XXXIV: The Games - Day One, Evening.
Ilan Azar, 17
Tribute of District Seven
The ground is beginning to slope up.
Imaginative though he may be, this is no work of Ilan's mind wandering too far of course. Gradual, so easily missed in the course of endless wandering, but he knows it's the truth.
The high ground is a good thing… right? Like being able to see everything from the treetops.
The sun is beginning to sink too, a steady pace that becomes more unnerving the closer it gets to the horizon-line. Half the day has passed already, and they've gotten nowhere. Ilan had stopped looking at his watch long ago, despising the nausea it built in his stomach, but it couldn't be ignored forever. Midnight was coming.
They needed to be safe when it did.
"C'mon," he urges. He reaches back, grabbing Sanne's hand in his own to tug her along at a quicker pace. In her other hand she holds on tight to the little pouch they found, filled only with a small flask of water and a few snacks that will last them hardly a day or two. Still, it's better than nothing, and finding it had certainly heightened their energy.
Now he had something else to focus on. The castle walls were growing larger in his field of vision; Ilan was beginning to have to crane his neck all the way back to see them in their entirety, and the path was taking them ever-closer.
"Do you see something?" Sanne questions.
"I hope so."
The castle could be a falsity. For all Ilan knows, there is nothing safe about it at all. He's meant to be outside, he knows, safely nestled away in the woods, but he can't just think about himself. Sanne needs to be safe too.
He can't remember ever hearing someone say that they're glad he was around. Sure, his mom would shower him with adorations even if her eyes didn't match, overflowing with apprehension, and his dad would make sure breakfast was ready on the table every morning, but that wasn't the same. Even Vitali, for all the lovely things he said to Ilan day in and day out, had never uttered such words, never pulled him close and expressed the truth.
Someone had said something similar, a voice in his head that sounds as if it was born of a nightmare: It's good to see you, Ilan. Glad you're on time for your appointment.
He didn't want to think about that. Couldn't. It wasn't the same, either. Wasn't good.
Only Sanne had given him that kindness. In return, he had to do something for her—even if he wasn't quite sure what that thing was.
"It's massive," she breathes quietly. He knows she's looking up the walls, too, finding the very tip-top of the towers and the ramparts that stretch across the land to join them. Ilan can't deny its beauty, either, the darkness silhouetted against the sky.
Still, it would be better inside than left out here to stare at it all night long, and they've found no easy way in.
The hard way it is.
"Look," Ilan demands, pointing with his free hand. The moat glimmers in the dying light, coming so close to the edge of the garden that there would be hardly any room left to navigate between them. "If I climb on top of that wall there, I think I can grab onto the tower and climb up."
"Climb… up?" Sanne asks slowly, disbelievingly. He doesn't have to face her to know that her eyes are wide, tracing the path as if it's an impossible feat.
To some, maybe, but Ilan's practiced. How many times has he scaled a tree that would break had anyone else tried it, or shimmied up the ladder to his treehouse in mere seconds.
There's Vitali's voice, then—nothing so adoring as he liked to hear, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless. Y'know, I'm beginning to think you're half-squirrel, the way you do that. Have you asked your mom and dad about it?
The funny part was, he had. As a joke, of course, but his mom had only looked terribly sad.
She looked that way too often for his liking.
"I don't think I could manage that," Sanne says after a heartbeat. "I mean… look at me."
She has never seemed small, not to him, but being reminded of it does not matter. "There has to be something up there—a rope, some chain, anything I can drop down to you. I'll help. And if there's nothing, I'll come back down. I won't just leave you."
Sanne gives him a relieved, shaky smile. "If you think you can…"
"I know I can."
It's not like him to be so bold, but something in him feels oddly confident, at least about this. Already he's eyeing where he'll put his hands, the larger rocks that jut out for his feet. It shouldn't be too difficult; if anyone was made for such a task, it's him. He can't let her down when it was his idea in the first place.
"Just stay crouched next to this wall here," he instructs. It's not like him to be leading like this, but it feels good to have someone that trusts him. "If someone sees me climbing, at least they won't see you."
"What if they have a bow, or something?"
Well, he hadn't thought of that. What are the chances, though, without a Cornucopia? Even if someone does have one there's no guarantee they're even good enough of a shot to hit him all the way up there. He'll be careful, but keep moving fast, eyes never looking down.
