forgotten savages // 9th circle vs tramps - day 6

Nothing good flourishes in this empty temple of yours.

This is evidenced by Caine Winchester's cannon reverberating through your skull. The sight of Raven's tears leaving a trail of grief behind his fleeing form, the sound of your loveless kingdom toppling the structures they built together. You smile for there's nothing better than the sight of a broken boy. You fail to the see the point, why they entangled themselves in their fruitless union when they gained little to no utility from each other. Raven was too weak to protect the man who threw himself in your path; love cannot withstand ruination.

You are ruination; your madness wears many faces. One day your spear is buried into Vesper Daisy skin, a girl from your district no older than twelve, with nothing but apathy dripping from your lips. Today you watched structures burn and watched a banner burn while you left signatures for hatred on a desperate lover's skin.

You possess a madness of many faces, you'll crush hearts and shatter skulls; you are ruination.

You do not bother to check the searing gash across your left bicep, nor do you take time out of your day to listen to a broken silence at the mourning of two lives. You lazily loot Caine's possessions, finding a golden rose token and deciding to pocket it. You take items of use, his water canteen (full and purified) finds its way into your bag and the ski poles that tore your flesh and armour open sit in your hands.

You turn to Violet, your mind races and the thought of burying the point into her chest and twisting your wrist to watch blood trickle from the corner of her mouth. It develops from a fleeting thought, you could pull her heart from her chest and hold it with red fingers and an iron grip. Her death rattle would be a melody worth crumbling for.

The thought is dismissed, she's earned her keep and you decide it's too soon for such matters. You will not punish her for the sin of competence. A lazy smile spreads across your lips and your shove his ski poles in her hands. "Looks like you're not so useless after all." She takes them, the only sign of gratitude her silent nod. Perhaps Euley's swollen heart has come to good use, you decide you will not become a lone wolf today.

You are a pack and you continue to traverse from the top of this bitter peak. The four of you continuing to be bound by this truce banner that continues to whither to the test of time. You position yourself behind them, your eyes falling on Isaac's broken femur and Violet helping him along. Despite his handicap, he did still spill scarlet shades of agony from that girl's skin. You're impressed, a broken leg usually leads to a broken man in your experience.

There's more resilience to Isaac than you had originally thought.

You still cannot bring yourself to smile, the red snarl across your bicep stretches and soaks a shade of crimson that grows darker and wider by the passing second. You bite your tongue and let yourself tune everything out; from the pulsating pain through your arm to Euley constantly glancing back at you and your wounds with what something you think borders on the boundary of concern. You don't need anyone's help, you're just fucking fine.

Adrenaline all but gone from your system, you begin to see double.

You make camp beneath the bitter peak and the bodies, you hold Caine's golden rose token up to your face and watch. You run your fingers over the surface, watch it blur into a shade of gold distinguishable from a white background. This is a strange token, of all the items at your disposal you took this. You have no desire to carry Caine Winchester past the scars he left on your skin so you find yourself questioning the impulse you felt to take the symbol of sentiment left on his corpse. Perhaps the Capitol would think you wanted to disrespect who he left behind, perhaps they think you want to spit on the grave occupied by the love he felt for Raven. You don't understand the pull you felt to take this item of all things.

Just like you don't understand the pull Euley feels to be by your side at this moment, medical supplies in hand and a semblance of concern on her eyes, you're seeing double and the words die at the back of your throat.

("I can take care of my fucking self.")

Despite the scarlet iron peeling from her fingertips like dried paint, you can't help but notice how soft her hands feel. You come from a world of senseless violence, ruthless fiends and drug addicts. You've never fucked someone with hands that soft before. It's strange, how you just noticed it now. You never cared before, not until it was your blood staining the snow and you saw how quickly Caine's lifeline snapped.

You watch her as she prods at your skin with needle and thread, binds the scarlet hatred staining your skin with bandages. Your mind flashes to her attempt at doing this to a surface deeper than your flesh and blood. On the third day where she bled her vulnerabilities and wept into your chest -- ("Do you still want to kill me?")

On the fourth day where she bled her heart onto the ground

("It can eat me raw. As long as you're there with me. Only if you're there with me.")

The contradiction is not lost on you. For when you watch her from a viewpoint external to the heart she wears on her sleeve in regards to you and internal to violence she inflicts on borrowed time she is the calm before the firestorm. She calculates her movements, strategically placing her kicks in an attempt to cripple before she kills, a refined reminder of the mortality that leaves humanity fallible. There's no madness in her eyes, no sympathy for the damned, no desire to hear a elegy -- she is controlled ruination.

