✂ ᴀᴛʀᴏᴘᴏs [mccarthy's dp] ᴏɴ ɪ 〰

His head hurt.

Sure, the pain of the gashes and marks that had been left on him helped to the pain, but they were not the source. His arms and his legs. Walherich felt hurt as an emotion, a being, a medicine and a life. Hurt was him. Walherich would be hurt- the name written on his bones and his veins. The name tattooed on his back and craved for in his head. Sure, you can feel pain. But what was the pain from? Was it from physical conflict, emotional cracking? The male from Eleven wasn’t sure what the pain exactly originated from. It came from a lot of spaces and people, so he couldn’t just pick one pain.

His heart hurt.

The male had watched Wendell dash out of the bloodbath, and soon enough, Walherich was trampling after them. He knew that McCarthy would be fine. He just knew it. McCarthy had Cameron with them, so there was a number there to protect them. Why would McCarthy still be there otherwise? If it was just a three, the three should run together. One man cannot survive in a battle by himself; it’s just impossible. It deserved a miracle, and in places like this, miracles don’t exist. If they did-- where was his God? Where was his hope? Who was the man delivering life in this place of trouble?

There may be no God, but Walherich still had faith in one, because faith is all you need to endure hell. You’ll have someone, something to appeal to in that hell and you’ll have an ambition. A will and a reason to live. Who doesn’t like having a prize? Walherich didn’t know if glamour and fortune and a house fit for a king was a reward that he wanted, but if it was that, he’d live with it. He would use it for a home. A place for those to call a home when they didn’t have one, because he thinks everyone deserves a home. A safe haven. Somewhere they can go back to and know they can sleep and rest happy. That’s always been his goal, really. Provide a home for those who can’t have one. That’s all the hope Walherich needs; a hope to provide a better life.

The male had stumbled through millions of trees and bushes and vines to make his way behind Wendell. Eventually they had come to a stop, and it was just them. They had reached a waterfall and went downstream of it, trying to avoid the more crashing and harsh areas of the area. It was almost beautiful in a form. It was hard for him to focus on Wendell for those small moments, because all Walherich could find himself focusing on was the world around him. It was breathing. Functioning. Fluctuating- it was as alive as our heartbeats at that moment (despite them being close to zero). He was on cloud nine, almost in awe of the place that he would find his home for the next few days. It’s odd how it reminded him of home. The greenery and the life; it was blooming.

The voice arising from the left startled him back into reality, the cocky attitude they held still present.



The taunt towards Walherich’s score didn’t mean much to him, but he let out a nervous laugh at the idea of surviving. Walherich wasn’t entirely sure if the actual other two survived. "You’re not the only one still shocked that I’m here, I can assure you that." He replied with a small smirk. It was fun to make fun of himself. Besides, he was the one person that was given the lowest survival chance- if he outlasted the guy with the highest, he must be doin somethin right.

When Walherich left the bloodbath, Cameron seemed to be doing mighty fine herself - if he remembered correctly, she killed someone. McCarthy was doing fine for the most part, but was a bit tattered and torn. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Would Cameron be able to survive by herself? The male wouldn’t be shocked if McCarthy was the next target of the fighting.

A rustle turned into commotion. It was approaching. Fast. It was almost impossible to hear the crashes and slashes of plants being knocked out of the way. Walherich whipped his body around to face the direction the sounds were coming from. Sure enough- you could see the leaves and branches being knocked down by an approaching presence. He gripped his spiked mace in the first reaction- he was going to protect Wendell for his life if it was someone other than McCarthy and Cameron.

Bursting out of the greenery, in red, furious passion was a man that was familiar to him. It was McCarthy. He could see the pain in how McCarthy stumbled. How they wobbled and hobbled their way over to him, and Walherich was resisting just running over to them. And he wanted to- but they were moving at such speed that it was better for him to stay put. The male didn’t want Mac to trip and break his nose. If he did, well, Wall-E wouldn’t be necessarily shocked if they were the second cannon to fall.

Mac fell to his knees in front of them upon reaching them. Out of breath, out of mind- he choked out few words and stuttered breaths. Now that, Walherich knew, was not a good sign.



