engulf
-to flow over and enclose: overwhelm
I don't remember too much from the actual events occurring in the bowl of bones before this one. But I know the stories. I know the stories very well.
The one story that always stood out is the one tied to my family. It is the one about the poison bride. The Viper woman killed her groom in their wedding bed. Snakes trailing over him and biting him. Until only venom was left.
The last months have been shaped by the story in the back of my head. I remember the white snake standing witness as I promised no one would tear me down and deny me what I deserved.
I remember the story drawling lines between me and Samson in our wedding night, and in all the nights after.
Now all I know is that I will never be like the poison bride. And I won't ever end in this Bowl of Bones.
This execution, this open event will still spill blood both red and silver, and I am very sure at least some people will enjoy it.
In the earliest hour of the morning, I stand in front of the mirror one more time and smooth over my jacket. No high heels, not when I need to climb so many stairs again and sit around for what I presume is long talks and walks. My feet were used to mostly my combat boots these last days, and even though I will need heels soon enough again to seem bigger again, today I hide the flat soles under my rustling skirt.
No one will look at me too long, I will wager. I am not the most interesting thing to entice a crowd in this arena.
It's strange. Last time I was in an arena I wished malice upon a man I feared to marry.
Now this man sits beside my mirror and watches me with bare-boned interest. Somewhere in his own thoughts for once, or still digesting yesterday and the following night. Still digesting the letter he knows now about. But I don't need to worry about it. Because Larentia isn't stupid enough to write something important.
The words still hold something that gives me a bite of more confidence. Even if something is very off.
I don't like the thought of being scrunched inside the boxes and seats with my family again. This time, there is no Atara to hide behind in Queenstrial. There is no Samson below that I can hope to suffer. This time there is only the faint memory of people executed below. This time, there is a faint story of the poison bride echoing one last day. This time, the action and entrance is more elaborate. I hate to be nervous. This is the first day in my succession, just as it is the first new day for our dear boy king.
I smooth over jacket and skirt once more, feel my gun, feel more metal, and the weight attached to it. Swallow.
This day should be easy. What do I have to do but watch people die? It isn't like that is new. Or hard to digest. This is how it was supposed to end.
Samson stirs beside me, returning to this moment, done with whatever he has just conducted through the convolutions of his brain.
We both wear black. We all wear black.
Another mourning procedure that is meaningless in truth.
He looks at me waiting. I only have a long drawn breath and a hard face for him.
"I'll meet you there," I proclaim, done inspecting my form in the mirror. "Make sure my mother comes alone and takes a seat in the back. Because my father sure won't."
"Your father is weak-minded when it comes to that," he agrees, looming over me. Too pale in black, with a face sharp enough to make the bones stand out in the shadows, a skull and a threat.
"Maybe," I start, not knowing why I say it. "Maybe it is the best thing that could have happened that we can't stand each other."
"Now who turns meek?" He asks, and I realize he hasn't forgotten my scolding words at the Sun shooting.
"I always said passion and love are waste and mistake."
"I don't disagree on that one poignant thing you like to say over and over again in your head to stand your own existence." He barely blinks down at me. "But it is tiring me."
I scoff softly and leave without another word.
My family moves through the house like ants in their tunnels and hill. My father is still in the room with the caged bird. My mother luckily isn't yet at the ready.
I leave alone, earlier than anyone else, simply to seek out another family I wanted to be a part of.
You'd half expect them to have to sit through the process of the arena the same as me. But today, they don't have to sit still.
They're executioners. They'll be part of the blood getting spilled. In some sort of semblance to a fight, but sure a one that they are supposed to win more easily.
The arena stands thick and strong, stone gaping in a hole I take, entering and moving.
I walk below the ground, below people gathering already, and below the enormous mass of soldiers, security, sentinels. This is not as an intimate meeting of the highest of the high, like the parting ball that turned into a night of blood and murder.
This arena is bustling with life already. I have a few moments, moving below, scattering some of my bugs, just because they creep from under my collar like some trace of invisible life and footsteps.
