They are waiting for Corradhin, just the two of them. Danelieux and Amani. They sit by the fire, staring at the heavens pensively. Any moment now, the anthem should start. Two cannons were heard earlier in the arena, and they can only hope for the best.

But what is the best? Their ally, their friend, their brother...gone? A girl of ambition and spite...gone? A girl, a lover...gone? A young boy, full of life...gone? There is no ideal, other than the one that Amani wants. None other than what Danelieux wants. The only ideal is the one they are both waiting for, together.

The wait isn't long, the length is even shorter.

No, no. It can't be. I won't let it be true. He strays far from his reality. Tears form before everything sinks in.

His face is the first that shows up in the sky. Around his picture, colorful hues explode with whistling noises. Fireworks. Ones the colors of blue and red. They may be brighter than the night, but his face is the one that truly shines. His cold eyes seem distant, even against the artificial heavens. His smile is one Danelieux will remember, one he will take to his grave. It isn't fully pictured up above, his profile only shows the smirk he owns...the one he owned. It isn't showing a genuine grin, it is one of betrayal. Something he never did. Altogether, though, they make Corradhin Cole. They make the person who everyone thought would live until the end. If it wasn't for himself, it was for the vengeance he promised he would have. For the havoc he would create for Beckett.

No, he didn't make it to the end. At least not his end. He made it until Beckett's end.

But who decided at which of the endings Corradhin truly left? It could have been Beckett's first passing. One of retribution, one where Corradhin became the boy with a pulse; one where the District fell at cries of mercy. It could have been Beckett's second passing. The one of vengeance, one where Corradhin became the boy with a faltering pulse; one where more people were impacted because they came to love Beckett and Corradhin both.

It is where Danelieux de Leon would have passed.

Beckett Malen is no more; Corradhin Cole is no more. Boys with parallel deaths cease to exist. One was blue, the other red. Beck was the blue of the ocean, of the calm. Corra was the red of blood, of the taint left behind. The corrosion. They both created a purple, one of warriors and remembrance. Both are gone, but not truly.

The next face appears in the sky. It is the one of a young boy full of life, full of promise. But, he too is gone. Danelieux can't even focus on Reed the King's face, his innocent face. Danel's eyes are brimming with tears, so full and ready to fall. He should let them fall and taint his face, but he can't. Corradhin would have called him out on it because Danel should be focusing on the girl, on the one who has held the weight of the alliance. Danel should be watching her, waiting for her reaction. He could let the tears fall as well, but he won't because he cannot think of himself. Only of her, her emotions, her state of being.

Amani's eyes are already on him, or so it seems. He can't see clearly, the droplets are blurring his vision. But he knows her so well, he knows exactly what she's doing, what she's feeling. She's feeling blue, every hue and shade possible. Her mouth is probably tight lipped, her jawline tightened, her forehead scrunched up. But her eyes, they will always be an inconstant constant. He knows that they will be the same blue, always. However, he doesn't know how her tears fall, of the small splashes they make on her bare arms, the way her breathing becomes heaved. He can't hear any of it, not from the distance between them.

He goes over and wraps his arms around her, the way his mother used. Protectively, warmly, full of promise and life. The promise that there would be life. It's probably the way Bellona would embrace her family, if she had another chance. The way Anastasia would hug Cal and Amani, if she had another chance. The way Beckett and Corradhin would, if they were given a final chance. But they are all gone, and now there are only four in the arena. Four who still have a chance at that promise that there would be life.

But for now, it's just Amani and Danelieux. Just the two of them, waiting for Corradhin. For him and the promises of life.

~

She felt blue, she acted red.

Amani Alurai left in the middle of the night, that's all Danelieux knows for sure. He doesn't know whether she looked back at him as he slept. He doesn't know whether she left with a silent stream down her face, tainting her cheeks. It would be like her, if she did.

He doesn't know any of that, but he knows she did what was expected of Corradhin. To leave without a look back, without a goodbye. Without a note of any kind. Maybe she is the purple that came through the past of blue and the present of red. It would be like her, if she the mix.

