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.

[whisted]

There's something surreal about the casual way James speaks. It sets another chill into Horatio's spine at the reminder of exactly who he'll be facing.

More than half the battle had already been won by the Careers. They could speak casually of swordplay and archery. They could leap to the faintest instruction by their mentors. They could size one another up without much care for those who had found themselves thrust into the hands of escorts from a simple pitch and toss.

For a moment, Horatio is ruefully glad to know that someone like the young man before him is going to rip Jack Simpson to shreds.

That's half of what surprises the faintest glint of a smile to the corners of Horatio's lips. The rest is the reminder that the training center does house at least one thing that makes sense. Nearly all the Tributes had run straight to the weapons--to swords and arrows, to axes and flails. He suspected it wasn't a sign that most of them had spent long hours patiently setting traps to keep wild dogs away and intricate snares to catch the odd rabbit for a meal.

Pellew had told him to hold back before the private sessions. It takes a heartbeat to manage it, with what felt like genuine sympathy standing before him.

"Show me the axes first?"

It would never be a level playing field. Still, there was no reason to let the Careers get so far ahead of the pack.

[all_at_sea]

James should be better at hiding his thoughts. He has a great deal of practice, keeping his next step in fencing to himself, not letting it show in his eyes or expression, holding his tongue when his opinion differs from that of his elders. But the surprise that he feels when Horatio says axes is obvious.

He recovers as quickly as he can, trying to picture the slight young thing in front of him wielding one of the heavier war-axes he's seen in the training room. He just can't picture it, himself. Perhaps Horatio has some skill with throwing axes. They're deadly and would remove the need for hand-to-hand fighting. He can almost imagine that.

"I believe there are some." He says, although frankly he's barely glanced at them, he still gestures for Horatio to follow him, passed some of the other Tributes towards a rack of axes and hammers. James can't see anything so heavy being of use in the arena, but he knows that sort of thinking could be his downfall. There's certainly one or two bigger Tributes who could easily heft such a thing.

"I don't believe any of us has used them much." He'll admit, although he probably shouldn't. An axe might be good if you can get up close, or close enough to throw one, but a bow is more deadly over a longer distance.

[whisted]

If James's surprise is obvious, so is the brief flicker of relief in Horatio's features. Even if the pessimistic piece of him is fairly certain that tributes with a lick of training are more than capable of feigning surprise, it still feels oddly comforting to have some sense that others have faces capable of betraying emotion.

That's followed, of course, by another heartbeat of relief for the fact that Pellew can't see the continued mobility of his own face before he turns to follow James.

Having someone else to point him in the right direction starts to relax the tension in his shoulders. Having something like a first step--a proper jumping off point in this sea of unknowns--is quietly reassuring.

"Just like harvesting, isn't it?"

[all_at_sea]

There is the tendency for Tributes to forget that they, and the others they will enter the arena with, are human, even those from District 1, the so-called Careers. They aren't Career murders, they aren't born with the desire to kill, even if many of them end up serving as Peacekeepers. The Capitol takes them and breaks them, like it does to its Tributes. From the moment their names are called, Tributes are stripped down by the mechanics of the Games, quickly and ruthlessly until all that is left is fear and the instinct to survive. It's a terrible fate- most die, and those that live are left as shells.

James is lucky, he supposes. He won't ever be expected to join the Peacekeepers now. Even if he survives, he won't be fit for it. He'll be paraded out by the Capitol, made a showpiece until they next set of games, and a new winner.

But that is ahead. It's easier to focus on the now.

"Harvesting people?" He replies, raising an eyebrow. "I would hardly call us a crop." Far from it. You harvested a useful resource. What was happening here was the destruction of a resource. And as a reminder of that, there was a creak above them, one of the guards leaning against the railing, pausing in his patrol of the walkway that overlooked the Training Room. As James looked up, the guard casually changed his grip on the handle of his gun.

James turned back to Horatio, sure that the younger boy had seen the same thing, and he dropped his voice. "No, this is a Reaping."

[whisted]

It's impossible not to glance up. It's impossible not to notice the small shifts of a human pillar meant to make certain they all died much more dramatically than at the end of these guns.

Horatio's head ducks, heavier this time before he forces himself to study the axes again.

Maybe the smaller hatchets wouldn't be so bad. Maybe a trapped man really would be like a trapped animal, and it would turn into a sort of kindness to dispatch of them. He can't quite believe it, but he clenches his jaw around the thought and tries to work his way back into his own voice.

