Part III.
"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."
—Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
Tap, tap, tap.
He taps a rhythm on the surface of the dining table, the grain pattern of the cherry wood deep, wide and exotic. There is nothing else to do but wait. Icarus disappeared the moment they stepped onto the train, his excuse muffled as he moved through the cars.
It feels…eerie, riding in a train to the Capitol. The last time feels like ages ago. He may not be wearing iron cuffs this time around, but he might as well be. Nothing's changed all that much, to be fair—Sonnet's being ushered off to his death yet again. Only this time he's not crammed into the back of a boxcar, shivering, crying out for his parents.
Tap, tap, tap—
The door slides open with a metallic screech.
He sits back in an instant, soft couch cushion against his shoulder blades, curling each finger into two fists as if he was caught doing something he shouldn't red-handed. His mother's words make themselves known again:
Do not let them suspect anything. Keep the mask on, play the part.
As a child, unaware of what their performances meant during that summer, he obeyed just like he obeyed the sway of the conductor's hand. In hindsight, he was just a boy with a too-eager smile with a lot of talent and naivete to offer. He knows their demonstrations were to inspire change, but all they did was bring ruin.
Sonnet will try, though—for both her and Tris. Considering he has a less than a stellar record in the eyes of the Capitol, he mustn't step a toe out of line.
"So," his mentor begins, swishing around a bright pink drink, waltzing into the dining car. The color is appropriate for the young man, attention-grabbing and…annoying to some degree. "You lot are lucky this year."
He looks across at his district partner, her tiny form swallowed by another couch, her feet barely touching the ground.
After sensing that she is not about to speak first, Sonnet takes the lead.
"How so?"
"Well considering they didn't let the kids anywhere near the passenger cars until now, I would advise both of you to take advantage of the amenities."
"It seems you are enjoying them enough for the both of us," he acknowledges. "The perks of being a Capitol liaison and all that. I know it's a career of great distinction."
"Puh-lease—I didn't even apply for this stupid gig. You can thank my long-dead girlfriend for that," he complains, rolling his eyes. Sonnet is sure it's some sort of taboo to be blaming one's deceased significant other for things out of their control. Judging by Icarus' childish blabbering in the Justice Building, he doesn't think he's the type to care that much. "She was sort of an asshole. Guess she thought escorting district brats to their funerals would get me away from my father."
Sonnet isn't quite sure how to respond, so he turns back to his district partner and offers an apologetic smile. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying, but she smiles back hesitantly.
It feels like a small win.
"Anyways," the brunette huffs. "It's about time to watch the recaps of the other reapings. Another benefit your predecessors weren't allowed to enjoy."
Icarus doesn't say anything further, choosing to drape himself lazily over one of the armchairs nearby, remote in hand. Once the screen powers on, the Capitol's Anthem blaring to life, Sonnet relaxes a bit. He's grown accustomed to the mixed feelings that sprout in his ribs whenever he hears the composition—after rising for it during each morning lesson, Sonnet's learned how to stifle memories of The Gilded String Youth Orchestra.
District One sprawls across the screen in platinum cursive, a far-away view of Arcadia's vista in the background. More shots of the town flash by, conveniently ignoring the less than ideal workshops and factories, until Icarus' form appears on the stage outside the Justice Building. Their escort murmurs something in his chair, obviously miffed by something. Probably some non-existent aesthetic anomaly. All that Sonnet cares about is watching how he appears to the rest of the country.
After Ghyslaine is called up and Sonnet calls out his intent to volunteer, he gets a good look at himself. He's pleasantly surprised by how well he seemed to cover the effects of the poison. Viewers might label him as a simpleton volunteering his life away, but at least he won't be written off immediately.
And then the screen fades into District Two's introduction.
Rough peaks. Grassy fields. Quarries. A looming city of stone. Sonnet hopes Tris is holding up well, prays that he's assimilated into the district's no-nonsense culture.
Who is he kidding? His best friend has probably caused more trouble in the time that he's lived there than anybody else his age. Sonnet aches with yearning just thinking about his other half.
If a miracle takes place within the next few days, they might have the chance to become whole again.
And then a voice carries from the speakers, smacking Sonnet upside the head.
"I volunteer!"
No.
It can't be—
He knows that voice. Has fallen asleep to the way it rolls like a melody.
Familiar curls bounce up the aisle, sleeves of a cleanly-pressed button up rolled to mid-arm, muscles gleaming in the sun. He's gotten taller in the past year, put on some extra weight, but Sonnet knows it's him. Even if the poison were to rob his sight, he would know.
It's confirmed half-a-second later, when an obnoxious smile proclaims into the microphone, "My name is Tristian DeVoce, and you're looking at your newest Victor."
The broadcast continues, the other reapings being shown, but Tristristris plays in his mind on replay.
x
Stepping onto the train platform, Sonnet can instantly feel the oncoming of an episode. The tell-tale itch of the cravings is faraway, but once the scratching in his throat begins, it's only a matter of when not if. He tried to convince himself he still had time, washing his face in the powder room before the train rolled into the station, but he's been dealing with this too long.
Sonnet knows what it means when he runs a fever.
Camera flashes and calls from the capitolites loitering in the terminal distracts him from the feeling, offering a welcome relief. However, there's only so much Sonnet can do until the poison takes hold. Until then, he'll fight it every step of the way. He needs the cravings to wait just a little longer—just until he's in the Colosseum.
Until he sees Tris.
Then, and only then, will Sonnet allow the hunger to engulf his body.
Icarus ushers them into a nearby armored truck and then they're off, one step closer to their doom.
x
Icarus spends the ride explaining next steps. They'll be escorted to the Colosseum, an arena that hosts the Games each year. Once all tributes are accounted for, they'll be held in the Hypogeum. Icarus says it's, "A large, underground dungeon. Creepy and dirty as fuck. I'd off myself if I had to sleep in that place."
He has a wonderful way of not mincing words.
Icarus also complains throughout his spiel, mostly about how someone named Soran is a fucker and that it's unfair he gets to escort Two, already two Victors deep. Sonnet tries not to let any of his brain cells get fried by the young man's inability to stay on topic.
Dinner will be served later in the night and then in the morning, they'll be provided a uniform before they are launched into the stadium.
Out the tinted window, the Colosseum's imposing arches and what looks like thousands of columns stand tall. It's an architectural marvel, grand and foreboding, white limestone with accents of pure gold.
The flag of Panem leisurely flows in the wind.
Five minutes later, Sonnet is being shoved out of the vehicle and into armored gloves. To think he trained to be one of these faceless knights.
More trucks arrive, bodies filing out until their group is twenty-four strong. Some of the tributes weep, others beg the peacekeepers to let them go. Most look around, examining their surroundings.
"Haldis, I'm scared," a smaller boy cries.
"It'll be okay, Halden. I have you."
Sonnet's heart lurches, watching the siblings from Seven cling to each other. Even while processing the fact that Tris would be joining him in this blood sport, he remembers Icarus' laughs after the pair were reaped.
Sonnet tries to find Tris, eyes darting this way and that, but his search is cut short when the peacekeepers force them into a single file line, organized by district order. They march into a large opening in the edifice, Sonnet leading. Eventually, the dark space slopes down at a graduate incline, their boots stepping in sync.
It's not too long until dim lights appear on the walls, unveiling cells to their left and right. A peacekeeper stops ahead, halting their progress.
Rough hands push him into the first chamber.
Sonnet hits the ground hard, dust and straw flying into the air. Another body lands nearby.
On her knees, holding her arms to her chest, Ghyslaine looks so fragile. A broken flower subject to the whims of others, defenseless to being trampled on. Sonnet uses the rough brick of the wall to stand, and then offers a hand.
Ghyslaine takes it, muttering a hushed, "Thank you."
More bodies are thrown into cells up and down the hall, district partners held together until tomorrow. He squints through the iron cell bars to his right into the adjoining room, where the District Two tributes should be.
He can't resist the magnetic pull.
"Sani?"
"Tris!"
He reaches in the gap between the narrow bars. A calloused hand meets him halfway.
Sonnet could cry. He doesn't plan on ever letting go.
Ever since he discovered the unyielding addiction, an infatuation he dared to call his crush on his best friend, even the slightest touch satiated his need. He's been living with two separate cravings for the past two years. A year spent starving.
Each stolen glance, every shared smile, fueled an insatiable desire that consumed his thoughts day and night. The mere presence of his Tris acted like more of an elixir than Doctor Zalidvar's medicine.
He's been yearning for more.
