another battle; never won // day 2 {arcs vs glass vs octopi}

Every time you close your eyes, the faces of the dead come back to you. Drifting together in a cloud of black, their shapeless forms become one behind your eyelids. They growl out, moan, and whisper—Salome, Salome, Salome. A creature with limbs twisting and turning, more spider than human, you are alone in your terror. No one is here to save you, no one to hold you. Isn’t that just how you live your life, Salome? They are not calling so much as reminding you that this world is an illusion; you live on borrowed time. The stars above your head are lies. Fixtures of a woman’s dream, they are imposters that remind you nothing of District Eleven.

Where is the girl that stepped forward for her district? Could you regret, and still be a martyr? Are heroes not made from a test of conscience? Yet you are no hero. Gentian died because you were too late to help him. Even now, your body curled close to Molly’s, you wonder what strength you could offer to a career that she does not already have. You were never meant to be a hero; you were only a girl whose heart found strength in putting others first. You want no songs sung of you, no great parade, no crown. Instead, you want to pull your knees up to your chest, and to breathe every last breath you can take. You want to tell your sister Magdalena that you’re scared, that she would have been so much stronger. Most of all, you don’t want to cry because you know how many people you’d disappoint by falling apart—yourself in especial.

“I don’t want to sleep.” The truth has always been your comfort. You stare over at Molly. You feel safe in the makeshift balloon contraption, the basket just big enough for the two of you to stretch out. You stare up at the sky, and wonder whether the stars are a reflection of the night as you know, or a scattering of a different time. You’d given Benat, Levi, and even Iago their own stars—but you can’t picture them here, as tired as you are. What would each of them thought, knowing little Salome had crossed the threshold past the first night and into the second morning?

I don’t think I can. Molly stirs, and you turn over on your side. She glows bright even at night, and this makes you smile. She is nothing like the girls you knew in district eleven. She has all the ferocity you do not; she finds life in the brightest of things. You admire that she can find levity without needing much. At least that much she had in common with your family. And so you suppose you’re friends now; two against the world. It was more than having another body to protect against the others in the arena. You wanted to keep her safe—someone so young didn’t deserve to go any sooner than you. She was worthy (and you would give your life just to let hers last that much longer). Somehow you know she would do the same.

“It’s just us now.” Gentian lingers just beyond the veil. You imagined all the things foolish sixteen-year-olds do when you had met him. Walking along across the sand of the arena, ready to protect one another from danger. He with his cap, you with your smile. He would have slept close against your side—you would’ve wanted to know so much more. And your small hands could’ve cradled his, could’ve been—what could’ve been. So is life a recollection of what may have happened, if only given the chance. You are still a girl from eleven, dreaming of what you’d lost.

Just the two of us… Salome, what are we going to do? An itch crosses your skin. Now was not the time to dream. Molly was your charge, your tether to the reason you’d entered the games at all. She gave you purpose to soldier on, even with the ten faces that lit up the sky. Your heart skips a beat seeing names like Destin and Turner. Truly even the immortal can be slain if they fell so easily. All the more reason to pour your energy into what was possible: keeping Molly safe until the two of you could find a good spot to hideaway.

“We look out for each other while we can. We keep going. We live.” Benat had taught you that the world was better when people were good to one another. You were lucky that way, knowing so much goodness that you could pass it along to others like water from a spout. Could you promise her anything else? You looked at Molly with tired eyes. “Until the end.” She deserved as much as you could offer. And if there was just one watching that took your actions to heart, that was enough.

“Molly,” You cross your arms across your chest. “Where do you think we go after we die?”

Into the light, to keep the darkness at bay. It’s either that or… The words don’t come, but they’re enough. You don’t imagine many talk about what comes after (and you wonder if the cameras have shifted away from you now, as taboo as it is). You sit up and give another grin. It isn’t as strange as you could’ve thought that you’re together. Your grandmother had once said that the universe takes everyone after they have left us. Good or bad they are sorted and placed among the stars. It is they who stand watch when the darkness comes.

“I think there’s something after. We’re all here and – I don’t think it’s the end. I know I’m going to see my cousins on the other side.” You wouldn’t tell her that there was no going home for you. No one else would know you had determined, whether by your own blade or a plant of nightshade, you’d put an end to Salome Izar. It was as clear as day in your mind: you were a ghost since the moment you stepped forward. But it was not so simple as stepping off your pedestal and ending it then and there. You would hold on until your heart could not. You would hold on until the moment when your cousin’s voices became clear. You would heed their call, and greet them with open arms.

