Warrior's Lament {Locust Lovelace}

”Release me!”

Priscilla’s ferocious shriek was like a siren penetrating nature’s tranquility. From their perch a pair of blue eyes twinkled at the sight of the blonde dangling by her snared ankle and batting wildly at empty air in a petty attempt to free herself. The trap had not been constructed specifically for her, but for any unsuspecting career blind enough to miss the rope concealed by scattered leaves. It was cleverly hidden but simple to evade if one was wary.

But Locust had never revealed its existence to her.

Her laughs were gleeful just as Priscilla’s curses were poisonous. She stretched herself thin against her tree branch and watched the amusing scene play out until the incessant whining was no longer bearable. ”Locust!” She was screeching and drawing attention to herself, nothing new. Locust’s lips curled into a broad grin as she swung her legs over the edges of her perch, gripping her false “knife” with her best hand and scooting herself over the side to plummet swiftly to the ground. She landed in a crouch beside her sister, whose flailing had caused enough momentum to lead her body into a continuous sway, like a pendulum in motion - a pendulum with blonde hair and angrily flashing eyes ”Knife to the chest,” Locust said, gently brushing the point of her blade over the blonde’s ribcage. This only drew a vicious grunt of disbelief from the defeated career. ”You would betray me?!” she snapped, struggling to choke out the words as Locust withdrew her real knife and sliced the rope around her sister’s ankle. She landed in the dirt with a painful thud and an unattractive groan.

”Why not? You’re too reckless to spare anyway,”

Priscilla spat leaves and wiped dirt from her chin, glaring daggers into Locust’s narrowed gaze. ”Reckless? How was I reckless?”

”You marched into another alliance’s camp like a barbarian and refused to negotiate when we were clearly outnumbered.”

The blonde chuckled bitterly at that, brushing filth off of her pants as she climbed to her feet and towered over the younger sibling. ”It’s a game, Locust. That’s how you play. Your opponents must learn to fear you if you want to have any chance of victory.” Just another game the careers enjoyed playing, a game of teamwork and strategy and a method used to practice their skills. But what if it had been real?

”They offered to negotiate and you ignored them completely. Because of you one of our allies is dead, and another severely wounded.” False weapons, false knives, all part of the sport. Sport or not, though, Priscilla had been too rash. She was always blinded by vanity. ”Warriors don’t negotiate, they fight! Making deals and hiding in the shadows will only encourage them to mock. If they fear you they will be hesitant to attack.”

”Or they will hunt you first in order to destroy the biggest threat.” They were nose to nose, glaring at one another with renewed zest and tension from constant disagreement. ”If you weren’t so full of pride maybe you would realize just how ignorant you are, especially about battle strategy.”

“At least I have something to be proud of. Tricks seem to be your only specialty, and those will not earn you victory.” It was like a bee sting to the chest, throbbing against her sternum and heating the blood in her veins to a dangerous boil. ”As I recall, my trap is the reason you lost this game,” she growled, but at that moment there was a loud rustle of bushes behind her and she whirled to face her two “allies” as they barreled toward her and violently lashed with outstretched limbs. The brute force alone was enough to wrench the weapons from her grasp and knock her to the ground where she was pinned by large hands and gripped by the sides of her head. “Death by broken neck,” said the headache-inducing girl Priscilla liked to call her closet comrade. Locust scowled and writhed beneath her attackers. ”Get off of me you brutes!” She clawed at them until they finally smirked and released her. By the time she scrambled to her feet they were both standing loyally at Priscilla’s side, pleased with their little act of vengeance on the blonde’s behalf. Locust could almost smell the arrogance wafting from that obnoxious grin of hers. “You spend so much time using tricks that you haven’t even learned how to defend yourself properly,” she cooed, lowering her hands to her hip bones. “You should start lifting weights.”

She walked up to Locust and roughly patted her on the back. She flinched away from her touch and clenched her jaw, the absence of a clever retort evident in her menacing glare and selected silence. Priscilla only smiled and shrugged. “I didn’t really want them to kill you, but it was for the better,” she said, turning to face the beloved friends Locust was growing tired of. “Let’s go. You two have a game to win.”