Maybe it is just because of something flutters in my stomach again, nervous. I walk by mostly untouched, simply with a sneer, getting recognized or waved through.
My favorite cousins are straight and up, pairs of hard faces that match my own pale one. But instead of skirts and hidden weapons they wear armor that glitters low in the light. I look to both of them. Black eyes look back less harsh than I expected.
It is too short of a moment to actually say much.
I wish them luck or something equally silly. They spit out something about me being acknowledged and in charge. To my surprise, I don't want to leave. My body visibly bristles at the prospect of simply taking a seat.
They jealously guarded me yesterday. I can only hope it means anything. And not only because it would be useful to me.
We're different images in the same smoke.
At the end, I just slowly reach into my jacket and pull out the knife I took from Loren.
"I know you are probably equipped good enough, and I only have one," I say.
I hold the knife out. A blank piece of metal used to cut through fabric and skin and hurt.
Evangeline takes it. Our fingers touch a moment.
I arch my back and try to keep looking at her face.
I find the rest of the stadium bustling with bodies and life. Through the hallways constructed harsh and cold, I move up a set of stairs until I reach the level where our seats are.
It isn't too different from the one where I watched Samson, except that this place is constructed to be grand, and to stay grand, to prove superiority. It isn't the province, this is our capital. And the Bowl of Bones isn't a match. It is a death sentence in front of a live audience.
I find my father already sitting, dogs with their tongues around him. They are as nervous as me. They try to lie down at his feet, but their ears twitch and their tongues hang out as they pant violently.
As far away from the dogs as space will allow without giving up too much or disappearing in the back, Samson is like some blockade.
He blocks scared Loren away. And he blocks my sour-faced mother. I don't think I have seen her this unwilling to act ditzy or smiling inconsequential before. She looks like a pouting toddler. I give her one glare before I disregard her existence.
I choose to sit down right between him and my father again. The light illuminates the dust below and the blurry line of faces and black dressed bodies.
The dogs pull their ears back to their heads when the noise rises and a voice announces our new king.
And the fact that I see the whisper queen wears a veil amuses me.
The world is blurry, and it stays that way as I blink through brains splattering on the ground.
We watch Lucas Samos go and then the next round starts and we enter the main attraction.
The dogs go haywire by now, and the only reason they are still here is that my father makes them, soothing over one of their heads. They are trained to endure loud noises, to endure silver powers. But this tilts them hard. They rapidly sniff. I try to help and keep them calm.
Sweat forms on my palms.
This isn't right.
Something about the way this goes isn't right at all.
I am not talking about morals or reasons. The feeling is visceral just as my nervous fluttering heart.
I watch my cousins down in the arena. Silver and glory. And she has my knife in her hand.
My hands start to shake. The dogs' whimper. I look over at my father. His eyes are too affixed to what is happening down there. Not even the self preserved whispers are doing anything.
The fight, however starts to go into a direction that doesn't exactly fit the type of defeat that would move cameras and make a good and gracious win. Aren't your enemies supposed to get crushed completely?
Something is wrong. And not just the water that cracks over the dome. It flashes in some horrific imagery over the sharply tuned faces that barely miss fangs to resemble the leering, greedy creatures that they are. My brain seems to loosen wires that produce a cracking panic and shiver in electricity. Like a short circuit.
I tilt my head on my space on the rank, and while I watch an exiled prince and a girl that could procure lightning out of nowhere fight for whatever their life is worth, something creeps up my mind again.
Something isn't right.
The dogs leer and jump again, fur standing up. My spiders scuttle still in fear of the sudden flashes of lightning.
I am desperately trying to figure out what is wrong with me. I am having some sort of panic attack. That must be it. I send the spiders away.
I lead them out of the seats and box, away from the tumult. Down into the abyss of hallways under the arena and along the edges. Every body that crawls moves for me and I don't know how I still keep control.
