Chapter 59: Stoneheart
TW: Capitolites being unhinged on the internet; brief mentions of Victor prostitution (third section)
JABBER
\_O›
Feed • Following • Jabs • Polls
OfficialHG151Live ✔: Itching to rewatch the best moments from the 151st's Final 7 interviews? Catch them here!
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 1 interview — Fonesca tutor]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 2 interview — Pyke family]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 2 interview — Silverhorn family]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 3 interview — Salisburg parents]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 4 interview — Glasshooke family]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 7 interview — Givens siblings]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 8 interview — Vox factory shift manager]
→ [View comments]
.
The_D2_Stan: Now what in the fresh hell does my man HGM_KAquila mean by land of the gods. Also can i go too
car33r_luvr: same
→ maritrix: wait me too
→ princessjulianasb!tch: gotta be better than living downtown
.
bl00dbathXd: yo if pyke dies at the feast can i get my money back. Lmao.
→ The_D2_Stan: no, idiot.
→ → bl00dbathXd: fuck you
.
UnofficialHG151Live: Real reason OPyke122 broke his arm— go:
→ milf_dagmara: stole the last chocolate chip cookie in the mentors room
→ The_D2_Stan: idk the push ups seem pretty believable
→ bl00dbathXd: plot twist, it's always been broken
→ → The_D2_Stan: now that's just stupid
→ → → bl00dbathXd: leave me alone asshole
→ → → → The_D2_Stan: no
→ maritrix: couldn't handle 10-inch stilettos )':
→ car33r_luvr: jerked off too hard
→ → maritrix: gross thats my dad
→ → milf_dagmara: #FuckOberon amirite (;
→ _m4r1tr1x_: brittle bone disease
→ → princessjulianasb!tch: that would've killed him the first time around tho
.
The_D2_Stan: Compilation of every Pyke/Illura interview, photoshoot, and public appearance since the 127th MOC_BApheleot. Since you were 'curious' :-)
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT …]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT …]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT …]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT …]
[VIDEO] [ALT TXT …]
→ [...] [Show more content]
→ MOC_BApheleot ✔: Thank you dear… So many videos…!
→ car33r_luvr: still obsessed with them :heart:
→ milf_dagmara: i miss the swimsuit cover era :P that shit was PRIME
.
car33r_luvr: PSA to those who refused to send in $$$ for charcoal: unfollow me Right Fucking Now you heartless worms. you're fucking evil and yuo should feel bad
.
maritrix: ummmm hey girlies can you ummm.. Can u like kiss again.. ;~~;
→ _m4r1tr1x_: PLS IA M BEGGING
→ _m4r1tr1x_: wait.. Oh my god it was you…
→ _m4r1tr1x_: GIVE ME UR USERNAME I SWEAR TO GOD ILL BREAK INTO YOUR HOUSE AND EAT UR BONES
→ → maritrix: lmao no :heart:
→ → → _m4r1tr1x_: FUCKING ASSHOLE BITCH
.
_m4r1tr1x_: little doodle i did of gaius perrington's broken bleeding body :heart: [CENSORED IMAGE]
[ALT TXT: A detailed painting of Gaius Perrington being whipped at the stake. His blood is hot pink.]
→ princessjulianasb!tch: DOODLE? Girl this is so fucking good what. 'Doodle' my ass
→ car33r_luvr: omg I love this!
→ justice4mari: obsessed with how you draw blood. Can u do a tutorial?
.
princessjulianasb!tch: i miss percy :c
→ UnofficialHG151Live: He's still alive
→ → princessjulianasb!tch: i know.. I still miss him tho :c
→ The_D2_Stan: #Percy4Victor
→ → princessjulianasb!tch: wasn't going that far but okay
.
kittykat_parrish ✔: okay boys…. [IMAGE]
[ALT TXT: An image of two men exiting the doorway of what looks to be a bathroom. In front is Oberon Pyke, District 2 Victor. Behind him, blurry, is Clarion Garnett, District 1 Victor. Clarion's face is red.]
→ The_D2_Stan: ...is that the D2 room? Tf is clarion doing there?
→ _m4r1tr1x_: Are they… y'know…
→ car33r_luvr: oh my GOD—
.
car33r_luvr: Okay so hear me out: OPyke122 is gay as fuck
→ The_D2_Stan: proof?
