soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ]

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D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 16, 2019 16:58:58 GMT -5

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Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Apr 16, 2019 16:58:58 GMT -5

Killer.

I go over the word in my head a hundred times. Killer clown, killer queen—what if that is all they can see me as? Someone who became a person who was just like the rest? I had sworn that the impossible could be made possible, become the last man standing through intelligence and through opening arms instead of pulling a blade. I had wanted to survive through the most peaceful means, to raise a heart against a fist and withstand time through the careful crafting of my own sanity.

It is a fragile line. And when you walk such a fragile thing with the eyes of the world on you, slipping can become so simple. A flinch is all it takes for something to catch you off-guard, for the darkness to throw a stone at your glass statuette and then perform a dance with the shadows around your pieces. I do not think I am broken; there's still the same love in my heart that I have felt all along and perhaps it is the only thing keeping me grounded when the underworld calls directly to my head, screaming at me to give in and accept these games for what they are.

Carefully, I am holding myself together. Through justification and through the scribbles to myself and a distant sponsor in my diary, I am managing to cope with the consequences of taking a life. Even thinking that it is possible for one's own life to go own after so cruelly taking another—there's something odd about it. There's something that removes the shine from my jewels about it, turning the bright to something dull and discreet. A glisten morphs into a glint, and such glint morphs into a grey.

I feel myself turning such grey. A stain on the memory is perhaps not enough to pay for someone else's life, perhaps it requires a person to give up their colour too. The things people give up for the ghosts they create—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but it is more, for loss for have our own loss.

Francisco Bloom's face in the sky makes me feel colder than ever. I make eye contact, and I feel a connection as if he is here in the flesh staring right back at me. It is magnetic, cosmic and though the starless sky aligns in such a tragic way, tonight, his eyes are planets of his own solar system. I feel the energy of the entire universe when I stare at him, and I do not dare to break it. It's a low energy, melancholy, the same grey which I feel I am turning. Yet, a part of me feels tranquility when I look at him, as if, perhaps, it really is mercy to return a person to the stars to which they belong.

I still whisper for forgiveness. Prayer is one of the only things I can fall back on, and now that we have come to the point where Hisidro has to go it alone, where I am truly forced to hold myself in my own arms, my pleas are more important than ever. I can rely on love, but it's strength has proved itself strong enough to shake my soul. I fall onto that and feel the ache because it is a sharp thing, a blade of its own creation. Maybe prayer is a waste of time; I do not know if anything is listening, but when the world is watching, an action often speaks louder than words.

The rain from above feels appropriate. The darkness I have always seen in this world is finally showing itself. It does not hide through the air, nor the shadows, but rather steps out proud of its tragedies like they are triumphs. When lightning strikes, it is like love is trying to break through the bleak skies to remind us of who we were before any of this begun. A first strike for the second names were called and volunteers made the first move, a second for the defining moments in our lives: the happy memories and the ones of heartbreak. The third is for now; for the resurgence of love within.

A wholesome heart, a flicker of a candle in a bitter wind. A candle, all alone in the darkness, but still a glimmer of the light that could be.

I think of home.

The skies cry to stop the clown's for showing her tears. Home seems so distant and close all at once; Seven's love was what came back to me yesterday, what made me commit something beyond my own ability. Beaten but not broken, the girl from Seven still standing despite shadows singeing my edges, burning at the heart but never at the body. Their hope is what I cling so dearly to, as if I am the mother to their child, I am the lullaby to keep nightmares at bay. The strength of their love proved they need something, someone, more so now than ever before.

I know that I am different to Mackenzie Pryce, I am a far cry from both Lex and Angel. I am a free spirit, leading with the heart despite being told it will do no good, but still trusting the safety of it. Still, as ever before, being safe in the knowledge that an echo will bounce back.

The ground sinks beneath my footsteps, threatening to swallow me and take me to the underworld. I imagined there was no more room in hell after the beast of bones walked the earth, but it could be that the creature was too big. Maybe they only have a small girl sized space, perfect for a girl like me who would fit like a headstone amongst tombs. I do not want to go to either afterlife—the word alone makes me realise what would have to happen for me to end up at such a place, and I refuse to have come this far for nothing.

I may be a killer, but I am still me.

The sun carves its way through the darkness, a gentle warmth on my skin to remind me that the light does come, that no storm lasts forever. But with the sun comes new problems; no longer worrying about the rain causing a cold, but rather the sun setting a scene of battle. Sun means shadows, and shadows in this place cannot be trusted. Not since they are the ones that signalled the start of Berlin's fall, not when they danced on when life was in pieces beneath the big top.

I look to the horizon and see a silhouette; I already know what this means for the day. I have seen the games on television, I know how this works—I pray that the figure is not Hisidro. I pray for anyone but him, because it would feel wrong to unpick a stitch that knit us so close. I know how this works and I know that I am a killer now, both a killer clown and killer queen who has to learn it is okay to let go of a few of the good to save many of the great.

We draw ourselves towards each other, and I can barely look when the face becomes one with the light. It is not Hisidro, to my relief, but still, Ronan Keeni-Einfallen's life is still a life. And I know I should not even be thinking the things that run wild through my mind; it is barbaric and this violence is far bigger than anything I had ever envisioned when I became Lenox Lachance's saviour. Yet there is no denying it, not in situations as such, not when I have to turn the world on its head for the sake of my own heart.

"People joke about six being afraid of seven all the time," I say, the painted smile on my face cracking under the sun. "I am Seven." I have taken a life, now, and that is quite scary. But I have not become like the rest, I am no monster; I still feel the pain, the ache of my heart. My heart keeps me human, I know so, but the world sees me as a killer. There is blood on my hands. "You are Six." I pause.

Before him stands a clown princess—a killer clown, a killer queen.

"Six, are you afraid of Seven?"

[ diana attacks ronan; spiked blunt ]

7meh|tbprIspiked blunt

[ 14078 -- deep gash on right forearm -- 8.0 damage +1 strength ]

spiked blunt

Last Edit: Apr 16, 2019 17:00:39 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

Tom
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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 16, 2019 23:41:29 GMT -5

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Post by Tom on Apr 16, 2019 23:41:29 GMT -5

Death.

He's seen it over and over before this moment. Saw the way Stanley labels became reality. Saw the way Savior asked for it. Saw the way Finley crumbled. Saw the way Rory slowly drifted in pain from this world to the next. Watched Severus' last breath reach the earth. He's seen death enough to know what it looks like, but he's never been the one to cause it. The blood on his scythe taking the last of Saturn's life, but he doesn't feel regret in his bones. No, there's a bittersweetness that burns in his heart. Saturn was a human being. A human being with blood, emotions, and skills. A human being that Ronan had taken from this place, out of revenge and anger, yet he can feel that dread tight in his stomach.

That dread of becoming what his mother always saw in him.

A freak. A killer. A terror.

The ruin of her life.

Ronan's heart hadn't stopped beating since his scythe cut Saturn down. Instead, he stayed silent among the others with a heavy head as he held onto Severus. The young boy was everything Ronan had been years ago before life made things change. The dreamer, his ally, his friend, fuck, his family, had been there for him. Ronan gave his heart to protecting the young kid from the horrors of this place, despite pain being a common feeling in the kid's bones. No thanks to Finley and Savior on that third day. The pattern continuing up until the kid's death. Fingers brush through those locks of hair as he had done with Rory. Regret in his chest, but vengeance had already happened.

