Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 | Ab Initio (FR)

ROOTS - 1

Rushing water. The crash of foaming waves curled up around wooden foundations, a dark blue that sprayed up to chill Follin's cheeks, his bare arms. He breathed in deeply, taking in the fresh air. With every breath he felt his head clearing, all thoughts tumbling down to the rapids slapping at one another under the bridge. They'd be lost in the fray of dueling currents. He could run and run as much as he wanted in order to follow them down the river, but the only way he'd find them again would be if he were to follow it all the way to the other end of the district, a run of several hours, and wait for it all to wash up against the shore. By then they'd be worthless - all battered by the water, sopping, and torn to shreds with every bump against a rock or boulder.

He let the thoughts fall anyway. He had no use for them, not anymore. They'd done their work, done the deed. No one can live in their own waste for long, he recalled, and those thoughts, to him, were now waste, something he'd never need to go back to.

Another thrum of water came thrashing against the wooden foundations that held him up so high above the water. On either side of the river were walls of dirt and jagged rocks, moss hanging down and the drooping branches of trees that couldn't support their own weight dipped down. The bridge was roofed, nests of some species of charred birds nestled up in the corners. He heard the heavy flutter of their wings above the water as they flew back and forth, picking at their children and friends.

Every flap matched a beat of his heart, laborious and steady. He breathed out, tightening his grip on the edge of the bridge. Splinters perked up and teased his fingertips; he ignored it. Instead, he ran his palms over them, picking one up in his skin every now and then and pausing to pluck them out. Okay, ow. Those actually do hurt. He pursed his lips. Kinda.

But still, nothing could mar Follin's determination. With another deep breath, he swung his leg up on the rail. He stood at one far end of the bridge, so he had another pole to grab onto as he lugged himself up. Soon he was clutching it desperately, his feet positioned precariously on the edge. The rail was just thick enough for his whole foot to fit there; like a balance beam.

That's what he pretended it was. A balance beam.

A steady breeze blew against him, chilling his arms and blowing up speckles of water that drenched through his clothes. There was no sun to blind him, no night to render him sightless. It was early morning, a little after dawn on a rainy day. There was melancholy in the air, and he knew exactly why. Reaping day, what a joyous occasion. He scoffed at himself, breath hitching in his throat when he began to wobble. Briefly, doubt came circling around him. This is crazy. I'm crazy. I'm a crazy piece of shit that belongs in the nuthouse.

But still, he remained firmly rooted upon the rail. His feet were trunks, and there was some invisible weaving of roots swirling up his ankle, preventing him from taking the plunge.

He sucked in another breath, and removed his hands from the pole.

Now he was really wobbling, one foot moving in front of the other. The two switched back and forth, a game of tag, a heel tapping a toe, a toe knocking against a heel. And each time they touched, Follin swore his throat tightened just a little more, he was convinced his chest was restraining his lungs down against a board. Yup, definitely crazy. There's no way I'm not crazy. Nutso...loco. Words. He bit down on his lip. Why so many words for the same thing?

His steps clunked down on the wood. It made a spark of adrenaline shoot up through his legs, the only thing urging him onwards. With every step, he wondered why exactly he was doing what he was doing. Every answer was the same, just thought out in variation. Follin never thought the same thing twice. Ever.