She was abandoned with the image of their smug expressions.

“I am sorry Locust, but this is for the better.”

What did they mean by that? That I’m better off dead?

Their weapons had clashed like the thunder above the clouds. With only one leg to maintain stability it was difficult to press her weight into the attack and channel her power to dominate a physically stronger opponent. She recalled all of the instances when Priscilla had boasted of her brawn and screeched with pride whenever she vanquished a larger opponent. She had always claimed victory with brute strength and a lion’s ferocity, but Locust was not blessed with such power. No matter how diligently she trained she would never be built like her sister, nor would she ever surpass her. It brought out the worst of her bitterness, and it was exactly like their friends had said; ”Locust has always been jealous of Priscilla.” It was true - green was the color she wore when she was not basking in the black shadows of her sister’s glory. This was why she relied so heavily on her speed and agility. Raw muscle would never be a gift, and her struggle against Mikhail’s weapon was proof enough of this perpetual weakness.

And then his words had reached her ears. “I am sorry Locust, but this is for the better.”

”I didn’t really want them to kill you, but it was for the better.”

When she retracted her weapon her body swayed dangerously to the side, gravity threatening to leave her sprawled and incapacitated if she did not act quickly. She cursed at her handicapped condition and thrust her Halberd into the dirt to utilize it as a temporary crutch and brace herself before she could collapse. The flash of silver tarnished by crimson (my blood) winking malevolently in her peripheral vision warned her that she needed to bear arms in order to defend herself. She hastily yanked her weapon from the soil and aimed to deflect his blow, but raised it just a second too late.

A second was all he needed.

”I’m sorry, but they didn’t make it.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Seven years ago they told her that her parents had been scorched by the fire and polluted by the smoke. Seven years ago they claimed that she was fortunate to have avoided the house fire, but would they have acknowledged her luck had they known that death would grip her by the throat at age seventeen? That despite her escape from the flames she was cursed to die a tragic, bloody death on national television? That her failure was inevitable? It was as if fate celebrated her misery each time another unexpected streak of rotten luck twisted her future into a distorted tangle. First had come The Reaping. Her original plan had never involved the Games despite her eagerness to practice and impress those who worshipped at her sister’s feet. She had craved freedom - freedom from her tyrant mother and boisterous sister, freedom from all burdens but her own - and tranquility. When she turned eighteen she had planned to move out of the Lovelace household and retrieve her old identity. But it seemed her true name had been buried with her parents’ death bed of ashes, for the Games would not occur without her presence. It had been a shock to say the least, but something she could mold into a new goal: victory and well-deserved praise. All she needed was the crown.

Now it was as if the crown within her reach had been melted into a useless pool of gold right before her eyes. She could touch its liquefied remnants, but it would only burn her fingertips until the whites of her bones were visible. There was nothing left for her; all that remained were the scars it left upon her flesh. She had lost.

An unnatural gurgle bubbled through the freshly-formed puncture in her throat as agony in its purest and messiest form unraveled the tautness in her hands. Her weapon - her last lifeline - landed with an inaudible thump upon the mossy surface, her hands trembling and reaching for the blade that had lodged itself into the side of her neck where blood was starting spurt into the open and leak into her trachea. Pink lips were bloodstained within moments and widened into a silent scream that emerged only as a raspy squeak of terror. When Mikhail jerked the fatal silver out of her neck her body dropped as if anchored by blocks of cement. The repulsive taste and smell of copper invaded her senses as her hands frantically tried to obstruct the heavy blood flow from her artery. Within seconds she was gasping for air with nothing but the fear of death guiding her through the torment, eyes widened and pupils dilating and mouth painted crimson. Her gaze darted in a panic to Yaa, whose blank stare of horror only escalated her rapid heartbeat. I’m not dying, I can’t be dying, not after everything.. It was illogical to even consider her chances of survival, but after permanently branding her mind with the idea that she would survive she didn’t want to surrender her hopes so quickly. Her progress had been impressive by her own standards, and now within the blink of an eye her dream had been snapped into two worthless fragments that would wither to dust.

Why?

