you can always bleed a little more.

Rage, maybe rage would lift me up
make me stand, make me walk───

BLACK LEOPARD, RED WOLF / MARLON JAMES

﹙ chapter thirteen, act one ﹚

eastern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    MARA SHOULDN'T BE HERE, SHE SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE. It's deeply unfair that she still draws breath; that blood continues to rush through her veins, flushed in and out of her heart. She's bone dry ─── except, of course, her bloodied arm ─── since she escaped the tidal wave crashing towards the centre of the arena, untouched by the rising waters. It's disgusting that she's here, safe, and Hestia isn't. It's not what should've happened. Were she better, she'd be dead along with Hestia, if only she hadn't clung onto survival so desperately.

                    Her fate was to go something like this ─── Hestia begs her to save herself, abandoning her in the writhe of kelp that slowly strangles her, like what happened. However in this version, Mara refuses, and continues hacking away at her binds. She stays until the very end, and when Hestia is almost dead, there's someone by her side.

                    It would be a story to tell back in Eleven, one where a tribute of theirs finally had a memorable death. It's not as good as a victor, but at least it's a decent representation of them to Panem.

                    Whether she manages to free her or not doesn't matter; by the time she either succeeds or gives up, the wave has come in. The impact alone knocks her unconscious, and in that state she can't even struggle as water both fills her lungs and crushes them like a sledgehammer. She dies almost instantly, snuffed out like all the tributes there have been for the past seventy years. 

                    Her story ─── fifteen short, bitter years ─── was supposed to end valiantly, to save her ally and die trying. She'd be sent back to the Capitol, the water and poison drained from her system, the bloating reduced. They'd stitch up her wounds, mend her arm back together, dress her corpse up nicely, and send her home in a pretty wooden box. Once home, her family, or at least what was left of it, would know for sure that history repeats itself.

                    They would know, without a doubt, that the odds are not in their favour.

                    Maybe Alec would retreat back into himself at the sight of his last child, his only daughter, taken by the Games as well. Maybe the grief would turn his skin back to living stone, the walls that he had constructed around himself becoming a necessity once more. Or, perhaps it would be Mercy who would become more bitter than ever, snapping at everyone that's still there, unable to deal with yet another person becoming a memory.

                    Her classmates, the ones she grew up with, would mourn her for a little while, but they'd move on soon enough ─── after all, people drop alarmingly like flies; they're used to this, numbed to the pain. Maybe they'd be interviewed, but she doubts it. Mara was never important enough. Avens and his family are the only ones she could see caring and mourning but not be destroyed by her death. She'd be something of a saint back home, while they remembered her at least ─── a grisly and noble end. All too soon, she'd become another ghost in the field of the dead, another forgotten name in history. Mara Cayden would be long gone.

                    That's what should've happened.

                    It was, after all, highly improbable that both of them could survive through to the next day. The past twenty four hours had been nothing but more and more challenges thrown at the pair, until two was cut down to one. The feast, the sickness, the mutts, the wave, the kelp. Eventually, they had to succumb, slowly killed off.

                    But she was supposed to die as well. Survivors are the saddest of people ─── the cowards, the traitors; they're the ones that pay the cost to see another day.

                    Mara didn't understand that until now, and what a sickening payment it is. 

                    The sky is lighter than she has ever seen, an almost endless shade of cerulean; the sun has fully risen now, replacing the orange hues from earlier with warmth that Mara doesn't want, quickly heating up to a swelter. Not for the first time, she's disgusted by how beautiful the arena is. Nothing should be as beautiful as this, not when the stars are gone, drowning in the eternity of blue, leaving with fleeting ghost.

                    She feels the deep scratches on her arm, stinging with the phantom sensation of claws tearing into the skin. Blood runs down slowly, mostly dry by now. Her iron grip on the knife hasn't let up, not once, not even as it cuts the tip of her fingers. It hurts like hell, and Mara supposes that's the problem ─── she feels too much, all at once. 

                    A ghost haunts her, and she starts to see it both wide awake and asleep. It's always present in the corner of her eye, staring at her plaintively. It's young and sweet and just out of reach, as it always will be. You left me, it says, a ballad of sorrow sung in those silent words, so I will never leave you, Mara.

                    And it's her fault.

