no touching the {artifacts}, please // kire

He had been doing light practice drills with his sword, (the dummy that was his false opponent proving to be a challenge to not kill.) A slash here would take its arm off, a thrust would pierce its heart, a slice would sever its head. It was mindless, tasteless and boring as Ripred knew what. It was why, when the trainer called for someone to partner with a boy wanting to fence, he jumped at the chance. Handing his sword to his personal trainer, (who lately was being more of a babysitter or butler than a trainer,) he grabbed together a fencing uniform and pulled on everything except the mask. Going over to stand beside the trainer who had called, he looked up at the man with the smallest tingle of excitement running through him. Finally he would have a real opponent again.

The past months had grown dull, only the moments spent talking to Jade had really done anything to liven his life up. (Once the anger had truly burnt itself out the world had fallen to a depressing gray blandness,) and it was all he could do to not wreak havoc just for the entertainment. He had given up all hope of finding Emery after he had met Jade, had let her convince him that he didn't deserve the pain that he felt. They had a fling, something he had told himself he wouldn't do because it wasn't fair to her, but he had needed it. There had been nights when he hadn't come home, (staying out somewhere in some bed with someone,) but no body had cared. It was like Rolex had disappeared and some other boy had taken on his guise.

"Young man over here needs a fencing partner," a few people looked up at the call, but it was only Rolex who responded to it. At least, once people saw Rolex stepping forward they didn't try to fill the position. Having lost any reason to be anywhere but in bed or in the training center he had become an even more formidable fighter and few people felt comfortable holding a sword to him. The terrible glee he was feeling right now told him that he would not offer his opponent any mercy. (He had been too gentle on the dummies as it was, unable to use his full strength or he might damage the entire thing.) The districts had a harder time coming by the dummies than the Capitol obviously did, so they had to be a bit more sparing with them.

The past few months had been as good to Rolex as horrible. (He had lost his passion, but not necessarily his drive.) He was still driven to do well, but the passion for what he was doing and how he would improve had been lost. Everything had turned monotonous and he may as well have been training himself in boredom than with a sword. He had built muscle, his arms now showed highly visible bulges, and under his shirt were obvious sixpack abs. He looked healthy, and in truth he was very healthy aside from a few of his new found practices like drinking and bedding with strangers, but he was sick at heart. He needed something meaningful in his life again, because everything had lost meaning when she had left. He couldn't even draw up the energy to think of her name anymore. (It might just be best forgotten.)

His eyes met the trainer's, receiving the warning in his gaze telling him not to play rough. He smirked, but gave a small nod. (He wouldn't dumb down his skills to match his opponent, but he wouldn't overpower them too much.) A fair fight offered more and longer entertainment than an unfair one. He really could use the entertainment. "I'll be his opponent." He selected an Épée sword, (wanting something light and fast but with the challenge that came with the entire body being the target.) Sizing up his opponent, he handed the boy a slightly lighter, slightly shorter sword that would account for the size of him. In truth it would be better if they had equal swords, but equality wasn't something this fight was going to have. There were few people who could best Rolex, and they had trained for at least as long as he had, if not longer.

Flicking the tip of his sword at his opponent, he gestured for him to stand at his end of the lane, taking up his own spot at the closer end. He put the mask on his head and turned to the trainer to watch for the signal to start. Smiling underneath his mask, he held his sword at the ready. "Time to finally relieve some boredom." His mutter was faint, only enough for him to hear and certainly not enough to be heard through a mask. It would be nice to have a purpose again, even if it was only for a short time and even if it was only to put some newcomer in their place. His sharp green eyes danced with dark amusement as he waited for the match to begin.

