XXXVII. Chronic Remorse
Since, through his grace, our Emperor wills that thou
Shouldst find thee face to face, before thy death,
In the most secret chamber, with his Counts.
CW: The second POV features extensive description of suicidal ideation.
In the dark, Beowulf Haleot breaks.
It's been hours, he's not sure how many, but it seems like both forever and five minutes at the same time. So maybe it hasn't been hours, but he thinks it has been. It's easier for him to think of the time than it is for him to think about how wretched he's become.
It's sad too. Beowulf always thought that at the end of the day, his mother would be the person who finally shatters him, but it seems like he was always destined to destroy himself. Yes, Icarus and Atlantis may be planting seeds of self-loathing underneath his skull, but it wouldn't have worked if he didn't have anything to hate about himself in the first place.
He has everything to hate about himself.
From his hair to his toes to the way he talks, Beowulf hates it all. He loathes his body, not as chiseled as the other boys from Two, despises how even at 6'4 he can still be considered short in comparison to his classmates, but worst of all, he abhors the brain that controls every part of his twisted, ruined, existence. He's weak, he's a fucking coward, and he knows it now. Beowulf knows that he's a disturbed creature, a mutt that needs to be put down, and he hates each and every bit of it.
Ludovicus was lying to him when he said that he was good enough. Lethia was lying to him when she said that he was golden. Everybody who's ever said anything good about him is a bloody liar; at least now he knows the truth.
In a waste-ridden cell in the ugliest part of this hellish heaven, Beowulf finally knows the truth.
He's deficient. Inadequate. A failure.
Finally, he's broken enough to admit defeat. It's always been him against the world, and the world was always destined to win. He's stupid to think that he even had a chance.
"I'll be off then," he hears the monster that is Icarus St. Augustine through the cellar door. "Dealing with the rat has exhausted me."
"I understand," the equally vicious Atlantis Seasbane answers. "Don't worry, my friend. He's in good hands."
Beowulf shakes. A part of him is unsure what anybody could say to him that would make him feel even worse than he already feels. The two of them have called him every name in the book, successfully pinpointed each and every one of his many insecurities, eviscerating his soul in the process.
He waits for Atlantis to say something. Five, ten, fifteen, he's not sure how many minutes pass without the girl saying a word. Maybe this is it? Maybe there truly is nothing else for her to say that's bad about him. Being alone in the dark is almost worse than having to talk about his flaws. Everything around him is black, he can't even make out his own chained hands in front of him, and he feels positively terrible.
A squeaking sound eventually breaks the quiet, and then a sliver of light peaking in through the door. It's enough to illuminate the path in front of him so that he can see the self-inflicted bruises along his arms. He's not naive enough to believe that this is actually freedom though.
"What do you want with me?" Beowulf mutters.
The door opens wider, even more light peering in. He looks up to see Atlantis standing over him with a worried look on his face. She exhales, sighs, and steps into the room before shutting the door behind her, the darkness returning, though not as bad.
He continues to shake. "What do you want with me? If you're here to finally take me out of my misery, I'd appreciate it if you were quick with it."
"I'm not here to kill you," Atlantis whispers. "I just wanted to apologize."
Somehow, that's worse than killing him. After everything she's said to him over the course of the day, an apology feels almost like a joke, even if her tone indicates that she's being serious.
"Really?" Beowulf says with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "You think that you can just say you're sorry after everything else you've said to me today. You got me to admit that I deserve to die for the entire nation to hear, and you just think that you can apologize."
"Well…" Her voice trails off. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but I wanted to say that I never meant to say anything awful to you, Beowulf. I know that I did, but believe me, it wasn't my choice. Icarus made me say all of that; I didn't want to do it."
"Bullshit." He scoffs. "Nobody can possibly force another person to say such awful things about another person. You had all of that negativity and cruelty buried inside of you; you're just as bad as him."
"Maybe you're right," comes her reply. "I don't want to play the victim—"
"Well you are," Beowulf interrupts.
