★LAURUS ENZO★

[OPT-OUT]

Before:

Dear Mrs. Bedlam,

As you know, I have just won the Hunger Games. I'd like to apologize—yes, via letter; don't be surprised that I can write—for murdering your granddaughter. I won't give you the excuses that I've given the few people who have been allowed to talk with and to me. I won't lie and tell you that I murdered her because she could come back later on, once the alliance broke off, and destroy me for leaving her behind. I'm sorry to say it, but you and I both know she wouldn't have made it that far, with or without my help.

But, per usual, I digress.

I'll tell you the one and only reason why I got rid of her when she was least expecting it (to be fair to myself, or give myself an edge, I could say she should have expected it; it was the Bloodbath, after all). I'll confide it in and to you, but only because I owe it to you more than I do to her (or at least, this is my thinking so I won't be as guilty as I am):

She reminded me of home, and I couldn't have that constant, physical memory following me around, acting like some sort of moral compass.

I had already made a rep for myself, and having her innocent-self around would ruin that, would keep me back from acting upon the name I created. Perhaps if I had spared her, aided her, I wouldn't be here at all, writing this confession-like letter to you. (I would be where she is: six feet under.)

Another thing that I'll admit: this isn't the sole reason for me writing the letter. If you remember correctly (I know you do), Isadora and I had the roots of a friendship when we were younger. We had little inklings of plans that we'd go through when we became older, and of them, there was the one in which we were to run away the moment after her last Reaping—granted, we believed I'd be spared, and two years later, she would be too. Oh, how the tables have turned (even if the ruin of one of us is partly my fault)!

I know you didn't get rid of those satchels. I know you have stocks of unperishable food and gallons of water. I know you have a key to mine and Uncle Mino's house. I know you know what I need you to do for me.

Please. Even if I chose not to help Isadora, I know you're better than me in this department. Please. I need to leave for a few days. I absolutely need to, or I'll fear something is going to happen to me—something much more dangerous than death. Please.

Get back to me as soon, and as discreetly, as possible. If all goes well, I'll show up to your house after confirming with Uncle Mino, and maybe after eating some oranges. Please.

Graciously yours, Laurus Enzo.

This woman owes him nothing; he owes her the entire world, twenty times over. He took from her, yet he expects her to provide for him. Aside from the two-year age difference between himself and

her granddaughter, their friendship broke off for another reason: they owed each other something intangible. He will never admit it to anyone but himself, but he believes if Mrs. Bedlam helps him, he will finally share the reason. For now, the confession of a thought lives in his mind.

Dear Levana,

I think you're the only one who will understand where I'm coming from.

Only three days have passed since I've been declared victor—or is it capital-v Victor? I don't know! It's a title, so perhaps it shouldn't be in lower-case. But anyways, I digress! (I hope this won't continue to bother me. No, never mind; it is irking me. So, on second thought, I'll start capitalizing it, or else I'll go madder than my doctor has said.) (I'm kidding.) (At least I hope so.) Again, anyways, it's been only three days, but I already know what my future will look like.

After all these dumb rituals (I know you're excited for them because it's been forever since District Eleven has been graced with a Victor), I'll be gone. No, I'm not hinting at a suicide or anything of the like—I don't hate myself that much. (I'm joking around; sorry.) I'm giving you an honest plan: I'm leaving. Don't wreck your mind by trying to guess where in the world I'll be going, because you won't be able to guess where I'm set on traveling to. Neither you nor Mrs. Bedlam, Isadora Bedlam's grandmother and my uncle's friend, nor Uncle Mino, or all of you together, will come up with it; trust me: my mind is still on full survival mode.

I just wanted to let you know of this idea.

Once I let you parade me around in whatever costumes you choose for that first night or so, which I am sure will be lovely, I won't go straight home. Mrs. Bedlam has already been contacted about this same plan, and I'm sure she'll be my accomplice—it will be what Isadora would have wanted.

My plan is to go away for some days, two weeks at most.

But I need your help in order to for this to work.

I'm in the process of writing seven letters, all addressed to you or Uncle Mino—I didn't include Mrs. Bedlam in this because I know she won't go as far as lying to her childhood friend. Whatever the contents of those letters are, however sincere they seem to be, know that they are a lie. I don't want him to worry about my well-being during the time I'm gone, and since I doubt I'll be close enough to a town to send any real mail, this is my backup.

Should you accept my offer by sending your response (this sounds so sinister, and I'm sorry, but I need to sound this way for Dramatic Effect) or telling me in person, you'll find the other letters enclosed in another envelope. Your job is to simply give one every two days to Uncle Mino. For those under your name, which should be "delivered" on the days he doesn't receive one, all you have to do is share them with him so he won't worry that something occurred in the span of two days.

And...no.

Sorry.

I lied.

Not being near a town isn't the only reason I won't be writing. I won't be doing that because he needs time to recover, and so do I. I told this to Mrs. Bedlam already, but I fear something is coming for me; not Peacekeepers or anyone of the like, I mean something meta, a real something. I've been meaning to ask my doctors, but if they start to suspect things (such as they already are with my constant writing of letters), they'll delay the already prolonged schedule I have to follow. And I need as much time as I can get.

He needs to dwell on the fact that I'm alive, and after mourning my presence in the arena, he needs the time to go from one emotion and blend into another. I need to heal. As much as the medicines I'm being given are helpful, my mind needs more. No, I'm not crazy, and you know I don't like that term. But like I've said, I fear something is coming for me—it is more mental than meta, actually.

Please help me: give him the pre-written letters and share the ones I send you. I am sorry that this will add a riff in your relationship with Uncle Mino, but you loved me first. Prove it to me (I'm being manipulative, I know; I'm sorry). Help me. Please. I need this more than anything. Something is coming for me, I know it, and I need to go away before it catches up to me. Please.

Dramatically yours, your Aliquam, Laurus Enzo.

Ink on paper is set out to dry. Once the liquid settles in, pieces of parchment are shuffled. An envelope, thicker than others, is opened, and in go the fourteen separate letters—half are for Levana, and the others for Uncle Mino, but none of them are true. His heart breaks as he closes the seal, but he has to do this.

Dearest Uncle Mino,

Please, before you read, I need you to take a seat. Perhaps I shouldn't have begun that way, because I can already imagine the sweat rising in your palms and the rest of your hands beginning to shake. I'm sorry. But there are no do-overs and cross-offs in real life. Or maybe there are.

I'm sorry. I know I can start over on paper, so I will.

I'm leaving for a few days, two weeks at the very most. I won't explain why I'm leaving, other than telling you that I need some time to heal father than the physical, and I need you not to freak out—which in hindsight, is something dumb to say. Oh, man. Imagining you freaking out is making me freak out...

Okay, I'm good now.

