River Kai
District Seven Male
16
–
The funeral is a somber, quiet affair.
It had only been a month since the village had last gathered around a casket, sprinkling flower petals to the wind, hoping they would follow the soul of the deceased. It had only been a month since a member of the Kai family was lowered under the ground, to be one with the roots and the dirt. And, yet, here they all are again.
River knew it would happen. After the passing of his wife, his grandfather had gotten frail as well, short of breath and almost never leaving his bed. River remembers it far too well, as he was of course the only person in the house who could take care of the dying man. As always, River was given the bluntness of the work, forced to care for people who loved his labor more than him.
The crowd, this time, isn't as large. A few, kind hearted people did show up, but most of the village had other things to worry about - winter is coming soon, and they'd have to save up their food, chop enough wood to keep them warm, if they didn't want to end up six feet under besides River's grandfather.
Amidst the stragglers huddling around the grave, River spots someone who isn't looking at the casket being heaved into the ground, but instead is glancing outwards, as if searching for someone. River squints, trying to get a better look of the person, because they look awfully familiar, and -
Shit.
River freezes. He remembers where he's seen that person - she is the woman who'd led him to his grandparents, the day they decided to adopt him. She took care of the ins and outs of the local orphanage, and the only reason for her to be here is if she wants to snatch River back.
Cursing under his breath, River slips behind the shadow of a tree, hoping to be as still as possible. Hopefully she won't spot him. River Kai never had much talent in his life, but he's always been able to blend in with the darkness, lie so still that people would walk past him. People would call him creepy for it, but hell, if it allowed him to stay out of that dreaded community home, he doesn't care.
Because, though the work had been hard with his adoptive grandparents, the community home was a whole other problem. Some of River's earliest memories have been the laughter of his peers, shoving him away when he tried to join others at the dinner table, throwing wet food at him, pointing out his strange and unblinking eyes. Calling him a freak of the forest.
No. River is done with that place, and nobody is going to take him back. He's had enough of taunts and mocking, enough of being told what to do and not being able to live his life as he wants it. There's no one around to dictate him anymore, and he's going to make the most of it.
(So what if the only times River has felt happy was when he was alone?)
(People never understood him. That was just a fact of nature. So be it.)
Continuing to lay low, he begins making his way into the woods adjacent to the cemetery at a small pace. He glances behind his shoulder, making sure that nobody has seen him, but of course they haven't. People only pay attention to him when it's to spit in his face.
As River enters the thick brush of the forest, he feels himself relax, knowing that people's cruel gaze can no longer find a target on him. It is just the birds and the squirrels now, and the occasional rustle of a tree. He sometimes wonders what possessed his younger self, when he was a wandering toddler with no name and no family. Why in the world had he wobbled out of the forest and into civilization? Clearly the woods were the right place for him. The only place for him.
(Freak of the forest.)
(Well, at least he had a place where he could belong.)
He'll spend a few days here, he decides, wait out the lady from the community home, and then make his way back to the Kai house in the dark, when his figure is hardly visible between the trees. Even if they do notice that he is back, living in there, they wouldn't bother trying to fetch him again.
No one had ever made an effort for River. It's about time it works in his favor.
–
As expected, no one comes knocking on River's door the day he moves back in. Not a week later either, and soon an entire month has passed, blades of grass growing over his grandfather's grave, and no one has gone to find him.
He's not disappointed. In fact, that's exactly what he wanted. So what if people didn't care about where he ended up? At least he was finally being left alone, free from taunts and judgment. He can live his life as he wants to, in solitude.
His life is easier when there's no one around to tell him how to lead it.
River is happy.
A cold breeze has been coming into the village these last few weeks, taking the golden-brown leaves off the trees and swirling them around. Winter grows closer, and it creeps into the foundations of the Kai house. River doesn't mind the fall, in fact, it's his favorite season, filled with an air of anticipation hanging around every branch of the woods, like the world is holding its breath for an instant, before the ice of winter takes everything in its grasp.
