thearena | Deep in the meadow, under the willow...

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Deep in the meadow, under the willow...

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 12.
Where| District 12.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

It doesn't take long to get to District 12, the closest district to the rebel district. It's one of the smallest districts, and you only know you reach it when rolling hills grow and grow until they become large, fertile green mountains. The environment looks green and lush, beautiful, really--That is, until you reach the part of the District where people actually live. The weather is chillier than the Capitol, though the wind bares the worst of it. Anyone planning on spending any time outside should definitely get a coat.

The town is smaller than any of the others, and more worn down. Everything seems to have a thin layer of cole settled over it, no matter how much cleaning is done. The center of the town isn't too shabby, and there are a few things that stand new and shining--A metal whipping post and stocks. The latter occasionally has an unfortunate person in it, though most people have learned to buckle down and accept the new rules.

In the merchant part of town, there's some signs of wildlife, knobby trees and green enough yards. The merchants used to ply their trades here, though for now, everything's locked down. As you get farther, it gets shabbier, poorer. Into the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Here, the houses are barely more than shacks. Trees grow wild, and what animal life exists is quick to run from any humans, no doubt having survived at least one attempt by the people of the Seam to capture them for the supper pot.

One thing in common with all the sections of the District is a feeling of hopelessness. The mood is dour, as heavy and permanent as the cole dust that seeps into everything. The only sign of anything even resembling any rebellion is a few chalk scratchings on the sides of abandoned buildings, a few zodiac symbols--Anyone who knows the trolls can recognize the symbols of Karkat, Terezi, Psiioniic, and even the Initiate. That, and the grand pictures of Sam Wilson and Joan Watson, and the bold words stating NOT ALONE and WE ALL DESERVE BETTER.

The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.

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The screams don't necessarily draw Sam's attention. They might if he was acting as a medic, but as it is - there's a lot of screams on a battlefield. He notices them, absently, enough to get a handle on their location and track if they're moving, in case they're headed his way.

Unluckily for him, it sounds like the screaming and violence is getting closer. He curses under his breath, double checking his ammo as he circles around to try to get a better idea of what the hell is going on, only to freeze when he gets close enough to see the troll at the center of it.

There's a moment where he freezes, where all he can think is 'oh fuck', but then Sam's moving before he really thinks about it.

"Kurloz!"

Maybe he should be afraid here, striding up to put himself in between a troll with death in his eyes and the path he's set himself on - and it's not like he doesn't feel any fear, but it's not of Kurloz. It's for Kurloz, maybe, for whatever the hell happened to get Kurloz like this, for what might happen if Sam can't talk him down this time.

But Sam's far from a stranger to fear - his whole damn life has been about doing shit that should be terrifying, it seems like - and it sure as hell isn't going to stop him from doing whatever he needs to here.

He promised.

"Look at me, brother, you know who I am?"

The name goes through him. In registers with nothing, only that noise is being made, something intending of his attentions, and so he turns his head, pin-prick pupils lost in a bright sea of red that glows from the distance away, drowning any other color. There's someone making their approach. He drops a shredded corpse upon the crowd and goes to it.

His club (more like a bat, really, for what thirteen gave him) is back in his hand by now, and coated in enough blood to prove it too has seen near as much action as the ruby claws, color spread up to his arms and splattered over him. Including his teeth, bared to their full and showing so much more than should conceivably be.

His club starts to spin in his fingers, twirled like a children's baton. He picks up momentum, starts to run, and seems he's going to swing.

Only Sam speaks and he halts. Those wide red eyes stare, head tilting. For maybe half a motherfucking minute it is so damn quiet. His expression twists. His mouth opens as so to speak, then wider. His jaw pops, dislocating purposely to form a sudden horrible grimace. All that's missing is the scream.

Instead is a number of strangled little clicking sounds and the Initiate lunging forward, snapping those jaws at Sam and following quickly up with a sharp upswing of his club.

Thirty seconds is a really fucking long time to sit in silence, hoping. Staring at Kurloz's too red eyes and praying for some sign of recognition, for any sign of recognition. But he doesn't get it, and that hope settles back into a grim determination, even as he winces when Kurloz unhooks his jaw like that.