→ → car33r_luvr: [Link Jab → kittykat_parrish ✔: okay boys….] also [Link Jab → OfficialHG151Live ✔: Itching to rewatch the best moments from the 151st's Final 7 interviews? Catch them here! [VIDEO] [ALT TXT: District 2 interview — Pyke family] Timestamp: 03:22]
→ → → The_D2_Stan: sounds fake but ok
→ → → → car33r_luvr: NOOO YOU DONT UNDERSTAND EITHER HES CHEATING ON DAG OR SHES BEEN HIS BEARD THE WHOLE TIME
→ → → → → milf_dagmara: kinda hot ngl..
→ → → → → maritrix: shave, coward
→ → → → → princessjulianasb!tch: i refuse to accept the possibility of anyone cheating on the Queen
→ → → → → princessjulianasb!tch: DIllura127 sweetie I am so sorry an ugly ass bitch like this would even say that~~~
→ → → → → OPyke122 ✔: So just because I swing both ways, that automatically means I'm cheating on my wife? Interesting.
→ → → → → → car33r_luvr: OH MY GOD?
→ → → → → → car33r_luvr: SIR?
→ → → → → → princessjulianasb!tch: you're not cheating on her though. Right.
→ → → → → → → OPyke122 ✔: No.
→ → → → → → milf_dagmara: wtf he's actually on here? Oh god he hasn't seen my. my h*rny jabs has he :V
→ → → → → → → OPyke122 ✔: I've seen them. You should delete your account.
.
[ milf_dagmara has deactivated]
.
princessjulianasb!tch: OPyke122 boo, asshole #FuckOberon
→ princessjulianasb!tch: go back to not mentoring your daughter
→ → OPyke122 ✔: Rude.
~~ +1 New Private Message ~~
→ PGreer125 ✔: Hello. Loser.
OPyke122 ✔: What is it Proxima
→ PGreer125 ✔: It's time.
OPyke122 ✔: ?
→ PGreer125 ✔: Time for me to kick your ass.
OPyke122 ✔: No.
→ PGreer125 ✔: You can't just say no.
OPyke122 ✔: Yes I can.
→ PGreer125 ✔: Weapons gym. Right now, asshole.
OPyke122 ✔: You only want to fight now because my arm's broken
→ PGreer125 ✔: I've been saying it this whole time.
OPyke122 ✔: Either way you wouldn't win
→ PGreer125 ✔: One way to find out.
→ PGreer125 ✔: All or nothing, Pyke.
→ PGreer125 ✔: I'm not asking.
→ PGreer125 ✔: They'll be safe for the night. 'Makers won't try anything right before the feast.
OPyke122 ✔: Fine.
Someone snatched the cellular from his hand just as Oberon sent the message. "Jabber? Really?" came Morwenna's derisive tone.
"Mind your own damn business."
As if she hadn't heard him, Morwenna's thumb scrolled through the messages. "Oh, you cannot be this stupid. You're really going to duel Proxima fucking Greer? With a goddamn broken arm?"
"It's better than sitting on my ass and waiting for this feast." Morwenna shot him a glare that made it clear she thought he was an idiot; while she was distracted with that, Oberon pinched his cellular from her slackened grip. "What's the worst that could happen, she wins and gets all that money I can't use anyways?"
Morwenna scoffed. "Remind me again why you can't?"
"I thought I said 'mind your own damn business.'"
"Suit yourself."
"Say I win. Even if I can't use the money, District Three can't either. So really, this benefits all of us." The red-haired Victor didn't deign that with a response, not that Oberon needed one. Content to call the conversation finished, he dipped into his quarters, changing quickly into moveable clothing before heading for the suite's exit.
Of course, Morwenna was right— it was stupid. But the waiting… it would kill him if he did nothing. Nervous tension was never something Oberon had figured out how to handle, especially with something so precious hanging in balance.
For the first time in a while, the hallway sat empty of any white-armored escorts. Oberon should know better than to feel relief at that, but he couldn't help the tiny flicker. He paused in the doorframe, turning to look over his shoulder. Morwenna still lingered in the common area, eyes drawn to the flickering television screen where the Games played. He considered asking her not to tell Dagmara where he was headed, but knowing her, that would only ensure Dagmara found out.
Instead, he said, "By the way, if you see Kitty around, tell her I'm going to wring her neck for that Jabber post."
"Get in line."
With a roll of his eyes, Oberon headed outside towards the elevator. "Hey!" Morwenna's voice called just as the door slid shut; she caught it with an outstretched hand. "Don't you need a ref?"
