asher delantus ϟ district two ϟ wip

a s h

boys will be boys
we like to play around
so tell her how to love one
that's running like a hound

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"Ash Delantus." He said, and his voice echoed off the walls. A table of what was once the best District Two had to offer sat directly in front of him, waiting for him to do something incredible. He hated these reviews. It was a necessity to have one annually, so that the trainers could rank them, and so they could see what they needed the most work in, or what they showed the most promise in. He ran though the exercises, picked up every type of weapon, answered every question, and eventually he was finished, with only a raising heart beat and a petty high self esteem to show for it. "Thank you," one of the men said, and then he walked out and never looked back.

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There will come a time in everyone's life where they will be caught doing that one thing that they know is wrong, but I am different. I am better than all of the poor saps that don't know how to cover up their tracks, or to tell which people were the right targets. Often, they also don't have enough talent, either, but that is one thing I do have.

Painting comes naturally to me, and as it happens, I love it. The problem I am faced with is my past. People hear that I was adopted and they automatically look the other way, so I simply neglect to tell them about that part of me. Actually, I completely lie. I practiced signatures of well-known painters for weeks, and it seems that anytime I put one on my work, people beg me for them, practically shoving their money down my throat. Who am I to deprive them of what they want: an amateur's art with a forged signature?

I have lived my entire life in fast-forward, living in the moment and never backing down. But I am not stupid. I will never do something unless I know my way out of it. I wouldn't gamble with my life if I knew I were going to lose. That is the thing though. I never do. Or so it appears, however no matter how many battles I win, the war still seems to be favoring those who oppose me. Selling the fake art for a decent price keeps me and my kid sister alive, but I can't ever ask for a truly realistic price without people pointing fingers. Mediocre pay-day is enough to survive on, but it doesn't really give me a lot of wiggle room.

Paris is only eleven years old. She is at least old enough now that I don't have to have her tag along with me to the Hob, but she is still so young and so fragile, and I can't let anything happen to her. You would think that with someone as precious to me as my little sister I wouldn't bother with the paintings, and I would settle for being a stone miner, barely making end's meet and being lucky to afford one meal a day. But that hardly seemed fair to the little girl with eyes like the ocean and a tender heart. Paris doesn't necessarily support what I am doing, but she understands it, which is more than I was able to do at her age, so I can't really complain.

The two of us got lucky when a little old lady named Tanna allowed us to stay together when she adopted us all those years ago. She had been sweet, genuinely kind, and she had shown us mercy, however, when I was seventeen death claimed her as it's own, and she left the world with little more than kind memories and wise words for Paris and I to keep with us. It took a lot of begging, but eventually the District Officials allowed me to keep my sister and I have been doing my very best to keep us whole ever since.

I have friends, and we all sort of help each other out. Holland is a boy that grew like me, without a lot more than the clothes on his back. He offered to watch Paris a few times so that I could have some time to get some cash, and I was willing to repay him by helping him in any way I could. Percy is a bit of a wild card, and he never really had to go without, but he has been a loyal friend to me, and I know I can trust him no matter what. The two of us practically grew up together, always placed in the same classes, always ending up at the same places, Percy might have been better off than the rest of us, but he rarely showed it.

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"What's the matter, Paris?" The ten year old's face was drenched with tears and her cheeks were sunken in as if the very life of her was pouring out onto the tiled floor. "She's really gone, isn't she?" Asher didn't bother with a response. Instead, he lifted the small girl up until her feet were no longer on the floor and held her head in the crook of his shoulder. He was fighting his own battle internally, and he could feel himself starting to shatter, but for now he had to hold himself together. "It'll all be okay," He whispered, and he meant it. He had to save the tiny little girl he held in his arms from withering away at such a young age. He had to save her even if it meant throwing himself onto the tracks, so that was exactly what he was going to do.

Save her.

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I still remember seeing the tiny girl her first day at the orphanage. I hadn't done a very spectacular job of making friends with the other children, and her Mother's illness had finally taken it's final toll on her, so we were both completely alone. I was nine, and she was two, and she looked so helpless and afraid that I couldn't stop myself from getting close to her. Before too long she looked to me for everything, and I started to care about the little thing, even though the idea of her being taken from me some day always burned in the back of my mind. When she was five was when Tanna came in to our lives. Everyone loved Paris, and Tanna was no exception. She knew without a doubt that Paris was the one she wanted, but Paris refused to go without me, and Tanna happened to be a good enough person to allow me to. I was already twelve and beginning to accept the fact that nobody was going to ever want me, so I was especially grateful for her taking us in, even if it was because she wanted Paris.





codeword: ---
face claim: zayn malik
lyrics: "boys will be boys" by paulina rubio