"I'll be fine," he insists. Ilan scrambles on top of the wall, stretching for the tower until the rough stone greets his palms. It's not that far, if he thinks about it. Just one handhold after the other, regardless of how bad his arms begin to burn, legs eventually quaking. He will make it, and being talked out of it is the last thing on his mind.
"Careful," Sanne warns, the plea dying on her lips as he finally grabs a hold and swings his legs onto the tower, too, the full weight of his body held only by his fingers around the rock.
She's only looking out for him. The last thing Sanne wants, he knows, is to watch him plummet to his death. That fall from the treehouse was nothing—if he made it all the way up there only to slip, all that would exist of Ilan Azar would be a splattered, bloody mess on the earth, body broken and twisted in unimaginable ways.
No doctor could save him. There would be no one to rush him to a dreaded office, no monster charading as a savior. He would just be dead.
But Sanne is thinking of him. Vitali, somewhere, is rooting for him.
He has to do this.
Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Tribute of District Six
There's no telling how egregious this mistake can really be.
Suffice to say, Vadric is not the most trusting of their own instincts. When they can hardly sometimes tell the difference between sleep and waking hours, why would he trust himself?
Taking Levi's hand had been a gamble, and trusting that he would actually protect them if it came down to it even more so. They haven't even been able to hold onto the blade, keeping it tucked away in their belt because of the shame that their shaking hand gave away. At least he hadn't questioned it.
He seemed to question everything else.
The one thing she had already known was that he talked quite a good deal, but Vadric still isn't sure they're capable of handling it. Weston they had grown used to, after so many months, but someone who was still a near-stranger, dragging them along and pretending everything was fine… that was different. Was he chattering because he was nervous? Confused? Scared?
At least with Weston it was bravado, the confidence that people liked listening to him and enjoyed being in his company. It hadn't taken them long to figure that one out. Nothing he said was ever aimless.
Levi was, in a way, but it wasn't as bad as she had expected. Sometimes he would turn back on himself and nearly take the same path again, and Vadric would find the opportunity to quietly correct him, finding a sense of purpose when they knew they were otherwise useless. Speaking up still felt wrong in the face of someone who arguably knew so much more than him, but they wouldn't have gotten anywhere otherwise.
Not that they really had, anyway.
"We might have to start looking for a place to hunker down for the night," Levi suggests, peering around a corner and back again so quickly it hurts her neck. "Just in case things kick off, y'know?"
Something in them knows Levi would be perfectly content to continue wandering all night, ignoring the weariness in his bones to forge on and find his allies. Just like they have been, it would be easy to go along with the plan he's mentioned anyway. Their legs are sore, throat parched. Rest, for anyone else, would be the preferable option.
"We don't… we don't have to," Vadric offers. "Unless you want to, I mean. I probably won't sleep anyway, if that's what you're worried about."
They most definitely will not be. Vadric can't trust her brain once again, and they certainly won't do so with Levi around. Weston, at least, could handle it—he knows enough, even if the pieces are still split apart.
What would Levi do if they so happened to lose it on him? The logical option when faced with a dangerous stranger is to put them down, and weaponless or not, he's more than capable of it. All it would take is a quick few seconds for him to disarm them, and it's over. No matter their truce or not, of course Levi would prioritize his own life.
Vadric wouldn't blame him.
"Are you sure?" Levi asks. If he's only playing at genuine concern, he's become a better actor by the minute.
"I'm sure."
He's staring, now, no doubt trying to work out the horrifying mystery that is Vadric Gaerwyn and whatever moving parts make them up. "You already look like you haven't slept in days."
There it is. At least, with so much practice, Vadric is able to quell their reaction. "I'm used to it."
"Figured. Most people don't willingly offer themselves up for extreme sleep deprivation."
He starts walking. Vadric hadn't expected him to give it up so easily, hurrying along after him before they're left alone in this labyrinth. Despite their ultimate desire for solitude, she can't deny that it's almost nice to have someone around. In the orange-lit sky, everything is beginning to appear more garish, the shadows thrown longer than ever before. Though it's not one he's had before, Vadric can't deny that this is someone's nightmare, the haunting specter of a castle where terrible things are lined up to happen.
They don't fare well when left alone in nightmares, their own or not. To be left alone in one now is practical suicide.
"They trained us in that, believe it or not," Levi tells them. The silence never lasts long, and while it could be grating Vadric is equally welcoming to the distraction. "Kept us up for days on end, fighting, training, running, the whole nine yards. They liked to see who would collapse first."
