(This update now has made Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death longer than my first main SYOT, Sheep Led to Slaughter. That's insane)
Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter for Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #31: A Lover's Quarrel. I know I said a literally different name for it last chapter, but I felt it was too on the nose and gave too much away so I changed it to this last minute. Last chapter was somehow a little bit more 'lowkey' with three tribute povs nestled between some worldbuilding on the Capitol end with Richmond and Adriane. Richmond's buttons have been pushed, and Adriane has introduced something to President Emrick known as the Careers... hmm, interesting, In the arena, Porscha has a new plot for revenge, Nokomis and Camilla have reached a crossroads regarding a certain ally, and the D3 duo of Vesuvia and Jasper fought a god, and from the looks of it, lost. This chapter around is entirely tribute focused with six povs, and is definitely one of the heaviest things I have written in awhile; a point of no return for nearly every tribute in this cast. It is extremely long for a reason, so I hope you forgive me with that. I hope you all enjoy Chapter #31: A Lover's Quarrel.
And yes the word count you saw in the email at 17somethingK is not a typo. I uh... went hard here.
"You've got to make tough decisions, sometimes unpopular decisions... Whatever it is, if it's the right move at the right time, you've got to be also willing to make mistakes." ~ Sean McDermott
Ramses Boskov: District 12 Male P.O.V (17)
They slept outside last night, and Ramses hasn't laid a finger on Orion since… well, the only word he can use is the incident. The incident, where his lover bathing in sunshine morphs in front of his very eyes into this grotesque creature with a snarling foam mouth, a maw dripping with Grisel and body parts, as if Orion were to lunge over at him across the cabin and rip into his throat at the very first opportunity. Ramses lies awake all throughout the night, even after the two cannon fires blast in the sky. Orion has his back turned away from him, Ramses staring straight into his back, down the curvature of his lover's spine that he can see poking out through his training uniform.
He has never been yelled like that before, when they return back to their cabin exhausted from their excursion two nights ago. Niklaus Peverell may be dead, with his head separated from the rest of his body, but Ramses feels like he is the one to truly die that night, seeing Orion twist into a malicious caricature of himself underneath the moonlit shadows of the elm trees above their heads. The tears that stream down his face are not for Kai'sa Shadow, when he sees his district partner's face shining in the sky, her grim portrait one that resembled her in life as it does in death, corpse-like, and she isn't smiling. They are for what he must do now, for the end that'll come about sooner than later if Orion continues down this path.
He's apologized – Orion has, Ramses believes there is nothing for him to be sorry about – but it isn't enough. It'll never be enough. Ramses rises early, way earlier than either one of them have woken up beforehand in the arena so far, but now that it has been seven days of nothing but training in the cabin and exploring each other's bodies with their hands, it is time for a change of scenery. He does not mean to put up new curtains on the windowsills or change out the floor paneling.
Ramses shoulders the bag hanging off of his back, one of the straps coming undone from all the duress its experienced over the last few days. The sword – Orion's sword, he interrupts the thought, darkly, still looking over at his lover who is curled up by the other empty sleeping bag, an arm draped over the midriff section – is in Ramses's right hand, for he'll never be able to pick up the axe again, the one Orion uses to cut off Niklaus's head. The axe is back inside the cabin, somewhere, but he hasn't gone to look for it.
He could take it with him if he wanted to, Ramses supposes, with a frown, but it'll only weigh him down. The boy from Twelve closes his eyes, leaning up against the doorway. Every time he closes his eyes now, no longer does the picture of the golden countryside he's always envisioned appear at the forefront of his mind. It is Orion's twisted sneer, the sunshine lieutenant and all of his strapping wonder, and a smoky face appearing behind Orion's shoulder. That boy, Alistair.
Ramses's mouth fills with the lucid taste of copper as he bites down on his tongue. He's never met the other guy, but it's not like it matters. Ramses cannot compete with a corpse, with this other man in his lover's life who meant the world to him. Best friends his ass. With the way Orion talks about Alistair, the rebel that could, there is an idyllic glow in his lover's eyes, as if he is transfixed in the valley beyond the sun, with golden fields and stalks of grain decorating wooden pathways up to a crystal fountain. Ramses is a living boy, and he will always be runner-up to a dead body.
He is not runner-up. He has never been runner-up.
Ramses lifts his injured hand, the feeling that the lost fingers are actually there having been stronger than ever the last few hours, to the point where Ramses tries curling his hand around the axe, briefly, to throw it, but he only manages to miss and nearly send the blade into his leg on a badly angled downward swing. It is not as if Orion will dote on him now, if he were to be injured, unlike before, when Jasper Overheart slams the metallic iron rod into his chest.
The bruising on his ribs remain from the confrontation, but Ramses has moved on from that.
Orion will never dote on him again; he's made that quite clear with what he said. Or what he didn't say.
"You can't ever take that back…" Ramses whispers, before clamping a hand over his mouth. He didn't realize he had been speaking aloud. Loud enough to make Orion stir, a beam of sunlight landing directly through the mesh of tree branches and onto the boy from Four's face.
Orion stretches his arms out and groans, Ramses swallowing the heavy lump in his throat. The two men connect their gazes from across the stretch of land, a good six or seven feet separating them, but in Ramses's heart, the distance spans districts: continents even.
"Good morning, Ramses," Orion greets him cheerfully, smiling. Ramses does not return the grin. He looks at his lover and feels disgust pooling in the base of his spine, filling him up with a rotten vinegar smell that soaks into his organs and permeates out of his pores and up through his mouth, burning his throat. Orion frowns, taking a collective look over at Ramses's appearance. Suited up, weapon in hand… Ramses feels like a nomad. "Where- what are you all readied up for? It's not even that late!"
Ramses knows that the boy from Four is simply talking out of his ass at this point, since Orion hasn't even moved over to see what time it is on the arena clock spanning the sides of the dome. "Morning, Orion," Ramses replies back, his voice cracking, though he barely even whispers the greeting. There is no love here, not in death's cold embrace. He leeches himself off of the wooden entrance, his shirt catching on a nail and tearing in the back.
Orion sits up, hair fuzzed up and messy. Ramses can imagine himself running a hand through those locks, locks that used to feel edible, as if he were biting into cotton candy. Now it is a tangle of bleeding barbed wire, piano wire separating fingers from the base of a hand, slicing across Ramses's throat, encircling his heart, and choking the very essence of life out of him.
Ramses sets the sword aside, kneeling down to the bandolier of knives that is rolled up against the other backpack, the one he will not be taking. He looks at Orion and smiles, tilting his head to the side. "I just wanted to get a good head start," his lover's laxness alarms him. Orion cannot have forgotten that they're in the Hunger Games. "But if you really wanted to stay solitary for a few more minutes…" he purrs in his throat.
He crawls over to Orion, placing one hand on his chest, kissing him softly on the lips. It is as if he is kissing a ghost, kissing someone who cannot kiss back or wrap their arms around him. Orion coos lowly in his throat, a lustful chuckle rising from the depths, but all Ramses can hear is cackling from down below. "Mhmm…" Orion hums back, returning the kiss.
Ramses tugs his hand behind him, snagging something free from its restraints. He curls his hand into a fist around the object. "I love you, Orion," he says. He means it, somewhere, somewhere hidden, where his sister Anastasia may have been able to find it once upon a time, but now the love has been thrown out, key tossed into a garbage can and lit on fire. Orion opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to respond with the statement that no longer holds any merit, but Ramses never gives him the chance, reconnecting their mouths, tongues colliding for a split second. Electricity flows through the boy's veins, heart picking up acceleration again. "I've been thinking over what you said yesterday," Ramses continues, when they split again, a trail of saliva connecting each other like a swinging rope bridge on a pitiful tether. "And you were right, from the beginning, Orion," his lover frowns, raising an eyebrow, sleepiness cast in a cloudy sheen over his eyes. "And that is why I am… I am so sorry…" Ramses gasps.
Orion gasps, likewise, but unlike out of Ramses's melancholy, Orion's throat looses a noise of raw agony.
Ramses shoves the knife clenched in his right hand through Orion's side, just above his hip, cutting down in a ragged motion. He can already feel warm blood pumping out of the wound over his hands, but Ramses simply licks his lips and continues retracting the knife and slicing into his lover's skin again. Orion's pupils dilate in darkness, his mouth wide and open in pain, but no words come out.
"I'm sorry," Ramses rasps, tears streaming clear down his face, mixing in with the snot spilling from his nose. "But I can't keep doing this," he shakes his head, drawing out the knife. Orion makes a wounded noise in his throat as Ramses flings the bloodied, very bloodied blade away into the grass elsewhere. "You were right though, Orion. I need strength, and where I lack it, you used to have it in spades…" Ramses starts grinding down on top of his lover, pressing his hot flesh into pockets of Orion's, the boy from Four's face twisting into one of anguish. "But you were also wrong…"
This must be done, it must be done, or Ramses will have hung himself from the highest beam in the cabin.
"I have always wanted to be a leader," Ramses continues speaking, leaning forward, and running a finger through Orion's hair, curling a lock around his pointer, twisting upwards until he's tugging the follicle out of his head, Orion leaning his head back and gasping again. The boy's hands are all over the wound in his side, trying to stem the blood that is spilling free out of the wound. "I've wanted to lead Panem through this self-contained darkness, this blip," Another lump forms in his throat. "To rule and be a king of this great nation that deserves a leader willing to do the greater good."
Ramses leans down and grabs Orion's hands in his own, removing them from the wound, before placing his lover's arms above his head, allowing the blood to continue to leak out.
"A king does what must be done for the greater good of his people," the tears do not stop falling, his nor Orion's, but the pain in his shattering heart is a thousand times worse. "A king sticks his neck out for the less fortunate," his gaze flits over his injured hand. It is an injury that has left him crippled, reminding him of every shortcoming he has ever done. And the man still died, even after all Ramses put himself through to save him. "But a king also needs to know when to cut ties, when to cut away from the rest of the pack and to let the weak suffer," he hiccups, but he does not let go of Orion's body, continuing to rub himself against his lover. He can feel it below, the rising arousal. "But again, Orion, you were wrong. I am strong," Ramses leans down and presses a chaste kiss against his lover's ear. "I will always be stronger than you."
