v. THE PENDULUM
The rope burns his hand.
It tugs at his neck too, but Aslan's still falling. He can't tell which way is up; scenery blurs around him, blue-blue-black-grey-white-blue, not even enough air in his lungs to scream, and he thinks—
(He doesn't.)
Unexpected fire snakes down his arm, down because that's down now, he's falling down, but something yanks him up—
Pain pain something snaps something tears wrist arm elbow skin shoulder fuck fuck!
Not falling. Swaying. Movement burns, a million tiny threads snap pop grind, warmth. Down his cheeks, sprouting from his eyes. Swaying.
Snap.
Pop.
The vice tightens.
Wrong— arm, not neck. Rope necklace, slack. How..? (Breathe, Aslan. You can still do that.)
How?
(Breathe.) Sway. Tiny threads popping.
(Don't look up.)
Aslan looks up.
(I told you not to look up.)
What's going on, why does my arm look like that, I can't— it hurts. I can't think. Too much fire to think. It doesn't ebb, only stretches, coils down the rope that was supposed to snap his neck; only now, it's tangled tight around the length of his left arm, biting and digging and searing into his flesh.
(You should be grateful, you know.)
But the grinding nerves in his shoulder-elbow-wrist drown out the capacity. It flares with each swing of the rope; the motion is enough to make him nauseous, or maybe that's just the pain. More warmth runs down his cheeks. His windbreaker sleeves hide the sight of his arm, but Aslan can feel his joints in all the wrong places, tendons straining against his own weight. Grind. Click! Grind. Pop-click!
(It hurts, doesn't it? That must be agony.)
No shit, Sherlock.
(Your fault.)
God, he can't stand it. Aslan's other hand reaches up to paw at the rope, to lessen the strain. But his shoulder rolls; his nerves light quicker than a nuclear warhead— Aslan clamps his teeth down on a scream. It slips through anyways, a groan he feels rather than hears through the white hot fire in his body. Spots of color dance in his eyes. Pain flares to the beat of his desperate, dogged heart. Guess I'm hangin' here then.
Haha, hanging...
(Nice going, idiot.)
Heh. Stupid fucks can't even hang me right.
(Sooo hilarious.)
Aslan's lips twitch in a half-chuckle, but the thought is fleeting. His flimsy thoughts can't compete with the red wave of agony that overtakes him from the fingertips down, and before Aslan knows it, he's out.
A gust of wind tugs at his hair, blissfully cool against the fire.
What fire?
It rages from inside. Tingling bolts of lightning shoot up and down his entire arm, that one, the one on fire, but it's hard… it's hard to make sense of it all.
(Do you even know how much pain you're in right now?)
Aslan's eyes flicker. Something churns in his stomach like a bizarre oscillation. Back, forth, back, forth, griiind-click! and Aslan realizes that's his body, swinging. Midair. God, that's so far down…
Griiiind-click!
Oh. That fire. Oh—holy shit—
(Wait, stop. Don't think about it. It's not there, alright? Think about me instead.)
…Do I have to?
(God, you're insufferable.)
But there are worse things.
(Fine. Suffer, then.)
Worse things threaten to consume Aslan, chew him up and spit him out. Hell, he's half-chewed already.
How long was he out? Was he even unconscious?
What's the difference when everything hurts like hell?
(Aslan…)
What.
(What do you mean, 'what'? Do you plan to hang there forever?)
Aslan's eyes travel up the rope. It's a long, long, long way. Still, down is twice as far, and the noose is just as present.
And he's supposed to, what, crawl back up when he can barely blink without wanting to pass out? Yet he tries; his free arm raises, but a wave of red-black-grey sweeps over his vision, cutting off the movement. Aslan grits his teeth around a whimper. Griiind-click! Griii—
(You know, if that arm comes loose, it's your neck that gets it. It's like I always said— better to cut off the infection than to lose the whole. You can't save everything, Aslan.)
...
Is that what this is? You think I'm an infection?
