The District 1 Boy Who Could

She had the story. All of it. She listened to his words for Ember, the boy truly loved her. She couldn’t help but imagine what it was to be in his situation. A lover, a best friend, and his own self.

Bartholomew could barely hear her hushed whisper, but he heard it. He impulsively placed his bloodied right hand down on the floor, and lifted his upper body half way, to counter her words. Like they were still best friends. But, suddenly, an arrow came into his view, flying in Celeste's direction, and pierced her knee. Ember. He had to remind himself that Ember was just trying to help him get out alive, save his life, so the feeling of wanting to kill her, himself, would go away. He loved her. He didn't want to hurt her, but Celeste!

It was hard for him to listen to her words. No. There was no word to describe what it felt like to listen to Celeste's words. He could her the anger and pain in her voice too well. While she spoke, a few times, he turned his eyes away from her. A few times, he turned his head away from her. He didn't want to face all her pain, but he forced himself to look back up at her. Look back into her eyes and see what he had done. When he thought he could see her eyes watering, he paid less attention to them, and his eyes drifted somewhere else. Her trembling lip. The sound of her voice. Anything else. But the words that hit him the hardest, the words he couldn't stand to hear were her last ones: 'We’re not best friends Bart. You’re my best friend, but I’m not yours.' His eyes widened, as he stared her back at her eyes, face confused, shocked, and hurt. His mouth started to open, and his facial expression settled on anger. " No," he repeated again in a quiet voice. " No!" he shouted furiously, more blood spilling to the floor. If it wasn't for his wound, he would've been on his feet, shouting at her. Maybe even taking a few steps forward towards her. Instead, he partially lifted his upper body and turned to face her. There was so much fury running through his blood, again, he would've snapped if it wasn't for his wound. Breathing in and out, he let the words sink in, and slowly let the anger go. He couldn't let himself be angry, anymore. It used up more of his strength and it made the pain, worse. He slowly let it go and let his emotions settle on pain. Her words. 'We’re not best friends Bart. You’re my best friend, but I’m not yours.' He shook his head slightly, looking away, then back up at her. He spoke in a very soft, but distant voice. " You don't mean that..." but he was just trying to convince himself that she didn't mean it. He knew she meant every word. It just hurt less when he believed she didn't mean it.

He blocked out their voices, any other noises, and laid back down on his back. He stared up at the ceiling of the Cornucopia, eyes in a trance. Dead-like. Indifferent. Numb. He swore he thought he could feel his heart break, into so many pieces, pieces of glass, that were slowly making their way through his body, until they bleed out from his wound. He took another breath, as blood continued to spill out. He was broken. Beyond repair. But he thought it through and knew, this was what he deserved. To be dying there, physically and emotionally. This was for killing Jasper and Tony, betraying a friendship, while gaining a lover. And, soon, he may watch as he loses his girl or his best friend. His girl or....his competition. Just the way to go out for the choices he made. He started to smile, then quickly began chuckling to himself. After a long pause, he began to speak while chuckling: " I lost my best friend, I'm going to die, all to win the games, and I can't have one last laugh about it?" He smiled. " Way to go, Bart!" he told himself, still chuckling. His chuckling quickly died down, and he frowned. Sadness easily seen in his eyes. If he wasn't going to go out fighting, he could at least tell her the truth. Be the man he never was until he believed he was dying. Celeste had to know he was sorry.

But he couldn't find the strength to look her in the eyes. He just stared up at the ceiling of the Cornucopia. He hoped his words wouldn't hurt Ember. His words. They've done enough. He tried to hide his own pain in his voice, by sounding indifferent: " You never needed me, Celeste. And I never needed you, until we made it to the Capitol. At some point there, I needed you," he paused, raising his head to look down at his wound. Hand almost completely covered in red, blood seeping between his fingers. He sighed, lying back down on the ground. " When I volunteered, I never planned on forming any kind of friendship, relationship, in the games. I thought they just got in the way, distracted tributes from trying to win. If you played the games without friends or a lover, it wouldn't be so hard to kill your way to the top." Said just like a true career. "Make those quick decisions, without having to worry or think about someone else's life." He paused, still disappointed that he wouldn't win. " This was my original strategy, because I had to win." He turned his head, and looked Celeste straight in the eyes. His desire to win and disappointment in not being able to, shined through. He turned his head back around to face the ceiling. His voice was shaky when he said his next words: " Maybe you're right. We're not best friends. I fooled myself as well as you, when I thought we could be best friends. The moment I stood in front of the Justice Building, beside you, I saw you as another competitor. And once I heard you were the strategist, I thought, this girl, the girl who never stopped training in One, she's my biggest threat. And it would be better if I didn't take her down on my own."

