epilogue: shallow grave
Her voice cuts through the walls, rings through everything that's hollow -
These bitter words recall all that's left and hard to swallow.
She was always good for nothing when the good broke bad...
All she's got to lose is everything she never had.
Ambrosia does not sleep the night before her crowning. Her mind is cluttered, fragmented memories floating about in her head as half-formed nightmares that she cannot rid herself of.
More than once, she lets her eyes slip closed only to see Angelo's face reflected on the back of her eyelids, his lips slightly parted as blood seeps from them, his skin paler than snow, his blue eyes glassy and filled with nothing but the despair of death.
And if it isn't Angelo haunting her thoughts, it's one of the others. The boy from Eight, kneeling on the ground before her in abject terror as her sword pierces his flesh, falling still when she pulls her blade out of his body, the metal soaked with his blood. The girl from Ten, her demeanor hard and stony as she cuts her own ally's throat and lets him slip to the ground before her, as if he were nothing more than trash, not a human, not her friend.
He looked terrified when he died. Ten was at his back as he fell, but Ambrosia saw the light leave his eyes, saw the shock and horror on his face when he realized what was happening, that he was dying, and yet was powerless to do anything to stop it. She saw him clutch at his neck as he collapsed on the courtroom floor, blood seeping out of his throat and onto the dirty floorboards. She saw him die.
She saw everyone die.
Her escort is the one to lead her out onto the stage, cold hand pressed against her back as she ushers Ambrosia forward, her features doll-like to the point of appearing ominous as she mouths a single sentence to the girl from One: Remember to smile.
Ambrosia doesn't smile. Ambrosia can't. They will all call her beautiful when she walks onto the stage and accepts Tal Velasquez's hand, will call her mesmerizing as she takes a seat across from the Master of Ceremonies, the train of her dress alight with the shine of a thousand diamonds beneath the dancing lights at her back. They will say that she holds herself with the poise and the grace of a Victor, but they will not mention the emptiness in her eyes, or the weariness of her face. Because she is not a person to them; she is a symbol. And symbols must be interpreted in the way that best suits their audience.
"Ambrosia, darling, it is so lovely to see you again," Tal coos. Ambrosia cannot meet her eyes. "Why, it seems like it was just yesterday that you were stunning the crowd at your reapings, and now here you are! A Victor. Tell us: how does it feel?"
"Vindicated," Ambrosia says plainly, raising her head to look at the camera.
"A strong word, vindicated. Would you care to elaborate?"
"Well," she says. "I suppose I held true to my word. About proving your predictions incorrect."
She turns back to Tal, a wry, half-grin finally making its way to her lips. "And I look forward to doing more of that in the future - proving you wrong, proving everyone wrong. I played the Games in my own way, and I've grown from it. Perhaps even in ways that aren't yet visible."
She gives the crowd a knowing wink, almost cheeky in how it's presented. Tal's lips purse, but she quickly makes to recover her wit, standing to her feet and motioning to Ambrosia with one arm.
"The Victor of the Twenty-Third Hunger Games - Ambrosia Salazar, everyone!"
Clapping begins. It seems to be coming from all sides at once, inundating her ears with too-loud and oversaturated false praise, enough to make bile well in the back of Ambrosia's throat as Tal rejoins her in sitting. A screen flashes to life, and Tal looks to her with eyes too inept to be truly malicious.
"Shall we relive the story of your journey?"
No, Ambrosia wants to say. No, we shall not. Because it's my journey. My victory. My losses. My sorrows. My feelings and experiences, that aren't meant for you, that will never be meant for you. We will not be reliving anything, Miss Velasquez. Because you don't deserve to take part in my triumph.
You call me a victor, but I'm no more a victor now than I was when I left One.
"Tal, I would be delighted." Ambrosia answers, because sometimes it's better to acquiesce. She's done with giving people a show. Tal. The Gamemakers. Regina. Etienne. Everyone.
