Chapter Text
November 22, 1821
“When a child is met with fear, should it run? Or stay to see what happens? If a boy, a girl, or a child turns and runs away, you’ve thought that they are doing the right thing, you know it. But, what if the child runs towards the danger? What do you do then? Do you stop it, leave it, let it die in, or do you watch? Many die going into the shadows, most don’t live, we cower at the name, the thing that could put an end to us all, the shadow games.
Names pile up like the gold we feed the rich. Ian Harr, Missy Gumfeild, Lucille Bravehart, Jorge Clarter, there's too many to say, to scream. But you can still see their faces. One name I knew. One name I thought I knew, Annie Davis. She was the last of the games, she put an end to it all. She fought tooth and skin, until the beginning of the end. She died before the war even began. Some call it pathetic. Some call it a sacrifice. I call it cowardice. Though, everyone's a coward in the end. They won’t run to save a boy, a girl, or even their love. Those are the stories told to the competitors to give them hope. Some have learned to never listen.
The air smells of blood, death, and dust. Something fought hard to survive, most likely it didn’t. Ruined brick buildings, and cobbled stone streets, many have walked this path once, they didn't return. Memories of lost lives dance in the play of light. Their laughter and tears make up this city, or what it once was.
Annie was the girl who fought for us. She fought and fought, only to be burned at the stake. Her Father was hung at the empty city hall central, her mother died as a ‘tribute’ in the games. Their house stood tall and mighty for years after they died, until it was torn down for a new well that was never to be used. I knew Annie. She lived next door to me, she was born, found love and almost got married in that home, but what she didn’t get to do was die there. She never got the closure of knowing what happened to Romeo and Juliet, or how tall her cousin Lucy has grown.
She should have stood in the Illite's grove, getting married to her fiance. But she’s dead. All because she was a coward.”
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July 13th, 1753
(68 years earlier.)
Dark circles swirl in the clouds, thunder screams from a mile or two away. I’m numb. It's like her death didn’t even phase me. She was supposed to die in the shadows. Instead she survived and they burned her at the stake for ‘witchcraft’. It should have been me. I should have said-... No. She’s dead, and she died for me. Though, Father says it's a shame I didn’t die in her honor. She was always his favorite. His ‘perfect’ soon to be daughter, oh how little he knew.
“Hämnd. It’s time to go." A voice says.
“Yes Father.”
Sitting at Illite's Grove, covered in black were rows upon rows of empty seats. Not one had come to honor her service to the Games, or even commemorate her. Annie’s charred and cold bones lay on a bed of Globeflowers and lantanas. She and I were to be married in September, two weeks before her 24th birthday and five before mine. And, even when she's gone, I wish for her to bring hope into the lives of other future tributes and sacrifices, to show them how and when to be strong.
The games were dark, to say the least. I mean, that's the reason they’re called “the Shadow Games.” They had… simple rules.
You can’t leave unless you die. But if you somehow make it two months without dying, you can leave.
No one had ever survived longer than five weeks, or so we were told. That was until Annie.
When Annie was given 14 hours to live before her burning, she was allowed two visitors. She had chosen me, and never used the other.
She had told me the horrors that happened. It started off simple: find food, build shelter, survive. Then after a few weeks, you start to stop thinking. It becomes nearly impossible to hunt, scavenge, and tell where you are. In the games, you’re alone. Once you die they throw another “tribute” in. She told me that she had found run down shelters from tributes before her. She described finding the bones and flesh of people she might have known. How dark the night became. That's when the real danger starts to occur.
Food and water she had gathered started to go missing. The screams and random smoke throughout the nights, she said that at one point she was awake for days on end, hoping whatever was out there would find her, end her misery. So when she had walked out of the gate, two months after entering, she was captured by the guards and taken to the town hall so that the game spokesman could decide what to do with her.
She was given two options, go back to the games and die there, or let the town tell her fate. I think she had hoped the town would support her, maybe give her a better fate than death, because she chose them. But, they didn’t. They said she used “witchcraft” to beat the games, to win.
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Tributes, Brutes, and Prof. Bonvitsnute
January 2nd, 1764.
(11 years later)
To Whom It May Concern,
It is with an impeccable sense of duty and, if I may say, a most refined satisfaction that I formally announce the ban of the Shadow Games, effective immediately.
The Games, which, though once a source of some entertainment... interest to the masses, have become increasingly unruly and altogether quite beneath the dignity of those of us who truly understand the importance of tradition and decorum. While no doubt a few of you may find this sudden cessation most disappointing, I assure you it is for the greater good of the community that we move on from such chaotic amusements.
