Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 2 | Hannibal Ad Portas (FR)

ROOTS - 2

There was always something strange about rushing water. It sounded faintly off in the distance, barely above a whisper. For some reason there was still a negative connotation surrounding it, following it like a child kicked to the streets desperate for food. There it went again, that negative connotation. Sometimes descriptions of rapids just became something to be wary of on their own, not purposeful, but accidental. Then again, they were rapids and, well, "rapid" wasn't a very soothing word to begin with.

Rapid: Follin's heart beat rapidly, a frantic thrum against his ribcage. It reminded him of rushing water, but instead of clear foamy waves rolling around his body, wild rushes of crimson throbbed from head to toe. It throbbed against his temples, keeping in sync with the timer. The two weren't much different, really: they both moved at that same rapid pace.

He took the precious time to look around, but he just couldn't focus. Everything passed before his sights in a green blur, sometimes a glare of gold would blind him and he'd look down, only to restart the process of pre-planning.

Follin was horrible at planning as it was, and this really didn't help.

So, after a time, he came to the conclusion that he'd figure things out when he had to, and kept his gaze firmly situated at the wavering blades of grass below him. Every now and then he'd glance up at the timer, but each time he looked away he forgot how much time he had left. Forty seconds? Thirty seconds? Twenty, ten? He bit down on his bottom lip. The pinch did little to calm him down, but it was enough for him to bring his thoughts together in a nice bundle before he lost them again. When each thought was strung together, tied by tight knots, it formed one cohesive thought, one that made a grimace fall on Fallin' Follin's face. He reached up instinctively for the necklace from Katherine to rub the chain.

I'm running out of time.

As the numbers flicked into single digits, Follin felt every bit of calmness slip from his fingertips. If he wasn't moving, he could impersonate grace. In eight seconds, he'd be moving. What if he were to take the plunge a second too early? What if he bent to re-lace his boots and took a swan dive into the ground below? He'd be nothing but a few chunks of charred, steaming flesh, that's what he'd be.

He didn't dare breathe. Don't you even breathe, Follin, he told himself again, don't even breathe.

Slowly, to not disrupt his rigid stance, he tugged on the chain little by little until the little hourglass charm sat upon his chest. Desperation for solace drove his hands and he cupped the charm in his palm. She said to get caught up in this second. He glanced at the timer again, finding it easier to see the glow of a four. He breathed and released, a trembling burst of air that materialized worry. Hard to do when you don't have a chance at catching up to it.

His eyes fell below a three to meet the eyes of a small camera on the Cornucopia, one that focused in on him and his every move - or rather, his lack of movement. Follin squinted at a two in his peripheral vision, and when it switched to the dreaded one, an risky idea trickled into that bundle he'd stored at the front of his mind. More risky than his walk above the rapids. The arena was no different, for time and people moved just as fast, if not faster. Each step was a risk in and of itself and the consequences of falling were far worse than striking the jagged rocks below.

He wasn't called Fallin' Follin for no reason. I'm crazy, and this is the worst idea I've ever had.

Oh well.

When he gave up the grace of unmoving stature, the timer struck zero and the cannon signaling the beginning echoed through the silence of the arena. But at least he couldn't hear rushing water over the swishing of shoes across grass.