They don't need to know what I'm thinking. They don't deserve to know what I'm thinking.
My thoughts, my emotions… those belong to me.
Nobody else.
This is how the story goes.
Ambrosia Salazar emerged from the Games in the same fashion which she emerged from the throng of One's youth on the day of the reaping: alone. Unlike on reaping day, however, Ambrosia left the Hunger Games with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped, blood sticking to her clothing and her skin, her tears stinging as they dried to her cheeks and the deep gash through her cheek that was drawn by Maddy Aldrich's knife. Gone was the stately figure that had volunteered just two weeks prior, the cordial girl that had maintained her composure even when hounded by the prying questions and wandering eyes of a rabid audience only seven days ago. Because, after an arduous period of questing and questioning and trying to recover an identity that had never truly fit her to begin with, Ambrosia Salazar was finally going home.
Correction: someone was going home. Ambrosia knows without a doubt that she is not the same girl who was ostracized in the Academy for her iciness or idolized by One for her mother's name, not the girl who acquiesced one too many times to her mother's whims, who forced herself into masks and moulds and positions that she was ill-suited for out of a desperation to be seen. The Ambrosia that exists now is a changed woman.
She's a Victor.
She's a survivor.
She is not a champion.
And she is not a Salazar.
At one point that would have scared her. For so many years now, the thought of losing her mother's favor - of losing her mother's name - has horrified her. After the accident… after she was crippled… her mother had seen her fit for nothing more than pity at best and scorn at worst. She'd written Ambrosia off as a failure and a lost cause, just as One most likely had the second she sat foot in the arena. She was never expected to win.
For as much as Ambrosia dreamt about becoming a Victor, she had never truly planned to be one. She, like her fellow trainees, her mother, her brother, even Galen, had never intended to leave the Games alive. She knows that, now - perhaps she's always known it. Yet at this stage, continuing to pretend that she volunteered to win seems silly. And... it seems unfair.
(Angelo would want me to be honest with myself - about my feelings, if nothing else. I owe it to him to be transparent in my own mind… and with the people I care for.)
(The person I care for. Angelo is gone. All that's left is Galen.)
(... no. All that's left is Ambrosia.)
It's afternoon when the train finally comes to a stop in District One, the platform outside full to bursting with people. Ambrosia has no real desire to greet them, nor any desire to mingle. When the door opens, and she walks down those creaky metal steps one foot at a time, she keeps her focus on her feet, and her chin pointed to the ground. She has no desire to be revered, and no desire to be noticed.
But she doesn't have a choice in the matter.
She can feel an arm wrap around her shoulders, can sense the heat of another person's body positioned next to her own, their breathing heavy against Ambrosia's ear.
"Give a smile for the cameras. It'll be over soon."
Anatase.
Ambrosia's never felt particularly close to her mentor; the few times that they'd interacted had been for the sake of strategizing, trying to navigate the dynamics of alliances, the nuances and politics of training and the interviews. The relation she has with Anatase has always been professional. Impersonal. Feeling and sentiment were not involved in their pre-Games talks, or the limited conversation they've had since Ambrosia left the arena. And yet in this moment, surrounded by a District keen to shower her with praise she does not deserve, Ambrosia finds that Anatase's presence is almost comforting.
Her hand rubs Ambrosia's shoulder as she finally raises her head, greeting the cameras and the District alike with a stoic expression. She cannot bring herself to smile. She cannot bring herself to act content, in the midst of her own mental turmoil.
But she tries. She waves. She acknowledges her peers - other trainees, classmates, people she recognizes from her mother's soirees. She keeps her chin up as Anatase ushers her through the crowd, niceties leaving her lips in the form of prideful words that she doesn't even hear herself say. Eventually, the people disappear. The novelty fades away. And she is left standing in the middle of an open street that she's walked so many times she's familiar with the brickwork of the ground, and the cracks set into the sidewalk.
