thearena | I'll be dead before the day is done;

Entry tags:

I'll be dead before the day is done;

Who| Adella and Bucky, Cullen (maybe others) later
What| Adella's number has come up, time to punch it.
Where| by the river
When| Early Tuesday, just as the Jabberjays are whipping into motion.
Warnings/Notes| CHARACTER DEATH.

Adella crouches on the river bank, not far from the cave where the Thedosians have made their camp. Beside her she has a stack of dirty bandages, and her makeshift staff, set aside so she can use both hands to scrub the blood from the bandage in her hands. The water is freezing, but she ignores it, the task needing to be done. They were making do with what they had, but with so many injured they couldn't afford to discard old bandages, not when they could be cleaned and used again.

The first scream she hears has her grabbing for her staff and on her feet, her head whipping in the direction of the caves, before she realizes that the sound hadn't come from there. It had clearly been Cullen's voice, but it had come from the forest, on the other side of the trees. She hears it again, and takes a step forward, before pausing, unsure. She's aware enough of the dangers in this place to not be sure if her ears are playing tricks on her, and it keeps her rooted to the spot for the moment, unaware she's not the only one hearing screams.

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He knows better, he does. When the voices start to call him in the tones of Steve, Sam, Aang and his other friends he at first stumbles but then reasons. It's not the first time that the Capitol has tried to use their voices against him, they did it in the last arena with the little robots after his friends died -- but this time they're still alive, he knows it can't be them.

Crouching down by the trunk of a tree Bucky takes deep breaths, trying to put himself through the meditative technique that Bruce had taught him to stay calm. They're safe at the cave, or elsewhere, it's just a trick the Capitol is using to try and torment him, or lure him into some danger. He won't fall for it.

Maybe the Gamemaker's realise that, which is why new birds's arrive to join the first group, calling with voices he can't so easily ignore. The voices of old Handlers, one's who should be dead (as much as that means anything here) but the things HYDRA did are still buried deep in his brain and any attempt to free himself from them is hampered by his continued inability to heal here.

Trying get rid of the birds by hurling stones is useless, so is trying outdistance them as the voices hound him, hurling accusations of failure and disappointment amid the cries for help until he's completely disorientated by his surroundings. Bucky can't stand it, trying to meditate isn't helping and he desperately wants them shut up before they drive him completely insane.

That's when he stumbles through the tree's and happens on the woman at the riverbank. Half-crazed, desperate and boiling over with emotion Bucky doesn't stop to think, survival instinct instead taking control as his hand grabs for the hilt of his machete.

She heard the flurry of other voices added to Cullen's a moment before the man burst out onto the riverbank. Her staff comes up automatically, held in front of her length-wise, though she holds her other hand up, palm out. It's automatic that she's reaching for her magic, but the complete mundane absence of it reminds her how defenseless she is.

"I don't want to fight. I won't hurt you." She hasn't encountered many of the other tributes, truthfully. She's seen them at a distance, but never this close. The birds she now identifies as the source of the voices are making it hard to focus, but she holds her ground, keeping her staff up just in case.

"Please. Put your weapon away."

Too late, the staff coming up only incites him further so that he's already lunging forwards by the time she speaks, with his audience of jabberjay's still mockingly calling from the trees. Bucky's sunk into the space his Handler's cultivated, where there was more weapon than man.

All he's seeing is a threat.

Bucky's left arm, made of unyielding metal even if it is currently powered down to normal human levels of strength, swings out to try and grab the end of the staff and yank it aside. Then his right hand, with the machete, swings at her, the blade aimed for her shoulder. He's quick, even with the deep snow hampering him.

Without her magic, Adella isn't much of a match for him. She's strong enough from swinging a heavy wooden staff, but she isn't built for melee combat. Even with his normal strength, he whips the staff from her hand. She tries to stop the machete, but he's too fast, her hands only grabbing his arm after the blade sinks into her flesh.

She's been on the receiving end of a blade before, but those had generally been glancing blows, hampered by armor or magical barriers. The pain in her shoulder is searing and she lets out a strangled cry without fully being aware of it, digging her nails into her assailant's arm as she tries to push him away.

It's easier than he expects. It might have thrown him in another situation when he's trying so hard to be a human being but right now he's not all there.