Those clicking sounds are absolutely nothing like the near purr that Kurloz'd done when he and Sam agreed to give this thing a try, and Sam's already moving as Kurloz lunges at him.

He dodges, rolling away and bouncing back up on his feet - and really fucking wishing he had his wings right about now, because god he doesn't want to go up against Kurloz like this on the ground. He doesn't want to go up against Kurloz at all, but it isn't like he has a choice in that right now.

"Kurloz, goddamn it, snap the hell out of this and talk to me!"

And it's probably a really terrible decision, but Sam doesn't want for Kurloz to lunge at him again. Instead he charges for him, looking to tackle Kurloz to the ground - or get tackled; he'd rather not be pinned under his brother when he's like this but it'd work in a pinch.

As long as he can get close enough to get his hand to Kurloz's face.

He could kill him in an eye's blink if he swung his club right then, taking advantage of the lunge. He could reel back, swing the club, and smash Sam's jaw to bitty pretty little pieces just like that. The shattered bits would sparkle like dust in the air, made to glimmer from the blood upon them. He almost swings just for all that. He almost end this.

But he sure as shit ain't going to be toppled over by some tiny little warmblood, not even near half the strength what's his own. It just ain't going to be of happenstance.

What happens instead is that he grins wide. His club drops as he roughly wraps his hands around Sam's wrists, one for each, spinning so Sam's momentum takes them into a dance. If Sam didn't know him better, he could almost guess those red eyes to be lit up entirely with delight.

He spins them round and round, forcing it to be lest Sam's arm's come tearing off or them bones snap like twigs in his hands. He lets go all at once, only to grasp the clothing of Sam's front and hall him up high by it. Let the bird fly. Let the songbeast motherfucking soar.

His breath comes out something between a laugh and a hiss. Clicks all within it turn it even more alien. Those fangs shine.

Sam's acutely aware that he's fighting stupid, here. He's not making the moves he might if he didn't give a shit about the guy he's fighting, he's holding things back and going for an outcome that doesn't involve either of them getting hurt and that sure as hell is no way to approach a fight.

When Kurloz lets his hands go, for a split second he thinks about grabbing his gun. He's a hell of a lot faster than most people seem to give him credit for - has to be, when you're the human equivalent of a fighter jet your reflexes can't be anything but top notch - he could have it in his hand and ready to put a bullet in Kurloz's brain by the time he grabs the front of his uniform and hauls him up. Maybe it's what he should do - he's not even sure it'll stop Kurloz at this point, but it'll at least slow him down, and Sam's already shot one friend in the head today, he might as well go for broke.

But he doesn't. Instead he wraps his legs around Kurloz's waist, locking his ankles together as he reaches out to set his hand on Kurloz's cheek. Less than two inches away from those bared fangs and jesus fucking christ Sam has to be absolutely insane right now that he's actually doing this instead of fighting, but Kurloz told him this helped soothe him and Sam believes him.

Goddamn maybe he trusts this jackass way too much, maybe what he's about to do is absolutely useless and he's two seconds away from getting murdered by his brother - by his moirail - and yet he does it anyway. He pats Kurloz's cheek, murmuring shhhh.

"Come back to me, brother."

He's hard to kill but not invincible. With enough persistence, enough force, he can be taken down. A bullet might not kill on it's own, but through his head, he'd be dead just as any. It would be that and it would be over, him along with Terezi, only not because timelines were a bitch and death ain't never just death. Truly, it would've been exactly what he'd asked of Sam to do. Everyone remaining would be safe. He'd be just another dead end, just like every other Makara in existence. It would be over.

The Initiate freezes suddenly as Sam's legs wrap around him. It's clear from the sudden faltering that this ain't he expected or prepared for. It throws him right the fuck off for what all he was planning-- so much as there even is any sort of plan in his nug.

But he tries to catch up. Faltering is death. Failure is doom. Even now he can't just stop. He moves in, going to do what he did that first time he thought of giving up, reaching forward and ripping out throatstem with his teeth, only now lacking the gill.