                    She knew, didn't she, that the alliance could only ever be temporary? That they had little chance of winning, and yet she let herself believe that they could both be free if they just made it to the next day. That was what Lian thought, too. He had always told her just to make it another day, and things would soon work out ─── and he's dead. She, most stupidly, let herself grow more attached to her than she ever should've. But not enough to stop her from running away.

                    She and Hestia were only ever born to die. Hestia. The name is cold and unwelcome in her mind, it makes her want to throw up ─── she would, if there was something in her stomach ─── a reminder of what was and what isn't any more. A reminder of her utter cowardice and failure.

                    This is the price she pays for living: an incessant ghost. It vanishes when she turns for a better look, to see those innocent features again, but she doesn't deserve to see her face. When she swats at it in desperation, in exhaustion, it dissipates into nothing, and she knows that it'll be back. When she nearly shouts its name, it still never says a word ─── it doesn't need to.

                    Because Hestia is there, always there.

                    She must've passed out, presumably from the two consecutive nights she's spent awake, sometime during the early morning, because she wakes sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, with the sun shining in her eyes. Coming back from the world of confusing dreams is hardly pleasant; from one hell where wolves cry out with Hestia's voice, begging her to come back, where she drowns instead of flees; to another. She sets her mind on one thing: eating food, since her throat prickles and burns, and water isn't an option. 

                    Numbly, she digs through the pack, finding the last few remaining meat strips. Everything else is gone; back to where she started. She forces them into her mouth, swallowing quickly, focusing on the disgusting flavour left behind. That's better, isn't it, than examining the crack in her heart, the hole in which Hestia wormed her way in, and is now empty. Mara doesn't want to think about it ─── yet, it screams for her attention.

                    Hestia never screamed, and nor does the ghost. Somehow, that's all the more crushing.

                    If I go, you won't remember me, the sweet little ghost says.

                    Mara's shoulders shake from the effort of keeping herself from falling apart. She forces herself to walk on, on foot in front of the other, and doesn't dare stop. Who knows what she would do if she does? A deep ache consumes her ─── she screams until her throat is raw; she punches the tree over and over, until her knuckles bleed and bones crack; she claws at her skin like it'll make her feel any better.

                    She does none of those things.

                    She might, were it not for the cameras watching. They can see her pain, that much she's willing to accept. Mara doesn't bother to hide it. The audience can see her heartbreak, but for them to see the ghost as well? That would be too personal. But let them see Hestia's memorial, and let them know that they helped steal her away to death's cold embrace. Maybe then, after proving her pain to the world, Hestia will stop haunting her with that betrayed gaze. 

                     Mara isn't sure what exactly she sets out aiming to achieve, but she knows where to start. She cuts a small, straight branch from a nearby tree, nicking her fingers in the process. Once it's almost fully cut and she's wiped away the blood on her trousers, she grabs it and rips it away from the tree limb. Then, she spends the next twenty minutes slowly whittling one end away to a sharp point. It's calming, since it focuses her, but also allows the pain to wash over her without completely drowning.

                    By the time she is satisfied with her handiwork, her clothes are covered in wood chippings and her hands start to cramp up; she flexes them while examining the sharp tip. Standing up, she then plunges it into the dirt, forcing it down until it's stable, by what she knows to be a willow tree ─── one of the few species she has recognised since coming here.

                    A weeping willow; how fitting.

                    All that she needs now is something to make the grave beautiful, and, well, a grave. However, the only thing that grows on this island are vines, as thick as her fist and dark green, covered in long, serrated thorns. Ferns and shrubs dot the ground, but there aren't any flowers anywhere. Good ─── they're always the first to die and rot.

                    Using her knife to cut away the plants, she winces as the thorny vines prick her arms, but she wraps them in other leaves and stalks to keep away contact with her skin. It's already ruined enough. For what feels like hours, and probably is, she collects the most unusual flora she sees, until she walks back to the grave with arms full of green.

                    The ghost watches from the sidelines, the closest thing to a smile that Mara has ever seen on its pale, dead features. 

                    It's a matter of arranging and rearranging the plants around the grave until she's finally satisfied with it. It's not nearly as much as she'd like to do ─── traditions demand that she place objects, or floral arrangements on the grave ─── but in the arena, it's all that she can manage. All the flowers in the world, though, wouldn't change the fact that it's empty.

