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.

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[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."