for all_at_sea : if I had a heart

[whisted]

Jack Simpson is enjoying this.

That, more than anything, is what has Horatio Hornblower feeling so painfully trapped. There had been a terrible sinking in his gut when his own name had been called during the reaping. There had been a heavy weight that lingered even after his mother's hand was dragged from his shoulder and his father's voice had vanished from his ears. For all that had ripped something from him, the odd inevitable hadn't been so terrible. A piece of him, even now, thinks he could manage to have properly accepted it.

But then, through the haze, had come the harrowing sound of Simpson's name. That had been far too much far too fast. That had been the worst sort of death warrant; the immediate shifting of hope toward dying at the hands of anyone but his District's other tribute.

None of the rest of it had helped, of course. Being dragged far from home was excruciating. Being poked and prodded and needled and explained to, by tense displeased voices, that he somehow didn't even stand and wear his clothes correctly was torturous. Even the odd comfort of being handed into the care of his mentor was undercut by the horrific fact of Simpson standing nearly constantly beside him, practically preening with a nauseating sort of pride.

In defense of the prep team, of course, Horatio apparently doesn't know how to stand properly. It doesn't matter that his fingers grip tight to the chariot, or that all he properly has to do in the Tribute Parade is actually stand still with the faintest bit of a smile. It's just a blessing, Pellew is certainly sighing to himself, that the Capitol seems to find a tribute managing to fall off the back of a chariot faintly endearing.

(Simpson will make his life hell for it later. Thankfully, Horatio doesn't anticipate having that much more life to have to suffer through.)

It will be better, he tells himself, when they can be separated in the Training Center. It will almost be enjoyable, perhaps, to have these few days of being able to make some small amount of space for himself before Jack Simpson thoroughly enjoys killing him.

Comments

[all_at_sea]

James doesn't turn to look at the newcomers, but he sees the flicker in his opponent's eyes. His sword rings against Beckett's, blocked momentarily but James' body is already shifting, weight moving to bring the blade down again on an exposed side. The grunt as the blunt edge smacks against his partner's ribs is soft, almost lost in between James' own deep breaths, but not completely.

"Cutler! What have we said about your guard?"

"Not to let it down, Lady Barbara."

James pretends he doesn't see the glare Beckett sends his way, stretching his aching limbs before hanging the sword back up in its place.

"Remember that! Now, take five minutes."

The respite is a blessing James knows they will not have in the arena, and he intends to make the most of it. He moves to the side of the training room, picking up his water and taking several swallows as his eyes move across the rest of the Tributes. He knows them all by sight, but has barely exchanged more than a sentence with most of them.

It's easier not to get to know them, Lady Barbara had said. Not as people, just as opponents, with strengths and weaknesses. As people whom he must kill, or be killed by.

The two new figures, under Sir Pellew, catch his attention. One looks capable, cunning. The other... well, you could hardly get two tributes more different.

James knows that he and Beckett were well prepared for this before they arrived in the Capitol. They had grown up with blades in their hands, with spears and bows; taught from a young age the posture and movement of a fighter. Neither of them was particularly bulky, but that was more often a hindrance than a benefit in battles. They were quick, they had minds that worked tactically, the ethos of the Games had been impressed upon them. They were the prime example of the Tributes sent by their District.

Of course, James had not been drawn originally. It had been Cutler and Elizabeth. Cutler could hang, in James' opinion; a vile and cold creature, with no sense of honour and all too pompous. But Elizabeth? She was a child, several years their junior, her own training was far behind their own. She was quick, yes, but Cutler was quicker. And James had seen the sadness in her father's eyes.

And so he had volunteered. His own father was proud of that, at least, even if Elizabeth didn't understand why her own adventure was being curtailed. James hoped her time would never come, but if it did, she would at least have more time to train and spend with her father.

He realises that the younger figure with Sir Pellew is probably the same age as Elizabeth. Moreover, he's been staring at them, unseeing, for several moments. He swallows another mouthful of water and glances away, at least before Sir Pellew notices the stare.

The two are dismissed a few minutes later, allowed to try their hands at the training facilities the Capitol provides. The cunning one makes a bee-line for Beckett, and James is grateful for that. He does not like the look in the young man's eye.

That leaves the other, who seems to be lost, or maybe dazed. James recalls that not every District likes to prepare its youths for the realities of the Games, and this may well be the first time the young man has seen a training room with its racks of blunted weapons, its climbing wall and rigging, all the tools a Tribute may need to hone their skills. Perhaps it's the size and number of the other Tributes that have stupefied him.

He should, he knows, confirm that the young man is as helpless as he looks. He doesn't like to, everyone should at least have some skill, some hope.

"I'm James." He says, as there seems no official protocol for meeting someone you will soon be expecting to kill. "How do you do?"

[whisted]

In the arena, Horatio won't have the comfort of Pellew's fingers firmly caught at the scruff of his neck. It helps now, all the same, to feel something solid and friendly a few moments longer. True, his mentor is murmuring softly in his ear about the tributes they're watching--where one's guard looks sloppy, where one is extending his arm a little too far, where one has managed perfect form for holding off a blow and can't be shaken. True, Horatio needs to be listening if he wants to have any hope of surviving even the opening bloodbath.

It's just that the hand on his neck might be the last bit of affection he's allowed in these last few days of his life. It's difficult not to want to simply soak it in; allow himself this last moment before everything properly crumbles to pieces.