The impressions are almost too much. I almost falter under the pressure, jumping in between. It tugs at my senses. Then I feel the vibrations of feet. Not the silver booted feet of sentinels. Not the same vibration as before. More feet. More hasty scurrying.
I shouldn't be alarmed. I should be happy.
My feet find the hard ground, and I leap upwards, away from watching the screens and the spectacle below.
A hand grabs my wrist harshly. Samson feels my quivering muscles, and he feels the terror and the strange feeling that is foreboding in my stomach. I rip at my hand. For a second he claws into my bones tightly. It will leave bruises again. I don't care. The next moment, I can feel similar claws in my brain, and they dissect the feeling that by now rises up to my throat. Then he suddenly let's go. He doesn't touch the panic and the paranoia that builds inside me and pushes me down. Like he burned his fingers on me.
"If you have an ounce of respect for me," I ask him."Keep an eye out on the family members that matter."
My father looks over, and his skin looks grey in the light and rain that has started and something brews above my head.
"Daliah?"
"Just a moment." I force the words out.
"What is going on?" My father asks, swinging around to my husband.
I run. I don't look back. My heart is a hammer pushing on an anvil, a bird singing in my veins about danger, and I need to heed whatever calls me away.
Yes, I am paranoid. No question something isn't right with me. But this isn't just a panic attack or something provoked by animalistic fear of blasting energy. I can't believe that. It would mean I am sick.
It is a bare feeling that grows, and the more I stretch my feelers into my bugs and spiders, feel the world-shaking and screaming, I am sure I am right.
I follow my animals down, and they lead me to the wandering vibration and shifting air. I move careful and slow. The sentinels that I saw earlier have disappeared, and many, many feet have gone along this way. Everybody felt very, very save.
My spiders crawl through the hallway, over stone and away from the sandy tragedy playing above me.
Above me, in the sand, maybe over the crowd, something cracks.
Then I see it. Splattered, silver blood. Smeared over the ground.
I press my body against the wall. My feet almost touch the puddle and smears of blood. Slippery, and I am suddenly glad I didn't decide to wear killer heels. They'd have made noise. And they wouldn't serve me now well.
I don't know if someone can or wants to hear my thoughts at the distance. I still send some silent alarm out in my brain, some harsh, heavy thought.
My jumping spider roams, hairs moving in the air circulation. Eyes lock on the motion. And even though spiders' eyes see colors different, they do see them. And that is all that matters when I see the soft flutter of a red scarf.
The noise above the ground and all eyes watching in anticipation that this finally ends will drown out whatever little murder and infiltration have gone on this time. And no one invited the dirty pack inside this time.
Guns. I try to count. Outnumbered by default. Since I am alone. What else can I do?
The spider lingers and clicks along. Careful. The trail of blood leads to a corpse. One of a few. Or maybe even many. But this one isn't even cold, judging by the denseness and the way the blood isn't even dried.
Hand clenching. Eyes wide open.
The color on the stripe says Eagrie. Probably saw the bullet coming but couldn't do anything about it.
The corpse with the radio is settled in between the red feet moving.
And then I recognize some of the faces. They have branded into my brain with the same intensity as Ellyn's head being impacted by a bullet or the dead eyes of a child staring at me in the flickering horror of panic.
I fought with the blond one briefly. She has a gun now. And she holds it like she perfectly knows how to use it. I attempted to throw a knife at the other one, bleeding.
Coming again to bail out their friend, and what that will do. It'll help boost whatever morale this rebellion needs.
And it will harden, and perhaps make my life a lot more difficult. I can't have that.
My hand glides over to my gun. I grip it hard. I force my feet to stand still and my breath to be steady. If I can reach the radio and buy some time I can stop this. Maybe even without dying. That would be unfortunate. I plan to reap the fruits of my work. I plan to take over, after all. Not done yet.
Not done yet. That is the thought that fuels me.
The life pulses through me again at the prospect of a fight, because violence is the only vent I know for my anger and fear.