"That doesn't sound very pleasant."
"It wasn't!"
"So why did you do it?"
"Refusing is synonymous with a drop-out. You do what they say, or you forfeit your spot. That's just how it is."
The Academies have been common knowledge for twenty-five years now, and Vadric has been alive for seventeen of them, and they still can't grasp it. The willing torture. To think somewhere out there kids are putting themselves through the hell that they cannot escape, and all for a chance at what? Fame? Fortune? Five minutes of glory?
Levi doesn't seem so bad, though. He can't be, if Weston chose to befriend them. In the same way that people see her reddened eyes, the shadows beneath them, and instantly mark her as some strung-out street kid, certain people would mark Levi as an irredeemable monster. Vadric had watched it, too, as he nearly killed someone he called a friend. They had thought it once upon a time.
And yet here they were.
"Besides," Levi continues. "If I didn't do it, then I wouldn't be here, and who would be keeping you company?"
"I've gotten used to being alone."
"Well, you don't have to be. There's no fun in it anyway."
No. No, there really isn't. There's a certain level of safety, though, in the knowledge that if you keep a shield around yourself no one can be hurt when you lash out. If she stays awake, at least, Vadric's chances of hurting someone are lessened to almost nothing.
They've done awful things, too, and Levi saw those. They all did.
"Levi," they say slowly. "I should probably thank you."
"For what?"
It's the guileless confusion in his voice that gets Vadric, the sense that nobody could ever offer gratitude to him in a genuine way. Isn't it just further proof that nobody is black and white, that deciding whether or not to trust someone upon nothing more than a first glance is worthless?
They can only shrug, too, even when he turns around to face them. Words are troublesome little things, and not easily found by them.
Actions seem like something more easily understood—Vadric pulls the kukri free from their belt, relieved to find that the vicious trembling in her fingers has stopped, and offers it back to Levi. "It's like you said," they tell him. "You'll be better with it than me."
He takes it, albeit with some hesitance, but Vadric sees the proper way in which he holds onto the hilt, the strong grip, and feels relieved.
"So we're continuing on?" he questions.
"Continuing on," they echo. It's the best option for both of them right now, so they believe. There's no reason for either of them to settle when it won't truly happen. They may not be in the midst of mutual trust, may not truly understand one another, but at least Vadric has not been left alone to fend off the dark.
Neither of them have.
Milan Crusoe, 16
Tribute of District Eight
He's made his bed—now, to lie in it.
Milan has always been a curator of ideas, the sort of person that hoards them like a mythical dragon and only puts them into good use when he's certain. This idea, while not entirely spur of the moment, had come together like a neatly wrapped little package.
It was the speed of it that worried him. When he saw who he had been placed next to, it seemed as if there were no other option; that, of course, meant he had mere seconds after the gong went off to follow through.
If he waited any longer, Maderia would have disappeared.
It would be too much of a risk to confront a Career in any other time. Milan has a series of hours in which he is safe from harm, at least any that may come from her, so he's going to try. Even if she attempts to fend him off, what good will it do? They can't leave any marks. Neither of them will wind up dead. Besides, as long as she lets him talk, she'll realize the amount they can both benefit from this.
She's moving slower now. She has been for some time. Her pace was near breakneck towards the beginning but it feels more measured, now, the conversation of energy finally taking priority. Milan hasn't missed how quiet she's gotten either, as if she's hyper-aware of every other sound around her. He's been forced to scale back, hoping that they won't meet until the time is right.
That time is rapidly seeming like now. Before midnight comes and she finds a weapon, before she decides to slaughter him.
He's no idiot. If she's anything like she's appeared to be, Maderia at least has some inkling of his priority. What's the use in being a Career otherwise?
Milan finally allows himself to move faster, closing the distance that has kept them separated. Finally, he sees her—fifteen, twenty feet of space between them, enough that he almost considers it safe. She's still, head turned to the wind. Listening.
She hasn't felt his phantom presence.
"Maderia," he beckons. She doesn't jump, no, though it would certainly be something to say he scared the daylight out of a One. She whirls on him with her fists clenched, and he's all the more grateful for the distance. Regardless of her size, he doesn't doubt that she could throw a mean right hook, break his nose so bad it was always just a hair crooked.
"Is there a reason you've been trailing me all day?" she wonders.
"If you knew, why didn't you say something?"
"Figured we'd wait until the night, see what happens then."
