★LAURUS ENZO★

 At first, there is nothing but bright light: ignited embers through tongues of flickering flames. After a close escape, there is nothing but obscure darkness: corners creeping through the single hall of the hallowed basement. Then, there is nothing but the sound of three pages crumbling and of a boy breaking, falling down on his knees and thinking that deep breaths and heavy eyelids are good signs—if slumber is to follow, it can make him stop thinking of everything. As of now, "everything" concerns the predicament in which he's in, one he knew would come one day, but not so soon, and definitely not today; he has just deprived himself of the arena's flames, but only to fall into something that burns even more and closer to the soul.

See, people from District Eleven have always said, "That Laurus Enzo...he's our own version of a soldier. He's got it together, an even mix of everything necessary to win the war." It didn't matter how old he was, or at what stage of his life he was in, as the inhabitants of his home have murmured those words ever since he was a child, left orphaned on the doorsteps of an uncle's place.

When he was a kid, he didn't understand the title—what does being a soldier even mean? He was only a child, and he had no clue what a soldier was made of, had to experience and endure. The only hardship at the time was not having a father or a mother, one he could bring to small events held at the school. But even then, that trouble was surpassed with the grace of his Uncle Mino—he became father and mother, separately and together.

As he grew up, he still didn't comprehend the title—what does being a soldier even mean? He was only a rascal, and he had no clue what a soldier was made of, had to experience and endure. The only hardship at the time was having to work double the amount of time because he and his uncle needed a bit more on the table. But even then, that trouble was surpassed with the grace of opportunity and hard work—both gave the Enzo pair more than they needed, more than enough.

The time came in which he became an adult, and he had yet to fathom the title—what does being a soldier even mean? He was only a man, and he had no clue what a soldier was made of, had to experience and endure. The only hardship at the time was living—not surviving, living—because he felt as if everything could end at once. It could, and he believed it would. But even then, that trouble was surpassed with the grace of Victory and leaving the arena—the two-week break he had was necessary, as was the time he made up with Uncle Mino.

He has never wrapped his mind around what being a soldier even means; the only thing he has been able to apprehend is that the war he is to win is more complicated than simple guns and ships—it involves sacrifices through grace and graces through sacrifice. Perhaps, now, that is what he needs: the graces of a family, the graces of ambition, and the graces of himself. But first, the graces his body craves more than his heart does: sleep, slumber, the gone. It is with that endlessness of a blank mind that he sacrifices himself...

The room should be large, but the amount of decorations encompasses the place. On the walls, there are pictures of a variety: the unmistakable texture of crayon of paper, and the glossy shine of photographs protected by glass. In the corner of the room, three people surround something, that something being a tiny bed.

The first person to tilt their body is a man, possibly in his late-thirties, with a head full of coarse and curly dark hair, and with eyes that are dark but as warm as the touch of roasted coffee beans—he emits light through the shadow of his physique. The second person to move away is also a man, but this one is younger. The only indicator of this is his height, off by a few inches from the previous man's, but aside from that, they are almost identical.

They are the Enzo brothers, and with them is the new Mrs. Enzo. She is lovely, or at least she seems to be. Her face keeps shifting into two images: Isabella and Levana. Her hair goes from the dark, tight ringlets of District Eleven, to the silky strands of the Capitol's artifice. Her eyes and skin go from a glowing brown to the coldness of porcelain and icy blue. An in-between of the two is attempted to be found, but none is achieved; the woman is either or, and that is because there has been no tangent idea of her beforehand.

When all three back up, a child is found sleeping amongst stuffed toys on a bed.

One man, the proud father, says, "Thank you for letting us move in. We had nowhere else to go, and we didn't want to split up as only one of us could take him."

"Oh, please. If you left for whatever reason, you know I would have been searching the streets until I found him," jokes the loving uncle.

"Now, Mino," teases the mother, still ever-changing, "Who ever said both of us would desert him, especially without consulting you? We are no monsters, and we would never leave our baby behind—never ever!"

The trio laughs, but the uncle isn't as loud. He knows his brother like he knows himself, and he can read him better than any other, and while he's not quite as firm on the wife, but he can read her body language too: they would leave the child in a heartbeat. And perhaps they were, but it was a miracle that he accidently bumped into them one day, all without knowing they had a child—still nameless, too—of only a few short months away from two years.

The couple excuses themselves so the uncle can familiarize himself with his nephew. They close the door shut behind them, and he says: "Your name will be...Laurus, like a laurel tree and like the word 'us.' And 'us' means all of us: your father, your mother, you and me. They love you, you know. As do I. Welcome home, Laurus."

Outside the door, the brother whispers, "I'm home," and further away from him, the wife murmurs, "We're home."

The baby is all but physically surrounded by those who love him, and he gurgles in his sleep. It is nice to be home, and it is nice to be with a family that loves...

Through the haziness of his dream, he can clearly recall one thing, one letter:

Laurisito,

I fear that there is little time left with Mino. He says he is doing okay, great even, but each day his condition worsens. From as far as I can tell, there is little chance he will recover; keep in mind, however, that I am no doctor. I wish I could tell you something definite, but all I have for now are some observations. His coughs are more of a hack, and the chills that run through his body could crack through the dryness of the earth itself. I do not know what you want me to do, and I do not know why I am sending you this in the first place. I simply do not want my friend to suffer without anyone but myself knowing what state he is in; he cannot be alone.

Please, come home soon; heal your uncle as you always have.

Yours, Isabella Bedlam.

It is that remembrance of that letter that triggers his next dream...

With two parents and an uncle, he never has to work like the other children do; all he does is play with the children from the town, even if they sometimes pick at him for looking and talking differently.

"It's 'cause I was borned someplace else!" he tries to defend. These children do not care what the boy has to say: they are stronger than him, they are better than him; almost anyone is stronger and better than a boy raised in a hut, even if he has things to spare.

Later in life, he is still friends with them, or he thinks. They only keep him around for jokes, something they developed early on in life. It doesn't matter that his body is grand, as his strength is meek in proportion. They can say whatever they want to him and they can do whatever they want with him—there will be no repercussions.

He is bossed around, completely submissive to their words, and while one may think that is the worst part, that is untrue. The worst thing is that somewhere deep inside of himself, he believes he deserves to be treated this way, somewhat servant-like. He does nothing at home, and before getting a job, there is no other place to learn how to take orders. The boy likes the way things are run, has no complaint against them...

Slowly, he can feel himself stir, and with it comes the waking of his mind. In a tiny alcove rests the words of a letter, one almost torn, but saved by the powers of sleep:

Aliquam,

I am sure you have now heard from Mrs. Bedlam, and though I know that it is not your uncle's time yet, I would like to let you know that you are both always in my thoughts and prayers. As mentioned before, whatever you need, know that I am here for you. I wish I could send you something of his, or that I could give him something of yours, but there is no way I can access the arena or escape to District Eleven.

