Chapter 53: 'Til Death Do Us Part
Day 7
Something was off. Oberon could feel it in the pit of his stomach. Ever-constant it may be, he'd gotten used to the baseline. This far into the Games, he couldn't exactly be surprised either; he'd come to know a similar feeling during Bellara's Games before it had morphed into an ugly kind of grief, and he'd fully expected it again this time around.
The text message he received just now only solidified it further.
'Your presence is demanded at the Training Center Gymnasium, basement floor. Immediate compliance is mandatory.'
Oberon didn't bother to check the sender details before rising from the seat at his computer station. It didn't matter; only one entity sent these kinds of messages.
As they said, compliance was mandatory.
As if to emphasize the fact, Oberon's white-armored friend followed him so closely to the elevator that he could practically feel the officer's breath on the back of his neck despite their helmet. He pressed the button to call the lift car. Inside, two of the glass walls had been partially converted to screens, in case anyone dared forget that the Games raged on. In the corner of the live feed, an interview played between Bethia and a large, muscular woman they were calling the retrieval Valkyrie, the latter expressing her eagerness to "get back in there soon."
All of that flew from Oberon's mind when he realized the car wasn't empty. "Dagmara…"
She'd done a pretty good job of avoiding him— it's been days. Sure, he'd also been avoiding the District Two suite while he could, only using its facilities to shower and change and not-quite-sleep. Last night he hadn't even tried; he'd holed himself up in the mentoring room to keep a constant eye on Venatrix before he had to meet with… Nevermind. No use in dwelling on something that's already over and done with. He could've sworn he'd seen her door close when he'd stopped by the room to shower, but then again, he wouldn't put it past his mind to play tricks on him.
The elevator doors slid shut, the car began to descend, and Dagmara didn't acknowledge him.
She looked… put-together. Much more so than himself; that was a given as much as Oberon knew it was a well-crafted facade. Not a speck of dirt colored her white jumpsuit, her curls pinned neatly from her face to expose that empty expression she wore so well. The one that hurt to look at, and it wasn't even directed towards him. Appearances were everything to the Capitol, and Dagmara's honesty always stopped short when it came to herself.
Oberon cleared his throat awkwardly. "Where, ah– where are you going?"
Her gaze remained forward, and Oberon just now noticed that the button for the basement gymnasium had already been pushed. "Oh, yeah, me too. I'm not really sure why…"
No response, save for the slight curl of her fingers in annoyance.
Oberon looked away. Stop talking to her, idiot. In the reflection of the glass-turned-screen, he caught the Peacekeeper behind him glancing between the two Victors, and he watched his own expression morph into a glower. He forced his attention to the screens, to the Careers still lingering around their campfire, the outer-district alliance still stalking along the northern bank.
He didn't have much time to ponder his daughter's situation — let alone his own — before the car came to a halt. The doors rolled open; inside the gym, a handful of non-mentoring Victors lingered around various stations, chattering away. Mostly Careers, as usual, taking the edge off with less self-destructive means than alcohol or drugs. He recognized Ronan Drake from Four, Luxelle and Clarion from One… And still no reaction from Dagmara. If he looked closely, however, they seemed to be packing up at the insistence of the nearby supervisors. In less than a minute, the room had completely cleared, albeit with a few dirty — (and apologetic; ever the gentleman, that Clarion) — looks thrown their way.
Oberon's rising bewilderment suppressed his instinct to react in kind. The muted echo of his and Dagmara's footsteps slowed as another attendant approached the couple, handing them each a set of clothing and a pair of sneakers and instructing them to change.
The furrow in his brow only deepened. Dagmara's expression mirrored his confusion, but it felt somewhat reassuring that they were in the dark together.
Nevertheless, they headed over to the bathrooms to change. Oberon quickly pulled on the clothing — exercise wear? — and slipped his cellular into the pocket of the track pants before returning to the gym. His wife rejoined him shortly, and again, Oberon felt the itch to talk to her and keep talking until she looked at him with something other than apathy.
Another itch prickled at the back of his neck, a rustle of movement, and Oberon's head snapped upwards to the Gamemaker's box.
He recoiled at the sight of the president grinning down at them.
"So," Venera Valorius said, leaning casually over the bannister. "Your wife tells me she wants a divorce."
In the distinct lack of human voices, footsteps crunching through snow created a new kind of silence. Not a murmur crept downwind from where Venatrix lingered, for once, at the rear of the pack.