"I am," Atlantis admits. "But know that I feel just as bad as you do. Everything that I said about you was how I feel about myself. I'm sorry that you had to be the target of me projecting."
"Doesn't cut it," he says. If she really does feel as bad as I do, she should have the fucking dignity to not make somebody else feel just as bad. She should stop being a fucking hypocrite…
"I know it doesn't," she replies. He feels her pull at one of the chains binding him to the ground. "You shouldn't forgive me, but I'm going to free you now that Icarus is away. It's the least that I can do."
"Right." He feels the cuff around his left hand loosen, and then the right. "I appreciate that, but it doesn't change the fact that you're fucking vile. You knew that I fucking hated myself, and you took advantage of that. I don't know why you think you're some kind of goddess, but you don't get to project like that. You don't have the right to be a fucking hypocrite just because you hate yourself. I have no sympathy for you, if that's what you were hoping."
"I wasn't…" Atlantis says, pulling at the cuff around his foot. "I promise, I wasn't."
"Sure." He rolls his eyes. "Why the hell would I believe you after everything from today? If you really do hate yourself, I'd expect you to at least have enough of a backbone to take yourself out of your supposed misery. There's no excuse to treat somebody like this."
He knows that he's being too loud for somebody who's just inches away from him, but he doesn't care. Atlantis deserves to hear the truth, as ugly as it is. "You're sick in the head. At least Icarus has the dignity to not apologize and admit that he's a bad person. At least he isn't trying to fucking redeem himself."
"I'm sorry," she mutters, freeing his left foot. "I am so so fucking sorry."
"Bullshit!" Beowulf hears a voice from afar. Again, the door swings open and light enters the room. Instead of Atlantis in the doorway, Icarus is standing over the both of them. "I wasn't asleep yet… sort of wish I was so I wouldn't have to year your bullshit, Atlantis. The boy makes a point. At least I'm confident enough in my monstrosity to not think that an apology can fix everything."
He looks her in the eye and shoves her against the ground. "To think I almost considered you my equal. You were doing so well, too. I should've known you'd try to pull a fast one on me."
"Then kill me," Atlantis stammers. "You're right. I suck. Go and kill me!"
Icarus ties a cuff against her hand. "For heaven's sake, give me a minute. Don't be so fucking impatient."
"I'm sorry."
"As for you, my friend," the One boy says, looking Beowulf in the eyes. I will admit, I had a good time with you today. A great time even. Parting really is such sweet sorrow."
"So you're letting me go," Beowulf responds with the last bit of hope he has within him.
Icarus laughs. "Of course not!"
He grabs onto Beowulf's wrists and drags him across the room until he's in another small cell. Beowulf looks up to see a blade above him and begins to panic. "What the fuck are you doing to me?"
"You were practically begging me to kill you just an hour ago, I'd think you'd be a bit more grateful." Icarus leans against the wall and fiddles with a rope in his hand. "Again, it's been fun, Beowulf. It's not your fault I have more hostile prey to attend to."
None of this is his fault. He shouldn't be in this prison, nor should he be in the Games in the first place. This was always bound to happen to him; there was no way around it. He was always doomed to fall victim to his mother's vices. It's Atlantis' fault, it's Icarus' fault, it's Glinda's fault he ended up like this.
He did nothing wrong, he knows that now.
"Don't do it," Atlantis begs, but it doesn't stop Icarus from pulling hard on the rope.
It doesn't stop the machete above Beowulf from crashing down.
Death is strangely familiar to him. The blade cuts through his spine and it feels like home, only he's in the opposite role.
(He's just seven years old, he's about to kill a man, and he's fucking terrified.)
He'd rather be that than play the role of his mother's clone.
Even though she knows it won't change anything, she screams as the blade cuts through Beowulf's neck, forcing his head to separate from the rest of his body and roll onto the ground. Even post mortem, there's a gentle look on the Two boy's face.
