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 can't believe that Horatio hasn't run, that he's dallied and even come back towards the cursed tree, and as he gasps for breath he tries to push Horatio away, to get him moving. But it's clear from the beginning that Horatio isn't going anywhere alone and there is no time to discuss the matter. James pushes him again, beginning to run even as he does so, trying to keep Horatio in front of him and away from the insects.

But it's too little too late.

The sting gets him on the back, almost exactly between his shoulder blades, and it feels like he's been stabbed. The force of it is enough to send him stumbling forwards again, but he keeps his footing somehow, crying out even as he keeps running.

He has to run. He has to move. He has to get Horatio away.

His vision is swimming only a few steps later, and he can barely make out trees and the shape of the younger boy in front of him. His limbs feel heavy, sluggish, and either they are heavier, or they are running through air as thick as syrup. He doesn't know which is true, but the air burns in his throat. The buzz of the Tracker Jackers is mixed with the whine of the Peacekeeper's sirens, and he sees the flash of white out of the corner of his eye.

"Peacekeepers!"

Somehow he manages to move faster, grabbing Horatio and tugging him away from the armed patrol, tumbling down a slope that he hadn't seen. The leafmould is slippery, damp and thick, moving beneath their feet as the earth slides down, but he doesn't dare to stop running. He can't stop. His father will be angry, so very angry, if he's late home.

[whisted]

They just have to run. They just have to get away from the hive and find some new shelter. This is a known problem, after all. This is solvable.

And then James, who had been stumbling slightly behind him, shouts and catches hold of him.

He's stumbling before he's even properly understood that he's being tugged along with James. His breath comes sharp and just a hint terrified as he tries to keep himself upright.

"--James." He can run and gasp out words, hopefully. "James, just-- k-keep running. It's-- It's o-okay, just-- run."

[all_at_sea]

James knows he has to run. He knows that running is the only chance to get home before his curfew, he knows that the Peacekeepers right behind him hurt him if he's late. He knows that he can't let go of the thin hand that's in his, no matter what, because he has to hold on. The whys and hows and whos are hazy, the pain in his back and in his burning lungs makes any thought apart from run impossible.

The ground evens out, running is easier. The hum of the Peacekeeper's ships is still right behind them, the electric whine of their weapons seems to get louder and louder in James' ears. It fills his head, and then he's not sure if it's coming from his head or not.

It's too dark. The light is mottled, blocked out why hundreds of airships high above. He's never seen so many, he's never thought so many could exist, but every Peacekeeper in Panem must be behind them now. How can they escape that? How can they keep running?

And there, up ahead, is his father.

Lawrence's expression is unhappy, his thin lips pressed into a thinner line.

James' feet start to slow, his hand slipping out from the vice-like grip. If he must speak to his father, he'll do so alone.

His pace is slower now, a jog as he comes up to the man. It's his father, he's sure of it, although perhaps it's really President Sawyer. The grey hair is the same, the disappointed, down-turned mouth, but the rest of the features swim in and out of focus.

His feet knock against something as he comes to a stop, as his father, or President Sawyer, opens his mouth to chastise him. He's done wrong, he knows it. He should be punished for it.

And then the world explodes. Dirt and plant matter and bits of bark fly everywhere, the force of it sending James backwards. Particles rain down, bits of tree and sticky bits of insect and clods of earth fall, but all James can hear is a ringing in his ears, and a world of greys surrounds him, hazy and indistinct and full of the smell of burning.

[whisted]

It can be still be fine. James is still clinging to his hand and running in as straight a line they can manage. They still just need to make space from the hive and find a new place to hide. They just have to hope no one's heard them tearing through the woods.

Then, suddenly, James isn't next to him anymore.

The sudden loss of the other Tribute's hand from his own sends Horatio stumbling. He shouldn't turn around. He shouldn't go back and drag James along again. He should get clear of the swarm. Despite that, he feels himself skidding toward a halt, scrambling to slow and spin around.

"James--!"

He knows that stumbling. He knows that slight glaze in the other boy's eyes, even across the distance between them. He takes a breath to start running back. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the flash of someone running away from them.

