Chapter 62: Valhalla Calling
Day 14, Final Day
Gradually, Venatix became aware of a steady thump in her ears. Soft, almost peaceful. It danced an even rhythm through her consciousness— the only thing, in fact, that she was aware of.
It didn't last. Never could have.
Only in waking did Venatrix realize she'd managed to fall asleep. Fall asleep, black out; same difference. Only in waking did Venatrix realize she didn't want to.
Instinctively, she curled inward, as if she could melt into the warmth that supported her fuzzy head. The thump—ba-dum—ba-dum grew louder. Let me linger. Let me stay here forever. On the edge of consciousness and nestled into something that, in another life, could've been a home. Gentle fingers carded through her hair, the touch almost too real for her current state.
A guttural noise bled from Venatrix's lips, startling even her.
The hand's owner chuckled. Venatrix's eyes blinked open of their own volition, and a pair of warm dark ones resolved over her head with frustrating slowness. "Sorry to wake you."
The hand appeared in her vision once again, brushing strays from her forehead. Venatrix caught it with the only one she had available; she brought it to her lips with a soft groan in response.
Something flickered across the other girl's face, too quick for Venatrix to analyze.
In some silent, reluctant agreement, the pair pushed themselves into sitting positions, the movement aching through Venatrix's stiff limbs. They dressed each other's wounds— or rather, Mariposa dressed hers and refused to let Venatrix expend the effort on a scratch so small. So irrelevant. The One girl didn't even wince as she changed the bandage at her side.
Venatrix watched. What would we be, she wondered, if we weren't so bruised and battered? So full of hate and grief and desperation?
(Would they find each other in every universe, or was this the only one that mattered?)
(For all intents and purposes, it was.)
The thoughts flickered rapidly through Venatrix's quiet mind, more vague feelings than anything she could name. Mariposa held out a loaf of bread, and she took it.
She ate it, though not without wanting to vomit from the iron tang that lingered in the back of her throat. It stung as she swallowed, scrubbed raw by yesterday's acid and bile and—
Mariposa handed her a flask of water. She took it without thinking, chugging. Gasping. Panting. "Hey, easy, okay?"
Venatrix nodded, swallowed. "Sorry," she croaked.
A smile flitted across Mariposa's lips, but she said nothing. Its remnants bloomed into a pensive sort of expression, a not-quite frown that Venatrix couldn't unpack no matter how long she stared. "It's our last day, isn't it?"
Oh.
The lilt in her tone — raw and vulnerable — sent a fist into Venatrix's gut. It tore with cruel fingers at the holes that already riddled her being, gnawing and burrowing beneath her skin. Tears like hot needles stung at the corners of her eyes.
In the soft, pink dawn, Mariposa's glistened too.
Venatrix pressed her lips together, hoping the lapping of waves on the riverbank drowned out the near-imperceptible whimper that crawled up her throat. 'Our last day', she said. Not 'last day of the Games'.
Ours.
It was all they had.
A sharp intake of breath shook Mariposa's shoulders. Her eyes squeezed shut; Venatrix watched, and when the One girl's hand shot out, Venatrix caught it in hers.
For a heartbeat, Venatrix swore Mariposa's goal was to crush her bones to bits.
But the vice grip vanished just as quickly as it came. Something harsh flashed in the One girl's eyes before she stood to her feet, striding with purpose towards the water. Venatrix remained in her wake, too slow to process the sudden movement. The change. The light glinting off a blade.
It dove towards her neck, and only then did Venatrix's brain catch up. "Mari—!"
But no spray of blood hit the water, no new cry of pain. Venatrix's feet moved of their own accord, at Mariposa's side in what felt like an instant and far too long at the same time. Too fast she'd stood— once the spots cleared from her vision, ribbons of gold replaced it.
They floated down from Mariposa's shoulders, landing gently atop the brackish waves that licked their ankles. The knife snagged within a tangle of blonde, and the One girl snarled in effort.
"Mari," Venatrix said again, softly this time.
More strands came free. Something twisted in Venatrix's gut at the sight of them, streaked through with unmistakable, vivid red. Her left hand clasped around Mariposa's wrist, halting the knife. "You're hurting yourself."
"Let me do this."
Her voice wavered with emotion, but Venatrix had never heard her sound so sure. She let go. "Be gentle," she murmured. "Please."
Whether Mariposa heard her or not, she couldn't tell, but the One girl's knife moved more slowly now, more purposefully. And, lock by lock, the faux gold fell from her crown. Red streaks came few and far between now, dark roots taking hold as the transformation raged. It wasn't a perfect job— far from it. Bits of blonde and blood still lingered amidst the patchwork of choppy tufts, so far from perfect it was laughable.