But he doesn't. There's a pap to his cheek he is still. His jaw just hangs open. His eyes snap to Sam's, still so far away, but holding there.

It would've been what Kurloz asked him to do, and Sam'd meant it when he said he'd try to stop him if it came down to him. And he still means it, he's still trying - he's just not sure if it's because he thinks he has a better chance at stopping Kurloz like this than he does at trying to kill him, or because he's selfishly unwilling to lose Kurloz like that, not when he hasn't tried everything else first.

But still is good. Still is better than Kurloz trying to kill him, especially when Kurloz's eyes lock onto his - even if they're not quite right. It's not the emptiness that was there when Kurloz was Avoxed, but he's still so damn far away. But this worked then, and Sam's determined to make it work now.

"That's it, come on." His voice is a croon, as if they were sitting in one of their rooms back in 13 - or in a back alley back in the Capitol - instead of in the middle of a battlefield. "Promised you I'd always help you find your way back, didn't I? Don't make me a liar."

He's been keeping up the cheek patting, shhh-ing with every exhale, but he remembers Kurloz wrapping his hands around his horns when he was trying to comfort himself back when they decided they were going to try this thing. So he takes a risk, reaching up with his free hand to curl his fingers around one of Kurloz's horns.

Sam keeps at it. He hears the soft calling sway of shore, whispering to him, pulling him close and putting thought in his pan. Each pap puts some of his sharper broken edges into alignment, making them softer, making it all ease away. His breath comes heavy and rasped, yet the longer Sam goes, the more things change.

His eyes fade back in color, turning from red to orange to something near-gold, the indigo a little more visible now, the glow not so bright. His eyelids droop down like he's falling asleep oh so slow. His body un-tenses, slumping. The buzzing in his skull scatters out over his pan, as Sam's hand is on his horn taking the edge off the world. Off of him.

His breath gets quieter. It gets to shudder in exhale. It gets to the mother fucking point whereas he drops, right down to his knees, taking Sam with him but holding him there for how his arms are over Sam's shoulders, going around his back. His bloody mitts are all up in staining his brother but it could be worse, it could be so much worse.

It don't start soft. This would be something fairytale on Alternia but it's not. Not right now it ain't. In a pan soft enough to be bearable for staying inside of, he's got all them thoughts right there. All them revelations. All them memories.

She's gone. She's gone, she's gone. He did something terrible and she's gone and-- He shakes, coming undone in Sam's arms, weeping open, gasping for breath what don't come in all right, gasping against the pain. There's no holding together this time. There's no words to be said with this. He can't think nothing but a chorus of protest at the very state of the world. He shakes all over and wishes desperate that he could feel nothing at all. He would take even just the feeling of the bullets and arrows gone through him over everything else. His eyes squeeze shut lest he be faced with everything around him. His choked and desperate and utterly muted cries are all he has to give now.

Edited 2015-12-11 05:25 (UTC)

"There you are."

The murmured words are an apology more than anything else. As relieved as Sam is that Kurloz has calmed down a little, that he's not off on a murderous rampage - that this actually fucking worked, and hell with anyone who tries to throw 'humans can't do this' at him again - Sam remembers the last time Kurloz slipped like this. The last time he talked him down and held him in his arms and listened to his broken sobs, and it was so much worse this time. Whatever happened to trigger this must have been even worse than Kurloz finding out about Gamzee's fate.

And Sam knows that Kurloz wouldn't want to keep going like he was, but at the same time, he knows the devastation that comes when you have to come back after you've given up and tried to lose yourself. Even though this is better than any alternative, he's still sorry for what Kurloz is going through.

He unhooks his legs from around Kurloz's waist, shifting so he can plant his knees on either side of Kurloz's hips. It puts him solidly in Kurloz's lap, but he's pretty sure both of them are past caring about something like that right now. Sam pulls him close, one arm wound around his back, holding onto him as tight as he can. Sam's strong - has to be, to be able to carry Steve's heavy ass around - but he's got nothing on trolls, and he knows that what might hurt a human won't do a thing to Kurloz.

