Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Nero - 7

The cold rays of moonlight crawl over the clearing, painting the shadows a pale grey. Tyrion’s eyes crack open as the morning washes over his face. His whole body aches; every joint seems to complain as he stretches slightly in the silence.

Silence.

He’s suddenly aware of it; lying heavily over the arena like a thick blanket, pressing down on the kids left. He’s got no idea how many are left. His mind scrambles over a tangle of memories – scraps of vision, words, all overlaid with the pain from his chest.

His hand goes automatically to his heart, rubbing, massaging gently. It never helps, not really, but it feels like it might if he keeps it up. And it’s like a habit now. The unsteady flutter under his fingers is like a little reassurance that he’s still alive. He’s not dead, not yet. Tyrion smirks cynically to himself. He’s willing to bet that no-one in the Capitol expected him to make it past the bloodbath, not with what had happened in the Training Centre.

Hell, even he hadn’t thought he’d get this far.

He glances over to where Byron has slumped down against one of the trees at the edge of the tiny clearing they’re in. It was thanks to him that he wasn’t dead, Tyrion supposed. Him and Carmen both. A sudden stab of gratitude stabs up inside him, unexpected, but not unpleasant. It's nice to know that in this world, there are still good people around.

He tips his head back and watches the cloud overhead lighten around the edges as the moon slides behind them for a minute. Somewhere, far away, a bird trills, three notes in ascending pitch. What are they doing now, back home, where the birds always sing? His eyes trail over the ragged skyline around him; the buildings thrusting their broken walls skyward, the trees stretching up to block out the stars. Is it even morning back home?  He’s not sure - time seems to pass differently here, somehow. Slower, maybe?

Maybe it’s just him.

He supposes it’s pretty, in a ruined kind of way. Nothing like home though. Home is all big skies, crisscrossed with the thin black lines of the power cables. Home is the glint of the sun of the huge solar panels, their silver faces winking and blinking as they slowly move to follow the path of the sun.

Home is the smell of bread frying on the battered stove downstairs. Home is the distant whirr of the vast fields of turbines, their silver blades slicing the air and clouds into ribbons before tossing them skyward again. He remembers his father taking him to them once. The silver stems had risen up all around them like giant metal flowers, and he’d felt very tiny, even from atop his father’s broad shoulders.

He’d leaned his chin on the top of his father’s head and watched as he’d pointed out the buildings they knew so well; the squat grey square of the Justice Building, the spiky looking power plant and the little cluster of houses where their home stood.

Tyrion bites his lip as a wave of homesickness washes over him. It’s so strong and so real that he feels physically ill. For a second, his stomach contracts and he thinks he’s going to throw up, but the feeling passes, and he relaxes again, his head dropping back against the log he’s been using as a pillow.

He’ll never see home again, he’s almost certain of that now. And oddly, it’s not death that scares him. He’s used to death; it’s been his companion for the last seventeen years of his life. His own Grim Reaper, locked away inside his heart, a ticking clock. It’s the thought of not seeing it all once more that makes him want to curl up into a little ball and cry until all the fear and sorrow and loneliness is washed out.

Byron stirs and stretches, then lurches onto his knees, looking guilty. His hair is sticking up and there’s a few dead leaves thrusting out of the tangle.