Keeping Vigil

Clove tries to keep Cato's heart going after her death, but ultimately finds that being dead doesn't help her in her task.

When she was alive, Clove's only focus was killing. She began training at the age of eight, knowing that she would eventually walk into that Arena. Once there, she would kill and maim and hurt until she was the only one left standing. After that, she would continue to teach others to kill like she did.

That was her plan for her life. She never allowed herself to think that she might be the one who was killed instead, so never thought about what she would do once she was dead.

Then again, Clove wasn't sure she ever even believed there was anything to do after you died.

Dying was a strange sensation. It was the opposite of what Clove ever expected. Instead of having her breath sucked from her, she felt as if she had only been holding her breath under water for her entire life, and now, when death came, she finally could come up to the surface and gasp for air. The moment the cannon sounded was the first glorious breath Clove could take, knowing that now that she was no longer tethered to a mortal fate, she could survive death however she wanted. She was no longer tied to the unending agenda she had in life full of killing and taking lives. There was nothing left to take in death.

In death, perhaps she could even think about what she could have done in life if she never gave it up so totally in order to pursue glory and honour for her district. In death, perhaps she could actually do those things. In death, perhaps she could even allow herself to feel pain and sorrow for all the lives that she took, for the souls that were no different from her now.

However in those first moments of death, Clove did none of this, because after she took that first gasp of air, she saw what she left behind in the Arena.

There was Cato, bending over Clove, or at least, what was left of Clove. Clove, the real Clove, the spirit of Clove, or whatever it was that she was now, stood behind him, watching him.

His wide shoulders hid most of the body from her view, so all she saw was the way his hands grasped both of hers tightly and how he had bent his head down close to hers. His whole body was shaking. He was crying.

Clove could never be called squeamish. She had killed and had felt warm blood flood her hands and seen mangled bodies. She could have calmly taken in the sight of her dead body. She could have looked into her own dead, unmoving eyes and not sink into despair.

But she couldn't stand the sight of Cato crying. She felt like the very core of her was drowning in fire, in red, hot and blinding pain. She wanted to thrash around, to kick and scream and beat Cato into a bloody pulp for daring to shed those tears of weakness, for daring to make her feel this way, even in death.

Before she knew it, she really was screaming.

"You moron! You complete and utter asshole! I'm dead! I'm dead, stupid! Why are you fucking crying? Shut the fuck up and go avenge me! Kill him, kill them all!"

It was as if Cato really did hear her, because as soon as she stopped, out of breath, he lifted his head and stared down at her body. She walked around to look at his eyes and saw that they were hard and cold with resolve and determination. She had seen the look before. He was out for a kill.

He folded her arms across her chest and brushed his thumb once across her lips. The gentle gestures seemed incongruent with the murder in his eyes, but she rejoiced in and savoured both. She nearly convinced herself that she really did feel a tingle on her lips.

He stood, but still didn't leave right away. He stood, looking at her a little longer. Clove didn't want to look at herself, so she focused on him instead.

He was alive, he was breathing, blood pumped in his veins and his heart was beating.

Suddenly, she knew what her purpose was in death. She would protect him, fight to keep his heart beating this way, to keep him alive. She had no idea how, but try she would.

She spent her life chasing death, and now in death she would try to stop life trickling out of her hands. What a farce her life and death had become.

Cato had turned away now, and sprinted into the field of grass where Eleven had disappeared. They saw him make his way there from the first day of the game, but the grass always seemed so ominous. There was no sense in running into what might be an ambush when there were still other tributes to finish off. But now, Elevent's time was up.

Clove simply glided after him and still managed to keep up with his long strides. She supposed that was one of the few perks of being dead.

She wished that she could communicate with Cato. They could still be a team then. She could feel and know instinctively where Eleven was hiding, but Cato had to blunder around in the grass and in the dark. The Gamemakers must really want to turn this into the Games' epic battle because they suddenly punched a hole in the sky and the whole world was covered by furious grey clouds. She wondered whether the Gamemakers knew of her presence too, and whether to them that was just an added bonus of intrigue.

Clove didn't know why she even bothered to stick close to him and whisper instructions about which way to move to get to Eleven without being detected. It was obvious he couldn't hear her, because he took no notice of any of her advice. More than once, she really reached out and punched him in the jaw for moving the totally opposite direction of where she wanted him to be. Often the punches were accompanied by a few choice curses. He felt nothing, of course, though once, he did reach out a hand and batted the air in front of him. Then again, he might just be swatting away a fly. Once or twice, he did actually go the way she wanted him to go, but she was sure that was pure coincidence.

Eleven heard him approach, or perhaps he knew Cato would seek him out, and was ready when they finally faced.