His cannon sounds, and Atlantis' screaming only grows louder. Icarus holds up Beowulf's head, still dripping blood onto the ground, and chuckles. "Not bad… not bad at all…"
"You're sick," she hisses. "You're so fucking sick."
"And so are you," Icarus responds, a wicked grin on his face. "You helped me set up the guillotine. You helped me berate Two until he no longer wanted to live. Like it or not, you're just as guilty as I am."
"Fuck you," Atlantis curses him, pulling at the chain that's left her stuck to the ground.
"No, Atlantis. Go fuck yourself." Icarus shoves open the door with his shoulder and puts Beowulf's head on the floor outside them. He grabs the boy's limp hands and drags him out of the room as well, seemingly unbothered by the pool of blood he's sloshing through.
He walks to the room once more and pulls at the machete, raising it back to the ceiling as Atlantis watches in fear. "Oh wait, you're too much of a coward to do that, I forgot."
"What the hell are you doing?" Atlantis asks, her brow furrowing.
Icarus walks over to her and wraps her left hand behind her back. She kicks her feet on the ground as he moves the cuff with her right hand closer to the left and wraps them together with the metal chain. "I said, what the hell are you doing?"
"Wouldn't you love to know," he says, squeezing her knees together and clamping them down. Icarus grabs the chains on her back and drags Atlantis underneath the machete, Beowulf's blood dripping onto her back.
She squirms. "Oh, so you're killing me?"
"Not yet." He chuckles. "You went on and on about how you feel bad for Beowulf and regretted everything you did, so I figured it would only be fair for me to help you really regret it."
"So you're going to go outside and berate me the same way we did him then?" Atlantis questions him, her voice confident even if she feels so desperately afraid, a feeling she isn't exactly used to.
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing!" He steps over her and stands in the doorway. "How smart of you to figure it out. We'll have a good time though, I promise."
He slams the door shut, leaving Atlantis alone in a sea of darkness.
The metallic smell of Beowulf's blood fills her nostrils, causing her to gag. Now that it's dark, Atlantis can't make out the room she's in, nor can she see a thing. She feels sick to her stomach, and she's not sure if it's the room's horrendous scent or the fear of whatever Icarus is going to say to her.
(Whatever he says, she fucking deserves it. There's no beating around the bush about it now.)
"Well, well, well," she hears Icarus say from the other side. "Oh how the tables turn, my friend. It seems like just minutes ago you were out here by my side. Wait! That's because you were. Really, it's a shame that our alliance has to end like this."
"I'd rather die alone than die on your side," Atlantis spits out. "You're a horrible horrible person."
"Takes one to know one," he responds. "You know, this past while with you has been fun, it truly has. What's more fun though is just how much I've learned about you."
"What do you mean learned?" She asks, though she isn't sure she wants to know the answer.
"Well, let's just say I've taken a few notes on your… behavioral patterns, so to speak." Icarus says, light laughter in his voice. "You know Atlantis, there really is a lot wrong with you."
Of course there's something wrong with me, she thinks to herself. I'm a fucking monster, I'm literally sick. I ruin everything. Even in the Hunger Games, where the goal is destruction, I somehow ruined that. I'm better off dead… I'd be best off if I was never even alive in the purpose. I should've… never tried to save Beowulf. I should've accepted that I'm horrible; maybe then I wouldn't be stuck here. I deserve to be stuck here. I deserve to be in pain. —Oh shut the fuck up! Nobody wants to hear you beg for sympathy, Atlantis. You don't fucking deserve sympathy after what you've done. Why the fuck are you so stubborn? Beowulf was right. Your apologies don't mean shit. Nothing you've ever done has ever meant nothing.
THE REAL PROBLEM IS YOU'RE TOO MUCH OF A COWARD. THE PROBLEM IS YOU DON'T HAVE A BACKBONE, BECAUSE MAYBE THEN YOU'D ACTUALLY KILL YOURSELF.