She's so brave when she's in no real danger; people always are. The fact of the matter is, Milan killed more people than she did, concocted every single plan that led him to the end. She was just lucky enough that her heart stopped after Orellan Solheim's, else it would have been him standing here instead.
Milan doesn't think he would have stood a chance, if it was.
"I've been thinking," he offers, even though the idea is already settled in his mind. "About the good we could do."
"We?"
"You're alone. I'm alone. It would be foolish of us not to."
"I won't be alone for long," she says slowly. He expected as much. They haven't been moving without rest all day for the fun of it—she's looking for her allies. For Aranza and Tova.
He does not miss the sight of his District partner's face in the slightest. In fact, Milan would be more than happy never to see it again outside of the rough, pixelated image that will eventually appear in the sky.
If he's to do this, though, he needs her—shameful as it is to admit.
"I understand you want to find them," he says. "But you can't really trust them, can you? Tova's already killed you once, and Aranza doesn't have a truthful bone in her body. You saw what she did to her allies. You think she won't hesitate to do the same to you?"
"I'm not in the mood for mind games, Eight."
"I can help you," he insists. "I want to."
He wants to, of course, because she's the easiest of the three to deal with. Not brutal and blunt like Tova, not a wonder of complications and lies like Aranza. Maderia is someone he can work to take down after all is said and done. Someone he can beat.
Milan is not so egotistical as to believe that he can handle the other two one-on-one.
"Help me how?" she questions. He has his in, at least. It has to be like one of his mother's stories—every sentence planned out to the last detail.
It's a good thing he's had all day to think it through.
"I don't doubt that we can find them," he explains. "When we do, I'm sure your word will mean enough to them that they'll allow me to stay. I've seen the closeness between the two of them. I don't like it. You don't know Aranza like I do. The second she's done with it, you're disposed of. She won't shed a tear about it. She won't think twice."
"And you think you can stop that from happening?"
"I think I'm your best shot," Milan says. "We're mutually beneficial to one another."
He hates that he's worried about her, that Aranza's presence out there strikes some sort of uneasiness in his heart. He's the one with the diabolical plans, so everyone says, but she's the one with the black heart. Anyone willing to craft so many lies, and all without blinking, is no one that can be left out there alive.
He told her that her farce would fall apart sooner rather than later—well, Milan plans on being the reason for it.
All of that, of course, hinges on Maderia believing him. Milan doesn't trust that he can drag her away from Tova. Whatever is going on between them is beyond his capabilities. But he's figured Aranza out, and he can crack her.
"You seem awfully confident that my word means so much to them, when your own partner didn't offer us anything of the sort on your behalf," Maderia says. "They may kill you the second they see you."
"So buy me time."
"Time for what?"
"To plan something," he says. "To collect supplies, find the right spot. I can ensure that whatever the two of them are up to doesn't take both of us out."
If he did it to seven others, two more is nothing. Milan has people behind him, a selection of the audience rediscovering the name Scarlett Crusoe and chanting it in the streets. They want him to succeed. They want him to win.
"Ground rules," Maderia says firmly. Though his heart soars, he keeps his face blank. "You don't get too close to me. If we find anything resembling a weapon, it goes to me. And when we find them, you let me do the talking. Your mouth stays shut. Got it?"
Well, Milan can't say he didn't expect a little bit of light bullying. Such demands sound odd coming from Maderia's mouth but he nods anyway, trying not to let his exasperation show. She will never be able to order him around, nor take control of the situation. Not like he can.
Perhaps she knows it, too—is that not why she's letting him tag along, because she can't do it herself?
If they don't do this, they're both royally screwed. Usually Milan would root around in his brain for a better word, something more eloquent phrased, but nothing fits it better. Everything rides on this. If it fails, he's done.
There's no way that's how he lets his story end.
Robbie Creston, 17
Tribute of District Ten
Has he finally found something useful?
If not for the watch on his wrist, Robbie would have convinced himself by now that he had been wandering for days, aimless circle after aimless circle, thinking more than once that he was staring at the same bush again, the same set of trees.
But this is different, a secluded corner tucked away in the gardens, and judging by the fact that it's empty, no one else has bothered.
Why would they? This was no doubt the opposite direction that anyone was going. Robbie had come this way because he was sure in his state of relative solitude—he had to have everything sorted out before he made any real move.