I don't have Evangeline to clip by my side and soothe my nervous, lying, angry tongue. No one can correct my bullets or behavior now. A brief second I worry if she is even alive and if I shouldn't simply make it up into the arena. But no. No time. Everything is going on fast. This is a matter of seconds from the decision to fight. And it needs to happen now.
I have approximately two relatively clean shots before they know where I am. The silver metal lies smoothly in my fingers. Gripping the trigger.
I inhale my last steady breath and fling around the corner with my gun.
I take the two shots.
Just like in the range and the other times before, I arch my body and brace myself for the noise.
The first shot ripples through the vertebrae of the hallway in clear surprise.
It hits a bullseye. My husband and my family would be proud of the shot. A brain splatters out of a skull, rearing back by the impact right next to the blond one.
I didn't think she would be so fast to react though, because the next thing I have to do is evade her own, drawn weapon, and then fire gets opened at me.
With everything my silver essence can give, I collect whatever small thing has wings. They splatter around the corner, and as the black cloud makes the turn a mess, I take the second shot.
My knife didn't hit. Samson made me unprecise with his ripped static control. The shot aims at a leg and it at least draws blood at the impact. I hope he'll simply bleed out.
The dead Eagrie is right beside me. I take the radio and shoot, knowing I won't hit anything. The noises are deafening. But I am still sure no one can hear it up. The Bowl of Bones takes all the noise and drowns it in the cackling of silver powers and fighting.
A bullet rips through my side. The impact almost makes me stumble, flings around. I can't even scream. Just huff a pained whine.
One more roll, one more bullet searing over my head.
I cower back behind the corner. The radio cracks. The same static that usually is in my head. I still try. My voice is dissonant and screaming.
No response. My opponents yell something else. My blood mixes with the splatters of the other dead guards down here. But I am not done yet.
And the hallway has turned into silence beside the buzzing of my bugs.
I follow weakly. I have to make it. My blood pumps and my body yells angry for a fight. Now more than ever.
Something cathartic lies in the pounding wound and the way my anger is liquid acid again, running through me and fueling me. Whatever I did. This is what I do best.
I grit my teeth.
Oh, I am far from dead.
Stairs lead up to the edge of the arena, to seats and to the tribunes with the boxes. With so many guns you could probably shoot a good lot of the crawling sentinels I saw. Or would you move up even further and try to shoot some of the unrepentant figures, maybe take hostages? Or another assassination while we are at it?
Possibilities. I have two exits. Middle, just outside the rift in the ground or high.
I make it up the stairs, spiraling up, huffing and scrambling a little. I'm too high. I notice my mistake too late.
From my higher up platform, I see uniformed bodies like an angry hive of bees or wasps. But they die.
I focus my wavering eyes beside the panic. I could try and aim for the prince or the lightning girl. But no. My gun shoves forward aiming at a red scarf.
I don't know for sure which one of them shot Ptolemus.
Still. I aim at the blond head below me.
In the next moment, I can feel the impact of someone moving beside me.
Gripping me in some sort of more seasoned hold. I fight back, blood pushing out of my body.
I know that there was no one beside me on the stairwell, no one beside me on the stone ranks and in the blinking light that filtered through the sifting clouds.
He's stronger than me. That isn't too hard. Red, brown-haired with something that may have been a buzzing short cut once, growing out uneven, and I am unwillingly reminded of my dead husband. A second is enough to start for him dragging the gun out of my grip.
There isn't anything except two desperate bodies flinging themselves around each other in some semblance of a fight.
I get pushed back to the bannister. My back dangerously lingers at the edge.
A thing people should all know by now.
I don't go anymore without dragging people down with me.
And that's what I do while we still ring over in hands and feets pushing and hitting, with the smooth metal just out of my reach.
And I fall. The air sizzles beside my face, whips my hair around. But hold tight and drag him with me.
The last, unfortunate thing my consciousness realizes is that he won't get hurt at all. Because he simply blinks out of my grip and existence. Empty arms flailing, I fall too hard and too fast.
Then I hit the crashing stone and feel the bones in my ribs, my jaw, my spine break. Water and earth take me.