The Looking Glass Waltz [Dom x Neysa]

A familiar scene laid before me, one of comfort and faintly of home. Everything was dipped in silver. The blades were tipped in it; the ceiling reflected it against the lights, and even the mats and floors were of grey. It is a cool color of indifference, one that doesn’t welcome the inexperienced or embrace the routine. As I walked into the training center, like ants of a colony we dispersed. Some stood with uneasiness, others stride with confidence to their destination. Scanning the room, my heart ached at the site of the weapons wrack. It’s lute called to me, the grunts, clangs, and loud chatter shifting to white noise. My fingers stroked the cool metal achingly under my fingertips, remembering a faded time of months past. 

A morning thawed of frost had been my last run. Spring had opened a chapter I never thought I’d see. One of having a bed to call my own, a room albeit small for my own, in a place of warmth. But don’t let the metal fool you, this fortress can’t keep at bay Two’s blight. It was the morning fog that rolled in each day over the mountainous terrain that filled our lungs like a sickness. A plague that rotted the heart, that ate away at our brains, and by the time you’ve reached sixteen its roots have sunken in too deep. It was a viciousness that consumed any doubts one had, a sickness that encouraged you to swallow others whole. Although the academies were confined in imposing silver erected displays, it was all for show. The stage extended far beyond, those too sick to see. District Two isn’t a place that the weak survives. In the academy, they’ll bare their teeth at the weak, since those who are to die have no reason to be pampered. They get left behind. A noble district can’t be restrained, and those of poor fortitude have no place here.

The first few nights I had hid knowing this. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown accustomed to hiding the past six years of my life. Or because I knew how the others viewed me. The affluent felt I had no place here, felt I was undeserving of my spot here. They’d sneer at my bruises, muttering of the charity case that took refuge there. “Are you lost?” they’d question as I first stepped into the training room. My hands never wandered for the swords, or yearned for the standard, it always strayed for what I knew would garner a reaction. “You shouldn’t go for that, they’re useless.” With a roll of my eyes and cracking of my neck, the leather lazily smacking against the mats would sing for me. It’s welcoming melody enticed a grin, eyes narrowing towards my left side, where the useless noises chippered on. “If you’re going to be worth any sparring time, you should grab a swo- “ then with a crack at their feet and a screech, they’d always bounce back, earning a laugh. “Shoo” I’d coo, as cursing and hysterics ensued.

The blushing purple choker that flourished around my neck then, with the matching set split on the arch of my nose, weren’t manufactured from an institution like this. Although their eyes would lurk at the vulnerable flesh, I wasn’t comparable to a soiled apple at a market, no matter the glances as they passed by. I’m worthy of so much more than a charity case, one that can’t be confined to routine standards. Not everyone can afford to adhere to the coast. Why not press past and dive into the tide, forging your own path? Only now have I been able to do just that, and a sword is what I distaste the most. Because I’m not the career that grew up spoon-fed their destiny, I was one robbed of a warm home, one that grew used to the cold. And so, tradition doesn’t suit me, it never has anyway. 

But as my eyes gaze towards the upper, smaller weapons on the wrack, finger pads grazing leather, I found curious eyes watching over me. A dark brown gaze and haughty demeanor, although not from Two, the girl from Eleven reminded me of the family I made back in Townsend. One I had briefly known, but one that felt like home; a place I could finally belong. In a room that was familiar yet not, I wanted to cling to the only parts I knew; the parts except the boy that smelled of vomit with sweaty hands. Lowering my palm and raising the other, I plucked two swords for my potential companion. Side stepping to the side, I drove the hilt once more into the foam under me, leaning on it, while my right gestured a wave with the blade. “Hey Eleven, wanna dance for a bit?” It may not be my style, and maybe not hers either, but i'm not trying to tear her face up like I did before. Disfiguring someone isn't the best way to make friends, at least outside of Two.