Aramis Rosegold [D1 tribute] (knightofgrapes) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-02-23 01:13:00 |
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'So, darling -- this is what it's all come down to, isn't it?' In the chaos and confusion of the pack finally turning on itself after three days of tension and a stand-off spiralling out of Zipporah's untimely death, Aramis had lunged at Brock's back with his sword -- only to miss entirely, which was why he had now sprung back, legs bent in a stable fighting stance with his weight shifted to the balls of his feet so he could dodge and lunge swiftly when the other boy inevitably attacked him with every intention of killing him. His sword -- that incredible find that had lifted his spirits out of his dark mood, and reminded him of his own deadly potential and why he was here once again, worth every injury and all the pain he had endured to claim it -- was gripped in his right hand, twirling and spinning the blade with an easy, elegant wrist as he stood back. And paired with the sword was his dagger, his hold on it awkward when he was missing two fingers on his left hand, his wrist stiff and unable to turn fancy tricks for the camera with his usual flair and flourish. He bowed slightly, struck a pose with both blades -- more impressive in looks than practical -- and grinned in that same predatory way he always did before a kill, waiting for Brock to make the next move. There was a shadow of his old self that surged with excitement over this duel -- the show he had promised the Gamemakers if they gave him a sword. He and Brock were the two largest Careers, the boys who had scored matching 10s and had two kills each, even if Aramis considered his own to be far more impressive. They were strangers turned allies -- friends, even -- and now enemies. Similar in many ways, but also opposites -- One versus Two, speed and finesse against brute strength, light and dark. Eli and Cypress had just been practice -- this was the real worthy challenge he had waited for all along, and now he got it. But most of that had faded away since he had killed Cypress, doubt about why he was here and what he had left behind clouding his thoughts in a dark mood. This wasn't about fame, glory, and honour for him anymore -- he just wanted to go home. Not for himself, even -- but so his sisters didn't lose him, their oldest and only brother. The only thing that could keep them out of the Games. They needed him as much as he needed them. And the only way they could have him back was if he killed anyone and everyone in his way to being crowned the victor. Even someone he was genuinely fond of otherwise -- like Brock. Fuck him and his eight younger siblings. They could survive without him. With eight left, one would step up to the plate if it was ever needed, when the meager portions a quarry family's salary could provide was beyond insufficient for growing teens. The Samson boy had wanted to give his family a more comfortable life, but they would never starve like so many others in the Districts might. Still, Brock was planning on seeing them again, even if he wasn't the type of tribute who attributed his motivation to his family. They would mourn him, were he to die, but long ago his motivations for volunteering had changed from enjoying victor earnings making his life better to simply being the winner, to prove his worth and ability to all of Panem. And that meant that Aramis was an obstacle now that the golden boy from District One had made his intentions clear. It would be a good fight, if Brock could win it, one to prove to the Capitol his ability, though he hadn't expected it quite so soon. He'd been looking forward to a few more fist bumps after a kill on a hunt. But that wasn't meant to be. He should have seen it; he did see it, really, but for some reason it still enraged him -- Zipporah's death, now Aramis deciding it was time to kill him? Fuck no. But que sera sera. Brock could feel a burning pain in his side as his bandages shifted but he pushed the pain aside; they had prepared for this back in District Two, and while this was much worse than any of the pain inflicted upon them in training, he was sure it was somehow helping. 'Don't act so surprised,' Brock growled back, though his words held no taunting; they were only fact. 'This is the show you always wanted, isn't it?' The wood of his staff hard and heavy in his hands, he swung the long weapon upward toward Aramis' hip, fight between the sword and staff begun. Brock wasn't wrong -- this was the big climactic fight Aramis had been looking forward to since entering the arena when he only saw the boy from Two as his true rival who could match him in talent and skills. He had only hoped it would be the finale if Sephora couldn't make it that far alongside him, and that he wouldn't be in such horrific shape after being seriously injured so many times while receiving no medical supplies that could heal his wounds. Adrenaline was the only thing blocking out how much pain he would be in otherwise, but even that wouldn't help his awkward grip on the dagger when he was missing fingers. 