I am asking you to do something you have done before: win. Everyone knows you have the strengths to do so, and everyone knows that you do it more for him than for yourself. This time, I need you to do it all for yourself. You need to live again, even if it means a life without him. Please, do not become displeased with me; I merely say what I think to be right. If your fight continues to be for him, so be it. All that matters is that you win and you make it out alive.

Go home. Breathe life into him and into yourself.

Yours, Levana Elixir.

The horridness of that entire occurrence—even if all falsified—is enough to trick his mind into giving him one last chance at something good, a new experience...

There is no telling what age the man is, but all that one can note is that he is alone. It is solely not obvious on the small pack he has on his back, the way he seems to be completely lost, but also in the way in which his face is wrinkled despite his healthy physique, and in the way in which his eyes—dead things, dark and unwarm—are blank, the victims of circumstance.

No one can describe what he has gone through, as it has not been much. Yes, he comes from a loving family that has always stuck together, and yes, he has not had to struggle like everyone else has—his life has been almost perfect through the lenses of someone else. But, what does that matter when he was the person to split the family apart? What does it matter when a fire was "accidently" created, and a mother and father died? What does it matter when an uncle was allowed to spend the remainder of his days mourning, his death coming through grief?

None of it matters in the end, he realizes.

He continues walking, sure of his uncertainties. He doesn't have a single clue of what he wants: he could continue to run from one district to another, or he could camp out on the outskirts of Eleven, nearing Twelve. He could do this, and more.

The problem, however, is that he wants to return home.

The man is not ignorant, and he knows that no one is waiting for him on the inside of the hut. But is it so wrong for him to want that? To want to come home, the rest of his self just as crushed as his eyes, the windows to his soul? Perhaps it is just as wrong, if not worse.

The wandering stops, yet still he is lost, unrooted and drifting into the endlessness of the air...

His eyes—his soldier's eyes—are open once more. He has seen many things in his life, most of them with eyes and mind alert, and among them are the devil's dreams where young men die and where graveyards open up for loved ones to cry, but this...this is "everything," and "everything" has encompassed something new:

Dearest Nephew Laurus,

Trees are made of so many things: roots, trunks, branches and leaves. Over the years, many a leaf has fallen off, and with them my years remaining; the branches have begun to dry, and with them my memories and mind; the trunk has created faults and cracks, and with them my body withers. All I have left are the roots, the sense of my essence: you.

Come home to me. Perhaps, then, I can become a seed ready to be replanted.

Lovingly and longingly yours, your uncle, Mino Enzo.

P.S.: I suppose an orange tree will suffice, as I know I will remain your favorite.

Laurus Enzo will be the soldier the people of Eleven have always titled him to be; he will return home after this mess of a Games, and he will allow his soldier's eyes to look over his Uncle Mino's hands and face—the smoothest and gentlest parts remaining on the hardened and wrinkled man's body—, and he will commit the image to memory. He will get all details down and remember every single one, if only for the fear that it will be one of the last times he sees Uncle Mino alive and well, rooted down to the earth and without a chance of drifting off into the endlessness of the air...

★PERCY COLE★

When Percy awakens from a sore slumber, he discovers three things, three rather new things that've always lacked a requirement for consideration before this point. The first of these things is the vessel in which he resides: his body. Soreness rolls over the joints when he repositions himself, and the eyelids themselves ache once he gets himself stuck in a fit of rapid blinking, lashing away the sleep. One wrong shift of the arm makes him hiss, makes him bump elbows with Josef, who sits curiously beside him.

This hiss and this bump, it cues Josef in on his wakefulness, and he turns quickly, sticking a wary arm out so that tentative fingers might brush the hairs on Percy's arm. He doesn't dare press any harder. Simply exhales. "Christ, kid. After all these hours being clonked out, now you decide to wake up? When I'm on the verge of cardiac arrest?"

Again, Percy blinks, furrowing brows and tightening lips. "I...I'm sorry?" Hoarse. Pathetic. Gross. This is hardly characteristic of a Cole. He turns so that his eyes are positioned firmly on the hand in his lap, but finds only confusion. The hell did my bandage go?

In staring at the hardly-healing wound at the back of his hand, though, he discovers the second thing, right through the corner of his eye. They sit above the trees - the nightly remnants of a vicious charring, that is - and close, foaming waves that curl up against the rocks a ways off. Staring out like this, upon this ledge of vegetation - it makes him woozy. He moves to place a hand against his temple, but the very act itself sends a bolt of pain rocking through his right shoulder, and he bites his lip. Before looking, he knows exactly the reason for this, and casts a piteous glance Josef's way in hopes- well, he doesn't rightly know what to hope for. Just something.

The man ices up in the eyes, wary. "That burn's nasty. Second degree, I think. Tried to get the swelling down while you were out, but I'm not sure it did much."

Percy clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nodding at the words. He should've seen this coming, really; Four's real big on karma, even went and ingrained its eventual return since his - well, incident with the matches. He wants to complain, he wants so badly to complain - but he can't.

Self-pity has no place here.

Realizing he hasn't yet said anything back, Percy shakes out of it, blinking again to flush away the haze. "Thank you, thank you." A yawn; the night stretches. "So, how'd we get up here? I mean, assuming I don't sleepwalk." Anymore.

Here, Josef shifts, turning to stare somewhere between direct eye contact and the expanse of dark sky. "Well, it took me a minute to get over to you after you collapsed on the beach." He raises his brows here, and Percy catches it. "Fighting and all. But I managed, dragged you half the way, carried you the rest. I stopped us here. Kind of a dead end, if you couldn't tell." With this, he spreads his arms out to the wavering nightlights. "By the way, you should probably eat something. You weigh practically nothing."

A smile quirks at the corner of Percy's mouth. "No, no, I'm good. I'm...I'm good." He coughs, shifts his weight so that his shoulder doesn't brush up against a wall of dirt he leans against. Breaking eye contact is nice here, but he instead comes to acknowledge that familiar feeling of being watched. With better ears, he might hear a camera shutter and zoom.

Perhaps it's better not knowing some things. This view, it's lethargic, and he can almost forget the searing burns and peeling skin so long as he looks to the glistenings and twinklings. Strange that there's no smoke, yes, but he can't muster up the strength to question it. And why should he? Attribute the third discovery to this - to this sense of having no obligation to question something.

It feels nice. He can breathe, he can swallow. He can, for just a moment, feel immortal, sat up all straight and looking down at all those hunched branches and singed leaves.

And yet, a question still strikes him (for it's in his very nature to question), and he wonders, can he die?