But that was just it.
Mariposa threw back her head and laughed. Her shoulders sagged like a weight had been lifted, and tears crawled visibly down her cheeks— she'd never looked more beautiful than she did now. "God, it feels so… light."
(How radiant it would look on her, Victory.)
(Life.)
She pawed at her eyes, sniffing. Through the ache in her chest, Venatrix raised a hand to assist, catching a droplet as she brushed the other girl's cheek. She felt herself gravitating closer until her lips pressed against Mariposa's forehead; the touch drew a faint noise from the One girl's lips. With a quiet exhale, Venatrix pulled back.
Almost as if she didn't know what to do in the face of the affection, Mariposa offered her the knife— a question.
Venatrix pressed her lips together before nodding.
"How short?"
Half-shrug. "Long as it doesn't get in my way."
That was all the incentive Mariposa needed to bring the knife to Venatrix's scalp, slicing cleanly through her ponytail. Goosebumps prickled at Venatrix's neck where the One girl's breath wafted against her skin. Feather-light curls brushed her cheeks but for a moment— despite it all, it wasn't the knife that caused that damned spike in Venatrix's heart rate. Mariposa sheared the hairs from around her face too, stepping back.
And she was right— it was lighter.
Venatrix herself didn't feel any lighter, any more weightless, but the change was there; she knew it. Mariposa handed back her mass of hair. No doubt a layer of dirt coated the thick waves, but Venatrix hesitated to discard them in the river. Instead, she turned back to the pebble beach, towards their campfire. Merely embers now, guarded by their feline sentinel, but they seared the ponytail to ash regardless. Venatrix inhaled the pungent scent of burning hair.
"Our luck to you, Venatrix Pyke. Make us proud."
("Trix, wait—!")
(Do you hear the wolf?)
No. No I don't. I am the wolf.
She opened her eyes, unsure when she'd closed them. The morning was silent — blissfully, terrifyingly silent — but judging by the way the pink clouds slowly morphed into a deeper scarlet, it wouldn't stay that way.
Nothing ever lasts in here.
For a moment, Mariposa looked like she was about to speak.
The earth did instead. A gentle rumble beneath their feet; an unmistakable warning sign. Mariposa pressed her lips together, looking from Venatrix to the land upriver. It hadn't started to crumble yet, but they both knew it would— there'd be no going back, no outrunning the end.
"Come on," Mariposa said with a nudge. She scooped up the cat and waded confidently into the water, towards the dark hell-ship. When she realized Venatrix wasn't following, she paused, turned around. "We have to go, Vee."
Venatrix winced at the crack in her voice, but followed.
Little flecks of snow began to drift down upon them. Water swirled around her ankles, shins, thighs, sending a shock of ice through her body. She gritted her teeth as she approached the ship. Ahead, Mariposa let the cat climb aboard first before gingerly hoisting herself over the rail. "Try not to—touch it for too long."
Why? But the question died on her tongue when the smell hit.
Rotting. The vessel was rotting. When Venatrix reached the ship's edge, she still didn't quite understand, but… Something about the scalloped detailing of the hull, the thin, twisted threads that made up the ropes made her stomach churn. Mariposa offered her a hand, and Venatrix took it without thinking, letting the One girl haul her over the edge in a wave of stiffness and pain. She collapsed in a heap on the deck.
Fuck, how am I going to fight like this?
When the stars cleared from her head, Venatrix forced herself to stand.
(There's always another option.)
But was that an option, really?
Venatrix knew she was running on autopilot right now. She felt it in the lag of her muscles, the drag of her feet. The only question was whether she'd trained hard enough for autopilot to become synonymous with willpower.
And it hurt. Whether it was a sudden spike or a background hum, the pain lived, with an audacity that claimed it had always been there.
That couldn't be true— yet it took more energy than it was worth to remember a time otherwise.
She'd barely registered that the ship had started moving, a gentle rocking beneath her feet. Venatrix blinked in the red glare. The snow picked up, bitter and biting. A thin fog had rolled over the water, concealing the horizon, but it parted to let them through, and ahead, mountains stretched tall. Behind them, they crumbled.
Above, a small flicker of white.
It stood out against the harsh atmosphere, larger than snow. Music guided its descent as it followed them. Venatrix held out a hand, and the parachute landed square in her palm.
She stared.
Her fingers trembled.
Something like rage shivered in her stomach, a quiet thing. An ugly, proud, furious thing that hissed at her to discard the gift, throw it out, get rid of it, you don't need your father's last minute scraps. You don't want them. You've gotten this far— don't you dare accept their gifts. They're just testing you—teasing you. Take the gift—the handout—and you lose—
Venatrix hardly blinked before Mariposa swiped the parcel from her slackened grip. Dazed, she watched as the One girl tore into the container—(no message)—and extracted a long, silver syringe.