Clove had witnessed fights before, of course. She had also seen the many times that Cato knock the living daylight out of the boys in his training group or else slash them with his sword until they were little more than ribbons soaked in blood. There was always a calm, ruthless rigidness in the way that Cato killed, with clean, precise cuts that was guaranteed to burst arteries and draw blood. The punches were aimed to knock out, to kill, immediately. Cato had little patience for a drawn out fight. He always wanted to kill, and kill now.

He wasn't like Clove in that aspect.

But with Eleven, it was apparent that Cato would draw it out. This fight would not end rapidly. Part of it was because the boy was more a match for Cato than anyone in the Games. But the more important reason was that for once, Cato wanted it to be a show.

Clove had told him she would give the audience a show when she killed the Fire Girl. She didn't get to play it out and now Cato would entertain the audience on her behalf. And when, in the process, he got revenge for Clove then it was all the sweeter.

There was a rage and sense of abandon in Cato now as he no longer aimed precisely for the major death points, but just hacked and punched and kicked and attached every bit of Eleven as he could find. Eleven put up a fight, he wasn't about to go out not fighting. That much was clear. But Clove knew one thing; there might only be one person who stood a chance of living once Cato decided to kill them. That was Clove. But Clove wasn't there for Cato to kill anymore, and only Cato ever had the right to kill her. Eleven had snatched away that right and Cato didn't like it when others stole from him. So Eleven was surely dead. Even if it must take days, or months, in the end, Clove knew the one to rise from his fight would be Cato.

So Clove stood and watched her vengeance played out. There was no need to tell Cato what to do and how to fight. This, he knew how to do. Sometimes it was the only thing he knew how to do.

Day passed into night passed into day and into night again. It all meant little to Clove. She kept her vigil by the fight. This was her moment, She deserved to see the boy who stole life from her duly punished. For every minute that Clove suffered, the boy would suffer for an hour. She watched as blood met rain and dissolved into each other, until she couldn't tell how much blood was Cato's and how much was Eleven's. By the time it was almost over, the sky looked like it was raining blood.

Clove still watched in silence.

The final blow that took out Eleven was a rock to the skull. Clove's lips curled into a smile as she saw the rock in Cato's hand and she let out a delighted laugh as it made contact with the boy's head. This was payback, indeed.

As the cannon boomed, almost lost in the thunder, Cato fell flat on his back, breathing heavily and blood pouring from a cut on the side of his head. His eyes were closed and after a while, he murmured, "There, Clove, there's the show you wanted. Be happy now."

The words were drowned out by thunder and rain, but Clove heard them anyhow. She placed a hand against his wound, wishing that she made enough of an impression to staunch the blood.

She looked at him now, the anguished expression still on his face, and her heart - if she had one still, if she ever had one - ached. Killing Eleven was supposed to make him feel better and to remind him of the thrill of the kill. Clove had seem him kill before, and knew he had always had that look of total satisfaction on his face, knowing that he once held the power of life and death against his opponent. He had once gloried in the way bones would break so easily in his hands and relished in the way blood would flow. And yet there seemed to be no pleasure in this kill, not even when the kill was for her.

She knew she should urge him to get up, to seek out the ones remaining. There was only that redhead and the Twelves now. It should be easy now. He should get going. He should go get them, and get away from here so that the body could be removed. But looking at him now, she couldn't summon the strength to shout at him to move, to scream and curse at him to stop being so damn weak and for making her feel so weak to suffer with him. She couldn't do it. So she just sat with him.

The rain continued to beat down on them. Clove didn't feel it at all, of course, but it was soaking Cato and washing out his wounds.

It was as if time had ceased to mean anything to Cato too. It must have been a long time, and Clove wasn't even quite sure why the Gamemakers didn't do something to drive Cato out of that field to collect the body.

It was only when another cannon sounded, signaling another death, that Cato seemed to remember there were other tributes left.

Two left now, and Cato.

That was when he finally got up and examined the pack that was meant for them, the pack that Clove had gone to retrieve from the Feast. There was the expected supply of food and medicine, but there was also something more bulky, which turned out to be a set of body armour. But there was only one. Cato's features twisted into something like a mixture of fury and agony. When the Feast started, both of them had been alive, but only one armour. They Gamemakers couldn't have known one of them would not survive the Feast. This likely was some twisted trick so that when the time came to use the armour, the two of them would be fighting over it.

Well, there was only Cato now, and for that, Clove was strangely glad. She was even gladder when Cato didn't waste much more time dwelling on the presence of only one set of armour but put it on and put the rest of the supplies into the pack and made his way towards the lake.

