Day 6: the last of us [ leon vs ingrid fight ]

Ingrid Elwyn

It happened at dawn.

They had abandoned the mouth of the cave for the freedom of the sands, Ingrid relying on her sense of direction to use the ghost town as a marker for where the water would lie. She spotted it as soon as they reached the edge of the bank; clouds upon clouds of sand reaching for the skies, and a distant howling that warned her of its threat. A storm. It swept through empty landscape and buried everything in sand, including tributes that happened to be stranded in those areas. Fortunately, the storm seemed to be centralized in a specific zone, and unwilling to abandon its territory to smother the rest of the arena. Ingrid absorbed the howls as the trio walked into the dried up river bed, searching for that precious water she had consumed the night before.

As her dark eyes scanned for a proper source, shaded by the fedora sitting atop of her armored helmet she tried to recall the five faces that flashed in the sky the previous evening. She had been flipping through the stack of cards when the music started to blare, and she found one with five red hearts on it. One for every death that appeared. She recognized all of the faces that time – the blonde career Potato had skewered with his sword, the gruff career with the axe they had encountered the day Potato nearly submitted his life, the doe-eyed girl Ingrid had drowned in blood, the boy named Gavin she had spoken with in the training center, and the last body that had fallen in the cave. Her name was apparently “May,” not that it was relevant anymore.

Her gloves were coated in a mixture of Sonja’s blood and her own. She had helped clean the majority of her friends’ injuries, then tended to her own arm with bandages and thread only to prevent infection. Sonja was still weak and aching from several days’ worth of abuse - the way she wobbled a bit when she walked was concerning, and she knew Potato could see it too. When she glanced over her shoulder to check their progress she grimaced at Sonja’s suffering, and noticed Potato watching her. Is he as worried as I am? Surely he must be, since they were all friends. If her suffering continued at this rate, it would be too much. It was already beyond the boundaries of natural and unnatural – perhaps they were meant to end her torment themselves?

She nibbled the inside of her lip nervously at the thought. She didn’t want to axe her own friend. Give it until the end of the day, she made a mental note, dipping her gloved hands into one of the mud pits. It pained her to spoil such a precious source of water, but there were others she could find, and she needed to scrub the blood off before it started to expel a distracting odor.

She didn’t expect to find company while she was at a moment of peace.

His shadow appeared first, unfamiliar and shaped like someone holding a spear over their head. Her head snapped up in time to see a live figure thrusting said spear toward her body, but she was swift enough on her feet to duck out of the way and whip out her new pickaxe. With its pointed ends it was another great weapon suited to her cause, just like the feathered spear. This boy was wielding a proper weapon as well – wait, I know this face. He was the District Four tribute, Leon. She had purposely learned the names of the ocean-dwellers, and they were still crystal clear in her mind. Leon and Siren. Leon looked different, though, worn around the edges from the arena’s unrelenting abuse. One of his arms also ended in a stump. How typical of this awful place.

”What happened to your arm?”

She stepped forward as she asked, raising her axe high above her head. If today was her day to perish, it wouldn’t be without a weapon in her hand. That was what fate wanted.

Ingrid Elwyn

There was a red smile painted across his abdomen. It dribbled blood into hot sand, crusted earth and murky water, but it was far from fatal. A puncture to the throat was her aim, second to an axe in his chest and his face submerged in water until his lungs swelled like balloons. A District Four ocean-dweller surely belonged to the origins of his home, unless he had committed a crime wicked enough to condemn him otherwise. She could not pass judgment by reading faces or delving into gazes, only by the motion of her arms and the direction of her sharpened edge. Fate would guide it to the correct organs at the right moment – unless she was meant to perish here, of course. Then she would merely swing until she could not swing anymore, until the moment blood engulfed her trachea and coated the insides of her lungs. His spear was ripe for killing. She would have to watch it cautiously.

He stepped back and lowered himself into a pool of water, made impure by both sand and blood. Like crimson ink stains his blood slithered through the water, contaminating the source and leaving Ingrid with no choice but to accept it. The water was her element, she should be the one wading through it confidently with death at her grip. But water was his element too, and perhaps he was safest inside of it. As an ocean-dweller he might be chosen to live, maybe even long enough to win these Games and claim a victory for their neglected district. Why is it that all of the Four tributes die? It was a subject discussed every year whether Ingrid volunteered to listen to it or not. Was there some reason that fate allowed the ocean-dwellers to die in these Games, just like the Eleven tributes?