"—hold still—"
The words only just reached her ears before Mariposa plunged the needle into Venatrix's skin—her collar—the wound—she cried out as the metal agitated the sleeping fire within her torn muscle, her aching bone, but… slowly, slowly, the ice it contained began to douse the flames. Sharp tears trickled from Venatrix's eyes before she could stop them. Mariposa extracted the needle, worry creasing her features. "Sorry. You were just standing there."
Venatrix grunted in response, shutting her eyes against the coolness now surging through her veins. The old wound throbbed. Fire and ice seemed to congeal into something slow like molasses; Venatrix leaned against the nearest bannister for support.
The odd sensation only spread. Venatrix didn't understand— she hunched over, waiting for something to hit, until she realized that it wouldn't.
That what she felt now was the absence of pain.
The thought left her throat dry. She rolled out her shoulder; it tingled—clicked—but… nothing. Her mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. She should've felt relief, and true, the realization almost made the tears come again. But no.
No, Venatrix wasn't stupid.
There is no relief. There is no giving up. There is no amount of pain, no amount of grief that's allowed to stop her, because Venatrix was made for one thing, and one thing only.
"You don't have permission to die," her father had told her once. Twice, now.
And she will never, ever forget it.
The ghost of something tugged at her heart — fury again? Misery? Desperation? — but the ice-like molasses tugged it back under before she could name it.
A shimmer caught her eye, just beneath the water's surface. Scales. Teeth. A lizard-like eye. The serpent's body snaked underneath her feet, but Venatrix felt only apathy towards it. Regardless, she tracked its path as it circled their vessel. Hints of red glinted off iridescent spines as it breached the surface, only to return immediately into the depths, a harmless coiling dance. At her side as usual, Mariposa hummed in thought. "Is this one mine, then?"
Venatrix frowned, but the other girl didn't elaborate. Fixated, she watched their monstrous escort swirl around the stern of their ship while Venatrix watched her.
Where the boat was taking them, she didn't know. Fog and snow still obscured their destination—overhead, a streak of light flashed brilliant blue—but it wouldn't be long before the end.
She needed to be ready.
With a long inhale, Venatrix shrugged the sweater over her shoulders, then the sling. The movement caught Mariposa's eye. Her lips parted in protest, but no sound came out, and gingerly, Venatrix unraveled the strips of fabric that bound her arm to her chest. Free at last, she stretched out the arm; joints popped and cracked, drowned out by her loud exhale. The strain tugged at her muscles, deep but uncomfortably painless. She drew her sword.
Mariposa's noise of disapproval halted her only for a second. "It doesn't hurt?"
Venatrix shook her head.
The furrow in the One girl's brow deepened, though it was too late to protest now. Venatrix gave the sword an experimental twirl; it swayed awkwardly from disuse, from sluggishness, but it would have to do.
Still, one thing nagged at her. She sheathed the weapon, taking Mariposa's hand in hers. The One girl tilted her head in question.
Venatrix cleared her throat. "I want it to be you. In the end."
For a long beat, the other girl stared at her— eyes round, expression undeniably vulnerable without the golden locks to shield her. How can she look at me like that? After what she's seen—what I've done? But Mariposa nodded.
"I want it to be us," Venatrix said, insistent. "And I want you to—" She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.
Mariposa smiled. "I know."
Really, they'd both known since day one, since they'd seen each other fight with longing in their eyes. But it wasn't enough just to know.
Venatrix squeezed her hand, then let it drop to Mariposa's belt, to the knife that sat tucked within the leather. Mariposa let her extract it— her eyes widened when Venatrix dragged it across her palm. Without the pain, the touch of the blade was almost pleasant. "Promise me?"
In lieu of a response, Mariposa took the knife and sliced her own palm with a quiet wince.
She didn't take Venatrix's hand— instead, she dipped her fingers into the red that welled within and raised her hand to Venatrix's forehead, as she'd done many times prior. Venatrix closed her eyes as the other girl painted two lines down her face, forehead to brow to jaw. And with her own blood, Venatrix did the same, a single mark down the slope of her nose, over her lips. "It's been an honor," Venatrix said, a faint smile twitching at her own lips. "To fight with you."
Beneath her fingers, Mariposa's mouth split into a smile. Glitter shimmered in the corners of her eyes. "Likewise," she breathed. "And Venatrix, if you have to kill me…" She pressed her lips together, no doubt tasting blood. "Make me an ugly corpse."
