may it be {the end of Ivar}

Thousands of tiny wings belonging to such beautiful creatures fluttered about as a song of death buzzed through the air while trying to isolate any tribute slow enough to fall behind. Their bellies rumbled for food, and Ivar was part of the menu. Not once in his entire life was this how he imagined dying. With the games came death, and it was something the young Hammerfell understood, but the prize was his. A crown etched with the blood of the fallen was the one thing he coveted the most, but sometimes goals became unreachable from the moment they were created. The goal of winning, of receiving the prize at the end of the games was slowly escaping his grasp. For the longest time the crippled teen swore it was his, that he would wear it, but a swarm of man-eating butterflies, and the gamemakers had different plans, plans the boy wasn't fond of.

A frantic heart galloped inside his chest trying to find a way to break through the cage surrounding it. Cracked knuckles dug into the ground carrying his frail body forward. His legs may have been his greatest weapon, but now they became a fatal flaw. While other tributes were running around, Ivar was lost, trapped between the swarm and feet. Somewhere Curse lingered above willing him to move forward. Surviving was important because the crown at the end was his, and nobody would take it from him.

His shoulders ached, his arms hurt from dragging a hefty load around for the duration of the game. Swollen knuckles made it hard to bend his hand. A parched tongue begged for a drink, something to cure the thirst, but stopping would only end with death. Somewhere in district two Ivar imagined Sigurd laughing at his failure - "Good riddance." he had said before Ivar departed from the district. This was a time to prove he was worth something, to show the world that he was a fighter, that he was strong, that he wasn't going to let butterflies eat him alive. And yet he kept losing his grip sending him stumbling down the stairs. The helmet on his head clanged against the stairs, his eyes swam as a thousand stars flashed them. Each star matching the steady beat of the wings closing in.

Lifting himself up, and shaking his head, Ivar paused for a moment trying to gather his barrings. Everything was moving so fast, people jumping from one set of stairs to the other - they had the advantage, they had legs while his were useless. Nothing would make up for it, but he willed himself to keep moving. Sweat rolled from his brow, each breath caught in the back of his throat as the invisible rope grew tighter and tighter slowly suffocating him. The thundering of his racing heart roared through his ears, but every other sound was blocked out by the gentle hum of the not so beautiful butterflies. But as he started down another flight of stairs, the vambrace caught the edge -

CRACK!

He heard it before he felt it. The bones in his arm snapped breaking what little bit of momentum he had, and yet no tears formed in his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he looked forward then looked back. But it wasn't much because the armor broke lose of it's hold, and Ivar tumbled down the stairs pushing his ally, his friend, his brother forward. Curse was reaching for him trying to help, but it was pointless. A blood curdling scream bellowed from somewhere deep inside. A hot smoldering iron was placed against the side of his arm, and he would only hurt his friend. "Curse! Go!" He shouted through gritted teeth as the pendant broke free of his neck, "Just go!"

And as the swarm grew closer Ivar knew he wouldn't escape - why hurt someone who deserved to live just as much as he did?

In that moment his world came crashing down as he watched his dream run away.

Choking back tears, Ivar lifted his head once more, his eyes locked on Curse - "Find who killed her, and make sure they don't get out of this arena alive!" It was his last wish, a simple wish to find who did it, to make sure to they suffered just as much as the loss made him. But what the young male didn't know was the person who killed her was in the same room trying to escape the swarm of butterflies.

On these very stairs just a couple days before, Ivar fought alongside Curse carrying himself forward. Anton's blood covered these stairs and shortly after Lorenzo's did as well, the crunching of the bones still fresh in his mind - not even the loud roar of the butterflies could knock the sound away. Lorenzo didn't deserve to die, and yet his weight pressed firmly against the chest of the young man trying to survive. Life didn't matter inside the games, but outside somewhere in district five a family was mourning. But none of that mattered because Ivar stole away something nobody should steal from anyone. Everyone was entitled to bury their friends, their loved ones, however, in the blink of an eye, and a snap of a tongue, his life was more important, and now he wished that he hadn't done it. Back home if someone denied him the right to bury his friend, Ivar would've murdered them. Perhaps this was the price for stealing such a precious moment away. Despite him feeling remorse and regret, sorry would never cut it.

