( laments of the damned ; FV/v.EA/v.CS ; day 6 )

This is a song of thunder and broken bone — a symphony of our sins. And I'm fractured in this moment, my lungs are without air, but somehow I'm still on my feet. Somehow I still have the strength to look down at the boy I've murdered. My mouth hangs open awkwardly, glaive resting against the ground, and I'm grateful for its support. I try to convince myself that it's the reason I'm standing, not that I'm heartless. Then I notice the blood dripping from the steel, how it has stained the dirt red.

Ezekiel is just as shocked, maybe even afraid, but I don't have it in me to be ashamed of what I've done. This isn't bloodlust, it's survival. "It wasn't supposed to be this way." And I know now that shame and regret are two very different things. I know that I'm willing to feel the latter if it means making it home; if it means that Mackenzie can get out in my place. Being a killer doesn't feel like I had thought it would, some terrible burden on my shoulders. I can carry this. Part of me hates myself for that, how I'm already shaking off the dread, but another is grateful. Almost proud. I can cope with being a monster — with being alive.

( "I don't want to hurt you." )

I smile weakly, shaking my head to let him know that I'd never think otherwise. "I know you don't, Ezekiel. It's okay." Running a hand through my wet hair, I step away from him and lift my weapon. I don't fall to my knees. We both know what has to happen here, that one sacrifice will never be enough. The gods are always hungry, always reaching for more. And I'm not brave enough to deny them that. "I don't blame you. This was inevitable." I look away, bracing myself. The storm rages above us, and I begin to remember this island from the day before, but I refuse to let myself panic. I'm so tired of being my own worst enemy.

Ezekiel can take that position from me. Just for now; just until his body is lying right beside of Charlie's. I lick my lips, trying to soothe the cracks across the pink flesh, but my thirst doesn't go away. I ate last night, a sugary sweet meal — but I'm starving. This destruction is gentle, a quiet laugh on the wind and shaking hands. "I wish I got the chance to know you." But I don't, not really. It's so much easier to kill a stranger. If I were facing Mackenzie, if I had actually taken Wynter's life, I know that I wouldn't be as strong. Hypocrisy is a convenient thing. There's no time to feel sorry for myself, allowing my anxiety eat me alive and cloud my judgment.

Only I can decide who I am. And maybe I'm bad luck, maybe I've hurt those I care about and maybe I'm selfish. A stupid girl that shouldn't have survived this long. I've spat in my face and caressed my cheek all in the course of six days, learning to love and despise myself and I'm tired of it. I'm so tired of the joy and the heartbreak and I'm terrified of the numbness. I don't want to keep telling myself that I want to live, just to say I'm unworthy. My knuckles are white and my jaw is clenched, and right now, I want to be okay. I want to mean it when I say it. 'We're okay.' That's not true, none of us are okay, but I can be. I can learn to be.

His sword slices my bicep, and I can't even think to be angry at him. I'm not. The pain washes over me, but I've felt worse. I steady my breathing and refuse to focus on the stinging that races down my arm. Blade at the ready, I keep my eyes open. Because I owe Ezekiel that much. Charlie, too. I have to remind myself not to glance down at him, not to meet his cold stare. The living are so much more judgmental. I want to tell my district partner not to think bad of me, to repeat his words and let him know that I don't want to cause him any pain, but there's no use. A funeral is still a funeral even if you bring roses.

"You're okay, Faline.
Just breathe —
and fight."

---

[ griffin ]

Blade meets blade — and I hate myself for being disappointed that Ezekiel has blocked my attack. It's strange, how you can want someone to die without having to feel any pain. No remorse. My heart's bleeding, but there's a clot. It's too late to be gentle, to lay myself down and ask my district partner to bury me. To tell him that my favorite flowers are buttercups; that I want to braid them through my hair one last time. It's almost funny. I killed my girlhood, never flinching, and now I want it back. I'm too young to know better, but I'm old enough to be held accountable.

( "I'm just a healer." )

And I'm just a sinner, but what does that matter? I still smile, nodding because I understand. It's calming to think of all that you are — or the lack thereof. "Hey, that's good." I mean it. Healing is more respectful than building; just to destroy everything in the end. "I worked at the train station. I never had to patience to help people, or maybe I just wasn't smart enough for that." My laugh is a hollow sound, but I don't let him know that. I'm trying to convince myself and Ezekiel that I'm not afraid. We both know I'm lying. That's okay, some truths don't need to be spoken. Only seen. I look into his eyes, he looks into mine, and his sword slices through my helmet and cuts the skin beneath.

My vision is blurred by red, but I'm not sure if it's the blood running down my face or something metaphorical. Rage. I'm not angry because I'm hurting, I'm not even angry at Ezekiel for hurting me — I'm furious because there's comfort in the flames. And if setting myself on fire makes me feel safe, makes me feel warm, then let me be a fool. Just let me burn. "That's not all there is. Y'know that, right?" Maybe I'm a candle, not an inferno. I'm still just as deadly. "You're so many things. Never sell yourself short." I'm talking to myself, too, and it's helpful. I've stopped shaking, my breathing is steady. We can fall without being afraid of the crash.