The bloody stump of his bisected arm was distracting. ”It’s probably vulture food by now,” he said, raising it to the sun. She recalled the influx of vultures during the drought in district Eleven – she hadn’t known of such a bird until then, and their presence was never a positive sign. They were scavengers that feasted on death, and it made her wonder if such creatures were designed by the Capitol to disgust their residents, or if they were nature’s way of removing the unburied, physical forms of the damned who were wicked enough to be starved. It was quite unfortunate that his arm had met such an unpleasant demise.

”Some of us ran into a king."

He was like a snake out of water, but like every other snake encounter she managed to evade the worst of it, spear nicking her thigh instead of anything sensitive. The statement left her in a moment of distraction, yet her arm moved by instinct rather than by a focused command. She briefly thought of the kings in the deck of cards. What would they be doing in a place like this?

She shook her head. ”There’s no such thing.”

Royalty was only a myth.

Ingrid Elwyn

Her feet scattered water as she lunged for him, axe grazing his shoulder. It wrapped itself around her legs like warm silk, a soothing sensation to balance out the sting on her thigh even as the sun boiled it to unnatural temperatures. It was a clever tactic to weaken ones legs in order to make a solid blow more likely, and she wouldn’t hold it against him for causing her extra pain. Pain is part of nature, she would always say. A broken bone here, a rash of poison ivy there, and plenty of thorn scratches and splinters to keep Imelda occupied. Hours upon hours of time had been spent patching up Ingrid’s mishaps. It was nothing she couldn’t shrug off, and so was this scratch to the leg. It won’t slow me down. Not yet.

Leon was quite talkative. He attempted to describe the king Ingrid knew did not exist. She would rather not acknowledge a discussion about a nonexistent entity, so she tuned him out and stared blankly until the subject changed. ”What about you?” He finally said, snapping her out of her dazed state. ”Had fun at the feast?” He followed quickly with a rapid thrust to the back of her leg, spilling more blood into the murky waters. He must’ve been describing the scrimmage from the previous day. “Feast” was Games slang for large fights, or what they sometimes called second bloodbaths. She remembered her stylists and escorts mentioning it to her, since she didn’t have a mentor to teach her such things. She couldn’t say she had very much fun at the feast, especially when her friends had suffered during the process, but she could at least admit that it was a successful encounter.

”I wouldn’t call any of this fun,” she said promptly, ignoring the hot pain in her calf. ”But I did manage to kill someone.” That was the successful part. She had drowned the doe-eyed girl and blessed her with a proper death while Potato had ridden this place of that troublesome career boy. Sonja had been tortured once again in the midst of it, reminding Ingrid of the dilemma she had yet to confront. That was a matter to attend to later, however, assuming she escaped this duel victorious. If she was to drown here then fate would leave Sonja’s death in Potato’s hands, and she was sure she could trust him to do the right thing even if he was as ignorant as the rest of the population. Nobody understands that drowning is the purest death. But Sonja deserved it, so she would have it.

She wondered how much Leon deserved it, and if she would be granted the opportunity to shove his head under these silky waters to give him the purest death of all.

Ingrid Elwyn

”You-“

The steel tore harshly into his flesh, painting a red streak across his back as he danced away in the water. She expected him to finish his sentence the moment he recuperated from the scratch, but instead he whirled around with a mask of fury twisting his sharp features. The spear aimed for her skull struck her arm instead, for she ducked and raised the limb in order to divert its edge away from her face. I don’t deserve to bleed from my face, she thought bitterly, wondering where this abrupt change in mood had spawn from. Was it the pain grating against his nerves? She understood the frustration; agony could be a hindrance or an enhancer depending on how sturdy the body and how stable the mind. Ingrid was experienced enough to keep an air of neutrality about her no matter what gashes she suffered. She wasn’t quite sure how she would react to a severed body part, but since he wielded a spear she need not worry about such risks.