Like I said, I'm leaving for a few days. It's nothing too serious, and I'll be in good hands. I've made some friends here in the Capitol, most of them mentors, and they've allowed me to stay with them whenever I reach their district. I promise they won't try to avenge their own

tributes by sacrificing me...hopefully. I kid! They'll treat me alright; I know it.

There's nothing more to this letter than telling you that, honestly. Everything else can be said in person. I'll be home in less than a week, Uncle Mino. And I can't wait. You know why, right? Remember the promise I made? The one with oranges? Well, I don't break promises when they concern you. I assure you, the oranges are the only reason I'm happy to be back home. Not you, just the oranges—totally, one-hundred percent. (Haha, I'm joking! But of course you can tell!) Levana has already ordered about three crates, and they should be getting home in a couple hours. You can start on them without me, if you please. Really, I mean it. Go on ahead and eat as much as you can, but only if you save some space to gorge on them with me.

Speaking of Levana, she and Mrs. Bedlam have been informed of my plan. It was so they can help me scheme. I kid again! No, they were told because I'm going to need someone to keep their eyes on you while I'm gone, and also in case the Capitol asks questions and you choke up again before kicking them out. (Don't try to deny this! I saw the interviews conducted on the Final Eight's families. You were crying like a baby!)

But aside from this, I doubt I forgot to mention anything else. Like I said, I'll see you soon, and anything real and personal can be said then—that way, it's even more real and personal! If I could draw a good smiley face, I would, just for you. Perhaps I'd draw two, again, just for you! Or maybe even more—you deserve them all. Gold stars, too.

Lovingly and longingly yours, your nephew, Laurus Enzo.

His manhood was taken away the day of the Reaping, and he knows that if he acts upon his journey, it will return. He will come home the man he always wanted to be, for him and Uncle Mino both. All will be forgiven, and that will be enough.

Would that be enough?

After:

Laurusito,

There is nothing to forgive. You did what you saw necessary, and I would be a hypocrite for holding that against you. If Isadora had a chance like you, and did not get rid of you, she would have been foolish. Whatever you need, I am here; your secret is safe with me. But if my dearest Mino finds out, I will not lie to him.

Your bags will be ready soon, and I will meet you wherever you please. Do what you must. I wish you the best of luck.

Yours, Isabella Bedlam.

He smiles; this is more that he hoped for. The moment he returns home for good, he will explain why the friendship fell short. He will tell her all the truths he knows of the world, because he owes her twenty of those over.

Aliquam,

My job is to help you in whatever ways you need me to; you have a support system in me. Anything you need, know I am here—even if it means a threat to my friendship with your uncle. Please know that when you get back, I will pester you for all the time you've taken from us. Expect many, many, many outfits and costumes, and expect many, many, many events to dress up for. You owe me that much, boy. Does that sound manipulative of me? Ha, I lie.

Please come home safely to all of us.

Yours, Levana Elixir.

Another smile. What more did he expect from a stylist that took care of him more than his mentor did? What more does he expect from her now, after weeks of working together? Nothing more; she is an angel.

Dearest Nephew Laurus,

Your essence is of "rooted victory," and in instability you are lost. Once you make your way home for good, perhaps you can root yourself down as to not drift off into the endlessness of the air...

I love you, always. But perhaps I love the oranges more! They are delicious! I am joking, but you already knew and know that, of course!)

Lovingly and longingly yours, your uncle, Mino Enzo.

He holds on tight to this letter. It is the first one his uncle has written to him, and he has a feeling it will be his last. Not because Uncle Mino will be gone, but because there will be no need to: they will spend the rest of their times and lives together, and it will be enough.

★PERCY COLE★

[AUTOMATIC 14]

Nothing will change, nothing will change, nothing will change the fact that we're fucked.

A sucking breath takes in the night air, bleak as it may be, and expels it as mist, visible only against a night that's lighter than the blackened trees of the arena. This breath, loud and pained, is followed by a groan, one straining with the desire to keep quiet. There are several that surround the source of this pathetic noise, three to be exact, some of which lean their heads against moss-laden trees to rest, others who tighten their hold on the blankets around them, and others even still that can't help but send a common pitying glance to the boy on the ground.

Another flush of pain rises up through Percy's abdomen, and he lurches, crying out. "Shit," he says through clenched teeth, "shit, shit, shit."

An arched back against the jungle floor lasts only a moment before the twisting ebbs away and that blissful relief returns, and with it, hope that next time it won't hurt so much, hope that next time there won't be a next time.

But, alas, he's never been so lucky.

Strangled noises. Hands rush his stomach, fruitlessly shoving at the pain in hopes it might dissipate under the flesh. Vegetation brushes his ears, his arms, his self as he squirms - the only alternative to shrieking aloud. This pain, no, this agony has been at ease for the past two, three days. Why's it have to come back here, now?

Breathing shakily, he takes his fist, the one unwounded, and curls it against his forehead. The sweat pools against the creases, trickles down his temples, leaves a taste upon his lip. "Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop," he whispers, hiking up the rapidity when the pain steadily grows. No one with the power or graces to help will ever hear, he knows, but this hardly appeals.

One thing appeals, though, a star between the branches. It's pretty. It offers a distraction.

Distraction - a distraction takes away the noises, the outcries and grunts, and so he speaks without knowing the responses. Is he even coherent? He doubts it, but there's a carelessness there. Hurt, hurt, hurt - it hurts. "Y'know, you all remind me of people I used to know." Hoarse. He is hoarse, and cracking.

Nobody hears him, and he hurts.

No, no, but they do - someone does. There's a swish of feet over dirt, and a slight vibration as that person, whoever they are, sits beside him. Percy can hardly react, what with his constant wincing, and the violent squeezing of eyelids, and the pressing of his lips together as he tries to swallow down those noises that might lead others to them. He will not be a danger; he will not be a weapon for the other team.

But then again, he thinks, squeezing a rubbery leaf, what's so wrong with being a weapon? They like you when you're a weapon. You go home- He squeaks at the back of his throat at the next pinch. -when you're a weapon. When you're a weapon, there's-

"Are you sure you can hold out?"

The voice hovers - too close, too concerned, too curious. It's a tired voice, too, and worn. But the man it comes from, Josef, seems awake enough to be able to ask, to be able to care.

And so Percy figures he should be well off enough to nod, though it comes weakly.

Josef, not much more than a dark outline sitting cross-legged in the dirt, gives the implication of deep thought, scrubbing a hand over his own knee. He croaks, as though he's about to say something, but for some reason he clamps back, starting down a different path. It comes softly, too, lilted with careful navigation and littered with pressure. It's like he expects Percy not to have noticed the switch. "Let's go back, then. How do we remind you?"

Though Percy hardly remembers saying anything of the sort, he figures he likely did, and to steer around the question would be obvious. Besides, it's something to focus on. And he needs that.