Her tone—the intensity— gripped Venatrix's chest like a vice. Her fingers pressed into Mariposa's jaw, and they sealed the promise with a kiss.
Before their lips even touched, Mariposa's hand found her waist, pulling her closer. When they did, the One girl's grip only tightened, the desperation in her kiss so strong it might leave a bruise. Part of Venatrix hoped it would. Her breath caught on the taste of iron and salt, but she didn't care what sort of memories it brought forth— she would never have this again.
So she ran her nails through the other girl's choppy scalp, tugged her close until teeth scraped and tongues ached, and only when the earth shook again — when the ground beneath their feet dipped and swayed — did they separate. Only when the world crumbled around them did they dare to breathe.
Venatrix refused to look. Why should she? Mariposa was right here, looking exactly as she should: Radiant. Confident. Happy.
She clung to Venatrix still, fingers lingering at her hip like they were made to fit there. The touch burned, but Venatrix felt no pain. Water crashed against the ship's hull, carrying them on the surge, and Venatrix found herself leaning into the other girl. She braced her knees against the impact, curled her own steadying hand around Mariposa's waist, and together, they stood at the helm of their vessel as it rode the tide, parting fog.
Anticipation curled her toes. They stood quiet, the two killers. Executioners. Harbingers of the end.
(Two girls, each of whom carried a monster inside far greater than the ones in tow.)
Two warriors, determined to join forces and lay waste to their opponent— and then to each other.
But all thoughts of grandeur came to a standstill in the face of the great ash tree.
Vibrations echoed through Venatrix's toes as the boat ground to a halt on the beach. Neither she nor Mariposa moved. Venatrix's neck cracked as her eyes followed its thick, silvery trunk into its branches, branches into golden-green leaves, and up up up… If there were a sun, it would pale in comparison.
A low hiss from behind told them it was time to go. Venatrix heaved herself over the side of the ship, landing in the shallows with a gentle splash. She offered Mariposa her hand—the girl gave their cat one final pat on the head before taking it—yet their gazes never fully left the tree.
From the ground, it seemed even taller. In its shadow, there seemed like nothing else. But however ancient the ash tree pretended to be, however permanent it looked, Venatrix knew it was here for one purpose only.
It's here for us.
Great roots arched well over Venatrix's head, far thicker than her body. They formed a barrier, an inescapable circle around an open crop of land that would no doubt be drenched in blood in a few minutes' time. Venatrix swallowed, licking her lips. She could still taste it.
There was no better place than here to do battle— of that, she was certain.
Once again, the ground shook. Instinctively, Venatrix found Mariposa's hand, a vice grip returned with vigor, and they forged their way across jumping pebbles and shivering sand towards the ash. Its roots groaned against the strain. The shaking climbed all the way up the trunk, rattling the branches of the behemoth in a deafening roar of leaves. If the tree weren't so large, Venatrix might've worried that the quake would tear it from the ground, but—
No. You're looking at this wrong.
It was the tree that shook the earth.
Venatrix had no surefire way of knowing, just the pit in her gut that told her she was right. Perhaps the groundquakes came a half-second after the breeze; perhaps it was just a trick of the light, the red sky glare, the drug in her veins.
Lightning flashed— stark blue ice behind shivering leaves.
The muted rumble that followed blended in with the earth, the tree. Wind tugged at her newly-cut locks, and Venatrix blinked. Sparks of blue seemed to dance down the ash's trunk, among the roots of the tree like veins; there, then gone, but— there. Figures, watching. Flickering. She found herself moving through the swirl of flurries, the feeling of Mariposa's hand in hers now a hot-cold memory.
There, perched atop the roots: sentinels, warriors. Tributes.
Venatrix saw right through them. She walked unblinking past the District Seven girl, District Twelve. Zavian. His uncannily stone-faced expression registered as much as Mariposa's light footsteps behind—barely. She strode beneath the root he crouched upon, past the pair from Eleven, his partner. Twelve, Nine, Viper.
"Venatrix…"
She ignored Mariposa's warning, ignored the crowd of ghosts she never really knew in favor of the one she did.
It wasn't Percy. Venatrix knew it wasn't him, couldn't be, and yet—
Flecks of snow danced around them, between them, behind him, behind the smile that didn't come close to meeting his eyes. But not through— they disappeared when they hit his face.
Venatrix raised a hand. He stood level with her, and when she touched his cheek, her fingers passed right through his skin. A whimper crawled up her throat. It's not fair. He's here, he's right here but he's not. He should be here. He should be fighting with us. He should be dying with us, not before, not like this—
"Vee!"
Mariposa's voice—the proximity—made her recoil. Only then did she notice the scent of burning flesh, the way her skin blistered from where it had made contact with the apparition.
