Pompeia Clacher [D2] (trajan) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-19 14:43:00 |
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Hugh was fucking miserable. Even shuttered away from the brunt of heavy rains in his home evergreen, the oppressive wetness of it all had penetrated everything such that days after the storm stopped he was still trembling in a grimy layer of dampness. It made suffering through the constant hunger harder and made concentrating on his hands -- as they sharpened sticks, as they tied clumsy knots -- almost impossible. He pulled out his last District Three roll and looked at it with a hawkish hunger, remembering Reaping Day and the bread his mother had pressed into his palm. Each year, he'd carefully eaten half the bite before the names and half after -- until this year, when he'd devoured the whole thing in a single moment of frustrated hunger. He hadn't really known hunger then -- it was more of a visiting acquaintance; now he knew the aching gnaw that hollowed him out and beat inside his skull like a drum. He carefully ate half his stale bite, then tucked the rest away with a trembling hand. Just a little bit longer. Just four more to outlive. A piece of leather nestled between his grinding teeth eased the ache a little. Though Hugh wasn't sure if there was any value to be had in swallowing it, he was sorely tempted, resisting only because he needed every scrap of remaining leather for the construction of a trap. It was a rough idea, born of desperation and lack of resources: sharp sticks tied around a rock he probably couldn't lift, carefully hanging from a tree with twine he didn't have. He was too hungry to think more than a step or two ahead, so he'd prepped the sharp sticks as he had last time before turning his mind to whippy branches. They'd be easier to find after a few days of rain. The rock would be trouble, so he put off thinking about it for later. Hugh's journey to Nimbus felt longer than it was in the abject loneliness of the arena. He'd neither seen nor heard a single tribute since Buckwheat (he hated himself for not helping her, for not being able to help her), and maybe that's why his knife was loose at his side as he moved, instead of out and waiting. The leather broke between his teeth as he felt solid earth again, and he chewed it with renewed urgency on his way to the treeline. A mile was a long way for sticks, but he needed branches that were thinner and more flexible -- and the altitude and soil on Nimbus were just different enough to grow things a little weaker. A sense of triumph filled his many empty spaces as he ran a hand over a Nimbus branch. Yes, these would do. He'd just finished cutting a handful of them when he saw it: a flap of silver between the mist-mottled green of his trees -- a parachute -- and inside, the familiar shape of District Three bread. Hugh could have cried for joy, and he dropped his sticks to nestle the parachute onto his bony knees, imagining as he unwrapped his gift that this must be how Parcel Day felt. His nodded thanks were a side-thought as the whole of his being focused onto a single, slightly warm roll, which he shoved promptly into his mouth, chewing around the piece of leather before swallowing both with enthusiasm. He had two more and then wrapped up what remained, pressing them into the damp safety of his zipped jacket. When he returned his attention to the trees it was with renewed enthusiasm. And Pompeia was still lost. The mist obscured potential landmarks. The hunger made it harder for her to focus on multiple things. In her normal state, maybe she would've looked for any differentiations in the rocks. Maybe she would've delighted in it, too. But between trying to keep moving, staying aware of her surroundings in terms of dangers or opportunities, and trying to ignore this feeling of her stomach eating itself, she just couldn't bring herself to care about whether she had passed this part before. And if she was headed the wrong way, surely the Gamemakers would do something to drive her back. She was hungry to the point that when she stumbled, she couldn't tell if it was some rock, tree branch, or her own feet. Still, a glare was fixed behind her like it wasn't her fault. Her sword felt heavy in the loop by her side, and she was half-tempted to throw a smelly water bottle off into the abyss to lighten the load. When she crossed the bridge, she thought she was heading back to the mountain with the vineyards, but apparently not. The bridge was too short. She considered gnawing on a grape vine still in her damaged purse when she thought she heard rustling in some trees ahead, to her right. Drawing her sword, she mouthed, Please do not be a fucking mutt, each word emphatic, as she started in that direction. Maybe it was one of those rabbits she had seen and was too slow for. The rustling had stopped, but she persisted. She spotted Hugh the same time she accidentally snapped a branch to get a better view. His face jerked up at the snap, his hands frozen on branches, his spine rigid as he realized that he and a sharp blade were mere inches apart -- and that following the blade out of the mist was a career. He and Girl Two were face to face -- or more like face to chest -- and he had a fist full of sticks and a hunting knife to her goddamn sword. Without thinking, Hugh twisted out of the way of the weapon's path, and slapped her hard in the face with his handful of branches. "You li--" She was interrupted by the branches smacking her face, and even one getting her in the mouth, cutting her lip to boot. Tired, and wielding her sword with only one hand, Pompeia had been slow to try to swing her longsword at him, and even slower to try to block the branches. She was faster at lunging forward to stab him, but he had already started running. Pompeia blew raspberries to try to get the taste of stick out of her mouth as she hurtled after him. Hugh gasped at the heat of metal glancing over his hip, tearing so easily through fabric and skin that they might not have been there at all. It was a very different kind of pain than the mace, with its clawing, tearing spikes -- if he hadn't looked down to see crimson spreading out over his waist, he'd have hardly believed it was there at all. But he didn't have time to contemplate the intricacies of weaponry, only the placement of trees ahead. He racked his brain, searching for the bridge to Cornucopia Island, panting and swerving around trunks until he came to a rocky cul-de-sac. Not the bridge, then. Hugh whipped around, knife clutched impotently in his fist. Pompeia was quite audible behind him. The ground slowed her, but instead of evading some of the trees, she seemed fine with running between the smaller ones, earning a few more swear words as branches snapped and clawed at her. She only slowed when she realized they were near the edge of the island, and walked the remaining steps towards him. Even though he was an outlier, she still eyed him warily. He watched her with equal wariness, his feet planted, his eyes on her sword. They were close to the cliff -- all he had to do was wait until she lunged and he'd only have to outlive three. Her hands gloved, she moved her sword so that her injured hand held onto a more dulled part of the blade. She meant to put her full force -- or what was left of it -- behind it, and she wanted to minimize the chance of him taking her best weapon, and she wanted more control. Wielding it as a half-sword, she suddenly moved in closer and thrusted the point towards him. He moved. But the reality of dodging a real attack was not like dodging his instructors' fists and feet, with their Capitol softness. When Hugh moved, Pompeia moved too, and before he could clear her he felt the pressure of her blade come to rest deep in his chest. She pulled it back out of him, ready to stab again -- but he didn't need another, he was done. In quiet confusion, Hugh crumpled heavily down, breath ragged, and numbly unzipped his jacket to watch red seep into the silver parachute and his District Three bread. He exhaled. "Well." But Pompeia, still not one for much words during a fight, was already moving forward for the next blow. She was slower, more deliberate. The rock underneath still felt steady, so she wasn't worried about it giving way, but she didn't want to do something rash and charge past him. Not when she was so close. Hugh watched her approach, aware in a dim way that the last few moments of his lonely, quiet life would be spent with the only career in Panem who didn't want to have a conversation. Fitting. He didn't need Pompeia, not when he had a cold hand of mist across his cheek to comfort him, not when he had District Three bread, proof that somebody, somewhere had believed in him for a little while. He wrapped a hand possessively around the lump in his jacket as everything got heavier, as his gears slowly ground down to their inevitable halt. He didn't put much stock into last words, so his was only "bye" as he pushed himself away from Girl Two and over the rocky edge of the mountain. For a moment, he was soaring in breathless, painless rapture, warm with bread and blood and freedom. And then, like the wolf so many nights ago, his end came unheard and unfelt. |