Her life felt like a string of tragedies with glimmers of hope and knots of anger in-between. Why, after such a fiery plague had struck her house and murdered her family, had her life descended so harshly into darkness? Why did the Lovelaces adopt her as their little servant, why did her sister mock her and steal the admiration from others, and why had she been reaped when paradise had been within her reach? I’m not the villain, am I? She couldn’t be. In a fight for survival there was no such thing as a hero or a villain; everybody killed and everybody had somebody they wanted to save. Locust was no different from the rest in this aspect. She had slaughtered twice in cold blood, but did that mean she wouldn’t try to save Yaa’s life, or even her own? She had watched Luciana slice clean through Yaa’s wrist, severing threads of muscle and tissue like butter, and rushed on a whim to defend her by plunging the tip of her blade into the small girl’s arm. She had fallen within moments without an immediate cannon to signal her death; it wasn’t until her face appeared among the stars that she was certain the girl had died by her hand. Such a passing was natural in the games, so she couldn’t be the villain. Even Mikhail’s and Yaa’s palms were stained with the blood of the deceased.

So why was she sentenced to death while hearts as cruel as her own were allowed to continue beating? Why did she deserve such treatment after all these years? Am I just not good enough?

Her lungs ached for oxygen but drowned in blood. With every contraction her heart was fading into frailty and pumping diminishing amounts of blood through the gaping wound in her neck. Her pupils were black marbles rolling in every direction in search of a savior, but all they could find were the expressions of horror and anguish worn by her killer and her lover. Through the mist of the downpour she thought she saw tears welling in the eyes of her destroyer, and for a moment her visage mirrored his own - then Yaa was scooping her into her arms and drawing a strained groan from her throat, gargled by the thick streams of blood. She could feel it inside of her mouth, and she could feel the sticky warmth pouring down the sides of her neck only to be washed clean by rain water and absorbed into coils of green moss. Her eyes searched Yaa’s, panicked and dampened with tears threatening to spill any second as she grappled for life. Her bloodied hand clutched the fabric of Yaa’s black t-shirt and trembled from lack of blood flow, drained of its natural color into a ghostly pale pigment. She could feel her heart growing lighter. The pounding of a healthy heartbeat was no longer evident, its rhythm now softer than a feather. She knew it would flutter to a halt in only moments. The sheet of ice freezing her feeble body from the inside out was warning enough that life in the form of heat had abandoned her. All she could do was wheeze, cry, and accept.

She lost focus. The grey clouds looming above their heads were blurring together and the darkness was closing in, but when she tore her eyes away from the future (her face flashing across the sky, district displayed proudly beneath her defiant frown) she found Yaa again, all drenched blonde hair and slick skin and beauty tarnished by blood and pain. Locust could always detect a lie, and she knew Yaa’s words were not a trick of the tongue. ”Locust, I care about you.” She did, she did care. It was not a lie, a trick, deceit, mockery - it was honesty in its purest form, and it was never something she would’ve anticipated. It reminded her too much of the day her name was announced to the entire population of district four when - unexpectedly - her sister’s barriers of defense against conflicting emotions dropped. The moment her name was called she expected a scoff, an insult, or a remark regarding her tricks and her apparent ‘inferiority’ to Priscilla’s warrior standards. Instead, Priscilla had been glowing with sympathy, shock, sorrow, and a hazy blend of emotions she could not pinpoint or fathom. It was almost as if she cared, and yet Locust had wanted to deny ever witnessing such an event.

Now it was staring her in the face, brighter than the tendrils of electricity in the sky. Suddenly Yaa was not the one cradling her in her arms - it was Priscilla, and her eyes begged for forgiveness.

