It's the Price You Pay - 63rd Finale

A bitter winter was upon them; it scratched at their doors with layers of frost and breathed its cloudy mist upon the twin flames that had yet to discover their light. Their father was locked away in his study, absorbed in his research while his assistant lingered in the shadows with sunken cheeks and weary eyes. The only light present was that of his desk lamp casting a fluorescent glow across a room abundant in bookshelves and scattered papers, and the dim illumination of a fire brewing in the living room in a place that had once been abandoned until this treacherous winter inflicted its icy wrath. It was this faint, orange aura that drew little Pyrian Keeni out of the comforts of his blanket cocoon and into the lonesome atmosphere of their living room.

The room was barren and bathed in the pools of sunset colors, only further sparking the dormant curiosity of a boy anchored to silence by his disability. Relying upon eyesight alone guided him to strange, unspeakable places of awe and danger, or in this case to a fireplace that had long been neglected in its dusty corner until he fixed his jaded eyes on the warmth that kindled in its belly. He didn’t know what to make of the bright, flickering lights; the fuzz in his developing brain registered it as familiar, or something that should not be so foreign to him, but it was new and intriguing nonetheless. The tendrils of unadulterated heat were fierce in their dances, but seemed to wave back and forth like appendages as the little boy approached the flames on short, stubby legs. He recognized basic movements, like the waving of the finger implying “No, don’t do that,” and the spasm of the chest associated with laughter and joy. A wave was a gesture of greeting or of departure, and it seemed the flames were waving to him and beckoning him over to their sanctuary. Nobody ever waved to the deaf kid; dad would always make wild gestures or scorn him instead, wishing he could communicate with his accident son or at least teach the boy how to read and write. Pyrian couldn’t even talk to his own sister; it was the early years, the silent years, the lonely years.

That was when he sought friendship in the flames.

They asked nothing of him but his undivided attention. As he sat in front of them, curled with his knees to his chest, they danced and waved and entertained him in the eerie silence until his eyelids grew heavy and his bones turned to stone. He slept until the light faded and woke to see his friend missing, but not perished. You can’t kill fire, after all. It always finds its way back. It was then that he searched desperately for any flame - in drawers for matches, in his father’s study for a lighter, even in the woods where a few stones and the proper force could summon an infant flame. He fell in love with the element shortly after the obsession consumed his once timid spirit. It invigorated him with fire in his bones and ash in his blood, and not soon after were the spirals of flame born and seared into his dark eyes like a storm that never ceased.

Twin flames in our hearts
As we turn towards our very start
Twin flames in our minds
When we move emotions multiply

But now those flames were extinguished, and who what remained was a hollow shell trapped within death’s vice and waiting to be crushed like an insignificant bug.

Terror, agony, blood, fire - with a final slash of his sword grazing the flesh of his enemy, he waited for Hell to claim him as its prisoner. He waited in a state of lethargy for the melting flesh to subside, for the burning trees to fade to darkness, for his life to reach its end. He had already submitted himself and his fire, but death refused to grant mercy on his soul and continued to let him rot in the open where the cameras were surely capturing every moment of his misery. He quickly looked to the only person he could rely on for guidance, the girl who had always proven herself bolder and stronger than him in the battlefield, but watched as a severed piece of her touched the ground at her feet, spurting ample amounts of her precious blood. Despite her protests against life, desire of submission, and acceptance of inevitable death he felt the sheer panic rise to a boil in his chest at the sight of his twin sister breaking - literally - into fragments. Death continued to torment them like playthings in a sadistic game (that’s what this is, though. A game for the sick, capital freaks), and Pyrian failed to comprehend what they had done to deserve such a slow, agonizing end. He was forced to helplessly watch his sister topple to the ground with three flailing limbs, while River - still a beloved ally, despite her vicious advances toward his sister - charged for another attack, the final blow. Through the torrent he managed to find her farewell; ”I love you, Py.” It was not the first time her hands would share her thoughts to his silent world, but it would be the last.