To an outsider, they seemed like complete opposites. Sonnet fretful, Tris bold. One shining, the other muted. Tris, covered in sharp edges, while Sonnet handled everything gently.
They are both so inherently different, and yet their lives have become interwoven. Even hundreds of miles couldn't keep them apart.
They're similar, in that they love fiercely and feel things deeply and are afraid of hurting those they love. They're both painfully stubborn at times, and they both have nightmares and ghosts of their past that still cling to them. Despite it all, they're each other's anchor.
Tristan would often say that Sonnet was his other half, his better half. What he failed to understand is that Sonnet would be nothing without him—not even one half of an equation.
Sonnet cannot help but love him. He loves him right now, as they hold on to each other for the first time in a year, how Tris' eyes are bright and wild and full of a hundred hidden feelings that only Sonnet can see.
To him, Tris is extraordinary. Precious. Something to be safe-guarded and cherished. "I can't believe you're here. You're supposed to be in Two," Sonnet confesses, mesmerized, still unsure if the boy he's loved for the past eight years is truly on the other side of the wall.
That it's not a cruel trick.
"Me? What are you doing here!" Tris exclaims.
"If there was the tiniest chance of winning—seeing you again—I was going to take it," he wants to say dummy, but he's confident Tris knows it's implied. "We have to find a way to get you out of here. Why would you volunteer?"
"Because Two sucks, I hate the Corps, and I missed you," Tris says simply, as if it's easy to understand why he would risk his life, his career, to see Sonnet again.
"Oh, Tris…"
"Don't, 'Oh, Tris' me," he rolls his eyes, an easy smirk gracing his lips. Sonnet missed that flippant, arrogant, beautiful smirk. "We can't change anything now."
The magic of their long-awaited reunion is broken by the reminder of the situation. Of what awaits them tomorrow. "So what do we do?"
"I have a few ideas…"
Sonnet listens to Tris plot and scheme in the passing hours, hushed whispers passing through the iron bars. He chimes in here and there, offering input when Tris gets stuck on a part of his grand plan.
But what Tris doesn't know is that Sonnet has his own plan—formed on the train, right after he saw that his belo—that his best friend—would be joining him in the Games.
It's nothing intricate like Tris's design for survival, just a basic mission that needs to be accomplished, no matter the cost:
Tris needs to win.
x
An avox wakes Sonnet up what must be a few hours later. His fingers are still woven into Tris' through the bars. It takes every ounce of strength he has left to disentangle them so he can put on the uniform they offer.
Ghyslaine changes in the corner and Sonnet is careful to give her the privacy she deserves. The Capitol may have shoved them in cages, but the tributes here aren't animals. Districtsmen are still human, despite what people living in this city might say otherwise.
When he's done with his turn putting on the clothing provided, all he can do is analyze every stitch, every pocket. White vest, white undershirt, white cargo pants, white socks, white boots, white everything. The others might not know the significance, but Sonnet knows the purpose of providing clothes devoid of color.
Tris smiles sadly through the bars in understanding, having gone through the same peacekeeper training.
It's to make the bloodstains pop. Only now, it's their own blood that will paint their uniforms maroon.
The clothing items themselves don't offer any hints to what kind of landscape lies above. The first two years, the tributes were thrown into a sandpit. The next year, trenches were dug out to represent the ones used during the Dark Days. Last year, the arena was flooded half-way through the fighting.
All he knows is that as soon as the gong sounds, Sonnet will be making a dash towards the only person that matters. The details can be figured out later.
x
His body is an orchestra on pause.
This is the moment before the show, and as Sonnet closes his eyes, it almost feels as though he's back behind the stage with The Gilded String Youth Orchestra, waiting for the curtains to part. One hand on the violin and the other around the bow. The memory of it soothes him in the half-dark, half-light.
In this limbo.
There is no other way to describe it. But again, he's never been any good at articulating his thoughts. Instead, it was music that always spoke in his stead—music or Tris, actually. As he readies himself, Sonnet notices that the distant roar of cheers and shouts almost sounds like a choir.
It sounds like the crowd that sang for his parents' death. Now, they call for his blood to be spilled.
Bird-boned and angular, too sick for his own good. He doesn't know how to fight well—ignored the training sessions back home in favor of watching Tris in his element. Sonnet's not a weapon he can wield himself. Rather, he's an instrument in someone else's hand.
An inaudible announcement cuts through the noise above, seemingly exciting the audience even more. Sonnet knows what that means—has been forced to watch the Games each year, so he's aware that their time is up. President Eltair has made his speech from his private viewing box and the countdown has begun.
Peacekeepers flood the cell, shepherding Sonnet into what can only be described as a large birdcage that descends from the ceiling. He complies. Ghyslaine cries and begs, clawing at the sand, nails broken and bloodied. It only takes a moment for the white-armored bodies to drag her inside and close the latch.
In the cell next door, Sonnet can make out Tris and his partner being forced inside their own respective cages. In previous years, the tributes have risen up into the Colosseum on silver platforms, as if roasted lamb served on a platter.
Seems like they're changing it up this time around.
Machineries groan. Birdcage rises. Sonnet, songbird, tilts his neck and allows the crowd's music to wash over him as he rises and rises and rises.
x
Sonnet flinches in the sunlight.
Shapes assemble to colors, and colors to verdant foliage, a seemingly endless expanse of it. He tries to drink in everything.
He takes an experimental breath.
The Chandani manse used to have hedges such as these back in One. He has gold-tinged memories of running along them as a boy, laughing as his parents chased after him. Even in the daylight, these hedge walls scream danger. They seem too dark and ominous—unnatural.
Beyond the oversized iron of the cage, Sonnet makes out a courtyard, a lush green carpet of grass instead of the sand pit of years past. A simple, rustic table stands in the middle of the area, white paint faded and natural wood showing through. Swords of all sorts of different shapes and sizes shine in the sunlight. Beyond it, Ghyslaine sobs in her own bird cage.
Behind her, Sonnet can make out a door between two hedges.
Sonnet counts slowly, counting off twelve different gates encircling the space, each with a bulky padlock.
As he takes in his surroundings, Sonnet comes to sudden realization:
Tris is nowhere to be found.
His one plan of action—singular mission—is now thrown for a loop. Where is he? Somewhere beyond the vegetation? Trapped in the maze, wondering where Sonnet is too?
Or maybe he's already dead.
Please be alive.
"Let the Ninth Annual Hunger Games commence! Starting with our District One tributes, Ghyslaine Darroze and Sonnet Chandani!"
At the same time, both cages open with a creak. The audience, occupying the stands far above, cheers once more.
Sonnet takes an unsure step forward, blades of grass tickling the area of skin between his sock and pant leg. He can see Ghyslaine slowly leave her birdcage too, eyes darting back and forth, a doe caught in a hunter's crosshairs.
She's still frail and small, yet Sonnet doesn't feel more capable. He's still just a half a boy, weakened by the poison that flows in his blood. Sonnet may have attended a training camp for the Corps, but learning how to patrol the districts is vastly different than killing innocent children.
"We've met before," Ghyslaine says, now at the edge of the table, tears still cascading over lashes, her voice quieting the crowd.
Sonnet meets her eyes across the courtyard. "You played for me. The Gilded String Orchestra, correct?" Sonnet's breath stills. Why is she telling him this now? They had plenty of time during the journey here. "You visited the day my mother died. It was beautiful—you were beautiful."
"That's very kind of you to say," is all he can choke out. He can't kill this girl. He doesn't know if he can. She heard his song—listened to his passion. Played back the notes from his violin to help with her sadness. They're not all that different, it would seem.
Yet, he knows what the Capitol craves. Much like his own addiction, they won't be satisfied until they get their fill.
Sonnet approaches the table and delicately picks up a sword, holding it up to the light to study its length. In it, he can see his own reflection for a moment. He winces. Only three days without the medicine and he's back to looking like a corpse. A monster readying himself for the inevitable.
It is hard to imagine himself as the conductor of his own orchestra, but the weight of the fragile sword in his hand makes it a little bit easier. Or at least, it keeps the panic of his conflicting feelings at bay.
His gaze settles on her. He offers a crestfallen smile.
The sword slices open air.
Sonnet watches as she staggers back, attempting to shield her body with her thin arms. At the top of her lungs and with every vein in her body, she lets out a shriek. She scrambles back, screaming, screaming, screaming, and he wants it to stop. Sonnet wants it to stop, to have her go silently. His ears ring as her voice cracks like shards of stained glass.
