Chapter 61: Twilight of the Gods

Day 13, 14

Any second they'd get the call.

Last chance to interview the remaining mentors before the finale. No way they won't want me on stage, especially since…

Oberon hugged his wife tighter.

They've been standing like this since the cannons, since that too-close call with the One girl. Morwenna had cleared out already. The others, he had no idea. It was hard to see past the salt in his eyes.

He'd told her he didn't care what she did to win.

He'd told her…

But that didn't mean he wanted to see her break.

Another sob wracked his frame. Dagmara's arms squeezed him tight enough to bruise, but it wasn't enough to dispel the horror, the guilt. All he wanted was for Venatrix to live. He thought he knew how to help her do that.

Now, though…

God, what have we done?

Through the sound of his own ragged breath, Oberon's phone chimed. God fucking dammit! "Thirty minutes," Dagmara whispered, and he nodded.

They separated. The room was, in fact, empty; Alecto and Elspeth must've dispersed for their interview prep long ago. While they walked, Dagmara gave him a thorough once-over that the prep team completed in record time. Funny; it felt like he took every step in slow motion, yet before Oberon knew it, he and Dag were in front of the cameras once again.

This time, the applause of the audience was deafening. He gripped Dagmara's hand tighter, if only so he wouldn't throw up.

"Welcome back, welcome back Mr. and Mrs. Pyke!" The shrill voice of the interviewer rang in his ears; neither he nor Dagmara had the sense to correct her on the latter's hyphenated last name before she continued. "First off, my condolences to your district…" (A moment of silence allowed Oberon to find the face he wore for television.) "But! We're here now to speak about your tribute— and daughter, as we know. What a phenomenal show she's been putting on for us!"

Neither he nor Dagmara had anything to say to that.

The interviewer chuckled to fill the silence. "Just like that, we are down to the Final Three. Incredible, isn't it? I'm sure you must have thoughts about your daughter's chances. How are you feeling? Optimistic? Concerned? Anything in between?"

"Um—great," Oberon choked out. Just great.

Vaguely, he listened as Dagmara elaborated on his answer. How she found the capability, he had no idea. Behind them, the screen came to life; it drew Oberon's eyes instinctively, and it took a second, two, three, watching the replay of the scene with his daughter before he realized what it was and forced himself to look away.

The stage lights bore down.

Behind them, the audience was a void; staring into it only made his head spin.

He focused on Dagmara instead.

"Now, many of us have noticed some parallels between Venatrix's actions here in the 151st and the pair of you from your time in the arena. Especially—" Bethia's eyes met his— "her little spin on your signature move."

The screen flickered, and Oberon saw himself. Eighteen and stupid and mean. And Dagmara, the trail of severed heads she'd left in her wake.

Himself. The knife. The Ten boy and his newly-severed tongue.

Dagmara. Her cousin. The creature that nearly destroyed them both.

Himself. The spear in his thigh, so deep its mark still lingered.

Dagmara. Kicking and screaming and hanging by her neck from that tree.

"I just love that," Apheleot sighed, blissfully unaware of the stiffness in Dagmara's jaw, Oberon's unfocused gaze. "I wonder, has this merely been a coincidence? Or was it intentional?" She leaned forwards. "Are there any other moments from either of your Games that we can expect to see in the upcoming finale?"

Please, make it stop—

"We can't reveal that now, can we?" Dagmara's carefully even tone struggled to reach his ears. "I will remind you, though, that Venatrix is her own person. She makes her own choices, and as her parents, we stand by them."

The interviewer smiled in fake sympathy. "What a lovely sentiment. You know, it's really incredible how you two can maintain such a strong relationship throughout all of this. You must be so proud."

Incredible. Oberon didn't even have the energy for real anger at such a meaningless comment.

He smiled wanly, the expression echoed by his wife, their intertwined fingers.

"I have one last thing to ask you." Again, her unsettling cerulean stare landed on Oberon, trapping him into the question.

"If you could tell your daughter one thing right now, what would it be?"

He swallowed. "That's— that's a hard one," he forced out. "I have… so much I want to say to her right now."

"One thing."

One thing.

"Right. I…"

(I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for pushing you into this.

It's not your fault, it's mine. I'm so, so sorry.

You're strong, you're so strong, and I love you so, so much. I hate that you have to go through this. I hate that my actions have led us here. We want you home, we will always want you home…

But if this is too much for you, that's okay. I understand. We will love you either way, whatever you choose, whatever you can or can't handle. It's okay if you hate us—hate me—for doing this to you, but please know—

We will always, always love you.)

…

Oberon closed his eyes, and bit his tongue.

"You don't have permission to die."