Leaving behind the dreamer, he collects the items that vary from them both. Every single item feels haunting in his hands, as if death herself touched every single piece they carried. The armor was still warm from the use, which made his skin crawl. The blood in his veins chilling to a static sound of pain in his veins still. Passing over each, he brushes the pieces that were unharmed, handing them slowly to Ambrosia Sin. The memory of Teddy's note from the teddy bear flashing in his eyes once more.

Death is never easy. It won't be any easier from here.

Death wasn't easy, but he could help out the killer of Leticia.

If Ambrosia Sin was able to take her out, he wanted to see the strength of Ambrosia. The strength of that guy had to survive in order for him to see it later. A small nod as he hands the pile of armor and some medical supplies over with a careful hand. No words. No words were needed, especially when Ronan felt he couldn't even speak. Ruin is all he was. Ruin is all he will ever be.

Pestilence.

More fitting that he ever thought.

Handing over a bunch of items to Raven, he can't help the feeling of sorrow that hits him like a hurricane of fire. Burning his skin from the inside out as his mother's shouts become louder and louder. Ruin. Ruin! RUIN! All of this was his fault. Rory's death. Severus' death. Saturn's death. A small tear falls from his eye as he wipes it away from view and focuses on handing over everything to Raven Elsu. War and Pestilence, blooming like flowers at the end of the day. Sorrow in their petals as they bloom with a bright passion.

All the armor he had feels heavier on his shoulders.

The blood-soaked clothes are finally drying with a deep red stain that will never come out. The trench coat ruined for good, but he's tired of it anyways, dropping it to the ground of the tattered tent which he can still remember the sight of Rory falling. Cigarette smoke, long gone from his lungs as he tears at the armor on him, handing Raven over the three that he doesn't need. Anger in his veins as he moves away from her. Instead, he leans over at the pile of metal in his hands.

He smashes them. Fist to metal, metal to metal, anger to anger. He clangs them with everything he can. The frustration in his blood mixing with the destruction of these things, until he feels better. Better about himself. Better about killing Saturn. Better about losing Severus. Better about losing Rory. He just wanted to feel less like the ruin that his mother called him. Heroes. Villains. All of it was just some game he made up in his head to create a show. A show of pretend as if he could be anything else other than a gray blob of neither and both. A fiery man with dead dreams, instead of chasing new ones, he burns everyone else's to ash. He's the creation of ruin. He's pestilence in the form of a human, creating a conquest of ash and bodies where ever he goes.

Destruction is all he's ever known.

The ruined metal lays in front of him glistening into his eyes as if the answers were all right there. Destruction in his grasp, but creation in his eyes. He pushes to move pieces into something more. Something more than the fiery mess of metal that he had made. The statues aren't tall or pretty, but they're better than anything he could ever do. Eyes glancing to Saturn, Severus, and Rory. The three of them were dead now. Long gone from this place and he can't help but feel like the reason.

"Rory."

Silence.

"I wish I could believe I was the hero that you saw me as."

Silence.

"Severus."

Silence.

"I wish I could have believed in dreams like you had."

Silence.

"Saturn."

Silence.

"Revenge was worth it."

Anger in his veins disappear, just like the tent's gates he walks out of.

Silence is easier between them.

Not because they were awkward in one another's presence, but because they were the same. Sorrow in them both, the blame of death upon their tongues. What ifs and if onlys in their minds as if they could change what reality had brought. Caspar would have cried. Caspian would have shut down. Ronan's just silent. They stand among a wave of comfort and eerie sorrow. The flames in his mind come drowning him in a fire of icy chills that shake his body. The trench coat covered in blood, gone with the humanity that once resided in his chest.

Poisoning themselves with the cigar smoke that isn't as light as a cigarette, but is better than nothing. The smoke starting to rise to the air with the faces that appear and disappear. The haziness of the smoke reminding him that there's still some silence in death, some dignity in the smoke that he uses to ease the static guilt. Lungs burning on fire with the deserving pain that follows. The patchwork that had been done on him only easing the wounds back together.

Saturn is the first face in the sky.

I don’t think you’ll ever understand, and that’s okay.

Forgiveness was easy when the career thought he would take Ronan down. Ronan didn't want that anymore. Forgiveness was easy. Instead, he wanted that anger. He wanted to screaming and annoyance. He wanted death. Luckily, he had gotten what he wanted. Did he feel better? No. He felt fine, but feeling fine and being fine were different. All he could do was glare at the face of the man who took the dreamer and the heroine away from this world. Rory and Severus deserved to be here instead of him.

Ronan only created ruin.

They deserved to stand in this spot more than him.

Severus is the second face in the sky.

The heaviness of the leather bound book in his possession that he had already flipped through on their ride away from the tattered tent. Faces of the dead, sketched in by a careful methodical hand. A beauty to the way each face mirrored the sky, as if each legacy were stuck within the confines of these papers. Riordan's wanted poster still in his possession with Kiena Ward's next to it. He stares at the image of her as he thinks of Severus.

I hope you find her in the next life, Severus.

Shutting the poster between the paper pages at the end with a note written on the back.

Francisco Bloom is a surprise.

Moths hover above a candle in search of warmth, Ronan.
That’s what you truly are: a moth with the darkest wings.

I hope you will discover warmth in hell.

The words still burn with a sickening truth. Hell was waiting for him. Darkest wings of a past that he carries, despite the fantasy being gone. Francisco Bloom had lost Jessica the day he lost Rory. Something about Francisco had made him want to antagonize him, but now, there was a pity and understanding he had for the guy. Twelve was alone now. Nico Thorne. A small silence fills him as he looks over to Raven with cigar smoke in his chest and worry in his chest. Death would leave them all alone in the end.

He wasn't strong enough to go through that.

They smoke more of the cigars to fill their lungs with something more than the breathlessness of pain.

The recognition of how many were left made his skin spark with something akin to worry. Eight left. Death would take four of them. Every games had that moment where death took it's toll. They'd be interviewing family back home for this moment. Eight tributes with metaphorical crowns hanging in front of their eyes being lead around like mindless animals to a slaughter. Raven's still silent next to him. Nothing more than comfort in their space. Except, he knew what this meant. The time to part ways was coming for them.

Raven didn't deserve the same fate as Rory or Severus. She didn't deserve to be stuck with a guy made of ruin who leaves behind nothing more than ashes of what once were beautiful. Eyes glance around as he thinks of everyone who's been around him. How each person ends up gone. How every single time it happens, it's his fault. His ruin dragging others down with him. Mother would say it's his disease to tear people apart and drag them down to pass over them. Raven deserved a chance to live without him.

Without the guy who leaves ruin in his wake.

"It’s not your fault Ro, don’t blame yourself. We did all that we could to protect them. But they’re too good for this place, they weren’t meant to stay in it."

No.

It is his fault.

They were meant to stay.

He was never meant to.

As if the gamemakers knew how he felt, the sky breaks into a darkened cloud. The rain pours down upon them with a drizzle of heavy water. Soaked clothes as he can see Raven a little bit away from him. Something in his chest beats harder, but he can feel it. He can feel the truth of what was happening in this moment. Instead of going closer, he holds tight to the reigns of his beautiful horse. He doesn't dare speak too loud. Eyes glancing to hold the image of Raven Elsu for just a little bit long, a little bit more, as selfish as he was. He wanted to remember her before he either dies or lives to see her die.

A whisper under his breath.

"You don't need me. You'll do better without me, Raven."

Striking his reigns, the horse moves away from the storm, farther and farther away. The chaos of the storm gives him the cover he needs to get away. A cannon sounds in the distance and he can feel the worry tightening his throat in a dryness. Raven wasn't dead. Raven couldn't be dead yet. The soft galloping of hooves lull him into a silence as the storm around him breaks way.