"But it's..."

He can feel the tremble coming back into his throat. He forces himself to set his fingers on the throat of the nearest axe. It isn't steadying at all, but it's something to grit his teeth against.

"It's the same motion, isn't it? Whatever or... whoever you're being asked to cut down."

[all_at_sea]

James considers it for a moment, just a moment.

"I think it is best not to think of it. Not even in those terms."

The more you think on it, the harder it is to keep doing it, to survive, to get out. You have to kill, and kill, and kill again, and never once look down at the blood on your hands and question why.

He reaches forwards, taking an axe with a longer handle, weighing it in his hand. The head is blunted, of course, there are no real weapons here, although all told, the thing is heavy enough to make a decent bludgeon. But kill one guard, there is a dozen more ready to kill you. If the Tributes could all work together and dispatch the rest, there's the whole Capitol to fight though.

He steps away, still getting used to the weight of the axe in his hand, and making sure he's far enough away from Horatio not to hurt him, swings it. It feels good, but probably better if he had something solid to aim at.

"The longer you think about it, the harder it gets. And there will be other concerns."

Like food, and water. They were not necessarily easy to find, or safe. James had never had to find food, or search out water simply to stay alive. They had adequate supplies in the District, and although he had an idea of the basics, he was in no doubt the reality would be different.

[whisted]

"Other concerns."

What an odd reality, to know that there would be 'other concerns' on top of the fact perfect strangers would turn into known quantities would turn into the boys and girls ready to kill him.

"That's where--"

Other concerns, of course, were how Archie had nearly managed to survive. The children of District 11 might not have had years of practice with swords or tridents, but they could all find their way into food despite the arena's harsh conditions. It wasn't so far off from home, most of the time.

It had been such a perverse thrill, watching Archie. It had been the beginning of such a fragile hope for a district which so rarely saw victors.

Horatio's fingers twist unhappily on the handle of the axe, tugging it down far too roughly. There's the 'other concern' of fighting off ghosts, but that isn't exactly what James meant.

"--we stand half a chance, isn't it."

[all_at_sea]

James pauses, watching Horatio's face as the young man pauses for a moment too long, clearly thinking something over, and not something very pleasant either, from the way his face shifts. James doesn't ask, he doesn't want to make Horatio feel all the more uncomfortable, but does reach out and gently pat his shoulder. The movement might be slow, hesitant, in case Horatio decides to bring that axe down on him- it might not be sharp, but it would still cause damage. James does not want to go into the arena with a broken wrist because someone misinterpreted a kindly gesture.

"I think you may stand a better chance on that front than me." He says, honestly enough. He allows himself to pause then, considering the young man. It would be foolish, utterly foolish, to even consider forming an alliance. It is too early for that, he's got no clue how much work he would have to put in to keeping Horatio alive, and how much of a return he might get.

But he finds himself considering it, even so. He'll have to see, have to be sure before he even suggests it.

Lady Barbara will hate it, he knows. He won't even bring it up with her.

"I... I should go back to sparring." He says, aware that Horatio will have been expecting more than that. He should have said something more, but he can not make promises he may not keep, he can't offer hope and then take it away.

[whisted]

It's such a small thing. It's such an infinitely tiny thing. It's the briefest set of fingers against his shoulder, glancing as anything, barely noticeable if anyone hadn't already been looking at them.

It's friendly human contact. It's a huge thing.

Horatio's lips betray him briefly, twitching up at the edges with another flicker of relief. His head ducks quickly enough to hide the expression. He's sobered up before he glances up again.

"Thank you, James."

It's for the best. He can feel the sharp eyes of the District 1 mentor on them again, calculating something far beyond Horatio's contemplation. He can also feel the uncomfortable prickle of Jack Simpson's eyes lingering on him, the ugly sensation of the other tribute beginning to circle closer.

That's not something James should have to deal with, after being so kind.

To Horatio's infinite relief, it takes Simpson a moment to actually make his way over. There are, apparently, knives to examine and bows to test. There are inexpert snares being made by other tributes for Simpson to sneer at as if he'd ever done that much better. That gives Horatio a few minutes simply to breathe. It lets him test the axe he had pulled down by chance; to reject the premise and try his hand at a hatchet instead.

That feels more natural. That feels, almost, like he could make his instincts take over with the weapon.

And then Jack Simpson is at his elbow. Then there's the familiar unpleasant warmth of breath at his shoulder and fingers catching at the small of his back. This, at least, Horatio has gotten good at looking blank about.

