Bayard Sartoris II (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yoknapatawpha) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-03-01 08:40 pm
yoknapatawpha) wrote in thearena2015-03-01 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
There's No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross [Semi-Open]
WHO| Bayard and Maxwell, Bayard and the DAI cast?
WHAT| A kid shivering in the snow.
WHERE| Wandering the woods.
WHEN| First morning of week 5.
WARNINGS| None yet.
The place they put him tells a story, like most places do. He's a little surprised that it doesn't look like a killing field of any sort. He expected the stuff of rumors about the war, of weapons on the ground and dead horses and cannon smoke. Instead, he's in a quiet forest that bears all the signs of thawing. It's still cold, painfully cold to him, but he sees frozen puddles where the snow has melted and then reformed and drips coming from the trees above him. The chirps of birds and hum of crickets tells him that wherever he is, it's spring. Which is strange, because he was certain it was summer when he was abducted into this.
Somehow, though he's afraid, it isn't the blinding, freezing panic that, when he was first told what he was supposed to do, consumed him. He shook when the weight of what they'd told him sunk in, felt his insides turn to egg yolk, felt something go off in his head like dynamite that cleared out all those other thoughts about the bright lights and strange clothes his captors wore. And he doesn't really remember what happened after that, during his demonstration for his scoring or when they picked him up less than an hour afterwards to take him out to the Arena. He knows, factually, that things happened. He doesn't remember them.
Maybe out of nothing but automatism his body is animated. It's certainly not out of any conscious plan, because he doesn't know where he's going or even what he's looking for. He entertains a dim idea that he could look for a rabbit or a deer but then remembers he has no weapon, nothing but his small-but-rough hands and this strange, slick clothing they've put him in.
Water. He'll look for water.
Hands tucked into his armpits for warmth, face flushed with blotches of pink and white, he staggers through the woods, doing his best not to jump too hard at each rustle he hears in the brush. Maybe if the trees looked more like they did at home, it would be easier of him to pretend that the movements in the shrubbery were ordinary squirrels and birds instead of killers. Bayard doesn't want to look afraid, but even now his shaking can't be mistaken for mere shivering.
After several miles of walking in no particular direction except 'downhill', and seeing no one, Bayard takes a moment to rest. He finds a rock in a sunny patch, and for a good long moment considers it, except that someone might see him as a target. And so, shivering still, he finds a less-warm place at the base of a tree, and huddles up there.
WHAT| A kid shivering in the snow.
WHERE| Wandering the woods.
WHEN| First morning of week 5.
WARNINGS| None yet.
The place they put him tells a story, like most places do. He's a little surprised that it doesn't look like a killing field of any sort. He expected the stuff of rumors about the war, of weapons on the ground and dead horses and cannon smoke. Instead, he's in a quiet forest that bears all the signs of thawing. It's still cold, painfully cold to him, but he sees frozen puddles where the snow has melted and then reformed and drips coming from the trees above him. The chirps of birds and hum of crickets tells him that wherever he is, it's spring. Which is strange, because he was certain it was summer when he was abducted into this.
Somehow, though he's afraid, it isn't the blinding, freezing panic that, when he was first told what he was supposed to do, consumed him. He shook when the weight of what they'd told him sunk in, felt his insides turn to egg yolk, felt something go off in his head like dynamite that cleared out all those other thoughts about the bright lights and strange clothes his captors wore. And he doesn't really remember what happened after that, during his demonstration for his scoring or when they picked him up less than an hour afterwards to take him out to the Arena. He knows, factually, that things happened. He doesn't remember them.
Maybe out of nothing but automatism his body is animated. It's certainly not out of any conscious plan, because he doesn't know where he's going or even what he's looking for. He entertains a dim idea that he could look for a rabbit or a deer but then remembers he has no weapon, nothing but his small-but-rough hands and this strange, slick clothing they've put him in.
Water. He'll look for water.
Hands tucked into his armpits for warmth, face flushed with blotches of pink and white, he staggers through the woods, doing his best not to jump too hard at each rustle he hears in the brush. Maybe if the trees looked more like they did at home, it would be easier of him to pretend that the movements in the shrubbery were ordinary squirrels and birds instead of killers. Bayard doesn't want to look afraid, but even now his shaking can't be mistaken for mere shivering.
After several miles of walking in no particular direction except 'downhill', and seeing no one, Bayard takes a moment to rest. He finds a rock in a sunny patch, and for a good long moment considers it, except that someone might see him as a target. And so, shivering still, he finds a less-warm place at the base of a tree, and huddles up there.
no subject
Bayard's voice gets high with fear, and he wrestles it back down again, into something that isn't terrified. He's shaking, but he can't run now, not now that he's engaged with Maxwell and won't just be another kid running away, but a Sartoris, a named entity who can be called a coward.
He shoves his hand into the front of his windbreaker, so it looks like he might be carrying a hunting knife or a pistol. He'll be caught in a lie otherwise, and he has the comical thought that Maxwell might order he hit his knees and pray forgiveness for having done so.
"I was told everyone here is to kill each other. Including you and me."
