fate gives way to decency; day 7, e, c, s

Love blossomed in the strangest places; a vibrant pink flower among wilted winter branches. After all of the bloodshed, loss, and turmoil, she didn’t expect to feel love again. She hadn’t anticipated anyone else feeling it either. Was it a feverish desperation upon the realization of imminent doom? Or was there a genuine connection buried somewhere in their past? It was heartwarming, whatever it was. She wished she could die knowing it was a sacrifice for Jano, but it was far too late for such fantasies. This love, it would fail. She could appreciate the rawness and purity of its existence in a desolate place, but she could not linger and watch it crumble. There was too much pain in life already.

”You can’t love me,” he said.

And she was officially out of place. Love was beyond her now, and the business was theirs. She bid them goodbye, tea and crayons in hand. ”You will both be in my thoughts until the day I die.”

Perhaps that wouldn’t mean much if she died tomorrow.

The tea was scalding against her lips, but she was too thirsty to care. Something about the table, the treats, and the gathering felt like a trap. There was always a catch in the Games, always a trick up the Gamemaker’s silk sleeves. She didn’t want to stay and witness the aftermath of whatever it was. She wanted to be well on her way to isolation. Elettra was similar but far too different, and it would be safer to part ways. She could not be responsible – or even partially responsible – for another death, unless it was her own. This would be her final attempt to break free from the curse. If it failed, then there was no point in fighting.

She trekked until she reached the edge of a forest the luminescent and unnatural colors drawing her closer. There was something unsettling about it; wind chills brought whispers behind her neck, and the colors glowed brighter and brighter until she squinted.

”I’m scared, Castor,”

Asriel’s voice echoed between the trees. The edges of her vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors, and she couldn’t pinpoint from who or where the voice originated. He was dead, and she didn’t believe in spirits or angels. Something was wrong.

”Stupid bitch.” It was Ingran this time.

She unsheathed her giant sword, a rusted orange column with a sharpened blade at the end, and pointed it toward the shadows. Wisps of black smoke unfurled behind blue bushes, reaching for her like tentacles.

”Stay back!”

Something was tormenting her brain. Everything swayed to one side, and a voice spoke up behind her.

”Just when you think you've already lost everything, you lose it all again.”

I have nothing left to lose, Jano. She sprinted out of the haunted woods, determined never to hear the voices of the dead again. With everything tilted, her footsteps felt like clumsy earthquakes. She staggered from side to side until she slammed into a wall. The soil at her feet crystalized, twinkling like golden stars. Stop this. She squeezed her eye shut and covered her ears.

The world sang until morning. She drifted in and out of a stupor, sleep unable to settle. She knew something was wrong with her - she felt groggy, timeless, and nothing was coherent. She knew the arena itself was a madhouse, but this was something else entirely. Half of her world was blind, and the other half was painted the color of insanity.

She waited until the sky was yellow, a signal that the sun had risen somewhere in her clouded vision. It was too bright to bear, so she passed the mansion’s threshold and grabbed the nearest staircase railing.

”You aren’t Castor.”

She gasped and looked up, a familiar figure at the top of the staircase. Her father’s disgruntled expression loomed over her, fists clenched and jaw tight. ”Give my Castor back, the one I talked to." But it was a girl’s voice. The rage within her boiled dangerously, yet she knew it was an illusion. She backed away carefully. ”I am Castor.”

I’m still here, for some reason.

The devil herself appeared then, a shadow in the corner of her eye. The woman in white, the Peacekeeper who crept into her cage at the dead of night to steal half of her world away.

The rage within her combusted.

She knew it wasn’t real, but if the arena was giving her what she wanted, why not take it?

You have nothing to lose.

She wanted the world to stop.

No more voices, no more tricks. The flickering illusions were nauseating. A forked tongue snaked its way between Salome’s lips, but she knew the girl wasn’t a monster. The monsters were not in here, they were out there. Protected by their wealth and cushioned furniture and power. She had none of that here. She could hardly tell right from wrong, real from fantasy, until the twirling blade finally lunged at her with breakneck speed. She could not see the fresh blood dripping from her own orange blade, but she could feel the sickening crack in her chest. The blow sent her backwards. As the world spiraled, she refused to heed Salome’s words.

She would not dance. She wanted the world to freeze.

It would be easier in a timeless world. If she could pause, recuperate, and think clearly, she could plan her next move. Instead, drug-driven instinct pulled her to her feet. ”Everything matters to me,” she said, hoarse. She wished it weren’t true, that she could care about nothing at all now that her other half was dead. Life would be easier that way, wouldn’t it? ”But I wish nothing did.”

You still care about dying.

Death could stop her, so she couldn’t neglect him.

Elettra’s cries jumpstarted her heart. She possessed the instinct to protect, and the fear of failing to do so, but she could not orient herself properly. The world blurred in and out of focus. Her collarbone seemed to writhe from pain, and she couldn’t find the lost twin quickly enough. ”Elettra?” she called out. A new wave of pain exploded inside of her chest, as if her heart had burst.

It knocked the wind out of her, and suddenly the ceiling was above her. She coughed; pain tasted salty. When she blinked, she could see the axe lodged in her chest. Real or illusion? It made sense given the pain, which could not be denied. But how was she alive?

A mouse’s voice in the back of her mind – don’t pull it out. She winced, groaned, and stood up. If Elettra was here, she had to protect her.

Somehow.

Her true identity was lost. Somewhere in an abyss of mourning was the person she was supposed to be. A mother, a sister, a guardian, a warrior, but she had failed every aspect. She didn’t know who she was meant to be anymore – just Castor. A protector and a walking ghost. Maybe she was supposed to be the girl who defended the innocent and failed, but it was discouraging to believe that destiny would breed failures. How could she accept herself as something less than useful?

”Show your heart is as strong as it’s ever been.”

But what if it wasn’t?

Her heart was exhausted. If was a plaster of crack, splinters, and bandaged wounds. With each breath she felt it crackling even more, as if it would collapse at any moment. If fate had made it possible to die of a broken heart, it would be she who perished from it. Somehow she had lasted this long, but what if her heart finally gave out? There was a popular proverb: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But she had never felt weaker. From the depths of prison to the hell she faced now, she didn’t feel sturdy. Her nightmares would never end and happiness would never return. Salome flashed a devilish smile, and she knew she would never wear such a lie.

She asked anyway, however, because if there was a method to the madness then she needed to learn it before her demise. ”How do I do that?”

The devilish smile sprouted fangs. She didn’t see the flash of steel gnashing at her ankles like hungry jaws. Pain spiraled from her muscles to her skeleton, crushing her foot until she was toppled on her back again. The ceiling was becoming familiar; a pattern of staircases, of black and white, a warped version of the Capitol, until the chandelier separated into a hundred snake heads. Even with the pulsating sensation in her broken foot, she spurred into action. Illusions or not, fear was controlling.

She used it as an excuse to fight.