"Right…" Standard procedure; he'd nearly forgotten. It was difficult enough to determine a victor among Victors, even if losing didn't mean imminent death. In a wordless agreement, Morwenna joined him in the car.
She'd never been one for waiting either.
The doors slid shut, and Oberon popped a handful of pain pills as they descended. Knowing Proxima's fighting style, he'd need them. Despite the lump they formed in his throat, he couldn't help but notice an unexpected tingle of excitement in his nerves, a strange departure from the now-familiar dread.
Proxima hadn't yet arrived by the time they stepped out into the gymnasium. Oberon used the much-needed time to stretch the jitters from his muscles, running through the same set of left-handed sword drills — with a properly-balanced sword this time — that Venatrix had been doing not too long ago. In the corner of his eye, he spotted Alecto over by the hand-to-hand mats, taking out her fury on a pair of strike pads Gaspar so kindly held up for her. They had the foresight not to bother the District Two pair, and vice versa; Oberon saved his greetings for the District Three Victor now stepping out of the lift.
Proxima returned it with a smirk that was half a grimace. She'd already tied back her silver-streaked bob as much as she could, exposing more of her sour expression. He gestured to the weapons rack, content to give her a minute or two to stretch. "So," he started. "What were you doing on that godforsaken website?"
"Trying to see if there's any hope for my tribute."
Oberon raised a brow as she grabbed a spear from the rack. He'd usually known her to fight with a sword like his own; ultimately, though, she'd won her Games with a spear. He tried not to think too hard about what that meant for him right now.
"Day fucking twelve, and he hasn't killed anyone yet," Proxima scoffed, seemingly heedless of his new apprehension. "I'm starting to think he's doing it on purpose. I told the jury we should've gone with Rothstein, but no."
"He's kept himself alive," Oberon said with a neutral one-armed shrug.
"Almost as pathetically as yours."
Oberon felt his lip curl in a scowl before he could stop it. By the glint in Proxima's narrowed eyes, she'd said it on purpose, and Oberon knew he'd feel no pity for wiping the floor with her face. "Right. All or nothing, you said?" She nodded, and he exchanged a glance with Morwenna. "How much you got?"
Not as much as him; Proxima's smirk deepend in greed as they exchanged values. "You've been saving a pretty penny all this time…"
Without consciously realizing it, they'd fallen into step, circling each other with weapons readied. That spear's gonna be almost as much of a bitch as her. He waited with bated breath for Morwenna's signal.
The younger Victor glanced between the duelists. "Two out of three sound good? I figure you should get somewhat of a fighting chance."
Begrudgingly, Oberon nodded, acknowledging her jibe. It grated that she was right, that they all knew it, but what he'd said to her earlier was true. Morwenna could only benefit from Proxima's loss.
"Cute," Proxima sneered. "Sure, why not?"
One final time, Oberon twirled his sword, and Morwenna's call rang out.
Before he'd even set foot in the gym, Oberon knew he'd be on the defensive. It wasn't a stance he enjoyed, even less so with Proxima's change in weapon. It gave her more range, more striking power, better defense. And Proxima was and always has been cruel.
Predictably so.
When her spear surged towards his injured arm, Oberon twisted out of the way, tucking it behind his back. His weapon cut horizontally towards her open side— not quick enough to get around her block.
Almost as soon as he'd lunged, Oberon disengaged. His feet shuffled a quick retreat, in tandem with her advance. Expertly, the spear twirled over her head, its point singing towards his chest.
Belatedly, Oberon realized they'd forgotten padding. Shit.
He ducked; metal whistled over the ends of his hair. Catching himself on one knee, Oberon propelled himself forward, cutting upwards across her thigh. She hissed in pain. It barely registered; Oberon snapped to his feet, cutting off the sound as he headbutted her in the chin.
Almost too easily, he leveled his sword at her throat, and Morwenna called the duel. "Looks like someone's spent too much time sitting in the mentoring room, hm?"
Proxima's permanent scowl deepened. She spat at his feet, a glob of blood and saliva.
"Not even going to claim you were going easy? Just warming up?" he taunted. Should've gone one-for-one, he cursed inwardly. Proxima pressed a palm to the welt on her leg; it came away red, though not concerningly so. "I didn't cut you that deep."
"I know," she clipped. "Again."