Amani may no longer be by his side, but Night is. His cub who feels. He may not understand what Danelieux is doing or feeling, all the little cub comprehends is that his owner is still standing and approaching the day.

He approaches it the way he promised Bellona he would. Even if his family is gone. Two gone through Death's hands, one gone on her own accord.

"Night, come here," he orders.

Only it doesn't sound like Danelieux, his voice was never coarse and his throat never grew swollen. His voice is scratchy now, throat heavy with something other than saliva. Isn't guilt felt at the chest? The guilt that Danelieux feels isn't of actions he never completed. It's the one that eats at every single word he said, at the ones he failed to say to them. Before they left, before it became too late.

The first purple is gone now.

Night obeys anyway, following Danelieux as he walks. The boy is collecting his items, the few he has now. People never count as items, do they? His tomahawks are still pristine, thanks to the moss that cleansed all the blood off of them. His pack is still mostly full, but he shoves a couple more packs of food and bottles of water. Not for him, they're there just there in case he runs into Amani.

He's good to go now, but he doesn't know where to go.

The beach seems obvious, but that is the place of tainting. Of where most of the tributes died on the first day: through drowning, because of bleeding to death. But it is also the home of the fallen. Those who impacted Danel. Of the red and of the blue, and of the one with eyes the color of an electric blue. The one with a purple sister.

There is no way he can walk down the sand mounds, into the cooling mud and salt water.

The jungle is the only other place, it is the one that should have been obvious. Before yesterday, it was a place of good feelings. It is where he slept truly for the first time in the arena, where he began to sing again. It is where he found Night in the middle of the day. It is where he began to be again. But it is also the place where he beheaded Allium, where he hacked at Bellona. Two pawns dead because of him.

My personal Eden. He doesn't have a choice, really. So the jungle it is.

Even after a day of change and movement, the trails are still deep and moist. Danelieux would have expected some animal to sniff the trail, to smell human flesh, and dig deep into the earth. Or even some vines to fall over them. He even expected the Gamemakers to cover the trail up because it means something to a boy who is wanting. But that isn't the case; the tiny machete trails are still intact.

More than I am, he thinks. And this time he doesn't stray far from the truth.

He hikes for a couple of miles down the slope, but not precisely anywhere. He only moves so he won't have to wait. Waiting has led to nothing but bloodshed and hidden tears. Waiting led to him and Amani crying over Corradhin's body. Waiting led to him killing Bellona Viellana. Waiting led to a deep slumber full of bittersweet dreams. Waiting led to a thrown tomahawk and Allium's beheading. Waiting led to hesitation, all coming back to now. Hesitation of what feelings are okay to show to the public, and which words are allowed to be said, and what actions are allowed to be reciprocated.

He's down now. Down to the bed of logs and flowers, of falling vines that hid a sleeping boy. Once there, though, he notices the subtle change in the colors. The vines are grey and the logs are brittle brown. The bright yellow beauties are no more, instead simplicity covers the small field. The small flower orbs are now grey, and fluffy to the touch. He doesn't mind them, they are flowers all the same. The only difference is the color they reflect and the feeling absorbed to the touch.

His cool fingers brush over the seeds with small stalks when the first cannon booms. The picture shines so brightly and so quickly, all he sees is a girl. He is standing up when the second cannon shakes the arena. The image is removed so fast, all he manages to see is another girl. He is running to the final girl, hoping for her to be alive, when the final cannon makes its impact.

The impact isn't just a sonar wave. It isn't just a boom heard throughout millions of speakers in homes. It is the crushing of a soul, of a human enigma, of people and their feelings. The final cannon symbolizes the end. The final cannon rings with the final death. There were three cannons in all, and only four people left in the arena. He is it. He no longer has to wait or hesitate. The end of finding who he is over, because now he knows. It's confirmed when a purple hovercraft descends above him. The one of warriors and their remembrance

He is the last one standing; he is the Victor.

He doesn't hesitate or wait to zip up his jacket, shoving his final living friend inside. He cannot and will not lose Night. He doesn't hesitate or wait to grip the heavy rope, pulling himself up. He doesn't hesitate or wait to climb, arm after leg after arm after leg. He doesn't hesitate or wait to push the doors open, a smile somehow tugging at his lips. He only tenses when a man in black shoves a needle into his arm.