'I was hoping this would be the finale. Shame it's only going to be me getting that far now.' As he spoke, he stepped to his right to get into a better position to block Brock's weapon with his dagger as the boy swung to his left, then lunged forward to thrust his sword at his stomach, pivoting again and spinning after that in one continuous arc to drive his dagger with the added momentum into his left side in return. Far enough away to be able to comfortably turn himself away and avoid the sword, Brock had to act quicker when Aramis turned into his side, dagger close enough to slice into his side lightly, but even the briefest contact made Brock yell out, the pain from his burn like fire across his side. Bandages were pulled away as Brock stepped backward and away from Aramis, but too focused on the fight at hand he didn't notice the oozing from the wound. He was more aware of the lockers coming up closely behind him. Somehow they'd gotten more turned around than he'd realized, and he put himself into a defensive stance, focusing his next attacks on the dagger in Aramis' bandaged hand; it couldn't be too steady of a grip, not with only three fingers left. Aramis smirked as his dagger slashed Brock's side -- he hadn't been in a fight since the one where he had killed Cypress, and drawing first blood reminded him of how much he lived for this. It was almost enough for him to forget his dark mood about the reality of the Games and how his motivation for winning had changed, his sisters forgotten for now. He could do this. All he had to do was land one solid thrust with his sword somewhere vital and -- -- pain suddenly erupted in his left hand, already badly mutilated from his encounter with the tiger to get his sword just the other day, and his already precarious grip on his dagger faltered so that he dropped it to the ground as he nearly started crying in pain again. He blinked back the tears and fought to ignore that his hand was bleeding again after Brock's strike, focusing on gripping the sword with both hands now. It was too light to be wielded like that, but it was all he could do unless he picked up his dagger or found his shield. He rushed forward and pivoted again, this time swinging his sword downwards at Brock's right arm to try and disarm him -- literally or otherwise. The use of the sword was clumsy but even so Brock wasn't going to underestimate the other boy, not until one of them was dead. But he would use it to his advantage, whittling down Aramis's abilities to use his weapons. He had seen him in training, he knew what Aramis could do with a number of weapons. Even bleeding and limping and as injured as he was, one lucky strike could be the end of Brock. He didn't intend to let that happen. Moving his right foot behind him Brock stepped backward to try and get out of the way, but too soon he felt the metal of a locker behind him and realized he had to do something else or lose his ability to bench press. He jerked his wrist upward but the angle was off, he could feel his grip weakening. Moving his other to the staff he attempted to push backward against the sword but Aramis twisted, Brock's dominant hand losing its grip. Still, the sword was light, not meant to be used with two hands, and Brock knew it; he'd held the sword once upon a time when they were still pretending to be bros. He slid his back against the metal behind him, slowly turning so he was no longer trapped. Then, as quickly as he could, he rotated the wrist that still had a grasp of the staff, the long wood flipping and falling out of his grasp as it slammed into Aramis's hand. Well, wasn't this familiar. Aramis grinned, leering at Brock as he remembered trapping Cypress against the lockers and killing him only days ago. He had the advantage here, being familiar with how to fight in such tight, awkward quarters, and last time, he didn't even have a sword and -- -- he didn't have a sword again, Brock's quarterstaff flipping and striking his injured hand a second time, tears springing to his eyes once more as he swore in pain and released his grip on his sword despite trying to keep a deathly tight grip on it; his life literally depended on the damn thing. As he instinctively grabbed onto his left hand, now bleeding more heavily as red soaked through the bandages, with his right to uselessly quell the pain, he saw the other boy drop his staff as well. At least they were evenly matched again -- and while Brock had brute force on his side, he had speed and agility. Aramis ground his teeth together, then bit down on his lower