He wants to tell her to pick up a sword, hold it steady, and fight back. But he can't do that—Tris has to make it out of here. Ghyslaine has to die for that to happen. His fingers shake on the handle of the weapon.
A concerto thrums in his ears. Chords and harmonies drown out every troubling thought, leaving only a frenzied and terrified numbness. Sonnet's fingers latch tighter onto the sword. The music pulses with every beat of his heart, with every step toward his district partner's form.
She is mouthing words, pleading and yelling, but Sonnet can't hear noise anymore. He won't hear any noise. He does, however, feel a wetness on his cheeks. What is it? Where did it come from? Sonnet raises a hand to wipe away the tears, and refocuses on the weight of the sword.
It is no violin bow, a tool that inspires. No, the steel in his hand is made for murder.
Sonnet watches Ghyslaine's eyes widen with disbelief as the blade finds her heart.
Red, scarlet, crimson soaks the wildflowers that coat the ground around them. The grand score reaches its summit, a crescendo of emotions. As the final notes hang in the air, a conductor's baton shakes, leaving the crowd enchanted, basking in the afterglow of the first kill.
What remains is an emptiness. Sonnet wants to close his eyes, but her body will still be there, blood pooling at his feet. Her look of betrayal is burned in the back of his mind. For the first few moments, he only stands there, unbelieving.
Hands quivering, ears ringing, he feels his muscles cramp, a tingling sensation running up and down his body. Sonnet tries to shake it off vigorously—he can't deal with the effects of the poison right now, he's already too fatigued by the scene that just transpired.
Dead songbird at his feet, all Sonnet can do is bend over and release the contents of the meager supper a peacekeeper slid through the cell bars the night before. Once he's done, pretending to stand a bit taller, Sonnet swallows hard, a lump still lodged in his throat.
The crowd erupts. A wall of sound towers in the sky above the hedge maze, yet, Sonnet hears something else. Subtle and soft, a chirping sound, tiny tweets—
When he was a boy, his mother taught him the language of the songbirds out in their garden. She'd whistle and trill, explaining each bird's call. He always admired the love songs—so sweet and caring, a love letter to a mate.
Now, birds hidden in the greenery sing the song of Death.
Sonnet can't stand it. So instead of standing around, listening to the noise, he moves back to the table. Underneath the remaining weaponry, he finds a chatelaine of keys. Each piece of metal varies in size and color, plain and simple or intricate and decorative.
Before anyone else can barge through one of the gates, he unhooks a basic golden key, careful not to look at Ghyslaine's still form in the grass, only mere feet away. He finds a matching golden padlock after circling the area, calling out in search of the missing piece that can unlock the secrets that lay beyond.
Face wet, body itching, Sonnet turns the key and then he charges into the unknown and all its dark promises.
x
"Up next to fight, our District Two tributes: Tristan DeVoce and Renata Falto!"
Sonnet stops dead in his tracks. He's at a crossroads, two pathways diverging to the left and to the right. He needs to make a choice, figure out which side to venture down, but all he can do is stare down the narrow passage behind him.
Go back, a voice shouts in his brain, cutting through the chirps and high-pitched screams.
Sonnet wants to listen. He wants to run towards the wrought-iron gate and see if Tris has risen in the same clearing. But he knows that there's no guarantee there would be anyone for Sonnet to find. Only the haunt of a now-dead girl.
Above the leafy tops of the hedges, Sonnet can barely make out the shapes of the spectators. He wants to shout at them, asking which way to go. Whether he should backtrack or not. Sonnet has a feeling there would be a harsh punishment for seeking outside help. And that's if the capitolites are even willing to do more than laugh and jeer.
Fifteen more seconds pass, and then thirty. By the time he's counted to sixty, Sonnet reluctantly veers off to the left.
He has to keep moving. There's nothing else to do.
I'll find you, he told Tris last night.
He plans on keeping that vow.
x
Deep into the maze, bloodstained sword against his hip, lost and unsure of what to do next, Sonnet runs his fingertips across the overgrown ivy and yew leaves that make up the walls. His stomach started to growl long ago, a barely-there lullaby that reminds him of the whole point of the Hunger Games. His legs ache with each step, urging him to slow down. To find a stopping place.
But a more pressing, familiar part of himself refuses to listen to his tiredness and hunger. Sonnet still has a mission and he won't rest until he sees it through. Though, it would help if he knew the layout of the labyrinth he's currently trapped in, wandering without any map or sure-sign of which way to go.
He knows what it's like to run on empty fumes, fighting to stay on his own two feet. Tris often called him out on his stubborn refusal to accept a helping hand—especially during the more physically demanding parts of training. A character flaw, some might say. Either way, Sonnet's benefiting from the conditioning.
In the Games, there is no exception for the sick.
After dashing out of the exit of the courtyard, running and running, putting distance between the birds and Ghyslaine's cooling body, ignoring each new fight announced, Sonnet eventually settled his pace into a brisk walk. But no matter how many turns taken or new passageways explored, he still hears the songbirds' cry. He still hears her.
Dark strands frame his face, a sheen of sweat across his forehead. It feels like a mallet is hammering away behind his eyes, ears too warm and vision strained. Sonnet leans more firmly against the wall, skin sinking into the leafage. He closes his eyes and tries to block out the stinging pulses through his body, almost imagining himself back in One. Lovestruck and safe. With Tris. Slim fingers reaching out in the afternoon light.
"You can do this," he says to himself.
Sonnet intakes a breath, pushes off the wall, and continues forward once more.
Tris needs him.
x
When he starts to hum, he does so to distract himself.
Drowning out the shame of his actions, he hums and hums and hums. It's some silly little child's tune his father taught him, the lyrics long forgotten, but the melody brings a sense of comfort.
It does little to extinguish the remorse heavy on his conscience.
"Well, you look like shit."
Sonnet jumps at the voice. He whirls about, sword shaking in front of his form. It's too soon for another fight, his district partner's murder still fresh. Sonnet's prepared to find Tris, not…
He can't, he can't, no, no, he can't—
"Calm down, little bird," the voice drawls. "I won't hurt you."
There's an unspoken second part to that statement: I won't hurt you. Yet.
Sonnet still can't find the stranger, turning in circles, squinting down each side of the path and investigating every leaf that makes up the walls. Maybe it's all in his head. A punishment for killing so quickly, for disregarding Ghyslaine's life within moments. Sonnet deserves it, another shadow chasing him around every corner.
"Up here."
Sonnet peers up, right hand blocking the rays of the fading fireball in the sky. He focuses on a figure perched on top of the hedge on his right side. A girl smiles sharply, posture relaxed. Blood coats her front in splashes and splatters. Sonnet tries not to back away immediately.
Instead, he waves slowly, as if in a trance. "Hello."
"Hey," she greets, teeth bared slightly. She's unsettling, a cold far-off look in her eyes. He can't tell how long she's been watching, listening. "I liked that little tune you were humming."
"Thank you," Sonnet says, polite and simple. "Apologies, I didn't realize that I was putting on a show."
"Really?" the girl asks. Her tone makes it seem like she can't believe Sonnet would say something so stupid. "Look around you, birdie. The show's already begun. We're the main attraction in this fuckin' place. Animals providing entertainment for the fuckers in the stands."
He shifts slightly, forcing down the bubbling anxiety in his chest. Anxiety and something else. But he refuses to acknowledge it—not yet. It's too early and Sonnet still hasn't found Tris. Once he knows that Tris will make it out alive, Sonnet will finally give in.
"I guess you're right. Though, I've grown accustomed to performing for a crowd," his thumb rubs absently at the handle of the sword. "It all blurs together now."
The girl seems amused by his answer, head tilting to the side. "Reese. District Ten"
A butcher. It explains why blood seems to look so natural on her skin.
"Sonnet. District One."
"Well, Sonnet," Reese swings one leg over the other side of the hedge, now straddling the top, as if riding one of those graceful mavericks that hail from her district. "I hope your voice isn't cut short soon. I think I'd like to hear that song again before I make it out of here."
Her message is loud and clear: Sooner or later, I will kill you.
Sonnet doesn't care if she does end up being the one to tear his vocal chords out. All that matters is that she dies too, leaving Tris the sole survivor. Although, it doesn't make him feel any less shaken.
Fiery hair and freckles disappear from view.
Sonnet takes off in the opposite direction.
x
The cheering is quieter at night, but it never fully stops.
Navigating the labyrinth, step by faltering step, Sonnet trusted that each turn would bring him closer to Tris. But as the fading sunset painted the green walls with a golden glow, dusk creeping in stealthily, shadows lengthened, his hope diminished. Stars emerged one by one, and the velvet of night casting the hedges in terrifying shapes.