So he licks his chapped lips and nods again. "Well...you all, you all match up. With someone else. I mean, you probably don't know who they are, nine years back and all, but..." He settles his sights on Josef first. "You're like Teagan. You guys look alike, and he was kinda tough too, but he could be nice if he wanted."

A pause. In that pause, he can feel the awkward lifting from his lip, but, in that pause, a disastrous inkling begins to settle above his bellybutton, so he presses the back of his head deeper into the dirt-turned-mud-from-sweat, and continues. "Teagan was with his partner, this skinny, freckled little thing. Her name was Ember. Spitfire, too. Wrestled me to the ground once." A chuckle flips out of his lips and he wipes his mouth quickly, though a smile still twitches there at the corners. The smile soon fades out, though, and he's left staring at that pretty star again. "Wren looked like her. Guess that's why I got so, y'know, grr when we couldn't find her."

The outline of Neptune comes next, though there's an illumination of blue behind her, and he can see the little blonde flyaways trying to flee her scalp. This is all he sees of her, though, and in a mix of the night's disorientation and the fearful wonderings of when the pain will return, he thinks this girl is one with a pointed chin and green eyes, glowing, yet lacking that predatory splice between the slits.

Percy swallows. "I found Layla under the willow tree. She'd bit her tongue during the hallucination and choked on it." And you were a mere twenty feet away, flailing in the river, don't you forget it.

A shiver filters down through his fingertips, his toes, and this is the kickstart to those veiny spurts of discomfort. Desperately, he looks to Adel, zeroing in, focusing, and trying so very hard not to draw blood on the tongue. "Naveen had been done a great injustice so he did a great injustice back. A bum leg and they sent him in. He wanted to kill me. He wanted to kill everyone. And he nearly did, but, but we left him behind, me and Layla, we swam away with everyone blind and we left him behind and we never really knew what happened 'til I found out he'd gone and got his foot caught in the rocks and the water came and it pushed-"

Air, splashing into his mouth, makes his eyes blossom with heat and water; again and again, he gasps, not being able to help it in the slightest, for now he's gotten himself in this rut of breathe-in-breathe-out and he doesn't quite know how to get himself out of it. The pain comes and it pushes, and the sweat comes and it pushes, and he comes and he pushes, and-

There's a hand there. On his. The roles reverse, and he grasps it vehemently, squeezing the very life out of a collection of fingers.

"You're okay, Percy." Josef. "None of those people are here now. It's just us."

Don't let go don't let go don't let go.

Nails dig into a helper's hand as a tumultuous groundswell hits him again. The bandage under the knuckles scrapes against the lack of skin beneath it, and he focuses on this, on this stretch while the rest of him is stretched out - no, no he remains one size, but he feels a tug and a pull and a shove and a tear where there is no reason for there to be a tug and a pull and a shove and a tear.

And then Josef says, once again, "You're okay."

And then it goes away.

And he is fine.

For a good minute, Percy keeps his eyes closed, wondering how swiftly things would've gone if only he'd been permitted his medicine. This is a futile tangent, though, and he soon opens his eyes again, flicking them down to Josef's stiff arm and his own nails caught in the palm. Quickly, he loosens his grip. He cringes at the indents left behind. "Sorry."

Though Josef pulls his lip between his teeth in dissatisfaction at the sight, he simply shakes his head, exhaling. "It's fine. I don't mind too bad."

But it's not fine, and Percy doubts he truly means it's fine, but still, he refuses to displace his loosened fingers from Josef's hand, and the man doesn't object. It's more for comfort than anything; plus, if Percy knows anything of himself, it's that if he is to detach hands, he may devolve into some garbling, tearful mess. Child-like, he is, and he acknowledges this with melancholic resolution.

Whatever. He's too tired (in all respects) to care.

Things are quiet now. A quiet snoring comes somewhere from Neptune's domain, and Adel keeps up a row of heavy breaths. Time is a concept left without concerns; Percy himself begins to doze off against his bed of vegetation despite lingering stings. Something appeals to his better senses, though, and he cracks his eyes for Josef, who hasn't yet found his own means of sleep.

It comes without better judgement; "Don't stay up too long, T. We've got a long day tomorrow." A yawn breaks through the haze. "Tomorrow will be kinder, anyways."

"I hope so."

Sweat cools on a forehead, and a half-sleep falls over the boy with the burnt eyes.

* * *

Sweat heats on a forehead, and a half-wakefulness shakes the boy with the burnt eyes. It's uncertain how much time has passed in this state of disorientation, but it hardly matters, what with effeminate hands jerking at his shoulders and brown ends tickling at his nose.

Percy swats the hair away, grunting against the grogginess of having been woken from an unsatisfying sleep. "It's not my watch," he mutters, trying to roll onto his side but wincing when the ache denies him this right. It's not so bad though. Good sign.

"No, hey, get up, we need to move." Adel. Her voice shakes. Why does it shake?

Percy's eyes pop open, furrowed prematurely. However, when he does this, he doesn't expect a distant illumination of orange to slither into the corner of his eye. Pain comes again, but not of the wound; of a harsh spike of adrenaline, smack in the middle on his chest. Adel scrambles away once she sees he's up, struggling to rise on her leg. Percy follows suit, sitting, then stumbling, then standing.

Blurs of human flit around, gathering supplies, slinging on packs, grabbing weapons. Some things are left behind, or fall free of pockets, and Percy means to point these mishaps out, but everyone rushes on by before he can get a word out. They move so quickly, even, that he's got in this motion of moving in a circle, trying to catch sight of someone for more than five seconds in his drunkardly state.

The orange light is actually quite brighter than he thought it'd be. He blinks, rubs his eyes-

There is a flicker and a crack, and the wall comes.

He can feel the pallor being leeched out of his skin from the radiating heat. "And- and they thought I'd set this shit ablaze." Hands to his temples, curling and tugging at strands of hair, he watches, wide-eyed and waiting, tightening in the throat, chest, body. "I didn't do this, I didn't do this. I'd better not get blamed, I didn't do this."

Your fault,

your fault,

your

fault.

Percy rips his hands free of his hair and turns back to his allies. Expecting three faces to be waiting, unnerved, he sees only one, for the other two split off down some other road less travelled. No, Neptune is the one that stays and urges him along with her gaze; the expression alone warns him that if he doesn't come along soon, she'll leave him there.

But Percy has yet to move. "Who started this?" he asks, still too disoriented for the full gravity of things to happen. Right now, there is only light, and with that light, heat. He can't quite find the word for this incoming mass...

Neptune readjusts a strap on her shoulder violently and bites her teeth at him. "Who do you think started this, Cole?"

Your fault,

your fault,

your

fault.

"Come on already!" Neptune wrinkles her nose at him, clenching a fist, but when he turns back to the honeyed gold crackling forth, she throws her arm down and takes off, crunching along somewhere in the jungle where no trails will flourish. She'll be fine, fine, fine.