(I think you're fucking lucky.)
Lucky? I'm stuck, asshole.
(You're alive.)
A loud, low boom resonates through the arena.
(Unlike them.)
Aslan blinks. More follow— cannons. The dead. Probably should've counted them. Oh well.
(I'm facepalming. Just thought you should know.)
I'll find out later. just as long as it's not—
(Not your stupid little friends, I know.)
Shut up. Aslan's eyes are drawn upwards again. He doesn't know what he expects, but no heads poke over the rail to check on his body.
Agonizing seconds pass, then minutes, and still nothing.
(You realize what this means, don't you?)
He does.
They don't know I'm still alive.
(You have 'til the anthem.)
I know.
(In the meantime, you should probably figure out how to, I don't know, get the fuck down from there, maybe?)
Yeah, working on it, genius.
He's trying. Problem is, Aslan doesn't have any sort of knife. Or arm, really; every time he tries to move the one, it agitates his whole upper body, leaving Aslan gasping.
In the very least, he needs to get this fucking noose off his neck.
(Work faster.)
Oh, sure, 'work faster.' Yeah, you try dangling over a three hundred-meter drop with your arm hanging out of its fucking socket. Jesus fucking Christ.
(Looks more like two hundred to me.)
Asshole.
(Just being realistic.)
Frankly, Aslan's had enough realism for a lifetime. He lifts his arm again, gritting his teeth against the light swaying it induces. The more he constrains the movement to his forearm and below, the less it hurts; he manages to slip his thumb beneath the noose, tugs. The strain around his neck barely lessens, but—
The rope shifts.
Aslan gasps; an image flashes through his mind, rope uncoiling, blue-black water rushing to meet him—
(Oh, nice going, idiot. You really think you'd survive that fall?)
"Fuck," he chokes out. It burns his throat, voice hoarse from disuse, pain. Wind whips his face, reminding him just how precarious his situation is. The griiind-click! in his shoulder doesn't help either.
(You can't even swim.)
Who said anything about swimming?
Sounds nice, though. The longer the sun lingers in the sky, the hotter Aslan gets, though he can't tell if that's real or just pain. His own internal burning. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, the water. Cool air licks at the sweat on his brow, but Aslan can't spare the effort to think any further about the goddamn temperature; his fingers brush again at the knot at his neck, working through the ache, the rope, to no avail.
(Even if you could…)
The pressure of the noose's promise winds tighter than the rope itself.
(Four didn't.)
Don't…
(Don't what? Don't bring him up? Why, because you killed him?)
I didn't— "I didn't mean to do that."
(But you did.)
"It was an accident—"
(You're a killer now, Aslan. No different from them.)
"Bullshit. That's—" his voice curdles, raw and gasping. That's fucking stupid, I didn't mean to, it was an accident! And besides, he—
(Deserved it?)
He signed up for this. He killed that kid on purpose, I saw it. He would've done it again; if anyone deserves it, it's him.
(You agree, then?)
Aslan grits his teeth, but he can't get Four's face out of his mind— his wide eyes as he disappeared over the ledge, glimpses of his pinched brow in between Jasper's fists just before his private session.
Y'know, maybe he's not even dead! He probably just… swam away.
Shadow flickers overhead, and Aslan looks up. The bridge looms, but something else blots out the light. A strange sort of movement— claws descending, Aslan realizes. The hovercraft.
It shifts in the sky. The claw lowers, painfully slow and mere feet from Aslan's nose. It dips into the water even longer before it resurfaces, the soaking, bloated body of Seamus from Four clutched within its talons. His head lolls, dark eyes making accusing contact with Aslan's before he disappears into the machine's belly.
(Swam away. Right.)
"Fuck you."
Fuck, speaking takes so much effort. He didn't even realize he was until he starts coughing and hacking—
Naturally, it sends him swaying.
Pain, tingling, griiind-click! Tiny threads pop-pop-pop… Slowly, one starts to overpower the other, and he'll take it, the pins and needles.