Growing up, there had only been one instance in which Venatrix truly felt terrified of her father.

Before any of them were permitted to start training, their parents decreed it necessary to watch the entirety of their respective Games. Eight years old, he'd taken her down to the basement of their home, alone, and turned on the screen. She'd been excited at first, to find out what exactly made her dad a hero.

It melted away with the fire.

His face was unreadable, both on the screen and at that moment. It didn't flinch when the screams started, when they twisted and danced and choked through the speakers, but it quickly blurred before her eyes. How she'd clung to him, crying, as if the hands that comforted her weren't the same ones that had wielded the knife.

"I'm sorry," he'd said to her when it was all over. "But you need to know the truth of it."

When he realized she hadn't stopped crying, he knelt down in front of her, brushing the droplets from her cheeks. "It'll be okay, I promise. This is what you have to train for, but by the time you get there, you'll be ready, okay Trixie? They won't even know what hit 'em."

…

Venatrix wasn't crying now.

She didn't feel ready, either. She didn't feel anything.

Only vaguely was she aware of Mariposa's arms wrapped around her still, the ache in her knees from kneeling for so long. The other girl nudged her, to little effect. The movement echoed through her nerves, desperately trying to reach a sentience that lingered just on the edge of consciousness, incapable of being fully present. Incapable of being fully absent.

("…should get moving. Vee?")

("Venatrix?")

". . . v—e–n-a-TRIX!"

Her name. It came surging in on a rush of air, and she flinched. Blinked.

But Mariposa's tone, her face, was as gentle as ever. It must've been herself, distorting things. "Did you hear me? We have to get moving now."

Why?

The question never made it past her lips. Too much effort to speak. To care.

Slowly, Mariposa dragged the empty, absent girl-shell-monster to her feet, and it ached. A creaking in her bones like the mast of an ancient weather-beaten vessel, a naked tree in a howling wind.

(The howls…)

"This way, Vee, c'mon… Can you walk?" Something sturdy slipped under her good shoulder, curling around her waist. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Was she? As an answer, Venatrix shuffled forward. She nearly keeled over; would have, if not for the other girl's support. Mariposa grunted from the effort. How selfish. You have, what, nearly twenty pounds on her? Thirty?

Stand. Up.

Another step. She untwined herself from the One girl's hold. Mariposa didn't protest, didn't follow, and this time, she managed to stay on her feet. Steady now, Venatrix glanced backwards.

The dark patch blooming at her ally's hip seemed to come out of nowhere.

Venatrix's hand drifted towards it as Mariposa came within reach, hesitating when she realized it probably hurt. A frown stretched at her lips. "Shannon," Mariposa explained, lifting her tunic to show its full extent. "Came out of nowhere when I was following you and… um. It's not too deep."

She was right. Venatrix nodded.

"Got the better of him in the end."

That last cannon. Or the one before; Venatrix had no way of knowing, they'd been so close together.

Not that it really mattered.

Mariposa started walking, and Venatrix had nothing left to do besides follow. She seemed to have some sort of direction in mind.

Venatrix, on the other hand, poured all the brain power she had left into staying upright. Step over that twig, around that stone. Notice the slope of the land. Feel the crunch of leaves and pebbles beneath your soles. It felt like ages before she noticed Mariposa's attempts to keep conversation.

Even longer before she saw where they were headed.

"Doesn't seem like anybody actually looted this thing," Mariposa commented, eyeing the ugly hell-ship that carried their so-called feast. "Wait here."

Just like that, her presence evaporated.

She flitted into view again, knee-deep in salt water. Venatrix merely watched as she hauled herself over the edge of the boat, grimacing, and she disappeared again, rummaging around the deck for who-knows-what.

By the time she returned, Venatrix hadn't moved a muscle.

Her frame bowed under the weight of the packs she carried, clearly struggling to wade back through the water. It only occurred to Venatrix, by the time Mariposa dropped them at her feet, that she should've helped. But, like the others, the thought quickly slipped under the void.

"Here," Mariposa said, unsheathing a heavy longsword from her belt and passing it over. It sagged in Venatrix's grip. "I don't know what happened to yours, but there were other weapons on there too." She patted her own shiny-looking pair of katanas.

Venatrix said nothing.

Pressing her lips together, Mariposa tapped at the sword in Venatrix's left hand, guiding it to the sheath at her belt. Muscle memory was enough for Venatrix to get the hint.

"Hey." A hand suddenly caressed her cheek, and Venatrix flinched. Mariposa pulled back; the concern was unmistakable in her expression. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "About Percy. I—" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. "I wish it didn't happen."

It never should've happened.

(It was always meant to happen.)