In contrast, you are an unrefined tempest. When seen from a viewpoint external to the lack of heart between your ribs, you wear a madness of many faces. Your swings are wild and your words are acid, you carry no sympathy on your sleeve and break empathy beneath your boot like snow, you place your blade where it can amplify and tell yourself you will bring forth blood flood. You do not cripple before you kill, you crack before you shatter.

Strip away the violence and your roles are reserved; Euley is the unrefined tempest. Scattering her pulse and begging you to feel it, offering herself to the very emotions you hold in contempt. You tend towards cyclical highs, but you never dared put a pink needle in your veins and claimed you could love; you're too hollow for that sort of thing, anyway. You don't fucking understand, how Euley Sarasin can proudly claim she isn't hollow but still seem like the strong one.

You view the world from a polarized perspective. You see the world in black and white; Euley becomes your shade of grey.

She finishes patching you up, you wince and grimace when she binds the snarl across your bicep shut with stitches. "Thanks." The words are automatic, falling from your lips without so much as a thought for the implication. This is the first time you've allowed yourself to tend towards anything close to gratitude.

You watch the sunset later that night, she sits next to you and hugs her knees to her chest. You don't see a huntress, nor do you see an enemy or a seductress; you see a girl. A girl who ran her hands through your hair when you were haunted, who slept with her arms around your torso despite the risk of you pressing your blade to her stomach in retaliation. She saw you, she heard you and she let you stay. The sun begins to melt and you look at her like a valley of broken things.

"Do you think I'm broken?"

Because why let a broken boy stay? Why comfort a broken man when this is a union with no strings?

Except she claims it isn't, you don't understand.

You don't pose the question with the intent for validation, you ask to become a catalyst for reason. She rests her chin against her knees, she gives a smile without happiness. "Do you think the sky's beautiful?" She asks in response. You never really cared so you shrug your shoulders. "It doesn't matter, does it? It's just clouds and colours. And you're still Aeson."

It's strange, how she sees something beyond your utility when she looks at brimstone eyes and cold irises. You always thought it was something only Aeryn could see; to see past your skin and see something more than a reaper. Who doesn't recoil or roll her eyes when she sees you hold something that isn't death's scythe.

"What happened to me didn't break me, it made me."

Ava Kight, more of a mother than the woman who's uterus you just managed to fall out of, sees you when you're eight years old again. She sees the poisoned love beneath your skin, she hears you scream and sees you sweat -- you watch it bloom to hatred together. She is no Aeryn, she is no Euley; she doesn't run her hand through your hair and tell you it'll be okay.

("Get the fuck over it, Aeson.")

She listens to you weave your story but this isn't a redemption story. You tell stories of faded scripture and broken gospel with indifference. You let her know the detail of every scar left when you were seen as gluttonous, you let her know of what it means to count your ribs and waste away because a god is more important than a dying child. Then you tell a story of burn, the end result of a suicide pact drenched in gasoline and a match of divinity struck against their skin so they could leave you and be with who they worshiped.

You hope you meet them in that special place in hell; you want to make them bleed ichor gold.

You're not looking for sympathy, this isn't a redemption story, you weave your past with a thread of indifference. She doesn't care, though. She rests her head against your shoulder because she cares, for some reason.

Perhaps, she wakes up in your arms with her head in your chest because there's a part of you that cares.

You're a walking contradiction in that moment, you wake up warm but numb at the same time. Pulling yourself out of the tent with a lack of regard for the direction. The flare of morning blinds you, and you raise your hand above your eyes to block out the sun. This is a recurring theme, you being the first out of the tent while everyone sleeps. Nightmares or no.

You tend towards apathy and settle at indifference, there is no flicker in your chest. For you know what it means to be bound by a wire that's shallow and tattered, the majority of your connections never struck a chord deeper than hollow. You and Shadow agreed; that's what makes them weak, and you would never hesitate to turn on friends once they proved to be useless. Choke the life from someone when they disinterested you. You never wept for them. You never cared, you derive enjoyment from the crumbling of people.

Euley peers from the tent, stepping towards you without a word; you don't feel.

You're wordless, you are ruination and nothing good flourishes in this temple of yours. You don't hesitate to pull her towards you by her collar and you give in to your passion for what feels like an eon. Pressing her lips against yours and holding her there to see if you can feel something. Something to indicate how much you care, if at all. She returns your passion and you become static.

Seconds blur to an age when you let go and you're just staring. Her skin burns and she trips over her words, stumbles over her syllables. Flustered, you see a girl at that moment.

You sigh, letting your hand fall from her chin and you set off just as Isaac and Violet appear from the tent themselves. You are not Caine, you are not Raven. You don't leave pink needles in your skin. You wait to see if you care.

