fic: tribute
title: tribute
fandom: hunger games
prompt: on the run
medium: fic
rating: r
warnings: death.
summary: remember a time when all that mattered was that there was someone somewhere on this godforsaken planet who loved you? a time when the silence was not so deafening you could take a moment to think about something besides the pounding of your head and the aching of your thin blood running dutifully from point a to point b. a scrawny kid like you from district 3 had no chance, anyway.
Remember a time when all that mattered was that there was someone somewhere on this godforsaken planet who loved you? A time when the silence was not so deafening you could take a moment to think about something besides the pounding of your head and the aching of your thin blood running dutifully from point A to point B. Was there ever really a time when there was anything besides hiding away during the day and running until you fall to your knees at night?
Today, this moment, right now, it matters very little whether there is someone in this world who loves you, because there is little they can do to help but change the ways of men, and very few can successfully do so. A time when you could think of more pleasant things than the pain of your body - like a mother singing, turning around corners without fear of death, an innocent flower, food on a table set for many, candlelight by your bedside or the laughter of companions - is over. Wondering whether or not there will be a time in the future when you will no longer have to run is pointless, because today, this moment, right now, you have to.
It has been at least two days, you believe, and you need water more than anything else. For a short while, you stop running away from the many dangers of the arena and start running towards the water, careful to never let your feet settle on the ground. If you stop, you will never start again.
And then you will be found.
As long as you employ them, your legs will never fail you, of that you are certain. By the bloodbath each meeting between tributes at Cornucopia requires, they carried you far away from those who would soon come to hunt you. Their balance allowed you to stay steady while others slipped crossing the river, leaving you unharmed and, once again, ahead of your fellow tributes.
All you can do is run.
Up a hill, and there are no more thoughts of thankfulness, only the mindless chant ‘one more step, one more step, one more step.’ Though your sprint is is effortless, your breathing is laboured, giving your presence away. A flicker of blue in the corner of your eye.
The Careers are by the water.
You would cry, but your body cannot spare a single drop.
Back home, I could drink water whenever I wanted, you think. Back home I could live.
Hiding behind a leafy tree, you sink to your knees and lean your head against the rough bark. Fear and complacency rage within you, unable to mix like oil and water, pushing away at your insides until nothing but the impossible remains. Fear overtakes it all when you realise you are no longer on the move like a hunter, but still against the ground like prey.
Eons pass with each stumbling breath you take.
Maybe you can make it. You’ve outrun them before.
Up on your feet, away from what is impossible like mixing oil and water, like thinking beyond aching muscles and pulsing blood, like falling asleep between your siblings, and take a stance. This is the moment that will make or break you.
The first step is never taken.
You hear the sharp sound a moment too late, and a blunt spear pierces through your body, making a clean exit in between two ribs on your right side.
A scrawny kid like you from District 3 had no chance, anyway.
fandom: hunger games
prompt: on the run
medium: fic
rating: r
warnings: death.
summary: remember a time when all that mattered was that there was someone somewhere on this godforsaken planet who loved you? a time when the silence was not so deafening you could take a moment to think about something besides the pounding of your head and the aching of your thin blood running dutifully from point a to point b. a scrawny kid like you from district 3 had no chance, anyway.
Remember a time when all that mattered was that there was someone somewhere on this godforsaken planet who loved you? A time when the silence was not so deafening you could take a moment to think about something besides the pounding of your head and the aching of your thin blood running dutifully from point A to point B. Was there ever really a time when there was anything besides hiding away during the day and running until you fall to your knees at night?
Today, this moment, right now, it matters very little whether there is someone in this world who loves you, because there is little they can do to help but change the ways of men, and very few can successfully do so. A time when you could think of more pleasant things than the pain of your body - like a mother singing, turning around corners without fear of death, an innocent flower, food on a table set for many, candlelight by your bedside or the laughter of companions - is over. Wondering whether or not there will be a time in the future when you will no longer have to run is pointless, because today, this moment, right now, you have to.
It has been at least two days, you believe, and you need water more than anything else. For a short while, you stop running away from the many dangers of the arena and start running towards the water, careful to never let your feet settle on the ground. If you stop, you will never start again.
And then you will be found.
As long as you employ them, your legs will never fail you, of that you are certain. By the bloodbath each meeting between tributes at Cornucopia requires, they carried you far away from those who would soon come to hunt you. Their balance allowed you to stay steady while others slipped crossing the river, leaving you unharmed and, once again, ahead of your fellow tributes.
All you can do is run.
Up a hill, and there are no more thoughts of thankfulness, only the mindless chant ‘one more step, one more step, one more step.’ Though your sprint is is effortless, your breathing is laboured, giving your presence away. A flicker of blue in the corner of your eye.
The Careers are by the water.
You would cry, but your body cannot spare a single drop.
Back home, I could drink water whenever I wanted, you think. Back home I could live.
Hiding behind a leafy tree, you sink to your knees and lean your head against the rough bark. Fear and complacency rage within you, unable to mix like oil and water, pushing away at your insides until nothing but the impossible remains. Fear overtakes it all when you realise you are no longer on the move like a hunter, but still against the ground like prey.
Eons pass with each stumbling breath you take.
Maybe you can make it. You’ve outrun them before.
Up on your feet, away from what is impossible like mixing oil and water, like thinking beyond aching muscles and pulsing blood, like falling asleep between your siblings, and take a stance. This is the moment that will make or break you.
The first step is never taken.
You hear the sharp sound a moment too late, and a blunt spear pierces through your body, making a clean exit in between two ribs on your right side.
A scrawny kid like you from District 3 had no chance, anyway.