Mortal Kings {Thundy}

I’ve been traveling this god-forsaken forest for eons.

District Ten is much further than expected, or else I’m going the wrong way. I’ve got a shitty map, and I wasn’t exactly born with an innate sense of direction. I’m not a fucking migratory bird who knows the landscape.

Navigating, cartography, lonely silence -- these are the things I never learned to deal with, back when they were training me how to survive. Brute force was always the more fashionable option, and I’ve been absolutely winging the rest of it.

I also didn’t learn subtlety or the art of moving through the forest on quiet footsteps, and that’s why my heart seizes in my chest when I see someone leaning up against a tree.

Dead?

Alive?

No, definitely dead.

Maybe?

God, I’ll have to check.

I remove my knife from its leather sheath and tiptoe (poorly) over the remaining distance. I move quickly enough that it doesn’t matter if he hears me; my blade’s pressing gently to his throat soon enough. Not drawing blood, just… waiting.

Fuck. He’s not dead.

(I can’t decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Happening upon a dead body isn’t exactly peachy, ya know?)

There are a few options here, aren’t there?

I weigh my choices while a smile curls on the boy’s lips. That smile’s a sick, twisted thing, and I don’t like it. But then I suppose I’m not one to judge; I’m the one with a knife to the boy’s throat. He struggles against the stance, a few drops of blood gently gliding down his neck where he struggles. I realize that I should have come up with a better plan. Or avoided the situation entirely.

I could have planned this better, but now I’m in it.

Fuck it.

I make up my mind to kill him at the same time he taunts me: "Are you going to kill me, dear stranger? I'll certainly let you try."

I snort, and --

He shoves me back with a force I don’t anticipate. The knife grazes his throat as my hand pulls back, but it’s not enough to slow his movement. I gasp, taking quick steps to steady myself, and a heavy silence falls between us. It’s the kind of moment where I’m sure that something bad’s inevitably going to happen, but I’m in it. The moment and me are one and the same, and Ripred if I’m going to let this random creep best me in a fight.

I drop the guise of safety, the safe continuance of my journey, the caution around strangers.

I choose to fight because he's pissing me the fuck off.

”Try,” I spit into the dirt, mocking a smile. ”You’re funny.”

And I lunge forward with the knife.

My knife plunges into his shoulder; I do not realize I’m aiming for the heart until I miss it. Aiming for the kill is second nature for me, but my body shifts in milliseconds as I change course for the shoulder. The hit is enough to fell him like a tree, but not enough to render him lifeless. His fear and anger are practically tangible things floating through the air between us, and now there’s the pain.

He plays brave, sure, but I can see the agony. They all play brave and courageous, up until the point of death. He grits his teeth like he’s the hero and I’m the villain.

”You’re a nasty little bitch, aren’t you?”

The space between us widens as he pulls back and tugs the knife from his wound. Dumbass doesn’t know enough to keep the knife where it is. When the blade tugs out of his wound, so does the blood. Soon his clothes turn read, and I shake my head in disbelief.

Instead of keep my knife for safekeeping, he throws it toward me. Not at me, but toward me. Specifically: at the ground beneath my feet. I snort with laughter; I can’t help it.

”And you’re a stupid--”

I can’t finish my sentence, because the boy flies toward me with his fists. My eyes go wide and I duck, reaching for the knife while my head is bent low. His fist circles above me, and I take a few steps back, bringing more distance between us. My boots crush against fallen leaves on the forest floor. I’ve forgotten entirely why I chose to fight him in the first place, but now I’m in it for spite.

The moment stands quiet once again. I stare at him. He stares at me.

I spit into the dirt at his feet. ”You sure are eager to die.”

I think of compromise, of pausing, of surrendering to peace.

But those are all just thoughts, aren’t they?

Right here, right now, I aim the knife for his dumbass face, breaking the pause between us.