A laugh escaped Mac’s mouth, small, weak, and almost hesitant at the idea. The male from District Eleven was quick to place his items down for a second to kneel down. He had to help Mac. He had to. Mac was his friend. His friend was dying. "Y-Yeah.. You’re alive. Y-y.." Wall-E’s speech was quick. Stuttered. Nobody could understand a word he could say, but that was because he felt so damn vulnerable at that spot in time.



Walherich let out a shaken laugh. "Y-Yeah.." He let out a small smile. A small laugh, it wasn’t a happy laugh however. It was a nervous laugh. A scared one, because god damn he’s never seen death in person before. That hooded figure that people always make up in fables isn’t real. That’s not death.

Death is you. Death is them. Death is every single living thing around you.



Walherich couldn’t not feel his eyes start to tear up. This is what he didn’t want- he couldn’t even fathom the idea that this was actually happening. Death. He was witnessing, he was calling, and he was facing death. And, to his shocker, it wasn’t him that was Death’s patient. It was his friend, and that was an entirely different story that he hadn’t been prepared for.

Life normally speeds up when you face your fears. It starts to go through this weird time frame where seconds are minutes. Minutes are hours. Hours are days. And you just don’t realize that because you’re just stuck in the idea that this cannot happen. They’re always supposed to stay away- those fears. Fears are there for a reason, you don’t want to see them. It feels like the time he has left with Mac is so short, and despite sounding like a romantic comedy, he can’t imagine life without a friend. He hasn’t known this friend very long. But that’s the good thing about friends; you can know them for an eternity or a second, but damn, that friendship is thick in your heart.

Or, at least for Walherich, they’re always with him.



Near?

Walherich wasn’t sure about that wording, but he could definitely see the idea of losing people. He could definitely predict the idea of losing Mac, sadly enough. It was one of the fears that he’s had to think about over the last few days. The male wasn’t necessarily sure what he could do to help. Though, for now, he could only treasure the time he had. "You’re here now, you’re okay." A small sigh. He couldn’t help himself but do so, he wasn’t ready for what he knew was to come. "You’re safe now. You’re with us." By this point he had been trying to get Mac up, leaning onto at least something. "We’ll protect you." Or Walherich would, at least. He wouldn’t leave Mac until he knew that there was no life, because life is valuable.

Don’t you want to see it go to use?

She had taken refuge in the trees. Emberly quickly fled the bloodbath after a blurred figure had taken a blunt and cracked her collarbone into pieces with a loud CRACK, like the sound of lightning spearing through the sky, that made her stomach lurch. She had screamed upon the impact — an earsplitting sound that she hardly registered as her own. The noise had torn through her throat and pierced the air so sharply, as it was born from nothing but sheer pain. Emberly had never screamed like that before, never felt such white hot agony rip through her nerves. Her life had been full of laughter, never terror or anguish; but those days are over, she supposed.

Her entire body trembles as she gingerly moves from tree to tree. Normally, it would not have been difficult for her to travel through the trees. There are vines and long branches to accommodate her movement, but it is the pain that cripples her. With every inch her left arm moved, a new inferno of agony would rise from her broken bone and sear through her nerves once more. When it slowly ebbed from her collarbone, the awful feeling would just pool throughout her neck and shoulder.

Emberly's face has turned red and puffy, and it glistens with tears in the sunlight seeping through the canopy of trees. The whites of her copper eyes are tinged pink; ever since fleeing the bloodbath, she has been unable to stop crying. Thick, hot tears still pour down her cheeks, for her wound was still fresh and burning. She has been swallowing back cries of pain and a couple of screams throughout her journey through the trees. There are teeth marks on her lips, and sometimes she can taste blood in her mouth; biting her lip shut is the only way she can stop herself from making a noise that would attract unwanted attention.

When she has ventured so far that the sharp ache in her collarbone ceased to go back and forth between fading and reemerging, she takes a rest, perching on a sturdy branch and leaning against the trunk of the tree. It feels as if there is a dagger lodged into the left side of her collarbone, focusing a pool of torment onto its tip. Only there is no blood, no blade to remove, for the damage lies beneath the surface of her skin; it would be no simple fix.

