Chapter 51: Wolfsbane

TW: Mentions of forced prostitution

There's nothing worse, Oberon thought in the midst of his panic, than being stuck behind this fucking screen!

Pull yourself together, goddammit, because he wasn't.

How could he be, with yet another daughter reduced to nothing more than a mutt's chew toy? Fuck! His fist slammed again and again into the 'send' key, relentless. Not that it would work. Not that anything he could send would even matter; the true gods behind the screens weren't in this room.

He just had to do something.

If the impossibility wouldn't deter him, Morwenna's glare sure as hell didn't. Only the light beneath the key, dimming under the barrage… The entire control panel, now, too. Dead. Useless.

Not the screen, of course. Never the screen.

Oberon's face hovered millimeters from the glass; his fingers brushed the screen as if he could reach in and snatch her from the jaws of the wolf himself. He flinched when Venatrix did, when the creature's teeth sank into her collarbone. 'Makers, it just missed her jugular, but the shrill scream that tore from her mouth cut straight to the bone. The wolf jerked her in its grip; blood flew from its jowls, ripping and rending and Oberon barely heard his own shouts joining her jagged screams. "Let me help her! Let me help her you fucking bastards!" He didn't register springing to his feet until strong hands— Morwenna? Don't fucking touch me— shoved him back into his chair.

"Do you fucking see yourself?" she hissed, low and dangerous; her fingernails dug like claws into his shoulder— they retracted before he could grab her wrist and snap it.

Oberon ignored her. His eyes never left the screen, doomed again to merely watch as his daughter's blood once again spilled into the dirt; as the creature drew horrible, horrible sounds from her lip; as her health stats plunged down, down, down… it's killing her.

If he blinked, the mutt's fur was white. If he blinked, she was already dead.

He didn't dare.

Trapped beneath the wolf, terror bulged her eyes; agony twisted her features, marred with tears, blood, and fading paint. Her hands scrabbled at the wolf's fur in a desperate, fruitless attempt to shove it off; legs kicked, teeth tore at flesh, and Oberon couldn't stop the pit in his stomach from swallowing him whole any more than he could stop the wolf.

An arrow shaft sprouted abruptly from the mutt's muzzle— finally it let go, squealing in pain. Still, guttural groans spilled from Venatrix's lips, choked half-whimpers nearly drowned out by the wolf's vicious retaliatory barks.

Her anguish burrowed into Oberon's eardrums, his fingers through his dark hair. Hopeless panic blurred his eyes as her stats slipped further and further into the red zone.

The eyes of the mentoring room were shameless. Their stares prickled at his skin, flitting away when he glanced in any one direction. Usually, that meant something else.

But now… Furiously, he swiped away the welling tears. He had no room to care now.

On the screen, the wolf sported enough arrows to resemble a porcupine. Silverhorn was far from finished; the snarling mutt reared back, but he didn't flinch. The boy stood his ground against the snapping jaws and blood-soaked teeth, but all Oberon cared about was that his actions— his and the One girl's, now— drove the wolf away from Venatrix. The dancing blades and flying arrows were secondary.

He had eyes only for his little girl, lying supine in the cold dirt. "Get up! Get up, Trixie, please!" Heads turned as his voice cracked.

In the peripheral of the screen, her health bar continued to fall, but he couldn't tear his gaze from her twisted expression, her writhing form, the ragged wound and shredded leather at her collar. Her wordless sobs mingled with the wolf's feral snarls, her face more ashen than when he'd found her passed out on the mountain trail.

He'd give anything to pluck her from this hell and carry her home.

But no, he couldn't even be at her side. Instead, the One girl reappeared, crouching down next to her; a quick glance showed Silverhorn emptying his quiver into the wolf's bleeding, retreating hide.

Any relief Oberon might've felt was negligible.

Mariposa's hands pressed into the wound. Immediately, a choked cry tore from Venatrix's lips as if the girl had poured acid into her flesh, and she flinched back, fingers soaked in red. Percy's head whipped towards them. "What the hell are you doing?"