He rights himself over his lover, releasing his right hand, and pressing it back against Orion's side. Both of their hands are pressed against the wound, and there is still a light in Orion's eyes; he is not gone, certainly not yet, not for a long time.
"I used to think you were beautiful," Ramses comments, sadly, looking down at his lover's body. Orion likes to sleep without a shirt on, showing off toned muscles and curved apertures between his ribs. Pectoral muscles that Ramses could slice off and serve as pot-roast, a body that deserves to be celebrated. Who knew that this hunk could hold such venom in their mouth? "And you are, physically, at least, but deep down…" Ramses grabs the knife again, and places it directly above Orion's heart. Orion's breathing accelerates rapidly, and he's shaking his head back and forth. Begging, but Niklaus Peverell never got the chance to beg before his lover cut the kid's head off. "You are black inside," Ramses applies a bit of pressure, but he does not follow through with the stab. "My heart may not be made of gold, but I know who I am and what I am," he swirls a finger on his left hand around Orion's chest, dancing delicately close to his nipples. "I have not changed or pretended to be someone I am not." Ramses closes his eyes, heaving a heavy cough. "I didn't lie."
Orion looks lost, eyes searching across Ramses's face, but there'll be no compassion to be found, for there is none. "In war time," Ramses slides the same hand across his lover's cheek, catching his tears. "A king has to decide who to put on the frontlines. The first sacrifice, the first blood." Ramses presses his right hand harshly against Orion's wound, curling his fingers in between the flesh, and this time Orion cannot hold on, letting out a ragged scream that causes a few crows perched nearby to fly away. "How dare you say that I was weak. How dare you doubt me, that you doubt your leader!" Ramses yells in his lover's face. "I loved you! And you thought I was weak!"
Ramses slaps Orion straight across the face, leaping off of the other's boy body in a fury. Some of the blood gets on his knees, as Orion groans in pain, a deep growl low from his throat. Sweat and tears and blood pool down Ramses's face, he wiping at his skin with the back of his hand and part of his shirt. This is not easy, and Ramses does not want to do something he'll regret, pulling out of the darkness that festers inside his soul. Orion does not deserve this painful separation, but how will he learn?
"Ramses…" Orion barely even manages to say the other boy's name, as Orion desperately crawls over to the medical kit.
The boy from Twelve gets there first, unzipping the contents and dumping them upside down. There are several rolls of gauze left, he having half of the mind to throw them away and off of the cliffside, the same cliffside that Jasper knocks him off of. Orion rides to his rescue then, that idyllic light in his eyes, but it is all for that boy Alistair. The corpse he cannot compare himself to.
"I still love you," Ramses scratches at his face, clawing hard enough above his eyebrows to draw blood. "I will always love you, but what you did yesterday… how you made me feel… it is something I cannot ever forgive," he looks back at his lover's trembling form. "This is where I leave you, Orion. This is where we part our goodbyes…" he leans down in front of Orion's face, but his lover is all focused on stopping the spilling blood out of the wound in his side. "You will not get a chance to see the nation that I will build, Orion, and I am sorry for that. But please know that you were instrumental in its design, instrumental in its creation."
He leans forward and kisses his lover one last time, slipping his tongue inside his mouth. The sunshine soldier's clouds darken.
When they split apart again, blood mingling in Ramses's mouth, Orion croaks out another pitiful cry. "Ramses… please… don't…"
Ramses picks up the discarded sword, sheathing it swiftly. "I will make sure the history books remember you, Orion," he leans his head up towards the blue sky as the sun rises over the horizon. "They will sing songs of your bravery and your valor and how you volunteered, and how you held my heart in your hands and still crushed it to pieces…" he rasps. He looks back at Orion, a few last teardrops falling free. He cannot cry over the dead, they will hold no place in his kingdom beyond the stars. "I love you, Orion."
"Ramses!" Orion screams, his throat raw with pain, he trying to get to his feet, but the boy only stumbles forward and back onto the ground.
The boy from Twelve ventures further into the arena, into the fishing village, sword strapped to his side, but he will not be holding onto Orion's head any longer. He no longer has any use for the man he thought would be his saving grace, when he could've ended up as his worst mistake.
Orion continues screaming his name out, but Ramses does not look back. His kingdom will await him, and at the end of it, before he'll reach those gates, there'll be the thunderous sound of eleven cannons firing in its wake. He'll clench the keys to the kingdom in his bloodied grip, embracing the white light.
Everyone will see, and everyone will know.
Ramses Boskov has always had the strength to lead, and lead he will, till his dying day.
Catalus Drachma: District 1 Male P.O.V (18)
The gamble has not paid off, in Catalus's head. The chase has been wasted, spoilt, like a caught boar sitting on the middle of a show table and left alone for old age and decay to take the animal's life rather than a butcher's knife. The blood has been drawn out of the corpse, a husk of what used to be an exciting rush in his veins. Sylvan's dying gasps echo in his head while the young boy's hands flit with trying to remove the spear pinning him to the cavern wall. Catalus leaves the weapon in the boy's body, Diana protesting and swearing at him hotly to the point where he can feel the heat emanating off of the back of his head, but he simply continues walking. She'll find another one, surely. There must be another golden spear back for her at camp, their always moving camp.
Catalus loves taking jumping off of the cliffside without looking at what is down below in the water first before he thinks about sticking the landing. The rush it gives him, filling his body with adrenaline at the height of his slicked back hair to the soles of his feet, draining down towards his toes, Catalus exhales the very feel of adventure into his lungs. However, now, with half of the pack of tributes dead, once Sylvan's face shines in the sky alongside Kai'sa's, the chasing thrill has been spoiled. It sits in him like a vinegar droplet placated on his tongue, left to hang there like sour asbestos. He wishes he could be back in One with Harmony, sitting at the gambling tables while the crooks across it file their teeth with a blade, and call him sweet sucker as Catalus falls for the bluff every single time one of them draws their cards out underneath the table. He misses his family, walking through the backyard vineyard and peeling off a grape hanging down low on the vines that bear little to no fruit. Even golden-haired Khristos is part of the feeling of longing for home, where his younger brother looks down at him from the porch with disdain behind his sunglasses stare.
It is silly of him to be so idealistic, Catalus realizes now, after the taste of the arena has settled into the back of his throat, soaking his skin in a bloody brine that taints the undersides of his fingernails in a copper grime. He believes, for a split second, standing there on the pedestals at the beginning of the Games, prepared to let Diana enact Mission Chaos as the girl from Four dubs it in their last midnight talk, that he can make it through the entire Games and come out victorious without shedding blood. He has never been a pacifistic man, certainly not allying himself with the thoughts that came spilling out of Kileigh Katsaras's mouth, but there is something to the very idea of killing other teenagers his age who do not have a reason for their lives to be ended is prude enough to make him turn up his nose.
And it is Diana Kratovska that makes him betray his own mantra, even after watching her snipe Cecelia in the back of the head or see Magnus shoot Pierce Alversway out of the tower on the second day. He would let them do all the dirty work, let them compete in the spotlight as their escorts send messages to the group concerning 'performance' and not letting the Gamemakers make quick work for their lack of entertaining sportsmanship.
He believes it's bullshit. "Nevaeh died three days ago," Catalus spits over their fire that night, the first words he's spoken all evening as the trio treks back away from the cavern, taking the kid's shield with them. "You think Sylvan was an entertaining force in the Games for two days cooped up by himself somewhere?" he shakes his head in disgust, spitting a glob of phlegm into the grass on his right. He looks directly into Diana's eyes. "You just wanted to see the blood drip out of him, and you won't have the decency to deny it, cause you know I am telling the truth."
He is right, then. She does not deny it.
And Catalus knows he is right again, with what he wants to do. It is time to leave, to separate himself from the wishes and goals of Magnus and Diana. All he can do is replay the words that god, Mimir, tells him in the cave. Betrayal is coming. He has no idea when, he has no idea in what form it would look like, but he knows one thing… he isn't stupid enough to stay behind and let it consume him. With the stunts Diana pulled yesterday, Catalus is surer of it than anything.
He isn't taking much, and the dawn has already broken through the trees; he will no longer have the cover of darkness or grogginess in his allies' heads to help aid him. They've had breakfast, cut into the bread, Diana has sharpened her new spear for the day… Magnus is counting arrows, and Catalus has his bag packed. It's filled with two canteens of water, one small package of fruit, and his gripping claw, the gift he receives for killing Fenrir. He will leave everything behind, besides the sword in his hand, for Magnus and Diana to fight over like the animals he'll see them become.
Magnus is not the same boy he meets in the Capitol ten days ago at the tribute parade, all smiles, and a clean haircut. The jovialness has been replaced by a stark winter grin, where he can see the frustration on Magnus's face as his arrow shots miss Sylvan in the cave yesterday. Fighting for his life against Portia and the other two outlier girls the day before that is intense, but Catalus feels himself rooted against the ground then as it is Diana who yells at him to leap into action. He can't do this any longer.
One of them mutters his name as Catalus tightens the backpack strap that is stretched across his chest, he sheathing his sword in place. He lifts his head high and begins to venture forward. He has no destination, and that's the fun in it, the risk he seeks at the end of a flipped coin. Catalus leaves behind the earring he keeps in his left ear; it is mother's, one classically made and bejeweled for him, but where he is going, where he may end up, sentimentality will only get in the way.
He only makes it a few more steps forward when something sharp pricks him on the back of the neck. Telling from the weight of the object, at the bulk he can sense with it touching the base of his skin, it is not one of Magnus's arrows.