The Soldier pulls back, dragging the blade of the machete free with a grunt of effort. His arm is largely protected from her nails due to the thickness of the protective layers of his clothes but he feels the points of pressure clearly enough.

Once free he swings round in his hand, droplets of flood flying off into the snow before driving forwards once again, this time in a stabbing motion. The Soldier moves with no hesitation, no quarter given where an enemy would have time to gather themselves for retaliation, just the way they'd taught him too. Unless she manages to parry or dodge he'll run her through.

The pain of the blade coming out of her shoulder is almost worse than it going in, and the breath is stolen from her lungs for a moment, the snow around her legs the only thing keeping her from staggering back.

She doesn't have time to fumble for the knife in her belt, the one Cullen gave her, he's already coming in again. Not having time to really think about it, she lurches towards him, trying to turn to the side and maybe use her weight to throw him off balance. All she accomplishes, however, is making it easier for him to drive the blade into her stomach. Her legs buckle under her weight and the pain and she falls back, gasping, attempting to breathe around the agony.

"Please don't," is all she can manage, one hand pressing futilely against the wound on her stomach as blood seeps between her fingers and onto the snow. She knows she's done, now. They have nothing back at camp that could save her from an injury like this.

The machete's blade bites in deep, blood immediately spilling out onto the blade and the Soldier's hands, staining the gloves and the snow around them. It's a killing blow, he knows that, he doesn't need to do anything more to assure that the woman will die.

Please don't, he doesn't know why exactly but the plea cuts through him, make his eyes widen as he yanks the machete back out and himself free of her. The Soldier -- Bucky, starts to back away, still wary of a last ditch attack from his target.

It's strangely quiet all of a sudden, the birds silenced.

He needs to go, there's no reason to remain. She'll die whether or not he stops to watch, he needs to get out of here. Bucky backs off further, still unable to turn his back until there's a measure of ten feet between them, then he turns and disappears through the trees, mind still in disarray.

After she's left to die she lies in the snow, the cold sinking through her skin as the pain overwhelms her body. It's small consolation that the birds have stopped screaming, obviously she's a pointless target, now.

It takes her realizing that they won't know what happened, to force her to roll over, rather than lying there, waiting to die. Her legs are numb but she can still move, somewhat. With her right hand clamped as tightly over her stomach as she can manage she drags herself forward with her left, trying to get some traction in the snow.

She can't remember how far the cave is, but she moves with purpose, every breath agony, every time she drags herself forward she cries out, in pain and frustration. She doesn't know if she'll reach the cave before she can't move, but she will try.

The screams drive him away from the camp.

That's always Cullen's first instinct - when the pain becomes too much, when he fears for his mind, his memory, his sanity - when he hears the agonized cries of colleagues and friends who have been dead for ten years or more - he can't stay near the others, he has to get away. For their safety, and his.

He hears others, too. His parents, his siblings - voices he hasn't heard in years, though he knows they're still alive. And of course, Adella. He hears her voice as much as all the others combined. The others, he tries to dismiss as tricks, traps - but he can't be sure about hers. It feels as if his mind is fraying at the edges, simultaneously climbing a snowy ridge in a death arena, and in the Frostbacks searching fruitlessly for the Herald in the remnants of an avalanche, or is he back in Ferelden, with demons tormenting him?

"Adella?" he calls, uncertain, flexing his injured arm carefully to keep the circulation flowing. "Adella!"

She slumps in the snow, pausing to try to catch her breath but finding it's eluding her. Frustration and agony twist together in her chest, she wants to scream. The only thing that keeps her from doing so is it is a waste of her energy, which she can feel leaving her in a red stain across the snow behind her. Lifting her head she can see she hasn't moved far, thirty feet at most.

A sob catches in her throat, and she pulls herself up on her elbow, dragging herself forward again with a grunt of effort. It's then that she hears Cullen's voice. He sounds so far away, and she wonders if she's imagining it for a moment. Then she hears him again. Taking a shaky breath she lifts her head up again, calling as loud as she can.

"Cullen!" her voice comes out thready, breaking in the middle as the effort sends a fresh wave of pain radiating through her body. She slumps again, face pressed into her arm as she tries to gather up enough strength to move once again.