No… I don't deserve that autonomy. I don't deserve to decide when my life ends. I got rid of that privilege a long long time ago. The world get's decide when I die. It's a fucking shame the world hasn't already decided. Maybe that's because I deserve to suffer first. Maybe I don't deserve to die because prolonged suffering is a thousand times worth. You'd only deserve to die if you could come back immediately after and be forced to suffer again. You deserve a vicious cycle of suffering and then a painful death, because that's the only thing you've done to this world, Atlantis.
She's always been a fucking tsunami. Atlantis Seasbane has always been destined to destroy everything in her path, Cel, Daria, Meridian, Madelyn, Alithiya, Talquin, Calsin, Beowulf. She never had a fucking chance.
She doesn't deserve pity. She just deserves to suffer in the eye of the storm, in the most heinous part of her own mind.
"I know," Atlantis mutters. "There's so much that's wrong with me."
"Kind of too late to admit it now, don't you think?" Icarus sneers.
Of course it's too late… I never had a chance, did I?
Atlantis should've known that the storm which lives inside her mind would never subside. She should've known that any efforts she ever makes to repair herself would be worthless, because she's destined to wreck the world around her. She's destined to absorb every piece of misery around her and use it to fuel her own self hatred— Nobody cares; you're a fucking hypocrite.
Alithiya doesn't care. Talquin doesn't care. Nobody cares, and nobody should.
Yet you're yet to kill yourself… WHY DON'T YOU DO THE WORLD A FAVOR FOR ONCE AND DIE.
It's too late for that now. She's stuck in Icarus' web of suffering, and she fucking deserves it.
"Oh right," he adds. "You think you're a good person still, don't you? You think that you can somehow fix everything with your insignificant apologies. Spoiler alert, you can't! You heard Beowulf, you're demented."
Hope is the only thing that's continuously kept her alive. Despite everything awful that she's done, Atlantis has had hope for so long that someday her brain will let her change for the better. She's been full of hope for so long that someday she won't destroy everything, and she'll finally be able to pick up the pieces of the mess of a legacy she's left behind her.
She was wrong to have hope. At least now she knows the truth.
But that's not enough. Nothing I can do will let me atone for this awful life I've trapped myself in. It'll never be enough, so why do I bother. Why am I so fucking stubborn when what I really need to do is give in. Why can't I let myself give in?
(Because then she's just doing what Shane wants her to do. Why can't you admit that you want to be a monster for yourself?)
"You're demented too," Atlantis scoffs. "At least I'm actually trying to make myself a better person."
"It's not working very well, is it now?" Icarus retorts.
Of course it's not working; why did you ever think it would work? Why did I think my life could get better when I was always destined to make it worse the same way I make everything worse. You're a coward, that's why. I'm not a coward. I'm trying to change, really I am. Well, it's not working so you should fucking give up. Either embrace the fact you're a horrible person or fucking kill yourself. There's no timeline where you're a good person, give it up. I don't want to give up… I want to change for the better. I'll never change for the better.
She sighs. "You're right. It isn't."
"Not shocked," she then hears Icarus laugh. "You know, everything that you did back in Four to mess with the girls in your class, if you were trying to impress me, it didn't work. Really, it just came across as if you were being pathetic."
That's because I am pathetic. You should've killed yourself before you got the chance. I should've killed myself the night before the Games. Or you should've killed yourself before the Reaping. Maybe then you wouldn't have gotten Calsin in this mess, because that's right… you've still got more people to destroy. I'll never fucking be done hurting people, even if I don't want to. That's right Atlantis, the entire world is collateral damage to the fact you're fucked in the head.
Her mother was right. Calsin was right. Everybody who ever said anything was right, Atlantis Seasbane has always been destined to break and destroy everything else in the process.
Oh, how sitting in the dark, in a room occupied by her demons, will prove to be a beautiful end. Oh, how any end for Atlantis will make the world a better place.
She deserves to wait for her death even if it's just a while, 'cause the world has been waiting for it far too long.