"Where do you think you're going?" Diana asks, her voice serenely calm, yet underneath that, he can taste the venomous tone lining his gums. She applies a bit more pressure in pushing the spear forward so the point nestles right against where Catalus's hair ends, and the back begins. "I didn't make any announcements of where we were moving to today, yet."
"Where do you think I am going?" Catalus retorts back, He'll play, he's always been good at his own bluffing. Let her think she has all the high ground here.
"Did I say you can leave?" Diana is quick to respond. There is some shuffling behind Catalus, he assuming it to be Magnus standing to his feet, since the boy from Two is sitting on a tree stump the last he checks before starting his departure.
Catalus holds both of his hands up, some of the pressure from the angled spear releasing off of the back of his neck. He turns back around, slowly, still keeping the same position, until he is looking Diana directly in the eyes. Her face is twisted into a sneer, one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other, the other golden spear devoid of any blood splatters clenched in her grip, it's angle set straight through his throat if she were to throw it.
He cocks his head to the side, scoffing. "I didn't ever recall you being the boss of me, Princess," he shoots back at her.
Diana twists one side of her mouth, lowering the spear so its positioned directly over his heart. "You seem to have been much more perceptible to accepting my commands the last week, Catalus," she lifts her head up some, but the spear doesn't drop from its lethal coordinates. Catalus keeps his gaze on the tip of the weapon, and not at her face. If he is fast enough, he may just be able to swing his sword high enough to block a potential stab and aim for her side. His sight flickers over to Magnus for a split second, he catching view of the fact that the other boy is in fact not armed, his bow still by his side, and Catalus cannot see the quiver. "It looks like to me that you're leaving, and that wasn't part of the contract."
Contract? What is this? Something his family conjures up in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm like his father's old deals? Magnus takes a step forward from his seating, arms raised lower, hands angled towards the ground. "Catalus, dude, what are you doing?" he asks him.
Catalus frowns, catching the confusion flickering over Magnus's face. It is true confusion, one where the eyebrows are piqued together. Harmony has the same facial expression when another patron at the bar refuses her call for action towards one of the velvet bedrooms, he's seen it a time or twenty. "What am I doing?" he repeats the question, gaze passing between Magnus and Diana. "You of all people-"
Diana lowers her weapon, taking a single step forward in Catalus's direction. His gaze snaps back at her as she approaches, the hand that is not holding onto the spear curving into a pointed finger. "I want you to think very, very carefully about what you're doing, Catalus. Choose your words carefully, or I am going to send this spear through your throat."
"You're really bad at being intimidating," Catalus snipes back, lying through his teeth. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, soaking the top lining of his uniform. He has never put too much thought into things, which is why his family passes over him for the job of inheriting the Drachma Conglomerate and running the family business that makes District 1, District 1. "You wouldn't even-"
Diana swipes the spear back up, thrusting it forward, stopping it just shy of his Adam's apple. All the water in his mouth dries up. "Try me," she sneers, tilting her head to the side. "You have way too big of a mouth for someone as cowardly as you, Catalus."
"I'm the coward?" he laughs, thrusting a hand back at her, knocking the spear away from his throat. "You and him are the ones who use ranged weapons and I'm stuck here with this," he gestures down at the sword strapped to his side. "I have had enough of you and your attitude," Catalus shakes his head. "I was able to forgive Cecelia, after our last argument, but what you made me do yesterday with Sylvan-"
The girl from Four swivels on her ankles, Catalus having to step back so the brunt end of the spear doesn't hit him in the chest. Magnus's body tenses over in his corner, but he's still made zero movement over to his bow. "From what I can recall, Catalus," Diana turns on him again, as she goes for water canteen by her sleeping bag, "Is that you went and speared Sylvan without hesitation. And it isn't like you just stabbed him in the heart and made it quick for him," she jabs a finger in his direction, and despite their distance, Catalus can feel it prodding into his chest. "You let him hang there like cured meat to bleed out," she shakes her head back and forth. "So don't you dare think of calling me a monster when you're just as evil."
"I didn't sign up for this!" Catalus screams back at her, wanting to tug his hair out.
That seems to throw Diana into a frenzy as an enraged yell rises from her chest and out of her throat, the loudest screech he has ever heard her make. "You fucking volunteered, Catalus!" Diana yells at him. "You and Magnus both willingly threw yourselves here! So you don't get to use the excuse of innocence! I am sick of it!" she advances on him again, spear now leveled low.
Catalus pushes her back the moment she gets in his face. "I was forced to!" he screams again, his push knocking Diana onto her ass. It is then when Magnus races forward, catching the girl from Four in his arms before she can hit the ground. As he helps right her up, she shoves him away, a dark cloud forming on her forehead, shadowing her eyes. All the anger in Catalus's body evaporates down through his fingers, leeching off of him like a blood droplet leaking from a rusty faucet. "I was forced to…" he runs a hand through his hair.
Magnus's voice is impossibly soft when the boy speaks again. "Catalus, what are you talking about?"
The boy from One looks up and at his ally. Every camera is probably trained on them, watching this argument take place in real time, but the thrill of knowing everyone is watching does not take hold of Catalus like it would've a month ago. "I am here as punishment," he says, his voice falling to a whisper, unable to hold eye contact. "My parents fought in the rebellion, and we… we had a captive…" his lips tremble, there's a thunder flash, and the golf club is clenched between his hands, Catalus wringing it back and forth in his molten hot grip. "I was told to kill him, be an active part of the war effort, and I couldn't do it…" Catalus wipes at his eyes, despite there being no tears that fall free. "The man told the mayor, Friedrich Calvary, and our rebel forces in One were outmaneuvered and we lost a lot of guys that day…"
There is a moment of silence between all three of them, but Diana's gaze is still trained on Catalus. He can feel the hawk's stare bearing into his neck, and out the back of his head.
Magnus breaks the quiet first. "I had no idea…"
Catalus laughs nervously, licking his lips, throwing a hand up in the air. "My family's legacy is being ripped from their hands by the committee board, of those that still manage to survive when the president went calling for everyone's heads…" he rubs a hand down his face. "And as an added punishment, I was to be the first volunteer for the Hunger Games from One or they'd kill me. The committee and neighbors my family had known for generations would've killed me if I didn't perform my duty," he looks up, connecting his line of sight to Diana, as she breaks away from it for a second. "I didn't know what other dominoes would fall if I didn't do what was asked of me, and that was a risk I wasn't going to take, so I volunteered." He cracks his knuckles, his chest rising and falling heavily with each breath. "At least in here I had a chance of survival versus facing their wrath back home."
Diana makes a pained gasp in her throat. "You really didn't want to be here?" she asks. When the two of them look at one another, Catalus does not see any sort of empathy or pity in her face, no matter what tone her voice brings on.
"I didn't want to be here," he repeats, nodding his head. No matter the softness she brings, he can still not feel sorry for her hatred, and he still does not trust her regardless of what tenderness Diana brings to the situation. "I was lost on what to do," Catalus admits. "When I was in the private sessions, I just moved around aimlessly, until at the last minute I picked up a blade and swung a sword at something just to…" he shakes his head, trailing off. "And that's why I got a three."
Magnus lowers his head, but whether or not if it is out of shame, Catalus cannot tell. "I'm sorry," the boy from Two whispers.
Catalus ignores him. "I can't be a part of this anymore, Diana. For what it's worth, I'm sorry too."
She doesn't break eye contact with him. "You know what this means, right?"
"I have a clue," Catalus says, and there is the irresistible smirk that he's infamous for giving back in District One. He turns to Magnus, tightening the grip on the hilt of his sword. "You should come with me, Magnus," the boy from Two looks up, a mistiness in the boy's eyes. "You know it is only a matter of time before she turns on you, and I don't want to have to say, 'I told you so'," he pleads.
A lump forms in the soldier's throat, "A good soldier follows, while the leaders take command," the boy's eyes flit over Catalus, and he can sense the judgement leeching out of the stare. "A bad soldier abandons the rest of his company."
Catalus scoffs, shaking his head in disdain. "I hope when we meet again it's as brothers and not as enemies, Winterthorn."
"Same, Drachma," Magnus regards, nodding his head.
Catalus turns back to Diana, who has stood off to the side, arms crossed together. "Diana, I'm sorry-"
"Fuck you," she snarls back at him, and to make her point, she picks up the spear again.
It is time to leave, and Catalus knows it. He is grateful, truthfully, when neither of them call out his name once he finally turns his back to head out into the unknowns of the arena. Magnus nor Diana make an effort, and he's okay with it.
There is a Hunger Games to win, but Catalus Drachma will do it on his own terms, rules be damned.
He leaves, and Catalus Drachma does not look back.
Camilla Rodriguez: District 9 Female P.O.V (17)
The tremble in her hands hasn't stopped, and its been over twelve hours since she throws her weapon into Kai'sa Shadow's neck to trigger it. The rattle starts low at her wrist, pulsating into her palm, ricocheting, and rising higher and higher until it is leeching off of her fingertips, digging the vibrations from underneath her finger beds, dripping out onto the ground. Nokomis's presence by her side helps somewhat, Camilla occasionally reaching out to grab her ally's hand and squeeze it tight for the simple knowledge of knowing she's there. There is a higher level of understanding between the two of them now, Camilla feeling the tether connect their hearts with each beat, each breath in matching synchronization.
The three girls speak tenderly to each other over their dwindling fire when the faces shine in the sky, Portia mentioning her brothers and sisters back home, while Nokomis lays out on her stomach, working away on another poem, different from the one she's working on before… Camilla cannot even finish the thought. Before the beginning of the end, in her head.
