day eight, part two: hemorrhage
Memories are just where you laid them; drag the waters 'til the depths give up their dead.
In the midst of trees and shrouded din, the pair of them have found a blessing.
The sound of rushing water is one Hollister knows well, yet never before has it sounded this grand. After the blistering heat of yestermorn's fire – the fearsome winds, the pains of Five – he's been longing for a breath of air, and this seems to be the form its come through. How strange it is to see something which he's held as long-familiar in the esteem of comfort. Cold spring water dashed with lichen-rocks, blooms of forest mud and algae clinging to the river's bed…
He and Lethe have only just settled before he finds himself stripping down, pulling aside his uniform in favor of trying to wash, anxious as ever to feel the rapids against his skin. With what Hollister can recall of the before, he supposes such an urge ought to perturb him. But it's been a long few years since his time with true-mother… a long time still since he was left to the Seam.
And so, here he is – nostalgic.
What absurdity.
Faintly, a curve begins to touch his lips. There was a stream like this in Twelve, not so far from the Seam. Hollister can recall playing in it as a child, running about with bare and stinging feet as true-mother attempted to corral him, reign him in so he did not catch chill. 'Twas difficult for them to save health when they had nought to wear but rags; cottoncloth wore wet so quickly, and took near an age to drym It was not such a problem in the warm seasons, when they had summer's smile to beat down on their backs, but when the winter came… well.
Winters in Twelve were cataclysmic.
He remembers how the banks would swell with darkened ice, unsafe for human tread with the slopes and looseness of the rocks. Once the mud dried, there was nothing to hold the earth together; so many had drowned after a bank-split, erosion carrying their bodies 'neath the freezing water. Nay, even in the homes, there was a lack of warmth, but to bathe came with risks few would dare to habit; frostbite, hypothermia. He'd seen some of his mother's fellows in the cold – seen how the icicles would catch 'pon their skin, and hang off them as they were buried in a layer of white, crystals embedded in their flesh, their lips cool and blue, fingertips and toes near livid purple…
(Betwixt the danger of frostbite and the concern of illness, the forest river had been no good place to bring a child. Yet for the Seamborn, there was little else; they were too outcast to furnish their homes with running water, too impoverished to equip their lots with functional pipework, like that which kept up the Hob and the Mayor's home. Certainly there were portions of their lot that could accommodate the changes, but with such little care on behalf of their benefactors, they hadn't the resource to bring much to action. Yet another peril of the penniless.)
Hollister is loathe to imagine what became of the humans that his mother knew – mining families from deep in the woodland, those who were left hobbled by work and made to beg as Belladonna had in the streets. How few of them must have survived, after that last, dreadful winter. How few of them must have recovered from the damage the blizzards brought…
(But what use is there in looking past?)
Hollister shudders, his head pitching sideways in effort to clear the thoughts. 'Tis no easy thing to make memories slip from his head, but at least he's practiced in such things. His imprisonment had seen to that. Although…
He turns his eyes to the earth.
The corpses have yet to disappear.
Ashen faces watch him from below the water, their limbs blue-veined and rotted at the ends. If he peers, he can spy pockmarks on their limbs; small holes not dissimilar to incisions, wounds from a knife, or a nail or chisel, though these he knows to be more nefarious, more… damning. Twelve's rivers had been polluted, and rather thoroughly so; you could scarcely move an inch without being accosted by runoff, filth from the mines or the Capitol's hazardwaste, dumped so carelessly in the dismal glen that its consequences bore no shock. Those who drank the water contracted diseases; those who bathed in it sometimes lost their skin. Terrible rashes, little gashes, here and there, yet the worst of it were the parasites – the ones that liked to burrow, and stick themselves under the skin, hiding until it came time for them to burst and desecrate the inside of their host's unfortunate veins.
(True-mother had contracted them, once. He can still remember the black and purple heels on her swollen feet…)
He swallows a dark breath.
This is not the time to be concerning himself with the past, less still the occurrences he cannot change. The memory of misery lingers, but he shan't give it the mind to eat him alive – not now, not beside Lethe.
Slowly, he eases himself from the bank, slipping his toes, then feet, then legs below the water. The creek's chill overtakes him as he submerges up to his waist, and when he allows his arms to push off the land, bathing him fully in the chaos of the stream, it's all he can do not to simply asphyxiate.
His eyelids close. He inhales, deep.
"How is it?" Lethe asks, and his tone, as always, is a blank affect.
Hollister forces a smile.
"'Tis adequate," he responds in kind, willful in pressing his own voice to remain even, with tempered cadence. He does not wish his worse half to see the shiver that is in his bones, inching its way to the base of his spine... "Mayhaps you should approach – and see for yourself."
The Six boy gives him a look, to which Hollister's head inclines. He turns away, fingers trailing circles through the water's mirror-surface, and as he does, he can hear a sigh, so put upon by his request. A few moments pass 'fore Lethe says a thing, and when he finally does, such speech is not made through verbal word – there is a small splash from at his back, the rush of tides shifting and parting around a sudden obstacle, feet wading over to his side, approaching… approaching… approaching still…
Hollister casts his eyes left and there he is.
Lethe Muralai, in the flesh. Pale and cold and stern as ever, though the sight of him like this is new. Half-clothed, and exposed of skin… the slope of his shoulders, the lovely column of his neck… oh, he should not look so tempting. His face should not be enough to transfix, to hook, to pull Hollister in, leave him feeling breathless in the wake of his overwhelm – not bloodlust, but desire. Desire, desire, desire. He would love him if they had more time. He could love him… even in his… mortality…
Alas. He has been staring too long.
Casting his attention back to the river, Hollister bends, splashing rivulets down over his face, enough to clean the sweat from his brow. 'Twould be best for him to put Lethe out of mind, where he can. Though 'tis far from easy, with his endless presence… proximity…
"We should clean your wound."
The statement is not a question, and scarcely leaves room for protest. Hollister's head raises, his brow furrowing harsh, and Lethe nods at the wound on his arm, still open long after his confrontation with Five. Hollister's lip curls in the beginning of a grimace, but he does not protest it when his partner steps closer, intent on undoing the simple dressings they had wrapped about the thing.
Lethe's fingers find his skin and he stills, allowing the other boy to work away the gauze, deftly undoing what constraint his fleshwound had.
All the while, Hollister remains silent.
"I'm mostly concerned about infection," the Six boy confesses as he gathers water in his palms, lifts it from the creek and spills it over the bared flesh, the contact enough to force Hollister's flinch. "The bleeding may have stopped, but that's only because of the packing. Her mark struck deep."
Lethe's fingers curl against the wound's edge as he begins to rinse the skin, his grip rough and nearly stinging.
"You're lucky that it wasn't worse."