And then the world explodes.

For a few heartbeats, Horatio is entirely blind. As the halos fade from his eyes, he's almost certain he's still blind. The smoke is thick, obscuring James into a hazy blotch. It burns his lungs as he breathes in, taking a first stumbling half-step toward the taller boy.

This is almost a good thing, he tells himself as he shakes his head against the ringing. This will confuse the tracker jackers. If they're lucky, this will completely dissipate the swarm. His cough is rough and hacking as he finally thinks to pull his arm over his lips, stumbling forward again to try and catch at James's arm.

"James." His voice is muffled, but that has to be a good thing as well. "James, listen to me, okay? Take-- take my hand."

[all_at_sea]

James coughs, the smoke acrid and thick, hot and dry like sand as it fills the air around him. His eyes are streaming, red and sore, but he has to try and find a way out. There has to be a way out of this grey cloud, it's tendrils looping around him.

And then there's a figure, a voice he knows, small and slender, reaching for him.

"Elizabeth?" He asks, trying to blink away the tears and the smoke, but she doesn't answer, just says his name again, her hand outstretched. He takes it, but she shouldn't be here, she should be at home, safe, with her father. He doesn't understand, even as her fingers curl around his wrist, and then he realises.

It isn't Elizabeth. It's Cutler, his dead eyes glassy, blood at the corner of his mouth, face as pale as the smoke that swirls around them.

Take my hand he says, as James shouts out in fear, heart in his mouth and he backs away, trying to find some clear back from the apparition, away from the boy that still has the machete buried deep in him, blood dried brown around the wound, flies crawling over him.

[whisted]

This is bad.

It might just be one sting. It might be that only one tracker jacker managed to catch James. It might be that only a survivable amount of poison is seeping through James's system. There had to be salve somewhere. These trees weren't so terribly unfamiliar, and the creeping growth his mother used to use when her pouch ran empty would almost certainly be blossoming out from some roots or other.

But that will require James not to run off. That will require James not to hurt himself, not to be thrown by his hallucinations into actual physical damage.

It will require James not to hurt Horatio when he tries to help.

Horatio's breath is still stuttering in the smoke. His fingers keep pawing for contact, trying not to let James escape into the haze. "James-- please. Please be quiet. It's just me. It's-- It's Horatio. Whatever-- Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. Stay-- Stay with me. Please."

[all_at_sea]

The dead shouldn't be able to hold on so tight, or grasp so quickly, James knows. But isn't it strange, that the voice isn't Cutler's. Cutler never reached out to him like that, Cutler never spoke to him so pleadingly. Cutler Beckett in life or in death would never ask like that, James knows that. The voice isn't one from home- it's not Elizabeth or his father, or any of the others he had known and sparred with.

The voice is so familiar though, and in a strange, almost abstract moment of clarity both from the smoke and the hallucinations, he recognises Horatio.

He nods, fingers clutching at the hand Horatio offers, breathing hard and deep. He can hear Barbara, her voice crisp and clear in his ear, utterly unimpressed with his poor performance.

Think with your brain, James. How are you going to protect Horatio in this state? You should have checked the tree before you climbed into it. That's a mistake that could have killed you, and still might. Those stings can be fatal if left untreated. Why didn't you think to gather herbs this morning? Silly boy. I knew Cutler should have my full attention...

[whisted]

That's James's hand clutching back at his. For half a second, that's James looking like he actually knows what's happening around him.

Those are good signs. The worst may simply be yet to come, but it's a relief that the hallucinations haven't yet become all encompassing. It must only have been one sting--maybe two at the outside. It isn't too much poison to be stopped. It isn't going to kill James in the next few seconds.

"That's it. That's-- That's right, James."

He can hear his voice cracking, but he can't be bothered to care. All Horatio can think to do is keep talking softly, keep tugging James with him out of the fog and away from the sluggish remains of the dissipating swarm.

"We're going t-to make this right. I promise, James. You just-- j-just stay with me, all right? Come on. This way."