That is what it is, the beginning of the end, or in how Portia puts it before falling asleep so Nokomis can take the first watch, the end of the beginning, where the Games are finally about to start. Camilla has no idea how she'll ever sleep another wink, especially after what is-
"Hey, Camilla, hand me the basket so I can put the berries in it," Nokomis says, drawing the girl's attention out of her reprieve. Camilla shakes her head, licking her lips, blinking away the confusion in her head. Breakfast time calls for another sponsor gift, a batch of berries – a mixture, mainly strawberries and blueberries that Portia kicks over accidentally to do another one of her 'duty calls' missions – and the sponsor gift, to Camilla's surprise, is from Clair. The woman hasn't contacted her once since the Games have begun, not that she's been missing the escort's company or presence in her life, but it is still a welcome one.
"You did good killing that brat from Twelve," the message reads, which Camilla recites in her head, for the calling card is crumpled beneath her fist. "She wasn't going to last, but you need to stay strong. Get rid of your so called leader and there will be more where this comes from…" Camilla finishes the message, wiping the last dredges of sleep out of her eyes. "Sorry," she mutters, aloud, reaching over and grabbing an extra basket that comes with the sponsor.
"Let's just finish this and then we can discuss…" Nokomis takes the object, dumping half of the berries she has in her hands, the ones she picked up off of the ground, into the basket. "We can discuss later."
It is an ominous word, Nokomis's tone making Camilla's heart skip a beat. The demise of their leader, the end of Portia Beninblade, which is an event that has taken too long for it to start. Camilla is adamant on day one about not accepting any outsiders, especially someone from District 1 or 2 where those mayors of those districts sold the rebellion up the river. However, then, back in District 10's apartment, all she can think about is survival for the next day against all of the other tributes who are still alive then, and she signs on up for Portia's inclusion.
"Yeah," she says, scratching at the back of her throat. There's the sound of walking behind her, it being Portia coming back from her latest excursion. Nokomis locks her jaw, nodding her head, before gathering more of the knocked over fruit. It's a simple plan… the two girls start an argument with Portia, edging her to the side of the cliff, until Nokomis apologizes and goes to give the girl a hug. One stab to the front, and one stab to the back, and Camilla refuses to be the one to push the girl from Two over the side. Camilla swallows heavily, looking at the girl they plan to murder directly in the face as she returns to camp. "Well, that potty break took way less time than before. Didn't think of Diana this time?"
Portia's face turns a shade of purple, fuchsia pooling around her lips. "N- no!" she stutters, removing a few blonde strands of hair out of her face. The girl sits down, retrieving her sword. It is something Portia has done the last two days now, Camilla watching the movement without ever blinking. Portia pulls out her weapon and starts to sharpen it, and Camilla has no idea where their leader would've gotten the advice to do it before the start of every day. Why does she need to prep her blade. "Besides, if I am ever thinking of Diana, it's just in how I will end her life…" Portia hisses, tightening her grip around the hilt of her weapon.
"As if you'll be the one to do it…" Nokomis mutters to herself, Camilla biting back a smile.
The girl from Nine turns around, helping Nokomis pick up the rest of the overturned sponsor gift. She sits back on the haunches of her ankles, feeling the weight, a feeling she is familiar with due to all of the long hours in the fields to provide for her and Millet. However, as Camilla sinks her soles into the stone, given they're still encamped at the top of the waterfall, the sound of the rushing water calm in her ears, she notices a lack of pressure in her backside.
She frowns, moving a hand to press against her rear, running the hand down the right side of her leg. "Shit…" Camilla swears, clamping a hand over her mouth. Portia doesn't seem to hear her, but Nokomis does, her ally furrowing her brow together. "Shit, shit, shit, fuck…" Camilla runs a hand through her hair, exhaling a shaky breath.
"What's wrong, Camilla?" There is true concern in the other girl's voice. A tenderness she has not felt in a long time, where even after both of her parents pass away, Millet's cheerful disposition is replaced with that of a stark winter and hearths that have long been extinguished.
It's gone. "My knife…" Camilla's voice wavers, and Nokomis mirrors a similar expression. "I- I left it in Kai'sa's neck…" There is no other possibility as to where her weapon would be, since there's no way in hell she's going to approach the body after she did what she did. The ladies had to distance themselves away from the battleground so the hovercraft could come and pick up Kai'sa's body, but… but how could Camilla- "What are we going to do, Nokomis?" She feels a set of eyes trained on her back.
Nokomis shakes a bit as Camilla reaches out, gripping her ally's hands tight in her own, squeezing them for all of the pressure she can muster in her fingers. "We'll figure out something… we'll get that-"
Camilla feels the stare in her back bear into her skin further, and then there's rustling movement, the sound of shoes scraping against stone. She looks back fearfully, Portia standing on her own two feet, sword in hand, pointed downwards, but the look on the girl from Two's face is nothing short of frightening.
"Okay…" Portia drawls out, scratching at her forehead. "I think I've had enough of this," she gestures between the other two girls.
Camilla stands up likewise, but Nokomis stays perched in a near kneeling position. "Like what, Portia?" she asks, feigning innocence in her voice. She needs a weapon… Nokomis may have a hunting knife perched in her backpack, but that is behind Portia, and way too close to the cliff.
Their leader balks a harsh laugh, picking up the sword, angling it towards Camilla. "Just because I'm a blonde doesn't mean I'm an idiot, Cammie," Portia clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "I see what's going on here." Camilla opens her mouth to respond, but she is steamrolled right over. "Lemme guess, trying to figure out how to get rid of me, huh?" Portia cranes her neck around Camilla and looks at the bowl of fruit. "Got your escort from stupid Nine to somehow poison those berries, maybe?"
Nokomis scoffs, wiping her hands together, running them off of her uniform pants. "Portia, all we were doing was seriously discussing what to do for breakfast and-"
"And Camilla's knife somehow factors into it?" Portia questions, raising an eyebrow. "And dealing with… well, something," the girl shrugs her shoulders, scowling. "Don't act like I can't see what's happening here. I am not going to stand-by and just let you try and stab me in the back."
"I swear on my parents' lives that-" Camilla starts to say, stepping forward. There is no way she can use her looks or charm here, but the sword is nearby, the sword is close enough, and if Portia is just a iota stupider than she does look…
"Your parents are dead, Camilla," Portia sneers. "You admitted it during your interview, if you don't remember," the girl begins to pace back and forth. Camilla keeps her gaze on her, stalking her. Murder is wrong, but maybe there are people in the world who do deserve their demises at the hands of the unwilling. Could she just push her off and see what happens? "I know the two of you don't like me-"
"Gee, what gave you that impression?" Nokomis retorts, snorting.
Camilla looks back at her ally, widening her eyes. She has no idea how the other girl can remain so calm, as the tension Camilla feels webbing across her back, like cracks appearing on a frozen lake in the middle of winter, do not seem to scrawl along Nokomis's face. The girl from Ten remains in her seated position, while Portia continues her prowl.
"You don't have to like me," Portia almost sounds sad, if Camilla didn't hear the complete tonal shift of vitriol and venom hidden behind her words. "But I'll be damned if I am not respected and valued for what I bring to the table!" her voice is thunderous against the roar of the waterfall, rivaling it almost. Camilla flinches away from the yell. "Back in District Two, that's all you've got! All I've got!"
"Your respect?" Camilla screeches back at her, unable to help it, as she tugs her hair out of her head with her hands. "We screwed ourselves over by adding you to our duo! It's because of you and some ulterior motive of yours that Calen attacked you at the cornucopia," Camilla starts counting on her fingers. She cannot stay by and be the damsel in distress people believe her to be, when the femme fatale in her chest is beating against her ribcage, desperate to be let free. "Then, cause of this pseudo obsession you have with Diana, you made us go back to the cornucopia to see if we'd find them!" Another tick. "Then, you almost sliced Poem's throat open, and the trip ended up being a complete waste!" she points a finger at Portia, accusingly. "If we didn't have to trek back from the cornucopia, we wouldn't have run into Diana, and Nokomis wouldn't have gotten shot in the hand, and you wouldn't have received your shoulder wound or…" the battle seems to leave the girl's head, her mind starting to spin. Her voice is weak, pitiful, but empowered as she spits the last moment out with acid. "We even got into a fight yesterday because you let your ego be bruised…"
For a split second, all that remains is the noise of the waterfall, and a chirping bird.
Portia's eyes glaze over during Camilla's speech, before they are reignited with a steely gaze. The girl lifts her head up, balking her tongue to one side of her mouth. "I should've never allied with you," she snarls at them. "You and Nokomis are just rebel trash and should've died with the rest of your pathetic-"
Camilla never lets Portia finish her sentence as she screams at the other girl, rushing her. Portia swings her sword in a silver arc, Camilla diving under the attack the best she can. Her intention is to not bum rush the girl, as the girl from Nine crawls forward to reach Nokomis's backpack. The knife is sticking out of one of the pockets where water bottles would go. Camilla manages to snag the blade free, looking back, panting heavily.
Nokomis is slow to get to her feet, having to roll out of the way as Portia makes a dive for the girl. Her strike misses, but she's quick to attack again. The blade lands in Nokomis's shoulder, Camilla's ally yelling out in pain as copper spews everywhere when the weapon is retracted. Camilla grits her teeth together, yelling again, racing forward to collide with Portia head on.
Before she can reach her, however, Portia thrusts her blade backwards in her grip, instead of turning as Camilla expects, the hilt of the blade landing directly with Camilla's face, smashing into her nose. She drops like a stone onto the ground, howling in pain, blood seeping between her fingers when Camilla presses a hand to her face.
"You both are going to be so sorry!" Portia roars, aiming for Nokomis again, while Camilla is down on the ground. Nokomis manages to parry the strike, trying to sweep Portia's feet from out underneath her, but it is only enough to make Portia stumble back. The next slice of her blade goes across the upper side of the girl from Ten's knee, Nokomis cussing at the top of her lungs while more blood flows out of her body.
Dammit! This is not how it is supposed to go! Camilla gets to her feet, swaying slightly. Clenching onto the knife, she dives forward to strike it into the back of Portia's head. She is not Kai'sa, and Kai'sa may have tried hurting her when she throws the knife into the girl's neck, but this is a personal matter different than anything else she's ever encountered before. Portia turns her head some, turning around, Camilla's strike getting nothing but air. There is a burst of pain blooming on her side as Portia's next jab cuts just barely over the side of her stomach, down near the hip.