Red stains his palms when he draws them back, the aftermath of Hollister's blood under the river's touch. Diluted though it is, he can't say it's without appeal – can't say, despite being borne of his own skin, that the sight of it isn't tantalizing, setting his chest aflutter, his heart's beat speeding frenzied. He's never intentionally bled himself, but with the arena proving so… lacking…
Lethe's touch returns, cleansing the edges of his burning wound and pinching them tight together. Hollister's breath hitches as his flesh begins to tingle, the bite in his nerves radiating up through his shoulder and spreading into his extremities, touching his spine, his stomach, his thighs and calves. His fingers curl upwards, piercing his palm, as a touch grows to seem a hold, and seamrot arms begin to curl, taking hold of each his ankles as they wench, and wend, and pull…
Hollister stumbles.
"Get off of me!" He cries, and as if a mere hallucination, Lethe's presence is no more. His knees twist as he jerks himself from the riverbed, attempting to move back and away, back and away, into the reach of safety from parasites or Twelve's innumerous damned, all the eyes he's seen in faces of the dead under his feet and piercing through. The shouts of his victims linger in his head, and they claw at him with jagged nails, wishing him the fate he'd forced 'pon them, cruel, cruel, cruel melody…
He bursts from the creek and onto the bank, water in his lungs as he hacks, choking, spitting, seething bile. The mess under his body is red, red and singing to him as blood, drawing him in with such putrid allure, but it scarcely matters, he cannot stomach it, he's falling, falling and he needs…!
Hands.
Rotting hands. Nearly a dozen of them, sparkling with the winter's touch, green-and-white patches over their red-scarred skin, soot-caked flesh of varied colors, all undone by punctures and bruises. They'd wound about his ankles and gripped at his feet, clawing marks into his flesh with their jagged nails, the voices screeching louder and louder, "You believe you have a right to live, vampir?"
(You fashion yourself a monster and gorge yourself on self-importance, yet in your soul, you are hollow. Hollow, with no concern for those left behind your path, buried, dead and gone, put there by your very hands. We know well what you did, Hollister Crowe – we know it, and we shan't forgive! Never! NEVER!)
(Base and loathsome, foul thing. Monster of Twelve, monster to your ken, you would have been better to waste in your youth, lay as a corpse dashed betwixt the rocks, just as your mother, just as true-mother – as the Hargraves, you killed them, your victims, they suffered, all 'neath your grasp, and yet still you believe you have a right to rise up from your tomb, cruel and callous, demanding the world? You shan't demand when you pollute – through your reek, through your filth. You are nothing to them, Hollister. Nothing but a wretch, a mutant, a monster…)
(Even the Capitol wishes you dead.)
(Will he be the one to do it?)
He has no voice to scream his rage, but the influx of feeling that has taken him is something most dark… and imminent.
Once again, he's started to spiral.
(He knows it's getting worse, but what is he to do for it? What is he to care, when he was never meant to live, cast out with shaking fists, bars at his back to discourage return?Twelve will be so glad to at last be rid of him – Capitol knows they must be ecstatic with the sight of his spectacle, unraveling further and further, damn you, monstrous and malignant creature – damn you, you worthless seam rat — !)
Hollister chokes as he struggles to find breath, grasping with gnarled digits at the base of his throat, his only sight the faces hidden 'midst the trees… judging, looming, mocking, he's seen them all before, foul eyes in fouler faces, black as pitch and draining him of selfhood – castigating his pride and ridiculing his thirst, tongues wagging back-forth, what he would not give if he had chance to cut them out… fuck you, fuck you, fuck you all to the nine hells!
" – what's happened?"
The hands return, but gentler… still firm, but calm on his back, not pressing or prodding or wishing to throw him to current. Hollister turns, his breath transforming to heaves, heaving for air, for space, for – Lethe, he's right there, so close to me, so close. Two night-eyes, boring into his, wishing to unveil all his secrets, yet he has so little remaining to give – naught to provide, or return in favor… not with such… such company…
His mouth remains numb, but he points – gestures to them, their audience offaces peering out from the wood of the trees. Half of him refuses to indulge their truth, but for as much as he wishes them to be a remnant, he knows well enough they truly exist. His fugue state ebbs away as the world falls back into focus – mineself, Lethe, still here, still constant – and with two shaking hands he grips his not-yet-lover's shoulders, needing the reassurance of perch.
"Lethe," he begins, in little more than a whisper, haunted eyes half-aflutter. "Can you see them? Is it not – are they not true?"
The half-formed sentence is vague, but it proves enough to capture his partner's attention. Lethe's hand stills upon his back, slipping from the perch it had found against his shoulder, and in turn, Hollister's do the same, relinquishing grasp for the sake of sanity, needing the confirmation more than he needs to be moored. Despite of his cimmerian aura, Lethe is quiet; his visage sets, fixed with a most abject sense of consternation when he draws back, then steps forward to match the line of Hollister's feet. Without disrupting the silence, the Six boy comes to settle, and as Hollister looks over his face, he is surprised to see another mirror:
Uncertainty.
A twitch.
"It is," Lethe confirms, his mouth puckered down, lips drawn into a tight line. The confirmation is mirthless, but in his eyes there's a spark – something bemused, that Hollister cannot help but see as the product of restlessness. This past week has been a frustration to them both. Although…
Mayhaps their fortune will be soon to change.
He spares a final glance to the girls on the wood, their grey-black photos a stark reminder of mortality's limits – and the Games' perils. When he'd first glanced across their monochrome faces, the sight of them hadn't registered, yet now the familiarity seems clear as day. Hollister never met Wallis or Katarzyna, but he recalls them as well as anyone who lived through the last year.
Dissolved bodies. Dissolute victims. Though dead and gone, to his recollection, neither were ever buried 'neath anything more than a field of acid, corrosive and dread to their soft flesh.
The twenty-fourth's arena yielded few corpses to be sent home.
Perhaps this is the cause for why.
What did you expect to find? Was there something you left behind?
Don't you remember anything I said, when I said:
The week after Madora died, Maevyn had spent an hour drowning in the lake.
It was winter, she recalls – the dog end of it, when Four was awash with crystal-tears, water hardened to ice on the banks of every river, blanketing the docks over with pure lily-snow. Something about the cold was beautiful; more beautiful than the summer, when the bay only existed to make her float, let her splash through ripples to the tune of siren's song.
Everything had seemed so perfect, then. Her an' Mads, Mads an' her. She'd been living in a daydream, and she'd craved it so desperately; the feeling of being wanted, loved and cherished. After a few months, she forgot that happiness could even crumble.
(Isn't that naive?)
Tears streak Maevyn's cheeks as she kneels in the grass, her fingers itching to reach for a touch that isn't there. Madora's gone – has been for some time, and finally, finally, she understands why. Her fear and her apprehension… the disdain of a mother who scorned the child she birthed, birthed fucked up and crazy, deranged to the point of delusion. Atlanshi didn't ally with her because he must've seen it, too; seen the monster under her eyes, the thing she'd tried to hide but refused to dispel, vicious girl with fangs for teeth, claws that rend and eyes that tear, burning fire in the night. She was an explosion set to burst; the tideland's ticking time-bomb, counting down the seconds to her own undoing…
Four voted her in because she's a murderer.
