ronan dubois } { district seven | fin

(“It’s Margaret DuBois—
but I’d prefer just Margaret.”)

Last name had been stitched upon a girl made of nothing more than tattered up patchwork. My mind flicks back to only senseless moments and memories that were shattered at the sole of a boot that'd smashed them into shards. The remnants cut deeper than forgotten words of gold, however the only difference being the crimson red that screeches against flesh, and it burns to the touch. Laced and lined along the tip of a razor sharp tongue, it was never a price forced to pay in debt to 'whomever you managed to cut', but more of a solemn gratitude in the eyes of those who'd spit venom from their salt doused lips.


It became more and more apparent that she'd found herself aligned with the darkness. Orders spoken by her un-relentless mouth in which the gold and silver crown had been placed upon a stone heart to rule over her own kingdom. They waited upon her arrival from a marked sentence, one to be issued in the outcome of uncertainty, forevermore to be seen as the downfall of their queen. Hopes were held high, like an offering to no one other, though they'd soon learn the walls would crash, crumble, and burn in the instant an axe cut her lifespan short with a cut to the chest. It was a moment left not too long nor too short, and her heart of precious stone crumbled to only shattered bits. Her body became smoke to the wind as she tainted the world in dead hope as it stormed down on her kingdom.

("Because what follows it—
Means nothing at all.")

Cut straight from the seams of her own kin, a DuBois by name, but not by heart, nor mind. Blood runs deep within crimson veins, however they're tainted with deceit and the love for one child more than another. Corrupted beyond compare, it wasn't a question of the mind to understand, it never was. Conditions caused upon another- upon Margaret- where the blood could never reach a heart to beat it back just once more to the reality of life. And a un-beating heart will never signify the life of someone who'd never once been meant to live another day above the rule of a kingdom. Although, Margaret was stronger than both of silver and gold.


A black and white stained rose kept in secrecy within my pocket for protection. Thorns left to prick and pull along the fabric of my own very well being, slicing deeply along my tender flesh. My hands left to rest down upon my side, vines and stems growing beneath my palms and into my veins. ("even the most beautiful flowers grow where they aren't meant to be- embedded in stone.") Cracks left on the surface of my outstretched palms that only caused them to crumble those pre- existing ones even more so. The rose that flourished and grew from the inside to the out, pumping glucose from a heart beat- one that only matched Margaret's upon its resting place. My body was a stone grave and it left marks for tombstones ever since Margaret made her final step upon the wooden stage. I'd almost hadn't realized the disappearance until the words slipped off her sharp tongue. ("It's Margaret DuBois, but I'd prefer just Margaret.") And 'just Margaret' you shall be.

(“You told me
you lost that what you loved
trying to make a statement—
I guess I’m just making mine”)

It was on the fifth day, a statement made in place of more than just an ally, or rather two, killed where they stood. Bodies hurled off the edge of an ice pillar to their own Hell's. The fifth day is where pure white snow had been drenched in deep, dark red ichor  that managed to flow from the open gapes of worn flesh. I reminisce back to when my eyes refused to remove themselves, practically plastered upon the screen. Watching in a mix of both horror and relief at the sight of trailed escape Margaret had left as she exited the feast. Three went in place- Two alongside Margaret- One had left with life still beating on a line in her own accord. A heart of stone and heart of flesh were one-for-one, two-for-two with each other in relation to the sounds of roaring cannons in the mere distance. Although, only two rang out- and only two heart beats stopped dead in their tracks as one who hadn't beaten since the start began to.


("Ronan, please don't turn away from us!") My mind fixated upon the television screen throughout the District Square. It was only soft ringing in my ears in which they became pounding against the drums. A refusal- a denial- of sorts to look back at Elizabeth, and Orla, to meet eye to eye, and mind to mind, for when both of my own were so drawn to the shining of a spear. I'd grown cold and distant towards those (siblings) who went by the same name as I- "DuBois". I'd grown attached to the spitting image my mind had made of Margaret, but it was only in mind and heart, for Margaret is gone forevermore. Left a kingdom under her rule, the gold and silver crown lays upon her throne, awaiting for the return of a gone girl who'd perhaps was never fit to rule. Blood does run deep and the kingdom awaits in havoc, and perhaps it might just be my time to take over. 

(“If seven is a home

then I welcome hell with open arms.”)

(“If you reach my destination before I do,
will you tell them I’m on my way?”)

A new kingdom was born from the ashes of a ruler who had left them to serve all on their own. A trodden trail- a patchwork path- that had been sewed together back up to its very seam, stitched to lead a way that was unmarked for far too long. A stone marble throne was one that once matched that of a stone hearted girl who'd lost her way when the walls crumbled. Although a return was never promised it was left in the name of a goodbye that never passed the lips of Ella. Words never spoken to the mind of a girl who only promised to leave, coming back was an uncertainty and as was the path back home. Her 'hell-bound throne' was left up for the taking, who better to fit the chair made just their size than the blood of a ruler herself? ("Ronan DuBois, Margaret is on her way.")


A throne of stone grew green as vines and thorns wrapped it in its embrace. Petals fell not too short of where they originated, a velvet black on the top and a white printed back. Thoughts run wild in the head of mine, and I remember back to the day when two roses- one of black and one of white- were pinned into place. ("Perhaps you couldn't choose one or the other, so you became both.") A path in which I couldn't choose morally, I placed a rare white and black rose in my hair. A single thorn slit the edge of my ear and the blood flowed down around the rim, only to be covered. ("Weaknesses are to not be acknowledged or to be drawn attention to- they don't exist. You have no weakness-") I am stronger than both the silver and gold that were placed upon my head as the new ruler was announced to a kingdom that'd waited for a return.

(“Too much heart is a downfall.”)

(“Enjoy your time living
in a world of dead men walking")

{ credit to: zoë }

SHE SOUGHT
VENGEANCE
WITH THE END
OF A BLADE