Again, Oberon let himself fall on the defensive. He wondered if Proxima regretted choosing her spear now; the pattern of blocks and strikes they slipped into felt almost comfortable. She must've spent the past few months training Shannon with a sword, he figured. Why would she pick the spear now?
Same reason, perhaps, that he'd agreed to fight her with a broken arm.
Without warning, something struck his knee; the shaft of the spear, he realized. Oberon didn't register his fall until he caught himself, right arm outstretched between his body and the mat. Confusion came with a streak of black across his vision. Nausea swirled in his stomach, and when it returned, Oberon found himself on his knees, sword somehow still held out in defense.
It was another minute before he realized Morwenna hadn't called the match.
"Come on," Proxima said, dangerously gentle. "I'm not quite finished."
She didn't help him up; Oberon might've stabbed her if she did. In theory, at least. He staggered to his feet with a grunt, forcing the pain away. If she wanted to give him another chance, her funeral.
The second he rose to two feet, her spear was a blur. Oberon barely managed to block, his left hand moving awkwardly to counter blow after accurate blow, and fuck, maybe she was going easy on me.
How dare she.
Every few strikes, little lines of fire appeared across his skin. The spear tip sliced another into his sword arm; warmth trickled down his wrist into his palm, and Oberon desperately gripped the weapon tighter.
Over the din of their duel, the elevator pinged. A half-second's glance towards the sound; that was all Proxima needed. His sword shot out to block the incoming blur; she twisted, using its momentum to knock the weapon from his grip. As Oberon lunged for the sword, something solid knocked him off-balance, onto his knees once again.
This time, Proxima's blade hovered to a stop right between his eyes.
"Halt!"
The Three Victor grinned, close-lipped. "That was a warm-up."
But Oberon barely heard her, too focused on the newcomer. The what-the-fuck-are-you-doing look plastered across Dagmara's features only deepened as Morwenna filled her in. For a second, he thought she might have some choice words, but Dagmara merely folded her arms, waiting. If you want to beat yourself up, be my guest, her posture said, but don't expect me to clap.
Standing to his full height, Oberon rolled back his shoulders. Proxima's eyes tracked the movement. She was a tall woman, taller than Dagmara, almost as tall as himself; it didn't give her as much of an advantage as that spear. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
What I wouldn't give to fight Dagmara again.
Not like last time, no, like…
Back home, where fighting was something they did together, not against each other.
Morwenna's signal brought him out of the reverie; he barely dodged Proxima's warning swipe.
Get it together. Oberon didn't particularly fancy the idea of being at her mercy again. Or lack thereof.
Either way, two matches on the defensive was enough to get predictable. Sure enough, Proxima didn't move quick enough to completely block his lunge; her eyes stretched wide as the blade clipped the bridge of her nose, barely deep enough to draw blood. Still, she scowled as if he'd taken her eye. Her spear danced a blur before him, and while he managed to catch the blows on the length of his blade, his left-handed grip wavered at the impact.
Oberon tightened his fist. He'd never break through that offense, nevermind any defense that she'd fall back on should he take the offensive again.
More impossible still was the pressure of Dagmara's gaze.
Another swift uppercut, and Oberon skittered out of range, panting. How the hell did I manage to win that first match? Might as well chalk it up to a warm-up.
Kind enough to let him catch his breath, Proxima circled him like a hawk. Oberon never took his eyes off her, no matter the audience, his racing mind. He racked his brain for some sort of strategy, anything, but his sword might as well be a hindrance in his non-dominant grip.
(If I can't win like this, there's no way Trixie can.)
Proxima gave no warning when she lunged. Time's up. If he'd been paying her less attention, he would've seen his wife flinch.
Instead, Oberon waited — a millisecond, maybe two — and the spear shot forwards. He stepped forwards, twisting; it scored a shallow line across his stomach, but his momentum carried him towards his opponent. Oberon let go of his sword; his arm locked around the spear shaft, pinning it to his chest. At the same time, he advanced, pivoting. Energy surged through his limbs, channeled entirely into his right arm and the rock-solid cast encasing it.
It cracked against Proxima's skull. She dropped like a sack of bricks, and Oberon yanked the spear from her grip, aiming to skewer her throat.
"Halt! Match!"
With a shaky breath, Oberon lowered the spear. As the rush dissipated, dizziness swept in, and he was forced to let the spear carry his weight. Proxima blinked up at him from the mat, confusion bleeding into fury when she realized the outcome. "Fuck you," she spat towards Oberon's outstretched hand.