From the kitchen window, he can see the forest shift in the wind, groaning in the night and bending like a sort of morbid dance. The kids back in the orphanage always hated autumn, calling it creepy, unsettling. All words they'd use against him too, when they found his silence unnatural and his gaze too dark. Maybe it's why he feels a bond with it, a solidarity for beautiful things shunned for being too different.
Well. He may like the colder seasons, it doesn't make him immune to freezing to death. He needs to get back to chopping wood for the fireplace. He knows he won't have as much as the other people in the village, as he didn't have enough time between taking care of his dying grandparents, but it's alright. He'll figure something out, he always will. He doubts he's as vulnerable to the elements as the others anyhow - none of them had survived living in the wild as a lone toddler, after all.
River chews on his bottom lip, pensive. He does know his grandmother had a collection of books lying in the basement, dusty and cobwebbed like old relics. If worst comes to worst, he can always use those as firewood. It's not as if she's around to berate him, now.
(Alone, River can do as he likes.)
(He doesn't miss any of them. They can stay away from him all he likes. He doesn't care.)
(He doesn't.)
–
"Um, excuse me?"
River's eyes flick up from his carving, knife halting mid-movement in the fiber of the wood. A pair of two girls, somewhere around his age, stand before his marketplace stand. One of the girls, the one who asked the question, is trying to meet his gaze, though shifting nervously, while the other besides her doesn't even look at him.
Typical.
He doesn't even bother a welcome to my shop, contrary to the buoyant salesmen that occupy the stalls next to him. River's tried to be polite, courteous, and it changed nothing. People still looked at him as if he were some dark omen. And anyways, he was the only one in the village who could provide his services, they were just going to have to deal with his personality. "Yeah?" he asks simply, setting down the carving and the knife.
He meets the girl's gaze, who jumps a bit at the contact and averts her eyes. Of course. So much for trying to reciprocate, everyone quickly regretted looking at him for too long.
"You do, um, enchantments and stuff, right?" she says, still looking down at the muddied ground.
River almost snorts at that. Everyone knows what he does - otherwise, why would they avoid him like the plague? "Yeah, I do."
The girl shifts her hands around. "Cool, cool, just checking," she chuckles nervously. "This is probably going to sound stupid, right, but um… do you do love charms? Like…"
River tilts his head, curious. "To make someone fall in love with you?"
"Y-yeah, um, that." The girl flushes red, far more red than the cold justifies it to be.
"I have something like that, yes," he says, and it's technically not a lie. Of course, he doesn't like the idea of casting a spell that forces someone to like another, but he can give her a good-luck charm, and with a bit of luck - no pun intended - it may bring the boy her way. "10 gold pieces, though. Do you have that?"
The girl reaches into her satchel, drawing out a pouch where the characteristic jingle of coins catch River's attention. "Yup!"
He kneels down to check the storage of his marketplace stands, rummaging through different carvings, trinkets, and twig formations. Amidst the various conversations of the bustling marketplace, he catches the sound of the girl's friend leaning over to her and whispering, "are you sure you trust that guy? He gives me the creeps."
River doesn't bother letting them know that he can hear them, and simply gets one of his good-luck charms, rising to his feet. "Here you go," he says curtly, ignoring how the girl's friend jumps in surprise when he pops back up. "Wear this, and good things will come your way."
The girl shoves the pouch of coins into his hands, takes the charm, and walks away at a brisk pace, hardly muttering a thank you, her friend by her side.
River could be offended, but truthfully, he can't be bothered with that anymore. If he decided to be hurt every time someone looked at him as if he was about to grow horns, he probably wouldn't be around today. And, anyways, he'd managed to steal the girl's bracelet during their conversation - he couldn't help it, really, it wasn't secure around her wrist and it shone so pretty in the light. And the money it would get him will surely compensate for its previous owner's rudeness.
He can't really be blamed. If you refuse to help someone, push them away and treat them as a criminal, the only thing they can resort to is crime. If the village had wanted River to do honest work, they would've tried a little harder.
River can only rely on himself. He cannot be blamed, therefore, when he isn't so reliable in return.
And, really, it's not like all his work is fake. His charms do work, imbued with curses and blessings he whispered in the frozen moonlight, symbols etched by the flickering light of candles in his basement. That part is real, tangible and right at his fingertips.
