The battle is -- easy, yes, gliding across sand and surf and stone, spear in his fist, blood spraying. An offering, a sacrifice, blood spilled in the name of divinity he does not believe in. Hope, faithless and desperate, stolen, cradled between his clawing hands like he could keep such a fluttering, flitting thing.
It escapes, gleaming, holy, aching, seeps from between his fingertips, warmth leeching from him the longer it gets. Days, weeks, months, years -- he doesn't know, he doesn't remember. All that he is is battleborne, blood and blood and blood. A fight kindled within him that he cannot sustain, feeding upon his flesh, hungryhungryhungry. He feeds it of himself, slivers of hope and dream and skin and fat, cut from his ribs, deeper and deeper each time in begs. It offers him strength, strength in bursts, abundance, limitless and yet -- ending.
There, before him, coils the end of his rope, the string of his fate, cut by gleaming scissors, fraying and unraveling in the loss of his completed self.
So he fights, feeding the flame of his agony, his vengeance, feeling it lick his fingers, burned, charred, further and further though it burns colder and colder in the very pit of his gut. The blood appeases it, each stab and twist and choking scream stoking the flame higher. He fights, he fights. It is all he has, all he knows. Neverending, until suddenly --
Chuck, the ghost whispers, brittle against too much teeth, aching in the hollowed space between them.
The spear is slick with blood in his hands, knuckles gone white with agony. No, no-- this is a trick, it must be oh, god why? But he knows, he does. If this isn't his own mind sending him spiraling then it is the Capitol, fingertips gentle as they dig into the rungs of his spine, curl into the soft yield of his brain. And somehow, somehow he's almost glad, almost grateful. He's missed Derek so much, as if something essential had been cleaved from him. The breath from his lungs, the beat from his heart, gone gone gone without so much as a goodbye.
Derek, his mind screams, weeps, begging, beckoning. Please, please, end this, end this agony, he's been waiting, he's been suffering. Searching, hopeless and hollow, vengeance written into each bone. Dulce et Decorum Est -- Mori, Mori, Mori.
He swallows, thickly, throat clicking against the screaming void beneath his skin. The rebellion's grey fits him, but only because it hides under the red, the ichor, a soldier's initiation once more. He's seen more battle than many of these people, from Arena to Death, even if it wasn't his own. But now, now --
"Stop it." He commands, voice crackling, wide eyes darkening, narrowing, fury carved into his very being. How dare, HOW DARE THEY? His spear lifts, as if to settle between ribs, howling, but he can't -- the point falls, numbly.
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It escapes, gleaming, holy, aching, seeps from between his fingertips, warmth leeching from him the longer it gets. Days, weeks, months, years -- he doesn't know, he doesn't remember. All that he is is battleborne, blood and blood and blood. A fight kindled within him that he cannot sustain, feeding upon his flesh, hungryhungryhungry. He feeds it of himself, slivers of hope and dream and skin and fat, cut from his ribs, deeper and deeper each time in begs. It offers him strength, strength in bursts, abundance, limitless and yet -- ending.
There, before him, coils the end of his rope, the string of his fate, cut by gleaming scissors, fraying and unraveling in the loss of his completed self.
So he fights, feeding the flame of his agony, his vengeance, feeling it lick his fingers, burned, charred, further and further though it burns colder and colder in the very pit of his gut. The blood appeases it, each stab and twist and choking scream stoking the flame higher. He fights, he fights. It is all he has, all he knows. Neverending, until suddenly --
Chuck, the ghost whispers, brittle against too much teeth, aching in the hollowed space between them.
The spear is slick with blood in his hands, knuckles gone white with agony. No, no-- this is a trick, it must be oh, god why? But he knows, he does. If this isn't his own mind sending him spiraling then it is the Capitol, fingertips gentle as they dig into the rungs of his spine, curl into the soft yield of his brain. And somehow, somehow he's almost glad, almost grateful. He's missed Derek so much, as if something essential had been cleaved from him. The breath from his lungs, the beat from his heart, gone gone gone without so much as a goodbye.
Derek, his mind screams, weeps, begging, beckoning. Please, please, end this, end this agony, he's been waiting, he's been suffering. Searching, hopeless and hollow, vengeance written into each bone. Dulce et Decorum Est -- Mori, Mori, Mori.
He swallows, thickly, throat clicking against the screaming void beneath his skin. The rebellion's grey fits him, but only because it hides under the red, the ichor, a soldier's initiation once more. He's seen more battle than many of these people, from Arena to Death, even if it wasn't his own. But now, now --
"Stop it." He commands, voice crackling, wide eyes darkening, narrowing, fury carved into his very being. How dare, HOW DARE THEY? His spear lifts, as if to settle between ribs, howling, but he can't -- the point falls, numbly.