"She's bleeding, I'm—I'm trying to help—"

Shoving her out of the way, Percy knelt next to his thrashing district partner. "Trix!"

"She's burning up!"

"I can see that," Percy snapped, frantically digging gauze out of his bag. He threw it to Mariposa, barking at her to clean the wound while he held her down. "Trix, hold still—"

This time, Oberon was prepared for her screams. Still, his eyes squeezed shut when they ripped through the speakers; he could feel pathetic pleas once again moving his lips, inaudible in her pain, the pain she never deserved. It should be me in her place. Bile rose in the back of Oberon's throat; he forced it down, willing himself to find a clear head and do something. The background chorus of her allies' frantic argument did nothing to help.

Only when her cries died down, when the wound was wrapped, did his ears register the voice of the Games announcer narrating the broadcast.

"—the second of the Head Gamemaker's themed mutts: the legendary wolf Fenrir!" they trilled. "Once again, Perseus the Godkiller triumphs, but Fenrir's poisonous bite might prove a different challenge altogether—"

"No," Oberon muttered in rising horror. She's still dying. His head whipped around, as if he could find something in the room to help. Instead, the other mentors avoided his gaze, Career and outlier alike. Bastards! He was well aware he'd been making a commotion; at this point, the outer-district bastards should know how little he cared for their judgment.

Only one pair of eyes glared back from the District Ten station. Been a long time coming, they said.

Go to hell, Sawyer. His eyes flicked back to the dancing pixels that were his dying daughter. "Let me do my fucking job!" he spat, shaking the screen.

Already, the gauze was soaked through. Curls of steam coiled from the wound, from the pools and smears of wolf's blood littered around the clearing. Wide eyes watched Venatrix contort in her partner's grip, whimpering when he forced her still. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead. Her too-rapid heartbeat ticked in the corner of the monitor, the whites of her rolled eyes barely visible behind her fluttering lashes.

Light flared beneath his keyboard, and Oberon's hands went immediately for the controls, if only to scroll through the list of items he couldn't send. There must be something. There has to be something, there has to be, there has to be…

He couldn't—I can't just do nothing.

He'd made a promise— to himself, to her, to everyone he cared about— that he'd bring her home.

"Give me something, goddammit!"

From the station on his left, Alecto tensed at his shout. His half-muttered apology was cut off by a blip of the screen; a new item.

A small bottle labeled 'wolfsbane antidote' — that has to be it.

The vial taunted him from the top of the price range. Within his budget— the budget that he couldn't spend. He slammed the key anyways; nothing.

Venatrix's health ticked ever-downwards.

Oberon's head whipped towards Morwenna. Before he could open his mouth, "No."

"Morwenna, ple—"

"No."

"Fuck you!"

She didn't react. On the screen, Percy and Mariposa's argument rose in pitch; Oberon didn't have the space for their words. Panic tightened in his throat as Venatrix's breath grew shorter, her thrashing more and more uncontrolled. Fuck, fuck, fuck! "Please, Morwenna!"

"I said no," she spat, and Oberon had half a mind to bash her head through her computer right there.

Instead he whirled around to Alecto; she recoiled at the sudden movement. "Alecto, please—"

"Pyke, don't you dare—"

"Shut up!"

Silence swept over the mentoring room, rigidness over Morwenna's narrowed features.

Oberon turned back to the One Victor, desperation laced in every movement. Forcibly, he softened his tone. "This is the only thing that can save her. I can't let her die— please."

The young girl stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Oberon wouldn't be surprised if the rest of the mentors shared her expression right now, but he didn't bother looking. His gaze kept drifting to the dire numbers on his screen, to his child and that damned look in her eyes that said she knew he was abandoning her.

I'm not— I can't.

"I…" Alecto swallowed. "I don't—"

Her cellular chimed.

Oberon's eyes flicked to it, to the expression on her face as she processed the notification. He lowered his voice. "Let me handle that."