”Locust!” the unmistakable thunder of Priscilla’s bellow raised unwelcome goose bumps on the back of her neck. She burst through the doors of the Justice Building like a storm, hair whipped by the wind from her rushed pace as she abandoned followers and onlookers and raced to her side. Locust stood up and stiffened at the abrupt sight of the very person she wanted to avoid, and it was then that Priscilla clamped her hands down roughly upon her shoulders as if to keep herself stable. There was warning in her eyes that her emotions were at a state of arousal, a whirlwind Locust knew she would be unable to contain without difficulty. She could only stand defiantly and frown as her sister tightened her grip and forced eye contact. “Locust…”

”Let go of me,” she calmly interrupted, leaning backward to escape her sister’s iron grip, but with no success. After a moment of furrowing her brow in silent consideration, Priscilla stepped back. “You must let me take your place,” she said, features still contorted into that mask of distress she had seen when her name was announced. She didn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved by what could either be a selfish act or a righteous one. The bitter frost dangling eternally in her conscience allowed her to believe only in Priscilla’s desire for fame, and refused to acknowledge any dormant feelings she might have for a sister she has known for seven years. ”Why, so you can claim all of the glory?” she accused, folding her arms and glaring at the career who was known for such cravings. Her plans had never included fighting in the Hunger Games, but now that she was being dragged from her home she would embrace the opportunity and make sure Priscilla did not steal it from her.

“I can’t watch you die.” Was her only argument, and a weak one at that. ”You won’t,” she growled defensively, ”You may not believe it, but I’m capable of winning.”

“District four hasn’t had a victor in over ten years.” The persistence in her pitying tone was nauseating. If Locust was not so busy feeling offended, she might be flattered by the sudden influx of her undivided attention. ”I will change that.”

Tension lingered like dust on a windowsill. They held each other’s gazes for a long moment, Locust’s burning with anger and stubborn resistance while Priscilla’s were unusually gentle and moist. She could not pry her eyes away from the ones that pleaded so desperately, and for reasons she could not comprehend. If there was a trace of sentimentality linked to this arousal of emotions she would not acknowledge it as sincere. Priscilla was buried too deeply in her own arrogance to feel anything beyond jealousy at this moment; at least, that’s what Locust had tricked herself into believing.

“Three minutes,” said the Peacekeeper who peeked through the crack in the door, nodding in Priscilla’s direction. The sister’s bowed their heads in unison and waited until he was out of range to face one another again. “Locust, please--”

”It’s too late.” She stepped into the field of sun rays streaming through the window, eyes grazing bodies buzzing with excitement in the district square. It had not yet dawned on her that she would be leaving her sea salty home in favor of a plastic world where everyone would be outlandish and ecstatic. She wondered if they would worship her like they always did with the career tributes. ”If you’re so desperate for the attention, you can volunteer next year,” she continued, turning when she heard Priscilla’s soft footsteps approaching. The anger she expected to trace did not flash anywhere across her twisted features. “This isn’t about attention. I’m your sister, and--”

”You are not my sister.” She snarled in retort. The harsh interruption seemed to strike Priscilla into a state of horrified shock, which soon faded to an aura of dejection. “We’ve lived together for eight years. We’ve played together, we’ve trained together, we’ve fought together. How could you say that we’re not sisters?”

”You mock me on a daily basis.”

”So? You play pranks on me all the time.”

Silence.

“It’s natural for siblings to act this way. I don’t mean any of the things I actually say--”

”You’re a liar.” She stepped into her sister’s personal space when another knock at the door steered her attention. She was too wrapped up in her argument to realize that she was about to leave her home, and on such unhappy terms. The Peacekeeper appeared in the doorway and held up an index finger: one minute. Locust nodded and he dismissed himself, leaving the girls to their unsolved conflict yet again - except now there was no time to waste. ”I’m leaving. You can expect my return within a few weeks.” Her tone was ridden with frost as she turned her back and headed for the doorway. There would be no reason to remain and wait for her parents to say their farewells; she knew they wouldn’t bother to appear at all. Priscilla would be the only one.

“Locust, wait.”

She paused and turned her head, ready for whatever challenge Priscilla had to offer. What she did not expect was the pair of arms sliding around her torso and pulling her into an embrace. “Just come home, please,” she mumbled into her hair, arms like crushing weights against inferior bones. The nurturing gesture paralyzed Locust to her core, and if retreat was an option she would’ve snatched it out of sheer emotional incapacity and perplexity. She just stood with the pose of a lifeless stone statue, arms hesitating, breath hitching, forehead wrinkled. She never moved her own arms, even once. Instead, she unwillingly bathed in the warmth of the unexpected and puzzling gesture of affection and waited for Priscilla to release her.

