distant dreamer ♔ [ ss, day four ]

I am only fifteen.

Yet, there is something that has made me age beyond my years. There is a grace within me that makes me feel older; the unkind words of the world have kicked me to the ground and made me taste the dirt. I have seen friends suffer a fate worse than any nightmare, an ache in their heart that cannot be patched up with my own love, neither a needle nor thread.

Another light of life has been sent on. A candle that has burnt out and been unable to withstand the test of time. Berlin did not deserve to die, not even when he wanted it, not even when he was at his weakest and was begging for it—that was a broken heart doing the talking. I have seen it with my father and I have seen it with Berlin: it twists your mind and morphs it into something it shouldn't be. It makes you take your only freedom at the expense of time, it will make you take bravery over emotion and the taste of blood on your tongue over a tear rolling down your cheek.

I do not see weakness in the same way that everyone else does. A tear shed is nothing to be afraid of, rather it shows the world the type of person you are, have been and will be. It shows integrity, character, an essence of the person you made yourself become even though the world warned you of the consequences. I see a tear and think of the moments it holds: bitterness, a release, regret, prayers and feelings too raw to put into words. Perhaps a tear will turn you from a man to a mouse in the eyes of the rest, but to me, there are some mice who can roar just as loud as lions.

So when I think of Zion and Berlin in the skies overhead, I cry. I do not isolate myself from the only person I have because I have nothing to be ashamed of. I can still hear the ringing of both cannons in my ear as dusk turns to dawn, and it is still a sad sound. To hear dreams go up in smoke is something I do not think I will ever forget—if I live long enough to be given the chance to remember.

I count the past days on my fingers: one for the bloodbath, one for Zion, one for Berlin, and one for togetherness. Hisidro is all that I have now, and my heart beats to a sound of silence because I am quickly realising that there is no one to save me when I next cry a tidal wave, when it threatens to drown me. I glance over to him: he's pristine, he seems so strong, but I know that in must be all in my head. A facade for the cameras, to prove something to someone who might be watching—everyone deals with grief in their own way. Even if it isn't the grief he is dealing with, to watch your own district partner look at you with soulless eyes, completely bleak and black like they are the embodiment of the space between stars—I am sure that is also something that takes time to process.

The sun breaks over the horizon, the rays rolling across the land like a tear to a cheek. The horses stare out into the light and breathe in the warmth, but I feel a cold that is becoming far too familiar. "Just the two of us," I say, knees tucked into my chest as I watch the sun like it is a spirit in the sky. "I can't believe it is just the two of us." I shake my head slowly.

I start staring at the small glass of flowers that rolled from Zion's corpse the moments after he ascended. They look wilted, browning at the edges, as if they, too, are dying. But I know that I can let the last memory of someone's friend, someone's family, someone's love die so simply. If I do not do anything, it is like I do not care, it is like his life did not matter at all. I am not that type of person, I am not a destructive person. I take the flowers from the glass and roll the glass away, taking my journal from my bag. I open it to a blank page, one near the back, somewhere that they can stay in all their glory. My fingers move to arrange them neatly, moving the petals against the blank white to create a serene composition, before I close the book and press them into the page.

Preservation—and what I allow is what will continue.

A deep breath delivers me back to the moment with Hisidro. I throw my things back into my bag and stand up, stretching my legs out so that we can be ready to ride when the time is right. "I wonder what people in Four, and back in Seven, think of us." It does not look good that we have let both our friends die so easily, and if they think bad of us, I'd let them know that it wasn't through lack of trying. We tried, we both tried so hard; the world works in harmful ways, it puts a life on the line and expects the same in return. I offered my love and it could only do so much—but still, I know that it has a place here. "I hope they know that we tried." My voice cracks. "We—we should probably get going."

I head over to our horses and clamber onto mine. The horse was serving me as well as any domesticated wild animal could; a noble steed that would ride into battle with their mane blowing in the wind behind. The only difference between me and the characters in childhood stories is that I am not an armour-clad knight, I am the opposite. Longing for the jewels in my family crown, a princess to the people who are silenced by strangers, a champion for the people who, simply, can't. This does not stop me from riding with the same prose, with the same strength and purpose as any knight, though.

Fifteen and fearful, but faithful too. I know my cause just as well as I know my heart.

As we ride alongside each other, we wind up back to the grass which took Zion. "Wait." The ground looks the same, the air feels different, but I must face my fears in the same way Berlin did. I take a breath, slide off the side of the horse and stand on the ground. I have tasted this dirt, it has made me cry but it kept me human. I hold the reigns of the horse and lead it forward, squinting to eye a fire in the distance that seems surrounded by low shadows. "What is that?" Curiosity in my throat like it is stuck and has wormed its way out.

I edge closer, making out the shadows as guitars and hay bales. Between the bales, there is movement, activity, but no bloodshed. I watch from a distance, and it's people, it is definitely people, but they do not look to be the same type of people that we have seen in the arena before. No weapons, no words of war, no anger or agony, just peacefulness. Serenity, the same serenity I tried to recreate with Zion's flowers.

Serenity is not often found in an arena created for warfare. But where there is song, there is stillness. My heart draws me towards the guitars and I think that I want one, I do, I want one. "I want one of those guitars."

I am cautious. Peace can only last so long, and when it is forced, there is room for people to question it, to throw it up in the air and turn it into a storm. I do not want to get caught in any thunder, not when I have already cried enough rain to see my own reflection.

I'm only fifteen, and to know peace, I know that I have had to live through war. I figure that is what has aged me not only beyond my years, but beyond my tears too.