It'd started when he took a look at his grandmother's book collection, looking for easy things to burn. To his surprise, nestled in between encyclopedias of natural medicine and birds that can be found in Seven, was a codex titled in strange writing. With symbols and diagrams explaining how to access the magic that lay deep within the forest, how to create beauty out of branches and carvings.
(It was the one thing River was missing. A place to cultivate his connection with the woods, something that valued his talents for the occult, and created real beauty in return.)
Maybe River was an omen, a witch, a strange, unsettling thing. Maybe that was true after all, but did it matter, now that he found what his kind was good for? Did it matter what people thought, when he was the only one who could bless their crops and ward off winter spirits?
(Did it matter that no one wanted to remain close to him, frightened of his abilities, leaving him alone and unloved, if he could at least make something out of what made him so different?)
(...)
River Kai doesn't waste his time on such silly questions. He's not meant for the rest of the world, and that's fine.
He accepted that long ago.
We'll see who scorns him when their bloodline is haunted by the whims of luck, and he's the only one who can save them.
–
Darling du Louvre
District One Male
18
–
Somewhere in Miss Gabardine's garden, a bird sings.
If he's recalling correctly, it sounds like the song of a cardinal, those majestic creatures of red and black. He remembers seeing them once, in an old ornithology book his grandfather had bought him, and being struck by their presence.
Darling's always been fond of crimson-colored things, especially those that carry themselves with such elegance.
Somewhere in Miss Gabardine's kitchen, the clattering of a spoon against porcelaine is heard. It's not a very disagreeable sound, however, not one that makes Darling's nose scrunch in displeasure. In fact, it sets a peaceful atmosphere to the woman's cottage, something quaint yet lovely about it all. Perhaps it's one of the reasons why Darling comes back there so avidly - a home that understands its aesthetic, calm and collected, letting the light seep in without being blinding… all things far too rare in One.
Of course, the main reason why Darling returns every few weeks, is that she's the only person left in One capable of beating him at chess.
As if on cue, the woman makes her way back into the living room, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, steaming politely in their blue-and-white porcelain.
"Here you go, dear," she says, and gently offers him one of the cups, which he accepts graciously. Her hands shake a bit, making the cup rattle against its plate. He's noticed she's gotten less agile, more clumsy with the chess pieces lately. Nothing alarming, of course - Miss Gabardine's a woman of high status, and benefits of many good healthcare privileges, and being 80 years old, it's only natural that she has less motor skills. Still, it disheartens him slightly, that his one worthwhile opponent cannot withstand the passage of time.
Will he end up that way too, ancient and unable to perfect his art any further, bones no longer able to sustain the chase of perfection?
Miss Gabardine settles back down onto the chair opposite of Darling's, smiling at him. "So… where are we at, now? 37 to 38?"
Darling acquiesces. "Indeed. Very well played today."
"Pssh," Miss Gabardine waves as if chasing away his silly words. "You were so close to beating me, Darling. And at only eighteen? You're going to be far ahead of me in a couple of years."
Darling shifts his gaze down, properly bashful as any social cue would require, but something about her words fall flat. Maybe he will be better than her in a couple years, striving forward endlessly, practicing in his mind until he falls to exhaustion. Maybe he will be, and then there'll be that glow in his heart, so golden and strong at the idea of improving, at overcoming another challenge.
(But then what?)
(Will there be anyone else in One as good as him? Anyone else to challenge his mind, give him a new reason to keep pushing forward?)
Darling's looked everywhere, and he doubts there is.
Miss Gabardine takes a sip from her cup, before speaking. "So, how's that whole training thing going?"
"Oh," Darling chuckles. He doesn't enjoy sharing too much about himself, prefers to keep the details about his life tastefully concealed. But he's had a couple conversations with her about his life, sensing that she deserved it more than his brainless classmates and neighbors. "It's going quite alright. I currently find myself at the highest position, but that may very well change soon."
It absolutely won't, of course, no matter how much Darling wishes a new rival would arrive at the Academy, bearing the promise of a rightful, equal duel. Something to keep Darling satiated, interested, awake.
