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There Goes My Hero // [Alejandro's Last]
Feb 14, 2018 15:52:52 GMT -5
Post by [earthling] on Feb 14, 2018 15:52:52 GMT -5
It didn't happen fast, like he thought it would. In fact time had become irrelevant, or so obscure that he no longer knew how to even conceptualize it; perhaps the Gamemakers had taken his words to heart and found a new use for that dimension. Time was a memory, a promise, a future he'd given them; they'd taken a memory, a promise, a future from him.
At some point during the Bloodbath he'd stopped speaking. He still formed coherent thoughts but they never made it past his lips. I don't know you. His forearm exposed to the wind and clear skies.
Was it snowing? That was the only way he could account for the sudden brightening, the white filter that clouded his vision.
Vesper?
Fin?
Stella?
Nothing. Silence.
Everyone was gone.
No, the world wasn't white; it was pink. Such a gentle color. Miguel would have liked it. Every stab of his elbows into the frozen earth jolted him back awake. He crawled by slow inches, counting every one, until he dragged himself inside of the scorched stone shelter. Home. It had been, or it would be, or it always was.
Miguel?
Alejandro curled into a corner, huddling onto himself. But he could not escape the vicious wind which tasted every one of his wounds. His arms fell to his sides. His breathing an uneven staccato. A drum beat in his ears - or was that his heartbeat, galloping, reminding him he still had a little life left? Why prolong it? Why make him wait for the inevitable? The wind struck him again, howling through the house.
Alejandro shivered, then leaned his head back against the stone, lifting his face to the elements. Maybe the wind wasn't here to cause him more pain; maybe it was only a reminder that pain belongs to the living.
He took a few gulps of air, steadied his breathing and then whispered hoarsely to his fighting heart, "you can slow down now."
It took time for him to fade. He heard others, briefly, on their own transitions from someone to something eternal. For awhile, he hummed to himself about heros with no names. When he couldn't any more, he thought of his parents, of Arbor Halt, of all the tributes who had come before him in Twelve, of all those who would come after. Heroes, every one of them, and there they go . . .
"No one," he breathed his last.
And became one with the bitter breeze.
At some point during the Bloodbath he'd stopped speaking. He still formed coherent thoughts but they never made it past his lips. I don't know you. His forearm exposed to the wind and clear skies.
Was it snowing? That was the only way he could account for the sudden brightening, the white filter that clouded his vision.
Vesper?
Fin?
Stella?
Nothing. Silence.
Everyone was gone.
No, the world wasn't white; it was pink. Such a gentle color. Miguel would have liked it. Every stab of his elbows into the frozen earth jolted him back awake. He crawled by slow inches, counting every one, until he dragged himself inside of the scorched stone shelter. Home. It had been, or it would be, or it always was.
Miguel?
Alejandro curled into a corner, huddling onto himself. But he could not escape the vicious wind which tasted every one of his wounds. His arms fell to his sides. His breathing an uneven staccato. A drum beat in his ears - or was that his heartbeat, galloping, reminding him he still had a little life left? Why prolong it? Why make him wait for the inevitable? The wind struck him again, howling through the house.
Alejandro shivered, then leaned his head back against the stone, lifting his face to the elements. Maybe the wind wasn't here to cause him more pain; maybe it was only a reminder that pain belongs to the living.
He took a few gulps of air, steadied his breathing and then whispered hoarsely to his fighting heart, "you can slow down now."
It took time for him to fade. He heard others, briefly, on their own transitions from someone to something eternal. For awhile, he hummed to himself about heros with no names. When he couldn't any more, he thought of his parents, of Arbor Halt, of all the tributes who had come before him in Twelve, of all those who would come after. Heroes, every one of them, and there they go . . .
"No one," he breathed his last.
And became one with the bitter breeze.