That part is there.

You do not become a lone wolf today, the four of you travel in a tight pack and you continue trudging along through the snow until you find yourself dwarfed by trees in every direction. "I hate this place," you remark as you continue to traverse through the snow but you don't think any of them heard you.

Yet you hear the snapping of tree branches, the sound of shadows in the dark. Of course, Violet is the one who panics and lathers the ski poles you gifted her in tar. Her hands work with surprising speed and precision, she holds and extension of hell in her hands like a torch.

She strikes first, her first attack skimming shallow against the boy from District Four's skin and leaving his skin raw from fire. You never would've expected it from her; she makes it a habit to surprise you. You follow suit, lathing four of your ski poles with tar and lighting a spark of divinity across the surface.

"The view is still nice here, I can see your black wings... Aeson." You recognize a voice from the past that can't quite seem to become a ghost. "Still surprised I'm here? So am I."

You turn to Bella and grin, the training center seeming to be an age ago but the memory is so prominent now.

"I think we're all a bit surprised to still be here," you step forwards, narrowing your eyes between targets and waiting to see if broken things will scatter. You train your aim on the career. "Suppose you could say I'm surprised but still a little bit proud, you've been good."

Good things don't flourish in this hollow temple of yours.

[dars]

It's a wonder, really, how life knows just how to fuck me up.

It placed me on this earth with a damaged soul and a diseased mind, ensuring that I would receive not love and affection but hatred and disdain. A lot that any should recognize as just downright shitty, yet one that remains hidden in plain sight, beneath the facade of wealth and comfort. Theoretically, I should want for nothing - so why am I so unhappy?

The age old question, asked never by me but everyone around me, as if it's impossible for one to hate their life just because they want for little, as if material possessions dictate levels of joy and sorrow. And such stereotypes caused by a world where the Capitol is the shining beacon of hope do little to dispel the glamour.

Yes, I'm depressed. Mental health is something I've struggled with for the better part of five years now, ever since my voice began to crack and I realized that love was an illusion and adulthood was not all fun and games as I had been led to believe. Envy overran my heart while it still was capable of such things, of all the kids who had parents that genuinely cared about them and a life that seemed like candy next to the bitterness of my own. Then came wroth, jealousy turning to righteous anger at any living creature that came within ten feet of me as my system desperately tried to find a way to expel the poison seeping within.

But the deadly sins were no match for the void opening in my heart, draining everything good and bad alike with its numbing chill. Pleasures became muted, pain grew dull and aching, and my heart itself grew weighted with its new armor of lead.

I tried to take my own life for the first time when I was fifteen, and yet I failed. It may have been the first time I'd consciously tried to end the pain, and yet it would not be the last. Time and again I tried, and yet I could never follow through.

But I lived in a world where one could not possibly be broken if the damage could not be seen, and so on I trudged. Naivety led me to believe that things would get better if only I pressed forward, and yet by the time I reached seventeen I had given that thought up for dead.

There would be no salvation for me, no act of mercy that would shine a light of pity onto me and decree that all would be well. Not with a lot like mine, doomed to a family who fed me the poison instead of protecting me from it, doomed with a mind that wired itself in such a way that I would never be considered normal in the eyes of society, doomed to an existence to which the solution was so tantalizingly close and yet so impossibly far away at the same time.

Then finally, the day came where I mustered the courage to take the leap of faith, the raising of the hand that would put me in a situation from where there would be no escape. For the first time in my life, I was free. No longer would my parents stifle me with hatred and toxicity. No longer would I restrain myself from the unholy desires that I had been taught were anything but natural, though in that case I should consider myself lucky that Aeson had obliged instead of snapping my neck.

No longer was I caged, a broken bird doomed never to fly. In these circumstances, I could not only be free, I would get the salvation that I was too cowardly to seek out on my own delivered right at my feet.

Or so I believed.

Time and time again, fate laughed in my face, reminding me that it was not me in control of my destiny, but destiny that held the reins on me. From the very first day, it worked to break me, as my foot had been smashed in the chaos of the bloodbath. Then the next day, when the little girl I'd pledged to grant freedom from the freezing hell she had unwittingly thrust herself into had shown her gratitude by gifting me a broken collarbone. Death herself had pitched in the next day, taunting me with the remains of a girl who had deserved everything I had not, planting in my head the idea that death was not all that it was cracked up to be.

And then yesterday, when a girl who had done no crime other than find herself in the wrong place at the wrong time had smashed through my armor and snapped through my femur in a desperate attempt to hold onto survival. Her attempt had succeeded and she'd passed onto the great beyond, and yet I'd been left behind, a little more broken than when I had began.