But he's risen far above anybody in his age bracket, and most likely above the male cadet set to Volunteer for the 79th.
"Impressive. Is there anything you don't excel at, hm?" Miss Gabardine asks, blue eyes gleaming with a teasing attitude.
Darling gives an easy chuckle once more, not wanting to sound full of himself, or even worse, over-confident. "Oh, there are many, I promise."
Perhaps there are, but funnily enough, when Darling thinks about it, nothing comes to mind.
"Do you think they'll be choosing you, then, as Volunteer for the 80th?"
Darling bites his lip, pensive. In all likelihood, that's what will happen, since no equal in his bracket comes to mind. However, he really has no way of knowing how the council of Victors will act, and if the bribing many whisper about could lower his chances. It feels unlikely, however - he is the most skilled, respectable, polite, attractive, and rich. Really, there's no better paragon of One. "That may happen, yes."
"And do you want that, hm?" Miss Gabardine presses. If this was coming out of the mouth of anyone else, Darling would be irked, willing them to quit prying. But there was something respectful about her, a genuine interest about where he would end up. And, really, for lack of a better word, she's his friend.
"I do think it would represent an interesting challenge, yes," he says carefully.
Miss Gabardine chuckles, taking another sip from her cup of tea. "Ah, yes… a challenge. Looking for something that'll finally challenge you, dear? I can't say I blame you. If I were a bright young man like you, I would be awfully bored as well."
Darling shoots her a look, something between a wink and a glance, hoping to get their complicity across without having to verbalize it. "Something like that, yes."
Something like that, indeed.
Though Darling's found a momentary meaning in his training, honing his body to be as flawless as his mind, it's been growing far too dull with nobody capable of pushing him further. He's been feeling stagnant for quite some time now, waiting for something to happen, praying he doesn't become lazy from the lack of pressure, making sure his excellency doesn't fade away just because no one is willing to carve out his potential further.
So, the natural progression could only be the Games. Maybe there, he'd meet a warrior from another District, capable of challenging him. Or maybe a fierce creature from Seven, or a mastermind from Three. Or perhaps, simply, an arena that offers him a bit of entertainment.
Otherwise, what would he become? Where would his talent go, if not towards the most intense victory Panem can offer?
What will he be, without something to push him further?
–
The day of the Reapings comes without much anticipation.
He had been, of course, selected to be the Volunteer of the 80th Hunger Games. Absolutely unsurprising, and though he could sit here and bemoan how that meant that no one else in his bracket could compete with him, he won't. After all, it's still an opportunity to experience something better, something more.
There is absolutely no way he'll take that for granted.
He's already carefully selected an outfit for the occasion, laying folded on his satin-colored armchair. A silk-pressed dark shirt, his beloved snakeskin watch, a pair of silver rings, and, of course, his black silk gloves. Examining himself in his bedroom mirror - a gorgeous antique piece, dating far in the Du Louvre lineage - he hums, content. He's always known what colors suit him best, of course, but this is an event that will only happen once in his life.
He frowns a bit at the thought of what his classmates will be wearing. Unfortunately, his District dearest hasn't been blessed with a wonderful fashion sense, many of his peers wearing things too flashy, flaunting their family wealth with ugly blocks of gold. How tacky.
Even worse, his District Partner to be, some girl named Valarie, does not strike him as the type to make an effort… at all. He hasn't seen much of her around the Academy, mostly because those as loud and petulant as her are of no interest to him, but he does remember her short bob of brown hair and clashing neon colors for garments. What a headache.
Alas. Darling knew he wouldn't be finding his equal in the female cadets of One. He cannot be disappointed, since he expected so little.
Hopefully, he thinks, adjusting a cufflink into his sleeves to finish the look, someone from Two or Four will have the decency of showing up with grace.
Darling makes his way into the kitchen, where his grandparents are waiting for him. Usually, Darling wakes earlier than them, making breakfast for himself before heading to the Academy, but today they wanted to eat with him. He wouldn't be there for dinner tonight, after all.
"Ah, there you are, my boy!" his grandfather exclaims, the brightness in his eyes making him feel far younger than his 75 years of age. "You look simply splendid!"