Camilla switches the blade from her right hand to her left, slashing wildly at Portia's neck. That strike is parried, as Nokomis manages to dive her sword straight into the back of Portia's left leg, the weapon going clean through the other side.
Portia screams at the top of her lungs, lifting her head straight up to the sky. Looking down at the other girl, a snarl ripping free from her throat, she lifts her foot and smashes it into Nokomis's chest, kicking her as hard as she can. Nokomis yelps in pain once more, Camilla diverting her focus from her mortal enemy to her ally. This is not… things are deviating, and this is not… she's never planned on the idea of anyone dying on her…
It is the opportune time, as Portia collides into Camilla, both girls falling onto the ground. Camilla shields her face as best as she can with her hands as the other girl starts clawing and scratching at her face, the sounds coming out of Portia sounding completely inhumane.
Camilla reaches for the knife, the handle just out of her grip, Portia swearing and yelling completely unintelligible sounds to her ears. Nokomis is still writhing on the ground in pain, trying to catch her breath, if the wheezes are anything to go by. There's another sharp pain, this time in Camilla's upper chest, as Portia moves her hands lower and starts digging at her from any way she can.
The girl from Nine triumphantly holds onto the blade in her hand, rising it as high as she can, the blade going directly into Portia's already injured shoulder. Portia bellows out in agony, slugging a hefty punch right across Camilla's jaw, the girl's head thrust back further into the dirt. Camilla groans, hands clutching her stomach and face, blood seeping out of the wound.
Portia stumbles to her feet, over to her sword, picking it up, the girl's breathing ragged. Camilla huffs out another couple exasperated breaths, looking up to see the girl from Two take one labored step towards her, blood pooling out of her wounds. She raises her weapon, Camilla squeezing her eyes shut, expecting the blow, until Nokomis moves in between them, holding onto her weapon. She blocks the swing and pushes Portia back.
"ENOUGH!" Nokomis screams at the top of her lungs, her voice hoarse and riddled with agony. "JUST GO!" she yells as loud as she can, weapon hanging limply by her side.
Portia's posture slumps over somewhat, her face twisted in anger, but also that of relief. She tilts her head back to the sky and laughs. "Forget it…" she says, looking over at the two of them. "You guys aren't worth it, dying by my hand."
"Leave, Portia," Nokomis demands, taking one menacing step forward.
The girl from Two takes no other convincing, Camilla watching dazedly, as she tries sitting up, shaking out the stun from the well-earned punch. Portia turns on her heel and begins to walk into the brush.
The pain is an alarm across her entire body, as Camilla presses a hand against her side, the skin coming back red. She looks over at Nokomis concernedly, but her ally waves away the glance with a hand, though the blood coming out of her looks to be more.
Camilla can't believe it.
Portia is gone, out of their alliance, and hopefully, forever, out of her lives.
And to believe people thought her only purpose is to stand on the sidelines and look beautiful.
Diana Kratovska: District 4 Female P.O.V (17)
She is still sitting in stunned silence at the fact that there now is only two left in her merry trio, where before she watches Catalus bury her own spear into Sylvan's gut, it seems as if the group were to merrily trek around the arena's sections like a band of mismatched misfits. Diana bites into the cuticles on her thumb, waiting for Magnus to catch up behind her as they start to repel up a rocky surface to a higher section of land in the fishing village. There's been a thought or two to pass her mind about heading into the decaying forest, for there surely wouldn't be that many tributes stuck in just an area covered by trees, and even fewer tributes laying around in the hot sand or on the obsidian beach.
"Catalus might go there," Magnus suggests, in private, after they break for lunch and slaughter a tiny little rabbit with a cute button nose and a fluffy tail that sat just below where they start their rock climbing.
"He isn't that stupid…" Diana mulls back, as she uses a hunting knife to skin the rabbit alive. There is a time where her father takes her into the back side of District 4, away from the waves and the sandy white beaches, and into a desolate area of the district where the cameras never broadcasted. The poor and the downtrodden, stuck in backwater sections where moss hung around ceiling eaves, and Peacekeeper shootings were a nightly occurrence. Diana is tempted to have her first kill be shooting a Peacekeeper in the back of the head, but her father admonishes her for the thought.
Cecelia is her first kill, but regardless, it is there in the backwater sections that she is made to chase after a rat or two, and even a lonely rabbit that is abused by its owners, found tweaking on the ground with needles in their arms.
"Isn't it cruel?" Diana asks her father, looking at his stern glance and downcast head, "Just slaughtering an innocent animal?"
"You can put it out of its misery," her father responds, keeping his arms crossed against his chest. "Besides, you think I am going to let that animal in our house when it's been down here?"
There are still some blood splatters decorating her hands from lunch, Diana wiping them on her sleeves in disgust, wrinkling her nose. The sound of exertion comes from behind her, Diana turning around to see Magnus – goodness, she's never noticed how meaty his hands are, but it makes sense, since he is a dumb jock after all – struggling to get up to the top of the rock wall. She holds out a hand, which he reaches for, and as she strains herself to pull him up, Magnus pushes himself off of the rock by his free hand.
"Man, you're nimble," Magnus says, raggedly, holding a hand to his chest. He swings his bow back around so its held in his grip.
Diana shakes her head, setting her mouth into a firm line. "It's hate," she says, looking at her now single remaining ally in the eye. "Hate is what is keeping me alive and motivating me right now." She rolls her eyes, twirling the spear in her hand. When Sylvan's body is taken away, as she assumes it must be since the trio didn't stay around to watch the aftermath, her first spear is gone, but luckily there's a second golden one at the bottom of the bin that the sponsor gave them a few days ago for her to snag. If she loses this spear, however… well, she may be down to just a single woman team with Magnus out of luck, and blood. "I can't believe Catalus did that…" she shakes her head.
Her parents teach her respect first and foremost, the very pinnacle of their belief system, and Diana is unsure exactly what she's done to necessarily earn either the disrespect or disobedience of Catalus or Magnus. There is technically nothing stopping her but the likings of professionalism and honor from throwing her spear into the back of Catalus's head as he walks away, and she does debate it, but it isn't even her parents' voices that she hears debating it.
It's Orion…
"You won by killing everyone when they weren't looking?" his voice is stark cold, judgmental, Diana can feel knives entering her stomach. "Way to disrespect what your parents died for, princess."
'Me neither," Magnus gasps, taking a sip of his water bottle. He caps it and gets to his feet. The boy from Two draws an arrow as the two continue to walk. Diana has no real destination in mind, simply walking by, alert for tributes, and any other potholes that may catch their attention, like the one that Sylvan hides out in, the roses a dead giveaway to the landmark's importance.
She looks at him with a frown. "I almost thought you were going to leave me too."
He grins at her cheekily. "No way in hell, Diana. You're the best competitor here," he says, and a blush settles on her cheeks. Hell has frozen over if a dumb and smelly boy is to bring color to her face. "You think I'd want to go against my strongest adversary."
"Well, at least he didn't use the word enemy," Diana thinks to herself, shrugging her shoulders. They continue walking, going round a heavy thicket of trees, and to their left a shack that seems to be more like an outhouse than an actual building to stop in and rest. She can picture one of her few friends, when they sit on the beach and collect seashells and bunches of seaweed, drawing a peace sign in the dirt. Diana makes sure to rub the sign away with her feet. "Thank you, Magnus." Diana shifts the weight of the spear in her hand, throat itching for a drink. "If you went with Catalus, I might've honestly given…"
Diana's voice trails off, she coming to a stop. Magnus continues on walking, but she grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back. He jumps to her side, keeping his bow drawn, but he doesn't raise it yet. She squints her eyes, trying to see through the trees. A person, or what she assumes to be a person, standing through the thicket of trees, over near a tall sycamore, one that Diana saw as they started climbing up the rock wall.
Every few seconds there is a sharp clanging noise, as if someone were striking the tree with something metallic. Each time the noise pings in the air, all the hair on Diana's arms stands straight up.
It is a person, and there is no way the steel could be anything other than a weapon.
"Magnus…" she whispers, before crouching low and pointing directly through the bushes. "When I say 'Now,' I want you to fire your arrow directly down my line of sight," Diana orders. She looks at Magnus, who has his brow furrowed. The two have their differences, such as on the first night where even if she is the only one from their trio – duo, now, Diana notes bitterly – to get a kill, he so heinously demands the bow out of her hands. "Do you trust me?" she asks him.
"I-" Magnus licks his hips, hesitation clear in his eyes,
"Magnus…" Diana hisses. "Do you trust me?" she places a hand on his shoulder, tightening her grip. She lost one ally to a lack of trust, the irony being that Diana cannot remember the last time she's ever been able to trust people the moment her parents abandon her for the war cause, leaving her alone in a house at sixteen years-old without a family or a way to continue paying the bills in her home.
"I trust you," he says back to her, her heart flooding with relief.
"Okay," she nods her head, breath coming quicker and quicker, heart beating faster and faster. Diana balances her weight between her spear in one hand the shield in the other. It's Sylvan's shield, the one Catalus steals with his grappling claw, but when he abandons camp for the loser loner life, he leaves it behind, and Diana has zero qualms on picking it up and using it for herself. She pauses, waiting to see the shine of metal through the blend of sunlight and emerald leaves, as the metal strip falls to the tree. "Now!" she yells.
Magnus takes the shot, and to the pleasure of her ears, following immediately after, there is a very humanistic cry of pain on the other end of Magnus's attack. She smiles to herself, righting her body so it can be seen. The piece of metal is seen laying on the ground, through the trees, but beyond that, she can see out of the corner of her that Magnus is more or less freaking out.
"That sounds like-" he starts, but she's cutting him off again. It doesn't matter, all that matters is what else will come at the end of this.