" Everything though. Everything just kept getting jumbled, plan useless as I got to know you. Both of you." He finally turned back to Celeste. " I was being your friend, when you told me your weaknesses and fears." He was firm with his next words: " I never planned on using them against you. You don't understand, it made it that much harder for me to leave you. I was getting too close to you." He turned to look up at Ember. " And Ember," he smiled, " I've liked you since the first day I met you. First meeting, and I wanted to alliance with you. But instead of asking you to be my ally to kill Celeste, I just wanted you as my ally so I could get to know you. Protect you. Cause, whether you knew it or not, I didn't want to see the first real girl that really caught my attention, that really made me nervous, that was so different from the other girls, die." His eyes lowered back to his wound. " I saw some good in you, while all I saw was a selfish kid who just wanted to be respected as an individual to my own district, in myself. And I-" the next words would burn, but they were the truth. " I was rooting for Celeste to come out the winner, if I died. But now? I just want you, Ember, to leave this place. I still want that good Ember to leave this place a victor. Because you're so much better than me, Ember. You deserve to have it all, with or without me. Better without me. But when I saw you kill Asher, I knew. I knew the games got to you, and I was afraid I was losing you. I should've known, the games get to everyone." These sick twisted games get to everyone.

The moment the girl’s cannon fired, was the moment Celeste dropped on her knees, dropping her bow beside her to have both her hands free. Uncurling the girl’s fingers from the bag, Celeste quickly rummaged through the pack’s contents. The medicine was there, not just any medicine, Capitol medicine. Quickly unwrapping her leg from the bandages Bart had helped her with, she examined her thigh. It was grotesque, blood caked all around it, yellow in pallor. As long as it wasn’t infected, she’d be okay. Without any delicacy, Celeste dumped all the tube’s contents onto her thigh.

Cannon.

Celeste nearly jumped, her head whipping around her to see where the rest of the tributes were. Who’s cannon was that? Looking at her thigh, she shook her head. No time to wrap it. Standing up, leaving the bag as it was, she lifted her bow and ran straight into the Cornucopia. She came to an abrupt stop at the sight of a severely wounded Bart, and the red head standing next to him. A mixture of emotions wavered through Celeste, and she wasn’t sure which one was more overpowering. The anger she had towards Bart and his betrayal, the mind set to focus on her plan, pity over his condition, or confusion about why the red head was even here. The only thing she knew for sure was one of them had killed the boy from 10. So we’re the final three. 

Her footsteps light and quiet, Celeste prepared an arrow in her right hand. Creeping over the girl, Celeste could only think she was the one injuring Bart, and at that point, the anger over Bart became protective. No one was to hurt him, especially not the girl who had managed to escape from them in the first place. 

He couldn't stop staring into her eyes. His best friend. His best friend he back stabbed in order to win the games. His district partner. The girl he used to be afraid of, but looking at her now, he wasn't anymore. His biggest threat. His biggest weakness because she knew far more about him than any other tribute in the games. And he knew about her. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say anything, but he couldn't. Nothing he could say or do could make this right. The amount of anger she probably felt when he left her, how hurt she had to be. It made his own pain feel like nothing compared to any emotional pain he thought she may have felt. A tear came running down his cheek, trying to put himself in her shoes. Here, Celeste was before him. Yet, he felt like Karma came to collect.

He leaned his head back, not bothering to check and see what was around him. He would just use his good hand, his right hand, to feel around the table. There had to be something on the table he could use against Asher. The first real thing he felt like he could get his hands on was something hard, and it felt like it was shaped in an odd way. He finally turned his head and saw a pair of brass knuckles. He only needed one. He turned his hand over and slipped his fingers inside, the best he could. Raising his body slightly, grimacing in pain, he began to swing his right arm forward, when he saw Asher get pulled back, from his shoulder. Dropping his right hand onto the stone table, he could see Ember had pulled him back. His eyes widened in shock as he watched Ember speak, and beat, Asher. This Ember wasn't familiar to him. She was foreign. From a different place. He wasn't sure if he liked this side of Ember. Deep down, he would always liked a girl who could fight, but this almost seemed different. Already, he was missing the girl he met at District 6's front door.

