Night 3, Part 2: The Maddened and The Exhausted.
Althea Ivory. District 4.
Althea Ivory trudges over the earth and salt they've made, and she is oh so fucking done with the Games.
Blood streaks her face like fucking whiskers and mildew. Blood runs down her arms and blood breaks over her body and it is everywhere. It is not hers.
It is the earth's. What a sight it was—to see Seven girl up in the branches, crushed between two craning trees, and Althea, sunken under earth, felt the drop of the bloodsac drench her in red. And she'd nearly choked on dirt, choked on gore, and what a sight it must've been for the Capitol audience.
A tribute, wrought in another's blood. Disgusting, fetid, horrendous blood.
Althea survived. She'd pushed out of dirt and the grave six-feet they've tried to drag her under, and she breathed, alive again. But she's battered and she's weary and she's not broken, no, Panem forbid, but she's groggy with pain and her limbs are like sandpaper and she is so done with the Games.
No. You can't be.
Althea Ivory inhales a breath. And she shuts her eyes and she thinks of home, of District Four, cheering her on. She thinks about Kani Fairchild, waiting, watching, waiting for her to return, to come into her arms, to kiss her, for them to live in their future home—together, together, never alone.
No. And the Games might've grated on her soul, might've battered her body with its earthquake, might've demolished her, might've grated on her mind—(their chokes, so loud, their breaths, too fast, life-liquid seeping away from their skin)—but Althea Ivory won't give up. She can't give up. Her will is strong and she is strong and to give up, to give in is to admit that she's weak, and that is the farthest thing she is.
No, Althea Ivory is not weak. No, Althea Ivory is never weak. And they might think she's weak because of how she reacted to death (... stock-still, she'd tried, but her emotions still bubbled up from below, they see, she's sure...) but she isn't weak, she isn't, and she'll show them, they'll learn, they'll know…
(… does she really need to prove that to them?)
Althea stills. She rests herself against a shattered tree trunk, pulls down her knapsack, takes a swig of water, splashes some down her wounds, and she closes her eyes. Tries to reorient herself.
No. Althea Ivory is not weak. They've thrown earthquakes and flesh and blood at her: but here Althea is, still the Games are not what she had planned right now, but she knows she will rise up to any challenge they provoke her with: she knows that she'll bring the Victor's crown back.
They might think she's weak: but for the first time in forever, Althea Ivory doesn't care. No: they have seen her brave storm and fire and rage, they have seen her endure everything. They've thrown a fucking earthquake at her and here she is, still standing, and oh, she's mad—oh of course she's mad they decided to toss a goddamn earthquake at the Career pack—but she's still standing, and honestly?
Fuck them.
If they want to call her weak then there's something wrong with their heads. Not her. Never her. And what Rhodos McNamara says sticks in her mind.
Feeling makes you human. Feeling doesn't make you weak.
No: no, she is not weak for feeling. She isn't. And perhaps the Capitol and the Districts and all would think she is. Perhaps they want her to prove herself.
(And she did want to. That was why she had entered the Games, in the first place: to fight, to live, to survive, to show them. And that's what she's still here for: to fight, to live, to survive.)
(… does she still want to show them?)
No. What only rings true to Althea is this. They don't matter to her. She doesn't need to prove herself to them. She knows her worth; so what if they didn't know, so what if they couldn't tell, so what, what if? And the entirety of her District could laugh at her, could scorn her, could mock her from their world of cares: but Althea doesn't give a shit about them anymore. They could say she's weak, but fuck that. She's done with them. She's done with all of them.
Oh, no. If she wins: she wins for herself, and herself only.
(Only her; only for Kani. Her District could drown in a blaze, for all she cares; the Capitol, so consumptive, could gorge themselves on the gore she makes. But not for a moment would she let them think that she's doing it for them—oh, oh no.)
(No, it was never for them. It'll never be for them. It won't be: not anymore.)
Althea Ivory lives only for herself.
Rhodos McNamara. District 4.
Rhodos McNamara is untethered by the earthquake.