So here he sits, huddled in a dark corner and trying to get some rest.
Yet, sleep evades him. Hiding away from prying eyes, vibrant greens of the maze are now blurred through the haze of nausea and unease. It's been three whole days since he drained the last of Doctor Zaldivar's intoxicating elixir. The longest Sonnet has gone without the panacea is four.
Aches and stomach pains gnaw relentlessly, a discordant melody of discomfort. His insides twist and churn, demanding attention, a relentless reminder of his vulnerability. A reminder that if he can't fight the poison for much longer, his cannon will be the next to sound.
As the night grows even darker, Sonnet clutches his trembling form, shivering from both the cold that surrounds him and the chill within. Each rustle of leaves, every whisper of the wind, taunts him like the ghost of his former self. Memories of laughter and innocence taunt his mind, bringing to mind what he lost along the journey to this point.
His mother. Father. His free will and vitality.
Tris.
It's hard to move on from the past when it's ingrained in his very being. Written all over his body.
Hasn't he fallen far enough?
Hunched over, shaking from the effects of withdrawal, Sonnet grits his teeth. Frustration simmers in his blood, a turbulent storm of thwarted hopes and stifled aspirations, urging for release like a caged woodpecker.
Sonnet won't let this be his end. He's determined to find his way back to the light. The journey ahead is daunting, but he took an oath. Half of him has disappeared, but Sonnet plans to find it— him—again, somewhere in these twisted paths.
Even if it's the last thing he does.
x
In the hushed moments of dawn, the sky blushes with hues of soft pink and apricot, golden rays awakening the earth.
Dawn also comes with an announcement:
"Good morning, Panem! And welcome to the first ever Day Two of the Hunger Games!"
Sonnet makes no movement when the static crackles over the speakers of the Colosseum. He's grown accustomed to the sounds of the stadium, his body on edge. It doesn't help that his eyes feel glued open, dolls' eyes cracked and frozen into an unblinking stare. Sonnet isn't sure if he even managed more than ten minutes of sleep at a time, kept awake by the urge to tear his own skin off.
"Tributes, I hope you took advantage of your rest last night. You will need it for today's activities."
Arms folded over his knees, chin tucked into his chest, Sonnet tries not to think too hard about the implications of the faux-cheeriness of that last word. To him, activities mean playing his violin, reading by the lake, or messing around with Allegro—all include Tris, of course.
Here, trapped in this fake paradise, the word carries a different denotation.
Ghyslaine's specter stands in his periphery, watching, waiting. Crimson stains the hole in her chest, beating heart held in her hands. Sonnet keeps his gaze fixed upon his lap.
"As a way to celebrate history being made, I invite you to a feast. I know you all must be starving after yesterday's bloodshed," there's a brief pause, as if the announcer takes pleasure in drawing out each syllable. He probably does, considering the circumstances. "Of course, you'll have to work for your meals. If you can find your way back to the center of the maze, then the bounty is yours to claim."
It has been a full day since he's eaten. And he's not sure that counts, considering Sonnet threw it all up after…after…
Sustenance isn't his top priority. But the announcement does present an opportunity. If Tris is still out there, then he'll have heard the announcer's voice too. Not even Tris, the legendary heavy sleeper that he is, could have slept through that. And that means he knows where everyone will be headed in the next few hours.
Sonnet hates the thought of going back to the courtyard. To the scene of his sins. The songbirds' song still rattles around his skull, a never-ending cycle. Logically, Sonnet knows there's a stronger chance of finding Tris if he attends than continuing to wander aimlessly.
"Good luck, tributes. And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Moments after the microphone clicks off, Sonnet thinks he can hear a distant roar deeper within the maze. He waits for something else to happen, hair standing tall on his arms, the back of his neck tingling. Sonnet waits and waits and waits—
Until it seems just like a figment of his imagination. Another hallucination thanks to the withdrawals. He turns his head slightly, finding Ghyslaine's apparition gone without a trace, the grass undisturbed.
Planting both hands on either side of the alcove, Sonnet uses the walls to support his weight as he slowly, wobbly stands to his feet. Vertigo strikes, world spinning, legs unsteady on shaky ground. A disoriented dance of dizziness, seeking balance in uncertain steps. His body sings in agony, each bone and ligament crying out, urging him to lay down again. Sonnet's never laid down to die before, and he certainly doesn't plan on doing so now.
Besides, he has a feast to attend.
x
Sonnet lost count hours a while back. Unsure if he's even headed in the right direction, his fingers trail along the walls of thorns that make up the path, an occasional thorn pricking Sonnet back to life at intervals with their sharp edges. The blood on his fingertips looks like nothing compared to what he's already seen in his short life.
It feels like a conductor is controlling his movements—his tempo, flow. Quickening the pace if needed and then bringing his steps to a steady stride, back and forth, back and forth. There's no rhyme or reason to the symphony, just the disorderly clash of woodwinds and strings, percussion and brass.
He stopped his movements just once, a few twists and turns a go, when his ears tuned into a low humming. Feet stationary, Sonnet listened and listened, eardrums straining until he realized the source of the melody:
Himself.
Sonnet hadn't even realized he started.
He moved on quickly, throat full of briars and rough foliage.
Now, the monotony of the hedge walls begins to crumble as the sky brightens. Indigo, lilac, and pink, all before a familiar sight—intricate metal work depicting scenes of nature and the Heavens. Sonnet reaches out, stained digits gently pushing open the gate.
The space beyond opens to daylight, so suddenly bright he winces and uses an arm to shield worn-out eyes. But he lowers it quickly, reminded of why he's here—of who might be lurking nearby. His body tenses as finds a lavish feast, prepared to be dined on, swords replaced by roasted duck, pastries, mashed potatoes, and other extravagant dishes.
It's nothing his body craves.
More gates open—some cautiously, bodies trying to slip in unnoticed, while others swing wide open with force, rabbits dashing through the tangled undergrowth, seeking refuge. Moments pass, heavy breathing and humming the only audible sound in the courtyard, nobody bold enough to make the first move.
Nostrils flare, absorbing the culinary aromas that beckon with mouthwatering allure. Sonnet knows hunger's fervent desire will soon take hold. He's witnessed what people are willing to do when bellies become empty. Humanity goes out the window in favor of trying to survive.
It's none of his concern. All he cares about is the person that comes skidding into the courtyard directly across from him.
Of course he's the last to arrive. Tris has always been one to run late, whether it was to class or some mandatory Corps event. If they were back in One, he would cast Tris a disapproving look. Sonnet's just glad to see him here, alive, curls tousled and blood splattered across his uniform.
He greedily soaks in the sight.
Finally, after what seems like forever, Tris' gaze finally lands on his person. The relief that floods his eyes fills Sonnet's soul. He's been looking for me too, he realizes.
They stare, connected and uncaring of what surrounds them. The world fades away. Nothing else matters.
He slowly places his right hand over his heart, trying to say, I'm here. I didn't forget. Tris mirrors the action, and that's how Sonnet knows they'll be okay—no matter what transpires within the next few seconds.
Tris nods his head once, gaze darting back and forth to the gate halfway between their positions. Sonnet knows what he's trying to say immediately:
Fuck the food. Let's get the hell out of here.
He couldn't agree more.
But then, all at once, the twelve iron gates slam shut. A trap, the promise of food used to lure them out of their hiding spots.
With the exits cut off, there's nowhere to run. At this point, everyone has been forced to get their hands dirty. The difference between who makes it out alive and who dies within the next few minutes will be whether or not you're willing to kill once more.
Sonnet doesn't want to —he doesn't know if he can. Ghyslaine's shade loiters at the edge of the courtyard, the first death of the Games keeping watch over her sacrificial site.
Sonnet begins to hum again, eyes looking left and right, noting the biggest threats to Tris' safety. Four boy, rapier in hand and dead eyes. Seven girl, who Sonnet realizes came here with her brother. Which means she's committed the most heinous act of all. And then Reese, sporting a cheshire grin that never wavers.
There is still quiet. It's the expectant stillness before the beginning of a piece, the preparing, the readying…
And then the orchestra blares to life.
Bodies converge at the table in the center of the courtyard, shoving, fighting, and panicking. Dishes go flying, turkey legs and peas tossed in the air.
Sonnet remains rooted to his spot, captivated by the sight of Tris weaving through the chaos, majestic and strong. He's halfway across the field when the group swallows him whole, cutting off Sonnet's line of sight.
Panic fills his chest. Sonnet counts to thirty, and Tris still doesn't reappear.