It was as if history had been rewound then put on fast forward, as a boy who had entered a new and strange land with hopes and aspirations had been smacked around by the forces of reality, broken down bit by bit until they were a shell of the person they had once been. Such had been the case for my eighteen years of life, and such had been life on repeat the last few days.

But something was different. Whereas the first time around I had been left to fend for myself day in and day out, such was not the case in the arena. Had I not had Aeson or Euley at my back whenever I had entered glorious combat, save for the one instance when we had found ourselves victims to chance? Had Violet not held something akin to compassion, or at the very least practicality, when she had stitched me up and set my leg yesterday?

I might be getting drowned in the collective shadow of such three radiant suns, and yet I don't think I've ever felt so secure in hands that were not my own.

Down we went, the faces in the sky signalling that fully half of the tributes had passed into the great beyond, twelve deaths all around us while the four of us trudged on and on.

And we would not stop, not when a clear night sky gave way to snowy treetops, when night turned into day and four souls became seven. Violet and Aeson led the charge with flaming projectiles, results of a mutual agreement to coat our weapons with gooey tar and set whomever we next saw alight as they stood.

And I would follow, broken leg be damned. Whether I want to live or die, I've decided that the only company I will accept it in is that of the three individuals that I had tied my fate to way back when in the training center, blissfully unaware of how our comradery would turn out in the end.

But there is only so much one can do with a broken leg, and as I search for a target, molten magma erupts from my exposed neck. Had I the capability or the inclination, perhaps I would have screamed. But instead I choke, whether to stifle the scream or in reaction to the foreign object that had just sliced through skin to draw a crimson waterfall I could not say.

My gaze swivels, then lands on my assailant, a girl I recognize as one from the lower districts. She exchanges words with Aeson and speaks of Euley, seeming to be as much of an acquaintance to them as she is a stranger to me.

No. Not good enough.

I vowed that my end would only be at the hands of one of the three that I had traveled with, no one else. And some lower district girl isn't going to claim me after so many days of suffering with a single lucky strike.

So I plant the base of three of my lit spears into the ground like I would a torch or a flaming crutch. Then, my teeth clenched and my gaze never leaving the face of my assailant, I stand.

Death isn't going to come to me today, that much is certain.

And as I reach my feet, movement is caught out of the corner of my eye, and my gaze shifts from her right onto-

-the girl from the slope.

I'd wondered how someone so young had survived so long in such a hostile environment, and now I think I understood why. But the end is closer than the beginning at this stage in the Games, and the going is only going to get harder from here.

Guardians or not, she's out of her element. Youth is a detriment here, heart a flaw instead of a strength.

And as I fling the first of my flaming projectiles, the faintest of grins cross my face.

I've been beaten around for my entire life, made to suffer punishment at the hands of family and strangers alike.

Just this once, I think, it will be satisfying to dish it out in return.

[dars]

A ghost sleeps on her shoulders,
but the stars have no lullaby to sing.

There's only wind — a howl in the distance and Euley's not sure who she is anymore. She thinks she's okay with that. A wolf with a songbird's throat, she chokes on her kindness and cuts open her love with sharp teeth. She's not ashamed of her heart, how it bleeds and screams and how her features never show any pain. To die is not to suffer. She knows that now. And she doesn't hold a dying girl to her chest, doesn't comfort her and close her eyes to a fading world, but she looks at a corpse and she blinks. There's nothing to say. Words are only for the living, a fleeting comfort. The dead won't listen to any elegies.

She salvages only what she needs, food and water and a pair of crampons that are given to Isaac. Healing supplies are split between her lost boys, bloody and broken and expressing nothing; she hates that they've taken after her. She watches them as they pack up their items and ready their sleigh, holds her bee-companion to her cheek and loses herself in thought. "Why don't you fly away?" It buzzes in response, but it doesn't understand. It doesn't answer. "Thank you for staying." She knows what's coming. And when her allies leave, she won't stop them, but she's selfish. She doesn't want to be alone.

Their muttations guide them to an area beneath a lonely peak, shadowed and quiet and without terrors. There's nothing lurking in the dark. They're the only monsters to fear. She pitches their tent and empties their sleigh of essentials, lighting a fire and purifying their water. She drinks and she feasts, but she's unable to look away from Aeson. Violet and Isaac work together mending his wounds, but her lover tries to pretend like nothing hurts. Like he can stand on his own — and he can, but he knows that he doesn't have to. She kneels beside him, taking out her supplies and not allowing him to suffer.