Her lungs filled with cement. There was no air, none— nothing—

"Hey—hey, just breathe, okay?" Hands cupped her face. Warm brown eyes locked onto hers, undeniably present. "Look at me, Vee. Look at me… Let's— let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Slowly, air began to flow, and she nodded. Mariposa's hand slid down to find hers, and she guided Venatrix closer to the river. An icy breeze wafted from the water, sending a shiver down her spine, a rattle through her teeth. Flutters of latent pain came with it, and Venatrix winced. Mariposa helped her sit; she pulled an extra fur cloak from one of their new packs, wrapping it around Venatrix's shoulders.

Water lapped gently at the shoreline. Mariposa took another cloth from the bag, dunked it in water, and pressed it to Venatrix's face. Cold. Venatrix squeezed her eyes shut; the other girl scrubbed roughly, rinsed the cloth, scrubbed again. Her eyes cracked open just in time to see rivulets of red streaming from the rag as Mariposa twisted it.

She shut them until Mariposa was finished.

Their wounds were next. Mariposa cleaned hers quickly; once she'd scrubbed away the rust, the laceration appeared far less threatening. She bandaged it neatly.

Venatrix's wound on the other hand… Fresh blood drenched the right side of her tunic from where the Four girl had dug her claws in, half dried and sticky. Fabric pulled at her skin when Mariposa attempted to peel it back. Her dislocated bone throbbed in response; Venatrix let her head spin as her eyes slipped closed again. It was somewhat of an anchor, the pain. Each dab of Mariposa's cloth made it known that she was still, in fact, here. She felt no sting of disinfectant before the other girl tapped her knee to let her know she was finished, only the warmth of fur enshrouding her cheeks.

The Capitol wouldn't dare show too much kindness.

Not that it mattered. The end was fast-approaching, but the thought didn't fill her with as much pride — as much hope — as it once would have.

For all Venatrix knew, this arena was all there ever was.

A sharp crackle made her flinch. Somehow, she hadn't noticed Mariposa building a small fire right between them. Her ally rifled through one of the packs now, pulling out bread and nuts and strips of jerky. Some feast.

Venatrix didn't think she'd be able to stand the taste of fresh meat anyways.

The One girl tossed over a pack. "Eat as much as you want. There won't really be a 'later', will there?"

Some part of her expected to hear a sarcastic snort, a clever quip. 'Should've let me keep hunting those rabbits. We'd have a real feast then.'

Ultimately, the gnawing hole in her stomach guided her hand. Venatrix pulled out a bag of nuts, a wad of jerky; tentatively, she placed the latter on her tongue. Salt filled her taste buds, so sharp of a taste that it hurt after days of nothing. She tore into it, chewing, but the texture— her stomach twisted, begging for something to sustain it. Wary, she went for the nuts this time, popping a few into her mouth. They crunched between her teeth—

(Salt. Bone. Tendons ripping beneath your tongue; the stench, it's in your nose, your mouth, the back of your throat— you can't escape it, what you've done.)

—in a spasm of limbs, she lurched onto all fours, retching—

All two bites of food. Bile, water, blood. And then nothing, but she couldn't stop any more than she could breathe. A rough fist thumped her back, melding into a firm massage when she found her lungs again. Mariposa's voice registered in her ears, but her words didn't cut through the spinning, ringing, howling… Venatrix flopped onto her side, knees tucked in. She pulled the cloak over her head to shield her from the white cloud glare, the look of concern.

Something — Mariposa probably; who else? — tapped at her leg, but Venatrix only curled tighter. Her own panting breath resonated in her ears. Sharp pebbles dug into her joints, but Venatrix didn't move, not even when something solid pressed itself up against her back. Mariposa's hand found her again, tracing patterns into her shoulder blades.

In any other setting, the gesture would've comforted her. It wasn't the One girl's fault that it didn't.

She couldn't bring Percy back.

Destroying the Four girl couldn't bring him back.

(You ought to know that by now.)

Venatrix closed her eyes, and the ache took hold.

…

("Hey Vee.")

(Mariposa's voice, drifting in from the blue unreality.)

The pressure against her back lifted; only then did Venatrix resurface. Ever so slightly, she raised her head. Mariposa's hand briefly came to rest at her arm before she spoke. "I will be right back, okay? I'm going to check on our old campsite. Stay here, please."

("Trix, wait—!")

Her neck creaked in a nod.

Soon enough, the sound of footsteps receded, and Venatrix was left alone with that little crackling fire. It seemed to choke on the frigid air, a desperation she knew well. Wouldn't last the night without someone to tend to it. What little fuel it had was dwindling fast, warmth bleeding into nothingness, and yet still, it burned Venatrix's retinas.