There are about 30,000 places she'd rather wake up that aren't a puddle of her own vomit. Not that that's a bold statement, of course. The vast majority of people would give anything to not wake up covered in their own mucus and bile, and well, Vancouver is far from the exception.
Not only is she positively disgusted by all the fucking fluid she's cover in, she's even more disturbed by the mangle hand hanging over her eyes.
"Well it's about time you woke up," she hears a familiar voice say. "I was getting so fucking tired of waiting for you.
Vancouver jolts her head away from the hand to see Lethia —fucking Lethia— standing tall and proud above her.
"How the fuck did you get out of the ropes?" She sneers in confusion. Her head is light and she feels sick... Because the way Lethia's holding her own hand is so careless, and the dried blood on the edges is beckoning her. It's taunting Vancouver, reminding her that she's not the girl she thinks she is, that she's a wretched creature and always will be.
"Quite easily," Lethia responds, flashing her teeth. "Not my ideal afternoon snack, but I've definitely had worse."
Vancouver puts two and two together, then pouts. The girl's got resilience, she'll give her that. She stands up from her puddle and looks over the table to see the ropes on the ground and several tears.
"What the—"
"Oh, I'm not finished yet," The One girl whips the severed hand in front of Vancouver's eyes once more. "I thought we could have a little chat, you and me. You know, just us girls."
She scoffs. How dare she use my own words against me. She closes her eyes, sick at the sight of Lethia's blood on her hand, and coughs. "We can talk if you put that down."
"What's wrong? You afraid?" Lethia looks down at the hand and smirks. "You're the one who cut it off, you know." She sighs, then sets it on the table. "Sure though, look, it's away. Oh, and I should probably ask you… how fucking stupid do you have to be to cut off an already fucked up hand? Thank you for that; it hurts much less now."
Vancouver slams her foot against the ground. You fucking moron. But… she can't show Lethia that she's breaking, because she's not breaking, dammit.
"You're so welcome," she says with a grin. "Though, I bet Beowulf won't be so keen for you to give him handsies with a literal stump—"
"Keep his name out of your mouth," Lethia hisses, bringing her fingers back to the severed hand.
"Oh don't you fucking dare," Vancouver snaps.
"It's kind of rude of you to control what I do with my own hand, don't you think?" She bats her eyes like a doll. "All of your little bitches in Twelve must think you're so fucking annoying."
False. Vancouver knows the name of each and every worker at the Diamond Dust Kingdom, her Diamond Dust Kingdom. She knows their names because she cares. She cares so damn much, for fuck's sake. That's why all her workers love her. Because she's so generous and kind and helpful and caring and divine and—
(The more she affirms herself, the better she avoids admitting just how wrong she is.)
—gorgeous and lovely and heroic and admirable and selfless and just overall the best thing that's ever happened to District Twelve.
"I do too, by the way." Lethia shifts her gaze from the hand to Vancouver's crown. Despite her wordless hissing, the One girl drops the tiara to the floor and shatters it beneath her foot.
(Along with the crown, Lethia also shatters Vancouver's pride. She's ravished her reputation, destroyed her name, and left her to fucking rot. How dare she…. How dare she turn the Diamond Dust Queen into a mere peasant with just a single step.)
Vancouver thrusts her body at the One girl, but she ducks in avoidance. She watches as Lethia grabs a long fragment of her crown (it's plastic… it's fake just like you…) and raises it to Vancouver's face.
Before she can properly scold her, Lethia juts the shard at Vancouver's cheek with enough force that it tears through her flesh and coats her tongue with the taste of her own lifeblood.
(Sick. She's getting sick. Her pride is shattered and she's lost all her dignity. Just like her crown, Vancouver Easton is breaking. Her vices are being exposed like the mortal blood which runs through her veins, because she can no longer say she's a goddess. Vancouver's unfortunately and devastatingly human.)
"Fuck you," she says with a cough.