He can feel other eyes on them as Pellew directs his attention this way and that. There's the heavy weight of disdain in most (even in the eyes closest to him, as Simpson glances now and again in his direction). There's pity in a few (because everyone else, even those younger than he is, had managed to keep themselves together at least through the first presentation of tributes to the Capitol). His own eyes stay more or less glued to his mentor, glancing only now and then at the other tributes (children) around them.

And then Simpson is moving off, released into the Training Center and clearly eager to lap all of it up. Then Pellew's hand moves from his neck to his hair, faintly fond before it's gone entirely.

For a heartbeat, Horatio is alone. For a heartbeat, he can feel his entire body ready to crumble in on itself, under the weight of the odd glance and intense silence in the pocket around him.

Then there's a voice. Then there's a solid presence just beside him, and his body turns to look by instinct rather than volition. There's no need for the slightly older boy--James, apparently--to explain himself. Even without the faint recognition the tributes by now have for one another, there's no mistaking those who had been born for the Games.

Watch them, Pellew had directed. Watch the Careers. Watch the way they move. Watch the way they carry themselves, even in the brief moments of rest they take. Drink in the confidence and capacity it takes to win.

(On the other side of the screen, infinitely far away, Archie Kennedy's lips gasp without crying out. The boy standing over him radiates confidence as he twists the knife, as if his entire life had been building up to this moment of victory.)

Even watching from this close at hand, Horatio knows his shoulders will never look like James's. Even now, in this relative safety, his own can't be stopped from hunching in on themselves, instinctive, half-way between self-preserving and self-defeated.

"Horatio."

The one who had already proven himself incapable. The one who, smart money had it, would likely be offed by his own fellow tribute within the first moments so as not to hold him back.

He can barely keep his eyes lifted from the floor for the length of speaking his own name.

[all_at_sea]

Opponants, Lady Barbara had said, not people.

Sound words of advice. Do not get attached, do not open up your heart, because it will be your downfall. He knows that is true enough, and he knows he should harden himself to the sight before him, the boy turned so completely in on himself that it's a surprise he is not inside-out. Why did no one volunteer to take this boy's place? Why did no one in his District see what James could see? Or did they only feel relief that it was not their own name being called?

James feels an edge of anger and despair, but he fights it down. Save it till it is needed.

Even as he reminds himself of Lady Barbara's advice regarding his fellows, he knows he's pitying the young man. He pities all of them, if he was honest with himself. They must fight, or they will die. All of them in this room, bar one, will soon be dead. Some of them resign themselves to the fact it might be them, some of them pray it won't be, and some- like Cutler and Beckett- know it will not be them.

What a terrible situation to be in. To be so young and have so much potential, but be resigned to such a fate. James hates it, but he can not say as much. All he can do is work as hard as he might against it.

He holds out his hand, the movement gentle and open and, he hopes, a little reassuring. "I'm sorry to have met you under these circumstances, Horatio."

He knows Lady Barbara is watching him. He can feel her beautifully lined eyes on his back. She wants him to be sizing up the boy in front of him, learning his weaknesses, finding his strengths. He is, although not purposefully, not intentionally. It's been drilled into him, over the years.

Barbara isn't the only one watching him, not in that moment. Sir Pellew is too, he is sure. He sure the gentle, fatherly touch to Horatio's hair. Even Careers have their weaknesses.

"Would you... like me to show you some of the equipment? Do you fence?"

[whisted]

There's all but a physical stutter in Horatio's features. His first instinct at the offered hand is to glance toward the last place Pellew had been, already adrift at the first decision point.

Pellew isn't there. Instead, his eyes catch the mentor from District 1, standing tall and straight and clearly staring into the spine of the young man before him. It sends a painful shiver down his spine as he drags his attention back to the hand before him.

No one will help him in the arena. No one will guide him through the actual instant of deciding whether to flee or throw himself into the hope of taking a life.

His breath comes short before he hazards taking the other tribute's hand. At least his fingers aren't shaking, obviously sick through his features remain. Maybe, with what little time they have left, it isn't so terrible to cling to bits and pieces of human dignity.

Somewhere behind him, he feels Pellew's gaze swing to bore small holes into the back of his own neck. His fingers squeeze reflexively before he forces himself to pull his arms back around himself.

"I-- fence?"

[all_at_sea]

James watches, watches Horatio's eyes dart. He's looking for answers, from Pellew, or an escape route. James can't blame him for that, but it's a habit that Horatio will have to learn to break. Pellew can not go with him to the arena, and by the look of him, Horatio's fellow Tribute can not be depended on to help.

The handshake is hardly that- but considering how obviously nervous and unhappy the boy is, James can't expect any better. James doesn't mean him harm, the very idea that he might have to kill the frightened young man in front of him is abhorrent. But that is the games, that is why they are here. The least he can do is try and help the young man find his feet.

"Swordplay? It's very good if you want to practise balance." But perhaps it wasn't something for young Horatio to try to learn before the games started. He'd hardly have the time, and besides, it wasn't exactly the best option within the arena. James knew that.

"Is there something you're familiar with here? Archery, traps and snares? Poison?" James ha\d no real skill with any of them, but they were options, here. A rudimentary knowledge of traps and poisons would probably be useful, if only to avoid those used by the other Tributes.

