Playing The Victims [BL]

Chapter One Hundred & Forty-Six | Fourth World

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Finch could still feel the gentle brushing of Zephyr's lips against his own. The slight warmth that was left behind, slicing through the cold which seemed to have taken over the rest of his body. As if his heart was an engine which had suddenly roared back to life after all previous hopes had been lost. The limbs which he so vividly recalled going numb, experienced sparks shooting through them, as if receiving a jump-start.

His surroundings made it appear like he was under water, voices nearby were muffled and illegible. He couldn't determine how far away they were from him, nor move an inch to see for himself. His body had yet to catch up with his newly awakened mind, and as soon as that weight eventually lifted off of his chest, Finch was able to take in his first gulp of air.

It hit his body with a knee-jerk reaction. Air flooded into his lungs and his eyes snapped open soon after, followed closely by his renewed sense of awareness. Which told him that he was lying on the ground, the dew off stringy-leaves licked at the skin of his cheeks.

His body had been moved, but was still within range of where he had fallen. Removed from the grounds which had seen too much blood spilled, and to within the protection of the trees that had housed him since Falcon brought him to the spectacular setting they now called home.

The first thing Finch could appreciate now that he was back, was the canopy belonging to the thriving trees which were giants in comparison to himself. Through thick and thin, no matter which side wins or loses, they stood strong. Their roots ran deep, fuelling the vibrant ecosystem which provided the beautiful backdrop for a battle which was so petty and avoidable.

A light breeze which kept the air chilly following the barrage of rain, rustled the many leaves that surrounded Finch's resetting body. The familiar and powerful sound alike that of the ocean urged him to close his eyes and relax. But there was a stronger voice that told him to wake up. Especially now as the voices became clearer and the lucidness receded.

No one was looking his way, all backs were turned. Everyone's attention was trained on two individuals; two very familiar men who were coated in blood. Old and dark and fresh and deep crimson. They shared a mutual fixation on each other, never sparing a glance in any other direction. But all Finch could see from where he was lying, was the brute force behind each hit the brother's directed into one another's faces.

Oddly enough, no one else moved to aid or dissuade them. Half of Hawk's men were on the ground, either dead or clutching their bodies through gritted teeth. Even those who had avoided any form of injury, were plagued by this onslaught of torturous pain which stemmed from inside of them. It left them disorientated and unable to put one foot in front of the other. So they could only collapse and whimper words of desperation.

And then the struggling seemed to stop. The energy the men had exhausted trying not to get swept away by the tidal wave of pain, flooded out of them and each and every one of them slumped in varying forms of relief.

Those standing around, like Fyre and the remainder of his men who had so far reached this point with their lives still intact, couldn't understand what was happening. They could only determine the grief their comrade felt, the agony Falcon must be experiencing having the person he cared for die in his arms. And then to see the person accountable standing with an expression almost as familiar as his own. As if Hawk had the right to show grief.

Falcon saw red and lunged for his brother soon after Finch's body grew cooler and he was unable to feel the faint pulse in his veins.

It left Fyre, who still suffered with the arrow through his leg, with the job of keeping the young man's body out of reach. Thorn was the only one brave enough to help after much hesitation, refusing to believe what had happened before his eyes had truly come to be. Everyone stood while completely seized within the bleak feeling of loss. No one dared utter a word, so their leader did the talking— or beating— for them.