hopeless resurrections {aya}

If it wasn't for his promise to Harbinger, Weaver wouldn't be training. Part of him had already accepted his death, but the other part wanted to keep going. Yet most of the time he walked through the training center paying little attention to the stations spread throughout the gym. None of them mattered to him. Holding a weapon felt so wrong, but at the same time he knew he had to. Learning how to hide himself was impossible because how could a behemoth of a man camouflage himself? How could Weaver hope to hide from someone? Playing pretend was amazing, but it was hard work. He was tired of people turning him into something he's not.

A soft sigh fell from his lips as he grabbed a granny smith apple from the food cart in the dining hall. It wasn't much, yet it offered him something to do as he waltzed through the gym. His eyes darted from one station to another wondering which one he could attend. Part of him wanted to return to camouflage, but he was afraid Heathcliff would find him. Weaver didn't want to wear the war paint any longer. He took a bite from the apple before coming to a halt in front of the different weapons hanging loosely from the weapon rack. Harbinger had used many of these. A glaive. A two handed sword in the finale.

Did he train with these? He asked himself as he lifted a sword. He ran one finger along the sharp side of the blade. It was amazing what damage this could cause. Many severed limbs and heads. But the weight was different than any scythe he lifted in district eleven. And that was when he saw one - a scythe calling his name. The sword dropped from his hand. Maybe if he could just picture the tributes as crops in district eleven he'd stand a chance. But the people were living, breathing, and they could speak unlike the crops back home. A half smile twisted across his face as he wrapped his hand around the handle. It was a deadly tool, but at least Weaver knew how to use it.