Perhaps he should just leave the boy alone. The likelihood is that neither of them will see this out, they should cling to whatever advantage they have. Lady Barbara would expect that, it's certainly the smart tactic. He should be sizing up the others, who form more of a threat. But he can't abandon this young man to his fate. There may well be something untapped in him, something that can save them.

[all_at_sea]

James had expected to be pulled into Lady Barbara's study as soon as they returned to their quarters. He was right, sweeping him along behind her. He was powerless to escape, but he knew he couldn't avoid it. Best get it over with, endure the telling off, and then refuse point blank when she asks him to apologise to Simpson.

He was very surprised that none of that happened at all. Lady Barbara didn't look pleased, but clearly, there was some plan distracting her from being angry. Some tactic, some opportunity.

Something that, apparently, she and Sir Pellew had cooked up together. Horatio was no good at axes it transpired, but his skill in traps surpassed the other Tribute's meagre talents in that area. Matched with James' skill with weapons, they would be a very successful team, they could learn from each other.

James was certain that, in actual fact his job would be preventing Simpson taking revenge on Horatio, but he didn't say that. He didn't say anything, aside from Yes Lady Barbara. He didn't say he'd be happy to work with Horatio, or that he was looking forwards to it, or that he intended to work with Horatio for as long as he could, until they were in the arena at the very least.

Instead, he got ready. His chest was already bruising, but the layers and layers of unnecessary Capitol fashion hid that well enough. The shirt, the jacket, the waistcoat were all made for him, just for this evening, and even though District 1 rarely lacked much in the way of supplies, such luxury was still a rare thing.

The pale fabric, the glint of gold at the lapel and the cuffs made him feel distinctly over-dressed, but there was something almost military in the cut that made him feel less of a peacock.

In truth, it was an almost modest outfit in comparison with the costumes worn by the rest of the guests at the President's Palace. The guests, the gardens, the building itself were weighed down with colours and glitter and precious things that James couldn't help but wonder how many families in the Districts could have been fed and clothed instead.

There was no point in thinking like that. He was here to meet patrons, the rich and the powerful who would sponsor him, send him vital supplies in the arena. If he survived, these were the people whom he would continue to court favour with. Which had all sounded well and good, before today. That had made sense, even if he didn't think he would enjoy it.

Now though, with other concerns fresh in his mind, he found the music and the bright lights, the ever-flowing drinks too much. Lady Barbara was somewhere- her laugh was loud and audible, but he couldn't catch sight of her. Cutler was in a knot of people, much like James, but he seemed to be enjoying the attention. But James didn't like the appraising eyes that moved over him. He didn't like the hands that touched his back or his shoulders, that lingered on his arms.

It was as much as he could do to make his excuses and try to escape, to find some quiet corner away from the crowds. Where the other Tributes here? Was Horatio? More worryingly, was Simpson?

[whisted]

Simpson needed to be seen to. He snarls and spits once he's got his wits about him, but even he understands he needs to be seen to. It's a relief to be able to deposit him with Matthews, whose own surly half-intoxication sits well with barking the tribute into sitting still and being patched up.

That gives Pellew the chance to pull Horatio aside. That gives Horatio the faintest glimmer of hope, for the first time in over a year.

It would take more than a week, after all, to learn to move the way James moved. It would take more than a week to feel half as comfortable with a weapon in his hand as James looked. And it would take more than a week for James to sort out how to find food, how to twine snares, how to sort between plants for poison.

Even if it didn't last, it would be nice to feel even half-way safe before he died.

Oddly enough, Horatio doesn't feel entirely safe as he drifts through the glittering crowd at the Palace. It's better now he's separated from Simpson again, admittedly, but there's a different sort of danger in the air. For all his eyes are good at catching hints of snares in the brush, he can't quite sort out what's lingering behind the smiles plastered everywhere here.

Part of it is the suit. Horatio had barely seen a suit before, let alone been shoved into one. He takes comfort, at least, in the fact his prep team had relented away from anything flashier than the warm grain colour of the fabric, dotted lightly here and there with darker flecks like seeds dotting the familiar crescents of bread from home. That keeps him nearly smiling as he tries to breathe through the conversations he doesn't quite understand, the chatter of people who somehow think he belongs among them despite being from what feels like a different world entirely.

Pellew is too far away to sneak into the shadow of--and besides, his mentor would certainly shoo him back into the arms of the public. Simpson is hardly an ally to slip up beside in the hopes of deflecting some attention.

It's the flash of gold (a cuff link, he thinks, from the sweep of a hand) that gets his eyes to James. It's the flash of relief in his gut (a chance to learn this, or at least dim his own star next to a proper one) that has him excusing himself from the woman clinging to his arm to appear beside the older Tribute.

His fingers are lighter now than they had been in the Training Center, simply glancing at the other boy's elbow as he sets himself nervously into place beside James.

[all_at_sea]

James feels the gentle pressure against his sleeve and glances that way- sure it is the hand of another overzealous would-be patron. But the fact it is Horatio, Horatio in a well-tailored suit that makes his pale skin appear a far healthier hue than the horrible dark clothes designed for the training room. James even manages a smile, strictly for Horatio, and then when the Capitol citizens seem to hesitate, a natural pause in the conversation, James at least manages to introduce him.