The tense muscles in his fingers melted to jelly as every unscathed fiber of his being begged him to rush to his sister’s rescue. The resistance gathered itself into an unstable ball of will-power that commanded his hands to release and his eyes to avert, but he was still grasping by a thread, still garnering false hope when the outcome of his sister’s fate was clear. It was not until he spotted the blur of Cricket’s acrobatic typhoon of limbs in his peripheral vision that he realized it was far too late to attempt any alternatives; his remaining choices were to die peacefully, or die with a bloodied sword in his hands. Feeling his fingers tremble, he dropped his weapon into the dirt and surrendered. ”I love you too,” signed his blood-crusted fingers, before his arms fell to his sides and his eyelids squeezed themselves shut at the sight of his slayer and the prospect of his own death. He was weakened and he was terrified, but that was natural, right? Nobody could bravely accept their own death, not without the twinge of cold fear or a flash of guilt to remind them of their wrongdoings and what they would have to pay for forgiveness once their bodies were buried in soil. Not even he could deny that his previous acts of ‘righteousness’ in the word of revenge were worthy of lurking guilt, but it was too late to forgive and forget. He would die with his sins and they would follow him to his grave and beyond - if there is a beyond.

His heart swelled with fear and deflated when the blood gushed from his wound. He never expected the sharp pain of a simple knife between the ribs to compare to the scorched, black mesh of molten flesh on his back, but the silver sinking into his chest carried with it a new astonishing sensation of pain that summoned a gasp from his parched throat. His previous attempts at bravely and silently accepting his death faltered as the harsh silver brushed his lung and licked him between blood vessels. He opened his eyes and gaped at the sight of the weapon protruding harshly from his chest cavity, blood spilling around the edges and pooling at the base of his chest until he was snapped out of his transfixed state by the violent tearing of his tissue. He collapsed ungracefully into the dirt with filthy hands clutching at the hole in his chest, heart overridden with hysteria the moment he tried to inhale. He felt his chest spasm and coughed until he tasted copper, his breaths short and wheezy and laced with the small amounts of blood his body still retained. The agony was unlike any affliction he had ever imagined; the combination of third-degree burns and bleeding wounds scattered about his body reduced him to a death-scented heap of tears and hopeless groans that faded into a series of pathetic pants for air. He had always imagined death’s grip to be numbing, but this was hellfire swimming in his veins - when will it end? It was pain excruciating beyond his previous scope of belief, and he prayed for death to take him so he could end it all.

Twin flames in our hearts
As we move you can’t tell us apart
Twin flames in our minds
When we move together

Gypsy was in pieces, lying among the fray with one arm and one foot. He had never wanted to see her in this state - bleeding and teetering over death’s ledge - and he had never planned to, not until she had turned the tables and hauled them both into this torment. It was the last thing he had ever expected of her, to surrender her rightful crown for the sake of death’s unfriendly company, but her energy was drained and her desire was to die with Pyrian and seal the inseparable bond that defined them as the twin flames. As much as it pained him to watch her suffer, the selfish side of him wouldn’t wish for anything more than to die by her side as opposed to in a lonely, bloody ditch with swords piercing his bones left and right. We always joked that if we were gonna die, we’d die surrounded by fire and we’d go out with a ‘bang’ And if this fire-infested finale was not the spectacular ending everyone hoped for, he didn’t know what else could be. With these pleasant thoughts tickling the edges of his conscience he managed to silence his croaks and gasped his way through the crushing pains as blood accumulated in his chest, simulating the sensation of drowning. He might as well be underwater, because no matter how desperately he reached for a fresh breath he was only greeted by more pain and convulsions. I’m drowning in my own blood. It seemed suitable to plague him with this fate; large bodies of water were always the element to avoid because he could not swim, so why not give him a taste of his own anxieties and drown him in the ‘safety’ of the dry lands? It was cruel, clever, and terrible, but after his string of failures (I couldn’t protect Noah, I couldn’t stop Gypsy) he deserved nothing less.

He crawled with meager amounts of energy remaining, dragging his useless limbs through the dirt as his skin continued to pale and his lungs continued to strain. His breaths emerged in hitches and a dark haze was cast over the edges of his vision, threatening to blind him in his last moments, but despite the terror and the pain he reached his fallen sister and extended his hand to rest it in hers. They were always together; in the womb, in their father’s house, in the Keeni family, and now even in death nothing would strip them of their bond. They entered these games together, they fought together, they were lost together, and now they suffered together, and although the pain was wreaking havoc on their feeble bodies and plunging Pyrian into phases of blurred vision and confusion (Death is coming) he knew this was the only honorable way the Keeni twins could end - surrounded by rings of flame and puffs of black smoke. He squeezed her hand and lifted his gaze to the skies - a baby blue shrouded in thick, acrid smoke that clogged his throat even further - watching his vision tunnel and feeling his pain start to dull. He began to wonder whether the rumors were true, that a person’s life could flash before their eyes in their moments of imminent doom, when he suddenly saw himself standing by an open flame with his hand clutched to his stomach and tears streaming past his little cheeks. My very first burn.