Even without seeing his opponent's face, Rolex knew they were nervous. (They were right to be, but they almost seemed puzzled by the sword that he handed them.) It was hard to tell anything when he was trying to see through not only his mask but theirs, and it was more important that he focused on his moves and avoiding the lunges and motions done by the boy across the strip from him. The unsure stature of the boy across from him alerted Rolex to the fact that they had no idea what was going on. (Still, a flailing opponent would pose a bigger threat than a trained one - with no idea what they were going to do it was impossible to set himself up to dodge.) The trainer signaled the match to begin and Rolex held back a moment before flicking his sword forward in a test of speed and ability to block. It was knocked aside, but not very easily, and his next half-hearted attempt came a little closer to scoring a point, still it was deflected even if only by a last-minute move.

Settled at his edge of the mat, his opponent waited a moment before charging forward. Their speed was more than he realized, and soon he felt the touch of a sword on his knee. (Grumbling to himself and straightening to go back to his starting position he knew that he couldn't play with this kid much longer, points would have to be scored or else he would lose the match in his foolishness.) The trainer, after having announced the point, gave a nod and walked off to watch someone else. Rolex's eyes flashed with a grim joy - he would now be able to use some of his more advanced techniques without the annoyance of the trainer telling him to go easy. (Like a dog unclipped from its chain he lunged forward, his sword bared before him instead of his teeth as he went for the attack.) The kid was swift, but Rolex had trained with swords much heavier than this and his speed matched or exceeded his opponent so there was no way he could be dodged.

Growling softly behind his mask, (the point scored against him fueling his need for a vicious match,) he flicked the tip of the sword against his adversary's hip causing the buzzer to go. Sneering, though no one could see, he silently cursed the fact that they weren't use real swords. These cheap aluminum sticks provided no kind of decent blow, and a real sword fight would allow him to release his aggression better than poking his opponent would. He gave his sword a sharp downward flick in his irritation and took up his position at his end of the mat again. It was all so infuriating, even when there was nothing wrong with what was happening. (Maybe that was it, everything was too plain, too boring, too the same.) He needed something different, something that would give him something new to think about. These simple matches of a poke for a poke would drive him insane under the weight of their similarities because no one ever tried anything new.

It felt like he was the only one suffocating in the blandness, but perhaps it was because his whole world was bland - ever since she had left the world had lost its flavour. (The rich spices of vigor and purpose lost their sting, the creamy textures of a beautiful day melted into muck.) The sweet tang of love was now bitter and hollow because it meant nothing anymore. Gray wasn't the right word, but there certainly weren't the same colours in his life - not like there used to be. When he was with Emery the world had been bright, (even more vivid than he had known.) Now all of those colours that she had brought into his life had drained and they took the rest of the colours with them as they did. It left him standing within a black and white picture, except it was not a still, more like a film. This film played, like the old fashioned silent ones he had heard tell of from his grandparents time. (Whoever his grandparents might have been - his parents had never felt the need to introduce him to them.

He stood there, staring at his opponent as he felt contending feelings of frustration and exhaustion battling inside of him. He was sick of this life, he wanted to fight his way back to the colour but he didn't know how and he felt trapped. (Lost in a world that no longer held meaning he was grasping at straws as though one might be attached to a drink that could quench his thirst for a purpose.) Narrowing his eyes he once more took in the form of his opponent, another assessment of the person he was exchanging pokes with. His eyes caught on a sliver of darkness on their shoulder, a hair that had escaped from under their mask and stuck to the uniform. It was nearly black, and much longer than most boy's would have. Some of the girls even had shorter hair than that, and it tipped him off that his opponent was really female. (Of course, that didn't mean much since many people of both gender came to the gym to train.)

But the colour reminded him of a certain someone. (It was like her hair - Emery's - and it brought memories of the times when he had stroked her hair, run his fingers through it, brushed it away from her face.) Viciously he curled his lip, the mask screening the horrible expression from view even when the emotion it signified was coursing through his veins like a toxin. It couldn't be her, (so he should just ignore it and fight this girl until he defeated her.) After he would storm into the bar and drink until life blurred before stealing away with some girl to spend a night trying to erase the memories of her. Her, Emery, her, Emery. He couldn't face the fact that he still felt for her, it was disappointing. (He thought she was gone, it was over and that he had finally driven those horribly vivid memories from his mind.) He took in a deep breath and let it out in a low hiss. His exhaustion had evaporated the moment her memories had slipped to the forefront of his brain. No longer did he wish to just stop fighting; now he wanted to fight the world.