His grandmother, far more composed, nods. "Thank God there are still people like you in this District. Have you seen the way the previous two looked for the stage last year? Horrendous."
Darling stifles a little laugh. In truth, he agrees - the previous two Volunteers had been fools, letting themselves be killed by the frost and torn apart by that feral girl from Four. Still, it's amusing to see his cold grandmother criticize those so close to his age.
"Well, I suppose the coffins we made for them helped bring a bit of sophistication to their… lives?" his grandfather teases, gesturing for Darling to take a seat.
This time, Darling laughs out loud. It's been a while since the prestigious Du Louvre Casket Atelier has made the caskets for their fallen tributes, but it's only really struck him now how ironic that is. How they may very well be packaging Valarie's body in their creations in a few weeks.
Or his own, in theory, though the idea feels so foreign it doesn't do much more than send a thrill down his back.
Is it so terrible, that he thinks that losing would make for a far more interesting time? That it would halt him in his insatiability, that winning the Games might only lead him to further hunger, spiraling out of control…
No. He couldn't do that to his grandparents. In fact, if anything, they deserve to move to the Capitol for the remainder of their years, enjoy that extended Capitolite lifespan, go to concertos a thousand times greater than those in One.
It's the least he can do, really, for them. Taking him in after the death of his parents, taking him in despite the fact that he was the product of a foolish love affair, irresponsible and idiotic. Teaching him how to value beauty and patience, teaching him how to play games that sharpened the mind and shaped him into a far better person.
As Darling bites into his breakfast - a toast, with a spread of fruit picked fresh from the garden - he finds his mind beginning to stir again, awakening at the prospect of a new challenge. It's been a year since he's felt properly rivaled, properly in danger. It's been clawing at him for months now, a deep hunger for adventure.
And it's finally here.
Darling can only hope that what he'll find will be far more fulfilling than the eighteen years he's lived.
–
Selah Popielarz
District Five Female
17
–
Cw: overall misogynistic environment
Tonight's the night.
As Selah slips into the twisting backstreets of Five, it's almost like everyone else knows it too. The passersby whisper excitedly, pushing and shoving their friends, cans of beer dangling from their hands - nothing that Selah hasn't seen before in the run-down city center, but in between the laughter and the buzzing streetlights, the air feels electric.
Or maybe it's just the adrenaline seeping through her, making her hair stand on edge.
She creeps through a dark alley, turns a corner, and into an even less lit one. She glances around carefully, keeping her ears sharp in case someone thinks she's an easy target. She's been through these alleys practically weekly for three years now, but still, one can never be too careful.
Though, if someone was to try mugging her, they'd soon come to regret it.
When she finally finds her way to the building, she can hear the sounds of people cheering, slamming hands on table, money being exchanged, and a warm light seeps out from the back-door. It's inviting, in a perverse way. It's not a place Selah would want Elara to get close to, and many of the men's jeers tend to turn too easily into roaming touches, but it's still the most lively place in Five that Selah's ever been.
There's something about the thrill of a fight, a glass of beer in hand and your money on the line that warms the blood.
Selah opens the door and shuffles down the staircase, keeping her head low. She doesn't want the rowdier guests of the fighting pit to notice her just yet. Though any mockeries they could throw at her would only land on deaf ears, she prefers her first impression to be one of success. Perfection. Victory, blood running down her nose and specking her fists.
That's how she wants those men to first see her. Might make them more hesitant to point out the size of her waist.
The pit's ringleader, some short, round man with a preposterous beard (in Selah's opinion), turns around at the sound of her footsteps. His beady eyes light up, and he clasps his ring-laden hands together. "Ah! Our rising star is here!"
Selah offers him a half-bitter smile. He's definitely not the worst, as he accepted to train her as soon as she began to show potential, but it's clear that all he sees in her is potential for more gold… can she blame him, though? Because, what else is she doing this for? Maybe he has mouths to feed of his own.
Whatever. She doesn't have time to get distracted by sentimentalities. She's here to break some fucking noses.
"Ready whenever you are," she responds, cracking a knuckle to get in the mood.
