excelsior —「andal, 93rd.」
Feb 2, 2023 5:16:10 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 2, 2023 5:16:10 GMT -5
To say it was odd to be back on the train is, Andal concludes, a testament in and of itself.
The purring of the engine under his shoes seems to recognize him, picking up its feline growl as he enters his chambers, a boxy room of fresh linens and amenities, plus a bouquet from some sponsor he hardly recalls. He can smell the roses that have began to rot.
A special cabin, reserved for the newest victor.
He places his heavy coat gingerly on the sheets, almost afraid to ruffle them. If he does, it would mean all of this is real and he doesn’t know how to sit alone in a room with that knowledge yet. Hasn’t for months. His victory hour has been one dazzling night after the other, one bright dream after the next, but ever since he came home, he has hardly felt any semblance of a victor within, only a hollowed out boy with a house full of ghosts and wraiths to be exorcised. He remains jagged no matter how many times he puts the broken pieces together, wild despite the taut hold of leashes around his mouth.
His jaw sometimes hang open on its own accord, eager to bite down. Eager for a treacle of blood.
In the way the cracks in a mirror show even through plaster, he feels his posture stand taller and sharper like the length of a blade. He remembers how he sat in this train once, hunched and desperate to vanish from plain sight, but he takes up the place of every room he lies in now, weighing the air with his mere presence. Everyone looks at him nervously. They know. They know of how he has torn bodies apart and left massacres in his wake, entrails and gristle galore, and they fear about whether the monster hasn’t left or not.
He fears the same.
Every morning the wolf shows itself, within reflections of reflections and shadows of shadows, and he cannot help but wonder if it is simply bidding its time, prowling around for the grand reveal later. And it would surely choose a precious time for it, such as a family gathering or even, perhaps, as he met the new tributes now consigned to him. Elm and Autumn, both strong names, and now imagine them splattered all over the walls by the newest victor.
He balls his hands to fists.
That is, perhaps, what reminds him that he is a victor, that old and viscous fear, that act of dancing the razor-width edge between control and a lack of it.
He was no ordinary survivor, none of the other victors had the misfortune of having their sins incarnate tail after them upon winning, but he has survived and would do it all over again if he had to. No darkness or demon could take his unyielding spirit away from him. They had stolen his face, his control, and yet they had overlooked the will of a brawny boy from Ten, a hidden but powerful weapon. He has survived because the fire within him burned brighter than the fire around him.*
Andal draws on the black leather gloves over his dark-stained fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath in.
You sworn to do this. Every act of sin and sacrilege, substituted by an act of kindness and hope. He would start that with the two souls they have taken this year. Monster or not, they hadn’t stolen his heart yet and it beats a staccato to hope. To survival. Excelsior.
And somewhere, beyond the silver tinsel that is their train racing along the wilds of District Ten, he could almost hear what sounds like wolves echoing back that sentiment in return, in return, and in return.
The purring of the engine under his shoes seems to recognize him, picking up its feline growl as he enters his chambers, a boxy room of fresh linens and amenities, plus a bouquet from some sponsor he hardly recalls. He can smell the roses that have began to rot.
A special cabin, reserved for the newest victor.
He places his heavy coat gingerly on the sheets, almost afraid to ruffle them. If he does, it would mean all of this is real and he doesn’t know how to sit alone in a room with that knowledge yet. Hasn’t for months. His victory hour has been one dazzling night after the other, one bright dream after the next, but ever since he came home, he has hardly felt any semblance of a victor within, only a hollowed out boy with a house full of ghosts and wraiths to be exorcised. He remains jagged no matter how many times he puts the broken pieces together, wild despite the taut hold of leashes around his mouth.
His jaw sometimes hang open on its own accord, eager to bite down. Eager for a treacle of blood.
In the way the cracks in a mirror show even through plaster, he feels his posture stand taller and sharper like the length of a blade. He remembers how he sat in this train once, hunched and desperate to vanish from plain sight, but he takes up the place of every room he lies in now, weighing the air with his mere presence. Everyone looks at him nervously. They know. They know of how he has torn bodies apart and left massacres in his wake, entrails and gristle galore, and they fear about whether the monster hasn’t left or not.
He fears the same.
Every morning the wolf shows itself, within reflections of reflections and shadows of shadows, and he cannot help but wonder if it is simply bidding its time, prowling around for the grand reveal later. And it would surely choose a precious time for it, such as a family gathering or even, perhaps, as he met the new tributes now consigned to him. Elm and Autumn, both strong names, and now imagine them splattered all over the walls by the newest victor.
He balls his hands to fists.
That is, perhaps, what reminds him that he is a victor, that old and viscous fear, that act of dancing the razor-width edge between control and a lack of it.
He was no ordinary survivor, none of the other victors had the misfortune of having their sins incarnate tail after them upon winning, but he has survived and would do it all over again if he had to. No darkness or demon could take his unyielding spirit away from him. They had stolen his face, his control, and yet they had overlooked the will of a brawny boy from Ten, a hidden but powerful weapon. He has survived because the fire within him burned brighter than the fire around him.*
Andal draws on the black leather gloves over his dark-stained fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath in.
You sworn to do this. Every act of sin and sacrilege, substituted by an act of kindness and hope. He would start that with the two souls they have taken this year. Monster or not, they hadn’t stolen his heart yet and it beats a staccato to hope. To survival. Excelsior.
And somewhere, beyond the silver tinsel that is their train racing along the wilds of District Ten, he could almost hear what sounds like wolves echoing back that sentiment in return, in return, and in return.
* (quote from Fallout.)