Honeyed gold. Cherry strands. Amber, Ember, ember...

"Look! It's an Ember!" But the ember from the log burns him, and he's quick to hiss and release his hold on the little thing as it flutters down and glows a glowing little smile at his red raw finger.

Fire.

A screech rolls through his skull, though nothing crafted by nature's hand could've caused it; he clutches his head, curls his joints, checks his ears - no, not bleeding, not yet.

But now, now he's awake.

And he's running.

Panic takes him down some guess of a path, and he calls out for "Neptune!" but nothing but the distant flush of flames answers him. Pause, pause: where is he to go? Back and forth, forth and back - he chooses forth. His legs skid through knee-high plants as he runs, lunging and marching and curling around a boulder here and a tree there. It's not a straightforward run, that's for sure. It's more like...a jumble.

Jumble. He is a jumble, thinking and shrieking out his breaths as he runs. The flames, they gain on him, and he can tell because the sweat on his back has dried up and begun to pour again. If I can do anything to make this go away I swear I'll do it I don't care what it is but I'll do it.

I'll do it I'll do it I'll do it-

Pain breaks through the adrenaline, and he falls to a hunch, never pausing, always running, but bent, arm tucked against his abdomen as he trudges forward. "Fuck!" he squeezes out. "I thought we were done with this. All of this! Apparently not!" Tucking his lips between his teeth, he grunts aggressively, shouldering himself away from a tree. Piece of work.

Now, after speaking so vehemently, Percy really should've paid more attention to his surroundings. He realizes this only in the aftermath of his mistakes, for if he had been keeping a keen eye out, he'd have seen the subtle spark to his left out of nowhere, and he could've kept from tripping in his dodge.

Alas, he avoids none of it, and his ass falls flat amongst the dirt and spurring leaves. A wall where there'd previously been no hint of flame blocks off the direction he'd very nearly charged through, flickering, licking, reaching-

Good sense keeps him from batting the hand of heat away, and instead he scrambles to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek to get through the abdominal ache. Copper and coughing joins him at the back of his throat. Moving the other direction, slower than he should've, honestly, he near hacks up a lung, spitting the acrid taste at the fire's path.

However, when he goes to push aside leaves, they, too, burst into flame before him. He plays no games with this.

No more back and forths; he moves straight and he never stops moving.

Caught in a hunching lapse, where adrenaline is no match for bodily thrums, he stares at his feet, watching the orange the reflects his shoes. Dimness lights the ground, the dimness of distant deathdeathdeath the fire spells out your end light, a sadistic light that aids him but has plans to chew him up and spit him out, blackened. It already chokes him out.

A new light aids him soon, though, that of blue in a broken canopy above. His neck snaps up, staring - the cannon and the face manifest at the same time, Sebastian of Two. Another cannon sounds, but no face. Percy shoves his nose in his elbow, eyes watering; is this his cannon, now? Have they predetermined things for him?

Would he mind if they have?

It turns out that no, no things had been predetermined for him. The trees themselves are exploding, steaming up and breaking out. Bark strikes his bare arms and singes him, he flinches away every time, screaming and thrashing in his escape through the jungle as though they were birds, pecking and scratching and saying, "Skin and bones! Skin and bones!"

"Watch your back, skin and bones!"

First, a strike to the back of his shoulder. The impact alone is enough to splice his skin open, and he feels it, but not before another otherworldly feeling crawls over him, and not the good sort. No, no, this is pain, a pain greater than any stretch or beating of his abdomen he's ever felt before. This is hot, so hot he mistakes it for an icy chill at one point, but the heat returns, paired with a flash of color and light all too close.

Already, he's screaming, but when he looks to his left, he feels his tongue go numb against the rest of him.

Fire, fire, fire, I'm on fire, I am-

-I am my own mistake.

A series of events follow up this revelation. His vision goes cross-eyed, blurred and twitching, and his ankles give out from under him, the hellish shoulder hitting the ground first. But he doesn't stop there, no; the ground dips down, and his whole body skids along the incline, back striking the rocks and legs sticking to the sky before he loses track of up and down again.

Eventually, things come to a stop, and he lies upon his back, making no effort to move. He can hardly breathe as it is, and to shift the very ribcage those lungs hide behind? Out of the question. The fire is gone - on him, at least, but this is all he knows, this, and his existence on dark earth. Light skips him, flashing in some other distance that excludes him.

It's a familiar scene, he on his back, in pain. It's redundant, and he wishes it over. Over, over, over, in this moment, I want it over. But he still cranes his neck, he still looks to a blistering, bubbling burn he can't see in this dark.

Swallowing, he stretches his arm out to the wound. The bandage on his hand has long fallen off, but the lack of skin there hardly matters when his fingertips brush the air, only the air that hovers over his left shoulder. Another scream, agonized and ugly, breaks out.

Agonized and ugly, his lip shakes, and he clenches a fist, slamming it against the dirt at his thigh. Again and again, he punches this dirt, marks the earth. He does not want to move. He will not move.

But his arm tires, and he lets his hand lay lax against the mud, digging in.

A forehead meets a forehead. Little voices and little fingers. "How's it go again, bubby?"

Laughter, ruffled hair. "We come from dirt. It is dirt which defines us." A cocked brow, testing, teasing.

But the brother raises his back, smiles, and says, "It is dirt from which all things grow."

Percy sees the dirt upon his fingertips, and he rises.

"Even one as mighty as a Victor has the mark of dirt upon his face!"

Dirt is swallowed up by sand, and the sand by his feet, which shuffle forward with the bare minimum of strength. The beach is his outlet, but he has yet to be seen, much to his gratefulness (if there's anything to be grateful for in this situation). Orange illuminates his cheeks from the rage of lifelessness behind him. His forehead glistens with smudges of ash and sweat. Sickly, he looks, and sickly, he feels. But he watches and wobbles.

Blurs of people, even now, when the smoke climbs high and things burn fiercely, go at each other's throats, taking a knife to a shoulder, dragging an arrow through an eye. One of the handsomer tributes suffers a spear to the gut, and he falls.

Percy doesn't quite see the point in this, never has. "You're all made of ticky-tacky," he whispers, watching as a bovine woman takes to the likes of The Madame, who already bleeds from the mouth, "and you all look just the same."

A sway overtakes his body, and then his face meets the sand, colors roaring behind him as always.

★CONSTANTINE CRANE★

The light comes.

It's quiet in there, in the trees and in the jungles. The only sounds are that of bird songs, singing with whistles and with loved one's voices. Constantine's wounds have healed, cuts cured and mentality mended. It had been a few days since the game makers had thrown some sort of death trap at them, leaving them to create their own ratings. Within the two days, there had only been three canons, three final heartbeats of three once victors.

