i, fortress of solitude ♜ eulalie, day 1

The relics of the past gaze at Eulalie in disinterest.

It seems fitting, in a way. The girl who has always been so focused on what came before her — now so wearily trapped in the present. The crumbling staircases and ruined buildings hold stories that she does not care to ask for. What lovers once raced up those marble steps in the dead of night? What heated arguments were held within those now collapsed walls? None of it concerns her. She wasn't there for it, she did not exist, and yet.

That familiar television static is buzzing inside her mind again. In her lonesome, she often thinks about her legacy. She counts herself proud to have secured the wealth and taken no injuries, but she has little to show for her success other than the dark crown secured atop her head. It's a mockery of the thing she truly wants, but she cannot deny that it makes her feel more powerful. She's yet to steal a life, but already her grip on her weapon seems that much stronger.

It seems we've made it to the scary part of Eulalie's story. There's a crushing weight on her shoulders; capable of sending a career spiraling into a breakdown. Her cheeks still redden at the memory of Assessment Day. The humiliation and shame and rage she felt all at once. Days of skipping sleep, hours of relentless training, a lifetime of believing herself capable of succeeding in something that no human being should have to experience. For so long, she haughtily claimed this was in her blood, but none of what has happened felt quite as practiced as it should.

She still peers over her shoulder at strange sounds, and her choices for where to travel next are never quite certain. That, and she's learned she needs to take breaks from her allies. Time alone to think is essential, an excuse to map out her surroundings and gather her bearings. No one has died. She has yet to hear and process what a cannon sounds like on this side of the Games. She feels restless. There is still so much to be done, half of which she's not sure if she can handle.

But she's right here. Standing on two feet, alive and well, her attention caught by a shining sword stabbed deep into a moss covered boulder. The hilt of the weapon calls out to her, urging her to step forward and claim it.

There's a metaphor about glory lost somewhere between all of this. For once, Eulalie shrugs off the weight of expectations and decides to try and take the sword on her own merit alone.