Sword growing heavy at his side, Sonnet begins to move. Not towards the gate Tris pointed out, but towards the action. Towards Tris.
Sonnet will not leave him out there to die.
His eyes, feeling more focused now than ever, scans the clearing for any sign of the other boy, any clue as to where his halo has gone.
He's maybe ten feet away from the feast, too focused on getting to Tris, when he barely catches the arc of a sword swinging towards his neck.
Sonnet's mind blanks and he acts on instinct alone. A quick dodging movement, a fast backwards step, and the sword nicks skin instead of slicing off his head. He launches himself to the ground as another sword comes flying his way, this time from his left.
Lush grass tickles his cheek as the weapons clash above him. Sonnet picks up an emptied tray nearby, holding it above his most vulnerable area as he crawls closer and closer to the table. Boots step around him, on him, blood spilling this way and that.
Eventually, Sonnet finds himself beneath the table, covered behind the flourish of a lace tablecloth. The silver platter sinks back to the ground as he takes calming breaths, head spinning, bruises already stinging.
Cries and shouts still ring out all around, but the sound of a surprised gasp is what makes Sonnet lift his head from the soft carpet beneath him. A mousy looking boy stares back, frozen in fear.
"Hey, it's okay," Sonnet soothes, his voice unsteady, unable to hide his own trepidation. "I won't hurt you."
The younger boy, child really, indicates no sign of registering his words. Sonnet examines his uniform, dirt and grass staining the pure white material. No blood, though. Good. Sonnet hates the image of the boy taking part in the bloodshed. A child doesn't deserve that kind of torture.
A body hits the ground just outside their bubble of safety, hand slipping slightly underneath the tablecloth. Sonnet double-checks, but the femininity in the digits is not a match for Tris. He squints through the lace, trying to make out blonde curls, but all he can see are shadows that cast against the frilly cloth.
"I'm Sonnet," he brings his attention back to the boy, attempting a distraction from the evil acts being committed mere inches away. "What's your name?"
"August."
A cursive Twelve threads through the right pocket of his vest. Poor mouse. That explains the hollow in his cheeks, the sunken-in features highlighted by the look of coal dust. All signs of a hard life spent foraging in the ash and muck of the coal district.
"What a nice name. Also one of my favorite months."
"Mine, too."
"Pray tell, what does one get up to in August back in Twelve?"
Another death cry pierces the air. August spooks, eyes darting back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The sound of metal against metal begins to slow, and there's less shapes running around the area.
"In One," Sonnet begins, offering his own story. His mother used to do this down in their basement, gunfire and explosions going off around them. Her smooth voice gave his younger self something to focus on besides the war outside. "We spend the month cooling off in the lakes or rivers that flow through the mountains like jewels. My parents used to pack up a picnic, and we'd make a whole day out of it."
Laughter and splashes of water fill the space, the tranquility of the mountain peaks creating a special solace.
"There's a lake in Twelve too. Beyond the fence. My brothers and I go there when the heat becomes too much. There's blueberries and katniss and primrose on the water's edge," August's chest slows considerably as he spills his own truth, Sonnet watching his face soften at the memories.
"That sounds wonderful," he smiles.
If he can't shield Tris from the savagery in the courtyard, then he can at least save this wisp of a boy. He has to make up for what he did to Ghyslaine, any way he can. Sonnet lifts a bit of the lace up, not seeing any more boots on the ground.
Whistles and tweets filter through the fabric, muffled but still recognizable. Death's song. Which means…
Sonnet turns back to August and jumps back with a start. Ghyslaine sits behind the little boy, eye sockets empty, a waterfall of scarlet pooling from her mouth.
If August notices his reaction, he makes no sign of it.
"Say, I think it might be time to get out of here. What do you think?"
"I—"
"All you have to do is stay behind me. I'll protect you, I promise," his words are kind, voice cool and gentle like a breeze from home.
Sonnet stretches out an open palm. Shaking fingers wrap around his own.
Together, they slowly crawl out beneath the table. Sonnet stands first, body putting on an act of safety and heroism. His insides wail, kicking and screaming for the golden liquid they've grown addicted to in the past several years.
Scattered across the blades of green, five bodies now rest. Sonnet desperately scans each face, searching, hoping…
None of them are Tris.
Tension ebbs out of his shoulders, his sword lowering until the tip grazes the wildflowers moving in the breeze.
"We're safe," Sonnet offers, body swinging back to face August. "Take whateve—"
A blade sprouts from the center of the Twelve boy's chest. His words cut off with a gasp, hand reaching out, but it's already too late.
August's eyes bulge, blood trickling from the corners of his lips, and then he falls to the ground, gravity pulling him off the weapon. Sonnet watches it all with horror.
No, no, no—not again. Please, no. Another promise broken. Another death in his ledger.
He slowly looks away from the now-dead boy, gaze moving up and up and up until he finds the face of the murderer.
Hardened blue eyes look back.
Tris.
"Sani," the taller boy starts forward, arms open and earnest. Sonnet takes a step back, unblinking. "Sani? It's me. Tris."
It's as if he's saying, You don't have to be scared. I'm here now. Sonnet can't ignore the fresh coat of blood on his sword's edge, dripping, dripping—
"Why?" the question tumbles from his lips. "Tris—he was just—I was protecting him. He didn't do anything wrong!"
Inconsolable tears of grief water the flowers below.
Confusion overtakes Tris' face, carved angles still gorgeous even covered with scratches and vermilion. A seraph clawing his way through the circles of Hell.
"…Sani," the boy whispers, as if coaxing an injured animal out from hiding. "Sonnet, I'm sorry. But if I allowed him to sneak out of this place with his life, eventually, that's another sword waiting to cut our throats when we're least expecting it."
Sonnet imagines the same damage he caused to Ghyslaine happening to himself. Over and over, a song screeching on repeat.
"Please," Tris practically cries, voice now trembling with hurt and misery. "Don't be—you don't have to—I did it for you. So we can survive this together."
He doesn't say anything, just stands there like a puppet now cut off from its strings. "Can I?" Tris asks, "Please?"
Within a few steps, Tris has his arms wrapped around him, muscles shuddering, strong hands locked in a forever-grip. Sonnet begins humming again, his own hands slowly coming back to life, delicately resting on the other boy's back.
Six cannons boom overhead and the songbirds begin their tune once more.
x
They don't let go of each other's hand.
Not even when another cannon booms overhead. The audience cheers, on the other side of the stadium, pleased by whatever atrocity has just taken place.
Day has drifted into night and Sonnet can't remember a single thing that has happened since they left the feast. All he's been focused on is the tether of Tris' hand, bloodied fingers fitting together perfectly.
In the quiet glow of twilight, they sit side by side on a weathered wooden bench, a garden arch above their heads. Sonnet can feel their hearts race in unison, today's events hanging in the air.
The weight of years' worth of unspoken feelings also hangs heavily between them.
Sonnet continues to hum, hasn't stopped since their embrace, head resting on Tris' shoulder. August and Ghyslaine sit on the wall in front of them, ethereal forms lingering.
He hums a little louder.
Despite Tris' actions, Sonnet still finds comfort in the familiarity of his presence. Their shared memories dance in the air, reminding him of joy-filled days spent together, secret glances, and hidden gestures of affection. If he continues to focus on the happy times, then maybe the bodies of the dead will fade away.
Tris breaks the uneasy silence, playing absently with their fingers. "You know, there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a long time."
Sonnet moves his head, attention solely on Tris and the way his dirtied curls hang in front of his eyes, still focused on playing with their joined hands. "It was me that night. When Shaffron—when he tried to kill you."
"Oh," Sonnet gasps. His savior. It all makes sense now. How could it be anyone other than Tris?
"I...I think I'm in love with you."
The words dangle in the air, a fragile bridge connecting two hearts. Sonnet blinks, absorbing the revelation, before a soft smile spreads across his face. It feels like he's in a dream. "I've felt the same way for as long as I can remember," he replies, his voice barely above a breath.
The longing that he'd carried for years finally lifts, replaced by a newfound lightness that envelops his heart. Sonnet leans closer, the distance between them shrinking until Tris shakily looks up, crystal tears on blonde lashes.
Under the canvas of stars, the fear of rejection is replaced with a sense of belonging, the knowledge that Sonnet has found someone who understands him in ways no one else ever could. And that person loves him.
He loves me, he loves me, he loves me—
Time seems to stop, and in this magical moment, the dark hedges around them blur into insignificance, for all that matters is the love they discovered together.