(Aslan?)
Maybe they do deserve it. Four, Two, the others.
Blue-grey water glares with a vengeance, more tempting than ever.
But that doesn't mean I want to kill them.
(It's not about want. You know that.)
He knows.
And if it comes down to it— them versus his allies, his gang, his kids— he'd do it again.
(Think of it like that— one less Career to hunt them down. One less Career to hurt them. And once you get down from here, those fucks better start worrying.)
Aslan closes his eyes.
Still gotta get down first.
Night's setting in. Up here, it's fucking cold— blustering and unforgiving as the rope stretching apart his arm.
No way of telling what time it is, even if Aslan didn't spend the rest of the daylight intermittently blacking out from pain every time he attempted to untie the noose. So much for the fancy equipment too; turns out magnetic boots and gloves are utterly useless without something to cling to.
(Have you tried climbing the rope?)
You try climbing the rope.
In short, he has, thank you very much.
Even tried shooting up and sticking his gloves together, but he… doesn't really remember how that one went. Probably for the best.
Now, a thick numbness spreads like viscous liquid down his fingertips, forearm, shoulder. It's not all gone, the pain— ha, good one. The arm, it's as good as dead, broken and twisted and tingling as it is. He can barely twitch his fingers anymore— takes about ten minutes for him to work up the guts to try, and all he gets is more nauseating pain from the efforts.
The cold almost feels good, though, as much as it sends violent shivers through his body. He can almost think straight through the chills, the nausea, the sweat.
But when he does…
(Oh, Aslan, you can't ignore this one.)
Funny, through all this other pain, he's completely forgotten about the shallow slice in his side. Seems like it stopped bleeding, at least, and really, it's more about the reason it exists than the wound itself— Abraxas.
(It baffles me how you didn't see that coming.)
I beg to differ.
(Do you, now?)
That very specific exact scenario would've been very hard to predict.
(Eeeeh, for you maybe.)
But that's not what really nags at him.
Aslan understands why he did it. He's not stupid. He doesn't agree, but clearly, the Nine boy wants to live. Everyone wants to live.
And that's the problem— if Brax betrayed him so quickly, who's to say he won't do it again?
(Chances are, he will.)
On that, Aslan agrees. That's how people win the Games. He's seen it, as much as he'd rather pretend he didn't. Last year, the year before… hell, even Solaris had to kill an ally.
Aslan's eyes travel upwards, a silent prayer that he hadn't doomed his alliance right from the start.
(Everyone's doomed from the start.)
The sky is dark now, clear save for the black, spidery structure that cuts across it. Somehow, it stands out against the night, more present.
A sudden light throws it into stark relief. Aslan's head practically whips towards the source, accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets— the anthem. Fuck. (Time's up.) The seal; the faces. (I'm sorry, Aslan.)
First, Seamus.
Then, both from Six, and Aslan's cheeks stretch into a grin.
She made it.
He's mildly grateful they put the numbers with the names, otherwise he'd never know– Eight boy, Nine girl, Ten boy, Elevens, Thirteens…
…They all fucking made it.
A certain voice in his head is silent. You see that? They all made it, fuck you, they made it! They all—
The anthem dims, but another commotion reaches Aslan's ears from above. He cranes his neck, grimacing. Movement from the bridge— silhouetted heads poke over the rail; shouts of surprise float downwards. Aslan's smile widens. Faint on the wind— "You're still alive?!"
Jasper, no doubt.
Aslan braces himself against gravity. Pain flares from the effort, but he bares his teeth, flashes a rude gesture whether they can see it or not, and pours every ounce of energy into an unmistakeable "Fuck—!" Inhale— "You!"
More commotion. Undulating voices; Aslan can't make sense of them amidst the swaying fire, but he doesn't care.
He waits— for the fall, the arrow, whatever it may be.
He waits while they argue over it, dispute the specifics of putting him out of his goddamn misery.
