The Bloodbath

They used to pray all the time when she was small. Some of it was to keep tradition alive, after dark days had pulled a veil over the world. She remembers the boys that pulled at her pigtails when she was a child and spat in her face. They’d done so after hearing her speak the old language, and called her old world scum. Her father had held her in the soft light of the living room as she cried. Why would anyone care how she spoke if she wasn’t hurting anyone else? He let her cry out her tears, and held an arm around her to steady the sobs. He told her that sometimes the world would confuse difference with danger.

Their traditions represented a world that they were told should be forgotten, and ground to dust. It was what led them to the fall, and destruction, or so they were told. This single story shaped a narrative of a people who were different, shadowy, holding onto traditions that made them too different to ever be a part of this world. And yet –

As she said the words her grandmother had taught her, eyes on the sky, far as home as she was, tired as she was, and scared as she was, her heartbeat steadied. The world could call them wicked, pull them apart and still, she had faith. Faith they would rise, as they always did, to greet the sunshine, to go on, tilling fields and making sure that when their neighbors were sick, bringing soup and passing time.

Maybe this as her sin. To live life as honest as she could, but as a lie to what the capitol held dear. They couldn’t control a family that dared to embrace who they’d always been, with or without them, the rebels, or anyone else at all.

'Oof!' The little one with gold hair comes crashing into her and she goes down with him. She freezes, not sure if he meant to hurt her, but then he stutters, 'Omigosh I – Sorry –'

“Cómo estás?” She places her hands on her knees and comes in close. She moves to take his hands in hers and gives a squeeze. “No tenemos mucho tiempo, niñito.”

The fires rage around her, just as sure as the smoke and ash drifts. The blood on her forehead oozes. She wonders if the loss of blood or her bruises are getting the best of her. She hates that this child is here. He doesn’t look that much bigger than Xuxa.

“I don’t want to be a part of this,” She knows that there’s a question as to whether this is fear, or cowardice. What else could she sacrifice, other than her life? “I know it won’t be long before I have to… I’d rather it be for someone, than to try on my own account…”

She doesn’t know if he’ll understand her ramblings but she hopes at the least he knows that she will still be gentle and kind in the face of death.

“I was praying.” She moves to her knees and motions. The turf is cold and foreign, the worst sort of grass she’s ever known. “Do you want pray?”

“The stars give us light in the darkness. They’re light from long ago – a reminder of our past, and see us through the morning sun, our future.*” She whispers out, strong as she can when the world continues to burn around her.

A boy yells out and it’s then another girl tumbles past, bleeding and trying her best against her attacker. Uxue turns and places her body in front of the little boy, still low and crouched to the ground, her body used to this with her work in the fields.

'Prayer is nice,' she remembers Uncle Hector speaking from across the living room when her grandmother would turn over her beads and whisper prayers. 'But without works, prayer’s as good as dead.'

She hears the last of the boy’s words, and shakes her head. One way to beat the capitol is to play their own game against them.

“Cálmate.” She says to the wild haired girl and begins to unlace her boot. She looks over at the boy and with all her might, sends it sailing at him.

“Maybe some of us are tired of playing for either of you!” Uxue shouts out, another ripple below her surface.

They are little storms raging, each threatening to tear one another to pieces. She has lived through the years of war, the rationing, the world that tells her family that they are not enough, that they sacrifice too little, that now – she is to kill or be killed, because there is no hope.

And she is tired, tired enough that she cannot do nothing.

[Uxue Izar attacks Anapos Jinx with her boot]

bvOovyhbEXprojectile

[8002 -- Deflected -- 0.0 damage -- (Miscellaneous Blunt Projectile)]

[-Prays with Jack
-Bumps into Maryam and says calm down
-Throws her boot because she’s >:[
*Easter egg! This prayer was said by Salome Izar in the 75th]

"No take backsies now, ya hear?"

The knife falls a few inches behind him, and he quickly squats to scoop it up. "Loud and clear," he responds, relief flowing through his body as he wraps his fingers around the handle once more. Another tribute falls, a girl this time. Uxue hurls the boot she was wearing on her foot across the field. Yejide's friend tries to charge the peacekeepers and is forced back into the fray. See? he thinks. Told you so. Yet, it pains him to be right. The world shouldn't have to be like this. Most of the people here didn't deserve to die like this. For a moment, he thinks that the boy is brave. Then Yejide lets out a scream and charges again, and she splits one of their shields before she is tossed aside like she's nothing. His heart hurts, but he also feels pride. That's my girl.

Ambrose finally turns back to the girl, the one who seems not to care what happens next, the one whose name is almost cruelly ironic. "Scorpion, huh?" he remarks. "It suits you. You're a real pain to deal with."