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Entry tags:
et Dieu créa les mêmes; open
Who| Enjolras and open!
What| Scavenging, reconnaissance! Adventure, terror! Nah really, I'm cool with anything.
Where| The Arena.
When| Weeks 4 through 6?
Warnings/Notes| Violence like you'd probably expect in the Arena, and Enjolras and proselytizing probably go hand in hand at this point.
Enjolras hadn't intended to make it this long. He'd hidden for much of the games, selfishly hoarding his Cornucopia-granted supplies. It wasn't cowardice, he told himself, it was pragmatism. While there was no doubt in his mind that he would go, there was no use in either expediting the process, or in bringing undo suffering upon himself. He would be found eventually, and he would surrender then to whichever assailant could be trusted to kill him quickly. There would be no honor or dignity in it for either party, but then it would be done and he could return to the Capitol and his real enemy, away from this distraction.
Some small voice told him that perhaps that's why he'd been spared for so long. He dismissed that thought quickly as paranoia brought on by the hunger and forced asceticism. The hardships endured within the Arenas were enough to put even the Pythagoreans to shame, and clearly, were playing tricks on his mind. That was it, a simple reaction of prolonged stress, both physical and mental.
The jungle stretched on endlessly and played hell with his nerves. Each tree looked the same, and as he rounded what was, at least to his mind, a corner in the foliage, Enjolras could have sworn they were mocking him. It was ridiculous, of course. Another product of his awful predicament. How dreadful it was that the human mind be rendered so useless for lack of suitable nourishment and stimulus! He tried counting his steps, but it was useless. Twenty paces in this direction or that made no difference and he was again decrying the infinite sea of green around him when the sky opened up in what he had begun to recognize as the daily deluge. He'd set out optimistic that he could find cover in time. Alas.
What| Scavenging, reconnaissance! Adventure, terror! Nah really, I'm cool with anything.
Where| The Arena.
When| Weeks 4 through 6?
Warnings/Notes| Violence like you'd probably expect in the Arena, and Enjolras and proselytizing probably go hand in hand at this point.
Enjolras hadn't intended to make it this long. He'd hidden for much of the games, selfishly hoarding his Cornucopia-granted supplies. It wasn't cowardice, he told himself, it was pragmatism. While there was no doubt in his mind that he would go, there was no use in either expediting the process, or in bringing undo suffering upon himself. He would be found eventually, and he would surrender then to whichever assailant could be trusted to kill him quickly. There would be no honor or dignity in it for either party, but then it would be done and he could return to the Capitol and his real enemy, away from this distraction.
Some small voice told him that perhaps that's why he'd been spared for so long. He dismissed that thought quickly as paranoia brought on by the hunger and forced asceticism. The hardships endured within the Arenas were enough to put even the Pythagoreans to shame, and clearly, were playing tricks on his mind. That was it, a simple reaction of prolonged stress, both physical and mental.
The jungle stretched on endlessly and played hell with his nerves. Each tree looked the same, and as he rounded what was, at least to his mind, a corner in the foliage, Enjolras could have sworn they were mocking him. It was ridiculous, of course. Another product of his awful predicament. How dreadful it was that the human mind be rendered so useless for lack of suitable nourishment and stimulus! He tried counting his steps, but it was useless. Twenty paces in this direction or that made no difference and he was again decrying the infinite sea of green around him when the sky opened up in what he had begun to recognize as the daily deluge. He'd set out optimistic that he could find cover in time. Alas.
no subject
It's a heady, foolish thought when he stops to examine it, so maybe he just won't. Maybe he'll take it as it is and, for once, not pick something apart until all that remains of it is cold logic. Blithely, he gives her hand a friendly squeeze, regarding her for the first time not as merely a district-mate, but as an intellectual equal, and probably more importantly, a comrade. "I haven't the slightest idea."
And that thought makes him laugh lightly, which turns into a slight cough. His throat had been soar from disuse before they'd found each other, and now it's hoarse from exertion. He recovers quickly enough, but the sudden affliction causes him to break their contact, as he brings the hand that had been enveloping hers up to his throat. It's an involuntary and more than slightly useless gesture. "However, I would wager that if we described one another to each other, we would arrive at very different impressions from those we have of ourselves. You will not make me do this now, though, not when we have finally stopped fighting."
no subject
But she can willingly choose to believe the first half of his sentiment, that they are puzzles to each other. There's still unfinished space in the sketches, still places where outlines need to be filled in and shadows deepened enough to transform trash into a portrait. Still ways to salvage those messy first impressions.
She can live with puzzling roommates and comrades. It's better than silence.
She brushes her hands on her hips, wiping sweat from her palms. "If you need someone to guard while you sleep, I could stand someone to return that favor."
no subject
"I had a camp not far from here." At least, he thinks it wasn't far from there. It's hard to tell by now. The jungle confuses him and the rain has made everything even more indistinct. The landscape of this Arena seemed to change every hour or so, and he finds himself longing for the candy coated houses of the last two Arenas. They, at least, had been comprehensible. "There is likely not very much left of it, but what is there I would share with you."
no subject
She'll be gone by tomorrow - as much as she craves company, as much as she wants to reaffirm their truce to herself over and over again, she knows what she has to do in this Arena. Once upon a time she killed him, but now she doesn't want to come back to camp and have him know she has metaphorical blood on her hands again.
She can't just play defense in this game; she has to go out and try to win it, or at least look like that's what she's doing. Better she be out of sight and mind, rather than actively spoiling the seedling good image he has of her.
"I have some things left too. You can have my tent. Your hair needs it more than mine does." She tilts her head and grins. "Pretty sure when you dry off, you're going to be rocking a white-boy 'fro."
no subject
Context indicates it's not something he should care about too deeply, but he's growing too attached to their easy banter to let it slip away so easily. Camaraderie isn't something common in Panem, and he clings to it as soon as it appears to him. Against his better judgment though it may be.
"Come; We will make camp, and you will educate me." And it's with an implicit trust that he turns his back on her, offering an arm to help her off of the overhang. If his words before were not amnesty enough, then surely this simple action is.