Her eyes flew wide in surprise.

The stares of his nearby peers pressed heavily, but he continued. "Off the books, okay? You can call them up, and—and you can have a night off, yeah? You deserve that, Alecto. Just—send her the medicine; I'll even give you the money to cover it if I can, just—please, just do it."

Indecision warped her face. He almost felt guilty for it, but…

The feeling vanished instantly when she nodded. A few clicks, and the white parachute descended swiftly into Mariposa Fonesca's lap. The District One tribute opened the flask, and immediate understanding flashed across her features.

She hesitated. One second. Two.

Enough for Oberon's stomach to drop, for Percy's hand to twitch towards his empty quiver.

But one hand grabbed Venatrix by the jaw— "Percy, help me—" and the One girl poured the potion down her throat, forcing her mouth closed so she could swallow amidst her writhing convulsions.

Slowly, slowly but definitely, her stats began to stabilize.

The breath he'd been holding came free in a cry of relief. It morphed into a gasping almost-laugh, fresh tears welling in his eyes, and he turned to Alecto, squeezing her shoulder a little too tightly in blind relief and blubbering thanks. Shock still laced her kohl-lined eyes, her reciprocal nod. Latent nausea still churned his gut, and exhaustion pounded behind his eyes, though they never left his screen nor his daughter.

As promised, Oberon went through the motions to transfer the cost of the medicine, still unsure if the transaction would go through. Onscreen, the conscious tributes threw words of frustration and relief between each other, and he only noticed the typo in the number after he hit send. Ah well, she deserves the extra money. A bold check-mark greenlit the transaction, and Oberon grinned at the impossible loophole.

'Makers be damned. He glanced over his shoulder, but his personal Peacekeeper hadn't bothered following him into the mentoring room today. Evidently, the Capitol had no qualms about the possibility of him assaulting his coworkers.

Alecto smiled in thanks before she stood, knuckles white around her cellular, and made to exit the room. Right, the call. His grin slipped. Don't. This is nothing you're not used to. Small mercy that the minimum age on the Capitol's end was twenty-five, though really, there was nothing merciful about it at all.

It doesn't matter. Venatrix is alive, and that's what counts.

Even better— he'd found a workaround. Who knew how long this loophole would remain open. Typically, transfers were permitted between allies— he recalled Cadmus doing the same for Dagmara once it had become clear that Ruiz wouldn't survive his injuries. Whether that was strictly a Career privilege or not, Oberon had no clue; similar to their betting duels, he imagined.

Regardless, he'd take advantage of it while he could.

Morwenna's disbelieving stare still prickled at the back of his neck, and Oberon transferred a good chunk of money to Silverhorn's bank at her silent insistence. "Here, get him some more arrows," he said gruffly, scribbling a quick 'Thanks' onto a slip of parchment for her to send. How I misjudged him. Regret sat heavily in his gut, mixing with the nausea of his daughter's secondhand pain even as another potential loophole sprang up in his mind.

Had Venatrix died right there, nobody back home would've been punished. He could only pray for a similar scenario when Silverhorn finally met his end. Likewise, he couldn't help but be grateful that Silverhorn took the brunt of killing Venera's so-called mutt instead of Trixie.

Guilt only took him so far.

"Fuck!" Morwenna spat suddenly. "It's not going through…" The blinking red error message on her screen said so clearly enough, and Oberon's eyes closed in a wince. Quick little fuckers, aren't they? "You fucking ruined it, jackass."

He returned her scowl easily. "I'd do it again."

"You don't understand," she pressed. "That thing destroyed half of their supplies. Your girl's gonna need medical treatment that they don't have."

"But the antidote—"

"Look at her fucking wound! It's not going anywhere!"

Oberon's stomach sank. Stable as she may be, it was a tentative equilibrium. Her breath fluttered unevenly in her unconsciousness; her eyes flicked rapidly beneath their closed lids. Fresh blood still seeped beneath the feeble bandage, vivid and permanent. She'd need supplies, else infection would set in, and that would kill just as surely as the bite itself, if slower…

A coldness spread in his veins as he connected the pieces.

