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...
THE FIRST CANON BLEW. Oro Barone's blood was smeared on Agate Barone's blades.
The second canon blew. Slate Barone's blistered fingers laid limply on Agate Barone's palm.
The third canon blew. The unnamed Morphing's body was taken away from Agate Barone's peripheral view.
Death circulated around her and everyone whose homes were the Districts. In caving mines, in fragile forests, in hazardous laboratories, in sweltering smithies, and not even houses could escape the far-too-often death. Accidents happened and suicide did too. Everyone was worn and frankly, so was Agate.
Perhaps, fortunately, there were many ways to die. A noose could snake itself around a person's neck and crush the air pipes or an arrow could soar through the wind and plant itself in a person's heart. Some were somewhat painless and others were painful even to think of.
At this very moment, there was nothing Agate wanted to do more than cutting through her palm as she intently gazed at the knife twirling round her fingers, eyes sometimes flickering at the bluish tinge of her veins under her thin skin. Would it be better if she struck the point into her neck? Would death then be more guaranteed as nobody could save her? Who would bother, anyway?
The sky was beautiful—it really was. The smell of smoke wafted into her nose, accompanied by the slight umami of the charred fish Finnick had caught only moments earlier. It was peaceful when the wind rushed past her ears and created a low rumble even when she settled outside the semi-circle the others sat in, a generous distance apart. Instead of a skewered fish in her hand, there was a knife, pretty under the scorching sun with its silvery gleam. Thin smears of copper remained, but they would be covered with crimson if she went along the chant in her mind.
She did. A little.
A perfect fleck of blood formed above the point where she had poked it with a pointed tip. A straight line of blood formed along the path she had scored it with a sharp edge. She winced the slightest bit, the pain only sparks compared to the forest fire of pain that had spread all over her body. The woman looked again at her palm, seeing patches darker and lines lighter, some silhouettes of a cluster of boils, others cavities whose matter had been eaten away.