His lips are Heaven, a blessing from a God.
As the stars above continue to twinkle, their dry, chapped lips move against each other.
It's perfect.
His heart has found a home. The dried blood beneath his nails is no longer a concern, as Sonnet allows himself to welcome the happiness that had been waiting for him all along.
x
Sonnet finds himself in a realm where the boundaries of reality swirl with a kaleidoscope of colors and surreal landscapes.
He feels happy. For the first time since Tris left a year ago, the melancholy in his bones are replaced by euphoria.
Dreams are reality and reality is a dream.
They wander through the hedge maze, always touching, never a second wasted not having skin on skin, lips on lips, smiles exchanged, unaware of what trials and tribulations that the remaining three other tributes face.
All he cares about is making up for lost time with his beloved, not the crowd watching in the stands or the cameras watching their every move.
In this delirious state, Sonnet soars through the skies on wings of glee, giggling as gravity loses its hold. They glide together, two songbirds free from their cage. The hedges around him glisten with iridescence, like a living, breathing thing of wonder.
Maybe, just maybe, they can win together. If the Capitol sees their love, understands the depths of their connection, then Sonnet believes their story doesn't have to conclude here.
A fairytale ending like he's dreamed about. Two victors, two thrones. An angel and his God.
Hope reignites.
x
All good things must come to an end.
Sonnet comes crashing down to Earth suddenly, the rug pulled out from beneath. Wings of wax and feather burn under the rays of light, too good to be true.
"Sani? Are you alright?"
He looks over at Tris' beautiful, concerned face, nose scrunched up and eyebrows raised. Oh how he loves him. Adores the way his expression is serious, but still soft as he looks at Sonnet like he controls the elements.
Like how the way he looks at him is different from how he looks at everyone else.
There are no locked secret gardens in Sonnet that Tris can't unlock. No, he already has the keys to all his doors. Gods don't come in just flesh and power. They come in different forms—in the right heavenly light, anything can be holy enough to save a person.
Sonnet takes one step forward, towards the person that opened suns in his heart, and then collapses.
Poison takes hold.
"Sani!"
He watches it all from outside his body. Froth at his mouth, eyes unfocused, body convulsing. Tris shakes him, arms cradling his seizuring form, calling out, crying, begging him to stay, to stay, please stay—
Sonnet wants to stay. He doesn't want to let go of the illusion that it could have ended any differently.
Another body comes racing around the corner, uniform torn, chest rising and falling rapidly, as if he's been running for eons. "Get out of my way!"
Tris continues to sob, unhearing of the boy's desperation, too consumed by his own. The walls of the maze seem to shake then, the ground thrumming with energy.
A roar sounds nearby, ferocious and deafening.
The boy, with a Four on his barely-there vest pocket, begins to unsheath his weapon. Sonnet remembers his shark-like eyes back at the feast. Now, it looks like he's the prey being hunted.
"Fine, have it your way. I'll clear a path myself," he rushes towards Tris, Sonnet still unable to control his body. "I can't let that thing get me!"
Just as the sword swings in the air, silver whipping down towards their bodies, Tris raises his own sword to block the attack. Clangs of metal reverberate through the pathway, sparks flying, blood spilling. Grunts of pain and determination flow into one another, becoming one sound.
And all Sonnet can do is watch.
The Four boy grows more and more fatigued, already standing on dead legs, swings growing wilder and wilder. As swords interlock once again, the dance stalled, Tris' mouth contorted into a snarl, the other boy's gaze drifts toward Sonnet's body.
He knows what Four is going to do before anyone realizes it.
Tris is kicked away briefly, boot to chest, and then a sword is driving towards Sonnet's exposed heart. A scream punctures the air. Birds hidden in the foliage disperse into the clouds. All sound is sucked out of the space.
A body topples over, head rolling across the grass as a cannon blasts.
All at once, Sonnet's bodily functions resume. He's still groggy, saliva around his mouth and body weak, but Death has loosened her grip. Slightly.
He tries to sit up but a wall of muscle crashes into him. The force knocks any air remaining out of his ribs, but Sonnet couldn't care less. All wants to do is to make sure that Tris is okay, that he's unhurt.
A kiss is placed upon his lips, frenzied and frantic. It's like an electric bolt to his dying organs, a last-minute supercharge.
They cling to each other for who knows how long, their heads bowed together, breathing the same air, vowing that everything is fine. Tris gently helps him gain his balance as they stand, arm under his elbow.
Another roar shakes the walls. Two pairs of eyes meet, a mutual understanding passing in between their gaze.
"Run."
x
In the labyrinth's twisting pathways, two boys haphazardly speed through the darkness, hearts pounding in sync with the frenzied rhythm of their flight.
Sonnet, still recovering from the cravings, is only standing upright because of Tris. His body is too weak to run at a full sprint, legs numb and cement blocks for feet.
He's slowing them down. There's no way around it. Tris whispers hurried words of encouragement, pushing them forward, no end destination in sight, just the need to escape fueling them onwards.
Behind them, the growls of whatever bloodthirsty mutation that's been unleashed echoes, its menacing presence drawing ever nearer. The instinct for survival pushes them to their limits. Their breaths are ragged, bodies trembling, as they navigate the maze's intricate passages, each turn bringing them deeper into the sinister heart of the Colosseum.
Sonnet knows they can't afford to stop despite his body's refusal to work properly—they have to press on, for the monstrous beast behind them looms in the distance. Images of the Fourth Games flash in his mind as they turn another corner, where they set mutations from the war upon the tributes.
He couldn't sleep right for three days after, nightmares of torn limbs and clumps of flesh eased only when Tris climbed into his bed, insisting he didn't mind.
Sonnet does not want that fate for them. Certainly not Tris—good, kind, beautiful Tris.
Green passes by, hope flickering like a dying ember, but Sonnet is not yet ready to surrender, even as fear and exhaustion threatens to engulf him.
Half-running, half-skipping, they take a right and Sonnet spots salvation. He almost cries from the sight in front of them: a gate. Tris notices too, smiling a little, voice thick with relief, "We're almost there!"
A slender beam of moonlight slices through the wrought-iron. Sonnet feels a surge through his veins, half his body weight sagging against Tris' side.
One hundred feet, fifty feet, twenty-five, fifteen, ten…
They rush towards the door, bodies slamming against the metal, expecting to crash into the starting area.
Nothing moves. Hinges stay dormant. The gate stays shut and their momentum makes them bounce off the metalwork in a jumble of flailing body parts. Dazed, they clamber up on their feet, hands balanced against the hedges on either side of the path. Another roar erupts, followed by a cannon.
Three left. Him, Tris, and someone else.
They're so, so close. Sonnet bangs his fists against the gate, but it still doesn't budge. Tris searches the door for a weak point, any hint of how they can get through, but the only thing he finds is a padlock.
"It needs a key," Sonnet realizes, stomach sinking.
He left his back in the keyhole on the first day. Tris pats his uniform, empties his pockets, but no key appears.
They're stuck here. Sitting ducks waiting to be slaughtered.
Once again, the ground rumbles. Sonnet knows they only have a matter of minutes before the monster finds them. "We can try a different way," he says, trying to keep the hope alive. He just found it—there's no way Sonnet's letting that fire fade. "Here, I think we have enough time—"
He knows it's over when he looks at Tris.
"No, no, we aren't done yet!" he cries, grabbing at his love's hands.
"…let me boost you up."
Sonnet doesn't fully comprehend Tris' words at first. And then he looks at the locked gate and understands.
"No way, absolutely not."
A hulking form turns the corner, all the way down the path, a shadow that stretches from wall to wall.
The mutt charges ahead, getting closer and closer and closer until Sonnet can make out its features.
A grotesque fusion of man and bull stands at least seven feet tall, with gnarled horns and eyes ablaze with malevolence. Large, bulging muscles, more powerful than a raging bull's, cover the whole of the monster's form. Powerful hands finished with curved claws, as sharp as the swords at their hips, reflect the moon's glow.
Its legs stagger on hooves, kicking up chunks of dirt and grass as it draws near.
Dread sinks in.
"Sani!" with a fierce determination in his eyes, Tris turns his face, hands moving to cup his cheeks. A soft kiss brushes his mouth. "It'll be alright. Once you get on the other side, I'm sure you can open the door."
Sonnet begins to shake his head in outright refusal, but Tris holds him steady, eyes bearing into his own.
"It has to be this way—don't fight it. There's not enough time."
He's right, per usual. Sonnet kisses Tris one more time, tears welling up and then he gives in, "Okay."
This has to work. If it doesn't…no, no. It will work.
