a work of art {aza}

[Knuckles]

Ivar Hammerfell
Seventeen | Male | District Two

Most of his time so far was spent at the fighting stations. It wasn't that he didn't want to attend the survival stations, it all just happened that way. Fighting was the perfect way of life, but now he found himself bored of fighting, and perhaps it was time to learn more. Blue eyes darted from one station to the other trying to find the one less occupied. All of this was a toss up. Plants, fire, trapping. Every single station was important when it came to surviving in the hunger games. Truth be told, Ivar didn't care. He had what it took to outwit those standing around him. Calculating every move was part of his life. Part of how he learned, and now he had the chance to learn more. Life was about learning, and it was about figuring out how to work past mistakes being made. It was about bettering oneself. For Ivar, it was about proving he was more than what Sigurd made him out to be.

With a grim grin, the boy stopped at the camouflage station. Perhaps it would work allowing him to become one with his surroundings, but even that didn't seem possible. His eyes locked on the many paints spread across the table, and immediately he thought to the messes he had made. Surely it wouldn't happen again, right? Yet he kept his hands steady, and his mind calm as he reached onto the tables grabbing cans of paint and paint brushes. Maybe it was the only way for him to survive the games to become one with the objects around him. But what inside this facility could he become?

He turned one way before turning the other. Nothing was a perfect match until his eyes locked on the floor. Maybe he could become the floor and see how long it took his fellow tributes to realize he was lying there. A light bulb turned on inside his mind as he grabbed the paints bringing them closer to himself. Trying to open them was difficult, and somewhere inside, Ivar knew the stylist would scold him once more for ruining his outfit - he had ruined many. Yet he wondered what the purpose was. Why yell at him for ruining the clothing when they knew he couldn't walk. All he did was drag himself on the ground busting the seams of his trousers. It was fun in his eyes, but he didn't care. It was just an item he could live without.

Wrapping a hand around a brush, Ivar opened a can of pain, dipped the brush inside and allowed it to touch his skin. Chills ran up his spine, and he looked around trying to figure it out. It would've been easier to ask the trainer for assistance, but he wanted to learn on his own. It was up to him to survive because he volunteered for this. Within a few moments his arm was slowly turning into the color of the floor. Paint caked against his hands, and he realized it was a mistake to do this. Once his hand was finished, he tried to paint his other arm, yet the brush kept sliding from his grasp covering the floor around him. Only one question lingered in the back of his mind -

How will I hide my hair?

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

This is a place filled with ghosts, more ghosts than my own mind. Names thicker than the glory years of guts gives you; Fray, Lumiere, Moreno. Shaw, Cheyne, Hope, Izar, Shim. Turner, Ruined, Summit, Eckhart.

Hammerfell.

Mason Hammerfell was the definition of strength; Orion Hammerfell was a force to be reckoned with; Torka Hammerfell had a death wish and Ivar Hammerfell—well, he can't seem to stand up. It's a harsh decline from great to not-so-great. I suppose the games are burning through their bloodline and turning them to dust.

They are running just to get in first place, hungry for a slice of the Devil's pie. Taking no cautions in their actions, it is a recipe for disaster. 

But the boy lies alone in the training centre, caught in between the colours of camouflage. Painting himself with pain, he's slowly disappearing into the walls and floor of the room. Perhaps he is a fading boy, an invisible boy just like I am an invisible girl, perhaps he is trying to escape the fate he has signed himself up for. Either way, it is difficult to achieve when someone who has their ability working against them.

A hundred questions fly through my mind like seeds from a dandelion, but I don't even think about wishing on them and finding answers. It is not my treacherous ground to walk on, it is not my fall to take. The boy habits remind me of the one with a death wish—why else would a broken body volunteer?

His body works against him like my mind works against me; I figure that we have a common denominator.