He waits with a wild, final grin, a last glorious laugh, because they all made it! Fuck you, they all made it, and one of them will make it out, not you! You're all gonna die, you stupid fucks! You can kill me all you want, but you're gonna die anyway! You're gonna die, and there's nothing you can—
"—leave him! You hear that, Five?" Jasper again. There's a cruel joy to his shout. "Let him hang!"
MISS APRIL: Greetings, my fellow Nucleons. We're, ah, here for another 3 a.m. special on Daily Five Live, right from the heart of this very lovely undisclosed location. Before you ask, yes, we will be talking about the Games again; no, I will not be taking song requests right now; yes, you can shut your mouth about it. I know we don't usually do Games coverage here, but that's our very own Aslan Salvatici out there in the thick of it. Show some motherf—king support, alright?
[Unknown interruption]
MISS APRIL: Sorry. Yeah, yeah, no cussing on the air.
MISS APRIL: Anyways! I'm… glad to announce that both our tributes have made it through the night, though… [pause; sharp inhale] Aslan really needs our help right now. He's— he's clearly in a lot of pain, but he's still fighting, if you can believe it. Remember that, folks. Keep fighting. In light of that, we've got a special guest here tonight to go over public sponsorships—
ELJA ?: Collection box is all the way out in f—king Solar, but we've got runners going three times a day. Left side of the Nuclear train station, front entrance, there's someone in a red shirt—
MISS APRIL: Jesus, Elja, I didn't even introduce you yet. Folks, this is Elja…?
ELJA ?: What are you, a cop?
MISS APRIL: Funny. Folks, this is just Elja, she's Aslan's closest friend and second in command of ou—his lovely, ah, group. First now, I guess… But you heard her, folks! Nuclear train station, red shirt, get your dollars in to support our man in leather—
ELJA ?: Good god, why would you say it like that.
MISS APRIL: Have you ever seen him without that jacket?
ELJA ?: He's literally not wearing it right now.
MISS APRIL: Extenuating circumstances. Anyways, get those dollars in or don't bother tuning in next time. I mean it. Either to Aslan or the Salvatici orphan fund, as they are still currently displaced due to the recent radiation emergency. Always brush up on your radiation safety, kids! You'll probably get cancer anyways, but—
ELJA ?: April.
MISS APRIL: Right. Anything else you'd like to say, Elja?
ELJA ?: Yeah. F—k those Careers. If Aslan doesn't get down and tear them a new a—hole, I will.
MISS APRIL: Uh. We're not really supposed to cuss… but go on.
ELJA ?: F—k that Nine boy too, I saw what that f—ker did, he'd better not get away with it or I'll—
MISS APRIL: Rip him a new one. Hard agree. Thank you Elja! That's all for now. Remember folks, send that money in and have a good morning. I'm Miss April, and this is Daily Five Live, signing off.
Sleeping isn't really something that's in the cards right now. The closest Aslan gets is a grey sort of consciousness before the sky starts to lighten again, and damn, has it really been a whole night?
The sea and sky stretch before him, impossibly endless. Aslan thinks if he had the choice, he'd forfeit it all and strike out towards that city. Whether the 'Makers let him get there or not, he doesn't bother to ponder; through some stroke of luck, it might even remind him of home.
His thoughts blur together as the sun arcs across the sky. More dominant are the feelings, the urges. Hunger. Thirst. Chills, and then sweats as high noon reigns.
Pain, too, obviously. An ever-present stretch, sway, griiind-click!
It's less important than the grumbling in his stomach.
Aslan tilts his head upwards. Oh, why do my fingers look like that? (Don't look at them.) His eyes shift; there's been no commotion from above today, at least, none that made it through his fleeting awareness.
(Out hunting, probably.)
Hm. He doubts there's much to hunt out here, but Aslan would gladly accept a freshly caught chicken. Nugget form, please.
(Hunting for tributes, dumbass.)
Oh, right. Because everything sucks and the world is a horrible place.
(You got it, buddy.)
He'd roll his eyes if not for the sharp headache. Why can't I talk to my real friends?