A statement leaves him in a whisper, note, not an answer, but a statement, curling out in wisps. And it sticks with him, it stings. But there is no flinching. He's too relaxed in saying so.

"Joey. I don't want to die."

An exchange occurs without words, a mutual understanding that a minute of comfort is quite alright, and Percy, unable to sleep with his back to the earth, uses Josef's shoulder as a headrest. There's little protest, if any at all, before fluttering eyes close completely and, like a child, the younger of the two dozes off into a (fingers crossed) dreamless sleep.

But when has crossing fingers ever truly worked?

See, the nothingness can only go on so long before a dream begins, but there's something incredulous about this one, for the nothingness is characterized by an incessant ringing of the ears - something that makes Percy cringe during this flightless dance of paralysis. He stands straight and feels trim, yet movement ceases to occur until the ringing reaches its peak. A cold air bounces from wall to wall (for he does know this new place has four walls despite never having seen them; that's the thing about dreams, friend).

When the chill whiddles itself away and the ringing cuts off, Percy is free to move as he pleases. He begins with opening his eyes.

A soft television glow, flickering harshly with the black and white bees of static, makes itself known against skin, illuminating the hollows in his fingers and the like. The rest of the place is dark, and already he can feel the sketchiness of the shade, of the quiet. And, yes, though the cold is gone, he rubs his arms for warmth as he shuffles forward, preserving something he doesn't quite need. A habit of surplus? Perhaps.

Perhaps. Perhaps.

He gets caught in a repeat of walking beside a plaid couch, but no worry comes to him. Repeats are familiar, and after the third reset, he's allowed to crouch down in front of this box of a screen. Carefully, crisply, he examines the various knobs and buttons with his fingers - as the glow isn't bright enough to see by - hoping one wrong press won't blow him up. His thumb clicks a circle in place, and though the likelihood of him being blown up now is low, he still scrambles back a good foot.

Ah, yes. That's the ideal distance for avoiding combustion.

Nonetheless, the static stops, followed by a shifting somewhere deep within the rectangle he's just tinkered with. For a good minute, the screen turns a blinding shade of blue, and just when Percy decides he ought to leave the room altogether, a motley of colors presents itself on-screen, along with a few numbers and slashes in the lower left-hand corner.

At this, he eases himself from his haunches onto the dusty floorboards, brows tucked harshly together. I don't know what this is. No straining of the mind helps him.

The footage itself is rather low-quality, and he can't help but wonder why he should continue watching. His family never could've afforded a camera, so this'll have no relevance to him.

He tells himself that, yet he sees himself, a messy-haired ginger of three years, mouth cupped into an "o" shape as he grasps his mother's arm, peering at the blanketed bundle situated there. "It's a baby!" he slurs on-screen, ebony eyes flicking from one face to another, as if he can hardly believe the existence of such a small human. A winsome amazement.

"That's right, Perseus. And my cooch is certainly paying for it."

"Cleo!" This abrupt noise comes from a buff man hardly in the shot. Dad. A bit of resentment accompanies the title, but nonetheless, Percy watches on.

"What? It's true." The woman with the ashy hair and pointed chin turns to the wobbly child, weary. "His name is Nigellus. Means champion. The two of you, you'll take over the world. You hear me?"

"Yes, momma."

The picture cuts off here, and as it transitions into the next slide of images, Percy sucks in a great, resounding breath. From what he's gathered, this can go one of two ways: sweet or bitter. Thus far, he stays put with the bittersweet, but keeps alert in the case of one outweighing the other.

This next clip is one set in darkness, with the lights clipped off and four faces illuminated by the bare flicker of twelve tiny flames, some brighter than others. Immediately, Percy recognizes the scene - an all-out squandering of extra income for the sake of celebration. Here, his younger self sits upright with his arms folded over the table, leaning a little too close to the candles for comfort. Ironic, it now seems, to see the excitement lapped up on his own cheeks. Had he wished to know the future, would the baby fat still be pushed aside so vehemently by that smile?

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you-"

Percy here and Percy there - it doesn't matter where - shivers in unison. The end of the song is cancelled out.

"Now make a wish!"

I wish to go back to before.

Little Percy means to blow the flames out, but Nigel jumps in ahead of time, spraying air and dispelling the honeyed golds. In the dark, Cleo, his mother, can be heard laughing, and Nigel can be heard getting his giggles cut off by a swift kick to the shin under the table. "Ow!"

In front of the screen, Percy giggles, but quickly grabs hold of his lip so he doesn't get too out of hand. Little shit.

The next clip is quick to light the room with daylight images of Four. Rather than matching words up with the sights, a voiceover takes the stage as Percy roams about, a handful of note-strips clutched tightly as he hops over the curb and back into the street. The Percy in-the-now watches intently, for he doesn't recall anything like this specifically, nor does he recollect ever saying the things he most definitely says through the speakers. He knows it's him beyond the voice, though. It's his mind being expelled here.

"Miss Cortal asked me today what I wanted to be when I grow up. And none of that kindergarten bullshit either, she was serious and expected a serious answer. I stood there for a long minute, but just ended up shrugging my shoulders. Told her I'd think it over during the week. And I have. I've thought long and hard about how I want to spend my life, really spend it. I want to spend it with my brain and heart. I love my brain. I love my heart. I am smart. I am good. I am a good person, I think, and I don't ever want that to change."

Here he is, around fifteen, caught on tape plastering one of his little notes to the wall of some market. Accomplished quickly, he dashes off, already heading off to the next destination. Now - now the in-the-now realizes what this is. A hobby he'd had once upon a time was taking all those riddles and poetic lines and facts he'd read about in stolen books and pasting them in notes across the district. Later, when they were all pinned up, he'd waltz around and watch as some elderly woman or aching man leaned in to read one. And he'd wait for the smile, or the chuckle, before they went on with their way.

He'd been a good person, once.

"I've decided I want to be a teacher. For little kids or bigger ones, I don't care, but I want people to be smart, to be good. I want to see that I've helped someone and raised up a community, and only then will I be satisfied. Point blank."

The scene snips away, and Percy hugs his knees to his chest, resting a chin on the bones. Warm - this has made him warm, and whole, and he waits impatiently for the next slide to pop up, biting into the fabric of his pants in anticipation.

However, with the next spray of pictures, he can't help but think, first, that the clips have restarted, and then that these clips aren't of him at all.

And, once again, he is plunged into that area of self-loathing, especially when he sees a little word in the corner under all the numbers and slashes: Nighy.

A newborn cry fills the room; someone says, "Look, Ian! Roury's finally stopped hiding!"; Percy folds.

But he does not look away, no, these faces, all eight of them (including the infant and his mother) are far too intriguing. They inspire awe because Percy can't help but feel that their expressions are much too like his own when he'd first seen his brother. For some reason, this strikes him, this strikes him deep.