Although perhaps saying my very good friend, Horatio Hornblower was a little premature. Still, it seems to charm the people in front of him, enough for more glasses of overly sweet bubbly liquid to be brought round. James takes a glass out of politeness, although he makes no move to drink it. As covertly as he can, his free hand touches Horatio's back, just below his shoulders. It might be fine, but he doesn't like the way hungry eyes watch them, and he doesn't want to wake up tomorrow with no memory of what happened this evening, he doesn't want to take his eyes off Horatio or be separated from him.

If he's truthful, he doesn't much want to spend this evening stood around with these people, not even if Horatio next to him makes him feel less alone. He'd much rather be somewhere quiet with the other Tribute. The conversation happening around him is already little more than white noise.

"You'll have to excuse us, ladies and gentlemen. There's someone I want Horatio to meet..."

There isn't. But it will do, it gets them away and James lets his hand slip from Horatio's back, gentle curling their fingers together so he can lead him away. There are a thousand rooms in the palace, and while most of them are locked up, it doesn't take too long to find a little antechamber, where the buzz of music and talking is muffled. The lights aren't so bright and it feels... safe. As safe as they can be anywhere, he supposes.

That means he can breathe, and can offer Horatio a small smile. "I was beginning to worry that I was trapped here alone. Did Sir Pellew tell you about this plan they've contrived?"

[whisted]

The smile cast his way by a friendly face is entirely reassuring. The affectionate introduction is oddly overwhelming. Horatio can feel pink flushing into his cheeks, brightened further by the obvious amusement the words seem to give the people around them. His fingers tremble just slightly as he takes the glass thrust into his hand, only allowing him the tiniest sip before he's half-certain he's going to spill.

Then there's James's hand resting lightly against his spine, and the flush in his cheeks begins moving toward a deeper crimson.

Thankfully, James seems fairly capable of handling small talk for both of them. Horatio can manage calmer breathing and something closer to a smile for the next few moments of conversation.

His cheeks are still pink as James directs them away. They stay pink as the hand on his back slips down into his own grip. They darken again as his own fingers catch tighter, keeping him close as they move quietly through the crowd.

For a heartbeat, he thinks he catches sight of James's mentor watching them from the other side of the room. For another, he notices Pellew studying them thoughtfully through the crowd. Before they turn off into the quiet little room, he's certain his eyes meet with Matthews's, which look much sharper and more sober than he's ever seen them.

That, as much as anything else, has Horatio's cheeks paling again as he quietly plucks his hand back. "He did. Do-- you mind it?"

[all_at_sea]

Lady Barbara and Sir Pellew and old Matthews can watch them as much or as little as they like. They aren't threats, and right now everyone else in the vicinity is. James pays them no mind.

Horatio's cheeks are a much softer pink now, hardly flushed at all, but just with that slight rosiness to them that betrays the blushes of the past few minutes. James tries not to stare at them, but forces himself to flash another grin, and not think about the heat of Horatio's hand in his.

"I... I think it's a good idea." He says. He was going to say he had no problems with it, but that wasn't true. He might have fought to keep a neutral expression with Lady Barbara, but he doesn't with Horatio. This could, after all, be the most stupid idea ever. It might lead to his death, to both their deaths, but somehow... that doesn't much matter. If he must die, then he should die with a friend than surrounded by enemies.

And he'd much rather it be Horatio than Cutler.

"But I want to know... do you actually know how to use an axe?"

It's not important, not really, but he can't help but tease a little, and he can't help the smile that pulls at his lips.

[all_at_sea]

James didn't expect Barbara to give in easily. She didn't, not really, but it's clear that she would like him out of her hair for a little while, and the ripples of rumour and gossip after the afternoon's broadcast already seem to be having an effect. If she can feed those rumours by allowing James and Horatio more time together, then she'll grant permission.

Besides, James' jaw is set and his eyes are determined- if she doesn't arrange for him to go to see the boy in District 1's suite, he might try and make his own way there. That would not be a smart move- Peacekeepers guard the building and any Tribute sneaking about is not likely to make it to the Games.

None of that is really important. James is going to see Horatio. Not to train, not to entertain the public, but just to... talk. To be normal young adults, just for a little while. True, they might be talking about how to survive in the arena, but James is still looking forwards to it.

That's why he finds himself at the door to the District 1 apartment so soon- without having taken in any details of the route. His escorts- two Peacekeepers and one of Barbara's helpers- let him knock, and only once he's admitted inside do they leave.

He doesn't know if he's limited for time, he wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. All he knows is that the special dispensation to be here has had to come from the very top- from the Gamemakers themselves. It's never happened before.

[whisted]

It isn't a promise. It can't be a promise. Nothing, after all, can be a genuine promise anymore.

Horatio's heart is set pattering when the soft knock echoes through the quiet apartments. It's all he can do to keep sitting still while Pellew goes to usher the other Tribute in without a word. There's nothing to say, after all. There's only the matter of the mentor locking the door again quietly and vanishing again.

Once Pellew has turned away again, Horatio lets himself shift to his feet. It's almost intimate, having James here--not because the rooms feel at all like home, but because he's not certain there's ever been a moment together not wrapped in uncomfortable sparkling clothes or the odd stricture of their training garb.

"--thanks."

[all_at_sea]

James grins, eyes landing on Horatio the moment he steps into the apartment. It's surprisingly like the one used by District 1, but James barely recognises that. Horatio looks so different here, not made up for an event, not in his training kit, the light softer.

"Thank you for inviting me." He says, mostly to Horatio, but also to Pellew, who had to agree to all of this, before Horatio's mentor goes back to whatever he was doing.