Before he knows it, Sonnet is being lifted up by Tris, feet stepping into palms and hands barely pulling himself over the top of the gate. As soon as he drops into the grass, Sonnet immediately tries to pull open the door.
It still doesn't give way. Sonnet pulls, pulls, pulls. With all that he has left, every fiber of his being, Sonnet tries to rip open the door.
The nightmare approaches behind Tris.
He hobbles over to the table still stationed in the center of the courtyard, but it's been cleared, bare wood meeting his grasping nails.
"Sani," a melody calls out, soft and dejected.
Sonnet crosses the clearing and his eyes scan the surrounding area for a second, third, fourth time. He looks left and right, and then up and down. Pulls leaves from the walls, tears grass from the ground, looking, investigating.
Finally, desperately, he turns his gaze to the crowd. He can't see their faces in the night, but he knows thousands must be watching. "Please!" he begs, no, screams. "Help us! Help him!"
Not even laughter meets his cries. The night is silent besides the ugly bellows that thunder against the darkness.
Tris wraps his hands around the metal that separates them, face wet, a brave smile on his face. "I love you, Sonnet Chandani. I've spent so much time afraid of losing you, of fucking everything up, that I ended up wasting the time that we did have together."
"Tris—"
"You've been the best part of my life, ever since you stumbled into that training room. You've taught me so much about strength and perseverance…"
This is how it ends for Sonnet Chandani and Tristan DeVoce, one boy sacrificing himself for the other. Their fate is not death, but each other. Fates of two, entwined.
"…I hope you know how special you are. You're not cursed, Sani. You're blessed."
Sonnet should be out there, stuck on the other side of the gate. He was supposed to protect Tris—get him to the finish line. Tris is meant to triumph, meant to survive this place.
They were going to win together.
Finally, after all these years, Sonnet recognizes the cold, sad truth of existing:
The more you love, the more you suffer.
He places his hands on top of Tris' calloused knuckles, leaning forward, trying to slip through the bars, to be with him one last time. They both sob as the door begins to vibrate, the impact of hooves rising in volume.
"Thank you, for loving me unconditionally. Endlessly. It was the greatest honor of my life."
"I love you, Tris," he confesses. He prays at the altar of his God, head bowed, seeking mercy. The monster takes shape mere feet behind the love of his life. "Please, no! Don't go! Somebody help!"
"Don't stop singing, songbird."
Tris' hands are ripped away, his whole body tugged backwards. Sonnet screams and screams and screams.
The muttation hoists his only friend, only family, only love above its head, letting out a final roar.
"No!"
Two halves are ripped apart.
Skin shreds, bones break, guts spill. Sonnet watches it all in slow motion, mouth open and hands tightening around metal. There's so much blood, so much blood, why is there so much blood? How is there so much blood?
The monster tosses the two sides of Tris' body aside. Torso goes one way, legs thrown to the other. Sonnet can't drag his gaze away even if he wants to—he's unmoving, unfeeling, numb.
Glassy eyes stare back.
A cannon sounds, faraway, muffled.
Hooves step forward, claws reaching for the door.
Sonnet makes no attempt to run. There's no point anymore.
Tris is dead.
Tris is gone.
Tris. Tris is…
He only steps back when a meaty paw rips the gate out of its frame and launches it to the other side of the courtyard. Sonnet doesn't watch the monster's approach, still focused on the broken boy in the grass.
Thank you, Sonnet thinks as the mutt reaches out.
But claws don't tear into flesh. Instead, the giant beast stills. And then a sword busts through its chest.
August's ghost stands off to the side, a blackhole in his front, never-ending. Ghyslaine holds his left hand, heart held in her other hand. And a new figure appears at August's right side. Blonde curls, sad smile, lower half dipped in carmine.
The muttation sways, and then falls forward, its impact rocking the ground once deadweight meets hard-packed earth.
Reese walks on the half-bull, half-man's back, sword slung over her shoulder, covered in blood head to toe.
"That was fucked."
x
"I told you I'd make you sing, little bird."
And sing he does.
The songbirds circle overhead, cutting through the air, diving in between the hedges, wings flapping in harmony, their calls forming a mesmerizing tornado of music.
Reese twists her sword and Sonnet's cries join them.
This close, all of her uncut edges gleam like a gem exposed to light. The sword pulls out of his thigh, just above the knee, hot liquid squelching out of the wound. The cuts on his arms and face feel like ice cubes against his warm skin, the poison still working on destroying him from the inside out.
There's no one to help Sonnet now.
Not anymore, not since Tris—
Sonnet grits his teeth, tears sprinting to life once again thinking about the boy that lies just beyond the corpse of the beast. He fights the urge to lay down beside him. In the minutes since Reese launched her attack, Sonnet has come to a conclusion:
If he were to die, that would make Tris' sacrifice mean nothing.
He'd gladly jump on Reese's sword, welcome Death's sweet touch, waiting for the moment he could reach out and grab his love's hand again.
But that would tarnish Tris' legacy.
Covered in the dried blood, he knows full well what survival truly means. Tris said he was strong, that Sonnet inspired him with his ability to endure. He doesn't feel much like a survivor, more than half-dead already, but he doesn't want to let Tris die in vain.
Sonnet wants to live up to the version of himself Tris saw.
The cost of winning is not one to be taken lightly. He has already felt the dual edge of that sword drive through him. To make it out truly means Tris is gone. But Sonnet has learned, at least for now, he is capable of enduring that, too.
As his body continues to fail, as he bleeds all over the wildflowers, Sonnet swings his own blade. Eventually, this nightmare has to end, either with a sword through his body or his own skewered through another.
Reese pulls back half a second late, caught off guard by Sonnet's willingness to fight back. She shouts, dropping her sword, hands coming up to cover her face. Her short hair casts her face in shadows as she bends over, her own song now floating into the sky.
Her sword drips crimson along the grass, but now so does his own.
He can hear the crowd cheer, applause and laughter growing ever louder with each blow traded, but somehow still quiet like bees trapped in a jar. Nine years on and their punishment is nothing but a joke.
"So, the songbird has talons after all," his opponent laughs, and laughs, cackles bouncing off the hedges that box them in. Reese lifts her head, an open abyss where her left eye should be.
Sonnet almost throws up at the sight. It reminds him of Ghyslaine, August, Tris—
He remembers their first meeting, recalls how her behavior unnerved him. There's something inherently wrong with her too, he realizes. Maybe their tragedies are intertwined, two damaged people destined to meet each other at the end. If he can hear the clock ticking down to zero, does that mean she can, too?
Either way, regardless of the differences between the songs they sing, there are no mountains or rolling fields anywhere in sight to comfort either of them.
Only the endless hedge maze, and their swords, and their lifeblood.
"I liked your song the last time," she admits, teeth now bloody. "The tune was better when you were sad. When you had no fight."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Disappoint?" she picks up her sword again, every inch of her once-fair skin stained with red. She looks like a spawn of Hell, as if she rose from a pool of blood. Does that make him an angel, ready to fight in the name of his God? "Oh birdie, there's one thing you need to know about me…I love a good challenge."
The demon launches herself at him again, a whirlwind of unhinged violence ready to blow him away. Reese drives her sword across Sonnet's chest, barely missing his heart. Too bad for her, but there's not much left to puncture—it's already shattered, unfixable.
Sonnet meets her next assault with his own, two blades dancing together, creating a metallic ostinato. The tempo of their song gains speed, reminding him of playing a spiccato on his violin.
It all comes to a head, when at the climax of their opus, Reese backs him up against the table that has seen so much blood spilled—around it, on it, even beneath it.
Sonnet loses his balance, trying to catch himself against the edge, focus broken. It only lasts a second, a brief beat, but it's all she needs.
He feels the slash against his throat before he registers what happens. Sonnet stumbles back, pressing a palm to his skin, ichor slipping through his fingers.
The songbirds fall quiet, paying respect as one of their brothers is silenced once and for all.
Reese grins, a picture of pure savagery.
Sonnet tries to talk, plead, sing, but his mouth fills with the taste of iron, until he's choking on it, practically drowning in it. Liquid cascades both down the back of his throat and all over his front. Each gasp for air causes blood to spurt out of the wound.
Managing to stay upright, body leaning back against the peeling surface of the table, Sonnet uses the last vestiges of his spirit to dive towards the girl in front of him. He hears a banshee's scream, feels his sword stick into some area of her body, taking the weapon out of his hand as they both fall.
Sonnet doesn't get the chance to see where his blow landed, as he rolls in the grass, facing away from Reese's figure.
