the blood that i'm owed // danny
Aug 25, 2016 22:04:14 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Aug 25, 2016 22:04:14 GMT -5
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It kept her anchored to a world that hated her, a tether that was laced into every inch of her being. She didn’t want to remember - white rooms, grim faces, a dying boy, fear, anger, fairytales, blood, I volunteer! - but something (what?) kept her there. She was wind and light and no longer bound by her broken body but she was trapped, still, a bird in a cage. (Was it love?) Perhaps. But she didn’t know that. All she knew was that she was with the book boy, and if she had to stand and fight with him one last time so be it.
She sensed the others. Their presence tugged at the silence just enough for her to notice, just enough to feel it like a chill in her bones. She’d missed some of them, hated others, and simply didn’t know the rest, but they were there. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know. There were two fighting before them, two spilling blood, but all the tributes were there.
And they all saw when her book boy fell.
She’d always thought that death would mean the end of pain, but she was wrong. The moment he hit the ground she felt something tear through her, a shot of disbelief followed by a swell of fury. The puppet had won. Her murderer would go on to fame and riches. And he had killed her book boy. The injustice of it had her lurching forward, stumbling, stuttering, shaking in all that was left of her being. It was wrong in the most twisted way possible and she wanted to change it, to fix the outcome, but she was already dead and there was nothing she could do to save her last living ally.
The presences behind her were slowly beginning to fade, but she didn’t notice until a familiar voice behind her called her name. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a swell of light, something beautiful and forgiving. Kite was just before it, a silhouette against the glow, but he was looking at her and he could see her and it was enough to tempt her when he waved his hand and asked, “You coming?”
There was something better waiting for her. She knew there was. But a part of her was still trembling with rage, a part that she couldn’t shake no matter how hard she tried. It was the cruel part, the wicked part, the part that Kite would never be able to understand. She smiled at him. “Soon,” she promised, and her smile almost became real when he hesitated for a moment before disappearing with the rest.
And then she turned toward Atticus. There was no smile left, no joy, no hope of peace. All that was left in her was something cold and biting, starving for revenge. She swept toward him mercilessly with a fresh determination to make his life hell. She would weigh upon his shoulders like the twenty three lives his victory had cost, would remain always just over his shoulder or hidden within his shadow. When he was alone in the dark she would be there, a reminder, a curse. She would be his personal nightmare, always, until the day he died.
And when the day did come, he would see her, standing over him.
Death, he would say, as if greeting an old friend.
She would smile. No. And then she would descend upon him with all the twisted anger she’d been carrying over the years.
Worse.
She sensed the others. Their presence tugged at the silence just enough for her to notice, just enough to feel it like a chill in her bones. She’d missed some of them, hated others, and simply didn’t know the rest, but they were there. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know. There were two fighting before them, two spilling blood, but all the tributes were there.
And they all saw when her book boy fell.
She’d always thought that death would mean the end of pain, but she was wrong. The moment he hit the ground she felt something tear through her, a shot of disbelief followed by a swell of fury. The puppet had won. Her murderer would go on to fame and riches. And he had killed her book boy. The injustice of it had her lurching forward, stumbling, stuttering, shaking in all that was left of her being. It was wrong in the most twisted way possible and she wanted to change it, to fix the outcome, but she was already dead and there was nothing she could do to save her last living ally.
The presences behind her were slowly beginning to fade, but she didn’t notice until a familiar voice behind her called her name. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a swell of light, something beautiful and forgiving. Kite was just before it, a silhouette against the glow, but he was looking at her and he could see her and it was enough to tempt her when he waved his hand and asked, “You coming?”
There was something better waiting for her. She knew there was. But a part of her was still trembling with rage, a part that she couldn’t shake no matter how hard she tried. It was the cruel part, the wicked part, the part that Kite would never be able to understand. She smiled at him. “Soon,” she promised, and her smile almost became real when he hesitated for a moment before disappearing with the rest.
And then she turned toward Atticus. There was no smile left, no joy, no hope of peace. All that was left in her was something cold and biting, starving for revenge. She swept toward him mercilessly with a fresh determination to make his life hell. She would weigh upon his shoulders like the twenty three lives his victory had cost, would remain always just over his shoulder or hidden within his shadow. When he was alone in the dark she would be there, a reminder, a curse. She would be his personal nightmare, always, until the day he died.
And when the day did come, he would see her, standing over him.
Death, he would say, as if greeting an old friend.
She would smile. No. And then she would descend upon him with all the twisted anger she’d been carrying over the years.
Worse.