The ringleader laughs. "Alright then! Well, your opponent is still getting ready, but he should be out in just a minute…" he trails off, seeing a client calling for his attention with a drunken wave of a hand.
Right. That's another thing Selah doesn't like about him - no matter how many fights she wins, no matter how many bones she breaks and how much money she wins the pits by being their perfect underdog, he still doesn't take her seriously. And it's not about her age, either. Far too many of those she fights are teenagers, most often without a family, led here by desperation and hunger. No, it's for the smallest little detail imaginable: because she's a woman.
But, hopefully, after today's match, she'll start earning some goddamn respect around here. Her adversary - some thug who goes by the ring-name of Ragnarok - is the last one standing between her and the title of ring champion. Unlike the others, he's a grown man, scars running down his face and his nose crooked from how often it's been broken. He's in this for the fun of the game, and not for the joy of fame or an honorable fight. It's common knowledge that he's there for the pain.
Selah isn't scared, though. It's gonna take a lot more than some idiotic brute to impress her. She's trained for this night for three years now, dropping school to practice her kicks until night-fall, working her accuracy until there was no water left in her body to sweat out.
If anyone deserves to take that title from Ragnarok, it's her.
As if on cue, the door on the opposite side of the ring slams open, rocking the hinges. Ragnarok merges from his lair, reminding Selah of those ogres in the stories she read to a younger Elara. He looks at her and grins, eyes filled with something perverse. Of course he thinks she's going to be easy, fun to break. Of course he thinks he's going to give everyone a nice fucking demonstration on what it's like to shatter a confident woman.
Ha. Good luck to him.
The ringleader shuffles excitedly to the center of the ring, lifting the ropes to let Selah and Ragnarok in. "Welcome, welcome everybody! So nice to see so many familiar faces, but some newcomers as well! I hope you've enjoyed the few warm up fights -" Selah glances down, catching a glimpse of still-fresh bloodstains on the floor "- and the part of the night you've all been waiting for is finally here! Of course, many of you will recognize our current reigning champion," he gestures towards Ragnarok, who doesn't even bow his head when the crowd erupts into applause. "But tonight, we have an interesting new competitor. I'm not sure if you recognize her, but she's been around a few times!" Selah almost snorts. She's been in countless fights before this one. "Tonight, she's made a very daunting choice… challenging the champion for his title! Will our newcomer -" Again, I've been here three years. "- find herself miraculous success, or will our champion keep his title! Ha ha! Only time will tell, yes?"
With that, the ringleader steps out of the ring. "Prepare your positions!" he exclaims.
Of course, Ragnarok doesn't even bother getting into position. Fine. He can lose if he wants to so badly. Selah certainly doesn't mind.
Selah, of course, leans forward, focusing on her breathing. This is the part where the sounds of the crowd become meaningless to her ears, where all the bright lights and bar fights become nothing. It's only her and the enemy, and the sound of her breathing, so steady, up and down in her rib cage. She'll have time to enjoy their cheers when she's won.
"On my mark! Three… two… one… fight!"
Ragnarok launches at her first, flailing his fist towards her face. It's messy, clumsy, relying on his massive body and ignoring any precision. What a fucking disgrace to the art form. Selah ducks, skids and turns around so she's behind him. She's studied his way of fighting when she was out of the ring, she knows he's slow, even slower when he thinks he doesn't have to bother.
She waits for a split-second, allowing him to believe he's got all the time in the world. When he twists around to reach her, crack, she jumps up and drives her fist into his jaw. He growls, some animalistic sound, as spit flies out of his mouth. Embarrassing. He shakes the pain off easily, though. That's his strength - his pain tolerance. She needs to find a spot that'll fully disable him, make him lose sight for a moment, and not just go off with pain. Otherwise, he may exhaust her and get her in the long run.
She jumps on the tip of her toes, bringing her fists up to protect her face. He lumbers towards her, and she sees his left fist move. She ducks to the right, but suddenly a sharp pain digs into her stomach, sucking any air out of her - fuck. He actually feinted. She stumbles down, dripping on her shoelaces and slamming onto the floor, white dots swimming in her vision. She bites her lip, hoping the sharpness of that pain will wake her up from the dull one rocking in her head. Selah squints, and through her swimming vision, she can see him approach her, for what he assumes is the finishing blow.