"We're messy, aren't we?" Another chuckle, still just as empty as the first. I raise my glaive and prepare to strike, ready to once again break bone. It's what I have to do — and I can accept that. So can Ezekiel. We understand the reality of the situation; I can see it in his expression. Dying to someone you don't hate, someone you don't fear, is such a strange experience. I don't dare to name the emotion I'm feeling. "Tell me about your family." The command comes suddenly, but my intrigue is genuine and my voice is soft. "If I survive today, and if I make it out... I'll go to them. I promise you." That's the least a murderer can do. I'll give an eulogy as my weapon slits his throat.

---

[ griffin ]

We're not crying, and these aren't tears — it's just a little rain and a little fear. And I'm not going to drown in either. I refuse. Ezekiel speaks with a broken voice, and his words crack alongside the lightning and thunder that rages overhead. I wonder which of the two represents my foe, but I already know that I'd rather be the former. A sudden bolt to the chest and nothing more. Just death. I'm tired of all the static, of being so loud. I want Ezekiel to scream for me.

When he tells me about his father, about the mother and sister that he's lost, I listen to him. He talks about how he had wished, sometimes, to be away from people — and I know that statement is both true and false. I've felt the same way. "I know what you mean. It must have been hard always having to be there for people." 'Never able to focus on yourself,' I think, but then I realize I'm talking to someone who is both so familiar and so foreign to me. I wish I could have been more reliable, less selfish and not as lonely. Part of me doesn't regret isolating myself.

"He sounds like a great man. And you clearly care about him a lot." I smile, sweetly and without bitterness. I mean every word. "I'm sure that he feels the same way. You're a good son." It's not my place to say, we both know that my opinion carries no weight, but it's still comforting. He deserves that much. "I'm sorry for your loss, really." There's an urge to say more, to tell him that they're watching over him right now. That they love him. What does that mean, coming from me? I'm on thin ice, and I don't want to be there when it breaks. I always run.

"It's the least that I can do." Still, I'm just as grateful when he offers to do the same. "They're boring." I laugh, but my voice catches in my throat and I'm wiping at my eyes. It's just the rain. "No, my family's great. Not that I ever noticed." My mouth curls downwards, teeth grating against the inside of my cheek. "I have a lot of brothers, a mom and a dad. I just— I don't know. I took it for granted. I pushed them away." It takes me a moment to realize he's attacked me, that my arm is bleeding. It's so strange how you can kill someone without any hatred.

"I love them so much.
Please, Ezekiel, if it comes down to it...
Tell them that I've always loved them."

---

[ griffin ]

The thunder will call for you — but don't you dare listen to its roar. Don't let yourself be spirited away on a black cloud. Your name and your soul will never return, forever lost to the wind, until all that's left of you are broken bones; and then in a thousand years those will just be stone. Just earth.

My name is Faline Varley,
and I'm covering my ears.
Because I'm not ready
to go back to the dirt.

( Because my corpse could
never be a home for flowers. )

I am a lethal, lonely thing — but I still know who I am. That hungry, selfish girl. I know the amber of her eyes and the auburn of her hair and the hatefulness of her voice. Loving her has nothing to do with it. My knuckles are white, but my smile is kind and I'm giving Ezekiel my full attention. What else can you offer a boy that wants you dead?

His voice is sad, but his aim is true and his sword draws blood. I'm talking my killer down from a ledge. "Don't think like that," I scold him, as if I have any right. As if I'm not a hypocrite. "If my family knows how much I love them, then your father is proud of the man that you've become." I smirk, pleased at myself for turning his words against him.

The rain isn't falling as fast, my skin doesn't feel as raw. I'm not as vulnerable. Maybe it's because there's less armor to remove. Maybe I've become too familiar with steel — maybe it's become synonymous with my skin. "I won't question my worth if you won't question yours." And I know, deep down, that I can't stop him. I'll never rid myself of my own insecurities. That doesn't make the proposition any less comforting. "Deal?"

It's difficult to believe what Ezekiel is saying, but he's making sense. My heart understands what I cannot. "It's never too late, is it? Even if it feels that way." I'm grateful for my district partner, even as my arm bleeds and I'm urged to flinch with every step he takes toward me. "You're right. We just have to wait for the storm to pass." There's a song playing above us, a lullaby, but I'm not listening. The sirens will not have the chance to drown me.

I've got my glaive and my fire — and that's enough. It has to be. And I want Ezekiel to die, I can't deny that, but I want him to go gently. Without fear. He's got something waiting on the other side, a mother and a sister, but I have nothing. What a selfish thought. "Thank you. For everything." I feel weightless, like a bird. Like I'm not standing my ground against the reaper. When it's time to fall, I will accept my fate. Only then.

"It's strange..." I start, furrowing my brow and trying to make sense of what I mean to say. "I'm so close to death, but I'm not afraid." I stare at Ezekiel, unflinching.