She couldn't look away.

By the time the flames sank back into their embers, soft, crunching footfalls heralded Mariposa's return. A quiet chirruping noise that didn't match the rest of the arena accompanied the thump of bags onto the gravel; Venatrix didn't pay it any mind until long whiskers poked around the edge of her hood. Charcoal's lanky black-and-white form filled her vision, pausing to sniff cautiously at her forehead before settling next to the remains of the fire. "He was waiting for us," Mariposa said quietly, sliding more twigs into the embers. Venatrix let out a grunt in acknowledgement. "Oh hey, she speaks."

The teasing light quickly faded from Mariposa's eyes when Venatrix didn't respond.

Dusting her hands, the One girl stood, padding out of view, though her voice still lingered. "You're going to have to liven up soon enough, Vee," she said, almost apologetic. "Neither of us can win like this."

Right. Because that's always what it's been about.

Venatrix couldn't win if she couldn't fight back. Apparently, Mariposa wanted her to.

That left them with Seven.

How disappointing, the thought came blandly. After all that?

Rummaging noises overtook Mariposa's chatter, and it was a minute before Venatrix realized she was pitching their tent for the night. By her hmphs of confusion, it took her a second to figure it out, but when she finished, she sat next to Venatrix by the fire, half-shielded by the flap. Gently, she tapped the top of Venatrix's head. "Sit up for a sec?"

With a low groan and slowly-shifting muscles, Venatrix complied.

Too late, she noticed Mariposa holding out a small chunk of bread. "Please?" the One girl said when Venatrix recoiled from it. "You really need to eat."

Venatrix shook her head.

"You have to. Remember what you said? Need to keep up your strength for the Games and all. Especially for tomorrow—"

The bread appeared under her nose, and Venatrix batted it away. "Please stop," she croaked.

"No," the other girl insisted. "You would do the same for me. Please, just— eat something."

Reluctantly, Venatrix let her place the piece into her hand. Under Mariposa's forceful stare, she tore off a bite, slow enough for it to get soggy in her mouth. The texture alone made her stomach swirl. It's a fucking piece of bread, she chided herself and swallowed. Took another bite.

Mariposa didn't let her stop until it was gone. "All okay?"

It was a minute before she nodded. Too intense to bear, Venatrix turned away from the One girl's gaze, willing the nausea to stay down. Gentle waves lapped at the pebble shore; Venatrix focused on timing her breathing with the push and pull.

Something— an object, bobbing up and down in the water— interrupted it. "What's that?"

Mariposa followed her outstretched finger, first with her eyes, then with her feet. She took her now-dry boots off to wade through the shallows, scooping an amber bottle from the waters. Her lips moved as she mumbled something inaudible, expression unreadable in the dim light of encroaching evening. She returned; incredulousness, that's what it was. "No fucking way," she said, a half-grin stretching her features as she held the bottle out to Venatrix.

A vague memory tickled at the back of Venatrix's mind. She frowned, struggling to pull it from the void.

"Viper's gift, remember?" Mariposa prompted. "Feels like so long ago…" She plopped down next to Venatrix, crossing her legs and uncorking the bottle. "I always did wonder what that little fucker wrote." Charcoal crawled into her lap as Mariposa fished out the message, cursing her district partner's name with every moment of struggle.

Finally, she managed to extract the paper. Unscrolling it, she read out loud, "'Morior Invictus.' That's it… Huh, I thought it would be something stupid."

Venatrix stared blankly.

"His family motto," Mariposa explained. "He used to always brag about it. It means 'I die unvanquished.' He always thought that it would mean he'd win. …And I suppose he did. He was right, about everything— about me." The One girl pressed her lips together. "But in the end, he's still dead."

There was something unreadable in her tone; Venatrix tilted her head in question, but Mariposa only smiled sadly at her.

"You know, I don't even think I care anymore." She huffed, shrugging— an oddly weightless gesture— and tucked the note into her pouch. "It all seems so small now."

Part of her looked like she wished to say more, but a light from beyond the mountains interrupted her. Venatrix went still as the golden eagle swept across the patch of empty sky. Her heart picked up in her chest, thundering loud enough to drown out Mariposa's words of concern, reassurance, whatever she was saying. Only her heartbeat — twice as fast as the anthem drums — the sound of her own rapid breath, the distant cries from within…

The eagle spread its wings, and Venatrix didn't have time to close her eyes before Percy's face dominated the sky with his easy smile.

("Trix wait—!")

("You can't just go off like that!")

("What if we don't make it? Hell, what if we do?")