It took him a moment to notice the setting of her body had changed. It was as though she were a dog and her hackles had gone up, frustration at having a point scored against her seemed to push her temper. He gazed at her, trying to gauge what her next attempt at scoring would be, (confident that he could deflect whatever strike she decided to make.) Only she didn't make a strike, not using the sword anyway. They stood there, facing one another in silence for a moment, nothing to been seen or heard from his opponent except the cloaking uniform that masked every sign he normally went on. Neither of them were even breathing heavy, but then the match had only just begun. Confused at the lack of motion he pointed his sword at his opponent and moved forward for the attack, (it seemed like it was enough to wake her up and she also held her sword out.) Just before he was able to score a point, however, she lowered her sword and she kicked him.

The kick hurt, (a hard blow to the shin that sent him hobbling forward a couple steps because of his own momentum.) Gritting his teeth both in his anger and his pain, he turned to look at her again. She hadn't removed her mask so he still couldn't see her face, and she dropped her sword. Anger turned into shock as she reached into his pocket before he could move and took his wallet. The anger started to swell again and he almost dropped his sword and lunged at her with his bare hands but then she kicked him again, (harder than the last time if he had thought it was possible and right in the same spot before turning and bolting towards the door.) Flying into a dark rage he threw down his sword and yanked off his mask as he gave pursuit. She had gotten two-thirds of the way to the door before he caught up with her, only accomplished by the fact that his legs were longer than hers and he trained himself to have a long stride. It was then he grabbed her and spun her around to face him.

He was angry, (horribly angry in the way he tried so hard not to be.) It was his biggest flaw and he knew right now it was out for all the world to see but he didn't care. He didn't fucking care. This bitch had not only kicked him in the shins, not once but twice, she had also stolen from him. See how she liked a taste of her own medicine, (his rage fueled him as he kicked her in the shin sure that it would match at least the pain of her kicks.) Growling under his breath he attempted to knock her down by leaning his weight against her as he hooked a foot behind her leg. The anger was intense right now, as though the quick flashes of memories he had had through the match were now the kindling to bonfire of rage and pain inside of him. The sore spot he had thought was healed had ripped open again and it drove him to acting like a wounded animal as he hoped to hurt this girl. (She was too much like her and it was driving him crazy.)

His grip on her tightened and he pressed his fingers into her flesh, a spark of wild light in his eyes. He would have to find out who this bitch was, (the person that did nothing but cause him pain because she kept poking his newly reopened wound.) One hand released her before reaching up to hook under the mask and draw it off of her face. He tossed it aside before turning to see who it was, and he choked. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression, Emery. Instead of feeling the anger melt away it only grew stronger, and once more he gripped her hard. Unable to cough out the words he so desperately wanted to say he stared into her eyes, wanting her to meet his gaze. Finally, words rose to his tongue. "How could you?!" The angry words were not everything and yet they were. How could she have ever done all of those horrible things to him. (She broke his heart, she caused him more grief than she would ever know, and for what? Now she had come back in here and kicked him and stolen from him, yet more pain to add to the list of things she had done to him.) There was nothing else he could have said, only the deep growl in his throat continued to say what he was thinking.

He half expected the glare she gave him, but it hurt all the same. (Did she even care?) It was as though everything that had ever been between them hadn't existed, and the pain was worse than a knife in the gut. It quiets him for a moment, his grip on her shoulders loosening though he still held her pinned under him. The instant she started speaking, opened her mouth and let her voice touch his ears after going so long without hearing it. What he thought might be a soothing drip of water turned into angry rapids before it smashed against his skull and once more brought the feeling that everything had been a lie. "How could I? Oh come on, it’s over, so get over it. I’m different now; we’re both different now."

