Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Weeping Angels - 6

The mist stirs around him, ghostly fingers catching at his hair and clothing as he passes through it. He gives a little slash with his sword, watching the grey fog swirl against the shining steel. Even here, beneath the trees in the gloom of a new dawn, the long s-shaped blade still shines.

Sure, there are a few dark patches now, but it’s just blood, and it’s all part of the game.

He’d even managed to cut two notches into the hilt, and he can feel the ridges pressing into his palm. One for the boy from...was it Eleven? It does matter now, not to him, he died just like anyone else.

The other cut...

He knows it was necessary, but that does make the memory any less unpleasant. He’s not thinking about his parents back home. In fact, he’s not even looking forward to seeing them again when he wins. But he can live in the Capitol, anyway. He doesn’t like to admit it, but home won’t feel right now. There’s something comforting in the shadows here, that thrill of danger and the knowledge that he can always, always better it. At home there’s nothing to even be wary of.

And there’ll always be a hole where she used to be. That tiny space in his mind, the gap at his left hand side. But at least he’s still here. Hurt, but here. And it’s not a fatal wound.

She never really had stood a chance, no matter how hard she’d tried. And it’d been fun while it has lasted. Now, he’s got a job to do.

There’s got to be someone nearby. From what he’s seen, the arena isn’t that big. They must be here somewhere. He’s beginning to wish he’d taken out the girl from Five when she’d crawled out of the river the night before, but the eyes on the far bank had been enough to make him not want to shed any blood. Mutts hunt blood. He was surprised that it hadn’t sniffed the wound in his side, still aching every time he moves but he’s been trained to deal with that.

Besides, he still had a one in six chance of seeing her again. He liked that idea - she’d give him a bit of entertainment. He’d spotted the sword held inexpertly in her hand. A nice quick fight, entertaining but no real danger. And one more down.

The ground underfoot slopes up slightly, and for the first time he notices the lack of buildings around him. The trees above him feel more open, more spacious. There’s still plenty of them though, growing bigger here than the ones amongst the ruins of the city’s streets behind him, but there just seems to be more space. He’s hardly surprised when the gates loom out of the mist at him, their black iron filigree rusting. One hangs askew on its hinges, still latched to the other.

The fence stretches away on either side, too high to climb. He could try go around, but he can’t see the point. His fingers slip on the rusted latch, flakes of black paint and rust sliding under his fingernails. His side gives a little twinge at the exertion, but he just bites his lip and carries on. The wound isn’t life threatening, and the bleeding has mostly stopped now, so it’s not a concern any more.

The latch gives way and the twisted gate slumps to the ground with a groan of bending steel. He gives the other one a push with one foot and it swings away from him without much protest.

A rush of cold air seems to sweep past him, fog seeping through the slats in the gate. Through it he can see shapes, stones, some tilted and others tall and proud, figures similar to those in the church looming out of the mist. Despite himself, a shiver races up his spine. He steps through anyway, because they’re just stones and stones can’t hurt him.

He trails the tip of his sword over the first marker he passes, the words crusted with moss and lichen, a date barely visible. The stone is ancient, from before the fires and the floods. He thought they might have done something about death inbetween now and then.