𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐊𝐔𝐋𝐋 ──
❛ they all said they do
not cower before death,
but when the reaper, the
personification of death
visited their souls, they
always kneeled, praying
and begging for time. ❜
· . ° ✎
the hunger games began in
xvi . iii . m...
❝ he fell from the heavens and was supposed to stay on earth, but he fell once more to hell. ❞
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𝘴𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘺-𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘹𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘰
IT WAS MIDNIGHT.
Two weeks had passed and everything had changed. The thrill of a knife piercing through skin and flesh was no more, instead replaced with a sense of despair as a familiar song echoed throughout the dome and familiar faces looked down on the Arena. From District Two were the two Careers, from District Eight was the final weaver, from District Ten was the final herder. Drums and trumpets worked together in harmony, creating a piece so haunting yet so beautiful, fragile yet strong.
The song of the Fallen for the killed and maimed.
The melody of death for the dolls of the Capitol.
As the song played, their final strings were snapped with cruelty. Not snipped soundly with a pair of scissors, but the strings were pulled and frayed from brute force. The fallen did not die in peace but died in screams of terror. Signifying the loss of another toy, the song was not played because the people of the Capitol mourned for a lost soul.
On opposite sides of the Arena were twins, one in the north and one in the south. Both perched near the border even if they did not know so. Far from the Cornucopia beneath the volcano and in the thick jungle, Agate Barone and Oro Barone sighed shakily, one tightly holding her hands together in worry and the other clutching the back of his neck in frustration. Tears of anger clouded the vision.
Twenty-two they had counted since the beginning and none were from District One.
Night passed by quickly as they looked up at the sky, choosing the star they would be if they were to be lost. Neither slept a blink. Both were willing to sacrifice themselves for the one they loved. It was almost peaceful before morning came as nothing interrupted their thoughts—not a bug, not a leaf, nothing. It was as though the Capitolians held sympathy for the twins, giving them time before their eyes would feast on a beloved's painful death before their hearts would be twisted and their souls torn apart. The serene time felt like a punishment instead of a gift. It was sickening, not peaceful. Agate would rather be chased and mauled by savage muttations or have the vines wrap around her neck than have such an uninterrupted time. It did nothing to distract her from her thoughts.
Minor scratches littered her body yet nothing severe, unlike Oro. His abdomen became home to a deep stab. Even when a piece of fabric covered it, blood still seeped out. The thought of letting himself bleed out alone, away from his sister, crossed his mind repeatedly. Then Agate would win without being cursed with his blood on her delicate hands, but he knew that if they did not meet in the middle, they would do horrifying things to his family—to Agate. Even if she won, she would return to District One with a broken soul and without light in her eyes. They would shatter her slowly, agonisingly, pulling her apart piece by piece.
He would never allow that.
When the first light of morning streamed through the canopy of leaves and created a pattern of leopard spots on the ground, Agate began to move. Oro stayed for a little longer. Her footsteps were slow and retracted and uncertain. Both looked up only to see black birds circling above the volcano, like vultures that were eager to feast on the dead, pecking their bodies to pieces and clawing their eyes out. Like the black garments worn in funerals, their feathers already foretold death.
Looking around, all the boy saw were dried leaves and mud aside from his weapons. Strapped around his body, his throwing knives felt a little too sharp, prodding his skin through his thin shirt tauntingly. With shaky hands, Oro grasped one of the blades, the metal cool and menacing, and hurled it away. It landed a few meters from where he sat. As though a hooded figure loomed over him, Oro frantically threw out all his weaponry—his knives, blades, and machete all gone.
He was vulnerable.
I'm not afraid anymore.
It was as though he shouted the sentence out when there were only the rustles of leaves and caws of birds.
Oro closed his eyes gently and took a deep breath before his eyes opened once more, the baby blue gazing up at the clear sky with a look of serenity. His tense back relaxed, the jitters faded away. Numbness took over every vein and every bone in his body that was black and purple.
Past his slightly-parted dry lips, bloodshot eyes, and evident eyes bags, there was a broken smile, looking much like a grimace. The boy was tired of it all and this was the time to let go. At least it would do some good. His sister would be safe and breathing, alive. But perhaps, she will only be surviving and not living.
Only one would have to die.
That would be him.
The Fallen Angel will be lost but the Grim Reaper will be found.
