Cúiseanna (Aisely vs. Inkling vs. Shrol Fight)

With each beat of the cannon, Shrol carefully opened up a finger on his curled fists, unfolding petals of a delicate daisy. Although his maths had never had a chance to blossom, he knew what full fingers meant. Ten. Ten kids who were now in heaven, many of whose bodies he had walked over in a desperate attempt to keep his own feet firmly on the ground. And although none of those dead kids were a direct result of his actions, he had tried. In the blur of colours that some would refer to as his mind, he had tried to kill people just to come away with his own life. And yet, part of him, part of the exhaustion that some would refer to as his body, was overjoyed that, to the best of his knowledge, both him and his sister were still alive.

Although, perhaps not. Perhaps, as hard as he’d tried, he had not done enough. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe he was in hell. And this, this mash of right and wrong and emotion, this was the torture for every time he had ever sinned, this was because he hadn’t devoted enough of his life to others, because he was happy that others would never have the chance to be happy again.

It was a funny feeling, being alive.

---

He was so out of control in this arena. It was dark now, but not so dark that his eyes couldn’t adjust to it. His feet slipped in the sand, unable to gain a solid grip on a terrain that he was so unfamiliar with. Ungainly limbs flailed this way and that, like the colt from a maiden mare. And this was somewhat true, for although though his mother had been no first-timer, one of the only communal thoughts held by the Raidan children was that still, their mam did not have the experience to be considered a real mother. “Mam,” he said out loud, wishing now that he had not thought of her. Wishing, no, hoping, that he’d be able to give her a second chance. But if he made it out of that arena, he wasn’t sure the she’d able to forgive him for leaving Yaron behind. Maybe it would be better to let someone else go back to their comfortable life, someone who deserved it every bit as much as he did, and wouldn’t go through half the struggles that he would if he made it back to district 8.

When he had finally resigned that the crimson sand was never-ending, and was making his plans to sleep in the dust for the night, he scrambled up a dune (Dule? Duke? He knew that there was a word for a hillock of sand, but couldn’t place it.) Above him, a tower touched the sky’s limits, putting breath in his chest and taking it away again. Cautiously, he ventured up to the opening, heart thumping against the walls of his chest, hoping but not daring to hope for something more than endless sand. And indeed, stretched out in front of him was a thicket of low lying bushes. Deciding that he had no safer option than to shelter under them, He found the thickest patch of plants that he could, and, like an animal away from his nest, with his backpack still strapped to his back, dug into the dirt. Praising the fact that, despite everything, it wasn’t sand, he prayed as he drifted off into a broken sleep.

Dear lord, Thank you. Thank you for everything. And please, look after the Raidans. Look after me.

---

In the haze that surrounded his awakening from a sleep that had not been perfect, but had by no means been non-exsistant, he thought of the benefits that the poor kids had in the arena with their experience of sleeping in less-than-satisfactory conditions. During his week in the Capitol, he had opted to sleep on the floor, covered in just a blanket, finding their over-stuffed beds and feather duvets like he found the Capitol’s desserts- far too sickly sweet, far too artificial. Then he though of all the training that the upper-district children had received, the skill with which the career kids had, just yesterday, wielded their weapons. Of course it wasn’t fair. What was?

The next thought that infiltrated his mind was of change. Although it had been dark when he had reached the tower, The ground had not been soft like this, the air had not been filled with the sound of frogs and tasted of wet. Sure enough, as he carefully sat up, he was sure that the bog-land that now surrounded him had not been the thicket that he had fallen asleep in last night. But he was not sure whether the change of set had been his mind playing tricks, or of the Capitol’s doing. Or perhaps a combination of the two.

The third and final thought smothered his head. It began with the brittle crack of twigs on wet ground, and a heaviness of footsteps, human footsteps, on the boggy surface. Scooping up his little hatchet-friend from the ground next to him, he made himself face the facts, face the arena. Someone else was here.