The sun rises with a rainbow of a storm that passed. The sun warms the damp clothes that cling to his body. Instead of staying for a moment, he holds Severus and his own scythe out protectively as he approaches the horizon. Ruin would be left in his path. Raven didn't deserve to be around that. She didn't need to see the man his mother believed him to be. Ronan wouldn't want her to live with that. Deep down, he knew this was the only way. The only way that she would leave him. The only way that he could give her a chance in this arena.

As far away as he could get from her, that's what she deserved.

The horizon of clouds behind him lingers longer until it vanishes and all that's left is the sun and a field of grass. A field of grass with a swaying that is almost like an ocean of green that makes him feel safer and on edge at the same time. Pestilence didn't belong in this place. Ruin didn't belong in the place where a fire could burn the entire field down in one accident. Ronan's hands grip tighter on the scythes as the horizon comes and goes and the sun beats down harder on him.

The clothes dry to his skin with an uncomfortable feeling. Riordan had once been in this position. Alone. Dry. Fighting. Crazy. The memory of watching his cousin scream nonsense at Lucas O'Hara is still as prominent as this day. A king of fools, if only Ronan had been able to follow suit. Instead he was a hero with no cause. A hero with no story. A hero who was also a villain. A villain with no cause. A villain with no hero. All he could be was a boy with no life. A home that was not home waiting for him in the awful eyes of his mother and the ignorant bliss of his father.

The Keenis would never take him in.

He was officially alone.

Alone. Ruin. Pestilence.

Ronan.

Diana appears in the distance. As interesting as he had remembered her to be on day five. Diana from seven with the woods to guide her through life. Trees that could stand taller than him, a better sight then the white walls of a hospital room or the drugged kids of Six. Eyes wander across her as he notices the face paint, the makeup of a clown that makes him feel for this performance. Lady Death hadn't taken him yet.

Diana Sayers wouldn't either.

"People joke about six being afraid of seven all the time,"

The smile reminds him of Rory in a way. The humor of picking at his armor in those words.

"I am Seven." Lady Death was lingering. He could feel it in his bones. "You are Six."

The only Six. Home was gone. Dreams were gone. Love was gone.

"Six, are you afraid of Seven?"

Fear.

The emotion that every tribute wants the other to feel. The spiked blunt cuts deep into his arm, but he doesn't even flinch at the wound. Fear is for the people who lived lives. Fear is for the people who had dreams. Fear is for the people who got to love. Fear is for people not like him. Ronan's lived a life in fear. A life of fear that stems from being the creation of ruin. He stands among the ashes of everything good in life. He doesn't have time for fear.

Fear lives inside of everyone, but he's locked it away with himself.

"No."

Hands grip tighter to the scythes. Famine. Pestilence. They reside in the metal of the two blades. Lady Death is in his heart. War is still among the fields of grass. He's never alone, despite feeling like it. Ruin follows him, but he can't let it catch him. Running is all he has left. A smile upon his lips as he stares down the clown queen. Riordan had been a king of fools. Roses growing from the palm of his hand. Ronan had watched with awe at a young age. He'd seen the beautiful shows of a king. He's been in the crowd of people who threw flowers, roses of all things, up into the stage.

Aeryn Kight had told him he could be beautiful like the actresses who danced in the background.

Ronan could still be beautiful.

Fear isn't for the beautiful.

Villain. Hero. None of that mattered anymore.

He could just be Ronan for once.

"The reaper doesn't fear anyone."

The hollowness of his voice echoes across the field.

Pestilence. Villain. Bad guy. Ruin.

If his mother wanted him to be a monster, he could be one.

Like a reaper of the shadows, he strikes.

All kings will fall.

(Ronan attacks Diana; scythe)
ROsTmTNnq_sword
(Shallow Cut on Right Calf 3.5)

sword

Last Edit: Apr 16, 2019 23:42:30 GMT -5 by Tom

Made by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 17, 2019 8:20:46 GMT -5

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Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Apr 17, 2019 8:20:46 GMT -5

I ask the question and keep my head held high. There are hundred things he could say in response; it has been seen time and time again how the Hunger Games harden a person beyond stone so that they are numb to every emotion under the sun. There are the tales of tributes who choose to forget, and for that, they can never truly forgive, for leaving every feeling at the start means they can never really understand what it is like to see death in its dark, cold flesh. To give up everything that ever meant something: every smile, every moment of pride, of sadness and of love—I could never do it.

Though I have indeed become a killer in this arena, I still cling to the goodness of my heart. Through ache and pain, through each thick and thin, for heart is what keeps me alive.

I know that I am unlike the others. In the silence whilst I wait for Ronan's reply, I can see that he has had a difference experience of these games than I have. We have both lost—friends, allies, shards of ourselves—but there's something darker about him that I do not see in myself. It is like, he along with Jessica, has an emptiness in his eye that is sharp and ready to be used as a weapon. Violence replaces the blood in his veins because letting violence out from a wound is better in places like this, it shows adaptation, adjustment, resilience.

Yet it also shows acceptance. Because the people that give into the game often have a grip on the fate that awaits them. Perhaps they do not want to think about it, but niggling away at their sanity is a worm that forces them to face reality. They fight because it is what may keep them from dying, they fight because there are no consequences when you have become void of all emotion, they fight because it may just clear the path to the light at the end of the tunnel.

When he responds so simply, his heart becomes nothing but a wick that once held a flame. He says he is not scared, and when I look at him, it appears he is not scared at all. Two scythes in his hands, he is at one with the war on both the outside and the inside, losing his sanity to become a soldier. Maybe it is different for him—a boy of his name, of Keeni and Einfallen—because he has already felt that loss before. There is nothing new, the pain might not be as raw as it was for me, and the repetition of having your heart squeezed by the hands of time and by the shadows of death must desensitise a person to how hard it really is.

It is a symptom of choosing head over heart, because one's head is too clever and can harden a soul to stop it feeling human.

"The reaper doesn't fear anyone," he says, the words darker than the shadows behind him. I stare with wide eyes, questioning whether love has the power to heal someone who is this far gone. The strength it has shown has made me realise it is capable of things that were once completely out of the question, because I did not know that love in action is mercy through death. I still like to think there is a way love can have the same warmth it has always had, that Seven's heart can be restored to its former glory where it does not choose the easy option of taking a life over the time and dedication required to save one.

But Seven's desperation speaks for itself—when love came back around and made me kill Francisco Bloom, I should have known that warmth simmered to nothing but a droplet of ruby sun.

Ronan's scythes are held like he is ready to welcome me to the gates of his own hell. He is his own grim, in both the reaper sense but also in the gloomy sense. His colour seems to have faded to grey long ago, the jewels in his crown swirling no longer with bright colours of fortune and hope, instead replaced by gems that swell with ghosts. The black crystals that plume within themselves with the promises that must be kept, with the words that are like a carving on the mind, with the moments that define one's life. The colour replaced by all things dark, all things worthy of a reaper.

His scythes are certainly a sight that make me feel scared, thankfully, and the feeling reminds me that I indeed still have my heart. The weapons become an extension of his body, perhaps compensation for losing his heart and having only a chest of skeletal bones. The life has been choked out of him, all that remains within is the very seed of his soul, the final piece of light that is trying to find a home in a palace that houses the things that are royally broken.

It seems a perfect fit, but a small light cannot illuminate such great dark.