(Why are you blaming me? Did you even try?)
He didn't. What would Elja say to him now? Argo? Hell, even Granny?
But all he can picture is the fear in their eyes, how his stupidity must be making them suffer.
Come home.
But he can't. I don't know how.
Instead, he thinks of his allies. His people in here, the ones he chose to protect, but of course, he can't reach them either. As much as Aslan wants to curse Brax's name, he's suddenly glad the Nine boy recruited the pair from Seven. They stand a real chance now.
(…)
The headache pitches in his ears. It takes a second for Aslan to realize the sound is outside of his head— a flicker of white, descending towards him. Aslan frowns at the bizarre sight. It floats closer, closer—
Oh shit, that's for me!
Its gentle pings cut like knives, but he reaches out a hand anyways, grimaces. A metal canister dangles from the chute; his fingertips bump the outside, and it bounces out of reach.
A noise slips through Aslan's teeth. He stretches farther, strains—
His fingers brush cloth. The gift continues its tantalizing, fluttering descent, and Aslan's swinging again.
(Come on. That's yours—)
Aslan grits his teeth; he pumps his legs and forces himself through the air—
(—threads, tendons, crack-snap-pop-s h—)
He swipes; empty air. Kicks— one, two; something catches on his boot, but the next kick…
It's a perfect punt, really.
Aslan watches in utter defeat as the """gift""" tangles in its parachute and plummets, a perfect parabolic path to the bottom of the ocean.
(Huh. Don't even know what I expected.)
Not the time.
(These people… They never give you anything for free, do they?)
(So what do you think was in that container?)
Your mom.
(Ha! I don't have a mom, and neither do you! Checkmate, idiot.)
If Aslan had to guess, it's about early evening. The bridge's shadow looms across the water, reaching farther than it has any right; Aslan can almost convince himself that the tiny little blip of dark grey that flickers beneath is his own.
His stomach growls. Despite it, Aslan's not sure if he's hungry or not. He can't pinpoint when exactly, but the nausea returned in full force, bringing a cavalry of stiffness shooting down his living limbs whenever anything twitches even in the slightest.
The arm, though… The arm, because it doesn't even feel like his anymore; it doesn't feel like anything.
He looks up, and his head swims.
Black-and-blue fingers almost blend with the fabric of the half-gloves. His sleeve covers most of the limb, but the rope winds tight enough that it's been stained red. Dark and dried by now, but the way the rope sears right down to the bone only makes his stomach churn more.
Of course, Aslan can't feel the burn anymore.
The only pain still comes from his shoulder, the rest of his body. His fingers won't twitch, his skin doesn't tingle, and the grinding of bones and joints ripped from their sockets doesn't register as anything but sound.
Aslan's not sure what that means, but he thinks he'd fucking kill someone for a glass of water right now.
(Do you hear that?)
Yeah, Granny always said I should stop cracking my knuckles—
(Not that, dumbass, up there.)
Without warning, a piercing shriek rips through the air.
Is that—
Boom.
Aslan's heart stops. (Almost.)
Directly above. More screams; garbled, faraway. Aslan's too far down to hear, too far down to help. He sucks in a breath. "Hey!"
Distant shouts. A half-scream, and then—
Boom.
His head spins, sways. (Not just your head.) Air rushes into Aslan's lungs and he can't—can't seem to get it out. (Aslan, breathe.)
(You don't know who it was.)
(You're still alive.)
(Two steps closer to h—)
He coughs. Inhale. Noise from above; movement— Careers. Cough out air.
—pop-pop-snaP—
Inhale, sharp.
Figures on the bridge. A struggle? Something shoots out over the edge, all blurred lines and spasms, and as it gets larger—closer—Aslan realizes that's a person—
They scream. It crescendos until noose cuts it off, a flash of pale orange—
"Brax!"