Admittedly, the smug grin stretching his cheeks did nothing to help. "Only yourself to blame, Prox."
"Do not call me that."
Joints creaked as she hauled herself to her feet. "Not so fast," he called when she angled towards the medical center. "Pay up, or so help me I will concuss you again."
"Easy, Pyke," Morwenna said from behind, but he didn't bother turning around.
His gaze tracked Proxima's movements, irritatingly slow, as she pulled out her cellular to transfer the money. Clearly, it hurt to hit 'send'. She frowned. "It says 'pending'."
"Show me." She did. "Can you still use it?"
Proxima tapped at her screen, then scowled. "No."
"Good enough for me."
It wasn't, apparently, good enough for Dagmara. She dragged him to medical nevertheless, disdain and irritation radiating from her in waves despite her forward-set glare. So we're still doing this, he thought with an internal sigh. He'd seen her only briefly since that interview; whether either of them could spare the energy to talk about it in light of more pressing matters was another thing entirely— their errant son would have to wait.
She said nothing as the medic led them to a private exam room, stripping him of his shirt a little too eagerly. When the Capitolite made to apply healing cream to the scrapes, Dagmara snagged it from her hands, barking orders about an X-Ray.
"That was stupid," she said once the medic left.
Hard to deny that. Oberon let out a stiff exhale as she applied the salve to his wounds. Soothing as the immediate relief was— he'd be fully healed by tomorrow, according to the label on the container— it was her touch that relaxed him. "How did you know where I was?"
With a raised brow, Dagmara pulled his cellular from her pocket, handing it to him; he must've left it in the room when he'd gotten changed. The device was set to unlock with his fingerprint, but he'd added hers to its registry as soon as they gave him this model. Unlocking the screen, he navigated immediately to the transfer notification. Still pending. Dammit.
Seven kids left. Venera had promised — well, if he asked her, no doubt she'd tell him 'promise' was a strong word — to let Trixie's gifts through if she surpassed Bellara's placement.
The thought sent an ugly emotion roiling through his gut.
He would've thought it impossible to hate her more than he did last year. And yet…
The medic reappeared with an official doctor, and Oberon buried the thought. According to their X-Ray machine, he'd displaced the bone when he'd clocked Proxima in the head. That explained the throbbing pain he'd been trying to ignore. With gritted teeth, he held still as they lasered the cast off and reset the bone; this time, Dagmara's presence hovered at his shoulder, and despite the fact that she'd been the initial cause of the injury, he appreciated it.
Rather than re-plaster the cast, they put him in a tight splint. Something about increased swelling; they gave him a pocket of pills for that too, instructing him to come back when it went down.
On the way back up to their suite, Dagmara stayed close by his side. Morwenna, presumably, had gone ahead, the gym now completely empty. The glass walls of the elevator once again displayed the arena's evening, flickers of the remaining tributes in their ever-dwindling downtime. "She'll be safe for the night," Oberon said out loud. Quietly, but out loud. Dagmara only looked at him. "Proxima thinks so too."
The elevator pinged. The doors slid open, and Oberon gestured for Dagmara to exit ahead of him.
When they arrived back to their room, Dagmara followed him inside the bedroom that was once considered theirs. Only behind the safety of a locked door could she completely deflate. She slumped against the door, her mask slipping off to reveal the weariness beneath, gentle creases that pulled at her freckled features. "You're lucky you won that. I don't think I… It's already too much with tomorrow handing over our heads." She released a long sigh; it's been a while since he'd sensed a fear like this in her.
It sat heavily in her dark eyes. "I can't do this alone, Oberon. Not without you."
Not without you.
"Come here."
Instinctively, she melted into his arms, and for a minute, Oberon couldn't breathe. He buried his face into her hair, inhaling shakily through the soft curls. Her own ragged breath reached his ears, and Oberon squeezed her tighter, no matter the flare of pain in his arm, or anywhere else on his body. Inconsequential in her embrace.
It's been far too long, he thought, warmth prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Since her Victory, give or take, they'd been inseparable. She'd quickly outgrown him as a mentor; Oberon counted himself lucky that she'd never outgrown him as a friend.
Before long, her breathing returned to normal. As soon as her head lifted, he loosened his hold, reluctant, still, to let her go. Despite the crack in her facade, Dagmara's eyes remained dry. They locked on his, searching for something, and it didn't take long for Oberon to find her mouth pressed against his. Her hands reached up to cup his face, pull him closer. On instinct, he let her. It morphed quickly to eagerness, desire, longing for something he thought he'd lost forever.