Then, he was leaping over hedges to escape an angry neighbor and her cat with crispy fur, which transitioned to himself and Gypsy doubled over in laughter after launching a successful prank on Bear, who had failed to hunt them down. He watched himself ignite curtains, snicker at his irritated father, wrinkle his nose at Gypsy’s secondhand cigarette smoke, and cause the instances of mischief he recalled over the years. The visions ended with Pyrian standing among the crowd of fidgeting children at the reaping, knowing all too well his sister’s plan to reduce the Justice Building to smoldering ash but recognizing that she had failed when he spotted her onstage. The vivid memories were bittersweet, and he almost couldn’t believe that within the next few moments he would cease to create anymore. Perhaps he himself would become a memory for his family to cherish, even if he was about to end on bad terms - bleeding and drowning on camera in a game that could only end in a violent demise. Not that it mattered; he knew certain members of his family would miss him, but for how long? Certainly not forever. If any of them were stricken by his tragic death the effects would eventually fade, like all feelings did, and he wouldn’t be offended. He shared a few bonds with his half-siblings, but they were far from sturdy. He had his doubts that they would ever forget the deaths of the fire twins in the finale of the 63rd hunger games, but to appreciate them as pleasant memories was a completely different story.

A sea of flames, before tonight
Conducted love, brought us alight
The fire blends
Beginnings never end

He was hauled painfully back to reality like a rubber band having been stretched and snapped backward, immersing him back into the tsunami of agony and blood. He blinked sluggishly and felt his insides melt to gelatin, his aching muscles untying their knots and loosening from an overwhelming amount of tension. The hand entwined with Gypsy’s fell slack as the world around him blurred into a canvas of distorted, discolored shapes that became shrouded in the shadows that crept near the boundaries of his vision. He felt his senses numbing and his crippled heartbeat abating, and he closed his eyes in anticipation for the sensation of nothing (he definitely wasn’t going to die with his eyes open; he had seen enough corpses to recognize the uneasiness of that) - for nonexistence, emptiness, whatever it would feel like. His lungs ceased their seizing, his wounds stopped pulsing, his brain stopped wondering, and everything in his system shut down. His last memory was the inhalation of smoke - a familiar blessing in his final breath, before his chest flattened and his mouth closed. As expected, he did not hear the cannon’s explosion the moment his heart stilled - but this time, for once, it was not due to his disability.

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He was doused in a tidal wave of icy temperatures. First, it had been pain - then, nothing at all. Now, when he inhaled, a stream of water swept through his windpipe rather than the comforting scent of smoke. He gasped and surfaced from the shallow waters that kept him prisoner, heart pounding and head swimming as he hacked the water out of his system, but not without difficulty. He then knew immediately that something was wrong. He stood up, well aware that his scratches and wounds had vanished along with the dirt and blood stains of his arena outfit, and felt something collide painfully with the insides of his head, as if a creature were scratching the inner linings of his skull. It paused the moment he stalled, but there was a strange rhythm thumping against his brain that matched the pattern of his heartbeat. He pressed a hand firmly to his chest; yes, his heart was beating somehow, and every time he felt the pound against his ribs an invisible hammer struck the inside of his brain. He hastily rubbed his temples to ease the discomfort and inhaled the rush of fresh air he had been longing for. The luxury brought him relief despite having no idea where he was other than in a strange pool of water with unfamiliar sensations prodding his brain. He started to notice that every time he inhaled or exhaled, something rushed through the inside of his skull like a swift gust of wind. It was abrupt and irritating, but that wasn’t his only dilemma; he couldn’t see, either.

