Augustus Noah Asquith :: 13 :: DONE

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Augustus Noah Asquith :: 13 :: DONE May 9, 2012 6:59:59 GMT -5

Post by meg. on May 9, 2012 6:59:59 GMT -5

Name: Augustus Noah Asquith
Age: 17
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 13
Appearance:

JASON CASTRO. DREADS. SOUL SEARCHING GAZE, MAN.

Personality:

CHRISTIAN. GOOD. SEARCHING FOR THAT OF GOD IN EVERYONE. ROMANTIC. STRAIGHT UP. HONEST.

History:

CHURCH PARENTS. DAD'S DEATH. MUM'S DEPRESSION. JOINS CHRIST CULT. PROTESTS AGAINST GAMES. ARRESTED. ESCAPES. WANDERER. 13. WHAT IS THIS PLACE? WHERE DO THEIR MORALS COME FROM?

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

Last Edit: May 12, 2012 6:52:31 GMT -5 by meg.

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Augustus Noah Asquith :: 13 :: DONE May 9, 2012 7:06:21 GMT -5

Post by meg. on May 9, 2012 7:06:21 GMT -5

AUGUSTUS NOAH ASQUITH.

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"And You are life, most beautiful”[/color][/font]

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Even during the darkest of nights, the images of home would shine a light so bright, that it was only outshone by that of his Faith. A layer of plastic surrounded them, so as he could not see them clearly, but still, when he thought of home, a candle was lit in the small space between his lungs. And even when he slept on frozen ground with nothing to cover him but the clothes on his back, it was this warmth that kept him from turning to ice.

The static radio sings happily, like a joyous bird on a far off wire. Feelings connected with the memory are child-like, simple- emotions of yellow and cream and white. His father twirls his mother in an impromptu dance move, and she laughs before kissing him lightly on the lips. For just a second, their touch lingers there, and even the four-year-old Augustus can feel the passion that they have for each other. It’s written in bold letters in the inflections of the corners of their eyes, plain for the world to see- a true gift from God.

Augustus quite literally grew up in the church. His father was the pastor of the largest family church in district one, and their small family occupied two rooms on the side of the building. Born but a year into the marriage of his parents, Augustus remained an only child, try as they might to give him a sibling. As a small child, Aug wasn’t allowed to the normal services for fear of interrupting them, but instead grew in his love for the Bible through the children’s service. One of his first hazy memories is sitting with his back to the radiator in the draughty room, crayoning in sheets printed with Adam and Eve. When he was old enough, he sang in the choir- not classical songs as emitted from the big cathedral, but more modern, sweet-sounding tunes that made him feel so passionate about the plan his Lord had for him. His earthy voice was well appreciated, but to him the songs were so much more than just a means to show off his talent. Even as a kid, Augustus could feel his whole body being healed by the fact that someone cared enough about him to give their life.

When his father became sick, Gus was not worried. His ten-year-old mind knew that sometimes people got sick, but he also knew that it was their faith in Christ that healed them. Zealous and kind, his father was his role model, and lived more by the word of the Bible than anyone he knew. There was no way that he would be sick for very long. But the weeks turned into months, and turned into years, and his father using a walking stick to get to services turned into a wheel chair, which turned into prayers around his bedside. Two years after the onset of his illness, Augustus’s father died with his son on one side of his bed and his wife on the other, and the complete and utter faith that he was going to a better place etched in a smile across his face.

He sang at his father’s funeral. It was a rather plain song, but he thought it described his father well. That night was the only time he asked the vital question- why? The answer was plain: God’s plan. The Lord himself had lost his only Son as part of his greater plan, and now Augustus knew how it felt to loose one so close to him. It was as if he was an apple with its core removed- he was nothing but bitter, mortal flesh. He was, however, all the more appreciative of what God had gone through so that Gus could be Saved.

Death can have such polar effects on people. Whilst Augustus was strengthened by the death of his father, his mother was broken. Her face paled and she was very rarely seen anywhere but sitting at the kitchen table, stirring her tea with a quiet ‘clink, clink’ against the china cup until it was stone cold.

It was chance indeed that the newly-chosen pastor happened to be a good friend of Gus’s fathers, and was happy to let he and his mother live on in their room. Sunday was the only day that his crippled mother left her room. He would watch her face in the church services as she prayed desperately, furiously, searching for something to give her hope. Augustus had found his source of earthly hope in this new pastor, who was much more interested in evangelizing than his father had been. Gus spent many of his days now going from door to door around the district, trying to convince people to frequent the church that he called home. More dangerously, he began to spread the message of peace and love to all, a message much like Jesus’s- and of course, this clashed with Panem fierce Hunger Games tradition life fire and ice.

For years his life continued like this, his mother but an empty shell of what she used to be and the new pastor the only role of authority in his life, and not a very strict one at that. His passion for doing God’s work got greater and greater, as did his hatred of the Hunger Games. He still sung at church, his tender voice the only way he would show emotions.