Emberly is breathing heavily to steady herself and lightly holding her hand on her collarbone to ensure that the pieces of her bones hadn't moved out of place. "Please make it stop," she whispers through her silent sobbing. "Please . . ." but her plea is to no one and goes unheard; pain stopped for nothing.

Snap — a twig cracks in two beneath her. She can hear the crunching of leaves beneath multiple pairs of feet; the footsteps are too loud and too frequent to belong to only one creature.

Emberly peers down to the ground, unsure if she would rather find a muttation or a tribute below her. It turns out to be the latter; two tributes walk beneath her, carrying another with them — or perhaps it is just a body now.

Her vision is blurred from the tears on the brims of her eyes, but she blinks them away and wipes them from her cheeks with her hands. She zeroes in on the three figures, identifying them as Wendell Gordon and Walherich Cnáimhín, from districts Twelve and Eleven. The boy they have with them is bloodied and broken, and Emberly is not sure if he is still breathing. She does a double take when she sees his face; although far away, she can still make out his features.

Dark hair, full brows, sharp features —

McCarthy.

No, she thinks, it can't be.

But then he collapses into the sand and she hears his voice, muffled by the distance between them, but unmistakably from McCarthy Balmain. "I . . . I made it," she can just barely decipher the words. But even Emberly knows that he didn't make it — that he isn't going to.

McCarthy's mouth moves, but the sounds that come out are too soft for Emberly to hear. Walherich and Wendell begin to speak, too, but she can only make out fragments of their speech. Slowly, timidly, Emberly begins to move down the branches of the tree, closer to the ground. Her grip on her spear tightens as fear begins to creep over her, as little jabs of pain return due to her movement down the tree. She and Wendell had attacked one another; perhaps it was not wise of her to move closer, but she refused to leave without saying goodbye to her dying friend.

If something went wrong, she would take to the trees; she doubted a District Twelve could climb like she can.

"You're alive. Get up," Emberly hears Wendell tell McCarthy — and she wishes that McCarthy would get up. But deep in her gut, she knows that he won't. (She hopes anyway.)

"Th . . . Thh-hat was . . . close. I . . . damn near lost you guys. W-Walherich . . . WWW-W-Wendell . . . CCCam," McCarthy says, his voice too quiet. Emberly looks around, but she does not see Cam, the red-haired girl who McCarthy calls out for. She must have gotten lost, she assumes. From where Emberly is on the tree, she can see that his breathing has started to become alarmingly shallow.

"You're here now, you're okay. You're safe now. You're with us. We'll protect you," Walherich promises. A new tear rolls down Emberly's cheek; He isn't safe, she thinks. Look at all of that blood — that is not safe. McCarthy has become a broken boy: there are bruises forming on his skin, blood staining him, everywhere Emberly looks.

She has always believed that life is such a precious thing. From a human to the most insignificant butterfly — all life matters to her. But here it means nothing. Here, the Capitol hollows everything out and steals all of the light away; how could life matter in such a place? Perhaps no one truly cares, but deep down, even if she had to deal a killing blow, Emberly knows that her precious meaning of life will never fade. At least never to her.

That belief of hers resonates with her as she approaches McCarthy Balmain. Because he means something — she refuses to believe that he will die in vain. And to see someone's life slipping away like this — not a on a television screen, but right before her eyes — shatters her to the core. She breaks all over again, right there on the lowest branch of the tree, and begins to feel a wave of despair wash over her. If she did not make sure to keep herself steady, she would have fallen to her knees. Instead, she holds her position, but fails to lock in the tears that demand to fall.

"You can't baby him. This is the games. Don't coddle him, Wal. Mc-Get-y up! We need to go before someone finds us. You left a blood trail —" Wendell urges McCarthy to push onward, but it seems to be no use. You cannot force a dying man.

"Someone already found you," Emberly says as her feet touch the ground. Although tears wet her face, she keeps her voice steady, unwavering. She is not ashamed of crying in front of people she does not know; she is not ashamed of mourning her friend, no matter who her company is.

She does not raise her spear when she approaches. "I don't want to attack you," she tells them. "I was in the trees, I saw McCarthy. Is he —" but her sentence breaks off there. By force of habit, she was going to ask, "Is he alright?" It would have been a foolish question to pose; of course he is not alright.

