Never Lets In the Sun // [Tsara's Last]

d10f ekta ram // [earthling]
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cameron stood in line for an hour for a stupid ride for me <3 best <3

Never Lets In the Sun // [Tsara's Last] Nov 4, 2021 13:49:20 GMT -5

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Post by d10f ekta ram // [earthling] on Nov 4, 2021 13:49:20 GMT -5

t s a r a .

"do you remember
how we lit up the room?
And how you felt before
you met all my different moods?"

The moment Bastian Fray's blade sunk into her chest, Tsara knew it was over. Her heart raced, frantic, pumping blood and hormones and adrenaline as fast as it could. It poured out of her. Her yellow raincoat turned a sickly orange as she stumbled, falling onto her scrawny ass.

Propped up by her backpack, Tsara coughed.

She felt sure hands on elbows. Nixie guided her arms, wrapping them tightly around her ribcage. A little pool of blood welled along her sternum. She stared at it for a moment, the low hum of voices buzzing. Tsara turned her head and coughed up something veiny.

And suddenly she felt okay.

More than okay. Good. Peaceful. She cleared her throat. "How am I looking now, Whiskey?" She smiled fleetingly. A few tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. "S-Sinead? I saw you talking to Arthur's ally yesterday. Is he - is he cool?"

table: elegant
lyrics: shakira "don't wait up"
title: billy joel "only the good die young"

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come snuggle bro

Never Lets In the Sun // [Tsara's Last] Nov 4, 2021 20:28:55 GMT -5

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Post by bailee on Nov 4, 2021 20:28:55 GMT -5

It never occurred to Sinead how tiny Tsara was until her small frame curled up into Nixie's arms, as she bled out onto the rusted ground of the dunes. She was so pale, so young, and here she watched her first ally of the Games as she took her final breaths at the hands of Bastian Fray's sword. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she choked back the sob that tore at the back of her throat.

That could've been me, she thought as she bit her lip, trying to contain the precursor of emotions that swirled through her body. Suddenly she was reminded of the fangs of the pitfall lizard that bore into her calf, her own blood pooling into the sand, creating a sinister mirage of blood amongst the reflection of the burning red sun.

Tsara looked at peace, not at all scared. Sinead thought that maybe death made you stronger - because her bones trembled, especially at the thought that Bastian Fray was still out there, lingering and bloodthirsty. Sure, she had killed two mutts, but Fray was capable of killing more than that - he took down a thirteen year old girl and looked nothing but smug after.

Sinead chuckled in between tears. "He's nice," she told her, her words choppy in between her choked up tears, "Arthur's in good hands, Tsar."

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Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

Never Lets In the Sun // [Tsara's Last] Nov 6, 2021 15:32:24 GMT -5

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Post by pogue on Nov 6, 2021 15:32:24 GMT -5

W I Z

Grin versus grimace, Nylon Gingham is on top of him with steel pressed to the soft neck of his flesh when the cannon rings out above them. It cuts through the air in blood and fear alike, striking quick like lightning and echoing across the sky like thunder and Whiskey's breath catches in his throat, fingers carving into the dirt as the brief moment of silence slips between Nylon and himself.

And then, she giggles.

"So, you think it was one of mine or one of yours?"

Fuck you, the words dance on the edge of his tongue, mixing with blood and spit before they bleed into nothing but poison.

Sinead is standing shocked and Nixie is rushing over and Bastian Fray is ripping steel from skin and Tsara's falling, crimson flowers blossoming from her chest.

And he's sat in the dirt, hollow and hurting and everything in between.

Nylon chuckles and Whiskey's foot finds a home in her chest, throwing her off of him before he's scrambling to his feet and stumbling towards his allies, all creaking bones and snapping heartstrings and aching heart.

"Told you he was the one you had to worry about." Nylon calls after him, lust and laughter staining the words. They cut into his form like knife, finding bloody refuge in the pit of a heart he thought was too empty to feel anymore.

Her fate is already sealed by the time he reaches his allies, signed in the red ink that drips from the wound in Tsara's chest. His heart catches in his own throat, sharpened claws raking against his own lungs as it feels like the breath he tries to gasp in contains nothing but sulfur and rot, burning his core from the inside out and causing his hands to shake so violently, persistent no matter how tight he still clutches his spear.

First his eyes dart to Nixie-

the words I told you to keep him at bay dance on his tongue.

Then, to Sinead

Why weren't you watching her back?

Then, to his own reflection, stained with the red of Nixie's blade.

He doesn't have anything he could say to himself.

It's anger that he wants to feel seep into his veins, selfishly longing for what he's spent eighteen years growing familiar, growing fond of. And he waits, in between hammering heartbeats for that very feeling to approach and drown him all in one movement, for it to wrap beneath his skin and poison every vein and burn every emotion until-

- until all he can see is nothing but red, because then he wouldn't be able to see the blood that drips from the child in front of him.

It never comes, though he waits and waits for an eternity and a half he finds no comfort in the feeling of his own rage. Sorrow steps into his heart in its absence, and he watches as the world goes blue and Tsara's eyes glance towards him and the red burns even brighter.

He see's all of his siblings and more as he looks at Tsara Fer, made-up handshakes and piggyback rides and meaningless fistfights and swiped away tears. A blink, and he sees those same memories wilt and wither, dead and buried at the bottom of a bottle and laced into every venomous string of the Finch cycle.

"How am I looking now, Whiskey?"

His own words dissolve in his throat. Like a kid, his instincts want him to say, but the statement feels so empty and so wrong and so wretched and so...true. Too true.

"Brave." He finally stammers out, blood and grit falling absently from his lips. "You look brave, Fer."

The words feel blurry, foreign, walking the line between truth and fiction and Whiskey nearly chokes on them, tears welling up at the edges of his eyes and he swipes them away furiously against his forearm, teeth pressed into one another until his jaw feels like it will shatter into the pressure.

How ironic, that a boy who has always had too many things to say and too little to gain from them is so unsure of his final words to a dying girl.

He watches her fade, too afraid to look at his own reflection in Nixie's blade, too afraid of what his own instincts might say to him.

Last Edit: Nov 6, 2021 15:32:59 GMT -5 by pogue