correct her technique a few times so she doesn't end up breaking her wrist.

                    He doesn't know what to think of her.

                    As if the odds have taken pity on him, they pass a stream. They only notice when Amira steps in it, confused for a moment as she feels something cool and liquid on her feet.

                    "Avens." She says, excitement and relief alighting her eyes. "Avens."

                    Stumbling along, he lifts his head. "What?" His voice is embarrassingly weak.

                    She cups her hands and lifts them to her mouth, drinking. Water, so maybe he won't die. For a moment, he wonders if the water is clean ─── but it's running, and that's good enough for him. It takes all his remaining will not to simply plunge his head into the water and gulp down as much as he can before breathing. He has to prove to the cameras that he's not an animal. He swallows and makes himself wait for the next, savouring the relief from finally soothing the thirst. His throat still feels raw, but with the next gulp, it lessens.

                    Two litres and a fruit later, Avens' head has cleared to the point where he can begin to strategise. It's dark, and the trees prevent moonlight from shining in, so they retire for the night. By the time the anthem plays, and no tributes are displayed in the sky, he feels remarkably better. Even his headache has dulled. Tomorrow, they'll forage for roots, drink as much as they can, and head onwards. In the warmth ─── the heat has mostly dissipated ─── he almost feels at home. Almost.

                    And then, the odds are done being kind. He knows for certain that things have gone from bad to worse when the footsteps arrive. Again. Before, Amira's were carefully masked ─── and yet still heard ─── but these do not bother to hide. It's almost like they want to be found or they simply don't care. There's only four people who couldn't worry less about being heard, and he doesn't want to be near any of them.

                    Careers.

                    "Someone's here." She whispers, getting up, knees bent, ready to run. What fragile hour of peace is starkly ruined. 

                    "Wait," he says, equally quiet, not daring to breathe. "It's dark. They might not find us."

                    But when a beam of a flashlight shines in his eyes, the heavy footfalls increasing, he knows it's all over. A fact that becomes apparent far too soon; out of nowhere, a dagger sails through the air, glinting in the odd speckle of moonlight, and digs itself into Amira. It's too dark to tell where. The flashlights are erratic, signalling running, and a stray one alights the knife sticking out of her arm, blood beginning to rim around the edge; but something tells him that she got lucky, that it was intended to be far more deadly. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots another glint and ducks, throwing out a hand to drag her down with him.

                     "Run!"

                     And then, they make themselves known.

                     The girl from One ─── Desiree, he thinks, but it could be a different name ─── leaps forward, knives clutched in both her hands like claws. Wicked glee alights her dark eyes as she takes several strides towards him before he can even react. Moments behind, his legs spring into action, carrying him away from certain death. She throws another knife, which barely skims past his side, cutting into the material of his jacket. How narrowly he avoids death, again ─── and how long can this lucky streak, of sorts, continue?

                    He runs, with more conviction than ever, not bothering to hack his way through. No, there's not nearly enough time or energy for that. Raising his forearms to shield his face, he bows his head and pelts through the undergrowth. It scratches at him, tiny welts of red, the branches and leaves clawing at him, trying to keep him there. They would manage were it not for the threat of falling behind. Amira is running as well, panting and weaving through the island. He catches up to her easily, Desiree hot on his heels. She is the hunter, and he is being hunted.

                    "Run!" He shouts, cracking under the sudden pressure. "Don't bother with that!"

                    Her head whips around, and she looks ready to faint as Desiree nears. His hand grabs hers, and he drags her along with him. She complies, sprinting alongside him, but he can tell she's tiring. All those nights in the orchards have somewhat paid off. The running, at least, is easy enough. Running quickly, however, is another matter.

                    Just when he thinks it can't get worse, it does. They've been heading into a trap.

                    Another Career pops out from his hiding spot, male and tall, swinging his sword in a move that could easily decapitate them. Before they can get in range of the swing, Avens skids to a halt, sandals ripping the skin off his feet as he does so. It's Octavian, the boy from Two, and his smirk is that of a victor. Dirty blonde hair barely messed up, speckled by the odd fleck of blood ─── which is probably not his ─── he leers towards them. By now, Desiree has caught up, and the two circle them menacingly, like vultures preparing to go in for the fresh meat.

                    Psycho! His mind screams as they slowly, threateningly near. But, they're all psychos here.

                    And dead, that too. 

                    He takes a shaky step back, and then another, as if hoping to shrink out of sight into the shadows. Swallowing the lump in his throat, with Amira behind him, he raises his machete in a pathetic attempt to defend himself. He may as well be fighting back with a toothpick. They're enjoying this; it fuels them with wicked adrenaline. Maybe it's time to accept the end, he thinks, as the shadowy shapes before them ready, searching for them in the dark.