He had woken up before Cadette, the old lady was quickly drifting off to the other side of the clearing. It wouldn't have made a difference if she was awake anyway, in both states she has no cognitive thinking. Still at least when she was asleep she wouldn't wander away from him. Her chest slowly rose up and down, the only sign that death hadn't taken her rather than a victor. Each morning brought this relief, yet each night brought down further stress.

Constantine sits there, taking in the air, the familiar and new sights. There are the same footprints in the mud, and new animal tracks tracing their paths. He smiles, just for a moment. It's such a delicate moment that it surprises him. There was joy to be found, and the small bits he was scraping the bottom of the barrel he felt was enough. Any bit of happiness was enough hope to make it out of the games.

Before long the other victor awoke. Her large eyes widened filled with fear. She wasn't really there, her mind carrying her to some distant memory of her past. Possibly one with Gunner, Flint, or Jet, or possibly one in the grievance of their death. The woman carries herself like she's already broken, and perhaps she is. She know's she's going to die, somehow she;s aware that her days are coming to a close. It's aged her further than she had aged before, carved out her cheeks, embossed her eyes deep, hair thinning and bleached.

"Where are we, Gunner?" Cadette asks him as she looks around. Each minute brings something new, something that she doesn't remember. Constantine stares into her aged brown eyes, wondering whether he should respond in truth or in lies, wondering which one would hurt his mentor less. He chooses the lies.

"We're in Thimble Forest Cadette. Don't the trees look familiar?" He responds. It's only to protect her, he speaks lines of her past in district eight, something she'll hopefully have some recollection of. She continues to look around shrouded in a sense of mystery but starts to nod her head. Memories have made connections, and the connections have made a false truth that puts her in a moment.

"Oh," is her simple response. Behind her is her cane, which she subsequently picks up. They prepare for their journey into the jungle, changing positions, leaving competitors at the tail end of their trail. As they pack up the minimal amount of supplies they have a crisp scent enters the air. The two of them make no note of this, after all it's just a new smell in an old rain forest.

A while passes before any more differences happen, the sun rises further overhead, land is crossed by the pair from eight, yet the smell slowly becomes more poignant. Constantine begins to wonder, his suspicion rises like smoke. His eyes watch the shoreline, ready to sprint into the water, or away from it. He's learned to never feel safe, adrenaline had to be calm not an object.

They found another clearing, lowering into the Earth surrounded by a grove of trees. Natural walls, bars on their terraformed prison. They begin to set up some sort of makeshift camp, feeling as relaxed as they could be, taking drinks of water and sighing. Cadette rubs her hip in a bit of pain while fanning her face with a leaf on the ground. Another hot flash had attacked her, although Constantine was feeling a bit heated as well.

Once more another wave of a burnt wood aroma fills the air, ash particles sprinkle down from the sky. It was black snowfall, yet it would never melt over time. Death was raining down from above, a sign of those lost. The cremation of trees scattered among the arena's landscape. It gave him chills, the oddity of the weather, it showed signs of fire, signs of fear. The wind would eliminate the direction, giving anywhere they would further travel a gamble with the reaper.

The frail woman has fazed out again, her metallic curls cast in front of her eyes like curtains. Her breathing matching that of an anxious drummer. She was holding on by threads, threads woven by her districts will for one of them to return, threads woven by brothers to give her strength. Constantine walks over to her, holding her hand and squeezing it, he wants her to make it more than him, she deserves to survive past these games.

They stay like that for a while, dazed off, minds left in hope. They hardly notice red creeping towards them, orange around them, yellow enveloping them. The fire jumps at him, biting his ears and cutting his hair. He pulls up Cadette forcefully, grabbing the bag from behind him. He curses Percy Cole, the likely creator of the blaze, he wasn't close to the pyromaniac, and this put the man at a low standing.

His eyes scan the environment, searching for an escape from the hell he was in. This was far from lit. The fire had encircled them, creating captives out of kings and queens. Smoke arose, blocking out the sun. The air had become thick, each time they inhaled was met with a burning sensation down the throat, it was as if the sensation of alcohol had been amplified tenfold.

Constantine opened his eyes, he still held on to Cadette's hand, he tugged her towards the ring, a burn was far from suffocation. He stood up, breathing in the fumes deeper into his lungs. As he slung his mentor over his shoulder he jumped over the ring of fire like hurdles on a track. The hellscape below him reaches up, clawing at his sculpted calves. He landed, falling into the mud. He looked up, seeing the beachscape and sunlight at the end of the ever increasingly dark tunnel.

All he did was run. His legs carried him as quick as they possibly could, yet time became distorted. Hours turned the minutes turned to second, and be eventually found himself landing into the coarse, yet comforting and soft sand. Behind him waves of fire erupted in the trees, cries of damned were mixed into the crashing of trees and the ripple of flames. It was chaos, but that was what the games truly were.

Constantine clawed towards the water, it had been his escape once, it could be his escape once more. As he barely felt the cool breeze of the water his hand was flung back with the strength of only one thing: a force field. He curled up with Cadette on the sand, clutching her body protecting her from the fire. He felt his body tremble in the heat, being shaken by the trees falling onto the sandbanks.

The sun eventually set, but the fire still eternally burned, it would continue burning, being tested by only by time. The sun overhead dipped below the horizon, it being the only thing that was allowed to reach the peaceful homage of water.

The darkness came, and with that fear of another night.  

★HERTZEL KOZLOWSKI★

[AUTOMATIC 14]

"I look like roadkill." In a literal sense, he is half the man he once was, but his tongue, sharp in the worst of ways, remains. He's right though, his back is spottled with fluid. Skin growing over so thin that the bubbles rupture and run customarily. Salts accrue wherever they can latch, an ail deemed to insignificant to devote any of the scarcity which is fresh water to attenuate. He looks like Sebastian. Their names would not have been spoken without the other were it not for the fate inevitable in small margins. How laughable is it that they thank the whims of nature, when they should thank her? Sure, she saved him from drowning, but that was an act of random happenstance which hardly consoles her guilt. "No..." She murmurs, lost in her work, swaddling a splint around the leg with the ruptured tendon. "No, you look much worse than that."

He smiles into his pillow - a rock - and lets the levity, the detente, cool his temperament.

★SEBASTIAN MERCIER★

It was, of all things, the heat that woke Sebastian. Not screams of pain, not canons signaling death, not even the acrid smoke that burned his lungs as he breathed it in. As his eyes opened he became aware of the heat that permeated every inch of air, mixing with the smoke to create a dull grey haze that was hard to see through. Yet it wasn't quite thick enough to hide the flames that were swallowing the jungle around him.

