AN: Keeping it going.


Restless


He is waiting for the light to come up from the horizon. He is waiting with bated breath for the sun to crawl up into the sky. He is waiting for the hammering in his chest to stop beating so wildly, he is just waiting for the world to end and the battle to begin, for the glory to rain upon him or for his life to crash into a blaze of triumph and stress.

He is restless for this day to be over with.

He waits with restless anticipation as he dresses in finer clothing, appearing noble and strong and confident in tight yet loose clothes, revealing his potential but showing the subtlety of his movements and actions.

He waits in the foyer of his home, one of the better houses in the district for those who are better off. He waits for the moment to come. He waits as his mother touches his shoulder, staring at him with confident, forlorn eyes. His father comes to him and only looks at his face, quiet, stiller than stone.

They wait, looking into the eyes of the restless boy who they raised to be restless for this day that, they all knew, would come for him eventually. They waited for the day of death and they prepared him as best as they were capable of doing—which was the best in this district. They wait for the time to happen. That is all they can do right now—wait for the moment to arrive.

The sun is high yet hot in the upside down azure sea, waiting for people to collapse from the weight of dread and the deadly touch of its burning rays.

Voices murmur, floating on wind that waits for no one to command it to move.

The whole world is restless for this, the Reaping.

The land is hushed, hushed into oblivion.

But there are those who are strong enough to try, foolish enough to try, caught up in the waiting of it all, tired of not being in control of their own fates, tired of being restless.

So he steps forth, calling out his name a moment after a girl with sharp eyes and a sharper skill. Cato waits, wanting to be acknowledged, feeling the distant breath of anticipation and wonder and worry from the frozen lips of his parents.

He then moves to the stage and the crowd roars, because they no longer have to wait to learn whom their tributes will be, they no longer have to wait for the moment when the shroud clouds their eyes, they do not have to wait at all now—they have another year of safety. They are saved from their own anxious waiting.

As Cato stares into the eyes of his parents, feeling their worry as well as their pride, he is glad he decided not to wait. He always had a particular restlessness when it came to waiting for the future to decide his end. This time, time can squirm with restlessness—for a moment, however brief, he made a choice of his own and that is victory enough.