Nothing is said as she closes the gash on his bicep. She tries to hide the look of concern that washes across her face, but then she decides against it. He already knows the truth of her emotions, and she can feel the steadiness of his heartbeat through her fingertips; what's the use in running from this? And it dawns on her that their hours are numbered, that one more night together is a luxury, and she doesn't want to waste what time they have. She cares about him, and he respects her, and this relationship is not one-sided. That's all that matters to her. She doesn't want there to be any regrets over this.

And she has none. If she could go back and experience all that happened between them once more, she'd still let him be her first. She'd still let him see her with her skin off. She'd still comfort him and keep his night terrors at bay. She'll always care. There's no shame in that. It's not her place to know if he feels the same, but she trusts him. And if he kills her, it's okay. Her death is his, and Aeson's belongs to her — and they agreed on these rules. The game has to end eventually. Neither will die for the other without a fight, but one of them can live. She wants it to be her. That's not going to change.

"Thanks."

---

A sinking sun and a bleeding horizon, twilight kisses their cheeks and tells them to sleep. Isaac and Violet prepare for rest, departing to their shelter and leaving the other half of their alliance to sit in silent reflection. She hugs her knees to her chest, fur coat wrapped around her body and a gentle breeze washing over her. Minutes pass before the silence is disturbed, a question that is stolen by the snow and carried away. She closes her eyes and tilts her head to the side, and she hears it. Each word. "Do you think I'm broken?" And she stays like that for a moment, peaceful and gentle and at one with the sunset.

"Do you think the sky's beautiful?" she asks with a smile that holds no warmth, looking up to watch the clash of red and violet above them. Aeson shrugs, but not all questions have answers. She knows that now. "It doesn't matter, does it? It's just clouds and colours." She turns to him and suddenly she's alight, hair in her face and a crown of snowflakes atop the silver locks. Winter's queen is not as cruel as the ice that surrounds her heart. "And you're still Aeson." Whether or not he's whole doesn't change that. She'd love him even in pieces, even if holding him meant being scarred.

"What happened to me didn't break me,
it made me."

He tells the story of his life; of how things rise and fall and still find a way to get back up again. Scriptures written in a son's blood, a house that crumbles to ash, children starving on the streets and death by flames. A woman that crushes innocence in her hands — but she's not Euley. Aeson doesn't need her to say anything. It's enough that she's there with him. She's grateful that he's pulled open his ribs, that he's released his demons and made the undoing of a boy be known. She doesn't flinch. Twin moons rise as she rests her head against his shoulder, a quiet understanding settling around them.

They fall asleep embracing;
and the stars have no lullaby to sing.

---

When she wakes, there's still no sound. The space beside her is empty, but it doesn't feel as wide and cold. Aeson had removed himself slowly and gently, careful not to disturb her, and the echo of his warmth runs the length of her limbs. She pulls on her boots and her coat, peering out from their tent and catching the final moments of the sixth day's sunrise. Aeson watches, turning to notice her rubbing at her eyes and approaching with a sleepy grin. And she parts her lips to greet him, to comment on the skyward display and how well she had slept, but her words are silenced by a kiss. Sudden and hungry and somehow soft; no reason and no words.

Red-faced and at war with her own tongue, she doesn't know what to say. There's nothing. He pulls away and leaves her breathless, fingers curled under her chin and stars in his eyes. And they're dead, she knows, but so bright. Still somehow so alive, and she's girlish and young in that moment. Shameless. She wants to stay like this, but she doesn't reach for him, and he walks away. If this is their final embrace, she'll be content. It's beautiful. He's beautiful. And if their end is a whisper, she'll accept it. She doesn't want to scream. To rage and to bite and to cry. She just wants to exist — with him. Just for one more day.

Euley goes about the morning like nothing had happened, but she can't erase the surprise from her expression. She doesn't want to. She wears her blush and her smile without embarrassment, humming to herself and rolling her eyes each time her allies attempt to tease her. She gathers their items and prepares their sleigh for what might be their final journey, taking down their camp — and then they're off, on their chariot and down from the mountain. They travel until they arrive at a forest of spinning trees, broken branches and fear in the air. It's not long after they've settled in a new area that another alliance makes themselves known.

Bella Rose and her companions stand across from them, and Euley knows what this is. War must be raged, and it comes in the form of fire and blades — and a spear through the heart. Everything is a blur in that moment, a rush of emotions and there's no friendship in this place. Not now. All things must end, and as Isaac clutches at the wound on his neck, Euley makes her decision. She knows what she has to do. "Bella," she starts, looking to her former friend and clenching her jaw. She removes a jar of tar and ignites her crampons. It doesn't burn. She stands on a pyre and doesn't smile. The witch of the woods knows mercy, but she will not sacrifice her allies. The ones that stood by her each day.