lip to swallow his pain and focus, eyes narrowing in concentration and anger. He sprung back, snapping into an upright stance, legs apart and his right heel slightly off the floor, chin and elbows tucked into his chest as he raised both fists -- the stance of a trained boxer and Career, not an undisciplined brawler from the outlying districts. His left fist felt wrong with its missing two fingers, but he ignored it as he threw a straight punch at Brock's throat or face with his right, then left, keeping his distance and staying light on his feet as he tried to draw the fight back outside. The first blow Brock managed to block but the second hit him square in the eye, his sight blurring from a mixture of the strike and the blood from Aramis's hand that got in his eye. With his good eye he could see the boy in front of him, the one with the hair he seemed to love so much but now looked greasy and limp. His face was nearly unrecognizable from the boy he fist bumped after the bloodbath, no more cockiness on it; now all he saw was pain and determination. At least he wasn't smiling like he had a minute before. Brock was never the one to chat while trying to kill someone, or so he had come to learn in the last few days, but he would have said something if Aramis had continued to look like he was enjoying it. It wasn't that Brock didn't want to fight him. He was angry and he would enjoy winning, but he wouldn't enjoy killing him. He had long ago accepted that 23 were going to die every Games, that killing them was not wrong for that reason; if he hadn't, he wouldn't have volunteered. But it was an odd feeling, one that settled funny in his stomach, thinking about Aramis enjoying killing him after having been allies. But with any luck it wouldn't matter. This was where Brock had the advantage he was certain, despite Aramis's training. He was stronger and he knew Aramis's weakness. Bringing one arm up in front of him Brock slammed the heel of his hand straight into Aramis's nose, his other fist driving toward the boy's stomach. In any other fight, Aramis would have laughed and smirked when his fist connected with Brock's eye, but here, he simply clenched his teeth, pushing the pain that reverberated back through his mutilated hand and arm to the back of his mind and readying himself to punch him again, hopefully bringing him down long enough to get his sword back. But Brock was faster -- and definitely stronger. He found himself backed into a locker, and before he could duck or whip his head out of the way, the other boy's hand slammed into his face, shattering his nose with a sickening crack as he cried out in shock and pain. He couldn't see anything but stars blurring in front of him, pain and pressure exploding in the centre of his face and creeping up to his eyes. His head started spinning with nausea when blood poured out his nose and into his mouth, but it wasn't until Brock's other fist smashed into his stomach that he doubled over, an agonised whine torn from his throat. But that gave him the opportunity to grab Brock's middle, throwing off his centre of gravity and forcing him onto the floor. Aramis threw all of his weight at the other boy, slamming him onto his back as he pushed himself back up to straddle him between his thighs. This time, he allowed a triumphant grin to twist his bloody, bruised, and battered features as he threw another punch and leaned in close to Brock's face. He knew he should have learned his lesson from his fight with Cypress, but he could never resist engaging in theatrics, so deeply bored into his style and nature as it had been since childhood. And he couldn't turn down making a play at another brother's connections with his sisters -- but while he had gained Eli's trust and manipulated Cypress' anger to will him to attack him first, he only wanted someone else to feel the same pain as he did now when he thought of his sisters waiting for him at home. 'You have eight younger siblings watching you right now, don't you, Brock?' He stared into his half-closed eyes with a smile, teeth bared, and wrapped his hands around his throat, squeezing hard enough to make his intentions to strangle him or snap his neck known, but also allowing him to speak if he chose to do so. 'Any last words for them?' Fragments of thoughts flew through Brock's brain, the idea that he would once again have the advantage now that they were on the ground, the thought that perhaps he would die just as he had first killed: with a quick snap of the neck. But then Aramis brought up his siblings and Brock almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Did he think that mentioning his siblings would be some sort of weakness for Brock? This was just another ploy for the cameras, surely, but not one that was affecting Brock like it had done others. Aramis's hands, even as weak as the one was, would be much tighter were it not. 