She could've sworn she'd felt something.
Out of curiosity or something else, Mariposa too reached out. Her fingers brushed Percy's shoulder, but immediately, she flinched back, hissing in pain. She gave Venatrix a look, clouded with snow and blood.
And a howl split the air, shrill and deafening.
Venatrix whirled around, sword yanked from her belt before she even caught sight of it.
The Seven boy came first, leaping and swerving around roots with a desperate backwards glance. He skidded to a halt in the center of the clearing, axe drawn, shoulders shaking. A trail of blood marked his path, leaking from shallow-looking nips in his calves. With only a sly glance, Venatrix and Mariposa split off to circle around him, to cut off his exits; his eyes darted between them, and back to the wolf as it cleared the nearest root with a powerful leap.
Like the serpent, the mutt offered no further assistance. It seated itself at the foot of the ash among the ghosts, calm and yet imperious.
This is our fight.
Venatrix twirled her sword in anticipation, ignoring the click in her bones induced by the motion. Snow swirled. Lightning flashed— immediately, thunder rumbled low. She prowled closer, eyes tracking Mariposa's movement as much as she tracked Ochre's.
In the red light, his eyes glinted in anger. "Teaming up on me, huh?" he shouted. "Cowards!"
Neither Venatrix nor Mariposa rose to the bait.
His grip on the axe tightened, shoulders hunched forward. There was no way out— the look on his face said he knew it too. "It's not fair," he spat. He pivoted as they stalked him, keeping both Careers in view as best as he could. It would never be good enough. "I never wanted to be here. None of us did. And you killed them. My partner, my allies—"
"That's the Games for you," Mariposa cut him off.
"I don't care! I just want to go home!"
Join the club. Fight for it. Don't we all?
"Too bad," Venatrix said instead. Ochre's glare met hers with full force— all hatred and desperation— but it had no hope of moving her. Not now. Not after everything.
It moved Mariposa— her blades swung in a beautiful, scintillating arc that Ochre almost missed.
He dodged, raised the axe. Metal shrieked; weapons blurred.
Venatrix felt her own feet move, sluggish—painfully so—but intentional. Enough. Her sword bit into Ochre's shoulder blade, and he cried out. A new red spot joined the darkened crust on his shirt— the remnants of an expert arrow— and despite herself, Venatrix grinned. Ochre whirled to face her just as she pivoted out of reach, just as a flash of lightning reflected off of Mariposa's raised blades. Big mistake, Seven.
Nonetheless, he hefted his weapon; Venatrix readied hers.
Mariposa's descended— they flashed across the back of Ochre's head with a spray of blood. He yelped, stumbling, and Venatrix raised her sword to catch him—
Too slow. Too far. Her arm lagged against its orders, and Venatrix gritted her teeth. All the pain medicine in the world couldn't knit together tendons, couldn't heal bones. She righted herself as Ochre skittered out of reach, gasping.
But he didn't fall down dead. Venatrix frowned. That hit should've killed him… but Mariposa left them no time to speculate; she lunged, swiping at Ochre's calves.
He dove. Sharp katanas scored into the ground where he'd been a heartbeat sooner.
As he twisted, Venatrix caught sight of a large but shallow red patch on his scalp in place of a killing blow. Hastily, Ochre scrambled to his feet. Mariposa let him, shaking out her swords, rolling out her shoulders. A gust of wind cut between them, a flash of lightning; it illuminated the One girl's face, a smile sharper than the blades in her hands, and Venatrix knew— she was toying with him.
Venatrix saw it in the way she let him attack first, the way she ducked easily under his swing.
She danced nimbly around his weapon.
She carved tiny, shallow cuts into his forearms, his thighs, his cheeks.
She let him think he had the ghost of a chance.
…And Venatrix understood, because the longer they fought him, the longer they fought him together.
Maybe that was why Venatrix watched. Watched instead of joining, helping. Sure, she danced with the One girl, circled their enemy with her sword drawn, sent warning jabs his way whenever he came too close to the edge. Subtle as it was, the movement reawakened her, renewed the feeling of a sword in her once-dead arm, let her gauge the limitations in the click of bones and the stretch of snapped muscles.
But it was Mariposa who drew real blood.
Her twin blades flashed and sliced and ripped and tore, and when Seven staggered backwards on shredded legs, Venatrix couldn't make out his expression through the red. A river of it ran down the back of his neck, coating the entirety of his shirt; clumps of hair and flesh littered the ground at his feet where Mariposa's swords had skinned it from his scalp. He gripped the axe in one hand— a difficult task with half of his fingers dangling by mere threads.
But he held on. And when the ground shook with thunder and groaning roots, he lunged.