"Do you still trust me, Magnus?" she asks again. He nods, feverishly, while the groans of pain still echo around the forest. "Give me a single arrow, and please go back to camp," Diana orders. "You know that when they scream, someone else will follow," she says, cryptically.
Magnus's brow furrows together, he opening his mouth in protest. "Diana, what?" he asks, voice incredulous. "Are you insane? I'm not leaving you!"
"Magnus, I am in no mood to argue right now," she holds out her hand, gripping her jaw shut. She could argue, she always has time to argue, even when Caesar and Bree want to give her shit for being aggressive against their pacificism and loving natures. Magnus locks his jaw, pulling a single arrow out of the quiver. She holds it with the same hand that is curled around the strap to keep the shield up. "Now go back to camp, or wait at the top of the cliff, okay? I'll be back."
She doesn't waste a single second stepping around the tree and collection of leaves that shielded her and Magnus from sight. The glint of metal is a sword, now discarded and sitting underneath the oak tree, the tree scratched up to hell, and the sword looking worse for wear. She steps forward towards the still crying in pain figure of Ramses Boskov, the boy from Twelve twisted at an angle where his right hand is unable to reach for the left hand that is pinned to the surface of the tree by the fired arrow.
Diana loads her own throw, releasing the spear from her grasp as it gores itself into the back of Ramses's right leg, and straight out of his knee. The boy screams in pain, tilting his head back and howling up into the trees. Before Ramses can think about reacting, Diana retrieves the arrow from her grasp with the shield, turning the boy around to then stab him through the other hand with the weapon.
With her now free hand, she withdraws the spear from Ramses's leg, the wound spilling blood everywhere into the grass, his yells of agony coming quicker and quicker and quicker.
"Hello!" she greets, twirling a lock of hair around her fingers as Diana sets the spear against the tree, still out of Ramses's reach. He will not come free unless she pulls the arrows out of his hand, and there is no way in hell she'll do that. Not until she has what she wants.
"You bitch!" Ramses seethes at her, his posture bent out of shape as he tries not putting weight on the leg that has been speared open.
She coos lowly in her throat, crossing her arms across her chest. Her father is smiling at her, surely, from wherever he is, whether it be buried six feet deep underneath a birch tree, or as ashes sprinkled out into the Atlantic. "Oh, come on, Ramses. I know you, Mr. I Want To Lead Panem, can come up with something better than 'you bitch,'" her eyes appraise him like a lynx stalking a fledgling picking for worms. "Can't you?"
Perhaps striking him through the knee is too much, but the mantra of District Four is doing what one must do to weather the storms that rush the shorelines. Being out on the open water, the elements only know how to communicate back with the temperament of wrath. The Games are no different, and Diana will find her way to shore. "I'm not going to waste my time with you," she says, placing a sweaty, bloodied hand against Ramses's face, cradling his cheek. "You're just a steppingstone," her voice goes firm. "I want Orion, and I will do whatever I can to get him here."
Ramses whines, a completely unmanly sound rising from his throat, pathetic enough that Diana laughs away the noise, tracing a heart on his cheek. "You're… you're insane…"
Diana does not mind that there is a lot of blood currently soaking her shoes, and maybe even soaking into her socks, but that is a matter she will worry about later. "You're going to help me bring your lover boy out here, and then you'll get to watch him die," she says, clapping her hands together. "Ready? Be prepared to scream, okay?"
The hate she harbors for Catalus, watching the silver spooned boy walk away from her without consequences, for volunteering, even if he didn't want to… she cannot place them on the boy from One any longer. Before she ditches her district partner for the other boys, her contempt singles onto Orion given that he volunteers. It's to save people's lives and mean something, but that's all yawn worthy; Diana isn't given a chance, and now she has to fight.
Nothing will bring her more pleasure than downing Orion to his knees, watching him choke on his blood as it pours out of his throat, and it all ends with a cannon firing and the boy's picture in the sky.
"Wait-" Ramses pleads, tears streaming down his face, and there's surely snot too, but Diana isn't paying attention to that. She twists the arrow in his right hand first, his voice rising in agony, and as she goes to twist the right- "Stop!" Ramses wails, shaking his head back and forth, almost fast enough to the point where it could twist off like a bottlecap. "No! Please don't! He won't be coming!" his words are said in such quick succession, all Diana can hear as the words 'please' and 'won't.' "Orion won't come to save me, no matter what you do!"
She lets go of the arrow, frowning.
What… what the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Diana grips him by the chin, digging her fingers into his temples. "What do you mean he won't be coming?"
"I stabbed him this morning!" Ramses cries out, squeezing his eyes shut, crimson lines starting to trail into his arm pits up from his hands. "I left him this morning, and to make sure he didn't follow, I stabbed him in the side…" he hacks out a cough. "Orion doesn't have long; I won't be surprised if his face doesn't show up in the anthem tonight. He'll have bled out…"
Diana stumbles back in shock away from Ramses, a loose breath hitching in her chest. "You… what?" her voice is a mix of surprise and rage.
Her enemy, her nemesis, for the privilege he has, with his cocky smile and his stupid, stupid face… to be bled out by a gutter boy from District 12 who doesn't even have all of limbs attached to him?
"You… motherfucker!" Diana screams at Ramses, who still has his eyes squeezed shut, neck straining as he tries twisting his head away from her.
She doesn't remember exactly what comes next, or what comes over her except the blinding white hotness that consumes her vision and turns her hands numb when Diana Kratovska reaches for the spear and Sylvan's shield, Catalus's parting gift.
Diana bashes the pointed end of the shield into Ramses's head, but his cry of pain is lost to the rush of blood in her ears. She is screaming at him again and again, bashing the shield directly into Ramses's forehead time and time again, to the point where she cannot hear him over the clang of the shield or her own frustrated voice.
Ramses's voice quits when his skull caves in on the sixth or seventh hit, blood starting to pour out of his mouth and ears, Diana picking up the pace. His body falls limp, until it then slumps to the ground, the force strong enough to rip the boy's hands free, the arrows staying behind in the tree.
"Orion was mine!" Diana screams, and she screams it over and over again. She picks up her spear, stabbing the boy again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again…
A cannon fires somewhere, blasting in the air, Diana letting loose another scream as she rips the spear out of Ramses's Boskov's unmoving and completely decimated body. She turns her head away, her hands bloodied as she runs them through her hair.
She goes to kick the shield over, stopping her tracks, almost falling to the ground in her pause. Magnus is back by the tree, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes bearing into her.
How- how much of that did he see? And why didn't he stop her?
Diana Kratovska used to hear folktales of tempests coming and stealing away little girls and turning them into cyclones on the waves, but for the longest time, those stories sound just like that… folktales.
She never could imagine transforming into one herself.
Poem Cavalli: District 8 Female P.O.V (16)
It is the second night now in a row that Poem is going to bed alone. Where there used to be warmth surrounding her heart, and a sheath of comfort placed on her shoulders in the form of a squeezing hand or a gentle kiss, it is now replaced by cold nights and frozen tears that stain her face. It hits Poem Cavalli every few minutes, after not thinking about it for a time, that he's gone, that Niklaus Peverell has died and with it her desire to do anything. She is blind to see it, the man who tries warning her again and again about her foolish actions, how her actions are going to get her killed since she doesn't even believe in the Games… and he's gone…
Escaping into the night, with Ramses Boskov and Orion Maythorpe hot on her heels, the killers, and destroyers of her second dream, Poem is lost on where to go. Her and Niklaus didn't have a plan beyond going to the cornucopia and seeing if they could find Niklaus's token that he drops. Her movement is aimless, and she finds herself going back and forth between landscapes, and the thought of staying on the obsidian beach rests at the forefront of her mind for all of yesterday until she decides just before Sylvan and Kai'sa's faces shine in the sky, turning back into the fishing village at the very last moment to decide her fate.
There is nothing wrong with waiting, but waiting is what gets her in this pothole in the first place. Poem knows herself, however, and despite whatever it is she wants deep down in some locked away chamber of her soul, rushing after Ramses and Orion, or even seeing if she can track down the trio of Portia, Camilla, and Nokomis is futile. She is one girl, with a single knife to her possession, and she's never fought anyone in her life. When Portia finds her at the cornucopia, digging through the dirt and getting her hands dirty near the horned end of the ovation, the girl from Two knees her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. By seizing her hair and tugging, to the point where Poem thinks now that the brute of a girl tore her roots out to a damaging threshold beyond return.
All she can do is run away when Ramses and Orion fall upon her and Niklaus, and when she finally collapses in a heap, tears streaming down her face in pure terror and fright as she watches her district partner's head be separated from his shoulders, she throws her backpack away from her in a fury. There is a tiny cottage that she has been sprawled in for the last few days, neighboring the edge of the fiery landscape where the tremors in the Earth have begun to pick up some since she's been sitting on the floor, staring numbly at the paneling. Running away, being defenseless, and staring at walls… Poem knows that her potential as a key player in the Games, as a factor of entertainment has run dry.
There is even a note from Damien early in the morning, when the tears have dried, and the taste of blood in her mouth from biting Ramses's hand subsides. The package holds nothing but a metallic locket, stereotypically in the shape of a heart, that has Poem raise an eyebrow in confusion. Is she supposed to strangle someone with the chain?
She burns the message at the earliest available opportunity.
I don't want to say I told you so, Poem, but I told you so. Use this to keep the memory alive and intact; you're still in these Games, darling. ~ Damien Paladine
If her escort cares about her as he claims, Poem believes he'd have actually sent something useful. It is a staggering shift to a harsher reality that she is all alone when she goes through the supplies in her backpack. Half a loaf of bread, which is most likely not going to be any good for much longer, two packages of fruit, and her canteen filled with water. Nothing meaty, and at least there are places for water, such as spigots and ponds for the ripe taking. Niklaus is the one to catch the game, as Poem tries her hardest in building fires, but it is now on her.