I am the last purple standing.

~

A pedestal is under him, forcing his body up. The same metal contraption that raised him into the ocean is pushing him yet again. This time there is no glass around him, no murky waters to cover the blue sky above. This time there is nothing, nothing but night. He raises into the arena, his arms are curving and his knees are bent. He's at the ready, but he doesn't know for what.

Skullduggery. Guile. Trickery.

All he knows is that he isn't the final one standing, there are three more. Still three more. But he can't worry about them, all three of them. Not even the one with blue eyes of pacifism and benevolence. All he can worry about is himself and the shades that surround him. It is all he can see: darkness, ink, night.

He doesn't wait for a beginning gong, allowing him to run. He doesn't hesitate to run the moment he knows where he is. And technically, he doesn't know where he is, or where he is going. All he knows is that this won't be easy; there is no easy route now, there isn't even a single route. Because when Danel runs, he notices that he isn't in his jungle.

This isn't my Eden.

Yes, the jungle is around him, but it isn't the one he familiarized himself with. It isn't one of cubs, and dandelions of yellow, and blue eyes, and red ambitions, and purple victory. It is one with trees covered in heavy shades of red. Of the blood that was lost through Corradhin, and Bellona, and Beckett, and Anastasia. It is one with sharp thorns and blue-green ivy. Of the calm that was found through Corradhin, and Amani, and himself. But mostly the one found through Night, his friend.

The cub runs beside him, his limbs leaping over fallen ivy and broken branches. Somehow, against the dark shades of the newfound arena, Night's fur seems to shine and glisten. He is ink against the coal. But the ink stops running at the first sight of red.

At this point, all Danelieux really cares about is getting the hell out of here, of getting himself and his cub to real safety, not a bewitching sanctuary of betrayal. So no one can truly blame him when he runs past the mangled and torn limbs of Neri, of her scathed clothing being held up only by the thorns. He doesn't care how she got there, all he cares about is how she's one down, and two more to go.

But of course, as soon as he wishes for his escape, he seems to be pulled deeper into the maze. And the deeper he seems to go into, the more strange his surroundings get.

The birds are chirping. The steady stream of sound he had, seems to get altered the more he runs. He no longer hears his swift footsteps, the swish of his tomahawks slicing the air beside him. He no longer hears Night. He can't strain his ears enough to hear the growls and howls that pierce the arena.

Singing for their sky. Yes, the sky. There is no clear skies here, only inky colorings placed up above. Danelieux can't contrast what appears to be the ground and what is the air. The only difference is that Danel can walk on one and the other is for those who float.

Maybe it's just the arena that ceases its voice, he thinks. So he tries a simple verse of his song. "And the humans speak / talking for you and I." Nothing, zilch. The irony that the arena throws at Danelieux isn't humoring, it's one of skullduggery.

Yet, as he runs, careful not to step on branches, he mentally hums. The audible comfort of having Night's heavy breathing and his own tread following him is gone. And the sky continues to be uncontained / and you and I continue to feign. The sky, the cold air is getting heavier by the minute. And Danel is getting lighter by each step he takes.

Where am I going, where am I going, where am I going? Nowhere and somewhere. He's nowhere close to death, but he's somewhere close to the end. But whose end is it? Will he die in the red fires, like Corra and Beckett? Will he pass in a crushing matter, like Anastasia? Or will he meet his end with sharp spirits, like Bellona?

It may be at the bladed hands of the girl ambition and spite. Maybe she was the only competition he truly had. Two Careers, two people ready to kill. One skilled at the art and the other trained to mimic. One with small daggers and the other with a tomahawk. One from Two, and one from One.

Amelia Montaigne is the girl of ambition and spite.