And that leaves them alone. It's very difficult not to feel slightly nervous. It's hard to believe that they're trusted enough not to require a chaperone.

"So-" James begins, trying to hide the sudden rush of nerves. "A battle plan?"

[whisted]

Holding hands had been comforting. The memory prompts Horatio forward the rest of the way, fingers catching fretfully at the older boy's.

"Beginnings of one, at least."

It's best to keep an eye on the door Simpson might come out of, distracted though the other Tribute is. That, as much as anything, prompts Horatio to tug them both back to the couch, perching himself where he can keep watch for the other young man from District 11.

"Think through... what the start of it all will be."

[all_at_sea]

James lets Horatio guide him. For some reason, the way Horatio's fingers tug him gently but earnestly towards the seats make his heart skip a beat, but he ignores it. There's nothing more to read into it, nothing more to say than Horatio is being a good host.

It's nice to sit with him on something more comfortable than the mats in the training room, and although it's the same sort of sofa in the apartment he is staying in- this one seems nicer. Maybe it's because he gets to sit on it with Horatio, and not Cutler.

It's hard not to smile at Horatio, even when they're talking about this. It's not a pleasant subject. But being with Horatio is nice, every second of it should be cherished.

"I have been thinking about it, believe me." He says, settling close to Horatio. He knows Horatio's attention isn't wholly on him, but watching for Simpson is a good idea. He doesn't much want to be overheard.

"I want you to get away as fast as you can. Let me deal with the... the start. Cutler and Simpson may not work together, but I can not allow them the opportunity to do so. If I can offer a distraction to them both, and stop them following you to a suitable hiding place, I think that would give you the best start."

The Bloodbath

[whisted]

As the tributes stand on their podiums, the horn sounds.

Sparrow, Kelly, Turner, Cheng, Finch, G. Wall, and Clay run away from the Cornucopia. Neuville rips a mace out of Mallory's hands. Bonny grabs a shovel. Bracegirdle stays at the cornucopia for resources. Hales, Galante, and Gillette work together to get as many supplies as possible. Groves pushes Hepplewhite off a cliff during a knife fight. Read, O'Malley, and Seymour get into a fight. Read triumphantly kills them both.

Norrington scares R. Wall away from the cornucopia.

Hornblower finds a canteen full of water.

--

Horatio does mean to run.

He and James have a plan. The plan is to make as much space as he can between himself and the others--between himself and Jack Simpson. In the corner of his eye, he can see more than a handful of Tributes simply bolting, barely even looking at the Cornucopia. That's all he has to do. That's the only thing that needs to happen.

And he almost does.

It's just that one of the boys from District 2, clearly scrambling to gather supplies, drops a canteen of water. The object goes skittering along, just beyond Horatio's path. It will be a precious resource. It will help them breathe a little easier until they can find food.

Horatio diverts himself only briefly. He ducks to snatch the canteen up quickly. He's in a dead bolt before he's even certain that he has the object properly clutched in his hand.

But it's enough time for Jack Simpson to nearly catch up to him.

Simpson is just behind him as they near the trees.

Simpson's hand catches his shoulder as they pass into the thicket.

[all_at_sea]

James felt sick. It was an odd feeling, nerve-induced nausea. Barbara had forced him to eat something that morning, in between final preparations, but there was no way, no means, no possibility of trying to go and find Horatio. It was the only thing he wanted to do, and it was one of many that he was not permitted to do. The fact that Cutler is sombre for once does not improve matters.

James would have preferred to ignore the other boy all morning. He would have rather been alone, but that wasn't to happen either. They ate together- or tried to eat, they were dressed together, they had to endure Barbara's final words of advice together. And then there was the flight.

It was not long in real terms- at least considering the passage of the sun in the sky. But Cutler had decided to ignore James' unspoken desire for silence and started to talk about home. About the training grounds, they had both used, people they knew, their families. He missed them, he did not know if either of them were going to ever see it again.

James couldn't decide if Cutler's solemn reminiscing was genuine or a trick to unsettle him, and although he tried to harden himself to it, there was only so long he could do that for. Those words cut soon enough, stabbing into his heart and he knew that Elizabeth Swann and her father would be watching the Games, that they would see every move he made, every mistake and every success.

If he failed, he would not see her again, or her father. His own father. He would never see Horatio again, he would never get to see Horatio smile or nervously fidget. He would never get to reach out for his hand and offer him reassurance.

The landing and the final preparations happen in a blur. Before he knows it, he is getting onto the plinth and machinery begins to vibrate beneath his feet. All he can think of is home, Horatio. He has to push it all down, he has to focus, he has to pull himself together. Breathe.

For several long seconds, all there is is his breathing and the whirl of the hydraulics lifting him skyward. He has a few seconds once he emerges into daylight, and tries to take in what he can. Trees, thick and dense, deciduous with pine here and there. The Cornucopia is behind him, and beyond that, there are no trees. There's either a body of water or something else beyond.

It's not a huge distance to the Cornucopia. About the same as it is to the tree-line. He can see Horatio, several Tributes away from him. Simpson is closer than he is, but Cutler is several people away to his other side.

And then the horn blows.

