past the treetops, onward towards morning [yusei + av:lnc]

We kneel around the small geyser, filling the jugs we got our first day in the Arena. My throat constricts, watching the cool water fill my jug. I make sure to get as much liquid as possible before dropping an iodine tablet in. I watch the tiny gray tablet fall into the bottle and begin to bubble and dissolve. I'm ready to take a swig of the jug but remember the trainers back in the Capitol. A young man with dark skin and long green hair had explained different ways if purifying water, the most labor intensive of which was making a fire and the least was using iodine tablets. Honestly, I didn't think I'd get my hands on the little guys in the Arena and resigned myself to rubbing sticks together until my fingers were raw. The only thing about the tablets is that it took thirty minutes for it to work.

I eye my full water jug for a moment, desperate to take just a sip. Patience, Temple. Better to suffer for a few more minutes than pay for it later. I slam the cork back into the top of the jug, swinging it into my bag. If I look at it any longer I'll drink the whole thing.


The howl from before slipped through the trees again. I look up and Bette has already risen and is walking into the treeline with her bow drawn. I stumble, collecting my things and hefting my bag onto my back, now considerably more heavy with a filled jug than an empty one.

I take my axe from my belt, and I follow after her. She's well ahead of me and I'm shuffling through the forest, trying to mimic her quiet steps but catch up to her brisk pace. The jarring THUNK of her crossbow firing steals the air from my lungs. I break my attempt at being gentle with the forest floor and take off running through the underbrush. I reach Bette in time to see a white tail retreating through the trees. She moves forward, dropping her bow and falling to her knees.

I nearly ask her what she's doing but the words die on my tongue when I see the figure lying on the ground. Pale skin coated in crimson, light hair soiled with dirt and sweat. His name leaves Bette's lips just as it appears in my mind like a dream.

"Yusei."

I step forward, unsure of what to do. His throat is torn open, blood pooling on the ground around him. He looks like the bat corpses we left in the vineyard, or the tiny creatures cut open on the hardened wood this morning.

He looks dead.

My heart is lodged in my throat, my hands wringing the hilt of my axe. Bette starts ripping bandages, trying to halt the steady flow of blood leaving his body. It doesn't matter what she does now. We're too late.

I slowly walk to the other side of the boy, kneeling into the grass. He's smiling when I get there, bright eyes watching Bette work. I wonder if they knew each other. Ever saw each other at school or ran into one another on the streets.

"I'm fine. Promise." He coughs, blood sputtering onto his chin. He doesn't look like the same boy from the training center. He seemed so tall and powerful, yet sad. Here he's broken physically, but there's a peacefulness to him.

I reach out a shaking hand, smoothing my warm fingertips over his cool forehead. I push his hair from his face, smearing the blood across his skin. I give him a smile, but again my lips are pulled taunt by the fake considerate smile Mace wore on the train. I couldn't give an actual smile, not when a boy is dying right in front of me.

I take my water jug from my pack and yank the cork out. The water isn't purified yet, but I don't think that will matter much to him now. I gently press the tip to his lips, letting the liquid poor against his lips. It washes away some of the blood only to expose the intensity of the wounds. I set my jug into the grass and can't resist pressing my palm against his cheek as if checking for a fever. He's clammy to the touch, his skin white as paper.

I look down at his pale eyes and remember how he looked in the training center. I lean down, my lips beside his ear.

"What was your mistake, Yusei?" I whisper, hopefully the microphones won't pick it up. It's up to him to decide to speak about it, but I don't want him to... to pass before having the opportunity to speak his mind.

In the end it's silly things we worry about. Impressing a crush is a drop in the vast ocean of survival. Blood dribbles into the grass, dark against the black soil.

I've never seen someone die before. I've helped Pa with old hounds, I've lead cattle to the square to be shipped off to the Capitol. I've watch tributes on television but they're so far away, separated by glass and pixels. It's entirely different to press your fingers against skin and feel the warmth leave it. To watch blood spurt from wounds and watch as their eyes grow dim.

We all sit around him. It's hard enough feel such pain surrounded by people, I wonder how horrifying it must be alone.

I press my palm against his forehead again, brushing away dirt and blood.

"You can go home now."

We sit for what feels like hours. My legs cramp beneath me but I do not move.

The sky grows dark.

I drink my water.