Given that the combination of Viper and Patience usually resulted in extreme annoyance on her end, it was almost impressive.
Suspicious, more like.
She'd slipped an extra knife into her belt before they'd left, if only for the familiarity of resting her free hand atop the hilt. It hadn't moved since they started. At least the walking was good for her sore muscles, nevermind the acute twinges of pain that came with every slight movement of her neck and shoulder.
Mariposa slid into step beside her, hands similarly positioned at her weapons. They watched the backs of the rest of their scouting group — the two redheads and Shannon — in silence until she pulled something from within her token pouch. "Mint?"
Venatrix accepted the half-dried leaf with a noncommittal grunt. It still carried most of its sharp freshness, and she chewed as she walked, eyes ever-ahead. If the others were to lead them into an ambush, they'd take the hit first, just as it had played out in the winter Mocks.
Unless they set the trap themselves.
…Would they even need to, at this point? Look at us. Look at me.
Never a good reason not to keep her eyes peeled, though. But no trip wires jumped out from beneath gnarled tree roots; no coils of rope poked through the crimson mulch. Not even a footprint that wasn't theirs tainted the snowdrifts, and Venatrix got the feeling that this scouting mission would be as fruitless as it was pointless. So why did you agree to go?
It was the same question Percy had asked before they'd set out, worry creasing his brow. He knew the answer as well as she; he'd worry no matter what she decided.
If he were here, perhaps they'd actually find the outliers. They'd found Coquina in worse conditions; but no, he'd consented to staying behind with the cat and the supplies if only so he could slip some extra rations and bandages aside for their eventual departure. Even so, these dim grey skies rendered the odds of their search up to pure chance. As much as things like 'luck' and 'chance' actually existed out here. 'Luck is out of fashion,' her father had once said. (Don't think about him). If the 'Makers wanted them to find the outliers today, they would.
In shoving away thoughts of her father, Venatrix found them returning to the winter Mocks and her mousy former classmate. It wasn't until Viper glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting, that she remembered what it felt like to be at the mercy of Coquina's arrow. What it felt like now.
Venatrix halted. "Stop."
Ignoring the Patience's muttered "what now," she strode carefully past the trio, Mariposa at her heels. A small clearing opened up off to the side, the ground swept free of snow and mulch.
In its center sat the charred remains of a small campfire. "Someone was here."
Viper scoffed. "No shit."
"Yeah, nice find," Shannon chirped, and the One boy smacked him lightly in the shoulder.
Cautiously, Venatrix crept closer. Stiff muscles screaming in protest, she crouched down next to the blackened sticks, still half-arranged in a neat little pyramid. Whoever was here didn't even try to pretend like they weren't. She brushed her fingers over the biggest twig — still cold — and glanced backwards, just in time to catch Viper and Shannon exchange an apprehensive look. "They'll be long gone if they're smart," Venatrix said, dusting off her hand as she rose slowly to her feet.
"At least we know they're on this side," Mariposa offered.
Venatrix hummed in agreement. They'd caught the scent— it was almost too good to be true.
It felt like a trap, but whose?
Does it matter?
Viper wasn't leading us towards it. Would we have even come across it if I didn't point it out? More signs pointed towards an abandoned outlier campsite than not. But if it's just a campsite, why is it so obvious? If I were an outlier, I wouldn't want the whole-ass Career pack on my trail… maybe they are just that stupid.
Something else caught her eye. Again, her gaze raked over the campsite; nothing. Eye-level, through the trees; no sudden movements, no rustling noises that indicated something larger, nothing out of the ordinary, except— there.
A splash of blue on one of the dark trunks. It stood stark against the red-white-black of the landscape. A trail…
Venatrix stayed in place, frowning. Her left hand now lay heavy atop the hilt of her sword, ready at a moment's notice (and yet she couldn't help but feel that itch in her dominant hand— to come free, to grip a weapon. Mariposa had been wise to bind the arm). Shoving it down, Venatrix squinted at the color. Is that… paint?
Somebody wants us to go that way.
Her eyes snaked along the most direct path from the campfire to the painted tree; there, nestled amongst the leaf mold, almost invisible to the eye, sat an upright stake. And another, spaced perpendicularly to the path about a meter and a half apart, nearly invisible from within a dead bush. So it is a trap.
Mariposa broke the silence. "Everything okay?"
