twin creatures — nico. & francis. Jun 8, 2019 15:07:49 GMT -5
Post by ɢʀɪғғɪɴ on Jun 8, 2019 15:07:49 GMT -5
that's my love
he hides away,
like a ghost.
that's my love
he hides away,
like a ghost.
There was an unbroken quietness in the museum’s air—forlorn and somber, like a swan song played in reverse, like a doleful eulogy repeated over and over.
Its walls hummed with a multitude of so many different pasts and were drenched with everything tributes went into the arena with: broken dreams, fear, dread and death. This was the Capitol’s cruel imitation of Death’s quiet kingdom, where lost souls slumbered, entrapped in colored wires and manmade machinery until a button was pushed. Even in death, they were restless.
Even in death, they were mere playthings,
coming alive at the flick of a switch as if they were the figural, clockwork ornaments of a musical box, spinning around when the lid is opened and a tune is play.
The cruelty and the barbarism of it all was outrageous, but expected of the Capitol. Tributes were a good commodity, whether they crawled out of the arenas, ragged and dehumanized, as victors, or graciously sent back home in a garlanded casket, cold and broken. Those who returned in the caskets were revived in this place, as lifeless, programmable minds, mere ghosts conjured by advanced technology.
Familiar sounds rang, such as the wet squish of Ansgar’s eye as Hyacinth’s knife dug into it, the fire crackling from Pillar Fray’s sword that had slain Bolts, mangled screams and cries, avalanches and deadly butterflies, the tear-stained eyes belonging to the Lowe sisters before their demises. There were familiar sights too, such as dark caverns and pools brimmed with molten gold, upside-down houses and lakes with fog instead of water. Down to the very last drop of sweat on the nape of Justice Fray’s neck, the Capitol had reconstructed. It was a special photo album dedicated to the dead, a documentary of massacres and betrayals, children dying over and over again; this was purgatory on earth.
Exhibited in museum’s wicked heart,
were the recent games in all its glory.
Sunflowers drifted in an ethereal wind, and grass swayed to the motions of a breeze that wasn’t there. The sun shone serenely over a dried-up lake bed, and the circus tent stood alone against it, its sun-bleached flaps tattered and still.
Nico Thorne pressed a button;
a stimulation came alive, beginning as a single ray of blue light that grew and grew until it made a boy's entire body, from the unkempt hair to the soft hands veined blue and green.
The boy had never thought of himself as beautiful—bodies were mere vessels that homeless faeries occupied for a short while, his mother had said once—but he was delicately put together, each feature on his face there to compliment the adjacent ones. He was a soft creature, interwoven with flowers and bones, beautiful and not belonging to this world. There was a faraway kingdom, mossed and draped in wild florae, made specifically for him to reign in.
His eyes, though, were cold, the light that once encircled the irises nowhere to be found.
“Nico Thorne, victor of the eighty-first hunger games,” He said rather curtly, with vocal chords that were only beginning to coalesce and twine themselves altogether. Cornflowers lined his loose shirt and piled around his bare feet were the sunflowers he so dearly loved, bright and vibrant. More flowers fell delicately around him, a floral rain of hyacinths, cornflowers, marigolds. There was a hint of the blow that sent him to the grave on his scalp, but the thick heap of brown hair hid most of its gruesomeness.
He stood in front of Nico, caramel eyes leveled with his gaze, a ghost from the boy’s past. The moment everything in the system clicked into their rightful places, the edges of Francis’ thin mouth rose into a lopsided grin, mirroring the one that had plastered his face countless times, the one that he’d given at Nico during every second they shared together.
“You did it,” Francisco smiled,
his words as gentle as fresh rain.
“You won.” Slowly, he paced around Nico, committing all of him back into memory, the scars and the severed parts, the eyes and the muscles. He was Francisco Bloom’s very own Nico, and even though he was more broken than Francis would wish him to be, he was alive, a corporeal being that wasn’t produced from ceaseless light reflections. All the wish-bones he’d broken had been for Nico Thorne all along, it seemed, because his wish came true.
Francis’ hands rose to take his, or at least tried to; his light form phased through the other’s flesh, like air. Disappointment flashed across his face, but was concealed quickly, and expertly.
“I said once that we were pressed flowers, that death could never touch us,” he gazed at him for a few, quietly-mirthful seconds before inching closer to press his forehead against Nico’s, the heat and the feel of the other’s skin almost palpable. If he was actually here, he would reach out to kiss him – but a minuscule part of Francis is aware of the limitations of this spectral state.
Francisco was not here,
only his memories were.
In that moment, with their eyes interlocked, Francis’ eyes grazed upon a hint of sadness in Nico’s. He’d seen him saddened before—such as when Jessica was struck down—but not like this.
The sadness was like a deep-rooted malady, eating him from the inside, and the crown of stolen bones he was given to wear was weighing him down. Francis breathed out, shakily. “Don’t worry, Nico, I am not dead—just scattered into tiny, insubstantial pieces, drifting around like a salt-filled breeze on the sea,” he said, making a small hand gesture to caress an imaginary sea. “So don’t mourn me. You lived for me in the arena,” eyes whirled back onto the other, gentle yet filled with tacit pleas.
“Now, you have start living for yourself.”
lyrics : syml — where's my love
words : 1000
words : 1000