Joffery Lyon [D2] ~ FIN

('Debt paid.')

I was given three weapons of power to pay my debts. A steely voice forged from red hot flames and obsidian, it still curls my mouth into a sneer all the same. Caught in a cross fire of debts, I am unarmed but for three weapons thrust into my hands.

"Joffery!"

Her voice is soft and dull but it still brings me back into reality all the same. I'm faced with sharp brown eyes and auburn hair cascading down to her shoulders and thin pink lips, barely veiled by make-up - a mask of deceit that doesn't faze me.

(Weapon one: what they see)

It is said that appearances are the impression before the first impression. At least that's what my father told me, branded the words into my skin and made sure they would never fade under his roof. Naturally, he groomed me to uphold the Lyon name and that meant not dressing like a I work in those dirty stone quarrys. As a result, the finest clothes in the district cling to my figure like a warm lover's embrace. A fine dark suit with a tint of grey is draped over my white, long sleeved shirt buttoned up to my throat. The outfit is complete with a blue tie, grey trousers and black shoes with a heeled back to boost my height (after all, even the illusion of height is power).

"Yes?" I answer, brushing my blonde hair to the side with my hand. A silent habit of distraction that not even father could verbally beat out of me.

I manage a quick grin, just to show I'm paying attention. ('Sometimes, a smile can be just as useful as a sword.') I shake the thought out of my head. Half of his words are lost to me. "What is it?" I snap; I never liked the silence. Under the table, my fists quickly clench and unclench, the inactivity driving anger through my brain.

"It's just, you looked frustrated again; you looked different,"

People always say that. They don't like the way my pale white skin turns scarlet when the seeds of anger are planted. Blue eyes that beam with pride turn sinister and shoot venom at those who catch my eye. They say it looks unsettling, the way I have a habit if clenching my fists at my sides and twisting my thin, pink lips into a sneer or a scowl. Or how my sharp jaw clenches and it's so very noticeable through my sharp facial features. Pointed nose, white gritted teeth and sinister eyes.

They say it transforms me. It's scary the way my mood flips like a switch.

I want them to fear me, I want them to be awed, jealous, envious and scared all at once. When peasants looks at my 5'10 frame I want them to tremble in their boots while secretly wishing they were me. When I am not angry, they say I am handsome. Years of hard career training and hard work has hardened my frame. I didn't bulk up, I became quick, lithe and agile. Skilled with blades to maim those who are in the way. My personal favourite will always be the bow, or the crossbow. I've always desired to use it on a person, watching their bodies wriggle and writhe as I take shot after short, wearing the disgusting thump and squelch of bolts entering flesh. Of course, they'll be someone who has made me angry.

It's just a personal desire, a curiosity.

My grin turns into a scowl. "Don't worry," I say, planting my elbow on the table and observing the party around us. It's clear that I'm bored. Surrounded by the wealthy of district two, people slow dancing, enjoying music around us but I'm still oh so bored by the ordinary people.

"Joffery-"

The thread snaps and I slam my fists onto the table. "I said don't worry! I snap and she jumps; she looks hurt. Second turn to moments as they pass, ticking by. I still feel nothing. But I have to be careful.

"Let's just enjoy ourself, okay? I just want tonight to be perfect." I explain, taking her hand in mine and putting on my same winning soft smile. It's all insincere, of course. Still, I have to be careful. She manages a smile and wipes her eyes.

I can't lose my newest plaything yet.

---

The top is stitched to my body with sweat, dripping down my face and onto the floor. Muscles scream at me and shallow wounds begin to weep red. I'm almost stumbling out of the career centre and into the changing room. I don't need a mirror to know that my face is as red as the blood wept from the wounds, and I don't need to poke and prod at my arms to know that the bruises riddling them hurt and ache. I know that confidence radiates from my figure, practically taking up the room like sunlight itself. I am pride and gold incarnate - I cannot falter.

Most of Father's lessons were always lost on me. After all, who was he to tell me what to do? I am Joffery Lyon, the oldest of the surviving Lyons and I am king. I will crush anyone who stands up to me because I am a Lyon and I always pay my debts. ('Just as Circe paid hers? Debt paid.') I will not falter in the face of those who would doubt my power.

Still, despite most of father's lessons being useless he managed to pass down three weapons to me and they remain branded into my flesh to this day.

(Weapon two: your status)

We've always had it easy, being one of the most prestigious and wealthiest families in the district. Lyon is more than just a family name, it carries a weight and is easily passed through whispers and thoughts; it's on the level of a concept. Naturally, father tries to make sure I conduct myself in a way. Speak politely but with authority, show I'm in the best in training, tacking ever challenge almost flawlessly and with an elegance only achievable by the top of the upper class of the district.

The idea was always so boring to me.

I'm impulsive, I do things because they're fun. I torment others because it's fun, I train as a career because it's fun, I play with people because it's fun. I'm the leader of the Kingslayer career pack, everyone is mine to torment. That's how I use my status as a weapon. I use it to make people dance, I can make them cry, I can make them beg and they can't do anything to me because I'm me. Just like now, when I walk into the locker room I walk like I own the whole damn room because I'm me.

Despite being covered in bruises and drenched in sweat no one will dare say anything because I'm not only Joffery Lyon but I'm also the head of the Kingslayers. A fitting name. Who would dare think to challenge a pack of careers with a giant such as Clane who could crush their skulls? Who would dare challenge the pack with the wealth of my family behind it? Who would dare challenge me?