"Careful, Hornblower." His fellow tribute's voice is low, painfully close to his ear. "Don't want to get a reputation."

Something shuts down in Horatio's ears, although the other young man keeps talking. He doesn't need to hear to be directed into standing across from the slightly older boy, into watching Simpson heft down a much heavier axe from the wall.

Maybe it won't be so bad in the arena. Maybe he'll just shut off like this, and barely notice when the tribute from his own district kills him.

[all_at_sea]

James doesn't want to actually leave Horatio alone, but there is only so long left in the training room today, before the guards will lock it down and Lady Barbara will herd them out so they can get ready for the ball at the President's Palace. Frankly, James would rather had lingered a little longer in Horatio's shy but blossoming company, rather than be fawned over by the Capitol's rich and powerful. He had no stomach for it, although he supposes Cutler will be looking forwards to a chance to show off.

He wanders off a little way, not far though, before he realises he still has the axe in his hand. It's not something he feels any need to carry around, it's hardly a weapon he feels any affinity with. Horatio might like them, but he's probably practised with them more than James, the handle and sharp blade must feel like an extension of his body. James possibly could handle one in a push, if he had no other weapon at hand, but it would not have the finesse of his word with a sword.

He sighs and turns on his heel to put the axe back where it belongs. And not to see if he can catch a glimpse of Horatio, perhaps even trying his hand at one of the axes himself. He'd like to see what Horatio looks like, although not to calculate his weaknesses and spot openings in his defence.

That naive and eager hope dies a swift death in his chest when he sees what is actually happening. Horatio looks like an animal trapped by a predator, willing the end to come or some sort of escape to present itself.

James knew he hadn't liked the look of the other boy from Horatio's District. He looked like a thug, someone who enjoyed killing, enjoyed taking as long as possible to wring the life out of something, and it made his grip on the axe tighten. He didn't even realise his feet had taken him right back to Horatio.

"You, Eleven." He says, and at that moment he doesn't much care that he's addressing the boy like the smug Career he is. "Are you too scared to fight with anyone your own size?"

He gestures the vile boy forwards, moving to the wall and reaching for another axe, pulling it free and then tossing it over for Simpson to catch.

There's a sudden hush from the rest of the room, even the guards have stopped their patrols to watch. James doesn't notice as he shifts away from the wall, circling the other boy. He'd so much rather have anything but an axe, but he knew the type of boy facing him, and if something was not done now, Horatio would never be free of him.

[whisted]

What feels like a lifetime ago, Horatio had been able to throw himself on Simpson's mercy to protect Archie. Archie had been able to do the same. It hadn't been a plan so much as a desperate bid for survival in the face of what felt like an unstoppable force of nature.

It's a different sensation, now, to have a still-strange voice appearing close at hand instead. There isn't an instantaneous flood of relief. There isn't a rush of appreciation. This is still too uncertain.

It's enough, for now, to send Horatio skittering back toward the wall, away from whatever is happening. It's enough, for now, to get an ugly grin blossoming over Jack Simpson's features as he catches the offered axe. The older boy looks much more capable with the weapon in his hand than Horatio had.

There isn't any warning. Simpson brandishes with a ruthless sort of speed, throwing a heavy swing. It would be enough against the youngest Tributes here. It would be enough against someone already petrified like Horatio.

But, at the end of the day, it's the swing of a young man used to wielding a scythe, not an axe.

[all_at_sea]

James sees the swing before it begins, in the way Simpson's body shifts to one side, to put all his weight behind it as he rushes forwards. It's a bad first move, although James won't deny that the other boy is clearly strong. And fast.

He steps away from the blow, watching the heavy head of the axe sail through the air several inches from his side. He's still not familiar enough with the weapon to attempt to strike back; the long handle feels alien, requiring both hands. He feels off balance, and he realises that the footwork he knows from sword drills will only get him so far.

Still, if Simpson charges around like a bull, James will find an opening soon enough. He's moving away again, bringing the axe up now, trying to work out the best way to use it against the brute.

"That was fairly poor, Eleven, even for a provincial. Try again."

Perhaps goading the boy isn't the wisest choice. But keeping his attention on James gives Horatio time to get even further away, back towards Pellew and Lady Barbara.

[whisted]

Watching, thankfully, isn't useless. Watching is something Pellew had actually told his younger tribute to do--a boy with more brains than innate skill, with a better chance at watching and replicating than stumbling through it alone.