The transition hardly registers before a boy dressed loosely is seen calling up into a tree, where branches shake and green shivers. "Oh, come on, birthday girl! I'll catch you if you jump!"

"Yeah, and I'm gonna have a successful future. I don't believe you, Ian!"

Though the aforementioned birthday girl isn't seen, Ian most definitely is, shielding his eyes from the sun, gray eyes crinkling. "You can't get picky with your trees here, Louisa. Might as well enjoy this one." He cocks an easy grin, spreading his arms out as if welcoming the girl into a hug.

Percy, having suddenly developed a habit for gnawing his nails down to the stubs, watches silently as a shifting takes place and, with a grunt, a small force plummets to the earth. Ian sticks firm to his promise, but neither he nor the girl could've possibly accounted for her thwacking her mouth on a branch on the way down. In his arms, she sits, cradling a crimson mouth, a tooth, and a rather pissed expression.

Ian blinks. "You can't blame me for that."

The screen fades out, and once again Percy lets out a chuckle, though he can't discern this one from a nervous tic. He rubs a hand against his face. "My god."

When the voiceover joins in, covering a very simple scene of Ian seated at a table with nothing but paper and a pencil, Percy can hardly say he doesn't expect it. By now, he's simply tired, and watches with very little hesitation.

"I've decided who I'm meant to be today, Emily. And I really mean it this time, I do." Equations upon equations are whizzed through, math filling sheets and sheets that are eventually pushed aside for more numbers. "I don't care that the laws of this District say it'll never happen, but I, Em, am a Gamemaker."

Rather than restarting or continuing, the device itself clicks off, screen blackening and static coating the glass. Even from where he sits, Percy can feel the heat radiating off the bulky thing. The sweat under his arms doesn't help. With the silence, he is given time, and in that time, he realizes that he's never really considered Ian or his life before this point.

Now, now Ian's human.

Now, now Ian's dead.

Voices blast through the speakers without background noise, even with the screen off, and Percy scrambles backwards, crying out in surprise at the sudden blares.

"I want to be remembered. But not for taking away another's capability to not want to die."

His collected demeanor is scattered to the wind in the next line, a sudden switch from safety to danger, where heavy breathing and squeaking tones are the primary. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

Again, his voice dives out, but Ian comes back in place of it. "Keep me alive." Whispered as a last minute prayer.

One and the same, they are, as they surround Percy in the middle of this room, as they force him into a ball, and as they say, at the same time, "They are much the same, but one is not immortal."

The television clicks itself on, a magnetic boing that lights the screen up with the color of flames and the faces of fear, of Percy and Ian in a staring headlock. Here, these two lives meet. Here, the real Percy screams, and he doesn't stop screaming until the image of fire glitches out and switches to something else.

It is he, in cap and gown, caught in ten seconds of walking with his head down, of grasping a diploma with twisted fingers, of grinning weakly to a graduation crowd he's been so humbly able to attend due to his survival.

When he smiles, he looks as though he's about to cry.

Percy hates himself for smiling.

"I love my brain. I love my heart. I am smart. I am good. I am a good person, I think, and I don't ever want that to change."

When Percy awakens from a sore slumber, he discovers something that's never really required consideration until this point. This discovery has startled him out of sleep so badly that he clings to Joey like a child, shaking vehemently at every joint with his face buried into a stock-stiff shoulder. The man eases down, asks something concernedly - "Hey, hey, are you okay?" perhaps, but Percy cannot hear him over the ticking haze caught in his own head.

Everybody dies, but he has not yet lived.

So keep me alive, alive, alive.

★CONSTANTINE CRANE★

I am happy.

Constantine pretends. He pretends that Cadette isn't a liability, he pretends that he's younger than he his, he pretends that he hasn't ruined his chances of survival by helping someone he can't let go. He's professed so much, blocked out all touch, protected enough. He's tired, everything he's done in these games has drained him, each moment drags on and on.

Sleep claws at him, dragging his eyelids down with an unprecedented force. His body can barely support itself, leaving him collapsed. Though the sand is soft, inviting and lovely. It reminds Constantine of his district eight estate, and warmth radiated into his body from the sun setting on the horizon. His arms embrace it, outstretched like a bird in flight. Sand grains radiate heat into him, giving sensations of warmth. It's a calm scene.

His mind juggles consciousness, sleep drifts in and out. It mimics a fight, one perpetrator being alertness and the other: falling asleep. The latter wins eventually, and Constantine dozes off into the unknown. Memories and mistakes germinate in his eyes. He's scared of what might come, insomnia had stricken him after he won. Every night it had attacked him, and every night he continued to get fewer hours of sleep. But now he lays there, exhausted, and only then could he fall asleep without the aid of anything else. The dreams begin.

I am eighteen.

The scene is familiar, a recurring moment ever repeating in his lifetime. Most of the time he felt happy and confident, though a utopia can't last forever. It was two years after his victory, and surprise was still setting in every day. He'd put on a smile for everyone, showing everyone those pearly whites. That smile would fool everyone, it sometimes even fooled Constantine himself. But in every bit of euphoria there had to be some form of misery, after all, light couldn't exist without darkness. He was a man living in a dichotomy.

Every day was another crack in his mask, and what would happen once that mask broke? He didn't want to become the marginalized victor finding solace in self-damage, yet he couldn't block away from his emotions. Pain struck his mind, every day was met with throbbing heads and trembling hearts. His actions and words didn't match what was inside. Constantine was a captive to himself, slaving away under an image of what he wished to be, but not what he was. Hell was waiting inside of him, but on the outside, he gave hints of heaven.

A cycle was placed on him, every day felt the same. He was caught in clockwork but didn't want to lose track of time. He didn't want to be kept in the same lifestyle until he died. He was trapped. Thoughts pleaded for him to escape, but he didn't know how. Voices in his head were masses of people each one wanting more and more freedom. Ideas were present, but none were acted upon. There were chances, but Constantine never took any.

I am fine.

Everything was going smoothly until it wasn't. The world around him had seemed to stop, and the life he had built up for himself had come crashing down. Life had taken him down, unchained him from his misery but exposing him to the monstrosity that was read life. The one thing that was unpredictable had been the only thing to free him, yet in doing so it left him damaged and empty. It had left him tripped up, and it had shattered his mask.

The day stings in his memories like a fresh cut, salt being thrown in every time he remembers his actions. The world had been turned upside down. He had fallen apart, the low confidence phase he had thought he stopped had come back. Living wasn't worth it, as it had no meaning. Constantine had stopped himself altogether, leaving himself in the dust. The society that he entertained had no remorse as it continued forward trampling the boy in his tracks. They wouldn't stop for him, they would stop for no one.

