december whitaker, d7, fin

Snow crunches beneath my feet as I make my way through my mother's garden—my father had paid for the grandest marble, the most intricate cast iron fences, the rarest species of orchids plucked from our family's bogs to make up for missing my ninth birthday dinner—and I wonder if she still visits this place. My best guess was no considering the way the orchids had shriveled in on themselves and the fountains hadn't been drained for the winter.

I sigh, my breath billows into the night sky. There's a pinch of annoyance forming on the bridge of my nose as the memory of my parent's throwing my tenth birthday cake at each other until my father finally admitted that he'd never loved my mother. Not once, not ever. Never children, only heirs. It had only ever been for her name—The Whitaker Logging Company. Legacy is all he's ever wanted.

That's alright though. Now I know I have to protect mine.

I hear the rumors. That my father hides the bodies of his enemies in the bogs, that he uses unskilled laborers for underwater crew operations and pays no compensation to the families after their loved one drowns alongside the trees they'd thought would make them enough money to keep their children's names out of the Reaping pool. It's been a long time since I believed they were just rumors though.

And it's the same way for my brother.

So he left.

I haven't seen him since he left five years ago. Peacekeepers are busy. Told myself that for a long time, too. Helped me to forget just how alone I felt here on my father's estate, trapped within a cage and made to perform at all of the grandiose charity events, surrounded by people who don't have a single fucking clue. About anything. None of them. All they do is stand around, looking pretty, talking about nothing—their hair, their money, their stupid problems that don't mean anything.

I think I knew I was leaving this place and disobeying my father's orders even before Noel did. His declaration was far louder, hotter to the touch, more of a solid memory than my own story—it was like all that poise and composure that'd been injected into our veins had finally made his heart stop, go cold. And not just cold enough to burn, cold enough for a roaring fucking blaze to ignite. I think it broke my father a little, to see his son so full of bitterness and rage, all of it directed toward him and what he'd poured his life into, given up his soul for.

And so now I'm the heir. Noel abdicated everything the moment he left for Peacekeeper training, my father had all the painted family portraits with his "greatest disappointment" in them removed from the estate.

I know he tossed them into the bogs. I saw mother carrying one back home in the middle of the night, tripping and sloshing through plants long dead with a picture frame that was coming undone at the corner and a bottle pressed to her lips. I think she has it hidden away in her summer garden—the alcohol, the portrait, and my mother, all locked away behind gates I haven't been allowed behind in years. I can hear her laughter from my balcony some evenings. I wonder if she'd recognize me if I visited or if I've outgrown the brushstrokes she finds so entertaining.

I know Noel hasn't seen her yet, despite being back. Father decided to let him on the property again—at least that's how he put it when he'd summoned me to his office with a "favor" to ask and a few curses under his breath about the borders and increased patrols—as if he were being the gracious, forgiving kind of father that every little boy dreamed of becoming one day and drew pictures of at school when they asked who your hero was. Not that I wanted that; he's just a liar.

"Noel?"

The wind swallows his name and I have to gasp to catch my breath as I hear the sound of footsteps over my shoulder. Lots of footsteps. And then a low, deep growl brings a symphony with it and I swear that I've counted four sets of eyes glinting in the shadows.

I don't see Noel when he gives the command, but I can tell by the way he's got these hybrids dressed up in armor that this reunion is going to be anything but what most families would consider normal.

Deep breath, shoulders back—it's a test. That's why he told me to bring my sword tonight. I can't stop the smirk from tugging at the corner of my lips.

Guess it's a good thing I've had five years to study for this one.

And I'm precise. Noel always said it was how someone with the spirit to fight made up for lack of physical strength. And he always meant it as a compliment, even if it didn't usually come out that way when we practiced. I hit most every chink in their armor, more tossing them out of the way with a few careful strikes than anything. I dive, forearms scraping in the icy grit as a bit of a desperate swing leaves a mutt yelping and recoiling. Shit, I didn't mean to- I move toward the creature almost instinctively, blade lowered and voice hushed as I watch the poor thing struggle to lick its wound through the shields that were meant to protect it.

Then I hear another command on the wind and I'm suddenly having to fight off chomping teeth desperately with the hilt of my sword. I kick off of the ground with all my strength, but the damn thing won't let go. I throw myself into the wall nearby in the hopes that the mutt will come with me. When the beast yelps, I pull away and my knuckle guard falls with it. I right myself on proper footing just in time for another slobbering mess to jump at me. I catch it with my fist more than blade, but the adrenaline must've kicked in because it crashes awkwardly in the snow a second later.

I manage to keep the other two at bay, though the other pair is not truly gone. They're still circling at the edges of my vision. A test, a test, a test comes the jeering in my thoughts as I finally catch a glimpse of Noel at the edge of the courtyard. I can't see his face, but I can tell by the way he's standing that I haven't passed—yet. Fucking yet, Noel, you asshole, I- The wolves collectively halt their assault on me to howl with the wind and I'm not sure just how long we've been out here with nothing but the moonlight to keep us all warm, but it's been awhile since I could feel my toes, fingers.

And it's all very sudden, but my weapon skitters across the ground and my fingers are twisting frantically to keep teeth away from my face. I yelp, kicking wildly into it's nose until it releases my hand. My fingers don't work the way I need them to when I make it to my rapier, my blood making the hilt slippery and sticky at the same time. I gasp for a breath of air, planning my next steps carefully in the split seconds I have to compose myself, envision myself standing and moving to my left, but-

Pain meets pressure in my calf, a pulling in the opposite direction I want to go as another set of teeth sink deep into my flesh. I lash out with my blade across its nose and it releases me, but another quickly takes it's place leaping onto my back as the other returns to pull me down by the knee. The air rushes from my lungs as my back meets stone and when my vision returns my own blade is digging into my face as my bones threaten to snap out of place beneath the weight of ironclad monsters.

"Noel, NOEL!"

And just when I think he's going to let them tear me to shreds, I hear his command crisp and clear and close and all I can do is gasp and writhe in the snow as the wind cuts into the holes dotting my body. I force myself to roll to my knees, shivering with a hand pressed to the side of my face where the blade had dug the deepest.

"I'm not always going to be around to save you, December."

He says it after a sigh, as if he hadn't made that fact abundantly clear when he left.

It takes me a moment, but when I finally get my breathing to settle and the pain starts to burn and throb as the adrenaline fades away, I find that I can't bring myself to look up at him. I feel small again. And I know I've failed.

"I'm sorry," I breathe, voice cracking. And then with a growl of determination behind my next one's: "I'll get better."

His boots click as he turns away with his head held high and gaze pointedly digging into my scalp. When he speaks, it's obvious his words are a plea, a hopeful but grim reminder.

"You'll have to if you ever want to leave."

I sigh as he disappears toward the reservoir, shoulders sagging only after he's left.

I know.

"mirror mirror, tell me something - can I stop my fall?"