'Just this,' Brock said, just as he punched Aramis in the teeth. He should have learned about the cost of unnecessary theatrics from his fight with Cypress. And he should have known better than to try his smug, manipulative tricks, the playing of emotions and heart-strings, on someone from Two, where they were as hard and unmoving as the stones they mined. But Aramis didn't have time to feel shock and regret -- his smile fell and he had barely turned his head when Brock's fist smashed into the side of his mouth. There was another explosion of pain where he couldn't see or feel anything else, and his mouth flooded with blood, spilling out onto himself as he spat out teeth. He could taste iron and bile, and he wanted to throw up all over the floor as his head spun and his stomach kept turning, but he fought through the nausea and pain. Blinking back tears, he thought he could see his dagger on the floor within reach, and he wildly threw himself forward to grab it before Brock got the same idea. Brock could feel a crunch underneath his fist as it collided with Aramis's mouth and he used the moment to push the boy off of him and onto the ground. Through his unswollen eye he saw something not too far from where Aramis lay -- his dagger. Lunging for it at the same time Aramis did he felt his hand wrap around the smooth handle, his hand whipping up toward the boy's face. Just as his hand had been about to grasp his dagger again, Aramis felt Brock push him off, throwing him away from himself and the weapon. He whipped his hand out to try and grab onto the collar of the other boy's jacket so he could pull his weight forward and lunge for the blade again and get it first. But just as his arm reached out for his second attempt at regaining his own weapon, Brock beat him to it. All he saw was the steel flash of the dagger as it rushed at his face, crying out when he felt the sudden, sharp pain along the right side of his head as hot blood ran down his neck. He jerked his hand up to where his right ear should have been, and his eyes widened in shock and horror. Under less deadly circumstances, he may have cracked a joke about matching Vellum now, but he had to shut down his fear and pain if he was going to kill Brock and win the Games. It was like he was on autopilot now, everything he'd trained for happening and more real than he could have expected except somehow it felt like someone else. Brock could see the dagger flash, the blood coming out of Aramis's ear and he was ready to strike again, this time at the throat, when— -- Aramis saw the the blade coming this time. And before Brock could slit his throat, he lunged forward and collided his own injured and bleeding forearm against his to disarm him, twisting around to grab the same arm before tightening his free hand into a fist and slamming it with all the strength and weight he could into Brock's chest where he knew there were burns that would make his strike hurt even more than it usually would. Then he pulled away and staggered back to where he had dropped his sword. If he could just get the damn thing back into his hands, he could run the other boy through the stomach and out his back, meet up with Sephora, and the two of them could run away together until the finale. He reached out with his right leg to drag the sword back to himself without having to bend down to the floor, leaving himself open to another attack from Brock. Which was exactly what Brock did. His chest was reeling from the blow straight to his burns; he'd let out an unholy sound when the contact was made and he still felt like he was going to throw up from the pain but Aramis was scrambling away, certain (or so Brock thought) that he could not win the fight. Which meant that Brock probably could. It gave him the time to unhook his mace from his backpack, tied up behind him the whole time available to access easily enough if he'd had the chance— which Aramis had never given him until now. The quarterstaff was his weapon of choice since the moment his mentors sent it down from the sponsors, but his mace was Ol' Reliable, and it would hopefully serve him well. Staggering after Aramis, Brock could see him going for his sword but he closed the distance between them as quickly as he could, adrenaline thankfully masking his injuries enough to concentrate. And with extreme rage he aimed his blow for the boy's knee to cripple him, making it impossible for Aramis to get his hands on the sword once again. Aramis had just gotten the end of his foot on top of his sword, smiling despite all the adrenaline-dulled pain he was in, and he had started dragging the blade backwards when he saw Brock swinging his mace -- where the fuck had that come from? -- towards his leg. But before he could spin out of its way, the mace smashed into his right knee, shattering