Panic flared through Sebastian, a rush of shit I'm still half-asleep and what do I do now even as he started running on instinct. His sword clanged against his leg uncomfortably as he ran but he didn't dare stop to shift its position. Tiredness still clung to him, though it was quickly dissipating as he ran. Each breath was difficult, smoke and exertion taking their toll on his lungs. It stung his throat while the heat intensified, making it challenging to tell where he was, much less where he was going.

His fingers tapping an uneven beat against his leg, Sebastian paused where he was. Staying still made him anxious, an easy target for the flames. He had to know where he was though, or else he would be running straight into the fire. Frantically, his eyes searched the surrounding area. Which way is the ocean? After too many seconds, Sebastian was mostly certain he knew which way to go. Without wasting any more time he started running again, the flames chasing him as he went.

Sweat dripped down his neck and saturated his clothing, his feet slipping in the sand. His left leg began to bleed as he ran, the cut he'd sustained from the birds opening again and staining his clothes red. Even so, he continued running.

When he finally hit the beach, relief washed through him. Without thinking, he ran straight towards the water. Pain lanced through him as Sebastian ran straight into an invisible wall, electricity crawling across his skin. A series of curses left his mouth as he scrambled to his feet.

I should have known it wouldn't be that easy, he thought irritated. His eyes darted around the arena again, unsurprised to see some the other tributes already at the beach. Of course, why else would there be a fire? We're only here to fight each other. His hand twitched, reaching for his sword. His fingers curled around it even as he searched the arena for another way, some place to hide so he wouldn't have to fight.

Unfortunately, the only thing in sight was the rundown shack. It was still tiny and looked like it would fall over at any second, but he supposed it was better than taking his chances at the beach. However much he disliked the idea of hiding the shack, he disliked the idea of having to kill someone again even more.

Clenching his teeth, Sebastian started running again, this time towards the small shack that had replaced the normal Cornucopia. It didn't take him long to reach it; none of the other tributes seemed to be watching. As he approached it he noticed a small patch of brown next to the shed, inconsistent with the rest of the sand.

Something made him crouch down to inspect the patch. It's a trap door. The realization made his eyes widen with surprise, and he brushed away the sand rapidly. A handle appeared and he pulled it open without hesitation, climbing inside without a second thought. As soon as he did the door shut with an all too loud thump, encasing him in dull darkness. The sounds of fighting still reached his ears, the heat still somehow permeating even below the ground, but none of that mattered. He was safe.

Until now, Sebastian had never considered himself a coward. But it seemed abundantly clear, as he hid and cowered like a terrified child in the dark, empty cellar, that bravery was not a characteristic he possessed in any shape or form.

★JOSEF THOMAS★

Hope is like light, it fades in the darkness.

The mind will not notice this at first. It only notices when the body begins to move. Eyes that stare into the darkness conjure shapes that aren't really there. Then, the mind begins to fear, to believe in creatures that aren't there that will slither out of the darkness and swallow them whole. When forced to stand, legs shake uncertainty as they track across uneven surfaces. The longer the darkness lingers, the more uncertain one becomes.

Josef's eyes absorbed the shadows in silence. They shifted and overlapped, making the back wall too dark to make out. He knew the cave didn't go very far, but the darkness stretched it out to offer the possibility of walking forever. The man knew he would never be able to do that.

Fabric shifted and metal scraped behind him. Josef placed a hand defensively on the machete resting on his lap and turned his head. His grip relaxed as he watched Percy shift again, his knee brushing against the piles of supplies he had made. A makeshift pillow made out of a tarp was tucked beneath his head along with one of his arms, his free hand lying protectively over his stomach. Moonlight filtered in through the cave opening, lighting up his pale skin and turning it a ghostly white. It made Josef mildly worried that the boy had somehow passed away from abdominal pains without him realizing.

Perhaps boy was the wrong word. Percy was experienced, yet broken. He had seen as many things as other tributes had, maybe even more. His face would shift for fits of rage and moments of despair. But it was still a young face. Without worry creeping into his brow or his dark eyes open to hint at the age behind them, he resembled a child. It made him feel protective over him, responsible.

The moment the idea came to mind, Josef yanked his eyes away. They found a new focus on the trees outside, that glistened even in the late hour of the day. Yet his mind lingered. Responsible? The idea was laughable. Not in a funny sense, but a bitter sort of laugh that eased the tension in his chest before causing him a headache. Percy could take care of himself. Besides, the last time he had been responsible for someone... He let the thought drift away.

As he gazed out at warped tree trunks, he tried to find himself a distraction. Keeping guard left his mind too open. Already, he had gone through all of his most important memories. The happy ones at least. Days with Molly, with Ben, the limited few he had spent with his baby girl Eliza. There were those he had avoided. His wedding day, for instance, the day he had returned home from the games, they were sweet memories wrapped in a bitter after taste. They had been surrounded by turmoil which left them tarnished. Imperfect.

Leaning back against the wall, he felt his leg begin to shake. Sitting still was making him antsy. There had been nothing. No sounds, no sights, not even a smell of something. The arena had been quiet. After growing up, Josef had thought he had become patient. Even the boy next to him could be patient. Yet as he sat with little to do, he realized how impatient he had always been. All the times he had considered himself waiting, he had been busy fidgeting, working, planning. Now, it was silent.

Unable to stand it, Josef pushed himself to his feet. His leg settled in its bouncing as he picked up his machete and stared out into the jungle. As long as he didn't wander too far, he would be fine. Keeping his footsteps light, he crept around Percy and slipped outside. Rich, soft dirt pressed against his feet, folding under his weight to create a set of footprints. He closed his eyes as wind drifted through the trees, cold moisture settling against his skin. With it came the smell of the ocean, salty and overwhelming. There was something hidden under it this time, though. Not mold nor rain on leaves, something heavy, unpleasant, burnt.

Smoke.

Josef's eyes fluttered open. Through the forest, he could see the thin trendles begin to twist towards the sky. It had grown to be the bringer of bad news, listing the dead, carrying the birds in their flight, and now this. His lips twisted as he retreated to the jagged stone floor. The fire had come from deep within the trees, too big to be accidental. He watched the smoke for a moment longer, the plumes growing quickly. There wasn't much time.

Back inside, the man bent down to shake Percy's shoulder. The boy's eyes flicker open near instantly. His hand lashed out, snatching Josef's wrist and twisting it backward. Gritting his teeth, Josef let his arm go with the motion so it would not break.

"Percy, let go."

The fog cleared from black eyes. Registering the face in front of him, Percy let go hurriedly. There was still confusing swimming within his expression, pain contained to the eyes. They had been that way ever since the birds had attacked. Yet the hurt had dulled, the mellow feeling distant in his face. He pushed himself to his feet stiffly, the stone floor having done little to help.

"Teagan, what is it?"

Josef had heard the name before after the birds attacked. It was a slip of his tongue. A memory. He let the memory fade. The name was unimportant to him.

"We have to go."