Ultimately, Dagmara broke away first. Her thumb brushed a gentle line over the fading bruises at his cheekbones, a warmth he'd sorely missed lingering in the pits of her deep brown eyes. Rarely did people ever look at him so softly, yet it seemed second nature to her. "Don't tell me you've already forgiven me," she murmured.
"I'm… compartmentalizing." He brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist. "I'm very good at it."
"Debatable."
Oberon smiled, despite it all. He couldn't help but kiss her again, and when she kissed him back, they didn't stop.
"You should get some sleep."
Venatrix ignored her friend, pulling the cloak tighter around her shivering body. By now, the anthem had long since faded. Deep, sickly grey clouded the sky, leeching the color from their surroundings and blurring the lines between Venatrix's hand and the sword that sat within. She shook her head. I can't. It's too loud. "Do you hear it, Percy? I think I'm going insane."
Since the night before, the wolf's cry seemed to echo inside her head in every spare moment of silence, even louder in this interminable dusk. Undulating. Shrill. Ongoing.
Her allies didn't seem to notice; how Mariposa could sleep through it was beyond her. To her dismay, Percy shook his head.
The minute he did, a piercing howl ripped through the air, and they flinched in tandem. Venatrix's blade scratched a line in the dirt as it shook; or maybe, that was just her hand. "I heard that one," Percy said with a nervous laugh.
Good, Venatrix wanted to say, but was it, really? Should we move? I can't tell how far it was. It sounded closer than last night, but it's always close, it's always just the push of a button away; 'Makers could have it here in an instant if they wanted, hell, it's already here, it always has been—
"Oh, fuck it, Trix, I'm— I'm fucking terrified." Percy's voice was raw, sudden. He tore his eyes from their surroundings, lowering the arrow he'd drawn. "What if we don't make it?" His silver-blue eyes glinted dully in the greyness, wide with a deeper fear.
"Fucking hell." His tone dropped to a whisper. "What if we do?"
Suddenly it felt all too real, the one thing she'd been avoiding this entire time. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. "I don't know," she rasped, painfully aware of the waver in her voice.
Someone was watching. Be it the wolf or the entirety of Panem, Venatrix had never been more aware of their eyes than right now.
It made her skin crawl.
The wolf howled. Her stomach churned.
(Though maybe that was just the hunger.)
(A handful of nuts didn't last the three of them long. Percy hadn't been able to catch anything today— Venatrix knew now it wasn't an accident.)
Her head pounded. The noise had stopped, but it didn't, ringing, ringing, ringing.
"Venatrix," Percy's voice cut through it. "Are you—"
"I can't stand it, Percy, I have to kill that fucking thing."
The wind brought another howl on its current; Venatrix yanked the hood of her cloak over her head, her ears, curling tighter around herself. Her sword bumped against her shins, arm wrapped tightly around them. She felt rather than heard the movement when Percy scooted closer to her.
Cut it out. They're watching you, you know.
"Venatrix," Percy started again, and vaguely, she realized she did it again, took his hopes and fears and made it all about herself.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Slowly, she poked her head out from under the fur hood to find him watching her, concern twisting his features. "I'd ask you to help me, but... It would be easier, you know. If it kills me, we never have to face each other, and then you don't have to worry about—"
"Don't. Don't say that, Trix. Don't be stupid."
The mutt howled again, and Venatrix squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm not," she said plainly. Her stomach twisted again; she huffed crisp air through her nose. "It wants me for a reason, Percy. You killed your mutt, but mine..."
"It's not the mutts that matter—"
(But it was, it was.)
"—it's the others, and we'll deal with them tomorrow. At the feast. Okay?"
And you'll have to kill again, the voice in her head whispered. They're growing tired of you, you know. Broken and blathering as you are... You'll have to kill again, if you have the stomach for it.
Of course I do. I've killed five already.
You think that makes you a Victor? You think that's enough? You would kill if they weren't watching.
Why would I need to?
(She didn't dare admit how much the thought terrified her, even in her own head.)
(Five...)
Not to mention the man from my exam.
(...I don't even know his name.)
(His poor daughter.)
"Okay," Venatrix said out loud— it sounded distant, faraway and tinny to her ears. Percy's grimace of solace couldn't reach her, the warmth in his eyes lost to the shadows.