For Ronan to be a reaper, I figure he must have also taken a life. The way he could be talking about himself in such an ominous way makes my skin crawl; he surely wants his scythes to take me next, he must have a taste for blood. But if there is still a tiny light inside people like Ronan, then there may be the possibility to turn a spark into a flame. Love is the be all and end all of every thing that ever was and ever will be; a power that knows no boundaries or walls, a strength that transcends expectations.

"I didn't ask about what the reaper fears," because I already knew that death fears nothing at all. The way it so ruthlessly took Zion in the blink of an eye, how it did not care that Hisidro and I watched the slow murder of Berlin—it certainly fears nothing human. "I asked about you, Ronan. Please don't tell me that you've given yourself up for a ghost."

I suppose I have known I am not like the rest. A killer, just like them, but a killer with heart. My perspective is peerless; it appears I am the only one who still knows what love is.

[ diana attacks ronan; spiked blunt ]

91ZpUczI5Nspiked blunt

[ miss ]

[ accuracy reroll ]

spiked blunt

[ 14037 -- deep gash on left forearm -- 8.0 damage +1 strength ]

spiked blunt·spiked blunt

Last Edit: Apr 17, 2019 8:22:07 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 17, 2019 17:50:23 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Tom on Apr 17, 2019 17:50:23 GMT -5

Hell could wait.

Burning fires in the gleam of metallic death, ashes of blood pouring from the small cut to Diana's leg. Hell would burn with the fires he creates. The metallic gleaming of two scythes reminding him of the lives he carries. Famine and Pestilence, two very similar guys. Severus in one hand and his own in the other, carrying the both of them in lethal weaponry because that's all they were in this place. Weapons. Weapons meant to tear apart others and rip into the gut of what people were.

Ronan's torn Exover into a stronger person.

Ruin is the center of this storm. Ronan breaths with the significant deaths of allies and tributes who don't get to continue. No Savior in this arena. All that's left is War and Pestilence. The reaper would laugh at his words, but death doesn't laugh. Death only waits with those pretty eyes and beautiful words that can lull him into safety, until she takes him away. Aurora Lachance, Lady Death, he prayed that she wasn't watching.

Prayed that she wouldn't be the one to take him away.

She doesn't deserve to see him like this.

A killer in all regards. He's become the thing he told them he would become. I won't disappoint. Disappointing words from a guy who thought he had it figured out. Careers weren't everything as he's come to see. Broken people with issues of a different kind, but he didn't get to know them. Saturn Rhodon had become the villain to Ronan's story faster than anyone else. Emotions ran thin and blood had boiled until Ronan took him down. Would they remember the way he almost died? Would they be talking about the prospects of a District Six victor?

No.

They'd talk about the disappointing end of Saturn Rhodon.

The career who should have won.

Diana Sayers is different in this story of his. She's never been a prominent person, except for the interest of watching her destroy the bones of the elephant creature. He had barely even remembered who she was. Except, the makeup on her face is interesting. The way she moves, talks, and thinks is different from him. Elegance is the word he would use to define it, but he's not so sure someone striking with a spiked blunt could be anything more than deadly.

"I didn't ask about what the reaper fears,"

The reaper fears no one.

Neither does he.

"I asked about you, Ronan. Please don't tell me that you've given yourself up for a ghost."

Him. As if Ronan were lost in this world, not far off from the truth. A ghost, no, he hadn't given himself up for someone like Saturn Rhodon. Diana's weapon strikes hard into him with a flash of crimson that reopens the wounds of the day before. A flash of his mother's laugh ringing in his ears like a static. The sounds of her like a ghost haunting him since the beginning of his awful treatments. As if he were broken and could be fixed by therapy, medical professionals and the drugs they forced him on.

If anything, he was a ghost of his past. Lingering in this world to find peace in someone else, but he's never going to find it. The only peace would be death. Nothing is waiting for him at home. Aeryn Kight would have forgotten him. His parents would be ready to stuff him into a mental ward until he became human or at least what they wanted him to be. Ronan not-Keeni-Einfallen. Everything comes back to that. The birth of a baby who wasn't meant to exist in this world, but became the symbol of unfaithfulness. The boy of ruin who walks on a tightrope always on the edge of falling over.

God, he wanted to give in.

Except, Rory had called him a hero.

And heroes do not give up on themselves. Raven was still out there alone without him. Better there than here where death will come and hover over his shoulder until it takes Diana or him. A better man would give up, but Ronan wasn't a better man. Ronan was a reaper among the living, waiting to strike and continue running from the ruin that follows behind him. Never looking over his shoulder to see the sorrow that he creates with every word and step. Diana Sayers would either end his reign of terror or fall to it like the rest.

He was interested in seeing which that would be.

"A ghost?"

A smirk of a dead man.

"Wish it were easier than that, Diana."

The sound of metal colliding in his hand, the scythes clanking together as he holds himself up. A ghost to give up to would be easier than the demons he carries on his shoulders. The sins that linger in his skin like a reminder of the fact his happiness is wrong to his mother. Rory had told him she was wrong. Wrong to believe he was messed up. Wrong to believe that he needed to be fixed from the times of wanting to dress like the pretty actresses. As if being more into a show and in tune with his feminine side were a sin. The sound of her disgusting words lingering on his skin that he's tried to scratch off still there with a prominent hurt that aches in his chest.

"I've gotten used to fear, Seven."

Silence.

"It lingers in every single memory I have. The words my mother would say. The words they all said to me. I was afraid to be myself to them for years. Once I broke that fear, they locked me away in a place meant for the insane."

A hard insincere laugh.

"All because I enjoyed being apart of performances. They wanted a doctor. I wanted to be a performer."

The metal shines in his eyes.

"I'm still afraid to this day."

Weak. The voice in his head screams.

"There's nothing left for me at home, Seven. Only more torture and being forced to be something I'm not."

He prepares to strike with the scythe of Famine.

The lingering hunger of acceptance in his chest.

"I'm not afraid to die. Do them a favor and kill me."

He pushes forward.

"I'd rather be a ghost of a hero than live as the monster my mother believes I am."

Hell couldn't wait any longer.

(Ronan attack Diana; Scythe)
dOWfrR4Lcssword
(Deep gash on back of head 9.0)

sword

Last Edit: Apr 17, 2019 17:50:53 GMT -5 by Tom

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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 18, 2019 13:18:44 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Apr 18, 2019 13:18:44 GMT -5

It can become so easy to lose sight of love in this place.

It must be funny for the people watching from the districts, for them to see a killer who acts in the name of love, I imagine it creates a fire within them. And when I think of how I have become a killer, I fall back into the habit of looping endlessly the consequences of a kill. I think about how there are friends and family in Five who awaited the return of their loved one, never waiting to say a prayer when things got even just a little bit sticky, and I think about how those people had to watch me carry out an act so bitter, an act that made it look like I do not care about life at all.

But I do—and I know that there is not a very good chance they can see that. A screen can distort emotion, I may be painted with a permanent smile but surely those people saw me cry when Zion and Berlin died. They have seen me at my worst and at my best and I hope that lets them realise I am a complex girl. I am a girl with her morals intact, her sanity in check, her heart on her sleeve which seemingly does more harm than good, but a girl who has a cause.

A cause is worth fighting for, especially when said cause determines the making or breaking of your own home.

They may not get it, but that's okay, because if I make it out of here alive, I'm going to explain everything. I'll sit down and do an interview, sing a song straight from my heart and lay my emotion bare for them to bathe in. I will stand up and speak to them, not for them, because I know they will see me as an outsider at best, at worst: a murderer. No matter the place: in Four, in Six—a victor is nothing more than someone who got lucky.