Realizing she'd been staring off into the trees for a while, Venatrix sent her a terse smile. "Yeah." She cleared her throat, addressing the others. "There's a trail this way."
As soon as the words left her mouth, the earth began to shake.
It took Oberon a minute to find his voice. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally choked out, "I don't have time for this."
"He doesn't have time for this!" the president crowed to the pair of bodyguards at her shoulders.
Oberon ignored the tyrant in favor of the only person in the room who fucking mattered. "We don't have time for this, Dagmara! You can see how we don't have time for this, yes?" Damn the bite in his tone; it was either that or sheer panic, and frankly, he'd had enough of the latter.
For once, Dagmara seemed unable to meet his eyes, rather than deliberately refusing. How uncharacteristic of you. She didn't respond either, and Oberon only half-registered the way his fingernails dug into his palms.
Venera waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure you can make time," she drawled.
"We really can't."
"You will."
Compliance is mandatory.
"You want to do this now?" He spoke directly to his wife. "While our daughter is in the arena?" As the immediate shock wore off, something twisted in his chest; first, a pain like a stab wound, bypassed quickly by an ugly sort of anger, the kind that begged to make itself known with stinging knuckles and the scent of blood.
Look how well that turned out last time, a voice in his head reminded him.
(But the satisfactory thud of Isador's skull against the marble floor still rang in his ears, the way the bright red almost made the man's face bearable to look at. He couldn't deny the flash of pleasure the memory brought, consequences be damned.)
But where, exactly, would he channel this impulse? At the president?
At her?
That was the last thing Oberon wanted.
It wasn't like he was back in the arena, where he could take his bullshit out on anyone he wanted with no repercussions, or home at the Academy where he could tire himself out for as long as he needed. Even then, after nearly twenty years, he and Dag knew better than to spar with each other under such heated circumstances. With difficulty, he shoved the feeling down, burying it beneath the things that mattered more. Their vows came with the inherent agreement not to use each other as punching bags, and he'd be damned before going back on any of them.
"Fine," he said stiffly. "We'll do this now." If anything, the actual punching bags hanging in the corner might find their use soon enough. Oberon frowned, suddenly remembering his surroundings. "Why are we in the gymnasium?"
Venera's grin was serpentine. "I'm glad you asked." She snapped her fingers, and a pair of attendants approached the couple with sets of padded armor. Oberon blinked at it, not quite understanding. "Now, I'm sure you remember the terms of the contract you signed," the president continued. "Eternally legally binding, blah blah blah. But then I thought, 'Far be it for me to bar anyone from the wonderful magic of divorce—'" she paused to chuckle at her own words— "and since I am the president, I have the power to void any authorization I put in place…
"But really, that's all so boring." She folded her hands, resting her chin on her fingers. "I need to know that you really want this, Mrs. Illura-Pyke. So! If you defeat him—"
"I'm sorry," Oberon cut in. "'Defeat'?"
"Yes. In combat."
His mouth flew open again to argue, but no sound came out.
"Keep up, please. As I was saying. Dagmara; if you defeat your husband in combat, you'll get what you requested, no further argument." Venera's smug expression drifted away from his wife's wide eyes, landing squarely on him. "And my dear Obi, if you win, the pair of you will go back to playing the part of a happy couple for the rest of your miserable lives."
"It's not a part," he snapped. "She—she's my wife. I love her."
The words have never felt so pathetic as they did now, under the president's sneer. Still, he squared his shoulders. He wouldn't take them back. "Then fight for it," Venera said simply.
Instinctively, Oberon glanced towards his wife, but her glare remained fixed on their overlord. Something constricted in his throat. He swallowed, but it refused to dissipate. "This is ridiculous," he insisted, that familiar anger seeping back into his tone. "We're not going to fight each other."
For a heartbeat, it looked like Venera might reprimand him for that. Then her eyes shifted. Her barely-concealed smirk regrew. "Are you sure?"
"Can this at least wait?" But despite himself, he followed her gaze. "We're not…"
And there was Dagmara, her posture stock-still as two Avoxes flitted about her like butterflies, adorning her with white padding. Wordlessly, she accepted the deadly, glinting battleaxe placed into her hand.
This time, she didn't look away.
Oberon could only stare, numb. Vaguely, he registered his own pair of Avoxes strapping armor to his chest, his head. He didn't move to stop them, half-afraid he might shatter if he did. Something brushed his hand, and instinctively, Oberon's fingers curled around the hilt of a raring sword.