She has ruined everything she ever wanted. Love. Friendship. Family. The arena should have been an escape, but instead it's become a cycle renewed: a cycle of death, of loss and pain and sorrow beyond sense.
Cordura's hands are on her back, but she can't feel them. Smoke permeates her skin, floods into her nose and paints her body black. Her veins are corroding from the anger they carry; poison on pain, pain on suffering, notrightnotrightnotright I didn't kill her I couldn't have – ! I didn't kill….
I didn't kill Atlanshi. It wasn't me.
"It wasn't me." Maevyn says, frantic as Cordura lifts her up, up from the grass and the torn-through ground, clumps of dirt pulled out from the earth. mud still clinging to her fingertips. "She has to know that, Cordy. She's gotta."
"Maevyn," her lover whispers, running fingers through her matted hair, and the kaleidoscope of her memory collides with the present, faces bleedin' on faces, all of the bodies and backgrounds wax.
"I used t'... ta put myself under the ice," she mumbles, nails digging deep through her skin. "All the way down, after she left me. Kept inhalin' like I wanted the water to fill me, 'cause I had nobody and nowhere left to go. Didn't wanna die, but I didn't know how to live after her. I jumped and I'd see the crystal stars collapsin' and crashin' down on me… and think maybe one day I'd smash them into dust for how they looked at me, laughing like they knew what I felt, knew the pain?"
She laughs, high-pitched and maniacal, turning in Cordy's arms to look at her, dirt-fingers cupping her face and stroking over her perfect cheek.
"Dyin' was the only thing I had left. I just wanted to see her again."
Cordura watches her, two dazzling mismatched eyes in a frame built by the hands of gods. She doesn't realize how strong she is; doesn't realize her beauty, how even the years of hatred, poverty and hunger-pangs weren't enough to tarnish her shape, and likely never will be. She shines with the force of a beacon, and Vyn wants to devour her, suck up her light and bask in her presence, if only for a few minutes.
But she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve…
"What you said. Back at the cabin."
Cordura speaks, but Maevyn cuts her off, lips pressed over hers in a soul-stealin' kiss.
Summer blooms anew.
(She remembers the warmth as a season of dark eyes; the picnics she'd taken on the beach, seaweed necklaces and shell-hewn crowns, wilting flowers clasped inside her palms as she called out: "Mads! Mads!" without a care in the world. They'd left footprints in the sand together, and Maevyn had imagined a third set between them, tiny toe-prints and heel-streaks, little hands wrapped about her fingers.)
(She remembers the leaves change on the trees. Their final season of happiness; a calm before the ceaseless storm. Winter wound itself through mist and tumult, and soon enough Maevyn was alone – wandering cobblestone streets and frequenting the bay's old bars, a curse here and a punch there, her vandal's hands scrawling blood over walls. She took whatever she could get her hands on, took and broke it in pieces, and yet still it wasn't enough to lift her spirits. The cuts on her body were always' bleedin, and after awhile she'd started to rot, turned blue and cold as the dead, cursed by the river she would soon return to.)
(Life became her death. Death became her life.)
(Somehow, Atlanshi understood.)
Maevyn pulls back, her kiss becoming a grin as she wipes away Cordura's tears, replacing rain with earth-smudges. Her arm returns to her side, knuckles loose and calm, and as Cordy blinks, she remembers how to breathe, wheezing out laughs while she greedily drinks in the air, abundant with oxygen she'd forgotten how to miss.
"I love you," she whispers, urging her heart to spill through her lips, letting it lift into her chest and purge her of her guilt. "I need you."
Her dropped fingers nudge against Cordy's open palm, coaxing it to her own until their digits interlace. Vyn turns, brimming over with cheer, and tugs her girl along behind her – over to the blooming hill and down beyond the walkin' trail, edging her way back toward their haven.
The lodge ain't so far away. Soon enough they'll be there, back with the Fives and all their cheer, jokes cracked over darkness and pacts made through spilt blood. Atlanshi's corpse and the flames that bound her will be nothing more than a fleeting memory, discarded in the dirt alongside her other truths.
(If she buries the bodies deep enough, she'll never have to confront 'em.)
Her hand squeezes Cordura's, legs breaking into a sprint as she begins to move faster, faster, faster 'til she's running. Hair whips around her face, tousled by the frantic wind, and Maevyn lets out a shriek, laughter bubblin' all over, her mind boiled and sloshing out the top of her head, wanting to bask in their snapshot moment. Cordura's telling her to slow down, Vyn, come on – but she's laughing, too, laughin' all the same. Their jog becomes a dance, their panting breaths starting to mingle, twisting together 'til its all one, and Vyn can hear her blood rushin', heart breakin', all fucking over again.
It's a bit funny, isn't it? How recklessness is the one thing that's kept her from shattering, her mood's onslaught fierce enough to make her seethe? Excitement to passion, passion to guilt… guilt to sadness, and sadness to mirth, her cheer is in her laughter and her laughters sets the mood. Everything is fine, or it will be, soon, so why does she feel scorched from the fire, a day after said fire's passed?
Impetuosity shouldn't be glue, but for Maevyn, the only certainty she knows is that certainty is uncertain.
And because of that, she keeps running.
Over dirt and rocks and tiny drops, twigs, leaves, branches and a puddle of water… grassy outcroppings down below, and it wasn't very long back that they were stained with blood, blood in the air, blood on her skin, she'd heard the sound after the bloodbath – boom boom boom boom boom…
Boom!
The sky thunders with the morning's death toll.
Maevyn's feet come to a stop.
Tears stream down her face, ugly, wistful things carving scars into her flesh. So many memories are trapped inside her, and she's almost demanding them to spill out, fill the shape of her body and leave their mark on her blighted world. Her ears begin to ring, cannonsong becoming a Capitol ballad as the clouds disappear, sun beating down on her too-hot skin, red, all she sees is red…
… red…
(death is life, life is death, you are nothing and you will never escape… the pain, the ache, the eyes of the people who scorched your soul… left you to rot, left you to wither, six feet under the new spring blooms…)
Vyn's eyes blink back open, taking in the swimming lights and the glare of the blazing sun. Then, subconsciously, her gaze begins to shift, dropping to fall on the stretch of ground lain before her boots.
Her skull throbs.
Her lungs are wailing.
In her path, there sits a doll.
(It shouldn't be enough to break her. Shouldn't be enough to push her over the line of discomfort and into a spot of frenzy, thoughts of charred skin swimmin' behind her eyes, soot in her nostrils, it's all clogging her throat and she can't breathe. She can't breathe, because she's back there, kneeling on the floor of a cabin in flames, and there's her moon-brother lyin' dead. Too late to save him, too late to help Madora… what've I ever done but ruin?)
(What've I ever done but fuck things up?)