He takes a tentative step forward, catching sight of the man with his hands up. And because the man's older, Maxwell can't help but add in "sir."
no subject
Maxwell's heart went out to him, even has he admired his nerve.
"You weren't told the whole truth," he said. "They would like us to, and there are some who will, but many more aren't so inclined." Offering the gentle beginnings of a smile as he carefully lowered his hands, and held them loose and relaxed at his sides. "They're rather forgetful when it comes to mentioning that part."
no subject
He doesn't show his hand yet. It stays clenched inside his windbreaker. But he does relax just a slight bit.
It's all so bizarre, these last few hours, that he can't imagine it's impossible that there's an alliance of people here who're revolting for freedom. In the last few hours he's come to accept even the most inexplicable without question, as if the fledgling part of his brain that thinks critically has been put into hibernation.
no subject
"We... help each other, as best as we can," he said instead, speaking specifically of his own group, yes, but also of Thorongil and Clementine and the others like them who had shown him kindness in the arena. "And we try to survive. The rules say there can only be one winner, but perhaps if we all make it to the end...."
He trailed off, his own brow furrowing slightly. They hadn't put much thought into it beyond that - into what would actually happen. With every day a battle to see the next, the end seemed nearly as far away as Thedas.
"The point is, we have no interest in harming those who mean us none." He nodded gently to Bayard's coat, hand still tucked away as if reaching for a weapon. "I promise."
no subject
Bayard pauses for a moment, clearly measuring ideas in his head that are made simple and yet so much more abstract by his young age. Finally, he removes his hand from his jacket, revealing that he has nothing but an open palm.
"I beg your pardon, Mister Trevelyan, sir. I told a lie about being armed." He swallows, momentarily (briefly, so briefly) grateful that Granny isn't here to witness his deceit, to be ashamed at him. He knows full well that in the eyes of the Lord a necessary lie may be forgiven, but it still needs to be atoned for.
"How many are you? Father, he says that numbers don't matter so much as valor, but that even the most valorous men can be overpowered when you get enough men and horses at him."
no subject
Shaking his head, he held up his hands in a show of peace.
"It's alright," he insisted, smiling widening, friendly and honest. "I was a stranger too you, after you'd been told everyone here meant you harm. You had every right to to defend yourself with what you had at your disposal."
Hands dropping again, settling once more - well away from the bow at his back - he nodded.
"Your Father sounds like a wise man," he said gently. "And he's not wrong, but we're not going to let it stop us. I understand there's somewhere around one hundred tributes sent into the arena. How many exactly disagree with the Capitol's actions, I can't say for certain, but there are seven I would readily trust with my life." A beat after he said it, his brow wrinkled, eyes closing as he remembered. "Six. Six, now."
Almost less, after the damned birds. The Capitol hitting them right where they knew it would hurt most.
no subject
"Six is a number," he says, nearly wanting to whistle about it. Six one less than how many people have been living on Sartoris - him, Ringo, Granny, Louvinia, Loosh, Simon and Philadelphy - and it more than makes for a community. He feels suddenly jealous of Maxwell, surrounded by people he knows and trusts, while Bayard's still wandering the woods alone and unsure if he'll ever see his father or Ringo again. "But not that much out of a hun'red. Especially if the rest of the hundred want to kill you, I reckon."
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His mouth pursed slightly, eyes glancing around Bayard, toward the trees and then back.
"Do you have anyone?"
Between the way the boy looked at him when he spoke of his group, and the way he'd acted when he'd come upon him, Maxwell would bet a sovereign he didn't.
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Bayard's skin seems to go a shade lighter, as if loneliness itself has sucked the life from him, has made him a ghost.
"No, sir. I asked the fellows when I came here if they'd brought Granny or Ringo or anyone with me and they said they didn't know any of those names."
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"It happens in patches sometimes. One here, another later, more later still. I suppose it's more interesting for them that way."
He glanced back over his shoulder, measuring the distance he'd traveled in his head as he carefully chose his next words.
"There's room at our camp, why don't you come stay with us?" he offered gently. "We can help you look for your people, and you can help keep us company in the mean time."
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"There you are. Have you managed to find any--" he cut himself short as his eyes fell on the tiny boy with him. "-- Ah."
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The man has a mighty mustache, Bayard will give him that.
"You don't mean to kill me now that I'm outnumbered, do you?"
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"No, no," he promised, turning back to the young man. "This is Dorian, one of the people I was telling you about. He won't hurt you either."
He looked at Dorian and gestured between them.
"Dorian, meet Bayard. A new friend of mine."
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"What is it with Inquisitors and their strange assortment of friends? Has he tried to convince you to kill a dragon yet, Bayard? If he does, you must refuse, right away, or you'll find yourself in quite a pickle."
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"A dragon, sir? I know full well those don't exist. I'm not some little squirt who don't know truth from fairytales. I'm more than twelve years old."
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"Oh, they're real enough where we're from," he said, but he offered Bayard an easy smile. "But don't worry, that was only one time. ...And then that one other time."
Belatedly, it occurred to him that wouldn't have known how many or few dragons they'd encountered, but his good humor refused to dim. It was he'd felt since--
He waved it off as if it were nothing.
"Dorian likes to exaggerate."