The greenhouse was hardly that at all, barely ten feet by ten feet. Each end had a door, each side lined with benches and shelves. A few of them were bright with bundles of perfectly rounded tomatoes, two dozen more flowers at the ready. Robbie was the last person on earth about to be picky. When you grew up fighting for pig slop in a house with twenty other kids, you learned to shove food down your gullet without tasting it, or you wouldn't get food at all.
Besides, that's not really the reason he's here. The food is just a bonus. He raps his fingers against the glass wall, a panel that will so easily give way. This isn't anything Pierre taught him, no—why would Pierre ever have wasted time teaching him how to punch a wall when there were so many faces practically begging for it?
The glass shatters beneath his closed fist and tinkers to the cobblestone. With each noise he braces himself, eyes fixated on the path in. Robbie doesn't so much as move for at least five minutes, straining to listen for any noise that might be headed this way.
Nobody's there, though. He knew that nobody would still be this far out.
Piece by piece he begins to collect the glass shards that have rained down upon the ground, chunks the size of his palm to the ones he nearly misses and crushes beneath his feet. Each of them has their importance, their purpose.
He needs something in him if he's going after Hawke.
Robbie hadn't been surprised to see him at the pedestals. This was all some sort of practical fucking joke to the Capitol, letting two enemies size one another up when they had no option to kill each other. Hawke had gone at him well enough. Robbie remembers the words useless and pathetic and half a dozen others that had made his blood boil, all whilst he was doomed to stand there and do nothing about it.
He could have followed him, could've made Hawke's life a living hell until midnight, but Robbie had better ideas. It was better to lull him into a false sense of security—knowing Hawke, he would forget Robbie even existed by the morning. It would make it all the more better to smash his face in, to see the surprise just before he did it.
It was odd to fantasize over revenge so deeply, but Robbie had finally found someone who deserved it. This was no schoolyard bully, no raucous teenager out of the house who Pierre would put in his place. He almost wishes that Hawke had grown up in the same house with them… by this age he'd have a handful of broken bones, bruises all over his face, bandaged knuckles. He wouldn't be quite the same.
He shouldn't be thinking of Pierre in a time like this. He misses him like it's been years. It was easy to treasure someone when you were up close with them every day, but the hurt that accompanied it when you were separated was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It wasn't even possible for him to miss his family this much—Robbie carried them with him, had them by his side. Pierre was just gone.
But he was watching. Rooting him on, no doubt. If he got the chance to smash Hawke's face in, Pierre would be the one cheering the loudest.
Of course that meant he had to make something out of broken pieces. With a long enough stick, he could fashion a spear. With a bit more work Robbie could put together something of a mace.
They're no brass knuckles, but he wraps a few of the shorter pieces in his pocket, just in case. Even if he has to shred his own skin, it'll be worth it. He can make a weapon worth using in the next few hours, and then of course begs the question of what he does next. There's no looking for anyone—Robbie has to get lucky. If he knew where Sloane had started, that's where he would be going now. Back-up is good. Company isn't so bad either.
He only knows where Hawke went, at least the direction he moved off in. That's where Robbie has to go.
Once this is over with, Robbie feels like he'll be able to breathe again. With Hawke gone, he can move onto the bigger picture.
Whatever that is… well, he hasn't really figured it out.
There's a future, though. With Pierre, with a family he chooses, if only he can work up the nerve to say something. He'll be able to plant expensive flowers around the headstones that belong to his family in the spring, and he won't have to worry ever again about living in the kind of house that could break you.
The in-between will be complicated, to say the least, but it's not as if Robbie isn't prepared for that. He is.
Now it's all about where he's going to start.
Lilou Holbrook, 15
Tribute of District Nine
She had no plan regarding being alone during another night.
At least last time there was some comfort to be found in the familiarity of her environment. She could pretend she was walking Sadie along the fringes of the fields despite being immersed, and pretending would keep her from spiraling.
There was no pretending here.
Worse, still, was imagining the fact that Casia could be tucked away in the smallest hidey-hole in existence, never to be found by someone like Lilou who had no damn clue where to look. And that meant what—that she was alone again? No one had expressed interest in her or bothered to spend any time with her.
Lilou knew she wasn't the most fascinating person out there. She was no one's favorite, not good enough to be a role model and not bad enough to be reprimanded. She was just there, plain-clothes and all, blending into the rest of society. It felt like she was losing herself again, this twisting maze chipping away at her until there was nothing left.
This was not supposed to happen. The dark should not have come for her, all by her lonesome.