"I'll make this quick. I'm sorry.
You are strong. I'm proud of you."

---

( euley attacks bella; flaming spiked blunt
& uses one match + a jar of tar )
XRXhwQwxspiked blunt
( block )

1-50
( extinguished )

accuracy — day six

( euley attacks bella; spiked blunt )
spiked blunt
( miss )

[dars]

Flames writhed through chilly winds, kissing the hand of a boy whose name she recalled easily. The career district names were singed into her brain because they were the ones she had to watch for – or so she thought. After meeting Aeson, it had become painfully clear that cruelty existed beyond the name career and the upper districts. Dymas was no longer a name bleeding red on her radar, but that didn’t eliminate him as a threat. They were all her potential killers, even the little girl standing by their side. Silently, Violet let relief wash over her; she was glad she hadn’t targeted the young one.

When Dymas spoke, Violet’s expression distorted into visible confusion. ”Why do you fear us so much that you need all that armor?” She briefly glanced down at her padded torso – it was warm and vaguely resembled a shell, and she had seen its wonders in the works. Fragments of metal crashing into the snow, yet the wearer survived. Why wouldn’t she use something so useful? Why would she risk her own safety to “duke it out” the old fashioned way? She was physically weaker than he was. The idea was simply foolish.

Salazars didn’t win through honor and fairness.

She tilted her head. ”We’re not afraid of you,” she said, confident enough to speak freely of her allies’ feelings. They were all brave and willing to participate in these brawls, so why would they feel any different about Dymas?

”We’re just using something we earned. It’s about survival, isn’t it? I would happily be remembered for having an easy fight – especially if it means I’m still breathing.”

She inhaled frost-bitten air; her statement was a mouthful, and it was the most she had said to an enemy in quite a while. A crack in the shell, so to speak. It was time to break out of it. Everybody viewed her as weak and incapable, and although half of that was the truth, she didn’t want fear to define her. Otherwise, she would never overcome it.

Lips parting to speak again, she picked up her second flaming ski pole and pulled it back. She was ready to stand her ground as a Salazar and a true competitor, and defend herself to her last breath – until a gasp replaced those strong words. Isaac’s impressively-thrown ski pole had spliced through the frozen air and pierced the little girl – Gillian, I remember her name now – through the heart. Shock weakening her resolve, her grip faltered as she watched innocence fall. Dymas’ reaction was almost instant, and it burned. Child butchery was not something Violet had prepared herself to witness.

She swallowed a sickening lump in her throat. Nothing about this felt triumphant, and it took an immense amount of strength to keep her focus grounded on the fight. She wanted to drown out Dymas’ words of despair, but could not. ”I hope you suffer till your last breath…”

Violet shook her head. There was nothing left to say.

As Dymas sent an axe sailing toward Isaac, she knew she had to strike when he was vulnerable and distracted.

Salazars did not win through honor or fairness.

[dars]

The blood from the boys neck drips onto her spear and she cant help but think about how close death must be right now.

She is silent.

Resilient.

Because this was the point she knew that she was going to have to prove herself to these people that did not know her.

Did not care for her.

Did not see her as a threat.

As much as she was enthralled with Euley, she knew that there would be no way in hell that they could ever be friends. Because she was just as ruthless if not more ruthless then the other three that traveled with her.

Of course, Bella wouldn’t expect anything less from a girl who once lived with wolves.

She was sure that death would welcome them all into his kingdom with sick glee. They would be the horsemen to his version of a poetic apocalypse. Their horses stripped of skin so only bone is left behind. They would be absolutely horrifying and their enigmas would eclipse everyone’s soul until they were either welcomed into the kingdom themselves, or they ran.

However, there was nowhere to run when the apocalypse comes.

---

And Bella wished there could have been a way to get around fighting people that she didn’t want to.

She knew that it was unfair for her to be in a bout with the people that murder to make a point. Bella wouldn’t have been surprised if they had claimed most of the kills in the arena.

After all, she did watch Euley break every bone in Mercy’s body. She knew that Aeson was blood thirsty. The boy from one looked despondent, and if the girl from seven was anything like her sister, she knew that she was just as vicious as the others.

Bella wondered if there was anything else to the people here that were trying to kill them.

In the moment her spear connected with the boys neck, she wondered if there was anyone that was looking at him with care?

She wondered who loved him?

Did anyone? Did anyone care about any of them?

Being so close to him gave her the advantage of looking into his eyes. Except, she saw nothing there.

There was no soul. No gateway to a conscious.

Just sadness, regret, and anger.

