the first of three [parson cham's end] day four

Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 21, 2018 11:58:53 GMT -5

It happens when it is least expected – but the thought has been lingering in the backdrop of our skulls since the arena's soil kissed our soles. Death's sharp blade is a perpetual suspense, hanging upon the nape of our necks by a gossamer thread, ready to be cut loose at any given moment.

The javelins leap from my feeble grasp, embers and steel burning the skin above the girl's knuckles, and I can't help but search for the look of satisfaction inside Parson's eyes towards me, await for his turn to try and rouse her cannon. Partners in dance, war and carnality

– when he wavers, I take charge, a beautiful symbiosis.

Footsteps and the clank of silver against silver echo, mumbling across the tunnels like ghostly melodies and premonitions, but the abrupt sound of cannon-fire overcomes all. The ancient earth around us trembles in its wake, and my gaze hectically rushes through our foes, counting. The numbers are the same as before: four. The fright ascends up my throat, forging a home there, between vocal chords and the wind-pipe and, head whirls around;

his ocean eyes are the first ones I discover. The helpless, watery sheen inside them tells me everything I need to know. I hold his gaze and watch its color fade away, like plumes of mist blown apart by a cool drift of air: gone.

Then a graceless fall, on my knees, on this heart, on the guilt which fountains out — from behind the ivory ribs as an ache, from my fingertips as tremors, from the mouth as a rickety breath that held not much air, from the tongue which promised him grandeur.

“Parson.”

I call out, hoping he'd answer, and that he would rise back to his two feet with fiery daggers and his breath intact and go to war or reach out and draw me closer, into the sea of his chest where I belong. But, he does not bulge, does not mutter my name back right away, and the evidence becomes as clear as day, all shadows of denial burnt.

Cannon-fire echoes, and I understand how the sound will haunt me throughout the entirety of these Games, throughout the autumns and winters of my years, with the grim memory in seamless attachment to it. It's the sound of his heart, breaking, and the world dances to it falling apart. ^[1]

I do not know which strength carries me onward, nearer to him, but I take off his gloves and our hands hold each other like a steel lattice and his palm is cool, as if the warmth from last night has escaped from the open wound. Hands also scrape off the helmet fitted to his head, exorcising the dark shadows across his pale features. We speak through a language only our bodies remember: the teasing brush of fingertips, sigils drawn over the skin, soft touch on the knuckles translating to ‘I am here, and would never leave you alone.’

Death is excruciating and incoherent, for each word he makes is a mystery to decipher but through a series of attempts, I find that the abridged syllables constellate to form my name, all the broken shards of voice gathered and reassembled to spell out Angel.

“Don't speak–”

Especially my name,
it isn't worth it.

I could, with an empath's heart and grand imagination, feel the agony he's stricken with, taste the burn of the steel wedged between muscles and tendons. My command is ridiculous, because his voice is all that I want to hear, the loud and brash gravel of it, like the precious metals around us grind to shiny powder and rich sound.

He cries out Teddy Ursa's name, and his shallow breathing comes to a strident halt, spirit torn from the vessel that is nothing but hollowness now, the shell of a boy. For once, I am not oblivious, I recognize death.

“He's gone.”

Tongue whispers, to no one in particular.

The tears are unseen in the sheer darkness of the mines but felt, scorching against the flesh of my roseate cheeks, flowing down to the expanse of stone below us, drip by drip. For once, no words come from the boy full of tales and eulogies: he's silent, in utter mourning, the taste of heartbreak rich and pungent amongst the cavern of his mouth. 

Our weapons crackle, all embers and flare, and their glow set our surroundings alight with a color akin to a tiger's pelt. Precious metals around us, each one coruscating with a shred of Parson Cham's soul that they stole.

Golden he was, and with gold, he shall rest.

“He's gone.”

^[1] troye sivan | the good side