Of course, too, she was starting to hear things. Not in the sense that her brain was cursed, at least, but she wasn't lucky enough for it to be human either. At least a person she could hide from, run from, have a chance against. If there was something otherwise that was hunting her along the pathways, it would stalk her until midnight and kill her on the spot. She can only imagine that the Capitolities are salivating for it, praying for the clock to strike.
She does not want to be the first. She doesn't want to be any of the numbers, really, but Lilou isn't sure she has much choice about that.
Something scuttles across the stone before her and she stills, hands launching out into the greenery to hold herself there. Thorns dig into her palm, petals tickling against her skin. Worst case scenario she could dive into the brush and hope she doesn't get her eyes poked out—it's better than being eaten by whatever's out here.
Lilou thinks she knows what it is, though, and the thought is almost laughable. Were there not enough of them in Nine, or are they just an unfortunate decoration. Another one darts over the path soon after, small, its eyes no less beady as its thin tail snakes across the grout.
She likes her dog, alright? She loves her dog. Frankly she's sort of over this mouse nonsense, no matter how small they may be.
"Screw off," she mutters, unsure if they're really listening as she kicks her foot forward, hoping for the way to be clear. Lilou hurries to the next bit over, but she can still hear scuttling in the grass. They're going to be around all night, knowing them. They always her.
It's making her miss Sadie even more than she already did. It's making her miss Casia, which is not a point she ever thought she would get to. They're friendly, sure. They have late night chats with mugs of hot cocoa and they get along well enough, but Lilou wouldn't go to the extreme of calling them best friends or anything of the sort.
She doesn't have a best friend, but that still doesn't mean Casia is it. Casia probably doesn't have one either.
Just realistically speaking.
Having Casia by her side right now would calm her nerves. She would not fear a small handful of mice, nor what could lie around the next corner. Sure, she still wouldn't be the most confident person to ever exist, but it would be better than this.
She turns, eyeing the place they had disappeared, and finds a nose poking out of the bushes, sniffing the air. "I said screw off," she reminds them, darting away before they can get any ideas. Lilou doesn't have any interest in her corpse being snacked on, not like what she had watched last time. She still can't believe Casia stayed there to witness even the beginning of it; her body shudders just thinking of it.
The more distance she can put between her and whatever noises she's hearing the better. That's probably what Casia do, and even though following the probable voice of a thirteen year old might be an embarrassing act for some, Lilou has no issue listening to such an instinct.
It's what her parents would tell her to do. Even Sadie would avoid the noise and pull her home, back to safety.
She just has to keep pretending that exists somewhere out here.
Hawke Rabanus, 18
Tribute of District Ten
For the longest time he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.
They were the one thing he always needed to rely on up in the skies. If he didn't have his eyes, he would have nothing. It goes on for some time—Hawke watching the same spot in the distance, straining his eyes against the sun, and then finally realizing when it finally disappeared that it wasn't his imagination at all.
There were people up there. One at the very top, the first one he had seen climbing, and now a second at a much slower pace.
Clearly they had discovered a spot to ascend safely, or they wouldn't have taken such a risk. Not everyone would rush into such a thing like he would. He's awfully close now, too, having spent so long moving in their direction trying to figure out what was going on that there's no point in walking away. If they've gotten up, so can he.
Why wouldn't he go that way?
He finds a good place to settle as the second of the two finally stretches up, reaching for the rampart and no doubt the hands of her ally. Hawke watches them latch onto one another, disappearing for a brief second before their heads pop back up on the other side, safe and sound.
She had been holding onto a length of chain, one that cascades all the way down nearly to the water's edge. No doubt the boy had dropped it down upon reaching the top, judging by the two of them lingering so close to one another.
It's awfully sweet of them. It won't be so sweet once he sneaks up there after them and silences them come midnight.
When they disappear yet again he hurries across the grass, pressing himself against the tower's stone side. He can see exactly the path they had taken—an easy climb up onto the low stone wall, a careful lean across to the wall to get a good grip, only a sliver of water lingering beneath the two. The chain has been dropped slightly to the side; he'll have to scale right ten feet or so to reach it, but it's better than nothing.
Hawke's not afraid of heights. If you show even the slightest indication of such a thing they don't put you up in the air. Maybe he had been, once upon a time, but where that fear had gone he has no idea.
He hasn't had any for quite some time.
He scrabbles up the wall, finding two good handholds on the tower to curl his fingers around. He's much too exposed dangling like this, but hopefully everyone has about as much ability to do anything about it as the next person. If anyone else had seen, they'd be here by now; chances are no one's looking this way, and if they are, they're not bold enough to try it, too.