As the days began to blur together into a new cycle he was now haunted by his past self. Images from the games he was once a part of burned his dreams, leaving nothing but ashes in the form of dark bags under his eyes. The victor lay awake at night staring into the dark abyss he wished would overtake him. The void was the only true exit from his eternal suffering that was life. Soon enough he was swallowing pills just to embrace the quickest seconds of sleep, but they still weren't enough to dull the pain and horror. After all, they weren't pain killers. Even if they were, could they remove the immense torment he experienced?

Soon he began to grow, he wasn't afraid of the skeletons in the closet, even if he was one. He knew the hell waiting below him, and Constantine wasn't scared of it anymore. He wished not to suffer, he wanted liberty. Brave was never a word that would be used to describe him, but now he embodied it. Fear was building up inside of him but it wouldn't break through now. He had control. He felt adrenaline coursing through his veins. His heart beat the inside of his chest thumping at its restraints and bending the bars that were his ribs. The muscle worked quickly, trying to get in every beat before it silenced.

On his night table was a phone, which he picked up and quickly dialed a number into it. As it rang he heard the echo vibrate off the walls. The quick trill of the electronic marimba felt harsh against his ears causing a wince in pain. Finally, he heard the woman at the end of the line pick up. He took a sharp breath, but he continued along. Constantine wasn't going to led anxiety control his life for another second.

"Hello, Constantine!" Cadette said through the device. She seemed unfazed at the time, yet she was there and that was all that mattered. She was beginning to slip away from mentality as old age had set in, but in this moment she held on.

"I'm sorry. Thanks for everything you've done for me," Constantine said, his voice trembled as the words poured out through the mouth. It was bold, and it was unlike him. There was silence for a second before her response.

"I-I don't understand." She responded. The boy didn't reply, only clicked the end call button and stood up facing the bathroom door. His legs felt like weights, keeping him tethered to the Earth. He didn't want to be saved, though. The pull felt tighter every step he took, never the less he persisted. He made his way to the medicine cabinet and found the orange transparent bottle. He looked up into the bathroom wall. He saw himself, a devil in disguise, and he hated it.

I am not afraid.

He uncapped the bottle, the white cap flipping through the air like a coin. Inside was the tablets he was looking for. He shook a line out into his hands. A small smile crept across his face before disappearing. They were the shape of small paper clips, and the two were both round and useful. They were dull as well, but he took a quick breath. Constantine cupped the sleeping pills in his hands, bringing them closer to his mouth. He tilted his head back a bit throwing them deep into his mouth. He swallowed them one by one, savoring the flavor of death.

One by one their effects set in. He began to feel nauseous while his legs began to tremble, and soon enough he fell back against the bumpy stucco walls of his bathroom. His back slid against the wall bringing him to the floor. Constantine's head hit the ground, his senses began to fade. He heard the opening of a door down below and a calling out of his name. Foam and vomit burned his throat as they arose, but by then he was long gone.

He deserved it all. The pain inside building up was all worth it to him, but he needed more to justify his past. Constantine wished for an eternal sleep, only then could be possibly catch up on all the sleep he had missed, and only then could be possibly better the world. Aside from him were the murderers, a line of the dull paperclip shaped capsules spun on the tiled floor. He heard the door open up for a moment, though he didn't want to be saved. He accepted his end, he had no fear, he had no regrets, he let go.

I am not lost.

Light, love, and warmth greeted him. It was something he was unaccompanied too. Aside from him, the cardiac monitor beeped in its constant tempo. The inside of Constantine's chest felt empty and barren, and his stomach had nothing in it as well. His head still felt light, but he began to take in the environment around him. His senses were bombarded with sensation, he felt things and was able to experience the old life for what felt like the first time. The sharp sterile smell of the hospital attacked his sense of smell, while the harsh woven cover for the bed irritated his back. Fluorescent lights forced his eyes into a squint, his mouth tasted of metal, and the chatter outside all mixed together into an overload.

At the side of the room was Cadette, alone. His mentor was the only one who cared to visit, not his mother nor his father, only her. She watched him with red eyes, purple bags and a flushed face. Her stare was intense, angry let shreds of sadness and relief. The blonde curls pulled back and lips pursed in a solemn pout. Her hands shakily rubbed her arms as the pretty wind entered the room. It was yet another old sensation that felt new. Quiet snow fell from the clouds outside. Constantine looked deep into her forgiving and damaged eyes, he wanted to say something to her yet he couldn't.

She stood up and strut over to his bedside, picking up one end of the bandage around his chest and pulling it tighter. Cadette cared for him, but he was blind to see that. His fleeting faith had blinded him, leaving him paralyzed to any form love. The actions he did had left her in the waiting room scared and worried. She looked deep into his eyes, and he saw the hollow empty gaze, she wasn't truly there. The one person that was there wasn't really there at all.

She leaned in close, planting a small kiss on his forehead. Her lips curl into a pained smile, and she whispers something.

"I'm sorry too." It's quiet in the room, it became still. Cadette's hand reached for Constantine's, she squeezed it quickly before pulling away. "It'll always be hard, and life will be against you." She swallows, shivering. "But know that someone out there loves you, and --" her voice gives out. Another smile plants itself on the thin lips of the elder victor. She turns and walks out of the room, sighing heavily with her heels clicking to the same beat as his heart.

I am lucid.

As the dream fades out the mind brings itself back to the present. Constantine's eyes open, staring overhead as the stars twinkle and weave themselves in and out of existence. He looks over to Cadette, seeing her sleeping soundly and breathing shaky breaths. He cares for her as she had done many times for him, and he doesn't pretend anymore. He accepts the truth, even if he doesn't enjoy what it entails.

I am damaged.

( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

★HERTZEL KOZLOWSKI★

Prelude: His mother's sing-song cadence flits, crystalline...

Verse 1: Click, click, boom.

It's blatant this is a dream because the pain is no longer crushing. Conversely, it is only his gut which suggests this will be a nightmare.

The grass surrounding him is tall and weedy. Everything is auburn and up to his knees. It looks like Eleven, but much more so, it looks like mnemosyne, lest he forget her. Nostalgia rushes his nostrils as does the most unctuous aromas; capsaicin, or that of volatile esters. He remembers lacing this topsoil with glycerin, he remembers the spitfire and the screams. Most of all, he remembers the girl from Seven, but he has never forgot her. She had a face that was haunting long before he peeled it away; newborn cheeks, still yet to go hallow with age, and glistening eyes, but a gash along the mouth. It split her lip, turning all of her expressions into a tepid frown which tapered off into pus and infection. As much as he tries, he cannot remember if it was an injury sustained in the arena - in here, he takes in the ghoulish landscape - or at her home. He supposes it doesn't matter, not after what he did. Not after the ignition.

It was a trap taken from the notes of Adel Aslet. Perhaps the blood lay on her hands? The idea is one he likes to entertain in his fantasies, but is never able to.