The finale was near and he needed to regain his strength.

It became clear that night that the last tribute to die was the redhead. So both Twelves still lived. It means that it won't be long until the Gamemakers push them together now. Cato camped and waited at the edge of the field. If Clove were alive, she would have urged him to hunt them out, but seeing as there was only one of him now, and he couldn't hear her advice and warnings, it was better to wait them out. There's no telling what sort of booby trap they'd laid in the woods. He could see the Cornucopia from here if they ever came near it.

By the late afternoon, the Gamemakers were getting impatient.

Clove heard and felt them first, but it wasn't long before Cato heard them too. Nearly two dozens ferocious huge wolves seemed to charge out of the woods. A surge of fear coursed through Clove, even though she knew they couldn't do anything to her. It wasn't fear for herself, it was fear for Cato. These definitely weren't normal wolves, but mutts. If they were natural beasts, their behaviour could at least be predicted, but with mutts, there was no telling what they would do. They were puppets of the Gamemakers and that made them a thousand times more dangerous.

"Run! Cato, run!"

But Cato didn't need Clove's scream to bolt, dropping his weapons and supplies. Clove knew he had taken a few of her knives from her and had them tucked in his boots but what use were they against these creatures? It was a good thing that he had put the armour on before hand, though Clove had a bad feeling that they would be more of a hindrance than help.

Clove found herself looking back at the mutts, just to see what Cato was up against and for one horrible moment, it was as if she was starring into a mirror...into her own eyes. Clove let out a shriek that no one heard and stared as the mutt that couldn't be her barreled past her and snapped at Cato's heels.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck...What had the Gamemakers done with her body? That mutt couldn't be Clove, it just couldn't be, because Clove was here! That mutt was trying to rip Cato from limb to limb while Clove - the real Clove - was screaming at him to get away, to run, to live.

He headed straight for the Cornucopia and Clove could see the Twelves directly in front of him. Cato didn't see them until an arrow bounced off his chest, but even that didn't check his speed. If the situation wasn't so deathly, Clove would have laughed at the momentary look of utter confusion on both Fire Girl and Lover Boy's faces as Cato just brushed between them and made a beeline for the Cornucopia.

And then they saw the mutts as well and scrambled after him.

Clove watched as the three of them climbed the Cornucopia. She was strangely relieved when even Lover Boy, with his leg obviously still hurt, made it. If he had fallen behind, it would certainly have been one less opponent for Cato but even Clove wasn't sure she wanted to see any human being finished off but those mutts, especially this late into the games. She could see now that each of the mutts bore the colour and eyes of a fallen tribute. The idea what these creatures might do to a prey was too gruesome for even Clove's appetite.

Besides, Cato could finish them off anyway, he'd want it quick now.

But Cato was doing nothing of the sort, he was laying flat on his back on the Cornucopia, breathing heavily. Clove looked warily from Fire Girl with her bow and arrows to Cato, offering himself so completely vulnerable to her mercy.

"Get up, Cato! Get up NOW! You can breath later! Get up and just stab them while they're not looking!" she ordered. It was futile, as she knew from the moment she opened her mouth. Clove hated this feeling of being invisible, of total helplessness, watching scenes played out in front of her without being able to do anything. She had hated it from the moment she saw Cato slumped over her body and she loathed it even more now. It was like a sick extension of the games, where she couldn't even have peace when she was dead. She would still have to worry about Cato too.

Clove had no idea how else to vent the fear and frustration that engulfed her so she resorted to kicking Cato and screaming, "Fuck it, Cato! Up! Kill them, you promised, remember?"

He finally did, and grabbed Lover Boy in a headlock just as Fire Girl turned around, an arrow aimed at his head. Damn Cato! He was supposed to grab the girl, she was the one with a weapon! If he could hold out then Lover Boy would soon bleed to death What use was it grabbing him when the girl had that bow?

How was it possible to want to kill yourself when you were already dead? But that was what Clove wanted to do, to kill herself from the frustration of seeing the stalemate that now played on in front of her. He was so close, he was so close, there was no way some pathetic coal miners from District 12 could take out Cato of District 2.

It appeared they could, however, when Lover Boy drew an X on the back of Cato's hand. Clove screamed at the same time as Cato's eyes widened and taunting smile dropped off his face and the arrow flew through the air.

No no no no no, it can't end like this for Cato, it just can't be. This was such a stupid way to go. If he was going to die, it can't be due to something as idiotic as this!