Wherever it is, I hope there’s plenty of shinies. You sleep, at last—no monsters for your dreams, only stars.

The morning comes, a red sun peeking across the horizon. You ache from laying on your side, but set to work putting your feet on the pedals. The balloon may not have taken flight, but you press on across the sand—or is it glass? It dips and weaves along, each gust sending you sailing and plopping back down again. A reflection through the waves of sand has you narrow your eyes.

“I think I see something.” Your heart leaps when you see the forms of a pair, and then another not far along.

Yeah! Something shiny. She is lost to the sight of the ground below, or the flicker of armor. You try to turn the steering wheel but it doesn’t have the same give it did yesterday—

“Keep pedaling!” Your words come too late, and the balloon basket strikes an uneven patch. You lurch forward as the basket skitters across the ground, wheels turning. Molly is not there when you look up from your spot. You struggle to pull yourself up, your armor heavy and your legs already tired. You pull yourself over the side of the contraption and land in the sand. The girls from four and two strike her—one getting her neck, deep. You scream, forgetting yourself. The girl from seven—beautiful as she is—takes aim at the four. The child of six strikes at two.

Your breathing is still heavy from the pedaling, but you stand.

“How are all of you so fast?” You stagger forward, heavy breathing and all, and point your maximum yellow glaive at her. As if to remind you that you are not a warrior, the umbrella pops open just as you take a swing.

[Salome Izar clumsily attacks Gabrielle Bellamonte with her glaive]

HU8mHBVYglaive

[result:]

You are a child of winter, Salome.

Short days of bitter cold and long nights of darkness run through your veins; how have you managed to float through life? Here you tumble free to the ground, umbrella sword at your side. I can’t do this, you want to say—for who would listen to you now? Stepping forward during the reaping was easy, any girl could have done that (Iago and Levi did). Anyone could have made allies and run ‘round the arena (Benat cast shadows for five days, did he not?). You were supposed to protect them, and keep them safe. You would fight on until you met with the truth—that your time was up, and you could join your cousins on the other side. Now you know how foolish it all sounds. Why did you think the world would be so fair to you? That you were some warrior-knight with the skill to stand with the girls from two and four?

You are a peasant—pathetic, and weak. You are as you have always been, catching sunlight in your pocket, thinking that this is enough to save you from trouble. Your prayers will be answered and when they are not—you turn back to your hope, because without it, who are you? And as you struggle to stand in your armor, you know that you are as you’ve always been. The world blesses sweet Salome—are you not good? Are you not virtuous?. A part of you relishes the glory that comes with martyrdom; after all, what better legacy than one full of love?

The wind changes direction, and thick black curls blow across your face. Anise slashes at Molly with precision, Ingran parries against her with speed. They have forgotten you because you are no threat; already a ghost among the ones who truly matter. All the prayers in the world will not keep you safe. Your abuela fills the space behind your eyelids, her lilting voice dripping down your back and onto your spine. Prayer without action, mija, is dead. The shame of it all has you hold your glaive tighter against your breast.

“Hijo de la chigada…” You growl out the words. One foot steps sideways, the other behind. Tufts of red fabric flow in the wind and your armor reflects in the sun. You are a part of the old guard—a family that has known loss, has seen grief, and has triumphed. That did not come from greeting the world with a constant smile, or shying away from grief. Today you cannot be like the girl you’ve always been—steady, certain—you must be more. Are you not an Izar, the same that terrified boy and girls ten years ago? Your house is no stranger to blood. You look to Molly and can feel the flush of anger cross your face.

The clank of your boots starts across the sand as you struggle, still tired—but the thumping in your head pushes you to continue. You are your cousins of District Eleven, ordinary field hands. You are Levi—sweet enough of a soul to be here for another. You are Benat—a boy that was true to himself to the very end. You are even Iago—not willing to quit, but fight, (oh how you’ll fight) until the very last breath. And you grit your teeth, little body charging, racing, willing yourself to become part of the battle, and not just a part of the background.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” You jump into the air, umbrella popping open behind you. You hope that Gabby can see the whites of your eyes as you come down, blade in both hands. You are but small, but in that moment, you are mighty.



[Salome Izar attacks Gabrielle Bellamonte with her glaive]