Jagged mountains pierced through the crust of the earth, padded with blankets of marshmallow snow. Overhead, the star-spangled night sky glittered like dew-covered lilies in the soft moonlight of the dawn. The massive horn of plenty, the Cornucopia, glowed softly in the waning moonlight just behind a copse of thick-trunked pines.
An aurora of light came out like a whisper from behind the collection of teeth that were the sharp peaks of the mountains. It started green, snaking out and around the few tufts of cotton candy clouds that lazily crossed the heavens. Another beam shot out of the origin of the green band, this time a deep maroon. Next a sunshine copper, followed by a chartreuse and a violet. They expanded and twirled around each other, stars twinkling softly in the holes of the auroras like holes in a fabric of midnight blue threads.
The emerald ice in front of us erupted into flames of violet and orange, illuminating our faces. I curled up into the downy fleece of this artificial jacket on my body, a foreign object compared to the rough cottons and musty old leathers of our clothes back at home. Snowflakes fell lightly around us, me wrapped up in his arms, caressing my eartips with bits of powdery white.
It's a shame the whole scene's artificial.
His bow rests against my ankle, copper arrow nocked on the silver bowstring. My slingshot and knife are in the synthetic fabric lining of my boot. 3 are left to play. We sit there in complete silence, watching the candy spirals twist and turn, and we both know, somewhere, there's a man twirling a pen on a screen, that those ribbons of life are nothing more than strokes on a slate. That this snow is no more than a push of a button, a turn of a dial.
Our moment of peace is disrupted by a crash. A section of glimmering gold ice crashes down onto the emerald pond, a knife sticks out of the rubble. A shadow emerges from the impenetrable wall of bark, with another blade of black ice in hand. I draw the sling and knife from my boot. He grabs his bow with a clatter. Bow's up, the shadowed knife is up. The knife flies. A breath is taken, a shot with the bow made. In an instant of time, the arrow and the knife meet in midair, colliding in a flurry of sparks and metal and snow.
It seems as if time is frozen. Our attacker stands still, he stands still, I stand still. We gape in silent protest towards the two weapons, what these Games have made us do, have turned us into. Have preyed on our inborn instincts to protect ourselves, protect those who we love. The aurora overhead shimmers more vibrantly, and we turn our gazes skyward as the clouds bursting with snow part, giving the lights center stage.
That fleeting instant is gone with the soft undertones of an owl's hoot, and we turn to one another. Another arrow is nocked, but before this one can fly, a knife sprouts from the center of his chest. My knife is flung straight into our attacker's head. A cannon fires.
I turn towards him, the life slowly slipping out of him into the aurora above. Into the interlocking fortress of green needles. Their jacket, I refuse to call any item of that miserable city's mine, I rip off myself. The cool embrace of the night air envelops my naked arms, but I don't pay any attention to it. The jacket erases the crimson from his chest, draws it all inside. Gingerly I slip the cool metal out of the cavity in his body with the jacket. I embrace him, kiss him, caress his face for the last time.
The shot of that cannon reverberates through every bone in my body, rocking it with spasms of sound. The trumpets play, but I do not rise. I take the amethyst off of his neck, and place it into my sock. The hovering aircraft lowers down a net, and I climb inside, too exhausted to latch hold onto it.
Forgive and forget, my mom used to say. I'll forgive the one who did this, but I'll never forget the one who died, the 23 that died, or any of them that ever died. The brand will forever stay imprinted in the darkest recesses of my mind, where no fantasies live and the good die young.