She crouches, reaching forward with shaking hands to clutch at the tiny thing, its torn terrycloth fabric stained through with layers of black, so worn down that the substance won't smudge off. Her tears come faster, drying to her face as she stares at it, taking in its little shriveled body, it's mangled head, little button-eyes peering out from the unrecognizable mess as if pleading.
Please, Vyn, you've gotta help me!
Vynnie, you've gotta get revenge!
Burn 'em up like they burnt me!
They can't hurt us any longer! It's not right!
"Maevyn…?" Cordura whispers, reaching out to touch her stiffened shoulder, so full of tenderness and concern. Vyn clutches the doll to her chest, still sniffling when she shakes her head, leave me alone, please, Cordy, jus' leave me here, it's okay…
(It's never been okay.)
"They killed him," she says instead, squeezing her doll harder an' harder. "They killed me."
Cordura's arms are around her, trying to pull her up – keep her close, held against her like a precious thing, like she's something worth love and desire, and Maevyn gets it, but she can't go. She doesn't know how to… live…
She isn't right anymore.
All those marbles gone and not a one left to lose, but she's trying to make use of 'em anyway, because this is a time when she needs to think. Not just for her sake, but for the sake of everyone that's dead and gone… Shishi and Mads and soon enough all her friends, each of 'em lost to the ocean's depths, carried down the creek to their long-watery grave. She's seen death before, stared it right in the face, and yet she's not the one who perished: wasn't then, wasn't now, but her survival merits a debt.
Cordy won't understand it, but she's seen the other side. More than once, and in the blackness, there was… there is…
… nothing.
Vyn's head snaps up. Something's tugging on her… pulling loose her heart strings and strumming on 'em, tryna make her soul give out even though she's not sure she wants that. She looks down, and there's a line wrapped around Atlanshi's neck – no, the neck of the doll, it's not Shishi, not anymore – an' it's pulling, pulling him away, bushes rustling from off to the side of the path, everything's spinning and suddenly she smells him, murderer, killer, a snake that reeks of destruction and death – he did it, not me, HE DID IT, it was HIM!
"BOLIVAR!"
Maevyn screams, but the boy whose face emerges from the brush isn't the enemy she's come to know… he's spindly, like a dying tree, all sallow skin and no muscle, and his eyes aren't the same, they're not mocking, but empty, devoid of everything that she's known as human, yet oddly human still…
"Ansel," Cordura hisses, and yes, that sounds right – a name for the wraith who plagues her sight, who haunts her nightmares with a second shadow. For if Bolivar is to blame for Madora, then this boy is to blame for Atlanshi – he's her heartbreak and her venom incarnate, something she's meant to fear, but chooses to scorn instead, and oh, if only, if only she had her axe…
rend him limb from limb
cut him to pieces an' flay all his skin
leave him weak, make him beg,
pluck loose the eyes and boil the organs,
force water down his throat until he's spitting it –
only fair, it's only FAIR!
i'll have him under my shoe and i'll take his HEAD,
TAKE IT CLEAN OFF HIS SHOULDERS
STUMP THE NECK AND STUMP THE LIMBS
HANG 'EM ON A LINE TO DRY
NO MERCY FOR THE KILLERS
NO MERCY TO SOCIETY
THEY HURT ME AND THEY RUINED ME
I'M A MONSTER AND IT'S ALL THEIR FAULT
DAMN THEM
DAMN THEM
DAMN THEM
RED
BLOOD RED BLEED RED
MAKE 'EM FUCKING SEETHE RED
I'LL SLAUGHTER HIM AN' I'LL SLAUGHTER THEM ALL (!) —
JUST GET OUT OF ME,
GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
"YOU KILLED HIM!" Vyn howls, and the noise that leaves her is primal, guttural growls overtaking her chest. "YOU KILLED ATLANSHI!"
Cordura grabs at her arms, trying desperately to hold her back. "Maevyn, don't – !"
But the warning comes too late.
A laugh spills out of the shadow-boy, his aura radiating like a dark sun through the sky and earth that surround her periphery. Her lip curls back as she lunges, reaching forward with hands intent on murder, but before she can touch him, he's backing away – vanishing into the bleakness of æther, his beating heart beyond her reach.
Ansel's back turns, his legs leading him off, off, off and away, out from the real and into the veil, where only dead things would dare to linger.
(Maevyn, in her madness, decides to follow.)
"Don't fall away!"
(and leave me to myself)
"Don't fall away!"
(and leave love bleedin' in my hands)
Everything about this is madness.
Cordura's teeth clench as she follows Maevyn into the treeline, her throat full of bile and her jaw tight enough to seem glued. She knows Ansel well enough to know that following him's bad news – that this situation, whatever it is, has left him holding all the cards, the odds turned far out of her favor. If she had any sense, she'd stay on the path; by the lodge, in the light, where she's got supplies and range enough to capitalize on her skills, draw her partner in and bring him to heel, the way she should've done the first time she saw him.
But instead, she's giving chase.
Instead, she's gambling away her own favor.
…
Maevyn.
The girl from Four with her stupid grin. Her bubbly talking and her sunlit hair, surrounded by a halo of caustic innocence. Cordura never meant to let her get so close, but since that first night in the lodge, there's been something brewing between them – a spark of want, desire that she hasn't felt for an aeon, and least of all with Taffeta. They can't survive as star-crossed lovers, but regardless, they were given a moment. A moment to meet, a moment to yearn…
A moment to love, without doubt or denial. The maniac and the hustler, brought together by a cruel fate.
Their story was never going to be a happy one. But still, she'd wanted to hope.
"Maevyn!" Cordura shouts, charging into the fray. Everywhere she turns holds trees and shadow, but there's no sign of her better half – no singsong voice to draw her in, drown her in damnation like a blushing siren. She spins around, reaching down with her hands to grab for a sword that isn't there, and when she feels only air, she recoils, bile curdling in her intestines, leaving her to shake with nausea.
"Maevyn!" She tries a second time, cursing herself for being so foolish, damned because of something futile. She shouldn't cry for something she never had, but here she is nonetheless – guilty, frantic. Needing, more than anything, to see her lover's face. If she could just have a sign – have… something, anything to give her reassurance. A laugh or a smile, even a cry of her own name.
Anything beyond the silence.
Anything, besides the nothing.
A rustle carries from her left, and Cordura whirls, sprinting at it with little care. Her feet pass over rocks and stones, upturned trees and patches of ivy, but still she finds nothing. No footprints in the dirt, no tributes squaring down…
No golden heads, lighting the path with naught but their warm presence.
Maevyn is gone, and she doesn't know where.
Doesn't know, can't see, can't think – all she has are branches, forest gunk and endless muck, the sole compass her aching chest. Already, her heart's beginning to split. Maevyn's a Career, but Ansel's wily. Crafty, in a way neither of them were prepared for. If he's gotten to her…
From in the darkness, she hears a scream.