Fuck that.
Selah doesn't lose that easily. Selah doesn't lose, period. Not when Elara is waiting for her back home.
(Not when glory is just within her reach.)
Selah snaps her knee upwards, ramming it into Ragnarok's groin. He curses, howls, fucking pathetic. It's ironic, really, how the most vulnerable part of a man is his dick. It probably says something about them, but Selah's never been the philosophical type. As Ragnarok stumbles forward, she slams her fist right in his jaw hinge, and it breaks open with a sickening noise. Well, it's music to her ears, but still.
With that, Ragnarok falls to his knees, no longer capable of computing what's going on. Selah's jumps to her feet - a move she spent a whole month practicing, but that her body now understands like it's second nature. She bounds towards him, grabs his head, and rams ii multiple times into her knee. He groans, falls to the floor.
Selah finally lets the sound come back to her. First, her breathing, significantly faster now, but still steady, rhythmic. Then, the sound of the ringleader announcing Ragnarok defeated. She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut, lets the adrenaline fall back and her hands stop twitching from the tension.
When she finally feels like she's quelled the storm, she opens her eyes.
She lets herself hear the crowd screaming her name, then.
(It feels better than any reward they can possibly give her.)
–
When Selah returns home, creaking open the door, making sure to put back the chair in front of it to replace their broken lock, she finds Elara's room still filled with light.
Frowning, she creeps towards it, making sure to not make any noise in the off-chance that her sister had just fallen asleep with the lights still on. She peeks around the bedroom entrance, and sure enough, Elara is still awake.
"Elara," she hisses, but her tone is gently chiding, "what are you doing? You need to go to sleep."
Elara pouts at that. God, she's so cute like that, when she's no longer scared about their future and can act like a normal thirteen year old girl, annoyed because she still has a bedtime. "I don't wanna…"
At that, Selah giggles softly. "Okay, well, how about I read you one of those books, huh? Will you fall asleep then?"
"Mmm…" Elara purses her lip, pretending to consider it. "Maybe."
Taking that for the "yes" it absolutely is, Selah sits down next to her sister, taking one of the books laying on her bedside table. She opens it to the first page, the spine cracking from old age. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Elara staring at her. "What?" she asks, glancing up from the pages.
Elara places a soft finger on her lip. "You're bleeding."
"Oh."
Selah's stomach churns at that, guilt thick in her throat. She doesn't want Elara to worry for her, she never has. It's just that… well, they have no other option. With no more adults willing to provide for them, Selah has to do it herself. And there aren't many jobs for a high-school drop-out living in the slums, especially some that pay well. Even if she could find one, what about water supply? Everyone knows that the water in the city center is deeply polluted by the factories surrounding it, brown and green and sticky on the tongue. Money wouldn't provide any good water. But fighting in the ring gave her money, glory, a reputation, safety, and most importantly, the ring champion gets filtered water, smuggled from the passing trains of Six.
If she wants to keep Elara safe, if she wants to provide for her so she can continue her education, not end up hopeless like her, then she needs to keep fighting. No matter how much it worries Elara, to not know what state her sister will return in every night. If Selah wants to help, she needs to keep fighting.
(And, maybe, so deeply hidden inside her, maybe she does it for herself, too.)
(What other option does an orphan in Five have, to become something great, something feared? Something remembered?)
"I'm completely fine, Elara," she promises, brushing away her sister's finger softly. "Tonight went great, actually - I won. We can drink good water now, healthy water that won't make you so pale."
Selah gazes at her sister, hoping the news will bring some comfort. "And what will you need to do to keep that water?"
"I'll have to keep fighting for it…" she whispers. "But I'm sure a better opportunity will be right around the corner, Elara," she adds, reaching for her sister's hands.
All Selah can do now is to pray that she isn't giving her sister any false hopes, that there is real salvation around the corner for them.
(And that, selfishly, whatever salvation there is comes with Selah's name being on everybody's lips.)