{Into The Light* [Navy/Theo]

I never knew how much a number could define you. All my life I’ve been told “Don’t be a statistic; you are you.” But for the past week I’ve not been myself. Always, in the back of my mind, I’ve heard Caesar’s voice: ”Not many people get a two, you know. Even the crippled boy got a higher score than you! That must feel strange.” You have no idea, Caesar.

[/color] I don’t need to be in the Capitol to know that people are betting against me – little lad[/color] – and gathering up their claims right now as I lay dying. They don’t care, none of them do. I should be used to that.[/color] How many people are laughing at me now? How many are shaking their heads, saying that they knew I’d be down within the first ten minutes? Was there anyone that even believed in me?[/color]

I look up through a hazy gaze at Navy. She’s torn up; sobbing, holding me, and even beginning to stammer a song. I don’t know the words but I cling to each and every one of them, refusing to let a single one slip my grasp. Never in my entire opera career have I seen Navy so broken like this – is this all for me?[/color] Does she believe that I’m more than just a number? More than just that two? My head unconsciously turns toward the gentle strokings, finding comfort in them. Even though I’m dying, in this moment I feel the warmth of being treasured, like my life means something.[/color] Navy doesn’t want me to die, she wants me to live so I can stay with her. I want to stay with you too.[/color] My hand, sticky and red with my own blood, tries to lift itself up to hold onto Navy’s hand but I don’t have the strength. It’s so hard to breathe and I feel like I’m choking but I have to hold on. Just a little bit longer.

Suicide had always been lingering in the back of my head as a final escape route to this life. I never could bring myself to do it, though; that’s why I resorted to burning. Cod’s the only one that knows about it but it took him quite a while before he found out – all it took was my forgetfulness in covering up the grotesque scars. He happened to spot a more recent one, the tender and raw flesh, burned edges, and just the awful red coloring. Cod didn’t scold me for it, which surprised me – instead, he told me one of his secrets. Ever since then I’ve trusted Cod so much more but never to the point of telling him about my suicidal thoughts. That, for sure, would set him off.[/color] He’d ask me why and I’d say it’s because I didn’t feel loved. Wanted. Needed. ”But Theo, we all love you. Tempus wouldn’t be the same without you.” I guess it’s because I’ve never had anything to compare life at Tempus to. My parents’ home was nothing but yelling and anger; out on the streets I was just invisible; but at Tempus, I was loved.[/color] No one beat me, scolded me, forced me into anything. They were all happy and cheerful and accepting…. wonderful in every way. They treated me as an equal, not the mistake I always believed I was, and they never degraded me. My opinion did matter in discussions, my space was my own, I had possessions of my own, I was subordinate to people who didn’t abuse me. So that’s what it’s like to be loved.[/color] Everyone at Tempus cared, they all did.

”I do love you, Theseus.”

My mouth tries to form those words but I can hardly speak – just mumbled words mixed with a small gurgling noise. I look up at her, seeing the pain in her eyes. Don’t cry, Navy. Not over me.[/color] She still has a chance to make it through this, but just without me. I can’t go on anymore but I don’t want to leave Navy here alone.[/color] Both Guy and Mason are dead, and with me quickly going to join them, she’ll be left to face the rest of the tributes without the comfort of a friend beside her. I want to stay with her, fight alongside her, protect her as best I can; she shouldn’t have to face this alone. Navy’s done absolutely nothing wrong to deserve being in this hell all by herself.

She begins to sing; distorted and jagged words cutting through sobs, yet I cling to them all the same. They remind me of home – Tempus.[/color] – when we’re learning to string together all the chords and parts of a new song. Everything sounds so broken and misplaced at first, but as time progresses it all fits together into a beautiful piece. Quite honestly, though the song she’s singing has no rhythm or tempo, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.[/color] I do everything I can to focus on those words, going so far as to mouth them back to her once I’ve heard them. It forces me to control my breathing, and doing such a familiar act, singing, calms me. It transports me back to home, right up on that stage where so many tears, fights, and blood have happened. We were just a bunch of misfits trying to fit in.[/color]

She lightly pulls the piece of curtain from my weak grasp, pausing just for a moment before leaning down to put her forehead against my own. The warmth and tenderness of the skin-on-skin contact is such a drastic change from what happened fifteen or so minutes earlier. She means to comfort me, not hurt me. I want to stay with you, Navy.[/color] If only I could have lasted longer, dodged quicker and struck faster; I wouldn’t be here now, Navy wouldn’t be crying, Guy and Mason would still be alive. Things would be better.[/color]

I close my eyes and just try to memorize the feeling of her against me, along with all the warmth the gesture has. My breathing becomes more of a gasping wheeze as more blood starts to fill my throat, and a small, weak squeak escapes me as my air supply is suddenly cut off, a pressure being put on my lips. I open my eyes to see Navy’s face right against my own – a kiss.[/color] This one isn’t staged, though; I’ve only ever experienced kisses that were written in scripts, expressing either deep passionate love, lust, or even anger. Is she mad at me?[/color] The tenderness of the action doesn’t lead me to believe that she’s angry – those kisses were saved for more violent plays[/color] – and frankly I’m not someone to lust over, so does she really love me? Does she love me?[/color] Navy pulls away, leaving me gasping more weakly.

