Aramis Rosegold [D1 tribute] (knightofgrapes) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-21 23:27:00 |
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Three days after he had killed Cypress and one since he had been mauled retrieving the sword from the tiger's cage, Aramis still wasn't in any condition to go off wandering alone to hunt down Boy Eleven and any other tributes who might make the mistake of crossing his path. He was still limping, even if the pain from the deep stab wound in his thigh had faded to a dull throbbing as long as he didn't put weight on it for too long, and his left arm was pressed across his stomach, the grip on his dagger precarious at best when he still wasn't used to holding it with only three fingers, nevermind the sharp pain from the bites and claw marks that still burned and surged constantly. The sword -- still worth all the trouble and pain he had gone through -- swung limply at his side for the most part, though he sometimes twirled it around in arcs and circles, straining to smile as he showed off his favourite tricks to the cameras. At one point, he even turned to the unseen cameras like he used to and announced he had finally decided on names for both the sword and dagger -- Givry and Fleurie, respectively, though he didn't mention they were the names of his sisters. Perhaps there were Capitol women out there who happened to have similar names and thought he was thinking of them, and they'd finally sponsor medical supplies for him during a romantic high like they were supposed to do. But he thought of Givry's stern nod of approval and Fleurie's squeal of delight at home, and he looked down at the ground and let one of his rare warm, genuine smiles pass over his face. When he stared up again, he'd put on his predatory grin again, his sword ready to be thrust into a tribute's stomach or swung at their neck. What he didn't expect was for the silence to be shattered by the dying scream of a young girl. Aramis stopped walking and snapped his body into a fighting stance on instinct, his sword raised in one hand and his dagger in the other, eyes darting around to see where the scream had come from. Whoever it was -- he didn't recognise the voice -- must be close with the way it had rung loud and sharp in his ears, and that meant the girl's killer couldn't be far behind. Perfect -- his next kill was coming to him, saving him the trouble and pain of limping any further to find one. The stillness of the air was broken again as the scream ripped through the copse of trees once more. But this time -- 'I won't come back, I swear I won't come back. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.' This time, he recognised the voice, even if the words were unfamiliar to him. Girl Eight. Ariadne. He had vague memories of her from training, when he had given her archery lessons and she had remembered him as the boy with the flowers. They'd talked about school and work, and she'd asked him who he thought was the best-looking tribute. Normal teenager stuff. But she was dead already. He hadn't seen her since the blood-bath, and then her face had appeared in the sky the same night he had killed Cypress. Shaking slightly, he lowered his sword, wondering what the fuck was going on. Then -- 'Wait! Please don’t hurt me, I-I-I can — I can help you —' This time, it was a little boy's voice. He'd forgotten about this one -- but it had to be the clever boy from District 3, whom Brock had murdered as his second kill while he and Sephora had chased after his district partner, only to stop when they thought they were leading them into a trap. He was supposed to be dead too. Both of the Threes were. The boy shouldn't have been pleading to be allowed to live like he was right there next to him, and he started to back away slowly, stomach turning and fear surging through him as he just wanted to escape from whatever this was supposed to be. 'One false step and you and your bloodthirsty buddies will be blown to kingdom come.' He backed away faster, head whipping from side to side to see if there were any tributes playing tricks on him, waiting to attack him when he was confused and distracted. 'Stop, please stop.' Ariadne again. But she was dead. 'Rye!' This time, he spun around, expecting to see the boy from Eleven, either coming to someone's rescue or killing another tribute -- a girl in either case -- and readied himself to attack him. But he saw nothing but empty air and silent trees in every direction. He should have relaxed, but he only tensed even more. What the fuck was going on? Was he hearing things, or was this another Gamemaker trick like how -- -- and then he saw it. Something small and dark flew past and landed on a branch above him, and when it opened its beak, it screamed Boy Eleven's name again instead of singing like a normal bird would. Jabberjays. The crested black birds -- muttations -- were supposed to have died out after the rebellion and Dark Days over half a century ago. Aramis had never seen a live one before. They only ever appeared in Games every once in awhile, to confuse the tributes or drive them insane. And now that he saw they were only another Gamemaker trick, he let himself go limp, lowering his sword and dagger as he laughed. He wasn't in any danger at all. And he wasn't about to make a fool of himself in front of the entire country being scared off by birds. 