With his other hand, he tucks Kurloz's head in against his shoulder, being very careful of the horns, and strokes through his hair as he alternates between murmuring 'shhhh' and 'I got you.' He stays like that for as long as he dares, being in the middle of battle, before he risks asking.

"What happened?"

Sam straddles him and he thinks nothing of it but it being the one good thing in the world to have Sam close. Sam's tight grip don't hurt. Even with his wounds, he needs this more. He ain't even got it in him to worry about the cold and sticky flow what passes onto Sam. It's not that he doesn't feel the pain, it's just that he can bear it.

He can stand it much more than the sharp ache in his heart. He wants to tear it out. Out, out, out, he needs it out so he can't be feeling this no more, so it can't spread cancerous through the rest of him, hollowing his ribs out from inside. It sings up through and into his pan, clawing within like a caged and desperate creature. He is ripe for shredding, so long as it's any way but like this.

He feels Sam just running his hand through his short and curling hair. He keeps focusing on just trying to breathe for that's what comes all instinctive for his doing. The question has him attempting to bury himself. He'd like so much more to fit within Sam's ribs and be safe there.

He reaches up, touching his own face and smearing off the color. Mostly it's red. Red and indigo all over him, the latter coming off his torn up ear and face and the holes riddle through chest and back and that one damn leg by arrow and bullet alike. The red is splattered with great chaos. But this one color, this is one bit alone and all near taken off from where he put it upon him.

He brings that little bit of teal around, pulling back and feeling like it's agony, but it's the only way what he can make answering for. He can barely see it on his fingertips for the blood and tears, both indigo. For the way he shakes too.

Edited 2015-12-13 06:21 (UTC)

Honestly, right then Sam'd like nothing better than to haul Kurloz in as close as he can and protect him from everything. It's not like that's a new feeling - it's not even like this is the first time that he's wanted to cradle Kurloz in his lap and keep him safe - but somehow it feels worse now. Maybe because he knows whatever it was has to have been so much worse than everything else, maybe because now he's got a name for this thing he and Kurloz have-

But it doesn't matter, because he can't.

Sam frowns, reaching out to press his fingertips against Kurloz's, brows furrowing at the flash of teal. It takes him a moment to figure out what that means, to remember the other time he's seen blood that color - and quite suddenly it feels like the world's dropped out from under him.

Terezi.

He wants to ask what happened again, wants to demand to know where she is, to tell Kurloz to take him to her because it doesn't matter how bad she's injured, Sam will fucking fix it. But he doesn't, because Kurloz wouldn't have gotten like this if Terezi was lying injured somewhere.

He wants to ask if Kurloz killed whoever did it, and if he didn't if Sam can help him track them down and tear him apart. But he doesn't do that either, because he isn't sure he wants to know the answer. There's a soft, pained noise, and Sam is pretty sure it's coming from him, as not for the first time today it feels like someone's stabbed an arrow in his chest and twisted it around.

And he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to say to that - he doesn't want to say anything to that, because if he doesn't get confirmation then maybe he can just pretend like he came to the wrong conclusion. The only thing he can think to do again is yank Kurloz back in, wrapping him up and pulling him in until there's no space between them.

Until Sam can't tell which one of them is shaking with sobs.

There's that too long moment where's dangled airborne, bracing to be caught by the next pair of hands on the grief trapeze wire and not being sure he will. Maybe he'll plummet down, crash and splatter upon the earth below. Maybe he won't be the only one what goes. Maybe their bones will mix pretty, no one able to tell them apart, even as the blood spreads all red and purple up around. That sick sense of falling making on the last thing they know, feeling eternal and quick all the same.

He can't stop his looking down from so high. He thinks he almost misses them hands. But he's caught. Sam's here and they feel that sharp downswing togetherlike. Whole and full up of motherfucking holes cause everything is wrong.

What he didn't expect was how hard it would be to see Sam cry. What he didn't up and realise was how that sound would bring him undone all over again. He's amazed there's anything left of him what to up and undo.