I have prided myself on letting luck go in favour of love, though, and that is what I would desperately try to tell them. Because it might only take a single person to make them understand that the world is just like you and I, how it listens and works in a way just like we do: it has feelings, actions, it takes revenge and licks its lips at the taste, and it basks in the light of each new day it breaks. Love made me do it all, for it is the best all and end all—a guiding light in the dark, a path forged through the dirt to something that has promise, an ounce of hope even when shadows try to claw it away.

That, too, is what I see in Ronan. He is someone who has succumb, and I understand why, because it can be so hard to avoid it for so long and only feel pain and pain again. The depth of hurt in this arena goes far beyond anything I have ever felt before; my father broke my heart when he gave up the love of his blood for that of his own business interests, but I could patch it up. There was room for improvement, space for change, but here? Everything is contained within a time capsule, slowly fragmenting as faces fall, and human hands cannot turn back the hands of time.

He smirks when I question his gaunt face, the haunt in his eyes swirling in the silence that follows. He says he wishes it was easier—something I am sure is a shared sentiment between everyone who has ever stepped foot in an arena. Expectations can never compare to the reality, preparation can only do so much because even though you can envisage emptiness in your mind, the ice of true isolation chills beyond the bone.

Perhaps I do not know where he has come from. It is my fault, really, because we had so much time before the games even began, and I should have dedicated enough time into understanding every other tribute on a human level. To understand everyone in a way that goes beyond their name, score and district, to understand them in a way that makes them feel empowered by my presence, so that I can respond with the love they need. Heart can be targeted, tailored for a specific person, and that was a duty I did not fulfil. And now? I barely know who Ronan Keeni-Einfallen is, and I see only a ghost, a fraction of the man he is, was and could still be.

He tells me that fear is drilled into every single memory that he has. That when he broke that fear, it only made things worse and he was locked up in one of those places for people who think differently. I think that those people do not deserve to have a line drawn between them and everyone else, we are all united by our humanity, despite some lacking it, and that to help is to heal. Locking someone up for their differences is no good at all—it makes me realise how important it is I remind people that love can make things alright.

Everyone seems to have forgotten the good it can do.

"But you are a performer," I tell him, arching a brow. We all are in this arena, even if we do not want to be, because the people in the Capitol will have created nicknames for us before we've even taken our first breath, before we've even claimed our first victim. The screen not only distorts, but it limits how far they can see into our eyes; they forget that we are people just like them. "We all are," because even beyond the games, life itself is a stage.

"It is sad that you feel you are all alone in such a wide world. To look at your home and see only torture, trauma—I know what that is like, you know, I feel it just as much as you." It is why I have to put it right, to piece my world back together and deliver a new hope. "What you've been missing is love," because he seems to have a mother who sees him as a monster, and thus the consequences of that are that he seems himself as one too.

"Love would make you realise that you're Ronan Keeni-Einfallen, and that no one else but Ronan Keeni-Einfallen can tell you what you are." Just like how I am Diana Sayers, and I lead with my heart, even though it hurts at times, even though the rest of the world leads with their head. It can become so easy to forget the people we are when we are trying so desperately to find our place in a puzzle—but not all the pieces have to fit. "You are a performer and you are asking me to kill you. Love yourself and make this your swan song."

I realise that in this moment, I do not matter. This is pivotal, love has found a way in, and it is softer this time, it is better, and it could just be the making of Ronan.

[ diana attacks ronan; spiked blunt ]

4X3ZrU7x4uspiked blunt

[ 14175 -- broken left shin -- 7.0 damage +1 strength ]

spiked blunt

Last Edit: Apr 18, 2019 13:20:06 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

Tom
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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 18, 2019 21:44:22 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Tom on Apr 18, 2019 21:44:22 GMT -5

Love never lasts.

Love kills the host. Ronan would know. Surrounded by a place where love exists in every piece of humanity. The mental ward had seen many families with hearts trembling with hopeful eyes that they'd get their loved ones back. No one came out of that place the same. Never the same as they had once been. Morphed into whatever is seen as better, some of which coming out entirely different. His mother wasn't a kind woman. She knew what she had been doing since shoving him in a room with the confused teens like himself.

All of them carrying their own weight upon their shoulders as if they had to carry the world with them.

None of them were atlas.

They couldn't bear that weight.

Love dies with his mother. Love dies with the path he follows. Love was for the lucky ones who could find someone to hold onto. He's not fortunate enough to have someone to hold onto anymore. All that's left is ashes of what he used to have. A final performance in the midst of his dead cousin's hands. A burnt down opera house that once stood tall to carry the hearts of Six in a way that made children continue to dream. The hatred of Caspar Einfallen on his heart. Twila's worry in his chest. His mother's hatred for the love that she lost that lives in his dna. He's the embodiment of a destroyed love.

Ruin by it's simple name.

Metal crashes against armor with a loud sound that shakes him to his core. The feeling of it ricocheting off of the armor settling back into his teeth making them clank together. The sound is interesting, but not something that he hasn't heard before. The sound of armor breaking was the norm for every day of the Hunger games. The scythes feel heavier as he holds them with the flickering of the sun that reflects from their deadly blades. Diana, the clown queen, is stronger than he had first thought of her to be. Memories of the day of bloodbath where she seemed weaker in his clouded eyes.

People were reborn in this place.

Turned from children into killers.

They've been here long enough to learn what death sounds like, what it smells like, what it looks like, they all knew what it was like. Children lost and determined to fight for their lives, lucky enough to survive the grip of death on their shoulders. Pretty eyes and terrifying looks, Death waits in the shadows for them. Everything that they have done made them what they've become. Ronan was the bad guy to Ex and Saturn. He had created the chaos of an apocalypse with his pestilence name forged upon his skin.

A hurricane of death that surrounded him and his allies. The four horsemen as Stanley had called them on the second day. Ronan had taken that title with such an honor that he became the one thing his mother already believed him to be. Pestilence. Ruin. The bad guy. None of that matters now when it's only eight of them left. The end was near. They'd be halved by the next morning. Four left to fend for their titles, their lives, and what little humanity they had left.

All of them the performers in this deadly performance.

"But you are a performer," He knew this. The start of all of this, he knew this would be his only performance. His biggest and only performance for the world because Six doesn't win. Victors do not come from Six unless you're Teddy Ursa. The sole survivor who deals with the hardships that Six has. Villains were the only ones who performed well in the arena. Ronan's seen them come and die, but they grow over time. Grow taller and mightier and get so close that he knew he had to be one. A villain was already what he had been though. Smoke filled lungs, harsh words, and brutal honesty, Ronan was already sinking into himself.

Who was real?

Who was fake?

All of him was real in this place. The harsh villain and the soft hero, he was everything inbetween. Aurora Lachance changed him. Severus Ward changed him. Raven Elsu changed him. They changed him into knowing that he was loved, that he deserved love. Ex had made him realize that love only leads to ruin. Saturn had been the one who took love away from him. Ronan had done the only thing that he could think of for retribution. Killing a man who did what he thought was right, but in the end, Ronan had become what his mother saw him as.

"We all are,"

Performers in this game of death, love, and sorrow.

The only tragedy that regularly shows every year. At least, Tempus Opera House had more than just tragedies. They're all heroes and villains and people. Fighting for reasons of their own, but he had put labels on them. Worthless compared to him. Side characters in his performance that he was giving. Losing touch with all things that had made him sane. Diana is speaking and every word feels both right a wrong. Every word that comes out of her mouth feels like a stab to the chest.