(Do you hear the wolf?)
I do.
There's nothing else.
"We'll be... okay," Percy said. It was almost a question. Almost.
I hear it… I close my eyes... and all I see is red— the blood on my sword, blood in the grass, how it spilled from Zavian's mouth when he coughed... how Starling's eyes looked at me all cold and accusing and some three feet from his body… and the Nine girl's, pinched between Viper's fingers— how he smiled, how his throat split from the seams, and Mariposa, my Mari, hunched over a broken body and drenched in red, teetering on the edge, and I can't let go—
I close my eyes, and I see her. My sister.
But Percy, he was here. He needed her, too. As much as she needed him, as much as he couldn't help her. "We'll have each other's backs, then." He echoed their blood promise, the one she had no intention of breaking. "Until the end."
"Until the end."
Yes, I hear the wolf.
(Grief is a howling thing.)
"Do you remember the first time we met? Well, kind of met."
"Kind of met?"
Judging by Dagmara's little half-smile, Oberon knew exactly what she was referring to. She shifted closer to him on the bed, propping her chin up on his shoulder. "It was just after you won, back at the Academy, and you were—"
"—covered in coffee," they said in unison. Dagmara snickered.
"Iced coffee, at least," Oberon clarified. Turns out, asking his dead district partner's closest friend out on a date had not been a smart move. Who would've thought? "I don't even think you said anything to me, you just stood there refilling your water bottle."
"Hey, at least I didn't laugh at you."
"You could have. It was pretty stupid."
Dagmara chuckled again. She rolled away from him, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and the humor drained from her face. Oberon sighed. "What are we gonna do, Dag?"
About Venatrix. About Iago, about them… All at once, everything seemed to hang over their heads like the sharp blade of an axe.
A pause. "This doesn't change anything… it can't."
"Are you kidding? It changes everything!"
"Oberon…"
"Listen to me, Dagmara." He shifted closer to her, doing his best to ignore the look she gave him. "Please. What matters is that you are here with me right now, because that changes everything, Dag. For me, it changes everything. I can't do this alone either." He watched her eyes drift from his the longer he spoke; they landed again at the splint on his arm, and he reached over to place his hand in hers.
The other one, the unbroken one, carefully caressed her cheek. "Dagmara, you're one of the most important people in my world. I've spent the majority of my life loving you, I can't just— stop." He exhaled quietly. "I don't want to stop."
She scooted into a sitting position. Gently, her fingers traced along the length of his, barely a whisper of pressure. It didn't even hurt when she flipped his hand over, carefully inspecting the splint. Whether it was more difficult for her to look at the damage she caused, or look him in the eye, Oberon couldn't tell.
"You're still angry with me." It was a statement.
He swallowed. "Yes."
"I am still angry with you."
"Are you?"
Dagmara's hand stilled. "Hurt," she clarified, and Oberon felt guilt swim through his stomach. Unlike his arm, the rest of their problems wouldn't fix themselves in two months' time.
But for all his wrongdoings, there was one thing he couldn't understand.
"Tell me something, Dagmara," he said, doing his damndest to keep the anger out of his tone with minimal success. "Why the hell did you go to Valorius about this—about us?"
"I couldn't go to you."
Something wrenched in his chest. "Dagmara…"
"I did go to Callithyia first, but she… sometimes she doesn't understand why I can't…" Dagmara gestured to her mouth, falling silent. But she cleared her throat, kept going. "I didn't expect Valorius to make us— do that, especially in the middle of the fucking Games. You have to know that, honey. But…
"The night you lost your head with Karkarros, I was the one who had to stay behind. I had to clean up your mess." Her voice wavered; Oberon tried to look at her face-on, but she turned her chin, resolute. It must've been worse than usual. No shit. "I was the one who had to take care of that monster instead of ripping him to shreds. Do you really think I wouldn't rather have been with you? But you—"
She cut herself off, inhaling steadily. Exhale. "He had the television on. I thought I was going to watch her die while he—"
Again, she stopped short. Her eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to keep it all at bay, the muscles in her jaw clenched tight. This time, she let him pull her in close. "Dagmara, I am so sorry."
She said nothing, her forced breathing the only sound between them.
Inside, a war raged between anger and bitter, bitter resignation. Damn them. Damn them all to hell for messing with my wife. His wife, his daughters, himself— the minute the Capitol got their claws into something important, it all fell apart. Though the consequences wildly outweighed his actions, Oberon couldn't help but long for another chance to put the minister under a slow knife. As if another wouldn't pop up to replace him. As if he ever had a hope of protecting anyone he loved from the villains of the Capitol.