James doesn't even think, but pushes himself from the plinth and runs as fast as he can towards the stash of supplies. There are others heading the same way, others who have hesitated, but James doesn't bother to look at them. He doesn't need to, not until his hand closes on the handle of a broad, sharp blade. It's more of a machete then it is a sword, but it will do. There are knives too, and he snatches at one before whirling around at the young woman behind him.

Her eyes flicked from him to the machete, and then back to the blade.

James has never killed a person. He didn't think the first person would be a girl he doesn't recognise. But there's something in her determined face that makes him think of Elizabeth, and suddenly he feels panic grip him. He doesn't know if he can. He doesn't know this girl. She looks about his age. The nausea is bad, but while his mind spins in circles and his stomach does backflips, the rest of his body knows what it's doing. The sword hand is raised, threateningly.

The girl backs off, turning on her heel and heading towards the forest, between a group of boys fighting and a body.

He feels his eyes drawn to it, but a noise behind him forces his attention back onto the more pressing matter of the living. And he's lucky too, because it's Cutler, and in his hand is a throwing axe. He doesn't look distressed, or unhappy. He looks calm and composed, far different from the boy James sat with on the journey here.

There are no words, just a lunge.

Cutler would have done better to throw the axe from where he was, but it's the only weapon in his hand, and clearly, he doesn't fancy his chances of delivering a killing blow if he did throw it. As it is, James ducks away just in time, feeling the kiss of air against his shoulder. He's turning even as he ducks, bringing the wide blade around and feeling it bite into flesh. Not a killing blow either, just a bite into the back of Cutler's leg.

But it's first blood.

Cutler wobbles, but the adrenaline keeps the pain at bay, and the axe sails around again, forcing James backwards. James is trying to swordfight with a weapon made for hacking and Cutler is trying to hack with a weapon made to be thrown. No wonder both of them are making a mess of it.

He takes another step backwards, the mouth of the Cornucopia now behind him, hoping that the movement from shadow into the bright light will blind Cutler. Maybe it does, but James is too distracted to use that advantage. To his side, he can see the thin figure of Horatio disappearing into the thicket, but right behind him is Simpson.

"Horatio!"

He doesn't even realise he's called out, not until Cutler snorts, bringing the axe around again and this time making contact with James' upper arm. The pain is sharp and sends a chill down his spine, but it's not enough to stop him bringing down the machete.

He was just striking out. Lashing out would be more appropriate, the pain in his arm making the blow far less smooth. The blade comes down on Cutler's throat, not his shoulder, and for a moment, for a single heart beat, both of them are in shock.

And then the blood drains from Cutler's face, seeps down and out through the horrendous rent in his neck, soaking his clothes and the blade and his mouth opens, as if to speak. No sound comes out, and then suddenly his knees buckle, and the machete is almost wrenched out of James' hand as the corpse slumps into the dirt.

[whisted]

Somewhere, Horatio almost hears James's voice.

For almost his entire life since they'd met, Horatio's body had simply shut down whenever Jack Simpson reached for him. There had once been an instinct to fight back--to kick and shove and bite and scream, but that had always made things worse. It had been better, for such a long time, to simply give up--to accept as inevitable the pain that would invariably come and the loathing that would well up against himself when he was alone again.

His heart is already pounding in his ears as Simpson's fingers catch into his shoulder. It would be so easy to panic, to forget all his new instincts; to break. But this isn't the same.

This won't just hurt if he gives in. This won't just break something quiet inside of him and leave him hating the world a little bit more. If he gives up to this, here and now, it will all be over. Simpson will win. His mother and father will watch, over and over, their son murdered on a giant screen.

Above the hammering of his heart, he almost hears James calling his name.

Fighting back is still new and inelegant in his limbs. Horatio spins with the tug at his shoulder, the canteen in his hand lifting at the last second and catching the other boy in the jaw almost by chance. It's a glancing blow, enough to slightly destabilize Simpson but not enough to stop the other Tribute from throwing his weight into both of them. The actual ground is harder than the mats they had been training on, and it takes a half-second of daze before Horatio can properly work out that, in the scrambling, Simpson's got a firm hold on his leg.

It takes another half-second to realize Simpson has a knife, and yet another to realize that, for the first time in nearly a year, Horatio actually wants to live.

Neither of them are experts with a knife, at least not on anything larger than a rabbit. Simpson's grip on the blade is too tight, little mobility in his wrist as he hefts himself over Horatio and lifts the knife. In his own awkward scramble, Horatio wrenches his weight to the side the other boy is balancing over, knee coming hard into Simpson's stomach as they both crash to the ground again. It isn't enough to loosen Simpson's grip on the knife, but it gets a satisfying sort of grunt from the older Tribute. That's a first tiny victory.

Horatio's breath comes in an uncomfortable hiss as he catches at Simpson's wrist. His entire torso is aching, radiating pain from where his spine had made sharp contact with rocks and twigs on the ground under Simpson's weight. His vision is swimming just slightly as he reaches to grab a handful of Simpson's hair, bitingly tight near the other boy's forehead. It isn't a plan so much as a bid at distraction; something else for Simpson to claw at while they struggle for control of the hand holding the knife.

Then he sees the rock.

It isn't a terribly remarkable rock, settled casually against the root of the nearest tree. It's more that it's a rock that had, at some point or another, had a large piece broken off, as if dropped from a great height or knocked badly during the arena's construction. The edge isn't sharp, but it's hardly dull.

