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pogue
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1,811 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Apr 16, 2024 18:41:45 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

weave into the highs and lows . the troupe Jun 25, 2020 0:49:36 GMT -5

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Post by pogue on Jun 25, 2020 0:49:36 GMT -5

C

A

L

L

U

M

___

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]

d4 tati pelotte [azalea]
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2,113 POSTS

last seen Jan 22, 2024 14:18:32 GMT -5

weave into the highs and lows . the troupe Jun 25, 2020 8:55:43 GMT -5

Quote

Post by d4 tati pelotte [azalea] on Jun 25, 2020 8:55:43 GMT -5

bird ivy

I've been wanting for so long to know the liberty of living and letting die. Just like all those characters in my Mom's stories over the years; the ones who lived good and pure and died in a way that felt true to their morals and values. I use the words liberty to describe it because it feels freeing in a way, to me, anyway — because the world is terrible and if a painful death offers one good, simple thing despite how awful it can be, release is some sort of closure that provides relief.

And no, it'll never be the happily ever after that a prince or princess wants. It'll never be a fairytale, it'll never be whole, it'll never leave you with a smile on your face because the nature of something ending should never do that. Death turns to the last page of the book hastily, and the words that go in between the last breath and the bright light may be unheard and unsaid, but they are definitely not forgotten. So the book closes, swiftly it falls shut, sure, but at least it's all contained within something you can go back to. A book. A life. A gravestone. At least there's something to remember and mourn.

The acceptance is somewhat easy. I think everyone goes into the Hunger Games accepting the fact they are going to die whether they want it to happen or not. It's just how things are. And as big and as scary as death is, maybe acceptance takes the edge off. Rounds it out a bit. Makes the sharp side a little dull. It's still death, though.

And maybe acceptance is easy, somehow, but yeah, realisation is hard.

When Kestrel's blood stains the gemstones with a dark crimson hue, they no longer reflect the light with their many faces. The light seems to be absorbed by the deepness of her elixir, sucking it in and holding it prisoner because it is angry others get to live whilst it has been born to die. Callum goes to catch her, and when the two bodies touch, the crippling effect of death seems halved for a moment, and it's as if company helps to round out the edges just as much as acceptance. I don't know if Kestrel was expecting to die, and if she was, if she was anywhere close to accepting it — but maybe emotion works in the same way as freedom.

I guess I'll find out for sure when I die.

"Please, please just go," Callum's voice finds the strength to utter, his words fractured by the broken body that lies helpless in his arms. It's contagious. I want to say something but my throat feels broken too. The other alliance back off when they see Kestrel's blood painting the ground and our hands, so I only point with a bright red finger behind them, firm in my gesture, my face just as fierce as the knifes that put us here.

I crouch besides Callum and Kestrel, desperately trying to think of something to do but what is there to do when all is said and done? This part of the story is the most permanent part, unfortunate as it is, and though Callum and I could try to scribble it out and replace it with something lighter — that would be an act of intrusion, and maybe it wouldn't make the people back in Nine mourn this loss as much as they should. Of all the stories I've been told, I know that tragedies are best served cold: with cold eyes, a cold heart and the coldest words.

They make you feel more.

"Kes, I..." Callum begins, but there's no certainty to his words and they feel just as flimsy as the heartstrings buried within Kestrel's chest that long to be played again despite their fraying, despite their fragility.

"I think you're the strongest person we both know," I say before Callum's voice dries up completely. When death is silence, life is the music. "Kes, you know, people like you, artists, performers... they never really die. It's like how songs can end but people still hum the melody."

I think that's where the freedom comes from. Because in death, there's a whole other life to live. People may not want to, but they will always remember. And I don't think living as a memory is anything to be scared of.

An echo is just as beautiful as the song.

[ d12f bird ivy collects emerald field items, details in maint ]

Last Edit: Jun 25, 2020 8:57:07 GMT -5 by d4 tati pelotte [azalea]

Stare
Retired Staff

3,105 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 15, 2024 23:43:11 GMT -5

and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

weave into the highs and lows . the troupe Jun 25, 2020 22:44:14 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Stare on Jun 25, 2020 22:44:14 GMT -5

Kestrel Volant did not want to die.

But if she had to, she supposed there were worse places. She could have been half frozen to death and alone, darkness closing in slowly and painfully, rather than bleeding out in her ally's arms surrounded by glittering color. Hues still swam at the edge of her vision, promising an end to her story. She was in so much pain, but she wasn't ready. She was scared.

"Kes, I..."

You don't have to, Kestrel wanted to tell him. She tried to turn her head to face him, but her eyes caught on the stump of her hand instead. You don't have to say anything. It's okay.

"I think you're the strongest person we both know. Kes, you know, people like you, artists, performers... they never really die. It's like how songs can end but people still hum the melody."

Kestrel desperately wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that she would live on as a song, or a work of art. But the Games had been her masterpiece, gory and bloody and angry, and they had only proven her to be weak and pathetic. One of the first to fall. A melody hardly worth remembering.

Instead of saying that, though, she smiled, blood dribbling down over her chin. "'m going to be okay," she managed, even though she wasn't. Even though her heart was hammering and she was shaking and her throat felt so tight she could barely breathe. How Kestrel felt didn't matter anymore. She didn't have much time left. What she left her allies with, what they felt, that mattered. "Was never going to last long anyway, was I? Silly, clumsy little dancer."

Her parents were going to be so disappointed in her. But it didn't matter what they thought anymore, did it? It didn't matter what anyone thought. She was dying, and suddenly the only two people she cared about were the two who were staying with her until the very end.

"'s good, you know? You'll be safer with - with fewer people. Less of a target. And... and I believe in you. Both of you." She shuddered. The pain was fading, which was even scarier than when it had felt like it was consuming her. The world was beginning to blur. She tried for the biggest grin she could manage. "Don't worry too much about me, m'kay? Crown wouldn't have looked good on me, anyway."