It sagged in his grip. Off-balance. Too light. Meant for the kids—tributes.
He didn't bother looking at it, too busy searching Dagmara's blank face for some sign that this wasn't happening, a sign he knew he wouldn't find. Across the mat, she bounced on her toes, impassive in expression only. Why aren't you stopping this? Why aren't you saying anything? The starting signal went in one ear and out the other; he couldn't stop looking at her, nevermind the blade now soaring towards his chest.
His body reacted where his brain didn't; the sword rose to his defense— a pathetic defense, really, but one that saved him from more than a few bruised ribs.
A shift in her weight; the axe cut back the way it came. Oberon twisted out of the way before the blade even came close, well-versed in her opening strategies. It left her front exposed, open to counter-attack for anyone quick enough. He'd already decided not to be.
"The fuck, Dag—" Oberon barely dodged another strike— "why didn't you talk to me?"
His voice cracked with desperation. Her axe reared back in response, because she already did. The hard glint in her eyes said as much; she'd given him her ultimatum, screamed it at him with her whole chest, and still he'd failed.
The sword in his hands had never felt so heavy.
It almost clattered to the ground when the battleaxe struck it full-force. Metal shrieked; Oberon gritted his teeth at the sound when the weight suddenly dipped. He staggered forward, and something caught him in the stomach. Air wheezed through his lips. Backing out range, he leaned over on his sword to catch his breath.
Mercifully, Dagmara let him. She paced across the mat, unforgiving in her intentions, and hell, why shouldn't she win?
She has every right. With all the pain he'd caused, how dare he force her to keep putting up with him? Who was he, really, to try and stop her? Better to end this shit fast, I need to get back to Trixie.
Forget me— this could've fucking waited. In that, at least, Oberon knew he was justified.
Still, he braced himself against the incoming attack; the axe swung wildly, as if it were dragging Dagmara along with it and not the other way around. Atypical, he thought as he easily sidestepped. She'd left her whole right side wide open, but Oberon's sword stayed firmly in place. Something like anger curled her lip. Her blade snapped up — quick and controlled — towards his face. Oberon flinched; his own sprang up in time to catch it, locking their weapons.
Her features twisted into a sneer, inches from his. "Don't you dare throw this!"
Oberon almost dropped his weapon in shock. Her voice; he hadn't heard her voice since… since…
Abruptly, he lurched forward as Dagmara twisted her weapon free. The axe reared back, almost in slow motion. And he stood there open-mouthed, practically waiting for the blow that screamed towards his chest. Some deep-set instinct stepped backwards at the last minute. Dull pain throbbed upon impact, but had he not, he knew his bones wouldn't be a match for that axe.
His breath came in quick gasps now, heartbeat erratic in his ears. She wants a fight, huh? No time, really, to bother asking why. He huffed, shaking the confusion from his head. Might as well let her have one.
Dagmara hefted her axe again; Oberon could see its path in his mind's eye. His blade leapt forward, and it almost felt good, to let go like this, to feel the stretch in his muscles and not hold back. Even on a good year, being cooped up behind that computer did him little good. The sword collided with her shoulder; too slowly, she batted it away with her weapon, a growl bleeding through her clenched teeth. Her counterattack surged towards his open side—
Oberon caught the handle, blade inches from his nose. He yanked it from her grip. The axe skidded across the mat, and his sword flew towards her stomach.
Twisting out of the way, she wasted no time charging forwards. Arms wrapped around his waist; her shoulder knocked into his sternum as she tackled him into the mat. Oberon's head snapped backwards, hard enough to see stars despite the padding beneath him. Distant laughter sparkled in his ears. It paled in comparison to the fist now screaming towards his face— two strikes in, and spots of darkness and color joined the constellations; he lost track of how many before his fingers closed around an incoming wrist. His other hand found her shoulder — the one he vaguely remembered hitting — and with all the momentum he could muster, he threw her weight across the mat.
A brief pause to spit the blood from his mouth, and he lunged. His hands found her shoulders again; with a knee to her chest, he slammed her into the mat, over and over—
Distant groans of pain barely cut through the ringing in his ears, adrenaline in his blood, but Dagmara's glare refused to die down. In the end, it was a fist to the spleen that did it; air refused to travel to his lungs, and Oberon only vaguely recognized the flat of an axe screaming towards his head.
Fluorescent light suddenly scorched his irises. Oberon lifted a weak arm to shield himself from the glare, from the—
Crack!
