Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Snares - 5

Morning streaks across the sky, the dense chill of the night dissipating with the fog. The whole arena seems to stretch in relief, the trees reaching up to brush the sky with dewy leaves and the heavy clouds cracking in half.

Another night has passed in the arena and Byron is still alive. Lost and confused, jumping at every rustle, but alive. Dark shadows are inked under his eyes and the shirt that was a little on the small side is starting to feel baggy. He’s drunk water collected in leaves but he hasn’t eaten in days now, and there’s a gnawing ache all through his stomach. His tongue feels thick and fuzzy, and he knows his hair looks like a small animal has taken up residence on his head.

The relative quiet is crawling inside his head. He’s tried singing to himself as he walks, but his voice just cracked and petered out, so he’s given up on that idea. So now he’s all alone, and he has no idea where he’s going, he just keeps walking.

The boots the Capitol fitted him with so many days ago are giving him blisters, and his pants are dirty and ragged; the arena’s calling card, he supposes.  

It might be miserable, cold and damp, but at least it’s him here, not Brae. He can’t even picture what it would have been like to sit and watch him go through what he’s going through. If he’d made it this far, which would have been doubtful. He’s surprised he’s still here. he’s got no right to be. Not after that night...he tries to block out the memory with images of paddocks of home, but it’s been so long since he saw them, and so much has happened since, and the image crumbles into recollections.

The memories come in flashes, bursting abruptly through his thoughts.

Tyrion’s face, the door exploding into splinters all around him.

The scraps of wood, gleaming white in the moonlight as they sprayed through the room.

The cold, green eyes.

The vines slick in his hands as he tumbled through the window, the glass dragging at his legs.

An awful, wet crunch, and a short, short cry.

He pulls himself back to the present, and dashes a fist across his eyes, smearing dirt and tears across his cheeks. there was nothing he could do, was there? No, there wasn’t. And Tyrion knew what he was doing. At least, he said he did. But he should have stayed, anyone else would have stayed.

Wouldn’t they?

He starts to run, trying to choke back the sobs that come in waves, jerking out of his chest and making his throat ache. He’s not crying, it’s just noise and he knows he must sound stupid, but they won’t stop. He should have stayed, should have at least tried to help instead of running like a coward.

The sun peeks through the clouds, painting the leaves of the trees all around him with a soft warm light.

“Why? Why is this happening? It’s not fair!”

He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to, maybe it’s the cameras. Maybe it’s the Gamemakers, or maybe they’ll just take it that way and decide to get rid of him now. He stops and looks to the sky but there’s nothing, no lightning streaking from the fluffy grey or trees suspiciously collapsing. Still, he can’t help but keep one eye to the sky as he shuffles on, not even bothering to run anymore.

Somewhere out in the arena there are another four tributes, hungry, tired, probably wanting all this to be over. Who are they? He knows who was alive at the start of the day - the girl from One and boy from Two, Abi, Carmen, the boy from Six and himself - but he was woken from a fitful, hungry sleep by a cannon. One is no longer alive. He hopes it’s not Carmen. They’re not allies anymore, but somehow he still hopes she’s okay. His throat burns, and he reaches for the canteen at his waist, but it’s not there. Of course, Carmen took them last night. He keeps forgetting that.