The face of agony is the telltale sign that he is struggling. As a witness and as a bystander, my watchful eyes just stare at the movements his hands make and the movements his legs don't. Mum says that I shouldn't lend help to anyone here because it can be so easily stolen, but I see this more as a loan.

With interest.

Mum had taken out a loan with time, but she could never reverse the effects it had on her health. Time was counting down and she had no more life to give—that was when she died.

Haunted, like the empty space between stars that blooms in the nighttime.

I look at him, taking a step over the line my ghosts dare me not to cross.

"Hi." My hands hold each other behind my back as my being rocks back and forth on my heels. I pace forwards towards him, eyeing the messy supplies that are nothing but crucial clutter to the station we are at. "I can help you, if you want."

"I'm not an artist though. It won't be as good as that arm. I can try, though." My eyes flicker to the detailed pattern which spreads across his arm and I'm reminded of the other day when I was transformed into a butterfly.

Paint can turn pain into armour, but I am not an artist.

"I can try."

[Knuckles]

Ivar Hammerfell
Seventeen | Male | District Two

One stroke after another, Ivar kept painting. Mind locked on the prize of disappearing from the rest of the tributes if even for a short moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the crippled boy wondered if it would actually work. But once he was inside the arena painting wasn't his first priority. Maybe this was wrong trying to hide from the world around when he volunteered for the mess he's slowly putting himself into. Someone once told him it was wrong to run away and hide from problems, and for the longest time Ivar agreed. Yet his brother rubbed it into his face for so long - maybe volunteering was the ultimate way to make his brother finally accept him.

The brush slid from his grasp crashing silently onto the floor surrounding him. Paint pulled at the hair of his arms, but it wasn't nothing compared to what he felt on a daily basis. Coloring himself into the floor of the training center would one day prove worth it, at least that's what he hoped. He told himself that because it would offer good practice for when he was crawling through the arena.

But nobody was there to help him.

Throughout his life at home he was all alone, and he had hopes it would change the moment he arrived at the Capitol, but now the feeling was eating away at him more than ever. Was volunteering a mistake? Did he give himself a death sentence? What was the purpose of trying when death glared down at him waiting to call him home? Knowing what he was capable of helped a lot, but even now as his body slowly faded into the walls and floor, Ivar wondered if it was worth it. Mason did well. Orion did well. Torka died saving his ally's life, and Ivar had nothing to compare to them.

Compared to the three great Hammerfells that went before him, Ivar was an ant waiting for everyone to step on.

A voice caught him off guard. Apparently his painting skills wasn't the best, but then he realized the hard time he was having. Trying to maneuver around his legs proved very difficult, yet he didn't stop. He kept trying with gritted teeth. He turned, eyes shifting from the paint splattered across his legs and arms, to the tiny girl standing near him. Her hands behind her back, rocking back and forth. She offered a helping hand even stating that she wasn't an artist. But she was willing to try.

This was more than anyone had ever offered. More than anyone was willing to give him. Ubbe gave him advice. Hvitserk said he cared, yet Ivar wondered if it was true. Sigurd kicked him while he was down. Wouldn't the other's here at the Capitol do the same? But this girl, a tiny volunteer from three, reached down an invisible hand offering to help.

"Sure, I could use some help." His words caught him off guard more than the girl offering to help. It was different. Something that he wasn't used to. "Doesn't matter if you're an artist or not. At least trying is something, and having a willpower to try and succeed will get you far."

His lungs expand taking in the largest breath possible -

"Do you think I'm starting to look like the floor and walls, or do I need more paint and patterns?"

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

The Hammerfell boy jolts at the sound of my voice. My knees become tense out of fear; I've seen what their blood is capable of, I've seen how they can turn the glorious into nothing but a pile of guts and remnants of a person.When his eyes slide left to meet with my being, I perk the sides of my mouth up and force a smile.

Mum says that a smile is the best medicine—she's right, and with the forced happiness, I feel a surge in determination and strength. He doesn't scare me, not really.