"I've been told that your mother's waiting for you at home," Anatase says, extricating her arm from around Ambrosia's back. "Your brother, as well."
"Of course," Ambrosia says ruefully. "They couldn't even be bothered to greet me in person. The rest of the District is here, but where are they? Holed up in their fucking mansion."
The tears comes to her eyes unannounced. She turns her head, her gaze settling on her mentor's face, then the buildings lining the street across from the train platform, then the glowing orb high above her in the sky, emitting a bright, yellow glow that she hasn't seen in weeks. She hadn't even thought to miss it, until now. Hadn't even realized, in the midst of everything else, that there was a possibility she might never have seen the sun again, might never have felt the breeze on her skin, or smelled the freshly-bloomed flowers along One's central avenue.
"Ambrosia," Anatase says, interrupting her thoughts. "You don't have to go home unless you want to. You could come to the Victor's Village instead. With me."
The offer makes Ambrosia's eyes sting, and her throat dry. She feels…
She doesn't know how she feels.
"I don't want to go home." Her voice cracks as she speaks. "No matter what she tells me, no matter what she says. She doesn't love me. She's not my mother. I…"
Ambrosia swallows, wiping gracelessly at her eyes.
"I have to see her. I need to know if… any of this… means something. Because it can't have been for nothing. I can't have won for nothing."
"You didn't win for nothing." Anatase says. "You won for yourself. And you won for Angelo."
"Angelo should be here," Ambrosia replies without missing a beat. "Not me."
He had something worth returning to. He had a family that loved him. Friends that cared about him. An entire lifetime ahead of him that he'd had yet to live. But he's the one that came home in a coffin. Because of me. Because I couldn't stop him from killing himself.
I could have talked to him. I could have helped him. I could have saved him. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because I'm a failure. Because I'm damaged, and selfish, and blind, and I can't do anything right, not for Mother, not for the Academy, not for myself. Not for anyone.
It isn't fair.
"But if there's one thing I've learned in my life it's that fairness doesn't exist," she murmurs, pressing her lips together and shutting her mouth tight.
This is Ambrosia's reality. She won. Rumination at this point is mute. The time for focusing on past regrets hasn't ended, but she can't allow it to go on forever. She needs to face her present.
She needs to face her future.
Ambrosia sees Regina for the last time on the evening of her victory dinner. Her mother, unsurprisingly, spared almost no expense on the festivities, decorating their dining hall with the hues of blue, silver and pale gold so beloved by One. Half the District is invited to attend, Angelo's family among them. Ambrosia thinks that perhaps she shouldn't be surprised that Galen Belfleur's name is not on the list, after what happened during the interviews.
The party itself is an awkward affair, made all the worse by Ambrosia's seeming refusal to mingle with her celebrators. Regina's eyes are sharp throughout the night, her piercing gaze barely hidden beneath the veneer of pleasantry that she exudes around her colleagues. Ambrosia herself feels scrutinized; uncomfortable in a way that she's not been since the week of her accident, when Regina had left her to languish in a hospital bed with no company besides her broken leg and a muted television.
She finds herself escaping to the balcony, her back braced against a stone wall and her hands balled into fists as she digs nails into her palms, trying to calm herself down. She's so out of place here that it seems surreal. She wants to cry. She wants to scream.
"You look beautiful," Regina had told her as she ran her hands through Ambrosia's hair, working it into an elaborate updo to match the mood of her dress. "The spitting image of a Victor. You should be proud of yourself for making it home. Of course, One would expect nothing less of a Salazar."
I'm not a Salazar, Ambrosia wanted to say, because despite Regina's closeness and proximity, she was still so cold. There was no warmth in her eyes when she looked at Ambrosia - no pride in her words when she spoke to her guests about this year's Victor, no love in the way she called Ambrosia 'my daughter.' It was as if she saw Ambrosia as a possession, an asset, instead of her own flesh and blood, instead of as a person.