A shout tears itself from her lips as she sprints forward, her arms pushing aside tree branch after tree branch in their frenetic worry. Twigs lash against her face and leaves rustle as they stick against her clothes, but Cordura cares for none of it – the only thing that matters now is Vyn. Her Vyn.
Her second chance.
She bursts through the trees, the thatch of bushes her body's caught in rustling as she forces her way past them, into another path overrun by trees. Burrs stick in her clothes as her shadow casts over the mud floor, contorted in on itself under the dim light. Another shout echoes in her ears, and Cordura's head snaps up, her arms reaching out for the girl she's come to love, closer, closer, she's so close…
… but not close enough.
She's too late.
A strangled cry falls out of her as Cordura reaches her sunshine, bound up in tangles of silver and black, her mouth set in a manic grin, lips pulled open while she weeps. Her fingers tremble as they tug at the bonds – in her arms, in her gut, piercing her like fishhooks and this can't be real, how did she even – how are the strings so sharp – ?!
A barb on the wire pierces her skin, and Cordura winces, drawing her palm back to find it bloody. Maevyn's laughing, tears in her eyes – "fuck, that hurts, feels like I'm burnin'" – and when Cordura grabs her hand to hold it still, her mirth only seems to intensify.
"Didja ever know hangin' out could be so literal?" She asks, and Cordura squeezes her palm, blood and sweat leaving her to fumble. "'snot so bad, though. I mean, you're here… my very own knight-in-armor, yeah? Cordy… Mads…"
A whoosh sounds from the space behind her, and before the Eight girl can so much as react, Maevyn's shoving her, curled fingers letting go of her own and pushing her away, only for something to force its way between them, hitting its target with a violent squelch.
The strength drains from Cordura's body.
Suddenly, she's a child again.
A child, standing with her back against a splintered wall, gazing down at the body of her twin sister, so unlike her in every way. On the floor, Muslin looks like a doll; small and withered as her blood seeps from her skull, soft hair hung around her face, contrasting the porcelain of her unmarred skin.
(Cold. She's so cold.)
"You're lucky it wasn't you," Challis growled, and all Cordura could do was shiver, even when she looked up to face the man who would become her monster, his cold gaze disrupted by the presence of a single tear sliding down his cheek.
(With a single bullet, he'd ruined her life. Took away her sanity, and killed her heart along with it.)
(Muslin should have lived, not me. Not me, not me.)
She hadn't had the guts to voice her hatred, but she'd certainly carried it – held it with her through those cold nights strung up in their basement, her father's belt splitting open the skin of her back as he beat her into subservience. He'd tried to break her to earn her silence, but she'd resisted until the day she killed him, erased him from history just as he'd tried to erase her – the daughter he never wanted, his own revolting blood and flesh.
"You disgust me,'' Cordura remembers saying as she spat on his grave, his body decaying under her studded boots. "And you're more nothing than I'll ever be."
(That's a promise.
That's a vow.)
But the dead never really stay dead – and standing before her now is living proof.
Ansel.
(She'd asked him why, once.
Why he'd killed Muslin, rather than her.
Why he'd tortured her into silence instead of simply casting her out,
his neglect and distance continuing for years after the point of fracture.
"Why, why did you, why would you do this?" –
time and time over, but Challis didn't have an answer.
Her father died, and there was no closure.
Not for Muslin, not for Georgette.)
(Not for her, the daughter he'd chosen to keep.)
(No, not keep – damn.)
(She'd stuffed him in the dirt, his arms bloody from innumerous gashes, throat slit and smelling of garbage, no different from the refuse in which they'd lived. Alcohol clung to his lips as they rested in a final sneer, pulled away from his yellowed teeth, and as Cordura looked at him, she found her expression a mirror.
Bared teeth, full of venom.
Anger in her arms, her flexing hands,
blood on the toes of her shoes,
I guess I got lucky after all, Dad.)
(Taffeta crooned into her ear, sugar-sweet lies on a serpent's tongue,
and in Cordura's shaking hands, she felt a crown –
not a knife, but victory, promises of a future filled with grandeur.)
In her memory, she can hear him laughing.
(To this day, he hasn't stopped.)
Vyn's hand pulls the rod from her stomach, one slick inch at a time. Her skin rips loose as the ridges drag, pulled back to expose a hole ripe with blood and punctured organs, viscera clinging to the rusted metal with every bit that's torn loose.
"Didn't… didn't see that comin'..."
Her words fade into a whisper as the rod clatters down, impaled gut still heaving as her body seizes. Shaking back and forth in the mess of wires, Maevyn's arm reaches out, movements stuttered and slow, practically inhuman. Her smile splits her face as Cordura's eyes widen, and she surges up from the ground, wrapping her arms around her with no mind for her bondage.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" She screeches, fear overtaking her senses. Tearing the wires loose from Maevyn's frame, Cordura's grip curls around the back of her neck, her hands desperately clinging to whatever she can feel. Maevyn's breath is shallow, colder than it has any right to be, and as her legs go out from under her, she can nearly feel her heart stop.
She can't just let her go. Not so soon.
A waterfall spurts from Maevyn's stomach, the hole in her side loose, and growing wider still like a monster's cavernous maw. In a few moments, it might swallow her whole.
Cordura's hand smacks at her cheek, lightly enough not to shock her. "Come on, Vyn, keep your eyes open. Look at me," she urges, arms on her shoulders as she shakes her, trying to ignore the growing stillness of her frame, those beautiful eyes devoid of light, not yet, not yet, not yet.
She grabs hold of one of the wire tangles – the one dug into her ribcage, just under her breasts, and hells, is it slick, slick with blood, too much of it, so much and this is only the first…
Fuck!
"Hang on, sweetheart, just hang on. It'll be alright – I just have to cut you loose, okay? Try and breathe for me, Vyn, focus on breathing…"
Cordura pulls her close, laying her down amidst a nest of moss with one hand shifting towards her belt.
"Cordy…" her lover gasps out, wheezing as loud as a river. "Cordy, I –"
Vyn's hand reaches up to touch her cheek, her eyes bloodshot and watering. She smiles, cracked lips tugging up at the corners, and Cordura looks down as her lashes flutter, her chest heaving once, then twice, then once again.
The sun fades from its place in the sky.
Maevyn's body goes still.
Boom!
With no hesitation, Cordura draws a knife, flinging it off in the direction of her District partner, his malevolent shade.
She could care less whether it hits him – could care less, with Maevyn dying in her arms, her face so ashen she looks dead already. Cordura clutches at her, blanketing Vyn's body under her own larger frame, careless for her exposed back, her slumped shoulders.
All the while, Ansel lingers, her father's gaze glittering from inside his eyes.
"Damn you!"
She snarls, and if she still had hair to rip from her head, then undoubtedly she'd have done it. Pulled it loose and clawed herself raw, gashes shorn into her skull, her arms, her back and feet... "Damn you, Zilliah, and damn your fucking corpse bride! I bet you put them in the ground yourself, didn't you, you piece of shit? Your hands are made for nothing but ruin, and curse you for having the nerve, the gallto lay those palms on Maevyn, when she shone brighter than anything about you ever will, you worthless F-tier scum!"