Abruptly, the door to the mentoring room swung open; Alecto stood in its frame. Pocketing his cellular, he jogged to meet her just outside in the relative privacy of the corridor. Key word relative; he threw that 'Makers-be-damned Peacekeeper a mock-salute as the One Victor transferred the relevant information to his cellular, all the while trying not to think about what this meant. It could be worse. He glanced at the name, age; sighed in not-quite-relief. It could be a lot worse.

For me, at least. Despite her freedom, if brief, from a client more than ten years her senior, a near-imperceptible flicker of guilt crossed Alecto's features.

Oberon cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"Don't."

"For the medicine," he clarified.

A stiff nod. Awkwardness bled into the air. Pushing open the door, Oberon gestured for her to head back into the room; the Peacekeeper's emotionless helmet tracked him as he trailed the young Victor inside.

The eyes of his peers once again followed him as he settled back into his station. Every muscle seemed to ache— his back even more so thanks to that damned couch— in the absence of the panicked tension.

No doubt it would return tenfold sooner than Oberon would like.

You need to do better. He couldn't break down like this every time Venatrix was in danger if he intended to bring her home, even if he had managed to stumble upon a fleeting loophole this time.

God knows there won't be another.

The fever-red haze never lifts.

Venatrix's heart beats rapidly in her ears. The scorch in her veins reminds her that something's there, something's still lingering…

Dead things poke out from the ground, spindly winter-branches and remnants of things that never fully got the chance to grow. She doesn't know where she is, but her pounding heart tells her one thing:

The wolf still hunts her.

Venatrix twists her head— she catches glimpses, nothing solid. Pointed ears and snapping jaws; low growling, just out of sight. It doesn't matter if she sees it. It's enough just to know.

Uneven ground flies beneath her feet. She doesn't know when she started running; maybe she always was.

Her clavicle throbs. Gasping breaths saw at her throat; hairs prickle at her neck as something warm trickles down her skin. It's impossible to keep doing this alone. No weapon, no allies; only fists and fear.

The wolf howls— the closer it gets, the more human it sounds.

The more familiar.

A saving grace sprouts in the feeling of her father's solid presence, and she runs to it, to him. Metal scrapes as a sword comes free, but it doesn't scare her; it's never scared her.

That sound means security. Control.

And suddenly, it's thrust into her hands. A shove from behind, towards the wolf, and she's paralyzed.

Again.

"Do you understand, Trixie?"

In the span of a heartbeat, the scene shifts. Yellow light overhead. Soft worn leather at her back, under her legs. That vivid screen and its horrible, horrible truths; the home that feels less like a home with each passing second.

She's still frozen. Eight years old, and she can't stop crying.

Even through the tears, there's blood. Venatrix grips her fathers hand, as if the tighter she squeezes, the more she can pretend that the red that coats them onscreen is a lie. The less true it becomes.

But Venatrix understands. She only wishes she didn't have to.

"That's gonna be you someday. Okay?"

She might be nodding, but all she knows is she can't stop crying. Strong arms pull her into an embrace, gentle fingers card through her hair, and it feels wrong.

"You were born to win, Venatrix. It's your birthright."

No.

It's not.

Don't lie to me, don't—

They don't want me to win. That's why they sent the wolf, they did that for me. Don't you lie to me.

…

Not even you want me back.

You don't, I know it.

If—if you did, you would've… you would help, you wouldn't leave me here to rot! I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry I can't be as cruel as you, I'm sorry I can't do what you want—!

His silence scares her. One by one, he pries her white-knuckled fingers from his hand.

"It doesn't matter what they want," he doesn't tell her. That voice…

Behind him, the wolf.

Red eyes alight with flame. Teeth bared in a snarl, black fur standing on end. It towers over her, nose inches from hers, and its low growl becomes words. "What do you want?"