One moment he's standing, one moment he's there, and the next his feet's shoved underneath him and the cascade of rocks tumbled underneath him like water, and he'd let out a string of yells and tried to steady himself, then-and-again, but it's too much, it was too much, and he couldn't do anything but stay there amid the roaring earth, eyes wide open and teeth chattering as he was swept with the tide of dirt.
He couldn't remember how it stopped - just that gradually the rocks tapered down, gradually the earth rolled offside and stayed grounded, and then he's been cradled amid rock - blisters and blood over his body and his breath barely-caught. But he was alive.
And then he'd met the mouth of a cave.
He doesn't think when he stumbles in. And it almost doesn't register when he sees the Threes in front of him.
Uncertainty plagues his chest. Hi, he wants to say, breathlessly, and some stupid part of him wants to wave; but his limbs are tense, and so's his muscles, because the Career instinct in him's wound up, ready to attack, to explode into action, like a spring about to release.
Three girl and Three boy exchange a look. And he feels his own muscles tense (feels them coil, feels them tighten, an animal, ready to leap, hit, tear—)
Hostility's contorted on Three girl's face, as she gazes at her District partner.
"He's a Career… isn't he, Daniel?"
Three boy—Daniel—looks back at Three girl.
"Yes—yeah, he… is. Don't look at him like that, Ryleigh."
They stand at the end of the cave, watching him, and Rhodos realises that he's the one in power here. He's the one at the mouth of the cave—he's the one blocking them off. And he's the one that's a Career, that'll throw a spear and finish them off…
But he doesn't move.
(What is he supposed to do?)
They're hostile. Three boy and Three girl. That's what he presumes. But the more he observes, as he takes into account the twitches of Daniel's fingers, the shakes which overwhelm Ryleigh's frame, Rhodos realises that it isn't hostility that lines their features… it's uncertainty, it's fear.
(... uncertainty?)
He stills. Rhodos isn't sure what he's going to do, really, but his eyes wander down to their bodies, to see if they have any weapons on them…
… and he recognises the tattoos on their forearms.
Surprise rattles his chest. It overtakes instinct, logicality, movement—over everything. Rhodos stands there, astounded, staring… and the Threes stare right back at him, but it's not hostility or uncertainty that lights their eyes now. No, it's curiosity.
"... do you think he knows?"
Rhodos's eyes jump towards Three girl—Ryleigh. And Daniel seems just as wary, but curiosity tinges his eyes, too.
"... you think he's one of us?"
Rhodos can't breathe. His eyes turn between them, and he doesn't know what to say, what to think. He stands, stock-still, and wills his breaths to leave his body. Breathe in, breathe out. Act normal. Nothing's wrong. Breathe in, breathe out…
"... how else could he know?"
They look at him. He looks right back. Ryleigh nudges Daniel, and he rolls his eyes at her. But Daniel's eyes raise to meet Rhodos's, and he stills. Daniel ventures a breath—
"What's your name?"
"I'm Rhodos," he responds, automatic. "Rhodos McNamara. I'm from… I'm from District Four."
"We know," says Ryleigh, but the edge of her voice quivers. It's smacked back into his face, then, that all of this is bravado.
"Are you a Vulture?"
A… vulture?
"What do you mean?" he splutters, half-disbelieving.
"Yknow..." Ryleigh attempts again, like she's trying hard not to say the word itself. "... all of, like, what's been happening. You know what I mean."
"Oh," he says. "You mean the… rebellion."
Ryleigh's eyes go wide with panic, as she clasps her hands over her mouth. And a sinking stone drops down Rhodos's stomach, because dammit, he shouldn't have said that—
"Yeah," Daniel says. "Exactly that."
"Daniel!"
Daniel shrugs, but his eyes flicker in sympathy. "C'mon, Ry. Everyone knows. I mean—" and he lets out a breath, a smile, almost, if it isn't so weary, "—they sent the earthquakes. So that means they're coming soon. We just have to wait it out…"
"Shut up, Daniel," Ryleigh says. "They wouldn't want anyone to know." With that, she shoots a very pointed look at Rhodos, though the worry's barely concealed on the fifteen-year old's face.
Unease flickers in his stomach. Rhodos McNamara had never liked rebellion. Not when it had stained Four… when the people, so discontented, had shouted their unease on the streets. And he'd flinched, and he'd averted his eyes, every time they erupted into shootouts. Carmine had splattered like exploding fruit across the ground.