A celestial breeze rustled across his hair, wreathed in a blue-silver frost. Lips turned upwards, he seemed to laugh as he gazed down at her, sparks like starlight in his eyes, as if they'd ripped him from her memories and plastered him across the sky. Flecks of gold danced across the image, lively in death as he was in life.

Before the monster that bore her name ruined everything.

The image blurred. When it whisked away into the Three boy's face, Venatrix cried out, the hole in her chest festering, writhing, threatening to swallow everything.

(You killed him.)

Venatrix barely registered the arms around her body, the faces of Four and Eight.

(She couldn't look at Four again.)

She didn't even think she could look at herself.

There was little point in sleeping.

Instead, Oberon and Dagmara spent the last few hours before the sun rose watching over their daughter. There wasn't much to say. Talking strategy didn't help; they tried, but as soon as Dag's tone got snippy, he backed off. He couldn't stand to argue with her now, even slightly.

So they watched, waited in the privacy of the District Two suite. Last he checked, Elspeth and Alecto had returned to the mentoring room after their interviews, but Morwenna had cleared out from the suite as soon as she'd finished hers. Any other time, he was sure Dagmara would want to check on her.

But they couldn't afford to worry about her.

There was nothing Oberon needed from the mentoring room, nothing he wouldn't be able to do from his cellular. He wasn't going back, anyways— he and Dag had been invited to the Karkarroses' annual finale party.

Unofficial, but not by any means optional.

As soon as the light crept in through the windows, they began to prepare. The dress code was formal; attendance was restricted to the Capitol's most beloved, those who could afford to decorate their bodies with the latest trends, designers, augmentations.

Which meant neither of them could afford to slip up.

(No doubt the good Minister had the Peacekeepers on speed dial.)

But Oberon didn't have room to worry about Isador either.

Heaving a sigh, he undid the tie around his neck once again, a silky jade-green thing to match his eyes, but restricting all the same. Choking.

The knot slipped from his fingers.

(Again.)

Breathe. Dagmara is here. Together, we will manage this.

As if he'd summoned her with the thought, Dagmara appeared behind him in the bathroom mirror. Shimmering gold fabric wreathed her frame, draping neatly across her freckled shoulders and gathering low at her toes in an artful ruffle. Her face softened into something more honest at the sight of him, more pained. "Here, honey," she murmured, taking the tie from his hands. She laced it around his neck, measured; swiftly, her fingers formed the knot, more even than anything he could attempt with his hidden splint.

"Thanks. You look nice."

She patted his cheek in response, but neither smiled. Instead, she rustled around in her makeup bag while Oberon scrolled through his cellular on a routine status check of Trixie's vitals. Still normal, still asleep. As for the sponsorship gifts…

A growl of frustration tore his attention away; Dagmara, nearly elbow deep in her bag. "I swear I just saw…" Pencils and palettes littered the countertop, all discarded. "Got it." She extracted another small tube, not unlike all the rest, and offered it to him. "It's the only waterproof one I have."

Right. Because there's a very high chance that Trixie will die today.

And everyone will be watching. Watching her, watching him and Dag.

He took the applicator. Eyeliner— a softer kind, at least. Where was a prep team when you needed one; though Oberon didn't have to guess.

It's the final day, and nobody is watching alone.

And so he and Dagmara prepared in relative silence, the live feed of their daughter resting protectively between them. Prepared for the scrutiny of their superiors, for their callousness, for their judgment.

The eleventh hour drew ever-closer, and just for a second, the two Victors embraced. One final moment of certainty.

(Deep down, Oberon knew there was no way to truly prepare.)

With shaky breaths, they separated, determined, however, to attend this event together. It may very well be their last chance.

Oberon cast one last glance at his phone.

Sponsorships closed officially in an hour. By then, mentor intervention would be prohibited. The price of available items had risen exorbitantly, anything remotely useful now nigh-unattainable.

But perhaps his punishment had been a blessing in disguise.

He pressed his lips together, muting the ghost of a smile that wanted to slice across his face as he glanced at the balance in Trixie's sponsor bank; quite honestly, he'd never seen this much money in his life. For that reason—for all his pride— Oberon finally dared to hope.

There was only one thing worth sending her.

He clicked the button, and waited.

true vengeance 151 . weebly . com

A/N: Hi guys, sorry for the long break. Finale will be up sometime soon after I post this (it's already drafted ahahahghghhufdsv..) but ummm. Yeah. Hope you like this one. I do.. (though "like" might not be. the right word...)

If you have any guesses about the sponsor gift, I'd love to hear! Guesses, speculations for the finale... lay it on me ! It's been keeping me up at night so. I hope you guys are Ready .. see you then (:

- Nell