Wherever he was, he was stranded in darkness. The water at his ankles seemed to continue endlessly, like a shallow lake with no rims or islands, and each time he moved the water followed him and the scratching in his head ensued. He pressed his palms to his temples and winced at the thudding of his heart and the whisper of breaths and the crash of the water at his ankles, all of which seemed to crawl into his head and rattle his brain simultaneously. He found the sensations to be somewhat less of a disturbance only when he cupped his hands over his ears. He tried to process this new situation when a streak of orange light slithered across the surface of the black waters, its reflection resembling a contorted, but acquainted shape Pyrian knew all too well, and sure enough when he followed its wavering trail his eyes came to a pause at a small flame hovering gingerly above the waters’ surface. It was the only light for what he assumed to be miles in this surreal “after-death” world, so he approached it cautiously. His movements stirred the water, which in turn scrambled his brain again with sudden pulses of unpleasant shock-waves that made his ears twitch and his head throb, but he kept moving toward the familiar friend with new-found determination.

When he reached it - arm extended, pondering whether or not he should touch it and embrace the burn against his dead skin - it seemed to burn brighter for a moment before a second flame appeared ten paces away, emerging like a flaming mushroom from beneath the glassy surface. He changed direction on whim and waded toward it, wondering if the friendly fires were going to lead him somewhere - hopefully anywhere but this vast expanse of confusion and darkness. As if on cue, a third flame materialized, followed by a fourth, and fifth, and so on as he continued to pursue them one by one until the twists and turns he was forced to take lead him into the bowels of a narrow cave. He knew it was a cave because he felt water drip from the ceiling and dampen his pasty cheeks, and spotted the patches of light cast by the flames against the jagged walls that snarled at awkward angles. He kept his hands pressed to his pain-inflicted ears as he hesitantly sauntered through the cave toward a white speck he immediately interpreted as his only path. The white glimmer soon swelled to the size of the average household door, but with nothing on the other end but a blinding light he was wary of its potential dangers. What choice did he have, though? He could either dwell aimlessly in the darkness, or explore whatever this mysterious light offered him. He was already dead, and he wasn’t in Hell; what was the worst that could happen? He could think of a few, disturbing outcomes, but cursed at himself and accepted submission. Threatening or not, the light was an automatic lure that gripped him by his heart and tugged him in. He closed his eyes to shield his pupils from the burning brilliance and stepped out of the cave, into a separate reality that he hoped would answer his damn questions before the scraping on the inside of his skull drove him to a state of violent insanity.

Double halves of wholeness
Find the missing equal sign
Double halves of wholeness
Now return to intertwine

One moment his feet were planted on solid ground, and the next his heart was lurching and his body was free-falling through the vortex of a colorless existence. The thought of his possible destination faintly brushed the inside of his pounding skull (I’m falling to Hell, aren’t I?”) and struck him abruptly with a ripple of dread. He waited cringing for the flames to swallow him up and burn him to a thin crisp until his throat bled from his own desperate screams, but found no such misfortune as his stomach ceased its flipping and his body paused in the midst of its descend. He did not thud against the ground, nor did he actually remember his back touching a solid surface, yet when he caught his breath and cautiously moved his limbs he discovered the soft surface beneath him, warm like the caress of a flame’s radiating heat. When he opened his eyes it was not darkness or white canvases that greeted him; it was the polish of a wooden ceiling, alive with waving tendrils of light flicking across the surface from what he could only recognize as the illumination from a small fire. He blinked and exhaled a sigh of relief, grateful that it was not the flames of Hell that had consumed him - but rather, a place much more hospitable with promises of safety and eternal bliss. Upon realization that maybe, just maybe he was destined for peace rather than the pits of hell (or nonexistence, for that matter) he cracked a smile and chuckled to himself. He misunderstood a lot of things, but this? This was a new level of misunderstanding, a new level of strange.

”Pyrian?”

His ears twitched. The scrambled sensations in his brain suddenly morphed into a language he could comprehend, but it was knowledge he did not ever recall learning. Somehow, he just knew. It was a word; more importantly, his name, and he heard it. He did not see it gliding across fingers or on silent lips - he heard it, and his brain was responding to it. He didn’t understand how or why, but he knew the word was his name and he instantly recognized the voice. His first instinct was to lift his hands, but the influx of knowledge prompted him to freeze in his movements and reconsider. His throat contracted in response to what he wanted to say, but he stumbled over his breaths and his muddled thoughts and ended his struggle in silence. He knew what the wanted to say, how to say it, and what it would sound like, but instead of following through he turned his head and swept a widened gaze over the candlelight by his bedside. (I know where I am, now, and it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t.) As the tiny flame quivered at his every breath, only one thought crossed his mind.

This is where I belong.

Spirals turn the fire in us
Instants synchronize
Joining us, a second love
We harmonize in time