The morning of his 16th reaping, he was not wished luck by his mother. She gave him a half smile as he headed out the door, bag strung over one shoulder, not knowing she would not see him again. The nervous energy squeezed his shoulders at the reaping, but he was not nervous for the same reason as his peers. Just as the reaping was about to commence, slowly, Augustus reached into his bag, and pulled out a sign. Painted with an image of the Son of his God and and reading the slogan ‘He died for our sins. They die for our sport,” the piece of plywood could very well have said ‘Capitol, kill me now,’ for the death sentence that it conveyed. The peacekeepers rushed towards him in slow motion, their flawless white uniforms flowing, and for just a second they looked like Angels. He took a deep breath of Gods finest air, feeling the force of life strain in his lungs, and said a simple ‘Thank you’ as he was pounced upon and thrown to the ground. Vibrations ripped through his flesh, but he did not feel pain. Instead, he was happy to die for someone who had died for him.

They frogmarched him to their disciplinary building, not wanting his execution to be seen on the broadcasting of the reaping. Sitting him on a chair, hands bound in metal cuffs behind his back, and told him to wait until after the reaping was over. Through his mind, prayers where pulsating.

“Father, if now is my time, then let it be.”

And then the miracle happened. He turned his hand, just to make himself a little more comfortable, and the shank of the handcuff detached. From here, the memory is blurry. He can remember stealing out of the building, running for his life through the deserted district. He can remember having time to pray for the two fresh-faced tributes of the district, and he can remember constricting his body into compromising shapes so that he could fit under the bottom of one of the trucks exporting fancy goods to the Capitol. There he hung like a bat, hands wedged between pipes, hoping that they wouldn’t heat up too much on the journey. The road began to smudge under his tensed body, and there he clung for what seemed to be a handful of hours, but couldn’t have been much more than twenty minutes. His opportunity came when the driver stopped to chew some cochineal that was all the rage at the time. As he heard the man return to his vehicle, he let his cramped hands relax, and rolled, his body made as small and unnoticeable as possible, into the bushes on the side of the road.

Now, he sees this part of his story as an in-between- a sort of purgatory, if you like, except he did not go to Heaven nor Hell after. In those bushes, he took inventory of the items he had with him- the peacekeepers uniform on his back, his knife and his pocket bible cleverly concealed in his underwear. He had no skills, no knowledge of the wilderness, and yet somehow for the first few months he hardly lost weight. Meat was plentiful as the animals, unabashed due to their lack of human interaction, id not realise that he was not their friend. He ate anything that looked like roots, and nothing with bright colours, as that was about the extent of his knowledge of poisons. He studied his bible ever day, and slept with it clutched in his hands, and from his odd hermit position in the woods he appreciated God more than ever before, because God had given him such a miracle in the fact that he was alive.

The leaves fell off the trees and dissolved into dirt on the ground. The frosts began to work away at the mornings, and shivering took up more and more of his sleeping time. He walked with a purpose, in a direction halfway between where the sun rose and where it set, although he did not know exactly where he was going. Geography lessons had taught him that the weather got warmer the further south of his district he travelled, and so he followed the direction which he believed to be south. Indeed, he found that he was correct, for as he travelled the land became scraped of water, and finding food became more difficult. Praying before each meal that the food he was about to eat would not kill him; he experimented with plants and animals, anything with the ability to stop hunger’s dirty hand tearing at his stomach.

The day he found District thirteen, the sky sat low and heavy. His muscles were tense, and his hair was matted and long, cleanliness being something that he had long forgotten about. All he can remember of that day is being so thirsty, and stumbling over the charcoaled ruins. His want for water was so great that they did not even seem strange to him. Next, he was surrounded by white. The smell was acrid and clean, and feels round in the back of his mouth. District thirteen’s doctors treat him for malnutrition and severe dehydration, and once again, by a miracle, he has been saved.

It did not take him long to adapt to Thirteen life. He started at the school there, and still studied his bible every night, hoping soon to know the whole book by heart. He, however, has yet to form any organised form if worship, and is interested to be surrounded by people who are not obviously Christian. For him, God was and remains the sole most important part of his life, because his life is God, and he cannot come to terms with the fact that there are other people in the world that do no think the same way

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Last Edit: May 12, 2012 6:59:55 GMT -5 by meg.

meg. Tribute [M:-1850] 398 POSTS last seen Sept 27, 2023 2:37:22 GMT -5	Augustus Noah Asquith :: 13 :: DONE May 12, 2012 6:53:16 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by meg. on May 12, 2012 6:53:16 GMT -5 DONE BANANAS. Sorry for the this that and the otherness

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Augustus Noah Asquith :: 13 :: DONE May 12, 2012 9:00:46 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on May 12, 2012 9:00:46 GMT -5

Meg, you are a phenomenal writer. Seriously, girl. You brought him to life so much, and everything you did with the bio made it a total page-turner (well... mouse-scroller). This was an absolute joy to read. You are so so SO talented, and I cannot wait to make word babies with you. tl;dr...