It hurts. Everything fucking hurts. She no longer feels like she's the queen of the world, no now Vancouver know's she's not special. She's not a divine force; she's just like everyone else. Just like her parents once said, Vancouver has no right to blow her own world out of proportion. District Twelve was never hers to save. The entire country was never hers to claim.
The One girl bends over to the ground again, returning with another plastic shard, this one longer and pointer than the first. Vancouver wraps her hands around her neck to protect herself, but the blood on her tongue makes her cough and stumble back. Lethia takes advantage and plants the shard right in the center of Vancouver's throat.
She leaves it wedged between Vancouver's flesh and stands back to admire her handiwork. She tries to speak, but instead she feels the mucus in her throat swirl and the blood from her wound dripping down her chest. As Vancouver shakes, Lethia doesn't do anything besides laugh at her. "You really thought that you were going to get rid of me. As if! I refuse to let myself get manipulated and murdered by somebody who's afraid of their own blood."
"Fuuuuckkkkk…" Vancouver groans, unable to entirely get out what she wants to say. Her attempt at talking just makes her throat bleed more which in turn makes her feel even sicker.
"You're going to have to annunciate," Lethia says. "Oh thats right… you can't." She grabs onto Vancouver's wrist, pulls at her, and smiles. "Don't worry, soon it's going to be all over."
She tries to pry herself away from the One girl, but her grip is too firm, even with just one hand. She tries to take a deep breath, but she isn't quite able to do so entirely. Instead, she spits phlegm onto the ground, smirking when some of it splatters onto Lethia's ankle.
"Was that supposed to gross me out or something?" She sneers in response as she continues to drag Vancouver across the room. "I'm not a wussy like you; I can handle blood and spit and shit."
Can you now? Vancouver muses, spitting at Lethia's hair. Her crimson saliva lands on the back of the One girl's shirt, leaving a splatter mark behind. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to mind. No… Lethia's far too focused on— oh you can't fucking be serious!
She pushes her shoulder against the door of the iron maiden and swings it open. Inside, the metal spikes are still coated with the boy from Nine's blood, and there's a white heap of shriveled flesh on one of them that looks like it was once one of his lungs. Vancouver cries, for once in her life, the tears mixing with the wound on her cheek and staining her shoulders red.
It's okay to bleed, she thinks, trying (and failing) to reassure herself that she's going to be okay. It just means I'm real. I'm so so real…
With a robust movement, Lethia shoves Vancouver's back against the spikes. She flinches at the feeling of blood dripping down her back as the metal prongs skewer through her flesh. Before she can even try to break free, the One girl slams the maiden door in her face, a barb puncturing another hole in her throat.
She feels everything closing in on her, like she's in Twelve and the Big Boom just happened and she's afraid the end is near. It's like when she swore to herself, if I make it out of this alive, I'm going to change the world. In a way, she likes to think that she did.
Now is different, because now Vancouver knows that her end is near. Bile and blood continues to rise in her throat, yet the world continues to spin, like it doesn't care that she's fucking dying. She realizes now that she's but a speck in the grand scheme of things, and nothing major will change when she's gone. Beckett will take over the Kingdom, and time will prove that District Twelve could never truly be saved.
In the end, she'll go down as a fable, a cautionary tale of what happens when somebody refuses to swallow their pride. That's as close as she'll ever get to becoming a goddess, and with her final blood-filled breath, Vancouver accepts it.
She still flinches at the sound of the cannon as if she wasn't the reason it fired in the first place. Part of Lethia doesn't want to believe that it's real… Vancouver Easton's dead and she's the one who killed her. The fact she's the reason behind it isn't what surprises her, but rather the fact that she was actually successful. That shouldn't come to a surprise to her; Lethia Aphelion's had her fair share of victories over the past eighteen years. Sometimes she gets too bogged down in her defeat to remember how good it feels to win, because boy oh boy does it feel wonderful.
In the moments following Vancouver's death, Lethia finally feels like she's on top of the world, a feeling she's missed far more than she cares to admit. She no longer worries about the off-chance that the cannon from earlier in the day was for Wulfie, no longer is bothered by the phantom pain of no longer having a right hand.