He felt little need to explain more. It got the boy moving. The moment Percy had slipped on his pack, they were out of the cave. The smell of smoke was stronger, the crackling of branches not far enough off brushing against Josef's ears. He ran a hand over his stubble, panic alighting in his chest as his eyes caught the first glimpse of the crimson flame. Josef went to pull on the wrist of the boy next to him but found it frozen.

There was no dull pain within Percy's eyes anymore. It had been fanned into a flame, taking over the near black orbs and turning them red. It was a face Josef knew from experience. Every time he had woken up from a nightmare- no, a memory- every time he had woken up from a memory and seen his expression in the mirror, it had been the same. It was a look of remembrance. Of horror.

His fingers wrapped around his ally's wrist, tugging hard. Percy stumbled, his feet pushing against the forest floor. Giving the flames a last look as they began to lick at the ivy that coated the jungle floor, Josef shoved Percy forward. It got the boy from stumbling to running, his legs hitting the ground shakily. Josef took off after him, begging they would reach a safe place before the flames consumed the entire island.

No matter how fast they ran, the fire always seemed to be on their tails. It bit at their heels like mutant dogs, snapping and stinging as the teeth tried and missed to take ahold of the flesh. At a brief point, Josef tripped, the heat bringing the rubbered soles of his shoes to their boiling point as Percy tugged him back to his feet. Now, he watched the ground carefully, leaping over vines and sidestepping boulders. He watched as the mossy ground grew speckled with sand, quickly taking over until the beach solidified beneath his feet.

Not out of breath, but close, he stopped and placed his hands on his knees. Percy stood beside him panting, one hand clutched worriedly over his abdomen. His usual look of concern had slipped back onto his face, willingly hiding his youthful face again.They gave the forest a wider berth, and Josef swallowed the lump of saliva that had built from running.

"We should probably swim out to the cove to be safe."

A response was interrupted as figures burst out from the jungle on their left. The first was a man in his thirties, sweat dripping from his forehead. He was followed by a young woman, the ends of her hair singed and blackened. A rustle came to their left, but only Josef heard it because Percy didn't turn. A young man emerged, his curls tucked messily behind his ears. Everything became clear, even if the clues weren't obvious enough already. The fire was to drive everyone out of hiding.

Other tributes potions shifted. The two exchanged a glance. Silence lulled. Then Chaos erupted.

A sword clashed against Josef's rusty machete. It scraped against ears and the weight became a burden on the man's shoulders. He grit his teeth and pushed back, the sword pulling away as is swept the ground. Sand stirred as feet shifted again. Out of the corner of his eye, Josef spotted the other man aiming his own weapon. He couldn't take two, not yet. It is deflected by steely black eyes. Percy's face warped as concentration took hold. Josef smiled.

Something overcame the man then. A peace of sorts. The movements became familiar, the beat right. Weapons clashed in time, his eyes able to calculate the next move to be made simply by watching the other tribute's hips. He ducked and then he parried. For a moment he felt as if he was standing in the grass again as if he could look right and see dark skin and dark hair and count on Molly to be there beside him. Because the fight against the world with someone else caused everything to feel right.

The difference in weapons caused a slip. He miscalculated, he misstepped, the sword grazed his side. The peace shattered. He glanced left and the world came back. He had been foolish. Out of the corner of the eye, he sees Percy's weapon pierce the young man's heart. Josef swallowed his uncertainty. He needed to finish this, he needed to be responsible.

His next lunge missed, but he expected it too. Josef reached his foot out, catching the woman in the back of the knee. She stumbled, fell. The blades pressed against each other again, but this time the machete was the one to overpower the other. The sword slipped, caught by the sand. The sand also caught the blood. Josef removed the weapon from the wound and stepped back. He turned to Percy to find his eyes clouded over again.

The fire hadn't needed to burn to cause damage.

★KEIFER ELWOOD★

Dropped Out

★ASHRE RELICKS★

"Do you see how sick he is?"

No. No.

"Ashre, listen to me!" No. "Do you see? Do you see!"

Relicks, in the sand. Wave, foam, and rock. The castle drifts until its walls cave in, barreling, tumbling, down. No, Wherin, he doesn't hear you, Wherin.

Oh, how he wants to hear your voice! Tell him! Say!

Scream, marvelous roar- No. No.

"You're sick, Ashre. You're sick."

Sandcastle, so light, sandcastle dreary, spread across the sand, broken and apart. Tell him, my brother, can you heal him?

You're sick. No, no.

Ashre held one of the matches in his hand, heavy in his palm. His birthday had come like a flash fire, bright and furious and lit by passing time. When the morning arose, it had been sweet like honey, dripping and seeping from the bark of oak- until the moment between sleep and consciousness passed. He remembered, Arena, beach and brine. Blood, and so much of it, coating his senses from nose to lip.

He was overcome with it, this grasping loneliness which sliced holes into his skull, drilling and nailing, until poured into with hollowness. Every inch of his skin ached with vacancy; he'd never felt more inclined to have someone hold him, embrace him, caress his back as he tightened the knot. He whimpered on the mossy ground, hopelessness burning craters in the sky.

It was a frenzy of red streams and orange and yellow beams, twisting together to change the world, shade by burned shade; Ashre's head whirred and waned, backing up from mindfulness and accepting it contemporaneously, like a dream confounded by mares.

The moment he closed his eyes, Keon wished him an extraordinary birthday. His nephew, weak of face and bone, green in the face from a sickness unperturbed, watched him with sparkling eye. He hopped from stone to stone over a rivulet of connected ponds, shoes thrown somewhere unimportant, mud flipping up to stain skin and clothes.

"Dad!" he called. Heavy breath weighed against his light steps. "Look at me run!" When the boy turned, he smiled electricity and popped bubbles against skyline. His joy was enamored with a sticky laughter, young and loud, so healthy, so healthy.

Ashre's eyelids quivered, nose twitching, the memory beginning to fade.

"See him, one last time." It's your words and your eyes; you sicken him, Wherin. Destroy. Bombastic. Ruins.

One last- "Why, never again?" he asks. This is when, at last, you begin to grit the amethyst. No, no, the boy is sick, dear Ashre. Sick, sick, and

so, are, you.

Sandcastle powder, so sandcastle weak, just pebbles and stone on the shore. Footprints and cloud, Footprints and sun. Keon,

Keon, his steps are no more.

He recalled his nephew's disease with a spark, an ember- his mind pursued flame as the forest burned under it. He didn't know much; his sickness was a cell, cancerous, chained bars of malignance. And Ashre was no longer allowed to see him- no- no-

Ashre had to say goodbye.

His fingers crinkled in the dirt, feeling a few drips of stray water trickle down his wrist and back into the earth. The wetness matched a sting, seeping into open scars and twining blood and bone. He winced; he lifted his body to stand, smelling the faintest hint of smoke.