But something nags at the back of his head. You're not in Four, now, Rhodos. This… this is different. And something else runs down his skin, and it's vertiginous and uneasy but it's also strangely intoxicating, as he looks at the Threes, and looks back at the Arena.
"So, uh… are you coming in?"
He closes his eyes. He lets out a breath.
I can't believe I'm doing this.
Rhodos lifts his head. He nods.
Hera Dalenka. District 2.
Ten girl dies by her hands.
That is what is on her mind, after the… explosion.
Her flesh is stinging and it is like an ember's scorched her insides. The earthquakes have not been pleasant on her body.
Ten girl died by her hands.
Hera knows that people are haunted. She's seen the way Careers looked after murders (triumphant, typically, but like ghosts dangle in their eyes). And nobody's forgotten the way Madison Saros had looked after she'd… seen Maeve.
But Hera Dalenka hadn't realised how deeply it reached. Not even closing her eyes could keep her away from the scene; not even trying to keep herself confined could help. Not even then.
(Cause what she feels and sees and what haunts her wakening is the image of Ten girl's death, gargling on her blood, death-sent, by her, Hera Dalenka, Hera Dalenka, and she's mortified and she's horrified and she's apologising, she wishes, she wants to rewind time, I'm so sorry it wasn't—that wasn't what I've wanted, I've killed you, I'm…)
Why did she do it?
And perhaps she could chalk it up to Dior and coercion; perhaps it was simply that. But…
No.
She cannot exonerate herself.
Her death was Hera's fault. Just as how the Sixes' death was her fault, too; because she'd let the words about the party spill out of her lips, because she allowed herself to speak, and she's… what is she, a bastard, a killer, a thoughtless bitch, someone that should just die (... why was it okay to sacrifice others' lives to survive?)
She squashes the helpless laugh about to arise beside her lips.
Perhaps she could blame Dior for Ten girl's death, but was it not precisely her fault? She was voiceless: not a word of protest. Just like Rhodos, always complaisant, always complicit, and she hadn't really thought about how similar to he she was before, but they're both so… voiceless.
No voice; no chords to speak; no autonomy. Hera Dalenka dangles upon a puppeteer's string; they mean best, of course, they love her, and she loves them too. They feast upon her success, they praise her ruffling show, oh, Hera, how proud of you we are. We're so happy for you. You're so good, you're so amazing, you're so perfect—
Hera's always lived up to their show. Competent. Confident. Sober. Okay. The winner with a winning smile. Redeeming Two from its disenkindled past.
(She's always lived up to their show. And she'd liked it, too. They loved her, and she loved them, why wouldn't she do what her parents said, what her Academy said, what her friends cheered her on to do. And so what if there was a little emptiness in her heart—so what if there was a sadness that she couldn't materialise, so what if she didn't know what to feel about herself, so what if she tried a little bit of dust and snow everyday cause that's the only little bit of freedom she'd get—so what if?)
She'd always… she'd always…
… what had she always been?
(She's a killer, she's a victim, she's voiceless. And this her is meant to be the best her there is, Hera-Dalenka-the-Victor is meant to be for her own good, meant to make her happy, make her better, make her more, but she's just...)
She's just voiceless.
Perhaps she should let tears fall from her eyes, let a smile dance by her lips, at her new revelation, at what this should mean to her, but she's nothing but… quiet, now.
(Voiceless.)
No, not voiceless.
Just… contemplating.
Just… quiet.
Hera exhales. Her eyes wander round the Arena's landscape. Rocks protrude up through the grounds, trees are uprooted, dangling like grotesque-glowing blossoms… and she's traversing between it all, in her thoughts, and she gazes upon the Arena, a place they're meant to conquer, to raze, to perish to die to let a dozen cries alive...
(Does she still want to win?)
It'd be a lie if she said that she wasn't... impartial to the idea of death. Hera doesn't know what it makes her (passively suicidal) but as she traverses and as an exhale pushes onto her lips and as she looks round the world around her…
(Is it so painful to just… die?)
They've taken everything away from her. They've taken her voice; her goals; they've taken her sense of self.
