birth of violence / day 4 — tw vs skiplaurel vs stone knight

Hugo laughs from the other end of the branch. Laughing now, he could never say Atticus properly, he's calling tick tock Tick, you'll never catch me.

There are no trees like this in Twelve. They grew up chasing each other through the Seam, through the bombed out maws of buildings, the dried up riverbank that snaked past the old mine. They would rip the boards off the entrance. Collect the nails. They would dare each other to keep going further down into the tunnels.

This time, do it without the lantern. This time, do it with your eyes closed.

You won't be able to know if I have my eyes closed.

I'll know.

No trees like this in Twelve.

But Hugo is laughing. He's about to dare them down further. He's about to catch Tick with his eyes open, he's about to catch him cheating at the game, but Tick is older so it won't matter. He's in charge. Even now. Even still, with their father's body still warm. Tick, you're in charge now. Tick, come chase me. Tick, close your eyes. Don't cheat.

He steps forward.

No more branch left. No trees like this in Twelve.

The fall jolts him awake. His head thunks against the floor of the hut. He groans.

His throat hurts. His chest hurts. The room spins.

It feels like he really did fall out of a tree, and like he hit every branch on the way down.

The sun is so bright where it cuts in through the roof. It's high already. So warm already. They must've slept so long, how is he still so tired. Every movement feels like hauling cement, like pushing the coal carts, there's so little in his bag and yet it feels so heavy.

When they're finally out of the trees, when the canopy breaks back into the sky and the undergrowth turns to sand, Tick drops all his shit and sits down.

Lu wanders further down the shore.

Tick yawns. He looks out onto the horizon. He has to press his fingers to his eyes, pushing into the stars. When he opens them, knuckles against his forehead, everything is blindingly white for a moment.

The water is so blue. The sand shifts over the tip of his boot.

It does take a moment. As he hesitates. As he blankly stares out at the island in the distance. At the lack of any visible tower waiting for them.

"I don't think this is the right way." He calls.

Except Lu is dragging one of the boats out, he's already ankle-deep into the water as he shoves at the prow with his one hand.

"Can you even swim?"

Redundant. Tick pushes himself up very slowly. He crosses the beach very slowly. He squints out at the island again. Then he picks up the oars and sighs.

The sun beats down on them. Out on the water, it's very warm, so as Lu leans over the edge to stare down into the depths, Tick breaks from rowing to push his sleeves up. It's very warm, so he bunches the fabric up near his elbows. That's when he sees it. On the forearm, like a streak of dirt. He wipes at it with a thumb. Doesn't come off. He digs at it with a nail. The boat bobs on the water.

Strange after all that rain last night. They were soaked through because of it. They stayed up in the trees, in the hut, away from the mud. His arms were covered.

There's a patch on the underside of his arm too, close to the elbow as he twists and turns. It's splotchier there, like a grey rash. Like the way people would blister back home. Like the way his hands had started to, on the soft parts of the palms.

It's just mud. He knows that. It's just. Why does it remind him of the way people got sick. The boils. It looked like their skin was being eaten away. Their father in his bed. The way Hugo couldn't look at him near the end, because of how nauseating the damage was.

Tick yanks his sleeves back down. Grips the oars again.

He's not panicking. He's not sick.

How did it start with his father. The flesh eating. The vomiting. Every time he touched his head, the hair came off in patches. And then the skin. The slough. Tiny tumours. Did they look like gravel. He can't remember.

Tick's not a hypochondriac. It's mud. He knows its mud. They were in a muddy place. The heat must've baked it onto him. When they get to the island, he'll wash it off. Easy. Fine

Lu rocks the boats when he stands. God. What now. Tick could maybe cry. Why is it always something.

And then Lu lunges. It makes a wave slap against the side of their hull. Tick yells. Until he sees the girl.

Always something. Lu reels back, shifting the boat again, he looks like he's about to start growling.

“Sorry!” Tick shouts over, discretely moving a hand from oar to sword. “He’s not house-trained.”

He waits in darkness.

For a long time now, it's all just been darkness.

The knight sits with his back to the wall, stone bench beneath him as cold and as unyielding as he is. He found this place early on, a chamber carved out of the rock below the castle, untouched by the slow reclaiming happening above. The path at the back of the cave leads to a staircase going up while the other direction leads to an iron gate. The gate opens to a stream that feeds into the waters of mermaid bay.

Once upon a time, it was a room to store wine, then after that, it became a place to store criminals.

Now it is his home.

The knight's thoughts drift as it sits in the tomblike silence, something akin to dreams filter slowly through it, like the trickle of a stream over stone, eroding the knight. Pieces of it are quietly scrubbed away, as new memories take shape, parasites under the skin.

Who was the knight?

And who is he now?

Ser Knight, can you hear me?