Emberly moves closer to McCarthy so that she is in his line of view. She falls to her knees beside him and touches her hand to the wounds beneath his clothing. "I — I'm his friend," she says, but this time, her voice is unsteady when she speaks. "And maybe . . . maybe I can do something for him. I used to tend to wounded animals on my farm." It is different in the Arena than it was at her ranch: Emberly has no medical supplies, and in her journey to the waterfall, she did not observe any medicinal plants that would help McCarthy. But she cannot just sit by and watch McCarthy die without at least attempting to do something.

She applies pressure to his deepest wounds, but she knows that she can promise nothing to him. So she doesn't. "I'm going to try to help you, McCarthy," she tells him. Try — yes, she would try. But will I succeed? she asks herself.

Likely not, she answers.

But Emberly Lowe was never one to give up until it was over. Until McCarthy takes his final breath, she will not stop trying to save him, she promises herself. "I know it hurts," she says softly to her friend, another pitiful tear dribbling down her cheek. "Just focus on us. Focus on the sound of my voice."

Focus on anything but the pain, she adds in her head. She did not want him to hurt; dying a painful death was not something Emberly would wish on anyone.

Please, just hold on, McCarthy, she begs, but again, Emberly has no one to pray to. Saffron cannot help her now; no medical supplies would heal the damage that has been inflicted on McCarthy.

Just hold on a little longer.

He wasn’t happy. Never could be, really, if it came down to it. Especially if he ended up alive out of this hell; there was no way that he could possibly be happy. Why would he be? 23 are dead and he wasn’t one of them. That means he didn’t succeed in his goal; to save his friends. Clearly he didn’t prevail in it if they were dead and he wasn’t. He wanted to save them. He wanted to die for them, and unfortunately for him, Walherich didn’t do that if he was still there.



The laugh that could be heard escaping him was not a normal laugh. It was one that was entitled by hurt. The male from eleven felt a nervous pang hit his stomach as he let the chuckle vibrate into his core. It didn’t sound good. But when did death ever sound good? Death was a thing that taunted everyone and made sure you were at your worst when he came. He might not even be coming to visit you directly and he’d still bring you down to your knees.
Wendell started speaking- his god damn annoying tone almost seeming like he didn’t give a damn Though, he didn’t. It’s not as if he didn’t- he just didn’t. Wendell didn’t give any fucks to the dead.



Shut up.



I said, shut up, you dumbass,



Can’t you see he’s dying!? Your main concern is a BLOOD trail -



Mac let out a small laugh at that, and then looked around for a little bit, almost in wonder. Like he was trying to find something.

Someone.



That’s a damn good point- where the hell did she go? The male had no idea where the girl from five had found herself. Did she get lost? Did she run away, fearful that the body darting behind her was a body meant to kill her? Or was she nearby, watching from afar? There were many possibilities as to where the girl from five had hidden; but Walherich had lost his interest in any sort of that. The only female voice he did hear appearing in the air was definitely not hers.



Emberly Lowe was her name, if he remembered correctly-



It was Emberly. Clearly, they had some sort of connection with Mac. If it was a good one, he couldn’t tell. Walherich wasn’t sure what her business here was, really, but if it was involving sticking that spear of hers anywhere- the male from Eleven was ready to attack in any case similar.



Walherich shot a glance to her, giving a small shake of his head. (No. He’s not dead. He won’t die. He’s perfectly fine). But was he? In that rattled breath, in that tattered heartbeat-- was he truly okay? In any world where God isn’t present, nobody is okay. People can be alive- he’s seen the act of life without God before.

But without God, there is no fulfilled life. So you never get that little sliver of life back as it flashes away. Walherich always believed in God. Always thought he was there, somewhere. Watching. Praying. Looking over us like a simulation of sorts he’s placed us into. Looking at her, Walherich could see the tear sliding down her rose-red cheek. She must have been a friend of his- no stranger cries over the death of another.



Walherich paused, almost watching her interaction with the boy from eight. He was almost intrigued by her actions and what she was doing. Her voice was shaking, her breath was trembling - just as mine.



He looked down at Mac as the male began to speak.