"It is sad that you feel you are all alone in such a wide world. To look at your home and see only torture, trauma—I know what that is like, you know, I feel it just as much as you."

Alone.

Trauma.

Home.

Loneliness hits him like the storm he had fled from. Alone in a world where home only carried suffering and he did not want to go back there. He didn't want to stand in front of his mother and have to deal with the harsh words she'd have about his behavior or the words he's shared to the public. He could dream. Dream of the people of Six rioting against his mother's horrible ways. Twila could take him in if it got bad. His aunt had tried reaching out time and time again, but his mother was smarter than any of them ever thought. He's not alone in this world, but he feels like he is.

Ronan knew there were people rooting for him.

Except, he can only feel the heaviness of his mother's hatred on him.

"What you've been missing is love,"

Love. As if it were that simple, love could solve his life. Ronan's seen what love can do to the heart. He's caused it enough times himself to know that love only makes the heart weak. Ronan wasn't supposed to be weak. He was supposed to be a doctor who messed with people's hearts and slept through enough people to lose all sense of feeling. All he wanted was to be a performer, to be himself, to be the guy who wore whatever he wanted, did whatever he wanted, and be whoever he wanted.

The clown queen is right about love.

He needed to love himself, but doing that would take time.

Time was running out.

And he couldn't let it go now.

"Love would make you realise that you're Ronan Keeni-Einfallen, and that no one else but Ronan Keeni-Einfallen can tell you what you are."

Diana leads with her heart on her sleeve, he can see the way she carries herself with love. Ex believed love kills it's host. Eyes glance from the scythes to his hands which still hold the metal that would hurt to be struck with. Knuckles made of brass and not filled with love. Pestilence. Ruin in the metal that wraps around his fists. Diana Sayers was filled with so much love that he could see what she carried. The heaviness of loss is still in her heart, just like it is in his own.

They've all lost someone in this game.

"You are a performer and you are asking me to kill you. Love yourself and make this your swan song."

A swan song for Pestilence.

Disease never truly disappears. Ronan knew he still resided in places many would reveal to themselves. Broken hearts. Torn down walls. Self confidence that he's created. Fuck what anyone else thinks, he knew there would always be a legacy to him no matter what his mother tried to do. Twila and Caspar would create it in the walls of the new opera house. All he could do was learn to love himself. Love the people he's lost. Love the good things he has had in life.

All he wants right now is a cigarette.

"Love?"

A smirk on his lips as the feeling of his shin breaks again. The sound echoing in his ear like a reminder of Savior once more. Bitch. That's what she had called him. Couldn't handle a few mutts. He had proved her wrong. Ronan had handled Saturn Rhodon who Severus and Rory couldn't handle. That made him stronger than the strongest people he had known. It was his fault they were gone and he would pay the price. He would pay the ultimate price, but for now he had to try and stay alive. Raven would want him to live.

"That's the best you got?"

A pathetic laugh comes from his throat.

"You're right. I don't love myself. I live in my own head which is a lot more fucked up than people really get to see. Love has never been meant for me."

Eyes glance to the scythes.

"I am a performer. You are a performer."

Death is waiting.

"But we both know deep down, neither of us want this to be our swan song."

A chuckle from his throat.

"You want to go back home and live your life full of love."

A smile of a dead man.

"I want to escape the pain of my past."

The scythes glitter with the metallic gleam against sunlight. Seven and Six were both rooting for one or the other. He didn't want to go home, but it didn't mean he could give up. Rory had told him to keep fighting. She had told him she didn't want to see him anytime soon. He was going to try and not let that happen, despite him wanting to just give in.

Give in to the hatred for himself that lingers deep in the confines of his chest.

Death would be easier, but he's never been one for the easier path.

"Diana, do me a favor if you win."

A smile on his face.

"Make sure my mother doesn't get away with what she's put me through."

Fingers tighten on the scythes grips.

"And,"

Villain or not. Ronan was going to try.

For Lady Death, he would try until his last breath.

The scythes fall slowly as he balls up his hand and the metal of his knuckles glitters against the sun.

"Never forget who I am!"

He'd win or see Rory Lachance.

Either way, he would find a way to love.

(Ronan attacks Diana; Brass Knuckles)
7DCFAEltgHunarmed
(Broken Left Knee 7.0 +1 for Brass Knuckles)

unarmed

Last Edit: Apr 18, 2019 21:45:09 GMT -5 by Tom

Made by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 19, 2019 14:08:56 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Apr 19, 2019 14:08:56 GMT -5

He questions love's presence but I give a firm nod. I know it has a place, it is so clear to me now. It has proven itself to work in ways nobody expects, and perhaps that is why people doubt it so easily. Jumping to a conclusion is so simple when you have no faith in something that takes time to come around, it is not always instant, and in a world where even the smallest second can be the difference between live and death—people do not have enough patience.

It is Angel who taught me the importance of patience, because when I looked at him, I knew I did not want to end up like him. There was smoke in his lungs and I could see that swirl in his eyes, it mixed with the emptiness to create a toxicity that would continue to strike at the heart until there was nothing else left to take. That is the position he finds himself in; addicted to something to numb the pain, something to take his mind off the things he can't seem to forget, the sights that are like scars on his mind. I have faith in love but in time too, and they are a perfect couple.

They are strong individually, but together they can take on the world—that is exactly why I have been safe in the knowledge love will keep me close, hold me tight and stop me from falling.

And when Ronan laughs in my face, I feel it all thrown back at my face. As if the goodness of my heart is not good enough for someone like him, because at the end of the day, Six is higher than Seven, and there will always be some sort of silly game of trying to one-up someone else. I have never felt like that, to feel the need to smirk at someone who willingly tries to help. I have never wanted to look at someone who has offered a place in their heart to me and thought that it wasn't good enough. Perhaps it is insecurity; failure to acknowledge and accept the fact that love is strong enough for anyone and everyone.

Perhaps it is the workings of a person's own head that contrasts directly against heart. I nod my head again because love is the best I've got, and it is the best I have ever had.

I see the difference between Ronan and I. He is so empty, not an ounce of his person feeling any kind of happiness or love, not in any way, shape or form. He says that he is living in his own head, the first of seemingly many problems I can identify Ronan is struggling with. And I've just told him the answer to them all—love will make it alright—but logic has blinded him to its power, the pain has sewn his eyes shut so that he can never see that glint of light again, only darkness from now until the end of his life.

"Love is all I have." I say defensively. "Love is all anyone ever needs. If you do not think it is meant for you, I apologise profusely in place of your heart because you've lost touch. You just need someone to listen and tell you everything will be okay." Because not for one second have I felt like Ronan, never have I lost track of my motives and followed my head instead of my heart. I knew right at the start that trying to figure everything out, a strategy, yourself along the way—it would never work, it would only get too complicated. Doing that stops a person from living in the moment, from living with the emotion that comes with each memory forged from the fires everyone else dares to burn.

It is a process, because through feeling everyone else's heat, you get to understand your own.

"I want to go home and remind people what love is. You're the reason I follow my heart and want to make an example, because one's own head is dangerous. It makes you forget the simple things." I look at him with sad eyes. There are more problems than I had ever thought, and I'm not sure I have enough love in my heart or time in my world to make Ronan alright. Even though I want to, I know that the hammer is coming down on us. The sun is high in the sky soon to set, and once night falls again, there won't be mother nature to lead the light of love the right way.