For the first time in what feels like years, Lethia is finally able to breathe.
The stump from where her right hand once was may be searing in pain whenever she looks at it, but that's just her brain playing tricks on her. That's just her brain refusing to let her enjoy this victory of hers, this blissful slaughter of somebody who was stupid enough to cut off the wrong hand of hers, but for once, Lethia is nearly able to ignore all of her hurt.
A part of her feels guilty for being somewhat pleased by the trail of blood she left on the ground. She's never been ridiculously bloodthirsty, but she still can't deny it feels good to see the aftermath of a murder she caused, especially the murder of somebody she fucking loathed.
Just imagine how good it'll feel once Icarus is dead, Lethia muses with glee. She'd spent the past few days so focused on getting to know Wulfie and getting rid of Vancouver, she nearly forgot one of the very reasons she came here in the first place.
(Not to save her father, but for her own personal vengeance. She can lie and attribute her volunteering to charity, but the truth will always be that Lethia came her almost entirely for Icarus St. Augustine's blood.)
She stands still for a moment, wondering what she should do next. Unlike when Vancouver killed the Nine boy, Lethia has no real desire to open the iron maiden doors and examine the damage that she's done. Instead, she enjoys the fact that Vancouver Easton will quite literally never see light again, fitting for somebody with a soul as dark and wretched as hers.
Perhaps it's about time she reunites with Wulfie. She hopes that he'll see Vancouver's face in the sky soon, and that'll compile him to come back to her, but at the same time, he could be so far away, it would be inconvenient for him to return. She wishes that he'd told her where he was going, but granted, he probably had no idea where that was.
Lethia still can't get over the fact their last deep conversation really did seem like a goodbye, but that doesn't mean that it still has to be one. No! If she can dominate Vancouver Easton as viscerally as she did, Lethia Aphelion can do anything. And that means that she can find Wulfie, and then she can kill Icarus with him at her side.
Or maybe she should kill Icarus first… Wulfie doesn't like violence. Oh, what Lethia would've done for a man like him back in One who actually gave a shit about humanity and wasn't so fucking senseless. Maybe if she had somebody like Wulfie in her life sooner, Lethia wouldn't have been so susceptible to Icarus' manipulations.
Better late than never though. She sighs, still unsure whether she wants to go after Icarus first, or just forget her sanguinary desires and return to the man she wishes she had more time to make into her home.
The sound of Panem's national anthem makes that choice for her.
As is routine, Lethia steps out of the mausoleum and patiently awaits for the announcement of who the first cannon was for. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, trying to assure herself… Wulfie isn't dead. Wulfie isn't dead…
The rude awakening when she sees his face in the sky is nearly enough for her to drop dead herself.
What the… what the fuck happened? She nearly feels as if she's hallucinating, like she's dead to Vancouver's hands and this is a weird first memory of the afterlife. Even when the projection switches to the Twelve girl herself, Lethia still feels her heart sinking down to the bottom of her chest.
This is my fault; I did this to him, she thinks, even though she knows that she's wrong. She couldn't have stopped Wulfie from leaving. He wanted to leave her, and maybe she deserves to be have left because she didn't deserve somebody as gentle and as sweet as him. She never deserved anybody as good as him.
Hell, who was she to think that he'd be proud of her for killing Vancouver? He'd probably be disgusted the same way he was when he saw what she did to Nine. Wulfie's too good for the Games, too good for the way they fucking break people. Maybe the fact he didn't have to see the monster Lethia turned herself into, even if it was temporary, was a blessing in disguise.
No. It's not. Wulfie deserved to live through everything that life had for him. He deserved to fall in love and grow old, and find something to live for that isn't senseless violence. Beowulf Haleot deserved the fuckin' world, and it's not fair that he had to die before somebody could give it to him. However he did go out, Lethia just hopes that it was quick and painless.