Mariposa shrieked. Dark liquid sprayed from the side of her head, and Venatrix lunged too— too slow, too slow. Her sword sang towards Seven's back, but not as swift as the pair that sprang from inside him, from within. They ground against hers in a dull metallic scrape, echoed by a low, ragged gasp—
Boom.
"Mari…"
Seven's body sagged; it slid from their swords, and there she was. Strips of flesh hung from the right side of her head, clumps of shorn hair, half an ear. In the glare of the scarlet sky, everything was red; in the flash of lightning, nothing changed. A laugh bubbled from Mariposa's lips, barely audible over the thunder. "We're even now, aren't we?"
She jerked her chin towards Ochre's body when Venatrix tilted her head in question. "Six for me, six for you. Winner takes it all."
Venatrix pressed her lips together. This wasn't exactly a mark she wanted on her leger.
(Maybe in another world…)
Mariposa met her eyes, beckoning and pleading at the same time. Thunder rumbled. Waves crashed as the serpent stalked the waterline. Snow swirled around them, pricking Venatrix's cheeks as she picked her way over the fallen tribute, towards her once-shattered girl. Stay with me, Mari's dark eyes seemed to say. Die with me. Live with me, here. Now.
Behind her, the wolf stared on. Venatrix tightened her grip on her sword.
There was no other world. There was only the one where the wolf and the serpent egged them on in this fight to the death, even if this world was about to end.
Then take me with you.
(Always.)
They moved as one.
A new energy surged through Venatrix's veins, more like lightning than the ice of nothingness, the fire of pain. Their blades met like a kiss, a test to see who would strike first, strike for real.
Yet it shuddered down Venatrix's arm all the same, a jarring, painless shift of bone.
Her feet shuffled forwards, toeing sure lines in the snow-covered gravel. Mariposa let her come. The One girl's blades hovered in the air between them; Venatrix brought her left hand to her pommel, letting her own sword lightly tap her opponent's as she crossed it over her chest.
Mariposa echoed her steps. They traced a circle around each other, and she leapt.
But Venatrix's weapon was already there; a quick block. Her lips twisted. "Don't go easy on me now," Venatrix said, voice low. "You promised."
As did I.
She met the One girl's eyes, and lunged— snap left. Mariposa hissed, too slow to dodge, but she retaliated in a whirlwind. Venatrix blocked, one, two, three, but something wet dripped down her hip. Her eyes flicked downwards— ah, blood— but no burst of fire distracted her.
They disengaged— a soft grunt, a shift in the wind.
The One girl advanced. She spun on her toes, a blur of flashing blades.
Sucking in, Venatrix raised her sword; she caught both katanas on its length, caught the wetness that glistened on her opponent's cheeks. She pivoted, angled her blade; they slid off, and she cut upwards, around her head and down. Mariposa's expression shifted as she caught sight of steel arcing towards her neck, and even if Venatrix didn't see it—didn't see those eyes—she couldn't have stopped it.
Instead of trying, the One girl hit the ground. She rolled, striking out for Venatrix's legs; the bite was swift, shocking even without the agony that should've come with it. A snarl ripped from Venatrix's throat— she brought her pommel against Mariposa's skull with a crack!
Again, the girl dropped.
Again, Venatrix's sword flew towards her head.
With a hiss, Mariposa rolled from the blade; it missed her nose by millimeters, kicking up a spray of pebbles and sand. She scrambled to her feet quicker than Venatrix expected.
Not quick enough.
Venatrix knew the other girl was faster. That's why her blade was already screaming towards her, again—
It carved a deep line down Mariposa's face, and she screamed too.
Venatrix's breath came in gasps. Blood ran down her sword as the One girl staggered back, arms covering her face, swords held up in weak defense. Mariposa's hands shook; even from the distance between them, Venatrix saw it.
When she lowered her hands, even the red that bisected her features couldn't hide the glint in her eyes.
It was almost enough to make Venatrix regret it all— but then she laughed. "Good one." Blood bubbled from her split lips. "Do it again, Vee."
A challenge. A dare. She spat a glob of blood into the snow, flicked her blades, and charged.
Venatrix met her in the middle, and their swords sang.
The sound was beautiful, grating; larger than rolling thunder, a shiver of a thousand leaves. It was everything— the final battle everyone always said Venatrix deserved.
It was the last thing they'd ever get.
Between flashes of lightning, flashes of swords, Venatrix caught flashes of Mariposa's gaze—her grin—and she knew the other girl felt the same. They'd do this forever if they could.
Venatrix clung to it: the rush of pleasure as she lunged, the screech of blades, the goosebumps that trickled down her spine, her arms. The mutual desire, the need to break through the other's defense, carve into her with their weapon. To leave deep, irreparable marks— something the Capitol won't heal, won't take away.
