[Now that night has fallen, Sieg can make the private admission. He didn't expect to survive this long.
They have heard five cannon blasts - one almost immediately, the other four coming as pairs in quick succession. The best case scenario calls for two teams to have been eliminated; the worst, five individuals. If teams have been removed then that brings him - and his designated partner - that small step closer to leaving this deathtrap forest alive.
His partner has proven able. It was Shryke who found their single cache, a length of rope and a snare for catching game. Not the sort of tools to survive conflict, but exactly the sort for staying low and surviving the elements. Their best chance, they've managed to agree. Sieg knows his own lack of combative skill, and Shryke states himself little better. Shryke has also claimed to be denied use of his power - some sort of scouting mechanism shaped in the form of a hawk. Sieg hasn't had much choice but to accept that as true. His own 'blessing' has never been something to function on command.
(Is it possible, then, that he... is well? Whole? Have they spared him his sickness? ... It doesn't matter. He won't live long enough to be sure. He doesn't need any special power to know the foolishness of reaching toward that future.)
They've found a place to settle, far from perfect but better than two other options they'd decided to pass by. It's grown late enough now that to continue searching might prove more harmful than use. Tomorrow they can find a better shelter, somewhere to camouflage and hide. Tonight, they settle here, and hope no follow competitors seek to remove them under cover of darkness.
Not that they will rely merely on hope. Shryke has offered to take the first watch, and Sieg has no reason to contend. It's an arbitrary choice, which of them sleeps sooner, rises later. They will both lose half the night, some way or another. Once they have found their chosen spot he doubts they will do much at all, save sleep and guard and check their solitary trap for the meagre comfort of food.
It's been agreed in silence, though, that neither of them will sleep until the first announcement has aired. Shryke has people here, Sieg knows, although no one he's chosen to elaborate on. They mean enough that the otherwise cautious boy hasn't taken his gaze from the sky for the past twenty minutes. They are seated, not together but close enough - they are a team by force, not by choice, and although Sieg has no issue with his partner he can't look at Shryke without seeing the injustice of their situation. They will be professional, he's sure, and little else. If Shryke needs to spend these minutes in daunted anticipation, then Sieg can be professional enough for both of them. It seems a small concession.
It finally begins with a fanfare, short and blaring, cutting through the false peace of this twilit atmosphere. Then the faces are shown, grim snapshots taken in the hours before their entrance into the arena, and there's a twinge of sick comfort to see that it was two teams, and then the last fatality is displayed.
He's so fucking pale. It's obvious when he's projected up there, white skin too stark against a deepening purple night. The pictures weren't meant to portray emotion. They had been told to stare ahead and remain placid during the process, and Sieg had done exactly that. But it seems to him that there's a faint tug to those lips, a glint to those eyes that's both cynically amused and furiously caged.
Then the broadcast snaps to an end, and Xian is gone.
Perhaps Shryke is relieved now. Perhaps he's mourning. Sieg can't be sure. He can't turn away from the gaping emptiness that Xian had occupied just moments ago. Even when he rises to his feet he can't look away, can't focus on the sudden labouring of his lungs, the ache in his skull. His hands are shaking, but his legs are steady. They can carry him, yes, his legs can carry him, and Sieg finally tears his gaze away. The clearing is crossed in four smooth strides, and when he slams his fist against the oak he hears more than feels the crack of breaking bone. Pain reaches him with the second blow, and afterwards he'll claim it as the reason of his single grieving cry. Shattered fingers to account for his rage; to account for the constriction in his chest, the nausea, the overwhelming dizzying rush of not having done enough, of never having done enough.
Sieg drops first to his knees and then slouches into sitting, curls forward to shelter his bleeding knuckles, and then it's over. He's dry-eyed, tight-lipped, and his furious glare is unfocused, distant, lost.
There is nothing he can do; that space is empty now. So too must be the emotions that accompanied it.]
TEAM NINE
They have heard five cannon blasts - one almost immediately, the other four coming as pairs in quick succession. The best case scenario calls for two teams to have been eliminated; the worst, five individuals. If teams have been removed then that brings him - and his designated partner - that small step closer to leaving this deathtrap forest alive.
His partner has proven able. It was Shryke who found their single cache, a length of rope and a snare for catching game. Not the sort of tools to survive conflict, but exactly the sort for staying low and surviving the elements. Their best chance, they've managed to agree. Sieg knows his own lack of combative skill, and Shryke states himself little better. Shryke has also claimed to be denied use of his power - some sort of scouting mechanism shaped in the form of a hawk. Sieg hasn't had much choice but to accept that as true. His own 'blessing' has never been something to function on command.
(Is it possible, then, that he... is well? Whole? Have they spared him his sickness? ... It doesn't matter. He won't live long enough to be sure. He doesn't need any special power to know the foolishness of reaching toward that future.)
They've found a place to settle, far from perfect but better than two other options they'd decided to pass by. It's grown late enough now that to continue searching might prove more harmful than use. Tomorrow they can find a better shelter, somewhere to camouflage and hide. Tonight, they settle here, and hope no follow competitors seek to remove them under cover of darkness.
Not that they will rely merely on hope. Shryke has offered to take the first watch, and Sieg has no reason to contend. It's an arbitrary choice, which of them sleeps sooner, rises later. They will both lose half the night, some way or another. Once they have found their chosen spot he doubts they will do much at all, save sleep and guard and check their solitary trap for the meagre comfort of food.
It's been agreed in silence, though, that neither of them will sleep until the first announcement has aired. Shryke has people here, Sieg knows, although no one he's chosen to elaborate on. They mean enough that the otherwise cautious boy hasn't taken his gaze from the sky for the past twenty minutes. They are seated, not together but close enough - they are a team by force, not by choice, and although Sieg has no issue with his partner he can't look at Shryke without seeing the injustice of their situation. They will be professional, he's sure, and little else. If Shryke needs to spend these minutes in daunted anticipation, then Sieg can be professional enough for both of them. It seems a small concession.
It finally begins with a fanfare, short and blaring, cutting through the false peace of this twilit atmosphere. Then the faces are shown, grim snapshots taken in the hours before their entrance into the arena, and there's a twinge of sick comfort to see that it was two teams, and then the last fatality is displayed.
He's so fucking pale. It's obvious when he's projected up there, white skin too stark against a deepening purple night. The pictures weren't meant to portray emotion. They had been told to stare ahead and remain placid during the process, and Sieg had done exactly that. But it seems to him that there's a faint tug to those lips, a glint to those eyes that's both cynically amused and furiously caged.
Then the broadcast snaps to an end, and Xian is gone.
Perhaps Shryke is relieved now. Perhaps he's mourning. Sieg can't be sure. He can't turn away from the gaping emptiness that Xian had occupied just moments ago. Even when he rises to his feet he can't look away, can't focus on the sudden labouring of his lungs, the ache in his skull. His hands are shaking, but his legs are steady. They can carry him, yes, his legs can carry him, and Sieg finally tears his gaze away. The clearing is crossed in four smooth strides, and when he slams his fist against the oak he hears more than feels the crack of breaking bone. Pain reaches him with the second blow, and afterwards he'll claim it as the reason of his single grieving cry. Shattered fingers to account for his rage; to account for the constriction in his chest, the nausea, the overwhelming dizzying rush of not having done enough, of never having done enough.
Sieg drops first to his knees and then slouches into sitting, curls forward to shelter his bleeding knuckles, and then it's over. He's dry-eyed, tight-lipped, and his furious glare is unfocused, distant, lost.
There is nothing he can do; that space is empty now. So too must be the emotions that accompanied it.]