A tear ran down Emberly’s face, and Walherich could tell by the pace of Mac’s speech. The speed of Mac’s breathing, how tense his body had started to become- he knew that the time was near. He had been slowly accommodating to the idea, molding his mind to just accept the idea that he was dying. Because as days go by- more will fall. More will become fate to this horrible disease that’s death. God, the name doesn’t even sound real.

Like it was a dream, that type of doesn’t-sound-real, but it was.



Wal took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves once more. He had to stay strong. He had to at least try to; he wouldn’t be able to go much longer in this place otherwise. Emberly had another tear run down her face, and Wendell was out of the picture. Walherich couldn’t give a damn about Wendell if they wouldn’t care about Mac.

They were a friend. At least try to give a damn.



The last words from Mac were short, soft. They could be barely audible to those who even tried hard to listen into his words. Though he heard them and it made him fear. Fear doing the thing that he wanted to do- which was die. People match fighting with surviving, and that meant that he either had to break a promise he made to Mac, or fulfill his wish. Don’t stop fighting or don’t stop believing? That was Walherich’s biggest conflict in the games. Not the mutts, not the tributes. Not the gash that’s gaping open on his chest.



Walherich had no other option than to bow his head and pray.

Because, maybe God does exist.

But the Devil is evermore in Panem's religion.

She takes the dying boy's hand in hers and listens to the sound of his breathing. It does not match hers; Emberly's breath is rhythmic, a steady up and down, but McCarthy's is ragged and uneven. She knows that it is a sign.

McCarthy Balmain struggles for air, and yet he finds the strength to speak. "Thank you," he breathes. They are shattered words from a broken boy, and like knives they pierce the hollow of Emberly's chest and slowly press into her heart.

"In District Ten," Emberly begins, but a sob catches in her throat, splitting her sentence in two. She focuses on home for a moment; the soft sunlight drenching the endless fields of grass and wildflowers in gold, the white picket fence that she and her sisters would sit upon and watch the horses play. Warmth floods her body, from her head to her heart — it is a fleeting feeling, but it is enough to give her the strength to continue.

"In District Ten, in the morning, you can hear the chirping of birds. They sing a new song every day. And it has the most beautiful sunsets — all of these red and gold and rose colors blended together in the sky, almost like a watercolor painting. Sometimes I paint the horizon of my ranch, and I always use watercolor when I paint the sunset.

"We have dogs, horses, cats, chickens, cows, and goats. There's an old red barn with a goat pen by the river. My little sister, Kiara, asks me to take her there to pet them sometimes. She likes the baby goats the most. District Ten is just so . . . full of life; that is why it's so beautiful."

A silent tear rolls down Emberly's cheek, and more threaten to follow. Despite the pressure building in her chest, she does not allow her voice to break while storytelling.

"I wish I could learn more about your home. Saffron always said that where we come from gives us our strength."

She is not sure if he hears her until the end, but McCarthy's features have relaxed, his body gone almost completely limp. Emberly can feel the slackening of his muscles in the palm of his hands and his fingers.

". . . Don't stop fighting," McCarthy says, but his voice, his strength, has deteriorated so much that his words are barely a whisper. But although he lies weak and broken on the sand with a voice hushed by the shadow of death, his words are driven by solid, steely determination. She can hear it in the way he pronounces each and every one of them; they are the will of a dying boy.

They are his last, she realizes.

His final breath leaves his body, and a stream of his blood trickles down Emberly's hand. Her gaze finds the thick crimson rivulet, but she does not wipe it away.

She can almost feel his soul leave his body, for the moment the last bit of life empties from his lungs, his hand laced in hers goes completely limp and begins to grow colder.

Emberly nods her head in agreement with McCarthy. "Never," she promises, but Emberly knows that it is too late. And when she makes this promise, she means it — until she has bled all of the blood out of her veins, until her lungs are so tattered and tired that she cannot force another breath, until her bones are so broken that she cannot stand to take the final blow, she will not stop fighting.

Because seeing McCarthy die renews her belief in what she is fighting for — not just for life. But for the sunsets in District Ten, for Saffron's hello and goodbye hugs, for her mother's smile, for the twinkle in her father's eyes when he tells her stories, for all of the bickering between Clementa and Paige, for reading Kiara to sleep at night.