It's a weird feeling for her, wishing that she was dead in somebody's place. She never expected to grow so fond of Wulfie and for it to happen so fast, and she never expected that she'd wish herself dead in order for him to survive. To think that she thought she had a choice between finding him and killing Icarus. To think that for once, the world would actually be on her side.
The world has never favored Lethia. Her mom left, her father's sick, and her sister fucking hates her. She let herself get under the skin of the devil in sheep's clothing and did horrible things in order to let him succeed. And once she had the chance at something genuine, she gave it up and channeled her biggest demon instead.
Perhaps that's what hurts most about what she did to Vancouver. It's exactly the sort of thing that Icarus would've done, and even now, Lethia can't say that she regrets it. After all, why should she have sympathy for somebody who's caused nothing but despair in her life?
With Wulfie gone, she doubts she'll feel any different when she takes out Icarus. Chances are, she'll probably like killing him even more.
Vancouver's face finally fades away from the sky, but instead of being followed by the national anthem, an emotionless female voice plays. "Hello Tributes! This is Head Gamemaker Liana Taylor with a very special announcement. In exactly ten hours, the Cornucopia will be replenished with valuable supplies for each of the eight remaining Tributes. While attendance isn't mandatory, I do sincerely hope that I see each and every one of you for our Feast. Sleep well, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Eight left already, damn. Lethia sighs. It makes sense, as tomorrow will mark the seventh day of the Games, but at the same time, it feels so soon. It equally feels like it's been forever since she fell asleep on her bed in the Capitol… Time really is a myth when you're fighting for your life, huh.
But at the very least, it seems as though tomorrow will be a changing point. As awful as Vancouver's death was, it let Lethia remind herself just how vicious she can be. Lord knows that she'll be holding back even less when it comes to her reunion with Icarus, which'll hopefully be tomorrow. She'll push the negativity aside for now, so that she can carry this momentum of hers to Icarus' grave.
That's the reason she's here after all. Lethia Aphelion refuses to die before the man who ruined her life does; when push comes to shove, it's as simple as that.
10th Place: Beowulf Haleot, District Two - killed by Icarus St. Augustine
9th Place: Vancouver Easton, District Twelve - killed by Lethia Aphelion
Well… that sure was a chapter, wasn't it? As sad as it was, this has somehow been my favorite arena chapter to write thus far, hence why it poured out of me within a day. I honestly wasn't expecting to finish it so quickly, especially since I had a midterm today, but I guess I was just really excited to finally execute some ideas that I've had since the beginning of planning this story.
With this chapter, we did unfortunately say goodbye to not one, but two Tributes, so I am so sorry for that. Like everyone else in this fic, Wulfie and Vancouver are very important to me, and killing them hurt me a lot a lot. Nell, you get an extra apology because of how mean I was to him, and the fact that your first kid to ever die went out like this. Once I finally get to eulogies, lord knows I will have tons more else to say about him and Vancouver as well, but for now… just thank you both. Yeah… we're at the point in the fic where killing the kids really fucking hurts. Not that it didn't hurt before… but damn it's getting worse.
Alas, this isn't the end of the pain for me, you readers, and your Tributes. We have arrived at the feast, and that chapter will obviously be full of action. For now though, congratulations to the submitters of A Common Defense's Final 8, Laney, Laney again, R-B, Dawn, Dyl, Haiden, Trace, and Haiden again. It's crazy to believe we still have half of the Tributes to kill off, in just… I don't know how to count but I think 7 chapters.
As usual, thank you for all of the engagement both in the reviews and on Discord, and I guess I'll see you when I see you!
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds
The Leaderboard:
Lethia Aphelion: II
Icarus St. Augustine: II
Beowulf Haleot: I
Atlantis Seasbane: I
Calsin Verrillo: II
Verdigris Ahane-Volcain: I
Mozi Hongqi: II
Malin Mardari: I
Bud Bancroft: I
Vancouver Easton: III
The Arena: I