In the beginning, it was merely ash. A sliver of grey in the moonlight, a dim haze. He would've thought nothing of it, but the crackle and fury emerged next, cascading the night in warmth. It swarmed him, berated him; the flames were first flower buds, not yet completely grown.

Waves lapped in the distance, but he heard their crescendo as if they flushed directly in his ear. Trees surrounded him with carelessness, stumps and leaves drooping and swaying with a marvelous wind. Ashre blinked, counting the milliseconds between sight and darkness.

And how he wished the blackness would extend- soon, the forestry went calamitous, like asteroids beaming from afar. A crimson whirlpool flowed throughout the area and he watched as fire engulfed the jungle, from bush to bark, ground to sky.

His chest ached with something illume, bitter and longing. It pleaded with his veins and begged his muscles to leap forward, to be swallowed by the heat. His hair fell past his eyes and tremors were instilled near every ligament; Ashre Relicks was consumed by inferno.

His chest ached with something ablaze, burning fiercely and wishing he'd burn, too.

"Help me."

Lifewire.

Trigger and plunge; Wherin, his hands are reaching for you. For you!

Lifewire. No, no, by far the smell- the ache; smile, boy quake. Care for him. Care for the man- he's sick, sick. "Help me, please."

Sandcastle fallen. Oh, sandcastle dead. Man and boy torn apart and shred. It's a silhouette over his eyes, a canvas of sound. Wherin, dear Wherin, why is he lonesome?

Lifewire. Clip and pass.

He stepped by the flame, hand outstretched. The match was still there, in his palm, like a scar itself, haunting of a flame unlit. The torchlight was a shadow unseen, and Ashre quivered as it sat stationary and benign. He bantered between staring at it and the fire, losing sense in the increasing body in front of him- heat swirled and wisped, wingbeats of a flicker encapsulating air and star.

An ember fled the flurry, landing on his fingertip, singing prints with skin. There was a pang and he flinched back- he felt it. Pain, real and unimaginary, causing his world to shatter, numbness vulnerable for a sudden moment.

His eyes fell closed once again, whispers snickering past his mouth. Everything fluttered by in the smoke, and he turned to run. Keon whispered back. But the fire incinerated his voice.

The thrum of Ashre's feet against the ground was shocking, a disarray of beat and flight. He felt it disappear below him, leaving emptiness, hollow shade. Things called- words, words, and roars- while the ocean simmered its foam. The shack was right there; he saw it immediately, its grim structure high against the black backdrop of night. He stopped, dry seaweed caught around his ankles, a taste of running saliva on his tongue.

His bones were still. An ice core without ring, ageless and marred. He stared; the greyness of his eyes began to leak a purple gem, burning, harrowed by the wall of flames towering above him. The conflagrations merged into one, a million alight entities combined through magma, lava, and constellation.

"Hello, Keon," he muttered. His voice was pewter and periwinkle, melded by rust.

"It's been a while."

Lost. Oh, so you're lost? Promise him, Wherin, that you're searching. Searching- no, no, Keon, copper and wire and young...too young.

Hello? You hear him, don't you?

Brother, you forget him. Brother, you forget him. Brother, you-

he can't remember. And who's that boy in your arms? Ah, the son- we named him Keon- is he alright? Just tired, brother.

Oh, so tired.

Sandcastle simmer and sandcastle speak: "You're sick, Ashre. You're sick." No, no. Stop him before he runs; brother, you forget me.

"Stay away!" No. "Leave him alone, Ashre...Your nephew isn't dying."

Oh, so tired.

and Sandcastle...raise as dangerous man.

"You are."

The boy's face appeared in the firelight. Even among the orange and ocher, Ashre saw his nephew's eyes shimmer a beam of violet. His feet clambered onto something hollow; he bowed his head to see a door, but a swell of the heart kept him above.

"The year passes swiftly," he said, caught up in Keon's eyes. "I miss you. That hasn't stopped." Keon nodded, a solemn act. His mouth seemed tied into place, as if sewn, as if locked. Lace enfolded his face into the flame; the boy was a darling, burned unwell.

Ashre smiled, lips filled with teeth. A part of his toes bent under the latch, head raised to watch Keon- the gaze was cavern and carnivore, the vastness of unlimited vacuum, the endlessness of a chasm left unopened- the man's eyes were fox and wary; Keon's were fear and flight.

"It's my birthday, again, dear nephew. All I ask is to celebrate it with you." His arms reached for touch. No, no. "All that needs setting are the candles. Right?"

When there was no response: "Have you seen your father?"

.

Your bones, they shatter. "I haven't seen him, Uncle Ashre. Are you okay?" Sad, oh melancholy hum. You found him at the worst of times. Mania, flightless mind, and a crimson step to hide- you controlled him at the worst of times.

"No, no. I'm doing fine." It was the last the man saw of his nephew's eyes. Hands on neck- a laughter. You're, You're

sick.

Sandcastle building, sandcastle high...Purple and blue and black. Scream- marvelous roar, lightning to wait, thunder to attack. Scream- moonlight and war. He sees his nephew fall, chest rising to a frantic tune.

Uncle Ashre, are you okay?

"I almost died, you know?"

"Do you see how sick you are?"

No, no. Copper and wire.

He descended with a quake, head and hips swaying back and forth. The hiss of embers slithered down with him, mind as lowered as body. Ashre dove into the darkness head-first, leaving behind the world of sandcastle and tree. He felt blind, even beyond the blackness which moved with his every step. It was alive; it breathed him through and through.

The latch closed above him, keeping him in the cellar forevermore. It didn't feel like a lock, a cage; he felt free as wingbeats and inferno. He felt like water, swim and pour.

He pulled the match from his palm, lifting it with finger and thumb, giving it a delicate twirl. The grasp was idle, a desolate thing; Ashre struck it against rock and it burned. A single flame, decrepit of color, bare of light.

The man's breaths sighed in and out.

Leave. Lifewire, you're not forgotten.. Never, are you forgotten. Didn't I tell you, Wherin? He's sick; no, no. "Leave, Ashre. He's Keon! He's only Keon! Ristarria is dead."

And Ash: "You named him Keon. Brother, why?"

"I love you."

No, so tired. Brother, you forgot him- oh, but he's remembered us all!

Sandcastle tower, sandcastle walls; Keon, nephew, the name hurt you so; Keon, nephew, you were never ill. Were you? You aren't sick.

I am.

Madness had never been so alight.

His amethyst and grey eyes flickered bright and darkly. The lingering flame fluttered and danced; he sang at the singe, blowing it away for darkness to creep back around. The world went away and Ashre remained in its wake. Happy birthday, dear Ashre.

Sandcastle burning, Sandcastle killed.

Happy birthday to you.

★VALENTINE RACHMANINOFF★

Dropped Out