Initium
(The end)

Now.

It has to be now. It has to be now or neither of them make it home.

He looks at her for one last moment, at her standing, unaware — her back to him, hands at her hips, her hair sticking out in every direction, eyes pointed at the top of the dense thicket of trees above them. Always so in awe of the forest.

"Willa," he says. And she turns around.

"Willa," he says, just once more, once more, just one last time, before pressing the sword softly into her torso as though it is not a sword at all. As though this is neither her death nor his killing.

She makes a choked sound ("Cato—") and falls to her knees. He falls with her.

He tries to remind himself — this is how it's supposed to be. It couldn't have ended any other way. Show no mercy. She has to—had to die like this.

No.

One hand on her shoulder, the other white-gripped around the sword. No surprise in her eyes, not even a flinch. He hates it. He cannot breathe. He pulls the sword out and God, there is so much blood and Christ, Willa, I'm so, so sorry. She tips over into his chest, face pressed against his red t-shirt once more. He catches her, cradles her, one hand soft behind her head and one at the small of her back, like a child. Her blood staining his red t-shirt, gushing.

"Cato—" she starts, and he knows she will not, cannot finish. Her hand, suddenly small and white, wrapped around his wrist, the grip weakening slightly, and her eyes start to flutter shut.

No. Not now.

He panics. It is like a dull blow to the head — everything spinning and unfocused. Reaches for his pack, for her small kit, the one he took to lighten her load (oh, God), leaving red handprints on everything he touches. The gauze. The small towel. The antiseptic. Desperate, desperate, desperate. He takes off his t-shirt quickly, all of it quickly, gingerly wraps it around her, her chest lower and lower with every breath.

"Cato—" Again.

"No!" This time out loud. Continues to mop up the blood, and there's so much of it, still so much, since when is there—

"Cato, please." Her voice slow and quiet and raspy, shattered like broken glass, so fragmented it is not even there. Cato continues to move, trying to find something, anything — a needle and thread, maybe — trying to ignore the way she is gasping for breath. "Cato, not like this." Don't say my name, please, not like this, not here and now. "Cato, please. I don't want to die like this." It sounds preposterous when she says it out loud — why should she die? Only yesterday she was laughing with him. But now, now, she is so close, so close, she is not even here, and—not like this, not like this.

He sobs, loudly, picks her up again, one hand soft behind her head, tangled in her hair, and one wrapped around her chest, pulling her into his lap, pulling her into an embrace ridiculous, ironic in its intimacy. Whispering apologies. I am sorry, so sorry, not like this—

He hates them. She was right all along and he hates that but he hates them more. He sits there, covered in her blood, steeped in it — "Red looks nice on you" — and God, please, no, you were right you were right you were right.

He feels the life go out of her in one fell breath and his hand tightens in her hair and— I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry— loud enough to chill the entire arena.

All of Panem watches the broken boy in unbroken silence. Unflinching, unmoving. The cries echo in every corner of every district — the wails of a child unable to save the girl he himself split open

Sometime later…. or maybe before. He's not quite sure anymore. Not sure how long it's been. How long it's going to be.

"You remind me of 10."

His blood, or maybe still hers, or maybe both. All over him in precise, crimson strokes.

"Destroying whatever it gives."

I thought this ending fit in quite well with the Hunger Games canon and still presented a new conflict to Cato. I think it also provides nice background to the added speech in the movie:
"Go on, shoot. And we'd both go down and you'd win. Go on. I'm dead anyway! I always was, right? I didn't know that until now. Isn't that what they want, huh? No! I can still do this. I can still do this. One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Not that it matters anymore."

About a sequel: I really really really REALLY wish I could write a Catching Fire sequel in which Cato and Willa would be in the Quarter Quell with Katniss/Peeta… but, alas, it did not work out any way I cut the story. It would have felt cheap, I think, with 4 victors, and I would not write a sequel without Katniss Peeta in it as well.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed it! I thought about a couple of different endings (still with Cato + Willa both dying) but I liked this one the most.

UPDATE!

I've had questions about the meaning of the title of this story—"not all of me shall die." Readers should go into the story knowing that Willa is going to die—it's what makes her determination to come back to see Lorelei, Quincy, her father, etc. that much more sad. She's in the same Games as Katniss & Peeta, and they are the catalysts for the revolution that will eventually upend the system that kills Cass, Willa, Cato, etc.

Willa's life—and to a certain extent, her death—is not inconsequential. She is directly responsible with the fact that Katniss and Peeta survive. Actively, she does not kill Katniss when she sees her by the riverbank—passively, though, her death itself means the survival of Katniss and Peeta—same as with everyone else in the Games.

This story, in its inception, was meant to give a more hefty backstory to these kids who are sacrificed but do not even get named in the books. Not a fault of Collins, of course—but I like to think of it as a means of really underscoring the fact that all of these people likely have stories comparable to Katniss, that all of them are interesting, have desires, needs, flaws. That they are more than their deaths, and that not all of them dies, that they are as responsible for the revolution as the mockingjay herself.