what fate demands // tv v. bb v. to, day 6

The soul can split itself like a rose wilting.

He imagines living like that; to be beautiful and to be brief, a flush of color and then nothing but grey. Petals on the kitchen floor meant to be discarded. He has learned by this point how to dull the melancholy in his heart quickly enough that his eyes don't flash indigo with recognition, with signal; sometimes he stares at his reflection in the edge of his dagger and hates himself for how visible all of his damage has become. All of his hidden fears dancing in color across his irises. His broken knee feels like static now, his scars have scabbed over, he still holds the airs of a boy who basks in the sun.

The champion charms, but Bellamy bewitches.

He had followed the pixies to the edge of the forest only hours ago, around a corner and into a dark spot he cannot remember; the only constants of the night prior are the weight of Tinker in his grasp and Perry standing across from him in the clearing, the sound of voices coming through a veil. The queen had sung his praises as quickly as he fell Jayson, arrow pierced through his body like a stag on the precipice of slaughter. But Bellamy had left the corpse to the earth like a sacrifice. His hands took one prize, an orange satchel labelled 'third,' and he reached greedily for another.

If he was an extension of Perry, then that meant she was an extension of him. Touching her felt like that, finger in his wound, hand in the cookie jar, if anyone could truly claim to see the spectrum of him it would be both Larissa and herself; his two darlings, his twin daggers, the duo that captured his attention and distracted his ambition long enough for him to fantasize a world in which all three of them could step into the sunlight together. They have seen his rage, his sadness, his playfulness, his love.

And deep down, he has always known that both of them would have to die. He does not wish to stand in the place of that fate, boy dodging tragedies, so in the dark night he made his solace with that being the last beautiful moment he would ever have with the most beautiful creatures to grace his life thus far. Ever cruel, ever selfish, ever hungry; he knows that his survival means another adventure, another goal to seek, another flame to stoke. There will be other girls like Larissa and Perry. But there will only be this one crown.

He wishes them a death that is good and quick and not by his hand.

To them, his eyes would tell the truth. He hopes they do not survive to learn it.

The holograms flickering around him do not hold his attention, he is aware what this pivotal moment in the standing means for all the tributes left in the arena. If he is whole, then so are Larissa and Perry; if he hasn't faltered, he's damn sure they're both still standing on their feet. He has to concern himself with his own survival now, glaive in his grasp and a rising warmth of scarlet in his eyes, surely the both of them are facing their own mortality at this very moment, staring at a monster's visage that looks just like him.

He'll save the Capitol the funds to edit. He is already a terror.

A poisonous flower with thorns all along the stem, begging to be picked.

What reason is there to want if you do not want more than your fill? The pixies wake him at dawn, lead him back to this same wicked scenario, and he reminds himself that he volunteered to experience this. The means have to justify the end. For glory, he has been asked to kill some essence of himself twenty-three times over. Both boys are familiar, one who dared to strike him just hours ago, and the other connected to the ghost that does not haunt him. Jayson had divided Perry's attention, and now, neither of them mattered to her.

There is only this. The rawness of a breath, and the shift of a glaive preparing to be swung. "I don't see a lot to acknowledge," he says this calmly, but there is no warmth in his voice, the honey has gone stale. "Only two people standing in my way. And I'm very competitive." He lurches to the side, reduces what could have been a deep cut to a shallow scratch across his skin; and he considers repeating his most recent sin. Over and over. If his allies can die, then these strangers can suffer for all he cares.

"Thomas, my old pal, why don't you tell Torian about how I murdered his friend yesterday? That was only a warm up."

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
PAmAllvF_Sglaive
( block )

( bellamy attacks thomas, glaive )
glaive
( 4.0 )

accuracy | day 6

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
glaive
( 8.0 )

Part of him has learned to enjoy the way his words bite. Honey and ants dripping from an open wound.

The taste of rust in his mouth has become familiar by this point. If there is no blade in his hand, then he is not living up to his purpose. His ambition haloes him, makes him glow. The golden boy can be a force of nature, too. He wants nothing more than to conquer the Games, this nightmare that keeps unfolding, and to live to tell the tale. History fascinates him more when he imagines himself within its scope.

More than that, he wishes to write the book on this experience and sign his name at the bottom. Proof that he did something impossible. He stares at the scar left behind by a girl who was erased from the world — and he thinks about the sadness in his brother’s dark brown eyes that lives there still to this day. It doesn't come and go like Bellamy's does, it stays. A tragedy that lingers.

Terribly, he has never wanted anything more than the things that Beau can never have. The shiniest toys aren’t always the best ones.

And walking out of this place with his heart unscathed, his smile still present on his face, a crown atop his curls? That makes his excitement rise, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It’s hard to convince himself that this is not exactly what he should wish for. The way he sees it, if his future is going to be laced with self hatred and regret, he might as well be done with the trauma on his own turns. He killed a boy yesterday. And days before that, he cheated on his girlfriend on national television for everyone to see.

A detonation is not always fast. Sometimes it ticks.

He has always known that he would have to kill, just like he always knew that his high school sweetheart would never be able to satisfy him forever. And it's no fault of hers, or anyone else, but boys like Bellamy only reach for the highest shelf so they can have a vantage point on where to leap next. The climb does not end until his heart stops beating, and he can hear it drumming. As long as he wants, he is alive. It's that innate.

If he chooses to be boastful and brilliant, then the latter justifies the former.

There's talk of heads rolling and spines snapping; all Bellamy cares to see is the edge of his blade ripping through skin, severing an artery, bringing forth an end. As much as he may be hurting, blood seeping through his clothes and agony coming in flashes, followed by dizziness, followed by overwhelming hunger, he refuses for this to be his curtain call. As far as he's concerned, he's the starring role in all this. To get what he wants, he has to be. He will not fathom a version of himself that is not worthy of his own endless ambition.

And unfortunately enough for the other boys, quiet and deadly like a spider, this scene calls for someone to die.

( bellamy attacks torian, glaive )
P_WHJMqta|glaive
( 3.5 )

( bellamy attacks thomas, glaive )
glaive
( 3.5 )