Certainly, the antics of the past have provided a great deal of excitement, emotions for those with less refined sensibilities, but it is time for us to move towards more tasteful and cultivated pursuits—ones that foster true elegance, not mere displays of reckless bravado.
Let it be understood that this is not an end, but rather a gracious invitation to begin anew. Though the Shadow Games shall no longer burden our calendars, there is so much more to be had, and I have every confidence that the future holds events far more suited to our collective elevated tastes.
With the warmest of regards (as always),
Professor R. Bonvitsnute
Chairman and the 113th Gamespokesman (Leader of the Games)
“Another lie! They’re all lies, how many more have to die? How much more blood will be spilled on the canvas because of the removal of the shadows?”
‘Why must all telegrammers yell?’ The Prof. thought to herself.
“Professor, please. I can assure you that the games caused no to very little harm in our society!”
‘And you see, that's where you’re wrong., blah blah blah, reasons, reasons, excuses blah.’ R.B whispered, barely loud enough to hear.
“Stick to the script Regan.” A man whispered back.
“Oh hush Modig, none of us want to be here anyways.”
“True as it may be, we still need to keep a high position.” Modig said his frown never wavering.
“Why have you all got to stare!” R.B called out over the small crowd. “It’s very rude!”
“The page is just questioning your very existence!” A very enthusiastic voice chirps in.
“And who might you be?” R.B asks as a cool and slightly unsettling smile creeps onto her face.
“My name’s Paige Corkspiel. I’m 23, and I'm trying to make a change.” He said with a cold and serious voice. “I don’t want myself any trouble for myself, I'm just here to bring on a message.”
“Well get on with it then.”
“The teller wishes to remain unnamed, but they call upon you cowards, none shall remain to see yet another sunrise before the games take charge. The games will start again! Miss Davis’s Death shall do us no part! Nor shall anyone else’s! YOU ALL SHALL DIE! THE TELLER WILL KILL YOU ALL! IF THERE IS NO TRIBUTE BY AUGUST 1ST, MAY HELL BE BROUGHT UPON THIS WORLD AND EVERYONE IN IT.”
‘Who in their right mind just goes about boasting such disgusting and unsettling things?! Especially saying the Games are to be brought back!’ R.B thought, growing frustrated.
“GUARDS, escort this madman out of here before I do it myself!” Modig exclaimed.
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August 24th, 1764
(A few months later)
‘I'm covered in mud from that hooligan.’ His thoughts let him entail exactly what happened. And as usual, he took the path that follows the winding river. The trees were beautiful, and full of meaning, yet he just walked by, never stopping to take a look.
Across the footpath, he followed the familiar route, never
wavering. Up the steps into a house that was placed next to the Davis’s, the porch was covered in shasta daisies. Inside the house, just past the door was a hallway, a coat stand, and dusty, faded pictures of lost memories. The house was ripped and stolen of its usual happy and graceful cheer.
“Hämnd, I got your letter.” He called out.
Silence.
“Hämnd?” He tried again.
Nothing.
‘He must not be home then.’ Modig thought to himself. Taking off his coat and heading to the kitchen he spotted a mess of flour, water, and egg shells along the tabletop.
“He’s 35 and still can’t clean up his messes.” He said with a scoff.
Strange as it was normal, an eerie quiet made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He turned to look over his shoulder half expecting to see someone there, but not one stood in his wake. Just dusted, haunted memories of the past.
The house felt wrong, too dark, too quiet. Like it was holding its breath, waiting. The air was thick and dense with a hint of something sharp, something like blood.
Modig wanted to turn and leave, he knew what was coming, at least, he thought he did. He knew once he rounded that corner past the wood fire stove, words that were left unsaid would be surfaced, but still, his feet carried him there. Eggshells crunched under his feet, and the flour still carried a mess. The smell of stale and putrid rot clung thick to the air.
“Hämnd?” He tried for a final time, his voice cracking and shattering the silence. He knew it was useless.
As he rounded the corner, the flour on the floor was soaked with blood. Five feet in front of him lay a lifeless and a very dead man, Hämnd Kvitten. The blood pooling around him was darkened and dried. A blood soaked and stained scroll lay open besides Hämnd.
“No tribute, no one lives.”
Five simple words made the man turn and run with his tail tucked between his legs faster than he would ever admit.
Modig’s mind reeled with explanations, excuses, what to say when the townsfolk asked. He would say “Hämnd’s dead. And about time too, his karma started piling up the day he let Annie die 11 years ago.”
No.
“Hämnd is traveling to the neighboring towns for more supplies. He should be back in a few month’s time, just before the final fall of snow”. Yes. That would work, at least for now