White-hot flame surged through his forearm. Oberon barely registered the scream that tore from his mouth, but he felt it, raw and ragged in his throat. No air; still no air except the incoming whistle of a blade, and he flinched as the axe buried itself into the mat, millimeters from his ear.
Something, finally, blocked out the light. It resolved slowly into Dagmara's face.
She'd always been so efficient. Up until now, he had no reason to feel anything but pride in that.
(Who is he kidding, he still does.)
Dagmara's hair had come undone from its pins, the curtain of brown curls gracefully blocking their spectators from his sight. It could've been just the two of them, for all he knew. Away from the greedy eyes that peeled away at their trauma, exploiting their vulnerabilities for selfish entertainment. Her eyes skinned him too, as they always had, but right now, all he could think of was that first time she'd kissed him, out in the cold night air on his doorstep. They hadn't let go since.
Until now.
Her freckled features began to blur in his vision. Oberon didn't understand why until he felt something wet roll down the side of his face; gently, Dagmara brushed it away with the pad of her thumb, her expression still unreadable.
It was the closest he'd felt to her in weeks. "I yield," he choked out.
Her eyes flicked away, and Oberon couldn't help but wonder if that would be the last time she'd ever look at him. She stood then, and without another word, without even looking back, she left.
Oberon closed his eyes.
The sound of her receding footsteps washed over him, soon overtaken by a ringing in his ears that drowned out even the president as she prattled on about headlines and faithless husbands and dead daughters. The dull flame in his arm flared to an inferno, and Oberon let it overtake his senses, as blinding as the newfound hole in his heart.
Violent vibrating from his pocket cut through it. His eyes flew open. Gingerly, Oberon extracted his cellular, a task that took what felt like far too long with his one working arm.
The screen glared back, red and angry.
Oberon sprang to his feet, shoving away the medical attendants that had started to flock to him and sprinted off towards the mentoring room. His arm could wait. Venera could wait. This whole ridiculous matter could fucking wait.
His daughter needed him. Now.
Her hand flew immediately to Mariposa's shoulder. As the ground trembled beneath their feet, Venatrix's fingers gripped the other girl tighter, tighter; 'Makers forbid she lose her balance now.
The entire arena seemed to grate at her ears. Dead trees swayed and creaked; the cries of a thousand birds rang out as they fled from their branches. A deep rumble of moving rock like grinding bones threatened to swallow them whole. Venatrix bent her knees in an attempt to absorb the impact; Mariposa's arm reached out to curl around her waist, steadying, solid— the last thing she'd feel if the mountain decided to open its jaws. In that moment, Venatrix thought she might be okay with that.
But it didn't; as quickly as it had come, the ground quieted.
Venatrix's heart still pounded thickly in her ears. The others started to straighten, to pass glances and regain their balance, and she knew she had to act fast. Mariposa's grip loosened, but Venatrix only tightened her hand, a warning. Almost frantic, her eyes scanned the campsite again, the trail. "That way!"
The urgency in her tone sent Patience flying in the direction of her pointed finger.
Viper and Shannon tore off after her. Immediately, Venatrix relinquished her grip on the One girl, drawing her sword as quickly as her aching body let her. Mariposa sent her a quizzical look; it lasted until a shrill scream cut through the air, and her blades flew free, too.
Up ahead, Patience collapsed to her knees. With another cry of pain, she yanked something small and sharp-looking from her thigh; it left a smattering of red in the snow. "Fuck!" she spat. That's it? Venatrix thought, her dismay quickly morphing to horror. "I'm gonna fucking kill you, Pyke!" Patience shook off the Three boy as he came to her aid, wavering on unsteady feet.
Viper hadn't bothered; he turned easily on his heel, drawing his longsword in one smooth motion. "Not if I do it first."
The Four girl's indignant growl fell on deaf ears; Venatrix had half a mind to bolt, but a blonde-haired blur charged forward before even she or Viper could flinch, a single-minded swiftness in her movement. Viper's eyes stretched wide. His sword flashed in time to block his district partner's assault, and her barrage continued in earnest, steadily driving him from his initial goal in a clash of steel on steel.
Whether or not it was intentional, Venatrix appreciated the result. Any other time, she'd leap headfirst into the fray.