His mother told him to just let it be. She talks a lot of crap. Anything to justify her banal existence. If that means excusing her son's victimizations, she has no qualms. The words meant nothing to Hertzel because he knew they were coming. He can't just forget his life like she can. As soon as he thinks about the explosion, he triggers one in the dreamscape.

Refrain: Fire leaps from the ground, engulfing him as much as it licks at him. The consistency is tempestuous, such that he suffers burns even though his body temperature is a thousand degrees. What's worse is the force. All of his organs are shoved up his throat, and none of them work anymore. The force inhales, leaving himself and gravity together a hundred feet from the ground, thought that number decreases exponentially; such is free fall. The ground comes with a crack and a black which devours.

Verse 2: Click, click, boom.

When the light filters back in, it's fluorescent. Curly-Q lightbulbs shining from behind corrugated glass. Desk after desk line the floor, and student after student habituates them. It's the fourth year classroom at Brefford Elementary, a class which he begrudgingly attended. Funnily enough, Mr. Clough is nowhere to be seen, and the chalk scribbles are not in his distinctive, rangy, scrawl, but something painfully generic.

Hertzel is sat at the back. Nobody else notices the sudden appearance of his apparition, for they are drowning in drudgery. Doesn't anyone else ever stop for a bit, and just think?

There's 37 kids in the class, but generalizing like this, it may as well be a thousand.

All of them are inconsequential. All they will ever do is exist, and consume. Time sinks, black holes, money pits. We need a new Hunger Games. Not a Quarter Quell, but an Eight Exorcism.

Something tells him that a snap will grant his wish, so he obliges. A phantasmic, orgasmic, flourish of destruction follows.

Their heads pop like fireworks. Sparks linger on the wooden walls, then turn ablaze. Red spark fly, and red gushes too. More and more explosions appear in symphony. The blasts reinvigorate each other, then combine into a blast indistinguishable from the last.

(Refrain)

Verse 3: Click, click, boom.

This time it's Adel. Tricky Adel. She's saying 'it's just the two of us'. She's saying 'it's you and me'. Hertzel has to rub his eyes. For a second, it seems that the loop has broken, and that this world is the real one, but the pain is still kidnapped, and surely not everyone could have died whilst he slept. How silly it is, wanting pain and competition?

"I have a plan." This is Adel. Hertzel feels like he doesn't want to talk, but even when he tries to, nothing but air escapes his lungs, as if his tongue has been torn out by the shockwaves. What is he without his tongue? His wit?

"I've set a trap," she reads from the first, second, and third drafts which are in her head, "one with two ignitions and two ends. One will trigger an explosion underneath the switch itself, the other will go off here," she gestures at her feet.

"You choose."

The walk to his place was measured, and suspicious, and recked with dread. He was traipsing, not walking, yet the world passed. Nothing her was of his volition. What is control without agency? What is a choice in a world where everything is set into motion eons prior?

Nothing.

Hertzel awakes from the stupor, though not from the dream, and in despair, slams a fist into both of the switches simultaneously.

(Refrain)

Postlude: Percy Cole wishes he could create this kind of carnage.

★SEBASTIAN MERCIER★

The fires had stopped but Sebastian was reluctant to leave the small cellar. The idea of simply staying where he was and resting was an appealing one. Though he knew he should leave, find a safer shelter, Sebastian lacked the determination to do otherwise. Before long his head fell against his shoulder, his eyelids dropping shut. He slipped into sleep easily as his mind wandered to memories of the past.

It felt wrong, sitting still and letting stylists fuss over his appearance. No matter how he looked, Sebastian knew that those in District Seven wouldn't want to see him. He might not have killed either of their tributes, but he was a reminder that they had died. Sebastian shifted in his seat, his fingers curling into his shirt before one of the stylists smacked it away. He snorted. God forbid there be wrinkles.

A grimace passed over his face and one of them made a noise of displeasure. It grated on his nerves, but he didn't say anything. Even if he had, he would have made no difference. Sebastian no longer had control over what happened to his own body. Stylists poked and prodded him incessantly, turning him into someone new for interviews, banquets, visits to a stranger's house. He had tried not to be so furious about it, but he hasn't succeeded so far. He's beaten death and poverty and grief and for god's sake, he's a victor, but the pedestal he's been put on has left him alone in an unwanted spotlight.

"Sebastian!" Gloriana trilled his name and Sebastian's grimace deepened at the sight of the blonde. A victor from over a decade ago, Gloriana seemed to have forgotten what it was like, being fresh out of the arena. The first time they had met, Sebastian had assumed she was from the Capital until she'd told him she was a victor too. With her ever present cheerfulness, he wondered how someone who had been in the arena could be so happy. Didn't she have nightmares? Didn't she remember what she'd done? Sebastian was inclined to think she didn't.

Gloriana snapped her fingers and Sebastian couldn't help the flinch that followed. Fortunately, the woman didn't seem to notice, and immediately began jabbering. She was the one who told him what to say before interviews, told him how to behave when in public. More makeup was caked onto Sebastian's face as she spoke. He wondered how people ever wore it on purpose.

"-and don't forget to smile this time!" Gloriana glared at him. Her disappointed expression warred with the smile that seemed permanently etched onto her face.

"You're a victor! You won, be happy," she said brightly, and something in Sebastian snapped.

"How the hell am I supposed to be happy?" he snarled, jumping up from his chair. Startled gasps and screams came from the stylists, and he batted away their tentative hands roughly. He couldn't stand more people touching him right now.

To his surprise, Gloriana didn't flinch, or scream, or do anything like what he had expected. Instead the smile fell from her face, her features hardening into a blank mask. She stared him in the eye, shoulders stiff. "Everyone leave." The words were devoid of her usual pep, and the surprise Sebastian felt at it made his skin crawl. Without protest the stylists left. The room felt all too large without their busy chatter filling it.

"What-"

Gloriana cut him off. "You do not lose your temper in public like that." Her voice was cold and unforgiving.

Anger heated Sebastian's body, his hands curling into fists. "I'm not in public," he snarled. "I'm not going to be "ruining my reputation" or whatever it is you're worried about."

Gloriana shook her head, a mirthless laugh escaping her lips. The sound was alien coming from her mouth, yet more human than Sebastian had ever heard her. "You don't get it yet, do you?" she asked, despair creeping into her voice. "It doesn't matter where you are, you are always in public." There was a raw quality to her voice that kept Sebastian silent. "What you want, what you feel, doesn't matter to anyone."

Sebastian swallowed, her words holding far more truth than he wanted to admit. Some of his anger drained away, replaced with a faint sense of hopelessness. Even so, he still tried to argue. "I'm a victor, I matter more than everyone in this district." Arrogance from years of believing he was the best crept into his words and Gloriana shook her head, eyes closing briefly.

