the ritual of rivals {violet vs. zombie ansel} day 2

Time began to unwind. Every ache and pain returned in a steady crawl, a gnarl in her stomach and a twist in her bandaged palm. The ghost of an arrow punctured her nerves and there was no more adrenaline to mask the sensation. She clutched her palm to her stomach as they glided through the snow, the two moons glowering ominously at their sins. After the death of Miss Vesper Daisy, the day was spent traveling, unwinding, and remained miraculously uneventful. The first hour Violet spent glancing over her shoulder, heart constantly fluttering in paranoia, but even that faded away with the sunset once she habituated to the silence.

They stumbled upon a luxurious campsite not long after the sun tucked itself away. A steamy haze billowed over a pool of clear water. Warmth radiated from the surface and patted her pale cheeks, reminding her of a cozy bedside fire. She lingered by the edge and absorbed the warmth; a taste of home was welcome in this foreign castle of corpses. When she opened her eyes again, reality snapped her back into routine. She turned and help the warriors set up their tent for the night.

There was an uncomfortably icy coil in the pit of her stomach when Aeson approached her. Murdering his own district partner had confirmed her suspicions that he was perhaps her greatest threat; an eagle circling the trees and waiting to wrap his talons around the serpent’s scales. When the time came, Violet knew she would recoil in fear, but she could not back down without a fight. To her mild surprise, he handed her a new weapon to replace the sad little knife strapped to her leg. It was the spiked contraption Euley had wrapped around her boots, and Violet didn’t quite understand how she was supposed to use it.

She thanked him anyway. A gift was a gift, especially if it was useful.

Fingertips glided across the pointed ends. Sharp, deadly, yet there was no handle to wield. She examined it with her brow furrowed.

”You look like a lost kitten, Vi.”

She raised her head, blinking at the hand brushing over her cheek. It left a pink patch in its wake, and she continued to ask herself why Euley’s touch was so powerful. Everything about her was enchanting – until Violet stole a glance at her bloodied boots, reminding her that Euley was a savage warrior among savage warriors. Her motherly aura was a distraction from the wolf’s snarl. She had a taste for blood and Violet had enough memory of it to train her eyes on the snow as they walked, attempting to pay no mind to how inspiring she was.

They lingered by the outskirts of camp, and Violet swallowed awkwardly. ”I can’t move the way you do,” she admitted rather sheepishly. Could she lie to the world now and pretend she possessed her sister’s fire? Perhaps not after today’s pitiful performance. Her skeleton was exposed, and it glowed beneath the eye of every camera lens. She didn’t know how she was expected to use Euley’s weapon to her advantage. Her only comfort was in knives, but it was limited. She could not perform feats of acrobatic strength and elegance.

”Don't move like me, then. You need to find your own center.”

Soft hands drifted to banish her insecurity. She forced Violet to grip the weapon with confidence and made reference to her previous knife training. It awed her that Euley remembered such a small detail about her – yet it was important, wasn’t it? In the end, they all had to play to their own strengths and play to everybody else’s weaknesses.

What was Euley’s weakness, she wondered?

There was a welcome warmth in their little dance of death, Violet swinging her weapon through empty air with newfound curiosity. Harder to miss, she said, and Violet was reminded of her poor performance earlier that day. She had only one moment to call her own: shattering Stella’s armor where she stood. Had the armor not been there, however –

Violet shuddered at the thought, yet that was the technique she needed to win. No honor in the battlefield, no beauty in death. It was as Euley claimed; ”There's nothing beautiful about keeping yourself alive.”

She silently agreed, and wondered how long ago she had been forced to abandon beauty. It seemed like such a petty treasure. Now Violet hunted for liquid rubies in the snow, and when it stained her hands maybe then could she call herself royal in the frozen palace.

Maybe then she could call herself a blizzard.

”You’re a storm.”

An enjoyable sentiment, if the metaphor matched her performance. She shook her head. ”I’ll try, but it feels more like I’m a light drizzle.”

A light jest, but with honesty imbedded in its layers.

”Jacinta was the storm.”

How strong and fiery she had been – how could she match that? A volunteer as opposed to a pampered pearl living in the snake’s den. She had never been built for this game. Euley, however, seemed to disagree. ”Oh darling,” she laughed, and Violet perked her head up. ”We're all storms. Each of us. You just have to find out what kind you are.”

Violet wondered what her pride tasted like.

”What kind are you?” she challenged.

A mystery best left unanswered, Euley kissed the top of her head and offered a promise. Somehow, it felt like an empty one.

Violet practiced until she grew weary. Tucking her weapon away, she crawled into the tent after the anthem blared and bundled herself up, feeling foolish about her situation. How long until she would have to abandon this tent because her allies grew too dangerous? As the numbers dwindled, she would have to face the prospect of traveling alone.

The thought made her sleep in short fits. Each time she awoke, she checked Aeson’s sleeping form and drifted off once more, banishing thoughts of murder and betrayal. Each time they returned fresher, until she woke up and found herself alone.

She blinked her vision into focus, puzzled by the emptiness of the tent. When she listened, she thought she could hear distant echoes. Not voices, but rustles. Commotion. Where had they all gone, and why hadn’t they woken her?

If they had wanted to set off without her, why not kill her and snatch the tent for themselves?

Something felt off.

Panicked, she withdrew her weapon and edged her way out of the tent. She paused, listened. The echoes bounced between trees, but she couldn’t pinpoint their source. Several patches of footprints were strewn in the snow, each pointing to a different direction. Which one to follow?

One, two –

She chose the smallest footsteps, only to hear her own interception. She whirled around and hoped desperately to see Euley standing there instead of Aeson.

What she found was neither.

Severed hand, missing ear, the face of an enemy long banished to a graveyard was what she found instead. She gasped, fingers wrapping themselves around her spiked weapon as if it were a lifeline. It was Ansel Kiev – the boy who killed six tributes in her sister’s games.

One of Jacinta’s rivals.

An enemy of the Salazars.

But he’s supposed to be dead.

It felt too cold to be a nightmare, but this seemed too ridiculous to be real. She decided to reject everything that this was, and charged forward.

”No!” she screeched.

Be gone.