You will take me with you! You promised!
Her feet danced of their own accord. The sword—the extension of her arm—whirled with them, a clipped-wing pattern that found its way in anyways; she caught the katanas and kicked. The wound in Mariposa's side began to bleed. The girl coughed, but her blades twisted, scraped down the length of Venatrix's in an impact that jarred her shoulder. Just in time, she twisted out of the way, but the motion forced Venatrix to drop her two-handed grip.
She angled her blade, and drove it down.
The blade nicked the inside of Mariposa's thigh. The One girl sucked in a breath— and there was that click! in Venatrix's collarbone, but she pressed it further anyways, deeper.
She shouldn't have stood so close.
Mariposa grinned—a flash of white and blood—before the girl's head slammed into hers. Spots of darkness and color and everything in between bloomed across her vision as Venatrix staggered back; she barely maintained a grip on her sword, yanking it from Mariposa's flesh—
Twin blades screamed towards her eyes, and she saw nothing.
Venatrix screamed; she felt nothing— not true, coldcoldcold warmth, down my cheeks— but she screamed. She lurched backwards, catching herself, blinking, blinking, blinking, nothing, I can't…
Shifting gravel. Venatrix heard it, felt the sword in her hand still. Both hands, now, and her left forced it upwards, caught the incoming strike. Ragged breath; hers or Mariposa's, she couldn't tell. All the same now.
The weight lifted. She blinked; blink blink blink— click! She shifted her grip, left over right; hefted the sword. Blink, but red and warmth still raged. Come on, dammit!
Cold air nipped at her split cheeks. They stretched when she inhaled, sharp. That's mine.
Another breath— Mariposa's.
Pebbles scraped, and this time Venatrix lunged first. The grunt of pain told her she struck true— where, she didn't know, it was only red, and she pressed the attack, rearing back for another slash.
It whistled through the air, and she growled at the effort, the frustration.
Resetting her stance, Venatrix shook her head. Droplets sprayed from her face; she lifted her arm again, wiping her eyes on her sleeve—
Mariposa's features resolved in startling swiftness, inches from her face. Her blades arced just as quick; Venatrix barely caught one on hers, an impact that was almost gentle. So close— the other girl's breath brushed her cheek, and Venatrix felt a sudden gnawing desire to kiss her, consume her until there was nothing left.
Or maybe, that was just the sword in her gut.
Venatrix's eyes dropped to the hilt, not comprehending. Her vision was clear suddenly, clear enough— the brown eyes that bored into hers were almost apologetic. Maybe she wants to kiss me too.
But the hand that held the blade twisted; the sorrow deepened.
A noise slipped from between Venatrix's teeth, half a question, half a plea. She felt her own sword too, still gripped between stiff palms— at least until Mariposa's first blade twisted, and it clattered to the ground, useless.
Oh. How pathetic.
Rotten memories bubbled to the surface. Viper clutching his severed hand, face smeared with hatred. A similar sword ripped from her own grip, hitting the sands of Fairfax Arena. Venatrix almost wanted to laugh. How does she do it? How does she undo me so well?
Yet, she'd never ask for anything less.
And yet— she placed a hand around Mariposa's, around the hilt of the blade that knew the taste of her insides. When Mariposa tried to pull it out, her grip tightened. Her eyes never left Venatrix's and vice fucking versa, but Venatrix saw the other blade in her peripheral, saw it flying towards her neck, and she didn't think to stop the hand that caught it.
A grunt of effort spilled through her teeth. Blood dripped into her eyes—the scent filled her nose, thick and cloying; behind it, the bite of cold—but Venatrix shook it away.
Instead, she watched with fascination as the sword chewed its way through her palm.
It trembled; whether that was Mariposa's hand behind the weapon or hers, she didn't care to know, and this time, she did laugh. Blood slithered down her wrist. Metal gnawed against the inside—the underneath—of her skin, her bones, and she let it, laughing all the while. Mariposa's features twisted as she forced the sword through; beads of blood spilled from the slice between her eyes, down her nose and cheeks like tears.
Millimeter by millimeter, the sword ate through flesh. Fingers wilted as the chunk of meat separated from her body, but Venatrix's grip never faltered.
And, in an instant, the blade cut free.
The sudden lack of opposition sent her lurching forwards. She collided into her enemy, her lover, her fellow tribute, her obstacle— knocking Mariposa flat on her back. The One girl gasped as she hit the ground, air knocked from her lungs—
Venatrix didn't let her take it back.