But she feels the weight of McCarthy's death bear down on her, crush her bones into a million pieces. Emberly Lowe is not a strong girl. She cannot lift mountains over her head or carry the sky on her shoulders. She is sure that someone like Kaiser Fray could — she is not like him. Emberly cries when a punch is thrown to her cheek, screams and struggles to move when her bone is broken, crumples to the ground in shock upon witnessing a death. For years she had watched tributes continue to fight after losing a part of their body. For years, she had watched tributes walk away without even flinching after killing another tribute — she remembers Saffron was able to stand when she killed her own friend.

She is not them.

Lucy Peverell had cut off Saffron's hand, but she did not stop fighting. Would Emberly be able to do the same? She does not know. She only knows that sometimes love can overcome pain and that she desperately wishes to keep her promise to McCarthy.

Emberly Lowe would bleed oceans if it meant that she could return to her family — but did that mean that she was strong enough? Maybe.

"Are you guys done yet?" a voice from behind her interrupts Emberly's mourning. She recognizes it as Wendell Gordon. "It's a shame," he goes on, "that since he's dead, your invitation is now exceeded it's limit, sweetie."

And suddenly, Emberly feels a spear against her back, its tip pressing into her spine. Her body immediately becomes completely rigid against the pointed end of the spear, and her grasp on McCarthy's hand tightens. But a dead man can give no comfort.

"I wouldn't move unless you wanted the edge of this spear to cut into your flesh and draw out as much blood as McCarthy here has lost." Emberly wonders if Wendell believes himself to be funny. She did not think that he was; mocking a death was nothing but morbid.

Fear grips her body, encases her in unbreakable ice, but a part of her does not believe that Wendell would actually kill her — at least, not now. Not before the body of his fallen friend.

"I only let you live while he was alive. But now that he's dead — friends until the end, wouldn't you say, Wal? Unprotected, alone with a jungle full of panthers and you thought I would let you live after you and your measly little alliance took full advantage to try and take me out."

Emberly decides that she does not like Wendell Gordon.

"I wonder how long it would take you to bleed out if I damaged that pretty little neck of yours? Tell you what, the next time anyone in your alliance gets the bright idea to target me again — just imagine. You. Me. My blade. Your blood. My victory. You lose. I survive. And you — well — die."

They were big words from a boy from Twelve, especially from a boy who received such a low training score, Emberly thought. Wendell Gordon was bloody and beaten, and while Emberly had a broken collarbone, he was so worn from the bloodbath that she would be able to get away. (And she doubted that a District Twelve could climb at the speed she could.) But she had never been the aggressive type, and she knew better than to provoke him with such things. And if she ran, he would come after her with the spear. She had no interest in sparking a fight — not now, while her friend lay dead beside her.

"So," she says, maintaining the calmness of her voice. Inside she is trembling, but she refuses to betray any fear. She will not give Wendell Gordon the satisfaction. "You're furious because you were attacked a few times by my friends. This is the Hunger Games. I don't think it's always very personal when someone tries to kill you in the Arena."

People want to live — it is simple. Emberly may not understand cruelty, but she does comprehend why they must kill in the Arena. The day may come when she must choose between herself and someone else, and something deep down tells her that her decision will not be the most noble.

"Come and get me, little bird. I dare you." She is not one to take dares; Emberly is not easily drawn in by provocations such as these. Wendell's fierce words spark no inferno of hatred or anger within her, only fear that she manages to keep controlled, at least from the surface. If she did not believe Wendell's threats to be empty, she may be trembling at the moment.

When Emberly is silent, Wendell only continues — but drops her spear on the ground, confirming her theory. The tension within her releases, and her muscles relax. She does not let her guard down completely — she supposes that she never will in this place — but it seems that the situation has deescalated.

"No . . . ? I didn't think so. You are not even worth it I bet." She hears his heavy footsteps walking away, crunching on the dirt and leaves beneath his feet.

"You coming, Wal?"

She turns around to see Wendell walking away, and Walherich slowly following. As Wendell disappears into the woods, she leaves McCarthy's body for now and approaches the nearest tree.

Emberly ascends into the trees, safe from Wendell Gordon and his threats, and waits.


[emberly attemps to catch a koala]
w4ovmI8M1-4
[fail]