Her denial didn't stop Cato from howling in pain as the arrow hit, nor did it stop him letting go and then losing his footing on the blood and tumbled down onto the sea of mutts below. If Clove thought watching the stalemate without being able to do anything was agony, she didn't have the word to describe what she felt now, watching those mutts swarm in to him. And because the Gamemakers were a sick, twisted lot, the mutt with the number 2 collar, the one with Clove's eyes seemed to be the most ferocious in its attack. Clove watched as for a moment Cato seemed to simply stare into its eye and didn't fight back. How she wished he did, and how she screamed at him to fight back. It was ages before he did, when he tore his eyes away from that mutt and saw the others and freed the knife from his boots and started stabbing at them.

The armour was keeping him alive this long but Clove could hardly rejoice in it now. Was there any chance that he could make it out of there alive or would the armour only prolong his pain? There was little chance that he would be in any shape to face off Fire Girl even if he did escape the mutt. Then what difference would it have made?

Maybe this was Clove's punishment for all the people she'd killed, for all the pain she'd inflicted. That was the only thing that would explain why she couldn't seem to move away and had to stand at the mouth of the Cornucopia, watching this bloody scene played out before her, unable to do anything to stop it, or even to end it. For Cato, Fire Girl's arrow to the skull now was relief. But he was too far into the horn for the girl to reach him, and Clove could tell even she and Lover Boy wanted it to be over.

Of course they did, for it would mean their victory too.

On and on it went, and Clove thought she would go mad from it. Was it even possible to be dead and then go mad? Each whimper of pain from Cato seemed to rip through her, until she could focus on nothing but his pain. How was it possible that either he or she could even endure such pain for so long? She only knew from the passing of the moon and the rising of the sun that it went on for the entire night.

Finally, by the time the sun started to rise, Cato had dragged himself - and if Clove were alive, her stomach would have emptied at the sight of him now - to the mouth of the Cornucopia, right into range of Fire Girl's arrow. Clove could only hope that Fire Girl had enough decency in her to make this quick. There was no question of saving Cato now.

Clove watched, her entire body and heart numb now, as the arrow finally speared Cato right in the middle of his forehead and the cannon boomed.

So it was over.

She couldn't keep him alive, as much as she wanted to. Both of them were dead now.

Strangely enough, the thought didn't bring Clove pain like she expected. Perhaps it would have been odder if they had both lived. After all, though for their entire lives, they'd trained to kill for the Arena, there was never guarantee they would make it back out. Perhaps they were always destined to die.

She'd never truly valued life. She couldn't value life, not the way she'd been trained. That was why killing came so easily to her. So why should it matter now that both she and Cato were dead? She supposed, when winning the Games was all the goal that life had taught her, she wanted to have a chance to achieve that goal, or at least for Cato to achieve that goal. It wasn't for the sake of living, exactly, but so that she could feel all the work and efforts they'd put in their entire lives weren't entirely wasted.

Well, their lives were ultimately wasted now. Perhaps that was for the best, so that now they could finally know what they didn't want in death. Perhaps now, death would bring them more freedom than life ever did.

Clove looked up and find that she was totally alone now, standing at the mouth of the Cornucopia. Twelves have disappeared and so had the mutts and Cato. She wasn't sure whether it was because she no longer cared about Twelves' fates that they disappeared, or they really had, having secured their victory. She didn't care. All she wanted to do now was to find Cato. If she remained here, surely she would find him, because if their spirits somehow could linger, then he'd be looking for her too.

She walked out of the Cornucopia and rounded the corner. And there he was. Cato was standing, whole and scar-free, leaning agains the side of the horn, smiling at her. For a moment Clove could only stand and stare. After looking at his torture from the mutts for hours on ends, she wasn't quite sure whether this was even real. Then again, was anything about her even real, considering she was dead?

"Cato," she whispered, walking up to him. They were face to face now, close enough for touch. But neither reached out. She couldn't bear the idea that they could perhaps see each other but wouldn't be able to touch. For a long time, they just looked at each other.

It was a long time before Cato spoke. "Sorry I couldn't win for us."

Before Clove knew what she was doing, she had thrown herself at him, dropping her head on his shoulder and her fists pounding on his back. "You idiot! How could you make me watch through all that?"

"I'm sorry, Clove, I'm sorry," he said, wrapping his own arms around her tightly. "I should have won for you."

"It doesn't matter," she said, "if you won, you wouldn't be here with me."

The games, winning, honour, glory, those were all the concerns of life, life which they both wasted. There was no honour and glory in death. All that mattered now was that Cato was well and whole, even after all that torment and agony. If life was that painful, then perhaps in the end death was ultimately better. Nothing could hurt them in death now, now that they were together. Not to mention, no one would have to worry about dying under their hands now, since they were dead and as Clove had experienced, could make no impression on any mortal anymore.

A/N: Reviews are nice :)