                    She kneels in front of it, covering her face with her hands, and allows the tears to escape her. Trembling like a leaf in the wind, she tries to hold back her shouts. She's an ugly crier, always has been, since her face contorts and scrunches up; her cries, however quiet, sound like a dying creature. Nonetheless, she lets herself feel. Just this once.

                    You are still a coward Mara Cayden, the ghost whispers, yet it fades out of sight, for now at least. And I will never truly leave you.

                    Should she be comforted or disturbed by that promise? She'll never know.

                    Night falls just as quickly as dawn rises, leaving little time for the twilight in between. In a matter of minutes, the arena is plunged into darkness once more, which Mara gladly huddles into. Darkness hides the horrors shown in the light, after all. She dreads the anthem, the fanfare, the seal in the sky ─── it's an irrefutable sign that it's not some twisted nightmare she'll wake up from in the morning. It means that Hestia really is dead, and that she sits next to an empty grave.

                    Pulling her knees into her chest, she rocks back and forth, waiting, praying. She's not sure who to. As night moves in with swift strides, the stars and moon come out once more, and at sometime around midnight, she looks up as the anthem starts to play. It's over quickly. A hovercraft in the sky holds up the image of the Capitol seal, and she zones out Claudius Templesmith's jaunty commentary. Nothing he says could bring her any comfort.

                    It's over quickly, because only one headshot is displayed in the sky. 

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

eastern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    SOMEHOW, MARA FINDS THE WILL TO LEAVE THE NEXT MORNING. She's spent another night resting on the ground, limbs awkwardly strewn about. It's not terrible, but it leaves a layer of dirt that seems to seep into her skin. As her eyelids flutter open, she sits up, trying to swallow, but her mouth is too dry. She knows, rationally, that she can't stay here forever ─── that she's better than being caught off-guard by the ghost and pitying herself until she dies.

                    Are you, though? The ghost wants to ask, and she shuts her eyes until it leaves. 

                    Extreme thirst ─── having not drank yesterday, or the day before ─── and no water in sight are incredibly good motivators, as she quickly finds out. There's no use in sugarcoating it: if she doesn't find water soon, she won't have to worry about being haunted or killed anymore. No, she'll be dead long before that.

                    "Come on, Mara." She whispers to herself, like instructing an unwilling, and particularly stubborn, child. "Get up. Get back up." 

                    She stands a little too quickly, head rushing and spinning. Everything hurts or aches in some measure, not least because she's barely moved until now. What's more, she needs to choose how to appear. While she hasn't exactly been hidden, there's no doubt that the audience lost interest in her after the grave was constructed. Mara knows that, now that she's showing some sign of life, they're tracking her. They've probably been beside themselves at Hestia's death; since her stylists so easily burst into tears at the slightest error. They know of her sorrow, her pain, but they don't know what she will do now.

                    Until her mind clears and she figures out how she wants to appear, let them guess. She'd better act on top of things, at least ─── definitely not sobbing or frightened.

                    So, when she clambers back up, comforted by the familiarity to the orchards she's spent so long picking and weeding, she pauses for a moment. Using mostly her left arm, since the other screams almost every time she tries to use it, she looks for the hidden cameras. They must be somewhere around here, she knows it. A careful, composed look tries to lace her features, but it translates to an empty, soulless death glare.

                    Good enough, she supposes.

                    Her best bet is to find another pond or stream ─── at this point, she cannot care less whether it's poisoned or not; and start hunting down any possible game in the meantime. Her only weapon, however, is the knife, since all of Hestia's snares are still on the northern island. Which means she has to be more careful ─── if she loses it, then she'd be defenceless. 

                    Mara hikes around the edge of the island, keeping the sea in view. That's one of the many, many mistakes she made earlier; straying too far from the shore. She had thought it would keep them safe, but it only exhausted her and Hestia. And then, they were bound to slip up. If she had just───

                    No, she won't think about those kinds of things. She didn't, and now Hestia is dead.

                    As the day wears on, it becomes more hopeless, and she knows she's headed for trouble. There's nothing around her but the sea on her left and seemingly infinite forest on her right. She's glad not to have run into any other tributes, but all the creatures seem to be gone ─── other than the rats, which are too fast and slight for her to catch. There's no mutts, thankfully; no insects chirping or frogs croaking, not even any birds singing in the late afternoon heat. Nothing, absolutely nothing, and no water sources either. She hopes for a sponsor, but doesn't expect much.