—and the sound warps into a jagged choking noise, grey eyes blown wide in panic—
"No! Brax, you—"
—and they find him, too afraid for guilt, and in that moment, Aslan forgives him; he was always going to forgive him—
"Brax—" gasp— "Ab-brax…"
—but it's too late; the Nine boy's legs kick and writhe; his hands scramble at the noose, and he nearly knocks into Aslan as the rope swings him back, around, jerking with his struggles, and Aslan reaches out to him—
You— you came back.
Boom.
"No!" The word tears at his throat. "No, Br—" gasp— "Fuck you! Fuck you!" Through blurred eyes, through his own swinging pain, Aslan's head tilts upwards. "Fuck! You!"
Silhouetted heads peek over the railing. Aslan can't see their expressions, doesn't care to; he screams himself hoarse, curses and protests and Brax's name— it doesn't take long, not long at all. All he has the capability for are sobs, gasping and wretched, and Abraxas still sways at his side, twitching and blue and undeniably dead.
You came back.
(…)
Did you come back for me?
(Aslan…)
Shut up! Shut! Up!
He doesn't know. He'll never know.
A shadow blots out the light overhead. The silhouettes disappear, and its claw descends twice, two unknowns in its talons that Aslan can't bear to place, and it waits.
(They need to collect his body.)
Brax is dead.
I couldn't save him. I couldn't— I couldn't even—
(Aslan, goddammit, they need his body.)
He's dead, Kepp, and it's my f—
Out of nowhere, a spark of pain shoots up-down-through his body, blurring Aslan's thoughts into television static. He gasps, and it's stuck in his lungs again, the air.
Brax's body sways, and Aslan swears his dead eyes look accusing.
I'm sorry.
(Aslan, they're waiting.)
…He's not sure what that means, but it's true. The hovercraft still looms from above like a carrion bird. Waiting. For what?
(You need to get him down before the Careers do. Look.)
A flash of sunlight on metal catches Aslan's unfocused gaze. He squints. There, on Brax's wrist; where there should be a strip of pale skin between the glove and his sleeve sits a blade, almost too-expertly hidden.
Problem is, it's not exactly within arm's reach.
Forgive me, Brax.
(He owes you.)
Aslan squares his jaw. The salt on his face has dried, leaving it stinging like the rest of his body. He braces himself, kicks out a leg.
And the fire returns.
It takes a couple swings before he's within range, a couple seconds before his vision clears enough to make the grab. He misses. Again—his fingers latch around Abraxas's clammy wrist, and his momentum drags the limp body with him.
(Ignore that. Just get what you need.)
The griiind-click! in his shoulder is gone, replaced with tiny threads, tiny threads, and Aslan's fingers find the knife. He yanks it free; the blade cuts a red line across the inside of Brax's wrist, I'm sorry I'm sorry, and he swings still, a not-entirely-opposite oscillation to Aslan's.
They drift apart. Aslan squints against the stretch. And back together.
Again, he lashes out; this time, he wraps an arm around Brax's… neck, god, fuck, I'm sorry, and wedges the knife beneath the noose, shit, no bad idea, there's no room, it cuts into the skin and the knife runs red, Aslan's hand runs red—
If Brax were breathing, Aslan would feel it against his skin. He holds the Nine boy in what could be mistaken for a hug, and forcibly, he shifts the knife upward to the knot at his neck. Just above it, where the rope pulls taut, he begins to saw. It's not serrated, the knife. Slick with blood, it slips against the cord, the tiny threads, tiny threads that hold its victim above the water.
One by one, they sever beneath the blade.
Aslan's hand aches. Cramps. Hard to breathe still, but he works the knife against the rope, and when it snaps beneath the Nine boy's weight, Aslan thinks he blacks out.
He comes to, still clutching the knife, and swaying.
Above, Abraxas's body disappears inside the hovercraft, and it flies off.
There's some sort of pouch in his harness. Aslan shoves the knife inside before exhaustion washes over him once again.
He wakes to a distorted version of Panem's anthem. A mere flicker of the Seven boy's face — Miles— registers in his mind before it vanishes, replaced by an awkwardly grimacing Abraxas Copperhead.