"It's just like him, isn't it?" Dagmara said finally, her voice thick. "You think I'd be used to this by now, but…"
Oberon tightened his arms around her. "I know."
"And when Venatrix got hurt, I… I never thought I'd be able to forgive you." He swallowed. Dagmara pulled back, and he let her gaze bore into him.
"...Do you?" Oberon asked stupidly.
The long sigh that rattled from her lips so clearly said 'no'. "The consequences of what you did… for me, but—more so for what happened to our baby girl…" For what could've happened, what could still happen. She shook her head. "It's not my place." Another exhale tickled at his skin. "But I do know that if—when Venatrix makes it out, it will be easier for me to forgive you than her," she warned.
A sharp breath huffed through Oberon's nose. "It's not just— she could've died while we were down there with Valorius, beating the shit out of each other. And neither of us would've been there."
"She could've died at any time, regardless of what we did," Dagmara pointed out.
"Dag—"
"No, I know. It was mean and stupid of me to take it out on you. But—"
"It doesn't just cancel out," he cut her off. "Every time we hurt each other and blame each other." He swallowed, watching as she heaved a heavy sigh. "We can't live like that, Dag, that's… that's not the life we were meant to have together."
In the dim bedroom light, her dark eyes glistened; she blinked slowly. "Maybe we were never meant to have a life together."
"Dagmara…"
How long had he spent, trying to convince himself they weren't doomed from the start. She'd loved him… still did by the way she gravitated into his arms.
Of course she did. Why else would this hurt so badly?
"You wanted me to fight for us."
"I wanted to hurt you." She looked away again. "I went too far, way too far, and I am sorry. I can't just forget about everything, but— that doesn't make it okay for me to hurt you like this." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Sometimes I forget how cruel I can be too."
Despite her words, Oberon pulled her closer. "Sometimes we have to be," he murmured. "And maybe that makes us the ugliest thing in the world, but I don't care. I can't do this without you, Dagmara."
That got a weary huff from her. "How very romantic."
"I mean it," he insisted. "Tell that to Valorius."
"I'd rather not speak to her again. Ever."
Oberon snorted. You and me both. He pressed another kiss to her cheek. "Come on, let's get cleaned up."
They padded over to the bathroom, where Dagmara carefully helped him remove the splint. The shower was easily big enough for two; while Dagmara washed her hair, Oberon attempted to scrub the grime clean from his body, ultimately requiring her assistance. As nice as the hot water felt on his skin, they didn't linger—couldn't.
Quickly, he changed into something presentable. Whatever ointment they'd given him had already sealed up the cuts from his duel, alieving the fear of staining yet another shirt with blood; they looked half-healed already.
With the promise of a feast looming overhead, the brief respite they'd taken together was only that: brief. Sleeping through the night would be impossible; not even worth trying. Of course, the minute Dag and I are willing to share the same bed again. More than likely, they'd be sharing a control station in the mentoring room. Oberon shuffled back to the bathroom, where his tentative wife stood wrapped in her towel still, dragging a wide-toothed comb through her wet curls. She put it down when she saw him; her fingers reached out to re-tighten the splint around his arm. Oberon smiled his thanks. Plucking the comb from her grip, he nodded for her to turn around, and gently, he eased its teeth through her hair, a familiar routine. She watched him with tired eyes.
Oberon's couldn't help but linger on the yellowed bruises at her shoulder, the ones he'd inflicted. It was hardly the first time he'd bruised her and vice versa — the nature of their training demanded it — but it was the first time he'd wanted it to hurt. That alone sent another pang through his chest, and he sighed.
Dagmara noticed; of course she did. "What do we do now?" They never did answer the question.
"The only thing we can do. We wait."
And so they did.
Together.
true vengeance 151 . weebly . com
A/N: Just going to say it right now- the Jabber portion of this chapter looks. So Much Nicer on AO3. I highly recommend checking that out c: (my AO3 username is darth_nell btw).
Anyways, sorry this isn't the feast, that's next chapter. Took me a while to figure out the FFN formatting for this one, which means I didn't post this on father's day but since i did on ao3, the bit still stands. Happy fathers day, happy pride, and happy hunger games c: see y'all soon for the feast..!
- Nell