Her fingers—(the ones she still had)—wrapped around the other girl's throat. Damn the sword in her stomach, the river of red leaking from her wrist; Venatrix's fingers tightened even as Mariposa clawed at her hand, eyes blown wide, and she leaned into it, using her weight as a weapon against the other girl's lungs.
Even Mariposa's heartbeat fought against her.
It pounded thick and fast beneath her fingertips— she kicked and bucked and writhed, and Venatrix wasn't sure when the water started leaking from her eyes, whether it was water or blood or both, but she squeezed tighter, leaned closer. Almost-words tickled just behind her lips, but her breath came too fast to let them through. Taunting, as she stole that of the other girl's.
The sight of her blurred between red and tears. Venatrix blinked it away, and she could've sworn she saw Mariposa's lips flicker into a bloody smile in the flash of lightning. Still, impossibly, her grip tightened, and it felt like years.
Legs thrashed. Arms clawed, so viciously, so desperate that it seemed almost deliberate when Mariposa went limp. A hand dragged across Venatrix's cheek.
That smile again…
It fell, curled around Venatrix's, still curled around her throat. Venatrix never looked away, and neither did her Mari, not even when the thunder boomed, but it wasn't thunder, it wasn't, it wasn't, it was—
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present—"
(So far away…)
"—the Victor of the 151st Hunger Games—"
(I'm sorry, Mari, I'm sorry—)
"—Venatrix Pyke of District Two!"
The words went over her head.
Even in lifelessness, those round dark eyes stayed open as if they were trying to hold on— not to life, but to her.
Venatrix didn't move. And yet somehow, she found herself hunched over Mariposa's unmoving frame, arms shielding the One girl's face from the cameras, the spectators, the voyeurs. Her head sagged, so low her forehead came to rest against the other girl's. Sharp breaths shook her shoulders, and before she knew it, they turned to ugly, wretched sobs; quiet at first, then gasps that tore at her throat like knives.
Unwitting, her lips brushed against Mariposa's lips, her cheek. God, she's still so—warm—
The sob seized her chest again, and Venatrix buried her face into the One girl's neck, her shoulder. Dried blood, wet blood, fuzzy tufts of dark hair brushed her cheek; Venatrix gasped and choked and left ugly smears of red and tears down Mari's soft purpleing cheeks, and that's just what she would want, isn't it?
It's just what she would want…
And you're a Victor now, isn't that what you wanted?
You're a Victor now, Venatrix.
Fucking act like it.
(But how was she ever supposed to let go?)
She squeezed her eyes shut. A wave of static washed over her, but she forced the sobs into the gentlest corner of her heart—the one that should've belonged to the girl she just killed—and lifted her head.
This should've been ours.
With too-tender, too-shaky fingers, Venatrix brushed the short fringe from Mariposa's forehead. Her other thumb traced a bloody line across the One girl's cheeks, and 'Makers, she'd hold her if she could, cradle her face if she had the hand to do it. Nevertheless, she leaned forward one last time. Her lips pressed against Mariposa's forehead, trembling against the still-bleeding line she'd sliced down her face.
Get up.
GET UP.
GET UP!
WALK THIS OFF OR THEY'LL DRAG YOU, AND WOULDN'T THAT BE PATHETIC?
Her fingers—her whole body—shook as she pulled back. For a second, she hesitated; her hand stilled, reached out to close the girl's eyes, those warm, warm eyes, but she stopped. She couldn't—
Hot tears fell freely from her own, leaking into the pair of slices she wore too, and Venatrix didn't care to stop them.
But she stood.
Pricks of cold nipped her cheeks, glued newly-cut curls to the nape of her neck. Something tugged at her from within— the sword. With a shaking hand. Venatrix dragged it from her gut, reeling as a wave of dizziness and cold sweat almost knocked her over. But she stood, stepped forwards. Away.
At the foot of the great ash, the specters glowed; the wolf sat, silent. Reverent. It met her gaze with its own—piercing, unreadable— before it bowed its head and stepped aside.
Behind it, a gap emerged in the roots that Venatrix hadn't cared to notice before. Lightning spiked overhead, but she barely flinched when it sliced the atmosphere, cut into the tree, and now—now, though, the root cave glowed yellow-white with a light from within. It seemed to stretch, to twist until it was large enough for her to pass through.
Venatrix gave the wolf one last look before she waded into the light, and she knew nothing more.
_ . _ . _
Everyone you know is so high
Everyone you know
Everyone you know
_ . _ . _
Everyone you know will get by
Everyone you know
Everyone you know
So you wade into the light
_ . _ . _
I lost my soul again
So you wade into the light
I lost my soul again
_ . _ . _
House of Circles by Mr. Gnome
true vengeance 151 . weebly . com