And while Bella wondered if in another universe they would be friends, she watched him grab a spear and send it flying into the air.

Bella was the first person to admit, she was ready to die. Ready for anything that might have happened in this moment.

She counted cannon sounds on her fingers when they would go off.

12 of them crossed her mind, and that meant that there were only 12 left.

Until she heard another one crack against the sky.

---

However, she didn’t look back because in that distraction, she would be open and as much as Bella Rose knew that death wanted her to join her, she would still fight until her last dying breath.

Besides, she could hear Dymas’s blood curdling screams about Gilly in the background.

”I guess you leave me no choice.” Bella pulled her spear back, trying to gauge the next move. The girl from seven and Aeson were quick to act, throwing spears and javelins into Dymas like they were trying to kill a bird with a rock.

At this point, it was due or die. So Bella couldn’t blame them.

She thought about how this might have been the end for both of them right here. How Dymas and Bella were no match for a group of people who made killing their primary objective.

But of course, Dymas believed in Angels, and when he set his axe on fire, Bella watched in amazement as he sunk it deep into the boy’s back.

The smell of burnt flesh way too familiar to her from the day before.

She could feel Eva turn over in whatever grave they put her in.

”All you are doing is bringing a gun to a knife fight.” Bella said to the girl from seven. ”There is no value in what you earn if all you are going to do kill each other in the end.” Bella was starting to see behind the curtain they all hid behind. ”Where is the value in that? The honor?” She held her spear close, looking at Dymas proudly. ”Ill tell you where it is… back in the bloodbath with the people you slaughtered.”

---

And then Euley struck. And Bella couldn’t believe it for a moment.

However, with another cannon booming in the distance, that meant that there were only ten left.

This was now desperation. Friendships and infatuations didn’t exist.

However, Bella took a deep breath, catching Euley in the corner of her eye.

The fire on her feet caught Bella’s attention, and with a graceful thrust, her spear caught the flaming crampon and pushed it down into the snow. She watched the fire go out in an instant, and she took a deep breath as she realized that this is what happens when people get desperate.

They get reckless.

And as Euley’s leg came back up to land on Bella’s skin, she took a step back, feeling the wind from her foot and smelling the extinguished fire as her leg landed back where it should have been.

”Don’t be sorry Euley. There is no sorry when we are all this close to the freedom we are seeking.” She said, watching her for a moment and admiring everything about her. ”However, if there is something that I have learned here, its that desperation will get you nowhere.” She wasn’t trying to be mean, just fair.

”Recklessness will cost you. Remember that Euley.” She looked at her for a moment before turning her spear back to the career who looked just like how he felt.

Like death.

And Bella was here to show him that a girl from ten can be just as deadly as the people he trusted.

”Death will come to those who think they are above it.” Bella said to him as she readied her spear for another strike.

”Death isn’t something that you can manipulate. And while nine of us wont make it out of here...” Bella trailed off, looking back at Euley and then back to the boy one more time.

”That one person will have to live with the blood on their hands.” Bella raised her spear looking at the boy from one.

”And I don’t think your up to that task.” She said directly to the boy from one and no one else. "Now wont you tell me your name?"

And she struck.

[dars]

Filler. Easter has drained me of all my energy — but I'll work on this when I wake up. Euley's taking this pretty hard and is caught between a lot of emotions; kinda blames herself for not being able to protect him and is trying to convince herself that she's not bothered. She is.

- "I'm not desperate, Bella. I'm not reckless without cause. I'm just a girl. I just want to live."
- "You don't deserve to know his name."
- "Death comes to all of us. There's nothing to mock, nothing to be proud of. It's just the collapse of lungs, the undoing of cells — we're grenades."
- "And this isn't karma, you stupid boy. And I still have both of my eyes."
- "And I'm looking to the stars tonight. To see Isaac. To see my friend. I won't look for you. Either of you. I won't hunt you; I won't even think of you. Because you're not worth my time. The both of you are already dead."

---

( euley flees the fight )

[dars]

You will never be endless.

Yet the the impression you make on the world's skin will never fade into obscurity -- you will be remembered for the scars you leave on their skin. The boy from Four will carry the scarlet sneer you left on his skin for the rest of his days. The blood you spill soaks into the snow and grips your skin like crimson chains binding your skin to the cold -- you anchor yourself to blood spatter. You move backwards, stepping on red flood and withdrawing the point from his flesh, but there is no smile at the beauty of the splitting of skin.

You orbit around a shade of red rage; you embody devastation but you do not lose your composure in the same manner as him. You spit into the ground and pull indifference closer around your skin, an obvious contradiction to the disturbance of your cyclic pulse.