Heart thumping in her ears, she adjusted her awkward left-handed grip on her sword, holding the blade in defense against the still-staggering Patience. If Venatrix's injury couldn't completely count her out of the fight, then the Four girl's sure as hell wouldn't. But another figure sprang forward first— Shannon.
Venatrix steeled herself— but the Three boy passed over her in favor of the Ones.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Viper spat, and Shannon skidded to a halt, mouth open in protest. "I don't need help, kill her!"
Too slowly, Shannon followed his ally's directive. He whipped around, but Venatrix's sword was already screaming towards his exposed back. Please, keep bickering. See where it gets you. At the last half-second, Shannon dodged with a squeal, and the once-fatal strike merely clipped him in the shoulder.
As quickly as she could, Venatrix danced out of striking range, away from Mariposa; away from his allies, ignore the pain, it's not real. It doesn't matter. The Three boy took the bait, rolling out his shoulder, though she didn't miss the way he glanced back more than once in Viper's direction.
Breathless amusement curled her lips. "You actually care about him, don't you?"
Ever-so-slightly, his eyes narrowed behind those thick glasses.
Venatrix couldn't help an incredulous chuckle from slipping out, current disadvantages aside. "Him. Really?" She twirled her weapon as the Three boy faked a lunge, retreating just as quickly. Coward. "You think he clues you in on whatever his plans are 'cause you're friends? I thought you were smarter than that."
Yet another glance over his shoulder.
If Viper noticed the Three boy's attention, Venatrix sorely doubted it; both Ones had eyes only for each other, the kind of intensity reserved solely for lovers or sworn enemies. One of them will die today. Suddenly, Venatrix knew it with absolute certainty. Another burst of fear fluttered in her heart; forcefully, she snuffed it out just as Shannon finally made the decision to attack.
Classic strike to the chest. Venatrix caught his sword—fuck, my shoulder; no, it doesn't hurt, it doesn't—batting it out of the way before her longer weapon soared towards his right.
Shannon flinched back, dodging. Instinctively, Venatrix pressed her attack; advance and lunge, ignore the pain, parry the counter-attack, lunge again—
A tremor rang through her toes, and Venatrix stumbled. She caught herself, glanced up; another ground-quake… What's going on? Shannon's head whipped wildly from side to side; the thought only just crossed her mind to attack while he was distracted when a high-pitched yelp stopped her short. Venatrix's head snapped towards the source. "Mariposa!"
Spots of blood bloomed at the One girl's bicep. A bitter snarl overtook her features, a satisfactory sneer twisting Viper's. "Lucky shot," she hissed.
"Believe what you want," her opponent said. His sword reared back, and Venatrix's heart plummeted when she realized she was too far away to help. Better hope she won't need it. Venatrix had her own problems. Nevermind the fact that if Mariposa was killed, she'd be on her own—
"Hey!"
The Four girl was about to become one of them. Vaguely, Venatrix registered the earthquake subsiding, the shadow of movement in her peripheral. Without thinking, Venatrix ducked; steel whistled over her head, paired with Shannon's grunt of annoyance. Vertigo rang in her ears, static in her muscles. Venatrix didn't bother fighting it; she rolled with her momentum, using it to propel her to shaky feet. Her sword came next— it carved a shallow line across Shannon's back from kidney to shoulder.
He cried out. Surprise, not pain; damn the weakness in her strike. Damn my left hand, damn this stupid injury, and damn that fucking armor. Her blow barely left a scratch in the leather.
No time to think about it. She staggered backwards, dodging the tip of Shannon's reciprocal strike. A growl of effort alerted her to Patience's incoming attack. Venatrix clumsily blocked the spear, but at the last second, Patience twisted her weapon and the point carved a shower of stars across Venatrix's brow.
In desperation, Venatrix flinched back. Her vision blurred; something warm dripped into her left eye. Her sword, held out in last-ditch defense, sagged as it caught blow after heavy blow, and a groan slipped through her teeth. She forced her eyes open in a squint and saw red.
Red haze, red hair; each hit that clanged off her blade left her more and more imbalanced.
It's not the first time I've met my match, she thought, oddly disjointed as the blows rang like a siren through her ears, through her rattling muscles. She'd never had to worry about dying from it before. No, don't think. Just move, dammit, it doesn't hurt! Another grunt from behind, another blade; Shannon. Venatrix tore her weapon from Patience's assault to block. Her weight shifted to one leg; with the other, she drove her heel into Patience's thigh— the injured one, judging by her ear-splitting howl.