The vein at her neck pulses, her chest sinking under the pressure of heartache, everything inside her tumbling out of control.
"Are you fucking happy? Huh? You finally got what you wanted! Was it worth wasting your last days over, necro freak? Was it?" Vitriol courses through her like a tide of blades, spilling loose with reckless abandon. "You're nothing but scum, you stupid fucking knocker! You're trash, and you make me sick! You don't even –"
"Knocker?"
Ansel's voice cuts through her tirade, snapping her from her reverie with the crack of a tongue-like-whip. Cordura's mouth parts around a retort she never voices, the truth of what she's said beginning to dawn on her. Her stomach turns.
Her soul splits.
"That's not –" she begins to protest, but Ansel just tuts, his condescension making her feel small. The forest fades from sight, morphing into a rickety shack, walls stained with poison and nicks taken out of the floor, an empty shell casing knocking against her heel, and why, why would you do this to her, why her, she didn't deserve this, it should've been me, it should have been — !
"Spade Sin-fucking-clair."
Ansel shakes his head, his body pressed into one of the mangled oaks, left hand clutching at a blood soaked shoulder. So the knife did find its mark. Pity it didn't sink any deeper, kill the fucking cur before he can regain his breath. Death is the least of what he deserves. The least of what he –
Cordura grimaces, tearing her gaze away. He's not worth her time or attention. Not with what he's done… what he's… taken…
"I told you not to forget your roots. I told you it would be your undoing,to think yourself superior –"
"I haven't forgotten anything," she snaps back, feeling cornered and lost in her own skin. Like nothing but a shell of the woman she'd grown into. Broken. Pitiful. Worthless. "You're the one with the vendetta. A pointless vendetta against one of your own, and for what reason, other than my success? Is it because I'm richer than you? More successful, more adept? Because I've made something of myself where you could not, because I dared to be known while you kept to the shadows, making your living off the backs of the dead? At least the people I screwed over deserved what they got. You befouled the innocent."
Her lip curls as she begins to shake, anger mounting by the minute.
"How do you even sleep at night?"
Ansel watches as she pulls Maevyn's body into her lap, supporting her head with two calloused hands. The stain of death lingers on her skin, but it's familiar enough that Cordura doesn't pay it any mind.
(She's lost enough to keep misery in good company. No matter what the wretch might think.)
"I don't,"he tells her, biting his lip. A flicker of doubt settles over his features, but Cordura pays it no mind as she strokes back Vyn's hair, golden locks alight in the dark of the woodland.
(She was too good for this – too good for the Games.)
(No, her mind corrects, shoulders forever trembling. She was too good for me.)
(Some people… are just meant to be alone.)
The girl from Eight grimaces, cradling Maevyn's broken body in her arms. She can see Ansel's shadow on her periphery, an abominable stain that never fades, and this time, when she finds her voice, she's practically growling, her words as primal as a wolf's mourning howl.
"Leave," she spits, something dark splitting her heart, her gaze filling over with a blinding fog. "Or the next knife I throw will be in your head."
(You don't deserve to look at her.)
(You don't deserve to see this.)
To his credit, Ansel doesn't protest.
She listens as he stumbles, righting his feet beneath his body and pushing back from the tree, fragments of bark falling from his fingertips. Cordura doesn't watch him when he turns, but she can hear his legs moving, shoes crashing through the brush to smash twigs and leaves beneath his bloody heel. A part of her wants to give chase, but her muscles are rigid – too tired to support her weight, much less force it into motion.
Stay, her mind whispers as her chest begins to cave, pulse kicking into overdrive. Stay for Vyn. She needs you. She needs…
… she doesn't need anything.
She's dead.
She's gone.
Cordura squeezes her eyes shut, bending forward until her forehead is pressed against Maevyn's own. She wants to scream, but the sound won't leave her lips.
So instead, she sits.
She sits, with crimson staining her hands and her heart crumbling into pieces, the plaster she'd once used to sculpt her mask too brittle to contain everything that fills it. The wind whips her by, rustling leaves and stealing away her breath, but Cordura Faux does not move, and she does not weep. Try as she might, she has no tears left in her to cry – not for Muslin, not for Maevyn…
Not for herself, split apart inside a facade that she'd never intended to create.
Spade was Taffeta's creation.
(In a sense, so was Cordura.)
Blood has never fazed her, but the sting of regret is a painful one, withering her from the inside-out. She has never been afraid to lose, and yet here she can feel herself rotting, wasting away beneath torrents of self-doubt as stifling as the earth in which she buried her father.
In the evening sky, the sun begins to fall, its golden rays overtaken with something red and orange and bitter pink, dying on the far horizon.
The pink fades into purple. Purple becomes black.
Black becomes a void, and Cordura's vision swells with stars.
Her fingers move to close Vyn's glassy eyes, the last vestiges of life fading from her skin with the absence of those baby blues. The anthem of woe begins another haunting tune, and as the gruesome grifter looks up through tangled branches, her heart clenches, the breath stolen from her lungs.
How stupid was she to believe she could be happy?
(How ignorant was she to think they could be real?)
Oh, hold me now, I feel contagious; am I the only place that you've left to go?
Pangaea's nights are never quiet.
Since she's entered the arena, she's been plagued by misery – one evening after another, her mind seems to find itself dissolved, fragments strewn about from the fray of the merciless days, death and bloodshed hounding her every step. Her dreams are not just filled with nightmares, but truths she doesn't wish to confront; touches of memory here, bits of conflict there, all bound together with horror and scorn perpetrated by the very people who might have loved her.
She can't escape her new reality, no matter what steps she tries to take – running only gets her so far, and fighting seems like a lost cause. No matter what she does, the tumult always, always tries to linger.
The arena is hell.
The Capitol is worse.
And home…
(Home isn't District Ten. Maybe, for her, it never was.)
Tonight, she dreams of shouting, scorn and scorch. Her classmates' venom lingers in her skin as their hands begin to build a cabin. The walls go up, pinning her in place, and soon enough, they begin to burn, thrusting her back into a cavern of smoke. She cannot move and she cannot breathe, caught in the grip of unyielding flames; Rhys shouts at her from her feet, yet she's bound by inadequacy and cannot move – cannot speak, cannot question, can only feel the pinch of nails sinking through her fingers and toes, each one pushing out the other side, trying to pound her body into the walls like the arena's grafted trauma in her brain.
Hollister's face is in the windows, looking on with a maddened delight, and when Pangaea screeches at him, do something! do something! all he does is cock his head, taking pleasure in the idea of her demise.
"Bye-bye, little nightingale," he taunts, blood spilling down his chin from the space behind his lips. "Your demise shan't even merit a funeral."
And just like that, she's dying.