In the heartbeat it takes to see the rock, Simpson's free hand is at his throat. The edges of his vision are already sparking with haze, and the sudden grip on his throat begins a proper darkening at the edges. It takes everything in him not to let go and start clawing at that hand. It's barely enough, as he throws his weight to the side again to set them rolling slightly. Somewhere beyond his blinding concentration, their hands with the knife sheer too close. Somewhere beyond his ability to think, his side becomes suddenly hot and oddly slick where the blade licks over his ribs.

None of that matters. What matters is that Simpson's body shifts with his, leg coming up to lock slightly around Horatio's knee. What matters is that the shift gets Simpson's head within range of the rock.

It would be better to lift the rock and smash down. There isn't the time. There isn't the safety. There isn't enough left in Horatio's mind to do anything but dig his fingers tighter into Simpson's hair. All his strength goes into dragging Simpson's head up from the ground and slamming it down, with all the weight he can muster, into the rock's edge.

The first blow gets a certain stillness. The second gets a deep, ugly sort of crunching noise. After that, Horatio stops counting.

The hand on his throat has slacked several moments before Horatio can force himself to stop slamming Simpson's head down against the protruding stone. The hand holding the knife is unresponsive as Horatio tugs himself free, both sets of fingers moving to pull the small blade from the other Tribute's hand. Horatio couldn't say for sure, as he took his grip on the knife, whether the body beside him were alive or dead. Somehow, it didn't matter. All that matters once he has the knife in his hand is that this is finally going to be over.

His breath is coming hard. His attention is narrowed down to the form he's hefting himself up over. If he focuses, two things can be true at once. If he forces himself to, the warm thing next to him can almost be a deer, already felled, needing simply to be fully dispatched. If he lets himself, the body beside him can fully be the only person in the world he's ever actually wanted to see dead.

They can't risk Simpson getting up again. That's the best thing to focus on as he makes another grab for the boy's pale hair, arching Simpson's neck like an animal. The blood that gushes from Simpson's throat as the blade sweeps along it is sputtering and impossibly red.

Horatio isn't certain when he stopped being able to breathe, but starting again is incredibly painful.

[all_at_sea]

James watches Cutler fold up, collapsing first at the knees and then the body and blade part company violently, and what had been the boy he'd grown up with, a neighbour, is no longer a person but a huddled, bloody mess on the floor.

As a canon booms overhead, James throws up.

He would have preferred not to, but no matter how many years of training he's had, nothing has prepared him for that. Nothing has ever prepared him for watching life ebb away from a body, or the guilt the washes over him.

He wipes his mouth, and then looks up, trying to get his bearings. There are other bodies out in the clearing, less than he expected to see. There are one or two figures disappearing into the woods.

Horatio is nowhere to be seen.

The adrenaline pumping through James is still going strong, and he manages to curl his hand around the machete again and head towards the tree-line. He runs across the clearing, towards the shadowy spot where he thinks Horatio disappeared, Simpson just behind. But he is not at home in forests. He's not completely sure this is the same place, all the trees look the same, and there's no sound beyond apart from the wind in leaves.

It's foreboding and dark, and there could be anything, or anyone waiting behind the trees on either side of the faint track. But Horatio is in there somewhere, with Simpson, and he can't hang back.

He takes a breath, the air under the canopy tastes different and as far as it's possible, green. But it doesn't smell like blood.

James heads in, trying to move as quickly and as quietly as possible. Barbara had said something about not being silent because woods were never silent. There was always the wind in trees, birds and insects. Move carefully, tread lightly, but not silently.

It was impossible to be silent in any case, impossible with so many twigs and dried plant matter underfoot. But there was no sounds of running, no noise of fighting. Not clearly. There might have been a scuffle some distance away, but there was no shouts or noises of pain.

They said they wouldn't call out. That was sensible. Horatio knew bird calls. But what if he was hurt? James cursed himself. He should have followed Horatio straight away, left Cutler till later. But he did not want to have to face Cutler and Simpson as a united front.

There's another boom of a canon, and it chills James' blood. He doesn't know who it's for, and it could be for anyone, but suddenly sneaking around the trees isn't worth doing. His grip on the blade tightens, and he quickens his pace, listening intently for the sound of anyone else near-by, for bird call.

But despite Lady Barbara's comments about birds, there's not a sound.

[whisted]

Jack Simpson is dead. It doesn't feel real.

It should feel real. The body is still sprawled before him, eyes slowly duller and duller with every passing second. The blood is still seeping from the knife-wound; still clinging red and gory to Horatio's hands. The stillness over the scene is genuine and deep, not remotely the sort of trick a person might hope to play to get an enemy to leave.

It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel real, and Horatio can't stop staring at the body.

His fingers rub a red tinge onto the canteen when, fumbling, unseeing, he finds it again. His body aches as he settles himself back against the nearest tree, dull pain turning warmer as the fight drains from his body. His grip on the knife is entirely unchanged as he tries to force himself to look away from what used to be Jack Simpson.

But he can't.

It takes a long silence to remember that he was supposed to be running. A jolt of pain from his side as he breathes gives him a moment's clarity, and his gaze is finally ripped up to the woods around him. He should be seeking cover. He should be listening for James. He shouldn't simply be sitting here, gripping a knife as if it would keep the thing in front of him from deciding to turn back into a human being.

His throat is strangely hoarse, so he lets himself take a faintly coughed breath. His fingers stay gripped around the knife as he lifts his hands to cover his mouth slightly. The sound that escapes him is barely the warble of a songbird, trilling low through the quiet of the forest.

