tarren kallias | district one | cb | fin

Today my winged horse is coming and I am carrying you off to the moon and on the moon we will eat rose petals. - Shirley Jackson

His legacy is one written in ink, not blood.

It’s a diversion from the old ways. His father would give him a black eye if he knew that every hour spent in the gym, sweating and bleeding with the other careers was an hour spent trying to put into words the sound of steel whispering against steel. Sword-figthing is a dance, it always has been. When Father would talk of the ring, Tarren would only see the way his blade would move against his opponents and dream of the choreography for hours after.

His knuckles bleed upon the pages. He brushes off ashes, his fingerprints leaving behind trails of himself, as if he didn’t pour himself with his words.

Spilled ink, spilled blood. Father despises him and he can see it in the way that Torren's lips curl in front of his teeth, gleaming like razors as he stands in the center of the Pit, his kingdom of brutes. Tally is, for her part, not as demonstrative as Dad about her loathing, but she still turns her nose up at him. 

Fuck her. They're both Careers, even if they wear different skin. They still bleed the same blood, don't they? Their hearts still beat the same. Hers may be the rythmn of war but his beats to the sound of thunder crashing, wind blowing. His beats to the sound of blows echoing off of muscles and bone, put to page. 

Punches turn into words. 
Scars into poems.