He's not sure if her voice is real, or another trick of the arena, but he follows it anyway. Since her arrival, she's been the one thing grounding him to reality, the one thing he hasn't secretly questioned. He won't start now.

It's an eerie scene that greets him as he reaches another low rise in the snow - a trail of red, and a familiar tangle of brown hair. Cullen's heart drops into his stomach as he stumbles forward, hands reaching for her to pull her into his arms, assess the damage, save her.

"No," he hears himself saying, "No, no, no..."

She lets out a cry of pain when he pulls her into his arms, any movement agony, now. The warmth of his body feels distant, but she's beyond being cold, too much blood already lost. The look on his face, the repeated refusal, almost causes her more pain than the mortal injury she's still feebly clutching to. With effort she lifts her hand, bloody though it is, to touch his cheek.

"Shh. It's okay," she manages to smile at him, even as she feels her eyes sting, surprisingly sharp despite everything else in her body starting to dull. She doesn't feel like it'll be okay, she feels like she's dying.

Her breath is shallow, her eyes glassy. Everything feels wet, but not the cold wet of the snow. It's the hot, sticky wet of blood. His hand covers her wound, a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding, but it's mere moments before his glove is soaked through with red.

"I have to get you to camp," he says, desperately. "I'll stop the bleeding, I'll..." Save you. I have to.

"Too late," she says quietly, her hand dropping back to cover his, her arm too heavy to hold up for long. She swallows, closing her eyes briefly before opening them again, each breath she takes an effort. Tears escape the corners of her eyes, physical pain mixing with the ache she feels looking at his face.

"Just hold me."

"No," he says again. She must be wrong - it can't be too late, there has to be something he can do. His world has narrowed to nothing but a desperation to see her live.

"Please, stay with me." Maker, he'll do anything. Anything.

"Cullen..." She wants to tell him it'll be alright, she'll wake up in the Capitol he'd been talking about, right as rain, but she doesn't know that. It feels like she's slipping away from the man she loves, and it hurts more than any wound.

"I want to," she finally says, attempting to squeeze his hand, though most of her strength is gone and she can barely feel her fingers. "You... know I can't. Without magic-" she doesn't finish the thought, it's too much of an effort to string together full sentences. "I'm sorry."

He knows he should try to be strong, try not to let her see him break - her last moments shouldn't be made worse by his own weakness. And yet, he is weak. She's always made him strong, but without her - what will he do?

"I love you," he says, as though that might do something to keep her here with him. "I don't know if I can do this without you..."

Everything is starting to feel a little further away, and she's fighting through the fog to stay there with him, but her limbs are heavy and she's so tired. She shakes her head, though the movement is slow and sluggish.

"You can. You have to." Her eyes focus on him, despite the effort, she lifts her hand, pressing it against his chest. "I'll be with you. We'll be together." She doesn't know if she means in the mysterious Capitol, or in the Maker's arms, but she needs him to keep going. She doesn't want him to give up because she's gone. "Don't give up."

They all say that those who die return to the city. He hasn't been sure about it one way or the other - the last arena ended with him getting knocked unconscious - so he just doesn't know.

But here and now, with Adella's life draining slowly away, he has a difficult time believing in that possibility. It seems so impossible.

But she's right - he knows she's right. He can't give up, he can't just lay down and die with her, much as he might feel like he wants to right now. She doesn't want that for him.

His throat feels tight, he trembles with the sobs he's trying to contain. He presses a kiss to her forehead, warm lips on her cool skin, and closes his eyes briefly. "I'll try not to," he says. "I promise."

"Good," she replies, her eyes falling closed as her eyelids feel too heavy to hold open, the kiss on her head feeling far away. At least she doesn't hurt anymore.

She exhales, a long beat going before she draws in another breath, still struggling to hold on, even though she feels the distance stretching before her.

"I love you," she whispers, her chest rising and falling one last time, before the slight tenseness in her body from the pain and effort relaxes, and the cannon sounds overhead.

He doesn't need the sound of the cannon to tell him she's gone. The stillness, when she was never still in life, the feeling of a great empty void inside him, that is more than enough.

Cullen presses his face into her chest, wracked by a deep, shuddering sob at the stillness he finds there. He'll stay a while, letting her last words echo in his mind, until he can collect himself enough to return to the living people who still need him.

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