Leaning against the railings of the stair, Ivar fought to catch his breath. His throat burned, and his lungs ached. But the swarm was closing in, and he knew he had to move. He had to get away. Somewhere in the distance Curse was running on along with the many others all while a few lives hung by a limb. Cannons after cannons started to sound - I'm not going to die. Reaching in his bag, he remembered the canteen he drew just the night before. Pulling it out, it was heavier. Water was what he wanted, what he needed, but as he lifted the bottle to his lips, he knew water didn't linger inside. Violent coughs took over his body, and yet he forced himself to guzzle the rest. A liquid fire burned inside his throat, tears streamed down the side of his face. But it felt good, and soon the awful taste turned to something enjoyable, something he had never experienced before. He shook his head trying to take it all in, trying to fight past the pain of the broken arm. Ivar howled as he fell face first down a flight of stairs. A once broken nose shattered again, the helmet dug into the side of his head, blood gushed down his face.

Stars flashed before his eyes.

His hands were numb.

Ubbe had said the whole world would fear him, but how could anyone fear a cripple who couldn't escape flesh-eating butterflies?

A pool of blood covered the once beautiful floor, and Ivar couldn't move. His hands slid in different directions sprawling him out once more. The hum became more of a buzz, his eyes were wide - there is no escape. A galloping heart plummeted. He tried screaming for his ally, but the words caught in the back of his throat. The crown ran further away, and it was out of grasp, and no matter how hard Ivar tried, he couldn't reach it. But he was numb, trapped within his own body as the world came crashing down. All he could see was the wings of the butterflies swallowing him. It started at his legs, his armor. Frozen with fear, Ivar watched helplessly as they tore through his clothing like it was nothing. Violent screams erupt past his lips infiltrating the air ripping through the roar and the fluttering wings. Flesh ripped from his body, and he tried moving, tried getting away, but nothing would happen.

This was the price for killing Lorenzo.

This was the price for shattering the promises he made to keep his allies alive.

This was the price for killing Chloriphina.

This was the price for volunteering.

Blinding lights flickered before his eyes while the angel of death pulled him to the other side, but he didn't want to go. For the longest time his eyes was on the prize, winning the game, coming out on top with the crown to show the world just how strong he was. The Hammerfell name had been tarnished, and Ivar wanted to restore the honor that had been lost showing the world his family was a force to reckon with. He sat the goal from the first time he remembered watching the games, and his entire life was spent chasing after it. But his dreams, his ambitions, his lifelong quest spiraled out of control.

With one last effort he lifted his head, trying to pull away, but his body was too weak, too frail. The tears had long disappeared, and the pain was slowly going away. The substance he guzzled earlier finally kicked in, knocking him away. The buzz was wonderful, but it wasn't enough. Spitting out clots of blood, Ivar turned his head. Dying alone was one of the worse fears he had, something he never imagined. The world was supposed to fear him, bow down to him, but it wasn't possible. "I'm.....sorry...." His voice was weak, and he spoke to no one in particular.

Inhaling as much as he could, the world slowly faded away.

I'm sorry, Curse, for being useless.

A shaky breath left his lungs.

I'm sorry, Zanita, that I couldn't save you.

His dying heart skipped a beat.

I'm sorry, Lorenzo, for denying you the right to bury your friend.

Darkness surrounded him slowly crawling across his skin as his dying screams went away.

I'm sorry for failing, Ubbe and Hvitserk.

And in that moment nothing mattered nothing remained. While his lungs expand pulling one last breath in, Ivar breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this was a good riddance because the world wasn't ready for the man Ivar Hammerfell was meant to be.

His last hope was that the butterflies feasting on him would leave with full bellies.

A cannon fired, and the lone Hammerfell failed.