Watching James and Simpson feels important. Watching where Simpson moves on instinct, where he understands the heft and swing of the other boy's body, is a primer in what he'll need to fix. Watching how James reacts, how he shifts through an unfamiliar weapon with constant little adjustments, is a goal to set immediately.

Simpson, for his own part, isn't learning quite as quickly. He takes his feet and swings again, nearly the same way, but followed by throwing his shoulder hard toward the Career's chest.

Easy to rile, apparently.

[all_at_sea]

James has no chance to step away from the force of the impact, but he knows not to try and right himself as he goes down. Maybe it will throw Simpson off balance, but if it doesn't, it hardly matters. James already has his own axe in hand, sending the heavy blade into Simpson's knee.

He doesn't wait to see of the blow knocks the other youth over. He rolls away and is back on his feet, wonder but not in too much pain.

"Better. Did your grandmother teach you that?"

He gestures Simpson forward again. The wall is not far from his back, and as Simpson dashes forwards, James doesn't bother to move out of the way
He just ducks the axe and grabs Simpson as hard as he can by the collar, slamming him into the solid concrete wall. There's a reassuring crack which he hopes it's Simpson's nose. The clatter of the axe to the floor is just as musical.

"You, sir, aren't worth my time or attention. Do not insist that we do this again," James growls, his grip unwavering, forcing Simpson into the wall again., to reiterate the point.

[whisted]

It isn't a good sign. It isn't a good sign at all that Horatio only feels himself gasp in a soft suck of breath when James is the one being struck toward the floor. It isn't a good sign that he exhales with relief as James rolls lightly back to his feet.

Beyond Horatio's attention, Pellew is shifting toward Barbara. Beyond where he can focus, the District 1 mentor is letting her head cant slightly toward the District 11 mentor as he begins to murmur quietly.

Horatio doesn't have time for that. All Horatio has time for is the odd sensation in his gut as Simpson goes slamming into the concrete wall.

There's an unpleasant gurgling in the way Simpson moans, arms scrambling against the wall for relief. There's bound to be blood dripping from his nose and down his throat. There's nothing the tribute is going to be able to do but go lick his wounds for a bit. Horatio wishes, for a moment, that it could simply let this continue--that this could be the end of at least this small part of his troubles.

"James." His voice is surprisingly steady as he slips into place beside the taller boys. His fingers are light and plucking at the arm holding Simpson to the wall. "He won't. Let-- Let him go."

It isn't at all what Horatio wants. It isn't at all what's going to be best for him, in the long run. It's still what's meant to happen, when one's fellow Tribute is being beaten.

[all_at_sea]

There is no satisfaction in the gurgling noise, or in the realisation that every face (aside from the one pressed into the wall) is turned in his direction. He'd much rather have sparred quietly, stretched and taken his leave of the room without any fuss, but if that meant leaving Horatio, or any of the others, to face Simpson then he could not.

He could hear footsteps closing in, soft, light footsteps. Not those of an armed guard, or a mentor come to break up the scuffle.

It was Horatio. He knew it even before the gentle, hesitant hand touched his elbow. He would have blushed, if the adrenaline and the anger were not still rushing through him.

Horatio was right. There was nothing else he could do anyway, short of maiming or killing the other Tribute, and that was going too far. At least for the moment. So he let go, stepping back, one hand still holding the axe, just in case. There were people who knew when a fight was over, when to stop, but James couldn't count on Simpson being that sort.

"Very well, Horatio." He says, his own voice measured. His ribs are hurting, but not a great deal. His chest will bruise where Simpson barrelled into him, but otherwise, he was unharmed. "Perhaps someone would be so kind as to help Mr Simpson clean himself up?"

[whisted]

Horatio ought to reach out for Simpson. He ought to help the other boy from his District to his feet again. He ought to preemptively start to hold Simpson back before the boy got it into his head to do anything stupid.

His fingers instead linger on James's arm, not quite daring to squeeze in gratitude but not quite able to abandon the contact immediately.

"I-- I will."

Simpson begins to sway from his slump, clearly ready to find his way back into foolishness. That finally drags Horatio away entirely, plucking delicately at Simpson instead to get the older boy's arm over his shoulder. Maybe James will find comfort in the clear stumbling as Simpson is slowly moved toward Pellew--or the obvious mark on the wall where Jack's nose had clearly been broken.

[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?"