Hold it together, Ambrosia reminds herself. Just for tonight. Just for the party. If I can manage myself through this, the future will be far easier. One more night under her thumb. One more night.
(I can pretend for that long.)
When they sit down to eat, Ambrosia finds herself positioned between her mother and her brother, back in the seat that she'd coveted since first losing it. She lets her brother clap her on the shoulder and call her his sister, allows her mother to overtake her conversations and regale their assembly with stories about her Games, and how she's been handling herself as victor. Half of what she says isn't true, but Ambrosia doesn't have the heart to care any longer. Her mother cares about the publicity, and the attention, and the reverence, not about Ambrosia, not about her feelings.
Feelings are weakness, Regina told her when she was young. Too costly to place any emphasis on. More trouble than they're worth. To achieve success in this world, you have to be hard. You have to sever your emotional ties and divest yourself of empathy so you can handle the challenges with which you are faced. Strength comes from pragmatism, not from passion.
Ambrosia shifts in her seat. Regina's hand rests on her leg, a warning that she needs to try her best to remain still. Anything else would be improper, after all.
She looks away, letting her thoughts wander away from the mansion, away from the party. Somewhere beyond this house, there's a casket being lowered into a grave, buried under layer upon layer of dirt. Inside the coffin, there's a rotting corpse with a disemboweled stomach and too-dead eyes and too-white skin, and even though he's dead, Ambrosia can still hear him breathing. She turns her eyes to the end of the table, where Palmer Veroge is sitting with his shoulders slumped and his expression twisted in grief, and wonders if he can hear Angelo, too.
"- Ambrosia's managed her duties well, as to be expected. She'll be mentoring next year, of course; and I suspect, returning to the Academy for the time being. I must have had half the trainers calling me after she won, sending their congratulations -"
Palmer raises his head. Ambrosia can't help but shudder as their eyes meet, Regina's grip on her leg growing harsher as she shifts again. He looks like him, sort of. The same nose, the same eyes, the same dull blond hair, though Palmer's is coiffed, not slicked back and kept severe like Angelo's always was.
Ambrosia laughs a little, and her laugh turns into a sob. Etienne turns to her, confused. Regina nudges her, and hisses that she needs to get herself together, that she can cry once she's in bed, but this isn't the time, and Ambrosia thinks, when is it ever the time?
Her laugh becomes a cackle. Tears are seeping down her cheeks, leaving lines through the overdone makeup she's been decorated in.
"Apologies, everyone," her mother says tersely. "It seems Ambrosia's feeling a bit under the weather. Perhaps you should head upstairs, darling. I'll send your brother to fetch you once you've recovered."
"You're full of shit," Ambrosia replies, not paying any mind to the gasps of shock from around her. Her eyes stay fixed on Palmer, and she isn't surprised to see that he's smiling, a bit, in that faint, secretive way that's so like his brother. "Save the speeches for company matters, Regina. You needn't waste them on me."
She stands to her feet, and starts walking. Out of the dining room. Out of the foyer and the study and the heavy oak doors that have so long kept her from living her life, down the stone steps that lead from Salazar Mansion to the streets beyond. She starts walking, and she keeps walking, unsure of where she's going, but confident that she's in control of her steps, her pace, her direction. Her mother doesn't own her, and neither does the Capitol. Neither does her trauma. She is the master of her own fate, and she is going to grow from her pain. She is going to live.
And as Ambrosia finds her hand knocking against the cold metal of Galen Belfleur's front door, she realizes that living is what she's wanted all along.
And here we are; at the final chapter of Lex Talionis. Truthfully, I'm not sure I'm ready to let it go - but like Ambrosia, it's time for me to move on to a new story, and a new blank page. So with the final eulogies posted, and the epilogue following in its wake, it's time for us to mark this story as complete. Here's to Centrifuge - and whatever comes next!