Granted, the rival career pack made by my degenerate older brother is rumoured to rival even us. However, it's still made up by a gang of degenerates and misfits. Led by a disgrace who still needs to buy clothes from the children's section. It even includes my other sniffling, sobbing younger brother who has less courage than a cat. No, they could never truly rival us.

I shot a look to the side and find a boy sitting on the bench, holding a towel He can't be older than fifteen. He instantly recognises me and gives a sort of half smile. I hate his face. One click and I hold my hand out. "Towel, now," I command, holding out the palm of my hand. He opens with mouth to argue and I scowl. "Unless you want me to introduce you to my good friend Clane? He's always itching for someone to spar with in training." Crystal clear threat hidden behind a veil.

Needless to say, he hands me his towel straight away and I wipe my face clear of the sweat before tossing it to the ground.

I make people dance because it's fun. He should count himself lucky I didn't feel like making him cry. Maybe tomorrow, taking his things all the time will get boring after all.

Status is a great weapon.

---

('Debt paid.')

Rage flows through my veins like a river, pooling in the deep chambers of my heart. Fists clenched tightly at my sides, it's ready to split the palm of my hand right open. Watch the red flood flow like a river. One jolt and I explode, pulling my fist pack and shooting it forwards. My reflection (a piece of royalty itself) shatters. I am the storm, every heartbeat is a thunder clap and every exhale is just a fragment of the howling wind. I look down and wince in pain, shards of the extension of myself managed to catch onto my flesh.

('The third weapon can always be used against you.')

I watch the red flood flow from the wounds like a crimson river. The dull pain lances up my knuckles to the tips of my fingers. We all play with the double edged third weapon, the extension of ourselves that we try so desperately to bury underneath a hail of bullets or - in my case at least - a plethora of gold and riches. Just when I'm least expecting it, the double edged sword turns against me and it bites deep.

(Weapon three: the secrets you hide.)

Out of sight, out of mind. Weapon three is not so much a weapon you wield but a double edged blade you never dare touch. One false slip and it can sever the nerves and split my own throat; it's an executioners blade hanging over my head. I need to make sure no one can swing the blade.

He thought he could spit venom at me and set fire to my kingdom. ('You do this, because of her; Circe Lyon.')

One name to stop me dead in my tracks, one name I haven't heard in years. Even though she was my sister, although she had grabbed the reins of mother because no one else was there. My degenerate brother Tyler saw to that. Killing the woman who gave birth to him like the disgusting creature that he is. I- I looked up to Circe. And as much as I hate to admit it she made me. Not so much Jamie but Circe. She stood on the edge of glory, had it in her sight and the apple in the palm of her hands. She could have been the victor of the seventieth Hunger Games.

Yet she dropped it, the edge of glory is a steep fall after all. Sanity slipped from her fingertips like the hatchet slipped from the palm of her hands and onto her spine. I remember screaming at the television relentlessly, my voice almost cracked 'This is fucking bullshit!" I don't remember much else of what happened that day. Mirrors were smashed, tables were flipped; I was left (with bleeding knuckles) to sit and lament in the aftermath of my own tempest. I am a storm after all.

And somehow he knew.

I look around for a bandage, anything to stop the bleeding, with my teeth grinding as I rapidly search.

He cut deeper than that. ('You've surely heard about her and her twin.') A disgusting rumour of course, she never would have done -

('Fucking her own twin brother.')

It took two people to hold me back. I would have killed him right then and there. He was just a scrawny peasant boy, a career with too much attitude who didn't understand the pecking order. I didn't even know his name. Slanderous lies that he thought had merit. We are Lyons, not incestuous rats. I couldn't get my hands on him then but I fucking will. And when I get my hands on him I'll -

('You've always had it easy. But now, you're nothing without Circe.')

I don't dare think the thought. What if he's right? I don't dare touch the poison because that's what the idea is. It's a poison and it can't be purged; you cannot kill an idea after all.

"Hah! It's always been an idea, up to know I still cannot kill the idea. I do not dare touch it.

He cut me, and he cut me deep with the secrets I keep hidden.

I've always had it easy. Born with more money than I know what to do with, father always made sure we were always well cared for. Circe pushed me, cared for me, she made me who I am. When I was sick it was her who fed me soup, when I wanted to skip training it was her who made sure I went (who knows what father may have done) and she made me feel like the whole world was mine. I was born a Lyon but she made me into one - I have to admit that. I grew up because of her - who knows, I may have ended up like the other brother if it wasn't for her.

('Her debt was paid.') I will make him squeal.

It's funny, when Jamie had a mutt claw stuck through his eye I felt nothing. Circe did though, she felt something and so I felt something. I was too young, too foolish but I didn't feel anything for my older brother; I just couldn't. His debt was simply paid. When Circe died, she released a tempest. I swear, I tore that entire room apart in cold rage the moment her hatchet left her hands and sunk into her back. She didn't deserve to be the footnote of some depressed boy from District Six's story. Or an afterword in Hammerfell's legend. No, she deserved to be bathed in gold and dressed in silks, most of all, she deserved a golden crown to match her golden curls.

('Debt paid')

I can bury my past, but I will never truly bury Circe Lyon. That is why the weapon three wounds so deep, no matter how deep I bury it.