they call the rising sun - trint x nina
The creaking of the house sounded like voices in Trint’s ear. “Magic,” the old house cooed. “Smile. Spitfire.” Trint’s eyes were wide and white against the darkness of the Arena. His body quaked as each board groaned. The inside of his lips were wrecked and bleeding from his chattering teeth trying to find solace. The knife in his hand gave him no comfort, but rather added to his anxiety, quivering in his grip.
His tears had run dry. In less than twenty four hours, Trint had been transformed from lowly coward to jittered hotwire. It didn’t matter to him that he could see nothing in the darkness. His head still snapped back and forth at every sound and he brandished his shaking knife at everything he heard. It was exhausting, but his body wouldn’t fathom the idea of sleep. Not after the television had confirmed the death of eight children. Eight Tributes his age. Some older, some younger. But eight. He could have been one of them. And now there were fifteen remaining who wanted him to join those first eight. No, his body would not rest.
The house squeaked again. Trint’s gaze snapped forward to where the sound had come from. This was new. He was used to sounds over his shoulders, in the walls, and in the ceiling. But ahead of him? His breath became irregular and shallow. This was something new.
“It doesn’t matter,” the house moaned at him. “Shhh. Close your eyes. Shhh.” Trint shook his head. No, the house wasn’t talking. There was no way the house was actually speaking to him, was there? No… that wasn’t possible.
“Shhh, Trinton. Left and right, left and right.” A growl formed in Trint’s throat. The house wasn’t speaking. The house couldn’t speak. “Tick tock, tick tock, the clock strikes one.” Trint grabbed at his ears, the blade of his knife pressed against his temple. The house wasn’t speaking.
“This is what I brought you,” the house sighed. “This you can keep.” Trint shook his head and the blade of the knife nicked him at the end of his eyebrow. The smallest trickle of blood began to trace its way down his cheekbone. The growl sounded. The groan of the house came closer.
Trint pressed his back against the corner of the hallway, his legs sprawled out in an attempt to back away from the approaching noise. He held his knife in front of him. Then the house kicked him.
The house kicked him.
Trint’s growl became a roar as a solid entity collided with his leg. His body took over, blocking his mind from assessing anything. His arm shot out, and this time, the blade did not just find air. His body told him not to worry about the liquid that hit his face. It told him to scramble to his feet, and that’s what he did.
“Each morning I wake up, Trinton.” Trint barreled forward into the figure shrouded in darkness. The house would not win.