'Well, if we're finished here,' he said, trying to speak in a conversational voice as the last of his laughter faded away and smirking at the unseen cameras again, 'I have nine more tributes to kill before --' This time, he froze and his eyes widened. An older boy was begging and screaming now, words and names like 'sisters', 'Addie', and 'Melia' striking through him. He hadn't heard that voice for ten days now after slashing both sides of its owner's throat. Eli. Now Aramis turned and started walking away, trying to keep his breathing and gait steady as he pretended he couldn't hear anything, that none of this was happening. He could hear the rustle of the trees as the flock of jabberjays followed him overhead, see their shadows pass across the ground. They couldn't hurt him -- none of the dead tributes could. 'You're a psychopath. All of you are psychopaths.' 'Spoken like a true outlier, jealous of us Careers.' He smirked to himself, recognising the voice as that of Girl Three. That was the only context where the words made sense. Then he wondered why he was even talking back to a jabberjay at all. He shook his head and kept limping. 'Go to hell, you goddamn waste of space.' Aramis stopped so suddenly, the coldness of ice rushing through his veins and freezing him from the inside out, that he almost fell to the ground, his crippled leg nearly collapsing in his shock and how the stab wound in his thigh burned as hotly with sharp pain as it did when he had first found his own wrist driving his dagger deep through it. He caught himself, stumbling before he regained his balance and spun around to look for the source of the familiar voice. Half of his face was throbbing again. You're supposed to be dead. I killed you myself. I drove a dagger through your skull and heard the cannon and felt you die inches away from -- 'Shut up, Cypress,' he sneered, eyes darting upwards to where the jabberjays were and a smirk twisting his face as he dropped his sword so he could reach into his jacket to pull out his last throwing knife -- the one he had named Spry. 'I killed you once -- and I'll gladly do it again.' With a flick of his good wrist, he let the knife spin and fly at the jabberjay that had spoken with Cypress' voice. Of course the blade didn't stick in the damn bird, bouncing off the muttation and falling harmlessly to the ground. If he just had a bow and arrows instead, he'd happily and easily shoot each and every one of them dead. 'What the hell is wrong with you?' 'You're so full of shit.' 'You don't know anything about me.' Aramis had been trying to walk, however unsteadily with his limp, away from where the jabberjays were hiding in the trees with all the haughty District 1 indifference he could, but found himself quickening his pace. He just wanted to get away from them and the screaming, dying voices of the dead tributes. There was no guilt in his heart and mind, but -- 'You call that a quick death? You tortured me.' What? He didn't think Cypress had said that at all, but his memory of that kill was a haze of pain, adrenaline, and blood-lust. He kept walking, his stomach turning over and over again as he remembered promising to make his death quick for his family after he'd made him suffer first by shoving his broken ribs further into his chest. His left hand twitched, and he didn't know if it was from his recent injuries or the memory of it against the other boy's broken body as he died. 'You have to let me live, everyone's counting on me, I can't let them down, I love them.' This time, his face hardened, clouding over darkly as it had after he had dragged out the body and sat slumped up against the walls of the locker bays. 'You think outliers like you are the only ones with family counting on them to live?' he muttered to himself, immediately feeling stupid for talking as if he was having a conversation with the jabberjay. Typical, self-righteous outliers, thinking they were more special and deserving to live than the Careers. 'If you were any kind of a decent older brother --' He broke into a run. '-- you'd never want your sister to have anything to do with the Hunger Games.' 'SHUT UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP.' Aramis tried to run faster, but as he sprinted unsteadily, the pain in his thigh stabbed sharply deep inside again, and this time, his leg buckled under his weight, forcing him to collapse onto his knees. Both weapons fell from his hands on impact from the fall, and he clutched both hands over his ears to block out the pleading and screaming, shutting his eyes and doubling over as if that would make them stop. This isn't real, this isn't -- 'They'll make you pay for what you did to me.' 'Don't kill him, he's only thirteen, take me instead.' 'You have to let me live, I can't let them down.' 'You're a psychopath. All of you are psychopaths.' 'God, it hurts so much — I don't want to die like this — I can't breathe —' There were hot tears prickling the corners of his eyes he had to blink away before they fell, and he didn't know if they were from the pain of pressing his hands so tightly over his ears that he was giving himself a headache and hurting his injured hand again -- or something deeper. He had to get out of the woods and as far away from the voices -- jabberjays, they're only jabberjays, they're not real, everyone's dead -- as he could, but he couldn't get up. And even if he could, he knew there was only one way he would be able to escape the voices for good. He had to kill everyone whose voices he couldn't hear yet, win the Games, and go home. And then maybe -- just maybe -- the voices would finally shut up forever. |