Aramis Rosegold [D1 tribute] (knightofgrapes) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-21 03:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - arena, tribute: 56th aramis rosegold |
WHO: Aramis Rosegold [D1].
WHAT: Sword practice now that he finally has one and general sadness. Sorry, Brutus, but you still don't get to see him cry yet.
WHEN: Night 9; early evening.
WHERE: Trees north of the Career camp [D7].
STATUS: Complete narrative.
It was early evening when Aramis felt steady enough to wander north of the Career camp to the copse of trees just off Main Street, his newfound sword swinging from his good hand while his dagger and locker door shield were tucked in his backpack along with water and the loaf of District 1 bread he had received earlier in the day. Brock had done the best job he could bandaging his mauled arm, but there wasn't much that could be done about his missing fingers except to cauterise the stumps so they would at least stop bleeding. And even hours later, he was still light-headed and staggering unsteadily from pain, blood loss, and his limp, biting at his lower lip and grinding his teeth again to distract himself when no medical supplies were sent in. He knew he should have stayed put at the camp to rest, and back in One, he'd have gone home and stayed in bed for a few days for lesser training injuries. But these were the Hunger Games, and there were no time-outs for anyone. The longer he didn't do anything, the more likely the Gamemakers would set a trap or muttations after him. The longer he sat uselessly at the Career camp, the more likely one of the others would take him out while he was an easy target, with the alliance being as tense as it was now. The longer he didn't go hunting, the more likely someone else would beat him to killing Boy Eleven. And the longer he didn't practice with his new sword, the less precise he would be when it was time for him to kill someone with it -- and that could prove fatal to him in the arena. Which was why he was alone among the trees, swinging the sword around with his right hand while his left one wielded his dagger or shield. Over a week without handling a sword had made the muscle memory of his sword-hand rusty, but with some effort, it didn't take too long for him to regain his swordsmanship -- and a hopeful, even elated smile broke out across his face as he stabbed, thrusted, and twirled the blade around with the deadly elegance and artistry he couldn't accomplish with any other weapon; it almost moved him to tears of happiness after so much frustration. He had much less success with the dagger and locker door for parrying and defence -- both were difficult to grip when he only had three fingers left on that hand, and sharp, agonising pain kept shooting up his arm and in his hand enough that he kept dropping both. And the limp hindered his usually graceful and agile footwork, slowing him down more than he would have liked. For a moment, he thought back to his private training session, just as he had done with the parade and interviews when he had been trapped in the mirror maze with his reflection. And he started laughing deliriously at how the Gamemakers had gifted him with a 10 after he had showed off with the bow and swords. They probably wouldn't even give him a 5 now with the way he couldn't hold onto anything properly with his left hand anymore and even his swordsmanship wasn't his best after being injured so many times. But he'd promised them that if they gave him a sword, he'd give them a show -- and he kept his promises. He might have been spiraling downwards after the arena was nothing like what he had expected it to be and the only thing he truly cared about was ensuring his sisters didn't lose him, but he was still here to kill and win. And that was something One did with theatrical flair and style. Aramis continued to practice until the sky had darkened and it was almost time for him to have to use his flashlight to find his way back to the camp. But instead of returning right away, he sat down with his back against one of the trees. At least here, he didn't have to suffocate with anxiety over the tension that was about to snap any day now, and if he closed his eyes, he could even pretend he was sitting outside on a warm summer night back home in One. His left arm and hand were also burning with hot, sharp pain again, and he thought he could see blood dampening the bandages around it. But there wasn't anything he could do aside from cradling the limb against his stomach and trying to staunch the bleeding with his jacket as he brought his knees up so that he could rest his forehead against them. Once he thought his face was hidden from the cameras among the shadows and behind his knees, he started crying silent tears again, just like in the maze. It was weak and stupid, but he couldn't keep his anger, frustration, and hopelessness inside anymore. He didn't understand why he still wasn't being sent any medical supplies as sponsor gifts -- especially now when they were a necessity if he was supposed to survive any fights. He and Sephora had exchanged excited looks earlier in the day when they both received silver parachutes together -- only to glance at each other in confusion when they only received a loaf of bread each and didn't know what it was supposed to mean. He hadn't been given anything after killing Cypress, even with his agonising injuries, but that he could understand despite his disappointment -- killing was something he was supposed to do in the first place, and for Careers, that wasn't something special to be rewarded. Now he was bleeding half to death with a mutilated arm and a hand missing fingers on top of everything else, biting back constant pain, and the only reason he was still alive and able to clumsily wield a weapon with it was because Brock had been willing to share his precious first aid kit with him. Brock, who was very likely plotting to kill him right now somewhere and didn't have One's best interests in mind, whether it was for him or Sephora. Aramis couldn't help wondering if he'd done something to upset his mentors to the point of forsaking him so early in the Games, or if he'd fucked up so badly that all of his fans and sponsors had decided he didn't deserve any gifts despite how much they had loved and adored him before the arena, and were giving their money to other districts. Two and Four, probably -- he'd seen the healing creams and even weapons his allies had received, and he'd seethed with silent jealousy despite his friendly smiles every time. He was on his own now. If anything, he had been foolish to think there was anyone he could trust in the arena aside from himself, just as he had been naive about everything else. His mentors and sponsors seemed to have abandoned him. The Career alliance would break soon. Even Sephora's loyalty to him only went so far when they both knew only one of them could win in the end. Somewhere back in One, he knew even his own parents must have already decided he was a lost cause, their money better invested in Givry as their next chance at moving up with a victor in the family. The only person who cared about him and wanted him to win without conflicting loyalties was himself -- and his sisters. And they were the only people he cared about now in return. |