his knee-cap. Despite all of his injuries, Aramis had never experienced anything this horrifically painful before, and this time, he screamed in shock and pain as he collapsed onto the floor and started crying, his leg giving out under his weight. For a moment, he thought he was going to black out completely, and he absently, desperately pulled himself backwards across the floor, his broken, bloody mess of a leg dragging after him and leaving a trail of red in its wake. It was a lot of blood, Brock noticed, more than he'd seen in any of his fights thus far, but he wasn't going to dwell on it. There would be more. Aramis would have spared no mercy on him, so Brock was going to spare none on his opponent, and he came at him swinging his mace once again. 'Stop crying,' he muttered, a look of disgust on his face but with any luck the cameras would only see one Career displeased by another's pitifulness, not the funny feeling rising up in him as he watched this boy he had once laughed with show weakness. It wasn't going to make him stop, anyway. He was trying to get back outside, where Sephora should be running back after taking out the Fours and she could help him -- or she wouldn't, as he had told her he would cover her and catch up later. Aramis had no idea if he had already heard one or two cannons boom since the pack had turned on itself. Perhaps she was waiting for him elsewhere in the arena, eager to hear about how he had taken out Brock. Or maybe she was dead already. He didn't know, and he wouldn't unless he won this fight -- and despite his determination and refusal to accept death, a part of him knew he wasn't going to live for much longer. If this had been the finale, the Capitol would fix everything once he won, because they had to have a victor. But abandoned by his mentors and sponsors, there was no hope for him even if he killed Brock and escaped. And when Brock slammed the mace into him again, this time into his chest and smashing his ribcage as he leaned against the lockers and tried to stand on his good leg -- that was when he really started crying, a scream of rage and despair torn from his throat as he collapsed, doubled over, and started choking on more of his own blood and finding it hard to breathe. His mind drifted to three days ago when he was on the other side of an eerily similar fight, and he thought of his sisters -- Givry and Fleurie, waiting at home and watching him die slowly in agony. If he was there with them, this was when he would shield their eyes from the brutality of the Games, holding them close and wiping away Fleurie's tears as he made her smile again. But he wasn't there to protect them now -- and he wouldn't be able to protect either of them from being next in the family to be sent into the arena once he was dead. The weight of failing twice over as their older brother, and breaking his oath and promise to win and come home, made him cry even harder. There wouldn't be a happy ending to this story. It was a certainty now, Brock was sure, and while he was glad that he was about to kill Aramis, glad about the excitement in the Capitol that would hopefully translate to sponsorship, glad to be keeping his life, all he really wanted was to get it over with. Get the cannon, the kill count, and make Aramis's crying stop. Stop his pain and the embarrassment that came from it. End the life of the boy so eager to turn on him the second Brock's district partner went down. He swung again. And again and again. It was easy now, Aramis wasn't even fighting back, he was just making sounds Brock never would have imagined coming from another person. Or maybe he was making those sounds. Aramis was fading so quickly, lost in a haze of emotional and physical pain as he bled out and Brock continued smashing and shattering his body into a broken mess with his mace, the pain so agonising and overwhelming to his senses that his mind was shutting down to ease him out of it. Sometimes, it was said that dying was like going to sleep, and while he had never agreed with that while watching tributes pass away in agony during the Games, he thought he liked the idea enough to believe it now. If he just shut his eyes and went to sleep, he could see his sisters again like he had whenever he drifted off into his dreams. Never waking up from that was a nice thought to go out on. 'Hey, Brock?' There was a ghost of his old smile and smirk on his face, as unrecognisable as it was now under all the blood and beatings, like when the two of them had laughed and bonded over taking out District 12 together at the start of the Games. 'Congratulations on finally getting an impressive kill.' He closed his eyes for the last time, moments before the final deadly blow from the mace smashed into his face. And just as his head fell onto his shoulders, the cannon sounded. His story was over. |