Stay down, Venatrix thought viciously. Pivoting, she brought her sword down on her initial opponent; the clang of metal reverberated all the way through her arm. Even as she reared back again, the vibrations of it seemed to sink into her bones.
Through her tunneling vision, Venatrix lunged. Her feet skidded on the slick leaf-carpet; her sword flew towards Shannon's heart. A swift parry sent it scraping instead across his arm. The boy hissed behind clenched teeth, eyes flashing behind his now-skewed glasses. The pain slowed his counter-strike enough for Venatrix to recover into his personal space; pivoting on her toes, she lifted her sword and let the torque of her spin crack her hilt against his skull. He collapsed into the slush. Panting and dizzy from the effort, Venatrix drove her sword down.
Shannon rolled; the blade just missed his eye, shattering the glasses he left behind and burying itself deep into the ground. Venatrix tugged at the handle with a grunt. Fuck, it's really in there.
Blindly, the Three boy struggled to his knees. Abandoning her sword, Venatrix kicked him sharply in the back of the head. He landed face-first in the snow with a groan, and Venatrix resigned herself to kicking him to death when another primal scream rang through the chill air.
Bright leaves, bright red blood. Viper's face, as pale as snow.
Mariposa had backed him up against a thick tree, and he hunched over, clutching something to his middle. Only when he moved his arm did Venatrix see the red-soaked stump he cradled to his chest, the disbelief etched across his features. Shock reduced his remaining fingers to a trembling blur. Silver glinted on the ground, a sword still clenched within his severed hand.
She couldn't see Mariposa's face. Just her pale-sunlight hair, gleaming in victory. The rigidity in her spine. The predatory lilt in her gait as she stalked towards her victim.
Viper seemed to know it too; every inch of him that wasn't screaming in pain so very clearly despised it. Still, he refused to relinquish the only weapon he had left. "You'll never win," he spat. Flecks of it flew from his twisted mouth, his hate-filled eyes watering in agony. "Even if you get out, you'll never win." He shrunk into the tree as Mariposa stepped ever-closer. "You'll always be someone's wh—"
The quick snap of Mariposa's blade cut him off.
Boom.
The One girl's posture deflated. She stepped aside, glancing over her shoulder as if just now recognizing her audience. Venatrix met her eyes — empty, blank, ignorant of the red spray now coating her front — before Viper's gushing corpse pulled her gaze. He'd fallen to his knees once Mariposa released her hold, now slumped over to one side, darkening the snow with the hole in his throat.
Once again, the ground beneath them shuddered, and Venatrix snapped out of her trance.
Back on their feet, Patience and Shannon stood frozen now. While their eyes remained glued to their fallen leader, Venatrix made a one-handed dive for her sword; forcefully, she wrenched it from the shivering ground, holding it steady between herself and her enemies.
Alerted by her movement, Patience glanced between them — Venatrix, Mariposa, Viper's lifeless body — before she bolted into the trees.
Venatrix let her go, breathing a huff of near-relief.
Like a magnet, she leveled the weapon towards Shannon, still wide-eyed with shock. Slowly, he ripped his gaze from his dead ally, eyes narrowed down the point of her sword. Something like malevolence flashed in his gaze as he looked at her, and his grip tightening around his own sword— perhaps he hadn't realized he'd been deserted. Light footsteps and a new presence at her shoulder told Venatrix her threat was reinforced. "Go on," Venatrix said, her chin lifting. "Make yourself useful and kill me."
Just like that, whatever lit that fire in his eyes died. Venatrix prowled closer, enough to see the Three boy's irises dance as he searched for his ally, only to come up empty.
She wasn't expecting the bite of his sword. It slashed into her cheek; she recoiled with a shout. Blood spewed from her mouth, coating her tongue, and she lunged, only to meet air. A scream of frustration tore from her lips as Shannon's retreating frame disappeared through trees, a slightly different angle than Patience's flight. "Fucking coward!" Her feet slipped on the wet leaves as something held her back from giving chase.
"Leave it," Mariposa said, releasing Venatrix only once she'd calmed down.
Venatrix shook out her shoulders, wincing. "Fine." Sheathing her sword, she pressed a sleeve to the stinging leaks on her face. Involuntarily, she found herself walking towards Viper's body and the mess of red that Mariposa had made of him. The scowl hadn't quite relaxed from his ashen features, though death had softened it in all the wrong places, leaving his mouth oddly slack.
