yellow like gold, red like blood | berlin day 1

If he cared, he would tell you about the beauty of the fields. The feeling of the sunflowers catching against his boots, pants, hands as he ran. He would tell you that the color yellow was almost like seeing the surface of a star - blinding, bright, iridescent, golden.

He would tell you how the field touched the horizon - the yellow flowers kissing the blue sky like a lover’s caress. The sun burning out in the day - the sky turning oranges and reds. Ichor, like blood.

It was beautiful and poetic - the sky reflecting the chaos and calamity wrought in so few minutes at the cornucopia.

He would tell you about how the blood splattered across the walls of the stuffy wooden building, crumbling and creaking and threatening to cave-in, almost like it had been directed by a maestro.

He would tell you how he stabbed his pitchfork at Myrcella, the blood lust growing at the feeling of his steel kissing her head.

He would tell you about how the scene had dissolved around him. His allies attacked from all sides by alliances known and unknown.

He would tell you about the scream in his heart when he ran, the cowardice hanging around his head like a halo of hesitation.

Self-preservation really did make for strange bedfellows as he followed the limping bodies of his district seven partners, Hisidro leading the way. 

He would tell you how he hated to follow anyone, even a somone as commanding as Hisidro. 

He would tell you all of this if he cared.

The arrowhead was still embedded in his arm, but that was the least of his worries. He ran until his breath grew tight in his chest, until his legs willed to give out and then he ran a bit further.  Sunflower stalks whipping past his face as he clung to his sack with one arm, tracing the path that Hisidro was creating like a painter filling in his work. 

They were too loud, too conspicuous, too out in the open. They were too injured to continue for the night. Too exposed. 

"His, I'll catch up with you in a bit. Just...don't go too far, yeah?"

Not that we could - fucking injuries. They couldn't stay here long - it was too close to the Cornucopia.  It was too fucking easy.

With a nod from Hisidro, Berlin stopped in his tracks, dropping to his hands and his knees and just pausing for a breath. Sweat drenched his shirt and he unbuttoned a few buttons, the black silk vest with ornate dark stitching flapping in the breeze. 

He grabbed a sunflower forcibly from the ground, slamming his pitchfork into the dark earth with a grunt, spinning the stem between his fingers before placing the flower in his pack, the yellow petals inherently calming. 

He would tell you all about the sun, the colors, the red of the blood and the yellow of the flowers - gold and ichor. 

He would tell you all of this if he cared.