Sam pulls him back in and he doesn't try to fight. He doesn't make no protest, no, he is all in for wrapping close as he can too, zeroing the void by filling it together. Sam can't tell which of them is shaking but the answer to that comes easy for him. It's both. It's always both.

He can't think nothing but her. Her name, her voice, her smile, her tears, her words, her motherfucking silencing. He keeps thinking those last words in his head. He keeps thinking how he can't bear it, they will etch themselves into his ears. His sweet girl. His good girl. Teasing and taunting all everbody but still all heart just the same, a heart she forgot was allowed to ache and want for of what things was out of reach cause she worked too hard, tried so hard, but she always came out the other side, she was always there fore him, even all those times he didn't deserve. She was something beautiful.

She was gonna be something beautiful, he didn't know what, but she was his miracle, his savior, his heart beating still. He doesn't know how that is but to taunt him. She said it herself, showed him clear with a little doll. What does he do now? How can he...

He can't. He just can't. He can't do five more minutes all of this. He can't do two thousand years. He can't stop the muted cries coming from his mouth, he can't stop the blood. He can't stop holding on to Sam, not now, not this time, no, they'll have to pry him up off, they'll have to rip off his head. They'd better kill him. He'd have to die before he let go.

In the distance Sam can see flashes of his own picture, bright and bold, the words we all deserve better scrawled across it and for a moment he hears the echo of himself saying them and he's just angry. He didn't start this war, but he sure as hell threw himself into it and jumped on making himself as big a part of it as he could when he already knows damn well what the outcome of war always is. It's always pain and loss and it's not that he forgot that, it's just that he did it anyway.

But he lets that thought go, pulling in a slow, deep breath and letting it out. It's not like him sitting out this war would have meant it didn't happen, and it wouldn't have saved Terezi.

And he remembers the reasons he got into it. He's still fighting for Bucky, for Porrim, for the world they're from that they want to see made a better place. Fighting to get Clint back, fighting alongside Jet and Albert, fighting to keep Bucky and Steve safe, fighting to give Kurloz and Ter - to give Kurloz a better future. He doesn't let himself get tripped up over almost thinking her name, he can't.

Whatever his complicated feelings towards war are, Sam can't lie to himself, not even like this. He knows as long as he can see a good reason, he'll always make the same choice, the choice to fight.

So he keeps holding Kurloz, focusing on his breathing as it evens out, chest rising and falling nice and slow, calming himself down and trying to give Kurloz something to focus on. Maybe even encourage him to match it, given how close they're pressed together, as he murmurs that he's still here, that he's still got him, that he's not gonna let go.

But they don't have as much time as he'd like. Before long he remembers that they're sitting in the middle of a battlefield, and maybe the Peacekeepers are giving them a wide berth now thanks to the destruction that Kurloz's rage had brought on them, but sooner or later someone's going to get brave or stupid and try to take him out while he's distracted.

"We gotta get moving."

He tries to force it, tries to split himself off from reality. Let Sam's breath be his breath, let that heartbeat be his, but everything else? He doesn't want the care for it no more. He doesn't give a damn.

Sam's words come through though. He growls, but it's more a whine than anything. He doesn't want to. He doesn't care. Why do they have to motherfucking move? He casts a glare around and over, eyes going darker again. He then looks at Sam, questioning and protesting but underneath just wanting to not. Somewhere between a child stomping their foot and a desperate plea is it to be.

He holds Sam tighter.

Yeah, Sam pretty much expected that response. There's a part of him that doesn't want to move either, that just wants to stay here holding on to Kurloz, giving them both a chance to grieve.

But they don't have that luxury, not in the middle of a battle. And Sam's already started itching a little, being out in the open for so long. Especially being out in the open like this, all but pinned down and not really able to get to any weapons without prying a troll off of him. And yeah, he knows that if anyone actually came after them it'd probably set Kurloz off again - but that's not a comfort.

He pulls back a little, just enough to cup Kurloz's cheek and give it a pat. "Can't keep sitting here in the middle of the dirt, brother. Come back with me."

Now that he's had time to slow, if not settle, his breath rasps from all the holes in him. Sam pulls back and that rasp makes his growl something low and ugly what clicks along insectile. It's a little more threat than someone going no, no, no over and fucking over.

