Aramis Rosegold [D1 tribute] (knightofgrapes) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-18 02:09:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - arena, tribute: 56th aramis rosegold |
WHO: Aramis Rosegold [D1].
WHAT: His quest for a mirror finally ends, but not as he would have expected.
WHEN: Day 8; early afternoon.
WHERE: Castle of Illusions mirror maze.
STATUS: Complete narrative.
Aramis knew he shouldn't have been wandering way from the rest of the pack, especially when Boy Eleven was still out there and there was obviously rising tension in the alliance now that Cypress was dead and their supplies had been raided, but he kept finding himself needing more space to himself to think and just be alone after recent events. That was unusual for him -- he usually had to be surrounded by friends or he'd be restless and bored -- but after a week in the arena, it was nice to be able to walk around without any tributes reminding him that he was in the arena and not back home in One somewhere. Sometimes, he even expected his sisters to come running up behind him, even though any sudden noises immediately put him on edge and forced him to raise his dagger in case someone was looking for an easy lone Career to kill. This time, he had followed his arena map and slowly limped over to the Castle of Illusions. Cypress had mentioned there were mirrors here -- something he had been on a quest to find ever since entering the arena through the underground tubes just before the blood-bath -- and he smiled and winked knowingly at the cameras. Of course the Capitol audience watching him would think this was exactly the sort of place someone like him, in all his vanity, would want to visit to admire himself, and it matched perfectly with his white knight image. And a few days ago, he would have thought similarly and laughed along. But now he dreaded going inside and finding what he thought he would see, even if he showed nothing but cheeky enthusiasm to the audience watching him. The entire lowest floor was made of up an endless maze of mirrors -- his dream, really. He smiled for the cameras again -- 'I'll get interior decorating ideas here for my house in Victor's Village' -- before limping over to the nearest mirror, a movement he tried to mask as a confident swagger. But he found himself unable to look straight into the glass at first, his eyes wandering to the floor as he held his grin and ran his hand through his hair -- a nervous gesture this time, but one he knew the audience would see as his usual confident vanity and showmanship now after all the times he had done it deliberately for those very reasons. It did feel like shit, just as Miranda had told him it looked earlier that day. When he finally looked up and looked back into his reflection's matching green eyes, his grin broadened and twisted into a smirk -- but the smile didn't reach his eyes and his mouth pulled too tightly that it was hurting the mangled half of his face. Aramis hadn't been sure what to expect exactly, but he wanted groan at just how ridiculous he had been to ever think the white knight role that he had played so well for his Reaping and interviews would ever work inside the arena. He'd already fucked that up with the way he killed Eli and Cypress in the least gallant ways possible. He still didn't have a sword. He hadn't even been able to do the romantic angle right, after confessing his feelings for Vellum. Now that he could see what he looked like after a week of fighting, killing, being mauled by mutts and dragged underwater, and never cleaning up, he let out a hollow laugh masked as amusement. He barely recognised the boy in the mirror -- and his sisters at home probably didn't either. The reflection had the same green eyes, but they seemed to have lost their brightness, as if he hadn't had a good sleep for a week. His hair was more of a dirty blonde -- quite literally -- than its usual gold, and it was a disgusting, matted mess, loose strands sticking to his forehead. Of course half of his face had been torn apart by Cypress' mace, which was now swollen and bruised dark purple, streaks of red gouging his cheek. The black eye Eli had given him had faded somewhat, but there was still a scar splitting his lower lip, worried by how much he had constantly bitten his lip in recent days to relieve himself of worse pain. And his torn, bloodied clothes hardly cut any sort of knight-in-shining-armour image. There was a saying that being in the arena would change you, especially once you killed for the first time, and he thought he could see it in himself now as he looked into his face and knew something was different. For a moment, his mind wandered over to memories from before the arena. The glitter in his hair shining in the sun as he volunteered and strutted up to the stage, handing out flowers to girls, winking at the boys, and getting down on one knee to kiss Pecan's hand. Every detail of that perfectly planned years ahead of time, down to his hairstyle and clothing, and the Capitol had adored him for it. The parade -- the first time he wore Capitol clothes that beautiful and was made up to look even more handsome in gold and black. The interview, where again, he had been meticulously dressed and styled, and the crowd was swooning and screaming for his favour and rose. All of that couldn't have been more different than the arena, and he couldn't accept how all of that had happened to the same person in the same Games that was staring back at him. No one was cheering for him anymore, he was sure, when he hadn't received a single sponsor gift yet. But everyone watching him must have been expecting a reaction, and for once, he didn't know what to do for the cameras. Were they expecting him to be melodramatic at how awful and ugly he now looked for laughs? Smugly arrogant that while yes, he looked like shit, he was still the most beautiful tribute in the arena? He knew what he wanted to do -- the prickling sensation in his eyes had to be blinked away -- but he simply smiled mysteriously as he always did. Anyone could read anything they wanted in it. Once he had thought the cameras were bored enough of him grinning at his own reflection to turn their attention to elsewhere in the arena, he pressed his forehead and one bandaged hand against the cool glass, letting his gaze fall back onto the floor. His smile fell and he squeezed his eyes shut in the shadows between his face and chest -- and for the first time in years, he let himself cry. |