What is Hera Dalenka, really?
(Her mother's dolly to play dress-up with.)
(Her father's future Victor.)
(Her friend's… something.)
She's… unimportant. She's voiceless. She doesn't matter.
No. They've just taken everything from her.
Hera exhales. Something plays by the corner of her lips, and there's only one word that resounds in her head.
No. No. If she's nothing anyway, if she's just what they've made of her, then... damned if they make her a Victor.
(And the Hera who volunteered, with a smile on her lips and a fire in her heart to make her family proud is nothing but an eradicated spectre. She had died, as Ten girl had died, amid the wreaths of golden forests and mist.)
She's different, now. She's a killer, she's a victim, she's dead—damned if they make her a Victor. And she wants to live, maybe, the Hera Dalenka that'd stepped up the volunteering stage, regal steps echoing across wood and wood, might've, but… she doesn't want to, now.
Not anymore.
(And if Hera Dalenka will die anyway… she won't let them twist her into anything they want her to be. She won't let them make her kill; she won't let them make her kill more than she's had to, already, she won't let them make her make others suffer, she won't let them, no, she won't.)
Hera Delanka may die; no, she will die, but she won't let them control won't let herself die as what they'd wished her to be: that perfect Career, that girl without weakness, that girl that was strong and vicious and strong and able and capable and Victor material.
No: Hera Dalenka will be herself.
She may be Hera Dalenka, perfect Career; she may be Hera Dalenka, drug addict… and she doesn't really have an identity, but she is Hera Dalenka. She's compassionate. She's kind. And yes she's addicted and she's complaisant and she's voiceless, but—)
But not anymore.
She's in a different place, now, she realises. Whilst before there were the remnants of the earthquake littering the grounds, now she's in vast patch of land... undisrupted. Almost normal, the hollow golden trees, and it is then when she sees a hunched figure in the distance.
She finds Kiernan Alcraiz sobbing against wood.
"Are you okay?" Hera whispers, and the words which she'd wished she'd said too-many-days ago on the train spills out of her lips.
Kiernan's shaking. There's not even a scoff that tangs his lips, he's just crying, he's just breaking down, and…
Pain twists in her heart.
"Hey," she says, softly, and she kneels next to Kiernan. He doesn't seem to hear her. His sobs are just as harsh, just as continuous, and Hera weighs the upsides and downsides of placing a comforting hand on his arm.
She knows Kiernan doesn't like to be touched.
(But when had he last been comforted? Cared for? Held?)
And so Hera brushes a hand on Kiernan's arm. He tenses, but he doesn't flinch. And suddenly a small cry chokes out of his lips.
"Maeve," he whispers, through hiccups, and there's so much disbelief that stays in his throat, "Maeve, Maeve—you're here, you're okay…" and then the sobs wrack through his chest,"I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—I hated you, I'm—I was so mad, I'm so sorry, I missed you—"
"It's okay," Hera whispers, even though she knows it isn't. Because Kiernan's crying aside, they're in the Games, and he is so broken, he's calling for a name, he's calling for his sister's name, Maeve Alcraiz…
(What did a child do to deserve the Games?)
"It's okay," Hera says, quietly, even though it isn't. She closes her eyes and folds Kiernan in her chest, lets him sob into her, and she's murmuring the same words into Kiernan's ear, "It's okay.", and his sobs seem to increase, and a pit sloshes in Hera's stomach, it's agonising, and she murmurs the same words over and over again, even as Kiernan sobs in his delusion, even as he breaks.
A/N. Oops. I hope you've enjoyed…?
Thank you guys again for your reviews! I grinned so much reading them (and re-reading them, honestly, it's wild). Massive shoutout to Joseph, Linds, and Slytherin for your reviews last chapter, I can't tell you how much I've smiled reading them. Another massive shoutout to Haiden and Bradi for always following along with this story: I could not have asked for a better band of readers. Of course, I can't go without mentioning Bree (for your amazing reviews!) and Opti for your interest in this story... you guys are truly the best.
We're going to be marathoning these last few chapters, and the finale will optimistically be up by the 27th!
Next chapter will be up on the December 23rd.
Love you all, stay safe, stay awesome,
Dawn.