                    Honestly, she was surprised that she even got one, and now it's useless. What good would more heat do?

                    The sun seems overly bright, flashing in her eyes at every break in the canopy; which becomes a concern for burning the inside of her eyes. It's happened to her before, once, and it felt like sand was permanently stuck behind her eyes. She could barely see. It took a few days of keeping her head down to finally blink freely again. So, she keeps her gaze fixated on the ground, searching for anything, even if it's just a particularly green patch of vegetation.

                    A few times, she drops to the ground, falling rather than jumping, when the searing hunger becomes a little too much. She forages for roots around the bases of trees, but they're old and gnarly and dried out, not edible at all.

                    She wonders if Avens is doing any better than her; which, given her hopeless prospects, wouldn't be hard to manage. He's alive, at least ─── many faces have been displayed in the sky, but he has never been one of them ─── but if their brief conversation at the feast is any indicator, he's not doing that well either. Which doesn't comfort her. 

                    Mara can tell that the end is nearing. She has to take frequent breaks, and her head throbs with every beat of her heart; simple movements send sparks of pain down her nerves. She leaves the trees for the simplicity of walking. It's wrong, not cautious or urgent at all, but her mind is foggy and planning beyond the next few minutes is hard.

                    Still, she grits her teeth, and takes another step forward.

                    And then she sees it ─── it catches her eye easily, even in her dehydrated haze; and for once, she's not just seeing things. There, among the shrubs, enclosed by thick greenery, is a campfire. The first thing she does, as quickly as her exhausted body will allow her, is melt into the steadily growing shadows ─── sticks don't arrange themselves in perfect, burning circles like this one on their own, so somebody must be in the area.

                    The next is to grip the handle of her knife, so hard that her knuckles turn pale; the question is, of course, who's there. And what she'll do about it.

                    A silhouette is outlined by the slight flames, sitting on the ground, back turned to Mara. She can see the slight movements where the tribute roasts something over the dying embers. It has to be food! Her mouth tries to water at the thought of it, but she couldn't even if she tried. If there's water as well, clean water, then she might just have a fighting chance.

                    But none of that will matter if it's a Career at the fire. Mentally, she runs the numbers through her head. Eleven were at the feast when it started, where four cannons went off ─── Julius was killed by Dakota, who Octavian then slaughtered. Roland must've been killed as well, and somebody else didn't make it out of there either. Hestia is . . . gone; the thought pains her, but it's true. That leaves herself, Avens, Amira, three of the Careers, and another. It might be the girl from Twelve, but Mara can't think of her name.

                    Seven left, six others ─── so who is this?

                    Motivated by the thought of a meal and a drink, Mara clambers up a tree. It takes far more effort than it should, and she's far slower than she'd like. Silently working her way around, careful not to snap any twigs, she gets a better look. The tribute has a head of long, blonde hair; Mara instantly thinks of Amira, but that's not right. Hers is golden, shorter, and this is platinum. The stature is rather feminine, but far too small and slight to be the seventeen year old she once was considering as an ally.

                    It must be that girl from Twelve. She was blonde if Mara recollects correctly.

                    Her dark, frantic eyes scan the whole scene. Among the supplies neatly stacked on top of each other ─── how did she get so many? She can't be more than fourteen, and Mara doesn't see weapons of any sort. Which either means she's stupid, or concealed them well. It's safest to assume the latter. But still, lighting a fire ─── it's a miracle the Careers haven't swarmed in on her like moths to a flame.

                    In the darkness, it's hard to tell much, with the shadows dimming as night falls; but Mara can see her finishing half her meal and wrapping the rest in plastic before putting it away. She allows herself to exhale, not realising that she had been holding her breath, as the girl douses the fire and takes a long swig from a canteen. What she would give for that drink! If she can afford to pour water over the embers, then there's enough for her.

                    Mara forces herself to wait until Mikayla falls asleep ─── oh, that was her name ─── and once she is, she promises herself that she'll get to that canteen first. Hours pass, night falls, and her head starts to swim. Her feet threaten to fall beneath her. Yet, she keeps still and quiet. Mikayla tosses and turns, to the point where she wants to scream at her to hurry up because her limbs feel like fire and her head wants to explode. 