And then the genuine, toothy smile of Carlisle from Twelve.
The scream.
He thought he'd recognized the voice, didn't want to believe it.
The hollow feeling only deepens.
I couldn't save them.
(Aslan…)
I couldn't even try.
(It was inevita—)
Don't you dare.
But they're not his family. They were never even his friends, and if he wants to get back to those who are— and he does; god, he does— this was always meant to happen.
He doesn't think about it, but at the same time, it's all he can do.
One by one, they'll die. Whether he's there or not, whether he tries or not, they'll die, and everyone back home, they'll die too, because all he can do is hurt, whether he means to or not. Who was he to ever think he could save them?
If the poison slowly eating his arm says anything, he can't even save himself.
Morning surprises Aslan once again, but really, it's barely worth noting. He doesn't think he'd be able to catch a sponsor gift if they dangled it in front of his nose, not that anyone bothers.
The only difference today is the knife in his pouch.
Somehow, it must be the key to escaping, the key to everything, if only Aslan could think.
But what's the point? It hurts.
So he doesn't. The fog in his mind sweeps over everything, including the little voice that wants to argue, to blame him, to keep him alive. It barely catches the flicker of motion from over his head.
Something makes him glance upwards.
Aslan can't tell what it is. It's not the Careers— he can parse that much. Something underneath… it seems to travel upside down, coming towards the center from the city-direction while Aslan watches passively. Before he can think to worry about mutts or anything of the sort, Abraxas's death rope twitches, and there's something—someone—climbing down.
Dark hair, tan skin. Impossibly small frame… He's far too tired to put up any sort of fight, even one he'd undoubtedly win under normal circumstances, but instead, Aslan cracks a withered smile.
"Casey."
She offers him food, water. Where she got it, Aslan has no fucking clue, but he downs the water like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. Hell, it probably is.
Too bad he coughs most of it up.
"Aslan?"
He flashes a thumbs-up at the concern in her tone. It doesn't go away, nor does the heavy pinch in her brow. God, it's nice to hear someone's voice for real.
(Rude.)
Damn, I thought you'd go away…
No response, only something like a chuckle.
Casey's dark gaze sweeps over him. She sits a meter or so above him; the length of the ropes — Brax's, hers— demand it. He can practically see the gears turning in her head as clearly as there's nothing in his. A million questions seem to die on her lips before she settles with, "I'm gonna get you down."
The conviction in her voice, the determination in the set of her brow… maybe it's the fact that he hasn't considered getting down now for some time that all Aslan can do is stare.
(Can you trust her?)
"Don't be— stupid," he wheezes; talking's gotten much harder than he thought. "Leave—me."
"I can't—"
"Careers—know I'm here."
"I don't care."
"Leave."
She folds her arms. "Make me."
A sharp huff of laughter cracks through Aslan's lungs; he almost chokes on it, but hell, it's worth it. God, I missed you, Casey.
Her face screws up in confusion. "Are you… crying?"
Aslan huff-coughs again. He sure fucking is.
"Loser," Casey says, but she's smiling too. It falls flat after a second, eyes drifting to his arm. "Does it—does it hurt?"
He nods, and Casey nods back, more determined this time, and he knows there's no dissuading her.
(Better hope it doesn't get her killed.)
She doesn't seem to see the change in his expression, too busy fiddling with the second rope that strings from her harness to the underbelly of the bridge. Wordlessly, Aslan passes up the knife he took from Brax. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
He shrugs.
With an eye-roll, she hands the knife back and returns to her task. Abraxas's rope is too short to reach his harness, at least he thinks that's what she's trying to do. When she makes to switch out hers for the Nine boy's, Aslan grabs at her shoe, shakes his head. At her questioning frown, he points up. Careers, he mouths.
They control the other end of that rope. He can't let Casey take that risk.
(Even if it means this pain will stop? Even if it means you'll live?)