                    ( But then again, perhaps not. )

                    "Climb." He whispers to her, too quiet for them to hear. "It's the only way."

                    She gives the merest of nods, and their backs are pressed against a tree. "Just keep them from looking."

                    And so, he takes a step forward. How pitifully brave. They hear it immediately, and two lights are pointed in his face, temporarily blinding him.

                    Octavian grins, lunging forward with a heavy swing, which Avens can barely duck down in time for. "This will be over quickly."

                    He grimaces, rolling to the side to avoid another blow, feeling his way through the night. If only he had the night-vision goggles they supply in the orchards. But the nights when there weren't enough to go around have taught him enough. "One way or another."

                    "Oh poor child," Desiree says, watching eagerly, training her light on him. "It will be."

                    But, while they're focused on his game of survival, parrying and dodging, occasionally jabbing back, they don't notice Amira creeping away from the scene. They're not looking at her. They relish in drawing blood from his arms, torso, and legs; they could've killed him by now. But they don't pay attention as Amira drags a heavy branch up with her. In a shadow, he vaguely makes out her form, careful not to look for too long, and decisively makes his steps louder, his breathing heavier, and attacks more.

                    No, they only notice too late ─── "Where's the blonde one gone to?" ─── when she drops it over Desiree's head.

                    The female Career is, to her credit, quick. She glances up at the last moment, flashlight illuminating the falling branch, and she darts away, but not far enough. It catches her leg, bringing her to the ground, eliciting a crack! that keeps Octavian distracted for the second needed to scramble up the nearest tree.

                    Desiree does not cry as she lifts it from her legs, nor as she hobbles up to Amira, who shrinks away into the canopy. Not as she throws her knives, one by one, not bothering to reach for her fallen flashlight. No, she's far too angry for that. Amira tucks her blonde hair, a visible sight for the crosshairs, into her hood, curls into a ball, and leans against the trunk, her back to the Careers.

                    Hoping that she'll miss her, but not entirely convinced. Avens can make out her rocking back and forth, muttering under her breath. Probably a prayer to whatever god she believes in.

                    "Get me my flashlight!" She screeches, growing more and more irritated as her knives are blocked by the sheer amount of foliage. She doesn't dare stop, pride unwilling to let her slip away.

                    Octavian doesn't answer her, rather swearing viciously as he finds him again, attempting to follow him. What follows would, under any other circumstance, be funny. He abandons the sword, putting the flashlight in his mouth and cracking his knuckles, before grabbing a low hanging branch and immediately lifting his leg onto it. Avens, an orchard picker born and bred, skirts higher with ease, even if he can barely see anything. Once a safe distance away, he watches a struggling Octavian with forced amusement. His grip is all wrong, and he puts too much faith in his strength. As he climbs higher, not even bothering to find stable footholds, he begins to swear again as his feet slip out from under him and he tumbles down to the ground.

                    Avens lets out a hollow, half-crazed, half-dazed laugh, one intended to irritate. "All that training and you can't even climb a tree?"

                    How sweet it is to see them so angry, so powerless! Even if it means being taken as a serious threat and hunted down. This minute of satisfaction makes it worth it.

                    Furious, he turns to Desiree. "Why aren't you throwing knives at him?"

                    Equally angry, she retorts: "Maybe if you'd given me my flashlight, I wouldn't have used them all up!"

                    He tries, again and again. And fails. Desiree takes her turn, reaching higher but a loose branch sends her back down too. He clambers over to Amira, who seems to be enjoying the situation as much as him, now that there are no more threats with blades. She opens her jacket, showing him the inside pocket, which she has loaded with the discarded knives. A slight grin weaving its way onto his face, he whispers to her, saying they should leave while they're busy arguing. A hushed agree.

                    By the time Desiree and Octavian have looked back up, they're long gone, disappearing further into the night. And who else to blame but each other? Maybe they'll abandon the alliance and do all the hard work themselves. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,723 words! )
avens and amira are now officially a team🏃‍♀️
 thoughts on their dynamic?? on the careers?
i hope their survival doesn't seem like a plot 
device,,  and it  should be  said that  the  only
reason avens is still alive is because octavian
& desiree are extremely skilled but an awful
team, they think they're so much better than
everyone else & play with food before eating
it, and can't climb a tree to save their lives.
plus there's some ingenuity from avens and
amira,, but it's mostly through the faults of
their opponents.

thoughts on avens??

thank you for all the reads, votes, and
comments <33