The Bloodbath
Sept 22, 2012 12:21:01 GMT -5
Post by Lulu on Sept 22, 2012 12:21:01 GMT -5
[children wake up
hold your mistake up
before they turn the summer into dust]
You were seven years old, shakily holding a sword for the first time. Nero had started you boys's training earlier than this, yes, but up until that point you had only used small daggers, and very carefully, at that—this massive blade of purest, sharpest steel was something unparalleled by anything else. Scorpius had already taken his weapon and started hacking at a tree in excitement, nearly slicing off his arm in the process, but you weren't quite as overzealous: instead you held it by the hilt in your hand, staring at it in awe as if you couldn't believe you were holding it. It was beautiful, powerful, everything he'd been told weapons were supposed to be; it hadn't yet occurred to you how much tragedy it could reap.
As he was led into the depths of the stockyard beneath the arena he would soon emerge into, Atlas never once let go of the piece of folded, old looseleaf that he'd been keeping in his pocket. On it was one of the first stories he'd written down on paper in his untidy, kindergarten-esque scrawl, his very favorite, one he contrived while staring up at the night sky on a cool autumn night. It told the story of a young hunter of the stars, one who often went unnoticed, who spent his life trying his hardest to live up to the expectations of his father, the Great Hunter. He tried and tried, and for a while he truly believed that he liked doing what he did; until finally one day he spoke with an older, wiser hunter and made the decision to leave and never come back. This was why his constellation was absent from the night sky.
Atlas believed that hunter was happier, wherever he'd gone, away from the shadow of his father. He hoped he himself would be happy as well, wherever he went after he died in these Games. In truth—though he'd never admit it to anyone—he hoped he'd become a star, destined to wordlessly watch over everyone below for eternity. It seemed an important job, one he'd like to have; and best of all, he'd be where he always felt most comfortable. The massive crowds and cheering people he'd ceaselessly been around for the past week had only better reiterated his wish. And no matter what, he would not lose sight of that. He would not allow himself to harbor the destructive desire to win.
But he had a duty, Atlas Cornell. A duty to live out the last week or so of his life to the best of his ability, and a duty to preserve the lives of his allies, who were all so much stronger than he would ever be. They each deserved a crown, every one of them; and though he couldn't in any way ensure it for all three, he would be able to at least ensure it for one of them. He would hack down the competition with all the force and strength he'd been taught throughout his life, then finally, when the time came, make way for a more worthy winner. It was his duty. It was his purpose. And in the end, he would get what he wanted most as well; a place among the twinkling lights of midnight.
You were ten years old and Nero sat you and Scorpius down to give you your first real talk about what it was like to be in the Hunger Games. "It's a brutal world in there. You trust no one. You rely only on yourself. You remember what I've taught you and will teach you, throughout the entire competition. And you win," he finished fiercely, his eyes narrowing. You could see the gleam of anticipation in Scorpius's determined gaze, and found yourself wishing you felt the same enthusiasm. In truth, though, you were still ten years old, and you couldn't seem to fathom why you were supposed to want to participate in such a bloodbath. Why did so many people vie for a chance? Why did your father want you to?
The Career hardly exchanged a word with Cream as they shared a final meal. Shortly after, the stylist helped him don the designated tribute uniform; he'd hardly believed his eyes when he first saw it. "No," he refused quickly. "No, I won't wear that. I can't wear that." It was the most horrific thing he'd ever seen: a toga. A real toga, the kind he only knew about from his father's teachings of the ancient Romans and their superior fighting skills. Basically, it was nothing but a glorified bedsheet. How in Ripred's name was he supposed to fight in this? It would fall down, and he'd be stark naked for all of Panem to see. Look on the bright side—at least everyone else will look just as stupid as you. "Tough luck, dear, you don't have much of a choice," Cream responded, at least somewhat sympathetically. "Now here, just put it on; you've only got a few minutes left."
Into the tube he went, onto his metal plate. It was almost surreal to be in that position after years and years of watching tributes in the same place on television. But he forced himself to concentrate, block everything else out with deadly focus. This was it. It was time. As the obvious Career pack, he and his alliance would run straight for the Cornucopia, grab the weapons that would be their saving grace, and then pick the others off one by one. Atlas had never killed a person before, and part of him wondered what it would be like. But the other part knew that he'd do it, when the time came: alongside determined Kiera, powerful Peridot, and lethal Wednesdae. They were strong. They were at the top, and nothing would bring them down.
Emerging into the light of the arena, the first thing Atlas noticed was that the shining Cornucopia was no longer... well, a Cornucopia. He'd grown so accustomed to seeing the tall, proud golden horn standing guard in the center of the arena, but apparently this was no longer. Instead it was a polished, floating white marble pillared structure that looked oddly like a mausoleum. He'd seen a few of those in some of the District's graveyards; they were saved for the finest of Two's citizens, made from precious marble or limestone and erected to honor the dead. But why would we be honoring the dead when we're the ones killing them?
And most oddly, it was floating. Floating in the center of an ominous looking river, the shores of which the metal plates of the tributes lined as they waited for the countdown to culminate. Atlas forced himself to focus only on the structure in front of him, the bounty spilling from its mouth, though he itched to observe the rest of the arena: this was more important. There would be plenty of time for sightseeing later, once he and his alliance had proved their strength in the Bloodbath. His vision zeroed in on a sparkling shortsword propped right in the center of the building of death: that was his. He wanted it. Shortswords were his favorite, because it allowed the finesse of sword fighting combined with the brute strength of hand-to-hand. It was meant to be his, in his hand. In just a few seconds, it would be.
Three. Two. One.
Zero.
Zero.
[if the children don't grow up
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up
we're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rush]
[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify][/center]our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up
we're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rush]