(She's dying from the inside-out.)
Ten's wrath feels like hands upon her back, and with their palms they urge her forward, send her stumbling into the mess born of her father's mistakes, all the while letting their tongues mock.
"Poor little Pangaea."
"Pitiful Pangaea."
"Pathetic Pangaea."
"Eighteen years old, and what has she done? Bark when she's told to bark and sit pretty under mommy's scolding?"
"Is there even a semblance of personal thought floating about that empty skull of hers, or are her ideas all force fed to her? Words from a note card, thoughts from a script…"
Your entire life's gone by, the voices chide, now sounding far more like her own. And you've done nothing but cower.
Does that not bother you, Pangaea?
Does that not make you sick?
(You're not just a scapegoat,
something whispers from within her head,
words like nails on an untouched chalkboard.
You're a victim.)
"Don't you tire of it?"
Rhys is speaking now, his severed head resting beside the toe of her boot. Pangaea can't bring herself to look at him, burned as he is beyond recognition, his eyes scarred over to the point where all she sees is a milky white. Four's charred hands latch around both her ankles, fixing her feet to the floor, and when she tries to pull away, she finds herself frozen – a captive audience to the performance of her own guilt.
Her own grief.
"What do you mean?" She stammers, her throat thick with viscous spit, and Rhys rolls his eyes, his gesture conveying sheer annoyance.
"Playing the victim, O'Shea. Doesn't it get old?"
Pangaea recoils, her response this time automatic, ingrained by the endless array of lectures that her mother tried to hammer into her.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the expression on the head contorts, lip drawn back in a sneer. Its mouth opens as if to shout, fill the silence with more poison – curses, insults, you deserve them all – only for the fractured door to fly inward, rattling on its rusted hinges.
"Well, well, isn't this cozy?"
Her spine arches, the whole of her back becoming rigid. Goosebumps settle over her skin as the shadow of Hollister slinks away from the window, back into the abyss of the arena's gloom. Pangaea's head begins to turn, her mouth open to greet their newest visitor – standing haughty, ever the snake, how can she be here, isn't she dead? – but when she looks at her, she finds her welcome dying, shriveled up and bitter at the tip of her tongue.
Suddenly, the whispers stop. Her psyche falls silent, thoughts paralyzed by the terror flooding her nerves.
"Padma?" She asks, disbelieving. The spectre smirks and gives her a wave, leaning against the door frame with a roguish grace.
"The one and only," her predecessor continues, blithe and cunning all at once. "Now. Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Padma crosses her arms, and suddenly, Pangaea's unfrozen. She takes a step back, her heel knocking against Rhys' skull, and instead of rolling, the head flies, thrown away into a stack of burning papers, papers that Pangaea finds she can recognize. Stacks upon stacks of weathered documents, all bearing Donovan's seal, but they shouldn't be here, not after everything – ?
The flames arc from the pages, casting into the rafters and leaving them to topple. Beneath a pile of rubble, Rhys begins to screech, his pain merging with Hollister's cackles, laughter as raucous as the howling rainstorm, so far beyond her sight. Pangaea looks up, and with horror, she sees him – crawling across the toppled shingles, just outside of the cabin's holes, his fangs dripping venom and his body contorted, merged halfway into the shape of a spider…
Blood drips onto her shoulder as Four's hands suddenly pull, snatching her legs away and leaving her to topple. Pangaea screams, clawing at the wood as she attempts to right herself, but she can't, she can't, Hollister's on her and he's hurting – tearing flesh from her face, jabbing needles in her skin, pain pain pain, Rhys is dead and it's all her fault, she can still hear him, hear the anguish, everything's ruined because of her and she doesn't even know why –
From the doorstep, Padma tuts. "So fragile. Like a little bird."
"What is this?"Pangaea shouts, raising her head only to be met with nothing – an open archway filled with rain, nothing to be seen beyond it but an endless bloody sea. "What do you want?!"
"I want you to grow a spine," Padma says, two brown hands hauling her up, higher and higher until she's practically hanging, her limbs thrashing every bit of the way. The other girl's eyes go dark as pitch, and when she leans forward, Pangaea can feel her breath, scalding hot and tasting of smoke. "Have the guts to be something more than a statistic. Can you do that for me, O'Shea?"
(Can you fight?)
Her back slams into a broken table, and before she has a chance to open her eyes, the phantom is on top of her.
A pair of hands wrap around her neck, squeezing her throat to the point of constriction. Pangaea's eyes bulge as she smacks at them, her fingers tearing loose ribbons of flesh from along her assailant's wrists, but their grip refuses to loosen. Her mouth pops open, greedy as it tries to gulp down air, but there's a body on top of her, smoke in her lungs, the heat is everywhere and it's stifling – !
"I warned you this would happen," the monster snarls, droplets of water landing on her skin as they spill from two black eyes. Pangaea blinks as their face begins to sizzle, molting and morphing along their darkness, until they can take it no longer and her hands begin to scrape, scrape and tug loose the mask of Padma, I don't want you, I don't want to be you, to expose the sinew underneath.
Except what she sees is not sinew.
Instead, what lies before her is a mirror – features so like hers, yet in a different skull, a baritone voice and a man's body, the shape of a comfort she hasn't seen in so long…
Panno?
"P-Pan…" she chokes out, her lungs absolutely shaking – can't breathe, can't breathe, why are you doing this? Her hand pushes against her brother's chest, desperate to force him away from her, but no matter how hard she tries to shove, the phantasm won't leave.
Instead, it only weeps.
Weeps, and tightens its hold, wringing her neck between white knuckles. Pangaea kicks her legs up, struggling against the hold, but no matter how she contorts herself, the spectre remains unfazed, almost reveling in the sound of her whimpers. She cries, and Panno chuckles, giggles spat out between his sobs, oh sister, oh, sister, you should have known better, don't you know you shouldn't have been this? and soon enough, all she can see is darkness, little black spots working over her periphery…
"Complacency is a curse, Pangaea."
Panno's whisper is a rasp, regretful and saddened, but even as her fingers curl in his shirt, pleading for him to stop, he continues to choke her, smothering her voice under a ring of anger.
"Panno, please," she hears herself saying, not in the dream-world, but in reality, her hands gripping him and trying to tug him back, make him stay, why won't he stay, why can't I ever change things, why am I back here…
" – stubborn! Quit being so stubborn!" Her mother snaps, and she hears a crack, a door slamming against a wall, furniture being thrown about in an untouched room. something shatters, and the glass spills over onto the carpet, little bits of diamond reflecting a hundred eyes. Panno's shoes echo through the hall as he runs outside, and she can see his back from through the window – turned to her in parting, without a hint of confliction.
He didn't even say goodbye.
Behind her eyes, something in Pangaea snaps. Her lashes flutter, gazing up at the shadow that binds her, and as it beams at her with broken teeth, all she can hear is the Capitol's song.