A limited pulse running on borrowed time; yet indifference is still your second skin.

You're not eternal, you were never carved from bronze but you rose from rags. You do not exist for a system of riches at your fingertips, training at your back; you're just Aeson. Born from scripture but grown from hatred and raised by those who do nothing but take. You're not eternal, but the imprint you leave on the world is never ending -- you are ruination.

You sigh, letting the career's words wash over you and a tinge of amusement strikes at your chest. He reminds you of the broken men back home, the dead souls beneath your boot. The madmen who rave about that special place in hell waiting for people like you, they rot in their tombstones for a creed that calls for bloody vengeance. A special place in hell waiting for you but piss stains like this 'career' tend to see it before you, how disappointing. "You will never have a true purpose in this world. All you know is how to destroy.That's all you've been trained for."

A trickle of amusement runs down the corner of your lips, right down your chin. You tear indifference from your body in that moment and let the corners of your mouth pull into a smile. "To destroy is my purpose. However, I'm not a trained career, you stupid cunt."

Destruction is eternal; you become an extension of immortality in those moments.

He ends his spew of self-righteousness with an instruction, a command even. "At least have the decency to go ahead and kill yourself because you'll do the capitol a world of good to get rid of someone like you."

You roll your eyes at that; you label him boring. Just like the rest.

All bark but no bite, what a career he is.

"Well, if 'careers' like you are all I have to worry about then killing myself might be something I have to seriously consider," You came here to kill, you came here to die. You find the shade of grey between two absolutes. "Go on then, Shitstain, choke the life out of me. I dare you."

Let him take you to that special place in hell; you leave an eternal smear in the snow.

Yet the musing is cut short. You spot Bella in the corner of your eye heft her spear and move towards Isaac's downed form. "Now won't you tell me your name?"

Isaac falls at the blurring of identities, his cannon rings louder than his voice.

You watch him, spear through the eye before he can sound so much as a death wish, and you scowl, a slight flicker in your chest. In a moment, he becomes a personification of what everyone runs from, what you thought to run from for twelve years after devotion became a suicide pact drenched in gasoline.

His cannon fire becomes the calling of the deceleration of your wheel at causation, the blurring of a death wish and an extension of your mortality. You are not carved from stainless steel, you are flesh and bone; men like you don't live long. He bleeds into the snow for a faith that weeps stolen potential, a fallen warrior and a tombstone to mark the thawing of a frozen battlefield. You spit into the snow and scowl; no one but you fucks with your group.

Of course, you felt a surface level respect for him. He fought well and satisfied simplistic lust in the training center; it seems wrong for him to die in such a way. But it doesn't matter what you deserve here, so you do not wear anger like your second skin. But your eyes narrow on Bella all the same, you see Caine in the blood dripping heavy from her ski pole.

You ignore the thawing of Euley's ice heart, and the crumbling of Violet's will fades to background noise. You stare at the fallen man and wonder if he'll see that special place in hell before you. Perhaps he'll show it to you when you join him.

"How 'honorable' from the morality guru over here, spearing our crippled friend through the face before he could answer her fucking question," you step forwards, rolling your eyes. "His name was Isaac, just for your information."

Isaac Jacobi, worth a fuck ton more than that other 'career' who seems to be better at wasting oxygen with empty threats and a broken heart than doing what he was supposed to be trained more. Yet it doesn't matter what you deserve in here, it doesn't matter what you deserve anywhere. Or else your mother's god would've told her to smother you in your own bed before you could grow to become an extension of death's scythe. Before you could cleave a red path of destruction through the snow and call it a blood trail worth seeing; this is not a story of 'what-ifs'. 

Isaac is simply dead.

You feel Euley's stardust pulse accelerate against your skin as she spits venom at the two of them; stripping herself of her finery and letting them see the cracks in her armour. You forgot how much she feels in comparison to you.

You forgot how angry you could feel when something deemed yours was ripped from your fingers.

"Although, you definitely have much better aim than your reckless district partner did. Perhaps, if that wasn't the case, then it wouldn't have been so easy for me to put his face in the sky," an unfamiliar anger coils itself around your veins but you wear a mask of cruelty and sadism; you laugh. "And trust me, I didn't make it as quick as you made it for him." You gesture towards the downed warrior with your spear.

Euley and Violet leave footprints in the snow, they metamorphose into afterimages of a dead battle.

"I would love to share the gory details, but a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. We're done here, Bella."

You turn on her and leave a black feather from your dark wings as you step past Isaac's body.

"You better pray that one of us is in the sky the next time we see each other."

You are not a personification for eternity, so, you leave a scar for cruelty behind.

[dars]