Some of Jack Simpson's blood brushes clamily from his fingers to his cheek.

Day 1/Night 1

[whisted]

Day 1

Read constructs a shack. Hales and Kelly hunt for other tributes. Bracegirdle sprains his ankle while running away from Bonny. Cheng makes a slingshot. Neuville sees smoke rising in the distance, but decides not to investigate. Groves diverts Gillette's attention and runs away. Mallory is pricked by thorns while picking berries. Clay receives medical supplies from an unknown sponsor. R. Wall, Galante, and G. Wall track down and kill Turner. Sparrow sprains his ankle while running away from Hornblower. Finch discovers a river.

Fallen Tributes
6 cannons

Hepplewhite, District 3

O'Malley, District 7

Seymour, District 10

Becket, District 1

Simpson, District 11

Turner, District 4

Night 1

R. Wall sets an explosive off, killing Neuville. Cheng cannot handle the circumstances and commits suicide.

Galante tries to treat her infection. Groves and G. Wall sleep in shifts. Finch, Clay, Bracegirdle, Mallory, and Gillette sleep in shifts. Kelly and Read discuss the games and what might happen in the morning. Bonny thinks about home. Sparrow and Hales sleep in shifts.

Norrington and Hornblower sleep in shifts.

---


Horatio is dozing against James's shoulder when the cannons go off. The six rounds thud dull in the distance, as uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach as they had been through the rest of the day.

He's beyond glad that they're hidden away where they can't see the sky of the arena. He's beyond glad he doesn't have to see Jack Simpson's face even this one last time, even as far removed as it would have been. It's much better to simply press his features in against James's shoulder and try to find enough solace to sleep properly.

Of course, there can't be any proper sleep in the arena.

There's no abstraction when he dreams. There's no phantom as terrifying as what had actually happened. It's simply a matter of his mind being unwilling to move on from the first horrible hour of the Games. Over and over, he feels Simpson's hand on his shoulder. Over and over, his fingers twitch against James's side, clutching at the ghost of the other boy's hair.

Then, suddenly, the fitful cycle is interrupted. Suddenly, the reality playing in his head switches tracks--and it's two years ago, and Jack Simpson is alive, and Jack Simpson's hand on his shoulder isn't going to end in Jack Simpson's corpse.

There's a strangled scream in Horatio's throat as he jerks awake. Hopefully the sound of a distant explosion will serve as cover for the way he startles awake.

[all_at_sea]

James is numb. He's really too tall to stay sat like this for so long, in such a confined space, but it's either this or a tree, or death. He'd take numbness over the other options, and shifts when he can. Despite all the movement, the little noises in his sleep, Horatio's head is still resting against him. James doesn't have the heart to try and move him off, and as some of his movements are quite sudden, he'd rather not let him rest his head against the cave wall. He'll brain himself against the rough wall, and James is not about to let that happen.

The canon fire is distant, muffled by the wind and the rustle of the trees and the walls of their hideaway. It's not peaceful, but it is quiet, and for that James is thankful. It means if someone approaches them, he can hear it. He expects most people have bedded down now- it's dangerous to try and find your way in the dark in the arena, and best only to move if you have to.

He's not expecting anything to really happen until the morning.

He's also not expecting anything more than soft noises and movement from Horatio, so when the scream comes it makes James jump- not a great thing for a tall boy to do in a cave. Biting back a curse, James' hand goes to the top of his head, his other hand on Horatio's elbow.

"It's alright, it's alright." He says, glancing out the cave mouth into the darkness. There's silvery smoke in the distance, some sort of explosion or fire he supposes, but that's not pressing. Horatio is his concern.

[whisted]

His own hand is over his own mouth before Horatio is properly awake. There's a panic in his eyes that takes a moment to shake as his body tugs instinctively against James's fingers on his elbow.

It takes a few heartbeat for James to be James. It takes another few for his heart to begin to slow again toward something he can actually breathe through.

There's an apology somewhere in his throat. He can't quite choke his way around it.

[all_at_sea]

James sees the panic, he sees fear, he feels Horatio pull away.

He has to fight the urge to bundle Horatio up in his arms, he has to fight away the upset at the fact Horatio moves away. Horatio is scared, he's just woken up, he's somewhere unfamiliar and it's dark. Outside it's still an inky blue, but the cave makes it hard to see clearly, and rationally, James understands why Horatio tugs his arm away from the comforting hand. It might well not be comforting.

He doesn't move, he doesn't crowd the other boy, not until he can hear Horatio's breathing become slower and deeper.

"I'm sorry." He says, keeping his voice down. If someone had heard them, he doesn't need them being able to pinpoint where they are.

"Are you okay?"

[whisted]

If they live that long, Horatio is already certain it might be a comfort to wake up and burrow in close against the crook of James's neck. If they live that long, he can imagine dispelling nightmares by hiding against the warm scent that clung to James's skin beneath the sweat and dirt and copper of blood.

For now, it helps to have a few minutes to reboot his brain--to remember why he is where he is, who he's sitting across from; how Jack Simpson can't hurt him anymore.

Horatio waits until he's certain of his voice before he lets himself whisper into the space between them. "...s... s-sorry. I'm...."

He shouldn't say it if it's not true. He takes another breath to be certain.

"I-I'm okay. Are-- A-are you?"