"Wake up, little birdie," Padma's voice croons, erupting from her own mouth. "You have business to attend to."
(Above her head, the roof caves in. Panno's memory is buried in bricks, and Pangaea is devoured whole.)
Her eyes snap open.
In front of her, she sees a person. Crouching, with a satchel slung over his khaki shoulder, his head turned away towards Pangaea's discarded backpack… towards the bedroll cast over the floor, where a body lies unmoving, seared-up skin left rigid and aching…
Rhys.
Pangaea's breath catches as her hand creeps to the right, preparing to grab for the rock she'd set next to her bed – the closest thing to a weapon that she can claim to have. Already, her chest feels unmoored, her gut wound up in knots as bile courses through her esophagus. She doesn't know who it is that's found them, or even what they want, but –
He's going to die.
She can't let this happen. She can't let this tribute, this – threat, kill the only person she's allowed herself to grow close to.
And so, with bated breath, she waits.
Hand clutching tight to her forest stone, eyes watching as the figure creeps across the floor… hands and toes, feet in socks, trying so hard to be quiet, what does he want, what is he doing? … over toward their remaining supplies.
She should attack them.
It's what Rhys would do.
… but I'm not Rhys. I'm not…
The tribute's hands move to undo the straps on her pack, carefully pulling free the top. Only now does she notice the trails of red spilling down their arm, undoubtedly the result of an injury – a bad one, from the looks of things. She's not sure why she didn't see it before, the stain blooming out across their uniform, coloring the fabric shades darker than the rest, but now that she's caught sight of it, she's starting to understand.
They're just looking for supplies. Not Rhys, or – or me. It's not Hollister or the boy from Six. They're not a threat to us, they're just…
She swallows, and sits up.
"Hey," Pangaea calls out, keeping her tone hushed.
The figure's hand flies to their arm, and dropping her bag, they spin around, eyes wide like one of the deer she used to see in the woods, caught in a snare and unable to run. Pangaea's hands raise, the rock loose from her grip and returned to its spot on the ground, her mind now set on trying to pacify. Rhys would scold her for it, she knows, but if there's a way to get through this without starting a fight...
She presses on, voice as soft as she can make it sound.
"We can trade," she offers. "Bandages for food, or… something, if you have it?"
"Why would I trust you?"
The voice that comes from their throat is raspy, full of exhaustion and worn too thin to fit them. Pangaea watches as they start to stand, drawing their body back to their feet, and as they do, she finally places them – the boy from District Eight, the one who she'd seen with Four back in training –
Oh.
A jolt of guilt begins to flood her, as she breaks her gaze, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort. She didn't kill the boy from Four, but she was there when it happened… saw what was left of his body, and his camp. If they were working together… if Eight wound up coming back to that –
It's not your fault, Pangaea reminds herself. It's not anyone's fault but the Capitol's. They're the ones who put us here – put us in this position, of having to kill. Even with the bounty, and Rhys' willingness…
She bites her lip. He's still waiting for an answer.
"I know you're injured," Pangaea admits, gesturing toward his bloody arm. "I'm not going to hurt you unless my hand is forced. But my ally… he's been hurt, too. And we're running low on food and water. So if we could just truce for a bit… instead of trying to fight? It might be beneficial."
"Beneficial?" Eight laughs. "Even if I have food, I'm not sure that's exactly an even trade."
"Then name your terms," Pangaea counters, unmoved by the cynicism of his words. She's grown inured to abrasiveness in the last week – inured more than she already had been, years of ostracism quelling her temper and shaping her into an imageshe'd never cared to be. Perhaps she isn't much of a fighter, but she learned from the best how to negotiate; she's done allowing others to speak in her stead.
Eight simply shakes his head.
"You're a fool," he scolds, and though the term sits like ice inside her veins, Pangaea simply shrugs, not giving the insult any time to linger.
"Possibly," she concedes. "But I'm a fool who's giving you an out. Do you really want to squander it?"
There's a moment of pause.
Eight's shoulders shift as he casts a glance back to the doorway – then to Rhys, sleeping soundly on his bedroll, his body in dire need of rest. His narrow as he watches her partner's heaving chest, brow pinched beneath an emotion Pangaea can't quite name.
After a couple minutes, his arms drop. He takes a deep breath in.
Then, he sits.
"You win," Eight says, and though his tone is gruff, there's pain seeping into the fringes of it, spilling over to his expression and making his words stutter. "I'm tired of this."
His bag slides from his shoulder, landing with a soft thud atop the wooden floor. Rhys sleeps on, oblivious, while Pangaea finds herself torn, her mind telling her that trusting is a bad idea while her heart seems to sing at the avoidance of bloodshed.
"You can fix my arm in the morning," the boy from Eight continues as he turns to the side, head resting against the ramshackle wall. "I'll get you and Three your food. Anything beyond that… I suppose we'll just have to see."
His eyes fall closed, the sudden vulnerability accompanied by a single, shaky breath.
Pangaea's racing pulse begins to slow.
She cries, and life is like some movie black and white;
Dead actors fakin' lines – over and over and over again, she cries…
12: Maevyn Voydanoi, District Four. Killed by Ansel Zilliah.
A/N: Hemorrhage by Fuel.
Dawn, Maevyn was special. Incredibly fucking special. Her optimism, her warmth, her offbeat humor – all of them struck a chord of light in a story that could have so easily been bleak, and it's safe to say I loved her for it. Here is a girl, so mad at the world, harboring the pain of a lifelong ostracism, and the tragedies of continuous loss, but she never allowed her pain to overwhelm her. She was always acting, always playing, soul-searching through her love for fantasy, her mania and her whimsicality. I know, originally, you intended her to be more vicious, and she could certainly have gone down that path – but there was such a richness to Vyn that I chose instead to linger on her softness. Her childlike way of engaging with the world, her recklessness and her mirth, the sense of wonder she found in anything and everything, how she saw the world through eyes both vibrant and innocent, regardless of the grief that lived inside her. Vyn was relatable in the way that misfits often are, especially to those of us who grew up with little support: she chose rage to hide her hurts, and who tried to patch up her experiences of rejection and neglect by lashing out in want to be heard. Some may scorn her for it, but in her scorn there is relatability; like all lost things, she just wanted to find her place. Thank you again for entrusting her to me.
On another note, for Dawn and Dyl – I'd originally wanted to swap these two placements, since Dawn's lacking a 13th and Dyl is lacking a 12th, but the chronology just worked out better with Vyn being the evening. That said, however… if the pair of you would like to trade placements to fill out your lists… :') Well, let's just say I encourage it if you would so like. Sorry I couldn't play the timing right through the actual writing of Day 8, but the intent definitely remains, if it's desired.
For housekeeping stuff… yes, I do intend to update the blog. I know it's been a very long time coming – my sincerest apologies for that. I'll do so once I get home from work this evening… chapter, of course, took precedence. My goal is to have 9.1 and 9.2 finished this month. Thanks for all the support and kindness.