Hawke forces himself to go slow as he slides over to the chain, unwilling to trust that the stones will hold his feet. His fingers are aching by the time he reaches it, gratefully curling his hand around the rusted links. The water and bank below linger at a perfect meeting point directly below him; if he rushes, it's not going to end well.
He's never been good at taking his time. His arms begin to burn as he pulls himself, the chain scraping against his chest as he holds on, nearly for deal life. Certain death may not be his fate if he plummets, but Hawke's not in the business of finding out.
Somehow it looks even further even though he's made it some way, though. The bridge is an impossible height above him, black against the sky, and—
And they're still up there, for fuck's sake.
There's a head poking over the wall, eyes wide, staring right at him. Seven looks down at him, oh so peculiar, as if he had never expected to find another breathing human attempting the same thing he had just completed.
This whole lot really is stupid, aren't they?
There isn't any time for patience. Hawke digs his hands in harder as the boy shouts something, words lost to the wind as he focuses only on the task before him. He hastens, moves faster until his legs are shaking from the strain but he's getting closer, foot by foot.
The chain scrapes against rock. When he glances up there are two heads, now, hardly visible.
And the chain is furling away from where it's been tied around the top of the bridge. Loop by loop the girl has joined him, her hands working away at the knot as the boy works on loosening it.
He's not going to get there before they drop it.
Hawke let's go—there's no other choice. His body dangles through the open air before his body finds the wall once again, hugging it in near-desperation. He doesn't want to look like this, some pathetic creature clinging for their life, but it's all he has. Hawke is getting up there, come hell or high water, and it's not like District Seven of all people is going to stop him.
He glances up. The chain is gone.
It's hurtling right towards him.
Hawke knows before it happens that he's not going to move fast enough, but that doesn't stop him from trying. He lurches sideway. The air is filled with the sound of rattling, so loud in his ears that it sounds more like a thunderstorm.
It hits him dead on.
He doesn't recall letting go. There's pain somewhere, in his shoulder or neck or jaw, the weight crashing into him as gravity yanks it down, yanks both of them down. He sees the darkening sky, the gray of the mammoth castle as he goes spinning down, head over heels.
The chain hits the water. A second later he follows, his upper half slamming so hard into the muddied bank that the breath is driven from his lungs. From his waist down he's met with icy cold water that seems to paralyze him even further, making every possible move seem like a worse idea than the last. He rolls, gripping hard at the earth to keep himself from sliding down the decline that is the bank beneath the water, so suddenly Hawke isn't sure he'd resurface if he were to slip under.
Though there are still stars in his eyes, the two figures up above him are brighter than ever. "I'm sorry!" the girl yells at him, sounding genuinely apologetic as the boy takes her arm and drags her away.
They're gone. He breathes.
Pain ignites in his ankle without warning, and then his calf. Hawke's feet lash out, and beneath the sole of his left boot he feels himself connect with something, slipping off before he can drive it away. The pain comes with him like a thousand stinging needles, dragging through his flesh as he begins to pull himself up the bank. His nails crack, blood spotting across the grass as the same thing blooms across the disturbed water, silvery bodies rippling through it as if it has no effect.
Something is still attached to him, teeth that he can feel grinding all the way down to the bone, and Hawke still doesn't scream. He wouldn't be worth anything if he did.
Finally, he connects. The next time he lashes out the creature is driven away, enough of a release that he's able to yank his legs up onto dry ground.
The skin around his calf has been shredded, ribbons of it trailing against the round as rivulets of his blood run down the bank, all the way back to the water. Within it the creatures still snap away, their jaws closing around just as much of his blood as they do water. Already a part of him feels numb, both from the cold and the suddenness of it all.
Hawke knows it has something to do with the pain, too, but he refuses to acknowledge it. No matter how much his body aches or his leg burns, he's fine.
All he knows is that he hates this place. Hates the Seven's and the fucking 'makers, too—so killing's not allowed, but violence? Oh, they'll gladly enact that against him. It doesn't matter who he is. He knows what the rules are, now. He's heard them loud and clear.
It's a good thing he's never chosen to play by them.
Sorry for the impromptu break last week, for those that were unaware. I was also unaware. Let's just blame Moderna and call it a day. Regardless I hope that little break wasn't so bad, and we should be back on schedule for now.
Until next time.