She hadn’t meant to interrupt his response, although he had turned away when the chance presented itself. Did that mean he was angry with her? She was only performing her assigned task. People are always angry at pain and afraid of death. It was a shame, because Ingrid knew she was not to blame. She couldn’t let it bother her, though. Let Leon believe what he wanted to believe. That was always how people reacted to her – disbelief, misunderstanding, repulse. She had adjusted to the treatment long ago, and a bit of pointless anger couldn't faze her. If it was the fuel he needed then let it happen, but she always thought of emotions as worthless during a fight. Anger was distracting, terror was hindering, and despair was like an anchor into the dirt. She couldn’t let any of these things touch her stone heart during something so important, and Leon shouldn’t either.

”Were you going to say something?” She asked calmly. It would be nice to keep a conversation going if possible – she had always been rather awkward in social situations. Silence was golden, but she didn’t mind a word or two here and there.

Besides, humans had a great passion for last words. What would Leon’s be?

Ingrid Elwyn

She aimed for his throat but slashed his skull instead, scarring his fading mask of fury. Her question was met with a cold silence, and it helped her focus. Anything icy to counter the sun’s unrelenting heat was welcome to her, whether it be the element swirling around her bleeding limbs or the emotions that drove Leon into chosen silence. The burns on the back of her neck and the tips of her ears were made insignificant by the blood seeping from her skin, and those unpleasant sensations there were smothered by her impressive ability to focus on the task at hand. This was the most natural way to complete a duel – with only the sounds of rippling water to soothe their ears rather than something as petty as “last words.” Whatever Ingrid said before her death did not matter, because who would truly listen?

Leon made a strange motion, then, not one of violence but of something else. He tucked his spear away, and Ingrid made no movement to interrupt his sudden change if plans. A faint glimmer captured her curious eyes once he withdrew his hand – there was a daintier blade at his fingertips now, a knife to replace the head of a mighty spear. As a killer, Ingrid would rather make use of a longer-ranged weapon like the spear, but as the dying she had no preference, just as long as the tip of said piece of steel plunged deep enough to deflate her lung like a balloon.

It was a peculiar decision to switch weapons, but she enjoyed peculiar. His smile only further intrigued her – what was he smiling about? Was it the knowledge of his advantages, an acceptance of death? A sadistic wish to murder? If only she could read the thoughts swimming behind his eyes. As she lunged at her, she returned his smile, close-mouthed and firm, because no matter where that knife ended up she would be content.

Careful, her forearm was once again raised into a makeshift fleshy shield, and his blade sank into her muscles like a snake’s fang.Blood loss will make you weaker. She grunted and staggered away, rivulets of scarlet snaking rapidly down her arm. It twitched and trembled involuntarily from the stimulation, but her only reaction was the tightening of her jaw. Pain is part of nature. She smiled again and readied her axe. A blow for another blow – pain for more pain, until eventually one of them would drown.

Ingrid Elwyn

Her smile faded into a thin line of concentration. The two black voids perched over her cheeks flickered with realization as they chipped away at each other’s skin. For every scratch she left on his canvas another large chunk was stolen from hers, wasting red paint that swirled like ink in their chosen battlefield. Every mark she left was superficial, and not nearly enough to drown the ocean-dweller in his element. The axe was not melded into her skin like an extension of her limb – it was merely a device for pain, while his knife acted as a divine digit to draw forth her weakness through more ugly gashes and scars. My arms feel heavy. It felt like anchors were tied to her wrists, dragging her into a dark temptation. Yet her head was swimming, thoughts lighter than feathers. She felt like she could fly, as forbidden as that was. Imelda would like that.

Her body was draining, and she knew it; like the way a flower was drained of pollen by bumblebees, or like the way an animal was sucked dry of blood by leeches. She was losing too much blood too quickly, and it was feeding this wretched desert. Surely her death would please the Capitol drones, but with her heading buzzing around this was no time to dwell on such petty creatures. She would bury her hatred along with her pain - eventually. This agony was new to her; it made her grit her teeth with anticipation for more. It challenged her. Pain is part of nature. Smile, Ingrid, smile, because this is your moment. This was nature’s test. Could she bear it?

She sucked in a breath, perhaps her last, and released. The dry air was heavy with silence, and it made her feel at peace. Last words mean nothing, she thought as the temptation to speak to Leon bubbled up inside of her chest. What was there to say? Thank you, good luck? In all honestly she liked Leon, and it felt necessary to tell him. She decided against it. Let their dance speak the words, and let death finish the conversation.

She swung again, and her world began to blur.