the { b e a s t } you've made of me:: wedra-day 3
Oct 16, 2012 13:57:25 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2012 13:57:25 GMT -5
KIERA NIAMH DEMPSEY
if you could only see the beast you've made of me
i held it in, but now it seems you've set it running free
screaming in the dark, i howl when we're apart
drag my teeth across your chest
to taste your beating heart
They walk in silence for several minutes, Peri and Aria's distant forms finally disappearing around one of the river's infinite bends, leaving the God and Goddess of the Arena to their own devices. Kiera can't tell when this sort of bone-beep fatigue sank into the very center of her, when it started feeling so difficult to walk and fight and breathe, but she has cause to push onward, the motivation as simple as the presence of the strong, work-worn hand whose fingers are twined up with her own delicate, spindly digits. Once upon a time, she would have cared about fulfilling her celestial destiny, about making Kaelen proud of her and making her family finally see that her enlightenment as not the insanity they pictured it to be. But now all of that is so far away, so horribly far that she can't even grasp the concept of it anymore. But Wednesdae? He's right here, and maybe that's what makes him the sole object of her devotion.
"You shouldn't be so hard on Peri," she says softly, the tone of her voice observant rather than reprimanding as the runs her thumb along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles. Wednesdae is a divine force in his own right, but he never seemed to share Kiera's penchant for mercy, a god of vengeance rather than one of salvation. He needs his celestial consort to stand at his side and remind him to stop, lest the whole world fall to ruin beneath his wrath, and Kiera is more than happy to do so. "It's really not his fault. He just doesn't see things the way we do, so he doesn't understand. But he's a good person, Wes. He's all I've got left of home, and I don't want to lose him any more than I want to lose you."
I can't lose you, I can't... Kiera is reminded of those fragile, broken words she'd sobbed out into his chest what feels like a million years ago but in all reality was no more than an hour. Time moves strangely in the Games, minutes stretching on into eternities but sometimes moving so quickly that none could hope to grasp them. Could it be only a week and three days ago that she met the boy who has now become so inherently necessary for her sanity and stability? How foolish the viewers of Panem must think her, how silly and lovelorn and shallow, but the deepest truth of the matter is that they don't understand. They could never have a hope of understanding what it means to find a kindred spirit after a lifetime of feeling so dreadfully alone in the world. While Wes is harsher than her, quicker and more unforgiving in his judgements, he is still a part of her elevated paradigm, one who sees the world for the den of vice and depravity it is, one who seeks to cleanse it.
And for that, she thinks she might be just a little in love with him.
Of course, it's folly to believe that they could ever have the deep, abiding sort of love that makes people want to grow old together, not when the best-case scenario is only one of them making it out of the Arena alive, but they still have that sort of fierce, codependent devotion that makes them something more than all the others, an unstoppable force that will make the Games bow to their will. Everyone else here is fighting for themselves. They're fighting for each other. And that, Kiera muses, gives them more of an edge than one might think.
"Ugh, I feel gross," she grumbles, wiping at the sticky veneer of congealing blood coating her skin. It's everywhere, in her skin and clothes and hair and soul, and the more she thinks about it the filthier it feels, being painted into a canvas of misery until none of her original purity remains. Carefully disentangling her hand from Wednesdae's she walks absently to the water's edge, letting the swift current flow over her feet and carry crimson tendrils downstream. The water whispers to her invitingly (Come to me, daughter. It's been too long) and Kiera replies with a weary smile, shaking her matted hair out of its haphazard braid and pulling off her shoes before taking a running leap into the river's embrace.
It is the first time in an eternity that she's felt at home.
The current closes over her head, swift but gentle and cool, and Kiera doesn't waste any time scrubbing forcefully at her hair, trying to rid it of all the dirt and blood from three days of fighting. Her body she'll have to be more careful with, gently cleansing the stains from her skin so as to not reopen her wounds and let infection in, but that's a task for later. For now she simply lets the waters rushing around her sing in the deepest parts of her soul, staying under for longer than she probably should - years of performing her miracles of salvation in deep creeks and backyard swimming pools have taught her how to hold her breath - before resurfacing with a quiet splash and a musical laugh, the water clinging heavily to her clothes and plastering her hair in a wild tangle over her face.
"You coming, Drummond?" she calls with a grin to the figure on shore, paddling close enough to splash a handful of water in his direction and stick her tongue out at him. "Unless you're chicken, that is."
my fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in[/size][/justify]
you are the moon that breaks the night for which i have to howl
my fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in
you are the moon that breaks the night
for which i have to howl