He still doesn't care about any of that noise. He ain't care for dirt. But Sam paps him again and the growls silence. His head droops, heavy and morose. He doesn't know where "back" is. He can't recall having a home on this wretched planet.

Except he can.

He starts up sudden, separating from Sam, and he runs. His destination is set, and he does not wait for Sam to follow. He finds her. His matesprit. His Terezi. He kneels to her, bringing her again up in his arms. Her form dangles limply but he ain't care.

He kisses her hard. He feels her lack of pulse and the ways his own struggles through the pain of that. He feels the cold of her what's so much cooler than even she should be. Cold as him. Cold like a corpse.

He pays no mind when Sam shows up. He pays no mind even as his hands crush about her neck and split.

It's not completely a surprise when Kurloz pushes away from him like that and runs - but only because after all that, Sam's geared up for damn near anything. If it's disappointing - well, Sam doesn't have time to feel that, and he pushes up onto his feet and takes off after Kurloz.

He can't catch up to him, but he can at least keep him in his sights - and Sam doesn't slow even when he realizes he's getting closer, that Kurloz must have stopped.

But he does skid to a halt when he gets close enough to be able to see what Kurloz is doing. Just in time to watch Kurloz rip Terezi's head free from her body, and any kind of higher thinking he might have been planning on attempting just completely shorts out.

"...what the fuck, Kurloz?"

Terezi's head lifts up and off in his hands. Teal spills out on the undeserving earth and ruin, it spreads all over his sinner's hands and seeks to reach up and coat his arms, all of him, one last motherfuckin embrace. It drips down his front and over his stone cold heart as he lifts her higher to his kiss.

The crunch of bone and tear of flesh sounds too loudly in his ears to register that of Sam. At least not yet.

He pulls from her slow, indigo left on her and teal all upon him. The day and night skies come to meet with no violence of red in the middle, parting them. None but her eyes, brilliant and burned, never a light put out but suns set in and contained. That red seeps and bleeds into the color of his, bringing ocular orange to when he finally turns fast to Sam, eyes blazing again, face torn open to bear his teeth, but an off-done calm what settles clear as he can make it go.

At least so long as Terezi is held in his arms. He rises like that, cradling her to his chest. He sees no need to reply to Sam's exclamation. He's home now. They can go where all ever.

Sam swallows back bile at the sound of tearing flesh, at the sight of blood dripping down from his little sister's body, mangled and torn and Sam can't even figure out what it was that killed her, not with her head sitting in Kurloz's hands. He's pretty sure the only reason he isn't throwing up is because he's seen - well, no, not worse. It's worse now because it's his sister, because he can't even bring himself to think her name when she's ripped up like that.

But just because two tours of pararescue and more after left him desensitized to this level of violence doesn't mean he wants to look at it, and he keeps his eyes firmly on Kurloz's.

He opens his mouth, but closes it again, because he's still stuck in what the fuck. There's no way he can come around the slightest bit to thinking that there's anything about this that's at all okay right now, and he ain't even gonna try. The best he can do is keep going with what he'd been trying to do in the first place.

"You gonna come back with me off the battlefield now?"

He's home. As he tells himself. But what has home ever felt like but splinters? Splinters up in his hive, shatterings in his own self. It would not surprise him the least to find himself in a universe made all of glass with the glimmering spider-webs of fractured parts. One day a wind would knock that last piece out of place and all everything would rain down broken.

He feels fragile. He feels as like his inner self has gone to shake but on the outs he does not tremble. At least, not to his notice.

He brings himself forward, spattered with blood in that eternal trifecta; red, teal, indigo. He's half gone. More than half. But he's still here enough as all to slowly, rigidly, give a nod. Yeah, he'll come with Sam.

He's done here. Whatever the Messiahs willed, he will be here no more. He doesn't know what to think of them. He can only assume he's let them down. They will his soul to ruin... Maybe that's for the best. He's never done anything good with it. So if he can't follow them, he'll follow Sam alone for now, on to whatever awaits him.

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Deep in the meadow, under the willow...

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