It was like she had whipped him across the face, and then she rolled her eyes. The fire that had been inside of him was being battered and drenched by the pounding, angry waves that was Emery but it still fizzled inside of him - just. "Go ahead. Hurt me," her snarl beat again at the flames, (but instead of driving it back the sparks sizzled louder inside of him and his wet heart slowly began to dry as the heat of the flame rose once more.) "Beat the shit out of me if you want. Go on. I know you want to. You wanna know how I know?" He didn't even hesitate to ponder her little question, he knew her well enough to know that she would be smug enough to tell him - (as though it would make him think any more highly of her at the moment.)

Sure enough, moments later she told him with a glint of something other than anger in her eyes. It was an emotion Rolex didn't recognize, (but the surprise didn't even scratch the surface of his mind because he had distanced himself from all emotion except anger.) Every other emotion was false, it was petty and it did nothing for anyone - but anger was raw, it was true and it made something happen. In all of his past boredom he knew that anger would have saved him from rotting both on the inside and out because he would feel alive enough to hate, and surely even that was something. "We’re the same, really: vicious when we’re angry, bitter when we’re not, and stubborn as hell." She thought she knew, but she was all wrong. (So very wrong.)

He saw her incessant rush of spite was going from fast flowing rapids to a small creek, (soon it would dry into a trickle and then the fire in his chest would explode out.) "So go ahead, hurt me like I hurt you," the coldness of the words told him that she meant the invisible thorned vine that she had wrapped around his heart. It was wound so tight around his heart that with each beat it compressed it further until eventually it would rupture and he would bleed out while the bloody thorns grinned toothily at the mess. The ice in her voice wobbled some, (as though it was just starting to melt before being put back in the freezer.) "Because I’m not afraid to do it again."

As if to prove her point she had pulled her arm free from under him, (easier to do now that his initial inferno of anger was down to something more like a campfire - still hot but not nearly so destructive, almost contained in a way.) But the sparks still shot up, ready to start up the larger blaze again. Her flailing arm caught him a blow to the forearm, though it really didn't feel like much of anything. He had thought Emery was stronger than this - it seemed as though even her raging rapids couldn't beat down the stubborn flame in his chest. Equal opposites, fire and water, they were meant to clash. Just as they could never be separated from one another. (The would win their fights, lose their battles, boil and bubble by each other until finally the waters settled and the heat sunk in and they co-existed peaceably.) Right now, though, it was a battle of internal elements.

His heart was there to meet her in the middle, sword extended as they charged towards each other with murder in their eyes. Flames flared inside of him like a phoenix rising from the ashes to tower above the sea in a massive fireball. "I am nothing like you." He spat the words at her, (hoping the venom in his heart - the venom she had injected - would fly from his tongue with his words.) "I don't pretend to love someone and then leave them. I don't take pleasure in break peoples' hearts." Finally he was able to tell her something, let her see the anger he had felt - directed as much at himself as at her. He had hated himself, told himself that he had failed and that was why she had left. "Unlike you."

His eyes flashed and glinted with the fire that burned within him, but it wasn't just burning in rage. (There were sparks of love in there, hatred and love and pity because she really didn't understand that she could never turn him away.) For all that she had done he hated her, for all that she had said he pitied her, but for all that she was he loved her. "But you came back." His voice was soft now, (the fire fading into the background like the flames in the hearth - full of warmth but lacking the dangerous curving edges that bit.) Leaning closer to her, staring into her eyes and placing his hands on the side of her face to make sure she couldn't look away, he spoke gently to her. "Why ever you left, you came back. Not just to District one, but to me." He felt in his heart that his words might be wasted, but he had to say them.

Only now did it sink in that she was finally back, finally with him again. "Say what you want, think what you want, but you came back by yourself." And he just stayed there, looking at her with the multitude of flickering emotions that never ceased to baffle him. (She brought out the worst in him, but the best too.) Infuriating and unavoidable, hurtful and soothing, spiteful and loving - she was everything to him and it drove him wild. For all he couldn't stand her he couldn't get enough of her, (and no time away would ever change that for him.) Still, she had to be the one to realize it for herself.