Ronan says that this is neither of our swan songs, yet he just asked me to do him a favour and kill him. I shake my head—further proof that the mind ties and turns more so than a river. Maybe Ronan is actually still scared and just does not want to admit it to himself. It is obvious how moments like this go: two lives, two stories, two reasons to live but the world only wants one. I may wear my heart on my sleeve and have to deal with the ache as a consequence, but I have learnt to balance it with reality.

Mackenzie Pryce told me how the games go: how killing is just another part of it. I can still see it as something bigger, something worth feeling and keeping me human. It may hurt a little, or a lot, but at least I know that when I'm forcing someone to fall from grace, standing over a crown knit from their unsaid words, I have not sacrificed any part of myself to make it easier. I still feel death as strongly as I ever did and I am certain that no repeat of what happened to Francisco will ever make me numb.

When Ronan asks me to do another favour, one that requires an impossible being made possible, I close my eyes. It is not because I do not want to look at him, but rather because I do not want to see how close I am to changing my world. To risk losing sight of my heart just to follow the finishing line would be the act of a fool, and though I have painted myself as a clown, I am still my own princess—I have to save myself first.

His arms knock against my leg and snap it out of place, the sound as loud as Myrcella's cannon that rung moments after the games first began. I will not mark a grave for a broken leg, not when Ronan stands before me with a mind that is far more broken than any bone I've ever seen. I wince, bite my tongue, grit my teeth and then let the pain go because I know there are people who have felt and are feeling much worse.

"I'd honour whatever anyone wanted, it may take time for that love to come around, but it would. I know it would." Seven's love still comes first. "And you know, if that happens, I could never forget. Having heart creates ache, it might be dull and not sharp, but it's still there, it's always there." I've had a broken heart ever since my father stopped showing me the love I so desperately wanted to see in the world. I've felt the breaking over and over again, with Zion, with Berlin, with feeling alone, with taking Francisco's life, with seeing Ronan not understand the power of love. "With every beat, each pulse, I'd be reminded. I have chosen to have it this way, this is what having heart does, and though it hurts, I would not change myself for anyone or anything."

I am a free spirit against many of things people have come to know and accept. It is why Seven needs to see my love, and why the world needs to feel it.

[ diana attacks ronan; spiked blunt ]

fYlcGKV7QDspiked blunt

[ 14017 -- deep gash on left forearm -- 8.0 damage +1 strength ]

spiked blunt

Last Edit: Apr 19, 2019 14:09:41 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 19, 2019 15:40:06 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Tom on Apr 19, 2019 15:40:06 GMT -5

Fight like hell.

The knee shattering sound splits him in half.

Heart or head. Love or death. Ruin or creation. Villain or hero. He's been all and none at the same time. Living life as a lie and as a truth. Ronan had been who he always had been. A broken man with a broken past that his fantasies had burned to nothing more than a dim flicker of ash and he believed it to be the only truth. The only truth that he could stand with because reality was the only thing that was left. Reality had only been pain. Only suffering. Never love. Never hope. Only despair and he had accepted that as the truth.

All kings will fall.

Riordan might have lost himself to a fantasy, but Ronan was stuck in this hard reality. A harder reality to accept than the fantasies he carried. Tears of the first moment he really believed his dream, his fantasy, his life were over come flashing back. The terror of being alone in a room with white walls and lemon scented floors. The gown touching the floor as he shuffled against the hard wooden door. The tears of the little boy who told himself he would never be afraid again.

Fear doesn't exist in Ronan.

Only because he doesn't let himself stop and think.

Always running. Always running. Always running.

Ronan never has time to look back. Never the chance to catch his breath because he knew that one day he'll flicker out like the fire he is. Turn as dim as Tempus Opera House. Turn as dim as the dead dreams of Severus Ward. Turn as dim as the sun setting on a perfect day. The ruin of everything would stop at the edge of a beautiful performance and sit watching until the fire flickered out. Death would be easier.

Giving up would be easier.

You’re the biggest damn hero I’ve ever met.

A hero with harsh words, never sitting still because death was always waiting. A hero who tried to do his best, but was never enough. He wants to believe her. He wants to be remembered by her words, but he's a villain. The bad guy in everyone's story. He put on that facade to further himself. He put on that act to give the gamemakers what Six was because villains only come from Six. Eyes glance to Diana and he can see the hero in her. He can see the heroic nature of Diana Sayers with her heart on her sleeve and her words stronger than he can know.

If anything, she reminds him of Teddy Ursa with his heart on his sleeve.

A metaphorical smile in his head as he thinks of what Teddy told him.

You'll struggle with an attitude like that.

And struggle is what he did.

We all still believe in you though, Ronan.

Belief wasn't what he needed. Belief hasn't gotten him anywhere in here. He's only had himself and his head to believe in. The strength of his own body was wearing thin and he could feel it. The crimson that came from each wound feeling like a weight off of his body and the pain flourishing into the numbness of his hollowed soul. Death seemed easier. He still pushes to fight, but he's growing thin. Growing tired of this. Tired of wanting to stand. Tired of wanting to fight for her, despite her not being here anymore.

Tired of fighting for himself because he was not a good guy.

But it doesn't make you wrong. Okay? Our messed up pasts don't make us messed up people.

Their pasts don't define their futures, but he's seen his. He's seen it catch up to him and it will. It always will find a way back to him. Like a storm, it would crash down on him with heavy rainfall and lightning strikes that would tear him apart and leave him even more hollow than when people found him. The real him. He's not messed up, but he feels like he is. He feels so messed up in this world they live in. Not because of anything he did, but because of everything he's been through.

Hell couldn't wait.

I forgive you, Ronan.

Saturn deserved it.

At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

Diana talks. She talks for what feels like a lifetime, she's not annoying about love, but it's something he wont ever get. Something he probably wont live long enough to think about.

"You just need someone to listen and tell you everything will be okay."

Words fall from his lips at that.

"I had that. She's dead now."

"I want to go home and remind people what love is. You're the reason I follow my heart and want to make an example, because one's own head is dangerous. It makes you forget the simple things."

The simple things, like love, the most complex emotion in his life. Diana's heart is in the right place, but she's not gonna convince him to believe he isn't ruin. She's not going to break him down and find out he's not a villain. She's never going to know what it's like. She'll only see him as the boy from six that she had to take down. And in some ways, that's better than what most people believed him to be. Savior's words feel like they echo in the back of his mind, but he fights the urge to let them come forward, instead he pushes them farther away.

"I'd honour whatever anyone wanted, it may take time for that love to come around, but it would. I know it would."

Time isn't their own to have now.

"And you know, if that happens, I could never forget. Having heart creates ache, it might be dull and not sharp, but it's still there, it's always there."

Longing of the heart. Suffering of the heart. They're the same ache. He knew what it was like to ache for love or admiration. He knew what it was like to never truly get it. He knew what it was like to lose it all in the form of Aurora Lachance and Severus Ward. Raven would cry out to him to keep pushing for them, but he's so tired of this. Tired of feeling like he has to keep running as fast as possible. She would be okay.

He had to believe that.

"With every beat, each pulse, I'd be reminded. I have chosen to have it this way, this is what having heart does, and though it hurts, I would not change myself for anyone or anything."

The pain blossoms across his arm and throughout his body like a shockwave. The pain turns into suffering, the suffering turns into exhaustion, and the exhaustion turns into a dying man. A choked out wince of pain flies through his lips faster than he wanted it to. Death seems to be around the corner as he can hear Rory's voice clearer. Lady Death will be getting him sooner than she'd like. And part of him was okay with that. Part of him told himself to get up and continue fighting, but he's tired.