"Is this what it means
to be at peace?"

'Are you?'

I don't dare ask.

---

[ griffin ]

"Deal," he says — and with a shared glance, we choose to drop the conversation altogether. Because it's enough that we're willing to love ourselves, even if that self-acceptance lasts only for a single bloodstained night. We can't ask for more than a moment. I know that I can't stop Ezekiel from hating himself come tomorrow morning. The steel of my glaive is cold in my hands, and then I remember. There's so much that I can destroy. I can steal his soul and leave his bones behind.

( Maybe I am the thunder. )

I don't want to die, I'm holding on so selfishly and fighting with everything I have — but I'm glad my district partner is the one wielding the sword that's tearing into my skin. He reminds me of home. And that's what I want to think of when it's time for me to go. I'm a hypocrite. Fourteen years of running, of lying to myself, and now I'm walking in reverse. The Capitol can keep its lights and its pastries. I'd give anything to go back to that cold and empty shack, sharing bread with my family. Going to bed hungry. Going to bed warm and loved.

The armor around my leg fractures, blood rushes from the wound — and it's hard to stand, but I refuse to fall to my knees. I want to look Ezekiel in the eye when he drives his blade through my chest. "You're right." I'll keep pushing until there's nowhere left for me to go. Until I've run out of earth. "That's all we can do, huh?" Fight. I won't fault him for giving his all. I want it. All that he has to give, every breath and all his strength, I'll take it from him. And I'll bury him under a field of wildflowers, I'll honor his name, but he'll still be dead. I don't believe in ghosts.

Nodding, I accept his thanks and offer a smile. I wonder if the viewers are sick of our sweetness, hungering for something with a more bitter taste. They'll get their blood. I glance down at the red pooling beneath my feet, and I realize that they've already got it. Stepping away, I don't bother to hide the look of pain that washes across my features. It burns like Hell. But I asked for fire, and now I'm ablaze. I'm a threat as long as I'm alive. "It's tiring, in a way. Feeling so much." Fear and love and hate and bravery; I'm screaming with a smile. "It makes me restless. The kind of fatigue that keeps you awake."

Lowering myself to the ground, allowing the wildfire to spread, I grit my teeth and prepare to attack. There are no stars in my eyes, only supernovae. That doesn't make them any less bright. "Maybe we're not supposed to know." I want to. I'm sure we all do. "So many questions, so little answers." I have so much in my veins left to bleed, so many ribs left to shatter. My heart is clawing at its cage. "Yeah. It's a strange place."

And as much as I hate it,
I wouldn't change a thing.

---

[ griffin ]

There's so much blood here — so much beauty. There's so much red. And it's all because of us, with our white teeth and our crimson hands. Because of our weapons. I have learned that murderers can be both lethal and lovely. I've got roses braided through my hair, a crown of thorns on my head. I'm blasphemous and I'm dying and I'm surviving; I'm a liar. There's too much of me for my body to contain. I could be the holy spirit.

( Maybe I'm the devil. )

I'm not. The angels know I'm not built for that black throne. I have to remind myself that I'm just a girl, that I'm hurting. Ezekiel is, too. And it's not that we're sinners — we're tributes. It's in our nature to die. I would rather be a victor. I would rather survive. At least, I believe that's what I want. Maybe I'm spoiled, rotten to the core; maybe I'm content with dying, but only in the arms of someone who cares about me. All I am to Ezekiel is a familiar stranger, and I can't hold myself. I never could.

( Don't leave me alone with my shadow. )

"I suppose we're not." He's right, as always. What we feel in this arena isn't meant to be understood, only to be endured. I find myself praying for the strength needed to face the trials in my path. I've faced them for the last six days. Maybe I'm strong enough — maybe I should remember to breathe. I exhale a breath I only just realize I've been holding. "And you're right. It is difficult." It's terrifying, too.

White light and hellfire — I think I can see both. His sword cuts the exposed skin of my forehead, a rush of scarlet stains my vision. I'm shaking, I lose my balance, but this is not death. This is agony. And it burns and it stings and it hurts like nothing I could ever describe; but my heart's still pumping and I'm still standing. I'd live in this pain forever if it meant I could go home. If I could find Mackenzie. He always saw the best in me, he made me believe that I was worth something. I'm not sure if I agree, but I'm grateful. He convinces me to fight.

"I want them." It's the first time we've reached a disagreement, but my voice isn't bitter. "If we're hurting already, then what's the risk? There's so much I want to know." My skull constricts, my head is throbbing, but I clutch my glaive so tightly that I can't think. My thoughts are an anchor. Throw me to the fire, tear the wings from my back. I'm so tired of wondering, so tired of begging for answers. That's the burden of a hypocrite, yeah? Wanting the thing that's killing you. I've spent so long waiting to be told who I am, what I want, that I never bothered to look at my reflection.

I can tell myself.

( 'You need to live, Faline Varley.' )

---

[ griffin ]