"You are not important. Your image is." She moved a step closer, suddenly intimidating in a way she hadn't been before. "Why do you think you can't write your own speeches, wear your own clothes? Because no one cares about your opinion." Resentment seeped into her words as she stepped forward, backing Sebastian against the wall. "We're puppets. We speak words prewritten for us, cry tears that we don't feel, act according to a script written by other people." With each word her voice grew more and more bitter.

Sebastian shook his head. Her words couldn't be true. He had to be important, had to be someone worth caring about. Otherwise, what was the point of being a victor? "That's not true. I can do what I want, people care. I have everything and anything I could ever want."

Laughter clawed its way out of Gloriana. "Do you? Do you really?" Something cruel slipped into her tone. "Can your family still look you in the eye after what you did to Amara?"

Sebastian sucked in a breath at the mention of his cousin. Pain bloomed in his chest, a crushing guilt settling on his shoulders. Amara's face swam before his eyes, her sad expression right before he killed her painfully clear. He shook his head, Amara's face disappearing. He tried to form an answer, but the words refused to come out in face of Gloriana's sad yet triumphant expression.

"That's what they don't tell you about becoming victor," she said quietly, her tone softening. There was an understanding in her words that had been lacking before. "You become the victor, but it's a pyrrhic victory. Once you're out, all you are is a pretty face with rage you can never let out. You're a manufactured version of yourself, molded by the Capital.

"You're not a person anymore," she said so softly Sebastian could barely hear her. "Merely a symbol of their power." A shadow passed over her face, and she looked away. Words tried to push their way out of Sebastian's mouth, but something told him to stay quiet, to let Gloriana have this moment in peace.

When she turned towards him again, any sign of the raw, real emotions had been wiped clean, as though they'd never existed. Her smile was back, but now Sebastian could see the forced lines that created it. "I think we're done here. Let's go." Gloriana's smile widened, and she shuffled him out the door. Before they crossed the threshold, she rose to her tiptoes and whispered, "It's going to be hard. But you'll get through it, like you did the arena. Just try not to become like me. Keep something of yourself," before she shoved him into his stylists' waiting arms.

Despite himself, Sebastian couldn't help but disagree with her advice. He didn't want to keep anything of who he had been. He wanted to be someone different, someone his family could one day forgive. But he was stuck between in a transition zone, not quite his old self, sure, not quite the person he'd like to be yet either. He was not the best version of himself. At least, not yet. 

★JOSEF THOMAS★

Hope is like innocence, it disappears as you grow old.

The boy stared out at the world wide-eyed. He admired the clouds that hung low in the sky, the white streaks obscuring the world behind them. At that moment the sky was littered with colors, shifting from blue to orange to pink. As he watched the wind rustle the trees and twirl the leaves, a shout broke out behind him.

"Josef!"

He smiled at the bright voice, which was coated in excitement. Turning around, he found no surprise as he saw Molly bolting towards him. She was already beaming, her frazzled black hair tucked messily behind her ears. As she ran, the breeze tugged at her dress, making the fabric ripple behind her. Josef grinned at the sight, his own ginger curls being tugged at by wind. When the girl made it over to him, she rested her hands on her knees.

"Sorry I'm late," she paused to gulp in air. "Mom made me rustle up the chickens."

The boy shrugged light-heartedly. "No big deal."

"So, you ready to show me this secret of yours?"

Her eyes were teeming with excitement. If there was one thing Molly loved, it was surprises. She smoothed the edges of her dress and then, placed her hands on her hips. The seriousness of her expression made Josef giggle.

"Yep. Just remember, you can't tell anyone."

She nodded firmly, and started after him as he began to lead her down an old dirt path. It wove in between a growth of old trees and circled around his family's pasture. Neither said much as they raced alongside each other. A silent competition broke out on who was faster, and even though Molly had no clue where they were headed, she still managed to smack the side of the old barn first.

Rolling his eyes at her look of triumph, Josef bent down to undo the rusty lock.

"Is it in here?" she questioned, leaning over his shoulder.

He nodded silently, afraid to speak in case he ruined the surprise. With a loud 'thunk,' he slide the lock out. Excitement coursed through him as he pushed open the door to the barn. Flakes of red paint came off as he did so, though neither kid paid much mind. Letting Molly in first, Josef stepped in behind her and flicked on the light. The weak bulb revealed a few piles of hay and spare bales, as well as an old dirt floor. The rafters were covered in cobwebs, though it was clear work had been made on restoring the place.

Shooting back a look at Josef, Molly frowned.

"You'll see," he said, ushering her forward.

The girl stepped farther in, and when she reached the first stall she did, in fact, see. A baby goat lay curled up in it, its brown coat splotched with white. Seeming to notice the sudden presence of the others, it got up on wobbly legs and pranced over to the edge of the gate.

"You have a kid," Molly exclaimed.

She stuck her hand forward and grinned as it began to sniff at her fingers. Josef nodded and leaned against the stall, resting his chin on his arms. His heart fluttered as he watched the excitement dance across her face.

"I found it a few weeks ago. Emma's been helping me keep her a secret."

Molly nodded, "Does she have a name?"

His cheeks heated up. Glancing away to hide his fresh blush, Josef managed a nod. "Her name's Eliza."

The name barely passed his lips before he felt a hard shove to his shoulder. It jolted him in his surprise, and he raised his head, glancing back in Molly's direction. One of her hands was still firmly attached to the kid, scratching at the space between its nubs. Her other, however, was resting on her hip to try and match her expression. Her lips faced downward, through the corners were still upturned, and while her eyebrows were thoroughly knitted, her eyes held laughter.

"You can't name a goat after me," she stated firmly.

The boy's blush spread further, "It doesn't count if it's your middle name."

This got Molly's interest. She stared at her friend for a long moment, her eyes clouding over in thought. Then, as if a storm had swept inside of her, she grinned fiercely. It was an expression Josef knew far too well. The mischievous grin, the half-cocked eyebrow, and her suddenly relaxed position. He knew the words before they even left her mouth.

"Does that mean-"

"No."

"-that now I can-"

"No."

"-call you Joey?"

"No!" The boy shrieked furiously, throwing himself at her.

Molly sidestepped his movement, breaking out into a laugh as she did so. It was loud enough to echo through the small barn, and as her nose crinkled, she let out a snort. Covering her now burning cheeks, Molly's laugh came out muffled and sporadic.

Despite being splayed on the floor amidst trampled hay and packed dirt, Josef's face split into a grin. Her laugh was infectious. Biting his lip to keep from following her lead, he pushed himself back to his feet.

"You will not-" he grabbed onto her wrist "-call me Joey."

