Swan Song, Hunger Games.

Prologue

"I like revisiting, at certain times, the places where I was once happy; I like to shape the present in the image of the irretrievable past."
-Fyodor Dostoevsky (White Nights)

Alexander's Dream

In his dreams, he searched for it. Not a thing could quiet his pursuit. His desperation was wild, formidable, and unremitting. It came to him so simply in his dreams, a thing so tangible and alive; it was unmistakably his.

Within the expanse of the field, the breeze rolled throughout, at ease amongst the languid sea of muted green. It was a glorious valley, silent and untroubled beneath the silvery moon. It was a place of solitude where he remained, in the very center of its stillness. The air was infused with a mellow sweetness, a subtle warmth that mingled with something unknown, something tenuous and dark that was steadily unfolding.

As for the moment, the world was placid, tranquil. It was instilled with all the variations and tones of earthly beauty; all that he could desire. It was pure, weightless in every sense as the current of his soul graced through the winds of the valley, free and untroubled; he soared.

The midnight air caressed his skin, he felt how its coolness rushed between his fingertips, tracing them with delicacy, outlining each. This serenity was immeasurable. He breathed it in, absorbing, memorizing, tasting it. He was the wind, the breeze of the night, commanding and carefree. He felt the sky, heard its lonesome murmurs, its melancholic melody. He moved with the grass, with the phantom of the wind that gusted through, kissing each strand so softly.

He never wanted to lose this world that existed merely in his consciousness, the thought he could not bear. In his deepest state of slumber, this world blossomed to life. It presented itself with the desires he most ardently sought. An escape from the world he detested—the harsh, suffocating reality that plundered through his consciousness in his waking state.

Peace tends to be a perpetual, tiresome cycle of unsteadiness—withering away not long after being uncovered. It is infinitesimal, it is something unpromising, and precarious. How most wish it to last, for its endless, merciful abundance. How he wished it to be his for the rest of his days.

In a flickering moment, something shifted. Beyond his control, this beautiful world transformed into something morbid, austere, and horrid. The moon and the stars went still, no longer blinking or shedding their lucidity below, stripped of their glory. The gentle blades of grass that once danced with a mind of their own, warped and twisted menacingly over him. An oppressive breeze clung to his skin, it was stagnant, lifeless.

He prayed for it all to return to how it was, begging through his choked, guttural voice. He knew, undoubtedly, that it was the final glimpse of anything good he might ever have. His last desperate prayers went unanswered, dismissed dourly. He watched it all crumble, and deteriorate. All the light and beauty was drained from this haven until it suffocated mercilessly on its affliction.

Through the darkness and the unnatural stillness, a command ushered to him, in an echo, a single flat syllable, "run."

He complied without a questioning thought, his legs carrying him aimlessly into the unfamiliar land, through the dark slopes he no longer knew. They were foreign to him, the breeze no longer smoothly rippling through, instead, it lashed out angrily against his form, disgracing him. It all was a blur as the field whipped past his vision—his frantic steps, the horizon, and all else in his waking sight.

Fear poured into his throat, it was overwhelmingly bitter and thick, nearly undulating him in a flood of panic. He did not know the reason for his hammering heart and wild breath; not yet.

It was not to be questioned, he had to hurry. He ran with the wind as it lifted his spirit in a gush of cold, propelling him, aiding his pace. Even as it's chilling touch bit at his skin, and stung his eyes, he refused to rest.

A sound, hardly perceptible at first, furtively rose into the air. It was distant and faint. It was a light patter, an incessant noise that only grew behind him—the sound of footsteps hitting the earth's floor. It threatened his pace, only pushing his legs faster, harder, and much more urgently.

The echo of the steps was all he could hear, it drummed rapidly in his ears—its sporadic beat, shaking his entire body. He could feel its reverberation through every step that hounded against the ground. He felt it in his mind, its stark, unnatural touch weaving through him, leaving him breathlessly frightened.

He did not know who this unknown presence was, who could be hunting him with such a fervent energy that spoke silently of an ill-intent, relentless desperation.

But where was he to run to? To where could he truly escape?

The outcome was unmistakable, it stirred deeply within him—this unnerving sense of knowing. He understood that his life was slipping from his hold, the colours would deplete until they became subdued and pitiful, and his mind would be nothing more than a place of desolation. This wicked presence that chased his soul through the field, desired this tremendously, it was palpable.

As his body grew weary, and his pace sluggish, a hot surge of breath rose to his neck from behind with a gush of panting. It warned him of the dangerous proximity of his pursuer.

His nerves were alight with a blazing heat, a sudden, strong wave of panic. His eyes darted around the field, scanning it rapidly while the edges of his vision blurred, blotches of black forming. A fiery burn grew with each continuous step, his legs pulsing, tingling painfully.

Again, the helpless thought soared through his enfeebled mind, where was he to go? The field stretched out endlessly, limitless in every way. He prayed for something divine, a power above that might offer their consolation and grace. He imagined it, how it would feel, the splendour of white radiating above, its' angelic lucidity, saving him from this torment, of this irreversible fate. His soul yearned for it—a salvation that would remove him of this evil that he was destined with.

At once, his fervid energy began to diminish, waning rapidly, his movements dying. His muscles went limp as he stood motionless, accepting the feebleness he could no longer fight. He forcefully swallowed his fear, the thick poisonous substance that pained him. He accepted his powerlessness. There was never a thing he could have done to reverse any of this.

At that moment, he felt it—the abrupt surge of weight that hit him, the agonizing pressure. He saw all the colours of the world before him, their saturated shades swirling, swathing, and drowning him in a thousand layers. A wild gasp left his parted lips as the blade impaled him from behind. The reverberation of his baritone echoed in a stream of noise, washing away and capturing every other living sound.

He tasted his last breath—the earthly bitterness that pervaded the thick air, the heat of the blood in his throat, and its overpowering metallic tang. He crumpled silently to the earth as his mind went nearly still. One final song, hauntingly beautiful, cradled him with its chorus, comforting and mending his shattering soul.

As he lay immobile, staring up into the dismal sky, a sudden, alarming realization struck him as he saw who was before him. One last surge of focus, of light and vigour entered him at that moment, allowing him to capture his last sight.

Slender eyes peered back at him, a gleaming blade tightly in his hand, standing with a crazed expression through his malevolent act. Black contoured this tall figure who was hardly perceivable through the darkness that grew, threatening his vision. But he did recognize this masculine form that loomed over him.

It was himself that he saw, a perfect mirror image, a reflection that he could not understand. But how could it be himself? There was an uncanny air about this figure; the way his face stretched into a cynical appearance, eyed wild, mouth parted as though he was patiently waiting for more, as though his deed was not adequate.

His mind spun, shaking and spiraling. He perceived this last image through his fading sight—the figure who shared the same defined features—the twinge of a frown that perpetually dwelled on his lips, his tall, strong nose bridge, and slender, pale complexion.

Everything entirely vanished in that fragile, fleeting moment. There was no more. There was not a breath left in his lungs. Life was something from a distant land, a dreary, unremarkable concept that he no longer knew. The vibrancy of his memories was lost to a past he could never attain or meet again.