What do you want?

"What do you want from me!?" she screams out loud, shrill and cutting even to her own ears. "What more do you want!?"

I don't want this. I want to go home.

"I wanna go home too."

Venatrix's eyes flicker open. She uncurls herself, stands to her eighteen-year-old height. "Bell," she croaks.

"Take me with you!"

The sudden softness of Bell's curls fills her palms. She hugs it close to her chest, squeezes her little sister as tight as she knows how. You're here. Bell murmurs something into the fabric of her tattered tunic, arms tight around her waist. You're here, and I can protect you. I can bring you home…

"Please, Ven." Bell looks up at her, up to her, with those impossible round eyes. Fat tears roll down her rounded cheeks.

They join the flowers of red that bloom across her skin.

In the blink of an eye, jagged wounds tear open; rivulets of sticky warmth clump in her curls, seeping between Venatrix's fingers. "Take me home, Ven! I'm scared, okay? I'm so scared! I can't do it, I c-can't…" Her words dissolve into sobs; she sags in Venatrix's arms, deadweight.

Venatrix doesn't dare let go, even as Bell's fists tighten their grip on her shirt. "It-it's okay, Bell, I've got you, I've—"

A howl splits the air. At least ten more follow.

Shadows flit. Bellara trembles, her sobs pitched high in panic. Venatrix's lips move, but she can't feel what comes out, can't fend off the pack with her sister clinging like this—

"Bell, you have to run—!"

She doesn't. She won't. She hangs onto Venatrix, sobbing, bleeding, begging. Take me home! It breaks Venatrix's heart to shove her away.

"Go! Run!"

The voice that spews from her mouth isn't her own.

"Just leave me Pippa, go!"

Something rips Bell from her arms, and like that, she's pinned to the dirt, wind knocked out. Cold metal rests beneath her chin. Colder green eyes bury their apology.

She blinks slowly at her reflection.

Just make it quick.

The ghost of a blade whistles towards her neck and—

Venatrix jerked awake, gasping.

With each blink, that lucid reality slipped from her mind, the images of herself, her sister, dissolving like mist. No! The words, however, pounded between her ears like a vicious game of racquetball— 'Take me home!'— and she only realized how much her shoulders shook— how her whole body trembled— when warm hands stabilized them. "Hey! Hey, Trix, shh, it's okay…"

In the midst of her racing heart, her shuddering breath, she found her district partner's steady blue gaze. "Percy…"

"It's okay, you're okay."

The solid suggestion of his touch compelled her to relax her muscles. The minute she did, a tingling pain surged from the upper right side of her body. Black spots flared across her vision, and Percy's assurances barely reached her ears through her own clenched-teeth groans of pain, through the ringing in her ears.

'I wanna go home too. Please, Ven.'

I can't bring you home. Venatrix's breath caught in her chest. I can't— I'm so sorry. Hot tears began to spill from her sealed eyes, and Venatrix forced herself to swallow the sobs building in her throat. I can't even bring myself home. A solid weight at her uninjured side was the only thing that grounded her, a familiar touch amidst the nauseating hurt.

When the dizziness cleared, Venatrix found herself lying flat on her back. The fiery throbbing in her collarbone didn't leave; it echoed the beat of her heart with unsettling accuracy.

As Percy's words washed over her, she focused on her breath, on the leathery pattern of the tent above her.

Slowly, she began to settle. Her friend's fingers brushed strands of sweat-slicked hair from her forehead, and the gesture spurred another wave of dream-memory, a lunge for the mental straws that had sifted through her unconsciousness. Bellara. Her father…

'What do you want?'

"The wolf," she murmured.

"It's gone," Percy said. "Ran out of arrows chasing it off. Me and Mariposa… You almost didn't—" He swallowed sharply. "Mariposa's mentor sent you some sort of antidote."