It is her to play defense, and she doesn't even have a sword to do that with, just the single knife Niklaus snags in the cornucopia fight at the beginning, for the sword is back where her district partner drops it at the moment of his death.
She has her knife, and this rusted out pipe holding a bookshelf together from one of the screws falling out. Poem grips the pipe in her hands, running her hands back and forth over the jagged surface, careful to not get any of the rust underneath her fingernails.
The tread in her uniform is starting to run a bit loose, coming undone if she bunches it up in her hands. If she were back home in District 8, with the very Anya Cavalli's workshop at her disposal, Poem knows she could design something much more durable, so it isn't this laughable representation of fabric. This is the best the Capitol has to offer? She laughs in their faces; Poem Cavalli is worth twenty times more than the best the Capitol could ever present.
There has been a single cannon to fire so far in the day, Poem making note that it means there's only eleven competitors total, including herself, left in the arena. From the looks of it, there could be a second cannon if…
She hears the jogging early, sitting up in alarm from the cot she's perched herself in, with a perfect view of the doorway leading out to the rest of the arena. The sound of footfall is followed by someone knocking into a water pipe connecting to just outside of the house and the ground, a lot of swearing following that.
Poem stands to her feet, as the swearing continues, heart hammering in her chest. Two days without any form of human contact other than Damien's letter, and seeing no other human face besides the dead ones shining in the sky… she swallows nervously, tightening her grip on the rusted pipe.
No matter who they are, no matter where they come from district wise, no matter what other injuries they've acquired. She'll kill them, she'll play the role, get blood on this stupid uniform. After all, it isn't her design.
Oh, who is Poem kidding. She knows she'd never be able to do harm.
The footsteps get closer, and there's a heavy shadow passing over the threshold of the cabin, the person stepping inside. Poem grips the pipe tighter in her hands, yelling out a cry for battle, stepping out of the shadows and swings with all of her might. The pipe smashes into the stranger's forehead, knocking them down for the count, as the person groans in pain.
A bruise is already starting to form on the forehead of Catalus Drachma, the boy from District 1 placing a hand to his face, grunting in agony. Poem drops the pipe in surprise, eyes widening as she stares at the boy. No. She'd much rather face Orion or even Portia Beninblade than…
Poem backs up against a table in the cabin, where she places her knife. If she strikes him quick enough and downs him for the remainder of the Games, then she might have enough time to-
The girl from Eight nearly drops the blade in her hand as she rushes forward, going to slash Catalus across the chest. The boy's eyes snap to her running form, he pulling for his sword at just the right time to parry the strike.
"Hey!" he cries out, struggling to get to his feet. Catalus pushes Poem back as well as he can, she gritting her teeth in and digging her heels into the floor. She tries swinging for him again, but this time his parry has the hilt of his weapon strike her wrist, causing Poem to drop the knife. The girl from Eight tucks herself in to charge at him, when Catalus outstretches his hands. "Woah! Poem, I won't hurt you!" he yells at her.
"Bullshit!" she spits at him, trying to blow the hair out of her eyes. Poem tries rushing him again, but he holds onto her arms, keeping her from moving forward anywhere.
"It's just me!" Catalus yelps, holding her in place the best he can. Poem shakes her head, a lump forming in her throat. This is the Hunger Games; she's seen people cheat and steal and betray the very core of themselves… he can't be telling- "Magnus and Diana aren't with me!" he cries, straining with her. "I swear to you that they won't be following me."
The anger Poem feels in her body, built up at all of her ligaments and joints, is the same sort of rage that floods through her system the moment a designer from the Capitol, the only contact from the gilded city she's ever had, send her a form letter rejecting her offer of designs in an advertisement she sees because her mother brings it to her attention.
Catalus has always seemed to be the easiest one to get along with from the trio, the anger in her body evaporating out from a shaky exhale. Poem wrenches her arms free and collapses onto the ground, not even bothering to pick up the knife.
"I won't hurt you, I promise," Catalus assures her, sheathing his sword in place. Poem turns her face away, grinding her teeth together. Another promise she can't believe, another promise that will simply be tuned into a new betrayal fresh to stab her in the stomach when she isn't looking. The boy from One winces, stepping into the cabin, rubbing at his forehead with a grimace spreading across his face. Poem has assembled some sheets on the small bed that is stuck in the corner, supplies in the backpack laid out on the dresser on the far left well. The floors creak underneath his weight, Poem slowly standing to her feet. "How long have you been in here, Poem?" Catalus asks, turning around.
She scratches the back of her neck, her head vibrating with the low settling cry of a cicada. Bands of sunlight stream through the only window, it open for her to hear sounds better, the beam landing directly onto Catalus's face. Poem is taken aback by the dried blood marring around his mouth, curling up at the tips… it's as if he bore his face directly into someone's entrails. "Two days," she says, rubbing her eyes. For a split second, Niklaus's face flashes in front of her own, eyes wide as if his head were sitting on the cabinet next to the bed, Poem jolting in place. "Just… waiting," she mumbles.
"Waiting?" Catalus raises an eyebrow. "For what?"
"The right moment," Poem shrugs, picking up the rusty pipe and placing it by the door. She's tried swinging her knife at something in the room to give her target practice, but nothing in the cabin would be able to withstand being cut up, and the pipe makes too much noise. "If Orion Maythorpe came by, for instance."
"Why him specifically?" Catalus almost sounds hurt, to Poem's confused amusement, as if he, the golden Drachma boy, is unable to be anywhere else but the center of attention.
Poem sits down in the chair that she props up on the other side of the doorway, on the right half of the shack. The girl from Eight runs a hand down her face, tugging at her lips, the echo of her scream ringing in her ears. "Two days ago, Orion cut off Niklaus's head…"
Catalus wheezes a strong breath, sinking onto the bed, which creaks with his weight. "He beheaded Niklaus?" he asks incredulously. Poem nods her head soundlessly. "Poem, I'm… I'm sorry…" the boy from One licks his lips.
She wipes away a few tears that start to trickle down her cheeks, Poem turning her head away from Catalus. She's cried enough over it, and no matter how hard or how long the duration of her mourning lasts, Poem can't bring Niklaus back. She'll never have those supple lips against hers anymore, the presence of the one person who makes her feel seen, and even makes her feel loved.
Poem adores her parents, father, and mother both, but they've always loved fashion more than her, more than their own blood daughter.
She clears her throat, motioning at his nose. "And who did that?" she asks him.
"Nokomis broke it," Catalus grins lopsidedly. Even with the broken nose and the dried blood, something stirs in Poem's gut, looking at the boy from One. He is handsome, in a fine bathed in gold sort of way. Poem is used to suitors of many kind coming to her bedroom window, asking for her hand with a bouquet of roses. "I think I deserved it, since I jabbed my fingers into a wound of hers that Magnus placed by shooting an arrow into her hand…" the boy trails off, his voice sounding highly reminiscent, and dare Poem think it, nostalgic for the moment. Catalus shudders, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Why are you alone?" Poem questions, folding her arms over her chest. She's liked Catalus, yes, but he is still a stranger, still an enemy, now in her camping spot. "Where are your golden buddies?"
Catalus makes a face, shaking his head in dissent. "I left them this morning. They…" the boy twitches in his seat, hand patting the hilt of his sword. "We had philosophical differences," he says.
Poem stands up to her feet, going to raise an arm and dismiss him. It's been nice, and she needs him to leave before she picks up the rusted pipe once more. However, as she goes to send him off, she stills.
His body language is completely relaxed, as if he has started to already settle. His eyes are tender, the creases on his face lax, and Catalus looks like he's already lived a thousand years in the span of a week since when she sees him squaring off against Portia Beninblade at the cornucopia. It can be that he has the same hair color as Niklaus, and the same creative spark in his eyes, but Poem senses a draw to him, one tugging at her body.
She opens her mouth to speak, but Catalus cuts her off first. "I was just planning on leaving when I was hit," he says, rubbing a thumb across the mark. "But then I saw who was holding onto the other end of that pipe…" the boy from One looks down at his feet, biting on the inside of his cheek. "And I realized that you're exactly what I've been looking for in the arena, Poem."
He looks at her, Poem stepping back somewhat into the wall, into the corner, as if she could hide away from his pointed stare. "And what is that Catalus?" she asks, her voice on edge. Despite the tension in her throat, Poem feels it unnecessary to reach for the knife.
"Allies, Poem," Catalus says, without hesitation. "I want to ally with you."
Poem might be out of her damned mind, and it also may be that this is the first face she's seen in such a long time, but she can't help it, the answer that comes spilling out of her mouth.
"Funny," she smirks back at him. "I was going to ask you the exact same thing."
Porscha Watanabe: District 6 Female P.O.V (16)
The land is dark beneath her feet, where Porscha cannot see where her body ends and the land begins, shadows swallowing her form whole as she steps forward into the unknown. Her heart is heavy with the weight of the world on her shoulders, but Porscha treks through the glowing midnight landscape as best as she can.
The grass beneath her shimmers a translucent white color as moonbeams decorate her arms. Porscha looks down at her body, caught off guard that she is dressed in one of her ballet tutus that she has locked away in her closet, a punishment from her father that she may never dance again. An idle threat that Porscha simply scoffs off, but even then, in the translucent field with a hazy sky sprawled above her, the tutu cuts off some of the circulation around her waist.
She does not have any weapons in her hand, and her hair has been fully grown back, as if it hadn't been shaved off back in the Capitol per her own request. Porscha threads her fingers through the locks, exhaling a shaky breath that sends shivers down her spine at the coolness of the strands connecting to her flesh. A woman's whispering voice can be heard rustling against her neck, vibrating the skin with the vibrato of a drum, causing Porscha to spin around in confusion.
She has no idea how she landed in this field, where a ticking second lasts a minute. She only remembers running, and she remembers falling to her knees with the sounds of raised blades connecting to their prey, a prey Porscha Watanabe cannot see. Porscha remembers closing her eyes, overcome with exhaustion from the heat baking into her back, shredding the clothes off of her skin with a ferocious tenacity held firm by a voice in the shadow's firm character.
