the ferryman has come | day 5 fight

Too many droplets of blood land on the dirt floor and Ambrosia wipes an arm across his forehead, tired from the day's work. It's been a long enough day already and it's only going to get longer. "Doesn't mean you know who you're dealing with... uh what district you from again cowboy?" Ambrosia mocks innocently, a small smirk tugging the corner of his lips. There's nothing that he loves more than fucking with hero archetypes. The sooner they realized how useless all of their moaning was, the better afterall. "If you're not gonna give me a cigarette then just kindly shut the fuck up yeah?"

If only, if only, if only.

His axe finds Leticia's back in a shallow sort of way, too lightly to cause any burn damage and he curses lightly, that easy going smirk still painted across his face. This is all just a game afterall, no need to stress about it. It's easier to think of it like that when hunting a little girl across a big top tent. For a moment, with her face pained like that, she reminds him of Cickle, who was only fourteen when she died, whose breath he still feels on the back of his neck most nights. "Fuck off, Cick," he mumbles and rubs the back of his neck, "Hey you too Titus, you goddamn fuck!" he shouts at a hole in the big top for good measure.

Let them all think he's crazy. It's the easy route at least to write him off. Ambrosia has made a living sliding through the shadows and he does so too as Leticia seems to forget about him, or at least think that she can make him forget about her. But Ambrosia doesn't forget and that's always going to be his biggest downfall. He hasn't forgotten the hitting or the words of abuse or the way Cickle and him ended up on the streets. He hasn't forgotten watching Titus die on a big screen in the square in nine and he hasn't ever forgotten the way they brought Cickle's cold, dead body to him, blood slowly oozing out of the wound that killed her.

But they will all forget him too easily when he falls and he knows it. Little Ambrosia, brother of Titus and just as unremarkably stupid will die with little fuss and the only one to miss him will be most likely nobody. Until then he might as well have a little bit of fun, a game of cat and mouse. In any other world, he would never have attacked Leticia in the first place. What business would he have doing that though? None. Back home in Nine, Ambrosia was the fourth leader of a deadly gang. They went after other gangs and smuggled weapons through the district, that was all.

Murdering little girls was probably last on the last of things that he wanted to do. Ambrosia would die, painted as a villain but he didn't care. He hoped they splashed his face on children's lunch boxes, that they told stories about the boy who went after the youngest tribute. No matter what they did here today, the Capitol would win in the end and all of them would die. Ambrosia knew that he would never win this but he'd known that since the moment he'd stepped up onto the stage as a volunteer what felt like years ago now.

"Sorry darling," he says to Leticia's back, "But I'm a bit of a monster."

[ambrosia attacks leticia with flaming throwing axe]
0fkf1YfDVsthrowing axe
1-50
[Shallow Cut on Forearm -- 3.5 damage + extinguished]

There is a crack that feels like the loudest of lion roars, and it bounces through the air, echoing around in the same way that love and life does. Cutting deep through the elements to the core; it feels like fingers being pressed into a wound. It is a brutal sound for a girl like me to be the cause of, but that is exactly what a monster calls for.

I wonder if Lenox Lachance thinks that I might the right decision saving her. I don't know if she saw a girl in me, that day, a girl in me that could tackle monsters and break their bones to protect a breakable heart. Simple and sweet, fifteen: princess with a cause and I'd tell her all about how I have not forgotten anything about why I am here or the reasoning behind why I have done and why I do what I do.

I have since learned a separation between things that are alive and things that look like they are. The other tributes are all alive; kicking and screaming when they close their eyes and doze off to sleep. They think of a future that is ripe and ready for the taking, of love and happiness. The things that feign life have a loneliness in their eyes that is unmatched by anything else. It is deep and knowing, like it has understood every pain felt by every person in the world and just given up. It has succumbed to life's challenges, creaking slowly whilst it waits for a shadow to swallow it whole.

The darkness in Jessica Braun's eyes came close, but even that managed to seep from her skin to the soil, replaced by a soft glimmer of peace.

Emptiness is not something that I think I want to experience. I imagine isolation is bad enough, but to feel that solitude within your soul must turn you into a shell of a person. A collection of moving parts, but without the capacity for emotion and intelligence, losing faith and losing feeling in favour of being numb. 

Some moving parts deserve a chance. Seven is a prime example of how individual mechanisms work slowly to create a whole—perhaps the final product is not what I would like to see from my home, but it shows that some moving parts have purpose and worth. They can come together to perform extraordinary feats beyond my own wildest dreams—which is why I hope a reality of love and love only is possible. Surely, that dream cannot be too wild.

It can't be. If someone can place a beast made entirely of bones in front of me, then something as simple and beautiful as love seems like it is just around the corner.

I know that if I turned a corner right now, I would not find it. I would turn to see teenagers fighting for lost causes because they have been blinded by the stars in their eyes. There would be limbs on the ground that twitch with the realisation of fantasy falling hopelessly through reality into the depths of hell. Blades buried deep into the bones of the wrong enemy, childish soldiers enlisted to fight in a war against each other, too naive to notice the orchestration of such event, they would not know that they were picked and placed and have had a moment pinpointed onto their timeline that marks their end.

This is why we need love—innate within us all, making us feel like we are on top of the world despite being a needle in a haystack. It is a common cause, the only antidote to the hatred we have become far too familiar with. Love is the only thing to take down monstrosities like hate, and love is the only thing to take down monsters. No matter the size, the shape, the scale, the strength; love dismantles in a careful way.

Perhaps the only warning before complete breakage is a crack.

Hisidro's face stands out amongst the shadows; sweat drops on his forehead like he is encrusted with tiny jewels. His eyes keep trying to meet with mine, as if to offer each other a sense of reassurance, but the moment is cut short by the attack of the beast. It kicks out and I dart away to protect my heart—which increasingly feels as fragile as paper in moments like this—but Hisidro is not so lucky; a large wound on his arm sure to scar.

Jayne leads the next forward push on the beast, valiant in her efforts and brave in the face. She likely isn't how many imagine a hero, but it takes something heroic within a person to harness your own darkness and deliver it onto something else. She does just that, again, the shine of her spear disappearing between the bones in the creature's neck. It is like fingernails on a chalkboard when it goes it, metal against bone is a scraping, tedious sound that sends a shiver through my own skeleton.

I glance over to Jayne in awe, making a mental note to not get on the wrong side of her.

And as the shadows creak through the tune of broken bones and final words rooted in the fires of anger, I burn my own fire at my feet. Head up to keep the family jewels from falling, I stare up at the monster, suppressing fear and feeling fire. This is what the other tributes feel when they look at me; they see an opportunity to survive, amend their odds and save themselves from a sad passing. I feel that now, I think I know what it is like—but there is no way I could feel this way towards another person.

The fire burns for monsters only—hate is dangerous in large doses, and heart is the only cure. I do not want to put that on the line when the people back home are still hanging on for me to do my best, for them, to see them through the dark to the light.

The crack sounds in my ear once more, a crack in the air and I can see through it to the other side.

I can feel that heat for the first time.