”Close your eyes for me Theseus.”

Her glistening green eyes look down at me, holding so much emotion behind them. She shouldn’t be here.[/color] There isn’t anything I can do to help her, though; I’m dying. She knows it, I know it, and everyone else knows it. There’s no way anyone could survive a severed arm and a stab to the neck like what has happened to me. I don’t want that to happen to you, Navy.[/color] Navy is so kind to everyone – why is she even here? It shouldn’t have been her name to be drawn.

I do as she says, though, and close my eyes. The darkness encloses me like a sweet escape from all the harsh reality we’re in. I no longer see blood, or severed limbs, or dead bodies. In the darkness I find peace and solace, and for a moment I think things will be okay.

”Dream of me with you.”

My eyes flicker open as I feel her moving beneath my head. Navy?[/color] She sets my head down in the water and stands, escaping without looking back.

And now I’m alone.[/color]

It’s a terrifying feeling but I know she has to leave – if she doesn’t then she’ll be killed, too. I watch her retreating form, trying to make a good spin on this situation. While I lay dying, Navy is escaping; she’s going to live to see another day and I won’t hinder her any.

A sudden harsh cough rips from my throat and I turn my head sideways so I won’t choke on the blood, and in the water I see tendrils of red reaching and drifting downstream. I really am dying.[/color] I close my eyes once again, listening to Navy’s words echo through my head once again. ”Dream of me with you. Dream of me with you. Dream of me with you.”

I see her face – those lovely green eyes and her soft smile. Nothing weighing her down. She’s as free as a bird.[/color] She spreads her arms out wide and tips her head back, eyes closing and a smile softening her features. Navy stands tall at the edge of the field, the gentle breeze making the tall stalks of grass around her swish and dance like there is wind beneath her wings. ”Fly!”[/color] I catch the subtle hint for me to stick out my arms so I do so, straightening them and flattening my hands to resemble wings. A cold breeze kicks up and the tall grass suddenly ducks and sways all around me – am I flying?[/color] I lean forward and even move my arms like a bird’s wing as the wind goes by, a smile coming to my face. I’m flying![/color] A smile comes to my face and I look over at Navy, who is watching me.

”Let’s fly home, Theseus. The sun is setting.”[/color]

She starts running; the grass moves all around her, swishing back and forth in her wake. The wind beneath her wings.[/color] She doesn’t look back, but she has no reason to – for I take off right behind her, my arms stretched out to carry me away. I’ll follow her all the way home.[/color] The grass grabs at my clothes and legs but it’s not enough to hold me back; like a bird with a tailwind, I chase after Navy through the tall stalks, leaving a smaller wake. We’re free like all the other birds.[/color] I have no trouble keeping up with her even though her stride is much longer, and together we run – no, fly[/color] – to the place we both call home.







The elderly man let out a heavy sigh, setting the pen down on his desk. This particular play hadn’t taken him as long as all the others, and because of that he had the sneaking, gnawing feeling that he hadn’t done the script justice. It was much shorter than the stacks of thick scripts that were piled high on tables and shelves all around the small, dimly lit room, but for some reason he just felt a particular fondness over this small, spur-of-the-moment play.

He closed up the script, fingers brushing across the title. The Cowardly Little Lion. It seemed fitting, seeing at the main character never did have a chance to find their courage. He could only hope though that other people wouldn’t find the title mocking.

The door behind him opened and in came a younger man, who stopped in the doorway with his hand resting on the knob. He held a sort of disappointed look on his face as he watched the elder man at the desk looked somewhat mournfully at the thin script, knowing full well that no time had been spent on the play at hand. ”Sir?”

The bearded man looked up, having the same sad look in his wise brown eyes that he always had when he wrote the last line of a play; this time, however, he seemed a bit more distraught.

”You realize we have a show tonight, yes?” The younger man tried to keep out any scolding tone in his voice. The man seated before him was brilliant at wordplay and making the audience believe extraordinary things but lately his priorities had been a bit out of order. ”We need you upstairs to help us, not write that short silly old play you have been working on.”

Once again the grizzled man sighed. He hadn’t meant to suddenly abandon the cast members and directors, but when the idea for Little Lion (as he had come to nickname it) struck him all he wanted to do was put the thoughts down on paper. It certainly wasn’t his best, there was no doubt about it; he had been told countless times that the plotline would fail to bring in money and he knew that was true, but something still drew him to the little story. Pity, that was it. He held pity in his heart for the boy that hadn’t had a chance to live, was cut down before he realized how much only a select few people cared about him. He hadn’t the courage yet to make it through and discover his true potential and that’s what made him cowardly.

”Right, come along then.” The younger man’s voice was impatient, hustling the older man along. The playwright slowly stood up, old and weak limbs struggling to keep him from falling back down. A withered hand reached out and grabbed a wooden cane which he leaned heavily upon, hobbling over to the door. The younger man held the door open, muttering as he slowly inched by. ”No one is going to want to see that play anyway. The main character is not a hero and it does not fit into a regular tragedy category.”

”I know.” The old playwright paused in the doorway and glanced at the younger man. ”It’s a new kind of tragedy.” He turned his head to the candle holder on the wall and blew out the small flame.




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