What an unpleasant expression to be your last.
"As ugly in death as he was in life," Mariposa said almost proudly, coming up behind her.
Venatrix lowered her hand; it hadn't taken long to soak the fabric red. She couldn't deny that Viper had died as he lived— full of hatred and disdain, defined by ugly words and uglier actions. Something like pity twisted in her gut. In all honesty, it was… strange, to see him dead at all; he'd sure acted like it couldn't touch him.
Nothing but sheer disgust laced Mariposa's blood-splattered features. Her jaw clenched. Without warning, she spat in his cold, lifeless face. Venatrix recoiled, blinking in surprise at her ally. "What a waste of daddy's money," she sneered.
"Hey, c'mon."
"Don't tell me you feel bad."
Suddenly, she couldn't stand to look at either of them.
Mariposa's eyes gleamed with intensity; under her stare, Venatrix didn't respond. She turned away from the body, from the bizarre pit in her stomach, letting her feet begin to carry her away. So what if it didn't sit right with her to spit on the dead? Even if it's Viper. Even if he probably deserves it… Nevertheless, the One girl still followed her.
She'd let Venatrix have her vengeance. The least Venatrix could do in return was let Mariposa enjoy hers.
Upon realizing she didn't exactly know where to go, Venatrix slowed to a stop. She'd started off back towards camp, opposite the direction Patience and Shannon had gone, but since they'd split — officially this time — who knew what would be waiting for them there? We're lucky we made it out of that alive, she thought gravely, though it wouldn't do to get complacent. The Games stopped for no one, and they needed to figure out their next steps. More than that, they needed to find a way to regroup with—
Boom.
"Percy!"
true vengeance 151 . weebly . com
A/N: Deaths: 12th. Oberon Pyke, shit rocked by Dagmara Illura-Pyke /j
No but the way I've been sitting on this one for.. . at least a year tbh. Oberon and Dag's duel.. Viper eating shit courtesy of Mari.. Kinda surreal to have that actually be written now whooh. Longest chap of the fic so far too ! I told myself I'd set a hard cap at 6k, but honestly this one was way too important to cut corners. I could've split them up but I rly like how the pacing came out w these two major scenes. ..And thats two of the many reasons this took so long to write ..! (I'll talk more about that at the end of the AN)
Viper was always meant to be the first Career death. Kind of iconic that he still managed to cause so much drama even with that... I didn't think I would miss him but. He was fun to have around because every time he showed up, it was p much guaranteed that someone would get pissed off about it LOL. Ven was never really able to feel safe and in control when it came to the pack thanks to him, and we love that. He really thought he was also in control... Rest in pieces, Viper (literally lmao) I hope you're seething and malding about being offed by Mari c: Also not sorry about leaving this on a cliffhanger LOL.. friendly reminder that Percy is also currently on his own with Idris and Grethel :heart: Thoughts about who that last cannon was for?
Also, about Oberon and Dag's duel... It really is such a Moment, and I for one am v excited to get into the Repercussions from that.. Is this a bit controversial maybe? Yeah! They Did beat the shit out of each other ! Not really a great thing for spouses to do.. But also there's nothing about this situation that's cut and dry... And I love it ! Incredible girlboss moment for Dag but also girl wtf why. I'm so curious about y'all's thoughts about this little ordeal but mostly, I hope you're enjoying this so far c: ..I just love writing these two very much can you tell hbvfbh... look at them they're so Normal . New question, who do you think's gonna end up more injured by the end of this, Ven or Oberon? bhjvbhjvdb
Final note.. I have a loose plan for how I want to schedule my updates for the rest of this fic. So obviously, updates have been pretty slow lately (like once a month rip). There are still a decent number of chapters left for this story, and I would prefer that it doesn't take another year to finish. So ! Here's what I'm planning: I'm gonna stick to the monthly update schedule. However, I will try to write two chapters per month... which will build a neat little stockpile for me. Once I finish writing the fic itself (current projection is like.. august.. damn) I'll post the rest of it weekly, which should leave me finishing the fic itself around Ven's birthday :0 Hope she'll be around to celebrate..! This will also ideally give me time to write the epilogue-esque story connecting this fic to the sequel that I'll be starting up afterwards ! This plan def leaves me a lot more wiggle room than my previous goal of finishing around the 2yr anniversary (coming up in March LOL) so manifesting this ! On that note... I'll see you guys in about a month with the next update !
- Nell