I can't.
Casey nods, and instead, starts shimmying up the rope.
"Casey!"
She ignores him.
(Some things just aren't up to you.)
She's well out of reach now. She has a plan; Aslan saw that look in her eye, but he can't do much more than watch.
And hope. Always hope.
About halfway up, something halts her. Without warning, she lets go; Aslan's breath would catch in his chest if it weren't there already. She swings a wide arc to the other side of the bridge, suspended by the second rope attached to her harness, and if Aslan squints, he swears she's still climbing.
When Aslan looks farther upwards, he understands.
Heads poke over the rail again— Careers. By the vague noise that drifts down to his ears, they seem to be arguing, but there's no urgency in their movements that indicates they noticed the slight intruder.
(Think they finally decided to kill you? I bet that's what they're arguing about.)
Long as they don't get her.
(God, Aslan, what happened to your spine?)
Feels like it grew a few inches, actually.
The thought makes his lips twitch. It's interrupted when a voice calls down to him from the bridge, definitely a Career, definitely not Jasper. "You alright down there?"
Four girl, maybe? She's the only other voice Aslan remembers.
(What a stupid question.)
Aslan agrees; he doesn't bother wasting the effort to respond, features set in a dubious glare, though his eyes track Casey's rope as she reels it up into the underworkings of the bridge.
"For what it's worth— I'm sorry about all this."
Like hell. There are a lot more genuine ways to show remorse, and even in his current state, Aslan has no patience for this. As clearly as possible, he flips a middle finger with his free hand, whether she can see it or not.
He hopes she can.
"Can you hear me?"
Shut up. The more she shouts to him, the harder it is for Casey to do what she needs to do, and the more anxiety stirs in Aslan's gut.
"I said I'm sorry! I'm—I'm gonna kill you now!"
Oh. (Aslan—)
He can't see Casey anymore. Stay out of this, Casey, please—
(Do something, Aslan, now!)
A flurry of movement overhead; the Four girl's declaration seems to have incited their argument anew, and something that might be Jasper's name gets thrown around more than once.
But Aslan can't fixate on that. He's got a knife in his hand and something like survival screaming in his head, but what can I do? What can I do that I haven't tried already? (Anything, Aslan!) But he can't think; he can't think with this rope around his neck—
"Sixty."
The voice booms from overhead.
It materializes from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, cutting off the argument from above.
"Fifty-nine."
Can't think with this noose around my neck.
"Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six."
He slides the knife beneath the rope; careful, not careful enough.
"Fifty-three. Fifty-two. Fifty-one."
A sting of pain, but it barely registers. The knife, the rope; Aslan adjusts the blade and keeps sawing.
"Forty-seven. Forty-six. Forty-five."
They're freaking out, the Careers.
"Forty-two. Forty-one. Forty."
Aslan's not. He should be.
"Thirty-five."
But he keeps.
"Thirty-four."
Sawing.
"Thirty-three."
Until.
"Thirty-two."
The rope.
"Thirty-one."
Snaps.
"Thirty."
His arm holds. He sways from the movement of it all, and he doesn't think…
"Twenty-five."
…this countdown…
"Twenty-four."
…is for him.
"Twenty-three."
But that arrow is.
"Twenty-two."
It misses. Aslan flinches, and sways. Back and fourth.
"Twenty-one."
Something circles overhead, far above the bridge. Far, far above.
"Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen."
Round and round and round.
"Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen."
Back and forth and back.
"Twelve. Eleven. Ten."
An arrow buries itself into his arm. Aslan doesn't feel a thing.
"Nine."
Three more miss.
"Eight."
No more fall.
"Seven."
More shouts— Jasper?
"Six."
Casey. Where are you?
"Five."
Get out of here, Casey.
"Four."
Leave me.
"Three."
Better me—
"Two."
—than you.
"One."
The bridge explodes.
A ball of white-hot red orange yellow blots out the sky, and the noise, the screams, the cannons, boom-boom-boom, the shockwave hits—