With the voice, strips of light set into the floor seemingly by magic, slowly brighten from nothing into a cold, white light that baths the uneven walls of the room. A panel on the wall begins to glow, little lights flashing like candles flickering behind a pane of glass. A sending stone shines dimly, its magic strong still from the age of the castle's power.

I bear news of the enemy.

Stone scrapes across stone as the knight stands, marble glinting dimly in the soft white light cast by the strange lamps.

They gather in the bay once again.

The knight turns towards the gate, the command laced into the scout's report successfully recorded. As it begins its march, the gate rises to allow for his exit before it is lowered once again behind him.

He sets out, following a path that runs alongside the stream. The sun beats down on the knight's helmet, warming the stone. There's the sound of birdsong, a breeze runs over the stream, tugging at the water, smoothing over the stone. The world that had been so quiet, so subdued all this time, seems to come alive when the knight is there in it.

He reaches the edge of the world but this does nothing to slow him, the knight continues on, feet slowly sinking into the sand as it marches into the surf.

The beach is silent once again.

Some time passes.

Far overhead, the surface of the water lies over the ocean like a blanket, smothering all sound and muting any sunlight that shines down. The knight moves slower here, hindered by the weight of the ocean. Still, it marches on, its sense of duty and its purpose propelling him onwards.

Finally, a shadow falls on the knight. It raises its head, intent on the boats bobbing on the waves above.

Then the knight raises its foot and goes still, as if it's waiting for something.

Slowly, a stone hexagon rises out of the sand to meet the knight's foot.

He puts his weight on it, and the next is already rising out of the sand to meet him as he steps forward. He moves faster, the stones do now too, as if predicting his movements as he climbs up and up, they fall away behind him, there is no turning back. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, he readies himself to draw it. The surface grows closer, the knight can see the grain in the wood of the boats, the knight is running now, it's brighter here, it's brighter in the sunlight-

The knight stops climbing, though it has yet to reach the surface.

Blood in the water.

Slowly, it begins to pace beneath the boats, the hexagons of stone rising and falling to meet him in a straight line as if they have been attuned to him. Perhaps the arena belongs to the knight just as deeply as he belongs to it.

He finally draws to a halt directly below the spot where the two boats meet, their hulls bumping softly against each other. The water here is murky, darkened and tainted by blood, choppy from the movement on the surface.

The knight draws its sword and drops into a crouch, unseen for now.

But not for long.

Lu's trying to get in her boat.

It makes Tick's heart jump for a second. Because in the very bright light, for a very split second, it looks like Florentine. Possibly the one person Tick doesn't want to run into in here.

Except the sun shifts. Except the glint off the water isn't so harsh. The features aren't quite right.

Girl from Seven. The one who was trying so hard to stand out.

Well.

She's certainly standing out now. As Lu tries to get in her boat, ("Where the hell are you going-"), aiming directly for her face.

Ok. He'll just. Hold the boat. Tick will watch their boat. Don't mind him. Lu will handle whatever's going on over there.

It's just that the struggle happening keeps making waves. The hulls of the boats are close enough to knock into each other. Tick has to keep grabbing the sides, has to keep pushing his feet apart just to keep the stupid little dingy steady. Lu jumps her again. Their boat rocks. Tick prays a little bit harder as they generate a wave that slaps him into a sway.

And, really, it's not just that.

If it was just that, he could handle. But It's also the fact that if Lu goes down too, that would actually be pretty inconvenient. It would be a little detrimental. So Tick ends up leaning across the gap, torso over the water, trying to keep both boats from capsizing.

How is he supposed to do this and hold the sword.

If Lu would be a little more considerate in his murder attempt. If he was just more efficient with it. How hard can killing someone possibly be. He could've just pushed her out. It doesn't need to be flashy.

"If you could be a little gentler." He hisses across. The dinghies, side by side, rock into each other again. That knife swings dangerously wide. "Hurry up."

The boats knock against each other above the knight as the tributes struggle on the surface, flopping around like dying fish. The water churns with their desperate folly, rains of red fall, clouding the water further, blooming like ink on paper only to disperse again.

The knight watches, still as stone on his perch despite all of this.

Then he spots it, the split-second designated for his entrance. He wastes no time, water above him eddying and swirling, pulling downwards with his sudden movement. The knight charges upwards, the stone hexagons rising to meet him, raising him up step by step until he breaches the surface in a spray of bloody salt water.

His sword swings up out of the water behind him as he brings it around in a wide arc. It refracts the sun, splitting radiant light across the bloodied faces of his enemies. He follows the momentum of the sword, stone body moving with it as if it is only an extension of his arm and not a tool that he merely wields.

As he turns, a booming echo fills the very air, but it does nothing to slow the knight. He knows the sound of canon fire too well.

And he recognises the three enemies in front of him. One lonesome, one lionheart, one coward.

It's the coward- the wizard- that the knight brings his blade down on first.