                    It's in this time, waiting for the right moment, that she finds her mind unoccupied enough to go wandering ─── the ghost returns, speaking in quiet whispers that she can't quite understand. They set her further on edge, clenching her jaw, sweat running down the side of her head. Here, as she crouches on a branch and stretches her back, the muscles aching from being stationary for so long, she grows more and more discontent.

                    Mikayla must be sleeping now ─── nobody could look that peaceful in the arena. Not while awake. Her long blonde hair is tied back in a loose bun, but it still fans over her pack, which she uses as a pillow of sorts. Her pale features are expressionless, but the corners of her mouth are slightly downturned. She looks like a ghostly angel in the moonlight.

                    Mara shudders at the thought of ghosts.

                    She doesn't risk jumping down from the tree, not trusting her exhausted and starved body to stick the landing without severely messing up her ankles; but as she climbs down, she does skip the last bit in impatience. Taking soft steps so as not to alert the sleeping girl ─── and wincing internally at the slight crunch of dirt and stones underfoot ─── she goes for the canteen at the edge of the pile. Trembling hands unscrew the lid, which she brings to her mouth and tips back.

                    Sighing in relief as the water slides down her throat, quenching her burning thirst, she doesn't stop until the canteen is completely empty. It reminds her when she found the pond, and couldn't stop drinking until she physically couldn't any more.

                    Mikayla has many more supplies, and Mara intends to steal every last useful one. She crouches by the rope binding the pile together, and cuts it with the knife, letting it fall to the ground. It's knee height, with the food arranged at the top so it doesn't get squashed. Her leftover meal from a few hours earlier? It was delicious, and Mara doesn't care what kind of meat it was. The two other canteens, smaller but almost full? They're heavy, but she carries them anyway. There's more ─── fruit, rope, a roll of bandages.

                    Whenever Mikayla moves, she freezes until she's sure that she's sound asleep again. If this goes well, she'll be gone before midnight strikes and Mikayla will be none the wiser. She briefly wonders how the girl got all of this in the first place. Either there was an ally, or she stole it ─── which would make this rather ironic. And then she realises that she doesn't care. 

                    Fed and watered, stocked with supplies that make her pack bulge, Mara turns to leave. She's nearly out of earshot, out of any chance of waking her up, when it all goes to hell. A brittle twig beneath her feet gives a loud crack! as she steps on it; Mikayla bolts awake, shouting in surprise.

                    Wheeling around ─── seeing Mikayla dig in her pockets for what can only be a weapon ─── the knife is flying from her fingers before she even realises what's happening.

                    She can't stop the blade as it flashes in Mikayla's direction, while she brings out a knife of her own. It catches the moonlight for a few silver moments; the girl staggers back before crumpling to the ground.

                    "Oh." She says, voice timid, before collapsing. 

                    The blood is beginning to stain her shirt, seeping quickly around the rim of the knife. Mara hurries over and can see that it's embedded squarely in her chest. She kneels by her, holding Mikayla's head up with one hand and putting pressure on the wound with another. But, as she starts to hyperventilate ─── heart beating faster than ever, beating itself to death ─── Mara puts both hands around the knife, panic starting to claw up her throat.

                    ( It wasn't even self defense. )

                    She wants to say sorry, but the words just don't come out. "I─── I'm───"

                    Mikayla looks at her in horror, blood blossoming around her head like a crimson halo. Perhaps she's trying to say something, or maybe the blood has reached her lungs. Mara feels the sobs coming forth; she forces them down. Mikayla starts to breathe steadily, staring at her, her face the picture of desolation. A cannon fires, startling her ─── Mikayla's cannon fires.

                    She's gone long before her face is displayed in the sky, and she's washing the blood off her hands when it does. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,415 words! )
umm ... yeah, this was kind of an angsty filler
chapter to fit between the 2 main arcs of the
games & mikayla, the last unknown variable,
is dead. that was heartbreaking in a very new
way because it was not personal😔but such
are the games!! // don't panic but things get
quite real next chapter 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️with some very
important plot🤺 and another pov !! (there's
only two more chapters until we get to the 
proper rewrite)

consider voting and commenting if you
enjoyed <33