For some, ghosts are the scariest thing. But I've lived with them; they've been in my hair and between the curtains. Perhaps I've become immune to the fear factor they possess.

"Sure, I could use some help. Doesn't matter if you're an artist or not." I nod my head quickly. "At least trying is something, and having a willpower to try and succeed will get your far."

"Thank you." It's a real smile, this time. He's the first person to look beyond the teeny tiny exterior to the person within. I've tried to turn my skin from a wall to a window, but I think the world confuses a need for belonging with naivety. Maybe the world just isn't ready for someone who puts them face to face with someone who clutches to the strings of childhood.

It's brutal, under the given circumstances.

But when my days are potentially numbered, I know that turning my memories into present moments has hardened me up. It is a protective layer like the sweater consisting of self-belief and courage. Mum used to say that courage turns people into lions.

She knew what lions could do, though, and told me that becoming one wasn't something a girl should aspire to achieve. She's repeating those words again now, only this time she reminds me that I'm an invisible girl, a fading one.

I look to the boy, wiping away the line my ghosts dared me not to cross.

"Do you think I'm starting to look like the floor and walls, or do I need more paint and patterns?"

Invisible girl meets with a boy who wants to become invisible. It makes sense for me to pick up the brush and start painting away—painting a grey illusion can't be too hard, can it? The walls and floors are nothing but eyes and ears of the Capitol. The simple grey is a reflection of the people that have come and gone; it is painted with the tears they have shed.

I'm not an artist, but it's all a treacherous grey.

"It looks good." I tell him, stepping to the side to pick up a small paintbrush. "More grey, though. Lots more." The bristles dip in and out of the sombre tone, before brushing it onto the weaker arm.

"See? More grey is good."

My words sound like something my ghosts would say.

[Knuckles]

Ivar Hammerfell
Seventeen | Male | District Two

For a moment the brush twirled through his fingers sending specs of paint splattering across the floor. It wasn't much, yet it offered a chance to hide what he yearned for the world to see. Not having the use of his legs haunted his every waking second, but Ivar chose to live with it. Asking for help was beneath him, and yet his eyes turned towards the tiny girl from three trying to learn more about her. His childhood was cut short, but for her she had the world. Everything to offer, and deep inside the boy wondered why she would volunteer for something as horrible as the hunger games. Granted not everyone thought the games were terrible - Ivar looked forward to the beginning of the games, he looked forward to doing what he was trained to do.

A thank you slid from her tongue as the corners of her lips twisted across her face. Ivar wasn't used to seeing people smile - he wanted them to fear him, to run away when they saw him coming, but this, seeing her smile, brought something out of him that he hadn't seen in a while.

But his mind was locked on his other questions to even worry about what could possibly go wrong.

"It looks good."

A frantic heart leaped into the back of his throat. Nobody complimented him, and Ivar honestly wasn't sure how to take it. Fighting was his life, and now that he took the time to slow down and take it all in so much had happened. Once upon a time he enjoyed running through the district, he enjoyed climbing trees and jumping over things, but all those were just a distant memory. A fire stole away what he enjoyed the most. And here in the Capitol, Ivar watched as people took walking for granted. All he wanted was to stand like a normal boy and walk like a normal teen, however, he was far from normal. This was his life now.

And nothing would change it.

Blue eyes watch as she picks up a paintbrush with the suggestion of more grey. Grey was a bland color. Black and white were two colors he saw. Both on opposite ends of the spectrum, yet together they created a fine line lingering in between. It wasn't his favorite color, and perhaps the colors of the arena would feel more alive than the grey lingering inside the gym.

Ivar sat perfectly still while the girl brushed the grey color onto his weaker arm, and it looked amazing. Better than anything he could've seen before.

"Grey is such a terrible color, yet it blends in so perfectly." He stated rolling his own brush into the paints lying on the floor beside him. "Becoming more and more invisible with each passing second." It was his life, everything he had worked for up until this point.

"Thank you."

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]