And the fields are growing. The ivy doesn't tangle her feet as she runs. She comes crashing at him, and the first thing he notices is the way her feet make the earth sink. If it wasn't for his lack of hearing, he could have spotted her from miles away. Even if he was never a good tracker. The second thing he notices is the way her daggers are full of red blood and welting flesh. It could have been Neri's, but he knows the skin could come from Amani. And as he recalls, the only reason the spite didn't kill the spirit was because the rage didn't allow it.

Corra is gone, his rage cannot restrict Amelia now.

She'll attack and he'll fight back. Sprouting for their lives. So he lets her come at him, her blue-green eyes once like emeralds are now the color of a crazed envy. She is small, it should be easy for him. But her hands are fast, trying to strike at him. The night doesn't allow her to see clearly, the same way it doesn't permit him to hear profoundly. But the one thing the night doesn't restrict is itself.

Night comes crashing through the air, his swift paws pushing its claws out. Amelia doesn't see him the way Danel happens to hear him. The small cub jumps on Amelia's chest, not the way he had with Amani or Bellona. Instead of playful tugging of hair, there is only dangerous clawing of flesh. A bite on the arm brings the girl from Two back to reality. Instead of focusing on the boy, she focuses on his pet. On his faithful cub of the night.

And the humans stare. It only takes seconds for a knife to be impaled into the ink undertones of fur. Only seconds before the cub opens his mouth, an inaudible howl of pain piercing the atmosphere. Only seconds before the girl's eyes meet the hazel orbs of a broken boy.

And time may be a concept of illusion, but it takes only seconds for the boy to swing his tomahawk down to the smaller girl. Granted, it takes but one second for her to fall with the concept that was a friend. It takes nothing for the emerald to fall and the earth to raise again.

He's empty when the second cannon that day breaks through the air. He feels nothing as he steps over her, glazed eyes still staring at the sky. He does feel the weight of the world when picking up the tiny cub. Night is weightless – Night is heavy.

He won't leave his friend behind, not his last friend.

He doesn't hesitate to continue pushing through, even when knowing how the end will be. But as Danel runs, he realizes to meet the final equilibrium, his verses need to be switched. One of them, Danelieux de Leon or Amani Alurai, won't meet the end of lies. He will force one or the other to meet the one of aliveness, of the promise of life.

He knows how the final fallout will be. There will be two Careers. One from Four and the last from One. The two friends will clash – blue against the brown. And what truly bonded them? There is plenty differences between the sea and the earth, between the calm and the pacifist.

And you and I / continue to lie. Lies, all of it. There is not difference. The two tributes are synonyms for each other, two parallels that only managed to intersect through the very fire that divided them. The one that continues to separate them.

He doesn't know what he'll do when he meets her again, his one true friend. All he comprehends is that one will perish at the hands of the other, and it will be kind. The death won't be of retribution or vengeance. Like he killed Bellona, the final death of the arena will be one of mercy.

Neither deserves to go any other way.

Danelieux never met the girl with stormy grey eyes, but he knows that she held the truth about the world. Anastasia is gone.

Danelieux never met the boy with eyes like his own, but he knows that he held the truth about the living life. Beckett is gone.

Danelieux never truly met the girl with eyes like damp earth, but he knows that she held the truth about the kindness of heart. Bellona is gone.

Danelieux loved the boy with eyes of fiery rage, but he knows that he held the truth about loss and all the hardness contained within. Corradhin is gone.

Danelieux loves the girl with eyes of the eccentric sky, but he knows she holds the truth about life and its single promise: that there will be life. Amani is here.

And as the end of the arena approaches him, the end of the line for one of the two that are here, Danelieux meets himself. He meets the boy with hazel eyes like honey, of glazed warmth. He meets the boy with a timid smile, of kindness and love to share. He meets himself: the boy colored through people. Made of brown. Of the corroding and destroying red. Of the alluring and healing blue. The boy outlined in yellow and grey: of the happiness and it's passing. It all makes purple.

And the fields continue / to be... Yes, the fields of the human enigma, completed by gossamer strings of experiences, of people and their hues of being. Completed by the boy composed of both verse and verve. Danelieux de Leon is a boy composed of purple, of a warrior and his remembrance. He is the final string of purple.

The enigma is complete, the purple is brooding. Danelieux de Leon is alive.