Writer Games | Masquerade of Martyrs & Family Ties

Task Four: The Brother - Males

District Three - Fidelis Teague

My hands were red with blood and getting redder.
"Oh  God, Dad. Come on. Stay with me." My father smiled and coughed weakly. I  bit my lip, applying more pressure to my balled-up shirt, trying to do  something, anything to stem the crimson tide.
"I-it's okay,  kiddo. You'll be fine now." I bit back a swearword, thinking  frantically. At that moment, I would have cheerfully sold my soul for my  sister Fortuna's medical expertise.
It wasn't enough.

I was staring in  horror at the Cornucopia. Vienna's voice had just finished echoing  throughout the arena, gleefully announcing that a person from our family  was going to be put into the Games- and that we would have ten minutes  to decide who would die. My legs ached from the sprint to the garden,  and Avner and Tesla trailed behind me, panting. Would it be Vita?  Mother?
My eyes widened with horror as Septimus Teague stumbled out of the Cornucopia, bleary-eyed and confused.

The scent of metal  filled the air. I swore openly now, a steady stream of invective as I  tried to keep the blood inside my father's body. His eyes were starting  to glaze over. His valuable blood was flowing more slowly, now.  Something told me this was a bad sign.

"Fidelis..." his  voice was trailing off as he examined my little group. The doomed ones.  "I was briefed on the situation before they put us in the arena."
My eyes filled with tears.
"No, no, no, no no!" I shouted. "It was supposed to be me! You were supposed to be safe, damn it!" Avner coughed.
"Um, is this your-"
"Not  now, Avner. He's just... he was supposed to live and go on." Avner  hesitated, then turned and walked away. My father studied him, eyebrow  raised as Tesla followed.
"Well. Somebody's been busy. You've  only been in the Games for a couple of days and already you have two  lady friends. Not bad, son." I blinked.
"First, we have more  important things to talk about than my allies, Dad. Second, there's  nothing between Tesla and me, and Avner's not even a girl." Blue eyes  far too clever for their own good gazed into mine, and he had the  audacity to smirk.
"Trust me, kiddo. I can tell- she's doing a decent job of hiding it, but Avner's a girl. She can't lie to me."
"It doesn't matter anyways," I said quickly. "You can work it out later. Avner's a good ally."
"And I'm sure she'll be of great help to you. However, you need to make it out of here alive, so don't get too attached."

"Avner! Tesla! I need help over here!" I screamed to the sky. "He's dying! Please, won't somebody, anybody come and help him?"
The  knife glistened with blood and viscera where it had fallen out of his  hand. The scene was blurring as salt water filled my eyes. I didn't dare  wipe them and remove pressure from the ugly, evil wound.

"Dad, you have to  live. Mom needs you. Three needs you. You need to make it out of the  Hunger Games-" He cut me off with a sharp gesture.
"Fidelis,  you're a good boy. You always think of the family first. However, you  just don't understand a couple of things. First, there is more than one  kind of worth in this world. In the grand scheme of things, I'm no more  important than you, even though you don't believe it. You're a good man,  intelligent or not, and that matters far more than Three will ever  understand."
I froze, held in place by the calm, utter certainty of his words. He fixed me with another deep, blue-eyed gaze and went on.
"Second,  I am your father, and I love you. I do not give you permission to  sacrifice your life for mine. You did not understand this when you  entered the Games. Understand it now. You have the right to live- and I  fully expect you to do so from here onward."
One of his hands moved, sunlight glinting off a piece of metal.
"Third,  I happen to be a genius. As such, I can think rather quickly,  especially when I have been informed of the situation and then placed  within a weapons cache. I have come prepared. And I have made my  choice."
I saw a wicked-looking knife in his right hand. He moved with precision, the knife swinging in a deadly arc- but not towards me.
Red drops and a gentle sigh filled the air.
I  knelt at his side, eyes gazing dully at his blue, blue eyes, half  closed. Valuable red blood stained my hands. He simply lay there, a doll  whose strings had been cut.
My father, Septimus Teague. Brilliant researcher. Loving husband. Kind father.
Now, he was no more valuable than the soil upon which he lay.