With a swift yank of her arm, she pulled him forward. Stumbling, Josef barely had time to register the action before he felt her pry herself loose. He let out a short, breathless laugh and watched as she stuck her tongue out from between her smug lips.

Trying to lunge for her again, he aimed for her shoulders. He grinned as he successfully pinned her to the barn wall, but the victory was short-lived. Taking his arms, Molly shoved him back and landed them both in a pile of hay. As they landed, he felt the poke of something sharp underneath him. Suddenly remembering the present he had brought, his cheeks grew a shade redder. The girl didn't notice this, but simply rolled off of him, collapsing besides him in the pile. They were both breathing fairly hard.

His eyes drifted between them as their chests continued to heave. Only when his heart had settled to a dull thumping and his cheeks had lost some of their warmth, did he turn to her. He propped himself up on his elbow and brushed the few curls he could control out of his eye. Unable to hide the pathetic, goofy grin that had slipped onto his lips, he let the expression overtake his face. Reaching into his back pocket, his fingers fumbled as they clutched at the box hidden there and nimbly pulled it out.

Josef cleared his throat, which had closed up during their scuffle. "Hey, Molly?"

The girl, who until now had been gazing at the wooden joists, turned her head. Black strands of hair fell across her face, but she ignored them with a smile. "Hmm?" she asked, letting the sound brush against her lips contently.

Ignoring the blush that had crept up to his ears, Josef handed her the box. His heart fluttered as he watched her eyes widen. She pushed herself up so she was sitting amidst the hay and stared at the object. Delicately, as if she was afraid the gift would disappear the moment she touched it, she reached for the black box. The boy let it fall into her cupped hands and grinned wider as a feeble smile slipped onto Molly's lips.

"Josef, you didn't have to."

"Of course I did," he said, scooting himself up to sit beside her. "Now open it."

Obliging to his request, Molly's fingers hooked their way beneath the lid. Without so much as a pop, she flicked the lid off. It landed in the hay pile, yet her eyes were too distracted by the gift to notice. Her mouth fell open to form an 'O,' and she snuck a look at Josef for reassurance.

When he gave her another nod, she lifted the piece of jewelry from the box. It glinted silver in the light of the barn. Little charms hung down from their positions on the bracelet and as she twisted it around to look at them all, they swung violently. Molly set the box down, using her hand instead to guide the piece onto her wrist. It slide down onto her arm and lay there glistening, tugging a grateful smile onto her lips.

Pulling her dark eyes away from the beautiful charm, her gaze met with Josef's. "Thank you."

All he could manage to do was smile warmly in response. He never felt happier than when he saw that look on Molly's face. Or so he thought. The next moment, she leaned across the space between them, and cupping his cheek within her hand, placed her lips gently on his. His body froze, his eyes wide. He felt as if his heart had stuttered out of rhythm and before he could will himself to action, she had pulled away.

As her eyelids fluttered open, she found the look of surprise plastered across his face and laughed. It wasn't a harsh, loud laugh as it had been before. This one was soft and gentle, like fresh dew droplets at the beginning of May. She pulled away and intertwined her hand with his.

"Your such a dork, Joey," she said, flopping down in the hay.

Regaining use of his tongue, he shook his head with a laugh. Josef followed her example, and fell down onto the makeshift bed beneath them. As he gazed up at the rafters, he gave her hand a light squeeze.

"Your welcome."

Closing his eyes, he let the world drift away. All that mattered was the cool breeze, the smell of daisies from the field beyond, and the feeling of warmth that came from her hand holding his. He wished he could've laid like that forever.

***

The man's eyes opened to darkness.

Rubbing his face tiredly, Josef sat up. He winced as pain flared back up along his side, the wound he had received shouting its protests. Pressing his hand against it reluctantly, he blinked through the bleariness of sleep. Moonlight shone through the forest canopy, leaving splotches of white light to fight off the shadows. He found a rock to prop himself up in one of these patches and leaned back quietly. It had been a long time since he had thought about that day.

As Josef stared up at the star-speckled sky, he reached for the token around his ankle. His fingers nimbly undid the clasp, and he held it aloft in the light. The bracelet had lost its shine, the silver coating faded long ago. It was now a dull brass, the chain empty now that all the charms had fallen off. He let it pool in his hands, his fingers twisting at it as he let his mind drift. It had been a very long time since anyone but him had worn the piece.

A whimper broke through Josef's thoughts. Blinking, he looked up to find Percy curled up a few feet away from him. The boy's shoulders had begun to shake, his entire face collapsed in fear. A pang of worry wormed its way into Josef's gut and he stood up, pocketing the jewelry. He walked over to his ally and sat down beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When the boy's shaking didn't stop, Josef stroked a hand through his brown hair. He had grown to know what to do for Ben's nightmares, and the knowledge didn't abandon him then.

"Shh," he murmured as he continued to comfort Percy.

"It's okay. It's okay."

He no longer believed the words for himself. He had lost his innocence. He had lost his hope. He had lost his love. But he could believe the words for Percy.

Because maybe, just maybe, Percy still held hope.

★ASHRE RELICKS★

Believe me when I say I'm better. Believe me when I tell you-

No, no. "Ashre, it's over. We can't forgive you." His hands are still red, skin a remnant of rope and tie. Coughs arise from the back; Keon breathes through the pain; Ashre feels empty without anyone else's touch.

"Wait. Wait, I need to-"

"Tired, Ashre. Can't you see we're tired?"

He watches them back away. He watches them go. Words stew inside of his head, but what's unsaid means nothing to the abandoned.

I'll get better myself. I will.

The world was first black; the match in his hand went out as his eyelids fell like the wax. Slowly, burned by the drip. His arms struck the ground, cascaded by a moving shadow surrounding his face, coming upon him- it was a nightmare. He forgot the feeling of the floor as soon as dream escaped him.

Second, waves crashed. He awoke standing on a wooden deck, equilibrium knocked from left to right, his chest flying with momentum. The ocean whirled and he was traveling the sea, perilous and knocking and like wings shoved him to and fro. It smelled of salt and tornado; voices came and went, as pulsating as his heart, suddenly afraid and beating inside his ears.

"Ashre! Get down!"

Copper and wire.

"No," he murmured. The voice was lost. "No, no, Keon, no," I am not ready yet. Don't come near me. You made me like this; you made me believe I'm broken.

Third, pain roared around him, half-wind and earth-shattering. He turned and turned and ran from edge to edge. There was no one. He was alone. He fell like ashes to the ground, Ashre and relic and broken shattered pieces of memory.

And, last-

"No. Ashre, please... Heal for us."

The last he felt was pain, endless and alive; Ashre believed it eternal. And the sails came crashing down- oh, they did more than that- he watched them as they broke apart, his family's faces among the tear.

The seas rolled along. He listened.