Another whisper pops up from another patch of grass just a bit ahead of her, Porscha frowning. Her feet hit the Earth, which causes her to have a bounce in her step that causes her to float in the air, as if she were doing a turn in the air. She subconsciously points her foot when she lands, but this down crashes down on the foot hard.
However, as Porscha would expect under any normal circumstances, such as the time she collides with one of the dance mirrors lining the back wall of her homemade dance studio in the basement from a waylaid pirouette sequence, the crunching of her foot brings nothing, not even pain. Porscha lays there, on the ground, holding the limb in her hands, staring at it in bewilderment.
Is she dead? Is this the place beyond where the sun shines?
Porscha perks her head up, jumping to her feet. If that were true…
"Mom?" Porscha cries out into the darkness, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Where are you?" The dancer turns blindly in the black, searching for a woman who would be bleeding out of her underside, with a pale face and bloodied hands pressing against battle scars and tape lines down stretched ankles and wrapping around bruised toes.
She starts digging her fingers into the sand, to dig up her mother's corpse, for there must be a body beneath her feet, when the whispers congeal into one voice, right above her left shoulder.
"Look for the ash warrior," the voice says. "And find the one who threads violence with a spool…"
The voice goes as quick as it comes, and Porscha is knocked to the ground with an invisible gust of wind.
"MOM!" Porscha snaps awake, lunging forward out of her slumber. Her hands are wrapped around her body, sweat pooling down her face. The girl from Six sits forward, chest heaving, heart pounding in her ears. Her cry of fright rebounds around her in a ghastly echo, Porscha squeezing her eyes shut. She looks to both sides of her, lip quivering as she turns. Her weapons are still there, cudgel and knife to the side, and the backpack flat on the ground.
It has been a day of trekking, a day of long exhaustion for her, from one point of the arena to the other as Porscha follows the gigantic rock wall that seems to stretch into the sky with no end in sight. She abandons the decaying forest and skips right over the fishing village with the tall tower, settling for the scorched land that keeps her warm as she sleeps.
All night, where Porscha is cursing herself at never getting her eyes checked, since she really cannot see in the darkness, she's felt this pair of eyes on her, seizing her up. The occasional tremor in the depths, where if Porscha were to dig her hand into the warm sand, pulsate along the ridges of her fingers and up to her wrists keep her awake, as she stares at the night sky.
It is early enough in the evening where sleeping seems like an irrational choice, but Porscha believes it to be a stroke of minor genius. She'll sleep now, while the sun has just barely sunk beneath the sky, and navy bands stretch across the open expanse above her head. Then, rested, she shall go on the prowl.
She has her target. Portia Beninblade, and her blonde hair, and her saggy chest – Porscha has seen real ones before, and the very fact that the girl from Two even almost has the same name as hers is enough to make her angry – and the reason why Porscha has to camp out underneath the stars with only the warm ground for company.
Just one more hour, and she can go on seeking out her rightfully due vengeance.
"Just a stupid dream…" Porscha mutters to herself, wiping some sweat off of her brow as she sinks back into a cuddling position.
There are some crickets chirping in the air, and this heavy sense of pressure sticking to her shoulders while Porscha slumbers. She can feel the stare directly bearing into her forehead, causing a pinpoint of pressure to prick her right between the eyes, down the slope of her nose.
There is an audible crack of something, like a booted foot snapping over a tree branch. Porscha snaps her eyes awake, the snap sound audibly loud and quite close, but she's too terrified to lift her head.
A presence of something, or someone can be felt above her.
Something glimmers off of the moonlight above her head, and Porscha rolls away from a single knife slash that nearly slices off of her ear.
The girl from District Six is up on her feet, picking up her knife off of the ground. She still can't quite tell what it is in the dark that is after her, but she takes no chances. Porscha yells out into the dark, brandishing her weapon, and the girl ducks her head forward.
She collides with another similarly heavy object, her, and the item she cannot see in the dark collapsing into the sand. Porscha grits her teeth in shock, snarling, as she brings her blade directly into Portia Beninblade's gut.
The rage only builds in her body as she sees the fear reflecting back at her from the girl from Two's eyes. Porscha withdraws the knife, blood spilling out of the wound, but in the dark, in the very bit of sight that she can see, Portia looks to be worse for wear already, and there's a lot of dried blood caking the girl's body.
The first stab is done deep, and Porscha had thrust it up at her ribcage. Portia's voice is weak, barely rising over a spoken whisper, to a point where Kai'sa's own voice is louder at times. "You were supposed to be easy prey…" Portia whispers.
Porscha stabs her again, this time directly in the chest. She retracts the blade once more and sticks it into the girl's throat. Portia's eyes widen in pain, registering the strike, but once Porscha pulls it out of the girl's body, a cannon blasts around her and into the arena air.
"Good riddance…" Porscha hisses, pushing herself off of the girl from Two.
Two cannons in the night, as a week in the arena passes, and Porscha Watanabe stares down at the body of her second kill in the Hunger Games. Two kills, where alliances have split, new alliances have formed, and the remains of what lingers behind only holds on by a thread.
The next stage of the Hunger Games have arrived, and with them, vengeance and blood.
12th: Ramses Boskov, 17, District 12 Male. Killed by Diana Kratovska of District 4 via head caved-in via by Sylvan's shield. Submitted by Guesttwelve. Ramses, Ramses, oh Ramses where do I start with you. I absolutely loved you as a tribute, one of my favorites of the cast by far, but there are just so many other storylines ahead I did not find a way to place you in. A blend of soft and delicate, paralleled by such strength made for a unique D12 tribute, and I will absolutely miss you in the lineup. You were sensible, and this last POV of yours may have been one of the hardest things as an author I've ever had to write. Thank you, Guest, for such a wonderful and original submission.
11th: Portia Beninblade, 18, District 2 Female. Killed by Porscha Watanabe of District 6 via multiple stab wounds. Submitted by WhateverIsOpen. Oh the places this girl let me go. I don't think I have to say it, but I *loved* her to pieces; I may not have given her as much shine in the Pre-Games as I could, but here in the arena, she really made it her own. I know that there could've been a whole lot of potentiality between her and Camilla/Nokomis, this is how I decided she should go. Diana and Vesuvia will take your place, my dear. It was entertaining getting to write you, and I will miss you more than you can ever know.
Tribute List (Boy - Girl)
District 1: Catalus Drachma [Submitted by Manny Siliezar]
District 2: Magnus Winterthorn [Submitted by Audmirable]
District 3: Jasper Overheart [Submitted by ParanoidSylph] / Vesuvia Vocanova [Submitted by Platrium]
District 4: Orion Maythorpe [Submitted by jimster920] / Diana Kratovska [Submitted by Firedawn'd]
District 6: Porscha Watanabe [Submitted by thorne98]
District 8: Poem Cavalli [Submitted by LordShiro]
District 9: Camilla Rodriguez [Submitted by Reign of Winter]
District 10: Nokomis Yanaba [Submitted by Ripple237]
…
ALLIANCE LIST
Privileged at Birth: Catalus Drachma (D1M), Poem Cavalli (D8F)
The Contenders: Magnus Winterthorn (D2M), Diana Kratovska (D4F)
Brutal Technology: Jasper Overheart (D3M), Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F)
"Sister Power": Camilla Rodriguez (D9F), Nokomis Yanaba (D10F)
Loners: Orion Maythorpe (D4M), Porscha Watanabe (D6F)
…
Kill Leaderboard:
Catalus Drachma (D1M): I
Magnus Winterthorn (D2M): I
Portia Beninblade (D2F): I
Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F): I
Orion Maythorpe (D4M): I
Diana Kratovska (D4F): II
Porscha Watanabe (D6F): II
Gemini Lennox (D9M): I
Camilla Rodriguez (D9F): I
Nokomis Yanaba (D10F): I
Cassiopeia Grey (D11F): I
Arena/Mutts: I
(This is literally the longest chapter I've ever written in my nine years as a writer... holy shit)
*smiles nervously* So, uh, hello everyone! That was Chapter #31: A Lover's Quarrel of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death focused on Arena Day (and Night, technically) Seven. This is the chapter I was waiting on the most so far in our arena journey, where the top twelve has been reduced into a top ten. Ramses and Orion separated, Catalus abandons Diana and Magnus, Girl Power's conflict reached a head, Diana exhibits some rage, Poem finds a new ally in an unlikely place, and Porscha is confronted with another demon and a new message. I apologize for the fact that the first five povs of the chapter were so long (around, or at 3k each) and then Porscha's was only at 1.2k, but there wasn't a whole lot I wanted to get across except her dream - with a new goal! - and that Portia Beninblade is no more in such a quick blip that a fight of glory was not her end.
In other news, the arena landscape in terms of tributes has been altered like crazy, huh? New alliance has formed, in Catalus and Poem, our privileged at birth children. Magnus and Diana are a 'new' duo, D3 remains the same, Camilla and Nokomis are no longer allied with a tyrannical savant, and the loners drop one to gain Orion... two pairs of each alliance, and I like that.
I apologize about the length of the chapter, but I went into this one knowing a lot of the sections (nearly all) would be gigantic, so here we are! And I can confidently say that this is my favorite chapter of any I've written since I started fanfiction, so thank you guys for these amazing tributes and moments. Next chapter, #32: Blood Soaked Soil, will focus on Arena Day Eight (VIII) with our top ten. Any names you are surprised to see in the top ten and names you would've swapped out? Who do you think is next on the chopping block?
I know I mention it at the end of every chapter, but this is one where if I haven't gotten a review from you before or it has been awhile since some sort of kind of contact, this is a chapter I feel like I'd *love* to hear one from you, so I'd really appreciate it! I'll see you all soon with the next chapter! I love you guys so much! Have a great night! Bye!
~ Paradigm