weave into the highs and lows . the troupe
Jun 25, 2020 0:49:36 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Jun 25, 2020 0:49:36 GMT -5
C A L L U M |
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Death hits harder when one is suddenly forced to believe in it.
White knuckles once fiercely wrapped around the hilt of his weapon snap and crack as Kestrel stumbles backwards, the sword once cemented within his grasp clattering to the gemstone floor below. Her blood reaches the ground before she does, blanketing the stones they are dying on with a draft of her own death bed. He can't feel her weight when he catches her, only the way his heart beats once twice three too many times within his chest, cracking against weakened bones and sending ripples through tissue paper skin.
It's almost as if he can feel her soul clawing its way from her body, racing against the blood pouring from her wounds to see which entity could claim her life first, deadly games of betting and odds within the arena. His breath catches in his throat again, ice spreading into his veins as his ally collapses down into his arms, crumpled and burned like the pages of a forgotten story, ashes to ashes and dust to death.
"Please, please just go."
More a whisper than a yell, a beg than a demand, the words bleed from his lips and hang in the air for a brief moment, heavy with the weight of broken heartstrings before finally collapsing to the gems beneath them all, nestling deep into the blood stained stones that now make up Kestrel's coffin. He does not expect the alliance they fight against to listen to him, muscles clenching as he prepares for a sword to burn itself into his flesh, for his blood to paint the stones red with his own little broken fairy tale, written in stone long before he stepped foot in the arena.
Yet, tales have a funny way of twisting and turning with every turn of the page, and as Kestrel's story bleeds from her body he hears their opponents fade away into the distance, joining the same phantoms that stalked and followed them from just outside his gaze. Kestrel's blood coats his hands now and singes his skin, tainting shaking fingertips with the same promises he'd muttered to his ally the day before, long since broken as soon as blade touched skin.
It had been less than a day since he'd carried her away from the metallic screams of the Bloodbath, selfishly begging her to stay with him because he did not know what hope he would have without her. Yet she had complied, threading hope into their heartstrings with a fine tipped needle. As he looks down at her now he wishes they had let her slip into the darkness yesterday, when the soft melody of the wind had called out for her to join them.
What selfish beings you are. His heart whispers.
It had been hours since his burnt letters had been the only light within the darkness, since they'd locked eyes with the nighttime sky and had nothing greet them back. He had replayed the sounds of Zenia's screams in his mind over and over again and again, letting the sounds bleed into his skull with some wicked hope that, somehow, they would spur the darkness into confirming her fate, into confirming all of their fates.
And yet, it had not. The sky had not opened up to the heavens and the trumpets had never come to remind them of their own roles within the story. Foolish selfish stupid hopes had bubbled up from a weakened heart and he had managed to convince himself that death somehow was not real in this arena. After all, in a fairy tale a scream could be a scream and a cannon a cannon, could mean nothing more and nothing less.
Burn the pages of his little tale of hope, the way the life is fading from Kestrel's eyes tells him everything he needs to know and everything he does not want to accept.
It's a nasty little thing, the way he can feel the promises he made to her etch into his own skin, fiery little lies that leave dust and despair in their wake. As his ally lays bruised, bloody, broken in his arms he wonders if she can feel her own story ending, if a fading heartbeat can feel the same way as turning to the last page of a story, the promise of more to come finally broken. He blinks, and within the darkness he sees Kestrel's face light up the night sky that watches over them. This is death, he thinks, it can't be anything else.
"Kes, I..." He starts, but the way his own broken voice pushes its way back down his throat makes him stop short, shaking hands finalizing the hopelessness that rests within his words. Eight years of telling stories to the damned and now, his words are lost. Fitting.
Water wells behind his eyes and tear drops carve their fate into his cheeks when he looks to Bird, her shape melting and distorted in the wake of his tears.
Please say something, Bird.
Eyes yearn behind the broken armor of a knight. In his chest, the thump of his heartbeat counts down their fate.
[Collects items from Emerald Field, more in tribute maintenance]