FROM HER ASHES³ ━━ Bellamy Blake

𝐈𝐕: The Light is Coming

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THE LIGHT IS COMING

TO GET BACK EVERYTHING
THE DARKNESS STOLE

┕━━━━ ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ━━━━┙

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( for MissAndreaPartridge  stay strong !! )

          "AS WE INVITE death into this hall, we honour it. Omon gon oson."

     All of me for all of us.

     Lyra's words echo through her own skull like warfare, bullet shrapnel. Time is half-frozen, half ricocheting, her heart hammering, restlessly colliding against her ribs. It takes everything in her not to shake violently. Fists clenching, nails searing into skin. Everything is hazy red. The spectators that throw themselves against the cage-linked fences that imprison the bleeding heart of the rotunda, Octavia who sits upon her throne, the two fighters thrown into the pits: a nameless man that will die tonight, along with Marcus Kane.

     Briefly, there is that old, dark flickering rage that had haunted Lyra when her dad had been shot, accompanied by the insatiable desire to crush the world and let it sift through her fingers like sand, but she swallows it down. Her lungs squeeze painfully with each breath.

     Her voice is the first to break the religious silence. "And, as always, be the last."

     And the tomb becomes alive with cheers. Bloodthirsty cries caterwaul from the bedrock and the damp shadows of giants dance in the torchlight, staining everything red. With an ash-soft heart, the man grabs a scythe from the chain link fence and whirls around to face his match.

     Kane does not even flinch.

     Ghost-like against the swarthy scarlet shadows, soil dark hair snarling loose from the strategical bun he'd tied it into, grey as granite in the gossamer-light. Expressionless. Some part of him had always known how to play impassive, a symptom of his trade on the Ark, when he'd been a crude politician that spoke with a tongue silvered by his lies. There's something eerie in the way his eyes catch the upper levels of the fighting pits, the way they glitter vacantly, almost hauntingly, as they seek out the Red Queen.

      "What is this?" The man circles Kane jerkily; he knows what will happen if they do not please the crowd. "Choose your weapon!"

In an attempt to force Kane's hand, the man strikes him across the cheek.

"Fight me, damn you! Or neither of us will get out of here alive."

Kane clings to his solitude like cold shattered glass, and the man's face is ashen. Distress dancing across his dark skin, sweat slathering his cheeks, he swings the scythe in what are surely are clammy hands. Drawing a gash across Kane's knee, one that bubbles dusty red. Crumpling, Kane falls into a sort of strange position, one where he is kneeling before his opponent.

"I will not kill this man!"

And their catastrophe is no longer dormant: Blodreina rises from her throne dangerously, lethally.