He doesn't want to hear his mother.

He doesn't want to feel the ache in his heart.

Diana Sayers believes she will never change, but just being here, he's seen her change. The Diana Sayers of day one was different than the Diana Sayers that stood in front of him. He laughs painfully into the air as he falls onto his back, brass knuckles, scythes, bag, all forgotten. The clear blue skies and the soft touch of grass remind him that even in this hellish reality, there's beauty. Beauty in this show that makes him want to live, to breath, to survive for just a little bit longer, but he knows this is it.

This is his swan song.

The final act of Ronan Keeni-Einfallen.

The curtains will close soon and all he can do is stare up at the blue sky on his back, letting the grass sway around him in a calming motion. He glances over to Diana and silently watches for a moment. A moment that's too long and too quiet. The air feels heavier on his chest and in his lungs. The sky's blue is brighter than anything he's ever seen. Six didn't have beauty like this. Even if it did, he didn't know about it. Florescent lights were the only thing he had known back in Six.

"You've already changed, Diana."

Fingers spread through the grass.

"We're not kids anymore."

Eyes staring up at the the blue.

"We've grown harder, tougher, stronger. We've changed into things that we didn't ever want to be in the first place."

No tears in his eyes.

"You've changed more than you know."

Eyes glance to the journal now fallen out of his bag and lays in the grass.

I'm sorry, Severus.

"I had a heart, Diana. It's just been broken one too many times."

Eyes reach the spiked blunt and spear that had been in his pack.

Rory's words flashing in his head trying to push him to get up.

I'm sorry, Raven.

"You aren't just a heart though, Diana."

No smile in his eyes.

I'm sorry, Ex.

"You are change, Diana."

Eyes stare back at the sky as he can feel himself growing more and more tired by the second.

Fingers clenched around the leather bound journal, until he's handing it to her as if showing she needs to take it with her.

"Make it slow, Diana."

Silence.

"I want to watch the sun set one more time."

Hell couldn't wait.

The curtains were closing.

I'm sorry, Rory.

Silence.

I'll see you soon.

(Ronan does not attack. He tries handing over Severus' Leather Bound Journal)

Made by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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soul survivor ♔ [ diana vs ronan, day seven ] Apr 19, 2019 16:55:51 GMT -5

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Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Apr 19, 2019 16:55:51 GMT -5

"I had that," good—I think, until the next words hit like a bullet, "she's dead now."

I get him a little more, now; he's felt that loss just as I have. Maybe it is worse to lose the only person who has ever believed in you, the only person who has ever told you that the world is yours for the taking, that you are worth every ounce of your weight and more. People like that seem to be going missing in this world, instead replaced by people who dismantle the foundations of a person. Piece by piece, wound by wound, old scars become undone and they are washed with pain once again.

When did it get this way? I know that the sunlight is enough to keep the shadows at bay, but perhaps it is the moonlight that does not hold the same power. A white light that does not beam as brightly, maybe the moonlight is what gives rise to the silhouettes and shadows in the night, and the ones I have seen in the day are the ones that did not fade away in time. But still, how can it be that people are attracted to the darkness more so than the light?

I do not hope they glorify the broken things. I remember looking into Jessica Braun's eyes and seeing the bleakness, the isolation that came with her tongue for a weapon. There was not even a remote glimmer or glisten of a candle in her eyes, there was not even a wick to try and light to set her free; it was like she had personified the shadows that took Berlin, the air that swallowed Zion whole. I beg that the world does not want to become as empty as that—to stare at the world and see the desolation and only add to it, to only use your head to mastermind the catastrophic fall of another, even when the world itself needs catching.

Whoever it was that listened to Ronan—maybe she was like me. Of course, her paths must have got crossed and lost themselves at one point in time, because her heart would not have set her down a street that led only to death's darkness. That is not the love I know, nor the one I flaunt with pride. It could be that she was clouded, and when a person becomes clouded, it becomes so much easier to cry.

"She was right," because everything will be fine, eventually. All problems just need time to fix themselves, because in that time, love will find a way to heal. "You will be okay, you are okay." Whoever showed him that first sign of love led him in the right direction, but left to his own devises, he lost sight. I'd like to think that if things were different, Ronan could be one of the good ones. He could be one of the few who understands how love can cure the diseases with even the deepest of roots, and that all it takes is a human touch.

Yet, it isn't different—I am a killer clown, a killer queen and time still ticks over us. Looking at Ronan, I can see that grey in his eyes that I felt like I was turning: the low energy, the sadness, memory making you feel nothing but melancholy. His laughter does not feel genuine, it is like it is the last part of his soul trying to recreate the happiness he used to feel. It is pained, stained with the sights and sounds of feeling like someone who has been a hero and gone to zero.

He falls backwards, those grey eyes looking up to the blue skies, glancing to the green grass as if it is reminding him of the colour in the world. Because the Hunger Games seem to wipe away the pretty things in favour of the painful ones, it knocks the jewels from a crown and it swipes the final glint of hope from a pair of eyes like the night does the day.

I do not say anything. I know what this is, when I'm standing over him—this was never destined to be a swan song for the both of us that neither of us wanted. There is peace in this moment, it has a bitter edge, but the goodness in my heart can fold the edges away to make this something purposeful, wholesome. The grey in his eyes glazes over with acceptance: he is a ballerina who danced too boldly, a singer who sung too high, an entertainer who has had their last laugh.

And I ponder it for a few moments; how this really is a swan song, and how Ronan is exactly what he had always wanted to be. Any of us can do what he is doing, letting go, but it takes a true performer to turn this into something meaningful, as if this is the last page of the play and the words keep the reader hanging for the final word. Life has always been a stage, and though the world seemingly becomes more dim by the day, a true performer finds the tiniest of spotlights when it matters most—for Ronan, that is now.

He tells me that I have changed, that we are not children anymore. He is wrong about changing; perhaps I am not my father's idea of a princess daughter anymore, but I never was in the first place. And whilst, of course, I did not want to believe that love had the power to do the indescribable, the unthinkable, I should have never doubted the grace it held whilst it showed me that love can also be a state. I do not think I have changed at all, rather my perspective on love. I think I have learned to accept that love is not the embodiment of sweetness I thought it was, love can work wonders in the best, and worst, ways.

Love is the be all and the end all; mercy, touch, serenity and all things in between.

"I am still me." Of course, life gets in the way and worms its way through a person to create conflict and difference, the persuasion of others turning us from our true colours to just another shade of grey that turns the world just that small bit darker. "You are still you."

A journal falls from his bag to the grass and his fingers stretch to offer it my way.

"A broken heart is still a heart. It just works differently." Love becomes even more important because it can try to bridge the broken pieces back together, it can fill in the gaps where people, places, moments and memories have been lost. I know that he is right when he says I am change, but it still makes me sad to think that I am the only one who has had enough heart to become the change I have wanted to see in the world. "One thing is for sure: a broken heart needs the most love."

I crouch down to sit by him, and I grab his hand. The journal sits in my lap and I can feel it telling a story already. "I have one of these, too. I do not want my story to become a tragedy, so I wrote my own."

But I'm not sure the same can be said for Ronan—he has given in to his broken heart, let the darkness in and refused love. He is a performer, and this is no comedy or romance. He is a tragedy, and in a tragedy, love is mercy.

"The sun will set, and it will make your tragedy beautiful."

I sit with him and I squeeze his hand. "You are a story for the ages."