Venatrix frowned. Static still swam through her mind, emphasized by the flaring pain in her shoulder, the heavy stiffness in her immobilized body. Real memory flickered in between flashes of her sister's presence; the sensation of teeth scraping bone and soft, thick curls. Uncontrollable shivers rattled down her back, aggravating her bite wound. Venatrix's teeth dug into her lip as she floundered for something to wrap around herself, something to combat the incessant chill.

'That's gonna be you someday.'

Something soft brushed her hand, and Venatrix twisted her neck ever-so-slightly as Percy shoved his sweater towards her. "Just take it," he insisted when she tried to push it away. Gingerly, he helped work the garment over her head and through her limbs, doing his best to avoid jostling the bandages at her collar. The mere movement nearly brought tears to her eyes. A long exhale huffed from her lips as she laid back down and waited for the pain to dissipate into something bearable; she barely noticed the brief change in lighting as Percy poked his head outside the tent flap.

The frigid breeze sent another wave of shivering through her body, but it was the new presence that set Venatrix on tense alert.

Mariposa's face swam into view, and she relaxed ever-so-slightly. "Hey, Vee." The One girl smiled at Venatrix's grumble of greeting. "Good to see you awake. How're you holding up?"

Another grunt.

She gave Venatrix's fingers a light squeeze before dipping out of sight. In her place, something warm pressed against Venatrix's hip before settling in the crook of her left arm. Unwilling to lift her head, Venatrix let her hand find soft fur, velvety pointed ears. A low vibration began to emanate beneath her fingertips, and the corner of Venatrix's lip twitched in something like a smile.

Her allies rustled about within the tent; Mariposa reappeared, holding a small bottle to her mouth. "It'll help with the pain," she said. A quick glance at Percy gave her the reassurance to drink.

Venatrix winced at the unpleasant flavor. "What happened," she rasped.

Percy and Mariposa exchanged a look. A quiet urgency stirred in the back of Venatrix's mind; despite the stabs of pain that shot through her body, she attempted to shift into a sitting position. Percy's hands came immediately to her aid, and a hiss slipped through her teeth at the pressure of his fingers so close to her wound. He muttered a quick apology, and they managed to raise her to a semi-reclined position before it became too much. Venatrix let her left elbow support her upper body; as much as it trembled beneath the weight, she'd be damned if she couldn't do at least that.

Muffled noises outside the tent drew her attention, and it was then that Venatrix realized they hadn't brought a tent when they'd left.

Outside, footsteps crunched. Something tore open the tent flap, and Venatrix squinted at the bright snow glare, the sudden bitter cold. Venatrix's eyes adjusted as the intruder's silhouette crouched down to peer in through the entrance, an all-too-familiar sneer etched into his features.

"Well, would you look at this," Viper grinned. "The bitch has lost her bite."

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A/N: Chapter 51... 51st Games... Uhh first off. Very belated happy bday to Iago :sob: That was uh. October 30th... but maybe u can see why I didn't want to rush this one... I'm rly glad I didn't, I like how this one came out ;-; writing-wise at least. Also um. surprise.. they totally did not just go running back to the pack with their tails between their legs bc they needed shit..! totally not...! hahaha... this will definitely go very well trust me guys

Also the other day I figured out what each of the characters would be if they were dogs and I want to share that with the class bc its important.. Ven would be an Alaskan Husky (sled dogs ! specifically bred for Work (: ), Percy would be a Golden Retriever (duh.. I'm also like 90% sure I've called him that in-text bjfd), Mariposa would be a Shiba Inu, Iago would be a Doberman Pinscher, Oberon would be a German Shepherd, Dagmara would be a Rottweiler, and Bellara (yeah I know shut up) would be an Irish Water Spaniel (look at it and tell me that I'm wrong, you can't). Viper does not get an assigned dog bc hes not cool enough. If you don't recognize any of these by name, it's definitely worth a google trust me.. ;-;

Feel free to place ur bets on whether or not Ven will turn into a werewolf during the Games ! No I will not stop making that joke (: Next chapter soon hopefully! See u then..

- Nell