She hadn’t known what it meant, and she didn’t know what it meant now as Yaa’s face was replaced by her sister’s. Tender hands immersed themselves in her wet, tangled hair, curling into fists next to the blood that stained everything above her torso. Her chest twitched helplessly in the absence of oxygen and the hand grasping Priscilla’s Yaa’s t-shirt ceased its trembling and fell limp, collapsing onto her own stomach, too feeble to reach for anything more. She knew she was hallucinating, most likely from the blood loss and the trauma linked to the idea of her impending doom, but part of her searched for a meaning. Yaa had claimed that she cared, and Priscilla had acted like she really did. She wanted to call it pretending, but how could she possibly know when their farewell had been a silent embrace, broken only by the entrance of the Peacekeeper who would lead her to the train? A train that she now knew had lead to a cloaked Hell. The Capitol was stunning, the people worshipped her, the tributes feared her, her allies adored her, Yaa cared for her, the camera loved her - but there was no twisted path beckoning her to a golden throne. Her wish for conquest was life’s greatest lie, a temptation dangling before her hungry eyes. She was starved of affection, deprived of happiness, and so obsessed with proving herself worthy that she had been unable to see the end of the path; a drop-off to the lair of death. There would be no glory where he resided.

Yet she knew as she lied here that she would die a warrior’s death, and not even Priscilla could doubt such a fact. As she shivered beneath the torrent of rain and let the waters cleanse her tears she leaned to Yaa’s touch because suddenly she was Yaa again, Priscilla’s visage only a mere memory hiding behind drooping eyelids. In her last struggle to gasp for air she swallowed the blood in her mouth and coughed, the tightness in her chest and the throbbing in her leg and the pulsing in her neck limiting her movements to small quivers and shudders. She knew if she tried to speak she would only cough up the liquid contents in her lungs, so instead she meekly shook her head. I never wanted this. Nobody wanted death, but she had delivered it and now she was receiving it. Did she deserve it? No, she didn’t think so. Yaa didn‘t deserve it either. She could damn Mikhail to hell for driving the tip of a blade into her throat, but that was the anger talking. She had no right to say that he deserved death, though she did know that he did not deserve victory either.

Did her victims deserve death? Probably not, but with a goal in mind and poisonous pride eating her from the inside she never had reason to care. Now she was the one invited to death’s bed, hoping for somebody to care about her. It was the only thing that brought her relief, the notion that Yaa cared about her and the possibility that Priscilla might as well. If they truly cared about her then she would never be forgotten. She would dwell in their hearts even after her burial, and that was all she could hope for. Life after death. She may cease to exist, but in a way she would still be alive and still be remembered as somebody other than a villainous creature of the darkness. At this point, there was nothing else to pray for.

Her eyes took to the skies, blinking once, twice, slower, again - then her eyelids froze. She imagined herself leaned over the edge of her father’s boat, watching him cast a fishing line into the ocean as the sea breeze caressed her sunburnt cheeks. She imagined herself tucked beneath warm blankets with her mother at her bedside, hand gingerly brushing the hair away from her forehead. She imagined herself sprinting through a field of grass with Priscilla and fellow careers on her tail, unable to catch her while she cackled at their ignorance. She imagined herself wrapped inside Yaa’s loving embrace, sharing a butterfly kiss in the capitol. She imagined herself sitting next to Opal, staring into those adoring eyes and smiling to the sound of a cannon. She imagined herself raising a bloody Halberd toward the arena skies, waiting for the hovercraft to sweep her off to the capitol. She imagined herself crowned and beaming in front of a crowd that kneeled before her, heart swelling at the sound of deafening cheers. She imagined the train carrying her home, where she would be greeted by smiles and handshakes. She imagined Priscilla lifting her above the crowds, shouting her name proudly into the air as her friends raised drinks to celebrate her victory. The dreams of the fallen.

Dreams could be crushed, but never erased.

And just like every dream, she faded. But I will never be forgotten.

End of Locust Lovelace.