She watched Bart lunge forward, but he was slower than usual. His accuracy seemed off. At first he looked okay, but when Asher so easily avoided the attack Ember knew something wasn’t right. She didn’t waste time running closer, trying to find a better angle. But just as she got closer, Asher made his move. Sight of Bart dropping his sword and Asher pulling out a knife. “Don’t you dare ten.” Raising her bow she saw the movement in his arm, the bow dropping off his shoulder to rest in his hand. The sickening smirk. She couldn’t let this happen. Let Bart, her Bart get hurt. Not when he trusts her to have his back. Yet the shot wasn’t clear. If she got any closer it would be ineffective. Could she risk hitting Bart by mistake? She had no time to waste. If she didn’t take the shot Bart would definitely die.

He could hear him, as he moved: 'And here I thought Careers were fearless… or skilled.' Bartholomew growled in response. He was ready to kill him. He may have not been fearless, but he sure as hell was skilled. He never did like when others doubted his skill with a sword. I mean, it was the weapon he practically grew up with. Lived and breathed with. I'm gonna kill him! he screamed in his head. When the blade made contact, it made contact with Bartholomew's blade, again. But he wasn't able to hold on long enough, pulling back on his blade and, involuntarily, lifting his left hand up in defense. His eyes widened slightly as he saw the blade graze the palm of his hand. " Damn it!" he thought out loud, taking a few steps back and dropping his sword to give all of his attention to his left hand. 'Pick it up,' he heard Asher say, and his eyes shot back up to his opponent. He saw his sword hit the ground and watched him take a step forward, his hand pulling out a knife from his pocket. Glancing back down at his sword, he told himself: Pick it up. Impulsively, Bartholomew wanted to. The Longsword was his weapon. His protector against all the other tributes in the arena. But he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. What else could he do? The Throwing Knives. He had almost forgotten he had taken them with him. It's worth a shot.

But what about Asher, that boy was far from normal. She’d seen him in training. The boy seemed more of a robot than the rest of us. The steady even look on his face as he had used the weapons was unsettling enough. But the way he had used them. He had been far to comfortable holding it, using it than someone from 10 would be. What ever happened next it would mean protecting Bart. If this is all Bart wanted her to do, then she’d do it. She had his back, and he may depend on that. Pushing the thought about ten’s psycho couple she focused back on Bart. When he suddenly ran forward she had to bite her tongue to stop from shouting. Was he insane? Did he have a death wish. She could hear his footsteps, loud and even as he ran towards the cornucopia. Where was Celeste. The girl had to be close. She wouldn’t waste an opportunity like this. He carried on running, slowly getting out of her sight. “Damn it Bart.” frustrated she stood and ran to where Bart had stood before. Now she could see the whole of the space.

He had to slow down his pace, as he got closer and closer to the stone table. His eyes weren't on Asher for too long, until they glanced back to Celeste. She was making her way down the Cornucopia. Why was he suddenly so focused on her? She could take care of herself, and Bartholomew knew that. So, why worry? When he turned his attention back to Asher, they were only feet away from each other. He stopped and watched as a smirk formed across his face. It made him think of a real career. Someone who might have enjoyed the title of a career, when he, himself, was questioning it. At the last moment, Bartholomew noticed the boy's sword come down on him. He wasn't sure where Asher was aiming with the sword, but he knew he had to stop the motion. He lifted his blade and held it at angle, blocking Asher's blade from reaching it's target. He could see it still inching down on him, so he placed his left hand along the top part of his sword. His hand slightly shook, as his own sword sunk into his skin, blood running quickly down his palm and arm. It hurt, but it was pain he could bear. Cuts like that he received sometimes, back at home, playing with swords instead of scissors. While trying to defend himself, he built up enough strength to push himself back. Maybe enough to push Asher back, too. Back in different directions.