With each fading beat of his heart, blood pumps slower and slower out of the wound under his chin.
Is this what Ghyslaine felt in her dying moments? August? Tris?
No, not Tris, never Tris—
Black creeps in at the edges of his vision. After so much time preparing for the end, coming to terms with the poison's effects, Sonnet finds himself…at peace. Dying doesn't feel like he thought it would, there's no shrouded woman with a scythe calling out to him, no bright light opening up above.
It's slow, calming. It feels familiar—like a gentle hug or a soft kiss. It reminds him of Tris.
He may have failed, but at least he tried. And now he can fly free.
Fog clouds his vision, all light disappearing from view.
Sonnet smiles.
I'm coming, my love.
x
"…we need an operating room, now!"
"Stay with us, sweetie…"
"…we're losing him!"
"Somebody page Doctor Zaldivar…"
"So, when's he going to wake up?"
"Hard to say. The poison brought him to the brink. The blood loss didn't help, either…"
"…it's safe to move him to the intensive care ward. He has to heal on his own now."
"Listen brat, I'm not letting you get out of this. You won. Fought like hell for it, too. Plus, I hate this job. So, please wake up soon."
"It's not time yet, my son."
"Sani, open your eyes."
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Chandani."
x
"I have to say, when this experiment started, I never envisioned us reaching this point."
Sonnet remains mute. It's the only thing he can do. His life is gray—all color stolen—taken when…when—
Doctor Zaldivar stands at the end of his hospital bed, clipboard in his hands, glasses reflecting the overhead lights.
"I know it means little, but I am sorry for the loss of your…friend." If he wasn't handcuffed to the bed, Sonnet would rush him. End him. Make him pay. "But congratulations on your victory. It was truly a feat to watch."
A bird watches him from the windowsill. Memories of the songbirds in the arena flood his mind, their haunting song play in his ears, wings beating against the wind, talons sharp—
"…it was quite amazing watching you fight the poison while simultaneously going through such extraneous circumstances."
Sonnet makes eye contact with the older man, making no sign of hearing his useless, empty words. They're a waste of oxygen. Instead, Sonnet picks up the marker and whiteboard that lay in his lap, scribbling down the request that's been burning in his mind ever since he woke up, covered in sweat, stuck in a state of half-death, half-life:
Kill me.
The nurses gave him the whiteboard as a way of communicating. It's laid dormant until now. They wouldn't have the power to grant his wish.
Doctor Zaldivar seems amused.
"Ah, I was wondering if you'd have enough courage to ask me that," the doctor muses, a short laugh escaping his lips. "I don't blame you, Mr, Chandani."
Sonnet continues to stare. Even underlines the letters on the board, just to make a point.
The man steps forward, hand moving to his coat pockets, pulling out two syringes with each movement. One is filled with gold, the other black.
"If you truly wish for death, then I won't deny your request. You've done more than I've asked, played nice enough over the years. I'll say you had a turn for the worst, that going without the antidote for so long pushed you behind saving," he pauses, letting the words sink in. "Or…we can go with the second option."
Sonnet erases his previous question, writes quickly, marker squeaking against the whiteboard, and holds up a new message:
What do you mean?
"To say your time in the Colosseum provided the final results we needed to enter the second phase of our trial is an understatement," the older man paces back and forth, growing more and more enthusiastic recounting the outcome of Sonnet's pain. "The spikes in anxiety, desperation, fear, craving, love…it was all quite extraordinary."
The clock mounted on the far wall ticks, ticks, ticks, every second that passes meaning it's another second spent in this existence without Tris. He thought winning would allow him to carry on his mantle, but his brain is all wrong, his body without control, voice cut. Sonnet should've just let Reese carve him up. "We ended up running a few tests with your blood post-surgery. After you were given several doses of morphine," he gestures to the IV bag attached to his arm. "I mixed your test samples with the previous iteration of the poison you were given, and voilà!"
Doctor Zaldivar waves around the golden syringe, the liquid comparable to the medicine he had to consume since he was a child.
Sonnet writes another message and holds it up for the doctor to read:
What's different about it?
"For one, I call it Morphling," Sonnet hates the way he enunciates the word, as if suddenly giving it a name makes it all the more special. Call it what you want, but poison is still poison. "The added morphine makes the drug…easier to handle, if you will. Much safer for hospitals to use."
Sonnet isn't sure if he's telling the truth, but long nights spent convulsing, seizuring with cravings fill his vision. If this version can do away with the pain…"And two, the foundation of this new version is your own DNA. It's highly purified thanks to your body cycling the chemicals through your system over an extended period of time."
He has one last question, needs an answer before a decision is made. Sonnet remembers the dreams, how happy the hallucinations in the maze made him feel.
Will it let me see Tris again?
A smile carves its way across Doctor Zaldivar's lips. "I promise."
Sonnet doesn't hesitate in holding out his arm.
x
He's falling.
Down, down, down…
It's a rabbit hole, a sublime and bizarre place, picture frames swinging in the air, snapshots of Sonnet and—
His mother's silver box floats by. A violin with his father's initials hangs on a shelf. Songbirds carry him down, welcoming him, talons not sharp, but honeyed. Their song fills his senses, and then, he's humming too.
Laughter echoes all around, and then soft whispers of love, promises and vows of forverforeverforever. He looks up briefly, the hole in the sky ringed with heavenly light, golden, beautiful rays caressing his cheeks. A glowing figure peers over the edge.
His skin shrinks, and then grows, and then sags, and the process repeats over and over and over again. Time is a loop, never-ending, always connected.
Sonnet's young and then old, small and then grown, innocent and then wise. A lifetime passes by, and then a melodic, familiar voice weaves around his body, beaks open, words spoken.
"I love you, Sani."
"Insomnia's a killer. Join the club."
"Make a wish, dummy."
"Rest…I'll be right here."
"Gotta get it perfect for my best friend."
"…Don't be—You don't have to. I did it for you. So we can survive this together."
"I won't let them separate us—they can't strip that away from me too."
"This isn't a goodbye, it's a see you later."
"…I hope you know how special you are. You're not cursed, Sani. You're blessed."
Blessed. Yes—he couldn't agree more.
He smiles, untroubled, radiant.
Sonnet is weightless, floating, soaring, flying on feathered wings.
And then he's free.
x
The violin is Sonnet Chandani's first friend. But he only has one love.
In a garden, back in One, a place he gets to call his own, Sonnet plays his violin. In this dream, he is free from the burdens of life, untouched by pain and sorrow.
Fantastical creatures surround him, listening to his song, soaking in melodies of bliss and serenity. Their gentle caresses seem to mend the cracks in his heart, filling him with an inexplicable warmth and peace.
Within this fleeting reverie, he clings to the happiness that envelops him, drinking in its euphoria.
Time is boundless, and Sonnet continues to draw the bow across the instruments' strings, notes buoyant and light. He's been waiting, waiting, waiting…
Color fills this world, hedges vibrant, flowers blooming, the sky cerulean and the clouds outlined in pinks and purples, almost translucent. Sonnet sings his song, a ribbon of red satin tied around his throat, until the sheet music turns to the last page, blank.
It's his coda.
Applause sounds through the garden, spirits and flora and fauna all cheering his name, championing his brilliance.
His parents clap amongst the crowd, shining jewels in the center of their foreheads. Allegro purrs at his side. Ghyslaine offers a crystal heart instead of a bouquet. August pops a blueberry into his mouth, eyes crinkling with glee.
And then a hand reaches out, shimmering, divine.
Tris…
Their fingers touch, and the Heavens sing.
"I've missed you, my love."
Jubilee fills every bone, ligament, blood cell, nerve in his body. And then he is light itself, exuberant, blinding, lifting into paradise, hand in hand with his maker.
Like this, safe in their utopia, he'll always be an angel, but never a God—not when Tris exists in all his glory.
Sonnet doesn't mind.
Not one bit.
FIN.
Title is from "Not Strong Enough" by boygenius.
Miri! Thank you so much for sending in your soft, precious baby. He fit perfectly with what I wanted to accomplish for this year. I thoroughly enjoyed writing not only his story, but Tris' too. I really got a two—for—one deal :)
This has been such a fun, challenging month and I couldn't feel any happier with the end product. I hope you all enjoyed this journey, too. Was it a happy ending...well, I guess that depends on who you're asking.
A huge shout-out to the SYOT Verses Discord Server's wonderful mods for putting on this event for it's third iteration. I highly encourage everyone to check out the community and perhaps even join in on the fun next year.
Much love.