river killesa || district four || fin

There are those that can go their whole lives without knowing what struggle, true struggle, is like. Those born onto silver platters with a matching spoon stuck between their lips before they're so much as old enough for coherent thought, those loved and doted upon and spoiled by parents who had wanted kids their whole lives, had decided that once they had them they would know nothing of want, and had the small fortune to back it up.

A blessing doubled. The younger of the two by minutes, though he would never let that fact be brought up or deter him. A child who wanted for naught and knew he never would so long as he kept within the gentle but firm guidelines set before him. Even at sixteen he's lean, fit, and able to keep up with many of the eighteen year olds, a life of privilege and excess not going to waste nor waist. He's like a blur when he twirls his spear, a wave when he tosses his trident, and when he spars against his other half to fulfill a years long tradition, their footwork is more like a dance than a duel.

And what of his brother, his twin, his other half from the womb? River and Rain, Rain and River. Inseparable at birth, inseparable at sixteen, ride or dies all the way. Nature or nurture dictated a divergence in their paths, with Rain cooling off while River turned up the heat. He never has to worry about overstepping his boundaries or doing something truly idiotic, not when his brother is there to keep a hand on his shoulder and a voice of reason in his ear. Sure, they bicker like any old siblings. Sure, they have their own thoughts and minds. But it's always been River and Rain. Rain and River. No matter how he says it, the bond is unique. Complete. It's unthinkable to think of anything else, which is why the training is a mere formality instead of for a common goal.

The training. An outlet for whatever urges a teenage boy could think up. Blowing off steam, building his form, engaging in camaraderie away from the confines of his house. It's something to do when the days at school get long and boring and the blood gets hot. There's always something to do, some way to pass his time and sweat until his muscles ache and his focus shot. And when the same old spear twirling and stabbing gets old, there's the creativity, too, the desire to fight with things increasingly unorthodox. Perhaps one day he'll attempt to wield two short spears in either hand instead of one longer one. Or another, he'll take a swing at the replica of the voulge with a blade on either end from the most recent Games, freshly minted after its second appearance. Or even more out of the ordinary - one day, he came in to the room carrying nothing but a large stick with a pointed rock attached to one end with some vines. It had snapped before the day was done, but not before he'd knocked two rivals on their asses.

It's this creativity that gets him in trouble. Adventurous to the bone, stopping just short of an adrenaline junkie but a few steps ahead of his brother, flowing ever onward without stopping like the river he was named after. When one has spent sixteen years on this earth in the same large house, the same school district, having walked the same trails and seen the same ocean more times than they could possibly remember, life gets old after a while. Boring. And while some people might be content with simple repetition in their lives, he was not one of those folks. Each new week saw a new challenge, a new excitement, a new terrain to explore. He only had one life, after all, and if he wasn't making the most of it, then what was the fucking point?

Perhaps that's how he got into his latest mess. A mess consisted of a shadowy figure and a large boat, a mess contrived of a shrug, a turn, a silent deliberation. How bad could it be, he had asked. It was new, and exciting, and exhilarating, checking off three of his checkboxes in one go. Sure, he knew how to handle a boat - one did not grow up wealthy in Four and not learn that trick of the trade - but rarely, if ever, was he at the helm with none other than Rain at his side. So what if it was borderline illegal? They were only the messengers, not the masterminds. And so what if that made it half the fun? No one ever cared when the late night parties he attended contained drinks reserved for older folks and pressed warm skin against warm skin in the darkness. It was more the stuff that was frowned upon but not quite actively banned, for there'd be no point in trying to stop him anyway.

And he'd made it sixteen years in life without anything going wrong. He was on top of the world on an silver throne, unshakable and unbreakable. Nothing could ever change that.

Right?